"Gola" Part 3 - Of Mothers and Fathers

I am awake but disoriented and that is why I stare in un-alarmed confusion at the netting at the top of my tent for what seems like a long time.   With an ultra slow fade in, I remember.  Why yes!  I am up in the mountains of Thailand in the middle of nowhere, with aching calves, failing miserably at cultural nuances, sleeping in a tent on the second floor of a shack with people I love enough to have traveled insanely to get here.

And I have to go to the bathroom.

It's that last realization that actually wakes me all the way.  I stumble in the dawn's feeble light down the precarious stairs and across the packed dirt yard.  I realize with some amusement that I have added a new spiritual habit in my life.  Similar to saying grace before a meal, this is the prayer asking for safety and well being just before using the unfacilitated facilities. 

It's on my way back that I catch the sunrise, and am instantly transported from the ridiculous to the sublime.

Perhaps it is the stark contrasts that bring everything into such sharp focus.  Poverty against riches on so many planes.

Soon everyone is up, and we head over to the church again, for a 6 a.m. sunrise service that reminds me of what my Plymouth Brethren brothers and sisters describe from their childhoods.  It's an open kind of thing.  No Communion, but after the Pastor has opened with a Scripture reading and a prayer, the people are invited to share a testimony, a Scripture or request a hymn.  There's no interpretation for me on this, and that actually has the strange effect - and I've felt it before here in Thailand - of enhancing the undertones of the spirituality that's being expressed.  I don't have to concentrate so much on what's being said as on how it's being said, and somehow I find that speaks to my soul.

Me and Pastor Yabaw, a quiet man with a strong voice.

There is a slight distraction, however.  These strong, hard working, respectful people also seem to have a lot of sinus problems.  And - how shall I say this discretely? - they don't really take care of matters privately.  As one man from the left of me shares something he's experienced just this week, another man to the right is, well, hoarking out the window.  He does this loudly.  He does this not once, but several times over for perhaps ten full minutes.  No one seems to be noticing, and maybe it's just because I'm tired, but I actually begin to find this quite hilarious in a completely grossed out kind of way.   Culturally speaking he is not being disgusting at all.  In fact, generally in Thailand people find it completely unthinkable that anyone would blow that stuff into a kleenex and keep it in their pocket?!  Yuck!

There's a final prayer, and then the early morning meeting is over.   I am almost swarmed with greetings.  It's all shaking hands and "Tablut!" and they seem so delighted when I say it.  And yes, the hoarking man comes forward, hand extended, huge smile on a glowing-with-Jesus face, and yes, I shake his hand.  And with apologies to anyone who's reading this over breakfast and now just can't finish, I am only happy to do so.  The stares and whispered chatter from last evening's village stroll have turned into a gladder welcome, although I have no idea what I did to convince them I was okay.

I can't help but wonder, though, as I walk back to our house, what it would have meant for the missionaries who first came here, before this church was established.  For me, here now with Thai's I know and a 'Gar-i-en' interpreter, and Yupa to help make sure I'm fed and comfortable, this is still significantly weird.  Even with my intentions these past three months, to come and make myself as Thai as possible for the duration, I wonder how far I would really be willing to go to do the 'incarnational' thing in a place like this.  To live here, and be here, and earn the trust of these people, like, from scratch.  What would that take?

But I can't think of it much longer because now it's time to eat breakfast and then get ready for the real church service.  And I am suddenly much more focused on the fact that I really need to take a shower but there's no shower here.  Let's just spare the details and suffice it to say that two large pails in the same risky shack as the squatty potty will do the trick in a pinch.  I've even brought my hair dryer and there's even an outlet in our room so, pretty much, I'm all set.

Before I can really get dressed, however, I have another 'gola' moment.  Again, without warning, there is suddenly two women I do not know plus a little girl all sitting on the floor in the room where we're staying.  They talk to one another, and it's clear that they are talking about me, but no one actually addresses me.  One of the women has that same red, sloppy thing in her mouth.  Suradet's mother joins us, and I'm conscious of wanting very much to connect, but feel helpless to do so.

Yupa arrives from downstairs and greets the women.  Then there's a pause, and she smiles and tells me, "They've come to see the "gola".   And that's exactly what they do.  See me.  I mean, just, look at me.  And I'm there, trying to be friendly, but once I've gone through 'Tablut' and 'You-a chogay', I'm done with the small talk ladies. 

