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The Slow Boat to Ko Kret

My standard travel plans are usually a tad unrealistic. There was that memorable three hour trip from Bangkok airport to Khao San road (a trip that should take 45 minutes). Also worthy of note was the 12 hours of transit I suffered through in order to spend 36 hours in Key West (all worth it to see good friends tie the knot, of course). We can’t leave out the day trip to Ayutthaya which became an overnight trip when I neglected to check both ferry and train times. And then there were the trains and planes that I just forgot to take during my trip to India. As my friend Linnea once pointed out, I always get where I’m going, but I do it in the most difficult way possible.

Apparently, I also have a very poor memory when it comes to travel discomfort. For example, I just booked a two day trip to Taipei which will involve an arrival at 4:20am. I sit here, right now, simultaneously convinced that I will be completely fine, and that I will experience yet another travel disaster. If you’re a betting man, place money on the latter.  Although on the bright side, this upcoming lesson might succeed in dissuading me from planning to visit three countries in seven weeks this fall. Or not. Bet on the latter.

Since Bangkok is so very Western, and so very convenient, I sometimes forget that travel here can actually take a fair amount of time. Once you leave the comfortable safety of the BTS things slow down dramatically. I had yet another lesson in this on a recent Friday. Based on recommendations from both guidebooks and co-workers I had decided to spend my day off exploring Ko Kret. This manmade island just on the outskirts of Bangkok is home to one of the last traditional Mon communities (the Mon people arrived in Thailand about 300 years ago after the Burmese sacked their capital city.) From what I read, Ko Kret seemed like an island oasis in the midst of the Bangkok insanity, a place where cars were forbidden, and locals maintained ancient artisanal pottery techniques. On weekends it gets quite crowded with Bangkok citizens (Bangkokians? Bangkokers?), as the island is also home to a kick-ass weekend market. Of course, I only have Fridays off, so there was no chance to see the weekend market. Half the things I read said weekends were awful, but weekdays were delightfully tranquil; the other half said weekdays were pointless due to the lack of market. I figured I should take my chances on a weekday, seeing as that was my only option.

This is one of the unfortunate aspects of my job: I basically work every weekend. This means that I get to avoid rush hour and standard weekend crowds. It also means that I don’t get to experience the full impact of most touristy things. This was the case in Taiwan as well. Of course, my job is also the reason that I’ve had the extreme good fortune to even enter these countries, so I’m really not complaining. It is worth mentioning, however, that when I travel in my country of current residence I don’t have the typical tourist experience.

Somehow I decided that it would only take an hour to get from my home in central Bangkok up north to Ko Kret. I have no idea where I got that time estimate from. Maybe a hold-over from my Inwood days, when everything in Manhattan was basically an hour away? Who knows? The point is, getting to Ko Kret involves a train to a boat to a cab to a ferry. Two hours total on the way there, three hours on the way back (an extra hour to accommodate Bangkok traffic and incompetent cab drivers). My time on the island only totaled about four hours, but they were four lovely hours.

The leaning stupa, a Ko Kret landmark.

"Begone, foul farang!"

The Ko Kret ferry costs 2 baht (about 5 cents) and deposits you at a sleepy temple complex filled with vendors, bike rentals, and Wats. As I mentioned above, cars are not allowed on Ko Kret (motorbikes are, of course, since they act as extensions of legs here in Asia). The two transit options are bike and foot, so I grabbed a bike for the day (40 baht, or about $1). The island has a clear tourist path running around it, which I was repeatedly “encouraged” to stick to (in other words, when I tried to deviate I was promptly told, “No! No! Other way!” This was accompanied by the waving of arms.) The loop takes you through the market and the pottery villages. Pottery is a really big deal among the Mon, and rightly so, since their work is beautiful. The villages themselves were clustered around large, (mostly) non-functioning kilns. As expected, these villages were extremely quiet while I was there. I believe on weekends you can try your hand at throwing pottery, but of course none of that was happening on a sleepy Friday afternoon. The place had the feel of a ghost town, which I actually kind of liked. As I meandered around the loop I heard the sound of Thai soap operas coming from almost every home. In the main pottery village there was an open-air museum/shop which was, well, open. You could just wander in and steal things. I spent a hilariously long time standing in front of it, waiting for someone to yell at me, before finally walking in and exploring some of the more unusual pieces.

I totally could have fit this in my bag.

The main draw-back to visiting tourist towns on non-tourist days is the food. There were a variety of Mon specialties that I was really excited to try, but since most shops were closed I couldn’t find them. I did try tod mun pla nor gala, which I assume translates to “lovely fried fish cake”. I’ve seen these in a number of places and had always been hesitant to try them since I’m not a fan of fish balls, but my sources told me that these were elevated to a new level with the inclusion of some unique, local spices and herbs. I can confidently report back that these are absolutely delicious. The individual fish cakes are small and light, suffused with basil and ginger, and covered with a sweet chili sauce. A few cucumber slices cooled down the heat. I devoured a plate upon arrival, and they sustained me as I traveled past many, many closed restaurants.

Best thing (and only thing) I ate all day.

I didn’t spend too much time in the temples, because I’m slightly temple-d out. I explored the first one, a beautiful structure with flamboyant golden birds standing proudly in front of the entrance, and a statue of a seated monk who seems to be looking at the sky asking, “Are you there, God? It’s me, monk.” Or perhaps his monk bowl is actually an elaborate scrabble receptacle and he’s averting his eyes as he picks his letters. Two very likely possibilities. This temple also had a fortune telling machine which I tried out, taking particular care not to wish for anything along the lines of “being big”. Tom Hanks, you taught me well. Instead, I found out that I’m like a fish transforming into a dragon. So, I’m not a true dragon. I’m more like the cousin of dragons. But that’s better than being a fucking Tully, so I’ll take it.   

