Pak Lay

Fierce heat beating down upon the early clock. Outside the sand shimmers, something about its tone, the colour of the water and the hills beyond, reminding me of Rishikesh. But it's not mother Ganges but the Mekong below me, a sheen of beautiful dark turquoise water, opaque hills reflecting grey as the wind ripples the surface of the water and the sounds of unseen boats drift upon the air.

Sitting and watching as the surface of the water swirls upon the current, dancing circles where plastic bottles mark nets to be checked later. The dancing waters sing the words of Yeats, spinning and sparkling swiftly downstream, captivating the eye while unexpected variations warn of the undertow. But I know that, caught as I took an afternoon swim yesterday, pulled towards nets and rocks, surprised by its grip. But it's a depleted river now, dams breaking the flow, the cycle of seasons discarded along the banks.

At first glance Pak Lay itself seems a little run down, quiet and sleepy; guesthouses and restaurants vacant, the flow of people reduced. But once, not so long ago, it was a thriving port, a hub spanning both land and water and, being from a variation of  such a place myself, I spin a kinship of sorts.

Walking through the morning the market from yesterday is packing up, scarce stalls remaining, rides in the process of being disassembled, the wasteground returning beneath a scatter of debris. Returning later we find it's gone, the last stall being packed up around a final customer eating a plate of noodles. Now quiet is almost fallen, only the sound of barking dogs and  karaoke from somewhere along the river disturbing the peace.

And walking earlier the town is bigger than it appeared, stretching out along the roadside, drifting upon dirt roads towards the hills. Along the banks of the river trucks spill cargoes of stone, what appears to be flood defences rising, more houses and guesthouses along their raised banks. A market to the north, more doughnuts, welcoming cries of sabaidee as I pass grinning and contented, returning to the river and its dance, the shifting tones and subtle hypnosis cast upon the eye as the day drifts by once again.