Buttertea at Sunrise Page 9

  Dr. Bikul seems surprised but not in the least put off. He continues to inform me about the advantages of Canadian attitudes, about our environmental consciousness, and then moves on to issues on a global scale. I do not get another say. Somehow, the topic shifts to a future world war, although the doctor firmly insists that such a possibility is out of the question. When he finally dives into a lecture about Germans and Hitler, I have had enough.

  “Did you know that I am originally from Germany? I really do not appreciate you generalizing about a country you have never been to. That is dangerous! That is how prejudices are formed!”

  I am steaming. Who does he think he is? A bookworm, full of arrogance and theoretical knowledge. I feel like turning around, but instead we continue further and further up the road, leaving Mongar and the guesthouse behind us. As our feet strike the irregular pavement, we gradually steer the conversation back to safer ground, but the friction continues.

  Maybe twenty minutes out of town, we reach a bend in the road. I look back. Below us lies Mongar. All around, the mountains stretch in a curvy silhouette, greying in the light of dusk. Dr. Bikul points to the individual peaks and tells me their names, sometimes the local name, sometimes the one he has given to them.

  “Over there, across from Mongar, is Chhali. I like the people there. They are really funny. No one can drink as much as a Chhalipa!”

  Dr. Bikul acts out a drunken little dance and I have to grin.

  Then he points to the next mountain. “The high peak beside Chhali is Takchhu. To the right, the pass at the end of this valley is Kori La.”

  I follow his finger to a ridge of mountains where the thin serpentine road disappears into the trees. It is a beautiful view. Farms dot the hillsides of terraced paddies and cornfields. The houses and tiny figures of people blend with their surroundings naturally and effortlessly. Again I marvel how the traditional Bhutanese buildings, often fantastic in their sizes and architecture, harmonize with the awesome splendour of the highlands.

  Quietly, Dr. Bikul continues. “I call Kori La Krishna Pahar, in memory of my father. Krishna Pahar is where the sun rises every morning, and where the new day begins.” Then he turns further south. “And these two peaks I have named Hurja and Anonda. If you stand here before sunrise when everything is still dark, the mountains are only a thin outline. And then, all of a sudden, you can distinguish Hurja and Anonda. Their shapes become clear, more defined. They glow in the first rays of the sun, just before it peaks over Kori La.”

  Looking at his mountains, Dr. Bikul’s attitude softens. The stern arrogance of his face gives way to something dreamy.

  “I love my nature,” he says quietly. Then he smiles. It is a heart-warming smile that innocently erases the carefully guarded demeanour from his face. His dark eyes glow with passion, and for a second I am charmed by his smile. Then abruptly Dr. Bikul sobers and, as if to protect his vulnerable confession, marches ahead a few steps.

  A dog comes limping down the road, and my fleeting moment of utter content crashes in one sad look. The poor creature is nearly furless, and the red raw patches of skin are covered with pussy sores. Every rib lifts his skin a few centimetres from his hollow skeleton of a body, and several wounds on his legs are quietly bleeding. His eyes are swollen and weepy, and he salivates in long, slimy beads onto his paws and chest. He sniffs the road as if there was hope of any food coming his way, and then drags himself on, resigned to hunger.

  He is not the first dog I have seen in Bhutan in pathetic condition, but of all of them he is certainly the one closest to death. In Mongar as well as in Thimphu, the streets are filled with stray dogs; most of them mangled and disfigured by scabies. No one seems to care. I see no one reaching out to these poor creatures; instead they are kicked and yelled at, and children learn from a small age that they are only useful as living targets for flying stones.

  I stand there and helplessly watch as the sad little beast forces itself to make a big loop in order to avoid us. Dr. Bikul turns to me, and I tell him my grief. Not that I expect him to understand, but I cannot keep my frustration inside. To my surprise, he is quite attentive. “You are very kind-hearted,” he replies, instead of laughing at me. “I never really thought that much about these dogs. They are just here, and that’s it.”

  “But you are a doctor,” I reproach. “At least you should care about these poor creatures.”

  “But I am a human doctor! I have no ideas about animals.”

