Susan McFarang was your average British woman with a sun hat bigger than her Airbnb and a habit of loudly ordering “paaaad TAI” as if the extra syllables made it more authentic.
She first came to Thailand for a yoga retreat and stayed for the food… specifically, the chilies.
It started innocently. One day at a street market in Chiang Mai, she pointed at a bright red chili and said to the vendor, “What’s that, then? A spicy strawberry?”
The vendor chuckled ominously and said, “Try it. Just one.”
Susan did.
The ground did a little wobble, her left eye twitched, and her soul briefly left her body to get some milk.
But she came back stronger.
By the end of the week, she was chomping down bird’s eye chilies like they were Tic Tacs. Papaya salad with “Phet mak mak” (very spicy)? Child’s play. Tom Yum soup? She ordered it with “extra lava.” Even the locals were sweating just watching her eat.
One vendor whispered, “Is she okay?”
Another replied, “I think she’s evolving.”
Soon, her transformation began.
Her pale British skin developed a glowing tan not from the sun, but from internal chili combustion. Her accent shifted from Yorkshire to something suspiciously local. One day, mid-meal, she set down her spoon and said, clear as day:
“อร่อยมากเลยค่ะ
!” (Aroi mak loei ka! – “It’s very delicious!”)
Everyone froze.
“Did… did she just Thai?” a tuk-tuk driver gasped.
Susan began picking up more than the language. She started bargaining at markets like a pro. She folded napkins like a Thai auntie. She removed her shoes before entering everywhere—even the 7-Eleven.
Then came the final stage: one morning, she looked in the mirror and gasped—not because she didn’t recognize herself, but because her reflection had begun doing the Thai greeting (wai) before she even thought about it.
Her posture was elegant, her eyebrow game was flawless, and her pad kra pao came with just the right amount of basil and existential heat.
By then, the locals had stopped calling her “farang.”
They called her “Susan Nee”—a hybrid being of spicy enlightenment.
Tourists would approach her for help:
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
She’d tilt her head, smile gently, and reply:
“Naaa… not anymore.”
Some say Susan lives in Isaan now, harvesting her own chilies and training squirrels to fan her while she eats. Others claim she’s opened a fusion restaurant called “Chili Karma” where foreigners must sign a waiver before tasting the soup.
All we know is: never challenge a farang who eats more chilies than a Thai grandma. She’s not sweating. She’s ascending.
