This
blog is rated X for adult content, strong language, and sexual situations. Parental
discretion is advised…
Monday
“She moved in for the
winter, made a garden in May, summer came then the cold autumn grey” This Time
Forever
The
day began as any other in Bhutan,
except Sunday. And as one student said, “not every day is Sunday so enjoy the
day.” For us BCF’ers, our six day work week inevitably begins with a morning
assembly. The assembly commences with the singing of a Buddhist prayer which
segues into the Bhutanese National Anthem. Each rendition is sung differently
according to the weather and mood of the students. I’ve noticed they take it
down on Saturdays to a slow drawl. Each time I here the anthem I am reminded of
my dream coming true. Today was the third sunny day in a row, a warm and
wonderful occasion. Spring is in full swing with roses blooming everywhere
along with geraniums and other flowers including white trumpets with a sweet
fragrance. It’s hard to believe this is the same parcel that greeted me in
February. Even though the valley floor a thousand feet below struggles to
green, Tsenkharla is a little oasis. In class 8 we discussed women’s roles in Bhutan both
traditional and modern. I posed the question to the students if they thought
men and women were equal in society. The discussion generated some interesting
ideas from the class. Many sexist ideals were reflected by the male students.
My class captain thought it was okay to have multiple wives since men were “oversexed.”
One girl rebutted that if girls didn’t stand up for themselves “the boys would
pass stool on their heads.” It was only one generation ago that women here
married and had babies at 14 and were uneducated. Overall the country has made
tremendous progress. I pray that the royal couple will have a baby girl who
will eventually become queen. Today was my light load of five classes. I
usually teach six a day totaling 32 45 minute classes a week. There are BCF
teachers here teaching more so I feel thankful. It is hard to handle the large
class sizes mainly marking the work of 120 students with varying abilities.
Some students are rather poor in English which does not reflect their overall
intelligence. They all speak 4-5 languages and have terrific savvy and sense. If
I were dying in a ditch I’d take a Bhutanese kid over an American any day and
twice on Sunday. But how is one ESL teacher supposed to make a difference in
this system. For now I do selective marking and gather the most common mistakes
to review as a class. One advantageous aspect is that my students are speaking
English and critically thinking. I firmly believe I am improving their
conversational abilities and anxieties about our language. I’m not confident
yet that I am improving their writing, reading, and grammar. We do have a lot
of fun trying though. I’m even getting more names except the boogers keep
switching seats. Today on my trash patrol I found we had three black pigs in
our sty on the edge of campus. All I could think was BACON! BACON! BACON! Hope
your reading Cousin Larry (Mepos sends it’s regards)
Golden
rays glowed over a black depression between two peaks. Soon after a plump full
moon the color of cheddar cheese rose over the ridge, accompanied by a burst
from Sylvie. The lunar appearance struck up a nighttime symphony with a tender
cricket (not Cricket) solo. We rarely get visits from sister moon who must have
other obligations elsewhere often unable to drop in on poor old East Bhutan. But tonight she showed up early to the party
and stayed late streaking across the sky in lonesome delight, lightening as she
went. When it happens like that a body can loose themselves in the eternal
dance of the universe and for one second become the moon, mountain, and
everything everywhere. But these peaceful
moments never last.
Tuesday
“At the end of the endless
game, there is friendship” Zen Proverb (To Rabes)
Outside
one of the shops in Tsenkharla the same purple flowers grow that are found in
the Lost Coast of Humboldt County where we were “Lost Coast Locals.” These
luxurious purple bells have white speckles dappled inside. They lined the
grueling trail all the way to Wheeler Grove at the end of California where Morgan panted in a tight
pink t-shirt. I was so proud of her for showing Bhutanese like endurance that
day covering many vertical miles while continuously inquiring “Where are the
redwoods?” We finally found them descending into camp in the warm October air.
Strange ones blackened by lightning, scared and broken as we would soon be too.
