Found In Translation (With a Little Lahu Thrown In)

It's early and the mountains seem moody under a heavy smudge of fog.  The drive so far has been on back roads that are fairly straight...so far.  We are all of us quiet, easing ourselves into what is expected to be a rather robust day, starting with this 6 a.m. departure.  The moody mountains and the silence inside the car provide me some space to be just a little moody myself.  

We are on our way to a Thanksgiving service in a rather tucked-out-of-the-way Lahu village.  The anticipation of a 'first' experience into yet another dimension of Thai culture should be enough to take more of center stage in my head.  But it doesn't.

I'm fussing.  A little.  Not a lot.  Well, okay, maybe medium.  Two reasons.

One is that I yesterday managed to get a bug bite right on the bone of my right ankle, on the inside.  I saw the bug on me.  Not a spider, not a mosquito.  Nothing that burrowed.  Just a little thing, really, that was squashed beyond identification by my quick swipe.  I didn't even think it was a bug at first.  Just a speck of mud or grass.  But after I wiped it away there was a pin prick of blood, then some mild itching that I could ignore.  By now, travelling in the car, there is a raised red lesion about the size of a small pea, and my ankle is slightly swollen.  Hmmm.  I had Yupa look at it earlier, and she said it was a common thing, nothing to worry about.  I've applied topical antihistamine, and some highly recommended green goop Yupa bought at the market.  

But now, in the moody quiet of this early drive, I am over-assessing.  Are my toes starting to get just a tad puffy?  Is that a tingle going up my calf?   I keep checking.  By the way, how does an exotic insect-borne disease manifest itself, like, right at the beginning?  It's a thought I choose not to entertain.  

That's okay because I'm fussing about something else anyway.  

If there is a Lahu version of that now discontinued (probably because it was so mean-spirited, I mean come on!) 'What Not To Wear' TV show, I fear I may be walking into the next episode as the next victim.  Despite my many inquiries over the past two days, what I've chosen to wear to this occasion in no way matches how Suradet and Yupa, as well as Bell and Da (who are along for the ride) showed up as we were all getting into the car.  They are dressed all sensible and Sunday and Western.  Nice blouse, good shoes, dress shirt for Suradet.  Me?

I went with one of my more traditional (rustic, mountain folk) Karen shirts, all beaded and embroidered and the fringes at the armpits and everything.  This can be worn with a traditional woven skirt, but I thought, when Yupa and I were talking about it, we were thinking more on the 'dress down' side of things, so I went with my capris pants.  And I'm in flip flops.  Because Yupa said she didn't know and it didn't matter.  Yupa has on some of her best dress sandals.  So here I am.

I asked!  Many times, if I haven't already mentioned.  Because one of the lesser-known nuances of missionary life is that no one wants the farang standing out more than they already do, or worse, looking like they're trying too hard.  

Suradet is speaking at this service, having taken on more responsibility within his denomination, which will begin in January.  So, yes, his family is dressed for that.  I know that now. But in the moody silence of the drive, I'm feeling all kinds of awkward, even though I am fully aware that it's petty, which is also annoying.  

So I'm fussing.  A little.  I’m able to right-size my fashion crisis by reminding myself that at the end of the day (I say this now as an expression, but it ironically it will actually happen 'at the end of the day'), this is not about that.  I take a few deep breaths to remind my body - especially my right foot - that we're okay, put my hand on my maybe-tingling calf, and give my bug bite into the care of God to do with it anything He wants.  I take another breath, confess my vanity, and let it be okay that I'm dressed weird.  And then one more, just to say thank you for what an amazing thing it is that I'm here at all.

The straightforward drive gives way to the mountain climb, a crazy winding and zigging that takes us up and up and deep into the jungley-forest, no shoulders, one lane only for a two way road, and hardly able to see what's around the corner. Sometimes there is a rather significant drop on the one side.  Sometimes there is a bamboo fence to indicate a particularly treacherous turn.  Yes, bamboo.

I am not prone to car sickness, and I don't feel queasy, but it's enough to bother my eyes a bit if I try to look out the window.  That's on the way up.  Then we go down.  

