Get with the Program
Programmed
“River Sky moon and stars –every blade of
grass and every mote of dust were transformed for the Buddha. He knew that the
long years he wandered in search of the way have not been wasted. Thanks to his
trials and hardships he had finally discovered the way in his own heart.”
On the final
pitch to Shakshing a magnificent hawk with huge serrated wings glides in
circles overhead. He was soon joined by a crow shadowboxing his every whim.
Later on, a burnt rusty rainbow smudged the dragon’s tail as a curtain of clouds
blotted the horizon. It’s the perfect walk following the stone road through a
majestic cypress grove interspersed with eucalyptus and pine around Prince
Tsangma’s redoubt. I’ve been sitting on my throne a lot these days (a pile of
uneven stones) and noticed someone has cleared weeds from the interior of the
castle and excavated some pillars from the brush. This place has special
meaning for me and serves as a fortress of solitude where I can ponder life or
simply listen to the breeze rustling the eucalyptus leaves. From there the road
winds past a Mani wall and gate towards Zangtopelri. Above the temple the
terrain levels out revealing a precious undulating ridge traversing towards
Shakshing past farmhouses and fallow fields littered with maize stalks. It’s
now a hazel landscape with latecomer sub-alpine flowers perfuming the air. The
vegetation is a splendid mix of oaks, a few species of pine, wild fruit trees, and
various shrubbery and bushes. Pastures intersperse seamlessly with forest and
roughly terraced farmland. Near Shakshing a stand of mighty gnarled oaks with
fern lined limbs house the local deity. Ascending further one encounters mossy
oaks then shrubbery before the moist primal forests in the vicinity of Darchin.
If one hustles they could summit Brong
La within five hours but it always seems to take me the whole day rising
thousands of feet above campus. Beyond Brong La the wild habitat of leopards,
bears, and snakes. October with perfect visibility to the Matterhorn Peaks and
their tangerine tinted snowfields. Clear sailing deep within the topography of Tawang
until the saddleback stops the gaze,(so many living creatures between here and
there and somewhere a wildcat crunches the marrow of a deer) but now a haze has
swallowed that end of the valley and works its way westward devouring one ridge
at a time shrinking the scope.
It’s been
extremely busy on this hilltop and the harvest moon has come and gone along with
many programs including school picnic, class picnic, Social Service trip, Scout
Bonfire (I sang K.C Moan) club exhibition day, and an excursion to Darchen with
a dozen boys to offer butter lamps and string flags atop Shering La (head) the
tiptop of Rangthangwoong. One small boy Tashi Namgay rubbed the crevice of a
Cypress and said, “Look sir, vagina!” I haven’t had much alone time and feel
gratitude finding solitude in the forest with the hush of the distant river and
chirping birds for companionship. It’s good to try to open up though- after all
we spend a trillion lifetimes just learning how to breathe.
I’m also
involved in the invigilation and marking of class ten trial exams. It’s not glamorous work since I only do a section
of anonymous pupils for about four hours a stretch at a table in a room full of
chattering Bhutanese, the stink of domo hanging in the nippy air. Teaching is
essentially finished and most of the week I was out of class acting as an
invigilator for the exams just staring at students for ten hours. I miss the
interaction with students but Nima and Pema still drop by daily. It’s a grinder
for the last month with heavy duty office work and spreadsheets ahead. Blah! In
addition I’m a bit rundown and when colleague Kirsten dropped by unannounced
she said I didn’t look like “Tip Top Tim” In fact when we walked by Sangay Uden
pronounced, “Miss is so beautiful and sir is so ugly!” “Thanks a lot Sangay” I
retorted. Kirsten spun my world around staying about an hour before departing
with her two Bhutanese friends. On Sunday I sponsored a class picnic for my homeroom
on a terrace near the channel and it was fun to see the kids playing games at a
time when they are rapidly maturing. Sangay Chozam beamed like Little Red
Riding Hood in a kira totting woven picnic basket loaded with emadatsi and
rice. We all slurped watermelon a rare and refreshing treat warding off the hot
sun.
After the
school picnic we heard a colleague had died and proceeded en mass to his
dwelling where music was still wafting out his open window. Several teachers
climbed the ladder and came out to wash their hands. They reported he had blood
around his mouth and wasn’t breathing. It appeared that it was an overdose of
alcohol. The moonshine eats your insides but I’m not sure he was an Ara
drinker. I barely knew him as he was a newcomer who kept to himself and had
recently separated from his spouse. He was only one year older than me and I
have a vivid memory of him skipping rope with his PE class.
Around
Halloween a ferocious thunderstorm shook the mountain and it sounded like bombs
exploding with simultaneous booms and flashes jolting the earth. Usually I’ll
watch from my stoop but I was terrified as rainwater blew under the crack of my
door even scaring the rat away. Finally the full POWER of the THUNDERDRAGON
exhibited on ALL SAINTS EVE! ROAR -ROAR!
Next week
the ultimate program in celebration of The Fourth King’s 60th
Birthday. We’ll see what unfolds. Right now Nima and Pema are preparing dinner
on a cold November night. On the menu, emadatsi, just like every other night
unless I forgo dinner for crackers or can’t scrounge up ingredients. These boys
have been cooking more than I have and sometimes I like to make my own curry
and settle in for the night with a sitcom or book. My last read another Pema
Chodron Dharma book one that my long lost pal Lisa recommended before I had
read Pema. Sometimes the Dharma feels like beating one’s self over the head but
some themes ring true and if I met Buddha on a cloud I would say, “Hey man you
were right about everything,” The myth of fingerprints as Paul Simon sings it. It
all makes me feel queasier than ever or maybe it’s the heights lording over the
valley. Today the haze made me blue as now the finest visibility is gone. Only
a certain amount of days have that polished look and some of those moments
you’re stuck in a five hour meeting. DHARMA! DHARMA vs. DRAMA…So Pema and Nima
are here chattering in Sharchop and we rap in fragmented English about their
admire girls or progress in studies since Nima’s class ten exam is approaching.
