Dongurigal

Dad, I double dog dare you to go snacking on peas in Tripoli, Lebanon

Around this time of year, you'll find my dad in mom's backyard garden snacking on peas picked right off the plant. If Willow, their half-vegetarian cat, is lucky, he'll scatter a couple at her feet so she can snack alongside him too.

The rest of us are not so lucky. I believe my mom said to me last year, hurry, get out to the garden and grab some peas before your dad realizes they're ready to eat!

I love peas too. Not frozen peas, but the ones still in the pod. I love how the pods snap open, how, with your thumb, you can pop each pea into your mouth. I love when they are sweet and crunchy and am disappointed when, having not been picked soon enough, they are bitter. Those I would give to Willow because she's not as fussy as I am. A pea is a pea, and not some salty day-old kibbly bit, to her.

The other day, I bought a huge box of peas in the pod from Lebanon, a country that exports a lot of very tasty fruits and vegetables to Qatar. Admittedly, I was disappointed. The peas were bitter, so I'll put them in salads or cook them instead.

I was also disappointed because the fruit  and vegetables I have been buying from Lebanon are, in a word, delicious.  The nectarines are juicy and sweeter than anything I've had from the Okanagan. I've been buying boxes of them and either eat them whole or get all Martha Stewarty and make a nectarine crumble, which Hubs loves but may be getting sick of already.

I bet you can't guess what I made for dessert tonight, Hubs, eh. EH? Go on, guess!

This is about as locavore as I can get, a concept I like the idea of, but that is probably unrealistic anywhere but in San Francisco and my mom's backyard, but only in the summer.  Wait, that's not true, I was pretty locavore in Vietnam, except when I took that gawddanged shuttle bus to Quang Ngai to buy milk or to Danang to buy peanut butter and roquefort cheese.

Today, in order to write this post, I went so far as to examine the box a bunch of plump, purple grapes were packed in. It's the same style of box, only smaller, that the peas are in.  The name of the company is LAMA (Lebanese Products Always the Best... is the motto and their ellipsis too), but I can't find their website on the internet (Google, c'mon, help me here. Quit giving me websites about the Dalai Lama) so I'm not sure if these grapes are grown up near Tripoli or if just the company office is based there, as is stamped on the box.

With the incessant fighting up in Northern Lebanon, I was all ready to write about what a miracle it is that we, in Qatar, even have the pleasure of eating fruit from that region.

And peas, even if they are bitter. 

The price isn't right, no sirree bob

I was picking through my wallet looking for the exact change to pay for my one kilo, give or take, of shaved beef, when a very old lady pushed her way ahead and ordered less than 100 grams of beef. As she always did after weighing the meat, the vendor flashed the aged customer the weight on the scale and then told her the price.

When the vendor had shown me the scale, I glanced at the wavering needle and smiled. Yeah yeah, ok, how much? Not so, the old lady.

While I waited to pay, I watched, fascinated, as they argued for about five minutes over the price and the weight. I couldn't understand but I imagined the customer insisting that the scale was rigged. The amount was wrong. In the end, the customer won and was awarded a single shaving of beef.  She left, satisfied, pushing past me again.

All this ranting and gesticulating  for a sliver.

This was sometime last year at the main market in Quang Ngai, Vietnam. The old woman was very poor. It was a big deal, that extra slice of beef.

I've been thinking about her this past week as I read the daily news stories and hold discussions in a couple of forums I frequent (hello Mujeres) about the price of basics, about the scarcity of previously available foodstuffs such as butter, and about the rising cost of gasoline.

It's been a fixation of mine this week, this food crisis.

I'm no expert nor am I a conspiracy theorist, so I'll merely speculate as to why there are food shortages and outrageous price increases this year. I figure it's the following suspects--big box stores' production and distribution controls, droughts in Australia, those damned Chinese and Indians, how dare they develop a middle class who want to eat more meat and drink more milk and drive big SUVs, land devoted to growing corn for ethanol instead of for tortillas, and a just plain media frenzy. Perhaps it's a non-story or a flash in the pan. But I doubt it.

I've never noticed rising prices. Never. I figure it's because of how I've lived since I graduated from university the first time around, back in 1990--moving here and there and alternating between full time work, part-time work and part-time studies, full time studies and full time housewifery with a hardworking Hubs paying the bills.

When I first moved to Japan as an adult, in January 1991, I thought nothing of paying $5 to $8 for a cup of coffee at a dingy, pre-Starbucks coffee joint and about $10 for a kilo of rice, in the land of rice.

Fruit, some vegetables and the comfort foods I sought out  because I was homesick were always expensive. I paid for them because I could, and when I couldn't afford a cup of coffee a day any longer because I became a full time student of Japanese for 6 months, I bought a thermos and made my own.

