Weekend Vignette #2: Carpe Diem, Carpe Nocturne

Once upon a weekend cheery,
there I pondered, accomplished (in theory),
despite many a bemusing event from the week before,
While I daydreamed, in reverie
Suddenly arose a quandary,
Making me an accessory
Accessory to plans galore.
Tis my friend, I realized,
Offering beer, hikes, and more.
The tale of which here lies below; a weekend vignette’s in store.

It was a Saturday. Like any Saturday I faced a serious dilemma: collapse into my bed for an hour-long nap so as to recuperate from a long week or use this precious time to capitalize on my freedom. Decisions, decisions. The hard fact of working as a teacher in Bhutan is that it is utterly exhausting, especially for us foreign transplants. I have spoken about this at length with a variety of my expat colleagues; some speculate the cause of our fatigue lies in our ambitious aims and general work ethic, some surmise it’s the overall lifestyle that wears us down, yet others hypothesize it is the incessant exposure to foreign bacteria. All are valid in my eyes. No matter how you look at it though we are only in Bhutan once and weekends like these are our only chance to explore and/or relax.

Fortunately I had plans to keep me from stasis. In the late afternoon Nakita and I were to meet some friends for a hike. But before that we, the dynamic duo, decided we had earned ourselves a nice, cold beer. So we met in the town square and did a few errands before we found ourselves at the front of the Wangchuk hotel, rather by chance. This hotel is the fanciest place in town and we had never been inside so it was worth a look. We weren’t disappointed. The ornate interior design, tile floors, and general sophistication had us floating on air. The bathrooms were pristine, the staircases spiraled, the walls decorated with art. Such simplicities to the west are ostentatious displays for such a remote location like Mongar.

Upon meandering into the dining hall we saw a veranda and quickly decided this would be a perfect place to spend our early afternoon. Once we found the wait staff we ordered some beer, pizza (PIZZA!), and momos (Bhutanese/Tibetan dumplings). Soaking in the sun we laughed away the hours, dabbling in philosophy, culture, and the simple joys of life.

Before we knew it, the clock read nearly four, the time we had planned to meet Peter and Ruth.

Peter and Ruth are a couple who volunteered at the Mongar hospital from February to May. Peter is a pediatrician originally from the UK and Ruth a retired nurse from Canada. Despite their advanced age, they are unusually spritely and adventurous. Over the months they were here I had spent plenty of nights over at their house drinking beer and sharing stories though we also would chart weekend hikes, play card games, visit our favorite restaurant in town, and tackle culinary challenges. They made for great company while they were here and I miss them greatly—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

On this day they had offered to take us on a hike the Gangala River. Mongar town is roughly a mile above sea level and at the top of a ridge, so visiting natural bodies of water makes for an exciting change of scenery. Nakita and I had wanted to go for weeks, especially since Peter had enticed us with tales of the wildlife. So, having finished up our afternoon treat, Nakita and I descended to the hospital housing and there we put down our bags before the four of us set off. We cut through a small trail on the outskirts of the hospital which lead to a hole in the fence before descending some hundred giant stairs into rougher terrain. Not 10 minutes in and we were engulfed by rural surroundings. The verdant greens of the jungle were nearly upon us as we passed village cow herders on the dirt road.

At some point we took a turn which led us past vertical prayer flags and banana trees until we came upon a prayer wheel being spun by a creek running down into the valley. Hydro-powered prayers—I like it. Further we descended until the sounds of jungle life filled our ears. It wasn’t all that precarious but the angle of descent was steep enough to occasionally merit the use of all four limbs. We stopped from time to time to ogle at birds (Peter and Ruth being bird-watchers) as well as the wild magnolias. At one point two blurs of brown about waist high darted across the path. I was surprised to hear from Peter these small creatures were deer—far smaller than any species I’d ever seen.

Roughly 50 minutes in we reached the river. What a lovely sight to behold after living up high for so long. The water flowed steadily over large gray rocks, twisting ever slightly through the valley. In order to reach a bridge we had to walk parallel to the water for some time. Looking down I couldn’t help but notice the copious amounts of wild marijuana growing near the bank. While there is a zero tolerance attitude toward drugs in Bhutan, weed seems to grow everywhere. To them it is quite literally just that, a weed.

