Adima That night, the storm and rain on the bamboo house: the joy of being alive,
on Earth. Nobody knocked on my door to offer me opium.
the morning, the sounds of the creek. The song of a caged mynah, and screams coming
enigmatic forest. Already four years ago, I
well liked that they be monkeys. And what did not. One of the young women of the guesthouse
offers me a coffee - yesterday, she gave me the
sweet rice dough cut from the rocket festival. While I drink it
mounts a chair, wearing a saucer on his forehead before filing
on the altar of his ancestors. She took the opportunity to get the cups of water
that minds have already drunk and it can pour into the bowl of
mynah.
Yesterday, back from Jess, I was traveling really. I finally arrived somewhere
me. The movement took its meaning, its magnitude. And if
came while I'm on the go?
If you're here and I also ... I'm leaving anyway.
Eight hours to walk. And lonely mountain in the rain.
birds on the wing arising shrubs moist. The slippery path. Not a living soul
for several hours. Yet, traces of daily life
are everywhere: empty detergent boxes near a source
plantations of rubber, wood piles, barriers ... Coming in a deserted village. There remain a few shacks
rice, perched on their altars high stilts
a house. And everywhere on earth bare, utensils forgotten. When I
passes the house, the window pane opens slowly.
I expect a ghost. It may be there, invisible? I sit a long time
in a treehouse for my eating khao niao. Watch
rain, the desolation of the place. Where are they gone? Later in the mountains or closer
Muang Sing?
after this solitary morning, back on the roads of the plain. In the first
Akha village crossed a squatting woman pee in the middle,
the slope of the road. She unfolded the sin for stalling his arms around
holding it with his teeth. The body completely hidden, it is free
deal flows. An art.
New villages were built in touch-button, in a chaos of cultures
- Akha, Mien, Lolos, Laos, Hmong, Thai Dam ... - Which seems to fit together rather well
. I pause, huddled under my umbrella,
to eat a banana. On the way down to the villagers
field of sugarcane. The adults talk while walking. Children run to scare
buffalo, yet as big as elephants,
scamper.
The older women wear the costume mine: a large black turban decorated with embroidery
multicolored jacket and matching pants.
with red boa around their neck, which falls on the chest, they have a classy
. Hard to believe that it is the habit every day. When I looked
see them in the fields, I feel like I have traveled the
time. A powerful world, fragile, complex at the edge of the typhoon
"development." At the edge, very close to being caught, but still
balance.
Gradually, the strangeness by becoming familiar. It was France that
scares me now. Ten times a day, thinking he must organize the
way back. Back to
Adima. Until sunset, Akha women and mine
gather plants from the dry rice. Curved, they fill sacks
they spend on their front shoulder when he becomes
heavy. Suddenly, one of them uttered a loud cry
by departing from a tuft of grass. Still, it grinds the tassels of his red cap
a good time, before going back to work. The
sun coming down the mountains turn blue when I was this morning. In
sloping landscaped tractors and diesel cars are struggling feels
fifty yards. That small village girls who come to sell
few bracelets to tourists arrived earlier.
Is Jess came in my absence? In any case, it did not take the word
I had left for him. A link like a necklace of orange flowers
to offer the vat. The next day, everything is faded, you must begin
ephemeral. I decide to leave at dawn to Phouk Vieng.