I recall the first time I heard the word Bhutan ring out
like one of those purple bells. It was a smoggy spring evening in Anyang City South
Korea and I was eating a gourmet meal on the
floor of a lunatic’s apartment. This particular lunatic happened to be an
incredible chef and incorrigible maniac. He had made some pork in his curry
cooker that melted in the saliva bath of my mouth. Why he wasn’t cooking for
kings and queens or presidents was beyond me. His name was Paul but he referred
to himself in the third person as Daddy. Saying things like “Daddy fucks” or “Daddy
gingerates.” He was also a notorious whore monger who would often spend his
nights at the brothels on Hooker Hill in Itaewon with my best friend, why I
dabbled on Korean Friend Finder (a social networking sight.) I digress; we
would often have long discussions about travel and philosophy and on this
particular night we began to discuss the Himalaya’s.
He insisted I check out Bhutan
and spoke about the rhododendron forests and one horned rhinoceroses’ along
with the tariff and mandatory guides. He had been there briefly as a tourist
you see. Perhaps the forbidden and exclusive nature of the place first allured
me so after that orgiastic meal including various curries and goose eggs and
the before mentioned pork I retired back to my apartment and immediately googled
Bhutan.
Paul was fired a few weeks later and vanished pulling off a Midnight Run or
Runner. (This means bunking your contract and leaving the country without giving
proper notice) Last we heard he was teaching in China but that’s another story
altogether.
And now I am here but I still haven’t seen those
damn unicorn rhinos yet. They are hiding in Manas with the elephants and
tigers. But Bhutan
is more beautiful and free then my wildest imagination, a mountainous paradise,
the end of the road and the beginning of God’s playground. Desperate to escape
my own head I bought four Fosters but after half a can remembered how much I
despise alcohol and gave the rest away. I went for a walk picking up trash as I
moved, well aware that as soon as I leave this place the compulsive littering
will continue in earnest. The evening star immerged waiting for his date the
moon. Over one ridge and another range is Tibet, a three days walk if it
weren’t for those awful Chinese in power. Dead ahead is Arrunachal Pradesh and
Tawang just out of view. And of course Trashigang sparkles like a diamond.
Somewhere out there my “spin sister” Becky (mistakenly adapted by a student
from the word spinster) makes a fine meal with real ingredients. I will make
grilled cheese with plastic dairy imitate. Beyond Becky the Blue Poppies think
of sprouting on the slope between Merak and Sakteng. Here the afterglow of day
settles over the rim of a mountain that looks like Tam if she were stacked on
ten green and brown blocks. To the west Karma Om’s sister moves across the old
trade routes for home while J.D levitates over Bidung. In San Rafael Jazzy
sleeps on the sofa. But for now it’s just me and Booty who follows me to and
fro from my rock like a dog, a loyal companion. And as for the moon she is
conspicuously absent again.
Wednesday
“Doing the
mess around, everybody doing the mess around”
Teaching here can pose its own challenges. The class
sizes are large which can present classroom management issues. Also some of the
students do not take their studies very seriously. This is probably true
anywhere and I am trying to exercise patience. The lack of resources and low
English ability can make lessons challenging. On the brighter side it’s another
perfect spring day in the east. I have tons of work to do and lessons to plan.
I am trying to come up with activities that maximize student’s involvement and
engagement. I went to touch the grinding stone since its one of those days.
Popped my head out the door at 5:25 AM to see the sun rise over India, and then
crawled back into my bag. Hope to ride that high pressure system for awhile
before the trough of rain puddles us again. Went into a fly infested hut and
witnessed a strange game of dice being shaken and slammed down on a pad while
screaming in Sharshop. Saw a perfect sunset and talked to Becky, Ashleigh, and
Sarah on the phone. Ironically I had to come to the remote corner of the planet
to make a few friends. Then I took dinner at the mess with four hundred
students asking me the same question, “Is it delicious sir?” Now I’m
procrastinating planning lessons and reading “Even Cowgirls get the blues” watching
fleas, flies, roaches, and spiders dose do around the concrete dance floor,
while the dogs call out the tune.