  “But you see them suffer! I just mean, to me, it is beyond comprehension how all these Buddhists in Bhutan watch the dogs suffer.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Dr. Bikul nods. Then he produces a small red package out of his pocket. Holding it out to me, he asks, “Do you want to feed the dog?”

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “KitKat. I usually keep some with me for the children.” His face has softened and lost all pretenses. I feel a wave of gratitude. With a new closeness, the doctor and I are bonded by our joint compassion.

  I break some of the KitKat into little pieces and place them carefully on the ground. The dog does not look over and shuffles on. Hastily, I pass him and start a little trail of chocolate, one piece after the other, towards the rest of the bar. For a moment, it looks as if the poor thing will walk on. He does not seem interested, or else his sense of vision and smell has been deadened beyond recognition. But then he carefully licks one tiny crumb off the road. His difficulty in swallowing is obvious, and I quickly break up the rest of the bar. He eats another piece, and another, slowly, cautiously, not looking up, saving his energy for the tiring task at hand. Tears begin to burn in my eyes, and leaving him to finish his meal in peace, Dr. Bikul and I walk back towards the guesthouse.

  At the primary school, a steep road veers off to the left, and we follow it to the Royal Guesthouse. We enter through a heavy red gate and find ourselves in a fine English garden. Big trees palisade the path and the air is sweet with the smell of blossoms. The lawn is thick and well kept, and a tall stone wall surrounds the garden. Beyond that enclosure lies the dzong and, below that, the houses of Mongar. Kesang, a young, friendly man, asks us to sit in the little sheltered porch in front of the main building.

  Self-assured Dr. Bikul orders a beer for me and raises his eyebrows in surprise when I tell him that I do not drink. I order a Coke instead.

  The menu must have been prearranged because within minutes we are served a plate of fried peanuts, followed by several dishes, most of them containing some form of meat. It is the first time since my arrival in Mongar that I lay my eyes on any kind of meat, and I am wondering about its safety for my stomach. Still, I do not want to refuse the meal. Instead I eat only modest bites and try to explain that I am not a big meat eater. Again, Dr. Bikul seems surprised. He orders another Coke for me, and then offers a cigarette. I refuse politely. I do not smoke. I can see that he is struggling hard with his prejudiced image of Westerners. Don’t we all drink and smoke and eat meat? He asks if I mind if he smokes, but then stubs out his cigarette after a few puffs. Awkwardly, we finish our meal.

  It is only after the last bowl has been cleared from the table that we somehow reconnect.

  “Dr. Bikul, about your religion, I mean about Hinduism and Buddhism—I am still very confused.”

  “In what way?” Dr. Bikul asks.

  “For example, I thought that Buddha is a god. But the other day, I learned that Buddha did not believe in God.”

  “Well, sort of,” Dr. Bikul replies. “Buddha neither denied nor recognized the existence of God. Buddha emphasized the importance of a noble life, a non-violent way of life. Buddha did not ask us to believe, but to realize and experience our own spiritual life.”

  This does not make total sense to me. Every house, every temple I have been to, has one or several statues of what I thought were gods. “But the Bhutanese worship Buddha as a god, don’t they? I mean, our patients, those villagers, they believe in Buddha.”

  “They do.” Dr. Bikul nods
. “Believing is easier and more romantic than realizing, you know what I mean. We like to believe, because we are human.”

  Dr. Bikul gives me a conspiratory smile and leans back in his seat. He is obviously comfortable with this topic. It must be familiar ground to him, and he opens up with his deep philosophical ideas. I learn about Buddha and Guru Rinpoche, about the religious behaviour of my patients, and about the Bhutanese attitude towards suffering. He tells me about the monks living in the mountains in isolation, meditating undisturbed, and about how Buddhism and Hinduism are related.

  The hours pass. At almost midnight, under a pale moon and a multitude of twinkling stars, we stumble through the darkness back to the hospital.

  11

  chilli con carne

  I wake up early with a feeling of pure joy. A warm radiant light floods my room. Indulging in the luxury, I lazily get up and make a strong cup of coffee. I throw my windows and doors wide open and let life wash over me.

