Luang Praban

Phousi hill rising above the rooftops, the temple gold gleaming in late afternoon sun as we approach. Stepping off the tuk tuk upon the edge of the night market and setting off fully laden, turn away from the river, into the edge of dusk, into dimming streets. A room's found after a few attempts places either full or extravagantly priced. We find a local place, a sheltered glade of garden between the room and street, cool and quiet. And cheap.

It's busy here, first place since Bangkok to have that feel, but it's a small centre, a place for the affluent to gather in the faded glamour of the French colonial architecture. 

Drinking coffee, watching the morning haze upon the Mekon, even the hills across the water have a sprinkling of pollution upon them, the air unclear and unclean, the distances I remember from the riverside now occluded, lost and gathered only within my recollection, that variable and untrustworthy landscape of memory.   

An old painting, the stoor of ages gathered upon the canvas, the image awaiting restoration that the dulled colours might shine once again.

Sitting above the river, local ferries carrying vehicles and people across the flow, the restaurants almost empty. But it's the wrong time, neither breakfast nor lunch and, soon enough, others begin to arrive as I much upon a croissant and sip yet another strong black coffee.

Then a temple, Wat Xienthong, a place of stunning beauty, astounding stencils and mosaics, breathe deep and attempt to take it all in, until the calm's disturbed and trampled upon by a group of pink shirted tourists, ignoring the requests for quiet and respect as they scramble shoutily in search of photo opportunities.

Now, here, once again I'll plead guilty to hypocrisy; blipfoto, the name kind of gives it away really.

Sitting out of the sun, cold, fuelling myself on cold, carbonated caffeine, sticky rice cakes drying by the side of the road, people in a hurry, carrying different clocks, a small boy opening a can of fizzy pop, watching it foaming and spilling out, "oh my god!" He says looking at me, sitting, laughing as he meanders on his way along the street.

Later, sitting in the shade of a small wat, a brown dog at my side having his ears scratched as the day passes us both by, finding me lost, once again transfixed by the sounds of rice growing...