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.