Conflict in the tribes of the Golden Triangle causes the writer some uneasy moments.

PROOF POSITIVE

Vulnerable. That’s how you feel inn a bamboo house. With floors trampoline-springy and walls ventilated every half-inch by mountain breezes, you feel more exposed than a cedar at timberline.

As my friend and translator, Grace, sat with me high up on the stilt-supported porch floor, I thrilled at the scene before me. For years, I’d yearned to stay with the hill tribes of northwest Thailand. Now, I soaked up the atmosphere. In fact, it filled my lungs and coated my body as the hillsides blazed and smoked from the slash-and-burn agriculture. Grace assured me that soon the blackened areas would be green with mountain rice and tapioca.

Little kids carrying their bare-bottomed younger siblings in cloth slings stared at me from below the porch; women gossiping on other porches wove cloth or prepared dinner while speculating about who Grace had brought to the village this time. Chickens and pigs ignored us, scratching and rooting at the ground, commenting on choice tidbits discovered under the houses. This was all routine for them but awesomely alien to me.

Four men trudged up the path, kicked off their slippers, climbed the ladder and sat down at the far end of our porch. Each carried a longrifle (the kind American revolutionaries fired at redcoats 200 years ago) smuggled across the border from Myanmar for hunting purposes. Hunkering down on the porch, flat-footed, smoking homegrown, hand-rolled cigarettes, they talked earnestly, sometimes angrily, with the man of the house.

From time to time, their emotional pots bubbled over and our host would simmer them down with a word or a hand motion.

At last, they picked their way down the porch ladder, scrooched their toes around the rubber thongs, and swung off down the path, rifle barrels pointed skyward on their backs.

Twittering like a little brown dove sitting on the bamboo floor, Grace explained, “My uncle, our host, is a district headman. Those men are from two neighboring villages.”

“And?” I asked, as Grace appeared to have lost interest in the narrative. (One trouble with working through a translator, you only know what they want you to know.)

“And the villages are having an argument.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, I think my uncle has worked out a compromise but for awhile, they were ready to fight it out.”

“With guns?”

Grace nodded her head once, then changed the subject.

That night, while the chilly wind slipped its fingers through the loosely woven bamboo walls and the odoriferous pigs grunted in the dishwater tossed through the floor cracks onto the ground below, I lay open-eyed in my sleeping bag. The cause of my insomnia wasn’t lack of a bed: the resilient bamboo floor was remarkably comfortable. No, the cause was those four men. Had they settled their quarrel?

Suddenly, I heard rifle fire. Then more. Time and time again.

“Oh, God,” I thought. “Those two villages are at it. And we’re stuck up here in some little burg that’s not even on the map.”

The rifle fire continued.

The hair at the nape of my neck was standing at attention. Every muscle in my body was on full alert.

Then, panic. I was sure we were going to be killed and no one would ever find our bodies because no one knew where we were.

At last I calmed down enough to analyze the sounds around me. Grace was snoring gently. No one stirred in our house. No footsteps raced through the village.

And after a few minutes, the rifle fire ceased.

Next morning on the porch, while Grace and I were washing the soot off our faces and brushing our teeth, I asked her about the rifle fire. She looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the RIFLE FIRE!”

“Yes. What was it? Did the two villages have a battle?”

“Oh, no. It was the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?” Sometimes you have to dig like a farmer with a chopping hoe to get information.

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Grace continued. “Last night, there was an eclipse of the moon. The rifle fire came from a Lahu village. When there’s an eclipse, they think that they have to fire their rifles to frighten the shadow off the moon.” Grace peered sideways at me, wondering if I would ridicule the tribespeople for their simple faith.

I thought about it. If I hadn’t benefited from Galileo and Copernicus et al, firing rifles at a moon shadow might seem very practical. After all, when the Lahus fire those guns, the shadow does depart. It works for them just like it did for their ancestors.

And that’s proof positive.

This article, which appeared in the HONOLULU ADVERTISER newspaper, describes an experience on my first trip to the tribes. I have returned many times and am constantly learning new things about the Karens, Lahus, Lisus, and Akhas. I go there to tell them that God loves them. Many of them still fear the spirits around them and are delighted to learn that Jesus is stronger than the other spirits.

