(Above, my photos of waiting along the Mekong River, tenth largest river in the world, in graphic panels) The late afternoon sun caught the saffron robe of the young Laotian monk who sat in front of the roofed wooden boat. He sat right next to the captain, away from us, a hundred backpackers dozing under the shadows, this tie-dyed, flip-flop sandal-wearing brigade, the great unwashed who had come to visit his country. It was the hottest day of the year here, always falling on the second week of April. We were lulled into a half-dream by the humidity that melted our vision like butter. The tender flow of the coffee-colored Mekong, the world’s tenth largest river, hushed us. Dog-eared second-hand paperbacks dropped on the floor unnoticed. With hardly any legroom, some of us had folded our knees and pressed our legs on the back seat of those in front of us. Others had sat and slept more comfortably on the dirt-covered floor. One way or another, we dealt with the discomfort. It would take us two days from the northern Thai border of Huay Xai to reach our destination in Laos. From time to time, we’d stir and wake up at the sight of burning hills and sunning albino water buffalos. We took pictures discreetly. A ragtag band of children was caught throwing sand at each other, the passing view accompanied by the soundtrack of our own imagined personal journeys playing in our Ipod. Some of us secretly hoped for even just a glimpse of the endangered giant catfish, one of the heaviest freshwater fish in the world, growing up to three meters long, endemic to this river, and ceremoniously caught only once a year. Fat chance that they’d surface. But we had traveled so far. We owed it to ourselves to hold on to our imagination, to our hopes of capturing and claiming our brief moments of blissful escape. At dusk, our boat docked along the stopover village of Pakbeng, the cool air wafting of grilled catfish and skewered pork sold on the street. We had dinner under a tin-roof shed right next to a group of local men drinking away the remains of the day. Dogs waited on the dirt floor. We ate balls of sticky rice, dipped in shrimp paste, along with a heaping bunch of fresh mint and basil leaves on our plate. We washed it all down with boiled water, stained with tea, poured in our glass straight from the kettle. When night fell, we headed to our guesthouses, straight to our modest rooms to rest. Still, our minds remained unmoored. It took a moment to take in all the distance we have covered and the journey that still lay ahead. We pinched ourselves with thoughts of wow, we’re really here, followed immediately by that stunning Chatwinesque question, but what am I really doing here?

I'm getting pretty behind with uploading photos. It seems like I upload one from a few days ago and then get distracted. Thursday: I went out to UBC and found my pencil case & water bottle exactly where I left them, which was amazing. It was sunny and gorgeous out, so I wore flip-flops and actually enjoyed the two hours I spent on the bus getting there and back - I read my book, and since it was the middle of the day, the buses were all pretty much empty and I got to sit in my favourite seat in the back with my feet up and the windows open. I also picked up a tray for my herbs (and an adjustable plastic cover! It's like a greenhouse on my kitchen table!), and planted thyme, lemon basil, tarragon, and dill. Hopefully they germinate properly. Went swimming in the evening with Amy, and then came home and watched the shows we watch. And ate sushi at Brendan's request, although we've been sticking to our 'stop eating goddamn restaurant food' budget pretty much entirely other than that day.