No peeking!

Despite my usual reluctance to purchase items larger than jewelry during my travels, I could not resist the Mon pottery. They produce a kind of non-glazed terra cotta covered bowl, carved with intricate dashes, almost like leaves. The bowls come in many guises (candle holder, incense holder, cup, etc.), but the exteriors of each all follow the same general design. There were lots of items available at the few shops open in the market, but I found my pieces down a tiny alley. As I rode beyond the first wat, I noticed a sign that said “Pottery” and an arrow pointing down the small walkway. I turned down the path and saw another, smaller sign that said, “Welcome Pottery”. How could I resist? I walked through the wooden fence into a tiny courtyard, past a man treating the inside of a massive pot. The front of the house was open, revealing a dim living room with a modest collection of wares. I slipped my shoes off and stepped onto the cool tiles, past a collection of adorable, meowing kittens. From what I gathered with my non-existent Thai, the business was run by a husband and wife team, the wife being the artisan. She showed me a few pieces, and then took out a laminated newspaper article, presumably about pottery, perhaps her own. That was my guess, anyway, since she kept pointing from the article to the bowl I was holding. I have no basis to say whether her pottery was better than other pottery on the island, but I liked her, the kittens were cute, and the price was reasonable. So I now own a Mon teacup and a candle holder, which will necessitate the purchase of a new suitcase. Ah, tourism.

I think we're going to need a bigger boat.

As mentioned above, I didn’t spend too much time on the island. But it was refreshing to leisurely bike past thick groves of palm trees, with wooden-stilt houses peeking through the foliage. Furthermore, while I was frustrated by the amount of travel time, the ride itself was actually not too bad. I spent most of that time on the Chao Phraya “Express” boat, which cuts through the center of Bangkok in a decidedly non-express way (the boat stops 30, count ‘em, 30 times.) There was good people watching, we were followed by schools of catfish, and I enjoyed the occasional invigorating spray of astoundingly polluted water as we skimmed across the river.

This view is totally worth
the toxic skin disease I acquired from the river spray.

Ko Kret was the latest in a plan of sorts, which is to cover the less common Bangkok day trips. I did the big ones last year (Ayutthaya, Amphawa, Khao Yai), and while I certainly wouldn’t mind visiting those places again, I’d like to go farther afield this time around. I want to explore places that many Western tourists may never even hear about. I want to challenge myself with language difficulties and ridiculous transit options. To that end, tomorrow I will make a pilgrimage to a 250 ton, three-headed copper elephant. What could possibly go wrong?    

Hope springs eternal.

Farewell, Ko Kret!

All I do is sweat, sweat, sweat no matter what

On a recent Sunday, the Bangkok Electric Company (or whatever it’s called) decided to shut off the power in my employer’s building for most of the day. As a test prep teacher, that meant an unexpected day off. As I was continuing my commitment to explore all that Bangkok tourism had to offer, I decided that I should spend the day touring a place that can only be enjoyed during the weekend: Chatuchak Market.

Okay, “enjoy” might be too strong a word. Chatuchak Market is huge, crowded, and hot as hell. But I have a strange, masochistic love of open air markets. They are, in fact, one of my favorite things about Asia (the NYC equivalent used to be street fairs, but these days street fairs have devolved into one gigantic underwear/arepa stand. It’s tragic.) I was also just easing off jet lag, so I was still capable of waking up before 10am. It seemed like the perfect plan for my utility-sponsored vacation day.

The last time I visited Chatuchak Market was on my first, brief trip to Bangkok in 2012. I remember it through a sweaty haze: rows upon rows of goods for sale, vendors and tourists alike languidly dripping through the narrow aisles. The market (one of the largest in the world) is split into about 25 sections, with themes such as “odds & ends”, “clothing & accessories”, “creature”, and “fighting cock”. There’s also a section devoted to original artwork, which is where I spent most of my time during that 2012 visit. This time I was determined to cover more ground, and maybe actually shop (while I absolutely love markets, I hate haggling, and travel light so I usually don’t have enough room in my tiny bag to add stuff. I know. This makes no sense.)

Start your day right, with many,
many fried things.

I set out around 9:30am, mainly in an attempt to beat the crowds. There’s really no way to beat the heat, which was already pulsing at that early hour, but at least by starting my day in 88 degree temperature I could ease into the eventual triple digits. Many stalls were up and running, and the plastic chair “restaurants” were already doing a brisk business. I didn’t really have a shopping agenda; mostly I wanted to explore the offerings and the atmosphere. Almost immediately I found myself standing in front of a vaguely Mediterranean man tending an enormous paella pan. Ah, Bangkok. You cater so nicely to our Western food needs. I know, I know. No one goes to Bangkok to eat paella. Were I only here for a week, I might have passed on it, but I’m here for four months and dammit, I love paella. So that was immediately put down as the final stop on my day’s itinerary.

Portrait of a man and his paella.

