A day in the Life of Ban Sam Yord

The village of Ban Sam Yord belongs to more than two hundred Hmong people.  My first view of the village was a rather disappointing blue tin roof, much like the one on Khamma's kitchen Thai in Thamuang.

The scene quickly changed into a scene of huts scattered on the hill side with chickens, ducks, pigs, cows and goats wandering around.  

There was a lot noisy activity taking place in the centre of the village, coming mainly from the men folk who were constructing a small building in which to store rice. They were using machetes, crude saws and a hammer and nails; as we say in the north of England 'rack of th'eye and rule o'thumb'.  As usual, there were more watching than working!  In between this centre of attraction, many children were running around playing games or just being inquisitive towards the new strange arrivals.

The Tourist Department constructed the hut we stayed in especially for visits like ours.  It was quite spacious with a room for sleeping and a kitchen.  The floor was hard packed dirt but it was cool and cosy.  After claiming a sleeping place on the raised platform that was the bed, we ventured round the village to see what was going on.  

We called in a home where four generations lived; the eldest was grandma at a good 78 years old. We saw children playing a game with spinning tops and watched the animals living cheek by jowl.  

By the time we arrived at the rice store, the men had stopped and were viewing us quizzically.  They were smoking from a water pipe and Mark and Til could not resist having a go.  By their reaction and their antics for the next thirty minutes, there was no doubt that the smoking mixture was a bit whacky.

Our guide, Somphone, asked what we would like for evening meal.  We had a choice of goat, duck, chicken or pork.  We settled for pork and Somphone promptly identified a succulent specimen in the yard.  A man from the house next door caught it and trussed it up.  It was small, but it could kick and squeal like an animal ten times its size.  First, the front legs were tied together, then the back legs and a small log passed from front to back.  It made enough noise but was bound in such a way it could not move.  Just outside the hut was a water well, which was the main supply for drinking, washing and cooking.  There was also a square frame, and the log, complete with trussed pig, was placed in the frame at about waist height.  The pig’s head was at the side of the frame and because it was upside-down, the underside of its neck was exposed.  Somphone placed a bowl under its head and, at that precise moment, out of nowhere, another man appeared with a knife and slit its throat.  Warm blood poured into the bowl as Somphone stirred it with his hand to prevent it from congealing.  The pig was jerking and writhing until all life had expired and it became meat rather than an animal.

Once the flow of blood had stopped, the pig was untied from its bondage and the job of scrapping the hair from its skin began.  Boiling water was poured over the skin and using a spoon suspiciously similar to the one we used earlier in the day at lunchtime, its hairs were 'shaved' away.

It took sometime to de-hair the pig, but once finished the anatomy lesson began as Somphone opened up the pig to reveal its insides.  Everything was carefully extracted out of the animal, including ears and trotters, and eventually we started to recognise pig meat.

It was a strange experience.  It is no use taking moral high ground.  This is the way of village life in a remote forest in northern Laos.  It is different culture and it was my privilege to learn from their way of life (or death if you prefer).

Activity switched to the kitchen as the cooking pots boiled over charcoal fires and Somphone took control.  We chatted amongst ourselves and in the common ground of a Laotian forest, we exchanged stories of background and travels.  I think our German friends were quite impressed with the catalogue of expeditions and travels Dave and I had notched up.  It never ceases to amaze me even if I say it to myself!

After the culinary theatre of the preparing and cooking the pig, the actual meal itself was not exciting.  I had a feeling the best meat ended up on somebody else's plate in the next hut.  What little we had was tasteless and smelt of steamy abattoirs.  The pumpkin soup was good as were the vegetables and spicy sauce.  Sticky rice does nothing but give the illusion to the stomach that it is full, and if you eat too much, it bungs you up for days. However, Somphone's work was appreciated and he was the perfect host.

There was no pub to go to, so we settled down and listened to the noise of village.

I awoke at some stage to hear a very faint chanting coming from a hut that I thought was behind us.  It was a rhythmic repetitive chant with about four voices.  Interspersed I could hear distressed cries of someone in obvious pain.  Then it stopped.  Next morning I learnt that someone had been very ill in a hut about 100 metres away and the shaman tried his best to save her life, but she died.