  A green and gorgeous giant greets me from across the valley, a distinguished character among the neighbourly peaks. Marked through the years by monsoons and dry winters, the face of the mountain is furrowed with shallow wrinkles. Rivers separate him from his mates, cutting deeper into the ground each season, lengthening his rounded back.

  Perched on his steep slope over the Kuru Chhu, the farms and terraces of Chhali bask in the morning sun. Trees and shrubs surround parcels of land covered with paddies in all different hues of green. Billows of clouds reflect the low rays of the sun, painting the mountain’s features with brilliant colours.

  Below me, I can hear the roaring of the Gangola as it thunders towards Lingmithang. The sound echoes through the valley and bounces along stones and rocks following the river’s path. Joining its tune, the melody of a myriad of birds celebrates the break of day.

  My morning routine begins. After my daily adjustment to the weather’s follies, I cram as much as possible into the hours before hospital duty calls at 9:00 a.m. Cleaning myself and my home in addition to preparing food takes up most of the time. If, as today, I finish early enough, I try to get the laundry done.

  I fill the big blue plastic tub with water to the rim. Unbelievable how much dirty washing keeps piling up. Every day after duty I have to abandon my flea-infested outfit to the tub. If I go for a walk after that, the humidity and the heat combine into such a powerful steam bath that I come home drenched in my own sweat, and I have to change again. Finally, if at night more fleas find their way into my pyjamas, there is no other solution but to wash those too.

  Drying the stuff afterwards is a completely different challenge. On cloudy or rainy days, there is practically no chance of success in that matter; my clothes hang on the line for several days before I can even think of taking them inside. Still partially damp, they then start rotting in the cupboard and are usually completely dried only by my body heat upon wearing them. That leaves them with a few minutes of dryness, before sweat and dust sully them again. Heaving the heavy bucket of wet clothes out the door, I resolve to become less fussy about smell and stains. I will simply blend in more; I will adapt to the laws of the monsoon.

  This morning, I am almost finished decorating my clothesline when a small, furry dog bounces up to the porch. I try to call her over, but she only looks at me with big, brown eyes. I crouch and drum my fingers on the floor. She wags her tail very tentatively but keeps her distance. About the size of a terrier, with a long reddish coat, she looks healthy, not at all mangled like most of the other dogs. I doubt that she is someone’s pet; I cannot recall anyone in Mongar admitting to the ownership of a pet.

  The little red mutt inches closer to me. She sniffs my hands, my feet, my dress, and then, apparently satisfied, turns into a leaping, barking bundle of energy. Laughing, I head for the kitchen to get some leftover rice. All I can find are potatoes, though, and suddenly remembering the name of a friend’s teddy bear, I call my new friend Spud.

  In the late afternoon, when my hospital duties are over, I decide I will walk up to the bazaar to find some underwear for Lhamo. The hospital campus is deserted, and only one door to the outpatient chambers is still open. I poke my head through the curtain. Dr. Bikul is deeply absorbed in his books.

  “Hi!” I call into the resounding silence of the cement walls. “You are still working?”

  He looks up, puzzled, then slowly recognizes the intruder. “Oh, hi!” With a quick motion, he stuffs his pack of cigarettes into the desk drawer. I cannot let him get away with that, so I smile.

  “No need to hide the cigarettes.”

  Dr. Bikul looks as guilty as a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  First a little annoyed, then relieved, he grins. “How did you see them so quickly?”

  “Well, I have sharp eyes for such things,” I reply. “So what are you working on?” I ask, and walk closer to his desk to get a better look at his books. They are medical textbooks, volume upon volume filled with tiny print.

  “I came to Bhutan to get some quiet time to prepare for my PG entrance exams.”

  “PG entrance?” I repeat.

  “Postgraduate school,” Dr. Bikul explains with a little self-importance. “I have my medical degree, but I need to join postgraduate school in oncology.”

  I nod. Oncology is the study and treatment of cancers. A very specialized field, and I can picture this serious doctor well in that role.

  “When are you going to apply?”

