So Close To Heaven

The Wrong Road

“Hey mister can you help me I’m looking for the wrong road, I know it used to be around here before the development come” Zeke

Greetings Earthlings,

After class I went roaming to the temple. But instead of the beauty I was absorbed by the new road plowing through my heart home. My wagon trail that resembled the yellow brick road with glimmering pyrite stones and grass has turned into a dirt swath. All my clover and grassy knolls have been hacked away. Where the trail and forest seamlessly blended is now an embankment that drops off into the disrupted forest. One used to walk from the “golf cart” path to the yellow brick road to an endless array of trails. Now at Tsangma’s a logging style road connects the gate and travelers wall up the emerald diamond hillock to Zongdopelri. Upon my arrival from the temple one hopped a small path to my bonpo meadow. Now a fence stops the traveler and protects the temple of technology known as the Tashi cell tower. The simple trail remains but a monstrous dirt road burrows down from the deciduous woodland above the second temple. These roads defy necessity and I almost cried at the alteration in my paradise. The heavenly views remain but it is different now.  At my temple the carved wooden phallic, chest high orange marigolds and towering sunflowers, enclosed in a nifty woven bamboo palisade renewed my spirit.  From the attic a mild breeze blew in the portal from the east. For an instant I saw the image of a smiling Guru Rimpoche floating out in the valley over the Dawang Chu. On the way home the villagers told me that there will be a small Tsechu or religious celebration for the next three days. Tsechu’s are multiday celebrations that honor the Guru Rimpoche. The larger ones at Dzong’s and temples include masked dance.  

Backwards Down the Number Line

“Every time a birthday comes
Call your friend and sing a song
Or whisper it in to his ears
Or write it down just don´t miss a year” Trey

Out in Phongmay our heroine Rebecca celebrates her 35^th b-day which makes it an auspicious day for me. She stumbled into an omen as she trudged up a mountain with some students and was caught in a torrential super cell. A mitzvah or blessing in the form of sacred rain. A great big happy birthday from the maker, a force that existed before humans could conceive their gods. Happy birthday Becky I can’t believe it took 34.5 years to find my twin in the remotest corner of our earth. Meeting a true blue pal is one of the boons of this adventure. I cherish commiserating with you on the phone or at the K.C, or when you inquire “How are things on your side of the mountain?” I can always count on you for a laugh out loud when I am so often stuck in my brain. I could go on and on but I will just say thank you for being my BFF (Bhutan friend forever) the first time we met was in the Bangkok airport when we all nervously weighed our baggage. You were in your cadet cap and orange long sleeve t-shirt and a bit aloof about the whole airport movie. We started slow as we all crashed through the thunder gates of the kingdom. The friendship solidified in the conference room of the Dragon Roots when you remarked that my “Steal your face” ski hat was a nice addition to my gho. Much like a tribesman flashing the secret symbol I instantly knew I had stumbled into a kindred spirit. We roamed around Thimphu talking about Ratdog, Phish, and SCI, and we found a common history that would be the foundation for our alliance, even if we never found the “Big Cypress.” In addition to our separate circus endeavors, arriving in Bhutan solidifies many fast friendships. But ours goes beyond a companionship of circumstance, if I was a religious man I would say providence sent you into my life at this paramount juncture. I only hope that my presence in your domain returns a fraction of the substance you give me.  Just a few of the highlights so far include Autsho, Drametse and the ancient monk (with the dancing skeletons) circumambulating Chorten Kora, slipping into the bowels of the Trashigang Dzong, the star lightning and the magic bird. Oh and of course when the drunken soothsayer in the capital sentenced us to “The terror of life” or was “The Land of Terror?”   

While I am sending out b-day salutations, happy b-day Julie and Geeska if your tuned in.

Episode 1: Peaking

“I don’t know what called to me but I know that I had to go, I left that Vermont town with a lift to Mexico” Yankee lady

Today was a spectacular sunny day. Tsenkharla is at its pinnacle of beauty. I went to the temple circumambulated three times then descended into the pine and cypress grove. I followed a new trail that followed huge rocks, ferns, and fragrant shrubs. A mild breeze caressed the canopy as the Dawang Chu snaked impossibly through the pristinely rugged valley. A Raven surfed on a pine bow riding the wind.  The grove is a secret world of thick duff and moist sweet air. There is a palpable peace as I nestled between my favorite two cypress trees on a bed of pine needles snuggled by wispy ferns. The birds and crickets and other evening creatures come to play a melancholy piece as the light inched its way east through Arunachal. The mountains unfold narrowing until a ridgeline at the horizon finally stops the verdant valley. Or does it? A Butterfly leads me to an outcropping of rock above the deciduous zone until I am enveloped in sticky cobwebs. Bhutan is endlessly diverse a thought that conjured when a lone dandelion rested in the shade of a tall cypress. We have a dry and high niche in the broader ecosystem of the Far East. No leaches, less rain, and surprisingly fertile soil.  But the grove seems a luxury on the dry side of the mountain, towards Yangtse waterfalls rush and monkeys leap. While in Phongmay the humid forests lavish cascading terraces. But Tsenkharla is my place which has exploded with plants and animals. On campus I revel in the row of thick cypress with trunks like redwoods and feathery needles surrounded by a plethora of flowers in bloom. A garden of Roses, dahlias, geraniums, sunflowers, bells, stars, trumpets etcetera. The wind rustles the maize crop which towers twelve feet high, and a colony of insects rules the land. When walking, the forest exudes animistic qualities as I find myself talking to the ferns or listening to the wind’s ancient tale. It can flip to another dimension where demons, deities, and pixies romp, switching roles before embedding themselves into trunks and rocks. It’s all fluid like the liquid serpent masquerading as the river below. The design of the universe is more comprehensive and complex than linguistics can categorize or mystics can imagine, A FORCE so NATURAL that the gods can only marvel from their cushy cloud thrones scratching their white beards and asking “Who created us?” Meanwhile the two avatars Guru Rimpoche and Jesus exchange insights while crossing the borderline, Jesus on his way out and the Guru checking in. It’s all one chip off the old techno colored sugar cube constantly melting and reforming into steamy jambalaya.   

Time plays tricks stretching and expanding into the ether while ultraviolet rays zip through the ozone to warm a body. Each night I look forward to sleep on my hard cot where I lay and dream of the mountains and each morning I resist getting up. In class we are reading an essay called “Reconnecting with the Earth.” All my students help their parents in the fields and couldn’t believe American kids have never farmed. The savvy students can work the fields, sing and dance, and speak several languages. They are miraculously adept at life and enjoy a rich sense of humor.

The author wonders how his comrades are fairing around the Kingdom. He got a text from Sarah who hasn’t had electricity since a massive flood consumed Gasa. Perhaps her Antarctic stint has prepared her for such occurrences. Everyone is challenged in Bhutan and the author would like to pause to congratulate the hardworking group. His mind wanders back to his first afternoon in the kingdom, walking down the old valley road in Paro, laughing with Sheal. They got separated from the group and were lost looking for the lodge stopping a lone Drivers Ed car with the instructor dribbling bloody dolma juice down his chin. He directed them back up the hill past the twig arrow Iman had constructed to show the way…

Episode 2: PEACE LOVE AND EMADATSI

“Cows is giving kerosene, kid can’t read he’s seventeen, the words he knows are all obscene, but it’s alright” Touch of Grey

On my constitutional I was accompanied by a dozen class 3 and 4 students on their way to Shakshang which is an hour straight up a precipice from Zongdopelri. In the forest two old and drunken meme’s crept towards the temple spinning handheld prayer wheels and fondling rosary beads. They mumbled their mantras in faded ghos and gnarled bare feet. They spoke no English and one was nearly blind and carried a big walking stick. Their shriveled amber faces wrinkled in hearty laughter as they surveyed me and my troop of day scholars. It was a scene only found in the distant reaches of East Bhutan. We had another perfect day with puffy clouds layered over streaks of dragon smoke, a sapphire sky, and rainbow fragments. I am caught in a specific loop from Tsangma to Zongdopelri, to the grove and back to Tsangma. Along the way I stop at numerous outcroppings of rock, the lair of slumbering demons. Ravens croak along with the warbling of afternoon birds. While standing in any grove anywhere the energy swirls and eventually the eye lands upon the Queen or King. This grove is a mix of cypress and pine. The trees are tall if not thick but lush and comfortable with shrubs and ferns in the tangled undergrowth. The cypress needles resemble feathers that gently hang from branches like Spanish moss. Erect purple flowers dot the trail which is overgrown with thick summer grass. The pathway threads along a minor ridge overlooking the eastern valley with views of Tsenkharla and hidden heart shaped amulets tucked into the high slopes of the adjacent mountains. Once in a while one stumbles across an overgrown chorten with ancient artifacts sealed inside.  It is quiet with only the birdsong and whisper of the river three thousand feet below. From a distance the brass bell of Tsenkharla chimes to announce evening study for the boarders. As darkness falls I returned from my three hour sojourn refreshed and hypnotized but not before I plopped in the meadow by the gate to serenade a calf with “Touch of Grey.” It occurred to me that as much as I try I can never convey the beauty of my placement and my words are merely a weir against the flow of purity. There is an indefinable current here on the periphery of language and worship. While walking a fellow has all he needs in the simplicity of nature, including air to breathe and water to drink. Roaming through the final stretch of the forest I passed a traveling puja with a caravan of monks blowing whining horns and pounding drums as thick incense smoke filled the air.     

