Shonzy Dog

When asked to use the word ‘fortunate’ in a sentence, many of my students wrote: I am fortunate to be born in Bhutan. This sentiment may apply to humans, but it definitely does not apply to dogs. I would say a dog is very unfortunate to be born in Bhutan. There are, of course, worse countries to be a dog, but I think Bhutan is a pretty unlucky place to be a dog. My students, and I’m sure other Bhutanese would agree, attest to the fact that dogs are treated well here. I don’t know any official figures but I would say at least half of Bhutan’s dogs are stray. Scott and I see them all over Kanglung – under cars when it’s hot, grouped on certain bends of the road or in front of certain shops, in the middle of the street, at the primary school, at the college, sometimes even in the classrooms. It’s true that Bhutanese usually leave leftover rice and curry in piles on the ground for dogs. But it’s also true that many of the dogs we see have severe cases of mange, grossly infected parts of their bodies, limps. Among stray dogs worldwide I’m sure, there is an intense pack mentality here as well as strict territorial boundaries. Scott and I were once stunned to see a very weak, sick dog almost get torn apart by a group of four much healthier dogs. Scott had to break up the attack with harsh yelling.

There’s also no regular program for sterilization. Every so often you’ll see college students armed with big nets who have been paid to chase down dogs in an attempt to catch them for neutering. Dogs that have been sterilized are easy to spot. They have a chunk cut out of their ear leaving behind an obvious V-notch. But many dogs haven’t been caught in these big nets so are free to roam around and procreate. There are dogs that have one litter after another after another. A Bhutanese friend who “takes care” of one such dog once said in reply to a question about a new littler: “A couple of them are still living, unfortunately.” To her, it was sad that any of them lived.

It’s not common to find lovable stray dogs here. All of them will bark endlessly if you pass them at night. Some bite. Most just ignore you. But there are a few dogs that have endeared themselves to me. One of them Scott and I call Shonzy Dog. From the day we moved to Kanglung, this soft, fluffy white dog was always seen near the Shonzy Restaurant with other dogs, usually on the street above Shonzy or but sometimes actually at the restaurant. Shonzy is located across the street from our driveway. An early Kanglung memory is of eating a lunch at Shonzy and this dog resting its head on Scott’s foot under the table. I liked Shonzy Dog mostly because he (or she – we never figured it out) was very cute and seemingly healthy. I think Shonzy Dog had a reputation for biting, but he never tried to bite us. I was more interested in him than he was in me. Every morning on our way to work, Scott and I could see Shonzy Dog laying in the road. On recent hot days, we’d see half his body under a car. A couple months ago, the Shonzy Restaurant moved locations, only two store fronts up the hill. A new restaurant opened in Shonzy’s old location – Queenzang. But we couldn’t bring ourselves to call Shonzy Dog Queenzang Dog. To us, the white dog would always be Shonzy Dog.

Well, a few mornings ago, I noticed that Shonzy Dog wasn’t in his usual spot in the morning. In fact, the other dogs he’s usually with were resting in our housing complex. I didn’t see him when I walked home at lunch or later that day walking home from school. He still wasn’t around the next day and today, no Shonzy Dog. Just now, as I arrived home from school, I saw one of my students who lives near me. I asked him about Shonzy Dog’s whereabouts. Yeshi said the dog was hit by a truck and died. Yeshi said he didn’t see it but he heard. When I said that I was sad, Yeshi agreed, “He was cute.”

At least now I know. It’s no longer a mystery. Shonzy Dog is dead. I just hope he continues to move up the reincarnation ladder.

Jackfruit

I’ve never tasted a jackfruit before. There’ve been many I’ve passed, on roadside stands in tropical countries or heavily hanging from a laden tree. Today, a friend came into one of my classes and presented me with a jackfruit in all its spiky glory. Last night, this friend had been over at our house with a friend of his who grows many fruits on his property, one of them being jackfruit. After hearing that I’d never tried one, my friend’s friend offered to bring one to us. And that is how I got to carrying a heavy jackfruit into my 5B classroom.

