A glimpse of mountains

Too early, the sun not yet risen above the clouds clinging to the surrounding hills, into the astounding light flowing down the main street and hope to find transportation to the bus station and tickets to sam neua. The sun rises, spilling redgold light across the top of the clouds, a cloak of mist in the valley behind the station, a Buddha shape glinting hazily off towards site one.

The bus arrives, we're the only folk here, claim our seats and await the flow, the bus roof heavy with bags and rucksacks, beer crates with cushions placed between seats, capacity increasing as volume remains constant. And we wait.

Three monks stand across from us smoking contentedly, buses arriving, the station busier now. A cold coffee to prise my eyes open and then its time to take our seats, to wait for ignition and departure. Moving off I count 20 adults and an infant, soon it's 21 and two infants, rumbles of complaint and discontent from a couple behind us, failing to grasp that we're the guests in this place and whatever expectations they've brought as baggage should be disposed of, and then ten or fifteen km later another increase, one more adult squeezed into the back seat. Twenty four people crammed into a fifteen seat mini bus, the roof rack piled high as a "full" sign is placed over the destination in the windscreen and the murmur of complaints continues.

And, once again, I return in my thoughts to one of my oldest, and always unanswered questions: why do we travel? What is it that will bring you to these places, why, what do we expect to find here?

Eight hours through the mystical heights, tones layered between eye and horizon, this winding road through these imaginary hills spilling into the unmeasured distances and fading into mere possibilities of tonal variation once again. Superlatives are wasted here, language unable to convey the vast swathes of beauty which floods these journeys, the constant shifting of perception, intakes of breath and muttered expletives issuing from me as I pass through, a brief presence in the slow ages of these lands.

For, once again, it's an astounding landscape, a panorama where words become harsh angular things, breaking and foundering as they form upon the page, always failing to capture the sense of wonder that these journeys engender. And we continue, along the narrowing road, hemmed in by piles of rocks, groups of workers upon the edges of ravines rebuilding the highway as it winds and twists into the future. And it makes me wonder how much of the past it will carry with it, what of the essence of these places we glimpse will survive?

Stopping for lunch the bus drops off half a dozen passengers, two of the monks from the bus station appearing, joining us for the rest of the journey. An old woman talking to them, one monk making her laugh with almost every reply he gives.

Between villages two small boys, my first thought is that they're hitching, the driver slowing down, stopping beside them. As they approach I feel my eyes focus up in what they're carrying with them, dead squirrels, two dusty and misshapen and one still bright furred, victim of a catapult or snare. The driver batters with the boys, offers 10000 kip but they only offer him the roadkil, holding out for a better price for the fresh meat. A little further another boy, his squirrel wriggling furiously and in vain, trapped in a snare, still alive. Once again we stop, the driver offering a price, the boy refusing, asking more, the driver shaking his head, engaging first gear and we continue on, further into the hills.

From the bus station, perched atop a hill above the town, buildings spread out, dissected by roadways, 1.2 km downhill, after the journey the walk feels as if it's a gift. Halting at the first guesthouse, a gregarious group sitting around a table drinking tea and schnapps greet me with open arms, smiles and handshakes. They have rooms, small and basic, no flush toilet, cheap. We look, it's clean enough, smells okay, a small girl shouting hello and sabaidee, running to find, hello and sabaidee, smiling.

Back downstairs the old man who owns the guesthouse, offers me a glass of a local herbal schnapps, smooth and delicious, maybe too strong for an empty stomach after a day of travel. But it's accepted gratefully, his face dressing with laughter as I smile and drain the glass. That feeling of familiarity, memories of places like this where a small kindness can replace words and a genuine smile becomes a currency of a kind.

And later a power cut, sitting in a small cafe by candlelight, the streets lit by emergency lighting, stars burning brightly in the clear sky. Other memories, other places, dark hills and bright heavens, an essence woven into the surrounding air.