You can make a lot of safe assumptions when you peek in a Vientiane restaurant to check out the clientele. Mostly Lao people? The restaurant probably serves cheap, delicious, spicy Lao food; the menu most likely won’t include English descriptions of the dishes; and if you don’t speak Lao, you shouldn’t try to place special orders. Mostly expats? The restaurant probably tailors its dishes to our less adventurous palates; the menu likely features illustrations and/or sometimes-decipherable English descriptions; and you can usually find someone who understands your Lao/English/Body Language special requests.
That’s why we felt a bit sorry for the couple who were strolling along the Mekong River, saw our group hanging out at NeNaTa Restaurant on Wednesday and clearly thought to themselves, “Hey if those white people are eating there, it must cater to westerners.”
Ha! Little did they know that it was Family Night! As usual, we ventured out to find a local joint in our neighborhood. It was my turn to pick the place, and I chose this riverside restaurant that you can’t access from the main road. We had to maneuver our motorbikes past the barricades blocking the dirt road that runs along the Mekong from our village to downtown Vientiane. The road is under construction as part of a massive flood-management project. NeNaTa Restaurant is the only eatery along this stretch of road, and we were the only customers (until those other poor saps showed up).
As expected, the menus were devoid of English, and the staff were friendly but monolingual. I called our Lao friend, Lae, and handed the phone to the waitress (cook? owner?). Lae prattled on for about 5 minutes, later explaining that she told the woman foreigners don’t like MSG, bones, blood, animal faces, or anything with a strong smell. We had no idea what she had ordered for us, but it all turned out to be delicious: steamed rice with grilled fish, stir-fried vegetables, deep-fried shrimp, a seafood medley, and stir-fried chicken and veggies.
I don’t know how that other expat couple fared.
Here are some photos. The “parking lot” was behind the elevated restaurant, which backed up to family garden plots.
The front overlooked the Mekong, where locals hung out among the construction materials.
The “family”: Tony, Nikki, Carol, and Jon.
As we enjoyed the sunset, our view was suddenly blocked by a truck and forklift transporting paving stones.
Sometimes you just gotta laugh.
This guy found his own riverside bliss.
I’ve got to remember to buy one of these lovely toilet paper dispensers for our summer picnics in Michigan.
This week’s Family Night began with its usual trepidation and ended with us wearing the restaurant’s promotional polo shirts, jumping up and down in our own little mosh pit and singing “It’s My Life” by Bon Jovi with the karaoke microphones.
In our ongoing quest to find a neighborhood joint we can call “our place,” we once again strayed from the familiar, safe comfort food of Vientiane’s western-style restaurants. A few other friends (whom we refer to as the out-of-town cousins à la the Griswolds and Cousin Eddie) joined us for the evening. Carol wouldn’t tell us where we were going, so we all met at our house and car-pooled. Well, there was just one car, so some of us crammed in the car; the others followed on motorbikes.
Carol’s eatery du jour was just off Khouvieng Road, a main artery that runs from our neck of the woods all the way to downtown. We pulled in to Khouvieng Country’s parking area, and the owner immediately came running out. He enthusiastically pumped Carol’s hand, saying, “Hello! I remember you!” She gently pointed out that they’d never met.
Our attention swiftly turned to the karaoke system, which was belting out “I Can’t Live” by Mariah Carey. Before we could set down our bags, Nikki was already at the front, mic in hand with a small but adoring Lao audience singing along. Her biggest fan, a tipsy Lao man who was friends with the owner, hovered at our table for much of the night, buying us beers and cheering for us to take the stage.
The restaurant’s décor was typical – lots of wood, garish fake flowers, twinkly lights, murals of traditional Lao landscapes, shiny colorful knick-knacks, etc. Unique features included battery-operated tea lights on the tables and a thatched roof overhanging the stage to create the illusion of a “sala,” the open-air little huts that dot the countryside. The staff was friendly and attentive, clearly amused by us.
Extended family, clockwise from front left: Courtney, Carol, Tony, Nikki, lovely waitress, Olivier, Jon
Deterred only momentarily by the all-Lao menu (none of us could read Lao script well enough to decipher it), Carol gave her usual instructions to the friendly owner: Bring us your five best dishes, preferably with no faces, bones or organs. Those turned out to be a green salad, spicy papaya salad, fried rice, barbecued chicken, and tom yam soup. The fried rice was some of the best I’ve had, with shrimp and chunks of some other savory meat I couldn’t identify. The chicken was also tasty, although the “no bones” request was blatantly ignored.
We were all a bit disappointed in the papaya salad, a local specialty that inspires a brutal sense of competition among Lao women, who all think they make it better than anyone else. Once you’ve tried homemade papaya salad prepared by a lady with something to prove, you’re bound to be let down by restaurant fare.
Anyway, it was hard to focus on the food when the guy running the karaoke system was clearly creating a song list tailor-made for the crazy expat crowd. We sounded terrible, but the Lao restaurant patrons wore huge smiles, waved their arms in the air, clapped and sang, sometimes actually getting up from their tables to deliver a microphone and push us toward the stage.
