Kathryn greets each person who comes up to her with a shy ‘hi’, and a little wave. They can’t believe how much she has grown. Karma Chokyi is here but youngest sister Wesel Wangmo has gone to India to study. This is enrolment weekend and she can’t leave. Karma Chokyi says she was very disappointed to miss seeing Kathryn.
In the front row is a smiling face I recognise but can’t quite place. After a few minutes I remember. It’s the apple man! Neatly shaven and wearing a toothless grin from ear to ear, he is sitting in the middle of this mayhem, happily watching it all go on around him. I don’t believe he could possibly remember me, having met for just two minutes at the wrap party eight months ago, but he spots me and waves. I’m sure he’s just getting into the spirit of it all.
He seems altogether different from before. He isn’t a big man but when he stands up he seems taller than I remember. And that smile just doesn’t leave his face.
‘What’s with the apple man?’ I ask.
It turns out that about three months ago he at last discovered that he’d been involved in making a film. All the mad behaviour by the roadside with Rinpoche and that bunch of crazy foreigners suddenly made sense, and ever since he’s been telling anybody who will listen: ‘I’m in a movie.’ The transformation is remarkable. Instead of a rabbit caught in the headlights, he now looks more like the cat that got the cream. Clearly he’s having the time of his life.
Finally, towards the end of the afternoon, we head off to Taba, bypassing the centre of town, taking the winding road past the magnificent building of Trashi Chhoe Dzong, with its distinctive yellow roof and golden spires. The air is fresh and alive with birds. It is glorious.
We find the Taba house has changed dramatically in the past eight months. Like most things Bhutanese, it is fluid and dynamic, changing to suit the family’s needs. Walls have been knocked down and new ones erected. They didn’t go to the council to get approval, they didn’t even draw up plans. Karma Yangki just got the builders in and told them what she wanted, and they did it.
What was her bedroom is now like a small apartment in the middle of the house, with an en-suite bathroom and a bedroom for Madonna and Karma Chokyi. The wall beside the bed was knocked out to create a larger living area. It is where the family spends most of their time so it makes sense. Instead of just a mat in the small space by the bed, where Kathryn crawled for the first time, now there is a lounge suite and a low coffee table. A new wall divides the downstairs lounge room, creating a hallway-cum-room where the fridge now grandly resides. The kitchen has been moved to the outhouse that used to be the weaving room.
Most dramatic of all is an enormous new waterbed in the centre of the room. It is huge. Unfortunately, after they bought the waterbed Mani Dorji discovered he couldn’t sleep on it because it made him feel seasick, so he and Karma Yangki now have another, newly created bedroom. They live, entertain and relax here, but sleep elsewhere. The waterbed has become a play pen, the family’s favourite spot for watching TV.
Madonna and Renee are excited to see Kathryn and race up to greet us. She waddles up and pokes at them, which terrifies them anew. She has doubled in size and now moves and talks
– not what they remember of the little person who sat in one spot and giggled. The little girls retreat behind the maid’s skirt and stay there, peeking out, unsure quite what to make of her.
It has taken days of travelling to get here and Mal, Kathryn and I are exhausted. After hot sweet tea, we collapse on our bed upstairs just as the afternoon’s monsoon storm begins. The rain pounds on the tin roof and the upstairs kitten curls up with the three of us for a late afternoon nap.
Mal sleeps for hours but Kathryn is too excited by all the smells and noises of her new surroundings to stay down for long, so we go visiting.
It’s all happening around the waterbed. Mani Dorji is sitting on the floor watching a Hindi movie on TV. A little terrier dog is chasing the downstairs kitten and they keep streaking through the room, then stopping to wrestle on the floor. Karma Chokyi is on the couch watching Karma Yangki, who is trying on various kiras, holding them up for everybody’s verdict. She has had one woven especially for tomorrow’s royal occasion but still isn’t sure it is suitable. Most of the Taba family are acting as ushers to members of the royal family, escorting each one individually to their seats, so it is vitally important that they look their best. Kathryn is delighted to spot a telephone, just like at home, and waddles over to poke at it.
