Drop In

I said if I could get through this month, everything would be okay. I spent most of this last day of March in bed. I did it. I called in a sick day, which gets taken off my ten precious casual leave days. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and a terrible stomach – the kind of pain that seizes you for a moment and then releases, only to start its cycle over again. I tried to mentally talk myself into going to school, thought a shower might help, but by 8 am, I was still feeling sick and called my principal. Back to bed it was.

From my bed in my house, which is about a six-minute walk from the school, I could hear the bell better than when I’m in the classroom teaching. The bell to start social work, the bell for morning assembly, the bell for first period. And then I fell asleep, waking up often, maybe because of the bell. Then I heard the lunch bell, a longer continuing bell pounding to signal the release from four consecutive classes. Usually at this time in the workday, I, too, am looking for an escape just as much as the students, maybe more. I laid in bed and felt guilty for missing these class periods, for allowing the students to stall. There was homework due, I had a fun activity planned for my 5A class.

After reading for a bit, I finally pried myself from the bed around 2 pm. The cloudy, drippy morning had turned into a sunny day. I made myself some food and started watching a movie. I was giving into laziness and boredom, allowing myself to be as unproductive as possible. My stomach had long stopped hurting and I wondered if the pains were caused from something I ate or the thought of school itself. Did I sleep so long because of my headache, or because I’m actually depressed and only my body is admitting it? I hate confessing it to anyone except Scott, but teaching in Bhutan is more of a chore than a challenge or reward. The act of doing it is numbing. I try to not let it get to me, affect me. I do not enjoy teaching. Period.

I was vegging out to a mindless movie and around 3:40, the beeping of the doorbell startled me. I was expecting the internet person at 4:30 – maybe he had come early. I ran to the door, opened it, and found five students at my doorstep, two of them from my homeroom class – Sonam and Karma. Both girls have taken a strong liking to me. In the states, they’d be considered teachers’ pets. Here, they are my saviors in the classroom. Without them, I wouldn’t think any of my students were trying.

“What happened, ma’am?” “Are you okay, ma’am?” “We were so worried, ma’am.” It was a mash of words and concern from Sonam and Karma. The class had apparently been scared that something terrible happened. They were worried about me “like a parent worries about their children, ma'am.” I told them I was fine, that it was just my stomach, that I was feeling better and just needed time to rest. What got me weren’t their words, although they were very kind. It was their faces, the looks on their faces when I opened the door – of utter worry and love. And so in the midst of their questions and concerns and my assurances that I was fine, I started to cry. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. A few tears came falling down, and my students, innocently, pointed them out. I must’ve looked like a mess to them. In my pajamas, crying. I tried to get them to leave as quickly and as gently as possible. I thanked them, told them I’d see them tomorrow, closed the door, and cried some more.

20 Hours in Bartsam

Through the clouds of smoke from the forest fire.

After two hours of watching my Singye House students perform social work in the flower garden, I rushed home, packed some stuff in a bag, ate some momos, and Scott and I were headed to lower market to meet up with Scott’s basketball student, Kinga. The three of us were going to Bartsam. It was a warm, sunny day. As we walked down the hill, I loved that feeling of adventure, of escape, of freedom.

Before we even got to lower market, our neighbor Karma, along with four of his six children, pulled over, and asked us where we were going. We said Bartsam. Karma was going to Trashigang, which is on the way to Bartsam, so we hopped in. We picked up Kinga, who Karma knows well, and we were off. Scott sat outside in the bed of Karma’s truck while the rest of us were inside. Karma’s small kids all eventually fell asleep on top of each other, and, being on the edge of carsickness, I wished I could do the same – curl up and let the rumble of the road lull me to sleep.

After passing a long string of forest fires on the other side of the valley, we arrived in Trashigang. We bought some items for Shauna and Julian – fellow BCF teachers who we were visiting in Bartsam – and parked ourselves at an outdoor table. At that point, we knew the fires were causing trouble on the road leading to Bartsam. So we waited. Kinga, who was born and raised in Bartsam, had already arranged a ride for us there with a friend, Kuenzang. We waited at that outdoor table. We waited in Kinga’s aunt’s store. Finally, it was time to go.

Since the feeder road to Bartsam was closed, we had to go the long way – via Rangjung and Bidung. Usually just getting places in this country is the adventure itself, the journey. Scott and I love it. We saw more of the country this way, passing Rangjung and Vicky and Ian – other BCF teachers – who happened to be walking on the road as we drove by, and driving up and up to Bidung to get a brief glimpse into Jean Daniel’s life (yet, another BCF teacher).