I always have so much more to say but what can I say anyway about this
imponderable place. I will be parting with many beloved students since once
they pass out from your tutelage you don’t interact as much. I understand
something of the wonderment of being a teacher staying at a school in a
community for an impactful duration of time. Teaching many siblings and
hundreds of students has been my boon in this life.
A major
development has been another tract cut across the scalp of the mountain
connecting Nankhar to the Shakshing track. Nankhar is a picturesque village
tucked into a secret finger of our valley with views out over the Omba area. I
have only been once since the new road construction but have heard dynamite
blasts followed by terrible crunching rockslides often. Now Omba and Jangphu
are the only villages not connected by road in this locality. Although aesthetically
unappealing and environmentally degrading, the roads make life for the
villagers easier. It’s a gesture of support to the remotest and poorest region
of the country so who am I to complain. It’s the same with the menacing hydro
project on the Kulong Chu. Life goes on and still paradise even with cell
towers and farm roads and dueling boils over each eye…when one looks out over
the landscape nature still seems comfortably in command…The pressure cooker hisses
like a snake about to strike announcing dinner, bon appetite. The season is
changing and winter is on the wings of the crows jetting through the void but
today a rare sound of an Indian chopper on reconnaissance. Inhaling a puff of
cedar smoke through my nostrils and I can hear soulful prayers soaring from the
MP Hall.
Asterisk
Whirling
between death and birth
in the folds
of a gold skirt
see a Cham
dancer’s barefoot pivoting on a pin
spouting wake
of dust
flares of
sunlight gleaming off clashing cymbal,
dragon horns
blare
ejaculating squiggly
lines
waves of
color and sound
light Fluid
dervishes
jumping
jacks and Atsara’s with long red penises
waiving them
at pretty girls to squinty eyed elders delight
hey! Grab
the horns of the beast, twist and turn
hang Ten!
feel flexing
calves freeze,
then melt
away
Me Wang Cho Kardinche
I was
surprised when Pema our office assistant exclaimed “Sir Come to see the
Tongdrel!” in her hallmark falsetto. Pema is married with the requisite two
kids and husband but a real looker with a Tibetan visage complete with Rosy
cheeks and China Cat eyes. Actually I prefer the swarthier Sharchop but on with
the story since there’s no denying that Pema is beautiful and an essential
component to our school. Soon we went encountering a pack of lady teachers who
giggled and Pema requested the girl’s washer who speaks very little English but
is indeed swarthy in a Nepali manner to accompany us. So it went that we knelt
below the towering embroidered or was it painted tapestry with the most amazing
scenes and this is the very same banner that was unveiled at Zangtopelri Tsechu
also depicting that mountain of paradise with a real life backdrop of Shampula
a rogue hump the end of Bhutan flowing with its own banner of streaming clouds.
It was an immaculate day in the valley with views to the saddleback, a
snowcapped massif in Tawang, Tshongtshongma glistened and the two jagged
snowbound peaks beyond Lumla shined like million pointed crystals wrapped in
rock and ice. And between these points mountain fresh air and a sensation of
openness as if one commands the world. The serpentine S curves of the Gongri
Chu and the interlacing mountains spawning from the riverbed then sprawling
outwards into their own horizons and pinnacles. After passing underneath the banner
we received a blessing from a bronze chalice given by a lay monk and departed.
I felt like the Guru riding along with his consorts for a precious spell and
Pema seemed every bit a proper embodiment of Yeshi Tshogyel. The moral of this vignette is that Pema did a
kind deed to include me in something I might’ve missed out on, and on a day I
have the blues with a clogged right ear. After that blessing I managed to
appreciate the fairytale like scene unfolding around me (I can’t recall which
Grimes had the mountain of trash piled up after the village fair) the genuine
and heartfelt devotion to the Fourth King and all the Wangchuk Dynasty is
staggering and this showed through in the meticulous attention to details and
sensational dance programs and of course the hours of prayer. They built a
platform and installed a huge prayer flag tree encircling a massive altar. They
sat in the blazing sun reciting mantras because they wanted too. That very
night the students were back at it in the MP Hall as usual praying for you and
me and every sentient being. I could fill volumes about the details of the day
with Cham dancers, Lamas in red wizard hats, Drums, glorious National Dress and
many pairs of waltzing dragon boots. Before lunch was served to over a thousand
people there was a cultural program and I was moved by the mass community
circle dance including, dignitaries, students and staff from three different
schools and people of all ages forming mass circles then breaking apart snaking
along with a few deceptively simple and elegant steps in their finest gho and
kira or school colors. Look there’s Karlos looking so traditional bopping
along. I was whirling with Pema Namgay a few minutes prior. The whole
celebration lasted three days THE ULTIMATE PROGRAM. Last night a four hour
singing competition left everyone satisfied but weary yet ever’2yone rallied
today for the Kings actual 6oth Birth Anniversary (we call a birthday) I was
impressed and grateful to witness a unique occasion which included old timers looking
on for a farmer vs. Civil Servant tug of war (guess who won that one?) Of
course a little Shakedown sprung up with Guava, cheap toys, the last of the
season’s giant cucumbers, and clothes and cheap jewelry. Now all that’s left is
a huge job for my mutinous social service club. Despite making an announcement
on the PA at March Practice only about ten girls and Pema Wangchuk showed up to
assist in paper picking and grass cutting last night. It was a humorous scene
at sunset with a lot of grumbling and some laughing in the end. Rinchen Wangmo
is a loyal member of the club but Guru always groans in her hallmark way under
her face mask while wielding a sickle. Another good Guru anecdote was when I
encountered her and sidekick watching a group of madams playing musical chairs
during the festivities. Guru asks, “Sir which one is the prettiest?” I reply, “Well
Guru I like the one in the green Taegu the mouty
one with long hair” “She’s married with two kids, sir.” The Guru replies with a
laughing twinkle in her eye. “They all are Guru!” I say and walk away.
