May Daze AKA Dance Party! Dance Party!

Part 1: Ebb and Flow

“The lust of the goat is the bounty of god.

The Nakedness of woman is the work of god.

Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps. William Blake

The illusion of time keeps chugging on, bending in loops through expedient worm holes or lagging and trudging through a monsoon mud. It truly is a stretchable phenomenon in Bhutan. I had a hissy fit when the school store ran out of chart paper. I internalized 90% of the tantrum but did complain to principal La. Of course I work in Bhutan where chalk is a luxury item so there is no reason to get worked up about it. But it’s Tim and you all know I get worked up when the wind blows the wrong direction. Here’s a legitimist thing to get worked up over. I stepped on a nail which punctured my shoe and my skin. Ouch! Like the song says, “Walked all the way with a nail in my shoe.” I was in the midst of bagging plastic bottles to send off to civilization for refund. Proceeds will benefit the charity club. It’s been a busy week at school as we gear up for midterms. I am checking each students 5 paragraph essay’s determined to make them better writers. It is not always pretty. One BCF colleague of mine exclaimed that her students writing makes her “want to vomit.” My reaction is somewhat less gustatory but many of my students can’t write coherently, while others are approaching continuity and organization in their compositions. Either way I am setting realistic goals for each writer. It’s all about individual improvement and one rubric cannot satisfy the entire roster, nor should it in my humble opinion. I have been a tad moody of late (since birth) but loosened up enough to have some fun this week. My students really go for the (Jim Carry) physical humor. We love to jump around the room like golden languors at recess where they squeak and squeal like their furry counterparts. They also go in for facial expressions and one liner’s including my Sharshop catch phrase “Yelama” which means wow or surprise. Overall the teaching is going fine and I am slowly acclimating to what I can actually accomplish in the classroom. I would love more individual time with the students but this is nearly impossible with such large class sizes. Someday I would like to work with a small class again. I often think how different my position is from my pal Allison’s job in Sonoma County California. Overall I think she has it rougher in the field due to all the panoptic pressure of the N. American education institute, including parent teacher conferences. But I have some funky challenges too and teaching is never easy anywhere in the world. For instance these kids adore the rote learning style where a teacher lectures out of the text book. Furthermore group work is difficult to execute without CHART PAPER. Boo Hoo for the author. One must get creative out here in the bush and that’s part of the fun it seems. I do notice as I have already noted in past entries that my students have a certain ease and willingness to speak English compared to some of the older students I chat with. So I try to mix up my style and keep them actively involved. More students have been volunteering in class and I have begun calling on the ones who don’t. Of course I cannot adhere to the Harris rule of 80%/20% for the student to teacher lesson ratio but I am still constructing plans that involve the students more then they are accustomed too.      

 The flies continue to buzz around my head (with my new king’s haircut) and the roses tire and wither off the vine. Monsoon gathers in the Indian Ocean plotting its attack. The other day we awoke in a mist straight out of a horror flick. Straight out of a 3 AM episode of Scooby Doo. Straight out of the Bermuda Triangle. A heavenly mist concealing the pearly gates with their arch angel bouncers. Merlyn’s grey cloak or Gandolph’s beard. For a tick it even smelled like Fort Tuna (The Friendly City) before a dash of Tibet filled my olfactory factory. In other mundane news except to the author, I finished “Another Roadside Attraction” I love this Tom Robbins dude as the astute reader can ascertain from my puny imitations. He is obsessed with Christianity, paganism, sensuality, and adventure like yours truly. He begs the query, what would you do if you found Jesus’ corpse? The end of the novel made me think of a special someone which is not uncommon. His words put chinks in my armor of fear while gleaning perspective on this cosmic board game called life. As I mentioned a hundred times, it’s hard for me to let go perhaps my genetic fear of death on steroids. But in Bhutan it’s all about excepting things as they are. Deep down this is why we ALL came. To scrape the surface of our true natures. (Excuse me fellow teachers if I spoke out of turn, I can only guess your motivations.) But whatever your reason Ho! For doing it YO! Reidi’s words struck a familiar rusty chord with me. Acclamation has also been slower and rougher then anticipated or desired. But acclamation takes time. Just look at our friends in the animal kingdom where evolution takes place over millions of years. (Sorry to offend creationists.)  So for four months were doing okay.

My murky ideas about religion are sharpening into focus. I am positive that no one religion is the true religion. This goes against anything and everything I have ever observed or feel in my marrow. The tapestry of the universe ifs far too varied and complex to resound in man’s contrived answers. As the wizard says, “It’s all one!” Whatever the true god or goddess may be, we as a race have raced away from living harmoniously with the planet. Either created by the Earth Mother or Our Father who art in heaven, it is being destroyed and corroded. What would Pan say. He would just do a hoof dance then scurry off into the forest in pursuit of wood nymphs. My kind of fellow indeed. I am sorry to bore you with these silly notions and will try to stick to relevant Bhutanese information. I wouldn’t make much of a journalist. The truth is there is not much to report here. A lot of internal weather patterns shifting in mutable patterns and a lot of hard work simultaneously rewarding and frustrating. I cheer myself up by affirming that I am one of the very few Yanks to ever work in the kingdom. (And that’s a fact Jack.) We Westerners love to be frontiersmen set in a unique mold. AH the ego fly’s. But none the less, on a personal or on a manifested destiny level, it’s pretty satisfying. And culture clash can be awkward or sensational!  Lonely or exhilarating. Desperate or joyous. Weird of Bizarre. Can you find the synonym class?

(Wookie Interlude)

“Sure don’t know what I’m going for, But I’m gonna go for it for sure.”

Bob Weir

It’s almost a year to the day since the monumental and DNA decoding concert at the Throck in Mill Valley California, witnessing Bobby solo. Dancing under the calm gaze of a Wookie. For those who don’t know. A Wookie is a hairy longhaired (sometimes dreaded) creature with or without hygienic teeth. He is tall with an unmistakable glint of knowing in his eye. He always has a minimum of three women in his harem and is sometimes attired in a loincloth cape, or rags. There are many imitation Wookies but the trained eye can spot the genuine article. I was fortunate to wiggle in close and dance with one of his allotted women. He allowed me privileged access AHEM, to his stock with placid countenance. I mention this for the one or two readers who may have been in attendance (including my benefactor) or have an interest via an anthropological bent, in proving the existence of mythological creatures. As for the show oh my! I won’t ever forget Ace shinning like a deity, a bearded Buddha in a self contained aura bubble. Channeling Ganeshy on his old guitar. Telling the story of Saint of Circumstance and the source of this blog! The headwaters from which these adventures flows.

Part 2 Indo- Bhutan Dance Party AKA Another Roadside Attraction

I have grooved my way through Asia at some unusual dance parties. Including the discos of Korea, the full moon party (bust), dancing with Lady Boys in Samui, and of course boogying with STS9 and company in the Japanese sunrise. But tonight was the most unusual and miraculous event of them all. First the Bhutanese took the pine needled floor for an hour plus of traditional dance. There lovely choreographed movements and hearty vocals stirred the ancient forces of the night. The participants reminded me of black neck cranes with their graceful movements. I watched from the wings with my Indian pal (Butterfly) where we came up with more prefixes for fly including, bitterfly, beggerfly, betterfly, bonerfly, bathroomfly, bedroomfly, ECT. ECT. ECT.

After dinner the Indian boys took the outdoor floor for an intense disco session set to Hindi music. The Bhutanese stared rather stunned from the bluff. These Indian cats are working on the hydro project and were hosting this get together for the entire community. The party was at a huge pad at the junction (Zongpola) where the road splits three ways to Doksom, Yangtse, and Tsenkharla. Finally two brave girls in Kiras hit the floor. Now you must understand this was no small feat in the wilds of primitive East Bhutan. Where culture can be AHEM rigid. This was a Rosa Parks type bravery being displayed. Obviously I jumped in whooping it up with the sassy young woman in a black Kira. She had some moves too let me tell you! I’m not sure this tension could have been sustained but soon the children joined in the fun, softening the vibe to an innocent splendor. So there we were, a pack of Indians, two Bhutanese chicks, a white boy, and a group of elementary school children dancing together in a light rain. This was the real deal too, with limbs akimbo and huge dung eating grins. A whomp whomp throw-down for the ages. Ah dance the universal language, the purest form of love. Some adorable little girl sensing the power of the moment crept about snapping photos. I posed with the cutie in black. I posed with the gyrating Indians, I posed with Sangay Dempa. It was a scene nothing short of Guru Rimpoche’s sacred flight on the back of his tiger. The possibilities seem endless in this universe if we pulled off a cross cultural coed dance party in East Bhutan. On the bluff an old abi (grandma) waved her arms in approval. So very odd and entertaining in fact one might call it a religious experience for this cowpoke. Whoop Whoop! Indeed another roadside attraction. 

