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

by Bunty Avieson

  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.

  Fry with tomato, garlic and ginger in pan or pot. Add a little

  bit of cornflour. Add black pepper.

  Serve with ara or a luscious Taltarni merlot.

  Karma Yangki’s riverweed soup

  Soak weed in water for 1 hour. Be vigorous to ensure all the

  sand is washed away.

  Boil water. Add minced garlic and chopped tomato. Boil for

  10 minutes.

  Add weed. Boil for another 10 minutes.

  Just before serving add cheese. (Karma Yangki recommends

  old cheese but says any cheese will do.)

  14

  A Very Special Lady

  Mal suggests that instead of catching a plane to Delhi, we should leave Bhutan by road, and on the way to Delhi, drop in on a very special lady who lives in the Indian state of Sikkim, next door to Bhutan. We could take Kathryn to receive her blessing. It’s an odd idea but intriguing. He mentions it about two weeks before we are due to go and leaves it there, just a possibility bubbling away in the background.

  ‘Dropping in’ anywhere in this part of the world is crazy enough, given the lousy roads, but expecting this most amazing woman to be home and available to see the three of us makes it one of his more impractical suggestions, I think.

  Khandro Tsering Chodron is the widow of one of the greatest Tibetan masters of our times. Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo was the non-sectarian saint, scholar and principal of the renowned Dzongsar Monastery in Tibet. He himself had 113 masters and held the transmissions of all lineages of Tibetan Buddhism, which the Bhutanese refer to as Vajrayana Buddhism.

  Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche, Mal’s ‘boss’, was recognised as his reincarnation at the age of seven and taken to live at the royal chapel in Sikkim, where Khandro lives. While Khandro spent her days downstairs (and still does), living a simple and devoted life of prayer, Rinpoche was schooled upstairs by his specially chosen teachers, not venturing outside until he left.

  Khandro is an extraordinarily accomplished practitioner who has the respect of all in the Buddhist world. Lamas travel to Sikkim to spend time with her in her simple private room, which is dominated by a shrine to her husband, photos and an urn with some of his ashes. Her innate modesty and shyness prevent her from teaching, although she is eminently qualified to do so. As the widow of his previous incarnation, she holds a very special place for Rinpoche.

  Mal has met her a few times over the years and in March 2001 I was fortunate enough to receive her blessing as part of a group of twenty taken to see her by Sogyal Rinpoche, author of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying (which had been my entrée into Buddhism). It was shortly after that visit that Kathryn was conceived, which had seemed wonderfully auspicious.

  A week before Kathryn’s birth one of Rinpoche’s students emailed us out of the blue to tell of a vivid dream she’d had of a sweet little girl dressed in white sitting with Khandro beneath the shrine to her late husband. Then Mal had walked in, which is how she knew the little girl was his daughter.

  Taking Kathryn to meet Khandro and receive her blessing is a lovely, if wildly impractical, idea.

  Getting out of Thimphu at all turns out to be hard work.

  Mal is manically trying to pay the last of the Bhutanese accounts and oversee Thimphu’s largest garage sale. The production company is selling off everything, from the deep freezers to the teaspoons. A shop has been rented in the centre of town to stack it all in, floor to ceiling. Pots, pans, electrical equipment, more than a hundred mattresses, bedside lamps, wool used in the weaving scenes, eight walkie-talkies, carpet, blankets and more. Looking slightly incongruous amongst it all are two large, stainless-steel stove-top espresso makers, purchased from David Jones in Sydney and brought to Bhutan in the hand luggage of Mal’s co-producer, Raymond Steiner. An Australian living in Delhi brought thirty kilos of the best coffee he could buy and what the crew haven’t consumed also is for sale.

  The first day of the sale is for the people who worked on the film, and the next two are for the rest of Thimphu. When the doors open, the mass of people who have been waiting pour through with unbridled glee and the same look of intensity on their faces as the bargain hunters at David Jones on Boxing Day.

  The prices have been set by unit manager Pema Wangchuk. He is renowned for his good money sense and knows the financial value of every item, so can mark it down enough for it to be a bargain to the buyer without ripping off the production company. His brief is just to ‘be fair’.

