By the Waters of Babylon - Dedicated to the coffee growers of the Bolaven Plateau

 

Waking up in the morning is like being released from hibernation. The long night of shadows and rain, as the wet clear drops hit the roof and garden leaves all night long. All night long, the constant droning of wind, crackling of the branches and the moaning of the rain. Rain on the roof and rain on the torn tarp protecting the kitchen from the leaking holes in the asbestos tiles. Rain on the old cement alley-way surrounding the house and rain on the thirsty red earth as it kicks up in starts and fits, little rusty dirt seizures. The rain like winter in Canada, rain that keeps you indoors and makes the road treacherous, rain that splatters your clothing by day and infiltrates your dreams by night, making them a collection of fleeting images: border crossings, an old friend, an invented person sharing a joke, an envelope hidden inside the kitchen cabinets; little innocuous snippets of sound and image, a black and white collage devoid of all emotion or remembrance, a meaningless rain-drenched parade.

In the morning the sky may have cleared somewhat or it may not have. This morning it is mother-of-pearl, reminiscent of the eternally wet skies of Hanoi, although in Hanoi it was a grey we could be proud of, is was our grey – the grey that made everyone constantly mean and miserable. Here in Vientiane the grey is an unfortunate interlude, an exception, and the whole city seems to be holding its breath simply waiting for a gust of unseen lofty wind to come and lift the momentary marasme.

Once that happens, the city can get back to its real business, its veritable vocation, which is to party and throw tomorrow into the arms of oblivion under a sky so blue it seems to be in constant celebration.

Tropical Storm Bonna - For Bonna Devora Haberman

Last night the rains came with great clattering of intention. The lightening was near and closely reverberated by the thunder, the clap of which was loud and threatening, and dis-joining the universe. Somewhere the great leaves on the great trees were illuminated in split-second triumphs and the rain came down with the vengeance of an army. Twigs and branches came sweeping in array off the overhanging canopies and I had to bring the car in closer to the house to protect the hood and windshield . Nature will eventually take back control from the civilization we have imposed upon it, but I don't want it to be on my bill!

Woe to the crawling and creeping insect lives going so slowly about their routines. The ants in the ground were surely able to replenish their water supplies and enliven dried-up cisterns, but how many of them were flooded away needlessly and sent floating down the cement driveway out of the garden and flush to the street? “We are not disposable!” I can hear them cry as their little fat red bodies flowed, turning uncontrollably in the relentless unforgiving torrent.

For split seconds at a time the electricity in the house would flutter and invisible fingers turned on disconnected air conditioning units. It is only a matter of time before battery operated children's toys begin to chatter and whirl all on their own, arms flapping up and down like developmentally challenged black-belts turning around on themselves looking for new playmates.

In the end calm returned. I suppose that somewhere and for some other sub-visual form of life a Jonas was thrown off the boat and the tempest subsided. As the roar turned into a low deep groan and finally into a whisper and sleep overcame us big people, a tiny Leviathan swallowed its hapless frightened prey. Somewhere, on the banks of some newly formed puddle, between the grass and the red dirt of our garden the beast spit the prophet out. Somewhere, between a flower patch and a tiny wet hollow in the ground lies the massive teeming and soon to be repentant city of Nineveh. In the gathering coolness of the Indochinese night, as the clouds disperse, the earth lets off its blanket of humid perfume and the heat of the day is dispelled with the dying winds. Somewhere a desperate creature calls out despite itself; and despite all historic precedent and logic, the tiny metropolis lends and ear and listens and turns. Somewhere a kikayon tree grows and is worm-withered and somewhere in the our vast expanse of trees, bushes, flowers and wasteland something sits crying in a lean-to on a mound, its mission accomplished, the damage undone.

The morning rose cool and refreshed; a chill enveloped the house and for the first time in months we turned off the overhead fans. As I opened the front doors leading to the terrace, a wave of vegetative bliss hit me as the storm-washed garden flared back at my awe-stricken wondrous gaze. The flowering reds were more red, the green stems more green ... and of course the blue canopy of the sky a crisp thing, a firmament new and delicious. For the first time in months the sluggish pre-monsoon sky was eager and clean and no longer just a fartful of muggy heat promising days of sustained lassitude and restless siestas.

This was a day for action! For deep breaths, for calisthenics! I jumped up and down, thanking Jonas for his fine work.

If you wish to see photos of our garden, please click here:

http://mair-hyman.blogspot.com/2011/03/our-garden-at-night.html

The Jewel in the Crown

 

...and many other things besides. on a trip to Laos this winter good friends delighted me with a full moon watch. they took friendly wagers on when the full moon was going to fall. we were staying at a resort not too far from the city, Ban Pako, on a bend in the river and the winter moon was rising behind us, waxing and as full of promise as an expectant mother. before us the Nam Num river spread its broad currents west toward the Mekong and all about us were the fervent fireflies and insect night life of the tropics. in the late afternoon, crickets posted in the tree barks like sentinels pushed out their strident calls, one calling to another and back, setting the air to vibrate with all the fury of a forest fire. it was turning into another perfect winter evening in the tropics with crystal clear skies and the liquid pinpoints of the stars now beseeching overhead. beers were served, the cylindrical hollow ice-cubes tinkling in our glasses as is the way here. Aulne and Swanny, Pierre and Isa and Pascale, as gentle as church-mice had all jumped on an airplane to come here and so, in this corner of the Far East we were able to recreate the charm and delight of our little French peninsula, our circle of friends, always open at one end. the old stone farmhouse with its massive hand-hewed oak beams, crackling fireplace, flagstones and terracotta tiled floors was far from us. Molières! and yet here we sat on the banks of the warm river listening to the rustling insect life.

