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.