Buttertea at Sunrise by Britta Das Read Free Book Online

ones who can teach me a little about the culture. I agree.
    The girls respectfully let me lead, slowing their quick steps enough to pace themselves with me. I feel clumsy and utterly unfit as I try to hurry up the hill. We pass a big old farmhouse with a wooden water trough out front. A big black dog growls at us, and immediately, the four girls 41
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    start yelling and throwing stones. Still baring its teeth, the dog retreats.
    We continue climbing. Suddenly Jamtsho’s sister rushes ahead and hollers something up the mountain. A voice answers. She hollers again. Now the other girls shout something as well, and then instantaneously they vanish in the trees ahead. Only Jamtsho and I lag behind.
    After half an eternity, we climb over a small wooden gate and reach Jamtsho’s house. Adorned with a few banana trees and a dusty yard with some clucking chickens, the wooden and stone-set building fits perfectly into the surroundings.
    Wild grasses and shrubs encroach on the yard, and there is no precise distinction between cultivated and untamed nature. It looks almost as if one day the jungle might reclaim what is now a peaceful human dwelling.
    A set of stairs lead up to a tiny platform that connects the main house on my right to a separate kitchen room on the left. Jamtsho leads me through the large, wooden entrance doors into the main building. To my left, there are two smaller rooms, both without any kind of furniture or decoration. Straight ahead, I can see a huge empty room, apparently not inhabited. It is to this parlour that Jamtsho leads me. Quickly she shakes out a small, woollen carpet, and places it in front of a half open window. Then she asks me to seat myself and immediately disappears. Left to myself, I twist my legs into what I think is an acceptable position, careful not to point my feet at anything that might be sacred, and take a closer look around me.
    Heavy wooden beams frame the whitewashed walls,
    giving the impression of a half-timbered Tudor house. The floor consists of wooden planks, smooth and polished. The wall behind me and the one adjacent to it are lined with wooden framework windows, each having a solid sliding shutter on the inside. A light breeze enters through the openings, leaving the room cool and pleasant.
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    W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?
    A cat jumps out from behind two thin mattresses, neatly rolled up in a corner. On the wall above that, some nails are occupied by ghos, the large robe-like garments of Bhutanese men. Beside them, a long thin wooden tube is fastened by a leather strap. To the right of the door leading to the hallway, a weaving stool is anchored to the wall, with a beautiful, half-finished piece of weaving strung into the frame.
    The minutes tick by. Wondering what happened to
    Jamtsho, and not quite sure of what a guest’s proper behaviour might be, I wait for a sign from somewhere.
    The cat returns and curls up in its corner on a pile of kiras.
    Through my window, I can hear a cow munching on grass and the distant bark of a dog.
    Smoke starts to emanate out of the adjacent kitchen, and I get up to investigate. Inside the little room of packed mud walls, Jamtsho is squatting in front of an earthen fireplace, blowing through a bamboo stick into the embers of the fire. A blackened kettle sits amidst the cinders. Two cats lazily clean themselves by the hearth. The walls are lined with wooden shelves. Pots, pans, jars and empty bottles are neatly arranged, and a couple of aluminium ladles shimmer in the otherwise sooty surroundings. There are two plastic storage drums and a can of tuna fish. Dust and cobwebs cover the windowsill, and ashes and soot have given everything a powdering of black.
    Satisfied with the