Buttertea at Sunrise (14 page)

I decide first to get the underwear issue out of the way, and then tackle the question of food. One of the sisters 104

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recommended that I look in Yeshey Pelden’s shop, and I find it halfway up the road, the shop set slightly underground, in a sort of mezzanine. The right wall is packed with drinks of all sorts: beer, rum, orange squash, lemon squash, tins of pineapple and orange juice, and some fruit concoctions in lunch-sized drink cartons. In front of the drinks is a long glass case with all kinds of cookies, sweets, stale-looking chocolate and crackers. At the far wall, I detect a shelf with garments. I ask for underwear.

‘What size?’

‘Small,’ I reply. ‘Really small.’ The girl behind the counter snickers, and I feel obliged to add, ‘It’s not for me. It is for one of my patients, and she is only thirteen.’

The girl pulls out a couple of packages of plastic-wrapped underwear with little butterflies on them. Not too bad for the middle of nowhere. I pick the smallest pair and quickly leave the shop. That mission accomplished, I devote my full attention to the question of food.

In Rinzin Tshockey’s shop I look around for a while.

There is a big basket with tomatoes which must have come up from Samdrup Jongkhar with the bus. Tomatoes – what could I cook with tomatoes? A brilliant idea strikes. Chilli con carne! Except for the carne. There is no meat available for regular mortals in Mongar. I remember that somewhere I have a recipe for a very tasty chilli without meat. I turn to Rinzin Tshockey.

‘Can I buy some chillies?’

He looks at me with a question mark across his forehead.

‘You are going to cook with
chilllies
, madam?’

‘Yes, I am going to try. Can I have, um, maybe five?’

‘Five chillies, madam?’

‘Yes, only five.’

Rinzin Tshockey grins from ear to ear. ‘Please,’ he says handing me five green chillies. ‘For you. No need to pay.’

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I toil over the gas cooker, sweat over the chillies and cry from the onions. I pray and talk to the pot in the sweetest of voices. I run back and forth between the kitchen and the living room in nervous anticipation. Did I set the table nicely? Are the potatoes done yet? Will the lights stay on long enough for us to finish dinner? I had better get some candles, just in case. Then again, candles? A little bit too romantic for a simple shared dinner. Nevertheless, this is Mongar; everyone eats by candlelight. No, better use the kerosene lamp; better not give him any wrong ideas. He is simply going to have dinner with me because I have to cook anyway.

To my surprise, the chilli turns out quite tasty. However, if I heat it any longer, it will surely transform into another ugly mess of overcooked everything. I fret and worry and experiment with the low settings of the gas cooker. I turn it off and, a few minutes later, back on in a panic that the food might be cold. I watch the clock as if it was going to jump out at me. Spud comes by and I share some potatoes with her.

At nine o’clock I sit at the empty table and try to eat a bit of my, by now cold, chilli con carne without carne and without company. The disappointment tastes bitter.

The lights flicker and dim a shade. Without much

thought, I strike a match to light my candle before the room gets lost in complete darkness. A spider sprints across the floor and hides under my shoes, another one drops from the wall onto my bed. Get off! The thought of finding myself locked under my mosquito net with this creepy-crawly sends me clambering across the room, shooing the unbidden guest off my property. In the kitchen, a metallic sound makes me wonder about rats. I remember the odd hairs on my cutting board yesterday. Did I close my meat safe properly? How can I stop the fruit flies, and how can 106

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I slow the mould? Did I boil my water for filtering? No, I forgot. Will it be enough for tomorrow morning?

Almost asleep, my mind starts spinning around the same annoying question: Why did Dr. Bikul stand me up?

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C H A P T E R T W E L V E

Friction

It is barely day yet and already I have spent a full hour, and then some, hunting my most dreaded enemy – the flea!

First I wanted to snuggle back in bed after half-starved devouring the better part of my dinner and a bar of chocolate (all at 4.30 a.m. when the first rooster in the neighbourhood woke up). Then I felt something on my leg, and when I shone the light on it, it jumped.

Now, after a fortnight of agony, scratching myself every day and night until I bleed, there is no way, simply no way, I can go back to reading when I know that my blood enemy is still somewhere out there. So, reluctantly, I get up, take my sheets and blanket outside, shake them hard, and hang them on my under-the-roof line for the day. Then I am off to the bathroom where I diligently check myself and my nightgown – but to no avail. The little bugger has escaped.

OK, I think, I will get dressed. I pick up one sock and immediately recognise this suspicious black dot. I set off to crush it successfully. Then, however, I notice another black dot on my leg (at this point, I am standing stark naked in the bathroom). With much skill, I catch it. Knowing how 108

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quick those critters are, I immediately squash it in some toilet paper, but… when I carefully open the paper, nothing is there. Was the cushioning effect so strong that the paper ate the insect? But no – boing! It jumps out towards me and is gone.

There is a certain paranoia which goes along with losing one of those bloodthirsty tiny creatures, and it prompts me to go on a search for the bug’s whereabouts. With no result.

So in the end I got one and lost two, rather an average outcome for most of my hunts; especially considering that there are probably still half a dozen or so sitting in my room, my clothes, my everything, waiting for me to walk by so that they can hurl themselves at my innocent flesh. I spread the mothball powder everywhere. That means they jump from there to somewhere else – big success.

Have I become too violent? I know the Buddhist

philosophy demands respect for all sentient beings – and I do feel guilty. Normally, I would not hurt a fly, but lack of sleep makes me cranky. Praying for forgiveness, I submerge my entire heap of worn clothes in my oversized bathing bucket.