I decide to show them the pictures I've taken of their beautiful mountain.  They are politely interested for a while, but after talking among themselves and spitting out the window occasionally, they quietly leave, just like they arrived.  And I'm sorry again that somehow I've lost another opportunity with Suradet's Mom.

But time to get dressed.  I've already decided I want to wear my Karen shirt.  It's part of the way I hope to honour Suradet's parents, to demonstrate my own tribal allegiances, knowing that Karen Christians even in the city, save their traditional clothing for Sunday morning best.  And I was thinking I would just wear my black capris, because any other Sunday skirt I had brought with me from home was way too cosmopolitan for this crowd, I was guessing.  However.

Suradet's mother appears again quite suddenly (how do they do that?) and I have just found out that Yupa has brought a traditional Karen wrap skirt to wear.  So I do something shameful.  I ever so slightly hint.  And that's all it takes.  Within a matter of minutes I am presented with my own skirt, and the undertaking of helping this 'gola' get dressed takes no less than a three-woman task force, involving family members and a neighbour.  When it is all done I feel like a princess, although in the pictures it is clear to anyone with a Western sense of fashion that Karen's are not really into clothes that are 'slimming'.  Square and straight are lines of beauty here.  And yes, I can do square and straight.  I opt out of the head towel thingy though, because it's one of my personal phobias that one day I'm going to end up on 'What Not To Wear' and I didn't want to push it.

By the time we arrive at the church, the singing has already begun and the room is basically full.  We enter and are shown up to the front via the centre aisle, heads turning as we go.   Suradet and I are asked to sit on the platform facing the congregation.  So much for trying to downplay the 'gola'-being-noticed thing.

The service begins and I remember the t-shirt I saw in the market when I first got here.  "I smile because I have absolutely no idea what's going on."  It's like that.  Which is a little unnerving at the best of times, let alone when you've been invited to speak. What's coming next?  I have no idea.

I'm not sure how I could tell, but when the Pastor began the Bible reading, I realized that he had been given the list of five texts I was using and was now having the congregation read them together from their Bibles.  Only one Karen translation to deal with, so it makes it easy.  Such a great idea!  Only problem was that I had planned to have the congregation read through each passage during my sermon.  This was a strategy I had employed before to compensate for the fact that I can't directly read the passages myself, and to keep people engaged in a more-difficult-to-stay-with-it-because-of-the-interpretation-interruption thing.  I have about 4 seconds to rethink my plan because the readings are done and I'm now being introduced.

Winging it is not my strength.  I have friends who demonstrate this ability in spades.  Suradet himself tends to lean this way.  And I have great respect for those who like to fly by the seat of their pants and just let the moment unfold.  But it's not how I'm wired.  I'm not totally winging it, I guess, because I do have prepared notes and have even rehearsed this sermon with Suradet, for both our benefits.  But problem-solving while preaching isn't high on my list of best practices, and as I begin I still have no idea what to do when it comes time to read the Scriptures.  I find this somewhat distracting.

Other things distract me as well.  There's a large flower arrangement blocking my view of one third of the congregation.  I go to move it and then suddenly wonder if that's okay, so I take my hand away and preach the rest of the sermon peering around it from time to time.  I'm hot already, of course I am.  A little girl is picking nits out of her friend's hair in the children's choir section.  A different man is hoarking out a different window now.   

But we manage, Suradet and I.  And when it comes to one of the texts that have already been read, I go way out on a limb and show off that I've memorized 2 Corinthians 5:17 in Thai, and they all seem pleased even though it's Thai and not Karen.

The biggest distraction comes at the end, however.  It's a preaching first for me.  Just as I'm wrapping up, a man jumps up from the youth choir section and starts whacking something with his Bible.  Everything stops and we all watch with fascination.  I can't really see what's going on, so when it's all over Suradet turns back to me and says matter of factly "Gnu."  That's Thai for snake.  So yes, a snake was making it's way up to the platform and was taken out by the Word of God.   Whoever is praying for me this weekend, thank you!  It was a small snake, but still.

