Bus Station Baguettes and Steamed Fish Eyes

Delight delight delight.
That's right, I've come back to Laos. Third time, sure is fine.
What have I done so far? Well. After a very very long journey from Chiang Mai, resplendent with frequent sudden stops for a poor British boy to be sick on the verge, I eat a delicious plate of raw spring roll. Then I nap like it's my job.
Later, I meet Mr. Bair out front of Mixay Temple and we ride around on his motorbike for a bit. I did wear a helmet, thank you. We zoom past crowded street stalls, steaming pots and clattering plates. We zoom past fashion outlets, some of which are actually not hideous, and I am confused why all the girls still wear their traditional embroidered knee-length skirts rather than these trendy trendy things.
Then the moon comes out from behind the buildings. Huge and orange, reflected over the stinking canal, beautiful.
We go to his sister in law's house and hang out there for a bit. She is very cool and she has a happy face. She is a young librarian with two boys, one is four and very naughty, and the other is almost one. The four-year-old and I play his version of hide and seek which means I count to ten while he hides around the corner, I find him immediataly and he then runs around the house cackling. Three families live in the one house, and the living room we sit in is covered in anime posters and drawings of fashionable blonde princesses. You can tell that kids rule this room!
Bair and I zoom off again and park outside a restaurant. We sit next to a noisy fountain and order the fish. It is epic. Caught fresh from the river, steamed with ginger, spring onion and mushroom, it is perhaps the best fish I've ever paid for. Bair's friend Air comes by and orders beer. He reaches over with a spoon, scoops out the fish eye, and politely offers it to me. Okay, this is a year of saying "yes".  It is very soft except for a ring of cartiledge that breaks up easily. It tastes like fish oil. It could have been worse. I am convinced I have been imbibed with its power and I can probably see underwater now.

And this morning, rising quietly from my rooftop dorm with three snoozing shapes in the beds around me, I leave the Mixay Guesthouse (200 baht for a dorm, o yea).
Then I get the best fruit shake in town from a little place (just this little place I know) that is on the right as you come out of the road that leads away from the big square with the fountain if you're walking away from the river. Seriously, the best.
Then I bargain like a badass with a nice tuk tuk man who drives me to a place, where I do what I need to do. 'Nuff said.

Now, what to do with my limited funds? Visit a temple I say, read my book for the day, drink tea. Whilst being badass, obv.

Happy Winter Holiday!

A refreshing 23 degrees Celsius on Christmas day in Chiang Mai, the first hot Christmas I've ever had. Very peculiar, agreed Zippy and Heather, Canadian comrades teaching in Vietnam and Hong Kong respectively. It's like Christmas already happened and we weren't there for it.

Nevertheless, we dutifully opened presents under palm trees over plates of eggs and pancakes from Bake&Bite, exchanging handmade crafts from not so far-flung exotic locations.

We took a clattering song taew to Wat Umong, wandered through the temple tunnels and overgrown paths scratched up by chickens and dogs, hoping to spot any escapee antelopes who had broken free from the old zoo on the grounds. Instead we found ourselves in the monk pad where they do their laundry and sleep. Whoops. We walked to the pond and bought pellets for the catfish. Man those things are ugly. As they swarmed around the food in a writhing gaping-mouthed mass, Zippy said, "It's like when someone has a really gross scab and you keep looking at it over and over." Some of them were huge. The picture doesn't quite capture the alien gullet maw of the giant catfish mob.

Gives me the Freudian creeps. Am I right, ladies, am I right?

So we washed our hands and went to the market to buy fruit and nuts in exciting colours for the party flapjacks. Here is the recipe for forgieners who don't what a flapjack really is.