For the first hour or so I just wandered around, enjoying the brisk 90 degree temperatures, and inquiring about the price of an occasional scarf. These are always hilariously awkward encounters. First of all, I think that in many cultures it’s considered rude to ask for the price of something you don’t intend to buy. I don’t mean to be rude, not at all. It’s just that after I ask the price, I choke. I know that the appropriate response is to counter with an offer at least 50% lower. But I still get so uncomfortable doing that. My Western background rears its ugly head. To me, it seems incredibly rude to tell someone that an item they’re offering is not worth even half their asking price. This results in one of two outcomes: either I sheepishly back away and offend the seller, or if it’s something I really want, I say fuck it and pay the asking price. Which is most definitely way, way too much. I know all the reasons that this is wrong: it offends the vendors, drives up prices for other tourists, and also keeps me from experiencing something that I am extremely unlikely to encounter in the US (not so much haggling going on at Target). Of course, it also means that I bring back fewer items from my travels which is probably not such a bad thing. As I discovered when I unpacked my storage unit after a year away from home, most of the stuff we collect is useless. Right now I think that some silk scarf is extremely important and will serve to instantly call to mind significant memories from my time in Asia, but ten years from now I will probably junk it. Maybe even earlier.

Duck. Mountains of duck.

So I suppose I’ve duly established the fact that I went to one of the largest markets in world with the express plan not to shop. Events conspired to force my hand, however. I had an early lunch of roast duck over rice.  I’ve had this meal in a variety of guises since returning to Bangkok. Sometimes it’s pork, sometimes it’s duck, but it always involves a light splash of brown gravy and some pickled ginger. This is definitely a meal greater than the sum of its parts. The duck is good, the sauce a little sweet, and rice is rice. But for some reason once you add the ginger it becomes something totally unexpected and pretty damn great. Pickled ginger: condiment of the gods. Oh, and there’s also a random piece of some type of greenery, which sometimes constitutes my vegetable intake for the day. Scurvy, here I come!

After the duck I ventured back to the outdoor portion of the market and was immediately assaulted by a brilliant, boiling sun. I then realized that I had left my hat at home. For some this would not be a problem, but I am extremely melanin-challenged, and go directly from pasty white to lobster red. Luckily I was in the middle of the largest market in the world. Looks like I would be forced to shop.

Another reason I don’t particularly enjoy shopping: I can’t make up my mind. What if I buy this cheesy elephant knickknack here, and find an even better cheesy elephant knickknack at the next stall? How could I possibly be expected to commit to just one pointless tchotchke?! I believe the New York Times calls this “decision fatigue” but I call it “the indecisiveness of the overly privileged Westerner buying useless shit.” This sometimes extends to moderately useful shit, as in the case of the hat. I just needed to buy a hat. Just a simple hat. I don’t like hats. I don’t look good in hats. There wasn’t some magical millinery stand hidden away in the market offering hats that would somehow not make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. So the clear answer was to just buy a cheap hat and have done with it. Reader, I think I tried on every hat in that goddamn market. I wandered for hours. I fully attained the sunburn I was trying to avoid. And I came away with not one, but two hats, both of which make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. Mission accomplished.

The Great Hat Hunt did, however, introduce me to much more of the market. I found random restaurants tucked away behind rows of second hand clothing stores. I listened to the sweet sounds of a Thai bluegrass band. I found the restaurant wholesale section and discovered that those roast ducks I always see hanging from street stalls? Totally fake. Stupid farang. There’s even a pet store section, with puppies panting in non-air-conditioned enclosures. Yes, that’s just as depressing as it sounds. The one thing I did not find? Fighting cock. So disappointing.

Chatuchak Market: Bangkok's premier place
for evening wear. 

Bangkok banjo!

After purchasing my two ugly, unnecessary hats I made my way to the art section. I know in my last post I was less than enthusiastic about some of the art that I saw. I was much more interested in the work I saw at the market. The section is really like a large, open air gallery. Up and down the aisles, artists display their works in nooks of various sizes. There’s a huge variety ranging from crafts, to immense portraiture, to intricate bronze sculptures. I wandered through the galleries for a bit, then took a break with a cold beer at a narrow bar squeezed between two crowded aisles.

At this point I’d been walking (and sweating) for hours. Luckily, just like every other touristy place in Thailand, there were plenty of shops offering $4 foot massages. I ducked into one of these air conditioned havens, and dozed a bit while feeling slowly returned to my poor, tired feet. Finally, it was time for paella. I’d traversed Chatuchak, explored its murky depths. I’d earned my overpriced plate of Western goodness. The paella pavilion is festooned with flapping flags, and features not only the titular meal, but also a bar and a DJ. It was a quick affair: you give them money, they scoop out paella for you, then you grab a beer and a seat. I was ravenous, and attacked the plate of rice and whatnot with gusto. In front of me the paella man was theatrically drizzling olive oil into the pan, the bottle held high above his head. I could certainly taste its richness in the rice, and in the browned bits of socarrat scattered throughout. Mixed in with the rice were pieces of golden, juicy chicken, and perfectly textured pieces of shrimp. Also, a few roasted peppers and pieces of green beans. Scurvy averted! I devoured my food, and sat back to enjoy my beer, listening to the tourist chatter and watching the locals casually swaying along with the music. And then I took my sweaty self (and two hats) back to the BTS for the air-conditioned ride home. As I waited on the platform I noticed that, for the first time in my Asian travels, everyone was as drenched in sweat as I was. I smiled at the realization that, in the face of Chatuchak heat, all are equal.

Everything's better with paella.

Tune in next time for the story of how I managed to beat the Bangkok heat (for a day), and updates on whether or not I have, as yet, worn either of those two fucking hats.

