Buttertea at Sunrise Read online

  Buttertea

  at Sunrise

  Buttertea

  at Sunrise

  A Year in the Bhutan Himalaya

  BRITTA DAS

  Copyright © Britta Das, 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Michael Carroll

  Proofreader: Jennifer Gallant

  Design: Alison Carr

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Das, Britta, 1971-

  Buttertea at sunrise : a year in the Bhutan Himalaya / by Britta Das.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  ISBN 978-1-55002-680-1

  1. Das, Britta, 971-. 2. Bhutan--Description and travel. 3. Physical therapists--Bhutan--Biography. I. Title.

  DS491.5.D38 2007

  915.49804

  C2007-902051-8

  1 2 3 4 5 11 10 09 08 07

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  For Mutti and Hardy, who encouraged me to explore the world and for Bikul, who waited to share the way with me

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1 A Road Leading East

  2 From a Distance

  3 First Encounters

  4 Where You Going, Miss?

  5 Don’t Close Your Eyes

  6 Lhamo

  7 Back-Breaking Work

  8 Om Mani Padme Hum

  9 Choden

  10 Compassion for Little Things

  11 Chilli con Carne

  12 Friction

  13 Are You Feeling Boring?

  14 Minakpa Ama

  15 Buttertea Is Warm and Salty

  16 Meme Monk

  17 Different Expectations

  18 Chortens and Prayer Flags

  19 A Trulku Star

  20 To School on Crutches

  21 Town Planning

  22 Dharma or Dollars

  23 Kadam Goemba

  24 The Dances of Light

  25 A Midnight Prayer

  26 Woes in Trashi Yangtse

  27 Losar New Year

  28 The Sound of a Conch

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Frequently Used Bhutanese Terms

  acknowledgements

  At first the idea of working in Bhutan seemed like a dream, but some practical-minded miracle workers nudged me in the right direction. While it would be impossible to mention everyone who lent a hand or gave me valuable advice, the following people were my pillars: my parents, who had the courage to let me go and support my wild ideas without hesitation; Wangdi and Gaki Gyaltshen, who opened their home to me in Thimphu; Marion and David Young, who saw a way where no one else did, who stood up for me, and whose friendship surpassed and outlasted my placement with VSO; Andreas Guggemos, who believed in me more than I did in myself. To my expatriate friends in Thimphu, thank you for your hospitality while I waited for my placement, and even more so when I came back sick and scared.

  In Mongar: to my friends and patients in the villages, thank you for welcoming a blond, blue-eyed girl and opening her eyes to the true wonders of Bhutan, for your unlimited hospitality, deep faith, and most astonishing sincerity. Beda, you are a true friend who helped me to understand so much more than the language; and Dechen, thank you for standing faithfully by my side.

  I never thought that I could write a book, so I am indebted to those who convinced me otherwise: first and foremost Bikul, my guiding light and inspiration; Charlotte Hale, who travelled across the continent to provide counsel and encouragement; Jamie Zeppa, a cheering admirer of my photographs who was convinced that there would be room for another Bhutan book.

  When I turned my sights from publishing mainly photos to writing a travel memoir, many people gave me good advice or critical reviews of earlier drafts of the book for which I am deeply thankful; among them are Bruce Kirkby, Don Watt, Marjorie Green, Tej Hazarika, Stephen Schettini, and Sandra Chong.

  In deciphering Bikul’s complicated explanations about Buddhism and religious customs in Bhutan, I often relied on Françoise Pommaret’s An Illustrated Guide to Bhutan.

  Frederking & Thaler took the first leap of faith by publishing Königreich in den Wolken in Germany.

  With Jennifer Barclay, my English-language publishing began and now came full circle. Jennifer, without you, this book would not exist! At the agency, Hilary McMahon and Nicole Winstanley, thank you for believing in my prose. To everyone at Summersdale, I am immensely grateful for your enthusiasm, with a special mention to Carol Baker for her discerning edits.

  At the Dundurn Group I would like to thank my editor, Michael Carroll, for making it possible to include some of my photographs in the book.

  Once again, thank you to Bikul, in more ways than I can count.

  If you blow on a conch, guiding your breath deep into the

  twists of its pearly coil, it produces the sound of Om.

  Some say that this is the beginning of all things.

  prologue

  Somewhere in the valley, a conch signalled the start of a new day. The deep echo bounced off the cliffs of a magnificent mountain range and, faithfully, the sheer walls repeated the ancient message until it faded in the thickness of the jungle.

  Two red-robed figures sat motionless under the long thin branches of a cypress tree. Only a wispy beard danced on the chin of the old lama as he solemnly murmured a prayer. His eyes were closed. He did not need to see the script written on a page to follow its rhythm and intonations. After a few moments, the other monk joined the recitation. His young voice was strong and confident, and the old lama quieted; only his body continued to sway back and forth to the ebb and swell of the holy words.

