‘Did anyone else notice the lights go out?’ I ask.
They stop momentarily and then start to laugh.
‘Ha ha,’ says Jiga. ‘I hadn’t realised how used to it we had become. It happens so often.’
Jiga drives us to the royal chapel, Tsuk-La-Khang, set within the grounds of the royal palace.
A group of young Indian men, who have walked up the hill to admire the view, see Kathryn on Mal’s shoulders and beg for a kiss from the pretty little redhead.
I shoo them away with mock indignation and they laugh.
‘We’ll be back when she’s older!’ they call after us. Perhaps it’s the altitude or the smell of juniper, but up here everybody seems light-hearted and happy.
The chapel is an impressive two-storey square building, with snow lions carved on each corner. It is set on top of a ridge with sweeping views over the valley. Old Tibetan and Sikkimese women circumambulate the walls, working their beads and saying their daily mantras. They also manage a bit of a gossip as they go. On the ledges, colourful flowers spill from old food tins. We take off our shoes at a side door and Jiga leads us through to Khandro’s private room.
She is serene and beautiful, radiating calm and gentleness. Slightly stooped with grey hair, her face is unlined, and though in her seventies, she looks years younger. Khandro sits on a low bench covered in rugs, which also serves as her bed. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, a tiny figure of self-containment.
Lining one wall are huge glass-covered bookcases filled with Tibetan texts. The only other piece of furniture is an enormous shrine that runs the length of the end wall. It has dozens of photographs, precious artefacts (some hundreds of years old) and, in a small model stupa in a glass case, some of her husband’s ashes. She has lived and meditated in this room in front of the shrine, since he died in 1959.
Jiga introduces us and translates the pleasantries. Mal is Rinpoche’s student and they have finished shooting his new film in Bhutan, he tells her. She is interested in everything. Jiga, Wesel Wangmo, Karma Loday, Mal and I sit at her feet while Kathryn crawls up to the shrine across the clean-swept wooden floor.
‘She’s polishing it for you,’ Mal says. Jiga translates and Khandro smiles.
She receives countless numbers of visitors from all over the world who come, like us, just to be in her presence. She treats everyone with such grace, as if each one is special to her.
After inspecting the shrine, Kathryn crawls over to Khandro and sits contentedly near her feet. Khandro gives her blessing, patting her on the head.
We stay for half an hour then are led by an elderly monk, who looks after Khandro, into another room for tea, served in dainty china cups, and sweet biscuits. It is another simply furnished room, with low benches covered in Tibetan rugs. This is where the monk lives.
After our visit we feel buoyant. Leaving the chapel grounds, the sun is shining over the valley, and young monks are washing their clothes in a quadrangle.
We spend a lazy afternoon and evening in Gangtok then head off early the next morning to fly to Delhi. Karma Loday drops us off at Bagdogra Airport before he and Wesel Wangmo start the long drive back to Bhutan. She holds Kathryn close to her for one final hug. Clearly it is a wrench to say goodbye.
Bagdogra is a military airport with fierce security and lots of loud, bad-tempered Indians. Standing in the queue at check-in a middle-aged Indian man in a grey suit rams his trolley into the back of my legs to get in front of me. I have Kathryn in my arms and we both nearly tumble over as my knees start to buckle.
‘Careful . . . my baby,’ I mumble, stunned at his rudeness.
He won’t meet my eye, just manoeuvres his trolley around me, going for the gap.
It’s a shock to be back in India.
There is no space in Mal’s small room in Delhi to set up Kathryn’s cot so she sleeps on a blanket in the suitcase by the bed. She’s become used to sudden changes in her surroundings and is oblivious to the constantly ringing phones and the comings and goings of the Siddhartha’s Intent household.
Before returning to Australia, Mal needs to check on the buildings in Bir so after a few days, we catch the overnight train to Pathankot. It has to be one of the most enjoyable ways to spend a night, gently rocked to sleep by the train’s motion.
We arrive at 6 am and Ugyen Thrinley, one of Rinpoche’s monks from Bir, is there to meet us at the station. He is delighted to see Kathryn again and immediately takes her from my arms. It is too early for any shops to be open so we drive for a few hours to a small cafe by the roadside that serves wonderful pickled mushroom omelettes.
