In our view, one of the best books to describe daily life in Bhutan and those pictures add a certain mysterious flavor to it all.

I made a lot of pictures in Bhutan and wish that I could manipulate them the way Sandy has done. Karma writes very well and it was a pleasure to read and a pity that is was over so soon.

~ Symon & Louise, The Netherlands

This article was reprinted with permission from BK Magazine.

MOMOS AT ZOMBALA

(Watch a video of a typical lunch hour at Zombala at the end of this post)

THIMPHU, BHUTAN: NOV 2008:

Beef and cheese momos side by side at Zombala; both perfect, both delicious!

WHEN A TINY RESTAURANT OPENED IN THIMPHU calling itself Zombala (literally, “The Place Where Everyone Gathers”), my first thought was that its owners were overly optimistic.

After all what was being described was a mere hole-in-the-wall hidden in a dingy corner of Thimphu’s bustling “Hong Kong Market”. A friend invited me there with assurances they had “the best momos in the whole world!” She knew I’d never refuse the offer because of my weakness for the rich and savory dumplings. Besides, I wanted to go because my ego was bruised by the fact I had not heard about the place before she did. In my own mind at least, I was something of a momo connoisseur who should have been the one to introduce a new momo place to her instead of the other way around.

In any event I followed my friend to the much-touted Zombala. It was wedged behind a noisy shop where tailors were bent over pedal operated sewing machines working through a rainbow pile of brocade trimmings for unfinished ghos and kiras, the traditional wear favored by Bhutanese men and women.

Across the street—past the tailor shop, past evening shoppers, neighborhood grocers, butchers and fish purveyors—polite expats and well-heeled Bhutanese yuppies sipped frothy cappuccino at the upscale Season’s Pizzeria and Café, partaking such exotic delights as chef and owner Sandhya’s celebrated lemon tarts and her dense syrupy brownies.

The crowd that had convened at Zombalas, on the other hand, was a little less, how shall we put it, upscale? Here the most enthusiastic patrons were lower bureaucratic staff, police constables, taxi drivers on break, and farmers visiting from the rural valleys, as well as an assortment of Thimphu’s young drifters. As we entered, a man under a wide brimmed hat stared in surprise from the opposite corner of the tightly packed restaurant. In another part of the room, a white haired man was stroking a long wispy goatee that made him look like Bhutan’s 16th century saint and founding father, Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyel. Beside us a couple and their two children slurped intently from aromatic bowls of thukpa noodles, pausing only to add more fire-red chili sauce to increase the heat of their meal (and I don’t mean the temperature!). Indeed, on the several other occasions I went there, I found this diverse population huddled together, as if protecting a well-kept secret (or perhaps it was the food in front of them they were guarding so zealously).

As we awaited our orders—two plates of cheese and beef momos each—the delicious aroma of well-prepared momos filled the room. Waitresses in white floppy toques that appeared strange in such modest surroundings weaved through the anticipatory room. In a town where restaurant food is often served with a “take-it-or-leave-it” attitude, it was a pleasant surprise to finally find a place where the momos were being served with pride. But the true jolt came when I bit into their juicy, tender, momos. As I tucked away each delicious morsel, I began to realize it was more than just the funny hats that set this place apart from the other ubiquitous “momo shacks” dotting the city.

For many years, I had haunted the side streets of Thimphu and Paro and Wangdue and Bumthang, trying to find a place that served the kind of soul satisfying momos that my mother made at home, or the kind that she and I sometimes ate in hiding from my father’s stern gaze, in some little Tibetan family shop, behind fragile wood and ply-board cubicles whose privacy was secured by begrimed cloth curtains.

The secretive, drifting, non-linear conversations I had with my mother in those little momo shacks are some of my most treasured memories. We talked about all our relatives, about life, about death, about my school, her childhood, her hopes and fears for me, and a myriad other tangential things under the sun.

So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that as we ate at Zombala’s the smile on my friend’s face as she dove into her cheese momos began resembling the glowing smile that lit my mother’s face each time we managed to sneak away on one of those clandestine “momo dates”. And that mental association made me wonder if everyone else sitting shoulder to shoulder in the tiny restaurant was having the same experience of refreshed memories being served up with the steaming plates of momos.

