Love for Nepal...

The Vomit of a Mad Tiger

“And even if he forever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain even though they soar” Moby Dick

The Leviathan Mountain

Today I’m exhausted not exactly sick but worn down to a nubby point but Bhutan waits for no one and life at a boarding school is tedious and wonderful. For example every day I receive visitors mostly Nima and Pema who have the Monopoly on me. Actually I need to invite others so I can influence them too. It’s hard to pinpoint the Bhutanese psyche and lying is embedded into the ethos of the population, just look at the histories where exaggeration is commonplace unless the Guru actually went to every holy spot between Pakistan and Tawang. An example right at home is this, last weekend Karma Tenzin a newcomer from class six came over to fetch some hot water and told me a sad tale about his parents dying in a car wreck on the way to Gom Kora Tsechu five years ago. I was deeply affected by the story and gave the lad some cash and told him I’d help him in whatever needs arise in the future. The next day Pema Chedup told me that Karma’s folks were divorced but still alive. So one of the parties was lying and I can only speculate. Was it the boy trying to curry favor from me or was it Pema Chedup perhaps not wanting to relinquish his prime position in my household. That is why as much as I like my two man Fridays I also feel that they dominate my time and that I should reach out to others. I’m not naïve I realize that beyond liking me Nima & Pema like the getaway of Mr. Tim’s house with all the perks included. Furthermore although I implore them to bring studies for help most often they beg to just hang out, eat food, or play Monopoly. Actually I prefer helping kids with homework to hanging out. I like to hike with the guys but just slurping tea and rummaging through my things hasn’t much appeal and I do it to be nice, whereas I gain real enjoyment from helping students one on one with homework and stories. Today is Thursday although no circus is in town as my soul feels like a vacant lot. The rain continues to douse the land which is good news for the farmers and last night I had to hightail it in a downpour from Karlos and Sonam’s place where I greedily ate second share of dried chillie and rice. I’m quite hungry and live a hungry and lean life here where simple pleasures are exaggerated. Who would imagine that I get all a twitter over packets of mango pickle sauce or the satisfaction of a cold coke which is my link to the outer world as my primary pleasure. Now is lunchtime and today I’m Tim on Duty so I took food at the mess still sane enough to enjoy the buzzing Sharchops moving about in shiny national dress. If the reader will excuse me I shall depart for afternoon classes where I’m conducting group work. Yes I’m the maestro of a weird and wooly symphony staring 115 learners and we make some peculiar music indeed.

Its afterschool now and presentations were successful since we must measure such things in baby steps. How did I assess the success? Well the information presented was in their own words showing some level of synthesis on the student’s part. Yes not every member of the group participated equally but the ones who slacked on the written part were made to speak. Would you believe me if I told you that only 1/50 class 10 pupils can speak in complete sentences and that many of the teachers also have difficulty in that regard. Oh what a row to hoe and we must remember that almost all come from illiterate Sharchop homes where there is no such thing as a written language. Imagine, the ancients were writing in many parts of the world but here written communication remained obsolete until now. The Sharchops are not stupid enjoying a proud oral tradition that is too devalued in “modern” society. I only illustrate this point to any perspective teachers who might someday find themselves in a Sharchop village and classroom. While the performance of speakers in the west is far better all the same challenges are here. Dzonkha is a far different language then Sharchop and not as musical to the ear. When I hear Dzonkha my blood curdles bristling at perceived formalities yet when I hear Sharchop I think of cows lowing in pastures and fireside Ara sessions. I like the Ningma lineages from Kham the eastern wilds of the Great Himalayan Range by no means the mightiest sector but definitely the most forgotten. Go look at a political map of India jammed packed with places except for one blank spot in the Northeast corner representing Arrunachal Pradesh, even more sparsely represented with labels than the Leh region of Kashmir. That black hole is where I live over on the Bhutanese side of the border physically depicted by the Leviathan monstrous Shampula, the spine tickling formations of Tsang Tsang Ma and that pyramid mountain perched in the valley that has no inhabitants only a forested apex where I dream of retiring into meditation or heated contemplation someday. One irony in Bhutan is although it is a bastion of peace when strolling in a virgin forest villages and schools are noisy places and I dare say all BCF teachers are up against things that go bump in the night. Those things might be vermin knocking over pots or 4 AM dream weavers thumping (woofing) out designs of silken threads on strapped looms. Here at Tsenkharla now officially a Central School it’s the boys with the noise living in close proximity in fact I can smell their shit oozing from the septic tank as I type these words with a half bowl of ramen next to me. They sing and shout and carry on with ample loads of testosterone coursing in their pubescent veins. I’m exhausted and in about an hour I’ll be back on campus supervising night study. I recall little Dema a cute shaved headed boy undersized for class seven lying on the table coloring his poster with bare feet dangling over the side and that’s my impetus. He loves to ask me silly questions with big glowing eyes like flying saucers. Outside buckets of rain pour off the eaves with peels of thunder emanating from an unseen dragon. Last night lightning ripped me in two the mighty fork descending from the stratosphere down to the river illuminating than effacing my consciousness momentarily peeling my essence from ego so I could clearly relate to all matter, the message lingered in sulfur traces of purple, white, orange, and gold-everything is one.  

Its Saturday high noon in station with clouds layering every peak and pinnacle like foam undertow swirling around toothy Leviathan monoliths, the mountains look like an archipelago protruding from an angry sea, the secret portal to Tawang opens and closes rapidly with intermittent cells depositing rain on our own little mountain. Last night I had Karma Wangchuk brother of Pema Chedup over for a talk since the boy was caught bunking from my class with best friend Chongola. I will have to take him under my wing since he has potential but is perpetually lazy. This year I feel a tad overextended but the more The Dragon feeds on me the better off it’ll be in the end.

