Near the town of Phitsanulok, December 20, 2019

On the way out of Phitsanulok a pickup turns slowly at the light, its suspension crushed under the ton of lettuces it carries – who would have believed lettuce could weigh so much? I extract myself from the city by a very busy road. The scooterists rush at me like curveballs – just behind me in fact: they want to cross the lane, anticipate my passing, count on my speed. So despite the fear, I must hold the throttle at all costs.

I ride in the industrious countryside between the fluorescent rice paddies, between the raï of bushy cane. Is it still the countryside? Something heavy weighs here. The names of the villages are wagons and exclamations: Ban Wang Yang, Ban Pak Ping Tawan Ok, Ban Khok Salut… The road trains that carry the cane impose by their bulk. Steel structures have been mounted on their trailers. They go breaking the branches of the trees, bearing high cargoes of sugary stalks.

The villages, the fields, the people and their scooters, their rudimentary tractors (engine on wheels pulling a trailer of wood where the driver takes his seat): everything is caught in a net of concrete and steel. There are the roads and the highways that delimit space, turn the wheel of industry. There is the concreted canal, parallel to the Nan river. We ride by scooter on the service road. It’s afternoon, it’s hot, and buffalo are plunging into the water down the escarpment on the other side. On this side, a man is sitting on the asphalt in the shade of a rare tree. I come close to not seeing him, so small does he make himself. I swerve the handlebars to avoid him. He has come to water his cows in the canal.

The city has already won. There’s no escape. We trace in tire black the grid of the world.