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.

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.