On our drive, we saw this group of people having a picnic by the side of the road. One of the men came to the passenger window where Scott was sitting and offered him a drink. We stopped for a few minutes to chat with them.

We – Kinga, Scott, Kuenzang, and I – finally arrived in Bartsam around 6 pm, and we started our 20 hours in Bartsam.

Smoke from the forest fires cast all of Bartsam, including the small town, in a haze. Julian and Shauna met us within two minutes of our arrival and we hugged. Immediately there was a weird divide, a line drawn between Kinga and the rest of us. In hindsight, I realize it must have appeared odd to Kinga that we’d visit Bartsam and have two Canadians who’ve only lived there for two months show us around instead of Kinga, a local Bhutanese born and bred in Bartsam whose family still lives and thrives in Kinga’s original family home. The thing was that more than wanting to tour Bartsam, Scott and I wanted to visit another couple who knows what we’re going through. We wanted to let go of Bhutanese formalities and just relax, talk casually, relate. Alone time with Shauna and Julian had to wait through. Our first stop in Bartsam was Kinga’s family’s house, a 30-minute walk down the mountain to a village called Kumu.

Darkness fell as we followed Kinga’s lead down a rocky path. In front of us we saw sporadic lights glowing from farmhouses. Finally, the light to Kinga’s house was before us. His mother was cooking in a detached kitchen when we arrived. We walked up the staircase and into the main house.

Earlier in Trashigang, Kinga had insisted that we have dinner with his family – “We will laugh, drink ara, and share stories.” He insisted in such a way that we couldn’t say no, a practice that is common in much of Bhutanese culture. We – Scott, Shauna, Julian, and I – were led into a large room which also contained the family’s prayer alter. We sat on mats. Kinga and his brother joined us in the room. Kinga’s mom came in and served us some of her ara, which is apparently known around town as being quite good. Scott, Julian, and Shauna had decided on the ara cooked with butter and egg. After my experience at Rinchen’s house, I opted for the plain ara

Soon, dinner was being served. But instead of a dinner with Kinga’s family, the four of us ate alone while the family served us. Even Kinga didn’t join us. “I ate already,” he said. I replied, “How did you eat already? You’ve been with us the whole time?” Kinga said he had gone into the kitchen and ate. None of his family members were going to eat with us; I don’t think that was ever the plan. His father and mother served us heaping bowls of rice and meat and datse as well as daal and buttermilk. We ate while Kinga and his brother sat and watched us. This was Kinga’s idea of sharing a meal with his family – them serving us. I know it’s part of the Bhutanese way, treating us like honored guests, but it felt awkward. Shauna and Julian said that was what always happens when they are invited to a Bhutanese house for a meal.

After politely stuffing ourselves with too much food, saying “Thank you” a sufficient amount of times, and feeling a bit tipsy from the ara, the four of us walked into the dark night and made it up the steep mountain back to town and to Shauna and Julian’s house. We filled the rest of the evening with similar tales of teaching woes and frustrations, details of weekend adventures, and needed laughs. Even though Scott and I had only known Shauna and Julian for a little more than two weeks during orientation, a friendship seemed to develop in the absence of seeing each other, in the need to have a bond with someone from your culture.

The next day we woke up early, ate breakfast, went on a three-hour hike around Bartsam, ate a small lunch, and were back on the road to Trashigang by 2 pm.

Shauna and Julian's house. Below are views from our walk around Bartsam.



This view would have been a lot better without the lingering haze from the smoke.

A blessing from this temple will keep you safe from snakes.

Je Khempo In Kanglung

Je Khempo coming to Kanglung is not a common occurrence. I finally figured out what the occasion for his visit was. The Khempo of Zengdopelri Temple in Kanglung was moving to the higher temple in Kanglung. When I say ‘higher’ I mean geographically. This high temple could very well be higher in rank, but I only mean that it’s up the mountain from Zengdopelri. When I asked some of my coworkers what the name of the higher temple was, no one seemed to know. Since the Khempo was moving up, a monk at Zengdopelri was being promoted to be Khempo of Zengdopelri. This was the reason for Je Khempo’s important visit and the reason a holiday was declared at school. No classes for the students and the teachers all had to attend a ceremony at the high temple.

Before going to the high temple, a group of the teachers met at Zengdopelri to give offerings and receive a final blessing from the Khempo before he moved on. It was my first time offering a kada, which is a light white scarf. There’s a particular way to fold it in one’s hand so that the kada can be elegantly thrown to the side and offered with two hands as one is bowing. (You also see kadas draped either over or under the pictures of Bhutan’s kings that are hung on walls, as well as in cars, wrapped around the riewview mirror for good luck).

