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

by Bunty Avieson

  So I turn to Karma Yangki, fountain of all maternal wisdom. She has told me about the local deity where all the new mothers take their babies. It is the Bhutanese solution for babies who won’t sleep. She took her daughter Madonna there and I have witnessed the extraordinary way that child falls asleep. She drops on the spot and, whether it’s in her mother’s arms or face down on a cold hard floor, she is down for the count.

  So after breakfast, Karma Yangki, plus two sisters, two children, Kathryn and myself, pile into the little Maruti (like a small Daihatsu) and head into town to buy offerings to take to the temple. I would leave them my American Express card if I thought it would help – actually I’d happily hand over Mal in exchange for a good night’s sleep. Karma Yangki chuckles at the idea.

  On our way to the temple we stop at a general store at one end of the main street. Walking through the streets of Thimphu is like entering the twilight zone. By law the Bhutanese must wear their national dress or they can be stopped by the police and fined. For the women it’s the kira, a piece of woven fabric that covers the body down to the floor and is held together with a gold brooch at each shoulder. For the men it’s a gho, which is like a brightly coloured knee-length men’s dressing gown with starched white cuffs about twenty centimetres long. The men tie a belt around their waist and bunch up the top half to create a pouch for carrying money, food, even a cup or bowl. Often they stand around with one hand tucked inside, Napoleon-style, managing to look both masculine and dignified. They team the dress with long socks, mostly argyle knit, and leather shoes or sandals. Sometimes they have a slightly distracted air about them, muttering prayers under their breath as they walk.

  Thimphu must surely be the world’s smallest capital city and the only one without traffic lights. Lights were installed several years ago but the locals considered them unfriendly so got rid of them and reinstated the policeman in an ornate open six-sided gazebo in the middle of the biggest intersection. Wearing white gloves and a blue uniform, he uses a series of elegant and exaggerated hand movements to keep the cars flowing smoothly. The streets are hand-swept and immaculate.

  We stop outside a general store where, at Karma Yangki’s instruction, I buy a huge brick of butter, three packets of sweet biscuits and the best incense they have. For this the shopkeeper takes me into the back room where the shelves are stocked with row upon row of different types of incense. There must be thirty varieties. I ask Wesel Wangmo for help. She casts an expert eye over it all, has a bit of a chat to the shopkeeper, who is helpful and resplendent in his vivid orange-check gho. After much thoughtful discussion and inspection of various incenses, they choose a bundle simply wrapped in handmade paper.

  ‘This is good. It’s Bhutanese,’ Wesel declares, which I assume means it is superior to Indian.

  Just as I’m about to pay, Karma Yangki remembers beer. Black label, she says. Strong. A litre. All together it costs forty-five ngultrim, about A$2.

  We pile back into the little Maruti and drive slowly up the valley road to a ridge high above Thimphu. Changangkha Lhakhang is an old fortress-like temple built in the twelfth century. Every baby born in Thimphu Hospital is brought here to be blessed by the local deity, for some reason a male. Another deity resides in another temple on the opposite ridge. That’s where you take babies born over that way, Karma Yangki explains.

  Looking down onto the city roofs and across the surrounding valley, ringed by snow-covered peaks, the view is breathtaking. Literally. At this altitude, more than 2320 metres above sea level, breathing often can be difficult.

  We have gone as far as we can by car and there are hundreds of steep steps to the ancient temple. This is not for the fainthearted, sleep-deprived or bodily exhausted. Wesel Wangmo takes Kathryn effortlessly while I puff and pant my way to the top. As we climb, mothers with babies tied to their backs pass us coming down. I nod knowingly at them all. No sleep? Me too. Isn’t it the pits?

  We make our way through an elaborate archway, over beaten silver steps, past a stooped old lady who is walking slowly along a line of prayer wheels, spinning each one as she passes, sending prayers and blessings out into the world. Gathered in the courtyard are more old women in colourful kiras rapidly counting mantras on their prayer beads, and catching up on the gossip.

