It’s not hot yet, but it’s getting there.
5 am brings a calmness to the otherwise bustling world. People are awake, the sun begins to rise, but life is not yet in full swing. It’s meditative, it’s peaceful, it’s a time so often forgotten, neglected, under-utilized.
The swish of brooms on the sidewalk. Garages and gateways slowly opening. Quacking ducks sitting on the streetside, ready for market. Women attaching chickens upside down on their motos, freshly bought, as fresh as they get, for the evening meal. An orange glow sings over the rice paddies bringing out the richest shade of green. Everyone excercises in the park: fathers and sons go for a jog, old friends play badminton, grandfathers practice Tai Chi and grandmothers whisk red hand fans in a motion much like balet. A man sprays down his sun deck and waters his plants, in nothing but his underwear. Even the motos that buzz by, taking someone to work, have a tranquil quality to their roar.
These are the quiet streets, just beginnig to breath life. John Steinbeick described this as “the hour of the pearl.” By which he meant precious, poetic, subtle, glorious. And he was damn right.