Standing On Shaky Ground

“April is the cruelest month” T.S Eliot

Life at Tsenkharla is in full swing! A universe unto itself starring staff, students, villagers, and dogs. I won’t lie I feel like I am flying by the seat of my pants as hygienic realities must be dealt with alongside daily planning and execution of lessons. Like Peter Pan I never fancied growing up which is both my strength and weakness as a teacher. I am youthful in spirit so I can energize my base but I also fall victim to taking shortcuts. However I didn’t take any shortcuts on Which Way, a story about shortcuts and most of the students are grasping the relatively complex plotline that featured dual endings. There are usually two or three excellent students in each class, a pack of mediocre, and a bunch of struggling learners. A lot has to do with background since many students come from remote farming villages off the road sometimes merely a cluster of dung huts clinging to cliffs. Last time up at Shakshang I saw a toddler defecating in a pile of trash and certain people up there are filthy. Almost none of the student’s parents speak English yet the students are adept at acquiring English from national teachers and media bits. Funny Bhutanese expressions remain in the vernacular like “by hearting” and I pick up bad habits like saying “no” after every sentence which actually means the opposite, right. This branch of English came from England via India so my American tongue is extraordinarily foreign initially before they become accustomed to my intonations. Even in the classroom they constantly revert to Sharchop so I must stay vigilant. I do allow code switching but obviously encourage speaking English during the group activities but as soon as I move to another cluster I will hear utterances in Sharchop. I find these challenges more intriguing than frustrating as I go along. When students are comfortable and approach me at home or afterschool they speak more freely than inside the classroom. Being ESL learners they don’t want to be judged by peers especially after class seven.

Weather Report is cloudy and cold still anticipating the tempests of spring which will turn the land brilliant greens and roll out the Thunder Dragon (April is his month) Essentially its cold six months and mild six months on the hill and cherry blossoms and rhododendrons are prevalent now. April will also bring relief from the cold nights and by summer I will not even need my raggedy Ratdog hoody. Bhutan couldn’t withstand a draught like California so I pray that the rains will come and right now I feel a bit like Han Solo frozen in carbonite since you never asked. I’m also hungry so I might as well amble to the shop for some ramen. It just occurred to me that there is a picture of a phallus on my last post and that might alarm some of you. These penises are painted on many houses in Western Bhutan and are meant to ward off evil spirits. This belief came from Drukpa Kunley AKA The Divine Madman who subdued demons by wacking them with his flaming thunderbolt of wisdom. In the East many dwelling have dangling wood phalluses hanging from the corner of the rooftops. Since the Divine Madman never ventured east of Bumthang the frescos are most common in Central and West Bhutan. The sexual iconology is the titillating tip of the iceberg, including cannibal gods and animal people coiled in snakes and skulls all dancing in a ring around the buggy and bloodshot eyed Guru, the religion or way of life has its solemn side too. And let’s not forget the tiny flock who found Jesus wandering the Himalayas (last seen near Tawang) searching for divinity. This is the weirdest place on earth!

Trashiyangtse is close to Tibet and India, from Bumdeling Park the terrain ascends into 20,000 foot mountains on the Northeast border where the three countries coalece. I recently talked to a researcher from Europe who has been up there with the Bhutanese doing research and confirms it’s a three day trek from park headquarters to the boarder. To the east are Monpa who are similar to Brokpa and inhabit the Tawang district of Arrunachal Pradesh. Yangtse itself is a uniquely diverse area with Druk, Sharchop, Nepali, Indians, Japanese, and at least one forlorn American.

Inertia Blues

 I can’t get off the floor

Inertia Blues

children knockin down my door

Inertia Blues

Here me crying all night long

Inertia Blues

Done a poor boy wrong

Inertia Blues

Snowflakes turn to rain

Inertia Blues

Why do I play this game?

About a week ago I was down in Doksom on a windy hazy afternoon, I stumbled off the mountain to visit a young woman I had met at Chorten Kora in a form of Bhutanese dating I guess we could call it, Sitting around her shop while her entire family (including child) stared at me while I ate lunch. Predictably not much chance of reentering the world of carnal delight in such a circumstance so I instead bid ado and visited the Dangme Chu River near Gom Kora and later the pagoda itself before hitching into Trashigang. Meanwhile the road between Gom Kora and Chasm is being widened to support the monstrous eighteen wheel trucks that will carry out work on the Kulong Chu Hydropower project (Don’t Fuck with my rivers Haas!) Environmental Degradation is afoot in Eastern Bhutan don’t believe the hype y’all. A yellow tractor claws at the mountain dumping boulders the size of pickup trucks into the river a hundred feet below, my favorite river on earth. Waters that are now choked with debris and will eventually become filthy as they drain the toxic subcontinent. The very same country that the Bhutanese will outsource the power to for currency. Is this Shangri La? By the time I reached Trashigang I was suffering from a mild headache and fatigue and the following day I hitched back through the dust squalls to my stone hut where I collapsed into a feverish nightmare that has lasted for eight days. In two years I have only used two sick days but missed the entire week of classes beleaguered and besieged by a nasty viral bacteria that brandishes a seething headache, body aches to beat the band, terrible night sweats, diarrhea, and crippling fatigue. So it goes with no sleep lying on my cot a slab of a mattress at 4 AM with the barking dogs and the pounding rain that has finally arrived, apparently left for dead but eventually Butterfly came by to help out and finally after three days I was in an outbound ambulance to Trashigang for blood work. Results? No typhoid rather some large clusters of bacteria waging war within the terminal of my body. A Cuban Doc prescribed Cypro to aid the allies in their march for victory and now I am back in my cold hut awaiting the medicine to take effect so I can get back to work. I have no energy and can barely stagger to Tsenkharla for supplies and the whole thing is a dismal affair. Before falling ill Nancy visited on her yearly tour to visit teachers in the field. She graciously gave me a Scrabble board game and some edibles. She also came with a caper of sorts which reminded me how cool this place is. Apparently before Catherine’s stint at Rangthangwoong a French anthropologist who now goes by Tashi Wangmo was in Kumdung to meet a local shamanistic woman who lives up near Namkhar. The woman apparently lives a rudimentary existence going into a trance and telling peoples fortunes and the like. Now Tashi Wangmo wants to return to find this woman who is still alive and rather old now. Nancy was armed with several old photographs snapped on that day in 1982. She questioned my VP a man who speaks only some English and is quintessentially Bhutanese, a wonderful man. He recognized the woman in the photo instantly and Nancy immediately phoned Tashi Wangmo who lectures in Trongsa. So in May I hope to join this anthropologist and meet this fascinating woman who until now I never knew practiced on the ridgeline above our school.

