Annual Rimdro

Rimdro (pronounced rim-do) is an umbrella term that encompasses rituals and ceremonies for a variety of purposes. The word itself means service in Dzongkha and it is part and parcel of Bhutanese life. Some rimdros are for prosperity, others long life, but the most common I’ve encountered is for purification. Last week we celebrated our school rimdro, but first a little introduction...

Prior to the school-based iteration I observed two different rimdros. Back in May the teachers at my school were asked to attend a house rimdro during lunchtime. The tenants had recently moved in and thus needed to cleanse their four walls. Outside were offerings of food (for the gods, not us) and hand-made statues made of butter. As we walked toward the house, I could easily hear the jarring sounds of Buddhist horns and drums. I often heard these sounds while walking the streets over the last several months and only then did it hit me that people were not listening to this for pleasure alone—these recordings held significance in home rituals meant to drive away negative energy and spirits. Once inside we were offered food. We sat and ate and that was it. Afterward we said our farewells, but as I came to learn it is common courtesy to extend an invitation to others so that they, no matter how small a role, can take part in the ceremony. 

A month later amidst an intense lightning storm I remember being alarmed at the smell of smoke. I left my office to find the source, thinking something had been struck—a notion I likely developed because not a week earlier a pole on the campus was hit, destroying a few computers and electrical equipment with it. Fortunately for all, the billowing white smoke was not due to lightening, but rather another house rimdro. Smoke, I would learn, plays an important role in the process.

My school celebrated its annual rimdro last week on the 13^th of August. All schools across the country celebrate annual rimdro, though the dates vary and I believe our school was one of the last. How they came to choose that date, I don’t know, but I can only assume it involved consultation with a lama. Dates for important events are often decided after taking astrological forces into consideration. 

The days prior to the ritual were busy. We had meetings after school and delegated roles for all the teachers. Unfortunately for me the meetings were 97% Dzongkha so I sat there staring at nothing in particular without the slightest clue as to why we were convening in the first place. Eventually someone explained what they were up to and asked what responsibility I would like to take up. I, knowing little relevant to the occasion, didn’t have much to offer so eventually we decided my services would be best utilized as a photographer for the day. Not a problem for me. That meant I could wander at will and see all the moving parts throughout the day.

We were also asked to contribute a fee to help pay for the food and set-up costs. The whole affair must cost well over $1000 judging by the divvied up contributions required from teachers and students, which is a lot when factoring in Bhutanese cost of living (the total being equivalent to 2 and a half months of a teacher's salary). Not wanting to receive special treatment I paid my dues like everyone else. Any visitors would also be asked to provide a donation upon arrival.

Once all the roles had been assigned the students were given their responsibilities. That Wednesday we ended class early so students and teachers could go about their chores. Students moved chairs and tables, sweeping certain areas, and doing any additional favor asked by their teachers. The teachers meanwhile procured food and materials. I took this time to charge my GoPro and soak in the quiet before the storm.

The next morning I awoke and got ready at a leisurely pace. The principal had told me since I wasn’t required for morning set-up—starting at around 7am—that I needn’t show up until 9. Taking my camera equipment with me, I headed down. The campus was intensely quiet, eerily so due to the low barometric pressure in addition to the absence of children’s playful laughter. I didn’t spy a soul until I set down my umbrella and started walking toward the multi-purpose hall (MPH). 

Just as I started down the ramp a number of teachers were walking up, getting in the formation typical of receiving guests. They wore their gho and kira as well as their religious/official accompaniment of kabney and rachu. Kabneys are off-white lengthy scarves meant to indicate a layperson’s status and wrapped around one shoulder, hanging well below the hip on the right-hand side. A rachu, conversely, is the female equivalent, though red and colorfully embroidered. It is thicker and shorter and draped over one shoulder, hanging straight down though occasionally swathed around the neck.They told me they were awaiting the lama. I snapped a few pictures and loitered with them for a while. I decided to walk up the road to the school entrance to capture the drapery of downward flags lining the sidewalk, their colors the same as prayer flags: white, yellow, red, green, and blue. On my way back down I was ushered to the MPH, the teachers insisting I eat breakfast.

