Its smell is pungent; the spit stains rust-red. Outside Hong Long shops, the circular Burmese script warns wandering chewers of the hefty fine in Thai baht. Scrub with all your might but that stain will forever blend with the cracked concrete. The mouths that masticate the mixture daily give smiles with teeth betraying the same marks – the appearance of eroded dentin.

            “Gwin-yan sah-chin-day!” Sayama wasn’t supposed to ‘want to eat (chew) betel nut’. She was about to become a pastor’s wife. But every now and then we visited one of the many gwin-yan stalls scattered throughout the outdoor market. With my scrape of paper out, I questioned the Burmese names for each ingredient so I could search through my dictionary later.

He took a rich green betel nut leaf into the palm of his hand. Slathering a chalk-white lime paste back and further over the leaf until it was evenly covered. A nut cutter with a sharp little blade split chunks of the actual betel nut onto the bed of white. He sprinkled in licorice seeds to top off the mix. No tobacco for ladies but guys add this or sometimes marijuana. No wonder it’s addicting. Like origami, he folded the edges into a balled package. To seal the flap shut, another brush of lime was swiped on.

She paid for her contraband and then slipped the plastic pouch with four gwin-yan rolls into her shoulder bag. Later that night she convinced me I just had to try it. Okay…embrace the culture. After the kids were tucked into their bunks at the Safe House, she knocked on my door. Two plastic cups to spit in were placed on the blue-tiled floor. Chew, chew, chew. Don’t swallow your spit or you become totally wired. Chew, spit. Chew, spit. It tasted like it smelled but you start to like it as the topical anesthetic feeling in your mouth takes over. Locals claim it makes your teeth strong, preventing cavities. Never mind that the stains make teeth look completely rotten.

Sayama giggled at my scrunched up face when I first tasted gwin-yan. And now? I like the stuff. Shhh…don’t tell the pastor…hers or mine.

Today at church here in the States, I sat next to a Karen lady who is in her 60’s. She’s a tough old bird with fire in her belly. Maybe it’s from the gwin-yan that I always smell on her. She’s the only Karen person I have ever met that will jog up to me and wrap her arms around me in a bear-hug while calling me “sayama pane-pane” (skinny teacher). So…it might just be part of her personality. But I like to attribute part of her boldness to the betel nut she loves.

A connection has been made in my mind. I may rarely chew the potent mixture but the experience stays fresh when I smell it or see someone from Burma chewing it. I can relate if only in a small way. Perspective changes when you become a participant. It’s a reminder to not be afraid to ‘chew’ on other cultures. And in the end…you might actually like it.