Buttertea at Sunrise (5 page)

Amused I shake my head. I am not yet desperate enough to buy Coke.

‘Please let me know what you need. I will bring from Samdruk Jongkhar,’ the eager shopkeeper offers.

‘Thank you.’ I nod and inspect the other opened bags and baskets in front of the counter. There is a basket with potatoes and, miraculously, another one with broccoli.

‘I will get for you, madam. How many you need?’

Rinzin Tshockey picks up several potatoes, turns them in his hand, checks them for bad spots, and drops only the most satisfactory ones into another plastic bag for me. He adds a head of broccoli.

‘Please doctor…’ Already the word has spread throughout town that the blond foreigner is a doctor. I have no idea who anyone is, and yet everyone else seems to be well informed about my identity. Doctor is a word they 35

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 35

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 35

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

know. ‘Physiotherapist’ will certainly take a while to be remembered. Doctor. I try the title on and find that it sits comfortably. All of a sudden, I feel more respected, more of a somebody than just an odd foreigner.

‘Please doctor,’ Rinzin Tshockey repeats. ‘Please, you come again.’

He bids me farewell with another impish smile, and I, Madam Doctor, turn back to the road.

Mongar does not claim any flat land, other than the football field. Everywhere else houses cling to slopes of varying degrees, fields are terraced, walkways snake along inclines, and the road is cut into the mountain. Life seems to balance on the verge of sliding down the hillside.

I take the long way back to the hospital, following the road as it curves in a U-shape away from the bazaar towards the dzong. Dzongs are fortresses built during Bhutan’s unification in the seventeenth century in an attempt to repel Tibetan invaders. Today they house both the governing administration as well as a monastery for the monk body. Huge, impressive buildings with Tibetan-style inward slanting walls, they dominate the view of most Bhutanese towns of any size.

Following an inconspicuous footpath up the slope, I pass a few large houses and find myself suddenly standing beside the upturned cone of a white stone chorten, poised at the edge of a rather steep cliff. A soft lapping sound, somewhat like clothes fluttering on a line in the yard, draws my attention and I notice a few scattered flags on the hilltop. Suspended from long wooden poles, the white bands of cotton cloth are flapping idly back and forth. Like their neighbour the chorten, the prayer flags have aged considerably. The material is torn in places, badly beaten by wind and weather. From close up, I can barely identify the print. All that is visible are row upon row of symbols in a foreign script. Throughout the length of the cloth, a 36

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 36

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 36

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

F I R S T E N C O U N T E R S

square box with texts and pictures is repeated several times without variation. The same prayer?

Though bleached and faded through time, the flags charm me into staying. I imagine the wind, how it breathes by my little outlook and picks up a prayer; how the devout petition is carried over the ridge, down into the next valley and up a mountain where more prayer flags join the chorus. It waltzes around every house, over every pass in the country.

Far and wide, like a faithful servant, the wind collects and strengthens the softly sung lyric, and then carries it up, up, up…

My dreamy contemplation is interrupted by the figure of a man emerging from the bushes. He throws me an expressionless glance and disappears. Soon after, a young boy surfaces out of the thicket. He, too, stares at me and then walks on without a word. I am intrigued.

Where did these two come from? Carefully, I retrace the footprints which my two silent visitors have left to a trampled patch of grass, surrounded by thick shrubs. A penetrating smell prevails. I turn on my heels and contemplate the two new vistas: a lovely chorten on the edge of a cliff, and the public toilet.

My organised, compartmentalised western mind rears at the association of the two contradicting localities. Do the people not bestow honour upon this sacred site through prayer, rituals and, above all, the erection of a chorten?

Chortens are supposed to be guardians of treasures and relics, as well as memorials of great saints and priests. Is the very act of building a chorten not witness to devout belief, which is pure and clean?

Murmuring a soft prayer, an old woman approaches. Her figure is stooped. The sinewy muscles of her neck stand out and it appears that the cane she clutches keeps her from toppling over. When she stops and rests, the thumb of her right hand stays in motion, methodically moving the beads 37

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 37

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 37

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

on her rosary. For a brief moment she takes notice of me and lifts her head, squints at me, then smiles and shuffles past. At the chorten, she extends a shaking hand, reaches out to place her fingers on the rough white stones, turns to her left and walks slowly three times around the monument.

Finally, apparently satisfied, she carefully lowers herself onto the bottom step and rests, her head supported on her cane, her hand still clutching the rosary. As I turn to go, the old woman gets up and shuffles past the thicket of bushes, apparently oblivious of the offending smells.

38

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 38

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 38

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

C H A P T E R F O U R

Where You

Going, Miss?

Like a grand theatre enrapturing its audience with magnificent drama, the monsoon continues to

dominate the sky. Sometimes playful, sometimes

foreboding, the grey masses of moisture change shape and form in an everlasting masquerade.

On Sunday afternoon, inspired by the clouds floating through the lowland and climbing the ridges in dreamy white patches, I wander along the road following my nose.

No immediate intent guides my way, only the urge to explore this land of which I know so little. I am impatient to broaden my horizon beyond the borders of this valley.

Walking is the only transportation among these people of steep mountains and rounded hills, and so my feet are becoming the only limit to my travels.

I had imagined a walk in solitude, but instead I find myself surrounded by happily chatting villagers, some shouldering heavy loads, others gaining ground with long strides. The 39

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 39

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 39

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

paved main road leading through Mongar is well worn by many thousands of footsteps. Villagers carrying goods to the market, or patients to the hospital, schoolchildren on their daily walk to class, farmers moving cattle from one field to the next, or people on their way to visit relatives or friends in the next village. The road is a welcome break from the steep, winding foot tracks along bevelled grades.

