Part 17: Dog Fight and Hot Pursuit, Introducing Bhutan Trek “The Next
Generation”
Once in
awhile a BCF teacher will have a bad day, where challenges seem daunting and
overwhelming. Mine was a recent Saturday. I had a productive morning marking my
class seven exams and was pining for the woods. I went for a hike but students
were on my tail. It was awkward since they were bunking from school grounds and
in hot pursuit. I love my students but living at a boarding school provides an
overdose of exposure. Every time I step out of the hut I am bombarded with formulaic
inquires like “where are you going sir?” or “for what purpose?” Usually I enjoy
these small interactions with the kids but on this day everything grinded my nerves.
PATIENCE. Back in the village two women quarreled fiercely. One throwing a wad
of dolma at the other. The fight climaxed with some pushing and shoving while
my student Pema translated the dialogue. One woman (Dooktoe) calls the other a
D-O-G! Dog. I felt strung out and called
Becky who absorbed my neurotic rant. With no power I gazed at the stars before
retiring into some peculiar dream that bounced between America and Bhutan. I awoke
to another sunny Sunday. Strolling through the village I happened upon Karma Om
and her family getting into a taxi for Yangtse. I jumped in giving Karma a
squeeze and we were off. The roadside gleamed with bamboo, dazzling crimson poinsettias,
mixed with orange and banana trees. Spliced by a splash of pink, from a
blossoming tree, tangled ivy and bruiting jungle abound beyond the waterfall. A
Diamond Tierra peak with icy jewels overlooks the hamlet of Trashiyangtse. The
town is punctuated by Chorten Kora a fantastic whitewashed stupa with extreme
mojo. And of course the darling Kulongchu River with its headwaters in Tibet
(or was it India?) I trekked out of town
to the entrance of Boomdeling National Park, where the first pair of monogamous
black necked cranes has arrived. There is a sign, a mighty cypress, and a
bridge draped in hundreds of streaming rainbow prayer flags. A swift breeze
blows and the river whooshes. The forest breathes in lush mountain air. It’s an
idyllic setting and even your pessimistic author is transported by a raven to an
emerald and silver palatial dimension. I scamper down passed wilting purple
buds to the banks of the swift river, lined with giant boulders that I hop on.
I try to wash my face in a rivulet running from the forest, but fall ass
backward into a pool. Fortunately only my pride is injured. I find a path
passed some chicken shacks and retreated towards CK.
Legend has
it that an eight year old girl from Arrunachal Pradesh is enshrined in the
roomy domed edifice that wears a golden hat and is painted with the
compassionate eyes of Buddha. Rumor has it she was put there to appease the
local deities. It is an extremely holy place. A beautiful young woman
circumambulates reciting prayers as we pass in orbit again and again, rotating
like earth and moon around the sun. Finally I interrupt her faithful turning of
the greasy handheld wheels. (Each one inscribed with Sanskrit and encased in an
embroidered geometric row. Four lengths around the stupas whose interior
sanctum is kept locked under key, although I did enter it once in a dream)
Marigolds cling to life on the cobblestones pathways encircling the shrine, and
all to the dreamy lullaby of the Kulongchu. The woman is from Paro and wears
western clothes and a turquoise scarf. It is her first visit to CK and she is
devout in her prayer and exploration of the landmark, even diverging into less
trotted areas of the sanctuary, spinning wheels as she flies. She pauses as if
in a drive in movie and gives a sweet wave goodbye before vanishing around the
corner. Exiting I spin a heavy bronze wheel in the entranceway praying to meet
in the next generation.
Today was
another long day of grading, exam duty, and a three hour meeting in Dzonka.
After school golden light rose up the cracks of purple crystal faces finally
illuminating the distant glaciered peaks of Tawang. A crescent moon tattooed
the sky like a Hindu Goddess’s brow at a snake dance, while a blue orb
circumambulated the Matterhorn peak. Across the valley a trucks headlights
crept up a lonely Indian road and in the village the toddler that used to throw
mud at me is blowing me kisses. The colors are syrupy and rich, a decadent
dessert lovingly prepared by the hands of Mother Earth. Prayer flags sweep,
sway, and snap and the sacred river loops through rugged country. Cabin Fever
has set in around the kingdom and every BCF teacher has a touch of it. We miss
teaching our kids and are instead cooped up in cold rooms marking papers. Not
that we mind the work but we prefer to be in the classroom. By now the hardships
get a little harder and the cravings get a little deeper. (My Kingdom for a
cheeseburger) Overall the quality of life is good in immeasurable and infinite
ways. Don’t ask me to explain because I don’t know. Yesterday on the banks of
the Kulongchu I was certain I had found the nexus of the Eastern Himalaya.
