Butter and lamps

plunging, up and down,

the forgotten ache milk takes

to give its butter

This is a haiku for churning butter. This past week I got to do so twice at my student Sonam Choden’s house. I had asked her to teach me to make “datse” (cheese) in the traditional way, and she happily agreed. Before you make the cheese, first you have to make butter, I found. I walked into the main part of Rukubji village, past our 3 chortens and tangly evergreen oaks to see Sonam and another student, Pemba Lham, waving to me from the front step of the house. Sonam’s house opens immediately into a traditional Bhutanese kitchen with a wood-fired stove that you feed wood into from a small hole in the base. The kitchen is basically built around the stove. It has a few holes on the top where you place pots to heat, or cover if you’re not using them. I love this kind of stove, even though I know it takes a lot of work to keep it going and can take longer to cook things. There’s no rush like there is in the US though, which became even more clear as we began the process of making cheese.

We began by churning the milk in a hand churn that is composed of stacked circular wooden boxes with a wooden plunger (trying to explain the set up makes me miss my lost camera). The milk sits in the churn for 3 days, after which you begin to churn it. The churn was set up in the living room in front of the TV and we set to work plunging up and down, watching coverage of the Thimphu Tsechu (festival) that had taken place last week. Churning is hard work! Despite the chill, we stripped down to our t-shirts, sweating. After a half hour, Sonam’s mother added hot water to the churn to help the butter float to the top. Then, when it was almost ready (after an hour!), she added cold water, which would help the butter condense and separate more fully. Then she unplugged a hole from the side of the churn, releasing the “dow” or buttermilk. Once the churn was half emptied, she took the top off and we saw what our work had produced: golden chunks of floating butter. The butter was scooped into a wooden box and rounded using some cold water (a small bit was reserved for me to take home). We poured the “dow” into a giant pot on the stove (only half the amount fit at a time) and Sonam set to work very gently dragging a paddle around the edge of the pot to get the curd to separate from the whey and clump together. As we sat there, we chatted in English and Dzongkha with her mother and their friendly cat nuzzled his way into purring sleep on my legs. 

Autsho, from Reidi's school

Reidi, Martin, and Me

Twins

The cheese began to show up in the pot and Sonam’s mother ladled out most of the whey (called “dachu”) into another pot before straining out the curd. The curd went into a bowl and she began squeezing it into generous balls, which she sells for nu. 20 a piece. She laughed about how some people make really small balls, but she thinks that’s not fair, so she makes hers nice and big (I’m proud to say I understood all this in Dzongkha). I’m buying from her from now on!  This process was repeated a second time with the remaining “dow”. The reserved “dachu” is given to calves for food or boiled for people to drink (as I’ve said, it’s my favorite drink). Once all the cheese was balled, Sonam’s mother washed up some greens and made a fabulous cheese and greens curry called “hentsi datse” served with rice and a glass of buttermilk. I had arrived at the house at 6pm, and we were eating dinner close to 9pm- another proof that time isn’t any concern. Things take as long as they will. Politely declining the invitation to sleep over, I walked home in the dark with my cellphone flashlight, which I’ve never done by myself, feeling a great sense of ease, connection, and happiness from the evening.

Now, a trip through September…

September tousled me as much as the growing fall winds have been. After Joe left, I dealt with a knock out case of strep throat. An innocuous fever yielded to an infection that left me bed-ridden for 4 days. Antibiotics and vitamin C from our Sephu Basic Health Unit did their work and I was back to school in the next week.

Shortly after, I had planned a trip for the holidays of Blessed Rainy Day and Wangdue Tsechu (festival for our district) to see my friend Reidi up in Lheuntse, which is a two-day trip to the northeast. As I waited for the bus to drop by Chazam on the Thursday before the holiday, unexpected events changed everything. Martha, a Canadian colleague teaching in the east, had become seriously ill and was getting worse. I found myself swept urgently to Mongar with the director of our BCF program and her driver, collecting Martin in Bumthang along the way. My fellow teacher passed away in the Mongar hospital as we were on our way. We reached the town in the middle of the night, driving straight to the vigil. I attended the cremation the next day, along with 9 other BCF teachers. It was a shocking and sad time for all of us, but we felt blessed to be there to say goodbye.