Reconnecting with My Inner Tourist

As I mentioned in my last post, Bangkok pretty much has it all: delicious street food, lots of temples, yet with all the comforts of a large Western city. Okay, decent wine is really expensive, but shitty beer is about $1, so I guess that balances it out. When I was here last summer it was at the tail end of my two years in Asia. I was ready for Western comforts. I was desperate for decent Italian food. And I found myself spending a lot of time exploring the decadent side of the city. (Technically decadence was reserved for Decadent Thursdays, but by the end of the summer every day was Decadent Thursday.) I’ve decided that this time around I should take in as many tourist sites as possible before work becomes totally insane. So I have a mission: eat vast quantities, and try to find some art.

My first unfortunate discovery was that not all grilled meat is equal, despite the glistening, succulent appearance as it sizzles in the Bangkok heat. This coincided with another discovery: as in Taipei, art here is cute. Very cute. Two Fridays ago I went to a gallery opening at GOJA café. The title of the exhibit was “Space Oddity”, and advertising promised painting, sculpture, and free beer and food. Right up my alley. It should be noted that I do not know a lot about visual arts. I don’t have the vocabulary to discuss it in depth. I do, however, know what I like when I see it, and I do want to expand my horizons. Therefore I boarded the Sky Train and wandered over to the café. It was small. Unexpectedly small. Small to the point that I don’t know how it functions as a café during non-gallery times. Also, the air conditioning: weak. Very weak. In Bangkok that can be painful, but cold beer usually alleviates that pain. Alas, the beer: not free. And lastly, the food: non-existent. Perhaps I was there too early. Not a big deal; I purchased a beer and made mental plans to hit up the street food after I was done walking around the very tiny room.

On to the art. There were two artists, one of whom was showing Where the Wild Things Are kind of way. The other artist was showing paintings of night skies and fairy-tale icons, alongside little sculptures of aliens. The sculptures appeared to be constructed out of toy thimbles and music box gears. It was…not my thing. But again, no big deal. I was glad that I checked it out. I finished my beer and slipped out, heading down the street to satisfy my street food cravings. Sadly, the stars were not aligned for me that night. I decided to start off with some grilled meat on a stick. In my experience, you cannot go wrong with grilled meat on a stick. Unless you’re a vegetarian. Meat on a stick is almost invariably a delightful little morsel of charred goodness, perhaps sweet, perhaps vinegary, perhaps coated in a fiery spice. Meat on a stick is solid street food, a safe choice.

drawings of aliens and of naked kids hanging out on the moon. It was, as I mentioned, cute, but still enjoyable. In a cosmic, non-threatening

Oh how wrong I was.

Help me, Alien Thimble Man!
You're my only hope!

There are few things that I flat out will not eat. Bugs. Liver. Congealed blood (although I have been know to unwittingly make exceptions there). And intestines. I know that logically, I should enjoy intestines. With the proper char, or in a complex broth, intestines are supposedly very good. But I just can’t do it. There’s some kind of after-taste, a musk, if you will, that I associate with digestion, and it just makes me want to vomit. I realize that this is irrational. I eat sausage. I find marrow delicious. I will go to great lengths to procure pork belly. I have no compunction about eating shrimp that has not been de-veined. I am aware of the possibility that all my fried calamari experiences were lies, and that I was actually eating hog rectum (thanks for that bit of info, This American Life.) And yet I still eat calamari, happily in fact. But intestines. I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sure you can see where this is headed.

The grilled meat stand was emitting a wonderful aroma, and the skewers themselves were a beautiful, rich burgundy. I pointed to one that was almost marbled with grill marks. The woman behind the grill took the meat off the skewer and sliced it up for me. The minute I saw the interior, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I had a hunch. The consistency was wrong, all wrong. It bore a striking resemblance to past intestine encounters, but it was not completely identical, so I told myself to buck up and dive in. The meat was…squishy. Rubbery. Not the juicy delight I had come to expect from meat-on-a-stick. And then, the aftertaste. It snuck up on me. One moment I was reluctantly chewing the substandard skewer, the next I was gagging over a garbage can. It was all too clear. I was eating intestine. That vaguely offensive taste at the back of my throat. The horror. The horror.

I immediately threw the bag of vile entrails out and decided that the only cure was some good curry. Yes, that’s what I needed. Curry. Curry so spicy and fragrant that it would burn away all traces of culinary disaster. I ran to the curry stand and ordered a plate of crimson pork curry. I sat down, eager to redeem the evening, and ate a big, heaping spoonful of….curried intestines. No! Curses! Deceiver!!!!!

There was no escape. Intestines were my fate. I accepted defeat and headed back to the sky train. On the way, I passed a vendor selling sauteed bugs. Was it my imagination, or was there a mocking smile on the bug vendor's face? As if he knew that I had been brought low by their offerings, that my Western sensibilities could not be overcome. You can take the girl out of the US, but you can't make her eat insects and offal. Run, little girl, run away! Yes, that's what his smile was communicating. Either that, or I was having an intestine-induced delusion. Regardless, that street was my culinary downfall, and I have vowed never to return. Damn you intestines. Why must you taunt me so?

Yes. This is exactly what you think it is.

“Hello! You didn’t get fat!”

