A New Take: the final part

In the departure

there's a lesson: be present,

all you hold is now

Trongsa from our balcony at the Yangkhil 

Class I

Tobgay, explaining how old he will be on his birthday

Trying not to look ill on the bus

The "final chorten"

Sunflowers

Me and Tara in front of the First Palace

Pretending we're staying at the Aman Kora

Jambey Lakhang

Rice paddy with a watch shed

Kurje Lakhang

Joe excelling at Khuru

Preface: I apologize for the delay. Due to unexpected events, I have been away from home or internet for a week and am just getting back into things and feeling  the energy to write. Last week, a fellow BCF teacher, Martha, who taught in Phongmey, became seriously ill and passed away. I traveled out to Mongar and then Trashigang to attend the vigil and cremation. It is still a shock, but luckily many other BCF teachers came to mourn and support each other through this difficult and sad time. There is much to say regarding this experience, I want to allow a respectful amount of space and reflection before I write about it. In any case, whatever I do write will focus on my travels in the eastern part of the country and not the tragedy, out of respect for my fellow teacher and her family.

So here's the final installment of Iman and Joe in Bhutan:

The next day, and early morning Teacher on Duty start, I got a package from the Gup’s (like the mayor) daughter, containing letters and packages from home! Thank you Elsie, Ed, Hans and Liz, Linnea, and my Mom for making an ordinary day like my birthday! Included among the great letters and gifts were 5 copies of The Stranger, the book Linnea and I published in May. I had been anticipating this for months. To see the work in person was surreal. Our names on the cover. A real book, that I wrote and Linnea illustrated…. I donated one (signed) copy to the school, and read it to all my classes that day. I told them that it is proof that they can be authors too. The name on the cover of a book is a regular person, like them or me (yet, there are some books in our library that have no author attributed, which makes the concept of authorship a bit harder to explain. “But Miss, this book has no author.” “Well, it does, someone wrote those words, but they didn’t put the name on it.”). 

That weekend, Joe and I had planned to visit Martin and Tara in Bumthang, but Tara came down with something. We postponed to the next weekend and prayed for her swift recovery. Since the weekend marked the date of our first meeting, we decided instead to visit Trongsa, the town 2 hours to the east of me. It is situated on the side of green sloping mountains, with an impressive dzong that taunts you an hour before you actually reach the town. On Saturday, we walked to the hotel to find a ride and got lucky after a ten-minute wait. The driver, a man from Bumthang, worked for the Royal Insurance Company of Bhutan. He had a cold, but was jovial and talkative, and gave us a pomegranate to dissect as we rode. We reached Trongsa just in time for the bank to close, to my dismay, and bid our driver friend farewell. 

Since it was a special occasion, we had indulged and booked a room at the Yangkhil resort. The resort is very peaceful with fountains, flowers, prayer wheels, and rooms with white linens and small porches where you can sit and take in the view of the bright white dzong nestled in the steep jade mountains. After getting acquainted with the resort, we walked into town to do a little shopping and visit the dzong. As we walked, some extroverted kids on dilapidated bikes struck up a conversation with us and asked for a picture and some money. Whoa! My students would never be so forward with anyone, much less strangers. I’ve noticed this about children in towns versus children in villages, the former are far more outgoing and unabashed.

In town, we dropped some letters in possibly the cutest post office I have ever seen, tucked down a mossy stair, painted bright yellow and blue with flowers out front. We found a shop, in fact the first shop we visited, that sold camera memory cards. Fantastic luck, since Joe’s card was full and he had forgotten the cord to download the pictures onto the computer. We also purchased a celebratory bottle of Raven wine for later. We ate lunch at a little hotel, the Olympics on in the background and a friendly grandfather teasing his granddaughter. After a meal of dal (lentils cooked like a soup), vegetables, cheese momo, and rice, we headed down to the dzong via a long stairway behind Trongsa’s main road. In front of the dzong, an archery match was taking place, and we also saw our tag-along boys roving up and down the road to the dzong.