  In the distance, the softly rounded Himalayan foothills were flushed in pink while morning sun flooded the Indian plains. Gradually, the bright yellow fireball climbed in the eastern sky. When the first sunrays reached over the ascending height of a mountain range culminating in the highest peaks on earth, the last lines of the prayer were completed. The old lama stacked the sacred pages back between their wooden covers and wrapped them with a yellow cloth. He nodded and heaved his body from the seated position. Then he turned to face the young monk by his side.

  “Today we will see if you are ready for your lessons,” he said. “You have grown up, Sangay.�
�

  The young monk also stood, but he did not meet the eyes of his elder.

  “I hope that I will not disappoint you, la,” he replied. “I am still small and ignorant.” With these words, he bowed deeply and offered a white silken scarf to the old lama. The teacher accepted the respectful gesture and then motioned to a narrow muddy path.

  “We will go now,” he said and turned towards the mountain.

  Sangay followed his teacher without comment. His mind wandered ahead to the test that he must pass, an initiation rite, which many had failed before him. An enormous cliff stood above the monastery of Larjap. He used to come here as a little boy, when the red robes he wore were all he knew about being a monk. His mother had always warned him to stay away from the deadly drop-off that plunged hundreds of metres into the forest below. When he was a child, he used to turn from the ledge in tears. Today, however, he must face it.

  A group of long white prayer flags rippled lazily from their wooden poles on top of the crest. A few feet from the edge of the cliff, the lama stopped. Hesitantly, Sangay approached.

  “Go now, Sangay,” the old man urged. “Do not be afraid. Believe in yourself and the teachings you have learned. Show me if you are ready for the true meaning of the dharma.”

  Sangay nodded. Bravely keeping his gaze fixed on the line of earth separating solid ground from the airy void beyond, he placed one foot in front of the other until he stood only centimetres from the abrupt ledge. There, paralyzed with fear, he choked on his breath and quickly averted his eyes to the soft blue of the morning sky.

  Magnificent mountains provide a stunning backdrop to many dzongs and monasteries of Bhutan.

  “What do you see?” He heard the old lama’s words drifting to him through the haze in his mind. Forcing his body to remain fixed at the very edge, Sangay lowered his gaze slightly. Immediately, he began to sway.

  “I see clouds,” he stuttered truthfully. Perspiration began to collect on his forehead. With each passing second, the cliff seemed to draw him farther off his carefully balanced inner strength.

  “Everyone sees clouds,” the old lama replied. “Look down!”

  In the distance, a silvery band snaked its course through the valleys to disappear in the mist, and Sangay stammered, “I see a river.”

  Again the lama corrected him. “You are looking too far ahead, Sangay. Look down!”

  Trembling with fear, Sangay let his view span the land from the bluish hills in the distance to the green of the forest below. Suddenly, a sea of spiky treetops rose out of the bleary landscape. Again, the lama’s voice travelled to him from afar.

  “What do you see now?”

  Sangay refocused and let his gaze settle on his feet. Dizziness and nausea fought within him. His toes gripped onto grass and rocks, and he wondered almost passively if he would now fall and tumble into the great emptiness.

  As if the lama could read his mind, the old man walked up close behind his student. “Look beyond your toes, Sangay. Believe in your teachings. Find your strength.”

  Sangay’s sight blurred and his body swayed dangerously close to the edge. A shiver ran down his spine, and he failed to notice how the old lama stretched his hand protectively towards him.

  Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, Sangay took a deep breath. Then, at first faltering, but slowly increasing in strength and conviction, he started to murmur the syllables of his mantra, the secret formula given to him by his guru. As he spoke the precious words again and again and let his mind open to the image of the guru, the young monk could feel his body relax. After a while, the features of the guru’s face became strong and clear, and finally Sangay allowed his sight to shift to the awesome splendour of the morning before him.

  This time, unhurried, he took another deep breath and tilted his head and body forward. Below him, beyond the edge of the rugged cliff and the outline of his big round toes, he saw the gleaming light of the golden pinnacle of a monastery. At that moment, Sangay felt the gentle pressure of the lama’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Yes, Sangay, you are ready.”

  For a long time, the teacher and the student stood in that same spot, watching the morning climb over the giants of earth around them. Then, after a deep silence, the old lama spoke again.

  “Sangay, you have travelled far in your young life. You have received an education outside of our world in the mountains. You have seen places that I have never journeyed to. Tell me what you saw.”

  Quietly, Sangay described the Buddhist college in Bangalore, and the lessons he received in southern India. The old lama did not interrupt. Finally, Sangay pointed to the faint line of the horizon where the kingdom of Bhutan bordered its giant southern neighbour. “Life is different there,” he said.

