H-E-Double Hockey Sticks

A couple days ago I am walking home with three class IV girls. They are sighing and lamenting over all the dead bugs in the road.

One of them explains, “Sir Phuntsho says that if we eat meat, we’ll go to hell, so we don’t eat meat.”
I reply, “Am I going to go to hell?”
The girl’s face turns to a smile and she laughs, “No, ma’am.”
“But I eat meat,” I say.
Her face turns serious and she says quietly, “Then you’re going to hell.”

A Man Before He Proposes

11.11.11

First Farewell

For the whole time we’ve been in Bhutan, Scott has been working his ass off. Sometimes he’d be at his computer until 11 pm at night, and he hates working on his computer. If he looked like his mind was somewhere else, it was almost always with school work – a lecture he was preparing, an activity he wanted to think of for class, a first aid course he was team teaching.

I remember earlier in the year talking with his office neighbor. She was talking about how Scott was always in the office (a rarity with most other lecturers here), how he was always busy. I agreed with a negative tone. She said, “Maybe he’s one of those people that just likes being busy.” I quickly replied, “Oh no. Scott’s one of those people who likes his free time.” Because he is. But this college lecturing job made him a different person. Like most teaching jobs, Scott couldn’t just leave the office and leave the work behind. Lecturing was always on his mind.

Well, finally, that has come to an end. It’s been over for about a week. Short of marking exams Scott is pretty much done. He now has free time. It’s a new sensation for him here in Bhutan. He’s barely even had the luxury of reading a book for fun here.

This past Friday night, the students from his semester 5 Physiology class invited him to dinner at a restaurant. I got to tag along as well. We had no clue what to expect. Scott had received the invitation that afternoon and was told that the students sometimes throw good-bye parties for lecturers they like. There are 35 students in the semester 5 class. They’ve all been through the ranks of the Bhutanese school system and have only one more semester of schooling left until they have to fend for themselves in the job market or pursue higher education.

Scott didn’t think they’d all be at the dinner. We had been told the time of 6:30, which usually means somewhere between 7 and 7:30. But being the westerners we are, we showed up around 6:35 and not only were some students already there on time, they were all there, all 35 of them.

They welcomed us into the restaurant which had been set up for the occasion. We all sat around the joined tables. What proceeded was a love and admiration fest for Scott, Bhutanese-style. The phrase “best teacher” was used a countless number of times. Around 20 of the students stood individually and said short speeches about how great of a teacher Scott was, how in all their years as a student, they had never encountered such a teacher like him – someone who doesn’t come into the classroom and leave quickly “like a robber,” someone who explains well and has a clear delivery, someone whose attitude in class they really respected and appreciated, someone who cares about them, and who they had come to care for over such a short period of time. I had to hold back my tears a few times while hearing their words. All of the speeches were recorded on video camera, footage I’m dying to get my hands on.

The students served us tea and biscuits. Next was dinner. Then, a presentation of a gift and kadars – white scarves that are given as a token of honor. The students draped one over each of our necks. It was a nice enough gesture by itself, but these kadars were different. They were each signed by the students with little messages of farewell and thanks. Scott’s kadar is obviously more filled than mine. Throughout the night, students spoke, Scott spoke, even I had to speak.

The side conversations I had with the students during the tea or dinner were still filled with gratitude and admiration for Scott. One student said that in 7-10 years, when they were all established with homes and jobs, Scott and I should come back to Bhutan. The student said that we’d always have a place to stay and a host to take us around, and that it’d be all the more special if we returned with our own children.

Buddha's Tooth

I once took a class on Buddhism in college. It was the only class I took at Trinity that had over 25 students. I think I did okay in the class but I retained almost none of it, except the basic Buddhist concept that all desire leads to suffering, and that enlightenment is a state of no desire and therefore no suffering.

*

Before moving to Bhutan I had these far-flung notions that I would get into meditation. I remember one of the things that appealed to me so much about teaching in Bhutan was that there was mandatory meditation in schools. I thought I’d be surrounded by peaceful Buddhists who meditated on a daily basis.