On the phone Becky and I enjoy coining one liners or catch phrases such as “The Big La” or “The Land of Terror AKA The Terror of Life” etcetera. Tonight I quipped “Peace, Love, and Curry” and she rebutted, “Peace, Love, and Emadatsi.” (You probably know by now that emadatsi is the staple containing chilies and cheese.)  And this is how the friendship rolls even after our faithful split on the street in Mongor. It should be noted that we made amends scampering barefoot up the ladders into the secret chambers of Trashigang Dzong breathing resplendent air thick with history, making it onto the deck above the inner courtyard before being discovered by the robes. Of course we would never have made it that far if not for Norrin in her tight blue shirt enthralling the entire monk body downstairs. Ah the power of a comely woman’s bosoms that not even a holy man can resist. Ahem I digress into a warm twilight in the heart of the East. Much like the kingdom the hamlet of Trashigang escapes effective description with it s traditional atmosphere and architecture with boganvia lined paths. Kids run carefree in the street offering enthusiastic “Hello’s” as the whistle of pressure cookers announce supper. As Barbara Crossette says in “So Close to Heaven” Sooner or later everyone must take the road to Trashigang.

Honey from the Bee

“Rainbow said forever she would glow, I ain’t seen that rainbow ten years or more”    

At morning assembly in between hymns the students rapidly recite mantras that culminate into a humming sound like a hive of bees. Not a bad analogy considering the group mentality of the collective Buddhist mind. I could use the Borg comparison for Trekies; “We are Borg and YOU must assimilate” Fridays are tough as I struggle through four grammar lessons but at interval I saw an interesting article in Kunsel (the Bhutanese rag) about the profitable dairymen of Sakteng and Merak. Right now Bhutan is suffering from a “Rupee crunch” The Naltrum is supposedly equal to the Indian Rupee but that is not the case currently. I know as much about economics as astrophysics so I couldn’t elaborate even if I wanted to. The savvy cow and yak profiteers are crossing the high passes into Tawang and selling to the Indians there. The natives of Arrunachal Pradesh are more akin to Sharshop’s then Hindus in Delhi. The Brokpa cross the border to trade then pick up their groceries in Trashigang and Phongmay. This indigenous community is thriving when the rest of Bhutanese citizens are struggling economically. I would love to help them tote their yak butter to Tawang which is just over the horizon from Tsenkharla. The Brokpa, who are Tibetan refugees, are an amazing community who work hard to maintain a simple and prosperous life in a harsh landscape. Although all citizens live under the Dragon Banner the country is remarkably diverse. The Druk people of the West descend from a Tibetan Buddhist lineage and are the most powerful group. Then you have the Sharshop of the East who probably migrated from Burma through Arrunachal.  The Southerners are primarily Nepali Hindus and in between are various ethnic groups, like Lepcha, Brokpa etcetera. There are underlying tensions between East- West and North- South but for the most part peace prevails. The Bhutanese government makes this a desirable homeland providing free healthcare and education to all of its citizens. When you think that parents can send away their children to be educated, boarded, and fed for free it is remarkable. Although healthcare is sketchy in rural areas and the Thimphu hospital was filthy it still makes the American healthcare institution seem barbaric. We spent over a thousand dollars treating my broken arm and I once spent four hundred dollars to cure a serious earache with antibiotics when I was uninsured. And my father who paid taxes and contributed to society his whole adult life was forced to pay all the expenses after having a stroke. America can be a cruel place. As for life in the present I try to keep up, planning lessons, assessing 120 students, marking, washing clothes, staying healthy, and figuring out how to fix my I Tunes. Keeping the house and clothes clean without running water proves a daunting task. Most of my free time is exhausted by these activities and I feel fortunate when I can roam. For whatever reason life seems harder these days and my thoughts occasionally drift towards the Bay. There are moments I feel out of place and isolated. As my consort recently wrote me, solitude can be a blessing or a curse. But what to do La, Bhutan isn’t for sissies.

Exactly one year ago I saw the guitar monk at Squaw Valley. I had recently been accepted into BCF but still had to pass my last board exam to solidify my credential and position in Bhutan. Kimock was particularly kind that afternoon STANDING and playing to the crowd with his crooked smile, the peak of KT 22 loomed above the stage. After the show I took the trolley back to Cedar Flat and watched T.V with my parents. “Do you really want to go to Bhutan?” they asked. The following week in a sterile laboratory in Oakland I was issued a repeat of the dreaded RICA exam and before starting, said a prayer to Great Spirit asking for guidance on behalf of my future students in Bhutan. I wanted to come here and help them and after the test I was weeping in the city streets sure that I had failed. But I passed and the rest is history…Now I owe a debt of gratitude to the students and must find the grace to be the best teacher I can be.

Walk Through the Fire

“Gonna have to walk through the fire, put your feet down on the coals, freedoms in the fire, throw resistance on the pyre and free your soul” MK   

Another beautiful Saturday as the high pressure keeps the rain away until dark. After class there was a lengthy dance program. The students somehow appeared in colorful gho and kira to perform traditional dance routines. As an American with no indigenous culture of my own, it is boggling to see such reverence for culture. It is an essential part of daily life and it is precisely passed on to the children. This is why boarding schools incorporate song and dance into the curriculum. After the program I had some class 8 boys over to look at pictures and hang out. I need to open my home more to the students and not be so greedy with my personal time. Tonight I am going to dinner at school in honor of Karlos’s promotion. Unfortunately that means I cannot go to Rangjoon to celebrate Becky’s birthday. I cleaned my house thoroughly and did a laundry as god gave us a whole hour of running water today. Hand washing clothes is the worst after being spoiled my whole life with a washing machine. Kneeling on the concrete floor frantically scrubbing all the items I can muster before the tap runs dry. I am not very good at it and my clothes never feel fresh. After cleaning I took an hour to finish “So Close to Heaven” which is a brilliant book written in reporter’s fashion. But Barbara Crossette has a distinct voice and love for Bhutan to enlighten the reader. When I get pouty I just remember how fortunate I am to have a rare opportunity to live here. Many pilgrims, artist, and tourists from around the globe pay the $200+ tariff just for a taste of life here. In Bhutan as everywhere ones reality is dictated by ones attitude. It’s a shame my mother’s positivity didn’t rub off on me more. Instead I am a grumpy Grossman like my father and brother. (Sorry guys you know it is true) Having a PMA (positive mental attitude) is the most important thing in life. I am only preaching this since it’s my biggest challenge.  But I hope to saddle up and be more proactive in my existence. One only has to look around to see the astounding beauty and that in itself is everything. Those of my readers in Northern California also are fortunate to live in a paradise. I imagine people scrapping by in the slums of India or Bangladesh and remember how lucky I am. Blah, Blah, Blah...

A breeze blows on our mountain top keeping things refreshed compared to steamy T-Gang, Rangjoon, or Doksom. One cool thing about this location is having towering peaks above and a gorgeous valley below. We just hover in space on the deity superhighway. Living at a boarding school is intriguing with kids roaming on campus, or having peeping Dorji’s 24/7. When I go to the forest the girls are lined up along the concrete ledge outside the hostel, encased in barbed wire like prisoners. The boarders sleep 40 to a room and never complain or freak out. Conversely many “Day Scholars” walk four hours a day roundtrip on fierce terrain to reach school. It’s like the grumpy old man skit, you know the one, it goes something like “When I was a boy, I used to walk an hour to school in the snow, and that’s the way it was and WE LIKED IT!  It is a different life than the privileged kids of Marin County that’s for sure.  

My resistance to anything here only causes suffering as I struggle to realize the true nature of my mission. This is my time to serve the universe and learn to be happy. Buddha stresses the middle path in one’s own life. I have my work cut out for me to detangle my extreme soul. For those who are skeptical about reincarnation and for those believers, this moment holds absolute significance. Our mere existence from god or stardust is marvelous and precious. So give your loved ones a hug today as I wish I could. Especially Reed and Paige! With names as such they better be bookworms.

It’s funny how the rainbow always forms on the borderline bridging Tawang to Trashiyangtse. I had company on my rock from Dorji a class ten boy whose village is near the Indian border high on the mountain across the river. We ate from a cucumber the size of a baseball bat and he gave me the best account thus far on the lay of the land. He can reach his village in seven hours and the border an hour beyond that. That means twelve hours for me. He pointed out a blurry road barely in my visual range that is in Arrunachal and mentioned they spoke a different dialect than Yangtse which also has its own language. I also got some vague directions to a temple on the valley floor along my beloved and seemingly unreachable river. This is another auspicious haunt of The Guru Rinpoche who raged the Himalaya from Pakistan to East Bhutan. If I can hitch to Kinney I might be able to reach the temple and return in a day. A vehicle to and from Kinney would shave four hours off the trip and this is why I need a tent to overnight in the bush. I set out long ago for this purpose and got marooned down the wrong road less than an hour after disembarking. Soon I will try again…

