Slipping. Sliding. Away.

I was warned, of course.

I was warned that this trip would be unlike any others because the monsoon had not yet finished, but I just didn't care. I thought to myself, if I am caught in the rain I'll just hole up somewhere and have a tea, rap with the folk and wait for it to happen.

And I am glad I did.

There were times when I cursed the fucking mud and it certainly gave me time to reflect upon the Biblical creation of Adam where God breathes life into a blob of dirt and makes a hermaphrodite out of it. I especially thought of that creation myth when I was portaging Charlene over an expanse of thick mud she couldn't ride through.

At one point the mud was so deep my legs sunk into it up to my knees and when I managed to pull them out I discovered that my sandals had remained in the earth, returning to our source. I ran barefoot with the bike until the nearest patch of grass and headed back to rescue my sandals, but in which quickly closing sink hole were they hidden? Frantically I plunged my hand into each and every one, almost expecting to set off a bombie displaced by the last rains.

Imagine the scene, if you will: I was on all fours with the sun setting and no place yet to camp, covered in mud. The primeval Adam could not have been more filthy at birth! My arms covered with goo and the only sounds were the sucking of the earth as I plunged into each and every disappearing indentation on the path. If a truck had come by just then I would have lost all trace and been royally screwed.

But, to use the French expression, "il y a un bon Dieu pour les ivrognes", and I finally plunged my arm in one last time and dug out my sandals. Saved.

And so I had diluvian rains, primordial mud ... all I needed was an attack by Amalek to complete the Biblical picture. Fortunately, this is Laos.

Everywhere there was the sound of wetness. Tiny rivulets of water along rice paddy embankments, small fish and frogs in flooded paddies, the sound of the tires as I splashed through the long flooded holes left in the ooze by trucks. Somewhere in her inner workings Charlene had water rolling around. Every now and then the rain would start; a gentle chatter at first and if the clouds were right and the winds were wrong and the skies could no longer retain themselves then the big rains would come. You could see sheets of it pouring down in the distance. And you could see it coming your way.
 

I was warned. And upon my return a lot of my friends scolded me for taking risks with my life and the life of my children's father. Their arguments are valid:

What if something happens to me and I am not found by someone competent?

What if I fall and loose consciousness?

What if the last, very last, totally last and forgotten forest tribe rebels attracted to the clickety click of Charlene's gears in the silence of the jungle decide to continue the fight?

I am grateful to my wife for being one of the few who understand my need for solitude, who understand this taste for risk. One day soon, I don't know when, she's going to go on her own vacation and leave me alone with the kids. But till then, baby I was born to run!

 

 

 

Your Cheatin' Heart

Crazy, very possibly.

But not necessarily a glutton for punishment.

For one thing, I do not pedal in the rain for I see no pleasure in it and I can only sit in a rice pavillon for so long before going batty.

Trafic on these roads is far and few between so you've got to grab what you can. The most common conveyance is called a lut tai, which is a three-wheeled tractor pulling a wooden cart.

Sometimes you've got to get out and push the thing up the hill, and all the time the bumps on the road – of which there are plenty – shake you to your soul.

Other times a truck will do the job.

 

 

 

There Are Places I Remember

It is lovely coming back. The kids stayed up a little extra late to see me before they went to bed. Everyone had something to show me, everyone wanted my time and attention. It was beautiful. It was homecoming.

I will, however, always remain haunted by the images of the countryside.

The majestic mountains, old, wise and worn. The billiard flat rice paddies as green as air riddled with low mud walls and salas.

The tiny villages of wood and bamboo where people sit dreaming the days and weeks away.

Laughing children, calling "Falang! Falang!”

The hills have dark stone walls. The rice paddies are flooded. The roads, when dry, crunch invitingly under wheel.

Clouds pass, flutter, give shade and threaten.

Light is direct and painful, filtered, sparkling blue or grey.

And all this reality is ours to enjoy: all of it is here and profound. All we need to do is open like a sponge to take it in; open our pores, our eyes and ears. Open our being. All the world is filled with glory.