The Geography of Disgust: Why People Eat What They Eat in Laos

Kassaundra Ferm

26 December 2025 

I spent Christmas Eve in Vang Vieng, where the mountains turn purple at sunset and hot air balloons drift lazily overhead. The atmosphere is surreal, with Frank Sinatra’s "White Christmas" playing amidst the humid, tropical heat of Southeast Asia. My festive mood was dampened when I looked into a convenience store and saw a woman on the floor with a large animal—likely a dog—being prepared for roasting. That instinctive wave of nausea hit me hard; it’s a common reaction—an almost visceral "yuck"—to see a dog treated like a carcass. In the West, we consider dogs as "honorary humans," which can make the idea of eating them feel almost cannibalistic (Parekh, 2014). I experienced a clash between my Western upbringing and the stark reality of local survival in Laos. The villagers follow a subsistence lifestyle, where nothing is wasted, and their menu is shaped by the environment. Laos has historically been a net food importer and faces ongoing food shortages. In this context, the luxury of food prejudice—a sense of moral delicacy—becomes a calorie-consuming burden that local people simply cannot afford if they want to stay nourished (Niedringhaus, 1968).

Vang Vieng Sunset 

This question has haunted me ever since I saw that poor dog, and as I traveled around the world, why? Why is it that rats or frogs are common foods here in Laos, while my friends back in the United States see them as culinary atrocities? My journey to this question began in the forests of Madagascar, where I worked as an environmental conservation intern protecting lemurs. In the village of Saint Luce, I was tasked with teaching locals not to eat fruit bats and lemurs—species vital to the health of the mahampy wetlands. I explained that, according to Western conservation standards, these animals should be off-limits, but for the Malagasy villagers, they are traditional and accessible sources of protein. Later, in Japan, I found myself on the other side of the spectrum—sitting in a restaurant, hesitantly trying raw horse meat. I was scared of the stigma, my father watching me with wide eyes, refusing to even taste it. But once I pushed past my mental barrier, I realized the meat was lean, clean, and deeply culturally revered.

So, how does geography shape what ends up on a Laotian’s plate? What is it about evolutionary psychology that makes us recoil at insects but crave a burger?

To understand this, we need to look beyond the plate and explore the complex relationship between ecology and the hidden logic of the human gut. I want to investigate why a villager in Vang Vieng considers a frog a primary protein source, while someone in Malaysia might see beef liver as a delicacy, but view a pork sausage as unclean.

Disgust and the "Wormed" Mind

Disgust is rarely a response to the actual taste of food; instead, it is a reaction to how we perceive it. Psychologists distinguish between "distaste," a sensory rejection of bitter or foul flavors, and "core disgust," an ideological rejection based on what an animal is or where it comes from (Parekh, 2014). This is driven by the "Contamination Principle," a strong psychological idea that says once two things come into contact, they remain connected. As Rozin (1996) famously observed, if a cockroach—an animal we consider "profane"—touches a bowl of mashed potatoes, the idea of the cockroach becomes part of the food. For a Westerner, those potatoes are now permanently "wormed" and inedible, even if the insect is sterilized (Parekh, 2014).

Laotian Food Market

In Laos, this principle operates on a very different level. Because the Laotian diet shows remarkably few food prejudices, the threshold for "contamination" is much higher. While a Westerner might see a rat as a source of filth, a Laotian farmer views a grain-fed field rat as a clean and accessible resource. This cultural mindset is deeply ingrained, often linked to "normative moralization"—the process by which a culture turns a practical behavior, such as avoiding certain animals, into a moral rule to promote social cooperation (Parekh, 2014). In the United States, our taboo against eating dogs or horses is rooted in "socio-moral" disgust; we consider such acts an ethical failure because we attribute “mindful” qualities to these animals, believing they can suffer in ways chickens cannot (Zaraska, 2016).

