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

by Bunty Avieson

  The fashion schools we find all charge high fees of several thousand Australian dollars. She shakes her head. She couldn’t possibly ask her family for that sort of money.

  I send an SOS to a friend who works at fashion magazine marie claire in Sydney, telling her of Karma Chokyi’s plight. She emails back that a parcel of magazines is on its way.

  One afternoon after school finishes, Karma Chokyi takes me on a tour and we peer through the window of her classroom. It looks like a lovely place to spend the day. Apart from the beautiful Bhutanese-style architecture of the buildings and the extraordinary view the students must have each day of the valley and the mountains, the walls are covered in homilies about learning and caring for each other.

  They don’t just learn basic literacy and languages here. Standard subjects in the Bhutanese curriculum include agriculture, environment, health, hygiene, population and ‘moral science’. The government provides textbooks free to every student, most of them printed on the Taba family’s press at Phuntsoling.

  Conservation and the environment are also taken very seriously and students study it from primary school right through to college. The World Wildlife Fund has helped with an environmental studies program at Sherubtse College in eastern Bhutan and conducts environmental workshops and training programs on campus.

  After Karma Chokyi and Karma Yogini head off to school, the house moves into a new rhythm as the maids set about their weekly chores. There are floors to wash – by hand, on their knees with a bucket and a rag – chillies to dry, wool to sort, pumpkin seeds to dry in the sun and always washing to do.

  When I first arrived Karma Yangki told me to leave my dirty washing outside my door for the maids to collect. This seemed way too much to ask. They were already doing so much for me with my meals and looking after Kathryn. The least I could do was my own washing. But they were determined to give me the full guest treatment, as I was to discover.

  After a few days I noticed some of my clothes lying out on the roof in the sun. Someone (the maids, I assume) had taken what I’d been wearing the previous day and removed it from my suitcase to wash. After this happened a few times I relented and left some of my dirty washing outside my door. Everyone was much happier.

  The Bhutanese use their roofs for drying all sorts of things. The sun at this altitude is stronger, with less atmosphere to penetrate. Despite the cold, if the sun is out then clothes, jumpers, even the doonas, can be washed and dried in one day on the reflective tin roof.

  One of the most distinctive sights throughout the country is fresh, plump, bright red chillies. They are drying on the roofs, hanging from eaves or sitting in huge piles ready to be stored. They are everywhere and the Bhutanese eat them with everything. One of their most popular dishes, emmadatshi, is just chilli and a bit of cheese, cooked together and eaten at almost every meal.

  The maids have different jobs each day of the week so while I work at the dining table, various activities go on around me, below or outside in the concrete front yard. Today I am distracted by Kathryn’s squeals of delight coming from outside.

  Standing close to the window I see her on a rug below, being entertained by Madonna while Wesel Wangmo looks on. The maids are washing the two kittens in a bucket of soapy water. They laugh at how comical the cats look, all wet and forlorn. A couple of stray dogs (an epidemic all across Bhutan) hover at the top of the driveway. They barked all night, keeping many in the household awake. The Bhutanese maid has no time for them and throws a rock every so often, which scares them away, for a little while.

  Karma Yangki pops up the stairs and apologises that lunch today will be late and simple. It arrives in four copper containers, lined up on the table just for me. Cabbage and potato garnished with chervil; carrot and pumpkin soup; fish stew and red rice; followed by sliced apple and orange. There is bottled mineral water plus a flask of hot water. Simple? I am embarrassed anew – they completely spoil me with their boundless hospitality. I am certain Karma Yangki would stop apologising if she could see what passes for lunch at my place – a sandwich made from whatever is in the fridge.

  Kathryn has her meals downstairs but whenever Wesel Wangmo thinks she needs breastfeeding or a sleep, she brings her back to me. It’s lovely to have her so close that I can hear her and just wander down to say hello when I miss her, which usually happens at various points throughout the day.