Situated in a verdant valley at 6,000 feet with waters from Tibet (or was it
India?) caressing my bare feet. I perched like a troll under the bridge that
connects Yangtse to Bomdeling, the final frontier of Northeastern wilderness.
Beyond the impenetrable peaks and prowling leopards are Tibet, Arrunachal
Pradesh, Burma, and the sweltering jungles of Northern Thailand, where a mountain
maiden has reputedly been seen.
Triple Gem
The universe
is a black diamond
shined by an
emerald river
And love is
a turquoise stone
smoothed by
many lifetimes
Part 18: The end of the rope and Gross National Hysteria for the hard
rock kid
I have been
a box boy, busboy, towel boy and salad boy, but now I am a teacher and it means
something to have found a meaningful career. I remember having dinner at the
Crescent Mills Hotel with Morgan and an intense discussion about my choice in
pursuing an English degree. Now that future has become the past. We all have
stories to tell and I hope you have enjoyed this serial but the author has run
out of rope for this tale of loathing. Did he bestow on you the proper degree
of fear that the story appropriates. All the events that have been reported are
non fictional except one. Can you guess? Oh I never did tell you about that
flying tigress! Or that unfortunate encounter in the attic. But we have no time
for that nonsense now. THE WORLD IS ENDING? Or isn’t that what the Mayans
calculated (those little jungle mathematicians.) What? Is STS9 gonna break out
the crystals again? Is the mother ship gonna abduct Bobby and the chosen people
as prophesized? Sometime in December around the winter solstice is when it will
all go down or up. I’m not sure how people in this dimension will be affected.
I tried to leave once through the Dragon Gate but ended up reentering through
some tranquil tea plantation. Like a bowling ball draining into the gutter,
traveling through an unseen mechanical world before being regurgitated by that
greasy wheel. If only that marbled three eyed ball could talk, the stories it
would tell about the clockworks deep inside a Himalayan Labyrinth. As for your
humbled and frightened author, he just worships the dark and complex mysteries
that obscure the truth and the ultimate order of disorder in a world where
everything flies apart. A blue poppy spends its whole life growing for one
spectacular bloom before reproducing and dying. The shortness and rarity of
life gives it purpose, gives us purpose. But the landscape remains denigrated
but intact. Prayer wheels in a high monastery will spin after I expire and
hopefully the wilderness of Tsenkharla will remain untouched for eternity. But
our hobbled protagonist still has unfinished business so let’s
pick up the tattered thread of this yarn somewhere in the rolling blue
mountains of East Bhutan, where a dragon terrorizes the countryside. Bhutan is
a dangerous place with tigers, snow lions, Yetis, dragons, and demons. I can
only confirm two of the aforementioned creatures. I can in addition report blue
lights, fireballs, vortexes, portals, a Buddha, a Blue Goddess, and a pixie.
It’s a supernatural battleground for the spirits, a triangular corridor connecting
Tsenkharla, Tawang, and Phongmay. On Becky’s side is the powerful Brokpa magic
of ancient Tibet. (Although my kids say they smell!) On a recent trek Becky
happened upon a mystical pasture where she encountered Brokpa laying with their
cows and I encountered a raging thunder dragon thrashing through the highlands
of Sakteng. I never saw the Migoi but perhaps that’s because the Bhutanese Yeti
can become invisible, a helpful trait for the rare primate. In fact that was Big
Foot’s tragedy in the woods of Northern California. Unlike his cousin she
hadn’t acquired invisibility and presumably became extinct. There was that Yeti
at a Ratdog show in Eugene an anomaly who had probably crossed the land bridge from
Siberia and taken refuge in the Oregon Cascades surviving for millenniums.
