For the Thunder Dragon
Prelude
Proof of god is really a search for proof of soul. It’s our
own immortality that we yearn for, isn’t it?
On the last day of Zangtopelri Tsechu I developed a
festering boil on my left eyelid, eerily reminiscent of the apocalyptic
infection that I brought home from India last Christmas. I looked so monstrous
that I stayed away from school for a bit of convalescence. Also this boil hurts!
That is where I’m at now typing these words to you. I haven’t had the privilege
to read many other BCF blogs this year since I have no internet, but over the
summer I read a few from an internet café in Bumthang. In her blog Sarah
Diamond remarked that the only time she felt doubt about coming to Bhutan was
when she lay in bed forlorn and sick. She really hit the nail on the head as
every BCF teacher realizes sickness and struggle are part and parcel to ones
experience in the Kingdom. Just as one might exult in the unsurpassed beauty of
the land they must also wallow in their bunk uncertain and afraid. I visited
our BHU (Basic Health Unit) to consult with the good Doctor Namsa who I have
seen too often this year. He remarked that perhaps it was time I had a puja
(religious purging ceremony) to exorcise the evil spirits that might plague me.
He commenced to recall my litany of maladies, falling, viral flu, and eye and
ear pain etcetera. Only in Bhutan will a trained medical doctor suggest
superstitious forces for intervention as if a lama’s incantations could stave
off evil. I would gladly do a puja but puja’s cost money you see, about a month
salary in fact. It’s not a good time to be sick with exam preparations but
fortunately my review sessions are almost complete and now it is up to the
students to study. Man if you could see your mixed up author now, like a
Cyclops or a haggard mutant beast staring back from a dusty mirror. I miss my
mom though all traces of her are erased from the hut. Near the end of her trip
she told me she was proud of me and Aunt Barb said I was a good teacher.
Selfishly that was motivation for bringing her here. I wanted to show mom that
all her efforts have amounted to something and that I amounted to something.
“…and every morning a
new freedom arose over the eastern mountains and lighted the world” Sweet
Thursday
Twirling in Moonbeams
& The Boogieman in the Bardo
Rain only lasted a day and I awoke to mostly blue skies with
castles of clouds congregating on the eastern horizon redirecting the sunlight
in potent orange spheres shot from the Guru’s bow. While giving a practice test
to class 8 I encountered a girl dressed in shirt and pants and asked who she
was. The retiring girl was twelve years old a hired babysitter for one of our
female teachers whose husband also works in the community. It turns out Karma
Yangzom the young babysitter with cropped haircut is Brokpa and now employed by
the couple. A very interesting situation and no doubt in this case the girl is
treated well although separated from home. She seemed a natural with the baby
as many Bhutanese children tend to be. According to the teacher the girl comes
from a very poor family and gets NU 2000 a month including housing and meals.
The point is the girl seemed intelligent but it’s a shame she dropped out after
the third grade. I looked down at the students hunched in the grass taking
their quiz and felt a surge of responsibility.
There’s a whimsical side too.
An autumn day at Tsenkharla the eye roves around seeking
candy in every direction, MOUNTAINS! A flaxen butterfly hovers over a galactic
marigold. A towheaded Dawa Dema chases me down the path surrounded by shining
orange marigolds. Along the hedge crimson roses refuse to relent to the advancing
season and the needles of a giant cypress gyrate and glisten parceling out
light in dappled fractal waves. Undulating energy vibrates connecting all souls
in October. We’re connected in a fine silky web, like the intricate designs
woven by the local spiders rivaling the weaving of the Sharchop ladies
themselves. While walking in the grove those webs end up stuck to my lips that
terrible viscid auditory stretch that makes me feel like a fly in the ointment.
Roses and poinsettias overlap in October. Rain reprising, breezing through
clear cool days, cloud cathedrals ever receding vestiges of the monsoon. Purple
and pink blooms in deep forest, on campus scarlet poinsettias, magenta bogenvia
kowtow to wilting crimson roses late in October. Mummified sunflowers decaying,
cicadas rattle and hiss surging like a pump all day and into the darkness, spiral
galaxies dancing in unison with other spiral galaxies. DERVISHES! Look!
Clusters now, revolving in a celestial Lotus where alien Buddha’s preach alien
dharma’s on faraway planets lit by faraway suns. If you go deep in meditation
you might be contacted by these enlightened entities who are discs of light
beaming around the universe. BEAMING AROUND IMAGINATION! SHINE ON ME! All this
foretold in the flicker of ninety odd butter lamps a lambent bank behind
chainmail at the nexus of an ancient Katmandu Shrine, midnight under a stream
of prayer flags and incandescent stars that burned ice cold. Catching a
rickshaw through the frosty Milky Way underdressed into the danger zone!
Following a leopardess down a long brick alleyway into the void the lost
corridors of an ancient realm. I digress everyone knows there are ghosts in
Katmandu just like New Orleans. I have taken a step closer to Great Spirit NOW by
discovering I’m an Agnostic Pagan. I believe it’s impossible to decipher the
mysteries of life with certitude and I don’t prescribe to any organized
religion. I revere Guru Rinpoche but mainly worship the wonders of nature and
the good within people. After midnight a visitor in my room, a firefly or
perhaps a pixie glowing and floating around in kinesthetic strobe action, I
couldn’t believe it as I drifted off to sleep.
On Wednesday night it was my turn for supervising class ten
for night study, patrolling the MP Hall with 135 over wrought students whose
fusses seemed burnt to a crisp. Some slept on the tables some chattered away,
and others sincerely addressed their work. The days have become arduous with
review classes followed by Center Marking until dusk. Needless to say I haven’t
been into the woods for nearly a fortnight. Speaking of night it’s legitimately
cold after dark and my nose is full of snot like everyone else. Back to night
study after the bell rang at 9 PM the girls quickly filed out peeling off from
the artery of gawking boys and as the last young ladies left the building I
heard a loud clink and saw something white at the heel of a girl that was
retreating into the night. When I stooped over I picked up a carved wooden
phallic made from a light albino wood. Kinley Wangchuk my former student fell
against the wall gasping for air laughing hysterically. I tried to hand him the
woody but he wouldn’t take it so I took it home and set it upon my sill among
drift wood, stones, and pinecones.
In honor of Zangdopelri Tsechu we had three days off of
school. I couldn’t wait to get the party started so on Thursday afternoon I
tripped into the woods for some twilight exploration. I made many pit stops
along the way and encountered many magical things. To wit, crossing the spine
of the ridge following a gentle glade a little girl appeared in front of me who
I thought I’d recognized from a nearby farmhouse. She had cropped hair and
faded yellow pants but when I blinked she had disappeared or completely
vaporized. Often kids will hide in the underbrush if they’re shy but I scoured
the bushes to no avail. Had I seen a ghost? When I approached a geometric
prayer flag design with erect rainbow prayer flags, filtered rays of sun warmed
my breast. I went the long way up to Shakshing following the shoulder of the
ridge which has many contours, rising and falling with many bumps. Along the
western escarpment towards Yangtse a searing blue sky scrapped by pearl clouds,
something in that sight touched my deepest part like a memory too early to
recall, something from the crib or even another life.
Cresting the ridge I encountered the elfish Dechen Choden
from class six on the dirt road and we had a pleasant conversation before I
veered towards Namkhar. The trail leaves the dirt road ascending through an oak
forest with stunted trees before emerging on a hillside village the footpath broken
by palisades and a huge dormant rhododendron tree that gives off a warm vibe.
Perched on the slope is a lean-to that is residence of the Delog or fortune
teller whose work it is to speak with devils. She is implored and employed to
contact the underworld and the spirits therein. I saw an old crone chopping
firewood and I wondered what she thought of the Delog as a neighbor. On this
evening before Halloween spookiness emanated from the hamlet although the
Delog’s shack was dark and quiet. The last particles of light draining out of
the narrow valley reflected a silver streak on the Dangme Chu, its huge S curve
swooping near Gongsa. Walking through a holler in fading light a burl come
tumbling down the hillside almost hitting me so I let out a “Waaaaay” Like a
gang of goblins they descended upon me through the forest but I narrowly escaped
down the farm road taking a shortcut through a haunted cow shed and across the
face of the mountain. Pausing by the meditation hut I heard the conch echoing
over the valley and from the hut the rattle of a rain stick and pounding of a
drum was accompanied by guttural chanting. The Western mind couldn’t conceive
of anything this far out of that I’m sure. (As it turns out two days later I
was walking towards Zangdopelri with a class ten boy who told me his father was
living in that hut with seven other men for three years six months and three
days in a life of austerity) Malleable clouds drifted into phosphorus crescent
moons a lunar fractal display of mushrooms, genies, bejeweled amulets, sky
temples, and gold chalices floating in shape shifting amber coronas. I found
myself at Prince Tsangma’s castle reclining on my stone throne. To be exact my
throne is merely a pile of loose slabs within the ruined redoubt. From my
position I had a commanding view of the CELESTIAL! Incandescent stars hung low
in the sky at different depths like globes on baby Zeke’s mobile, constellations
of triangles and dippers. The tiny clusters of light on distant mountaintops
comingled with the stars and a lone flickering electric blue body rested on the
silhouetted summit of Shampula. I possessed supersonic hearing listening to the
hush of both rivers at different pitches and the vibration of children laughing
from huts nestled in the ravine below. It was so quiet that if someone coughed
in Tawang I might have heard it. A strand of rainbow prayer flags swam in a
river of wind held static in the current, rippling with all the subtle colors
of the moonlight. A lone firefly impervious to the chill rested on a blade of
lemon grass. Suddenly, from Zangdopelri sound erupted like a trombone, elephant
flatulence, the slaughtering of lambs, or the uncorking of serpents from a
wicker basket morphing into galloping dragons loose in the cosmos. The bleating
of the puja horns sounded like the eternal struggle of life and death (reminiscent
to the intro to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck) a siren wailing from the other side. THIS
IS THE SOUNDTRACK FROM THE GATES OF HEAVEN OR MORE PRECISELY THE BARDO. I sat
immobile watching the patterns envelop a gawking not quite gibbous moon. A
genie’s lamp, a bronze mushroom, an angel all illuminated in lysergic moonlight
ephemeral pictures dancing in the sky. CELESTIAL! Everything crackling in the
void.
