Vegetarians on the Rampage
CHUMPHON, THAILAND I get grumpy when I'm hungry. The hungrier I am the grumpier
I get until reaching a point where I could both kill and devour anyone or anything
standing in the way of food.
After six and a half hours of riding, just a little over one hundred kilometers in the
sweltering heat, I was ravenous. I felt the hunger all over my body, in my shins, on the
back of my forearms and in my shoulders. With each pedal stroke my quadriceps
pleaded for nourishment by quivering and my head felt as light as a balloon.
Cycling into the town of Chumphon on Sunday afternoon it seemed that everything was
closed. The steel grates were pulled down on all of the small grocery stores and the
pushcart vendors were nowhere to be found.
CHUMPHON, THAILAND I get grumpy when I'm hungry. The hungrier I am the grumpier
I get until reaching a point where I could both kill and devour anyone or anything
standing in the way of food.
After six and a half hours of riding, just a little over one hundred kilometers in the
sweltering heat, I was ravenous. I felt the hunger all over my body, in my shins, on the
back of my forearms and in my shoulders. With each pedal stroke my quadriceps
pleaded for nourishment by quivering and my head felt as light as a balloon.
Cycling into the town of Chumphon on Sunday afternoon it seemed that everything was
closed. The steel grates were pulled down on all of the small grocery stores and the
pushcart vendors were nowhere to be found.
After cruising down both sides of the
main drag twice we circled into the
narrow winding alleyways before finding
a street vendor with a few tables set up
around a stainless steel cart. The
women greeted us with a smile and
waived her hand over several bubbling
pots to present her offerings then
pointed to a sign that said "25" followed
by a string of Thai words and "30"
followed by equally unintelligible Thai. I
assumed from previous experience that
this meant we could have a plate of
white rice and a few spoonfuls from one
of the cauldrons for 25 baht or we could
choose from two of the cauldrons for 30
baht.
At the sight of food my mouth watered
and my knees shook. Not waiting for
Amanda to make up her mind I pointed
to two of the pots with lots of vegetables.
The woman nodded and looked to
Amanda who held an index finger to her
cheek as she inspected the options.
My heart sank and my fury began to rise
as Amanda dug into her handlebar bag
for a small Thai phrasebook. Knowing
she could spend a week sparing in
phonetic Thai with a food vendor I
gritted my teeth as I thought, "Just point
to something damn you!" But I didn't
dare say it.
The phrasebook is marked with post-its
notes from top to bottom, so many in
fact that it is impossible for Amanda to
find the phrase for which she is looking.
She paged back and forth through the
book as the vendor stood, plate in one
hand, serving spoon in the other, ready
to serve my food. My mouth watered
just looking at her.
After a moment Amanda found what she
was looking for and said triumphantly,
"De chan kin jen."
The woman raised an eyebrow, set
down the serving spoon and scratched
her nose.
Ever persistent, Amanda repeated
louder, "De chan kin jen".
The woman shook her head back and
forth to indicate she did not understand.
I shook my head back and forth in
unison with her then lifted my chin to
indicate that I wanted her to serve me
first before dealing with the lunatic. She
didn't even glance in my direction.
Setting down the plate the woman
stepped around her food cart to look at
the phrasebook. Amanda held a piece
of paper under the line that said, "I eat
only vegetarian food," in both English
and Thai. But the Thai script was so
small it was virtually impossible for
anyone to read. The women pulled the
book closer but still could not see.
She called to a little girl nearby who
came over and peered at the book then
said, "De chan kin jen."
The women repeated, "De chan kin jen?"
Amanda said, "Yes, de chan kin jen.
Vegetarian. I eat only vegetarian food."
The woman looked as confused as
before but the little girl said something to
her then turned to Amanda and said in
English, "Fes-t-val."