It’s been a
rollercoaster in my head these past days with a clogged ear and occluded
essence it’s hard to achieve both equilibrium and equanimity.
A work in
progress…
Ode to Brong La
serpentine trees
with squirming tentacles
inject their
poison
Into my veins
grasping at knotted
buttresses
strangled on
tangled vines
inhaling
spores and dank mosses
under black mushroom
ships.
spawn the
Brong La Gremlin
with pale
green lichen skins,
glowing
jaundice eyes,
he climbs on
a ladder of sunbeams
rattling his
studded teeth
chomping my
spine.
I make it to
a bamboo shelf
touching
tender shoots
with antennas
hovering
among thick trees
embedded
into rank duff
(this
mountain is made of air)
a swirling
kaleidoscope
of dappled bullion
and crimson canopies
scorch my
skull,
slipping sideways
on my belly
rutting,
a wild boar
wallowing
towards a speck of light
a tunnel through
hollow trunked
moaning maws
and spongy
decay
swallowing
my spindly legs
until
busting free
into the
glare of a thousand suns
pulling
amber grasses up the face
teetering over
abysses, laughing.
the realm
below choked with smoke
THE WORLD IS
BURNING!
but up here
a fresh
breeze stirs an elegant conifer
perched on a
knoll,
breathe in
overgrown pastures
surf on a broken bamboo mat
surf on a broken bamboo mat
over purple
and gold waves
spurring a
wake of white blossoms.
rubbing my
potbelly
so smooth
like a seal
a fresh breeze
eddies over nakedness
snapping a constellation
of rainbow flags
dissolving
until only the
peace pole remains
wrapped in
yellow cloth.
I call a
hawk and it comes
folding the entire
universe into its silent wings
Nightmare on Misery Train
It’s a
beautiful day in this sector of the Kingdom but I had to make my first visit to
the BHU all year to get eardrops to try to unclog my ears, especially the right
one. I retired at 6:30 last night and awoke with a start to see a huge black
rat scurrying across my cement floor then squeeze its plump body down a drain
hole its curly tail disappearing last. Yuck! After that I went back to sleep
only to have a vivid nightmare about my ex girlfriend and her new beau. Funny
thing is I’m not resentful or even dwelling on her new life and love but
apparently I carry a deep wound that bubbles up in subconscious dreaming. In
this dream I remember visiting her apartment on a dark night only Bush Street
looked different although still hilly and urban and all the interior of her
apartment was different. But Morgan was still Morgan and I was pleading with
her about something perhaps taking me back. Pangs of confusion and jealousy
were acute and as real as this moment. I awoke feeling intense loneliness and
despair part of our birthright so I lay awake with the feelings until gradually
I drifted off asleep but the dream reoccurred in a strange continuum. The next
time I awoke I went to look at the starry night sky wondering where the hell I
was and what the hell I was doing. The sound of the river was powerful even at
great distance on a cold night. After my visit to the BHU I went back in the
classroom to review for approaching exams and that cheered me considerably. I
love my life here but it has also been a painful period for me working through
and with my core issues that are glaringly obvious. ANXIETY & FEAR still govern
my every action which is tiring, and the only medication I have is the DHARMA. Former
BCF teacher Reidi compared this place to a giant mirror reflecting all your
soul back at you and who wants to look at that, probably very few of us. Also
despite being ACTIVE in roaming my health is not that good for a young man and
I’m starting to own up to the effects of drinking too much Coke and my other
bad habits. The good news is that these problems cannot be solved rather can be
worked with in this brief lifetime granted. I spent a portion of the three day
celebration gazing up at Brong La peak and wondering just what the hell
happened to me up there as a Pandora’s Portal was pried open releasing many
great allies and adversaries in the forms of spirits, ghosts, and oriental
entities some winged and others made completely of light. Not to mention the
bubbles from the murky forest pool near Darchen where the mermaid is said to
dwell.
I came here
mad and thus assumed the self appointed moniker MADMAN of Tsenkharla which only
puts me a step ahead for enlightenment but we can only manage our own pace
which is why regret is futile. In more
practical matters the final push is on and exactly a month remains -the part of
this job I don’t relish with central marking, spreadsheets, and work that taxes
my limited eyesight and managerial abilities. The celebration for His Majesties
Birthday has left me in awe of the Bhutanese and their unity although my VP
noted that in the olden day’s people used to dance all night after a puja and
now they disperse after the eats. Things are changing everywhere but what I saw
this week could never be witnessed anywhere else in the world. A rich tapestry
of tradition, devotion, and community spirit endures in Rangthangwoong.
Today was
not my best since I started it at the hospital although the walk was sublime
with poinsettias lining the golf cart road with the spire of Tshongtshongma
looking on in the distance. First Dr. Namsa tried to remove the wax with a pair
of pliers (and no ear scope) which obviously made me uneasy. Then he snaked a
tube in my canal and tried sucking it out. The latter worked to some degree but
the confounded ear is still blocked and the other one partially blocked with
huge accumulations of wax. I was sent home with drops and will return to the
cavernous Basic Health Unit probably tomorrow. My spirits were buoyed by a
parcel from home from my mom and Aunt so I’ll feast on dried salami and M
&M s tonight! When my neighbor pounded on my door I had been asleep for
several hours in a murky world but when I groggily stepped into a magnificent
twilight streaming bands of salmon light bounded around the valley alighting
all the distant horizons and ranges pooling liquid light within the chaliced
snowfields of the Matterhorn’s; I could swear the valley was rejoicing in the
brand new moment awaiting the sterling starlight. Nima & Pema appeared at
my door grinning but I turn them away telling them to return tomorrow when I
feel better. It’s good to have a family here and maybe that’s my greatest
accomplishment.