The hospital is filled to the brim. Twenty-one new admissions overnight! Patients are lying on mattresses on the floor everywhere, absolutely everywhere. I.V. poles are set up in the middle of the hallways and attendants are crowding the already scarce free space. Dr. Bikul is busy giving instructions and briefing the incoming day shift of nurses. There is no apparent order to the chaos, but somehow everyone understands to stay quiet. There is no complaining or nagging; no one demands immediate attention. Patients and attendants alike passively wait their turns.

At 8.30 a.m. I unlock the doors to our physiotherapy rooms. The blue double doors squeak open and I flick on 109

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the lights. A clean sleepy room welcomes me. On the bed, some donated stuffed animals for the children greet me with their never-failing grins: a furry Gremlin-like ball of fluff; a green frog that makes a noise when you shake it; a little dog; a handmade cotton bug whose red eyes are about to pop out of his head. The doctors raised their eyebrows when they first saw them, but I like our little squad. They are the guardians of Pema’s and my castle.

The lights wink at me, flash brightly, and then turn off for the day. I throw open the windows towards the courtyard and survey the scenery from within the safety of our refuge. I feel at home in the physiotherapy department.

Here in these two rooms, Pema and I are allowed to make decisions, to assess, treat and discharge as we see fit. As soon as we leave these walls, we abide by the unspoken laws of Mongar Hospital; we bow to rules of rank and respect that do not always have an obvious connection with wisdom or the best interest for the patient. Out there we have to play the politics, but in here we talk freely and openly. There are no secrets in physiotherapy.

Proudly I examine the new parallel bars in our exercise room. The yellow paint gleams from the long iron bars, and the whole construction has an air of prized solidity. At the end of the bars, a half-length mirror has been fixed on the wall and, for a minute, I look at my somewhat distorted reflection. Sister Britta, here you are. Only three weeks in Mongar, and already I feel almost at home. With a smile, I give the bars one last shake to reassure myself of their sturdiness, and then walk over to Ward B to tell Choden that I am ready.

The atmosphere in the wards is lively. Some patients and attendants are still having breakfast, others make a bed, line up for the toilet, or try desperately to continue a bit of slumber. They have half an hour left before the doctors 110

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start their rounds, half an hour of unhurried morning business.

Choden is not quite ready for me, and the hustle of the ward occupies my senses. Across the aisle from where I am standing, a naked toddler starts peeing on a pillow, and within seconds her mother swoops her up and holds her over the side of the bed. Urine splashes on dangling feet and the neighbour’s’ plastic slippers. A small puddle forms on the floor. No one takes notice. Satisfied with her save, the quick-witted mother settles on the bed, unbuckles her kira and starts breast-feeding the now contentedly suckling little girl. All continues as before.

Then a bit of commotion attracts my attention to Ward A. Two nurses are arguing loudly with a small group of people standing around the bed of an old, wrinkled abi who is slowly getting dressed with the help of a young man.

I know from yesterday’s rounds that this abi is suffering from a severe ulcerated stomach, and is scheduled for surgery today. However, by the looks of it, she is leaving. I ask one of the nurses what is going on.

It turns out that Abi’s family wants to take her home to perform a puja, a religious ceremony to ask for a quick recovery. They do not want an operation today. It is not a good day for surgery, they say. After the puja, they will come back, but now they have to go. The nurses continue trying to convince Abi to stay, but it’s no use. Her family does not want to hear what the doctors say, they have heard enough. Their lama told them to come home, and so they must leave. Before anyone can stop them, Abi’s son carries the little lady out of the hospital.

I return to Ward B. Choden is ready now, and together we head to the physio room. For three days we have tried the same routine, and I feel that we are making progress. I can now move her legs throughout their full ranges without too much difficulty. Choden has learned to relax, and I 111

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have learned to go slowly. Today I want to try something different. The new parallel bars are waiting in all their glory in the exercise room, and I have planned for Choden to try standing for the first time.

As soon as Pema arrives, we tackle the challenge. First, we secure a transfer belt around her waist. Then we manoeuvre the wheelchair to the open end of the parallel bars. From there, Choden transfers onto a wooden stool, which has been placed at the entrance of the bars, facing the full length mirror at the opposite end. We explain to Choden what to do. I will kneel in front of her and steady her feet to prevent them from slipping. She will hold onto the parallel bars with both hands. Then on one, two, three, go! I will pull her towards me while she pushes herself out of her wheelchair and straightens her legs. If all goes according to plan, she will stand securely between the parallel bars, supporting herself as needed with her arms.

Choden is obviously nervous. I kneel down and motion to her to put her feet between the bars. Tentatively, Choden tries to extend her toes to the floor, but her thigh muscles contract and she forcefully kicks the air. Again she tries

– unsuccessfully. Finally I guide her foot to the floor, and then push it down with all my might. Her muscles relax.

We try the other foot. This foot, however, does not budge off the footrest. Again we have to trick her muscles, and it seems like hours until finally we have both feet firmly planted on the floor. Choden is sweating. Her palms are damp, and I can feel her grip tightening on the bars. Her strong forearm muscles are contracted into tight bundles; her whole body is shaking in anticipation.

‘
Dikpe?
’ Ready?

A quick sideways shake of the head and a nervous smile say yes. Ready. With an encouraging ‘Up!’ I pull Choden towards me. She lurches forward – and her knees buckle.

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