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 

A new take

(this will be in installments!)

last light of august

days draw curtains on both ends

dry leaves blush in shades

Dusk in Rukubji

Chorten at Yontala Pass (on the way to Bumthang)

The last time I sat to write a post, Joe had not yet arrived in Bhutan and I was fizzing like a shaken soda with excitement. And then he came! And I did not write because I wanted to soak up as much of the time I had with him. Forgive me, but I bet you understand. I had not seen him in 6 months, and then to be next to him for a month was more than words are able to describe. I have tried to find an adjective appropriate: ecstasy? bliss? pure delight? Getting close. But I will do my best to capture the adventures we entertained during his swift stay.

Side note: I have noticed that perhaps my blog has been lacking in detail of the place and culture, which many of my friends are hungry for. I unwittingly shied from such detail to avoid a trite travelogue, word overload, or stereotype, and perhaps due to the total sensory overload of being in a new place and not knowing where to begin. I am also here to teach, and most of my experience is like I have told it: at school, with kids, striving to improve my practice. Yet when Joe came, his questions and the way he wrote of our adventures in his own novella of the trip, pointed in a gentle way that my writing could do with more of the details that make Bhutan the way it is. My aim is to address the aspects that bring uniqueness to this experience, while recognizing that my experience here is a small slice of a larger picture that cannot be contained in a one-year stint or by an amateur blog.

So on to Iman and Joe in Bhutan, gallivanting…but first, a bus detour.

Our gumboots (or 'chulham') for village walks

Glacial Green River

I’ll start at the road, as most of my adventures begin. Rukubji is on is THE lateral road of Bhutan, THE major road. Despite its narrow berth and unpaved patches, nearly every vehicle travels this road. So of course, this is where I go to get a ride anywhere. I was praying, that late July morning, for clear travel. THE road is also victim to numerous landslides during the monsoon season. Roadblocks are common- meaning a giant piece of earth just decided to let go and plop onto the road, halting east and west travel until workers arrive to dig it out by hand, or rarely, machine. It is worse to the east and for the perpendicular roads to the south.  But luck was on my side, and the sun beat down through puffy white clouds and blue. I had called the bus company that drives from Trongsa to Thimphu and booked a ticket the day before, so I waited patiently for that Coaster bus to round the corner of the road that marks Rukubji (honestly, not much else marks the village, except the school and a giant expanse of potato fields beyond). While waiting, a student’s mother and sister, babies in tow, bamboo baskets nearly as big as them on their backs, came to stand at the road to sell their “datse” (homemade cheese). The sister speaks some English, so we all chatted in bits of Dzongkha and English while the babies ran around. Small kids in Bhutan are allowed to do things that many American kids are not (more on that later). So these kids played tagging games or sat smack in the middle of THE road. The mothers didn’t mind, until a big semi would come hurtling towards us, then they would shout or grab an arm and drag the baby back to the safety of grass. This reminded me of my mom relating stories of my grandfather letting my older brother play on the rocks on Lake Superior, telling her that if he fell, he’d learn not to do it again. He may have been Bhutanese in a past life...

A rider of buses and trains, I believe public transportation is a good snapshot of a culture, and the same is true in Bhutan. In July and August, I spent many hours on buses in Bhutan, traveling back and forth to Thimphu and Bumthang, twice. So I take this time to profile the incomparable, but typical, experience of riding a bus in Bhutan.

The coaster pulled up with a suave, shades-sporting driver with the arms of his Gho tied around his waist, red rimmed lips from the doma in his mouth, bumping all the hot Bhutanese jams through the windows. I said “Naba chi gay”  (see you later) to the ladies, who put some of their cheese on the bus to be sold in Thimphu, and we were off. Because of some strange luck, I got seat #1, which is left of the driver, right up front. No way you can get sick up there. Every seat had a bottom in it, even the console between me and the driver. He reminded me how prudent I’d been to reserve a seat. Looking back at the passengers, it was the usual mix of everyone: young, older, oldest, gho and kira, track suits, bamboo hats, baseball caps, Korean pop star haircuts, babies nursing. We stopped only 5 km from Rukubji at Gaki Kelzang Hotel in Bimilo (neighboring village) for a ‘breakfast stop’ since the other travelers had been riding since 7am. I paid the driver my 230 nu (which is about 4 dollars, for a 7 hour ride) while we all stretched our legs. Even though I’d only been on for a few minutes, I took the opportunity to use the toilet- the buses here can go 3 or more hours at a time without stopping for any kind of break. The 2 rest stops they do make offer more than decent menus of rice and curry (mostly ema datse) and hot tea, which compensates for the sometimes less than decent toilets.