For those who haven’t stepped out of English speaking countries, breakfast for most of the world is no different than any other meal. They eat the same things they might for lunch or dinner. I remember being so surprised to hear that my students in Korea ate kimchi, rice, and hot, savory soups for breakfast. Of course western-designated breakfast foods (eggs, cereal, and porridge) have caught on in many countries, but here in Bhutan people are far more likely to eat fried rice than sugar-coated corn flakes. But I digress. The breakfast I was being served is a personal favorite of mine: ezze and rice. Ezze is a kind of fresh salsa composed of diced chilies, cilantro, tomato, onions, and crumbly local cheese. It is not for the weak-tongued, but its punch is complimented nicely by its freshness. Usually people will take this meal with suja, or butter tea, but I am not a big suja fan and opted for the sweet milky tea instead.

Afterward I perused the perimeter of the MPH and found students washing dishes. I reckon in my home country if teenage boys and girls were asked to do this in front of their peers it would be an embarrassing affair, but these adolescents were going about their business without a hint of annoyance, chatting to pass the time. Next to them was an old cast-iron contraption. I hadn’t the slightest clue what its purpose could be until I inquired and was told it cooks rice in mass amounts. Behind the student dish washers was an area where open flames cooked obscenely massive pots, the contents of which would remain a mystery until later meals. 

Further back on a steep slope were a couple students climbing trees and cutting off pine branches. They took their findings with them around the back of the building where others were piling the branches on top of a fire, subsequently creating the white smoke I had seen months earlier at the house rimdro. As I mentioned before smoke plays an important role in purification the same way sage and incense are used in different parts of the world. The smell is comforting from afar, reminiscent of a camp bonfire, though it at times was too overwhelming for me throughout the day and I had to retreat for a breath of fresh air.

I had delayed investigating the inside of the MPH for as long as I could. I walked in the main entrance and up one of the stairwells to the top floor. There were hundreds of students sitting up in the rafters with small carpets and scrolls with prayers inscribed on them. The main altar in the back of the top floor had a huge display of bread, noodles, and other junk food piled high as offering. In one corner students methodically tore open noodle and cookie packets, pouring them on top of a mound. Later in the day the monks would bless the food and it would be distributed back to the students the next day. Perhaps this is the one time that the school will condone eating junk food, seeing as it is blessed.

I stood over the railing to see the main floor. It was a sight to see. The walls were covered from end to end in religious patterns and scrolls borrowed from the dzong’s monastery. On the stage were the monks with their instruments and prayer books saying their mantras, the sounds of which carried far and wide via loudspeakers. In the center sat the lama on a decorated platform, also chanting. On the opposite end of the hall were two statues, one of a man and the other of a women dressed in traditional Bhutanese garb. Surrounding them was an elaborate veil of textile going high above their heads, equally colorful as everything else in the room. And behind them were hundreds of butter lamps, about half of which were lit at that point.

The middle of the MPH was occupied by class 7 and 8 students lined in rows on display for all. They too were reciting mantras though less enthusiastically. Interestingly enough when I had asked students the days prior if they were excited about rimdro, I received mixed responses. Some loved the deviation from the typical school day and genuinely liked the activities while others thought the 8 hours of chanting and sitting around to be a boring prospect. Nevertheless no one seemed in poor spirits while I was there. Most maintained a kind of balance between mantras and goofing off. There were even a few engaging in the latest craze to hit the school: Rubik's cubes. 

I found a seat and took in the sights and sounds of the experience. The cacophony of the instruments contrasted by the subdued, trance-like sounds of chanting was oddly soothing. After an hour or so I needed reprieve from the smoke wafting through the open doors and windows. I took this opportunity to check up on the younger classes who were performing similar mantras in the library and science lab. 

Again I returned to the MPH and sat quietly until it was time for lunch. Guests from the nearby high schools came to visit, joining us as we dined on the available rice and curries. The afternoon continued in like manner, receiving various guests from nearby schools and the community. Every hour or so tea and biscuits would be served.

