Coconut Crazy

I’m all about the coconut. The milk, the water, the meat, the oil, it’s all delicious on its own and it makes everything better. There is nothing more refreshing than young coconut water; coconut milk and meat make Thai curries, soups, and stirfrys spectacular. The Thais use the oil to create wonderful bath and body products, and the shell is used for things from ladles to jewelry to lamps. It is not only probably one of the most versatile foods in Thailand, but it is also cheap. I cringe at the thought of going back to the States and spending $3 for a fresh coconut after yoga. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ll fork over the money, I’ll just long for the days when I could get 10 for the same price. 

Familiar Fizz

There are some things you will rarely escape, no matter how far you travel. McDonald’s, for instance. Starbucks, Pizza Hut, and KFC all show up fairly often. And Krispy Kreme has made a recent debut here in Thailand, following us all the way from home. But nothing is as prevalent, and as adaptable, as good ol’ fashioned Coca-Cola. No matter where we’ve gone, how rich or poor the country, what language they speak or what money they use, we could always order a Coke with our meal. (Apparently this is true unless you go to North Korea, Iran, Cuba, Burma, or Sudan.)

I have seen the Coca-Cola emblem written in so many languages it’s mind-boggling. Most products maintain their logo and change all wording to the local language; Not Coke. Strangely, you can instantly recognize it, no matter the language. The brand image is apparently seared into our brains. The same thing can be said of most Coke and Pepsi products.

One big difference between here and home that they use old school glass bottles. You almost never see glass Coke bottles in the U.S. But, in Southeast Asia, they are much cheaper than plastic, since the bottles are returned to the company and refilled. This means you have to either drink it on the premises and give the bottle back, or they will toss ice in a plastic bag and pour your Coke in. Slap in a straw and you have a to-go “cup” full of soda, sweetened with real sugar. Nothing quite as refreshing, or precarious, as a bag of cool soda.

Thai Fruit: Durian

Durian. Oh, infamous durian. Banned from buses and trains, inappropriate to eat in mixed company, the durian has one overwhelming feature – its smell. Pungent, cloyingly sweet, with overwhelming tones of rotting garbage, the scent of durian is a uniquely nauseating experience. So overpowering is the smell that at Bangkok’s International Airport, the warnings for traveling with durians are identical to the warnings for checking firearms in your luggage, only the graphics are different.

I have tried durian several times, but I just cannot divorce my taste buds from my olfactory senses. I can only hold my breath while eating for so long. It just tastes exactly how it smells, with the added bonus of being super mushy.

Rewind: Christmas in Laos

Christmas 2010, Win and I were given an incredible, unexpected gift: a week off from teaching, contingent on our doing a “visa run” to Laos. Your typical visa run involves going to a Thai consulate in another country with a massive envelope of paperwork (Laos, apparently on best consular terms with Thailand, is the country of choice among teachers), waiting x number of days, and going back to Thailand with a Non-Immigrant B visa in-hand. However, having decided to get yearlong multiple entry visas, our visa run was a cake walk: leave Thailand, see another country, come back to Thailand and get a new 3-month entry stamp. So to Laos we went.

Twelve hours on a train, an hour waiting around at the border crossing, and a single sign telling drivers to start driving on the right, and we were in Laos. Flat, dry, and rundown, Laos’ capital city of Vientiane made for a lackluster first impression. Buildings, storefronts, even the stray cats, everything was sparse, dismal.

Aside from the presence of a bowling alley and the city signage having French flair – a trait that carried over to street, restaurant, and hotel names – Vientiane was very much like a small Thai city. The manner and language were similar; the architecture and tuk-tuk drivers much the same; there were the same orange-robed monks, the same women hiding from the sun beneath umbrellas, the same stray dogs rummaging through garbage. We navigated the city on foot, walked its streets, saw its museums. We ate its food, drank its beer, and spent its devalued kip (worth so little, I was withdrawing a million kip from ATMs the whole time, which was bizarrely satisfying in its own right).