That night I stayed in Rangjung, where the teaching duo, Vicky and Ian, are posted. They have a lovely spot in a multi-family apartment house on the fringe of a rice paddy. It was comforting to be surrounded by friends and the beauty of their valley. Their town has quaint traditional style shops and a bright temple surveying from the top of a hill surrounded by winged chortens. The East offers spectacular scenery that is surprisingly in contrast to that of the West. The mountains are steeper, the valleys narrower. There’s tropical vegetation. Rice and maize populate the fields in place of potatoes and wheat. People speak Sharchop. Bhutan is not homogeneous and linguistic diversity accompanies climatic and floral diversity throughout Bhutan.  In my village, the people speak Lhenkey. In Bumthang, there’s Bumthap and Kengpa to name a few. With my now Dzongkha trained ear, I can hear these changes as I travel.

A breakfast of Martin’s famous pancakes in the morning to the soundtrack of Miles Davis, perusing Vicky and Ian’s striking photographs of their summer trek in Sakteng (farthest eastern corner of Bhutan), a tour of Vicky’s picturesque school, and then almost as soon as we’d come, we were hugging and saying goodbye. Martin, Reidi, and I had decided to take a convenient free ride back to Mongar courtesy of Vicky’s school bus driver as he was going to the town to spend the holiday with his family. 3 hours later, passing through Trashigang’s main town overlooked by the dzong, traveling up the winding road, we came into a holiday quieted Mongar. The shops were vacant, but luckily a little restaurant was open so we stopped in for lunch before our trip up to Autsho (‘ow-tso’). In town we crossed paths with Martin’s colleague Yeshey from Bumthang and were invited to his home to celebrate his son’s birthday and Blessed Rainy Day. We walked into his home and were greeted jovially by the other guests and his wife. His son entertained us with his childish antics, which included donning a batman costume. He and his wife generously treated us to drinks, food, and jokes. We left with faces stretched from laughter and piled into Reidi’s friend’s cab for the hour ride up to her school.

That night at Reidi’s, Martin made us potato pancakes and we sat on the floor talking until bedtime. In the morning, we made Martin an early breakfast and hurried out to the “bus stop” in front of a shop to wait for the Thimphu bus to arrive. After more than an hour, the Mongar bus showed up, but not the bus we were hoping for. After some detective work, we learned that the Thimphu-bound bus would not be coming as it was scheduled to every Sunday: the driver was “taking rest” because of the previous day’s festivities. Martin, true to his spirit, just hefted up his pack, gave Reidi and me a hug, and began to walk the road out of Autsho. Hitchhiking is common and quite easy, as I’ve explained, but we still watched him with awe for his adventurousness. A car came by as we were walking back to Reidi’s and we asked them to pick up Martin and drop him at the Gongola turn-off, which is the intersection of the north-bound Lhuentse road with the lateral east-west road that would deliver him west to Bumthang. 