I still feel shielded from these recent price increases. On an expat allowance and a part-time English teacher's salary, food in Vietnam was cheap. Qatar is pricey but the overseas allowance supports our eating habits and if we want to buy Bon Maman jam or a block of camembert we can. We can also buy rice, eggs, beef, bread, fruit and vegetables too. No need to pinch pennies or keep track of receipts.

The problem for me is that I have no base rate from which to compare prices. I've only been in Qatar for a month and a half.  If I lived here for a few years, maybe I'd notice--as some of the veteran expats do, but coming in new, I can compare prices to Canada and shrug and say, well, most food is imported here, so high prices are the norm.  And I don't even bother comparing prices to Vietnam. That's just silly.

Nonetheless, the news bothers me on an existential level.

And I wonder if that old Vietnamese woman can afford her 100 grams of beef these days.

Planning my escape (or why I'll be blogging from a Qatari prison next)

When I wrote this post on power walking down a country road in Vietnam, I had no idea that my empathy for the mama cow was spot on.

Mooooo, I hear ya sister.

I wonder how Qataris would feel if I hustled down the Corniche, teats a swingin,' as I escaped the voracious appetite of a hungry, cranky sprog.

Carpe Diem and Tam Biet Vietnam

I've been following the Issues and Commentary Series on Lessons Learned--lessons about life--written by National Post columnists, who, I'd argue, are a conservative bunch. Jonathan Kay's article "Don't follow your heart" got me thinking about something other than cloth vs disposable diapers and impending labour.

In his opening paragraph, he writes, "The dumbest advice ever given is 'Live each day like it's your last.' It's dumb not just because it invites us to live in a world without consequences (and therefore a world full of boozing, infidelity and egomania) but also because of the implied contempt for deliberation and rational thought."

I respectfully disagree with Jonathan. (Jackass!) I think he has missed the point and the spirit of the advice. To me, it means to live in the present. Appreciate the moment. Stop and smell a rose. And all that cliched stuff.

Now, honestly, if I thought today was my last day on earth, the last thing I would do is suck back 30 tequila shots and pick up some young stud in a bar (tempting though that might be and only if I could still stand up). No, I'd be pretty mopey and I'd want to spend it with the people I love, who would probably be pretty mopey too, knowing I was going to die the next day.

It appears I may be missing the point too. I'm going to take out the "like it's your last" part of the advice. Just "live each day." 

Even with just a "live each day" or a seize the day mentality, I'd still respectfully disagree with good ole conservative Johnny boy. Neither of these expressions are a licence to be a boozing, whoring goofball with no respect for myself, for others, for consequences, or for thoughtfulness.

I'm a worry wart. I think about my future a lot. I think about my shared future with hubs a lot. I think about the sprog and what he/she'll be like. I wonder about my career--when will I teach again? Should I start a Masters once I get a handle on taking care of a baby? Will I ever get a handle on taking care of a baby? I worry. I consider the consequences of my actions and of my decisions.

But, I am happiest when I live in the moment, when I make a snow crocodile with my step-nephew, when I go for a walk under leafless branches covered in red berries, when I sip peppermint hot chocolate down at Cafe Orange with mom and dad, when Hubs calls or emails or writes on my Facebook Wall.  The future doesn't disappear in those moments, but those moments take over my worries about it, and I'm thankful for that.

Hubs lands in Regina tonight. We'll be at the airport at 16:43 to greet him. Sprog is still in my belly even though I'm starting to cramp and have had to breathe deeply and get down on my hands and knees to ease the pain. 

People ask me if I'm excited about Hubs' arrival and of course I am--I'm even going to wash my hair--but it won't be until he is physically in front of me that I will be visibly excited and happy. Live in the moment.  First I have to clean the house, get our room ready, finish painting my paper mache snow man, do some squats, ease the pain.

Hubs told me that this past Sunday, he went out all afternoon on his motorcycle, zipped all the way up to Chu Lai (a former US airbase, I believe) on a quiet back country road, had a coca cola at a beach side shack, and stared out at the South China Sea. It was the first time he had had an afternoon to himself where he could do exactly what he wanted and that's what he chose to do.

And he was saying goodbye. He was living the day like it was his last. His (almost) last one in Vietnam.

We just found out we are being transfered to Qatar.

Crocodiles in the Time of Cholera

Like all good Canadian citizens who live abroad (oh yes, all of us expat Canucks), I register with my nearest embassy or consulate so that it can keep me up to date on all the latest happenings in my host country and invite me to tea.

There was a time when I would have scoffed at an invitation to tea. But let me tell you, now that I'm an expat housewife (albeit temporarily on leave in Canada), I'd hop on a plane just to get a chance to sip tea at the embassy and moan about poor maid service with all the other bored housewives, 'cause you know, that's all expat housewives do--sip tea and moan about their maids. Only it would be at the embassy. How classy.

