Take me to the river
On Saturday we once again sought to reach the stupa that was our objective of our second hike. Ah, the stupa. I first noticed it on our second day in town. I wondered if I'd ever get to climb up to it, or if it was surrounded by private estates, jealously guarded by high brick walls with ADT signs prominently posted. I wondered if an infidel like myself would be allowed a respectful peek at the structure. Anyway, on Saturday my dream came true.
This time around, the lineup changed a bit. Joan was well enough to join our excursion and a fellow teacher named Paul also added to our number. Matthew, on the other hand, had another engagement, and so missed out. We began our journey as last time, following the canal by the college and then crossing the river. We skirted the construction site, rather than passing through, and ventured up to the village from where we had turned back on our previous hike. We readily found the right path, along the irrigation ditch, and were soon treated to more views of farms and the not-so distant city. It was still mid-morning and a morning haze stubbornly clung to the lowlands. As we trudged along, Paul, who is from the province, mentioned that the stupa was actually Thai in design, though he didn't know any history of the structure.
We finally reached the point where our path broke from the path along the ditch. (Actually, by this point the "path" was actually the top of the retaining wall.) Joan opted to sit and rest for awhile, having already seen the stupa before. The rest of us ventured over, passing one more rice field. Unlike the shrines we visited on our first hike, the stupa didn't seem to attract any regular devotees. There were weeds growing all over the thing. Still, as a pile of bricks goes, it was worth the jaunt.
As we made our way back to Joan, we discovered that some people had gathered in the rice field that we had just passed. It was harvest time! We watched as four women, scythes in hand, started cutting down the rice plants. Four men followed behind, grabbing a armload of stalks and beating them against the side of a wooden box in order to removed the grain from the stalks. It kind of blew my mind, watching a group of people--barefoot and wearing straw hats--harvest a rice field by hand. It was not something I expected to see. It did not make me feel superior, however, because these folks were obviously pros. The women just tore through the field, cutting a wide swath and laying out the cut stalks very methodically. The men followed in their wake, clearing each armful with just two blows against the crib. I didn't have to try my hand at their work to know that any attempt I would make would fall far short of their efforts.
Anyway, as delightful as it was to watch the harvest, we soon decided to walk onwards. Since it was early yet, we decided to return to the irrigation ditch and follow that a bit further. After the stupa, the ditch followed the curve of the mountain and took us away from cultivated fields. On our right was wild foliage--mostly bushes going all the way to the top. On our left was the river as it wound it's way around the peaks. There was factory down by the riverside, way down in the valley floor. I think Michael had said it was a cement factory. It comprised of an older looking stone structure in the foreground, and a newer looking factory building further down the river. The older building reminded me of some old castle, with the river as its moat. Of course, the trucks driving in and out of the compound kind of spoiled that picture, but what can you do?
We heeded the call to see what was around the next corner for a while, but soon it became evident that if we wanted to hit the college cafeteria for lunch, we needed to turn back. We did an about face and I got to lead the hike for a change. (I'm usually trailing behind, delayed by photo opportunities.) When we reached the stupa trail, Michael offered us a choice. We could retrace our steps and take the easier and longer trail back through the village, or we could head down to the river from the stupa--a route that Michael called a "bit of a scramble". The majority of us opted for "scramble" so back to the stupa we went. The farmers had made good progress on the field and there were some other guys who had joined the party, carrying baskets of the reaped grain down the trail. They were taking the same trail we were, so I congratulated myself on voting for that route.
When we got down towards the river, however, we discovered the true cost of our decision. There were more rice fields by the river bank, and the paths alongside of them were but the top of the narrow mud walls that bordered each paddy. Emphasis on the mud. I know knew why these folks were barefoot. Even they had paused along the route, looking for safe footing. At this point Joan and Paul opted to climb back up to the stupa and take the dry route home. The rest of us decided to risk the mud and sallied forth. Shoes were muddied and Siu Wan got a bit cross. I tried to follow the rice haulers, as my hiking boots are fairly water and mud resistant. The rest followed the path on the other side of the paddy, a bit higher and perhaps dryer. However, it was not quite dry enough. As we were making our way along, I heard Ga Dai cry out. I turned and saw her sprawled along the wall of the paddy, her arm buried in the mud. I really should have take a picture of it, but instead I let parental concern get the better of me and I hurried over to where she was. We managed to help her extricate herself and her shoes from the mud. She had managed not drop the leaves or whatever it was that she had gathered on the hike. I knew then that even had she tumbled down the mountainside, her life and well being would have been preserved by her determination to gather appropriate craft materials.
Anyway, the rest of our journey along the river was uneventful. The rice fields soon gave way to a rocky river bank. The opposite bank of the river had a much nicer path, again atop a retaining wall, but none of us were brave enough to try the log bridge that was our nearest option to cross over. (I suppose we could have tried to ford the river, like the kids who were skinny dipping, but our shoes were wet enough.) As we walked along, we could look up the mountainside and make out Paul and Joan, making their own way back. When we reached the concrete bridge, Michael opted to head back towards the village to meet up with them, while we decided to take our dirty and crabby children home for lunch and a bit of washing.
posted by John @ 7:12 AM
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