Darwin called the plant Hedysarum; modern botanists call it either Desmodium gyrans or, more correctly these days, Codariocalyx motorius; its common name is Telegraph plant or Semaphore plant -- after the leaf movements, which resemble semaphore signals. Kampermpool -- who is burying his face in his plant's leaves again, disappearing almost up to his ears, and cooing softly to it -- calls his plant Miss Udon Dancing Sunshine.

In fact, since it was first described by Dutch physician and naturalist Maarten Houttuyn -- who named it Hedysarum motorium in 1779 -- the plant has been called at various times, Hedysarum gyrans (1781), Desmodium gyrans (1825), Desmodium roylei (1834), Codariocalyx gyrans (1842), Pseudarthria gyrans (1844), Meibomia gyrans (1891), and Desmodium motorium (1938). Botanical taxonomy sometimes gets a bit cluttered, says Gwilym Lewis, the principal scientific officer at Kew. Lewis tries to make sense of it :"Although the plant was first recognized and described in 1779," writes Lewis by e-mail, "it has been moved by subsequent authors into different genera, e.g., Desmodium motorium (Houtt) Merr. (where Merr. is an abbreviation for Merrill). This new combination made in 1938 is also based on Hedysarum motorium, or, put botanically, Hedysarum motorium is the 'basionym' of both Desmodium motorium and Codariocalyx motorius. OK so far?"

Not really. But despite the confusion, Lewis assures me they are all the same plant: a leguminous Asian shrub. According to the International Legume Database and Information Service, it is not hard to find and is widely distributed throughout Australia, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Cambodia, China, India, Indonesia, Jamaica, Laos, Malaysia, Martinique, Myanmar, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Thailand and Vietnam. It can even be found on the Society Islands, a chain of islands dotted remotely in the South Pacific. In Mauritius, in the 19th century, it was cultivated intentionally.

But Codariocalyx motorius or Desmodium roylei or Meibomia gyrans, or whatever you choose to call it, does not dance. It twitches. Very early in the morning, as the rising sun burns the mist off the fields, provided the weather has not been too hot, too humid or too dry, as long as the soil conditions are favorable, and it is not too windy, the leaves of Kampermpool's dancing plant respond to his singing by twitching. Otherwise, The Plant spends most of its time hidden by orchids and protected by netting and barbed wire, its pointed little leaves nodding and bouncing in the breeze.

It dances, says Kampermpool defensively. "According to our experiments," he says, "when we are using electronics it doesn't work well. It likes humans, it likes musical instruments, but they have to be played by humans, my friend. If you sing a song composed by the king, it's dancing better. This is very strange."

Put a question -- any question -- to Kampermpool and he will respond instead by talking about The Plant. Because of this, he is an enigma. He might have children but, then again, he might not; allegedly, he spent several years in Iraq, researching desert plants, but perhaps this is not the case. His doctorate degree might be honorary, or he might have earned it conventionally -- we don't know. It is possible -- and Kampermpool certainly makes it sound as if he has -- that he has met the King of Thailand, His Majesty Bhumibol Adulyadej. [Editor's Note: Two years after the original publication of this story, a representative of Dr. Pradit's contacted Salon to state that the doctor had never met the King of Thailand, nor did he intend to give the impression that he did so.] So it is not surprising that, when asked about The Plant and the mechanism that actually makes its little leaflets move, Kampermpool sighs and rolls his eyes, recalling instead the day he found The Plant under the cool canopy of the jungle. Then he gives an extemporaneous lecture on the years he has spent breeding and studying The Plant; or claims that more than 30,000 tourists visit the nursery each year to see The Plant, although none are present this morning; and talks about his plans to market The Plant globally -- you will be our planner; you will have a position forever -- and voices his concerns that dark operatives, who stalk the nursery at night, will seize control of The Plant.

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According to a 1998 study that appeared in the journal Chronobiology International, the plant's movements are caused by the swelling and shrinking of motor cells in special organs buried deep within the leaves, called pulvini. Via the pulvini, protons are pumped into the lateral leaflets, which in turn causes the movement, in and out, of charged ions. "During the pump state," the paper reports, "ions are taken up, causing water influx and swelling of the motor cells. Depolarization causes loss of ions and water efflux (the motor cells shrink)." In other words, as protons are pumped into the pulvini, ions enter too, bringing water with them; when the charged ions leave the pulvini passively, the water migrates from the pulvini too. The movement of water molecules causes the motor cells in the leaves to shrink or swell and, as the water enters and exits, the plant's little leaflets twitch.

But there is little point sharing this information with Kampermpool. Almost certainly, he would show his derision by first elaborately making the sound of a soufflé collapsing -- Pshummph! -- and then refusing to comment any further.

Pshummph!

Charles Darwin?

Pshummph!

Pulvini?

Pshummph!

Kampermpool shrugs, stands back and sighs, and then points at the plant again. "I will ask my people to prepare tea for us, my friend," he says, signaling to a man leaning on a hoe before marching off toward his house and officially ending the discussion.

"This is tea," he says a few minutes later, raising a cup to his lips and slurping noisily. "It's dancing tea, you know, my friend. Boil it in hot water and drink it," he says. "We're drinking every day!"

Kampermpool is sitting in the shade, taking dainty sips from his teacup, with his little finger cocked and carefully pointed at the white clouds that march across the sky above his house. "This is an excellent tea for antioxidants," he says between sips. "In 15 minutes, your cheeks will become red. The next morning, my friend, you will feel very light."

It smells a lot like marijuana.

"No," shouts Kampermpool, slapping the table. "No marijuana!"

Maybe not, but studies performed in the 1960s suggest that the leaves and roots of Desmodium gyrans -- and likely Miss Udon Dancing Sunshine -- contain psychedelic compounds, like N,N-dimethyltryptamine.

N,N-dimethyltryptamine?

Pshummph!

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It is hot and humid year-round in Udon Thani. Walking through the town is like wading through warm water. Despite this, Kampermpool rushes round his nursery like a black-haired dynamo, absent-mindedly watering his wilting plants.

Most days, after he has finished tending to his plants, he will find a shady spot, make a pot of tea, and wait for the fields to get dark around him. He is a busy man; sometimes he teaches a class at the university. He keeps busy to escape the inescapable: that he is stuck. Finally, after all these years, Dr. Pradit Kampermpool is stuck with The Plant. He has spent a fortune researching, breeding and crossbreeding this weedy-looking plant whose pointed little leaves nod and bounce in the breeze. The decades of research have cost him more than his house is worth.

He loves The Plant. It represents a 25-year odyssey for Kampermpool; it has been his only constant in a sea of change. The Plant also provides an object lesson in what can happen to someone who invests everything in something that eventually turns out to be nothing. And now, after 15 years spent scouring the jungle for The Plant and then another 10 years of careful breeding, Kampermpool is finally stuck with it, stubbornly defending the indefensible assertion that it is, in actual fact, a dancing plant.

"It's a dancing plant."

He stands beside The Plant now, looking at it sadly. It has its roots in him; the same roots that he unhurriedly shook soil from, wrapped in a moist cloth, and carried back to the nursery all those years ago. Each year those roots have inched a little deeper into his life, probing silently, delving. A root can split a boulder in two in the same way, moving unnoticed and undetected through the strata. Dr. Pradit Kampermpool might be able to tell you that, but he's walking to the shady end of his nursery with quick little steps, his shiny black hair bobbing among the orchid stems, swinging a watering can, and singing.

This story has been changed since it was originally published.

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