A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan

by Bunty Avieson

  Mal is head and shoulders taller than everyone else in the room so wherever I am, I can see his head bobbing around, his face creased with a permanent smile. The tablets are still working but I wonder how much sense he is making and expect him to fall over soon.

  The irrepressible lead of the movie, Tshewang Dendup, comes over and playfully drags the apple man to a huge TV screen in the corner, where a small group has gathered. The American stills photographer, Catherine Ryan, has put together a montage of behind-the-scenes photos. There are various shots of the cast and crew during takes, standing around the campfire and eating lunch. Some include the apple man. The group is delighted that he has joined them and watches for a reaction. Anything. Does he understand that’s him? Has he got it yet? He remains wonderfully enigmatic, smiling at everyone, his eyes constantly twinkling, then wanders off to the buffet to help himself to some more of the wonderful food.

  The apple man has no family. His wages for the film are a significant amount, more than he would earn in many years of selling apples, so Rinpoche has appointed a monk to act as an informal trustee. Karma Yangki hopes to sit next to the apple man when the finished film opens in Bhutan. She wants to see his face when he sees himself and all those days of silliness replayed up there on the big screen.

  I take Kathryn off for a fresh nappy, and when we return, the room has become very quiet. It’s speech time. I try to sneak back to the spot where I was sitting with the Taba girls when I recognise the voice. So does Kathryn. It’s Mal. He is standing in the centre of the room bouncing on the balls of his feet, telling anecdotes about filming. He is relaxed, clever and funny. In fact he’s an absolute hoot. If I didn’t know he was completely off his face, I’d say he was a man in perfect control of the situation. He ends with a laugh then introduces Rinpoche.

  There is a hush across the room and I can feel the crowd strain forward. Rinpoche is light, funny and clever, and says something personal about most of the crew members. There is much blushing and shuffling of feet.

  Then it’s over and Mal hands out certificates of appreciation signed by Rinpoche and himself to each of the 108 members of the cast and crew.

  Throughout the evening Kathryn is hugged and adored by almost everyone in the room. They love her smile and red hair, and she laps up all the attention. But it finally becomes too much as she’s hugged by one stranger too many and gets cranky. I retreat to a quiet spot in the hotel’s reading room to feed her but can’t unwrap myself enough to bare a bosom. When they dressed me in this kira I didn’t ask how to get out of it.

  A serious-looking grey-haired western man in his fifties is sitting in a leather winged armchair, reading The Indian Times. He glares at us when we arrive but his eyes start to sneakily check me out over the top of the paper as I struggle to get my top undone.

  He offers to help. I can tell from the direction of his gaze that he doesn’t mean with my crying baby. I am about to respond, not politely, when Phuntsho Wangmo appears, looking anxious. She’s been searching everywhere for us. With a flick of the wrist she unfastens the elaborate gold fasteners, pulls down the top of the kira and I am free at last. All with complete modesty. Kathryn is instantly happy. The western man returns to his paper.

  Back in the ballroom, people are starting to leave, either to go home or on to the nightclub. Some of the women change out of their kiras and into dancing gear – western-style tailored trousers, skirts and sequined tops, all made in India and sold in Thimphu. Wearing a belted kira is like being in a long corset. The fabric is so heavy and stiff that it holds everything in beautifully, but makes it impossible to wiggle those hips.

  Mal is so tired that he’s swaying on his feet, so we take Kathryn and head back to Taba, alone. The rest of the household isn’t likely to be home for hours.

  Mal is no help when it comes to getting out of my kira and I have to enlist the help of the two giggling maids. He asks me, in a slurred kind of voice, if it was a successful party and whether everybody enjoyed themselves. He remembers little of the night, and absolutely nothing of the speeches.

  We are about to turn in when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Rinpoche with a couple of the cast and crew members in tow. He has decided that he wants to pop into the disco to say hi to everybody but he wants to go in disguise, the more outrageous the better.