 This Is Where It Ends

“..Not even the trees recognize me anymore” Morgan A. Neiman  

On Sunday I embarked on a bold adventure. My goal was to visit a riverside temple where Guru Rinpoche meditated on the Dagme Chu River. This is my favorite river in the world and I have been misinformed referring to it in this blog as the Dawang Chu. What’s in a name anyway? The river appears in Bhutan flowing from Tawang. I look at the river every day and felt it was time to explore the lower regions of my heartland. I commandeered a taxi to Kinney half way down the mountain where my journey commenced. I had no real directions as the driver dropped me at the edge of the village at a trailhead. The dirt and scree path dropped down a steep precipice past oaks, cannabis, and succulents. Before long I was lost which would be the theme of my day. Soon I descended past a barking dog, a white chorten, and a farm boy, to a lone white vertical prayer flag. The gruff landscape consisted of grasses and shrubs with no trees. The sun beat down on me and I wished I had a hat. After an hour I reached a solitary abandoned hut on the valley floor where the trail petered out into endless boggy rice paddies. Instead of the Dagme Chu I had reached a tributary in a vast rock bed stretching towards the main river which had disappeared from view. Here the bush-whacking began. I crawled through the marshy rice to the rushing stream where I tore my clothes off for a bath. I probably should have turned back but I wanted to finally touch the sacred waters of my beloved. This meant scampering over huge boulders and sloshing through the water in my decayed hiking boots. I crossed the tributary no less than 108 times on my approach the Dagme Chu. It was brutal hiking and on a few occasions I almost was denied. I persevered wading to my waist or bouldering on the outskirts of the bed through thorny brush. The tributary was my only guide with its huge rocks, sand, and scattered ferns, but finally I reached the raging Dagme Chu. Above the river where the disciple rejoined its master was a clear pool under a waterfall where I soaked my nude body in ecstasy before baptizing myself in the rivers olive-grey waters. I had to stay very near the beech to avoid the silver rapids that threatened to carry me to Doksom. The river is set in a gorge between massive cliffs that tower overhead. Scruffy pines cling to the vertical slopes to the disbelief of the observer’s eye. It is a harsh and unforgiving landscape at the end of all things. Here the Inner Himalayas reduce to rocky rubble with only a few scattered hapless trees. All that is left is the river and rocks and a wanderer’s soul exposed in the blazing sun. This place is not India or Bhutan rather a no man’s land abandoned by the gods, left to the toothless deity of nowhere. The boundary of the universe is not a lush oasis rather a bleached skull or broken spoke, a beauty recognized by only the most wayward and forsaken. At this point the real suffering commenced as I had to back track the riverbed and climb two thousand feet back to Kinney. I retraced my steps passed the abandoned hut, the lone prayer flag, and white chorten before getting lost again. I stumbled into a remarkable stone village that resembled the dwelling of Hansel and Gretel. Some Kinney kids hanging out by a mammoth chorten showed me the way and after much laboring I crested the ridge into Kinney village at 5 PM.  I was fortunate to get a lift to Kumdang by some friendly teachers who dropped me at the junction. The dirt road from Kinney is only two years old and has changed life significantly in the village allowing access to Trashigang or Yangtse by vehicle. In Bhutan having a road improves the availability of healthcare and supplies. I dropped by Manu’s earthen abode but she wasn’t home so I began to trudge up the 6 KM to Tsenkharla. Along the way I saw Samten my 8B student picking chilies in her family’s field. She gave me some ema before I continued on in the rain. Luckily I got another ride from a teacher and reached home before the downpour and darkness only to see another dead doggy by my door. It was one of the most difficult day hikes I have ever done due to the sheer vertical descent and ascent. If I had a telescope I could have tracked myself from the safety and comfort of my rock. From that position the valley floor seems gentle and green but upon exploration proved a daunting expedition. The day was a metaphor for my life in Bhutan, extremely challenging and rewarding.  I paid the price for my effort with sunburn and dehydration which led to a fitful sleep. I reckon that I won’t go there again even though I never did find the temple.

Tim Rinpoche     

Dagme Chu

New grass waves

To crude wind

At insanities jagged line

Beyond salvation

Where sorrow and joy

Dissipate in a parched

Cracked riverbed

Carried by recycled water

Flowing through a heart broken  

In ten thousand odd stones

Screeching

Back to the bardo

The aquatic source

Found in you and me!

Cuts jade canyon  

Into crystal cavern

Imprinted

With the hood of the serpent

That devoured Guru Rinpoche

Contradictions

 

“Even in a time of elephantine vanity and greed, one never has to look far to see the campfires of gentle people."     

We live in a primal place. One BCF teacher was relaxing one Sunday evening when a band of monks young and old burst into her home to perform the rights of a puja to pacify the evil spirits. The company (some painted black) blew horns banged symbols in her face then dowsed her bed with water, spit on her floor, stung her with nettles, and cornered her with an aggressive dance. They left only after spreading grain all over the floor. Back at home this would be grounds for incarceration. I asked around and apparently this is “normal” You would think they might spare the foreign teacher this ceremony. The poor teacher was left with soaking sheets and a filthy house and no doubt felt violated. Luckily this teacher is easygoing and could laugh at the intrusion where some of us might not be so forgiving. We all must face up to excepting and living in a culture much different than our own. I had a more relaxed Sunday watching the Olympic B-ball finals next door, that is until the power cut out in the last minute. I assume we carried through to gold. Many of our BCF teachers are also struggling with illness in this mucky monsoon season. Bhutan will challenge anyone especially those who dare to deploy into the LOT. It’s hard to figure out this culture and realize I never will. On one hand the inhabitants can be very community minded, giving, and gentle but there is also brutality and severity. As a westerner we aren’t even in a position to judge and are delegated to observer and occasional participant. WHAT TO DO LA???

Today I was TOD (teacher on duty) which meant I had to supervise morning study from 6:30-7:30 then speak at morning assembly. As usual I spoke on the importance of picking up trash and not littering. After classes I supervised evening study as well. Lately I have been enjoying class 7 more then 8. I used to enjoy 8 more than 7. The students in 7 are more kids and rambunctious but in 8 they become rebellious and form groups. I am still struggling to keep them obedient without becoming militant. I strongly feel that my more casual and non abusive style may be hampering this. They now I will not use a stick to keep them inline. Classroom management is not my strength and is problematic for many novice teachers. These students have to motivate themselves since most are boarders living far from their parents. Generally parents in Bhutan don’t take as active a role as in America or Korea since educating the masses here is a new concept.

This next generation in Bhutan will be the make it or break it era. People in their 50’s still remember a feudal mid evil society with no money, electricity, or roads. Still today few of my colleagues and none of my students have been on an airplane but they have all seen WWF and most own mobiles. What will become of Bhutan? I’m afraid wearing a gho and kira will not sustain them nor will having an excellent and noble monarch. They will need to solve the problems themselves. When a sixth of the country can squeeze into the Rose Bowl this will be a challenge. Individuals have enormous responsibility and must be civil minded in the newly formed democracy. I am scared for Bhutan! The Dragon folk are adaptable, strong, and, survivalist but this will be a perilous era. Yes Bhutan will be sovereign but in what capacity. Will Thimphu turn into Katmandu and what of the villages? Will my students want to farm? All my students in class 8 want a car someday. Will the mountains remain the habitat for big cats, and the jungles remain a sanctuary for the elephants or will the land of Southern Herbs become a shadow of itself. Over cultivation, litter, road building, selling hydro power to India, and worst of all the perceived glamour of Western culture threaten the kingdom from within. Bhutan has its fate squarely in its own hands at least, as nor China or India will march on these proven warriors who now are members of the UN. I am cautiously optimistic but don’t get the impression my students truly understand what they are up against. But why should they at such a young age. It’s not my place to save Bhutan but many of us felincpa’s fall in love with the wild environment that nurtures something in our hearts lost long ago. Most Bhutanese have not the means to venture beyond the mountains to see the misery of the planet. From where I sit typing this with my door open, I am looking back into a prehistoric landscape. Ironically, into a valley of the second most populated country on earth. It comes down to resources and population. How much can the mother endure before she breaks? We are exhausting are abundant ball at an astronomical rate and not many of us care. I caution the reader from my own hypocritical position as I am hardly an ardent environmentalist in my daily habits. I consume enough Coke to add significant circumference to the plastic blob floating in the sea. But awareness is the first step towards turning the tide and healing the earth.    

At present, sun spots the valley and sprawling peaks are crowned by mist. The mountains snuggle the rivers in a tight embrace. In actuality there are three interweaving valleys surrounding the “green nucleus” of Tsenkharla. I watched my 7-8 students rehearse for a song and dance competition in the dirt courtyard as the sun turned the cypress trees a golden green. Dzonka songs are ribbons of ethereal sound and not comprehending them might make them even sweeter. When paired with dance the effect on the viewer is mesmerizing. Something feels off in my head today but nature is in harmony and balance. It was Julia Butterfly, one of my heroes that said “Life is a never ending process of letting go” and this will be my greatest challenge in this incarnation.  

 Letting go of the love might be the hardest. Everything I love is thousands of miles away across a vast ocean, except my truest muse who envelops me.   

