Something Fishy in Surin (Thailand)
Where’s Frank? Oh my Buddha! Don’t tell me he’s still asleep.
Caption: From the village in Surin described in this article. Prepping of food is often a social gathering in Isaan. Photo: Frank Hansen
Let me just start by saying: yes, I was, in fact, still asleep when the village was already halfway into their workday. If you’re reading this with a cup of coffee in hand, still in your pyjamas — then congratulations, you’re in my corner.
I woke to the sound of Kong’s voice outside my window. Kong is my neighbor and one of the few people in the village who speaks a bit of English. He’s also taken it upon himself to be my unofficial cultural translator. (You’ll hear more about him. Think of him as my spiritual guide through mud and chili sauce.)
I fumbled for my phone. 6:00 AM. Only.
“At this point, you should know that my bed was warm, the room still dark, and every fiber of my being screamed “just five more minutes.” But curiosity has its own alarm clock.”
There was a buzz in the house. Footsteps, chatter, preparations. Clearly, something was up.The thing about being in Thai villages without really speaking the language is this: You almost never know what’s going on — until you’re already in the middle of it. And by then, there’s only one thing to do: go with the flow.I peeled myself out of bed.
Kong was at the door, mock-offended.
“Lazy fish,” he said.
"The rooster hasn’t even crowed yet," I replied.
"That’s not how life works here," he laughed. And then launched into one of his village-life TED Talks.
This is where you, dear reader, might picture a peaceful countryside life with lazy afternoons and hammock naps. Scrap that. Life in rural Thailand is hard, hot, and sunrise-dependent. Fields don’t farm themselves.
Caption: The majority of people in Surin work in agriculture, rising and resting with the sun. Photo: Frank Hansen
Surin and Temple Conflicts
I’m in a village in Surin Province, northeast Thailand. From the little wooden house I’m staying in, it’s just an hour to the Cambodian border at Chong Jom. But that’s not why people have heard of this place.
What usually gets Surin into the headlines is an ancient Hindu temple called Prasat Preah Vihear. Both Thailand and Cambodia claim it. And as history has shown us — nothing unites a nation quite like a centuries-long temple tug-of-war.
“Side note for the anthropology nerds: If you ever want to witness how cultural heritage and nationalism mix into something combustible — this is your place.”
Breakfast of Champions (and Cows)
Back to this morning. Kong waved over a teenager who zoomed off on a moped loud enough to wake the ancestors. He came back moments later with two plastic bags: one full of beer, one full of ice. Breakfast essentials.
“The kitchen was out back, open to the jungle. On the floor sat four shirtless men in a circle with sacred tattoos (sak yant) and magic amulets. In the middle: a cow. Or what used to be one.”
The kitchen was out back, open to the jungle. On the floor sat four shirtless men in a circle with sacred tattoos (sak yant) and magic amulets. In the middle: a cow. Or what used to be one.
There were bite-sized pieces of meat, stomach lining, intestines, liver — you name it. All dipped in a sauce made from chili and (wait for it...) stomach acid for that little bite.
“Yes, you read that right. Stomach acid. This is not the kind of brunch you find on Instagram.”
Kong leaned in: “This is not everyday food. This is food for serious work.”
I was about to ask what kind of work when he placed a lump of stomach on a cutting board and brought down a cleaver. Then handed me a piece.
At this point, I had two choices:
Decline politely and stay culturally safe on the outside.
Eat it and cross a kind of spiritual threshold into “one of the guys.”
You already know which one I picked.
[Spoiler: They cheered.]
“Chog dee krap!”
We clinked ice-cold beers and toasted in the rising sun. Somewhere, a rooster finally crowed. Bit late, buddy.
Fishing Without Rods
Our mission for the day? Fishing. But not the rod-and-reel kind.
Behind the house was a pond. No rods. No nets. Just one neighbor on a tractor with a roaring engine and a big pipe.
Kong saw my confusion.
“You’re wondering what’s going on, right?”
Yes, Kong. Yes, I am.
“It’s something fishy,” he said, grinning like he’d waited his whole life to say that.
Turns out, when food is survival and not sport, you get creative. The pond was being drained. Literally sucked dry by the engine. Fish flopped on the surface, others buried themselves in the mud.
Then we waded in.
Caption: imagine the feeling and sound of mud, the warmth of the sun and the nerves for what may hide under my feet. See next picture. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: Just as I was about to step into the mud, this local resident slithered out to remind me: nature doesn’t do safety briefings. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: Fishing meets creativity and pragmatism. Photo: Frank Hansen
Caption: Nobody can tell me, ever, that I don´t get my hands dirty! Photo: Frank Hansen
Mud, Sweat, and Ghostbusters
Let me paint the picture: You’re waist-deep in lukewarm mud. You can’t see your feet. Something brushes your leg. It might be a fish. It might not.
You reach into the mud, hoping to grab dinner and not a venomous surprise.
All around me, villagers were laughing, slipping, fishing with their bare hands. The teamwork was infectious.
“Personal thought: If capitalism collapsed tomorrow, these people would do just fine.”
When things got tricky, one guy pulled on a backpack rigged with a car battery and two metal rods. He looked like a rural Ghostbuster. He stuck them in the mud. A few electric pulses later — more fish.
Genius.
Divide and Grill
We carried the fish back. The women took over — cleaning, sorting, gutting. There was no “mine” and “yours.” Everything was shared.
By dusk, we were back on the bamboo mat, fish sizzling on the grill, smoke curling into the purple sky. We drank rice wine and listened to the jungle orchestra.
Nobody paid. Nobody hoarded. Everyone ate.
The unspoken rule was: if you help, you eat.
Balance without bureaucracy.
Caption: Division of labor, village-style: the men wrestled with the mud, the women turned fish into food.
Final Reflections (and Dirty Feet)
Lying back, caked in dried mud, I stared at the night sky. The stars felt close — like someone had poked tiny holes in the ceiling.
I thought about the day, the mud, the stomach lining, the laughter, and the quiet strength of a village that works not because it must, but because it wants to — together.
Life here isn’t easier. But it’s clearer. You give, you get. You help, you're helped. It’s not about surviving alone, but thriving together.
Yet even here, villagers quietly note that these reciprocal bonds — this invisible glue — are beginning to dissolve under the slow drip of capitalism.
Still... never underestimate a man with a car battery, a fishpond, and a reason to share.