Soon after arriving in Kanglung and starting work at the school, I quickly learned a few things. One – at my school “mandatory meditation” translates into a minute of silence during morning assembly. After saying their prayer to the goddess of learning, the students collectively become silent, some close their eyes, some giggle and stifle their laughter, some just stare straight ahead. The silence is broken by a single, loud clap by the school captain. And the rest of morning assembly continues. The teachers are allowed to conduct meditation in the classrooms, which I’ve done before administering exams. What that means to me is to have the students stand, take some deep breaths, I remind them to relax, to free their minds of stress, do the best they can on the exam, and we’re all silent for a couple minutes. I don’t imagine what I do hurts them, but I can’t imagine it helps a whole lot either; after all, I don’t know anything about meditation or mind control.

The second thing I learned soon after moving to Bhutan was that the majority of Bhutanese know just as much about meditation as I do, which is nothing. I can accurately say that the rest of the 19 staff members I work with are religious Buddhists, but I don’t know if any of them actually meditate. There’s one male teacher, Phuntsho, who fits the bill of the peaceful person I imagined every Bhutanese would be. I know he’s meditated before, but I don’t know how often he does it. Phuntsho doesn’t eat meat because he doesn’t believe in inflicting harm on animals and doesn’t want to be the reason for their suffering, but Phuntsho has also said, “I try really hard not to beat the students. I think about Ma’am Lisa and how she doesn’t beat. But sometimes, I get so angry, so I say a prayer to Guru Rimpoche, and then (with his hands he gestures beating a student).” Phuntsho is just one of the many teachers I work with who beat the students.

What I’ve learned and observed about Buddhism here in Bhutan is not so much the goal of reducing suffering, but the goal of earning merits. Earning merits in this lifetime will help in the reincarnation process – the more merits, the better the chance of coming back to earth in the next lifetime as a good human, as a Buddhist preferably. Phuntsho has twice bestowed on me what he considers the greatest wish – “I hope you will come back as a Buddha.” What he means is, he hopes that I will come back as a reincarnate. There is no higher aim than that. The thing about earning merits is that it’s not necessarily based on good will towards others, at least from what I’ve observed. Don’t get me wrong, Bhutanese are extremely kind and generous people who open their homes to you and help you out when you need it. But I’ve never heard merits being associated with good deeds toward fellow mankind or even animal kind. What I do hear all the time is about how to “get more merits” through such deeds as building prayer wheels, whitewashing a chorten, putting up more prayer flags, holding a puja, getting blessed by someone really important, or giving an offering to a temple. So much of life here surrounds these activities. And these activities take precedent, oftentimes, over school.

During my time teaching in Bhutan, there have been countless examples of religion (in the name of earning more merits) trumping education, but there is one event in particular. During the month October, I think I taught 16 days, as opposed to the normal 25 or 26 (remember, we have school on Saturdays) due to various reasons. The King had his Royal Wedding – a three-day holiday, the Hindus celebrated Dassain – a one-day holiday, my school celebrated Sports Day – three days off from teaching and a 1-day holiday, and, finally, the Sacred Relics came through Trashigang – a two-day holiday.

The Sacred Relics, which were on a country-wide tour for the first time ever, consisted of a piece of Buddha’s tooth, and two pieces of teeth belonging the Buddha’s disciples, each encased in a glass structure. The sacred teeth are normally kept in India but came to Bhutan on the request of the Prime Minister. Seeing these relics would earn a person lots and lots of merits.

Since the school was giving me two days off to see the teeth, I figured I might as well see them. I didn’t know much information – where the relics were on view, the time of the viewings. But, due to the religious significance, I did know that Trashigang would be flooded with people.

