Authenticity and Arachnophobia

I try to regain my composure while my heart attempts to escape from my ribcage. My hands shake and I'm unable to unclench my jaw. I brave another glance at what I’ve just been tricked into drinking.

“Homemade tarantula rice wine!” my new friend, Long, repeats, thrusting the plastic bottle of stewing spider carcases in my face.
“Full of healing qualities”, he promises. I don’t feel healed.

I ride out the waves of nausea, soaking up the warm breeze drifting off the Mekong.

Phnom Penh is mesmerising. Its inconceivably brutal past mixed with friendly locals; its wide Parisian-style boulevards crisscrossing the city centre then deteriorating into wooden shack houses just a few minutes further out; a city home to pot-holed streets where a gleaming Lexus glides alongside a toothless old man on a battered bike- seemingly oblivious to each other.

The boat's engine slows to a stop, lending an eeriness to the night.
“In the past, there was no food. Faced with starvation, my people ate anything that moved. This was a delicacy.” Long reveals a plate of delicious looking snacks, dark in colour and smelling of a rich assortment of spices. Having just eaten the most delectable meal cooked by Long’s aunt, my nausea is distracted by the prospect of this final course.

The boat driver’s daughter runs past and grabs one from the plate, giggling as she devours it. She dances off down the boat, singing quietly and licking the remnants off her fingers.

Long places the food in my hand and instructs me not to look, just to eat and enjoy the final part of this authentic Cambodian meal. I follow his advice and begin to chew. It’s crispy, it’s spicy, it’s delicious… then the coating is gone and in my mouth are the remnants of… “fried cockroaches!”

“Need some wine to wash it down with?” he asks, thrusting the lifeless spider soup at me. I shake my head and force down the semi-chewed vermin, watching Long retrieve a spider, dangle it above his open mouth and consume it with a crunch.