The Milkman

In Tanzania, we had an egg man (named Julius, but we usually referred to him as ‘the egg man’) who came to the house, sold us eggs, and asked for water. That was his MO. He would call, “Hodi,” the typical greeting when you’re outside someone’s house in Tanzania, and by his voice, we’d know – the egg man was here. I’d run to get funds from the house money, open the door, and Julius would shake his bag of eggs, “Thirty eggs,” or sometimes he’d have twenty, or more and less. I’d tell him how many we wanted – ishirini (twenty) usually, kubwa (big). He'd say, “I want water,” and I’d get him a glass of water as he counted out the eggs. If it was a hot day, he might ask for another glass, but usually one was fine. Then in his broken English and in my extremely poor Swahili, we’d try to arrange the next time he’d come. That was the egg man.

Now, in Bhutan, we have a milkman. He doesn’t come right to the door and deliver the milk personally, but it’s pretty darn close to that. He does his rounds starting around 4 pm at the lower market and slowly (depending on how many people are waiting with empty containers) meanders his way to upper market, making many stops in between. It’s usually 5 pm when he finally arrives at the upper market honking his way as he approaches, and honking several times more as he’s parked outside the small restaurant Shonzy, which is right across from our driveway. I hear his beeping call, grab the empty container that we’ve designated for milk and run down the driveway to his red van. Typically there are a few people ahead of me. I ask for “two.” He dips down into his large metal container and pours me two liters of unpasteurized milk. I give him 54 ngultrums or the closest thing I have to that, which is usually 60. He gives me change, and I carefully bring the milk back. At home, Scott and I bring the milk to a boil (and lately we’ve been letting it boil for a few minutes; actually a few times when we’ve been careless, the milk has spilt over the pot. Boiled milk has a way of erupting) and then let it cool down before we put it back in the container and into the fridge. And that’s how we get milk in Bhutan.


(As for eggs, I buy them from one of the teachers I work with, Lopen Sonam, who has 100 chickens.)

Names

Instead of names like Mbayana, Naeku, Sang’orie, Kiepoy, Ndeeray, Neema, and Lepillal, I now have to learn names like Tshering, Garab, Kuenzang, Phuntsho, Ugyen, and Rabsel. In my homeroom alone, I have two Sonam Zangmos, distinguished by Sonam Zangmo “A” and Sonam Zangmo “B,” not to be confused with the female student who goes by just Sonam (no second name). There are also four girls named Deki, and four students named Karma, and three students with the second name Yangzom. The other tricky thing with Bhutanese names is that they are not gender specific. Sangay can be a female or male, as can the names Yeshi, Pema, and just about every other one; the only name that I haven’t found an opposite sex counterpart is Deki, which is a female name. You’d think that because there is less of a variety of names, it’d be easier, but that just means I have to memorize their first and second names. It’s going to be a tough year.

Setting Up Class

After many days of work without actually being in a classroom, today was my first day with my homeroom in their classroom. Here, they don’t call it homeroom; I’m called their class teacher. And it’s their classroom, as in the students’, because it’s the teachers who rotate.

After the 8:45 assembly, the school spent the morning setting up all the classrooms with chairs, tables, and blackboards. Since I am the class teacher for class 6A, my students know what to do, so their class was set up quickly, leaving hours before lunch with some students in and out helping other classes set up and clean up. In the off time, we played Hangman, Sonam Says, and Pictionary, which they seemed to enjoy.

So far, I'm finding there are too many “ma’am”s. Every other word is ma’am. “Can I go out, ma’am?” “Yes, ma’am,” “Can I come in, ma’am?” Whenever a student leaves the room, they have to ask permission to come back in – this can get tedious.

After lunch, I gave out textbooks and we went over rules and discipline – “Uncivilized and barbarous actions like yelling, quarreling, fighting, stealing, abusing of friends or any staff members are strictly prohibited,” “Eating of Khaini, chewing doma, smoking, gambling or consuming any intoxicating substances is totally banned,” and some of the main offenses calling for disciplinary action are “hooliganism,” “anti-state statements and actions,” and “prowling.”

