I chat with Mr James about tasting some river food. I've bottled out of the street food so far, my mum's cautioning voice, "where do they wash their hands?" is off-putting. (She said the same of hot dog vendors & ice-cream vans in my youth, yet I live to tell the tale). I research street food by asking everyone I've ever known eat it, whether they got 'the wildies'. No one has. Street food; river food, same same, I'm going to try it.
There is a narrow street lined with stalls leading to the dock, selling outdoor plants, up-cycled clocks made from cans of Chang, fruit on a stick, handbags. The Durian fruit sits waiting for me to try it, the spiky skin surely a warning sign its meant to be used as a cosh, not scoffed. It smells of bins. I get confused with the puke tasting fruit they feed the celebrities in the jungle, when I describe it on camera, but it tastes oniony, with a weird texture difficult to slide from my teeth. I sample some tiny crispy pancakes garnished with meringue white and the sweetest shredded fruit, I'd rather that than a cup cake any day.
When we reach the gangplank, a shoal of catfish are being fed bread baps/batches/buns/rolls (choose your own regional term), loads of them slapping about vying for the next bite. Its a catfish mosh pit. Buckets of terrapins, eels, and fish for sale, presumably for pets. The set up is - wander around the moored boat where the diner's dine, choose your scran, sit on the raised floor at a low table, order, pay, scoff. Simple-ish. Having wandered around for curiosity and camera I decide on some white fish, large prawns and chicken satay. The fish is prepared by a young Thai woman on a long-tail boat in the murky water, she sits opposite the prawn, squid and crab woman, each have a BBQ and are busy cooking as the orders come in from above. My white fish is stuffed with twigs, dipped in a bucket of salt, bbq'd and served on a vine for a plate. The head is still on, the bones remain. It's fit. It's meaty, but less meaty than a monk fish, and the 2 accompanying chilli dips pack the perfect punch. Who am I kidding? I'm no Nigella, I choke on the chilli and I'm paranoid the whole time I'm talking there's shit in my teeth or grease on my chin. The chicken satay is a no show.
I look around and I'm surrounded by local families and groups of friends, out together for Sunday lunch, sharing fish, noodles, conversation. Is this the Thai version of the British family roast? I try a prawn, it's awkward to break into and my new nails chip. The prawn's a bit mushy/ liquidy and gives me the fear, especially as I've seen a slippery squid bounce on the deck where the dirty river water has sloshed - its re-captured and plonked on the grill. I need someone to tell me it's ok, a 'pescy' friend, a 'sole' mate (sorry). It tastes like a prawn, I can't show off with adjectives, a prawn is a prawn is a prawn.
I'm telling Mr James and camera how lovely it is to be here, experiencing another side of Thailand, and how perfect it would be if I could teleport my friends to me, share my big white fish/salmonella/floaty market adventure. I need them to come and laugh at me/take the piss, commet on how ridiculous my life is at the minute, then reassure me - the prawn's ok, you're ok, get a grip, Kenno. I talk about friendships for a bit, about how James having a job is preventing our togetherness, making me long for him to come home, clock watch, and by the time he's home there's nothing left of me. All the while I worry I'm acting like a fool. Look at me for God's sake, at where I am, it's amazing, its beyond my dreams, and I'm blubbing...again. I can't swallow my prawn. Will I ever be satisfied? I'm cross with myself.
Mr James swaps his camera for a Chang and he has tears in his eyes. He is missing his family too. Or is it sweaty eye syndrome (it stings, sweat in your eye). We chat about my sadness, our families, then we talk music, festivals and friends. Laughing and enjoying the atmosphere as waiters shout to chefs, families natter and children sleep/play. I explain how lovely the school mum's have been, how I've exchanged numbers but not dialled. I'm too shy shy. I'm concerned people will think I'm snubbing them when I don't follow up on their suggestions of joining the British Club. I can't, though I've never been and I'm told its great for families. I'd hoped to integrate not be segregated by a private members group, I can't express this shirking for fear of appearing judgmental, because I think 'just find whatever works for you' out here. Am I isolating myself? Being aloof? My mates at home are a special, hand-selected, M & S finest range. How can anyone live up to that?
After a chat and a Chang, I sit on a bench, bits of tree falling on my head, I write some notes for this blog. There's a live 8 piece trad Thai band, "Volunteer Spirit" playing clang, clink, ding music, which mixes perfectly with the man on the megaphone in the distance. The camera is recording this moment, which James later describes as my Synedoche New York-like life, its a film I didn't get, like art within art, within art...
I've enjoyed a little boat ride down the river, seen a community I didn't know existed - homes on stilts in luscious tropical terrain that I've only ever seen on Vietnam war films. Its been a lovely day, spent in an amazing place, surrounded by smiling families, fantastic food, its food for my soul. I've had the best chat with a new friend. I hope to call him a friend, but after all he's being paid to hang out with me, he's only around til the end of the month, my losertic status remains.
I go home and go out for booze with James, try and describe my day. The next day I experience my first Changover.
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