Bhutanese Baby Shower
Just this past weekend Samir, one of Scott’s lecturer friends who’s from California, was raving about chungey, a thick drink of fermented millet and rice traditionally served during Bhutanese baby showers. Thus far, I haven’t been that impressed with Bhutan’s alcoholic choices – Druk 11,000, the major beer; ara, a clear alcohol made locally in villages; and Bhutan Highland, a whiskey. Hearing about Samir’s fondness for a drink I hadn’t tried yet was encouraging. So you can imagine my surprise and excitement when I saw the notice this morning at school regarding the staff attending a baby shower of a teacher who had just come back from medical leave, a teacher I hadn’t yet met. Attending the baby shower meant canceling dance practice with some of my students, which I was a bit disappointed about, but I’ve gotten the sense that it’s faux pas not to attend these functions unless you have a really good excuse, like being sick. Plus, it was a chance to try chungey.
I also don’t mind attending this type of event as it’s another slice of Bhutanese life, a window into their customs. I had an idea of what would happen – tea, puffed rice, and biscuits would be served; the teachers would all talk amongst ourselves; we’d see the baby; the end.
After classes ended, all the teachers gathered at the school gate and, by foot or by car, we all made our way up the hill to the new mother’s house. Once we had regrouped, we entered the home. The majority of our crowd seated ourselves in the living room before the women decided to split of into the prayer room – “I like sitting on the floor better,” was Madam Kinzang’s reasoning – so our group became segregated by gender. This is typical. Six of us women were seated on small rugs on the floor while a couple of our female co-workers as well as the new mother served us tea and bowls of puffed rice and biscuits. As stated before, all of this was expected. Talking ensued. Usually I fade away into my own thoughts as most of the conversation is in Dzongkha and Sarchop, but this afternoon I was in the mood to make an effort. I asked questions, and while I, of course, allowed room for languages I didn’t understand, I asserted myself and English as much as I could. No one seemed to mind. I became part of the laughter, which felt good and refreshing.
After the tea was drunk, the mugs were collected and small bowls of savory snacks appeaed. A bottle of white wine and a big jug of ara were presented, and being one of only two women in the room who drinks at all, I was asked my preference. While the wine looked appetizing, I asked Madam Kesang what she was drinking – beer – so beer it was. Four big bottles were brought in for the two of us to consume.
Before we started drinking though, the women went to view the baby. The joint staff gift wrapped in red cellophane paper was brought in as well as a white scarf – the same kind of scarf that I offered to the Khenpo at Zangdopelri, the same white scarf that’s hung by photographs of Bhutan’s kings. We entered the room and the quiet, awake baby was in her mother’s arms snuggled in warm blankets.
Madam Kinzang draped the white scarf over the baby’s head and wrapped it around her body offering blessings of good health and a long life. She also laid an orange envelope of money on the baby as well. The rest of us “ooh”ed and “aah”ed and soon we were back in the prayer room eating savory snacks and Madam Kesang and I were drinking Druk 11,000.
It was at this point that a tray of small bowls was brought into our room. The bowls were filled with thick brown liquid with chunks of fried egg floating around – it was the chungey.
My excitement at seeing the famed drink died within seconds as I was handed my very own bowl and took a whiff. My nostrils led me to believe that chungey was not going to be drink of choice, and my nostrils were right. I took one sip and had to feign not wanting to vomit. “How do you like it, ma’am?” my fellow teachers asked. They knew I had been wanting to try the chungey. “It’s… interesting,” was all I could possibly say.
I could only take about five small sips of the chungey before giving up. When I asked whether it was okay to leave the rest, I was told that it was, indeed, okay. Other co-workers’ bowls were left half full as well. The beer, on the other hand, was not okay to leave. If a bottle was open, it had to be finished. Remember, only Madam Kesang and I were drinking. Everyone else, since they weren’t drinking, was told they could get their dinner. Dinner! Dinner for fifteen guests!