At last we reached the bridge—a precarious mix of wood and bits of metal. Peter and Ruth assured us it is safe and I trusted in them, especially as it swayed and bounced with each step. We explored just a bit further but, with the hour growing late and the sunlight waning, it was time to return. Just as we passed the river crossing on our return we spotted two langurs playfully chasing each other through the trees.

Going back up the mountainside was a bit trying, but not enough to lessen our spirits. Back at the prayer wheel we ran into some of my students catching river crabs. We gave them a few treats and continued on our way, making it back to Peter and Ruth’s place just as the sun dipped behind the mountain. There we ate and talked for some time before departing.

I was tired to say the least and could easily have called it a night, but Nakita was dead set on snooker, so I decided to stick it out. We navigated our way to the building then conquered a concrete maze up until the parlor’s entrance. Walking through the door took us into a totally different world. Men in heated exchange spoke frantically as money was being thrown in every which direction. These men were clearly no amateurs. In the air was a faint but noticeable smell of cigarette smoke, a rarity considering its debatable legal status. I stood paralyzed by the intensity of life and sport taking place before my eyes. This scene was just so un-Bhutanese.

Nakita turned to me, wondering how we’d get a table. We were ruminating our options for a short while before the matron of the establishment walked over and introduced herself. She kindly escorted us to a corner of the room and removed a tarp, revealing a normal sized "practice" table. Not long after a group of three college-aged guys asked if we wanted to play against them. I, being rather unfamiliar with snooker, wasn’t too keen on taking on locals right away due to what I just witnessed, but they assured me they were still beginners. With a little extra coaxing from Nakita I decided to go with the flow. That always seems to be the solution in this country. As it turned out, we weren’t half bad and managed to beat them the first round—mostly by luck. During the second game they decided to substitute a friend in, which happened to be our downfall. We got our asses kicked, and that’s putting it lightly, but the experience was great fun—exchanging playful taunts and jokes.

Happily sated by the experience, Nakita and I walked under the stars in search of a taxi. The town was dead by this time save the faint glimmer of lights from houses across the valley, seemingly close yet so far away. With a little luck we managed to get a lift back to our respective places, bringing to an end one of the most eventful days of my time here in Mongar.

Teacher's Day

 

Teacher’s Day is serious business in Bhutan. There was a considerable buzz from students weeks prior to the date, which I thought strange considering they get little out of the whole affair. But I was game to see what lay in store. In the five countries I have taught in, teacher appreciation is a rather mild affair where students give gift cards, mugs, or stationary supplies. Oddly enough the US seemed the least enthused, though when I look at other teachers’ Facebook pages I see this varies depending upon the community’s income level.

Teacher’s Day took place on Saturday, May 2nd. Saturdays in Bhutan are half days. After 3 periods of class students are typically required to indulge in agricultural work for an hour while teachers either supervise or attend professional development meetings that last well into the afternoon, but every once in a while Saturdays are devoted to something special. This means classes get thrown by the wayside, which makes the day more eventful even if it causes a bit of a scheduling headache.

On that very morning I awoke with a rather cloudy head. Unbeknownst to me this was the onset of a very serious infection that would keep me in bed and away from school for several days. At the time I thought this fogginess rather strange, but concerted myself to make it through the day. As I walked to school I could hear the sounds of excited banter. When a small group of students saw me they instantly blurted, “Sir! Sir! You come to class party, okay? After assembly you come!” Knowing I would get the same invitation from various classes I hesitated to give them a definitive response, but eventually I acquiesced, deciding I can schedule other class parties around it.

