The Durian Apocalypse

Heritage Daze

Posted on July 9, 2014 by Eddie

Wanna know what makes George Town’s fucking obsession with motorcycles especially maddening? It’s that they aren’t even necessary: the city is small enough that it’s easily coverable by bicycle. It’s true a lot of people do get around via bicycle – including there are more tandems in this town than you could shake a stick at…

And when, after having been nearly run down in cold blood by ten million roars of dust and diesel, you see a seventy-year old Chinaman gliding noiselessly by on a modified bicycle carrying his entire restaurant stall, it just about breaks your heart: Once because it’s such a lovely scene, and then a second time because of what this city could be but – owing to motorcycles – isn’t.

But I’m trying to take to heart lyrics from an awesome/amazing Cloud Cult song (okay, pretty near all Cloud Cult songs of recent vintage are awesome/amazing…but that’s a story for another day) I’ve had running through my head a lot:

You know you are as small as the things you let annoy you
And you know you are gigantic as the things that you adore
Some days you give thanks, some days you give the finger
It’s a complicated Creation

Could I learn to adore motorcycles? Could I, instead of always giving the finger, give thanks following each encounter? Well, I’ll work on it. Won’t be easy, I fear. Heh heh, Cloud Cult checking into my brain yet again with more sage advice:

When it all comes crashing down
Try to understand your meaning
No one said it would be easy
This livin’, it ain’t easy-oh

But none of that shit’s got anything to do with to-day’s topic; viz., George Town’s just-concluded little Heritage Days Festival celebrating its 2008 listing as a UNESCO World Heritage site. (I had had it in my head, somehow, that the listing had occurred much longer ago than that. Apparently not.)

Most of the fun stuff is saved for later on, when the sun drops low and temps begin to moderate a little bit. During the day, you go inside for the boring lectures. Nah, actually, the two I seen – one concerning a small island near here, whose population of 3,500 people is struggling to maintain a traditional culture; and the other concerning the decline of traditional pottery-making arts – were quite interesting.

As for the fun stuff, several city blocks in the Old Town were closed off to traffic, and scattered around were artisans and craftspeople – along with their apprentices – making available the tools of their trade for the public to come and try its hand. Mostly, really, it was kinda for kids…

But the crafts in which the artists engage – weaving, carving, engraving, molding, and cetera – not only form traditions dating back hundreds of years, but they also in the end produce figures as exceptionally beautiful as one’s eyes ever could want to see.

If you’ve ever wondered, for example, how it is that Shadow Puppets come to be so stunningly wonderful to look at…

…here’s your answer. It ain’t by dint of mechanised machinery. It’s simple hand tools, and painstaking labour-of-love process.

Or if you’ve ever wondered what’s the secret behind those drop-dead incredible Kolam creations…

…it’s perhaps not that it’s so painstaking; but rather, that the rice flour materials are a-gonna literally blow away with the wind and wash away with the rain (and it rained in buckets just five or six hours after this) – so one’d better take fulfillment from the process, because the finished result is as ephemeral as can be.

There were also a bunch of kitchen-artists serving up traditional dishes (natch), and a screening of a short-films collection. The latter I completely forgot about, ‘cause I wanted to check out the Krishnas and their Chariot parade.

While I much prefer the Krishnas’ devotional music to the party music going on here, one can’t deny that that Chariot is a thing of beauty.

Having learnt from the pamphlet I’d been carrying around for two weeks that…

If you participate in these Chariot festivals and see the deities riding on these Chariots, you will go, back to home, back to Godhead at the end of this life. – Srila Prabhupada

…there was no way I was going to fail to grab hold and give it the old heave-ho for a few hundred yards – although in paying too much attention to my camera, and not enough to my surroundings, I almost got myself trampled underfoot.

At about the same time this was wrapping up, the Taiwanese community was just getting going throwing down over at Esplanade Park. The Taiwanese sure know how to turn out numbers: couple thousand visitors, by my estimation — and I’d never seen this shindig advertised anywhere; only knew about it ‘cause I’d seen all the vendors’ tents and the stage being erected a few days before.

The entertainments here took those of the other two Festivals out to the woodshed and mercilessly beat they dimpled asses down. Talkin’ jaw-dropping, breath-taking, buttocks-over-teakettle-sending routines from the Drummers…

…the Dancers…

…the Scarf-Wavers/Umbrella-Spinners…

…and the Dragon Wranglers…

There was also a Pop Diva and a Lion Dance performance. The former didn’t do much for me; the latter, while not bad, was nowhere nearly the same ballpark as those I witnessed at Bangkok’s Chinese New Year celebrations two years ago.

I’ll acknowledge that the footage presented here fails to capture fully the dramatic and thrilling visceral nature of these performances. But, in person, they were, as I say, thoroughly heart-stopping, soul-filling presentations.

Seemed to me a bit daft to schedule three big, but separate, parties all on the same evening. But in the end, the were timed out well enough to allow the visitor to conveniently take them all in consecutively – though it made for a rather long day (and I’d have liked to have attended the film screening).

And, the dark side. In case one thought that Thailand had Southeast Asia’s disposable-plastic-container market all to itself…

Walking down the long city block housing the food vendors’ stalls were dozens and dozens of tables just like this, all mounded over in crap. Why were they all mounded over in crap? Because all of the garbage cans and dumpsters were overflowing onto the street…

Fucking packaging, man. Fucking plastic fucking disposable packaging. Next to splitting the atom, it’s got to be the worst idea humans ever had. And this is just one small-ish festival in one small-ish city in one small country. Thinking of that in context of a place like the U.S. of A., whose population comprises 5% of the World’s total, but which creates 50% of the World’s waste…makes one wish it were possible to be any species other than human, doesn’t it?

But, Central Services swooped in overnight and took it all “away”. Out of sight, out of mind; let’s get on with the show.

And so we did. Monday morning, eight or ten of the older, more venerable places of worship in town – Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian – opened up to the general public offering tours, info, discussion, and whatnot.

At the Kapitan Keling Mosque, it was the old song-and-dance recruitment routine. Gotta hand it to those Muslim hucksters, though: they’re really well versed in English, very charismatic, and’ve got their inane routines down pat. The one here this morning even busted out the old, “It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” line in response to an attendee’s question.

As idiotic as the religious are, though, you can’t deny they put up some outrageously beautiful structures. The Kapitan Keling, I think it must be the biggest Mosque in town; I think it’s probably not the oldest. But one thing is for certain: it is easily the most dazzling, both outside and in.

Most of the Hindu temples are located outside Little India. But the one in Little India puts on a wicked Puja, and has got about the most gorgeous statuary you ever did see. Normally, they don’t allow photography, however. But during this Open House, it was shutters a-go-go. You gotta know farang was gonna be all over that shit.

The Temple of the Hainan Chinese community was all lit up like Christmas Morning.

The Temple is dedicated to the Goddess of the Sea. According to the affable tour guide, everybody “comes out of the womb crying. You’re alive: you cry. But she didn’t.”

That was the first sign that she was going to be somebody special. As she went through life, her overwhelming compassion, it was eventually intuited, enabled her to protect from harm sea-farers out performing their oceanside duties. And so, having begun life as a mortal, she made it all the way to Goddesshood simply be emanating loving kindness. Here she is – followed by her right-hand lady, the Goddess of the Coast.

This temple, like pretty much all the Chinese temples in town, is rocking some seriously eye-popping décor.

In the evening, several blocks of Jalan Pintai Tali (don’t you wish you could live on a street called “Jalan Pintai Tali”?) were blocked off to traffic, and the Chinese went and got their Heritage on.

The street was super-super crowded. The temple in the middle of this street had waited ‘til now to do its Open House; but the line was butt-assed long, so I didn’t see in there. I did however see: the World’s biggest banjo…

…the World’s biggest flag…

…strikingly beautiful and eerie night-time decorations…

…yo-yo aerials…

…and the Chinese Westside Story. (Again, this performance was much more electrifying in person than the footage suggests.)

Best of all, the Shadow Puppets we’d witnessed being made the previous day were now put into action.

Such an evocative medium. I kinda want to make a Shadow Puppet movie – who’s with me?

And that was more or less that. So much awesome packed into such a small time-space. And, it’s really just the appetizer: the month-long George Town Festival begins on August 1^st. Have just recently had a peek at the schedule, and am already trembling with anticipation to note that the man responsible for the Manganiyar Seduction, which I saw here two years ago – and the recollection of which still has me reeling in disbelief – is back, with the Asian Premiere of his follow-up production. Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

Maybe, in a back-handed way, this is where I can begin to pry out an opening for a détente with the motorcycles. George Town more enthusiastically than any other community in which I’ve spent time nurtures the arts and weaves them into the rhythms of daily life. And it’s the Durian capital of the Universe – and probably the People-Watching capital as well. And it’s got the allure of Little India, the mind-bending-beautiful music spilling out of the Mosques, incredible architecture, very friendly locals, crashing waves, epic thunderstorms…

If it weren’t for the motorcycles, I’d almost have no reason to ever leave this place. Rock it on, George Town, rock on. Every day here is a great adventure. Can’t wait to see what magic you’ll out with next. First, must force myself to get some sleep…

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Fruit = God

Posted on July 3, 2014 by Eddie

Ed. Note: FYI, this posting has undergone extensive revision since initial publication — these largely taking the form of additional thoughts, information, and links; as well as a few updates in re consequences. Most recently revised 7/6/14.

Well, I did it.

As I had all-along suspected that I would do during this visit, I finally gave in to Little India’s wiles, sat right down inside a very highly-regarded restaurant advertising “World Class” quality of same, and ordered up a small-/medium-sized Veggie Buryani. Though I don’t doubt its authenticity, it bore very little resemblance to the Pakistani Buryanis of which I back in the day done stuffed so many down the gullet. Nevertheless, yes, it did yield thirty minutes of sheer blissful deliciousness.

And then…the consequences.

The twin banes of the addict: Woke up this morning with a raging wicked sore throat – and a gnawing craving to go order up even another batch of the stuff. Insane. Both of these persisted throughout the day, and were joined this very eve by a slight fever, mucus production, an overwhelming tiredness, an annoying cough, and a general feeling of bone-aching shittiness.

Boy, do I not miss these types of symptoms! (To be fair, it surely didn’t help that rather than resting and fasting all day as I should have done, I went out exploring the city during the hot/humid broiling heart of the day; consuming four kilos of Mangosteens, a Coconut, and a small Durian along the way. You reap what you sow, ain’t it?)

7/4/14 Update: Now two days after the fact, I’m hacking up gob after gob after gob…
7/6/14 Update: Felt great yesterday, with the exceptions of a still-mildly-sore throat and the continued gob-hacking. To-day, feel shite again; and throat is exceedingly raw, courtesy the continued torrents of expectoratatory transmissions.

