Corinne Trang

The things I’ve seen in my travels would make some run…

I’ve always said that if I stopped traveling tomorrow it would be okay because I’ve been fortunate enough to have visited many parts of Asia, Europe, and North America. But every once in a while I get the urge again, and getting on a plane and going to a far away land is all I can think about. When I travel, I get inspired…to see new things, meet new people, eat familiar and new foods is a great feeling. When I travel, I start to breathe again.

I’ve been traveling solo for the better part of 15 years. I’m a backpacker at heart. I travel with lots of camera equipment and a few changes of clothes, and tend to walk every where I can. I like to move relatively slow because I want to take the time to absorb everything that I come across. And while it gets lonely on the road at times, it affords me all sorts of opportunities to meet people. Now my mom always said “don’t talk to strangers.” Well I did follow her advice for a long time, but once I started traveling on my own, that pretty much went out the window…and talking to the wall has never been an option for me. I like to strike up conversations with the locals, asking them all sorts of food questions. And asking “what’s this?” while pointing with my fingers in open air markets or sidewalk food carts, for example, will be rewarded with all sorts of foods to try and more importantly discuss. Now granted many of my conversations, especially in Asia have required an interpreter or some clumsy form of sign language, which I make up as I go along. The good thing is that food is THE universal language. It’s sensual, and everyone gets it!

Sometimes the experiences can be extreme. For example, I remember going to Psar Thmei market in Phnom Penh, Cambodia where my father was born and raised. Partly open air and partly housed in a huge 1930′s Art Deco building, I remember pointing to the fried delicacies like turantulas, crickets, and more, all the while picturing the dried worms sitting in Dad’s refrigerator at home. Needless to say, that day I just did not have it in me to try these fried leggy things, but when I got to Manila a few days later, the chef of a restaurant challenged me…”you call yourself a chef, but won’t try the rice paddy crickets?” And with that I smiled and said “of course I’ll try. How are they prepared?” They arrived stir-fried with red bird’s eye chilies, garlic, and onions, and rice on the side. After eating a few and several spoonfuls of rice, I wondered what the big deal was. Full of protein, but relatively flavorless, they looked like black beans and were soft rather than crispy. I would probably have preferred a crispy version and immediately recalled the crispy turantulas piled high on a plate at Psar Thmei, which I had passed up…and ultimately happy I had.

In Bali, I remember a beautiful little girl, probably about 10 years old, killing a duck, bleeding it, plucking it, and gutting it. So vivid is the image in my mind, that I remember her smiling at me while doing it. That would never happen at home (never say never, but really, could you picture this in your backyard?). Anyway, her father was the cook and he prepared the duck, rubbing it with all sorts of dried spices and herbs including lemongrass, galangal, garlic, scallion, turmeric, chilies, etc… Wrapped in long wide banana leaves, the duck was smoked, burried in a huge pile of rice husk in a smoke house made entirely of bamboo. The bamboo was black from years of smoking. Indeed, it looked lacquered. After 12 hours of marinating and 12 hours of smoking, the duck was unwrapped. Delicious infused with herbs and spices with a distinct yet delicate smokey flavor, the meat melted off the bones and was succulent, its own fat having penetrated every layer of muscle in the bird. I could have eaten the whole thing but gladly shared the meal with my interpreter, who explained that duck is very expensive in Indonesia and considered smart because it can live on both land and water.