Friday, February 27, 2015

The Puja

One morning as I walked to school I noticed a large tent on the side of the road. Inside were dozens of monks wearing their distinctive red robes on the ground, chanting. Unable to grasp what was transpiring, I walked a few minutes further until I reached school and immediately asked the first person I encountered about what I had seen. I was told that recently there were several accidents along the stretch of road just below my house. The death of the gup, otherwise known as the village head or mayor, and a young engineer occurred just a month prior to my arrival, and those deaths were preceded by another tragedy involving a teacher from my school a half year earlier. The most accepted Buddhist interpretation of these events blamed evil spirits for causing the cars to careen off the cliff into a seemingly endless ravine. Concern over the area’s safety was so high that religious and political authorities from the capital and the local dzong issued a puja (Buddhist ritual) to take place with the purpose of purifying the grounds.

That afternoon during one of our tea breaks the entire faculty went to visit the site. Upon arriving I was asked if I had ever prostrated before. I shook my head no, though over the years I had seen it done many times. I stood by and spectated as a small group stepped in front of the monks, pressing their palms and fingers together into an arrow-like shape. They moved their hands together from their forehead to their mouth, down to their heart before kneeling with both legs, spreading their arms out parallel at shoulder’s width, and touching their palms to the floor. At last they lightly touched their foreheads to the earth, then stood up and repeated the process two more times.  After they were finished I was asked to show my respects so I joined another small group and clumsily mimicked those around me. The act is humbling and symbolic on many levels, showing veneration whilst purifying the mind of defilements such as conceit. Everyone had a turn before sitting cross-legged on a thick bed of pine needles, where we were offered sweet tea and local snacks. The mood was carefree despite the nature of the puja, perhaps because death and misfortune is so commonplace here, so we ate merrily in the midday sun before returning back to our conference hall for further meetings.

Later in the evening as I was going to bed I could still make out the low, soothing tone of chanting through an electronic sound system. The sounds reminded me of Arabic songs and prayers bellowed from speakers atop mosques in Senegal, though somewhat more subdued. I was slowly lulled to sleep but when I awoke, I could still hear chanting. I am not entirely certain whether they went on through the night or took a rest and woke up before me, but their efforts went on for another full day until that evening when the site was finally dismantled.

A couple weeks have since passed and now only a few stubborn pine needles remain, though recently I have seen a half dozen men working day in and day out constructing a chorten—I assume to commemorate the efforts of the monks and to honor the lives lost on that precarious bend in the road.


(The chorten in different stages of construction)


Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Wabi-sabi Dzonglish Meetings

Tuesday the 10th was my first day at work. I left early that morning and walked straight to Karma’s house. As per an earlier agreement, he promised to help me affix my gho. I had never imagined it could be so difficult to put on, but then again I never in a million years would have guessed my default work attire would include knee-high socks with dress shoes.
When in Rome, I suppose. He expertly folded and pleated the sides, then proceeded to cinch the belt so incredibly tight my insides screamed. This is how it should feel, he assured me.

Down at the center of the school I mingled with many teachers. Normally I would try to keep a low profile, but that isn’t possible when you’re the only westerner among some 40+ Bhutanese teachers. A few men took the opportunity to introduce themselves to me. They cracked jokes that went over my head between question after question about my age, interests, and thoughts on Buddhism and sports. They all seemed nice and easy going, comparative in age, and for the first (and last) time in my life, I was among the tallest.

Our introductions continued as we ascended some hundred steps to the conference room. This would be our main meeting room for the week. An old wooden structure, the building reaps much of its character from the traditional paintings and symbols on the beams, if not for the rickety wabi-sabi aesthetic that caused me slight concern. The conference room was dark and cold, but it held the school’s only projector and enough seating to comfortably sit the lot of us.


(Outside the Resource Center awaiting other teachers one morning)

Inside the new teachers—myself plus two others—introduced ourselves and spoke of our aspirations for the upcoming year. Between the principal’s introduction and several teachers’ comments, my name was uttered a lot the first day. I felt out of place with the extra attention and my colleague appears to be under the impression that my teaching strategies will transform the school. I am unsure if I can match the hype, but I can and will do my best.

