Repetition. Stepping back upon the carousel, the clunking of metal and plastic as the machine, returned into use these last couple of days, whirs and stirs, cleaning itself, depositing a measure of water in the waiting cup. Then the sound of beans grinding, spluttering brown foam pouring, bubbled froth upon the surface. Morning.

Chants rising from the crazy Buddha temple as I pass above it, merging a little further on with song spilling up from the cat temple, bright sunlight falling as leafy shadows upon the path while a bell begins to toll in the distances of the hills. Humidity rising, wet stone underfoot, paths still damp, too damp for the route I'd like to take, rope guided and narrow, not so much fun when it's muddy. Instead I take the steep stairs, back up to thumb mountain the humidity trapped by the canopy clinging to each step.

From the slightly higher hills, sweat encrusted in the midday heat, murk casting a cloak upon the west, the hills from the last blip from up here gone, the river barely noticeable. Butterflies dancing spirals, flashes of blue as lizards rush from the path as my footsteps approach them. A couple of conversations breaking up a slow walk, dark clouds gathering once again with the unfulfilled threat of a thunderstorm. Taking the back path, missing out on the final summit, the low rumble of traffic replaced by insects and birdsong, the rattle of bamboo and rustling leaves and grasses.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ltPQnZGI9Y