Advertisement
Published: December 20th 2013
Edit Blog Post
A small rectangular bamboo house with a corrugated iron roof and short bright blue door. A long line of drying clothes separated the next house, with similar windowless bamboo walls, this time the iron roof lined with green guttering. A satellite-TV antenna as high. A smaller satellite. Another bamboo house, one window, small neatly engineered patio shadowing the open front door, guttering and lining green and blue. A ladder fallen or propped. Power pole at eighty degrees. Three men in a circle, who all in sync, turn and stare as if they´ve never seen a bus before, although they probably see this one twice a day. The background unruly glowing green jungle, fronted by the muddy brown Mekong River, lined with small, perfectly arranged Asian crops. Another small satellite. Ducks. Another small bamboo house, bright green door. A small boy walks in front, stooped, pushed downward by the heavy grain bag he carries between his shoulder blades. Three massive squares of drying coffee beans sit carefully on tarps with the dirt beneath. Gus wonders how much work goes into producing his morning brew. From tree to cup? Who gets what? A large bamboo house, thatched roof. Men working on one of the many scooters. Power pole at seventy five degrees, always linked to the next by at least a dozen messily interwoven lines. A tiny, dull coloured bamboo hut, maybe used for storage, quickly and vividly contrasted against by huge bowls of red chilies, only identifiable due to the bus moving quite slowly because of the bouncy, pot-holed gravel road it creeps along. The food has definitely become spicier since travelling from Vietnam to Laos, and although Gus has been loving it, he wonders what is actually involved in bringing that extra kick and big taste sensation of a tiny little chili. From field to dish?
Empty space. No houses. Five long lines of horizontal bamboo pieces, spaced maybe fifteen centimetres apart, appearing to be clumsily joined together at the ends by some type of twine, maybe vine, forming a fence. Ducks and chickens. A small shop, displaying the fluorescent colours of chip packets and confectionary, a slight woman to the side with her arms in another cauldron of chilies. Behind her a neat medium sized house, compared to the smaller homes, painted an almost offensive mauve shade with lime green edges surrounding the entrance. A forty four gallon drum used for burning. A wheelbarrow.
A barefoot man, perched in a position seen commonly through Asia; flatfoot, knees fully bent so the calves are against posterior thighs, bum an inch off the dirt, with his arms between his splayed legs. Huge hills formed over onto each other, that same familiar rich jungle green, seeming deep and distant, in the foreground; a perfectly straight concrete edge, about a foot high, where four small children jump around and play together. From where he sits, it seems to Gus that the concrete barrier is the only protection between the road and a substantial vertical drop to the background hills. The kids can probably take care of themselves? Maybe they´re not wrapped in cotton wool and this quickly helps form their self-awareness and independence? Power pole, about seventy degrees. Low hanging wires, intermittently regaining secure height then quickly dipping, constantly looking like a breeze could topple the village electricity. Another perched Asian man. Ducks, chickens, geese. Gus is travelling between Luang Prabang, Laos, and the Laos capital of Vientiane and is unaware of this villages name. Villages like this one are regular sights while travelling by bus, boat or motorbike in South East Asia. Similar views no doubt worldwide.
Gus´ mind drifted. He went to his childhood. Loved, safe, warm, educated, entertained. Playing in clean, sunny parks with neighbours and friends. Never having to carry a grain bag half his weight. Never having to cope with the immediate and after effects of war. Never having to be a salesman, especially in Asia, where everything is for sale, and a specialist for every aspect. How lucky he was. Since being an adult, his jobs, past and present, the ease of access to good food, healthcare, air conditioning, television, internet, the go-go-go lifestyle, the availability to exciting activities and hobbies…sure some times were tough, but comparatively, he has never had to catch his own fish, pluck a chicken or grow beans by the river to survive. He has never had to plant, strip, bag and transport crops all by hand. Survival was handed to him. How lucky he is. How wonderful it is to be able to afford that plane ticket. How luscious it is to be able to go to that restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City and taste the beautiful natural freshness of that Bun Thit Nuong (vermicelli noodles, fresh vegetables, barbequed pork) topped with delicious chilies. How easy is it to order that monstrous heart-starting quadruple-shot café latte in Siem Reap and not wonder where the coffee is from nor what work went into growing it. How lucky he is.
Consume, and consume some more. Humans will survive. Different types of people have been surviving in different environments and circumstances for a while now. Life will go on. And even if it is for only the few blinks of an eye it takes to pass through that village, Gus thought it nice to truly appreciate the life he has. Maybe those village eyes all view the light skinned tourists with similar wonder and a little fascination, and appreciate the lives they lead, and the love, laughter and happiness they have too. ***...130 photos on this one....***
Advertisement
Tot: 0.106s; Tpl: 0.019s; cc: 9; qc: 25; dbt: 0.0471s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb