by Alex Gunn
“Hey listen buddy, they aint your erbs… you don’t own the erbs.” Market Tourist
Some people say that Las Vegas is their favourite place on earth. Others talk about places like Paris or St Mark’s Square in Venice. For me, it is my local market, which is still buzzing with the excitement of Thom’s recent visit. I go as often as I can, slowly expunging the many years spent pushing a wire trolley around a massive and joyless supermarket, doing the soul destroying weekly shop, the completion of each isle marking another 50 metres closer to my grave, not to be too dramatic or anything.
I’m now a recognized market regular, which unfortunately, means that well meaning traders engage me in horrendous one sided conversations, which inevitably end with me apologizing for my lack of Thai. Learning the Thai phrase for “I’m sorry I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about” was the best and worst phrase I’ve learnt as it has allowed me to circumvent the arduous business of learning a new language but, on the flip side, means I can’t understand anything anyone says to me.
Anyway, us market people don’t let silly little things like language get in the way of communication. The old lady who has the fresh herb stall will often talk at me for quite some time as I nod along and occasionally, when I feel the need, say “kap, kap, kap.” I’ve no idea what I am agreeing to and it’s been going on for months.
She has introduced me to her sister, at least I think it’s her sister, but as I’m writing this it is slowly dawning on me that, for all I know, it might be my new wife. Perhaps I’ve agreed to marry the old herb woman’s younger sister. She did look rather hopeful, bordering on desperate, and I remember thinking at the time that a low plunge neck, red evening dress was an odd thing to wear just for chopping up ginger and bunching coriander. Still, looking on the bright side, I’ll get cut price herbs for the rest of my life. Let the good times roll.
The market is a sanctuary, sometimes a rather noisy, hot smelly sanctuary, but none the less a place where I retreat and feel at home, which is rather lucky as I may well be spending considerably longer on the other side of the herb stall.
It is a permanent covered market and open every day of the year from early in the morning when the breakfast stalls open selling grilled chicken and pork and rice porridge, to late at night when tired hotel shift workers can grab a plate of noodles on their way home. Between these hours you can buy everything, and more, from the market stalls and the little shops just outside.
The busiest part of the market day is between 4pm and 6pm when the whole working Chiang Mai world clocks off and nips into the market to get dinner. For the odd foreigner who ambles in it’s a rather daunting prospect; the noise, the heat, the confusion, the cooking smells, the burning incense, the crowds and the fact that most of what you are looking at is unrecognisable does not bode well for Johnny Foreigner.
Often I see foreign men led around by their Thai wives looking bewildered and overwhelmed, thinking “…and now I have to shop here and eat this!” They hang onto their wives like drowning men in a ship wreck, afraid that if they let go they’ll be cast adrift in a strange sea of unrecognizable fruits and grilled frogs, eventually washing up behind the herb stall, in the firm and increasingly desperate grasp of the herb lady’s sister.
Still, it could be worse; it could be the fried fish lady’s sister, who is the size of Thom’s truck and seems to live on nothing but deep fried batter. She once wore a vest top with the slogan “sleep with me and get a free breakfast” on the front. It was an intriguing prospect and part of me wanted to ask if there was a choice of breakfast, but I knew deep down that it would be fried batter, so I didn’t bother. I’m sure though, that apart from being covered in fish fat, immensely obese, wearing vest tops emblazoned with increasingly reckless sexualized messages and stuffing herself with deep fried batter, she is probably a very nice person. Perhaps, like her much loved batter, just a little mixed up.
There is a midget lady who is married to an equally tiny but much older man who sells a very limited, but very cheap, range of fruit and vegetables. For example, when I was there yesterday they were selling, (although the word selling is rather misleading as they were both nowhere to be seen) water melons, tomatoes and bell peppers, the day before they just had a huge pile of sweet potatoes. He is almost always drunk and she is almost always angry and they are usually engaged in a furious argument behind their limited range of cut price veg.
