'A smile as an echo of a lost dream in Isaan'

The sun sinks slowly behind the horizon, drenching the air with fiery hues that set the sky ablaze. The dusty ground beneath the farang’s feet feels warm, still glowing from the heat of the day. He is far from the tourist routes and the glittering beaches where his fellow sufferers crowd. In Isaan, time seems to lose itself, to dissolve in a landscape where endless fields of rice and sugar cane alternate like an age-old dance of alternating. There are no tourists here. Only travelers, people who get lost without a goal, searching for some kind of truth that may never be found.

He sees her for the first time at a market that seems to appear out of nowhere along a dirt road. She sits stately by a basket full of fresh mangoes, which she is selling. Her fingers glide slowly over the green surface of the fruit. He does not see her immediately, but first smells the sweet scent of ripe fruit. When he looks up, his gaze catches hers. He seems momentarily taken aback by the enchanting beauty of the Isan. The warm smile that dances in his direction feels as if a veil is being lifted between them. Her eyes, deep and dark as a full moon night, seem to fathom him, as if she has seen him before. Not here, but in another life, in another story. A memory is born.

They barely speak. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, as she offers him something he doesn’t understand. He smiles back, tries to pronounce a few sounds of her language, but they sound strange and angular in his mouth. Yet there is something in her gaze that invites him, a kind of curiosity mixed with sympathy, or perhaps something deeper, something elusive. As evening falls and she has packed her mangoes, they walk together through the market, as if they have been used to each other’s company for years. There is no hurry, no questions that cry out for answers. There is only the moment, fragile and precious, dancing like a flickering candlelight in the warm air.

They exchange phone numbers, but deep down the farang knows that what he holds in his hands is fleeting. Isaan is not a place where things begin; it is a place where they pass, where memories dissolve in the heat and stories are only echoes of what once was. And yet, later, as he sits on a rickety wooden bench outside a simple eatery, drinking a cold beer, he feels the urge to see her again. He reads her short messages, simple sentences without poetry, but with an honesty that touches him. She asks how he has spent the day. He replies that he has wandered to ancient temples and smelled ghosts lurking in the ancient ruins.

Their encounters are few and far between, always in the twilight zone between day and night. He discovers that she not only sells mangoes, but also works in a small shop selling traditional silks, woven by the gentle hands of women like her, who carefully preserve age-old techniques. She speaks a little more English than he thought, or perhaps she is just patient with his fumbling. They walk past silent rice paddies, the water in the fields reflecting the last light of the day. Sometimes they sit in front of a deserted temple, their voices still as the evening closes in around them. He touches her hand, a fleeting touch that makes him tremble more than he cares to admit. He knows he cannot lose himself in this moment, but the desire to do so, to freeze time and let everything around them dissolve into nothing, is irresistible.

The days in Isaan are strung together like a string of forgotten stories, a series of encounters that always take place in passing. And again and again he returns to her smile, to the promise of something that may never be. They don’t tell each other fairy tales; they don’t speak of the future, no plans, no promises. It’s as if they both know that their story has an end, a boundary that will pull them apart again, back to their own worlds. For her, life is here, in a simple wooden house next to her parents and her younger sisters. For him, it’s nowhere, because he’s a traveller, always on the move, driven by a restlessness that never grants him any kind of contentment.

One night, when the air fills with the sound of crickets and the smell of wood fire, he says goodbye to her. He tries to find the words, but eventually they embrace in silence, the warmth of her slender body against his a memory he will carry with him, like a shadow following him. He feels her tears on his shoulder and realizes that he may have touched her heart more than he ever intended. She waves goodbye as he steps into an old, rattling bus that slowly makes its way through the night. Her silhouette fades slowly behind a curtain of dust.

As the bus moves slowly along, the thought occurs to him that some people come into your life as fleeting apparitions, as tangible as a dream, but never truly possessed. Isaan, with its vast fields and endless horizon, has given him a glimpse of another kind of life, a life that may not have been meant for him, but that enchanted him for a moment. Her disarming smile will remain forever, like an echo of a forgotten song, a silent memory that will accompany him wherever the road takes him.

About this blogger

Farang Kee Nok

My age officially falls into the category of 'elderly'. I've been living in Thailand for 28 years - try to do that. The Netherlands used to be paradise, but it fell into disrepair. So I went looking for a new paradise and found Siam. Or was it the other way around and Siam found me? Either way, we were good-natured.

ICT provided a regular income, something you call 'work', but for me it was mainly a pastime. Writing, that's the real hobby. For Thailandblog I'm picking up that old love again, because after 15 years of hard work you deserve some reading material.

I started in Phuket, moved to Ubon Ratchathani, and after a stopover in Pattaya I now live somewhere in the north, in the middle of nature. Rest never rusts, I always say, and that turns out to be true. Here, surrounded by greenery, time seems to stand still, but fortunately life doesn't.

Eating, especially lots of it – that’s my passion. And what makes an evening complete? A good glass of whisky and a cigar. That’s about it, I think. Cheers!

Photos, I don't do that. I always look ugly in them, even though I know Brad Pitt pales in comparison. It must be the photographer, I think.

Read the latest articles here

Older posts from this blogger

• CultureDecember 10 2024'Beach vendor in a world where dreams fade and the horizon promises little'
• CultureDecember 8 2024'A society that remains silent about its dark side'
• CultureDecember 6 2024'Twelve rooms and no view of tomorrow'
• CultureDecember 4 2024'A life between steel and silk'