Because the Lahu village is in a valley, nestled between two high, high hills.

As soon as we turn into the main 'roadway' of the village, any fussing about my outfit vanishes. 

These are colourful people!  So much colour and beading and jingling fringes.  And even among them, there's a wide range of fancy.  Some are in what must be their high-holiday traditional clothes, long and fitted and brilliantly patterned.  Some are wearing traditional Lahu shirts over jeans.  And some are simply in their very best t-shirts and cotton pants.  Turns out Yupa was right.  She really didn’t know what to tell me and it really didn't matter what I wore. 

 

The people are coming out of houses that are close together and simple.  So simple.  Made of thin wooden shingles, up on poles.  Large bulls chew slowly, appearing only mildly interested in who these strangers might be.   There are deep ruts in the mud in the narrow laneways between the houses.  So many people are milling about.  Moms and Dads and Grammas and kids and babies.  Suradet says that the whole village is Christian, and this is a day everyone sets apart to come and worship together.  There certainly is an air of celebration.

We are invited for a meal of rice and salted pork, and something else unrecognizable to me, but too spicy to dare put in my mouth anyways.  We are treated with honour, and more and more dishes appear even as we begin.  Smiles everywhere as more rice is put in front of us and we are urged to eat, because this rice is ‘new’.  Apparently there’s a difference in taste and texture when the rice has been so recently harvested.  I didn’t know. 

This is the pastor's house, also rustic, simple, one main room and two back rooms for sleeping, and a cement enclosure off to the side with a Thai toilet dug down into the wet red mud floor.  There’s a big barrel of water with a tap to fill it, and a pink plastic bowl floating in it.  And that’s all.  We all left our shoes at the front door, so there’s nothing to do but use the wet pair of flip flops left on the cement step just inside. 

I step outside to take a few pictures and am immediately reminded of my 'otherness'. Farangs don’t often come in to these hard-to-access communities, so I’m a bit of an oddity.  Turned heads, longer stares, leaning in close to tell the person beside you, 'look over there'.  shy smiles and they hurry on.  If I think I’m imagining it, one Gramma is somewhat less subtle. Looking in to say hi to her pastor, she sees me and stops short.  We make eye contact and I greet her with a wai.   Her hands fly to the sides of her face and she gasps with an open mouth smile, then hurries away.  I find myself hoping, inspite of myself, that she likes what I'm wearing.

We arrive at the church where folks are gathering.  More colour, everyone excited, everyone smiling and talking and happy.  The front of the church has been decorated with the recent harvest; pumpkins and bit root vegetables, and rice and beans and hot chili peppers.  And flowers.  So many flowers.

And the service begins with many, many introductions of many of the important folks who've joined them.  Leaders of nearby villages, pastors of nearby churches, denominational leaders who've dropped in to pay their respects and bring an offering that is either laid down with all the other produce at the front or presented in an envelope and a handshake and a picture.  Everywhere people are taking pictures.

Suradet is the speaker and is sitting up on the platform.  He is introduced near to the end of the beginnings, as am I.  I have to listen closely because all I pick up is the word 'missionary' in the midst of the Thai/Lahu translations back and forth.  Suradet stands and wais when he's introduced, and Yupa tells me I'm to stand as well.  So I do, in all my dressed up/dressed down glory, and smile and wai several times in many different directions as I know to do.  Wasn't expecting any special introduction.  I forget, honestly I do, how high a standing missionaries have here.  So different than at home.  But I'm okay with it.  And I think that's all there'll be.  So I settle into the service itself.

And there's music.  So much music, unrehearsed and raw with giggles when they start on the wrong key, and a child of one of the singers running up in the middle of the song from time to time, and the parent gently bringing them to their side while they keep on singing, until the child is done and runs back to sit down with the rest of us.  And every group has a special number.  And there is dancing, which is where the jingling fringes come in.

