Read Buttertea at Sunrise for Free Online Page B

patches, I wander along the road following my nose.
    No immediate intent guides my way, only the urge to explore this land of which I know so little. I am impatient to broaden my horizon beyond the borders of this valley.
    Walking is the only transportation among these people of steep mountains and rounded hills, and so my feet are becoming the only limit to my travels.
    I had imagined a walk in solitude, but instead I find myself surrounded by happily chatting villagers, some shouldering heavy loads, others gaining ground with long strides. The 39
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    paved main road leading through Mongar is well worn by many thousands of footsteps. Villagers carrying goods to the market, or patients to the hospital, schoolchildren on their daily walk to class, farmers moving cattle from one field to the next, or people on their way to visit relatives or friends in the next village. The road is a welcome break from the steep, winding foot tracks along bevelled grades.
    In fact, this road belongs to the people, and the odd vehicle that wants to get by has to obey the speed and willingness of men, women, children and animals to clear its path.
    A group of girls giggle and nudge each other as they pass by some boys sitting beside the road. The scene is familiar, much like at home; shy teasing, brave haughtiness and a flirtatious jiggle of the hip. The boys seem pleased, but pretending not to notice, they only steal a few sidelong glances at the shiny black hair and the soft curves hidden by a kira.
    From the bazaar, the road in the direction of Thimphu leads down, and I follow it with easy steps. At a tight bend, a creek slows its rush and meanders through the trees. A group of Indian women is squatting by its side, rinsing their laundry and slapping the clothes on the flat stones around them.
    A little further on, a steep path leads almost vertically up to a small cluster of houses. I decide to stray and start climbing. The track is wet and slippery, and my running shoes fail miserably to grip the ground.
    Within minutes I am winded and sweaty, and without much courage, I consider the folly of my adventure. The path divides into three, and there is no indication which one might lead me to the most rewarding destination.
    Three tiny mudslides polished by the tread of bare feet, each begging for a decision. The answer comes in the form of four girls who clamber up the path behind me. Giggling, they stop and stare at me. Then the smallest one, maybe 40
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    W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?
    ten years old, looks up at me with a saucy smile. ‘Where you going, miss?’
    ‘I am just walking,’ I answer.
    ‘You going to Barpang, miss?’ The girl wrinkles her forehead. Just walking must seem like an absurd idea to her.
    ‘I don’t know, actually,’ I stutter.
    Where is Barpang?
    The other three girls push on, but my little inquisitor is not yet satisfied.
    ‘Where you from, miss?’
    ‘I am from Canada.’
    ‘My name is Jamtsho, and this is my sister Kesang.’ She points at the oldest of the three girls, and then looks at me expectantly.
    ‘I am Britta,’ I answer, and search for something else to say.
    Jamtsho flashes me a winning smile. ‘Please come to my house. Will you be coming?’
    A little suspicious of the muddy incline, I ask where her house is.
    ‘There!’ Jamtsho says and points at a line someplace where the clouds meet the mountain.
    I debate with myself. What do I have to lose? Jamtsho is the first English-speaking friend that I have made on my walk. Having a conversation with the older generation of villagers will be a problem until I pick up more Sharchhopkha. Schoolchildren, on the other hand, all have to learn English and, for now, will probably be the only