Much of the week proceeded in this fashion; all day meetings with Dzongkha being the preferred medium of communication, though English was not totally uncommon. The faculty prepared small group activities with presentations, mini-PD sessions, speeches, and revisions in previous policy. There was even a half-day workshop on special education. Pretty progressive of you, Bhutan! A good half of the week, though, I had no idea what was happening due to the language gap. Being new to the system meant I had to gain some contextual understanding before being capable of participating anyway. Once in a while someone sitting next to me would fill me in on conversation, but as the principal reminded me, if it was truly important, he would speak in English. In the end it was a 5-day lesson in cultural immersion and helped me to understand my school atmosphere, hierarchy, and dynamics.

Late in the week we signed up for classes. In truth I didn’t have much say in the matter, but I wasn’t fussy to begin with. By Saturday my roles had been set in stone. I would be the head of the English department, the English examination coordinator, the literary club coordinator, Class III and Class VI English and Math teacher, and a member of the conch house (one of eight school houses, in reference to the eight sacred Buddhist symbols). At first the list seemed overwhelming, but in the end I am only teaching half of the 6-day school week’s 48 periods, giving me plenty of time to prepare for my various responsibilities.

(My school just left of center)

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Goodbyes and Hellos

The morning went by quickly as I had my last conversations with friends over breakfast. I watched them pack up then hugged everyone tightly as we parted ways for what would be the foreseeable future. It’s so strange how quickly friendships develop under unique and difficult circumstances. Our shared adventurous spirit coupled with our journey through the unknown and uncomfortable has created a strong and special bond.

The buses left and Nakita and I were left standing there. The feeling sank in. This is home now and our orientation is a thing of the past. The two of us utilized the hotel’s internet for as long as they would allow us before heading into town to get a lay of the land. We walked in every store that caught our eyes, eager to see what the town had to offer. We provoked the stares of curious onlookers as we walked from store to store. It appears that most appliances and goods available in Thimphu are also here, well most anyway. At the market we found three floors, all offering slightly different things. On the top floor were the local goods: daikon radishes, cilantro, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, chilies, and other common goods. The next floor had produce imported from India; eggplant, red onions, tomatoes, limes, even garlic. On the third and final floor is where meats are sold, of a standard much less desirable than in the capital. Nancy cautioned us to be wary of meat in the east, and since Nakita is a pescatarian, this problem is mine and mine alone. I don’t mind meals without meat, but every once in a while I’ll get a craving.

In Bhutan, you are not allowed to slaughter animals. This is the Buddhist way. But it isn’t as cut and dry as it sounds. If the animal were to “fall and die”, the meat is fair game. If an Indian national kills the animal, then it’s okay. If no one is there to witness the slaughter, then who is to say the conditions in which the animal perished? In the end, the Bhutanese like their meat and one way or another they will ensure it shows up on their plate. Who am I to judge?

After stocking up on the basics, I called my vice principal Karma. He was there to meet me at my home when I first arrived and said I could call him for anything. He didn’t disappoint as he took us out for tea and proceeded to inquire into our lives so as to know us better. Later he took us to his home and introduced us to his family before dropping us off at my place. Nakita couldn’t get a hold of her principal so we proceeded to walk up to her house, some 5 kilometers uphill with everything in hand. In truth, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. We wanted to see how long it took to get to her place from mine and the walk offered all kinds of beautiful vistas and lush scenery. Some hour and fifteen minutes later we arrived at her doorstep. I bid her adieu and headed back, determined to beat the sunset.

I failed. Thirty minutes into the walk back down the windy road, the light disappeared and I found myself very, very alone. A small pack of dogs charged me, but thanks to my time in Senegal, I knew how to keep them at bay. Soon the road was pitch-black and my surroundings were full of strange and unfamiliar sounds. Bats flew just over my head, squeaking as they went. The breeze blew things in confusing directions and created unusual howls. Were it not for the flashlight Nakita had lent me, I would have been completely beside myself. I walked in the middle of the road for fear of encountering snakes and avoided passing cars as they sped by. Needless to say I was happy to find home that evening. My house a mess and totally unprepared for living in, I huddled in my bed around my blanket and wrote in my blog before watching a movie and falling asleep.