  The sale is a huge success and the production company recoups A$30 000.

  Even the buildings that were built to house the crew are sold. One is donated to the local school in Chendebji, near the Queen Mother’s yak ground where the crew lived for so many weeks. The school buys another at a reduced rate.

  The rest of the buildings are sold cheaply to Trongsa Dzong, the most impressive dzong in the kingdom, said to be situated so high that the clouds float beneath it. It is the ancestral home of the royal family and considered to be one of the finest examples of Bhutan’s distinctive architecture. Built in the 1600s, it is about to undergo a massive restoration and Prayer Flag Pictures’ bamboo, wood and plastic huts will house the workers on site. They will also use the temporary underground plastic water-pipe system and electrical wiring from the camp.

  The lighting and electrical equipment is sold to the Bhutanese Broadcasting Service.

  At the end of the sell-off, all that is left is 18 585 metres of super 16mm film (about twenty-eight hours’ worth) ready to be edited into a 108-minute movie. And Thimphu residents – arms full of second-hand homewares – have their own slice of Bhutanese film history to take home.

  After the garage sale Mal and Phuntsho Wangmo are in such a state getting the locals paid, the foreigners and their equipment on planes, and all the other loose ends tied up, that our departure date changes almost by the hour. The boom operator, a fun girl from Sydney called Nicole Lazaroff, is trying to arrange to travel by road with us and, because Mal is so flat out, it is only through her that I hear the updates: we’re leaving Wednesday ... no Saturday ... could be Sunday . . . or even Monday.

  It makes no difference to me or Kathryn when we leave, which says something about how much of the relaxed Bhutanese ways I have absorbed. I think if I stayed here any longer I would probably throw away my watch altogether. The change is not lost on the family.

  The sisters say we brought them an Australian baby but we are taking home a Bhutanese one. I realise how odd they found my preoccupation with putting Kathryn to bed at 7.30 every night, whether she liked it or not. Routine, I told them. They didn’t get it then and they don’t get it now. Nor does Kathryn. Nowadays she goes to bed either when we do or when she wants to. Somewhere along the way, without even realising it, I threw away the book.

  Finally, one happy afternoon by the bed, while Karma Yangki is rearranging furniture and planning some major changes to her boudoir, Kathryn crawls. It is a deliriously happy moment, witnessed by most of the household.

  For weeks she has been tipping forward onto her hands, into a semi-crouch, just unable to get her left leg into position. Everyone has been down on all fours showing her how, cheering her on and willing that left leg over. Three-year-old Madonna has been doing her bit by reverting to crawling in front of Kathryn.

  Today, 10 December 2002, at 3.10 pm Bhutanese time, something inside her little brain clicks and, with extraordinary ease, she suddenly tips over and crawls the length of the mat. There are whoops of delight and Mal comes running in, wondering what all the noise is about. She does it again then sits on her bottom, grinning up at us all, wearing a look of complete satisfaction. I email the world with the news.

  The effect this milestone has on Kathryn is remarkable. For days she beams and giggles, like she’s been given
the biggest boost of confidence. But being so in control now, she chooses not to repeat it for a few days. She doesn’t have to. We all agree she is the cleverest baby in Thimphu.

  Nicole gives up on us ever leaving Bhutan and makes her own arrangements. ‘See you in Sydney,’ she says as she waves goodbye.

  She is the last of the foreign crew to go and I settle in again, no idea whether we will be driving, flying out or spending Christmas here and sending Kathryn to school down the road.

  Suddenly there is a lull, and a window of opportunity opens up. Mal can leave, keeping in touch by email and phone. Everything starts to fall into place.

  Rinpoche thinks it is a wonderful idea for us to visit Khandro Tsering Chodron and makes his car and driver available for the trip. Karma Loday, a cousin and frequent overnight guest of the Taba family, will drive us in the very modern and comfortable Toyota HiLux, which has air-conditioning and great suspension. He is a good driver, used to Bhutan’s perilously steep and narrow roads as well as India’s bumpier ones. Phuntsho Wangmo and Tenzin Wangdi need to be in Phuntsoling, so we can stay overnight with them to break up the trip.

