Kuzoo Zangpo La
I love being new to town. Everyone is curious about Scott and I, asking where we’re from, where our quarters in Kanglung are, how long we’ll stay. While Scott was having meetings at Sherubtse, I went to a few general shops today – every shop here is “general” – to pick up some house items and food. I met our landlord’s son who runs their family-owned shop. His name is also Tenzin. As others already have, he apologized for Kanglung’s smallness, its underdeveloped-ness. Tenzin said, “You have to do things yourself. In America, doesn’t everything get done by machines?” Scott and I keep having to tell people that we like the quiet, the quaintness, that compared to where we lived last year, Kanglung has a lot to offer. Even this morning, Tenzin (my principal) was trying to push a TV on us, saying we can pick up a basic one in Trashigang.
In one shop in upper market, the young daughter of the family is often running the store, keeping track in her head the various prices of produce per weights – 250 grams of chilies, 1 kilogram of potatoes, 500 grams of green beans, a bunch of green onions. The shop is set up so that you can either go inside and feel as if you’re in the way or to stand outside and do business through the window. This time I opted to stay outside while an older woman went inside. I said, “Kuzoo zangpo la,” the appropriate greeting that works at all times of the day. The older woman smiled big and replied, “Kuzoo zangpo,” an appropriate reply greeting as I’m younger than she is. Since that’s about all I know in Dzongkha, I tuned out and resumed to my grocery gazing. The woman, though, unbeknownst to me at the time, kept talking. I didn’t realize what was going on until I heard and saw the young shop girl laughing hard. She said something to the woman and I knew – the woman thought I was Bhutanese. The girl confirmed my notion and all three of us had a laugh together, the older woman’s open mouth exposing the red leftovers of doma. It’s not the first and it’ll certainly not be the last time I get confused for a Bhutanese.
In one shop in upper market, the young daughter of the family is often running the store, keeping track in her head the various prices of produce per weights – 250 grams of chilies, 1 kilogram of potatoes, 500 grams of green beans, a bunch of green onions. The shop is set up so that you can either go inside and feel as if you’re in the way or to stand outside and do business through the window. This time I opted to stay outside while an older woman went inside. I said, “Kuzoo zangpo la,” the appropriate greeting that works at all times of the day. The older woman smiled big and replied, “Kuzoo zangpo,” an appropriate reply greeting as I’m younger than she is. Since that’s about all I know in Dzongkha, I tuned out and resumed to my grocery gazing. The woman, though, unbeknownst to me at the time, kept talking. I didn’t realize what was going on until I heard and saw the young shop girl laughing hard. She said something to the woman and I knew – the woman thought I was Bhutanese. The girl confirmed my notion and all three of us had a laugh together, the older woman’s open mouth exposing the red leftovers of doma. It’s not the first and it’ll certainly not be the last time I get confused for a Bhutanese.
posted by Siapiau | 9:40 PM
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