“They tell us in the
temple that true joy is found only in freedom from the Wheel that is death and
rebirth, that we must come to despise earthly joy and suffering, and long only
for the peace of the presence of the eternal. Yet I love this earth, Morgan,
and I love you with a love that is stronger than death, and if sin is the price
of binding us together, life after life across the ages, then I will sin
joyfully and without regret, so that it brings me back to you, my beloved!” The
Mists of Avalon
Tim Speaks,
The cypress grove
below Zangtopelri is a world unto itself left to the animals and trees that
dwell there. The path has been abandoned and is so overgrown in October season
that one has to brush aside thorny plants and pass through multitudes of spider
webs wrecking arachnid tapestries of fine silk. I belly crawled under one such work
of art avoiding a huge black spider with yellow hourglass abdomen who hung
about with its feast of entangled flies. Occasionally through the feathery
foliage hanging from cypress boughs one glimpses that other world viewed as the
gaping valley towards the East. But in here rusty ferns sprout from a newly
fallen trunk obliterating the last of the scant path. I mark my way by stone
steps, an overgrown Chorten reclaimed by a thriving forest where the scent of
wild honeysuckle perfumes the air. This is the dominion of oriental pixies,
elves, and the unseen entities that peoples the grove. Lichen colors the trunks
and huge stones and on the carpet of needles and decay white and red mushrooms
spring forth. I have just been gifted a beautiful framed portrait of Guru
Rinpoche from Karlos and Sonam. The Precious Master is floating in a lotus on
the lake of enlightenment, garbed in pastel robes with the Holy Grail sitting
upon his lap. A spear impales three skulls no doubt the little tribal folks who
stood against the dharma. I am deeply grateful for the gesture from my best
friends in this far away land. Guru is the face of Bhutan the face I will
always carry in my heart. As a boy I reached for the Christ but he always
seemed more remote although something of his love touched me. I’ve walked in
Guru Rinpoche’s footsteps and he is the one loved well by the Bhutanese who
make up my life. If one takes an oath to return or remain in Bhutan it is an
oath to these people and marriage to this land. We belong to them now! My Aunt
Barb and mother also gifted me a tankpa depicting Four Friends. It is richly
embroidered set in emerald brocaded with auspicious symbols. The legend says
that the elephant, monkey, rabbit, and peacock must work together to get the high
hanging fruit but it seems the fruit is nirvana and we must all help each other
out of this jam until the illusion is empty and all souls released. Or so Yeshi
would have it!
I was not made for
this world, but nevertheless I AM here
Right now translucent
rays stretch like the beckoning arms of Christ enveloping sister moon in a holy
embrace. I’m in my rightful place in my hut on my throne a wobbly old chair
writing to you. My left ear is completely blocked due to my foolishly probing
it with a Q Tip (don’t do it) some days are remembered through the lifetimes
and today was such a day. I awoke in my underwater clogged world to the echoes
of my mommy snoring and murmuring sleepy sounds. The setting of our departure
was Linkhar Lodge in what is luxury in the far east of Bhutan. Dawn splashed
newborn light on the high ridges reminiscent of the beginning of the world. But
sadness and disquiet wrought my heart and my throbbing ear drum impacted with
earwax only dimmed my spirits further. It wasn’t the goodbye I envisioned but
it never is, is it? Settling the bill our very words laden with the anxiety of
separation dragging the suitcases into the parking lot, hugging my mom goodbye
the tears unable to flow (I haven’t cried in years) as if my very heart was
frozen. My mom and aunt with their tenderest heart shed spontaneous tears that
drove home the anguish of the moment. I bit my lip and turned my back on the
one I love the most in this world moments later climbing into a diesel truck
that bared me away down the twisty grade towards Trashigang. It seems Bhutan is
always testing the spirit but I wasn’t expecting a trial so soon as I found
myself walking to the hospital a place I have visited too many times this year
again locking eyes with the sickly looking Cuban Doctor who calls me brother.
Bhutan is remote and you might forget that only in the bowers of Linkhar but
are reminded when they shine a cell phone light in your ear instead of a scope.
The nurses tried in vain to flush my ear with a syringe and I went away dizzy
with pills and drops and a heavy burden. As usual I called Becky (Soon to be
Bunky) who laughed good naturedly at my plight (She is Bhutanese at heart more
than I will ever be) I ran into another TMSS teacher and we crammed into a taxi
to Zongposar then hoofed in the blaring sun to Kamdang where we were collected
by a taxi and deposited on the hilltop. I quickly changed and made my afternoon
classes which were strange since I couldn’t hear anything. I was fretful of my
Principals reaction to my missing morning classes even though I had to stop and
try to treat my malady. Auspiciously he flashed a rare smile that put me at
ease after a very trying day. Thankfully the twins are safe at home after
enduring Guwhatti. At the mess under
radiant green moonlight students asked upon them and I said they were in
Guwhatti hoping the student’s prayers would sail them both home expediently. A
week to the day a solitary walk up to Shakshang on an identical day save a
little cooler breeze as I came to the place near the farm house cresting onto a
bluff surrounded by maize and other golden low lying crops and my mom remarked
with deep emotion, “Oh Barb look at the Light!” That light illuminating a scare
crow as Aunt Barb alluded and it remained on this day a week later. Creamy
October light with day moons and the fragments of an endless monsoon clouds ringing
the mountains. But in the morning the shinning Matterhorn peaks (Twins) shine
off in India maybe 75 miles yonder I will never reach them. Tsang Tsang Ma and
the serrated contours some rounded or chipped a shark fin or dragon’s tail and
the great spire atop the bee hived spire like the Great Temple of Angkor that
joined Hindu and Buddhist, this formation a crown with the spire its apex
conjoining Arrunachal Pradesh and Trashiyangste. A local deity must dwell there
but what god lives on those horns with cornices and gleaming moraines. (Ah so
many mountains I will never see always my mind seeks east out of the kingdom in
homelands lost to me)Up at Shakshing as expected a graveyard of wrappers
scattering in the breeze. The cramped and littered courtyard surrounding the
modest whitewashed temple is deserted except the family cheerfully shucking
heaps of maize which makes me smile at the rural scene. Across the valley
towards the West houses perched on abysses tiny huts and scratched terraces
incised impossibly on cliffs and for a moment I pity the farmer that clings for
survival tied to a ledge above a cavernous drop to the Kulong Chu a thousand
feet below. They must get vertigo but there they work the land and bear their
rice and rear their children. Tsenkharla to Shakshing is blessed land indeed
with views in all directions. A hallowed golden saucer pierces the clouds
beaming otherworldly light streaking the Dangme Chu near Gongsa where its curve
is noted even in darkness a enormous S winding from Tawang district in the far
West of Arrunachal Pradesh into the remote Eastern reach of the Kingdom. Like a
Halloween moon rising within seconds like a witch soaring above the silhouetted
eastern ranges. My ear is unstuck but still irritatingly plugged and I have
finally succumbed to a cough and cold which is plaguing campus from administration
to PP students. This month chicken pocks and mumps have sent children to be
quarantined in their villages. Today was mass cleaning and in a short time
trash will accumulate again. I hope I have spread some awareness anyway.
Enter the Dragon
I was so eager to make the connection with mom and Aunt Barb
that I begged my way through the Dragon portal decorated with Snow Lions,
Garudas, and Tigers and walked at a breakneck pace into Daranga the quant border
town spilling onto the plains, with the foothills of the Himalaya rising jagged
behind fields of palm trees. Samdrup Jonkhar is actually bigger than its Indian
sister but Daranga always refreshes my mountain hardened spirit. Immediately
across the border with the façade of the gate still in rearview rusty bicycles
lean against dilapidated walls, little buggy rickshaws await languidly in the
muggy air, students in skirts and ties the national school dress of India,
Muslim conveys rolling the avenue bleating prayers from their motorcades with
men in boxish hats and the open arms of a silver Jesus standing meekly atop a cute
mosaic style church. All on the doorstep of the mighty Buddhist Kingdom that
rises from just above sea level to the roof of the world. I never saw a finer
Christ and I could have kissed his feet while on the other side the flamboyant
Guru with impaled skulls on a sword like a shish kabob announces the rise of
the world’s most foreboding range. The Daranga bazaar is a low lying collection
of furniture and electronics shops amongst palms, trash, and dust. Across the
road is an immense tea plantation with the haze of the subcontinent filtering
through the bonsai branches. I was so keyed up I just kept walking past a
barricade and family of goats until I was alone on the road heading into the
never ending plains of Assam. Eventually a sedan abruptly stopped on the curb
and that is how I came to meet my mom and aunty Barb! Thunder clapped the
arrival of our party into the Land of the Thunder Dragon and god’s spigot
poured down onto the border gate. WELCOME! After clearing the twins we settled
in at the Mountain Hotel on the main street of lively Samdrup Jonkhar where one
immediately encounters the Bhutanese architecture of pastel painted boxes that
are common in towns. But the folks on the street are Assamese shop owners, day laborers
who walk back to Daranga at night, mixed in with Southern Bhutanese of Nepali
descent, Druk and Sharchops. It’s quite the diverse spot spiced up by the
presence of India over a brick wall.
The following day after breakfasting, we began the arduous
trip up the mountain on the sinuous road that words cannot adequately describe.