Someone else I remembered as I ate those delicious momos at Zombala was an old family friend I had forgotten for many years. Together, my mother and this friend made some of the most transcendental momos I have ever had in my life. Our friend was tall and wide shouldered like the proud Khampa warriors of eastern Tibet who were her forbears. She often wore jean trousers tucked into long black boots at a time when women were rarely seen in western clothes. Her eyelashes dripped a surfeit of poorly applied mascara, but despite the make-up she was a hard worker who was not afraid to put men in their place. She single-handedly built and retired with a very successful business she began by driving a large Tata truck that thundered across the mountains delivering groceries from India.

As a boy of 10 or 11, I often watched eagerly for her truck, which was decorated with multicolored plastic streamers and a picture of His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama painted above the front. Sometimes I would see her truck groaning up the road, filled to capacity with several thousand quintals of rice bulging from a mountainous pile of gunny sacks that were gaily festooned with red, blue and orange plastic buckets. Each time she rolled into town she brought me colorful gifts from India—a red plastic ball, a black cap pistol that made a realistic puff of smoke and a loud noise when fired, an orange and green pipe that made a horrible squawking and a silver harmonica which I slept with under my pillow for many months…

As I broke from my reveries, I could not deny Zombala lacked the elegant charms of the lovely café next door. The place was low on ambiance with lime green walls and plastic chairs and tables, and yet I began to see why the owners had called it “a gathering place”.

Perhaps this was a gathering place not just for people but for long lost memories as well.

The older I get the more I seek food as a sensory trigger for my buried past.  I can’t wait to see what cherished memories will gather there with my next plate of momos!

]]> http://prayerflagsbook.com/?feed=rss2&p=85 http://prayerflagsbook.com/?p=82 http://prayerflagsbook.com/?p=82#comments Sun, 01 Feb 2009 12:23:42 +0000 prayerf1 http://prayerflagsbook.com/?p=82

This article was reproduced with the permission of DestinAsian Magazine.

The delicious and tangy Himalayan Tree Tomatoes or Tamarillos give Bhutanese ezays a bright and festive edge that pairs well with the salty richness of the morning cup of suja, or well-churned butter tea. 

I have substituted American ingredients that come closest to the Bhutanese flavors.

With my very best, Karma.  

Ingredients: Quarter bunch Cilantro, One bunch Green Onion Shoots, 15 to 20 Serrano or Jalapeño peppers, Feta Cheese, Blue Cheese, Sichuan Pepper (available at CHinese and Korean Markets), 1 medium size purple onion, Himalayan Tree Tamarillos (pictures below). I haven’t come across the HTT in the US, but apparently there is a New Zealand variety that is available at select gourmet suppliers. f you’re unable to find the HTT or the NZ variety, a good substitute is roasted tomatillos (available at most Mexican groceries), with one or two small green limes squeezed into the mix for the tartness.   

Preparation: Roast the Chilli Peppers, and the Himalayan Tree Tomatoes in a large cast iron skillet, over medium to low fire, turning occasionally. (you want the pepper and tamarillo flesh to blister and burn a little with some black patches on the outside).

In a separate pan or skillet, roast the Sichuan pepper over a low flame, stirring the peppercorns briskly to prevent burning. After about 4 to 5 minutes take one of the peppercorns and smash it between thumb and forefinger. If it is crushes down to a partially powdery form, set aside.

If the peppercorn shell still retains its shape, stir some more over heat until it is ready to crush easily.   In a wide deep bowl, finely dice the purple onion and  the green onion shoots.

Chop the chilli peppers as you might for a salsa, and throw into the mix. Gently peel the roasted Himalayan Tree Tamarillos until its soft golden flesh is revealed whole.

Now chop the tamarillos like the chilli peppers. Take 4 to 5 table spoons of the Feta cheese and crumble by hand over the entire bowl. Take 1 tablespoon of the blue cheese anad similarly crumble over the entire mix. Add salt to taste.

Sprinkle finely chopped cilantro over the entire mix and toss, until the cheese are evenly mixed into the ezay.

If using roasted tomatillos, you won’t need to peel the skin, and don’t forget to add the dash of lime.

Enjoy! (Should serve 8 to 9 Americans, and 3 to 4 if Bhutanese). 

__________________  

EZAY (for momos).

Ingredients: 35 to 45 of the little red dried Japonica Peppers (available at most Mexican Markets). The Bhutanese red chilli peppers best for this ezay are sadly not available in the US.  1 medium size purple onion, regular garden variety tomatoes (the more acidic and tart varieties work better), 2 medium cloves of garlic.