The next day I awoke around 9 and ate some nectarines and bananas to calm my growling stomach. Taking my time, I started moving things around a bit and assessed my home situation until just after lunch when I contacted Karma. Being ever-friendly and helpful, he invited me over for coffee. There his wife treated us to rice, chilies, and thick chunks of pork. Akin to bacon but thicker and full of fat, the meal was rich and delicious.

Karma is in his mid-thirties. He is average in height with a sturdy stature and a wide, friendly face, complimented by his sincere eyes and smile. He has been nothing but kind to me since we first met. Currently he is in his second year as vice principal at the school where his wife, Chimomo, also teaches. He seems inquisitive as to my travels and life since he loves geography and literature, as well as having traveled somewhat himself.

On this particular day Karma promised to help me get set up and carted me all around town to introduce me to people and help me buy all the things I needed. He took me down to the hospital where we hung out with some of the doctors and talked life and lifestyles in Bhutan. There I tried a hard yak cheese that you are supposed to suck until it becomes moist. Not terribly flavorful, but not bad aside from the odd texture, having been in my mouth for a half hour. He took me to the dzong for coffee and momos (dumplings). Then he took my list and proceeded to help me acquire every single thing on it. It may have taken hours due to the all the mingling, but at the end of the day I got to see a lot of the city, meet plenty of people, and get stocked to the nines!

Thursday, February 12, 2015

On the Road, Day Three

I awoke later than most that Saturday morning, reticent to leave the warmth of the bed knowing full well how cold it was at that altitude. I joined the others for breakfast where we dined on a local delicacy, buckwheat pancakes. We packed up early because they had to rearrange all our luggage. One bus was staying in the area so that meant we had to squeeze Nakita’s and my things in the back of the pickup truck, while everyone else’s things were put atop or in the small bus. We were leaving four teachers behind: Holly, Sebastian, Cat, and Becky. They came with us the extra day just to see the country so now they were going to spend a day exploring before heading back west. I was going to miss Holly’s unwavering enthusiasm, Sebastian’s good humor, Cat’s zeal, and Becky’s easy going attitude. But we had to forge on and so after a tough but heartfelt goodbye, we hit the road, our number now down to ten.

In the bus we played a guessing game called Contact as we retraced our steps back to the main highway. The land turned into what I can only describe as Rohan-esque, golden hills with mountainous backdrops.


I knew that this was one of if not the very last open valley we’d see as the east is much more jagged and settlements tend to situate on the mountain tops. We began our long ascent to Thrumsingla pass, the second highest pass in Bhutan at 3800m. On the way up we passed a mountain village that reminded me of parts of Colorado, farm plots separated by crude wooden fencing and timber stacked everywhere.


Our climb continued for hours until we were in the clouds, surrounded by snow. At the top of the pass we stopped to stretch our legs and get some fresh air. Nakita and I circumambulated the chorten, our minds on the others beginning their new life, wishing for the release of their suffering.


Over the pass we descended for a while then had lunch at a small little restaurant. Their potato curry was especially delicious thanks to the chili oil which gave it a thorough bite.

Nakita and I couldn’t stay and mingle because we had to switch to the pickup. We had to get a head start so we could drop our things off at our new placements before meeting up with the gang at the hotel in Mongar. The driver was no-nonsense, whipping around corners and hitting bumps at full speed. The two of us acclimated and talked of our newfound life that was just around the corner.

Most of the drive was downhill. At one point we beheld the most magnificent waterfall spilling off into the abyss.


Soon the landscape changed. The pine trees were gone, replaced with thick jungle vegetation, vines, bamboo, and ferns. I put on some Album Leaf and the two of us soaked in the sights. Within an hour we were driving through a green valley. Crops surrounded us along with banana and orange trees. The beauty was almost too much to take.


A river ran parallel to the village, alongside the relatively new hazelnut plots. I would later come to meet several of the foreigners running the operation and learn a bit about the process.  Once through, we headed back up another 45 minutes to the city of Mongar. Suddenly the reality of it all began to descend upon me. Waves of jitters and joy hit me. Nakita asked if I knew what my school looked like, to which I replied I had seen a picture of it on the website. Just at that moment I saw it, the four main buildings sitting right on the edge of the mountain overlooking the most amazing view. We didn’t have time to stop, however, and we continued past the city to Nakita’s placement in Kedhekar, 5 kilometers out of Mongar. There we located her new house-to-be and moved her things into her residence. As it turned out, she lives above a general store in a kind of attic. The place is big in terms of space, with 2 bedrooms, two living spaces, a kitchen, and a bathroom. It has cement floors and running water, with a kitchen windows that look right out into the valley.