Frankly surprised at the depth and breadth of these symptoms. I surely expected that there would be consequences…but was certainly not expecting anything near the severity which has in fact resulted. Don’t know whether the restaurant perhaps employs MSG or similarly nasty chemicalised flavouring methods — never have to check that kind of crap when you’re only eating whole, fresh produce — or whether it’s all been caused by the “normal”, “healthy” ingredients used in preparing from scratch any delicious cooked meal.

This little experiment, coupled with my cooked-eating experiences trekking in Nepal have yet again hammered home to me the pernicious effect of food-processing. Whilst trekking, I was eating of fairly large quantities of plain boiled rice and plain boiled potatoes every day. Not only did I not fall ill (‘til ascending above 3,000 metres – symptoms immediately alleviating upon descending back below 3,000 metres), I was able to keep up a rather arduous trekking regimen — Kieran and myself were a full day ahead of the recommended schedule by the end of our fourth day — while schlepping fifteen or twenty kilos of dead weight upon my back.

So while I wouldn’t by a longshot categorise as optimum the feeding upon of steamed or boiled high-carb whole foods – your ears of corn, your spuds, your squashes, your grains of rice – I do truly believe that the occasional consumption of these is a far sight better than “enhancing” the natural blandness of starches and meats with generous administration of the so-called irritants. David Klein enumerates these as follows:

The main culprits are: strong spices such as pepper, cayenne, oregano, and curries; salt, vinegar, chiles, onions, garlic, radish, arugula, mustard, wasabi, hot sauces, cooked tomato sauce, lemon and lime juice, alcohol, coffee, cola soft drinks, extremely hot soups and beverages, and drugs such as aspirin and prednisone.

Though perhaps not so irritating to our delicate innards as the above, I would also add oils as a quite strong culprit, being that they give no nutritional value while at the same time contributing disproportionately to making one’s fatass all the fatter indeed. (Fat in the diet is also – perhaps counter-intuitively — the primary contributor to blood-sugar issues and Diabetes.) But oil is quite pleasing to the senses, la (as is for example Cocaine, so I’m told…) – when we slather some onto our food and eat up, we want to eat up more and more and ever more.

It’s not the cooking, in other words, that makes cooked foods addictive – it’s the oils and the salting/spicing/seasoning/saucing/fermenting. And these are also, in my experience, the very same substances which fuck our collective health ten ways from Sunday.

And in case you’re wondering whether such seemingly small quantities of these in relation to the entire dish can possibly be so potent: sure, they can. The lethal dose of salt is one ounce. Or, think of how quickly plucking a tiny, little Chiltepin from the tree and munching it down sets one’s mouth aflame and nose adrip, and has one scrambling for the nearest jug of water — “The solution to pollution is dilution.” It’s poison. A little bit goes a long way. (Oy, to think, I used to add these little monsters to my curries — dude working next door to the restaurant had a tree, and shared liberally.)

It’s an opinion, I suppose, based as I say upon my own personal experiences. Others’ mileages have been known to vary. Harley Johnstone and his partner-in-crime, Freelee, for example, built a massive online empire preaching (mostly at first to the unconverted) the 80/10/10 Gospel – only to chuck it aside in favour of a High-Carb Cooked Vegan dietary which includes lots of processed sugars, oils, grains, and irritants. They say they’ve not noticed any ill effects following this dramatic change.

To the extent that’s true, it’s at least partly owing to their very active lifestyles, and to access to an abundance of Australian sunshine and fresh air. Also, I assume they’re still dedicated to getting ten to twelve hours of sleep — the best medicine there is — per night. But I suspect it’s mostly owing to them being in their twenties, and me – who can’t even handle a measly little serving of Veggie Buryani – being in my forties.

In an excellent, heartfelt interview published on July 2 of this year, Michael Arnstein highly doubts the possibility that the quantities of grains and processed foods they’ve shewn themselves devouring would pass through their systems without leaving a mark. He also shows some clips of Harley’s video sermons from 2008, claiming him as the major source of inspiration for himself, a fledgling Raw Foodist struggling to maintain his integrity in a world in which the support community was woefully inadequate. (This has now, of course, changed — thanks in very large part to Harley’s and Freelee’s tireless contributions.)

I can add that I gained similar inspiration from Harley’s work, and it greatly informed my thinking at that time. While he’s free to follow any path of his choosing, it does feel tragic to have lost such an accomplished, passionate, knowledgeable (yet street-smart) voice which had so brilliantly and consistently rang like thunder from the heavens in support of not only health and fitness, but for animal and environmental justice as well.

Had previously known Arnstein only by name, but highly recommend this interview, despite its at-times gossipy nature, as Michael’s impassioned — and compassionate — reaction to Harley’s and Freelee’s defections rings with authenticity and bears the scars of having learnt the hard way the only truly reliable path to superior well-being.

All that said, I’ve certainly met more than a few others who consume mostly raw fruits and veggies, but also with varying frequencies partake of cooked meals, and live happily to tell about it. More power to them, yo. And more power to anybody who feels great eating the Standard American Diet.

But if ever you begin feeling your years – for me, it happened almost precisely on my thirty-fifth birthday – and would like to turn back the clock some, try removing from the diet all processed/seasoned/salted/oiled foods and beverages. And to turn the clock back even more, one could go the full nine yards: All-raw, all-vegan, very low fat. “As much fruit as you want, followed by as many vegetables as you care for,” along with, if desired, very limited quantities of nuts and seeds.

