Trekking through Northern Thailand
(Ko Pha Ngan, Thailand 11:58.9.5.2004)
I slide the raw piece of liver down my mouth, thankful I was hungry enough to gobble anything anyone deemed edible. "Anyone" in this case is a group of men from the Karen tribe of northern Thailand. I am sitting Buddhist style (way different from the Indian) in small hut, elevated a good 8 feet from the ground by stilts. Dogs, pigs and children scurry beneath the floorboards. The adults are inside, completing a ritual to bless an old couple. In a tradition founded in animism (a belief system in which all natural things possess a spirit) but also informed by Buddhism, the old couple's wrists are wrapped in white thread by the villagers. Once a year, everybody in the village has their wrists wrapped in this way. One woman comes in, takes a pre-cut string, drapes it over the small collection of food and drinks -- presumably to lasso its curative properties -- and proceeds to wrap it around the wrists of the elders. Each time the string goes around the wrist, she issues standard benedictions: here's to having a long, prosperous life; to warding off evil spirits, etc.
Central to this ceremony is alcohol. Each visitor is welcomed by a round of shots. First of their home made whiskey chased closely by a shot of store-bought whiskey. That one, which is actually rum, is quite smooth. I indulge, in deference to their customs and secretly hope the alcohol neutralizes the bacteria I've swallowed from the liver which I imagine to be quickly marching down to my heart and stomach.
This village is one of a few stops during a trek in a small region just outside Chiang Mai, one of Thailand's biggest cities. A trek is not exactly hiking and not exactly going to a museum or buying trinkets from small village girls. Responsible, conscientious trekking allows tourists and travellers a peek and quick immersion to village life. A day consists of a few hours of moderate walking through the jungle, past streams, occasionally evading scorpions and water snakes. Nights are spent in huts of villages, where local meals are prepared and where you're welcome to roam around to chase pigs. Accomodations are spartan, and standards of hygeniene are relaxed. Running water may or may not be available. Conversations with villagers range from the encroachment of the government onto ancestral lands, the dilemmas and conflicts with Catholic and Christian missionaries and attitude towards tourists like me. Apparently, one village has refused to be part of this trek because the visitors smell awful with their perfumes and deodorants and mosquito sprays and shampoos. Why would a village participate? Well, trekkers buy their food and drinks. A few extra bucks can make a difference to a family, especially during the dry season, before planting has begun and a long 7 months away from harvesting their crops.
With me is a group of 9 travellers. One just came back from a 16 day trek through Nepal, while one has never been without A/C in all of Thailand. The only other American notices that a ball woven from leaves retails for $38 at the Pottery Barn and a woman from Tasmania will not eat meat unless she knows how it was raised and killed. It's a patchwork of experience and accents. And the tacit goal is to get to know each other and possibly, get along. The beauty of treks is that there is always a common enemy to unify hitherto unfamiliar strangers. Complaining over the steepness and length of a hill -- that's a good way to bond. The heat. The squat toilets. When the South African accidentally steps on a colony of wasps and everybody panics. That's a good one too. When I nearly fall off a raft. My favorite way to bond is over a hot meal of Thai curry, enjoyed in candlelight during a rain storm. People loosen up, the drinks come out. And it becomes abundantly clear that all travellers are sarcastic alcoholics. Nothing signals love and affection like caustic insults.
Despite the team spirit, I was the only one to accept that piece of liver. This is because I was genuinely curious about its taste, but also because I thought somebody should accept the invitation. Surprisingly, the meat is quite good. Covered in hot spices. There is a mound of rice, a puree of raw, bloody meat and also the cranium of a pig they had just slaughtered for the occasion. Funny how the dental structure resembles a human's. Funnier still the insistence of a young girl to scrape meat out of the nasal cavity. Oh wait, now she's going for the eye socket.
More villagers come, more drinks all around. I limit myself: Hunger and compromised sobriety do not mix well in this kind of village.
Just a couple hours later from the whiskey and the liver, I'm holding a rifle, and stupidly placing my right eyeball a bit too close to where the piece that resembles a hammer violently pounds a layer of gunpowder. Obviously, I've never shot a gun before, but a hunter walked by and asked if anybody was interested. So why not.
The gun is old skool, I could tell. Maybe of the Civil War era. Maybe a musket, because the hunter jammed a long rod down its barrel to load it. The thing with the hammer is that you're not supposed to tinker with it. The thing with this hunter is that his english wasn't very good and his expository hand gestures did little to instruct. I keep pulling the hammer back and it keeps loosening itself -- gently hitting the gunpowder. I'm clearly not cognizant of the danger but the man -- who'd since distanced himself behind me -- rushed back, making quick scratches with his sandals. "No, no, no..." OK fine. I won't touch it.
"Just trigger!." OK! He pulled the hammer back one final time.
A good 45 feet away, he had set up a Sprite can. My goal was not to hit the can, but to fire in its very general direction. If the bullet didn't make a u-turn and fly behind me -- injuring the hunter or blinding one of my fellow trekkers -- it would be a success. The South African tells says prepare for to be pushed back by the rifle. The New Zealander says place one knee on the ground to stabilize myself. At this point I just want to get it over with.
The shot is loud, and I am deaf in my right ear for a few seconds. I didn't feel a recoil at all, but too bad the can didn't topple over or explode triumphantly in shards. "Well Jose, it looks like you got a tree over there." Nobody is hurt, or bleeding, so it's a success. The hunter retrieves the Sprite can and walks back. The can was hit at the very bottom, but was so securely placed that it didn't fall off. I did hit the target. While there were no wild soda cans to shoot during the remainder of the trek -- boy they should just count their lucky stars -- I'm taking up aluminum can hunting when I get back home.