Purity, Toxins, and Vital Life Forces

The rigidity of our dietary boundaries becomes most apparent when viewed through a religious lens. During my time in Udaipur, India, I spoke with Hindus who considered their strict vegetarianism a necessary safeguard to maintain the purity of the soul. From their perspective, killing an animal is not merely an ethical decision; it is a spiritual impurity. They believe that at the moment of slaughter, an animal’s fear and pain release toxins of aggression into the meat. Eating that flesh, therefore, means absorbing these passions, which can cloud the mind and harm one's karma (Parekh, 2014). The desire for spiritual calm is so strong that some Orthodox Brahmins even avoid pungent foods like garlic and onions to prevent any metabolic agitation.

However, visiting Laos completely changes this perspective. Here, what a Hindu might consider a "toxin" is often seen by Laotians as a vital life force. There is a deep-rooted symbolic belief in Southeast Asia that consuming the "strong" parts of an animal—the blood, organs, and heart—can transfer its specific strengths to a person. In this context, eating liver is seen as literally absorbing vitality from the creature (Parekh, 2014). Laotians have developed this cultural logic to adapt to a land that offers very little else. Historically, about 95% of Laotians lived in small, mountain-bound villages with almost no contact with external markets. The Mekong River served as the only major route, so most people relied on their immediate surroundings to meet their needs (Niedringhaus, 1968).

Geography as Destiny: The Death of Prejudice

Map of Laos

Niedringhaus (1968) presents a compelling argument that the geography of Laos effectively eliminated the concept of food prejudice. Due to the country's rugged and isolated terrain, Laotians had to become experts in their local ecology. Unlike their neighbors in Thailand or Vietnam, they couldn't depend on large rice surpluses or easy trade with cities like Saigon. Interestingly, Niedringhaus suggests that this made the Laotian food economy highly resilient. While other countries faced instability when war or disrupted trade routes occurred, Laos remained stable because its people knew how to live entirely off the land.

In this harsh landscape, being selective about food was sometimes a luxury that could lead to starvation. The Mekong River, which flows through the country, is unpredictable. It can easily flood rice fields or leave them to dry out during a drought. As a result, the Laotians developed what I might call a "zero-prejudice" survival strategy. In the north, they plant maize as a safeguard against dry spells, while the forest remains the main source of food. When rice crops fail, Laotians don’t hesitate to eat insects or frogs; they consume whatever is available to keep their families alive (Niedringhaus, 1968).

Over the centuries, this "emergency" eating became so ingrained that the line between "survival food" and regular food disappeared. While some groups, such as Hindus or Jews, are often willing to face starvation rather than break their religious taboos, cultures like those in the US or Laos—where survival needs often take precedence over strict spiritual rules—are quicker to set aside feelings of disgust in order to survive. In Laos, the persistent threat of environmental changes made consuming certain animals essential, eventually transforming it into a celebrated aspect of the local cuisine.

The Nutritional Logic of the "Gross"

My obsession with nutrition started years ago after a transformative trip to Costa Rica, when I switched to a strictly vegan lifestyle. Witnessing the environmental impact of overfishing and industrial farming deeply moved me, igniting a passion for learning about plant-based health. I followed the guidance of the book Vegan for Life by Jack Norris and Virginia Messina, tracking my diet carefully and learning how to supplement with B12 and Omega-3s, which can be hard to find without animal products. Aspiring to become a nutritionist, I hope to help address the global shift away from traditional, whole-food diets toward Western fast food and processed calories — a phenomenon known as the "nutrition transition." Now, standing here in Laos, I realize that for many, the supplements I once purchased in bottles are actually crawling across the forest floor.

Beef liver in Romania

In the West, we've been conditioned to favor "clean" cuts of meat—like skinless chicken breasts or lean beef tenderloin—while overlooking the most nutrient-dense parts of the animal, often dismissing them as "trash" or "offal." However, as I stroll past the golden eaves of a beautiful Laotian temple, I observe stalls where locals are threading pork livers and intestines onto bamboo skewers for grilling. From a scientific standpoint, this "nose-to-tail" approach is a remarkable example of nutritional efficiency. Research by Fayemi et al. (2018) highlights that organ meats are the true "bioavailable gold" of the animal kingdom. While muscle meat primarily provides protein, organs such as the liver, heart, and kidneys are rich sources of fat-soluble vitamins—A, D, E, and K—and essential minerals, which the body absorbs much more readily than plant-based foods.

