Bangkok Glutton

The Atlantic Ocean between Namibia to Senegal is generally considered a hotspot for pirates. These pirates usually target cargo ships, as they are low to the water and slow-moving, but they have been known to try to board a cruise ship or two. As a result, we have been doing passenger drills in the off chance that pirates will attack our ship.

These drills involve basically fleeing to our suites and shutting the blinds when the captain says something that sounds like “Alert Yellow Papa”. When he says “Alert Orange Papa”, it basically means that we are to stay in our rooms, but to be more concerned about it. “Alert Red Papa” is when we are supposed to go out into the corridors and lay down in front of our doors as the captain attempts evasive maneuvers. The fleeing into the corridor is an attempt to convince invaders that no one is there, but it seems like a hard thing to ask when it’s an enormous cruise ship with hundreds of rooms.

In preparation for pirates, other guests who have been on the world cruise before have been regaling us with tips on what the boat will do when or if they attack. Some of these things have ended up being true (pouring hot oil down the sides of the ship so that pirates will have a hard time clambering aboard) and very not true (playing “Toxic” by Britney Spears because that is supposed to distress pirates’ delicate music sensibilities). However, if all else fails, we also have mercenaries on board who stick out like a sore thumb because they are 1.) extremely ripped and 2.) pretty young. One even has an eye patch! And is a fan of the lunch buffet.

I have to say that, although it has been eye-opening, all the preparations have been worth it, because we have experienced our very first visits to West Africa (for our family at least). It’s not the first place that travelers think of to visit — indeed, North Korea has had more visitors than Togo — but honestly worth it in the most traditional spirit of travel: to actually learn stuff.

Which is how we found ourselves in a fairly old bus with the windows open on our way to a small village in Togo, an hour away from our pier. We were on our way to a “voodoo” ceremony there, where we would be shown how practitioners channel spirits in ways that prove useful to their own lives: for health reasons, to foretell their fortunes, to help make connections. This particular ceremony we would be witnessing would be to assist villagers on an upcoming hunt.

On the way, we passed much greenery and lots of goats, and also much poverty, even though Togo is very rich in natural resources (this is a theme that has echoed itself throughout much of the continent. Why is there so much oil and gold and diamonds but many people are still living hand to mouth? Food for thought). Finally, we reached a street lined with street vendors selling bread and barbecued meat on skewers, which led us to a sort of sandy parking lot in front of a space bordered by concrete walls. 

On one end of the lot, a concrete wall bore a drawn-on symbol, with a doorway leading to a forest behind it. We were told by our guide, Nicole, that this was a sacred forest, where priests meditate before a ceremony and where people are taken when they need to collect themselves. We were not of their religion, so of course we couldn’t enter. The other side of the lot bore a drawing of an actual voodoo ceremony, behind what appeared to be a shrine centered by a small statue.

Music was already playing when we arrived, but we still had to wait outside because the priests were not ready for us yet. We were under the mistaken impression that voodoo practitioners were under the influence of some sort of drink, but that is actually not true: the practitioners themselves are completely sober, but have the ability to allow their gods or spirits to possess them. Indeed, they go into training for months or even years in order to hone this ability. The head priest, who guides the practice, readies himself for a ceremony days in advance with preparations like not lying with his wife, or eating food cooked by his wife if she is menstruating. This is in order to stay “pure” (why women are considered unpure even though they are the way life is brought into the world is another subject entirely, and is a question that extends to Buddhism as well). 

When we were finally allowed to enter the ceremony grounds, we filed into an open space centered by a large network of cacti draped with other vegetation, enclosed by a line of stones. Some visitors were obviously on their phones, recording the whole setup as we arrived, so I found it amusing that a few of the villagers were doing the same thing to us, recording a mostly septuagenarian horde clad in faded baseball caps and Regent Cruise windbreakers. To the plant circle’s left was a wooden statue loosely resembling a human form with a hat and a painted-on face, which practitioners appeared to be greeting with a shake of their heads and a loose shake of their mouth that we in yoga call “horsey lips”. When we do this in practice, it is to get rid of tension after a series of difficult asanas. I can’t say whether that is the case here, but I would totally understand it. Imagine performing religious rituals sacred to you which a crowd of onlookers would likely not understand and misconstrue?