After dropping things off we all got back into the truck and drove back to Mongar. Well, almost. We stopped about a kilometer out of town and drove up a steep driveway. This was it. This is where I am going to be living for at least the next year. It’s amazing! It’s above the school looking out at the most beautiful vista I have ever seen in my life.

 (Only half of my view, this portion looks at the hills while the 
other overlooks a large valley and mountains in the distance )

We got out of the car to move things inside. My house has granite floors and baby blue walls, 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom with a western toilet and shower head, and a living room. There are windows in every room and some basic furniture. I am definitely one of the lucky ones.
We met up with our friends just in time to meet several guests. An English/Canadian gentleman named Peter and his wife Ruth joined us for dinner by Nancy’s invitation. He is a pediatrician working at the city’s famous hospital. Not long after they arrived Nakita’s and my principal both arrived. Nakita’s principal is a short man with what I can only describe as a most jolly face. He is such a happy man. My principal is also very kind and approachable who appears very wise and contemplative. We sat by our respective bosses for dinner and got a chance to get to know them better. As we ate four more guests walked in. These were the runners of the hazelnut project. We also had one more guest later on, a district representative who is high up in the ministry.

Nancy treated us to wine and from there the conversations flowed freely. Over the next hour I had a chance to speak with everyone as well as learn more about my school and upcoming position from my principal. I learned he, Mr. Kinley Dorji, speaks eight languages. 8! Most Bhutanese can speak at least three, which is impressive on its own, but eight? Wow!

After dinner most were feeling tired so they went to bed, but a few of us planned to put the early wake up time in the back of our minds. We were told about a strange place where you pay women to dance in full kira and can dance alongside them—at a few arm’s length distance, as if it were some kind of PG strip club minus all the sexuality. It sounded strange, but Nakita said let’s go so half-intrigued, half-confused we follow the hazelnut crew into town. Lo and behold, it was as they said. Women and men were casually dancing to Hindi and Bhutanese songs. Young women came up to us and tried to get us to pay for them to dance. But it’s not really even dancing. It’s more of a swaying motion. At one point we all hopped on stage with a group of men and danced to a Hindi song. The whole affair was just too bizarre for me. Unfortunately some of the patrons were intoxicated and had to be escorted out (without force or judgment, mind you). Other than their behavior the country is utterly wholesome. In my time here, I’ve even seen graffiti that says “I love my parents”. Anyhow, as I said the whole thing was just too strange so we left the hazelnut bunch there and went to bed, laughing about the insanity of it all.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

On the Road, Day Two

We woke up early on Friday morning to a quick breakfast and departed just after 7am; Catherine, one of the women from Australia, was returning back to Thimphu along with Madam Meena so we bid adieu and departed through the valley, following the river the opposite direction as we had the day before. We passed a few small clusters of towns then crossed over the water via a large steel bridge toward Holly’s placement.


It wasn’t long before the landscape changed. As we climbed a precarious green ridge we spotted a few monkeys lounging in the trees.


Our elevation continued until we spotted small pockets of snow along the road. Our ascent continued for hours. We laughed nervously at the ridiculous precipices that lay but a few inches from the car, but with the skill of our driver Dorji, we made it to the next pass. This one was covered in prayer flags—perfectly contrasting the colors against the pristine snow. We stretched our legs and walked upwards for a bit, eager for fresh air. On the way back down we molded the crunchy snow into projectiles and began to throw them at one another playfully.



Our journey continued on the bus for another hour or so before alighting for tea. Unlike before where we drank sweet tea (naja) or black tea, this time we were going to experience our first suja: butter tea (literally churned tea). Let me assure you it tastes just as odd as it sounds. The drink is very buttery with a slight salty flavor to it, and certainly an acquired taste. In line with custom, we added zao (similar to Rice Krispies) to the tea which made it more manageable to drink. We huddled around the bukkari enjoying the warmth until we were uprooted yet again, destined for the road. As we passed around one mountain we saw an enormous dzong across the valley.

