A New Take: the final part

In the departure

there's a lesson: be present,

all you hold is now

Trongsa from our balcony at the Yangkhil 

Class I

Tobgay, explaining how old he will be on his birthday

Trying not to look ill on the bus

The "final chorten"

Sunflowers

Me and Tara in front of the First Palace

Pretending we're staying at the Aman Kora

Jambey Lakhang

Rice paddy with a watch shed

Kurje Lakhang

Joe excelling at Khuru

Preface: I apologize for the delay. Due to unexpected events, I have been away from home or internet for a week and am just getting back into things and feeling  the energy to write. Last week, a fellow BCF teacher, Martha, who taught in Phongmey, became seriously ill and passed away. I traveled out to Mongar and then Trashigang to attend the vigil and cremation. It is still a shock, but luckily many other BCF teachers came to mourn and support each other through this difficult and sad time. There is much to say regarding this experience, I want to allow a respectful amount of space and reflection before I write about it. In any case, whatever I do write will focus on my travels in the eastern part of the country and not the tragedy, out of respect for my fellow teacher and her family.

So here's the final installment of Iman and Joe in Bhutan:

The next day, and early morning Teacher on Duty start, I got a package from the Gup’s (like the mayor) daughter, containing letters and packages from home! Thank you Elsie, Ed, Hans and Liz, Linnea, and my Mom for making an ordinary day like my birthday! Included among the great letters and gifts were 5 copies of The Stranger, the book Linnea and I published in May. I had been anticipating this for months. To see the work in person was surreal. Our names on the cover. A real book, that I wrote and Linnea illustrated…. I donated one (signed) copy to the school, and read it to all my classes that day. I told them that it is proof that they can be authors too. The name on the cover of a book is a regular person, like them or me (yet, there are some books in our library that have no author attributed, which makes the concept of authorship a bit harder to explain. “But Miss, this book has no author.” “Well, it does, someone wrote those words, but they didn’t put the name on it.”). 

That weekend, Joe and I had planned to visit Martin and Tara in Bumthang, but Tara came down with something. We postponed to the next weekend and prayed for her swift recovery. Since the weekend marked the date of our first meeting, we decided instead to visit Trongsa, the town 2 hours to the east of me. It is situated on the side of green sloping mountains, with an impressive dzong that taunts you an hour before you actually reach the town. On Saturday, we walked to the hotel to find a ride and got lucky after a ten-minute wait. The driver, a man from Bumthang, worked for the Royal Insurance Company of Bhutan. He had a cold, but was jovial and talkative, and gave us a pomegranate to dissect as we rode. We reached Trongsa just in time for the bank to close, to my dismay, and bid our driver friend farewell. 

Since it was a special occasion, we had indulged and booked a room at the Yangkhil resort. The resort is very peaceful with fountains, flowers, prayer wheels, and rooms with white linens and small porches where you can sit and take in the view of the bright white dzong nestled in the steep jade mountains. After getting acquainted with the resort, we walked into town to do a little shopping and visit the dzong. As we walked, some extroverted kids on dilapidated bikes struck up a conversation with us and asked for a picture and some money. Whoa! My students would never be so forward with anyone, much less strangers. I’ve noticed this about children in towns versus children in villages, the former are far more outgoing and unabashed.

In town, we dropped some letters in possibly the cutest post office I have ever seen, tucked down a mossy stair, painted bright yellow and blue with flowers out front. We found a shop, in fact the first shop we visited, that sold camera memory cards. Fantastic luck, since Joe’s card was full and he had forgotten the cord to download the pictures onto the computer. We also purchased a celebratory bottle of Raven wine for later. We ate lunch at a little hotel, the Olympics on in the background and a friendly grandfather teasing his granddaughter. After a meal of dal (lentils cooked like a soup), vegetables, cheese momo, and rice, we headed down to the dzong via a long stairway behind Trongsa’s main road. In front of the dzong, an archery match was taking place, and we also saw our tag-along boys roving up and down the road to the dzong.

This dzong boasts an ancient cypress tree directly before the entrance that towers far above the roof. As we walked into the prayer wheel-lined entrance hall, a man pointed out a bat tucked into the eave of a prayer wheel. I have never seen a bat so close before- soft brown with a little snout, tightly closed eyes, with fingers on the ends of its wings. What strange creatures.  We roamed around the dzong, a dog following us as a guide, admiring the painted woodcarvings which are sometimes reminiscent of a similar Norwegian craft. We ran into a Dutch man and his guide briefly, and an impressive rooster. The temples are not open in this dzong, like in Punakha, so after inspecting the scenery, we exited back to the marvelous cypress and walked up to a modest chorten that we circled 3 times for good measure. Circling the chorten, a few kids playing soccer commented “Jarim, sarim!”, the name of a tv show, meaning “beautiful and handsome”.  As it was approaching evening, we began to walk back to the resort. Trongsa has a hidden path that follows a stream from the dzong up to the outdoor market. It is completely overhung with viney branches boasting monsoon soaked greenery. It would have been perfectly gorgeous, except for the trash that had found a home in the stream and bushes. The thing about Bhutan is that the trash is not hidden away. There’s still not a great system in place countrywide to deal with the trash, so it becomes part of the landscape, even in my village. When I think about it, we have a bigger problem with trash, at least in volume, in the US, but we’re pretty good at hiding it from the majority of people. Out of sight, out of mind. Here, it’s a visible problem. Which is worse?

At dusk, we arrived back at the resort and toasted to the sunset and our anniversary. Unlike the plains, the sunsets are quite short here due to the mountains. As we sat out, the Dutch man from the dzong passed by on his way to the dining room. He was a teacher and was spending his month of holiday in Bhutan, traveling to the far east of the country, which many tourists do not see. Impressive, and expensive! We too headed to dinner shortly after, thoroughly enjoying the luxurious place.