After a nice and lazy morning in the house, we walked to the classroom building next door for dance practice with Reidi’s students. Her school’s annual concert show was approaching, as was mine, so she was working on teaching a dance to a popular American song by LMFAO. The dance was fantastic and I was thoroughly impressed. I had chosen a far easier route than choreographing and had taught my students the Electric Slide. We took a walk down to the river afterwards to take in the gorgeous drama of the rushing water and Autsho’s high pink cliffs.  At dusk, we cooked up a fine meal of pasta and got ready for the next day at school. In the morning, we donned matching purple kira and yellow tego (thanks Vicky!), fueling the intention that the students would ask if we were sisters. As we walked to school, students bowed, greeted us, and stared. The assembly proved just how much larger Reidi’s school is compared to mine. And how much bigger the students are since they go up to higher classes. After the requisite prayer, student speeches, announcements, lecture by the principal, and national anthem, we were released from the beating sun to first period. As planned, Reidi did her routine journal time with her class (which I found to be a great idea and wished I had adopted from the beginning with my classes), and then I introduced myself and launched into my lesson on haiku poetry. I used my book (a gift for Reidi) as an example and then had the students compose their own haiku about their favorite place. Her students enthusiastically took to the task. We repeated the lesson with her next classes, enjoying teaching together. After lunch, we got to teach yoga for physical education since the teacher was absent, which was quite hilarious for us and the kids. I took time to rest for the last bit of the day, since I had begun to feel ill. We took an evening stroll in the other direction down the river, under the tall trees that line the rocky pink ravine. We had a goodbye dinner at Reidi’s friend’s home, and then settled in for an early night since a taxi would be arriving by 5:30 am to ferry me to the intersection with the lateral road so I could catch the Mongar-Thimphu bus by 7:30 am.

The taxi never came, so we walked down to the shops to find it. After some coordinating, my bag was loaded into a taxi and I said goodbye to Reidi before hurtling down the rough road. We made it to the intersection by 7am and by 7:30, the rumbling of a bus was heard coming toward the market stand where I waited along with other hopeful passengers. Feeling quite ill by now, as I had not recovered from the previous day’s bout of sickness, I boarded the bus and hoped that I wouldn’t need to call any emergency stops. It was a long and eventful ride, which I would have appreciated more had I not been doubled over by illness. A landslide of rock blocked our way only a ½ hour into the ride, but was miraculously cleared by road workers within 20 minutes. We stopped every 30 minutes or so to pick up vegetables and crushed corn and farmers from the roadside. People were packed into any available crevice of the bus. Weighted by cargo, we climbed the steep mountains, through the eastern jungle, past plummeting waterfalls that washed over the road, with the pace of a weary tortoise. At the edge of Mongar dzongkhag, the landscape changed to one of higher altitude, less dense and tropical and more agricultural, reminding me of Rukubji’s environs. Around 4pm, a road sign read “Jakar 10km”. I tried to keep my patience as we slowly wound into Jakar town and pulled into the overnight parking spot. I leaped off the bus, bolting to purge myself of hours worth of unrelieved sickness. 

I phoned Martin, picked up some honey from a shop, and unexpectedly ran into Simon, an Australian BCF teacher posted to Wamrong in Trashigang, who was touring with his visiting parents. Simon had the driver he and his parent’s had hired take us to Martin’s where we were welcomed with warm hugs. Martin took care of me like a father, making me hot ginger water, letting me lie down on a well-made bed to rest. We spent a quiet night, Martin correcting papers, me sipping hot water, watching Barack Obama address the UN. In the morning, Martin got up with me to walk to breakfast with Simon and his parents and drop me off at the bus. Still feeling weak and ill, I said goodbye to Martin, feeling an abruptness in the departure, wishing I could stay with him in Bumthang for a few days. I made it home within 4 hours, relieved to be in my little village home, and collapsed onto my bed with the weight of the weeklong journey. Shortly after, Dave phoned and dropped by with his mother on their way to Trongsa. We chatted over tea (which was shamefully inadequate- I can’t believe I served Brits such awful tea), then toured around the village and school. The kids asked if they were my parents!

As soon as I got to school the next day, the heaviness of the previous week melted from me with the smiles of and greetings of my students. I felt a pang in my heart as I realized I have a few months left with these sweet children. That weekend, we put on our concert show. It was a fabulous event that brought out the entire community. People don’t go out after dark in Rukubji. There’s nothing to do and no lights, so everyone is always in by dusk until the dawn. Seeing the community out at the school was an event in itself and made the night lively. The show ran two nights, and on the second night we performed the Electric Slide, which was a hit. Also a hit was the unexpected dance the principal announced I’d be doing with Chimi (our caretaker) and Lopen Namgayla. Without hesitation, I got out there and hammed it up with my co-workers. Even the principal joined in. The crowed went wild. The villagers still talk to me about it. Watching my students dance, I felt an overwhelming love for them. I remembered meeting them in February, not knowing who they were. Now, when I looked at them on the stage, I could tell you their names, their stories, the things that make them unique and special. I also felt how important it is to maintain their culture. Being Lebanese-American, I know how important language, song, and dance have been to me in keeping connected to my Lebanese side. I prayed that the children would continue to appreciate and value their distinctive culture. They’re the ones who will keep it alive into the future.