The magic continued into the weekend abruptly running out on
a Sunday. Saturday was an ethereal day marked by the Chaam Dances at Tsechu.
The dancer’s raiment’s included golden skirts with robes of varying colors
silky emerald and royal blue interspersed with scarlet and silver embroidered
with dragons and mythical garudas. The dancers are lay monks from the
surrounding villages all men who undergo a transfiguration into archetypal
beings, Avatars of Guru Rinpoche. The dozen dancers bowed, leapt, pirouetted,
turned, and twirled in a fluid motion like water forming a river. On their
heads they wore ornamental animal masks of deer, pig, and other unidentifiable
mammal’s creature kinsmen that we humans share warm blood, fear, and predatory
instincts. All connected by the dance that went on for hours with the
cacophonous cornucopia of blaring horns banging drums, and crashing cymbals.
Vibration’s bursting forth like the snorting of a fire breathing dragon. The
audience sat on the outer ring in a crescent shape running the gamut from babies
to the elderly both gazing in toothless wonder. The footwork is amazing as the
strong bare feet stepped and twirled in a dizzying array. The marquee dance was
the Judgment of the Soul in the Bardo something akin to Christian Judgment Day.
The dancers made two lines while the boogieman clad in blues with a fearsome
mask and a bushel of course black hair raising two feet into the air. THIS WAS
DEATH! His costume adorned with bones, shells, and maracas that clip clopped
and rattled when he moved. You see DEATH is the star of this show and IT alone
held the salvation of the soul. The soul in question a white masked entity
waiting in the anteroom of THE BARDO the space between birth and rebirth or the
space between thoughts. Here in center ring, DEATH evaluates the deceased deeds
and reassigns the soul to either a particular realm of hell or sentenced to rebirth
to again try for enlightenment. This dance is offered to the audience an
instruction for entry into the afterlife a sort of Tibetan Book of the Dead
theatrical interpretation, a reminder that we’ll be judged for the actions of
this life. The departed soul prostrates to death but I never did find out the
fate of the deceased, I’ve seen the dance three times over successive years but
still can’t quite figure it. Sometimes the unimaginable has the most sway over
the soul anyway. So covered by a parasol with neon tassel tentacles The Lord of
Death retreated into the underworld through the canvassed portal. That was the
climax of a long and interesting day where I passed the time with Nima Gyeltson
and many of my other students.
Nima had come over bright and early my faithful Man Friday
arranging me in my gho and making our pack lunch for the picnic. Nima brought
along the adorable pint sized Lobzang Wangdi from my class seven. Nima Gyelston
is in class nine now but he was my student in class seven. I have told you
before he has made a meteoric rise in the ranks and grown into a fine and
mischevious lad. Nima is a Kidu student which means his father abandoned his
family very early on. I visited his house and met his mother and sister. The
house in Yartse is a drafty lean-to but the family subsists on a small plot of
maize and other vegetables to eat. Nima is the most consistent visitor to my
abode and sometime offers to help tidy up. Nima has an angular face with
shinning round eyes and spiked hair. His companion Lobzang is a quiet boy with squinty
eyes and a shinning smile. The three of us headed up to the temple together and
I gave them some pocket money for the day. At lunch we shared a picnic as all
the revelers assembled in groups sharing their packed lunches. Nima’s mother
and sister who speak no English brought a plastic bag filled with rice and
vegetable curry and the three of them all ate from the bag with their hands.
Nearby Guru Wangmo and her friends from Class Seven ate happily and next to
them was Karlos, Sonam, and Karma Om’s mother. There was one masked dance
before lunch where the atsara’s (or jesters) dived into the crowd shaking their
red wood painted phallic at some sheepish and angry female students. An awkward
public display as the atsara’s fondled their phallic as Karma Lhamo hid her
scarlet flushed face while swiping at the offender with her freehand. Of course
I got it from the atsara’s too even after my cash donation. Two Swiss tourists
also arrived for an hour, a woman named Anita and her husband accompanied by
their guide and a native clad in animal skins and sunglasses. It was a goofy good
day as I walked back to campus observing the long shadows stretching eastward
across the drying valley. That night Butterfly came for tea and Nima Gyeltson
came to look at the days photos on the displayer screen my brother gave me. Last
year Thegsey Rinpoche came from Tawang bringing the good vibe and attendance
for a super charged blessing. This year proved a more stripped down affair and
the crash was yet to come.
Sunday I awoke with my massive boil, the Everest of boils. On
my way up to Tsechu a girl asked if I was drunk probably since my eye was
swollen shut. I assured her I was not but felt as self conscious as a clothed
man at a nudist colony. My mood was not good as I found a spot amongst Karma
Wangchuk from class 7B and his pals to watch the Cham. Today was the dance of
the Guru featuring a hefty bronze mask that had transformed into the Precious
Master himself ONLY one year ago, today would not go that way but they can’t
all be winners. I spied Karma Om who had snubbed me so many times that I turned
away. In truth she was wearing a coy smile and silver kira, she had gained
weight but it didn’t detract from her beauty but we’re all getting older isn’t
it? I restlessly wandered the grounds seeing boy and girl students huddling
behind sheds talking, a pang of jealousy and isolation hit me hard remembering
those youthful days when my heart was emblazed with passion. I briefly chatted
with Karlos skipped the blessing and high tailed it for home. All told the
phantasmagorical weekend and festering boil has left me prostrate.
Recuperation, “Onward
to the future, our glorious party!”
I feel old. My knee, big toe, and arm ache from former
injuries and my face is hideously appointed with a nasty boil. Also too much
time alone can make a body lean and mean. My students and community would
regard me as jovial with an air of melancholy. Things really changed for me
around my thirtieth birthday in Korea (I sat alone dining on octopus) Soon
thereafter I left Asia and broke up with my girlfriend Kim So young, a
relationship that had come on the heels of losing my true love. For the last
six years I have not felt intimacy with another woman and the worst part is
I’ve tried. I labored as a bagger for United Markets in Marin for two years
then made it through Dominican by the skin of my teeth. True, there were Hot
Tub nights including one with a veritable Latin supermodel but I digress. I
thought Bhutan would be a new start for me and it has. As it turns out though
it’s not easy to leave your past behind as this paragraph attests. Bhutan has
been one of the defining experiences of my life and the most important. Still
the inertia and gap within my soul continues to widen. Perhaps it’s all grist
for the mill on the pathway to enlightenment, a path lined with barbed wire and
broken shards of glass. Right now I’m in big baby mode. I don’t want to get off
my duff and cook potato curry, It’s bleak, its comical, it’s real life. Getting
a boil is a humbling experience and I’m not exactly thrilled about facing the
masses tomorrow. The swelling is so ugly that my eye is practically squinched
shut, leaving a malevolent looking slit with no visible pupil. Think the
elephant man’s peepers.
This festival season has been intense including Shakshing
and Zangdopelri Tsechu. I’ve never seen a major Tsechu except Gom Kora which is
an entity onto itself. I am fortunate to live at Tsenkharla enjoying two local festivals.
Namkhar also hosts a minor one but it’s not very interesting lacking students.
The highlight of the season was a pilgrimage to Shakshing with mom and Aunt
Barb on a beautiful early October day. I felt full of the spirit that day and
impressed that my 69 year old mom and aunt climbed the mountain so well.
INSPIRATIONAL! My best two hikes in the Himalaya have been with my mom. The
atmosphere at Shakshing and Zangdopelri are quite different one enclosed and
one wide open. At Shakshing (a power spot) I remember taking a wrong turn with
my mom and almost falling off a cliff. Later huddled in the shade with Aunt
Barb where we developed a headache figuring out that the aggressive music was
the cause since we were crouched by the bandstand. At Shakshing the viewer is
on top of the action kids sitting on the overhanging ledges their feet dangling
over the precipice. On a knoll above the centuries old Lhakhang is a cluster of
tarps, a gypsy bazaar with gambling, kitsch trinkets, food and beverages. That
day shined like a diamond with one ominous cloud approaching from the west
during the big Zhana Chaam, the beastly figures creating a vortex, a window
into the soul of the world. I Only wish I could make the next world with my Mom
and Aunt and many of the others around the ring that Saturday afternoon.
Walking home along the dirt track overlooking the breadth of the great valley
were some of the happiest moments alive. Oh! how far we’d all come through many
lifetimes. If one believed in reincarnation what a shift in thinking that would
be. The passed out meme on the dirt might be your father in the next life, or
that dog you kick might be your son. In this life I’m lucky to have my mom and
aunt and people here continue to ask on them, including Principal Sir.
Presently the moon fattens over the valley and the river
sings despite the fact that no one may be listening. To the residents of Gongsa
it must be white noise embedded into their souls. I can hear it though wax
falls out of my ears. After the final bell is clunked echoing through the
valley the night sounds come alive, the river 3,000 feet below and a stray
cricket who doesn’t want to admit his time has passed. I’m making hot
compresses for my boil on advice from my health buddy Becky and Dr. Scotty from
Yadi. Our Becky is on her way HOME to Bhutan, I hope I’m not spilling any beans
that haven’t already spilt. She awaits her redeployment and then will ship out
to reorientation in January 2015. And where will your author be? Right here
sans boil I hope!