On the morning of the first day of the relics being in Trashigang, I remember hearing my landlord’s truck start up and leave around 5 am. On his walk to work, Scott saw open truckloads of people and students going towards Trashigang. By the time I got around to walking to lower market in hopes of hitching a ride, it was close to 10 am and Kanglung felt like a ghost town. No cars were on the street. Shops were closed. No one was walking on the road. Only with a help of a walnut seller was I able to get a ride in an Omvi van going to Trashigang. The Omni van happened to belong to the family of one of my students. My student wasn’t with his family that day though (“He doesn’t like crowds, ma’am”), but his class 10 sister, Dorji Dema, was very warm and welcoming.

The Omni van wasn’t the healthiest vehicle, but I couldn’t complain; I was just happy to find a ride. It chugged along at a slow pace and even stopped to help another van, which was loaded down by too many people.

As the kilometers passed, Dorji Dema would receive updates on her phone – “Ma’am, I heard the cars are lined up outside Trashigang,” “Ma’am, we’ll have to walk from the petrol pump.”

Dorji Dema was right. The Omni van didn’t make it much farther than the petrol pump, which is located five kilometers outside Trashigang. We parked and joined the masses of others walking in the hot sun on the too dusty road. I walked alongside Dorji Dema, but we continually had to stop to wait for the rest of her family to catch up. Her family included an aunt who had just given birth two days before and had the newborn in tow, as well as an elderly grandmother. As one can imagine, Dorji Dema’s family was not moving too quickly.

As we moved toward Trashigang, we passed hundreds of people who had already seen the relics walking back toward their cars. I’ve never in my life seen such haggard-looking people than those we passed. For the occasion, everyone was in their best ghos and kiras, but after a long day of waiting in the hot sun, their clothes were disheveled, dirty, crooked. People draped their kabneys and rachus over their heads and already reddened faces to guard them from the sun, their facial expressions contorted in fatigue and dehydration. I had moments of wanting to turn back, to not expose myself to whatever lay ahead. It was not like seeing these relics meant anything to me really. What compelled me to go into Trashigang that day, to continue walking with Dorji Dema despite the waves of haggard looking people, was curiosity. I wanted to see the crowds, the mania more than I actually wanted to see the teeth or receive whatever merits seeing them would earn me.

By the time we got into Trashigang proper, I continued to wait with Dorji Dema as she searched for her family. But after some time, I decided it was best for me to go solo. I thanked Dorji Dema and her family (once we found them) profusely before setting off to view the teeth on my own. By this time, I had found out that the teeth were in the courtyard of the Dzong. Walking a little faster, I followed the flow of movement and saw throngs of people, crowded and hot, waiting as I approached the Dzong gate.

To say that Trashigang was ill-prepared for such massive crowds is a great understatement. There was likely zero real thought put into crowd-control, which is why when I started waiting around 1 pm, the police were joined with secondary students, their arms linked, in the attempt to make human gates.

The viewing had started at 7 am that morning with people showing up as early as 4 am. In addition to the human gates, the police were also employing the use of poles, set vertically, to create another kind of barrier. Many people, even the very young and the very old, tried to sneak under the poles. The group of people that surrounded me in my waiting were, when we actually got to lines, chronic cutters, and I joined in. Pushing was also rampant as policemen repeated over and over, “Line, line, line.”

Because I was alone, I was able to maneuver quickly and cut and rush forward, so that my wait to see the teeth was less than an hour. Others had to wait three or more hours. Others had to make multiple trips before the waiting time seemed somewhat manageable. I was lucky. Well, of course, I was lucky; I was going to see the teeth.

Each black speck of tooth was encased in a glass ball, so there was a line of three glass balls set on a table, protected on either end by Indian monks with the addition of a hovering local policeman. As the line of people passed the glass balls, everyone covered their mouths and lowered their foreheads towards the relics. The line moved very quickly and before I knew it, my turn to “view” the relics had passed, and all I could recall was seeing the tiniest bit of black.


Seconds later I saw the vice-governor and talked with him for a couple minutes. He explained that praying to the teeth would bring good luck to my life, and obviously he means it – why else would all these people come from far away places and struggle with hours of waiting in crowds and the hot sun?