Part 3 Acceptance

“Keep on playing children it’s a long hard journey home” Volker     

Well another day in Buddha’s paradise. I spent class time combing over student essays meeting with each individual one by one. I have noticed some improvement in writing in certain students. I also trolled the grounds mulling over the trash situation and the unsanitary conditions of the boys toilets. Disgusting and unhealthy is an understatement. The reality is a stool bomb exploded in THEIR stalls. I addressed the issue with principal La. I got an e mail from my dear Morgan that opened a floodgate of emotions. This section is addressed to her. You mentioned “Into the wild,” I only saw the movie with my dad. In the end the protagonist reaches his destination but dies alone. He comes to a conclusion in his death bus that beauty is only truly appreciated when shared with others. Ah the human animal and his/her need for companionship. This fact accompanies me to bed on lonely nights. And most of them are since those days. So your readership means the world to me but you ought to watch the moon instead.  And thanks for the art project tip, a fine idea that I will do next week. THERE has to be a creative solution to this trash incursion. Remember Rabes you are freer then you realize and sorely missed.

Checked into Miss Reidi’s blog and saw she is keeping her “joy journal” and watching the butterflies of Lhuntse. Although we are not actively communicating I think of Ms. Smith frequently along with all my other brethren. Only Becky bears the brunt of my misgivings as an unpaid therapist. Ho hum if I had a biological sister she would play that role. Sorry Bunks. Well I know I have many lessons to learn here despite my best efforts of resistance. My own butterfly named Julia tells that, “Life is a never ending lesson of letting go.” I think she would dig this place despite the lack of trees to sit in. The workload has increased and midterms are approaching. I am doing my best to stay focused and stay in the moment, two of my biggest challenges in life. This place will keep you honest. But if the devil approached me with a double cheeseburger from Phyllis’s I might not have Jesus’ restraint.  

 (Whooping Crane Interlude)

Well I finished “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues” a fantastic novel by Tom Robbins an author my former Girlfriend turned me on to. Now the story of Morgan and Tim (you know pieces of it by now) recedes into the ambiguity of time like a western movie sunset. I can only offer that she taught me many things including lust, love, loss, femininity and magic. All these themes and more are embraced in “cowgirl” but I am left with the thought of whooping cranes. In the book after coming off a steady diet of peyote buttons they leave the Rubber Rose Ranch in the Dakotas and embark on an around the world flight, last spotted in Tibet. I can’t help relate to their saga and am reminded of the (non fictional) Black Necked Cranes now residing in Tibet who return to Boomdeling every winter to roost. Even though I can’t see them I feel the elephants, rhinos, leopards, tigers, wolves, and red pandas of Bhutan. In fact it is for them I pick up the trash more than the confused homo sapiens of the kingdom. The residents of Bhutan embody their landscape in collective ruggedness and toughness but many can’t comprehend what this land means to the world. It is one of the last wild places where animals live free. With each piece of discarded trash and WWF broadcast I fear for the habitat of the Blue Poppy, Snow Leopard, and Yeti. And once gone from here the world will suffer catastrophically and the dreams of young children will die. We need this place like the heart of Africa or the last roaming Buffalo of Turtle Island, warming their hides by cracked fishers along Yellowstone Lake. This author reminds you that we are the only animals who use money. But the animals have not forsaken us completely as proven by the (water fowled) inland bird who paid a visit to Rebecca and I while we melted by a Chorten. They will talk to you too if you are listening, if you just sit still.

In my corner of paradise I taught bare foot children in a classroom with no windows on a warm afternoon. Still Bhutan offers glimpses of a life all but extinct from our world. Where women have been herding Yak for four thousand years. But even this primitive culture is but a shadow of the ancient grace of maternal ways before the horned god was made a goat (the devil) or Guru Rimpoche hailed a flying tiger to ride to Takseng. Were the demons he subdued merely powerful women? Why did wine replace magic mushrooms and the pagan rituals reduced to a float on Bourbon Street? Can we fan the spark back into the fires of creation and balance? Or are we doomed to follow paternal destruction into the fires of our man made hell? You decide.

Part 1 The Ecstasy of the Grinding Stone (Or) 119 and Counting

“There a place in the sun when all you’re running’s done, you got to run red run to the end of the line” Zeke

Note to dad, even with our savior Andy back it looks to be a long year for our pinstriped boys of summer. I do however admire his ability to compete at this level as a major league dinosaur. This iron will is what brings superior athletes back into the game long after their prime. As a society we label it sad when a star lingers and performs poorly but in reality we should applaud the effort and grit it takes to stay in the game no matter what the result. This can apply to life as well, and to you dad. I admire how you have endured and prospered after your stroke in 2004. You can still drive, fix things, and do tasks that I cannot complete, and you are my star! Enjoy the games for us both as I miss rushing home from Trout Creek to fix dinner and commiserate about Zippy or CoCo Butters latest slump. As for me I am entertained by girls playing hoops in kiras enthusiastically gallivanting around the court seemingly never scoring a basket. By now many readers might want to abandon ship wondering when if ever I will get back to the plot of the story called “Tim’s life in Bhutan” Well hang onto your baseball caps as I am rounding third and heading for home. Run Rickey Run!    

Today was a hard and lonely affair. It began with students peeping in my window watching me sleep. I now know how a baboon at the zoo feels. As the monsoon tunes up like Jerry and Bobby crossing swords it knocked out the power with a saber crash. I was raked over the grinding stone sodamized by the Male Water Dragon. Namkith and Thinley got in a fight in the middle of class resulting in Nanu flipping him the bird. I was tired and flustered today feeling ineffective. I know this is not entirely true because when I substituted for class 9 they were much more timid in their speaking English than my class 8’s. But it’s an uphill battle to mark and improve 120 student’s writing. I try to present a fun and engaging atmosphere in which to learn while learning control in the classroom. I have implemented one minute of meditation at the beginning of class to focus my students before starting the lesson.  Today I retired to Karlos’s house watching nature documentaries all afternoon about, sea birds, Asian Elephants, and Dragon Flies. Did you know the Dragon Flies were here millions of years before dinosaurs?  Then the rain came but fortunately the power if not contentment has been restored. On days like this I feel very isolated in a culture far different than my own. And as clean as I keep my house the flies land on my face every morning waking me up. I am busy with school and trying my best to help the students best I can. I sooth myself by keeping my eyes peeled to the mountains and the flowers at my feet. After all life’s a garden, dig it! Mom I started bone stimulating again as my arm has been throbbing of late with the intermittent weather. (I’m very thankful my arm suffered the catastrophe and not my legs.) I’m sorry to hear about your pain mom. Happy b-day to Reed as its hard to believe the little guy is already turning three. I hope the tyke’s party is a whooping good time! I’ll give the prayer wheel a good spin for us all…Sometimes I wish I had someone special to share this place with but I know deep down this time is for me alone.  I am lucky to have Rebecca as a friend although we may form a fake relationship to stop all the local questioning. I’m still coming down off the effects of this weekend’s trip. In Bhutan sobriety is stranger than dope and reality is stranger than fiction. (The author would like to emphatically state that he has not touched any drug in Bhutan other than his consumption of ara and beer one night last month and his aborted Fosters) My time here is a lucid dream dreamed by an aboriginal boy. All references to any chemical or organic substances are purely for dramatization purposes and should not be taken literally. For example at the Chorten this weekend I was merely in a parallel dimension and NOT under any narcotic influence. Not to worry mom. The author will try to clean up his blog and his act henceforth. And that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Whoop! Whoop!

“Oh the daylight life, the pod people and the machines, they can’t tell what to do, they can’t tell us what be” These Fugitive Dreams, Zeke

Tsenkharla is a beautiful campus perched on top of a ridge with views in all directions. I have never seen anywhere like it before. It is quite possibly the most enchanted spot in the universe, A Mt. Olympus or mountain Eden. We have a row of thick Cypress lining our main path and another huge one of unknown species sprawled on the western edge of campus overlooking the valley. Our rose bushes resemble rose trees. As the raven flies we are closer to Arrunachal Pradesh India then Doksom which is 14KM away. I am charged with keeping this holy place clean and teaching my students how to speak, read, write, and listen in English. It’s a tough job but I am pleased to do it. This week they will be learning how to compose five paragraph essays which will be carefully revised to produce competent and interesting writing. I will meet with each student individually to review their work and help with corrections. I try to cover a different skill every week in relation to covering the syllabus and teaching grammar skills. But most importantly I hope to teach them how to be considerate human beings and adept critical thinkers. For the most part I enjoy my job and life here. And if I could only learn to embrace the challenges with more zeal, life would be rather perfect. Ones attitude is merely a state of perspective. Humans can tweak their perspective and tilt their universal outlook. So for me life in the village is mmmm okay. How are things in your town?   

