by Britta Das
My organized, compartmentalized western mind rears at the association of the two contradicting localities. Do the people not bestow honour upon this sacred site through prayer, rituals, and, above all, the erection of a chorten? Chortens are supposed to be guardians of treasures and relics, as well as memorials of great saints and priests. Is the very act of building a chorten not witness to devout belief that is pure and clean?
Murmuring a soft prayer, an old woman approaches. Her figure is stooped. The sinewy muscles of her neck stand out and it appears that the cane she clutches keeps her from toppling over. When she stops and rests, the thumb of her right hand stays in motion, methodically moving the beads on her rosary. For a brief moment she takes notice of me and lifts her head, squints at me, then smiles and shuffles past. At the chorten, she extends a shaking hand, reaches out to place her fingers on the rough white stones, turns to her left, and walks slowly three times around the monument. Finally, apparently satisfied, she carefully lowers herself onto the bottom step and rests, her head supported on her cane, her hand still clutching the rosary. As I turn to go, the old woman gets up and shuffles past the thicket of bushes, apparently oblivious of the offending smells.
4
where you going, miss?
Like a grand theatre enrapturing its audience with magnificent drama, the monsoon continues to dominate the sky. Sometimes playful, sometimes foreboding, the grey masses of moisture change shape and form in an everlasting masquerade.
On Sunday afternoon, inspired by the clouds floating through the lowland and climbing the ridges in dreamy white patches, I wander along the road following my nose. No immediate intent guides my way, only the urge to explore this land of which I know so little. I am impatient to broaden my horizon beyond the borders of this valley. Walking is the only transportation among these people of steep mountains and rounded hills, and so my feet are becoming the only limit to my travels.
I had imagined a walk in solitude, but instead I find myself surrounded by happily chatting villagers, some shouldering heavy loads, others gaining ground with long strides. The paved main road leading through Mongar is well worn by many thousands of footsteps. Villagers carrying goods to the market, or patients to the hospital, schoolchildren on their daily walk to class, farmers moving cattle from one field to the next, or people on their way to visit relatives or friends in the next village. The road is a welcome break from the steep, winding foot tracks along bevelled grades. In fact, this road belongs to the people, and the odd vehicle that wants to get by has to obey the speed and the willingness of men, women, children, and animals to clear its path.
A group of girls giggle and nudge each other as they pass by some boys sitting beside the road. The scene is familiar, much like at home: shy teasing, brave haughtiness, and a flirtatious jiggle of the hip. The boys seem pleased, but pretending not to notice, they only steal a few sidelong glances at the shiny black hair and the soft curves hidden by a kira.
From the bazaar, the road in the direction of Thimphu leads down, and I follow it with easy steps. At a tight bend, a creek slows its rush and meanders through the trees. A group of Indian women is squatting by its side, rinsing their laundry and slapping the clothes on the flat stones around them.
A little further on, a steep path leads almost vertically up to a small cluster of houses. I decide to stray and start climbing. The track is wet and slippery, and my running shoes fail miserably to grip the ground.
Within minutes I am winded and sweaty, and without much courage, I consider the folly of my adventure. The path divides into three, and there is no indication which one might lead me to the most rewarding destination. Three tiny mudslides polished by the tread of bare feet, each begging for a decision. The answer comes in the form of four girls who clamber up the path behind me. Giggling, they stop and stare at me. Then the smallest one, maybe ten years old, looks up at me with a saucy smile. “Where you going, miss?”
“I am just walking,” I answer.
“You going to Barpang, miss?” The girl wrinkles her forehead. Just walking must seem like an absurd idea to her.
“I don’t know, actually,” I stutter.
Where is Barpang?
The other three girls push on, but my little inquisitor is not yet satisfied.
“Where you from, miss?”
“I am from Canada.”
“My name is Jamtsho, and this is my sister Kesang.” She points at the oldest of the three girls, and then looks at me expectantly.
“I am Britta,” I answer, and search for something else to say.
Jamtsho flashes me a winning smile. “Please come to my house. Will you be coming?”
