(this will be in installments!)
last light of august
days draw curtains on both ends
dry leaves blush in shades
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| Dusk in Rukubji |
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| Chorten at Yontala Pass (on the way to Bumthang) |
The last time I sat to write a post, Joe had not yet arrived
in Bhutan and I was fizzing like a shaken soda with excitement. And then he
came! And I did not write because I wanted to soak up as much of the time I had
with him. Forgive me, but I bet you understand. I had not seen him in 6 months,
and then to be next to him for a month was more than words are able to describe.
I have tried to find an adjective appropriate: ecstasy? bliss? pure delight?
Getting close. But I will do my best to capture the adventures we entertained
during his swift stay.
Side note: I have noticed that perhaps my blog has been
lacking in detail of the place and culture, which many of my friends are hungry
for. I unwittingly shied from such detail to avoid a trite travelogue, word
overload, or stereotype, and perhaps due to the total sensory overload of being
in a new place and not knowing where to begin. I am also here to teach, and
most of my experience is like I have told it: at school, with kids, striving to
improve my practice. Yet when Joe came, his questions and the way he wrote of
our adventures in his own novella of the trip, pointed in a gentle way that my
writing could do with more of the details that make Bhutan the way it is. My
aim is to address the aspects that bring uniqueness to this experience, while
recognizing that my experience here is a small slice of a larger picture that
cannot be contained in a one-year stint or by an amateur blog.
So on to Iman and Joe in Bhutan, gallivanting…but first, a
bus detour.
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| Our gumboots (or 'chulham') for village walks |
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| Glacial Green River |
I’ll start at the road, as most of my adventures begin.
Rukubji is on is THE lateral road of Bhutan, THE major road. Despite its narrow
berth and unpaved patches, nearly every vehicle travels this road. So of
course, this is where I go to get a ride anywhere. I was praying, that late
July morning, for clear travel. THE road is also victim to numerous landslides
during the monsoon season. Roadblocks are common- meaning a giant piece of
earth just decided to let go and plop onto the road, halting east and west
travel until workers arrive to dig it out by hand, or rarely, machine. It is
worse to the east and for the perpendicular roads to the south. But luck was on my side, and the sun
beat down through puffy white clouds and blue. I had called the bus company
that drives from Trongsa to Thimphu and booked a ticket the day before, so I
waited patiently for that Coaster bus to round the corner of the road that
marks Rukubji (honestly, not much else marks the village, except the school and
a giant expanse of potato fields beyond). While waiting, a student’s mother and
sister, babies in tow, bamboo baskets nearly as big as them on their backs,
came to stand at the road to sell their “datse” (homemade cheese). The sister
speaks some English, so we all chatted in bits of Dzongkha and English while
the babies ran around. Small kids in Bhutan are allowed to do things that many
American kids are not (more on that later). So these kids played tagging games
or sat smack in the middle of THE road. The mothers didn’t mind, until a big
semi would come hurtling towards us, then they would shout or grab an arm and
drag the baby back to the safety of grass. This reminded me of my mom relating
stories of my grandfather letting my older brother play on the rocks on Lake
Superior, telling her that if he fell, he’d learn not to do it again. He may
have been Bhutanese in a past life...
A rider of buses and trains, I believe public transportation
is a good snapshot of a culture, and the same is true in Bhutan. In July and
August, I spent many hours on buses in Bhutan, traveling back and forth to
Thimphu and Bumthang, twice. So I take this time to profile the incomparable,
but typical, experience of riding a bus in Bhutan.