PROOF POSITIVE

Vulnerable. That’s how you feel inn a bamboo house. With floors trampoline-springy and walls ventilated every half-inch by mountain breezes, you feel more exposed than a cedar at timberline.

As my friend and translator, Grace, sat with me high up on the stilt-supported porch floor, I thrilled at the scene before me. For years, I’d yearned to stay with the hill tribes of northwest Thailand. Now, I soaked up the atmosphere. In fact, it filled my lungs and coated my body as the hillsides blazed and smoked from the slash-and-burn agriculture. Grace assured me that soon the blackened areas would be green with mountain rice and tapioca.

Little kids carrying their bare-bottomed younger siblings in cloth slings stared at me from below the porch; women gossiping on other porches wove cloth or prepared dinner while speculating about who Grace had brought to the village this time. Chickens and pigs ignored us, scratching and rooting at the ground, commenting on choice tidbits discovered under the houses. This was all routine for them but awesomely alien to me.

Four men trudged up the path, kicked off their slippers, climbed the ladder and sat down at the far end of our porch. Each carried a longrifle (the kind American revolutionaries fired at redcoats 200 years ago) smuggled across the border from Myanmar for hunting purposes. Hunkering down on the porch, flat-footed, smoking homegrown, hand-rolled cigarettes, they talked earnestly, sometimes angrily, with the man of the house.

From time to time, their emotional pots bubbled over and our host would simmer them down with a word or a hand motion.

At last, they picked their way down the porch ladder, scrooched their toes around the rubber thongs, and swung off down the path, rifle barrels pointed skyward on their backs.

Twittering like a little brown dove sitting on the bamboo floor, Grace explained, “My uncle, our host, is a district headman. Those men are from two neighboring villages.”

“And?” I asked, as Grace appeared to have lost interest in the narrative. (One trouble with working through a translator, you only know what they want you to know.)

“And the villages are having an argument.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, I think my uncle has worked out a compromise but for awhile, they were ready to fight it out.”

“With guns?”

Grace nodded her head once, then changed the subject.

That night, while the chilly wind slipped its fingers through the loosely woven bamboo walls and the odoriferous pigs grunted in the dishwater tossed through the floor cracks onto the ground below, I lay open-eyed in my sleeping bag. The cause of my insomnia wasn’t lack of a bed: the resilient bamboo floor was remarkably comfortable. No, the cause was those four men. Had they settled their quarrel?

Suddenly, I heard rifle fire. Then more. Time and time again.

“Oh, God,” I thought. “Those two villages are at it. And we’re stuck up here in some little burg that’s not even on the map.”

The rifle fire continued.

The hair at the nape of my neck was standing at attention. Every muscle in my body was on full alert.

Then, panic. I was sure we were going to be killed and no one would ever find our bodies because no one knew where we were.

At last I calmed down enough to analyze the sounds around me. Grace was snoring gently. No one stirred in our house. No footsteps raced through the village.

And after a few minutes, the rifle fire ceased.

Next morning on the porch, while Grace and I were washing the soot off our faces and brushing our teeth, I asked her about the rifle fire. She looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the RIFLE FIRE!”

“Yes. What was it? Did the two villages have a battle?”

“Oh, no. It was the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?” Sometimes you have to dig like a farmer with a chopping hoe to get information.

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Grace continued. “Last night, there was an eclipse of the moon. The rifle fire came from a Lahu village. When there’s an eclipse, they think that they have to fire their rifles to frighten the shadow off the moon.” Grace peered sideways at me, wondering if I would ridicule the tribespeople for their simple faith.

I thought about it. If I hadn’t benefited from Galileo and Copernicus et al, firing rifles at a moon shadow might seem very practical. After all, when the Lahus fire those guns, the shadow does depart. It works for them just like it did for their ancestors.

And that’s proof positive.

This article, which appeared in the HONOLULU ADVERTISER newspaper, describes an experience on my first trip to the tribes. I have returned many times and am constantly learning new things about the Karens, Lahus, Lisus, and Akhas. I go there to tell them that God loves them. Many of them still fear the spirits around them and are delighted to learn that Jesus is stronger than the other spirits.

