One night we venture out of the hotel into the mudcaked streets. The monsoon season has ended officially, but the puddles of water collecting a mixture of insect larvae and plastic bags cling tenaciously on to the sidewalks. There is hardly any street lighting, only a distant glow of restaurants and hotel signs to light the way. We walk by what would be a staid choice for tourists – the kingfisher restaurant – looks packed to the brim with Westerners looking glumly at their watered down tom yum goong.
Minutes later we find ourselves in front of a do it yourself barbeque place. Seedy, aromatic and bustling, it smells like fried lard and raw meat – the perfect combination. Tentatively we wait to be seated, then of course it becomes apparent that this joint is far above theses niceties. So we sidle ourselves up at a table near the road, hoping to escape the pervasive smell of charred flesh permeating the place. Of course as the meal progresses we realise that this is a false assumption, since the amount of burnt meat smells settling onto our hair and clothes is dependent solely on wind direction, something that we do not have control over.
I wish I could say that I was an adventurous traveller when it comes to food. Sure, I’ve grown up in Asia so I have a gut well attuned to most of the slightly menacing intestinal flora in the region – I once spent an entire month in China without even once suffering from what the locals call aptly a “pulled stomach”. Still, I mostly put that down to a few simple rules: no raw vegetables, peeling the fruit, no tap water and unfortunately no roadside food. So as I eye the containers of raw meat, marinated in mystery sauce by mystery cooks put side by side with sliced cabbage and other raw vegetables washed in suspect tap water – I take a deep breath, grab a slightly grimy plastic plate and plunge in. I try to ignore the pungent whiff of beef and chicken left too long raw. The restaurant is filled with the chatter of happy customers, each coating their aluminium grill cum steamboat with a generous chunk of pig fat, so recently separated from its owner that its little stubby hairs are still intact. (This I point out gleefully to my slightly squeamish vegetarian husband who is clearly in the wrong place.)
As we dive into our meal, cooking raw and semi-raw chunks of seafood, meat, instant noodles and vegetables, I carefully overcook each item I’m about to eat, hoping for the best. After the broth becomes inedible with the saltiness of the instant noodles, I give up and look around at the other patrons with interest. Just behind us is a skinny white guy, blond American looking. He is dressed in baggy bermudas, a t-shirt and a grungy plaid shirt. Sitting by himself he has been there since we arrived and is showing no signs of stopping his relentless consumption of everything in sight. Dish after dish of raw meats and vegetables disappear from under his nose. He only pauses every now and then to catch his breath, smiling a wry smile to himself before launching again. I didn’t know that so much dubious food could make its way so happily through a foreigner. And just when we think he’s done, he heads back to the buffet stand, spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the ice-cream (no! not the ice!) scooping at least a dozen scoops onto his plate – and even venturing to the watermelon slices (cut fruit eeks!) and eking out another 10 or so or those. These he eats with obvious relish, before settling his bill and setting out in the night on a rented motorbike.
He is quite the hero.