Gho-ing Against the Flow

Often times as I promenade Mongar’s roads I will cross paths with a Bhutanese man or woman dressed in western attire. Wearing the national dress (gho, knee-high socks, and black dress shoes) I politely utter “kuzuzangpola” and in response receive a "hello". These are strange times.

A Series of Differences #1: The Case of the Missing Bubble

As a well-traveled expat I have confronted the spectrum of personal space. Americans are definitely on one extreme. We, perhaps more than any other culture in the world, need a substantial buffer between us, unless we are well acquainted. We refer to this as our ‘personal bubble’. In the public sphere we feel uncomfortable being crammed into small spaces, though certain urban contexts—especially public transport—have made this behavior somewhat acceptable. But I assure you that being crammed on the subway in the US of A is nothing like being crammed on the subway at rush hour in Seoul Station, South Korea or being squished into a metro bus in Brazil. It is equally dissimilar to hanging on for dear life in a car rapide in Senegal or mimicking canned sardines on a ferry in Thailand. Traveling quite forcefully bursts our bubble and makes us confront different perspectives toward personal space among other things. I admit I am thoroughly guilty of being affronted by people invading “my space”. This is my cultural bias in action.
 Allow me to explicate further. Personal bubbles don’t exist in most cultures. In some, people use proximity to express their respect; in others they simply don’t see nearness as threatening. I have learned this lesson many times over through a myriad of uncomfortable experiences. When I lived in Korea I would often use metro and inter-city buses to get around. The seats were close together, perhaps more so than a typical budget airline. Not being terribly large I didn’t face physical discomfort, but I was bothered psychologically. It is just hard to feel comfrotable when strangers are so close. But the real awkwardness occurred on the longer rides when grown men would fall asleep and their heads would tip onto my shoulder. What do I do? Do I brush them off and awaken them? Do I endure it and get over my own ridiculousness? What is it that so bothers me about it anyway? I try to be objective about it but instead I gracelessly squirm without pushing them away outright.

Culture 1, Reese 0.

 Here in Bhutan people stand extremely close to each other while talking—sometimes as close as 6 inches (15cm) from nose to nose. There is one teacher at my school who always seems to deliver inconvenient news to me during our morning assembly (extra responsibilities, last-minute meeting announcements, and additional requests). He steps incredibly close, close enough that I can easily detect his breath and proceeds to give me bad news. I take a step backwards due to my discomfort which causes him to shuffle forward. I do this again which evokes the same response and it continues for some time. In a very peculiar way it is a dance of cultures, each force acting the way they were indoctrinated. Occasionally I imagine the scene unfolding from a 3rd person perspective: how strange it must appear to the 792 students standing within eyeshot. Either way I find the experience rather souring.

2-0 Culture

 Last and most colorful of these images brings me back to a bus ride I took in early April. The bus was full when we left the eastern city of Trashigang departing for Mongar. All the seats had been filled and a few sat in the aisle.

 (near the beginning of our journey)

As we departed we continued to pick people up. Commuters squished and made more room from space I didn’t know existed to begin with. More and more joined and soon there were at least 15 more inside the small bus than when we started. At one point there was an elderly villager woman sitting on the floor who wrapped her arm around my calf and proceeded to use it as a pillow. I looked over at my friend Nakita in disbelief thinking this woman must not realize she is holding onto a human being—but she knew. She readjusted my leg to her convenience and I couldn’t help but laugh. Finally I was accepting the strangeness of it all.

(you can spot one woman on the floor who is behind the one latching onto my leg)

2-1.

As the hours passed and more entered I found myself sitting next to a man standing in the aisle. His was facing me and was forced to lean forward because of the person behind him. Let’s just say my head was at an unfortunate height and parts of his body kept bumping into me. I’d move over if there were space, but there wasn’t an inch of budging room. I felt my bubble bursting and a feeling of violation with it. Nakita of course found this utterly amusing, snapping a few photos amidst my discomfort. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

Game over: Culture 3, Reese 1.

All these situations are minute lessons in cultural tolerance. Many would protest the actions and find fault in the other party, but I think this mindset is a narrow one. We perceive the world through the lens of our own culture, whether or not we realize it. The actions may elude our own rationality, but that doesn’t mean that situations like these warrant judgment. Some things just are and making peace with that inevitably broadens the mind.

