Broken heart
But no. I am in a soft bed, in almost silence. And I started to cry.
Since I last wrote my love for the village has only intensified: the mahouts, the children, the lifestyle, the puppy named Polo. The only disadvantage of falling in love with anything is the potential for heart break, and I can say, it feels like my heart is currently broken, shattered into tiny little pieces spread from here to Huoy Pakoot.
As I lie here memories wash over me. People’s smiling faces pass through my thoughts. I can hear the children’s laughter, the mumbling of a village elder, beetle nut packed into their mouths, staining their teeth. I can't even begin to express the soul grounding experiences I had in Huoy Pakoot. I discovered the best version of myself and was reminded about what really matters in life.
As I sit here reflecting I can't help but smile between the splashes of my tears. The flood of emotions, mixed with sleep depravation is rendering me almost wordless. But several highlight moments stand out in my mind as some of the sweetest in my life. Moments I wish I could have shared with the rest of the world. Moments that will shape every moment from now on. Moments that have shaped me.
One thing I did discover in my last weeks in Huay Pakoot is that photography is my language. I can capture moments on my camera, I can capture smiles when no one is looking. I can capture what I love, in a snap of my lens, and sharing these moments has allowed me to learn more about the villagers, and them about me. And now, it allows me to share with you what I saw, and how I saw it.
Pee (Grandma) also known as Bitch’n Old Lady. When I first arrived she looked at me with narrowed eyes, who is this person in my house, eating my food, playing with my grandchildren? But in the 6 weeks not only did I earn her trust but now, when she sees me she smiles, beetle nut stained teeth and happy eyes. Initially I would shout “de blu!” whenever I saw her, waving vigorously. She’d reply with a quiet “de blu” holding my eyes for a flicker.
One morning I stumbled to the bathroom blurry eyed, and from the raised porch-kitchen I heard her shout “de blu!” and there she squatted, vigorously waving her hand. That day I made her a friendship bracelet. When I went to find her to tie it to he wrist, she was walking around with Yaya, her little one year old grand daughter. When we asked her where she was going, le soo loh? Le soo hah poh. Walking the baby. And again, her beetle nut smile spread wide as I tied the colourful bracelet to her tiny wrist.
Every morning after my run, I would come down the hill and pluck flowers. Splash water on my face and make my way to base hut. I’d swing past my home stay to collect lunch. Every morning they would have a little wood fire burning outside the house, all huddled ‘round nattering away. Pee, Ampon, the kids and other villagers. The first time I gave Pee a flower she smiled the widest, in the following weeks I could see the joyous anticipation in her eyes as I’d walk toward them, little flowers in hand.
In almost every house in the village, somewhere near a window you’ll find the weaving loom. And on most days if you wander you’ll find a woman, sitting weaving, rhythmically passing the thin colourful thread through, a memorised pattern of motions. I bought some thread and asked my home stay to make me a bag. And on an afternoon off I even got to weave a portion of it. Now, when the villagers weave, its a beautiful, quiet, calm affair. When I weaved, it was a giggly, muscle cramping, sweat inducing, flustered affair. But as the kids took photos (I credit this to Juju) Ampon taught me the pattern. Despite the complete lack of common language it worked and over the next hour I wove a couple of inches of my bag. I can still find the spot I did because there are two tiny little mistakes. Tah dah. To weave.
It was a really fun afternoon. Yaya, the little one year old, learned that if she came to me arms out stretched I’d pick her up, bounce her on hip and blow raspberries in her face. I showed the kids how to use my camera- teaching children how to take photos is such an empowering experience. They loved it, they had used my camera before but always at dinner with poor lighting. As the sun lit the house the possibilities were endless as they dashed to take a photo of the TV, the window, each other.
Takraw (I have no idea how to spell it) is a Thai sport. It involved kicking a little woven ball over a badminton net. In three hits with your head, feet or knees the ball has to pass to the opposition’s side. My last weekend in the village there was an inter village sports competition: volleyball, soccer, takraw. In the weeks building up to it the school’s sports field was full of villagers, kicking a soccer ball, passing a volleyball or heading a takraw ball. As the sun crept closer to the horizon I would climb the hill and watch.
