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Published: August 13th 2009
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Yesterday my friend Gabe and I had a grand adventure visiting our friend Ken's native village, Pha Dang. The entertaining journey to the village was much the same as the trip to Nong Toek, metal benches in the back of a big, old dumptruck, a passenger list that continued to grow with animals and people, a bumpy, dusty ride through tiny villages, breathtaking views of the mountains and jungles.
Ken's mother and two sisters died five years ago from malaria; Ken and his father had also been sick but recovered. Now Ken's father lives with his new wife in this village of about twenty homes, uniquely split between Hmong and Khmu people. The village is blessed with two schools, one brand new with cement walls, the product of a development project. Ken's family home is two floors, the first has a packed-earth floor, with a raised platform in the middle for eating, a corner for open wood-fire cooking, and another corner for outdoor tools, the motorbike and clothes. There is a ladder on this floor leading to a second floor for sleeping.
Upon our arrival, we were ushered on to the eating platform, and many adults and children came
in to the house to stare at us and ask Ken questions. The locals here were alot more vocal than those in Nong Toek. We practiced numbers in English and Lao with the children, and gave them some pens we had brought along. For Ken's dad and stepmom, we brought a can of condensed milk and a container of ovaltine, as Ken had told us that's what they would like. Ken's stepmom served us a delicious lunch of grilled fish, pickled greens and spicy river-weed. And of course plenty of sticky rice. Because the kitchen was in the house, this time we weren't alone. The whole family bustled around us, not sitting to eat with us, but preparing for the baci and chatting. A dozen adults and kids watched from the door too.
When we finished eating, the food was removed and the baci statue was presented on the little food table, a beautiful handmade medley of banana leaves and marigolds in a pyramid-shape with outlying sticks boasting white strings . Sticky rice and boiled chicken were placed on the table around the statue. Family and close friends sat down around the statue and each person reached out a
hand to touch the table, while raising one hand in front of the face in prayer. The men chanted prayers and then placed sticky rice and chicken in our hands, which we placed back upon the table, mimicking the others actions. Then all the adults turn to one another, and taking the white strings, tie them on all wrists while offering prayers for good health and happiness.
This baci ceremony was just as lovely and touching as the previous one I attended. These poor people, possessing very little, thought nothing of offering their most sacred and grand ceremony to us, two visitors they knew only as their son's friends. Just because we came to visit them in their little village, and brought their son to see them, they were happy to sacrifice a chicken, take time out of their busy day, build a beautiful baci statue to bless us and make us feel welcome. A happy willingness to stop everything for a stranger; this is Lao hospitality.
At this point, everyone ate together. Our previous lunch was ignored; we were expected to eat again, and heartily. A car oil can was pulled out and shots of homemade rice
whiskey, Lao Lao, were poured. The mood was jovial and all the men got a bit tipsy from the strong liquor.
After the baci, we walked around town, stopping by the school for a little English lesson (the teacher didn't mind us interrupting, she seemed happy to have native English speakers come by) , going for a swim in a nearby river, playing soccer and running around with the kids.
Around dusk, we were sitting with some kids, drawing in the dirt, and happened to notice a girl across the street, bouncing on something in front of the tiny store. We looked closer and realized she was bouncing on a big butcher knife handle. The blade was stuck in to the store’s wooden floor. After ten minutes of bouncing, surrounded by unconcerned adults, the girl pulled free the knife and began using it to practice her chopping. Chop, chop, chop upon the floor. And none of the adults seemed at all troubled. I guess they don’t have these same concerns as do I about sharp objects. I’ve seen adults riding motorbikes holding butcher knives, long, sharp rice threshers and sharpened poles.
Continued in Part Two...
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