As soon as the students saw me carrying it, they all reacted, calling it by name, proclaiming of its tastiness or lack there of. Most of the students said they liked the fruit, but there were some who didn’t. To the ones who didn’t like jackfruit, I asked the ever-usable question – “Why?”

“It feels like mud.”

“When I eat too much of it, it makes me want to vomit.”

I saw one student, who happened to be sitting right next to where I placed the jackfruit, scrutinizing the large mass in front of him. His eyes bulged a bit. Leki raised his hand and when I called on him, he said, “I don’t like it because it looks like my big head.”

As I took in his comment and inspected the fruit a little more, I realized he was right. The jackfruit greatly resembled the shape of Leki’s head, even the fruit’s spiky skin mirrored his gelled hair. Now I will inevitably think of Leki’s big head whenever I see a jackfruit.

A Walk to Rongthung

After experiencing a bit of cabin fever on Saturday, Scott and I decided to go for a Sunday walk to Rongthung, a small town roughly 5 kilometers down the main road from Kanglung, regardless of what Mother Nature would hand us for weather. We were pretty lucky. Instead of rain, the sun came out and it turned out to a be a perfect day for an easy Sunday walk.

Red hot chilli peppers drying by a window in a shop at Rongthung.

A fruit stand near Rongthung. There are multiple generations in this picture - a son with his father and grandfather. The grandfather is around 84 years old. After Scott and I bought half a kilogram with roughly 70 cents, the son gave us two more pears just because.

Just the father with his scale and pears.

We saw so many butterflies. Beautiful enchanting ones. Here's one I could capture.

The side of the road.


Back in Kanglung. Lunch at Kuenkhor - lassis and momos.

On our walk back to the house, we ran into the Sherubtse football team with the trophy they had just won the day before. When sport teams in Bhutan win a trophy or medal, the tradition is to badger people into giving money to the team. With the money they collect, the sports team can celebrate. At first, when the team mentioned filling the trophy, Scott and I instantly thought of filling it up with some intoxicating liquid, but we were wrong.

"Good Evening, Ma'am" at 3:10

My students have strange habits. Most Bhutunese would consider these habits good. The actions that bewilder me are here considered polite. I guess after over six months, I’ve gotten used to me, but I find none of these actions necessary and I’m glad they don’t exist in the realm of politeness in the States.

My students call me “madam” or “ma’am.” There are no exceptions. (Well, there was one time when a class two student, the daughter of one of the married teacher couples at my school, called me “Lisa.” I had never found hearing my name so refreshing, but it was a one-time occurrence. I thought that, since I was a friend of her parents, she felt comfortable addressing me by my first name, but she never did that again.) I know it’s considered polite, but it can get in the way of actual communication. My students, and some Bhutanese adults as well, feel the need to insert “ma’am” way too often when they’re speaking – “Please, ma’am. My head is paining, ma’am. Ma’am, can I please, ma’am, go to the BHU, ma’am?” Ugh. It’s enough to drive a ma’am nutty.

I also want to mention that adults address each other this way as well. If a woman is married, she’s a “madam” or “ma’am.” If she is not married, she is a “miss.” So most of the teachers I work with call me “madam.” Only one of the teachers I work with, Dechen, who spent a year in Australia, actually calls me “Lisa.” To the rest of the Bhutan, I’m known as “madam.” Even among a group of women who are good friends, you’ll always hear the madams being thrown around. The same goes for men – sir, sir, sir. When a group of male adults are doing something, I would refer to them as “guys” or “the men” if I felt like being more formal. Here, it’s “the gents.” For example – “The gents will be putting in the new prayer flags tomorrow morning.”

Last year in Tanzania, all I heard was “teacher.” “Teacher, I have a question.” “Teacher, I need a pen.” Teacher, teacher, teacher. It’s no contest – I much prefer “teacher” to “ma’am.”

My students say “Good evening, ma’am” at 3:10. There’s no “hello” or “hi.” It’s about the formal day greetings when they see me – “good morning, ma’am” when I arrive to school in the morning; “good afternoon, ma’am” when I return to school from lunch, and “good evening, ma’am” all the way home. The Bhutanese break up of the day is interesting. Right when the last bell rings at 3:10, all of a sudden it’s evening. Their prayer time, which occurs between 3:15 and 4:00 is called ‘evening prayer.’

