The new ILCS campus in Taktse is, well, a fascinating experience. Everyone says the first day is the worst, but then it gets better and better. As you read my blog below, you will see that this is my experience also! There is an amazing mix of situations taking place at every moment. One instant I feel delighted, the next devastated, one minute inspired, the next horrified. Even the photos posted in my last blog cannot do justice to the scope of the construction and the ongoing nature of this project. It’s a serious shock to be here. One main point--I have no email access from our apartment at this time. If you are reading this blog, you will know that I have tried and succeeded to send email from the main academic campus. If this is the case, for the next couple of weeks, I will compose at the apartment and then send when I am up on the main campus—after all, I have a number of episodes to make up! The main campus is a 20-30 minute walk up a long and very muddy dirt road, so I may not be running up there every minute (although so far, my actions belie this statement). Sadly, my blog will have to make due without photos for now. Soon, we are being assured, there will be campus-wide wifi—by the end of September at the latest. In fact, our informants are fond of pronouncing, the money has already been paid (this is apparently the linchpin argument).
Just to fill you in in more detail—here is a description of our first day: We arrive here for the first time in the pouring rain with fog so thick I cannot see ten feet in front of my face. The air is gray, sodden, and seems almost like a live thing as it seeps through doorways, windows and penetrates into my bones. Although we have been told that our apartment is “ready,” as we slog up to the door, past the soaking wet Indian laborers, carrying our wet bags, it is immediately clear that “ready” is a relative term. Inside, the floor is covered with mud, footprints, construction dust and dead insects. When we enter the building, workers rush about here and there. Looking inside the downstairs bathroom, I see that the floor is smeared with plaster, bugs, mud and debris, the sink filled with some kind of red paint and it is clear there is no running water. The Director is furious. He has consistently asked that certain things be taken care of, but clearly they have not yet been addressed. Construction noises fill the large echoing space. The apartment is huge—four large rooms, a kitchen and two bathrooms on two floors, but the space is entirely built of concrete so every noise echoes as if we were inside of a giant tin can. We head upstairs to one of the bedrooms where our “stuff” has been stored, only to find that everything is damp at best, soaked at worst (inevitable in this cold monsoon rain), muddy and piled in heaps on the floor along with two bedframes. Half of the things in the room turn out to belong to someone else. After accessing the situation, and huddling for a while in the cold, damp, dark room on a bedframe in a state of shock and dismay, we go back downstairs and inform the Director that we wish to be driven back to Trongsa (an hour’s drive) at least until there is running water and the place has actually been cleaned.
Two days later, we return in the morning sunlight, the mountains’ steep, green slopes tilting dramatically around us, endless waterfalls plummeting down to the distant Mangde Chuu River, blue sky stretching out over the high peaks. The apartment is clean, water running, toilets flushing. Now, we are doing our own cleaning—a never-ending project due to the construction dust and the fact that the apartments on either side of us are not nearly so far finished as ours—apparently all the manpower has been focused on getting our residence ready, so that while we now have a place that’s mostly “complete” many others still camp on soggy mattresses with no water, bathing facilities or cooking areas. Apparently, we “chillips” (the Bhutanese term for foreigners—the term means “one who arrives from outside”) require special facilities, while others are tougher and can do with less. I have mixed feelings about this and if I had not come here to research and write a dissertation, I might contest it. As it stands, however, I simply cannot risk not being able to do any work at all, merely taking this entire thing as an “adventure.” In my early 20’s I might happily have welcomed a chance to camp out on a construction site, but now electricity to power my computer, internet, and some degree of privacy and moderate quiet at least some of the time are essential for getting done what needs to take place.
In one day, we manage to set up our bedroom and one sitting room with two wooden bedframes, two wooden chairs and two desks. For the moment, we decide to ignore the downstairs since we have no furniture with which to set it up. Our one rug helps on the cold concrete floor and for our first dinner we sit on small pillows on the floor. Our kitchen contains a two-burner propane stove, rice cooker, water boiler, and a small refrigerator—all of which we brought with us from Thimphu. Earlier in the day, the workers have rushed to put up curtain rods, so that we have privacy—at least no one can gawk at us through the windows anymore—and considering that there is scaffolding set up outside the entire back of the building, where the workers are easily able to gaze inside, this is a good thing. One nice aspect is that everyone is very eager to make us happy and with any request we have, they work very hard to take care of it immediately. But the construction noise is cacophonous and continuous. Thankfully, they don’t begin before 8:30am and they finish around 5-6pm. This morning, however, I woke up in tears, wondering how on earth I could possibly do any work here at all. After some reflection, I have decided to rise at 4:45am and work steadily from 5-8:30. Then I will relax for a while, perhaps go for a walk, or attend a class or two up on the academic part of the campus, come back and work again from 1-2:30 or so, while everyone else has their lunch and then do easier work for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in the midst of the construction chaos. This is not enough, but it’s a start.