By 5 o’clock I was told the main event would take place. Fortunately my six and half months in Bhutan had built up my patience to endure an all-day affair of this nature. Ever so slowly students began to pile into the hall once more. Everyone was given holy water, which you take a sip of before throwing it over your hair and head. Next various grains were distributed. I had been through a similar experience once before so I knew just what to expect; I’m not sure exactly what the significance of the grain is, but when the moment is right the participant must throw some of it at the statues thinking only base, negative thoughts. The concept behind this action is that by channeling negative energy toward the dummies all evil goes with it. These figures would then be removed and with it, all that bad juju.

Whilst waiting for the ceremony to begin students playfully threw grain at each other, making a great mess of the hall. I normally would frown on such behavior, but the teachers weren’t bothered and ultimately it wasn’t causing any harm, so I went with the flow. Finally the horns began to burst with shrill tones and a few people started to move the statues. All pandemonium ensued. Corn kernels, rice, and other grains came hailing from the upper level and hurled from the bottom floor. The act was violent and relentless. The funny thing was the students had acted prematurely and didn’t throw at the right time, but at this point it was too late to stop. The man-made storm continued for a good five minutes until the statues were dragged out, those poor volunteers being pelted all the while. From there the statues were loaded up onto a truck and taken to an undisclosed location.

After it all settled down the students were allowed to go home. Meanwhile volunteers swept the floor and others prepared dinner. I stuck around longer, my patience starting to wane slightly, and passed the time by speaking with the principal. Finally around 6:30 dinner was served. I ate, said my goodbyes, and went home even though the event would carry on with beer and snacks for another couple of hours. It was an experience unlike anything other I’ve experienced before and I will take with it unique memories that will last a lifetime. I hope sometime soon to make a short video of it and if I do, I will be sure to link it to my blog.

Some of our female staff lining up

Flags

Mongar Lower Secondary School entrance

Students washing dishes after breakfast

One of two tables full of offering

The main altar

Can you spot the student up the tree?

One of many tables full of butter lamps

Students turning the school's prayer wheel

View of the administrative block during the afternoon with the dzong in the background

Students cutting vegetables before lunch

 

Upstairs view of the MPH scene

Lunch for visiting families and their children

Afternoon loitering outside the MPH

Some of the younger students

Aforementioned fire and pots

A view of the statues and butter lamps

Entrance to the MPH

 

Just before the rain of grain began

The Long Way 'Round

This week I am busy preparing for our upcoming Summer SEN (Special Educational Needs) program. The program was created at the behest of one of our school's finest teachers, Yeshey Choeki, who interestingly enough also attended Mongar LSS when she was a primary student. Madam Yeshey's contributions toward education and special education are so laudable that she was awarded the incredibly prestigious National Order of Merit for Excellence in Teaching in 2012. During Madam's program we will be hosting a variety of teachers from different schools in the dzongkhag (province) to participate in the activities. I will be serving as secretary during the day sessions, holding a professional development seminar on comprehension strategies, and hosting observers during my classes. What I am saying in a most roundabout manner is: I will be rather busy.

In order to keep things interesting for those who follow my blog, I thought I might be fun to share something completely unrelated. Just the other day it donned on me that it has been two years since I returned from an epic motorcycle journey with my father through South Africa, Mozambique, and Swaziland. On it I learned a lot of life lessons, many of which I had to face all over again in Bhutan, like leaning forward and how to savor that feeling of smallness in our vast but beautiful universe. I wrote about my findings and the roller coaster of emotions that accompanied them in a blog. If any of you find the idea interesting, I'd like to direct you to one of my other websites, Bwana Ishmael.

Until next time!

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 2: The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The first night set the tone for our future soirees, but the days held equal promise for diversion. After a blurry-eyed breakfast a group of us took to hiking up a nearby mountain in hopes of laying eyes on a temple near its peak. Little did we know what an ordeal it would turn into. We began walking down from the lodge, attempting shortcuts through overgrown trails at the behest of our “guide” who we quickly realized was as new to getting there as we were. Eventually we decided to hitch a ride to the trailhead. From there a sharp climb began. We cut up through tall grass, weaving through trees and farm plots, small homes, and precarious ledges. The humidity had us all sweating buckets and the high-altitude sun scorched our pasty bodies, kept pristine under the modest design of gho and kira these last 5 months.

