Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [29]
“Zhim-poo la, ” Jane says.
“Zhim-poo la,” I repeat, and Jangchuk and Pema laugh. Pema ladles more bangchang into my cup.
“Zhé, zhé,” she says.
“She’s telling you to drink up,” Jane says. I take a slightly bigger sip. It must be safe, I think, if Jane is drinking it, and it really is good. Pema adds more bangchang to our cups and exhorts me to drink. I begin to feel warm and sleepy. When the ladle swings my way again, I keep my hand firmly over my cup and do a ridiculous mime of a drunken, dizzy me. Pema nods and puts her ladle back in the pot, but as soon as I move my hand away, her arm shoots over and my cup is full. “An old Sharchhop trick,” Jane laughs. I am relieved when the pot is empty, but Jane says, “Now comes the arra.”
Pema fills my cup with what looks like water. I take a tiny sip of the sharp, bitter liquid and shudder.
“Zhimpoo la?” she asks.
I nod helplessly.
“It’s more of an acquired taste,” Jane says, draining her bowl. “It reminds me of saké.”
It reminds me of lighter fluid, but by the fourth or fifth tiny sip, it’s not quite so bad, and by the second cup, I am sure that it is improving my comprehension of Sharchhop. Dinner is mountains of rice and large chunks of potato cooked with chilies, followed by a final cup of arra, called zim-chang, the good-night drink. “If you were staying with Pema, you’d get zheng-chang, ” Jane tells me. “Wake-up arra, served at dawn.” Pema tries to make me eat and drink more but I collapse on the floor in protest. “This is Bhutanese hospitality,” Jane says. “They fill you up until you can’t move and then say sorry, we have nothing to give you.”
I volunteer to wash the dishes, but Jane doesn’t have running water inside the house. We will wash them tomorrow outside. Out in the latrine, squatting in the malodorous darkness, I realize what a luxury my indoor plumbing is, even if the running water doesn’t run very often. Back inside, Pema and Jangchuk and I say many goodbyes and then they are gone. Jane puts cushions on the floor under the window and I unroll my sleeping bag over them and climb in, fully dressed. My feet and shoulders ache, my face is rough and gritty, and my brain feels like it is sloshing around inside my skull. Jane sets a candle on the low table. “Now, there are just two things I have to tell you about before you go to sleep.”
I am already asleep. I do not want to hear two things.
“If you hear things falling off the shelves in the night, it’s just the rats. And in the morning, could you just reach behind you and slide open that window to let the chicken out?”
“The chicken?” I had forgotten about the chicken. I struggle to sit up. There it is, sleeping in a nook near the stove. “Do you get fresh eggs every morning?” I ask Jane.
“Well, that’s why I got it, but it doesn’t lay eggs for some reason,” Jane says. “Good night.”
I blow out the candle and push myself down deep into the sleeping bag. Do not think about the rats, I tell myself. Do not, do not. I lie there, hoping that sleep comes before the rats, but it does not. And it’s not just rats, it’s the Rat Olympics. I can hear them sprinting across the floor, vaulting from shelf to shelf, somersaulting over pots and plates. On the sidelines, spectator rats cheer them on. Something falls with a crash and the crowds go wild. I sit up, gasping.
“They knock that same tin off every night,” Jane calls from the next room.
I find my flashlight and aim a spot of light at the kitchen. There is a moment of silence and then they begin again. I burrow deeper into my bed and concentrate on the gentle ringing of a horse’s bell outside. Eventually, I fall asleep and dream I am walking. All night I walk up and down hillsides, over streams, through forests. I have a dim idea that I am trying to walk out of Bhutan, but Bhutan never ends. I awake, exhausted, to cool grey light and the sound of clucking. The chicken is heading my way. I fumble with the wooden slat above my head, but the chicken