Overall, it was a fine day. I’m nervous that I won’t be patient or kind enough.

Last Day of the 5th King's Birthday Celebration

At Yongphu Temple, above Kanglung.

The king was very lucky. His birthday holiday was extremely bright and sunny, at least in Kanglung. So much so that the plan of doing schoolwork all day didn’t pan out; Scott and I had to get out of the house. Today might’ve been the clearest day we’ve had so far. The snow-peaked mountains had no haze in front of them, no cloud coverage – just stark white mountaintops against a bluebird sky.

After lunch, we set off for the hills. We started walking toward lower market but broke off from the main road at the college hostels and followed the road above it.

The road led to a monastery of sorts – where the monks go when they graduate from the Shedri – that we’d never seen before. After a few failed attempts, Scott finally located a suitable walking trail, the one we were looking for. It lead us to prayer flags, a group of chortens, and some magnificent views. We quickly realized we both had overdressed. When we’re in the freezing house getting ready to leave, we have no concept that warmth even exists, but it does, especially today.




We ended up walking for around three hours – a pleasant walk through new views and sites for me (from running, Scott had already seen much of what we passed today). We joined a trail we’ve explored a couple times now, but went off a new way, which led to the Yongphu Temple, a site of a yearly Tshechu (a religious festival).


After, we continued up toward the main road and soon linked with familiarity – the Bhutan Food Corporation office, and home was only three kilometers away.

For most of the walk, I kept thinking how lucky we were, to just go for a walk so close to our house and come across such simple beauty – chortens, prayer flags, gardens, newly planted trees, people sitting outside enjoying the sun, two girls sleeping on the roof of their house under an umbrella, temples, birds – everywhere. And the whole time, the looming snow-peaked mountains kept an eye on us.

A view of Kanglung from above.


One of the entrances to Sherubtse College.

King's Birthday: Day 2

Scott and I left the house around 9:30 am and headed down the hill. Our plan was to get to lower market and see if we could hitch a ride to Trashigang, a town 22 kilometers away. To spend one of our two days off in Honor of the fifth King’s birthday, we thought it would be nice to get out of Kanglung and explore Trashigang. It was a great plan as the sun was out and walking around outside definitely beats lesson planning inside a cold house.

On the way to lower market, one vehicle passed us and Scott weakly attempted the Bhutanese gesture for asking for a ride – the small flapping of your hand, palm down, as your arm is stretched out down toward your leg. The vehicle hesitated for a bit but then drove on. Scott was regretting not running to the vehicle when it paused. I tried to make light of the situation by saying, “We’ll get a ride from another car.” Just as Scott was replying, “Have you noticed the traffic? There are no cars on the road,” a car came from behind us and slowed down – it was Kencho, the health technician at the BHU (Basic Health Unit) who has been kindly tending to Scott’s dog bite wound. He was on his way to Trashigang and offered us a ride in his empty car.

As we drove past lower market – usually a boundary point in our daily lives – the world became big again. Different blooming trees, different villages on different mountain slopes, different terraced fields, the river.

After a pleasant drive with only a ten-minute stop at a roadblock, we reached Trashigang. Kencho dropped us off in town before heading to the hospital for a meeting. Scott and I visited a few bakeries – there are none in Kanglung – and stores before heading to the archery ground. Yesterday at the King’s birthday celebration at Sherubtse, the governor had told us that if we were in the area, to stop by the match – the governor’s team versus the Home and Cultural Minister’s team. Lyonpo Minjur, Bhutan’s Minister of Home and Culture, was the chief guest of honor at yesterday’s festivities and, we learned, usually spends the rest of the holiday playing archery.

*

After buying a bag of peanuts, Scott and I discuss what the best vantage point to watch the competition from is. For this particular archery ground, there is no good vantage point. We see that right next to where arrows are flying by, a big tent and a big umbrella, many tables and chairs are set up. This is where the guests of the functions are sipping tea, chatting, eating. We haven’t been watching the archery for more than three minutes before the governor spots us and gestures for us to come on the field and sit with the other guests under the big umbrella.