This dzong boasts an ancient cypress tree directly before the entrance that towers far above the roof. As we walked into the prayer wheel-lined entrance hall, a man pointed out a bat tucked into the eave of a prayer wheel. I have never seen a bat so close before- soft brown with a little snout, tightly closed eyes, with fingers on the ends of its wings. What strange creatures.  We roamed around the dzong, a dog following us as a guide, admiring the painted woodcarvings which are sometimes reminiscent of a similar Norwegian craft. We ran into a Dutch man and his guide briefly, and an impressive rooster. The temples are not open in this dzong, like in Punakha, so after inspecting the scenery, we exited back to the marvelous cypress and walked up to a modest chorten that we circled 3 times for good measure. Circling the chorten, a few kids playing soccer commented “Jarim, sarim!”, the name of a tv show, meaning “beautiful and handsome”.  As it was approaching evening, we began to walk back to the resort. Trongsa has a hidden path that follows a stream from the dzong up to the outdoor market. It is completely overhung with viney branches boasting monsoon soaked greenery. It would have been perfectly gorgeous, except for the trash that had found a home in the stream and bushes. The thing about Bhutan is that the trash is not hidden away. There’s still not a great system in place countrywide to deal with the trash, so it becomes part of the landscape, even in my village. When I think about it, we have a bigger problem with trash, at least in volume, in the US, but we’re pretty good at hiding it from the majority of people. Out of sight, out of mind. Here, it’s a visible problem. Which is worse?

At dusk, we arrived back at the resort and toasted to the sunset and our anniversary. Unlike the plains, the sunsets are quite short here due to the mountains. As we sat out, the Dutch man from the dzong passed by on his way to the dining room. He was a teacher and was spending his month of holiday in Bhutan, traveling to the far east of the country, which many tourists do not see. Impressive, and expensive! We too headed to dinner shortly after, thoroughly enjoying the luxurious place.

Breakfast on our balcony, then it was time to pack. We walked back to town to visit the outdoor market and get lunch. After lunch on a patio looking at the mountains, we went down to the taxi stand to wait for a ride. An hour of waiting, and we changed tactics and wrote up a sign declaring “Rukubji” and sat on the wall next to a prayer wheel to continue the wait. Just then, a pick-up truck pulled into the taxi parking and a gorgeous woman got out, looking like a movie star. She and her brother, the driver, came over and told us they could take us to Rukubji. They said they loved our sign. We squeezed in back with their sister in law and were off on the road. The brother and sister were amazingly kind and by the time we reached Chazam, they had invited us to come camping in Punakha where they live. We had tea at the hotel with our new friends, then got let out right at the turn to Rukubji. We thanked them wholeheartedly, and they made us promise to visit them when we could. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to visit them while Joe was here, but the sister and I are still in contact and I do hope to visit her before I leave.

Another week of school, walks, music, and good meals followed that memorable weekend. At the end of the week, we took the Friday off to go to Bumthang. Again, we waited at the hotel for a ride. This time, we waited for 3 hours. We had good company, as Tobgay, Ajim Yangzom’s 4 year old son, was there to entertain us. Tobgay speaks about 2 words of English, but that didn’t stop him from telling us elaborate tales in his own language. He also made sure we got plenty of puffed rice with our milk coffee and hung around as Joe played guitar with Leki and Sonam Tashi.

Finally the eastbound Trashigang bus roared up at about 1pm. We waved it to a jolting stop, jumped on, and it took off before we were even seated. The only seats open were the back. The very back. Riding in that bus was every bit like riding a rollercoaster, the white rickety one at Valleyfair. Usually, I imagine I am riding a horse when I’m on a bus here, because you have to hold yourself steady like you would on horseback as the bus clangs over bumps and careens around curves. It did not help that we had each finished a giant cup of milk coffee on this hot day immediately before boarding the rollercoaster. You can’t for one minute rest when you ride in the back, your head gets so jostled, so we had to bear our upset stomachs and heads upright, at attention. We reached the Chumey valley in about 3.5 hours time, greeted by Seussical pink fields of buckwheat and glowing yellow sunflowers. At the last chorten pass before the descent to Bumthang and Chamkar town, the bus driver circled 3 times, adding some insult to injury to our state. We got out as soon as the bus stopped, paid the driver, and wobbled away. We walked slowly and knock kneed into town, past cows grazing, and fields of marijuana. Marijuana grows rampant all over Bumthang, making it an actual “weed”, which I find hilarious. I have never been drawn to this or any other drug, but it is quite amazing to see a plant that is so demonized, that has police actively pursuing and jailing people for its growth and consumption, growing in abundance along the road (though it is condoned here as well).

