Mango Plumpness

Some people tell me I’m looking skinny. I haven’t really noticed, but I believe them. Eating rice instead of pasta, and walking around in 100 degree heat, would do it to anyone. By the time May is over, though, I expect I’ll be back at my American weight. Why? It’s mango season.

In these parts, April is not only the peak month for outside temperature, but also for the world’s most consumed and number one selling fruit. And we’re not talking about that mushy, stringy, been-in-a-refrigerated-truck-for-the-last-three-weeks-since-it-was-plucked-too-early-off-the-tree-in-Mexico mango. Over here, the mango is as close as a fruit gets to being ice cream. You don’t even have to chew. It goes down that easy.

What’s more, the ripe mango in Thailand often gets served with a wicked accompaniment of sticky rice, coconut milk, sugar and salt. This combination has been known to add more spare tires to more foreigners’ middles than the all-you-can-eat cafeterias add pounds to unsuspecting freshmen during their first semester at college.

So fear not. At my current rate of one plate of “khao-niao-mamuang” per day, being skinny is the least of my worries. Here’s a recipe. To make it really authentic, toast up some sesame seeds and sprinkle those on top.

Just Say No to Stuff

If you’re looking for a way to clear out some clutter from wherever you live, I recommend moving abroad. We tossed and tossed.

Even now, nearly nine months since we arrived, the closets in our very airy apartment are nearly empty. Of course we could fill them up again. But having made several hard choices while purging in Seattle, I doubt we will.

For instance, I spent hours sorting through the filing cabinet, because I was sure that the one piece of paper we needed would be the one I discarded. Yet I have hardly touched what I kept.

And shoes—I recalled that quality shoes would be hard to find here. So I brought along several pair. Now I only wear two of them regularly. The other day I bought some fine flip flops (75 cents), which have become my favorites.

Any regrets? I’ve yet to see a big wok I like as well as the seasoned old friend that went byebye at our yard sale. But to replace that item, we’ve come to the right continent.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Three

Our soi is more residential than most, but it does have a restaurant or two along its length, as well as a failed nightclub and a thriving brothel. It’s only as I near the main drag that I begin to hear buses and jackhammers and other such city sounds. Otherwise, about the loudest noise we hear at home is the daily broadcast from loudspeakers of the national anthem, at 8am and 6pm.

The main street caters to foreigners of all stripes. Signs outside businesses are more likely to be written in English, Korean, or Japanese than in Thai. Within a ten-minute walk from home, I can find restaurants featuring at least two dozen cuisines. I could buy a new Volvo sedan or a Ford pickup. In the evenings, the sidewalks fill up with vendors hawking everything from fake Rolexes to silk shirts. Sometimes an elephant lumbers through the chaos, led by men selling what they claim is elephant food.

Generally my trips out to the road are for groceries or my own meals. I do the shopping at one of two supermarkets. The aisles in larger one would look familiar to most American shoppers—peanut butter, corn flakes, soy sauce—the main differences being brand names and a few categories that aren’t represented in the States. (Twenty feet of shelf space is devoted to “essence of chicken,” which comes in several flavors, including chocolate.)

That supermarket occupies the basement of a large department store. Next door is a five-star hotel. Across the road is the smaller supermarket, dominated by bargains and more everyday items (holy basil, whiskey, 10-kg. sacks of rice, fish sauce, that kind of thing). Throw in storefronts offering foot massages, lattes, prescription drugs (without a prescription!), and you kind of get the picture.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part Two

All of this commerce happens in a lane that is too narrow for cars to pass each other. The fruit guy parks at a spot where others can get around him by swerving into a driveway. The lane has five driveways. Two lead into apartment buildings, while three are blocked by tall gates, announcing and gilding the fancy homes behind.

In our part of Bangkok these homes are likely to be owned by wealthy Indians. I imagine the music wafting through our windows from neighbors could just as easily be heard in Delhi or Mumbai. Kids playing soccer or lighting firecrackers in the courtyard of the apartment across the lane are speaking English with an accent from the subcontinent.

Weekday mornings, vans with uniformed drivers pick up kids from the lane and whisk them off to various private international schools. From our building, all the kids go to the Lycée Français International de Bangkok. Once they get home in the afternoon, we typically hear French spoken by the side of the pool.

The lane leads to a slightly wider street, known as a “soi,” where the buying and selling is still mostly outdoors, but more stationary. For instance, just beyond the corner are a stand selling curries, a man treadling a sewing machine, and a woman creating caffeine drinks of various colors and temperatures. All of these businesses disappear after dark. The food salespeople pack up their carts and roll them away, while the tailor covers his sewing machine with a tarp and chains it to a wall.

Buyin’ and Sellin’ in the ’hood; or, What the Neighbors Say – Part One

This may help picture where Jip and I live.

At 6am we hear a bicycle horn. It’s the scrap guy. He wants people to know he’s buying. If you’re selling, he’ll be back by in a few minutes. Formal recycling programs aren’t necessary here. One set of people look through the trash after dark, hoping for treasures; another set comes by during the day, offering a small sum for slightly higher-quality junk.

An hour later, the broom guy rides by. He too is on a bicycle, which like the scrap guy’s is specially fitted with accessories. More than fifty brooms, dustbins, and various other house wares stick up and lean out, flagpole style, from various slots in the broom guy’s rig. The net effect is of a moving brown jungle. From the middle of the jungle, the broom guy peers out, chants the names of his products, and attempts to steer. I assume there are accidents.

Later in the morning, and sometimes again before sundown, the fruit guy shows up. In our neighborhood the fruit guy is really two people. One drives the truck, narrating the menu and prices over a loudspeaker. The other sits in the back, surrounded by mounds of mangoes, oranges, guavas, pomelos, and whatever else is in season.

Out of Dodge

Last week’s lottery draw came and went, and we are no richer. At least not cash-richer. But Jip and I have taken a fine outing to the countryside, to a town where she used to work, and where our friend Therese has a little house.

We absorbed the kind of quiet that seems to exist only on farms and along vacant stretches of road. Mango trees rustled. Swallows dipped. Chao, who came along for the daytrip, snapped some photos.

Therese and a few other familiar faces spent much of the afternoon in hammocks. Folks who work the nearby rice fields dropped by. We didn’t really DO anything, but somehow the time passed quickly. That’s often how it is in Thailand, I find.

On the way home, Jip cracked jokes about things that on a different day could just as easily have come out as complaints. Watching her giggle as she reclined in the van, I felt very well-to-do.