The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 2: The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The first night set the tone for our future soirees, but the days held equal promise for diversion. After a blurry-eyed breakfast a group of us took to hiking up a nearby mountain in hopes of laying eyes on a temple near its peak. Little did we know what an ordeal it would turn into. We began walking down from the lodge, attempting shortcuts through overgrown trails at the behest of our “guide” who we quickly realized was as new to getting there as we were. Eventually we decided to hitch a ride to the trailhead. From there a sharp climb began. We cut up through tall grass, weaving through trees and farm plots, small homes, and precarious ledges. The humidity had us all sweating buckets and the high-altitude sun scorched our pasty bodies, kept pristine under the modest design of gho and kira these last 5 months.

 

Some three hours later under the midday sun we started to feel tired and realized we were a long, long way from the top. Begrudgingly we called on the van to take us up the rest of the way. 

(View from 3/4 of the way up, the village below being where we started from)

Once at the top, we drove through a small town and looked out at villages dotting the landscape between thick buffers of forest, reaching the temple some 30 minutes later. On foot such a journey would have taken an additional 3 or 4 hours, but thankfully it didn’t come to that. Concerns over our aching, sun-burnt bodies went by the wayside once we entered the temple complex. The first thing I saw was a statue of the historical Buddha, meditating placidly with eyes half-closed, his skin a shade of light blue. Around him were various statues central to his life and story of enlightenment.

We got out and immediately flocked to the statues. Channeling my undergraduate studies, I was able to elaborate on them and their significance with relative success to a few unacquainted with the Buddha’s life.

 (An emaciated version of Buddha attempting asceticism in the foreground,

Buddha in meditation atop a lotus flower in the middle, and in the background the Buddha when he

was a prince, cutting off his long hair as he leaves the palace to seek freedom from suffering)

 (The Buddha lying down for the last time, surrounded by his followers on his death bed)

Beside this impressive display was a large prayer wheel and buildings which were home to young monks who studied in the monastic system. My friend Holly and I walked around the grounds, spinning the prayer wheel thrice over and waving at the shy young monks who hid behind windows and doorways.

 (Holly standing in the middle of the complex, with the monk quarters and prayer wheel on the right)

The head lama approached us and invited our group to a tea room for drinks and a snack. We happily obliged and followed him toward the back of the complex. The path there was lined with the most beautiful flowers. I confess total ignorance of the names and types, but nevertheless I was moved by the magenta, celadon, cyan, and saffron hues. 

 (A small selection of the flowers we saw)

Once inside we were ushered into a small sitting room with a few benches and faded frescos lining the walls. We sat down, eager to imbibe something after such a long, draining hike. In came a man who placed trays of soda and arra (the distilled rice liquor akin to the taste of sake with twice the kick) on the table, and in true Bhutanese fashion, left us alone to enjoy our drinks. We quenched our thirst then expressed our thanks and caught a ride back down the mountain to our lodging, weary from the afternoon’s events.

A few hours later, following a late lunch and a meeting, we gathered in the dining hall to discuss the night’s upcoming program. The room was rearranged to accommodate a greater number of guests and strewn around it were a multitude of Canadian flags. It took me a minute to make sense of this choice in decoration. But of course! July 1^st is Canada Day.

Aum Deki and Nancy have been friends for decades so out of respect for their friendship, the Lingkhar Lodge decided to celebrate in tandem. This small gesture is representative on a grander scale of a long-standing friendship between the two nations, dating back to 1963 when Canadian Jesuit priest Father William Mackey was invited into Bhutan to establish secular schools in the east. His work paved the way for exchange programs, foreign teacher placements, and western-style curricula. Father Mackey’s legacy carries on in the remote corners of Bhutan’s eastern provinces and the country to this day holds diplomatic relations with Canada in high esteem. Nancy’s work in Bhutan over the last 30 years is an extension of this movement and a dozen high-ranking dignitaries and administrative officials coming to join us this evening is testament to just that, including a former UN representative for Bhutan and the local governor.

Outside, the hotel staff arranged the chairs in a wide arc around an impressive, unlit bonfire as well as tables of varying quality, which to me indicated the wide spectrum of rank and status among those in attendance. It wasn’t long before our guests began to arrive sporting their nicest gho and kira. From the sidelines we watched as Nancy greeted them. Wearing our finest ragged vestments, torn from hikes and stretched from undisciplined hand-washing, we self-consciously approached and shook their hands in order from right to left before taking our seats.