Circumambulating Beney Lhakhang

Today I feel rundown with a scratchy throat but I just finished my workday a pot of emadatsi is boiling on the stove with local cheese that I bought wrapped in a banana leaf. I seem to have a slight fever so I thought it might be a good time to update my loyal readers (if any remain) Many have said my posts are too long and I guess in the modern world y’all are busy, but in truth it feels that as my world exponentially expands and my duties widen that I barely touch upon what happens in my daily life. So here’s a brief taste of what’s up with me. On a rainy Saturday I walked down the sinuous road about a mile past the junction at Zongposar finally getting a lift into Yangtse town. I immediately headed to Chorten Kora to pray for the devastated people of Nepal where the great earthquake struck. Anyone who’s been to Kathmandu winces at what it must be like now as the city was already in disrepair and lack of infrastructure is a Nepali hallmark. Now they will have to rebuild the devastated and beautiful city and mourn the thousands of dead in the heart of the Buddhist world. The Nepali’s are incredibly resilient by nature so I’m sure with time they will endure this heavy load but it’s so sad nonetheless. These thoughts and more rattled around my overactive brain as I circled around the whitewashed Stupa in a drizzling rain occasionally spinning a greasy prayer wheel squeaking while churning my meek halfhearted prayers. Not that I’m not sincere but it seems impossible for me to hold a pure thought before another one taints the first and rapidly on down the line like a misery train off the tracks of reason. The Kora shines with rainbow Buddha eyes the roaring whitewater and steep green cliffs bleeding with dashes of red Rhododendron climaxing with a thousand blossoms crowding one tree. At the Karmaling I arrived to meet the Dasho (Head of Yangtse Dzongkhag) for Klaus’s farewell speech and dinner. Klaus is from Germany and was here to raise awareness on waste management. Piet was also in attendance along with twenty other dignitaries and I stuck out in my bleached pants that even the students razz me about. Luckily Piet and Klaus also were attired informally compared to the gho clad Bhutanese men. It should be noted that no women were there denoting the lack of equality in positions of power. After his presentation Dechen Wangmo and company put on a fine spread which I ate greedily.

Early the next morning the clouds parted and I met Piet and banker Sonam at the bazaar for another epic hike. Again Piet and Sonam were painting arrows leading prospective tourists along the route. Piet is currently devising ways to promote tourism in Yangtse and as it stands only a fraction make it over to Chorten Kora for a daytrip mostly returning to T-Gang by nightfall. And by the time we climbed three thousand vertical feet and arrived at Beney Lhakhang the lama told us we were the first foreigners to have set foot there. Surprising since the Lhakang is only three hours off the roadway (a knock at the door, Karma Wangchuk needs something-I stir my Emadatsi and return to my desk) the beginning of the hike follows power lines and a dismal transformer where they have clear cut the forest to both Piet and Sonam’s consternation. But looking around one sees many mountains and impregnable forests including northern facing slopes of old growth peppered with extraordinary crimson rhododendron flowers. These forests beyond the arc of civilization are home to Himalayan Black Bears, deer, and leopards among other animals (including Bromla where I prowl) On the way to Yangtse while hitchhiking I saw a brown monkey who looked like curious George hanging out on the road. Beney Lhakhang is a well kept temple with a fascinating story. Whereas many remote temples are faded and dilapidated this one was immaculate with cherry wood floors and amazing relics. We lit butter lamps and Sonam translated the Lamas stories to our eager ears in English. This lama was middle aged with a prayer like timbre resounding off the interior walls. It was cold so as we could see our breath as he told us the temple was built around a relic an old Tibetan woman brought from the other side of Me La. Therefore the temple is renowned for a long life blessing. Later on a lama built the temple proper and spent his days until death meditating on the hillock with fine views north towards Dong La, Bumdeling, and the high peaks along the borders on this Sunday crowned with clouds. When that lama died his disciples cremated him and a beggars bowl (like Buddha’s) was discovered in the ashes. They sealed that Buddha bowl in a Chorten but rain destroyed the stupa so the dakini’s came and reclaimed the relic bringing it back to their invisible realm. But the olds woman’s relic remains and the central statue above the torma’s is an effigy of the Buddha of compassion with several heads and a thousand arms which try to lift every man and beast out of Samsara, funny how the goal is to clear the field of players. The most remarkable part of the temple besides the stunningly bright frescos depicting lama lineages were the painted slates exquisitely made from natural mineral dyes and satisfyingly tactile when you trace your fingers into the grooves. Even the door panels housing holy books were inlayed with these painted slates depicting the many forms of Sangay. There is so much detail in any temple (80 in Yangtse alone) that I feel sheepish trying to write about them and am too lazy as a writer to take the time and I can guess that perhaps my dwindling audience might be equally impatient and probably only reads this to be nice and not for quality of prose (riddled with grammatical mistakes) Where’s Herman Melville when you need him to give the same attention to Buddhist iconology as he does to the finer points of whaling. Anyway what finer pleasure than being served hot tea and salty crackers sitting with companions on plastic chairs overlooking the Himalayas. A fine young lady (TMSS) grad offering the refreshments saying, “Tea, La” Before we depart the temple I would be remiss not to say something about the fresco at the doorway depicting the Wheel of Life. One could write a thousand pages on this one fresco but I’ll give just a few points. The wheel itself is enveloped in the jaws of a tiger like wrathful being and inside the twelve stages of life in Samsara along with the four main realms of Samsara. You see we are stuck in the wheel of suffering as either Demi Gods, humans (that’s you) enjoying a high birth, hungry ghosts, animals, or in hell. According to our actions and karma we fluctuate between the realms until we attain enlightenment and are released (I just bribed 5 kids shouting outside my window with munch bars to go play somewhere else) Humans are closer to attaining enlightenment but hungry ghosts are stingy ones who are hungry and thirsty all the time with fat bellies but tiny throats so they can’t satisfy their cravings. Since I cling so frightfully and am so stingy and selfish I feel bound for this realm especially since I have ADD and likely will be easily misled by the colored lights of the Bardo. Worse yet the beastly realm where we are doomed to prey upon each other as a tiger devour the deer. Or hell where one must endure every conceivable pain and misery. Buddha taught us that life has three bummers, Birth, death, and suffering. We are born (punishment) we get sick, and we die. What’s terrible is these are unavoidable. To attain enlightenment we must detach from all pleasure and desire freeing ourselves once and for all. In the center of this wheel are three animals, the cock, the snake, and the pig representing obstacles in our path. The cock symbolizes worldly desires, the snake aggression, and the bore ignorance. If we can’t obliterate all of these three traps we are forever caught up in the hamster wheel. So now that we know it should be easy, right?

Leaving the temple we climbed over a latter fence and dropped into deep forests of thick bamboo, oaks, and Bhutan pines native to the East. The eastern forests have a splendid mix of vegetation and woven through all these distinct biospheres are bleeding rubies of rhododendron often entwined levitating in the treetops. STEEP AND DEEP! Cuckoo birds and crows (mostly not ravens) also inhabit the canopy and we also stepped over bear scat which Piet photographed with high powered lens and dissected while a Himalayan griffin soared overhead. Piet is a butterfly expert so he pointed out many species with exotic names like chocolate tiger, painted lady, or pea blue. Some even mimic other species but are not adept enough to fool Mr. Piet. The trail wound through layers of mutable forest crossing wooden planks over gushing streams before emerging into green pastures. The weather also changed with intermittent showers interspersed with liquid sunshine. Many of these pastures were once forest cut back centuries ago by villagers but we lunched in an abandoned village where they used to make the famous Yangtse wooden bowls highly valued and expensive too. I ate red rice and curry from one of these bowls with fresh asparagus that scented my urine a musky flavor. Horses grazed and we could see the town of Trashiyangtse and the old Dzong reposing below. About two hours later we walked into town and I found a ride home. The ride was a wild one sitting in the back of a pickup bed atop supplies so I almost bounced out over the precipice which drops hundreds of feet straight down to the riverbed. I’m not much for roller coasters and this seemed even more dangerous and then the rain fell. The driver stopped to give the old woman and me a yellow tarp to put over our heads as we barreled down the road in the gathering dusk. Oh Lhomon! So dark and beautiful like no other land on this earth as the reddest rhododendron thickened like clotted blood folding into the charcoal gloaming, a Grimes dusk with Dragons and lost damsels roaming with picnic baskets in scary forests evermore. I was safely deposited at the Kiney junction and collected by a Shali bound taxi and eventually arrived home with Nima G waiting on my stoop needing help on his homework. I also managed to mark 115 notebooks and deliver my lessons the next day.

