Sam Neua

A grey sky, voices and birdsong, the sound of traffic passing along the main road. It's a small place, upon a hill the monument to the martyrs spikes skyward, at the other end of the road an odd and symmetrical monument, echoes of the Soviet era here at the heart of revolutionary Laos. Beyond it a frieze in the Soviet style, propaganda upon a concrete wall.

Hills surround us, strange shapes caught above the valley, ridges and peaks tree covered, these shapes protruding, once again, from my overstretched imagination...

The town itself is small, practical, a point to gather and pass through. A few unusual stupas rise behind wire fences, one at an angle which makes me think of Siva, reminds me of the Ramayana performed by shadow puppets far to the south, the remnants of Hinduism beneath the shadow of the Buddha. And it feels comfortable, familiar. These places which linger, transcending borders; caught upon a web of unspooling time, the shards and remnants of the past glistening. 

The two monks from yesterday's bus journey appearing as I drink water with the head monk, watching the morning routine continue around me, a car arrive, a hug and a farewell from the monk, broad smiles from the other two, recognising me hand raised in greeting. A smile shared as he enters the car, departs further up in his journey as I find a still point upon mine, sit, pretend to observe.

Late afternoon climbing towards another temple, the hills to the north fade into the reddening air, mists crawling up slopes, higher mountains in the etherea between being and non being; a canvas for 

Another temple as the sun hides behind the hills, the same odd and elongated stupas found in the town below. The temples are beautiful, something which I've failed to tell or convey, but that's for another time. Now, enough that I listen, watch, write a little. And pause, watch as the light transforms from fiery reds to pinks and purples, temple bells faint upon the air.

Below children's voices carry their joy upon the wind, cocks crow and dogs bark, the evening wind carrying a slight chill as the dried leaves still hanging from a banana plant rustle, crackling like the dried pages of an old book.

And yet it's also heartbreaking is this place. As we walk passed a small night market, young children sat along the roadside selling lottery tickets, police armed with semi automatic rifles passing, checking. Dogs sniffing for food, heavy teats dangling limply while bones protrude from ribcage and spine. In each town the ragged children, the memory of an old man, rake thin, begging alms upon a restaurant doorstep. For it's a poor country, struggling into the future, scarred by the past, by European and American empiricism, by the legacy of bombs and their aftermath; economics skewed by the ongoing dangers of a war which ended over forty years ago while the perpetrators walk away offering nothing in the way of recompense for their atrocities. And how will the writers of history portray them?

A little food, a beerlao and an outrageous glass of Lao Lao, the local rice whisky or schnapps and I'm back at the guest house, the old man asleep as the tv spills music upon  him, another town passing. Tomorrow further into the hills, towards the heart of the revolution...