amazing water

The message from the water. Masaru Emoto.

If thoughts can make this to water, imagine what they can make to us.

the irish hermit

I was eating pad thai for breakfast at a little food stall enjoying the shy sun of the early morning, in Pai, some time last January.

He came up to me and sat down at my table as if we knew each other from another place, another time. Determined, secure. We talked for a whole pad thai about Buddhism, about my going into a temple, about his experiences with meditation.

When I close my eyes I still can see him, his hermit looks, his bushy beard, his tranquil presence.

I bumped into him next day on the street. Not too difficult, Pai is a little village. We were sharing another meal when Sean looked me right in the eye and confessed he was alcoholic. So is my brother, I answered, just as direct as he had been.

That night we hugged goodbye and I have never seen him again. Yet.

boyera / lesbian

"Qué pena que sea boyera. Hay que joderse, qué desperdicio" escuchaba al caballero que caminaba justo detrás de mi ayer por la tarde de regreso a casa. No supe si tomar el comentario por un insulto o un piropo. El comentario se lo hacía a otro personaje que asentía con la cabeza y medio sonreía de forma tímida.

Los comentarios acerca de mi supuesta homosexualidad y el desperdicio que eso suponía para los hombres continuaron un par de calles más hasta que llegamos a un semáforo en rojo. Stop. En ese momento, la pareja de caballeros paró justo a mi derecha y yo aproveché la ocasión para ver el aspecto de los propiciadores de la ofensa-piropo.

Me escrutinaron de arriba abajo confirmando su aprobación a mi físico, imagino que no tanto a mi corte de pelo ni a mi ropaje (de ahí el juicio sexual...me aventuro a pensar) y yo, por mi parte, les escrutiné estimando la posibilidad de hacer algún comentario al respecto. No dije nada. Sonreí de medio lado y entonces el de la voz cantante dijo, asegurándose de que yo le escuchaba, "Lo que yo te diga una pena que sea boyera".

Es curioso cómo funciona la cabeza de los humanos. Vemos, percibimos, clasificamos en función de imágenes no-propias y, por último, juzgamos no teniendo realmente ni idea. Siempre me ha gustado la ambigüedad, el juego, la confusión pero desde luego dentro del respeto. En Asia en muchas ocasiones he tenido a personas, sobre todo del sexo masculino, estudiándome, tratando de decidir si soy un hombre o una mujer. En India una señora llegó a intentar echarme de un baño pensando que me había colado. En un autobús en el norte de Tailandia regresando de la frontera birmana un caballero de cierta edad se giró y me dijo "Iba pensando qué hombre más guapo pero ahora que te miro bien veo que eres una mujer guapa". Respeto y educación esa es la gran diferencia.

people talk about my image

like I come in two dimensions

like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind

like what I happen to be wearing

the day someone takes a picture

is my new statement for all of womankind

Little Plastic Castle

Ani Difranco

*****

"What a pity, she's lesbian. What a waste!" I was listening to the gentleman behind me on my way home yesterday afternoon. I did not know whether to think that was an insult or a compliment. He was talking to another guy who nodded and grinned in a shy way.

The comments on my supposed homosexuality and the waste that was to all of mankind lasted for another couple of streets until we reached a red traffic light. Stop. The pair of gentlemen stopped right beside me and I seized the opportunity to check out the looks of the two of them.

They examined me up and down confirming their approval to my physical appearance not so much to my hair cut and my outfit (I guess) and so I did myself considering the possibility of making a remark. I did not say anything. I just smiled sideways and then the gentleman said, loud enough for me to hear, "What a pity she's a lesbian!".

It's amazing how human brains work. We see, we perceive, we clasify in imposed categories and then, we judge not really knowing anything at all. I have always liked the ambiguity, the game, the confusion but always, always with respect. In Asia I have had people stare at me wondering whether I was a man or a woman. In India a woman tried to throw me out of a toilet thinking I was a man. On a bus in Northern Thailand a gentleman said to me "I was looking at you thinking what a handsome man and now that I see you better I think what a beautiful woman". Respect and education that makes the big difference.

Ps: I do not mean that being a lesbian is an insult or ofence at all. The actual word the gentleman used is boyera which in most of the cases has a negative connotation. I think it would like calling a black person negro, although I think words are words and it all depends on how you use them. In this particular case I am refering, the gentleman was trying to be cheeky and rude, at least.

people talk about my image

like I come in two dimensions
like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind
like what I happen to be wearing
the day someone takes a picture
is my new statement for all of womankind

Little Plastic Castle
Ani Difranco

a city tale

He extinguishes his last cigarette of the day while heavily coughing. He´s been coughing all day long. It´s 10 pm and he hasn´t eaten for hours. He has a hangover. Last night he went out to have fun and he couldn´t help it, he got drunk again.

He never has time for anything, for his stuff, he´s always very busy. Always running from one side of town to the opposite one. And somewhere in between he manages to eat, do the shopping, see some friends...

He´s proud of himself, he shows off all the time. He must say out aloud what he wishes to point out of himself to make sure everyone appreciates it.

What does he say to himself when there´s no one around to listen? What does he feel when nobody is looking at him and he doesn't need to show off any more? What does he do when he has time for himself?

He breaks down and cry.

viento / wind

Piso la textura del viento tarifeño, el dibujo que crea en la arena de la playa, sus ondas sinuosas, perfectas serpientes que escapan de la playa hacia otro lugar.

La playa está viva, se mueve, como escapándose de si misma.

La playa es perfecta, da pena pisarla, entorpecer el maravilloso trabajo del viento con mis pisadas que atrapan los granos de arena destinados a viajar a otro lugar, transportados por el viento, que hoy sopla desde el mar.

*****

I tread on the texture of the wind, on the pattern that draws with the sand, on its winding waves, perfect snakes that escape from the beach towards somewhere else.

The beach is alive, it moves like running away from itself.

The beach is perfect, it's a pity to step on it, to hold up the marvellous work of the wind by stepping on the sand grains bound to travel to other place, transported by the wind which blows from the sea today.

punta paloma

Punta Paloma. Un camping, una playa, unas dunas. Recuerdos de Morjim, Goa, India. Una playa interminable. Agua trasparente, arena blanca. Recuerdos y realidad se confunden. A veces, no sé dónde estoy.

Una vela, una esterilla, mi navaja y una manta prestada. Mis útiles del fin de semana.


Pájaros. Grillos. Risas cercanas. Hacer, cosas simples. Pasear por la playa. Dormir la siesta entre las dunas al resguardo del viento. Charlar con desconocidos. Tomar café al atardecer.


Punta Paloma. Un camping, una playa, unas dunas...

*****

Punta Paloma. A campsite, a beach, some dunes. Memories of Morjim, Goa, India. An endless beach. Clear water, white sand. Memories and reality mixed. Sometimes, I do not know where I am. I'm in my memory and in my reality here, at the same time.

