"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..." - Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 1, Ch. 1
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Rivers.
The balinese hydrology is ancient. Carved into the volcanic soil is a matrix occupying the space between roadways and farms that is designed to flood any and every bit of the island's beautifully terraced agricultural plots. These are thin ribbons of water. If you look closely they have very little volume but during a storm the ribbons become torrents, sometimes spilling over, usually merging with streams and rivers. The scope of this infrastructure is mind boggling but when the floods happen, and they do, it becomes a masterful work borne of survival instincts planned eons ago to support the many generations who come to rely on the bounty of the farmland. Their principle yield being rice.
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