talk soon turned to the question of the full moon and here I was able to fall in love all over again with this little handful of friends; they had brought with them the peasant concerns of the marvellous Southwest and with all the delicacy of wood elves had dedicated much thought, conjecture and speculation into guessing when the full moon would be. there she is, I thought looking over our now light-drenched patio, as she rose, the conquering seductress. there she is spreading her share of doubt and joy over our mixed company, spreading her shadow-like light in hues of dull polished orange over all of us, over the woods behind us and the flat expanse of river before us and the forest beyond. a boat flowed down the river almost silently, its stark attention marked by a frantic spot light searching something in the underbrush of the far bank. we laughed and talked and smoked, our talk going far back in time, searching also for indications and time anchors, remembering parties and dinners and crises, births, deaths, scandals and songs all out of our mutually shared past. and this is when the subject of the full moon came up and, as I said, all the magic and intimacy of the great French Southwest came to me as if I had been a refugee.

all the peasant folklore pertaining in those sun-kissed and winter-drenched hills, where generational vineyards meet vegetable gardens, corn fields and sunflowers, orchards of plum and where the air is heady with the late summer ripeness of falling fruit, falling on dried grass and fermenting there in the warm shade making whole gardens smell redolent with the scent of eau-de-vie ... the peasant folklore, donc, of that enchanted Tarn et Garonne is that the weather on the night and day of the full moon will persist until the following full moon, and so for our friends, tourists with one shot of the wild, the question is very important indeed. Pierre, with his soft eyes, soft sad whimsical eyes confirmed in accents as sturdy as pebbles entre-choqués in a stream bed, that this was so.

 

 

Quiet Days in Clichy

 

 

 

 

Pee-May has come and gone, and with it the scores of revellers have quit the streets and gone back to their shops and houses to seek out the shade.

Is it only my imagination, or my weariness, or do the New Year's celebrations become more manic with very passing year? The throwing of water, the drinking and dancing on the streets, the loud crash of the hypnotizing techno music seem to be driving everyone into their own collective tropical oblivion.

And so it has passed and the city settles back to normal, although the summer heat has yet to break. Miles and miles of ugly urban sprawl dot the torrid city-scape and temples, as graceful as felines, flower in intervals.

And the heat bears down. On the scooter, the rushing air burns our skins and the sun is a joyous wunderkind. The Mekong, low, waits to be delivered by the monsoon rains and the throbbing Chinese floods.

Full moon, quarter moon, new moon. Waxing and waning. New floral patterns are presented to gods and spirits; old ones are thrown away. The most interesting lives are those that have been lived, be they in continuum or in passing: spring comes but once, but autumn is forever.

 

 

 

Sabadei Pee-May.

 

 

Sloop John B

 

 

 

 

 

If I would have thought about it more clearly I guess I could have figured it out for myself. As it is, I had to learn the hard way: there are several different types of roads in Laos, some of which deserve to be avoided.

There are the tiny little red dirt roads leading in and out of picturesque villages full of happy people. Women sit under their stilt houses weaving ethnic scarves while men are engaged in manual labour. Children call out “falang! falang!”, running out of the protective shade to wave at you.

The views are sloping terraced rice paddies and field salas. You don't mind the dust because life is flourishing so beautifully all around you.

Doesn`t that sound nice?

To get to roads like that you often have to take major roads, largish paved things with bits of macadam chunked out of them. You have to negotiate the bike between the roaring diesel dams and the gravel. The sides of the road are littered with filth.

There are also paved roads that are surprisingly pleasant, like the road between Hinheup and Ban Tha.

But the road I took after Ban Tha, the one leading down to the Mekong was really a shithole's shithole. Paved in parts, hot dry and dusty in others, it was a major artery with major road dust inconvenience.

In fact, I had planned to leave that road and climb West over a cordillera to another very minor road, but Charlene's dérailleur began to malfunction and I felt I couldn't take a chance with it. So I just kept heading toward the Mekong.

The area was filled with unfriendly people, some of whom were thieves since they tore the speedometer off Charlene when I was enjoying a lovely meal of 'steak Lao', morning glory and sticky rice at a local eatery. The meal was pretty nice, actually.

When I complained to the 'guest house' (closed concrete boxes, malfunctioning fans, spit marks on the walls...) owner she called the police who came post haste. The next morning I was invited to the police station to make a formal complaint and admire the cobwebs and dirty dishes. To give the guest house owner credit, she proposed giving me 1,000 Bhat to compensate my loss, although this I refused.

This was indeed a strange part of the country. For the first time since being in Laos I was also physically threatened, as kids in the bamboo houses behind the guest house threw rocks on the roof of my room. I showed the police the guilty houses and explained to them that the people therein were in a perfect position to see when the falang was going out and coming back. They looked at me and smiled.

To paraphrase Joni Mitchell, 400,000 Kip went up in smoke.

And the road went on. Dust and trucks, roadside bordellos and restaurants. Imagine visiting France and being stuck in Châteauroux or Vierzon or visiting the United States and only seeing Buffalo and you will get an idea of my state of mind.

The natural beauty of the landscape was made all the crueler by its destruction. Large machines were eating into mountainsides, garbage was either strewn on the side of the road or being burnt. You could close your eyes and know you were near a village by the smell of burning plastic...

All this time I was able to consider map reading, trying to learn my lesson: Small roads through ethnic minority areas – yes. Larger roads providing the only single arteries through an otherwise unserved area – no. Roads with ratty guest houses and roadside bordellos – no. Areas with no tourist accommodation other than the kindness of strangers – yes. Bolaven Plateau type places with comfortable resorts, clean sheets and bacon and eggs for breakfast – yes.

This trip left me with the impression of being in a country that was slowly raping herself and I felt the urgency of seeing her while she still existed.

 

Re: The photos on this update. I have decided to spare you the roadside attractions...