Everyone piled into their seats again, smelling slightly of chilies, and we were off while “Wangmo, Wangmo”, a popular Dzongkha song, picked up volume. I happen to know many songs now since my students love to share their favorites and anytime you call someone, they tend to have a popular song as playback while you wait for them to answer. Drivers are intrigued by me when I hop on a bus, since I am the only westerner aboard (seriously, every time, until Joe came). While the driver unwrapped a doma leaf and applied the necessary lime and nut to the center before wrapping it again into a neat package to be fitted in mouth, all of this with eyes fixed on the winding road with a cliff edge on one side, he asked me where I was from and what I was doing “out here”. Usually the only westerners in Bhutan are tourists, and all tourists need guides who provide them with rides, lodging, and so forth. So I understand the confusion upon seeing me board a public bus. I answered, as usual, that I am a teacher at the primary school in Rukubji. He gave the usual reply “so cold in Rukubji, remote place, you must be feeling lonely, miss”. Nearly every Bhutanese person who finds out where I work says the same thing. Clearly they’ve never been to Minnesota where our temperatures are far below those in the Rukubji winter. Also, being located right on THE road of Bhutan makes me feel quite connected. Last, with 130 students to teach 6 days a week and friends I’ve made from their families, I hardly feel lonely (anymore).

We made it up to the high pass at Pelela and then circled the chorten streamered with prayer flags. From there, we traveled down toward Nobding, an hour or so away, where we were stopped by a roadblock for construction. No workers were wearing hard hats, but many were sporting fashionable jeans and t-shirts. We watched as rock rained down as a shovel excavated from a cliff above. Then another shovel came to pick up the rock off the road and load it into a truck which dumped it off the cliff. All this in about 10 minutes. Exactly at noon, the bus geared up, honked the horn, and we were off again at the whopping speed of 40 km per hour. The speed limit here is cautious, and for good reason. If the road you drive is severely winding, seems to accommodate only one vehicle width, and one side has no shoulder and leads directly off a cliff, then you’d be cautious too.

As we continued, the driver spotted a family sitting on the side of the road and jolted us to a stop to pick them up. I looked back wondering where they’d squeeze in. They ended up in the aisle of the bus, kids on laps, squatting on bags. Once we reached Wangdue, the bus stopped to let off a few passengers and drop off packages, as well as pick up more things. I find it incredible that the driver knows exactly when to stop to drop things off. Out of seemingly nowhere, a woman will run up to the bus and the driver’s helper will open the door and hand her a package, almost without braking.

We made one more stop at a “hotel” (really, a restaurant) for lunch around 2pm. I bought a bottle of “dachu”, which is the leftover liquid from making cheese and butter. It has become my favorite drink here, though it took me about a month to realize how amazing it was. After another hour of travel on the bus, the driver pulled over on the side of the road and yelled “chapsa! toilet!”. Where? Everyone piled out and found a little hidden area of woods in which to pee. Moms pulled their babies’ pants off and held them as they peed next to the bus. Rest stop, Bhutan style. I have to admit, I felt a bit strange, but everyone was doing it, and I really really had to go. I am glad people feel comfortable with this system, but I am also glad that the US has designated rest stops with toilets.

Up, up, up to Dochula, the last pass before Thimphu, which boasts 108 chortens on a raised hill, which we circled 3 times for good measure and a rollercoaster feel before heading down to the city.

Getting off the bus at last at the Thimphu station, the bus was mobbed by taxi drivers offering rides to anywhere. One look at me and they start yelling “Paro! Paro! Paro!”, which is where the airport is. When I say no, that I am staying, they are perplexed. They are even more perplexed when I walk up the stairs from the station and walk to where I am staying, or ask for a local taxi and then give them directions to where I need to go. I was not always “Thimphu savvy”, but it’s a small place, so I learned quickly on my first solo adventure to the city and now relish the tiny bit of smarts I have about this city. 

I took a taxi to a friend’s house, a bit tired and hot, and was treated to a good meal and a hot shower. I could barely sleep that night. In the morning, I’d be going to Paro to pick up Joe! I laid out my kira I’d brought that I’d wear to the airport and tried to write, read, do anything to calm myself in order to sleep. I woke up way too early and donned my national dress, got my hair and face pretty (which I really don’t do often here), and ate a terrific breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee that I could hardly concentrate on. Neema, one of the employees of BCF, came to pick me up at 8. The ride to Paro is about an hour or more, which gave me plenty of time to get even more giddy. I watched the scenery pass out the window. When I had arrived in January, everything had been brown and grey. Now the fields were all green with rice and the mountains were covered with leaves and moss. The river that had bared pebbles before, now roared with that particular glacial green color.

Of course, we arrived early to the airport, but once Joe’s plane landed, I got out of the car and waited outside of the exit (I couldn’t go in the airport), my whole body humming. I nearly hyperventilated. And then I saw his face. He strode out of the doors, in his finest suspenders, right into my arms. We hugged and kissed and made a scene, and then quickly got into Neema’s car before we made anyone nauseous from excessive PDA.