Except that the Canadian Embassy, or rather in the case of all points south of Danang, the Canadian Consulate in HCMC, has yet to invite me to tea. Instead they send me this:

Since October 24th, there have been 1 700 reported cases of severe acute diarrhoea in 10 northern and 2 central provinces. 15% of these cases have tested positive for the cholera bacteria. Although the number of cases reported each day is declining in Hanoi and surrounding provinces,  it is a concern for the whole community, both local and expatriate. WHO  (World Health Organisation)  has been working the the Vietnamese Ministry of Health to assist them in their response to the severe acute diarrhoea outbreak. You'll find attached FAQs on cholera and Food Safety 5 Keys published by WHO.

 

Canadians should be cautious and avoid consumption of foods which can be easily contaminated such as fish and raw vegetables, as well as foods prepared on the streets under poor hygiene circumstances. We'd like to take this opportunity to remind Canadians of the importance of personal hygiene while preparing food, particularly hand washing, of food and water safety measures and precautions to take when someone in the family develops a diarrhoeal illness.   
 
The Embassy of Canada continues to monitor the situation closely.
 
Consular Section

Well, jeez, thanks. I guess.

First off, advising us not to eat any raw vegetables when we go out to eat is like suggesting you don't get a large fries with your Big Mac. Vietnamese cuisine is all about the fresh herbs and vegetables. What are we supposed to eat then? A bowl of noodles with nothing in it. Please!

Oh, and thanks for being location specific. Two provinces in central Vietnam?  What I want to know is where exactly in central Vietnam are the cholera cases. Have diplomats not seen a map of Vietnam? It looks like a long, misshapen willy. That means the centre could be anywhere from Hue to Nha Trang.

It's like the newspaper blurb my mom pointed out to me the other day about a crocodile farm in central Vietnam that, after the rains, lost hundreds of their crocodiles who now crawl freely over hill and dale, through river and stream. Does the article say where in central Vietnam? No. Apparently most Canadians, except me, don't care.

I called Hubs. Did you hear about the crocodiles escaping from a farm recently? Yes, he replied. Well, where? Bouf, near here, near Hoi An, nearby, he said. Well, aren't you worried? Nope.

I am. How am I supposed to powerwalk with a juicy baby attached to me when I go back? It's bad enough that there are rogue cows, poisonous snakes, and grabby market ladies. Now I have to fret about crocodiles?

At least "how I lost my hand battling crocodiles to save the Baby Bjorn and the baby in it and that's why I look like Captain Hook" would be a good topic with the ladies over tea. At the consulate. Not quite the embassy, but still classy.

Just waiting for that invite.

Rainy season in Saskatchewan picks and chooses its victims

When Hubs and I talk on the phone these days, I can hear the Vietnamese rain in the background. Sometimes I hear a dull, steady, wet sound and sometimes I hear each individual raindrop as it hits the roof of his workplace. I can't help but wonder if the roof is made of tin.

(Hubs, is it made of tin? Dongurigal readers want to know.)

Rain depresses me, although I didn't mind it in Vietnam because I could wear my poncho and be anonymous. Plus, it cools the air.

I do mind the rain in Regina. First off, we don't need the air to be any cooler than it already is. Second, no one wears plastic ponchos here, so if I wore one, I wouldn't be anonymous, I would stand out.

Most of the time it's sunny here which is a good thing, a wonderful thing, except.... 

It was sunny on Saturday, so my mom and I set off on foot for the Hotel Saskatchewan--Regina's grand dame of hotels--for high tea.  En route, we had the misfortune of being stuck under a dark cloud that not only sprinkled us with cold rain, but followed us all the way to the hotel. Ahead of us, by mere metres, we could see the sun shining, a blue sky, and puffy, white, innocuous clouds. We could see that the way ahead was not yet wet while splotches of water dotted the part of the path we were scurrying along.

We were just like a pair of morose cartoon characters that always have a rain cloud hovering overhead and who, no matter how hard they try, never reach dry ground.

This isn't the first time I've been stuck under a rain cloud in Saskatchewan and I don't mean that metaphorically. I mean it literally.

What is it about this province that despite promises of a sunny day and not just promises but visual verification of a sunny day, you can still get rained on?

We met up with my sister at the hotel and after tea and scones and dainties, not taking any chances, we had her drive us home.

Typical conversation with Hubs while he's en route to Danang with his new driver

(Honk honk hooooooonk)

Me: Sorry can you repeat that, I couldn't hear you.

Him: %$x@)) go go GOOOOOO! ^&$#)*# Bloody motorbikes.

Me: You ok, you still alive? Hubs? Hubs?