This morning, Chris and I go up to the main academic part of the campus. Everyone is very happy to see us. I think they are really pleased to have foreigners actually willing to deal with this (I keep thinking this should make me feel better, but I’m not sure it does). There are only four of us “chillips” here amongst hundreds of Bhutanese and hundreds of Indian laborers in the middle of nowhere. And we really are in the middle of nowhere—more nowhere than I’ve ever been, and I’ve been some pretty nowhere places! However, its one of the most beautiful nowheres I've ever been. We are immediately rushed into Chris’s first class (for which he is completely unprepared but during which he comports himself admirably by doing a wonderful introduction in front of a very attentive group of Bhutanese college students, the girls all dressed to the nines in their beautiful kiras, their hair combed, make-up on, earrings in place and the boys all combed and styled—Bhutanese boys love hair gel—in their ghos), and then I sit in on a Buddhism class taught entirely in Tibetan by one of the main lopens (teachers) here—the one with whom I very much hope to work on Drukpa Kunley (my dissertation). It is quite impressive—if I continue to attend that class, I will not only maintain my Tibetan, but I will get much, much better. This, of all things, makes me feel MUCH better about being here—at least for the moment. The fact is that many of the classes being taught here would be very good for me in terms of my Tibetan (which is the primary thing that needs to improve). I also like this Lopen Choten very much. He is obviously a very learned scholar as well as Buddhist practitioner and he seems interested in talking with me more about my project. He hasn’t really known anything about us and when I tell him I am working on a PhD in Buddhism, he is delighted and agrees to meet with me. It’s embarrassing to have studied Tibetan for eight years and to sit in on a first-year Buddhism class and still struggle to understand what’s being said. However, none of my Buddhism classes have ever been in Tibetan and speaking Tibetan has always only occurred for me during summer language intensives—providing me mostly with then having another year to forget everything I learned the previous summer! But even my reading skills need some serious resurrection at this point, and that will begin tomorrow!
At the moment, Chris is talking with the workers about our “punch” list for the apartment. Some of you might be shocked and appalled by the mess of hoses, pipes, wires, and construction woven across the ground outside the back of our apartment. I, myself, cannot figure out at all how they make anything work—the electricity, the water, the sewer, the actual construction, but somehow they do. It’s so raw and primitive and yet somehow the hot water geyser in the bathroom fills up with water, heats, and provides us with a fantastic shower. At night, at least, it is silent and we sleep well (minus the anxiety dreams!). I was terrified that construction would go all night long as it does in Thimphu, but so far (keep your fingers crossed) I have been told it ends by 5 (or really 6) pm. Right now, outside my window, an enormous blue backhoe (how did it ever get here?), operated by a boy who cannot be more than fourteen years old, excavates the foundation area for yet another student dormitory—a new development—that will be built basically right outside our front door. About 25 Indian laborers are crouched in the mud over piles and piles of iron rebar, bending it into appropriate shapes for framing that will hold poured concrete. All of this occurs in a beautiful, utterly remote mountain setting. Eventually, this place will be fantastic, but this development is far in the future.
Just to fill you in in more detail—here is a description of our first day: We arrive here for the first time in the pouring rain with fog so thick I cannot see ten feet in front of my face. The air is gray, sodden, and seems almost like a live thing as it seeps through doorways, windows and penetrates into my bones. Although we have been told that our apartment is “ready,” as we slog up to the door, past the soaking wet Indian laborers, carrying our wet bags, it is immediately clear that “ready” is a relative term. Inside, the floor is covered with mud, footprints, construction dust and dead insects. When we enter the building, workers rush about here and there. Looking inside the downstairs bathroom, I see that the floor is smeared with plaster, bugs, mud and debris, the sink filled with some kind of red paint and it is clear there is no running water. The Director is furious. He has consistently asked that certain things be taken care of, but clearly they have not yet been addressed. Construction noises fill the large echoing space. The apartment is huge—four large rooms, a kitchen and two bathrooms on two floors, but the space is entirely built of concrete so every noise echoes as if we were inside of a giant tin can. We head upstairs to one of the bedrooms where our “stuff” has been stored, only to find that everything is damp at best, soaked at worst (inevitable in this cold monsoon rain), muddy and piled in heaps on the floor along with two bedframes. Half of the things in the room turn out to belong to someone else. After accessing the situation, and huddling for a while in the cold, damp, dark room on a bedframe in a state of shock and dismay, we go back downstairs and inform the Director that we wish to be driven back to Trongsa (an hour’s drive) at least until there is running water and the place has actually been cleaned.
Two days later, we return in the morning sunlight, the mountains’ steep, green slopes tilting dramatically around us, endless waterfalls plummeting down to the distant Mangde Chuu River, blue sky stretching out over the high peaks. The apartment is clean, water running, toilets flushing. Now, we are doing our own cleaning—a never-ending project due to the construction dust and the fact that the apartments on either side of us are not nearly so far finished as ours—apparently all the manpower has been focused on getting our residence ready, so that while we now have a place that’s mostly “complete” many others still camp on soggy mattresses with no water, bathing facilities or cooking areas. Apparently, we “chillips” (the Bhutanese term for foreigners—the term means “one who arrives from outside”) require special facilities, while others are tougher and can do with less. I have mixed feelings about this and if I had not come here to research and write a dissertation, I might contest it. As it stands, however, I simply cannot risk not being able to do any work at all, merely taking this entire thing as an “adventure.” In my early 20’s I might happily have welcomed a chance to camp out on a construction site, but now electricity to power my computer, internet, and some degree of privacy and moderate quiet at least some of the time are essential for getting done what needs to take place.