We walked to Martin and Tara’s place just outside of the main town. When we arrived, we were greeted by hugs and fresh made pizza, a fabulous welcome. We spent the evening talking about everything, especially about Bhutan and the experience of living here. Worn out from our "thrilling" bus ride, we went to bed early in their cozy wood walled house.

We concocted a pan of potato and egg breakfast for Tara (Martin had school), and then left to hit the bank and some shops in town. Walking into town from Martin and Tara’s, you have two options: the road, or a back path that follows the river. We chose the path, and were treated to bright sunflowers, fruiting fairytale trees, and plenty of cows. We crossed the bridge over the Chamkar Chuu (river) to the bank, and as soon as I saw people milling about on the stairs outside its doors, I knew something wasn’t right. Sure enough, the “system” was down. No one could get money out. The tellers were waiting for the computers to get working again, and everyone was standing in anxious lines waving their banking slips. I got myself in line, though I knew it would be a long wait, because this was my only chance to get money out, the next day being Sunday. Sure enough, after a half hour, the teller at my window worked a bit of magic and I left with a wad of ngultrum.

The town has a lovely little cheese shop down the road from the bank, so Joe and I walked the kilometer to the shop and picked up a wedge of gouda, a bottle of apple cider, some dried cheese on a string (much like candy necklaces) called “chugo”, Bumthang honey, and a bottle of apple juice. We took turns swigging the apple juice on our walk back to town and munching on chugo.
We set out on our mission to find gifts in town. I hadn’t yet visited the handicraft stores in town since I get to buy lots of handwoven crafts and bamboo baskets from my neighbors. We visited all 3 gift shops in town, chatting with the owners and finding some fine gifts. We also got another set of guitar strings and some vegetables and fruit. Last, we stopped at my favorite restaurant that serves lassi. We drank our lassi and I got some curd (yogurt) for Martin so he could make yogurt. I wish I could make yogurt in Rukubji, but I have no way of keeping it cool afterward, resulting in a fizzy sour mess after a day of sitting on the counter. Sometimes, you just have to adjust to what is possible and accept that you can’t have everything you are used to having. Martin and Tara have a fridge, so I showed them how to make yogurt in their rice cooker during midterm break and they’ve kept it going since.

We arrived back at the house to meet Tara, then ambled down the back path again to visit the first palace and the Aman Kora. The First King's palace sits up from the river and is open to anyone at anytime. It isn’t restored or a museum, just a beautiful old structure that used to house the royals. Walking on the stone tiles, you can imagine what it was like to live here a hundred years ago. Now, only a few monks and a family of cats live in the palace. We walked across the lawn to the Aman Kora, a luxury hotel that sits next to the palace. Tara knows the manager, and we were invited to have tea and visit. The staff gave us a tour of the $1,500/ night rooms and amenities. We settled on a bank of couches in the dining area and treated ourselves to lemonades and snacks. The manager showed up in her usual bubbly fashion, then Martin came to join us, and we ended up spending the bulk of the evening chatting there together. We began walking home around 8:30, in the dark. There aren’t street lights along the roads, so we used our cellphone flashlights (the best part of my phone is the flashlight feature!) to guide our steps.

The next morning, we made pancakes for our hosts and had a leisurely time. Joe and I walked to town again to get screening material for my windows at home. The shop was a mix of harware and groceries, a Bhutanese Fleet Farm. We met up with Martin and Tara in the kitchen of the Leki Guesthouse where they were teaching the owner and her children to make carrot cake. We were all treated to a fabulous lunch, finished off with apples from the trees outside. We had planned on walking to the nearby temples after, so invited the children to come with us. A stop at home to get the Khuru set Tara had gifted Martin for their 5^th anniversary (wood), then back out to the road to walk to Jambey Lakhang.