Currently a gorgeous evening with Dakini lotus clouds billowing and the iridescent mountains shinning gilded with purple and blue hues. HMMM I’ll celebrate with a cold one -How are things in your world? I step outside coke in hand and a student asks, “Dreaming sir?” I guess I look like a somnambulist on a tightrope walking backwards. The old tiger drifting and dreaming and when I look in my dusty mirror my reflection indeed looks phased, frazzled, frizzled, and rundown from this sporting life. CRISPY N CRUNCHY…I hope I rally for a hike with the kiddos manana.

A Shit Show

I awoke feeling peeked and itchy from bites and a sore throat with Nima & Pema at my door. Today is a holiday for Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyel who is the man responsible for the Bhutanese culture including definitive songs, gho and kira. He helped unify west and east and created a distinct Bhutanese identity separate from Tibetan. In honor of him Prabu & Surgit and I accompanied the boys to Shakshing. We met a group of day scholar girls (all of whom I’ve taught before) in shiny kiras with bright smiles looking like Christmas packages. The boarders were imprisoned not permitted to leave campus and I had to seek permission from the Warden to take the lads. Up at Shakshing I got shit on my hand that I’d stepped in when removing my boot. The feces smelled human and I rushed to wash it off in the spigot. This place can be disgusting and I already feel under the weather so that encounter didn’t enliven my mood. Nonetheless my karma is to share germs with Bhutanese and since I prayed for long life at Beney I should be okay. On the way down we visited the meditation house where a puja was in progress. The longhaired lamas are in retreat for three years three months and three days almost exactly how long I’ve resided in eastern Bhutan. But unlike me they are confined to the property with no vacations to Goa during their stint. We took tea and I ate with my stool covered hands which was just lovely. It was quite a scene up there with many old timer villagers I recognized including the curmudgeon old woman who carries wood on her hunchbacked barefoot. Old toothless crones and breastfeeding mothers rounded out the eclectic mix. It’s a beautiful spot for retreat on the spine of the ridge with views of both rivers in opposing valleys. We wrapped up the afternoon by stringing two strands of prayer flags under Prince Tsangma’s castle ruin.          

Rainy Daze

It’s been raining cats and dogs or Wangmo’s and Zangmo’s, and while I’m sitting here feeling sorry for myself spewing a vomit comet in a trail of useless complaints REAL suffering is abound in Nepal where children are smashed to death in piles of rubble but empathy is hard when enrobed in ego because if it doesn’t happen to us or our peeps directly how can we relate? I spent all day feeling lonesome and unwanted when I am in a position to make positive change and give a whole lot more. But what of such primal sufferings it makes me wonder if there is a god at all and I tend to say NO because how can we say that those good hearted Nepali deserved such a death? What was their karma? Oh Langtang my beloved mountain near the epicenter as if the destruction emanated from that crystalline peak leaving a wake of misery and destruction when in reality it was simply the shifting of plates of the earth like an old man rolling over in bed trying to get more comfortable or relieve the pressure. I was mildly sick today and muddled through classes in a haze literally my head in the clouds a thick Scooby doo mist like pea soup for the soul enveloped our dark green mountain the drumming of the rain incessantly falling I felt very much the hungry ghost plagued by unknown desires that cannot be satiated and trapped in the hamster wheel of my own obsessive thoughts that have nothing to do with anything and at times seem out to get me. Eckhart would remind me that my thoughts are not connected to my essence and therefore I should merely detach from them like a train switching at a siding. But my ego is a buff masturbating monkey ONLY concerned with its own survival and these valuable lessons in life are hard to come by or as Bobby sings, “you ain’t gonna learn what you don’t want to know”

The Vomit of a Mad Tiger

Prabu was on fire on the hike the other day accosting villager woman and hugging and kissing everyone in his wake circa the tiger 2012 before I became impotent. He also was meditating at all the pertinent places including the retreat hut which was certainly charged from all the midnight ramblings I’ve heard out there with rain sticks and incantations. He also swore that Tsenkharla was claimed by the red Chinese but I refuted. It is true however that Beijing claims Tawang and most of Arrunachal Pradesh and that trenches for defense remain overgrown on the summit of Shampula. In 1962 a beleaguered Indian sentry single handedly repelled a legion of Chinese Rambo or Alamo style before being gunned down yet in the end the Indians rebuffed the Reds reclaiming their renowned Monastery and province. From Tawang Arrunachal Pradesh stretches north along the Tibetan borderline then China proper melding into the Burmese hills. All these tribal’s are governed by either India or China.  But it was Southern Arrunachal and Tawang that held interest for the Chinese in their rush to annihilate Buddhism. Tawang was traditionally part of Kham the southeastern region of vast Tibet but the lines were redrawn separating the Sharchop, Kham, and Monpa forevermore. These musings and more lit up my brain peering across the border at night through an ocean of mist with the silhouetted hump of Shampula breaching like Moby Dick from Java waters. Can’t say I remember the moon at all Alas but I do recall the cow. When I was careening down the road in the bed of that bouncy pickup through the eye of a tempest Cricket called saying she felt I was in trouble. Ah little Cricket a Pentecostal worshiping Psalms trying to proselytize her teenage peers and subdue the pagan Buddhist by the sword of Christ. If she only knew that that would be the end for the peaceable Bhutanese, fortunately she won’t get more than a few stragglers to join her in the underground churches of the capital. Yes like the Muslim reposing by the fountain at Zangtopelri in Phuntsholing or the Hindu worshipping his homemade Shiva shrine in the South these folks are minorities in the Buddhist Dragon kingdom. Hindus are like old school Buddhist so no threat there but what of those Muslims and they’re loudspeakers blaring prayers into SJ. Only the Christians are bold enough to establish stealth churches in Thimphu and allowed to worship quietly there. But if Cricket and her Christ can’t save my soul from perdition who can? The Guru and Yeshi were helpless bystanders in the tide of suffering unleashed in Nepal. It’s all too clear we’re on our own hurdling helplessly through space, circles or wheels spinning ceaselessly and for what purpose? Or are we merely playthings created by an indifferent creator? Or if he’s all loving he certainly won’t interfere with the inertia of the very chaos he instigated. Reminds me of the Chicken or the egg and the mystery of that folly…What of the drunk driver killing the pious family on their way home from church? Agnostic or not I admire the devotion and creativity of Himalayan Buddhists and enjoy pilgrimages whenever possible. The Lama at Beney informed us that when a road is built to a temple the merit decreases for the pilgrim and he also reminded us that pilgrimages are good for exercise. Ho! Sometimes I grow weary of this sporting life even though I’m fulfilling a dream but mostly I wish I could weather this storm forever and leave the rest of the world. My life is made up of moments and when I choose to be present they can be sweet as Coca Cola. Even on a lugubriously misty day the students carry me on their wings of natural cheer, even if they happily point out every pimple. I don’t have worthwhile adult relationships despite loving Karlos and Sonam so its nature and the students that keep me from loony tunes. Let’s have Pema Chodron our beloved Phelincpa nun close this chapter shall we, “Pain is a result of what’s called ego clinging, of wanting things to work out on our own terms, of wanting me victories” That’s courtesy of my Pocket Pema given by Miss Rebecca my long lost pal in Chume. When I feel particularly constipated mentally I open up my Pocket Pema for wisdom to grease those dharma wheels and get them creaking forward. There’s another Pema’s I’d like to shrink and keep in my pocket if you get my drift…Mom and Bunks will know who I mean!