Lonesome SF Cowboy

“When all the shows are over honey tell me, where do you think I go?” Lonesome LA Cowboy

Well another day in East Bhutan. Classes were dragging a bit today. In Bhutan scolding and beating are acceptable but I avoid these methods. Obviously I won’t beat and after Korea I vowed not to yell at my students. But I was tempted to raise my voice since they were not listening today. It is said that a teacher must answer over a thousand requests in one day and this takes a lot of patience from those in our profession. I got a headache today and my limited patience was wearing so thin. Sometimes I seriously contemplate my decision to teach. Loving children is not always enough to be a successful educator.  I have to improve in so many areas as a teacher that it can be daunting. I tend to be overly critical but how can one not be in a profession with no ceiling of performance. After classes I handed over another 500 NU donation for staff parties and then went to visit a teacher’s home because their baby was ill. I sat around sipping tea listening to the staff chatter in Sharshop and Dzonka. Isolation can make a body edgy. Having an easy even temperament can serve you well here. Those who know me realize these are not my attributes. There is no doubt that the unsurpassed beauty of Bhutan bolsters my spirit. I do have a few friends here including BCF teachers, Karlos and Sonam, and Butterfly. But these are new untested friendships of convenience and with the nationals there is a language barrier. It’s different for everyone as I know Sheal and Sabrina have formed deep relationships at their postings. For my part I met one of my all time compatriots in Rebecca, a relationship that will endure past the year. One day we hope to meet on the other side of this life and maybe get a pizza. Or perhaps reunite on “The Wookie Farm”

I abandoned the lesson plan for the last moments of class and informally chatted with my 8B students out in the compound. It was nice that they expressed interest in my life and commented how “old” I was especially not to be married. They sincerely wanted to know who would take care of me when I was dying. Tandin even inquired who would be responsible for my corpse. In Bhutanese culture the family unit is intact. Someone always takes care of you when you’re old. This aspect makes America’s values seem monstrously selfish. Just as in Bhutan my tendencies towards privacy is odd. People are rarely alone here except the ascetics in their caves and temples. This lifestyle appeals to me more by the day.

(Big Buddha Interlude)   

During disorientation the group climbed up to a giant golden Buddha statue that was being constructed on the rim of a gorgeous valley overlooking Thimphu. I struggled in the crisp winter air with my Bhutan belly and dehydration. On the way down I found myself wayward with Becky lost in the thick pines. We couldn’t find our way out and were hysterical. I remember a row of blue prayer flags, and a local cutting the thicket with a machete and laughing at us. This was a formative moment in our fledgling friendship. No doubt I was complaining and she was compassionately listening. Well we haven’t made it out of that patch just yet.  

“It’s a Marathon not a sprint” Camile 

Right now I feel a bit flat and tired. It is an effort to rise each morning and rarely do I shine. I want to at least remain cheery for my student’s sake. I know this is the place for me now but that doesn’t mean it is always easy. I assume other teachers come here in part to sort out their issues and get to know themselves better. This is part of the experience but self evaluation can be a harry endeavor especially for those who have a shadowy core. There is always a little magic in each day and that carries me onward. I know I seem a malcontent and complainer and that’s because these are my bad habits. Also I have turned to this blog as a confessional and confidant. My negative patterns are entrenched and I hope to divert the flow into more positive channels. A sage once told me that is what your thirties are all about. Bhutan does not hand out enlightenment and it is an arduous process to gleam insight into this confusing life anywhere. I recall my first glimpse of the Kingdom leaning across Sabrina’s lap to look out the window. As the plane descended I saw dwarfed pines scattered on rolling brown mountains. It was sunny and cold as we immerged like babes from the womb. I felt as uneasy and anxious as the day I was born. Where Reidi cried tears of joy I cried tears of fright. Now all the BCF krewe is scattered across the mountainous kingdom. As time goes on I speak less frequently to my colleagues but wish them all the best in their adventures. I am also enjoying other BCF blogs regularly. Reidi Smith just posted a lovely entry about her midterm break and travels in Bumthang. (I was the only no show at the retreat.) Tonight I keep the company of Jerry’s pickin’ banjo and wait for water. One thing’s for certain this is the adventure of a lifetime.  As my absentee friend Karma Om said it’s “Man vs. Wild”

(Garcia Interlude)

“Shake it Sugaree, I’ll meet you at the jubilee, and if that jubilee don’t come, maybe I’ll meet you on the run” Hunter/ Garcia

We all have our heroes and gurus. I vividly recall August 9 1995 when I heard the news Jerry died. He passed near my home in Marin County and my father woke me up with the news which was being broadcast on AM radio. After the announcement the station played “Casey Jones.” I locked myself in my room and bawled. Public memorials sprang up in Central Park and Golden Gate Park. It was a devastating day for millions of Dead Heads from all walks around the globe. Stalk brokers and Wookies cried together in the streets. I went to Tahoe with my pal John and we climbed Eagle Rock watching a scarlet sunset over the lake. We knew the world would never be the same. It’s hard to believe that was 17 years ago. I was fortunate to catch Jerry 19 times before his cosmic exit and there is nothing like a Grateful Dead show. Of course the culture he creates lives on with Bobby and the rest of the boys and the entire jam band scene. He was a real life Santa Claus influencing generations of people by touching individual hearts and building community through peace, tolerance, and music. He simply changed the world through his love. RIP JERRY! WE LOVE YOU!!! At this time last year I was seeing the torchbearers Phish on the South Shore of Tahoe. I had just interviewed with BCF and was waiting for the decision. Trey was crooning about Alaska while the sun set and a plump moon rose over Heavenly. At that moment Bhutan was on my mind.

SPACE        

The monsoon mists keep Avalon hidden in the clouds. This is Avalon and I know when I leave I can never return except in my memories. Like Arthur our young and handsome king must protect his people while embracing change. As Christianity consumed Paganism Buddhism consumed Bon but we must search for reconciliation in our hearts. Like John Paul Ziller in “Another Roadside Attraction” we must all seek the source, even if it means commandeering a hot air balloon with a baboon and flying into the sun. I try to explain to my students that Bhutan’s natural wonders are singular in this world, a refuge for wild tigers, which have climbed to 13,000 feet in their last getaway. This tiny sphere of pure wilderness exists on our fractured ball of blue which faithfully spins on its axis. When I can take a breath and step back I realize how remarkable this land is, enduring a world of madness sheltered by its sacred mountains. When I see the litter I fear that they don’t realize what’s at stake.

 I have started a fabulous book on loan from Vicky via Becky about the vanishing Himalayan Kingdom’s. This no nonsense account is called “So Close To Heaven” by the brilliant Barbara Crossette. This is a must read if you are interested in this region. The Buddhist kingdoms and tantric culture used to thrive from Mongolia to Afghanistan. Now the region is splintered in a political, cultural, and religious mosaic. One cannot officially travel from Trashiyangtse to Tawang or from Paro to Lhasa. Guru Rimpoche was born in the Swat valley on the Pakistan Afghan border and migrated a long way east to reach Bhutan. After the invasion and absorption of Sikkim and Tibet to India and China, Bhutan remains the last Himalayan monarchy. Facing pressure from without and within and now the kingdom is in peril. I can’t imagine a country with a more ambiguous and fascinating history entwined with legend and myth. How I became a part of that history is equally intriguing and mysterious. Even my presence here is a dichotomy. I am charged to help the students develop their English but I also represent a lifestyle that could be detrimental to the Kingdom. When Butterfly an Indian teacher quips “Don’t destroy the culture” he is raising a valid concern. Although my students are curious and open to my new ideas they remain patriotic and faithful to their traditional values. This balance is the only hope for survival for this peaceful monarchy.    

Easy Answers

“Ain’t no easy answers, what I’m trying to say”

I am actually the third foreign teacher at Tsenkharla. Catherine and Sharon taught almost twenty years ago here when the school was much smaller and called Rangthangwoon. They changed the name to honor the Tsenkharla Dzong and my sanctuary.  I’m not sure who came first but When Catherine was here there was no electricity. Madam Dechen was close friends with Catherine and said they went on long daily walks because, “they were both spinsters at the time.” Madam Dechen looks in her fifties now. I don’t know anything about Sharon but I know Catherine stayed about five years in the time of Zeppa. Jamie came to see her with Leon AKA Mr. Mark and chronicles the visit in her novel. I would love to speak to Catherine about her time here. At that time there were many Canadians teaching in East Bhutan. Back then the contracts were for two year. I think about 70 total educators were in the country. We have only 20 BCF teachers today since restarting the program in 2010. Since Catherine’s era the school has doubled in size and we have acquired a paved road and electricity. But I imagine a lot remains the same, the lack of water and veggies, and the unobstructed view into India. From my door looking east there are very few settlements and the river remains unfettered by man. I’m sure Catherine would be pleased. Although I don’t know her, I feel a special kinship. The current allotment of BCF teachers is not far removed from Catherine, Jamie Zeppa, Nancy Strickland, and Father Mackey. Nancy taught at Becky’s school in Phongmay. Ashleigh teaches at an L.S.S in the locality of Jamie Zeppa’s placement at Sharubse collage which was established by the late Father Mackey. Before coming to Bhutan the Jesuit missionary pulled out all his teeth in preparation to live in a place with no dental care. Our VP remembers Father Mackay taking out his false teeth, smacking his gums and scaring the children. One thing he never did was attempt to convert Bhutanese citizens. I have also run into administrators who were taught by Mr. Mark AKA Leon who currently works for the World Bank helping Bhutan build schools including Reidi’s beautiful campus at Autsho. And as we all know our fearless leader Nancy is practically royalty in Bhutan. You realize the profound impact former Canadian teachers had on their students who grew up to lead the country. Being a teacher in the Kingdom is continuing a special mission started by the volunteers of yore and continued with the vision of folks like Sam Blyth.

I love this passage from Barbara’s book about foreigners living in Bhutan, “The few foreigners allowed to live in the Dragon Kingdom, ostensibly to help develop it, soon learn that the Bhutanese always do things their own way and in their own time.” And why shouldn’t they.