The Year of the Reader

The morning was just like any other. I arrived at school to greetings from chipper students exclaiming “good morning, sir” as they bowed respectfully. But as I walked clockwise around the venerated statue of the god of knowledge right in front of the main office, the principal approached. He said in the most casual of tones that I am to coordinate a 5-hour reading program for the 5 local schools scheduled for this weekend. Internally my mind was struggling to wrap itself around this. Wait, what the hell? That sounds like a big task for someone who is brand new to the system, but I needed to stay calm and take his direction to heart. So I agreed. He lightened the burden by adding that I would be working in conjunction with two other teachers. 

(Aforementioned statue)           

        

That afternoon when the three of us shared a free period, we convened to discuss our plan which was due by the end of the day. I’ve never been asked to do anything remotely on this scale. Thousands of students would be in attendance! The stakes were also high because reading holds special significance in Bhutan this year. The secretary to the minister of education emphasized that we as foreign teachers should work diligently to improve students’ readership. The minister of education echoed these statements when he visited my school.  I myself had chosen the school’s theme for the year as “building life-long readers” in response to the national designation of 2015 as the “Year of the Reader”. Now I am typically vocal in teacher meetings, but I had absolutely no clue where to even begin. What resources are available? What do we have already and what can we afford? What kind of level are Bhutanese students capable of reading in class 1 or class 8? What skills can they display with confidence? With all these thoughts unproductively floating around in my head, I was—not surprisingly—quiet during the first few minutes of our meeting. With every question one of the madams would ask for my thoughts, upon which I could only reply, “I’m not sure”. It took some time before I conquered the nagging doubt, but somewhere halfway through the meeting I found my voice.

Eventually the three of us were able to hash out some initial ideas for the day’s program. We would have student speakers and performances preceding an activity block with three-simultaneous stations which would tailor to different age and ability groups. Somewhere in the mix we would have a speech by the chief guest, our governor. We would distribute food and drink for our guests, some of them students, but also members of the community coming to observe the day’s events. We would then conclude by giving out prizes for the winners of the activities and close with a final speech.

There. Our preliminary work was done for the time being, subject now to administrative scrutiny. I returned to lesson planning and wiped my thoughts of this grand task. The channels were quiet for some time. Word came that our chief guest would be out of town for some undetermined period of time so the program would be delayed. This was welcome news as we would not have been ready for the original date anyway.

Over the next week we sat in various meetings to draw up a budget for refreshments, banners, tents, prizes, furnishing, and the like. We then researched reading-related quotes for the banners. I organized the logistics of the three simultaneous activities which would be buddy reading from grades 1-6, a reader’s theater competition for grades 7 through 10, and a read and retell exercise for grades 11-12. Further meetings yielded delegation of performances to teachers and staff, which lightened the work load. I then drew up rubrics for the judges and hunted down material for the read and retell portion. We made slight changes to the itinerary often and sent out updated information to the other schools. Within a few short weeks the stars had aligned and our program was beginning to look promising.

In the days prior to reading day, students were asked to clean the children’s park which sits at the center of Mongar town. I was elated to come by after school to find students picking up trash and sweeping the grounds of glass and other hazardous material. Students in the upper grades erected tents and banners while younger volunteers stripped pine needles from branches to use as bedding in the tents. More volunteers brought in tables and chairs. All this transpired after school hours with no promise of reward. Sure students may be rowdy in the classrooms, but they are undoubtedly helpful and obedient when called upon.

               After weeks of delays, weeks of planning, and weeks of teachers and students practicing after school, the day had come. Reading Day took place on a Saturday. The sky was virtually clear. I woke up early and walked into town, arriving before most of the students. There I met with my fellow coordinators where we did last-minute arrangements of the chairs. I spoke with the judges and went over their packets to ensure they understood their role in the day’s activities. Things started slowly, as they tend to do here. Students, teachers, and townspeople arrived within an hour and a half. Finally it was time to begin. 

               Student speakers who had practiced for weeks finally gave their speeches. The mic was working—a miracle given its track record, and the students were audible. Next the district education officer delivered a speech on the importance of reading, followed by one by the governor. All was going according to plan, but my mind was still focused upon damage control. The poetry reenactment by our class 5 was a bit robotic, but there were no striking errors, falls, or slip-ups. 

               The day followed much in this fashion. I kept waiting for something to go wrong, and though there were some issues, none of them threw off the general momentum of the day. The activities ran smoothly and the judges seemed comfortable. At the principal’s insistence we even included a block of time during the program for the entire audience to read. People of all ages and levels of importance sat quietly, poring over newspapers, books, and magazines. Afterward “randomly selected” individuals were called to summarize what they had read. Two of them happened to be the two foreign teachers in the area, Anna—a Tibetan-American from Virginia—and Nakita. I figured surely they would call me up next, but thankfully, they didn’t.