Even though Scott and I appear underdressed – everybody else is wearing National Dress – we join the group and begin to be regaled lavishly with tea, pieces of cake, momos, and bowls of ara boiled with butter and egg (no one else is drinking). The vice-governor greets us and we spot another local friend who lives in Trashigang, Sonam. He comes over and begins to give us a who’s who of Trashigang as men step up to shoot arrows and women serve us different goodies (I know – a very typical sexist setup).


Each team does several dances throughout the match. The Governor of Trashigang District is second from the left. He was the one who had invited us to the match

Lyonpo Minjur, Bhutan's Minister of Home and Culture, gets ready to take a shot.

In Bhutan, archery is now mostly played with compound bows made in and shipped over from America. The men play on two teams and the target, which stands around two and a half feet tall and about a foot wide, is set 145 meters away, a roughly 475-foot distance. Opponents stand eerily close to the target as the arrows are shot. For every arrow that lands on the target, one point is given to the team and one scarf is given to the shooter, which is folded and worn around the waist, draped over the backside. If the arrow lands in the bulls-eye, three points are given. A team wins with 25 points, at which point a new game is started. For this particular competition, the scarves were made of silk and each piece is large enough to make a toego for the shooters’ wives.

At lunch, Scott and I are urged to get food before the majority of the rest of the crowd – the archers themselves, their wives (who cooked the meal), the young singers. In fact, while we are serving ourselves, Scott points out that I am the only female on the line – Lyonpo’s wife has already gotten her plate of food. We are then pushed to sit under the tent with Lyonpo, his wife, and a few other guests who are close to Lyonpo, including the director of Sherubtse. This is the sort of treatment that harkens back to my VIP post – being singled out because we’re BCF volunteer teachers, because we’re foreigners. I have no clue what others observing the situation think. From our experience, the Bhutanese just go out of their way to be generous and kind and extremely giving.

*

After being brought such liquids as curdled milk (to ease the sting of the chilies) and a glass of red wine, the director of Sherubtse offered Scott and I a ride home. While there were still things we wanted to do in Trashigang, we couldn’t say no to a free ride home.

More Views of Kanglung

After eating lunch at the King's Birthday Celebration, Scott and I were free from work with two days off ahead of us. We went home, changed out of our National Dress and later that afternoon went for a short walk.


Scott walking the halls of the BHU (Basic Health Unit) checking to see if anyone's around.

I'm a bit obsessed with terraced farm plots. I can't wait until the growing season when everything will be green.

Fifth King's Birthday Celebration

“Love Live Our Beloved King,” was a popular slogan today. It read on many flags and banners and signs. We gathered in the King’s honor on the Sherubtse College field. We being around 2,000 people – students from the primary school, middle and high school, and the college, teachers and lecturers, and townspeople. There was marching, dancing, games, laughing, speeches, and eating. The sun was so bright and we were out in it so long that I think I’m suffering from sunstroke.

The precession welcoming the chief guest of honor, who was Bhutan's Minister of Home and Culture - Lyonpo Minjur.

My students marching like little soldiers. All the students, young and old, marched around the soccer field a few times.

Monks watching the celebration.



The cultural performances.

Home

Here is a view of the house from the outside. We occupy the first floor, which is not the ground floor. In the picture, it's the most bottom floor you can see. Our landlord, NP, and his family live above us, and there's another floor above that, which you can just see the roof of in this photo. Besides this house, NP also owns two houses beside us and a smaller house above us which he rents out, a shop in lower market, and runs the cable business in town.

Do you see our windows? Those are the ones that allow views like these:


Just above NP's complex is a little piece of land that Scott and I like to go up to for lesson planning, card playing, or a little beer drinking.

Marching Practice at School

View From Our Bedroom This Morning

Datse

I’ve now been in two situations with my co-workers where I was physically so affected by chilies that they were concerned and either advised me to get a lot more rice or to cease eating.

We had been warned about the hotness of Bhutanese cuisine, how chilies aren’t just an added kick but the main ingredient of a dish. Datse – a Bhutanese hot curry made with chilies and cheese. Potato datse, mushroom datse, spinach datse, chili datse. For my own kitchen I had purchased big green chilies that I have been told aren’t hot, and they’re not. I can use them in dishes with seeds in and not even taste them.

