running to cambodia - draft

the roosters begin to crow at five. light begins to creep through the gaps in the walls of my simple riverside hut. outside, in the cool morning breeze that blows gently off the mekong, the sky eases into a dark, steely grey. the buzz of cicadas slowly build into a loud chorus, then quit together in their mysterious orchestration.
Here in the south of the Laos Peoples Democratic Republic the Mekong river splits into dozens of fingers that cradle countless sandy islands. They are called "Si Phan Don," the four thousand islands. The former president of Laos, Khatamai Siphandon, was born here and took their name as his. On the island of Don Khon along the dirt road through the village (name!) the locals, subsistance fishers and farmers, are slowly emerging from under mosquito nets, on their porches, crossing the road to the river to bath in their sarongs. a fisherman heads out on the river.
i eat banana and drink a canned coffee on the road. i pass the Buddhist monks out collecting alms from the locals kneeling on the side of the road with their offerings of rice and vegetables and money. the monks' burnt sienna robes stand out against the tawny dirt road even at this hour, in this light. i breath deeply and relax my shoulders and try to feel the dirt beneath me, the cool air, and pay attention to the sounds and smells.
on the edge of the village, crossing under the abandoned bridge built by the french to transport their precious harvest of hardwood south to Vietnam, three dogs sleeping on the bridge wake, and shuffle down the far side to greet me, which they do by nibbling at my shorts, for some strange reason.
these dogs are my running partners. my morning group run. they are clearly high on the hierachy of wild dogs in the village, and across the island. as we shuffle past other dogs scurry. the villagers hiss at us, and shoo us along the road. we are a roaming gang. we pass the Buddhist temple and monastery and head out into the dry rice paddies.
it is hot in southern lao, maybe thirty and humid, and running at dawn is the only option. in the dry season it is dusty and the sun rises a beautiful orange red sphere from behind the dark silohettes of the coconut trees.
the dogs are reckless runners. they are impatient. their pace is inconsistent. they sprint after chickens and water buffalo. they stop to mark a banana tree, or a turmite mound. i am the glue that keeps the pack together and moving around the island, counter clockwise. i join the boys for a few sprints, but mostly keep the pace steady. we are a roaming gang, fearlessly claiming the whole island as our territory. at a small bamboo hut on the far side of the island, the dogs chase after a few chickens (they are all free range here) and i imagine myself trying to explain it to a poor farmer as i hand over a few dollars to pay for the birds that my running partners just ate.
we flush out some pheasant. we stir magpies and ghostly white egrets. one morning i spy two horn bills dropping from a branch above me and floating across a dry river bed. there are always the sounds of scurrying beasts in the dry leaves that cover the forest floor. mostly small birds and lizards. but there are snakes and very large spiders around, too. i keep a keen eye on the trail, for cold-blooded snakes like to warm themselves in the sun on the open trail in the morning.
i am running to cambodia. the southern tip of this island marks the border between laos and cambodia, and the islands in the river, and the bank on the far side, are another country.
between laos and cambodia, along this river border, the rare and endangered Irriwaddy dolphin can be seen breaking through the surface of the river, small black halfmoons breaking the pink sheen of the morning sun reflected on the river's surface.