Phuntsho Wangmo’s husband Tenzin has just returned from a tour of America with three others from Bhutan’s business community. They were sent by the government to observe how small businesses are encouraged and supported in America. He says he was surprised by the degree of corporate help. Compared to Bhutan, where the government is involved in everything, America’s small businesses rely heavily on the support of their own business community. He has come back full of ideas of how to help fledgling businesses in his own country. He admits he only just made it back in time for tomorrow’s gala event.
I ask about the little boy he looks after in Phuntsoling. Tenzin tells me that the boy’s mother, one of the Taba maids during my previous stay, has taken him and they have started a new life together in a country village. Everyone is happy at how it turned out.
The new maid, a young girl who must be about thirteen (but no-one seems to know), brings us tea by the bed. She is very petite, only coming up to my waist, and sweet. Kathryn keeps pointing to her and saying, ‘Baby.’
The next morning the sisters dress me in my own beautiful lavender-coloured kira and matching belt – their farewell gift to me in December. In Sydney I had the three lengths of woven fabric sewn together as the sisters had suggested, and according to the precise instructions of a Bhutanese girl whose husband is studying agriculture at the University of Sydney. She explained where each piece should be sewn and how the rough edges should be trimmed. I found a local dressmaker to do the job.
Determined not to look so clumsy this time, I have brought high-heel sandals and jewellery to match. Karma Yangki completes the ensemble with a wonju, a toego and two elaborate gold brooches (komas) that fasten the kira at the shoulders. Karma Chokyi pulls the belt in so much I feel like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Seeing the look of pain on my face, she asks if it’s too tight.
‘How tight would you wear it?’ I ask.
She pulls the belt in even more.
I gasp. ‘Okay.’
‘Are you sure? We Bhutanese women are used to it.’
‘Then I’ll get used to it,’ I say through gritted teeth.
It’s Kathryn’s turn next and she fights us every step of the way. We give up on trying to get the shirt onto her, and it takes two of us to hold the wriggling mass while Karma Chokyi fastens her little kira at the shoulders with safety pins. We tie a matching belt around her waist and over the top goes a vivid orange toego. To complete her ensemble, she wears hot-pink patent leather shoes. She looks adorable. Grumpy, but gorgeous. She recovers swiftly from the indignity of it all and chases after the little white terrier.
Mal takes us on a bumpy ride along potholed roads overgrown with marijuana bushes, past the National Mushroom Centre and through an ornate ceremonial archway to the Royal Institute of Management. ‘Welcome to the world premiere of Travellers & Magicians,’ proclaims a hand-painted sign in gold lettering.
The film is multi-layered, featuring a story within a story, and so too are the premieres – all three of them. First up this Saturday afternoon is the royal premiere, attended by the pinnacle of Bhutanese society.
The cast arrives first, and are talked through their roles for the afternoon. They assemble on the red carpet next to Rinpoche and Mal, ready to greet the VIPs. Most of the crew is here also, to watch and help in any way they might be needed. The talent co-ordinator, Chooing, the lovely young woman who collects other people’s garbage on the weekends, comes up and straightens Kathryn’s kira. She whips off the safety pins at her little shoulders and
produces two dress pins. Amazingly, Kathryn doesn’t struggle. ‘Much more elegant,’ she declares when she’s finished.
Kathryn and I find a spot on the top floor, overlooking the entrance, where we can see everything that is going on and Kathryn’s cries of ‘Daddy, Daddy’ won’t distract anyone.
First come the gomchen. Their long grey hair is tied back in neat buns and they wear robes with long shawls draped over one shoulder. The picture of dignity, they smile as they walk up the carpet, greeting Rinpoche, the cast and Mal, then melt into the crowd inside.
The sun is shining but the air is heavy with moisture as monsoon clouds gather for the late afternoon downpour. The imminent arrival of the regal party is heralded by a posse of fit, athletic young military men in blue paratrooper suits who do a reconnaissance of the building.
A few minutes later a hush descends and everyone looks at their feet. The black royal Land Cruisers have arrived. For the members of the cast, lined up to greet the royal entourage, today is a rare opportunity to actually look their first family in the eye, as protocol normally forbids it.