Becky just called to tell me to put an onion on the boil to
drain the puss, now that’s a true friend. I happened to have one precious red
onion left. She also told me that over near Leh Chinese and Indian troops are
massing. I’m sure the two Indian spies (Cloak and Dagger) at Blithing living in
the blue house are aware of it. Maybe two new spies in jumpsuits have replaced
the former dynamic duo. They had one helluva view of this valley from there
cottage porch. The reader might remember that Baghi Sir and a Bhutanese guard
escorted me to the checkpoint separating Bhutan from India near the village of
Jangphu. Remember that the Indian side of this valley is claimed by the reds
and blood was shed in 1962 with the Chinese briefly occupying the famous
monastery. The reader might also be interested to know that Sakteng is east of
Tawang town. On my tour of Shampula with Principal Sir and other teachers we
saw old dugout trenches made by Indian soldiers although to my knowledge no
Chinese soldier advanced that far west. Tawang is about 25 miles from Tibet the
demarcation on a 15,000 foot pass with nearby lakes and waterfalls. My
estimation is those Matterhorn peaks I adore also straddle the invisible
Indo-China border. Tucked in the far eastern corner of the Kingdom of Bhutan is
the place to be! Some of my favorite souls in this world are sleeping nearby
their dreams enmeshed. According to students they mostly dream in Sharchop but
the themes are UNIVERSAL! On occasion they dream of me and I dream of them.
Rats and Boils
Bhutan is the greenest place I know but it’s not tropical
except in the farthest Southern jungles and Duars. The valley floor is crisping
to brown although lush pockets remain on ridges but plants are going to seed
and the ferns along the oak boughs are rusted. Fields go fallow until spring
and scrappy oranges grow from scrawny vines. Poinsettia’s say “HO HO HO!” Up in
Village Incognito the water situation has improved drastically which is a real
good thing! Today’s lesson impermanence the sweetest treasure of all. Life’s a
garden, dig it! In my marrow I fear change as much as death but it’s inevitable
and essential otherwise we’d have no butterflies or second chances. Remember
the demoness/friend Phuntsho from T-Gang recently she called me haranguing me about
visiting the U.S.A then somehow finagled Becky’s number from me (bad form) and
called to harangue Becky too. Poor Phuntsho living in Thimphu who claims to be
dying but probably is not. She spun Becky and I out like that infamous dinner
with Shadow in Trashigang two and a half years ago. What a character. I sure do
miss my pal Becky.
It’s my fourth day with a second head that is scarcely
diminishing in fact there might be two boils melding up there. I am putting
onion on it, taking medicine, and soaking it. In class I supervised the
students study session showing off my boil to any who wanted to see it. I did
wear my Ray Charles sunglasses to class though. The rat was rummaging atop the
closet last night but I let him stay and eventually trailed off to sleep. I
tried to be cheery today and it was a magnificent setting even though my vision
in the left eye is reduced. The contours and layers of mountains with rolling
humps, scarps and cirques unfolding in every direction always command my
admiration. Plus my students cheered me up as always. I might be stuck with
this thing for a week or more but I have curtailed my Coke intake and am
drinking more water. I remember how remarkable our bodies are when sick and I
know my taxed immune system knows it’s in Bhutan and lumbers onward, tally-ho!
What to do Kathmandu! Karlos says my boil is a result of too much roaming and
two people said a boil above the waist is good luck. Meanwhile there is work to
be done. At this point I’ve over indulged myself and for that I apologize but
what the hell it’s a slow day. For me this writing serves as therapy, solace,
and release like a diary. Maybe evolved souls actually keep diaries of
observations, notes, or better yet fiction. Most people write about personal
thoughts and feelings. Why I subject you to it is anybody’s guess. I can report
honestly that outside ravens are circling and crowing in an ebony funnel
soaring into ether. Marigolds peoples the landscape and the cypress and pine
trees stand regally against a clear sky. Tracing the ridges with your eye is
fun and if I could go one place in the world it would be the pinnacle of Tsang
Tsang Ma. Like Miss Mackenzie in “A Bouquet of Love” I have astral travelled
many times. It’s too bad I’m not a morning person because Bhutan is a morning
place in every way. The morning light is immaculately clean almost yellow,
crystal like the beginning of the world. In the Himalaya the sun burns hot but
often is hidden behind cloud or mountain. When it spotlights a person it
catches them off guard.
The Bhutanese are brown in complexion like Native Americans
although some could pass for Mexican, South American or East Asian with a
Mongolian countenance. Others look Tibetan and of course there are many
Nepali’s. Some of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen are Nepali with their
Arian eyes or Greek. There’s a remnant of European lineage with stately eye
brows, strong cheekbones, jutting jaws and a mocha complexion. Definitively
slender noses often heart shaped faces compared to the moon shaped Bhutanese
face. Nepali women possess haunting eyes and striking features and like the men
have a different deportment and manner. Baghi Sir and Cricket are Nepali. All
citizens are living harmoniously under the Dragon Banner of the Wangchuk
Dynasty. Nowhere on earth does “culture” define a society more than in
Bhutanese. There’s Lobzang out in Rangjoong who is Brokpa tracing his roots to
Lhasa. My barber Deepac is Indian but almost looks Nepali too with a classic
face. Lhasa is directly North of Bumthang closer to Jakar than Kathmandu.
A knock at my door and Pema Lhamo and Sharub outside they
want to borrow my portable speaker which they call a sound box. It’s very rare
for a girl to come to my house since they are forbidden to come near the boy’s
hostel. Pema Lhamo and Sharub are sweet kids. Pema Lhamo projects happiness and
good energy but she has confided through her writing that she has a streak of
sorrow. Sharub was the girl who flipped out when I scolded her and cried for
three hours. She is a taller and thicker girl looking like a class 10 student but
is very sensitive. Pema bowed with an obsequiously genuine simper and said “Sir
you’re like a God.” I replied, “Oh stop that Pema” I know they like me but
that’s the biggest hyperbole in this jumbled story. Hyperbole means deliberate
exaggeration for literary effect, fortunately it’s a quality built into the
oral tradition of Sharchop. If I could translate all the things said about me
in Sharchop and transcribe them for you, well that would be the real story. My
reputation holds true but I’m not spotless as no one can be. As foreigners
(Phelincpa’s) in Bhutan we are put under a microscope, so it’s best to keep a
thick skin and sense of humor, Truculence won’t curry favor in the Kingdom. The
Bhutanese do have a way of respecting our differences and I feel quite
comfortable here. As an outsider I don’t have to conform to the cultural
standards or mandatory religious activity. I admire it all but as an observer
looking into a great mystery. Life also has purpose, potential for fulfillment,
a sense of adventure, and as Scott pointed out, “It’s boring at home” Scott is
from Utah but that isn’t his reasoning. He likes the sense of anonymity and
challenge. Scott is a boisterous and animated larger than life man with a
rocking gait. He’s a gregarious loner who walks the National Highway between
Yadi and The Monkey Shoulder. A widowed pharmacist who raised children owns a
house but chooses to teach and travel instead of retire. He’s extremely
dedicated to his craft putting in extra hours to teach Science to upper grades.
Whenever I have a medical situation I call Dr. Scott. Scott served two year in
Yadi, went to China for a year, than came back to Yadi. Ian and Vicky also came
back and now are headed for the Capital along with Jonathon. Then there’s Miss
Rebecca. Best stay still or else I’d have to come back too.
Trusty Nima Gyeltson dropped by to check on me after hearing
about my boil. The worst face of all was Poop in class eight she looked on me
with whore like seeing an uncle with an ax stuck in his head. By my estimation
it’s the size of half a golf ball. My other favorite reaction was Dorji Wangmo
B a class clown and obstinate joker. She burst out laughing at me than told me
grinning to wash it frequently with warm water. She might still be laughing on
her walk down the channel westward toward Shali with Tashi Yangzom and Sonam
Choden. For all of us afternoon light is pretty swell, a molten honey
smothering the valley and illuminating the billowing clouds that spangle on the
fringes. A nice place to be a raven!
Tim on Duty, Sweet
Thursday, Last Fair Deal
Today was my turn in the rotation for Teacher on Duty. As
usual Pema Chedup knocked on my door at 6:15 A.M to remind me that I was TOD. I
had forgotten once long ago and now Pema always raps upon my door when it’s my
turn because that’s the kind of boy he is. I grumbled out of bed groping for
the handheld mirror to examine my boil. I looked hideous but it’s slowly coming
to a NASTY head and hurts less. I went to school with an attitude of acceptance
but did pop on my shades. The students strolled in late since they had to
change from their predawn aerobics (Military School) and many startled faces
received me. Sangay in class 7 topped the cake as she just broke down in shock
and awkward laughter at my appearance, making funny gasping sounds and darting
her eyes around the room. As always there were some tongue wagers. I told the
students frankly that I felt shy about my appearance and felt the best strategy
was to invite attention to the boil instead of withdraw. Funny, I never felt
that way about my shaky eyes. I made my rounds and a fantastic sunrise
illuminated the student’s faces through dust window panes illuminating the boys
as Cherubs and girls as angels. At evening study a rotund Burmese moon bathed
in the last rays of sun sat precisely on the saddleback in Tawang before
starting its climb, an hour later luminescent moonbeams flooded the valley in
ethereal silvery gold light, transforming the world. In between the rising of
those celestial bodies was a sweet Thursday. The best day in Bhutan is when
your community picks you up and raises you to exultation. It was a casual day
in the classroom with a lot of levity to relieve the tension of approaching
exams. Thursday November 6 was an immaculate day with stunning views a
veritable 360 degree panorama. T.O.D days allow me to reunite with students I
rarely see and some who are ranging out of my orbit already. My first batch of
cherished students is passing out (graduating) this year and either heading to
Bayling or back to the farm. Students like Sangay Tobgay who tried my patience
but also is like a son to me, or Pema Yangdon who has blossomed into a radiant
young woman. There are many more I could mention some of the finest humans I’ve
known and as it happens I got to be their teacher. I am close to many students
but those original class 8 kids are extremely special even if we’ve lost touch
over the years. Nawang Choden developed into a school leader and her best
friend Sither Zangmo went more until a shell but also is great in her own
right. Chogi Gyelston still has that winning smile and eyes of slumber. Both
Dechen Choden and Sangay Tobgay have lived here 11 years, the irreplaceable
years of innocence. They’re experiences are vastly different than USA students
but my finger is on the pulse of Bhutanese youth not American. Since they exist
in a bountiful natural world, since their culture is intact, since they all
work the land this molds them into a platinum breed. They still come from
broken homes occasionally and illness and death are real to them, yet they
possess a natural grace that is admirable. It’s because of them that this
experience will be the benchmark of my life. Teaching is hard work but loving
your pupils is the reward. My relationships broke through the second year but
some I met the first year made huge impacts and now are gone. Students like
Namkith Lepcha or the six foot tall Sonam who vanished. Living in Bhutan allows
an individual to embrace and be embraced (figuratively the Bhutanese aren’t
huggy folk) by a community and be widely known across the nation. It’s far out
man!