  Wesel Wangmo would like to come, to help out with Kathryn. In what seems surprising ease, everyone is able and ready to leave tomorrow. Mal phones a man in Gangtok who looks after Khandro, to see if she is home and taking visitors. He says she hasn’t been well and he doesn’t know whether she can see us. He will ask but won’t know until we arrive.

  For our final night Karma Yangki organises a special farewell dinner in the formal lounge room with all the family.

  Mal and I agonise over what we can give them to thank them for their hospitality and many kindnesses. Short of leaving Kathryn with them, I can’t think of anything they could possibly want.

  We spend the afternoon at the biggest shop in Thimphu looking at thangkas, the traditional Bhutanese wall hangings of Buddhist deities. I wouldn’t know a good one if I fell over it, and Mal is no better. We don’t want to give something inferior

  – that would be so insulting. But how would we know? The family are obviously much more expert on things Bhutanese than we could ever be. We settle on two thangkas that the saleswoman assures us are the very best quality, and a pair of silver earrings for Wesel Wangmo as a gift from Kathryn.

  In Thimphu’s toy shop we find two Bhutanese Barbies, with long dark hair, dressed in kiras. We know they are Bhutanese because there is a large sticker that says so, obliterating the words ‘Indian Barbie’. Some enterprising person buys these in India, makes up little kiras, and creates Bhutanese Barbies. We buy one each for Renee and Madonna.

  As guests, I expected the gift-giving to be our job, but in Bhutan everybody gives. In the past week, cast and crew, some of whom I had barely spoken to, arrived at Taba with presents

  – cute clothes for Kathryn, a bag for me, a purse, a wooden bowl and a wall hanging.

  Our Taba family present me with a stunning lavender and blue kira that has been made by Karma Yangki’s personal weaver. It is in three pieces and they explain how it should be sewn together when I get home. They also have one for Kathryn with matching belt, wonju and toego. I recognise the bright orange stripes on the belt: Karma Yangki’s mother had been weaving it on the loom in the front yard earlier in the week.

  From Mani Dorji we receive a thangka that shows an elephant with a monkey on his back, a rabbit on the monkey’s back, and a peacock on top. It is known as ‘the four friends’ and demonstrates working together in harmony. Everything is beautifully wrapped in the handmade paper that Bhutan is renowned for, and we open all the presents with great delight.

  We hand across our presents and are anxious whether we’ve got it right but no-one opens our gifts, putting them aside with a thank you and a smile. I wonder if I have been gauche, ripping into my gifts like it was Christmas. The family is so understated.

  They also give us a bundle of clothes for Kathryn – jumpers and pants that the girls no longer wear.

  The next morning the whole family is up before dawn and stand around groggy with sleep in the driveway, ready to wish us a safe trip. There’s a brief hug from each of them. No prolonged, tearful farewells here. That would imply we’d never see each other again, and may even encourage that karma. So instead, it is brief and happy, as though we are all bound to be together soon. I’m not so good at the understated and have tears in my eyes as we head off on the eight-hour drive to Phuntsoling.

  Phuntsoling, being on the edge of the Indian plains, is much warmer and drier than the high-altitude Thimphu.

  While it is on the Bhutanese side of the Indian border, Phuntsoling is an exciting blend of the two countries. An enormous archway separates the two neighbours, and while foreigners must register, Bhutanese and Indian nationals pass freely. There are as many saris and western clothes on the streets as there are ghos and kiras.

  It is lively, with an energetic buzz, and all that comes with it – lots of traffic, pollution and crime. It has none of the charm or simplicity of life in Thimphu.

  It’s a constant juggle for Phuntsho Wangmo and Tenzin Wangdi. Their life – family, shop and Renee’s school – may be in Thimphu. But their home and the hub of the business is here in Phuntsoling.

  Their home is large, comfortable and deliciously cool. They bought two adjoining apartments then knocked out a wall to create one home that seems to be a maze of rooms, winding around each other. It’s a far cry from the two rooms above the shop in Thimphu.

