水, вода, 물, น้ำ, voda, air, víz, apă, nước, tubig, uisce, wasser, eau, agua, acqua

This past Saturday was the 16th-annual World Water Day, a U.N.-sponsored event begun in 1993. Its purpose is to raise awareness about major water-related issues, such as the fact that there are over a billion people in the world who lack access to safe drinking water, and to encourage further action on U.N. development goals concerning water. It's also a good opportunity to reflect on the ways in which we interact with and rely on water in our daily lives.

The title of this post lists the words for "water" used in many of the countries I've traveled to. Thinking back on my experiences abroad, I've definitely had different relationships with water in some countries than in the U.S., but I've never come close to experiencing water scarcity.

In Seoul, South Korea, visitors are advised not to drink from the tap...by guidebooks and their home governments, that is. I think the Korean government has officially designated the city's tap water safe, though I couldn't find a figure on how many people actually drink it. The result is a lot of plastic bottles, and a lot of money spent. I'd never buy bottled water in the U.S.--most comes from the tap anyway--but the talk of heavy metal contamination was enough to convince me otherwise in Seoul.

Needless to say, I didn't drink a drop from the tap during my bicycle tour through Southeast Asia either. It's also supposedly a bad idea to order drinks with ice, but I ignored that rule and suffered no obvious consequences. Bottled water was significantly cheaper, as low as 15 cents for the small ones, though I imagine this is still too expensive for some people in the region.

I guess tourists, no matter where they go, are not exposed to the hardship of water scarcity. It's overwhelmingly the people of the developing world that must face it in day-to-day living. According to this website, almost all of South America, Africa, and the south of Asia faces shortages of some kind. And it's not only drinking water we're talking about. A lack of potable water also means inadequate sanitation, which can be just as deadly as drinking from a contaminated water source.

One scary prospect for the future is the privatization of water. Cochabamba, Bolivia, got a taste of this in 2000, and it wasn't pretty. It came at the behest of the World Bank, which threatened to withhold a $25 million loan from Bolivia--South America's poorest nation--unless it privatized the city's water works. Only one entity placed a bid, a consortium of foreign corporations called Aguas del Tunari, and the Bolivian government signed over all rights to the water in its third-largest city. Rates immediately jumped by 35%, and anyone who couldn't pay had their water shut off. This included a large segment of the impoverished city's population, and unrest grew quickly. After four months of national strikes, marches, and some violent clashes with police, Aguas del Tunari was forced to return control of the water works to Bolivia, and the "Cochabamba Water Wars" were over.

The only scenario worse than this would be an actual water war. In fact, there are some policy experts who feel armed conflicts over water in this century are likely. As the pressures of population growth, climate change, and unequal wealth distribution converge, we may be locked into a global struggle for resources like never before. Countries that share vital river systems--such as the Nile in Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia and the Tigris and Euphrates in Turkey, Syria, and Iraq--could be the first to go at it. But any conflict that would deprive the losers of the most necessary of life's substances should concern the entire world.

Obviously, the U.N. has some good reasons for declaring March 22 World Water Day. So in that spirit, here are some facts on water use you might find surprising:

* It takes 2,500 gallons of water to produce one pound of beef, 250 for one pound of soy, and 25 for one pound of wheat.

* Agricultural irrigation accounts for 70% of the world's water use.

* In 2000, water use by American power stations, both for generating electricity and cooling equipment, amounted to 195,000,000,000 gallons...per day.

* It takes 300 gallons to water the average lawn.

* 75% of the human brain is water.

Addendum: Portrait of an Ingredient

No, this is not turning into a food blog. But after writing about laap a few days ago, I got to thinking about one particular ingredient used in that dish that might but somewhat unfamiliar to Western diners but is nonetheless a fascinating substance: fish sauce.

My interest in the subject was first piqued by a book I recently finished, Catfish and Mandala, by Andrew X. Pham. It's a memoir-style travel tale about the author (a Vietnamese American), his family, and his return to Vietnam to cycle the length of the country. He was born in the city of Phan Thiet, which he identifies as one of the major fish sauce capitals of the world. More intriguing, though, were his references to the condiment when describing his heritage. Apparently, Vietnamese expatriates (called Viet kieu) who return to visit the motherland are not always highly looked on by those who never left. Pham has a hard time convincing the people he encounters that he is in fact Vietnamese and not Japanese or Korean. In his attempts to do so, he often tells them he is "full-blooded Vietnamese, pure undiluted fish sauce."

Having always assumed that fish sauce must have originated in China or Thailand, I was surprised to learn of its Vietnamese roots. After further research, it appears that many Southeast Asian cultures probably developed some variety of the sauce independently. In fact, the ancient Romans quite liberally used a condiment called "garum," very similar to modern Asian fish sauce. But regardless of all this, the Vietnamese seem to feel the most intimate connection to the stuff.