And today it got even better. My class eight class was like a dream. I applied the Socratic Method and for awhile our discussion of “The Magic Brocade” was conducted like a college class as many “quiet hands went up.” I assigned Namkith and Thinley to work together after yesterdays blow out. They did fine. Things seemed bright today and relaxed with the kids. The shy ones are able to make eye conduct and utter a few words. Partly I was more positive today which always yields better results. Better a butterfly then a bitterfly. I granted my 7A a free period to go watch the track and field tryouts for the older students. Once outside the classroom they mobbed me with enthusiasm (especially the boys.)  The kids really thrive outside the pinewood box. I sat on the stoop with Tandin (8B) who argued that beating was an efficient means of classroom management and was beneficial to the students.  In other fantastic news I also received a grant from BCF to initiate my recycling program on campus. I am also petitioning to make more trash cans from oil tins and place them in strategic locations around the entry points of campus. We still have a lot of work to do and I must target the younglings, boarders, and day scholars. I also need to target my attitude to get the best out of myself and my students. Working in Bhutan is hard and often frustrating but look! It can be rewarding too. One of the most important tasks is to be a role model for the kids, building a bridge between the vast cultural differences and teaching them how to be citizens of the world. Meanwhile twilights silver wings bead into moonless night. 

Part 2: The Lost Supper

Since there is no water right now I couldn’t clean my dishes for supper so I decided to have mutton from a can. But since there are no can openers in East Bhutan I used my Swiss Army Knife which didn’t work. I managed to pry the can a quarter of the way open cutting my thumb in the process. I resorted to pounding the can against my cement floor like an otter cracking an anemone against his chest to no avail. Meanwhile blood and mutton juice poured onto my Ratdog sweatshirt until my kitchen resembled a slaughterhouse. So it came to pass that on the eve of Reed’s third birthday I had mutton juice for dinner.

However before this sad and ridiculous meal I went up to the temple to meditate via Tsangma’s house. It was a solitary evening with a distant thunderstorm brewing over India and a magnificent cloud set over Bhutan. The hallway leading into the attic is a perfect viewing spot for the main event and a raven joined me from a nearby treetop. The colors were pastel patches of unrefined gold, silver, and opal. The evening air smelled of incense and Himalaya. On the walk home in the dark the stars poked through like pin holes in carbon paper. The Big Dipper rested upside down dumping its celestial porridge into the tribal bowls of Arrunachal Pradesh. Now I will go clean up my mutton spots trying to avoid the giant moth-bat creature that is banging against my fluorescent lights. These moths are not chalky ghetto butterflies rather thick multicolored beasts of the night. Right off the walls of the Karmeling Hotel and that other dimension I dare not mention for fear of being sucked into it. Half moth half dragonfly they buzz like electric razors going Vroom, Vroom around the room. Who knows what tomorrow will bring in the “Land of Terror” or the lost isle of Avalon. One thing’s for certain you better take it as it comes. Authors note, to the class (group) of 2013, when they say this is the adventure of a lifetime, they aren’t kidding. Come join the fun, I promise you won’t regret it! But bring your sense of humor and a can opener.   

Part 3 Fresh Squeezed Sunrise

“Sunrise has burned my eyes again” Seven Story Mountain, The Squirrel

I have seen many epic sunrises. From Mt. Tam, on Lake Tahoe streaking through glassy rainbow colored water, the silvery beach of Cosumui, the citified glow in Anyang and the billowing misty plumes over the indigo pine ridges of Quincy after 24 hours of dancing. But this morning’s from my rock at Tsenkharla wins the blue ribbon of sunrises. As I stepped out my door an air show of sparrows was displaying their acrobatic aeronautics. However the main attraction began at quarter to five and by quarter after the ball of fire was warming the dew soaked grass. It was clearer then I’ve ever seen here illuminating distant Indian ranges in the dawns early light. Ah, snow encrusted twin peaks at the end of the valley which winds from Arrunachal Pradesh all the way past Kaling to the west, hundreds of Kilometers away. (One wouldn’t realize this is one snaky valley unless flying or traversing East Bhutan. I am still not sure where the valley ends but I know my sacred river drains in Manas.) My favorite ridgeline, including the molar tooth, triangular fang, and baby bouncies was illuminated against turquoise curls. Once the day began the film of built in haze washed gently over the land but for a moment it was pure as the waters of aforementioned Tahoe. The sun upon its scheduled arrival kept its life affirming appointment and rose as an orange orb with fingers of juice pouring over the earth tones of terra firma. Sunrise has burned my eyes again!    

I rolled back to T-Gang this weekend via Doksom. At the convergence of my two favorite rivers is a dump. Doksom has chosen to use the riverbank for a dumping ground. In the third world it is difficult to dispose of trash but this broke my heart. I will make the Dzong people aware of the problem but unfortunately it’s out of my jurisdiction. My whole crusade seems to amuse people more than inspire them. Some even mock me and ask why bother. Another discovery from my latest venture was that the guard at Chasam was back in business. The lion bridge is no more a free ride. (There are painted lion statues on the Yangtse side) Back in T-Gang I got a haircut from an Indian barber whose father opened up the shop fifty years ago. Nancy was his third grade teacher. The shop and barber were right out of 50’s America but with Bhutanese flare. Barber music piped out of a stereo as the artist cut my hair with Edward Scissorhands precision and stealth using giant shears that could of lopped my head off. (Morgan would undoubtedly say it’s too short but I rather like it.) Afterwards I took a long walk to the Dzong and retired to my room at the K.C and caught a Yankee game on TV. The next day I visited Puntsy (the demoness) and sat at the prayer wheel for five hours until my principal picked me up on his way back from Bartsham. T-Gang is more tropical jungle than Himalayan glacier these days. Sitting in the garden outside the bakery amongst the tropical flowers I might as well of been in Southern Vietnam. As we finally left the city the lights were out giving it an ancient feel. The only illumination was from the tecnicolored Tata’s with their General Lee horns. I was very happy to be back in my clean hut which had a bird in it, just another bird in a house dying to get out.    

Up until now the author of this blog has mixed reality with a hefty dose of fantasy and memory. Memory is often fiction and many of these flashbacks might seem self indulgent to the reader. But this is a blog after all. More then one of you have suggested keeping a journal for the stranger notions. But if a strange notion falls in the woods and no one reads it, does it make a sound? In Trashigang I met a shopkeeper (one of Puntsy’s friends) She remembered me from weekends past when I came into her business to try on pants. She said she never heard anyone talk so much comparing me to a radio, or as she put it “like a radio” Apparently that particular evening I had been left on the complaint station (WCOM) with this just in. “These pants are too small, they’re made for Asians, nothing fits here, I’m fed up with rice and potatoes, blah, blah, blah, ECT, ECT, and ECT.” (Mental note cheer up or keep your god damn mouth shut.) This is my rep in E. Bhutan, a negative Neal Cassady. Well on with the story if anyone still cares. My X is AWOL; my own brother is several blogs behind busy raising my niece and nephew. My father always reads these posts promptly and for that I am grateful, (just like I was grateful when he pulled my zombie corpse out of bed to buy Special Rehearsal Furthur tickets on January 1 2010.) So the author would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to any and all interested participants joining in my dark ranting and light raving. It’s not easy leaving all you know behind, when that life was a charmed rainbow soaked in gravy. Especially when you have no idea what is leading you on this sojourn, maybe going on a feeling like a tiger in a trance.     

May Days AKA Eight Days a Week (Revised)

This blog is rated X for adult content, strong language, and sexual situations. Parental discretion is advised…

Monday

“She moved in for the winter, made a garden in May, summer came then the cold autumn grey” This Time Forever

The day began as any other in Bhutan, except Sunday. And as one student said, “not every day is Sunday so enjoy the day.” For us BCF’ers, our six day work week inevitably begins with a morning assembly. The assembly commences with the singing of a Buddhist prayer which segues into the Bhutanese National Anthem. Each rendition is sung differently according to the weather and mood of the students. I’ve noticed they take it down on Saturdays to a slow drawl. Each time I here the anthem I am reminded of my dream coming true. Today was the third sunny day in a row, a warm and wonderful occasion. Spring is in full swing with roses blooming everywhere along with geraniums and other flowers including white trumpets with a sweet fragrance. It’s hard to believe this is the same parcel that greeted me in February. Even though the valley floor a thousand feet below struggles to green, Tsenkharla is a little oasis. In class 8 we discussed women’s roles in Bhutan both traditional and modern. I posed the question to the students if they thought men and women were equal in society. The discussion generated some interesting ideas from the class. Many sexist ideals were reflected by the male students. My class captain thought it was okay to have multiple wives since men were “oversexed.” One girl rebutted that if girls didn’t stand up for themselves “the boys would pass stool on their heads.” It was only one generation ago that women here married and had babies at 14 and were uneducated. Overall the country has made tremendous progress. I pray that the royal couple will have a baby girl who will eventually become queen. Today was my light load of five classes. I usually teach six a day totaling 32 45 minute classes a week. There are BCF teachers here teaching more so I feel thankful. It is hard to handle the large class sizes mainly marking the work of 120 students with varying abilities. Some students are rather poor in English which does not reflect their overall intelligence. They all speak 4-5 languages and have terrific savvy and sense. If I were dying in a ditch I’d take a Bhutanese kid over an American any day and twice on Sunday. But how is one ESL teacher supposed to make a difference in this system. For now I do selective marking and gather the most common mistakes to review as a class. One advantageous aspect is that my students are speaking English and critically thinking. I firmly believe I am improving their conversational abilities and anxieties about our language. I’m not confident yet that I am improving their writing, reading, and grammar. We do have a lot of fun trying though. I’m even getting more names except the boogers keep switching seats. Today on my trash patrol I found we had three black pigs in our sty on the edge of campus. All I could think was BACON! BACON! BACON! Hope your reading Cousin Larry (Mepos sends it’s regards)    