Past the venerable Guru statue beneath a crag a slit canyon with fern lined
walls and myriad of alien warm blooded plants like Venus fly traps. Cattails line the paved road to the left
through narrow fern laden walls a bubbling grey stream courses, seeming to have
lost its way but will eventually find itself on the plains. These are the
foothills of the Himalaya with jungle buttes with strange formations rising
abruptly into the endless corridors that form the labyrinth of the inner
Himalaya. Soon the concrete two lane road narrows to what is called the
National Highway. The road becomes broken pavement interspersed with mud
splashed by cascading waterfalls and the torn up by the gnawing tires of Indian
Ta Ta trucks in their tooting techno colored splendor. At times vehicles must
play chicken usually giving way to these behemoths edging onto the shoulder
lingering over the abyss. The scraggily foothills quickly expand into vast
rolling mountains with valleys so deep that one cannot see the bottom. More
waterfalls cover the road and a troop of small brown monkey’s parade across the
muck. Rocks that seem they might fall at any second stick out of bare earth
looming hundreds of feet over the tenuous road. Wongda our driver navigated
perilously close to the drop-off to spare his vehicle and to my aunt’s dismay
yapped on his mobile in Sharchop while casually wielding the wheel with the
other hand. Thick fog enveloped our truck and curtains of rain pelted the
windshields as we twisted up the precipitous and narrow track, the vegetation
still lush curling like serpents green slithering over vertical crags and
winding up cypress trees and oak forest alive with flourishes of blossoming
shrubbery but nowhere was a break in the foliage which overwhelmed the soul.
Occasionally a valley spotted through multilayered fog and thick mists as the
perilous road clings to jungle slopes, the last day of the monsoon as soupy and
soppy as a mid July storm. Around the settlement of Wamrong the surrounding
range is densely blanketed by sprawling forests quintessential of the inner
Himalaya, leech country in summer. On to Khaling where I pilgrimage to the
giant cypress sheltering the old Lhakang and below the school for the blind
where I visited with Becky two and a half years ago. Finally a looming pass
with a neat triangular pinnacle topped with a monastic estate and the cones and
spire formations that I always witness on a clear ride in that neck of the
woods. Finally over the pass of 9,000 feet at Yongphula descending through the
hill stationed college town and through the craggy and shadowed cirque of
incredible proportions finally dropping and tucking into the lower Hill Station
of Trashigang unchanged in spirit from its ancient splendor, a trading hub in a
hidden wooded hollow a respite from the endless mandala of mountains
surrounding it. A creek runs through the town with Chortens and colorful pastel
buildings in the Bhutanese architectural style. At the foot of the town is the
historic Dzong built over 300 years ago perched atop a thousand foot vertical cone
wedged into the cirque a commanding position that can be seen from great
distance. We spent the night at the Pepsi K.C Hotel where I had a Coca Cola and
the ladies helped themselves to spirits to unwind from the torturous drive. For
newcomers to Bhutan the roads seem a harrowing affair with some having more
trouble than others. I remember a few BCF teachers on our maiden voyage east
had garments slung over their heads or were curled up in fetal balls. My Aunt
Barb had more trouble than my mom who had experienced the roads before in her
visit to West Bhutan. At dinner Tenzin the middle aged shopkeeper who has eyes
for me sponsored two bottles of wine for the Twins who were forced to lower
their standard and endure the lesser port wine availed in Bhutan. We all had a
great dinner in the gardened veranda and were hysterical trudging up the hill
to the hotel past barking hell hounds on a muggy blessed night.
We awoke to sunny day Trashigang Dzong shinning like a jewel
fixed upon the crown of East Bhutan. Trashigang is the heart of East Bhutan and
we had a commanding view from our rooms.
We visited the Dzong a place I haven’t been to since I met the King and
Queen in February. The courtyard was torn up and being redone but the
splendorous Dzong as an architectural marvel of power and grace. Something so
familiar and intrinsically fairytale about the grand structure. The inner
courtyard through a giant wooden door with paintings of the fierce guardian
deities of the sacred directions. If they protect us and look like that then I
can only wonder at the faces of those we must be protected from. They were
serving the monk body and natives a lunch so we moved on politely declining a
generous entreaty to go to the front of the line for eats. But we had to meet
Lobzang and headed to Rangjoong, my heart pounded with excitement since I
haven’t been that way in two years. Rangjoong sits along the Gamri Chu River with
a cute Bazaar with approximately twenty shops, two schools and a Chorten and
portrait of the Royal Couple between fenced off hedges. The centerpiece is the
Tibetan style monastery perched on a striking mound in the center of the verdant
rolling valley. To the North a pang at the sight of old Meme or Becky’s Mountain
at the beginning of another world gateway to the wacky Phongmay fanatics and
the mysterious tribal Brokpa who aren’t afraid to adapt to modern life building
roads and using mobile phones connecting their remote settlements Merak and
Sakteng. It’s a huge piece of wilderness with Yeti’s and red Panda’s and the
precious Blue Poppy blooming briefly in summer. Radii and its famous terraces
swooning across the slopes some etched into vertical cliffs as the Gamri Chu
and offshoot tributaries barrel with silted water through tight spaced earth.
OH how I yearn to complete my quest there!
The monastery on Rangjoong appeared impeccable with banners
and pennants flapping in the breeze bearing scripture carried by horse gods. Eight
Chortens in a row according to Lobzang who looks like a Tibetan Lancelot
remarks and a steep staircase lighted with vermillion buds and magenta
bogenvia. Red blossoms hang down in a coppice as I point out Ian and Vicky’s
old traditional house by the river. This monastery was built recently in the
last fifteen years by a great Lama who I don’t have any personal knowledge of
but it resembles a monastery I once envisioned in a dream, fashioned after
Tibetan design adorned with more defined points seeming grand but slanderous
and altogether a beglamouring sight in the noonday sun with clouds drifting
down messages sent from Meme (Somewhere near Bomdela Meme’s other half rests
with the Monpa) Peach and gold trim deck the monastery and a grand courtyard
with a view of the valley enclosing and slopping towards Trashigang. The
monastery is a warm and inviting place almost stately in a traditional sort of
way. In the entryway frescos of the flaming blue sword of wisdom (Excalibur!)
wielded by a wrathful Guru, another image of a minstrel Guru Rinpoche thrumming
a banjo, and the carnal wheel of life with too many symbols to absorb it’s a
blur man! I recall beast and men working the fields under their god’s watchful
eyes and the womb of the great mother bearing fruit for the monkey. Inside the
great chamber a monk in maroon robes inaudibly murmurs prayers from ancient
scrip in a shaft of light. The walls crawling with brightly colored murals in
fairy tones of day glow tones neon bleeding hearts ravaged by tigers and
tantric couples copulating all over eternity the walls moaning or was it a
conch? Beyond the altar an impressive statue of the Guru winged by his two
Goddesses later to be called consorts, Yeshi Tshogyel and the Indian Priestess
Mandarava both bejeweled in robes and jewelry holding magical scales, books,
and holy regalia. No wonder the Guru beams with two ladies like that flanking
him. Outside we circumambulated and Lobzang thoughtfully helped my Aunt down
the crooked stars. In the bazaar we ate a round of momo’s then went to begin
our stay in relative luxury.
Later that night it was great to laugh and talk and hear
news of my family. Good news like my cousin Marty flourishing with a newborn
baby in a happy relationship with a dog. Most importantly he’s healthy too. Karl
doing well with his family, my brothers latest photos of Paige and Reed and
news of the Canadian cousins, all was well! Aunt Barb (Bubba Ganush) was able
to text her husband Wally no doubt for morale. She had flown directly from two
weeks in Italy into the throws of what I once regarded as The Land of Terror. They
got a taste of that life when stopped at a road closure near Gom Kora where the
once serene road has become a destruction zone as little Tonka trucks claw away
at rock overhangs at the foot of a towering three thousand foot mountain
stubbing the toes of the giants, boulders the size of our vehicle cascading
over the precipice splashing into my beloved Dangme Chu River. Gom Kora was
gleaming as we ran into a pair of German tourist who were also lodged at
Linkhar. The gold pagoda glistened in the perfect light. My mother and aunt
dutifully spun every prayer wheel (something I never do) as we circumambulated
the temple walls (which takes a few minutes only spinning sporadically) The
bodhi Tree rustled in speckled morning breezes and the rooster poked about on
the cobblestone promenade. Inside the Goempa with exquisite cherry floors that
gleam a group of Buddhist pilgrim/tourist from Macau, one young woman seeming
my own age stood with an enraptured face staring at an encased stone- a relic
from the days of the Guru or something consecrated by Guru Rinpoche. There was
an inner light on her face that I will never forget. Imprinted on my mind also,
the twins circumambulating my beloved inner sanctuary with the sacred demoness
rock (The rock of mother earth) Was a demon or pagan ways that Guru Rinpoche
came to slay causes me to shudder. Or was it the inner demon in all of us that
he conquered? Or did he conquer the demoness at all? All queries to spin while
spinning, rattling wheels flow from hand. We made a brief stop in Doksom to
refresh ourselves and I went to pay Doksom girl back for a coke and introduce
my mom. The drive from Doksom climbs through a craggy canyon with dwellings
clinging on ledges over sheer drops. On cliffs they grow their share of crops
on hard won terraces. Twisting into another narrow valley where the vegetations
is dense is Buyoung waterfall, tree ferns, and a lanky languor dashing across
the road before jumping headlong into the vines draping the lush canopy
swinging from his long tail on a huge limb, an acrobatic monkey. The town of
Trashiyangtse sprawls in a bowled valley a holy chalice opening up from the
stem of the Kulong Chu ravine. After driving through the simple ornate gateway
painted with snow lions, tigers, and dragons one glimpses Chorten Kora which my
mom remarked looked ancient. It was modeled after Bohdnath to scale on a radish
but the radish wilted in route back from Nepal and thus the Kora is remarkably
smaller. The dome shaped kora is surrounded by whitewashed outer walls with
gilded points at the corners. Inside a maiden from Tawang is entombed self
sacrificed to the Gods. The Monpa come to pay homage in the spring on a
pilgrimage in their spider hats and pink, crimson, ruddy attire like the Brokpa.
A light mist blew into town lending a brooding feel to the heavenly chapel.
Atop the dome the painted eyes of Buddha look out on the world with compassion
and a pointed gilded rod signifies the heavens with invisible pulse. The whole
structure is phallic if you gaze at it afar, another phallic symbol on the
commons where woman and men alike circumambulate in forgotten tribute to
deities of the forests before the enlightened ones came. I had caught up with
the twins there after the cobbler fixed my shoes and joined my mom in
circumambulation eventually catching my aunt in our orbit. We lunched at a
local Nepali run joint but the twins found the curry very spicy. Nima and Dawa
felt road weary from travelling and glad when we finally arrived at my door atop
Tsenkharla ridge.