Luckily, we had Nicole. The practitioners, mostly men but a couple of women, had colored powder on their faces and in their hair. They were already in their trances and dancing, as Nicole explained, in ways that their gods were telling them to dance, spinning and occasionally standing stock still, or shaking hands with onlookers. Off to the far end, a band was playing, beating out a loud rhythm, and villagers who were just there to have fun were dancing and drinking plum wine. Most people wore colorful cloths tied around their waists, including the practitioners. It seemed like a fun party for the most part, with the actual practitioners mostly dancing on their own. A couple of villagers wended through the crowd, offering beer and soft drinks.

But one man broke away to rummage through the garbage, ending up with a green glass beer bottle that he broke over his head. Blood started to pour out of his forehead, and other practitioners raced over to him to restrain his body and pour white powder onto his cut. As he stiffened and finally stopped resisting, they carried him over to the sacred forest so that he could calm down. “He did something wrong in his preparations,” explained Nicole. “So his god punished him.” Meanwhile, the other practitioners and band carried on as villagers picked up the glass pieces, which would be brutal on their bare feet.

Then another practitioner began throwing hands and getting into what looked like an altercation with a different man. A female villager ran up, I assumed to stop what looked like a wrestling match, only to snatch the brightly colored cloth away from the fighting practitioner to reveal regular basketball shorts underneath (I guess she was worried it would get dirty?) Eventually overpowered by several people, he, too, was carried away. The ceremony continued as if nothing had happened.

This is where it became confusing for yours truly, because I am essentially Thai and loud noises and what looks like altercations are scary to me. The spontaneity of everything, the unpredictability, made me mentally exhausted. How is it that one minute, a smiling man would walk over to the plants, breathe in the scent and lay a hand over his heart as if well contented, and then a few minutes later pick up a heavy wooden chair, stalking his way towards the partygoers and band? In wresting the chair from him, a woman gets punched in the face and another man behind him gets a sharp elbow. It seems hard to maintain order at a ceremony, especially as no one knows what other people’s gods are telling them.

But then the man who had originally cut his forehead with a bottle appeared, completely cleaned of powder and blood-free. Some of the other pracitioners who had been ushered into the forest had also returned, dancing and whirling, including the man in the basketball shorts. He drew a circle with white powder into the ground, and then a white cross. He then piled more white powder into the center of the circle before setting a vase with the bottom broken off over the mound. From somewhere, another person brought water, which he then poured slowly into the vase, bit by small bit. It was well over 10 minutes before the water started spilling from the bottom of the vase, obscuring one side of the circle.

“You must leave now,” bellowed one of our tour guides from a megaphone, and as we still stood, slow to turn around, he says it again: “YOU. MUST. LEAVE. NOW.” The reason why we will never know, but we finally turn and leave, still processing what we’d seen (I am still processing it even now).

As I head to the lot, a couple of women pass me on the way back, and I recognize them as the women who were caked in powder and whirling earlier. One of them doubles back to proudly stand next to the symbol on the wall to the sacred forest, posing for photographers. The ceremony had been performed, some people had been punished for indiscretions, and it was all over now. It was time to get back to regular life, leaving me as the only person unable to draw a line under things and move on.

We are on the last leg of our cruise, and I have yet to talk about what life on the boat is like. So what is it like? It’s a bit like the TV series “Fleishman is in Trouble” where all of the mothers of a certain set in Manhattan use social signifiers that are extremely specific to their very particular mini-society. The boat is no different, but the signifiers are.

There is a definite pecking order on this ship, and it goes like this: World Cruisers are top of the heap, and the people who only come on for a certain leg — even if it’s for several legs — are considered lower down on the pecking order, invited to fewer dinners with the Captain, coddled less by the social hosts, and definitely less-socialized-with by the other World Cruisers. It’s no fault of theirs of course, besides the fact that they cannot spare a whopping 144 days to spend on a boat; it’s just that the World Cruisers have been through more. Stranded for two days in the Peru port! Watching those two crew members get booted from the ship in Bora Bora! Listening to Bob from Dallas shout for his wife Rachel every time we’re in the immigration line! Too many memories, reader. Too difficult to fill new cruisers in.

