Friday, June 26, 2015
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Inside Out
A Grain in an Hourglass
“Ain’t no time to hate, barely time
to wait…”
Since my gas
cylinder is exhausted I am taking gruel up at the mess. When it’s emadatsi it’s
good but when it’s radish or typical potato unadorned…not so much. The curry is
served from vats by the somewhat salubriously challenged cooks who stir the
rice with canoe paddles with boiled claws. Radish tastes a lot like the dirt
from which it is torn which is admirable if not delicious. Fruit season is
here! That means the occasional mango (every few weeks) or unripe plums or
peaches. We all suffer from scurvy around here. I won’t tell lies, I’m hungry
and just scrapping by, one won’t starve here but if you live in the east you
might go hungry, albeit I’m not the most innovative bachelor King. A wonderful
sound of water splashing into a plastic orange bucket, water is precious. It’s
Wednesday June 2015 and I’m living in far eastern Bhutan (how lucky am I?) I
feel ragged but healthy, the socks I’m wearing are mismatched and dirty, I’m
snacking on a piece of processed cheese. The best part of living in Bhutan is
being instantly accepted into the community. Is Bhutan the happiest place on
earth? It is the happiest place I’ve been or at least a healthy intact society.
Like anywhere in the world there is an underbelly to Bhutan a slimy part of the
Dragons tummy but society remains accountable on a person by person basis
unlike the faceless and shameless United States of America. Rain patters on my
tin roof so I don’t put on those tattered and torn boots just yet and I write
and listen to the cuckoo calling from a tree outside. The blending of
wilderness, faith, and culture make Bhutan what it is, I’m afraid the rest of
the world doesn’t make any sense after sojourning here. This is the place for me
but like all places it’s impermanent. That makes me sad but I must rejoice in
being here perched over this hourglass valley, surfing the sands. HANG TEN
DUDES… Gnarly! ALL RIGHT SAN KHARLA! BRA!
What could I
go for if a pixie granted room service? Prime rib MR with gravy and mashed
potatoes, a Caesar Salas app with French bread and butter like I used to toss
when I was called “Salad Boy” at Garwoods. Maybe an It’s It for dessert. Ah the
food game is as much fun as eating itself!
But without
food we die so I went for emadatsi at the mess and so I live on. I supplemented
the scoop of curry with some crackers that we call biscuits. Even an Oreo
Cookie which I don’t have is called a biscuit.
My most embarrassing
moment ever as a teacher occurred about an hour ago. I was in a hurry to class
in a downpour so I grabbed my grey sweater and hurried to class putting it on
as I went. The students upon seeing me burst out in hysterical laughter since I
had put the garment inside out with the tag sticking out like a retarded fourth
grader. They already compare me to Mr. Bean and I’m sure this wardrobe malfunction
will live on in their memories forever.
Butterfly
used to warn, “Don’t destroy the culture” and indeed at times I feel like a
cultural terrorist. It’s not that I’m iconoclast out to destroy or worse yet proselytize
for Jesus. Rather my very personality lacks the subtleties and grace that are
exhibited daily by Bhutanese. In fact I feel inferior to the local denizens in
many ways and am humbled to spend some time here. My Western sensibilities often go against the
tender grain of sharing peaceable Buddhists. In class I saw the students
passing around an album of a student with a class photo with me and my mother
amongst faded family photos and pictures of lamas, so at least I will be remembered
when I’m gone.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Update...
It’s Happening Now
I’m sitting
in my home class with my computer a rarity but I brought it for exam printing.
It’s weird typing away in front of kids whose families don’t own computers or
aren’t literate only speaking Sharchop. They are supposed to be studying but
they’re chattering away in Sharchop and when they interrupt me it’s with a
phrase in broken English. They wear national dress and this year in the
transition of becoming a central school the kids are freer in wearing different
Taegu’s and Ghos interspersed with the ubiquitous school colors, a pert black
with red cuffed Taegu for the girls with plaid purple pleated Kira. The lads
are bedecked in purple checkered pleated Ghos that look equally smart in
contrast with the girls. The girl immediately in front of me is Pema a reticent
girl with immaculate white teeth and a radiant smile. Her chin is blotted with
acne scars which add character to her face. She keeps straggly strands of hair
falling over her face where she can adroitly chew on the strands. She is
sucking on an unripe plum and gossiping with her friends in Sharchop of course.
