The New Normal

 In Mongar I live in a kind of apartment complex that resembles a large, blocky house. It sits on a hilly slope named after the surrounding pine trees (Chamshingpek) and looks out on the city and nearby mountains. I share the complex with a young married couple who live upstairs with their newborn and live-in babysitter and some other tenants that rarely occupy their units. A few dogs also call the area home, mostly because they have a constant source of food—that being anything washed through the drains into the surrounding aqueducts. They’ll eat pretty much anything and can be rather territorial of their space. Let’s just say we didn’t get along too well when I first arrived, but over several weeks came to a neutral armistice.  

The biggest perk to my place is its proximity to school. It only takes some 6 minutes to walk to the entrance of Mongar Lower Secondary School (and another 4 to descend its many steps to the main grounds). My walks to and fro have helped to keep me in shape as I must ascend and descend a great many times over the course of the week. I rarely get from A to B without running into some people or animals, be they far-flung villagers, cow herders, or even monkeys. This road is actually part of the pan-national highway so even tourists have been known to whiz by, probably gawking at the strange foreigner dressed in Bhutanese attire. I’d probably stare if I were them, too.

(The view from my office. You can 

see my house just below the 

yellow one in the background. )

(A monkey I encountered on the way to school.)

(My house just left of center 

next to a more traditional

style Bhutanese house. )

The inside of my flat, as I have mentioned before, is relatively spacious by Bhutanese standards because I have two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Unfortunately, the place has yet to develop much of a personality. Sure I have some tables and chairs, but the walls are pretty bare. I still have plenty of time to make it look presentable, but at present I am quite cozy. 

I occasionally have some visitors, but they aren’t your usual guests. The most common are spiders, varying in size from a thumbnail to a thumb in length. I’ve seen other creepy-crawlies but I couldn’t even begin to classify them for you. My favorite visitor was a 3 ½” grasshopper. I have no idea how he got in with his bulky body, but he surprised me one day when I found him sitting atop my bath bucket. As with all my guests, I escorted him out kindly via whatever container/tool was closest. I am trying my best to keep with the Bhutanese/Buddhist tradition of non-killing and most of the time it has worked out without casualty.

Life inside my four walls is anything but boring. Even the most mundane chores are new and different. And with the help of plastic buckets I am able to wash my dishes, clothes, and even myself! All of them require some serious effort from the arms and legs, as I have to squat on the floor and scrub, ring, and lather at length, but this is the new normal and I have come to terms with it.

I had some practice in the art of bucket baths when water shortages hit Dakar last year, but the weather was warm and the lukewarm ablution was welcome. Here it is different for several reasons. For those unfamiliar with the ritual, it is exactly as it sounds. You fill a bucket with water, you pour some over yourself, lather up, and pour the rest over you to rinse off. The bathroom is already cold and the tap is near freezing so I combat this temperature insanity by mixing it with boiling water. My fancy geyser (built in water heater) broke early in my placement and, without some shiny new parts, I am left to improvise using my 3L electric water boiler. To be completely honest, I like the ritual. The simplicity of it all is extremely efficient both in time and water conservation.

Finding and preparing food is a task unto itself.  Whenever I have free time, usually Monday afternoons, I walk some 15-20 minutes down to the market. Since Mongar is a “big city” it contains a large concrete open structure for vendors to sit and sell their goods. The top floor is devoted to locally grown goods. I try to buy from them most, but the quality is not always up to par and depending on when you come to stock up, they can yield plenty of bugs so I tend to supplement my purchases with vegetables from the floor below which offers imported goods from India. That being said bugs are somewhat unavoidable and occasionally, after all the effort of making a meal, its better just to eat them and pretend you never saw them than to throw everything out. They’re only little gnat-like things anyway. As you might imagine, my standards have adapted over time. The selection of produce at the market is rather limited since they reflect what’s in season. This means most of my meals consist of some variety of potatoes or rice with chilies, onions, tomatoes, and some other green veggie. I buy some canned goods when I can find them and have been known to make some cabbage salads or veggie soups, but avoiding a rice-based diet is virtually impossible here. Luckily I’ve never been averse to white rice so at this point, I am happy eating it. After stocking up on multiple kilos of food, I return to my home which is a non-stop uphill walk. The walk is grueling, but rewarding as it yields fantastic views of the surrounding valleys.

(The view from my place isn't so bad either.)

Even though adjusting to Bhutanese standards has taken some time, and may be farfetched to the average Westerner, I am still fortunate in many ways. I have everything I need and more thanks to my urban placement. Compared to some of my fellow BCF compatriots, I am living luxuriously. I have running water and electricity, not to mention a designated kitchen and bathroom with a western-style toilet. Many others in more rural areas lack such basic things. A great many have absolutely no access to internet and have manual-flushing squat toilets. Some cook via their gas stoves off the floor and a few even have to go out in search for water via inconsistent taps around their villages in hopes of doing their daily chores. The power of human adaptation is not to be underestimated,  as everyone still remains in their placements, slowly but surely navigating their new life in Bhutan.

