Sunday, June 8, 2014

The Mad Woman Cured of Her Diseases


Class 4 beauties.
“MADAAMMM your voice is not the same!”

“Madam needs to go to a nose workshop!”

“Madam needs to just chop of her nose.”

-       - exclaimed three of my students excitedly when I opened my mouth in class last week.

I have come to the conclusion that the only place worse to be sick in than Bhutan is in the depths of the Himalayan jungle. Outside

I say this of course as a completely over-priviledged and selfish princess. However, there is truly no other time when I question my decision for moving across the world to what I sometimes refer to as, “the middle of nowhere,” than when I am sick.

I lay in bed on Saturday night as close as I could get to being completely immobile without actually being completely immobile. I stared at my concrete ceiling, huddled in my -10 sleeping bag, clad head to toe in long underwear, fleece and covered by a wool toque. I was picturing myself in a hot shower back home. After this I would slip into my pyjamas and huddle on the couch with my mommy as I sip tea and obnoxiously slurp homemade chicken soup. Then I would get under my huge duvet and retire for the night.

I continued to stare at my concrete ceiling propped up on two pillows to help my cold- a good mommy tip. I had three options that could potentially help my situation. I could get out of bed, fill up my water heater, wait half an hour until it boiled, and then wash and absorb the steam. I could remain in bed and attempt to sleep. Or I could satisfy my craving for soup by mixing up the following ingredients (the only ingredients) that sat in the cardboard box in my kitchen:

  •       rice
  •        potatoes
  •        onions
  •        tomatoes
  •       asparagus
  •       cabbage

Close friends from last year.

I went for option number two. I tossed and I turned. I listened to the moths pitter patter on the piles of marking I had on my desk. I listened to them pitter patter on the window behind my wool head. I felt them pitter patter on my forehead.

I lay wide awake for about an hour, desperate for sleep.

And then the horns started. The monks and Lamas upstairs, in preparation for their house warming party, which I thought would start the next day, began to play their horns. The noise drifted from the upstairs apartment right into my ears.

-----

There are approximately 25 foreign teachers in Bhutan as part of the Bhutan Canada Foundation, ranging from places as close to Bhutan as Singapore and Australia, to as far away as Canada and the United States. We begin the year forming deep friendships for two weeks in the capital and then we are dropped off one by one to our remote locations, hoping we see eachother ever again. Many of my friends are 20 hours away drive on rough roads. Our friendships are bounded by one major similarity- we are all experiencing Bhutan together for the first time. When things get rough, or really really good, we let each other know. We are all in cell phone range but I am one of few with internet access.

-----

The horns continued to blast. I texted an American teacher, to her response:

“Only once you’ve lived in Bhutan, can you find yourself in a situation that you want to yell at monks.”

The text I sent before actually said something about stabbing monks, but I feel including this is too inappropriate for my Buddhist friends who are reading this right now. I have never stabbed a monk or even thought these morbid things really but my sick, weak, and fatigued body was finding myself growing more and more frustrated that evening.

Have I seriously grown into being this selfish that I want to blame a monk for my current unhappiness?

“Just let the horns float into your ears and calm your mind. Calm your soul. Give you strength to last the night,” I said to myself.

Fuck that, Sarah.

I slipped under my two pillows and deep into my sleeping bag. I tried to get as far away from the horns as I could.

A loud knock awoke me at the door accompanied by “Misssssss saaaaaaarahhhhhh”

Ohhh myyyyy goodness they have heard my thoughts.

I opened the door to find my housemate. She explained that the monks would be coming through the house with fire, and throwing rocks, to scare away the demons. The ritual is known in Dzongkha as “Gatey” and is typically performed to cleanse a house, especially after someone has died or has been really sick. In this case, it was being done to ensure that no bad spirits remain in the house after this special occasion.

Was I the demon?

I lay in bed thinking to myself, “At an unknown time in the next hour, monks are going to run through my house with fire and throw rocks. This is the third time it has happened this year. Which means this activity has actually become semi-normal for me.”

I screamed from my bed, “Gyem Lham is it sacrilegious for me to shut my door and sleep through this puja?”

“What?!” cried my housemate.

“Can I lock my door so the monks don’t enter my room?”

Silence.

“I mean, I am looking forward to seeing the monks!” I said.

I got out of bed and joined my housemate and her boyfriend. Fortunately, the bells sounded outside my window and the monks came right in no less than 5 minutes later. They chanted their mantras, visited each room in our house, threw small stones in each corner. They hit me with rocks and said, “don’t mind miss,” carried their torch and headed out as a couple of my students giggled behind.

Approximately 30 seconds later I took my wonder drug, also known as Nyquil, and passed out.

At 5 am the bells sounded again. I cranked my aching neck to turn around behind me. Blue skies enveloped the mountainous landscape that I call my backyard.

I went back into sleep. At 7am a knock pounded on my bedroom door. My house owner kindly stormed right into my room, “breakfast misssssss!” he bellowed out.

For lack of better words, my body felt like total shit. I told my housemate that I would have to take today off. I would try to join in the festivities later but for now my aching body needed rest.

Best dressed award. 
Again, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Too sick to fall asleep or read a book I listened as village people crowded the cement outside my bedroom. They sat down on woven carpets and held out their mugs to receive tea and biscuits. Many faces I didn’t recognize. They must have hiked the two hours up the mountain from Tangsibji, the village below mine, to join in this celebration. Our house had been built two years before but the house-owners decided this weekend they would celebrate its construction. Our house was decorated in its finest for its big birthday. Colourful yellow, red, and blue flags hung from the roof. Colourful scarves draped down from the corners. I suddenly felt underdressed in comparison to my house-turned-temporary monastery.