(The dzong is just right of center)

It was a sight to behold, and luckily, we came to eat lunch right above it. There we ran into a large group of students on a field trip from the Singapore American School. I spoke with one of the teachers and he told me their domestic flight to the east was cancelled so they were touring the country from west to east and back for 10 days. What a blessing to be touring Bhutan as a high schooler! At the restaurant we met another Canadian teacher who lives an hour away and ate the typical delicacies of chicken, rice, noodles, ema datsi, vegetable curry, and daal which successfully warmed us up from the inside out.

Following lunch time seemed a blur as I was lulled in and out of sleep. When I awoke we were no longer hugging the mountains; instead we were driving right through a quaint farming village. There was a calm about the area that spoke to me; I couldn’t peel my eyes away.


As it turned out, this is where Becky was to be stationed. We pulled right up to the school and helped her move her things in. Becky’s place was spacious, complete with a balcony. A few of us stood there and looked out at the town, ooing and aaing at the buildings, prattling on about hiking and dreaming of future visits. A large magpie perched on top of a power line, adding color to the otherwise earthy colors of winter. We were remiss to leave, but we still had another hour and a half of driving to endure.

The ride out of the town was gorgeous. It was uncharacteristically flat which added to the rustic charm. Parts of it even resembled Oregon. Eventually the undulating nature of the landscape returned, staying that way for the remainder of the trip. We finally settled at our accommodation for the night, somewhat reminiscent of a lodge. We drank coffee and tea for a bit and, with Nancy’s permission, set out in a large group as night descended upon us in search of cheese. We strode through the town in the dark, Becky guiding us past it and into the woods until we came across a few small houses. The light to the shop was on but the door was locked. I called the store using the number written on the sign and a woman came and opened the store. I am certain she is glad she did because between the lot of us, we bought an entire wheel of gouda. It was divine!

We ate at the hotel and bought a few beers to celebrate our long day of travel. By 9:30 there were only 5 of us left so we played Wizard and laughed uproariously about all kinds of ridiculous things until it was time to go to bed.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

On the Road, Day One

On the morning of the 5th, the lot of us set out on our polar manifest destiny, out east. Our packed goods were loaded into a large yellow high school bus. Our program coordinator and others rode in an SUV, and the rest of us sat in a white school bus with some items filling up the back few rows. From Thimphu we ascended into the hills, twisting and turning with the landscape. There were a few checkpoints where we had to wait at until we were ushered through. At said points families would hop out of the back of trucks and walk through the queue selling momos (dumplings), popcorn, and sweets. The atmosphere on the bus was a mixed one. Several BCFers celebrated our last night in Thimphu with such gusto that the after effects carried over into the next day. Coupled with the bumpy, windy roads this did not sit well. The rest of us (me having learned my lesson earlier) were buzzing with delight, chatting excitedly about our time, the things ahead, and laughing about life. The sun was high in the sky and for a while it felt rather hot.

Within an hour the landscape had already changed somewhat. The trees were different, greener despite the dust, and closer together. Pine trees littered the distance and the hills appeared steeper. Up and up we rode until we arrived at our first pass. There to our left was a deep valley and far in the distance at the height of the clouds lie the snow-capped Himalayas. To our right was a small hill with 100 chortens, a kind of tribute created at the behest of the 4th king’s wife. I walked clockwise around them, as is custom, weaving through the stout chortens until I ascended the stairs and stood in awe at my surroundings. Everything in sight was registering in my aesthetic faculties, firing serotonin directly into my brain.


Soon after we departed and continued on our journey. Again we faced a road block, this time near a patch of frozen ice from a waterfall. Dylan and Megan, the South Africans, took to it instantly, enjoying the rare opportunity to experience real ice.