Open up the dusty pages of this rustic fairytale, scribed with
gold Sanskrit our students take their grub on the ground in national dress
seated in neat rows, girls on one side and boys on the other. After dinner they
stampede across the campus splitting in two streams like buffalo being pursued
by a pride of lions. Some scenes never become stale and retain their intrinsic
essence. Things reveal themselves in textured layers, complex as an embroidered
silk kira on a rural Ashi. Weaving itself binds together a cultural fabric rich
in tradition. Handed down from mothers to daughters, this is the real GNH
behind the gimmicky tag phrase. For a wayward foreigner it can seem a “weird”
culture but they have an identity and our stewards of Shangri La. Both Captain
Picard and Butterfly follow the Prime Directive that emphatically states, “Don’t
destroy the culture!” I hope “Fear and Loathing” won’t be used as evidence to
the contrary. I am like Captain Kirk who always ran into sticky situations
easily seduced by alien strange. Ahem, there’s a moral in there somewhere.
It’s interesting how BCF teachers refer to their village as
“My village” It says a lot about the journey of assimilation. Some have adopted
fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunties, cousins or pets. And we all have
tons of adopted children. We all leave something behind and take something with
us when we go. We all struggle and grow from this experience. We are better.
So back to the sorted chronicles of your Hard Rock Kid in
Tibet (or was it India) NO! BHUTAN! Yes Bhutan, The land of The Thunder Dragon,
The Land of Southern Darkness, The Land of Medicinal Herbs, The Land of GNH, The
Land of Terror, and Etcetera. This story has an ending you know, as all stories
do. God Damn the author hopes the protagonist outruns that flying tigress
before the leather bound cover snaps shut on his ass. Buckle up Kids!
I have finished more than half my marking but have a long
way to go. The worst for me is entering the grades in the data base due to
visual issues and all the subsequent paperwork. A teacher’s work anywhere in
the world involves a ton of housekeeping and organizational demands. My
interaction with students has dwindled to bumping into them near the miniature
cracked clock tower on campus. The boys still come over to chill out but I have
barred them during exams. Principal La has already scolded me for giving them
extra time on their tests and I might be banned from Samdrup Jhonkhar
permanently. Walking through the village I am one thousand feet tall. I want to
leap over the sumptuous mountains to Phongmay or Drametse. Every pine cone,
rock, blade of grass and bamboo stalk speaks my name. My mountain is diverse in
its expressions from lush forest to vapid grassland. I watch the sunset with
Pema Tshomo the girl with the heart condition from class seven. She is happy
since she spoke to her mom in Thimphu on a mobile phone. She asks if she can be
my adopted sister. Why not! I remember how fortunate I am to have a loving
family and an opportunity to teach abroad. I have lunch with some class ten
boys who frequent Karlos’s house. They are hip teens who will spend their
winter holiday working construction jobs to help supplement their family’s
income for the year. I feel a bit guilty when I tell them I am going to
Thailand for break. It’s a basic life here for most and television, cars, and
computers are new luxuries items. In rural areas the kids are often dirty and
living in basic conditions but everyone has food to eat and there is more
panhandling in American than Bhutan. While meditating on a rock in a pine grove
I came face to face with a dragon. He was long and black and wanted something
from me, but before I could ask he slithered away towards Doksom.
Part 19: An American Beggar in
Bhutan , Off the trail on the path, goodnight rinchen wangmo…
I was sitting around with some teachers on the grass when I
asked for some tea. Tashi remarked that I was an American beggar. I thought my
family might appreciate the reference. It was a rare opportunity of bonding
with the nationals who were speaking English since the Indian teachers were
there. It was a hysterical scene with the crazy senior Indian expounding on
Darwin’s theory suggesting aliens mated with animals to make gods. The author
had tears in his eyes from today’s Loony Toones episode. When things get too vivid
he focuses on the nature channel airing 24/7.
At this point your deranged author merely wants to finish the race. The
year has taken a toll on your handsome protagonist. Any woman seeking a hard
six pack would laugh at my Buddha belly and baby love handles. I am at that
awkward age, no longer a sex symbol in Asia and not quite a mentor figure. I’m not sure I ever was the
former and will ever be the latter. As time goes by housework becomes more
consuming and the water issue remains frustrating. After nine months challenges accumulate and I
am exhausted. My energy level has not recovered since being sick in October. I
chalk it up to wear and tear. It seems I am not alone and other BCF teachers
are facing their own struggles near the end. Maybe we have such awesome
experiences because it’s not easy. (Oh and Bernie, if you’re reading this:
Bartsham is a rocking placement! Arguably the most beautiful spot in the East) New
ones coming as the old ones go. And after Disorientation in the capital we are all
on our own. The idea being that we ought to assimilate and not be codependent
on each other. I’d be crawling without my crutches, Becky and Trashigang. It was a difficult arrival into Bhutan and an
unnerving entry through the rusty gates of Tsenkharla. Today I was emotional
collecting exams from students I won’t teach again. Students like Namgay Zangmo who is moving to
Punakha. I wonder what difference I made for her as she disappeared into the
noonday sun. I am an alien on another planet in brief contact with these
special kids but maybe if I live a good life I will be reborn as a Bhutanese!
