I met tourists that took more time getting to know locals who cook street food than they did in taking photographs of temples. I met travelers who were more interested in getting drunk than they were in hiking a nearby waterfall.
Not sure why but folks in the traveler set like to discuss the merits of being a traveler versus being a tourist. As if it’s a defining thing and indicative of the kind of person you are. While I don’t have an interest in being a part of that discussion I can tell you this…
Who you really are is revealed by where you keep your fishbowl.
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I liken it to how we think of Japan as the land of ninja, samurai and tentacled robots (anime in the house!). I tell a Thai cab driver I’m from Arizona and he shoots his fingers in the air and hollers “Bang! Bang! Cowboys!” to let me know he’s familiar with the place.
As cool as it would be to sling six-shooters from the back of a bronco, it just doesn’t happen anymore. Most of the cowboys either died or moved on… to Thailand.
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I‘ve been thinking about chickens. The kind that cross the road and put Colonel Sanders on the map. Although somewhere between the chicken’s last cluck and the time you take a bite the Colonel does a whole lot of shit to the chicken to give it that oh so greasy and non-chicken-like flavor. The kinds of things that happen when we allow multinational corporations to tend our food supply. So, I’ve been thinking about getting a few chickens.
See, the closest we get in the West to our food source is the local supermarket where it comes wrapped and packaged with colorful labels. While living in a remote village in Thailand I learned another way … and got down and dirty with it.
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