I’m powered by curiosity, fried grasshoppers and a wizened old lady. The route to Pryda village, set deep within the West Khasi hills of Meghalaya, involves a gruelling one hour trek. Fortunately Spermon Kharnaior has volunteered to guide me. The sprightly village matriarch, probably in her late 70s, skips from rock to shaky rock as we climb uphill, with an impressively firm grip on my wrist to haul me past the more challenging portions.
A few hours ago we were at a dramatic meeting of the tribes in Shillong helmed by the International eco-gastronomic movement Slow Food. The meeting brought together about 600 delegates representing 140 tribes from over 58 countries. Spending three days among pastoralists, honey gatherers, yak herders, reindeer breeders, fishermen and farmers made me develop a new respect for ingredients and the people who bring them to our dining tables.
As a food writer, I spend time learning from chefs and mixologists, who use complicated, impressive techniques to tease and primp ingredients into flamboyant menus and sophisticated cocktails. It is humbling to be reminded that ultimately everything depends on ingredients. And the only way to get quality ingredients is by respecting water, soil and forests, just like the indigenous people do.
Admittedly, it is easier said than done in a world that bristles with processed food, and in which taste buds have been trained to crave the addictive alchemy of fat, salt and sugar that comes in every bagged snack. I try. I gingerly sample crunchy Eri silk worms, reputed to taste like crisps. (They don’t!) Eat lunch with a surprisingly tasty and tangy ant chutney. And snack on salted deep-fried grasshoppers.
Then, I head to Pryda for lunch. A pig has been killed, and every part of it has been sensibly used, so nothing goes to waste. A sturdy table in the village schoolhouse is laden with food, much of it unfamiliar. There are bowls filled with fresh green herbs and a hefty pot fragrant with sautéed mustard leaves. At the centre of the banquet is the pork curry — rich, spicy and delicious.
There isn’t a sauce bottle or plastic packet in sight: none of these flavours have come out of a factory. There are no chefs in the kitchen; the community has cooked together, between cups of tea and gossip. The vegetables were harvested in the morning from a garden behind the school. The flavours are uncomplicated and alluring in a way no Michelin starred restaurant can compete with.
As the sun dims, I jump up realising I must leave immediately if I am to reach the main road before the path is plunged into darkness. Spermon presses a cool package into my hands as she hugs me goodbye. It’s sohplang, a local tuber, deftly wrapped in banana leaves. I snack on it thoughtfully as I walk back: it is crisp, juicy and refreshing.
Environmentalists warn us incessantly that we are marching towards a precipice, propelled by competitive consumerism. Can looking towards the villages save us? It may sound naïve but it is a seductive idea. And I would rather learn lessons from Spermon and her ilk than be disappointed, again, by yet another Facebook warrior.
