Eating Locals

Usually my stories are about a certain place or adventure. I don't think I have properly communicated some of the day to day, routine adventures I have... such as finding food.

I have found that a culture mostly sprouts from two things: religion and food. Here in Buddhist Southeast Asia, food is everywhere. Foreigners usually just scurry and hide in the restaurants, but that's what tourists do. There is good food there but if you really want to taste the culture, and be a true traveler, you have to eat where the locals do. This takes some searching but usually ends at the same place, the epicenter of local life no matter how touristy your host town is, the local market. No, not the market where they sell the knock-off North Face gear. This market sticks out from the rest.

You see plumes of smoke rising from miniature BBQ pits, usually made from scrap metal or coffee cans. As you get closer you smell the people around you heading for the same place after a long, hard, and body odor erupting day. Then you start to smell the food. First you smell the dried fish, and not just a little, whole stands filled with it and the stench almost burns your nose. Loads of it hangs from hooks alongside other skinned animals such as chickens, pigs and frogs. Whole foreign fruits lay in giant baskets everywhere being snatched up by passersby. I look down at them and notice that the ground isn't linoleum or even asphalt, its old rain water, sweat and dust churned by thousands of feet into a soggy, stinky mess. And amongst all this are little tables, miniature stools and a woman hovering above the table, hands chopping animal parts indiscriminately and face covered in soot. This is where I eat... mmmm.

As I walk closer to the table I already know I am the only round-eyed person in this market. I checked on the way in. Everybody looks confused when I approach, thinking that I need directions or something. When I sit down I am greeted by the same thing every time at a place like this, surprised faces and giggles from other patrons. This assures me that I am entering local territory.

Now, what to eat? In front of me are a couple bubbling cauldrons and some raw ingredients. I look around and point at the most popular dish at the table, this time it seems to be some sort of ricey soup. The woman chops off a few chicken limbs and then chops them again and adds it to the top of the soup along with mint leaves. I stir it up and add a little chili. In this part of the world if you automatically just add chili they seem to accept you a bit more. I dive in with my bathtub shaped spoon and... its good. A simple rice and sprout soup in a chicken broth complete with some chicken bits, bone and all. I fish around for some more mint leaves and find something really Asian: chunks of cooked, coagulated blood. I tried it once and didn't like it so I fish them out and hide them in my napkin as to avoid any insult. Served with the soup are doughnut sticks for dipping. It goes well.

I thank my cook and ask "how much?" Of course she says the tourist price, double the local one. I suggest a lower one and she accepts. Then off I go, back though the soggy mess and dried fish stench that burns my nostrils. I'm starting to grow a resistance to the smell after coming to these things markets as often as I can. Now I'm searching for something sweet to top it off. A local child points to a stand filled with custard creations. I picked the most exotic thing there: a small slice of an orange yam or pumpkin thing stuffed with an egg custard. I pay and take a big bite while locals watch, waiting for my reaction. I nod in acceptance. The yam things was pretty bland. There were two custards inside. One was slightly salty and the other was made from banana. It was ok tasting. Nothing special. Next time I'm going for the bright yellow globs. Until then, off I go back to my room to take a cold shower, then only kind offered around here.