Round Up
“…wings a mile long just to carry the
bird away…”
Apparently I
invoke the Lord Jesus a lot and have the habit of saying Jesus when something
irks or startles me which is all the time. Pema Chedup likes to imitate this
shouting, “Jeeeesuuuuss!” When all Bhutanese mimic my voice it always sounds
the same wheezy high pitch so I must sound like that, what a shame. I’m hungry
and grumpy about my ear and too lazy to make dinner. Are these complaints a
waste of the reader’s time? Perhaps you ought to flip on ESPN instead. Go into
the fridge for some guacamole or make a sandwich. I can still see the light
patterns outside mom’s kitchen window by the Target across the marsh and Sammy
on the big screen. Or I can open the door and see the light patterns of Kiney
and Yellang and the far off outskirts of Lumla with Sammy on the small screen.
It’s all interchangeable especially once you’ve mastered the art of astral
projection. Look! Now you see me now you don’t. Thanksgiving is approaching
with its gravy and fixings and my thoughts turn to turkey, family and the
notion of family. If reincarnation is true and everyone you meet was your
mother at one point that would be a game changer. I want to be a more open and
tolerant human being and learn how to better share the world with others. I
want to flood my heart with the light of a million dakini’s and attain an
indiscriminant nature. I’m the dancing Buddha yo! Maybe I even want to find
someone to keep me company, any takers? Or perhaps I can take this whole wide
world as a bride till death do us part!
My ears
improved slightly so I hitched to Yangtse town for some R&R at the
Karmaling which fortunately was empty. The ride was a good one a taxi carrying
an older Brokpa couple. The grandfather was wearing his crimson wool tunic but
also a cow skin vest which looked like dried parchment. The woman was in full
ruddy regalia minus the spider hat adorned with turquoise beads. It was the
seventy year olds first trip to Yangtse since they are Yak Herders by trade.
Arriving in town I was horrified to see the latest madness on T.V about the
massacre in Paris. I went down to Chorten Kora and circumambulated where I saw
the deeply reverent Brokpa woman doing her rounds and prostrating her head
against the immaculate edifice. The ancient Stupa is a replica of Bohdnath in
Kathmandu but the model which was sculpted on a radish shrank on the arduous
journey back to East Bhutan so it was built considerably smaller. There are no
shops lining modern CK though only a few park benches and the whooshing Kulong
Chu. The other noteworthy fact is a Monpa girl was sacrificed alive within the
Kora to appease a menacing demon that inhabited the woods. That’s why the Monpa
trek in from Tawang every spring to pay homage and for only the second time I
entered the forbidden inner sanctum usually locked. Some ladies were sorting
some butter lamps in there so I slipped through the doorway and did three
rounds. Some l2groovy gold slates depicted rudimentary skeletons and beast and
one gnarled tree sits in a corner. I’d been in there one other time during the
Tsechu with candlelight and singing Monpa with Karlos. I did as the Brokpa and
put my forehead against the actual Kora (not outer wall) getting as close to
the Monpa martyr as I could. I returned after supper and to my dismay they had
posted floodlights at the corners of the promenade making it a blinding
experience instead of the galactic orbital it once was after dark. The
Bhutanese are manic for progress right now and as Becky said when I told her,
“Buddha is already enlightened” On Sunday I hooked up with Prabu G and we went
to see the cranes in Bumdeling. Prabu an Indian veteran of 17 years at
Tsenkharla is by the book so we stopped in the office under the big cypress at
the foot of the prayer flag draped bridge spanning the river. Inside a fetching
woman named Karma (who by the way had two kids and a husband) processed the day
pass. She had been to Me La, Pema Ling, and into Tibet in the lake dotted
highlands. She loved orchids and just saying the word broke into an
irrepressible smile, all teeth. We proceeded in our taxi the ten miles down a
bumpy dirt road to Bumdeling village which has a campground feeling with a
primary school and some shops littered with trash. It’s a rare flatland with
paddies full of the un-harvested grain which the precious birds snack on. The
river flows into a fertile plain enfolded by mountains. North of here it’s a
three day slog to the border with China and the Great barrier of the high
Himalayas. There’s abundant wildlife in the park including red pandas, snow
leopards, the occasional tiger, and gigantic butterflies and migratory birds.
But the park is famous for being one of two primary wintering sanctuaries for
the endangered black necked crane. This graceful black and white bird migrates
over the high peaks from somewhere in Tibet in November and returns in
February. A few arrived early and we were on the move but I missed a step
splashing one boot into the cold stream. Woops. A villager tells us where a
pair of cranes is roosting and five minutes later we spot two distant birds
near a few straw huts. Bird watching is not an ideal sport for a visually
impaired individual but I can still catch the vibe of birds and love them for
poetic reasons. These regal birds are astounding and when one fluttered its
wings momentarily it tugged on my heartstrings and released butterflies in my
chest. The monochromatic pattern is striking with the purest white like Chorten
Kora after a whitewash or the snow on the saddle of Me La. The black as pitch
as a Plumas midnight. These birds stick with their mates for life and the pair
was snuggled close moving in complete harmony. It appeared these lovebirds
didn’t quarrel and were the highest form of lovers and maybe that’s why people
are so attracted. I didn’t see them fly like in Phubjikha with my family or cry
like that day with my brother. Unbelievably my bra called exactly when I was
watching this pair which is amazing since whenever I see a black naked crane I think of him and our
encounter in Phubjikha. Sundays encounter was special too with the pair tucked
on a knoll of terraces under a forest of tinted deciduous trees and they seemed
to give the land its essence by their very presence. On the way home to cap it
off we saw some funky monkeys playing along the road. Simply to see those two
birds was a special gift granted in this lifetime.
