“Everyone in Bhutan has high blood pressure.”

Re-reading what I posted last, I see that my trip to the Golden Buddha was perhaps not long enough to prepare me for the return to the hospital! Hot, sweaty, and tired upon reaching the “after hours” treatment wing of the hospital, I am most relieved to find that the first line (at the end of which one pays the medical certificate “fee” and writes one’s name on a form) is blissfully short. Phew. But the second line (at the end of which one enters an examination room to have a medical exam and to have one’s form signed by a doctor) is longer.

We stand in line, surrounded on one side by giggling young Bhutanese girls waiting for an examination so that they can get their driver’s permit and on the other by young men in plaid ghos perhaps waiting for the same thing, or perhaps waiting for a certificate in order to get a job (both getting a job and acquiring a driver’s permit require this “medical certificate”). Slowly, the line inches forward as one by one people disappear behind the opaque examination room door.

When there are about five people left in front of me, a man comes walking quickly around the corner. When he sees the line, he stops for a moment, clearly thinking about how to circumvent having to wait. He circles around the line, detouring over to a nearby desk and storing a bag he is carrying beneath it. He then comes to stand near the head of the line, facing me. I meet his gaze squarely, making it clear that I am not about to let him slide in front of me, which is what he obviously intends. For a few moments we stare at each other, me towering over him, as he is rather short. I shake my head. He seems to smile slightly, but moves away back toward the end of the line. I relax. But in a moment, he appears on my left side. Conveniently, a desk extends from the wall of the examining room just at the point where we all have to enter into the examination room. I place my hand on the desk, blocking Mr. Line-cutter. The young girls behind me in line seem anxious to repeat my gesture.

Now I’m the next person. I stand facing the examination room door. As soon as it opens I enter. The doctor sits facing the door slightly to left with a vacant seat beside him. He gestures for me to sit down. I do, handing him my paperwork. He mumbles something about my getting a “dependent card,” which is what my paperwork says.

As the doctor is talking, I look up, noting in astonishment that Mr. Line-cutter has followed me into the exam room. He is standing against the wall watching my “exam” with a slight smile. The doctor wraps a blood-pressure sleeve around my upper arm and presses the button that inflates it.

“That man,” I say, indicating Mr. Line-cutter, “has been cutting in front of everyone who is waiting to come in here.”

The doctor completely ignores me. He doesn’t even look up.

“It’s very rude,” I grumble, directing my gaze at Mr. Line-cutter. He meets my gaze impassively.

The blood pressure sleeve slowly deflates and the doctor writes down my numbers.

“Well,” he says, “its just a bit high, but nothing to worry about. A bit high, you see.”

Damn straight, I think. I’ve never had high blood pressure in my life, but I suddenly realize the nature of the statement made by the western monk we met earlier in the day at the coffee shop. “Oh,” he laughed, as we told him we had to go through the medical exam again, “everyone in Bhutan has high blood pressure.”

The doctor signs my “certificate” with a flourish and I (and my high blood pressure) stalk out of the room.

So much for the enduring peacefulness of my encounter with the Golden Buddha!