Eating a Cat & a Piece of Pai

December 2013

I’d spent the last few days exploring bits and pieces of Northern Thailand with 20 city-soft students from a school in Saudi Arabia. Largely without incident. If only we’d’ve known what was on the docket for the next few days we might have hunkered down in Chiang Mai for a while longer.

We were seeking out new and novel experiences for my young neophytes during which we’d partaken in a cooking class and learned to boil up Khao Soi, chop up Khao Neaw Ma Muang and slice up Som Tom while savoring the delicate mixtures of lemongrass and kafir lime coupled with a seemingly endless array of garlicky oniony pastes.

It was divine!

We’d spent a few nights traipsing around the Night Bazaar just east of Thae Phae Gate looking for a boatload of various and sundry bizarre souvenirs, iPood t-shirts, and the notorious wooden frogs prolific in every single booth on every single street in every freakin’ market in Asia. All the while, sampling a serious variety of strangely sweet, sour, and savory delights wrapped in pink, green and yellow plastic bags and Styrofoam containers that are so plentiful and anti-eco-friendly in Asian markets all the way from Kuala Lumpur to Ho Chi Minh.

Some of the bits of street meat and steak on a stake we tested were so spicy that they ended up giving us a bout of Bangkok Belly even though we were technically in Chiang Mai. This, in turn, presented us with more than a few opportunities to pay tribute to the porcelain gods in the small hours of the morning.

Although ’twas nothing that a couple of those brave orange-flavored yogurt drinks procured convincingly and confidently the next morning couldn’t cure. Or so you hoped. With mild sweat beading up on your upper lip and forehead you’d guzzle down the Lactobacilus acidophilus and sugar laden drink hoping the good bacteria would set up shop in your gut to out compete and claim wild victory over the rogue E. coli. Surely that’d set ya straight. Seemed like a good idea at the time. At least in theory anyway. Gut health and good bacteria and all.

Shortly thereafter, it’s wise to promptly scuttle back to the room from one of the prolific 7–11 outlets found every 50 yards throughout the Kingdom. Dare not venture too far from the ceramic savior just in case. Praise be unto 7–11 for always being there like a good friend in a time of need. Comforting and convenient.

After we left Chiang Mai we high-tailed it up to Pai which had recently become famous because some Thai folks went to coffee shops and fell in love. So now, suddenly everyone flocked to the coffee shops in Pai to find love and cappuccino. I was just happy to be in Thailand where I could find bacon because it was damn near impossible to find in Malaysia.

Pai treated us to another thrilling night filled with hours of stalking souvenirs around some big well lit lake that had yet another night market with yet more wooden frogs, more iPood t-shirts, and more street meats. We were ever so delighted by our first encounter with those tiny little crispy pancakes packed with something that resembled melted marshmallow topped with a dollop of shredded cheese and folded up like a finger food taco. I lost count of how many of those bite-sized bits of Epicurean Thai-Mexican-Willy Wonka chimera I guzzled before we decided to ditch the city and get on with the real adventure!

The next night I swear I nearly died. Being acclimated and used to the tropical humid weather optimized for mushroom colonies and personal private fungal blooms in Kuala Lumpur had left me ill-prepared for a night in the crispy backcountry of Northern Thailand.

We spent the day rafting on the Pai River, the namesake for the town that you might recall had become famous because people found love through various flavored cakes and cappuccino in trendy coffee shops. The scenery was rugged. Gorgeous was an understatement.

Cliffs encrusted with ferns lurched as if they would fall any moment while spindly trees hung precariously on their rocky perch. Boulders as old as the valley created rapids and runs and pools in the Pai River that made us mortal human beings want to leap into it, fish it or take a nap on the banks splayed out in the scrubby riparian zone. It was a grand day to say the least.

Even though I was supposedly a hearty adventurer living by the Carpe Diem credo and all that, I was not ready for what was in store that evening.

We rocked up to a Hill Tribe village soaking wet. I’d made a rookie mistake and left the first aid kit exposed on the raft. Everything was waterlogged. The elastic bandages curled up like drowned rats. The betadine was OK. The plasters weren’t. It was not good. As it turns out first aid kits don’t take to water too well.

