Ok, this is not a haiku, but it is what I have for this
month:
Larch Tree
The larch said yes,
though maybe she still
gripped her green needles
of youth
that would necessarily
change.
Her neon display of faith
flames amid the safety of
evergreen.
These brave limbs:
the glory of the fall.
I made it to The Lake. My students have been talking about
this mythical lake at the top of a mountain for the whole year. I have meant to
visit it, but no one could point the direct path that would lead me there.
Finally realizing my impending departure in December, one of my Class V boys
offered to take me to The Lake one Saturday. This boy is quite talkative
despite his limited English, is squirrelly in class, and has a penchant for
break dance moves. He’s the kind of kid who has trouble stopping long enough to
write his fast-paced ideas down. It was a good opportunity for me to allow him
to talk and work on his English informally, just be a kid along with my kids,
and discover the mysterious lake.
After class on the 3rd, I followed “Karchu” and
“Pema”, as my two boys are called by everyone except teachers, up the steep
slope to their families’ homes. Karchu’s house is a traditional style farmhouse
with a log cut with steps to the raised door. The home was one that displayed
the signs of a busy farming family: drying vegetables lining the front yard,
along with a multitude of shoes, machetes, hoes, and buckets. Inside, his
mother was separating butter from churned milk with her grandson surveying over
her shoulder in a kabney (a wide colorful scarf wrapped below the baby’s
bottom, x-ing across the carrier’s chest and tied in a knot at the front). She
greeted us and handed the baby off to Karchu to finish the process of making
cheese. Thus, our walk to the lake had to wait until the cheese was done.
Although Karchu can be occasionally disruptive in class, he is good natured and
helpful at heart, which showed as he cared for his nephew, swept the floor, and
brought his mother the tools she needed to work on the cheese. This is the
great thing about visiting students’ homes: you get to see who they are when
they’re not showing off for their peers.
I’m glad we waited for the cheese because his mother
prepared us lunch of ema datse and rice and we drank the dachu (whey) from the
cheese-making. After lunch, Karchu yelled up to Pema’s house and we went to
meet him higher on the hill. The boys talked non-stop about everything we saw:
this rock has flags on it placed by some grandfather because it looks like a
horse, these berries are edible, but those ones are not, Pema fell out of that
tree over there, there are snakes here, that’s the house that burned down this
year, we built a fort here once… It was hilarious, but their knowledge of their
surroundings is astounding. Even more, they understand how breathtaking the
place they live is. As we reached the summit, Karchu pointed to the sun and
remarked on the slanting light over the surrounding mountains. Pema pointed out
the circling eagle. Each time they looked out at the view, they exclaimed
“miss, beautiful!”. We found soft yellow and brown feathers, remains left by a
golden eagle’s feast. The boys collected them and gave them to me, telling me
never to forget this place (as if I could). We took many “pictures with our
eyes” as I don’t have any more film for my camera, snapping photos of the view,
the eagles, each other. Over the top of the ridge, we spotted a little spot of
mud surrounded by dwarf bamboo. This was the lake. Coming from Minnesota, land
of 10,000 lakes, this was not a lake. The boys admitted that it was bigger
during the monsoon. We poked at the mud and made shadow puppets which we “took
pictures” of on the puddle of water.
We descended along the opposite side of the ridge where the
boys found a cave and pretended it was their “meditation cave”, like the one
from the film “Ashi Nasa” which played in our multi-purpose hall a few days
earlier (at night, in the unheated building, in Dzongkha, and yes, I went). We
also found a beehive, which Karchu went to investigate, then ran screaming away
as he realized it was still inhabited. We ended back at Karchu’s house, just as
the cows were lining up in his yard to be milked. I walked down the mountain
with Karchu’s mother, who was going to the temple, and Pema, who entertained us
with funny little Dzongkha songs. I opened the door to my house, wind-blown,
cheeks sunburned, with feathers and rocks in my pockets. My little brother
Georges would be proud.
