A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan: An Australian Family in the Land of the Thunder Dragon

by Bunty Avieson

  The guesthouse manager’s wife gives me a huge shock when, wanting more than just a polite cuddle, she plucks Kathryn from our bed and suddenly takes off with her, running out the door. I chase them down the corridor, Mrs Tibet cooing and Kathryn giggling. I finally catch up with them in her quarters, where she’s bouncing Kathryn on her knee for her husband. The three of them are having a lovely time.

  She speaks as much English as I speak Tibetan – none. But still we manage to come to an understanding. No stealing the ‘bebe’. Coo with her in our room, please. I know she understands because the next morning, while Mal is making breakfast, his side of the bed still warm, she climbs in, picks up Kathryn and resumes her cooing. In our room, in our bed, with me nearby. Now how could I have a problem with that?

  Life in Bir settles into a relaxed routine. Instead of waking to a ream of faxes from New Idea’s offices in New York and London keeping me up to date with the world of celebrity, we wake each morning to the sound of tractor trolleys on their way to the tea plantations. The first one thunders past at 6 am, on the dot. Mal and I have happily slept through earthquakes in Delhi, so a tractor trolley doesn’t cause us to stir, but it wakes Kathryn. And the sound of her waking up penetrates my deepest sleep. She is by the bed either in the baby rocker that we carted here from home, or in Mal’s suitcase. I pull her into bed for a feed and we doze again, struggling not to wake up fully.

  It’s a battle we increasingly lose as the day unfurls noisily around us. The shopkeepers yank open the steel roller doors.

  The Indian women sing and call out to each other on their way to worksites. Big rattling buses bounce over the potholes, the drivers’ hand on the horn all the way. And finally the restaurant owner below walks to the gutter just under our window and starts his morning ablutions. It’s long, loud and guttural. The sound of India. A gobspit. It takes fully five minutes to complete. No-one can doze through that so we start the day.

  Mal makes toast and fresh tea, using leaves picked just up the valley, and adding two cardamom pods. He prepares it in our ‘kitchenette’ – that’s the upended box bearing our kettle, toaster and his fancy Italian coffee machine, brought with us to Bir from Delhi. We sterilise Kathryn’s dummies by holding the button down on the electric kettle.

  Mal serves me breakfast in bed with the previous day’s Indian Express, a regional newspaper. The paper is always entertaining. Last year it featured a photo of comedienne Libbi Gorr giving the middle-finger salute on the catwalk at Australian Fashion Week. What the local women made of that I have no idea.

  This year the big story is Laloo Yadav, an obese and controversial Indian politician, and his extraordinary excesses for the wedding of his daughter. Each day brings an ever more outrageous update. The Indians love a splashy wedding but they have never seen anything quite like this and the whole country is enthralled by his gall. In the days prior to the event a group of Laloo’s henchmen walk into a car salesroom and seize all the floorstock to help ferry their 1000 guests in style.

  So many lavish gifts are expected that two wedding ‘counters’ are set up and guests are issued receipts, and there is much speculation that it’s really a tax avoidance scheme.

  Three hundred police officers are commandeered, but not paid, to keep away gatecrashers. The icing on the cake is when Laloo takes the microphone from the band and orders the police not to steal the food, then starts barking at the ‘Bollywood’ stars and VIPs to stop dawdling up the red carpet.

  After my latest wedding update – and a quick scan of the Indian comic strips – I sweep the bedroom floor clean with a soft twig broom. Because of the short handle, there really is only one way to do it and that’s squatting. At first it nearly kills me, every muscle screaming out in pain as I maintain the squat and shuffle around the room. I remember with longing how easy it was to keep my Sydney floors clean. Two gay guys used to come in once a week and do them. They did a spot of ironing and other stuff too. Heaven. I wish they were here now. After a few weeks I find the squatting becomes less painful and I reckon I could crack walnuts between these thighs.

  Then, housework done, it’s time to start the day, so Kathryn and I join Mal across the corridor in our ‘office’, which has a view over the gold-painted rooftops of a monastery and out to Mal’s current project, a new labrang for Rinpoche. The old one (where we stayed on my first visit to Bir) is straining at the seams with monks and westerners visiting Bir on Siddhartha’s Intent business. The new labrang, set behind high bougainvillea-covered walls, will provide more accommodation as well as a series of other buildings, including a chapel and a library.