It’s past eleven and a seasonable night after a few weeks of
nippy ones. It’s not much colder than when we munched French fries and tried to
get Oliver to play. Making garlic fries and wolfing them down with mom and Aunt
Barb is crisped into my memory. Phew what a day MIRACULOUS so many faces that
have become a part of me. Sometimes in a trying time one can step back and
glean the glory that envelops them. As for my boil you can kind of roll around
the sack of bacteria about the dimensions of a silver dollar. Reading East of
Eden by Steinbeck heavy shit man, I need to make a pilgrimage to Salinas
someday. He’s good at exploring the universal inky depths of emotions and sub-
emotions. As I get older I start to see myself in others much more perhaps a
result of travel and living abroad. I used to absolutely define the world
against myself as its center. I still do the only difference is I have an
inkling of awareness. Except there were times when I felt the jet stream of the
universe more intensely and things weren’t as muddled perhaps because I was in
love and that’s a powerful force. It’s quirky being out of love which isn’t the
case entirely. I love the world indeed but I wander it alone which also isn’t
true. Today was full of magical encounters. Nima Gyeltson came by to look at
photos and Butterfly landed for a spell. I went to Karlos and Sonam’s shop to
cheat for a Coke. I talked to mom and Becky briefly on the phone and got a text
from Pema Zangmo. A teacher in Bhutan can get lonely so it helps to make a few
friends. I hit the jackpot meeting a kindred spirit in Becky and luckily have
three friends in the village Karlos, Sonam, and Butterfly. I get along well
with everyone but have friends I can depend on. The BCF contingent Jon, Scott,
Ian and Vicky- Christ I know more people now than I ever have or ever will. So
that’s a groovy counterbalance to the loneliness thing. Yes the aforementioned
students and an endless mountain paradise to explore round out the wheel. When
you take it all around it’s a pretty fair deal.
I don’t tell you much about my house, which I love
wholeheartedly. The water situation has improved sevenfold and these days its
flowing most of the time! I would have a hard time returning to those first two
years of constant shortages. I’m grateful for every drop yo! Your live on Tiger
(keep cool my babies) next to me the soothing glow of my jerry rigged Chinese
heater. Behind me something scuttles and Jerry sings sweetly. The place has
high ceilings, an occasional rat, and tie-dye tapestry, framed picture of the
Guru, Four Friends, and graffiti on the wall (Only my mantras, baby!) There are
a few plastic buckets on the cement floor (buckets are sacred) in a side room
my very own “Two feeter no seater” as Aunt Barb would say. You already know
about the view from the kitchen scrambling eggs. It’s nice to be making eggs
(chronically unavailable) with sparrows indifferently pecking about your floor
while the sun shines on snowy peaks along the Tibetan border. I forgot to tell
y’all why buckets are the bomb diggity. You store water in them, take baths
from them, wash clothes, and dishes in them. Then you gotta wash the damn
buckets themselves. There was a girl in Korea who had the same birthday as me
but eight years younger. She was a voluptuous Kentucky Philly with giant fake
tits. I mean HUGE X rated Knockers! I might have come up with the surreptitious
nickname “Miss Big Buckets” sharing it with my friend and senior Andre. Guys
can be silly especially far from their homeland and Andre was spending nights
with her even though she had a beau stateside and the twenty year age gap, it’s
the old story. Someone had mentioned the tiger was tamer these days so I
thought I’d spice her up a bit. SMOKING HOT EMADATSI as Scotty would say. I got
that moniker from a Carla Tortelli line if you’re keeping score.
Close to 1 AM and a few boys are stirring outside on the
hostel balcony. My neighbors are sleeping as they typify a GNH couple. They get
approximately eight hours of sleep every night lights out at ten and up by six.
I’m inconsistence on bedding protocol. It simply depends. Jimp’s and Lopen
Kinzang never quarrel either. Karlos and Sonam are more familiar to me and had
some doozies. I always felt an honored guest at their fights (RINGSIDE) and
only had to break up a few scuffles. Bhutanese can be remarkably passionate
about life whether it’s archery, weaving, prayer, gossiping, or drinking Ara.
Christ, look at what they wear to work and school, Yella! The fifteenth of the
Bhutanese calendar (they have two calendars Jesus’ and the Dragons) is an
auspicious day they lit 108 butter lamps and served ema datsi. The moon seemed
most auspicious of all pointed out by none other than Moon Tshomo the Monpa
student who had two mooned hemispheres reflected in her spectacles. Like I told
the kid’s the hounds would be howling tonight. Just got a precise craving for
pink salmon, drawn herb butter, and cream spinach, cracked crab or Lobster
would be fine too.
Good Night and have Goofy Dreams…
It’s a good Day for a
Picnic
In my class 7 Jigme Sonam the boy who fell off the boy’s
toilet roof returned today. I am very concerned because his eyes are rolled up
in his head and his friends say he can’t remember anything. I informed his
buddies to take care of him and asked Principal Sir to look up on him. I hope
he hasn’t suffered permanent brain damage. Later that day I found his two
friends Karma Wangchuk and Chongola out of place wandering the ridge bunking
from campus. I gently reminded them they had evening study in fifteen minutes
and had better make haste.
Saturday was our school picnic. I got hell from the Indians
for oversleeping remiss in my duties for setting up. I was tired when I awoke
but it was a glorious day with tumbling blue skies streaked by feathered
cirrus. At ten O’clock the dancing started one performance from each home
class. In three days they will do the same dances again for the same audience
to celebrate the Fourth King’s 60th birthday. My class seven did a
good job. I moved my chair out in the sun and was served a hunk of bread and tea
and later a glass of Coco Cola by students. In the glass tiny bubbles skipped
across the dark fluid and hissed effervescently. Pema Yangdon was wearing two
banana leaves on her head as a hat, she looked like Eve. Dawa C. was serving
the VIP’s in the tent acting obsequious and mannered but I know her other sides
and it seemed funny. The night before in the dingy school kitchen Pema Yangdon
stood near me in her pressed school uniform, demure a black and red kira with
purple plaid ankle length skirt and clogs. While I ate she looked directly into
my eyes unabashed. Somewhere in the last year she had become a woman (17 years)
and a leader of her peers. She is a well built girl with solid head on solid
shoulders. Her skin has olive undertones and her hair brushed back hangs only
to her broad shoulders, black but with autumn highlights. Pema exudes dignity,
power, and wholesomeness. She is real. She wanted the photo of her and my mom.
I told her I didn’t have it and would have my mom or aunty send it along, she stomped
a foot and said, “Oh sir!” and then “Good night Sir.” releasing a reserved
smile as she walked away a twist of hair askew at 3 O’clock. I was left
breathless as the moonlight wishing she was my daughter. Back at the picnic I
overate and still feel uncomfortably full ten hours later. I was like a
prisoner of war released into a Vegas buffet. I couldn’t help it and the rich
chunks of meat made me drunk from their juices. After lunch I helped put away
the chairs then shot the shit with the Indians who had forgiven me outwardly
anyway. I wanted to go sleep it off but Pema Chedup came over. He is also a
Kidu student and brother to the adorable Pema Yangzom of class 7, his father
ran away when he was three and he is angry saying he never wants to meet him. They
are both tooth achingly sweet so for that reason I hung out with Pema Chedup
for the afternoon. We went to the village where I bought some vouchers for my
phone and then we came back and looked at photos. I asked if he would show me
the shortcut to Kiney and he did. The trail leads down past my favorite rock
through a lovely stand of pine into a part of Tsenkharla I never saw! Right
below my hovel is a cluster of homes straight out of Grimes. I half expected to
see Hansel or Frodo, traditional whitewashed homes with wood carved windows
raised off the ground. Stone stairs twisting through plots of onion and uncut
maize past a pig stall where a pig the size of a cow wallowed and snorted in
retort to my snort. All the wonderful fragrances of a farm filled my soul,
animal lather, manure and fresh air. The houses all had red geraniums in
homemade pots made from halved plastic jugs or spare tires. Large tufts of
bamboo sprang into the sky with a shimmering greenness and the hillside village
had an unobstructed view down the gulf of the valley into Tawang. At the bottom
of the village stands a lovely white Chorten. When I say the valley I should
paint a picture. The mountains on both sides reach down touching the riverbed before
expanding upward into a wide panorama. The open air between the opposing
escarpments is the valley which stretches near Tawang town to the east and
Kanglung and the college to the west. It might be a hundred miles but like time
distances are deceiving in the Himalaya. The flat land on the banks of the
Dangme Chu are narrow strips, often times the cliffs lick the rapids
themselves. After I returned with Pema I lumbered to my cot and slept until 10
P.M and now at midnight I’m still full and wide awake. My sleeping has been
disrupted this week and this year I have not slept well comparatively. My
itching kept me up many summer nights but this week it was my addiction to “East
of Eden” a heavy handed prose as achingly despairing as life itself. I talked
to my dad and was happy to here he was reuniting with his brother flying him
out West, as anyone who has a bro plays out the Cain and Abel theme recognizing
themselves in their brother while endlessly competing with him. I’m trying to
take my place in this world, right here on top of this mountain in the village
now known as Tsenkharla and once called Rangthangwoong. A picnic in Bhutan has
more order than an American potluck with the kids sitting on the ground in neat
rows boys and girls separately eating with their hands. They seem to finish in
unison peeling off to promptly wash their plates. I couldn’t be more different
than the Bhutanese and that’s why I fit nicely here. A community is a living
entity of many parts all keys to the whole. There is no policeman to keep order
here. I never did see Frodo but I did see Dawa Dema 8B who sports a breakfast
club style haircut. Her and Samten Tshomo regarded Pema Chedup and I on the
trail, they were headed the other way to Nombaling. Pup Dawa Dema was back at
the shop sleeping off her own meat hangover.
