Losing It In Phi Phi (Pee-pee)

Source: Phi Phi Party Crew (The Shangri La)

This past October, I took my first trip to the islands of Thailand. I want to specify that it was my first, and not last trip because it's a place that never really leaves you. It infects your soul like a virus. For some impressionable early 20-somethings, it inhabits them like a gold trimmed wide grinning parasite. And everyone wants a bite of everyone else.

There are two rows of islands along Thailand's long southern strip. One row on the Andaman Sea and one on the Gulf of Thailand. The island where I spent the most time was on the Andaman Sea side, and it was called Ko Phi Phi (correct pronunciation: Pee Pee).

Thailand has a reputation for being a massive country to party in, but I had no idea how common it was for visitors to literally drop their entire reality and stay on the islands indefinitely. Surprisingly the sexy film about big Leo dabbling in a bit of island infidelity and then going absolutely out of his coconut shell brain via SuperNintendo-meets-acid-tripping-with-baboons, was not far from what actually happens.

While there are no secret island camps (not that I saw anyway), Phi Phi and surrounding islands are littered with young adult-lets from all major English-speaking countries who have come to escape the square dullness and yucky sensibility of the Western world. On Phi Phi, life is a hooping hoorah with drug-laced candies and alcohol served in sandcastle buckets, and, by god, you better get on board.

Among the endless personal accounts I heard of lives being abandoned in Britain, Australia, New Zealand, America, South Africa, and Ireland, a few in particular stood out. I probably shouldn't name any names, but I'll make up some for the sake of storytelling. Here are a few selections (I can only put up a picture of one of these people for the sake of privacy):

Narcissus  I hate to say that I really liked Narcissus. He was a spunky kid who's eaten flesh from a living snake and has had intercourse with most people he's met. He spins fire and had to rescue an old sailor from a Viagra overdose. This guy's reason for abandoning The World is that he's what I like to call A Memory Collector. He does everything and says "no" to nothing. He wants to devour life and will succeed in doing so--if it doesn't swallow him first.

Captain  This wonderful character is actually the same old man whom Narcissus rescued from the Viagra overdose. His story is that he bought a ship from England about 30 years ago, set out for Thailand, but had to stop for 20 years in the middle because he found a Croatian wife. Now, after 5 marriages and a 30-year trip from the UK to Thailand, he spends his days getting his picture taken with beautiful half-nude women, having his belly button used for shots, and influencing lovely dirty habits on the impressionable youth.

Blondie  This girl was an absolute riot. She chronically falls in love with obscure foreign men. Blondie only likes guys who scream, light their boxers on fire, have gauges in their ears, and convince her to travel half-way around the world for a date. I accompanied her to a bar where her newest love affair was serving drinks. He was a native Thai with hair like Rufio and a smile like the devil. He gave us a big piece of chocolate that looked like a French truffle, but tasted like mud. It was weed with something else, but I don't remember what the something else was.

(This actually is Big Love. 

Postcards of Phi Phi locals are sold at shops.)

Big Love  I call this lovable lumpy fella Big Love because his favourite song is "Big Love" by Chicken. I know this because at the nightclub/streetside hut that he owns, he really starts to boogie when the live band plays this song. And it's entirely epic as he looks like the sun when he dances. Every cell of his being is in ecstasy to be a part of him.

While there are many other very interesting characters who come and go and stay on Phi Phi, this is just a sample of the most impressionable ones I met. I would encourage anyone to gain their own personal experience on this island of neon lights, spinning fire, and alcohol served in fruit or kids' plastic toys.

In honour of Big Love, and the rest of the nameless Phi Phi lot, let the following song be the soundtrack of your day:

Keripik Paru Ketchup Bath

www.MightySweet.com

They called it "crackers" when five grey and yellow-dusted medallions were placed on my plate, half-covered with abandoned rice kernels and a large dollop of ketchup. It was Keripik Paru, or fried cow lung. I specifically did not use the ketchup. No one else used the ketchup and I was the only non-Indonesian at the party.

I was invited to learn a dance from Betawi, or the original name of Jakarta, Indonesia, called Yapong.

The dance is performed to a traditional gamelan orchestra who chant Ya-Ya-Ya-Ya in celebration of Jakarta's birthday. The dance was originally performed in 1977 for Jakarta's 405th year.

I thought the party would be full of flitty wrist movements and delicious tea. I thought it would be something like this:

Source: FromBaliToBala.com

But it was something more like this:

There were kids running around, women dancing on tables in the middle of the afternoon, and a small dog humping anything he could get his underside onto. Nobody really gave a shit. I was having a great time... until they brought out the Keripik Paru. 

I'll preface by saying that I'm quite adventurous as eaters go. But when I tasted the fried cow lung, I felt like I had put an old piece of leather that had been soaking in snake blood for ten years in my mouth. I probably turned green in front of my host, which is something I'd never done.

The woman who invited me smiled as I swallowed and said, "It is good, yes? Go on, eat it all!"

As she turned away and began dancing with the ladies, I felt horribly ill. I began to wonder where the cow lung was on its journey down my esophagus, and how I could stop it. I came to terms with the fact that I couldn't prevent it from entering my digestive system, but I had the power to stop any more from making the invasion.

I took a seat in a corner and stared at my plate in horror. There was no place to go. Just four medallions of cow lung and a dollop of ketchup.

The ketchup. Yes. That was the answer. My escape. I slowly pushed the lung toward a red sanctuary. As it reached the edge, it seemed like it would make it through. The ketchup was able to cover nearly all the evidence! I had saved myself and my social reputation.

"Mommy says not to play with your food!" a child voice shouted at my side.

She was a small one, not older than three, and she had caught me in the act. As she stared at me with black, gaping eyes, I laughed and said, "Oh, you silly. I LOVE putting cow lung in ketchup!"

She continued to stare as I grabbed all four marinated pieces and placed them on my tongue. A huge grin came across her face and she kissed my cheek before running off like a wild-ling.

I had been caught by an innocent bystander and there was nothing I could do but swallow. And I did. In one, thick, ketchup-y, gulp. 

The rest of the afternoon became a hallucination. Maybe it was the cow lung or my loss of inhibition. But I believe the Harlem Shake did commence and we all performed our own dance for Jakarta.

(A recipe for the Indonesian cow lung crackers can be found here at IndonesiaEats.com.)