               

All concerns of formality were assuaged the moment we were served a most rare delicacy for eastern Bhutan: wine! The collective mood shifted at this new addition and we happily went about socializing. It felt all too natural to intertwine the middle web of my hand against the glass’s slender stem, my fingers cupping the rounded bowl nearly full to the brim with crimson manna. I indulged slowly, knowing full-well this would be my only chance to savor a hearty red for some time. As time progressed so did the mingling in small clusters around the field. Before long night was upon us and with the sun’s waning, the fire was lit. Hypnotized by the incandescence of the flames and emboldened under the cover of darkness, we sang, the echoes of which carried far out into the valley.

Dinner was eventually served indoors and the conversations ensued betwixt mouthfuls of a most delectable mélange of Bhutanese and western fanfare. I was particularly taken by the chicken wings dressed in a tangy sauce. In true Bhutanese fashion our guests departed immediately after eating and we carried on with the festivities on a veranda nearby. BCFers from a variety of dzongkhags (provinces) delivered their premade raps, offering both slams and benedictions unto their colleagues, resulting in uproarious laughter and applause.

               The next morning was predictably slow following the events from the day before. By early afternoon we were invited to assist in transplanting rice to the paddies just below the lodge. To the uninitiated, rice fields are self-contained plots of earth lined with grassy perimeters. In Bhutan and other mountainous Asian countries, these fields are cut into step-like terraces to maximize surface area. When the time is right for planting the fields are filled with water, which pleasantly results in an aesthetic reflection of the sky above, followed by transplanting young seedlings to these sectors.

 (A view of the paddies from the lodge)

We BCFers had joined in order to learn about the process, which involved holding a bundle of the seedlings away from you and plunging them into the murky water below one stalk at a time, just beneath the muddy surface. We threw our shoes by the wayside and stepped into the muddy marsh, gleefully going about the work. Somewhere between the jokes I became aware of the deep historical significance of my actions, first carried out by Chinese farmers some 10,000 years ago. How many people must have spent their days under the midday sun hunched forward, repeating the same motion I was acting out again and again?

Once I finished my bundle I pulled myself out of my reverie and looked around. Halfway down the field the women who had demonstrated the process were nearing completion. I looked down at my modest attempts, a small area not a meter square. Damn. Well farming isn’t for me anyway. Once the locals finished, they entertained themselves by chuckling over our haphazard execution and clumsiness, throwing more bundles at our feet, sending mud flying in every direction. On the occasion that someone slipped they would burst into wild laughter, causing me in turn to chuckle at yet another mud-covered colleague.

By evening time we were back to our old antics: sharing stories and frustrations over beer and whisky with thousands upon thousands of flying insects to keep us company. That night I saw a few beetles 5 inches in length, some sporting horns, others possessing nearly inch-long pincers. Although unsettling, these run-ins are inevitable in a country as alive as Bhutan, and after many months in the field I had certainly grown more accustomed to the presence of these buzzing goliaths, as did my mates judging by the absence of any freak out.

Because it was our last night together as one big family we spent as much time with each other as possible, playing games and laughing richly. Come morning many of us would be saying goodbye. Some planned to return to their villages, some to explore particular areas of the country in small clusters, and others sought an adventure all their own. Fortunately for me I would be going with a large group of my friends further east before returning to the big city: Thimphu.

The next morning we packed our things and said farewell, at least until December when we are set to reconvene in Thimphu. It was bitter-sweet, especially after spending so much time together, but conversely we had over a week of freedom and possibility to look forward to. It may seem odd to some, having formed a tight bond with 16 other people when we’ve only really spent two weeks together out of the entire year, but that’s one thing I really love about expat friendships: they work on a completely different time scale—in Bhutan especially. Brought together by our parallel experience, our bonds were formed early and continued to grow ever stronger with each new lesson and tribulation. And upon convening, we spend nearly every waking hour in each other's company, our minds thirsty for intra-cultural connection. Our friendship is a special one forged by unique circumstances. Times like these help me appreciate the meaning and capacity of true friendship, as all these wonderful people have been there each step of the way, through the good times and the bad, to offer empathy and support. We are very much a family albeit a ridiculous and, at times, dysfunctional one at that.