What could be more fun than eating and singing with your friends? Eating and singing in matching shirts! The restaurant owner brought out a pile of promotional polo shirts and passed them around. “Free! Free!” he said, handing out extras. “For your friends!” Tony’s first shirt was skin tight, which was awesome, but the kind owner heard our laughter and brought out a larger size.
The shirts were like superhero costumes. Suddenly, we all thought we were rock stars, and there was no getting us off the stage. Looking at the photos, I realize now we looked like the Partridge Family.
At one point, Carol and I pulled an older Lao lady away from her table and made her dance with us. She was a good sport and moved her mouth randomly to suggest she knew the words. There weren’t many people at the restaurant, but everyone seemed to enjoy our ridiculous display of misplaced confidence.
When we wrapped up our Bon Jovi finale, we filed out the door, waving and thanking everyone as if they had paid to see us. Best Family Night ever! Nikki says it was even the most fun she’s had in Laos so far. Khouvieng Country will be hard to top.
Here are a few more shots from our Khouvieng Country concert.
If you’re driving north on Tha Deua, a main drag that runs parallel to the Mekong River here in Vientiane, and you want to get to our house, just turn right at the sign for Waterside Pub and Restaurant. We’ve been using that landmark for more than a year, but it never occurred to us to actually check it out – until now.
This week it was my turn to pick the Family Night restaurant, and I decided it was about time to visit Waterside. The usual gang (with the addition of Regina, a new German teacher from Switzerland) met at our house at 6:30, and we formed a motorbike convoy to the restaurant. A small Waterside sign indicated where to turn, but Carol thought the thatched-roof-hut-cum-noodle-shop next to the sign WAS the Waterside, so she slowed down and started to park. As if! We drove down the dirt road, dodging a few napping dogs, and turned in to possibly the most surprising Family Night pick so far.
Waterside was a huge venue, complete with its own “Sport Clup” and soccer field.
Fake palm trees, lots of twinkly lights, bubbling fountains and ponds with pink water lilies created a festive atmosphere. A little stage with dangling faux flower garlands, two tall chairs and microphones suggested the possibility of (a) live music, or (b) karaoke, either of which would have been fine by me.
Only one other table was occupied, and later we deduced it was the restaurant owner and his family. Yet the furniture was new-ish and clean, and the decor was relatively classy. We’re guessing this place is hopping on the weekends.
A young man took our drink order – Beer Lao, what else? Tony declared him to be the least attractive Beer Lao Girl of all the Family Night restaurants.
Then a sweet woman named Lee approached the table and explained that she was friends with the restaurant owner. “He doesn’t speak English, so I can help,” she said. Good thing! The whole menu was in Lao with no meaningful illustrations.
We put her in charge of ordering, encouraging her to pick five of the best dishes. We tried to express our preference for food free of faces, blood or bones, but she didn’t really understand. She told us her mother was presently on a trip to Toronto, so we hoped she might have some understanding of our western pickiness.
Before the food arrived, I recognized the first few notes of “Hotel California” and felt the call of the stage. I climbed up one of the tall chairs and sang a few verses into the mic (which was off, much to everyone’s relief).
Lee’s choices mostly got high marks. Although the portions were tiny, we liked the flavorful deep-fried pork, fried rice, stir-fried vegetables, and whole fish fried with tomatoes and onions. The seaweed soup was less favorably received.
I was sipping the broth when Tony said, “At least eat a potato.”
Carol and Nikki said in unison, “That’s not a potato; it’s tofu.”
“Well, I’m done with that then,” Tony said.
I like tofu, but I wasn’t thrilled with the seaweedy flavor.
Before long, a “band” showed up and played Lao music, which Carol said was out of tune. Sometimes it’s good to be tone deaf (not when you’re trying to learn a language with six distinct tones, though). Tony especially appreciated the duo’s excessive use of chimes to accentuate the sappy nature of their songs.
The verdict? Waterside would be a fun place for a big group to hang out, eat, drink and kick around a soccer ball. Next time, we’ll order more pork and less soup.
After the grilled duck faces at our first Family Night dinner, our little posse lost some of its enthusiasm for the village restaurants. However, we didn’t give up. Surely we could find a local joint to call “our place.”
The week after Anna Grilled Duck, it was Tony’s turn to pick an eatery. He chose Europe Steak House, which actually doesn’t serve any food from Europe. Your steak options are (a) Lao, which is both cheap and chewy, or (b) New Zealander, which is expensive and worth it. The next week, Carol got to choose a place, but she broke the keep-it-local rule. In honor of her birthday, she opted to go downriver and upscale so we ate Mekong-side at The Spirit House.
Last week, Nikki hit the jackpot with Pinky Beef Pot.