A candle, a straw mat, my pen knife and a borrowed blanket. My belongings for the weekend.

Birds. Criquets. Near laughter. To do, only simple things. Walk on the beach. Have a nap among the dunes. Chat with strangers. Have coffee at sunset.

Punta Paloma. A campsite, a beach, some dunes...

tarifa

Tarifa es musulmana y es cristiana, es moderna y es antigua, es ciudad y es pueblo.

Tarifa es africana y es española. Tarifa es tranquila y excitante. Es blanca y es azul. Es joven y es vieja. Es bella y terrible.

Tarifa es mestiza y como los mestizos pertenece a todos y pertenece a nadie.

Tarifa es viento. Cometas y velas. Tarifa es Marruecos y es España.

*****

Tarifa is Muslim and Christian, it's modern and ancient, it's city and village.

Tarifa is African and Spanish.Tarifa is quiet and exciting. It's white and blue. It's young and old. It's beautiful and terrible.

Tarifa is of mixed race and like mixed race people belongs to all and to nobody.

Tarifa is wind. Kites and windsurf. Tarifa is Morocco and Spain.

rilke

" ¿Quién, si yo gritase, me oiría desde los coros de los ángeles?
Y aún suponiendo que alguno de ellos
me acogiera de pronto en su corazón, yo desaparecería
ante su existencia más poderosa. Porque lo bello no es sino
el comienzo de lo terrible, ése que todavía podemos soportar;
y lo admiramos tanto porque, sereno, desdeña el destruirnos.
Todo ángel es terrible."

Rilke. Primera elegía de Duino.

pai january 2007

pensamiento

EARTH from ABOVE

Yann Arthus-Bertrand

Casi todas las propuestas de ayuda al desarrollo me parecen insultos a otras culturas y otros modos de vida. No digo que la ayuda en casos de catástrofes naturales, emergencias tales como terremotos o inundaciones sea un insulto, en estos casos, me parece un gesto de compañerismo. Pero aquello que llamamos "ayuda al desarrollo" me parece, sí lo es.

Para empezar me planteo si alguien a preguntado a estas gentes si se quieren desarrrollar, y sobre todo, qué modelo de desarrollo quieren seguir, si se quieren desarrollar como "nosotros, los occidentales". Alguien se ha parado a preguntar y escuchar; a explicar las consecuencias de ese tan deseado desarrollo. Alguien les ha contado, la parte mala, negativa, la letra pequeña, para que en cualquiera de los casos se pudieran tomar decisiones informadas y consecuentes.

Todo aquello fuera de las necesidades primarias imprescindibles para la vida, como potabilización de agua, electricidad (quizás)...me parece se emprende con un gran paternalismo de base. Un mirar por encima del hombro. Un odioso "pobrecitos". Me pregunto qué haríamos nosotros si vinieran un grupo de indios, por ejemplo, a imponer sus modelos de desarollo, ¨civilización¨ a los países occidentales, si los aceptaríamos, sumisos y obedientes, o si nos levantaríamos y les acribillaríamos, exclamando al cielo que es una barbaridad.

don det 21.02.07

picture this

Yesterday morning on my way to the underground I saw:

1) An african guy yelling at people passing by about another guy who was in jail just because the colour of his skin.

2) Another guy peeing in the middle of the street and trying to utter a word that I did not understand at all.

3) A car stopped me. Inside there were two guys with the reddest eyes I´ve seen in a long time. They tried to flirt with me while enquiring about an afterhours....

This was 10:00 am. I was absolutely sober of course. It seems I was the only one...

madrid multicolor

En un Madrid multicolor y multiétnico vivo. Paso por la mañana por India y Bangladesh para hacerme con el incienso que perfuma mis meditaciones matutinas. Voy a Marruecos al mediodia para tomar un té con dulces. Por la tarde si tengo tiempo me dejo caer por el Africa Subsahariana; con su sonoridad francesa y su colorido y elegancia natural, básica, rotunda, no pretendida ni comprada sino heredada de la tierra roja y caliente.

Me voy de compras a China y encuentro barato y al por mayor de todo, desde linternas a cuadernos, cinturones, artilugios para mi cocina, sobres para enviar mis cartas... Esta China que habla español con accento oriental y sin pronunciar las ¨R¨.

En las oficinas gubernamentales, por fin también ¨Ellos¨, se han dado cuenta de que Madrid es multicolor y los carteles informativos, poco a poco, se van convirtiendo en bilingües, Español y Arabe.

soup

Some places are pleasantly inefficient. You order noodle soup and you
are brought rice.

03-04-2007 luang prabang, lao

¨Do you find the words to describe all this?¨ Lou asked me. I replied that eventually words come to you and you´re able to choose the better ones, to pick up the appropiate ones to picutre what you feel, what you see, what you hear...

These last days I find it more difficult than ever to choose the right words. My mind seems not able to do the right selection to put down in paper what is going on.

a gift for mike

Yesterday I was chatting with Mike and I asked him what he wanted me to send him to Indonesia, as he is still there teaching. Chorizo? A flamenco outfit? Some Spanish music? No! He answered he wanted snow! I don't think it will last all the way...

Picture> Europa Press

china

Poor Chinese! The fate of this extraordinary civilization saddened me. For literally thousands of years it had followed another path, had confronted life, death, nature and the gods in a way unlike any other. The Chinese had invented their own way of writing, of eating, of making love, of doing their hair; for centuries they had cared for the sick in a different way, looked in a different way at the sky, the mountains, the rivers; they had a different idea of how to build houses and temples, a different view of anatomy, different concepts of the soul, of strength, of wind and water. Today that civilization aspires only to be modern, like the West; it wants to become like that little air-conditioned island that is Singapore; its young people dream only of dressing like ´businessmen´, of queuing up at Macdonald´s, of owning a quartz watch, a colour television and a mobile phone.
Sad, is it not? And not just for the Chinese, but for humanity in general, which loses so much when it loses its differences and becomes all the same. Mao understood that in order to save China it had be closed to the Western influence; it had to seek a Chinese solution to the problems of modernity and development. In posing the problem Mao was truly great. And he was great in being wrong about how to solve it. But always great, Mao: a great poet, great strategist, great intellectual, great murderer. Great like China, great like the tragedy it is now enduring.
If someone is able to look back at the history of humanity a few centuries from now, he will surely see the end of Chinese civilization as a great loss: because with it ended a great alternative, whose existence perhaps have guaranteed the harmony of the world.
Not by chance was it the Chinese who discovered that the essence of everything lies in the equilibrium between opposites, between yin and yang, between sun and moon, light and shadow, male and female, water and fire. It is by harmonizing differences that the world works, reproduces itself, maintains its tension, lives. So in fact there is some reason to regret the end of Communism - not for itself, but as an alternative, a counterweight. Now that it no longer exists there is a great disequilibrium, and even the side that thinks it has won no longer has the tension that stimulated its creativiy.

