The jungle, the huge leaves, roots sprouting everywhere and draw the earth.
The girl who gives me a dry fruit to open with his teeth.
The temples, the smell of incense.
The Chief, chieftain iban, which tells the story of its ancient and traditional tattoos.
chants of Ramadan in the sunset of Kuching.
The French guy, which I do not know neither the name nor the face that tells me a long history on the night of Bako.
the squeak of bats that cover the cave of the fairies. The dorms
travelers. Their backpacks scattered, speaking of streets away.
The noodle and the sticks. Pancakes.
The owner of the shop of Bau which gives me a ride. I drain the bags of rice in the store. Josep
who smiles at me. The sky will open.
The bath in the river in the morning. Just me, the children and the jungle.
The traditional rice wine, each bottle tastes different.
Nabila who is 9 years old and speaks four languages.
The rain that falls flat, without haste. All of a sudden downpour, without respite.
The sun dries everything burns my skin, it releases the fragrance.
The market Seriam, including fried sweets, fruits and vegetables.
My new sarong, its brilliant colors.
The road rushing under the wheels of the bus.
The river which flows slowly, under the long wooden boat.
The giant and colorful butterflies. The visceral
Harun love for the sea. The little head
white eagle that flies above me.
boots tied to a backpack, that beat the rhythm with every step I take.
and orchids that grow wild along roadsides.
Orchids.
orchids everywhere.
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