In fact, this road belongs to the people, and the odd vehicle that wants to get by has to obey the speed and willingness of men, women, children and animals to clear its path.

A group of girls giggle and nudge each other as they pass by some boys sitting beside the road. The scene is familiar, much like at home; shy teasing, brave haughtiness and a flirtatious jiggle of the hip. The boys seem pleased, but pretending not to notice, they only steal a few sidelong glances at the shiny black hair and the soft curves hidden by a kira.

From the bazaar, the road in the direction of Thimphu leads down, and I follow it with easy steps. At a tight bend, a creek slows its rush and meanders through the trees. A group of Indian women is squatting by its side, rinsing their laundry and slapping the clothes on the flat stones around them.

A little further on, a steep path leads almost vertically up to a small cluster of houses. I decide to stray and start climbing. The track is wet and slippery, and my running shoes fail miserably to grip the ground.

Within minutes I am winded and sweaty, and without much courage, I consider the folly of my adventure. The path divides into three, and there is no indication which one might lead me to the most rewarding destination.

Three tiny mudslides polished by the tread of bare feet, each begging for a decision. The answer comes in the form of four girls who clamber up the path behind me. Giggling, they stop and stare at me. Then the smallest one, maybe 40

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 40

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 40

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?

ten years old, looks up at me with a saucy smile. ‘Where you going, miss?’

‘I am just walking,’ I answer.

‘You going to Barpang, miss?’ The girl wrinkles her forehead. Just walking must seem like an absurd idea to her.

‘I don’t know, actually,’ I stutter.

Where is Barpang?

The other three girls push on, but my little inquisitor is not yet satisfied.

‘Where you from, miss?’

‘I am from Canada.’

‘My name is Jamtsho, and this is my sister Kesang.’ She points at the oldest of the three girls, and then looks at me expectantly.

‘I am Britta,’ I answer, and search for something else to say.

Jamtsho flashes me a winning smile. ‘Please come to my house. Will you be coming?’

A little suspicious of the muddy incline, I ask where her house is.

‘There!’ Jamtsho says and points at a line someplace where the clouds meet the mountain.

I debate with myself. What do I have to lose? Jamtsho is the first English-speaking friend that I have made on my walk. Having a conversation with the older generation of villagers will be a problem until I pick up more Sharchhopkha. Schoolchildren, on the other hand, all have to learn English and, for now, will probably be the only ones who can teach me a little about the culture. I agree.

The girls respectfully let me lead, slowing their quick steps enough to pace themselves with me. I feel clumsy and utterly unfit as I try to hurry up the hill. We pass a big old farmhouse with a wooden water trough out front. A big black dog growls at us, and immediately, the four girls 41

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 41

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 41

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

start yelling and throwing stones. Still baring its teeth, the dog retreats.

We continue climbing. Suddenly Jamtsho’s sister rushes ahead and hollers something up the mountain. A voice answers. She hollers again. Now the other girls shout something as well, and then instantaneously they vanish in the trees ahead. Only Jamtsho and I lag behind.

After half an eternity, we climb over a small wooden gate and reach Jamtsho’s house. Adorned with a few banana trees and a dusty yard with some clucking chickens, the wooden and stone-set building fits perfectly into the surroundings.

Wild grasses and shrubs encroach on the yard, and there is no precise distinction between cultivated and untamed nature. It looks almost as if one day the jungle might reclaim what is now a peaceful human dwelling.

A set of stairs lead up to a tiny platform that connects the main house on my right to a separate kitchen room on the left. Jamtsho leads me through the large, wooden entrance doors into the main building. To my left, there are two smaller rooms, both without any kind of furniture or decoration. Straight ahead, I can see a huge empty room, apparently not inhabited. It is to this parlour that Jamtsho leads me. Quickly she shakes out a small, woollen carpet, and places it in front of a half open window. Then she asks me to seat myself and immediately disappears. Left to myself, I twist my legs into what I think is an acceptable position, careful not to point my feet at anything that might be sacred, and take a closer look around me.

Heavy wooden beams frame the whitewashed walls,

giving the impression of a half-timbered Tudor house. The floor consists of wooden planks, smooth and polished. The wall behind me and the one adjacent to it are lined with wooden framework windows, each having a solid sliding shutter on the inside. A light breeze enters through the openings, leaving the room cool and pleasant.

42

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 42

Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 42

13/01/2006 14:59:10

13/01/2006 14:59:10

W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?

A cat jumps out from behind two thin mattresses, neatly rolled up in a corner. On the wall above that, some nails are occupied by ghos, the large robe-like garments of Bhutanese men. Beside them, a long thin wooden tube is fastened by a leather strap. To the right of the door leading to the hallway, a weaving stool is anchored to the wall, with a beautiful, half-finished piece of weaving strung into the frame.

The minutes tick by. Wondering what happened to

Jamtsho, and not quite sure of what a guest’s proper behaviour might be, I wait for a sign from somewhere.

The cat returns and curls up in its corner on a pile of kiras.

Through my window, I can hear a cow munching on grass and the distant bark of a dog.

Smoke starts to emanate out of the adjacent kitchen, and I get up to investigate. Inside the little room of packed mud walls, Jamtsho is squatting in front of an earthen fireplace, blowing through a bamboo stick into the embers of the fire. A blackened kettle sits amidst the cinders. Two cats lazily clean themselves by the hearth. The walls are lined with wooden shelves. Pots, pans, jars and empty bottles are neatly arranged, and a couple of aluminium ladles shimmer in the otherwise sooty surroundings. There are two plastic storage drums and a can of tuna fish. Dust and cobwebs cover the windowsill, and ashes and soot have given everything a powdering of black.