After a day and a half, in what would turn out to be a moment of poorly executed planning, we boarded a bus to head into the heart of northern Laos.

Having been told that there wasn’t a bus leaving for Luang Prabang until evening, we were surprised when the ticket seller told us a bus would be leaving at 4 pm. As we stowed our backpacks and climbed aboard, it seemed a positive turn of events, catching a bus right as we arrived at the station. As the passengers were finding seats, the driver and some helpful hands started filling the aisle with packages, copious amounts of luggage, bags of rice, and all manner of freight, including three pieces of PVC piping, a foot in diameter and at least 12-feet long. In order to reach our seats, we now had to clamber and balance our way over piping, walking along armrests at times.

And so we set out, luggage shifting precariously in the aisle, Lao karaoke blaring and crackling from the speakers. Up and around steep, jutting hills, through luscious jungle foliage, encroaching thick and dark along the roadside, pushing its way toward the bus windows. As mid-afternoon gave way to evening, we passed through meager villages, clusters of single-room homes, many without furniture or front doors. The countryside wore its poverty openly. Bonfires served as stoves, simple elevated bamboo platforms as beds, possessions were few. Late into the night, long after the small village clusters went to sleep, the bus lumbered jerkily along half-finished roads, karaoke still blaring.

After twelve cramped hours, we arrived in Luang Prabang at 4 am. The whole town, all guesthouses and hotels, was sound asleep. We tried knocking on doors, calling phones, checking to see if anything was unlocked, all to no avail. So, we sat down somewhere well-lit to read and nap and waited for Luang Prabang to rub the sleep from its eyes.

Ill-timed though it may have been, our 4 am arrival had two unexpected benefits. First, as the sun started to peek over the mountains and the town stirred to life, we got to start our day off with fresh fruit-filled crepes, a treat one would be hard-pressed to find in Thailand. Also, we got to witness Luang Prabang’s famed procession of monks, numbering into the hundreds, lining the streets every morning bowl-in-hand, going from storefront to doorway, collecting alms, something many tourists wake early to see.

After schlepping around and scoffing at prices (“Only 40 US dollars a night”), we finally found a place to bed down for several days. It was a dank little hole of a room next to the guesthouse kitchen, but it was affordable. Luckily, as we discovered after napping well into the day, Luang Prabang was a lovely town, giving us little reason to spend excess time in our room.

Nestled between the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers, The Unesco World Heritage city of Luang Prabang sits high above the flowing waters on its hilltop peninsula. It was my first tryst with a World Heritage City, a first fling that would, unbeknownst to me at the time, turn into a travel love affair.

Roaming around town, the architecture is awash in French colonial remnants; beautiful balconies, wooden shuttered windows, massive homes mixed in with smaller, more Southeast Asian structures. Cafes, baguettes, creperies, Luang Prabang embraced its heritage as part of the French colony Indochine, using it as a tourist selling point surely, but also full of genuine relics of its past.

French remains Laos’ dominant second language (though it is being steadily overtaken by English), and to hear the Laos (plural of Lao, referring to the people of Laos) speak French was a surreal experience. There was none of the harsh, nasally, pretentious quality that you get when listening to French or other Europeans speak; instead, the words were tranquil, a calm, steady flow, all rounded edges and curved letters. It was delightful to listen to, as if the Laos spoke French as it was intended, a beautiful, delicate language.

Mixed in with its French heritage, an abundance of Buddhist temples stood their ground, solidly announcing Luang Prabang’s Buddhism. Although, with the highest number of Buddhist monks per capita (a statistic I might be making up, but there were certainly an impressive number of monks), the predominance of Buddhism in the area announces itself. Everywhere we walked, groupings of orange-robed monks, from small male children to wrinkled elderly men, meandered along the streets. In all of Thailand, never had I seen so many monks, especially child monks, all in one place.

Despite the attempts around town to appear more festive, garland and lights and trees appearing in large numbers, it wasn’t a particularly Christmasy Christmas. And, with near-tropical temperatures, it certainly wasn’t a white Christmas (although I don’t know that Southeast Asians would know what to do with themselves if it ever did snow).

