I strung the long-carried hammock across my porch with the help of a friendly young Australian. It's travelled hundreds of kilometers on my back without use, but now justifies it's weight. I'm wallowing low with my feet pointing to the sky, a clear blue evening sky. The heat has faded now, but it's effect lingers, I am the melted chocolate hanging from the roof. The monsoon is almost overdue, but the rain and clouds which harassed tourists in the dry season are missing. The village is still, there is no wind, the children are not still. First they crowd around the shack of the alcoholic next door. He does the jester routine, they sing. I'm up next, the crowd gathers around my house, laughing squabbling chasing talking. I smile and wait until the "hello" chorus dies down and they scream on.
It's nearly time to leave this paradise. The rain will come, one day. The flow of western tourists has fallen to a trickle, lucky souls enjoying the last borrowed days of sun. I'm not sure I will find this again, I know I have been lucky; renting a house in a roadless jungle village for less than a pint of beer. I have been here two months now, there wasn't much risk of me leaving. The locals have stopped asking how long I stay.
In the town at the top of the hill the shopkeepers recognise me, the journey to the every 8th-day market has become a familiar routine. It punctuates time, which otherwise slips away. A market which would fall on a Sunday is held on the Saturday, as you learn. Market day means fresh fruit, but with the heat and the chaos it will be the cheaper ripe fruit and instantly require eating. There is a fruit frenzy, if I can recruit a friend to share in it. A kilo of mangoes, half a kilo of lychee, grapes, bananas. Can't speak eating mango, in two days it's gone. The fallback is the jackfruit, a giant studded monster that is just so palatable that it is eaten, but not often eaten. You have to plan days ahead for the fruit to ripen, face the adhesive white latex, and a faint rotting smell to get at the flesh. It's somewhere between a mango and a banana, generally quite pleasant.
It's impossible to know where the time goes. I make excuses, perhaps a day or two was spent collecting firewood, laundry, making tea, cooking a little food, if you can call it that. I just about stretch to boiling lentils, adding salt and calling it a dal. The hours may be spent walking, swimming, sunbathing, playing cards. Everyone has their own pet project. I adopted a dog of sorts, not that she shows much loyalty. I get a wagging tail, but she will follow anyone about the village. In the way dogs do she wont eat medicine, but plays the passive aggressive swallowing game without showing a tooth. Nobody wants a female dog. Some nights she sleeps on the porch, I guess when someone finds where she snuck into and drives her off.
It's time to leave, 'just one more day'. It's the refrain.
It's nearly time to leave this paradise. The rain will come, one day. The flow of western tourists has fallen to a trickle, lucky souls enjoying the last borrowed days of sun. I'm not sure I will find this again, I know I have been lucky; renting a house in a roadless jungle village for less than a pint of beer. I have been here two months now, there wasn't much risk of me leaving. The locals have stopped asking how long I stay.
In the town at the top of the hill the shopkeepers recognise me, the journey to the every 8th-day market has become a familiar routine. It punctuates time, which otherwise slips away. A market which would fall on a Sunday is held on the Saturday, as you learn. Market day means fresh fruit, but with the heat and the chaos it will be the cheaper ripe fruit and instantly require eating. There is a fruit frenzy, if I can recruit a friend to share in it. A kilo of mangoes, half a kilo of lychee, grapes, bananas. Can't speak eating mango, in two days it's gone. The fallback is the jackfruit, a giant studded monster that is just so palatable that it is eaten, but not often eaten. You have to plan days ahead for the fruit to ripen, face the adhesive white latex, and a faint rotting smell to get at the flesh. It's somewhere between a mango and a banana, generally quite pleasant.
It's impossible to know where the time goes. I make excuses, perhaps a day or two was spent collecting firewood, laundry, making tea, cooking a little food, if you can call it that. I just about stretch to boiling lentils, adding salt and calling it a dal. The hours may be spent walking, swimming, sunbathing, playing cards. Everyone has their own pet project. I adopted a dog of sorts, not that she shows much loyalty. I get a wagging tail, but she will follow anyone about the village. In the way dogs do she wont eat medicine, but plays the passive aggressive swallowing game without showing a tooth. Nobody wants a female dog. Some nights she sleeps on the porch, I guess when someone finds where she snuck into and drives her off.
It's time to leave, 'just one more day'. It's the refrain.