The first time I traveled out of the country for a significant period of time was junior year in college. The morning of my flight to Europe I ran through the house in a frenzy, desperately throwing everything I owned into trash bags which I then stored in the basement. The day of my departure to Taiwan in 2012, I was frantically trying to finish a freelance writing assignment, sending out drafts right up until boarding the plane. The second time I left for Taiwan my poor roommate had to help move my boxes to a storage unit, clean my room for the subletter, and even give me a suitcase because I had not budgeted time to purchase one large enough for a year’s worth of stuff. This time around was almost…disturbingly smooth. Most of my room was packed up and stored a week before my departure; I had a great subletter in place; the room was clean, my travel bags packed, and I was able to spend my last evening enjoying my time with close friends. Sure, the morning was chaotic, but that’s just the nature of travel (also, does anyone ever really remember to leave room in the bag for pajamas? Of course not.) My first morning here in Bangkok I woke up in a panic, trying to figure out what I left unfinished. The answer? Nothing.

What does it mean that I have now become so adept at leaving? I’d like to think this is some marker of maturity, or at least that I’ve finally thrown away enough junk to make my belongings manageable. But I can’t escape the fact that this really means I’ve become accustomed to departure. It’s like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes (or, more precisely, given the amount of eating in store, a supremely comfortable pair of stretchy pants.) And once I arrived, everything in Bangkok was pretty much how I left it: the same street vendors, the same job, even the same room in the same hotel, complete with the incense diffuser I left behind a year ago. Local restaurant owners remembered not just me, but my usual order.

Same fruit and broom vendors

Same greasy omelette-y goodness

Perhaps that’s part of my feeling of disquiet – things have become “usual”. I travel to challenge myself, to avoid my comfort zone, to run straight towards fear rather than hide from it. But humans are adaptable, and I have most certainly adapted to this peripatetic existence. Also, Bangkok is a very Western-ized city. With the (notable) exceptions of bras and deodorant, I can get anything here that I can get in NYC, with some it being much better and cheaper (I’m talking to you, NYC transit system.) I think I may need to change the way I approach this city – if the challenges won’t come to me, I will find them.

Challenge #1 - rock bedazzled sneakers

Challenge #2 - go shopping with monks

So with any luck, the next few months will feature absurd stories of transit disasters, disturbing food, and interesting characters. This is not to say that I spent the past two weeks holed up in my air-conditioned room (or at least, not entirely). My second day here I went to visit my friend Mai at her sister’s house. Mai recently gave birth to her first child, and the place was packed with relatives from Lao and friends from the neighborhood. I was incredibly jet lagged, broken by the heat, and unable to communicate with most of the group. At first I focused on staring at the baby, because, well, I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Isn’t that the appropriate reaction around newborns? Stare at them, talk about how cute they are using unfortunate food metaphors (“I could just eat those cheeks!”) and smell their heads. Or something like that. I discovered that my comfort with infants has not improved dramatically since my pre-teen years. I cringe at the memory of my first “mother’s helper” job: I sat the baby down on the couch, and looked at it nervously until it fell over. The mom was not pleased. Then there’s the memorable picture of my newborn sister asleep on my lap, me looking at her with something akin to fear, hands held up in the air, reluctant to actually touch her lest I break the baby. There is now a very similar picture of me holding Mai’s young son Stephen. It is a portrait of barely concealed panic: “How do I hold this thing? Why is his neck so floppy? Oh great, now he’s crying. Back to mom you go!” Let me be clear: I love kids. They are amazing, tiny people who say crazy things and entertain us by deliberately crashing into furniture. Infants, however, are another story entirely. I can confidently say that even now, at 37, I do not feel that drive to have my own eating-puking-pooping machine. Which is probably a good thing, since I would most likely break it.  

After I finished staring at the baby, I didn’t have much more to offer. Luckily, there was food. Mai’s sister’s house is on the canal, and despite the heat, it was lovely to sit out there under the spectacularly lush foliage, watch the water, and sweat. The kitchen is actually outside by the porch-like area, so I spent most of my time out there drinking beer with Mai’s dad. At one point I offered to go in and help Mai with…whatever, but she said no no, I should stay outside and talk. Her father and I have absolutely no words in common, so the conversation was minimal, mainly consisting of him communicating (through charades) that I was very, very white. I suddenly remembered that this is one of the reasons I always got so drunk when visiting with Mai – drinking and eating are really the only activities available to me. This may also explain why my only Thai words are “delicious” and “shit drunk”. Of course, now there’s baby-staring as well. For me, not so much of a game changer.

Sometimes I fantasize about moving to California, mainly so I can have an outdoor kitchen. There’s something so appealing about the idea of cooking outside, under the stars. I also clearly have Foodnetwork envy. Now, however, I know that I don’t need to go to California to do this. I can just get a canal side shack and a hot plate. Anyway, while I sat drinking with Mai’s dad, her friend Ao worked on the meal (Ao is more commonly referred to by her nickname, which roughly translates to “Little Fatty”. Commenting on weight just doesn’t have the same stigma here, apparently.) In about 20 minutes she had prepared a wonderful spread featuring pork larb moo* (ground pork with assorted herbs, spices, and enough chilies to kill a horse. A horse that eats chilies, that is.), a cooling stir-fried eggplant dish, and a rich, flavorful pork soup, because soup is what everyone wants in 100 degree heat. As is typical in this cuisine, the table was covered with baskets of raw vegetables and herbs, which are used to chase the spice. I was also given many handfuls of sticky rice, because everyone could see that I was one step away from spice-tears. (In my defense, even one of the Thai guests commented on the vengeful red spiciness of the larb. Of course, she did comment in English, so it may have been an attempt to warn the sweaty farang.)