Our school director, Greg, had sent his wife and in-laws off to Luang Prabang, so he bravely tagged along with us. We tentatively ventured in – past the wall mural of people eating at Pinky Beef Pot, past the Christmas garland and Santa poster, past the bar and requisite Beer Lao fridge – and stepped down into a garden. Twinkly lights draped the trees, and crockery pots on miniature grills boiled on each colorful table. Lao families and couples looked up to check out the “falang” entourage.
A waitress in a Beer Lao uniform approached our table. Almost every restaurant in Vientiane has waitresses dressed in Beer Lao uniforms, so we assumed she would take our order.
“Beer Lao,” she said.
A quick survey around the table, and we asked for two big bottles of Beer Lao and two bottles of water.
“Beer Lao,” she said again, implying that she was ONLY taking our Beer Lao order. Another waiter dashed over to fill our request for non-beer beverages.
As usual, we weren’t sure about the protocol. The menu featured English labels and lots of pictures, so we ordered beef, pork, fried rice and glass “noondles.” We started to order some veggies, but the waitress pointed to the menu artwork of the meat, which was – sure enough – accompanied by a picture of greens. Ahhh, the meat comes with vegetables, we deduced.
I’m not sure how an egg differs from a healthy egg or why eggs are listed on the vegetable page.
Like magic, our table was suddenly packed with two hot pots, plates of thinly sliced meat, ramekins of sauce and chopped chilis, bowls of fried rice, and baskets of leafy vegetables, garlic and onions. We dropped the meat and veggies into the steaming pots, which we think contained a mixture of water, oil and spices.
Then we sat back and waited. A waitress whisked away all our empties and told us to let everything cook for five minutes (although it took a lot of body language and apparently unintelligible Lao language from me to get this tip).
The Beer Lao girl broke character momentarily to encourage ample servings of sauce with each bite. That turned out to be good advice; the nutty sauce mixed with chopped chilis perfectly complemented the hot pot concoction.
At one point, we realized we were singing along to the music, a fun mix of Top 40 from the 80s and 90s. For us? Almost certainly. After awhile, the speakers resumed the usual blaring of traditional Lao tunes and Thai pop songs.
As we were leaving, a cute little girl hollered for our attention and then demonstrated her Lao dance moves. Just like we saw so often in Turkey, the young girls in Laos learn traditional dances from their mothers, sisters and aunties early on.
We took a poll and gave Pinky Beef Pot high marks for service, food and ambience. And then Tony delivered the pièce de résistance: There was ice cream on the menu! Lao people generally don’t “do” dessert. You can get yummy sweets at the western restaurants, but you can’t plan on an after-dinner treat at most local places. When the waiter brought out real parfait glasses with scoops of real ice cream, we all felt a little giddy.
Last year Daeng cooked dinners for us three nights a week. She usually prepared so much food that we could eat leftovers for lunch. This year she wanted to go back to school to study English, and of course we wanted to support her (big eye roll). So we kept her salary the same but cut her hours to half-time. Now she only cooks once a week, and the rest of the time Tony and I feel like hunter-gatherers. We never really know where our next meal will come from.
With no car, shopping for groceries is a bit of a challenge. We generally buy one backpack full at a time. That’s one excuse for not making a weekly menu, buying food and cooking at home. We could also whine about the inconvenience of buying produce at the fresh market and other supplies at the corner store, which likely will be out of whatever we need, forcing us to visit other shops in town. But, in all honesty, our biggest excuse involves an amalgamation of ennui, laziness, exhaustion, sweat and empty pockets. We’re simply shattered at the end of the day, and it’s strangely more expensive to cook at home for the two of us than it is to eat out.
So here it is Monday night, and I haven’t eaten a meal in my own house (other than a little fruit and yogurt for breakfast a couple times and a delivery pizza) since Daeng cooked fried rice last Tuesday.
We live about 15 minutes by motorbike from the center of Vientiane, where most decent restaurants are found. Our village, Thongkang, is not exactly a dining mecca. Nevertheless, our new friend, Carol, (Canadian chemistry teacher and fellow Thongkang resident) had the brilliant idea to try a different local eatery each week. Tony reluctantly agreed to participate, and another new friend, Nikki (Canadian counselor and resident of adjoining Sokpaluang village) signed on, as well.
Thursday night the four of us ventured around the corner to Anna Grilled Duck. A skinny guy wearing a face mask and grilling duck parts by the side of the road gestured us in to the restaurant garden, where we parked the motorbikes.
The restaurant comprised several “salas” – which are thatch-roofed wall-less huts, each with a low table and cushions. Tony balked at the idea of sitting cross-legged on a cushion for an entire meal, so we bypassed the salas and found a regular table with chairs. A fish with an abnormally large head watched us from its tank, while a bird in a cage chattered nearby.
The waitress brought one menu with English translations.
Placenta soup? No thanks. We ordered four ducks and some Beer Lao. I walked around the peaceful garden area to snap a few photos while we waited. The meat on the grill should have been a tip-off. Yep, that’s duck feet on the left, duck faces on the right, and unidentifiable duck bits on the back.
