Between phone calls, Mal fills me in on what has happened over the past week. They had been shooting scenes in a cave by the side of the road at a particularly beautiful spot, but it felt eerie. Everyone was aware of it. There was trouble on the set, with disagreements among the crew and lots of niggly little things going wrong.
The troubles came to a climax with an accident to the main camera. According to people there at the time, no-one bumped it, there was no gust of wind and no traffic on the road nearby to cause vibrations. The camera was standing by itself, secure on a tripod, when it just fell over on the spot.
The Bhutanese blame the Demoness, a particularly nasty spirit, believed to live opposite the site where they were filming. They say she was unsettled by the presence of Rinpoche and was fighting his positive energy.
The camera that fell over started making unhealthy noises. It’s a very sophisticated Aaton XTP Prod, brought over from Hollywood by cinematographer Alan Kozlowski. The only way to know how badly it has been damaged is to shoot some film, have it processed and look at the results. That means getting a test reel onto a Druk Air flight to Bangkok, then to the processing lab, as quickly as possible.
Somehow, in the peculiarly Bhutanese way of doing things, this is achieved. Because the country is so small, everyone is connected, and all business is done by tapping into the network of family. Someone on the crew has a sister who is married to someone else’s cousin who works at the airport and who is married to . . .
With James Bond precision, the test reel is driven for five hours to be handed to a Druk Air pilot before dawn on a stretch of road outside Thimphu. He carries it in his hand luggage, presenting it at Bangkok Airport to an official from the Bhutanese Embassy. She then drives it to the lab.
Mal, his face still aching from his bad tooth, takes call after call keeping him up to date with the movements of that little film canister. It is unprocessed film and the last thing they need is for a security person to insist on opening it – a definite possibility in the current terrorist-alert state of the world.
If the results show that the main camera is damaged, they will need to get a new one sent over from America, which will take time and mean rescheduling scenes around what can be shot on the second camera. It is a scary scenario for everybody. As I am absorbing the ramifications, Mal, despite his tooth pain, seems remarkably calm. In fact he’s enjoying himself. He laughs at my bewilderment. No, he hasn’t taken any more hefty painkillers, he assures me. He just has no doubt everything will turn out okay.
Before Mal started ringing around Bhutan to organise the safe passage of the test reel, Rinpoche had telephoned Orgyen Tobgyal Rinpoche, the high Tibetan lama who lives in India and performed all the mos (divinations) for the film. Orgyen Tobgyal picked up the phone and without preamble, cheerfully asked what Rinpoche was doing surrounded by so many demons.
His mo said that the camera hadn’t been damaged in the fall but that the foreign crew would be worried and want to get it tested anyway, so let them, and the results will show it is fine. Knowing the outcome has taken the pressure off and Mal is having a lovely time fielding calls from anxious crew members, wanting to know if the lab has called with the test results.
At lunchtime the Bangkok lab finally does call. The test footage is all good. No discernible damage. Word quickly spreads throughout the crew and with the relief comes much laughter and raising of eyebrows. Even the most sceptical are starting to think there may be something in this mo stuff.
The camera incident also marks a turning point. During pre-production Orgyen Tobgyal had warned that there would be plenty of hiccups but one major obstacle. Unfortunately he was unable to predict what it was. Rinpoche had passed this on to Mal, who had been wondering, every time something went wrong, if this was ‘it’.
Orgyen Tobgyal confirmed it was. The big one was out of the way. Phew. He could relax.
Meanwhile, back at the haunted pass, the local villagers are doing just that. Relaxing. Their mood is upbeat and happy. The site where the crew has been filming has been substantially changed and they are enjoying the benefits.
The cave used in the scene is part of a small quarry by the side of the highway between the towns of Chendebji and Rukabji. Rinpoche had a particular vision in mind for the scene that required the art department – Ugyen Wangchuk and his assistant, also called Ugyen Wangchuk, and Rinpoche’s childhood friend, the monk artist Sonam Choepel – to paint on the side of a rock a three-metre-high head of Guru Rinpoche, the most important figure in Vajrayana Buddhism. Also known as the second Buddha, he brought Buddhism from India to Bhutan and Tibet in the eighth century.