The former frustrations of the classroom melt away in fondness for the
students, especially the rebellious ones. They have a hard life
as I watch them napping in trees or helping a sick boarder to the BHU. Most Marin kids would consider the boarder
life as Juvenile Hall.
My goals as a teacher have shifted. This first year I have
been concerned with my professional development and student learning outcomes.
These are important things but now my mission is to be a friendly guide to
them. I want to support them and illuminate their worth as individuals. I also
want my students to be confident in speaking English even if they are tentative
in reading or writing. I want them to be able to converse freely without doubt
or hesitation. I also hope to show them that there are other people in this
world who are different from Bhutanese. I want my students to be independent
thinkers and cooperative teammates able to incorporate their values into every
moment. In the end they have taught me more then I taught them.
I took supper at Dooktoe’s, the fierce Brokpa looking
villager who banters with me regularly. She
speaks very little English but we enjoy an easy humorous relationship marked by
staged spats, and mock fisticuffs. Next to me on the floor Sangay Dema shovels
rice and chili in her small mouth in front of a woodstove. There is
connectivity to my life in this remarkable locality. I haven’t found my adopted
my family like many BCF teachers, but I do enjoy the relations in my everyday
life. I am an odd bird in a peculiar aviary. The village runs on its own accord
unaffected by the next village or the political situation in the Middle East
(which is dire) 2012 in Tsenkharla might be different then 2012 in your town. So before the author/ reporter signs off he
has one more goal, to reach the Namkhar Tsechu. I recently donated 500 to the
lama atop the mountain for his intimate Tsechu. Karlos and Sonam have some
connection to the temple and encouraged me to contribute. This Tsechu is in the
hamlet where I met Manu in May. I haven’t returned since as it’s up passed
Shakshang through an enchanted oak forest. As with every friendly brown skinned
native, I had thought Manu was my next love. But we have remained phone friends
nonetheless. However I am not attending this event for the local chicken. My
cause might be boredom or a peaceful warrior’s weekend quest. But either way
the conclusion of this beleaguered manuscript is at the end of the trail at a
remote mountain temple.
It’s Thanksgiving and somewhere in the world kid’s tug
wishbones for sibling supremacy. As I get older the meaning of the holiday
stretches beyond turkey, gravy, and pumpkin pie. (all good things) As a kid we
always shared a feast at our communal cabin on Donner Lake. We even played a
football game before dinner called the “Turkey Bowl” In more recent years I
shared an intimate supper of Tofurley with Mare in Oregon and since Korea I
have spent some lonely thanksgivings. Family is precious anywhere in the world
and it’s important to cherish shared time together. Happy Holidays to all my
readers around the world! I am thankful for my students, my family, and my
donors.
I made it to Nangkhar riding to Shakshang on the monstrosity
of a dirt road teetering off a cliff. The car was full of students and a
teenage driver and I felt like I was out on a joyride with my kids. The line
between teacher and student is often blurred in Bhutan. The Nangkhar temple is
tucked in a secret nook above Sonam’s village overlooking the rugged border.
The Tsechu offered the standard cultural fare including some masked dance and
toddlers snapping cap guns. I had lunch with Sonam and then bunked. On the way
home through the oak grove I left the trail at three impressive chortens and a
row of white prayer flags. Traversing the crest of the ridge under pine and oak
interspersed with autumn light. I plunked down listening to the breeze knock tawny
leaves off the branches. I lingered for several hours until the landscape
consumed me and I couldn’t imagine ever being anywhere else. It’s an amazing
descent through rusty tinged oak to Zongtopelri. I arrived at my temple to the
old man wrapped in blankets dutifully at his prayer wheel and a bashful Rinchen
Wangmo who invited me in for some tang. After the juice I gave her a kiss on
her velvety cheek which sent her running out to fetch the cow. Before exiting I
circumambulated the holy structure tipping my hat to a five foot wooden phallic.
By the shed Rinchen Wangmo tended her cow in the fading silver light, a perfect
vision of Guru Rinpoche’s paradise.
THE END
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