My students bow to me (and usually to Scott as well). Sometimes it’s the subtlest bend at the waist. And sometimes it’s the full out 90-degree bend forward with the arms folded out in front of them, palms up. It’s paired with the day greeting. On our walk to work, Scott and I pass bowing student after bowing student, and when I enter the school ground and sweep by groups of students doing social work on my way to the staff room, they all turn and bow, one by one. I will never get used to the bowing. I’m not royalty. I’m not anyone special. Who are they bowing to?

Even on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, when I’m not wearing my kira, when I’m just walking on the street like a normal person, I still get students, who are wearing their casual clothes, stop and bow to me.

My students stand up when I pass by. When it’s break time between second and third period or lunchtime or after school and students are sitting down, if they see me approaching, they will stand up. When I’m outside of school and walking on the street, sometimes I see my students taking a rest and sitting on the ground. If they see me, they will stand up and likely bow. To me, there’s no need for that. To me, there’s nothing wrong with sitting down.

My students let me pass. When there’s a mass movement of students, like after morning assembly or right when the lunch bell rings, I usually have no problem fighting the crowd because the crowd parts for me. As soon as students sense that I’m behind them, they’ll stop and let me pass by. If a student happens to be oblivious to the fact that I’m there, their friends will yank at their arm or speak loudly at them to move, and then I can hear that oblivious student getting teased and reprimanded by their friends.

My students don’t pass me. This is not a hard and fast rule as some of the others are, but there is an etiquette if they do want to pass me. At lunch I usually walk home and many students live in the same direction as I. My house is about a six-minute walk from the school. There have been many times when a students or students will walk behind me for those six minutes and it’s only when I’ve turned into my driveway that they’ll break out into a sprint and rush home. If they do want to pass me before I reach home, they’ll walk up alongside me, politely greet me, and wish me a good lunch. Once I’ve replied, they’ll then quickly walk past me and then break out in a run.

My students cover their mouths when they talk to me, which makes it all the more difficult to understand them. Already they are speaking in their third or fourth language. Already they are speaking quietly. Now add a physical sound barrier to that. With all of these conditions, they might as well not speak at all. They either cover their mouths with their hands or, for some boys, the cuff of their ghos. When I first arrived, I asked why. Their replies – it’s a sign of respect, it’s to protect me from their potentially bad breath or spit, it’s a sign of shyness. The Bhutanese also cover their mouths when they’re getting blessed by someone really important.

My students stand up when I enter the classroom and when I leave. When I enter the room, their standing is accompanied with a “Good morning, madam” or “Good afternoon, madam.” When I leave the room, I hear, “Thank you, madam.” For one class I teach, they sing their greetings and farewells. You’d think this would be endearing and sometimes it can be, but when I’ve just struggled for 50 minutes with a class that won’t shut up, the last thing I want to hear when I leave is “Thank you, madam.” It’s so insincere and mechanical.

My students ask, “May I come in.” Whenever a student enters the classroom when I’m inside, they have to ask, “May I come in?” and they won’t come in until I say so or gesture them to come in. So if I’m preoccupied helping a student and I don’t hear someone at the door asking to come in, that student will just stand at the door and they’ll repeat their question until I acknowledge them. If I happen to enter a classroom a few minutes before the bell rings to get things ready, there’s a stream of “may I come in”s from students wanting to come into the classroom. Among many practices that I’d want to do away with, this is the number one. I find it so cumbersome to have to personally grant allowance to each and every student who wants to enter the classroom. I know I can’t get them to stop. The students have been trained all their lives to ask this question before entering into a classroom that a teacher is in.

An American Dream

One morning a couple of weeks ago, Scott and I skyped with Cam Ly and Brian, her boyfriend recently turned fiancé. Even though Skype has been around for several years, it’s a fairly new technology for Scott and I. We just installed it this year and have video chatted only a handful of times with friends and family. As most of civilization already knows, video chatting is pretty amazing. From our living room in Bhutan to Cam Ly’s apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, the distance becomes so much smaller when you can see the person you’re talking to.