One of the Dzongkha teachers at my school, Lopen Ugyen, pre-folded the scarf for me so all I had to do was hold on to it before making the offering. The teachers of my school each offered a kada to the Khempo in a line, one after another. When it was my turn, I did my scarf throw and bowed my head to the table Khempo was sitting at until my head touched the surface. I don’t remember if I said anything; probably not because I wasn’t sure what to say. But I do remember that Khempo, recognizing that it was me – a foreign teacher from the states – said in perfect English, “Thank you.” After I gave the offering and received that first blessing, I went through the line of three monks everyone before me had gone through. I was first given a piece of blessed doma, then a bunch of blessed strings, and a piece of blessed chewing gum. I put the strings and gum in my bag, and gave the doma to my principal’s wife.

This was my second time inside Zengdopelri Temple, and it was my second time prostrating three times. I just felt the need to go with the rest of the crowd. After doing so, I walked behind the alter to admire the statues of Guru Rimpoche and his wives, then made my exit to collect my shoes.

As always, I’m a flutter of confusion at these types of events. Thankfully, I have a kind staff who make sure I’m included and going the right way. While we were waiting outside the temple for the rest of our staff to gather, a military jeep pulled up to the entrance. I heard some murmuring from a staff member. The person inside the jeep was the Yongphula Rimpoche – Yongphula being the location of an Indian Army Base, hence his arrival in a military vehicle, and Rimpoche being the title given to those who are the reincarnates of Guru Rimpoche and have reached enlightenment. It was Phuntsho who informed me of his identity and stature. The staff members I was standing with started shuffling around. “We are going to get a blessing,” Phuntsho said. “Oh, should I?” I asked. “If you want to,” he answered.

Yongphula Rimpoche emerged from the vehicle and walked through the entrance into the temple grounds. My coworkers all rushed him like a group of young teenage girls rushing the latest boy singing sensation. I had never seen anything like that. They all bent their heads towards the Rimpoche. Even though I quickly followed, I was able to hang a little behind and observe. As Rimpoche was walking into the entrance of the temple, his face wore a serious expectant expression, that he was about to enter a ceremony, but as he saw the small rush of people to his side, his face broke into a smile, a tender smile, like they were his children. He touched all the heads, including mine – my second blessing of the day.

As we walked to the high temple, Phuntsho explained that Yongphula Rimpoche has reached his status because he has gone into the woods to meditate for three years, three months, three weeks, three day, and so on, and has then gone to meditate for some time in a cremation ground. I have found that people here tend to be pretty afraid of ghosts. The fact that someone would spend day after day, night after night in a cremation ground is really impressive. This shows that the person is able to tame and subjugate the demons as Guru Rimpoche did. Their main diet while doing this is buckwheat flour. (For anyone who sees mistakes in my telling of this, please let me know. I’m usually pretty confused when Bhutanese explain these cultural and religious aspects to me and I tend to mix up details, but I try the best I can in recalling them).

When we reached the high temple, everyone else was already ready for Je Khempo’s arrival. The monks all stood in line and the lay people stood shoulder to shoulder behind them. There were even some monks standing on the roof of the building ready to play their instruments for Je Khempo’s grand entrance.


Soon, an entourage of cars drove up to the temple, including the Toyota with curtains in the windows and a license plate that says BHUTAN. Je Khempo, donned in sunglasses, emerged from his car and led the procession into the grounds.

We all filed into and filled a small field of green. There were some tents set up but, in the beginning of the ceremony, almost everyone sat on the grass in the hot morning sun. There were a series of speeches and words, which I, of course, didn’t understand. There was sitting and standing and prostrating and I just went with the flow of believers. Prostrating in a crowd isn’t the most comfortable thing because unless everyone is in sync, there is likely to be the colliding of heads and butts. From what I could tell, I was the only foreigner, although I dressed the part of local in National Dress and rachu over my shoulders. There were individuals standing on the fringe of the gathering taking pictures or videoing. I recognized one or two as being from a newspaper. I wished I could be on that side of things, looking in from the outside, taking pictures and recording observations.

At different times, monks handed out fruit, sweet rice, and hot tea. Since I and most everyone else around me didn’t come prepared with any sort of container, the rice was served into our hand. For the tea, thin plastic cups were given out. Next came the crisp five ngultrum bill. My co worker, Tashi, told me not to spend it, but rather save it, and it shall multiply. Then came small pieces of chocolate and a fruit juice box.