At Bhutanese functions, this is not the case. If you see chilies, beware. After these two incidents – the first one at a temple function, the second time at a staff farewell party – I think I’ve finally learned my lesson. When I’m spooning up the food into my bowl of rice, it never seems that threatening – the vegetables in a creamy broth – but then as I start eating, the heat permeates until my whole head is sweating, my nose is running, and I must start to fidget or move uncomfortably because people can tell. At the staff party, there was even a local teacher who pushed her plate away, complaining of its hotness. I just keep thinking that the unbearable heat will subside but it doesn’t until you stop eating, and even then it still takes a while.

Recently at the market, I purchased chilies of a smaller variety – small, thin, and darker green. I cut up several and threw it in a stir-fry last night and it proved to be too strong, bearable but not necessarily enjoyable. So tonight, in a potato-mushroom datse, I took time to cut the seeds out of the chilies before using them. Just cutting them up caused some discomfort. I could feel it in my eyes, my whole body was feeling warmer as if physical heat was emanating from the chilies.

First Impressions

The principal's introduction of me to the students started like this: "Who thinks she's Bhutanese?"

*

The students are cute and endearing, but I can't wait until they become real people to me and now just adorable faces. They only person I can identify is Garab, the boy captain of the school, and Sonam because she is beautiful. She only goes by one name, which is not uncommon in Bhutan.

I catch the students doing the funniest, strangest things, like slowly spitting on their shoes, hitting one another, touching each others' hair - just silly kid stuff. I let them see me see them, and I smile. I guess I shouldn't embarrass them. Sometimes just looking at them embarrasses them. I've been told that Bhutanese children are extremely shy and so far I find it to be the case. When I do get them to talk to me, they are quiet. There is one small boy in my house - the Singye House; 'singye' means 'lion' - who quips up when no one else will. I need to learn his name.

Back From Break

Doma and Dancing

Even now, 12 hours after it was in and out of my mouth, I can still feel where the doma juices were, can still imagine – what to me was – the unbearable taste. My first experience of doma – as pungent and memorable as this Valentine’s Day in Bhutan.

As soon as I arrived to work this morning, the principal, Tenzin, said our staff meetings today would have to be cancelled due to two things – a ceremony at the Shedri, the monastic school here in town, and a meeting Tenzin had at the Trashigang Dzong regarding the King’s upcoming birthday celebration. At 10 am, all interested members of the staff would go as a group to Zangdopelri Lakhang, where the Shedri is located. The ceremony was the equivalent of a graduation ceremony – the highest level of student monks at the school would be moving on to another location up the hill. Apparently the monastic school has a very good relationship with the primary school so whenever there are important events or ceremonies, we are often especially invited.

Since I hadn’t been to Zangdopelri yet, I was very interested. Before 10 am, I went with a few of the female staff members to buy offerings. On the way to the shop, Kuenzang held out a hand to me. On it was a small piece of newspaper carrying a single portion of doma. Ever since I arrived in Bhutan, I’ve seen evidence of doma all around – bright, red stains of spit left on sidewalks, roads, and stairs of buildings; people smiling with teeth various shades of red; and people talking to us with the sides of their mouth oozing red juices. Doma is prevalent throughout Bhutan, villagers chew it as do the higher-ups in government – everyone chews doma. I had seen other teachers and people I met passing pieces of doma around, but it had never been offered to me.

