|Working "the land" at Tonle Sap|
waterland unsettles me. Perhaps I am a brutally unsubtle simpleton, who needs things to be self-evidently what they are with no question marks attached nor porous borders (oh how we hate porous borders in the UK). My confident sure-footedness started to drain away as we descended into Bangkok airport for the first time. The countryside that we had flown over revealed itself as mostly reflective: the sky, grey and heavy with yet more monsoon rains, bounced back up at us from the silvery watery surface of “the land”. And the water was divided up. Someone has cut up the water. That would be the sort of suggestion I would expect from a three year old. Yet semi-submerged hedgerows, trees and ditches struggle for air above the flood waters and presumably mark out what were once agricultural plots. Rice farmers work up to their waist in water, yet have to bend double to plant their crop, their noses hovering inches away from the rippling waters
Sometimes it feels like being back at home – or in Corkadoragha.
|Yep - that's a child paddling across the village in a cooking bowl!|