From my cosy workstation sitting up in bed, I hear raucous laughter, then silence. It’s impossible to work with this going on a few metres away. Way too exciting. I just wish I understood Dzongkha.
I’m invited to join the dignitaries for lunch so I line up with them at the sumptuous buffet. While helping himself and me to yak stew, one man explains that Dzongkha is a very difficult language that is still developing. While there is much laughter coming from the room, there is also much earnest discussion as they struggle with meanings. Their job is also to agree on new Dzongkha words for modern western concepts such as ‘computer’ and ‘internet’. They believe it is important for their culture to have its own equivalents. At present the English words are accepted parlance, but only until there is a Dzongkha word and it appears in the dictionary.
Not everyone in Bhutan agrees that new words are necessary. Some believe that most Bhutanese already know the English words and they should be accepted. Others say Dzongkha is difficult enough without creating new terminologies. But the Dzongkha Committee believes it is crucial for the development and continuing survival of the new national language that it be thoroughly Bhutanese.
As Lungtaen Gyatsho puts it: ‘If we take every new idea and term in its original English form, Dzongkha in a decade will be overloaded with foreign words. And one day Dzongkha may fail to qualify and justify itself to be Bhutanese.’ However, words pertaining to international standards of measurement, like kilogram, kilometre, Fahrenheit and Celsius, will stay the same.
The idea of creating new words is fascinating and I ask as many questions as I can fit in while these eminent men pile their plates with food.
One man explains that the committee receives lists of English words it needs, with suggestions for a new Dzongkha word. A judicial representative provides a list of legal terms that are in use and his suggestions for a Dzongkha word. An education bureacrat provides education terms, the medical fraternity gives medical terms, and so on. The committee generally accepts their recommendations. Otherwise they set about creating their own. They do this by painstakingly breaking down the English term to its root and following the development of its meaning. Then, if possible, they follow the same line of reasoning to coin their new Dzongkha word. My brain starts to ache at the thought of the discussions that are going on inside that room and my respect grows for these men and their scholarly abilities.
All too soon I reach the end of the table, where there are two small bowls. These, I’m told, are for me. Karma Yangki was concerned that I might find the rest of the buffet too hot so asked the maids to prepare two vegetable dishes without chilli, just for me.
The thoughtfulness of this family is almost overwhelming. I’m no dignitary, nor a paying guest. When Mal dropped me – and my baby – on their doorstep I was a complete stranger from the other side of the universe. Nevertheless I’m a guest and it is the Bhutanese way to show every possible kindness. Adoring my baby for large chunks of the day while I work isn’t enough. They think of everything.
The chilli dishes created for the dignitaries are indeed hot. That burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth-and-never-speak-properlyagain kind of hot. I like chilli and thought I could tolerate it pretty well. But these dishes bring new respect. Wow.
No-one else seems perturbed and I realise that for the past two months, the maids have been toning down the chilli in all my meals.
Just after lunch has been served, the chef is called away urgently. His usual employer has to travel unexpectedly to the other side of Bhutan tomorrow and the chef must prepare for the journey. He races out the door in a flurry, hands waving.
Karma Yangki and Phuntsho Wangmo are sorry to see him go. Not only was he supposed to prepare lunch and dinner again tomorrow, but he was a funny man, they say. He prides himself on his good English, boasting to them that he speaks it better than his two children who learn it at school. While chopping and dicing he chatted away to Kathryn in English but became offended when she wouldn’t reply. Wesel Wangmo had to explain that she ignores her parents too. At nine months she doesn’t speak English to anyone.
As he drives away, two cars pull up and park at the top of the driveway. Two heavily made-up young Bhutanese women, looking very glamorous, step out of the cars, followed by a couple of young men. It’s the film crew. They’re back. I point them out to Karma Yangki, expecting her to be horrified, or at the very least annoyed. ‘Oh no, not today,’ she says mildly, which I think may be as stressed as she gets.
Phuntsho Wangmo goes out to talk to them. The most glamorous of the young women, presumably the lead actress, stands slightly apart from the group, obviously listening to everything being said. I feel sure a hissy fit is looming.