At one point, I was given a small pile of dried colored rice and dried flower petals. Kinzang told me that the flowers are rare, found only in the woods. This mix was meant for throwing, a ritual for keeping away of bad spirits and bad luck. There were some words said followed by some throwing, and then repeated several times. I watched as dried flower petals stuck to the back of my principal who was sitting in front of me, and felt dried rice in my hair.

The ceremony continued as we sat. My physical participation in it had come to an end and mostly I just sat there, worried about getting burned in the sun, and sometimes talked to Kinzang. More and more people showed up. College students arrived with schoolbooks in their arms. Soon it was a sea of heads.

Monks carried bags made of colorful silk filled with offerings and set them in front of Je Khempo.

Yongphula Rimpoche, who had blessed some of my teachers and myself earlier, sat on the main stage with Je Khempo.

The dignitaries in the crowd had been invited to sit in chairs under the tent away from the sun. My coworkers and I also moved to seats under a different tent to prepare ourselves for hours of singing and dance performances. Most of the songs and dances were performed by college students, some by a group of men which included my principal. Apparently, my fellow teachers and I should’ve had something prepared, but we hadn’t known. Some wanted us to perform anyway, and I was glad when that didn’t happen. The monks sat in a group of the side also watching the show.

When the group of men danced and sang, some of them wore traditional boots. They are custom made and are usually worn by ministers and dashos and other people of rank.


Around 12:30, someone came around and announced lunch was being served. I hadn’t known a meal was involved in the ceremony. Performances were still going on, but we got up and walked to the food tent. Other people had already started eating. It’s amazing. The monks cook and feed everyone who’s there. The spread of dishes was impressive. It was probably the best meal I’ve had in Kanglung.


I ate in a circle with some of my female coworkers. There was some talking but mostly there was eating; we were all ravenous. Monks came around with large containers of food for anyone who wanted more. At first, I tried eating without a utensil as most locals do, but I couldn’t make it last. A monk found a spoon for me.

When my group was done eating, they were all leaving and I started to leave with them. They told me that lunch was usually the final act, but this particular ceremony was going on a little longer; it would soon end. I changed my mind about leaving and returned back to the performances. A group of people, including the governor of Trashigang and my principal, were dancing and singing in a circle. Most everyone had left, including the masses of college students. The dancers remained and some stranglers in chairs under tents and sitting on the ground. I watched as monks got ready for Je Khempo’s exit.

We stood in a line shoulder to shoulder, as we had for his entrance, and watched Je Khempo leave.

Three Years, Three Months, Three Weeks…

Just when I think life in Bhutan is nothing more than the daily humdrum of school life, something culturally exciting happens and I get jarred awake, remembering exactly where it is I am. I am in Bhutan – a place where customs are adhered to so strictly and beliefs so respected that a whole day of classes will get cancelled for the arrival of an important religious figure. That’s the thing about this country, no matter what, they remember what’s important to them, what’s always been important to them.

After my first literary event was complete (successfully) at the end of the school day, all the students and teachers lined the curvy roadside outside the school in anticipation of Je Khempo’s arrival – the Khempo, the head person in charge of all the religious institutions in Bhutan. Two students brought me a rachu to wear, since I hadn’t brought one to school with me, and I waited eagerly, too. Rinchen told me that Je Khempo would be driving through and blessing all of us. “Driving, and not walking?” I asked. Yes, driving – a drive-by blessing.


We waited for some time and soon someone got a call which was passed down to others that Je Khempo was below Yongphula, about 20 minutes away. We sat on the ground on the side of the road and chatted as some younger boys got restless and played and kicked up some dust and Rinchen gave them a scolding. Big branches of pine trees were being cut down to burn; apparently there’s a certain kind of pine that’s good luck religiously to burn. We listened to the crackle of branches breaking and falling and students lugged them to the front of the line. Soon, large plumes of smoke invaded the air and the smell of burning pine wafted through.

Soon, the students and other teachers started standing and up the hill we saw the flashing lights of a police escort vehicle, two of them, and in between them was a dark Land Cruiser. Rinchen said, “He’s in that one,” and even from a distance, I could see the curtains lining the car window. A long line of Toyota Hiluxes followed the second police car, completing the usual entourage of Toyota vehicles standard for very important people in Bhutan. As the vehicle approached the beginning of the line, Rinchen gave me a quick tutorial on what I should do. Since I had a rachu draped around my neck (as opposed to folded on one shoulder as it is when I go to a dzong), I should bring both ends together, bring the ends to cover my mouth, and bow my head. Everyone else not wearing a rachu or kabney either just covered their mouth with a hand or brought the arm cuff of either their gho or teogo and cupped it around their mouth. Je Khempo’s vehicle gradually approached and I saw what was happening – as his car drove slowly by, two policemen walked next to the passenger window as Je Khempo gently touched every single head that was bowed with a decorated stick. Someone sitting in the back was leaning out the window holding a yellow umbrella to shade Je Khempo.