Golden rays glowed over a black depression between two peaks. Soon after a plump full moon the color of cheddar cheese rose over the ridge, accompanied by a burst from Sylvie. The lunar appearance struck up a nighttime symphony with a tender cricket (not Cricket) solo. We rarely get visits from sister moon who must have other obligations elsewhere often unable to drop in on poor old East Bhutan. But tonight she showed up early to the party and stayed late streaking across the sky in lonesome delight, lightening as she went. When it happens like that a body can loose themselves in the eternal dance of the universe and for one second become the moon, mountain, and everything everywhere. But these peaceful moments never last.      

Tuesday

“At the end of the endless game, there is friendship” Zen Proverb (To Rabes)

Outside one of the shops in Tsenkharla the same purple flowers grow that are found in the Lost Coast of Humboldt County where we were “Lost Coast Locals.” These luxurious purple bells have white speckles dappled inside. They lined the grueling trail all the way to Wheeler Grove at the end of California where Morgan panted in a tight pink t-shirt. I was so proud of her for showing Bhutanese like endurance that day covering many vertical miles while continuously inquiring “Where are the redwoods?” We finally found them descending into camp in the warm October air. Strange ones blackened by lightning, scared and broken as we would soon be too.

I recall the first time I heard the word Bhutan ring out like one of those purple bells. It was a smoggy spring evening in Anyang City South Korea and I was eating a gourmet meal on the floor of a lunatic’s apartment. This particular lunatic happened to be an incredible chef and incorrigible maniac. He had made some pork in his curry cooker that melted in the saliva bath of my mouth. Why he wasn’t cooking for kings and queens or presidents was beyond me. His name was Paul but he referred to himself in the third person as Daddy. Saying things like “Daddy fucks” or “Daddy gingerates.” He was also a notorious whore monger who would often spend his nights at the brothels on Hooker Hill in Itaewon with my best friend, why I dabbled on Korean Friend Finder (a social networking sight.) I digress; we would often have long discussions about travel and philosophy and on this particular night we began to discuss the Himalaya’s. He insisted I check out Bhutan and spoke about the rhododendron forests and one horned rhinoceroses’ along with the tariff and mandatory guides. He had been there briefly as a tourist you see. Perhaps the forbidden and exclusive nature of the place first allured me so after that orgiastic meal including various curries and goose eggs and the before mentioned pork I retired back to my apartment and immediately googled Bhutan. Paul was fired a few weeks later and vanished pulling off a Midnight Run or Runner. (This means bunking your contract and leaving the country without giving proper notice) Last we heard he was teaching in China but that’s another story altogether.

And now I am here but I still haven’t seen those damn unicorn rhinos yet. They are hiding in Manas with the elephants and tigers. But Bhutan is more beautiful and free then my wildest imagination, a mountainous paradise, the end of the road and the beginning of God’s playground. Desperate to escape my own head I bought four Fosters but after half a can remembered how much I despise alcohol and gave the rest away. I went for a walk picking up trash as I moved, well aware that as soon as I leave this place the compulsive littering will continue in earnest. The evening star immerged waiting for his date the moon. Over one ridge and another range is Tibet, a three days walk if it weren’t for those awful Chinese in power. Dead ahead is Arrunachal Pradesh and Tawang just out of view. And of course Trashigang sparkles like a diamond. Somewhere out there my “spin sister” Becky (mistakenly adapted by a student from the word spinster) makes a fine meal with real ingredients. I will make grilled cheese with plastic dairy imitate. Beyond Becky the Blue Poppies think of sprouting on the slope between Merak and Sakteng. Here the afterglow of day settles over the rim of a mountain that looks like Tam if she were stacked on ten green and brown blocks. To the west Karma Om’s sister moves across the old trade routes for home while J.D levitates over Bidung. In San Rafael Jazzy sleeps on the sofa. But for now it’s just me and Booty who follows me to and fro from my rock like a dog, a loyal companion. And as for the moon she is conspicuously absent again.    

Wednesday    

“Doing the mess around, everybody doing the mess around” 

Teaching here can pose its own challenges. The class sizes are large which can present classroom management issues. Also some of the students do not take their studies very seriously. This is probably true anywhere and I am trying to exercise patience. The lack of resources and low English ability can make lessons challenging. On the brighter side it’s another perfect spring day in the east. I have tons of work to do and lessons to plan. I am trying to come up with activities that maximize student’s involvement and engagement. I went to touch the grinding stone since its one of those days. Popped my head out the door at 5:25 AM to see the sun rise over India, and then crawled back into my bag. Hope to ride that high pressure system for awhile before the trough of rain puddles us again. Went into a fly infested hut and witnessed a strange game of dice being shaken and slammed down on a pad while screaming in Sharshop. Saw a perfect sunset and talked to Becky, Ashleigh, and Sarah on the phone. Ironically I had to come to the remote corner of the planet to make a few friends. Then I took dinner at the mess with four hundred students asking me the same question, “Is it delicious sir?” Now I’m procrastinating planning lessons and reading “Even Cowgirls get the blues” watching fleas, flies, roaches, and spiders dose do around the concrete dance floor, while the dogs call out the tune.    

(Cowboy of Tsenkharla Interlude)

I wonder why being naked in the wilderness or in public for that matter is illegal. It seems the most natural thing in the world. Yet I have only achieved this a few times. Once strolling around a Rainbow Gathering in Arizona (with only my Yosemite cowboy hat) after I had been robbed blind. This was more of a statement march then a freedom march, and it made my primitive inner puritan a tad uneasy (although I have nothing to be ashamed of wink wink) I have even made love once or twice within a mountain hollow or sandy beach but that might have been a dream, I’m not sure anymore. There was a rumor that a Canadian teacher in the 80’s lost the plot and circumnavigated the prayer wheel in Trashigang in all his circumcised glory. Maybe he was the sanest one after all; this place is naked as they come!

Thursday

“So instead I grab a bottle and a girl who’s just fourteen and a damn good case of the Mexicali Blues” Barlow

As mentioned above I have been stressing the equality of boys and girls and men and women in class 8. Like I said, we have been comparing modern Bhutanese women to their traditional counterparts. Heck we even made a groovy chart! To repeat myself, backwards one generation the girls were wedded at 14 promptly popping out babies. Thankfully this is not the case anymore and girls are allowed to grow into women with aspirations and independent dreams. But it’s a rough river to row for these young ladies. As with the rest of the civilized world (yes I’m including Bhutan) men still dominate. Did you know up until 1962 there were no roads in Bhutan? While Jack Kerouac was “On the Road” chasing down Neal Cassidy, the folks of Bhutan were walking across an unforgiving landscape. Even today many of my students have never ventured as far as Trashigang but they all know who Justin Beaber (or Beaver) is. Our girls are not naughty like the sex fiend teens of the USA although they do flow on a river of estrogen coalescing with a river of testosterone. The two bodies intersect somewhere on make out point at Sharopsi college in view of Ashleigh’s balcony. Today was a tiring day just like many teaching days. This profession saps my strength but it is a labor of love (excuse the cliché) not to be trotted lightly. I shiver at the thought of being a role model and after reading my posts you might as well. But I take it seriously and channel my demented musings into good clean comedy in the classroom. Of course they do know I carry a torch for Miss Bhutan. At the end of the day all I want is for these boys and girls to achieve their goals and be happy.

