Through the Looking-Glass and What Reese Found There: A Solitary Cup of Tea

It was a sunny afternoon, nothing out of the ordinary for the time of year. The wind had picked up on schedule, right around 1:30. I was sitting in my office, which I shared with the two vice principals and assistant principal. The staff insisted I take this area instead of the crowded teacher quarters below, despite repeated attempts to turn down their offer. Admittedly it was cozy, largely due to the fine interior design. A few plants were expertly placed around the room in pots, with a couple small climbers traversing the back wall. There was a large homemade bookshelf near the door which housed encyclopedias, miscellaneous literature, and religious texts. Above it was a kind of altar where students would restock the incense, chalices, and butter lamps daily. And looming over it all was a large and stunning tanka painting—a kind of hand-painted textile scroll of a Buddhist deity, in this case the historical Buddha atop a pedestal shaped like a lotus flower.

I was half ruminating on upcoming plans for class, half zoning out when a coworker, Dorji, pulled me from my reverie as he entered the room.

“Sir, why don’t you come to my house this afternoon for tea,” he said. Half requesting, half demanding.

“Uh, sure. Yeah okay.”

So after school I packed my things into my oversized bag and made my way toward his house. It was a short walk over grass and earth, up a ladder, and through a winding path past small, quaint residences. Dorji’s place was not unlike those nearby, shoddily constructed from thin wooden panels, beams, and plaster, painted white with a blue trim. He and his family certainly made the best of their circumstances, however, as evidenced by the neatly piled stacks of wood, clothing lines swaying in the afternoon breeze, and small garden. Kind of like a hobbit hole, only above ground.

Punctuality in Bhutan is a rookie mistake, even I knew that, but at times I can’t help but heed the call of my cultural instincts. In addition to being early, I wasn’t quite sure where to knock as there was no front door. I pulled the short gate ajar and stepped inside an open air room with one small shack to the left and a more sizable structure to the right. I turned right and knocked on, what turned out to be, the living room door. 

A woman answered, her features sharp and eyes kind. She bid me inside through her curt and jumbled English, insisting I first take off my shoes. She directed me to the couch and said Dorji would be returning shortly.

The woman, whose name I did not catch, promptly left the room. I sat in silence, my posture straight, scanning the room for visual stimulation. The set up was certainly comforting. Benches and chairs around a coffee table with a TV in the corner and religious relics and pictures lining the walls. It was humble as everything here seems to be.

In the absence of conversation I twiddled my thumbs and started counting the number of the King’s portraits. 3, 4, 5. Five. No, 8 if you count the small photos tucked in the corner and the calendar on the wall. Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wanghuck, known affectionately as K5 for being the 5^th king in the line of Bhutan’s monarchical lineage, is adored by all. He is a charismatic man in his early 30’s with a movie star smile, known as a real champion of the people. Few people have yet to meet him in the country—which is amazing considering the 21-hour travel time from one end of the country to the other, not to mention the sheer remoteness of certain regions.

A minute later Dorji’s wife returned and put the TV remote in my hand. I dutifully began to flip through channels, passing Hindi soap-operas, national news in Dzongkha, and Animal Planet. I finally chose a movie channel showing an old action flick and left it there for its familiar noise.

A young girl, say 8 years in age, popped out from behind the curtain. She seemed just as surprised to see me as I her, expressing her embarrassment in the all-too-common scratching of the back of her head while sticking out her tongue—a social tick picked up by the youth of Bhutan via foreign cartoons. She quickly ran away and hid, though I could hear her whispering to her sister about the strange chilip in her house.

A moment later the host had arrived. Dorji, a fellow colleague of mine was a regal looking gentleman. Tall in stature with a shaved head and lines of wisdom etched into his face. He apologized for arriving late and we spoke for about a minute before he, too, disappeared.

Some time later I was served a scalding cup of milk tea with a hint of ginger by Dorji’s wife, a drink locally known as naja along with a bowl of zao—dry, baked rice comparable to Rice Krispies. After taking a sip of the delicious tea I turned to thank my hosts, but they were nowhere to be seen.