On a Friday night constitutional a baying orange moon arose
dramatically over the shoulder of Shampula exaggerated by a thin layer of smoke
that clung low in the valley. A Broomsha or pumpkin harvest moon. Yesterday I
bought a flannel coat from Sonam Choden since it was too small for Karlos
because his paunch. The consensus in the village is that I overpaid but it’s a
nice garment. The boil recedes to a giant zit, snot fills my nose, and I feel
decadent and salty from the beef. Kimock plays softly, 1:38 A.M is his domain
(remember, a raving Raby by the picnic tables saying she would love me forever
that was thirteen years ago- somnambulist half dreaming in the big red barn.
Eight years ago ravishing the fake flower on the blue barn) How many loves did
I suffer until I reached the doorstep of Bhutan. Oh how grand it is in the far
-east I wish y’all could see it. November in Bhutan duller green in places but
also rapidly decaying. In the grove lushness while the eastern mountains tan as
they drop to the arid floor. Honeysuckle has its day in the pine forest, yummy!
On campus are a dozen or more regal cypresses towering more than a hundred feet
with interlacing limbs. They line the pathway to the assembly ground and are a treasure.
I like to touch their strong bark and always pull wrappers out of their knots.
They seem cousins to redwoods, somehow related. The needles are delicate and
cascading evergreen with brown hues in winter. They were the star of the picnic
shading the kids but eventually the sun glared and students put paper over
their faces ONLY Pema Yangdon thought of the banana leaf. Little ones ran about
since T.M.S.S starts at preschool. There has been a lot of improvement around
the main infrastructure of the school lately, a tiled courtyard, cement
platforms (partly funded by my BCF grant) statues of The Guru and God of Wisdom
(They offer potato chips to The Guru) gardens, etcetera. My favorite buildings
are the original single story longhouses from Catherine’s era. It was Francois
who pointed out Catherine’s dwelling near the front gate of the school.
1:50 A.M the drone of a lone cricket in the fading grass
suddenly drowned out by my refrigerator kicking on. What purpose does the
cricket play in the whole? How are we related? My neighbor has replaced the
fluorescent light on the stoop that he leaves on as Karlos once had. I liked it
better dark so I could step out and evaluate the stars. As Warden he has more
sway in our adjoining housing matters and a larger multi room unit, we split
the electricity bill but my housing is free. I’m lucky. My view to eternity is
only impeded by electrical wires. I’ll never know what’s beyond that eastern
saddleback as I’ll never know true love again. Dogs are viciously brawling outside
my door and I recognize many of them, it’s a veritable K-9 melee. Hasn’t been a
drop of rain in weeks, the dry season has arrived. Winter is coming.
Bey Yul & Culture
Fest
Bey Yul means hidden lands a sort of Mountain Avalon or obscured
realm hidden in Bhutan. Shangri La. These are located in places like Laya and Lhuntse
and Nankhar. Parallel to Shakshing on a tangent ridge is the village where the
Delog lives and on the point of that ridge the Lama’s house and the site of the
Chorten (foundation only) of the Sky Dakini’s. The trail turns into a secret
cirque a large piece of wilderness between Bromla and Shampula. Nankhar sits at
approximately 7,000 feet and the little horns beyond Shampula are approximately
10,000 feet. There’s a MEME looking hump nestled in the cirque itself. The
ridgelines between Bromla and Shampula are uninhabited and no trail is visible
through thick oak and pine forests. On a glistening Sunday after entertaining
Tandin Wangdi (Police) and Pema Chedup in the morning I headed up to my own Bey
Yul. Past the government temple with auspicious cypress trees are beautiful
pastures that tumble into the hidden land. On the scarps of Shampula a village
digs into the craggy slope etching out a few plots now fallow. I found a ruined
wall and sat in the grass listening to the wind whistling along the high peaks.
The hot November sun burrowed into my back and with nothing else to do I gazed
at the last parcel in my sector of East Bhutan with everything on the other
side of Shampula in a different country. Somewhere nestled in the Bey Yul is
Omba where Yeshi serenaded the Guru. At the end of the pasture is a peculiar
rhododendron grove with towering specimens sporting shimmering leaves, no
flowers. Star pointed ferns spread their fronds on the sunlight dappled floor
among clover and black mud. The trail peters out and I retrace my steps back
into the world. I stroll past houses with red chillies drying on the tin roofs.
Nankhar is a traditional village inaccessible by road about thirty minutes walk
from the Shakshing dirt track. It has electricity with flimsy poles and wires juicing
the village. It’s a halcyon hallucination an idyllic setting and quintessential
Himalayan village with scant trails teetering over fallow fields. Wild grasses
with tiny purple flowers entwine along the sinuous footpath. Palisades made of
sticks line pathways creeping between clusters of farmhouses. Concrete
platforms with Spigots provide water for common use. You gotta see it to
believe it folks. I’m still bound up by the picnic here’s a first constipated
in the Kingdom. A seasonal evening as the heat of the day evaporates off the
giant stones littering the mountains. It should be noted that within that
strange otherworld the grass was still a muted green. Between the worlds
massive oaks shelter peeping children and a grown woman runs away at my sight
taking refuge in her mud walled dwelling. Wonderful aromas swirl in the autumn
breezes and near the Delog’s house a row of white prayer flags with a crucified
scarecrow. A raven pierces the sky darting westward performing aeronautic
acrobatics. I remember the hawk soaring over my mother on the way to Shakshing
Goempa. Karlos and Aunt Barb were ahead of us and Sonam Yuden and her family
was the caboose.
Outside the moon is waning as violet stars flicker with
ancient light.
I can neither comprehend nor explain how important culture
is in Bhutan. Culture permeates everywhere and today was the 60th birthday of
the Fourth King. The Wangchuk dynasty emerged in Bhutan around 1900 and the 4th
King ruled from appoxamately1972-2008 when he abdicated to his son. The Fourth
King is beloved and revered a king among kings. His four wives are sisters and
all are involved in helping Bhutan. In 2004 he personally led troops that drove
out Assamese separatist from the jungles of Manas. From his ubiquitous
portraits he looks like a no nonsense man. As my VP said to me today, “Being
king is no joke” He asked if I would want to be king and I answered, “No!”
Being a teacher is enough responsibility. The celebration began at 8:30 taking
place on the football ground which has recently been leveled but has no grass.
They also carved terraces into the embankment where the canvas VIP tent stood
with pine needles strewn on the earthen floor. The old tent has purple dragons painted
on its canopy. Out on the ground the students were divided in rows with their
leaders holding banners that read, “Long Live Our 4th King” A mist
enveloped the revelers but then cleared unfurling a streaming brocade of clouds
and mountains. Behind the parade the mountains near Bartsham and Trashigang
unfolded while students marched to a drum and traditional zither type
instrument. The students marched lockstep swinging their arms in rhythm (and
boy did this day have holy rhythm) the parade was followed by speeches
including Karma Loday’s oratory. After the colorful procession were 29 programs
ranging from primary students obstacle courses and sack races, to traditional
Bedra dances and quasi hip Rigsar etcetera. Shamefully I balked at the communal
dancing having painful memories of my previous attempts feeling the heat of
many eyes on me as I misstep. I watched from the sidelines as the dancers
hundreds coiled into two circles in moving spirals. Finally it was lunchtime at
2 P.M. I felt off today and that usually means I will attract unwanted
attention. If my mood ebbs people want to know what’s wrong. I played it off
okay and for the most part enjoyed the day. I was tired though and at 4 o’clock
Pema Lhamo came to my door and invited me to the Scout Bon Fire. Holy Christ
another program! You see even a campfire is a program in Bhutan with electric (microphone
and LOUD music) POMP. Well the real pomp was in the daylight but the intimate
nightcap still followed a procedure and Principal’s table still had fake
flowers. Counselors scout troop has about 40 members and some familiar faces,
Pema Lhamo, Dorji Wangchuk, Guru Wangmo, Singye Wangmo, Phuntsho Wangmo, and
Kesang Nima to name a few. They wear orange scarves adorning their gho and kira
and some even sported green sashes. The troop is the Bhutanese cousins to Boy
and Girl Scouts back home but is coed. More dancing both communal and in groups
with the deceptively simple steps and waving hands. It’s pretty cool everyone
can dance except for me. Too many nights at the rock n roll circus ruined my
coordination. Eventually the teachers got in on the cultural bonanza and I sang
Dark Hollow into a microphone sitting near the campfire. At the end of each
program a student said, “Go, scout clap” and they did a rhythmic clap. Funny!