Breakfast on our balcony, then it was time to pack. We walked back to town to visit the outdoor market and get lunch. After lunch on a patio looking at the mountains, we went down to the taxi stand to wait for a ride. An hour of waiting, and we changed tactics and wrote up a sign declaring “Rukubji” and sat on the wall next to a prayer wheel to continue the wait. Just then, a pick-up truck pulled into the taxi parking and a gorgeous woman got out, looking like a movie star. She and her brother, the driver, came over and told us they could take us to Rukubji. They said they loved our sign. We squeezed in back with their sister in law and were off on the road. The brother and sister were amazingly kind and by the time we reached Chazam, they had invited us to come camping in Punakha where they live. We had tea at the hotel with our new friends, then got let out right at the turn to Rukubji. We thanked them wholeheartedly, and they made us promise to visit them when we could. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to visit them while Joe was here, but the sister and I are still in contact and I do hope to visit her before I leave.

Another week of school, walks, music, and good meals followed that memorable weekend. At the end of the week, we took the Friday off to go to Bumthang. Again, we waited at the hotel for a ride. This time, we waited for 3 hours. We had good company, as Tobgay, Ajim Yangzom’s 4 year old son, was there to entertain us. Tobgay speaks about 2 words of English, but that didn’t stop him from telling us elaborate tales in his own language. He also made sure we got plenty of puffed rice with our milk coffee and hung around as Joe played guitar with Leki and Sonam Tashi.

Finally the eastbound Trashigang bus roared up at about 1pm. We waved it to a jolting stop, jumped on, and it took off before we were even seated. The only seats open were the back. The very back. Riding in that bus was every bit like riding a rollercoaster, the white rickety one at Valleyfair. Usually, I imagine I am riding a horse when I’m on a bus here, because you have to hold yourself steady like you would on horseback as the bus clangs over bumps and careens around curves. It did not help that we had each finished a giant cup of milk coffee on this hot day immediately before boarding the rollercoaster. You can’t for one minute rest when you ride in the back, your head gets so jostled, so we had to bear our upset stomachs and heads upright, at attention. We reached the Chumey valley in about 3.5 hours time, greeted by Seussical pink fields of buckwheat and glowing yellow sunflowers. At the last chorten pass before the descent to Bumthang and Chamkar town, the bus driver circled 3 times, adding some insult to injury to our state. We got out as soon as the bus stopped, paid the driver, and wobbled away. We walked slowly and knock kneed into town, past cows grazing, and fields of marijuana. Marijuana grows rampant all over Bumthang, making it an actual “weed”, which I find hilarious. I have never been drawn to this or any other drug, but it is quite amazing to see a plant that is so demonized, that has police actively pursuing and jailing people for its growth and consumption, growing in abundance along the road (though it is condoned here as well).

We walked to Martin and Tara’s place just outside of the main town. When we arrived, we were greeted by hugs and fresh made pizza, a fabulous welcome. We spent the evening talking about everything, especially about Bhutan and the experience of living here. Worn out from our "thrilling" bus ride, we went to bed early in their cozy wood walled house.

We concocted a pan of potato and egg breakfast for Tara (Martin had school), and then left to hit the bank and some shops in town. Walking into town from Martin and Tara’s, you have two options: the road, or a back path that follows the river. We chose the path, and were treated to bright sunflowers, fruiting fairytale trees, and plenty of cows. We crossed the bridge over the Chamkar Chuu (river) to the bank, and as soon as I saw people milling about on the stairs outside its doors, I knew something wasn’t right. Sure enough, the “system” was down. No one could get money out. The tellers were waiting for the computers to get working again, and everyone was standing in anxious lines waving their banking slips. I got myself in line, though I knew it would be a long wait, because this was my only chance to get money out, the next day being Sunday. Sure enough, after a half hour, the teller at my window worked a bit of magic and I left with a wad of ngultrum.

The town has a lovely little cheese shop down the road from the bank, so Joe and I walked the kilometer to the shop and picked up a wedge of gouda, a bottle of apple cider, some dried cheese on a string (much like candy necklaces) called “chugo”, Bumthang honey, and a bottle of apple juice. We took turns swigging the apple juice on our walk back to town and munching on chugo.
We set out on our mission to find gifts in town. I hadn’t yet visited the handicraft stores in town since I get to buy lots of handwoven crafts and bamboo baskets from my neighbors. We visited all 3 gift shops in town, chatting with the owners and finding some fine gifts. We also got another set of guitar strings and some vegetables and fruit. Last, we stopped at my favorite restaurant that serves lassi. We drank our lassi and I got some curd (yogurt) for Martin so he could make yogurt. I wish I could make yogurt in Rukubji, but I have no way of keeping it cool afterward, resulting in a fizzy sour mess after a day of sitting on the counter. Sometimes, you just have to adjust to what is possible and accept that you can’t have everything you are used to having. Martin and Tara have a fridge, so I showed them how to make yogurt in their rice cooker during midterm break and they’ve kept it going since.

We arrived back at the house to meet Tara, then ambled down the back path again to visit the first palace and the Aman Kora. The First King's palace sits up from the river and is open to anyone at anytime. It isn’t restored or a museum, just a beautiful old structure that used to house the royals. Walking on the stone tiles, you can imagine what it was like to live here a hundred years ago. Now, only a few monks and a family of cats live in the palace. We walked across the lawn to the Aman Kora, a luxury hotel that sits next to the palace. Tara knows the manager, and we were invited to have tea and visit. The staff gave us a tour of the $1,500/ night rooms and amenities. We settled on a bank of couches in the dining area and treated ourselves to lemonades and snacks. The manager showed up in her usual bubbly fashion, then Martin came to join us, and we ended up spending the bulk of the evening chatting there together. We began walking home around 8:30, in the dark. There aren’t street lights along the roads, so we used our cellphone flashlights (the best part of my phone is the flashlight feature!) to guide our steps.

The next morning, we made pancakes for our hosts and had a leisurely time. Joe and I walked to town again to get screening material for my windows at home. The shop was a mix of harware and groceries, a Bhutanese Fleet Farm. We met up with Martin and Tara in the kitchen of the Leki Guesthouse where they were teaching the owner and her children to make carrot cake. We were all treated to a fabulous lunch, finished off with apples from the trees outside. We had planned on walking to the nearby temples after, so invited the children to come with us. A stop at home to get the Khuru set Tara had gifted Martin for their 5^th anniversary (wood), then back out to the road to walk to Jambey Lakhang.