Summer is a great time to initiate such a campaign. I’d recommend, to begin, eating only Watermelon (as much as you want), and drinking only purified water, for three or four weeks’ time. Everybody loves Watermelon, and it’s impossible to get sick of it (trust me, if anybody’s eaten enough to know, it’s yours truly). Not only this, but Watermelon is also the easiest known food for humans to digest, as well as being the most hydrating — well, apart from Coconuts.

Which is good, ’cause the body will need lots of water as it begins the detox process, ushering the results of decades’ worth of wack-ass feeding out of any and every orifice it can find. A month should be enough time to complete the detox — or at least to give it a very nice jump-start. Hot tip: Make sure to always have plenty of Watermelons on hand, and to get rid of any and every thing else you might consume, because the cooked-food cravings are going to be almost unbearable.

Then, come late-July/early-August, when the Farmers’ Markets are filled to bursting with all the colours of the rainbow, hie your dimpled patootie to the nearest location of same, and load up on the bounty. Gorge yourself upon all your favourite fruits; and feel free to indulge as well in Lettuces, Spinaches, Cucumbers, Tomatoes, coloured (i.e., not green) Sweet Peppers, Okra (raw Okra is too fucking good!), Celery, Sweet Corn, Tomatillo, and anything else that catches your fancy.

Just remember: If you can’t eat a big massive heaping helping of a given food in its raw natural state — if you can’t make an entire meal of it — it’s probably not fit for human consumption. Also…be prepared to part with plenty of dough. (You can save a bunch purchasing fruit by the case.) Comes with the territory. Think of it as money not requiring to be spent on drugs and surgeries. Besides, eating local/organic/in-season/no-barcode fruits and vegetables…there is no more righteous form of swamp-ass-militant hit-’em-where-it-hurts activism than this.

During this time, one may perhaps opt to brush up on the ol’ book-learning. T.C. Fry’s Life-Science Course is a hella exhaustive place to start. Read it cover to cover, or select topics as desired. And Doug Graham’s 80/10/10 Diet is damn-near canonical.

For your hard-copy-printing and mobile-device-toting pleasure, I’ve decided to open up a little archive here on the site. I’ll add to it as time permits — and as soon as I’m somewhere with a half-decent Internet connection, I’ll put some audio as well. To begin with, I’ve uploaded both of the above titles in PDF, EPUB, and MOBI formats.

After three months, try re-introducing some of your old fave foods, and see how your body reacts. If you’re like me, all your old chronic symptoms will come rushing back — only worse than before, and taking longer to clear when returning to the all-raw ways. You’ll quickly have all your cooking implements in a cardboard box out on the kerb, no matter how strong the cravings may be.

An aside to Paleo advocates: Sure, sure, eat all the meat you can. But know that Carnivores don’t cook their meats. Nor do they load them up with BBQ sauce, catsup, spice rubs, and marinades. Oh, and they don’t restrict themselves to the “flesh” — they also devour the gristle, the bones, the guts, the organs, the fur, and everything. Bon appetit!

•

If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. When it comes to these matters (unlike some other matters which we shan’t just-here mention), I don’t care to proselytise. But this Little Indian experience has been so striking to me that I wanted to get some thoughts down on paper. We’ll return to our regularly scheduled hijinks soon enough.

In the meanwhile, if anybody reading this has any questions, feel free to ask. I can be reached via e-mails on any username you’d choose to invent (e.g., “Dalrymple”), c/o this domain. I’ll probably just end up pointing you in a certain direction. But you never know: six-and-a-half years into this lifestyle, I have learnt a thing or two meself…

Maybe it’s being in a Muslim country during Ramadan (or what); but somehow I feel all religiostic, and such. And so I enjoin upon you: In Fruitgod We Trust! Garden of FUCKING Eden (is what I’m sayin’). Eat right and prosper, my children.

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George Town Funtown

Posted on June 29, 2014 by Eddie

Despite I had told myself that I must get out and about exploring Penang more better this time, I’ve fallen yet again into George Town’s wonderfully wacky vortex. Apart from the motorcycles (which, let’s be clear, are a HUGE black mark in the city’s ledger), it’s got to be impossible for any living human to fail to thrill at every waking moment in this town.

Hell, to-day the heat/humidity/haze even broke with a good nice rain pummel, bringing some much appreciated temperature-attenuation and atmospheric scrubbing to the scene.

Ah, the sea is beautiful when riled, ain’t she?

So what sets the city apart? Perhaps it’s that it so fully engages the senses at all times.

The ears get it from the incredible music bumping out of the shoppes in Little India, from the astonishingly plaintive and gorgeous prayer calls broadcast from the mosques, and from the most excellently perverted Pooja ceremonies at the Hindu temples.

I ran into some Krishnas out stumping for an upcoming Chariot Festival…

Quite nice dudes, and I can’t wait for this festival (albeit it’s still a week away). Said it before, will say it again: If I ever were going to choose a religion, I would totally go with the Hare Krishnas, who have by far and away the best music of any religion. They told me there is a daily Kirtan in town as well, but I keep forgetting to go check it out.

