These mini travelogues are the result of an exercise I once tried; writing one hundred words a day for one hundred days, the point being to gain discipline and economy with the written word. Once started, it became addictive. A terse sort of prose is the usual result; in which one tries capturing the essence of time and place. Although I may have been a little liberal with the facts in some, it’s only to better express the spirit of the experience. Some over the one hundred word parameter have been added, just for mischief. Maybe you’d care to count?
|
|
Isaan Mat Mee, the exquisite handmade sarong lengths of refined Thai silk; sold usually by their weaver’s men folk, Muslim families most, who come to Khorat’s ancient markets after the annual harvests. The intricate geometric designs, handed down from matriarch to daughter their brilliant, kingfisher splashes of light woven so as to allure senses, seduce hearts, silken threads so enticing that when fingers touch fabric, eyes are beguiled by a myriad patterns and one’s resolve melts; the soul succumbs and finally, despite hard bargaining, pockets held to ransom, one departs replete with fabrics to love and cherish for a lifetime. |
|
|
THE JEWEL IN THE LOTUS (MAE HONG SORN) |
|
Nestled amongst enveloping mountains as in a womb, the hamlet of Mae Hong Sorn sits lotus like, thick forests keeping hidden her secret beauty from the outside world. Climbing above one has clear views across the entire valley. At the heart lies a diminutive park with a tear shaped lake and two Burmese style temples set side by side to the South in gardens. Bells hung from their wedding cake tiers tinkle in cooling breezes as tattooed monks nap on the polished teak floors in afternoon heat. One sits and fancies himself a pilgrim to an age long since lost. |
|
It stands bent and gnarled now in the entrance courtyard of the famous old temple, witness to more than a thousand years of man’s iniquities and goodness. Withstanding storms, floods and fire it is propped up with stays to help support its aching limbs. The faithful, coming to make devotions to the Buddha have paid homage to its spirit too, lovingly wrapping saffron shawls about it. The old giant’s branches weep as if in compassion for man’s foibles. Different from forest trees, it has witnessed first hand the route of armies and survived. I stay a while at its side. |
|
“Y’all from England Sah? “No, from New Zealand.” “Noozealand? Oh, I ain’t never heard of that before. Is that near Alabam Sah? I went to Alabam once on the bus with my Momma; her Momma came from Alabam too.” “No. It’s near Australia. Do you know Australia?” “Oh, I aint never heard of that neither, is that near England Sah?” A crude world map sketched quickly on a paper napkin offered little real enlightenment to this delightful young Miami maid it seemed, until with eyes growing round in wonderment, the reply came, “Oh, now that’s far. I wouldn’t want to go that far on the bus. No Sah!” |
|
|
<< Start < Prev 1 2 3 4 5 Next > End >>
|
|
Page 4 of 5 |
Travelogue