An overwhelming sense of guilt suddenly came over me. This was not only an incredibly special celebration but also a deeply spiritual and religious celebration. I feared what people would say if I was not present. I decided to suck it up, throw on my kira, the national dress for women, and head upstairs.

Our house is made up of 6 apartments. People were crowded in every one, sitting on the floor, drinking tea, and eating handfuls of buscuits. I saw the teachers in my friend’s apartment and joined them.

“Sarah something is wrong with you,” said my friend bluntly. “What is going on. You look like mad woman.”

“Mad woman, eh?” I thought. I guess I could’ve at least tamed the fro sitting atop my head.

I sat down. Content to be here, but feeling my body slowly crumbling into the floor. Students, acting as servers for the day, hurried over to me with a mug followed by suja- traditional butter tea (exactly as the title sounds). This particular cup was very smooth and perfectly satisfied my first meal of the day. I opened my hands to receive gifts from the students- pieces of fruit, cucumber, sweets, doma, and a 5 ngultrum bill. All of these were a thank you and appreciation for coming.

Approximately 5 minutes later, overwhelmed by the people and activity, the mad woman was back in bed.

By Thursday of that week my principal politely told me that I looked “horrible” and sounded “not normal.” He recommended I visit the hospital. We have a basic health unit in our village, but for any thorough examinations you must hitch a ride 45 minutes to Trongsa town and visit the hospital. As this day was National Environmental Day, and you could therefore not drive, I informed my students that I would be missing their classes on the Friday.

“Madam I hope the hospital helps you get rid of all of your diseases. Good luck,” exclaimed my grade 6 student as I headed out the door.

I waited on the main highway above my house for a ride. I ran into a good friend Sonam. His wife had just left this year for New York City for a month and I continued to see the emotion in his face each time I asked how she was doing. Today I changed the subject to his new bicycle he had beside him. We caught up for some time until another woman joined us, hoping to give her datsi, fresh cheese from her cows, to Sonam and send them off to Thimphu on the bus.

A beat-up old van rattled towards us. I waved my hand and tried to look like the most charming mad woman. The van slowed down and the driver stuck out his head.

“Kuzoo Zangpola Sir! Trongsa?” I asked

“Yes. But maybe this car is no good for you. Very dirty. You want lift?” He replied.

“Yes please! Kadinchela,” I exclaimed.

I waved goodbye to Sonam and his friend and hopped in the back along with a younger woman and an older farmer in the front. Both smiled kindly. We drove for some time, before the driver said, “you don’t remember me?”

………

“Hahha, sir you do look familiar! But I am sorry. Are you from Tshangkha?” I said.

“Ahhh yes yes yes yes. Livestock sir. We meet on road often.”

Apparently.

“So no school today?” he asked.

“Oh we do have school. Very busy preparing for exams. I need to visit the hospital though.” I croaked.

“So we will go hospital first and then I have to go to Dzong,” He said.

“Ahh that’s very kind of you I said. But I can climb up to the hospital. I’ll be okay,”

“Ha! Not for you,” he chuckled. “My leg is not working! I am going to the hospital.”

“Haha aaaalways thinking about myself. Oh no! It’s never good when your leg is not working. Good idea to fix it,” I said.

We picked up one more passanger, a hazelnut farmer, before we left our region and headed around the steep mountain curves to Trongsa.

Yesterday a good friend spent the afternoon making
me Bhutanese dumplings (momos) to cheer me up!
Trongsa hospital, of all of the places I have experienced in my area, has the best view. It sits above the town overlooking the entire valley. If I was a bird, which I am not, it would be my ultimate playground.

After giving my name to the receptionist I bounced to “office number 2,” excited to be cured of all my “diseases.” I sat down outside the office until a familiar monk came up to me and we began chatting.

“I still remember that picture we took together. I come visit your house some time?” He said.

Who is this charming monk? Perhaps I do really have more diseases than I thought.

We continued to talk and he mentioned a good friend of mine, Jude, a Canadian professor at the college where he works. Yes! Jeez, I spent an entire holiday with this monk and his family! We had picnics outside his house, and indeed we did have a photoshoot.

I asked Drumsey about his family and his paintings. I told him that I was trying to put together a mural with my students and asked if he could offer some help. He was delighted and insisted we meet for tea to discuss further. Then he gave me a good tap on the back of my head, similar to what my father does, and skipped off in his draping red robes.

I walked into the office in my cardigan. The doctor checked me out and hurried me to get a blood test, fearing for tuberculosis.

I sat down in the chair, held out my arm waiting for a needle, thinking for 30s if it was hygienic. Zap! In went the needle as I turned to the nurse beside, googling “wiki how.”

How much confidence do I really have in these doctors?

Inside the x ray office, I threw on a gown and stood with my arms up as the technician pushed me against a metal plate.

“Just relax,” said the technician.

Just relax, I thought.

I waited outside the x-ray office at the hospital until the technician came out with an image of my lungs and said, "need light, go dry outside."

So, I stood outside with my lungs blowing in the wind until yet another elder patient came up to me with his lungs.
Told you the view was okay.

"I like your lungs,” I said with a thumbs up.

He flashed me a smile. I asked him if he thought my lungs looked alright, or if I was sick. He gave me the traditional bhutanese headtilt, which I translated to, "they look super healthy!"

So we both stood with our lung images blowing over the mountain top gazing at the cliff drop below us and the flowing river. The rice fields dotted along the steep mountains were beginning to wake up after a long winter. Soon their colour would be a rich deep green and flooded by the monsoon rains.

I wonder if birds can get tuberculosis, I thought.