When discussing "nutrient density," we consider the ratio of essential nutrients to the total calorie content. For instance, liver is often regarded as nature’s most potent multivitamin. It is an excellent source of heme iron, the form of iron that the human body absorbs most efficiently to prevent anemia and sustain energy (Fayemi et al., 2018). In Western diets, mineral deficiencies are common because we tend to eat only the thighs and breasts. However, by consuming the entire animal, Laotians obtain a wider variety of micronutrients that is nearly impossible to achieve through processed foods.

This nutritional strategy is essential in Laos, where glutinous "sticky" rice is the main component of most meals, often making up a staggering 80% of daily caloric intake (Niedringhaus, 1968). While sticky rice provides energy, it lacks certain nutrients on its own. To support physical growth and sustain high work capacity in the fields, Laotians rely on "nutrient synergy"—the biological process that occurs when high-carb grains are combined with small amounts of animal products (Chungchunlam & Moughan, 2024; Niedringhaus, 1968). A single fried frog or a small serving of padaek (the pungent, fermented fish paste found in nearly every dish) supplies essential amino acids and lipids, enabling the body to effectively utilize the energy from the rice. Without protein sources, the Laotian diet would be nutritionally incomplete, leading to stunted growth and reduced life expectancy (Niedringhaus, 1968).

Observing these interactions, I’m reminded of my father’s wide-eyed horror when I tried horse meat in Japan. He was experiencing what psychologists call the "Meat Paradox"—a form of cognitive dissonance where we claim to love and respect animals, yet continue to eat them (Zaraska, 2016). To resolve this mental tension, we create arbitrary categories: some animals are "friends" (dogs, horses, cats), while others are "food" (cows, pigs, chickens). We convince ourselves that animals in the "food" category are less intelligent or less capable of suffering, allowing us to eat them without guilt (Zaraska, 2016).

This paradox is precisely why many people, myself included at 18, choose to go vegan. Vegans often recognize the hypocrisy in "picking and choosing" which lives have value; they decide that if they cannot bear to kill a dog or a horse, then they should not be killing a cow or a chicken either. In a country like the United States, where food is plentiful and fortified cereals are on every shelf, we have the privilege to make that choice. But here in the mountains of Laos, the meat paradox presents a very different picture. When your environment dictates that survival depends on a frog or a rat, the distinction between "friend" and "food' fades, replaced by a deeper respect for the animal that is literally sustaining your life.

The Gut Microbiome

Resilience and the Traveler’s Gut

Perhaps the most surprising benefit of indulging in "unusual" meats in Laos isn't visible on a dinner plate, but can be observed under a microscope. As a follower of the Zoe nutrition podcast and an avid student of personalized gut health science, I've learned that our gut microbiome—the trillions of bacteria, fungi, and viruses inhabiting our digestive system—is essentially the control center of our metabolic health. These microbes do much more than digest food; they regulate inflammatory markers, calibrate immune responses, and even influence our moods. We often fear that eating "exotic" foods will upset our stomachs, worry about travelers' diarrhea or food poisoning, or consider unfamiliar foods unclean. However, recent travel medicine studies suggest that, for the adventurous eater, the opposite may actually be true.

Traveling internationally to non-industrialized regions and experiencing unfamiliar foods actually enhances the richness and diversity of our gut microbiota (Henares et al., 2024). While industrialization in the West has gradually reduced microbial diversity—mainly because of diets rich in ultra-processed foods lacking the fiber and variety needed to nourish our beneficial microbes—travel acts as a biological reset. In the West, our overly sanitized environments prioritize shelf stability and sterility, often at the expense of the living bacteria that our bodies have evolved to interact with. By consuming a diet filled with hyper-processed, synthetic ingredients, we are essentially starving our gut garden, which is linked to a rise in chronic inflammatory diseases.