I just got home from Social Service Club where about half of the 60 members showed up. Almost all the boys were bunking. I don’t care to chase them down and am only interested in those who truly want to do the work. In hindsight I should only have accepted 20 students in the club, members like Pema Tshomo who come to enthusiastically pick trash. I swear my neighbor Deki hasn’t picked one piece of rubbish all year. Today we focused on a problematic spot at the front gate of the school and the pathway to the shops. (The gates of heaven, hell, or purgatory depending on which Tim you ask) Right now it is raining and boys are dashing off to prayer with their white scarves and prayer books. A typical day immersed in Bhutan.  Although I find the behavior in my classes frustrating sometimes I have to laugh when the rambunctious boys make paper hats, or beat their chests like King Kong. I have given up making them put their shoes on since life’s too short. We do have fun in Mr. Tim’s class and sometimes learn something too, and that’s a fact! I am actually right on track in the syllabus and my yearly plan but am constantly trying to iron out the kinks. Being a teacher is like being a magician performing tricks to engage a restless audience. When it works it feels so right and when it doesn’t...      

Standing on the Moon

“Standing on the moon, with nothing left to do, a lovely view of heaven but I’d rather be with you”

So we had another meeting today. Let me set the stage. All the teachers congregate in the undersized staff room with stiff benches and a sheet hung up for a projection screen. It’s humid, the curtains are drawn, and the content is always in Dzonka. Today’s topic was how much money should be donated for what event and which occurrences mandate compulsory gatherings. Birth and death fell into that category. It was a rare sunny and stellar afternoon that went to waste. It was a hot day so I held my last class outside where we read the story of Charles Wayo, a young boy who walked from Ghana to Turkey. These are fun kids but controlling every aspect of the lesson and monitoring their behavior can be challenging. Especially when one student is reading aloud, and 30 are listening. What to do I’m a teacher, that’s my job. I am still having trouble recognizing all my students. My poor vision is not helping, along with their national dress, and similar names. I vow to know all 120 by the end of my contract.

This morning a crystal moon partied late into the bluest sky. I had to wonder if it was smiling down on San Francisco too. Only the moon could pull off being two places on the opposite side of the globe. I felt as alone and isolated as Luna up there who rarely glimpses her paramour the sun. They are destined to be apart. I am lucky to have Karlos and Sonam since I am suffering from invisibility again. That is to say I used to tell Morgan I felt invisible when I studied in Ashland Oregon. Sometimes I think if I was at a smaller school it would be easier to interact. When I get upset or confused I stare at the endless mountains from endless angles. It’s so open here as we are the center of the compass, with vistas into eternity. Sometimes the space seems to swallow me whole. I wish to be one with it, to disengage from my tortured ego and disseminate into the landscape. Or splash and run in the river. My diluted consciousness struggles against the omnipotence of the scenery as god howls at me, “Why?”

I was reading The Raven Crown by Michael Aris and it had a tidbit about Prince Tsangma. He was a monk who fled Tibet seeking refuge in East Bhutan. He was escaping political and family strife as his brother had a bounty on him. Tsangma had two sons while in exile. From these two sons descended the rulers of East Bhutan for centuries. Before unification in the 1700’s all the separate rulers of the east traced their lineage back to Tsangma. The ruined Dzong must have been the epicenter in the region before power shifted to Trashigang. I didn’t realize the significance of my sanctum. Now I am the only one left to oversee the compound which remains sturdy after 1,100 years. Less than half the edifice remains but the lead stone wall I perch on is twenty feet tall and in excellent shape. A total of three lichen coveted walls remain and within the structure is an ecosystem of grasses, shrubs, and bushes. The ruin sits on a cliff and is surrounded by a grove of pine and eucalyptus and affords a stunning view of Zongdopelri and a prominent panorama of the western valley and the Kulongchu. From the interior you also have a partial outlook into India through the trees. Ravens frequent the hollow, blackbirds that represent the protector deity of Bhutan, and the pinnacle of my totem. At times I can feel Tsangma’s presence while listening to the breeze rustle the treetops and the river whooshing through the steep ravine towards Doksom. My soul will one day return to rest among the stones that will surely outlast me. I decree that Reed and Paige can scatter half of my ashes inside the exposed fortress, and half in Wheeler Grove on the Lost Coast.

Around and Around

“No they never stopped rockin’ till the moon went down”

Teaching grammar gives me nightmares. If Mare audited my class she would cringe. Firstly the grammar book is convoluted and to difficult for their level. It seems like a high school text not appropriate for beginning ESL, or Mr. Tim. From now on I will adapt the lesson to suit all of our needs. For today I abandoned the text and taught plural and singular, making fun sentences. Today we are enveloped in a humid grey cloud, a classic monsoon pattern. My morning was uplifted by an E- mail from Morgan. I haven’t heard a peep from anyone at home in weeks so it was nice to be remembered. Her words helped reaffirm my mission which at times is unclear. It motivates me when my loved ones acknowledge the importance of my work. My earache has cleared thanks to my antibiotics. Martin’s wife Tara just got over a serious illness in Jakar. Health is paramount here as Ashleigh, Reidi, Sarah, and others can attest. I have been reasonably fit since my first two weeks in Thimphu. We are very susceptible to illness in Bhutan. They thought Tara had typhoid but it was something else. It sounds as if she is out of the woods now, thank goodness!  I am hopeful that my diet of chilies and Coca Cola will keep me alive for the year. I am looking forward to my 1.5 day weekend at home. I will be cleaning, washing, prepping, reading, roaming, and sleeping.  It’s hard to stay on the stick here and it requires constant vigilance. Most of my free time this weekend will be filled watching student soccer matches and doing social work. Karma got his TV charged and I watched three hours of pole vault yesterday. It’s been a spotty viewing for my 2012 Olympics but I am grateful for any television at all. I have been bone stimulating every day in hopes of mending my arm and am waiting for news from mom about her surgery and recovery. I spun the prayer wheel for the health and happiness of all sentient beings, even the ones I don’t care for that much. 

Treat a Stranger Right

“Everybody Ought to treat a stranger right, long way from home”

Today I moderated a speech tournament, and was given about twenty minutes notice to prepare. Only in Bhutan would there be tiny bird’s dive bombing the speakers in the MP hall. After that we had a baby shower for Kesang and Leki. There baby was adorable and only two days old, Bhutan’s new hope. The community turned out and shared a delicious feast of emadatsi, chicken, beef, egg, dal, and veggies. I heeded Tara’s warning but did sneak a carrot or two. I sat next to Butterfly and we cheerily talked with the drunken nationals. The Bhutanese do love their ara. When I stop being a sourpuss I realize that the community is friendlier when I am more open to them. The women are still shy but the men will banter a bit. I have Karma Om, Phuntso, and Manu as platonic female friends but none of them live at Tsenkharla. I guess I miss intimate female companionship in my life. Boohoo! The rain swept into the village just as I was jogging home in the dark. Tomorrow we have classes then a full program of events. Principal La in his nice way encouraged me to stay put this weekend which was my plan anyhow. It was a long day of classes and events today which is the way it ought to be. Teachers like J.D have created their lives here by delving into the school community, which is all we have. My resistance is futile and I must compromise some of my overly cherished privacy. It’s a tight rope act at times. I will admit it is endearing to see an intact community working and playing together. There are certainly internal disputes but it is holistic. It is what I have been searching for all my life in the USA. I won’t go as far to say I have found my place. Rather I will marvel at the Bhutanese and observe and absorb the way they live. I am fortunate to see a world that exists on a completely different scale compared to Western Civilization. Even in Korea Western ways had a toehold and consumerism was rampant. Bhutan still retains its identity even with the introduction of money, cars, and gadgets in the last fifty years. I said a prayer that Kesang’s baby would grow up to find Bhutan the way it is now. These are not noble savages/ primitives to be criticized or romanticized, but a sincere culture that still has a value system in place. It is important to marry, have kids, so the children will then look after the parents in old age. No convalescent homes around here. There is a sacrifice willingly made for the family. This inspires me to be a better son, bro, and uncle when I return! When people ask me questions after the requisite “How do you find Bhutan?” Next is always “how many people in your family?” My family picture on my table-desk is quite popular with the students and teachers who happen upon my hut.      

Welcome to the World

“Just shinning pieces of a dream, almost could have been, and still might yet come true”

It’s Saturday and I spent the day watching extracurricular activities. My stomach was “paining” as they say in local vernacular.  But I didn’t have “shooting diarrhea” another popular phrase. In the afternoon I read on my rock taking a sun bath. Thunder rumpled in the west as a rainbow straddled the border. Three pieces of rainbow immerged around the valley while I boned up on the three different schools of Buddhism. In Bhutan they practice tantric Buddhism which is the most mystical and newest branch coming about in the 7^th century. The Drukpa lineage brought the Bhutanese brand of Buddhism from Tibet; this is the lineage of the Divine Madman that settled in the west. Tantric Buddhism stresses the teacher/ disciple relationship which reminds me of my connection with Bobby. This branch also has secret sexual rites and supernatural lamas. “So Close to Heaven” illustrates points on religion and Bhutan’s political issues. The Kingdom is no Shangri-La as it has some very real problems to contend with. Southern Bhutan has always been the hotbed of contention. The Bhutanese repelled the British only to have a serious wave of “illegal” immigration from Nepali’s in the 20^th century.  It’s a complex issue as all immigration is and many “legitimate” Nepali contribute to society today. My dreamland Manas also harbored Assamese terrorist who had to be expelled by Bhutanese forces led by the fourth king himself. (The fourth king has four lovely wives, sisters all named Ashi.) A Terrorist bomb killed two Bhutanese and injured twenty others in Gelaphu in 2002. I try my best to avoid political discussions since it was forbidden by Nancy but I truly sympathize with the monarch in their endless struggle to protect and propagate the precious Bhutanese culture. And I am still waiting for the beloved fifth king to come visit us. After reading I strolled up to the temple at sunset to pray my respects. The caretaker’s young wife was kind enough to let me in after hours and gave me some delicious pears from the orchard. I feel most at home at Tsangma’s ruin and Zongdopelri but I still recoil at the newly formed dirt road and cell tower. The widening has irradiated some nice grassy knolls but it is still my paradise on earth. I returned to Tsenkharla at dusk through the cypress grove with the distant lights of Trashigang shinning through silhouetted branches like a golden constellation.