Monday and Tuesday we got a holiday, or “chuti”, since there
was a Lama visiting the Rukubji temple. At the end of the week, a blessing, or
“wan” was held at Chendibji. The lama from Gangtey Goemba was holding prayers
at the site of the 3 chortens by the river about 10km down the road to the east
of Rukubji. After 3rd period, classes were cancelled and the
children ran as fast as they could to board tractors or pile into vans and
pickup trucks to make it to the blessing. I walked the road with a few
students, had lunch at the hotel, and then hopped in Phurba’s truck along with
Ajim Yangzom and the kids from the hotel. We arrived to a crowd of people
extending the length of the football field area on which the chortens stand. A
tent was erected near the largest chorten and I was led inside, linking hands
in a chain with my companions. Inside the tent, about a hundred red-robed monks
sat on the pine-blanketed earth in rows along with lay people in the back. I
was seated behind the sisters and their nieces near the back. On a stage sat
the lama, with a red fleece under his traditional robes for warmth, accompanied
on the left by other monks and on the right by government officials. Monks
scurried around the altar in the back fetching things for the lama at
designated points while others filled baskets with blessed food to distribute
to the crowd outside the tent. Though my student Tshering Lhaden and her sister
Khandu did their best to explain what was happening, I didn’t really understand
the significance of the prayers and accompanying actions. Everyone else knew
exactly what to do and when. I guess it’s the same when people come to Catholic
mass for the first time and wonder how everyone knows when to kneel, stand,
sit, hold out your hands, etc. In fact, I’ve noticed that the Bhutanese brand
of Buddhism is a lot like Catholicism in its iconography, ritual, and
stratification of holy men. At the completion of an hour and half of prayers,
the lama walked between the rows of people and touched each head with a wand
(well, it might not be a wand, but I like to think it is). Following him, monks
distributed “tso” (blessed food, which is usually packaged snacks and fruit),
“sunkyi” (blessed brightly colored cords that you tie around your neck), holy
water and holy alcohol, poured into your extended hand, and “paktso” (a dense,
unbaked cake made of butter, wheat flour, alcohol, and puffed rice that ensure
long life and are quite delicious). A few monks with beaded headdresses danced
at the end of the procession, which exited the tent to attend to the masses
outside. We collected our goodies in a scarf, chained hands again, and snaked
through the crowd to find a ride back to Chazam. We passed vendors camped out
to sell everything from cellphone jewelry to rice cookers to the crowd of
pilgrims. A taxi Ajim Yangzom knew opened its doors for us and we squeezed in
like a clown car. Back at the hotel, the girls and I shared our “tso” with the
kitchen staff while we drank milk
tea and talked about the nearing exams.
The next week I finally got to play host. After numerous
visits to friends teaching in other areas of Bhutan, two friends came to stay
at my little house. Noorin, along with her fellow teacher Misato, from
Kuruthang, and Tara from Bumthang.
Misato is a volunteer teacher from Japan who came through JICA to teach
at Noorin’s school. They came under the auspices of going to the “Thrung
Thrung” (black necked crane) Festival at Gangtey on Nov. 11th. Any
excuse to get them to visit me. On that Saturday, Tara showed up at my school
right after class. The literary club and I showed her our “renovated” library,
then we left the cold, windy school for the sheltered sun-soaked respite of my
front porch. After a lovely lunch cooked by the master chef and pizza baroness
of Bumthang, we set off on my favorite hike in my village.
The hike winds up several hills to a spot called Palipokto,
which is a hill on top of which stands the B-Mobile cellphone tower. I don’t go
for the solar powered tower, rather for the exquisite view of the entire valley
and surrounding mountains. All year I have watched the change of seasons
through the foliage along the path. This time, the leaves and ferns spread out
in reddish brown tones and the dwarf bamboo’s spikes were dusty grey. The
evergreens looked drier, but still sported their deep blue green needles. The
most fascinating change has been the larch trees. These are the only needle
leaf trees (I think, please correct me if I’m wrong) that change color and
loose their needles. The needles on their drooping spider leg branches turn
blaze orange, like deer hunter jackets amid the mute browns and greens of the
surrounding forest. In contrast, the oak trees are evergreen and do not seem to
notice fall has come, except for the fern sweaters they wear up their trunks,
which changed from yellow to red to brown before dropping to the ground,
leaving the dark gnarly bark naked.
On this particular afternoon, the light was slanting, as it
only can in November, through the slats between the mountains, giving the whole
valley and opposite mountains a soft look as if we were in a Vermeer painting.
I must admit I felt proud that Tara deemed this viewpoint one of her top in
Bhutan. That’s saying something, since this country is known for its views and
exquisite natural beauty.
We headed down, collected some firewood from my stack, and
got the bukari nice and toasty. Soon after Noorin and Misato rolled up the dirt
path in a taxi that they’d hired for the weekend. We set about getting cozy
around the fire, talking and eating snacks. We prepared a meal of radish datse,
rice, and eazay. The rice was a gift from Gangamaya, brought from her hometown
in the southern Tsirang Dzongkhag. It was so fragrant, and is by far the best
rice I have ever eaten. I had saved it for this occasion, since all food is
even better when it is shared.
The house became quite warm from the bukari and the bodies,
yet Misato anticipating the cooling after the fire died overnight, layered up
before wrapping up in blankets in her bed. Fearing that my guests would be
cold, and unaccustomed to the heat that so many people can create, I had stoked
the fire constantly. When I crawled into my bed, I was sweating and could
hardly fall asleep. In the morning, I made buckwheat, coconut, ginger pancakes
served with Bumthang wild strawberry jam (thanks to Tara) and coffee (again,
thanks to Tara). After, I led a tour of the village, up to the school, across
the suspension bridge, through the archery pitch, past my students washing
their uniforms, and to the renovated temple. From there, we went down the oak lined
path to my house to meet our taxi for the festival.
