Should you find yourself peckish on the parched roads from Siem Reap to capital Phnom Penh in the sweltering heartlands of Cambodia, why not stop for a snack at the roadside market of Skun?
Like all good motorway service stations, the vendors are piled high with crunchy, deep fried morsels to fortify travellers on their way. Unlike all good motorway service stations, this stop should be given a wide berth by arachnophobes.
That is to say, Skun sells spiders.
I found myself in Skun one sunny day in April, several hours into having my spine rearranged by the bumpy bus ride from Siem Reap. I was only recently arrived in Asia on my first ever backpacking trip and had thought it wise to join a tour for itinerant millennials like myself. For a while, we had amused ourselves by observing the driver’s death-defying disregard for the highway code, but eventually even mortal danger becomes tiresome and we were keen to stretch our legs.
Disgorged from the humid bus, we were greeted by the sight of huge platters swarming with savoury delicacies. We hastened forward, only to pause as the mass of protein resolved itself into the legs, spines, wings and eyes of a thousand insects. A few of the more squeamish members of the party hastily retreated, clutching at each other with shrieks of disgust, but the majority tramped on heedless towards the squat toilets.
First bite
Hovering alone, I was soon approached by a kindly looking woman in a colourful dress. She gave me a broad smile, which I found slightly at odds with the platter of glistening locusts she proceeded to thrust under my nose. “Four for one dolla,” she proclaimed triumphantly. A battered note was duly exchanged, and I bore away my prize in a white paper bag. I could not help but wonder if she had the better deal.
By this time, a couple of my companions had resurfaced. They noticed my paper bag and requested a peek inside. I drew out one of the locusts with a flourish and they fell back making mock gagging noises. “Go on, eat it,” demanded the first with all the subtlety of Miss Trunchbull. “Eat it, now,” insisted the second. There seemed to be little alternative but to bite the bullet. Or, more precisely, consume the cricket.
I staggered back into the market a few minutes later, massaging my throat like a soprano who has just swallowed a reel of sandpaper. It had taken until my third locust before a passing local had rushed forward, eyes wide with alarm, to inform me that you are supposed to remove the spiny legs before ingestion.
I was at this point just beginning to notice a pain resembling a band of miniature mountaineers scaling the inside of my oesophagus. This rapidly developed into a full on choking fit and I abandoned all pretence of composure, wheezing out the word “water.” Fortunately, fluids were to hand and after a few anguished swallows the spines were dislodged. With some hoarse words of thanks, I set off in search of more creepy crawlies.
Ambushed again
Our tour leader, Tanya, had managed to get her hands on an entire plateful of roasted tarantulas, furry legs jutting at every angle. She was soliciting the group for a volunteer and while an impressive array of smart phone cameras was raised, no one stepped forward.
I arrived on the scene fresh from the locust debacle and was thrust to the front of pack. For the second time that day I found myself holding a poorly cremated invertebrate and hemmed in by baying spectators.
I had just about worked myself up to taking a bite when I felt light pressure being applied to my chest and stomach. Looking down, I saw the small hands of two Cambodian kids applying live tarantulas disconcertingly close to the bare skin at my collar. For a moment, I confess I was rattled. Sixteen wicked black eyes stared back up accusingly at their charred comrade held before my open mouth.
In front, the expectant crowd demanded that the show go on. And so, anxious to avoid any further interludes, I took a large mouthful. Legs bristled against the back of my throat and for a horrifying moment I imagined the spider still alive and kicking. A mixed cry of adulation and disgust went up from those assembled.
The initial flavour was quite a pungent garlic, which is liberally applied to mask the actual taste. However, as my molars broke through the carapace a foul fishy aroma emerged and I shuddered at the sensation of gelatinous flesh on my tongue. With the grim set jaw of a man resigned to fate, I devoured the remainder of the beast.
People watching
Soon the crowd dispersed, apparently disappointed that my first twitches of distaste had not been followed up with seizures and foaming at the mouth. An Asian man of middling years with a knowing smile came up to me.
“Do you live near here?” I asked him conversationally.
“Oh yes, just down the road,” he replied, smile stretching wider.
“And do you eat these?” I said, gesturing towards the tarantula stuffed barbecues. The man was now positively grinning.
“God no,” he said, “I just enjoy watching the tourists do it.”