The Queens are resplendent in beautifully coloured silk kiras. It is an unusual event for all four sisters, and their children, to be in attendance. Only the King and Crown Prince are absent, busy seeing to urgent matters of state. The Dragon King will watch a video in the privacy of his palace later.
The rest of his family strolls up the red carpet, a huge smiling party of twenty-four. Kathryn and I watch as the ushers (including Karma Yangki, Mani Dorji, Phuntsho Wangmo and Tenzin Wangdi) each escorts a royal to their seat. Even though this movie is the biggest cultural event to hit the nation in a decade or more, and this screening the most prestigious, inside the hall there are many empty seats. It just wouldn’t be right to ‘crowd’ the royals.
As the film unfolds, the room is conspicuously quiet. No subject would dare laugh or even breathe too loudly for fear of distracting the royals. Again, I find myself astonished at the degree of respect and devotion the Bhutanese feel for their first family.
For the 108 minutes that the film plays, Kathryn and I sit in the shade, walk around the grounds and try to stay cool. The grey clouds look ominous, preparing for the afternoon onslaught, and the humidity is rapidly rising. I feel trapped inside all these layers of fabric but dare not undo anything, knowing I will never get it back together again.
I have some vague idea that I might get Kathryn to sleep in the car, but she is much too stimulated by all the excitement to co-operate. When the film finishes and the audience comes out of the theatre we stand off to one side, trying to keep out of the way. It’s useless. Kathryn spots Mal’s head above the crowd, screams ‘Daddy’ and pushes through everybody to get to him. Then she wraps herself around his legs with delight, as if she hasn’t seen him for a month.
Afterwards, while monsoon rain pounds the roof, a genteel reception is held in a massive marquee in the institute’s grassy courtyard. The marquee is white, decorated with fierce dragons clutching jewels in their talons. Above the courtyard the cast and other guests stand in the hallway and watch through windows, while inside the marquee two rows of sofas covered in rugs have been placed looking outwards. The four Queens, Princes, Princesses, Rinpoche and another lama, Rabjam Rinpoche, sit in the front row. Behind them in the second row sit Mal, Kathryn and I with the King’s Secretary. It’s cooler in here and I feel elegant and demure in my kira, arranging it carefully around my feet just like the royal ladies. One Queen turns and chats to us as waiters bring orange juice in long-stemmed glasses and a selection of hors d’oeuvres.
Kathryn is unable to sit still and runs out onto the grass to play in the rain. The Queens appear to be enchanted by this little redhead in a kira frolicking in front of them like some sort of floorshow. I’m aghast. I’m not well versed in Bhutanese royal protocol but suspect this isn’t quite the done thing. I pray she will come back inside the marquee on her own but, of course, she doesn’t, and I have to go out in the rain to get her. She thinks it’s a huge game and I give up kidding myself that I look elegant as I hitch up my kira and in front of the royal party chase after her in high heels across the muddy grass.
The Queens smile sympathetically. Maybe royal toddlers are just as badly behaved.
I try taking her hand to lead her gently back inside the tent. ‘No!’ she says, shaking me off, stamping her foot and running away. I laugh merrily. She never does this at home, I say to anyone who can hear. Can’t think what’s got into her . . . I keep smiling.
She runs off again. I finally catch her, pick her up and drag her kicking and screaming into a corner of the tent, as far away from the Queens as I can get. Bad move. There is a TV set up to play excerpts from the movie. It is plugged in and ready to go, just needing someone to press the on switch. It’s a Sony, almost identical to the one in our lounge room in Sydney. The way Kathryn sees it, that switch is all that stands between her and Bob the Builder. So she presses it, then keeps hitting buttons. One of them is for volume. At eighteen months, she knows exactly what she is not supposed to do and delights in doing it. Every time. As she holds her finger on the button, the sound of static gets louder and louder, filling the tent like 1000 snakes have been unleashed in the corner. Heads start to swivel. In the time it takes me to throw myself on Kathryn and hit the off button, all the Princesses have stopped talking among themselves and are staring straight at us.