"Yes, festival. The vegetarian festival,"
Amanda said with joy. Thailand had
been celebrating the Phuket Chinese
Vegetarian Festival of Mortification for
the previous few weeks and we had
eaten at the food carts of participating
vendors, easily identifiable by their
yellow flags flapping in the breeze. This
day there were no flags in sight.
With the smell of food so close, almost
able to touch it, I was about to cry. I had
to get away. So I sat at the table
furthest from the food cart and sulked,
trying to be patient. In Thailand it is not
appropriate to get angry. Showing
anger is to loose face. I was on the
verge of loosing my face to the vendor,
the little girl, and most of all, to Amanda.
The woman pointed to two of the six pots
as vegetarian options. Amanda shook
her head up and down so the women
picked up a plate, put a few spoonfuls of
rice and began to serve the first.
"No, no, no." Amanda said and the
woman stopped serving. "The
vegetables. Not fish. Can you give me
more vegetables?"
Confused the woman looked toward the
little girl. The little girl looked to Amanda
and shrugged. Amanda began paging
through the phrasebook. I suppressed
the urge to scream like the Incredible
Hulk.
After another ten minutes of discussion
Amanda arrived at the table gleefully
ignorant to my fury, followed close
behind by the vendor carrying one
steaming plate full of rice and stir-fried
vegetables. The vendor placed the
plate before Amanda as if she were
visiting royalty then turned, walked back
to the cart and began washing dishes. I
waited. Amanda waited. Nothing. My
food did not come. The vendor had
forgotten.
An hour later, both my hunger and my
anger sated, we were pedaling through
the streets of Chumphon with full bellies
searching for a place to sleep when an
overzealous police officer blew a
continuous blast from his whistle to stop
traffic from crossing the main
intersection of town.
main drag twice we circled into the
narrow winding alleyways before finding
a street vendor with a few tables set up
around a stainless steel cart. The
women greeted us with a smile and
waived her hand over several bubbling
pots to present her offerings then
pointed to a sign that said "25" followed
by a string of Thai words and "30"
followed by equally unintelligible Thai. I
assumed from previous experience that
this meant we could have a plate of
white rice and a few spoonfuls from one
of the cauldrons for 25 baht or we could
choose from two of the cauldrons for 30
baht.
At the sight of food my mouth watered
and my knees shook. Not waiting for
Amanda to make up her mind I pointed
to two of the pots with lots of vegetables.
The woman nodded and looked to
Amanda who held an index finger to her
cheek as she inspected the options.
My heart sank and my fury began to rise
as Amanda dug into her handlebar bag
for a small Thai phrasebook. Knowing
she could spend a week sparing in
phonetic Thai with a food vendor I
gritted my teeth as I thought, "Just point
to something damn you!" But I didn't
dare say it.
The phrasebook is marked with post-its
notes from top to bottom, so many in
fact that it is impossible for Amanda to
find the phrase for which she is looking.
She paged back and forth through the
book as the vendor stood, plate in one
hand, serving spoon in the other, ready
to serve my food. My mouth watered
just looking at her.
After a moment Amanda found what she
was looking for and said triumphantly,
"De chan kin jen."
The woman raised an eyebrow, set
down the serving spoon and scratched
her nose.
Ever persistent, Amanda repeated
louder, "De chan kin jen".
The woman shook her head back and
forth to indicate she did not understand.
I shook my head back and forth in
unison with her then lifted my chin to
indicate that I wanted her to serve me
first before dealing with the lunatic. She
didn't even glance in my direction.
Setting down the plate the woman
stepped around her food cart to look at
the phrasebook. Amanda held a piece
of paper under the line that said, "I eat
only vegetarian food," in both English
and Thai. But the Thai script was so
small it was virtually impossible for
anyone to read. The women pulled the
book closer but still could not see.
She called to a little girl nearby who
came over and peered at the book then
said, "De chan kin jen."
The women repeated, "De chan kin jen?"
Amanda said, "Yes, de chan kin jen.
Vegetarian. I eat only vegetarian food."
