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.
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.
posted by Siapiau | 3:12 PM
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