(Cowboy of Tsenkharla Interlude)
I wonder why being naked in the wilderness or in public for
that matter is illegal. It seems the most natural thing in the world. Yet I
have only achieved this a few times. Once strolling around a Rainbow Gathering in
Arizona (with only my Yosemite
cowboy hat) after I had been robbed blind. This was more of a statement march then
a freedom march, and it made my primitive inner puritan a tad uneasy (although
I have nothing to be ashamed of wink wink) I have even made love once or twice
within a mountain hollow or sandy beach but that might have been a dream, I’m
not sure anymore. There was a rumor that a Canadian teacher in the 80’s lost
the plot and circumnavigated the prayer wheel in Trashigang in all his
circumcised glory. Maybe he was the sanest one after all; this place is naked
as they come!
Thursday
“So instead I
grab a bottle and a girl who’s just fourteen and a damn good case of the Mexicali Blues” Barlow
As mentioned above I have been stressing the
equality of boys and girls and men and women in class 8. Like I said, we have
been comparing modern Bhutanese women to their traditional counterparts. Heck
we even made a groovy chart! To repeat myself, backwards one generation the
girls were wedded at 14 promptly popping out babies. Thankfully this is not the
case anymore and girls are allowed to grow into women with aspirations and
independent dreams. But it’s a rough river to row for these young ladies. As
with the rest of the civilized world (yes I’m including Bhutan) men
still dominate. Did you know up until 1962 there were no roads in Bhutan? While
Jack Kerouac was “On the Road” chasing down Neal Cassidy, the folks of Bhutan were
walking across an unforgiving landscape. Even today many of my students have
never ventured as far as Trashigang but they all know who Justin Beaber (or
Beaver) is. Our girls are not naughty like the sex fiend teens of the USA although
they do flow on a river of estrogen coalescing with a river of testosterone.
The two bodies intersect somewhere on make out point at Sharopsi college in
view of Ashleigh’s balcony. Today was a tiring day just like many teaching days.
This profession saps my strength but it is a labor of love (excuse the cliché)
not to be trotted lightly. I shiver at the thought of being a role model and
after reading my posts you might as well. But I take it seriously and channel
my demented musings into good clean comedy in the classroom. Of course they do
know I carry a torch for Miss Bhutan.
At the end of the day all I want is for these boys and girls to achieve their
goals and be happy.
Life for students on this rustic ranch is tough, playing
cowboys and Indians. Except we have real Indians from Krishna’s
Tribe and the natives are never restless, but they do have bow and arrows. The
chime of the oval brass bell clunked with a rusty hammer controls their
movements and actions. They are forced to pray the live long day which for an
agnostic American seems unusual if not cruel. They are born Buddhist, they have
no choice. A few abandoned Sangay Dempa’s ship and board Christ’s vessel. I am
yet to meet one enlightened and brave atheist. Pishaw, I am not even an atheist
afraid to accept or deny that damn being who shines from “the clear light of
the void” staring back at us and laughing at our narrow minded interpretations
and dualistic reasoning. The crickets back me up on this, chirping there merry
tune forever in cheery darkness. We are all bound together like the weavings
the Druk Yul’s covet and cherish, all being spun on a cosmic loom. But who is
doing the spinning anyway. Whose feet work the WA WA pedal? If anyone knows the
answer I urge you to post a comment immediately.
P.S We had an earthquake tonight that put East Bhutan on the cosmic tilt-a- whirl for forty
seconds. It was a 5.3 centered near Guwati India near the border.
TGIF (Think Goofy It’s Friday)
“Small wheel
turn by the fire and rod, big wheel turn by the grace of god, every time that
wheel turn around, bound to cover just a little more ground” The Wheel
Updates from around the kingdom! Sheal called me as
I just had “night crawled” into bed. She is a night owl you see. We talked for
over an hour and I am happy to report that she is doing marvelously in Mongor.