It is a popular spot, below a nunnery and overlooking a waterfall that flows over huge boulders. Everywhere are wild monkeys. Many boulders on the Indian roads are painted with advertisements, usually for school supplies and IT courses. Here we see a rock, halfway up, with the word ‘Bunty’, painted in red lettering.
My real name is Carolyn, and ‘Bunty’ is an affectionate nickname given me by my English father that the whole family came to use. When the children at school teased me about it, and I wanted to revert to Carolyn, he assured me it was common in England. I lived in London for three years and found no such thing. Perhaps it was common fifty years ago but the English people I met thought it must be a peculiar Australianism. Strangely enough, here in India it turns out to be quite common. There is even a chain of stationery shops called Bunty’s Supplies.
While we eat our pickled mushroom omelettes and watch monkeys climb all over the Bunty rock, two busloads of Indians arrive. There are about sixty women, men and children and they swarm into the cafe. One woman spots Kathryn and rushes over, followed by another, and another. They remark on her hair. They have never seen anything like it and ask if they can touch it.
They are very friendly and explain that they are from one large extended family and have rented two buses for a fortnight’s holiday.
One asks if she can be photographed with our beautiful baby. Kathryn seems happy enough with all the attention so we hand her over. The woman cradles her in her arms and Kathryn smiles on cue. Two more women ask if they can pose with her. We happily oblige. Other members of the family see what is going on and rush over. It starts a mini stampede and we are horrified as we lose sight of our little baby. We are jostled out of the way as more cameras are produced and the family starts to hand her around. I’m sure they don’t mean to be unkind or insensitive but I can hear Kathryn start to cry, and I panic.
‘Give me back my baby!’ I scream, pushing through the crush of bodies. For one long, anxious moment it is chaos as I fight my way to her. Some of the family stand back in shock, while a couple of women see instantly what has happened and rush to help.
The woman holding her is trying to soothe her while still smiling for the camera.
‘Give her back,’ I demand.
‘But I haven’t had my photo taken,’ she wails.
‘Give me back my baby,’ I hiss. ‘GIVE HER TO ME!’
She looks startled and reluctantly passes me Kathryn, who is by now hysterical.
I flash the most evil look I can manage and return with my sobbing baby to Mal and Ugyen Thrinley.
Get me to Bir.
The first of a new set of buildings that Mal was designing on our last visit is finished and Rinpoche’s household of monks have moved in.
It is wonderful, with a fabulous view over the Kangra Valley. We can watch the evening entertainment, that glorious blood-red sunset, from the verandah outside our room on the first floor.
It’s far enough away from the main road that we don’t hear the thundering tractor trolleys or the incessant blasting of horns. Even the barking dogs seldom bother to come down here. The only sounds are the birds, chanting monks – and Kathryn.
Unfortunately, surrounded by all this serenity, when she lets loose she sounds loud, very loud. I feel guilty for the monks in their meditations. Her bath is the kitchen sink and her playpen, our bed.
We have no toys, but I doubt Kathryn n
otices. She is happy playing with her own box of goodies – a thermos lid, two limes, a bunch of keys, an empty toilet roll and a small tin of lip salve. They keep her entertained for hours.
The three of us spend most of the day on the bed, Mal and I working on our laptops, while Kathryn rolls the limes around in the thermos lid. We meet up with the rest of the household for meals.
Some of the monks who live here work each day typing precious Buddhist texts into computers to eventually be published on CD-ROMs.
When China invaded Tibet and destroyed monasteries many precious Buddhist texts were lost forever. Rinpoche, along with other lamas, is committed to preserving the ancient Buddhist texts that did make it out of Tibet, as well as translating them for westerners. Tucked away in this quiet little corner, adrift from most mod cons, it is not uncommon to see monks in their robes, walking around with a laptop under their arm.
Christmas Day passes like any other day. Being surrounded by Buddhist Tibetans who are surrounded by Hindu Indians, we are a long way from Christian celebrations in the larger cities. The view of snow-capped mountains from our window is, however, just like a Christmas card.
