Just this past day before yesterday, I had what I consider to be my first real day in Cambodia, followed by my second real day in Cambodia this past yesterday. I’m sure you’re wondering if they were fraught with lessons. Indeed they were. But lessons, like wicker furniture, should be hidden away deep in the dark recesses of the mind. Does that make any sense? No. But does it matter? Also, no. Why? Because yesterday I spent 45 minutes riding in the back of a truck on sacks of rice seated in front an exhaust that had been rerouted from the aft of the truck directly into my general head region. It wasn’t until half way through that 45 minute period that I noticed this juxtaposition of my face and noxious chemicals and began to feel what the Khmer people refer to as “funny.” My ability to make intelligent decisions regarding my own health and safety had been presumably lessened and so I decided to remain seated there, despite the fact that there were several other perfectly comfortable sacks of rice upon which to rest my copious buttocks. I rationalized, with my degraded cognitive faculties, that the damage had already been done and I was afraid that Cambodians might think it rude to scoff at the exhaust pipe seat. For all I knew it was a cherished delicacy, an honor to be where I was even though no one else seemed eager to switch spots. Plus the guy next to me was borrowing my pen. And it was my only pen.
But that was yesterday. And this is a story that begins the day before yesterday. So walk with me through the fabric of existence to this place in space-time and awake with me to the glorious sounds of a Cambodian morning. Cars and little motorcycles. But not just any cars and motorcycles. The kind of cars and motorcycles that occupy the roads of a country with lax emissions control. Think lawnmowers. Once the sleep had departed from my eyeglobes and they joined my earholes in delivering unto me the fullness of my sensory abilities, I was greeted by a spider, 8 inches across on the wall next to my head. I didn’t shriek. And anyone who says I did is a motherless liar. Being the conservationist that I am, I had no desire to harm my new little friend. I simply wanted to find out if it was poisonous, that I might take proper precautions in disposing of it. I queried the staff on this issue. But there was a translation issue. Somewhere between the words “Is it poisonous?” leaving my mouth and reaching the ears of the nice gentleman who was kind enough to assist me on this issue, he apparently heard something to the effect of “SMASH IT! SMASH IT! EEK! SMASH IT!” And so he smashed it...
...With the folder in the room that contains all of the colorful brochures touting the amenities of Siem Reap, none of which, I might add, mention anything about bionic man-eating head spiders or the cacophony of daily morning lawnmower races that take place on the streets of this fine city. After the man kindly wiped off the folder, rendering it once again free of spider spaghetti (translated literally from the Italian, spaghetti means: entrails from the family arachnidae, order chelicerata) he told me the spider bites, but it is a weak bite, like a mosquito. I mourned the loss of such a majestic creature, for about ten seconds, and then with great difficulty (ease) due to the weight of the death of my amply legged friend upon my head, I went about my day.I walked downstairs to partake in what would turn out to be my first experience with traditional Cambodian cuisine. The next sensory organ to be assaulted by the sights, sounds, and you guessed it, smells of Cambodian culture was (if the smell clue wasn’t enough I’ll lay the last bricks of this description house for you) my nose. And what traditional Cambodian fare was it that titillated my olfactory zones this early morn? Eggs, bacon, french toast, and a glass of OJ. OJ is loosely translated to the English as orange juice and it’s pronounced o-jay. I would put one of those fancy long o symbols above the o as to follow proper pronunciation protocol, but I’m not that good with a computer and the task seems next to impossible. I was apprehensive at first, seeing such a strange and unconventional meal on my breakfast plate. The sheltered American part of my brain screamed run and filled my imagination with thoughts of the horrible ailments that might await me provided I partake in this mystery of culinary sorcery. It made sense. I mean, this breakfast seemed to be neither kid tested, nor mother approved. But I was in Cambodia. And the Khmer people have this saying. It starts off something like “When in Rome...” I can’t remember how it ends, but it was very eloquent and it inspired me to leave my comfort zone and give it a shot. At first it was difficult, but I managed to choke down a few bites. By the end, I even found myself enjoying the palatable nature of this thing called “French toast.” I was proud of myself, for I had put myself out there as Seoul had taught me to do, and I was living as the Cambodian lives.
Then at lunch I ate a few giant roasted crickets.
A group of children, much smaller than myself bought a bag of insects and were flat out going to town. I tried to explain to them that what they had in front of them was not a bag of Cheetos, which would merit such voracious consumption, but a bag of bugs.
Individually, they looked at me the way a person who doesn’t speak English looks at a person who is making a genuine plea for reason in that language, then popped crickets in their mouths as if they had no idea what I had been saying. They didn’t. Defeated and broken I searched my soul for a way to make good of this dark, dark situation. I realized that if nothing else, I could do it for America. You see, the ol’ US of A was long held in high esteem in the international community. We were heroes to many, and at the very least good people to the rest. But in the last 8 years or so, for some inexplicable reason, that seems to have changed. I don’t know why, but for some reason the figure of 8 years seems pertinent to the answer. We’ll leave that puzzle to the historians to sort out. So in an effort to restore my beloved homeland to greatness and redeem us in the eyes of the international community, I ate some crickets. Now all that has to happen for my plan to come to fruition is for those kids who witnessed said eating to come to high power political positions, remember me, and formulate policy based on their experience of a true American. Move over G.I. Joe. There’s a new hero in town. And he’s here to affect real change... one... meal... at a time.
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