I was three minutes late from lunch and dismayed to find my VP glowering in the
threshold at my students who were apparently making a disturbance. How
embarrassing and annoying for me but what to do, so I engaged them in some
review activities encouraging complete sentences. Dawa the boy who was punished
for harassing a classmate just popped in and out of the cupboard for a text
book. His sister’s name is Sangay Wangmo, a former pupil, who was steamed over
the incident accusing the girl of teasing her brother about his reading. It’s a
hectic time leading up to exams and students are feeling the strain. My adopted
son Nima Gyelston (officially adopted as mandated by the Dzongkhag) was held
back in assembly for keeping a hairstyle. Our VP was shearing off the boys
spiky tresses while Principal looked on approvingly and Nima audaciously crept
away from the group in a conspicuous fashion but somehow made his escape even
with me scolding him right there on the ground. I didn’t turn him in but gave
him a strong talking to later about disrespecting authority. By that time he
had had a buddy cut his hair which he admired in the smudgy mirror. I’ve
wrapped up my review sessions and am awaiting my final printing and then onto
dreaded Central Marking. Pema the girl with the scar says that Sangay is
telling lies and that Chakedemi girls ALWAYS tell lies. “Telling Lies” is the
funniest and most used expression from a Sharchop child. The other Pema in front of me says she’s
never even been to Trashigang she is the one from Chakademi who accused other
Pema of acting like a boy in which other Pema responded, “Telling Lies” Outside
my window I can see Shampula through pine needles, the sky is charcoal grey and
the mountains are a pale green. It’s not a stellar day but the birds seem fine
with it chirping right along.
Sangay a
feisty girl stands up and nearly knocks off Phuntsho’s head shaking her fists
Tendi Zangmo style. I have worked them hard so I let them socialize and blow
off steam for the last few minutes of the day. Tashi Dema exclaims that
Phuntsho Wangchuk and Sangay Chozam are always fighting and that its,
“Dangerous to woman and man” Sometimes a foreign teacher must sit back and
watch like an anthropologist observing one of the last great tribes of the
earth. Bhutanese subclass Sharchop, Kurtep and monkey…Right now a pell-mell as
the OA brought in some vital paperwork and the kids are ripping it out of the
captain’s hand. How to describe the Sharchop language? Well, it goes well with
gho and kira, and it sounds like birds warbling in the treetops. On the way
down the channel to Buyoung falls I heard the strangest flying saucer bird
calls zipping on orbiting frequencies through the lurid forest. The energetic
calls were from another world so eerie and dark something hidden from the
scrutiny of man. At one turn in the channel an old Abi asked me for something
and a middle aged farmer shoved three unripe peaches in my hand. Further along
the channel the trees got bigger, the forest thicker, the weeds taller, with
coral colors bursting through the greenery an undulating wall of talking
vegetation. Whir of cicadas mixing with symphony of birds and swarming
dragonflies. Best are the smells of warm mud and cow pies steaming in the sunshine
burning my neck. The bell rings and the
school days complete. My hiking boots are destroyed again and I desperately
will seek out the cobbler one last time. Meanwhile I have two other pair that
don’t fit right leaving me in a Cinderella scenario. I can’t give up the ghost
on my current boots that I couldn’t even begin to describe but have been on my
tootsies since ABC all the way to Zangtopelri. God knows what I’ll strap on
today for my afternoon walk into the silver haze.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Lightning Intermezzo...
