Mai Bpen Rai: Trekkin' Away

The first weekend in December, Jessie and I went on a trek with two of her friends from her program. We booked it through the Hill Tribe Museum so we knew it would be ethical and legitimate. They picked us up at the school in their van, inside was a British guy named John and a couple from Holland. And so our group was formed, with Poo as our guide.

We started at the pier, where we piled into two different longtail boats for a ride up the Mae Kok river. It was peaceful but loud, given the motor on the boat, and the occasional passing boats. We could see the surrounding mountains and hills as we wound up the river through cattails, past other boats and small villages, and the occasional farmers hoeing crops alongside the river. It was incredibly picturesque and I genuinely enjoyed myself, clicking away a bit obsessively with my camera.

As you can see:

We arrived in the elephant camp an hour later. The village was pretty touristy and loads of elephants were milling about. We grabbed lunch and shortly thereafter were hurried over to the elephant mounting area. And onto the elephants we went!

Erin and I clambered onto an elephant. It was rough at first – felt a bit like I was being thrown around as I struggled to find the elephant’s rhythm and match it. There was no form of seatbelt or whatever you call those things that prevent you from flying over an elephant’s head to be trampled by its massive feet. Guardrail? I tried to take some photographs as we jolted back and forth on the elephant, but most of them turned out blurry or tilted. Early on in the trip, the mahout stopped the elephant somewhat abruptly and pulled out his slingshot. He aimed at this small hill beside us and fired. That’s when I saw the snake. He fired a few more shots as the snake and then grabbed his hook, leapt off the elephant’s neck and hacked at the snake. A few minutes later, his friends showed up on a motorbike, and were delighted to accept the carcass as a gift. The mahout ambled back up on the elephant and we were on our way.

The ride was gorgeous – some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen. The mahout asked me if I wanted to sit on the neck, which I did, and it was, um, uncomfortable and frightening. I believe I was not positioned appropriately as I continually feared that my imminent expulsion over his forehead would result in a gory, bloody squashing. So I was quickly ready to climb back onto my notably more secure position on the bench.

Photos from the ride:

Can you see the panic in how I'm holding on to his head????

We arrived at the first hill tribe village after a little less than 2 hours on the elephant. It was a Lahu village, and Erin and I (thanks to our speedster mahout plus elephant) were about 20 minutes ahead of everyone. We sat and ate fruit and waited for the rest and chatted with a girl who, with her father of about 70 years old, would escort us on our hike to her home village. We were given a brief tour of a Lahu house and then it was on to the next village.

Lahu village:

Our hike was 45 minutes long, weaving through overgrown brush and up and down hills. Our guide – who I’m fairly certain could have been my grandfather – nimbly pranced over and between obstacles without breaking a sweat. He was wearing long sleeved pants and shirts with, wait for it, flip flops. I wonder what he thought of us in our trekking clothes and running shoes. At the beginning of the hike he stopped and made us all walking sticks out of bamboo by chopping off the tips at an angle. We all exchanged glances about “how cute” it was that he was making us these quaint, presumably useless sticks. About 10 minutes later, I realized why he made us the walking sticks – turns out they were semi-essential for portions of the hike. He knew better than us, obviously. Oh, humility.

Then we arrived at the next village – an Akha village. We put down our bags at the house we were staying at and started exploring, with Poo leading the way. She showed us the different parts of the village, and we walked through as the residents watched us, briefly, then resuming their business. I hesitate to describe the village, as I feel I would be imposing my meager reflections on something far beyond me and do it and you a disservice. I’ll include some pictures below. You may notice I don’t have many photos of people. Taking photographs of “tribal people in their traditional dress” felt more than a tad voyeuristic and colonial, if you will.

The overarching feeling I got from the village was that we were roughly the millionth tourists to set foot in it. The elders, for the most part, tolerated or ignored us, or occasionally smiled at us, while the youth looked briefly then turned away in disinterest. The children, however, were another matter. Living in a village where apparently many tourists have passed through has taught them a lesson that goes something like this: “foreigners are fun and nice and if you run up to them and hug them they will hug you back and then play with you.” The whole “don’t talk to strangers” thing was, well, not so much. It was endearing at first but promptly became concerning and thought-provoking, especially in that it struck such a stark contrast to the attitude of some of the elders. The generational divides I witnessed (superficially, of course) prompted questions in my head: how long have tourists come here? Did the village want foreigners to? Was there a debate about whether it was the right thing for the village? All of this is assuming that the village had a substantial voice in the inflow of foreigners. Did they?

That night we had dinner and then some of the women of the village performed a traditional dance around a campfire. It raised some of the questions I mentioned before, but was still fascinating and I found many of the women to be warm and enjoyed the experience on the whole. But it certainly felt (at least in part) like it was part of the routine for them – I kept wondering if they were saying something to the effect of “OK, which dances are we going to teach the visitors this time? Let’s make it an easy one – they don’t look all that rhythmically inclined.” There was another group of Americans there, and their behavior during the dance made me feel… awkward and embarrassed.

After the dance, I asked Poo if the village needed anything, if they had any problems. She had mentioned before that the biggest problem was the younger generation leaving the village and moving into the cities. We watched as some 20-something men left the village during the dance on their motorbikes to go to town. I asked her if there was anything someone like me could do to help, and if so, what would be most useful. She shrugged, and said “No, they’re fine. Maybe you can donate some money to the organization that runs the museum so we can buy them blankets. It gets cold up here in the winter.” So much for my preconceived, grandiose and self-righteous notions of “helping.” Man, do I have a lot to learn.

Photos of the village:

We stayed in a house, all four of us lined up in a room on the floor covered by a mosquito net. The next morning we got up and had breakfast, bought some small goods from some women in the village selling handicrafts. Then we set off on our hike to the last village.

The hike lasted about 2 hours and was much more intense than the first leg of the hike the day before. I was repeatedly grateful for the walking stick our guide had crafted for me as I nearly slid into ravines, fought off sticky bushes and lunged up huge stones. It was challenging but rewarding.

We stopped at a waterfall on the way back, which was serene and a good place to contemplate the experiences from the day before.