Along the River

Ul really is sick. He dispatches aliens. I potter on the bike in good colonial fashion.

Round each corner the city changes. This section is all about hefting rusty multi-coloured barrels palm oil from the dying boats. The place bustles: each family works a Chinese tractor: motor on the outside, black plume of pollution, and a thumping engine that pursues you (dogga dogga dogga dogga) from a distance. Kids wash in the river, the shacks are made from cloth and plastic, work is physical and frantic, and men and women share it.

Down the road is where the wood comes in: rafts of bamboo floated down stream, boats full of chopped up fire wood or rafters. Not much better as a place to live but a few ducks and blades of grass around.

The central market has streets of ginger and onions, or garlic and chillies. Round the corner it's lime and pumpkins, or tea and coriander. Everything heaves and mopeds, trishaws, cart pullers and hawkers squeeze their way along. Indian in my imagination. What positioning, pincered between China and India. . .