Khantoke Dinner

Celebrating and embracing the Lanna culture of Northern Thailand, a Khantoke dinner is a fantastic experience. Dinner is accompanied by traditional Lanna music and dance, with all performers wearing the customary garb.

 The final song even includes audience participation, during which time women are invited to dance around the restaurant in a sort of Thai conga line while moving their hands in intricate patterns. And, while all Thais have learned these hand gestures from a young age, watching foreign women try to replicate it must be a laughable sight.

The highlight, of course, is the food. A handful of different dishes are served on a pedestal in the center of the table. The selections include traditional fare like lemongrass sausages, Henglay pork curry, fried chicken, pork tomato-chili paste, pork rinds, and Thai green chile paste with fresh streamed veggies. Sticky rice is a useful and delicious tool for eating from communal plates, as everything is shared. The best part, all the dishes are endlessly refillable.

Delicious food, interesting cultural performances, and nice pillows to lounge on once you’ve stuffed yourself so full you think you might never move again, who could ask for more? 

Weight Ain't Nothin' but a Number

Dear Thailand Committee on Self Esteem and Body Image,

I was recently in a yoga studio where I was asked to step on a scale. The reaction of the other people (all Thai) implied that I should be embarrassed about the number the scale displayed. Other days at this same studio, it is measuring and comparing waist, hip, and bust sizes. 

I do not feel the need to apologize for weighing 60 kilos. Nor am I in the least bit embarrassed by that number or by the fact that I have a solid 10-15 kilos on every Thai lady in my yoga class. I do not expect that as a woman in my late twenties I would have a 22 inch waist. 

Yes, I am bigger than many Thai women. I probably always will be. 

There was a time when I thought that weight, that magic number on the scale, meant something. At one point in my life, I gave it so much value that it controlled nearly everything I ate and did. From the age of 12 until about 20, I couldn’t imagine weighing more than 100 pounds; 110 felt like the end of the world. At one point during freshman year of college, I hit a low of 85 pounds. At that time, in that pound-oriented mindset, I felt like that was a glorious number.

But it didn’t feel healthy. I was frail and tired. I was sick and weak. I was skinny, sure, but I was in no way healthy.

Today, at the age of 26, I apparently weigh around 135. I might not be perfectly in shape – things might be bouncier or squishier than “ideal” – but I am strong and healthy. I am certainly not stick-thin, but by most standards, especially my own, I am not overweight.

Being healthy does not require washboard abs, sculpted arms, or cellulite-free thighs.  I would rather be the version of healthy that I embody right now than be super-skinny, have those perfect body parts, and constantly criticize everything I do and every morsel I consume. I no longer have the desire for my hipbones or collarbones to protrude, for my thighs not to touch, or for my arms to be 100% jiggle-free. 

Now, I do not necessarily agree wholeheartedly with the American adage about accepting yourself just the way you are; too often it becomes an excuse for apathy, laziness, and inertia. I accept myself, and this means accepting that in many ways I can be better. I can be nicer, kinder, more understanding; I can work harder, learn more, and find ways to step out of my comfort zone. I can be stronger, eat better, push myself to try things toward which I am not naturally inclined or gifted. But these days, I push myself to be better without criticizing that which needs to be changed.

Hear me: not only am I not ashamed of my 60 kilos. I’m damn proud of them. They took fortitude to acquire, perseverance to develop. They come from strength and confidence, rather than self-denial and insecurity.  I am proud that I sometimes allow myself to overindulge, proud of my 3-second handstand, proud of almost being able to run a half mile. I am proud to know that, with work and a positive attitude, I can push three seconds to four and half a mile to a whole mile. And if in the process my thighs or arms get bigger, so be it. I am proud, most of all, that a number doesn’t define whether or not I think I am beautiful.

So, Thailand, stop patting my belly and pinching my arm fat. Stop asking if I am pregnant. Stop covering the scale readout. This is me, all 135 glorious, healthy pounds of me. And, I will not let you make me feel bad about who I am or how I look.

Sincerely,

disgruntled but ever-loving foreigner

*While I realize how many of these same arguments can be applied to American culture’s standards of beauty, Thailand is particularly blunt and graceless when it comes to social treatment of body size and standards of beauty. 

Sweet Treats

Between Kuala Lumpur and the Malaysian border with Thailand lies the mildly-alpine cluster of towns known collectively as the Cameron Highlands. With its cool, crisp air, its land a patchwork of green blanketing rolling hills, and its charming colonial-inspired, mock-Switzerland architecture, the Highlands are a popular getaway for tourists and Malaysians alike.

Overrun with tea plantations, butterfly gardens, and organic farms of every variety -- vegetable, mushroom, honey, strawberries, and even a handful of cactus farms -- this part of Malaysia offered a calm pit stop after the rest of our jungle-trekking, mosquito-swatting travels.

Few foreigners were to be seen in the sea of weekend day-tripping Malaysians --- Muslim, Chinese, and Indians all accounted for. The weekend prices skyrocketed. The mountain roads were heavy with traffic, restaurants packed in the evening.