Spring is a beautiful season in this part of the world. Except it’s
a Monpa beauty - darkness without moon or sun a superior and terrible domain of
imperious clouds, rain and marching thunder. I awoke again to the banging
thunder drum the thunder dragon’s long drawl of rolling clasps that echo
throughout the labyrinth of mountains spread in all directions. Through these
deep gulley’s the echo of thunder rolls on and on through the pitch blackness. Lightning rips open the heavens freezing the
moment in electrical gyrations forked like an electric eel squirming across the
sky –CRACK –BOOM-ROLL…Waves across the silky nightline valley in
phantasmagorical kaleidoscope of purple, orange, and gold strikes. The river
below also looks like lightning slithering across the rugged grasslands of the
valley floor. Thunder thrums across the
strings of the Guru’s instrument PLUCKING out mantras for mortals-ALL HAIL THE
JEWELL IN THE LOTUS- BIRTHED BY THUNDER MANIFEST IN LIGHTNING –THE GURU”S
LIGHTNING –MY LIGHTNING TOO!
Periodical
an anomalous moonbeam
“Once you’re where you
think you want to be, you’re not there anymore” Tony Gwynn Former Outfielder
San Diego Padres
Changes have been made since I arrived at Tsenkharla one is
that we‘re now a pilot Central School. One improvement has been the printing of
exam question papers which used to be done on an antiquated oily printing press
which would pollute the air with noxious fumes and stain clothes and fingers
with a substance akin to bicycle grease. Now we print and photo copy on a somewhat
less ancient copier. 2012 was the first year of central marking which continues
to this day. The exam process in Bhutan takes a lot of effort and everything
must be uniformed and formatted in a specific and tedious manner. I’m wrapping
up my last lessons and shifting into exam mode and trying to not get as
stressed as previous years. Outside the landscape has greened and there’s
nothing quite like spring in Bhutan. We are not at the pinnacle of greenness
since the maize has only begun to sprout with the potatoes and all manner of
wonderful clover, aromatic bushes, and wild weeds that permeate the air with
ambrosia. The mist clings to the mountains that sprawl in every direction as I
can set out in three different directions for seemingly endless roving and am
still mapping my heart home. Pink roses explode around campus and when you
inhale them its transcendental. Pink ones smell sweetest but the crimson
deepest reds smell more musty yummy. And if that’s not enough for you flower
lovers add orange and cream hibiscus, robust magenta Dalias and so on and so
on. I could fill volumes on the subject
of nature here, and I’m in the middle of it all of this sector of the Himalayan
range. The inner range a labyrinth of verdant and impossibly rugged and legendary
mountains stretching for eternity in every direction, northwards to Tibet and
Eastwards towards Tawang and endless Arrunachal (There are tigers in there
somewhere) It a nifty part of the planet on the eastern spine of the great
range. Today we even have a bit of sunshine penetrating through the mists and
filtering down to 6,000 feet dancing in the pine treetops. I dreamt I saw the
moon for the first time in ages an anomaly swooning in the foggy mists before
slipping away swallowed whole by the cloudbank.
Tsenkharla consists of 36 teachers and 650 students, perched
on ridge crest facing three valleys and boasting 360 views! I like the people I
work with and the administration and especially the wonderful students. That’s
what many of us love, living and working in a village, which might be the
coolest thing in the whole wide world! So the teaching and learning
continues. I just printed my first of
four exams and am calculating my grade book which I have managed efficiently
this year for once! I spent the morning picking up trash with students in
anticipation of the Dzongkhag Athletic meet on Saturday. Meanwhile a cockroach
is the sink and rat under the stove for good measure but with bugs come warmer
weather and now it is quite pleasant with nary need for even a sweatshirt. Out
on my constitutional a little kitty moaning in aguish approached me near the
ruin, he was obviously astray and skin and bones and all I could do was stroke
his brow with one finger. I knew that not taking him home might be his death
sentence but I walked sadly away. Nature can be cruel and kind and in the end
everything takes its place in the realm of decay and regeneration and we can
all take heart in that. I repeat spring is a lovely time in this part of the
Kingdom, the very mountains turning a shimmering green. Distant villages
incised into distant slopes in every direction as far as the eye can make out,
and in between the tiny settlements forests, waterfalls, and cliffs. On the
escarpment over the Kulong Chu solitary houses are nicked into the vertical
cliffs, somehow dug out on ledges floating in terrifying space over a 10,000
foot abyss. These lone settlements subside on cabbage or potato and whatever
can be grown vertically. The little monopoly houses made in the Bhutanese fashion
with black and white wood pattern like gingerbread houses or something out of
grimes. Just in my locality no less than three native languages exist although
Sharshop is predominant and take it around it’s a hard and satisfying existence.