  Behind wrought-iron grills is a dimly lit chapel with painted walls and a dramatic eleven-head statue of Chenrezig, a particular form of Buddha. On its left is a statue of the local deity, our reason for being here.

  A kindly faced young monk suddenly appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and Karma Yangki explains my problem while Kathryn coos and waves her arms with delight. There is something about this dark, musty place that appeals to my baby. The monk takes my offerings and pours the beer into a huge molten candle in front of the statue and lights the bunch of incense, all of it at once, sweeping it through the air sending the smoke in all directions as he mutters and chants in a deep, guttural voice. It’s rhythmic and hypnotic. He calls us over and, at Karma Yangki’s instruction, I wipe money across Kathryn’s head and palms, and give it to the monk. He taps her on the head with a sacred relic wrapped in silk, then pours special water into my palm. I drink it and wipe the rest over Kathryn’s head. He smiles and we are done.

  We retrace the hundreds of steps down to the car and then it’s back to the family’s office headquarters for pizza. Pizza? The sisters laugh at the look on my face, particularly when after twenty minutes, two large square pizza boxes arrive at the office.

  Just when I think I am starting to get a handle on Bhutan, whenever I think I’ve got it figured, something comes along to make me realise I understand nothing. This country is a bewildering paradox all its own.

  Bhutanese culture has developed mostly independently of outside influences. It has a population of less than a million and yet shares borders with two of the most densely populated countries on earth, China and India.

  In 1996 the King decreed that in line with the people’s Buddhist philosophy, Gross National Happiness would be more important than Gross National Product. ‘Most socioeconomic indicators are an attempt at measuring means; they do not measure ends,’ he said.

  The Bhutanese believe that it is essential that development benefits the economic, social, emotional, spiritual and cultural needs of the people. As they cautiously move towards a democracy, every step is evaluated to ensure that it leads both directly and indirectly to happiness, not just more development.

  One result is that while the rest of the world argues about it, forest cover in Bhutan is increasing rather than decreasing. It is by royal decree that sixty per cent of the land stays as forest cover at all times. Every Bhutanese citizen is allowed to cut down one tree each year but must replace it by replanting two trees. Managing their growing prosperity and democratisation is a constant topic of discussion in the ‘office’, where we enjoy our takeaway pizzas.

  This little network of rooms tucked behind two shops is where it all happens. Mani Dorji runs the family businesses from here. It also doubles as the production office for Rinpoche’s film company, Prayer Flag Pictures, and everywhere are boxes marked Travellers & Magicians containing stray film equipment and props. An endless stream of visitors drop by for business or a chat. The telephone rings constantly. Phuntsho Wangmo and her four-year-old daughter Renee mostly live in two sparsely furnished rooms above the office, accessible by a steep ladder, while her husband Tenzin Wangdi lives mostly in the border town of Phuntsoling.

  The live-in maid brings us sweet tea to go with our pizzas. It is a feast. While we lick melted cheese and fried onion off our fingers, an uncle drops by and immediately the discussion turns to the soaring property prices in Thimphu. I feel right at home. This could be any office in Australia. Clearly the obsession with the price of real estate is universal.

  The sisters shake their heads and marvel at how big and cosmpolitan Thimphu is becoming. Demand for homes far outstrips supply, and real estate in some places has quadrupled in value over the past few
years.

  Taba, where my hosts Karma Yangki and Mani Dorji live, is a new middle-class suburb on the outskirts of town, along the Wang Chhu River. Phuntsho Wangmo and her husband have bought land nearby and plan to build a home there in a few years. Or that was their plan until they discovered that the government had moved it. The land they thought they’d bought was nicely positioned in the verdant valley. The land they actually have been given has shifted up the hill. American town planners advised on the subdivision and recommended creating a green space. So the government took back from the buyers thirty per cent of the land to create parks, which meant moving the plots around. Phuntsho Wangmo is happy about green space but would prefer that each landowner agree to provide gardens on their own property, and is writing to the powers that be.

  The conversation moves on to personal income tax, which, just last year, the Bhutanese were asked to pay for the first time. Most of the rural population earns less than the tax threshold of 100 000 ngultrim (about A$4000) and so are exempt.