He was here! For real! Not a voice on the phone, a picture, a letter, and email. No, here was Joe, really here, holding me, kissing my head. Though he was clearly bleary from traveling, he looked good. Just as handsome as ever. We snuggled up in the back of the car and he told me a bit about his travels. We watched the scenery, which garnered numerous “Wows”, and made me remember just how stunning this place is and that first excitement of seeing only mountains for miles.

When you come from the plains, this is certainly unbelievable. After 6 months, the mountains had become a normal fixture for me. With Joe’s fresh eyes next to me, I realized how I had begun to take the scenery for granted. “Look at all the cows, just walking in the road!” he exclaimed, turning to look at them as we passed. This too, just part of life for me as Rukubji has as many or more cows as people that roam freely until dusk on the road and in the forest. These fascinating aspects of normal life in Bhutan are the things I will miss greatly upon returning to the US, so I made a vow to remember to appreciate the details while Joe was with me and after he left, to really take Bhutan in again because I likely won’t get to come back for quite a long time. 

Thimphu's main drag

After an hour of us canoodling and gawking out the window, we arrived at the BCF office in Thimphu to grab some paperwork before heading to the immigration office to finalize Joe’s visa. Neema was probably grateful to get a break from us for a moment while we chatted with Meena and got road permits organized for planned excursions to Bumthang and Trongsa. We hopped back in the car and zigzagged through Thimphu to immigration, just before the lunch break. We thanked Neema for his help and driving.

 Since I only visit the bank when in a town, we had to make one last stop before the hotel. Despite his 2-days of travel exhaustion, Joe happily agreed. With backpacks and goofy grins, we strolled hand in hand to the Bank of Bhutan, while every passerby stared at us. In many countries I have visited, tourists and foreigners are not that noticeable, but in Bhutan, you stick out, even without a backpack and a grin. At the bank, I expertly slid into line with all my t’s crossed on my withdrawal form and we were out in no time, which defied every bank experience I’ve had prior to and after this.

We walked about 10 blocks to our hotel on Thimphu’s main street, Norzin Lam, with the Friday hustle and bustle streaming past. A check-in at the restaurant counter with the smiling owner, then up one more flight of stairs to our room. We unburdened our backs and collapsed into a grateful noontime nap.

To be continued…

Camp Bumthang

It’s easier to float

with many buoyant bodies

and smiles for sails

As I walked up the hill out of my village, making my way to the hotel to find a ride to Bumthang, a song jammed in my head as if I had walked into some pizza parlor of the type where you find a jukebox that plays only the hits from the 70s, 80s and 90s, but not today. “Oooh, we’re halfway there!” You know which song…

With this as my accompaniment, village-woven bamboo basket in hand for Martin and Tara, a backpack full for whatever adventure would befall me during my 2 week break, I walked the cloud misted road to Chazam. At the hotel, after a breakfast of tea-momo, eazay, eggs, and ema datse, I learned that my tablemates were headed to Mongar. They are health workers there and were driving two emergency response vehicles back from a training in Thimphu. Lucky me! I threw my bag and baskets in the back of the ambulance, my new friend Thinley put his doma (beetle nut) in his cheek, took the wheel, and we were off.

4.5 hours later, having survived some muddy rutted sections of road, I reached an atypically sunny (for monsoon season) center of Chamkar town in Bumthang. After catching a taxi to Martin and Tara’s homestead, I changed into kira and caught the same taxi up to Kurje Lakhang where Martin, Tara, Ashley, and Reidi were jostling forward to receive a blessing from a masked monk. Being Guru Rimpoche’s Birth Anniversary, the famous lakhang was packed with milling people in their best dress watching bright masked dancers and filing up to receive a blessing. Soon I was enveloped in the arms of my fellow teachers. I had not seen Reidi or Ashley in 6 months! With blessings bestowed, we headed out to cool our toes in the river and then back to the homestead to relax.

“Camp Bumthang” had begun. The next few days were spent catching up, walking to and from town, picnicking by the Chamkar Chuu (the river that cuts the valley), and making amazing food in Martin and Tara’s well-stocked and implemented kitchen. Saturday brought Sheal from Mongar, and Sunday night, Noorin and Sarah from Kuruthang and Gasa respectively. The arrivals brought much rejoicing and many stories. On Monday, we relocated to the River Lodge for a 3-day retreat hosted by BCF. There, we joined most of the other teachers here, some who traveled from far-flung placements despite the iffy roads and other difficulties. What struck me most, and the inspiration for the somewhat sappy haiku at the start of this entry, was everyone’s happiness and ease. We got to share the good stories and the challenging ones. For me, this kind of sharing rounds out what can feel like a singular experience. There are parallels in our experiences, and we’ve had to overcome similar challenges in adjusting and succeeding in our work.