At baby showers, the hosts – the mother and her husband and whatever help they can finagle – are required to serve dinner to their guests on top of tea, drinks, snacks, and chungay. Can you imagine? A mother comes home after just giving birth and is bombarded for up to a month with visitors and guests who she must prepare food and drink for and serve. I was told that in the west, the tradition is even more strenuous. Guests come with bamboo containers of raw rice and must leave with the containers filled with cooked rice, eggs, and meat. To my western point of view, the whole system of a Bhutanese baby shower sounds like way too much work at a time when not much energy can be spared. The worst is that our group hardly saw the mother at all, and I think that’s normal. It’s not like she ever sat down with us, drank tea, ate snacks, or joined in the laughter. She was only in and out of the room a few times, and that was to serve us.
As others filed out of the room and came back with bowls heaping with rice and other Bhutanese delicacies, Madam Kesang and I were drinking beer, with the emphasis on me. I kept asking, “So I have to finish this beer?” Usually, Bhutanese are so polite and accommodating, they will cater to any need or desire. This time, there was no getting out of it – “Yes, you must finish the bottle. And don’t forget, there’s this other open bottle as well.” The whole scene was laughable, especially since I was partly drunk.
As may not be ordinary at other baby showers, the topic of abortion and – later – protection came up. I was the cause of such a topic to be brought up. I occurred to me that I knew nothing of the issue in this Himalayan country. Madam Kinzang who was sitting next to me told me she had a friend in teachers college who had had three abortions illegally, since that’s, as I was told by my co-workers, the only way to do it. She went to Phuntsholing, a border town in the southwest, and had the procedures down in India. One of the times was after the “abortion pill” didn’t work. Although Madam Kinzang herself is against the idea of abortion – many Bhutanese are, due to the Buddhist ideology of not killing – she supported her friend. It wasn’t the right time for her friend, she said. Also, having an abortion and making it public in any way is the cause of shame, especially for the families involved.
The idea of waiting and the notion of family planning seem to always amaze my female co-workers. They see Scott and I and wonder what we’re doing. I tell them we’ve been together for four years but are not married, and they say, “So if you find that you don’t like each other, then you’ll just split, just like that?” While I say I hope that never happens, that is about right. “And you use protection?” I’ve been asked. When I talk about the pill, they are shocked – “I could never remember to take a pill everyday,” some have told me.
“We do things differently here,” I’ve been told. “We meet someone, move in together, and start having children. Too fast.” In many instances, “marriage” in Bhutan means a man and woman living together presumably with children or trying to have them; it does not always mean an actual marriage certificate or a ceremony. One of my co-workers, Dechen, who has three boys, said the only reason her and her husband got a marriage certificate was to ensure that Dechen was able to accompany her husband to Australia when he pursued his Masters.
I learned about the concept of marriage in Bhutan early on in my stay in Kanglung, mainly because Scott and I are not married and that’s perplexing to most Bhutanese. In their eyes, we are married, only we don’t have kids. But the information about abortion was new to me. I explained to my co-workers at the baby shower that, in the states, abortion is a divisive issue throughout the country, especially on the political level. I asked if abortion was openly talked about in Bhutan, whether it was written about in the papers or talked about by politicians. “It’s not right now,” said Madam Kesang, “but soon it will be. In the papers now, you read about babies being abandoned on the street.”
After most of my coworkers, the women and the men, had finished their dinner, Madam Kesang and I still hadn’t even started. Soon, everyone who had eaten, left. I felt bad keeping the hosts but Madam Kesang insisted it was okay. She is very good friends with them. So we finally got our dinner after finishing the opened beers and the husband joined us. The wife still didn’t sit down. Instead she walked back and forth between the food and the baby, picking at the food with her fingers. When we sat down in the living room to start eating, the husband, who’s a Dzongkha lecturer at Sherubtse, asked if I wanted to marry Scott. Even the men wonder what we’re doing.
Close to when we were done eating, there was a knock at the door. A high-ranking monk walked in – you can tell a high-ranking monk by the fact that he’s wearing yellow in the folds of his robe – and sat with us. He was the head monk in the Trashigang Dzong and a friend of the husband’s. This got the mother moving around again, fetching tea and biscuits. Madam Kesang and I brought our dishes to the kitchen and finally left the baby shower.