Many of the monks in Rinpoche’s household are Bhutanese, and the food, prepared by a monk and the resident Indian cook, is reminiscent of Karma Yangki’s home.
Lots of chilli, cheese, meat and vegetables. It is always fresh, tasty and plentiful.
On Christmas Day, by chance, the monk, Ridzin Dorji, produces one of his most brilliant culinary feats – a burnt chilli sauce. He serves it with boiled meat but says it goes just as well with pasta. As with Karma Yangki, he doesn’t know quantities, cooking with instinct and lots of tasting along the way.
Khyentse chilli sauce
Brown large red chillies in a saucepan over a flame till almost,
but not quite, burnt.
Mix in a small saucepan with tomatoes, cheese, salt, onion,
coriander and milk powder.
Sensational!
After ten days Mal has talked at length with the Tibetan overseer and given plans for the next stage of building to Ugyen Thrinley. It’s time to go home. Mal’s due to meet the film editors, I’ve got to meet book editors, and Kathryn – well she’s about due for some warm weather. We land in Sydney just as the 9 pm fireworks explode over the harbour heralding the end of 2002.
15
Back for More Yak
AUGUST 2003
Mal’s movie has undergone eight months of intensive postproduction in Sydney, my book is at the typesetters, and Kathryn has blossomed into a walking, talking toddler.
It has been an exhausting period, with both of us working from home under pressure to meet our respective deadlines, while juggling Kathryn between us. Our lounge room, which doubles as Mal’s production office, has been dominated by his huge desk overflowing with papers, and the telephone has been ringing day and night with calls from America, London and Bhutan. Because of the time difference with the other countries, Mal’s day would end at around two or three in the morning, a few hours before Kathryn and I would wake. For months we lived our life in shifts and I dearly missed the relaxed pace of the house in Taba.
So it is with great excitement that we fly back to Bhutan for the world premiere of Travellers & Magicians. This time I know what to expect and I’m almost delirious with anticipation.
I can’t wait to see the family and for them to see Kathryn, with all her new-found abilities.
While Mal sorts out the complicated visas and associated paperwork inside the terminal at Paro International Airport, I change Kathryn’s nappy and she says, ‘Walk.’ It’s not a request but, like everything else these days, a demand.
Nearly eighteen months old, she has entered her wilful stage, as the book so fondly refers to it. She wants to walk through customs just like everyone else. And why not? I pop her down on her feet but every few steps, she falls over. Being so independent she hates holding our hands, so we know she is having serious trouble on her own when she allows us to take a hand each. Then she’s fine. As soon as she gets her confidence back, she lets go of our hands.
‘Walk,’ she declares and strides forward, only to fall flat on her face.
She is more indignant than hurt. And shocked. She had this walking thing figured out so she can’t make sense of why the ground keeps coming up to greet her. Mal and I think we may have an idea why. Rubber legs. We know that feeling. We have it after too much wine or ara or whatever. In her case, she’s still drugged.
We grimace at each other and feel a twinge of guilt. Phenurgen. It’s an antihistamine meant for allergies. One of the side effects for babies is that it puts them to sleep, and while no-one would actually prescribe it, from the moment she was born, people have mentioned it to us in a conspiratorial whisper. One woman who travelled on her own with three children to New York once asked if Kathryn had met ‘Finnigan’ yet. That was her code name for the wonder drug. We gave Kathryn a small dose after leaving Bangkok and she slept all the way through the stopovers in Rangoon and Dacca, waking up just as the pilot dropped the wheels to land at Paro.
Maybe we overdid the dose? She looks chirpy but it can’t be good that her legs aren’t working.
It’s only when I hoist her up that I realise she has both legs through one leg of her shorts. In my jet-lagged state, when I changed her nappy I put both legs through by mistake. I may as well have tied her knees together. Poor little thing. No wonder she keeps falling over.
I strip her down by the luggage carousel and dress her properly. She is delighted. Everything works again. And so she strides through customs into Bhutan.
Waiting by his car outside the airport doors is Karma Loday with a welcoming smile on his face. We’ve been invited to a picnic, he tells us cheerfully.
