A meal shared

The village was deserted when we arrived back after our second day exploring the neighbourhood. While we washed and drank a cold beer Jot searched for his parents. He found them on the other side of the village slaughtering and preparing a wild pig that had wandered onto the rice fields that morning. A few bottles of whisky were already open and a feast was planned for the lucky labourers.

Jot had been detailed to cook dinner that night anyway so I joined him in the kitchen to watch and perchance to help. While we chatted he sat on a low stool beside the hearth in the pic above, chopping on one side and turning to cook over the flame on the other. Within minutes he reduced a kilo of pork that we had brought from Mae Suai to mince by chopping finely with a very sharp knife. He pounded and sliced chillis that Dang had harvested that morning. As he told me about his sister's wedding feast he stoked the fire up and threw in the mince. While he stirred the meat he added unpeeled and squashed cloves of garlic, shredded greens and lemongrass. With a curve of the arm he threw in dollops of fish and soy sauce. Then he pulled out a flaming log and let the fire die down while he scraped the wok contents onto a dish and stored it in the cupboard.

I marvelled as he sliced the chicken finely for the next dish and asked who was usually responsible for the meals. Jot thought for a moment and I wondered if he'd understood my question but then he reassured me that everyone at home at the time would pitch in and help. He seemed just as at home in this kitchen as he had in the tiled, gas-fuelled kitchen in Chiang Mai where he had prepared a welcome feast for me the week before. I was impressed with his ability to translate from an age-old kitchen and culture to twenty first century concepts and technology with such ease.

Later as we reclined around the bamboo table and spooned and used chopsticks to consume the multi-layered meal I asked if he would ever return to the village permanently. He roared with laughter and claimed that his legs and arms had gone to fat and that he could never climb the mountains and dig the paddies again because he had become far too weak. Besides he could never afford the mobile phones and racing bikes he craved so much without a city wage. So he spends his life in Chiang Mai longing to be back in his heartland in the mountains and his time in the village knowing that he must return to the city to make a living. I guess this is a world-wide dilemma. My children recall their country town beginnings with nostalgia and always want to know how everyone there is going, but they would never contemplate a full-time life in the bush.

Wherever we went on the mountains Jot would screech to halt when friends hailed him or wave wildly at passing truckloads of people. We stopped at many houses and cafes and he always recognised someone as we passed through a village. He told me sadlythat he knew many, many people in the mountains but only nignoy (a few) in the city.