It’s Sunday and I tried to sleep in. Of course with students banging on my window this is impossible. Despite waking at 8 I still missed water and now I have a pile of dirty dishes and laundry that I cannot wash. The students and locals are better at survival skills then me. Sometimes I feel very frustrated and tired of the grind. I will turn my attention to planning lessons for the week ahead. I will never take water for granted again, like the sign in Thimphu near Nancy’s compound states “water is life”   

To Be Continued...

The blind leading the blind, Kaling blind school

Armchair Anthropology

“Tinsel tiger’s in a metal room stalking satisfaction” Picasso Moon

Progress is happening in rural Bhutan. Since I have arrived a cell tower has been erected above Zongdopelri. And now they have widened the tiny road up to Tsangma and the temple. Luckily Tsenkharla Dzong is buried in the forest a hundred yards off the track. Almost every village in Bhutan has electricity and many have roads. Overall the wilderness is unspoiled and constant. To best explain to my U.S followers it is like living within a National Park, except it’s the entire country. Bhutan’s political border is actually a geological boundary protecting a biological oasis stretching from the plains of India to the snow clad twenty five thousand foot peaks of Tibet. Bhutan boast jungle, broadleaf and pine forests, moraines, and a vast river system. The wildlife is equally astounding including a list of animals I will probably never see. The short list includes: tigers, snow leopards, common leopards, and a myriad of big cats. Elephants and unicorn rhinos in Manas, all kinds of birds including the renown black neck cranes. Also bears, wolves, Tonkin, red pandas, and Asian Buffalo. Around here we have bores, porcupines, deer, a lot of birds and insects including awesome butterflies. The terrain is the most attractive and startling I have seen. One can never absorb it all. The mountains are steep and lushly canopied. The rivers zigzag through a maze of valleys. In places it is unyielding and impenetrable and other spots undulating and rolling. In the east it is rugged and gnarly.

Settlements must be scratched into humongous mountains. Fields are carved and from a distance look as if they will slide off the cliff into the abyss. Providing infrastructure is a tremendous challenge and speaks to the grittiness of the Bhutanese folks. Another reason they remain the only sovereign Buddhist kingdom is their remoteness and isolation due to the unconquerable terrain. Trashigang Dzong gave the Easterners a literal upper hand in repelling the Tibetans. Otherwise we’d be in China now. I mentioned before, it has been a succession of miracles to enable the survival of Bhutan as an independent nation. Watching the students hack grass, prune trees, and move about the land you notice a difference to their movements compared to Westerners. We are not as strong or fluid. The Bhutanese are connected to the land in an intimate way. I don’t want to romanticize or mystify the reality, but it is true. I am convinced their feet and hands are larger and they are in very fit condition. There is no gender bias when it comes to working the land as both sexes harvest the fields. The children have knowledge of farming and the earth that most of us don’t possess. The Bhutanese have many things going for them. They have the ability to survive here and are extremely patriotic. They will need these qualities to face the challenges ahead. I am confident they will endure at least through my student’s generation but problems will exist. They must preserve their precious culture and continue to be faithful to sustaining the land that has sustained them. I am merely an armchair anthropologist but these are my early impressions of Bhutan.    

I also found out today from a class 8 boy that Zongdopelri means paradise. I couldn’t think of a more fitting name for our temple perched up on the ridge with views in all directions. This spot is quite possibly my favorite spot on earth. Surrounding the perfect pagoda are vertical prayer flags, cypress, a pear orchard, grass, and chest high marigolds. And of course from my inner sanctuary the attic, one can see in both directions including the two rivers racing to meet at Doksom, thousands of feet below. Inside the temple (the brain of the guruda) is an entire universe as vast as our own. One has the urge to simply sit and wait for all truth to manifest while watching the statue of the Guru and his tiger come alive to engage with fierce tantric deities who escape the mural walls. There is actually a fourth chamber, a sidecar on the second floor. This dark room has only a huge “space drum” and a frighteningly ferocious deity. This is a room I don’t linger in long.     

“We’re sitting here stranded though we’re all doing our best to deny it” Visions of Johanna

Tonight the students and I got special curry for dinner. I rarely eat at school but when there’s beef and emadatsi then game on. The students sure deserve it, although my 8B was naughty this afternoon making spit balls and throwing them at the roof where they stuck. Today we were blessed with sunshine and stars which is unbelievably rare in the summer. All of us BCF teachers fulfilled our destiny at our placements and we all have our pitfalls and boons. I am ecstatic to be on top of this diamond peak surrounded by daisy chains of mountains. I desperately try to convey the beauty to you and by now readers are surely board of my lackluster descriptions. But this is the focal point of my life here along with my work. So hang in there eventually I might report something interesting. For now my BFF (Bhutan Friend Forever) Becky is stranded on the east side of the river in Phongmay. I wonder how Martha is holding up as well. Becky is fortunate enough to have a fellow felincpa close by. I am hoping to see Bunks for her 35^th next week in Rangjoon at Ian and Vicky’s. My twin sister is actually five months my senior. Am I really approaching 35? I guess Bhutan qualifies as a respectable midlife crisis, tee he. It’s safe to say with my large debt from loans and no companion I won’t be living a stable life in the foreseeable future. I guess I am destined to gallop in Mare’s footsteps. It’s nice that Becky is so similar in her wanderlust ways. Her existence validates my own ramble down the lost highway. At one point I imagined a family and kids but was always far more concerned with the next show, powder day, or adventure. Since Tyler and Beth had Reed and Paige I feel content to be an uncle. Certainly as a teacher I get my fill of children. As for true love that’s a whole other blog. My notions have changed since twenty two. I know love exists in many forms on this planet on a grander scale than any human relationship that might temporarily embody it. For example my love for my family is as true as love gets and right now I want to send good vibes to my mom who is getting shoulder surgery. I love you mommy!

This is an important time for me to be alone in this world. If I never find the ONE then there was no ONE to begin with. I have already exceeded my allotment in being loved in this life. This is my opportunity to give back to the universe. We all have a debt to pay back to the maker. I realize I am rapidly firing off the blogs with little significant content. It also seems I am repeating myself or experiencing déjà vu.  Maybe if I write it out, something will come of it. So pull up a log around the campfire and lets watch the sky awhile. Sorry I am out of colortines at the moment. 

Class 8

 

Lost in Translation/ The Place To Be

Lost In Translation

  “You come on so strong with that same sad song wherever you go, run along, take your ball and go home” If the Shoe Fits

I hitched a ride into Trashigang with a teacher with the intention of watching the Olympics on TV. Sadly gymnastics are over and apparently the women dominated in team competition. I did catch track and field, swimming, diving, water polo, rowing, fencing, shooting, equestrian, boxing, badminton, handball, U.S.A basketball, table tennis, and proper tennis.  I watched Serina win the singles gold and started a USA chant at the restaurant which received a round of applause from the Bhutanese patrons. I love the Olympics for many reasons especially the universal dedication and determination of the athletes. Human beings are amazing creatures with boundless potential.  

Trashigang remains the same with Igor circumambulating while murmuring prayers and Phuntso talking nonsense. I also go for the food not just the local characters. My favorite joint serves fatty pork chunks, dal, and potato curry. It’s nice to get a proper meal but I would hardly call it fine dining. My standards are low since in Tsenkharla we have very little. My diet at home is ramen, eggs, fried rice, emadatsi, and if I’m lucky, and we have bread, grilled cheese. I’m not feeling healthy now with a painful earache. The ride to Trashigang is beautiful with green shrubbery underneath the thinly spread tooth pick pines. The rivers converging at Doksom are raging like quarrelling lovers. The green rolling mountains curve revealing rice patties in their crannies as the lazy road shadowboxes the river that scurries and snakes like a Tim Carbone fiddle solo. Along the way the gold pagoda of Gom Kora sparkles. This is my beloved emerald triangle from Gom Kora up to Tsenkharla Dzong and down to Chorten Kora. On this rare clear day the result of relentless rain is an organic swaying palace. Rivulets cut through steep ravines to rejoin their source. I am aware of the water flowing through my own body. Aren’t we just bags of water that crawled out of the ocean a geological second ago? This is my Bhutan, a rocky rugged landscape with strings of rainbow prayer flags fluttering over deep gorges. Trashiyangtse is considered one of the most remote districts in the Kingdom and considered the Far East. National teachers don’t want to be placed here and no one can teach in Paro or Thimphu town until they have put in three years of se vice at a remote posting.