At the end of the service there's more hand-shaking, and all with big smiles.  And then everyone walks home, kind of like an end of service parade that trickles off as people reach their front door.  And all the while I'm realizing that in just about an hour or so we'll be climbing back into the truck to begin the crazy ride home, and I have barely seen Suradet's parents.  His mother a little more, but his father practically not at all since he first startled me by the truck when we arrived. 

And just as I'm feeling sad about that, something unexpected happens, (as I've come to expect these past three months).  Suradet, who has walked on a little ahead of us, is calling me up another set of impossible wooden stairs into his parent's house. "Can you come visit for a minute?" he asks.  And both his mother and father are there, standing at the door with him, all hopeful looking.  So, of course!

There's no furniture, not a stick.  Just a rich polished wood floor, dark and deep, with a fire pit off to one side and that's about it.  We don't even go that far in before we're sitting on the floor, me all awkward in my Karen skirt and  locked up hip flexers.  But the awkward is brief.  I see my chance.  I ask Suradet to translate.  With a low voice that shows respect and honours what I am sensing is about to become a holy moment, I begin.

How glad I am to come visit them.  How beautiful their mountain is.  What a joy in my life to be allowed to serve in God's good work alongside their son.  What a wonderful job they did in raising such a strong and compassionate and humble man. (Suradet hesitates but I make him say it).  I am honoured by their hospitality.  I am so very, very glad to meet them. 

And their response pours out, and Suradet translates back to me, with the same quiet respect.  They apologize for how old their house is, but this is the place where Suradet was born.  They are so glad to meet me because Suradet has told them about this Canadian pastor and her church whom God sent to help in the ministry to the children.  And Suradet's Mom has a present for me, a traditional bag she wove herself because she knew I was coming.  And I tell her I will treasure it, because I will so treasure it.

And we're sitting very close in all of this.  And strangely, all of a sudden I feel that same joy as comes when one is close to well-loved, even long-loved friends.  And it takes me off guard for a moment.  And we fall silent, but....it's not awkward anymore.

And if I still doubt my acceptance into this extra-extended family I've just met, I will have photographic evidence for later.  I won't see it until we're already on our way, after the first hour of lurching is over, and I pull out my phone to look through all the pictures.  But it will be there.  It will be in the winsome glance of Suradet's Dad, and the arm pulling me tight of Suradet's Mom.  And it will be the best gift in the gift-laden weekend to have found a way, somehow, to push through the language and culture and gola-ness, to make the connection I had come hoping for.   

And then later than that again, eleven days to be precise, it will be even more bitter sweet.  Because Moms are an unspeakable wonder.  And half a world a way, mine will fall deeply into the arms of the Father who figured all this out, for her, and for me. 

Gazing Into Glory

My reflections on my mountain visit are not complete.  But something else takes precedence for today's blog post.  I will return to the story later.

_______________________

On Thursday, November 19 at around 4 a.m. my Mom was released into the care of the One who loves her most.

And I was here and not there.

When Dad left five years ago I stayed by his bedside 24/7 for the last several days.  I sang and read Scriptures and sometimes just sat quietly holding his hand.  I received his last spoken blessing over me.  My hand was on his chest as he took his last breath.

This time, for Mom, I waited for the next text.

I couldn't get home in time.  Not from this far away.

When I left my rather delicate Mom last September, not planning on returning until December, I knew I was taking a risk.  In some ways she had stabilized, making a remarkable, albeit not full recovery from her hip fracture and replacement surgery in March of 2014.  Cognitively she was failing, and she knew it, and it was distressing to her.  She spoke often of being ready to go Home, see Dad, gaze on the face of Jesus.  But her blood sugars were good, her weight was staying steady, she had an appetite and could carry on a lively conversation.


The last time I saw her, it was a very good day.

We had just come from the Celebration Service of my Uncle Ted, her brother in law.  We had two of her great-grandchildren with us.  Mom was delighted to see them, and asked them several times what grades they were in and what subjects they liked, a repeating pattern that was more and more symptomatic of her failing short term memory.  The kids happily obliged her, touched her parchment-paper skin gently, sang to her.  And we ate cake.   It was her 88th birthday.

We took pictures.  Might actually be the best pictures I have of Mom.  Certainly the best of me and her in these later years.

