At my little
house on the research station, I went downstairs, got a glass of water, lit a
cigarette, and went outside and sat on a small stool and smoked and sipped and
watched the stars. I was wearing my
traditional skirt, called a pakama. Mine
was a gift from some villagers.
Men wear skirts in Thailand. At least the men that are part of the
traditional culture. This is not so
visible if you stick to the larger towns and cities and highways of the
country. It's really quite amazing. You could go there and work and live your
life away without ever seeing how about seventy percent of the people
live. They are not far away, but just
far enough off the highway that, without a concerted effort, you do not see
them. When village men come out of their
villages they put on their one pair of pants and a t-shirt. You would never know that there was another
way to dress or live, a way that is far more comfortable and simple than the
rat race costume that so many people on this planet have gotten themselves
into.
So why is it
that, in so many places, traditional people are handing over their history in
order to join this God forsaken, consumption based, energy insane path to
destruction on which we are hell bent?
Seems like
madness. Except that I know and you know
that, at the same time, there are a lot of people not so willing. At least I suspect that such proud people are
everywhere I go. You and me, because we
are thinking about this? Tuaregs. Tibetans. Saudis. Why are they so damned hard to see?
Well, for one
thing, when they are with me they probably wear pants and a t-shirt, rather
than strutting about making a loud statement.
For farmers, pants and t-shirts are cheap. Unless you go looking in odd places, the media,
television, magazines make money off the popular and status quo world over. GQ and Chatelaine do not do loin cloths.
Sitting there, outside
my little house on the eastern edge of Thailand’s Esan, I noted that I had been
blinded by having the privilege to wear pretty much anything I felt like wearing,
including the pakama I wore at the moment. Privilege to wear. Privilege to do.
I drew on my cigarette and felt small under the
canopy of stars.
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