Hakha, Chin State, January 17-18, 2019

Glacial town. Provincial capital. Impression of the end of the world. Hakha and its eight degrees Celsius this month of January. Hakha and its plateau of scorched and bald earth. Hakha and its plank buildings in the colours of boats. Hakha and its air of a northern town under the Tropic of Cancer, its air of a port town at 2,000 metres of altitude.

Night fallen I sink into the hold of a restaurant-bar. Windowless room with a badly nailed floor. I settle alone at a table. To go with my bottle of Myanmar beer, they bring me a spicy soup, very peppery, which warms the inside and gives a thirst. At the next table half-asleep men knock back glasses of rum and smoke cheeroots. The young waitresses hide behind the doorframes, risk a glance, burst into giggles when our eyes meet.

I roll my sleep under a mountain of blanket. Then in the morning I walk in the busy street. The heavy industries occupy the centre of town: sacks of sand, sacks of gravel, sacks of cement; mechanics’ workshops; rice and flour wholesale; dirty trucks being loaded or unloaded in front of the shops. On the hill, behind the rows of multicoloured houses, a great train of dust rises, which shows the road.

I go into the Hakha Town Café and order a double espresso. I haven’t drunk half of it when the young woman of the café, who speaks English in this town at the confines, comes over and asks me:

– Can I talk to you before you leave?

– Sure. What do you want to talk about?

– It’s my secret.

As I’m leaving, I prod her again:

– So, what did you want to tell me?

– I want to see you again.