He drives us to a glorious spot by the river where Rinpoche is enjoying lunch and we recognise a few faces from the post-film round of dinners. The Chief of Police is here as is the wife of the King’s Secretary. And the young man who sat behind us on the plane. I eavesdropped on his conversation all the way so already I know a lot about him. He was studying IT in Ontario, Canada and was seated on the plane next to a couple who were returning to Bhutan after two years, studying IT in Melbourne. I know how much they each expect to earn, how many Bhutanese there were in Melbourne (about forty) and how they thought the Australian accent was so odd. ‘Gidday maaate’ and ‘Roight’ they said to each other and laughed.
This couple are among the eighty-seven Bhutanese students currently studying in Australia, thirty-two of them on AusAID scholarships. It’s part of an ongoing arrangement between the two countries that started in the 1960s. Formal diplomatic relations were established in September 2002, and in May 2003, when Australia’s first ambassador to Bhutan, Penelope Wensley, was ‘presenting her credentials to His Majesty the King’, she promised that as part of the next stage, the Federal Government wanted to help Bhutan establish a university. Other countries are just as keen to offer places at university for young Bhutanese and it is lovely to hear this man’s impressions of his time in Canada.
The Bhutanese set a new standard for picnics. It is monsoon season so everything is lush and the river is full and gushing. Woollen rugs and bamboo mats are laid out under the shade of a huge tree and hot dishes lined up in heatproof containers. Meat momos, cheese momos, buckwheat noodles and pancakes, emmadatshi, beans, boiled meat and the biggest treat of all – Buddha mushrooms, which grow wild in Bhutan and have just come into season. Known as masutaki mushrooms in Japan, and costing around US$2000 a kilo, they are a delicacy appreciated all over the world. They taste similar to the shiitake but more buttery.
It is a wonderful way to re-enter the country. The setting and the summer day are sublime.
Mal and Rinpoche talk film business. Travellers & Magicians has just been invited to screen at the prestigious Venice Film Festival, alongside movies by Woody Allen, Bernardo Bertolucci, Ridley Scott, the Coen brothers and Lars Von Triers. This is an accolade in
itself and it has generated much excitement in film circles. They couldn’t have planned a better way to launch the film on the world.
After lunch we drive to Thimphu, along the twisted mountain roads that run beside the flowing river. By the roadside are occasional stalls with locals in the traditional kira or gho, selling bunches of wild asparagus. There are temples on just about every hill and road pass, surrounded by tall, erect prayer flags fluttering in the breeze.
The drive is so long because the road is narrow and winding, and our speed seldom rises over thirty kilometres an hour. Indian-made four-wheel drive vehicles take up most of the road, so it takes some effort to get past. There are many heart-stopping moments looking down the sheer slope to the raging rivers below. Fortunately the drivers defer to each other and there is no aggressive posturing over who goes first.
Our first stop is at the Royal Institute of Management on the outskirts of the capital, where tomorrow the film will have its royal premiere. It’s going to be a huge event with all four Queens of Bhutan in attendance. Phuntsho Wangmo has been working day and night to make sure everything is just right.
Thimphu’s two cinemas are not considered glamorous enough to host such an auspicious event so the main hall of the school has been chosen. They have had to bring in a screen and projector, and lengths of white cloth to cover the seats to make them worthy of a royal behind. While helpers drape the seats, the tech people are doing a run-through to check the sound levels.
The hall is dark but, as we stand in the doorway looking in, there is a cry of recognition. Karma Yangki and Phuntsho Wangmo rush over and it’s hugs and kisses all round, with much cooing over Kathryn. Just about everybody I met in Bhutan is here, sitting in the dark, dying for a glimpse of the much-awaited movie, and we are suddenly surrounded by familiar faces.
Mal wanders off, deep in discussion with the technicians. It’s news to me, but there are different grades of screen – some are whiter than others, some more even, and it all makes a big difference to the enjoyment of the film. This one has a crease in it which is causing concern. Also, they need to make a decision about how to frame it on the screen. Should there be space below the subtitles, or should they rest right on the lower edge?
A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan: An Australian Family in the Land of the Thunder Dragon Page 20