In fact, we spent Christmas Day flying back to Bangkok through Luang Prabang’s ‘International Airport’ (a building so small it resembled a bus station more than an airport). The flight was my Christmas present to us, a way of avoiding 24 hours on buses and trains. Buying airline tickets also gave us time enough to spend three days soaking in Luang Prabang: enjoying its dichotomous culture, eating French, Lao, and French-Lao food (I even ate some buffalo), and most of all, just relaxing, reading, and relaxing some more. 

Frying Frenzy

My students love to try to share their food with me. Unfortunately, many of their food choices make me sick to even think about eating. Uncooked ramen noodles, french fries with a quarter inch layer of salt, weird fried crackers that taste like fish, gross jelly candy that has to be sucked from its plastic container. Many classes start with me saying repeatedly in Thai, “No thanks, I’m full, I already ate” just to avoid having to put unclassifiable foods in my mouth.

And in front of the school and in the cafeteria, stands cater to the students’ every whim. My least favorite is the vats of boiling oil filled with a mixture of mystery meats, similar to hot dogs and baloney (as if they weren’t unhealthy enough when microwaved or boiled). Skewered and tossed into a plastic bag with sauce – sweet chili sauce, ketchup, or (gag) mayonnaise, your choice – these fried meats are then devoured right off the stick.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the students who partake in all the fried foods. Win and another co-worker, Stephen, have taken to eating massive amounts of fried chicken and baloney during snack breaks (the school has two, aside from lunch). It has gotten to the point that these lunch ladies not only brag about the foreign teachers buying their fried meats, but also about the frequency with which the two of them show up. On the bright side, Win and Stephen don’t attempt to force-share their food with me. 

Exploring Ella

Surrounded by tea plantations, waterfalls, and mountainous countryside, the quaint town of Ella is a quiet place to spend a couple of days. We took the train from Hatton to Ella, climbing over and under mountains, clacking our way between tea plantations. Mountains layered in various shades of green-blue, it was picturesque as a postcard.

After overexerting myself at Adam’s Peak, I knew I had shot a hole in the plan to walk around Ella. Walking in stiff, awkward limps, the first day I did little more than get an Ayurvedic massage and read a book. The massage helped less than I had hoped, but the steam bath and herbal sauna helped warm the perpetual misty Hill Country chill from my bones.

Win was doing better than I was, so on the second day I pushed myself and we climbed what has been dubbed as Little Adam’s Peak. We passed through several small villages full of life and energy, cheering and rallying as they watched their local teens play sports.

Where the trail split from the main road, a local artisan was selling jewelry made by his wife. Instead of stones, beads, or gems, the necklaces and bracelets were made from the seeds of the trees in the area. He claimed that the seeds were also ground into powder to make medicines. Lovely in blue-grays to slate white and ashy black, the seeds had been strung together as simple string necklaces. He was even kind enough to tell us the best way to get to the top, which involved taking a path instead of the stairs (hallelujah!).

Four or five kilometers roundtrip, it didn’t kill me. The view from the top was all the more impressive for the fact that there wasn’t anyone else around. We stopped on our way back to purchase some seed jewelry and watch the volleyball game in progress. We arrived back just as the evening rain and fog was rolling in, just in time to rescue our dry laundry.

Curd & Honey

Resident dish of the Hill Country, Curd and Honey is light and delicious. The curd, made from fresh buffalo milk, has a tart-creamy flavor, not unlike Greek yoghurt. The honey, with its rich, smoky taste, isn’t honey at all. It is treacle: a sweet syrup made from boiling the sap of the kitgul palm. Often mixed with fresh fruit, muesli, roti, or pancakes, Curd and Honey is delectable as part of an ensemble or on its own.

Now, it might just be because Greek yoghurt ranks high on my list of Western foods I miss, but Curd and Honey is also my official favorite Sri Lankan food. 

