Rice baby

Rice baby

A vegetarian canteen in Bangkok. The floor is covered in big tiles, a TV plays Thai music and there’s a pond with a waterfall on the side. Nga and I welcome each other with a big hug. I also get to meet Tieme, who is travelling the world by bike. Two months earlier Nga had welcomed me with the message ‘If I’m not home when you arrive, you can find the keys in my mailbox.’ This wonderful, smart lady gave me my first home in Saigon. When I left she promised me a beautiful moment from her trip in Thailand. Nga writes on her card:

‘Me and my travel mate camping in a hidden corner next to a tiny stream, laying our heads on each other’s bellies, talking the night away under a perfect crescent moon, and we even had our own tree. The red dot on my right is our ‘rice baby’*. Not pictured: the mosquito army and uncooked instant noodles (please my Asian heritage don’t kill me).

*’Rice baby’: our camping stove was broken and we were too lazy to build a fire, so we resorted to the next cheapest way of making food: put rice, water and all the other ingredients in a pot to make a kick-ass ‘curry-porridge’. We asked a street-side restaurant to boil it for us, then swaddled the pot in three layers of towels and scarves to finish cooking. It was food, so of course I was as thorough and gentle as if I was swaddling an infant.’

Rice baby

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