What else can I tell you with no new adventures unfolding? Winter is revolving into spring so let’s pause to remember winter in East Bhutan. The season is not a glamorous one featuring ubiquitous hazy skies and bare earth. Let’s start in Doksom at the foot of my beloved mountain that rises six thousand feet cresting into the dense forests of Bromla. But down here at an elevation approximately 3,000 feet above sea level there is more exposed rock than vegetation. Doksom is one of the driest places I’ve seen in the overtly verdant kingdom. It’s a rocky place with steep narrow gorges and crags located two KM from magical Gom Kora and sits at the windy confluence of the Kulong Chu and Dangme Chu rivers. I recall some myth about two wacky birds separated at birth eating peanut butter on a derelict bedframe. Or wait that’s not the right one, anyway the rivers flow from Arrunachal Pradesh and Tibet respectively yet we cannot say they are pristine. But they are dazzling and the government has refurbished the dilapidated steal bridge with a gleaming new model with far less personality, and now with additional roadwork to prepare for the big show hydro project the area is torn up. But the confluence is still unyielding in POWER as any nimrod can glean. I like to watch the waters coalesce and for some reason think about Becky my other half who like that wacky mythical bird flew the coop. Doksom town is the wild East personified a truck stop dusty drag jammed with techno colored Indian ta ta’s with wood framed tin roofed shacks anchored by large stones. I wouldn’t say it’s a traditional village by any stretch but its classic far east and one can even get curry if the right place is open. It’s mild even in winter sitting beneath towering tawny and umber cliffs, beautiful outcroppings stick out from bare earth dotted with pine or eucalyptus stands and the terrain is so steep that the dusty outpost seems situated at the bottom of an enormous cone. It’s 14 KM from Doksom to Tsenkharla a twisting road that climbs towards Zongposar headquarters of the Kulong Chu Project perched high above the emerald waters. Along the way our scrawny pines cling to precipices while across the gorge impossible footpaths lead to precarious settlements perched on vertical cliffs. At Zongposar the road forks leading to Yangtse town and Tsenkharla respectively, going my way the terrain becomes more gradual supporting farms of scraggly banana trees sprouting from the boulders. Along the route one sees barefoot old woman in dusty kiras sporting big sticks, chewing wads of doma, herding cows. You can observe an ancient way of life right along Bhutanese roads as anyone fortunate enough to spend time here can attest. The road snakes its way upward turning so many times that I still can’t chart it course accurately entering Kumdung a roadside village offering the first view of India and the endless Dangme Chu River valley. After another 6 km of sparsely populated farms and barren brown terraces we reach Yartse. The author should note that the terraces lack the grandure of Phongmay or other places around the east and are battered into the rocky terrain. The naked roadside also offers a gaping view into the maw of Tawang that rips my heart wide open with each breath, even on my ambulance run dizzy from a clogged ear I still can marvel at it! There’s an openness here that I cannot find anywhere else on earth and a feeling of loneliness always pervades my soul on this drive. From Yartse it’s a mere 2k to Tsenkharla with one more rollercoaster turn revealing the eastern promenade in all its glory. Tsenkharla marks a change with vegetation becoming thicker which is how things operate in the east. As you climb you get into denser forests with the real wilderness in HIGH places like Bumdeling or Sakteng. These are the tracts of forests that are not interrupted by slash and burn farming and where the animals dwell. The bears, yetis, wild pigs and yes even tigers! But you won’t see any tiger stripes at Tsenkharla, well maybe a few. From my place the possibilities for exploration are endless as you might have gleaned from my adventures. Near the exalted Prince Tsangma’s Ruin are regal pines, eucalyptus, and fragrant lemon grass (The Prince established himself here in 847 when Turtle Island was still natives only and Chris Columbus wasn’t yet a glint in his Great Grandfathers eye) and what has changed here? Lots and nothing whatsoever! Since my arrival several new farm roads and the obtrusive Tashi Cell Tower planted on temple grounds. But the middle section of our fair Mount remains intact with shimmering oak forests and the seemingly out of place lavishly appointed cypress grove beneath Zongtopelri. Above Darchin rolling pasture rises to the tiptop of the mountain an anonymous peak which sharply descends to a ridge that connects the rich forest of Bromla with the high altitude moor of Shampula and this is where I have run out of rope hitting an impregnable wall of vegetation and steepness. My epic solo journey to the summit of Shampula last fall (we were blacked out) was as far as I have stretched my territory but since I’m idle in a pool of bacterial sweat I might tell you something about it now. The events of those two days are a secret but eventually I emerged from the oaks onto the windswept moor of my dreams weary and alone, I pressed all the way to the top summiting my first mountain in the Himalaya. The nearest Bhutanese village of Jangphu four hours below me not a trace of man exists only rolling grasses with fluffy cream blooms and views in all directions above the clouds, including an Indian valley I didn’t even know existed. Straddling the border it’s a domain claimed by no country as I roared with all my might a puny offering to the wind. On that spot a ring of prayer flags from some bygone native expedition as I’m quite certainly the ONLY foreighner to ever set foot there. This is where GOD lives or precisely the local deity that reins this dominion, a fractal entity dealing only in wind and silence. No trees, No people, No form, just unadulterated access to the void of nothingness, the intrinsic essence of everything!

It all seems far away from this feverish rant although I can see the enormous humped summit shrouded in grey from my crusty window. It’s always there reminding me that this is ALL an illusion, these words I speak, the chair you sit in, that glass of red wine sitting to your right on an architectural desk, all of it. And oh sickness and pain, why must we suffer and die? Why are we indeed born to depart? The query that sent a handsome Siddhartha from his gilded palace leaving behind his foxy bride and newborn baby never to return. I am also seeking but refuse to leggo my ego, therefore am bound for more suffering, decay, and rebirth into the madness of samsara.

Pyrite ridge glistens

Drops of Rhododendron blood

Spill from broken hearts

Gom Kora Tsechu is approaching and having the bacterial Blues I hope I might still attend. Since I told you about Shampula I might as well tell you about last year’s Zongtopelri Tsechu as well. My computer was down so I never reported on the most enchanted event. Autumn is a hypnotizing season, the payoff for the toilsome year and our second Tsechu was memorable as Thegsey Rinpoche from Tawang and favorite son of East Bhutan came to stay up at Zangtopelri. He is a remarkable man of 45 that looks as if he would be at home at a Dead Show with long hair, mustache, and pierced ears decked out in full robe regalia, wielding an ivory serpentine staff that he used to bop people on the head for the mass blessing. I can tell you it was an electric atmosphere as he levitated through the crowd with confident elegance at the precise moment that the sun was sinking below the western horizon. But there was an even bigger star among us, the Guru himself, and like the year before he actually incarnated through incantations and that eerily personified gold mask that acts as a lightning rod. The MAN or GOD is accessible at every moment but for the helpless fool he can neutralize the universe at such a ceremony allowing them to embody a pure moment (I’ve only had a few) and that’s what happened to me again just before the last masked dance commenced. Ironically the Fourth of July Interdependence Drum Circle at the National Rainbow Gathering is the only other communal event that rivals such authenticity and power that I have witnessed in my 36 years on earth in this body. It’s also a time to bond with community and enjoy! Dawa Dema barking at the Astra, posing for snaps with the kids, eating delicious food at Karlos & Sonam’s Fool stall. As before I found myself nearly alone watching the last Dancer whirling in the fading light. A frantic dervish to the clash and clang of cymbals and screeching ten foot horns. His antlers catching the first rays of a rising moon his arching bare feet digging into the dirt then leaping high into the air spinning like twinkling Venus tossing gold skirt not wanting to leave the ring. But finally he does vanishing behind the curtain and all that is left is Thegsey grinning alone watching from his dragon’s tent, a vortex of wrappers flying through the gloaming between us.     

Rats must have distinct personalities because my resident rat loves socks. This rat has whiskers longer than Bobby’s and I noticed he gnawed into my bag of mismatched socks, as if it’s not bad enough to lose your sock partner then to be partially consumed by a rat! I will plug the front door from now on since today I wearily cleaned my house and even had two class ten boys wash the floors and afterwards Butterfly made me a delicious lunch of Kaywa datsi. I also managed to finish my marking and planned a few lessons since I hope to get back to work as soon as Monday but we’ll see how it goes. Signing off for now on a Saturday night in samsara.

“I could use a change of scenery, but when I get there I’m still here…”  

Today another ride in the ambulance this time to Yangtse hospital for another blood test where I found out my blood type is the rare o-. Everything checked out so for now I play the waiting game with minimal symptoms except night sweats and crushing fatigue. Every night I get up to piss and see the rat snooping around the premises but I no longer scream like a girl (sexist since many girls wouldn’t scream) Too much time left recapitulating on my cot and trying to avoid feeling sorry for myself which I have spent a lifetime mastering. Outside the sky is charcoal and clouds decapitate Shampula obscuring everything east of the border. In retrospect I shouldn’t have alerted my mom who is now upset that I’m sick, it’s only that when I’m ill I want my mommy but mom if you are reading this I promise there is no need for worry and I will be fine, it’s just a matter of time. But back to taking stock I can’t help note the absence of Karlos and the students who haven’t dropped in to check on me. I can only guess that the boys are feeling shy when I’m sick but honestly I could use some help now. Oh well what to do as they say in the great range. Meanwhile Ashish has stopped by to help and Becky has listened to me moan on the phone from her new station in Southern Colorado. Down below the party rages on at Gom Kora where several BCF teachers are in attendance. I pass the time by reading The Eagles Gift a quite terrible Carlos Castaneda book and completing an intriguing book on Lake Tahoe that my former girlfriend had given me. As for my own writing I don’t seem to have much to share these days and can’t write a poem to save my life. My life force seems drained in a way I have never experienced perhaps all my obsessions and compulsions have sucked my soul dry but one things for certain when I emerge from this sickness I will have to rebuild from my very foundations, and focus my energy on health. My immune system is battered from two debilitating illnesses in 2014 and perhaps Tashi the tapeworm has taken up residence in my gut again. But for all of the yucky stuff I feel my work here is not done and all I want to do is get back in the classroom and back on the trails! I also realize that this is an integral segment of my experience here as living in a developing country one runs the risk of incurring some illness. Overall this is not severe but rather a test of my fortitude and forbearance two qualities needed to survive here. I am grateful to be here and happy I served a second year and truly believe that it’s paramount to serve for two years. I realize for some this isn’t possible but serving a second year truly benefits the community and teacher alike. Having acknowledged this I have many of my sweetest memories from my first year when I did most of my roaming with Becky all over the east. My principal is strict and does not except sightseeing as a legitimate means for casual leave where some teachers enjoy more freedom in this regard. Of course we are here to teach but allowances should be made for us to travel, meet with friends, and enjoy this unique culture during this once in a lifetime sojourn.

