FOOD

A Village Delicacy

by William Snyder
Kantrom, Thailand

Filming and photography have as much to do with waiting as they do with the actual practice of the craft. Today was a great study in that truth.

As the time of our scheduled visit to photograph and interview a subject for another project I’m working on approached, we jumped on the motorbike and made our way from the farm through the village. Within minutes we had navigated our way beyond any sign of village life, or anything resembling civilization for that matter, into the remote fields and jungles of southern Sisaket.

When we arrived at our destination, and after a considerable wait where shyness apparently dictated a no-show, we wandered the area and stumbled into what might best be described as a serendipitous reassignment.

With eyes like a hawk my wife spotted a guy way out in a field under a tree with a long bamboo pole in his hands. His neck was cranked back and his face fixed toward the sky.

As if she were witnessing a miracle in progress she quickly instructed me to maneuver the motorbike off the perilous trail we were on and into the field toward the man. Before the kickstand hit dirt she had already dismounted and was mission-bound in his direction. I grabbed my camera from under the seat and double-timed it to catch up.

“Kai mot daeng,” she said as I closed the distance.
“Kai mot daeng,” she echoed again.

I figured she knew him and was calling him by name.

The man whose tranquil world we had just disrupted didn’t even stop what he was doing long enough to look at us. He didn’t pivot from his gaze upward an inch. In fact, he gave no indication he was aware of the infiltration on his property at all. (I love it out here.)

Still looking up into the tree with the strange bamboo pole, which I could now see had an open bag affixed to the end of it, he motioned with one hand back toward a tiny shack further into the trees, barking something in Thai.

Appearing giddy, my wife pivoted in that direction while I stayed put snapping away at the scene unfolding in front of me. She returned with a similar long bamboo pole but without the bag on the end. Stationing herself beside him, she raised the pole tip into the same place his was and began knocking it back and forth as if trying to shake something loose.

I’d seen her do similar movements with coconuts high up in palm trees, coaxing them down to earth. But this was a mango tree, and fruit wasn’t falling.

I soon discovered it wasn’t fruit they were after at all. It was what visitors from the city affectionately call jungle caviar.

The locals call it kai mot daeng.

Ant eggs.

A highly seasonal and rather expensive delicacy made up of the eggs and pupae of large red ants known as weaver ants, named for their unique ability to weave leaves together using silk produced from their own larvae, creating intricate waterproof nests.

Ant eggs are a staple in Isaan cuisine, with harvest season usually running only through March and April.

It was fascinating to watch. I am always amazed by the graciousness and calm of this culture. This isn’t the first time we’ve wandered onto a stranger’s property and been greeted as if we’d been expected all along. No fanfare. No questions. Just grab an oar and help with whatever it is we’re doing. More often than not a meal follows, and the time spent together feels like it was shared with long-lost friends.

After they had shaken loose all the eggs they were going to collect from the tree, and I had made all the pictures I could make, we settled into a nice leisurely conversation with the man.

I wandered off a few more times and snapped a few additional photographs: two tiny puppies running around with no apparent mother in sight, and a sow with her piglets tucked into a small makeshift stable near the shack that may have been his home.

Before we left he gifted us a nice bag filled with the ants and eggs my wife had helped harvest, and we were back on the trail, if you could call it that, navigating washed-out ruts and protruding boulders as we carefully made our way back to better roads, and eventually home.

What a great experience.

When we finally arrived, I followed my wife into the kitchen where she prepared the bounty for refrigeration with a mixture of flour and spices.

The next day vegetables were gathered from the garden and my first meal of ant eggs was prepared. Usually these protein-rich little morsels are added to omelets or salads.

But this batch went into a delicious soup.

Sep li krab.
Very delicious.

Having had a few run-ins with these hard-biting red ants before, followed by the immediate application of ointment to calm the sting and swelling, I have to say it felt pretty good to finally turn the tables on them.

