Day 27 - Chau's Story

Being over ambitious maybe, I signed us up for two full days of touring. Our last day in Sapa included a 2.5 hour drive to the Coc Ly market, just south of the Chinese boarder, plus a boat ride and picnic lunch, followed by a 2 hour return to Sapa. I am a sucker for markets, but even for me, taking 2.5 hour to get to one seemed a stretch. On top of it, we awoke to pouring rain and thunderstorms outside.

We made it to the Coc Ly market to find that it was raining there too. There were some interesting bits, like seeing some of the Flower Hmong people, so named because they wear these fantastically bright clothes - beautiful pleated skirts, embroidered shirts and leg wraps. And there were other realizations too. For instance, when your market serves a population of subsistence farmers, it doesn't contain rows and rows of lovely veg. Instead it contains mostly stuff of which it may be hard to grow or make-like the footwear of choice-clear shower sandals made in China.  There most of been 5 stalls dedicated to this product alone.  There was medicine too, tabacco, rice wine and cleavered pig parts too.  There was also a lot where you could go and buy yourself a water buffalo.  Buffalo aside, all these wares were mounded up on top of blue tarps, which lined a very muddy and getting even muddier path.  Top that off with some tarps over head, or more precisely for me, at shoulder height.  And there you have it. 

After the market, we made the decision to pass on the 1.5 hour boat trip down the river, again under the shelter would be shelter of a green tarp. I am sure it would have been nice on a sunny, warm day.  But T has a new theory he's working on along the lines of avoiding any intinerary that includes a boat excursion; today I was very happy to oblige him!

The true highlight was having the chance to talk with our guide, Chau. Since most of our trek yesterday involved me focusing on the ground in front of me, lest I tumble into another paddy or to a craggy rivine along the way, I really didn't get to pepper her with my now adroit tour guide interview routine. Today, however, she told us many interesting things about the minority hill tribes. For example, the people here live in Vietnam, but would never consider themselves Vietnamese. They call their countrymen "Vietnamese" much as they call their trading partners across the Red River "Chinese."  Couples are married through arranged marriages, sometimes as young as 15, and typically start having kids around 16 or 17.  In contrast to Cambodia, for example, the farmers all own their land.  Most of them have water buffalo, 5-10 pigs and innumerable chickens.  They eat a fair amount of meat.

She told us more about the Flower Hmong minority we met at the market.  The land in this area is along a river valley.  Warm enough for two crops a year.  Apparently they grew some rice, but the soil in this area tends to drain more quickly, therefore growing corn was much more common.  Many of them spoke Chinese and intermarried with Chinese. 

Chau spoke the Flower Hmong language had a few friends at Coc Ly market, but generally didn't like the Flower Hmong tribe. Over the past several years, the Flower Hmong had begun to take young women from Sapa, selling them to the Chinese. Young beautiful women would be sold as prostitutes.  Older ones - like 25 or so - already were married and had children, so these women would be sold as wives to old, "rich" men.  

How could they be taken from their village, I asked?  Mostly through deception, it seemed. Impressionable women would meet a nicely dressed "office man" who would buy her something at the market or who would offer to take her to dinner. Or they would simply offer a young woman a ride back from the market.  Chau told us that over 25 women had been taken from Sapa thus over the past 2 years, including one of her friends. And that these women never return.

Chau also told us a bit of her story. She is 25.  Chau grew up in a traditional minority tribe family as a middle child with 11 other brothers and sisters. Her older brothers and sisters are married and work their rice fields, like their family does. Her younger brothers and sisters were in school. Chau's father has not spoken to her in four years, since she became a tour guide.

How did you become a tour guide, I asked?  When she was younger, her mother had a small stand in the village (population 800), where she would sell drinks and food to tourists. Chau told us about how she cried the first time one of the tourists took her picture.  Over time, she made friends with a woman from Hanoi.  The woman would come every week with a group of 10 or 20 people.  She would bring her groups to Chau's mother's stand to buy refreshments.  Chau was fasciated that this small woman, not much bigger than herself, could command the attention of such a large group of people.  That she could hold their interest and make them happy.  And so she asked the woman from Hanoi how she could become a tour guide like herself.

The woman told her she musn't be afraid of having her pictures taken.  She should also try and learn English.  So once Chau became a teenager, she began to go to the markets and learn English from the tourists.  Slowly she learned to speak fairly well.  After 2 years of practice in this way, she also began learning language of the other minority tribe people as well.  She told us about her first tour - two "fat old British ladies."  Being fat, she said, they couldn't take a hard trek.  She figured they probably would enjoy seeing village life.  For an entire afternoon, therefore, she took these two women from house to house, to sit around a fire or to introduce them to friends of her family.  The women raved about her tour, sent her photographs, recommended her to many people.  And the rest is history.

But I guess that is not right to say; its a glib phrase for the challenge that Chau has seemed to face.  

Her family did not understand.  She has had to move out of her home.  Since she cannot work in the rice patties, she hires workers to help her family with the harvest.  She buys them coats when it gets too cold.  Her father will wear them, but still will not speak to her.

From her father's perspective, however, she is disobidient.  He has raised her.  Now she is lazy. He gets no work from her.  He thinks no one will marry her, and therefore, he has lost a dowry. And she encourages her younger brothers and sisters to stay in school and to study hard.  Now they are lazy too. 

Chau loves her job though, and wants to learn how to read and write English too.  She told us how last year, she asked her family's permission to go to school to study English.  She posed the question to her father, through her mother.  As a response, her father slapped her mother.  He said if she goes to school, she will owe him her dowry.

Chau told me how it will be different for her children - how she will have only one or two, how they will go to school.  Hearing this all, I remembered a study two or three years ago.  The study found that educating women in underdeveloped countries is one of the most efficient forms of philathropy/investment, per dollar spent.  Public health improves, infant mortality rate declines, literacy rates improve, and eventually per capita GDP improves, etc.  This makes sense to me, but I now keep thinking that there is another side of this study? That there are hidden costs, if you will?  These are the costs borne by women like Chau, who with or without aid of charity, are challenging what is expected of them.  Brave, smart Chau pays a very dear price indeed.

Day 26 - Hill Tribe Trek in Sapa

I am wiped out.  T spent his childhood growing up doing stuff like this - trekking up hill sides, crossing streams, following narrow water buffalo paths along ravines.  Or almost stuff like this. He is cut from a more hardy cloth than I.  And he's wiped out too.

That is because we've just taken the night train from Hanoi to Lo Cai, another hour transfer by car after our 6 am arrival, and then hiked through 4 different villages over the course of the past 5 hours. 