Phuntsho Wangmo returns, and she and Karma Yangki have a chat. Karma Yangki is firm. She told the video people that they could shoot here, so they can. While the upstairs formal lounge is occupied, they can shoot downstairs and on the verandah. When the dignitaries leave at 4 o’clock, the film crew will move into the formal lounge room. The producer/director is relieved. After seeing inside last week, he has his heart set on this house. As far as he is concerned, it has the best verandah and formal lounge in Thimphu. Down the driveway they come – the hero, the heavily made-up heroine, old man, young woman, cameraman and the producer.
While the Dzongkha Committee creates a standard of literature for the kingdom’s future, the film crew and all their hangers-on flit between the downstairs thoroughfare and the upstairs verandah. Somehow it will all work. And of course, it does.
The film crew take up positions in Karma Yangki’s bedroom and are instantly absorbed into the day, sitting on the floor by the bed, taking tea, and helping to entertain Kathryn. The make-up artist works on the heroine, adding yet another layer of foundation and eye shadow.
After lunch the men get back to business while downstairs the film crew gets ready to roll. The video-makers don’t mind an audience – which is fortunate because as well as their own hangers-on they now have myself, Kathryn, the two maids and the four sisters all huddled in different corners watching them set up.
The producer has spotted the family’s fancy new refrigerator, standing proudly in the living room, and decides that it’s perfect for a scene they had intended to film at another location. They arrange some copper pots – the same ones that have just fed the dignitaries – along one wall to create the appearance of a kitchen in an upper-class home. The room is directly below the formal lounge room and a low murmur of voices is vague but audible. It doesn’t appear to worry the producer.
Barely have they shot one frame before it grinds to a halt. Much animated discussion ensues between hero, heroine and producer. The cast isn’t getting along. The younger sisters whisper translations of what is being said, their eyebrows raised. They thought the actress was very good in the movie they watched at the Lugor Cinema but they’re most unimpressed with her ‘attitude’ (which they consider very Bollywood). Culturally the Bhutanese love to tease and be teased. They don’t take themselves too seriously and it’s not often someone is allowed to develop a big head. The attitude of this temperamental diva is considered very un-Bhutanese.
In the video they are making today she plays a scheming sister-in-law, which they say is very Hindi, and not at all reflective of Bhutanese life. This offends the sisters. Tired of the Hindi soaps on cable TV and all the Bollywood films that play at the Lugor Cinema, they want to see Bhutanese stories.
Kathryn is ready for a nap so we return to our room and I’m sitting up in bed with my laptop again when one of the dignitaries drops by on his way to the bathroom. He is Bhutan’s top translator of Dzongkha to English and vice versa, and tells me sadly that he was rejected by an Australian university for a postgraduate diploma in translation because Dzongkha isn’t taught there. He asks if I have any relatives connected with the university. In Bhutan, family is the backbone of everything and, by extension, also the way of business. Given that Thimphu has a population of just under 50 000, almost every
body is related somehow, and here that would be a perfectly reasonable question.
He explains he wants to translate valuable and treasured Bhutanese Buddhist texts into English for the next generation of Bhutanese and for people in the west, who are showing an interest. A worthwhile ambition, I think. He wants to sharpen his translation skills and already has the support of the Royal Business Council.
I promise him that while I don’t have any family at the university, I will see what I can find out and we swap email addresses.
The men work all afternoon while filming goes on downstairs. Somehow the two coexist. The dictionary is coming along beautifully and the Dzongkha Committee decides it would like to continue working into the early evening. No problem, says Karma Yangki.
This means a delay for the film crew being able to use the lounge room. They decide they will do the balcony shots while they wait.
It also means conjuring up dinner for twelve, this time without a chef. The sisters roll up their considerably long traditional sleeves and get cooking. While Karma Yangki, Wesel Wangmo and the maids start chopping in the kitchen, I join the production line set up on the floor in the living room. We’re making momos. A bamboo tray of small, flat, round dough pieces is passed around.