A fortune-teller told me. Earthbound Travels in the Far East. 1993.

Tiziano Terzani.

cajon de sastre (14)

In Asia you can kill yourself easier and cheaper than in Europe.

Klaus, a German guy I met in Si Phan Don (the four thousand islands), Southern Lao, talking about the astohishingly cheap prices of tobacco in all South East Asia.

spring is here

It seems Gods have forgotten the calendar and even though, us the humans, are in the spring, They are still in the winter.

The clouds, the winds, the sky... All of them have forgotten that the Spring is here and they ply reminding us that there was no winter in the Northern Hemisphere this year. They are scolding us.

People are surprised. They moan, they weep, they shrug their shoulders...And yet, in their cars they go to work every chilly morning.

work, again

Today I start working again in what has been my professional career since I finished my university degree and that I left parked to go travelling a year and a half ago. I feel like starting a new journey, the same feeling in my stomach, a travel through a country already known and a culture that it is my own. A big challenge. To build every day like an absolute brand new thing. A big challenge, the routine.

jose luis borges (2) instantes

Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida, en la próxima trataría de cometer más errores. No intentaría ser tan perfecto, me relajaría más. Sería más tonto de lo que he sido, de hecho, tomaría muy pocas cosas con seriedad, sería menos higiénico, correría más riesgos, haría más viajes, contemplaría más atardeceres, subiría más montañas, nadaría más ríos. Iría a más lugares adonde nunca he ido, comería más helados y menos habas, tendría más problemas reales y menos imaginarios.

Yo fui una de esas personas que vivió sensata y prolíficamente cada minuto de su vida; claro que tuve momentos de alegría. Pero si pudiera volver atrás trataría de tener solamente buenos momentos. Por si no lo saben, de eso está hecha la vida, sólo de momentos;no te pierdas el ahora.

Yo era uno de esos que nunca iban a ninguna parte sin termómetro, una bolsa de agua caliente, un paraguas y un paracaídas. Si pudiera volver a vivir, viajaría más liviano. Si pudiera volver a vivir comenzaría a andar descalzo a principios de la primavera y seguiría así hasta concluir el otoño. Daría más vueltas en calesita, contemplaría más amaneceres y jugaría con más niños, si tuviera otra vez la vida por delante.

Pero ya tengo 85 años y sé que me estoy muriendo.

two t-shirts

Volviendo a casa después de un largo viaje y recopilando cosas y cajas de trasteros de familiares y amigos, paso los primeros días de mi regreso.

Abro cajas y descubro artilugios guardados por la que escribe en tiempos pasados con objeto de recordar, decorar, retener, entretener. Con cada caja descubro partes de mi yo antiguo, pasado, olvidado, trocitos de mi historia que parecen no tener ya sentido pero que, sin embargo, me hacen sonreir. Cada nueva maleta saca a la luz ropa que no necesito ni uso hace años. Ropa también olvidada y cuando es olvidada es porque no es necesaria.

Cosas y más cosas para crear una ilusión de seguridad a nuestro alrededor, de hogar, pero sólo es eso, una ilusión.

Yo ya sé que se puede ser feliz con sólo dos camisetas.

*****

Coming back home after a long journey and picking up my stuff from my relatives and friends' storage rooms, my first days here go by.

I open boxes and discover items carefully kept by the writer time ago in order to remember, decorate, retain, entertain. With each box I discover pieces of my ancient I, my past I, forgotten, bits of my history that seem senseless but, nevertheless, they make me smile. Each new suitcase reveals clothes I don't need and I haven't worn for years. Clothes also forgotten and when somegthing is forgotten means it is not needed.

Things and more things to build the illusion of security around us, of a home, bu it's only that, an illusion.

I know now I can be happy with only two T-shirts.

answers

Travel makes sense only if you come back with an answer in your baggage. Have you found it?[...] Quite the reverse: along the way I have lost even the two or three certainties that I used to think I possessed.

A fortune-teller told me. 1993

Tiziano Terzani

Cuando creíamos que teníamos todas las respuestas

de pronto cambiaron todas las preguntas

M. Benedetti

same same but different

People keep on asking me "How is the return?" and I keep on answering "It's ok I am taking it really easy". The truth is that everything seems familiar but very different this time. It is really ok.

It is true that people do not smile at me on the street and do not say hello. It is also true that I can not eat delicious rice dishes with my hands. It is true that buying drinking water and checking if there's water in the toilet to clean myself does not make sense anymore. It is also true that there are many more cars and buses than bicycles and motorbikes.

But even in this part of the world there are good things. It is just matter of point of view being able to appreciate them.

metro underground

El viajero que llega por vez primera a Madrid se encuentra una ciudad soleada y friolera, urgente, con prisas, como que llega tarde a algún sitio. El cielo del Madrid de los últimos días de invierno es de un azul celeste poblado de infinitas nubes blancas. Uno puede pensar cuando se asoma por la ventana para ver qué día hace, que la temperatura exterior es veraniega, de tan claro que el cielo está, pero no ha de dejarse engañar y ha de coger abrigo y bufanda para cada aventura en el exterior.

Una vez sale a la calle poco tarda el viajero en volver a penetrar en recinto cerrado, autobuses, coches, taxis, pero, sobre todo y ante todo, los vagones de tren del metro, sin duda alguna, el medio de transporte más económico y rápido de la ciudad. El metro de Madrid tiene sólo un inconveniente, que es subterráneo y, lo que gana en tiempo, el viajero lo pierde en belleza, pues desde el vagón del metro no se ve el sol.

*****

The traveller who arrives in Madrid for the first time, finds a sunny and cold city, urgent, in a hurry, as if it´s running late for something. The sky of the last winter days in Madrid is sky-blue crowded with infinite white clouds. One could think by looking out of the window that the temperature outside is summery since the sky is so clear, but one must not be fooled and one must take the coat and scarf in every outside adventure.