I don't think I've ever walked 5 hours anywhere.  Seriously.  I am thinking about it right now.....mmm.  Nope, don't think so.  But this has been fantastic, rewarding and maybe the highlight of the trip thus far.

But first lets say a couple words about the night train.  I can hardly leave you to think that this was hard core in any sense.  They pulled out a red little mat before you boarded the train, had lots of liveried gents to help you with your bags, we had gotten a private cabin for us two, and it was trimmed out in dark wood and fluffy blankets.  

Somehow this was not what T was expecting though.  Included in his vision was a sitting room and at least a mini-fridge from which you could mix yourself a respectable martini.  No matter, because we were cosy enough.  And we were tired enough.  And as we pulled out of the station, we had the luxury of falling asleep to an older form of entertainment - the cityscape turning to countryside outside our train car window.  The train rocked back and forth.  It took a while to fall asleep.  We tossed and turned.  And before we knew it, we pulled into our stop.  

Finally, it was cool!  And it got cooler and foggier the closer we got to Sapa, which was only 35 km away but took over an hour to drive.  We cut back and forth across a large mountain, part of the Tonkanese Alps.  

From what I can tell thus far, Sapa is a backpackers' town.  For some reason, tourists began coming here 15 years ago.  Now there is a bit of an infrastructure to support it.  A nice hotel, with a hot tea to greet you on arrival, a lovely big breakfast, handsome fireplaces, free wifi in your hotel room.  Most restaurants advertise things like "Western-Style!" "Hot Coffee!" "Ice Cream!" in the windows.  

And yet it still feels real too.  Its still a very small town (only 3000 people).  The people still wear their native dress as part of their everyday custom.  Some of the Hill Tribe people speak English, which they've learned from tourists, but it's not to harangue you all day long to buy postcards or visit their shop.   And after spending the day hiking with four women from the Black Hmong tribe, I can honestly say that they are kind, funny, garrulous - wonderful people to be around.

So, our itinerary was described thus: 

You first sneak through the Sapa market and leave the busy town behind. After a couple of minutes, you follow a road going downhill to Cat Cat village. You will stop by a waterfall and a hydroelectric station for a while before continuing the trek on a dirt trail through rice paddy terraces. You also will enjoy spectacular scenery while walking along a narrow river. You eventually arrive in Y Linh Ho village of Black Hmong minority, where you can take a rest while you are served lunch nearby the river. After lunch, you head toward Muong Hoa valley. You will pass through Lao Chai village of Black Hmong minority and then Tavan village of Giay minority by following a very popular trekking route.

I envision maybe a couple towns, a bucolic little stroll through a rice paddy-- that's about it. But before long, we set off from the cobblestone steps in Cat Cat Village and started a proper trek.  It was breathtaking.  It is a world a way from any place I have ever been, and probably any place I will ever be.

Within the first half an hour, three women joined us from the Black Hmong Minority.  These three women where friends, the eldest one of which was Ye.  Our guide Cho told us that some time in the past 3 or 4 years, women from the tribes left their villages and started following tourists as a way of hopefully selling them some of their goods.

Now I don't know about you, but being jaded, this didn't sound very promising.  Thus far, having people follow you around trying to sell you stuff has proved to be a bit miserable.  Now, consider what Cho told us next.  These women will follow us on our trek today.  They know that tourists wont by anything from them at the beginning of their trek, because they won't want to carry it.  On the other hand, if they wait too long, someone else will come and start to follow you.  So it's bound to happen - if you walk around here, you'll always be followed by a small group.  And if other Hill Tribe women notice that you are "taken," they won't attempt to join the group, or to sell you anything.  They figure that if you won't buy from women who have followed you for 4 hours, you certainly won't by from them.

The women will follow us all day?? My skepticism faded quickly as we got along.  They talked among themselves.  Our guide, who spoke the language of the Black Hmong, translated certain things for us.  We met one of their son's in a village we walked though.  And as the terrain got more difficult and slippery, they were quick to help me out - even to help T out.

And we needed help indeed.  T was the first man down, but only because I had the help of three women clucking over me, holding my hand as we walked down a steep, sandy incline to the river bank.  We arrived at the river basin.  It being not yet rainy season, there was a promising enough looking path we could make, hopping from stone to stone.  Suffice to say, T slipped off one stone into the water and managed to wade several feet with water up to his ankles, swamping his shoes, his socks, his pants and all! Here comes Ye to the rescue!

We are all laughing.  T is making comments about being the only man and yet being the only one to end up in the drink.  But I think that was preferable to what happened next to me.  Just 15 minutes later, we are walking along the border of a rice paddy when I manage to plunge most of one foot into a very muddy mess.  Another one of our friends to the rescue, making some sort of comment about me being muddy like the water buffalo. 

Over the course of the next 4 hours, the road gets steep, gets narrow, follows along paddy embankments, through stands of bamboo, over little bridges.  We see water buffalo, we see lots of pigs, piglets, pregnant pigs, ducks, chickens, chicks, dogs, puppies.  Little cats sitting on the occasional roof.  

We see people weeding the paddies, sowing the rice seeds, building up the paddy embankment, creating bamboo fences to protect the rice shoots from the free ranging buffalo and pigs. Paddies! Terrace after terrace, steep and narrow on land that hardly looks like its worth the time to cultivate, and wide and sloping, down closer to the river bank.  For these families, none of the rice will be sold.  It is their one crop of the year and will all be used to feed their families.

And at the end, I was very happy indeed to buy some of the things these women had made.  It was the exact opposite of all the disappointing tourist trap floating markets, walking markets, night markets we had yet seen.  Unlike the undistinguished faff at those places, these women had made the little things they had carried all along in their bamboo baskets.  All day long today, they would prepare the hemp, stripping the fiber with their nails, splitting the fiber, twisting it with another strand, and wrapping the growing ball of hemp in their hand.  They did this all as we walked.  They would then boil for 3 days, make soft and pliable with wax, weave and dye.  So it was personal - these women had prepared the hemp, woven the fabric, made the indigo dye, embroidered their designs.  I was only too thankful for their company.  And to have something to remember them by.

Hanoi, the "Hilton" and Ho Chi Minh

We arrived last night in Hanoi at 8pm.  Having been here less than 24 hours, I've seen enough to form the opinion that this is a bit of complicated place.  Complicated, charming and truly different.

Lets start with the traffic here.  Its not "traffic" like traffic in Bangkok.  Here I am talking about wide boulevards, bordered by three or four story shop houses stretching out all the way to the airport 45 minutes outside of town.  Run down, but not dirty.  The first thing I noticed about drivers here is the Hanoi Honk.  Its a polite little honk, sounded at any potential juncture, to be interpreted across a wide variety of scenarios.  For example, you honk to take a left, to take a right, to go straight.  To make sure the one of a million motorcyclists is not caught unawares.  You honk to say hi.  In 45 minutes, our driver honked about 45 times.  