Recipe for Party Flapjacks

200g butter
200g demerera sugar
200g honey
400g oats
pinches of any or more of the following spices:
nutmeg
cinammon
star anise
cloves
handfuls of any or more of the following treats:
chocolate chunks
raisins
chopped mango/ pineapple/ cherries/ almonds/ fresh ginger
multicolour sprinkles (that's the party bit)
M&Ms

Heat oven to 180 C
grease up a pan, make that thing slick so nothing sticks
put the butter, sugar and honey in a medium or large saucepan on medium heat (I have only one smallish-medium sized saucepan which made this whole thing a rather careful procedure) and stir till the butter melts and the sugar dissolves. Then get it off the heat.
Whack the oats into the pan.
Hassle the spices o'er top.
Impose the treats.
Stir everything up so it's good and wet, but holding it pretty much together, not falling apart like a sissy.
Press the sticky mix into the pan and put it into the middle of the oven. Cook it for 15-20 minutes. The edges will be crispy and your kitchen will smell like hot sugar (unless you have a sinus infection and you will be making this recipe for your friends only since you won't be able to smell or taste a thing)

When it looks done, take it out of the oven. Divide it into squares or any shape you want. Eat any bits that don't fit on your serving platter. Then it's up to you to party.

a roi maak maak.

So we took this winner of a dish to Small House and had an actually good time with excellent chefs and budding professional line dancers. We wore our matching Christmas sweaters, fluffy and bedazzled. Ukuleles were played, turkey was digested next to the butternut squash dissolving in our stomachs.

Later, we song taewed merrily to the 24 hour coin-operated laundry and computer shop, where I called the Showers's, Zippy called the Doiron's, and Heather snoozed on a plastic chair. And who should flicker onto my screen but father Showers, decked out splendidly, if a little snugly, in a glittery google-eyed cartoon robot t-shirt with the word FRENZY! on it. "I'm thrilled with my present, thank you so much! I've been wearing it all day." How did I know my dad and my 12-year old brother had so much in common? Note to self, put names on presents when you wrap them in the same paper and ship them to different countries.
Enjoy your brown cushion cover, Michael.

Then we tra-la-lah'd home, and I listened to Lucy Day on the Myspace to send me off to sleep.

Happy Festive Time.

Early Mornings

I mean 5 or 6 AM mornings. The ones where it's not raining and there thickness of night sticks in the air. This is my Chiang Mai, when the women light the coals for the day's lunch and the market vendors are hauling their melons out of pickup trucks. This is the time of homeless people moving between sheets of canvas and  corrugated iron, looking out into the dark street, waiting. The roads are quiet, the dawn is cool over the water, and breakfast of Chinese donuts with hot soy milk was never more appropriate.

 

What I Am DOING

Hello.
Life continues as a daily routined life does. I have recieved some terrific post, I have tried to teach 13-year olds about "the Drum 'n' Bass", I have started rehearsing the Teapot Song with a gang of second-graders, and last night I ate a massive plate of lasagna. It was delicious.


I bought some teacher shoes, the only pair of sensible shoes in Chiang Mai for under 4000 baht. Oh they are brown.

I made scones for my friend's birthday.

I went to Pai for one night only.








I went on a house boat with a massive crowd of young expats. The view was very very very beautiful and dancing under a full moon next to mountains and water was pretty unforgettable.
However, I am determined to learn Thai, starting this week. I can't live in a country so so far away from all that I know and not live in the culture proper. Book clubs and wine tastings have their place, and I'm not sure that their place is in my life. And that's all there is to say about that right now.
Also, I'm aware that going out of town on a motorbike is the best way to see the country, but I am scared stiff of breaking myself, even if it's road rash. I've seen some nasty stuff. I may have to invest in a mega fast road bicycle with super hot panniers.
I miss my family, I miss my friends. But life is certainly fine.
La la. Any tips on how to make a papier mache turkey hat is appreciated, as I will be dressing as a roast dinner for the school Christmas parade next week.

Loving Laos

14 hours on a bus later, I am in Vienne Tian, Laos, snuggled up in the tourist area, munching Scandanavian shortbread after the best pastrami and mustard sandwich of recent years. I do love the colonies.