              At the end the governor and a high-level monk awarded the winners of the activities with gifts. I was happily surprised to hear my name called just before the end. The coordinators, myself included, were recognized and given a portrait of the king with a white sash and a dedication of thanks at the bottom. Needless to say I felt proud of our brainchild, but it would never have been a success without everyone’s diligence. We had transformed an empty time slot into an elaborate celebration of the art of reading, not in one go, but by tackling it piecemeal. And our efforts did not go unnoticed; portions were aired on the news and an article was even published about the day's events in the national English newspaper, The Kuensel.

               Reflecting on the preparation and delivery of Reading Day, I cannot help but see parallels to the experience of living abroad. As an international teacher, I must constantly face the unfamiliar. The beginning is always the most trying, as I must relearn virtually everything. But everything we have ever seen or experienced was once new to us. Learning to navigate these challenges is what builds character and I find both strength and peace from the process; after all, that’s why I chose teaching—it’s a dynamic profession that requires ongoing learning and adaptation.

Weekend Vignette #1: Vodka and the Art of Forest Bathing

I awoke to sunlight pouring through my curtains. Despite a reasonable thickness and a gorgeous solid color, they seem incapable of keeping the light out of my room. No complaints on this day, however, as it was Sunday. This day in Bhutan is a precious one, as it is the only day I have off during the week. Needless to say 6-day work weeks have taken time to adjust to.

I fixed some coffee and drank it slowly as I peered out my window. Another beautiful sunny day. Most days in Mongar are beautiful, mind you, but visibility varies wildly. On mornings like this, I can see row after row of mountains in the distance, which is stunning for both its grandeur and its rarity.

On this particular morning I was bound for Kilikhar. Nakita and I planned to walk up the road without any destination in mind; just wander and take in the beauty of our surroundings. By the time I was ready and willing to walk out the door it was 10 in the morning and I figured hitch-hiking would be the best way up the road.

I’ve never hitch-hiked before. The art is lost in the US, reserved for only the brave, the destitute, the sinister, and those in desperate need of a shower. But here in Bhutan it is a common practice. People are incredibly giving and kind, and that is no generalization; it’s part of their culture. The prospect of picking a stranger up is more out of duty and generating good karma than anything else. So, despite my uncertainties, I was determined to give it a try.

I walked up the road for a few minutes, keeping an eye out for cars. Despite being a national highway it was quiet for some time. The location, however, is perfect as there are no major residences between my location and the next town, so just about anyone would be bound for Kilikhar. After a half a kilometer I decided to just stand and wait it out. From a distance I could hear the sound of an engine. Along came a jeep, following the exaggerated contour of the cliff-hugging road. I squinted my eyes to try to peer inside the vehicle. It looked full, but nevertheless I put my arm out to the side and swiveled my wrist from side to side, feeling a bit unsure of myself. When I made eye contact with the driver he put up his hand in a gesture I did not understand outright, but later came to learn meant the car is full. No problem, I told myself. Someone will come along eventually.

Ten minutes later I had another opportunity. This time a small sedan stopped just past me in the middle of the road. A window rolled down, which was a good sign. Inside sat an older gentleman in his 60’s with two small boys and a heap of groceries. He beckoned me inside to the passenger seat, throwing some items into the back to make room. Success! We spoke for the duration of the drive up. He told me he was a retired official who decided to build a home in Kilikhar, a place called the “White House” because the walls were stark white, a unique choice in contrast to the traditional style homes. I instantly knew the house he spoke of as I had seen it before. It was hard to miss.

Upon arriving in Kilikhar he insisted that I stop in for a drink. It felt an odd request given the fact I was en route to meet someone, but to the Bhutanese a half hour or an hour is nothing in the grand scheme of things. As they say here, we live on BST—Bhutan Stretchable Time—so I agreed and we ascended the stairs to the uppermost level. There he sat me down while he put away the groceries and introduced me to his wife. A minute later he asked if I would like some vodka. At 10:30 in the morning?

So there I was sitting in the penthouse of a recent stranger-turned-friend drinking vodka well before midday. Only in Bhutan can such randomness thrive. We talked for a while until my glass was empty and it seemed an opportune time to depart.

From there I crossed the street to Nakita’s apartment and we spent the day strolling under the sun and wind, taking moments to enjoy the scenery and explore without boundary. We went wherever we felt compelled to walk, crossing through a forest, an old herding trail, by a half-built temple structure, and finally to a chorten, all offering stunning views of the surrounding valley.