But then again, he drives here and it makes sense to have ones wits about you.  To err on the side of caution.  To over-communicate even.  You see these are the most egalitarian boulevards I have ever seen!  Cars and motorcycles of course are to be expected.  And bicycles too - no problem on the highway - in the middle lane even.  In fact, two wheeled modes of transportation are even afforded extra accommodations it seems!  Wrong way down a one way?Exiting on entrance ramps?  No problem!  Crossing a median to go the other direction, pulling out in dead of night into oncoming traffic?  Eh, just a bit of a problem!  

This place is a gem.  None too shiny.  Maybe one of those old ones with a rose cut.  The old Hanoi Metropole is french and beautiful, it's belly fired with the hum of a good bar and jazz in the evenings.  No hint of mega-malls encroaching.  Kids, sitting on low-slung stools eating dinner, spilling out out of the open-fronted noodle shops and out into the street.  And from what I can tell, these people are live in a very different frame of mind.

We started our day with a half-day tour of the city, guided by quite possibly the most ill-suited tour guide known to man (I would think to be a tour guide, you should like to talk).  In half a day, we visited the Ho Chi Minh complex, the Hoa Lo Prison, the Temple of Literature and got noodles in Old Quarter.  This feat of course was made easy by the sheer fact that our guide a) sprinted ahead of us, b) rushed us if we lingered and c) didn't explain anything.

What did glean, however, that people truly revere Ho Chi Minh.  I think the only parallel I can draw is to how devout Catholics revere the Pope.  He is the country's great liberator and man of culture.  He sacrificed for his people (he never married).  He lived a simple life (in a simple home built for him by his people).  He predicted the end of the American War (before his death in '69).  And against his dying wishes, his people embalmed him and put him on display, so that the South Vietnamese could pay their respects to him once their country was reunified. In fact this is still being done, as many Vietnamese consider it important to make the pilgrimage here to pay their respects before they die.

Now, I was not allowed to go see Uncle Ho due, I am told, to my "exposed armpits."  Eh??  I did get to join up with a million school children from the countryside, and parade around and past the house he lived in.  And I went into the Ho Chi Minh museum.  

Being uninitiated, I thought the people would be hard pressed to fill a giant museum with the memorabilia of a single person, but fill it they did!  With bronzes.  With memorials.  And my personal favorite, pictures of memorials in other places. Snapshot and inscription: "Uncle Ho in Budapest." "Uncle Ho in Moscow" "Uncle Ho in Hue." 

The thing I don't get is despite being Communist, they get none of the free stuff.  No free medicine.  No free schooling.  They do get to vote however, for the one guy the one party nominates for election.  And all this we learn from our guide, without any sense of irony, sarcasm or incredulity.  We are far from New York indeed.

My point is not that these people are backwards or a bunch of chumps.  They have over 30 universities, for example.  Their art market is thriving.  There city had integrity.  They are gracious hosts to the Americans and the swarms of French who come to visit, even while memorializing  the scourge of the Imperialists in various museums like Hoa Lo prison.

Coined the Hanoi Hilton by the American fighter pilots captured during the Vietnam war, the museum made on the site of the Hoa Lo prison was as interesting as a set of historical facts, and as a living representation of their interpretation.  Most of the museum memorialized the first hundred years of the prison's use, mostly by the French to imprison and tourture political insurgents leading up to and during the French War.  There were several rooms dedicated to the brief period where they used the prison to house American POWs.  These were filled with nice sweaters, cigarettes, an example of an American "Begging Card," campy pictures of pilots feasting, decorating a Christmas tree, opening packages from home.  They even displayed John McCain's flight suit in full regalia.  All very weird.  And weirder still, despite this place being dark, dank, and completely outdated, the prison continued to be used until 1993.

We then went to the Temple of Literature, which was founded in the 11th century by the Mandarin Royal Court.  It was pretty, it was dedicated to Confucius, it was the first university in Vietnam.  Wish I could tell you more - that's about all I could get out of our guide.

After a busy morning, we got ourselves a lovely $2.50 meal of beer and

steaming Bun Bo Nam Bo.  Wheat noodles, sour beef, bean sprouts, peanuts and lime.  Good stuff.  Real good stuff.  I am happy to report, that "Fancy Food" is back in full swing.

Day 22 - Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom

For our last day of touring in Cambodia, we saved the best for last including sunrise at Angkor Wat, and the second largest complex Angkor Thom.   

T and I were to rendezvous with our guide at 5:20 am, so we could make the drive and arrive early for a good seat to catch the sun rise. As I put on my touring togs, I was reminded of a great line in the second book of Little Dorrit. Dickens is at his best, pillorying a certain type represented by the young Tip Dorrit. Tip along with his family has recently come in to an inordinate amount of money after spending twenty-some-odd years in debtors prison.  Now being wealthy, the Dorrits make up for lost time by taking a European.  The book opens with them in the Alps, and with Tip at his most haughty, condescending to converse with a fellow traveller by the fire. And Dickens roasts him indeed, describing Tip thus: "He was dressed in the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The world seemed hardly large enough to yield him the amount of travel proportionate to his equipment." Oh Charles, oh Chuck.  How funny you are!

But it got me to thinking about travel attire.  There are many factors to consider: 1) the damn heat, 2) the damn mosquitoes and 3) the damn steep stairs and tiny treads that the Angkoreans sadistically employed to connect galleries (i.e. floors).  Apparently the harder they are to climb, the more analogous they are to difficulty of attaining heaven.  For me, this means I should dress as a cross between Indiana Jones and high school version of myself.  Khaki pants, t-shirts, and Patagonia tied around my waist.  Top it off with my hair stuffed under my husbands explorer hat (Sorry Rye and Jen, I have a bad habit of making good use of T's gifts).  And my tennis shoes.  After an hour or two in the late afternoon heat, the outfit coalesces into what I consider to be a proper sweaty mess.

T has the additional consideration of also acting as our dromedary.  You name it, he's toting it - my cold medicine, Off wipes, sunscreen, maps, passports, wallets, blackberries, receipts, the hotel card, sunglasses case.  Luckily enough, he got an appropriately named "Ex-Officio" Traveller's vest from his valentine, bought at the only Orvis inside of 5 Burroughs.  Don that bad boy over a Nike workout shirt recently acquired on the cheap.  Pull on some linen pants--the subject of a breakdown in Barney's when purchased (I think it had to do with the pants having an exposed drawstring?).  A voila.  A second proper, even sweater mess!