Once the traveller sets foot on the street it takes not too long to get into another closed place, buses, cars, taxis, but, first and foremost, the underground, the cheapest and fastest means of transport in the city. Madrid´s underground has only one inconvenience, it is underground and what the traveller saves in time, loses in beauty, because from the underground wagons you can not see the Sun.

los molinos del quijote

En esto descubrieron treinta o cuarenta molinos de viento que hay en aquel campo, y así como don Quijote los vio, dijo a su escudero.
-La ventura va guiando nuestras cosas mejor de lo que acertáramos a desear; porque ves allí, amigo Sancho Panza, donde se descubren treinta o pocos más desaforados gigantes, con quien pienso hacer batalla y quitarles a todos las vidas, con cuyos despojos comenzaremos a enriquecer; que ésta es buena guerra, y es gran servicio de Dios quitar tan mala simiente de sobre la faz de la tierra.
-¿Qué gigantes? -dijo Sancho Panza.
-Aquellos que allí ves -respondió su amo- de los brazos largos, que los suelen tener algunos de casi dos leguas.
-Mire vuestra merced -respondió Sancho- que aquellos que allí se parecen no son gigantes, sino molinos de viento, y lo que en ellos parecen brazos son las aspas, que, volteadas del viento, hacen andar la piedra del molino.
-Bien parece -respondió don Quijote- que no estás cursado en esto de las aventuras: ellos son gigantes; y si tienes miedo, quítate de ahí, y ponte en oración en el espacio que yo voy a entrar con ellos en fiera y desigual batalla.

los sonidos de la ciudad / the sounds of the city

Sirenas de ambulancias lejanas rellenan la soledad de una noche ventosa de marzo, el camion de la basura viene a recoger nuestros desperdicios, cuidadosamente separados y seleccionados para ser reciclados, dicen.
En casa el agua circula rítmica por los radiadores estratégicamente colocados y programados para mantener una temperatura confortable, ni frío ni calor. Alguien ensaya con su oboe en un piso más arriba, ensaya y me transporta a los años veinte del pasado siglo, a clubs de jazz, películas de Woody Allen, New York.
La campana, dong, las siete de la tarde. Alguien llama al ascensor para escalar los escasos 5 pisos del edificio y refugiarse en su casa con una temperatura confortable a ver la televisión. Mañana se levantará con el sonido de un despertador atronador.

*****

Distant ambulance sirens fill up the windy March night, the refuse lorry comes to pick up our rubbish, carefully separated and clasified in order to be recycled, they say.

At home the water runs rhytmic through the strategically placed and programmed radiators to keep a confortable temperature, neither cold nor hot. Somebody rehearsals with their oboe on an upper floor, rehearsals and takes me to the 20's, to jazz clubs, Woody Allen's movies, New York.

The bell, dong, it's seven o'clock. Someone calls the elevator to climb the scant 5 floors of the building and refuge in their home with a confortable temperature to watch television. Tomorrow he'll get up with the sound of a deafening alarm clock.

my new game

De acuerdo, lo admito. Estoy enganchada. Me fascina. Me conecto solo para ver quien se conecta. Me encanta el invento este del mapa para saber desde donde se conecta la gente a mi pequenyo riconcito.

Hong Kong, Camboya, India, mi amada India... Juego a adivinar. A algunos os tengo controlados. Se quien fue el que se conecto desde Ecuador y el que chequea en Australia. Los de Singapur y Tailandia, facil, era yo. China?! USA? Argentina! Me fascina, lo admito.

*****

OK, I admit it. I am hooked. I am fascinated. I connect only to check who is connected. I love the little map to know where from people connect to my humble home.

Hong Kong, Cambodia, India, my loved India... I play, I try to guess. I know some of you. I know who was the one that was connected from Ecuador and the one that checks from Australia. The visits from Singapore and Thailand, easy, it was me. China? USA? Argentina?! I am fascinated, I admit it.

el campanario / the bell tower

Hace frio pero tampoco tanto. La ciudad es grande y bulliciosa pero ni comparacion con otras ciudades antes visitadas y vividas. El taxista que me acerca a casa, amigable y bonachon, me pregunta tal que padre que cuales son mis planes, que si voy a trabajar. Sonrio. Me gusta.

Anteayer me desperataba el sonido de un gong a las 4 de la manyana. Hoy marca mis horas el sonido que llega del campanario de la iglesia cercana, llama a misa. Misa de 10, de 12, de 7... la misa de siete, la misa de mi abuela. Hace viento pero esta soleado.

*****

It's cold but not that much. The city is hustle and bustle but nothing compared to many other cities visited and lived some time ago. The taxi driver that takes me home, friendly and easy-going, asks me, like a father, what my plans are, if I'm going to work. I smile. I like him.

The day before yesterday a gong would wake me up at 4 in the morning. Today the sound from the bell tower of the nearby church strikes my hours, it calls everyone to mass. The ten o'clock mass, the noon mass, the seven o'clock mass... the seven o'clock mass, my grandmother's mass. It's windy but it is sunny.

asia

"In appearance everything is fine these days in Asia. The wars are over and peace reigns, with very few exceptions, over the whole continent. Everywhere people speak of nothing but economic growth. And yet this great, ancient world of diversity is about to succumb. The Trojan horse is "modernization".

I find it tragic to see this continent so gaily committing suicide. But nobody talks about it, nobody protests - least of all the Asians. In the past, when Europe was beating at the doors of Asia, firing cannonballs from her gunboats and seeking to open ports, to obtain concessions and colonies, when her soldiers were disdainfully sacking and burning the Summer Palace in Peking, the Asians, one way or another, resisted.

The Vietnamese began their war of liberation the moment the first French troops landed on their territory; that war lasted more than a hundred years, and only ended with the fall of Saigon in 1975. The Chinese fought in the Opium Wars, and in the end trusted to time to free themselves from the foreigners who ruled with the force of their more efficient weapons.

Japan, on the other hand, reacted like a chameleon. It made itself externally Western, copied everything it could from the West- from students' uniforms to cannons, from architecture of railway stations to the idea of the state- but inwardly strove to become more and more Japanese, inculcating in its people the idea of their uniqueness.

One after another the countries of Asia have managed to free themselves from the colonial yoke and show the West the door. But now the West is climbing back in by the window and conquering Asia at last, no longer taking over its territories but its soul. It is doing it without any plan, without any specific political will, but by a process of poisoning from which no antidote has yet been discovered: the notion of modernity. We have conviced the Asians that only by being modern can they survive, and that the only way of being modern is ours, the Western way.

Projecting itself as the only true model of human progress, the West has managed to give a massive inferiority complex to those who are no 'modern' in its image - not even Christianity ever accomplished this! And now Asia is dumping all that was its own in order to adopt all that is Western, whether in its original form or in its local imitations, be they Japanese, Thai or Singaporean.

Copying what is 'new' and 'modern' has become an obsession, a fever for which there is no remedy. In Peking they are knocking down the last courtyard houses; in the villages of South-East Asia , in Indonesia as in Laos, at the first sign of prosperity the lovely local materials are rejected in favour of synthetic ones. Thatched roofs are out, corrugated iron is in, and never mind if the houses get as hot as ovens , and if in the rainy season they are like drums inside which the occupants are deafened.