The nose gets it from the insanely delectably deliciously smelling aromas wafting from the restaurants and food stalls. Tellin’ you, it is so much more the difficult to keep to the raw-food ways in this city than in any other (partly that’s a function of the preponderance of Indian eateries coupled with my history with this type of cuisine). Luckily, there are also the waftings from the innumerable Durian stalls to keep one hewed to the straight and/or narrow.

Here’s an Ice Kacang stall in action. It may seem particularly unhinged, but it’s in reality fairly typical.

While we’re at it, here’s a Dried Mince Meat stall in action.

Pretty neat; but I’m in fact completely obsessed with this shoppe over on Jalan Penang selling Sliced-Pork and –Chicken.

And if you think that’s amazing, check out this one. You couldn’t dream this advertisement up if given 1,000 Million monkeys, 1,000 Million typewriters, and 1,000 Million years to do it with. And yet…it exists — here, in George Town.

I’m wanting to make a goddam documentary about this place. Unfortunately, I got busted even for trying to snap a few pics (“Cannot photo! Sorry!”) – the employees are every bit as freaky/weird/cool/inscrutable as are the products they serve up.

Wouldn’t even let me take the one, little, solitary picture I so desired of the bin holding the Spiced Pork Floss (I shit…you…NOT). So we’ll have to live with this, at least for now.

One more food-related vid: the goings-on at and near the mallside Chicken eatery. Just as was the case with the astounding Chanthaburi vid from a few weeks back, the music here is swear-to-god cross-the-heart needle-in-the-eye 100% diegetic. This footage isn’t quite as cool as the Chanthaburi footage; but, damn, the music couldn’t possibly be more appropriate.

Where were we? Oh, yeah: George Town as unassailably delightful phantasmagoria for the senses. Okay, for the eyes, well…

Incredible architecture.

Incredible street art.

Incredible signs/advertisements.

Having seen these, are you surprised to learn that The Void is sandwiched right between the Lobby, the People’s Supermarket, the Switch Room, and the Super Departmental Store? No, you are not.

The signs can be damned compelling, too. Who doesn’t want to get a tattoo from this guy? If I’m still around by then…I just might!

Or, who doesn’t want to have their Face Reading taken by either Master Ming or Master Wong (or both)?

And…best political flyer ever?

The Instant-Noodle packaging is predictably off-kilter…

…and the syruped Lychee brand-names are…awesome.

Best of all is the people-watching, which is every bit as mind-blowing hereabouts as it is in Chanthaburi – maybe even a little bit better. It’s kind of as though George Town were the contents of Tom Waits’ dreams come to life.

The last weekend of each month, the Tourism Bureau puts on some Cultural Events around town. Including, Saturday nights there’s a programme at Khoo Kongsi – the oldest and most prominent of the Chinese Clan Houses. The place is such a big deal that it can even get away with charging admission. But once a month, it’s free to come and dig it. It does look quite beautiful at night.

The emcee, a rather excitable fellow with a charming English patois…

…kept things rolling along through the many traditional dance performances, ever teasing the spectacular acrobatics performance to come. When the time finally did arrive, he brought Master Li onstage – whose performance was much more hand-eye skillz than anything to do with acrobatics. He was good at the former, however.

After cycling through several of these Wooden Blocks features (and much else besides), he hopped off the stage, and made a beeline in through the audience straight to yours truly never making eye contact, and asked for my help demonstrating the magnitude of his achievements. I was to be a guinea pig, like. Okay.

First he had me try building a line of blocks horizontally; I got to about three or four before spilling them on the ground. Then, he lined them all up, had me grab hold on either end, and bade me set them each on the table, one at a time. “It’s impossible!” I protested. But he ignored me, and positioned the table just so, as if I were going to have a ghost of a prayer. Which, I didn’t. The audience were appreciative, at least.

For Master Li’s finale, he had to perform down in the Courtyard rather than up the stage so that the audience could (according to the emcee) “more clearly see his kung-fu moves”.

I left after his performance, though there were still a few hours’ worth of entertainment yet to come. Two Chinese ladies leaving at the same time flagged me down, and one asked, cackling, “Hey, do you know how to do the blocks?”

“That son of a bitch,” I protested. “He probably started learning that trick using three blocks, then up to four, and five, and so on… But he makes me try learning with all twenty!” They commiserated a little bit; but were mainly interested in knowing whether there were any magnets in the blocks? I assured them that there were not.

Outside of the grounds, there were a bunch of arts and/or crafts booths set up. As I was perusing these, I bumped into this one German dude I’d met earlier that morning. (He’d been trying to tell me how to purchase Durian – which, I’ve probably forgotten more than he’ll ever know about purchasing Durian; but, whatever.) He too was most keen to put the needle: “Good job, your performance tonight!” I’d not even seen him inside. Will I now be running into people all over town who saw me drop a zillion wooden blocks all over myself?

Ah, well – there’s no such thing as bad publicity, so they say.

In re the Durian, it’s been so damnably hot that I’ve been kind of shying away from them in lieu of Mangosteens and Coconuts. Now that the conditions appear to be moderating, I can feel a serious Durian jag coming on.

I did partake one Musang King…

The most expensive variety of them all. And much like the one I’d tried two years ago, I found it…quite good, but nowhere near the best variety on the island — and certainly nowhere near being value for the price. It is a looker, though; can’t deny that.

Went to a oil-painting exhibition. Here’s my favourite one.

And so I say: George Town funtown! But, I must figure out a way to escape its pull and get my dimpled ass out to Teluk Bahang to do some hiking, and down to Relau to find my favourite Durian vendors from two years ago, and to spend some time in Balik Pulau, and so on and so forth. Until then, I’ma try my god damned best to avoid the heating cooking of unctuous food…

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Durian Party Tonite, Muthafuckas!