  The first morning Kathryn spent downstairs, three-yearold Madonna came up asking for a baby T-shirt, which I gave her. She reappeared a few minutes later stamping her foot, her little face creased with frustration. ‘Baby T-shirt, baby T-shirt,’ she kept demanding. It took a few minutes before I realised she was saying, ‘Baby did shit.’ It was a fresh nappy she was asking for. Once we sorted that out she became a useful go-between. Now Wesel Wangmo sends her upstairs asking for a ‘baby napkin’ and I send her back armed with a supply.

  Sometimes as I work I can hear a little girl crying. It comes from the house behind us. The sisters tell me that shortly after the girl was born, her mother left for America, where she has a job as a nanny. It was meant to be for a short time but after three years she still hasn’t returned. The little girl is being raised by her father but as he is at work during the day, her grandmother keeps an eye on her while she weaves at her loom. The little girl is lonely and frustrated at being cooped up all day. Often Renee will go down and bring her back here to play.

  One weekend we rug up and all go for a walk – Kathryn, Wesel Wangmo, Karma Chokyi, Madonna and I. Taba is on the outskirts of Thimphu and within a few minutes the houses come to an end. The countryside is wild and unspoiled, and although the trekking in Bhutan is among the best in the world, it is not really suited to an afternoon stroll, so we walk along the road.

  Kathryn is in her high-tech stroller, which converts into a backpack. The way she likes to sit in it is stretched out like a starfish. She loves it and waves her arms and legs while screaming ‘ya ya ya!’ as loudly as she can. It looks pretty comical and she used to draw a lot of stares in Sydney. In Bhutan they are positively agog, and cars slow down as people do a double take.

  The feeling is mutual – I am mesmerised by the traffic that passes me on the road. A man walks towards Thimphu wearing a gho, knee-high socks and carrying an impossibly heavy load of logs on his back. I stare at him staring at Kathryn. Another man in a dirty green gho and bare feet pulls a reluctant horse behind him. An army truck full of singing children overtakes us. They are returning to school after a day of dancing practice at the Changlimathang Stadium, where they will be performing for the King in a few days.

  We cross the bridge in front of the Queen Mother’s palace, nod to the guard, who stares at Kathryn like she’s from another planet, and climb down beside the bridge to toss rocks into the water. The river, which starts high in the mountains, is arctic green, beautifully clear and frigid. It is autumn and around us the trees are turning various coppery shades.

  We walk slowly back to Taba, just as the junior school finishes its day. Soon we are surrounded by young children in their uniforms. A few doors from home we come upon a crowd of schoolchildren staring into the front garden of a Taba neighbour. We join them. Two little blonde girls, aged about four and seven, are playing with dolls. They are an incongrous sight. The eldest enjoys the scrutiny and plays up to the crowd, arranging the doll on a window ledge. Her sister is shyer, sitting with her back to the crowd and her head down.

  An American family lives here, Wesel Wangmo tells me. The father has some sort of job in agriculture. There are two daughters and an older son. Wesel Wangmo goes on to say, without a trace of self-consciousness or embarrassment, that when Karma Yangki heard there was a son in the family she phoned to ask him if he wanted a date with Wesel. Karma Yangki was surprised by the voice on the telephone and asked how old he was. He said fourteen. She told him that was too young. He became indignant and said he didn’t think fourteen was too young at all and that he would love to go on a date. Wesel Wangmo and Karma Choky
i have no problem with Karma Yangki’s behaviour. It’s the boy they laugh at. I try to imagine myself being as good humoured if my older sister had phoned around trying to set me up on dates.

  When we get back to the house, the maids have tea ready. Kathryn and I have a little sleep then, just as she wakes, Wesel Wangmo appears to take her off downstairs. She has the uncanny ability to sense when Kathryn is awake, which is quite unnerving. I know I am alone upstairs – the floorboards creak whenever anyone walks anywhere – and yet after a few little gurgles from Kathryn, Wesel Wangmo is up the stairs and standing in the doorway.