We sing together a few times.  These are mostly unknown tunes to me, but the harmonies are incredible.  And then.  Can I even describe this?  An old hymn, likely brought by some of the first Christian missionaries, How Great Thou Art.  And I can I even contain myself as we sing together with all the enthusiasm of hearts touched by such a great God, in three different languages, with harmonies that must be visiting us from heaven.  There's an old word my Gramma Robinson might use for this.  Rapture.  I attempt to capture the rapture, and it's almost possible because we sing all four verses, and it is simply beautiful.

From the sublime to the ridiculous.  When we sit down I realize my ankle is getting a bit worse.  And, wait, is that a black dot on my other ankle?  I try to wipe it away but this time it does indeed seem buried just under my skin.  When I told God He could do whatever he wanted with this bug bite, did I expected that might extend to my other ankle!?

To help distract me, and because it's getting warmer and we've been at this for over an hour and Suradet hasn't even started his sermon yet and because I keep drinking good amounts of water, I use a little break in the ceremonies to ask to use the bathroom.  Afterwards I feel a little better, because moving my ankle helps, and because the black dot on the other ankle is actually very easily removed by a sanitary wipe and wasn't at all embedded in my skin, sheesh.  And it helps to get outside where there was a bit more air.

And just in time we are back in our seats because now it's Suradet's turn.  He speaks in Thai and is being translated into Lahu.  He greets everyone and then says something about there being a missionary here from Canada who would now like to say a few words because she can speak in Thai.  There is?  Oh.  That would be me.  And Yupa is making me stand up and pointing to the podium, so off I go.  

Freeze frame.

This whole visit I've mourned the loss of what feels to me a significant amount of fluency in Thai.  I've struggled mightily, and that's been frustrating and embarrassing and distracting.  And humbling.  So wonderfully, awfully humbling.

Slow mo.

As I walk to the podium and am handed the mic, I just ask for grace.  That's all.  Nothing like what I'm about to be given.  

Regular speed.  

And it comes.  I greet them all ever so politely and warmly, and I let what I say come from not a head trying to translate, but a heart that was moments ago enraptured in worship with these truly inspiring human souls who worship so differently and entirely the same.  And I say, and am understood, that it is such a delight for me to be here worshipping together with all of them.  That everywhere in the world, where people love Jesus, we are all from the same family.  And that means everyone here is my brother and sister.  And I thank them for welcoming me into their family.  And it comes easily and simply and honestly.  There is hearty applause, and several people stop me on the way down to touch my arm and say thank you.

And I sit back down and realize that exotic insect bites and cross-cultural fashion crises don't matter.  I'm here for this.  To be with family.  It's just that simple.

Suradet's sermon is phenomenal, and I marvel again at his ever-increasing skill set as a pastor, leader, follower of Christ, communicating God's Word clearly, memorably, relevantly.

And there's a few more songs after that.  Suradet and I are acknowledged again, called to the front, and given two handmade bags as gifts.  

And then we eat.  Everywhere.  A table is brought up on the platform, chairs are cleared away so folks can eat off the floor.  Outside many are gathered under a tent.  We stay inside.  The table is for the special guests and apparently, we are among them.  Almost everything is served wrapped in banana leaves.  Mostly I stick with the rice, but I think what Yupa is putting on my leaf is chicken, so I try some of that.

And there is a little girl who's pretending not to be looking at me.  Every time I look up and we make eye contact, she looks away.  But then shyly peeks again.  I smile.  I ask to take her picture.  She obliges.  She looks familiar if that makes any sense.  It shouldn't.  And then I suddenly realize.  It's me.  Well not me.  But isn't it kind of cool when you find your two- year old doppelganger in a remove Lahu village on the other side of the world?  Or maybe our Dads just took the same haircutting class.  I don't know.  I'll let you decide.

Oh sweetie.  I wonder what adventures God has in store for you in your lifetime.  Will they take you to the other side of the world where you can put aside the fussing about stupid things and let God be all and more than you ever dreamed He could be?

I hope so.

There is more talking on the way home.  I have so many questions.  And what I'm wearing doesn't matter, and the bug bite will be almost gone before I have to get on the plane.