Summertime, and the canal-livin' is easy

By the time dinner ended, I had consumed two large bottles of Chang beer in quick succession, That, combined with the jet lag, brought me right up to the wall, then smashed my head into it. I was nodding off into my soup, and while I knew Mai wouldn't mind if I napped (as I had done earlier that day in between baby-staring and drinking) I told her I needed to go. She called their go-to motorbike taxi driver, who apparently has loads of experience shuttling drunken people back to their air conditioned lairs. And so I ended my first full day in Bangkok careening down the road, gripping the back of the motorbike in a boozy haze. I had returned to the land of smiles, where the food makes you weep, and the road safety is non-existent. It was good to be back.

Say what you will about smog- it provides a stunning sunset

* Yes, in Thai the word for “pork” is “moo”. I giggle every time I say it.

Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry - Part 5

It seems impossible that I've been home for a month.  It's certainly been hectic: reuniting with friends and family, seeking work, and just generally getting my life set up here again.  I arrived at the tail end of those perfect New York fall days, when the sky is a piercing blue, the leaves a brilliant red, and the air heavy with the spicy smell of impending chill.  Now the darker, drearier days of pre-winter have begun.  I find myself fantasizing about travel, clinging to lists of dream-like destinations as I plow through the angry masses on the subway. Piecing together the last of my India posts will have to tide me over until I return to my preferred state of wandering once again. 

10.14.14

Jodhpur continued: Tales of tea with the Spice Girls

Let me start out by saying that I do not understand the role of women in Indian society.  I’m trying to understand it, but I have a long way to go. It is amazing to me that a country which elected a female president back in the 80’s could still respond with such aggressiveness to women who work everyday jobs.  Or that while women seem to wield moral authority, they are still subject to their husbands whims when seeking work outside the home.  Of course, this relates to the larger conservative bent of India in general, which I also find mystifying.  Dating is still unusual, from what I understand.  Local authorities follow up on reports of unmarried couples staying together in hotels (and things get even more serious when it’s a foreign/Indian couple.) I love India, but I’m glad I didn’t grow up female here (not to say that the US doesn’t have some supremely messed up, misogynistic views about women, because it most certainly does).  It’s possible to break out of the mold, but it’s difficult, as evidenced by the Jodhpur Spice Girls.

My pathetic sense of direction never even had a chance.

It should be noted that, while my lack of directional sense just gets worse with every new city I visit, it reached its zenith during my visit to Jodhpur.  Yes, those streets are twisty and unmarked, but that still doesn’t excuse the fact that I had to call my guesthouse on two separate occasions and plead for assistance in finding my way back to the building.  On both occasions I was roughly a block away.  In practical terms this means that when I stumble upon an intriguing shop or restaurant I need to go into that place immediately, because odds are I’ll never find it again.  And this is how I made my first visit to MV spices.

The “MV” in MV Spices stands for Mohanlal Verhomal, the man who built the shop up from a small cart in the market to a store with five branches and global reach.  After his untimely death there was debate as to whether or not the Verhomal spice empire would continue.  You see, Mohanlal Verhomal had seven children – all girls.  And apparently girls do not run shops Jodhpur (Jodhpur is a relatively small city and quite traditional, and gender roles are stringently enforced.)   I can’t imagine the difficulty of that time for Verhomal family; they had lost their father, and were in danger of also losing all that he had worked so hard to create.  But rather than abandon the business, the Verhomal women made the unusual decision to run their father’s shops themselves.  And so, his widow and eldest daughters reopened the doors.

It’s hard for me to really grasp what came next.  I grew up in an area of the US in which it was assumed that women would work outside of the home, both out of desire for a career and out of financial necessity. So I have trouble wrapping my head around the constant harassment that the Verhomal women have endured since taking over the shop.  They have been the targets of malicious gossip; they have been verbally harassed by competitors; they have even been threatened with physical violence.  Naturally the corrupt police (whom the Verhomals refuse to pay off) are of no help.  In fact, while I was in one of the shops I witnessed a police officer deliberately park his motorbike in a way that completely hid the store’s signage.  After all, tourists can’t visit a shop they can’t find.  And yet, despite these difficulties, the Verhomal women still run the business with efficiency, wit, and warmth. 

I first visited their location just outside Sadar Market.  I had been a bit sick since my epic train ride to Jaisalmer, so I came in inquiring about a tea intended for colds that was advertised on the front window.  Nikky Verhomal immediately sat me down and ladled a tablespoon of “Winter Tonic” spices into my hand.  I was not accustomed to eating straight spices, but at her insistence I downed the dose (awkwardly spilling a fair amount on my person in the process), and felt relief as the concoction suffused my system.  Moments later I was being offered some of the best chai I tasted throughout my trip.  The ratio of tea to spice to sugar was exemplary.  Next up was the spice-smelling.  These mixtures were so robust that even my subpar sniffer was able to appreciate their brilliance.  I could actually taste the potato masala, could savor it rolling over my taste buds.  A mere whiff of the mutton curry was almost as satisfying as an actual meal.  The complexity and vibrancy of each spice was stunning.  Each potent packet was another chapter in the story of civilization.

Teatime with Nikky and Maryse.

One of the things I really loved about the shop was the complete absence of the “hard sell”.  And really, it wasn’t necessary: the spices speak for themselves.  But it was so refreshing that Nikky never pressured me into buying anything, and when I did decide to buy she gave me a fair price.  And all during the spice-athon Nikky gave me further doses of the Winter Tonic.  After I bought all the spice packs I could fit into my small bag (that dragon takes up a lot of room, after all), she filled up a small container with more of the remedy and instructed me to finish it all and come back later for tea.  And off I went to explore the fort.