And I remember just sitting and receiving those moments, being as fully present in those moments as I possibly could be.  And I remember thinking that if this was the last time I ever saw my Mom this side of eternity, it would be a good memory.

It is.

This past week of waiting from a distance has been awful.   Added to my sense of helplessness has been the hourly agonizing of whether or not I should fight through the almost impossible challenges of getting home, would I be on time, would it matter. If this were happening more into the middle of my stay, it would be more obvious to make the journey home and then return.  As it is, with only three weeks left, that complicated the decision immensely.  There's two credits and a whole term's worth of work in the balance, and while Mom is unquestionably the priority, that fact did come into consideration.   So, what to do?

And then there are the family factors.  For reasons I won't get into here, but anyone who's ever lived in a family can probably understand, it's not been too much of a stretch for me to believe that God actually had some work to do for others that was best done in my absence.  Me personally, I, along with Ken, have cared for my Mom's every need since my Dad had his stroke in 1999.  Her affairs have been well looked after, and she received the great benefit of my Dad's astute stewardship in making sure there were resources available for her care.  Protecting and managing those resources has not been easy work, and neither has it been easy to make sure Mom's quality of daily life remained high.  But we were diligent, and available and honourable in all things.  That's just the way you're supposed to do this, when it comes time to care for your parents.

So I have no regrets, no loose ends, no closure issues that would have needed to be resolved at her beside these past days.  And in fact, this past summer, I did some good final releasing of Mom emotionally, spiritually, as I surrendered again to her decision to move to Lakefield five years ago.

And then there's this other thing.  Part of my Mom's story that seems fitting to tell again, right now.

For the first 13 years of my Mom's life she was a clever, outgoing little girl who could memorize easily, able to recite Scripture and poetry at great length.  On the last day of grade seven, however,  a classmate playfully bopped her on the head with a book, and caused a massive stroke that almost took her life.  She recovered, remarkably I will be told later by neurologists who analyze her brain scans, but was forever changed.  She now struggled endlessly in language and communication and problem solving.  That's the part of the brain that was affected.  She still had a great aptitude for numbers, and way up into her later years did not need to look up phone numbers, and could even recite her driver's license number.  Not the license plate, but the actual number on her driver's license.  However, the language part was gone.  This made her painfully shy and highly sensitive to conflict or stressful situations, often actually feeling a physical weight in her head if things got too tense.

Even so, it was her deep desire to serve God as a missionary.  However, her first semester in Bible school soon made it apparent that she could not manage the work.  This was excruciatingly difficult for her, but she found comfort in what she believed was a vision from God.  She believed that one day she would have children and that one of her children was to go in her stead.

So here I am.  And I'm here on the day she leaves for Home.  Here, not there.

And I can't help but wonder if God doesn't have some sense of poetic beauty in that.  Even though I barely identify with the designation of 'missionary', feeling that I certainly don't deserve that title compared to those who have dedicated their entire lives to doing what I've only done for three months, it is what they call me here.  It is what my Mom called me.

My family has agreed to waiting until the end of December or into January to do a full celebration service.  This is a great gift to me, and I believe will ultimately honour Mom.  I am surprised and grateful.  On Monday her body will be laid to rest beside my Dad.  I won't be there.  But I can visit the grave site when I get home, and I will.

And so I'm staying.  Here.  Half way around the world from there.  But maybe, maybe exactly where I needed to be when Mom went Home.

One of the last songs we sang together that last day was That Will Be Glory.  She sang with all the gusto of her frail little voice, a huge smile on her face as we finished.  "Oh yes," she said, "I can hardly wait."

When all my labours and trials are o'er,

And I am safe on that beautiful shore,

Just to be near the dear Lord I adore,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

When, by the gift of His infinite grace,

I am accorded in heaven a place,

Just to be there and to look on His face,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

Friends will be there I have loved long ago,

Joy like a river around me will flow,

Yet just a smile from my Saviour, I know,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

Oh that will be glory for me,

Glory for me, glory for me.

When by His grace I shall look on His face.

That will be glory, be glory for me.

Gaze deeply Mom.

"Gola" Part 2 - Being There

We are not driving.  We're lurching.

That's the only word I can think of to describe the way the truck seems to have abandoned its function to roll smoothly on wheels, and has instead taken to lumbering, crawling, lurching tediously forward on something that could only be called a road if copious amounts of imagination are applied.

