Wednesday, March 24, 2010

This cat is alive.

As of the last 2 days, a dog, which seems to have some kind of intestinal dilemma, has wandered to the front entry of my school and has decided to start its slow trudge to death. It's weak, but it's alert to our movements. It sits in a ball and watches us beneath its down-turned dog eyebrows. It, every so often, howls and coughs in agony and we're left without much to do for it, except give it water and food. We've called the authorities, but there are no authorities. So it is that we have a stage for which all the children at school can watch this dog slowly slip away. They gather in a small crowd and peep through our front windows. Some kids laugh, some kids just stare blankly, some of the smallest kids need us grown-ups to whisper in their ear what is happening to it, and that even though they want to they shouldn't touch him, as even the youngest minds know there is something not right.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Another day following our whims in paradise

Michael and I spend a fair amount of time getting off our bicycles and sitting in places; typical places, like on park benches, steps on the river embankment, on small chairs outside of country stores. Usually a dog saunters into view. We talk about the dog, we watch the dog go about his duty of following its whims. An old man shows up with a funny way about him, and old lady comes around smiling at the sight of us. We're handed juice boxes, we're given snacks. We sit and listen to birds, swat a few flies, we watch random convoys of temple-bound tour buses go by, each with its own clamoring oriental soundtrack, blowing through the small village, past bare-foot, hunched over old persons, past middle aged women riding slowly on bicycles like they were kids riding circles in the driveway, past kids actually riding in circles with play swords and play guns.

We get back on our bikes and in another 10 minutes of meandering through tunnels of orange groves, on narrow scooter roads through rice fields, we find an abandoned something or other to explore, we find forlorn treasures inside which we selfishly pillage.



We pillage our way through the countryside, pillaging smells and views, rampaging directionless on currents of whimsy, toward a cluster of funny trees, toward a what's-that-over-there, toward the possibility that the next village might have ice-cream. What is there to say really about our paradise; other than, we've come to know this little green county quite well. My motto is "deep not far" when it comes to exploring. Following no maps, no signs, but only whims I think we end up coming to know so much more about a place.

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