We had the morning by the reflecting pond at Angkor Wat waiting for the sun to rise, to cultivate a better understanding other's interpretation of travelling trim.  There are some who chose the nylon route, or the high-healed/mini-skirted route as chronicled in T's Post-Postscript yesterday.  But there are also those who have -- how should I say -- decided to go "native."  This usually includes a combination of a) Angkor and/or Singha Beer Tee b) purple swami pants, with the inseams meeting somewhere be the knee and ankle, c) flip-flops, and d) pointy rice patty hat, bought at the nearest tourist trap.  Typically, this is accompanied by a beard if a man, and a headscarf if a woman.  Never mind that this version of a hot sweaty mess has almost nothing to do with the actual native togs of the countrymen from which they were purchased.  Do borrow a bit from Dickens, there would hardly seem to be a backpack big enough to accommodate the stereotypes from which this equipage was drawn.

Oh good fun.  

But the view was splendid, the temples were interesting and our guide was marching us along as intent as ever.  Angkor Wat itself was large, with the whole of the first gallery being carved sandstone with various Hindu epic scenes, images of Vishnu, of the Naga, of Garuda, etc.  It was said that 7,000 slaves labored for the 40 or so years it took to build this complex.  That the amount of Sandstone quarried from 55 km away was equivalent to the amount of material used to build the great pyramid.  That if the same complex were to be built today, one team of engineers estimated that it would take 300 years.  And that the Khmer Rouge had hid in the complex during the civil war.  Despite being atheist, they didn't destroy the religious images, but rather used its galleries and halls as hideouts.  Americans dropped a bomb nearby the temple, which caused one of it's south towers to fall.

Angkor Thom, and specifically the Bayon temple within it was my favorite

 of the 10 or so we saw over the course of our 3 days.  It was the first place I really felt like I understood the term "Mountain Temple" used to describe this style, with is representative of the Hindu belief about the mountain at the center of an ocean representing heaven.  The temple had massive stone faces at the top of its many towers, successively on higher galleries towards the center.  Climbing up the galleries, you could walk between narrow alleys, looking up at the faces above you and the blue sky above them.  

Day 21 - The Minor Wats

Yesterday we were run ragged, touring the lesser known wats, palace gates and other ruins. Most of the 200 ruins and temples in this area were built by the Khmer people as Hindu temples dedicated to Vishnu between the 9th and 12th century.  During most of that time, this area was considered the capital of the Khmer empire.

The World's Biggest Pool

We started our day at the royal swimming pool. Gigantic in scale, it was excavated by hand in the 11th Century.  Filled with rain water, it was used by the royal family only as a place to bathe and be ferried about by boats.  

For some reason, this pool really seems to speak of this civilization's wealth. Unlike the other ruins which we were to see later, this was not built for some higher purpose -- like walls and gates protecting the city, like temples to house libraries, funereal crematoriums, or in honor of the gods Vishnu or Buddha. This was pure bravado and indulgence.  And the Khmer king seemed to have done it in a big way.

It was at this testament to earthy pleasures that our guide filled us in as to the intricacies of the royal family.  The king was said to have 300 concubines (hence the big pool).  The concubines were volunteered by the villages to curry favor.  Unlike those Thais, though, the king only had one wife, and only she was allowed to give birth.  

This discussion was in contrast one we had the day before about the state of marital relations in modern Cambodia.  Here, the women's family pays for the wedding, however the men must pay a dowry to the woman's family.  I have it on good authority that a wife from the city "costs" $10,000, while a wife from the village might only run $1000.  "They are different" said our guide.  These differences includes such things as level of education, the darkness/lightness of their skin, and apparently their smell.  

Things get weirder from here.  

For example, if the man has a good job, he gets the woman for free.  If he's a doctor, they woman's family throws in a set of Ginsu knives, retail value $339. "What if he gets fired?" I ask.  "Then he must pay the woman's family."  And in the city, the younger generation live together "European style."  But this isn't smart - "If its easy to get, its easy to lose."

Other elements of sage, familial advice: The youngest child inherits the belongings from their parents, as they are the ones that will be expected to take care of them as they age.  If a child neglects this duty, there own children will neglect to take care of them.

Ta Prohm: Wat of the Woman with Big Lips

But enough of modernity.  What about Angelina Jolie's temple?

Like in America, people here are interested in Ms. Jolie. Visiting Ta Prohm was not the first place I encountered this. While in Chaing Mai, we had a 10 minute discussion about her Lanna-style tattoos while on our Culture Tour.  You know - one for each kid, a tiger for prosperity.  Yadda yadda. In Cambodia, she is referred to as "The Lady with Big Lips." While I'm not up to speed on all the details, I think she adopted her son from here after staying in Siem Reap for one month while shooting Tomb Raider.  

During the course of our tour, we overheard many guides referring to this late 11th century temple as site of the Tomb Raider.  Like - This tree was in the movie.  They put a camera here.  This shot was in there too.  Take a picture here, like Angelina.  Had I gotten off the wrong monorail stop?  I wanted to go on the Land Before Time, not Universal Studios.

For all these moments, it was truly magical.  Ta Prohm had been built for the king's

mother.  Since then, countless trees sprung up around the temple, in the temple and on the temple.  Fallen trees smashed arching gallery walls.  Roots wedged themselves between the rocks, forcing them to topple.  Sometimes the tree even has grown to keep parts of the temple in place. But for all the ruin, its was lovely and even more otherworldly.  

In a million years, I'd never have probably taken the time to watch Tomb Raider.  But after this, I just may....for the main attraction, all built in the name of a woman born a thousand years before the Lady with Big Lips.

Days 20 - Cambodia's Tonle Sap

I've never been to a place where war has so recently raged. Sixty-percent of the population is under the age of 20.  The story of our tour guide is a good example.

His father was a high ranking general in the army and was killed by the Khmer Rouge after its rise to power in the mid 1970s.  His mother's land in the city and the country was taken.  She fled, working in the rice patties.  Her 4 children were placed in an orphanage, and were raised there.  Our guide told us he lived with 100 other orphans, and every morning, the older orphans would go out and bury the others who had died in the night.  He left the orphanage at the age of 13.  

In the mid eighties, he joined the army.  He was wounded in the army.  He caught malaria.  His mother bought the expensive anti-malarial medicine needed to cure him.  I asked him how it is that he survived between the war and disease.  He said many people in his troupe died, that he prayed for good luck, and that he would avoid going into battle if he had a nightmare the night before.

In the mid-nineties, he left the army and worked for a year clearing land mines alongside a Dutch non-profit organization.  He quit after he saw his boss lose a leg by stepping on a mine. He tried to study to be a nurse, but it was difficult to get a job at the hospital.  He became a teacher instead.  He said that teachers, army and the police all get paid the same, but through extortion, police can make more.  Teaching was hard he said.  The kids don't respect the teachers any more.  Some of the parents are indifferent.  Only 9% of Cambodians go to schools at the high-school level.