Being outside in the splendor of nature felt freeing. It is pleasing to the senses and comforting in some ways. In Japan there is a similar practice called shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. This is a historical pastime meant to relax the body and mind. Modern studies support the neuro-psychological effects of shinrin-yoku, and it isn’t hard to see why. It puts everything into perspective, especially if you don’t have anywhere you need to be.

Reese and the Confounding Case of Canine Causality

One night in Thimphu after eating dinner Fraser and I came upon small group of stray dogs. We had decided to take some food home with us and this piqued the canines' interest. They began to get rather close—a bit too close for comfort—and before I knew what was happening one was in hot pursuit of my friend. Fraser tried to shake him, but the dog wouldn’t stop. We couldn’t quite tell if he was being playful or aggressive, and not knowing made us err on the side of caution. It took us a bit, but after a short while we managed to fend him off, Fraser having incurred minor wounds as a result of the run-in.

This experience in some ways set the tone for future interactions with Bhutanese dogs. I’ve never been anti-dog—never been attacked or had a negative experience with them. I had, in fact, grown up with them in my home and at my friends’ homes. But strays are slightly different. Their demeanor is rather unpredictable, especially in packs. In Senegal strays could be downright frightening. At night I would look out over the balcony and see packs as large as 12 running with purpose down the dirt roads. Whenever I would walk my sister-in-law’s dog, I always had to carry a rock. Even if I only would pretend to throw, it would be enough to keep them at bay. Before I had moved there a stray had attacked Tanga (the dog) unprovoked, taking a gnarly bite out of his torso and puncturing his lung, breaking ribs, and causing major blood loss. The vet didn’t believe he could rebound, but fortunately he did. This story fueled my caution.

Bhutan, however, deals with dogs somewhat differently. People will leave out their leftovers to keep them fed. As a result the dogs are less gaunt and their coats healthier. There are some exceptions of course. Some are riddled with fleas, some have gnarly skin diseases, and some are rabid. A dog with one or more lame legs is pretty common, too. When I first came to Mongar I noticed a dog at my school was missing a paw. I asked someone about it and was told that this dog had bitten several students so one of the maintenance staff decided to lop off the dog’s paw. The act seemed oddly aggressive considering their otherwise placid existence, but to their credit the dog has been docile ever since and it certainly isn’t impeded by its loss. That’s about the extent of their negative interactions. Senseless violence is reserved only for naïve children, and only the youngest of them who can impart little harm anyway. The rest treat the dogs with kindness or, at the very least, indifference. People will even drive around them as they lazily sunbathe in the middle of the road, which sadly is more than can be said about Senegal.

The dog population is growing due to a lack of neutering and you can find a dog just about anywhere in this country. If you don’t see them, you’ll definitely hear them. I once read that Bhutan was a quiet place, but I assure you, it’s not. Just after dark the dogs begin their barking and will continue well into the night. At first the noise drove me crazy, echoing in my head and inhibiting my sleep, but now I can tune them out with ease.

But I digress. I was very cautious with strays after that night in Thimphu. Now I am able to walk freely among them without fear, but this wasn’t always the case. Early on they would pick up on my misgivings and return them with equal distrust. In my first month I had a handful of dogs on separate occasions charge me. On Losar (Tibetan/Chinese/Bhutanese/Lunar New Year) I was walking around town when two dogs from opposite sides tried to attack, their jaws snapping maniacally. I used my bag to keep distance between us until a high school student came over and shooed them away. I turned to him, feigning composure, to say they must not like me. I remembered he responded without a hint of worry in his voice, “They’re just not used to you”.

Through conversations with others in the expat community I noticed that those with more benevolent attitudes didn’t share my conundrum. Nevertheless my infamy in the dog community persisted for some time. The two that reside near my place bared their teeth and barked in agitation whenever I came in sight. The dogs by the school reacted with similar suspicion. And, my word, I couldn’t walk outside at night without pissing some dog off. It seemed hopeless, like I couldn’t go out without watching for danger from all sides. Staying mentally acute was wearing me down. The fear was truly stifling, but fortunately, this is not the end of my story.

Over time things began to change. The dogs by my house stopped barking and started moving away in my presence. I also noticed that whenever I didn’t wear my gho the dogs would take more notice of me, as if my western style was too terrible to ignore. The real change, however, was not their adaptation to my presence or some deception via camouflage; nay, it was my own perception that needed to change. Having realized this I began to gradually trust them, walking ever closer with each passing day. Whenever I felt nervous I would do my best to ignore them. The result of my efforts is palpable. I’m happier, the dogs are happier, and I learned yet another important lesson. We can’t let fear rule us nor let a bad experience color our future ones. Even if caution is sensible, sometimes we just have to trust others to get it in kind, regardless of their species.

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.