The Head of A Buffalo

Michael and I sit outside the church in the shade by the water cooler. All around us are people who have traveled from various Akha villages. Some are standing and others are sitting on chairs or mats spread out on the lawn. Beautiful little children, some with the traditional Akha headdress on, one little boy with a sassy plaid sports coat over his yellow t-shirt and pajama bottoms, roam freely around us. The setting is beautiful- sunlight, color and blue cloudless sky.

We are at the funeral of Blahs’ grandfather Ahtsa Chermue. Ahtsa Chermue was a remarkable man who lead a remarkable life. Immigrating from Burma with his wife at a young age, he went on to found the village I was in and was the village chief for 22 years. He and his wife were one of the first Christians in Thailand. He left behind 5 children, 16 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

Michael and I had arrived early that morning, catching a ride with Lynette in her truck (the back packed with children from T-AMF. A foundation which provides scholarships and housing to hill tribe children who typically live to far away to attend. One of Ahtsas’ sons founded this organization). We drove to the mountains, over deeply rutted dirt roads, spectacular scenery, and at one point, through the river. The 4-wheel drive came in handy. And oh to have had a camera to capture it all.

As the church let out and we began to walk up the hill towards the graveyard, Michael and I were approached one by one by older members of the community. Wordlessly grinning, their lips stained red from the beetle nut they chew, they would put their hand out for handshake and grasp ours between both their hands. We saw Gii, Blahs’s husband and our friend, step out of the church, dressed like Fonzi with an accordion slung across his back. There was one dignified older man who was dressed in a suit with Akha stitching, a hat, wire rim glasses and Chuck sneakers.

As the crowd snaked up the hill you could appreciate just how many people came to pay their respects to this man. As I approached the grave-site I looked over to my left- at the sheer drop which exposed the colors of the valley and the mountains just beyond it. There was house with a thatched roof near the edge. The occupants’ laundry strung up in the sun. The red of the T-shirt vivid and bright against the backdrop. It is hard to describe the immensity of what that looked like. I felt like I was looking at a picture in National Geographic.

Later as we ate the delicious lunch prepared for all who were there, I went to find a clean cup for water and encountered an incredible scene. Framed by lush trees, stood two wire bookcases packed full of plastic dishes in soft blue, white and pink. On the rocks sat large wide silver bowls holding pools of soapy water for washing. A barefoot little girl stood in the middle of this, yelling at the dogs to get away from the water. And next to her, high above the clean dishes, was the head of a buffalo (which I realized must have been lunch) and its’ hooves strung up on a tree.

At the grave site Michael and I stayed on the outer edges allowing those who had known Ahsta to stand closer. Mothers with their babies slung over their backs in scarves decorated in colorful patterns stood near us. I looked down the hill at the white crosses which sprang out of the ground at random, the sunlight beautiful through the enormous banana leaves. A song begins to play and all around us people begin to sing. Michael and I look at each other, recognizing the melody but, at first, unable to place it. Then it hit us. ‘In the Sweet By And By” a hymn we’ve sung all our lives in church. I fell silent and was deeply moved to stand there, in a village in the mountains in Thailand so far from my home, hearing all these voices singing in Akha this song I grew up with.

There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar…

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.