(This photo is an illustration)There is nothing remarkable about our village. I often referred to it as Twin Peaks hence there was something rotten here. Well, we can say, literally rotten as well, because seasonal floods were very common.
On one side there were some family houses with tiny tidy front yards, and on the other side it was the "triangle". The triangle has never had any buildings, any cultivation, and those peasants who were occasionnally asked to mow down the reed and weed had horrible suspicions.
Beyond the horizon there were still some houses left from the golden era of the village, the old motel, restaurant, grocery, shoemaker, village council...only leftovers: bones, shells, skeletons and vaste emptiness.
I was standing in between, at the gas station filling up. There was nothing romantic about it, but I still felt a bit day-dreamingish, felt that warm fuzzy undetermined cloud hovering around my head. When gingerly a tourist couch rolled in to the station, the airtight doors just softened up and then...I heard the cameras clicking before I could see all the japanese tourists pouring out from the vehicle. Strange they all gathered on one side of the gas station gazing towards the region I described as beyond the horizon. They were looking at the greyest, most boring nothing framed by some hills and totally ignoring everything which I would still call: our village. I was slightly shocked and curious. What the hell can a group of Japanese tourists find interesing there? I asked the travel guide, who was a local guy.
I still remember his answer, but not much of his explanation of what the expression, the tail of the dragon actually meant. Japanese is a very beautiful, poetic language, I thought. But still, the mistery of the dragon's tale eludes from the memory with no tracks.
(Thanks to Elisabeth for sharing her experiences with me.)
On one side there were some family houses with tiny tidy front yards, and on the other side it was the "triangle". The triangle has never had any buildings, any cultivation, and those peasants who were occasionnally asked to mow down the reed and weed had horrible suspicions.
Beyond the horizon there were still some houses left from the golden era of the village, the old motel, restaurant, grocery, shoemaker, village council...only leftovers: bones, shells, skeletons and vaste emptiness.
I was standing in between, at the gas station filling up. There was nothing romantic about it, but I still felt a bit day-dreamingish, felt that warm fuzzy undetermined cloud hovering around my head. When gingerly a tourist couch rolled in to the station, the airtight doors just softened up and then...I heard the cameras clicking before I could see all the japanese tourists pouring out from the vehicle. Strange they all gathered on one side of the gas station gazing towards the region I described as beyond the horizon. They were looking at the greyest, most boring nothing framed by some hills and totally ignoring everything which I would still call: our village. I was slightly shocked and curious. What the hell can a group of Japanese tourists find interesing there? I asked the travel guide, who was a local guy.
I still remember his answer, but not much of his explanation of what the expression, the tail of the dragon actually meant. Japanese is a very beautiful, poetic language, I thought. But still, the mistery of the dragon's tale eludes from the memory with no tracks.
(Thanks to Elisabeth for sharing her experiences with me.)
0 comments:
Post a Comment