(Ko Pha Ngan, Thailand 11:58.9.5.2004)
I slide the raw piece of liver down my mouth, thankful I was hungry enough to gobble anything anyone deemed edible. "Anyone" in this case is a group of men from the Karen tribe of northern Thailand. I am sitting Buddhist style (way different from the Indian) in small hut, elevated a good 8 feet from the ground by stilts. Dogs, pigs and children scurry beneath the floorboards. The adults are inside, completing a ritual to bless an old couple. In a tradition founded in animism (a belief system in which all natural things possess a spirit) but also informed by Buddhism, the old couple's wrists are wrapped in white thread by the villagers. Once a year, everybody in the village has their wrists wrapped in this way. One woman comes in, takes a pre-cut string, drapes it over the small collection of food and drinks -- presumably to lasso its curative properties -- and proceeds to wrap it around the wrists of the elders. Each time the string goes around the wrist, she issues standard benedictions: here's to having a long, prosperous life; to warding off evil spirits, etc.
Central to this ceremony is alcohol. Each visitor is welcomed by a round of shots. First of their home made whiskey chased closely by a shot of store-bought whiskey. That one, which is actually rum, is quite smooth. I indulge, in deference to their customs and secretly hope the alcohol neutralizes the bacteria I've swallowed from the liver which I imagine to be quickly marching down to my heart and stomach.
This village is one of a few stops during a trek in a small region just outside Chiang Mai, one of Thailand's biggest cities. A trek is not exactly hiking and not exactly going to a museum or buying trinkets from small village girls. Responsible, conscientious trekking allows tourists and travellers a peek and quick immersion to village life. A day consists of a few hours of moderate walking through the jungle, past streams, occasionally evading scorpions and water snakes. Nights are spent in huts of villages, where local meals are prepared and where you're welcome to roam around to chase pigs. Accomodations are spartan, and standards of hygeniene are relaxed. Running water may or may not be available. Conversations with villagers range from the encroachment of the government onto ancestral lands, the dilemmas and conflicts with Catholic and Christian missionaries and attitude towards tourists like me. Apparently, one village has refused to be part of this trek because the visitors smell awful with their perfumes and deodorants and mosquito sprays and shampoos. Why would a village participate? Well, trekkers buy their food and drinks. A few extra bucks can make a difference to a family, especially during the dry season, before planting has begun and a long 7 months away from harvesting their crops.
With me is a group of 9 travellers. One just came back from a 16 day trek through Nepal, while one has never been without A/C in all of Thailand. The only other American notices that a ball woven from leaves retails for $38 at the Pottery Barn and a woman from Tasmania will not eat meat unless she knows how it was raised and killed. It's a patchwork of experience and accents. And the tacit goal is to get to know each other and possibly, get along. The beauty of treks is that there is always a common enemy to unify hitherto unfamiliar strangers. Complaining over the steepness and length of a hill -- that's a good way to bond. The heat. The squat toilets. When the South African accidentally steps on a colony of wasps and everybody panics. That's a good one too. When I nearly fall off a raft. My favorite way to bond is over a hot meal of Thai curry, enjoyed in candlelight during a rain storm. People loosen up, the drinks come out. And it becomes abundantly clear that all travellers are sarcastic alcoholics. Nothing signals love and affection like caustic insults.
Despite the team spirit, I was the only one to accept that piece of liver. This is because I was genuinely curious about its taste, but also because I thought somebody should accept the invitation. Surprisingly, the meat is quite good. Covered in hot spices. There is a mound of rice, a puree of raw, bloody meat and also the cranium of a pig they had just slaughtered for the occasion. Funny how the dental structure resembles a human's. Funnier still the insistence of a young girl to scrape meat out of the nasal cavity. Oh wait, now she's going for the eye socket.
More villagers come, more drinks all around. I limit myself: Hunger and compromised sobriety do not mix well in this kind of village.
Just a couple hours later from the whiskey and the liver, I'm holding a rifle, and stupidly placing my right eyeball a bit too close to where the piece that resembles a hammer violently pounds a layer of gunpowder. Obviously, I've never shot a gun before, but a hunter walked by and asked if anybody was interested. So why not.
The gun is old skool, I could tell. Maybe of the Civil War era. Maybe a musket, because the hunter jammed a long rod down its barrel to load it. The thing with the hammer is that you're not supposed to tinker with it. The thing with this hunter is that his english wasn't very good and his expository hand gestures did little to instruct. I keep pulling the hammer back and it keeps loosening itself -- gently hitting the gunpowder. I'm clearly not cognizant of the danger but the man -- who'd since distanced himself behind me -- rushed back, making quick scratches with his sandals. "No, no, no..." OK fine. I won't touch it.
"Just trigger!." OK! He pulled the hammer back one final time.
A good 45 feet away, he had set up a Sprite can. My goal was not to hit the can, but to fire in its very general direction. If the bullet didn't make a u-turn and fly behind me -- injuring the hunter or blinding one of my fellow trekkers -- it would be a success. The South African tells says prepare for to be pushed back by the rifle. The New Zealander says place one knee on the ground to stabilize myself. At this point I just want to get it over with.
The shot is loud, and I am deaf in my right ear for a few seconds. I didn't feel a recoil at all, but too bad the can didn't topple over or explode triumphantly in shards. "Well Jose, it looks like you got a tree over there." Nobody is hurt, or bleeding, so it's a success. The hunter retrieves the Sprite can and walks back. The can was hit at the very bottom, but was so securely placed that it didn't fall off. I did hit the target. While there were no wild soda cans to shoot during the remainder of the trek -- boy they should just count their lucky stars -- I'm taking up aluminum can hunting when I get back home.