The coaster pulled up with a suave, shades-sporting driver
with the arms of his Gho tied around his waist, red rimmed lips from the doma
in his mouth, bumping all the hot Bhutanese jams through the windows. I said
“Naba chi gay” (see you later) to
the ladies, who put some of their cheese on the bus to be sold in Thimphu, and
we were off. Because of some strange luck, I got seat #1, which is left of the
driver, right up front. No way you can get sick up there. Every seat had a
bottom in it, even the console between me and the driver. He reminded me how
prudent I’d been to reserve a seat. Looking back at the passengers, it was the
usual mix of everyone: young, older, oldest, gho and kira, track suits, bamboo
hats, baseball caps, Korean pop star haircuts, babies nursing. We stopped only
5 km from Rukubji at Gaki Kelzang Hotel in Bimilo (neighboring village) for a
‘breakfast stop’ since the other travelers had been riding since 7am. I paid the
driver my 230 nu (which is about 4 dollars, for a 7 hour ride) while we all
stretched our legs. Even though I’d only been on for a few minutes, I took the
opportunity to use the toilet- the buses here can go 3 or more hours at a time
without stopping for any kind of break. The 2 rest stops they do make offer
more than decent menus of rice and curry (mostly ema datse) and hot tea, which
compensates for the sometimes less than decent toilets.
Everyone piled into their seats again, smelling slightly of
chilies, and we were off while “Wangmo, Wangmo”, a popular Dzongkha song,
picked up volume. I happen to know many songs now since my students love to
share their favorites and anytime you call someone, they tend to have a popular
song as playback while you wait for them to answer. Drivers are intrigued by me
when I hop on a bus, since I am the only westerner aboard (seriously, every
time, until Joe came). While the driver unwrapped a doma leaf and applied the
necessary lime and nut to the center before wrapping it again into a neat
package to be fitted in mouth, all of this with eyes fixed on the winding road
with a cliff edge on one side, he asked me where I was from and what I was
doing “out here”. Usually the only westerners in Bhutan are tourists, and all tourists
need guides who provide them with rides, lodging, and so forth. So I understand
the confusion upon seeing me board a public bus. I answered, as usual, that I
am a teacher at the primary school in Rukubji. He gave the usual reply “so cold
in Rukubji, remote place, you must be feeling lonely, miss”. Nearly every
Bhutanese person who finds out where I work says the same thing. Clearly
they’ve never been to Minnesota where our temperatures are far below those in
the Rukubji winter. Also, being located right on THE road of Bhutan makes me
feel quite connected. Last, with 130 students to teach 6 days a week and
friends I’ve made from their families, I hardly feel lonely (anymore).
We made it up to the high pass at Pelela and then circled
the chorten streamered with prayer flags. From there, we traveled down toward
Nobding, an hour or so away, where we were stopped by a roadblock for
construction. No workers were wearing hard hats, but many were sporting
fashionable jeans and t-shirts. We watched as rock rained down as a shovel
excavated from a cliff above. Then another shovel came to pick up the rock off
the road and load it into a truck which dumped it off the cliff. All this in
about 10 minutes. Exactly at noon, the bus geared up, honked the horn, and we were
off again at the whopping speed of 40 km per hour. The speed limit here is
cautious, and for good reason. If the road you drive is severely winding, seems
to accommodate only one vehicle width, and one side has no shoulder and leads
directly off a cliff, then you’d be cautious too.
As we continued, the driver spotted a family sitting on the
side of the road and jolted us to a stop to pick them up. I looked back
wondering where they’d squeeze in. They ended up in the aisle of the bus, kids
on laps, squatting on bags. Once we reached Wangdue, the bus stopped to let off
a few passengers and drop off packages, as well as pick up more things. I find
it incredible that the driver knows exactly when to stop to drop things off.
Out of seemingly nowhere, a woman will run up to the bus and the driver’s
helper will open the door and hand her a package, almost without braking.
We made one more stop at a “hotel” (really, a restaurant)
for lunch around 2pm. I bought a bottle of “dachu”, which is the leftover
liquid from making cheese and butter. It has become my favorite drink here,
though it took me about a month to realize how amazing it was. After another
hour of travel on the bus, the driver pulled over on the side of the road and
yelled “chapsa! toilet!”. Where? Everyone piled out and found a little hidden
area of woods in which to pee. Moms pulled their babies’ pants off and held
them as they peed next to the bus. Rest stop, Bhutan style. I have to admit, I
felt a bit strange, but everyone was doing it, and I really really had to go. I
am glad people feel comfortable with this system, but I am also glad that the
US has designated rest stops with toilets.
Up, up, up to Dochula, the last pass before Thimphu, which
boasts 108 chortens on a raised hill, which we circled 3 times for good measure
and a rollercoaster feel before heading down to the city.
