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.Joy, I think.Her name seems painfully ironic now.Outside my door, a woman with reddish gold hair and vividly blue eyes is sitting beside a box of groceries.She is Lesley, she tells me, a British teacher, she is visiting various friends and teachers in eastern Bhutan, she will go to Tsebar tomorrow to visit Jane but she’ll have to spend the night here if that’s okay with me, she is sorry to barge in like this without warning but what to do, that’s Bhutan for you, she has brought these things up from Samdrup Jongkhar for me, she’s very glad to meet me by the way, and who is that awful lecherous man in the undershirt a few doors down?Lesley has been in Bhutan for three years.Her first posting was a village in the high, cold, subalpine district of Bumthang, where she lived for two years in a room in the temple and learned to speak Bumthap, the language of central Bhutan.She extended her contract for another year, and her next posting was one thousand meters lower, in the warm, wet jungles of Kheng, where she learned to speak Khengkha.She walked from one posting to the other, a journey of three days.It is immediately apparent that Lesley has an encyclopedic knowledge of Bhutan.I cannot let her complete a sentence without interrupting with another question, and later, when we settle down to write letters, I take out my journal and make notes:Reincarnations of lamas.Usually, the dying lama will leave instructions, indicating a time or place or some other clue.His followers begin to look for him about two years after his death, using the clues and sometimes in consultation with an oracle.They may hear about a child who is acting rather strangely-saying that he wants to go to his real home, perhaps describing his former monastery.For the first two or three years of life, the child retains some knowledge of his former life, but it usually fades after that.The dead lama’s disciples bring his belongings, mixed up with other similar items, to the child, and ask the child to identify his former things as proof of his identity.The belief is that a high lama has learned to control his mind even afterdeath and therefore can direct his mind into its next rebirth.Ghost-catchers.Elaborate sculptures made of dough, thin sticks and colored thread, called lue.Used in certain pujas to draw away any negative influences, spirits, bad luck, and yes, ghosts as well.Hidden valleys, called beyul.Secluded places that have been blessed and sealed by Guru Rimpoché for followers of Buddhism in times of difficulty.There is some disagreement as to whether these are actual valleys hidden away in the mountains, or mythical places, or places in some other dimension that you can only get to through spiritual practice.Only people with the right karma can enter them.“Lost Horizon” is supposedly based on Shambhala, the most famous hidden valley.There are supposed to be several such valleys in Bhutan, in Gasa and Lhuntse, here they’re real places with physical coordinates as well as being spiritual places in some non-physical dimension.The one in Lhuntse is sealed to outsiders from the time of rice planting to the time of harvesting.Not even Bhutanese from outside the valley can enter during this time.I don’t know if my List of Things to Look Up is now shorter or longer.Lesley suggests tea and momos in the bazaar.I tell her that Pema Gatshel has no restaurant.“There must be at least one tea stall,” she says.“Let’s go look.” The sun has disappeared behind glossy green mountains, and a thin banner of pink-and-gold cloud stretches across the darkening sky.In the market, Lesley turns into a rather shaky-looking hut.Behind the counter, a young mother is playing with her baby.Behind her on the wall is a curling poster of Phoebe Cates, and I wonder where it came from.“Momo cha?” Lesley asks the woman.She nods and goes into a back room.We sit at one of the wooden tables.“So you speak Sharchhop too?” I ask Lesley.She says, “About five words.” The woman comes out with two plates of steamed dumplings garnished with chili sauce and two glasses of tea.I open one of the dumplings and study the minced meat and onions inside, feeling the old familiar fear rise up.Lesley looks up suddenly.“These are certainly well cooked,” she says intuitively.“They’re like rubber.The only thing we’ll get from these is indigestion.” I eat the momos, while Lesley and the woman behind the counter have a conversation in Sharchhop, English, and sign language about our respective ages, marital status, number of children, brothers, sisters.We walk back home in the dark, using Lesley’s flashlight.I am still not used to nightfall in Bhutan, the way it really does fall, suddenly and completely, and am always unconsciously waiting for the lights to come back on.Lesley makes a bed on the floor of the sitting room.In my own room, I sit at the table.I have not managed to make my place as charming as Jane’s, but in the candlelight, with a few jars of wildflowers around me, I am not displeased with my home.I have an idea that I will write in my journal, but I do not.I sit, listening.The night is full of crickets.I am thinking about how Lesley was not afraid to walk into an unknown hut in an unfamiliar town and order dinner, how she is not afraid to talk to people even if she knows five words of their language.I would have never thought to look into that place on my own, let alone go inside and order a meal [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]