Location Location Location   

All three members besides me in my nuclear family work in real estate. I’m a teacher by trade although I can’t believe it. In their profession there’s a famous adage that states the only things that matter concerning a property are location, location, and location. Therefore my hut is the most valuable property on the Sharchop Monopoly board, Boardwalk if you will. If I scoured the entire series of valleys and myriad of ridges I loosely refer to as the Tawang Valley I would choose to settle right where I perch on this lip of earth gazing due east into the maw where the capacious valley widens to its vastest breadth. Right here right now!

Authors note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t make a few corrections that to the reader will seem insignificant but in actuality are extremely important. Tsang Tsang Ma the crown jewel in the formation I affectionately call the dragon’s tail is actually spelt Tshongtshongma. Secondly my favorite river on earth is the Gongri Chu sweeping into the Dangme Chu at the confluence with the Kulong Chu in Doksom. The Gongri plus Kulong equals Dangme which ultimately joins the Manas. This info is from Piet’s booklet on tourism that includes a picture of me climbing the stairs of Rigsum Goempa on a misty Sunday last June and it’s said that if you can’t make it to Tibet a trip to Rigsum will accrue the same merit, so I got that going for me, which is nice! His book touches on many places I’m yet to visit or will never be able to visit including a series of glacial lakes up near the Tibetan border and restricted Singye Dzong where Yeshi and her Guru meditated bringing the Dharma to the heathen Lhomon. It also outlines the Far Out Eastern Trek including Shakshing, Omba, Gongsa, and Shampula. Although I’ve reached these places separately I will be glad to string the trek together…a five day adventure marking the tiger’s entire territory, GRRRRR!

Rat Shack

Its midnight and I just found a decomposing rat in my suitcase. Lying in my sleeping bag I smelled something rotten and when I investigated the open luggage that my gho was in I found the corpse of a dead rat maybe the rat that has plagued me for two years. Was he a casualty of rat poison? When I flipped the case and swept him out the front door clumps of hair and rat bits broke apart and now I’m airing out my hut…As I said before this place is disgusting, guess it’s time for spring cleaning eh. Not much in the mood for sleep now opened all windows smells like a hospital during the bubonic plague in here. Washed my hands with heated water feeling like nuking the hut altogether. Not salubrious with no hot water and creepy crawlies everywhere. Right now it’s living up to the moniker “Land of Terror” isn’t it. East Bhutan is so frigging intense where as Bumthang is halfway to Thimphu in advancement and Thimphu is halfway to San Francisco with cheeseburgers and a Baskin Robins the first franchise to penetrate the kingdom. Meanwhile out in remote eastern villages ones halfway to nowhere and you can’t find fruit, bread, or poultry but plenty of Crazy Cheese-balls. I feel like teleporting to one of those five star hotels in Thimphu that cost about a thousand bucks a night, everything embalmed with lemongrass. Sweet dreams my babies broadcasting live on a Thursday morning from the LOT. Keep cool my babies keep cool….Over and out….

Rainbow Mountains

Today the sun reemerged illuminating a spangled mountain mandala everything sparkling in the wake of the flood. I heard that the rain complicated the rescue efforts in Nepal and that a man was saved alive from the rubble surviving 5 days. Looking out at the valley ringed by multicolored mountains it’s hard to imagine a world full of suffering. The mountains have turned a dark green with undertones of brown and purple with flowing bluish hues. Streaming clouds curl around the snow encrusted easterly peaks and all over the steep slopes the deciduous forests turn emerald and strange shadows fall upon them…       

Spring Fling Photos...

Sangay Dema

Beney Lhakhang & Big Cypress

Trashiyangtse Forests

Wheel of life

Sonam, Lama, Mr. Tim

Piet, Sonam, lama, Tim

Horses for Mare

Old Dzong TY

My doorstep looking East, Shamphula left

Sangay Wangmo, Tashi Yangzon, Tashi Lhamo, Mr. Tim, Surgit, Prabu,Karsang Dema,Sherub, Dorji Wangmo

