as usual the read from bottom to top…
I’m telling you this thing was as big as a dog!
So, I’m dutifully marching down the trail that will sooner or later get me to a hot shower (little did I know it would be DAYS before I got a hot shower!) and I’m passing all these very charming little towns. Cows are walking in the streets (as weird as it is this is not just a small town phenomenon, it happens in the big cities as well), chickens running around.
Now, as you probably don’t know, I used to have chickens. Not a lot of them, nor for a long time, but I had them for a couple of years and I took the best care of them that I could. For the most part, chickens are cautious creatures. They’re afraid of just about everything, and they run REALLY fast. Anyway back to the story. So I’m sauntering in to this small village, cows are walking around, dogs sleeping in the sun, chickens running to and fro. Sometimes heading in one direction to get away from me and the porter, then changing their little chicken mind and heading in another direction that gets them closer, then freaking out that they’re closer and running twice as fast back in the original direction. And me? I’m just humming to myself, enjoying the sunshine, and strolling along. Then, about one hundred yards down the road, I see this big ole rooster standing on a stone wall. The wall is not high, and the rooster is big, and he’s looking right at me. Not just at me, but right in my eyes. I think to myself “that’s one cocky rooster!” and I keep on looking at it as I get closer. I start to think I’m gonna have a little fun with it, that cocky rooster, and walk up to it, maybe chase it a little. So I keep my eyes on it and pick up the pace. The rooster doesn’t budge. I start to move my arms and talk to it. Still, it doesn’t move a feather. I’m about twenty five yards away and closing fast. DAMN! That’s one REALLY big rooster. HOLY CRAP! I’ve never seen a rooster that big. It’s a friggin freak rooster! The wall it’s standing on comes up to my mid thigh, and the thing is right at my eye level! It’s as big as a dog! A big dog! And it hasn’t moved! Well, we’ll see about this. Who is top predator? Who’s going to be on whose table? That’s right bucko I’m comin’ straight at you! I get within a yard and the rooster is still looking me right in the eye. I’ve never seen any bird, much less a glorified, arrogant chicken stay still for so long, I’m a bit unnerved. But that would never stop me. But boy is that thing big, not just tall, beefy. That looks like muscle under those feathers. It’s like the Hulk Hogan of chickens. Even the dogs walk wide to avoid this bird. Ah! So what? I’m twice as big as the thing. So there I am standing in the middle of the Himalayan mountains eyeball to eyeball with the biggest chicken in this hemisphere, engaged in a life and death staring match. (I can only imagine what the guy carrying my bag was thinking…) I decide to try some serious chicken scare tactics. I do the quickstep (a quick, unexpected shuffling of the feet) guaranteed to make even the bravest of chickens fire off like a rocket in the other direction. His eyes never leave mine. Okay buddy, I got more. You want more? I got it! I do the marionette (moving my arms around WHILE simultaneously doing the quickstep). The bird doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t even LOOK DOWN! I’m starting to get a little freaked. Maybe the bird had a stroke and is paralyzed? Maybe it’s blind? Inside I know I’m just trying to make myself feel better, I’m scared. This bird is scaring me. It’s psyching me out! It’s not possible! It’s just a bird! Okay, okay, get a hold of yourself. It’s a rooster and you’re a man. Not only a man, but an expert in multiple martial arts. Honed reflexes. Ready to move like the wind. Compose yourself. Seek the void. Be one with the bird. Yes. Yes, there we go. We are in control. There is only one more move. It’s sure fire. They run every time. Reach out to touch the bird. I start raising my hand slowly. There is no reaction. That’s okay, they don’t call it chicken for nothing. My hand is closing in. Two feet away. One foot. Still nothing. Six inches. My head is screaming “something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! Abort! Abort!” My hand feels like it’s moving through Jello. “This isn’t a god-damned bird! It’s some kind of monster!” At around four inches I get the distinct impression that I’m going to lose one of my fingers. That beak looks really sharp. It’s almost as big as my fist. The thing is still looking straight into my eyes. I can’t take it. Those eyes! I look away, pull my hand back, and turn away. Defeated by the biggest rooster I’ve ever seen.
I look back over my shoulder as I walk away and it’s just scratching and pecking on top of the wall…
Those eyes, those eyes…
Orphans, wild dogs, and human hands
So it’s my first day in Katmandu and I’m wandering around checking things out, looking for ATM’s, places to eat, what’s in the shops. It’s hard to describe the pandemonium that is here. Within a few hours of landing there’s a blackout. I later learn that these are a common occurrence, pretty much every day. The streets are small. There are no sidewalks. Streams of people walking in the streets with cars passing so close the cars nick their people’s pant legs. Lots of horns and shouting and last minute dodging (on everyone’s part – the people, the cars, the rickshaws, the bicycles). Fires lit in oil drums illuminate the nefarious faces in crowds huddled round for warmth. There is an air of danger, of precariousness, to the whole scene. Black shapes moving against the even blacker surroundings. Candles in some shop fronts lighting up the faces of the patient owner’s who are waiting for the power to come back on. Everyone keeping their eyes open for dubious activity. Crazy.