She loves her co workers and has made many friends. Her highlights are group
meals, socializing, and shopping for organic produce with her confidants on
Sundays. Like most of us she faces many challenges in the classroom but has
little time to complain between hosting tea parties, dinners and learning how
to weave. Sheal has truly embraced this culture and adapted well. She is
already remiss about having to leave in the winter to go back to Toronto and resume work. I
noticed on FB that Sabrina was fulfilling my fantasy as she mentioned His
Majesty had visited Chummay. OMG! Her angels are working a double shift for her
now. Sarah says it’s still cold in Gasa, haven’t heard a peep from Simon. Ash
is on her way to see Reidi whose blog I recently read and can certainly relate
to. Having patience is difficult for me as well and I applaud Iman for her
efforts in this regard. I think Reidi is making more of an impact then she
might realize and should never feel humiliated about anything. I feel the same
at times and that is why I am speaking to it. Adaptation is a bitch in these
parts but resistance is futile. There is a theory floating around by many of us
that we all ended up where we needed to be for our particular life lessons.
This will be a trying year for many of us and we will learn things we might not
want or expect. I sure wish I was closer to you Reidi and could throw my arms
around you in a BEAR HUG. I owe you a call soon. I feel very connected to your
predicament of isolation. Reidi in particular is far off the path in Lhuntse.
We both are the only BCF teachers in our Dzonkhas. Hang in there sis and as for
life long memories here’s a few. Miss Reidi crying tears of arrival in Paro in
the customs line and her glowing continence trekking up to Tigers Nest, where I
followed her regal path basking in her footsteps. Reidi if you’re reading this
tell Dave to call me. Dave if you’re reading this, tell Reidi to call me. Or
heck I could call y’all too. Is the Laya Trek calling, is Bigfoot on the line???
As for me I feel alienated not from Bhutan but from
my own monkey mind. It will pass, just a fit of anxiety for Mr. Tim. I have a
pinch of that in my soul which bubbles up on its own accord. In Bhutan I can
often dismiss these attacks quickly. God misconnected a few of my hard wires
but it is nothing to get worked up about. This same flaw in wiring provides
shortcuts and surges to the divine playing field. (Pick up the ball Reidi and
run with it for the goal. You can do it girl!) Back on earth in the classroom I
taught grammar (verbs) which the kids loved, go figure. My students comprehend
concepts well but need to work on their writing. Overall I believe some
progress has been achieved. The high pressure remains and its warm today with
partly cloudy fly’s. Tonight I met the illuminating Tsewang, (Karma Om’s
sister) who has been working at a luxury hotel in India as a beautician. Like Karma
she has a husband and son living a thousand miles from her. She is beautiful if
not a little skinny and is moving back to Mumbai on Monday. In the spokes of
the wheel we are all nestled in god’s furry pocket for one more revolution
towards revelation. As the students say before making speeches, “To all my dear
friends out here” Happy belated Teacher’s Day to the entire BCF Krewe, you are
my constant inspiration. See you soon!
Happy B-day Mom and Aunt Barb! XOXO (and Mare too)
Saturday
“There’s an
aching pain in my heart for the name of the one that I hated to face, somebody
else come out to win her, and I came out in second place” The Race is On,
George Jones
Regular scheduled classes for the day were scratched
as the students of Tsenkharla competed in a mini marathon race. This meant
getting up at 5 AM to assist facilitating the event. My student Kesang came in
second! She is so little and cute with boyish hair and ferocious scowl to match
her heroic vertical run up the road. Here I will switch to the past tense as I
have just returned from a bizarre weekend in Trashigang, details to follow.