(HOOOOOOOOOOONK. Whoosh. Squeal. Screech.)

Me: What was that? Oh my God! Hubs!

Him: Yeah, don't worry. I'm here (Honk Honk Honk) CONARD!!! Yeah, so anyway, as I was saying blah blah blah...

(Repeat above every 2 minutes.)

Oh my God I did something and then I got really bad diarrhea

I did. I finally did something.

I went out for dinner with my friend and our Vietnamese teacher Saturday night. She took us to the best little My Quang restaurant in Quang Ngai where I ate two bowls of the stuff and suffered violently the next day because of it.

How do I describe My Quang because for me it was the best tasting dish I have ever had in Vietnam and that is no small feat.  Never once in my nearly nine months here have I had a bad tasting dish, oh except here at the camp but this is camp is NOT Vietnam so it doesn't count. 

My Quang is basically a bowl of yellow noodles sitting in a peanut sauce, topped with fresh cilantro, mint, spring onions, and other mysterious fresh veggies and herbs, as well as sliced pork and caramelized shrimps. It has all the textures and the heat levels--cold, cool, warm, hot, crunchy, mushy, chewy, slurpy--in one bowl. And you can add chili sauce, which I did, liberally.

I was in heaven.

And then I was in hell next day with the day-long diarrhea and a serious ring of fire (thanks to the chili sauce) because if there is one thing I've learned here, you really shouldn't eat the fresh herbs and vegetables. You should ignore them. You should put them on a side plate and push them far far away. But then everything would taste bland as if it were made here at the camp.

And now it's the next next day and all my stomach can handle is water flavored with orange juice, rice and bananas. 

But damn, it was worth it.

The queen of fruit

The first time I ate a mangosteen ** was in a market in Chiang Mai, Thailand and it was a little piece of heaven, or so I thought, until I bought a frozen mangosteen in Kobe's teeny Chinatown, ate it as you would a sorbet and just about died (and went to that little piece of heaven I mentioned two lines above).

(**My word, someone has actually devoted an entire website to this tropical delight. I must read it.)

All the fruit sellers are selling mangosteens for a pittance these days, so I'm guessing that it is mangosteen season right now. (Along with durian season, but as this post is about my beloved mangosteen I won't tell you how vomitous the marketplace smells right now).

There are piles and piles of the purple-skinned fruit to choose from. The hawkers argue over who has the right to sell to the gullible foreigners.  I know a thing or two about bargaining now and I can even exclaim 'Mac Qua' (my god, how bloody expensive, are you trying to rip me off!) convincingly, but with mangosteens, you name a price, I'll pay it, no questions asked. That's how much a love them.

I bought a half a kilo yesterday and put all except two in the freezer.  Today at lunch, I grabbed one for myself and gave another to Hubs and told him he was about to experience a taste sensation unlike any other.  In fact, I talked on at length at how delicious, how refreshing, how exquisite the taste would be while he looked at me like I was, uh, nuts.

We then spent nearly 20 minutes trying to cut open the damn things because, apparently, when they're frozen, they are unopenable.

All that struggle kind of took away from the whole taste sensation promise, but then, I'm pretty sure, judging by Hub's face, that he did like it.  Maybe not enough to blog about it, if he had a blog, but I wouldn't be surprised to catch him sneaking one out of the freezer tonight if he thought I weren't looking.

A post that fits four whole categories

This morning, when I woke up (at 6 am, why oh why), I looked out the window and saw the two islands across from our house. One island is flat and round. The other looks like one of the soaring egrets we see around here, wings tucked in, neck outstretched.  I don't usually see this island, even on what I think is a clear day. The mist from the humidity, I'm guessing, obscures it.

It's a beautiful and surprising sight.

Now you're thinking, wait a second, Dongurigal, aren't you in Hong Kong knocking people out with your rotten armpit smell? It's May 1 (or 2nd depending on the time zone.)  Aha, yes, I am in Hong Kong, provided my plane didn't crash. If it is indeed May 1, it's Hub's birthday too and we're probably at a nice restaurant, one without rats and cockroaches and horny dogs, or at least well-hidden rats and cockroaches and a definitive "no humping dogs allowed in restaurant" rule. 

I've used that little feature on TypePad I told you about two posts down.

So I'm writing this on April 28 but publishing it a few days later. Why not? I mean, what if I return from the holidays not having posted at all and the internet isn't working? That could mean a whole two weeks of not posting.   

But now I don't know what category to put this in. Vietnam Vignettes (the islands, the humping dogs), Weblogs (TypePad feature), Just the Facts of Life Here (although it's not in real time, hmmm) or Dongurigal Dilemmas (because I'm actually being a loser and fretting about this.) 

I'll put it in all four and call it a day.