Urban/Rural Expectations

As we hung over the railing of the bridge crossing the Bassac River, taking pictures of houses on stilts, temples on stilts, all kinds of boats tangled in the clumps of riverweeds that floated along with the current, and, of course, groups of men in boats taking pictures of us as we took pictures of them, a conical-hatted lady wandered past with a stick over her shoulder. In the basket on one side of the stick was a handful of baguettes; in the basket on the other side was a heaping pile of fermented shrimp sauce, spotted with little orange tails. This was so picturesque that neither of us reacted until she was the equivalent of half a block away. “Wait,” I said. “I actually really want that.” We chased her down, and she was all smiles, squatting right at the edge of traffic, throwing everything in her arsenal onto the sandwich: the paste, some pork belly and skins that came out of nowhere, the omnipresent pickled carrot and daikon, way more chilies than we needed. I ate it slowly for the next three hours, wondering how jellylike fermented shrimp could possibly taste cleaner and fresher than the snakehead fish I’d been eating ostensibly freshly pulled from the Mekong.

Rural Vietnam reverses my expectations about food and cities and rural areas: the provincial capitals and population centers serve up lackluster leftovers that taste like they were made from ingredients no one wanted at the local market. Overcooked, filmy-eyed mackerel, vegan Buddhist soup, spiced with a spoonful of MSG right in front of me, razor clams tasting vaguely of mold – and overall it’s all served with a scowl. But as soon as we get outside the city center and into the villages, ladies crouch by baskets of fish bright eyed and sometimes still gasping, old shacks vibrate with the aroma of freshly-baked bread and stuff their baguettes with head cheese, pork belly, and thick, chunky pate, tiny shops advertise fresh durian crepes, the mangoes are plentiful and cheap, and everyone’s all smiles and no English, ready to help anyway. If they’re drinking beer at 11am, as was a family of four whose house was separated from the river only by a handful of wooden beams and was only accessible by a bridge made of logs, they will thrust their hand out the door with a cold beer in it and demand that you take it. If you’re on the beach with them a few miles from the Cambodian border and they’re eating pork loaf, and sesame cake on a tarp while singing karaoke on a portable machine, you’d better get ready to eat pork loaf, and sesame cake too. And if you tell them you’re a vegetarian, they’ll have a nice green orange and a bunch of rambutan ready for you!