It wasn’t all as advertised. More than anything, we waded through an endless sea of souvenirs, trinkets, and junk. Most of the so-called farms were poor imitations, designed to lure visitors into unnecessary purchases. The butterfly and insect gardens had seen better days, sad and trampled as they were.

Despite the gimmicky atmosphere and over-saturated market, we got what we asked for. The honey was sweet, the butterflies big and beautiful, the insects and reptiles bizarre and intriguing, the strawberries ripe and luscious. And, equally important,  the Indian food plentiful and cheap.

Nearby Neighbor

Traveling from Thailand to Indonesia is a bit like visiting a friend whose house has the same floor plan as your own; everything is familiar, but the furniture is bizarrely different. The Elaborate Buddhist temples have been replaced by equally elaborate mosques, the tuk-tuks replaced with sidecar-wielding becaks.

Call to prayer, haunting and melodic, pours over the buildings, snaking in through windows and doors. It wakes you in the morning, and bids you farewell at night. Hijabs of every hue cover the heads of devout women, equally a proclamation of faith and a fashion accessory. Cats lounge and prowl in broad daylight, flaunting their power in the absence of canine competitors. The fried rice has a bit of a kick, the variety of local curries an even bigger one. 

The landscape and weather are both similar in temperament to what we live with in Thailand. Tropical flowers, palm trees, and banana leaves abound; fried rice and noodles rule the kitchen; smiles are offered openly and easily. Yet, touching down in Indonesia’s northern island of Sumatra, we are greeted by a land that is still incredibly travel-worthy, with a diverse culture, rare plant and animal life, and a lush array of landscapes. 

Despite being so close to Thailand, both in kilometers and in attitude, and despite having been to Java and Bali in the past, Sumatra offered us a whole new world to explore.

And Now for Something Completely Different

Among East African countries, Ethiopia is incredibly unique. The culture, the landscape, the clothing, the food, it all stands tribute to a country that isn’t quite like any other. An interesting combination of Middle Eastern and African influences, visible in the facial features, hair texture, and style of dress, stepping off the plane in Ethiopia was the beginning of an experience like no other.

With landscape remarkably similar to the American Southwest, only with a slight, almost imperceptible, color change, Ethiopia is dry, arid, and sparsely populated outside of the capital city of Addis Ababa. And outside of this bustling city, you find a country that relies on agriculture, where farm animals clatter down cobblestone streets or sleep in the shade of gas pumps; where donkeys and camels laden with crops, water, or cargo often outnumber motor vehicles.

The food itself speaks of strong tradition. The brewing of coffee is ritualized, complete with a ceremony. The staple bread, a pancake called injera, is made from a grain only available in Ethiopia (which, lucky for me, happens to be gluten free). Topped with any variety of sauces or stews (currently without meat, as we are here during their Lenten fasting period), injera is eaten using only the right hand.

Even time works a bit differently here. Okay, more than a bit. Following the Ethiopian (Coptic Christian) calendar, it is currently August of 2005. And when it comes to telling time of day, a bit of clarification is necessary. Our midnight and noon (12 a.m. and 12 p.m.), are instead placed at sunrise and sunset. So, for the Ethiopians, what we consider 7 a.m. is 1 a.m., as you have had one hour of daylight. It can all get a bit confusing.

Men and women walk cloaked in long pieces of white fabric, many women keeping their heads covered; though this seems more about keeping the strong sun at bay than about strict modesty. Religious tattoos can be seen on hands and forearms, necks and jaw lines, cheeks and foreheads.

And, though it is such a unique and different culture, we have (for the most part) been welcomed with smiles and warm greetings. 

Ice Cream. Coffee. Dreams.

Rwanda is not a country for ice cream lovers, despite what I would consider (at least in our two months here) weather to warrant some frozen treats. However, for the determined, there is one ice cream shop in the whole of the country. Nearly three hours from the capital of Kigali sits the university town of Butare, home to Inzozi Nziza ice cream shop. Yes, we did travel this far for some ice cream, and you can bet we got a large.

Inzozi Nziza, or Sweet Dreams in Kinyarwanda, is a unique venture. Brain child of a local woman, the shop was backed and opened by Blue Marble Dreams, the non-profit arm of Brooklyn’s Blue Marble Ice Cream. Not only did they have to import a soft serve machine, but there is only one person in the country who can fix it.

Vanilla and chocolate soft serve, topped with nuts, fresh fruit, granola, sprinkles, or raw honey (my personal favorite), the ice cream was as delicious as you would expect.

In addition to selling soft serve, the restaurant serves omelets, sandwiches, pastries, cakes, and fruit juices. It also provides the community the valuable service of training local women to become entrepreneurs, an important skill in a developing country. 

A bit of a trek for ice cream (admittedly, we were seeing a couple of other things as well, we’re not crazy people), but a worthy, delicious project. 

Meaty Morsels

A rose by any other name, etc. etc. Well, the same can be said for meat on a stick. Living in foreign cultures, I have come to truly appreciate meat on a stick as quick, easy, tasty, and typically cheap. Call it a shish kabob, call it a brochette, hell, call it Ralph. It doesn’t matter because it is still delicious.

