on the forest track

Hands blistered by car strut machete hacking, arms, recently swiped by jungle brambles, stripped of skin to reveal raised red mountain ranges. I stand erect, bracing myself in the bed of this truck between the tree measurement equipment and the small Lao military man and his not so small rifle. We search these forests for locations, randomly assigned by some unknowing distant algorithm that describes the one thing impossible for a feeling, thinking, human - absolute objectivity.

These plots stand as blind proxies for this forest at large - from these relatively few samples, for which we brave limb and thorn and pest, we will extrude the sacred patterns of this forest.

The truck passes near to the low hanging branches above. Standing in the bed of the 4-wheeled groaning beast, I am forced to dodge the oncoming leaves or thorns or spider webs in order to stay intact.

We pass forest long ago selectively logged and stripped of vitality.  When the illegal logging track becomes impassable, we drive on anyway. When they become impossible, we pack and set out on foot. The national protected area employee, in pine green ranger suit, the local guide adorned with flip-flops (the jungle trekking footwear of choice), the district military man with his wide smile and AK-47, the international consultant with GPS in hand, and me - part translator, part field technician, part cultural liaison - all wonder.

Before long, we are into the deep old growth primary forest. Even blindfolded, nose-plugged, ear-muffed and drunk, you would know... its the feel of the place. Many things have lived here, died here, decay and regrowth blabber on back and forth in the language of smells and carbon.  Moist, undulating, a loud and ominous silence full of bird and insect interjections. Small trickling streams reveal butterfly fantasy lands and prime dinosaur habitat.  Enormous contemplating trees - or groups of tree-wine-woody-matter-amalgams - they supervise this visit. This forest feels softer, darker, more cave-like than field-like - it certain reverence comes over all who pass through it.

Approaching the hallowed plot, one might expect a treasure chest or shiny prize - a return for the steep machete wielding huffing and puffing that got us here.  But no, there is little glamor out here. To this lucky plot's surprise though, so oft forgotten far from trail or stream or road, we have come to pay it mind. We will trim it up, measure it, fawn over it, consider its composition and characteristics. We will write about it, type its secrets into our GPS. Ritualistic cigarette breaks will proceed and follow, the occasional buttressed tree trunk will stir intense discussion, and our routine is honed. Onto the next plot. And then the village for handfuls of sticky rice and hammocks. A story for another day.

That Luang Festival - a beautifal redistrubiton

That Luang Festival - a massive redistribution of wealth, a lesson in social services. 

 

Relatively well-off Vientiane city folk flock to the country's most important stupa to give alms to monks on this 6 am cool season morning.  Good luck and merit are culturally/religiously associated with this giving ritual.  From silver alms bowls, fruit, candles, milk, sweets, rice, and other foodstuffs are placed with a prayer in the bowls of passing monks. A procession of giving. 

 

Monks, young and old, returning in the backs of pickup trucks to their villages, bring bagfulls of these snacks. This is the welfare system. Those parts of society most in need - sickness stricken families, bankrupt businesses, disabled street dwellers - they go to monks and temples for help. When a family can't take care of a child - they are sent to become monks.
 

 

 The culture and religion, therefore, has a built-in civil society, welfare providing, wealth redistributing system. And nicely colored robes.

jungle-life

How about the jungle - or the varying forested ecosystems that surround Vientiane? It lends itself not to rigorous exploratory vista hopping, or magnificent leaf falling birch peeling scents that my native landscapes exude. It is swollen, overgrown, chaotic, but somehow mysteriously enchanting. Often it makes me miss the ecosystems I have grown up in. 

 

It is amazing how seasons, flora, fauna, things that you don't always consciously interact with everyday shape one's persona. Is it appropriate to allocate times in places that remind you why you love what you do? In locales that leave you breathlessly etching your personal grain against that of the patterns around you?

Josh and our guide sharing stories on the way into the jungle - notice the rainy season footbridge on the right.

 

 

Elephant viewing tower - no luck this time.

Not hostile; not savage or sullen this ecosystem contrast - just a minor disturbance that trims down those stolid assumptions of old and replaces them with new sprigs and sprouts - the kind that hold secrets as to the way life could be lived. These are the internal growths that photosynthesize not with photons but with the stuff that shakes one out of the everyday-always existence into the feeling-growing-rooting life that is possible.