So it is with everyone these days. Even the Chinese. Once so proud to be the heirs of a four-thousand-year-old culture, and convinced of their spiritual superiority to all others, they too have capitulated; significantly, they are beginning to find it embarrasing still to eat with chopsticks. They too feel more presentable with a knife and fork in their hands, more elegant if dressed in jacket and tie. The tie! Originally a Mongol invention for dragging prisoners tied to the pommels of their saddles...

By now no Asian culture can hold out against the trend. There are no more principles or ideals capable of challenging this 'modernity'. Development is a dogma, progress at all costs is an order against which there can be no appeal. Mercely to question the route taken, its morality, its consequences, has become impossible in Asia.

Here there is not even an equivalent of the hippies who, realizing there was something wrong with 'progress', cried 'Stopped the world, I want to get off!' And yet the problem exists, and it is everyone's. We should all ask ourselves -always- if what we are doing inproves and enriches our lives. Or have we all, through some monstruous deformation, lost the instinct of what life should be: first and foremost, an opportunity to be happy."

A fortune-teller told me, 1993.

Tiziano Terzani

scary singaporean facts

Some time ago I wrote about Singapore. I said I liked the city-state with its mixture of asiatic warmth and western efficiency. At that time I did not know some scary things that I discovered yesterday during my 6 hours waiting at the airport and talking to a couple of Singaporeans.

Here they are:

1. Men are forbidden to have long hair.

2. Strikes are illegal, if you go on a strike you can end up in jail.

3. Chewing gum is forbidden.

4. The ratio of policemen to population is among the highest in the world.

5. Anyone can be arrested and detained indefinitely without trial.

And I guess there are many other issues...

the boy sitting next to me

'Are you Buddhist?' asked the boy sitting next to me. I did not know what to answer. I doubted. My teacher at the monastery said to me that being a Buddhist means being good, therefore, I feel myself like a Buddhist. But I think the boy sitting next to me didn't mean that so I answered, 'No I'm not'.

'I ask because you are wearing Buddhist beads and reading a Buddhist book...so is it just for fun?' Suddenly I felt kind of guilty, no it is not for fun, I meditate, I managed to reply feeling yet something like ashamed. I wonder what it is that makes you a Buddhist, at least in the eyes of other Buddhists. Is it some kind of ceremony you undergo, some kind of baptism? When can you say without a shadow of doubt in your voice "I am Buddhist."

en el tintero

Con todo lo que escribo y, se escribe en general, sobre todo cuando se esta en ruta, raro es el que no lleva aunque sea un mini cuaderno en el que apunta pequenyas ideas, anecdotas quizas, nombres o fechas... con todo lo que escribo, digo, siempre queda algo en el tintero. Cosas pensadas y puestas en papel que tras unas cuantas frases se quedan estancadas, como atragantadas. O cosas que se escriben y luego se autocensuran, se releen y se descartan o se quedan con el apelativo de 'borrador' esperando una mejor ocasion, que casi nunca llega, para volver a ser releidas, repensadas y re-escritas. Aqui hay unas cuantas.

Pensamiento numero 1

Estoy en el anyo 2.550. Anyo Budista, calendario que se cuenta a partir de la iluminacion del Buda. Previamente estaba en el 1.427, anyo del calendario islamico. Hace menos de dos semanas celebre el anyo nuevo chino (que no tengo ni idea de por que anyo van ya). Y en el fin de anyo del 2.006 estuve tomando uvas con holandeses y tailandeses en la playa.

Pensamiento numero 2

El dia que deje Lop Buri los trabajadores de la companyia de autobuses llevaban una camiseta de color azul claro. Cada dia llevan un color distinto. En Tailandia son fanaticos de los uniformes, hasta los universitarios los llevan. Para el aerobic y el Tai Chi, deportes practicados al aire libre, se llevan camisetas de un color distinto cada dia.

Pensamiento numero 3

El Mekong seria navegable a lo largo de sus 4.500 kms desde su nacimiento en China hasta el delta que se abre al Mar de China en Vietnam si no fuera por las cataratas que se forman en Si Phan Don, frontera de Lao y Camboya. Por este motivo en esta zona de Lao es en el unico sitio de todo Lao donde los franceses contruyeron una via de tren para salvar estas cataratas y poder pasar las mercancias hasta Vietnam.

chinatown

Bangkok's Chinatown. Street.

jungle book?

Bienvenida a esta asquerosa parte del mundo, reza el subject de un mail desde Espanya. Gracias, pero todavia estoy en Bangkok. Con bienvenidas asi dan ganas de darse la vuelta y coger otro tren en direccion opuesta.

Bangkok, Khao San y el shopping. Estoy casi, casi en casa. Taxis drivers, rush hours, humos, tatoos, piercings, musica de moda?, pelos de todos los colores, texturas y longitudes. Carne y mas carne en exposicion. A la venta? Si, a la venta. Mas tatoos. En los craneos, las frentes, rodillas, gemelos, espinillas (uy! eso tiene que doler!) Me pregunto si se podran hacer tatoos en la lengua? Esto es la jungla.

******

Welcome to this disgusting part of the world says the subject of an email from Spain. Thank God I'm still in Bangkok. With such a welcome one thinks about turning around and taking another train in the opposite direction.

Bangkok, Khao San and shopping. I'm nearly home. Taxi drivers, rush hours, smoke, tatoos, piercings and music, hair styles in every colour, texture and lenght. Flesh on show. For sale? Yes, for sale. More tatoos. On the skulls, on the foreheads, knees, calves, shins (that hurts!) I wonder if they can make a tatoo on the tongue. This is the jungle.

miedo / fear

Hoy llego, llego pegando fuerte, a la altura de la boca del estomago. El miedo. Tan solo 48 horas y estare metida en un avion de vuelta. Comienza el panico de la vuelta, esto tambien es parte de todo viaje. Tambien es ¨disfrutable¨.

Miro las noticias en busca de nuevas acerca del pais que deje algun tiempo atras y al que vuelvo en un suspiro. Nada nuevo y sin embargo, todo parece extranyo. Una unica cosa llama mi atencion; En Madrid estan a 5 grados centigrados! Por Buda que alguien encienda la calefaccion central antes de que yo aterrice, no llevo nada de abrigo en la mochila!

*****

Today it arrived striking hardly at the stomach. Fear. In only 48 hours I will be sitting on a plane back. The fear of the return begins. This is also a part of the journey, also enjoyable.