We walked into the Kanglung night. We were right next to the college dorms and I saw male college students walking together with kabneys hung over their shoulder – it was time for their evening prayer. On our way, one of Madam Kesang’s boys ran from a lit doorway and joined us. “My kids can smell me,” she said.
*
My coworkers: Madame Kinzang, Madam Rinchen, Madam Karma, Madam Tshering, Madam Kesang, and Madam Pema.
I also don’t mind attending this type of event as it’s another slice of Bhutanese life, a window into their customs. I had an idea of what would happen – tea, puffed rice, and biscuits would be served; the teachers would all talk amongst ourselves; we’d see the baby; the end.
After classes ended, all the teachers gathered at the school gate and, by foot or by car, we all made our way up the hill to the new mother’s house. Once we had regrouped, we entered the home. The majority of our crowd seated ourselves in the living room before the women decided to split of into the prayer room – “I like sitting on the floor better,” was Madam Kinzang’s reasoning – so our group became segregated by gender. This is typical. Six of us women were seated on small rugs on the floor while a couple of our female co-workers as well as the new mother served us tea and bowls of puffed rice and biscuits. As stated before, all of this was expected. Talking ensued. Usually I fade away into my own thoughts as most of the conversation is in Dzongkha and Sarchop, but this afternoon I was in the mood to make an effort. I asked questions, and while I, of course, allowed room for languages I didn’t understand, I asserted myself and English as much as I could. No one seemed to mind. I became part of the laughter, which felt good and refreshing.
After the tea was drunk, the mugs were collected and small bowls of savory snacks appeaed. A bottle of white wine and a big jug of ara were presented, and being one of only two women in the room who drinks at all, I was asked my preference. While the wine looked appetizing, I asked Madam Kesang what she was drinking – beer – so beer it was. Four big bottles were brought in for the two of us to consume.
Before we started drinking though, the women went to view the baby. The joint staff gift wrapped in red cellophane paper was brought in as well as a white scarf – the same kind of scarf that I offered to the Khenpo at Zangdopelri, the same white scarf that’s hung by photographs of Bhutan’s kings. We entered the room and the quiet, awake baby was in her mother’s arms snuggled in warm blankets.
Madam Kinzang draped the white scarf over the baby’s head and wrapped it around her body offering blessings of good health and a long life. She also laid an orange envelope of money on the baby as well. The rest of us “ooh”ed and “aah”ed and soon we were back in the prayer room eating savory snacks and Madam Kesang and I were drinking Druk 11,000. 
It was at this point that a tray of small bowls was brought into our room. The bowls were filled with thick brown liquid with chunks of fried egg floating around – it was the chungey. 
My excitement at seeing the famed drink died within seconds as I was handed my very own bowl and took a whiff. My nostrils led me to believe that chungey was not going to be drink of choice, and my nostrils were right. I took one sip and had to feign not wanting to vomit. “How do you like it, ma’am?” my fellow teachers asked. They knew I had been wanting to try the chungey. “It’s… interesting,” was all I could possibly say.I could only take about five small sips of the chungey before giving up. When I asked whether it was okay to leave the rest, I was told that it was, indeed, okay. Other co-workers’ bowls were left half full as well. The beer, on the other hand, was not okay to leave. If a bottle was open, it had to be finished. Remember, only Madam Kesang and I were drinking. Everyone else, since they weren’t drinking, was told they could get their dinner. Dinner! Dinner for fifteen guests!
At baby showers, the hosts – the mother and her husband and whatever help they can finagle – are required to serve dinner to their guests on top of tea, drinks, snacks, and chungay. Can you imagine? A mother comes home after just giving birth and is bombarded for up to a month with visitors and guests who she must prepare food and drink for and serve. I was told that in the west, the tradition is even more strenuous. Guests come with bamboo containers of raw rice and must leave with the containers filled with cooked rice, eggs, and meat. To my western point of view, the whole system of a Bhutanese baby shower sounds like way too much work at a time when not much energy can be spared. The worst is that our group hardly saw the mother at all, and I think that’s normal. It’s not like she ever sat down with us, drank tea, ate snacks, or joined in the laughter. She was only in and out of the room a few times, and that was to serve us.