The woman looked as confused as
before but the little girl said something to
her then turned to Amanda and said in
English, "Fes-t-val."
"Yes, festival. The vegetarian festival,"
Amanda said with joy. Thailand had
been celebrating the Phuket Chinese
Vegetarian Festival of Mortification for
the previous few weeks and we had
eaten at the food carts of participating
vendors, easily identifiable by their
yellow flags flapping in the breeze. This
day there were no flags in sight.
With the smell of food so close, almost
able to touch it, I was about to cry. I had
to get away. So I sat at the table
furthest from the food cart and sulked,
trying to be patient. In Thailand it is not
appropriate to get angry. Showing
anger is to loose face. I was on the
verge of loosing my face to the vendor,
the little girl, and most of all, to Amanda.
The woman pointed to two of the six pots
as vegetarian options. Amanda shook
her head up and down so the women
picked up a plate, put a few spoonfuls of
rice and began to serve the first.
"No, no, no." Amanda said and the
woman stopped serving. "The
vegetables. Not fish. Can you give me
more vegetables?"
Confused the woman looked toward the
little girl. The little girl looked to Amanda
and shrugged. Amanda began paging
through the phrasebook. I suppressed
the urge to scream like the Incredible
Hulk.
After another ten minutes of discussion
Amanda arrived at the table gleefully
ignorant to my fury, followed close
behind by the vendor carrying one
steaming plate full of rice and stir-fried
vegetables. The vendor placed the
plate before Amanda as if she were
visiting royalty then turned, walked back
to the cart and began washing dishes. I
waited. Amanda waited. Nothing. My
food did not come. The vendor had
forgotten.
An hour later, both my hunger and my
anger sated, we were pedaling through
the streets of Chumphon with full bellies
searching for a place to sleep when an
overzealous police officer blew a
continuous blast from his whistle to stop
traffic from crossing the main
intersection of town.
We stood and watched as a group of several hundred people, clad in white baggy pants
and shirts, holding birds nest with candles, gathered patiently in single file to join in what
seemed like a parade. Straddling her bike Amanda balanced herself on an elevated curb
and said, "What luck! This must be the celebration marking the end of the Vegetarian
Festival"
I could see a little further ahead and said, "Oh God, what is this?"
Slowly the respectable looking people with the birds-nests backed down the street so that
another more rowdy group could take up the first position in the most discomforting
parade I had ever seen.
Asking Thais the origins of the Phuket Chinese Vegetarian Festival of Mortification has
been truly enlightening. I would liken it to trying to explain the connection between
religious Easter celebrations and the Easter Bunny. We've gotten quite a few puzzled
expressions when inquiring on why the participants do what they do.
This much we know is true. A long, long time ago a Chinese opera group visited the
southern island of Phuket while the locals were suffering a plague. The opera groups
thought maybe their pre performance preparations somehow caused the plague so they
sent a member of the cast back to China to collect a massive incense stick and pray to the
Nine Emperor Gods of China. This they believe saved the island from the plague.
Now this is where it gets murky. Over the past century and a half the traditions have
morphed, Easter Bunny-like, so that the locals of the surrounding region celebrate this
event by eating only vegetarian food for nine days. And on the last day they form a
parade, whack themselves with axes, slice their tongues with razor blades and pierce their
cheeks with a wide variety of household instruments. How it got from there to here nobody
seems to know.
Needless to say it was difficult to watch the mostly young, definitely drunk, men as they
formed a circle in the center of the street and pounded hatchets into the ground then
swung them upward over their heads and continued backwards, creating large hacking
chop marks in the center of their backs. But that was just the beginning.
A large man in satin yellow pants swung two long curved knives so that the points made
jagged stab wounds on his shoulders, neck, arms and back. He was followed by a group
of the youngest and most tattered who ran in circles slicing their tongues with short knives
and razor blades, blood running down their chins like wild beasts.