I look at the news in search of something new about the country I left some time ago and to which I'm going back in no time. Nothing new and, nevertheless, everything seems weird. Only one thing catches my attention, in Madrid it's five degrees Celsius! I need somebody to turn on the central heating before I arrive, I don't have any winter clothes with me!

angelus novus

"Hay un cuadro de Klee que se llama Angelus Novus. En él se representa a un ángel que parece como si estuviese a punto de alejarse de algo que le tiene pasmado. Sus ojos están desmesuradamente abiertos, la boca abierta y extendidas las alas. Y este deberá ser el aspecto del ángel de la historia. Ha vuelto el rostro hacia el pasado. Donde a nosotros se nos manifiesta una cadena de datos, él ve una catástrofe única que amontona incansablemente ruina sobre ruina, arrojándolas a sus pies. Bien quisiera él detenerse, despertar a los muertos y recomponer lo despedazado. Pero desde el paraíso sopla un huracán que se ha enredado en sus alas y que es tan fuerte que el ángel ya no puede cerrarlas. Este huracán le empuja irreteniblemente hacia el futuro, al cual da la espalda, mientras que los montones de ruinas crecen ante él hasta el cielo. Ese huracán es lo que nosotros llamamos "progreso" ".

Tesis 9 sobre una filosofía de la historia. Walter Benjamin

*****

¨There is a painting by Klee called Angelus Novus. It shows an angel who seems about to move away from something he stares at. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how the angel of history must look. His face is turned toward the past. Where a chain of events appears before us, he sees on single catastrophe, which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it at his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise and has got caught in his wings; it is so strong that the angel can no longer close them. This storm drives him irresistibly into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows toward the sky. What we call progress is this storm.¨

From Walter Benjamin 1940 work, "On the Concept of History,".

a silly solo thought

To get in a country, Lao for instance, you pay an entry visa, around 30-35 US dollars for a month. To exit the country you pay a departure tax , 1 american dollar overland, around 10 dollars if you fly out. If you overstay your visa you have to pay a lot of money per day.

And I wonder why none of the countries gives back money if you understay your visa. Imagine you get to the border and the inmigration officer says, 'I see by the stamp on your passport that you still have some days left in our country... Do you wish to enjoy them or you´re sure to leave?' You answer that you want to leave and therefore the officer gives you back the corresponding money. Why don't things like this happen?

persiguiendo suenyos / pursuing dreams

Mi viaje comenzo atras, muchos meses atras, tantos que se pueden reunir y denominar de otro modo, anyo y pico. Anyo y 4 meses en Asia, con breve interludio en Espanya, visita corta y extranya. En este tiempo, me ha pasado casi de todo, de lo bueno y de lo malo.

Lei en algun libro de viajes que Viajar es perseguir suenyos y cuando eso haces no quieres hacer otra cosa distinta de la que estas haciendo ni estar en un sitio diferente ni con otra persona que no sea justo la que tienes a tu lado.

Todo lo que he escrito en estos meses son apreciaciones unicas, personales e imperfectas de los sitios y personas conocidos, de las experiencias vividas. Los hechos serian interpretados de modo distinto por cualquier otra persona. Nada es un unico relato verdadero, hay millones de relatos verdaderos sobre los mismos lugares y personas. No story contains the whole story.

*****

My journey started way back, many months ago, so many that they can all be gathered together and be called a year and something. A year and 4 months in Asia, with a short and bizarre interlude in Spain. During this time, nearly everything has come up, good things and bad things.

I read somewhere that Travelling is the pursuit of dreams and when you are pursuing your dreams you do not want to do anything else nor be anywhere else nor being with a different person next to you.

Everything I have written during these months are personal, unique and imperfect appreciations of people and places I have got to Know, of my experiences. These events might have been interpreted differently by others. Nothing is a true story, there are millions of true accounts of the same places and people. No story contains the whole story.

arde Baghdad / burning Baghdad

Mientras en el libro que leo durante estas ultimas jornadas en Asia la gente se afana en acumular comida y objetos utiles en el Baghdad de los primeros dias de esta guerra interminable, yo me afano en hacer y hacerme con todas esas cosas que se que en Occidente no me puedo permitir.

Mi lista comienza con el dentista, para una limpieza, la ultima fue tambien en Bangkok. Visita a la optica para hacerme un par de gafas nuevas. Los cristales que puse en India a principios del anyo pasado ya estan absolutamente rayados. Arreglarme una falda que me viene grande despues de tanto trote y tanto arrocito. Y peluqueria y, por supuesto, masaje. Se acabaron los masajes semanales.

Hoy visitare un templo, Wat Thamkrabok, famoso porque llevan a cabo desde mas de 40 anyos planes de desintoxicacion de drogodependientes. Esa es otra de las cosas que estoy haciendo sin parar desde enero, Viaje Religioso. Que consiste en visitar cada templo que encuentro y sentarme a meditar por minutos, a veces, horas en otras ocasiones.

Y mirar y mirar a la gente, las cosas, las tiendas, los mercados... e intentar grabar en mi memoria todos estos colores, olores, formas, sonidos... Y todo esto lo hago mientras en Baghdad siguen aterrorizados.

*****

While in the book I am reading during my last days in Asia the citizens of Baghdad ply to store up food and other essentials in the Baghdad of the first days of this endless war, I ply to do and get all those things that I can not afford in the West.

My list begins with the dentist. Visit to the optician to get a pair of new glasses. The ones I bought at the beginning of last year in India are already spoiled. Have a skirt mended as it doesn´t fit me any more after all the travelling and all the rice. Hairdresser´s and massage, of course. No more weekly massages back home.

Today, I am visiting a temple, Wat ThamKrabok, famous around the world because of their drugs disintoxication programs. This is another thing I am doing since last January, Religious Travelling. It consists of visiting every single temple I come across and sit down to meditate for minutes, for hours, sometimes.

And look at people, things, shops, markets...and try to keep in my memory all these colours, shapes, sounds, scents...And I do all this while in Baghdad people are still terrified.

cajon de sastre (13)

¨Sabio es el que se contenta con el espectaculo del mundo¨. Ricardo Reis

¨She´s only happy in the sun¨. Ben Harper

morning shower

Every morning images like this one repeat everywhere along the Mekong river. People bath at dawn and at dusk in the river.

if

If it weren't because people still speak a language I can hardly understand. If it weren't because they are smaller and thinner than me. If it weren't because they keep on eating soups with chopsticks... I would say I am back in the West. But I am not, I am just back in Thailand.

Coming from Lao, Thailand seems so stressful, busy, modern...western. I am happy I am here so in the time I have left in Asia I can actually try to get used to many things that I will have to face very soon back in Spain.

Lao is such a laidback, easy going country, that it is difficult to go back to the stream speed. I think I am not going back anyway.

Left behind are the Irrawady dolphins and the boat trips. Left behind the hammock hanging in front of my hut. Left behind my particular french clown, he made me laugh so hard. Ahead only future.

meditating monk

french clown

His manners, those of an old fashion gentleman. Hanging from his neck, an indian necklace, a reminder of his beloved Mother India. His hair, curly and black. His brown eyes, deep and penetrating.

