I'm not what you'd call 'well-traveled'. Having said that, I've been lost, shot, robbed and disoriented without ever having to take a long-haul flight, which pretty much evens things out in my book. (The shooting was an air slug to the left butt cheek, but it still counts).
I wake up feeling intrepid. With this in mind I pack myself off to the train station and buy a ticket to No Man's Land, aka, the nastier, dirtier and creepier parts of a place called The Valley. Every city has one. It's where they shoot all the cop shows.
Partner declines to join me on grounds that he doesn't fancy the smell of urine. I feel open-minded and ready to embrace the grottier parts of our culture. Especially in broad daylight. Hit The Valley and take a big noseful of air. Over-ripe mangoes, incense, curry, body odour - no urine. Make note. There's graffiti, filthy pavement, litter and shops with names like Lucky 7, and cafes with crusty ducks in the window hanging by thier feet. We're close to Chinatown (these guys know how to treat a duck). Realise I'm hungry.
Know a Chinese supermarket/acupunturist/herbalist around here (stock must mix 'n match). I want to eat something weird - I mean genuine - not the bog-standard ho-hums found on your average restuarant menu. I go in search of authentic ingredients to make something myself - dried giblets, sharkfins, mouldering mushrooms - anything I need to Google to identify.
Wing Hing's is shut on Wednesday. Today Wednesday! No where else on my radar sells bits of unidentifiable weirdness.
Not to be defeated I find Indian supermarket.
Cool Bollywood music has my sandals tapping. Myriad smells, colours, sounds and strange words cause firestorm in synapses. By God, I love food! Heaps of stuff I can't pronounce. V. authentic. Some bling and a damp sari and I'd be unstoppable.
Asafoetida, Gorkeri, Veola ... no wait. Veola is hand cream. No good on pappadums.
'Bombay Duck Pickle'! Nice to see one of the bastards put to good use. Blurb reads: The Bombay Duck is a fish, so called because it is only found in the Arabian Sea. Some of the world's mysteries were never meant to be solved ...
Shopgirl tries to sell me massive sack of Atta flour so my chappatis are soft. Tell her I left my mule at home. No response. I buy 1kg of flour and find sudden interest in DVD selection - esp. the Indian Ray Romano with cowboy hat and chiquita in a damp sari.
I walk out into the heart of Chinatown and am accosted by ABBA, piped through street P.A. system. Do police know about this?! Sacrilege!
Go in search of Authentic Lunch. Am tourist in No Man's Land, so look for strip club to eat toxic bar nuts and check out Miss Electra's competition. None appear to be open. Wrong time of day for the Night Crawlers. (Probably why I'm still alive).
Find tiny restaurant with no roundeyes in sight - food must be authentic! Order Five Treasures With Rice. No clue what treasure is but 'treasure' implies tasty goodness. (Rice self - explanatory).
Old Asian lady barks question at me. Pardon? Again. Pardon? Points at grey/green orbs in window and raises eyebrows in universal motion. Yes! Sure! Is it hot? She stalks off, comes back and hands me soup. Soup clear and patently free from green orbs or treasures. Or rice.
I eat soup. Tastes like Honeydew melon and chicken fat. Smile happily at staff. Old lady drops plate of Five Tresures in front of me. The Mother Load! Huge pile rice with 5 different shiny meats on it. Hang on ... are there five meats? And why is the only readily identifiable meat bleeding? Sashimi chicken!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I smile happily.
Oh God. Chopsticks. Wave at old Lady. Communication problematic so I simply demostrate my chopstick prowess and let her work it out. She rolls eyes and brings fork and spoon. No knife. I smile happily. Grey/green orbs turn out to be hundred year old eggs, which taste better than they sound. And kind of salty.
Overall: shiny, meaty, mystery treasures were pretty awesome. Apart from al dente chook.
Convinced I'm likely to die some time after lunch, I decide to be reckless. Go into seedy, sex part of town. People spit on ground, sleep on benches, lurch around in gangs. Tattoos, piercings, bad vibes. Me in Birkenstock sandals, Colorado shirt, red straw hat, backpack and neon sing on back that says 'Mug Me!'. Self-preservation gene kicks in. Time to get out.
At train station I walk past a man.
'Grrrrrrrrr ...'
I've had enough. 'Did you just growl at me?' I ask most forcefully. Me and my red straw hat.
'Me?' he says. 'Nope.'
'You did. You growled.'
'No I didn't. It was a yawn.'
I give him my Disapproving Mummy glare.
'Sorry,' he says.
And that's me, reporting from the Belly of the Beast. The police have said I might be able to ride along with them in The Valley one night in the new year, just so I can see what the worst of the worst is like after dark.
Boy, am I looking forward to that!
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