Guru Rinpoche is credited with having had miraculous powers, such as the ability to subdue demons and make prophecies, including that in the modern age Buddhism would spread to the west: ‘When the iron bird flies and horses run on wheels, the Tibetan people will be scattered like ants across the world and the Dharma will come to the land of the redman.’
No-one sought permission before painting this huge face on a rock in brightly coloured indelible paint, even though it is on Bhutan’s busiest road, the Lateral Highway, and is guaranteed to stop cars in their tracks. Also, the painting will render the quarry unusable – no Bhutanese would dream of digging into an image of Guru Rinpoche. But they aren’t big on rules in Bhutan and the locals are thrilled by the painting. Religious art is a tradition and apart from being incredibly beautiful, the painting of Guru Rinpoche’s face is a lasting reminder to the Demoness of the valley to behave herself.
At Rinpoche’s instruction the two Ugyen Wangchuks also paint a stupa (like a shrine), a protector lion and a Buddhist teaching, known as the eight worldly dharmas, in English on a huge rock by the side of the road.
May all sentient beings be free from wanting to be
praised, not wanting to be criticized, wanting to be
happy, not wanting to be unhappy, wanting to gain,
not wanting to lose, wanting to be famous, not wanting
to be ignored.
Thus prayed at the occasion of filming in Bhutan.
Each member of the crew then signs their name on the bottom of the rock.
Almost before the paint has dried, the site becomes a tourist attraction. The locals are indebted to Rinpoche, and not just because the rest of Bhutan is suddenly making its way to their door. They say that by filming and performing pujas, Rinpoche has subdued the legendary Demoness. This is an unexpected blessing. All their lives they have lived in the shadow of her negative energy and at last they feel they can sleep easy.
The ‘major obstacle’ may be out of the way, and the Demoness of the valley sorted out, but niggling problems and bad spirits continue to follow the crew around. The second camera takes a tumble in another mysterious, unexplainable accident.
This camera, a lightweight Aaton A-Minima, is used for aerial shots. The grips and camera department spend hours securing cable between two farmhouses, six metres above the ground. They test it twelve times for tension and try it out with weights much heavier than the camera. It is a relatively simple procedure that the highly experienced key grip Tom Lembcke, a stalwart of Hollywood films, must have done a hundred times before.
Tom, along with the directory of photography, the first assistant camera person, the technical co-ordinator and two Bhutanese assistants, is perched on the third floor of one house watching as the camera is sent down the cable. It makes it to the middle and is on its way back when there’s a strange cracking noise. The twenty-by-twenty centimetre beam that is supporting the camera snaps, as they later say, ‘like a brittle chicken bone’.
Everyone watching is aghast. How could it have happened? It makes no sense. This time the camera is damaged. The remote-control head no longer works, the body is scratched and it makes suspicious grinding noises as the film is wound through. It will have to go back to France to be repaired.
Rinpoche is not too concerned. It is only the small ‘second’ camera, and he was in two minds
about using the aerial shot anyway. But cinematographer Alan Kozlowski is very concerned. The A-Minima is a much-valued piece of equipment and very expensive.
As producer, Mal must find out exactly what caused the accident and fill out an insurance form. He talks to everybody who was there. The foreigners aren’t much help and give no insight into what happened – mostly because they still can’t quite believe it did happen. They just keep shaking their heads and frowning. The Bhutanese, on the other hand, are happy to co-operate and give a full explanation. The farmhouse where the beam snapped is called ‘the Black Roost’ and known to be haunted. It was ghosts. No doubt about it, they say.
I try – and fail – to keep a straight face as Mal reads me what he has written in the form intended for the men in grey suits at the insurance company. Under ‘cause’ he has stated: ‘Several witnesses have no doubt that spirit intervention played a role in the incident.’
