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.