I waited a few minutes out of politeness to touch my cup. Perhaps they went to pour themselves a cup. But they didn’t come. 5 minutes passed then 10. Eventually I decided to just drink my now tepid beverage and snack by myself.

Twenty minutes in my mind began to wander. What an odd prospect, my inner voice narrated, to be entertained solitarily. When next a person came into the room I did my best to cajole them into a nearby seat, but they’d have none of it. “Please, sir, enjoy your tea.”

After I finished I twiddled my thumbs some more until Dorji and his wife returned to collect the dishes and exclaim simple pleasantries. And that was it. Visitation complete, as odd as it was for its lack of human interaction.

Only when I stood up and put on my shoes was I engaged in conversation, for a good long while in fact. Dorji and I spoke on a myriad of school-related topics until my antsy-ness came to a breaking point and I bid farewell, passing through the gate and up the make-shift staircase composed of slate and slanted earth.

On my way home I replayed the events in my head, trying to make sense of what had transpired. Tea time in Anglo cultures is an opportunity for social bonding. Apparently here not so. In months to follow I’d encounter this ritual time and time again, for all its awkwardness. Friends explicate it as being a gesture of kindness to leave us to our thoughts and treat the guest as if royalty. Hospitality is the greatest gift the Bhutanese can display and they do it elaborately, albeit strangely through the eyes of a western visitor.

A Series of Differences #2: Writings on the Wall

Life in Bhutan has many quirks that make everyday living odd and whimsical all the same. One of them that I particularly enjoy is graffiti.

Graffiti often carries a negative connotation in American culture due to certain iterations that express obscenities just for the sake of being offensive or sexually suggestive invitations that are often demeaning in nature. But in certain urban environments graffiti has become an opportunity for artistic expression, satire, political revolution, and inspiration.

Bhutan’s version of graffiti is nowhere on this spectrum, but I assure you it is awesome. There are four types of graffiti I have encountered thus far, which I will expand on below. While at its heart these are innocuous (once you understand the background behind them), if you are easily offended, perhaps it is best you steer clear.

Type 1: Mantras

               Mantras are Buddhist teachings chanted in repetition. Saying them is somewhat equivalent to the spinning a prayer wheel (which themselves have mantras written on them), circumambulating a chorten, or putting up prayer flags to flap in the wind—these all generate good karma for oneself and for all sentient beings, effectively lessening suffering in the world and compounding ‘spirit points’ to ensure in your next life you will continue to be born a human and with it, a better chance of achieving enlightenment and escaping the process of rebirth.

               The exact meaning of individual mantras can be difficult to explain as their explication may take hours or years to fully comprehend. But nevertheless they are widely accepted expressions of complex texts through condensed, easy-to-memorize phrases. And while you certainly can just say them, it seems people enjoy writing them as well on random rocks, road sides, and sacred religious sites. The one I most encounter, seeing as it’s the only one I can actually read in Dzongkha, is the famous om mani peme hun. Here are a few examples:

 

Type 2: @#$%!

               Sure this variety is all too conventional, but what this lacks in this case is proper context. Swear words are an entirely different beast in Bhutan. They are not used to insult, even in Dzongkha, though they may arise when expressing frustration at a situation. Mean-spirited verbal projections have no place in Bhutanese society because people tend to say what they think to each other’s faces without it causing a problem. I’ve heard people tell others to their face they don’t like their behavior, attitude, and work ethic, and yet they can still share a laugh and spend hours together in close proximity without any sign of discomfort. It’s awesomely weird. Lying and withholding complaints or grudges are counterintuitive to a collective society and Bhutanese logic, and after being in this environment, it makes me kind of question why we do it.

               I’m getting off track, though. My point is swearing is no big deal. It isn’t meant to be rude and most of my students can’t even comprehend how the word ‘shit’ can be offensive. I’ve heard 9-year old girls say “oh shit” when they make a mistake in their notebook. It’s hilarious. Admittedly I was shocked at first, but I quickly learned it doesn’t carry the same weight here as it does to my homeland and to reprimand them for my own cultural bias would be wrong (though I did explain my culture’s perspective on the matter should they interact with other foreigners).