We will travel 12 kilometers on this road-wannabe.  Suradet says it should only take an hour.  When it's done, it will have felt like longer.  Much longer.

Before the turn off that initiated this last installment of vehicular torture, we were learning a few words in Karen.  It actually sounds more like "Gar-i-en" when Suradet says it, and since it's his first language, I figure it's a good strategy to do my best to imitate him.  I will need these words, and Suradet to interpret because, despite all my language learning to this point, it will be of no use this weekend.  No one in Suradet's home village speaks Thai.

The co-existence of various hill tribes and their distinctive language and culture is a fascinating and complex feature of life in South East Asia.   For a society that thinks so 'collectively', there remains a persistent pride in preserving tribal distinctives.  While I feel I'm only barely tapping into the anthropology involved, what I've observed so far is that this manifests itself in language, clothing and customs unique to each tribe.  And if you marry outside of your own tribal group it is considered a 'mixed marriage', with all the stigma and challenges that same label carried for Westerners about 50 years ago or so.

These tribal distinctives are why I am feebly attempting to learn a barest minimum to get me through the weekend.  "Tablut!" is handy in that it covers 'hello', 'goodbye', 'glad to see you', and 'thank you' all in one efficient and sharply spoken word.  It's what a salute might sound like if it was an audible thing.  It's very 'Gar-i-en' to shake hands, not to press the hands together for a wai.  And as you shake hands, if you want to show added respect, you take your left hand and touch it to your right elbow as you extend your right hand for the shake.  The handshake, I will soon find out, is no wimpy little grasp.  Even the women take a mighty hold and yank down in one vigorous hello. 

 "Yoo-ah cho-gay" means 'God bless you', and as Thais of all religious sways are very fond of offering blessings to one another, this will come in handy as well.

And then there's 'gola', emphasis on the last syllable.  It means in Thai 'farang', and in English  'foreigner'.  It's what I am here in Thailand, and what I will feel even more strongly once we get to the village.

I want to pay attention to this new vocab, as it is my hope to be able to demonstrate my respect to Suradet's mother and father when I greet them.  This is, after all, one of the main reasons I'm heading to the village.  And my deepening love and respect for Suradet makes me want to be sure to extend the same to to the people who raised this remarkable man.

Language studies came to an end, however, when the lurching begins.  Twelve kilometers, one hour, just like Suradet promised.  And then, without warning it seems, we turn into a collection of solid looking wooden structures, most of them covered with serrated metal roofs.  They do not seem to be arranged in any organized sort of way at all.  Instead, it's as if the mountain dictates their placement, giving way almost grudgingly to the humans who insist on building on its gnarly back.  The way between the structures, which I soon can see are homes, is equally as rutted and unpredictable, weaving in and around at the mountain's prerogative.  It's lurchy still, only narrower.  We pull up to a relatively-speaking 'level' space beside one of the homes.

The drive is done.

It takes a valiant effort, complete with appropriate and even inappropriate sound effects (think karate, think of your old Uncle Frank trying to get up off the couch), to extricate myself from the truck.  My legs are completely confused as to what I expect of them today, having been worked to excess previously in the morning, only to have been locked in place for the past three hours.  They are not quiet in their protest.

Balancing precariously on their confusion, I turn to gather the long-car-ride-dishevelment that was once my well-packed napsac.  Out of the corner of my eye I am suddenly aware of a man standing beside me.  I turn quickly to face him.  He is extremely thin, wearing a completely unnecessary wool toque, dirty, grey t-shirt and dust-covered long pants.  His shy smile reveals broken and blackened teeth.  He is unshaved.  And in an instant the poverty of this place is and will remain completely 'in my face'. 

He has startled me a little, both by his quiet approach and by his appearance, and as such, I have completely forgotten absolutely everything I just learned about the 'Gar-i-an' people.  Instinctively I offer a wai and say 'Sawat di, ka'.  No response.  And then I'm all flustered and realize my mistake but can't remember what else to do or say.  It doesn't matter because he's taken a bag from the back of the truck and has already started up the next impossible hill that, I realize as I watch him go, is between where we're staying for the night, and my jelly legs.