So that’s how I got blessed by one of the holiest living figures in Bhutan. After Je Khempo had passed our entire school line, everyone started breaking up, collecting their bags, and going in various directions. There was a certain buzz in the air. After all, there are no classes tomorrow, an unexpected day off for the students. This morning the principal declared tomorrow a holiday. I liken it to when we were younger and had snow days off from school; there was this certain overwhelming happiness. But the teachers are expected to be at Zengdopelri Lakhang (temple) at 8:30 am for some very important ceremony, which is why Je Khempo is here at all. While I’m not really sure what will be going on at the temple tomorrow, I do expect chanting and long horns and offerings.

As I walked home, I stopped by the small shop across our driveway and started talking to the storeowners who are neighbors of mine. They had stood by the street as well and gotten blessed. That’s when I found out. Getting blessed by Je Khempo means nothing bad will happen to me for three years, three months, three weeks, three days, three hours, three minutes, and three seconds.

The River

After a morning of chores and work, Scott and I left the house around noon for a well needed walk. Upon my urging, we went down. I’ve always wanted to walk among the terraces I see below us everyday. For some reason, it seems like a different world – below the road. We ended up finding a great network of newly made farm roads that gradually kept going down. I loved it. Beside us were forests of dried leaves and craggly trees. It was exactly the walk I wanted. We passed farmhouses and old stone chortens and prayer wheels in progress. We didn’t pass that many people, which makes sense since we were away from town. But we did see and hear signs of life – people doing laundry, a radio being played, noises from inside houses. We saw spots where we wouldn’t mind living. And soon we saw the river. We were still another hour and a half, two hour hike down from it, but we still could see it and that felt great. On the way back, we passed through terraces instead of the road, through footpaths and worn down ways, passed the old stone chortens and prayers wheels in progress, and back to Kanglung.

Ara and Bhutan Star (or A Friend in Bhutan)

Ever since I started working at Kanglung Primary School, I’ve felt pretty lucky with the staff of teachers I’ve ended up with. From day one, I’ve always had someone to ask a question to. Dechen was my first savior, answering question after question during my first days of work. She is extremely kind, smart, assertive, and still brings me a bunch of vegetables almost every week from her garden – usually spinach, although last time it was celery greens (In Bhutan, people eat the leaves of celery versus the stalk. When Dechen presented me the greens, I explained how it’s the other way in America. That night she tried eating the stalks and said she enjoyed it).

Over a week after work started but before classes started, we got a few new teachers who had transferred from other towns. Teachers in this country are constantly being transferred; actually all government workers, which teachers are, are being transferred all the time. One of the new teachers was Rinchen. To Scott, I started nicknaming her ‘the giver.’ In the early days of our friendship, she was always giving me stuff – gum, buying me momos from the college canteen, a new pen, chocolate. Rinchen is younger than I am and has recently married the person she had been dating for nine years. They don’t have any children, which is rare for married couples in Bhutan. As an employee for Bhutan Power Corporation (BPC), her husband is always away. In fact, she says the longest they’ve been together is three weeks. But, she says, they are happy and the distance only makes their time together all the more joyful. I actually believe her.

Rinchen has become one of the only other teachers I converse with on an almost daily basis, although that’s not saying much. She teaches class one and I teach classes five and six, so our paths almost never cross. Our conversations are limited to the mornings in the staff office when I ask her how she’s doing, about when her husband is coming back, how her class is.

Last Thursday, Rinchen asked me what I was doing for the weekend. When I said, “Nothing,” she replied, “Well then, you should come over to my place.” Other teachers have extended general invites to me to come over for tea, but this was the first direct invite I’ve received. I felt, well, flattered. Rinchen’s husband had actually just gotten back into town, so I asked, “Are you sure you want me to come over? Don’t you want alone time with your husband?” Rinchen answered, “No. He’ll like it if you come over.”

At the end of the half-day school day on Saturday, I told Rinchen I’d wonder up to her place sometime after lunch. Afterall, I didn’t want to impose myself when she was eating a meal. She lives about two kilometers up the hill from where Scott and I live, so it took me about an hour to walk to her place from lower market where I had met Scott and some friends for lunch. It was a drizzly day. I walked with my raincoat on and carried a plastic bag with sugar crackers inside and a package of Indian desserts that I know Rinchen likes. When going over to a Bhutanese person’s house, it is customary to bring something.

