Buttertea at Sunrise Read online

  Bikul sighs. Drinking, and in many ways excessive drinking, is very much part of the Eastern Bhutanese custom, but it is usually limited to alcohol home-brewed out of maize or other grains. Norbu, however, being paid in cash by the hospital, is totally incapable of budgeting for the family and spends his entire salary on alcohol. Pema has never seen a penny of her father’s earnings, and with her younger sister away at school in Thimphu, the family is short of a cash income.

  Frustrated, Bikul recounts how he has tried to help Norbu to stop drinking, and how after a few months his attempts have proven useless. Somehow, Norbu does not fit into this split life, stuck between the old world of the mountains and the new world of the hospital. Two different sets of expectations, two different rhythms of time. For Norbu, who is a soft man yielding to the pressures of the world around him, the temptations of alcohol prove too much to resist. So Ama continues to carry her vegetables over the tiring footpath down the mountain to the market, hoping to make at least enough to support her little daughter in Thimphu.

  “Minakpa life is not easy,” Bikul says, then adds, “But they never cry. For them, life is good. No matter what happens, you laugh.”

  I think about Ama’s face, creased with many wrinkles, deep furrows caused by her work outside in the high mountains, but patterned by the fine lines of laughter that look like crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. What about Pema? Will she look like her mother one day? Somehow I doubt it. Like her father, Norbu, Pema has chosen a life away from the stability of her family and the village. Unlike Ama, Pema is learning how to cry.

  15

  buttertea is warm and salty

  An Autumn Evening

  The looming peaks of the rising mountains

  Sink into the lingering shadows of the sunset

  A crescent moon hangs over an ancient sky

  The villagers gather near the campfire,

  And centuries-old legends and myths

  Transpire an illusive symphony of magic.

  Nostalgia of age-old seasons

  Reverberates in their confused minds

  As they move the rosary beads

  And listen to the radio noise.

  Through the burning edges of their hearts

  Tradition moves, refreshes and creates a sense:

  A sense of living together,

  A sense of being cornered.

  Remote, forbidden yet excessively romantic

  Here in this land of the tranquil dragon

  My heart has been shaken by fear;

  The fear of losing this perfect harmony.

  I wish that I could enjoy the next autumn

  I wish that I can enjoy this land in peace.

  —Annitt Kumar, 1996

  One day when the rain lets up and the mountains steam in the afternoon heat, we plan to climb the slippery path to Bargompa. Pema tells me that she and the children will spend the weekend with her family, and she urges me to visit them. “Bring Dr. Bikul too!” Her wink is undeniably mischievous. “He has been there often. He knows the way—and I think he would like to go with you.”

  The trail winds through the bottom of a little river valley and then steeply ascends the eastern slope of the ridge. We cross a creek, waltz through a meadow, and balance on the big boulders penetrating the ground like stony birthmarks. At one point, an umbrella of big oak branches shelters the trail. The path continues to scale the hill with little relief for my screaming lungs. Bikul seems to have no trouble with the altitude and jumps ahead in his old, worn-out running shoes. Every few hundred metres we stop for me to catch my breath.

  The views are mesmerizing. On the slope across from us, farms of the village Phosrang are spread between densely wooded jungle. The houses with their adjacent cornfields and rickety barns form a mosaic with patches of burgeoning bushes and fields full of flowers. The colours of blossoms and crops in bloom underline the deep green of the forest, which thickens as you go higher, spreading up the grade with a dense cover of leaves. Interspersed with the human dwellings are little white chortens, gleaming in the first afternoon sun.

  We pass an old building whose red painted horizontal band around the upper walls indicates that it is a temple. From afar, it looks nothing more than a big old farmhouse, but on closer inspection, the structure reveals its religious design. A continuous ribbon of small, hand-powered prayer wheels wraps around the entire circumference, interrupted only by weathered patches where the odd broken wheel has collapsed over time. The gable and the eave are richly decorated with woodcarvings of different animal designs and shapes. There is no sign of people and the sacred building looks abandoned and somewhat forlorn. The red entrance door, painted in faded colours with a big auspicious parasol, is secured with a rusty padlock.

