Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [38]
Maya, a vivacious teacher from southern Bhutan, is my clinic partner. On the first morning after the course, we open the staff room doors to a dismally long lineup of customers. The most common complaints are: stomach paining, head paining, cough-and-cold, and diarrhea. There are various forms of diarrhea: water diarrhea, burning diarrhea, gassing diarrhea and, my personal favorite, shooting diarrhea. Students often end up in my apartment or at Maya’s, infected hand or foot soaking in a bucket of hot salt water. A boy brings a slightly swollen finger to my house before I am dressed one morning. I can find no wound and send him away. Two days later he is back, his finger swollen grotesquely to the size of a small cucumber. I send him to the hospital, where his finger is lanced and drained. I vow to be more careful.
One morning before school, Karma Dorji brings two red-eyed children to my doorstep. They are holding copies of Canadian news magazines and sniffling. Karma Dorji pushes them into the room.
“Yes, Karma?”
“Miss, you is knowing these two girls? Class II B.”
“Yes, I know. They came to visit me yesterday.”
“See, miss. They is taking these magazines yesterday. Stealing!”
“Hmmm.” I had not noticed the magazines were missing. “Well, I’m sure they were going to bring them back.”
“See, miss, their eyes? All red.”
Their eyes are indeed red and inflamed. An obvious case of conjunctivitis, I think, and tell the girls to come to morning clinic for ointment. But Karma Dorji has another explanation. “No, miss. They is reading stealed books and their eyes is all coming red.” No wonder there is so little crime in Bhutan, I think when I hear this. People still expect karmic retribution even if they escape punishment.
Before school, after school, Saturday afternoon, Sunday morning. There is always someone at my door and it is making me crazy. Sick kids, fighting kids, kids with boils, scrapes and gashes; kids offering potatoes, garlic, enormous bitter white radish; kids wanting to see snaps, play the keyboard, listen to the Walkman, look at things (“Miss! What is these?” they ask, holding up sunglasses, a nail file, a box of tampons). Kids wanting just to come in (“May I come in, miss?”). Big kids wanting help with English homework, wanting to help me with my housework or cooking or shopping, if miss is ever needing anything, they can help. Fellow teachers, coming for tea, coming to chat, have I settled myself up, do I have a boyfriend at home, why did I come here actually, and do I want to sell my camera. Mr. Iyya, trying to get me to agree that Lord Tennyson was the greatest poet who ever lived, a man at the zenith of his glory, isn’t it, and would I mind reading this small something he has inscribed of late, a poor plain wordly offering to the muses. Men and women from the village coming to ask if I want to buy cloth, handwoven kiras, belts, bags, do I want balls of cheese or butter, a bottle of milk or arra, anything at all? Hang rang tshaspé, they ask. What do I need? They will find it, they will bring it.
I need to be alone. After a full day of talking, smiling, listening, showing, nodding, translating, I want to be alone. I want simply to come home, close the door, and sit in silence, gathering up the bits of myself that have come loose. I want to think, or not think. I want to rest.
But no, this is not to be. They feel sorry for me because I am here alone. Miss,