Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [94]
We arrive three days later, turning a corner in the dark to see the net of lights spread out in the valley below. “But it’s enormous,” Sasha says, and Lorna breaks into a chorus of “New York, New York.”
We spend several bewildering days in the capital sorting out travel plans and visas, stumbling along the main road alarmed at the traffic and the number of streets, surprised by our sudden anonymity in shops and restaurants, feeling shabby in our monsoon-streaked, sun-bleached clothes. Our field director takes us for lunch at the elegant Druk Hotel, and we giggle and fiddle with the silverware and knock over the salt and pepper shakers. Hefty expatriate consultants in dark suits and polished shoes raise their eyebrows at us. The shops are full of so many things: paper clips, wall clocks, air freshener, plastic coasters shaped like fish. There are three video shops on the main road now, and “Fancy Shop” sells greeting cards and black high-top trainers.
A poster in a travel agency announces that Bhutan is the Last Shangri-La. There seem to be more tourists in Thimphu this winter, and we scoff at their heavy camcorders and expensive travel clothes. Thinking about it later, I hear the ugly, arrogant tone in our voices. Ugh—foreigners’ As if we were not. Bhutan is so difficult to get into, such an unusual and desirable location, that I have become swollen with pride, as if my being in Bhutan were a great personal achievement and not simply a matter of luck. It is one of the dangers of being associated with Bhutan. At first you cannot believe your good fortune, and then you begin to think it has something to do with you. Look at me, look where I am! Bhutan is special, and I am in Bhutan, therefore I must be special too. Travel should make us more humble, not more proud. We are all tourists, I think. Whether we stay for two weeks or two years, we are still outsiders, passing through.
We hear the story behind the British teachers who fled. They not only fled, they contacted Amnesty International, and their involvement, we are told, was viewed “most seriously” by the government. Aid agencies were reminded that it is strictly forbidden for foreigners to become involved in Bhutanese politics. I tell the field director about the videotape at the college gate. He makes notes grimly and says he will have to make inquiries. He reminds us to do nothing and say nothing and stay out of it. “We all came within centimeters of getting turfed out,” he says. Even he seems infected with the Fear of Talk. “Don’t ask questions and don’t discuss it with the Bhutanese,” he tells us, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder. In another context, it would seem laughable, a spy-novel spoof. No one is laughing, though, as we whisper nervously about upheaval and ethnic conflict in the Last Shangri-La.
Leon, Tony, Lorna and several others go to Thailand for the winter, and they urge me to come along. I want to see Nepal, though, and fly to Kathmandu with Jane from Tsebar. From there, we travel overland to Delhi. Northern India is exhausting. Along the way we are stared at, glared at, honked at, swerved around, groped, grabbed, pinched, poked, fondled, bullied, propositioned, lied to, proposed to, and sang to. It is a relief when we finally reach Shakuntala’s book-lined flat in Delhi. Jane returns to England, and I continue on alone to Kovalum Beach in Kerala, where I spend my days swimming and reading and walking from one end of the beach to the other, eating yogurt, fish, pineapples and coconut. The three-day train journey back to northern India is warm and intimate. We pass through cool morning forests, hot midday plains and hills turning purple in evening shadows, and the Indian families in the compartment share their food with me, aloo dum and paratha and an assortment of homemade pickles, sweet basmati rice and chickpeas in tangy sauce. I have nothing to offer in return, but buy fruit drinks and ice cream for the kids, and we make stars and boats and flowers out