As others filed out of the room and came back with bowls heaping with rice and other Bhutanese delicacies, Madam Kesang and I were drinking beer, with the emphasis on me. I kept asking, “So I have to finish this beer?” Usually, Bhutanese are so polite and accommodating, they will cater to any need or desire. This time, there was no getting out of it – “Yes, you must finish the bottle. And don’t forget, there’s this other open bottle as well.” The whole scene was laughable, especially since I was partly drunk.
As may not be ordinary at other baby showers, the topic of abortion and – later – protection came up. I was the cause of such a topic to be brought up. I occurred to me that I knew nothing of the issue in this Himalayan country. Madam Kinzang who was sitting next to me told me she had a friend in teachers college who had had three abortions illegally, since that’s, as I was told by my co-workers, the only way to do it. She went to Phuntsholing, a border town in the southwest, and had the procedures down in India. One of the times was after the “abortion pill” didn’t work. Although Madam Kinzang herself is against the idea of abortion – many Bhutanese are, due to the Buddhist ideology of not killing – she supported her friend. It wasn’t the right time for her friend, she said. Also, having an abortion and making it public in any way is the cause of shame, especially for the families involved.
The idea of waiting and the notion of family planning seem to always amaze my female co-workers. They see Scott and I and wonder what we’re doing. I tell them we’ve been together for four years but are not married, and they say, “So if you find that you don’t like each other, then you’ll just split, just like that?” While I say I hope that never happens, that is about right. “And you use protection?” I’ve been asked. When I talk about the pill, they are shocked – “I could never remember to take a pill everyday,” some have told me.
“We do things differently here,” I’ve been told. “We meet someone, move in together, and start having children. Too fast.” In many instances, “marriage” in Bhutan means a man and woman living together presumably with children or trying to have them; it does not always mean an actual marriage certificate or a ceremony. One of my co-workers, Dechen, who has three boys, said the only reason her and her husband got a marriage certificate was to ensure that Dechen was able to accompany her husband to Australia when he pursued his Masters.
I learned about the concept of marriage in Bhutan early on in my stay in Kanglung, mainly because Scott and I are not married and that’s perplexing to most Bhutanese. In their eyes, we are married, only we don’t have kids. But the information about abortion was new to me. I explained to my co-workers at the baby shower that, in the states, abortion is a divisive issue throughout the country, especially on the political level. I asked if abortion was openly talked about in Bhutan, whether it was written about in the papers or talked about by politicians. “It’s not right now,” said Madam Kesang, “but soon it will be. In the papers now, you read about babies being abandoned on the street.”
After most of my coworkers, the women and the men, had finished their dinner, Madam Kesang and I still hadn’t even started. Soon, everyone who had eaten, left. I felt bad keeping the hosts but Madam Kesang insisted it was okay. She is very good friends with them. So we finally got our dinner after finishing the opened beers and the husband joined us. The wife still didn’t sit down. Instead she walked back and forth between the food and the baby, picking at the food with her fingers. When we sat down in the living room to start eating, the husband, who’s a Dzongkha lecturer at Sherubtse, asked if I wanted to marry Scott. Even the men wonder what we’re doing.
Close to when we were done eating, there was a knock at the door. A high-ranking monk walked in – you can tell a high-ranking monk by the fact that he’s wearing yellow in the folds of his robe – and sat with us. He was the head monk in the Trashigang Dzong and a friend of the husband’s. This got the mother moving around again, fetching tea and biscuits. Madam Kesang and I brought our dishes to the kitchen and finally left the baby shower.
We walked into the Kanglung night. We were right next to the college dorms and I saw male college students walking together with kabneys hung over their shoulder – it was time for their evening prayer. On our way, one of Madam Kesang’s boys ran from a lit doorway and joined us. “My kids can smell me,” she said.
*
My coworkers: Madame Kinzang, Madam Rinchen, Madam Karma, Madam Tshering, Madam Kesang, and Madam Pema. 
posted by Siapiau | 10:25 PM
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