We passed fields of burgundy-tipped rice paddies where farmers sat in bamboo stands with strings leading to them that they could shake if, ringing alarm bells on the ends, if they spotted a rogue animal trying to steal their harvest.  Jambey Lakhang is a 7^th century temple that is part of 108 temples built in one day by the orders of a Tibetan ruler. There are 4 chortens painted indicating the 4 directions. Inside, the temple has two giant prayer wheels at the entrance and a courtyard where a few elderly people were walking, spinning the wheels, and praying their beads. At the end of the courtyard is the doorway to the old temple. The 3 steps into the temple room represent the past, present, and future. The steps are sinking, so it is said that when the 2nd step sinks (the “present”), the world will stop. I guess it makes sense that if the present falls away, there really is nothing left. The inner temple boasts large golden statues around the perimeter and an altar of butter lamps (actually palm oil, in case you were wondering), offerings, and incense. There are also dice which a monk can give you to roll to see if you have good fortune. Joe rolled the dice, and of course, it was a good roll. We circumambulated the temple and spun the prayer wheels that surround it.

Bumthang is a valley of temples, so we walked down the road toward Kuje Lakhang. Kurje is the site where Guru Rimpoche subdued the demons of the valley and also where the 3 past kings are honored with chortens. Joe and I walked with the children up to the temples. The first had a giant statue of Guru Rimpoche, and not much else inside it except two monks taking a nap by the window. The next had an antechamber where you test yourself by squeezing through a dark u-shaped tunnel in the rock. If you make it, you’re good. If not, well… Thankfully we both made it. 

In the courtyard, we caught Tara and Martin and headed down to the river to test the Khuru set. Khuru is like darts, but long range. The target is about ½ a soccer field away and the darts are hefty with wooden bodies and long sharp noses. The kids were pretty good at it since this is a game they play from the time they can hold the darts. Joe was also surprisingly skilled, though the rest of us were not. We spent a quiet last night playing Scrabble with Martin and Tara, knowing we’d have to leave early the next morning to catch the bus. We woke at sunrise and walked to the bus before the 7am departure, reviewing our lovely time with Martin and Tara and appreciating the early morning scenery of cows, fields, and flowers of the valley edged by pine blanketed mountains.

Back in Rukubji, we planned for the week ahead, Joe’s last week. We’d have to leave on Thursday in order to make it to the immigration office early enough on Friday so they could process Joe’s visa extension. I also needed to see the dentist on Friday to fix my uncooperative retainer (again). It would be a short week at school indeed. On Tuesday, we walked up to say goodbye to Gangamaya, wearing our 'school dress' (gho and kira), which impressed her and made her giggle. Wednesday, we went to the hotel for a farewell dinner, which coincided with the arrival of an important government official, so everyone was quite busy. Still, they treated us to a good meal, after which we gave Leki Tshering a final guitar performance of “Hallelujah”. Joe told the boys to take care of me and they all gave their word. My heart sighed as I helped Joe pack up his things that night, though I knew we’d have a few more days together before I was alone again.

On Thursday morning before heading to the road for the bus, we went to school for breakfast with the Principal and Dema. We brought the buckwheat pancakes and French press coffee (the pancakes were a hit, the coffee was not) and they gave us a spread of puri (fried flat bread), fried chana (chickpeas), aloo dum (spicy potatoes), and tea momo (steamed dumplings without filling). Dema also gifted Joe with a hand-woven silk scarf for his mother. We thanked them profusely and then went down to assembly where Joe gave a small goodbye speech. Joe made sure we got a staff picture, as well as pictures of each class, in front of the school. He’s going to print these and send them to the school. The kids were very sad to see him go, and several ran up to us as we were leaving with letters. I began to think what it would be like when I left the school. They’d only known Joe a month, but I am their ‘Miss’ and will have seen them through a whole school year. There will be tears. 