After a small girl showed me the way to Rinchen’s apartment in the BPC complex, I knocked and the door opened. I walked into a small living room where five people, including Rinchen, were sitting on the floor with a spread of food in front of them. Their gazes were fixed on the TV, which was playing the live semi-finals for Bhutan Star. The room also had a couch, upon which a man was sitting, two chairs, and two coffee tables. Rinchen stood, welcomed me in, graciously accepted my house gifts with, “You are turning into a Bhutanese,” inquired, “Where’s sir?” and had me sit in one of chairs as her cousin fetched me a bowl. It was past 4 pm. Rinchen explained that she had come home from work late which caused her to start cooking lunch late. She insisted I join them. Even though I had just eaten a huge lunch in town, I had to accept; it’s near impossible to say no to a Bhutanese offering you something. The other people in the room were her two small nieces who live with her so they can go to a good school, Rinchen’s friend who was also visiting, a female cousin who doesn’t go to school and helps out around the house, and Rinchen’s husband who was on the couch.

I took off my raincoat, cozied myself into an arm chair, and mentally prepared myself for a second lunch. As we ate, we all watched Bhutan Stay together. At least half the country, if not much, much more, was doing the same thing – everyone unified by the magic of singing well enough to win a car.

Not knowing the semi-finals of Bhutan Star was on TV that day, I had envisioned a different scene. I thought Rinchen, her husband, and I would sit around a table chatting and drinking ara. Instead, there was no real chatter except for the occasional question I asked about Bhutan Star. We sat like that for a while. Although it wasn’t my ideal way to spend part of a Saturday afternoon, I accepted it for what it was – just another cultural experience, the culture of the Bhutanese home. While almost every Bhutanese home has a prayer room, the house will also likely contain a TV.

When Bhutan Star ended – the finals would air the following day – a children’s program started. The eating was done (I was able to get away with just one serving), the dishes were cleared, the eating mat was rolled up and put away, and Rinchen had migrated to the couch next to her husband. It was then we got to chat a little bit before Rinchen got up to prepare some ara, a customary practice when guests come over for a visit. The only ones drinking were Rinchen’s husband and myself. Rinchen’s friend wasn’t having any and Rinchen doesn’t drink.

Rinchen and her friend escaped into the kitchen but not before grabbing two eggs from the refrigerator, which meant the ara would be cooked the special way, how it’s presented to special guests. I’d like to say I was honored, but ara for special people often makes me want to gag. Ara is akin to sake, a white alcohol made from either rice or maize. Specially prepared, the ara is boiled with butter and then an egg is dropped in, stirred cooked. I’ve seen one egg used for several people. Usually, when the butter ara is served, the egg doesn’t appear until the end when you see strains of it floating around. Rinchen and her friend used two eggs for two people. The result was a bowl of yellow ara with an unusually large amount of egg sticking out the top – one bowl for Rinchen’s husband, one bowl for me.

My already full stomach was trying to negotiate how I was going to get this bowl of liquid and it’s contents down. I drank the ara as smoothly as possible, doing what I considered a good job of not letting it show that it was pretty unpleasant to me. Then came the inevitable. The egg was staring me down. Usually, people drink the small swirls of egg by swiping their finger into the cup to make sure everything gets out. But this egg was going to take a lot more than a mere swipe of a finger. I watched as Rinchen’s husband ate the egg from his bowl with spoon – large spoonfuls of egg into his mouth, gone. When it was my time, someone brought me a spoon. The egg looked just like how it would in the morning – scrambled. So that’s what I tried to tell myself, that it would taste just like yummy scrambled eggs. I dipped my spoon in, scooped the smallest portion, and ate it. As one might expect, it didn’t taste like scrambled egg – it tasted like ara-drenched egg. I wanted nothing more to do with it. But there was so much left. Somehow, the ara had transformed the egg into two. Rinchen and her husband could probably read my face; I couldn’t be as smooth as I had been with the butter ara. Rinchen said, “Just leave it if you didn’t like it.” I tried taking a couple more itty-bitty bites, in hopes that my taste buds would get used to it, but it wasn’t happening. Each bite got worse and worse. At one point, I tried to offer it to the husband, but he said he was completely full from his portion. He said I could leave it as well. When I expressed my discomfort with wasting food, Rinchen said her husband always wasted food so I shouldn’t worry. Usually such an argument wouldn’t work on me, but this time it did. Waste I would. Happily. I was off the hook.