Fish sauce has been a vital source of protein and a staple part of the Vietnamese diet for centuries. Pham even describes how in the past it functioned as currency in his hometown. Called nước mắm, it is used to add saltiness to most dishes and can also serve as a dipping sauce. It can be made with pretty much any species of fish, but anchovies are most frequently used due to their omnipresence in the South China Sea and the fact that they're not in demand for consumption. Salt is added to the fish and they are placed in wooden boxes and allowed to ferment, sometimes for up to a year. The anchovy layers are slowly compressed, much like apples in a cider press, and the resultant liquid becomes fish sauce. Simple as that. Of course, the taste and quality can vary greatly depending on the duration of fermentation, the type of fish, and any other ingredients that are added.

According to one website I found, Vietnam sold its fish sauce worldwide up until the U.S.-induced trade embargo in 1975. It was 20 years before the country would reenter the fish sauce market, and apparently Thailand took advantage of the situation during that time to develop something of a monopoly. I'm not sure how accurate this description is, but it's certainly true that the fish sauce sold at grocery stores here invariably comes from Thailand.

As a final note, it's worth pointing out that vegetarians have a hard time finding a substitute for the unique flavor of fish sauce. I prefer the real thing but recently had cause to play around with concocting a fish-free replacement. What I did was boil some dried kelp (the thick kind, like you see in miso soup) in a pot of water--the longer the better, so that you end up with a stock with that very "oceany" taste. I then added some soy sauce and extra salt, let it boil a little longer, and that was it. After removing the kelp strips, it looked just like fish sauce, and the taste wasn't far off either. Of course, I don't have pure, undiluted fish sauce running through my veins, so maybe I don't know any better.

Portrait of a Dish

Sometimes when we travel we get so caught up in sightseeing that we forget to take a moment to enjoy the simple pleasures of the day. And what's simpler or more pleasurable than food?

Laos is a country that has stuck in my mind. I enjoyed how the Mekong River dominates life in the south. Its waters lend a lush fragrance to everything around it, rustic and fresh. And it's this freshness that comes across whenever I eat laap, the national dish.

Laap (often seen as larb on Thai menus) is a warm salad that can be made with any variety of protein--chicken, pork, raw beef, water fowl, freshwater fish, or even water buffalo (I make mine with tofu, seitan, or a combination of the two). The key is that the meat must be minced. To achieve this effect with tofu, it's best to freeze it first, which results in a grainier, crumbly texture when thawed.

Of all the ingredients, I'd say the glutinous rice powder gives laap its most distinctive flavor. This is made by toasting uncooked grains of sticky rice (usually available at Asian markets) until they turn golden brown, then grinding them in a coffee/spice grinder. It may smell like stale popcorn, but it really makes the dish.

The clear, light freshness of laap comes from the use of fresh herb leaves--mint and cilantro--chopped green onions, and fresh lime juice. A liberal dousing of fish sauce enhances the flavors. And of course, it wouldn't be a Southeast Asian dish without some heat. Diced serrano peppers do the trick for me, but an Asian chili would be more authentic. Heap it all on a bed of lettuce and you're good to go.


If you need something to accompany the dish, hand-rolled balls of sticky rice are a must, and some people like a mixture of freshly chopped tomato, cucumber, and basil as well. For specific measurements and instructions for all this, the recipe I follow (more or less) is here.

Even with snow on the ground outside, when those bright flavors touch my palate, it's easy to imagine myself resting cross-legged on a cushion in front of a low wooden table, watching the Mekong's swift current rush off into the sunset. And that's about as good as travel gets.

Green Snow Play

The sport of downhill skiing is right up there with polo. It reeks of entitlement. And though I snowboard and would like to pretend that that's different somehow, it demands the spending of just as much disposable income as its two-bladed predecessor.

Every trip to the mountain has its moments of unease as I wrestle with these facts. The attendant at the nearby Loaf 'N' Jug may never have skied in his life. The workers at the resort cafeteria are all Brazilians or Romanians, jumping at the opportunity to secure a temporary work visa so they can earn $10 an hour flipping overpriced burgers for the yuppie crowd.

And then there are the obvious environmental impacts. Lift motors humming, snowmakers sucking up water, expansive parking lots full of SUVs stretching out before sprawling alpine "villages."

Ironically, though, there's a new trend here. Over the past couple years, I've noticed that many mountains have put up signs saying their lifts are "100% wind-powered," and that their facilities are employing waste water systems and recycled materials.

Is this just an attempt to follow the current of the yuppie market? After all, what's hipper than going green? Think about it a minute, though, and the basic reason becomes obvious: global warming. Of all the world's industries, the ski resort has perhaps the most to lose from a climate in which warmer, shorter winters are the norm. Establishing greener practices isn't just an exercise in rebranding, but rather a somewhat half-hearted attempt to bolster its survival.

Oh well, though there may be self-preservation at work here, the ends justify the means, I guess. But what exactly are those ends? In trying to figure this out, I found a nifty little organization called the Ski Area Citizens' Coalition. Its website rates a number of the American West's ski mountains on a variety of green criteria, such as preservation of environmentally sensitive land and species, use of renewable energy, and commitment to sound environmental policy positions, and ranks each according to a holistic grade.