Life for students on this rustic ranch is tough, playing cowboys and Indians. Except we have real Indians from Krishna’s Tribe and the natives are never restless, but they do have bow and arrows. The chime of the oval brass bell clunked with a rusty hammer controls their movements and actions. They are forced to pray the live long day which for an agnostic American seems unusual if not cruel. They are born Buddhist, they have no choice. A few abandoned Sangay Dempa’s ship and board Christ’s vessel. I am yet to meet one enlightened and brave atheist. Pishaw, I am not even an atheist afraid to accept or deny that damn being who shines from “the clear light of the void” staring back at us and laughing at our narrow minded interpretations and dualistic reasoning. The crickets back me up on this, chirping there merry tune forever in cheery darkness. We are all bound together like the weavings the Druk Yul’s covet and cherish, all being spun on a cosmic loom. But who is doing the spinning anyway. Whose feet work the WA WA pedal? If anyone knows the answer I urge you to post a comment immediately.  

P.S We had an earthquake tonight that put East Bhutan on the cosmic tilt-a- whirl for forty seconds. It was a 5.3 centered near Guwati India near the border.

TGIF (Think Goofy It’s Friday)

“Small wheel turn by the fire and rod, big wheel turn by the grace of god, every time that wheel turn around, bound to cover just a little more ground” The Wheel    

Updates from around the kingdom! Sheal called me as I just had “night crawled” into bed. She is a night owl you see. We talked for over an hour and I am happy to report that she is doing marvelously in Mongor. She loves her co workers and has made many friends. Her highlights are group meals, socializing, and shopping for organic produce with her confidants on Sundays. Like most of us she faces many challenges in the classroom but has little time to complain between hosting tea parties, dinners and learning how to weave. Sheal has truly embraced this culture and adapted well. She is already remiss about having to leave in the winter to go back to Toronto and resume work. I noticed on FB that Sabrina was fulfilling my fantasy as she mentioned His Majesty had visited Chummay. OMG! Her angels are working a double shift for her now. Sarah says it’s still cold in Gasa, haven’t heard a peep from Simon. Ash is on her way to see Reidi whose blog I recently read and can certainly relate to. Having patience is difficult for me as well and I applaud Iman for her efforts in this regard. I think Reidi is making more of an impact then she might realize and should never feel humiliated about anything. I feel the same at times and that is why I am speaking to it. Adaptation is a bitch in these parts but resistance is futile. There is a theory floating around by many of us that we all ended up where we needed to be for our particular life lessons. This will be a trying year for many of us and we will learn things we might not want or expect. I sure wish I was closer to you Reidi and could throw my arms around you in a BEAR HUG. I owe you a call soon. I feel very connected to your predicament of isolation. Reidi in particular is far off the path in Lhuntse. We both are the only BCF teachers in our Dzonkhas. Hang in there sis and as for life long memories here’s a few. Miss Reidi crying tears of arrival in Paro in the customs line and her glowing continence trekking up to Tigers Nest, where I followed her regal path basking in her footsteps. Reidi if you’re reading this tell Dave to call me. Dave if you’re reading this, tell Reidi to call me. Or heck I could call y’all too. Is the Laya Trek calling, is Bigfoot on the line???

As for me I feel alienated not from Bhutan but from my own monkey mind. It will pass, just a fit of anxiety for Mr. Tim. I have a pinch of that in my soul which bubbles up on its own accord. In Bhutan I can often dismiss these attacks quickly. God misconnected a few of my hard wires but it is nothing to get worked up about. This same flaw in wiring provides shortcuts and surges to the divine playing field. (Pick up the ball Reidi and run with it for the goal. You can do it girl!) Back on earth in the classroom I taught grammar (verbs) which the kids loved, go figure. My students comprehend concepts well but need to work on their writing. Overall I believe some progress has been achieved. The high pressure remains and its warm today with partly cloudy fly’s. Tonight I met the illuminating Tsewang, (Karma Om’s sister) who has been working at a luxury hotel in India as a beautician. Like Karma she has a husband and son living a thousand miles from her. She is beautiful if not a little skinny and is moving back to Mumbai on Monday. In the spokes of the wheel we are all nestled in god’s furry pocket for one more revolution towards revelation. As the students say before making speeches, “To all my dear friends out here” Happy belated Teacher’s Day to the entire BCF Krewe, you are my constant inspiration. See you soon!     

Happy B-day Mom and Aunt Barb! XOXO (and Mare too)

Saturday

“There’s an aching pain in my heart for the name of the one that I hated to face, somebody else come out to win her, and I came out in second place” The Race is On, George Jones

Regular scheduled classes for the day were scratched as the students of Tsenkharla competed in a mini marathon race. This meant getting up at 5 AM to assist facilitating the event. My student Kesang came in second! She is so little and cute with boyish hair and ferocious scowl to match her heroic vertical run up the road. Here I will switch to the past tense as I have just returned from a bizarre weekend in Trashigang, details to follow.

Saturday was a good day. I got a fine meal and met Becky at the KC hotel. We got the Norbu suite with a nice flat screen TV which we kept on the African channel all weekend long. T-Gang was hot and muggy for an extraordinary walk to the extraordinary Dzong. The Dzong is a classic edifice and one of the most spell bounding Dzong’s in the Kingdom. It sits on a large humped mountain amongst a sea of other rolling massifs perched at the head of an endless narrow valley. In this way it resembles a New Orleans Riverboat that has sailed out the gulf and into the Atlantic during a violent hurricane. At night the Dzong lights up in orangey gold light that bathes the whitewashed ornate exterior. In actuality this Dzong was founded around 1666 by space aliens and it’s not a Dzong or ship at all but rather a UFO. It will take off again someday. The aliens came to visit Bhutan sometime after Rimpoche and his flying tiger. They made a deal with the Bhutanese being allowed to stay in secret in exchange for their assistance fighting off the Tibetan invaders. The Tibetans have stayed away and the aliens live quietly amongst the demons and ordinary citizens. In fact some of the aliens chose to interbreed with the demons to create a new shape shifting form of extraterrestrial -demonic changeling. These new creatures can even appear as attractive young women as we would soon discover. The aliens even built a gigantic satellite in the middle of their colony to communicate with their cohorts in outer space constantly transporting signals into the sky. Check it out when you breeze through town. The Dzong at sunset is surreal with deer nibbling on its slopes and the cobblestone courtyard echoing with celestial footsteps.

Walking back to KC we met Phuntso who called down from her second story castle like a fairytale character. And just like a fairytale she was sinister as a black goat. Somehow she instantly appeared on the sidewalk and we agreed to dinner the following night. Alas Becky and I made the journey up the flights of stone steps into the upper reaches of T-Gang and a late night bull session. We talked in our twin beds at one point simultaneously scratching our legs that were extended to twelve o’clock. We lost it then.

Sunday (5-13) Happy Mothers Day, Mommy!

“Trouble ahead oh lady in red, take my advice you’d be better off dead” KC Jones  

We reunited with Martha, Vicky, and Ian for the obligatory carrot cake and tea. Ian looked as relaxed as a Sunday golfer ready to hit the links. I enjoy the company of all at the table but before to long me and Becky lit out for Bartsham. A place that cannot be classified but should be classified as “a hidden lands. The road up to Bartsham crisscrosses rugged and semi barren mountains, with alternating glimpses of our UFO boat riding the high seas and the wilderness leading towards the Brokpa galaxy. We reached the top of the mountain and the school which is situated in a spacious salad bowl. We soon agreed this was the most visually appealing place our earthling eyes had ever seen. The trees were of many varieties and carefully placed among the boulders and terraces. The ridgeline above the town was a dragon’s tail with triangular and rounded scales. The dragon was hungrily waiting for the ship to blast off, ready to chase it in hot pursuit. This was the land of chortens with magical bells that pinged just for us and thick white prayer flags fluttering like cloth flames on wooden candlesticks. This land was pink and powdered blue, a child’s snow globe recovering from Thursdays 5.3 shake. We hiked out to a tiny chorten at the center of the globe, half way between Bartsham and Bidung. (Maybe its JD’s snow globe?) Sitting down we melted into the surroundings in an opiate daydream where we were greeted by a humongous blackbird with a floppy whimsical gait that glided like rubbery kites except not like that at all. It was the magic bird. We reversed course past the water driven prayer wheel which served as the clockworks of the universe. When the splintered spokes cease to spin and the rusted wheel makes its final revolution and stands still, the entire universe will implode on itself into a pin of extinction. But the wheel creaked on, the water flowed, and we had had a great hike. But at the top of the mountain an ominous wind blew through the pines at the reconstructed temple where hells generator buzzed in its own race against the water wheel in a bid for supremacy of TIME. We were lucky to escape Bartsham in the last chariot before sundown descending out the lips of the hidden lands like smoke rings and into the scorched and burned wilds towards the Alien outpost known as Trashigang. When we arrived we had some momos and I realized I had lost my mobile phone.

Authors and shamans alike put great stalk in for- shadowing. And it doesn’t take a soothsayer to recognize strange events blowing in a swallow wind like the dust from an agitated dirt road. We headed towards Phuntso’s shop and down the rabbit hole into the thirteenth dimension.