Sometimes she is not there and he is fast asleep behind the stall in a filthy plastic chair with an empty bottle of whisky. When this happens, which is quite frequent, the routine is to help yourself to the cheap veg and leave the money in his dirty little pot. He must wake up and find a pot stuffed full of money. It must feel like alcohol induced magic; he puts out an empty plastic pot on his vegetable stall, drinks a bottle of cheap whisky, falls asleep and wakes up to find it stuffed full of cash. If I could write Thai I would leave a little message saying “a gift from the vegetable fairies...will you be our king?” He would, after all, be just about the right size.
One of the friendliest market traders is a smiley lady who sells Thai vegetables. She is large and friendly and banters loudly with customers and other traders alike. She’s quite raucous and laughs like a drain. I imagine that she has that wonderful quality of being quite cheeky, not taking herself too seriously, but at the same time taking no nonsense; ideal qualities for a good foster mum. I maybe wrong of course. For all I know she may just be spinning unfunny smutty jokes at my expense and thick as two short planks.
Her personal qualities are not, however, the most immediately noticeable thing about her or her stall. The most arresting thing about her stall is a highly polished and massive wooden penis the size of a man’s arm which pokes out proudly between the lettuces. It is an alarming sight as I’m sure you can imagine.
These lucky penis amulets are not uncommon in Thailand and associated with protecting monetary gain, as well as bringing general good luck. It is unusual, though, to see such a massive one so prominently displayed. Sometimes she leans on it to get greater leverage while stacking up her radishes. This isn’t a euphemism, although it sounds like a cracker doesn’t it? She does actually lean on it and sometimes I have seen her polishing it with a filthy rag, which I think actually is a euphemism. Perhaps on second thoughts she and her massive wooden penis would not be ideal foster mum material.
Another person who has achieved cult status in the market community is a beautiful, but miserable looking young Thai woman with a perfect little black, whispy moustache. She works in one of the surrounding shops and wafts hairily around the market looking sullen. When I say works, I mean she leans up against a wall, glaring out into the road, defying anyone to show an interest in her little, angry shop. My eldest son has somewhat fittingly re-christened her Babe-ra-ham Lincoln, I think on account of her hairy features rather than her straight talking politics and insistence upon the abolition of slavery.
So imagine my shock when, in this bizarre and private little sanctuary of mine, where I can understand not one human voice and avoid immanent betrothal to the herb lady’s sister by the use of elaborate mime, one afternoon in the jolly month of May I heard a babble of English language.
I was minding my own business buying some tamarind pulp from the dry goods stall when just behind me I heard the excitable chattering of a small group of tourists who were being led around my market on one of these food tours as part of a cooking school activity.
You know the deal. Some canny minded Thai housewife suddenly realizes that with a little capital outlay she can turn her back yard into an “outdoor kitchen,” charge Johnny Tourist an arm and a leg to be taken around a market, in order to buy ingredients to make the obligatory green curry, which they will learn how to knock up on their return to the “outdoor kitchen.” Everyone’s a winner! Except me and the herb lady.
I turned around to see one of the tourists picking up handfuls of my
herb lady’s fresh herbs that she spends all morning, along with the help of her sister, carefully arranging in neat little bunches, that were now flying everywhere.
It’s well within market protocol to examine fruit and veg before you buy it, indeed, proud stall owners will actually encourage you to do so to ensure that you are happy with your purchase and come back the following day. Picking stuff up randomly and waving it about without any intention of making a purchase is a completely different thing. Can you imagine the response if a group of South East Asian tourists did this in your local market back home? There would be a lynching.
“Gee, look Miranda, look at all these fresh ’erbs,” said a large man with a camera round his neck. He really said “gee” and he really said “erbs.” Before you could say “put those herbs down right now,” the little group of tourists were all busy grabbing up bunches of basil, mint, lemon grass, coriander and spring onions and pushing them into their fat faces and sniffing them and proclaiming how fresh it all was. My little old herb lady just stood meekly behind the counter quietly wishing that they would stop grabbing up all her herbs, which she would have to re-bunch and re-arrange before actually trying to sell them to proper customers. They acted like spoilt children in an interactive hands on museum gallery; grabbing up herbs, crushing them in their podgy hands to release the scent, pushing them into their faces to sniff them and endlessly proclaiming how fresh it all was and yelling “gee.”
