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.
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.
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.
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