Saturday was a good day. I got a fine meal and met
Becky at the KC hotel. We got the Norbu suite with a nice flat screen TV which
we kept on the African channel all weekend long. T-Gang was hot and muggy for
an extraordinary walk to the extraordinary Dzong. The Dzong is a classic edifice
and one of the most spell bounding Dzong’s in the Kingdom. It sits on a large
humped mountain amongst a sea of other rolling massifs perched at the head of
an endless narrow valley. In this way it resembles a New Orleans Riverboat that
has sailed out the gulf and into the Atlantic
during a violent hurricane. At night the Dzong lights up in orangey gold light
that bathes the whitewashed ornate exterior. In actuality this Dzong was
founded around 1666 by space aliens and it’s not a Dzong or ship at all but
rather a UFO. It will take off again someday. The aliens came to visit Bhutan sometime
after Rimpoche and his flying tiger. They made a deal with the Bhutanese being
allowed to stay in secret in exchange for their assistance fighting off the
Tibetan invaders. The Tibetans have stayed away and the aliens live quietly
amongst the demons and ordinary citizens. In fact some of the aliens chose to
interbreed with the demons to create a new shape shifting form of
extraterrestrial -demonic changeling. These new creatures can even appear as
attractive young women as we would soon discover. The aliens even built a
gigantic satellite in the middle of their colony to communicate with their cohorts
in outer space constantly transporting signals into the sky. Check it out when
you breeze through town. The Dzong at sunset is surreal with deer nibbling on
its slopes and the cobblestone courtyard echoing with celestial footsteps.
Walking back to KC we met Phuntso who called down
from her second story castle like a fairytale character. And just like a
fairytale she was sinister as a black goat. Somehow she instantly appeared on
the sidewalk and we agreed to dinner the following night. Alas Becky and I made
the journey up the flights of stone steps into the upper reaches of T-Gang and
a late night bull session. We talked in our twin beds at one point
simultaneously scratching our legs that were extended to twelve o’clock. We
lost it then.
Sunday (5-13) Happy Mothers Day, Mommy!
“Trouble ahead
oh lady in red, take my advice you’d be better off dead” KC Jones
We reunited with Martha, Vicky, and Ian for the
obligatory carrot cake and tea. Ian looked as relaxed as a Sunday golfer ready
to hit the links. I enjoy the company of all at the table but before to long me
and Becky lit out for Bartsham. A place that cannot be classified but should be
classified as “a hidden lands. The road up to Bartsham crisscrosses rugged and
semi barren mountains, with alternating glimpses of our UFO boat riding the
high seas and the wilderness leading towards the Brokpa galaxy. We reached the
top of the mountain and the school which is situated in a spacious salad bowl.
We soon agreed this was the most visually appealing place our earthling eyes
had ever seen. The trees were of many varieties and carefully placed among the
boulders and terraces. The ridgeline above the town was a dragon’s tail with
triangular and rounded scales. The dragon was hungrily waiting for the ship to
blast off, ready to chase it in hot pursuit. This was the land of chortens with
magical bells that pinged just for us and thick white prayer flags fluttering
like cloth flames on wooden candlesticks. This land was pink and powdered blue,
a child’s snow globe recovering from Thursdays 5.3 shake. We hiked out to a
tiny chorten at the center of the globe, half way between Bartsham and Bidung. (Maybe
its JD’s snow globe?) Sitting down we melted into the surroundings in an opiate
daydream where we were greeted by a humongous blackbird with a floppy whimsical
gait that glided like rubbery kites except not like that at all. It was the
magic bird. We reversed course past the water driven prayer wheel which served
as the clockworks of the universe. When the splintered spokes cease to spin and
the rusted wheel makes its final revolution and stands still, the entire
universe will implode on itself into a pin of extinction. But the wheel creaked
on, the water flowed, and we had had a great hike. But at the top of the
mountain an ominous wind blew through the pines at the reconstructed temple
where hells generator buzzed in its own race against the water wheel in a bid
for supremacy of TIME. We were lucky to escape Bartsham in the last chariot
before sundown descending out the lips of the hidden lands like smoke rings and
into the scorched and burned wilds towards the Alien outpost known as
Trashigang. When we arrived we had some momos and I realized I had lost my
mobile phone.
Authors and shamans alike put great stalk in for- shadowing.
And it doesn’t take a soothsayer to recognize strange events blowing in a
swallow wind like the dust from an agitated dirt road. We headed towards
Phuntso’s shop and down the rabbit hole into the thirteenth dimension.
