I am being
driven to the airport in Delhi. It is
hard to believe that after two months I will be returning to life in the United
States. I have at least a few posts of
my vivid memories of life in the kingdom of Bhutan left in me, however.
Right now, I’m
zipping through early morning traffic.
From my very short stay here, Dehli seems to be a lot like midtown
Manhatten used to be 30 years ago:
dirty, crowded and polluted. The
constant haze is so thick that buildings more than two blocks away appear
ghostly grey. And with 18,000,000
people, Dehli is more crowded than NYC.
And instead of taxi’s there are the green and yellow 3 wheeled tuk tuks,
power and telephone lines tangled spaghetti like along sets of poles, and one
hospital, clinic, and dental office after another. There must either be a lot of sick people
here, a lot of doctors making lots of money or both. I’m on my way to the Indira Ghandi
International Airport. The one tourist
site I “saw”, despite the Taj Mahal, was the prime minister’s home. My driver Ravi pointed the tall fence out
from the road as we sped past it at midnight.
“That was the
home of the prime minister Indira Ghandi” he said.
“She was
assassinated,” I remembered.
“She was
killed by her body guards. In 1984.They
were Sikh… She said something against the Sikhs, and… he did it. There were two of them. It was 1984”
He then
went on to describe how her son was blown up by Muslim militants. A woman put a booby trapped garland of
flowers around his neck. “It was
detonated remotely” he said. I had that
gruesome picture in mind when we finally reached the entrance to the road of
the Shanti Home—my home for the night.
It was roadblocked after midnight. “For security” Ravi said.
After a
rough fretful night with four hours sleep (more on this later), I left for the
Indira Ghandi International Airport.
It’s my least favorite airport in the world. Doesn’t it bring bad karma to name your
airport after a prime minister who was assassinated by her own body
guards? Is that why there are soldiers
with guns checking my papers about a dozen times before I get to the gate –
always checking my passport and print copy of my e ticket and eyeing me
suspiciously several times before letting me through? (And why call them e tickets if they have to
be printed? Why not go back to paper
tickets?) Or the long rows of airlines
labeled A to Z in lines perpendicular to the entrance, without any identifying
information? With an information desk
manned by an unfriendly and uninterested person who mumbles a letter
unintelligibly when I ask where Druk Airlines (coming) or British Airlines
(going) is before getting back to her cell phone call?
Leaving
Bhutan, there are soldiers guarding the gate to the airport, and no one but
passengers are allowed in the terminal.
But the various security rules are easily bent. Both on this departure and the one last year,
when I went with my wife, I needed to get more cash to pay for gifts I bought. There were beautiful hand woven “silk on silk” scarves for $44 US, all profits going to
the Tarayama Foundation, started by the Queen Mother (3rd wife of
the 4th king). The Tarayama Foundation provides assistance to the poor of Bhutan,
especially women. Instead of the usual duty free junk sold at other airports, the airport in Paro has booths that sells handmade crafts in support of charities like this one. Though one is not
supposed to go back through security and immigration once you are checked in, I
was allowed to go back to get to the ATM.
I had already gotten Dr. Tashi’s husband, who
works for Druk Air, to call the station manager to allow me to bring aboard my
25 kg above Druk’s 20 kg limit without charge, since I had worked “diligently
on the service of the kingdom of Bhutan”, as his text I showed at check in
read. What followed was a dance with a
guard at the door to the terminal and my friend’s brother Ratu, who is a DJ for
a local radio station, and owner of a large (for Bhutan) grocery store (dry and
canned goods only, no produce. The
hundreds of grocery stores in Thimphu don’t mix them up.) Ratu’s brother drove me to the airport from
Thimphu, at 6 am, an hour each way. No
matter how much I protested, he did not
permit me to give him a tip or help pay for gas. “My brother would be very angry with me. He feels bad that he can not do more to
help.” This the attitude of most of the
friends I have made in Bhutan..
Then, coming
through security again, they found my pocket knife which had somehow made it
through the first time. I had forgotten
it in my camera bag.
“No problem,”
said the guard, with whom I had chatted the first time I went through. “I will
take care”. After filling out several
forms, and talking to several different people, he gave me a form to give to
the cabin crew on my arrival in Dehli, to retrieve my pocket knife from them.