  Further on, we meet a few minakpas and are greeted with a friendly “O dele?” which literally translates into “Where are you going?” Our answer is always accepted with an even brighter smile and an encouraging cheer, “Lasso la, Doctor!” which means something like “That’s great, Doctor!”

  We must be a good hour’s walk away from Mongar, and the apparently purposeful comings and goings of the villagers amaze me. In big, efficient strides, they effortlessly climb the hills or run down the steep slopes. Along the way, they yodel or sing, or shout to each other, their voices echoing off the mountains. There is a relaxed merriment in their motions, a cheerful accomplishment of whatever needs to be done. Their ease is contagious.

  The path divides at a little chorten and becomes even steeper in our direction, forcing me to pay attention to my every step. I struggle with the mud and my fatiguing legs. Even Bikul slows and like a gentleman offers to carry my backpack. I look at him with renewed surprise. Again, the strict doctor has metamorphosed into a relaxed young man with a boyish grin and sparkling eyes. As if we were approaching his own home, he pushes on eagerly, explaining every tree and every familiar sign.

  When the roof of a farmhouse appears over the tops of the cornfield, a loud, rather unfriendly barking greets us. Respectfully, we stop in our tracks. “We get many dog bite cases in the hospital,” Bikul warns. Then he calls a drawn out “Oieehhhh” through the fields, and it echoes off the strutting ridge.

  Minutes later, Norbu Ama comes running down the trail. “Kuzuzang po la! Jonsho!Jonsho!” Excited, she waves us towards her. Her welcome is heartfelt and her laughter immediately includes me in her conversation, of which I understand not a word. The dog is locked safely into the barn, and we are led through a gate to a set of steep wooden steps, the only entrance to Ama’s big farmhouse.

  A typical old farmhouse with wooden shingles, which are secured with heavy stones.

  Off a little platform halfway up the stairs, a single door opens into a large, black-stained kitchen. A tiny cobwebbed window throws a few rays of light on an earthen fireplace; from its holes, flames lick eagerly at three big sooty pots. Almost unnoticed, an old woman sits close to the fire, methodically stirring her spoon in a thin wooden tube.

  I am eager to explore the secrets of this intriguing place of cooking, but polite guest behaviour requires us to follow Norbu Ama upstairs to the main family room, where two blankets are quickly converted into the best seats in the house. Ama motions us to sit down. “Jonsho, Doctor!” The room is big and airy. The window shutters are slid wide open, and our view is guided over the valley to the minuscule nest of Mongar town roosting on a slope in the distance. Immediately below the house, a field of tall maize stalks waves to us through the breeze.

  Norbu Ama disappears, leaving Bikul and me alone. I look around for a sign of Pema or her children.

  “Have you seen Pema?” I finally ask.

  Bikul shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe she is with her grandfather. He lives not far from here in a tiny meditation hut.”

  Feeling a little awkward in the huge empty room with Bikul at my side, I twist my hair around my fingers and wish for Pema and the children to return really soon. Eventually, though, I am distracted by the family altar, an
impressive structure right across from our seats. The central offering place is large and well built, with glass cases on either side. There are five podiums, each encircled by an arched frame in the style of Bhutanese windows. Inside each receptacle sits a colourful statue wrapped into a silken frock. The two large statues dominating the middle of the altar are bronzed; the others are smaller, and one has blue skin.

  As an offering, three butterlamps (candles made out of hardened butter or vegetable oil in a solid dish) burn quietly beside a couple of incense sticks and seven bowls filled with water.

  “The seven bowls symbolize the seven offerings made to Buddha,” Bikul explains. “They represent what we want to share—things like food, drink, or water for washing.”

  I look at the little vessels with renewed interest. Water, a plain and simple offering. The people in the Himalaya are not rich, but everyone can afford water. It is a universal offering, something causing no hardships, no greed, and can be given with pure faith.