And finally came those who celebrated the end of the plague by piercing their faces with
the most unbelievable items. Young men and women marched down the street with what
seemed to be common, everyday items, perhaps chosen on a whim, pierced through large
freshly-made holes in their faces. One young woman had a towel rod stuck through her
check while two friends squirted water from bottles on the holes. Another, a young man,
had the leg of an ironing board protruding through his check while his friends carried the
board as he walked. Most horrific where the two young men marching in unison with full
sized Coca-Cola beach umbrellas poked through their cheeks. Coca-Cola would be
proud.
Watching the procession I made an effort to withhold judgment, to simply see it all without
leaping to any conclusions about the strangeness of the procession or comparing it to
other celebrations.
Then I realized, perhaps we are not so different after all. Maybe these young men and
women, full of the pent up frustration of waiting while their spouses try to order vegetarian
dishes for the last nine days, yet having no socially acceptable outlet for their anger, have
taken to beating themselves with axes, slicing their tongues with razors and poking
household appliances through bodily parts. I can see that.
and shirts, holding birds nest with candles, gathered patiently in single file to join in what
seemed like a parade. Straddling her bike Amanda balanced herself on an elevated curb
and said, "What luck! This must be the celebration marking the end of the Vegetarian
Festival"
I could see a little further ahead and said, "Oh God, what is this?"
Slowly the respectable looking people with the birds-nests backed down the street so that
another more rowdy group could take up the first position in the most discomforting
parade I had ever seen.
Asking Thais the origins of the Phuket Chinese Vegetarian Festival of Mortification has
been truly enlightening. I would liken it to trying to explain the connection between
religious Easter celebrations and the Easter Bunny. We've gotten quite a few puzzled
expressions when inquiring on why the participants do what they do.
This much we know is true. A long, long time ago a Chinese opera group visited the
southern island of Phuket while the locals were suffering a plague. The opera groups
thought maybe their pre performance preparations somehow caused the plague so they
sent a member of the cast back to China to collect a massive incense stick and pray to the
Nine Emperor Gods of China. This they believe saved the island from the plague.
Now this is where it gets murky. Over the past century and a half the traditions have
morphed, Easter Bunny-like, so that the locals of the surrounding region celebrate this
event by eating only vegetarian food for nine days. And on the last day they form a
parade, whack themselves with axes, slice their tongues with razor blades and pierce their
cheeks with a wide variety of household instruments. How it got from there to here nobody
seems to know.
Needless to say it was difficult to watch the mostly young, definitely drunk, men as they
formed a circle in the center of the street and pounded hatchets into the ground then
swung them upward over their heads and continued backwards, creating large hacking
chop marks in the center of their backs. But that was just the beginning.
A large man in satin yellow pants swung two long curved knives so that the points made
jagged stab wounds on his shoulders, neck, arms and back. He was followed by a group
of the youngest and most tattered who ran in circles slicing their tongues with short knives
and razor blades, blood running down their chins like wild beasts.
And finally came those who celebrated the end of the plague by piercing their faces with
the most unbelievable items. Young men and women marched down the street with what
seemed to be common, everyday items, perhaps chosen on a whim, pierced through large
freshly-made holes in their faces. One young woman had a towel rod stuck through her
check while two friends squirted water from bottles on the holes. Another, a young man,
had the leg of an ironing board protruding through his check while his friends carried the
board as he walked. Most horrific where the two young men marching in unison with full
sized Coca-Cola beach umbrellas poked through their cheeks. Coca-Cola would be
proud.
Watching the procession I made an effort to withhold judgment, to simply see it all without
leaping to any conclusions about the strangeness of the procession or comparing it to
other celebrations.
Then I realized, perhaps we are not so different after all. Maybe these young men and
women, full of the pent up frustration of waiting while their spouses try to order vegetarian
dishes for the last nine days, yet having no socially acceptable outlet for their anger, have
taken to beating themselves with axes, slicing their tongues with razors and poking
household appliances through bodily parts. I can see that.