In a few weeks, in an office somewhere in downtown Sydney, that form is going to land in someone’s in-tray.
10
The Talk of Thimphu
When Mal is here, it is like being in the eye of a cyclone. After each visit, there is a momentary lull, then life returns to its comfortable routine with the family, the maids, Kathryn and myself.
The day starts around 6.30 with Kathryn’s first cry. I bundle her back into bed for a feed and a cuddle. At about 7 am one of the maids brings tea; soon after Wesel Wangmo appears and takes Kathryn off for breakfast. Breakfast for me is at the dining table upstairs, surrounded by glass windows. First thing in the morning they’re misty with condensation. After wiping a few panels I can eat breakfast and watch the morning fog slowly clear to reveal the mountains in all their majestic splendour.
This morning for breakfast it is Bhutanese tea with salt and butter, plus stewed potatoes and japatis (Indian-style fried flat bread), with thukpa (a hearty vegetable and pasta soup). The week I arrived I brought out my jar of Vegemite to have on toast but after its first appearance the maids took it downstairs and it hasn’t reappeared since. Nor has toast. The breakfasts are far more elaborate than that. Occasionally, when I go into the kitchen to fill my thermos with boiling water, I see the Vegemite sitting on a very high shelf and look at it longingly. But I’m happy to eat whatever they put in front of me.
While I sip tea, in the driveway Mani Dorji’s driver warms the engine and clears the ice from the windscreen. The car belongs to Mani Dorji and stays at Taba overnight in the driveway. The driver lives in Thimphu and catches an early bus here each morning. He is a short, dapper man with long argyle socks, pulled up to the knee around his muscly calves. It is so cold I can see the mist on his breath.
Students drift past the house alone and in groups of twos and threes on their way to school, which starts at 8.30. The older ones are peers of Karma Chokyi, dressed in kiras and ghos in the same orange and green checked fabric that she wears each day. The high school, built in 2001, is a few blocks along and I can see some of the grounds from my bedroom window. Also walking along are younger students, some only about six or seven, whose school is a few kilometres down the road. It seems like a long walk for such little people but they do it each weekday, trudging along with their books, laughing and chatting and chasing each other.
Foot traffic going the other way is less frequent. The occasional family group wanders by, carrying vegetables on their backs in large straw baskets, on their way to do business in Thimphu. The house opposite seems to be an unofficial bus stop because although there is no sign, throughout the day people congregate there, providing an ever-changing panorama to keep me entertained.
Taxis are frequent. They are like little kombi vans and pick up passengers all the way to the main street of Thimphu, dropping them off wherever they want to go. If the first one that comes by is full, another will be past shortly. The drivers seldom speak English, which means I have to use sign language and a map, though sometimes the other passengers help with explanations. A couple of times they’ve taken Kathryn on their knee for the trip.
While I enjoy breakfast, I see Karma Chokyi looking anxiously up the road for her cousin Karma Yogini to come by and walk with her. As she waits, she chats to Mani Dorji’s driver. They both stamp their feet to keep warm and breathe out clouds of vapour.
Mani Dorji finally appears, handsome and businesslike in his gho and carrying a briefcase. As his car drives out, Karma Yogini walks in. She is the same age as Karma Chokyi and equally as beautiful. Her hair is also long and parted down the middle, but her face is broader and she has a cheeky smile, which she flashes often. One of the leads of Rinpoche’s film, ‘the hero’ as they call him, is courting her. With that and Dr Thinley and what is happening at school, there is much for the two girls to giggle about.
Romances between students at the high school are forbidden but, inevitably, a few flourish. Recently word of one made it to the ear of the headmaster. He asked at assembly for the guilty couple to come forward. No-one was more surprised than he was when five couples stood up. The shockwaves reverberated throughout the school, on to the parents, spilling out into the local community. It was a scandal of unthinkable proportions. The headmaster expelled the students, which Karma Chokyi thought was appropriate under the circumstances. The students could still sit for the end-of-year exams, only a few weeks away, just not under the banner of the school.
