I am a seller, said the Ice Girl

Greetings,

As dawn light savored green jungles along rivers a young Banlung woman-mother, one of many, cut ice. She sawed ice into manageable chunks as glistening elements dripped their moisture into delicious red dust. Red dust is stirred by countless women sawing and sweeping in front of their red dust covered wooden shuttered doors. Up and down the red dusty street.

Ice slides into blue plastic bags. Four foot long blocks of ice are loaded on the backs of antique battered black and red motorcycles driven by delivery boys wearing dusty baseball caps with glittering golden stars. Women in front of their shops open large orange plastic boxes to hold fresh clear frozen ice. 

Ice lives and dies every morning in a red dusty paradise. Sun streaks water. Ice cries.

After school the mother's daughter, 12, saws ice. A man sees her. What are you doing? he asked. She smiled. She is happy. I am a seller, she said. Her English is clear, distinct and filled with confidence. She bags a block of ice and hands it to a cycle man. He hands her crumbled red dusty notes.

She saws ice in afternoon heat. You are a good seller, said the man. Yes, I am, said the girl. I greet the buyer and sell, I cut, I bag, I talk, I sell. Ice is moving.

See you later, she sang playing her saw through crystals inside red dust. 

Metta.

Long walk

I continue wandering and exploring all the nuances of Ha Noi.

It's delightful to explore distant alleys where people gather on sidewalks to eat white noodles, spring rolls, fresh greens and drink green tea.

Life on the street is filled with 1,001 motorcycles, hawkers of red star hats, t-shirts, bags, paintings, silk, traditional medicines, shoes, bamboo baskets, silver and twisted lanes filled with aroma and mystery. Designs of family realities, relationship blues.

Wear and tear, shed a travel tear, your heart all this shimmering noddle passion, a broth of conversation's hunger.

A street hawker said. "If you don't buy my cheap cotton hat with a red star, or a cheap wooden bracelet made by astranger, then the next time I see you while I am walking hot Ha Noi streets trying to make a living, then I won't know you. My eyes will be dark and lost in their future. I won't remember you. Ever.

"I will continue to walk. All day. In the heat. No water. No rest. To walk, to meet tourists. No pity. This is my social and economic reality."

Metta.

Balloon people

You'll be pleased to know the sound of jackhammers, chisels and motorcycle beep-beep music fills the air.

The poetics of balloon men and women walking world streets hawking air filled color. One old grizzled man in Turkey existing in a boarded up concrete cave below a domed hammam did his daily work to get to one of life's little intersections where he would stand and wait.

A young balloon boy in Indonesia did the same, following his plantation dirt trail through fields of discarded plastic bags, garbage, chicken bones, burning refuse, and broken dreams under construction by teams of hammering no-name boys stranded in a gated community to stand and wait nearby air-conditioned malls and choking vehicular streets.

Here, a woman and girl stand and wait and converse late on a humid night at a roundabout, their purple, green, orange shimmering air toys playing above their muted voices as cycles, cars and people traverse their destinations. Beep-beep.

A man pushes his balloon bike cargo down a narrow street. Excited kids run out to see all the colors, shapes and floating dreams.

The poetics of balloon love.

Do what you love and love what you do.

Metta.