Mamak Magic
Like many wanderlusting, travel writer wannabes, I’m more than a little obsessed with Anthony Bourdain. My list of reasons is long: there’s my respect for his witty and acerbic writing style, my complete envy of his occupation, and the fact that in the late seasons of No Reservations (once he shed his scrawny physique and tacky cutoff t-shirts), you have to admit he’s kind of sexy.
Mostly though, I admire Bourdain’s abilility to view another city, country, or culture from a local’s perspecitve. And how, despite never fitting in, he simultaneously manages to never look like a tourist. After spending some time on the Thai island of Koh Lipe, I have an enhanced appreciation for this aspect of travel.
Like most equatorial islands, Koh Lipe is so beautiful it almost looks fake. The water is warm, the sand white, and the cocktails cold- a setting that’s near impossible not to feel relaxed in. And while I certainly did my fair share of zen-ing out, I have to say the excessive relaxation was far from my favorite part.
Koh Lipe, a tiny island located off the southwest coast of Thailand, is different from many other holiday destinations in that the people who are pouring your drink, driving your boat, or giving you a brutal Thai massage seem to actually live in close proximity to the tourist bungalows and resorts. This meant that on my 7am walk to the far side of the island for a run on the beach, I felt like an intruder, albeit a welcome one. Families were eating breakfast on the porch, mom was hanging laundry, the kids were feeding a stray cat a saucer of rice, and grandma was driving a motorbike over a bump while trying not to wake up the kid she was carrying.
These locals were in no way hostile or unpleasant towards me (from my limited observation, Thai people seem to be incapable of this), but they weren’t bending over backwards or smiling at me like the employees of the hotel bar. I had inadvertently witnessed a typical morning for the residents of Koh Lipe.
Later that evening on the same walk, my companions and I stopped in a tiny shop to buy some essentials. In addition to selling the obligatory Chang beer cans and palm oil infused snacks, this shop also served as a family’s living room. At 10 pm, mom, dad and the kids were so transfixed by what was on the TV they could barely look up for long enough to take our money. I took a moment to appreciate the casualness of our interaction and wished I could stay to check out what they were watching.
My favorite experience of the weekend though was unsurprisingly related to food. On our way to the boat that would take us from the Malaysian island of Langkawi to Koh Lipe, we were in need of breakfast. We told our taxi driver that we wanted to eat at a mamak, which is essentially a street food stall with seating, usually operated by Malay Muslims. After clarifying that we were after a plate of roti canai (a common Malaysian and Indonesian dish), our driver grunted in understanding and approval.
As we sped passed four or five mamaks on the ten minute drive, I had an inkling that we were about to go somewhere good. Apparently, our driver had made our breakfast his personal responsibility, even ushering us to a table as the morning regulars watched on in amusement.
What came next was probably my favorite thing I have eaten on my trip to Asia so far. The piping hot, subtly sweet roti flat bread (which I gather is just egg, fat, flour, and water) was accompanied by a fish curry to dip and an iced milo to drink. As I ate and watched the regulars tuck into massive plates of spicy curries and rice dishes at 8am, I was reminded of the Western misconception that breakfast foods must differ from lunch and dinner, something I learned from Mr Bourdain. For a little less than $3 in total, the three of us left completely satisfied. We thanked our driver for his suggestions and asked him if he eats there often. “Every day,” he replied.
Spending the weekend, as I did, finishing two books and drinking an inordinate amount of beer isn’t exactly the makings of a cultural awakening. But this weekend I was happy to stumble upon a few moments where I didn’t fit in, but didn’t feel like a tourist either. I guess sometimes all it takes is straying off the beach a little or finding a taxi driver that has a serious breakfast preference.
