Lamb Stew - Hold the Lamb

 

Happy October 

 the months are flying by!

Today is a World Day.

World always stands out,

punching me in the face –

 making me realise

the importance of the day.

World Days are,

therefore, difficult to ignore!

Today’s World Day is…

World Vegetarian Day!



 

 

 

I have lived in countries,

where meat is stored carefully

 on hot cement blocks…

where meat is protected from flies

 by an occasional flick of a hand…

or, more elaborative,

the slowly rotating, man-made device,

which is hung above the meat

 and drips plastic bags…

scaring the flies away.

I’ve walked past bowls of fish,

eels and crabs, slowly flicking

 in shallow water…

and yet, my stomach

coped with every meal…

Well…there was that one time…

In an Irish Pub in Bangkok.

I was having Irish stew –

as you do…

Lamb, it was.

There were huge chunks of tender lamb,

filling my bowl of stew.

It was good.

And then, it happened.

I pictured a buffalo –

something I saw every day

 when I lived in the North East of Thailand.

The buffalo tends to have a huge,

 round stomach.

I pictured someone with a huge knife,

slicing the side of a buffalo a

nd turning the flesh

into chunks of meat for my stew.

Right then and there,

my stew lost all appeal.

That was years ago…

and, don’t get me wrong –

I eat meat.

 I do.

But, sometimes, every now and again…

I picture the animal I am eating…

Not the "cute little lamb",

but the knife - chunking the flesh… 

I lose my appetite a little.

 

Once, a young boy came to me

and told me he had cut

 his leg on a seat.

“Show me”, I said…

and watched him twist his knee

 to show me a small hole in the skin.

Something yellow was poking out –

Muscle? Sinew? Fat? 

There was no blood.

It seemed ok…

and then, it happened.

The blood started.

It didn’t trickle…

it didn’t dribble…

It pumped.

Squirt.

Squirt.

Squirt.

 It was the smell that got to me.

Bloody flesh.

The smell lingered in my nostrils

 for some time. I

t’s a butcher shop smell.

It’s not a good smell for me.

So, today is World Vegetarian Day.

The site has facts and figures…

forests and bushland turned into crops

to feed the animals we will later eat…

overgrazing and the damage it does…

animals and plants becoming endangered

through habitat loss…

water costs of animal rearing…

increased carbon monoxide…

All that aside,

the thing that pushes me

towards my vegetarian diet

 is my imagination!

 Some information from

the North American Vegetarian Society’s

webpage:

Logo, facebook 

 

Ban Khok Sa-Nga... Like these pets?

Imagine a snake slithering across the road.

It moves smoothly across the road and

into your front yard.

It slithers under your steps and out of sight.

Imagine it’s a cobra...

A king cobra...

I stumbled across this video when I was

teaching all things Thai.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsi7Yq1Eb_4

It’s about King Cobra Village.

The village is Ban Khok Sa-Nga, in the North-East of Thailand. I shudder at the thought of it being in my old stomping grounds. Then, I learn that the village is near Khon Kaen – definitely my old stomping grounds! I can’t believe I was so close to so many King Cobras!

Every home in the village keeps the cobras….

In a box… under their house!

This seemingly crazy hobby started with a doctor. Doctor Phu Yai Ken Yongla. He was a herbal doctor, who thought fighting snakes would attract people (and money) to their village. Initially, he used cobras… but… they can spit over two metres and the venom can send a person blind! This was too risky, so he changed snakes and so began the King Cobra Village.

Bowatong Boonpengyootin is a local man. He plays with King Cobras. During his ten years of snake wrestling, he has been bitten four times, though only once seriously. Can you believe it? Only one bite was serious... could there be any other type of King Cobra bite? Luckily, Bowatong makes sure that he takes his daily fill of a precious, life-saving herbal medicine. The medicine helps to protect the villagers from the snake venom. They wash in it, eat it and drink it. Once bitten, they mix it with lemon and hold it on the wound. If I was bitten by a King Cobra, I might only have 15 minutes before my body started to shut down. If I had digested the magic herbs every day, I might have a fever for a few days and then be up and fighting more cobras before the end of the week!

For three men last year, the herbs were not enough.

So, I learned some things about the King Cobra. At five and a half meters long, they are the longest venomous snake in the world. Also, they will rise up to a third of their length as they move forward to attack their prey. I now know that they make a hiss which sounds like a growling dog. Nothing about them seems very friendly!

One good thing… although their venom is so toxic it could kill me in fifteen minutes, an elephant in three hours, or… if needed, 20 people at once… there is also some good to their venom. I hear your scepticism! Synthetic cobra venom is used in pain relievers and in arthritis medication. There is some good.

