Buttertea at Sunrise (3 page)

Huge vines cover the jagged edges of the road. Bamboo, banana trees and cacti dominate the scenery. The dampness becomes almost oppressive. I open my window all the way but the air seems to hang motionless.

In Lingmithang, our descent bottoms out at 650 metres before we immediately resume our climb, and the truck huffs and puffs its way up the opposite mountain. The road is uneven at the best of times, and often spiked with potholes. At every jolt of the truck, a dull headache thuds at my nerves and makes coherent thinking impossible. I am tired and hungry, and a little bit afraid.

The clouds refuse to budge, and we continue to plough through them, one bend after another. Several times we nearly collide with the huge orange, Indian-made TATA trucks, fully loaded with logs or stones or sometimes people.

The result is always much honking and manoeuvring; then somehow we manage to squeeze by.

Oddly enough, over these last few hours of the journey the traffic has increased and I wonder where everyone is going. As far as I can tell, there are only a few houses scattered along the slopes, and we left the last town of any size eight or more hours behind in Bumthang, where we spent the night in a tiny guesthouse.

Perhaps the fog is hiding glorious old settlements and picturesque villages, which I will soon discover and explore.

My imagination paints colourful pictures to pass the time.

‘Here Mongar,’ the driver gleefully announces, and I squint into the mist to take in the first impression of my new home. I imagine a vibrant market to meet plenty of 19

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friendly villagers, a quaint hospital, and perhaps even a small house for myself.

Eagerly I peer out the window – but there is nothing. All I see is a little stretch of road in front of us, a few trees on both sides, and clouds. The driver points ahead and to the left. Again I squint and strain – nothing.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a large façade of three-storey houses rises beside the road. There must be eight or ten impressive buildings, their wooden exteriors artfully painted and decorated with carvings. I rejoice at the prospect of such a pretty town, but already the mirage disappears. We take a hairpin turn to the left, and bump and rattle down a cracked, gullied side road, leaving all signs of habitation behind us.

The path continues to curve steeply through a treed incline and finally stops in front of a long, white building with a wooden sign: Mongar Hospital, Referral Hospital of Eastern Bhutan.

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C H A P T E R T W O

From a

Distance

My house turns out to be a classroom adjacent to

the Mother and Child Health Clinic. Standing

amidst the clutter of my boxes and bags, I take

a first look around. The room is bare and uninviting. On one wall, stacked neatly, are six chairs, a large table and a white drawing board depicting a chart of various modes of contraception. An X-ray viewer along with two posters of Buddha and a picture of the king of Bhutan decorate the far wall of the room. Beside it, an old bowed metal shelf holds a collection of dusty books. In the opposite corner, a lonely bed awaits my arrival. The hospital’s administrator assures me that I will be moving into my permanent quarters within ten days. Most regrettably, though, at the moment, this modest room is the only available accommodation.

His English is somewhat stiff with a strong accent. He asks me to use the weekend to get settled in and begin my hospital duties on Monday. After introductions to some of 21

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the other staff of the hospital, and a quiet ‘We hope you like it here,’ I am left alone.

Tired, my whole body aching as if I had hiked and not driven the 480 kilometres from Thimphu to Mongar,

I survey the situation. Outside, the rain pours steadily, drumming on the corrugated iron roof in a monotonous beat. I cannot see more than a few yards into the distance; my world is wrapped into white oblivion. From somewhere below my window drones an insistent clunking of hammers on stones. The fog muffles the sounds, yet the continuous vibration under my feet tells me that the construction cannot be more than a few metres from my doorstep.

Behind me, the refrigerator which holds the hospital’s supply of vaccinations is humming like a motor engine. A large black beetle propels itself through the room, crashing into the walls with full force, then resuming its noisy flight.

It is nearly five o’clock, and dusk is creeping through the cracks. I open the door to let the last light into my abode, but instead an impenetrable wall of cloud rolls in and settles on my belongings. The air inside and out is cold and clammy, and I wrap my jacket tightly around me. I ensure that my flashlight is safely stored in my pocket and start digging through my boxes to find a candle and some matches.

There is a knock on the door and two petite women with boyish short haircuts smile at me.

‘
Kuzuzang po la
!’ The younger woman introduces herself as Pema Dorji and the other as her cousin Wangmo Dorji.

‘I will be working with you, madam. I am physiotechnician.

How you like Mongar?’

I am at a loss for words. What might be considered polite conversation in this country? Unprepared to offer premature flattery, I mutter something about ‘very nice’.

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F R O M A D I S T A N C E

Then, just to be on the safe side, I add, ‘I love Bhutan.’

Next I enquire, ‘Do you live on the hospital campus, too?’

Pema shakes her head. ‘No. My husband is administrative officer in dzong. We are staying a little bit in town.’

‘Have you been in Mongar for a long time?’

Pema tilts her head from side to side in a strange wagging motion. Not the same as the definite negative shake of the head that accompanied her previous ‘no’, instead it seems to imply agreement.

‘My family is living in Bargompa, not far from here,’ she affirms.

My visitors look at me quizzically, but there seems to be no need for further formalities. Together the two women seat themselves on my bed and simply admire my packed belongings. They praise my big red hockey bag, my new mattress, my shiny blue plastic ‘bathtub-bucket’, and my
two
gas cylinders.

‘In Mongar, it is too difficult to get gas! We have terrible waiting list, just to get a cylinder. At least six months,’ Pema exclaims. ‘You are very lucky – you have
two
cylinders! Sister, when you leave, we may have one of your cylinders?’

I nod and suddenly feel extremely privileged.