In one day, we manage to set up our bedroom and one sitting room with two wooden bedframes, two wooden chairs and two desks. For the moment, we decide to ignore the downstairs since we have no furniture with which to set it up. Our one rug helps on the cold concrete floor and for our first dinner we sit on small pillows on the floor. Our kitchen contains a two-burner propane stove, rice cooker, water boiler, and a small refrigerator—all of which we brought with us from Thimphu. Earlier in the day, the workers have rushed to put up curtain rods, so that we have privacy—at least no one can gawk at us through the windows anymore—and considering that there is scaffolding set up outside the entire back of the building, where the workers are easily able to gaze inside, this is a good thing. One nice aspect is that everyone is very eager to make us happy and with any request we have, they work very hard to take care of it immediately. But the construction noise is cacophonous and continuous. Thankfully, they don’t begin before 8:30am and they finish around 5-6pm. This morning, however, I woke up in tears, wondering how on earth I could possibly do any work here at all. After some reflection, I have decided to rise at 4:45am and work steadily from 5-8:30. Then I will relax for a while, perhaps go for a walk, or attend a class or two up on the academic part of the campus, come back and work again from 1-2:30 or so, while everyone else has their lunch and then do easier work for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in the midst of the construction chaos. This is not enough, but it’s a start.
This morning, Chris and I go up to the main academic part of the campus. Everyone is very happy to see us. I think they are really pleased to have foreigners actually willing to deal with this (I keep thinking this should make me feel better, but I’m not sure it does). There are only four of us “chillips” here amongst hundreds of Bhutanese and hundreds of Indian laborers in the middle of nowhere. And we really are in the middle of nowhere—more nowhere than I’ve ever been, and I’ve been some pretty nowhere places! However, its one of the most beautiful nowheres I've ever been. We are immediately rushed into Chris’s first class (for which he is completely unprepared but during which he comports himself admirably by doing a wonderful introduction in front of a very attentive group of Bhutanese college students, the girls all dressed to the nines in their beautiful kiras, their hair combed, make-up on, earrings in place and the boys all combed and styled—Bhutanese boys love hair gel—in their ghos), and then I sit in on a Buddhism class taught entirely in Tibetan by one of the main lopens (teachers) here—the one with whom I very much hope to work on Drukpa Kunley (my dissertation). It is quite impressive—if I continue to attend that class, I will not only maintain my Tibetan, but I will get much, much better. This, of all things, makes me feel MUCH better about being here—at least for the moment. The fact is that many of the classes being taught here would be very good for me in terms of my Tibetan (which is the primary thing that needs to improve). I also like this Lopen Choten very much. He is obviously a very learned scholar as well as Buddhist practitioner and he seems interested in talking with me more about my project. He hasn’t really known anything about us and when I tell him I am working on a PhD in Buddhism, he is delighted and agrees to meet with me. It’s embarrassing to have studied Tibetan for eight years and to sit in on a first-year Buddhism class and still struggle to understand what’s being said. However, none of my Buddhism classes have ever been in Tibetan and speaking Tibetan has always only occurred for me during summer language intensives—providing me mostly with then having another year to forget everything I learned the previous summer! But even my reading skills need some serious resurrection at this point, and that will begin tomorrow!
At the moment, Chris is talking with the workers about our “punch” list for the apartment. Some of you might be shocked and appalled by the mess of hoses, pipes, wires, and construction woven across the ground outside the back of our apartment. I, myself, cannot figure out at all how they make anything work—the electricity, the water, the sewer, the actual construction, but somehow they do. It’s so raw and primitive and yet somehow the hot water geyser in the bathroom fills up with water, heats, and provides us with a fantastic shower. At night, at least, it is silent and we sleep well (minus the anxiety dreams!). I was terrified that construction would go all night long as it does in Thimphu, but so far (keep your fingers crossed) I have been told it ends by 5 (or really 6) pm. Right now, outside my window, an enormous blue backhoe (how did it ever get here?), operated by a boy who cannot be more than fourteen years old, excavates the foundation area for yet another student dormitory—a new development—that will be built basically right outside our front door. About 25 Indian laborers are crouched in the mud over piles and piles of iron rebar, bending it into appropriate shapes for framing that will hold poured concrete. All of this occurs in a beautiful, utterly remote mountain setting. Eventually, this place will be fantastic, but this development is far in the future.
Hang in there kids. I LOL'ed a little at your description of construction messes though -- I've lived through plenty of my own. But yeah, it gets tiring. Don't forget it IS and adventure. Just go with it.
ReplyDeletehey guys- glad to hear you have arrived safely thou it sounds like a huge challenge. Word on the street is that Don season is coming early- as early as october and going into next year according to some Lama- this is like third hand info- but maybe it might explain a few things ....
ReplyDeletewe miss you guys!!