The festival was held at Gangtey Goemba, a large and
beautiful temple that overlooks the Phobjika valley. Not only is it special to
people, but the black necked cranes that winter in the valley each year circle
it before returning to Tibet like good Buddhists. We watched some students
perform a dance and then the festival halted for a lunch break. Gangtey has one
main street and not much else, so we found a tiny “hotel” where we had tea,
rice, momo, and chili-chop (chickpea flour coated whole chilies that are deep
fried). There were many western tourists wandering around with their guides and
snapping photos. We wandered in and out of shops and examined the offerings of
street vendors before deciding to visit the valley to get a better look at the
cranes. The cranes keep their distance, so the best view is actually inside the
crane center where you can look through a telescope. A small but precious
flock, there are only about 400 birds that come to winter in the valley, the
rest prefer the east, and that’s still only about 100 birds. After viewing the
graceful cranes, Tara informed us of an Aman Kora located at the other end of
the valley and we made the easy decision to go there for a cup of something
warm as a treat. At the luxury hotel, with a bank of windows overlooking the
valley and the temple on the opposite hill, we ordered chai, hot chocolate with
chili, and a hot toddy, which came with complimentary cookies. It was
exquisite. One of the staff came to talk with us and recognized me from the
Tour of the Dragon. I had handed him water with my students as he was biking
past Longtey in the 280 km race in September. After finding out my profession,
he gifted my school with books donated by guests at the hotel. With warm
delicious drinks in our stomachs and books in hand, we departed after taking
some great pictures with the valley as background. The taxi driver took us to
the junction with the main road and Tara and I said goodbye to Noorin and Misato.
We ended up catching a ride on a tour bus full of Italians which got held up in
a herd of yaks for a moment right after the Pelela pass. The Italians were wild
with joy to see the yaks, exclaiming and pointing with childlike excitement at
them.
The next morning, I made breakfast for Tara and I before
donning my wool kira and heading to school. I hugged her tight, because this
might be the last time I see her in Bhutan. I’ll be leaving my school on the 12th
and she won’t be coming to Thimphu until after I am back in the US. I’m going
to make a point to stay in good contact and I am sure I’ll see her in North
America sooner than later!
As for the most recent adventure, I just came back from a
spontaneous trip to Bajo town with Phurba. It started with a terrible stencil
cutter that botched my annual exams and a query to my monastic friend as to
when he’d be going that direction next. The answer happened to be “now”. So I
ran down the hill from Gangamaya’s to throw things together to leave. We had
been celebrating the last day of Dasain by eating sel roti, drinking tea, and
putting tika (this time: rice flour paste with several colored powders that
must be applied by matchstick, then showering the head of the receiver with
marigold petals) on her son Vim’s forhead. I took a moment to decide whether to
leave the gathering, but decided that readable exams were a priority. During
midterm, I had to run all around the hall rewriting letters and sentences that
the stencil printer hadn’t cut boldly enough for my confused students. Some
students never raised their hands for this kind of correction, resulting in
scores that lacked validity. It
was a headache and I was willing to pay whatever price to get the exams done
well this time. So I grabbed my
toothbrush and thumb drive with the exams on it and ran back out to the road
where I met what I refer to as the “Gompa Mobile”, a white Bolero truck with
“Wangdigompa” emblazoned across the top of the windshield. Though the trip
began with Bhutanese hit songs, I quickly realized my friend has a soft spot
for English music, especially love songs. I don’t think I will forget him
singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” or Kayci and Jo Jo’s “All my life”
anytime soon (to be honest, we were both singing).
Sometimes I forget that Phurba is a monk, except that he is
always wearing a maroon wrap skirt and his requisite yellow and brown tops,
though now he covers these with a red puffy “The North Face” knockoff down
jacket. I’m fairly certain that lay people like myself have notions about what
monks and nuns are like and what they do or don’t do. So when someone doesn’t
embody what we thought, we try to categorize them differently rather than
absorbing their uniqueness into the label they carry. So when Phurba doesn’t
get up at 4 am to meditate for an hour, adores love songs, is nearly constantly
on his cell phone, and is frequently on the road to and from Bajo and Thimphu
on business for the Gompa, these things don’t necessarily fit into the imagined
category of “Buddhist Monk in Bhutan”. But the truth is, they do. I’m by no
means saying he is not a proper monk, rather that the conception I had of who
monks are must expand, and it has.