  The office is where Mal and I spend most of our time, working at our laptops while Kathryn plays beside me or sleeps in her rocker. She has discovered her feet and spends many hours happily trying to put them in her mouth. Mal has a desk against the window and a bed beside him to lay out the designs he is working on. I sit on a bed against another wall with my computer on a bamboo bedtray, my dictionary and thesaurus within easy reach. We have two fold-up chairs, a table for the Walkman and its little speakers, and a printer. It’s very comfortable, well equipped and because we are at the back of the building, mostly quiet. Being at treetop height, we’re often joined by Indian mynahs, which perch on the window ledge to stare at us.

  From this elevated position I can see the third-floor windows of a monastery building where I know people are doing three-year retreats. That’s three years voluntarily locked away from the world to practise meditation and be alone with their mind. It may also be three years without speaking a word. It sounds terrifying.

  Occasionally I glimpse a monk’s arm reaching out to tend pigeons that come and go from bird boxes attached to the side of the building. I often wonder what it must be like for the monks in there and how, when the time comes, they will re-emerge into the world. Bir may not be changing as fast as other parts of the globe but still, even modern life on this scale must come as a rude shock.

  The guesthouse where we are staying is full, the rest of the rooms being rented by visiting monks who are here for a debating competition at Dzongsar Institute. The other monks come down from the institute and all day and late into the evening they work away on old Singer sewing machines, stitching together an enormous marquee. When Kathryn gets a bit bored and wants some action I walk her up the corridor to say hello ... and to see for myself what’s going on. Having a baby is a wonderful foil for nosiness, particularly here where her pale skin and red hair make her such a novelty. Wherever we happen to wander I’m treated to life stories and all the local gossip.

  Twice a day Mal, Kathryn and I walk about a kilometre to join Rinpoche’s household of monks for meals at the old labrang. We use a short cut around the huge stone sheds with galvanised iron roofs that the Indians built for the Tibetans, where they weave rugs on huge looms, hold meetings about community issues and gather on special days for group prayers. Then we cut back onto the road, past homes and up the hill to the old Indian cobbler who sits in the dust outside the gates of Dzongsar Institute. He does a roaring trade repairing monks’ shoes. He has work all year, rotating between the four monasteries, staying at each one for a few days then moving on. He must have repaired and re-repaired almost every pair of shoes in Bir. For five rupees (twenty cents) he fixes my sandals.

  Unless the weather is really bad the Tibetans hang out on the road outside their homes, gossiping while their children play. What used to take us a few minutes takes ten times as long with Kathryn in a sling on Mal’s chest. People come out to see the glow-in-the-dark baby, rushing up with big smiles and greeting her with both hands held palm up, while making a clicking noise with their tongues.

  Everyone wants to hold her and every Tibetan baby has to be brought face to face with her. It’s fine with us. We think Kathryn is pretty special and here’s a whole village of like-minded people lining up to fuss over her.

  They say she looks like a porcelain doll, and I guess she does. But they worry I don’t dress her warmly e
nough. India is suffering a heatwave and even though we are in the mountains it is still hot. Some days the temperature skyrockets and we pass out in the middle of the day. Other days it is like Sydney in spring – warm but, unlike Delhi, easily bearable.

  Kathryn is wearing an all-in-one cotton babysuit with short sleeves, Mal and I are in T-shirts and so are the Tibetans, but their babies are dressed as if we are on the Tibetan steppes and snow is falling. The women can’t understand why we don’t dress her better or why she is on Mal’s chest not mine. I know what they are thinking: Poor Mal, that friendly man who designed those nice buildings for Rinpoche. Didn’t he get a dud wife?

  We get to the top of the hill and arrive at the labrang, discreetly tucked away behind Dzongsar Institute, Rinpoche’s monastery. He has another monastery in Bhutan and one at his original seat in Tibet. The Khyentse labrang, which Mal designed more than a decade ago, is surrounded by high mud-rendered white walls with vivid pink and red bougainvillea spilling over the top. It is a two-storey, L-shaped brick building that wraps around a courtyard, which is dotted with flowers in old pots and tin cans.