  “Next year. The competition in India is very tough. Imagine, there are more than ten thousand doctors every year applying for oncology, and only two seats.”

  “Ten thousand doctors will compete for two seats?” I repeat skeptically. Perhaps another exaggeration to underline his importance?

  Dr. Bikul is quick to qualify his statement. “Well, two seats in Chandigarh Postgraduate Institute. There are other medical institutes. But everyone competes to be in Chandigarh. That is the best place to do research against cancer.”

  “I didn’t realize that a doctor working in this remote hospital could have such big plans,” I admit.

  Bikul nods. “Initially, I came to Bhutan only for three months. Bhutan was looking for doctors and I thought, what better place than this to get away from the noisy hospitals in India. It is quiet here, plenty of time to study. But then, I liked it so much here. The untouched nature, the ancient civilization. I decided to stay longer. Actually,” Bikul grins, “this is my third year.”

  “So that’s why you are always sitting in this room?”

  “Yes, in the evenings, this is my study. No one disturbs me here.”

  “Don’t you ever eat?” I inquire, looking at my watch. “I never see you leave this room until nighttime.”

  Now he hems and haws a little. “I will eat at the hotel.” Then, obviously sensing my need for a further explanation, he adds, “You know Norbu, the pharmacy assistant who got transferred this week; he used to cook for me.” He pauses for a moment. “I cannot cook.”

  “So you always eat at the hotel?” I ask in amazement. Even I, the self-proclaimed terrible chef, cannot believe that.

  “Well, I only eat one big meal. In the morning I have some tea and coconut.” He seems embarrassed now.

  “Oh.”

  I am not sure how to respond. I always assumed that all single men who have endured years of bachelorhood know how to feed themselves. Actually, I thought that I was a pathetic exception to all over-twenty-year-olds, with my minute knowledge of fine cuisine. Obviously, I was mistaken.

  Feeling awkward, I decide to leave the hungry doctor to his studies. Halfway out the door, something makes me stop, though. Before I can grasp the full meaning of my own words, I hear myself extending an invitation. “Please come for dinner tonight. You can eat with me, I have to cook anyway.”

  Why did I say that, and worse, why did he accept? All the way up to the bazaar, I scold myself. What am I going to cook? What will he eat? What will we both eat? What kind of food should I buy? I have
no idea how to cook for myself, let alone prepare Indian dishes. I do not even know the name of this yellow spice that seems to be the characteristic ingredient of curries. What if he eats only extremely spicy food with lots of chillies, like the Bhutanese? I wish that I could take the invitation back, but it is too late. Somehow, I have to dream up something!

  I decide to get the underwear issue out of the way first, and then tackle the question of food. One of the sisters recommended that I look in Yeshey Pelden’s shop, and I find it halfway up the road, the shop set slightly underground, in a sort of mezzanine. The right wall is packed with drinks of all sorts: beer, rum, orange squash, lemon squash, tins of pineapple and orange juice, and some fruit concoctions in lunch-sized drink cartons. In front of the drinks is a long glass case with all kinds of cookies, sweets, stale-looking chocolate, and crackers. At the far wall, I detect a shelf with garments. I ask for underwear.

  “What size?”

  “Small,” I reply. “Really small.” The girl behind the counter snickers, and I feel obliged to add, “It’s not for me. It is for one of my patients, and she is only thirteen.” The girl pulls out a couple of packages of plastic-wrapped underwear with little butterflies on them. Not too bad for the middle of nowhere. I pick the smallest pair and quickly leave the shop. That mission accomplished, I devote my full attention to the question of food.

  In Rinzin Tshockey’s shop I look around for a while. There is a big basket with tomatoes that must have come up from Samdrup Jongkhar with the bus. Tomatoes—what could I cook with tomatoes? A brilliant idea strikes. Chilli con carne! Except for the carne. There is no meat available for regular mortals in Mongar. I remember that somewhere I have a recipe for a very tasty chilli without meat. I turn to Rinzin Tshockey.

  “Can I buy some chillies?”

  He looks at me with a question mark across his forehead. “You are going to cook with chillies, madam?”