I know the weather is getting warmer by the spiders and moths that appear in my house. A stray cricket can even be head rhapsodizing on my porch. A light curtain of rain falls outside and the boys are busy singing and shouting and enjoying each other’s company. It’s admirable how much the Bhutanese dig themselves and I enjoy reading their similar accounts of Losar except one girl’s sad account of her drunken father frightening her. The weird thing about these bacterial blues is not feeling a part of my body as if I’m observing myself through a filmy haze. I am not very present in my body to begin with which is why I gravitate towards trekking which gives me a sense of feeling my feet on the ground. My mind is permanently stuck on overdrive like a monkey on crack and at times I feel exhausted battling for control. Maybe some of you can relate on some level as we are all ghosts in our machines. Recapitulation on my cot. How did I get here with my concentric lives first the one I left behind, or is on hiatus as one friend told me, and the other life I tried to create in East Bhutan which really does feel like the Land of Terror right now. Where do these congruent circles touch and who am I? One glaring reality is that I am a selfish person and that bothers me. Those who know me observe my tendencies for defensiveness which also upsets me. I’m a terrible listener and I am quite habitual as Phuntsho would say. This passage isn’t meant as self-effacement because at the moment I am detached from it all just observing and wondering why? Of course I have good qualities also but it seems at age 36 sweating through my fifth t-shirt of the night the weaknesses stand out more. On paper things are wayward since I haven’t been in a loving relationship in over six years. I sabotaged my first love for reasons still yet discovered and abandoned my next paramour and have been solo ever since. Since I don’t feel comfortable in the company of other people this might just be the state I will live out my days which might be alright. I have a student debt that I have no inclination to tackle therefore unfairly transferring the onus onto my poor mother. I have no savings no credit and have chosen a career that I am not suited for. Don’t get me wrong I enjoy teaching in Bhutan which is a special circumstance with the most special children but the thought of teaching in California makes me want to vomit. Student teaching nearly gave me a nervous breakdown after all. I should probably delete the above passage but might as well disclose my skeletons in a moldy closet. Someday if I’m ever courageous enough to reread these words I will probably consider myself a sniveling brat. Hopefully through my narcissistic ravings some valuable information on teaching ESL in Bhutan comes through or at least some amateur nature writing. But since I abandoned my diary long ago this is it people, HOW DO YA LIKE IT?

I can’t help ask myself what good works have I accomplished here? It’s hard to see the result instead I see a lot of room for improvement which is a good thing. For me the Bhutanese are hard to read and a teacher’s job is rather thankless. The elementary teachers who made a difference in my life I never paused to express my gratitude, which is not the way of youth. So I plug on often uncomfortable in the role as leader or facilitator of knowledge. However my teaching career plays out I don’t regret any of it for a second. My time in Korea and Bhutan has been the most worthwhile endeavor in my life. The others worth noting are my first love affair and my POWER exchanges with Bobby. I know my life hasn’t been in vain and perhaps your feverish author is merely relishing an extended midlife crisis. None of it matters anyway its ONLY imperative that one keeps moving forward.

 “Not even the trees recognize me anymore”

Your author has been depressed lately as I’m sure you have ascertained from the above writing. Depression is a useless emotion that I have succumbed to throughout my life. The cause is simple an inflated ego. The intrepid book The Power of Now lays it out so clearly but like most readers I choose to ignore the truth. I want things to always go my way. I want my needs to be satisfied and when they aren’t the whole world be damned. I am well aware that as I lay with my mild malady that there is genuine suffering taking place all around me, including the mangy dog caught out in the rain. Buddhism offers the sanest view of it all admitting that life is pain. Christians (for the most part) have their head up their own asses looking for heaven meanwhile excluding the heathens. But I’m an agnostic that can’t see a semblance of reason in any of it. In the end it’s all about choices and that scares me most of all. Free will? Tell that to the blind cripple or the child with leukemia or the raving schizoid on the streets of San Francisco. Pain. The veil of samsara it’s all an illusion, that same illusion that sent Siddhartha packing. But he found his piece of mind impervious to the seven devils that tempted him under that Bodhi Tree. How did I get here? A full grown adult arrested with a child’s greedy DESIRE. (There is an I in Desire) Pile on the shit until it reveals the diamond vehicle. Saddle up and ride along with the buggy eyed Guru who said Fuck it long ago. Or dismiss this post altogether as a delirious aside from a peculiar man living in a stone hut on the borderlands of nowhere.

Looking out of ambulance window

Thirsty banana tree with shriveled leaves

Boulders painted white

Trace the blood rain red rhododendron

Swishing in the vile

Returning past waterfall Boo young

The source

But where are those silly monkeys?

Staggering from BHU

A soulless shell

Gazing into mercury fog

Devouring Shampula

Let it go to Tuesday

This year despite being sick I attended Gom Kora Tsechu with my three friends including two Indian teachers and Jigme sir. After sponsoring lunch for the boys I slinked down to the river circumventing the steaming piles of stool stripped down and ladled the cold water over my feverish skin. This year there were more tourists in attendance than Brokpa or Monpa but I did accost two shy ones from Merak wearing crimson wool tunics and spider spout hats. The Bhutanese looked resplendent in their finest gho and kira and overheated countenances. I was delighted to see many of my precious student’s roaming around the kora including Sonam Choden who I taught in class eight who came to sit by me and I was impressed at what a fine young lady she had become. She is on par to qualify this year and if she gains a bit of confidence in speaking she will be unstoppable. Smiling boys including a jovial Sangay Tobgay who despite making my classroom into a carnival last year I still love dearly. I glimpsed many familiar faces from Tsenkharla, Doksom, and Trashigang including my barber Deepak. At my most vulnerable point I was overwhelmed to see both the people and land I love. The Guru made an appearance although HE didn’t transcend for me in the same manner but today was all about reconnecting with my community and beginning the long road to recovery. I slogged two kilometers into dusty Doksom eating peanuts and wiping toxic sweat from my brow. One Indian teacher asked if I had chicken pocks, no just pimples I replied. I crammed in a taxi with Karma Om’s ma, Hatchet Boy, and a group of schoolgirls including the mischevious Phuntsho Wangmo from class eight. Deposited back atop Tsenkharla where the temperature is twenty degrees cooler, I am eager to resume teaching tomorrow even though I know I won’t be healthy for a few weeks. I was disappointed not to see Jon and Sara but did my duty appearing the last day of the three day event. I have previously only attended at night which is a different animal altogether but this year the addition of Tsenkharla students really made it worthwhile on an otherwise trying afternoon. Gom Kora Tsechu is the crux of Eastern Culture so I felt it mandatory to make an appearance even in my bedraggled state.   

“Baby baby pretty young on Tuesday oh like a rum drinking demon at tea”          

Someday if I revisit these words I might wonder why all the melodrama and hopefully I will be able to laugh at myself. But I also harken this blog back to the days of letters between confidants. Well y’all are my correspondents so in that light making privy all my demons in a public forum might be considered in the same vein as Sylvia Plath or Jack Kerouac who went mad at the end of Big Sir. Sometimes I feel embarrassed about the things I write but follow the muse wherever it takes me. Such is life also in Bhutan where the first time I’ve been genuinely frightened for my health. If you are healthy in Bhutan or in life that is everything. I have felt forsaken lately even though I am supported here. Home feels very far away right now and this home seems extremely vivid and surreal simultaneously. After Gom Kora I realize that I have made an impact here and shouldn’t be overly critical. I can always improve on my pedagogies but on a human level I have touched lives and academically taught them many things. The tradeoff is I’ve learned a helluva lot of what I can’t exactly put into words. Heck I’ve learned it’s all interchangeable and that a person can love people from a different world. I’ve learned that I complain far too much but I do have a good sense of humor that often gets wasted here, but laughing with the students is the best. They go for a more physical comedy they’d probably dig the antics of Jim Carrey. Bhutanese love to laugh and they love both drama (romantic) and comedy equally and they adore their pop music. Movie night at the MP feature three hour saga’s in Dzonkha with lots of singing and courting in fields, always appropriately attired in gho and kira. They have all they need as far as culture and arts go but still they furtively crave Hollywood, Bollywood and Korean cinema. By the way those aforementioned Bhutanese movies are broadcast on a large sheet while the kids sit cross legged on the floor, I can hear them cheering at the appropriate parts from my cave. Life at a boarding school is ruled by the rhythms of the bell, with bell captain Sangay Tobgay and his erratic scheduling usually running late or early according to his subtle desire. Teaching at a boarding school can be vexing but it also an interesting place to work! You probably thing I oscillate more than the dragon after his third cup of sugar tea but other teachers have manic swings here too. I like Scotty from Yadi because he’s consistent. He was once a pharmacist and is the de facto doctor of the group. Plus I could speak about my medical issues and have his knowledge and command of the English language. No joke when you’re sick the language and cultural barriers seem unbearable. Other times these interactions seem cartoonish and hilarious. Bhutan is a completely different world than the United States and it can get under your skin, literally in my case with bacteria. For certain people Bhutan fulfills their destiny and can alter their path permanently. The events set in motion the night I heard about Bhutan eating goose eggs and the tenderest pork imaginable in Anyang City prepared by the nut who told me about this place. It all started with a dream which has turned into a temporary nightmare, ha it’s all interchangeable! In reality this experience is challenging and rewarding and a helluva ride that I cherish right down to awful lonely nights. But the peaks and zeniths have been unimaginable and I have a wild imagination…

