One life, three days

 The longer I am here, the more I accept as normal things that, at the outset, seem strange. Then something happens to remind me that I am living in a very different culture or cultures, Thai or Karenni, depending on where I happen to be.

Mae Hong Son, where I go for a visa renewal, is a typically northern Thai town with the golden spire of a wat (Buddhist temple) peeping through the trees on the hill above. Friday night in the guesthouse, a minibus arrives and  a number of orange clad monks descend. Are they here for a religious festival? The following day I pass a wat overlooking a small lake on my way to a cafe that makes its own bread (sigh of ecstasy). Next to it, on open ground, are large canopies, plastic chairs underneath, with a giant photo of an elderly monk at the entrance. Thai police, male and female are closing off the roads. 

I chat to the cafe owner, asking about the festival. ‘Yes, it is funeral’.   Regrouping my thoughts, I realise that the picture is of a dead monk. ‘ He was famous? ‘ I enquire as the arrival of monks from elsewhere and the size of the venue for the cremation suggest this is indeed a prominent figure. ‘ Yes, he head monk. He die three years ago’. 

Seeing my surprise, she continues, ‘ Royal family. They wait royal family’. I conjecture that a very senior monk like this may well have royal patronage. Royal cremations often take place many months after a death so that, if this monk has royal patronage, similar customs apply, though three years does seem a rather lengthy wait. For those keen to know more, I am certain there are learned books on Thai royal monastic funerals practices and rites that will furnish the yawning gaps in my exposition.

By luck, later that day back in the guest house, I hear loud Thai music, a mixture of gongs, xylophones and flutes creating a rather unearthly sound and hurry to the road to see a long procession of monks, followed by lay people, many dressed in black, holding  long white ribbons that stretch back to an elaborate gold and orange box like construction, containing the remains, being transported on the back of a truck.

Funeral procession

The evening, back again at the ground, the highly ornate box now sits atop tiers, part of a huge orange edifice carefully decorated  with flowers, lotuses, carnations, the whole arena heavily scented with the smell of jasmine garlands being brought by the faithful. The atmosphere is one of reverence with the musicians’ incessant playing contributing to the slightly surreal air. That night I hear fireworks, common to funerals here. Next day thousands of people are visiting the structure, many also making donations of robes and goods to monks who sit at long tables under canopies while people queue patiently to make their offering. Free food and drink, cola a popular choice, is being liberally offered to all comers. This is an important time for receiving merit through giving, with the ceremony lasting for three days.

Funeral pyre

Returning back to my centre on a motorbike with squealing brakes, probably not helped by having to transport a hefty foreigner rather than a svelte Karenni, I prepare my lesson for Monday morning. Next day at about 8.30 I notice the absence of the usual loud Karenni songs and shouts of the students. Upon enquiry, I learn that they have all had to go and help with a funeral. The boys to dig the grave and the girls for preparing food-gender roles not much different here to the West! I wander around rather at a loss, having geared myself up to cover the present continuous. ‘ What are you doing? ‘ ‘ I am digging a grave’. Shall I add that vocabulary to the lesson? 

In the quiet , I hear an ox bellowing. Just beyond the kitchen, an imposing male animal, tied up to a bamboo thicket is calling to his fellow beasts across the river. A pretty white ox responds by roaring back. A group of men are standing around. They proceed to tie the ox up even more firmly and for some reason, I think they mean to castrate the animal. Vegans and those of a delicate disposition, if you haven’t already, skip to the next paragraph. Suddenly one of the men thumps the ox on the head a number of times with a heavy instrument and then stabs it through the heart with a long spear. The assistants cut down long fronds of coconut branches, lay them on the ground, and roll the dead ox into it. Having skinned the hide, it is swiftly  cut up and within two hours nothing remains but a little blood on the branches on the ground. As I said earlier, there are times when I am strongly reminded that life is quite different here. The killing takes place very efficiently and, if one is to eat meat,  meat slaughtered quickly in situ is probably as good as it can be. 

The ox that was. Juliet across the river.

The Principal arrives and explains that the funeral is for the elderly father of the chairman of the Karenni National People’s Party and so an important man. I tell him about the monk in Mae Hong Son. Oh, he exclaims delightedly. ‘ You are lucky. You will have good power. We Karenni believe that you get good fortune when you face a funeral.’ His words  cheer me up. I can now interpret two funerals as being beneficial rather than a gloomy invitation to contemplate  the transience of life etc etc. He tells me I must go to see Karenni dancing in the evening. ‘ Dancing at a funeral? ‘ My bourgeois Western self is rather shocked. ‘Yes, all night’ I think to myself that a quick look and home for bed at 10 p.m will do me.

I head off with a posse of students in the dark to a large community hall nearby with tables outside, food, Karenni wine ( rice wine) beer, snacks, drinks, betel nut all available to the hundreds present. Those brighter than me may already have put two and two together. It slowly dawns on me. ‘ The cow? ‘ I ask. ‘ This morning I see die. It is for funeral?' ‘ Yes teacher, He rich man. He have cow. Not so rich have pig.’ The ox meat made it about two hundred yards before it went in the pot. Zero meat miles. Thankfully I am not offered any. 

The coffin, covered with very brightly coloured wreaths and flashing lights, has the deceased's photo on top. He is Roman Catholic so there is a mass before the Karenni  musicians swing into action, long drums thumping, cymbals clashing in a sideways movement, gongs being hit with mallet, the wail of a bamboo flute adding to the very powerful one-two beat. I was expecting Karenni dancing to be a form of the  elegant Burmese,  but watch instead an elaborate hokey-cokey performed in front of the coffin. People, both men and women hold hands or put their arms over each other’s shoulders and follow a leader who stands in front of a semi circle. To the beat of the music, he extends a leg, bent at the knee and waggles it first back and forward, then side to side, repeating with the other leg. At times, they all turn around executing little back and forward hop type steps. It is quite hypnotic and probably very tiring, and though it looks simple, difficult to execute, I imagine, especially with too much Karenni wine inside one.

Follow my leader-Karenni dancing

This will carry on for the night. And the next. With more food and drink each day. That is why they needed an ox. La Klay, one of my students is my informant. The burial, I find out, is on the third day. ‘Three days, a long time,' I say , telling him that in U.K. maybe half or one day is given to a funeral. He looks at me sadly. ‘One life, three days. Not long.’

Out of the mouths of teenage boys sometimes comes wisdom. He is right. Three days of sharing, eating, drinking and even dancing. That’s a better balance in the celebration of a life. Though perhaps without what happened to the ox.