We passed fields of burgundy-tipped rice paddies where farmers sat in bamboo stands with strings leading to them that they could shake if, ringing alarm bells on the ends, if they spotted a rogue animal trying to steal their harvest.  Jambey Lakhang is a 7^th century temple that is part of 108 temples built in one day by the orders of a Tibetan ruler. There are 4 chortens painted indicating the 4 directions. Inside, the temple has two giant prayer wheels at the entrance and a courtyard where a few elderly people were walking, spinning the wheels, and praying their beads. At the end of the courtyard is the doorway to the old temple. The 3 steps into the temple room represent the past, present, and future. The steps are sinking, so it is said that when the 2nd step sinks (the “present”), the world will stop. I guess it makes sense that if the present falls away, there really is nothing left. The inner temple boasts large golden statues around the perimeter and an altar of butter lamps (actually palm oil, in case you were wondering), offerings, and incense. There are also dice which a monk can give you to roll to see if you have good fortune. Joe rolled the dice, and of course, it was a good roll. We circumambulated the temple and spun the prayer wheels that surround it.

Bumthang is a valley of temples, so we walked down the road toward Kuje Lakhang. Kurje is the site where Guru Rimpoche subdued the demons of the valley and also where the 3 past kings are honored with chortens. Joe and I walked with the children up to the temples. The first had a giant statue of Guru Rimpoche, and not much else inside it except two monks taking a nap by the window. The next had an antechamber where you test yourself by squeezing through a dark u-shaped tunnel in the rock. If you make it, you’re good. If not, well… Thankfully we both made it. 

In the courtyard, we caught Tara and Martin and headed down to the river to test the Khuru set. Khuru is like darts, but long range. The target is about ½ a soccer field away and the darts are hefty with wooden bodies and long sharp noses. The kids were pretty good at it since this is a game they play from the time they can hold the darts. Joe was also surprisingly skilled, though the rest of us were not. We spent a quiet last night playing Scrabble with Martin and Tara, knowing we’d have to leave early the next morning to catch the bus. We woke at sunrise and walked to the bus before the 7am departure, reviewing our lovely time with Martin and Tara and appreciating the early morning scenery of cows, fields, and flowers of the valley edged by pine blanketed mountains.

Back in Rukubji, we planned for the week ahead, Joe’s last week. We’d have to leave on Thursday in order to make it to the immigration office early enough on Friday so they could process Joe’s visa extension. I also needed to see the dentist on Friday to fix my uncooperative retainer (again). It would be a short week at school indeed. On Tuesday, we walked up to say goodbye to Gangamaya, wearing our 'school dress' (gho and kira), which impressed her and made her giggle. Wednesday, we went to the hotel for a farewell dinner, which coincided with the arrival of an important government official, so everyone was quite busy. Still, they treated us to a good meal, after which we gave Leki Tshering a final guitar performance of “Hallelujah”. Joe told the boys to take care of me and they all gave their word. My heart sighed as I helped Joe pack up his things that night, though I knew we’d have a few more days together before I was alone again.

On Thursday morning before heading to the road for the bus, we went to school for breakfast with the Principal and Dema. We brought the buckwheat pancakes and French press coffee (the pancakes were a hit, the coffee was not) and they gave us a spread of puri (fried flat bread), fried chana (chickpeas), aloo dum (spicy potatoes), and tea momo (steamed dumplings without filling). Dema also gifted Joe with a hand-woven silk scarf for his mother. We thanked them profusely and then went down to assembly where Joe gave a small goodbye speech. Joe made sure we got a staff picture, as well as pictures of each class, in front of the school. He’s going to print these and send them to the school. The kids were very sad to see him go, and several ran up to us as we were leaving with letters. I began to think what it would be like when I left the school. They’d only known Joe a month, but I am their ‘Miss’ and will have seen them through a whole school year. There will be tears. 

Back at my house, we picked up our bags and took a picture with Am Tandin, which Joe is also sending to her since she calls me her ‘buum’ (daughter) and will appreciate a visual reminder of the funny foreigner who spent a year in her house. We caught the bus just in time and were lucky to be seated near the middle behind a very cute and flirty baby with the fattest cheeks I’ve ever seen. The requisite 7 hours later, we were back at the bus station in Thimphu hailing a cab to get up to a friend’s place where we’d stay two nights before going to Paro.

In Thimphu, we decided to have some fun even though we had errands to run. We got up and out early on Friday and walked to the immigration office. There, we went from one desk to another, visiting almost every desk in the tiny office until we had the requisite signatures,  stamps, and payments made. After, we walked to the hospital and put my name down to get my retainer fixed (once and for all!) by the orthodontist. Luckily, I saw our school caretaker’s brother who works in that ward and he helped me get in to see the right person. I was in and out, with the retainer filed and pain-free in less than an hour, at no cost (not paying for medical care still surprises me).

Back out on the Thimphu street, we could hear drums, rumbling horns, and chanting. Looking down from the hospital road, we saw a congregation of people and monks at the police grounds. Apparently a city-wide blessing was taking place, headed by the Je Khenpo (chief abbot and spiritual leader of Bhutan). We had heard the chanting and instruments the night before and had now located their origin. We stopped back at the house for lunch and then decided to track down the Takin, national animal of Bhutan. There is a Takin reserve on the outskirts of Thimphu where the animals roam in a fenced area with several kinds of deer. After proclaiming I knew how to get there, we hailed a cab after an hour of walking a more than a mile in the wrong direction.The Takin are elusive, even in their own reserved area, but we spotted a few of them. They are strange animals: a shaggy deer/goat/bear. Hard to imagine, I know. They seem mythical, a perfect national animal for Bhutan.

As we walked down from the reserve, Joe spotted a sign for mini-golf. What? He dragged me in the gate, and I’m glad he did. My first ever round of mini-golf would take place in Bhutan. We were greeted by a retired forestry officer who had discovered mini-golf in the 60s during his time in Europe. He had built the entire course himself and planted its lush surrounding gardens. He gave us our ball, scorecard, and clubs and then hurried to sweep off the concrete obstacles. As we putted around the course, he checked in and gave us pointers in a grandfatherly way. For all its unmechanized simplicity, the course was harder than expected. I won with a great deal of beginner’s luck. We left the proprietor with high praise and well wishes for his enterprise and walked into the city for dinner. What a perfect “date night”: visiting some animals, mini-golf, dinner on a patio.