Karma Chokyi and Phuntsho Wangmo show me how to place a piece on the palm of the hand, add a dollop of filling, then swivel it to create a little dim sim with a fancy spiral top. Theirs are neat and stylish, each one with a perfect decorative whirl. Mine look like a molten heap. They don’t mind, and place them alongside their own.
Another feast is produced with little fuss and much laughter
– white rice, red rice, deep-fried hard-boiled eggs, japatis, cheesy potato with dill, maize, dhal, red emmadatshi and magnificently styled momos.
The VIPs line up again at the buffet and they too can’t resist a peek through the curtains to see what’s going on outside on the verandah. They then take their plates back into the lounge room to continue their discussions. The sisters and I quickly take their place, peeking through the curtains. The actress smiles good-naturedly back at us.
As the sun disappears behind the mountains, the last vestiges of warmth go too. Almost instantly, it is freezing but she doesn’t complain. She turns out to be quite the trooper, sitting patiently while the producer and cameraman set up lights and decide on the right angle. Finally they give the nod. She whips the shawl from around her shoulders and she is her. The evil, scheming sister-in-law entertaining her lover on the elegant terrace. She pours tea. Cut. The tea doesn’t pour. There’s a blockage in the mouth of the thermos. They fix it and try again. The camera rolls. Cut. The actress can’t get the hang of the thermos. And so it goes on, take after take.
Finally the Dzongkha committee winds up, due back on the job at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. The men file past the film crew, who are freezing as yet again the verandah scene goes wrong. The producer decides to abandon it as the best lounge room in Thimphu has just become available. But his lead actress is too cold to continue and nothing can persuade her. With a heavy sigh, the producer tells Karma Yangki they will be back next week.
As they depart and the household is finally preparing for bed, Mal arrives from location, with rushes to be couriered urgently to Bangkok for processing. He is running on nervous energy and Karma Yangki kindly arranges for the maids to bring us tea. It’s been days since we have spoken and we catch up, sitting in the formal lounge room, surrounded by the hefty Dzongkha Committee folders that the men have left behind.
Mal will have to be up at 5 am to deliver the rushes to the airport at Paro, a few hours away. Just after dawn, the maids lay out a hot breakfast for him, tea for me and porridge for Kathryn, before starting preparations for another day and evening of dignitaries, gourmet buffets and no chef.
The men of the Dzongkha Committee continue their discussions over lunch and right through dinner. Finally finished, they take a few moments to relax and open the bar. Some have scotch, others French red wine.
By the time the men leave, at about 9 o’clock on Sunday night, everyone in the household is exhausted. As the last pair of tail lights disappear up the driveway, the big four – Phuntsho Wangmo and husband Tenzin Wangdi, Karma Yangki and husband Mani Dorji – collapse on the couches in the lounge room, amid the debris of saucers with torn lime leaves, teacups and glasses. Mani Dorji shares some of what went on in the meeting. All in all, they think they hosted a successful conference. I agree. Even without understanding the Dzongkha, I think it was fabulous.
Karma Yangki chews on betel nut, the eastern delicacy that keeps you warm, gives a bit of a high and makes your teeth red. Bhutanese lipstick, she calls it, with a laugh. She seldom drinks but makes an exception tonight, and together she and I finish off a bottle of red wine. Kathryn is asleep in her bed and as she has just about weaned herself off my breastmilk, I feel no guilt. Mal comes home. The rushes made it in time and he has spent the rest of the day in the office. He is too exhausted to speak, swaying in the doorway before heading off to bed.
I’m not sure if it’s the betel nut or the wine, but by the time Karma Yangki totters downstairs, her face is flushed rosy-red and she’s doing a lot of giggling. It’s been months since I have had a glass of wine and the effect is immediate. I’m lucky I don’t have to negotiate stairs. A few steps and I’m face down on the bed, snoring in time with Kathryn and Mal.