As early evening approached, I made my exit; I wanted to walk home while there was still some light. Rinchen sent me off with a small bottle of unbuttered, un-egged ara for “sir” and cubes of dried yak cheese saying, “You arrived with so much and now I’m sending you home with so little.” I assured her that what she was giving was more than generous. She walked me to the road, we talked of future get-togethers, and we said our goodbyes. The taste of eggy ara was long gone from my mouth, and what remained was a pleasant taste of a great afternoon spent with my friend Rinchen.

Rinchen and her husband

Sick

Today I was blessed by the Good Teaching Fairy. For some reason, things just clicked today. The students were engaged, they were participating, I made them laugh. In short, I don’t know what happened. It might have something to do with being delirious.

For the past some odd years, including my year in Africa, I’ve boasted a healthy immune system, a sickles track record. It all came crashing down Monday afternoon. I’ve been struck by something. All the students seem to have tinges of it. Everyone is coughing, everyone has a runny nose. In fact, I’m quite amazed at how far down snot can drip before a kid snorts it back up into his or her nose. It’s disgusting and entertaining. So I should’ve stayed home Tuesday or Wednesday or today, but I refuse to use any of my ten ‘casual leave’ days for actual sickness. No, I will save it for a cool trip Scott and I will take sometime this year. And I can’t stay home tomorrow because it’s the first English literary event of the year, which I’m running.

Anyway, whatever it was, it was nice. My teaching, the students absorbing. If only everyday could be a good teaching day. Huh, I wonder if some teachers have that.

Lucky Number 7

Gom Kora

That’s the number of vehicles it took to get from Kanglung to Gom Kora and back to Kanglung, with the assistance of our legs. Scott and I have taken to hitchhiking as it’s a cheap (as well as safe) way to get around.

View of the road to Rangshikhar from our walk before we first got picked up.

On the way to Gom Kora, we met Sonam in his Hyundai, who picked us up after we’d been walking for around 40 minutes. We had already attempted flagging down rides to no luck and there just wasn’t that much traffic going our way. So when Sonam slowed down his empty inviting car, we were excited. Sonam appeared to be in his late-30s, was confident, friendly, and successful with a degree in engineering. He is in the private construction sector and seems to be doing quite well building farm roads. Sonam was on the road because he went to a project in Trashiyangste, had just been visiting his sister at Sherubtse College where she’s a student, and was heading back home to Luentse, a place he raved about and excitedly invited us to. Since he was going west and we were heading north, Sonam drove us past the immigration gate (which he somehow got us through without any problems; to go into Trashiyangste, Scott and I would normally need a road permit), over the bridge, and that’s where we parted. From the bridge, Sonam headed left towards Mongar where he’d continue on to Luentse. On foot, we went right on a road we hadn’t traveled on before.

We only had to walk less than ten minutes before another car stopped for us; we didn’t even have to flag it down. This car was smaller than Sonam’s and quite full. Besides the driver, there was a passenger, and a woman in the back carrying a small, sleeping child. When Scott and I piled in, it was a tight squeeze but doable. This car was headed right to Gom Kora.

We rode the twelve kilometers, passing the border to Trashiyangtse, and along the river. After the usually twists and turns of the road, we finally arrived at our destination – Gom Kora, the meditation spot for Guru Rinpoche, a Bhutanese God. Along with a picturesque temple, a ground of tents being set up and some already selling things, and a courtyard, there was also a huge rock, on the top of which Guru Rinpoche used to sit. Supposedly if you climb to the top, you can see heaven.

While the festival had officially started, the real festivities had yet to begin. There were groups of men and women rehearsing dances, elder pilgrims gathered together under a tent, monks going every which way, and people circling the prayer wheels and the big rock. The blue tarp shopping tents were filled with anything from momos and drying meat to cheap oriental rugs and kiras, from kitchen dishes to portraits of the king. The majority of the shopping tents had yet to set up. There was an intense buzz of preparation. Some people had arrived, but not nearly all. Almost everyone we talked to asked if we’d be there on Tuesday, the festival’s highlight day. While we said we’d try, realistically Scott and I know that getting back to Gom Kora during the work week will be near impossible. We met people who’d traveled from as far as Thimphu. The majority of the attendees pitch sleeping tents on or around the festival grounds and stay as long as four to five nights.


It being a gorgeous, sunny, clear day, Scott and I headed towards the river, our first opportunity to be so close to one. The bank of the river was crowded with large, smooth boulders and rocks, sand, and bathing monks. We relaxed on one particularly nice rock and on either side of us were groups of monks de-robing and throwing themselves into the river with only their underwear on. They were far enough away to allow some sense of privacy, but we’d still see large swaths of dark red and maroon being taken off and put on. Some of the monks would sprawl on the rocks, drying themselves in the warm sun. For other people as well, the river served as a bathing pool with people soaping up and rinsing off. Scott and I sat for a while by the river soaking in the sun and sounds of the flowing river.