The thing is, is that I’ve heard this many times before. When I moved to this country and started partaking in cultural practices, I started out always asking why. Why were we waiting by the side of the road for some important person to bonk us on the head with a stick? Why was I pouring ara in my hair? Why was I sitting on the grass for hours in the hot, hot sun waiting for yet another blessing? The answers were always the same – each act would bring good luck to my life, or, it would earn me many merits. I’ve never understood why one blessing for good luck in my life was any different than another blessing for good luck in my life. Was getting bonked over the head by Je Khenpo more meaningful than covering my mouth and bending my forehead to black pieces of teeth? Will spinning a prayer wheel bring me more and less merits than walking clockwise around a chorten three times? Will rolling out dough for cookies that we’ll offer to the temple more important than teaching my students simple present tense?

As I walked outside the Dzong gate, I passed the anxious crowds of people still waiting. I passed Dorji Dema and her family. I passed people from the Merak-Sakteng area who had probably walked for three days in order to see the teeth. I passed a mother breastfeeding her baby in line. I passed two teachers I work with who were on their third attempt to see the relics. I walked away from the Dzong that afternoon feeling satisfied – I had accomplished what I had set out to do – and relieved to have the experience behind me with plenty of hours left in the day.

I quickly walked out of town and toward the road where more people were leaving than coming. I tried my hardest to maintain a bounce in my step; I didn’t want to look haggard or exhausted. Only a few attempts were made at hitching a ride back before I got a ‘yes.’ It was in yet another Omni van, this one filled with secondary students and one of their uncles as a driver. The teeth may not bring me a lifetime of luck, but for that afternoon at least, as I sat wedged between a boy and a girl on a bumpy ride back to Kanglung, toward home, I felt pretty darn lucky.

Weekend

I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather lately. I noticed it on Sunday when I just couldn’t stop sneezing. We had plans to go to the Khaling Tschechu with Shauna, Julian, and Charly, and Scott suggested I not go and spare everyone from having to hear me sneeze a thousand times in a row (he was, of course, kidding).

The day before, I had spent most of it outside at the Singye House picnic. Singye House had won overall for house competitions throughout the year – a big deal. The students got a big plaque which meant they were allowed to parade the streets and go door to door looking for donations. Usually, I’m not a fan of this cultural practice, but as house master for Singye, I went with them on part of their donation tour and stood right along with them as they crowded each car that drove by and forced the driver into giving them money or else they wouldn’t let the car pass. It’s convincing all right, and with an adult chaperone watching, the innocent people had no choice but to give up their money.

It's hard to see, but in the middle of those students is a car.

All in all, the Singye House students raised Nu. 7,695 in donations. With the additional Nu. 1,500 prize money, the other house teachers and I had plenty to buy enough provisions for a massive picnic for the 55 house members and our invited guests who were the other teachers and Scott.

The picnic was a success. The students got to miss school on Saturday. They helped prepare and cook the food, find firewood, and serve when the other teachers arrived. It’s always interesting to see the students who work and work and work versus the students who never even offer. It’s not as if I pass judgment on the ones who don’t work, but it seems evident that these are the students who don’t have to at home.

Some girls sifting through the rice and taking out small stones. If you look closely at Changku's hand, you'll see what she found in the rice.

The invited guests.

After much wait and anticipation, the students finally got to eat a little after 2 o'clock.

Even though we were lucky and got sunned on most of the day, there were fluctuations between hot and cold, so with that and just generally being worn out, I caught some bug.

By late afternoon Sunday, when we were under a beer and momo tent at the Khaling Tshechu sitting with Shauna, Julian, Charly, Maureen, John, and Nick, I was sneezing away and blowing my nose, and Maureen spoke to me sympathetically and said, “You have a cold, dear.”

A village near Khaling where one of Julian's teachers, Phuntsho, lives. Phuntsho acted as our host for the day, taking us to his family's house, serving us tea and lunch.

Shauna and I in our Tshechu wear.

The unfurling of the thongdrels.

