Before she actually knew what she was going to do she found herself addressing the dark visitor in the cave, “Little Brother, help me to start the fire in the hearth.” At this the migoi shook its head from side to side. What an enormous head it had!
She went ahead and lit a blazing fire. Now in the firelight she could see the creature more clearly. It had turned around and was facing the hearth, still seated in the same place and position, as it studied her closely. “I must not let it realize that I have recognized it and am frightened,” she thought to herself. Then she calmly put a pot of water on the stove and waited for it to boil. As the water began to rise in frothy bubbles, she took several measures of the freshly ground barley flour and mixed it with the water. She let it cook into a thick dough. Next, she took the pot down from the fire and began to kneed the dough with a sturdy wooden ladle. All along she chatted with her visitor who watched her every move and continued to shake its head from side to side.
She then rubbed some butter into the palms of her hands and scooped up a big portion of the dough which she shaped into a round ball. She stuck her thumb into the center of the ball of dough and made a deep hole into which she placed a generous lump of butter. Barley flour prepared in this way, called dongkho, is a favorite preparation among the Layaps. She casually handed the dongkho to the migoi, who, after some initial hesitation, stretched out its arm and took it with its big furry paw. She quickly set about making a similar ball for herself as the migoi watched not quite knowing what to do with the dongkho. Normally, as the butter melts with the heat of the dough, pieces of the dongkho are broken off from the ball, dipped in the butter and eaten, all the time ensuring that the melted butter does not spill out. But instead, the girl began to dip her fingers in the melted butter and rub them, first on her legs and then her arms and finally over her entire body. The creature watched her carefully and began to imitate her. There was so much butter that the creature’s fur stood on its body like spikes, making it look like an enormous giant porcupine!
Then she proceeded to eat the dongkho; the migoi did the same. It obviously liked what it had eaten because it kept on extending its arms towards her, with open palms, as she made two more balls of dough. But this time, instead of putting butter in the hole, she put in hot embers which she carefully withdrew from the fire. The migoi watched on, fascinated. She passed a dongkho filled with red hot embers to the migoi who took it and held it in its hands expectantly. She took the second dongkho, filled with the hot embers, and made the gesture of heating her oiled arms and legs. The migoi immediately did the same thing. She was careful not to burn herself but the migoi did not understand and it held the still burning embers so close that its well oiled fur immediately ignited and began to burn. The enormous creature stood up with a start and hastily threw down the dongkho, but it was too late. The migoi was on fire. It ran out of the cave growling and howling. Then it began to jump about and dance in panic, unknowingly fanning the fire to a frenzied blaze. Soon the migoi’s body was engulfed in a ball of fire.
The girl watched on somewhat surprised, for she had not fully anticipated the immediate impact of her actions. As the flaming ball of fur rolled down the entire expanse of today’s communal pastures of Goelak, and then disappeared into the thick forest at the bottom of the hill, one word kept surfacing and resurfacing in her excited mind, “Goelak, Goelak.” Slowly she formed the syllables and finally said the word out loud, “Goelak” she then turned to go back into the cave to resume her search for her missing brother.
Part 2
Bumthang
Yaks and Yak Herders
My parents, like their ancestors, owned two herds of yaks. The female herd provided us with thick creamy milk, cheese, yogurt, and takepa—the dried and hardened cheese. The other was an exclusively male herd and the animals were maintained primarily for draft purposes. These sturdy beasts of burden transported bales of salt from Tibet to Bhutan in exchange for rice from Kurtoi, where we had some paddy fields. After the Chinese take over of Tibet the old trade routes were closed. Now all that was left for the yaks to do was to make two or three trips a year to carry the rice over the Rodong La Pass in the 4,100 meter high mountain that separates temperate Bumthang from the subtropical regions of Kurtoi. For the rest of the year the animals were kept in the high mountain pastures and we rarely saw them at all. For nearly three generations a certain Mimi Kaydola and his two sons, Shaty and Khandola, had looked after our family’s male yak herd. By the time I was old enough to remember anything, only Mimi Khandola was still alive and he continued to herd our yaks. I remember him well. He was already an old man. His hair was gray and there were gray wisps of hair on his face that sort of curled into untidy circles all over his cheeks and chin. Although he did nothing extraordinary, the children in the village were intrigued by this personality, for Mimi Khandola had become synonymous with the yaks who lived in what he called “the migoi territories” and his rare visits to the village were always a great source of excitement for all of us. All the children would stop whatever they were doing and watched the slow procession of the mighty animals chanting, “Yakyey, Yakyey,” or “yaks, yaks” as if it was a hypnotic mantra. Mimi Khandola would saunter along beside his animals calling each of them by name and smacking his lips noisily to guide or reprimand them.
Khandola’s material needs were few. In the early days, in lieu of a salary, retainers were given phok, or monthly rations, and a set of clothes, comparable to the livery allowance of today. Mimi Khandola was rarely on time to receive his phok. He usually took his phok several months in advance or several months late, and my mother always let him have it his way. When the yaks did come down to our house, they were each fed their dose of salt. A horn was filled with salt (300 grams) and as one person held the animal’s head another person would force the contents of the horn into its mouth. We were told that the animals needed the salt. They shook their shaggy heads as the foamy mixture of saliva and salt oozed from the corners of their mouths and long threads of silvery dribble hung below their chins, but they never spat out the salt. Occasionally they sneezed, letting out a spray of salty saliva, to the gleeful delight of the children who stood around watching.