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Inside Northeast Thailand’s Fastest Growing Ginger Operation.

by William Snyder
Khun Han Thailand

In the heart of Khun Han District, in Thailand’s Sisaket Province, there’s a striking body of water — a man-made lake known as the Huai Tha Reservoir. Looming over its western shore is an enormous yellow building that nearly everyone in this region recognizes immediately. Locals call it the Ginger Farm. More accurately, it’s the Ginger Factory.

This imposing structure is the centerpiece of the Sayam Brand production facility — a company known for producing a wide range of food products, with ginger at the core of its operation.

I was fortunate enough to be invited here for a private filming visit to document the facility. But by the time our schedules aligned, circumstances on the ground had shifted dramatically. The skirmish along the Thai–Cambodian border was underway, and at just thirty kilometers from the border, this facility sits well inside what had been designated a red zone.

As a precaution, most of the hundreds of workers who are normally here had evacuated to shelters or safer areas farther inland. Production was largely paused. Only a small number of staff remained, keeping limited operations running.

Because of that, what you’re seeing here is best understood as Part One — a glimpse inside for the curious, a first-look preview of what will come later. Not the full story, but an important introduction.

The facility itself is expansive and impressive. Established in 1985, the company began as a producer of salted ginger, exporting primarily to Japan. Within just a few years, it expanded into producing its own pickled ginger, offering multiple variations of sliced ginger products as demand grew.

Over time, the product line broadened significantly to include dehydrated tropical fruits like pineapple, papaya, and mango — now exported to countries across the globe, including Japan, Korea, Germany, Poland, Russia, Argentina, France, and the United States.

Once a year, raw ginger from carefully selected growers in the mountainous regions near Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai arrives in a convoy of tandem-axle trucks. From there, it’s offloaded, washed, and prepared for state-of-the-art cold storage… staged to be processed over the months that follow.

At its core, the company’s vision is to remain deeply market- and customer-focused, continuously improving production processes while maintaining the highest standards of efficiency and hygiene. Sayam Brand also works closely with its network of farmers, providing ongoing education and guidance to help optimize raw materials from the ground up.

Before we left, the owners were kind enough to send us home with a sample of one of their products and a nice ginger tea. And I have to say — there’s something about the smell of fresh ginger moving through this place that feels calming… almost grounding. It’s a sensory reminder of the care taken here, and of the quality these walls are built to protect.

Saturday Night in the Swamp

by William Snyder
Kantrom Noi, Thailand

No sense in letting a good swamp hole go to waste.

Out here in deep Isaan, standing water is never just standing water. It’s a question. A temptation. A dare. And for young guys especially, it’s nearly impossible to walk past a muddy depression in the ground without wanting to get the water out of it—by any means necessary—just to see what’s hiding below the surface.

On this particular Saturday night, the hope was simple: a couple of Isaan staples for dinner. East Asian bullfrogs. Asian swamp eels. Both are common here, both are prized, and both require a certain willingness to wade knee-deep into the muckiest mud you can imagine.

What followed was pure village logic at work. Buckets, bare hands, laughter, and a steady commitment to the process. Draining the hole. Probing the mud. Reading subtle movements in water that most people would never notice. It’s not clean. It’s not polite. But it’s skillful in a way that only comes from growing up around this land.

Admittedly, it was funnier in person than any camera could fully capture. But even on film, you can see the mindset clearly—the ingenuity, the confidence, and the joy of doing something familiar with friends. Boys being boys, in the most literal sense of the phrase.

Once the catch was made, the night shifted naturally into preparation. Cleaning the quarry. Throwing together a fresh papaya salad. Pulling herbs straight from a nearby tree. Rice whiskey appeared. A few beers followed. The jokes got louder. The work got lighter.

Nothing about it was staged. Nothing was performed for the camera. It was just a small, ordinary Saturday night in the village—muddy, noisy, improvised, and deeply human.

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The Rice Harvest

It’s rice harvest season again.

Tag along on another beautifully quiet morning in the village…the kind where the air still feels cool, and the hum of daily life starts slow.

As the kids head off to school, the farmers are already out in the fields, gathering the year’s crop. When the bins fill, the rice is spread out on tarps to dry – folded, turned, and spread again under the sun.

Later, it’ll be bagged, stored, and milled as needed, providing for each home in the village all year long.