Soup soon arrived at the table. What kind? Who knows? Spring onions, various veggies and the requisite coagulated blood cubes floated in a clear broth. Carol was the only one brave enough to suck down a blood cube. She said it tasted like tofu.
Finally a small plate of duck chunks arrived at the table. It was like the cook put on a blindfold and went wacko with a cleaver. The pieces were random sizes and full of bones, so it was quite a chore to get a substantial mouthful of meat. What little I did get was quite tasty, though.
Tony was grateful for all the TP on the table.
We felt certain that more duck was coming, so we waited and waited until we nearly gnawed off our own arms. Carol eventually ordered a few more plates of duck. This time, the pieces were a bit more recognizable. I was about to nibble on one piece when I realized it was the duck’s bill. In fact, we had a whole plate of faces!
Nikki kisses a duck.
So Anna Grilled Duck was a bust. We all went back to our house and gorged on some Doritos and Oreos.
Next week: Mr. Khampeng’s Grilled Goat. Or maybe not.
Earlier this week, I was fortunate to get an email with those three little words that make my heart leap with joy and anticipation: “Food Festival Invitation.”
Woo hoo! I quickly skimmed over the list of local restaurants scheduled to participate in the cooking competition, but the words “free public sampling of dishes” were all I needed to mark my calendar.
One line in the invitation particularly caught my attention. Turns out this event was part of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations’ Edible Insect Promotion Program. I guess I didn’t realize that ALL the free samples would contain insects.
Tony and I arrived at the convention center with our friend Nikki (the new VIS counselor) shortly after the event’s 4:00 start time on Saturday. Unfortunately, the hungry throngs had already snatched up all the paper plates and gorged on most of the samples. Chefs frantically tried to whip up new batches of their larvae eggrolls, cricket fried rice and sushi, insect laap, grub tacos, and other delicacies.
I struggled to snap a few photos in the jostling crowd.
Here, a judge tastes one of the entries.
Cooks prepare some cricket fried rice.
If you want to make it at home, don’t forget your bucket-o-crickets.
Don’t you think the tomato rosette lends a touch of elegance?
Mmmm … nothin’ like a big pile of slimy larvae on a rainy day.
When I saw our lovely Lao friends, Addie and Lae, relishing a selection of invertebrate treats, well, there was no avoiding it. I was just going to have to eat some bugs. People all over the world eat insects every day as a cheap source of protein, so it seems ridiculous and immature to make a spectacle out of it … and yet …
Lae encouraged me to try the cricket canape offered by one of our favorite restaurants, Lao Garden. The cricket sat on a little bed of grassy bits, and the cook poured a spoonful of sauce overtop.
After a few moments of requisite drama, I popped the snack into my mouth. The sweet-and-tangy flavor was surprisingly pleasing, and I have to admit enjoying the crickety crunch.
Lae preferred the cricket sushi.
Next up: grubs. Addie called them “baby bees” and tried to convince me that they tasted like potatoes.
For some reason, I was way less eager to sample the grubs.
Potatoes? Whatevs. Grubs taste just exactly like what you think they’re gonna taste like. I don’t recommend them plain. I wish I’d tried the grub taco instead, but they were all gone before I had a chance.
Final verdict: China’s sea cucumber continues to hold the coveted title, “Nastiest Creature I’ve Consumed,” but that grub offered up some stiff competition. As for the cricket, saep lai lai!
As a travel planner, I have really slacked off this year. Usually I start thinking about potential trips way ahead of time, track down the cheapest flights, read scads of hotel reviews, act on tips from friends, and otherwise ensure a most awesome adventure for Tony and me. Since moving to Vientiane, I have felt too busy/tired/confused/broke to put much effort in to travel planning.
As our April break was approaching, we heard this mantra again and again: Get the hell out of Laos! The Pii Mai holiday (Lao New Year) has many beautiful and spiritual traditions, so I hated to miss it. However, the practice of dousing everyone with water sounded annoying enough to send us both into an emotional tailspin. Apparently, the lovely water blessing has deteriorated into a full-blown citywide water fight, complete with buckets, water cannons, water balloons and other paraphernalia. The rate of vehicular accidents also skyrockets during this week, which seems predictable when (a) most vehicles on the road are motorbikes, and (b) it’s not easy to get your bike back under control after taking a bucket of water in the face.
Thailand was celebrating the same festival (they call it Songkran), and the “Red Shirts” were building momentum with their civil disobedience, so I ruled out a Thai beach vacation. In fact, I ruled out all flights routed through Bangkok, not out of fear but out of awareness that if my holiday were cut short by demonstrations at the airport, I would be truly pissed.
After many inner confrontations between Pragmatic Me (who argues we should be pinching every penny to pay for our Michigan lakehouse renovations) and Spoiled Me (who insists we DESERVE a bit of pampering because we work SO hard!) – I decided to book a trip to Bali. (Pragmatic Me never had a chance…) Feeling the usual spring burnout common among teachers, I chose to check in to a hotel and stay there. No exhaustive bopping around the island. A few quick internet searches and – bam! – we had tickets and a hotel. Here’s how it played out.
