San Mae

After harvesting rice in the paddies of (village name), I stepped onto the dirt path with mud caked on my feet and legs. I was sitting down, attempting to remove the inch of brown from my body, when a young woman offered me a bundle of leaves to help do this. She looked about forty years old, with a kind face and stained blue hands. Once my legs were fairly clean, I stood up and began the descent down the mountain. The many women who followed us up the hill made it look so easy to just waltz down the mountain path, but it is difficult when the slope is practically vertical and the footing is a slippery sludge. Thankfully, the woman with stained blue hands took my hand in hers and helped me down the mountain.
         Once we got to the bottom, we started talking. She introduced herself as “San Mae” or the “Second Daughter.” She told me that she lived in this village, pointing out to me where in the mountains her house was. She also told me how she had six children, and a few grandchildren as well. I asked how old she was, and she replied, “I am forty year old.” I tried to hide my surprise, unable to comprehend how someone so young could already have “a few grandchildren.” We continued walking, and as time went on, I was more and more impressed with the extent of her English speaking. As we walked through the village, little children ran in front of us, waving and playing. I saw the village through her eyes: the familiarity of the hills and fields, the scent of the corn roasting, the faces of friends and relatives. San Mae transformed me from a person staring from a bus window to a friend walking hand in hand with a villager.
        When we were approaching our bus, she pulled out one of her hand-made scarves. It was an array of oranges, reds and yellows, with the occasional stripes of black and yellow, pink, and green (the Black Hmong’s trademark colors). It was beautiful, and I knew I wanted it not simply for its beauty, but to remember this remarkable woman I had befriended. I asked her “Bao nhieu tien?” and she responded, “One hundred thousand.” Remembering how my other friends had bought similar scarves for two hundred and even three hundred thousand, I placed the bill in her blue-stained hand without even thinking twice. As my classmates were heading back into the bus, I took a picture with San Mae and gave her a hug. Suddenly, back in the bus, I became a tourist again, separated by a glass window from the rest of the villagers. But, I will always remember that for a short while, I was San Mae’s friend.