We descended slowly over the next several hours. Throughout the ride my heart was in my throat. The drive is rather treacherous and there is rarely anything to keep the bus from careening off the cliff. At one point we passed an overturned truck, lucky to still be on the road instead of in a ditch far, far below. In time we found ourselves in Punakha district. At this time of year the district is a hearty golden color with wide valleys interspersed between gradual inclines. We passed one of the first teacher’s residences, which looked beautifully over the valley below. A half hour later we had arrived at our destination for the night, a small but stunning hotel. The people in the bus, at least the ones in good spirits, were elated at the sight of this beautiful getaway. Adam from Mt. Vernon, my roommate in light of Fraser’s departure, picked one of the keys for the rooms and we went to check out our stay for the night. Our jaws dropped as we opened the door. The room was spacious and a beautiful sandy color. At the windowsill was a padded bench and a view that looked straight at the valley. In the foreground were terraced crop fields, most likely rice. In the distance was a village, some mile or two out. To the right was the incline leading back up to Cat’s placement.


As we awaited the SUV’s arrival, Adam, Nakita, Dan, Sarah, and I had a look around the complex. In one corner we found a trampoline. A trampoline—in Bhutan! We excitedly took turns jumping about then took a rest nearby. Another teacher, Judy, came and chatted with us, eventually dishing out her famous menopause rap, much to our delight. Dylan took photos of the surrounding area and we laughed uproariously as we watched a farmer throw hay at his cows. Not to. At.

When the SUV arrived, our program coordinator offered to take those willing to the famous Punakha Dzong. It is very old and situated at the convergence of two rivers—one male, one female. We were driven about 45 minutes out to the dzong, yielding some beautiful sights along the way as we followed the joined river. The dzong is absolutely massive. No pictures, even those with scale, can properly convey the size and prominence of this architectural masterpiece. We crossed a long wooden bridge into the complex, and with some magic from Nancy, we were allowed inside. She is a very important person in Bhutan, indubitably the most revered foreigner currently living. Nancy has befriended both the fourth and fifth king, been asked to join the 5th king’s wedding ceremony, and been the first non-Bhutanese to ever be awarded a merit award for her work these last thirty years. But I digress. Inside we walked with our necks craned in order to look at the tops of the buildings, taking note of district offices and a large Bodhi tree planted in one of the large courtyards. The art was ornate, just as much so as anywhere I’ve seen in Bhutan thus far.


At the far end of the complex we serendipitously encountered a group of monks practicing for an upcoming ceremony, dancing in a circular fashion, their red robes spreading and dancing with them. At the entrance of one of the buildings another group of monks played their traditional instruments to the dance, variants of horns and cymbals, the sounds of which cut deeply through my body like a divine vibration. We watched silently, taking in the moment until ushered into the main temple within the dzong. Just before stepping in we noticed Rinzin, a friend of Fraser’s we had met in Thimphu. As it turned out he was escorting a small film crew shooting for Vogue magazine. Lo and behold, behind him was a woman in monk-like clothing, white make-up, and jewels decorating her face. It was very avant-garde. High fashion, I guess.

(A hurried, discrete shot of the photo shoot in progress)

The inside of this particular shrine was overwhelming. Thousands of small Buddhas lined the walls alongside various esoteric deities which blur the lines of Hinduism and Buddhism. Every inch of space from the floor to the ceiling was expertly painted and sculpted. And at the center were three large golden figures, the historical Buddha in the center, Guru Rimpoche on the left, and Shabdrung on the right. Guru Rimpoche was the one said to have flown into Bhutan on the back of a tigress, landing on a cliff. He meditated at the spot which he eventually had made into a monastery, that being the famous Paro Takstang, otherwise known as Tiger’s Nest Monastery. Shabdrung is the man responsible for unifying Bhutan some four hundred years ago. Nancy explained that this is where the most recent royal wedding took place back in 2011. I walked around for a good five minutes, basking in the utter sensory overload I experienced until it was time to leave. My senses and soul thoroughly shaken, I walked in dreamlike state until we were again outside the complex.

We returned with enough time to shower and get ready for dinner. Following a lovely meal we were treated to a bonfire, the staff offering us wine and whiskey. We sat around the fire listening to Nancy tell us stories about her own experiences and great tales of Bhutanese children walking several days on their own just to get to school. As the fire and the drinks warmed our insides, Cat entertained us with a fireside story of a flying Yeti. The conversations lasted until our eyes drooped and the fire dimmed until it was time for us to sleep. After all, the next day called for a long drive.