Work Done on Premises

Presently I’m busier than I’ve ever been in my life more than those interminable double shifts at Garwoods or all nighters pulling graveyard at The Crystal Bay Club emerging from the glow of slots and the mechanical fembot chorus of blinking Betty Boop- bleary eyed bopping past vacuums and lounge lizards with coin slot eyes emerging into a blanket of fresh snow covering state line. I’ll never forget having a fever and melting the microwave when I put a metal ramekin full of syrup inside starting an internal combustion. I was called off that day and soon was on the TART trundling towards Dollar Point in surreal afternoon light. Too bad Morgan is likely engaged elsewhere and probably isn’t tuned into tiger since she’d appreciate that anecdote. Come to think of it I might’ve called in the story that very evening fifteen years ago. This is more than just work it’s being absorbed into a community and striking a balance between service and leisure time with more service these days but thankfully I like my job (and love my students) This year I have been working exponentially harder which also coincides with greater external demands all for a whopping 300 bones a month. I never think about money when I work but rather am interested and anxious about the results of my pupils. For the first time I feel invested in a career and am currently cutting my teeth as a teacher. There are still growing pains and even experienced cream of the crop educators don’t have an easy time of it teaching ESL in the kingdom. Today a few T.M.S.S teachers redesigned the classrooms in clusters of students instead of rows, difficult due to number of students and limited furniture. I teach four sections of 7 and 8 with 120 students ranging in age from 12 to 18. Although I’m quite used to it and find the rooms cozy they’re bare bones by Western standards. Talking to fellow BCF teachers who taught in international schools where touch pad interactive computers are being used and parent teacher conferences are required, I feel lucky. Speaking of I pad’s mine was soaked from a leak in the roof but thankfully its working fine. All I’m armed with is chalk, some chart paper if I can scrounge it and ideas. Our Book caterpillars are colorful and cleverly strung together across the back of the classroom well half the circles are plagiarized but this is Bhutan after all. It’s frustrating since the language level is so low that we must move slowly to cover our lessons properly. Even though I’m cutting out selections that aren’t pertinent I still have yet to incorporate a fraction of my ideas but I am covering a lot of grammar this year which is beneficial. The tenses and articles remain elusive for certain learners but others like Yeshi Dema have nailed it. If I had the inclination or energy I could ponder in this forum on teaching all day but actually I have been which is why I’m not keen to write about it excessively. Likewise I could regale you with funny stories about them till the cows come home like when Dawa Nidup fell ass over tea kettle out of his wooden chair when we were rearranging the desks amidst a loud clamor of Sharchop that sounded like a flock of wild birds quarrelling in a cage. What a place this is that I live in! My students are literally cowboys and cowgirls and I have to admit the new arrangement seemed odd to me after delivering lessons in rows for three years. I do a fair amount of group work so these desks are better suited. I spend too much time trapped like a rat (who was last seen slinking off my stove at 3 AM) captured in my own head. Yet sometimes I observe others and it’s amusing especially when their Bhutanese. Not that I pretend to know what makes them tick although I find it endearing that most refer in their writing to “Our Bhutan” as if referring to a commune. But I know for instance where Guru Wangmo likes to repose on Sundays in tall grass. Before I came here my bra teased me because I included myself as “we’ when addressing Bhutan. Now deep into my journey through “The Land of Terror” I definitely separate myself from the beloved hive. Hell maybe in my next life or generation as the kids tell it I will be born as a Bhutanese. Not a bad notion a little hut on the hill perhaps with a Monpa wife and some curry with red chillies in the pot.

How isolated is East Bhutan? Well from my doorstep I can see three valleys where three different languages are spoken. Kiney is a Sharchop village but above on the shoulder of Shampula they speak the Tawang dialect Monpa and over on the other side of Doksom they speak Kurtop the Yangtse dialect. The national language is Dzonkha similar to Tibetan and the medium of instruction “officially” is English. Everyone hereabouts speaks Sharchop but some villagers are as limited as me whereby they speak only one language the prevalent Sharchop. Weird wild stuff Johnny! Somehow or another I manage to communicate and form relationships but since we learned at the workshop that communication goes far beyond understanding or comprehension so I’m bonded on subconscious and subatomic levels to my peeps here. Most of my relationships are with the youth beyond cordial relations with colleagues and Karlos and Sonam who I rarely interact with these days except visiting the baby every few days while picking up Coke.

Last Saturday Prabu, Surgit, and the boys and I went up to Zangtopelri on a drizzly afternoon picking up trash and visiting the Lhakhang together. On the walls a fresco of a headless nude woman holding her own head and dancing with a shaved yoni. In the sidecar room where the fierce deity resides and only men can go, a shield and riffle relics from antiquity. Now I have shared that Lhakhang with Becky, Mom & Aunt, and friends. Rinchen Wangmo upkeeps the ornate temple that was funded by Tawang relatives as Rinchen herself was I believe promised to the lamas son (who is never there) as she jokingly proclaims in broken English to be a graduate of the fourth grade. Nevertheless I can’t believe such a place exists in my remote locality as it truly is one of the finest temples in Bhutan and my most venerated palace on earth a true paradise. If there is a god I find IT there in that thick air or the cool marble on which I prostrate. Sadly the outer grounds are littered but I’m planning a Social Service Mission to assist. After that we strung some prayer flags up at Tsangma hightailing it home in the rain. Monopoly with the boys then a baby shower at night made for a communal day. Those who know me best might be amazed that I am interacting this way as I am a known recluse but the Bhutanese are cartoonish enough to draw me out into their Wangmo Zangmo world… Actually they’re kindly folks and I feel more at home in their culture than my own. When I met Piet at the canteen in TY for dinner a few weeks back a dignitary was so hammered post archery that he was illegible except to venture in slurred speech that America had no culture. I like to think although we slaughtered or corralled our indigenous people we have accepted the cultures of the world in our new age salad bowl. Bhutan is also wonderfully diverse with denizens from Nepal, India, Tibet and other far flung oriental places. Recently I have learned something of Azerbaijan correcting umpteenth essays on the fascinating country bridging Eastern Europe and Western Asia bordering mother Russia and Iran among others on the Caspian Sea, but that’s another story.

A lugubrious morning with pouring rain, a sadness pervaded my soul and when I arrived at school no one was there like that twilight zone episode when the man awakes to find all humans have vanished. I found everyone at the MP hall where the Dasho was speaking as apparently I missed the memo. Although I planned all my lessons to a T things bombed in the classroom with the new seating arrangement leading to chaos and the prescribed group work being too difficult. Of course there was ample Sharchop spoken too and this made me feel inadequate helpless and depressed. All my efforts and what is the result? I know there are days like this in life which at times seems like a useless illusion. We must invent ways to lift us out of the dreariness of Samsara where one is simply born to decay and die. We must invent god, religion, love and other means to make it through or attach some meaning to the meaningless and that’s where we find ourselves. I have health and that is indeed everything so I have no excuse to feel unworthy and sad but I do today, turned loose in a master -less universe set adrift drifting and dreaming….The day didn’t improve much when a spit ball landed on my head while I was helping another group obviously too absorbed and not monitoring the students properly. Sometimes I think I suck at this job, can’t win for trying methinks. A curtain of rain swoops down on my hut and all I can do is watch the puddles collect on my cement floor and think about my empty stomach, meanwhile the lads riffle through my fridge licking spoons. At the center of my soul ANXIETY a constant companion the fleeing animal rather than advertised tiger although the trance part is valid. That is if a trance is ten million coinciding negative thoughts pressing on the ineffable heart.   

Dinner with Karlos and Sonam ama and little Pema Namgay managed to lift my spirits some I love my life here but still have to be Tim just like we all have to be ourselves in this mixed up world.    