Preparation: Soak the dried chilli peppers in a shallow pan of water overnight. Puree the chilis, tomatoes, and onion together, manually by grinding with a mortar and pestle, or using a modern food processor/juicer. Be sure to cover the top of the blender if you choose the blender!

Add salt to taste, and blend together until the salt is distributed evenly throughout the ezay. Serve with a large table spoon on a neat corner of a quarter plate. Garnish with a crisp emerald sprig of cilantro and serve with steaming aromatic momos!

Serves 20 to 25 people, American, and 10 to 12 people, Bhutanese. Enjoy!            

The New York Times calls John McDermott ‘the Ansel Adams of Angkor Wat.’ Please visit his website to view his beautiful photographs:
http://www.asiaphotos.net/

Thank you so much for these wonderful and heartfelt comments.

I have felt truly privileged to be a part of this book, and Sandy’s images were the inspiration.

Thank you for your intuitive understanding of what we were hoping to convey, and how wonderful that you were there curled up on your chair with the wood burl bowl, grown on Bhutanese soil, sharing this other journey with us.

The picture of you drinking from the bowl brought up another precious memory for me:

My maternal grandmother’s house stood next to her family temple at the tip of Tangsibji village. In honor of its favorable location, her temple was called Lhakhang Chewa or “the Forehead of the Village”. Immediately below the temple the slope falls steeply, far below, to the milk white coils of the Mangde River. To my child’s eye, I could easily believe the river was a live thing, like a great cloud serpent winding its way south through the deeply forested valley. Sometimes the mist would rise from its surface and blanket the lower half of the valley. That’s when my Angay said Ama Mangde went to sleep. It made sense to me because those were the only times when the liquid rush of the river that always pervaded the valley grew muffled, as if at rest. On the opposite slopes the mountain rose high and steep as they always do in Bhutan.

In the middle of the day when dragonflies stayed suspended in mid air and the screeching of unseen cicadas rose even above the sounds of the river, the broadleaved forests were a dense holographic shade of green we sometimes saw when the sun reflected off the backs of shiny unicorn beetles we found behind the temple. After dark the entire mass of the mountain we called Taktse or “Tiger’s Crest” was the looming shoulder of an immense giant whose head rose all the way up into the starlit night. We had no electricity in the village then, and the flickering flames from my grandmother’s gaping wood stoves only heightened the mystery and magic of everything. Then, at a certain hour, my Angay would push apart her sliding wooden window and we children craned our necks out, hearts pounding with fear and excitement.

Far off, at belly level of the black giant on the opposite shore of Ama Mangde, a hesitant line of bright blue flames ignited and died (the flames were the kind I later saw in Bunsen Burners in Chemistry lab at my high school in India). Then a whole line of Dremi, “demon flames” formed and began to bob, as if dancing in a circle. Angay told us naughty children who did not listen to their grandmothers would be spirited away into this circle and never find their way back home. But keep your senses about you and remember the exact location where the flames were dancing and you would find an old tree in the morning. Look carefully on this tree, and there would be a large and ugly goiter on its “neck”. Cut the goiter out and take it to old Ap Tashi, the village carver, she said, and he could polish and shape the goiter into a beautiful bowl. This bowl would be worth a treasure because even if someone served you poison, it would turn it to nectar in this bowl.

Clean it, and cherish and love it, she said, and the Dremi in the bowl will keep bringing you good fortune, great beauty, and good health.

So, Torie, like Angay said, may your wood bowl keep adding to the great fortune, beauty, and wealth you already have!

Cheers, or, rather, Chaaps!

Karma

your book came this rainy day and i took it to the couch with a cup of tea (butterless, but in my bhuantese wooden burl bowl), and absorbed every page. what a presence this volume has - your “union of word and image,” enlivening the whole experience for the reader/viewer.  i feel especially privileged to have seen some of the places and met some of the people described.

i love your writing style, karma -
so full of poetry, humor, and grace.  and your essays are such moral tales - a rarity in contemporary literature - something from which we can all benefit, especially in these unthinking days.

and sandy!  what exquisite, wavery images….and a beautiful palette…. and all those white flags in that ocean of sky. i have too many favorites to count.  the same things i saw and shot, were something else again in your eye -  transformed, elevated….losing the details so that all things flow into each other….. therein lies another lesson.

so thank you both for your great work.
torie

~ Mary Corti - USA