“You know it’s gonna get stranger so let’s get on with the show, let’s go”

Spring seems slow to emerge this year as we have had a few solid rains but the pattern hasn’t broken yet. I noticed the rocky cliffs above Gom Kora had begun to turn an olive color but Kumdung is dry as a bone. The splendid forest towards Yangtse is always in bloom now with rhododendron and pink and white cottony fluffs. The vines are thickening in the hollow near the waterfall and tree fern. Chorten Kora and Gom Kora exist in vastly different landscapes for being twenty five miles apart but somehow it all seems seamlessly connected. Gom Kora is nestled in a dry gorge situated on a bend of the Dangme Chu River with its rushing chocolate and cream waters. The cliffs rise immediately from the opposite shore towering a thousand feet. The Kora is an oasis and power spot where Guru Rinpoche subdued a pestilent demoness from Tibet, so for him coming back would be like Bobby returning to the Fillmore West. There we were assembled in his presence near the aperture in the black rock where he wrestled that pesky serpent who dared to disturb his meditations. You don’t disturb GR during meditation that’s like intruding on a swami’s secretive third eye ritual. The viewing area was so spread out with natives lining a natural amphitheater stretching up to the road. I collapsed beneath a huge rock in the front but still seemed far from the dancers. It lacked the intensity of local Tsechu but also was absolutely unique and special in its own way. (THIS IS THE FREAKIN GOM KORA TSECHU!) Refreshing by the river a monk sat on a flat rock along the bank enjoying the timeless bounty that led the Guru here.

Thursday morning entering the classroom I had never before felt so grateful to be at work. There wasn’t much fuss on the student’s part over my return but I was so happy to see them. But no time for sentimentality as the work began. Overall Bhutanese students are delightful and never malicious. I’m getting the names of class seven and look forward to forging new relationships with this batch that have poured into Tsenkharla from the hills. They matriculate from smaller rural primary schools eventually boarding at Tsenkharla. Class six are all local with some still commuting on foot from Shakshang or Shali. Some students from six are unhygienic with dirty ghos, drippy noses, and unwashed faces, this usually indicates they are from a remote mostly uneducated village. By the time they become boarders they are much more salubrious comparatively speaking. Anyway my energy is obviously low but it’s great to be back at school engaging with the student body. I even took lunch with Karlos and Sonam who I miss these days, overall I feel fortunate to have this community in place around me. The day itself was beautiful with hazy sunshine evoking buds and birdsong. In the final reckoning a typical rhythmic workday on campus will imprint in my soul most of all, those moments when you remember why you are a teacher and how enjoyable it can be. Other than the certainty of successfully teaching a concept these easy moments are the best in a teacher’s life. Today I was struck at how interesting teaching Bhutanese kids and living in Bhutan is. The students are not unlike me in many basic ways but they are also very different including possessing more life skills including planting and harvesting crops and chopping down trees. Apparently my up ringing in Western Civilization left me inept at many things and it can be humbling. When the natives laugh at me its best to join them (it’s lonely at the top) I’m so busy surviving that I wonder if I have learned anything at all. I have honed my craft of ESL teaching but have endless opportunity for growth in that arena. I can make adequate K Wa datsi one out of two attempts yet I still can’t pronounce Tswering properly. Only a fool wouldn’t kiss their lucky stars for living here, and I am too often that fool, heaven help me.

“No they never stopped rocking going round and round…”

Somehow I ended up down at Gom Kora to close out the festival on a Thursday Evening (The Freaking Gom Kora Tsechu) Not many people remained except the shopkeepers and some pious revelers. There is something intriguing about the Kora at night with the moon reeling off the bow and blue gold light emanating from the tarp city. The tiger was prowling playing nocturnal games with the girls of splendid Himalayan array, Nepali, Sharchop, and mongoloid. I went with Karlos, Sonam, and a colorful cast of characters from Tsenkharla along with pup Dawa Dema and we circumambulated a baker’s dozen spinning squeaky wheels and laughing in the dusk whirling into the pitch night. Then down to the terraces for momo’s at one of the makeshift hotels equipped with refrigerators, plastic chairs, wood tables, and lights. Hip hop and traditional music alternatively bumped out of the darkness and the roulette wheels were spinning in the outdoor casino with a fox at every table. Night time is the right time at Gom Kora my babies and there is a definite sexual vibe in the air, not a tawdry Bangkok scenario but the overflowing of our natural sensuality all loosely centered on the Guru and his freewheeling footloose tantric legacy. Behind my bravado I end up meeting some interesting felines and chuckling at the gambling racket run by the same cats as the year before and the year before that. Police watch casually from the periphery and even a few marooned robed monks place their bets on either China, India, or Bhutan on a Himalayan Wheel of Fortune (Spin the wheel like Ezekiel) it’s nice to see the playful side of the Bhutanese including my best friends who are no strangers to enjoyment. Tonight felt like Sunday Night at High Sierra with a blissed out crowd hawking discount wares, packing up, saying their goodnight prayers or gulping their last libations the energy from the blowout reverberating softly as memory off the canyon walls and now the sound of the river reintegrates with chirping crickets. The beautiful ones remain tucked in tents making dried fish or huddled atop the staircase, where I met a pair of nubile gals from T-Gang suggesting they become my two wives, then flirting with a sultry Nepali in leopard print pants frying up some fish heads who asked where my guide was. Of course she turned out to be a former student of Karlos in from Thimphu. I gave my heartiest Namaste and when someone asked if we had met I explained that in my past life she was my wife, and the life before that my sister, and before that my mother, and grandmother, and even my daughter. NAMASTE, I love those renegade Southern Bhutanese with their frankness and dusky sub continental eyes. Many swarthy faces recede into the night Indians laborers mixing into the thinning crowd, little monks with cap guns and the older generation in faded gho and kira perpetually barefooted, God bless the Bhutanese intoxicated in the name of Guru Rinpoche and all things sacred. It was very auspicious to roll around the Kora with Karlos and Sonam in a rare night out with my Bhutanese peeps, there was even a lot scene with scattered trash, veggies, VW busses, and miracles. No phelincpa’s in the house only the dregs left, radiating an elastic consciousness of palpable magic under a luminous egg splitting the narrow sky and the springy breeze ruffling the leaves of the Bodhi tree, breathe in sir and remember where you live, REEP IT!    

Subsistence in Samsara (For Tyler Colby Grossman)

Chapter 1: Bookends (The Globetrotter Blues)