Spring Shot

Giant Cypress and Tim & Karma Dechen Phodrang

Backside Dechen Phodrang Bumdeling Park

View from front door of Arrunachal pradesh

Bromla

Darchin (white dot to right and eastern Bhutan)

Shampula with Tawang Backdrop

Tsang Tsang Ma

Going Home in the Rain

Dedicated to Papa Jack

“When the five luminous lights of wisdom shine, fearlessly may I recognize myself, when the forms of the peaceful and wrathful ones appear, fearless and confident may I recognize the bardo.” Tibetan Book of the Dead

Rain has returned to our catchment refreshing our valley from suffocating smoke while grey caterpillar clouds slink over the layers of mountains encompassing them indiscriminately as god intended. I just finished marking 110 notebooks taking approximately 5 hours. I awoke to a stellar day with the mountain mandala popping, every detail outlined in this great bowled valley; the great eastern cornices glistening Dakini clouds in varying shapes, hearts, clubs, mushrooms, and cupids sailing across the horizons. The birds are going crazy, raving sparrows jacked up like crack heads after a score. Tonight a cultural show visited from Thimphu in support of vegetarianism, some have it that if we eat meat we might be reborn as a pig. It was amusing watching the kids rush the entrance like rabid fans rushing the gate at a Pink Floyd concert. The dancers were sexy though with their ever alluring kiras so shiny and concealing those live fleshy women underneath.

At this point in the journey TIAT is a ghost ship (no readership) so I might as well fly my freak flag since no one will ever know. I’m at war with myself which is too bad since a cup of kindness would balm my agitated soul. I had to visit Trashigang (via Chazam which is checking permits diligently again) to return a camera that didn’t work leaving me without capability for taking photos for awhile. I met Reese and Nakita BCF colleagues from Mongar and we visited the historic Dzong built 1667 now being dismantled for repair which is heartbreaking. One can now see the hill station tucked into a verdant cirque through what used to be the wall of the ancient edifice. While at the hill station I placed a call stateside to Morgan who informed me nonchalantly that she had found true love. She added a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders and at that moment the weight of the world fell upon mine. All I can compare my feelings too is hearing about the death of a loved one. BIG PHONE BABY! My body actually went into shock and I was shaking for several hours. Logically it seems absurd to be so crushed after nine years out of the relationship but who says the heart is logical. Truthfully as the days pass I see that it’s for the best since finally my heart is broken. A break is much better than the pulverized still thudding mutilated organ hanging from bloody tendrils just dangling from charred chords but still clinging to false hope. I never truly let go and now I know she has cut the lines and now my heart is finally broken which like I said is preferable to fractured. It hurts on so many levels though, the imaginings of their sexual relationship, the longing for the closeness we once felt now enjoyed by them and the reality that our love is an artifact buried under rotten despair, and what is dead inside me blooms tender shoots for Morgan and her beau.  

A big fat What to Do…

On top of this hill I’m struggling with work and it seems the more I try the more I flounder. Go figure! I’ll admit I’m doing the best job I’ve done to date in the classroom but now that my eyes are wide open I can see my shortcomings glaring back. Every time I’ve asserted myself it has had negative results. I went to monitor social work at the common toilets two of which were not cleaned with growlers piled up around the bowl. When I made an announcement in assembly I angered the respective house master and we had a heated exchange in the staff room. Next I implored the VP to allow me to go to the book fair in Mongar and when he refused I threw a minor hissy fit and said some stupid things that I regret. The fact is he is following orders. It is best not to rock the boat, isn’t it? The warden even scolded me for keeping Nima and Pema late for a Monopoly Game on a school night. I am feeling utterly helpless when it comes to teaching reading since the books in the library are far too advanced for the students. There is a lack of material for the elementary level, no wonder the kids lose interest when they cannot define every other word. When reading with class 3 and 4 students I observed they could read the words but didn’t glean the content a pattern that marks the plight of adolescent Bhutanese readers. BCF alumni Andrea is diligently working on introducing a reader series of leveled material into Bhutan so if anyone wants to donate funds to a worthy cause I can direct you. Instead of building dams and hostels India should kick down some dough for that cause. Presently I’m toiling in Moby Dick for the better part of two months getting only half way through the onerous novel and I feel that I’m neglecting this periodical even though most of my readers abandoned ship already. Meanwhile I do what I can in turn and burn fashion and today I conducted afterschool reading in the library then proceeded directly to evening study to try and help kids with their Azerbaijan essays and when I got home the lads were waiting and I tried not to be a curmudgeon. All this work and I’ve only been roaming once in two weeks and that was yesterday on official school business. I accompanied a group of teachers to Shakshing and Daka to conduct a census on a drearily beautiful afternoon with charcoal clouds canvassing the peaks, muting the whole wide world. Still new leaves enrobed trees in chartreuse against a misty backdrop of hazy blue- mountains as the valley veers left into the province of Tawang. My sadness seemed reflected back at me everywhere in shades of grey but I still realized how lucky I was to be sad in Bhutan where faded red rhododendrons are enveloped by fresh greens and wild birds tweet up a storm. It’s mid winter in my heart so perhaps the abundant new life will remind me of the starriness of every empty moment containing immanent joy for those who want it. On the other side of this life is the tender heart of sadness that is our birthright. Three good things on that cloudy excursion were three cups of tea as only a villager can offer seated Indian style on the floor in a smoky hovel privy to a world that hardly exists anymore. THANKS! The forest outside is reminiscent of the Bardo with peach blossoms budding on limbs above and moldering duff below while I cruise the middle ground wondering which colored lights to follow while tangled up in the lines of my mind. One thing’s for certain my neurosis and negativity ain’t gonna help me none.

(The Dauntless Girl Interlude)

Tendy Zangmo is a funny and intense creature. She’s incredibly bright with primal features hailing from the western slopes of Chakademi and when a boy angers her she glares with an expression that could turn Mr. T to stone and points her index finger in an ominous manner at the culprit as if to say, “I’m gonna kick your ass afterschool.” She will even wrinkle her nose at me if she disapproves of my lesson and in class passionately implores, “Me Sir” a hand raised when wanting to be called on. Here’s to you Tendy Zangmo one of my 115 wonderful students, each with a story. By now I know half the student body by name and have taught approximately 400 Bhutanese learners. I’m concerned with my legacy and that’s why I’m trying to improve my pedagogy and employ more kindness in the moments that remain, but remember Mr. Tim don’t rock the boat and for goodness sake lighten up!

In morning light I descry an enormous yellow moth with frilly patterns bordering its wings that look like musical scores hanging to a stone at the foundation of the academic block.

