On the way out of Huay Pu Keng Karen village I was meditative as we crossed the small river. I helped Mubi’s (my translator, the leader of the women’s shelter’s in the refugee camp and now my friend) son scramble up the steep bank. His little feet clinging resolutley to his sandals as I swooped him up the rocky bank. With his sturdy little body in my arms I was well aware of how foreign little people are to me, and that most of the women in the village my age had been married almost a decade. How strange I must seem to them!

We walked along the small but much loved path, and she told me with pride about the previous conversation. I had been utterly oblivious to the discussion’s gravity, as I attempted to gnaw on the very hard and aptly named bitter nut, and sipped at a beer/energy drink concoction I had been gifted. Turns out, the village chief and his delightful wife who had the most neck rings I’d seen, a near constant gob in her mouth and an infectious chortle, were on the verge of divorce. As we swished our way through the long grass she told me with pride how she had been mediating their conversation, how they had no-one else to talk with because of their high status, and how their now-nightly shouting matches due to his infidelity were wearing on the family. I, while trying to appear engaged, and understanding nothing, had been gazing at the numerous soccer trophies and attractive dangling CD decorations, pondering my sore butt, and had assumed they were talking about something mundane due to the frequent laughter. Just goes to show how clueless I can be, and what a barrier language is.

As we’d walked to the truck, her son manically ran between the driver and us more stumpy walkers, exactly like my childhood puppy used to do. I’d wondered, and expressed without really thinking, ‘Mubi, what is your earliest memory’ thinking, maybe this would be her son’s. Of war she told me, of fear, fleeing Burma with her family, of hiding in the jungle, of the first refugee camp. I don’t remember my own first memory, I just remember swearing to myself I would always remember it- I think it had something to do with lilacs. What a contrast…

I was surprised when this time Mubi and her son jumped in the back of the truck with me for the long ride back into MaeHongSon. He apparently took to me, and even let me carry him when I offered to give poor Mubi’s back a break. She said in surprise that he liked me, that farong (whities) usually made him cry. While he nestled into her in the back of the dusty truck, Mubi grinned at me, glowing, with her mouth stained a vibrant rusty color from the bitter root/leaf/unknown white paste. Her face opened into a wide smile, and her eyes nearly disappeared in gleeful half moons, as she told me, ‘say hi to your mom for me next time you see her!’ I thought I had misheard, which would be easy over the extreme bumpiness of the ride, which made me wish I had a sports bra or, better yet, a helmet. ‘Tell her to be proud of you’ she told me next, and the kindness and care in her face took my breath away. Dear dear Mubi! I’d felt honored by her company that day, and awed by her survival and tenacious optimism in the face of such hardship. I’d felt a real connection to her as well, but to hear her so openly volunteer this touched me in a very real way. She said, almost with surprise, ‘I already feel like you’re family! I feel I could tell you anything, you’re so nice.’ She insisted I must come back and visit sometime, to bring my mom, war or peace, to come stay at her house. I honestly can’t think of the last time I’d been gifted with such a meaningful compliment.