Bhutan is so
close to and dependent on India in so many ways: politically, economically, culturally, that
in some ways it is a mountainous northern state of the 2 billion person nation
to the south. But as far as the
fundamental vibe of
these countries, from my limited experience, they seem very different.
Bhutan,
small, and isolated and impenetrable for years, has seen virtually no political
violence. (The exception was the
repression and expulsion of Nepali nationals in the late eighties and early
nineties – rooted in the fear of the “tragedy in Sikkim, and the invasion of Tibet. This remains a black spot in Bhutanese
history.)
Politicians,
by decree, travel in country without bodyguards or security. I described, in a previous post, how even the king travels alone. “K-4”, who abdicated
the throne to his son, is known for his political savvy: he invented the term
gross national happiness. But his dad,
K-3 was no slouch either. After seeing
Tibet invaded and subsumed by China, with the world barely blinking an eye, he
knew that Bhutan had to end its isolation.
He encouraged the population to learn English, with the help of
teachers, like Jamie Zeppa, who wrote “Beyond the Sky and the Earth.”
I’ve begun reading this fascinating
book during this flight home. I can’t
begin to compare my experience to the enormity of hers: she was here as a young woman, less than half
my age, 25 years ago, before there were roads, electricity, running water, never
mind television or cell phone service, to much of the country. She was posted in a remote part of eastern
Bhutan for two years; I was based in the capital city (after trekking up North)
for only a month. But I’m surprised by
the similarities:
Actually,
before I could get very far into the book, a teen aged girl several rows up
from me fainted in her seat. The flight
attendants rushed to see her. She
swooned in her seat, then complained of a headache. I rushed up there too.
“Bring her
up to a place you can lie her down,” I said and "get her feet up."
The girl
was now crying. Her dad, a big, calm and gentle guy, carried his daughter to the
space between our cabin and first class.
(“You always wanted to travel first class, didn’t you!” her dad joked, a
bit later.)
Before I
could do much though, the flight attendant insisted I come to the galley. She
and a colleague opened a big metal first aid kit, with about 5
compartments. I was interested in the
compartment with a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, but she needed to get
to the section with the indemnity form, which I needed to read. I was held harmless in case of legal action
stemming from my intervention, to the tune of $8.5 million. I came to the aide of an elderly woman on a
flight 20 years ago who was suffering from chest pain and shortness of
breath. That airline simply upgraded my
ticket on my return to first class.
That was before lawyers, insurance companies, “quality assurance”
officers, and electronic medical record manufacturers took over the practice of
medicine in the West.
“You’d be surprised
how many incidents we’ve had on board where no one wants to get involved,” the
flight attendant told me later.
“Everyone’s afraid to, these days.”
I was
surprised. “That’s just my instinct,” I
said. “When we become physicians, we
take an oath to help people” Certainly
that kind of medico legal worry would be ridiculous in Bhutan. And after helping care for critically ill children in septic
shock, respiratory failure, seizures, and encephalitis, caring for a healthy
English girl who had simple vasovagal syncope (faint) did not seem very
difficult.
By the
time I returned from the galley, she was awake and talking to her dad. She had
been having the start of a panic attack and was still hyperventilating. She had a headache. I took more of a history. She had suffered headaches since May, had a
normal brain MRI “just to make sure”, had been treated for sinusitis, for the
headaaches, but still had these
occipital headaches and neck pain, for which osteopathic manipulations had helped
somewhat. Occipital headaches and
neck pain in an anxious teen = tension headache.
I’m always surprised how often in the U.S.,
and Bhutan, and now, in the U.K., tension headaches are misdiagnosed as
sinusitis or allergies. Even though the
symproms are completely different.
Medical doctors are trained to give pills, not teach skills. And there are good pills for sinus infections
and allergies. There are no good pills
for recurrent tension headaches.
What is
good for headaches? Relaxation. Meditation. Hypnosis. So I established a little rapport by joking
with her and her dad about my time in Bhutan, saying “Nga ya ming Dr.
Dave.”“Che ga ming gatchemo?” (My name
is Dr. Dave. What’s your name?) and “Che
ga de ba yeuh” (How are you), telling her to say “Nga lejeun be yeuh”(I’m
fine). I talked with her about her interest in lacrosse. And about how my younger daughter used to faint when she was nervous about an exam the next day. Then I taught her diaphragmatic
breathing, as I’ve done hundreds and hundreds of times with young people: In to
the count of three, out to the count of 5 (Mississippi), through pursed lips,
whistling. Soon the color was returning to her face, and she was feeling
much better.