And after that, he became a tour guide.

* 

The city of Siem Reap, where we are staying, is nearest to the most famous of the more than 200 temples in this region - Angkor Wat.  "Siem Reap" is Khmer for "Defeated the Thai," referring to battle in the 17th where they had overthrown Thai invaders that had long laid siege and then occupied the area.  

Within our first two days here, our guide frequently enumerated various grievances against the Thai including, but not limited to: stealing temple treasures like the Linga (phallic image worshiped in Hinduism) and Buddha; laying claim of rightful ownership for the Angkor complex; deporting migrant workers who have gone to labor in Thai rice patties; selling them bad fruit, which Cambodia has too little irrigation to grow for themselves; profiteering from the civil war, including levying heavy taxes on the weaponry imported by both the Khmer Rouge and the national government.  

(I am struck, while listening, that we never heard about this antagonism while in Thailand.  The Khmer hate the Thais, the Thais hate the Burmese.  And as it follows, each of the former had been occupied by the latter.)

As a people who have lived through much, there are many such opinions - about the police (corrupt), the French (arrogant), the Vietnamese (recently chummy), the Koreans (bad tourists), the old king (disgraced), and the current political system (still, the walls have ears). 

*

The morning of our first day, we go out on the largest fresh water lake in Southeast Asia - the Tonle Sap.  Between the wet and dry seasons, water levels vary so dramatically that in the wet season, the lake is fed all the way from the Himalayas in the north.  In the dry season, the Mekong actual changes its directions and flows into the lake from the south.  

Many locals make their living from the lake.  Many live literally on the lake.  We visited two such villages, Chong Khneas and Kamong Khleang.  

Roughly 9000 people live in floating homes in Chong Khneas, which is closest to Siem Reap.  There are tourist catfish and crocodile farms, homes that have TV antenna for their battery operating TVs.  A bar and a floating restaurant.

T and I make for a longer trip.  Our boat goes for an hour along the distant coast. Along the other side of the boat,  only the occasional hand-motor powered boat or fish-trap anchors punctuate the horizon.  

We come across the Kamong Kleang village.  "Visitors during the dry season are universally awestruck," according to one guide book, "by the forest of stilted houses rising up to 10 meters in the air. In the wet season, the waters rise to within one or two meters of the buildings." T and I were struck by that, I guess, and other things too: the "new" hand-crank telephone, the women peeling dried shrimp caught 

yesterday in the river, the girls selling us half-eaten pencils to donate to the school, the garishly painted new Buddhist temple, the young monk, drenched with sweat, crouched over the tiles he was laying.

Days 17/18 - Chiang Mai

Chaing Mai was founded in 1296 as the capital of the first independent Thai state, the Lanna Thai, or the Kingdom of a Million Rice Fields.  Rice is everywhere here, and is a central staple --especially sticky rice -- of Northern Thai food.

On our first day here, we took a "Curry Paste" Cooking class.  Before taking the class, I had always thought that the curries of Thailand were the same as those in India. Apparently, however, Thai curries are very different than Indian curries.  Thai curries - typically green or red - are based on a curry paste made of red or green chillies, sweet basil, dried shrimp, fish sauce, little toes of unpeeled garlic and various other goodies.  Any good Thai makes their own paste, which can keep fresh for one or two weeks, and is the basis for many types of dishes including said curry!

So yesterday, we took our own course in the hopes of being able to bring back some of these new found skills to NY.  I think we may need a larger kitchen to accommodate all the appropriate accoutrement - wok, steamer, rice maker.  But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

So the menu of the day included:

• Thord Mun Pla-Krai: Deep fried fish cake patties served with cucumber relish.
  

This was not as tasty as it looked, and despite being promisingly deep-fried and puffy looking, actually seemed to have a bit of a soft and sponge-like texture.  The "relish" was more like cucumber and chili syrup, with several cups of sugar and vinegar going into the mix.

• Hor Mok Ta-Lay: Steamed mild seafood curry mousse 

Tastes exactly as it sounds.  Maybe worse?  I think this is a version of the Otak-Okak fish spam we had in Malaysia - only tasteless, with chunks of chewy squid in it.

• Geng Khiew Waan Khai: Green Curry with chicken, eggplant and sweet basil
  

Chalk curry up as another one of T's specialties.  In addition to all things on the grill, braised meats, chili, cocktail making and laundry, we can add curry to this list!  With green curry paste, chicken stock, fish sauce, palm sugar, basil and kaffir lime, red and green chilies, his came out thick, rich, sweet and spicy.  So delicious, I jettisoned my bowl and had seconds from his!

• Tub Tim Krob: Chilled water chestnut rubies in sweet coconut milk

I am not sure why, but I think desserts are the most foreign elements of a cuisine.  Maybe just Asian cuisine?  In a million years, I never would have thought of making a dessert with water chestnuts. In fact, I am not sure I would have willingly thought to do anything with a water chestnut.  That being said, not only was the chestnut central to our dessert, but we then soaked it in a red syrup, coated it with tapioca and boiled them in water till they floated.  Add this, plus some diced jackfuit (imagine day-old cantaloupe), into a soup of coconut milk and sugar.  Top with crushed ice.  Even more surprising, it was delicious! 

It was a great way to spend the morning, although feeling like you were with food-baby all afternoon as you lay in your bathing suit by the pool was less than comfortable!

*

Today, we tried some sustenance of a more spiritual sort by making an early morning of Wat Phra That Doi Suthep.  We arrived at the base of the Doi Suthep mountain around 6:30 in the morning to make merit.  The temple was nice at the top of the mountain - we lit candles, burned our incense and made an offering of our lotus flower.  We honored an old monk, long dead and gone, who had helped build a road up to the temple. 

But what stuck with me were the monks we met.  Unlike the handful we came across in Bangkok (all middle aged, one on a cell phone, one smoking a cigarette), these were mostly boys.  Maybe 11 or 12 - the age of my little brother.  And they looked it too, in that sweet way that has an air of being rarefied because it will all-too-soon be gone.  

 As a young monk, they follow ten precepts, one of which was that they collect all their food from the charity of their community.  Shaved heads, flame robes, walking without shoes as a way of meditation, they would approach you if you asked to make an offering.  Wait with a head bowed over their alms bowl, as you placed a little bundle of food in.  And then they would chant together - the three or four you gave your parcels to - a teaching in unison.  