I turn back to the napsac.  Yupa gets my attention and indicates towards the man with her mouth, sort of a kissing motion that's considered more polite than pointing.  "Paw Suradet" she whispers.  Wait, what?!  That was Suradet's father?  I realize with a quick and deep regret that I've just blown it.  Like, totally.  One of the two people I've come to honour, just received the most clumsy of gola greetings ever recorded in the history of this village, I am quite sure.  And wait.  What?  That was Suradet's father?

I have no time to sort out the collision of embarrassment and judgement that has just happened in this moment.  I am being ushered up the hill on legs barely up for the task.

We enter a dark shed-like structure with a dusty dirt floor, a wooden platform off in one corner, a farm instrument tucked off to the side, and a set of extremely steep and uneven wooden stairs leading to a second floor.  Suradet invites me to go on up.  I put down one of my bags to give me a free hand to help me, and make my way, more like climbing a ladder, to the next level.

It opens up to one larger room with two walled-off rooms to the side.  There is lots of light and air coming from several un-screened, un-shuttered windows on three sides.  It's dusty, but mostly bare, and after a quick but thorough sweeping by Yupa, we are immediately involved in the task of setting up our sleeping arrangements.  One-person tents will provide protection from mosquitoes and other critters, while flat straw mats will serve as our 'living room' and, for that matter, our dining room table.  Yupa has brought a rice cooker and an electric wok, so we're all set.

In the midst of this small chaos, a very little woman, wearing a traditional Karen shirt and wrap skirt with a dirty towel on her head, appears at the top of the stairs.  She is delicate like the pages of a very old book, and looks even smaller than what I guess to be her actual height, due to being bent over at the waist at almost a right angle.  She has red staining around her lips, which I soon see is due to the fact that she's chewing on something that seems rather large and sloppy, and causes her right cheek to bulge.  She grunts something to Yupa, and then turns to stare at me.  I can't tell if she's just shy, or if she's sizing me up.  And if she is sizing me up, I can't tell at all from her face what the verdict is. There's a silent pause.   Then she spits out the window, and turns back to face me.

Yupa gives a murmered introduction, clearly making herself smaller and quieter now that this woman is in the room.  And this woman, I am told, is Suradet's mother.

And I see the resemblance immediately as soon as I know it.  And my travel weary brain finds enough gumption to shake me out of the unsure moment, and chides, "Don't blow it this time!"  So I smile, step toward her with my right hand extended, left hand on my elbow, and say with unmerited confidence, "Tablut!"

A sudden, surprised smile breaks, and there is again black and broken teeth.  But her eyes!  Alive and wild.  And now I'm second-guessing my initial assessment of delicacy, because her hand shake is strong, and I get the feeling I'm dealing with no small force of life.

There's not too much else to say, though.  Yupa doesn't speak Gar-i-an either, and Suradet has gone back to the truck for something.  So we just hold the awkwardness of the moment loosely between us until Suradet's mother gives me one more firm shake, suddenly averts her eyes, almost as if shyness had unexpectedly occurred to her, and then gives a final grunt before turning back to head down the stares.  I mean, stairs.

The stares come later when the afternoon's heat has been gently pushed aside by the mountain's cooling in the latter part of the day.  Yupa has agreed to take me on a little walking tour to show me 'around'.   She warns me ahead of time that I might be something of a novelty here.  Apparently I am.  As we stroll-climb (nothing is flat here), we pass homes that have no doors, but wall-less fronts opening to the main living area.  People are sitting on the floor, around indoor fire pits, or out for a walking themselves.  And every time I'm spotted there's a double-take.  This village doesn't get too many visitors, especially of the white kind.

It's strange (and kind of cool,  if I'm honest), to hear them say it - 'Gola!' - as I walk by.  The children are actually afraid of me.  One little guy hides behind his father, and no amount of coaxing succeeds in anything else but terrified peering around the back of dad's legs.  Throughout the weekend I will prompt this response from many of the little ones.  That, or whispered giggling and chatter.  "Gola!"

I'm doing my own version of 'never-seen-that-before', however.   Livestock under houses for example.   It's not like there's a barn or separate space for the chickens, or the pigs, or the water buffalo.  They're just out in the side yard, right up against the house.  A woman casually strolls by, offers Yupa a quick greeting, and continues on carrying what looks like an impossibly heavy log quite easily on her shoulder.  There are scary large pig noises coming from behind a bush.  Incredible flowers grow effortlessly along the path.  Yupa is very patient with me taking pictures as we go.