School Days
When we arrived at my house my neighbors Kinzang and Jimba
offered tea and biscuits and later Karlos came over with fresh linens and port
wine repeatedly filling the twin’s cups until they were giddy. They had a bit
of trouble adjusting to the “two feeter no seater” as my Aunt calls it. And I
had to ask my neighbors if the twins could use their toilet which received a
rightfully hesitant look, but of course they acquiesced.
One of my best days ever in Bhutan was the Tuesday I brought
the twins to school. Nima Gyeltson my trusty Man Friday dressed me in gho
synching the belt tight enough o leave tracks for days. The purpose of the day
was that they got to see everything from the pomp of a Tuesday assembly with a
formal and kindly introduction from the Principal to night time prayers in the
MP Hall. It was also Scout Day which meant the scout anthem was sung in
addition to the National Anthem. The scouts wore their orange kerchiefs wrapped
around their necks and there was proper saluting and marching-Ah the pageantry
of a morning assembly would impress King Arthur himself. It was also a
spectacular day which could only be made at the very departure of the monsoon
into the blueness of autumn but the air still clung to summers warmth. I took
Nima and Dawa (sun and moon) to school. All twins in Bhutan are named Nima and
Dawa with the older Nima meaning sun and the younger named Dawa or moon. The atmosphere in class was charged with
positivity and the students were on their best behavior but did an excellent
job speaking nonetheless. The class 7 students interviewed the twins about life
in the U.S.A, the childhood of Mr. Tim, and what it’s like to be a twin. I
never knew my Aunt Barb is a natural teacher, talking deliberately clear to the
students and easily connecting to their backgrounds. Aunt Barb has travelled
the world and lived abroad but I’m sure the students gave her a new experience.
It was a magical day, in class 8 we did a vocabulary exercise as preface to an
upcoming story. I wanted to give both students and mom and Aunty as much time
to converse as possible and was pleased with the result. It’s good for students
to hear other Americans speak English too. I was very proud of the students who
conducted themselves with grace and enthusiasm. That night we were treated to a
wonderful dinner party at my closest friend’s Karlos and Sonam house in the
village. I entreated Sonam to prepare a dinner with as little spice factor as
possible. My tolerance or yearning for hottest emadatsi is the ONLY similarity
I have in common with the natives but the twins…not so much. Sonam’s made
chicken, with sides of maize, and Dahl. Thinley and IT joined the party and all
were refilling my guest’s cups after each sip, the Bhutanese way of hospitality.
Many rounds of drinks and laughter before the food was served. I have spent so
many hours in the company of Karlos and Sonam in two and a half years so it
truly felt like a family feast. Dawa Dema was still growling at the twins in
her overprotective manner. After the banquet we stumbled gaily into the night
splattered with flickering blue stars and a glorious new moon. What a
tremendous blessing having them here among my community.
Wednesday was another stellar day with my beloved Matterhorn
peaks shinning in the distance ringed by curly clouds. The monsoon had packed
up its raindrops and dissolved into sapphire skies, leaving a necklace of puffy
clouds hanging about the ranges. I tried to conduct business as usual but all
the classes had planned talent programs and we only gave out gum meekly in
return. The kids sang English, Bhutanese, and Hindi tunes and danced. Class 8B
which has been my most challenging class put on a great program with
mischevious Karma Sonam emceeing the proceedings. The day ended with Class
Six’s exuberant skits and songs showing their primary colors just being the
kids that they still are. Shouting songs and attracting some younger ones who had
their faces pressed to the window pane. With dirty little ghos and runny noses
they clamored for sight. It was a touching farewell and one of their skits was
on the poem I had just taught that morning showing their ingenuity and
cleverness to apply learning so quickly. Of course Augusta led the charge and
was probably the impetus behind most of the program. I requested they give us
one last song and why not the National Anthem, so they obliged with a spirited
version making both my Aunt Barb and mom cry.
Shakshing and
Farewell
The Linkhar Lodge is an oasis of hospitality in rugged and
remote East Bhutan. My Aunt was happy to get off the roads and the white
knuckle journeys on sinuous dusty roads through the mountainsides. Although at
times they seem to close in on you others you can see for miles but it’s
intense and often precipitous in a way one can only experience. The hotel sits
in a sunken mountain and our cottages faced out on ripe chartreuse rice
terraces and a narrow grassy archery ground where we witnessed a match between
the Hotel Owner who was once an esteemed politician before retiring and his
friends. The men had rainbow flags tucked in their belts according to how many
bull’s eyes they struck and the targets are at least a football field away.
There’s circle dancing and singing when targets are struck, and this is the same
with these men in shiny ghos with gleaming expensive compound bows as it is
with the village matches with men in half ghos and shooting with bamboo bows at
closer range. Anywhere a ground can be made in this steep country it is availed
on glade or terrace. We all went down for a gander unfortunately I don’t have
eyes for the swift arrows. I wouldn’t want to be a Tibetan attacking Drukyul in
Paro with the Bhutanese shooting arrows from the fortress walls, yikes! The
rooms were exquisite with marbled bathrooms and I took two proper baths as good
as my mom’s own bathtub at Bay point. On a sunny day we headed up the windy
road to Sherubse College. We watched a basketball game on the well maintained
court under the famous clock tower. Father Mackay established the school and it
is the pride of East Bhutan attracting students from around the country.
Sherubse is the primary undergraduate university in the country and brings an
air of respectability to the East. The campus is within the village of Kunglung
a hilltop location with spectacular views. The campus itself is gorgeous with
many resplendent trees from cypress to willows and wide paved promenades like
any proper college grounds anywhere on earth. Aunt Barb or mom mentioned what a
great opportunity a place like this would be for one of my students, now they
had observed a huge gap between a remote boarding school and Sherubse College
where you can strike up a conversation in English with just about anyone. I hadn’t spent much time up there only once
visiting Ashleigh on the tail end of touring Eastern Bhutan in spring 2012 with
Becky. Other times I have only seen it from my seat on the bus. So it was my
first glimpse at Kunglung’s Zangtopelri, the three tiered pagoda abode of Guru
Rinpoche. In the spacious courtyard was a well fountain with statue of Yeshi
Tshogyel. I was approached by a monk, a tall and thick maroon robed lad who was
a student at Tsenkharla my first year (not one of my pupils) He led us inside
the temple where a puja was going on with dozens of monks sitting cross legged
on the floor chanting prayers from ancient texts in ancient Sanskrit or perhaps
a Tibetan dialect. We all spun some more prayer wheels, handhelds accruing
merit for this passage into the next lifespan unless we can gain enlightenment
forthwith. The sun shined over the temple the college and the expanse of
mountains stretching in all directions. We headed back to Linkhar where we
retired to our comfortable quarters to chat and relax. The evening light
saturating each particle of space in rich mellow colors eventually blending
into a purplish gold ray creeping up the ridge until the mountainside became
awash in hues of blue. By now Nima and Dawa were tiring of rice and curry but
still bought up the unremarkable white wine and how entertainment it was
watching big Kunsang from URA twisting off the cork and offering up the bottle
to the twins. These down tempo moments were the best for me just sitting and
soaking in the wonderful Magner Twins, watching them interact and admiring their
bravery for making it. On some nights other tourists sat in the dining room. A
group from Petaluma, a seemingly homosexual couple of burly fellows in matching
pink plaid from merry old England, and a German couple. One large tour group
had come back from Phongmay where the Brokpa had put on a cultural program for
the group. I haven’t been up there since Miss Becky’s time and the thought of
Meme or Becky’s Mountain caused a pang. Most of all I loved getting stories
about the family and especially cousin Marty who like myself after years of
struggling has found his place in the world, enjoying a new baby and in a
supportive relationship with a good woman. My brother and Beth are celebrating
their 10 year anniversary next week. How auspicious that I had Mom and Aunt
Barb all to myself since they lead such busy lives, yet sitting out on the
balcony over the chartreuse rice paddies curving sumptuously into the earth we
had each other. Above forested mountains loomed into the heavens as the night
critters took their posts.
The crescendo of our quest was a trip up to Shakshing for
our annual Tsechu. We went on a Sunday full of surprises and never once did I
ever see the Guru. Karlos graciously awaited us and helped me into my gho and
at mid morning under a blazing sun and cotton ball clouds we trekked up the
mountain. This was special hiking in the great wide Himalaya with my beloveds.