Saturday – On the Road Again
Flew to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and spent the night at a hotel close to the airport. Air Asia had changed our flights at the last minute, necessitating an overnight en route to Bali. Doh!
Sunday – Scoping Out the ‘Hood
Arrived at our stunning oasis, Rumah Bali Bed and Breakfast, near Nusa Dua on the southeast coast. The hotel is part of a little empire launched by a Swiss entrepreneur and his Balinese wife. To illustrate my previous point that I hadn’t done much research for this trip, I chose Rumah Bali based only on a few reviews that raved about the breakfast. We were happy to find that everything about Rumah Bali – including the breakfast – was perfect.
Here are some shots from the hotel grounds.
That’s our bungalow behind Tony. We had the whole top floor. Loved it!
Just across the street, high-end swanky hotels lined the beach overlooking the Lombok Strait. We walked through the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel to get to the Tanjung Benoa beach. It was pretty disappointing. There was lots of flotsam and jetsam floating on the surface of the very shallow water, and the sand was coarse and full of sea debris. Walking along a path that links the hoity-toity resorts, we thanked our lucky stars that we hadn’t shelled out the big bucks to stay at one of them. We happily crossed back to our idyllic bungalow and hopped in the pool.
For lunch, we wandered down an alley and found a little “warung,” a hole-in-the-wall café that served up simple Balinese food and catered to the locals. Tony’s meal looked like a chicken had been attacked with a weed whacker, but he said it was tasty, and he’s quite adept at removing all bits of meat from the bones. My “nasi goreng” (spicy fried rice with chicken) and stir-fried garlicky veggies were so delicious that I opted for warung food over restaurant fare most days.
Back at Rumah Bali, we wandered around the grounds. One large area is set up as a traditional Balinese market restaurant – Pasar Malam – with several small thatched-roof pavilions filled with heavy teakwood tables and chairs. On this day, workers were setting up an extensive sound system, which didn’t bode well. As we discovered later, some company was holding a special event at this venue and would blast dance tunes till nearly midnight. Tossing and turning in bed that night, I couldn’t help but admire their playlist – it could’ve come straight off my iPod. Fortunately, this was the only party during our stay.
Monday – Breakfast and Beaches
Early to bed, early to rise. We had breakfast delivered to our balcony around 7 a.m., and it was spectacular! Delicious French-pressed coffee, pastries still warm from the oven, fried eggs and crispy bacon, freshly squeezed mango juice, and a gorgeous collection of fruit. The fruit bowl included the standard melon and banana, but also starfruit, jackfruit, lychee and two mystery fruits that I’d never had before. One had thick hard yellow skin and a grey gelatinous middle with little seeds. It tasted sugary sweet, but the texture was reminiscent of a raw oyster and triggered my gag reflex. The other newbie to my fruit repertoire had a brown leathery skin. The flesh was white-ish and hard with a marble-sized smooth pit. It tasted like a dry sweet pear. Thumbs down on Mystery Fruit #1, which I have since identified as marquisa passion fruit and learned it is usually enjoyed in juice form. Thumbs up on Mystery Fruit #2, which I discovered is aptly named snakeskin fruit.
Breakfast on the balcony.
Today we rented a motorbike with big plans to explore the area. We rode to Nusa Dua, another string of ritzy beachfront resorts nestled in a perfectly manicured neighborhood. We walked along the flagstone path and checked out all the decadent hotels, where not a grain of sand was out of place. We even saw workers raking and burying seagrass that had washed up on the shore. (I freely admit that my criticism may be slightly tinged with jealousy.) At the end of the path, we encountered a woven bamboo wall, so we walked around it and discovered the “real” beach – just sand, water and locals selling snacks. As much as I wanted to swim in the sea, I was discouraged by the posters warning of sea urchins, the lack of waves, and the omnipresent junk bobbing on the water. Again, we zipped back to Rumah Bali and jumped in the pool. We definitely didn’t get our money’s worth out of the motorbike!
Nusa Dua beach.
Tuesday – Bathroom Meditations
We had planned to go scuba diving, but I woke up with a bad case of Bali belly, so we postponed our scuba outing. I spent the whole day in the room, only occasionally venturing to the balcony for a few minutes at a time. I couldn’t even muster the strength to take a dip in the pool. Tony tried to get to Kuta, the backpacker Mecca of Bali, but he ended up back at Nusa Dua at a shopping area called Bali Collection. I don’t really know what else he did; I was too sick to care. About the only thing that made me happy today was the fact that our bungalow did not have an open-air outdoor bathroom like some of the others.