Today we had a visitor named Klaus from Germany who is here to inform us on waste management during morning assembly. He gave me some very good ideas on sorting trash and recycling including what can be burned and what must be recycled. It was inspirational and now I will have to see it through at the school which will mean tons of work and organization. The good news is after three years I have a vision and some direction to curb the trash problem in the community. That means we’ll have to build bins for separate wastes and we already have constructed an incinerator that will burn waste more effectively. I want to implement his ideas and send him a report of the progress we’ve made by the end of this year. In class we completed our book caterpillars compiling 28 circles strung together with string, the students did a good job and although to an observer the whole scene might of seemed chaotic with kids running around swapping colored pens and stringing the critter together in reality it was a successful lesson and a bunch of fun which is always a boon in the schoolhouse. I’m so busy this year with more things planned then I’m able to implement but the results are better. I’m focusing on simple tenses and structuring sentences and although it’s slow going many are getting it. In my free time I’m marking essays for both my own and former students. Overall my attitude has improved and I’m fully engaged in my duties keeping true to my promise for a breakthrough year.  It’s gorgeous outside with curly clouds festooning the highest snowbound ridges with the entire dragon’s tail exposed including the sharks fin and the tooth of Tsang Tsang Ma looming 14,000 feet over the Dangme Chu. The elevation gain is impossible to comprehend and although I loathe comparisons it is if I live on the lip of a verdant grand canyon. So much open space and there’s nowhere like it on this earth and somehow this is my home. Even the Guru is back in high spirits giggling in the classroom eyes twinkling. Police did a fantastic job facilitating the assembly of the caterpillars and I was very pleased. I’ll keep you posted on the development of the recycling project and instead of the book fair I will be attending a workshop on English in Yangtse this weekend. Who knows maybe I’ll meet the elusive Ash or see Lynn as now 4 phelincpa’s reside in the Dzongkhag but in 2012 it was only me. Despite having companions I see them infrequently but am lucky to have Piet to lead me on some intrepid hikes around Trashiyangtse. This weekend we went to Dechen Phodrang with three Bhutanese and it was a powerful experience. I bought some homemade paper scrolls and have started a queer poem about it but maybe I’ll lay down some prose.

Dechen Phodrang Excursion

“…we won’t care just what who say, if it’s truth or lie, we’ll still have our place of peace, our love won’t never die…”

I wrote extensively about this particular magical day on a scroll of handmade paper but due to my weak eyesight and the stream of consciousness nature of that poetic scribbling I thought it more applicable to jot down my notes in a more orderly fashion here on TIAT. I checked into the Karmaling loft on a Saturday night enjoying the cozy lounge to myself watching Man vs. Wild. On Sunday I met Wildman Piet and his companion Sonam and another Bhutanese gent and little kid Karma for our trek. This was a working day for Piet who was armed with orange paint. Along the route he paused to paint orange arrows on stumps or rocks to guide future tourist both domestic and foreign on this epic pilgrimage walk. We were deposited by a taxi at the small primary school at the head of a secluded valley at the trailhead shaded by a majestic cypress tree (the size of a California Redwood) The trail winds through a picturesque settlement with newly sown potato crops and whitewashed chortens weaving deeper into a valley comparable to Bumdeling but separated from that valley by a spine of snow crested jagged peaks the dominant one appearing like a sharks fin reputedly home to meditating yogis. In this valley they make handmade paper and one can see the sheets drying in the dappled sunlight near troughs of mashed pulp. Yangtse is famous for this paper along with the precious wood bowls also made locally and sold throughout Bhutan in tourist shops. The trail leads over a suspension bridge that would make Indiana Jones bite his lip over a rushing tributary of the Kulong Chu. Although we were only ten miles out of town civilization ended and only a virgin verdant wilderness stretched northwards to Me La and Tibet. 

This is the area where Tawang, Tibet, and Trashiyangtse intersect and therefore a power spot. Rounding a corner near a gushing stream is Dechen Phodrang an auspicious meditation site of 

Ugyen Guru Rinpoche where he stayed for a year meditating so fervently that his own body print is embedded into a massive boulder now enclosed by the temple walls. The Lhakang is three stories high recently expanded according to Piet who first visited the holy structure back in 1997. The lhakang is impressive but the three story edifice is dwarfed by a towering cypress about 300 feet in height and perhaps my most cherished tree on earth. The knotted roots stick out above ground as the tree sits on a collection of remarkable boulders the size of houses. One might wonder how a tree of such size and girth (like sequoia) could precariously balance on those rocks. The answer is that Guru Rinpoche pounded his wizard’s staff into the rock and the cypress sprang forth. It would take ten people holding hands to circle the base of that mighty tree and equally amazing to the gnarled roots and zophtic bark are the curly branches that sprawl out in all directions sprouting cascading feathery foliage entirely ethereal in nature. In fact one cannot explain such a tree the queen of a grove of slightly less rotund specimens. To try to explain this tree is like trying to pin the tail on the donkey of the universe and therefore an act of mystification but such is the writer’s course upstream in this frivolous life. Inside the temple a spry snaggletooth lama told us many stories about the guru’s stay at the spot. The name of the temple roughly translated means, peaceful palace and the spot is exactly that. Mutable clouds swirl around the highest peaks revealing a distant cone that seemed more a part of sky than earth. Inside the temple the customary statues but this temple is unique like Gongsa blending seamlessly with the rock itself the very rock that has the concave body print of Guru Rinpoche emblazoned into its ancient surface. This is one of three such body prints in Bhutan including one at a more famous temple in Bumthang. Yet it proves that Guru Ugyen Rinpoche was in Eastern Bhutan and here at this peaceful paradise he left behind a myriad of relics in stone. We sat in the cool grotto in a circle on the floor with shadows flickering on the walls cast by butter lamps. There the lama passed around various stones each with a story to tell, first a replica of the Guru’s phallic cast in stone looking like an impressive member of a man the rimmed ridge separating the shaft from the mushroomed head of the penis. This the flaming thunderbolt used to whack a demoness or pleasure a consort. This stone is sought out by barren women who want a son they must bring their husband to the Lhakhang and bearing the stone must sleep out of doors and do the deed with their man while bearing the stone and thus are guaranteed a child. Other stones included the boot of the Guru and the dagger he used to slay the serpent deity that resided in the rock when he arrived on the scene. Several of the serpent’s internal organs were also cast in stone. Next we were instructed to make a wish with all our heart and press our head inside the body print the concave impression embedded deep inside the rock. Careful what you wish for isn’t it as we took our turn one by one. Inside that impression I felt significant power that was exhilarating but also made me nauseous as I made my wish but I’m not sure my wish was wholehearted so I can’t guarantee it will come true. Next we offered songs to the Guru before exiting the grotto so I sang the refrain of Eternity which Willie Dixon wrote for Bobby and then I offered IT to Guru. Upstairs the lama busted out some precious relics and according to Sonam these were usually not shown to anybody so it’s entirely reasonable to presume mine was the first Phelincpa head to touch these artifacts. The most precious of all was a small statue of Guru Rinpoche made of wood brought to this spot by an itinerant Tibetan lama hundreds of years ago and when the caretaker placed it on my crown muttering a prayer I felt the weight of a thousand lifetimes crush upon me. The little Guru had a contorted acidic grimace and was clad in silk rainbow robes.