Imagine all that. Then you pass by a group of children, who seem to be orphans, huddled together on a street, under cardboard and a thin blanket. Dirty children, with filthy faces. Their noses dripping, their hair going every which way. Some laying still and asleep, at least you think so. While others chat in a depressed monotone. Right next to them is a mangy dog, chewing on something. Really going to town. It’s half hanging out of its mouth. What’s it eating? You try and look a little harder. It looks familiar. Too familiar. Oh my God! IT’S A CHILD’S HAND! A HUMAN HAND! While it’s sitting next to those poor kids!
Well, that’s what one unfortunate young woman thought who happened to be passing them at the same time as me. I thought she was going to be sick on the spot. Luckily I had spied the dog a second before she did and saw the WHOLE thing the dog put in its mouth, a chicken leg (including the foot). I have to admit it looked eerie, and if you didn’t see the leg go in it’s understandable to mistake it – given the circumstances. I told her what I saw and that calmed her down a bit, although I’m not completely sure she believed me…
Well, I’ve realized that my tendency to work too much is a real problem. It seems I can’t give myself any downtime without something to do in it. Even the things I’m reading are in some way either clinically oriented or self development oriented. Not good. Action required. I need to learn (re-learn) how to relax.
Waterfall Beef
Okay, what can you say? When you eat something that makes you remember what your senses are for, that makes your lips tingle, your tongue dance, and your spirit soar. Maybe that’s a little dramatic but it’s pretty much what happened. The dish has a bit of history for me. An old friend of mine, Caroline, had lived in Thailand years ago. She told me of a wonderful dish called “waterfall beef.” We searched NY high and low to find it. All the while she would tell me how delightful it was, spicy, minty, lemony, just incredible. You can imagine that the more she spoke of it, the more obsesses I became. All that was over ten years ago. We finally did find it in NY. It wasn’t on the menu. It was great. According to Caroline the real thing was 1,000 times better. I couldn’t believe it! Not possible!
Okay, so I’m in Thailand now. Time is ticking away, and something is lurking in the back of my mind. An itch.
I found a great seafood restaurant, Ma Ma Kluong’s. the manager’s name is Won. He’s super nice. I’ve eaten there every other day the whole time I’m in Phuket. (the only reason I didn’t eat every meal there was that I didn’t want to miss anything…) I have mung fish, I have snapper, I have grouper. Mung is my favorite. Grilled with black pepper and garlic. Delicious. Their chicken fried rice is great too. After a week Won knows the deal, grilled fish – to be discussed of course, looked at, poked a little, more discussion, then decision, chicken fried rice, a beer. Utter perfection. Only one day of the 10 or so days I eat there is the food not “excellent” and only good. This I believe is because the cook had off that day (which of course precipitates the first question of every meal, who’s in the kitchen?)
It’s two days before I leave and suddenly I remember the “waterfall beef.” Only I don’t quite remember it like that. I remember the Thai name for it (num-tuk-nya), which I can’t really pronounce, and don’t know the meaning of. So I say to Won, my trusted and patient captain of culinary perfection, do you make num-tuk-nya? His face suddenly looks like he just ate something very sour. He cocks his head one way, then the other. I can see he doesn’t want to offend me, but to him I just uttered something completely unintelligible. Nonsense. I can also see that he doesn’t want to offend a good customer by asking “excuse me sir, but what on earth are you trying to say? And in what language? Are you having a seizure of some mind? A bit of tourette’s syndrome perhaps?” But he’s way too polite to let those things escape his mouth. So I say, Won, it’s Thai. To which his genuine surprise and statement of oh really? Add to my confusion. I repeat it. Of course, to maximize the confusion and embarrassment of the situation, he calls everyone over in the restaurant to figure out what this crazy foreigner is trying to say. So there I am repeating this phrase in Thai I don’t understand, as if I’m having some sort of bad attack of gas. No luck. So I say, I think it means mint beef, basil beef or something. Which is of course not even close to the meaning. More confusion amongst the ranks. I get a quick lesson in Thai. How you say mint. How you say basil. None of which sound like the dish I want. Then suddenly the cook, who’s been quietly watching the scene, calmly looks and says “num-tuk-nya.” I say “EXACTLY!.” Won says waterfall beef? I promptly say no! num-tuk-nya! He repeats waterfall beef? I think for a minute, ask what’s in it, and bingo! That’s it. It just so happens that the dish originated in the same area as where the cook is from! He makes it, and low and behold, it is 1,000 times better than what I had in NY! It’s great!