  An extension on either side of the altar houses the family’s holy books, each volume bound in shiny silk cloth. Two photographs of yellow- and orange-clad lamas round off the colourful altar, and each picture is respectfully draped with a white ceremonial scarf.

  The intriguing sights of the altar spark my curiosity, and we leave our drafty corner to take a closer peek. The first thing I notice underneath the bookshelves is a sort of cupboard—a pantry. Its door is covered with a simple fly mesh, and behind it I can see chunks of cheese and banana-leaf-wrapped parcels, which look like the butter packages in the subjee bazaar. Obviously, the food storage lives in harmony with the precious inhabitants of the altar.

  I again study the seven bowls. They are delicate silver vessels with intricate designs, symbols that remind me of an old Chinese chest that my father brought back from one of his travels years ago. The water twinkles at me from the polished basins. Standing guard in the middle of all these treasures is a vase for holy water with one large peacock feather, a symbol of the wisdom of Buddha’s love.

  Bikul picks up a rosary from between the other decorations and hands it to me.

  “You see here, these bands.” He points at a few short leather straps with ten metal rings. “Each rosary has a hundred and eight beads, and after each completion of one count of the beads, you move this first ring to the other end of the leather strap. Then you continue. When you have completed ten rounds, you move to the second band and start over.”

  “Why is it necessary to count your prayers?” I ask.

  “I guess it keeps you on the right track.” Bikul shrugs his shoulders.

  The answer is not wholly satisfactory to me, and I return to examine the altar. A tiny white object catches my attention. It looks like a tooth. “What is that?”

  Before he can answer, Norbu Ama enters with a huge pot full of tea. We guiltily stop our nosy examination of the family treasures and return to our prepared seats. Norbu Ama is in high spirits. Under constant chatter, she pours our cups. The liquid is slightly cloudy, and I imagine bubbles of grease floating on the surface. Carefully, I sip the brew. It is greasy! And salty, very salty! What kind of tea is this? Norbu Ama looks at me expectantly and I fake a smile. Secretly, I imagine how my tongue and the inside of my mouth contract, and my stomach bars its doors in revolt of the strange infusion.

  “Seudja,” Bikul explains. “Buttertea. Have you had it before?”

  I shake my head.

  “It is great, isn’t it?” he says and I agree half-heartedly. More like soup, I think to myself, and brave another sip.

  “Here, add this,” Bikul suggests and heaps a generous handful of zao into my cup. Skeptically, I eye the ensuing potion. It looks no more appetizing than the initial serving, with the exception that the grease is now hidden by the floating rice kernels fighting for space. Politely, I take another swallow. To my surprise, the flavour has become rather pleasing. I crunch on the zao and the salty nature of the tea slowly warms my insides. I drink again and find that the more I have, the better it tastes.

  Eventually, I lose count of how many refills Norbu Ama generously pours into my cup. Just when I am sure that we must have successfully finished the entire pot, Pema appears with Nima and Chimmi, carrying another flask.

  “Auntie!” Chimmi shouts and bounces excitedly up and down. Then she pulls Nima to sit beside her, facing us, and both children watch us with interest. Or at least Chimmi does. Nima’s eyes are for once focused on us, but still I am not sure that we are the objects of his contemplation. As always, he is busy rolling his lower lip between his fingers.

  “Auntie!” This time, Chimmi makes sure that I give her my sole attention by driving a little homemade car, which consists of two short sticks for the axle and wheels and a flat piece of bark for the body, back and forth over the floor in front of my folded legs.

  Pema places a wooden bowl between her eager daughter’s “tire tracks” on the hardwood. “Welcome to my family’s home!” She offers a warm smile that I now realize is just like Norbu Ama’s. “It is a long way, isn’t it? Please, have some arra.”

  “Arra?” I smell the drink gingerly and nausea rises in my throat. The pungent scent stings my nose and makes my eyes water. So this is arra, the famous alcoholic home brew.