 We get back to the house where we're staying and prepare a supper of rice and eggs, which we eat ourselves up on our mat table, but just us.  I am curious to know where the rest of Suradet's family is. His two sisters and one brother also still live in the village and in fact have structures just like this one to live in.  All on the same original piece property 'claimed', not purchased, by Suradet's parents about 50 years ago.  It's sort of like a compound.  Only Suradet's house remains empty unless he's visiting.   But we're not eating together, and I'm disappointed, even though I remember that it's a Karen custom not to eat with guests.  I'm anxious to see if I can make a second first impression with Suradet's father.  But it won't happen tonight.

Tonight I will speak at the church at the Saturday night gathering. Suradet will translate for me, and it will be like the first time I spoke at Hot Springs eight years ago - surreal and awkward, with no idea whatsoever if I'm making any sense at all.  I will stand in front of people who look like they just climbed out of a National Geographic magazine, and afterwards smile and shake hands and remain composed, and feel way out of my 'normal' zone once again.  And I will be called 'gola' for most of the evening because right here, right now, actually I'm the NG cover.

And tonight I will fall asleep in the cooling mountain air in my own little tent on the wooden floor of a raised shack and wonder if I'll get another chance with Suradet's father.  And I'll wonder what Suradet's mother is chewing on.  And I'll wonder why I don't even know their names yet.  And I'll wonder if I can make it through another night without having to use the bathroom, because the one here makes me reminisce about the one last night with fondness.

I shouldn't have been wondering any of that, it turns out.  I should have been wondering who was on snake duty during tomorrow's worship service. 

"Gola" Part 1 - Getting There

We are not driving.  We're zipping. 

That's the best word I can think of to describe the long ascent into the mountain, by truck, but with no longer than 30 seconds before the next hairpin turn.  The incline requires speed.  The blind curves require precision and skill.  Remaining upright calls on every core muscle you have, combined with arms and legs braced against whatever remains solid in the churning mass.  And it goes on.  For.  Five.  Hours.  

Looking outside is dizzying, or worse for some of us.  Contrary to what works for most people, I find reading helps with a visual focus and also provides a distraction.  Provided I can keep the book still.  Otherwise, the best word to describe this part of our trip - endurance.

One time coming around the corner, a large truck is well into our lane, and a skilled swerve on Suradet's part saves our lives.  Not exaggerating.  Another time coming around the corner a water buffalo with a death wish surprises us, standing there right in the middle of the road, out of sight until the last moment.  In that case the skilled swerve saves the life of the water buffalo, who lives to chew his cud another day.

We are headed to the remote hill tribe Karen village that was Suradet's childhood home, and where his parents and siblings still live.  I've been warned.  Sort of like how non-campers warn you about a camping weekend.  It's a long, hard drive.  Conditions are meager, sleeping will be a challenge, bathrooms are 'rustic', and the food may be 'different'.  I am warned to take a LOT of bug spray.  I see where Suradet points to on the map and realize I will need to take my malaria medicine.   Yup, this will be outside the box and another step deeper into the culture of these beautiful, fascinating people I've come to love. 

I'm eager to visit the village.  Suradet has repeatedly expressed his desire that I meet his parents, and I very much want to as well.  When he and Yupa were with us last winter, we made the drive (which I thought was harrowing, being January and going across the 401.  Ha!) to go see my Mom.  And the visit with her was for me a deep and sweet connection between two completely different childhoods.  I expect meeting Suradet's parents will be the same. 

But first we have to get there.

The zipping stops.  We have arrived at our first destination, where we will spend one night before continuing to the village.  

It is a well-known look out spot that boasts an explosion of large yellow daisies that only come out at this time of year.   And we've arrived enough before sunset to get out and stretch. 

And marvel.

Before this, in the car, I have only been able to catch glimpses of the mountain tops in the distance.   Roadside trees or my own need to close my eyes have prevented me from fully taking in what I imagine would be a breathtaking view if I wasn't already holding my breath.

But now.  Oh!