This was only the beginning. Once I made it onto school grounds I was ‘attacked’ by scores of students. They all rushed at me in droves, like zombies, crawling and swimming through their peers to meet my gaze. But instead of feasting on my brains they merely wanted to present me a gift. Fortunately I had brought an empty bag to school in anticipation of a few gifts. Student after student presented me cylindrical gifts (pens, most likely) vested in gift wrap. A pen may not seem like too much of an indulgence to us, but considering entire families often live on less than $200 a month, such an offer is incredibly generous and speaks wonders to the selflessness that exists in Bhutan. I made sure to thank each and every student whilst making eye contact, quickly stuffing each item into my gho. But by the time I had reached the bottom-most level of the school, my gho was full to capacity—and those pockets can hold books, balls, just about anything. The sheer determination of these students to fight through the crowds and present me with gifts bordered on ridiculous.

(Some of my bounty from the day)

I eventually managed to escape the unstinting hordes for a minute and upon reaching my office I let out a sigh of relief. I took this moment of respite to relocate my gifts to my bag. Little did I know my gho would be filled twice more by the end of the day. Coupled with the dream-like fogginess besetting me, everything up to that point had made for a very surreal experience, but it was far from over.

When I left the office block I was corralled over to a patch of grass by a few of my students. They insisted I help them with something, but exactly what that entailed I didn’t know. They started digging with their hands and farming tools then handed me a sapling. I asked, “What is this for?” to which they responded that I was to plant two trees in honor of my presence at the school. What a cool idea, I thought. I then delicately placed the saplings into the fresh earth and thanked them before they quickly buried the roots. 

(After the tree planting)

The assembly commemorating the occasion with various performances was to take place at 9am. Taking BST (Bhutan Stretchable Time) into account, however, it was pushed back some hour plus. In the interim I was beckoned to a class party. I walked into the classroom of 6A to see the room transformed. The students had decked out the inside with homemade streamers and balloons from the bakery. They had written well-wishes all over the chalkboard and had a variety of treats sitting out to offer to their teachers. Again their generosity moved me (albeit with a tinge of guilt). The students seated us, the various subject teachers, into a central location where they poured tea and offered snacks. There I was given ceremonial scarves and asked to pop a balloon. After we had been properly stuffed with sugar, the students sang songs and danced for us. It was all so very sweet to see them giving back. I certainly hadn’t seen them this well behaved so I welcomed the experience.

(One of many performances for the teachers)

The sugar, noise, and lack of fresh air really exacerbated my malady but I pushed through another party before everyone moved to the multi-purpose hall for the grand assembly. Once everything was in place and the students were seated, a few scarves were given and the vice principal assisted in the ceremonial cutting of a cake.

The next couple hours yielded various displays of traditional and modern dance, songs, and skits. There was a certain magic to it all—seeing these children perform knowing full well they designed, practiced, and prepared on their own. I found the whole day a great exercise in personal responsibility and a wonderful display of Bhutan’s great cultural strengths: hospitality and altruism.

(A very blurry snippet of Class 8 girls performing a dance)

After the assembly, more food, and (for me) several trips outside for fresh air, the students dispersed. I was invited to one final class party where the students performed songs on guitar and organized a couple games.

We took a few pictures and just like that, the day was through. The students went to cleaning up the classrooms and returned them to their original state. Meanwhile I had had all I could take in my feverish state and set off home with a school bag filled to the brim with gifts and a few items that didn’t fit which I tucked into my gho.

The next day when I unwrapped all the gifts I counted 108 pens (coincidentally—or perhaps not—a very auspicious number in Buddhism), a few woven baskets, a couple mugs, some ornate cups for arra, and heaps of cute letters. I felt extremely grateful to all the students for their kindness, hard work, and generosity. The hard truth is it can be easy for teachers to get bogged down by the day-to-day and forget the bigger picture of just what exactly we are trying to accomplish. Teaching is hard work and this rings especially true for me here in situations where I find my pedagogy totally ineffective due to the country’s unique cultural context. But days like Teacher’s Day remind me that students possess a multitude of strengths that I can build upon and that helps resuscitate my ambitious aims.  With this clarity of mind I am able to recognize just how lucky I am to play a role in this most historic transition for Bhutan, so my thanks goes out to them: the students of today and future of tomorrow

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.