The blonde
female flight attendant came back, saying “Can I get you anything Doctor, any coffee or
tea,” she says in melodic lilt, “I’ve
got to come back in a minute and get your details.” She gave my elbow a double
squeeze, as she did the first time she checked in on me. She is attractive, about my age. Her name is Rita. She is Irish.
“My mother named me after Rita Hayward. That’s showing my age, isn’t it?”
It has been
a long time since I have seen by wife.
It has been a long time since I have been touched by a woman, except for
my $3 haircut, beard trimming and head, neck and shoulder massage at the Orchid
hair salon near Karma Coffee, and the serious non English speaking saleswoman
who sold me the gho, at a store filled with hundreds of rows of cotton, wool,
and silk of every color and pattern available.
The woman hugged her arms around me to get the pleats right before
whipping the belt around my waist and tying it so the folds of extra fabric
hung perfectly to form the kangaroo pouch in which Bhutanese men seem to be
able to carry anything from cell phones to wallets, from apples to pints of K5
liquor.
I went up a few
rows to check on “my patient” (though her official “care” was handed off to a
medical team, on the ground in London, evidently. I assume they don’t have much to do right
now). I talked with the family a
bit. They have two daughters like I do. Pretty girls, like mine. Chatting with this nice family from St.
Albans, UK made me realize how much I miss my daughters.
They thanked
me for helping out. “It was brilliant”
her mother said. Her parents and I plan to stay in touch via email.
I decided the next trip we take should be to the UK.
As in Jamie
Zeppa’s day, the ebb and flow of life in Bhutan, the way of seeing the world,
still revolves around Buddhist principles and practice: Prayer flags, stupas,
chortens, temples everywhere. People
walking around mumbling with prayer beads, and tashi go mangs (miniature
temples). The sounds of trumpets, and monks chanting. Monks are everywhere in their red and
occasionally saffron robes.
The day before
I left Bhutan, I went with two staff members from the Ability Developmental
group to observe the special ed class.
The grounds of this secondary school is the nicest place I’ve seen in Thimphu
--- and I’ve seen most of this city during my month here. Students plant trees and shrubs, and have
built a rock garden, in honor of the king’s inauguration. They have reused some of the plastic water
bottles seen everywhere by painting them and stringing them up as fencing. They have grown the first real lawn I have
seen in Thimphu. All garbage is picked
up. It was a loud and cheerful place
when I was there. Older students in their crisp uniforms were coming out to
play and gossip. Groups of girls were
going off campus, holding hands, to get bags of chips to eat.
There is a
tradition of service for students here.
The custom of preparing meals for teachers, and, in remote villages,
taking care of them (as they did for Ms. Zeppa, in her book) has changed,
according to my Bhutanese friends. But
they still come in on Saturdays and before school to tend gardens, clean up,
and present short presentations on community projects.
After that I
went to buy a gift for my wife at the National Textile Institute. The institute’s two buildings are probably
the most spacious, modern, and western of any in the country. By statute, the
exterior of these buildings have trefoil windows, painted designs of flowers
jewels, and wooden beams like all buildings in the country. But inside are clean hardwood floors,
and, unlike every other edifice I’ve e,xperienced (besides the new Royal Institute of
Health Sciences Building) this one has large windows to let in lots of sunlight. One building houses the museum of woven goods
and embroidery. The other building
houses design studios and a large workshop and classroom for young women
learning to weave in the traditional styles and designs.
According
to Michael Charamella., the weaving done in Bhutan may be the most intricate in the
world. The women use silk from India, which is
often raw, meaning the silk is taken from a cocoon which is already vacated so the silk worm is not killed, in keeping with Buddhist practice not to harm any sentiment beings. They often use native dyes. The weaver may take a
year to make some of the most intricate sheets of fabric that make up a kira.