Most of these boys are from the local village.  Our guide said that most of them likely knew each other; that they would stay at the temple for two or three months; that if they had a friend who was not at the monastery, he may still come and play around the temple.  We saw one mother and son outside the temple, both dressed in white, the boy's head already shaved.  His mother had brought her son to initiation day.

As we watched these boys, the familiar crept in.  Like this mother and son. Was this like my mother taking my brother to sleep away camp with his friend Ben? Was he itching to get going, she a bit nostalgic and proud at once? Would her house be as quiet as ours is when he is away?

Like the two monks emptying their small alms bowls into a larger plastic bag, the packaged foods crinkling and crackling like a mound of candy wrappers being poured into a pillowcase? For these boys, was there the little bit of excitement, of anticipation and chance of trick-or-treat?  Did they groan at the homemade rice?  And brighten at the pre-packaged cream puff I placed in?

I am not sure if this is the magic of travel or not.  Do I need to go so far away to recognize the familiar in the exotic?  Or even more, to appreciate the sweet tenderness of my everyday?

Day 17 - I'd Pass on the Floating Market

May I add two more lessons to those learned in Bangkok?

Lesson No 4: What they say about the Floating Market is true.  

Yesterday, we got up at 6:30 to make a trip out to the floating market south of Bangkok.  Aside from an interesting food market we stopped at along the way, the 4 hours worth of driving, and 2 hours worth of ingesting long tail boat exhaust fumes was not worth it.  In fact, I'm not sure it was even worth getting out of bed for!  We walked along the flotsam and jetsam of tourist rubbish, most made somewhere else where labor is even cheaper than here, all the same from stall to stall. It was a bit depressing.  There really wasn't any craftsmanship to appreciate or enjoy-- only machine made purses, resin happy Buddhas, tea lights and the occasional phallus, just in case that was how you wished to remember the city.  But I also felt badly, being pulled along in our boat by the vendors in each stall lining the canal, all the while saying "no" or avoiding eye-contact as they asked me to stop and look.   "The economy is so bad.  No one wants to buy," a man said in Thai to our tour guide. The economy is bad enough.  At the same time, I can't think of a time where it was good enough to waste money on products that no one took the time or effort to think about whether it was worth selling in the first place.

That's why I am always happy to buy food - aside from the

obvious reasons.  There is something personal about it.  Someone took the time to make the little coconut pancakes, the fried banana fritters, the "dry" noodles with fishballs and young coconut juice.  I am happy to spend my tourist money of something personal, experiential, and something that I'll remember much longer that a natty "silk" pillowcase.

Lesson No. 5: Don't ever eat at a roof-top anything. 

And while local food can save a tourist trap from being a complete waste of time, sometimes it can just as easily go the other way.  We decided to eat at a roof-top restaurant recommended by our tour guide on our last night there.  Sixty-two stories above Bangkok, the scenery was nice.  The rest, however, was not.  Miserable "western-style cuisine,"  a see-and-be-seen vibe of old men with their red chests hanging out of a barely buttoned shirt.  Fishy scallops, a burger-like concoction of duck.  Shame on me really, for letting the last night get away from us.  I should have known better.

Days 15/16 - Bangkok

Goodbye KL, hello Bangkok!  Both T and I were very excited to come to Bangkok and had done lots of hypothesizing prior to coming. Suffice to say, non of it prepared us for the reality.  One might even say grim reality--at first.

This is a hard city.  Gritty.  Humid.  Wide streets with double and triple lanes in each direction. Traffic--apparently there is a Thai saying that children grow up in the car.  Hucksters and solicitors, maybe of every kind.

After we arrived, we decided to visit the Jim Thompson house, knowing we had a full two days of guided tours lined up for the following two days.  T just recently read the Jim Thopmson biography, having picked it up in a moment of sheer weakness (kinda like reading "Zodiac" after overlooking the best view in Angwin).  Storyline as follows: American goes "native" after serving here in WWII.  "Discovers" Thai silk craft, and creates a brand out of it as only an American can.  Makes money and collects a bunch of national treasures like Buddha statues. Disappears into thin air.  May have worked for CAI? May have attained enlightenment? May have fallen into a pit in the jungle? ehhh...

So we join a tour group full of American retirees.  

Maybe from Pennsylvania. Lots of "Eh? Can we take a picture? What'd she say? No picture?"  Two ole ladies in particular-- I think they enjoyed the entire tour from the view behind their digital camera display screens.  

We apparently met our first huckster just after our tour, as we were studying our map trying to figure out our next step.  Lesson No 1: Don't study your maps.  This says, "please come and con us into parting with our money."  But we didn't know this, so a nice professional looking middle age man approaches us to ask - where you going?  

Lesson No 2: If you are desperate enough to accept their help interpreting your map, don't tell them where you are going.  This says "I am not savvy enough to ignore you, and therefore you may be able to hustle us over to a crony's tuk-tuk."  The weird thing is that upon finding out where you want to go, they will tell you that it isn't open.  Upon doing that you are putty in their hands.  A la "Now what are we going to do?"  

Lesson No 3: When being asked what you'd like to do - movie, atm, money exchange - try to be as non-committal as possible and find an exit.  Like when a work associate you don't really like says "Oh!  Lets get dinner some time.  You and your wife/husband." The skills you honed in this scenario works really well here. This is the part where the crony's tuk-tuk would take you to the "best" tailor/silk house/massage/sex-change surgeon in town, with both the friendly professional and the driver taking a piece of the (american) pie.

So we were off to a rough start.  Back on our heels really.  Feeling a bit cowed.  So we did like any sensible cowed tourist would do and we ate in the hotel restaurant.  Food was fantastic-spicy and herbaceous.  Rice paper wrapped spring rolls with crispy fish and Thai basil.  Green curry and Garoupa fish, with tiny, pea-like eggplants that have a bitter bite.  Wok fried beef, with hottest damn pepper I've ever eaten.  No slow dancing here.

But I am happy to say that I have a whole new outlook on Bangkok after today.  Not that the grit and grime and hardness was gone.  We had a tour guide all day, and I felt that she helped to take the fearsomeness from the equation.  I let go of the doubt and of the hesitation.  And apparently, so did T.

   For example, at 8:45 in the morning as we are walking through the flower market, my husband bellies up to a steaming bowl of intestines. Its all in there - liver, stomach, intestines.  Fresh from a street vendor, topped with bean sprouts, some chilies and scallions.  T wisely leaves an especially pinched looking morsel in the bowl.  I ask him--am I supposed to kiss you with those lips? 

Thus fortified, we did a million things--th went to the Grand Palace, we toured the Wats Arun and Po (the Temples of Dawn of the Reclining Buddha), we saw the Royal Barges and the Largest Jewelry Store in the World  (did you know that Thailand was famous for its sapphires and rubies?  Neither did I, but leave it to one of the many enterprising Chinese to have made a business out of it, and park a Rolls Royce and a Mercedes out in front of it.  Apparently the RR cost 60 Million Baht.  His license plate with the auspicious 88888 is rumored to have cost $1M Baht alone.)  