Weaving through flags at Membartsho

On our second day of the retreat, we visited Membartsho, or ‘the Burning Lake’. Bumthang is a holy valley and this site is where Guru Rimpoche hid sacred treasures. Later, the Terton Pema Lingpa (1450-1520 CE) was challenged to bring up some of the treasure and proved himself by going into the lake with a burning torch that did not extinguish in the water. The site is tucked away in a wooded ravine, veiled by prayer flags. It isn’t really a lake, but a deep, rather still pool in a river. The water glistens with agitated minerals, and the quality of the light gives the whole place a magical feel. Some say that if you attain the right state of mind, you will be able to see the rest of the treasure at the bottom…

Relaxing at Ogyen Choling (Tang Valley)

After some time we boarded our big yellow bus and continued on into the Tang Valley. We all hiked up from the valley floor to Ogyen Choling to meet Kuenzang Choden for lunch at her family’s historic estate. Madam Kuenzang is the author of several books, including the children’s titles Room in Your Heart and Aunty Mouse, and of course Dawa: the Story of a Stray Dog (all lovely books that you should seek out and read!).

The BCF crew with Kuenzang Choden

Madam Kuenzang gave us a personal tour of her family’s home, which they have turned into a museum preserving Bhutanese life and culture from the turn of the last century. I found it amazing that the house was so similar to the houses of many of my students (though far larger), which signifies how much has remained the same for many rural Bhutanese over the last 100 years. The visit put into perspective how recently changes have come about in Bhutan. During Madam Kuenzang’s early childhood, the house still served as the village trading post, people did not use money to acquire goods, and nearly everything was done by hand. I wonder how life in Bhutan, and the world in general, will change over the next century.

The next day we dined on pasta at the Swiss Guesthouse and journeyed to Chummey (the next valley over) to ogle textiles. I found a particularly warm and lovely red and white wool wrap that will come in handy when the temperatures turn icy again in late fall. The evening was spent celebrating the 4^th of July with Madam Kuenzang and her husband in attendance, complete with a vibrant, if somewhat out of key, rendition of the American national anthem. In the morning, we said farewells over pancakes to the departing teachers who were embarking on other adventures or heading back to their schools. I said goodbye to the River Lodge by indulging in a full-body massage (ahhhhh) before joining a few others back at Martin and Tara’s.

Ready to trek!

First guesthouse on the left, temple on the right (Chokor Valley)

Due to heroic feats of planning and organization on behalf of Martin and Tara, Ashley, Martha, Dave, and I departed the next morning for a 3-day trek into the Chokor and Tang Valleys. The 6 of us met our guide, Tshering, in back of M & T’s house and simply walked from there. After about 12 km that took us across fields and over rivers, we arrived at a 15^th century guesthouse that was to be our accommodation for the night. We were greeted by a smiling host and hostess and their children. After tea (with fresh milk!), I led the crew in some yoga. Dinner was prepared by nearly the whole family while we giggled with the kids. The meal was fresh and jimbé (tasty): potato and cheese curry, soup, buckwheat noodles, red rice, sautéed mushrooms, and ema datse (chili and cheese curry). Full and tired, we fell asleep in cozy beds to the sound of the nearby stream. In the morning, we were greeted with keptan (flat bread), eggs, toast, fresh butter and milk, and cauliflower cheese curry to fuel us for our long day of walking. We left waving goodbye to the little ones poking their heads out of the windows to see us off.

Dinner around the bukari the first night of the trek

Our "album cover" shot at the Dzong

Our first stop for the day was the remains of the 15^th century Dzong that once overlooked the valley. The ruins, though partly excavated, are overgrown with tall herbs. I felt the stirring an archeologist might feel as we scrambled around the stones and still standing walls. We continued the trek, descending the Dzong’s outlook, across a meadow, and into the forest. We climbed gradually through hemlock, up into rhododendron. Finally, after several hours of ascending, we reached the Febila Pass, at nearly 3,600 meters. After lunch, we descended through forest and the out into meadow, complete with cows, until we came to the dirt road that led us to the next guesthouse in the Tang Valley. Everyone’s feet were aching for a good rest by the time we hit the road, though we had approximately 6 km to go. A few kilometers from the house, Dave and I spied a nice swimming spot in the river and jumped in for a refreshing detour. At the guesthouse, our guide prepared us a well-deserved and delicious dinner of ema datse, chicken, rice, potatoes, and dal. In the morning we were treated to fresh milk (Tshering milked the cow himself) and buckwheat pancakes. Our trek had come to a finish. We all piled into a taxi for a bumpy ride back to Camp Bumthang. I have been on many group trips, and each has its challenges. Yet during this trek, we all walked and worked together with generally positive spirits. That, combined with the brilliant beauty of the Central Bhutanese landscape, made the whole experience a joy.

The next week was spent in serious relaxation at Martin and Tara’s. We were treated to dinner at the River Lodge by the owner, Pema Dawa, indulged in a midmorning coffee at the luxurious Aman Kora hotel (where we could only dream of staying at), visited the 1^st King’s palace (next the the Aman), ran errands in town (I stocked up for the return to Rukubji), went for a day hike and a swim, conducted movie nights (thanks to Noorin’s projector and a sheet), and continued to make superb food to which everyone contributed.

