A slow walk, through rice fields, memory, and meaning
About the Author
Robert lives part of the year in a small rural village in northeastern Thailand, approximately thirty minutes from Roi Et city. It’s a quiet corner of the country where rice fields stretch to the horizon, and the pace of life follows the rhythm of the seasons rather than the clock. His days are shaped by local routines—morning gym and writing sessions, market runs, temple visits, conversations in shaded courtyards—and by a deep appreciation for the cultural and agricultural heritage that surrounds him. Though his roots span Belgium, the Antilles, and Europe’s urban textures, it’s here in rural Thailand that he has found a kind of stillness and clarity. This series is a reflection on that life: why it matters, what it teaches, and how it continues to shape the way he sees the world.
This piece first appeared on Substack. I republish it here voluntarily — not as repetition, but as trace; a place where words can rest after their first flight. Each entry in this log forms part of an ongoing reflection on memory, awareness, and connection.👉🏻 rftjon.substack.com
🧘♂️ The Rhythm of Roi Et
The day begins not with alarms, but with roosters, songbirds, and temple bells. In my village, half an hour from Roi Et city, mornings unfold slowly—like mist rising from the rice paddies. There’s no rush, only rhythm: the soft sweep of a broom on concrete, the distant hum of a motorbike, the clink of spoons in a bowl of jok.
Here, time is measured in gestures. A nod from the vendor at the morning market. A Wai 🙏🏻 exchanged with the monk passing by. The sun climbs gently, casting long shadows across the fields, and the air carries the scent of grilled sticky rice and lemongrass.
This is not a place of urgency. It’s a place of presence. The land teaches patience; the people, grace. Even the dogs seem to know when to pause and when to move.
I’ve lived in cities where the day begins with noise and ends in exhaustion. But here, in Roi Et, the rhythm is different. It’s not imposed—it’s inherited. It comes from the soil, the seasons, the stories told under starlight.
And in that rhythm, I’ve found something rare: a quiet clarity. A way of being that doesn’t demand attention, but rewards it.
🌾 Land and Labor: The Wisdom of the Fields
In Roi Et, the land is not just a backdrop—it’s a teacher. The rice fields stretch wide and patient, stitched together by footpaths and memory. Each season brings its own rhythm: planting, waiting, harvesting. There’s no rush, only repetition. And in that repetition, a kind of grace.
Neighbors move through their routines with quiet precision. A hand in the soil. A shoulder bent to the sun. No one speaks of productivity here, yet everything gets done. The work is hard, yes—but it’s not hurried. It’s woven into the day like breathing.
There’s wisdom in how the land is treated—not as a resource to be extracted, but as a companion to be tended. The fields aren’t owned in the way cities claim space; they’re inherited, shared, remembered.
I’ve seen pride in a well-tended plot, care in a woven basket of sticky rice, joy in a successful harvest. These aren’t metrics for GDP—they’re markers of dignity.
And perhaps that’s what I love most: the labor here isn’t performative. It’s not for show. It’s for sustenance, for family, for continuity. A quiet resistance to the noise of industrial ambition.
🛕 Spiritual Texture: Temples, Rest, and Reverence
Spirituality here isn’t confined to ritual—it’s ambient. It hums in the early morning alms rounds, in saffron robes drifting past rice paddies, in quiet offerings placed beneath banyan trees. The temple isn’t just a destination; it’s a rhythm, a pause, a place to exhale.
Rest here isn’t idleness—it’s devotion. Hammocks strung between stilts. Midday shade under tamarind trees. The slow sip of iced coffee while watching the rain gather. These moments aren’t distractions from productivity—they’re reminders of impermanence, of breath, of being.
Even the dogs sleeping in temple courtyards seem to understand this. There’s no urgency in their rest. Just trust.
And perhaps that’s the lesson: reverence isn’t always loud. It’s not always liturgical. Sometimes it’s a slow walk to the market. A shared meal. A moment of shade. Roi Et teaches that the sacred isn’t separate—it’s stitched into the fabric of the day.
🛤️ Migration and Memory: A Mosaic of Belonging
I didn’t grow up here. My childhood unfolded in Belgium, shaped by Antillean rhythms and European winters. But something in Roi Et feels familiar—not in geography, but in spirit. The quiet dignity. The layered stories. The way memory lives not just in words, but in gestures, in land, in food.