A little suspicious of the muddy incline, I ask where her house is.
“There!” Jamtsho says and points at a line someplace where the clouds meet the mountain.
I debate with myself. What do I have to lose? Jamtsho is the first English-speaking friend that I have made on my walk. Having a conversation with the older generation of villagers will be a problem until I pick up more Sharchhopkha. Schoolchildren, on the other hand, all have to learn English and, for now, will probably be the only ones who can teach me a little about the culture. I agree.
The girls respectfully let me lead, slowing their quick steps enough to pace themselves with me. I feel clumsy and utterly unfit as I try to hurry up the hill. We pass a big old farmhouse with a wooden water trough out front. A big black dog growls at us, and immediately the four girls start yelling and throwing stones. Still baring its teeth, the dog retreats.
We continue climbing. Suddenly, Jamtsho’s sister rushes ahead and hollers something up the mountain. A voice answers. She hollers again. Now the other girls shout something as well, and then instantaneously they vanish in the trees ahead. Only Jamtsho and I lag behind.
After half an eternity, we climb over a small wooden gate and reach Jamtsho’s house. Adorned with a few banana trees and a dusty yard with some clucking chickens, the wooden and stone-set building fits perfectly into the surroundings. Wild grasses and shrubs encroach on the yard, and there is no precise distinction between cultivated and untamed nature. It looks almost as if one day the jungle might reclaim what is now a peaceful human dwelling.
A set of stairs leads up to a tiny platform that connects the main house on my right to a separate kitchen room on the left. Jamtsho leads me through the large wooden entrance doors into the main building. To my left, there are two smaller rooms, both without any kind of furniture or decoration. Straight ahead, I can see a huge empty room, apparently not inhabited. It is to this parlour that Jamtsho leads me. Quickly, she shakes out a small woollen carpet and places it in front of a half-open window. Then she asks me to seat myself and immediately disappears. Left to myself, I twist my legs into what I think is an acceptable position, careful not to point my feet at anything that might be sacred, and take a closer look around me.
Heavy wooden beams frame the whitewashed walls, giving the impression of a half-timbered Tudor house. The floor consists of wooden planks, smooth and polished. The wall behind me and the one adjacent to it are lined with wooden framework windows, each having a solid sliding shutter on the inside. A light breeze enters through the openings, leaving the room cool and pleasant.
A cat jumps out from behind two thin mattresses that are neatly rolled up in a corner. On the wall above that, some nails are occupied by ghos, the large, robe-like garments of Bhutanese men. Beside them, a long thin wooden tube is fastened by a leather strap. To the right of the door leading to the hallway, a weaving stool is anchored to the wall, with a beautiful, half-finished piece of weaving strung into the frame.
The minutes tick by. Wondering what happened to Jamtsho, and not quite sure of what a guest’s proper behaviour might be, I wait for a sign from somewhere. The cat returns and curls up in its corner on a pile of kiras. Through my window, I can hear a cow munching on grass and the distant bark of a dog.
Smoke starts to emanate from the adjacent kitchen, a
nd I get up to investigate. Inside the little room of packed mud walls, Jamtsho is squatting in front of an earthen fireplace, blowing through a bamboo stick into the embers of the fire. A blackened kettle sits amid the cinders. Two cats lazily clean themselves by the hearth. The walls are lined with wooden shelves. Pots, pans, jars, and empty bottles are neatly arranged, and a couple of aluminum ladles shimmer in the otherwise sooty surroundings. There are two plastic storage drums and a can of tuna fish. Dust and cobwebs cover the windowsill, and ashes and soot have given everything a powdering of black.
Jamtsho blows into the fire she is making to prepare buttertea.
Satisfied with the flickering flame at the end of a piece of wood in the embers, Jamtsho reaches for a black tin and produces some tea leaves. “Tea coming,” she announces, and I detect a polite request to return to my assigned seat.