Feeling tiny in the forest

By the end of the week, I felt restored. But it wasn’t the indulgences (massage, food, movies) that did it, it was the company. Just being able to talk together, to laugh, to just be. I have friends in my village, people who are becoming my surrogate family.  Even so, I needed to see the people who are having a similar experience, who have been on the other end of the phone in the rough patches, who have helped me laugh when I want to cry. Seeing these good friends, getting to appreciate all their unique personalities and gifts, restored me with a sense of community, support, and lightness. I am curious to see what the next five months hold. Coming back to school now, I don’t feel so solo.

And, for anyone keeping count, I’ll be heading to Thimphu to pick up Joe in 9 days!

Photo Credits: Martin Thorn and David Green. Thanks for taking such great pictures! I hope my film pictures turn out...

A day in the life

we can only grow

stretching, leaves take their pattern

one day at a time

I am often asked by friends at home what a typical day is like here in the village. I haven’t yet given a complete response to this question because, like anywhere in the world, each day offers something new. Even so, there are routines that give my days structure. I also didn’t feel ready to answer this earlier because I was still adjusting to my daily life. Now, 5 months into the experience, I feel like I’ve got enough days under my belt to form an average.

            5:15am: Wake up, meditate, yoga practice

            7:00am: Breakfast, make rice for lunch, boil water to drink, check my email (I have bought oatmeal the past few trips I’ve been on, and I’m back to coffee thanks to my new French press from Thimphu)

            7:45am: Get the kira and teogo on, get ready for school (recently got another kira stitched so I don't have to do the complex wrapping and belting. So much easier!)

The full kira: I got a hand-woven wool one from Madam Dema. I needed a lesson from my students in putting it on.
March 2012

            8:00am: Walk to school (3 minutes walk on a dirt path)

            8:15 am: Open the library for the class whose turn it is that day

            8:30am: Morning assembly (chanting, speeches by students, a student reader, announcement by the Teacher on Duty, and singing of the national anthem—which I can sing now)

            8:55am: First class begins. Teach Class IV and III English, then interval for 10 minutes, then Class VI science, then V English.

            12:25pm: Lunch. I go home and prepare some vegetables and eggs or dal to eat with my rice. Boil more water to drink.

            1:15pm: Back to school, read to Class II, work in library, then teach Class III again.

            3:00pm: Evening prayer (students chant prayers for about a half hour)

            3:30pm: Co-curricular activities (either working on the school grounds, in the agriculture garden, or some kind of sports)

            4:30 or 5:00pm: Students go home. I change and go for a walk. Mostly I walk to Tsengaypokto or to Chazam, each are about an hour round trip. Sometimes I get dinner offered to me at Chazam. If I go to Tsengaypokto, I often visit my student Vim’s mother who gives me eggs and sag (mustard greens).

            6:00pm: Arrive home and make dinner if I haven’t eaten at Chazam. Heat some water for a bucket bath (with my immersion heater now, but with the bukari—wood stove—in the winter). Boil water to drink. Clean dishes.

            6:30pm: Lesson plan, grade notebooks, read, listen to a podcast, write. Take a bath when the water’s hot.

            8:00pm: Yoga practice if not done in the morning.

            9:30pm: Sleep!

The weekends are spent eating buckwheat pancakes for breakfast, doing laundry, cleaning my house, going for longer walks, and hanging out with students if I am not traveling somewhere.

I have joked that my life now closely resembles a monastic life. The pace of my life is slower and there is a lot of opportunity for stillness. My days are loud and filled with kids, but when I go home, it is quiet.  This kind of quiet can be hard to get used to. At first, it is a gift. Then it becomes a challenge. I felt lonely, homesick, desiring company. But those feelings come and go, and now I am learning again to appreciate the stillness and quiet because this kind of opportunity will not be common once I go back to the US.

My recent trip to Thimphu granted me a new appreciation for the quiet and community of my village life. I went to fix my retainer, which had broken a few months ago, was “repaired” in Bajo, but then broke again. Thankfully it is now fully repaired by a wonderful orthodontist at the Thimphu hospital (for free!). While in Thimphu, I stayed with friends of friends, in their apartment. We had a great time together. We went dancing on Friday night—probably the silliest and most energetic group in the whole club. Then on Saturday night, M (who I was staying with) was performing stand up comedy. He asked his roommate to be the “beatboxer” (making percussion sounds with your mouth) for his intro rap, but she declined. I joked that I’d do it, and he accepted the offer before I could take it back. Thus, I beatboxed in a club in Thimphu. Bucket list item checked off?! On Sunday night, Noorin, Sarah (fellow BCF teachers) and I were treated to dinner by the former Mr. Bhutan and a few of his friends. What? Yes, you read that correctly. As my sister said, “This sounds like a crazy dream that you had, not your life”. And Mr. Bhutan speaks Finnish, so the crazy dream continued as I conversed, to my own disbelief, in Finnish with him. The next day, which was a holiday (Lord Buddha’s Parinirvana), brought me home, waving goodbye to Sarah and Noorin in Kuruthang. I’ll see them in 2 weeks on our midterm holiday in Bumthang.