  A few monks live here, maintaining it all year round for Rinpoche, and people are always coming and going – Tibetans, Bhutanese, Australians, Americans, English and Canadians. They come to study, practise meditation or because they are working on one of the dizzying number of projects Rinpoche has on the go.

  The most extraordinary and ambitious project is his Peace Vase Program, which aims to place 6200 vases at strategic points around the world to restore peace, harmony and wellbeing. Each vase is a sacred container filled with medicines and precious substances. Rinpoche inherited the project from Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, one of the greatest Tibetan teachers of the twentieth century. Since 1991 more than 4000 vases have been buried in places as far apart as Antarctica, the remote mountains of northern Iraq, the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, Washington DC, the Colorado Desert, the Amazon rainforest, Jerusalem and the Caribbean. There are around 2000 vases, which Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche consecrated before he died, still in India ready for placement. They are earmarked for parts of the Middle East, Croatia, Russia and some war-torn African countries. Eventually vases will rest in places of spiritual significance to the native people of every country, in places of war or strife, and in ecologically degraded or endangered natural sites, as well as being buried in every country’s capital city, largest mountain range and river system.

  The vases are carried to some of the more remote locations by all sorts of people, some not connected to Rinpoche, but who hear about the project and volunteer to take a vase along with them.

  Rinpoche also heads Khyentse Foundation, an international organisation that raises money to fund his monasteries and the restoration of rare Buddhist texts in danger of being lost with the destruction of thousands of libraries in Tibet. And here in Bir another of Rinpoche’s organisations, Lotus Outreach, provides education, sponsorship and training to children of Tibetan refugees. It also operates in urban Indian slums, bringing education and a new way of life to the children.

  Then of course there are his retreat centres in Canada, Bhutan and Australia; his teaching schedule that keeps him criss-crossing the globe constantly; and his films. With so much going on and so many different people passing through, the conversation around the labrang table is always interesting.

  Lunch is laid out buffet style – rice, dhal, chillies and a couple of vegetable dishes, occasionally some boiled meat – and it’s always a jolly affair. Mal has known these monks for years and shares their passion for soccer. The World Cup is currently playing and if a match is on during mealtime, it becomes like a scene from The Cup, with table thumping, groaning and yelling as each goal is fought. If it’s between two hot contenders, the room can be crowded with extra monks from the institute ducking classes to watch.

  If there isn’t a game on, there’s always The Khyentse News to catch up on. Valerie Kennedy, a teacher from Byron Bay and long-time student of Rinpoche’s, is living here for a few months studying and practising meditation, as well as teaching English to some of the household monks and others from the institute. As part of Valerie’s classes, the monks handwrite in English a newspaper reporting on the goings-on in the household over the past twenty-four hours. It is hilarious as well as informative, often explaining for us who the new faces are around the table.

  The monks mostly come from huge extended families and they all love a baby. Kathryn is passed backwards and forwards across the table like a salt shaker. Each monk coos and makes faces, anything to get a smile. Two monks in particular have an amazing rapport with her.

  Ugyen Thrinley is a relative newcomer at Bir. He had a career in the public service of Bhutan but a few years ago decided he wanted to take robes, so he sought out Rinpoche and volunteered. He is in his early thirties with bulging biceps and, while I’m sure I’m not supposed to notice, is utterly gorgeous. He oversees the building projects when Mal is away and keeps in touch by telephone and email.

  Jamyang Zangpo is in his mid forties and walked here from Dzongsar in Tibet in the early ’90s. He arrived at the institute and the principal suggested he take robes. Despite having a wife and child back in Tibet, he agreed, and has been here ever since. He has the kindest face, with crinkly eyes that make it look like he’s laughing even when he’s not.

  The two of them are thoroughly besotted with Kathryn. Sometimes they come down to our office to go through building accounts with Mal, but if Kathryn is in the room and awake, Mal can forget about doing business. Some meetings happen with her asleep on Ugyen Thrinley’s knee. Mal has dubbed them the ‘Muncles’.