I have had many varieties of meat on a stick: chicken, pork, beef, fish, hotdog (not sure which category that falls in), elk, ostrich, venison, crocodile. And, thanks to Rwanda, I can now add goat to that ever-growing list.(Seriously, for a former vegetarian of a decade it's a pretty long list.)

As in many developing countries, meat quality here is a complete gamble. Sometimes it’s incredible, other times it is like meat-flavored chewing gum, all fat and tendons, a struggle to choke down. But, with the right spices and sauces, when the quality isn’t horrible, goat’s not half bad. In fact, I have had some that was downright scrumptious. Whoda thunk it?

So Long and Thanks for All the Arepas

For our final Colombian destination, we chose Cartagena. After two months of calling Colombia home, a much shorter time than anticipated due to some very unexpected changes in our plans, we were down to our last couple of days.

Cartagena oozes old world colonial charm. Buildings, facades crumbling and faded, repainted in vibrant hues, wind along narrow streets throughout the old quarter of town, a UNESCO World Heritage gem. The walled old city, surrounded by the coralstone protection of once-great fortress walls, maintains an air of Spanish colonialism infused with a taste of the Caribbean.

We roamed the city, took in the sights and the history. We indulged in our final Colombian arepas, corn-flour pancakes essential in the local diet, piled high with cheese and eggs. We sipped on juice made from local fruits. 

Church-studded, flavored with diverse history, Cartagena makes for a beautiful place to laze about, stroll around, and generally take in bit by bit. Scorching heat, high humidity, and a perplexing lack of water (of our three days in Cartagena, we only had water for a day), and heavy afternoon showers drove us into the hostel’s shady patio for much of the time.

Maybe not ideal by most postcard holiday standards (I certainly could have used another shower or two), but Cartagena served as a lovely sendoff in its own right, a beautiful goodbye to Colombia. And it gave us a bit of calm before our Central American whirlwind tour

Seoul Searching

Having spent a year and a half in Southeast Asian countries, a week in Seoul was something of a shock to the senses. Accustomed to hot, humid weather, a laidback pace of life, and dirt-cheap everything, we suddenly found ourselves thrust into the middle of a surprisingly Western city, complete with winter temperatures, urban sprawl, and smog. Luckily, we were visiting my college roommate, Mr. Peter West, so we had our own built in tour guide, making it much easier to adjust to such Western living (and someone with female friends who could loan me warm clothes and shoes, without which I may have frozen to death).

While tagging along with Peter, I learned a handful of interesting things about South Korean food, culture and lifestyle. 

In a world without scooters, tuk-tuks, or motorbike taxis, having an efficient transportation system is invaluable. Getting all around Seoul, and to the surrounding cities, was incredibly simple given a massive web of subway lines and bus routes. Thanks to easy transport, we were able to spend time roaming through palaces, perusing modern malls, walking Korean street markets, meandering streets lined with tea shops and traditional houses, and sampling Korean and Western foods. 

Scissors are vastly underrated in the West. In Korean restaurants, scissors are a widely used utensil. Used to snip off noodles served from a common dish, scissors prevent that sloppy snap that flings sauce everywhere. At Korean BBQ (or "Meat Restaurants" as they are locally known), scissors are also used instead of a fork and steak knife. Both solutions are so simple, but I wouldn't have thought of them on my own. 

Soju is the devil. Alcohol made from sweet potatoes, plus a dash of evil, soju is a dangerous drink. It might not taste very strong, but when ingested soju can cause incredible intoxication, as well as spontaneous attacks of boisterous laughter and random fits of karaoke. It is also known to cause the worst hangover ever. 

Southeast Asia might be less "developed" than South Korea, but I vastly prefer their ideas on what constitutes an appropriate workload. The Koreans spend the majority of their time working or studying, sometimes into the wee hours of the night. There's something much nicer about living in a culture that values free time, a lack of stress, and an afternoon nap. 

Traditional architecture interwoven among highrise apartment buildings, Seoul is the combination of ancient Asian culture and modern Western influence, with a dash of poorly structured English and brightly colored cartoon characters. Seoul was the perfect layover between Southeast Asia and America.

Kop Khun Kah

Thank you, Thailand, for eighteen wonderful months. Thank you for costing so little, but offering so much. Thank you for people so friendly and open. Thank you for incredible students, co-workers, and pets. Thank you for little bananas, sweet sweet mangoes, and introducing me to mangosteen. Thank you for monkeys and tigers and geckos (oh my!). Thank you for locals who draw eyebrows on cats and put T-shirts on dogs.

Thank you for helping me to become both an English teacher and a Yoga teacher. Thank you for cheap food and beer. Thank you for tuk-tuks and third class trains. Thank you for squat toilets and cold showers (because what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger).Thank you for "Thai time" and total chaos.

But mostly, thank you for helping me to triumph over Western pitfalls of stress and worry. Thank you for forcing me outside of my comfort zone, it has made all the difference.