  While he’s highly traditional, he is also known as a maverick in the world of reincarnate lamas. It is part of his style of teaching, always challenging people’s paradigms, encouraging them to question their perceptions so that they will see more clearly what is real and what is their personal projection. The last place the Bhutanese would expect to see a leader of such eminent standing is in a nightclub. But why not? So that is exactly where he will go.

  After much fussing and hilarity, he finally leaves Taba wearing a long dark wig, heavy black eye make-up, my Revlon ‘red is red’ lipstick and black western clothes. It is a cross between Japanese samurai and opera diva. He couldn’t look less like a revered spiritual master.

  The sisters fill me in later on what happened. The disco had a long bar running along the length of a wall, a dance floor at one end of the room and two large spaces filled with groups of people drinking and yelling over the loud western rock music. There were more than 200 people crammed in there having the time of their lives. The place, according to Karma Chokyi, was jumping.

  When Rinpoche arrived a frisson of excitement shot through the crowd. ‘Rinpoche is here,’ people whispered in wonder. Shock and surprise gave way to delight.

  He only stayed about ten minutes because he doesn’t enjoy smoke-filled air or thumping loud music. Nor does he drink. The stories differ, though – some people remember him being there for hours.

  The wrap party and the film will be the talk of Thimphu for years, if not lifetimes, to come.

  13

  Leather Stew

  DECEMBER 2002

  With filming over and suitably celebrated, the round of dinners begins. I had thought my Taba family were the most generous, hospitable people I had ever met. I discover the whole of Bhutan is like that. And it isn’t just put on for foreigners, that’s how they treat each other. It seems that in rural areas, any stranger walking past any Bhutanese home would be offered food and tea.

  Mal, Kathryn and I are honoured guests at a different home every night. Often when we arrive, Kathryn is whisked off us by the women of the household. It would be impolite to refuse and I realise how far I have come from those early days when I chased the Tibetan woman along the corridor of the guesthouse in Bir.

  The first dinner is at the home of the police chief. He and his family live inside the heavily guarded police compound. The chief authorised four police constables to control traffic – and crowds – during the shoot and, in another peculiarly Bhutanese gesture, has asked Rinpoche to perform a puja to dispel the disharmony that exists between the police and the criminals.

  He invites Rinpoche and all the foreign crew to dine with his family. We make up a huge crowd of about twenty-five people sitting along the walls of two living rooms. His wife and daughters must have been at it for days, preparing the lavish buffet feast. Between courses we are entertained by a local folk band and fortified with lashings of Bhutan’s fabled drink ara.

  One of the daughters brings the ara around in a saucepan. It is served warm with strands of egg floating in it. She pours me a huge glass and gently warns that this drink can be an acquired taste. I’m yet to find a local brew anywhere in the world that I haven’t liked and, I must say, I take to this one immediately.

  Every Bhutanese household knows how to make ara. It is made from corn, rice or wheat, which is mixed with yeast and covered by warm blankets and plastic sheets. Folklore says that no person’s shadow must fall on it while it is fermenting.

  For special occasions such as this, ara is prepared by frying a couple of eggs in butter then adding the ara, allowing it to warm but not boil. Then it is served. The egg pools in the bottom of the glass and
has been soaking so long that by the time I get to it, it is particularly enjoyable, like a rich liqueur.

  I try to remember that I am here with Mal and Rinpoche as I happily accept my third and fourth glasses. I notice that not everyone accepts more ara and remind myself that I must keep myself tidy. I must, I must, I must . . . Then, just like that, it doesn’t seem so important any more. Everything is amusing. These lovely people whose language I don’t speak are my new best friends. And I really am the wittiest person in the world.

  I’m having such a fabulous time, that when Mal retrieves Kathryn and tries to encourage me to stand up, I don’t want to leave. As he physically pushes me out the door, I see the first assistant director, a likeable but rather earnest clean-cut American called Isaiah, organising the folk singers into a conga line through the police chief’s living room. (The next day, as hundreds of little drums pound inside my head, I take solace from the knowledge that at least I didn’t do that.)