Research by Henares et al. (2024) indicates that long-term travel to regions such as Southeast Asia can increase the abundance of beneficial microbial genera, including Faecalibacterium, known for its anti-inflammatory effects and its role in maintaining gut barrier health. This occurs through "social transmission"—simply being in contact with new people, traditional food preparation methods, and environments with fewer resources. As I move from Thailand to Laos, with Vietnam next, I realize that every local meal I enjoy offers a chance to recruit new microbial allies. Choosing dishes like frog curry or pork liver skewers over a familiar Western burger helps build a more resilient microbiome—better equipped to defend against pathogens and environmental stresses (Henares et al., 2024). Travel, therefore, offers more than just sights and sounds; it diversifies our internal ecosystems in ways no probiotic pill can match.

Rethinking the "Nauseous" Feeling

My journey from experimenting with pescatarianism as a teenager to becoming a dedicated vegan in Costa Rica, and now navigating the challenging wet markets of Vang Vieng, has shown me that nutrition isn’t just a fixed set of rules. It’s a dynamic conversation between our bodies and the environment around us. This realization encourages us to be mindful of how we move through space and time. When we travel, we shouldn’t just be tourists of the sights, but also of the local food systems. By understanding the geography of the foods available and choosing to eat locally, we not only support the community but also promote our own long-term health.

Wonders of Laos

In the West, our systems are overly sanitized, aiming to protect us with ultra-processing and chemical preservatives. While this lowers the risk of immediate food poisoning, it also creates a mixture of synthetic effects that we are only beginning to understand. We've traded the "dirty" reality of local markets for the sterile, plastic-wrapped convenience of processed foods. However, in doing so, we've sacrificed the nutritional completeness that comes from eating whole, unprocessed foods. When traveling to countries with different food cultures, don't be afraid to try new things. What may initially cause nausea is often more about cultural differences than a sign that your body is in danger. 

Certainly. We must approach certain food risks with intellectual honesty. Shepon et al. (2023) highlight the zoonotic risks—the potential for diseases to transfer from animals to humans—associated with consuming wild species such as bats or lemurs. After COVID-19, fearing a global pandemic is understandable. These emerging infectious diseases often originate from ecosystem disruption and wildlife consumption. Nonetheless, we should differentiate between genuine ecological and health dangers associated with eating endangered wildlife and the cultural disgust we feel toward domesticated or local foods such as frogs, rats, or dogs.

Our sense of "disgust" is shaped by culture. Whether it's the "dominion" over animals described in Judeo-Christian tradition or the concept of "karma" in Hinduism, we all use stories to justify what we put on our plates (Parekh, 2014). In Laos, the story revolves around survival, geographic necessity, and an ancestral understanding that when it comes to the forest, nothing should go to waste. 

From my research and time in Laos, I've learned that there's no "perfect" diet—only the one that best connects us to our environment. Even if you never visit a small, landlocked village in Laos, you can take this lesson home: eat seasonally, support local producers, and remember that your gut thrives on variety, not sterility. 

My experience in Vang Vieng started with nausea but ended with deep respect for the resilience of both the human spirit and the human stomach. 

References

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Fayemi, P. O., Muchenje, V., Yetim, H., & Ahhmed, A. (2018). Targeting the pains of food insecurity and malnutrition among internally displaced persons with nutrient synergy and analgesics in organ meat. Food Research International, 104, 48-58.

Henares, D., Monsálvez, V., Brotons, P., Machado, M. L., Capilla, S., Gomila-Grange, A., ... & Gasch, O. (2024). Human gut microbiota composition associated with international travels. Travel medicine and infectious disease, 61, 102747.

Jendresen, M. N., & Rasmussen, L. V. (2022). The importance of forest foods for diet quality: A case study from Sangthong District, Laos. Trees, Forests and People, 7, 100166.

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Niedringhaus, T. E. (1968). The Food Geography of Mainland Southeast Asia (No. ES38).

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