Michael is typical of the fascinating
people I have met here. I met his
girlfriend Jessica first, while I was walking to the Golden Budda one afternoon
with my friend Ratu. She had just
arrived. Michael is 35, a tall blonde
handsome guy who dresses in a work shirt, khaki’s and down vest. He is from North Carolina. His mother is a
skilled weaver, which is how he learned about textiles. He was hired as the
contractor to build a third office building that will be the profit making part
of the complex. He learned all his
building skills after college, while earning a masters in teaching. He built
houses, learning carpentry, electrical, plumbing and design skills, then spent a year in South America teaching
English, then lived in India and trekked in Nepal before meeting the
billionaire who is funding almost the entire budget of the National Textile
Center. How has he done so much in his
young life?
“I just
keep moving,” he answered.
He
disagrees with the assessment, made mostly by the Bhutanese themselves, that
“we’re lazy; the Bhutanese have no work
ethic.” So important projects, like the
road work that cosumes 35% of the nation’s budget, is farmed out to Indians.
“I like to
hire young Bhutanese guys” he said, “’Specially from the East. They’re hard workers, man. They’re from the country and have moved to
the big city, so they want to prove themselves.
They want to learn. They soak up
skills, electricity, plumbing. But
they’re bad in math. In construction we
use math all the time. ‘Specially
geometry, angles and measurements”.
He is
here for two years. While he was giving
me a behind the seen tour of the institute, we ran into Jessica, who had
brought over a young Danish woman also doing skilled volunteer work. There is a whole network of young men and
women here whom I have met. There is the former HVO volunteer doing research on children with disabilities for UNICEF. And a young woman splitting
time between Cambodia and Bhutan preserving antiquities.
Or a woman I met while stuck at a road block descending into Punakha, playing soccer in the middle of the road with the son of her Bhutanese boyfriend: she is helping with the
finances and administration of the Youth Development Fund – began by the queen
to help with poor children and expanded by the beloved “Chilip Lama” Penchen,
who works with the growing cadre of tough street kids addicted to drugs in
Thimphu. Or people like the nurse anesthetist’s husband Lindsay, whois documenting
the forest cover of Bhutan through core sampling, sifting through lists trees
which might only have names in Scharshop, Nepali or any one of a dozen
languages besides English or Dzongkha.
I have gotten to know Rebekah and Lindsay well
in the last few weeks. They are here for
a year. They have an apartment two
floors above mine. They love the view.
Lindsay pointed out the house below.
“That’s where Yunan and her husband
(who live on the first floor with several kids and a cousin) grew up, he said.
That’s when Thimphu was mostly rice paddies.”
The three
story building has plaster walls which are crumbling and a roof in
disrepair. We have our share of problems
in our apartment: dark stairwells with dank smells, an Asian toilet that doesn’t
flush, an improvised rubber tube for a drainpipe that feeds onto (not into) a
drain under the sink that gets blocked and floods, “creepy crawlies” like the
fleas from the dogs who enjoy life with us:
I think I would do pretty well in the “How many flea bites do you have?”
competition Jamie Zeppa had with her teacher friends in Eastern Bhutan 25 years
ago.
But our apartment is modern and
luxurious compared to the building Lindsay pointed out. Even
here in “the big apple” of Bhutan, there is still sometimes little
separation between earth and building, between old and new, with one growing
organically from the other, like the fungus of the cordyceps growing improbably
from the body of a caterpillar.
Rebekah and
Lindsey are raising their three daughters here – one is their biological
daughter, two are adopted. They all love
playing outside with the international and Bhutanese kids that inhabit our
apartment complex, and the many dogs that roam free, inside and outside the
building, living high off the hog on leftovers and garbage, while women hang
meat and clothing out to dry, and a boy practices guitar on a balcony.
Their
family recently had a bonfire and party to celebrate Rebekah’s birthday. A good
number of this expat community were there.
It was a few days before Halloween.
They carved pumpkins. It was a friendly lively event filled with us kids
of all ages, from the U.S, India, Japan, and, of course, Bhutan. On Halloween,
Rebekah and the girls came trick or treating in costume.
I joked
that I had my costume, a gho that I had just taken off, after wearing it to
introduce the film “Fed Up” -- my
modest effort to save Bhutan from the scourge of obesity that has swept the
rest of the world. Dr. Tashi and I
discussed the film with the medical superintendent, who has his offices next to
the medical director, and a hospital supervisor. I’m not sure what any of them do. But the
superintendent has the bearings of a true Administrator: He is quiet, tall, with short greying hair, with a commanding and somewhat intimidating
presence.