I asked Kuenzang to show me in more detail what it was she held in the palm of her hand. It was a piece of a hard Areca catechu nut, sprinkled with some white lime powder (i.e. limestone, not the citrus), and wrapped in a betel leaf. I was told to put the whole thing in my mouth and start chewing. I did as I told. The whole thing was the size of a big marble, and it started out just as hard. As soon as I was able to chisel my way into the doma, the juices started coming out, filling up my mouth, and my taste buds were not at all amused. With the wad of doma in my right cheek, I incoherently asked Kuenzang a few times, “Am I supposed to swallow?” I could either swallow or spit it out. I tried swallowing. I watched my co-workers chew doma with grace and ease – you could hardly see the big wad in their cheeks – as they shopped for crackers, biscuits, and ramen, and perused the other goods. I was flailing. The taste of the juices was horrendous as were the tiny pieces of betel leaf that were getting chewed up. I was supposed to continue chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing, until the whole thing was gone. Supposedly, the result is a slight high, akin to what one gets when you start smoking cigarettes. I didn’t get that far. I spit out the whole thing, not just the juices, into a garbage can, and quickly put a piece of gum in my mouth, willing my taste buds to forgive me and forget the numbing taste. For the rest of the day, the inside of my mouth, where the doma had been, tingled.

When we got to Zangdopelri, Tenzin was already there and he handed me his wife’s rachu, something I was obliged to wear for such an occasion since I was in National Dress. Before entering the temple, we took off our shoes. As we stepped over the threshold, I was told to prostrate three times in a certain direction before sitting down. At first I wasn’t going to, but with the flow and momentum of everyone else doing it, I felt compelled. Even though I know and the people I’m with know I’m not Bhutanese, I look like I am, and it would be strange if a Bhutanese didn’t prostrate.

I sat cross-legged on a small carpet with a group of women – some of them my co-workers, some not – in a corner of the temple. Even though I couldn’t see, opposite us was another group of people sitting in a corner. The large room was filled with rows of monks chanting and drumming. They sat on mats, each one wrapped tightly in yellow cloth. Lining a wall was one row of monks with horn instruments. Near us, was a long table – maybe ten feet – tightly filled with bread, biscuits, and other offerings.

As the monks chanted, the woman around me chatted and talked as if they were in a coffee shop. I was in a few conversations but mostly I sat and watched and, while I was fascinated with my current surroundings, I wondered how long I’d have to sit. When we first sat down, a monk handed out tea, and my bladder was now nudging me. Around noon, Dechen, a co-worker, turned to me and said we would leave in a few minutes. I explained to her my situation and we left immediately. Dechen helped me find a bathroom and while I went to use it, she started her customary three-times-around-the temple walk.

While I waited at the gate of the temple for my co-workers to finish their rotations I met up with my neighbor Karma and he introduced me to the Khenpo who is the head of the temple, the person in charge of all the monks on Kanglung. He didn’t speak English that well, but his gentle, gracious smile said it all. He had Karma translate to me his happiness for me being there and that I was welcome back any time. Karma then informed me that the monks weren’t letting anyone leave without lunch. So we – my co-workers, local students, and many people from town – were treated to a wonderful lunch on the grounds of the temple. Tables were set in a square and at the head table sat the Khenpo and a couple of very young monks. Dechen explained to me that those younger boys weren’t normal monks or else they wouldn’t be sitting so close to the Khenpo. And they were wearing yellow scarves – the kings of the country wear yellow scarves – which means that they are extremely special, likely reincarnates.

After lunch, my co-workers and I parted ways for some hours before meeting up again that evening for a staff farewell party. One of the teachers, Chimmi, was moving to the secondary school. For the occasion there was beer and wine. Bhutanese who drink (some abstain for Buddhist reasons) like to drink. And they do this thing where when you take just a sip from your cup, someone will immediately fill it up. It’s the everlasting cup of beer and it makes it impossible to know how much you’ve drank; you just know that, as long as there’s beer, you’ll continue to drink. It’s called good hospitality.

Drinking eventually gave way to eating and eating eventually gave way to dancing. There we were, in the staff room of the school, which is used in the daytime for meetings and planning – dancing, dancing hard. After trying to leave once, I finally did around 10 pm (I heard the next day that the party continued till 11). It was my first time walking alone in the dark in Bhutan – in Tanzania, this would have been heavily discouraged. Here, there was no one to tell me anything one way or another. I turned on the torch on my mobile and walked the seven minutes home, past barking dogs, into my driveway and toward the light in the window.