Finally, I hear dishes rattling and Jamtsho reappears in the door. Without a word, she serves me and vanishes once more. I look at the bowl of tiny roasted rice kernels beside my cup. Tentatively, I taste some. To my surprise, the rice is light and crisp, even a little sweet with the faint aroma of butter, and it crunches wonderfully—a superb complement to the milky tea.
Jamtsho returns with a plate of cookies that look stale and have a rather unsavoury pink filling. Obligingly, I eat one but quickly revert to my tea and the rice, which Jamtsho calls zao. My generous host keeps darting out of the room, reappearing only to refill my cup and bowl. Finally, when I am finished with thirds of tea and zao, she sits beside me and inspects my rain jacket. As if it had just occurred to her, she tilts her head slightly to the side and asks, “You sing a song, ma’am?”
“A song?” I double-check the request.
“You know any song?” Jamtsho repeats, adjusting her kira to get comfortable. Obviously, this is my expected contribution to this social get-together, which, so far, I have enjoyed alone by stuffing my stomach.
“I don’t sing very well,” I try to excuse myself.
“You sing, okay?” Jamtsho is relentless.
Hesitantly, I launch into the first line of an old German folk song. Somehow, singing in a language that I am sure Jamtsho cannot understand eases the embarrassment.
No sooner have I started to sing than my audience multiplies. Out of nowhere Kesang, Jamtsho’s older sister, and a stooped little grandmother join us. All three listen attentively to my quavering voice. Mercifully, no one laughs and, encouraged by eager nods, I venture into the second line.
Finally finished, I sit in embarrassed silence. Grinning, Kesang and the old lady retreat. Jamtsho claps her hands in what I presume to be applause, and I ask if she would now sing something for me. Jamtsho nods and starts humming. With her hands, she draws curvy lines in the air. Then she begins to sing, and her voice is light and soft, but the rhythm of her tune sounds sad, melancholic. Fascinated, I watch as she lowers her eyelids and slowly starts swaying her body from side to side—in somewhat suggestive movements.
“Was that a Sharchhop song?” I ask later.
“No, madam, this is Hindi song.”
“Hindi?”
“I learn from watching movie, madam. Hindi movies is so nice.”
“Ah. And do you also know Sharchhop songs?”
Jamtsho nods. “Yes, madam, but they not good. Hindi song much better. Now you sing again.”
What can I do but agree to her wish? I am the guest after all, and this seems to be the expected behaviour. After two more song requests, though, the dimming light of dusk reminds me that it is time to go. It would be a nightmare to be caught by darkness on the unfamiliar path back to town. Apologetically, I explain my predicament to Jamtsho, but just when I think that she understands me, the girl gets up and vanishes without a word.
Unwilling to leave before I have at least thanked my young host, I set out to search for her. I find her beside the barn, washing something over a small bucket. Apparently, she is not interested in my gratitude speech.
“I am so sorry. We have nothing to offer,” she says instead, and then slips two clean brown eggs into my hands. “Please come back next week, okay?”
I am touched and promise to come as soon as I can. Then, carefully balancing my precious gifts in my pocket, I slide and tumble down the muddy path towards Mongar.
I spend the rest of the day puttering around my “house.” Somehow, I have to make the most of the little space available, without crowding my rat-combatting chairs or my all-purpose table. I arrange my bags, furnish my kitchen with the necessary utensils and cooking ware, scrub the toilet, and fasten curtains on the window.
Just when I think how amazingly quickly I have adapted to completing all-important tasks while the lamps are still on, the power vanishes. Thankfully, the light in the bulb lingers for a few seconds, dimming slowly, and allowing a grace period to scramble for the flashlight. I scold myself for not filling my kerosene lamp.
Next door, the shrill alarm goes off again, but this time I ignore it. I have concluded that it must be a warning device on the refrigerator for the vaccines, indicating that there is no electricity. I do wonder, though, what happens to all the little vials that say “Store at 4–6° c.”