Ready-Set-Go

The trip from San Francisco to Tsenkharla takes almost a week and is grueling. I was driven to the airport by my brother Tyler in a light rain the first drops of relief for the parched watersheds of California. I barely remember glimpsing the Golden Gate Bridge its international orange towers sparkling gold at night. Passed the little boxed houses with T.V’s perpetually flickering through curtained windows along with somebodies lingering Christmas tree lights. Emerging onto the expressway and into the garage of the International Terminal at SFO. We enjoyed a libation to the gods of Turtle Island before saying goodbye at security and this time I looked back as my bra and I shouted last words across the mob. Woke up high over the Pacific then passed out when we touched down in Guam to refuel then woke up with a start thinking we had landed in Manila and took off to Guam. But we did land in Manila in the scarlet dawn and later on Bangkok, a two hour massage cradled by a young lady named A who plucked several grey hairs off my scalp ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ before boarding Druk Air first Class with fresh fruit and heavenly croissants and the heart pounding ascent out of the hazy subcontinent and descent through a labyrinth of mountains before touching down in old Paro. Getting out of Thimphu proved difficult as expected all bus tickets were sold out for two coming weeks but after an afternoon loitering at the bus station I finagled a standing room spot to Trashigang. The Thimphu Bus Station is a Himalayan nexus and a grand old building, the concourse bustling with swarthy and mongoloid faces all wearing an early morning countenance. Old men in dirty ghos hawk cubes of dried yak cheese and doma. Once out of the city the lateral road proved as nauseatingly beautiful as ever the scale of the mountains humbling my spirit as did the good natured Bhutanese who rode along with me. Dochila Pass, 108 chortens shrouded in fog a gloomy morning in the land of Southern Darkness, Somewhere out there are the tallest mountains on earth. Bhutan is slumbering in a silvery winter haze, a thin layer of ice and snow clings to the rocky precipices as unpleasant music blares on fuzzy speakers. Himalayan Bus travelogues are abundant I’m sure so I’ll spare myself the agony of recollection but one appreciates the land as he travels through it. Bumthang, the heart of Bhutan nestled within four rolling valleys blanketed by thick evergreen forests draped in moss. Sadly it’s merely a stopover this time just grab a hotel on the strip and a bite to eat (stomach pain already) and out the next morning before dawn. No bus! Blackness, extremely cold, this is Bhutan I’m demanding to know where the bus is I’m ridiculous because I know it will show up eventually, I’ve seen it drive by twice already. This time relegated to a middle folding seat between a half dozen College girls and a few dolma chawing village men. We all make amicable jibber jabber trundling passed the traditional village of Ura surrounded by brown pastures crossing over Thrunsing La and its enchanted fir trees with mass of prayer flags lashed by foreboding wind, Somewhere within the flurry of flags are Vicky and Ian’s strand hung by Ashleigh and Becky. Tswing calls the view majestic before falling back asleep. Now in East Bhutan spending the whole day crossing Mongar dropping to Sengor on a magnificent plateau then the big descent spiraling down cliffs tottering on the edge of an abyss. Waterfalls splashing onto the icy road. Tendrils of mist try to pull us into the maw but we keep contact with the zigzagging road and eventually are treated to poinsettia and banana trees and traditional farmhouses perched beneath oaky ridges you might recognize this place as Limithang. But it’s even nippy in this subtropical hamlet and soon we are ascending into Mongar perched high on a bluff overlooking a grand piece of wilderness dotted with villages scratched into the mountainsides. The last three hours in fading light over Kori La still green although muted now, darkness at Chasm and finally the timeless hill station of Trashigang. I rode the Greyhound for long durations but nothing compares to crossing Bhutan on a local. It takes 23 hours to go 450 miles on a road that alternates between rough pavement and dirt. I burrow in at the K.C which is bustling with activity on this February evening. That’s because HM is touring the East and staying the night at the Guest House adjacent to my quarters.

Two days later was the first day of school more aptly it was student registration day. I encountered a sea of familiar smiles that warmed my marrow. Falling back into the world of national dress, stirring prayers, snapping prayer flags, and spinning prayer wheels. Many students are timorous but I enjoy their laughter and getting reacquainted. There is something special about Bhutanese students and I enjoy growing alongside them, I will have a busy year teaching class 6, 7, and 8 since we are short an English teacher so it’s a good thing I stayed on but I will have more planning presenting three lessons a day instead of two. The bonus is I get to teach three consecutive grades which will provide a congruency to the mission, I will also continue my duties for Social Service Club and the After School Library program. Coming back after globetrotting is heady and poses the question, Where is Home? Is this cold hut with a rat and a runny nose my home? IS IT?

The good always outshines the adversity in the Land of Darkness and the other night despite being sick I enjoyed another unique experience up at Zongtopelri. I accompanied Karlos and his cousin and dined with Rinch and company. Nestled deep in the Himalaya on a frigid night sitting on the wood floor chomping dried fish, rice, dried chili, k-wa-datsi, and dal. Wow! Simple fare that warms the soul. The Bhutanese drank ara as Rinchen refilled their small bowls after each sip (the famous unyielding Bhutanese hospitality) at moments like these despite a moderate degree of boredom I felt like the luckiest man alive. You can’t get that community spirit with a guide shelling out 350 a day. Not to imply that tourist can’t enliven themselves in the kingdom but the longer I linger the more a part of things I become. Yet the rift always remains which is part of the fun. Its bare bones hereabouts in the winter but the beauty still exists, and I enjoyed a midnight stroll through the grove after a night descent from Shakshang. Actually I spent the evening lying under a huge pine in the duff peering sideways at the melding stars, the chime of the prayer wheel still rattling within my bones under the cell tower transmitting Bhutanese dreams. I highly recommend going into the forest at night and lying down in the duff although I startled a few blackbirds from their nightly roost. Eventually coldness drew me home but not before hugging a few of my favorite trees goodnight! Feeling homesick I called my bra to reminisce and talk to the kiddos. Hell ya baby I’m back did you miss me? The words aren’t coming these days as I defrost my fingers to try to rethread this peculiar life together. Start where you stand or where you lie, lay me down and let me be… under the cypress tree under Tibetan-Sharchop skies with a fat Monpa moon gyrating over Bartsham evoking the spirit of Tsangma, howling! When I haven’t been de-arranging under a phosphorous moon I’ve been rapping with the kids who are shy upon returning. Most have spoken nary a word in English in two months and who can blame them. I have many fun ideas in the hopper to coax it out of them and will keep you in the loop.

Rewind to Trashigang and an auspicious meeting with the aforementioned King. Sometimes dreams do come true and sometimes dreams within dreams come true as was the case for me on a windy Trashigang morning. I emerged from the K.C seeing HM’s entourage including royal bodyguards posted outside the guest house. Apparently my enthusiasm rang alarm bells as I was gently ushered away warned that my voice might awake the Royal Party. Fast-forward to the gorgeous Dzong a few hours later where an officer named Ugyen made some calls and hooked me up at the end of the line with a Japanese engineer. So we all patiently waited for four hours until as if springing from a genies lamp HM arrived on the heels of bleating puja horns. Words can’t describe the event all I can tell you is that The King was everything I’d hoped and more. An august man who is completely comfortable in his skin, His Majesty exuded grace and glory and was kind enough to stop and chat on both his way in and out of the fairytale Dzong. I happened to be located before the great wooden doorway that leads into the interior. HM wore a gold sash and full regalia, and as he passed by his Bhutanese Subjects deference was obvious as they kept their eyes and mouths averted. When His Majesty stopped on the way out he spoke to both the Japanese man and myself, asking where I was from, if I was working here, how long I’d been here, and a few other simple questions. I might have blurted out that living in Bhutan was a great honor and he definitely responded that he was very happy to have me here. He remarked about returning to Yangtse soon and I invited him to our school on behalf of Tsenkharla Family. The Queen an embodiment of grace also introduced herself shaking my hand. She was down home and approachable but I was so in awe by now that I stammered my responses. I do recall she wore an embroidered indigo kira. It was a meeting with the Royal Couple that I will always cherish and remember, the encounter reaffirming my mission here. Deep in my heart I wanted to meet His Majesty during my stint and am grateful that it happened. The fact that it took place at the Trashigang Dzong is auspicious since I have many warm memories of twilight rendezvous on that very spot with Rebecca.  

This life is just a glimpse I know that the more I live it. Just a beautiful and senseless dream but I kiss my lucky stars to be here now with nowhere else to go. Working with wonderful students who come from tiny villages dotting the borderlands. These are remarkable people and I envy them. They don’t overreact to things the way I do and there values are firmly in place. At this point I’m grateful to be along for this ride. (THANK THE DRAGON FOR HAVING ME) It will be a challenging year and I’m ready. It helps knowing what monumental support I have at home from family and friends. Just a glimpse, Morgan in a shaft of light at the turnstile (an angel in white) Mare driving off, Reed vanishing into Spinnaker on his bike, Paige admitting she loves me, holding my mom in my arms during “I know You Rider” Dad presenting me a wedding ring for an unknown bride, John walking out the front door, Julie on the rail, Jazzy in the sink, Marty and Allie at the bench, Miles, driving the Miracle Mile with Beth, salutations with Bobby, Kimock flashing the peace sign, Tyler at security shouting goodbye, glimpses. And on this side seeing paws and faces I have come to love too. I realize I can only get so close to the Bhutanese and I thank them for allowing this much, even making friendships with folks who can’t even speak English like Rinchen Wangmo. Humanity overcomes! As I observed my beloved Bhutanese friends on the floor speaking Sharshop telling stories as always, good old Mr. Tim has even managed to be woven into village lore. Their language has no writing which means it’s all about living the moment and storytelling. This transcends mere traditional living and harkens back to the source, which you can hear in a Tibetan wind lying in the duff under a cypress tree at midnight. Thanks to the modern marvel known as the mobile phone I can keep contact with Bunks who always has nuggets to impart, we came to realize that being a wacky foreigner in Bhutan affords one a total freedom of expression. Who are we anyway well that remains to be flushed out but the moment entices us onwards, efface the past and embrace the wicked now! 