We then walked around the festival grounds constantly remarking on how fun it would be once the crowds arrived and the actual festivities, like dancing, started. We also visited the temple which was in the midst of conducting a puja. There were monks chanting, drums, horns, warbling, and raw rice, lentils, and corn being thrown at the alter. We met Tshewang, the principal of a monk institute in Punakha. He was gracious, welcoming, and articulate in multiple languages including Chinese and French, as well as the customary five or six languages almost every Bhutanese knows. He helped explain must of what was going on, answered other questions we had, and warmly invited up to visit him in Punakha.

The day had worn and late afternoon had set in, so we decided to leave the festival; we knew we had a long journey back home. We walked for less than twenty minutes before a truck slowed down for us. We jumped in the back where two boys were already standing, sat down in the bed of a clean truck, and enjoyed our first open air ride in Bhutan. It was going quite well – the sun was still shining, the views even more spectacular without any obstruction, I wasn’t feeling nauseous – but then the truck stopped at a nearby shop, so we hopped out and were back on our feet.

It wasn’t too long until another truck stopped for us. The driver was someone Scott and I recognized from the festival due to his t-shirt that read, ‘I’m a cop. Trust me.’ We hopped in the back again and within seconds I regretted it. The driver was younger and even his friend sitting inside in the passenger seat was holding on to a handle in front of him. With my arms extended on either side of me, my hands clenched the sides of the truck as we sped forward. At first, Scott seemed unfazed – after all he grew up in Wyoming where riding in the back of trucks was a normal occurrence – but when our driver passed the vehicle in front of us, Scott seemed a bit unsettled. I lost a year of my life on that ride, but all was fine as we pulled onto the side of the road before the bridge and immigration checkpoint back into Trashigang District.

We crossed the bridge on foot and walked up the mountain for some time. We saw clouds in the distance and we wondered how our laundry was fairing on the clothesline back home. Our hitchhiking luck wasn’t as smooth going the direction towards home. Still, a small red car pulled over for us – a father, two daughters, and a sleeping baby. The baby moved to the front and Scott and I squished in the back. The family had also gone to Gomkora and were on their way back home to Trashigang. The daughter in the back seat with us, Tema, was in secondary school and practiced her skilled English with us. She even took my number and gave me hers. At the turn off to Trashigand, we said goodbye and thank you to the nice family and resumed our relationship with the pavement.

The next ride proved the hardest to get. Many cars passed us by. There were other hitchers on the road. Eventually, a white Hilux was approaching us with seemingly plenty of room for two more. I made the appropriate gesture and the driver at first gave me the “I’m full” hand twist, but then he saw Scott’s white face and pulled over. I was right. The large white truck only held a husband, a wife, and their class six daughter in the back. We slid into the black leather seats and continued toward Kanglung. After a few minutes of talking, the family figured out that Scott was a lecturer (this seemed to really impress the wife), I taught at the primary school, and that we had recently moved to Kanglung from America. We learned that the family is from Rongthong, a village still 7 kilometers from Kanglung, and had just come from a puja in Radi. When we asked what work they were in, the husband said, “We’re famers,” and both him and the wife turned to look at each other and laughed. The man’s real name escapes me now as he insisted we call him by his nickname, “Country Boy.” Country Boy even liked American country music and commented on the band Alabama after confessing he didn’t know where Wyoming was. When we pulled into their driveway, we realized that they lived in the one of the most picturesque homes in Bhutan complete with a chorten, a house we’d noticed many times before on drives to and from Trashigang. Scott and I jumped out of the truck and said our goodbyes. Country Boy gave us his number and said we should visit his family on a Saturday. He said, “If you have any trouble reaching me, just ask people for Country Boy,” as he pointed to letters on his truck that spelled out just that – Country Boy. We left the picturesque home and the family from Rongthong and walked into an even greyer evening.

Six hitches in, we wondered if our luck had run out, if we’d be left to walk the remaining 7 kilometers home. Well, as the drizzle began and darkness fell, a car stopped for us and we jumped right in – lucky number seven. It was a Sherubtse student and his brother who was in the health field traveling around the country doing some kind of research. We happily got in the back seat and Scott did most of the talking as I dozed off intermittently. Scott relayed our escapades of the day and even when we got to lower market where the brothers needed to be, they continued, despite our refusals, to drive to upper market to bring us home. “It’s raining,” they said. They dropped us off right at our driveway. We thanked them very much and walked the last remaining meters to our front door.


By the river

The multitude of shopping tents

The rock to heaven