They also started to take photos of each other holding up bunches of herbs and pointing at huge piles of lemon grass and turmeric root. One woman scooped up a handful of fresh galangal root which she called ginger, whilst her friend took another photo. All the while the herb lady faded further and further into the back ground. She didn’t look angry but just defeated. She looked like an old lady whose livelihood depends on selling herbs that look better and greener and fresher than any other herbs in the market, who is now watching her precious herbs look battered and damaged and knocked about. She was looking like an old lady trying to accept that today she would not sell many bunches of herbs.
The young Thai woman who was in charge of the tour was trying her Thai best to stop them grabbing at everything. In other words she was smiling and just hoping they would stop.
I felt I had to do something. I had to protect my herb lady. I had to protect my market, but I had to be careful not to embarrass everyone by causing a scene. I moved round next to the man who kept saying “gee.”
“Hi everyone,” the group turned and looked at me, surprised to be addressed by a strange man in a remote market in Thailand. It felt like a frozen moment in a film where a character unexpectedly steps out of the action and addresses the audience directly. Unfortunately, unlike a film, I had no lines to learn and didn’t quite know what to say next. I just wanted them to stop playing around with stuff that they were not going to buy. I wanted them to be a little bit more respectful and thoughtful and see that they were ruining the livelihood of an old lady who supports her younger sister and grown up disabled son (who I haven’t told you about) by selling fresh herbs.
“Hey gee buddy, look at these.” He held up what was now a rather limp bunch of coriander.
Suddenly I said, “have you ever heard of please and thank you?” I surprised even myself as I said this. It’s odd isn’t it, the things you say in tense situations. I wanted to come across as a measured, thoughtful but no-nonsense kind of guy out to protect an innocent elderly herb seller but instead sounded like Miss Benewith my deranged, elderly and ever spiteful Primary School teacher.
The group just stared at me because, not only did I sound like Miss Benewith, but because what I said didn’t really make a great deal of sense. It’s not like I expected them to say “can I monkey about with your herbs, please,” and everything would be fine. I knew I would have to try another approach.
“Are you going to buy these herbs?” I demanded in an overly stern tone. I could feel the whole situation verging on the surreal and suddenly wanted to laugh. Thankfully I managed not to on this occasion.
As I stood there managing not to laugh, I was aware of two things at once. Firstly I had no idea where all this was going and how I would actually stop them man-handling herbs and secondly I wished I hadn’t started it all. But, as I had, I had no other option other than to plough onwards into unknown, hostile territory, like a desperate man staggering into the desert to find water.
“Gee, we’re only looking at the ’erbs” said Miranda.
“We’re on a food tour,” piped up another.
“You see, the thing is…erm…” my voice trailed off as the truth was I didn’t really know what the thing was. It was something about being a little bit more understanding, a little bit more sensitive to their surroundings. They weren’t in Disney World, this wasn’t a gimmick that had been laid on for tourists, this was real life, in which they did not have the right to pick up a herb sellers herbs and wave them around without any intention of buying them. Instead of this though I said, “…erm...” again before another man I hadn’t noticed cut in.
“Hey, buddy, don’t get so tight,” said a small sweaty man at the back of the group. I could sense the slight aggression in his voice. “We’re on vacation,” he added as though it was a magic trump card. As though being on vacation allows you to do whatever you want. I was also irritated by his use of the word “tight” which I had never heard used in that context before and wanted to ask him if he meant “tense” or whether, like so many things these days, it had changed without me noticing (like using the word “party” as a noun, or using the word “random” to mean strange or odd, or “sweet” as meaning good or okay, “lame” as meaning a bit useless, “spam” meaning junk mail on the internet rather than a tinned meat product or “wicked” as meaning something really, really good and using the word “awesome” all the time, even when something is patently not awesome). Given the increasingly “random” situation I knew I couldn’t ask him, which in itself was irritating, so, true to form, I launched off in another vague direction.