I drop off my bag at the Mixay Guesthouse, buy a floppy hat, and walk down the riverside. The two square miles that comprise the tourist area has a marked boundary of people not staring at you to people stopping in their tracks to see what you're doing outside your quarter. And the houses turn from brick and plaster behind metal gates to shacks made of corrugated iron and woven bamboo screens tied together with twine.

There are dogs, there are chickens. There are tall temples around dusty corners, and fishermen in long boats trying to find things to eat from the Mekong River. And everyone gets their own hammock.

A couple of hours in, I realise that I've stopped sweating, and dehydration is a pain to deal with. “Could I have some water, ka?” The young couple at the stall selling beer and fizzy drinks look blank. “Water?” I ask in a Canadian accent this time. “Nam plaow? Nam geaow?” I ask in badly pronounced Thai. The whole street is now involved in trying to understand what I want. A woman appears from her door with two bottles of water raised aloft, and invites me inside. It's a small acupuncture clinic with eight beds separated by screens. (Rachel please stop reading here) On one of the beds lies a 15-year-old girl who she is treating for a brain injury two months previously. She has ten needles in her face, under her ear, and a couple in each wrist. There are used needles on the tables. The doctor swiftly but deftly plucks out each needle, which is a little creepy to see. Then she takes me to her house on the river where I meet her son. We start talking, as you do, and he invites me to visit his friend's farm on a river north of the city. Meet you at the temple, tomorrow at 1PM.

We drive and drive, through the city, down a questionable reconstruction of Champs Elisee complete with its own Arc de Triumphe, out past the fruit stalls floor to ceiling with apples and tiny oranges, past the smoking barbeques grilling chicken feet and cat fish, and down the dusty red road. Everything is covered in red dust; the plants, the houses, the laundry hanging outside the houses. An hour and a sore pair of legs later, we are at the farm.

This is very exciting to me, because I have been looking to find someone who will tell me the names of trees. Here is mango, banana, starfruit, jackfruit, bamboo bamboo, and fish. Fish is not a tree. I befriended a cow.

We go across the river on a ferry made of wooden planks with a longtail motor driving it. We are dropped off in a tiny village, and in minutes the rumour has spread that there is a falang in town. Stepping around baby goats and little children, we walk through the dusty streets, saying hello to old women poking at weeds in their front yards, and to children hiding in trees. Some try out their English, “Oh! My gosh! Hello. I like you.” Everyone stares but they are all friendly.

Later, my guide takes me to his counsin's wedding, big honour. I sit with his family, we celebrate with many toasts to everybody's health, and I learn to line dance Laos style.

A fine day.

75 days later

It has been quite a while since I swallowed the lump in my throat as the plane landed on the hazy Bangkok runway, when I sweated at customs praying that they would not ask what my specific intentions were for visiting the country, that IT WOULDN'T BE TO WORK, WOULD IT?

My enthusiasm for noodles has not guttered, though I know what I like, and I know I don't like the thick gloopy ones that all stick together in a shiny brown "gravy" goo. I could eat noodles all day, even just one long noodle, a day-long noodle.

I'd say I've got more streetwise, as in I look where I'm going so I don't fall into huge holes or fight battles with cranky dogs. And I tend not to walk under electric cables.

I miss ale, but I have fresh coconut.

I miss pubs, but I have bamboo huts by the river.

I miss Norwich, Leeds, Brighton, Bristol, Stroud (for the autumn smells), London (ya cunt), I miss watching reruns of Mighty Boosh under a blanket with a mug of brown tea after a chilly walk through a muddy field. And by gum do I miss the mass unemployment, the seething hatred of the establishment, I miss the fight fight fight!

But I found a punk show, a tiny room full of Thai boys with 3-foot long mohawks and studs all over everything, jumping around like bingo balls in their DMs. I got some excellent bruises from dancing (shoving and getting shoved about), and I let out all that pent up energy that comes from walking pretty and talking about yoga, noodles, and how cheap coconuts are.