Some afternoons I’d play soccer or volleyball. Other afternoons I’d take photos. Capturing the insane kicks of takraw, wincing as hip flexors are pushed to the limit to get the ball over the net. It never ceased to amaze me, many of these villagers would have been in the fields all day, and yet here they were, dressed immaculately for sport, running their hardest.
Soccer was my favourite to watch and play. Cassie, an American volunteer who shared the same love of the village, is a great soccer player, she’d keep up with the guys, and it allowed her to hang out with the villagers in a different context. And as her soccer side kick, I too got to know their faces, and earn their hello’s and waves.
Meet Poe Toe. He is 15 and one of my favourite villagers. We have a humorous relationship. I speak virtually no Pakinyow, and he virtually no English, but we understand each other. We’ll each mutter along in our vernacular languages, dropping a word in each other’s languages for context, and yet we always had hilarious, fruitful conversations. I met Poe Toe one day when he helped mahout for Song Kran, the little 2 year old baby boy elephant.
His wicked smile, and high pitched laugh are enough to make even the crabbiest person smile. One evening when I was bringing watermelons to the mahouts (watermelons were my currency in the village. I would buy dozens at the neighbouring villages and carry them around in a big bag, like Santa, delivering them to the mahouts, or other cool villagers I had interacted with, taken a photo of, or had tea with). He boldly told me he should have two da dosa (watermelons, and note, I wasn’t even delivering one to him!). I didn’t have enough watermelons, but I had bananas at home, so I dragged him back to base hut, conversing as we did along the way, and from that day onward I’d endeavor to give him a banana whenever I saw him. I called him Monkey, he called me Buffalo.
Over the last couple of weeks we have spent hours together, I often give him my camera on hikes, which he now takes from me without asking. Hours looking at the photos we’ve taken. Hours playing on photobooth. Hours sitting on my laptop typing out English words. His thirst to understand reminded me how lucky I am to already know. His love for Song Kran reminded me again that every interaction with anyone, anything, is precious. And as he would ride past on a motorbike he’d blow me a kiss, reminding me that you can find some of your best friends when you are least expecting it.
Juju, Jiri, Jennie and Pocharee. These four girls never ceased to make me smile. Often all I’d have to do is hear them playing and I’d grin. A couple of weeks ago Jennie smiled wide to show me she’d lost one of her front teeth (que high five), and upon investigation I learned they didn’t have toothbrushes. So the next day I gave them each a brush and initiated morning teeth brushing together. Before giving Pee her flower I’d rally the kids and we’d stand in my bathroom, a 3m x 3m hut made of breeze blocks with a ceramic squat toilet, a drain and a giant barrel of water- what more do you need eh?
I’d hand out toothbrushes, distribute toothpaste, wet the brushes and count down: dug, key suh (one, two, three) and brush, brush, brush. They would copy my every move. Bottom right row, left, top left, then right, front, all, spit, rinse. And with eager eyes and now clean teeth they’d each pass me back their brushes.
Not only did the children from my home stay steal my heart, but all the village children. From the nursery on Tuesday mornings to high fiving kids as I went about my day, to their tears of joy while playing with photobooth. Huay Pakoot is a place for children to be just that, to play, to laugh, to get filthy and climb trees. Its a childhood I envy and wish for every child out there.
Overall the village represents to me what is missing in the world I know. People help each other, with no expectation. People share everything, with no calculation. People have smile lines, not worry lines. Once the initial unfamiliarity had vanished, I really felt like the village was home, the place where I belonged. A place where my heart was calm and my soul soothed.
And still the tears stream down my face, but I’m also smiling.
The football tournament.
The football players.
The elephants.
My family.
My puppy, Polo.
Watching the mahouts wash their elephants.
The forest.
The volunteers.
The mahouts.
Boon Chew.
Jor Doh.
Padie Saiee.
Ree Rah.
Poe Toe.
Did I mention the mahouts?
I could go on forever, the memories are endless but the tears must stop now. I am in the Seychelles and the sun is shining, I am healthy, and I have another adventure to embark on.
So as the last of the dirt disappears from under my nails, I promise myself out loud that I’ll go back.
Huay Pakoot. Thank you for reminding me what really matters. Life is about the land, family, community, and sharing. Thank you for letting me experience it in its fullest, and for letting me share it with you all through the lens of my camera.
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