Karma Chokyi had her own brush with authority. After being late for a particular class the teacher told her to stand on the spot and do ten squats. She refused and came home, missing the class. Karma Chokyi is a diligent student so that seemed out of character. Over dinner that night she said she was upset by it. She hadn’t meant to be rude or undermine the teacher, but, being shy, she couldn’t bear being the focus of everybody’s attention in such a way.
The next day she sought out the teacher to explain. She told him she was genuinely sorry about being late and would try to be on time in future. But, she added, squats were undignified. Doing them in the classroom would embarrass her. So even if she was late again, he shouldn’t ask her to do them. So there. Go Karma Chokyi!
The teacher accepted her apology.
Education is freely available throughout Bhutan, after being introduced in the late 1950s. Before that it had only been available in the monasteries but these days education in secular schools from primary to tertiary level is available to most Bhutanese.
Dzongkha, the national language, is a compulsory subject although it isn’t spoken in many of the students’ homes, including here at Taba. Only one-fifth of the country speak it. Like most of eastern Bhutan, this family speaks Sharchop.
I discover this over dinner one night with Karma Chokyi. She explains how difficult she finds Dzongkha. It is her least favourite subject, even worse than mathematics. She sounds just like me. But as soon as I start thinking that way, feeling a sense of familiarity, someone will say something that rockets me back into the twilight zone.
Karma Chokyi explains that her native tongue has no written form. Sharchop is verbal only. There aren’t any books or literature in the language. The sisters can’t even write a shopping list or notes to each other using the words they speak every single day. It sounds so bizarre. These women, who are bright, funny and smart, with a wicked sense of humour, can’t write down anything in their own language.
I ask how they leave notes for each other. Karma Chokyi looks confused.
‘Why would we do that?’
‘What if you take a telephone message for someone else in the family or just want to leave a note saying . . . I don’t know .. . you’ve borrowed your sister’s jumper or won’t be home till late because you’ve gone out with friends?’
‘Oh,’ says Karma Chokyi, suddenly understanding my concern. ‘We would tell the maids. They’re always here.’
Whenever Karma Chokyi or Wesel Wangmo needs to write something down they do it in English. But Karma Yangki’s is not so good, nor is Mani Dorji’s. However, they understand enough to read th
e English-language version of The Kuensel. It is also published in Dzongkha but they find that even harder.
In one of the family’s shops in downtown Thimphu they sell cards, in English, that are very sentimental, much like you find in India. There are cards for every occasion, including some to wish students luck for exams. But this is a relatively modern phenomenon in Bhutan and the family isn’t in the practice of giving each other cards for their birthdays or Christmas. They don’t celebrate either occasion. The Buddhist equivalents are marked with prayers, not giving gifts or sending cards.
School classes are taught in English because originally there were so few Bhutanese teachers that they had to import them all. That’s no longer the case and many graduates now choose a career in education, as teachers are such highly respected figures in the community.
While Karma Chokyi’s dream is to be a fashion designer, in her more practical moments she considers becoming a teacher, perhaps of mathematics – even though she hates the subject. She figures it’s just a bunch of formulas to learn by heart.
I ask her if there is a subject that she does enjoy and she says history. But there is so much to know and she fears a student might ask her a question she couldn’t answer. She shakes her head. That would be too mortifying. Mathematics would be much safer.
One of the benefits of being taught in English is that many graduates have gone on to universities in America, Asia, Australia and Europe. They are encouraged to leave Bhutan to study and return with an international qualification. We look on the net for fashion schools in Australia. (Karma Chokyi knows how to use the web but has no access to a computer, as there’s always a long queue to use the few that the school provides. Sometimes she and Karma Yogini go to a cybercafe in town to send emails, but not often.)
A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan Page 13