Though Thimphu allowed me to make new friends, see old friends, do a lot of errands and shopping, I felt an incredible joy as I opened the door to my village house on Monday evening. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to come back to my house here. Why such contentment all of the sudden? Possibly because Thimphu is like any other city to which you are not connected. Perhaps because it is not as green and high as my village. There are no cows roaming, no stray chickens, no flowering potato fields. No huge oak trees, no rushing river. No scent of woodsmoke and rich earth. No students coming to my door to say hello or offer me things. No one asking me "gati jo ni madam?" as I walk down the paths. I found a certain emptiness in Thimphu that exists when people believe too much in the façade they’ve created for life. Yes you can buy many things, you can eat at whatever restaurant (Italian? Mexican?), you can go out and enjoy nightlife. But there’s something missing. For me, that is community. And it is also the dramatic beauty of nature. I feel for people who are disconnected from these things that bring me so much meaning in life. I know there are many people in Thimphu who are part of communities there, who are working for progressive causes. In fact, I met many of them. Still, I am grateful that my placement is in Rukubji. Here, I get to experience life on a smaller, more tightly knit scale. I get to live closely with nature and farm life. For a city girl, I'd only glimpsed a life like this before I came here. 

So, if you are a Thimphu dweller, come visit itty-bitty Rukubji. See how the village life is. You might enjoy it.

PS- The village is extremely green now, the potato fields are in bloom, the strawberries are red and ripe, and the monsoon has begun. Sadly, all the pictures I am taking from now on are on film, so you'll have to wait until I return to the US to see what early summer looks like here. 

           

           

           

Storytelling

Running to Chazam

Class 3 Reading Group

With lessons in hand

from loneliness to oneness

darkness to brightness

-Haiku from “The Stranger”

I am now a published author! The book my friend Linnea and I have been working on went public at Art-A-Whirl in Minneapolis. I wrote the poem partly in Minneapolis, partly in Bhutan.

Here’s a link to the work: The Stranger

Publishing my poetry was a goal for this year, and it has happened already. It’s only May, let’s see what other goals see the light of accomplishment this year…

I want to take some time in this post to share what I’ve been doing with my classes at school. After trying many different approaches to teaching the vocabulary and grammar structures outlined as part of the syllabus, I realized that the problem was in the readings given for context. The readings in the curriculum are usually over the heads of my Class 3 and Class 4. Bhutan has a national curriculum, so I knew I couldn't diverge from what the students were required to learn. I was feeling frustrated and felt like my teaching was disorganized and had no routine. I also saw little progress with my students. I had to try a different way  (as my mom says “if you can’t get there from here, you have to go start somewhere else”). So I turned to a tried and true method for language teaching and learning I had used with French during my student teaching: Teaching Proficiency through Reading and Storytelling (TPRS).

I take the vocabulary and structures they are supposed to gain from the curriculum, then as a class we make up a hilarious story using them. After we make the story, the kids read it, act it, retell it through drawings, and then in their own way in writing. What is amazing is that they have actually retained the vocabulary and structures. They go around saying lines from our story. What a feeling of success! After we are done with our silly story, I read the actual reading from the curriculum with them, we go over it, and they tend to understand it a lot more since we’ve learned the difficult vocabulary in an easier and repeated context. 

Here’s an excerpt from Class 4’s “Tshering the Lark”:

Once upon a time, there was a lark. The lark’s name was Tshering. Tshering was good at singing. He was not timid. Tshering’s dream was to sing on Druk Superstar. But there was a problem! Creatures like larks were not allowed to sing on Druk Superstar. But Tshering was not timid. He went to Thimphu. He wanted to ask Kencho Wangdi to let him sing on the show. Tshering went soaring to Thimphu as fast as his wings could go.

And some of “Dorji the Orphan” from Class 3:

Once there was a child named Dorji. Dorji did not have a mother. Dorji did not have a father. Dorji did not have a family. Dorji was an orphan. Dorji lived in a meadow. She lived in a meadow with her cows. The cows liked the meadow. The meadow had a lot of grass. It did not have a lot of rocks. Dorji did not live in a house. She lived in a bago. The bago was made out of moss.  

(side note for those familiar with Class 3 curriculum: the Dorji story is for vocabulary for a book we are reading called Aunty Mouse that is not part of the required curriculum)

It is so fun to ask my students what should happen next in these stories. Their imaginations are fabulous and make me double over with laughter. 

