Okay, lets get a possible cliche out of the way first. The journey from paradise to hell can be a long one. Another weekend at the beach. ( 2 in a row, for christsakes' and I complain that the work is v. stressful ? Yes and eh, yes. Anyway, Mui Ne was its sublimely peaceful self. From the hub of humanity to the lull of waves, I am here again. In the morning there is talk ( but not mine) of dawn swims in the briefly cool air. At seven, I am told that the water is cold as Kate dives in and I walk the beach looking for shells and a state of wakefulness that usually eludes at such time(s). By the time, I walk back along the beach the air is hot and the Vietnamese who have been up since before first light have slowed to an amble along the sand.
At night, a new horizon is created. We thought we had discovered new land in the South China Sea, that we were Columbuses pretending to find a country not lost nor waiting to be found. But the horizon in daytime is unobstructed, unremarkable in its greyish blue lineage. By night we are told that the lights, blinking amber and red are the banana boats and coracles out for their catch of snapper and shell. Like in Maude Hutchins story where a child shivers itself to the core with imagination; where the links of a snapped anchor chain become the entwined torsos of dead sailors washed up on the sandy shore and the net floats, in their bleached colours, become the deadened swell of human heads finding home like sand crabs by digging into the sand.
Forgive the sombre tone but what is common place has sooner rather than later happened to me. Brief witness to RTA; passing safely recorder of carnage soon behind but lingering all the same. Bodies can twitch beside the road, so I am told, and no one will stop and care; a driver can be propelled into the air or squashed beneath tyre and people will certainly stop and stare. So I am told. If you stop and look no one will listen; if you hit and stop there will be trouble ahead. So, you can't get involved. When the moto driver hits the side of our minibus, I see his body jump briefly into the air, his bike skidding under him. There is a bump as the minibus goes over something. Something. It could be anything. So I am told. It was the bike, we went over the bike. Someone shouts STOP because roadside care might be needed, rudimentary resucitation must surely be there, on hand, in our hearts the hope that it was just his bike.
The further we get, our mutual words and recounts soothe our minds, a collective effort to shift the image of the flying body from our memory. I recall what I really wanted to write this blog about, the incredible but silent storm that took place miles from the road, in the peaks of mountains some distance away. The lightning scattering across the sky, back lighting the clouds in the night sky and so briefly illuminating the cowering life below. A scene that was incredibly evocative and somehow both gothic and tropical. A hybrid worth exploring. An image worth saving. Not everything we see, I guess, should be remembered. Given the choice.