The final act of the concert show? The principal announcing we’d take a day off on Monday.

That Monday (October 1^st )  was my second visit to Wangdue Geomba (monastery) in Sephu. It sits 40 minutes of walking past Chazam, on a dirt road and up some shortcuts. The walk ascends among the pines and spruces of a community forest, finally placing you in a surreal scene of twisting oaks that lead to the Goemba’s entrance. The Goemba itself displays bright red, black, yellow, and blue intricate paint against the white body. Dorji Lingpa, the great Terton Pema Lingpa’s kin, built this Goemba only with the approval of a mermaid deity who lives in the river below. It is also home to my friend Phurba, a monk who takes care of the food and tutors younger monks. Incredibly generous and engaging, Phurba and I became friends instantly when we met at the hotel at Chazam, (he grew up next door to the hotel family and drops by almost as often as I do). He immediately invited me to visit the Goemba, and it took me about 5 months to finally do so. I was rewarded with a personal tour of all the temples, including one that is painted entirely black with gold outlines depicting mermaids, curlicue waves, and clouds upon which float god-like figures and magical animals. It is my favorite temple room because it is so unlike any I’ve ever seen. The gold lines against the black give the room a night sky effect that stays with you long after you’ve left. There is a restricted temple room beyond the black one, dedicated to Yeshey Gonpo, the raven who guided Zhabdrung Nawang Namgyal to Bhutan in a dream. Women aren’t allowed in that room, but Phurba let me and Nalay peek in, giving us a view of the tiny painted room.

The last time I went, Nalay accompanied me and we drank tea with Phurba and lit some lamps for Joe’s safe journey to Bhutan just before I left to retrieve him from Thimphu. This time, I walked alone, carrying palm oil in my backpack to light lamps in remembrance of Martha, who passed two weeks ago. In Bhutanese tradition, you must light lamps in honor of the deceased on the 7^th, 14^th, and 21^st days after they passed. At the 49^th day, the spirit has finally moved on. A ceremony is held on the one-year anniversary. In fact, when I arrived at the Goemba, a one-year anniversary ceremony was underway and many villagers from Chazam were seated in the stone paved courtyard as monks handed them drinks and blessed food.

Phurba invited me in and cooked me a fabulous lunch of vegetables, egg, and rice before we went to the temple rooms to light the lamps. After lighting the lamps and saying prayers, we went back to his quarters and talked over tea. Being at the monastery reminds me of a movie called “The Cup”. The young monks, though they spend most of their time in spiritual practice and prayer, are very interested in the things that ordinary young people are interested in. This was proven by the fact that a young monk sat on the steps to the house peeking in at the TV that was on in the back of the room. Phurba became a monk as a teenager. Now, at 23, he speaks of his monastic life with a normalcy that many young men would find hard to believe. At the end of my visit, he led me to a little house built specifically for the Geomba’s latest acquisition, a miniature white statue of their mermaid. As evening turns the sky dark at 6pm now, I left with two hours of light to guide me home. Phurba made me promise to visit a 3^rd time before I go home, 3 being an auspicious number. I happily agreed, as this hidden Goemba has taken a spot in my heart as one of the most memorable places I’ve been.

With my toes dipped into October, I feel the rush of time sweeping me towards the end of my experience here. It is now that I feel so connected to my community and students, more at ease with my life here. I am glad for this sweetness, though it will make it harder to say goodbye. For now, I try not to think about December, and focus on making each day special for me and my students.