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.