Phuntso is a young Bhutanese woman reportedly of 21 years of age. But she is really named Zet and is the product of a demoness and a creature from the planet Zanidu. From the outside she is a stalky girl with rounded face and plump posterior. She is not fat but an Asian cherub with built in sex appeal highlighted by black painted fingernails. Yet her watery eyes resemble a lizard eying a fly while basking on one of hells rocks. Her slanted slits are watery membranes with eyeballs that roll around on their own accord. Once in a while her forked and pierced pink tongue darts out to taste the air looking for prey. (Prey not pray) Look here folks I think she’s got one. On the way to dinner she picked up a “friend” another Halfling or cocktail. (A dash of demon and a pinch of Alien) This young creature had on a green shirt that said “I get high because the world is low” He looked like an irie iguana with the same fluid floating eyes. They dashed us into “Alice’s Restaurant” and the madness commenced. (Enter stage right two Americans and two Bhutanese) I ordered the pork and was soon attacked by Zet who chastised me for eating the flesh of animals. Ironic for the offspring of a man eating demoness. She burrowed into me with hateful eyes asking me “what pigs had done to me to deserve such treatment” She had a point but her delivery needed refinement as she possessed all the social grace and etiquette of a jackhammer in a monastery. As I ate my pork she interrogated me. But that wasn’t the real scene at all. She talked like a demonic Neal Cassady on Bennies cutting me up into a sushi roll like a vengeful samari. She asked a question then asked another and another in great succession before I could answer the first. Every once in awhile darting her forked tongue out into the air. Becky stared in bewilderment and on and on it went. Words cannot capture the palpably lysergic atmosphere of that restaurant that may or may not exist in a town that may or may not have been resettled by Aliens around 1666. When it was all over and Becky had paid the bill we immerged into the warm ozone where our Alien vegetarian threw a wadded up paper into the street and I let her have it! I screamed, I ranted and raved as the locals peered out of their windows at the commotion. Well the 1% of Zets Bhutanese genetic code (her vestigial tail) was deeply offended by the disturbance. (Mental note: have more tantrums in the Far East) She completely withdrew into her pod shell emanating nocturnal metallic green waves which turned on the dormant satellite and were immediately broadcasted to Zanidu at the speed of light. She led us up an alley threw me into a car muttered a frozen goodbye and we were driven backwards by the little green man back to the KC, as Z skulked down the narrow crooked street like an irate gnome.             

Alone Becky and I broke into our hotel and crawled into bed barely able to speak of the wonky events. I could only think of the title of the Brent Mydland song, “Never Trust a Woman” especially if she is an extraterrestrial demonic Changeling from Bhutan.

Monday

“Oh sweet siren, I never could resist a witch, Oh No” Wrong Way Feeling  

On Monday we swung by Phuntso’s shop and did our best to make amends. Who wants a demoness on their ass anyway? After that I replaced my cell for 1,500 NU and we collected our money from Western Union. We said goodbye as usual and I headed in a taxi towards Yangtse to collect my paycheck and go to the bank. Dashing past Chasam (Iron Bridge) which has been abandoned by the immigration police thanks to Kendra’s and others tireless tactics and circular logic. Past Gom Kora’s shinny gold pagoda, over the rushing white water and Doksom, through the arid region, and into the waterfall jungle. Finally spotting Chorten Kora’s white dome announcing eureka to Yangtse. I did my business and bumped into Karma Om, her sister (who is actually not married and was telling lies) and Hatchet Boy in the bank steady spring rain played a fried rice track on the windows.  . The driver ran them up to Bayling to see their sister and drop off a care package. Then the two of us, driver and passenger, made it on back to Tsen Tsen. Ah my placement with its lone trees stretching into oblivion as a fried rice track plays upon the window.  

May Days AKA Eight Days a Week

 This blog is rated X for adult content, strong language, and sexual situations. Parental discretion is advised…

Monday

“She moved in for the winter, made a garden in May, summer came then the cold autumn grey” This Time Forever

The day began as any other in Bhutan, except Sunday. And as one student said, “not every day is Sunday so enjoy the day.” For us BCF’ers, our six day work week inevitably begins with a morning assembly. The assembly commences with the singing of a Buddhist prayer which segues into the Bhutanese National Anthem. Each rendition is sung differently according to the weather and mood of the students. I’ve noticed they take it down on Saturdays to a slow drawl. Each time I here the anthem I am reminded of my dream coming true. Today was the third sunny day in a row, a warm and wonderful occasion. Spring is in full swing with roses blooming everywhere along with geraniums and other flowers including white trumpets with a sweet fragrance. It’s hard to believe this is the same parcel that greeted me in February. Even though the valley floor a thousand feet below struggles to green, Tsenkharla is a little oasis. In class 8 we discussed women’s roles in Bhutan both traditional and modern. I posed the question to the students if they thought men and women were equal in society. The discussion generated some interesting ideas from the class. Many sexist ideals were reflected by the male students. My class captain thought it was okay to have multiple wives since men were “oversexed.” One girl rebutted that if girls didn’t stand up for themselves “the boys would pass stool on their heads.” It was only one generation ago that women here married and had babies at 14 and were uneducated. Overall the country has made tremendous progress. I pray that the royal couple will have a baby girl who will eventually become queen. Today was my light load of five classes. I usually teach six a day totaling 32 45 minute classes a week. There are BCF teachers here teaching more so I feel thankful. It is hard to handle the large class sizes mainly marking the work of 120 students with varying abilities. Some students are rather poor in English which does not reflect their overall intelligence. They all speak 4-5 languages and have terrific savvy and sense. If I were dying in a ditch I’d take a Bhutanese kid over an American any day and twice on Sunday. But how is one ESL teacher supposed to make a difference in this system. For now I do selective marking and gather the most common mistakes to review as a class. One advantageous aspect is that my students are speaking English and critically thinking. I firmly believe I am improving their conversational abilities and anxieties about our language. I’m not confident yet that I am improving their writing, reading, and grammar. We do have a lot of fun trying though. I’m even getting more names except the boogers keep switching seats. Today on my trash patrol I found we had three black pigs in our sty on the edge of campus. All I could think was BACON! BACON! BACON! Hope your reading Cousin Larry (Mepos sends it’s regards)    

Golden rays glowed over a black depression between two peaks. Soon after a plump full moon the color of cheddar cheese rose over the ridge, accompanied by a burst from Sylvie. The lunar appearance struck up a nighttime symphony with a tender cricket (not Cricket) solo. We rarely get visits from sister moon who must have other obligations elsewhere often unable to drop in on poor old East Bhutan. But tonight she showed up early to the party and stayed late streaking across the sky in lonesome delight, lightening as she went. When it happens like that a body can loose themselves in the eternal dance of the universe and for one second become the moon, mountain, and everything everywhere. But these peaceful moments never last.      

Tuesday

“At the end of the endless game, there is friendship” Zen Proverb (To Rabes)

Outside one of the shops in Tsenkharla the same purple flowers grow that are found in the Lost Coast of Humboldt County where we were “Lost Coast Locals.” These luxurious purple bells have white speckles dappled inside. They lined the grueling trail all the way to Wheeler Grove at the end of California where Morgan panted in a tight pink t-shirt. I was so proud of her for showing Bhutanese like endurance that day covering many vertical miles while continuously inquiring “Where are the redwoods?” We finally found them descending into camp in the warm October air. Strange ones blackened by lightning, scared and broken as we would soon be too.

I recall the first time I heard the word Bhutan ring out like one of those purple bells. It was a smoggy spring evening in Anyang City South Korea and I was eating a gourmet meal on the floor of a lunatic’s apartment. This particular lunatic happened to be an incredible chef and incorrigible maniac. He had made some pork in his curry cooker that melted in the saliva bath of my mouth. Why he wasn’t cooking for kings and queens or presidents was beyond me. His name was Paul but he referred to himself in the third person as Daddy. Saying things like “Daddy fucks” or “Daddy gingerates.” He was also a notorious whore monger who would often spend his nights at the brothels on Hooker Hill in Itaewon with my best friend, why I dabbled on Korean Friend Finder (a social networking sight.) I digress; we would often have long discussions about travel and philosophy and on this particular night we began to discuss the Himalaya’s. He insisted I check out Bhutan and spoke about the rhododendron forests and one horned rhinoceroses’ along with the tariff and mandatory guides. He had been there briefly as a tourist you see. Perhaps the forbidden and exclusive nature of the place first allured me so after that orgiastic meal including various curries and goose eggs and the before mentioned pork I retired back to my apartment and immediately googled Bhutan. Paul was fired a few weeks later and vanished pulling off a Midnight Run or Runner. (This means bunking your contract and leaving the country without giving proper notice) Last we heard he was teaching in China but that’s another story altogether.