Migration teaches you to listen differently. To notice what others overlook. In rural Thailand, I’ve found echoes of my grandmother’s kitchen, my father’s silences, the cadence of old songs sung at dusk. Not identical—but resonant.
Here, I’m not a tourist. I’m a witness. A participant in the slow unfolding of days. I learn by watching, by walking, by waiting. And in that waiting, I remember.
The past isn’t something I left behind—it’s something I carry. Roi Et doesn’t erase it. It holds it gently, like a clay pot cooling in the shade.
🏗️ A Different Rhythm: Industrialization and Mass Tourism
But not all rhythms in Thailand are slow. Not all landscapes invite stillness. Beyond the rice fields and temple courtyards, another tempo pulses—faster, louder, more engineered. I’ve seen it. I’ve walked its corridors. And it offers a different kind of promise.
Not far from Roi Et, the landscape begins to shift. Concrete replaces clay. Billboards rise where tamarind trees once stood. The rhythm quickens—driven by industrial zones, logistics hubs, and the promise of progress.
Mass tourism follows close behind. In other provinces, villages are rebranded as “authentic experiences,” their rituals repackaged for weekend getaways. Temples become photo ops. Markets become curated spectacles. The sacred is staged, and the everyday is edited.
I’ve seen places where the soil is no longer touched—only paved. Where rest is replaced by itinerary. Where the quiet dignity of labor is obscured by the noise of development.
This isn’t a lament for the past. It’s a reflection on pace, on purpose. Industrialization brings roads, jobs, connectivity. But it also brings rupture—of rhythm, of relationship, of reverence.
Roi Et, for now, resists. Not through protest, but through persistence. The fields still breathe. The dogs still sleep on the streets or in temple courtyards. The mornings still begin with roosters, not engines.
And that resistance matters. It’s not nostalgic—it’s necessary. A reminder that not all progress is forward. That some places teach us to stay still, to listen, to remember.
I returned from a highway lined with billboards to find an old woman peeling mangoes at her doorstep. Her movements were slow, deliberate, unhurried. That image stays with me: two tempos coexisting, yet only one carrying the weight of continuity. And in that rhythm, I know where I belong.
✍️ Writing as Ritual: The Page as Offering
Each morning, before the sun climbs too high, I write. Not to produce, but to preserve. To trace the contours of a life lived slowly, deliberately. The page becomes a kind of altar—where memory meets meaning, where observation becomes offering.
I write about the dogs who sleep in temple courtyards. About the woman who sells grilled bananas with a smile that feels like home. About the way rain falls here—not urgently, but with intention.
This isn’t reportage. It’s reverence. A way to honor the rhythms that sustain me. A way to say: I was here. I saw. I listened.
And perhaps that’s the heart of it. Rural Thailand doesn’t ask to be explained. It asks to be felt. To be remembered. To be written with care.
🧭 Closing Reflection: Why I’m Here
I’ve lived in places that promised opportunity, speed, spectacle. But here, in Roi Et, I’ve found something quieter—and more enduring. A way of life that values rest, ritual, and relationship. A place where the sacred lives in silence, and the everyday holds grace.
I stay because the rhythm suits me. Because the land speaks in a language I understand. Because the stories here don’t need embellishment—they need listening.
And because in this village, half an hour from the city, I’ve found a kind of truth. Not loud. Not urgent. But clear.
Each morning, I open the page not to produce, but to witness. The quiet before the roosters. The way light filters through bamboo slats. The scent of steamed rice rising from the kitchen. These are not subjects—they’re signals. Invitations to pay attention.
I write to remember, yes—but also to remain. To remain connected to Belgium, to Ammerndorf, to France. To remain present in Roi Et. To remain open to what each place teaches me about care, about pace, about belonging.
The craft is not in the polish—it’s in the persistence. In the way I return to the same themes, the same questions, the same metaphors. Not to resolve them, but to honor them. To let them evolve.
And in this ritual, I find continuity, despite the impermanence of life. Not in the linear sense, but in the layered one. Writing becomes a kind of stitching—threading together migrations, seasons, languages, moods. It’s how I archive the sacred. How I make sense of the scattered. How I stay whole.
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Robert F. Tjón, August 2025