 

Some three hours later under the midday sun we started to feel tired and realized we were a long, long way from the top. Begrudgingly we called on the van to take us up the rest of the way. 

(View from 3/4 of the way up, the village below being where we started from)

Once at the top, we drove through a small town and looked out at villages dotting the landscape between thick buffers of forest, reaching the temple some 30 minutes later. On foot such a journey would have taken an additional 3 or 4 hours, but thankfully it didn’t come to that. Concerns over our aching, sun-burnt bodies went by the wayside once we entered the temple complex. The first thing I saw was a statue of the historical Buddha, meditating placidly with eyes half-closed, his skin a shade of light blue. Around him were various statues central to his life and story of enlightenment.

We got out and immediately flocked to the statues. Channeling my undergraduate studies, I was able to elaborate on them and their significance with relative success to a few unacquainted with the Buddha’s life.

 (An emaciated version of Buddha attempting asceticism in the foreground,

Buddha in meditation atop a lotus flower in the middle, and in the background the Buddha when he

was a prince, cutting off his long hair as he leaves the palace to seek freedom from suffering)

 (The Buddha lying down for the last time, surrounded by his followers on his death bed)

Beside this impressive display was a large prayer wheel and buildings which were home to young monks who studied in the monastic system. My friend Holly and I walked around the grounds, spinning the prayer wheel thrice over and waving at the shy young monks who hid behind windows and doorways.

 (Holly standing in the middle of the complex, with the monk quarters and prayer wheel on the right)

The head lama approached us and invited our group to a tea room for drinks and a snack. We happily obliged and followed him toward the back of the complex. The path there was lined with the most beautiful flowers. I confess total ignorance of the names and types, but nevertheless I was moved by the magenta, celadon, cyan, and saffron hues. 

 (A small selection of the flowers we saw)

Once inside we were ushered into a small sitting room with a few benches and faded frescos lining the walls. We sat down, eager to imbibe something after such a long, draining hike. In came a man who placed trays of soda and arra (the distilled rice liquor akin to the taste of sake with twice the kick) on the table, and in true Bhutanese fashion, left us alone to enjoy our drinks. We quenched our thirst then expressed our thanks and caught a ride back down the mountain to our lodging, weary from the afternoon’s events.

A few hours later, following a late lunch and a meeting, we gathered in the dining hall to discuss the night’s upcoming program. The room was rearranged to accommodate a greater number of guests and strewn around it were a multitude of Canadian flags. It took me a minute to make sense of this choice in decoration. But of course! July 1^st is Canada Day.

Aum Deki and Nancy have been friends for decades so out of respect for their friendship, the Lingkhar Lodge decided to celebrate in tandem. This small gesture is representative on a grander scale of a long-standing friendship between the two nations, dating back to 1963 when Canadian Jesuit priest Father William Mackey was invited into Bhutan to establish secular schools in the east. His work paved the way for exchange programs, foreign teacher placements, and western-style curricula. Father Mackey’s legacy carries on in the remote corners of Bhutan’s eastern provinces and the country to this day holds diplomatic relations with Canada in high esteem. Nancy’s work in Bhutan over the last 30 years is an extension of this movement and a dozen high-ranking dignitaries and administrative officials coming to join us this evening is testament to just that, including a former UN representative for Bhutan and the local governor.

Outside, the hotel staff arranged the chairs in a wide arc around an impressive, unlit bonfire as well as tables of varying quality, which to me indicated the wide spectrum of rank and status among those in attendance. It wasn’t long before our guests began to arrive sporting their nicest gho and kira. From the sidelines we watched as Nancy greeted them. Wearing our finest ragged vestments, torn from hikes and stretched from undisciplined hand-washing, we self-consciously approached and shook their hands in order from right to left before taking our seats.