After informing me that I need to buy a kerosene lamp as soon as possible and that I should not forget to go to the vegetable market on Sunday morning, Pema starts rearranging the room. She pulls out three of the stacked library chairs and lines them up below the window. Then she advises me to lift up all of my bags and to balance the load on the armrests in order to protect my things from the rats overnight.

The rats! I must indeed be privileged.

‘You are hungry, sister?’ Pema asks while examining my taped boxes of kitchenware. ‘You please come to my house.’

Abruptly, the two women move towards the door.

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‘I’ll be OK, thanks,’ I stammer – which earns me a disapproving look.

‘You must be tired. We are thinking of calling you for dinner. Do you have torch?’

I nod and show them my little flashlight, a Maglite.

‘This is torch?’ Pema asks with obvious disbelief. ‘You must have big torch! But no problem. I have one.’ She settles the matter by waving an enormous steel flashlight in front of me.

A little later, wrapped in a raincoat and gripping my umbrella like a shield, I trudge behind Pema and her silent cousin along a muddy road that leads past the hospital to a small settlement of cement houses.

‘Careful here!’

We clamber up a precarious staircase cut into the hillside.

At its top, we reach a square building with several entrance doors and a row of dilapidated windows, the shutters of which have been closed tightly. Pema opens a door leading to a dark and crammed hallway. We duck into dry warmth.

My host disappears behind a blue and green checkered woollen curtain beside a pile of cast-off plastic slippers and rubber boots. Her cousin vanishes.

I pull off my soggy shoes to add to the remarkable pile of plastic, rubber and leather and search for a place for my dripping umbrella.

‘I will take. Please come.’ Pema peeps back around the curtain and pulls me into a dimly lit, narrow room, dominated by a rusty woodstove at its centre.

‘
Kuzuzang po la
!’ From a bed along the far side of the room, a man with a little boy in his arms unfolds his legs and rises to greet me. Pema introduces us. ‘This is Karma.

My husband.’

‘We were waiting for you!’ Karma’s soft smile brightens.

He bows as far as the toddler in his arms will allow.

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‘Welcome!’

Pema prods a little girl of about five towards me.

‘This is Chimmi. Chimmi say hello.’

‘Good evening, auntie!’ Chimmi beams.

‘And this is Nima.’ Pema takes the toddler from Karma and places him on her hips.

I smile at the cute little boy who almost disappears within his loosely crocheted blue jacket. Long lashes frame his beautiful brown eyes, his gaze is focused on something behind me. A small gurgling sound escapes from his throat, and his lips pull into a distraught whimper. Pema lovingly strokes the thin black curls and coos reassuringly.

‘Nima needs much care. We are always worried about him.’ Without any other explanation, Pema smoothes out the blanket on the bed and places Nima in her daughter’s charge.

‘Please sit.’ Karma offers. Then both parents leave through the curtained door.

Feeling exhausted, I slouch on the bed and study the two children beside me. Chimmi has started to sing in her little girl’s voice, but Nima is oddly quiet. Hands raised to his face, he busies himself by rolling his lower lip between thumb and index finger. Affectionately, Chimmi takes Nima’s tiny hands in her own, pulls him towards her and leans over to kiss his cheek. Then she reaches for a tattered teddy bear and parades it up and down on the bed. Still, Nima only rocks himself rhythmically, staring at the wall behind us and rolling his lower lip ceaselessly between his fingers.

Pema returns only long enough to place an assortment of steaming bowls on a wooden stool beside the bed. ‘Please eat,’ she says and disappears again.

Uncomfortably I stare at the dishes and the spoon placed in front of me while Chimmi continues to play with Nima.

Am I supposed to eat on my own? I wait until the rising 25

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steam dissipates from the bowls, then I tentatively push the rice around on my plate.

Pema slips back around the curtain with a cup of tea in her hand. In surprise, she looks at my untouched food.

‘Please eat. We will eat later.’

I nibble at the curry that stings my throat and makes my eyes water. Nima begins to gurgle and startled I let my spoon drop back. Nima’s sounds are identical to someone choking, yet the boy continues to make his noises without any signs of being upset. Neither Chimmi nor her mother are paying any attention. Over the rim of my plate, I study Nima. His eyes are glazed and his gaze is fixed into the distance. His movements seem slow and mechanical.

Pema squats in front of the open woodstove.

‘We have to make fire in the summer, too,’ she explains and gently blows into the sooty opening. ‘It gets hot, but at least it is dry. We have to keep everything dry because of Nima.’ Pema points at her son and frowns.

I want to ask her about Nima. Maybe she will bring him to physio. A little excited, I wonder if he will be my first patient in Mongar, but I decide to wait with my enquiries until Pema volunteers some information. Meanwhile the curry burns its way down my throat and my eyes brim with tears.

‘Too hot for you?’ Pema asks with a concerned look.

‘No. No, it’s great.’ I shake my head and manage a smile.

I would rather eat the entire bowl of curry than disappoint this kind woman with her silent child.

‘You’ll come again soon, isn’t it?’ Pema asks when we say goodbye.

I nod and wave to the children. ‘Of course – thank you so much.’ Chimmi follows me with huge bright eyes and cries, ‘Goodbye auntie!’

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I put on my shoes and fumble for the umbrella. Truthfully, I am not at all ready to leave, not yet. Karma darts outside to show me the way, but the beam of his flashlight is swallowed by the fog and the rain. The dark night looms before me like the entrance to a haunted house.

So, this is it; I am about to face my first night alone in my new home. The prospect is terrifying and suddenly I wonder why I only ever imagined what Mongar would
look
like, never how it would
feel
. Pema adjusts the raincoat on my shoulder and I quickly pull up the zipper. When I turn around once more, the silhouettes of Chimmi and her mother are outlined in the lighted door frame.