When we got back to Kanglung that evening from Khaling, we went to the Zangdopelri to participate in a very special, very important ten-day puja. My teachers had all been talking about it the week prior and had even sponsored a complete day of meals for the monks and guests. As non-Bhutanese, Japanese volunteer Rika and I were excused from contributing. It also meant we had to stay at school and hold down the fort when the rest of the staff decided to leave school on a Thursday at 11 am.

Early on Sunday evening, there were many people milling around in the courtyard of Zangdopelri. The sun was setting and it was getting chilly. I was already wearing 4 layers under my kira and the scarf that was around my neck became a makeshift rachu. Everyone was waiting for the very important lama to come out, the lama for whom this annual puja was made that much bigger and more spectacular. Apparently, he’s a self-proclaimed reincarnate of a very important guru. At a very young age, he approached the 4th King and revealed his identity. From then on, he became the King’s “son.” Now, at the tender age of 18, he’s revered and is set to become the next Je Khempo, the top spiritual leader of the country. He made his appearance around 5 pm and we all lined up and bowed our heads as he blessed us by tapping our heads with an object.

Afterwards, everyone stared filing into the temple. I had spotted Lopen Sonam who assumed I had come due to his direction; he had mentioned the week prior that if I wanted to attend the puja, I should arrive before 5 pm. Because Lopen Sonam and I don’t speak the same language (although his English has improved greatly since I arrived), he beckoned for me to follow him. Scott wanted to make sure he said good bye and got to see off Shauna, Julian, Charly, and Phuntsho, so we separated.

By the time Lopen Sonam and I entered the Lakhang, it was packed with people sitting down, a temporary alter built for the occasion, two rows of monks positioned next to their drums and instruments, and, at the head of the room, a row of lamas and Khenpos. A cameraman was projecting what was going on inside the temple onto a screen that had been set up in the courtyard. I sat where Lopen Sonam pointed to, the row closest to a clear aisle between the public and the monks. Between the two rows of monks was another clear aisle leading to the top lama and behind the second row of monks was another clear aisle. All these empty spaces were for the mask dancers.

Everything was alive in that lakhang. Hearts were open and desperate for spiritual awakening and cleansing. I sat among them happy to be a part of it even if I couldn’t at all relate. As usual, I was a spectator, sitting crossed legged, trying to blow my nose with the few pieces of crumpled tissue paper I had stored in the folded sleeves of my tego. As it also typical, many little things occurred that I didn’t know the rhyme or reason for.

The mask dances were quite spectacular. The only times I’ve seen mask dancing have been at outdoor events, like a tshechu or for the King’s birthday. This time, it was inside and the dancers had only a very small amount of floor to do their multitude of turns. And I was in the row closest to them. The bright colors of their elaborate costumes twirled by me in a blur and the rushing air that the dancers produced actually made me cold. Several times, the fabric of the costumed brushed my face or my knees. I sat mesmerized, awed by their ability to not fall over.

Next to me was a female college student I recognized. For most of the night’s events, she was texting on her mobile. I won’t ever forget the image of this young woman talking on her phone as the skirt of one of the mask dancer’s costumes twirled above her head.

When the crowd stood to recite a prayer, others who had been crowding by the temple’s entrance came inside. I took this as my cue to leave. By this point, I had assumed that Scott had walked home; I had been inside the temple for well over an hour and a half. But when I walked out into the courtyard, there he was, leaning against the fountain watching the big screen. Scott still being there was the perfect ending to the day. We walked away from the lit-up temple and into the night, the air seemingly filled with promise.

Zangdopelri

It took Scott about nine months to finally visit the local Zangdopelri. We have two in town, one at the college and one in lower market, which is commonly referred to as the public Zangdopelri. This Zangdopelri also has a shedri attached to it, a monastic school. This is what adds to Kanglung’s colorful population – monks, younger and older, are always seen roaming the streets right beside small groups of college students, secondary students and primary students.