  I start to miss Kathryn so wander downstairs, following the sound of her cooing. I find almost the whole family piled into Karma Yangki’s bedroom, as is so often the case. The TV is on and the Martin Scorsese film Kundun is playing on Indian cable. Karma Yangki is ironing. Kathryn is sitting in the middle of the bed playing with the delicious fried corn flakes that the Bhutanese eat as a snack. She has up-ended the bow and is happily spreading the flakes across the bedspread.

  No-one seems particularly concerned. Renee is asleep on a pillow. Wesel Wangmo and Karma Chokyi are sitting on the floor by a vertical electric heater watching the movie. They make room for me on the mat and I slide on in.

  Madonna is potty training and comes in wearing her mother’s knickers, which hang off her little three-year-old hips. As far as she is concerned, they look the same and feel the same as her new underpants, so she can’t understand why they keep falling down whenever she takes a step. Everyone howls with laughter.

  Phuntsho Wangmo rings to say she will leave Renee here at Taba for the night and collect her in the morning. It has been a long day chasing film rushes, changing flights for different members of the foreign crew and dealing with the rest of the daily minutiae that is her job as production secretary. Renee bursts into tears, so Karma Yangki throws her arms around her and Madonna stands by stroking her leg.

  But Renee is inconsolable. She wants her mum. Karma Yangki calls back her sister and Phuntsho Wangmo reassures Renee she will be here soon.

  Kundun finishes and Karma Chokyi changes the channel to a Hindi soapie and turns down the volume. No-one pays any attention but they leave it on because it is not long until the Bhutanese Broadcasting Service begins transmission at 7pm.

  Phuntsho arrives and Renee throws herself into her arms. They will both stay the night – in the double bed with Karma Yangki and Madonna. They often stay when Tenzin and Mani Dorji are at the family presses in Phuntsoling.

  At 7pm, Wesel Wangmo switches the channel over, turns the volume up, and all conversation ceases. The BBS is about to begin. For a moment the screen is blank, then it bursts to life with opening shots of the handsome King surrounded by his adoring subjects. We see footage of the King out and about, attending to his regal duties. Then it’s a few words from some friendly sponsors.

  First a tyre shop. ‘Cars, tractors, trucks. Come here for the best tyres in Thimphu,’ someone promises in English. It is done with slides, like Australian TV in the ’60s.

  Then there’s an advertisement for a clothing shop that sells, among other things, polar fleece jumpers, pants and jackets. I’ve been to that shop and it’s packed wall to wall with cartons of clothing to sort through. But what it lacks in display it makes up for in price – about one-tenth of what the mountaineering shops charge in Australia and America. Most of that clothing is made in Bangladesh or China. The manufacturers send any excess over the border here to Bhutan and it’s outrageously cheap.

  The next commercial is far more sophisticated. It shows a man running into a shop in Thimphu and stealing a TV from a row of half-a-dozen on a counter. A ‘policeman’ gives chase, catches him and orders him to put his hands on his head and do squats, which he does. (This is obviously a peculiarly Bhutanese form of punishment. The only thing hurt is your pride. Most undignified – I’m with Karma Chokyi.) An English voiceover delivers the punchline: you don’t have to steal at this shop to get a bargain on Sony televisions.

  This style of advertising is new here and the BBS has just started offering to help businesses make their own advertisements. As yet only a few have been brave enough to try.

  Finally, it’s time for the news. A man and a woman, all feline good looks and high cheekbones, read from an autocue, first in Dzongkha then in English. It is a mixture of international, regional and local news. I am riveted. It is like another window is thrown open on this curious country, providing a fascinating glimpse into what is going on.

  First up is the robust, pink-cheeked face of Bhutan’s Minister for Health and Education, Sangay Ngedup. For the past two weeks, wearing a gho and a backpack, this jolly Cabinet minister has travelled the length and breadth of the country to reach people in the most remote corners and urge them to exercise. Surely it could only happen in Bhutan.

  He covered all 560 kilometres on foot using what they laughingly call their ‘passports’ – sturdy, muscular calves. The terrain is so mountainous and rugged that without a healthy set of those, no Bhutanese will get very far.

