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Morning
The silence of night in the mountains in Northern Thailand was broken only by the bullock’s bell as he shifted in his pen beside our friend, Jot's, hut. As morning approached the thatch crackled and settled . The cocks had crowed in impressive unison many hours earlier but only managed a bedraggled welcome to the true dawn.
A whisper of smoke and the soft chop of Jot's mother, Aasah's, cleaver crept through the slats. The chickens scratched under the hut. The pigs fattening for the Christmas feast squealed for their breakfast. The bullock's bell pealed as he was led out to the fields for the day's labour. Someone switched a radio on and Akah music filled the village lanes. A truck laboured past the village on the main road through the hills.
As I swatted the mosquito net aside the motorbikes started to arrive. Their riders called for their passengers and I watched the coffee and tea plantation workers wrapped up in their coats, scarves and beanies leave, three and four to a bike. The children left for school on the school bus, a beat up old ute fitted with seats along the sides and well airconditioned. The roof was roughly welded on and there was no shelter from the ice cold wind rushing past.
Aasah has strung the washing under the main hut and is feeding the pigs from bags of grain nearby. A cocky dog and a flight of hens scavenge under the kitchen platform for scraps. I am pleased to be out of the grit and smog of Chiang Mai but this morning the sky is thick with smoke and I can hardly make out the angular mountains towering around us.
Jot brings a pot of hot tea to sip on the platform near the hut. The spout is stuffed with a leaf and we wait for it to steep before pouring it into petite Chinese cups. While we warm ourselves with the tea, Aasah stirs the chillis drying in the sun on large flat bamboo bowls. She moves slowly, her back and neck erect from carrying her work basket by a strap around her forehead.
The old woman opposite sweeps the street, one hand behind her back. She wears the traditional Akah coined and embroidered headpiece and embroidered leggings. Aasah wears a head covering in a similar style as she leaves with her gossips to finish the rice harvest and burn the stubble.
Today we will explore the hills around the village, high up in the mountains from Mae Suai.
The silence of night in the mountains in Northern Thailand was broken only by the bullock’s bell as he shifted in his pen beside our friend, Jot's, hut. As morning approached the thatch crackled and settled . The cocks had crowed in impressive unison many hours earlier but only managed a bedraggled welcome to the true dawn.
A whisper of smoke and the soft chop of Jot's mother, Aasah's, cleaver crept through the slats. The chickens scratched under the hut. The pigs fattening for the Christmas feast squealed for their breakfast. The bullock's bell pealed as he was led out to the fields for the day's labour. Someone switched a radio on and Akah music filled the village lanes. A truck laboured past the village on the main road through the hills.
As I swatted the mosquito net aside the motorbikes started to arrive. Their riders called for their passengers and I watched the coffee and tea plantation workers wrapped up in their coats, scarves and beanies leave, three and four to a bike. The children left for school on the school bus, a beat up old ute fitted with seats along the sides and well airconditioned. The roof was roughly welded on and there was no shelter from the ice cold wind rushing past.
Aasah has strung the washing under the main hut and is feeding the pigs from bags of grain nearby. A cocky dog and a flight of hens scavenge under the kitchen platform for scraps. I am pleased to be out of the grit and smog of Chiang Mai but this morning the sky is thick with smoke and I can hardly make out the angular mountains towering around us.
Jot brings a pot of hot tea to sip on the platform near the hut. The spout is stuffed with a leaf and we wait for it to steep before pouring it into petite Chinese cups. While we warm ourselves with the tea, Aasah stirs the chillis drying in the sun on large flat bamboo bowls. She moves slowly, her back and neck erect from carrying her work basket by a strap around her forehead.
The old woman opposite sweeps the street, one hand behind her back. She wears the traditional Akah coined and embroidered headpiece and embroidered leggings. Aasah wears a head covering in a similar style as she leaves with her gossips to finish the rice harvest and burn the stubble.
Today we will explore the hills around the village, high up in the mountains from Mae Suai.
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