A New Food and New Friend in Phnom Penh

by Shannon Yarbrough (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Cambodia

“You seem tired,” Chanmony said, looking me up and down. “I am,” I admitted. I was six weeks into a three-month role as a Leadership Resident at The Harpswell Foundation, an American nonprofit in Phnom Penh with the mission to empower a new generation of women leaders in Cambodia. I was there to teach leadership skills and English and was living in a dormitory with forty students, including Chanmony. By this point, I was over jet lag, but another kind of tiredness had set in. I wasn't new, but I didn’t yet belong. It wasn’t homesickness, but a different kind of displacement. This feeling was what Chanmony saw. “I know what can give you power,” she continued. I thought about correcting her – "energy" instead of "power" – but I liked the sound of what she said. And I didn’t know what we were about to do, so who was I to change her words? “Come with me,” she said, grabbing my motorcycle helmet off the wooden desk by the door. Since arriving in Cambodia, I had made a commitment to say “yes” to new experiences. In this spirit, I followed Chanmony outside, breathed in the humid night air, and hopped on her motorcycle. We took off. Within minutes, we arrived at a roadside food stall, a tent lit with bare white bulbs on exposed wires. There were four vendors making their own specialties, none of which I could identify. The smell of cooked meat and vegetables blended with motorcycle exhaust. The pungent fragrance of durian, a spiky, watermelon-sized fruit considered the stinkiest in the world, wafted through it all. I had – until this point – avoided these stalls, afraid of getting sick. But Chanmony promised that whatever we were about to eat would give me power, so I had to try it, whatever it was. She led me to a squat foldable table surrounded by pink plastic stools and asked me to wait. When she returned, she had what looked like two hard-boiled eggs standing upright, each perched in its own metal cup. She handed one egg to me, along with a small plastic spork, then instructed me to tap the top to break the shell, drink the liquid, and eat the rest. She added with a smile that this was her favorite food. I followed her instructions and was surprised to find I liked the flavor of the egg juice: savory and well-seasoned, though I couldn’t fathom how it was seasoned inside an unbroken shell, nor how there was liquid rather than the congealed egg white I was used to. Then, I gasped. Inside, rather than a yolk, was a fully formed unborn chick curled in a sleeping position – eyes, feathers, beak, and all. When Chanmony saw my reaction, she smiled again and told me to keep eating. I did, and found that the texture of the baby bird was soft and light, the flavor of the meat even more pleasant than the juice. By the time we arrived back at the dorm, I had so much power I felt as if I could propel myself up the three flights of stairs to my room in one leap. Chanmony left in a hurry to complete her homework while I marveled at this strange feeling and wondered how I’d ever fall asleep. Sleep did come, but the next day I awoke with a sense of dread. Even though I liked the experience of eating pong tia koon, I mourned the bird I scooped with a spork and ate. Grief prompted me to research: I learned that this food is popular around Southeast Asia, though there has been controversy about ethical ways to harvest and prepare the dish. I decided I wouldn’t eat pong tia koon (or any other infant animal) again. Despite my newfound personal food ethics, that meal together with Chanmony was the foundation for a beautiful friendship. After that night, Chanmony and I had countless conversations about subjects ranging from family to religion to our dreams and goals. And for this – a new friend and that long-awaited sense of belonging – I thank that little bird.