Another successful routine I’ve implemented in Class 4 and 5 is “Breaking News”, inspired by Noorin who is teaching Kuruthang. I used to do news article summaries with my ESL students in the US, but didn’t know how to do it here without a newspaper or student access to the internet. Noorin reminded me that most of the kids watch TV and so could get the news from that source. I began by teaching “The 5 Ws” with a chant (The 5 Ws: Who What When Where Why!) and actions with our hands. Then I brought in news articles from the Kuensel online, the New York Times, or the BBC. Once the students had the routine down, I handed it over to them. After our 2 minutes of Mind Training (or “Eyes Closed” as we call it in Class 3), the student who is assigned that day writes up their article in summary form using the 5 Ws, then gives an oral report of the news item. My shyest students have stood in front of the class and said their news in a loud and clear voice. Though we are still having confusion over “What” and “Why” (effect and cause, respectively), the students are using their writing and summarizing skills and clearly showing improvement.

In our literary club, we are working on a school newspaper which we will print using the “cycloster” (1 copy per class- it is a difficult machine to operate and we have limited paper and ink...). The club is really excited to share their stories, so we are hoping to print our first edition this Saturday, complete with news of our Nobding Sports Competition victories.

So, in the midst of a spell of darkness and frustration, I have found ways to pull myself out and up; start from a different vantage point. And this has in no small part been aided by the support of the other BCF teachers in the field here. Feeling alone in this experience is just a feeling. The truth is that there are 20 some other teachers here who are dealing with the same issues who I can reach out to. I have appreciated being able to process through problems with them over the phone, to come to new ideas (or come back to old ones I’d forgotten). So a big THANK YOU! Teaching is not a job we can do effectively without support.

In non-teaching news: Joe is coming to Bhutan! His visa has been approved. He will be coming at the end of July and staying until the end of August. I am looking forward to showing him my village and school and sharing this experience with him.

There are some characteristically "Bhutanese" moments I’ve experienced here in the last week that I want to end with:

-My student Vim showing up at my door at about 7am with a bunch of bananas for me, just because.

-Walking to the top of a hill, being surrounded in a cloud, and staring down at my village  and the river through the mist.

-Watching my Class 3 boys stuff all their books, pencils, water bottles, snacks into the fronts of their gho before leaving for home at the end of the day.

-My students telling me I look nice in the “national dress of India” (jeans and a sweater).

-Picking tiny strawberries on the road as I walk students home.

Bumthang Bound

Sun finally warm

we bare arms, greedy for rays,

and cool in blessed springs

(haiku for a walk to Kurje Lakhang)

This last weekend I had the great opportunity to take my first trip east to visit Martin and Tara in Bumthang. My mother, I am sure, is wondering what “Bumthang” is. Bumthang (pronounced ‘boomtong’) is another district, or Dzonghag, like Wangdue, which is where I am. It is a tourist destination (as it is usually as far east as most tours venture), the home of many important temples and sights, and idyllically beautiful (“Bhutan’s Switzerland”).

Normally we’d have school Thursday-Saturday, but many of our students and half the staff (3 teachers, including the principal) traveled to Nobding (1.5 hours to the west) for the interschool sports competition. Thus, school was cancelled for lack of teachers and students and I gained a surprise holiday.

As traveling usually begins here, I woke up early, packed my things, and walked to Chazam to the hotel to wait for the bus or a ride, whichever presented itself first. While busy drinking milk tea and making paper dolls with Kinley and Singye (two of my Class III students), I overheard a man talking to Ajim Dema (owner of the hotel, mother of Singye) saying something about Bumthang. Ajim Dema waved me over and introduced me to A, a vegetable wholesaler who supplies her hotel and travels often from Bumthang to Phuentsholing (in the south, on the border with India) and back. He told me he had a seat in his truck and he’d be more than happy to add me to his load headed to Bumthang. We ate some breakfast and then jumped in his truck, a jeep-like vehicle loaded with 3,500 kilo of produce in the back.

It turns out that A was a tour guide for many years before starting his wholesale business and shop in Chamkar, Bumthang. He shared the history and lore of Bhutan as we drove and proved to be quite knowledgeable about the flora and fauna we passed as well (I had been wondering the names of the strangely beautiful plants and animals I've been seeing). Since he also divulged a great love for country music, I plugged in the flashdrive sent by my friend Dave (thanks!), loaded up with John Prine. 

Since we were transporting a load of Indian vegetable, we talked extensively about the proposed cutback on Indian imports, especially of vegetables and fruits. A transports vegetables from India, so the proposal will directly affect him. Indian produce is cheaper, and since it is further south, they can grow things that are not available year-round in Bhutan. But this has had some effects on the Bhutanese economy, thus the government’s proposal to cutback on the imports. A thinks it will take time for the Bhutanese growers to catch up to demand, that the prices will go up, and that less variety will be available. This is a big discussion, one that is happening not only here. I am reminded of the local food movement in Minnesota. There are things we cannot grow in Minnesota that people are accustomed to eating yet the cost of importing and transporting is not seen or felt immediately. Local produce encourages and supports the local economy and avoids the environmental and monetary cost of transportation. I am curious to see what the Bhutanese government’s policy will be and what affects it will have.

