The Village

Rather than do the standard play by play, I'm just going to present a few moments or impressions or facets, perhaps, of my experience in Eson's village. It's tough to write about it as an event or series of events because there were so many strong personal interactions that occured between me and others, me and myself, and amongst the others that I was with. People were so honestly open and friendly that it's near impossible to relate. You had to be there I guess.

The Bath
In order to describe the bath, I need to describe how Monks dress. The bottom most layer is a thin sarong wrapped around the waist and pleated in the front by repetitively folding the slack over itself in two inch wide folds. The sarong is held fast by a special braided belt tied with string. A thin pocketed vest with only one shoulder is worn above that. Atop all of this is the robe itself, which is basically just a big rectangular sheet. Everything is generally orange, although the vest can be yellow and the robe can vary from red to brown to electric orange. The colors are apparently flexible, but some temples require certain colors - it all depends on your master ultimately. For those who must carry things that do not fit into the vest pockets, there is a fashionalbe accessory: the monk bag. That's it. Monks usually have two sets of this ensemble and that is all the clothing they own. The robe can be wrapped in such a way as to provide a hood or to allow bare shoulders. It can be a bedsheet, a towel, a bag or an umbrella. When we arrived in the village we were quite dusty and a bit muddy. Eson asked if I wanted to take a bath, and I replied yes. He led me behind the monk quarters to the bath room, unlocked the door and said, okay, here's the bath. I removed my shoes, stepped inside and became instantly confused. There I saw a western style toilet (fancy!) without a flush tank and two built-in concrete cisterns of water. One was small (to supply flushing water for the toilet I assumed) and one was bath sized. Was I supposed to climb in? I took my clothes off - one way or another I was going to have to get wet. Just opposite of the door was an open window into the monk's quarters where I could clearly hear them all chatting. I stood there naked, pondering, my clothes wadded up and stuffed into the low rafters to avoid water logging. The bath water did not seem particulary clean, so there was no reason to suspect that I would be tainting the communal trough. But there did not appear to be a way to refill the bath should it need replenishment. And there was no drain either. Floating in the flush water was a small bucket. A shelf above that contained soap, toothpaste, several toothbrushes, a razor, the things you'd expect to find in a place where one bathes. I removed the bucket from the flush water, dunked it in the bath water, removed it, and examined its contents. The water seemed pretty clean. I poured some on my feet and watched the brown mud and accumulated dust melt away and inch towards the drain. Another bucketful over the head - damn that's cold! Soon I was wet. I soaped. I rinsed by heaping buckets of bathwater over myself. Well, that was actually a pretty nice bath. Very satisfied, I wiped the remaining water off my new clean body and realized, shit, I don't have a towel. I'll just sit here and air dry then. Five minutes later, ans still completely wet, Eson knocked on the door. People were waiting for the bath. Shit shit shit. I turned my dust caked t-shirt inside out and attempted to dry myself off, wiping fresh mud in streaks down my arms and chest. My bag was just inside the monk's quarters, but a naked run around the building would not be prudent since the front door faced the temple square - by this time crowded with new years revelers waiting for sunset. On with the boxers. They would have to do. Putting my pants on would bring me back to square one as far as dirtiness goes. Turning the corner of the building, my clothes against my chest, my bald barefoot body exposed to the world, I made a sort of petticoat junction run across the face of the temple square. Heads turned. I ducked into the monk's quarters, tore apart my bag and found a clean t-shirt and pants. At some point in the dressing process I looked up to see about ten people standing by the door watching me. I looked up, one leg in my pants and said "hello." The giggled and continued to watch. I can only imagine what they were thinking. Later I watched the monks do the bath thing. They walked in, bathed, wrapped their sarong around themselves and emerged. The sarong acted as an impromptu towel and quickly dried against the body. Once dry they added the rest of the layers and were good to go. Great for them I guess.

Duck Eggs
On my first night in the village, I was treated to a fine dinner of rice, little fried river fish and spring rolls. The little fish were about three inches long, whole and unlike other small fish I've tried recently, their bones were not edible. I was shown the proper technique for eating them after spending ten minutes dissecting one, eating the bulk of it, and then delicately retrieving ten thousand tiny bones out of my pie hole. Turns out you're supposed to grab the head with your thumb and forefinger and then use a pair of chopstics to strip the flesh off of the bones in one swoop, leaving the entire intact skeleton in your hand, ready for disposal. The food was great, but it was different from market or restaurant food. I could taste the river. I could taste that the water wasn't quite right. I remember thinking that if my guts could make it through this village they could make it through anything. The next morning I woke up to a sea of faces apparently staring at me while I was asleep. The monks wake up at 4:30am to do their prayers and attend to temple affairs. They had already fulfilled their commitments and by 7am had nothing better to do than chat quietly amongst themselves while taking account of the drooling foreigner. When I woke, one of the monks ran out for breakfast. Monks are not allowed to eat with non-monks, so they would give me food first and watch me eat it. Then, when I finished, they'd start eating as a group. Obviously this was a little awkward. The poor hungry monks watching me eat was too much - I'd rush through my food like that Japanese guy that can eat a hundred hot dogs in ten minutes. Breakfast that morning was a basket of hard boiled duck eggs, with salt, pepper, lemon and some herbs. I picked up one of the eggs and started to peel it but Eson quickly snatched it away from me and began showing me the proper method. I am a big boy now, and I've eaten hard-boiled eggs before, so I felt a little annoyed that he felt compelled to take over this rather simple ritual. He tapped the top of the egg and peeled a quarter-sized hole in the top. Then he picked up a tiny spoon, added some salt and pepper, squeezed in some lime and handed it back, miming a spoon to mouth gesture. Okay. I plunged the spoon into the white part and a dark grey liquid oozed out. Mmm. That can't be right. I showed Eson and he nodded his head in approval. I scooped out a section of white and revealed a large section of black. Very dark gray, actually. Committed to tackling anything they could throw at me, I ate. Several spoonfuls later, I realized that this egg was partially formed. Unlike our sterilized, two color, two flavor eggs, these "mature" eggs are a real smorgasbord of colors, textures and flavors. It's mostly soft and mushy, and there are some normal egg aspects, but there are also veins, crunchy parts, wet parts, and if you're delicate you can pull out the little duck itself, beak and feet and everything. It's totally soft, so when you pop it in your mouth it sort of dissolves, unexpectedly. Eating these eggs was difficult at first. They taste great - especially with the condiments - but my eyes kept sending abort signals to my brain. They are a very popular snack, so I probably ate ten or so during my visit. They're good.

The House that Grandpa Built
We visited Eson's grandparents several times. We sat on the bottom level, underneath the house, on a large, raised bamboo platform covered with straw mats. During our conversation (Eson is one of those interpreters that can can convert a forty-five second monologue into five or so words) I couldn't help but fixate on the way the house was constructed. There seemed to be a systematic theory that justified the larger construction themes. But the details were totally crazy. The structural beams were all in the right places, but the support beams looked like their lengths and angles were determined using a dice. The overall effect is quite interesting. These big beams holding the roof up and the pillars holding the house up are all very solid and regular. Then there is a chaotic network of smaller joists gluing everything together. I asked Eson who the house builder was, assuming that there was a man in the village responsible for all the houses. He asked his grandfather and his grandfather pointed a finger at himself. How did he learn? He helped his father build his house. That's how it goes. All the houses in the village are basically the same. Five hundred years ago they figured out how to do it and it hasn't changed much since.

Games

The Loudspeaker

The Movie

The Foreigner

Bedtime

The Kids

The Pali Teacher