  The following evening is dinner at the home of the King’s Secretary. This is high Bhutanese cuisine and it is magnificent. Row upon row of dishes that melt in my mouth – or burn it away. There are three types of rice: red, white and brown. We wash it all down with a luscious merlot, courtesy of Taltarni Wines in Australia. For some reason that I am unable to fathom, Taltarni wines are everywhere here, served in all the best homes in Thimphu. They are the perfect accompaniment to yak.

  The Secretary’s home is large and very plush. We eat Bhutanese style, seated on long couches placed against the walls, with a low table in front of us. On the walls are informal photographs of the King, showing the familiar relationship this family shares with the monarch. Tonight’s dinner is smaller, with Rinpoche and six or so people from the film crew and the same number from the Secretary’s family, though only our host actually eats with us. The six family members stand respectfully around the table in the dining room, helping us to help ourselves to the buffet.

  Here, like everywhere else we go, Kathryn is made welcome. When she isn’t being cuddled and adored by the Bhutanese women, she sits wedged between Mal and me, sucking on a bottle of milk, wide-eyed and happy.

  The round of dinners take us inside homes all across Thimphu

  – from the important, influential people who have helped behind the scenes to facilitate the making of the film, and who live on the hillside overlooking the city, to the humble homes of some of the crew. One of the jolliest evenings is spent in the modest home of wardrobe assistant Ugyen Tshomo, nicknamed ‘Roly Poly Aunt’ because of her big smile and even bigger heart.

  Roly Poly Aunt has invited dozens of people to her small home on the outskirts of the city, and it’s standing room only. We cram in like sardines. Making my way to the toilet involves being intimate with just about everyone along the way.

  The food is simple and hearty, and I juggle it on my lap in the kitchen while sitting next to our host’s sister, an amazing woman who I soon discover is a Royal Government minister. She is the Secretary to the Cabinet, one of the most influential jobs in the country. The Cabinet is currently drafting the country’s first constitution.

  Roly Poly Aunt’s sister is in her forties, very smart and educated, and keeps me enthralled as she explains the difficulties the country faces as it inches towards a democracy. No revolting peasants here, ousting the royal family and chopping off their heads. The King is voluntarily relinquishing power and currently in the process of handing it over to the National Assembly.

  For decades, the Dragon King, like his father before him, has been preparing the way for this bold move. The King has seen how other developing nations have moved into the modern age and doesn’t want to make the same mistakes. He believes it is time for his kingdom to emerge from its isolation, but is wary of inviting the problems of the world to take root in Bhutan. In many ways the government is in an enviable position. It can look all over the world at other political and legal systems, and taking just the best, create a hybrid all its own.

  Shane Simpson, Australia’s top media and arts lawyer, who is doing all the legal work on Travellers & Magicians, has perused Bhutan’s new Copyright Act. He is full of admiration for the way it has been written, describing it as ‘elegant’. Compared to what he is used to – complicated, tangled laws that have been modified over the years to close loopholes and suit new conditions – Bhutan’s Copyright Act is wonderfully clean.

  The constitution has the potential to be just as elegant.

  (Shane, who also did all the legal work on The Cup, tells me later that whenever he gets frustrated by a day of complicated legal problems, he opens his Travellers & Magicians file. The sight of the thumbprints and crosses on the Bhutanese contracts never fails to cheer him up.)

  Another dinner is inside the royal compound of the Queens’ palaces in the wealthy suburb of Motithang, high in the pine forest overlooking the city of Thimphu. Behind these same high walls, Mani Dorji’s sister and her husband, who work for the royal family, have their own cottage, and it is here that Karma Yangki and Mani Dorji’s three teenage daughters live.

  Among the other guests are two men I recognise from the magic-school scene. They are gomchen, experienced meditation practitioners who were never monks but managed to pursue a spiritual life while still remaining in the secular world. They spend most of their time in their twilight years in deep and profound meditation. These gomchen have long grey hair, both are barrel-chested and they have an incredible aura about them. They are fabulous – powerful, relaxed, enigmatic and twinkling in the same way that the Dalai Lama seems to twinkle. I don’t have to understand their language to know that they are having fun.

