Ban Huay San

A message from Jens, the name of a village which enchanted him when he was here, no sign of it on Google maps but I know the general direction. The precise route, it turns out, is to turn left at the second river beyond the village and keep going…

Karst hills rising above dry fields, the dusty road caught by swirling wind, a small tornado of dust rising, moving on; I think of Woody Guthrie's dustbowl ballads, Tom Joad lost in alien hills.

Eventually, reaching the top of another climb above a stream, beneath a sheer rock face, the sight of disrant rooftops beyond dry fields where cows are grazing upon dessicated stalks, a small hill rises, open gated the entrance to Ban Huay San, feet soon to rest. 

Inside the village bounds there's a homestay, 2 euro's a night, 3 rooms. I wish I hadn't forgotten how to travel light, that there was the possibility to walk over and stay a few nights. But I'm 3 kilo overweight and nothing to dump, nothing that I won't miss after the trip. The small amp, pedals and cables seeming like a foolish idea now, used for half an hour in Chiang Mai and otherwise dead weight. The guitar has become more active at least, though private, mood tending towards introspection rather than extrovert.

Taking a seat in the shade and closing my eyes, listening to the village instead of looking: the sound of insects chirping, bird song, the wind rustling through leaves, cocks crowing unapologetically, a wooden loom clacking, a baby crying, the sounds of voices and, children at play.

In front of me, set beneath the shadow shadow of a tree, a young woman weaves, a row of scarves, greens and purples, oranges, for sale 50000 kip, 5 euro. In front of her a dog sleeping through the rising afternoon heat as the sun saps what little energy remains. 

There are a couple of breeze block structures, but most are traditional, woven and raised upon wooden pillars, only the power cables and a couple of motor bikes set the calendar into the present day. And time passes. Too quickly it's time to leave, into the lengthened shadows of the afternoon, caught in clouds of dust as young children pass upon motor bikes, returning from school upon the crazed and eroded paths. Further, looking down upon a patchwork landscape of curved fields and small dykes, the impossible hills begin fading towards dusk, an ageless silence offers a momentary embrace, a pause, I drink the last of my water and, a little further on, find a cool stream to stand in, feel the slight chill of the water cooling my feet, an unbidden thought, "there have been worse days…"