It was my first time talking to Cam Ly at all since I’ve been in Bhutan, and there was so much more to talk about now that there’s a wedding coming up. Cam Ly’s wedding will mark another historical moment in the history of the Phu family. It’s been a while since my sisters or I have crossed off an item from the list of life milestones. We’ve long since graduated from college, Cam Ly from grad school (twice). We’ve all been doing our own thing in our own worlds for a while. So it seems about the right time for another big occasion, something to celebrate.

Cam Ly will be the second in the family to get married on American soil. The first one – my cousin Lynn’s – happened when I was in third grade. I was the flower girl and I can remember quite vividly the photographer knocking on the door as my mother rushed to get us girls ready. It was so long ago, and so happy. Now, Lynn and Steve have a 15-year-old daughter, Stephanie, a beautiful home, and so much to look forward to.

Cam Ly and Brian have the same. I loved hearing Cam Ly talk about homemade invitations and where the wedding will be, what the bride’s maids will wear. I loved how Brian would make funny side comments, only because he loves my sister so much. I loved even more hearing about how they are planning to buy a house in a neighborhood with a good school, hints of future children. I feel like I’ve never heard Cam Ly so excited.

Listening to her talk about her wedding and future plans felt so eerily normal, something my family has never been. A wedding. A normal, real wedding. Cam Ly will be the one who honors American tradition. Over 30 years after my family arrived in America, Cam Ly will be taking yet another step towards the American Dream, and when it’s Cam Ly doing it, it actually feels real.

Yongphula Moth Sanctuary

In honor of Lord Buddha’s First Sermon (which took place in Nepal), Scott and I went hiking while most of Bhutan was in a temple chanting the same thing over and over so that this certain phrase was said at least a billion times.

In Bhutan, there are two choices for hiking – up or down. Even though there were clouds in the sky – after all it is monsoon season; it’s nearly impossible to find a day without clouds – we still decided to go up. We started on the same trail that leads to Yongphu, but passed Yongphu and headed to Yongphula, another half hour up.

Yongphula is home to an army base, a beautiful temple, and what’s scheduled to be Bhutan’s newest airport – if it ever actually opens. Currently the country only has one airport located in the western town of Paro. Three other airports are slated to open – one in the center of the country in Bumthang, one in the south, and one in Yongphula, which would give the world easy access to the much less touristed eastern side. Several opening dates of the Yongphula airport have come and gone – April 2010, July 2010, October 2010, April 2011, July 2011, and now October 2011… Scott doesn’t think the airport will open before we leave in December.

We’ve made several trips to the airstrip, just to check it out. Located next to the Yongphula “lake” above the (pretty much defunct) golf course, the airstrip is a popular location with the locals as well. Yongphula has a lot of wide, open spaces, something that is pretty rare in this country, which is a prime reason Bhutanese are drawn there – the picnicking opportunities! Bhutanese love to picnic. (I realize I’m generalizing, but this may the truest stereotype to ever exist). They love packing a plastic basket full of insulated food containers containing tons of rice, ema datsi (chilli curry), and kewa datsi (potato curry), along with thermoses of tea and oftentimes plastic bottles of ara, and sitting on the ground somewhere. It doesn’t have to be an idyllic locale with amazing scenery. Bhutanese could pop a squat on the side of a dirt road and have a perfectly happy picnic. It’s something to really love about this country.

The day of Lord Buddha’s First Sermon, which took place last Wednesday, was a perfect day for a picnic, even though the clouds were threatening and it even started to rain around 11:30. People carrying rice cookers and plastic mats still milled around the airstrip looking for a good spot to eat lunch. Some chose their picnic spot by the “lake” (I keep putting quotations around this word because people around here call it a lake, but to Scott and I, it looks more like a glorified puddle. Supposedly, years ago, the lake was bigger, deeper, and clearer before the deity that was watching it went away.) while others just sat, circled around the food, right on the tarmac.