So back to our exam adventure. We rolled into Bajo town at
about 7:45pm and Phurba deposited me at a shop where I could print. After
processing 26 (condensed!) pages, I paid the shopkeeper 260 nu and then we sped
to the copy shop that would be closing at 8pm. The kind owner stayed open for
me while Phurba ran errands for the Gompa. The man’s son, in Class IV, piloted
some of my questions while we waited for all the copies to go through. In all,
I had 272 pages, double sided. It took nearly an hour to complete the copying,
but the shopkeeper was incredibly patient, gave me sweets, and even stapled all
the tests by hand. In the end, he gave me a deal on the cost, allowing me to
pay only 1500 nu for the job that should have cost closer to 2000 nu (~$40).
After printing, we boarded the Gompa Mobile, passed the
burned Wangdue Dzong, and headed across the river to Phurba’s sister-in-law’s
apartment. She works for the Punasangchuu Hydro Project, one of the major
hydropower projects happening in Bhutan. She welcomed us with sweet milk tea
and sel roti, then set about heating up dinner. By this time, I had eaten my
fill of sel roti and “food” (which is what people call rice), and could hardly
find room for the tea. Yet there’s no way around it in a Bhutanese home: you
must eat. After dinner, she made up my bed in the altar room and Phurba got the
couch in the sitting room. We went to bed promptly, since Phurba warned me it
would be an early morning. He spoke the truth, and his alarm beeped us awake at
4:30am. We had a quick cup of tea and then fumbled our way through the alley in
the still dark dawn to the Gompa Mobile. The nights get cold here now, even in
the low altitude of Wangdue. I shivered in the heater-less car, but found the
slowly brightening sky magical. You can see still the stars at 5am, which is
the time I usually wake up in the village. I don’t usually observe them for
long because I get too cold standing outside in my pajamas while I collect wood
for my morning fire, so it was a treat to see them in the navy sky.
We turned off onto a rough road toward at village called
Kazhi where we would collect rice from the recent harvest for Phurba’s goempa.
We arrived on time, 6 am sharp, but no one was there to meet us. Phurba got on
the phone, and in a half hour a man came waddling down a steep path burdened by
a 50kg sack of rice on his back. Soon after, another man came down another path
in the same manner. Both unloaded their sacks into the Goemba Mobile’s truck
bed. I wondered if we were ready to leave, but Phurba’s acceptance of the
invitation from the men to have breakfast at the house atop the hill next to us
signaled to me that we weren’t leaving any time soon.
We climbed the path lined with orange trees and cows to the
base of a ladder leading to the door of the house. Phurba and I sat on the
kitchen floor while the “ama” (lady of the house) prepared tea, the traditional
stove keeping us warm with its burning logs. When breakfast was ready, we were
ushered into a sitting room and sat on the floor next to an open window
overlooking the harvested rice paddies and rising sun. Breakfast was greenbean
and chili datse with rice—a lot of rice. We ate with our hands while the ama
asked us if it tasted good and tried to refill our heaped bowls with more rice.
A little girl came out of the room across from us as we ate, her hair
duck-tailed in the back from sleep. She eyed us with shy curiosity, coming
closer slowly and eventually laying down a toy car, which she passed to me and
Phurba alternately. We played with little Tandin while more and more villagers
deposited their 50kg bags of rice into the Gompa Moblie waiting below. After
another hour, Phurba told me we had to get moving. We thanked the ama for the
meal, bid Tandin farewell, and descended the ladder with a new addition to our
Mobile, one of the farmers who was hitching a ride with us back to Sephu (where
the goempa is located).
One metric ton of rice in the bed, we rumbled down the rough
road while petrol sloshed in jerry cans, which had to be moved inside the car,
stinging my nostrils with the sharp scent of gasoline. I was thankful for the
relative smoothness of the main road when we finally reached it. Phurba and the
farmer talked, and Phurba explained me to him. Learning I was a teacher, he
thanked me, telling me, “Teachers have one of the most important jobs in the
world. Teachers have the ability to affect so many people, they teach a certain
number of students, but those students go out and share their knowledge with
countless others. It’s a chain. Not many jobs are like that”. Wow! I was so
honored. I told him that farmers are incredibly important to all of us, because
without farmers, there would be no teachers or other professions. I also shared
that I had begun a course in farming with my boyfriend in the US, a plan to
which he nodded his fatherly approval. We continued on, with Phurba and me
breaking into song occasionally, until we reached the turn to Rukubji where I
jumped out and waved goodbye to the laden vehicle.
Now, exams have begun. Class PP, I, and II have finished and
it is Class III, IV, and V’s turn. Next week, Class VI, which is a national
exam. I know my students will be grateful to have readable exams this time
around. Getting them printed was worth the adventure!
And, here’s an actual haiku I wrote for having 3 weeks left
in my village and having a little insomnia:
So close to the end
my mind stays awake at night
with a dying fire
Beautiful stories -
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