Even knowing this, I will take advantage of the shy nature of the snake and never corner it. I don’t fancy my chances of boxing a King Cobra and walking away afterwards!

http://sites.google.com/site/ronmcmillan/kingcobras

http://sites.google.com/site/ronmcmillan/kingcobras

another posting about the village – worth a look, even if it’s just for the photograph of “Buffalo”.

http://www.thailandbuddy.com/travel/province/Khon-Kaen/King-Cobras-Village.html

Museum of Gore

After visiting countless museums showing a huge range of items, I have to admit that I am not cultured enough to enjoy museums. This is a fact I accepted after I read some very wise advice, scribbled on the wall of a youth hostel in Florence.

It suggested that people who don’t like museums should get out of the queue – making the lines shorter for the people who really want to go to them.

There is one museum though...

One slightly different to the normal...

It has stuck with me and I can recall most of the things I saw.

I visited the museum in the morning and was walking out the doors by lunchtime... but I didn’t eat lunch that day.

There were a group of us. We all skipped lunch.

The museum is in Bangkok. It’s the Museum of Forensic Medicine, hidden at the back of the Siriraj Hospital. It’s become a strange, macabre and brutally honest museum.

The craziest section is placed in the centre of the main room.

It takes pride of place and looks like a telephone booth.

Inside, propped against the side of the booth, leans a man.

His skin has a brown, leathery look. He stands on a drip tray. He’s long since dead. This man was a serial killer (or was he a rapist?). Whichever he was, I couldn’t help but stare.

There is a head – sawn in half.

You look at one side and see the man’s

hair and face, ears and skin.

Next to that half of his head is the other half –

turned around so that you see brain and skull.

There are foetuses, Siamese twins, body parts twisted apart from home-made bombs. There are skulls – cracked and gunshot. There are murder weapons and

blood-stained clothing.

And all around you lingers the smell of formaldehyde.

There are so many things to look at - to stare at in wonder and morbid fascination. There are so many sights that linger still – years and years and years after I saw them.

View from Above

For a glorious month I lived in Banff,

a town snuggled against the side of the Rockies.

I worked as a waitress, rebuilding my cash supplies

before I headed off to other places unknown.

The huge castle-looking building in the bottom of the picture is the Banff Springs Hotel. I didn't stay there.

Instead, I spent most of the month living in a tent

in somene's backyard. My life in Banff was simple...

I headed off to work the morning shift in one of the cafes.

My afternoons were spent hiking and

exploring the beautiful area.

I hiked along the river, watching the elk graze amonst the golfballs. I sat on the edge of the falls, listening to the deafening roar of the water against the rocks. I hiked the mountains, gasping for breath and gazing in wonder at the natural beauty of the area. I rode on the back of a motorbike, following the bending roads which wrapped around the Rockies. My feet moved to the highest possible position on the bike as I watched bears grazing metres from the motorbike. I ate late lunches at the edge of the lake.

I ate dinners under the midnight sunsets.

Life in Banff was easy, but as the first fakes of snow landed

on the mountains, I knew it was time to move on.

Becoming a Backpacker

Looking around me, I felt intimidated and yet... inspired. Lounging across the airport seats were several hardened backpackers.

My backpack was a vibrant blue, clean and bright. It was still stiff and not a mark had crossed its path. My boots were shiny and clean. Their tractor-like tread was spotless. No dirt clung to the soles. No scuffs were visible on the surface. My clothes were clean, ironed and smelled of fabric softener. I was so obviously a beginner!

I held my new passport and ticket carefully in my hand. I watched the clock, knowing I wouldn’t miss my flight but constantly checking - just to be sure. I was at the airport, waiting for my first flight – the flight which would take me out of Australia and into my year of travel.

Soon enough, I found myself in a far-off airport. My backpack was dusty, dirty and scuffed. My boots were dusty, dirty and scuffed. My clothes were dusty, dirty and no longer smelled of sweet fabric softener. My passport was dirty, creased and wrinkled. I no longer held it carefully, but tossed it into my jeans pocket. I was at the airport, waiting for another flight.

My backpack was tossed onto the hard airport seats. I used it as a pillow, leaning my head against its dusty surface. I lounged across the hard plastic seats, feet folded over the plastic armrests. The noises of the airport and the glare of the lights didn’t stop me from falling into a deep sleep – so deep that I slept through my alarm. Waking to realise that my flight was now boarding, I raced to get myself on the plane bn. A lady at a counter noticed my just-woke-up-and-running-late-face and processed my passport at a side counter, letting me fling my backpack onto my back and race for the boarding gate.

I’d made it. I was a real, hardened backpacker!