(Burning Hearts Rage in the night…Intermezzo) 

A blaze below Kiney has charred the slope above the Dangme Chu River, at night the flames look like a dragon’s tail. Back in the village sitting on the drag with MOMO, pup Dawa Dema, and the flies with Bhutan belly. I have met with all my students and planned several lessons but haven’t received the timetable as of yet. I will start with some games and ice breakers this week and finish my yearly plan. BST is real people! One huge boon is that the water is flowing, but right now we need rain to douse the wildfire at Kiney. To give an example of the lack of infrastructure in the far- east, several of our male teachers volunteered to fight the flames even sustaining minor cuts and burns. Doc Namsa sustained a head burn imagine our sole regional physician fighting the fire! Is it like that where you are reading this? I don’t think BCF or mom would approve of me on the front lines so I watched from my front yard. Some agricultural lands have been razed but no homes, the fire burns dangerously close to the settlement of Kiney which has a sizable school. It’s a blustery smoky atmosphere as the students get health checkups from Dr. Namsa at school. I am spending time catching up with my class 8 students but classes won’t officially begin for a week. Each student has a story like poor Tandin Wangmo a soft spoken newcomer whose handbag was stolen from the hostel last night. The next day I slipped her some pocket money practically forcing it in her hand. I have gotten to know my students better the longer I remain at Tsenkharla. I just stepped outside to notice the blaze creeping up the slope towards Rangthangwooong so with one eye on the flames I go to the mess for lunch where Pema Yangdon is Girls Mess Captain, many of my students from last year have taken leadership positions for their class ten year. This year my original class 8 now will graduate from Tsenkharla and hopefully go on to study at Bayling in Yangtse. It’s cool to see the students grow up and mature before my eyes. I have gleal8ned many things since returning. Foremost is how reticent students are about speaking English. They typically speak in phrases not sentences but many of the teachers do the same. The truth is everybody struggles in English which is no one’s mother tongue. His Majesty spoke more eloquently than your author but he had the opportunity to study abroad. The reality in the Sharshop East is that speaking English is tenuous. Overall Bhutanese students are intelligent and more importantly incredibly well rounded individuals but are forced to excel in English to compete and succeed. Therefore I have incorporated several speaking activities into my yearly plan. We will conduct impromptu speeches, interviews, book reviews, and play Pictionary among other activities. I don’t want to intimidate the shy learners but must find ways for everyone to find their voice. I remember being terrified to speak in Spanish class and ironically I flunked Spanish multiple times, and here I am teaching ESL to Bhutanese students. I am eager to resume my duties and improve upon my results since understanding is an ongoing process.

So if you’re inclined to tune into this narcissistic rant you might be asking what’s it like to be back in Bhutan? The dichotomy between Marin County and East Bhutan is stark. Like the division between the haves and the have not’s, but which one is which since it’s all interchangeable. While many folks in Marin County have a surplus of material wealth where Bhutanese (Boot-em-in-the –knees) are culturally rich. Of course there are rich ones in Trashigang and homeless ones in San Rafael too. But overall it really is a different way and it can be observed everywhere. I observe the contrast by eating cream corn from a can which is a precious commodity imported from eight eleven in Thimphu. Nowhere is the contrast more apparent than at a boarding school. I have told you before about the conditions for these brave kids who leave their homes entering a Lord of the fly’s type existence. Of course if the allegorical novel starred Bhutanese kids they all would have gotten along nicely. If Ralph and Jack were Dorji and Karma all would have thrived under triple gem and there would be traditional dancing around a campfire. From my Monday Morning QB anthropology armchair I can ascertain that some degree of the individual identity is relinquished for the good of the community. This isn’t usually even a conscious decision it’s just done (They just can’t help themselves) yet exposure to the West through T.V and media threatens the hives existence. I would concede that in the Bhutanese ethos things make more sense and are more holistic than in the scatterbrain multicultural capitalistic salad bowl known as the USA. (Boy I’d hoover a Big Mac or three about now) Ha! As I just typed that a cow mooed angrily from the pasture as if reading my mind. Damn psychic cow!

So there’s your bookends bra! If you are reading this far down the page and not playing with our Paige on the trampoline. Thank you for sponsoring my trip home, there is so much more to say about my visit but no time to reflect, instead I must pick up the yoke and plough on. I’d like to thank my family for all their love and support. Primarily my bra for flying me home to meet my niece and bond with my nephew. My mother for just being you and oh how I crave more nights watching T.V and making dinner together (Did Juan Pablo distribute the final rose yet?) Dad I know you’re reading and I wish I hadn’t been so sick when you were around but it was fun beating your team on the gridiron. But we got licked by that loudmouth Sherman in the end or end zone more aptly. Julie thanks for the front row corner ticket for the Miracle Show (and Bobby thanks for the wave and Easy to Slip) Tyler had a huge part in that one too. Marty and Allie (and Emma) for making the arduous trip out (perilous since Marty had to cross through the casino sector twice BTW how’s your egg baby?) Cousin Larry thanks for the bacons, Mare also for driving Pumpkin in from the NW and for exuding so much positive energy. Beth for understanding me most of all, and Morgan for letting me know that I haven’t changed a bit and am still a first class brat. Also John and bra for all the gear that makes life more tolerable on the frontier. What I learned most from my sojourn home is that I am extremely loved, what else can a human want? I try to give some of that powerful force back to this community perched on a rounded ridge between Tawang and Trashigang. Oh yeah and F- you Murph!

Chapter 2: Happy Losar from the Land of the Thunder Dragon! (AKA Saddling the Male Wooden Horse)

The cold weather keeps on as the fire at Kiney burns out, sparing the village leaving Tawang in a silver haze as smoke fills the looking glass valley. Warm smiles at campus are a godsend as the work is now beginning and I already miss my friends especially Becky, Butterfly stated that Trashigang without Becky is like a garden without flowers! Ian and Vicky called but they are all the way west. The upshot is I can give all my attention to the village and school and lately I’ve been reclining up at Tsangma’s ruin. Inside the ruin is a little throne one can lean against, a nice spot for a sparkling beverage! It’s hard to believe Tsangma built the castle a few years after Guru Rinpoche visited the area. If I could have lunch with one historical figure it would be Prince Tsangma, the connection is we both made long important journeys to get here and now I must assimilate within his lineage. The strand of prayer flags I placed there with some boys have become worn, molecules strewn in all directions. I was invited to Losar at Sonam Choden’s village beneath Sep where the rough dirt road to the idyllic locality was completed last year. Visiting Sep is like stepping back in time, tucked in a secret valley behind Shampula. The terrain is dominated by steep cliffs, cirques, and deciduous forests, the village rests on slumbering terraces where the main crop is potatoes, but rice, maize, and chilies are also grown in the vicinity. Our Losar celebration featured many stars of my Bhutan show. Karlos and Sonam are my best friends and like family to me. The party also included Sonam’s widowed mother, Nawang Choden, husband and baby, and a precocious student named Dawa C Seldon. Losar is an ongoing feast with all the best curries on display, chunks of chicken, emadatsi, and an amazingly simple fish stew all served over rice. The drinking of local brew began at 9:55 AM, I remember taking note of the early hour on my watch, as we spent the day drinking (Coca Cola for me) and watching the kuru tournament in the field below the farmhouse. On the second day I pitched my tent outside and nearly froze to death (Think Lewis Lake Mare) and that night we watched Chorten kora a movie filmed in Yangtse and Tawang. At twilight Dawa C Seldon frolicked with puppy Dawa Dema cavorting through the fields while I watched the first star glimmering above a row of Chortens, inside the krewe enjoyed libations and storytelling. We finally piled in a taxi back to Tsenkharla rattling passed earthen huts in the dark. The next day into the classroom for a long and tiring week meeting many new faces in class six and seven. Class six is particularly keen to speak English and has only 24 students. Each student has an interesting story to tell like Dookto a zealous learner from up the hill. Last year she led a train of little ones to Shakshang Goempa but this year she is a boarder. Last night all the boarder girls were savagely beaten at the mess. I heard about it from a bystander teacher and some students. The perpetrator apparently was so apoplectic that he shattered his beating stick, all this over some unaccounted for eggs. eggs! I plan on reporting this to the VP but it won’t do any good. Beating varies school to school but is very much part of the established order. The boarder life is hard enough eating gruel and living in cramped conditions, but the students are always remarkably upbeat.