We stopped at Prince Tsangma’s (King Tsangma’s) castle now renamed Chariot
Castle in my heart. He was exiled from Tibet a prince but was emphatically a
King in his new homeland of Tsenkharla or whatever they called it then. We had
visited Zangtopelri on Tuesday so we headed straight up via the Bon Meadow up
the spine of the mountain towards the small whitewashed temple bedecked in gilded
bunting that waved in the breezes. The day was a blur of activity including
many brief encounters with students all wearing their finest gho and kira. The
kiras silky Taegu’s shinning in every imaginable shade of every imaginable
color. A colony of kings in queens assembled beneath the banner of the Guru. Ah
but that Tangpa had been taken down leaving only the scaffolding today. Someone
told me only half the crowd remained from the previous day but as always on the
last day of a great festival the vibes were loaded with emotion. Hawks glided
overhead a rare site as we milled around the shops all selling plastic
slippers, chewing gum, ramen noodles and toy pistols (the trash accumulating in
piles) Nearby someone had set up a make shift roulette wheel after all what
would a Tsechu be without Casino. We sat under a tarp at a canteen for shade
then joined Karlos, Sonam, and Karma Om’s mother for lunch. We had to hunt
around for a suitable lunch spot and ended up traversing through some pasture
lands past one of my student’s farmhouse squeezing onto a knoll to picnic under
a pine tree. We made salami sandwiches (imported salami from USA) and local
crumbly bread and a packet of mustard Becky had sent along in a package. I ate
K WA also with local cheese. We returned to the ground, a cramped court
adjacent to the temple. Shakshing Lhakhang is modest in comparison to the ornate
blissfulness of Zangtopelri but the action was out of doors with whirling
dervishes, bleating horns, banging drums, and clashing cymbals a remarkable and
deliberate cacophony. Little dudes ran around shooting cap guns and cheese ball
wrappers blew through dancer’s akimbo limbs. The students with rachu sashes
sang and did the traditional wavelike dance and the yellow skirted horned ones
did a dance too while the astras’s or jesters goofed and solicited donations. but
it’s all building up to the Big Dance and one that I wasn’t familiar with. I
had thought it like Zangtopelri with the procession and the transfiguration of
the Guru after the Judgment of the Souls but it was an entirely different
Chaam. One by one the dancers appeared as if perceptibly possessed by deities
as old as the dirt the trounced. One by one they appeared all in assorted gowns
that seemed woven by the cosmos themselves. On the garment growling black
boogie men bearing fangs with bulging red eyes but the horned masks elephants,
pigs, and Stag and more horrible creatures from the depths of human
imagination. Long gowns of stars and stripes, hanging beads, shells, teeth, or
was it bones all rattling from ribbons of color dangling from belts. God Men
turning together bounding, whirling in crystal light, a dozen or more fluid
beastly whirling dervishes gyrating to the intensifying waves of sound enough
to frighten any devil in any realm. A phantasmagorical and glamorous display of
POWER something delivered from the edge of madness but that is always the way it
is here. The men wearing or assuming heavy great horned masks. Each man
spinning striking an animal skin drum with a curved hook all while spinning
spinning spinning! Standing on the edge of the ring the robes scrape my belly
and I am caught in the eye of a dancer with a black dilated pupil, a tiger in a
trance! One by one they peel off into the darkness behind the curtain into an
anteroom (the Bardo) How long were they out there? My mom says “I hope they can
go in now?” it might have been hours I blink, they move as one or at least
together in the world but then they die alone like all of us die alone. One by
one leaving the world behind one dancer at a time disappearing until there is
ONLY ONE LEFT who doesn’t want it to end whirling and prancing like a dying
stag his demon mask writhing in agony a glimpse of face under fang dripping
with sacrificial blood. A huge charcoal cloud eclipses the sun and it seems the
hour is late, the twilight of man’s struggle and look! There he is all alone,
THE KING STAG He takes a meandering course lunging leaping his feet shocking
the bare earth sending waves through the crust that I absorb on the pads of my
feet. Invisible currents of lightning -Waking from my own trance I look around
to see my mom and Aunt Barb, Nima Gyeltson and his Ama, Pema Wangmo with
rainbows in her eyes and a green Taegu the color of the forest. Somewhere in
the VIP tent is a pregnant Sonam Choden but Karlos is standing near the doorway
to the other world in a black gho and soon we will all be but a shadow. And
that last dancer knows that and doesn’t want the tale to end but finally with a
flare and flourish his shells and bells jangling to the horns and drums
VIBRATIONS he crashes to the ground whirling before two watchman grab his horns
and lead him swiftly through the portal.
We had seen it all in a day and left saying farewell to
Karlos and Sonam, turning our back on the following procession of gold skirted
muscular men in animal masks that looked subdued compared to the lunacy and
mayhem of the regalia of the Chaam. With a friendly Dawa Dema in tow we took
the dirt road home a timeless walk together happy with my loved ones and my
loved land stretching endlessly in a great yawn from Tawang to Trashigang and
all the places between that I’d been or would never go to. Oh how to describe
such happiness that the bonds of love bring us. Ah look! Tsang Tsang Ma
shinning like a jewel in the Dragons crown. Dawa chases a rival and Gyelston
Wangmo and her family want a picture with the twins. Ah the light my mom remarks
indeed golden light flooding the crisped maize and the earthen farmhouse with
tradionally carved windows. Follow the light over green crest and it will take
us home through the cypress lined stone pathway that leads past Chariot and
into the village of Tsenkharla. More pleasant encounters so many people to meet
and relationships to strengthen. At the hut we watched my eighth grade
production of Oliver that my mother had thoughtfully made into a CD (Yes she
still thinks I peaked early) and watched my solos eating garlic home fries.
Ain’t no party like a village party! But I could feel the weight of parting
heavy on my soul when I woke up the next day and we packed up for Linkhar. Our
last supper was unceremonious indeed as I stupidly probed my waxy ear with a Q
tip clogging it completely so I felt on the edge of vertigo. On a sparkling
morning we said goodbye in the driveway of the Linkhar Lodge I was too sad and
uncomfortable to cry but felt more like throwing up from grief. I hitchhiked
towards Trashigang in a diesel truck riding with two anonymous Indians and I
don’t think I even looked upon their faces. Immediately I started praying for a
safe return for Nima and Dawa, my sun and moon.
They would have to tell you about how they made their way
home on the long tortuous drive to SJ and out the Dragon Gate and into the
armpit of Assam, Guwhatti. We had arranged transportation and their second
driver stayed with them for two days. It is said they had a compelling
riverboat ride to an island shrine in the mighty Brahmaputra but all I know is they
both eventually did make it HOME safely my Aunt Barb to Cherry Creek, and my
Mom to the Bay Point. I glance behind me and their beds and bedding are still
there. No one from school has picked them up and the sheets haven’t been
claimed by Karlos yet. It seems to me a holy thing a profound miracle that they
were actually here reaffirmed by students asking on them. It will always be the
Highlight of my Bhutan Experience like the first trip my mother and brother
made to the West of Bhutan. Family is our most valuable treasure, and I cherish
mine! I can’t express the love and gratitude to mommy and Bubba Ganush for
coming to see what I’m doing here. Bhutan is not an easy place for anyone to
visit and it meant the world to me that at 69, they would undertake such an awesome
adventure. I have thanked the students but they will never know how grateful I
am for their part in making a wonderful experience for Nima, Dawa, and Mr. Tim.
(Still Awkward after
all these years Intermezzo)
Yesterday we had a
very important visitor The Speaker of the Assembly which was an honor for our
school. Everyone was on high alert decked with kubney and rachu and the students
were seated in rows in the MP at 12:30 listening to Bob Marley’s Buffalo
Soldier on the impressive PA. At 1:45 Principal Sir got a phone call and
announced that our guest had just left Yangtse. The four hundred pupils all
sitting Indian style hissed in that comical surprise leaky expression, a
collective Yellama. At two thirty the teachers lined up in a drizzle as the
caravan arrived to our modest metal front gate with rainbow streamers hung
along the lane. I had only seen The Speaker on T.V and was impressed at his
dignified disposition. I bowed shook hands and introduced myself swiftly. I
noticed this man was revered like a religious figure. Once inside the teachers
formed a procession to present The Speaker with a Tashi Kater or a white silk
scarf. Gulp I don’t feel comfortable in these situations. I had rarely had the
opportunity for this and never in front of such a grand audience. I wish I
could tell you I nailed it but quite the opposite occurred. The objective is to
step forward, bow, and unfurl your white scarf in a graceful streamer. Mine was
unraveled in a wad of silk, clumsily offered. He smiled and asked if this was
my first time presenting a Tashi Kater, I replied, “I know I need practice La”
His remark wasn’t meant to embarrass me but I was blushing due to my lack of
grace in an important situation. He addressed the students for about two hours
speaking like a teacher and was familiar with Tsenkharla visiting
Rangthangwoong to open the water source at Buyoung the year I was born. After
the speech I made another more serious transgression when he came to shake my
hand I was standing on the MP’s stoop, Principal alertly coaxed me down but
again I was bashful. The Speaker who had a luminous countenance was very kind
and had remembered my name from my quick introduction hours before. Like His
Majesty, the Speaker was very cordial with foreigners (Including Indians) and
during his speech also spoke a lot of English. His entourage included Royal
Police with blue berets, coat of arms patches, and semi automatic rifles. There
were also a photographer with a huge lens, and a woman who looked like a dolled
up Thimphu gal in a velvet kira clicking around with I PAD. I thought of how
different rural East Bhutan is to the Capital City and smiled.
My mom arrives in four
days and it’s been pouring rain for the last two. The campus is a mucky puddle
and I am sitting at home on a Sunday afternoon. Blessed Rainy Day is
approaching the unofficial end of the rainy season. It will rain off and on for
another month before dwindling away revealing those distant Matterhorn peaks
beyond Tawang. Syllabus coverage is on track and I’m ready to receive the most
dignified guests of all my mom and Aunt Barb. It’s been an eventful summer with
my Humpty Dumpty impression, restless itchy nights to a more stable landing.
One constant companion has been rain never away for more than a few days. One
might enjoy a sunny spell in July sandwiched between monsoon deluges in June
and September. It’s been a heavy rain season proved by a thin coat of green
mold on my duffle bags and under the brim of my hat, and the puddle on my floor
where the roof leaks.
Ravens and Rainbows
“Roll away the dew”
Right above campus is a regal cypress grove completely
distinct from anything I’ve seen before. The air is always moist and sweet
although not as dank as the grove beneath Zangtopelri. A few eucalyptuses are
sprinkled near the apex where an hour ago a flock of ravens emerged from a
swirling mist that seemed to be chasing the bird’s beating ebony wings. Today
was a lugubrious Sunday with heavy rain which finally ceased in the afternoon.
I had a plan to trek with Piet who called from his bike halfway to Zongposar to
tell me he was aborting. He recently strung together a trek of all the holy
sites (with Bhutanese coworkers) that it has taken me two and a half years to
complete separately, if I ever get six days though I’ll do a solo. I didn’t
have a productive weekend doing some cursory cleaning (not my laundry) and
short walks between deluges. Summer can be dreary although mild and hauntingly
beautiful but the most beautiful place on earth has its melancholy side and I
know it well. Sunday has always been for me, tinged with a hint of dread, going
back to school or work rejoining the responsibilities of the world. I like what
I’m doing but my anxiety is still omnipotent, WTFDL! Tonight I am digging to
the bottom of the food box (the rats business whatever that is revolves around
the closet) and retrieving a pouch of readymade Indian curry. It’s a sparse
menu including KWA, fried rice, scrambled egg, and ramen. Believe it or not
it’s hard to get potatoes even as thousands of them are being loaded onto
trucks bound for India. Therefore the food gets repetitive and that and laundry
are two headaches. Creature comforts are not abundant but one has enough to
survive and things come and go. My first year electricity was haphazard but
internet was available so you just never know.
