Fourteen time zones behind us, our bodies know it is midnight, as we step into the mid-day sun. Chen’s energy greets us, his voice too loud, his movements too quick. His day has a schedule and shape, ours does not. We can’t keep up, all we can do is follow, foggy and compliant.

We drop our bags at the hotel and head out, no quiet moment, no second to waste.

The stories begin. Trees line the road. I can’t see them, I cannot follow their story’s thread, but I keep listening, hoping the fog will clear.

We pull up to a temple, pile out of the car. The voice continues, layering detail upon detail. I lift my camera but feel nothing. I walk, clicking away, half listening. Fragments – a story of a woman, a monk, a stupa, a chedi.

Then, I’m alone.

The sun is high and hot. I look for a place to wait. The only seat is in the harsh light. My camera goes silent. The sun starts its descent, and again hear the chatter.

We cross rivers, a name with nowhere to land. More temples, as the camera now hangs lifelessly around my neck.