While I stare at the gentle flicker of my candle, images of the past day lodge themselves in my mind: the market and its circus of impatient customers rushing in a frenzy to bargain for the best buys . . . the thin Indian woman in her orange sari, breaking stones for a living . . . Jamtsho, as she crouches beside the glowing embers of the kitchen fire . . . the villagers at the market, barefoot in their grimy worn kiras—I have landed in a peculiar old world.
What do they think when they see me? I guess, to the Bhutanese, I am as strange as they are to me. They gawk at my clothes as I stare at their poverty. Reluctantly, I picture myself wearing jeans and a T-shirt among women dressed in ankle-length dresses. Somewhere in that contemplation of me versus them, the seed of a feeling of strangeness is planted inside me.
5
don’t close your eyes
With a loud whack, the mosquito-screened door slams shut behind me. A cat scurries through the hallway and disappears out of sight. Before me lies a wide corridor, empty but for a few cushionless iron wheelchairs. A couple of bright yellow doors bear the label “Operation Theatre DO NOT ENTER.” From somewhere beyond a small passageway, I can hear voices. Bewildered, I wait for someone to discover me.
The smell is what strikes me most. It overwhelms me like a heavy blow in the stomach: a biting reek of urine, unwashed skin, waste, and strong disinfectant. It is nauseating. To my left lies a small, rectangular inner courtyard, enclosed by the main hospital building. I walk closer to the dusty, punctured fly screen, and take a breath of fresh air. Across the yard, I can peep into the windows of the duty room. The hospital is still quiet. A few nurses shuffle past and stare at me, but no one seems to pay particular attention. It is 9:00 a.m. and official duty time has just started. I wonder where I will find Pema, my assistant.
The administrative officer (addressed as “ADM”) arrives and shows me to the physiotherapy room. We follow the courtyard on our left and reach the last door before the hallway splits at a T-junction. A sign announces the “Treatment Room.” The ADM opens the door to my department: two connected rooms with an adjoining toilet. Until recently, the first chamber was used as a dressing room. A table covered with a dirty rubber sheet still tells its stories of blood and bandages.
The officiating head of the hospital, the District Medical Officer (known as the DMO), joins us. “Welcome to Mongar.” The DMO assures me that they are happy to have me here. “Unfortunately,” he adds with an apologetic smile, “we have only recently found out about your coming. We did not have much time to prepare.” He points at the many scattered instruments and furniture of definite dressing room status.
“I will send the wardboy to clean up,” the ADM promises. The DMO adds that it will be my responsibility to design a plan of action for the coming year. By the end of the week, I should hand him my of
ficial goals and objectives, which he will evaluate and then pass on to the headquarters in Thimphu.
The polite and somewhat stiff conversation continues for a few more minutes before the two men return to their respective duties. I watch them leave. One, thin with a nervous yet controlled step, the other rather hefty, walking along dignified, fully aware of his distinguished rank.
Gradually, I take in the details of my new domain. The rooms are far better than I had expected. In my mind, I have already designated the first one as the exercise room and the second as the treatment room.
The exercise room is square and bright. In synchrony with the rest of the hospital, the walls are yellow up to shoulder level, coated with a thick, washable latex paint. Above that, the remainder of the wall is whitewashed. There is a set of double doors and, on the opposite side, the entry to a little storage room with the toilet. From there, tinted windows communicate with the laundry room.
The treatment room is dark, with blue walls above the standard yellow. A huge iron frame with a set of pulleys and a suspended rope towers over a bed. Partly above the bed and immediately to the right are a couple of frosted windows that open into the hallway, allowing a view of the inner courtyard. They must have been designed to function as a light source during Mongar’s power outages, which occur almost daily and can last for hours or even the entire day. The length of the opposite side of the room consists of a door and frosted windows leading to the operation theatre. An enormous wooden cupboard occupies most of the wall space beside the door. Pushed into the corner are a heat lamp, an ultrasound, and a shortwave diathermy machine. One wall displays a colourful calendar with advice on how to prevent AIDS. The room is not dirty but years of use and wear have left their marks. Everything droops a little, tilts a few degrees, or grows some cobwebs.