Outside the fun continued as I crawled through a birth canal of stone to purify my sins. The space was so tight that I had to wiggle one arm at a time through the crevice but made it out. Above the temple another huge rock that is home to a black cobra that the caretaker has encountered on various occasions. Here is a quartz rock face that is the doorway to heaven made of encrusted diamonds, turquoise, and all manner of precious jewels known to this world. The story goes that long ago a man was investigating the rock when the door swung open revealing heaven but the man rushed back for his family and when he returned the door had closed and remained locked ever since. The moral in that tale is attachment has dire consequences and one cannot become enlightened unless they disengage from all attachment. Above the rock a mysterious spring delivers cool clear water from Tara the Goddess. There are several other rocks and deep pools nearby where the Guru’s consorts including Yeshi herself frolicked and bathed. In another rock I swear I caught a glimpse of Yeshi topless like a river mermaid beckoning me into her mossy slit cave.

So many concurrent events and numerous blessings occurred in such a short time that this explanation falls woefully short in describing the power of those moments at Dechen Phodrang. This was exactly one week after hearing from Morgan and as low as I felt on that day was the zenith of this particular Sunday in Samsara.       

Going Home in the Rain

I’m sitting in the staff room and outside an epic maelstrom whirls about in vortex of wind and hammering rain accompanied by the drumming of thunder and forks of lightning walking on rogue legs like a herd of purple elephants stampeding the earth. We’ve probably received more rain in one minute than California has had in two years. Looking across the valley patches of blue peep over Bartsham ridge whereas Shakshing is swallowed up by grey cloudburst. The smell of rain and earth marrying wafts into the room and I’m glad I’m alive to taste it. A deluge of biblical proportions bends the cypress treetops and nearby Nir Mala Tapa in repose her Taegu the same lightning infused purplish grey as the sky, her beauty just as terrible. The Thunder Dragon blesses the newly sown seeds spilling over into the Monpa realm running over the mountain mandala in sheets and buckets (runoff) filling the waters of the Dangme Chu and Kulong Chu pounding the nexus at Doksom threading past Gom Kora under Chazam bound for Manas and the Bay of Bengal. Ah! Moments like these make this lonely life worth living, so eventually or rather temporally leaving the expansive bowl of the valley washed and sparkling under a layer of brooding charcoal clouds.

The wind knocked out the power which made for a lovely moonless night standing on my hilltops flat ridge beyond the invisible borderline lights flickered in tiny Tawang settlements and across the gorge in Yellang. The stars that never shine also shined this night with one perched on the crest of Shampula slowly rising higher to bathe in the Milky Way. The next day I awoke at 5:30 to the croak of a raven and when I opened my door the first rays of orange sunshine crested over the dragons tail signifying the presence of Guru Pema who promised Yeshi that he’d appear in that fashion every clear day to the east. I met Sangay Tenzin and we walked down the sinuous road for a workshop on English Medium in Bhutanese Schools to be conducted at Yangtse L.S.S. Karma Om and her driver picked us up since she was also attending but dropped us at the Kiney turnoff where we met Lynn and her colleague and hopped in their vehicle. The workshop was beneficial with about 30 teachers representing all the schools in Yangtse from Bayling to the smallest primary schools most of which I can descry from Tsenkharla ridge. One L.S.S teacher was a former student of Aum Nancy Strickland our esteemed Executive Director and self proclaimed favorite student of hers. I couldn’t resist asking him how she was as a teacher and he replied very strict in the classroom but very jolly outside the classroom and went on to tell me that they played some form of badminton making their own rackets and birdies out in Phongmay the remotest eastern placement 30 years ago. The workshop brought to bear all the challenges facing the ESL teacher where all my students come from illiterate Sharchop households and rarely use their English outside or inside the school grounds. And where teachers code switch using dialects to teach subject lessons and where students are too shy to speak. Having said all that it’s a wonder they do as well as they do. Driving home in the rainstorm next to Tashi Choden (namesake of Tigress Dakini who Guru mounted to Tigers Nest) but this retiring young lady teacher from Chakademi will not be my consort methinks. Lightning and thunder the world outside the car as Samten kindly delivers us directly to Tsenkharla (Rangthangwoong) in the midst of a howling storm in the blackest night. I met the mysterious Ash who has resided in Yangtse town for two years, I commented that she must keep to herself like me and she refuted saying, “She doesn’t keep to herself” then walked away to talk with a Bhutanese colleague.       

Seven Story Mountain (Excerpt from backside Scroll #1)

“Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us”  Rainer Maria Rilke   

Bright morning light bathes the eternal mountain in new gold welcoming pure azure a new day tufts of mist drift over cypress boughs……deep green twisted Brongla forest above Darchin the last outpost white dot temple perched undulating pastures foot of groves within primordial dripping clinging slanted wall vertical oaks side-winding upwards mossy trunks twisted serpentine branches wriggling boring into my consciousness (louder than a city block) everything writhing together rolling on thick carpets of fluorescent mosses entwined vegetation feeding off itself self contained dreaming under gigantic grey petrified mushroom barnacle glued on wooded trunk draped in hairy moss furry stumps under dancing gold leaves flickering opening and closing like ten thousand butterflies long haired lichens covering all matter red rhododendron hovering in upper reaches of venerable oak a bleeding ruby dripping on fallen logs spongy mats chartreuse floating in space sprouting all kinds of life -fern fronds like octopi pulling me down into depths of decayed layers of moist duff reaching upwards for rescue honeysuckle cascades cream bells scarlet interiors dappled feelers project scent sweeter than secret woman smells sitting under the tallest oak like a Buddha muddy lotus floating on a terrestrial wall steep and silent–belly crawl emerging into a snow globed world an eastern mountain mandala unfolding a breathing accordion of smoky blues and gleaming white crown snow peaks a bank of mountains soar over Merak stretching East into Tawang adjacent Shampula a purple green whale breeching from a sliver of the serpent Dangme Chu far below -across the valley (really many valleys separating and rejoining) Tsang Tsang Ma a honeycombed snow dusted antenna for Thegsey and his host of deities running amuck inside our hearts poisoning spirits but the perfect unity of male Guru and female Yeshi Tshogyel unify beings trapped in identity clinging to illusion- unfettered lacy Dakini clouds rim the snow clad peaks frilly vast wilderness a sector of the eternal mountain layers revealed while below this seven story mountain Tsenkharla Tsangma’s hill commanding the parched lower valley and between lonely Darchin on the threshold of wild virgin forests where melodic yellow birds warble to distant companions with nothing else to do…