How many
times had they taken that flight together? What had drawn them together and
what force binds them until the end? When one dies what becomes of the other.
Two bachelors watch from a barn. How do these birds feel love? You can hear it
in their angelic calls.
It’s Monday
with classes wrapping up for the year shifting into the dreaded exams. I’m
doing review and enjoying the company of students who will pass out of my
tutelage soon. That is the reality of teaching and I have been fortunate to
teach students for two years consecutively which is a real treat both personally
and professionally. Outside cicadas whir in the trees while dead leaves litter
the campus. They tore down an old building (from Catherine’s time) and now only
a few original structures remain nearby the Rangthangwoong grinding stone under
the shade of towering cypress. Before me students are studying in their
checkered school dress and not a word of English is being spoken.
Fast forward
to Wednesday the school router blew up in that Zeus inspired thunderstorm on
All Saints Day so no internet access from school or home but miraculously my
computer has revived operations! Today was emotional and a tad inauspicious
unless considered from a Dharma perspective. I woke to find my well used tour
shirt in tatters chewed by the black rat and no water in the tap. I got a call
from Principal Sir at 9:22 A.M in my hut saying a fight had broken out in my
home class and where was I? Ugh! Let’s preface this story with some background
information like in assembly three days ago he reprimanded teachers for leaving
students unattended, commonplace in Bhutan. Well I had been turning up to class
and wrapped up review just yesterday. Well today my classroom was being
utilized by examinees from class nine.
Where were my students or my class eights for that matter since there
classroom was devoid of furniture only the Guru meditating on the floor along
with her group friends. With no students in sight I rushed home to use the
toilet and make a phone call when the call from Principal arrived. No one
informed me (my famous line) about the class shifting to the lab but I still
felt accountable all the same. Even though the rest of the day no teachers set
foot in the temporary classroom and the students were all mixed up permitted by
principal to study outside (an announcement was made in Dzonkha) Exams are a
strange time around here with most of one duties revolving around marking
taking us out of the classroom for invigilation. Anyway when I arrived on the
scene two Sangays were balled up bawling in opposite corners of the room and it
didn’t look good from the outset. Best I could gather Sangay Chedup a tall and
hotheaded lad had decked Sangay Chozam a fiery girl, the two had had many words
this year and Sangay Chozam has harassed him plenty. I felt indirectly
responsible and sad that the event happened in my home class, the very class I
had picnicked with two week ago. The male Sangay was covered in chalk shaking
hysterically in the corner while female Sangay was sobbing on the floor being
consoled by her friends including Sangay Dema who he belted in the chest. My
reaction was aggressive and I scolded both of them until I calmed down enough to
put the story together. Apparently someone had stolen 110 Ngultrum from Sangay
Chozam’s bag and she and her friends accused Sangay Chedup who freaked out and
started punching people. Most of the students were outside mixing with other
sections of students without a classroom or supervision. I talked to both
Sangays at length separately and told them where they went wrong. I pointed out
to Sangay Chozam her error bullying the boy and accosting him with no proof,
and especially boy Sangay for hitting a girl. I replaced her money and
encouraged everyone to forgive and forget. Poor Sangay had a bruise on her face
and was soon in a group of her friends threading yarn for a muffler and even
smiling. While around the corner Sangay continued to pout. He’s moving to
Thimphu and is actually a very kind boy who made me a sweet card for teacher’s
day. Sangay Chozam is also a well known student since I’ve taught them both two
years. They are both day scholars living at home so hopefully Sangay Chozam’s
auntie doesn’t complain. I should have been more diligent but like I said no
other teacher turned up nor did most of the students with the logistical
displacement. I capped off the day with three hours of class nine central
marking complete with tea and poury, I still am opposed even with refreshments.
I managed to hike halfway to Shakshing pausing in the cypress and bushy pines
peering out over two opposing valleys and the tangerine tinted Matterhorn’s.
Currently the brass bell rings for lights out on another wild day on the
mountain. I’m saying goodbye now to
another batch of students and the most prominent of my stint here. If I take on
new grades next year I might finish out my time with one year of brand new
students. Or I might get familiar faces although I feel three years is too long
with the same teacher. It’s been a privilege to helm the same hundred odd
pupils two consecutive years (I know I’m repeating myself) The year is not over
and I have some aces up my sleeve but if we part ways here HAPPY HOLIDAYS Y’all
and keep on rocking in the free world!
But Wait There’s More
One
tradition I cherish is chatting with the girls when I’m heading out from
roaming. They call down to me from their perches in the grass behind the barbed
wire fence, “Where are you going sir?” Or
“Shakshing sir?” Usually I’ll encounter Guru Wangmo (The Guru) sitting Indian
style in the grass with her sidekick with a schoolbook and some dry ramen
noodles. The girls toss money over the fence to schoolboys or shopkeepers who
give them the contraband junk food. The proof of the activity is littered on
the dirt pathway below the fence. Guru won’t chat much at school but in her own
element she will joke around with me and dispense little pearls of wisdom along
with gleeful giggles as only The Guru can. She seemed to levitate in lotus
position in a shaft of light just before the sun dipped below a western ridge.
GLORIOUS! The colors and coolness of autumn bliss.