The following morning is Monday, the start of the week, and life in the Taba household starts to return to normal. Wesel Wangmo takes Kathryn downstairs and the maids serve Mal and me breakfast at the dining table. Mani Dorji’s driver warms the car in the driveway while he waits for the boss to emerge.
And the phone rings for Mal. More crises. The most urgent one is that Penjore, the crusty old stall-holder who is required for the week’s shooting, has gone missing. No-one can find him anywhere in Thimphu.
Mal fills in Karma Yangki on his latest dilemma. ‘No problem Mal, we know the family,’ she says, climbing into Phuntsho Wangmo’s car and tucking her kira around her feet.
The sisters comb the city streets, visiting all his known haunts and dropping in unannounced on various relatives. His wife says sheepishly that he might be in Delhi, others say Phuntsoling, or maybe Khalingpong in India.
The search widens and family in villages all across Bhutan are contacted. No-one can give a clue to his whereabouts. The film schedule is rearranged and the art department create posters of his rugged face which they stick to trees along the main highway. His wife is more embarrassed than concerned about his safety, and it appears that Penjore just got cold feet and took off. The first month of shooting featured this man so it’s a bit late to change actors.
After a few days the media is called in. The BBS news reports on the drama unfolding on the film, asking viewers to report if they have seen this man.
Almost a week passes, with the crew filming everything else possible. With no sign that Penjore will ever turn up, Rinpoche rewrites a crucial scene to exclude him. As he dictates the changes, the crew are surprised at how pleased he appears. After thinking about it overnight, Rinpoche has decided that Penjore’s disappearance is a blessing. ‘We didn’t need that scene,’ he announces. ‘It’s much better this way.’
Finally Penjore does show up on set, right towards the end, and Rinpoche spontaneously decides that a wood-chopping scene is required. He sets the actor to work, not letting him rest until he is satisfied.
12
The Wrap Party
LATE NOVEMBER 2002
The end of the film shoot is just a few weeks away and excitement is building for the wrap party. Well, it is among the women in the big house in Taba. It’s the last thing on the minds of the cast and crew, who are still six hours up the road battling the rigours of filming and camping in icy conditions.
Mal has moved in to Taba full-time and is knee deep in the endless film dramas, which he juggles with admirable calm and efficiency from the family’s formal lounge room. A lon
g tangled telephone cord, hundreds of feet long, means the family phone can service upstairs and downstairs. When it’s a call for Mal, which is most waking hours, it is carried up to him. When it’s family business, which is also most waking hours, he carries it back down.
Every day or so Mal goes into the office behind the shops at the bottom of the main street in Thimphu. Kathryn and I sometimes drop by for lunch and it’s always buzzing. If I thought it was a happening place before, the looming end of the shoot makes it more so. The two phonelines ring constantly, people drop by for a thousand different reasons, and a whiteboard on the wall is constantly being updated with a list of things to do.
This morning, Phuntsho Tobgey, a round-faced monk, who is assistant to the producers, is in town. Among other things he ferries people, film and supplies between Thimphu and the location. At the moment he is more interested in bouncing Kathryn on his knee. Beside him Phuntsho Wangmo is on the telephone chasing the previous week’s rushes, which were unexpectedly offloaded in Bangkok by Druk Air.
Sitting in the office armchair – part of an old lounge suite relocated from the house at Taba – is Jo Juhanson, technical co-ordinator on the film. When he isn’t making films, he is a volunteer firefighter in Sydney. The news from home hasn’t been good. Bushfires are ringing New South Wales and Canberra. He is anxious, feeling that he should be there, working alongside his mates to fight the fires. He will happily miss the wrap party and is waiting for Phuntsho Wangmo to get him on an earlier flight out.
Most of the sixteen foreigners want their travel arrangements changed. Circumstances at home may mean they want to leave earlier than planned, others want to stay on after the film finishes and see a bit of Bhutan, and another has decided to travel out of Bhutan by road into India, then catch a train across the plains to fly out of Delhi. Between film crises, Phuntsho Wangmo handles all their travel plans.
A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan: An Australian Family in the Land of the Thunder Dragon Page 16