After a nice and easy morning, we walked down to the bus station and caught the Paro bus for a mere 44 nu a piece (less than a dollar for a 2 hour ride, wheras a taxi would cost 1000-2000 nu, or 20-40 dollars). The bus dropped us off on the main street of Paro town where some kind of variety show was taking place amidst a large crowd in the town square. We peeked over heads to check it out, but apart from a man singing sporadically, not much else was happening. We decided to unload at our hotel, the Dechen Hill Resort which had been the BCF landing pad for the group when we arrived in January. The staff welcomed us into their empty resort and showed us our room, which was above the one I had occupied in January. We were hungry from our travels and skipped lunch, so we walked into town along the dirt road, following the fences of rice paddies. Paro is a stunning valley, and more so when the rice is growing, creating a lush green expanse between the guardian mountains.

In Paro, we found a quaint restaurant after some searching. Restaurants are usually on the 2^nd floor, so you have to do a little more work to see the offerings and decide if you want to eat there. We shared noodles and rice and curry, then walked through the town and back to the resort. Paro quickly transitions in a few short blocks from paved streets with businesses along each side to dirt farm road lined with small wooden shops and rice paddy.

The next morning, we arranged for a taxi ride to the trail head for Takseng.  As a foreigner, you learn quickly that taxi drivers will need to know you aren’t a tourist, or you’ll be paying an outrageous (by Bhutanese standards) fare. Taxi fares aren’t fixed by time here, and are clearly variable depending on the driver and if you are Bhutanese or not. This was the case with our driver, and though I don’t like to negotiate price, it was necessary in this case since he was charging us more than what we were paying for our 2 night accommodation. (I only mention this point because I find it to be inconsistent with how I am generally treated by business people in other enterprises here.)

This was my second trip to Takseng, and this time the scenery was greener and wetter than it had been in the winter. We hiked the wooded ascent to the “Tiger’s Nest”, stopping frequently to take in the majesty of the view and the forest. Near the top, what had been a frozen ice sheet banking a cliff in January was now a plummeting waterfall that sprayed us like a ride at an amusement park. Up, up, up the many steps to the temple, only to find that they were closing for the lunch hour. I had forgotten this detail, which was why when we had climbed in the winter with BCF, we had gotten an early start. Joe was happy with the climb as it was and decided it would be alright to descend without seeing the inside, though I regretted my poor memory had resulted in this unfortunate timing.

The walk down was accompanied by the many tourists we’d caught at the top and a group of boisterous high school age students from Thimphu. We saw grey langurs on the way, swinging from the trees. We stood and watched them, letting the noisy students get a head start. There’s a cafeteria at the half point, so we stopped for tea, called our taxi, and ordered lunch for when we arrived back in town. We met an American woman working in Bangladesh, and found out she’d be on the same flight as Joe the next day. We also discovered she'd worked for Wellstone’s final campaign, which I volunteered for in high school. The world can be so small. The walk down was a lot trickier as it began to mist, making the path slick like wet clay. I was glad we took time to appreciate the scenery on the way up, as my eyes were glued to the mud trying to steady my feet on the way down. We arrived to find our taxi waiting and got back to town where we ate momo (steamed, filled dumplings), rice and curry, and tea.

I was acutely aware that this was Joe’s last day in Bhutan. In the morning, he’d be on a plane heading back to the US. I didn’t want to dwell on this, but my mind kept returning to the thought, washing me with a preview of lonely sadness. We had a sweet evening at the hotel and enjoyed dinner in the deserted dining room. In the morning, we packed up the bags and took a walk down the road to spend some time in the beauty of Paro before saying goodbye. Though we knew this would be easier than saying goodbye the first time in January, it was still hard to know that we’d have to return to our lives apart from each other for another few months.

The taxi arrived and we held on to each other in the back, silently watching the road and fields. At the airport, we hugged, cried, and kissed. I decided it would be better to say goodbye outside the doors and let Joe go from there. Still an hour until the plane’s departure, so I got in the cab and went back to town where I could watch it take off without being tempted to buy a ticket and board it. I cried without shame the whole ride back into town. The tears kept coming all day, because now I was alone again. I have friends here, but a partner is different. I knew we’d be back to phone calls and emails, which I look forward to enthusiastically, but there’s nothing like being in the company of the person. I steadied myself with the thought that we’d already spent twice as much time apart as we had left to go. The time would pass, and I knew I needed to enjoy this last bit.

I got back to Thimphu on the bus, and the next day, back to Rukubji. As it turned out, it took Joe about a week to make it home due to a special ticket arrangement we’d made through a friend. He weathered this with grace and made it back to Minneapolis safely.

Now, it’s the last day of September. Joe’s tutoring and playing music in Minneapolis. I’m enjoying my time with my students, trying to wrap up our lessons in time for annual exams near the end of November. It was such a gift to have him here, and now when I talk to him about Rukubji, he knows the cast, the setting, and can understand more deeply the experience I am having. There’s no way I can tell the whole story, take the whole picture. His visit gave him insight, made this a shared experience. That will be important to me as I transition back to life in the US, where few people will really understand what this experience was for me.

So what's present now? Our Annual Concert Show. This two-night event brings out the entire community to watch our students perform a mixture of traditional and modern dance and song. Tonight, 15 students and I will dance the Electric Slide. You'll have to imagine this scene, since the only footage I can get is on traditional film since my camera isn't cooperating anymore. Old-time slideshow when I return? 

Part 3

They say the rain stops

The day we bathe in flowers.

Then we light our fires.