After the animals had each had their share of salt they would listlessly search out shady spots in the courtyard of our house and lie down, panting as their entire bodies shook back and forth rhythmically, tormented by the heat of the lower altitudes. While Mimi Khandola’s provisions were being prepared we would sit around him and beg him to tell us about his life in the wilderness. We were especially interested in hearing tales about the migoi, whom he considered his companions. When we asked him whether there really were migoi he would smile a gentle enigmatic smile and simply say, “Migoi?” He always repeated part of a question as if for reaffirmation, “Of course! It’s my companion, I live in the migoi territory.”
“Aren’t you afraid of it?”
“Afraid? Why should I be? I don’t bother it so it doesn’t bother me.”
Somehow in our childish innocence we knew that Mimi Khandola was telling us the truth, although the adults used to laugh apprehensively and say, “Ahh, Mimi Khandola, are these lies or are you telling us the truth?”
Mimi Khandola always spoke of the migoi as if it were as ordinary as a yak or a pasture. In fact, he used to refer to the tiger with more awe and fear. On his last visit to the village he told us of an incident that really seemed to have made an impression on him. It was what he believed the savage death of a migoi. He was totally shaken and definitely out of sorts. Ironically he died soon after this incident. As it turned out, the death of the migoi was more than just the harbinger of his own death. Just as he lived, he died alone in the wilderness, amidst the splendor of the mountains, with only the yaks as silent witnesses to the cause of his death.
Some of the men volunteered to carry down Mimi Khandola’s corpse from the pastures to the cremation grounds near the village. After the phowa rite for the transference of his conscio
usness at the time of death, the village astrologer conducted the ro-stid-thama, or the calculations and divinations for the corpse. It was revealed that Mimi Khandola’s sog, or life force, was taken by the spirits in the mountains during an unusually fearsome experience. Everybody was sure that the fearsome experience was the attack on the migoi by the wild dogs. During the rites and rituals for the dead, a person is represented not by his or her name but by the year in which he or she was born, i.e., the twelve-year cycle wherein each year is represented by an animal. Mimi Khandola was born in the year of the monkey. The astrologer explained that it was more than likely that what Mimi Khandola experienced as the death of a migoi—believed to resemble a giant monkey—was in fact a vision of his own death. He had experienced death several days before he actually died.
Mimi Khandola’s Story
He could not do anything with his sling. He stood there in uncertainty and listened for a while.
It was at the peak of the summer, Mimi Khandola told us, and he had taken his yaks to one of the highest and most remote pastures. The heat was oppressive for the yaks at lower altitudes but they were always at ease when they were in cooler pastures. The move had been slow but smooth and the animals had generally kept to the tracks and consequently had arrived at their destination by early afternoon. Mimi Khandola unloaded his belongings which had been loaded on to two yaks and placed them under a rock outcrop, which was to provide him shelter for the next several days. The animals soon spread out over the pastures and Mimi Khandola sat in the shade of the rock and made himself a pot of tea. After he had drunk a few cups of tea over which he sprinkled some kaphe, the smooth and nourishing roasted barley flour, he leaned on the saddle of a yak and slept for a while.
He woke up just as the sun was going down and the wind was already crisp and chilly. Realizing that it would soon be dark, for darkness descended on one quickly in the mountains, he collected the logs of wood lying around and carried them to his shelter for the night. There were some clumps of bamboo nearby; he cut a whole bunch and dragged them towards his cave—bamboo is always handy when one is out in the wilderness. As he went about his business he realized that many of the yaks had assembled together and appeared nervous and restless. They raised their heads anxiously and looked out into the distance. By the time he had made the fire and collected a pile of stones for his sling, some of his animals began to panic while the others huddled together seemingly sensing some unknown threat.
Mimi Khandola sat by the fire and watched the animals as he tried to concentrate on his spinning, an activity that usually relaxed and calmed him. He rolled the handle of his spindle against his thigh and then let it spin as he released more wool which was worn in a bracelet-like-ring on the wrist of his left hand. Suddenly there was a stampede and the animals scattered in all directions. Mimi Khandola dropped his spindle and got up to take a closer look at the scene before him. Small reddish-yellow animals were flying after the fleeing yaks. Wild dogs, the nasty dreaded menace! The realization shook him into a heightened state of awareness and a sudden panic seized him. The yaks raised their tails in alarm as the dogs chased them swiftly. There was total chaos. Mimi Khandola counted at least twelve fierce animals, who operated as an experienced team to pin down a victim.