For a change of pace I went to this area called Patong Beach here in Phuket. Everyone said to go there. I think it’s because there are lots of foreigners there. Nasty. Pretty much just white trash everywhere. Crowded, claustrophobic. Not very beautiful. I won’t go back. I had an incredibly overpriced meal. Which I wouldn’t have minded if it was at least decent in quality. It sucked. The service, a first for me here, also sucked. I drove at night so I didn’t get to see the scenery but what I could see on the way up there was amazing. The hairpin road, hugging the coastline, over looking the ocean was intense, even in the darkness. The air was very fresh and clean. Bracing. Overall, not a lot of good things to say about Patong, other than the ride there was nice…
OK, I’ve been here a few days now and I have to say it’s both beautiful and vile. I would write more but I’m trying to keep this G rated. The food is great, if you like spicy things. The people are warm and kind. The setting is wonderful, but for me, it’s missing something. I can’t quite put my finger on it… I have to thank my friend Ronald. If it weren’t for him I don’t think I’d like it at all. He gave me some tips on where to go to avoid the crowds. Perfect. I got myself an ear infection trying to body surf. The waves looked great, but there were about twenty of us trying for hours. We just kept getting pummeled. Anyway all the pressure changes helped me to get an ear infection. I got a cold at the same time, fever, severe chills. It really bites to be sick while traveling. I think I spent about three days in bed. In beautiful Thailand…
Here I am in Phuket, Thailand. The first day was rainy but today is much nicer. It’s Christmas and there are all the expat parties happening everywhere. It’s kind of depressing.
The bigger picture
Should I consider a new addition to my life? MPH/NGO more research is necessary…
Back in London 10 days after going back to ny a second time, even more exhausted than I started. The place I wanted to eat, Simpson’s, was fully booked. I’m on a 10 hour layover on my way to Thailand. I went to some pub not far away and walked in to hear sleazy fusion/jazz from the 70’s. Since I grew up on the stuff I took it as a sign. So much for my ability to use omens to foretell anything other than in retrospect…
All right, it’s Christmas time, December 23 to be precise. And I’m in London. As one would expect, it’s cold, really cold. I certainly would enjoy it more if the only things I had in my bag weren’t tissue paper thickness summer clothes. It doesn’t really matter because they checked my bag through to Bangkok anyway. I’m forced to wander the streets in thin clothes with no coat for the next 10 hours. Well, it could be worse. The whole scene is kind of depressing, but not being one to let myself get too down, I go to a bookstore and immediately my spirits lift.
Few things could be more dim-witted than carrying around lots of books while traveling. Hey, listen, no one said I was smart! Anyway, what’s a few more pieces of wood in my pack? My not so secret addiction – books. Love ‘em. Love to read them, hold them. Often, I’ll start at the back and read from back to front, jumping in sections. I don’t know why but I’ve done it since I was little. It used to drive my mom crazy.
London’s great for book lovers. Lots of book stores of every conceivable size and shape, new book stores, old book stores, giant chain book stores, little boutique book stores. Combine that with a plethora of pubs, and you’ve got a winning combination. The pub scene in London is not as great as the book store scene. Lots of pubs sport microwaves, and the major beer producer’s lines of beverages. So finding a good pub is like looking for a needle in a haystack, but they’re there. Few and far between, but there. A book and a pub, what a great thing…
Back to Simpson’s, (you didn’t think I’d give up that easily did you?) I used what I call “benevolent persistence.” Smiling, and not walking away, as if you don’t understand that they want you gone. Every now and then throwing a kind word at them. It worked. Magically a space opened up just at early dinner time, with more than enough time to make my flight. In all fairness to them, it is Christmas time – a busy time for them, and I am dressed like a dog. I’m the only one (other than an older American couple that everyone is eyeballing) not in a suit. The people at the table next to me don’t seem to mind, nor do the waiters. The meal is excellent, as usual. Very traditional English fare, roast beef, potatoes, some poor over cooked vegetables. Delightful. Just what one needs to warm up on a cold winter day.
London bridge is…
What was supposed to be a relaxing break turns into an exercise in self awareness. I went to London to take a short break from my marathon of work in Indonesia and ny. Getting there I realized that things at the office were not going well (fine for the patients but Abbey was way over committed and she wouldn’t be able to sustain it for much longer), so a new plan needed to be made and implemented. That’s how I spent my vacation, planning and strategizing how to fulfill everyone’s needs responsibly. Unfortunately, the conclusion I came to was to shut soho down for the period that I’m gone. Trying to keep my cool and make sure that I came from a good place during the process was one of the most challenging experiences of my life. I think I did a pretty good job. I referred my patients to good practitioners, and made sure that Abbey filling some need of mine wasn’t going to kill her or put undo strain on her. Very good overall. I certainly handled it better than previous types of crises. I am grateful for the opportunity to work on myself in such a concrete way.
-Ch-ch-ch-changes
No sooner had I left NY on my way to an orphanage in Cambodia than I had to turn around and come back again. Some poor kids in Cambodia’s lives will never be touched by Chinese medicine now. Would I have saved any lives? I’ll never know. What a weird way to look at life…