This Friday evening I left the planet, it happened up at
Shakshang in the sweetest air imaginable. A storm brewed with dashing lightning
and faraway thunder but unlike the fierce spring tempests this scene was
subdued like watching an electrical storm from space. From above a heavenly
mist floated down yet somehow a patchy scarlet sunset was transmitted through
the layers of smothering clouds. I can’t explain the feeling in words conveying
a glimpse of POWER or as Don Juan put it, “stopping the world.” Not in essence
freezing time since that concept dissolved into nothingness ACTUALLY leaving ONLY
the pretty illusion before the eyes. Passing the grove where the sacred deity
lives a stand of ancient oak draped in vines, ferns sprouting fronds from the gnarled
limbs towering in the mist. In the grove the pearly illusion shatters into the
MAW of RAWNESS. Shakshang descent is a classic, on this night the last children
had safely returned home for their delicious K WA Datsi made special by ama, doing
homework assigned by Mr. Tim who returned into the world which was beautiful
and smelled delicious even on an empty stomach. It occurred to me that Guru
Rinpoche might not have any doubts but he has boundless empathy for all of the
rest of us. That’s why I love Buddha, since he suffered immensely for his
cosmic soup. Reincarnation has been on my mind these shadowy summer days, it’s
starting to make a lot of sense and reverberated in a sweet spot when Bunks
mentioned Karmic Vision, a concept my Aunt Mare hit upon long ago: that group’s
of us are traveling in tandem through innumerable JIGSAW incarnations, And what
of enlightenment? Can I get a tour of Christian Cloud Nine and Buddhist Nirvana
before I commit? Do we really want that eternal reward of being separated from
this raunchy raggedly plight, ain’t Samsara like a pig wallowing in shit?
Anyhow I feel peculiarly connected to certain Bhutanese which begs the
question? When I shouted to three 8 B students on their way home to make a wish
on the sprawling rainbow Pema Wangmo responded with a hearty “Yes Sir!” in her
hallmark raspy voice. Their silhouetted kiras superimposed over the opposing emerald
mountains. The view from the head of the village is stellar reminiscent of a
bow of a ship spurring this thought, the best moments in life are always the
simplest, ISNT IT?
As for the internal weather report it mirrors the forecast
of the outer world, brooding with amazing clouds and occasional bursts of
immeasurable bliss. Sorry no weekend outlook available but I plan to attend the
School Variety Show tomorrow night continuing my string of Saturday Nights at
home, lord knows some housekeeping is in order. Oh my goodness, it’s the end of
an era at the Pepsi K.C Hotel which informed me that their rates have increased
for locals to 1.200 NU a night (double the friendly price we’d gotten for two
years) So my weekends rejoicing in Trashigang will be drastically reduced a
trend that has already begun. You’re LIVE with TIGER on 10:22 B.S.T Friday
Night in late August in the Christ year 2014 (Year of the Wooden Work Horse) I
hope these words find all of you well, and that’s a fact. On the way up the
mountain I walked into what Robert Hunter calls “Splintered Sunlight” through a
corridor of towering maize that reminded me of Jack’s bean stocks. Oh Becky
only you could understand East Bhutan at the pinnacle in Late August, “Right
before the maize is cut” as you always said. We debate the pinnacle but it
might be NOW at T.M.S.S and begging your pardon I forget if phongmey runs ahead
or behind. Heck I haven’t even been that side in over two years, LA! My world
is shrinking into this village incognito where classes have been going well of
late for those of you who track my progress in that arena. I was impressed with
the critical thinking of the students throughout the week, GOD BLESS EM’
When asked to share what they are afraid of 7A students
piped up with death, demons, witches, ghosts, going out at midnight, tigers,
snakes, and haircuts by the Vice Principal. My response, rats. Haven’t been
reading that much but am digesting Emerson who would have gotten on well with
Buddha I reckon sharing pots of tea in the waning Indian or Massachusetts sun.
Emerson is so stripped down to the elusive core that he comes off like a great
lama. It’s wordy but once in awhile an astounding nugget shines from the heart
of the Dharma Wheel itself. A thread connects us all as we race through furrows
of time and I was privileged to step out of this furrow, to leave the world for
awhile and gaze back at IT with wonder, far below I could hear the drone of
happy Buddhist honeybees in their honeycomb of prayer, above Zangtopelri near
the Mani Wall and new trash pit, beneath the cell tour is a prayer wheel with
the most mellifluous chime followed by a satisfying clonk of wood repeated on a
dimming cycle until only the hushing Kulong Chu remains. Up the trail I
encountered an attractive mother and grown daughter that looked like sisters
pitching rock along the newly ploughed dirt road in shiny blue gumboots and
tones calves (I reckon in anticipation of Tsechu) the muddy road is a blemish
on our mountain but I have become accustomed and it hovers in space over the
valley with a sweeping vista from Lumla to Trashigang. They didn’t speak a lick
of English, well everyone seems to know some if they reach way back. They were
the last two people I saw before slipping the bonds of the world as Shakshang
was eerily silent in that fog of another dimension. I made a loop down the
western slopes bowing to auspicious Chortens, thankful for a flashlight along
the beloved trail I stopped to greet a pair of itinerant monks bearing enormous
sacks of rice.
I found an indiscriminant trail through an oak grove below
Shakshang with hundred foot twisted oaks laced with fronds and the spongy floor
of an abundant forest, inside the grove was cool and moist. Saturday nights cultural
program was energetic with an amazing Dakpa dance with all the girls in ruddy
Monpa regalia and the boy’s in gho’s and special Dragon boots. On Sunday I met
Piet at Shakshang and we hiked up to Darchen through a curtain of lacy mist
where we met the ascetic lama before we descended past the holy pond to
Namkhar. I was late since I overslept and felt unwell but graciously he waited
when I called him from Tsangma’s ruin. He told me of all the far flung places
he’s reached in Trashiyangtse and the border eggs he’s seen like the one on
Shampula. To my knowledge I was the first foreighner ever to summit Shampula
but Piet did recently on his trek with colleagues. He’s explored more of
Yangtse than I ever will and we talked about the spire on the border along the
Dragons Tail (Tsang Tsang Ma) apparently about 100 people (Dakpa and Sharchop)
pilgrimage to the apex of my dreamland every fall. According to Piet it’s at an
elevation of 4.9 meters or 14,000 feet? He has a device to gauge every
elevation and Tsenkharla comes in at 2,000 meters around 6,000 feet? We also
talked about the Dakpa migration from Tawang to Chorten Kora over a high pass
(the easy way is Blithing) and the Ludlow butterfly which he saw recently (The
world’s largest butterfly inhabiting Bumdeling) I queried him about species and
learned that the two pines in my area are blue pine and chir pine. On our
descent I showed him the second ruin and he told me about the third or original
defense tower on a hillock near Gongsa. We took tea and momo’s at Tsenkharla
bazaar and he rode his bike away to Trashiyangtse town. He will be leaving
Bhutan this month but will probably resurface here as certain people do and
besides he’s been turning up in Yangtse for twenty five years. One distressing
thing we talked about was the massive levels of trash along the Shakshang trail
that he mentioned in his report back to the government. He was researching the
trek of the local temples for future tourist excursions touting the trek as a
four season’s possibility. We stopped briefly at Darchen and Namkhar which is
the second most elaborate temple behind Zangtopelri with 108 Buddha statues
piled into one corner and nice wooden floors. Namkhar is a government temple
and is relatively lavish for such a far flung location. There’s a fifty foot
dormant rhododendron tree on the pleasant trail between the Delo’s house and
the Lama’s house. I make a pilgrimage to this tree often in the spring when its
showy red flowers explode off the limbs there expended petals littering the
trail.
Last night the flying rat was back again almost jumped on my
face when I roused him from his rummaging atop of my closet. Actually he arced
about twelve feet in the air before sticking the landing and scurrying under
the bed. I rattled the bed frame and he took off under the crack in the front
door. He looks like a different rat from my fridge rat from last year and early
this year. Or the original rat changed MO’s and got a haircut, dye job, and hit
the treadmill pretty hard. IT was another stellar day with billowing clouds
rising from vertical emerald slopes with improbably incised farmhouses. You never
tire of those views or the feeling it evokes. It was an interesting day of
classes writing poems in class eight. One thing any prospective teacher in
Bhutan should realize is that students love to plagiarize because that’s how
they learn. Morning speeches and many other sources of knowledge are picked up
and recycled since resources are limited. I busted several students outright
instantly recognizing lines from poems in the text book. So I weeded out the
offenders and sent them back to compose original work. In the end you can bet
many were recalled lyrics or lines from movies mixed in with fresh ideas.