               So to see these dreaded 4-letter words carved into rocks and painted on streets is not so offensive after all. If anything it shows a kind of curiosity and exploration—if not a naivety as to its true meaning and intent.

Type 3: The Phallus (NSFW)

               Phallic imagery is rife in Bhutan. Again it shocks, but like type 2, there is no cause for alarm. You see, in the late 15^th century a Tibetan lama by the name of Drukpa Kunley came into Bhutan to spread the message of Buddhism, but he did so in a most unconventional way; he used obscene humor, alcohol, and sex to preach the dharma. This kind of teaching helped to loosen the hold of strict Buddhist traditions and the hardcore ascetic route to enlightenment. And, well, he really liked to use his “thunderbolt of flaming wisdom” (a euphemism he used for a particular appendage if you catch my drift) as part and parcel of this teaching. The Divine Madman as he is called, found that phallic imagery deterred evil spirits and thus the tradition of depicting penises near the entrance of houses and establishments was born—which carries on to this day. While most are done professionally using colored paints, it is also common to see amateur renderings on rocks and walls.

Type 4: Expressions of love

               This is by far the most unique graffiti of the four. Before coming here I never thought graffiti could be an expression of simple kindness, but it perfectly mirrors the Bhutanese outlook on life. Virtually every person I’ve met is epically humble, generous, and grateful so it makes sense that this comes out in their artistic expression. But to see it in kids—to have young, rambunctious and sometimes devious children allot time to scrawl “I love my parents” on the wall—is incredibly heartwarming.

Now that I've posted this, I really wish I had taken more pictures of Bhutanese graffiti. I will keep my eyes peeled and update this page once I find more.

Weekend Vignette #3: Hoofin' It

After one and a half days on the road from Thimphu against the elements and deteriorating road conditions (thanks to the summer rains) it had been a long ride. I was elated to arrive at the Mongar bus station, though somewhat sad to see my break behind me. I waited as the bus driver and a few helpers unloaded dozens of boxes and bags from the roof of the bus, kept safe along the ride by a large blue tarp and endless rope.

Yet ahead of me was quite a walk. Roughly a mile from the station to my house with a steep incline the entire way. My bags upon my back, I felt lugged down but adrenaline aided in my journey. I followed the road for some time under the harsh midday sun, already starting to sweat, until I came upon a narrow path used as a shortcut into town. This shortcut didn’t come without consequence; it was virtually straight up—nearly to the point of climbing on all fours, hugging a rocky cliff on one side and a messy slope of weeds and other prickly plants to my left. I forged on knowing within the hour I’d be back home.

As I began up the slope I saw an older woman and her granddaughter ahead of me. They walked dreadfully slow, as most Bhutanese do, and eventually slowed to a stop. Passing was simply impossible so I waited and tried to see what lay in front of their path to no avail. The woman then reached to her left and broke off a branch from a bush and just then I could see what blocked their path: a small herd of cattle. The women without fear of retribution whipped at the cows until they started to turn back up the path and the two squeezed by. After they escaped the cows turned back to their original direction and lazily strolled down the path, chewing on plants on their way.

Greeeeeaaaaat, I thought. A man, a villager no doubt by his weathered clothes and ample wrinkles, came down and whipped at the cows, pushing them ever forward. He must be the herder, I thought. I decided to wait until they had passed and tucked myself into a small rocky nook carved into the cliff. Once they started to move he returned back up the hill and left from sight.

A couple cows passed me then the group came to a complete halt. I was trapped between horn and hoof. I looked around but no one was in sight—just the harsh sun upon my head and the ever-present ache of my shoulders taking on ample weight. “HEYYYY,” I shouted. No response. “I’m not a freaking cow herder! Help me!” I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of this bovine buffoonery (making contextually relevant puns like "mooooooo-ve", of course) but until I came upon some exit strategy I’d be stuck here. I decided to continue making a ruckus for a couple minutes until finally the old man came down, laughing heartily at my misfortune and set them upon due course with ease. I thanked the man and continued home, laughing about the whole thing.

To show these wonderful creatures I harbor no ill will, here's all the photos of cows I have taken this year ;)

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!