Blood Scent

The street was bathed in pale light from the dipping sun as I slipped out through the cemetery gates. I left the ghosts of fusiliers and Belgian sailors for the ghosts of Albert Road.

It has been an eventful day so far. I have come to expect a few dog owners to ignore the legal notices about dogs on leads, but I was a little more surprised that a party leader, no stranger to legal briefs, would, without pause, choose not to uphold Human Rights Article 10 and let his own hounds lose, entirely at odds with his election platitudes about unifying my party. However, if I was to say that to Julian Assange at this time, I think I might get back a wry smile. 

Beyond the surprise, the no surprise really, the dismay and the rage, I entered a period of reflection. It was at this time that I recalled the words of an extraordinary Honduran teenage girl whose reaction to the brutal extrajudicial murder of her equally extraordinary and beloved mother, Berta Cáceres on 3 March, 2016.  

"My mother has not been killed. My mother has been planted and she is born and reborn and this, which they tried to put out today, this fire, that is the struggle of the people - The only thing they did was ignite it more because they tried to put out the fire with gasolene."

Laura, teenage daughter of Berta Cáceres.

https://www.wordsinthebucket.com/berta-caceres

Corona virum days - 1

I spent most of my time backing off from the advancing six foot not bothered youth with phone stuck between hunched shoulder and ear. The yellow and black diagonal tape markings on the floor were clear and respected by most of the night hawks. Either they meant nothing to him or respect and concern for others was a a concept for his evolutionary future, if he should make it that far. Having enquired of the kind assistant of the whereabouts of the shelf for rice, we established that Uncle Ben's smiling-faced marketing-ramped-priced sachets were the only option. I headed for the alcohol aisle for consolation. A bottle of 7.3% McEwans Champion Special edition and a 2017 Montepulciano D'Abruzzo would ease my disappointment. All was going well right up to my payment at the till. Spot on, I thought as I transacted my purchase with my first ever cashless payment card at the check out, impressed with the substantial new glass barrier in front of the smiling check out human. I was feeling good. As I turned to make my exit, the architect of doom was heading towards me ignoring all ante and in-play crisis norms. I instantly and understandably surmised that his Hello sweetheart greeting was not for me but for the gracious cashier now over my shoulder. My martial arts were somewhat rusty and I had foolishly left my Gletcher Parabellum under my pillow that very morning. My senses disoriented by nine days of glorious solitude I became the passive recipient of the advancing intrusion of this don't give a fuck geezer. And so my fate was sealed. I am presently attempting to fend off all manifestations of virulent assault with the rice substitute purchases while upgrading my skills with a re-watch of Enter The Dragon. Be like water, my friend.

To be continued ...

As I carefully negotiated the riotous loveables spilling onto the tear-stained road outside the Festing Hotel, I wanted, tentatively to reach out in a comradely Pompey way, but constrained as I was by my bicycling status, a consoling brotherly hug was not an option. I left it to the boys and girls of the local constabulary, in flashing blue. I ventured a cheery "Ease up mush." to the roaring youth in the middle of the road but didn't wait for his (no doubt eloquent) response. I parked up my pedalatory vehicle at my Southsea lodgings and sought answers to the night's most troubling questions in the pages of a small volume, generously donated by a friend of the revolution. I consoled myself in chapter five,The Economic basis of the Withering Away of the State. It was whilst in deep reverie of such vexing challenges to the spirit that I finally figured out what's coming home (a certitude of which I have been confidently informed by complete strangers in recent days) I confess I have been behind the curve on this one. Well, of course, my comrades thought it best that I discover the answer for myself, when the time was right. And so, as the dawn inched up over the city's weathered chimney pots, and cock crow heralded a new day, the ocean of truth (a nod to Sir Isaac) swept over me. Not it's, but they - chickens. And why were they coming home? Need I say more?

Dar Es Salaam - Morning

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZs1GIPZ2p8

(Dar Es Salaam by Richard Peirce - A Tongues and Grooves Project: poems by local poets who perform regularly at the Florence Arms in Portsmouth UK, set to music by Philly and visualised by Kino Cult)

FreeImages.com/Jeff Knepper

Dar Es Salaam - Morning

A gecko ornaments the whitewashed wall.

A ceiling fan cools my skin.
The gabble of the cleaning women
unfamiliar sound to my European ear
draws my attention 
through the mesh-covered window
where chattering finches 
fuss among the acacia blossom
that spills through the razor wire 
coiled along the wall.

Time slows 
to the rhythm 
of the fan 
and the featherstroke 
of your breath 
on my neck.

Bus Station at Ubon Ratchathani

It looked familiar as I stepped down onto the sunbaked concrete. The single line of coach parking. The platform with rows of seats, food stalls. Where the public phone had been, there was now a blank wall.

  

The experience was the same as eight years before, but this time I was prepared. The tuk tuk drivers crowded round, some shoving to the front, others hanging back. The more in my face someone chooses to be, the more I tend to be disinclined to consider their services. Adopting the detached mask and unfocused eye of a Tai Chi practitioner, I slowly moved through the bustle, pick up my rucksack which was already deposited on the ground by the bus driver and walked away - anywhere - but away. 

My companion, Greg, apparently looked like a better bet, but the reverse baseball cap and macho stance of the driver, posturing, close up, cut less than no ice with him. May, our Thai co-traveller, intervened, but with a clear message from Greg that if a tuk tuk it was to be, it had to be anyone other than the pushy man before us. We were a little surprised when, after a brief exchange, May had turned on her heels, walked away to the other side of the station platform and was opening a taxi door. We followed with the bags and were soon pulling out onto a busy road, heading into the city. This was May's home town and we relaxed in her capable hands as she engaged the driver in laughing conversation. 

Twenty-five thousand days

Alone for the first time in a month of my Asian travel, I sat in the small garden restaurant across the street from the condo. Last night my travel companions had raised a glass to my twenty-five thousand days on the planet.

I finished the meal of khao pad moo and pak boong fai daeng (pork fried rice and greens with chilli).

The second bottle of Beer Lao eased the pain in my knackered foot.

The waxing moon was within hours of its perigee, closer to Earth than at any time since I was five months from entering this wondrous world.  

King Bhumibol the Great, Rama IX had been less than two years into his reign. The National Health Service was not yet begun. A catastrophe was about to unfold on a peaceful people in the Middle East. 

One John R. Pierce was soon to suggest a name for a new device, the transistor, that would eventually lead to the transformation from fifty ton valve computers to the small laptop and smartphone sitting on my table.  So I had flown ten thousand kilometres to sit in an atmospheric local eatery in an exotic country - and what was I doing with these amazing tools?  Scrolling through a day's Facebook posts.

I was rescued from my banal idleness by a small lizard, taking a chance against discovery, that darted out from under a kitsch table ornament to check out the remains of my meal. 

The ascending moon lit  the silvern scene.  If that was not enough to nudge me into a greater consciousness, a yellowing leaf fluttered onto the keyboard, followed by another. 


No more tapping or scrolling tonight. It was time to wake up.

Bereft

การไว้ทุกข์ - Mourning
On the death of the king, Thailand, October 2016

At sunset over the water meadow
buffalo settle - an occasional bellow.

Geckos chup-chup-chup
to a crescendo of cicadas.

The cockerel waits 
for its moment and

flitting bats 
are silent to my ear

A doleful bell and evening chant 
for the people's beloved king.

There is no comfort 
in the Land of Smiles.

Roi-et, Thailand, 31 October 2016