“Yes, but…you see…if only you could…I mean if it weren’t for the fact…” I began, but before I could finish my eloquent ramblings someone else cut in.
“C’mon Miranda, lets move on” said the big guy with the big camera. They threw down the herbs that were in their hands, staring defiantly at me and turned and moved on. The small sweaty man looked at me aggressively and said “thanks” as sarcastically as he could muster and banged down a bunch of basil as hard as he could on a small bowl of limes which rolled off the table and onto the floor. The petrified looking young tour guide began ushering them away, bowing as they passed her, and gesturing towards the exit, where a mini bus was waiting.
I was left standing alone next to the herb stall holding a small plastic bag full of tamarind pulp. The stall looked a mess with bunches of herbs scattered and broken amongst the little piles of galangal, limes and turmeric. I bent down and picked up the limes that were at my feet. I placed them back on the table.
“I’m sorry…cor tok kap” I remembered the Thai for sorry, for, as you can image, I tend to need it a lot. The herb lady smiled at me a lovely big, warm, toothless, herby smile. From the shadows behind her, at the edge of the market came her sister and son with his mangled hands and sloping face and stumbling walk.
“I don’t think they understand” I said indicating towards the mini bus which was just pulling away, wishing that I knew more Thai and wishing that these tourists had just understood a little more. She looked up and smiled at me again. Her sister and son joined in helping to tidy up the stall. It only took moments really. The four of us re-arranged the neat little piles of limes, bunches of lemon grass, bowls of turmeric root and ginger. We picked up herbs that were scattered on the floor, stacked the limes into little green pyramids and re-grouped the herbs into their respective little piles; basil, mint, coriander, celery tops, holy basil, spring onions and water
spinach. Lastly the old lady sprayed the whole lot with water from a small dirty plastic bottle with a tiny hole made in the blue top. It all looked as good as new. It only took a couple of minutes and I felt embarrassed at the scene I had caused, compared to how little damage had actually been done, which in truth wasn’t much.
I looked around and realized that the market had quickly re-formed back into its noisy, smelly self, like a shoal of fish regrouping after a shark attack. Everything looked undisturbed and was back to normal in a matter of moments; the fried fish lady’s sister was licking raw batter off the back of a bamboo spoon, Babe-ra-ham Lincoln was moodily staring into space defying anyone to catch her eye, the cut price veg, midget couple were both angrily stacking up a huge pile of small orange pumpkins and a vaguely guilty feeling foreign bloke was dreamily walking back to his little motorbike and holding a small plastic bag of tamarind pulp and a free bunch of coriander.
Sweet. Wicked.
Top Market Purchases of the Season
Here are a handful of things that I tend to look out for at the market. Try them if you haven’t done already.
Sapodilla
Have you ever eaten a Sapodilla? It sounds like some fried lizard (which, incidentally, you can also buy down the market). It is, in fact, a small brown fruit that tastes like heaven when you catch them at the right moment. They look a bit like lozenge shaped hairy brown potatoes, like dark brown velvety Kiwi Fruit.
The flesh is smooth and fragrant, it’s like eating perfume, but if they are not quite ripe they tend to taste clawing and sharp. You can buy a carrier bag of them for about 30 Baht.
Land Crab Caviar
You don’t get fresh water land crabs in most parts of the world and consequently don’t get the wonderful crab paste which is made from them (I only call it caviar to sound fancy, it’s not a true caviar but it does share the same intense rich flavour). After it has rained there is an explosion of these crabs which live in and around wet rice fields. The caviar is a wonderful dark orange colour, described I think by arty types as Burnt Ochre and was a favourite of Rembrandt, apparently (the colour that is, not Land Crab Caviar). It has a strong, dark and earthy sea food flavour. It’s a bit like a cross between crab meat and anchovy. It’s certainly a strong and unusual taste.