               

All concerns of formality were assuaged the moment we were served a most rare delicacy for eastern Bhutan: wine! The collective mood shifted at this new addition and we happily went about socializing. It felt all too natural to intertwine the middle web of my hand against the glass’s slender stem, my fingers cupping the rounded bowl nearly full to the brim with crimson manna. I indulged slowly, knowing full-well this would be my only chance to savor a hearty red for some time. As time progressed so did the mingling in small clusters around the field. Before long night was upon us and with the sun’s waning, the fire was lit. Hypnotized by the incandescence of the flames and emboldened under the cover of darkness, we sang, the echoes of which carried far out into the valley.

Dinner was eventually served indoors and the conversations ensued betwixt mouthfuls of a most delectable mélange of Bhutanese and western fanfare. I was particularly taken by the chicken wings dressed in a tangy sauce. In true Bhutanese fashion our guests departed immediately after eating and we carried on with the festivities on a veranda nearby. BCFers from a variety of dzongkhags (provinces) delivered their premade raps, offering both slams and benedictions unto their colleagues, resulting in uproarious laughter and applause.

               The next morning was predictably slow following the events from the day before. By early afternoon we were invited to assist in transplanting rice to the paddies just below the lodge. To the uninitiated, rice fields are self-contained plots of earth lined with grassy perimeters. In Bhutan and other mountainous Asian countries, these fields are cut into step-like terraces to maximize surface area. When the time is right for planting the fields are filled with water, which pleasantly results in an aesthetic reflection of the sky above, followed by transplanting young seedlings to these sectors.

 (A view of the paddies from the lodge)

We BCFers had joined in order to learn about the process, which involved holding a bundle of the seedlings away from you and plunging them into the murky water below one stalk at a time, just beneath the muddy surface. We threw our shoes by the wayside and stepped into the muddy marsh, gleefully going about the work. Somewhere between the jokes I became aware of the deep historical significance of my actions, first carried out by Chinese farmers some 10,000 years ago. How many people must have spent their days under the midday sun hunched forward, repeating the same motion I was acting out again and again?

Once I finished my bundle I pulled myself out of my reverie and looked around. Halfway down the field the women who had demonstrated the process were nearing completion. I looked down at my modest attempts, a small area not a meter square. Damn. Well farming isn’t for me anyway. Once the locals finished, they entertained themselves by chuckling over our haphazard execution and clumsiness, throwing more bundles at our feet, sending mud flying in every direction. On the occasion that someone slipped they would burst into wild laughter, causing me in turn to chuckle at yet another mud-covered colleague.

By evening time we were back to our old antics: sharing stories and frustrations over beer and whisky with thousands upon thousands of flying insects to keep us company. That night I saw a few beetles 5 inches in length, some sporting horns, others possessing nearly inch-long pincers. Although unsettling, these run-ins are inevitable in a country as alive as Bhutan, and after many months in the field I had certainly grown more accustomed to the presence of these buzzing goliaths, as did my mates judging by the absence of any freak out.

Because it was our last night together as one big family we spent as much time with each other as possible, playing games and laughing richly. Come morning many of us would be saying goodbye. Some planned to return to their villages, some to explore particular areas of the country in small clusters, and others sought an adventure all their own. Fortunately for me I would be going with a large group of my friends further east before returning to the big city: Thimphu.

The next morning we packed our things and said farewell, at least until December when we are set to reconvene in Thimphu. It was bitter-sweet, especially after spending so much time together, but conversely we had over a week of freedom and possibility to look forward to. It may seem odd to some, having formed a tight bond with 16 other people when we’ve only really spent two weeks together out of the entire year, but that’s one thing I really love about expat friendships: they work on a completely different time scale—in Bhutan especially. Brought together by our parallel experience, our bonds were formed early and continued to grow ever stronger with each new lesson and tribulation. And upon convening, we spend nearly every waking hour in each other's company, our minds thirsty for intra-cultural connection. Our friendship is a special one forged by unique circumstances. Times like these help me appreciate the meaning and capacity of true friendship, as all these wonderful people have been there each step of the way, through the good times and the bad, to offer empathy and support. We are very much a family albeit a ridiculous and, at times, dysfunctional one at that.