We egregiously pointed our feet at the most sacred image of the Buddha in Thailand--the Emerald Buddha.  I managed to desecrate a monk by touching some silky thing, upon which I was supposed to place our donation. But it wasn't all bad and I think we stocked up on some good karma while we were at it (Don't worry.  I can say that, because Thais are really polytheists too).  

List of Auspicious/Merit-Making/Thanksgiving Activities

1) Making an offering to the Emerald Buddha (lotus flowers, candles and incense)

2) Making an offering at the Reclining Buddha, mindfully dropping a coin into each of the 108 offering bowls, after the 108 auspicious signs of the Buddha

3) Dipping a lotus into blessed water, after which we touched our head with the flower 3 times

4) Making a donation of random household goods to a buddhist monk.  Apparently monks must subsist entirely from the donations of the community, and it is considered an opportunity for the community to "make merit" by doing so.  Symbiosis?  Hegemony?  Not sure yet...        All I know is that we chanted Sanskrit for about 3 minutes over a

shrink-wrapped tub including crackers, noodles, toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and dish detergent.  Righto!

5) Donation to a monastery in exchange for bread, which we then (also mindfully) fed to a now-writhing knot of catfish in the klong (canal) behind the temple

Not too bad, for a long sweaty day that started with Poop Soup.

 

Days 13/14 - Welcome to KL

We have about a day and a half in Kuala Lumpur, or "KL" as its referred to.  And being about two-thirds of the way through the allotted time, I think it's more than sufficient. After a long delay at Langkawi, we arrived in KL in the early evening.  We checked into our hotel and are both surprised and dismayed.  

We were excited and surprised to have such a terrific view of the Petronas Towers, even from our room. They are even more incredible in person and most incredible at night.  

We were dismayed, however, that we had unwittingly checked into a hotel-cum-Australian-cruise-ship.  It's not that I dislike Australians (T describes them as the Americans of the southern hemisphere.  I'll leave you to interpret that comment on your own).  It's that I kinda dislike cruise ships.  Thanks to a 115 MR "upgrade" scheme (equivalent to about $30), everyone here gets an all-inclusive breakfast, tea and cocktail.  As a result, last night at cocktail time, T and I entered the lounge to a packed house.  Everyone was slurping down cocktails, making a meal of the hors d' oeuvres buffet.  And you should have seen the "last call"!  An army of waiters shuttling out of the bar area, with another drink or two for the thirsty, scurrying back behind the already half-closed buffet line, for another plate of samosa or two for the hungry.  T and I left our drinks unfinished, and headed out for dinner.

Dinner.  KL is like Singapore in that it is a mall culture.  We were there on a Saturday night, and were recommended by the concierge to Madame Kwan's in the KLCC mall complex.  

Imagine if you would, the T.G.I. Fridays of Malaysian cuisine.  Very busy and full of patrons, mostly Malays from what I could tell.  Malaysia is a Muslim country and dinner presented a good opportunity take note of the few nuances differentiating this halal version from the classic American concept.

• Big Tables.  I think I read somewhere before that what is referred to as a "two-top" is the most profitable table in the restaurant business.  Even being in a major city center, I was surprised to see how few two-tops there were in this establishment - maybe only 2 or 3 - in favor of much larger tables.  Of course this better catered to the clientele, which was mostly families out to dinner, rather than dates or even double-dates.  Most patrons had children.
• Lots of Drinks, but not that kind.  The drinks section of the menu took up almost half a page. Coming from a society where people seldom "spend the calories" on non-diet drinks, especially non-alcoholic non-diet ones, it was interesting to see the sheer variety of fruit juices and teas being consumed across the tables.  Juice selection alone at this place included: orange, apple, papaya, watermelon, starfruit, lemon, lime, carrot, pineapple, honeydew or mango.
• No Pork.  Just about everything else though.  I forgot that pork was not-permissible according to Islam, but was reminded in the first couple days in Langkawi after seeing "beef bacon" and "chicken ham" on the menu.  No-faux pork products here.  Nor where they missed really.
• Family Style.  Most food is brought to the table in big enough portions to share.  Just for good measure, T and I like to order for a family.  Come to think of it, we eat for a family too.

So we ordered: 

Otak-Otak: A spiced fish SPAM, steamed in banana leaves

Sambal Petai: "Twisted Cluster Beans cooked in a hot and spicy combination."  The beans in this look like a fava bean, but taste very bitter.  Almost like the bitter taste in beer.  I am heartened to know, after looking up in Wikipedia, that another name for "Petai" or "Twisted Cluster Bean" is also "Stink Bean."  I'll say!

Broccoli Mushroom: This tasted just like your regular Chinese food variety.  Tame and familiar by comparison.

During the course of our dinner, we noticed the Kwan equivalent of the Mudslide, that dessert-like item flying out from behind the bar, which everyone seemed to be enjoying with relish. This was Cendol. And we were not going to miss out.

By far, this is the most foreign and unknowable thing we have eaten.  Truly, to the depths, unknowable.  Described on the menu as "Green jelly, red beans served with coconut milk and gula Melaka."  To me, this translated to, kinda like a jello mold. Oh unsuspecting diner!

What arrives is a mounding sundae with a green mass at the bottom, a mountain of shaved ice, dribbled with coconut milk, and a pitcher of molasses looking, but delicious brown sugary tasting sauce.  

But it gets strange - real strange - when I dig in with a spoon to find that the "Green Jelly" is actually jellies, little worms of green jellies.  Al dente worms of green jelly, with no taste, made slimy by the melting, milky ice.  

I don't get it.  Neither does T.  "You know how every food has a purpose?"  I nod.  T does not respond, because there is quite possibly no other way to get at what were were getting at here. 

Now, I should have just downed the little pitcher, because that tasted good.  Apparently "Gula" is palm sugar.  Its brown and sweet, complex.  By the end, T and I were just lapping up spoonfuls of that.   

The mall still being open after dinner, T scored 2 Nike workout shirts for $15.  "See Lol, I told you stuff'd be cheap."

Today we had the appointed breakfast with the masses, who were eager to get their last AUD- worth on their third trip to the buffet line which included everything from congee rice and sushi to my favorite, All Bran.

We went to the Central Market for trinkets and nicknacks.  We get lunch in Chinatown at a place as authentic as I was nervous. T swoons over his favorite dish yet - curried octopus - which he describes as being tender and spicy.  We walk through the market and enter a small alleyway, and we come across the scene with which I will close this post.