It has been raining for 3 whole days and nights non-stop. Is this really the end of the monsoon? My neighbors console me with the fact that on the 22^nd of September, Blessed Rainy Day, the rain will stop. Then it will get really cold again. I am curious to see if this will actually happen, but they seem quite serious that it will. I will be celebrating the national holiday of Blessed Rainy Day in Lheuntse, an eastern dzongkhag (district), where my friend Reidi from BCF is teaching. Apparently, we get up at dawn and bathe in rainwater with flower petals in it, which will wash away our sins. What an amazing holiday. I will be sure to report on that adventure afterward.

Now, on to Part 3 of “Joe and Iman Gallivanting in Bhutan”:

Opening the door to the house I had been living in for the past 6 months I wondered what Joe had thought it would be like, versus what he was seeing. Did the vision match reality? Perhaps the spare interior shocked him a bit with its lack of furniture. No matter. He put on some tunes and we began unpacking. Within an hour, Joe had spruced up my house, mouse proofed the kitchen, and reorganized so his things slid in smoothly next to mine. When I came out with our lunch, I saw a home, not the house I had lived in these past months. If you’ve ever lived somewhere temporarily, you know how hard it can be to make your surroundings into a home. Sometimes you wonder what the point is: you’re just going to leave it eventually. I began to see the point. You’re going to leave everything one day, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make your space beautiful and comfortable. It wasn’t just reorganizing and putting another mat down, it was having Joe singing, filling the space with his laughter and voice, that made it feel like home. In some way, I felt like I got to come home for a month, though Joe is the one who came to me.

As evening settled in, we took a short walk up to the suspension bridge that leads to school, patted some cows, and said hello to “Chunku”, my neighbor’s chicken who was pecking around the soaked, cow pie paved ground. I also got a not so friendly bite from a leech between the toes. In Bhutan, the leeches live in the mud during the monsoon, lying in wait until they contact some easily available skin to suck. Sometimes it’s a cow. Sometimes it’s your foot, or your hand (be wary of splashing in puddles!). We returned home and spent the rest of the evening playing the guitar I had bought Joe during midterm break for this very purpose.

The next morning, we got up before the sun since I was Teacher on Duty and prepared for the 7 am start of a day at school. After a solid breakfast of oatmeal and coffee (Joe brought me great coffee from New York City!), I got in my kira and we packed Joe’s gho so he could get a lesson in putting it on from the principal. I’ve been talking about Joe coming to visit for a few months, and the kids knew he’d be showing up that day. They’d been asking me a million questions about him in the weeks leading up to his arrival. His reputation preceding him, we walked into the multipurpose hall and all heads lifted from their books to ogle our newcomer, then turned to whisper and giggle in friends’ ears. Joe jumped right in, going over to the Class IV table and sitting down to help with some boys’ letter writing and reading. I helped my students as usual and answered their curious queries about “Sir Joe”.

After the study hour, we headed up to the principal’s house to address the gho. It was funny to see my serious principal ask Joe to de-pants, then hug his midsection as he adjusted the folds of the gho and wrapped them around the back. The whole thing was wrapped up by the gera (belt) that Dema, the principal’s wife and my good friend and fellow teacher, had woven especially for Joe. I learned the process quickly from this tutorial, so the principal didn’t have to dispense any more hugs. I have no clue how people put these on by themselves and have even more respect for my little boys who do it so well every single day with no help (though some are better at it than others...)

That day Joe came to all of my classes and introduced himself to the kids, and they introduced themselves to him. Like me on my first day, there was a lot of “can you say your name again?”. The kids have a tendency to pronounce their very foreign-to-western-ears names in a shy whisper at the limit of audibility. It took me nearly two months to get all the names down correctly- so I didn’t have high expectations for Joe since he’d only be here for a month. The kids had many questions for him and he answered them graciously. I was enthusiastic to teach with Joe present. I have worked really hard to develop the routines and relationships I have now in my classes. To have the chance to show someone who cares about that hard work is a thrill. I honestly miss getting observed by other teachers like I did in the US.

After morning classes, we headed home to make lunch, famished. For some reason, teaching here makes me hungrier than at home. I suppose it’s because I eat breakfast so early and then eat lunch at nearly 1pm, with no real breaks between that time. We went back to school for the 2 afternoon classes, and then “culture practice” afterward. The students are preparing for the annual culture show and concert, which will be September 28^th and 29^th. There was no evidence of a real plan, so we did our best to help out and control some of the chaos. At about 4:30, we walked home, with an edge of exhaustion from a first day, and a first day back. Still, we mustered the energy to go for a walk, like I usually do. We walked up the mountain to Gangamaya’s house to visit and buy some eggs. 

Gangamaya is my student Vim’s mother, a gregarious and generous woman. She speaks some English and we always have a great time chatting while her TV blares some kind of Hindi movie or American pro-wrestling in the background of her small hut of a house. She was eagerly awaiting Joe’s arrival as well and greeted him with a big smile and handshake. Her husband was also there, which was new since he is usually away for work on the Dochula pass. We sat and drank sugary tea with them while they asked Joe about his travels. After some time, we were gifted with the eggs (which I always try to pay for, and Gangamaya always refuses) and some greens, and headed out to the road to walk back to Rukubji. Eggs for dinner that night, a treat! The eggs here have yolks like black-eyed susan petals. They are like no eggs I or Joe has ever tasted.

The next day at school, with a later start of 8:00, we figured out a schedule for Joe. As those who have been following my year at this school know, our school is understaffed. There is always one class without a teacher, each period of the day (6 teachers + 7 classes = problem). When Joe began planning his trip here, we discussed him volunteering at school, filling in these vacancies. He was all for it! Besides this good-hearted motive, what else would he do in Rukubji all day while I taught? As it turned out, he got Class III, II, and I. I handed him the library key and he was off to encounter the wild little ones. If he was tired after the first day of following me, I guarantee that paled in comparison to interacting with 1^st-3^rd graders of limited English all day. At least he got 6^th period off to regroup. I can say with confidence that the students he worked with each day absolutely loved him. A few times, walking to the staff room to get something I forgot, I’d see him teaching a dance in the courtyard to Class II, teaching a new “Word of the Day” with enthusiasm, or controlling the mild chaos of Class I in the library.