  Next is a story on the inaugural Mountain Women of the World conference held in Thimphu. As part of the 2002 Year of the Mountain celebration, 250 women came from thirty-five countries including Scotland, Switzerland, Kyrzstan, Peru, France and Nepal to talk mountain business. There are fabulous shots of hundreds of women in various exotic traditional dress, from the ponchos of the American Appalachian women to what looks like a sheep draped around another woman’s shoulders. (Peru perhaps? Uzbekistan?) They all grin happily together for the camera. It appears to be a fun conference, but how the women from Italy managed to communicate with their sisters from Tibet is anyone’s guess.

  The conference brought together mountain women, media, entrepreneurs, politicians and the interestingly named ‘heroines’. (I’m not sure who they are but feel impressed all the same.) By all accounts it was a rip-roaring success and the Thimphu Declaration, which they all signed, is the result. It calls on the international community to recognise the strength and needs of mountain women everywhere.

  Next there are more shots of the royal family, and what they got up to today, plus an update on the gold-smuggling racket that is the talk of Thimphu. It is a scandal unlike anything Bhutan has ever experienced and the country is aghast at the extent of the corruption and how long it has been going on. They think it is more like a Hindi soapie than what they expect of their own people.

  Bhutan was the last country in the world to get TV. After centuries of shunning everything modern from beyond its borders, at his Silver Jubilee on 2 June 1999, the Dragon King stood before his people and announced that transmission would begin. ‘But not everything you will see will be good,’ he warned. ‘It is my sincere hope that the introduction of television will be beneficial to our people and country.’

  Overnight, cable television was made available, offering forty-six channels. Connection costs 1500 ngultrim (A$55) and a monthly subscription fee of 200 ngultrim (A$7.50). To counteract some of the outside influence, the King launched the national broadcaster, BBS.

  I have seen the sisters watch Oprah and various Hollywood movies but they aren’t that fussed about either. The enormous amount of Indian shows that are available on the cable channels seems to annoy them. The Bhutanese have a love–hate relationship with the country that wraps around two-thirds of their border.

  Indian visitors must register but don’t require that all-important, hard-to-get visa that other nationalities must have. Bhutanese can work in India, and there is a long tradition of Bhutanese studying in India and importing their teachers. A lot of business is done between the two countries. In fact Bhutan’s two major exports are cement and electricity to India.

  But the Bhutanese are fiercely protective of their own culture and wary of Indian influences. It’s hardly surprising they feel vulnerable: India has more than a billion people while Bhutan has just 700 000.

  TV has opened up a world they didn’t know existed – Oprah, Wor
ld Wrestling and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But in some ways the more they see, the more fiercely protective they feel about their own culture.

  Seeing the mess the rest of the world is in has reinforced the national trait of wanting to retain their own values and humble ways. At least that’s how it is in this Taba household and among most of the educated, middle-class people I meet in Thimphu.

  The best thing on TV as far as this family is concerned is the BBS news. And after watching it with them, I’d have to agree.

  11

  Twelve Eminent Men

  Mal is back, commandeering the telephone and the formal lounge room for film business. But just as he lays out all his files and papers over two tables and connects the printer to his laptop, we are booted out. Bollywood is moving in. Or at least the Bhutanese equivalent.

  A video crew is coming today, says Karma Chokyi over her shoulder, racing past while we eat breakfast. She is red-cheeked with excitement.

  The whole household is abuzz and it takes us most of the morning to piece together exactly what is going on. It turns out that a video crew drove past a few days ago and liked the look of the front verandah – it is just what they need for a romantic scene in their movie. They are a little disappointed that the entrance doesn’t have gates, which they feel are necessary for that extra touch of grandeur, but believe they can make do. They will film the Taba verandah and add footage of imposing gates from another home.

  They also like the idea of the formal lounge room. It reflects just the right sense of sophistication for the wealthy young Bhutanese woman in their story.