There’s nothing new under the sun right? Some were very creative even if I had
a nagging doubt. The poems were written in class but they habitually copy
catchy lyrics in their notebooks. They were also instructed to illustrate and
you can bet there are some awesome artists, they draw mountains adeptly with
little carton Dorji’s and Dechen’s in national dress walking in valleys dotted
with prayer flags. The only difference from reality is there’s no trash in
their renditions. For class six we read by the prayer wheel away from the mud
as an ebullient sun baked the soaked earth. They were attentive listeners as
everybody shared a paragraph about themselves and Principal Sir’s son Sangay
Rinchen even committed his to memory. That’s a great class comparable in spirit
to my returnees in Korea. Heck they showed up early for the afternoon reading
program beating me from the bell in a minute flat they were engulfed in
storybooks. Of course there’s a huge gap of achievement between Augusta (the
Indian boy) or Yeshi Dema compared to Pema Wangchuk who Butterfly says just
comes to school for food. He has a great smile and is funny as all get out
though much like Karma Wangchuk who pilfered milk from my house last year and
today tore his gho isn’t academically minded. I just retrieved Karma Wangchuk a
new textbook to replace the one he’d lost and the store in charge wouldn’t let
me pay since they thought he ought to learn his lesson. The book costs 69
rupees as the slender kira wrapped bookkeeper lass kept repeating. Karma
Wangchuk the grubby little lad (Not like I should talk) is also a fine
illustrator but not much of a writer in English. Class seven boys are
mischevious as yesterday I caught Chongola out of class frozen like a statue in
the field watching a sparrow hover, a few minutes later he was asleep in class.
Bhutanese students have a good sense of humor and are creative but have trouble
expressing themselves in English especially in the east.
On Tuesday September 2 the mountains shined their contours
popping in the electric blue filament, the rim of the valley festooned with
iridescent ribbons of clouds that looked like rings of smoke from hookah
puffing caterpillars. In this wonderland it was a resplendent afternoon
unfortunately I missed it since we had a two hour (short) review meeting. On
the trot home from the meeting hall (original dilapidated structure from 77’) I
conspired with a raven turning tricks in the wind, flipping and tumbling in
ecstasy. Making chili spiced French fries right now using two and a half year
old ketchup, smells promising. Just ate them up and ruined them from too much
salt, as Chef Ramsey would say, “What a shame”
The next night the fries turned out perfectly and I wolfed
them up. We’ve had a string of clear days with rainy nights. At noon the clouds
retreat to the periphery where they billow into the stratosphere. I had to
discipline a girl and two boys in class seven B the girl in tears. I wasn’t
harsh but some are very sensitive and I hate that part of the job. By this time
of the year both students and teachers are entrenched in their routines and
things are going well as far as syllabus coverage. I have improved a lot since
my first year and enjoy teaching Bhutanese students more as I go along. Class
six is a delight with enthusiasm and no behavior issues they make me feel like
a good teacher as we usually smoothly sail along. Last night the rat ran right
through the crack in my front door stopping just short of my toes making me
screech. I barricade the door but the supple son of a bitch wriggled back in
since I heard him gnawing away at 2:38 A.M and was too lazy and frightened to
chase him away. In class 8 we finished our semi-original poems and some were
very good especially the heartbreaking ones about the death of a parent. Many
of my students have lost a parent already even thought heir barely teenagers.
One girl touching lament was about her mom who died this year. Dawa C. Seldon
lost her mom when she was five and one boy lost both parents and when he’s not
a boarder lives with his brother. They display incredible resilience in the
face of adversity since that’s just the Bhutanese way. My adopted sister who I
haven’t met except via telephone (We met on a wrong number call) just lost her
mother last week. The poor thing said she cried for three days but she’s still
herself if that makes any sense. To paraphrase she said, “I cried for three
days but what to do.” Life goes on and then we catch up in the next generation
(life) Death is never far away in Bhutan and it keeps you on your toes. Her
mother was only 40.
Did some laundry today, Tshoki Lhamo style (soaking in a
bucket) since I have running water this week you can rinse them properly and no
brush required. It’s the lazy boy approach but I have clean underwear laid out
for tomorrow and lesson plans complete. I saw Booty the cat today for the first
time ‘in six months with his tormented cry and Dawa Dema got shaved and looks
like a wrinkled sausage peppered with flea bites. Karma Sonam (Lucky Star) went
to her village quarantined with mumps, Guru Wangmo still wears a mask from her
chicken pox and I have itchy legs and yet another vapory array over Lumla this
evening with a silky salmon sunset. Yesterday, a pilgrimage to Shakshang
prostrating in the darkness before a flickering butter lamp the last silver
rays reaching through the crack in the door, the Guru engulfed in shadow in the
depths of hell or heaven. On the dusty altar thirteen bowls filled with water,
earlier that day a girl proudly presented her poem exclaiming thirteen lines
sir. On the way out of the village an old man in crimson gho carrying a staff
spoke to me in presumably Sharchop (or Monkey language) inviting me for tea,
but I declined as politely as possible in a hurry to descend in the waning
light. Further down the undulating glade a shy young woman taking in her cow
for the night asked me in Sharchop where I came from and where I was going
which is the proper protocol. A splendid moon hung low in the sky, a friendly
moon and a rare sight in this part of the galaxy. I made it through the portal
just as the barefoot Abi was constructing the temporary cow fence from brush.
The air was scented with drifts of cedar smoke permeating the stalks of maize.
I bid her a hearty farewell and scampered on down the ridge just in time for
special curry at the mess.
A Bhutanese school day is the best in the world. For one
thing when you walk from class to class you see incredible things like forested
cliffs you’d never spotted, a giant moth, an rusty butterfly, or a new flower
in bloom, the kids rolling by in national dress adds to the atmosphere.
Sparrows dart in and out of the classroom and only the teacher takes notice. I
can take the class into the field or basketball court and sit under my favorite
tree with class six and read a story in the breeze. I haven’t missed a
scheduled class except for being sick but when I turn up after lunch bell both
staff and students take their sweet time to assemble for sixth period, BST has
advantages compared with time in the outer world. The bell itself although it
rules my life is still a delight to the ears, a brass oval struck by a hammer,
a sound that carries to Zangtopelri and beyond. If I have the nerve to keep
teaching for many years I would no doubt long for these sunny afternoons
teaching in Eastern Bhutan where I like my community, worship the mountains,
and adore my students! The acrobatic rat snuck by me but I caught climbing up
my closet he jumped nearly hitting my face with his claws and I golfed him with
my broom a perfect hole in one out my door, AWESOME!
That rat has been in and out of my house in the last week,
an array of rain and astounding beauty. I haven’t written lately but a lot is
going on as usual both internally and externally. I have been walking in the
woods daily although only going as far as Shakshang about two and a half hours
roundtrip along the spine of the mountain. Once you approach Shakshang the
mountains begin to unfold and stretch out in a radial display of perfection.
One can view a distant electrical storm over T-Gang then turn around to see an
ethereal moonrise over Tawang. You can still hear the faint whisper of the
Dangme Chu four thousand feet below in the valley where a lone light from the paddy
bivouac we rested at on the way to Gongsa shines! I love the sense of place
that comes with living in Rangthangwoong. Around Shakshang is a sacred grove
with towering oaks that sport mossy trunks and fronds sprouting from twisted
limbs. Meditating on the queen of the grove an enormous gnarled oak with so
much life sprouting from her boughs and I thought as a teacher I should be like
that tree nurturing and sustaining all the life that sprouts from me like that
tree. Outside the grove in the otherworld tufts of mist evaporate from the
silhouetted escarpment vanishing over the Dangme Chu that is etched too deeply into
the narrow valley to be seen yet is audible (A different tone from its brother river)
Below the Lhakhang (God’s house) is a cluster of homes and three wondrous
chortens (artifact receptacles) the uppermost decked with rainbow prayer flags
the second tier has a stone tablet with an engraving of a Buddha and Dakini
doing it, intrinsic iconography in tantric lore representing the unity of male
and female energies and through IT, the unity of all things. The lowest tier
has two simple unadorned or whitewashed crumbling chortens that resemble holy
cairns. Turning left towards Tsenkharla the trail goes through an oak wood to a
cluster of rainbow prayer flags. The spot has a commanding view of Zangtopelri
below and beyond Trashigang whose lights come up glittering like an orange
constellation. Once you pass the interceding dirt road (also built during my
stint along with the cell tower) A wonderfully gentle descent past the
meditation hut where I was stopped dead in my tracks by three conch blows that
reverberated rattling my dome before emanating out to the universe using me as
a conduit. YELLAMA! Then on the next evening some drum and horn duet
interspersed with a twisted dirge some kinky entreaty the local deities who
were awaking for nocturnal revelry, perhaps going to meet the Lumla goddess for
a romp on Shampula. The other realms are active with hungry ghosts, elves,
sprites, pixies, all chattering in the void unseen by many human beings who
simply aren’t attuned.
Teaching goes on steadily with ups and downs. I know I’m a
better teacher now than when I arrived but I’m not as consistent as I want to
be. We had consistent water for a week and I washed all my clothes and Nima
Gyeltson helped me wash the floors. Now the water is gone and I miss it
already. It’s a dwindling summer’s eve with shadows absorbing the massifs
leaving bars of bullion light forming a checkerboard pattern from Tawang to
Trashigang, even a rare scarlet sunset illuminates the cotton candy clouds
GOD”S GREAT CIRCUS and we his children, forever grateful. Outside, a cornucopia
of vegetation at its peak with flecks of gold streaking the sea of green,
including the maize which turns gold before it’s harvested. The rice paddies
also tinted gold now. Rain still saturates the land daily and plants seem to
grow until they die which seems a noble notion, isn’t it? It’s been a heck of a
year and I’m feeling crazier for it and a tad isolated too, but I love my post
and therefore must embrace any challenges that arise whilst I stay.
Tonight’s curry y’all straight up emadatsi just chillie
given by Pema Dechen class even, and one slice of processed cheese salted over
rice. Put oil into pot fry up the chillie, add water let it boil them, and then
add cheese at the end, delicious!