Back at my house, we picked up our bags and took a picture with Am Tandin, which Joe is also sending to her since she calls me her ‘buum’ (daughter) and will appreciate a visual reminder of the funny foreigner who spent a year in her house. We caught the bus just in time and were lucky to be seated near the middle behind a very cute and flirty baby with the fattest cheeks I’ve ever seen. The requisite 7 hours later, we were back at the bus station in Thimphu hailing a cab to get up to a friend’s place where we’d stay two nights before going to Paro.

In Thimphu, we decided to have some fun even though we had errands to run. We got up and out early on Friday and walked to the immigration office. There, we went from one desk to another, visiting almost every desk in the tiny office until we had the requisite signatures,  stamps, and payments made. After, we walked to the hospital and put my name down to get my retainer fixed (once and for all!) by the orthodontist. Luckily, I saw our school caretaker’s brother who works in that ward and he helped me get in to see the right person. I was in and out, with the retainer filed and pain-free in less than an hour, at no cost (not paying for medical care still surprises me).

Back out on the Thimphu street, we could hear drums, rumbling horns, and chanting. Looking down from the hospital road, we saw a congregation of people and monks at the police grounds. Apparently a city-wide blessing was taking place, headed by the Je Khenpo (chief abbot and spiritual leader of Bhutan). We had heard the chanting and instruments the night before and had now located their origin. We stopped back at the house for lunch and then decided to track down the Takin, national animal of Bhutan. There is a Takin reserve on the outskirts of Thimphu where the animals roam in a fenced area with several kinds of deer. After proclaiming I knew how to get there, we hailed a cab after an hour of walking a more than a mile in the wrong direction.The Takin are elusive, even in their own reserved area, but we spotted a few of them. They are strange animals: a shaggy deer/goat/bear. Hard to imagine, I know. They seem mythical, a perfect national animal for Bhutan.

As we walked down from the reserve, Joe spotted a sign for mini-golf. What? He dragged me in the gate, and I’m glad he did. My first ever round of mini-golf would take place in Bhutan. We were greeted by a retired forestry officer who had discovered mini-golf in the 60s during his time in Europe. He had built the entire course himself and planted its lush surrounding gardens. He gave us our ball, scorecard, and clubs and then hurried to sweep off the concrete obstacles. As we putted around the course, he checked in and gave us pointers in a grandfatherly way. For all its unmechanized simplicity, the course was harder than expected. I won with a great deal of beginner’s luck. We left the proprietor with high praise and well wishes for his enterprise and walked into the city for dinner. What a perfect “date night”: visiting some animals, mini-golf, dinner on a patio.

After a nice and easy morning, we walked down to the bus station and caught the Paro bus for a mere 44 nu a piece (less than a dollar for a 2 hour ride, wheras a taxi would cost 1000-2000 nu, or 20-40 dollars). The bus dropped us off on the main street of Paro town where some kind of variety show was taking place amidst a large crowd in the town square. We peeked over heads to check it out, but apart from a man singing sporadically, not much else was happening. We decided to unload at our hotel, the Dechen Hill Resort which had been the BCF landing pad for the group when we arrived in January. The staff welcomed us into their empty resort and showed us our room, which was above the one I had occupied in January. We were hungry from our travels and skipped lunch, so we walked into town along the dirt road, following the fences of rice paddies. Paro is a stunning valley, and more so when the rice is growing, creating a lush green expanse between the guardian mountains.

In Paro, we found a quaint restaurant after some searching. Restaurants are usually on the 2^nd floor, so you have to do a little more work to see the offerings and decide if you want to eat there. We shared noodles and rice and curry, then walked through the town and back to the resort. Paro quickly transitions in a few short blocks from paved streets with businesses along each side to dirt farm road lined with small wooden shops and rice paddy.