Among the World Cruisers, of course, there is also a hierarchy. The more World Cruises one goes on, the more their ass is to be kissed. People make sure you know by putting commemorative magnets on their doors; some rooms boast as many as 12 such magnets, while yours truly has … one. You would expect the perpetual World Cruisers to be of an advanced age, but that’s not necessarily the case. But of course, no one ever, ever just asks, “How can you be 50 and go on so many cruises?” No one ever talks about their job, unless they offer it up themselves. All the same, there are some passengers whose occupations have managed to filter through the grapevine: doctors are duly noted and their names kept in the back of one’s head, in case (free) medical attention is needed; there is a young reporter on board, as well as a much older one; people know I’ve written a cookbook. A few people even know I am writing about this cruise: “Will you be writing about this in your blog?” Dr. Harvey asked me at a wine tasting in South Africa. I told him yes, but sadly remember little else from that day other than going back to my cabin with 9 (!) bottles of wine.

In any case, here, people are mostly whittled down to their basic identities, for better or worse. We are “the Thai family”. There is also a “crazy guy” (not to be confused with “the guy with anger management issues”). There is a “sour-faced lady who yells at waitstaff”. There is “guy with glasses who smokes a lot”. There is “really old guy who is on a perpetual cruise”. People are generally nice, for the most part. After four months on board, it’s easy to figure out who to avoid. Now, it’s simply time for us to count down the days to when we don’t have to say “hi” to everyone we see in the hallways anymore (my husband can’t wait for this part).

One extra bonus for World Cruisers is that they get to attend events periodically throughout the cruise. Typically, a cruise will have around 200-300 World Cruisers; on this particular cruise, because of Covid, there are 500, which puts a lot of pressure on the team to make the evening special. The first event, in Bali, would have been beautiful if not for the torrential downpour on the open-air dining area; Singapore’s event was held in the Mediterranean section of the Gardens by the Bay, which was beautiful but unfortunately also appeared to spread Covid among some of the guests.

The last event, though, was set among the sand dunes in Namibia, and it was spectacular, even if I had to shamelessly loiter around the buffet so that I could be there when it opened. Outside, narrow ditches hosted lit fires for warmth as fire dancers performed with burning ropes and sticks in front of tables set with flutes of champagne and cheese and crackers. Herero tribeswomen in beautiful outfits mingled among the guests as the sun set. When the wind shifted and the smoke got too thick, we had dinner in the tent at tables set with bottles of wine and handmade pots of local lip balm, in case the desert cold seeped into the gathering. By the time we had left, the sky was pitch black and the stars clear to the naked eye. The ride back was a lot shorter than the ride there.

But I guess what people really love about being on a boat is, well, just being on the boat. While guests have the option of not disembarking at destination ports, we really don’t allow ourselves that choice since this is our first world cruise and we haven’t been to a lot of these places. Instead, we wait for “sea days”, which is when the ship is in transit to its next destination and isn’t docking anywhere. Those days are treated like weekends or holidays (“I can wake up late since tomorrow’s a sea day”) and, although I once loathed them, I now enjoy them because the food and drink is better on those days, there are more lectures on the schedule, and there are even dance classes.

On my next sea day (in three days’ time), I will be ordering this drink created by one of the ship’s bartenders, William Villianueva, who made me this martini after I told him that 1. I don’t like martinis, and 2. I love dill pickles. He very graciously gave me the recipe, so here it is. It is surprisingly good. I enjoy drinking it while playing Clue in the bar like a big old nerd. It’s one of the things I’ll miss when I’m back home.

William’s Filthy Dill Pickle Martini (makes 1)

Muddle 4-5 slices of dill pickle in 3 oz vodka (William uses Absolut Elyx, but anything will work).

Add 1 oz pickle juice and shake with ice for 12 seconds.

Decant and garnish with more pickle slices, if desired.

More than halfway through my “around the world” trip, I figured out I was seriously homesick for Thai food after caving in and ordering a “Thai red curry” from the ship’s main dining room for lunch and … genuinely enjoying it. What was happening to me? With this curry that lived somewhere in limbo between a gang phet and a gang kua? When I discovered that we were due to visit a Thai restaurant owned by an actual Thai person in Maputo, Mozambique, I was not only jazzed, but relieved — at least I would stop fixating on Thai food.