Finally as the fire was tamped shooting sparks into the black sky, the guest’s
a dozen teachers and administrators formally saluted and shook hands with each
scout. I wish I had the energy to recall in detail the amazing depth of such a
rich day but all I can do is unbutton my psychic belt and exhale.
Yesterday was a baby shower and I was called by both
Butterfly and Principal Sir while I was descending from the woods. I am trying
to train for my trek and need some miles under my belt. As I explained to
Principal Sir no one had informed me about the baby shower and I’d be there
shortly. He directed me to stop by Pema’s house to see the baby before joining
the group in the conference hall (a charmingly dilapidated building) At dinner
he asked if I carried a flashlight referring to the fall as “my mishap” I
assured him that I carry a flashlight always. It was a good meal with two
pieces of boneless and fatless pork, two modest chunks and two scoops of
emadatsi. I am hungry these days with no vegetables for sale. At the bonfire
Karma Loday looked ancient, a tribal dancing Mongoloid with movements as
graceful as a black necked crane illuminated by firelight.
Everywhere are orange marigolds stuffed into niches of Mani
walls or left on Chorten sills. They’re curled into the fingers of girls who
fling them at boys and laugh. They are bold as death and darn near as pretty.
Red Rhododendron’s own the spring, Roses are summers bud, but autumn worships
the marigold. Did I see them in another life? I saw them in my father’s hand
planting them in wooden boxes his tan hands removing them from plastic cartons
that cracked oozing black soil. My father who continues to teach me lessons on
how to live. Here and now on campus thousands of marigolds burning like dying
galaxies, screaming IMPERMENANCE! Ouchy! Like all of us they blossom and go
away.
Autumn trundles along and today was a holiday and I barely
managed to get out. Smoke choked the eastern half of the valley the world
filtered through hazy sunlight. I cleaned my house and organized my teaching
materials. Exams start tomorrow and up at dinner students prodded me for
answers. Pema Yangzom tried to be cute asking me for the topics. I told her
that would be cheating and unfair to the other students and asked if she still
wanted to know. She said yes but of course I wouldn’t tell. I have a month left
on campus before making my way westward. Upcoming exam duty, center marking and
preparation of grades will keep me occupied. It’s a lonely time as the routine
is broken and the weather turns cold. I get occasional calls or texts from
other teachers but I’m isolated, full on immersion. Double dipped in a barrel
of Bhutanese sprinkles. So one must have niceties to endure like a spruced up
hovel or fresh picked flowers (imaginary ones will do) Nice encounters at the
mess scrounging potato curry since I can’t score any vegetables. I desperately
need to go to T-Gang for errands but it will be tricky escaping for a day
amidst marking.
If the story ended here what a MUNDANE ending it would be…A
steady stream of students dropped in for help since their class 8 English 1
Exam is tomorrow. I made four tests for my two grades consisting of English 1
and English 2. The tests cover essay writing, letter writing, grammar, short
story, and poetry. The exams must adhere to a specific format and pass
moderation from the Counselor. I usually will mark my own papers while lending
a hand for Class 9 and 10 corrections. Class ten will take their exams December
1-14. Overall it’s a stressful month for students and teachers, nothing a
piping hot pepperoni pizza couldn’t fix. Up at the mess Pema Yangdon greets me
with a mellifluous, “Hello sir!” She is in good humor bustling about sweeping
the kitchen floor with a Cinderella broom then splashing water from a bucket
finishing the job. Her Taegu sleeves are rolled up as she proficiently completes
her tasks. Pema Lhamo and her friends huddle by the wood burning stove, the
scene has the vibe of summer camp but a few minutes later all are hushed
sheepishly taking food under Principal Sir’s supervision in the dingy MP HALL.
My boil has shrunk to a bump above the eyelid and considering living almost
three years in East Bhutan I feel somewhat fine. I just chased a fat rat out of
the house.
Friday, a smoky day just administered class 8 exam and will
correct this afternoon. This is a winter day not cold but hazy my precious view
of Tawang taken away by the lord, probably people burning fields throughout the
valley. The glory days are over folks but my mom and Bubba Ganush got to see
em. Beauty is always abundant but nothing like crystal clear mornings with the
Matterhorn’s shinning like diamonds. The lack of vegetables also marks the
season but water is flowing so life is good. I will really miss my class 8
students who I taught for two years consecutively. There were some real characters in that class
like Karma Sonam (The peach thrower) Tashi Gyelston who has grown up before my
eyes. Precocious Dawa C Seldon and that’s just a few among 8B. I like teaching
grade 7 and 8.
Picture Debacle, My
Home is on the Border
I thought it would be nice to print photos for students free
of cost. The process took several hours with patient Kesang at Jigme Wangmo
printing studio. They also sell washing machines and big televisions. Anyway
when I reached home I was mobbed by students who tore the pictures out of my
hand. A vortex of about 35 students swarmed me and several photographs were
stolen. When the tornado cleared a pile of photographs lay strewn in the grass.
That led to disappointed students whose photos got ripped off. It was my fault
for being too trusting and not forceful with the offending students who
violated me. Many present were not my pupils but ultimately I’m annoyed at
myself and the perpetrators. Now I have to try to get to T-Gang and replace the
photos. As it happens I had a hell of a time getting to and from the fabled
Hill Station due to the roadblock between Chazam and Gom Kora. It’s a nasty
dusty scene with precarious drop-offs and games of chicken with Ta Ta’s in the
twilight. Not those Ta Ta’s but Indian semis with multicolored lights and “Good
luck stenciled to their sides” For all the trouble I got a layover at Gom Kora
discovering a dope nearby river spot consisting of smooth terraced rocky ledges
stepping down to the Dangme Chu which is dark emerald braided with cream
rapids. FLOW FOR SURE! I thought about the bottom of the river and the rocks
that cause the backwash, eddies, and rapids swirling through the narrow ravine.
This river never stops flowing always keeping whitewater in certain places but
the high watermark is in August and now the river runs clean with clear waters.
Trashigang is always flowering and gold grasses sway in
afternoon light. The new prayer wheel by the hotel is complete dedicated to the
Fourth King. Eucalyptus trees rustle in the secluded wooded haven of Trahigang
as multicolored rectangular buildings cluster around the taxi stand. The
relaxing drivers laugh when they see me and no what’s coming. The town goes
about at its leisurely pace with Brokpa men in Red woolen tunics walking about
in gumboots chewing doma. That scrappy husky dog still sits on the bakery steps
three years later while the ancient Dzong gets a makeover. After the pictures I
got the blues and it seems Bhutan (or the human mind) can be a desolate place
at times. So it is that Miss Rebecca is headed to Bumthang and a 59 year old
Australian woman to Kiney? Could it be another phelincpa placed between me and
Tawang, and what of my best friend so far away? It’s getting cold now and I’m
feeling listless, WTDL? It was a beautiful autumn day at Tsenkharla with pastel
colors and towering clouds casting long shadows across the empty valley now
free and clear. Center marking is taking place in the staff room. Teachers hum
mantras, gossip, and get down to the business of marking piles of exams. I
wonder if the gentleman’s exposed knees get cold, the space between curtain of
the gho and the knee sock. Groups will serve tea and snacks and everyone
assumes correctly that I’m hungry. I threw a hissy fit with counselor today in
the staff room an outbreak I haven’t displayed since the first year. The
Bhutanese occasionally quarrel but don’t often hold grudges. Thankfully
everyone knows I’m temperamental as Phelincpa’s often are. Every ones nerves
are frayed a bit by now but most handle it better in an Oriental rooted grace.
Nestled in culture and purpose and steeped in community assists. I am a lone
stag finding my way through a strange forest, oh my I might be lost!
Two weeks later and the boil is now an indiscriminant bump
on my head that doesn’t seem to be getting smaller. Overall I’m not a picture
of health but my stomach has improved this year. The house is clean but I admit
my spirits need dusting. Sanga means Buddhist community and my Sanga for all
its worth continues to teach me. In the end were left with our Sanga to muddle
through. I’m grateful that my community allows me to find my way. This
afternoon I admired how the clouds lightly touch the mountaintops and drift
away. I must find a father in Principal, a brother in Karlos, a sister in Tashi
Yangzom, and many sons and daughters amongst the students. I get to make a life
here.
The next day I gave Dawa Dema and Yeshi Dema their pictures
and they were gleeful and very appreciative. It rained at dawn and the valley
was swimming in clouds ala monsoon. Very curious November but cold for sure,
clouds and rain are never far away in Bhutan. A helicopter buzzes overhead
drowning out the cry of a raven. Very rare since no commercial aircraft flies
overhead, it’s an Indian chopper surveying the Indo Tibetan border and taking
in East Bhutan all easily from its aerial view. The three countries converge
outside my door. The flocks of ravens have dispersed but they hang around all
year. Those roses near the assembly ground cling to life and marigolds turn
crispy brown and flaring orange. Last stands of maize fade to gold standing
alone among fallow fields. The medicinal herbs that Bhutan was named (The land
of medicinal herbs) wilt and go to seed. Ferns turn tawny and oaks shed leaves
that litter the hillsides. Decay activated in November. Holy rhythms of the
earth the valley playing out its own drama. When I heard the rain pattering I
tucked into by sleeping bag and dreamt of snow in the high country that rims
the valley, it descended upon Tsenkharla and we had ourselves a snow day. But
when I awoke it was foggy.
By afternoon it was partly cloudy with brass light
seeping through silver puffy clouds. I poked around above Shakshing on some
muted green terraces overlooking Tawang and the Dangme Chu. The mountains ever
imposing bold, towering ten thousand feet from the river bed into the clouds.