Summer winds down and you can taste autumn when you arise
each morning and taste it again when you collapse at night. The lustrous
mountains sparkle joyously in the sunlight illuminating unnoticed contours and
surprising the eye with previously unseen settlements dotting the rough
borderlands. One guesses is that hovel with the tin roof in India or Bhutan, as
if it matters. We might be past the peak now but it’s still unimaginably green
although more hints of autumn abound. Pink and purple blossoms in the forests
that appear this time each year as if by magic. We don’t get alpine varieties
but we do have seasonal blooms. Undoubtedly, this is the most beautiful part of
the year although each season has its magical essence. Yet a sunny summer day
in Bhutan displays a richness of green that words cannot capture or remotely
convey so you ought to come and see for yourself. Marigolds sprout just as the
final rose wilts off the vine reminding us that change is a necessary aspect of
life. Why then I’m I so resistant? Can’t find any spuds since every available local
potato is being diced in Bangladesh or India right now. Currently the sun
shines and rain falls simultaneously so we wait patiently for the rainbow to
appear. My emadatsi boils on the gas stove and I got local cheese to top it
off. It hasn’t been an easy time for me as the shadows of my mind eclipse the
light of my soul creating undesirable discord in my spirit. Yet hope springs
eternal and each day I hope to emerge from my sleeping bag cocoon as a
BUTTERFLY. The students keep me honest and in the game when all other checks
and balances have dissolved. I appreciate this unique opportunity more and more
as the great DRAGON schematic unfolds with sinuous movements and painful
revelations. On campus an outbreak of chicken pocks and mumps claims a few new
pupils each day as kids are sequestered in the hostel or sent to their village
to recover. Life on the frontier isn’t easy when your upbringing was in
pampered Marin County California. The gap between the lifestyles and thinking
is as deep as the valley itself. One boy who was at my house for lunch on Saturday
has never left this mountain. He’s 16 and hails from Shakshang and has only
been to Omba and Darchen once and NEVER been as far as Doksom at the foot of
the hill, let alone T-Gang or Yangtse. WOW! That means he’s never touched the
two rivers he’s gazed at for 16 years! I feel lucky to have travelled this far
in life, and also fortunate to get a taste of sitting still on this mountain
that we share. If I had to trade it all in for this mountain I would though,
(if the DRAGON threw in a Sharchop wife) Lunch is ready but at least I cook my
chillie, students pour salt in raw ones and suck the juices before eating the
shell, YELLAMA! When I came up with this blogs title “tiger in a trance”
lifting it from the lyric Saint of Circumstance, never did I imagine how
prophetic it would be.
Denouement
If the story ended here what a fine ending it
would be, maybe engaged in a teachable moment with the students, or sitting on
the lip of a green knoll under the eaves of a cubed Chorten decked in rainbow
prayer flags. My face sprinkled with plump raindrops and baked by the sun. Cows
low in the fields and mist obscures the highest ridges while the valley turns
and shines beneath made by the sacred two rivers and their relentless push to
the sea. Yesterday I accompanied a former student Nima Gyelston to his mother’s
house at the village of Yartse. We took a short cut through steep terraced
maize fields interspersed with rice paddies as we approached the village. The
road to Doksom winds around the shortcut and we hit the paved road above
Kamdang. There are few trees down here shrubby oaks, eucalyptus, and lone pines
along with stands of bamboo that tower thirty feet in the air. Also lemon grass
grows eye high but mostly the land is farmed on steep slopes and maize is the
bumper crop now turning a pale gold and soon will be harvested. Maize is
rubbery corn that’s used to make ARA (local brew or moonshine) or kadung a rice
maize blend that is hearty and nutritious. Nima is a Kidu student and his
father left early on so he is sponsored by the king. His mother or his older
sister didn’t speak a word of English but welcomed us with smiles all the same.
The house looks like something out of Grimes, a dilapidated stone hovel leaning
askew raised above ground with bare board floors and no furniture or appliances
except a gas stove. Outside red chillies dry on the tin eaves. Ama did have a
cell phone and they grew plenty of vegetables to survive but live a sparse life
sleeping in one room on the floor on thin mats with blankets. The hearth was
located in one corner along with a rusted drum for stored water. Unlike most
traditional homes there was no altar, only pictures of the King tacked up along
the charred walls. I don’t want to romanticize that living condition because
village life is hard and many live a meek subsistent lifestyle. But it seemed a
cozy setup to me and there is a lot to be said for a simple life. A more middle
class farmer lifestyle would be more comfortable or living off a teacher’s wage
or government position. I sat Indian style on the floor with the hot sun at my
back through the wooden carved windows, covered at night by sliding wood. Nima
served me pomegranate, cucumber, and his mom prepared suja (butter tea) a
staple in the Himalaya. I don’t care for it usually but under special
circumstances it’s memorable for reasons little to do with gustatory satisfaction,
and being offered this in a simple home is an honor. I went outside where his
sister was coating a Kamdang student’s hair in mucky dye that would eventually
tint her tresses maroon. The girl was draped in a plastic tarp and the scene
resembled a third world beauty parlor. The proper term is developing world and
that fits about as well as third world over here. There are medical realities
and conditions of life that make it a developing country but the spirit seems
highly evolved. And what measurement does sense of community fall into these
categories? If only I could get them to pick up their trash. We walked back up
the maize terraces with sharp views to villages incised on the slopes of the
opposite mountain. At night the lights twinkle in every direction and although
the population isn’t sizable one is certainly not alone in this remarkable
valley. The riverbed is sparsely settled and the mountaintops uninhabited
leaving most of the population farming between 3,000 and 8,000 feet. The lights
of Trashigang are highly visible throughout the valley a glowing orange
constellation. Before Nima departed he told me he left the money his mother and
sister had given him at home which seemed dubious but I gave him 150 Ngultrum.
Later on at my house Butterfly stopped by for Nepali spiced milk tea (he loves
the spice I picked up in Pokhara nearly two years ago) He told me that Prabu G
offered to buy Nima a new gho to replace his faded school gho. Nima took the
money and bought a fancy black gho from Phuntsho Wangmo’s shop. So days went by
(Butterfly tells it so much better since he is adept at impressions) and Nima
kept coming to school in the faded gho. Finally Prabu G confronted him and Nima
admitted he bought the fancy gho and Prabu G and Phuntsho Wangmo got into a
scrum since Phuntsho wouldn’t take the gho back. It makes me think young Nima
is a tad mischevious but I can verify he comes from simple upbringing and must
envy the students who have their own nice gho and pocket money. Nima says he
works construction in wintertime to support his mother.
Today is Sunday I went up to Shakshang to
prostrate and noticed an amazing fresco of the Guru with flowing orange and
purple robes and his two consorts with a particularly alluring Yeshi showing a
lot of skin and a more demure Maharaja, the Guru’s eyes seemed to meet both of
his consorts and track my own (Night at the museum style) Outside, I paused
many times to admire my beloved place reveling in its glory and realized I’d
never have this connection again. Visiting a national Park is awesome but
living in the midst of a functioning wilderness that serves both tiger and man
is exhilarating. My eye problem prevents me from driving, so back in the USA I’m
isolated but here in Bhutan I have the world at my fingertips. Nancy once told
me as we sprawled out with a picnic with half dozen other folks including my
Principal near the Mani Wall below the ruin, “Why would you ever go anywhere?”
Well these days I’m going only as far as my legs will carry me. On my way home
two familiar characters, the old man with the staff, and the old woman halfway
down to Zangtopelri at her farm, neither wore shoes as nobody of that
generation does at least at this elevation this time of year. Shakshang enjoys
a 360 view with a great sightline to Trashigang from the temple stoop, the
rolling range towards Yangtse and my beloved valley stretching east reversing
the course of the Dangme Chu, and above the temple an impressive oak grove and
the way to Darchin. A few dogs bayed at my entrance into the Lhakhang and it
wasn’t until I was navigating the stone stairs shaded by overgrown bowers that
I encountered the old caretaker. Moments later I saw an awesome slender bird with
long tail feathers perched on a pine treetop with an amazing song who seemed
the Neil Cassady of birds talking to a hundred other birds at once. He had an
interesting darting flight too. Standing on a rock imbibing a radial display or
an outward manifestation of my soul? MANIFEST! Flocks of ravens caw and soar on
the wind announcing their busiest season I don’t know what all the ruckus is
about though because I don’t know enough to think like a raven. In the ancient
grove I tread on a carpet of clovers and ferns beneath towering oaks whose
buttresses are laced with spider webs and cascading purple flowers. I gingerly
Step over rotting logs, stinging nettle, and mossy rocks, a tight twisting
ascent to the Lhakang, emerging into pastures with enormous black butterflies
with blue globes printed on their wings, and brown and tan stripped diminutive
ones that flit through fragrant bushes reminding me of swarthy country girls
performing morning chores. I lean back on the wild grass and watch mist engulf
distant forests expanding towards Dung La. Take a last glance at those
spindrifts of mist engulfing the high peaks.
My emadatsi bender continues so if you’ll excuse
me I got to chop some chillie. We’re at that part of the year where weekends
barely register with six day workweeks. The environment alleviates some of the
overworked feeling with sparrows darting in the classroom, the girl’s funny
clogs accentuating their kira and the boy’s stately knee socks. I’m not eating
much these days and am gaining no pleasure except from cold Coca Cola and its
sweet consistency and handfuls of cheap éclairs. I haven’t touched meat for
about a month which is probably the longest I’ve ever gone. I haven’t even
eaten a dried fish or leather in ages. My hundred pairs of socks drying on the
line caused a stir amongst the boys who said I had more socks than the
shopkeepers. I gave a few pairs away to alleviate my guilt as much as for a
good turn. The ones without a match I assume the rat devoured. Speaking of Coke
I need to run to the shop for a few to make it through the busy night. Its
Sunday late in the afternoon and sunlight floods the valley illuminating the
infinite contours of the daisy chain of mountains. Back from shop, chatting
with students, sunlight creeps up the mountains leaving pools of shadow in
diamond cirques (my good karma to be here) In reality these are the foothills
of the Himalaya but I’ve never seen grander mountains in my life rising sheer
from the river more than five thousand feet joining in endless escarpments that
form an intricate mountain mandala stretching and unfolding in every direction
like the UNIVERSE. Yes, nowhere is as homey as the EASTERN INNER HIMALAYA, a
verdant paradise, home of freakishly large cucumbers. Its quiet the kids are
watching ten hours of football matches on the grassless muddy ground while a
few bunkers play kuru in the field below my house. I am hungry, prostrate, and
grateful.