Now, I am embarrassed to say this, but I knew nothing about Mozambique, not even that it was a Portuguese colony, not even that it is famous for its fresh seafood. Both were welcome discoveries: everything sounds so much friendlier in Portuguese, even haggling over woven baskets in the market, even international labor day “celebrations” that looked at first like protests as people walked the streets downtown, waving flags.

Unfortunately for the workers at Spicy Thai in downtown Maputo, they, unlike their celebrating compatriots, did not have the day off. However, it was lucky for us. Khun Ton, our new best friend, had planned a seafood-heavy lunch procession that would quickly turn into a composite breakfast-lunch-dinner for us, so enormous were the portions and generous was the kitchen. Starving and assuming I was set for a typical Thai meal abroad, I was ready for the plates of gratong tong (deep-fried “golden bags” stuffed with shrimp and served with a sweet chili sauce), as well as the fried egg rolls (of course) and grilled chicken wrapped in banana leaves. I assumed that next we would get some pork larb, a green curry, a stir-fried noodle dish or two, and some greens and call it a day.

But K. Ton, alarmed at our eating style (which I’ve heard described as “peak-era-shark-feeding-frenzy”), asked us to at least hold up for the next dish, goong cha nam pla (raw shrimp marinated in fish sauce), a personal favorite of mine and something you almost never found outside of Thailand. It arrived arranged as a giant rosette, crowned with a bowl of nam jim seafood (Thai seafood sauce ) and peppered with slivered red chilies and sliced fresh garlic.

The raw shrimp — rosy and glistening on the plate — was improbably sweet, and K. Ton told us that even the Japanese imported tons of the stuff from Mozambique, supplementing their stores of amaebi (sweet shrimp). I believed it, because the shrimp were as delicious and fresh as anything I’d had in Japan, but better because it had Thai flavors.

Everything else then started arriving at a brisk clip, expected stuff interspersed with dishes that were less so: stir-fried Chinese kale with large slabs of pork belly; individual bowls of tom yum each sporting their own “baby lobsters” like a sunburned man in a jacuzzi; a gang kua of well-stewed beef shank; enormous platters of crabmeat doused in a yellow curry sauce.

Another large bowl, enough to feed a family of 6 in Thailand, brought us a lobster “khao soi” crowned with an improbably big lobster head, its meat shredded in a khao soi broth and accompanied by pickled mustard greens and fresh lime wedges in a nod to the dish’s origins.

And just when everyone was ready to stick a fork in themselves (because they were done), a laughably enormous steamed grouper was ushered to the table, cooked in a soy sauce dressing and nestled in a bed of melt-in-the-mouth steamed cabbage, ludicrously delicious.

So, of course, everyone found a little more space in their bellies.

For dessert (yes, there was room for dessert), I was surprised to discover that dishes I assumed would be universally loved, like mango sticky rice, were unpopular in Mozambique, where the idea of fruit with rice was thought of as ridiculous. Same with gluay buat chee (bananas stewed in coconut milk), even though the ingredients were all readily available. Instead, they served a “guava” steamed pudding, English-style, with a side of coconut ice cream, the photo of which I will spare you, because it was a grisly scene.

You would think we would be all “Thai’d” out by then, but sadly, you would be wrong. On our one evening out in Cape Town, we still managed to find ourselves in one of those Nobu wannabe restaurants that spout up in somewhat fashionable dining areas — you know, with the club music and the dry ice. There, we ended up with the usual suspects: oysters drowned in ikura and yuzu, sushi rolls with names like “rainbow reloaded”, crispy rock shrimp coated in chili mayonnaise, Korean fried chicken, Peking duck.

Later tonight, we will have the Thai seafood dipping sauce that we smuggled onto the boat from Maputo as crew members were engrossed in examining another passenger’s wooden artifacts (which must be sprayed in case bugs get on board). We will ask the ship’s kitchen to grill some lobster tails, shrimp and scallops, and steam the freshest seabass they can find. Our new friend Jean-Claude will bring along a Riesling that he brought in his suitcase from his hometown of Strasbourg. And we will attack everything we see on the table with our beautiful nam jim, a perishable reminder of the flavors we are missing.

And then we will be back on the lookout for more of those flavors.