Soon the old yak Dawala, or Moon (this totally black yak had a white circle on its forehead), was surrounded. The predators had the genius of selecting the weakest or the oldest animals. The old yak stood in a circle of snarling, hissing and growling dogs and put up a tremendous fight for its life. But the sheer numbers and the agility of the dogs confused the poor beast and placed it at an immediate disadvantage. The typical wild dog team-dynamics were being exhibited most effectively; while some animals distracted their victim from the front the others attacked him from the rear, the wild dog’s favorite point of attack. The dogs actually scratched the earth and threw it in the face of the animal, perhaps to blind it. Soon at least two dogs advanced on the yak and dug their teeth deep into its neck. It bellowed helplessly as the other animals began to tear out its entrails through its rear end. Like a deflated balloon it collapsed and crumbled to the ground with a loud wheeze and a thud. In the din of all the chaos caused by the fleeing animals—the snarling dogs and bellowing yak—the sharp cracks of Mimi Khandola’s sling had gone unnoticed. Now the ravenous creatures devoured their prey in earnest; the yak’s body was being ripped apart in total savagery amidst snarls and hisses. Mimi Khandola took aim and sent stone after stone whipping through the night air towards the animals. At intervals came the loud crackle of the bamboo as it burst in the fire. Above this was Mimi Khandola himself shouting at the top of his voice. The animals finally and reluctantly dispersed, but only after they had devoured most of the victim. There was barely anything left of the once huge animal, but what a grizzly mess. Parts of the body were scattered everywhere.
Mimi Khandola stayed up right through the night and the yaks huddled together. He continued to use his sling, sending sharp sounds that echoed in the dark night, and every once in a while he fed a bamboo into the fire which burst with an explosion.
For the next few days he continued to guard the animals with extra caution. Mimi Khandola hoped that the “mangy, miserable creatures” had finally moved away. In any case he had made up his mind to soon move the animals to a different pasture.
The shelter under the outcrop of the rock was barely room enough for the man to lie down. He slept in the narrow space between the face of the rock and the saddles of the yaks which he had lined up parallel to the rock face. He always slept very well. He had checked on the animals, eaten his usual meal and was just pulling up the numerous yak-hair blankets to cover himself when he heard the solitary howl of a wild dog. It was answered by another equally mournful howl that seemed even further away. “Shoodh, these nasty wild dogs,” scolded Mimi Khandola under his breath and left his shelter to collect some more stones for his sling. Darkness had fallen and he could barely see the stones. He picked them up mainly by feeling for them. He could sense that the yaks were wary too. Most of them were still lying down but peering uneasily into the darkness while some had got up and were ready to run. Mimi Khandola approached the animals, smacking his lips and stroking them in reassurance. There was dead silence for a long time after that. Then the full moon suddenly pierced through the darkness and everything lit up.
“It’s full moon today. No wonder the dogs are baying at the moon,” thought Mimi Khandola in relief as he sat back in his blankets. But he could not sleep. He sat there and stared into the moonlit landscape when he heard a heart wrenching sound which was clearly not the call of a wild dog. He listened carefully and thought the sound was approaching closer. Then he heard the dogs once more. They were making the same sounds as before, when they had attacked the old yak. Perhaps he had counted incorrectly and one yak was actually missing and was now lost to the vicious dogs. He continued to sit powerless, listening to the fierce sounds and juggling numbers in his head. Perhaps he had counted only three-fifteens-and-three instead of three-fifteens-and-four. (Most Bhutanese count in units of twenties but Mimi Khandola counted in units of fifteens because he only knew his numbers up to fifteen.) There were definite growls and groans filtering through the air which did not belong to the dogs and certainly not to the yaks. What could the dogs have caught tonight?
Curious, Mimi Khandola walked towards the sounds which came from further than he had thought. He walked across the entire pasture through the creek and it still seemed to be further away. He crossed the expanse of shrub land and was now standing on a ridge when he realized that the noises were so near that he could actually feel the vibrations in the ground. Suddenly he was frightened and did not want to go any further. He could do nothing. He groped for his knife in his belt and touched the empty place. He had even forgotten to bring along his knife. He could not do anything with his sling. He stood there in uncertainty and listened for a while. If it was indeed one of his yaks it was too late. He was turning back to return
to his camp when he heard a desperate wailing—the cry sounded human, yet it was so wild. It was a pained and anguished, heart piercing cry for help. Then he thought he heard a prolonged wheeze and a loud thud. He knew at once that the dogs had made their kill.
Mimi Khandola sat in his cave and listened to the sounds which went on for at least two or even three tosan-youn, or the time it takes to eat a meal. Gradually the noises came at less frequent intervals and eventually they died down completely. He waited with bated breath for more sounds but could only hear the familiar yak-bells tinkling on some of the yaks’ necks every now and then. He did not bother to lie down completely flat in his bedding, but leaned on the face of the rock and fell into a very disturbed sleep. The sun was streaming in through the tops of the trees when he woke up in the morning. Most of the animals had already dispersed and were grazing peacefully. His body was stiff and ached as if he had been in a fight. He got up and stretched his stiffened bones, then he fetched some water from the stream in his kettle and boiled it for tea. As he waited for the water to boil he thought of the previous night and wondered what it was that the wild dogs had killed. The hot tea tasted good.
Bhutanese Tales of the Yeti Page 3