If the little ones loved him, the older students revered him. One student came up to me after school before we left and said “Sir Joe is so wonderful. He is like a Hindi hero!” I had to get some explanation on that one- apparently she thought he looked like a Hindi movie star. Students constantly asked when he would come into our class again, told me how happy they were that he was at the school, and made numerous comments about his kindness and good looks. They were also very impressed by his musical and dancing abilities and a few days into his stay, we had taught about 15 students the Electric Slide for the culture program (which we will be performing on September 28^th!). Nalay even composed a song for him to the tune of "Mr. Sun" ("Oh Mr. Joe, Joe, Mr. Kind Joe, please come walk with us!").

Of course, I took Joe to meet my surrogate family at the Chazam hotel during his first week. We walked with Nalay, Tshering Lhaden, Kinley Bidha, and the rest of the Chazam crew. We arrived and everyone greeted him with handshakes and hugs, as if he were already their dear friend. We were treated to a lovely, chili-filled dinner and conversation by Leki Tshering, one of the cooks and “older brothers” at the hotel. While there, Ajim Yangzom invited us to help with the potato harvest at the family’s farmhouse across the river on Sunday. Joe had just come from working on a farm in Western Massachusetts for the past month. We had also applied as partners to the Farm Beginnings program in the spring and were eagerly awaiting our acceptance to the course that would teach us how to get a farm up and running in Minnesota in the near future (we since have been accepted! Woo hoo!!!). So the prospect of digging potatoes on a Sunday was music to our ears.

The week continued with school during the day, walks in the evenings, and fine dinners that I had fun inventing with whatever we had available. It is so much more fun and delicious to cook for more than one. We also began the jigsaw puzzle sent by Joe’s mom, did numerous crosswords, sang and danced, and just relaxed.

On Saturday morning, as I lit the gas to boil water, there was a puttering sound and then, no fire. There was no more gas in the cylinder. This is not an easy fix in rural Bhutan. You can’t just go to the shop and refill your cylinder. Additionally, there seems to be a shortage of gas in the country as a whole. We ended up boiling water on Am Tandin’s stove upstairs so we could eat our oatmeal and have coffee before school. I asked the other teachers at school what I should do, and they phoned the hotel to see if there was gas there, but no one was sure. After the half-day at school, we walked to the hotel at Chazam to check. No gas, Am Dema told us. We ate some lunch there, since we couldn’t cook at home, and then headed back to the house empty handed. I called Dema at school and she sent over her electric curry cooker so we could cook until we figured out a better solution.

On Sunday, after buckwheat pancakes cooked in the curry cooker and coffee heated by Am Tandin’s lovely stove, and a listen to a podcast, I pulled on my “chulham” (golashes) and Joe put on his old sneakers and we headed for the farm as planned. On the way, we stopped by the school soccer field to see the archery match that was taking place. Of course, the principal, our Dzongkha “Lopen” (teacher), and school caretaker were all there taking turns attempting the distant target. We took our leave after watching a round or two and walked the road to Chazam, past our fabulous Guru cave, under the eaves of the white pines and monsoon-fed unchecked undergrowth. We arrived at the hotel just in time for some lunch of cabbage, eggs, and rice, after which we continued our walk down to the white Nikkachuu bridge across the river and along the road on the other side to the farmhouse’s trail. When we arrived at the trail, Sonam Tashi, another cook and “older brother” at the hotel was there to meet us with a wave and smile. He had just come back from Trongsa with the family’s father and hotel proprietor, Passang, where they had sold a load of potatoes. He led us up to the field and helped us get started digging. Most of the family had gone in for a break, but the kids were still running around and proved to be quite helpful in the digging process. The digging forks in Bhutan are bent at the end, so you just whack it into the dirt and pull off to one side, then whack down off center of where you just whacked and pull off to the other side. You continue to do this without lifting your body upright for an entire row of spuds. The Bhutanese farmers choose to cut away the green tops to allow for easy whacking. While you move down a row, the kids scramble to collect the uncovered potatoes. After the first go at a row, you go down it once more with the fork to shake the clods of dirt free and find any reluctant potatoes. Again, the kids make sure no potato is left unearthed. I understand why farmers have a lot of kids… After digging up about 5 or 6 rows, we got called up for tea at the farmhouse. Joe and I were ushered in to sit next to Passang and Aja Norbu (Passang’s father in-law). We had a lively conversation with Passang. He even asked us about the possibility of sending a compound bow from the US to Bhutan, which we thought was probably not a legal thing to do, as they are considered weapons. Passang gave us a ride back to the hotel in the back of his truck.

At the hotel, I asked Passang if there was anyway he could help us get some gas for my cylinder. He got on his phone, made some calls, and in a few minutes he had Leki Tshering hauling a full gas cylinder up from the storage area into his truck. Apparently there was to be a delivery of gas from Pheuntsholing (as southern border town with India) to Wangdue and he would be going tomorrow to fill the hotel’s 16 cylinders. He said he’d give me their last full cylinder in exchange for my empty and he’d fill it again in Wangdue. I was so relieved and grateful! We got in the truck again with the cylinder and headed for Rukubji. As we talked on the way, Passang invited Joe to come along the next day to Wangdue with him. It would be an early morning, he’d pick him up at 5 am. Joe happily agreed. He’d get to see a town that we wouldn’t be spending time in during his stay, he could help Passang with the cylinders, and pick up a few groceries. We confirmed the next day’s plan, shook Passang’s hearty hand, paid him for the gas (nearly 700 nu), and thanked him profusely.

In the morning, with impeccable punctuality, Passang called and gave us a 10-minute warning. Joe got his things together and headed out the door to the road to meet Passang’s cylinder-loaded truck. It was funny to have Joe gone that day, it was almost as if I was back to when he wasn’t here. His momentary absence reminded me that this is how it would be again after he left. I decided not to think too hard about that and eagerly awaited hearing the tales he’d surely have after a day in Wangdue with Passang.