  “I think I better not,” I apologize, and Bikul quickly gives a more flowery version of my excuse to Norbu Ama, who has come to join us. Pema’s mother looks unhappy and again nods at me. “Zhe, zhe!” Afraid to offend her hospitality, I point at my stomach and make a grimace. “Pholang ngamla!” I remember the phrase for stomach pain from the hospital. Norbu Ama and Pema laugh heartily. My apology is accepted, and although I am urged a few more times to try the drink, I get away with my tentative sniff.

  Pholang ngamla, I repeat the magic words to myself and notice in astonishment that they seem self-fulfilling. My stomach is indeed feeling quite bloated, and the buttertea has clumped like a stone somewhere above the belt line. There it sits and sits, and I dare not move for fear of my whole gut dropping out the bottom. With horror, I look at my refilled cup.

  When dusk reminds us to bid farewell, Norbu Ama, Pema, and the old woman (who turns out to be Pema’s grandmother) try to load us with at least two bags filled with thengma, dried and beaten corn, and another one with kharang, a coarsely ground version of dried corn. Kharang is the main dish for villagers. The corn kernels are dried and shredded and stored for later cooking, much like rice. When we politely insist on accepting only one bag of each, Norbu Ama supplements our gifts with four fresh eggs, carefully hidden among the corn for safe transportation. All three women seem reluctant to say goodbye, and Pema tells me that they were hoping we would spend the night in their house.

  “This is a wonderful home!” I say while Pema clasps my hands. “Wouldn’t you like to live up here all the time?”

  Without hesitation, Pema shakes her head. “Oh, no!”

  “I mean if Karma would stay with you, of course.”

  Again Pema shakes her head. “It is too boring up here. I don’t want to live on the farm. I would like best to live in Thimphu.”

  Yes, I think, I know that. Still I cannot quite understand why.

  “What will happen to your farm when Ama and Norbu get old? Your sister Rinzin Tshering is studying in Thimphu too, isn’t she? And your brother is a monk. Who will look after your parents?”

  “Ama is thinking about adopting a little girl,” Pema answers with obvious relief in her voice. “Rinzin wants to be a teacher. And when Chimmi grows up, I hope she will be a doctor. But it is not good to live here.”

  I think about Pema’s cramped quarters at the hospital—then I imagine Ama and Abi taking care of Nima in this spacious house, giving Pema a chance to relax and look after herself. But of course, Karma would need to live in town, or he would have to walk the hour and a half each way to the dzong. Pema does not seem to have the same regrets as I, for she continues: “After I went to school and learned English, I knew that I would live somewhere
else. I wanted to get a job, to earn money. It is not good to live in the village always.”

  I look from Abi and Ama to Pema and Chimmi. Four generations of women, with the same lovely smile, the same dark eyes. And yet, two different sets of hopes and aspirations.

  We are about to put our shoes back on when Norbu Ama walks over to the altar and triumphantly picks up her prized possession, the little white something that I had inspected earlier. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and begins squawking, all the while pointing to her cheek, making us understand that it is indeed her tooth.

  Pema laughs. “Ama can put the tooth in and out, but she only wears it if she goes to town. She thinks she looks better if the tooth is in.”

  Bikul and I look at each other and smile. Even our village Ama knows a little about vanity.

  Abi too seems to have something on her mind and in her bent, shuffling gait rushes over and waves us towards her room. We follow her past the shrine through a set of heavy wooden doors. The chamber is small, dark, and smells of dust and mothballs. It is stuffed with heaps of clothing. On a bed in the corner, several cats are curled up on an assortment of kiras and ghos. Abi shifts a pile of orange-checkered material to the side and uncovers a large wooden box from which she pulls a bangchung. The little woven bamboo container is obviously as aged as Abi, but it still hints at a glorious youth with colourful designs. With an endearing smile, Abi presents me with her bangchung. Thoroughly embarrassed, I thank Abi, still confused about the appropriate response to this family’s generosity.

  Bikul, as always, is curious and none too shy. “This is wonderful!” he exclaims and eagerly dives into the box. Suddenly, he resurfaces holding a carefully wrapped silver necklace with many inset pearls. Abi starts chiding the nosy doctor, but to my surprise everyone else is laughing.