Wednesday – Tonny Cooks up a Storm
Another morning of feeling icky! My tummy was fine, but I felt like I had a mild flu or a bad cold. I had enough energy to lounge by the pool and wander around Rumah Bali a bit; mostly I watched TV and read Vanity Fair. I kept trying to convince myself that my body was crying out for rest, but I’m not very good at resting. Tony joked that my illnesses were slowing me down just enough to be at his pace. Ha, ha.
Tony spent the day at the Bumbu Bali cooking school (where they gave him a nametag labeled “Tonny”). It took place in a kitchen in the hotel’s Pasar Malam area. Heinz von Holzen, a reknowned chef, cookbook author, and founder of the Bumbu Bali restaurant, was the teacher. I dragged myself down to the kitchen to shoot a few pictures.
The cooking class kitchen.
Tony mixes the meat and spices. Oh, wait, that’s not Tony.
There he is with his lovely satay on a stick of lemongrass. He learned how to pinch the satay to make it look like a temple, which keeps it from falling apart on the grill.
A few more shots from cooking class.
Thursday – Lice and Crabs Waterworld, a local scuba outfit, picked us up at 8 a.m. and took us to the beach. We joined a British guy, Colin, and his 14-year-old son, Jack. Still feeling stuffy, I opted to snorkel in lieu of diving. After the three guys were fitted for wetsuits and equipment, we boarded a small boat for the hour-long ride to Nusa Penida Island in the Lombok Strait. Just offshore, the boys climbed into their gear and dropped backwards off the boat with the divemaster.
I had my own snorkeling guide, so we jumped in and took off. At first I was disappointed not to be diving, but I was soon distracted by all the colorful sea life so close to the surface. In fact, the scenery tricked my body into thinking I really WAS diving. Occasionally my snorkel would fill with water and after trying to blow it out, I automatically reached for my regulator. Of course, I didn’t have a regulator, so I quickly snapped back to reality and rolled my head to the side to suck in some air. I floated over all shapes, sizes and colors of coral teeming with little fish. Huge brightly colored and even striped starfish clung to the coral. I only saw one big fish (maybe a yard/meter long), and it was just chillin’ on the sandy floor surrounded by a swirl of smaller fishy admirers. The highlight was a sea turtle that popped out from under some coral and swam away.
Back on the boat, Tony and Colin consulted their dive tables and realized that the divemaster had kept them underwater too long. The divemaster told them, “No problem!” but the guys insisted on keeping the second dive short. Colin was particularly peeved as he was trying to teach safe diving habits to his son.
During the break, I noticed tiny blue bits all over Tony’s neck. I picked one off and said, “I think these are bugs.” He looked at it and said it was just lint from the wet suit. With a blue bit on the end of my finger, I stretched out my arm and brought it back in, trying to find the perfect spot where my aging eyes could focus on it. Finally, I held it out to young Jack. “What do you think it is?” I asked. He concurred with Tony. The more I examined the blue bits, the more I swore I saw little legs. Finally, I held out my finger to the divemaster. “Do you know what this is?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! It is a …” Grasping for the English word, he said, “It’s like …” and then he scratched his head with exaggerated urgency.
“Lice?” I said.
“Yes! Sea lice!” he said with obvious relief.
So there’s no end to my amusement as I tell everyone that Tony picked up lice at the bottom of the sea.
Heading back to shore, I spotted a tiny crab in the bottom of the boat. I was afraid someone would step on him, so I tried to scoop him up with a dive mask, but he kept escaping. He scurried back and forth across my foot for much of the ride, prompting Tony to guffaw, “I may have picked up lice, but you got crabs!” Hardy har har.
When we got back to the diveshop, we were given some cold egg sandwiches and the news that their credit card machine was broken. The lady said, “The machine no work, so you give us money.” I had to laugh! Oh, right, it just so happens I have $200 in my bikini bottoms! I had told them upfront that we were paying with a credit card. They had a little freak, but Balinese people are so polite that it didn’t get nasty. Ultimately, our wonderful hotel added the scuba charges to our bill and then reimbursed the dive company.
Friday – A Taste of Ubud
For years I had heard about Ubud, the center of Balinese arts and culture, nestled in the rice terraces of the mountains. Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about this town in Eat, Pray, Love. My parents visited in the 90s and did their part to keep the local artisans in business. Many friends have traveled to Ubud and come home with wonderful stories. But did I listen to them? Nooooo. I listened to the ONE friend who said, “Ubud used to be so fantastic, but now it’s overrun with tourists. I would skip it if I were you.”
We didn’t skip it altogether, but we made it a day trip. One of the Rumah Bali workers hooked us up with his friend, a driver, who took us to see the rice terraces and then dropped us in Ubud for about 4 hours. We felt like the Griswolds at the Grand Canyon: “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. OK, what’s next.” We didn’t have time to linger and fully appreciate it.
We jumped out of the car for a short visit to some rice terraces.
