Still travelling, still here

A stop somewhere, sand or dust illuminated in the headlights as the bus spills its cargo of passengers upon the road. No idea where we are but I'm sure that I recognised Phonsavan earlier as we passed along the emptiness of main street. But in this weary dark even that's uncertain, recognition a variation upon imagination, residual maps shattered in the sleepless night.

At the next stop first light flutters across the summits of dark hills, pale blue skies forming upon coating of grime upon retina, untold distances to come.Through the rising morning we continue, heat building,  traffic thickening around us as we approach the city, another stop, a roadside bakery, almost falling over as I stretch my legs, weighed down by weariness now, looking around the featureless landscape, a flattened scene stretching out until curtailed distances falter and fade. 

The hills are gone, left far behind this dusty plain, the melancholy of departure vivid, the light changed. But the road leads elsewhere as it must, a trail of memories to sing each journey passed and whisper of return.

We stop. I've no idea where we are, the northern bus station a sign informs me. Too tired, approached by an aggressive tuk tuk driver, limousine prices into the centre, 80000 each, dropping quickly but not enough to convince me to travel with him. I check the map, he returns, his prices raised by 30000 each, dropping them again but I'd rather walk than go with him now, tell him that even at 5000 each it would be no, he finally gets the message, shouting at me as he departs angrily and another driver approaches, offering a fair price, accepted, then this last journey into the centre of town.

Through unfamiliar streets, seeking the familiar, glancing through traffic, bouncing along the road. I don't recognise this place at all. Maybe when I get to the centre, to the river, when I find power for my phone, can work out the map. I find the old centre, the park and statue, know where I am but it still feels as if I'm lost, as if I've stepped into someone else's version of a city recognisable only as fragments set astray, topography through fairground mirrors, changed. Watching the sun falling towards the west I set off along the road, joining the course of the river a couple of streets away, moving towards a sunset point stored in my memory.

But it's changed here also, the Mekon a stream in the distance, more shrublands strewn where I recall the river having been. The sun continuing its descent I walk on towards it, passing a row of empty restaurants above the river's course; riverside, signs announce, maybe once I think, but now? Now across the wastelands a small stream catches the sunlight reflecting red, maybe further along, maybe it's my memory which is flawed, distances stretched by age, departed from reality.

Too weary from the journey, clogged by pollution once again, I return towards the center, in search of food, walk through the night market and up towards the embankment, find lights and stalls lit up below me, stretching out, tables waiting for guests who won't arrive, the threat of virus and closed borders weighing heavily upon them and others, vacancy signs, rooms for rent. But even so, for me, it's too busy, slowed down in the hills, grown comfortable in their solitude, I walk back towards the guesthouse through quieter alleys in search of sleep.