From our kitchen window on the second floor I see roof terraces –peeling dull ochre concrete walls; bamboo struts supporting dried palm leaf rooves. TV aerials and electric wires go this way and that. The cardboard holder of my Lipton teabag clatters softly against the tin tea mug under the giant pistachio ceiling fan. Windows and balconies are encased in Mondrian design iron grids in front of colonial dark green shutters. Clothes and towels hanging on every balcony move almost imperceptibly. The sharp dusty leaves of palms reach our second floor window. I hear the echoic dying sound of traffic horns and Vietnamese music; a cross between a Scottish shanty and twanging sideways sounds as in a dream.
Be- man- ya- be man-ya- Ladies in conical hats on bicycles ply their wares in the shadowed alleyway beneath our window.
Pictures view from kitchen and local streets