He thought that the film was
important enough to issue an “order”
saying that “Dr. Dave has brought the American film Fed Up about the obesity
epidemic. Therefore all staff is
commanded and invited to come”.
It was my
last afternoon of my stay in Bhutan. I
spent a half hour trying to get that gho on.
One really needs three hands, at least.
When I arrived, the kindly resident, Dr. Jimba, said, “Dr. Dave, it
isn’t right. Let me help you.”
So there we were at the entrance to the
conference room above the OPD, 40 people waiting for me to start the DVD, my
gho unraveled, Dr. Jimba with his arms around me, helping me get those two
pleats right in the back and tying me back up, my kangaroo pouch folded
properly in front.
The film
was well received, even though Dr. Allen joked that I should have brought
popcorn. The neurosurgeon Dr. Tashi,
resplendent in the army uniform with medals that he likes to wear, thought that
this is “an important film”. I was
happy that along with the nursing students, a good number of the medical staff
had now seen it. Dr. Tashi offered to
take the DVD, copy it, and share it up with higher ups in the various
ministries. I felt satisfied that I was
making at least a small difference, on a number of levels, in this small but
unique and wonderful country.
Since Dr.
Tashi had left the ward early before finishing rounds on the ward, I joined her
and the intern Dr. Rintzen to help finish, during the last hours of my month in
Bhutan.
The
showing of the “Fed Up” fed my the growing ambiguity I’ve felt about
westernization or Americanization that many volunteers complain is polluting
the quaint traditional culture of Bhutan .
What Jaimie
wrote in her book: “When change does
come everyone has time to get used to it” is not true anymore.
As the 20
something nephew of Yunan, who lives with her family downstairs told me, “the
government only allowed television 10 years ago. Now we have wifi. We barely have time to adjust, before we have
to adjust again.”
But as
Jaimie also points out “I cannot say that development is bad and that people
should go on living the way they have always lived, losing four out of eight
children and dying at fifty.” The
lowering of the infant mortality rate in Bhutan is nothing short of remarkable. In 1984, the infant mortality rate was 103/1000. By 2013, the rate of infant death had
fallen to 31-42/1000 (the rates are uncertain because record keeping is
still not good). In 1984, the child
mortality rate under five was 160/1000. In 2013, the young child death rate
dropped to 36/1000.
Yes the
increasing consumption of soda and other western junk food is harmful. But volunteers like myself can bring
solutions, as are presented in this film, on how to maintain the good parts of
their traditional diet (lots of vegetables, fruit, rice – maybe a little less,
cheese, meat but small amounts) in the face of urbanization and western
development.
And though the Americanization of traditional Bhutanese culture is unfortunate, it is not unfortunate be that American exchange students are a constant presence at the
Royal Thimphu College. When I went there
to discuss “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” at each of four hostels (dormitories), Americans could share their perspectives to
help break taboos about discussing the largely hidden problem of sexual and
physical abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and the denial and lack of acceptance of of gays and bisexuals in this
traditional society.
It is
certainly not bad that a young energetic contractor from North Carolina can
bring the American ideas about modern building techniques, industrial design,
and efficiency here, with the goal of helping to maintain the traditional art
of Bhutanese weaving. He has already
discovered some bad leaking pipes rotting the outside stairs next to the large
plate glass windows with matching interior stairs in the museum, and is replacing
them.
Here is a story
that I found funny in retrospect:
Kauchilla, the always sweet and solicitous volunteer coordinator for HVO
at JDWNRH was our go-to person for problems with visa’s, work permits, travel
permits, and any problems we had with our HVO apartments.
Aschof and I
had plenty. For example: Two outlets burnt out, the
plug on a space heater melted, burning a finger, my Asian toilet did not flush, the
kitchen sink didn’t drain, our kerosene tank for our stove leaked, one of our
fluorescent lights burnt out, and the one in my bedroom was failing, creating
its own little headache inducing light show as it blinked on and off.
Kauchilla would say, “Oh yes sir, I’ll send the electrician
up today.”
The next day,
when I found the light was still broken, she would say, “Were you there at
three, sir?”
“No we were
still at the hospital”, I’d say.
The
conversation went on like this for several weeks. Nothing was fixed.