If Trashigang is the heart of the east then its Dzong is the soul. Over three hundred years old this whitewashed fortress is a power vortex. The edifice is perched on a sheer cliff overlooking an endless valley and is directly above Chasm. The compound is full of history, intrigue, and magic. I always end up there at twilight to reset my clocks, and remind myself that I am living my dream. The river shushes below as I breathe in the sweetness of the tropical air. Although clinging to a slope, the town is at a relatively low elevation. The town is pretty much the foothills of the mountain range that includes Jhomolahari, and Everest. We are actually considered the inner Himalayan range that runs north to south with deep wooded valleys. Trashigang is quite compact with mid evil architecture with steep stone staircases that run between boxy yellow, peach, and white buildings.  Barefoot kids play happily in the soft gloaming shouting friendly greetings in the steamy streets lined with blossoming flower pots. A stand of prominent eucalyptus trees palisade the creek and shelters the bazaar that surrounds the dilapidated prayer wheel. It’s feels twenty degrees warmer here than Tsenkharla. Trashigang is a hub of commerce and trading for the whole region, a pleasant frontier town at the end of the world. I wonder how much has changed since the days of Zeppa. By the way thanks Jamie for becoming an official tigress (member of tiger in a trance!) I am tickled and thrilled to have an accomplished writer and heroine of Bhutan on board.  Julie I was glad to hear you are tuned in too, happy birthday and say hi to Kit, J-Bird, and of course Bobby for me!

At times I feel lost in translation here. I haven’t picked up Sharshop or Dzonka so I cannot decipher most conversations around me. It’s strange being the only foreigner wandering in a town of Bhutanese with people stopping and starring. Of course this is part of the ESL game especially in rural Bhutan.  Sometimes it’s exhilarating and sometimes annoying depending on my mood. I did run into J.D and one of his students on the impossibly steep staircase ascending the tiers of the town. He seems an extraordinary teacher who often goes beyond the call of duty. It is always nice to come home to the smiling faces of my own students and the adorable village kids.

“I come unglued while in midair, and land to reform, limb by limb”

Sundays in Bhutan have a distinct feel. It’s a day to do cleaning, laundry, and planning. I also always include an evening walk if it’s not pouring. On my walk I reflect on the week ahead and how I can improve as a teacher. I have a good idea of where I am going in the curriculum this semester. I have to admit I will be teaching more to the test this term as well as focusing on test taking skills. Sadly tests are everything here and students must pass the class ten Exam to have any career. Most students will be weeded out by this exam. I am also striving towards more conversational English and student based learning. I want my students speaking as much as possible in the classroom. I love doing group work but this works better in class 8 then class 7. I have definitely improved on teaching the short stories. The trick is going slowly, rereading, and asking tons of comprehension questions to continually assess them as they go. It is fun to teach them literature. I am also focusing on quality writing focusing on rewriting. The hardest for me is teaching grammar. As you all know I am not great in this area myself and explaining the rules of complex grammar is difficult. I am hoping my ear improves and am looking forward to some engaging activities in the classroom this week. With only Sunday off the weeks can blend together! I spoke to Becky who was busy picking leaches off her feet and cleaning mold from her walls. I will repeat you must be vigilant to survive Bhutan. Right now my hut is clean, my belly is full, and my work is done. As I take a moment from my day to write to you.      

 “We will get by, we will survive” Touch of Grey

Morgan always mocked that “Touch of Grey” the Grateful Dead’s biggest hit was a crowd pleaser. But she finally got it while wading through the sea of revelers at the Bill Graham Auditorium in San Francisco. She found me on the brink of two worlds just in time. Holding each other tightly, there we said goodbye. In Buddha 101 he teaches that life is impermanent. We humans don’t like this concept. We rush to invent heaven in the face of such a bald fact. I have always admired the atheist’s courage and conviction to shun the possibility of eternal life. I especially revere those atheists who do good deeds for the sake of goodness without trying to appease a god. To be honest I scorn those individuals who believe that if you don’t embrace their ideology your soul is damned. No skin off an atheist’s nose since they know better.  In Bhutan the energy matrix transcends the Buddhist and even bon beliefs. At the source it is all one and formless. I spent some time meditating on my favorite bands name, The Grateful Dead. It occurred to me that when we are born we are already fated to be dead yet grateful to be alive. Thank you all for sharing this journey with me. Every day I say a prayer for my donors who gave me the opportunity to live and work in such an extraordinary place. Your loving hands delivered me across the Himalayas.      

Timothy Gross National Happiness  

Gom Kora

Here We Are, Here And Now

Part 1 Jesus Visits Tsenkharla

“Come to Jesus today, let him show you the way, your drifting too far from the shore”  

Bhutan is a busy place. Between planning lessons, chores, meetings, and extracurricular activities there is always plenty to do. I haven’t gotten around to writing in my poetry book or reading much of late. My favorite activity is roaming and staring at nature and these hobbies consume my limited free time. One must be vigilant to survive here. If water comes at 5 AM one must get up and collect it. I sweep my hut thrice daily.

I saw the specter of Jesus wander through the compound during prayer time at assembly. He was wearing a white robe and was bare foot with natty flowing hair. He stood out among the purple and black gho and kira. He seemed a bit lost and wide eyed in this region. Jesus has been on my mind a lot lately since my born again tour friend sent me an urgent E mail telling me to embrace Christ when I get in trouble here. It’s been a challenging time that coincided with her plea. I have been open to the Guru and Sangay Dempa to show me the way out of darkness but they ask me to find my own path. As for Jesus H Christ I simply bowed and let him roam through the pack of students passing the prayer wheel (without spinning it) and wander off into the wilderness towards Tsenkharla Dzong. I’m not sure the meaning of this apparition except to say our savior has visited the LOT. But he won’t find many takers here. Although he has a small fringe contingent among this ancient Buddhist Kingdom. Perhaps he is merely the Western Buddha or Buddha is the Eastern Jesus. I know Heather will recoil from that notion as in her faith lines must be clearly drawn. Religion often “others” humans in a “your with us or against us mentality” I prefer to acknowledge that it’s all one and that’s why I simply worship nature. The faded deities of the bon and pagan mythologies still flow with the river spirit as I absorb them all in each breath. Perhaps it’s time for an inclusive faith to usher in a balanced era for humankind. Look for a female messiah to spread the new gospel.

“Same old friends the wind and rain” Weather Report

At this moment the monsoon reveals its treats, rainbows and shafts of light. Saucer sized leaves and chest high grasses, bountiful vegetable and flower gardens. Tsenkharla has transformed from a barren rock into a shire. Seeds planted a month ago are as tall as me and nature seems on a larger scale here. And then there are the cloud’s which mutate and transform but never dissipate. Perhaps it is one cloud as Bhutan is one mountain (Mt. Bhutan) it’s rare to see the sun but when it immerges everything twinkles in our stars light. I spend afternoons perusing the grounds of our campus picking up trash. The campus has seen a noticeable improvement in cleanliness. The village and trails are another matter and remain littered. But I am very optimistic to see the students at least keeping the campus relatively clean. Of course this is no time for complacency. Hopefully BCF will get my bins out here soon so I can establish the recycling project. Once the students and teachers change their habits things will continue to progress in a positive way. I hope to coordinate another mass cleaning day in the fall after the rains cease. For now it’s my duty to observe and absorb the astounding beauty of this place. To relish in the heart shaped leaves trailing up the trunks of cypress trees. Or the dahlias that look like pastel lions and the second growth of roses along with the white, purple, pink, and orange flowers that remain anonymous. From our Eden we look down at the once barren valley now a carpet of rolling green threaded by my favorite river. Along the banks are rice terraces. Above our haven are lush deciduous and evergreen forests. Beyond these pockets of trees the peaks are shrouded in infinite mist. The steep once rugged mountains have ripples of green busting out of them, softening their tough demeanor. I can only imagine the jungles approaching Yangtse with their verdant waterfalls and playful monkeys. The maize is starting to be harvested and tastes like rubbery corn. I am not sure why a tastier variety cannot be grown. Mostly the maize is mashed and combined with rice for better nutrition. (It makes me crave Morgan’s “special corn recipe” White or yellow corn splashed with lime juice and chili flakes MMMM so delicious especially at a family BBQ.) At night I am waken up by rain pelting my tin roof as cells pass overhead moving along to Bartsham or Boomdeling. Birdsong fills the air, the croaks of ravens, the tweet of little sparrow’s dose -doing while butterflies promenade with moths to the call of cicadas and crickets.

Inside the simple wooden classrooms I struggle to keep a handle on my large classes. They are not well behaved under my tutelage compared to their national teachers who walk around with beating sticks. If I choose to be morose and serious they respond in kind. But when I am silly they don’t know how to stop. When delivering a truly engaging lesson the mix is right on god’s soundboard. It’s challenging with very little supplies and large classes of thirty or more. My karma from my student life is kicking my ass. I was a cyclone of disruption in the classroom and now I am on the other end of it. I marvel that I actually became a teacher in some sort of cosmic comedy. Overall I enjoy it but it is a challenge in every way. I was not born to teach rather was born to be wild. I have a long way to go in improving as most novice teachers do. All I can do is try my best to stay in the moment and be present each and every day, as teaching brings to the foreground all of my challenges.

 I want my students to read more and they complete book reports every two weeks. But I am not able to go to the library and help them select appropriate books for their level. The selection is extremely limited to begin with. Some come back with Dzonka books, others with thick novels, and others with graphic comic books with inappropriate illustrations. Sither had a comic of some Tibetan adept that depicted him traveling the countryside getting drunk and sleeping with women. The pictures showed breasts and genitals. Not exactly appropriate for class 8. So for now I prepare for my Saturday classes which I try to make as bearable as possible for both student and teacher.