 

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Thimphu and the Red Hot 'Chilip' Peppers



February 4th, 2015

       It’s the night before departing Thimphu, and I must admit the city has left me with a good impression. At first the complex network of concrete, wood, and wiring was bewildering, but as the days went on, as we shopped vigorously for our new and out-of-reach destinations, as we ate at every cuisine there was to offer, and as we walked around the town to see the sights, it all began to feel familiar. An admiration for the city and its peoples grew within me.  The restaurants, the smiles, the mélange of hipsters, monks, and stray dogs all sharing the same uneven streets—it is all so strange and yet in a way comforting.

       Despite having a modest population of roughly 100,000, Thimphu has a great deal to offer. Sure it won’t have that obscure food favorite from back home or novelty appliance, but the city has provided the essentials to get through my first year in the field. My focus in terms of shopping has been about stocking up on the basics—mattress and sheets, rice cooker and gas stove, a fridge and pans, water filters and boiler, and buckets for bathing and washing clothes.  Despite the long list, our organizers didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by the sheer volume of stuff BCFers have amassed. Between two buses, a pickup truck and a van, we should be able to fit all 17 of us and our goods—only of course by using every free inch of space imaginable. In the back of my mind a voice of worry mutters, “wouldn’t tying all those things atop a bus while taking tight turns over cliff-side roads increase the odds of a most frightful end?” I try not to think about it though. They do it all the time, I suppose.
       The most exciting aspect of shopping was selecting my ghos. A gho is a traditional one-piece robe worn by men in the country. Foreign teachers are not required to wear them, but doing so is a sign of respect and shows an attempt to engage in Bhutanese culture. I bought one pre-made gho that is a solid black color and had one tailored with red and orange vertical stripes. The woman at the store said that latter design is a very traditional. I have since been able to try both on. The first time I went outside in one, though, I was very self-conscious. I could feel people’s eyes on me the whole time I was out, my hearing acutely aware of their mutterings and giggles. I walked down the hill about 15 minutes to buy a few things and while I was in a shop the belt came loose, much to the amusement of the women in the store. My worst nightmare was being realized. Ghos are extremely difficult to put on properly and will take me some time to perfect so after a good minute of enduring their laughter, I humbly asked if one of the women could help me fix it. Fortunately people are so nice here and go out of their way to help so it didn’t turn out to be a problem at all.

       Aside from stocking up, we spent many mornings learning about Bhutan. The first several days focused on the education system, which to me seemed rather straightforward—perhaps even more organized than the western equivalent. One day we even had the opportunity to meet and speak with the secretary of education in Bhutan, of course donning our Sunday’s finest. Other topics included health and safety, culture, cooking, and language. We heard from a doctor and our program head Nancy about the potential hazards we might encounter while here. Sanitation and safety is paramount, as hospitals and services are limited here, especially when facing a plethora of dangers including and not limited to: rabid dogs, typhoid, E. coli, malaria, and poisonous snakes.

       One night half of our group drove up to the Bhutan Canada Foundation headquarters and were walked through cooking a traditional Bhutanese meal. We cooked mustard greens, red rice, kewa datsi—a kind of potato cheese dish, vegetable curry, dal, rotis, and ezze or fresh salsa. The process was time consuming but incredibly useful. Food here in Bhutan is limited to what is in season, so being able to cook a variety of dishes is important to a balanced diet throughout the year.

I could go on and on about our time in Thimphu. There were far too many great moments to document them all, so instead I will include some of my favorite memories:

·        Previously mentioned events like the karaoke night and the soccer game
·        Listening to a live Bhutanese band play Blink-182 at a bar
·        Being taken around town to underground clubs by a man named “Handsome”
·        Coffee, bukkari, and good conversation at the Swiss Bakery
·        Seeing the giant golden Buddha that looks over Thimphu
·        Indulging in western delights like pizza at Druk Pizza and burgers at The Zone
·        Walking around town late at night to find people huddled around bon fires in oil drums
·        Late night hangouts with people in their rooms at the hotel


February 5th, 2015
       As is with all things, our time had to come to an end. Last night we packed all our things, saying goodbye to Fraser and Alex who were going a separate way, and set off early in the morning to begin our multi-day, epic road trip across Bhutan, dropping off teachers along the way at their placements while taking in the breathtaking views of the countryside.

(Overlooking Thimphu)