Kauchilla was out
sick, several times, though I saw her in between at the Ability center. She was one of the parents who came in for a
consult with me, for her son, who has autism.
“Will he get
better, sir?” was her question for me.
Finally,
three days before the end of the month, I went to her office a final time. I was with my friend and colleague Dr.
Tashi. I asked about the broken stuff in
the apartment again. Kauchilla said
something in Dzongkha to Dr. Tashi.
“She says
that she is not responsible for the apartment,” Dr. Tashi said.”only the visas
and work permits. You have to speak to
the hospital superintendent”
“Where is
he?” I asked.
Kauchilla pointed sheepishly to a man at the other end of the office.
I knew
better by now even to ask the obvious question: Why didn’t she tell me this a
month ago?! I would get a blank stare
and an Indian head bob.
It would
be helpful if the traditional way of always wanting to please others,
especially others in positions of authority, even if meant lying to them gave
way to the American style of doing things. “Hey,
you’re talking to the wrong gal. Your
man is over there!”
And it is
certainly not a bad thing that the presence of American psychiatrists and
psychotherapists, and Americans and Europeans in general, are introducing the
idea that is ok to talk about feelings.
The Buddhist principle that suffering is universal and striving for
material success is the source of that suffering is something that we in the
West would be wise to learn from. But when
suffering in silence “comcs out sideways” (to quote one of my mentors in
hypnosis, Dr. Dan Kohen) as debilitating somatic symptoms, leads to severe
depression, or suicide, it is important to learn other ways of dealing with
these feelings.
One of them
is using clinical hypnosis -- which the
Bhutanese health providers I have met have been very enthusiastic. Of course, one of the trends leading to
anxiety and depression in Bhutan is Westernization: urbanization, break ups of
families, and the loss of traditional culture. The problem is complex.
But the
traditional culture still thrives, as it did in Jamie Zeppa’s day. On my last day, I resolved to visit the
“naming temple” where parents bring their newborn infants to receive names from
the monks. As in Jamie’s day, infants
are given one, two, or three names at birth.
There is no family name, except “Wangchuck” (spelled with a “ck”) for
the royal family.
Most first
names – like Sonam, Kinley, Tshering, Namgay – can be given to boys or
girls. I have friends and colleagues who
are men or women with the same first names. The same is true for second, or
third names. Particular combinations, go
for boys, or girls. For example, my
friend, Namgay Dorje has a name only used for boys. Some of the combinations have beautiful
meanings like lotus flower.
Sometimes a
person may choose to use the initials of his names, like Dr. KP. His wife, Dr. Yoriko is from Japan but she
only uses her first name; she thinks her family name is too difficult to
pronounce. On the other hand, her
colleague and fellow neonatologist, Dr. Dowa, also from Japan, uses her last
name because they feel that her first name, “Yuri” is so close to “Yori” that
it would cause confusion in distinguishing them apart.
I was
running short of time, so I took a taxi from downtown. The taxi driver and his friend in the front
seat had no idea how to get there, but agreed to try to find it for 60
nultrum (1$).
I had spent the month walking everywhere. In Thimphu no one uses GPS, since there are no street addresses. Some of the major "lans" (streets) have names posted on faded scattered signs, but everyone simply uses landmarks to get around. Maps were fairly useless too. To get to our apartment, one headed up to "Swimming Pool Junction" then looked above the Jigu Dorchey bakery. Most downtown spots were found according to their relationship to the Clocktower Square or the Traffic Circle kiosk, home of the traffic cops with the dancing hands. It was refreshing to go back to the old fashioned system of asking directions (constantly) and using my sense of direction.
I knew I could get to the temple on my own two
feet, but directing the cab was something else: The sanctuary is located on the
steep slope facing downtown, on which the road
curve in erratic switch backs, some ending in dead ends or veering back down
towards town. But looking straight up
at towards the ridge above, I was able to locate it.
The temple is among the most ancient in
town. The part facing the hills is
falling down, and there are piles of rubble.
The central portion is surrounded by 108 prayer wheels that the
Bhutaneses spin, walking in a clockwise direction. Inside an entry way on the eastern side is a
big prayer drum, and a man in a a ragged gho who was eating snacks, and seemed to be
collecting money. There are always many
opportunites to give offerings of nutrum at the temples. The loud sounds of horns, flutes and chanting
emanated from the small temple.