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 1: Stranger in a Strange Land

(My front door view now made lush by the summer rains)

The weeks prior to break were hectic to say the least. I had taken on 8 additional periods per week in the final month and found myself compiling grades for 10 different grade/subject combinations (a task that centers around 200 students and twice that many notebooks). In addition, as the English Head of Department I had to edit all subject-relevant midterm exams word for word as well as write my own, delegate, invigilate, and take place in mass-marking. If five months in the field hadn’t taken its toll, the final month certainly pushed me to the brink.

The fortunate side-effect of a non-stop lifestyle is that time passes rather quickly. By Tuesday, June 30^th, my bag was packed and I was eagerly awaiting my ride, my mind swimming in the wondrous potential of the upcoming two-week summer holiday. I, along with all those who joined the Bhutan Canada Foundation program this year, were bound for Trashigang, a quaint medieval-looking town at the base of a jungle valley. The half of our group that lay west of it had been picked up along the way over the previous day and a half and I was next in line.

After what felt like an eternity in wait, my BCF chariot arrived. I happily hugged my fatigued compatriots and hopped inside. As soon as I sat down though culture shock hit me like a slap in the face. Everyone spoke at lightning speed, their boisterous voices full of jubilation as they pored over subjects my brain was having difficulty comprehending. Surely I had not lost all intellectual capacity! No, no that was not it. I was merely rubbing noses with western discourse, which contrasted wildly against the quiet slice of life I had settled into. I waited a while before deciding to mention my unease, but luckily it was met with a chorus of empathy. Most, if not all, had navigated through a similar sentiment in the very recent past.

 

(The van crew, photo courtesy of Catherine and Holly)

 

We spent the 3-hour drive playing word games and catching up. Everyone looked thinner (by the diet and lifestyle, surely) and a bit more wild—a couple guys had even grown out burly beards. We spoke of rats and mold, educational faults in a system dependent on rote memorization, and our various horror stories involving some combination of the aforementioned factors. But we spoke of all these maladies light-heartedly, a skill cultivated here in a land where even the greatest of frustrations roll right off its people.

As we drove east I realized just how much the summer rains had brought greenery upon the already tropical landscape. The drive was subsequently full of eye candy. We started out climbing over the mountain ridges of Mongar province, eventually descending into cliff-side towns like Yadi surrounded by innumerable pine trees before coming out into a gorge with a massive river carving its way through. We drove parallel to the white water river for an hour, slowly descending when the landscape permitted until we crossed the river via a large iron bridge, again ascending an additional twenty minutes only to dip back down into Trashigang proper.

We stopped in town for only a few minutes, as this was not our final destination. Our retreat would actually take place some twenty minutes outside Trashigang at a resort called the Lingkhar Lodge. 3-stars by western eyes and 5 by the Bhutanese, this beautiful oasis sits above rice paddies looking out at a valley and 5 mountain tops within a 180-degree open vista. It is owned by a former minister and overall big-wig along with his much esteemed wife, Aum Deki. 

But before we could arrive, mere kilometers from the lodge, we were stopped in our tracks by a road block. An oversized truck used to carry heavy loads had fallen off the road some 150 feet into the jungle brush below. We all exited the vehicle to behold the ingenuity of the Bhutanese as a construction vehicle meant for digging tried to pull up the truck via a taut metal cable and improvised pulleys. As we came to learn, earlier they had cut the truck in two so it would be easier to lift. Slowly but surely they pulled out the front half, hoisting it into the air with the big metal scooper and drove ever so carefully to an area where it could dump the multi-ton hunk of mangled metal.

We arrived at the lodge just as night fell. We were greeted by Aum Deki, Nancy (our program head), and other BCFers who had arrived earlier. All 17 of our group were in attendance as well as two veterans from previous years. After dropping our bags off we happily dined on buffet-style Bhutanese food, chatting at length with any and all. The beer flowed freely as we prattled on and before long, the strange feeling tied to my paradigm shift fell away, yielding to a night of philosophizing and good cheer, ended only as we conceded defeat against our drooping eyelids.