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 1: Stranger in a Strange Land

(My front door view now made lush by the summer rains)

The weeks prior to break were hectic to say the least. I had taken on 8 additional periods per week in the final month and found myself compiling grades for 10 different grade/subject combinations (a task that centers around 200 students and twice that many notebooks). In addition, as the English Head of Department I had to edit all subject-relevant midterm exams word for word as well as write my own, delegate, invigilate, and take place in mass-marking. If five months in the field hadn’t taken its toll, the final month certainly pushed me to the brink.

The fortunate side-effect of a non-stop lifestyle is that time passes rather quickly. By Tuesday, June 30^th, my bag was packed and I was eagerly awaiting my ride, my mind swimming in the wondrous potential of the upcoming two-week summer holiday. I, along with all those who joined the Bhutan Canada Foundation program this year, were bound for Trashigang, a quaint medieval-looking town at the base of a jungle valley. The half of our group that lay west of it had been picked up along the way over the previous day and a half and I was next in line.

After what felt like an eternity in wait, my BCF chariot arrived. I happily hugged my fatigued compatriots and hopped inside. As soon as I sat down though culture shock hit me like a slap in the face. Everyone spoke at lightning speed, their boisterous voices full of jubilation as they pored over subjects my brain was having difficulty comprehending. Surely I had not lost all intellectual capacity! No, no that was not it. I was merely rubbing noses with western discourse, which contrasted wildly against the quiet slice of life I had settled into. I waited a while before deciding to mention my unease, but luckily it was met with a chorus of empathy. Most, if not all, had navigated through a similar sentiment in the very recent past.

 

(The van crew, photo courtesy of Catherine and Holly)

 

We spent the 3-hour drive playing word games and catching up. Everyone looked thinner (by the diet and lifestyle, surely) and a bit more wild—a couple guys had even grown out burly beards. We spoke of rats and mold, educational faults in a system dependent on rote memorization, and our various horror stories involving some combination of the aforementioned factors. But we spoke of all these maladies light-heartedly, a skill cultivated here in a land where even the greatest of frustrations roll right off its people.

As we drove east I realized just how much the summer rains had brought greenery upon the already tropical landscape. The drive was subsequently full of eye candy. We started out climbing over the mountain ridges of Mongar province, eventually descending into cliff-side towns like Yadi surrounded by innumerable pine trees before coming out into a gorge with a massive river carving its way through. We drove parallel to the white water river for an hour, slowly descending when the landscape permitted until we crossed the river via a large iron bridge, again ascending an additional twenty minutes only to dip back down into Trashigang proper.

We stopped in town for only a few minutes, as this was not our final destination. Our retreat would actually take place some twenty minutes outside Trashigang at a resort called the Lingkhar Lodge. 3-stars by western eyes and 5 by the Bhutanese, this beautiful oasis sits above rice paddies looking out at a valley and 5 mountain tops within a 180-degree open vista. It is owned by a former minister and overall big-wig along with his much esteemed wife, Aum Deki. 

But before we could arrive, mere kilometers from the lodge, we were stopped in our tracks by a road block. An oversized truck used to carry heavy loads had fallen off the road some 150 feet into the jungle brush below. We all exited the vehicle to behold the ingenuity of the Bhutanese as a construction vehicle meant for digging tried to pull up the truck via a taut metal cable and improvised pulleys. As we came to learn, earlier they had cut the truck in two so it would be easier to lift. Slowly but surely they pulled out the front half, hoisting it into the air with the big metal scooper and drove ever so carefully to an area where it could dump the multi-ton hunk of mangled metal.

We arrived at the lodge just as night fell. We were greeted by Aum Deki, Nancy (our program head), and other BCFers who had arrived earlier. All 17 of our group were in attendance as well as two veterans from previous years. After dropping our bags off we happily dined on buffet-style Bhutanese food, chatting at length with any and all. The beer flowed freely as we prattled on and before long, the strange feeling tied to my paradigm shift fell away, yielding to a night of philosophizing and good cheer, ended only as we conceded defeat against our drooping eyelids.