Multilayered ranges forming the Inner Himalayas of the East. On the grove floor
giant leaves crunch under foot and returning home stars prick the sky. This was
followed by another rainy night with cold swirling clouds like frozen waves
breaking over monoliths. The scale of the landscape is magnificent both micro
and macro universes constantly evolving cyclically.
Like it or not center marking is a community gathering. This
often means unwanted attention (although I might crave it on subconscious
frequencies) I made peace with Counselor today and since it was my paper I
brought snacks. Vice Principal sir laughed and said I finally understood the
etiquette but he didn’t use that word. Then he remarked that my snacks were
made for children. Box juice, Fish ramen packets, chewing gum, and potato chips
(all made in India) I retorted that I wasn’t savvy enough to make momo’s and
tea for a large group. Many others made comments on my choice of snacks but ate
them all the same. Butterfly spoke up saying that I always say “I don’t know”
and “Nobody informed me” Principal got a laugh out of that one and maybe I have
said these phrases often in Bhutan. All good natured ribbing I’m sure and
fortunately I am fond of my community and only hope they feel the same. In
three weeks I will be on the road and in the meantime working and saying
farewell to many beloved students who will fade out of my radar some forever,
running in and out of the fabric of my life a wondrous needlepoint tapestry.
For the record I made the unseen essay on the class seven exams way too
difficult and the scores were low. Puddles around campus reflecting rippled
mountains hiding beneath a curtain of spindrift periodically penetrated by a
jagged peak with Shampula completely blotto. My fur lined flannel turned out a
smart buy indeed with my wool cap to keep my noggin toasty since one looses 80%
of their heat through their dome. Pockets of green remain lining the ridges and
the western valley still retains greenness rugged slopes and pastures falling
three thousand feet to the Kulong Chu, a wilderness intact and in places
pristine where the wild animals rule. The heaviest population centers
surrounding Trashigang with villages hugging the cliffs in every direction. New
farm roads zig- zag up improbably vertical faces. The hallmark of the East is
farmhouses hanging precariously over thousand foot emerald abysses. Tsenkharla
is endowed with a view only rivaled by Bartsham. Except Tsenkharla is my place
and this is my valley and Bartsham is that other facet of this Eastern piece.
Tawang, Trashiyangtse, Trashigang, Khaling, Merak and Sakteng all portions of
this eastern mandala. Mongar, Lhuntse, and South Eastern Tibet round it out,
but it goes on forever westward to Everest and Pakistan or East to Itanegar and
Burma beyond. I live in the hills of a great range impervious to the claims of
Bhutan, India or China- snowcapped and uninhabited, except by blue sheep and
snow leopards. Wildcats prowl the upper forests of Bromla and the highlands
between Tawang and Trashiyangtse where the Monpa roam. Blah Blah Blah, Those
highland moors are the lowlands of the greater Himalaya range, many layers
ascending from the Indian plains to the top of our planet. Geography gives me a
sense of place and my Sanga gives me a purpose. Poinsettias bloom and I think
of my mom who loves them and purchases little baskets with gold tinsel to
display around her house at Christmas. Currently rain gently falls with no
crops to receive it. A requiem for roses that hope to cling to the vine another
day and I wonder how the pink one near the assembly ground is faring. It’s nice
to be human and dry and not a poor drenched tiger, a solitary cat hardened by
hunger and the elements paying the price for kingship.
Beyond the Limit
It’s hard to be reflective on this journey for instance it’s
late in the evening and I haven’t even conquered dinner yet. Frankly I don’t
want to conquer the dishes first. Thank god for water this year! On my wall is
written Tim Gets Things Done! I copped it from a movie clip of the Furthur bus
where a sign near the steering wheel read, “Neil Gets Things Done” And from my
side I do, for example marking moves steadily along thanks to assigned attendance
between certain hours the year wheels towards completion. I think Neil would
approve and marvel that I’ve stayed in one place so long. Yet I’m sure I’m
living out one of his gazillion fantasy paradigms, his metaphorical road to the
Southern tip of South America. How’s the eastern edge of Bhutan old boy? It’s
been a challenging year for me testing me to the limit. One must expect that
limit to expand exponentially. Work towards good karma every day and try to
stay healthy I guess. Mr. Tim sometimes forgets to have fun but often he
catches himself and remembers he appreciates his community and admires his
students and wants to help them. I’m thankful for mom and Aunt Barb’s visit as
a highlight and impetus for me to continue. I confess that I feel a little
stripped down and lonesome but I guess that’s to be expected. More gentle
ribbing around the center marking table. One issue for me is noise distracts me
easily and between prayer anthems blaring on cell phones and chatter it isn’t a
peaceful environ. I am resigned to it and check the largest part of my own
exams. Class six I will probably check solo. Today was my class eight exam and
they were so cute begging me to reveal the questions before the bell. I will
miss that class a landmark it was my first class I taught for two years
consecutively with the same roster. Moreover they were good kids although I
went through some rough patches with 8B. I observed that I taught the story
effectively though some still bombed. Others nailed it but as usual I kept the
scores low. A 40/100 in Bhutan is passing and a 70/100 in English is a high
mark. Another misty night and cold as winter is upon us although it will
steadily get colder into February. Tsenkharla is mild for Bhutanese climate
colder than Trashigang and warmer than Bumthang.
It was a classic Sunday walking to Shakshing in the
footprints of mom and Bubba Ganush. I basked in Himalayan sunshine all day hopping
up the trail from glade to rock to pasture visiting spots I love all with
different views. The Shakshing romp affords scenes towards Yangtse, and the
sweeping easterly from Tawang to T-Gang. Today haze truncated the view as
gilded filtered light flooded my beloved valley. Cows still ate what was left
green and a fetching villager was cutting pine boughs which made her all the
more alluring. While sitting in meditation leaves fell on my head. Meanwhile
back in the City or Oakland California to be precise Tyler, Beth and company
were getting down to STS9. This was the makeup show for the cancelled
performance in January “Fuck You Murph!” but maybe Murph is the tragic victim,
either way we’re both missing the show tonight y’all. Hopefully everyone’s
locked in with Morgan groping at angels, Beth with a coy smile forgetting the
kids at home, and Ty scanning the cavernous room mid jam for a friend at the (I
gotta Fox!) From my side I went roaming finding beauty in the vast vistas
sprawling from my radial third eye. The coils of sound unleashed from Hunter’s
guitar tickling my feet in the dust as imperceptible vibrations. The forest
alive with activity ravens calling from cypress branches, little kids shouting
“Mr. Tim where are you!” At home yet another batch of K WA with the last
potato, onion, garlic and masala spice. It was flavorful but it’s a sparse
diet. Tea and biscuits scrounging veggies can’t even scare up an egg or a
decent piece of chocolate let alone a top notch spicy tuna hand roll. Mine is a
free and uncluttered life with only the tangles of my mind to contend with. How
wonderfully human is that struggle and that is how I am connected to you, and
how we are connected to Buddha.
An image of Guru Wangmo in fur hood looking like an Eskimo
behind barbed wire asking if I was going to meet Rinchen Wangmo. The
mellifluous salutations of the girls all sitting on the ledge with books spread
before them, fresh laundry snaps in the breeze giving off a soapy aroma mixed
with pine. The girls get the Yangtse view of the Kulong Chu and the boys view
is to the east. I awake to the boys with the noise shouting Dzonkha songs to
the rising sun. At 6:30 they go to morning study like gho clad soldiers leaving
birdsong and cow bells to ease me into day.
When I open the door I see eternity.
We are deep into examinations now. The boarders are
departing tomorrow for winter break save class ten. My class six takes their
board exam on Saturday which I will mark myself. School officially closes
December 19th but I have to leave on the 13th to sort out my Visa renewal. I made emadatsi for lunch since I have run
out of potatoes. I’m pretty ravenous these days but feeling okay. There is a
bump on my brow that was the boil that hopefully will disperse. It’s been a
long challenging year and I feel wiped. My work will be done in a week and
after leave is sanctioned by Principal Sir I’m on the road to Thimphu. The days
are hazy and cold but always beautiful with green ferns among decaying oak
leaves in the forest. It gets dark at 5:30 and light at 6 tipping the scales in
nights favor. No veggies for sale publicly and I’m eating raw cheese and
biscuits not even bothering to layer the cheese on the cracker. I shove a hunk
of cheese in my mouth chew and then add the cracker like a log to the grinder.
There you have it bachelor cheese and crackers eaten standing up on my cold
cement floor while a rat hides under the cabinet. Its crisp out on the trails
and Styrofoam litters the woods near the spook shit shed, they never bother to
clean up their INDUSTRIAL size mess before leaving with plastic sheets and foam
packing strewn for quarter of a mile. The Gup was there the very same man who
borrowed and never returned my tent two years ago. Fall colors pepper the
groves with oaks losing leaves rapidly. Since our mountain shelters more oaks
than pines when I return in two months they will seem naked. We have a nice mix
of oak and two species of pine (blue and chir) one specializing above 7,000 and
one below 7,000 in elevation according to Piet. The round ridge above Shakshing
arcs above the Delog’s house and slopes down to Kiney and below to tawny
paddies along the Dangme Chu. Even when the views recede and the flowers decay
the forest always harbors ravens, pines, and magic. Nawang Choden looks like an
elf with strong jaw high set cheeks and pointy ears, many Bhutanese look this
way some characteristics inherited from Tibetan lineage. Some look like shy
swarthy jungle cats and some milky in complexion but they all have on matching
outfits. Morning was exam duty sitting in a cold room watching the pupils for
three hours. Occasionally I patrol the isles and I get served one hot cup of
milk tea and a few biscuits (crackers) tomorrows the last assembly with all
students before the manic last push for class ten students. Some I will never
see again like Samten Tshomo who is going to Pema Gatshel. Still plenty of work
to be done marking class six, and filing grades and paperwork and compiling
spreadsheets (the best for last) I’d like to see the Black Naked Cranes out in
Bumdeling too. I hope to file this report and beam it to you before I leave on
my grand adventure. It’s been a strange trip for “Tiger” this year and I hope
some of you are still aboard. Posts have been erratic but I have shared some
nice photos which is what the crowd wants. I only hope to convey a fraction of
the madness that is my life on the wild eastern frontier. So let me wish you a
Happy Christmas and Merry New Year and Happy Hanukah for the Hebrew readers, I
hope your Turkey was delightful. It’s not the year of the Tiger for eight more
years nor is it the Fire Monkey, I heard some bah about a sheep or something,
Yellama!