Because my school and its staff have a very close relationship with the temple and the shedri, ever since we started living in Bhutan back in February, I’ve had several reasons to visit the public Zangdopelri. I can still remember my first time there, sitting with a group of other teachers on carpets on the floor while rows and rows of monks chanted and played instruments, performing an important puja. It doesn’t seem right that all that ceremony, hearing horns blare and monks warbling, has become normal to me, but it has; that happens when you’re surrounded by it all the time, which one is in Bhutan. An everyday occurrence here is walking past a house and seeing the smoke billow from burning pine and hearing the rising sound of cymbals and drum beats – evidence of a puja in session.

But when visiting Zangdopelri with Scott and our guests from Rangjung, Vicky and Ian, a couple weekends ago, I still felt a sense of awe, of wonder. Walking through the main gate and into the courtyard, past a statue of a goddess, the temple is surrounded by a circle of small prayer wheels, which are surrounded by smaller buildings containing big, bulky prayer wheels. When we were there, aging Bhutanese were sitting in these smaller buildings with prayer beads and smiles. The temple itself, with its dark towering figures of Rimpoche and other Buddhist dieties inside, is beautiful and mystical. Scott, who mostly thinks one lakhang is just like any other (we've both visited many, many temples, old and new, in Bhutan), was actually impressed.




Butter statues. Scott says the one in the middle looks like a bunch of asparagus.

A Picnic Fit For a King

Now that it’s officially November and cold in Kanglung (and back to being cloudy; it’s like the monsoon season again but a COLD monsoon season), I thought it’d be nice to revisit a much warmer and sunnier time that happened back in late September.

After the somewhat botched King’s visit – botched in the sense that the eager students didn’t get to perform their much-practiced dances and songs – the King bestowed upon our school a lump of money. To be exact, His Magesty gave the school Nu. 45,000, which roughly equals US$1,000. That’s a lot of money here. The gift of money, called a solrey, was solely meant for one thing. You might be guessing the money was for the school library or for repairing the broken windows in the classrooms or for getting every classroom a decent blackboard. No. The money was to be spent on an all-day school-wide picnic. When the principal made this announcement during morning speech, the students went wild. There is nothing that excites students as much as the thought of a picnic, during a school day no less.

In preparation for the big day, the staff had a meeting to assign jobs – shopping, storekeeper, vegetable cutting, cooking, entertainment. I was put on double duty as a vegetable cutter and photographer (by the sheer fact that I have a camera and take pictures). The older students were also given jobs and responsibilities, which they absolutely love. The way these events work is that the teachers are given tasks and they are meant to do them somewhat, but it’s the students who really get the job done.

The kicker was this – the students and teachers could come to school that day in pants and shirts, not in their typical National Dress. Most students embraced this and arrived in jeans and shorts, but some students still came in ghos and kiras. When I asked them why, some answered, “It’s a rule to come to school in National Dress. It doesn’t feel right to wear pants and shirt.” A few other girls admitted that they felt embarrassed to let the boys see them in pants and shirts.

On the morning of the picnic, music could be heard all over upper market. The principal had borrowed a real speaker for the event. Also borrowed was a big tent, under which an alter was set up. When I arrived, things were already in full swing. Giant pots were already being stirred, vegetables were being peeled and cut. Kids were running around everywhere as happy as could be.

The day was a huge success. With much encouragement from the principal and the vice principal, I took over 500 photos that day. Every moment had to be captured after all since a letter would have to be sent to the King with photo evidence of the day. The students were all given tea and biscuits at the right time, juice and maggi an hour or so later, and then a huge lunch with options such as beef, pork, chicken, and egg, as well as the usual offerings. Below are some images of what goes into feeding over 450 people.

Those are all chilies.

Maggi (ramen, which the students eat without cooking. Before they open the bag, they crunch the noodles into small pieces. Then they open the bag, find the small seasoning packet, sprinkle it on, and - yummy - a savory snack) and juice are staples at most picnics.

No Bhutanese meal is complete without potatoes.


The giant cucumbers.


Scott going through the lunch line first because he had to run to teach class.

The students bring their own plates and mugs and bowls.

Look at the trough of rice. Only half of that was consumed by the over 450 eaters. Bhutanese do love to eat rice, but not that much.