Udom Xai
Day tummy rules. Who do not come. Reading in bed, in the Chinese pension, this little book about that Claire told me. A young Chinese student movement leader flees Tiananmen somewhat against her will and blends into the mountain to become its soul.
The body rested and fatigued.
Late afternoon, I go out. We must sustain themselves!
I start walking in slow motion, the soles of thongs trailing in the dust.
A little off center in front of his house, a woman weaving on a large craft. Quarantine soft body of a woman who gave birth, straight on his stool polished by years of friction of sin, the neat bun and silk jacket - she may have woven itself. Around her, two young women sitting on low stools and plastic embroider a young man daydreams.
As I remain speechless in the warm, watching the slow movements of the mother, she invites me to approach me and sit down. We stay there long. I hunched over my little head to make me forget them to show me their daily lives, without a glance. The mother is weaving a large white sheet, which may be dyed later this dark blue traditional dress. His hands are soft slide the distaff side to another, then weaving cup dragging a comb built the craft. Her bare feet then push on the pedals to activate a mechanism that reverses the plot: The son of the high pass downwards and vice versa. The distaff line in the other direction. The business produces noise sailboat, rubbed wood, wood snapping, creaking ropes, sliding the large felted yarn. In the low sun, this sweet activity peaceful and softens muscles and dropped eyelids.
Restaurant overlooking the bustling main street. I am the only customer. They have gotten five or six to improvise my meal. A lady explains authoritarian young cooks that a Falang like me to eat. Of this cabal out loud exclamations and an omelette with herbs, tomato and pepper. We do not give me a fork and chopsticks but a spoon, a sign that I will pay a high price. Here I am rich. Even if I'm badly dressed, it is clear that I am white. And money changes hands. Every day in dribs and drabs, tickets-won-to-work-in-the-culture-coming French irrigate daily life-of-traders-of-a-country-of-the-most-poor-world.
the middle of the constant stream of scooters, sweaty white couples spend walking on the road, sandwiched in their gear. On the back, the bags higher than their busts, such as snail shells. On the stomach, small-bags-for-day. It was the arrival of a bus. They range from the bus station to the best guesthouse indicated in the guide. In general, the woman holds the Lonely Planet and Pilot Operations. It is she who points out the direction to follow. He will spend the night here, to leave tomorrow morning at dawn in keeping with Udom Xai the image of a big road, scooters and a Chinese market.
It brings me a bowl of soup broth bamboo pepper with a sort of chopped chives.
Earlier, sauna woven bamboo slats. Dark and mysterious steam flavored with herbs. Three small brown women as young as twenty years. Standing on the benches in the corner, huddled together near the finish of the hot legs apart so that moisture caress their hot sex. A sin tied above the breasts for two of them at the waist to the other. Smiles and red betel black hair dripping in long curls on each side of the face. Occasionally, they scrape the very throat and spit on the walls, the floor, the door itself. They scan all visible parts of my body without shame.
broth, cold now, is a fatty meat. Pork?
This world increasingly populated, soft and bright, grew up with me and takes its force. I write to you, I love tenderly and who do not see - nor even know - where I am. Do you imagine the three small girls?
After a long time together in the sauna, it is almost to show our differences, our similarities. And I have many questions to ask them: Where does the blood of their rules? How we made love and how it gave birth here?
Without warning, a husband enters the sauna. He shouts, authoritarian: it might be that they are thinking of Magner! Stoic, eyes downcast but the corners of his mouth laughing, they wait until the storm passes. The husband leaves. But another takes over. While there, it comes from? There, they shall consult the eyes and panicked.
They eventually follow. Through the steamy window, I guess they undertake to get dressed. Too curious I go out too. Frozen in the wind, chastised by husbands who are waiting down on their scooters, they first donned a cloth blue-black, hiding their breasts, held by a son braided strap. Above is a jacket buttoned tightly-fitting, decorated with intricate embroidery and multicolored. A very short skirt, pleated. Finally comes the styling. A first fabric tiara decorated with coins and cups chrome finish with two long relationships, one on each side of the head, where they roll their hair parted on the back as if to make mats. Then another piece of fabric complicated and ornate metal and embroidery. Placed over it and cover the entire head of hair behind her head as a vertical disk.
I look at rushing, amazed the expertise to deal. Me, with my towel fluo sarong, wet wind, I drink ice tea and red on the house. Women smile at me. Their men matent me from below and laugh. They were joined in common. I go back into the mist, as out of a dream.
Night
House Pension Chinese manned by Chinese workers noisy, hooked to the Internet - to discuss with their families Chinese Chinese via webcam - and I mean Chinese whores giggle through the partition (China).
a hundred chestnuts half a centimeter in diameter as dinner, lying on the bed.
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