Sure enough, around 5pm, Joe was back at the house with stories. Passang reminds me slightly of my father, since both are very well connected, humorous, and know how to get a deal anywhere. Joe took out the pictures he had taken, showing me Passang and himself at Pelela in the early morning light, the line for the gas, a boy in a Twins t-shirt, and Passang on his phone with a soda in front of him. Classic. Joe also got to meet my friend Sonam Zam, Passang’s sister in-law, who lives in Wangdue and treated them to home cooked breakfast and lunch. Overall, it was a busy day and quite an experience for Joe. I’m glad he got to go, because a trip to Wangdue is usually frenetic, but it is the place where people in Rukubji must go to get nearly anything done. In short, a trip to Wangdue is a look into how the gears of modern life turn in Bhutan.

Up next: Trips to Trongsa, Bumthang, and then back to Thimphu and Paro for Joe’s departure.

A New Take: Part 2

He came with fresh eyes,

hands outstretched to kids and cows,

and a ready smile.

The next day in Thimphu, we had an atypical breakfast of granola, yogurt, and espresso at the Ambient and then headed out to do some shopping for the return to the village. First stop: a gho for Joe. Even though I can count on one hand the times I’ve been in Thimphu, I felt a bit like an expert leading Joe around. Yes, I was his tour guide here and would be for the rest of the trip. We went to a shop I know of and like simply because the owner and I chatted for an hour about Rukubji the last time I was there, and he also pointed to me to the best tailor in Thimphu. While the owner wasn’t in, his family was, including a precocious little guy who kept throwing a ball over the counter so that I’d have to go retrieve it only for him to throw it again. In the end, he offered me and Joe some gummy candies for our efforts. The shops for gho and kira are quite unlike any other clothing shops. Stacks of multicolored, multi-patterned cloths bolts line the entire length and width of every available space in the shop. It can be overwhelming and tricky if you don’t know where to start and if the shopkeeper doesn’t speak much English (like in this shop). I asked the shopkeeper, an older woman, in my still limited Dzongkha, if we could see a few gho that might fit this tall, lanky westerner. She brought out several patterns and colors and we decided on a traditional reddish checked pattern. Then, to try it on (and teach me how to put it on for Joe!). The Ama (older woman) got a white ‘wanju’ (under blouse) and put it on Joe. Then she wrapped the bathrobe sized gho around him, adjusted the sleeves so the wanju could be folded as cuffs, and then closed the front of the gho and made the bottom hems even before wrapping both sides back, pushing in the pleats, and tying it all together with a ‘gera’, or hand-woven belt. She stepped back to admire her work, clucking and telling him he looked like a ‘dasho’, or official. High praise! We bought the whole set, including some knee high grey socks, and thanked the Ama and little guy for all of their help. 

A typical gho/kira shop in Thimphu

Thimphu from above (January)

Back out on the bright streets of Thimphu, we headed to another type of clothing shop to buy a tie for my student Nalay. I had promised Joe would teach her to tie a tie if she taught him how to wear a gho. We found the perfect pink and black checked silk tie. A half-day already spent, we decided to rest so Joe could recover from the 2 days of travel before we got on a bus in another day. Returning to the Ambient, we saw a few of my friends that I’d met the last visit to Thimphu and they kindly invited us out that night to celebrate Emma’s last night in town. Emma had been working with BCF, interviewing teachers to advise the program about teacher retention. She had interviewed me earlier in the village and I had really enjoyed our conversation. She was presently working on her presentation, trying to find a fitting title. We promised we’d think of some good puns and get them to her by evening.

“Rukub-gee I hate to leave!” Oh yes, and they got better from there…

A note about the Ambient: it is on Norzin Lam and is a trendy hot spot for expats in Bhutan. The owners are supremely kind and have a hilarious little boy who loves to chat with everyone. Here, I have met more than a few charming people engaged in fascinating work in Bhutan. They also make delicious food and have an espresso machine. What more could you ask for? The hotel directly above is owned by the Ambient, and made a great landing pad for Joe’s arrival in Bhutan.

My friend Dave, another BCFer, ended up coming from his southern post for the fun of it and met us, now better rested, at, of course, the Ambient. I was really happy that Joe got to meet Dave, which I didn’t think would happen. Dave has been on the other end of the phone to help me through difficult situations, to laugh with, is wickedly intelligent, and a great musician. I knew they’d have a lot to talk about. Joe and Dave got geeky about music over dinner and then we headed for an evening stroll to the National Memorial Chorten. The Chorten is lit up at night, à la Tour Eiffel. We circled around three times and then were ushered out by the caretaker monk, as it was now 9pm. From there, we descended to the Taj Hotel, which is one of the swankiest hotels I’ve ever set foot in. This was the site of the going away party. Walking in, we left any trace of Thimphu or Bhutan behind. We could have been in any city in the world. As we neared the lounge, we heard the belting of an American song by a great voice. We were greeted by a bank of expats and Thimphu hipsters and settled onto some couches to drinks and conversation. I don’t think this is the Bhutan Joe had been expecting, especially considering my descriptions of village life over the past 6 months. But this is Bhutan too. All of it. The village, Thimphu’s bustle, the Taj. I recently listened to an interview where Michael McCullough described how easily we can see the diversity within our own perspective, but have a hard time seeing the diversity in others. And it is the same with Bhutan. What’s the “real” Bhutan? All of it. It is as diverse as anywhere and to think otherwise is a mistake that we’re all prone to make because of the images we’ve seen and the preconceptions we have.

We had a great time, singing along with the singer and her deejay, finally getting up to dance all around the lounge to “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease. We hugged everyone and danced our way out before midnight. The Ambient had given us a key to the outer gate since we’d be out past 10pm. We walked the surprisingly busy blocks to the hotel, stepping past the first sleeping homeless person I’d seen in Bhutan in the alley of the hotel. I was so shocked by this, I thought the man was actually dead. But, luckily he wasn’t, just a poor soul looking for rest and warmth beneath a garbage bag under the eaves in the alley. This is also Bhutan. We fell asleep, a little shaken, to the sounds of the barking night raiding dogs. 

180 view of the road from the West right before Rukubji

The next day, with reloaded bags, we left the Ambient before opening (meaning we had to wake up one of the workers to let us out, poor guy!) for the bus station. Next stop: Punakha.