Posted on June 22, 2014 by Eddie

For readers of this blog, Lindsay and Rob should need no introduction. The curators of the Year Of The Durian Website Of Total Thrash-Ass Awesomeness™, they are without a shred of doubt Durianism’s First Couple, beloved by all comers lucky enough to fall into their orbit – and they’ve each got damned nice hair, to boot. Our heroes were last spotted in Chanthaburi, Thailand, celebrating the release of Lindsay’s awesome new guidebook for the Thai Durian enthusiast.

Her beau having flown back to the States to attend to family matters, Lindsay couldn’t very well let pass her twenty-fifth birthday sitting home alone, could she? So, she put out the bat-signal – which, here in Penang, looks a little something like this…

…and called the tribes to the epicenter of the Penang Durian miasma, the Bao Sheng Durian Farm.

I had wanted to try Bao Sheng’s famous on-farm tasting two years ago, but for one reason or another, failed to make it over there. So you could imagine, I was pretty giddy with anticipation. Got the bus out to Teluk Bahang; which is a pretty nice ride, right there along the coast and all. But, factually, it was for me most memorable because of all the humorous signs I seen. They were zooming by at such a rapid clip that it was all I could do to jot a few of them down. To wit…

Hotline Spad
Lamp Master
Hat Parking [Wouldn’t mind getting a job as a valet there…]
Local Food Haven
Biggie Best
Crab Village [Right next door to…]
Tsunami Village
Slow Rock Café
Taman Rama-Rama
Cake Story
Meat Shop

From the end of the line in Teluk Bahang, it’s about five or six miles to the farm. My concerns with walking it were these: That there would be an assload of traffic, that the road’s shoulders would be about as wide as a credit card (turned sideways), and that the sun would be baking hot. Thought I might be better off getting a hitch, but decided to set out walking and see how it went.

Turned out, there wasn’t much traffic at all, the shoulders were manageable enough, if at times a little goofy (ended up walking, for example, a goodly distance at the bottom of the bone-dry aqueduct), and the route was – at least at this time of the evening — mostly in shade.

Oh, and it was quite scenic; proceeding first past a nice reservoir (containing the island’s drinking water supply, I guess?)…

…and then into the Durian Jungle. Most of the island is in fact a concrete jungle; but the Western edge is reserved for the finest Durian trees this galaxy has to offer.

In Penang (or possibly it’s all of Malaysia – can’t rightly remember which) they have a saying: The Durian have eyes. It means, if a Durian falls off the tree and de-brains you as you’re walking underneath…you probably had it coming.

This saying was foremost in my mind as I prepared to pass under a tree hanging over the road.

But then I noticed…

A net? The fuck happened to Karma™? Sheesh.

The path was veritably littered with roadside stands and turnoffs to farms.

Oh, and also:

I think it means that the pedestrian should prepare him- or her-self for the most excruciatingly hellacious half-hour walking he or she had ever had the dis-pleasure to experience. Dunno what the fudge happened, but all the suddenly, the motorcycles were out in full force. The loudest, noisiest, meanest, most obnoxiousest motorcycles this side of fuggin’ Sturgis, Dakota.

I shouldn’t have to say this again…but, apparently, I do have to: MOTORCYCLES ARE FUCKING SATANIC. I mean, if they would just outfit the goddam things with mufflers, they’d be more less fine. But so long as they won’t, MOTORCYCLES ARE THE FUCKING DEVIL.

I kid you not, walking through this torture-chamber-on-two-wheels was the closest I’ve ever in all my born days come to falling cross-legged to the ground, ripping out all of my hair, and bawling for my mommy. So horrible.

Just as I was kicking myself for not having thrown a pair of earplugs into my day-pack, it occurred to me: The fuzz, when they’d performed the “Police Check” over me back Bangkok, had discovered a pair of foam plugs which’d burrowed their way to the bottom of my little belt-pouch used to house my MP3-player. Zing! I scrambled madly to get at them, popped them in, and…yes, they were effective.

But also no fun. For, when wearing earplugs, one can also not hear the song of the birds, nor that of the cicadas, nor the rustling of the breeze through the trees, nor the babble of the brook. In some ways, one can not even hear oneself think (as strange as that may sound).

Thankfully, it was shortly thereafter that the freaking onslaught (for the most part) ended as suddenly as it had begun. But still I say here to one, some, and all: MOTORCYCLES CAN JUST ABOUT FUCKOFF.

I think back now to the time, two years ago in Bangkok, when I did lower myself to hiring a moto-taxi, and I hang my head in shame. The experience was very much akin, now that I ponder the matter, to that time I voted for Michael Dukakis: I had promised high and low that I would not do it, I had known that I was wrong at the moment of doing, and I have felt dirty and unwashed ever since.

And I do now therefore on this very date issue the following Solemn Fucking Oath™:

[Begin Solemn Fucking Oath]

Any and all persons reading this-here blog are hereby deputised with the authority to — should they hear tell that I have ever either driven or ridden on top of a two-, three-, or four- (or, hell, five-, if there is such a thing) wheeled motorcycle – run my dimpled ass through with a motherfucking javelin. No questions asked, no forgiveness sought.

I’d rather eat greasy catshit out of a gasoline can than to be caught riding on top of a god damn motorcycle.