The next morning, we arranged for a taxi ride to the trail head for Takseng.  As a foreigner, you learn quickly that taxi drivers will need to know you aren’t a tourist, or you’ll be paying an outrageous (by Bhutanese standards) fare. Taxi fares aren’t fixed by time here, and are clearly variable depending on the driver and if you are Bhutanese or not. This was the case with our driver, and though I don’t like to negotiate price, it was necessary in this case since he was charging us more than what we were paying for our 2 night accommodation. (I only mention this point because I find it to be inconsistent with how I am generally treated by business people in other enterprises here.)

This was my second trip to Takseng, and this time the scenery was greener and wetter than it had been in the winter. We hiked the wooded ascent to the “Tiger’s Nest”, stopping frequently to take in the majesty of the view and the forest. Near the top, what had been a frozen ice sheet banking a cliff in January was now a plummeting waterfall that sprayed us like a ride at an amusement park. Up, up, up the many steps to the temple, only to find that they were closing for the lunch hour. I had forgotten this detail, which was why when we had climbed in the winter with BCF, we had gotten an early start. Joe was happy with the climb as it was and decided it would be alright to descend without seeing the inside, though I regretted my poor memory had resulted in this unfortunate timing.

The walk down was accompanied by the many tourists we’d caught at the top and a group of boisterous high school age students from Thimphu. We saw grey langurs on the way, swinging from the trees. We stood and watched them, letting the noisy students get a head start. There’s a cafeteria at the half point, so we stopped for tea, called our taxi, and ordered lunch for when we arrived back in town. We met an American woman working in Bangladesh, and found out she’d be on the same flight as Joe the next day. We also discovered she'd worked for Wellstone’s final campaign, which I volunteered for in high school. The world can be so small. The walk down was a lot trickier as it began to mist, making the path slick like wet clay. I was glad we took time to appreciate the scenery on the way up, as my eyes were glued to the mud trying to steady my feet on the way down. We arrived to find our taxi waiting and got back to town where we ate momo (steamed, filled dumplings), rice and curry, and tea.

I was acutely aware that this was Joe’s last day in Bhutan. In the morning, he’d be on a plane heading back to the US. I didn’t want to dwell on this, but my mind kept returning to the thought, washing me with a preview of lonely sadness. We had a sweet evening at the hotel and enjoyed dinner in the deserted dining room. In the morning, we packed up the bags and took a walk down the road to spend some time in the beauty of Paro before saying goodbye. Though we knew this would be easier than saying goodbye the first time in January, it was still hard to know that we’d have to return to our lives apart from each other for another few months.

The taxi arrived and we held on to each other in the back, silently watching the road and fields. At the airport, we hugged, cried, and kissed. I decided it would be better to say goodbye outside the doors and let Joe go from there. Still an hour until the plane’s departure, so I got in the cab and went back to town where I could watch it take off without being tempted to buy a ticket and board it. I cried without shame the whole ride back into town. The tears kept coming all day, because now I was alone again. I have friends here, but a partner is different. I knew we’d be back to phone calls and emails, which I look forward to enthusiastically, but there’s nothing like being in the company of the person. I steadied myself with the thought that we’d already spent twice as much time apart as we had left to go. The time would pass, and I knew I needed to enjoy this last bit.

I got back to Thimphu on the bus, and the next day, back to Rukubji. As it turned out, it took Joe about a week to make it home due to a special ticket arrangement we’d made through a friend. He weathered this with grace and made it back to Minneapolis safely.

Now, it’s the last day of September. Joe’s tutoring and playing music in Minneapolis. I’m enjoying my time with my students, trying to wrap up our lessons in time for annual exams near the end of November. It was such a gift to have him here, and now when I talk to him about Rukubji, he knows the cast, the setting, and can understand more deeply the experience I am having. There’s no way I can tell the whole story, take the whole picture. His visit gave him insight, made this a shared experience. That will be important to me as I transition back to life in the US, where few people will really understand what this experience was for me.

So what's present now? Our Annual Concert Show. This two-night event brings out the entire community to watch our students perform a mixture of traditional and modern dance and song. Tonight, 15 students and I will dance the Electric Slide. You'll have to imagine this scene, since the only footage I can get is on traditional film since my camera isn't cooperating anymore. Old-time slideshow when I return?