I think I have found a nice balance of activities to keep me sane here for a while, ie sipping wine at the Riverside vs not going anywhere near or even climbing inside abandoned buildings; chatting Chekov at book swaps vs. howling along the street in Critical Mass.

I may be here until March 2013. So book yr tickets, mai?

Megaboom

Loi Loi Krathon, Loi Loi Krathon... The Lantern Festival! Light a kom loi, make a wish! Float a krathon, feed the river gods! Decorate your front door sweetly, be nice to all your friends! Stock up on explosives and whiskey though, you don't want to run out.

The parades are long but they are pretty. See the giant blue glittery cloud decorated with swans and umbrellas that nestles a little girl dressed in red and gold who can hardly keep her head up because her face is so thickly laid with eyelash glue, lipstick, and meters of fake hair. A cable on the back of the float connects to a truck following closely behind, bearing a large generator that cloaks the street in an ethereal diesel mist. The traditional bands carrying gongs, very long drums, and boys who dance/fight with cymbals, are usually drowned out by the 10-speaker sound systems. And so on for two hours. Great costumes, smiling people (how do they smile for so long? Vaseline), epic dancing.

The day after, school has the afternoon off to make krathons, which are offerings to the river made of folded banana leaves and decorated with flowers, incense and candles in the shape of a lotus. The idea is to put your wishes on the krathon, light the candle and push it into the river, where it floats downstream, all the way out to sea probably. My 7-year-old friend Bandok (on the left in the picture) and I struggle through, doing our best to make something beautiful.

Interesting story I heard about the origins of these floating offerings; the original city was settled a few miles downstream of the established Chiang Mai. There was a horrible virus that started killing everyone off, a kind of bubonic plague situation with the sick packed into areas separate from the village. Of course quarantines are tricky when your walls are made of bamboo leaves, so the uninfected people were left with few choices. Those that could, left. They left their families behind and took boats upstream to start a new village. This village was extra clean and healthy, and everyone was happy with their new lives. But they didn't forget their sick relatives, and knowing that they were struggling, every full moon they sent down boats built from banana trees filled with provisions. And so, krathons for our ancestors.

Two days after the first parade, there is another one. They told me, “It's like the last one, but bigger!” Indeed. Now they are driving more elaborate floats with 3-storey castles stuffed with beauty kings and queens, smiling for all of Siam. Even the Night Safari crew rocks up (marketing tagline: you can eat anything you see! They had to keep a low profile shortly after they opened when a pack of wolves escaped and was spotted prowling the streets of Chiang Mai) with horns tied to their heads and feathers tickling the noses of onlookers. I get a very good look at them when the parade stood still for 20 minutes. Then I get a little restless and walk up a little towards Nakorn Ping Bridge. I watch a big-bellied man drenched in glitter rub a gong for another 10 minutes or so. There is a big explosion behind me and everything goes quiet.

But then everyone remembers, ha ha ha, it's Loi Krathon! Explosions are good luck! Then all the power along the river goes out, but they were just kidding because it comes back on after a couple minutes. By this time I am jammed into a crowd of drunken Thai boys, cheek by jowl. Bring on the groping. I'm talking full on free for all grope time. I decide that it's worth heading home at this point, as the only white girl in the heaving whisky-scented mass. This takes a LONG TIME because all of Chiang Mai, and any lucky evacuee from Bangkok, has congregated at this intersection and is trying to get somewhere. Finally I am spat out onto the bridge. Keep eyes out though, they tell me that falang often find firecrackers under their feet.

The next morning, I go for a run. The charred corpses of kom lois are caught in trees, crumpled on street corners. The river is speckled with bottles and firework canisters. I think that if I liked loud noises and dreadful amounts of booze, this would have been a brilliant festival. But, but. I do like things that light up with lots of colours, I like things that float in the sky and in the water.

Bring on New Year's.