Getting off the bus at last at the Thimphu station, the bus
was mobbed by taxi drivers offering rides to anywhere. One look at me and they
start yelling “Paro! Paro! Paro!”, which is where the airport is. When I say
no, that I am staying, they are perplexed. They are even more perplexed when I
walk up the stairs from the station and walk to where I am staying, or ask for
a local taxi and then give them directions to where I need to go. I was not
always “Thimphu savvy”, but it’s a small place, so I learned quickly on my
first solo adventure to the city and now relish the tiny bit of smarts I have
about this city.
I took a taxi to a friend’s house, a bit tired and hot, and
was treated to a good meal and a hot shower. I could barely sleep that night.
In the morning, I’d be going to Paro to pick up Joe! I laid out my kira I’d
brought that I’d wear to the airport and tried to write, read, do anything to
calm myself in order to sleep. I woke up way too early and donned my national
dress, got my hair and face pretty (which I really don’t do often here), and
ate a terrific breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee that I could hardly
concentrate on. Neema, one of the employees of BCF, came to pick me up at 8.
The ride to Paro is about an hour or more, which gave me plenty of time to get
even more giddy. I watched the scenery pass out the window. When I had arrived
in January, everything had been brown and grey. Now the fields were all green
with rice and the mountains were covered with leaves and moss. The river that
had bared pebbles before, now roared with that particular glacial green color.
Of course, we arrived early to the airport, but once Joe’s
plane landed, I got out of the car and waited outside of the exit (I couldn’t
go in the airport), my whole body humming. I nearly hyperventilated. And then I
saw his face. He strode out of the doors, in his finest suspenders, right into
my arms. We hugged and kissed and made a scene, and then quickly got into
Neema’s car before we made anyone nauseous from excessive PDA.
He was here! For real! Not a voice on the phone, a picture,
a letter, and email. No, here was Joe, really here, holding me, kissing my
head. Though he was clearly bleary from traveling, he looked good. Just as
handsome as ever. We snuggled up in the back of the car and he told me a bit
about his travels. We watched the scenery, which garnered numerous “Wows”, and
made me remember just how stunning this place is and that first excitement of
seeing only mountains for miles.
When you come from the plains, this is certainly
unbelievable. After 6 months, the mountains had become a normal fixture for me.
With Joe’s fresh eyes next to me, I realized how I had begun to take the
scenery for granted. “Look at all the cows, just walking in the road!” he
exclaimed, turning to look at them as we passed. This too, just part of life
for me as Rukubji has as many or more cows as people that roam freely until
dusk on the road and in the forest. These fascinating aspects of normal life in
Bhutan are the things I will miss greatly upon returning to the US, so I made a
vow to remember to appreciate the details while Joe was with me and after he
left, to really take Bhutan in again because I likely won’t get to come back
for quite a long time.
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| Thimphu's main drag |
After an hour of us canoodling and gawking out the window,
we arrived at the BCF office in Thimphu to grab some paperwork before heading
to the immigration office to finalize Joe’s visa. Neema was probably grateful
to get a break from us for a moment while we chatted with Meena and got road
permits organized for planned excursions to Bumthang and Trongsa. We hopped
back in the car and zigzagged through Thimphu to immigration, just before the
lunch break. We thanked Neema for his help and driving.
Since I only
visit the bank when in a town, we had to make one last stop before the hotel.
Despite his 2-days of travel exhaustion, Joe happily agreed. With backpacks and
goofy grins, we strolled hand in hand to the Bank of Bhutan, while every
passerby stared at us. In many countries I have visited, tourists and
foreigners are not that noticeable, but in Bhutan, you stick out, even without
a backpack and a grin. At the bank, I expertly slid into line with all my t’s
crossed on my withdrawal form and we were out in no time, which defied every
bank experience I’ve had prior to and after this.
We walked about 10 blocks to our hotel on Thimphu’s main
street, Norzin Lam, with the Friday hustle and bustle streaming past. A
check-in at the restaurant counter with the smiling owner, then up one more
flight of stairs to our room. We unburdened our backs and collapsed into a
grateful noontime nap.
To be continued…