If the story ended here what a fine ending it
would be…walking down the trail with warbling night birds, a tapping drum and
conch jam floating on a river song under a milky galaxy of shooting stars…stellar
lightning flashing on the fringes of earths rotunda reminding me I’m alive…and she’s out there...the voices of the
student’s prayer a beacon guiding me home...5:38 P.M, the mountains fan out in
a golden accordion of summer bliss…midday walking through the rustling maize
dodging raindrops and inhaling sweet bovine perfume cavorting down the trail
with familiar goat and horse and blue pines that recognize me evermore…the
world is cast in shadow as snow white clouds build cobalt cathedrals in the sky…the
illusion warps shattering momentarily revealing NAKED IT!!! Rematerializing
into bluish mountains, the loveliest DREAM…last Sunday at a Chorten Ugyen
Chopel told me that Yeshi Tshogyel sang songs in the crags above Omba!!!
(I
want to believe we’ll all be okay)
Sometime in September, a day of dharma, a beautiful young
woman died at age 21 in the hamlet below Shakshing. Kinga Choden one of my
students has taken leave to attend the funeral. Meanwhile my adopted sister
called to say she’d run away from home after a quarrel with her elder sister,
two weeks since her own 40 year old mother died. Bhutan is an idyllic place but
like all places is touched by tragedy including suicide. When Buddha proclaimed
all life is suffering he wasn’t being pessimistic he was merely looking at
facts represented in the constant cycles of birth and death, meeting and
departure. It still rattles me that Buddha is described as an agnostic or
someone with no opinion on the existence of god. No one has told me otherwise.
Many Bhutanese endure difficult circumstances usually making the best of
things. As I’ve stated before boarding school is like boot camp for them and
they have a heavy regiment, enduring twelve hour routine days and sleeping
thirty to a room on steel bunks. They are fortunate to be getting an education
and in Bhutan schools have to be a surrogate parent to students studying away
from home. Also rules are important to maintain discipline and order. Religion
plays a significant role in everything from eating to studying. I’ve met a few
Christians of all ages, one atheist, and a ton of Mahayana Buddhists. My Indian
pals are Hindu’s, and I saw a Muslim on a park bench at Phuntsholing
Zangtopelri enjoying the shade of a tree near the fountain.
I just hide and watch and absorb what I can.
Stenciled horse pennants snap against a baby blue sky and I
think of Buddha, an ordinary man who emancipated him -self from the wheel of
suffering. We all have the Buddha nature inside of us as a dormant seed. Could
you extricate yourself from desire and thus be free to love mankind? Tall order
isn’t it? The Dharma is a similar vehicle to Christ Love as long as neither
have an agenda. Becky was almost struck by lightning while pondering Lumbini on
a Southwestern riverbank. I wonder if she knows that the ancient pillar to Lord
Buddha erected by an emperor on pilgrimage was shattered by a bolt of lightning
before the Lumbini complex was abandoned to war and wilderness for more than a
thousand years, being rediscovered around 1900. A lustrous rainbow shimmered
over Yellang sprouting from indescribably intricate mountains, a scope of
unfathomable beauty that warmed my soul’s marrow. Yes, I’m still here on a
perfect summers eve with thundering rainbows and what a wonderful place to be,
isn’t it? THERE Ain’t NO CLOUDS like BHUTANESE CLOUDS I feel grateful to have
recovered my health compared to the beginning of the season and I’m grateful to
my legs for carrying me around the mountain that I adore. I’m also grateful to
teach these students even if teaching language arts to ESL students is
exasperating. Lastly, I feel grateful to be alive in an imperfect world.
Three Good Things:
1. Doing Social Work with club
2. Doing Crossword puzzles in Class 7A
3. Dried Fish
Above that rainbow Tsang Tsang Ma appeared from hibernation
the peculiar contours of the dragons tail above twelve thousand feet a serrated
ridge that marks the boundary between Bhutan and India. At assembly a Tawang
helicopter flies overhead and my VP says that Chinese copters are banned over
East Bhutan. It’s hard to believe Tawang was a warzone fifty years ago with
blood being shed in my beloved valley spilling into the Dangme Chu, Shampula
scared by now overgrown trenches, Becky’s testimony of a crashed Chinese
helicopter in Sakteng. This is the peaceful valley on earth tracing the faint
flicker of headlights winding down a road somewhere across the river from
Lumla, maybe a man in love going home to his wife and new baby since each one
of us has a story.
Assessing students is often a rude awakening of your own and
their own limitations. The curriculum is far too advanced with only a few
grasping the stories without a lot of coaching. And too much emphasis on poetry
(which I love) but they can’t grasp vagaries. I’ve been teaching class eight
students for almost two academic years and I know they have improved but I’m
very disheartened by the lackluster speaking ability. I know how hard it is for
them but I wish for more effort and less shyness. I have designed more
activities focused on speaking and they love reading aloud but I can’t say what
lasting impact this has had. I can applaud my successes but realize I need to
continue to readjust during my stint at this post.
Last night a remote sky of twinkling stars spread across the
middle with one stray hanging low at the east end of the valley. A crescent
moon hung upside down beneath the celestial horizon and starlight tracers
enveloped the crown of Shampula. On the fringes heat lightning flashed,
nocturnal mountains posing for the end of summer. Bhutan is a land of myths and
symbols I couldn’t sit on the rock under my favorite tree to read because my
students said there was a deity living in it. One girl in class nine calls
herself STAR (Karma)of course there’s Moon Tshomo of the Monpa contingent, and
recently on the way up to Shakshang Pema Dechen of class five and her younger
sis nicknamed me Meme Shing (Grandfather Tree) first they thought of tokala
which means bowl but they wisely settled on the second.
Fall is here the rice paddies on the riverbank turn from
chartreuse to pale yellow before harvest, the needles on the cypresses are
hazel cascades brushing blues skies. The maize turns golden brown with thirty
foot stalks awaiting the sickle. A few red roses remain, the galaxy of
marigolds only emerging their pungent aroma filling the morning air. The
courtyard is complete jazzing up the already pomp filled assembly. The singing
of prayer, speeches, announcements, admonishments, encouragements, awards, and
the singing of the National Anthem all packed into thirty or forty five minutes
of fun! The scouts salute the unfurling of the Dragon flag on the mast another
blessed day in Bhutan! My home class is in the old classroom building on the
top end of campus. I’m sure the building was constructed before Catherine’s
stint at Rangthangwoong and I get to teach in it. Behind the small building is
an abandoned shitter and health hazard piled with trash (I have informed
administration who plans to demolish the derelict toilets) Behind the room is a
maize patch and view of the Kulong Chu and valley towards Yangtse. It’s an out
of the way classroom and I’m getting to know my new class 7A students that I
inherited after midterm. The room is spacious and if I howled no one could hear
me. There’s room for group activities and space to move around and seat 31
students comfortably two to a table with a few broken chairs. 7A is a good
class but their shy in speaking compared to 7B. I do think I have an impact on
students speaking English but perhaps don’t notice since I can’t see the forest
for the trees.
A medley of weather thunderstorms bumping around the hidden
cirques rumbling through hollows rolling off the brow of Shampula. Deep
metallic drawls like the taste in god’s mouth. One can almost see the dragon in
curls of lightning turning a charcoal sky purple. Next the mist swooped down
enveloping campus shrinking visibility to the head of a pin. The fog dissolved
into cloudscapes and a solitary ray spotlighted a distant settlement maybe
Melenkhar, Pema Yangdon’s village. A solid kind of day feeling embedded in a
weird cartoon living in Smurf village. I’ve become invisible to certain folks
but the students keep me sane and engaged. A full day of Dzonkha and I felt
lost in translation which usually doesn’t bother me. I taught all eight periods
and classes were fine and I enjoyed it but by the meeting in Dzonkha to select
next year’s captains I was over it.
It’s Friday night, I’m hungry and there’s no water. Both
situations could have been remedied but for now I go bachelor commando with a
coke and hunk of processed cheese. A funny thing about that water, we had two
consistent weeks of flowage, maybe the first time in two plus years. Now when
it went away which is the norm, I really got irked. There’s a lesson in that
I’m sure. Why the bleakness when surrounded by wonderful faces, sacred rocks
and trees. No matter, it’s a righteous place to be a somnambulist. WAKE UP
MIDNIGHT BUDDHA! RISE AND SHINE! It continues to rain even after the land had
its fill. It drips off eaves and palisades and the matted fur of cows unable to
stop binging on sweet juicy grass munching through a curtain of ceaseless
precipitation. Clouds sink filling the valley in multitude layers of thick mist
above and below sifting by your face a raindrop on your nose.
Authors Note: Sunday September 21 2014: There are ONLY 12
boys in each hostel room equivalent to my studio in space. Last night Nima
Gyelston was over for dinner and I asked him his version of the Prabu G Gho
story. He wouldn’t admit to lying and only said that Prabu had made him Tai
Kuang Do Captain this year. We pottered around fixing light bulbs and washing
clothes but I missed Sangay Tobgay and others in the singing show up at the MP.
Probably a good thing as the program ran four and a half hours. As I stepped
out of doors to smell the rain at 10:28 P.M I heard singing from the bend of
the road near the BHU where the yellow school bus inched its way through the
blackness. The kid’s were singing at the top of their lungs returning from
performing in a cultural program at a school across the Kulong Chu three hours
away. I marveled at an intact culture with the cheers spilling from the MP and
the approaching bus packed with jubilant soul’s rejoining the hive. Living in
your village IS the epitome of the experience here, like the dude inside Dochu
La Lhakhang under the shimmering chandelier told Becky in winter 2012. THAT
MURAL STILL STALKS THE HALLWAYS OF MY MIND -I feel blessed that my dart landed
on Tsenkharla! Lunch was KWA with
broccoli and egg plant thrown in pretty gooey. Maybe due to second Losar more
is available on the hilltop. An hour later I fried the leftover rice with onion
and broccoli and I’m still hungry but too wet to go out for CRAZY CHEESEBALLS!