And now I am here but I still haven’t seen those damn unicorn rhinos yet. They are hiding in Manas with the elephants and tigers. But Bhutan is more beautiful and free then my wildest imagination, a mountainous paradise, the end of the road and the beginning of God’s playground. Desperate to escape my own head I bought four Fosters but after half a can remembered how much I despise alcohol and gave the rest away. I went for a walk picking up trash as I moved, well aware that as soon as I leave this place the compulsive littering will continue in earnest. The evening star immerged waiting for his date the moon. Over one ridge and another range is Tibet, a three days walk if it weren’t for those awful Chinese in power. Dead ahead is Arrunachal Pradesh and Tawang just out of view. And of course Trashigang sparkles like a diamond. Somewhere out there my “spin sister” Becky (mistakenly adapted by a student from the word spinster) makes a fine meal with real ingredients. I will make grilled cheese with plastic dairy imitate. Beyond Becky the Blue Poppies think of sprouting on the slope between Merak and Sakteng. Here the afterglow of day settles over the rim of a mountain that looks like Tam if she were stacked on ten green and brown blocks. To the west Karma Om’s sister moves across the old trade routes for home while J.D levitates over Bidung. In San Rafael Jazzy sleeps on the sofa. But for now it’s just me and Booty who follows me to and fro from my rock like a dog, a loyal companion. And as for the moon she is conspicuously absent again.    

Wednesday    

“Doing the mess around, everybody doing the mess around” 

Teaching here can pose its own challenges. The class sizes are large which can present classroom management issues. Also some of the students do not take their studies very seriously. This is probably true anywhere and I am trying to exercise patience. The lack of resources and low English ability can make lessons challenging. On the brighter side it’s another perfect spring day in the east. I have tons of work to do and lessons to plan. I am trying to come up with activities that maximize student’s involvement and engagement. I went to touch the grinding stone since its one of those days. Popped my head out the door at 5:25 AM to see the sun rise over India, and then crawled back into my bag. Hope to ride that high pressure system for awhile before the trough of rain puddles us again. Went into a fly infested hut and witnessed a strange game of dice being shaken and slammed down on a pad while screaming in Sharshop. Saw a perfect sunset and talked to Becky, Ashleigh, and Sarah on the phone. Ironically I had to come to the remote corner of the planet to make a few friends. Then I took dinner at the mess with four hundred students asking me the same question, “Is it delicious sir?” Now I’m procrastinating planning lessons and reading “Even Cowgirls get the blues” watching fleas, flies, roaches, and spiders dose do around the concrete dance floor, while the dogs call out the tune.    

(Cowboy of Tsenkharla Interlude)

I wonder why being naked in the wilderness or in public for that matter is illegal. It seems the most natural thing in the world. Yet I have only achieved this a few times. Once strolling around a Rainbow Gathering in Arizona (with only my Yosemite cowboy hat) after I had been robbed blind. This was more of a statement march then a freedom march, and it made my primitive inner puritan a tad uneasy (although I have nothing to be ashamed of wink wink) I have even made love once or twice within a mountain hollow or sandy beach but that might have been a dream, I’m not sure anymore. There was a rumor that a Canadian teacher in the 80’s lost the plot and circumnavigated the prayer wheel in Trashigang in all his circumcised glory. Maybe he was the sanest one after all; this place is naked as they come!

Thursday

“So instead I grab a bottle and a girl who’s just fourteen and a damn good case of the Mexicali Blues” Barlow

As mentioned above I have been stressing the equality of boys and girls and men and women in class 8. Like I said, we have been comparing modern Bhutanese women to their traditional counterparts. Heck we even made a groovy chart! To repeat myself, backwards one generation the girls were wedded at 14 promptly popping out babies. Thankfully this is not the case anymore and girls are allowed to grow into women with aspirations and independent dreams. But it’s a rough river to row for these young ladies. As with the rest of the civilized world (yes I’m including Bhutan) men still dominate. Did you know up until 1962 there were no roads in Bhutan? While Jack Kerouac was “On the Road” chasing down Neal Cassidy, the folks of Bhutan were walking across an unforgiving landscape. Even today many of my students have never ventured as far as Trashigang but they all know who Justin Beaber (or Beaver) is. Our girls are not naughty like the sex fiend teens of the USA although they do flow on a river of estrogen coalescing with a river of testosterone. The two bodies intersect somewhere on make out point at Sharopsi college in view of Ashleigh’s balcony. Today was a tiring day just like many teaching days. This profession saps my strength but it is a labor of love (excuse the cliché) not to be trotted lightly. I shiver at the thought of being a role model and after reading my posts you might as well. But I take it seriously and channel my demented musings into good clean comedy in the classroom. Of course they do know I carry a torch for Miss Bhutan. At the end of the day all I want is for these boys and girls to achieve their goals and be happy.

Life for students on this rustic ranch is tough, playing cowboys and Indians. Except we have real Indians from Krishna’s Tribe and the natives are never restless, but they do have bow and arrows. The chime of the oval brass bell clunked with a rusty hammer controls their movements and actions. They are forced to pray the live long day which for an agnostic American seems unusual if not cruel. They are born Buddhist, they have no choice. A few abandoned Sangay Dempa’s ship and board Christ’s vessel. I am yet to meet one enlightened and brave atheist. Pishaw, I am not even an atheist afraid to accept or deny that damn being who shines from “the clear light of the void” staring back at us and laughing at our narrow minded interpretations and dualistic reasoning. The crickets back me up on this, chirping there merry tune forever in cheery darkness. We are all bound together like the weavings the Druk Yul’s covet and cherish, all being spun on a cosmic loom. But who is doing the spinning anyway. Whose feet work the WA WA pedal? If anyone knows the answer I urge you to post a comment immediately.  

P.S We had an earthquake tonight that put East Bhutan on the cosmic tilt-a- whirl for forty seconds. It was a 5.3 centered near Guwati India near the border.

TGIF (Think Goofy It’s Friday)

“Small wheel turn by the fire and rod, big wheel turn by the grace of god, every time that wheel turn around, bound to cover just a little more ground” The Wheel    

Updates from around the kingdom! Sheal called me as I just had “night crawled” into bed. She is a night owl you see. We talked for over an hour and I am happy to report that she is doing marvelously in Mongor. She loves her co workers and has made many friends. Her highlights are group meals, socializing, and shopping for organic produce with her confidants on Sundays. Like most of us she faces many challenges in the classroom but has little time to complain between hosting tea parties, dinners and learning how to weave. Sheal has truly embraced this culture and adapted well. She is already remiss about having to leave in the winter to go back to Toronto and resume work. I noticed on FB that Sabrina was fulfilling my fantasy as she mentioned His Majesty had visited Chummay. OMG! Her angels are working a double shift for her now. Sarah says it’s still cold in Gasa, haven’t heard a peep from Simon. Ash is on her way to see Reidi whose blog I recently read and can certainly relate to. Having patience is difficult for me as well and I applaud Iman for her efforts in this regard. I think Reidi is making more of an impact then she might realize and should never feel humiliated about anything. I feel the same at times and that is why I am speaking to it. Adaptation is a bitch in these parts but resistance is futile. There is a theory floating around by many of us that we all ended up where we needed to be for our particular life lessons. This will be a trying year for many of us and we will learn things we might not want or expect. I sure wish I was closer to you Reidi and could throw my arms around you in a BEAR HUG. I owe you a call soon. I feel very connected to your predicament of isolation. Reidi in particular is far off the path in Lhuntse. We both are the only BCF teachers in our Dzonkhas. Hang in there sis and as for life long memories here’s a few. Miss Reidi crying tears of arrival in Paro in the customs line and her glowing continence trekking up to Tigers Nest, where I followed her regal path basking in her footsteps. Reidi if you’re reading this tell Dave to call me. Dave if you’re reading this, tell Reidi to call me. Or heck I could call y’all too. Is the Laya Trek calling, is Bigfoot on the line???

As for me I feel alienated not from Bhutan but from my own monkey mind. It will pass, just a fit of anxiety for Mr. Tim. I have a pinch of that in my soul which bubbles up on its own accord. In Bhutan I can often dismiss these attacks quickly. God misconnected a few of my hard wires but it is nothing to get worked up about. This same flaw in wiring provides shortcuts and surges to the divine playing field. (Pick up the ball Reidi and run with it for the goal. You can do it girl!) Back on earth in the classroom I taught grammar (verbs) which the kids loved, go figure. My students comprehend concepts well but need to work on their writing. Overall I believe some progress has been achieved. The high pressure remains and its warm today with partly cloudy fly’s. Tonight I met the illuminating Tsewang, (Karma Om’s sister) who has been working at a luxury hotel in India as a beautician. Like Karma she has a husband and son living a thousand miles from her. She is beautiful if not a little skinny and is moving back to Mumbai on Monday. In the spokes of the wheel we are all nestled in god’s furry pocket for one more revolution towards revelation. As the students say before making speeches, “To all my dear friends out here” Happy belated Teacher’s Day to the entire BCF Krewe, you are my constant inspiration. See you soon!     