  The Phuntsoling household contains two maids and a little boy, Tshering Dorji, who turns out to be the son of the Bhutanese maid from Karma Yangki’s house in Thimphu. This little boy is the result of her long and noisy labour.

  The maid’s pregnancy was a mystery. She wouldn’t reveal who the father was and showed little interest in the boy once he was born. So, in typical Bhutanese style, the family was happy to take him in and raise him.

  Tshering Dorji is a bright and cheeky little boy, who keeps Tenzin company when Phuntsho Wangmo and Renee are in Thimphu. The maids at Phuntsoling care for him when Tenzin is not around. He adores Renee when she comes to stay and the family plan that when he is old enough he will go off to school, or maybe to the monastery.

  Phuntsho Wangmo is houseproud and pleased to bring out the modern crockery and dishes she has bought in Delhi. Wesel Wangmo whisks Kathryn away for some playtime and the two live-in maids serve a sumptuous feast.

  I assume Wesel Wangmo eats. She appears to be a healthy young woman. It’s just that I have never seen her actually do it. Whenever food appears, she takes off with Kathryn. It makes no difference how many times I ask her to come and eat with us. She always says she has already eaten, which I’m sure can’t be the case. It’s like Karma Yangki always beating me to the back seat – part of their endless attempts to make life more comfortable for everybody else. Quietly, graciously and without fuss or any expectation of thanks.

  The day’s driving completed, Karma Loday is gone as soon as we arrive. He is a good-looking, healthy young lad and obviously has other things on his mind. Places to go, people to meet, that sort of thing. He comes in long after we’ve all gone to bed.

  The next morning we are up early and by the time I emerge from the bathroom, Wesel Wangmo has prepared and packaged hot puréed spinach and pumpkin for Kathryn to eat along the way.

  We drive the three hours to Siliguri to get our visas for Sikkim. The contrast from beautiful, clean, gentle, orderly Bhutan is deafening – a cacophany of colour and movement that is any thriving Indian city. We wait in the car while Mal attends to the paperwork. The government building is teeming with people and they crowd up to the car windows, some begging, some pointing and others leering or just staring. The heat is oppressive. It is with a huge sigh of relief that we are on our way again.

  It is a spectacularly beautiful journey, through the lush green rice paddies of West Bengal, then up winding forest roads that hug the cliffs. Monkeys congregate by the many bends in the roads, just where the cars hav
e to slow down. If you slow down too much, they leap on the bonnet, cheeky and hungry.

  Sikkim used to be a country of its own, another Buddhist Himalayan Shangri-la, but has since been annexed by India.

  The drive is long and hot. Kathryn sleeps, then is passed around the car, from me to Wesel Wangmo, to sitting up the front on Mal’s knee watching everything go by and helping change gears. Karma Loday doesn’t mind. He is a capable and relaxed driver, reciting his prayers to himself under his breath as he negotiates the sharp bends.

  We arrive at Gangtok, the hilly capital of Sikkim, and check into our hotel. Mal rings his contact, Jiga. It’s good news. Khandro Tsering Chodron is home, and in good health, and we are invited for tea tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, Jiga would like us to be his guests for dinner.

  Jiga is a tall handsome khampa, the name for the rugged men from Kham in eastern Tibet. He has high cheekbones, a ponytail and a strong presence about him. He has a wonderfully deep voice but speaks calmly and quietly.

  Just after dark, he picks us up from our hotel and whisks us through back streets to his large first-floor apartment above a garage. Over dinner he talks of the forthcoming elections of the Tibetan government-in-exile. It faces many challenges, including the politicking going on among the various people standing for election. Karma Loday and Mal know the history and join in the discussion.

  Part-way through the meal the lights go out. Suddenly and without warning, we are plunged into total darkness. It doesn’t stop anyone for a second. The talk continues without so much as a moment’s hesitation. After a few minutes of sitting and talking in total darkness, with everybody acting as if nothing has changed and this is perfectly normal, a boy emerges out of the blackness holding a gas lamp. Jiga takes it from him, still talking, and the discussion continues by gaslight.

  It’s a very funny scene.