By the time we reached Bumthang, a 5-hour journey, A and I were still joking, talking, and bouncing our heads to the country songs. He invited me into his shop in town for tea with his wife and two small daughters. Tara arrived to meet me at the shop, which just happens to be where she buys produce. I greeted her with a big hug. After tea, Tara and I left, promising to return before the end of my stay to do some much needed produce shopping. This chance meeting resulted in an exchange of phone numbers so that when A travels to pick up and deliver produce (from India or Bhutan), I can put in a request and have it dropped off as he passes by my village. What luck! I will get a regular supply of fruit now, which we don’t get a lot of at my altitude.

Tara and I walked to Martin’s school, Wangduecholing, where he was watching a soccer game. We left together, walking to their home in Dekling town. Their house is on the 2^nd floor with a nice ladder-like stair leading to the door. Inside it is wooden and homey. Due to Martin’s ingenuity and talent with construction, they have made their home a home. I felt so comfortable, especially in their kitchen, which is how I’ve imagined a kitchen of my own to be (perhaps I’d have a bigger oven and stove….).  We made many scrumptious meals in this kitchen over the 4 days I spent there. I even baked chocolate chip cookies in the glorified toaster oven! (Martin uses it to make sourdough bread, a true treat). I also made a some Lebanese dishes: mejeddra (rice and lentils with carmelized onions) and loubyeh (cinnamon spiced green beans and tomatoes with rice).

Aside from cooking, eating, and talking about food—we all love good food—I took some lovely walks. The first was to Kurje Lakhang, which is a gorgeous monastery and temple with a holy spring above it (where Tara and I surprised some shaving monks). It also is home to a body print of Guru Rimpoche, and where the cremated remains of the 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd Kings are kept. Another walk with Tara, during my shopping excursion in town, led us to the dairy, which sells swiss-style cheese and apple products. I stocked up on apple cider vinegar and a few blocks of cheese. No honey just yet, though I am looking forward to this Bumthang specialty when I visit again in July. On my last day, we meandered among the fields and cows in the sunny Sunday weather. We found ourselves in the midst of stone and mud base houses just above Dekling town, the smell of rich earth and green growth following our steps.

Another treat was leading yoga classes at Martin’s school. Tara has initiated an exercise class for the teachers and others in the community and invited me to be a guest instructor for Saturday’s class. This was their first experience with yoga practice, and I thanked them for being open and brave enough to try it. I felt at home leading the women through a basic yoga practice. Seeing them moving, breathing, and relaxing was beautiful. They requested that I teach another class on Sunday, though they normally don’t have class that day. I gladly agreed. I have led yoga practices informally before, but there was something phenomenal about watching the faces of these ladies completely relax during the final meditation, to see them absolutely calm. I want to be able to cultivate that in people more often. 

Glad I get rides to my destinations... A man on the road near Rukubji (February 2012)

Morning Assembly at Rukubji Primary School, April 2012

The night before leaving Bumthang, we went to eat at the Farmhouse. It was my treat to Martin and Tara for sharing so generously with me.  We had a great Bhutanese meal, complete with momos and buckwheat pancakes (a Bumthang specialty), though it wasn’t as spicy and I am used to now… The owners/chefs sat with us on the floor like they would in a normal Bhutanese home. It was quite similar to the dinners I’ve had at student’s homes with their parents. Martin and Tara complimented me on my ability to follow the conversation in Dzongkha, but I’ve had a lot of practice. Hardly anyone in my village speaks English, aside from the students and teachers. Most people I meet around my village address me in Dzongkha, and so I’ve learned to understand and respond to common phrases. This is one of the most difficult languages I’ve ever learned, and I haven’t even attempted the writing system as Martin and Tara are doing in their evening Dzongkha classes.

We arrived home late and I readied for the early morning wake up to catch the bus at 6 am. I hugged my hosts gratefully and woke up in what felt like seconds later. I stood with Tara in muted light looking at the river, waiting for my taxi, tired but somehow rejuvenated. What a gift of true friendship. I had gotten to just be with Martin and Tara- to talk and laugh, to let things out, and let go. I am glad to have made such great lifelong friends, almost by chance, through this experience.

Back at school we have been celebrating the success of our students in the interschool competition. I am particularly proud that we won the Mini-Marathon competition, as I was responsible for training the team for this event. Last year, they took home no prizes, and this year they won 5 events! Noteworthy news, which my Literary Club will be printing in our first issue of Rukubji Primary News. Now, let's see how the students do in our Class-wise English Super Spellers competition that I am in charge of this Saturday...

For an article regarding the vegetable issue, see http://www.kuenselonline.com/2011/?p=31226