  The rest of the household is made up of a younger monk, Jampal, and Sonam Choepel, who has a wicked sense of humour. Known as the joker, he was brought up with Rinpoche. Their fathers fled Tibet together, settling in Bhutan, and they were two naughty little boys, constantly getting up to mischief. When Rinpoche was recognised at age seven as a tulku (a reincarnate lama), he was taken away to Sikkim to be raised in a monastery and they didn’t see each other for many years.

  During the next seven years Rinpoche lived a secluded life having private tuition in the Sikkimese King’s palace chapel at Gangtok, at one stage not going outside for two years. Meanwhile Sonam Choepel stayed in east Bhutan, became a monk and studied traditional arts. As an adult, Rinpoche sought out his old childhood friend and invited him to become a senior attendant.

  In the 1980s Sonam Choepel asked Rinpoche for a few weeks’ leave to go home to Bhutan to see his family. Rinpoche didn’t see him again for nine years. Sonam Choepel gave no explanation for where he had been or what he had been doing, reappearing one day as if that was perfectly normal. When pressed for an explanation he handed Rinpoche three beautifully decorated wooden masks and said he had been making them for him. That’s all he’s ever said on the subject. There are rumours of a wife and a child but no evidence either way. He doesn’t confirm or deny anything, just gives a cheeky grin.

  He’s also incredibly kind. When Mal and Kathryn appeared without me for lunch one day – while I was suffering the effects of the Bisleri bottle and didn’t have the energy to walk up the hill – he sent back messages of concern and a heatproof container filled with rice, dhal and vegetables.

  The household is trying out a new cook. Rooplal is a young Nepalese man who dresses like he just stepped from a Calvin Klein catalogue. His outfit looks strangely out of place in this setting. It’s hot and the monks are wearing just the bottom halves of their robes and singlets, while we westerners are beyond casual in sweaty T-shirts and sandals. But Rooplal is resplendent in polo-neck sweater, navy blazer and leather slip-ons. He is as fastidious about his kitchen as he is about his dress. Everything is clean and orderly. He hovers anxiously as we help ourselves to the food – nothing Nepalese or Indian, but Bhutanese-style fried vegetables, rice and the ever-present chillies.

  He has a wife and family back in Nepal and, at A$150 a month, this is a good job. He looks
pleased when everyone at the table agrees that the food is sensational, even better than the previous cook, who was a monk and highly popular. To be rated better than him is big indeed.

  Rooplal saves all the kitchen scraps for the labrang dog, an Alsatian called Simba. She and her puppies live in a kennel in the courtyard under a huge weeping willow. Also in the courtyard is a small glass-walled lamphouse with hundreds of butter lamps, which are constantly burning. The lamphouse is tended by Tsering Wangpo, a stooped man with a heavily lined face who must be in his eighties or nineties. He keeps to himself, taking his meals alone. He was a Tibetan freedom fighter, and killed his fair share of Chinese soldiers. When the Dalai Lama asked the fighters to put down their weapons, telling them that the Tibetan way was peace, Tsering Wangpo was so filled with remorse he found his way to Bir and dedicated the rest of his life to making offerings to Buddha. He rises every morning at 3 o’clock to tend the butter lamps and sweep out the lamp-house.

  He also sweeps the courtyard and the walkway outside the front gate. He is so diligent and thorough that not a blade of grass or seed escapes his broom, which leaves just huge patches of dry dirt or, when it rains, mud. The monks would be happy to let some grass grow, but they are even happier to let Tsering Wangpo do his thing and wouldn’t dream of interfering.

  One day on our way home after lunch we stop at the huge wrought-iron entry gates of Dzongsar Institute. Inside, hundreds of monks are seated under the enormous marquee, beautifully decorated with hand-painted dragons and auspicious symbols. The monks are doing prayers together before tonight’s debating competition. It’s an awesome sight.

  Seated in two huge blocks facing each other, they wave their hands in unison as they perform elegant mudras (kind of a hand ballet) and chant. It is a wonderfully deep, rich sound that swells and rises, bouncing off the walls of the institute and resonating around the huge quadrangle. Kathryn, awake and alert in the sling on Mal’s chest, starts waving her arms and legs with excitement.