Kathryn is so overtired from all the excitement and lack of an afternoon nap that any kind of control is virtually impossible. But I fear that leaving before the Royals would be a gross breach of etiquette. Smiling gaily, I shepherd her into a back corner of the marquee and for the next half-hour sit on the floor and roll walnuts across the carpet to her.
At 6 o’clock on the dot, the four Queens rise to leave. One Queen shakes my hand and says how much she enjoyed meeting our beautiful little girl, which is very kind but not entirely believable. Another tells Mal how much she enjoyed the film. It’s hard to imagine these elegant ladies, with their gracious manners and serene smiles, ever uttering anything negative or derogatory. Nevertheless, they have given the film the all-important royal nod and everyone is pleased.
As the Queens and their entourage walk along the halls of the school, the crowd parts, then closes again behind them. The Royals stop at each cast member to compliment them on their performances. When they get to the apple man I think he may just burst with pride. I swear he has grown another inch since yesterday.
In the evening, Rinpoche is having dinner inside the royal compound and we are invited.
The collection of palaces is high on the hillside and as Mal pushes Phuntsho Wangmo’s little Maruti up the steep incline, it starts to splutter and make hissing noises. There is a loud plop and steam gushes out of the bonnet and covers the windscreen. We’ve blown a hose. Mal telephones our host from a shop nearby, explains the problem, and within minutes Tenzin Wangdi appears. No problem, he says, he will come back for the car in the morning.
The home is the same one where we enjoyed leather stew on our previous visit. This evening our host is not the head of the household, Gup Hopola, but one of the gomchen, who works with the royal family. The doctor from the Dzongkha Committee, Pema Dorji, who attended Mal when he was sick with sinusitis, is also invited. Everyone is in high spirits after the successful royal premiere and while Karma Yangki keeps filling our glasses with more ara, the conversation flows around us in Sharchop, fast and furious.
The men are all obviously old friends and there is much teasing of the doctor, a renowned ladies’ man. There is a bit of banter between them, then they all fall about laughing. Rinpoche translates some of what is being said, but is laughing too much to reveal all. After dinner the men settle into a game of cards and we take Kathryn home.
As we park the car in the driveway a familiar face opens my door. It’s Wesel Wangmo. She has travelled by train and bus to get here, telling her bemused teachers that she just has to go home for a day or two. Kathryn is soun
d asleep in my arms and Wesel tenderly strokes her face, marvelling at how much bigger she is. Kathryn doesn’t stir. Their reunion will have to wait till morning.
Over sweet tea by the waterbed, the sisters swap notes on the afternoon. None of them actually saw the film, they were so busy organising it all. They are tired but elated. They laugh at one non-Bhutanese guest who was introduced to one of the Queens. In response to the polite royal query ‘How are you?’, the foreigner replied that she was well and then asked after the Queen’s health. The sisters look knowingly at each other.
I don’t understand. They explain that it’s a breach of protocol to ask a royal a question. You answer them, but you certainly don’t ask them. It doesn’t matter though, they rush to explain. Being a foreigner and unused to Bhutanese ways, it was an entirely forgivable faux pas.
Lordy, lordy – now they tell me.
I try to repeat to them every polite pleasantry I think I might have exchanged with Their Royal Highnesses. It was small talk, either about Kathryn or the film, but I can’t guarantee I didn’t ask anything. I was so concerned with keeping my wayward daughter in check that I don’t actually remember.
They assure me I shouldn’t worry. The Queens wouldn’t be offended, they say.
The following afternoon is premiere number two – government ministers and VIPs of Thimphu. The National Assembly is meeting on Monday so all the ministers are here, and on every seat is a VIP bottom.
Travellers & Magicians is shot in Dzongkha, but as only a quarter of the country speaks it, the film is shown with English subtitles.
Dzongkha is a complex language and many Bhutanese videos portray it badly, mixing it with modern idiom, and even though foreigners won’t notice, it is a matter of national pride that Travellers & Magicians gets it right. This audience of scholars, senior bureaucrats and ministers will be the harshest critics.
A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan Page 21