Somewhere

Kanglung is the most bustling place Scott and I have ever lived together. There’s a primary school, a secondary school, a college, a monastic school, and lots of shops. Today when Scott and I were walking around we noticed a lot more activity – students are coming back to college. There are many taxis with young people inside, the tops of vehicles are loaded with boxes, suitcases. Cars are dropping people off with rice cookers, tea kettles. I couldn’t help but reminisce about my first day at Trinity – that feeling of newness, excitement, nerves. Moving my stuff in with my mom, getting help from a student named Oliver when we moved the fridge and TV three flights up. Making a room one’s own. That’s what Scott and I are doing. Making our home our own.

We bought more house stuff – a water boiler, two mats for the floor, a frying pan. I spent the morning organizing more – putting things “away.” I put some pictures up – Wrangell; my mom; Scott, Kevin and I with fish. I spent the rest of the day cooking and then school planning. I’m learning as I go how to be a teacher – an even more real one. Planning because before you know it, I’ll be too busy doing. Scott spent all day in front of the computer. We’re both trying hard.

I love walking outside. The action of leaving the big, cold house – stepping out the front door, closing the screen door behind, and walking out into Bhutan where there’s always someone working, whether it’s on the farm, on a tractor, or someone walking, carrying something heavy. Or else school kids who smile and giggle when I say hi, young men with gelled hair, those boys who roll the thin rubber wheels, older women wearing full kiras chewing doma, small groups of Indian workers, or student monks – people going somewhere.

Overwhelmed

Today I struggled and I think I’ll continue to struggle for some time now, perhaps for the whole school year. Last year I was one of six teaching staff members at a school that just opened in 2008. I created my own responsibilities in a system-less environment. Now I’m one of 17 teaching staff members at a school that’s been around since the 1970s. I’m being given a whole host of responsibilities in a system-packed environment. With 26 periods of English to teach a week (of the 33 possible), a literary program to coordinate, a newspaper club to run, a homeroom to look after, and a house to master, I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed. Maybe this is what I get for pretending to be a real teacher.

Last year I planned as I went, as I learned how to do things, as I got to know the students, as I gained more confidence (I recall times last year when my confidence levels gained and retreated, rose and fell). Right now I’m in a situation where I have to plan a whole year in a few days for students I don’t know, at a school whose rules and procedures I’m completely foreign to.

This is why I think I need to meditate (although, realistically, I don’t think I’ll find the time). Find inner peace, to know that this time of struggle will pass. This period of cold will pass, of seeing my own breath inside the house, of cold knees and the desire to always be drinking something hot. This will pass. As it always does.

Our First Puja

I had one of the most amazing cultural experiences ever and all I can think about is how great it could’ve been as an NPR story – I’m kicking myself for not bringing a recorder. ‘Oh, perhaps next time,’ I tell myself. Everything here is such an amazing journalistic opportunity, but I cannot focus on that. I’m a teacher. That might have been the first time I’ve written those three words with intention. I’ve written ‘teacher’ on the Occupation blank of various immigration and travel document forms, but I’ve never written it for myself. My head can imagine a thousand different stories, articles, radio pieces, but all my energy must go into teaching.

*

Water, ara, powdered milk, and milk fresh from a cow – those are the four things that got poured into my left hand, brought briefly to my lips, and wiped onto the top of my head. Scott and I went to our first puja. I didn’t know what a puja is and barely still do. Tenzin said that Dorji – the vice principal at our school – was having a puja to ward off evil spirits from his house, his life, his family, as well as to wish all the school kids a successful, safe school year. This particular puja lasted for three days – we went on the final day – but Tenzin says thay can last for as long as a month or as short as a day. And they’re done for various reasons – for marriages, births, deaths, a new home.

I was informed of the puja today at school, the first reporting day for teachers. A written notification was passed around to all the teachers explaining the events followed by a list of all our names. If you wanted to attend, you just signed by your name. I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. I just heard “food,” “beer,” “cultural experience,” and “you can invite your husband” (so far, the teachers call Scott either my “husband,” my “friend,” or “sir”). The teachers at my school would go to Dorji’s house as a group and bring a group gift or cookies, crackers, and soda.