(Gamehenge Interlude)

“I’ll call upon my faithful friend the mockingbird to fly and seize the helping book and bring it to your shack” Colonel Forben  

At times I feel I have slipped through a portal into Trey’s alternative universe of Gamehenge. In reality we exist on the fringe of the land of lizards. We have a noble good king to counteract the evil King Wilson. Our lama’s trade secrets with Icculus whose helping friendly book is stashed somewhere in the hidden valleys of Lhuntse for safekeeping. On this side of the divide Tsenkharla has around 750 students including 500 boarders. We have around 50 teachers, support staff, and cooks. We are a major feeder school in Yangtse with some day scholars walking hours to and from school each day. The main drag of the village of Tsenkharla consists of about ten tin roofed shops selling the same biscuits and plastic jugs of Coca Cola. A few farmhouses that dot the slopes have traditional Bhutanese architecture looking like gingerbread houses with stones on the roof. Others are merely earthen huts. We lack the sophisticated rural style of Bartsham and perhaps are not as ramshackle as Phongmay. About ten minutes hike up a hurly burly stone road are the ruins of Tsenkharla Dzong established by the exiled Tibetan Prince Tsangma eleven hundred years ago. The forest and grasses are so thick it is difficult to bush -whack to the ancient stone edifice. About ten minutes up from Tsangma is Zongdopelri temple. From there a network of trails begins leading up to my bon shrine and Darchen, or down into the lush cypress grove and several tiny villages. Our village used to be called Rangthangwoon before being renamed Tsenkharla which is often spelled Tshenkharla. We are one hour’s drive from Trashiyangtse and an hour and a half in the other direction from Trashigang. We are two days grueling drive to Thimphu and the nearest disco-tech. We are about 10 Km as the famous mockingbird flies to the border of Gamehenge. There are no roads to the border and I haven’t found the trail yet. Tonight I peer out from Trey’s imagination where good and evil quarrel for my soul. And the search for the helping friendly book continues.  

Standing On The Shoulders Of Giants

“My strange heroes lead me on, and when I get there they’ll be gone” Two Djinn

Jamie Zeppa got it right in her fantastic book “Beyond The Sky And The Earth.” On my walk to the shops I was looking at a swirling sea of mist washing over Jamie’s former home of Kalung and Sharubse College beyond Trashigang in the distance.  We two and a few other fortunate foreigners share a deep admiration for this mysterious realm of East Bhutan. Father William Mackey a Jesuit Priest arrived here after many years in India and established many of the first proper schools. I’ve stated before how proud I am to stand on the shoulders of these aforementioned giants. Cheers Jamie wherever you are tonight. I hope you are curled up in the lap of luxury. I will leave the final words to you as I love your description of old Rangthangwoon, my home village in “Beyond.”

“We look up and down the length of the river valley, watching the mountain ranges in the South opening one after the other like gates to a secret kingdom. I love how the landscape gives the impression of vast space and intimacy at the same time: the thin brown line of a path wandering up an immense green mountainside, a plush hanging valley tucked between two steep hillsides, a village of three houses surrounded by dark forest, paddy fields around an outcrop of rock, a white temple gleaming on a shadowy ridge. The human inhabitants nestle into the landscape; nothing is cut or cleared beyond what is required. Nothing is bigger than necessary. Every sign of human settlement repeats the mantra of contentment: “This is just enough.” 

       Fourth of July view from my doorstep (click on image for optimal viewing.

River of Consciosness

(Caution: Avoid this blog if you like purposeful writing…Dedicated to Jerry Garcia AKA The Space Pilot)

The Days Between

“Summer flies and August dies, and the world grows dark and mean”

The silver curtain of clouds washes over the mountains daily with intermittent rain. I find myself adrift. I focus on my tasks of planning lessons, teaching, and chores. Wondering about this dream of mine? On the one hand Bhutan is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. But I don’t feel complete. I have not assimilated well. In part to my own self imposed isolation. All the teachers are married and I find myself with few friends. I know I could make a better effort but my nature is reclusive. Nature is my only company and on a good day I have my students. I am not above missing family, friends, festivals, and food. At times I get lost in my own head which is as vast as the valley below. The finest ever seen, with its silver river snaking around the curves of the mountains that interlope and unfold endlessly. I wander at night watching the lights twinkle in India like distant galaxies thinking of home. Not sure what I left behind or where I am now, meditating on the fringe or the outskirts of my own funky consciousness.

Did you know in Bhutan people eat with their hands and cut their toenails in public? You would think it is a perfect place for a hippie like me, ISN’T IT? Last night I dreamt I left Tsenkharla and cried. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the mountains and the great oak trees. Not to mention our treasure of giant cypress which line the pathway to the school. There is a lot to hang on to here and I hope to shift my attitude like the steamy clouds that brush the impermanent mountains. I can enjoy Tsenkharla at its pinnacle of greenery before the harvest of towering maize, potato, and rice. This is a pixies playground despite or in spite of the demons. I enjoy the fluttering butterflies and invasion of armored insects before they cycle away and the big wheel turns. So today I hammered a new attitude to my shoes and tried again. I have a better handle on how to teach the students these days and have been pleased with the lessons.

Oh, Happy birthday Jerry! You live on in all of our hearts forever. At Terrapin Crossroads (formerly the Palm Ballroom) MK pays his respects in style. This next poem is dedicated to Buddha’s first sermon so long ago.     

Teach Me Too: In Memory of Lord Buddha’s First Sermon

Teach me to love myself

When I can’t stand my face

Teach me to forgive myself

When I have hurt others

Teach me to forget

When I only remember

Teach me to think of others

When only I am selfish

Teach me to be a better teacher

When I can’t get through

Teach me patience

When I am indignant

Teach me to be lighthearted

When my heart is made of stone

Teach me to meditate

When my mind is a Golden Langur

Teach me discipline

When I am lazy

Teach me acceptance

For things I cannot change

Teach me to believe in you

When Christ has forsaken me

 So Many Roads

“Going where the sun don’t shine and the rain refuse to fall, you don’t seem to hear me when I call”

I love hiking at Tsenkharla since there are so many trails splintering in every direction. I will never explore them all but its fun to try. I have thoroughly explored the land of terror known as East Bhutan. I have taken all the main roads, east to Phongmay, west to Mongor, North to Yangtse, and South to Samdrup Jhonkhar and the border. I haven’t returned to West Bhutan since the formative days of disorientation and crossing the “Big La” at over 12,000 feet. In many ways the two regions are like separate countries with different languages and migration patterns. Even Drukpa Kunley (The Divine Madman) never ventured past Bumthang. He was too busy deflowering virgins and subduing demons to bother with the east. Or perhaps he knew the ancient demonic forces of the east could not be subjugated. At least the Guru made the long trip out leaving his imprint on rocks and his soul in our hearts. Buckle up kids it gonna be a long hard journey home!

Lazy River Road

“Run hide seek in your own backyard, mama’s backyard won’t do”

Sometimes I’m standing at the chalkboard when it occurs to me just where I am, about as far from home as I can be. As mentioned by UK Dave, this is our home now. But I am still a Californian not a Bhutanese. I might feel at home gazing at the mountains but I am just a visitor in this far off land. It’s been a remarkable journey to this point a culmination of every decision I have ever made. Now in my remaining time here I must leave my own positive imprint. I have made mistakes and blunders but am striving to improve as a teacher and a person. Even in the most terrifying moments Bhutan is a place of self realization. It’s not always pretty or what you wanted or expected, but it’s real. In this difficult realm it’s easy to see how we are all blessed simply to be alive. When you see a whimpering dying dog covered in blood and flies you realize that you are not so different. Reincarnation states that in the next life or prior life we could be that dog. It seems a random and auspicious turn of events to be born human. But I am reminded that like the animals and the flies feasting on a dead carcass we are all part of the life force. For my tiny part I want to positively influence the students I have contact with, at times the responsibility of being a teacher ways too heavy on my shoulders. It is a role I am still growing into while experiencing some “growing pains.” Being agnostic I must still implore faith in the process of growth and development. I have no defined form to PRAY upon. I am aimlessly drifting in this universe between the darkness and light. This is MY calling, just drifting and dreaming looking for the shoreline. 

Half Step

“What’s the point of calling shots, this cue ain’t straight in line, cue balls made of Styrofoam and no one’s got the time” Mississippi Half Step Uptown Tootaloo

I just got out of a four hour meeting. Bhutanese meetings are agonizingly intriguing. People talk over each other and shout in a warped version of democracy. This particular meeting was to outline a school discipline policy. My favorite moment was the level two offense of “prowling” at night commonly referred to as night hunting, or night crawling according to Sheal. This is the practice of boys breaking into a girls quarters and engaging in coitus. GRRRRRR! Outside the moon surfed on foamy clouds in this fairytale land, a cross between Lord of the Rings, Narnia, The Princess Bride, and Star Wars. The men’s gho looks a lot like a Jedi’s garb and right now with wonderland flowers pollinated by enormous bees and misty mountains, one has truly fallen down the rabbit hole and is not in Kansas anymore. How’s that for a popular culture mixed metaphor. Afterwards at a staff dinner talk turned to the Olympics and USA’s political world domination. That tears it! I rushed to Karlos and Sonam and gave them 1,000 NU so they can recharge their idiot box before the girls hit the mat, if it’s not too late. Just a taste of the action will satisfy my insatiable hunger for sport. A little link to my former life long ago in a galaxy far away…    

Goodnight from somewhere over the rainbow!

Thanks Jerry!!!

P.S enjoy the two photos that took 28 minutes and all my vouchers to upload!

                                                                Shonghar Dzong ruins

                                       Living the dream, Sakteng!