Rooftop Madness

Celebration plays an important role in Bhutanese life. As in all cultures it serves a grand purpose: to keep communities close while celebrating life’s small victories. Since I have moved to Mongar I have already attended a handful of celebrations and the reasons for such occasions vary greatly. Some are known to us, such as marriages and baby showers, while others, like roof construction, are not. During the construction of a new house, the soon-to-be owners will throw four different get-togethers: one when the foundation is complete, one when the walls have reached a particular height, one when the roof’s construction has begun, and one final one once everything is finished. I am still unclear as to whether this counts as a house-warming party or if this is its own event, but I think you get the gist.

On one particular day just after 1 p.m., we were celebrating the construction of the roof of one of our teachers and attendance was compulsory. We drove out of Mongar down a windy road for a few minutes before regaining altitude via a much less developed dirt path, walking the final leg to the teacher’s house. There was a most stunning view of lower Mongar, the city courthouse, and the surrounding hills. Teachers from both the lower and the higher secondary schools had come to celebrate, people spilling out of the house onto the surrounding hills, everyone with tea and snacks in hand. They doled out alcoholic drinks and juice and within an hour or two had food served buffet style. Everyone around me carried on their conversations in Dzongkha so I tuned in and out of them with undulating interest for some time. Much of my attention focused on the food. I dined on a lot of good eats that day, but my favorite was a simple snack. Chilies, onions, cilantro, and fried ramen noodles, diced and eaten by hand. Anyone who knows me can understand why this would speak to my palate.

The hours ticked by and I found myself restless with all the idle chatter, but Bhutan has consistently proven itself to be just beyond my patience threshold—coming from a teacher, no less. As some left, Karma and I went to his car. We ended up waiting there for another hour expecting a few people that never showed up so we went back and talked with some of the administration of the higher secondary school until the sun dipped behind the mountains and everyone took their leave. Well, most everyone except those immediately around me, including myself. They insisted I try a glass of arra (distilled rice liquor around 40% alcohol content), despite my incessant attempts to decline and my hard-lined rule not to drink before sunset, refusing to leave until I drank. I finally acquiesced and said I would try a small taste. The house’s owner went off to sort things out. I looked at my phone, which told me it was a quarter to 7, and sighed quietly as I knew this fact would bring me no solace nor provide a worthy excuse to leave. The Bhutanese have a unique talent in persuasion that to our western sensibility can border on pushiness, but of course no harm is intended. They are merely performing their duty as hosts and as their guest, saying ‘no’ just isn’t in the cards.

Five minutes went by and eventually I was given a cup, nearly full to the brim, with arra. I took a sip. It tasted mild with a hint of earthiness, leaving an aftertaste akin to the smell of cooked rice. I must admit, it wasn’t bad. Were I in some other mood or in some other context, I would have happily imbibed it casually, but at this hour my socially exhausted self pined for nothing more than solitude and a good book. I complimented the drink and they continued to watch me as I emptied the glass over several minutes. At long last, it being dark at this point, we drove back into town. We had to stop for some time to arrange an exchange of goods to a friend or neighbor, but eventually I made it home and got to open that book I so longed for.

The clock ticks slowly here and no one ever seems to be in a hurry. People make impromptu plans as opposed to arranging in advance. Conversations last hours and afternoons turn into all-day events. My friend Yeshi insists this is the better way to live; enjoying the moment. I am sure I will warm to the process in time, but in the thick of my culture shock I find adjustments like these particularly difficult—perhaps more so here than any other country I’ve lived in because of its cultural richness. But the lesson is a valuable one: sometimes we do need to slow down and enjoy life for what it is. Take in the sights and enjoy the good food, company, and conversation while they are still there to be had.