
It was from Putao, of northern Myanmar, in the 1920’s, that Frank Kingdon Ward wrote that, and I paraphrase, plant collecting is a congregation of seemingly endless, dull, frustrating moments interspersed with seconds that make the process worth the anguish and boredom. After months of planning, apprehension, reconsideration, excitement, and imagination, I am here, now, this moment, in that very settlement. Across the street from our guest house are the chants of Buddhists or Christians in service; I cannot tell the difference, though the preponderance of the Lisu minority in the area would suggest the latter. To the east, a gibbous moon rises blessed by a cadence of crickets and frogs. I cannot bring myself to believe that Frank Kingdon Ward’s times here differed significantly, except for the fact that he had servants and I have electricity (sometimes). [Read more…]