PROOF POSITIVE

Vulnerable. That’s how you feel inn a bamboo house. With floors trampoline-springy and walls ventilated every half-inch by mountain breezes, you feel more exposed than a cedar at timberline.

As my friend and translator, Grace, sat with me high up on the stilt-supported porch floor, I thrilled at the scene before me. For years, I’d yearned to stay with the hill tribes of northwest Thailand. Now, I soaked up the atmosphere. In fact, it filled my lungs and coated my body as the hillsides blazed and smoked from the slash-and-burn agriculture. Grace assured me that soon the blackened areas would be green with mountain rice and tapioca.

Little kids carrying their bare-bottomed younger siblings in cloth slings stared at me from below the porch; women gossiping on other porches wove cloth or prepared dinner while speculating about who Grace had brought to the village this time. Chickens and pigs ignored us, scratching and rooting at the ground, commenting on choice tidbits discovered under the houses. This was all routine for them but awesomely alien to me.

Four men trudged up the path, kicked off their slippers, climbed the ladder and sat down at the far end of our porch. Each carried a longrifle (the kind American revolutionaries fired at redcoats 200 years ago) smuggled across the border from Myanmar for hunting purposes. Hunkering down on the porch, flat-footed, smoking homegrown, hand-rolled cigarettes, they talked earnestly, sometimes angrily, with the man of the house.

From time to time, their emotional pots bubbled over and our host would simmer them down with a word or a hand motion.

At last, they picked their way down the porch ladder, scrooched their toes around the rubber thongs, and swung off down the path, rifle barrels pointed skyward on their backs.

Twittering like a little brown dove sitting on the bamboo floor, Grace explained, “My uncle, our host, is a district headman. Those men are from two neighboring villages.”

“And?” I asked, as Grace appeared to have lost interest in the narrative. (One trouble with working through a translator, you only know what they want you to know.)

“And the villages are having an argument.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, I think my uncle has worked out a compromise but for awhile, they were ready to fight it out.”

“With guns?”

Grace nodded her head once, then changed the subject.

That night, while the chilly wind slipped its fingers through the loosely woven bamboo walls and the odoriferous pigs grunted in the dishwater tossed through the floor cracks onto the ground below, I lay open-eyed in my sleeping bag. The cause of my insomnia wasn’t lack of a bed: the resilient bamboo floor was remarkably comfortable. No, the cause was those four men. Had they settled their quarrel?

Suddenly, I heard rifle fire. Then more. Time and time again.

“Oh, God,” I thought. “Those two villages are at it. And we’re stuck up here in some little burg that’s not even on the map.”

The rifle fire continued.

The hair at the nape of my neck was standing at attention. Every muscle in my body was on full alert.

Then, panic. I was sure we were going to be killed and no one would ever find our bodies because no one knew where we were.

At last I calmed down enough to analyze the sounds around me. Grace was snoring gently. No one stirred in our house. No footsteps raced through the village.

And after a few minutes, the rifle fire ceased.

Next morning on the porch, while Grace and I were washing the soot off our faces and brushing our teeth, I asked her about the rifle fire. She looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the RIFLE FIRE!”

“Yes. What was it? Did the two villages have a battle?”

“Oh, no. It was the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?” Sometimes you have to dig like a farmer with a chopping hoe to get information.

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Grace continued. “Last night, there was an eclipse of the moon. The rifle fire came from a Lahu village. When there’s an eclipse, they think that they have to fire their rifles to frighten the shadow off the moon.” Grace peered sideways at me, wondering if I would ridicule the tribespeople for their simple faith.

I thought about it. If I hadn’t benefited from Galileo and Copernicus et al, firing rifles at a moon shadow might seem very practical. After all, when the Lahus fire those guns, the shadow does depart. It works for them just like it did for their ancestors.

And that’s proof positive.

This article, which appeared in the HONOLULU ADVERTISER newspaper, describes an experience on my first trip to the tribes. I have returned many times and am constantly learning new things about the Karens, Lahus, Lisus, and Akhas. I go there to tell them that God loves them. Many of them still fear the spirits around them and are delighted to learn that Jesus is stronger than the other spirits.