  Both work for the royal family, performing puja ceremonies on auspicious dates. We all sit on comfortable rug-covered bench seats around the walls of the room, while Kathryn plays on the floor in the middle.

  Our host is Gup Hopola, a smiling, gentle, humble man whose manner belies his important position. He pours us generous glasses of ara, with egg again, which I sip carefully, trying to avoid the floating bits. I’ve learned my lesson. Caution.

  The food is laid out buffet style in a corner of the room. Pots and pots of traditional Bhutanese dishes. One dish tastes of ginger and garlic and something that I think is meat but can’t be sure. It is so succulent and tender it melts in my mouth. I tell Gup Hopola how much I am enjoying it.

  ‘Leather,’ he replies.

  I’m touched by his self-deprecation and seek to reassure him. ‘No, no, really. It’s tender and lovely,’ I tell him.

  He shakes his head. ‘Leather,’ he says again.

  His wife is standing nearby, anxious that everything meets with the guests’ approval. I feel embarrassed that he could make such disparaging remarks about her cooking.

  ‘No really. I am enjoying it. It’s not like leather at all.’ I smile at her.

  ‘It’s leather,’ he says, this time more insistent.

  Mal leans over. ‘It’s leather,’ he whispers. He has that look on his face that tells me he is deadly serious.

  I get that feeling again, the one where I am in a play and everybody has the script but me. Karma Yangki comes to my rescue.

  ‘It’s yak hide,’ she says. ‘It has been boiled overnight to soften it, then stewed very slowly with ginger and garlic.’ I smile back. Of course. I’m eating leather. Yak hide. How silly of me, I should have realised.

  As everyone eats dinner, the conversation flows around us in Sharchop. Mal and I quietly toast the delicious leather, while Kathryn plays at our sock-covered feet.

  ‘Do you think our shoes are okay at the front door?’ I whisper. ‘Mine are soft Italian leather.’

  ‘Mmm. They would taste good with ginger and a touch of garlic,’ nods Mal.

  We agree that if times get really tough, we can always work our way through my shoe cupboard.

  The next day, in the midst of the chaos that is the Prayer Flag Pictures office, Karma Yangki and I talk cooking. She gives me her recipe for riverweed soup and
adds, in passing, how delicious orchids are to eat.

  Karma Yangki says she knows westerners like to look at the delicate flowers and keep them in vases, but in Bhutan they are popular in salads. She tells me about a Bhutanese man married to an American woman. The wife was horrified to come home one day and find her prized orchid served to her for dinner.

  And in case I ever try to recreate last night’s culinary delight, she gives me some tips for cooking leather. It sparks a lively discussion among the Bhutanese, half-a-dozen of whom are crowded into the small room juggling computers on their knees, making phone calls, sorting through accounts or, like Kathryn and I, just hanging out in this lively hub.

  ‘It’s best if you get the man at the meat market to shave the hair off the yak hide,’ advises Karma Yangki.

  Pema Wangchuk, who runs the Siddhartha’s Intent household in Delhi but has returned home to Bhutan to work as unit manager on the film, looks up from his laptop. ‘Yak hide? Cow is better. It’s sweeter than yak.’

  ‘Oh no, yak hide is much tastier than cow,’ Karma Yangki insists.

  Phuntsho Tobgey, assistant to the producers, weighs in on the discussion. ‘Cow.’

  Phuntsho Wangmo hangs up the telephone and adds her ten ngultrim: ‘Yak.’

  ‘Cow.’

  ‘Yak.’

  And so it goes on.

  Karma Yangki’s recipe for leather – yak or cow

  Scrape off any remaining hair with a knife.

  Soak in boiling water overnight, cleaning with water twice or

  more.

  Boil for 1 hour in pressure cooker.