[End Solemn Fucking Oath]

•

The party was set for Saturday morning, with the various representatives trickling in throughout the day on Friday. I arrived near sundown, and the Good People were already beginning their pre-func, partaking of a little somethin’-somethin’ (if you catch my meaning). For the most part though, we were in a holding pattern, waiting for the evening harvest to arrive.

Which it soon enough did; along with Lindsay, her co-host Grant, and, of course, the farm’s owner: a man who – much like Magic Johnson or Vanilla Ice – has so transcended his chosen field of endeavour that his craft has become a part of his name. You may call him “Durian Seng” (for he is none other).

He proceeded to give a very high-level lesson in the Durianic arts, teaching us how to properly hold the Durian…

…how to properly smell the Durian…

…how to properly carve up the Durian…

…and (most importantly) how to utilise the various and sundry smartphone apps in order to properly illuminate the Durian when eating after dark.

If I’m understanding it correctly (which, I very possibly am not: it’s a quite deep well, and my noggin’ is a quite puny decanter), there are five stages of Durian taste progression: Sweet, Flower, Bitter, Wine, and Numb. As soon as the Durian falls from the tree, the stages begin peeling away like layers of the onion – ‘til, after a relatively short period of time, only the Sweet flavour is left standing.

Mr. Seng took me to task when I queried whether we would, on the morrow, be able to eat of a certain variety for which I was carrying particularly fond memories from two years ago (the “Oh Chee”). He explained that any and all varieties exhibit all five stages; and that the reason to come drop ungodly quantities of coin at Bao Sheng was not to chase down prestigious or favoured varieties, but rather to eat Durian which has fallen from the tree less than a half-hour’s time from the moment of consumption – and thus displays all five of the possible taste sensations.

The “Numb” stage is to be taken literally, by the way: The eating actually numbs one’s lips and tongue. Unfortunately, we weren’t privileged to experience this ultimate stage, as none of the harvested fruits had retained this quality. There was one that many agreed imparted a partial numbness – but I personally felt nothing at all.

After a midnight dip in the spring-fed pool, we retired to the cute little two-storey house (er, rather, villa) Lindsay had helpfully rented out for the occasion. When the Morning Harvest came in, we’d already be on the grounds with our trusty Durian Scythes in hand.

Now then, anybody ever spews at you some kind of fucking crap about the supposed wretchedness of the Durian’s aroma, I invite you to rejoin by showing to the miserable oaf(s) this very same photograph:

The gleeful kids-in-a-candy-store anticipation washing over Grant’s and Jake’s faces here as they dig in to the morning’s first Durian so clearly and completely puts the lie to the rumours and innuendo that all such libelous rot can and must henceforth entirely cease.

For Durian is the King Of Fruit, and all who share its bounty…

…know it for true: There can be no higher, more superlative, feeding experience.

See that? That, right there, is Durian Lust:

It turned out, as it happens, to be a fantasm. What Mads and Ryan believed for the briefest of moments to have been the fabled Titanium Homunculus variety being delivered from on high turned out was just another stoopid revelation from the fucking Holy Ghost (or whatever).

No matter how many Durian Mr. Seng’s son, here, kept pounding onto the floor (to get primed up for best eating)…

…and delivering up to our table…

…we done devoured those sons of bitches with such indomitable grace and fury…

…that they had to back the truck up…

…and cargo in a whole other Harvest.

Ladies and Gennlemen, the mighty Hor Lor:

Here’s a good rule of thumb: If you find that the six-leggeds are swarming in with such vigour as to threaten to make off with your prized fruit before you’ve even had a chance to get a good whiff of it yet…

…you know there’s a Taste Jackpot awaiting your very immediate future.

After we’d stuffed ourselves silly, we made the obligatory trek over to the old waterfall/swimming hole. Just look at these characters, willya? Could be one of only two explanations, here. Either they’ve just laid waste to a thousand metric tonnes of Bao Sheng Durian, or they’re busy filming the next Godfather picture. We’ll probably never know which.

Bao Sheng’s is just about equidistant between Teluk Bahang and Balik Pulau. I went ahead and walked the rest of the distance between the two, completing my two-day tour of “Durian Alley”.

Along the way, I nearly got blown over by a mad rush of cars come racing around the bend like as if it were the end of the known World. “What do they think this is,” I muttered to myself, “the goddam Penang Grand Prix, or some shit? …Fuckin’ idiots.”

But then, I rounded the corner myself, and, it looked exactly like a Grand Prix course. Huhn – I guess the joke’s on me.

Grabbed a ear of corn…

…and a Watermelon along the way. The former I et at once, while the latter I schlepped all the way to the Bus Terminal in Balik Pulau, for my next day’s Luncheon.

Balik Pulau, where the Durian are so numerous, they’re piled in knee-deep mounds every old where.

Got the bus to George Town, and along the way, had a very intense experience listening to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Wedding Song” while speeding along near the airport at around dusk. Partly it was that the conditions, including being in a foreign country, made it seem very cinematic. But mostly it was just…Karen O. I tell ya, she has got to be the most potent weapon in Rock and/or Roll to-day, innit?

Or maybe it was just the Durian, fogging up my brain again…

•

Right, lemme get serious here for just a hot second, okay?

Why is birthday-girl Lindsay the world’s greatest Durian Photographer?

It’s because she puts her entire heart and soul into her photos. It’s because it’s not a representation of the Durian you’re seeing there in those flickering ones-and-zeroes so much as it is a representation of her very essence.