The very first glimpse of him, he didn't look like it. He, actually, looked like a very serious and taciturn person. But coffee after coffee he grew on me and I began to appreciate his marvellous show. He would go around the island on an imaginary horse and dancing at the rythm of a personal silent tune. And I would enjoy observing him as he used to say he observed life. "My goal in life is to stop thinking" he told me. I think my french clown is absolutely right.

pensamientos de hamaca

Solo el motor de una barca perturba la calma del mediodia tropical. Las chicharras sirven de banda sonora a la siesta en las hamacas. Alla, desde la ultima choza, llegan las notas arrancadas suavemente a una guitarra. El lento balanceo de mi hamaca es como una nana que adormece y tranquiliza. El chasquido de un mechero a mi lado, otro porro de marihuana.

Las palabras fluyen espesas como lava de volcan en erupcion. El aire es demasiado denso para dejarlas volar fugazmente. El pensamiento es lento, tambien.

Una foto robada, un cachito de mi que se fue con su disparador. El instante de la muerte. Me tienes, muerta.

Espanta moscas con las manos y la voz acompanya de repente a la guitarra.

Si me dijeran que es absurdo hablar asi de quien nunca existio, responderia que tampoco tengo pruebas de que Lisboa haya existido alguna vez, o lo que yo escribo, o cualquier cosa, sea lo que fuere.

Fernando Pessoa

noe

Noe tiene 10 anyos, es la prima de la duenya de la guest house donde me alojo en Don Det. A Noe le gusta pescar y maneja su barca de madera con la misma destreza que cualquier adulto del lugar.

Noe se levanta la primera de toda la familia, al alba, justo antes de que aparezca el sol por el este con sus rayos abrasadores. Enciende el fuego con carbon. Pone a cocer el arroz y mientras las brasas cogen fuerza y los primeros huespedes llegan para desayunar, Noe barre el restaurante, vacia las papeleras y ceniceros. Friega los platos. Cuando llego a tomar el primer cafe del dia, Noe ya tiene el agua hirviendo y, muy seria, me sirve mientras lee en el menu lo que yo le senyalo que quiero comer. Noe no habla ingles. No todavia.

Hacia las 8, si tiene tiempo Noe va al colegio en su vieja bicicleta. Cuando vuelve a las 12 del mediodia, con el sol en pleno apogeo, Noe va a por agua. No esta lejos el rio, tan solo a tres escalones, pero la tarea no es por ello menos ardua. Hasta 10 cubos sube para los lavabos, los pollos, la cocina... para todos nosotros. Cuando deberia estar de vuelta en su pupitre, a las dos, Noe esta cortando ajos y cebollas. Cocinando.

Por la tarde, en las pocas horas de calma del restaurante, Noe coge la barca y sale a pescar. El otro dia me llevo con ella. No pescamos nada pero nos lo pasamos muy bien y vi, por fin, la sonrisa infantil que Noe no quiere o que no le dejan mostrar. Noe tiene tan solo 10 anyos.

*****

Noe is ten years old, she is my guest house owner's cousin in Don Det. Noe likes fishing and she handles her wooden boat as skillfully as any adult.

Noe is the first one in the family to wake up, at dawn, just before the sun appears on the East with its burning rays. She lits the fire with coal. She puts the rice to cook and while the embers gain intensity and the first guests arrive to have breakfast, Noe sweeps the restaurant, empties dustbins and ashtrays. Washes the dishes. When I arrive to have my first coffee of the day, Noe has the water boiling already and, very serious, she serves me while she reads on the menu what I point at that I want to eat. Noe can't speak English. Not yet.

Around 8 o'clock, if she has time, Noe goes to school on her old bicycle. When she comes back at 12, with the sun high on the sky, she goes to fetch water. The river is not far away, only 3 steps down, but the task is nevertheless arduous. Up to 10 buckets she carries on her shoulders for the toilets, chickens, kitchen... for all of us. When she should be back at her desk, at two, she is chopping onions and garlic. Cooking.

In the afternoon, during a few quiet hours, Noe jumps on her canoe and goes fishing. The other day she invited me to go with her. We didn't catch any fish but we had a great time and, for the very first time, I saw her childish smile which Noe doesn't like or is not allowed to show very often. Noe is only ten years old.

el pais de los pequenyos placeres

Ir descalza por la calle, comer con las manos, sentarse en el suelo, viajar al borde de la puerta abierta de un autobus, lenta, muy lentamente, apreciando todo el paisaje y disfrutando de cada parada, paradas gastronomicas.

Dormir la siesta en una barcaza en el rio al calor del mediodia. Observar la vida despertar con la aurora y volver a dormir con la puesta de sol.

Caminar despacio, al ritmo que marcan los grados del termometro, al ritmo tropical. Beber cafe caliente a la sombra de un arbol con los lugarenyos y jugar con sus ninyos maravillosos juegos: lanzamiento de palillos, perseguir una bolsa de plastico movida caprichosamente por la ligera brisa caliente...

Escuchar mil y un saludos de ninyos y mayores y admirar sus calidas sonrisas.

stupid questions to ask in Lao...

...that, of course, I have also asked...

When does the bus leave?

Buses leave any time between the scheduled time and the you-never-know time. So sit back, open your eyes and observe life going on.

When do we arrive?

We can arrive either in time, on the scheduled time or long after the scheduled time. We arrive when we arrive. On the way we can have a breakdown, an accident or a tyre punch, even everything in the same journey. So sit back, relax and enjoy.

attapeu

The Sekong river in the oven of midday.

sticky rice containers

savannakhet, la ciudad mestiza / mixed race town

Savannakhet, the second largest city in Laos (75.000 people), is one of these great places where "there's nothing to do", just the pleasure of a stroll by the Mekong at sunset or the taste of a sweet coffee in the early morning with the oldest ones who refresh their french with the few falang who are awake at this time of the day.

In Savannakhet the french flavour is stronger than in other places in Laos, not only can you feel it in its architecture but also in the food, the skins, the eyes... Many locals have french ancestors and that is noticeable in the physiognomies.

Colonial buildings are collapsing everywhere you look, this imprints the city a decrepit atmosphere that I adore. Long ago splendorous maisons are now empty and falling apart or reconverted into barber shops, restaurants or houses.

In this scenery it seems bizarre to contemplate the Buddhist monks in the almsgiving ceremony, they look out of place, because Savvanakhet has above all a caribbean air.

marketing

Phonsavan Market. Eastern Laos. One of the most heavily bombed areas in the world.

Secret War

un pais al borde de un rio

Jugando a la petanca en Luang Pra Bang, volvi a mi infancia de nuevo. Recordaba aquellas fotos que mis padres, especialmente mi padre, me mostraban de la pequenya Monica apuntando, muy seria, antes de lanzar la bola, todavia con un parche en uno de mis ojos intentando corregir un estrabismo incorregible. Fui una pequenya campeona de petanca durante veranos y vacaciones varias en el camping donde soliamos pasar los fines de semana y demas fiestas. Y me gusto mucho comprobar que no he perdido mi toque magico.