First Day Jitters

(My school just left of center. Taken by phone)

Even though I had sat through a week of meetings, I still didn’t feel like I knew the school’s structure well enough to walk into the first day's routine comfortably. As a result of my anxiety, I slept poorly the night before, but for better or for worse, the date had come and it was time to go. I sloppily put together my gho and walked to school, encountering several small clusters of students in their school uniform. The boys’ ghos are black with yellowy-orange plaid lines while the girls’ wear a similar robe of longer length underneath a black jacket, or tego, with red cuffs.  If anything, the color combination is quite smart.

I stopped by Karma’s house, which is on school grounds, so he could fix my gho. The process is difficult with two people and nearly impossible alone. The way they pleat the robe around the back is neat and straight, without any bunching or wrinkles. Unable to see behind me, my attempts have repeatedly ended in failure. He fixed it and together we descended the stairs to the central grounds. There hundreds of children were running about, using nothing but their imagination to keep them entertained.

We began the day with an assembly. All the students lined up in perfect rows, alternating male and female from the youngest grade to the highest. The organization is impressive, and even though some were fidgeting, their ability to stand relatively still is a feat unto itself. The principal stepped up to the podium where he welcomed the students before they broke into a mantra. Looking around I saw everyone with their palms touching each other in a praying gesture, their hands at neck height. I quickly emulated their mudra in respect and listened to their chanting. As I came to learn, this is a prayer to the god of wisdom, asking for his assistance in their learning. The prayer is followed by a kind of song, the melody soft and smooth. Similar to the first, in this song the students pray for assistance in their education from the goddess of knowledge.

 (The first assembly. My apologies for the quality--I took this with my phone)

Afterward the principal began a long monologue in Dzongkha. Dzongkha is the national language of Bhutan, but it is far from the only one. In fact there are dozens of dialects, but all students must learn it during their matriculation. Because teachers are placed all across the country, they will often speak Dzongkha to one another, and thus I have decided learning it is more important than Sharchop (the local language), as I will be exposed to it more often. I spend a lot of time listening to Dzongkha being spoken, rarely discerning the content. Most teachers, kind as they are, will relay the most important information to me in English, though this is not always the case. Sometimes I need to be aggressive in my questioning so I don’t miss a deadline or a meeting.

But I digress. The principal spoke to the children about the activities of the day and welcomed them back with hopes of a strong performance…or so I gathered from the occasional English word uttered. Then, out of nowhere, he switched to full English—a sign I should be listening carefully. He introduced the three new teachers including myself and asked for us to make a speech. A speech? In front of 900 kids? I hadn’t been informed of any such thing. Since I didn’t know a single student, I sighed away my anxiety and walked to the stage. There I welcomed the students and gave a brief introduction about myself. I thanked the school and the principal for the opportunity and wished the students a good year. All in total, my speech ran for less than a minute, but I relayed everything they needed to know and was content with this. The next teacher, a short studious man who came to teach Dzongkha, then spoke for 5 minutes. My thoughts ran wild and I felt like perhaps I had botched my first public appearance, but when the third new teacher spoke, a meek lady whose words were short and sweet, my worries were assuaged.

A few announcements followed before the students sang the national anthem. Soon they left and were delegated to their class teachers and put to work. They swept the grounds and cleaned their classrooms, moving tables and chairs to accommodate the new numbers. I admire the process, as it makes students respect their own space and take ownership for it.

In the meantime, since I am not a class teacher, I went up to my office, which I share with the two vice principals and the assistant principal. The location is clearly special treatment, something I’m not very comfortable with, but this, to them, was non-negotiable. Without any books or planning materials, I could do little but take notes from a book written by the teachers the year before about the school’s organization and rituals. I found it informative, laden with the flowery language that the Bhutanese own so well. Little else was done this day. At lunch, not having brought anything, I walked up to my place. Climbing dozens of stairs and walking uphill, I passed a great number of students, who all stopped at my passing and bowed, articulating a respectful “good morning, sir”. After lunch I repeated the process in reverse.

I joined teachers out on the field, watching the students practice marching and dancing in preparation for his majesty’s upcoming birthday. Apparently the production is a big deal and the students need almost a full week to prepare for their marches, dances, songs, and presentations. I was reassured that even though they weren't taking the practice all too seriously that they would be on point for the king's birthday.

The sun was strong in the afternoon, likely a consequence of the altitude, and soon my black gho didn’t seem like such a great idea after all. I ducked in the shade until obligation befell me. I had to attend some horizontal and vertical team meetings, as well as being designated as head coordinator of a 5-school production promoting reading in Bhutan. Talk about responsibility! Between meetings, planning, and taking notes, the hours quickly passed. Before I realized it, the school was desolate.

(Students practicing a cultural dance in the afternoon. Taken by phone)

I found myself alone in the office with Karma Wangdi, the other vice principal of the school. Not to be confused with Karma Rinzin, Karma Wangdi is tall and richly educated. He speaks with a placid tone of voice that hints to an overall wisdom. He tends to wear bright, striped ghos and argyle socks. Between these things and his goatee, he stands uniquely beside his colleagues. We spoke at length of literature and his academic loves then he whisked me off to assist me in setting up and fixing up my place, with plenty of conversation and tea in between. Around 7 he departed my place, having sufficiently filled me with stories and thoughts on which to ruminate. All in all the day wasn’t half bad and surely not worthy of losing sleep. I could rest easy knowing that it would be another week before the actual academic session began, giving me plenty of time to adjust and plan my upcoming classes.

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.

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)

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)

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!

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.