Killing time

And time runs on, runs on. Sitting as the morning unfolds with vague plans forming their illusions, the map unfolding as distances shrink in the proximity of time's spilling sand. But there's this place, Dan Sai, a direct connection to the masks which have followed us since Pak Lay, and there's a bus from Loei. We pack and leave, walking up towards the bus stop.out of town when the songthew pulls up beside us and we step back on to the road.

Arriving back at Loei bus station at midday and missing the bus to Dan Sai by three minutes, less, thinking it must have passed us as we disembarked the songthew, two and a half hours until the next one, temperature hitting forty degrees and no place to hide. Now this is familiar, a recurring feature, waiting on a bus or a train in that weird ecosystem of transit which has risen from small hubs, lingers in the modern city. The same worn and weary air upon faces, food stalls and cold drinks, taxis and tuk tuks loitering upon the edges, drivers chatting on sheltered benches, or resting in hammocks hung in the back of their vehicles; buses pulling in and out, raising clouds of dust from the pock marked road and spewing exhaust fumes as they crawl towards their stance, unload, pick up, move on, repeat. 

Across from the stances shops and restaurants selling traveller treats and meals. But here they're cheap and, today at least, welcome and delicious, enough to sustain us across the remnant miles. And as it often does in these moments my mind wanders, wondering how much time I've spent in similar places waiting the hours until my transport arrives, days, weeks, longer? Stretching across the decades, long since a familiar, a refuge of sorts, threads winding through the tapestry of the past, meetings which modified journeys and life, friendships and momentary joys. 

But, eventually, the bus arrives, late enough to make up for the prompt departure earlier. The sun heating the window, glaring ligh through thin curtains, no ventilation to break through the oppressive air, heavy eyed but moving on.

Then a shout from the driver, "Dan Sai!" We disembark at the edge of the centre, another sleepy place I think, a small town, but with depth, certainly I'm curious already, followed by the curiosity of the  masks. A sign points towards a museum, but first a room, a rest, tomorrow's soon enough.

A little further out of town we find a room, rest an hour and set out for a small wander. Finding the river, a small muddy stream this season, no hope for a swim, the night market shining beneath the bright red of the sunset skies, hills dark against the afterglow, fires burning upon their slopes. The masks and figures surround us, holding lamps upon the street, advertising drinks, statues where small children scamper and climb. But it's getting late, shutters closing, streets quietened, the journey done and only food to find before bed.