I will keep writing since I’m still present, today was my
last exam duty and the bulk of students departed. I encountered Samten Tshomo,
Sangay Dema, and Dechen Wangmo B on my way up the trail they had gone to
Shakshing and when I asked for roaming they corrected me, “No sir praying”
Pretty cute, young Buddhist girls class six and seven on afterschool
pilgrimage. I said goodbye to Samten Tshomo who is like a little sister and
continued on my way. Further up the trail was my other bigger sister Kesang or
Lamboo (meaning big and tall) Kesang is a lovely teenager with haunting Arabic eyes.
She is almost as tall as me and was walking with her lama cousin brother with
her suitcase balanced on her head while she played a song from her cell phone.
She was dressed in kira bottom and sweatshirt, a half kira. Nice girl that one
but I forged ahead into a still and quiet forest with maroon frosted ridges and
fallow pastures. Deep in the enchanted woodlands the last buds droop from their
stems, gnarled roots grip enormous boulders, tawny ferns dehydrate on thick
branches, and huge shriveled leaves fall on my head. I walk through the oak
grove that still pulses with twilight birdsong as a slivered moon emerges from
the clouds. Down in the paling pastures kids play and I shout a hearty
greeting. The landscape is dotted with Chortens and prayer flags and layered
with clustered farmhouses descending into the ravine. There is virtually no
shoreline on the Kulong Chu in certain places. Like Jamie said were halfway up
the mountain.
Not much pageantry for the last school day for everyone but
class 6 and 10. Principal Sir made a long speech in Dzonkha probably
encouraging good behavior over the break. Oh which reminds me half way to
Shakshing at my dream house there is a puja going on with outdoor cooking fire
and as one lady offered, “Maize Juice” or Ara. She added as I sauntered off
that it was tasty. Clouds hug the high peaks and smoke lays in the nooks and
crannies of the mountains. Autumn is happening folks with musky seasonal
aromas, of damp rotting mushroom and wood smoke. Did you ever realize if you’re
hungry aromas have increased potency? Although it’s not the most idyllic season
I love winter in Bhutan. The forests are in repose but never entirely without
life. One more week of work ahead the final push of a long year.
Dinner a cup of noodle knock off from India that has been at
the bottom of my food box for a long time. Today I ONLY had eight bags of
cheese balls that were surprisingly fresh (Yes I see the irony of fighting
trash while producing so much of it) Two other nice encounters giving photos to
Samten Wangmo a sincere youth who did the lions share in Social Service Club,
she has a distinct Mongoloid face. Also Nima Gyeltson dropped in to say
goodbye. He also asked for NU 300 to pay a fine for his confiscated cell phone.
I begrudgingly oblidged giving a testy lecture and later he returned with the
money after he got his phone back free. I told him to buy something nice with
the cash and he thanked me, we embraced and he walked on. I gazed out at the
eastern mountains evaporating into a blurry silver haze. Inside I polished off
“The Call of the Wild” and looked at Dawa Dema differently nipping at my heel.
I find myself homesick for thanksgiving with Turkey dripping
in fatty juices and 49ers vs. Seahawks grudge match on the T.V. Guacamole can
be purchased a quarter mile away for appetizers, my Aunt Mare squabbling with
mom over the volume of the television. One realizes how precious family
gatherings are when marooned halfway around the globe, and hungry. Shanghaied
in Shangri-La isn’t so bad but one feels the cold grip of isolation by late
November. It’s not the calendar but the feeling in the bones that I should be
with kin on the very day that my surrogate family has left. Loneliness is a
blessing I’ve savored in my life but the ties that bind me still cause suffering.
Buddha would commiserate but ruthlessly hand you the knife and wink. Severe the
ties that bind and annihilate desire provoking immediate release from Samsara.
Isn’t it funny how after Buddha freed his mind he still ambled about in his
flesh and bones body for forty odd years preaching the dharma, blissfully detached
yet fully engaged. MINDFULNESS! Ego is the realization that you’re distinct
from all other living things. That is your identity fully loaded, but what when
you discover that EGO is illusionary and that in fact you are the same as all
other living things. Icarumba! The house of cards that we build for ourselves
scattered like leaves in an autumn gust. If you sit on the rock under the regal
pine you can hear the wind of the jet stream, its primal howling eddies circulating
over the upper crest ridges.
Just chased that damn rat around the hut and I have no idea
where he went, brazen bastard. I have a rat trap but Buddhist sensibilities or
laziness precludes me from using it. I wonder where he goes in the daytime. Maybe
I should catch him and fry him up. Today is Thursday with no circus in town
except maybe there was. From Shakshing I heard a clamor below near Shali that
sounded like a kiddy jamboree or pre pubescent puja. There was banging of pots
or drums and primal shrieking, the Bhutanese are not immune to fun but enjoy
life at their own pace suitable for the environment. A good laugh and doma chew
while gathering wood in the forest constitutes a party, a fortuitous encounter
with a demonstrative phelincpa makes it all the jollier. People shout at one
another over great distances from one village to another. What can I do but
soak it all in. I have tried in vain to describe the indescribable beauty of
this place when my mom nailed it, “The Mountains of East Bhutan are
unsurpassed.” The people that live in them are pretty groovy too.
I enjoyed thanksgiving chicken with Karlos and Sonam (I
mostly call him Karma these days) I had a frozen fowl. Sonam made Indian
chicken curry and remarked that my mother wouldn’t like it because of the
spice. A few others joined us and it
made for a nice meal, a Bhutanese thanksgiving. Karlos seemed adamant that I
get fed on my mother’s behalf on Thanksgiving. Sonam is ripe in belly and soon
to pop with a Christmas baby. On the last day of November the skies open up and
snow dusts the saddleback in Tawang.
Epilogue: December
Daze
The first day of December was glorious and memorable just
like last year. One year ago I visited Chorten Kora with Rebecca and was free
from duty and on my way into the world. I didn’t feel as unfettered today since
I was marking class six board exams which was difficult following the board’s
specific rubric. I sat alone in the staff room with Dawa Dema curled up in a
plastic chair beside me. Outside was resplendent and I was grateful to be on
the trail between Zangtopelri and Shakshing. When little Dorji leaves school on
his way to Shakshing he first pitches up steeply to Tsangma’s ruin, the mani
wall and gateway, and then another steep knoll to Zangtopelri. Then he enjoys a
wonderful flat portion of trail on the ridgeline through blue tinted pines and
wispy cypress packed tight on either side of a sumptuous glade. There are only
a few farmhouses on this stretch including the one I pass each day with giant
bamboo stand and white rummaging goat. The hermitage is also in this sector
along with my repossessed dream house with views of both rivers in opposing
valleys. It was clear and I was up at 5 watching silver light illuminate purple
silhouetted ridges at the Eastern end of the valley and the looming Matterhorn
peaks all sharply defined and close enough to lick. The eye tries to untangle
where one mountain separates from another as ridges weave the massifs together.
The outer edges of the panorama leaned in eavesdropping on the whispering dawn
as yellow light burst over Tsang Tsang Ma splashing Bromla then Shampula and
finally spilling onto my frozen toes. Steam rose off the river and curls of
mist laced the midriff of Shampula hovering around the tiny pinnacled Hill
station of Lumla. Smoke curled from stovepipes near Kiney, breakfasts in the
borderlands. By afternoon the mountains have been dipped in gold the treetops
on the rounded ridge maroon and the distant mountains Pale blue almost silver.
You’ll never guess what I’m eating right now. Italian dried
salami, oh yeah! What a difference a package makes. It’s so good I’m humming
while I eat. My mom’s care package bolstered my spirit when I needed it most.
Now I’m scrambling to collect marks from concerned subject teachers and enter
them in a spreadsheet. Finally I will enter the information from the spreadsheet
onto hardcopy grade sheets. I have trouble visually completing these tasks
which must be done painstakingly slow without error. The whole exam process is convoluted
and in certain ways detrimental to the student but I am not here to change the
system. I ate half my salami log in two days neglecting the potatoes I scored
the other day in the village. It’s a relief to know I have enough food for the
duration. Karlos got a bukari (wood burning stove) I sat with him and pup last
night chatting. Today is un-wacky Wednesday cloudy with a chance of Emadatsi. Somehow
magenta bogenvia twines around cypress trunks and the pink roses make their
stand while scarlet poinsettias are comfortable in their proper season.
It’s hard to be reflective when there’s work still to be
done. It’s been a trying year with much travail like my Humpty Dumpty
impersonation, my summer itchiness, and my spring viral fever. It also has been
a triumphant year including monumental treks to Shampula, Rigzam, and Gongsa
Goempa. Moreover it was a moderately successful year in the classroom and I
have a better handle on teaching Bhutanese students. I was pleased that Mare
paid me a compliment about my teaching from watching my mom’s videos. I enjoy a
good rapport with my students and am better understanding how to effectively
teach them English. I continue to be bowled over by the Bhutanese youth and
grateful for this unique opportunity.