We had a
staff dinner which was scrumptious but I was exasperated at my best friend’s
inquiry about life in the U.S.A once again feeling as an alien ambassador from
a world I know longer belong. But I shouldn’t be short with my pal.
Conversations center around a few themes usually money and how much I spend and
on what items and luxuries. I’m not social like Bhutanese and feel lucky to
have Karlos and my adopted sons and other students. I value my private time
immensely here. Heck I’m truly a man without a country although my spiritual
homeland is definitely this locality a place that I also will never truly
belong. Right now rare moonlight fills the valley accompanied by gazing starlight.
The waxing silver orb is a welcome sight allowing SPACE to flow into our dark world.
Dogs seem to die on my doorstep a lot and a huge one was slumped over dead when
I returned from the highlands and I implored some boys to remove the wooly
corpse. Meanwhile Dawa still limps around on three legs but seems to be in good
spirits. It reminds me of the three legged cow when I was lost near Gosainkund,
a more lonesome spot cannot be found with desolate snowcapped ridges and
twirling weather vane at that derelict lodge. Loneliness is part and parcel in
this adventure and addicting as the world fades away, a twinkling illusion. Poof!
It’s an amazing community up here and take it all around it is the most social
and involved I’ve ever been and the quality of existence is supremely
unadulterated. Yesterday at twilight a bat bolted up brushing its wings within
inches of my face so I could feel the wind…Sorry Old Milwaukee East Bhutan truly is as good as it gets…
Last night a
black rat was skulking around in the wee hours of the morning disturbing my
sleep and chewing on cardboard as I got up and chased him out three or more
times. I couldn’t get back to sleep because I had a blocked nose to match my
partially blocked ear. I made it to assembly where I groggily observed the
military type procession of students singing hymns and making speeches. I was
teed off about the class eight Grammar Test although in reality I only didn’t
properly cover two of the questions properly. I think it’s unfair to not make
your own students tests and it gives a teacher a helpless kind of feeling. That
coincides with central marking in stripping control of one’s destiny. The system
is flawed and goes against western sensibilities but the whole rigmarole is
bequeathed from the Indian Educational System. Today I will mark my share of
the exam and have given up doing all the marking of my own exams especially in
this case since I didn’t even set the questions. I have a challenging three
weeks ahead whereby I must complete my work on time and retain my fragile
sanity.
The glory
days are over at Tsenkharla. From my room I hear the drone of a tractor
leveling the remnants of an historic classroom in favor of a new academic
block. The construction is yards away from the most precious hundred foot tall
cypresses which I love wholeheartedly. They cut one of the babes a twenty foot
tall cypress now splintered in the gravel pit. Yesterday a line of students in
shiny gho and kira proceeded to yank Shawn’s hazelnut trees out of the idyllic
field below my hut. They were attempting to transplant them ahead of the
groundbreaking of a new hostel below my house. Right now when I look out there
is nothing between me and the Matterhorn’s and saddleback approximately eighty
miles away in Tawang. Before the gaping
maw of the vale is a terraced field dotted with lolling and lowing cows and my
beloved rock and vista cruise or launch pad for teleportation. Eventually there
will be a bustling encampment of interned borders. The view from my house instantly
neutralizes any travail’s I’m experiencing and immediately pries open my heart.
So the glory days are gone, let’s get on with it! A few minutes ago I was surrounded
by a huddle of class eight students wanting to know answers from their exam. It
was the last time I’d gather with that constellation of pupils and it was
bittersweet around the impressive Rangthangwoong stone.
Right now
Pema and Nima are preparing supper after my walk up a lovely trail, the back
way to Darchin. The trail traversed through gold and crimson oaks with stunning
views of Brongla looming above a heart shaped pasture nearby Darchin Gompa. The
mellow gold was angelic at last leaving a halo over the rounded peak. The
forest was tinted in autumnal shades and a spanking moon was imprinted on a
royal blue sky. Not a cloud or trace of vapor appeared in the sky which is
exceedingly rare and there was also no haze to speak of. Different features and
pinnacles could be clearly seen in every direction along with the dragon’s tail
and the impossible spire of Tshongtshongma. The light was clean with ribbons
visible in the ether as if light beams were consciously zipping along in
tandem. I followed a tangent and sat below a twisted oak in thick forest with a
wall of dappled vegetation ablaze in the setting sun. I made quite a nest from
crunchy oak leaves and watched the sun disappear behind a pyramid mountain,
soon after the temp dropped. On my way back to Shakshing I discovered a cluster
of homes I never saw before with a Mani wall and some prayer flags. It was a
beautiful spot with a cypress tree that split into two at the top. The ethereal
light lingering in the treetops along with sleepy birdsong I felt right at
home. At moments like these I wish the devil would appear and tell me to sign
on the dotted line trading my soul for permanent residence at Tsenkharla. We
know life is impermanent and things must be torn asunder but I’ll remain a
mountain man until my dying day.
I went to
the office before my walk but my colleagues didn’t turn up for marking, so I
did a few essays before the rumbling of the tractor ten feet away drove me out
of there. I found the forest entirely more peaceful with the awesome radial
spreading out into a vibrating living breathing mountain mandala.
Along with
Nima and Pema Chedup Pema Wangchuk has been coming around these days. He’s a
peculiar boy knocking on my door then hiding in the shadows. He did this for
forty five minutes before I caught him red handed on a very cold night. He is
also a Kidu student and a goodhearted albeit strange lad. It’s Saturday night
and the boys sing and brighten the hut as we are saying farewell to Nima who
will be departing the school at the year’s end. It’s a fancy dinner with beef
(tough by your standards) Q Wa with eggplant, fried egg, milk tea with boxed
milk and biscuits. This is about as good as it gets in the food department up
here. The landscape remains hazel with golden highlights and is still lush on
the western slopes while the riverbed by Gongsa is tawny and browning by the
minute. My love for this land is as BIG as it gets. Its late-night Saturday and
the fellas just left after a scrabble game. They took it pretty seriously and
this time we even played the game correctly. The Warden and neighbor did come
by and scold us for our exuberance and shouting. I was sneezing and farting my
way through the match and this got a bit hysterical but I won the game and we
even used all our tiles.