A word about the “lake” near Darchin which in my estimation
is a pond or even more so a small pool (a pool or a pond, anything’s nice)
around the stagnant water is a barbed wire fence meant to keep people and
animals out of what supposedly houses a deity. According to Wangmo our prayer
captain a mermaid dwells in what she calls the “big sea” near Darchin. Most
have never seen a lake or ventured as far as Mongar and many haven’t even been
past Gom Kora. Anyway if there’s a mermaid in that murky leaf covered pool she
must be feeling trapped and I should set about rescuing her and eloping to Deli
for an MC ASAP! One should know I’m not disparaging the mermaids domain since
the small pool is water and therefore must be revered and the pond is shaded by
magnificent gnarled oaks standing over a hundred feet and draped in luxurious
mosses and creamy trumpet flowers blow in the twisted canopy. And most
wonderful is the damp must that fills one soul with indescribable bliss with so
many oak leaves carpeting the muddy bottom.
I came to the staff room trying to post this because the internet has
improved but alas the connection was busted so we will continue this post until
I can publish. These words in effect are like starlight reaching the reader
long after being put forth by your muzzy author.
They are funny creatures like karma climbing in the cupboard
like a monkey searching for his books or Sangay Chozam and Singye Wangmo
arguing vigorously but good naturedly in a mix of Sharchop and broken English
and everyone going about in the fairytale like National Dress giving the whole
scene dignity and purpose. They probably find me equally amusing at least I
hope they do. Teams are arriving from opposing mountainsides on campus for the
meet including a group of class 8 girls from Tragom a small settlement near the
Indian border on Yellang side. With the binoculars gifted by mom I can make out
their tiny schoolhouse across the bend of the Gongri Chu and up the slope of
the mountain at a higher elevation than my position probably around 7,500 feet
a whopping 5,000 feet above the valley floor. You’d have to see it to believe
it and all my explanations are frivolous as if anyone could adequately describe
GOD. Clouds usually drape the mountains as they do today so if you like clouds
and darkness Bhutan is a good place for you. MONPA means people in the dark and
is somewhat derogatory term probably stemming from Tibetan lingo. Let’s face it
folks, the east has always when barbaric event eh Tibetans stamped this, “The
Land of Terror” Lhomon land of Southern Darkness. The impenetrable and verdant
mountains vexed the Tibetans who were slaughtered at Trashigang Dzong toiling
in the ravine taking arrows and getting stung by wasps and nettle. And today
the Tibetans are gone but the bees and nettle remain and one of our rivers
still runs unimpeded by a dam. That’s the Gongri and Dangme Chu because very
soon they will break ground on Kulong Chu a multimillion rupee joint endeavor
between Bhutan and India. I think I’ve made this rant before so I’ll spare you
details for the moment. Haven’t seen a rainbow this spring which is uncommon
but I remember the elephant I never saw in Manas and you just can’t order up
miracles from the maker, rather one must greedily take what comes to them and
give a whole lot more. My exhortation for the reader is to look on the world
with fresh eyes and see the beauty around you.
On Sunday I took a walk down the western canal finally
reaching Buyoung and our water source. Just before the waterfall I heard a
troop of languor’s whistling and squealing like dolphins in the thick canopy of
deciduous. Then one leapt sailing through the air its long gray tail swooping
behind in slow motion. These appeared to be the same kind of species as I
witnessed in Langtang right here an hour walk from my door. The primates only
inhabit the western slopes above Chakademi towards Yangtse and not the eastern
slopes of Tsenkharla which are dryer. Beyond the monkeys the waterfall cascades
over a cliff face topped with pines and maroon flowers, the jet gushes over the
mossy rock into a riparian nook with clover and water plants clinging to stones
around the pools. One can stand near the catchment of the falls and the mist
will spray finely on your face in a simply divine way that makes you forget
anything sinful or unwholesome in this world. This spring is the source of
Tsenkharla’s drinking and irrigation so in each drop I could see Guru Wangmo
and her friends smiling.