It seems that we are in the food portion of the market: vegetables like scallions, garlics, cilantro, cabbage; dried food stuffs like shrimp, noodles and squid; fish laid out across blocks of ice; and then food of the animalian kind.  We pass chickens in various states of undress - fully plumed and clucking, plus the dispatched kind - denuded, laying heads down with their little eyelids closed as if to nap.  We passed the pork butcher (this is Chinatown), with hunks of meat out along wooden tables and hung from hooks.

One chicken monger in particular had some curious wares.  Aside from his chickens (live and dead), he had a basket full of entrails.  And beside the glistening, veiny looking entrails, sat two cages.  And inside those two cages were two cats.  Were these two items the exception?  The only two not on sale?

Day 12 - Our Last Day in Langkawi

True to form, on the last day, and the last hour, the resident monkeys showed.  Apparently unlike the Macaque, which is common enough in Malaysia that the government allows them to be exported for consumption, the Spectacled Langur is relatively more rare and shy.  Also known as the Dusky Leaf Monkey, this species occurs in a variety of habitats including costal and riverine forests.  They are active in the early morning and, when we saw them, the late afternoon, when family groups of around 10 individuals may congregate to feed on young leaves and shoots.  The young are an orangey-yellow, which you can just make out in this picture clinging to his mamas belly.

Day 11 - Eating in Wonderland. A Play in Five Acts.

We have been on campus almost our entire visit to Langkawi.  Over the course of the past several days, we have been inquiring about good places to eat in town.  One mentioned to us on our first day here was a place called "Wonderland."  I wonder what type of land, T and I asked each other. Like Disney? Like Wacko Jacko?  As we ventured to ask others their opinions, the reaction was decidedly mixed.

Act 1:  To Go or Not To Go

An Emoticon Cartoon

First Response: Wonderland??

  }:- ( 

(subtext = why would you eat there?)

Our Reply: We love food and are looking to try something local!

*************

Their Rejoinder: Its not fancy

];-&

(subtext = But they don't have lemongrass scented wash towels... and you sit on plastic lawn chairs)

Ours: Yeah! Like a Hawker Center!

**************

Their Endorsement: Great food--good fish.

;-)

(subtext = indecipherable.  is this a consolation prize?  Like "He has a great personality?")

Act 2: Perchance to Eat?  Ay, there's the rub

The only way to find out was to make the 20 minute drive into town and give it a try.  As we arrived, we found that the place was packed to the gills with locals, with Australians, with another couple we recognized who had apparently also decided to eat off campus.  A very good sign indeed.

The atmosphere was lively, with a cluster of tables under an awning festooned with little Malaysian flags.   A humble counter made of white tiles separated the cooks in the kitchen from their diners.  From our table, we could see in as three men manned the woks inside.  

Our waiter approached, and with delight, walked us through the double sided menu.  You made a selection of the fish/seafood/chicken, followed by the preparation method (steamed/grilled/fried), and sauce as applicable.  Prawns? Tiger or River?  Crabs?  Soft Shell or Red Chili? Mussels or Oysters? Grouper or Snapper? Rice? Steamed or Fried?

Rather than make a decision, we readily followed our waiters advice.   We felt all the more sure after the Guy in Charge double checked our order, and nodded with vigorous approval.  Before we went further, he asked "Do you like spicy?"

To our ready nods, he returns with a bowl of chili paste.  "Try this first." We taste.  Red chilies, mild, sweet and slightly warm, mixed with garlic and ginger.  Yes please!

Act 3: The Native Hue of Our Degustation

With two cold tiger beers, T and I watch in awe as our plates come out, one after another.

Red Snapper.  One half fried.  Sauce of green chilies, soy sauce, garlic and a squeeze of lime. Other half grilled.  Piquant tamarind and shallot sauce.

Large Tiger Prawn.  Cut in half and grilled.  Bathed in that yummy chili paste offered earlier as our point of no return. A side of sweet and sour too.

Soft Shell Crabs.  The smallest ones I've ever seen.  Cut in quarters and fried up.  Fried up like briny goodness and dipped into a sweet red chili 

sauce.

Baby Cabbage.  Looked like large Brussels sprouts from which each leaf had been torn.  Tossed in a wok with oyster sauce and garlic.  I hate cabbage, but I loved this.

Fried Rice.

Act 4: As if Our Increased Appetite Had Grown, by What it Fed On

All along the way, the Guy in Charge kept checking in on 

us.  Apparently he was the third generation of a Chinese family to own a seafood restaurant in Langkawi.  For 55 years, they had cultivated a following of customers, had cooked similar dishes, had bought fish from the same family's fishermen.  He hurried from table to table, to the kitchen, to call a cab, to chat.

"Don't bite the green one.  When you bite the green one, call me if you need help," he said, pointing to the delicious sauce that accompanied our fried Snapper.  "I know what to do."

With much bravado, we happily made our way through each plate, even through each sauce.  This was certainly the best food we had yet to have on our trip.  The best food I have had in a long while.  And as he noticed our progress, the Guy in Charge returned.  

"You must try the white chili."  Now I know next to nothing about chilies, but when I saw him bring out a bowl of minced up white chilies, floating in a sauce of soy, I knew we were in for a ride.  "Don't eat the pepper.  Just the sauce."  Apparently this instruction was so dire, that he literally took the spoon out of T's hand, dipped the tiniest tip of it in the sauce, and fed it to him.  "This is what I call a slow dance," he said.

And he was right.  This wasn't the type of chili that made sweat stand out on your brow, or made the back of your throat tight with its heat.  Rather this one made your mouth, your nose, your throat warm.  Your lips tingle.  And it stayed that way for a long time.

We looked at each other and knew we needed to put in another order:

Sea Bass.  Yep.  Another plate of food just for good measure.  Gotta feed the monkeys!  This guy came whole.  Steamed with plum sauce, thinly sliced ginger, carrots and scallions.  Subtle. 

Act 5: This Too Too Solid Flesh

We are stuffed.  Stuffed like I haven't been in a while.  Stuffed like Thanksgiving, when I normally resort to laying down on the floor beside the dining room table.

Given our jauntiness, or given our overindulgence, the Guy in Charge brings us a round of drinks to finish us off.  In this country, when a proprietor offers to get you a round of drinks, just know not to expect those kind of drinks.  Instead, he brought us what I call Homemade Gatorade.

Why, you ask?  Because it's a bit thinker than water, just like Gatorade.  It's sweet, but also surprisingly salty.  And it tastes just like Tiger Lime.  A simple syrup made with lime is added to water along with what I think was a pickled or preserved plum.  Or maybe just a plum pit?

A Wonderland indeed.