Naturally, I could not find my way back to the spice shop that day.  In fact, I was lucky I made it to the fort and back at all.  The twisting, sun-soaked lanes wrapped around me, all blue, golden, and impenetrable.  Actually the store was only two blocks from my guesthouse, but since I couldn’t find the guesthouse either there really wasn’t much hope that I would find the shop.  Ah the sorrows of the directionally challenged. Luckily, the following day I found my way to another branch of the shop in Sadar Market.  This one was run by Neelam.   

Neelam, reigning over her spice kingdom.

Neelam, Nikky’s older sister, runs the original MV Spices location in Sadar Market. Naturally my visit once again featured chai, cold remedies, and spice sniffing.  I also received quite an education in the underhanded tactics of the local competitors.  From what I gathered, most of the other spice shops in Jodhpur are run by close relatives of Ali the Evil Agra Rickshaw Driver (perhaps not brothers by blood, but definitely brothers in scamming).  After Mohanlal Verhomal died, many of his competitors lured tourists to their shops by claiming to be Verhomal’s brother and spice heir.  And of course most of these shops also have names like “MG Spices”, just to add to the tourist confusion. And tourist confusion is in no short supply at Sadar Market.  It’s an Indian sensory assault: glittering bangles sold next to brilliant salwar kameez and cookware; piles of fruits and nuts alongside heaping, open plates of spices and fly-entrancing sweets; and of course, not-so-subtle scammers wandering amidst the cows, elephants, and general chaos, eager to shuttle unsuspecting tourists to the most egregiously priced emporiums.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

I have no doubt that the local spice frauds doctor a variety of their products with ingredients that have no rightful place in a spice mixture. But the lengths they go to in order to sell fake saffron are particularly incredible.  Sometimes they will add toxic ingredients that increase the weight of the package, thereby allowing them to cheat their customers out of half the intended saffron purchase.  Sometimes they’ll just cut to the chase and, using old newspaper and red dye, fabricate the spice entirely.  Luckily these traps can be avoided if you know what to look for in terms of color and consistency, which, thanks to Neelam, I now do.  Perhaps I can start a sideline career in saffron authenticating.

Once I figured out how to navigate to the spice shops I made a habit of daily visits.  Every new trip involved copious amounts of tea, spice-smelling, snacks and/or cooking.  Of course my time with Nikky and Neelam wasn’t entirely spent on spices – we also talked about their hopes for the future and pains from the past.  Both have had to sacrifice educational goals in order to maintain their father’s business, and while neither one expressed regret, it was clearly a difficult decision to make.  Through them I also learned more about the dynamic of Indian marriages.  I started to get the impression that “arranged marriage” sometimes just means formalized blind dating, rather than a practice in which the bride and groom have no say over their fates.  On the other hand, I also learned more about the unsettling power a husband and his family wield over the bride after the nuptials have taken place.  Of course I approached these conversations under the influence of my own Western views, so it was really eye-opening to see what aspects of the traditional marriage culture Nikky and Neelam were comfortable with, and which ones they resisted. They’re forging their own paths in this area, just as they have in their professional lives, but it’s a fraught balancing act.

As with Jaisalmer, my departure from Jodhpur was bittersweet.  Many people say that one month is not enough time to travel through India, and I think they’re right.  My trip is really only touching on the main tourist highlights; there’s so much more to see.  A return trip seems inevitable.  And yet, there’s no way my next trip can just be focused on covering new ground.  I have had the privilege of meeting such wonderful people in my travels thus far, and any future itinerary must include visits to the friends I’ve made.  These desert locales have captured me, and I want to build on the bonds I’ve made there.  But this current trip has a firm end date, and as such I need to move on: first to Mumbai, and then right on to Goa.  It’s time for Bollywood and beaches.

Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry - Part 4

Here's the next installment of my Indian travel saga!

10.13.14

Jodhpur: A beautiful maze from which I will never extricate myself

So much of the Rajasthan portion of my trip hinged on making it to the RIFF (Rajasthan International Folk Festival).  True, I didn’t know much about Rajasthan folk music, but what better way to learn, right? Also, since music has not been at the forefront of my life recently, I was desperate for some way, any way to kick start some inspiration.  

The view from the fort

The festival takes place in Mehrangarh Fort, one of the most beautiful forts in all of India.  It’s a huge, sandstone structure built of heavy, imposing blocks from the outside, and delicate, filigreed work on the inside.  Each new twist through the fort offers a lattice-veiled glimpse of a marble courtyard, a golden bed chamber, or the rooftops of the blue city.  So you’ve got the setting, right?  Gorgeous, sun-drenched paradise. The fort is beautiful year round, but during the festival these courtyards are filled with fiercely virtuosic musicians.  Throughout the day you could stumble upon mini-performances of drums and dancing, usually by swaggering, booty-shaking men (in my brief experience it seems that when Indian men dance they incorporate all the standard moves of a Western female: shimmying, hip-swaying, arm-twisting.  Not sure about twerking, but that’s mainly because I still don’t really know what twerking is.) 

Trust me, there's a blissful smile lurking
just under the surface. 

India has a prodigious variety of drums.  There are drums that twang, drums that boom, drums that are used for one festival only and then destroyed.  All drums, all the time.  But my god, the way these men play. On their own they play with precision and intensity, but when playing together they seem to communicate entirely through telepathy, coalescing into one massive, drumming entity.  They are like the Voltron of drums.  Also, you can see and feel the joy these men take in the music.  Some instruments invite a more extroverted style (I’m looking at you khartal, not-so-distant relative of the castanet).  Others require a more subdued affect, but even those players will still break into sudden, blissful smiles during a particularly tight groove. 