I
entered. To my right, a half dozen monks
and two young boys in red robes played instruments and chanted. The men stared at me. When I made an offering of money, and looked
at the old man who was standing at the entrance to the inner sanctuary, he gave
me an Indian head shake, that was definitely more shake than nod.
I came out into the anteroom. Several parents were there, with their babies
on their backs. I introduced myself to
one young mother, saying that I was a baby doctor and interested in seeing how children received their
names. She said “Wait a minute” and went inside.
In a minute
she came out. “You can go inside”.
I entered with her. Some of the students were reading from sheet
music. The sound of the instruments and
chants was mesmerizing. I sat for several minutes, absorbing the beauty and solemnity of this place, where babies were given the name or names they would carry with them for life. I presented
another small offering of money. I went
to the entrance of the inner sanctum, but the young mother first said that the
monks “were busy” inside, then said “there you can not go”.
I assume she meant that that room, with the Buddhas, butter lamps, and offerings of
chips and fruit was for parents and babies only. But to paraphrase one of the favorite sayings in Bhutan, perhaps I will never know. Mystery was an ever present part of my life here.
I was able to get a splash of holy water
from one of the monks, and for extra measure, I got an additional blessing, the
kind so popular at the tsechu: a firm bop
on the head from the head monk who seemed to be in charge of the small
orchestra.
I figured I
could use all the blessings I could get for my departure, for my 24 hours in
Dehli, for my long trip home, and for my reentry to life back home.
As it was,
I could have used a few more blessings. I
foolishly decided to take the advice of my roommate, who was stationed with the
Indian army in Agra at one time, and Allan, who visited Agra 14 years ago with
his wife, and visit the Taj Mahal, though I only had an afternoon to travel
from Delhi and back. I was not used to
the chaos of Agra, trucks piled high with people, tuk tuks 3 abreast coming
straight at us. We had to hire a guide
to get us in past the thousands of Indians in the queue, still celebrating
Dewalli. There was rough frisking from guards, and pushing and shoving among the mobs
in the mausoleum. Many people were
illegally taking photo’s. The police
were frantically blowing whistles, but they could move no more than the rest of
us, so could catch no one.
I was ready
to fend off aggressive street vendors, and pick pockets, but I had grown soft
in Bhutan where sales people passive to a fault. I fell prey to the sales pitch of an Iranian shop owner. My guide
delivered me to him, asking if I wanted to see “how the Taj Mahal was
made”. He sold marble tables inlaid with
jewels. They were pretty but overpriced.
I bought one, then he convinced me to trade that table for a larger one. Driving home through heavy truck traffic late
that night, horns blaring constantly for four hours, I regretted my decision. I canceled the order by email when I got to
the hotel. My bad mood lasted
through most of the night, and I got little sleep. However
now, I can look back, think about my foolishness in following the advice
of those colleagues.
And as usual, I take heart in the small moments that are the valuable parts of any travel that give a little insight into the lives of real people. On the way back, the driver suggested we stop for supper at a little roadside restaurant lit by a red neon sign. Inside, young couples and families were enjoying 200 rupee trays of dal, vegetables, paneer, and chapati. I joined them. My driver did not, as it was a fast day for him. As I ate alone, I observed several booths around the room. One sold momo's, another pastries. Then there was the fish massage booth. There was a young guy with his bare feet dipped in a fish tank. Hundreds of little fish pecked away at his toes, feet and ankles. I asked him and his friends about it. Yes, the fish give a real massage. For only 150 rupees. For 20 minutes. Would I like one? If I had more time, I would have taken them up on it.
And I can
choose to remember the beauty of this monument to love, the palace milky white
as if dissolving into the dusk, the calm and the quiet as we walked back along
the garden to the east, the view through the trees, the eagles flying across
the dome and the minarets. Perhaps I
have been bathed in Buddhism for long enough this time to laugh at the
silliness of the mild discomfort I suffered for several hours, compared
to all he suffering and torment in the world, and even laugh about it. I am reminded of the boy with cerebral palsy,
who fell in front of me under the hospital gate as we walked to the nursing student variety show, who laughed about it
with his two friends. Laughed and
laughed.
“We are taught that if we suffer, we have to
accept it,” my friend, the physiotherapist Kinley Dorje said. “So we (often) laugh instead of cry”.