Rice & Curry

Lacking a restaurant culture, Sri Lanka was a challenge when it came to food. With Sri Lankan cuisine, Rice and Curry is the traditional main course. Taking two to four hours to prepare, the simple phrase ‘Rice and Curry’ does little to encompass the variety, both in terms of the complete mystery of what foods you will actually be served and what flavor combinations you may end up with.

A meal of Rice and Curry consists firstly of your choice of meat, dependent of course on what is available, and what the chef wants to cook that evening. Chicken, beef, fish, fried eggs, hardboiled eggs, mango, banana, jackfruit (meat, fruit; tomato, tomahto), you name it, they’ll curry it. Then, an assortment of small curried vegetable dishes, anywhere from two to eight, fill up all empty space on the table. Green beans, onion, tomato, okra, string beans, beets, peppers, potatoes and various indeterminate veggies abound. It’s a complete gamble, but usually also includes dhal (lentils, useful in the event of extreme spice).

And if this veritable feast from the curry gods sounds too good to be true, that’s because we haven’t yet touched on the Russian roulette of flavors involved.

As native New Mexicans living in Thailand, we thought we were acclimated to spicy foods. Sri Lanka takes spicy to new levels. Personally, I prefer to be able to taste my food and feel my tongue. From bland with horrendously spicy aftertaste to eye-wateringly spicy mango curry with a smoky flavor, the Sri Lankans certainly manage to pack in the chili. However, there is little flavor aside from the heat; rarely did we encounter sweet, salty or savory, and when we did they were overpowered. The right balance of spice and taste just never seemed to come to fruition. Ultimately, Rice and Curry turned out to be nothing but a buffet of squandered potential and burning taste buds on a heaping pile of steamed rice. 

A World Away

Following a year of Southeast Asian travel, Sri Lanka provided a drastic change and a trip full of the unexpected. The climate varied between much hotter and much colder than Thailand, with little in between. While we were expecting food similar to that of southern India, we received many uniquely Lankan culinary experiences. And, all of the coconuts were orange.

Everywhere we went, we were apparently an equally unexpected sight. Dhoti-clad, shirtless men and saree’d women sent sour-faced stares in our direction; however, even the slightest smile was answered with big toothy grins and friendly ‘hello’s.

From Negombo’s pack of stray Pomeranians and the hordes of crows crowding telephone wires and trees nationwide to beach-roaming cows and Galle’s freakishly large monitor lizard population, not even the animals were what we expected.

We wanted a change from the life to which we have become accustomed, a change from the similar cultures, foods, religions, and travel experiences of Southeast Asia. And that is most certainly what we got in Sri Lanka. 

Thai Fruit: Mangosteen

It is official: I have a favorite tropical fruit. Mangosteen. Unassuming from the outside, incredible on the inside, mangosteen is, next to pineapple, the best fruit I’ve had. Possibly, ever.

Deep, dusty purple topped with a hat of bright green leaves, mangosteen fits in a loosely closed hand. Eating it causes a bit of a mess, as you typically use both your thumbs, pressing into the middle of the bottom, to pry open the inedible outside. In the process, both your thumbs, thumbnails included, end up temporarily stained bright magenta.

Inside, a delicious treasure is revealed. Small white sections of succulent, sweet and tangy fruit await. The soft, juicy sections include one much larger chunk, which holds the pit. The Thais even spend time sucking the fruit off of the pit section, and I appreciate their tenacity. It is definitely worth enjoying every last bit of a mangosteen. 

Thai Fruit: Rambutan

Recently I have been getting massages from a lady who used to work in the fruit market, so I have been receiving proper Thai fruit lessons on a regular basis. Every time I show up, she has a bowl of fruit and a willingness to share. Two of the things I enjoy most about Thailand are massages and trying all of the silly-looking fruits, so this is a lovely arrangement.

Rambutan is one of the more impressive looking fruits. Rich, deep red and pale yellow with fuzzy green fur sticking out in all directions. It is flamboyant and flashy. Inside sweet, opaque-white fruit flesh waits to be devoured.