I was a little distressed on reviewing the "Top Ten" areas (none of which I've skied) and the "Worst Ten" areas (of which I've skied three: Copper, Breckenridge, and Crested Butte). However, my mood improved when I found that the mountain I've frequented for over 20 years (Monarch) and the mountain I most recently visited and loved (Wolf Creek) both scored almost well enough to make the Top Ten list. (Unfortunately, the site has yet to include resorts in the Northeast, although Fast Company.com lists Killington, VT, as the 8th greenest in the world.)

Another thing I learned was that all those signs declaring lifts to be wind-powered (including the ones at Copper, uh-hmm), are a little misleading. The lifts themselves, at least those at the resorts I looked at, are not powered by wind energy. Instead, the resorts purchase energy credits from wind farms in other areas of the country to offset the energy used to run the lifts. A half-truth, but better than nothing, I suppose.

In the end, skiing's green trend does little to diminish the aristocratic image the sport conjures in my mind. That said, I'm eagerly looking forward to getting in a few more days on the slopes this season. And I've added Aspen, Buttermilk, and Park City to my must-ski list.

The Poles of Cold

The snow keeps falling here in Portland. We're getting into that time of winter now where the cold, dark days start to take their toll. Families head down to Florida in droves in February and March for a desperate seasonal respite.

As a Texan, I sometimes wonder if people were meant to live in an environment where the outdoors is in many ways inaccessible for much of the year. Wouldn't it be simpler not to have to worry about freezing to death? And of course, on a global scale, Maine is actually rather temperate. What must it be like to live somewhere really cold?

Enter the Poles of Cold. These are the locations in the Northern and Southern hemispheres where the coldest known temperatures have been recorded. Not surprisingly, the Southern point is in Antarctica, where a temperature of -129.8 degrees Fahrenheit was measured. But no one actually lives in Antarctica as the ordinary person lives.

In the Northern hemisphere, though, the Pole of Cold lies in northeastern Siberia, and two villages there claim to be the coldest inhabited in the world. Both Verkhoyansk and Oymyakon have registered temperatures near -90 Fahrenheit.

I have trouble imagining what it must be like to call these places home. Oymyakon, for example, is located in a river valley between two mountain ranges, so the cold gathers and remains there for most of the year. And at Verkhoyansk's latitude (pretty much in line with the Arctic Circle), the sun never rises on the winter solstice.

On top of the brutal conditions, there's the chilling history of the region as well. During the first decades of Soviet control, it was rife with gulags where prisoners, many convicted, or merely accused, of minor or political crimes, were forced to work the mines and lay roads and rail lines to propel the country's industrialization. It goes without saying that these camps had an appalling mortality rate. And, when the gulag system was dissolved in the 1950s, where did they go? Were they able to return to their former lives in the relative warmth of southern and western Russia? Or did they stay and put down roots through the permafrost at the Pole of Cold?

Surely there are those who enjoy the frigid life. Supposedly, when the temperature drops below -50F, atmospheric ice crystals produce a crinkling sound known as the "whispering of the stars." Fogged breath hangs as static mist in the air, and the sky's color becomes more vivid.

For me, though, the Maine winter is enough. From my computer spot I can look out the window onto a snowy patch of city and be thankful that the radiators are hissing and popping again inside. And after writing this post, the day doesn't even seem so cold.

Thunderbirds

There was thunder last night.

There was a lot, actually, considering that it almost never thunders in winter. I saw the first flash of lightning through my closed eyes as I tried to sleep, and it popped them open. Skeptical about the source of the light, I waited...and listened. There it was, an unmistakable rumble. I counted maybe eight of these before I drifted off.

Of course, it was also raining last night. The weighty snow that began in the afternoon turned to sleet in the evening, coating all the cars in the parking lot with thick ice. The rain started later and turned the world to slush. With drops smattering the windows, it almost felt natural to hear the thunder rolling in.

I'll never forget the only other time I heard thunder in winter. It was mid-December in Vermont, the night before I was to leave the state for good. The second snowstorm of the week, both some of the heaviest on record, was just letting up. Everything was quiet, as it is under such a thick snow blanket, and I lay in bed staring out the window, too wound up to sleep.

There was a sudden flicker, and the sky turned purple. I remember everything purple, the dark clouds faintly glowing from the hazy city night light, the plump sheet of snow on the neighbor's roof, the lazy flakes still in the air, right through to the sheer curtains in my room and the white shag carpet. A quick moment of purple and then, low and soft, the echoes of distant thunder. It happened once more, and that was all. Only two, and soft, but that was my favorite thunder.

Something in that roar makes you feel its power. It's like a jet engine, or an avalanche, but those things are visible, comprehensible. You can look at them and see their boundaries. Thunder is elusive power. And because it's intangible, it becomes even more powerful.

Native Americans in northern North America ascribed boundaries to the thunder of the spring and summer storms. They noticed that the commencement of thunderstorms in the spring coincided with the return of migratory birds from the south. This gave rise to the mythical Thunderbird, a giant creature whose wing beats produced the deafening roar.

Though perhaps more tangible, Thunderbirds retain immense power. Whenever I hear thunder, I can't help but picture a flock of them cutting through the sky. Perhaps last night there was just one, lost in the winter storm, beating its giant wings hard to get home.