In Search of Momo — Old Roads

It appears that each time I leave Kathmandu Valley, something epic or unpleasant happens to me. Well, it’s 2 for 2 so far and I can’t wait to see what happens when I travel again.

I Digress. This tale is primarily about MoMo, (མོག་མོག in Tibetan/ म:म: in Nepali) the beloved dumpling of Tibetan origin that is available from the mountainous Himal to the rugged plains of Tarai. Typically, MoMos are stuffed with buffalo, pork or chicken, and steamed till the meat inside is dripping with juice.

It begins with a phone call, at 9pm. Editor rings me while I’m polishing up some Raksi (Nepali moonshine): (slightly modified) “Can both of you be ready, there’s a 6.30am bus tomorrow. Call Naryntara at XXXX for more details.”

Great.

So, forsaking all my great plans for the weekend (a wedding, a concert, and an epic house party), I pack my bags and try to be cheerful.

Turns out it’s the Annual Mo:Mo Mania festival, organised by the Nanglo Bakery chain in Kathmandu. Now in its tenth year, these juicy delights are celebrated in 3 Nanglo locations: Kathmandu, Butwal, and Palpa. Each year the chefs outdo themselves and create more than 20 different flavors of MoMo. This time, it was 22, and some were outstanding.

I made copious notes about how each individual flavour tasted, but well... my notes are gone forever now, lost to the steep and jagged hills of Nepal’s countryside.

To Butwal

On departure day, the air is frosty and every surface I touch seems to be made of ice. The fellowship comprises of the teenage band Sound Cuddles, winner of this year’s Sprite Band Challenge (think American Idol), a couple of waiters, sound crew, and a few of Naryntara’s friends who come along for fun. This would be Bushant, local band Kutumba’s manager, and Philip, the ex-director of Nepal’s Alliance Francais.

The roads are bumpy as hell, and the bus had tiny seats that will scar my knees for days to come.

We touch down in the ‘charming’ city of Butwal at 4pm, all dust and blaring horns. Amidst this depressing mess is the surprisingly tasteful Nanglo west, an oasis of calm and creamy lassis.

Butwal by day. “Charming seaside town” - Unreliable Travel Magazine.

Unable to resist, I ask Naryntara why Nanglo, an upmarket cafe, would operate an outlet in this town. Sentimentality, it seems, is the key reason. Gopal Kakshapati, owner of the Nanglo chain, used to live in Butwal and Palpa (which aren’t very far apart).

The festival in Butwal isn’t until Friday, but marketing efforts are well underway. A rickshaw was ambling about town, speakers blaring announcements. As the sun dipped, I joined a van to the town centre where Nanglo was giving out free MoMos as a teaser.

This is where I kept my thoughts to myself. Tickets for adults and children were Rs500 and Rs300 respectively. The masses grabbing at the MoMos in the streets didn’t seem like the sort who could be coughing up half a month’s salary to stuff themselves for one night. It all disappeared in seconds, and as far as I saw, no tickets were sold.

Later, the same bus deposited us in a ‘hotel’, or should I say, a large hall with sleeping bags.

Philip was kind enough to share some of his X-tra powerful happy sticks, and I nestled in a corner listening to the band rehearse. I was struck by their seriousness, despite their tender age. Prashant, the band manager, is still a kid at 19 but here he was authoritative, much like Arun Gurung, the Kutumba manager I spent some time with earlier last month.

Momo Party

Nanglo west prepared us a simple breakfast of Aloo Paratha, before we were left to our own devices. Signages needed to be made for the different flavours of MoMo, and I was keen to see what printing shops they had available. In the town centre, I observed as Bushant bought several rolls of colored paper, then crossed over to a photocopy store where he had to measure and slice it to A3 by himself. Halfway through, power went out, and the price per copy went up from Rs3 to Rs10. “Generator costs more,” grinned the shopkeeper.

My friend finds a legitimate “Luis Vuitton’’ slipper.

About an hour late, at 6.30pm, the crowd began to take their seats at the al fresco areas. A little nook was transformed into a MoMo bazaar, plump chefs standing akimbo while huge steamers worked overtime behind them.

Steamers for the thousands of MoMos that would eventually be sold that night.

A contestant does a bang-up job wrapping MoMos during a competition.

Lead singer of the band Sound Cuddles. What a band name.

A friend secretly registered me for the beer drinking contest, and against all odds I represented Singapore well and came in second with a respectable time of 3.8 seconds. It was perhaps this, and many more ill-advised concoctions that caused me to ‘decorate’ the Nanglo rooftop later on. Sorry, Nanglo.

A Coke drinking contest for the teetotalers. I suggested a Coke snorting contest but the organiser wouldn’t hear of it.

Up to Palpa

The bus took us up a winding path from Butwal to the town of Palpa, built like an eyrie at an elevation of 1600m above sea level. To Nepalis back in 2010, this was paradise. Unlike the rest of the country at the time (suffering from daily power-outages known as Load Shedding), Palpa had round-the-clock hydropower, which also meant hot water in the pipes.

The high-altitude town of Palpa, shrouded in fog.

I’m not ashamed to admit that my first shower in 2 days probably used up half the town’s water supply.

The concert was outshined by the sheer range of MoMos coming out of the massive steamers, but the much younger crowd got quite wild during Sound Cuddles second set. A group of lolitas cozied up to the band during their break, and disaffected looking young men moshed like their lives depended on it.

A better attempt during another MoMo making competition.

As the dust died down and the lolitas asked for autographs from the band, I went over and gave some advice to the lead guitarist: “Dude, give your mobile and room number.” He smiled sheepishly - tsk, young and unaware.

How to Lose Thousands of Dollars of Camera Equipment

For those awaiting the story of “The Camera”: here it is.

Coming down from Palpa to Butwal, I packed my bags right at the back of the bus. Safely, I might add, right on the seats. Plugging in my earphones, I fell asleep, rocked by the unkind vibrations of the bus as it navigated the pothole-ridden mountain roads.

Suddenly, a loud commotion and we came to a grinding halt.

“Is yours a black bag?” someone asked, prodding me out of my nap. Looking askance at the rear of the bus, sure enough the window was wide open and my bag was missing. Then they related to me the tale I shall never forget. Someone sat at the back, rearranged the bags and stacked them right against the filmsy window, that tends to open by itself as the bus hits bumps.

Genius.

So somewhere in the last 20 minutes, my Think Tank had tumbled out, and was probably picked up by a passing motorbike.

The Nanglo staff called in a bike, I hopped on and we hurtled back the way we came, much like Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli in their search for Merry and Pippin. But without Treebeard’s help, my bag suffered one of 3 fates: 1. Tumbled down the ravine into the river. 2. Crushed by a truck. 3. Stolen.

So passed Think Tank, with my D300, 50 1.4, 28 2.8, my precious moleskin with a year’s worth of writing and memories, into oblivion.

A new age begins, I hope.