PROOF POSITIVE

Vulnerable. That’s how you feel inn a bamboo house. With floors trampoline-springy and walls ventilated every half-inch by mountain breezes, you feel more exposed than a cedar at timberline.

As my friend and translator, Grace, sat with me high up on the stilt-supported porch floor, I thrilled at the scene before me. For years, I’d yearned to stay with the hill tribes of northwest Thailand. Now, I soaked up the atmosphere. In fact, it filled my lungs and coated my body as the hillsides blazed and smoked from the slash-and-burn agriculture. Grace assured me that soon the blackened areas would be green with mountain rice and tapioca.

Little kids carrying their bare-bottomed younger siblings in cloth slings stared at me from below the porch; women gossiping on other porches wove cloth or prepared dinner while speculating about who Grace had brought to the village this time. Chickens and pigs ignored us, scratching and rooting at the ground, commenting on choice tidbits discovered under the houses. This was all routine for them but awesomely alien to me.

Four men trudged up the path, kicked off their slippers, climbed the ladder and sat down at the far end of our porch. Each carried a longrifle (the kind American revolutionaries fired at redcoats 200 years ago) smuggled across the border from Myanmar for hunting purposes. Hunkering down on the porch, flat-footed, smoking homegrown, hand-rolled cigarettes, they talked earnestly, sometimes angrily, with the man of the house.

From time to time, their emotional pots bubbled over and our host would simmer them down with a word or a hand motion.

At last, they picked their way down the porch ladder, scrooched their toes around the rubber thongs, and swung off down the path, rifle barrels pointed skyward on their backs.

Twittering like a little brown dove sitting on the bamboo floor, Grace explained, “My uncle, our host, is a district headman. Those men are from two neighboring villages.”

“And?” I asked, as Grace appeared to have lost interest in the narrative. (One trouble with working through a translator, you only know what they want you to know.)

“And the villages are having an argument.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, I think my uncle has worked out a compromise but for awhile, they were ready to fight it out.”

“With guns?”

Grace nodded her head once, then changed the subject.

That night, while the chilly wind slipped its fingers through the loosely woven bamboo walls and the odoriferous pigs grunted in the dishwater tossed through the floor cracks onto the ground below, I lay open-eyed in my sleeping bag. The cause of my insomnia wasn’t lack of a bed: the resilient bamboo floor was remarkably comfortable. No, the cause was those four men. Had they settled their quarrel?

Suddenly, I heard rifle fire. Then more. Time and time again.

“Oh, God,” I thought. “Those two villages are at it. And we’re stuck up here in some little burg that’s not even on the map.”

The rifle fire continued.

The hair at the nape of my neck was standing at attention. Every muscle in my body was on full alert.

Then, panic. I was sure we were going to be killed and no one would ever find our bodies because no one knew where we were.

At last I calmed down enough to analyze the sounds around me. Grace was snoring gently. No one stirred in our house. No footsteps raced through the village.

And after a few minutes, the rifle fire ceased.

Next morning on the porch, while Grace and I were washing the soot off our faces and brushing our teeth, I asked her about the rifle fire. She looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the RIFLE FIRE!”

“Yes. What was it? Did the two villages have a battle?”

“Oh, no. It was the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?” Sometimes you have to dig like a farmer with a chopping hoe to get information.

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Grace continued. “Last night, there was an eclipse of the moon. The rifle fire came from a Lahu village. When there’s an eclipse, they think that they have to fire their rifles to frighten the shadow off the moon.” Grace peered sideways at me, wondering if I would ridicule the tribespeople for their simple faith.

I thought about it. If I hadn’t benefited from Galileo and Copernicus et al, firing rifles at a moon shadow might seem very practical. After all, when the Lahus fire those guns, the shadow does depart. It works for them just like it did for their ancestors.

And that’s proof positive.

This article, which appeared in the HONOLULU ADVERTISER newspaper, describes an experience on my first trip to the tribes. I have returned many times and am constantly learning new things about the Karens, Lahus, Lisus, and Akhas. I go there to tell them that God loves them. Many of them still fear the spirits around them and are delighted to learn that Jesus is stronger than the other spirits.