Happy B-day Mom and Aunt Barb! XOXO (and Mare too)

Saturday

“There’s an aching pain in my heart for the name of the one that I hated to face, somebody else come out to win her, and I came out in second place” The Race is On, George Jones

Regular scheduled classes for the day were scratched as the students of Tsenkharla competed in a mini marathon race. This meant getting up at 5 AM to assist facilitating the event. My student Kesang came in second! She is so little and cute with boyish hair and ferocious scowl to match her heroic vertical run up the road. Here I will switch to the past tense as I have just returned from a bizarre weekend in Trashigang, details to follow.

Saturday was a good day. I got a fine meal and met Becky at the KC hotel. We got the Norbu suite with a nice flat screen TV which we kept on the African channel all weekend long. T-Gang was hot and muggy for an extraordinary walk to the extraordinary Dzong. The Dzong is a classic edifice and one of the most spell bounding Dzong’s in the Kingdom. It sits on a large humped mountain amongst a sea of other rolling massifs perched at the head of an endless narrow valley. In this way it resembles a New Orleans Riverboat that has sailed out the gulf and into the Atlantic during a violent hurricane. At night the Dzong lights up in orangey gold light that bathes the whitewashed ornate exterior. In actuality this Dzong was founded around 1666 by space aliens and it’s not a Dzong or ship at all but rather a UFO. It will take off again someday. The aliens came to visit Bhutan sometime after Rimpoche and his flying tiger. They made a deal with the Bhutanese being allowed to stay in secret in exchange for their assistance fighting off the Tibetan invaders. The Tibetans have stayed away and the aliens live quietly amongst the demons and ordinary citizens. In fact some of the aliens chose to interbreed with the demons to create a new shape shifting form of extraterrestrial -demonic changeling. These new creatures can even appear as attractive young women as we would soon discover. The aliens even built a gigantic satellite in the middle of their colony to communicate with their cohorts in outer space constantly transporting signals into the sky. Check it out when you breeze through town. The Dzong at sunset is surreal with deer nibbling on its slopes and the cobblestone courtyard echoing with celestial footsteps.

Walking back to KC we met Phuntso who called down from her second story castle like a fairytale character. And just like a fairytale she was sinister as a black goat. Somehow she instantly appeared on the sidewalk and we agreed to dinner the following night. Alas Becky and I made the journey up the flights of stone steps into the upper reaches of T-Gang and a late night bull session. We talked in our twin beds at one point simultaneously scratching our legs that were extended to twelve o’clock. We lost it then.

Sunday (5-13) Happy Mothers Day, Mommy!

“Trouble ahead oh lady in red, take my advice you’d be better off dead” KC Jones  

We reunited with Martha, Vicky, and Ian for the obligatory carrot cake and tea. Ian looked as relaxed as a Sunday golfer ready to hit the links. I enjoy the company of all at the table but before to long me and Becky lit out for Bartsham. A place that cannot be classified but should be classified as “a hidden lands. The road up to Bartsham crisscrosses rugged and semi barren mountains, with alternating glimpses of our UFO boat riding the high seas and the wilderness leading towards the Brokpa galaxy. We reached the top of the mountain and the school which is situated in a spacious salad bowl. We soon agreed this was the most visually appealing place our earthling eyes had ever seen. The trees were of many varieties and carefully placed among the boulders and terraces. The ridgeline above the town was a dragon’s tail with triangular and rounded scales. The dragon was hungrily waiting for the ship to blast off, ready to chase it in hot pursuit. This was the land of chortens with magical bells that pinged just for us and thick white prayer flags fluttering like cloth flames on wooden candlesticks. This land was pink and powdered blue, a child’s snow globe recovering from Thursdays 5.3 shake. We hiked out to a tiny chorten at the center of the globe, half way between Bartsham and Bidung. (Maybe its JD’s snow globe?) Sitting down we melted into the surroundings in an opiate daydream where we were greeted by a humongous blackbird with a floppy whimsical gait that glided like rubbery kites except not like that at all. It was the magic bird. We reversed course past the water driven prayer wheel which served as the clockworks of the universe. When the splintered spokes cease to spin and the rusted wheel makes its final revolution and stands still, the entire universe will implode on itself into a pin of extinction. But the wheel creaked on, the water flowed, and we had had a great hike. But at the top of the mountain an ominous wind blew through the pines at the reconstructed temple where hells generator buzzed in its own race against the water wheel in a bid for supremacy of TIME. We were lucky to escape Bartsham in the last chariot before sundown descending out the lips of the hidden lands like smoke rings and into the scorched and burned wilds towards the Alien outpost known as Trashigang. When we arrived we had some momos and I realized I had lost my mobile phone.

Authors and shamans alike put great stalk in for- shadowing. And it doesn’t take a soothsayer to recognize strange events blowing in a swallow wind like the dust from an agitated dirt road. We headed towards Phuntso’s shop and down the rabbit hole into the thirteenth dimension.

Phuntso is a young Bhutanese woman reportedly of 21 years of age. But she is really named Zet and is the product of a demoness and a creature from the planet Zanidu. From the outside she is a stalky girl with rounded face and plump posterior. She is not fat but an Asian cherub with built in sex appeal highlighted by black painted fingernails. Yet her watery eyes resemble a lizard eying a fly while basking on one of hells rocks. Her slanted slits are watery membranes with eyeballs that roll around on their own accord. Once in a while her forked and pierced pink tongue darts out to taste the air looking for prey. (Prey not pray) Look here folks I think she’s got one. On the way to dinner she picked up a “friend” another Halfling or cocktail. (A dash of demon and a pinch of Alien) This young creature had on a green shirt that said “I get high because the world is low” He looked like an irie iguana with the same fluid floating eyes. They dashed us into “Alice’s Restaurant” and the madness commenced. (Enter stage right two Americans and two Bhutanese) I ordered the pork and was soon attacked by Zet who chastised me for eating the flesh of animals. Ironic for the offspring of a man eating demoness. She burrowed into me with hateful eyes asking me “what pigs had done to me to deserve such treatment” She had a point but her delivery needed refinement as she possessed all the social grace and etiquette of a jackhammer in a monastery. As I ate my pork she interrogated me. But that wasn’t the real scene at all. She talked like a demonic Neal Cassady on Bennies cutting me up into a sushi roll like a vengeful samari. She asked a question then asked another and another in great succession before I could answer the first. Every once in awhile darting her forked tongue out into the air. Becky stared in bewilderment and on and on it went. Words cannot capture the palpably lysergic atmosphere of that restaurant that may or may not exist in a town that may or may not have been resettled by Aliens around 1666. When it was all over and Becky had paid the bill we immerged into the warm ozone where our Alien vegetarian threw a wadded up paper into the street and I let her have it! I screamed, I ranted and raved as the locals peered out of their windows at the commotion. Well the 1% of Zets Bhutanese genetic code (her vestigial tail) was deeply offended by the disturbance. (Mental note: have more tantrums in the Far East) She completely withdrew into her pod shell emanating nocturnal metallic green waves which turned on the dormant satellite and were immediately broadcasted to Zanidu at the speed of light. She led us up an alley threw me into a car muttered a frozen goodbye and we were driven backwards by the little green man back to the KC, as Z skulked down the narrow crooked street like an irate gnome.             

Alone Becky and I broke into our hotel and crawled into bed barely able to speak of the wonky events. I could only think of the title of the Brent Mydland song, “Never Trust a Woman” especially if she is an extraterrestrial demonic Changeling from Bhutan.

Monday

“Oh sweet siren, I never could resist a witch, Oh No” Wrong Way Feeling  

On Monday we swung by Phuntso’s shop and did our best to make amends. Who wants a demoness on their ass anyway? After that I replaced my cell for 1,500 NU and we collected our money from Western Union. We said goodbye as usual and I headed in a taxi towards Yangtse to collect my paycheck and go to the bank. Dashing past Chasam (Iron Bridge) which has been abandoned by the immigration police thanks to Kendra’s and others tireless tactics and circular logic. Past Gom Kora’s shinny gold pagoda, over the rushing white water and Doksom, through the arid region, and into the waterfall jungle. Finally spotting Chorten Kora’s white dome announcing eureka to Yangtse. I did my business and bumped into Karma Om, her sister (who is actually not married and was telling lies) and Hatchet Boy in the bank steady spring rain played a fried rice track on the windows.  . The driver ran them up to Bayling to see their sister and drop off a care package. Then the two of us, driver and passenger, made it on back to Tsen Tsen. Ah my placement with its lone trees stretching into oblivion as a fried rice track plays upon the window.