Attempting to fulfil a wish I had last night to go for a run this morning before dawn, I wake at 5.30, and press the snooze button. By the time I'm finally awake, it's seven o'clock, the river is glassy, but out on the road it's hot already and the before-school traffic is already hectic.
I postpone the run. Instead, I ride the scooter to town to take some money out (it's a cash economy here). I know the ATM is at the big-Durian (Kampot apparently produces a lot of Durian. I look forward to my first try of this polarising fruit) round-about, but I soon discover it's not as easy to find as I had thought, and I'm weaving through morning market traffic, and then I'm somehow on the main road out of town. I turn around, and, mostly lost, happen upon the big Durian.
I follow my instinct, and scoot through town, in the general direction I need to go, enjoying the old French colonial architecture. I ride back over the river via the old bridge (put together from the remains of four different bridges) which commands a superb view over the glassy water with cloud-hugged mountains in the background.
In the evening I make good on the promise to myself and finally go for that jog. It's up there with the hardest runs I've ever been on. It's in the mid-20s even after dark, I mostly have to run on the shoulder of the road, still muddy in places from some earlier rain, every now and then a motorbike won't have working lights, and I can feel the recent days of inactivity tightening up my breathing. But not too far from the guest-house it's quiet and serene, and there's really only the odd scooter every now and then, and the fireflies float about me as I take heavy breaths and even heavier strides.
I'm wrecked when I return – but proud I ran the second half slightly quicker than the first – and I jump straight in the river and can't help but see the poetry.
The river has lost its sheen finally, and the wavelets reflect the moon, as if there were fireflies not only floating about in the air, but in the river itself. And a bird in the forest beyond the far shore pecks at the trunk of a tree, resonating. And my temples pulse, and my forehead burns, and the river's flow slowly takes away the heat from my over-exerted body. And the invisible bird hunts for the invisible beetle in an invisible tree. Resonating, resonating, resonating.
It's just me and Sareth in the bar area tonight. Everyone else is either in town or resting. Sareth tells me how he was a Buddhist monk for five years, and recite for me a prayer in sanskrit. And we talk about where he is from, and the history of the country, and what's happening now.
“I don't mind what people do. I'm just a good person. We're all good people.” Sareth says with a big grin. I sleep.
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| The old bridge. Destroyed by the Khmer Rouge, and patched together with various bits and pieces. Source |
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