PROOF POSITIVE

Vulnerable. That’s how you feel inn a bamboo house. With floors trampoline-springy and walls ventilated every half-inch by mountain breezes, you feel more exposed than a cedar at timberline.

As my friend and translator, Grace, sat with me high up on the stilt-supported porch floor, I thrilled at the scene before me. For years, I’d yearned to stay with the hill tribes of northwest Thailand. Now, I soaked up the atmosphere. In fact, it filled my lungs and coated my body as the hillsides blazed and smoked from the slash-and-burn agriculture. Grace assured me that soon the blackened areas would be green with mountain rice and tapioca.

Little kids carrying their bare-bottomed younger siblings in cloth slings stared at me from below the porch; women gossiping on other porches wove cloth or prepared dinner while speculating about who Grace had brought to the village this time. Chickens and pigs ignored us, scratching and rooting at the ground, commenting on choice tidbits discovered under the houses. This was all routine for them but awesomely alien to me.

Four men trudged up the path, kicked off their slippers, climbed the ladder and sat down at the far end of our porch. Each carried a longrifle (the kind American revolutionaries fired at redcoats 200 years ago) smuggled across the border from Myanmar for hunting purposes. Hunkering down on the porch, flat-footed, smoking homegrown, hand-rolled cigarettes, they talked earnestly, sometimes angrily, with the man of the house.

From time to time, their emotional pots bubbled over and our host would simmer them down with a word or a hand motion.

At last, they picked their way down the porch ladder, scrooched their toes around the rubber thongs, and swung off down the path, rifle barrels pointed skyward on their backs.

Twittering like a little brown dove sitting on the bamboo floor, Grace explained, “My uncle, our host, is a district headman. Those men are from two neighboring villages.”

“And?” I asked, as Grace appeared to have lost interest in the narrative. (One trouble with working through a translator, you only know what they want you to know.)

“And the villages are having an argument.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, I think my uncle has worked out a compromise but for awhile, they were ready to fight it out.”

“With guns?”

Grace nodded her head once, then changed the subject.

That night, while the chilly wind slipped its fingers through the loosely woven bamboo walls and the odoriferous pigs grunted in the dishwater tossed through the floor cracks onto the ground below, I lay open-eyed in my sleeping bag. The cause of my insomnia wasn’t lack of a bed: the resilient bamboo floor was remarkably comfortable. No, the cause was those four men. Had they settled their quarrel?

Suddenly, I heard rifle fire. Then more. Time and time again.

“Oh, God,” I thought. “Those two villages are at it. And we’re stuck up here in some little burg that’s not even on the map.”

The rifle fire continued.

The hair at the nape of my neck was standing at attention. Every muscle in my body was on full alert.

Then, panic. I was sure we were going to be killed and no one would ever find our bodies because no one knew where we were.

At last I calmed down enough to analyze the sounds around me. Grace was snoring gently. No one stirred in our house. No footsteps raced through the village.

And after a few minutes, the rifle fire ceased.

Next morning on the porch, while Grace and I were washing the soot off our faces and brushing our teeth, I asked her about the rifle fire. She looked puzzled a moment, then smiled. “Oh, the RIFLE FIRE!”

“Yes. What was it? Did the two villages have a battle?”

“Oh, no. It was the eclipse.”

“Eclipse?” Sometimes you have to dig like a farmer with a chopping hoe to get information.

“Yes.” Hesitantly, Grace continued. “Last night, there was an eclipse of the moon. The rifle fire came from a Lahu village. When there’s an eclipse, they think that they have to fire their rifles to frighten the shadow off the moon.” Grace peered sideways at me, wondering if I would ridicule the tribespeople for their simple faith.

I thought about it. If I hadn’t benefited from Galileo and Copernicus et al, firing rifles at a moon shadow might seem very practical. After all, when the Lahus fire those guns, the shadow does depart. It works for them just like it did for their ancestors.

And that’s proof positive.

This article, which appeared in the HONOLULU ADVERTISER newspaper, describes an experience on my first trip to the tribes. I have returned many times and am constantly learning new things about the Karens, Lahus, Lisus, and Akhas. I go there to tell them that God loves them. Many of them still fear the spirits around them and are delighted to learn that Jesus is stronger than the other spirits.