One of the wildest experiences we’ve had in the last four months of travel was our trip to Belaraghi village. After a few days hanging around the the town of Bijawa we heard about an awesome village nearby accessible only by foot. We managed to arrange for one of two guides that organizes stays in the village and in a couple days, Paul, Robin, and our death-metal-obsessed guide, Freidus, were off. After a relatively short hike, we arrived in the village of traditional thatched-roof houses, perched on a ridge and surrounded by rice fields. It was a ghost town. The children were boarding at the nearest school and the adults were all in the fields. So we dropped our bags and continued on the trail until we came across the village chief and her extended family. They put knives in our hands and we set to work, (slowly) harvesting rice. There was a lot of chatting, laughing, finger-pointing at the gringos, and photos (mostly the villagers taking pictures with their phones of us bumbling through the rice fields).
The afternoon continued with a hilarious game of takraw. I have never met people more quick to laugh, and mostly at themselves (one of the best traits you can have). And then came the chicken sacrifice. To welcome us into the village and introduce us to their ancestors, a chicken was slaughtered, the blood thrown against the wall, and then drained into a bowl of coconut shavings and rice (which we later had to eat). The chief read our futures in the large intestine (happy travels, good health, and many babies of course) and then we proceeded to feast and drink and drink. Oh, and there was dancing. Paul put on an especially entertaining shimmy that kept the local ladies in stitches. They were still laughing the next morning and could hardly look at Paul without instigating another round of giggles.
We were grateful for their generosity, humbled by the simplicity and fullness of their lives, and warmed by their full-bully laughter and wide smiles.