That was just the beginning. Our spectacular day was abruptly coming to an end.

The dark came sudden and unwelcomed like the last bites of a chocolate ice cream sundae. The cold soon followed the newly arrived darkness. The best part was that few kids had read their packing list and even fewer had brought jackets. The village was short on blankets and we would be sleeping on wooden floors built up on stilts that allowed for a nice and breezy cool breeze throughout the evening.

It was gonna be a long night with no 7–11 in sight!

Like scraping all the goodness from the cracks and crevices from the bottom of the chocolate sundae cup we tried to salvage what we could of the evening. Dinner was awesome, as per usual in Thailand, with plenty of warm rice, stir-fried vegetables, fluffy deep-wok-fried omelets, and delectable chicken dishes stained with a rainbow of yellow, red, and green curries. We were full as a tick and pretty exhausted from a day paddling immersed in Nature’s beauty.

Luckily, there was a crapload of high octane high fructose super saturated corn syrup instant Milo to fuel the kids all night to keep them up giggling, shouting across the camp, and being a general nuisance.

After we ate, the local Hill Tribe guides built a fire. I laid out all the first aid gear in a meager attempt to dry it out. We piled a bunch of kids in the rooms and found a few spare blankets from only god knows where.

Like all good trips in Thailand, all the fun stuff happens out back of the kitchen where the local guides eat.

Over the years I’ve learned that’s the spot you wanna be!

They ain’t gonna eat no farang food and they always have something extra special they grill up to dip in Satan’s underwear in bite-sized fire breathing spicy fragments. As usual, I knew come hell or high water I was gonna get me some of that!

So, I moseyed over to the fire and pointed at the irregular hunks of meat on the grill.

It always happens. And it happened this time. They all looked at each other and grinned.

I can’t speak more than a few words of Thai and they only had a modicum of American they could draw upon to communicate.

One of the guys said, “Cat”.

I laughed nervously. I knew they were Joshin’ me.

I asked, “What’s this?”

A different guy made some hand gestures and repeated, “Cat.”

I was playing along. I hooked a slab of the meat and dipped it in the scorching green sauce, tossed it in my mouth, and lit my tongue on fire on purpose in front of God and everybody.

It was damn good! WHOA! AROI AROI MAK MAK!

I wanted more.

They were giggling innocently and saying, “Cat. Cat.”

I didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be a cat that was so delicious! Just couldn’t be!

This went on for a few more minutes. A few more bites. Whatever it was, it was addictive.

The freezing air was catching up to me. I was tired and had a belly full of mystery meat. We’d been on the river all day drenched. All-day I’d been barking at kids to stop whipping the water with their paddles! Lean into it! Move some water! Stop whipping batter and beating eggs! Get on it!

Yelling at kids makes a soul tired and hungry.

All the excitement combined with knowing that tomorrow would be just as full of explicative’s as today had been had worn me out. It’s hard work trying to get city soft kids to paddle a raft properly.

As I headed to my private 2m X 1m space on the communal staff plywood longhouse floor, I suddenly remembered I had a field guide to mammals in my bag! It wasn’t wet. I could show it to the guides and they could tell me what the mystery meat was.

So with my headlamp bouncing wildly in the night, I trundled back behind the kitchen where the good stuff was.

I proudly presented my book. They gathered around and flipped through the pages. Praise the lord they passed the rat section. Nope. Not a rat. Whew!

They passed the monkeys and deer and squirrels.

Finally, they saw a photo and pointed wildly.

“See! Cat!”, one of them excitedly screamed.

He was pointing at a civet! I had eaten barbequed civet!

It was delicious! Outrageous! Delectable! Delightful! Beautiful!

Mystery solved.

They then tried to relay the story about hunting the civet. They showed me their gun. Their knives. Acted out some drama. We all laughed even though nobody really understood what was being said we somehow understood each other.

Shortly, I was in my space on the floor. Curled up. Drifting off. Recounting the day knowing I had added another species to my culinary inventory.

The first aid kit never did dry out. Sadly, I’ve never had bbq civet since.

DANG IT!

Khap kun khap.