Chronicles of Abigail

“The night has a thousand eyes, a day but one…” I can clearly hear my English teacher’s voice in my as we stared back at the many peeping eyes between the crevices of the “organic” bathroom wall. Rita, my Indian friend, let out a shriek as she grabbed her towel for cover. Suddenly, a loud old woman’s voice was heard yelling at the children outside as they scampered. The sound of beatings caught up and loud sobs were heard. The loud voice explained from outside, “They never seen Indian people before. They like to see if you can turn white after you bathed”.
A splash of water on my skin brought me through the springs on Shangri la and back. It was cold and pure. Everything here is different, even breakfast was different. Thirty over long house people dined together, cross legged, in a circle. Everyone had a cheerful smile. The smell of burnt rice filled the air meeting the shafts of morning sun which stream in from the cracks. The woman scooping the rice from the gigantic cauldron does not seem to know how to stop. One mountain of rice for him, another for his brother. They both splattered soy sauce on it and feasted on it like kings. Pipit heaped another scoop of rice on my plate and said, “Petrol for hiking later”.
Outside, a 110 year-old Iban woman was beating trays of golden paddy, separating husk to seed. Rhythmic shakes match the rattle of an old, rusty fan oscillating behind her. She turned around and bared her toothless grin, beckoning me to join.
At the end of the room, there is a rack of clothes. It had about 20 hangers on. The little girl Ijut, ran towards me as I asked “Whose clothes are those?”. “Everyone’s” she replied. Then I remembered Pipit wearing the same red shirt his brother wore two days ago. Ijut then pressed into my hands something. It was a photo of her in a pretty white frock, probably the only photo she ever had. “She wants you to have this because she likes you” said Ijut’s mother. These villagers have so little, yet so much to give.