Extra Innings
“We can share the women we can share
the wine…”
Another
glorious Sunday but I awoke with a legit head cold but nonetheless I trekked up
to Nankhar to meet Karlos and Lynn and take in another Tsechu. Despite being
November it was hot in the direct sun following the new dusty road to the small
settlement and Lhakhang tucked into a secret cirque. This Tsechu doesn’t have
the juiciness of a Shakshing or Zangtopelri with simpler chams and less crowds
including no students. When I arrived I was welcomed into the VIP seating where
Lynn was already chatting with the Nankhar Lama and his cousin sister. I’ve
enjoyed having Lynn as my nearest neighbor and have been able to get together
with her a handful of times this year. Despite being almost sixty she trekked
the steep incline from Kiney joining Nawang from Sep the last bit of the
journey. A warm cup of tea after a trek is one of life’s simple pleasures from
our box seats with views of Shampula, Tshongtshongma and deep into Tawang. A
few wispy clouds brushed the azure and I enjoyed watching the villagers gather
in their finest gho and kira. Of course Lynn was decked in blue Taegu and Kira
where I looked like a Thamel advertisement in knock off trekking gear. The
Atsara’s harassed the comely dancers and Lynn remarked that they were playing
silly buggers with their penises. Must be antipode lingo! I’ve always liked the
Nankhar Lama with his roly-poly build and gentle voice. Maybe I like him
because I’ve seen him levitating in a trance wielding a torch chasing away
ghosts. His cousin a plump lady from Thimphu led Lynn and I into the Lhakhang
to receive a blessing. It’s a nice Lhakhang fancier than Shakshing but not as
ornate as Zangtopelri. It’s a government temple with beautiful wooden floors
and 108 Buddha statues underneath a large smirking Guru flanked by impressive
3-D Yeshi and Mandarava sculpted in bronze and wearing kira and crowns. On the
altar large torma’s made of buttery substance with Mayan style geometrical
complexities served to banish any lingering malevolent spirits or ghosts. We
lit some butter lamps and I said a prayer for the reader. The highlight of the
afternoon was hanging out with Nawang and her friend Pookina a chipmunk cheeked
woman with a grill of fanged teeth. All my lovers have fangs it’s the mark of
the beast for me. She is married of course with three kids but affectionate
snuggling up close in the tented shop drinking a beer that I had sponsored. I
did my “Hands Across the Himalayas” routine pinching and caressing her cheeks
and looking into her warm brown eyes to the bemusement of her village cronies.
I also saw Karma Om and her little rug-rat hatchet boy who has grown to my
waist but still knew my name and I joked with Prabu that we were always meeting
on Sundays. I left unceremoniously and alone descending via Shakshing down the
mountain at a slow pace knowing that I’d feel worse stuffed up in my cold
cement hut. On the way down I breezed by the huge Dakini Chorten that is under
construction near Lama’s house with views to eternity. Inside unpainted tantric
statues including a carnal Buddha with three faces making love with his consort
complete with dangling scrotum his shaft vanishing up genitalia. Yummy! What
struck me about this depiction is it seemed so real, fluid, passionate even
erotic (It’s an orgy y’all and everyone’s invited) The two figures twisted
together, Buddha bearing his teeth while SHE puckered her lips. It had been a
long time since I shared such an embrace but I try to achieve unity with my own
situation. It’s a blessing that LOVE exists on this planet so I said a prayer
for all lovers and the rest of us still stranded and waiting. One thing I’ve
realized is that LOVE exists in many forms and we all can share IT. Maybe that
nonsense about a heart divided is true.
Another
rough day on the farm but still if the devil came around with his contract I’d
sign in blood (covenant) what is it then that makes this place so alluring for
some of us? Perhaps it’s like a sailor (just ask Ahab…at the bottom of the sea)
once a sailor gets that saltwater in his veins land won’t do. Perhaps it is so
with Bhutan for a few of us. It’s a challenging and interesting life where one
can make a difference. Sometimes it seems we don’t make the impact we desire
though. Today was a central marking fiasco and I have a nasty cold to boot. I
did the lion’s share of my own test but still Sangay Tenzin was on my case
after he showed up late reprimanding me for this and that the odor of doma
making me queasy. It was in the air as Prabu and another teacher were
quarreling and everyone seemed a bit snippy for a GNH country. I ordered tea
and snacks from the canteen to smooth the mood and finally after seven hours my
work was completed. It’s turn and burn and the welfare of the student is not
always considered. In my opinion the system sucks and most BCF teachers except
one that I’ve queried agree. Today I felt like an alien even after years on the
mountain and I guess that will never change either. Oh well despite feeling
shitty a full moon rises over the dragon’s tail and the Matterhorn snowfields
gleam reflecting the high Himalaya seen from my hut in the middle hills through
fronds of shriveling banana trees. Hills and dales everywhere and there’s no
place else I want to be. Sine I’m complaining again I’ll add that the water
situation has deteriorated ah ha those challenges again that are so frustrating
yet addicting. Somehow I’ve built a life for myself here outside the dancehall
and it’s even more gratifying. It’s nice to find ones purpose in this mixed up
world now if only I could drop the storylines and learn to be.
“And when the day had ended, rainbow
colors blended…”
What is your
secret fantasy? Do you dare disclose? What would you wish for in The Guru’s Grotto?
