Buttertea at Sunrise (6 page)

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 43

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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

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, OK?’ Jamtsho is relentless.

Hesitantly, I launch into the first line of an old German folk song. Somehow, singing in a language which 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 44

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W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?

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, OK?’

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.

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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

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 4–6o 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 amongst 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.

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C H A P T E R F I V E

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.

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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

It is 9 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 official 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.

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D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S

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 painted 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 windows opening into the hallway, with 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 short wave 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.

I grimace, thinking of our private sports clinic back home. We were six therapists working together in the same building with several orthopaedic surgeons. Our huge treatment room was bright and always spotless, with different types of gym equipment and twelve beds. Our patients were either athletes or very active students and professionals, mostly fit and trim, popping by for their treatments before or after work. Our equipment was state of the art, with distributors coming regularly, trying to sell us the very latest machines.

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Again I look at the prehistoric ultrasound machine. Here, I cannot even count on steady electricity to make whatever we have work.

Yet the heavy reference textbook I have brought with me from Canada reminds me that the biggest difference will be my role as educator here. At home I was considered more of a junior therapist, having had only two years of work experience. During assessments and treatments, I used to confer regularly with my colleagues. Now I am the one who is supposed to be giving advice. Was I overconfident in coming?

Pema arrives at 9.30 a.m. with a shy, apologetic greeting.

‘Good morning,’ she smiles. ‘When did you reach?’

I have to chuckle. ‘At nine a.m. when our duty time started.’

My innocent hint is gracefully overlooked, but Pema offers an explanation. ‘Nima is sick, and so I am late.’

Obviously, the topic of tardiness is of little concern.

I decide to press a little about her son’s illness. ‘What is wrong with Nima?’

‘I think he has a cough. He didn’t sleep last night.’ Now I notice that Pema herself has dark rings under her eyes.

‘Actually, he never sleeps at night. He always wakes up, then I have to play with him. Otherwise he will cry. Sometimes, he doesn’t sleep until morning.’

‘How old is Nima?’

‘He is almost one,’ Pema replies proudly, but then a shadow seems to settle on her face. ‘But he does not know how to crawl or stand. Sister, what do you think?’

‘I – did any of the doctors look at him?’ Thinking about Nima’s slow, writhing hand motions, the first thing that comes to mind is cerebral palsy, but I am afraid to pronounce the name of such a dire long-term prognosis.

‘Did something happen to him?’ I ask instead.

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D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S

‘He was OK at birth, I am sure. But we had a very bad babysitter, you see. Maybe she let Nima fall. I am always so worried when I leave him at home.’

Absent-mindedly, Pema strokes the blue sheet on the treatment bed. ‘I want to take him to Vellore,’ she says, turning to me with a desperate look in her eyes.

I nod. I have no idea where or what Vellore is, but it seems to mean a lot to Pema.

‘Do you think he will walk?’ Pema’s question is hesitant, yet lined with a trace of hope.

‘I don’t know,’ I answer honestly. ‘Why don’t you bring him here some time?’

Pema seems to consider my question but then shakes her head. ‘Actually, I want to bring him. But Nima is so heavy.