Lindsay lives and breathes Durian, and has done more to advance the cause of Durian advocacy than any person I’ve ever heard about. She works her fucking ass off – sacrificing much, asking little or nothing in return. And she delivers the goods. Her book is really great, and if you’re reading these words, I for one think that you ought to go and purchase a copy from her.

Oh, and wish her a Happy Birthday while you’re at it.

Posted in Durian | 5 Comments

Out The Gate

Posted on June 20, 2014 by Eddie

To begin with, two stray photos from Thailand. The first, from my last day in Trat, pushes many of ye olde buttons: Street-scene, black-and-white, motorcycle helmet, probing eyes, interesting “business” (the rain-slickers), to borrow some terminology from the cinema. Dig it.

And this one, from De Talak, captures my feelings precisely.

•

I decided to opt out of the erstwhile third-class-rail-from-Bangkok-to-Hat-Yai-followed-by-minivan-from-there-to-Penang route to arriving in George Town; and instead spring for the so-called International Express: the Thai/Malaysian tag-team, 22-hour Bangkok-to-Butterworth extravaganza. Friends had sung its praises; and also I had heard from some fellow-travellers that the Thai/Malay frontier is particularly unsafe right now – the multi-year irredentist campaign of the Muslim population in southern Thailand having ratcheted up since my visit two years ago. Seemed like the train might be the safer way to go – though it put me an extra $15 out of pocket.

The fucking A/C was cranked up so high — for the entirety of the trip — that it may just as well be called the “Polar Express”. Other than that, I’ve got to agree that it’s an utterly fabulous way to travel: so much more comfortable than the third class option that I can’t deny it’s quite good value (though I’ll nevertheless, come future rail passages, in all likelihood return to my penny-pinching, third-class-slumming, ways). Heh, a very cool man wearing a very cool uniform even came around and issued a 20 Baht discount – I never did quite figure out why. He joked that we could spend it on an extra coffee in the morning. (Turned out to be not such a joke after all, as the morning-time coffee-hawker was rather insistent.)

My berth-mate, a Thai Journalism student who wants to take post-graduate studies in an English-speaking country (or possibly in China), is as whip-smart on-the-ball ambitious a person as you’d ever wanna meet. Not ambitious in the fucked-up sell-one’s-soul-to-commerce sense all so common, but rather in the right-on-righteous fight-the-powers-that-be sense: desiring to advance Women’s Rights; to oppose Capitalism, Buddhist conformism, and the Thai Monarchy; and possibly to pursue Travel Writing (she’s a true backpacker at heart).

This is an A-#1 example of the kind of person I’m thinking of when I remark — as I’ve been occasionally given to do in this space — that the young travelers I’ve been meeting out here on the trail are so cool, so smart, so with it, so interesting, so accomplished that it makes me feel like a complete wasteoid by comparison.

The conversation provided me some nice insight into the perspectives of the College-aged Thai as well — though bursting a few bubbles along the way. I mean, on a certain level, I always knew that the King must certainly be nekkid as a jaybird, and that the Ancien Thai Regime must in all likelihood be as counterproductive as any other state’s. But, knowing the frequency with which I pronounce my undilutable love of Thailand and Thai culture…you can see that solitary say-it-ain’t-so tear trickling down my cheek, can you not?

When we parted ways in George Town, I told her that I felt like she was my little sister – and that I, accordingly, hoped she’d from here on in endeavour to take good care of herself. I got the feeling the little-sister bit may have offended her; but, well, I guess it’s the truth.

Waiting to board the ferry from Butterworth to George Town, I met a Frenchman who, when learning of my provenance, declared that he had once been a big fan of Gary Payton’s. Which declaration so flabbergasted my dimpled ass (I, of course, had dutifully steeled myself for the inevitable European Travelers’ paean to a certain Mr. K. Cobain) that I couldn’t help but request a photo-op. The fucking Glove, man. That’s goin’ back a ways.

Found a room, and hustled over to Times Square to see what was what at this year’s Durian Fair — only to find that it’s almost infinitely lamer than it had been two years ago. There’s only one vendor there – and it isn’t the irrepressible Durian Cap Landak crew. But I’ll tell you what, that one vendor was rocking some great Mangosteens. They’re on the expensive side — but I was able to finagle a volume discount, knocking the price down to not much more than it’d been when I first arrived in Chanthaburi. And the dud ratio is even smaller than it had been in Trat — in fact, it’s almost non-existent. So, it was pretty decent value. The reality, though, is that it’s just rather difficult to calorically satisfy oneself on Mangosteen for any kind of reasonable pricetag. But, god dammit all, they’re so fucking delish, mang.

I opted to take my evening Durian from a roadside vendor with whom I’d chatted briefly while making my way toward Times Square. Ordered up a Capri — one of my favourite varieties from two years ago — which they immediately cracked open and brought to my table. Truth be told, I’d rather open them up myself; but Penang’s Durian vendors are pretty territorial when it comes time to execute the Durian-cracking – like as though it’s a form of witchcraft handed down generation by generation to only the select few acolytes worthy enough to enter the practice. At any rate, I spied my first glimpse…

…and let out a little squeal. I (naturally enough) then proceeded to take of my first bite — and thought my head would fucking explode. Maybe it even did.

Penang Durian. We are off and running.

Posted in Durian, Road Trippin' | Leave a comment

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