We arrived at the bus station in time and I bought us a cup of tea from the vendors and a bag of apples for the ride. It is apple season now and they are delicious! Our seats: 1 and 2, thankfully. Joe’s first ride on a bus didn’t need to be of the roller coaster variety that you’d experience sitting in the back (though we did get this opportunity later during his stay). The bus climbed up out of Thimphu, the forest tangling deeper and thicker along the side of the road the further from the big city we rose. The bus stopped for tea and breakfast and then continued down toward the valley of Punakha. We jumped ship at Lobesa’s market to get some produce, not knowing if we’d get another chance later. Eggplant, tomatoes, greens, cilantro, limes, mangoes, passion fruit, bananas... lower altitude produce that is hard to come by up in Rukubji. We caught a taxi down to Kuruthang and unloaded in front of Kuruthang Middle Secondary to stay with my friend and fellow BCF teacher Noorin.

Noorin greeted us with hugs and a smile and a cool glass of apple juice. We chatted for a while in her small, yet homey school quarter. Unlike me, Noorin lives on the school grounds. Her living space is a large front room, a small kitchen closed off by a door, and a bathroom area, also closed off by a door. Her space is slightly smaller than mine, as I have a separate bedroom, but not much. The biggest difference is that she's not able to get away from whatever's happening at school, like I am in my village house. That separation between school life is sometimes necessary and vital to my sanity and ability to give a lot when I'm at school. It's also stickily hot in Kuruthang, another main difference. Noorin's got a fan. I've got a 'Bukari' (wood-burning stove). 

We headed out for a lunch of momo (steamed, stuffed dumplings) at one of Noorin’s favorite spots. I was thrilled that Joe and Noorin got to meet, since Noorin has been such a great friend throughout this journey and is an incredible woman of many talents and accomplishments She taught in Hunza and China and northern Ontario and her stories, example, and advice are invaluable. At lunch, Noorin and I joked about our chili eating ability that we've honed during our time here, rating the 'eazay' (chili sauce that goes on the momo) at a 5, while Joe rated it at an 8 out of 10. 

After lunch, Joe and I packed a bag with water and a camera in search of the Punakha Dzong. We walked the several kilometers of road that follows the river, lined by paddy fields. Rice is a curious thing for Minnesota kids like us, so we bent to inspect the grainless shoots. Now, the paddies boast purple grains at the ends of their stalks- a transformation that took less than a month! We also passed a high school soccer tournament where one of the elder sisters of my Chazam hotel family was cheering. Soon the impressive Dzong came into sight. It was the 2^nd to be built by Zhabdrung Nawang Namgyal in the mid 1600s (the first was Simtokha, close to Thimphu). The white and red fortress is surrounded by bright flowers and the river on both sides. To reach it, you walk across an ancient cantilever bridge. A steep slope of steps then leads you up to the level of the temples and offices. We checked in with the guards who were curious about our lack of guide and my teaching location, and then entered the main courtyard. This courtyard sits high off the ground level, yet a giant tree spreads its branches from its center, giving the whole place a science fiction feel- as if we just walked into the place where the “tree of life” is housed. We walked reverently through a passage into the next courtyard and then up the steps to the main temple. Most Dzongs I’ve seen do not keep their temples open, so this is the first I’ve seen. And it was magnificent. Huge golden statues of the Buddha and Guru Rimpoche gazed at us from behind the altar. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with depictions of the Buddha’s life and other intricately painted themes. Hundereds of unique golden statues housed behind glass stared in meditation the length of two walls. You cannot take pictures inside temples, but no words or snapshot could do this one justice. Joe and I knelt in front of the altar. Though we’re not Buddhist, a display of honor of such magnitude incites respect and veneration. We left in wonderment, walking back through the Dzong, down the steps, to a smaller temple that was closed. We spun the prayer wheels around the circumference, pet the ubiquitous temple cat, and continued our walk along the river. The path led us to the Longest Suspension Bridge in Bhutan, which I would estimate to be over a football field’s length. Surprisingly, we found traces of cow dung in the metal grates of the bridge- what cow would dare cross this span?! We have one such bridge in Rukubji leading to the school, but this one was far more thrilling to walk across, suspended so high from the ground for such great distance.

On the other end of the bridge, as if to welcome us, we met a man wearing a Minnesota Twins baseball cap. He just smiled and nodded when we tried to explain that we came from the state he was representing. We finished our walk along the other side of the river, stopping to dip in the monsoon-swollen water. Nearer to town we saw a group playing archery and stopped a while to watch them celebrate their good aim by dancing and singing. I have seen a lot of this since I’ve been in Bhutan, but witnessing guys with bows and arrows performing a coordinated dance and song in front of the target is still so enjoyable.

We made it back to Noorin’s around evening and decided to go out for dinner, as the lack of electricity would make cooking more challenging than pleasurable. After a good meal of rice and curries and dal (lentils), We settled down on Noorin’s floor to tea, chocolate, and conversation- a real sleepover party. Noorin had school the next day, so we saw her off before packing up and then heading in to town to find a taxi to take us up to Lobesa where we’d hope to catch a bus. We found one that happened to be like riding in a mobile club- dance music blaring. We piled our goods in and bid Noorin thanks and goodbye before jamming out of the school ground to our dance floor soundtrack.

Up at Lobesa, we paid the driver and waited in the beating sun. A few buses passed, but none had room for us. Finally, the ‘club taxi’ driver told us his friend could take us to Rukubji if we’d be willing to share the cab with others for a mere 300 nu a piece. Jackpot. We loaded into his van and were on our way finally to Rukubji. It was thrilling for me to point out the spots of the road I knew well or had stories about. Like the time Chimi (the caretaker at our school) and I waited at the junction of Phobjika and the road for and hour, burning cowpies for warmth while trying to hitch a ride back from a trip to Wangdue. We picked up a monk, an older intoxicated man, and a younger man who was the elder’s escort along the way. Soon, the fields of Rukubji rose into view. Here we were! My village. My home for the past 6 months. Joe was going to get to see all the things I’d been talking about. We unloaded at the unmarked turnoff (which now boasts our school sign- see picture) and began to walk the rocky road down to my house.

To be continued (again)….

New sign marking the road down to Rukubji