On the way to class two hawk’s mascerading as eagles or two eagle’s mascerading as hawks stealthily glided over my position, the incognito pair reminding me it’s all interchangeable. In the woods crimson rhododendron buds burst like clockwork announcing spring as I lead a train of younglings through the brush like silly ducks in gho and kira. All that is left now is to wait for the rain. This Sunday I packed up some sundries and headed off for a four temple trek up the spine of Tsenkharla ridge. The trek begins at Tsenkharla passing our exalted Prince Tsangma’s ruin up to Zangtopelri. Above the temple looms the Tashi Cell Tower and other spook shit including a humming box that is more ominous than the Bartsham machine. Continuing, the trail follows the ridge through bleeding rhododendron bushes and occasional farmhouses passing through my Bon meadow with views in all directions of Tawang, Trashigang, and Trashiyangste. Next stop Shakshang Goempa where a puja was taking place (Old Shakshang so holy and so littered with trash) I stopped in briefly to offer incense and prostrate before the golden statue of Lord Buddha before traversing up the ridge through twisted chaparral to Darchin, a small temple nestled within a cypress coppice at the foot of rolling pasture land. Ascending through tawny open space the wayfarer reaches Bromla a jungle of old growth oak draped in moss, wild honeysuckle exudes citrusy aromas, ferns, and dwarf bamboo. Eventually the trail peters out and I found myself crawling under fallen trees wallowing in the thick duff. Sprawling on my deathbed filtered sunshine warms my face. Resurrected I Drop to Darchin where I was greeted not by my favorite ascetic lama but a Chakedemi cougar whose name I intuited. After my customary pantomiming Kesang allowed me into the old temple where I prostrated before the flickering butter lamp and offered up some incense. The frescos on the walls are peeling with age and the hundred year old floorboards creak underfoot. After waving goodbye I retraced my steps turning left at the dried lake heading down to Namkhar Goempa traversing a secret cirque to the idyllic village with astounding views of Shampula and forty foot rhododendron trees in bloom where villagers were busy preparing the barren fields for planting. Last up Zangtopelri the best temple of all. When I visit Zangtopelri I feel like a teenage Jesus visiting the Golden Temple in Jeruselum. The ornate main chamber has eight impressive statues of Guru Rinpoche in all his manifestations including copulating with a tigress. The first floor is stuffed with artifacts including, bells, a musket, holy books, peacock feathers, animal skin drums, gilt trim, and butter carvings. The walls are crawling with murals depicting cannibalism, bestiality, serene deities adept at bursting illusionary bubbles, minstrels, entrails, Excalibur, magic eight balls, goat heads impaled on spears, bare yonis, and snow lions. On the second floor in a cedar scented room a celestial couple enjoys a ceaseless carnal embrace. Before the alter on the mezzanine a patch of emerald marble cools my forehead as I perform my ninth prostration and upstairs in the attic the smiling countenance of Buddha welcomes me home. 

Talking to Morgan on the phone her last words cut by static fading into oblivion…”eat some veget…” Sorry sis not much here, the occasional onion, potato, and fiery imported Chillie that makes my asshole ornery. Life resumes with interminable meetings and scheduled and rescheduled classes, and the general squalor of my shanti. Each day I feel more at ease in class with all the same challenges reoccurring but I know I am a better teacher than when I first arrived. Last night at the mess I received a compliment from a class ten student named Dorji Phuntsho who said “That he didn’t consider me a phelincpa but only as sir” Then he remarked he missed my teaching. Dorji is a leader on campus and an upstanding young man so I am encouraged that I had an impact on him. Watching the girls’ house basketball final among my community amidst the wafting fumes from the leaking septic tank I never felt more a part of something. I know I can only assimilate so far into the tribe but in many ways my life here is already complete.  

Chapter 3: All New Tshenkharla Blues

The Bhutanese calendar has rolled around to another school Rimdo or mass puja. I know since I was awaken from my slumber last night by a fire wielding monk in Technicolor regalia and a myriad of howling teenagers who forced their way in throwing stones and water around the hut. Like a Sally I tried to keep them out since I had diarrhea and was in no mood for cultural exchanges, but this puja was mandatory and VP ordered me to stand down for the blessing which culminated in a splash of water in my face. So it goes and it’s been one month on the hill without descending and I desperately need a Trashigang shopping spree to replace my busted water heater that melted. Life at a boarding school is like living at a 7-11 in Vegas (We never close and weird things are always happening) there are compulsory meetings, sporting events, cultural shows, classes, and the ambience of living next to hundreds of boys but it’s all good! Apparently the puja cleared out the haze and I awoke to the Guru’s rays cresting the dragon’s tail revealing a sparkling looking glass valley with layers of mountains unfolding in Arrunachal Pradesh. Ravens and other songbirds greet the new day enthusiastically so why can’t I? The Rimdo itself seemed subpar compared to the first two years with my inaugural Rimdo being the best. My reluctance to admit the lama for the howling was a hot topic as I find the Bhutanese ribbing me a lot. Butterfly and I concur that the Bhutanese have subtle mood changes and we are subtly expected to act accordingly, as Butterfly quips, “If they are smiling we should be smiling, if they are unhappy we should also be unhappy” It was a strange day with the murmurings of prayers inducing smoke into the valley below and the omnipresent bleating brass horns and beating of drums. I took a sunbath under one of my cherished leafy trees which circulated a current of fresh air fanning me. An hour later it was cool for a lovely dinner with tender chunks of beef and smokin’ hot emadatsi. Large cultural events always prove enjoyable and lonely as I am asunder from the Bhutanese who are always hospitable. Today I had some nice encounters with boys I hadn’t spoken with casually in a while and took some snapshots of students. Captain Kungdo Wangmo was working her tail off all day, another one of my former students turned School Captain. I recall being homesick after the first Rimdo and here I am somehow two years later still trucking along. This marks the beginning of my third trip around the metaphorical Chorten and I find myself more alone than ever.

(Oh Monpa moon, guide your people back, to the Chorten by the emerald river, with traces of Tibetan blood, sealed inside the bones of our sister, partially turned to dust, can I enter the tomb with a secret song? Can I gather ruddy marrow in my arms? Can I resurrect your flesh to dance with me under the glistening rotunda?)

Another Sunday that didn’t suck bound for Chorten Kora for Tsechu with Karlos, Sonam, and others. First I went to the new ATM for cash then the shoe -smith who stitched and polished my proven boots. This guy was a master tradesman a real Himalayan dandy! As evening arrived so did the Monpa in rosy embroidered regalia along with Sharchops in shinny gho and kira of every imaginable hue. A hazy moon rose and candles were lit and placed around the base of the spacecraft where the aliens started singing a soulful rhapsody as they circumambulated. Butter lamps, monks, and little children making their own circle songs, Hands across the Himalayas. Tonight the inner corridor of the Stupa was opened which allowed the worshipful to place their hands on the crypt where a young Monpa girl self -sacrificed and is now entombed. All this blissfulness taking place under the omnipotent eyes of Buddha and I AM a small part of it. Glory!   

On Friday I was T.O.D (Tim on Duty) and it came at a bad time since I woke up with gnarly stomach cramps. This time chillies weren’t the culprit for my ornery asshole but a suspect tin of beans. I had to run down to my hovel three times during morning study and barely completed my rounds. At assembly I spoke my trash bit and stood in agony about to poop my pants before being excused and running home again. I managed to teach classes, attend an interminable meeting, and supervise evening study. By twilight time my tummy was better and I enjoyed helping students with their homework, it’s always nice to see my former students and I was a zombie in the morning shift. I eavesdropped on evening prayer moved by the emotive dirge mostly since I knew the faces transmitting the triumphant melodies through the darkness. Never before have I been part of a community and it happens to be located on the fringe of Bhutan on the cusp of Arrunachal Pradesh, nevertheless its home.

I greeted spring with a charred gut and puffy eyes as I groggily treaded the pathway to the schoolhouse where I was stopped in my tracks by a tiny red bird. The little tweeter jumped around from limb to limb its feathers completely painted in the most lavish red imaginable. How could God make such a perfect creature and how fortuitous our morning rendezvouses. Sunny skies revealed the entire gorge from snowy rimmed Tawang to the scorched riverbed below Trashigang. Tsenkharla is auspiciously located on a gentle ridge with impeccable views of the entire sector. Yesterday I wandered westward among the red rhododendron blossoms and chortens towards the lush folds of Trashiyangtse where Dawa Dema and I sniffed out a new trail winding through outcroppings.

Life in the classroom always keeps you on your toes. One thing I’ve noticed this year is how poor most Sharchop kids are at speaking English. I have ample respect for these multilingual learners but the truth is they skate by on as little English as possible. Many are adequate readers and writers but very few can speak in complete sentences and hold conversations comfortably. My class six students are more enthusiastic than class 8 and 9 students who are dealing with adolescent issues that are a detrement to speaking, mainly shyness and puberty. This proves an interesting challenge for the ESL instructor in Bhutan. I have improved my strategies but the results can still be frustrating. The boon is the work is interesting and I am always met by fresh faces with great sense of humors. Now I am getting to know new personalities in 6 and 7 everyday which is pretty cool. I have nothing but admiration for my students and the entire student body but what makes the Bhutanese tick? Becky and I discussed it at length but we don’t have an answer, she knows more than I do though. Physically they are a multiethnic tribe of approximately 700,000 people who share a distinct culture based on tantric Buddhism. (The author is not a scholar so take it with a grain of salt) But deeper than that they are a collective psyche expressed in a myriad of individuals but they seem so connected at the dragons root. (As if they are god’s chosen few not the Hebrews) The spirit of the Druk folk is elusive and the more “time” I spend with them the less I know but it’s all interchangeable. I’m tickled at participating in this wild cultural exchange that trades in hearts as we become intertwined within our communities until we leave a chunk of our souls behind. So I don’t know Dorji about the Bhutanese but just a glimpse is enough for you simple author. I am here Spring 2014, I am living my dream and it’s more vivid than I possibly imagined.       