Our goal for the day was to get on the ridge above the airstrip. We had gone a couple months ago but it had been cloudy. On this day, we were hoping for a break in the clouds.

Since we had to pass the terminal building to get to the ridge, I insisted we go in. Each time we’ve visited the airstrip since moving to Kanglung, the airport has been at various stages of being done. I had heard that the luggage carts were there and, for this visit, I wanted to see them – more evidence that the Yongphula Airport would, indeed, one day be functional hub for travel.

As we walked toward the terminal, we could hear voices. Soon, we saw faces staring out from the second floor. At first, we thought they were kids using the terminal as a personal fort, but we then realized they were adults. Through the glass doors and front windows, we could see the luggage carts inside as well as hundreds of moths. The Yongphula Airport Terminal has temporarily become a moth sanctuary. I tried opening the front door and it easily gave way. A man who was upstairs came down to check us out. In the most friendly, curious way, he trailed us as we inspected some of the most amazing moths we’ve ever seen.

Here is a small sample of the moths that have made the Yongphula Airport Terminal their home and, in some cases, their final resting place:


















































Even though the rain had subsided, the fog was still present and it seemed to be encroaching more and more on the ridge, covering it up almost entirely. Scott and I decided to go walk on the road a bit before, perhaps, turning around to go home. It didn’t seem like the weather was cooperating with out plans to hike on the ridge. From the road, we saw a clearing high above the airstrip, a spot we hadn’t explored when we were up there last. We picked a spot on a farm road and had our version of a picnic lunch – no fancy insulated food containers or thermoses of tea; just a good old Tupperware full of food, two spoons, and a nalgene full of water. As we walked back towards the airstrip to take the trail back to Kanglung, the clouds parted revealing a hot, bright sun. The ridge was exposed. We headed up.

The beginning of the way up is through a tree farm where light barely hits, so most of the way was deep mud. Beyond the tree farm was more slick mud and lots of wet brush. I showed my bravery a couple of times, squealing at the sight of one leech, then another, on my pants. I managed to pick the slippery suckers off me before any blood was shed, but Scott wasn’t as lucky. It wasn’t until hours later when we were back home from the hike that Scott noticed a deep red welt above his heel, evidence of an unnoticed leech.

Although I had my doubts as to the way we were getting there, we did finally reach that clearing we had seen from the road. A meadow of grass, and grazing on the grass were zoes (half cattle-half yak), horses, and sheep. Scott commented on how the area would be a great camping spot.



We walked among the peaceful animals looking at the view and noticed a few herders’ camps beyond us. Scott walked a little further than I did and enticed the barking of three black yak herder dogs. The sound didn’t surprise us. Where there are herds and camps set up, there is usually a protective, vicious dog to go along. (This is the same type of dog that, earlier this year, assaulted Scott in a very delicate part of his body.) Since there was more than one camp, there was more than one dog. The barking sounded far away in the distance. We weren’t worried. We took our time walking among the animals. One sheep baah-ed at us, and I baah-ed back. At this point, one of the yak herder dogs, who had, just moments before, sounded so far away, was much, much closer, barking and advancing toward us. It wasn’t charging at us, but it was definitely running. Scott and I backed away immediately. We didn’t run away, but we were definitely walking quickly. At one point, Scott even held his backpack above his head to show the dog that we’d fight back. As we continued to retreat, my fear subsided. Yes, the dog was barking, but he seemed to keep a distance. But then, two more dogs appeared in view. The first dog had called for back-up. So now, there were three dogs advancing towards us and one backpack to fight back with no longer meant anything. We kept up our non-running pace away from the animals the dogs were protecting. We dropped down lower and lower and, finally, the barking dissipated. We were safe.

Suddenly, a muddy, slick trail and leeches were nothing compared to the thought of being attacked by yak dogs.

By the time we got back to Kanglung, the sun was out in full blast, beating down hard on us. I insisted on the long way home, welcoming the sun to burn us. We dropped down to the main road and on the way home had a cold coke and a plate of hot chili chops.