The work involved in pulling them apart and prying the fruit and pit apart is a bit much. And I always end up getting some of the pit with the fruit, which I then have to eat to avoid being rude. But, rambutan is one of the better snacks I have discovered here, and is well worth the work involved, as well as a little pit. 

Thai Fruit: Gaton

This week seems to be the season for gaton, and everyone we have come across has been determined to make sure we try it. Disclaimer* I have no idea if that is the real name of the fruit, and it is almost certainly not how you would spell it in English (kratong, gauton, kartaun, who knows).

While searching for a very sneaky bunny, I instead came across a Thai wearing a giant floppy hat and work gloves and using a big stick to whack fruit from the trees in the lot behind us. Seeing me, she came over and started chatting away in Thai. Between the fragments of Thai that I can understand and the fact that she was reaching out, fruit in hand, I realized she wanted me to try the freshly picked fruit. I was instructed to cut the fruit into four pieces to eat it, although I am not sure why it had to be four. Then she remembered that two farang live in the house, went back to her bag, and came back with another and handed them both to me over the fence between us. Two fruit for two foreigners. Luckily, I know how to say ‘eat,’ numbers, and ‘thank you’ in Thai, so it was a pretty successful conversation.

In addition to this random exchange, we have been given them at school and at a local restaurant we frequent. Also known as wild mangosteen, gaton have become the hot item at the local markets now that they are in season. 

So we tried it. Fuzzy orange-brown on the outside, a soft pale-orange inside, it was reminiscent of the theoretical offspring of peaches and mangosteen, but a bit on the tart side. I wouldn’t go out of my way for it. But it’s not the worst fruit to have force-shared by random Thai strangers in our backyard. 

Thai Fruit: Dragonfruit

With a name like dragonfruit, how could you go wrong? Holy crap, it’s hot pink with what appear to be solidified neon green flames coming off of it! This has to be the coolest fruit ever.

Inside, either white or violet with tiny black seeds, similar to those in a kiwi. Delight. Excitement. Anticipation at what this wondrous fruit of dragons will taste like.

Oh…

 It tastes like nothing. It’s the texture of kiwi, but without any flavor.  Just the color white with seeds. I feel lied to. Betrayed. Dragonfruit? With a name like that it should taste rich, sweet, tangy, like fruit made from tropical fire. How can something with such potential fall so short?

Markets of Thailand: The Weekend Walking Street

Once upon a time in Thailand, it was decided that there should be a fair every week, complete with food stalls, trinkets, useful items at discount prices, and maybe even a concert. Also, in order for this fair to run smoothly, a minimum of three blocks must be cordoned off for pedestrian use only. And every town in Thailand must have one of these walking street night markets (as they are so elegantly named). Based on our experience, I’m pretty sure this is Thai law.

Thanks to the existence of night markets, I not only have acquired lots of useless (read: adorable) junk, but I’ve managed to buff up the parts of my wardrobe that fall within our uniform. Skirts in gray, purple, and red, as well as tee-shirts that look nearly professional (Thais are much smaller than us Americans) were a must for this term. Clearly necessary, as I already have a goofy styrofoam/yarn giraffe, were a cartoon dog to hold my toothbrush, an ashtray shaped like a turtle, a mug with a frog perched on the handle, and earrings shaped like various desserts.

Also thanks to the night markets, I have eaten ostrich, deer, and alligator (crocodile?), as well as numerous other varieties of meat-on-a-stick. Pork buns, fried quail eggs, pad thai, corn with butter and sugar, super sweet fruit shakes, and (if you so desire) the creepy sea version of meat-on-a-stick, whole squid. Dumplings, spring rolls, milk tea, waffles full of raisins, chocolate, or taro, roti pancakes with egg and banana. By definition it’s a smorgasbord.

Plants, clothes, shoes. Hair pins, purses, straightening irons. Helmets, keychains, crocs shaped like dragon claws, sunglasses. Oh, and of course, Thai line dancing (I say line, but it goes in a circle). Inevitably, we will eat on the cheap, but still spend too much. And on Monday morning, we get at least one “Teacher, I see you, walking street.”