I find I can barely speak.  Suradet, Yupa and Bao are silent as well.  Then Suradet says simply, softly, "Prajao ying yai", the Thai for the chorus of the hymn "How Great Thou Art".  More literally, "God is so big."

We'd stay longer but we haven't yet secured a spot to set up camp for the night.  So we head back down to where we saw some A-frame huts and ask to see them.  

They are pretty basic.  Made of plywood with thatched leaf roofs.  A mattress and two pillows are provided on the floor, and basically fills the little space.  Bathrooms have that well used look about them, but not enough to be deal-breaking.  We are quoted a ridiculously low price which continues to come down the longer we hesitate, until I realize what is happening and tell him "we'll take two", before he goes so low my conscience wouldn't let me sleep anyways.


That won't end up being a problem.  After supper at the nearby shack that poses as a restaurant, we unload the truck, spread out our blankets and settle in.  It's not quite 7:00 p.m. and already dark.  With really no place to sit, and not quite sure what the plans are for spending the evening once I've got my own little hut ready, I leave Yupa to finish setting up for her own family.  Coming back to my 'room' I stretch out my shower-deprived body on the mattress, wondering how many other sweaty, dusty travelers have done so before me.  After all day in the truck, the cooler, fresher mountain air wins over my resolve to say a proper goodnight.  Still in my clothes I am only vaguely aware of Suradet's voice at my door, asking if I need any more blankets (since they are freezing and expect I must certainly be as well), but I can't seem to respond.  Later I will rouse enough to climb into some pajamas, fending off a bat-sized moth that has come to investigate my flashlight.  Even with that little bit of adrenaline (after some severe conflict, the moth and I eventually came to a mutual understanding), I am back in a mountain coma before I can even wonder what else might be able to make its way inside. 

I am awake before sunrise, strangely refreshed.  My first waking thought is one of gratitude that I made it all the way through the night without having to use the bathroom.  But now my need is urgent so there's nothing for it but to stumble out and bravely go where too many have gone before.

It doesn't take long for the morning to wash over the mountains.  Light and mist do a slow dance of dawn, teasing back the darkness and opening up the day to wonder and awe and curiosity, and a simple Thai breakfast shared on a mat in a hut together.  As Suradet offers the blessing I feel a sudden, quiet surge of the magnificence of this moment.  I am rich beyond imagining.  Mountain morning vista is my view.  Rice and chicken is my meal.  Unlikely inclusion and love and being 'just here' is my heart's home even so far from home. 

I wish my language skills would catch up with my heart.  In my pondering silence Suradet catches me and expresses concern.  "Oh.  Ahjahn Ruth.  Sa bai, di mai?"  Are you well?  Are you okay?  He offers something else to drink or eat, as if it's an unsatisfactory breakfast that might be causing my silence.  I use all I know to reassure him that the breakfast is 'aroy'  delicious.  But how do I say what I've been thinking, feeling?  I pause.  "Di jai, mahk."  Very happy.  I repeat it.  Very happy.  And then, "Thank you so much for bringing me here."

Breakfast is over.  Time to load up and get back in the truck.  

We stop back at last night's look out, and take yet another trail that leads a little higher.  It was one of those climbs that, if you knew in advance what you'd signed up for, you might not have taken that first step.  Before it's over my legs will be literally shaking from the exertion and I will need to sit down before they give out. 

But in the meantime, in the meantime.  Oh the view!  And there's a mountain waterfall!  And wild poinsettias growing by the side of the road.  And I find I'm glad I didn't know ahead of time that the climb would be hard, and I'm glad that in not knowing I just kept churning up that hill.  Because if I'd wimped out at the bottom, I would have missed all this.  And it seems like life is like that sometimes.

Coming back down is so much easier.  And at first so is the driving as we continue to the village. 

We stop at a makeshift roadside market and meet a vendor there, a woman, with whom Suradet, in typical fashion, quickly makes friends and discovers is a Christian.  So we pray there.  Right there.  We pray blessings over her business.  Ask for many travelers to stop here.  Ask for her to be encouraged and strengthened in her faith.  And because the elephant bag is so beautiful, I buy it, and quickly before she thinks I need to bargain it down in price.

Back in the truck.

And now the really hard driving begins.

Mountain Weekend

Heading for the mountain tomorrow, to spend the weekend with Suradet's parents. 
Highview to Thailand