  It seems typically Bhutanese that the way the government introduced it was just to ask nicely for everyone who earns an income to register. Presumably they have, though it’s too soon to know for sure. I gather from the conversation around me that no-one begrudges it. The way they see it, a big city like Thimphu needs the sort of infrastructure and services only national taxes could provide.

  It is only recently that Thimphu started a daily garbage collection. Small, modern, clean and shiny compacter trucks, donated by Japan, tour the city and suburbs each morning. Sounding like Mr Whippy vans, they play music (the Bhutanese equivalent of ‘Greensleeves’) as they cruise the streets. The women run out and toss their boxes and scraps into the back. Plastic bags are a rarity because of the threat they pose to the environment and the Bhutanese seldom use them.

  Chooing, an energetic young woman in her twenties who works on the film as talent co-ordinator, told me how she and her friends spend their spare time collecting garbage from the outlying areas that the trucks don’t yet service. They drive around in their own cars, piling the rubbish into the boot. Such is the spirit of generosity that permeates this delightful country.

  After lunch Kathryn and I leave the sisters and their uncle to catch up on Thimphu news and we take a taxi back to the family home at Taba. The maid spots us coming down the driveway and immediately starts boiling milk for our sweetened tea. But before it is ready we’ve passed out together on the bed and both sleep solidly for three hours.

  Already the God of Nod is doing his stuff and I am feeling hopeful for the night ahead.

  We get off to a good start – Kathryn is asleep by 8 pm and still not a peep out of her by midnight when the maids unroll their mats on the floor in the downstairs living room, signalling that the household is turning in.

  We make it till 2.10 am and then Kathryn wakes, screaming so loudly I am sure Mal will hear her 150 kilometres away. I pop my head up every now and then to soothe her then slide back under my three doonas, two blankets and a pillow, eventually joining in her tears. I keep an ear out for a knock on the door, but it doesn’t come. Finally at 3.45 am she falls asleep. In the morning I am embarrassed, guilty, shy, coy, ashamed and horrified. What must the family think?

  Wesel Wangmo comes in, smiling and cheery as always, to take Kathryn for her breakfast. The two of them coo with delight at the sight of each other.

  ‘I hope we didn’t wake anyone last night,’ I venture. ‘Kathryn cried a little bit.’

  Wesel Wangmo smiles and shakes her head. No-one heard a thing. Or if they did they are way too kind to let me know.

  Tonight Kathryn does sleep. All night. Right through. And so do I. Nine glorious, uninterrupted hours. Perky? After that much sleep, I feel like a teenager again. And she pretty much sleeps through every night thereafter. The God of Nod has worked his magic. So it has taken forty-eight hours for the offerings to work. Pah! I’m a believer. No matter where you are, a good night’s sleep is the very best kind of miracle.

  6

  Oh Glorious Luminosity

  For the first few weeks I struggle to get my mouth around the sisters’ names. It’s easy enough for Mal, who has known the family for years, and they just roll off his tongue. After delivering us here, he stayed for the first few days, being needed in the Thimphu office. But then he was off up the yak trail, leaving me on my own with my hosts.

  I manage for a while to get by without actually uttering anyone’s name, but I realise I can’t continue to live under their roof this way.

  The Bhutanese have about fifty names which they mix and match. There is no logical reason as to why some people use two names and others only one, but all the sisters use two. Nor do their names bear any relation to their marital status, gender or family affiliations. So there is no point in trying to make any sense of them.

  When I find out the English translations of their names, I’m dumbfounded. Before, I was nervous about mispronouncing them, now I’m completely intimidated about speaking to these exalted people at all.

  The eldest sister is Karma Yangki, which means ‘Activity of Spaciousness’. The next sister is Phuntsho Wangmo, ‘Powerful Mother of Excellent Abundance’. Beautiful Karma Chokyi is ‘Activity of the Dharma’. And Wesel Wangmo, the kind, loving sister who looks after Kathryn most of the time, is ‘Powerful Mother of Luminosity’. According to the Australian Women’s Weekly Book of Names, Bunty means ‘pet lamb’. It just doesn’t compare.