Jugar a la petanca en Laos, es como en Espanya, el billar. El juego esta abierto a todo aquel que pase junto a la pista, al borde del Mekong. Este tipo de juegos, populares, en que cualquier desconocido es bienvenido producen un efecto de companyerismo en toda la concurrencia. Todo el mundo opina y participa aunque solo 4 esten lanzando las bolas. Todo el mundo se lo pasa bien.

Jugamos en parejas. Ponsi, un guia turistico de la ciudad con un magnifico ingles, y yo contra otra pareja de chicos que, por no hablar, no hablaban ni en Lao. Mis primeros lanzamientos fueron timidos, inseguros, dubitativos. Pero a medida que el juego fue avanzando mi mano derecha gano confianza y Ponsi y yo hicimos un par de juegos excelentes.

La verdad es que se monto un buen alboroto, al borde del rio, con la falang jugando a la petanca.

khao niaw (sticky rice)

Souligna Vongsa united the LaneXang kingdom between 1673 and 1694. He made the distinction between Laotian people and Vietnamese as such. Those who build their houses on stilts and eat sticky rice and Padeck are Lao. Those who build their houses on the ground, eat with chopsticks and wear large pants are Vietnamese.

If in Thai language the word for "eat" means literally "eat rice", in Lao language the word "eat" means "eat sticky rice".

"This is Lao culture" ;-)

thai dam headwear

Thai Dam women wear this type of headwear once they get married.

magic

Just when I was beginning to feel pretty fed up with the "touristic approach of Luang Pra Bang", you know what I mean, 10.000 kip to enter this temple (UNESCO declared World Heritage), 20.000 kip to go into the museum, 2.000 kip to pee, 4.000 kip to cross the bamboo bridge, 50.000 kip to breathe......

Just then, magic appeared. Yesterday I was invited to the ceremony for the reincarnation of the deceased parents of a Laotian Lady who has been living in France for the last 30 years. The ceremony was held in a temple and consisted of two magnificent hours of chanting in Pali language. Nine monks plus all the villagers, the lady's neighbours, and I chanted along for almost two hours.

There's something in the Buddhist chants. They trance you, they wrap you up, even that you don't understand what they say, they still put a spell on you. They help to meditate. After the ceremony, we all ate together inside the temple, "this is Laotian culture" I was told.

And this morning, it happened again. After refusing to pay another 10.000 kip to go into a temple and see another Buddha image and bla, bla, bla... I came across a little "handicrafts' work corner", this is the best way I find to describe it. It was basically a small wooden table and two Thai Dam women plus some children making bracelets, the bracelets that they sell afterwards at the Night Market in Luang Pra Bang. These bracelets are made of tree seeds, coloured-crystal balls and pieces of Coca-cola cans.

I sat down at the table with them and after buying one of these pieces of art, I asked them to let me make one. And this was the starting point. They put me their traditional headwear, they took pictures of all of us with my camera and we chatted while making the bracelets for nearly two hours. In that time I managed to make 4 bracelets. In the market these bracelets will suppose a total of 90 cents of a US dollar earnings.

monastery life

The monks leave the brooms at the entrance of the monastery after the morning sweeping.

luang pra bang

Rice cookies drying in the sun. They are everywhere around the city.

french heritage

Les baguettes!

villager

We crossed our ways early in the morning. I was going to visit a cave where villagers hid out during the war from the american bombardments. I asked her if I could take a picture of her and she smiled broadly showing her golden front teeth and agreed.

nong khiew

El aire tiene el inconfundible olor de la lenya quemada, el olor de la montanya. Los lugarenyos de Nong Khiew pasan la mitad del dia entrando en calor y la otra mitad, intentando no perderlo, entre medias, llevan a cabo sus tareas diarias: cortar lenya, cazar...

La pequenya aldea de Nong Khiew esta situada entre el monte de la Princesa Durmiente, Phu Nang Nawn, y el rio Nam Ou, un afluente del Mekong. La vida de la aldea pasa toda por sus aguas. Por la manyana temprano, el rio es carretera flotante que transporta personas y mercancias rio arriba y rio abajo. Por la tarde, en las horas que van del mediodia al atardecer, las horas calientes, el rio se convierte en lugar de recreo para los mas pequenyos y en lugar de aseo para todos. Por la noche, el rio es reflejo de la aldea tranquila. Solo unas luces, las hogueras, los grillos y las ranas.

uxo

Unexploded Ordnance. Between 1964 and 1973 the USA conducted "secretly" one of the largest sustained aerial bombardments in history, flying 580.344 missions over Lao and dropping 3 million tons of bombs (US$ 2.2 million a day). Around 30% of the bombs failed to detonate, leaving the country with unexploded ordnance.

For people all over eastern Lao this is a part of their daily life. Between 1973 and 1996 there were 11.000 UXO accidents and even agriculture has been afected by the people's inability to use the land.

The British Mines Advisory Group began clearance work in 1994. Only a tiny percentage of the ordnance has been removed. At the current rate of clearance it would take more than a 100 hundred years to make the country safe.

*For more info visit the British Mines Advisory Group webpage.

petrol stations

The bus rides in South East Asia, especially in Lao, are a proof of one's patience. They take not only an unpredictable number of hours on the road but also an undetermined number of waiting hours before the bus departs.

One must arrive at the bus station at least one hour and a half before the scheduled departure time. Buses are always packed with people and they sell tickets not only for the number of seats on the bus but also for an undetermined number of places on plastic chairs, placed in the middle alley, and any spare spaces on the floor or on bags and any pieces of luggage. The price for any ticket, no matter where you finally travel, is exactly the same. Therefore you arrive one hour and a half beforehand.

After all the waiting at the station, when one hears the engine start, one thinks the journey is starting but there's one more step to take. The petrol station. No matter where you are or where you come from or where you're heading to, the first stop is always the petrol station. This is usually a few metres away from the bus station what always makes me wonder why they do not bother to go before all the passengers have boarded the bus. My guess is because they use all the money from the passengers' tickets to fill up the tank.

luang nam tha views

This morning I went out on my orange bicycle and these above are some of the things I saw.

On the left it's the pum pao, a game that you can find on every laotian road. You pay around 1.000 kips and you have to throw three darts to the balloons, if you are lucky enough to reach them then you get a prize that is usually some food or drink. This morning I didn't do too bad, I exploded 2 balloons therefore I got a couple of rice cookies. Delicious!

The next image is a picture of the "candies" the kids were having at the fair around a temple. They were crazy about them, every one had one and the lady who was cooking them had the largest queue in the whole fair.

At the bottom a young white water buffalo. The white ones are more bizarre than the black ones.