Ubud, it turns out, is STILL fantastic! We wandered the shady back alleys, browsed in unique artsy shops, poked around the market, stopped for a quick lunch, and kicked ourselves for not spending more time here. Despite the throngs of tourists, the town seems to have maintained its roots in spirituality and culture. I picked up a little guide to Ubud at the tourism office, which only fueled my regret. There’s so much going on in this town: dance performances, yoga, art exhibits, cultural workshops, live music, and so much more!
At a temple outside the local market, people were leaving little packets of offerings and incense.
The market was a jumble of jewelry, clothing, home decor, handicrafts, sundries and fresh produce. This was a basket shop.
Cool art was tucked in every corner of Ubud. This was the view out the window at our lunch spot.
Our lazy week at Rumah Bali was dreamy, but I left Bali craving a dose of Ubud. I’ll be back!
Friday night, we treated ourselves with dinner at Bumbu Bali, the restaurant started by Tony’s cooking teacher. Designed to feel like a Balinese home, the restaurant is really a collection of open-air rooms. The entrance is right next to the kitchen, so when we walked in, all the cooks shouted out, “Hello! Welcome!” The hostess stuck a frangiapani flower behind our ears and walked us to our table. Flowers dangled from the thatch ceilings, and water flowed in little rivulets through the restaurant. A Balinese band sat on the floor and played soothing tunes while young girls performed traditional dances. We ordered a sampler menu with heaps of appetizers, delicious main courses and sweet gooey desserts.
This is Nefi, who also worked at the cooking school and remembered “Mr. Tonny.”
Loving the atmosphere (and prawn chips with spicy chili sauce).
Dee-lish!
A cook fans the coals with a bamboo mat.
Bad photo, but cool rice steamers.
More shots from the restaurant.
Saturday – Home Again, Eventually
Stupid Air Asia and its stupid flight schedule. We left Rumah Bali at 3:45 a.m. for our flight to Kuala Lumpur, where we then sat for six hours until our flight to Vientiane.
Parting Thoughts
Travelers to Southeast Asia seem to fall in to two camps: (A) Love Thailand/hate Bali. (B) Love Bali/hate Thailand. When we tried to decide which group to join, we realized there were things we loved and hated about both places. Actually, we don’t really hate anything about either place … except maybe the traffic. Keeping in mind that we have visited Thailand more times than I can count and Bali only once, we agreed that:
• Thailand has nicer beaches.
• Bali seems less jaded by the influx of tourism. However, we never visited Kuta, which might have skewed the results.
• The people in both places are absolutely lovely and gracious.
• The food in both places is spectacular. (I prefer Thai food by a slim margin. Tony prefers Balinese, but I think he’s just feeling very informed about Balinese cuisine after his awesome cooking class.)
• We need to do more research! So it seems more visits to Thailand and Bali are in order.
After beachcombing, I returned to the hotel to brush my teeth and swipe on another layer of deodorant before heading out to dinner. Mid-brushing, I heard some serious drumming outside the hotel. I danced around the room a bit and then went down to the lobby to meet Helene and Je. While I waited, another workshop attendee, Melinda, showed up. She and her retired husband live in Aleppo, Syria. I invited them to join us for dinner.
When we walked outside, the drumming was still going gangbusters. Melinda said it was a wedding procession. They had just picked up the bride and were on their way to the wedding. Unable to resist, I led the gang on a quick detour in the direction of the drums.
We came upon an ornate silver chariot pulled by two gold-bedecked horses. The bride, groom and two other young women sat in the carriage. Crowds of revelers proceeded them, drumming and cheering. Fantastic! (I’m actually only awake at this moment because the wedding festivities are continuing in to the night. Fireworks. Music. Lots of car horns. It was fun while it lasted, people. Time to get on with the honeymoon.)
The spotlights made it hard to get a good photo.
Here’s a quick video. Stupid spotlight.
After we ogled the wedding procession, we made our own procession to find a restaurant recommended by several locals. Walking at night on dark streets in Mumbai is dangerous business. Rickshaws and cars whip around the dogs, pedestrians and each other; chunks of concrete dot the path; gaping holes appear out of nowhere; who knows what you might step in? We finally got to Mahesh Lunch Home and ordered way too much food. Everything was delicious, and Melinda gave our doggy bag to a beggar on the way back to the hotel. (That’s Al and Melinda, who live in Syria, on the left. On the right, Je, a teacher in the Philippines; Helene, a French teacher at my school; and me.)
After dinner, the waiters brought this selection of breath-freshening treats, including little “jimmies” that tasted like Good-N-Plenty candy. Some of you may be impressed at how I was able to make my usual goofy expression without forehead wrinkles. Thanks God for the iPhoto editing tool!
As we strolled around Bangkok yesterday afternoon, we decided to eat only street food for the rest of the day. Of course, when I say “we” decided to do this, I mean “I” decided that WE would do this.
Tony was a good sport, though, and cheated only marginally. Technically, this Lebanese shwarma stand was part of an adjoining restaurant, but I couldn’t deny that the slab of beef was turning on a streetside rotisserie.
