Mud: a painful memory

It was pouring as we left the town... we had been camping out at the noodle restaurant hoping the rain would subside. It didn't but we were feeling tough, so we ventured out in the rain. About an hour into the ride I stop and hear a fizzle. Ahhh!! My first puncture. The Chinese have the horrible custom of throwing out their empty beer bottles from the window of the bus. Well, one green chunk from one such bottle was sticking right through my puncture resistant tires. Ahhh!! It was getting late and it was time to find a place to sleep. So rather than test our amateur tire changing skills and then find accomodation, we decided to walk the three kilometers to the next town, sleep there, and fix the tire in the morning light. Well, the town looked a bit more welcoming from the distance. As we approached, we realized it would be harder than we thought to find a bed for the night. Homes were surrounded by 12 foot high solid mud walls, an introverted town who's residents were hard to see. Luckly we spotted a man in the distance and when we approached, we flat out asked him if we could sleep at his place. With a smile he said yes and led us through the compound wall past the pig pens, the chained barking dog, the chickens and the piles of wheat. This was a farming village and soon the wife was adding a little bit more noodles to the night's meal. So warm and welcoming was the family that we decided to stay for another night. One of the deciding factors was that we saw a mud wall being constructed by the village and I secretly wanted to help (mud walls are my weakness.) We had already stopped to help a family complete a wall. But this was an entire production. All available members of the village had gathered to rebuild the compund fence surrounding one family's house. It was a big event. I counted 26 people shoveling and grunting as the wall rose inch by inch. We rolled up our sleeves, grabbed the nearest shovel and dug in. It was a big event and well organized. The wall was so high that the mud had to be shoveled up in two stages. The women ranging in age from 16 to 60 would shovel the mud from the dug-out hole up to the base of the wall. The men would shovel it up from the base to the top of the rising wall, and the older men would stomp it down with their feet. The 'subs' sat down and cleaned their shovels waiting to replace the next tired person. "Canada ja yo!" they shouted, "Let's go!" To which we replied with their village's name "Taji ja yo!" At lunch time the owners of the house for whom the wall was being built made lunch and all, including us, squeezed into the home for rice and potatoes and home made bread. The same happened at tea time and for dinner. We were so happy to see a village working together for the community, everyone sharing and laughing. I will have to admit that I was happy when the day was done. We would leave the next day, but they would go on to complete the wall. It took 26 people working the whole day to complete 30 linear meters of a 12 foot high wall. Mud had to be shoveled 12 feet into the air. It was heavy and it was tough. I was so sore by the end of the day and just wanted rest. The women went on to complete their daily chores and prepare supper. I rested my tired muscles. I thought I was reasonably fit and strong, but these women beat me hands down, even the old ones. I studied the technique, matched their pace and strokes but still my shovel was not as full or my throw as high. I gained nothing but respect for the life of a farmer. Now when I see a mud wall I think less about the romantic notion of earth becoming home, and more about the physical force required to push it upwards.