Scott and I met Tenzin at the school gate at 4 pm and walked through the college campus to Dorji’s house, which is located in a village below Sherubtse. Along the way, we met up with more of the teachers. Almost all the women who are my co-workers are the wives of Sherubtse lecturers. Once we were all together, we walked passed an angry bull who wouldn’t let us pass him, through terraced fields,

and to Dorji’s traditional village home – the first visit to a local home for Scott and I.

We took off our shoes and entered the house. The first room on the right was quite bare except for the people sitting on the floor against the four walls. We weren’t introduced to them but Tenzin told us later that they were family, close relatives, and neighbors. The teachers filled into two rooms – most of the group in one room where Sarchopkha and Dzongkha were spoken, and Scott, Tenzin, Kazuhiro (the Japanese volunteer at my school), and I in another room where almost only English could be heard. I’m grateful for my principal, Tenzin, for staying with us, for explaining the customs, making conversation, for continuing to be my guide in Kanglung.

At one point I looked behind a curtain – in Bhutan, many doorways, even the ones that have actual doors, are draped with a decorative curtain – and saw a room full of monks chanting prayers, and holding an assortment of traditional instruments. To my surprise, I was gestured to come into the room. I went in and knelt on the floor. Scott followed behind me. It was even okay for me to take pictures. Seven monks lined the wall looking at piles of paper strips containing prayer scripts. As they chanted, they’d turn a page, and every so often, they’d lift their instruments and start to play. There were long horns, a drum, and shorter wind instruments.


Opposite the monks was an altar and a terrific array of pastries, sweets, cookies, bottles of Druk 11,000 (the local beer), money, butter sculptures. Another monk seemed to be arranging the offerings, performing rituals.

An old man who was also sitting and observing coaxed us to enter the room further and sit down. They made room for Scott and I. At times it seemed the monks were watching us as much as we were watching them.

After some time, Scott and I left the room. We could still hear the monks – the rise and fall of their prayers, their pauses. Soon the beer came and while we didn’t know it at the time, that kicked off a lineup of food, blessings, and drink. What came next was a big bowl heaping with local red rice topped with spinach, dried meat, and a piece of fat. We were also given a smaller bowl of cauliflower and meat curry. In the midst of eating, drinking beer, another pot of pumpkin and meat curry was passed around.

Then came the blessings.

First, one monk entered the room with a canister. He poured water into our hands. I knew what to do as we’d been taught it from BCF when we visited other temples during our orientation. You bring the water to your lips, drink some (or pretend to drink some because you’re pretty certain the water hasn’t been boiled for at least five minutes), and then pour the rest over the top of your head. Like I said, I felt ready for that, prepared. What I wasn’t expecting was another monk coming in and pouring another clear liquid into our hands. I assumed it was more water so did the same things as before, but Tenzin said immediately after that it was ara. Then another monk came in with white powder. He poured some in our hands and sprinkled some on each of our heads. The last item that was offered for our hands, mouth, and head was fresh cow milk. For some reason, instead of just pretending to drink some, I actually did. I cannot recall the taste now, but I do know it tasted unlike anything I’ve ever had before. This too was added to the concoction already in my hair. A fifth monk came in and pounded on our backs as we bent forward. The final gift was a heaping plate of the sweets and cookies we had seen in the other room – other items included ground nuts, dried meat, Halls throat drops (these are used like mints here), pieces of fresh cheese and butter, other hard candy, pieces of cooked potatoes, dried fruits. All of this was over a pile of rice. This food had been blessed by a monk and now given to us. Tenzin instructed us to eat what we’d like and to take the rest home. The blessings were for a long life, to live past 100 years. Even though we were massively full for food, beer, and ara cooked with egg, we still picked at our individual plates of sweets. The rest got wrapped in Dorji’s old lesson plans from 2006. The closure of the puja was filled with exclamations of “oh la sol,” proclaimed by the monks each time someone offered money.

By the time Scott, Tenzin, Kazuhiro, and I left Dorji’s house, we were the last guests to depart. We walked in the dark under a crescent moon that peaked out through the night clouds, up the terrace fields, and toward upper market where we all live.