Phuntso is a young Bhutanese woman reportedly of 21
years of age. But she is really named Zet and is the product of a demoness and
a creature from the planet Zanidu. From the outside she is a stalky girl with
rounded face and plump posterior. She is not fat but an Asian cherub with built
in sex appeal highlighted by black painted fingernails. Yet her watery eyes resemble
a lizard eying a fly while basking on one of hells rocks. Her slanted slits are
watery membranes with eyeballs that roll around on their own accord. Once in a
while her forked and pierced pink tongue darts out to taste the air looking for
prey. (Prey not pray) Look here folks I think she’s got one. On the way to
dinner she picked up a “friend” another Halfling or cocktail. (A dash of demon
and a pinch of Alien) This young creature had on a green shirt that said “I get
high because the world is low” He looked like an irie iguana with the same
fluid floating eyes. They dashed us into “Alice’s
Restaurant” and the madness commenced. (Enter stage right two Americans and two
Bhutanese) I ordered the pork and was soon attacked by Zet who chastised me for
eating the flesh of animals. Ironic for the offspring of a man eating demoness.
She burrowed into me with hateful eyes asking me “what pigs had done to me to
deserve such treatment” She had a point but her delivery needed refinement as
she possessed all the social grace and etiquette of a jackhammer in a
monastery. As I ate my pork she interrogated me. But that wasn’t the real scene
at all. She talked like a demonic Neal Cassady on Bennies cutting me up into a
sushi roll like a vengeful samari. She asked a question then asked another and
another in great succession before I could answer the first. Every once in
awhile darting her forked tongue out into the air. Becky stared in bewilderment
and on and on it went. Words cannot capture the palpably lysergic atmosphere of
that restaurant that may or may not exist in a town that may or may not have
been resettled by Aliens around 1666. When it was all over and Becky had paid
the bill we immerged into the warm ozone where our Alien vegetarian threw a
wadded up paper into the street and I let her have it! I screamed, I ranted and
raved as the locals peered out of their windows at the commotion. Well the 1%
of Zets Bhutanese genetic code (her vestigial tail) was deeply offended by the
disturbance. (Mental note: have more tantrums in the Far
East) She completely withdrew into her pod shell emanating nocturnal
metallic green waves which turned on the dormant satellite and were immediately
broadcasted to Zanidu at the speed of light. She led us up an alley threw me
into a car muttered a frozen goodbye and we were driven backwards by the little
green man back to the KC, as Z skulked down the narrow crooked street like an
irate gnome.
Alone Becky and I broke into our hotel and crawled
into bed barely able to speak of the wonky events. I could only think of the
title of the Brent Mydland song, “Never Trust a Woman” especially if she is an
extraterrestrial demonic Changeling from Bhutan.
Monday
“Oh sweet
siren, I never could resist a witch, Oh No” Wrong Way Feeling
On Monday we swung by Phuntso’s shop and did our
best to make amends. Who wants a demoness on their ass anyway? After that I
replaced my cell for 1,500 NU and we collected our money from Western
Union. We said goodbye as usual and I headed in a taxi towards
Yangtse to collect my paycheck and go to the bank. Dashing past Chasam (Iron Bridge)
which has been abandoned by the immigration police thanks to Kendra’s and
others tireless tactics and circular logic. Past Gom Kora’s shinny gold pagoda,
over the rushing white water and Doksom, through the arid region, and into the
waterfall jungle. Finally spotting Chorten Kora’s white dome announcing eureka
to Yangtse. I did my business and bumped into Karma Om, her sister (who is
actually not married and was telling lies) and Hatchet Boy in the bank steady
spring rain played a fried rice track on the windows. . The driver ran them up to Bayling to see
their sister and drop off a care package. Then the two of us, driver and
passenger, made it on back to Tsen Tsen. Ah my placement with its lone trees
stretching into oblivion as a fried rice track plays upon the window.