It’s old school with no water flowing from the tap so I went
seeking alms and was granted porridge at Sonam Choden and Karma’s house. She
made it hot in the Tibetan style with natural pepper and hand rolled noodles, a
heartwarming supper and afterwards I played with Pema Namgay who recognizes me
by now and he was even wearing the jumpsuit my mom gave. I had many insightful
things to share but as often the case they drift away before I can record them
for you but the main thing is old school. There are spiders on the wall that
look poisonous, rats on the table, and empty water buckets, since I’ve remained
faithfully in station nothing to eat and now my gas cylinder is finished so I
can’t cook. It’s like camping full time here a world without fruit or ovens
among other things and for that we can rejoice. The weather report is misty
with clouds smothering the peaks and monsoon rapidly approaching.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Two Trips to Vice Principals Office, Pilgrimage to Darchin with Two Boys...
For only the second time in Bhutan I had to accompany a boy
upstairs to our VP’s office since he
directly disobeyed me and back bit me as
they say. Namchag Wangdi has caused problems in other classes too and is a
constant disruption leading a group of unruly boys also in the class. Classroom
management has always been a challenge for me and although I’m pretty
permissive I also have limits especially when incessant chattering interrupts
my teaching. During a group activity I allow for discussion but when I’m giving
direct instruction and students are talking it naturally disturbs me. In this
instance I asked the boy to go outside and wait for me and he superciliously
sauntered out of the room while smiling and remarking god knows what in
Sharchop. So I indeed marched him upstairs since he has acted inappropriately
all year. Such occurrences always depress me since I loathe dragging administration
into my own disciplinary actions mainly for fear that the boy will get a
thrashing which thankfully he didn’t. So now it’s four o’clock and the bell for
dismissal rings out over the schoolyard. A few days later a boy named Dawa sexually
harassed a girl named Tenzin who came to me crying demanding to see the VP.
Apparently the rambunctious rapscallion told some filthy words to Tenzin but I
knew the trip up stairs to the admin would turn out badly for Dawa. Sure enough
VP started for his stick and I left the room muttering a weak objection to the
effect of, “You know how I feel about beating.” I could hear some solid whacks
as I drew the curtain leaving the office. Officially beating is banned in the
kingdom but most teachers still covertly whack with sticks or pull earlobes
etc.
On Tuesday we celebrated a triple gem of a holiday
commemorating the beloved Fourth King’s coronation, Social Forestry Day, and
the Death Anniversary of Buddha. In honor of the occasion school was cancelled
and I took two boys up to Darchin. One of them the reader knows as Nima
Gyeltson and the other was Gyempo a strapping lad who is rather reticent with
dewy eyes and bulging calves who basically glided up the hillside with a Sherpa
stride. We went a different way (still finding new paths) through thick forest reminiscent
of a jungle with giant bells of wild honeysuckle cascading from the mossy green
canopy. The trail wound through a ravine with vegetation dripping over the vertical
walls of the ravine so it seemed we were climbing vines like Tarzan. Mist draped
the dripping green ridge creating a most otherworldly habitat with clacking
frogs and whirring cicadas keeping our time. Up at the small temple in the
rolling green pastures a puja was happening with the sickly acetic lama back in
station. In fact he lay wrapped in a gray cloak by the hearth while Kezang the
attractive villager I’d met previously from Chakademi served us Suja or butter
tea on the other side of the room from the convalescing lama. On the way down
the hillsides the boys ran ahead singing popular Bhutanese pop songs as they
descended through blue pine and past the last faded rhodedron flower a dying
ruby in a ray of light.
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