  The old lama nodded. He himself had made a pilgrimage to the temple of Bodh Gaya in his younger days and had seen that the world beyond the Himalaya was a different one.

  “It is not that,” Sangay tried to explain. “Things are changing.”

  Again, the old lama studied his student with fondness. “Of course, there is always change,” he said. Then he shook his head. “But we are happy to live in this ancient country with a good king who knows how to protect his people. I do not think that for us life will ever change.”

  For the first time, Sangay met the eyes of his teacher. He did not want to oppose the old man’s words. He did not even know what it was that made him question the future. Coming home to his village in the mountains, nothing had appeared different, and yet it was. Without understanding the rising feeling of sadness, Sangay could sense that even here in his isolated home, the tiny Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan, old traditions and customs were dying. No one could prevent the flow of the years. Bhutan was changing, too.

  1

  a road leading east

  Massive monsoon clouds loom before us, barring the path and drowning our sight. The air is a heavy white curtain, dripping with moisture. Thick mist is hanging low in the crooks and crevasses of the mountain ridges, filling the valleys and blanketing the plateaus. Although no rain is falling, the windshield wipers squeak on, busying themselves with the endless task of providing the driver with a small, dirty window into the morning wetness. Everything is cold and dank. At almost 4,000 metres, we are not only driving in the clouds, we are breathing them, feeling them, living within them.

  The pickup truck is heavily loaded, its weight pushing it on as the brakes squeal and the car skids around the tight, steep curves. Some corners seem to warrant a loud blast of the horn; others are left to silence and destiny.

  Huddled in the front passenger seat, with two people in the back and surrounded by laboratory equipment, my radio and a handful of valuable items that must stay dry, I stare into the illusive milky blankness ahead. Most of my gear and household wares for the forthcoming year are tied onto the loading surface, stacked and stuffed under a brown tarp whose edges and corners are angrily flapping in the wind. The rest of the truck’s load consists of several huge laboratory machines and some boxes containing test tubes and reactants with the same destination as mine: Mongar Hospital in Eastern Bhutan.

  The solemn quiet of my fellow passengers lets me contemplate my journey to the East. Bhutan has been my dream since the fall of 1995, less than two years ago. I was twenty-four, and my father, the world traveller, wanted to show me his beloved Himalaya. He had been to Bhutan six times already, and each time he had returned full of enthusiasm—but also with a new worry line on his forehead. “What an incredible country!” he would exclaim, and then invariably update me on the most recent changes he had observed. “The traffic in the capital Thimphu must have doubled. They even put up a traffic light,” he said one year. The next time, he had different concerns. “Well, the traffic light is gone again. But the number of tourists I saw in Thimphu! Minibuses full of tourists! You really should see it before it’s too late. I want to show you Bhutan. This is one of the last untouched cultures in the world. And it is bound to change soon. Lo
ok at its neighbour Nepal, or even Thailand. They were so different twenty years ago. Why don’t you come with me?”

  For a long time, I was skeptical. I was busy establishing my career in physiotherapy, taking postgraduate courses and trying to climb the ladder of success. I looked at my father’s pictures of the Himalaya with interest and studied the map long enough to know that Bhutan was a tiny kingdom south of Tibet and east of Nepal, but it was not until internal problems at my workplace forced me to think about changing jobs that I seriously considered my father’s offer. On his sixtieth birthday, when he again talked about his need for a travel companion, in a sudden flash of daring I said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  We packed our bags and off we went, first to India and Nepal, then to Bhutan. My father took me on the trip of a lifetime and indulged me with the sights of a world unknown to me. He opened my eyes, and I opened my heart. Bhutan mesmerized me. The mountains loomed to spectacular heights, a cheerful people welcomed us with sincere generosity, and I felt an undeniable peace in the gentle philosophies of Buddhism.

  The small town of Mongar is nestled in the Eastern Himalaya.

  Suddenly, my ambitions changed.

  From the window of a monastery perched on the rocky outcrop of a mountain, my world of materialism and fashionable stress in Canada seemed absurd. I realized that now was the time for me to travel, to experience different cultures, to discover if our globe has more fascinating places to offer. I would go to a place where living still made sense. I wanted to learn and I longed for adventure. In return, I would do something worthwhile, something meaningful, I would offer whatever skills I had to people who were less fortunate—I would become a volunteer. The three weeks travelling with my father had drawn an enormous line between our wealth and the poverty we encountered, and my first exposure to the haves and have-nots of a developing country had shocked me deeply. I had always known that my life had been pampered, but now I felt over-privileged. All at once, treating sports injuries in a modern, well-equipped clinic was no longer enough. I wanted to give back, to share what I could. In my imagination, I saw myself surrounded by little dark-skinned children who knew that I had come to help. For the first time ever, I contemplated the possibility of fate. Someone in Bhutan was calling my name.