Ahh, sweet mysterious of the Mokken Village we have uncovered thee! Upon arriving to the Mokken bay tinted with broken red bull bottles and climbing inside the Village Cheif’s house, nothing more than a living room sized shack with open windows and harsh, unshaven bamboo branches, we quickly and abruptly came to a single conscious realization: We aren’t in America anymore.
Different problems arose quickly for different people. What will heal these bug bites? How does one shower with a bucket? Why is there no toilet paper to wipe my tuchus?
Yet amongst the myriad of cultural shocks and physical dillemas, none could count the Mokken’s treatment of us as anything but a comfort. A relief for some, and a shock for others, the Mokken’s certainly did not act as one would expect. While we may have thought our purpose in the dispossessed refugee camp was to supply labor, we found that our services were only half as efficient as the villagers, who put up the infrastructure of the community center that we funded in little under a day. One could not help but feel that, when we were finally allowed to hammer nails into the carefully laid boards of the community center floor (and what a pile of bent nails we left) that our efforts were less helpful and more to feel like we helped. In the same way we desired to feel the joy of contribution, the Mokken’s wished to hold the prize of ownership. Unlike many of their houses, which the Thai government built without the Mokken’s needs or wants in mind, the Mokken’s wanted their community center to contain within it the craft, labor, and pride of Mokken culture.
This left most of us with 3 hour work days and immense free time, so we were happy to oblige.
After leaving the Mokken village, filled with mixed feelings about our laborious if not limited contributions, our difficult living conditions and our comparatively luxurious treatment, a trip to a nearby beach and actually mattress covered beds with real running showers was more than a welcomed holiday. It was paradise. -Ben Greene