Even if you get it you still have to wallow in the muck of mundane existence so
better get our hands dirty. I won’t share my secret desire but I will say I
want to be weird. I don’t know if a wife and children are in my future or where
I will live…I just wanna be weird! As weird and natural as the Brongla Gremlin.
When you close your eyes do you see shifting patterns and orbs of purple light?
Or do your ears ring with the bells of hell when you’re trying to sleep? Can’t
sleep anyway with a full moon projecting ghostly light everywhere so bright the
grass looks eerie green. Shakshing is lit up like a Christmas tree and my mind
is coloring outside the lines. A fire hose of thoughts blast from that
mysterious blobby brain (take a sip) It isn’t always pretty being human is it?
Buddha told us to look at the hottest chicks and picture them as decaying
corpses (worm meat) what a turn off man! Yet some tales have it that he and
Yasodara got down and dirty in the Pleasure Palace yet Prince Siddhartha turned
his back and walked out on a night with the same moon as tonight. He vowed not
to return until he found the truth and remedy for ALL suffering. And he did
return years later with the answers and presence to convert his father (the
King) and entire family to the wheel of Dharma. In doing so it is presumed he
never got laid again. That is until he came back as the ravenous Guru Pema. Are
such ribald thoughts disturbing you dear reader? I’m guessing if you’re still
with the program your down for it.
It’s another
sunny day and sick day for me. Dawn was amazing as the contours of the
surrounding mountains were razor sharp. I can peel back my curtain crane my
neck and see the Matterhorn Peaks so far away in Tawang outlined by saffron burning
into the indigo sky.
Muzzled I
arrived to work where I entered into a quarrel with hotheaded Tashi Yangzom
exchanging harsh words culminating with her telling me to “go to hell!” The
whole fuss ended up being my fault and later I apologized. All day I felt sick and isolated excusing
myself to go take a long nap. It’s been a rough few days I went to the BHU
where Dr. Namsa again put an ice pick looking thing in my ear to remove wax and
hit something that made me wince. It might be my imagination but that ear aches
although it can’t be too serious since I can still hear and am not wallowing in
pain. It’s the day before thanksgiving and I’m snacking on biscuits since no
water has flowed from the tap for nearly three days. I feel desolate as the
moon soaked mountains, its cold now. I lose the plot every November when
teaching stops and admin work begins. MELTDOWN MODE as one friend calls it. Not
much to do but crawl into my sleeping bag and call it a day except I’ve slept
so much recently that I’m not tired. I’m reading Joyce’s Dubliners an
appropriately dismal array of short stories reeking with the air of Samsara. My
ear is throbbing, dogs are barking and the fluorescent lights are humming
angrily then suddenly blackout.
It’s
American Thanksgiving, that’s the running joke of the day on my dozen or so
conversations with Becky (We set a new record for conversations in a day) I
also called veteran Scott Harris and reminded him what day it was. He retorted,
“Today’s thanksgiving, wow I should be home for that!” I had a thanksgiving
feast at the mess with bits of chicken, emadatsi and dhal. That constitutes all
the fixings around here. My Principal tried to prank me by coming in the staff
room and telling me that my contract extension had been rejected. I had already
received confirmation from headquarters so he didn’t get me but I was tickled
at the sentiment. Meanwhile a tractor roars outside my house two hours after
dark as groundbreaking for the new hostels in the vacant field below my house
has begun. A smoldering tawny moon sears
a vortex of ominous clouds. I’m grateful to be here and enjoyed a peaceful walk
up the ridge to Shakshing encircled by a murder of crows.
“You know this song it ain’t never
gonna end…”
A cold night
as the rat tries to push through my jerry built barricade but is rebuffed. They
are intelligent in the sense they remember timings and exits like cat burglars
or matriarchal elephants and their watering holes. I despise them still and
shiver at a sighting. Winter brings them in. Pema Chedup just fetched me a
bucket of water but didn’t stay since he has a Physics Exam in the morning. A
few class seven boys came by asking me to summarize all three stories and I was
disappointed they didn’t seem to retain any info from the discourses. Albeit
their not the model behaved trio and often space out or blather in class. On an
extremely positive note I was impressed with the writing on my Class Eight
Exams that were set by a Kamdang teacher. A colleague stated that the overall
writing was better than class tens. I drilled them pretty hard on complete
sentences and using examples from text and life. Many of the students performed
well at least on the short story which I marked. Thankfully he/she chose “Hector’s
Great Escape” which is a good story that we spent ample time on.
Winterize
The sinuous
valley stretches like a clam to the east, straight ahead Brongla’s impossibly
steep face with oaky tresses gilded. I meet a group of men on the trail
carrying pick axes and shovels barefoot and grubby they stink of Ara and offer
friendly salutations. The old woman with cropped hair and weathered swarthy
face is in rare spirits as she shuffles by barefoot in traditional faded kira
(old timers where a more rustic and certainly less elegant cloth) with a
toothless smile leading two horses whose lather smells delicious and my stomach
growls. A good moment is when you see Sither Wangmo score 53/100 a high mark in
a Bhutanese curve a major improvement especially since she’s a sleeper during
instruction. She’s a diminutive girl but fast with curly short hair, big buck
teeth and cartoonish laugh. Her father a farmer has the same visage and
bucktooth unabashed smile. A parent teacher conference in Eastern Bhutan is
staring at each other, smiling and bowing. I taught her three years since she’s
a repeater but will surely move on this year. Three years ago she climbed the
pole of the old classroom (now abandoned and condemned) like a monkey to every
ones amusement. She is also a first rate dancer harvesting the fruits of
tradition in each step.
Published
from Trashigang