(Too Stupid to Stop Intermezzo)

“Caledonia calling Bigfoot on the line” Zeke

Dripping violet stars vibrate while on the periphery lightning vortex’s whirl over Trashigang. The orange lights of the hill station beckons like a siren enticing the lost sailor with meat and television. But for now I remain on my mountain subsisting on coke and occasional rice. Night is still cold and my Chinese heater broke. The thunderstorms rehearsed the other night knocking out power a throwback to Catherine’s era. What a difference electricity makes, the whole existence of TIAT depends on it. It was a nice repose as the hush of the river harmonized with the gusty wind as I burrowed into my sleeping bag enveloped in blackness. Another superb Sunday that didn’t suck at all as I roved all over Tsenkharla Mountain from Namkhar to Kumdung through an amazing array of vegetation eventually tailing Karlos through the darkness on a steep slope tracking lonesome flickering lights on the outskirts of little Lumla while on our side Trashigang glowed like a torch blazing up the hillside, shortcuts are steep in the Himalaya isn’t it? Monday and a four hour rigmarole on hand washing, a very important subject but the meeting could have been an hour. This year is chalked full of meetings which is a reality BCF teachers know too well but even for Bhutan we have been on a roll lately as life at a boarding school can be tedious. The best part are the actual classes which might be the best teaching gig on earth especially if your satisfied making three bills a month. Had three pieces of chicken at the mess (god bless that fowl) I needed those scraps of meat. Another stellar day today in the great range still waiting for rain and staying cold at night but it was clear with my mesmerizing Tawang’s pouty maw doing a striptease peeling off her fluffy misty gown. The eastern view is like if you take all the prettiest woman of all the crowds and put them in a bevy and then select the most gorgeous from that group and that’s the eastern view; a tawny haired beaut with legs that span two countries but like all true beauty’s she’s a changeling coming on with infinite incarnations seducing me deeper every day, you dig? The bounty of Tsenkharla is infinite as are the challenges and its best to take it a moment at a time. I love the life I live but haven’t changed all that much at the core which is annoying. So much is surviving and trying to stay on point in the classroom that becoming a disciplined Buddhist disciple isn’t happening. So I’m no Gary Snyder more like Jack Kerouac falling off the Dharma Wagon actually I’m merely a cat named Mr. Tim or Sir tied to a pesky ego that won’t recognize the common fortune of nothingness unravelling into a stream of unconsciousness must be the chillies firing my imagination.  Bra-La nice talking with you the other night sharing our bizarre bizzare simultaneous adventure. Those who like the smutty side of Tiger this yarn is for you as I squatted in the woods taking an alfresco dump while brother was scalping his Galactic ticket outside the fabled Fillmore. While Tyler was doing his business and I was doing mine he had me on speaker pulling that old Neil Cassady trick so I felt like I was in the Tenderloin shitting beside the crack heads and alley cats (Dear readers shitting is not a cuss word hereabouts) I was visiting a very special Chorten and pair of cypress and later on down the trail decaying rhododendron blossoms like drops of blood splattering a vapid field. His next call was placed from outside the Boom Boom Room and last call sailing under the North Tower of The Golden Gate Bridge at 4:20 A.M PST putting the ocean on the line! My day also meandered conjoining with my Bhutanese La Karlos and a ceaseless walk to Kumdung and back on an aborted Doksom mission MEOW! So let’s cascade into NOW WOW where I sit in squalor with a stack of notebooks that are marked, so teaching comes before housework but I’m primed for a Spring Cleaning Spree. Had Butterfly for tea bonding as expats bobbing in the overwhelming Bhutanese tide (Surfs Up, Hang Ten, COOL TAN AND GROOVY) If you’re wondering has the author lost the plot after hibernation well for all I know these words will never see the light of day as I’m offline kiddos. This is just a sound check from Timbuktu check check? Rat Farts! Haven’t read a book this year might have fried my brain doing laps around the world or maybe its three lesson plans a night right? I will get back that old reading rainbow soon as “time” catches up to your speedy hero, meanwhile my dancing eyes are glued to Bhutan Station a captivating drama that hooks you something awful. Speaking of Butterfly AKA Ashish is probably my best friend along with Karlos which cracks me up. Both Karlos and Ashish are archetypal countrymen of East Bhutan and Kerala respectively. Ashish like all Hindi Indians abides by the Caste system which blows my mind. They adhere to arranged marriage according to caste and astrological compatibility. Butterfly is simple in contrast to the bawdy Bhutanese and footloose Americans. Believe it or not when the Bhutanese aren’t absorbed in prayer they can get pretty wild with the Ara and hanky panky. I like the Bhutanese character in fact I’m not sure I could immerse into any other culture on earth as I have only seen one westerner in two months. Back to my two best friends and how peculiar are these relationships with two traditional men of vastly different cultures, Triumph of human spirits is the name of this game called Hands across the Himalayas…

Chapter 4: Continuation

“Spin the wheel like Ezekiel”

Morning is a ritual in Bhutan that I am only semi-conscious for. Actually I awake with the hovering morning star and frigid rooster crowing as I walk outside to hear the rivers song, an hour later I might wake up to the boys singing in the sunrise cresting due east over the dragons tail palisades. I might hear the swooshing of brooms sweeping away the remnants of a cacophonous dream. The bell rings and rings and eventually I join the party on time for assembly which resembles a military review. This is not pomp but reverence and routine all unfurled with the dragon flag. The singing of prayers and National Anthem is something a tourist’s money can’t buy and it is always a reminder of OUR privilege to be serving here. Ravens soar overhead and I let my mind wander riding the drone to distant peaks that are too far too reach on foot, places I will never go! The mountains are endless and beyond them thousands of miles of more and bigger mountains. But nowhere is Tsenkharla that’s for damn sure as I wish all the naturalists in heaven could descend for a trek in my neck of the woods. Then off to class with shiny faces in gho and kira but they are just kids snoozing in class, cheating on their homework, chewing gum all the time, and always throwing things like monkeys but…Oh what kids they are at heart taking it all around they are the best, chattering away in Sharchop perched on a mountainside overlooking unspoiled country but there is degradation especially the litter problem that continuously pangs my heart. Why can’t they cherish their jewel? I have earnestly tried to change their habits to no avail but pledge to continue to advocate proper waste disposal but know the problem will persist after I depart my beloved post. For each obstacle teaching there is a breakthrough which tickles the teacher pink. Wow I did it! I reached a student and taught them something and I will never take that for granted. People believed in me donating money supporting my mission. BCF continues to support me in the field and my administration supports me so I must do my duty well. I average six classes a day and each period is forty minutes long held in simple wood classrooms that feel comfortable to teach in especially when sparrows or puppies burst on the scene. Campus is an oasis with a row of regal hundred foot tall cypresses, the old Rangthangwoong grinding stone, prayer flags, and gardens. Now we also have trash cans painted Oakland A’s colors. We have a small dilapidated clock tower overlooking the dirt courtyard which is being tiled. So campus is a bit torn up from construction but still is a copascetic place to work. Several buildings are from the original construction in 1977 along with snazzier new edifices made of stone. Tsenkharla is a juggernaut pulling in kids from all over the surrounding hills and is a vital instition in Trashiyangtse. In achievement and appearance are school seems average from what little I have gleaned of Eastern Schools with the exception of our auspicious position atop a mountain. Our school runs the gamut from PP to ten with students feeding in to the boarder system after class seven. Holy Moly they live on prison rations of gruel and then told not to eat junk food from the shop. I couldn’t care less if they throw away the wrappers that is to say I also load up on extras to supplement rice, which they literally call food. It’s a hoot interacting with these village kids who are the first in their lineage to be educated in English. Gosh I feel like a pioneer doing this work and even on a rotten day my spirits are lifted by the children, yes the same ones I complain about. Joking with them bridges the gap as my whole career has been geared towards ESL teaching (Sorry BCF and MOE but this is English as a Second Language teaching out in Eastern Bhutan) But that’s okay we will breed multilingual educated farmers and a few easterners will rise to the top and join the movers and shakers. In the end I will remember the fun we had in the classroom, spontaneous golden moments both precious and priceless. Teaching stretches me to the limit but it’s the relationships and accountability that keeps me at it.   

     

Zongtopelri Tsechu 2013

Lumla and Arrunachal Pradesh from my doorstep

Shampula Summit

Mr. Tim and Tshering 

Becky at Chorten Kora

Jaigon India

Himalayan goodness

Rinpoche

Can you see the UFO?

Guru Rinpoche

Tigers Nest December 2013

King's B-Day Ceremony

Avalon 

CK

Tsangma 

Winter 2014

SEE YA USA!!!!