You may have noticed that I've only mentioned male performers.  Well, that’s because 99.9% of the performers were male (much like the actual gender demographic found in Delhi, by the way.  Where the hell are the women?!  Sadly, I think the answer is: not being allowed to leave the house.)  There were a few notable female performers, however, all of them vocalists.  One woman supported all 19 members of her family through her singing.  Others regularly performed for local festivals and ceremonies with their husbands, often singing for the entire night.  Most of these women performed from behind spangled veils.  And then there was Sumitra.  This woman’s voice is a passionate wail, and at the first note that spun out across the moonlit courtyard I was overwhelmed by the heart-breaking sound.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I swooned.  When she sings it seems as though the sound is somehow effortlessly pouring out directly from the core of her being.  I had the privilege of listening to Sumitra sing during evening main stage performances, and as the sun came up during one of the smaller dawn shows.  Her music is one of the reasons I’m already planning my trip back for next year’s RIFF. 

Another important aspect of the festival was collaboration.  Some of the collaborations were between Indian players from different geographic areas; others were between Indian musicians and musicians from entirely different genres of music.  Indian Folk was paired up with jazz, Celtic traditional/rock, African folk, and DJ dance party.  The disparate parts melded together beautifully every time, and provided insight into both of the styles.  It was like super Voltron (there’s a super Voltron, right?)

There were so many unreal moments that I don’t know I can catalog them all.  But, as always, India provided both the sublime and the incredibly frustrating.  The festival offered almost 20 hours of constant music per day; late night performances included Sufi singers, the aforementioned DJ dance party, and an epic final jam.  There was a great group of people at the festival from diverse backgrounds.   Everyone in attendance was committed to the music.  The only exception to this was the dance party.  As concepts go, it was fantastic: folk drumming meets spectacular DJ stylings.  In practice, it had some problems. 

The experience of traveling solo (and female) through India really deserves its own post, but I’ll say that this party was the only time I was blatantly groped (prior gropings were of the subtle “I’m in a big rush and need to get through this crowd, and the only way I can do it by brushing against your boob” variety). This was also one of the few times when I felt less than safe.  This feeling would have been a million times worse had I not had the luck of befriending Rinesh, a fellow festival attendee staying in my hotel.  I was not only happy to have someone with whom to share these musical experiences, but I was also extremely relieved to have someone to hang with during the 3am walks home after the late night performances.  During the DJ party, however, even the presence of another male was not enough to dissuade the hordes of drunk Indian guys on the dance floor.  I could see that women were the minority at the party, but that didn’t feel strange at this point since only 0.01% of Indian woman are allowed out of the house.  (I jest! But seriously, the gender disparity is really weird.)  As my friend and I made our way to the center of the dance floor I realized that we had now entered an all-testosterone zone.  Sweaty, shimmying men surrounded us all sides.  And just like that, the ass-grabbing was in full swing. Also, damn, these guys don’t just go for the ass, their goal seems to be to grab anything below the waist, and I mean anything.  Ew.  Just….ew.  Anyway, I turned around and started yelling at the guys closest to me, which had absolutely no effect.  Then suddenly a nearby man grabbed me and my friend, dragged us over to the side of the dance floor, and said, “You need to stay over here”.  I realized this guy had deposited us next to his female friends.  Whom he was kind of guarding.  The lady’s safety zone, if you will.  Apparently in India, Baby is most definitely put in a corner.    

The whole experience was brief, however, because all of a sudden the festival director announced over the loudspeaker that the party was over, effective immediately, and that we all had 10 minutes to leave the premises.  Rumor has it that the festival organizers had passed out free tickets to the dance party to a lot of the locals, who are apparently “a bad element”, and the party was cut short because these locals were getting out of control.  We’ll have to save Indian class issues for another post as well, but in the meantime, lesson learned: no Indian dance clubs for me.    

Reflecting on that night and those disgusting men I can't help but think of all the warnings I was given before traveling to India.  I was told to prepare for extreme harassment, both verbal and physical.  It was not presented as a possibility, but as a certainty.  Luckily I have not experienced anything severe as of yet.  But it gave me pause when I realized that the harassment I have encountered is no worse than the harassment I encountered in New York, Vienna, Munich, and Krakow.  Frankly, the harassment in those cities was worse.  And sadly that's made me kind of blase about the harassment in India.  That doesn't mean that India is a magical oasis of safety (that would be Taipei), but it does mean that this kind of crap is a problem that extends far, far beyond this country.  When someone grabs your ass your first thought should not be, "Oh well, that's not as bad as the time that guy in Vienna walked up to me on the street and grabbed my breast.  And at least no one is masturbating in front of me.  So hey, it could be worse, right?"  I know there's been a lot of talk about harassment lately, and there will be plenty more, but for the love of god, can we all at least agree that this is a problem?  Everywhere?  What the hell is wrong with these men?!

Ultimately, despite that unpleasant experience, I still enjoyed the RIFF immensely.  And really, those creepy guys do not define the festival for me, anymore than the creepy guys I've encountered in the US and Europe define those locales.  My RIFF was not about them.  My RIFF will always be about cool desert breezes caressing me under a diamond-like moon, with other-worldly voices serenading me.  And that’s what I’ll be coming back for next year.

A circle of old dancing dudes.  And drums.

This guy is actually dancing on two glasses
while balancing the stack of four glasses
and the water-filled jar on his head.

Mehrangarh Fort was transformed into one giant stage.