Titbit from the Little Red Dot (a nickname bestowed by fond neighbours):
Today is Singapore's 40th birthday. This evening, we celebrate with a parade-cum-concert and fireworks at the City Hall on the Padang, the site of the 1st National Day Parade back in 1966. Now, back to the Golden Triangle.
The nitty gritty of daily living permeates our life on the road. For one thing, I do laundry more often than at home. And occasionally, there is the odd item or two of clothing to mend or shoes to wash. So, at the end of each day, a clean and comfy room is something we both hope to step into. We don't always get that, but looking for interesting lodging is part and parcel of our travel. Be it a three-storey concrete affair overlooking an old runway or a bamboo hut in a pleasant garden, memories are also made of these. Here is a short sketch of one particularly evocative place.
A house called Tammila
Raining. The thatched roof drips onto wooden planks, somehow bound together to make the floor.
Wet. The stone-laid path, glossy with rainwater, is smooth. So smooth that the next instance I am bum to soil, getting a hands-on experience with the primordial earth. My walking shoes cannot find purchase on the stones and I have to whine to my friend to pull me up. I have seen some locals walking barefoot in their own compound. I guess they are the sensible ones with hardened soles.
Baan Tammila. The guesthouse in Chiang Khong in northern Thailand is an eye-opener for me, born and bred to the concrete, glass and bright lights of the city. The electric bulbs are dim affairs, supplemented by candle light if necessary. There is so much more wood and greenery that the guesthouse looks like a jungle to me. Concrete and glass will look out of place here, though we have a concrete floor for our toilet, which has been added outside our hut.
Within. Our hut has a huge bed, over which we lower the filmy mosquito net when we sleep. If this were a Banyan Tree, the net would likely be an aesthetic touch. Here, it is a necessity, albeit a lovely one. There is a large window by the bed from which to admire the lush foliage without.
Evening. We look down from our balcony and see the sisters who run Tammila giving their dogs a run on the path below. Walkers admire the lovely view of the river, cyclists ride by merrily and fishermen bring in their fish traps near the river bank.
Morning mist. Still, it is possible to look across the Mekong from our balcony and see Huay Xai, where we plan to enter Laos. At the moment, though, we are in no hurry. After one hesitant night, I think I'm getting used to the sounds of noctural insects and their predilection for moving inside and outside our hut. Not that I have grown fond of slugs masquerading as leaves (the 'leaf' is moving across our toilet floor one night), or of beetles the size of my palm, or of worms that pretend to be rubber bands. Then there are the busy geckos. The most memorable one has to be that Laotian 12-inch giant pretending to be part of the wall decor outside a guesthouse in Luang Prabang.
But, it is really peaceful here. No moonlight sonata from the varied insect community can take that away. Although the many sounds are alien to these city ears, the beat of nature is a rhythm that grows hypnotic after a while. So, we are not packing up yet. Laos can wait another day.
Next:
On the road, finally
