departures

Packed again, readied for the penultimate journey as we move, slowly, towards Bangkok. Leaving the room we wander for a coffee, wonder about going further, whether there's any point in looking for lunch. There's a layer of confusion over bus times, could be midday or one pm. or, as it happens, later still, almost two when the bus appears, the morning having been spent idly sitting with rucksack and waiting, the late arrival offering an other reason long for the early departures of Laos.


Through the front window I watch as the journey unfolds, the road rising and falling through woodlands encroaching, sudden vistas offering more glimpses of beautiful scenery, the continuing road winding gently through the hills as we rise. From a viewpoint the distance unfolds the visible haze returned, the dry earth passing beyond the window, rocky gashes upon the surface where water formed streams, waiting for the the rains. Along the roadside construction worker weave their dance within the skeletons of tomorrow's structures, concrete and steel replacing wood, changing styles reflecting the influence of the west; bungalows and neoclassical pillars replacing the localised past with another.

The sense of gradual descent, the land flattening out around us as we depart the heights, moving south and west, the hills fading once again as they stretch out into the suppressed horizon, retreat into memory. Another unnamed and nondescript town, the road ending at a junction, merging with busier roads a spate of traffic flowing around us, the sound of horns guiding us towards the outskirts of Phitsanulok, disgorged at the bus station 7km from the centre, no tuk tuks, a taxi ride towards the hostel.
Again it's a kind of familiar place, the road passing through lines of showrooms selling cars and bikes, fading into smaller shops and malls, some expensive looking hotels as we move towards the centre, there, a scattering of temples visible from their rooftops, crematory chimneys spiking above them. On through the gatherings of concrete structures lining the roadside, a mosque, minarets breaking above the low roofs, the unfinished shells lurking upon the edges of wastelands, turning off the main road and up a small lane, pulling up outside of the hostel.

And a lovely place it turns out to be, the Karma hostel run by Mark from, originally, Southampton but who arrived years ago as a backpacker and never quite left again; a kind and thoughtful soul of the type you don't meet so often, the hostel a remnant of a kind of ideal that you meet less and less. We drop our bags in the room, take a rest from the long day's journey and then return downstairs and out into the late afternoon, through streets busier than any since we left Thailand for Laos, a sense of speed, of life rushing by. The light already dimming, we find ourselves outside the train station, buy tickets for tomorrow, seats on a late train allowing us to skip a night in Bangkok, open up tomorrow as a day of exploration here rather than the awaiting city.


A little further along the road there's a night Bazaar, drawn in by the scent of spices clinging to the air we buy a couple of bags of unknown gravy and some sticky rice, wander back to the train station and, sitting on a bench upon a platform, tracks on each side leading into both past and future, eat our feast before walking down towards the river.