He also bought a sausage, which we renamed “not dog” after a few bites. We never really figured out what it was – maybe dense fried noodles – but we know what it wasn’t, and it sure wasn’t a sausage.
I’m a sucker for tropical fruit, so I had to pick up some papaya and pineapple for a snack. Delish! When we used to travel to Bangkok from China, I would get goosebumps from the anticipation of eating fresh tropical fruit. Now that I eat this stuff every day in Laos, I’m a little too spoiled to get worked up about it. Sad, but true.
Several times in the last couple days, Tony and I had walked past a street stall selling tiny taco-shaped shells with fillings of varying colors. We had no idea what they were, but we intended to find out. Today, we searched and searched for the taco lady to no avail. We had to settle for these little pancake sandwiches, which were quite tasty indeed! We both preferred the cream-filled sandwich, but the taro and red bean versions were also sweet and satisfying.
Sorry, Tony, Dunkin Donuts doesn’t count as street food! I had to draw the line somewhere.
Final street food purchase of the day: shrimp pad thai, made on the spot for about $1. Good stuff!
The Southeast Asian Games have taken over Vientiane, but it seems you have to be someone or know someone to get tickets. Last week, I begged my Lao language teacher (who is a third-grade teaching assistant at VIS) to let me tag along with her to the Laos-Singapore soccer match. The next morning, she stopped by my classroom to give me a T-shirt that said “Cheer for Laos!” in Lao. Very cool. We agreed to meet at the staff lounge at 4 p.m. to catch our ride to the stadium.
You may be thinking, “YOU wanted to go to a soccer match?” I know, I know, I’m the least sporty person ever. I was in it for the cultural experience.
One of the SEA Games mascots, Champa, playing soccer. He’s so cute! The other mascot, Champi, is a sporty girl elephant.
When I showed up at the staff lounge wearing my T-shirt, Mai was speaking Lao on her mobile phone. My language skills are limited to asking prices of bananas and telling time, so I couldn’t follow her conversation, but she didn’t look too stressed. When she got off the phone, she said, “We have a problem. We don’t have tickets.” She hadn’t told the other Lao girls who were coming, including the one who was on her way to give us a ride.
The co-dependent, type A, intense Sharon who moved to Laos in August would have gotten a bit upset. After all, Mai had said she could get tickets. However, Laos has a mellowing effect. Everything moves a little slower with a lot less urgency. I consciously decided to enjoy the evening, regardless of how it turned out.
Mai and me looking quite nonplussed that we don’t have tickets to the match.
Mai explained that her friend’s mom’s friends, who were supposed to buy the tickets for us, came up empty handed. They told her the tickets were sold out. Mai then took another call from a friend who was out at the stadium. She told us not to bother driving out there as nobody was selling tickets, not even scalpers. Weird. Before I realized it, the school’s receptionist was calling a woman who has two kids in our school and often substitute teaches. Her husband works for Tigo, a mobile phone company and SEA Games sponsor. She informed us that her husband was quite frustrated because, for some unknown reason, government officials had confiscated all the tickets. The plot thickens.
Mai broke the news to Ton, a teaching assistant who had also hoped to attend the match. The three of us walked dejectedly out to the school gate to meet another friend of Mai’s. Keo is a lovely little wisp of a woman who writes for the Vientiane Times. Her brother pulled his Toyota truck up to the school gate, and we all piled in. Mai rattled off some Lao, which again didn’t seem to involve fruit or numbers, so I didn’t understand it.
Keo’s brother drove us to a market, where we found an unmanned SEA Games ticket counter and shopkeepers who just shrugged their shoulders when we said we were looking for soccer tickets. As we pondered what to do next, Mai and Ton got distracted by street food. They bought grilled beef-and-veggie kebabs and some absolutely delicious lettuce-wrapped snack, neither of which I would have dared to try on my own. Mai said the lettuce wrap is very time-consuming to make and involves cooking sticky rice, leaving it outside to dry in the sun for a day and then cooking it again. Kinda glad I didn’t know that before I ate it.
Here we are hanging out at the market, from left: Mai, Keo, Ton and me (the gigantic white Amazon woman).
Nobody selling tickets!
Mmmm… street food!
Back in the truck, we all agreed it was hopeless to go to the stadium. Instead we drove to a Mekong-side restaurant called Moon the Night to watch the match on the big-screen TV.
I asked the girls if they knew the meaning of “moon” as a verb. They were quite surprised to hear the definition, and they made me use it in sentences for different situations. “Hey, that guy is mooning me out his car window,” I said. “Or maybe you’re in your university dorm room and you see some drunk friends down on the street, so you moon them.” Why did I feel compelled to start this discussion? It only went downhill from there.
The match was arguably the most boring soccer I’d ever seen. Final score: 0-0. Nevertheless, I had a great time getting to know my new Lao friends. We finished off our street food and then ordered from the menu. Mai told the waiter to go easy on the chili, but I still had to drink a liter of Beer Lao to put out the fire on my tongue.