  For a few days I try thinking of the women in these terms.

  Good morning Activity of Spaciousness, isn’t it a beautiful morning?

  Good afternoon Powerful Mother of Luminosity, how’s Kathryn’s nappy rash?

  It transforms every exchange into something verging on the divine.

  In Bhutan it is traditional for lamas to name babies, and Mal has been there when new parents have presented their baby to Rinpoche, seeking both his blessing and a name. Usually Rinpoche looks around his attendants and selects a hybrid of their names. On one occasion he looked around, spotted Mal and told the new parents ‘Mal Watson’. According to people who were there at the time, the parents were unable to hide their horror. Seeing their distress, Rinpoche relented and gave them something more Bhutanese.

  But Rinpoche broke with tradition when he named the Taba children. Karma Yangki’s three-year-old daughter is Madonna, after the singer, and Phuntsho Wangmo’s four-year-old daughter is called Renee, after one of his Canadian students.

  It starts to turn ever colder. Breakfast is icy, while lunch is glorious, with the sun pouring through the glass windows on the first floor. Dinner is laid out for me in the formal lounge room upstairs and it is cosy if I remember to draw the curtains and turn on the heaters early enough to warm the room.

  Eight couches, two- and three-seaters covered in matching beige embossed fabric, stand against the walls. In front of each is a traditional Bhutanese table – low and orange with carved, brightly painted dragons. The maids cover one with a row of beaten copper serving dishes. While I eat with whichever sister I have for company for the evening, the rest of the family and whoever is around eat downstairs. It is not usually a formal affair. Rather than sitting down together in one spot, bowls are lined along the kitchen bench and they help themselves when they feel like it, taking the food back to their own room, sitting around on the floor, or standing at the kitchen bench.

  The food is fresh, varied and always good. The maids prepare the meals under Karma Yangki’s instructions, though she is just as likely to be working alongside them, elbow deep in momo dough or peeling potatoes.

  Today is Friday, the first day of the weekend market when the food brought in from the villages is at its freshest and most expensive. Karma Yangki is always there early, arguing with the stall-holders, poking and prodding all their vegetables. The little table in front of me groans with the weight of all the dishes. Tonight is an even bigger feast than usual. Red rice (a Bhutanese speciality, but gaining popularity in health food sho
ps around the world), deep-fried eggs (first hardboiled, shelled, then dipped in batter – sensational), riverweed soup, boiled meat, a couple of vegetable dishes and a plate of cucumber slices (which have been popping up at every meal since I mentioned how big and juicy I thought they were).

  The two maids, who don’t speak English, add to the table a pile of plates and a tray of glasses with bottled water. I realise I must be expecting more than just one sister. After a few minutes, all the sisters join me. This really is a treat. Mani Dorji is working late, bidding for a large printing contract while Phuntsho Wangmo’s husband Tenzin Wangdi (business partner and brother of Mani Dorji) is in Switzerland receiving an international award recognising their excellence in business. So tonight it’s just us girls. We leave our shoes at the door – my flat ones and their impossibly high wedges. Bhutanese women are petite and love the extra height that high heels give them.

  While the lounge room is cosy, the bare floorboards are cold and I sit on a couch with my feet tucked under me, but Karma Yangki and Phuntsho Wangmo take up their favoured positions cross-legged on the floor. Madonna and Renee come in and out, listen to us talk, get bored, tease each other, run out, listen outside my bedroom door in case Kathryn is awake and ready to play, then give up and come back in. Finally exhausted, they fall asleep half on the bare floor and half on their mothers’ laps.

  The two younger sisters sit on couches. They sometimes contribute to the conversation but in deference to their older sisters, mainly they sit back and listen.

  Bhutanese women generally have ribald senses of humour and are not the least bit prudish. The whole country, it seems, shares an obsession with penises. Larger-than-life wooden phalluses hang from house eaves in every village. Some of them are ornately carved and so huge that they require four men to lift them into place. They also appear beautifully painted on the outside of homes, proudly displayed and openly admired.