Snow, Lakes and Langurs

When the clouds that lingered over the mountains all day suddenly dip down into the steep valleys and then rise up again in that fog we have come to dread, I feel discouraged. Really? Isn’t the monsoon supposed to be over? Its mid-October and the skies should be clear blue and the sun should be hot and warm. At least, that’s what everyone has been saying. But the fog steadily rises until our apartment is shrouded in dense wet mist. With a loud roar, the sky opens up and rain pours down in sheets, quickly turning the dusty roads back into rivers of thick, red mud. Down on the playing field below our residences the staff soccer team continues to play. Even when the wind comes up and blows colder and more incessantly than it yet has, they continue to play. I can only think that Bhutanese have constitutions well suited to the extremes of this mountainous country. Chris and I are freezing and utterly disinclined to be outside at all. In continuous downpour and cacophonous thunder, Bhutan proves to me why it is named the “Land of the Thunder Dragon.” Even after we retire for the night and I snuggle under the covers (the only warm place in the house), I hear the rain pounding and later, the wind singing in the eaves. I know it’s cold when all night I keep pulling the blanket up over my ears and nose to try and warm them. I’m not sure I’ve mentioned that Bhutanese homes have no source of heat. The inside of any home is only as warm as the radiant warmth of human bodies can make it. In our cavernous, concrete dwelling, our two bodies don’t make much of a dent!

In the morning, I pull back the curtains. Outside, the peaks of the highest mountains gleam white with the first snowfall; silence grips our steep valley in a chill hand through which the wind dances like a winter ghost. It is amazingly beautiful. I remember sitting in Boston imagining what it would be like to live in the mountains again. Moments like this, all the inconvenience of a half-finished construction site fades away and I can simply appreciate that I live in a site of rare beauty, seen by comparatively few people in the world. It’s not hard to imagine that these mountains are, as we’ve heard, inhabited by local spirits.

Chris and I decide to hike to a small lake that we’ve been told about by students and villagers in the tiny village of Taktse. The trail leads basically right out the back door of our residence. We gather food, water, and extra clothing and head out into the brisk, brilliant morning. The trail leads up through the center of Taktse village. To our right, a large and very old lhakhang is nestled in a grove of tall pine trees. A small pond is next to it, and a couple of “bridges”—little more than piles of crudely chopped logs laid side by side help us to navigate the mud. Soon we begin to climb. The trail begins in a ditch and ascends steeply along the side of the mountain behind our residence. In spite of the newly cool air, we are soon huffing and puffing. I can’t quite understand why my daily hikes and even my runs up from “zero point,” (as everyone calls the place where the dirt road leading down from ILCS meets the one paved road that runs east-west through Bhutan) a distance of about two and a half miles (up), don’t seem to make any difference when it comes to doing a long hike. But the effort is worth it. Within a very short time we have gained enough altitude to be able to look down on ILCS. From this height, all that construction seems to disappear into the vastness of the mountains that stretch out on all sides of us. The higher we climb, the taller those mountains look.

Vast, steep green forested slopes taper off into rocky peaks from which the previous night’s snow is swiftly melting beneath the translucent brilliance of the autumn sun. At one point, our trail seems to dead end in the small courtyard of a traditional Bhutanese house perched high on the slope. Gray smoke drifts from the chimney and the smell of wood smoke reminds me of fall in New England. But here, the fluttering of prayer flags attached vertically to tall wooden poles brings me back to my current reality.

Our trail emerges from bush and tall rhododendron into high alpine meadows. Cows with sharp curved horns watch us curiously, their mouths frozen half-open as we trudge on by. Soon we hear sounds of laughter above us. We have overtaken a group of Chris’ students from ILCS who inform us that they are hiking to the lake. The girls are each carrying large thermoses, likely filled with tea, and the boys carry mesh bags filled with what look like bags of potato chips. We let them go on in the hopes that they will hike far faster than we are. But in fact, we are the faster hikers and every time we approach them, they make it clear that they would like us all to hike together. Since our plan has been to have a quiet day in the wilderness away from giggling, yelling and talking, we are reluctant to join them. As the trail enters into what can only be called high Himalayan jungle, we allow the students to get just far enough ahead that they can’t see us and, feeling slightly guilty, we decide to take our chances on a trail that does indeed appear (in Robert Frost’s famous words) “less traveled” in the hopes that this will make “all the difference.”

It is no exaggeration to state that we now find ourselves bush-wacking up one of the steepest, most tangled and impenetrable “game trails” I’ve ever tried to climb. The slope is so steep beneath the thick jungle growth that it’s hard to determine how or where to put our feet. By hauling ourselves up on tenacious bamboo shoots, we slowly and arduously continue to climb upwards. Overhead, the forest is a tangled glory of moss-covered trees whose trunks, roots, and branches seem to have wound themselves in and through each other over the hundreds of years that these forests have remained untouched, never logged or cut. Shafts of sunlight slice down through the layers of greenery to lie glimmering on fern fronds. From out of the dark shadows of the trees, the swelling songs of the cicadas are deafening.

As we continue to toil upwards on a path that often disappears completely in the underbrush, I wonder if we’ve made a mistake. The actual trail to the lake led far off to our right, and we are now heading at least ninety degrees off and up from its trajectory. After an indeterminate time of air-sucking, muscle-burning exertion, I notice a glimpse of blue between the tree trunks. Even if we are not yet near the top of Taktse mountain, something is changing. Sure enough, after another twenty minutes or so of climbing, we crest the top of a ridge upon which a trail (slightly more pronounced than our game trail) leads out of the forest into the sunlight. Emerging into the light is dazzling, not the least because we have gained so much altitude while shrouded beneath the trees that we now see ridge after ridge of high stone peaks fanning back and beyond the ridges we are familiar with.

The cool air dives around us, drying our sweat rapidly. The blue sky shimmers overhead and there is nothing but that silence so peculiar to high mountains, a silence that is shot through with motion, light, and radiance. This is perhaps my favorite experience. From the first time my father took our family hiking in the White Mountains of New Hampshire when I was a child and I sat alone on a high peak looking out over the folds of mountains folding into mountains and experienced what peace actually felt like, I have always been most at home in these kinds of places. Here, high up in sharp, clean air, away from the noise and clamor of humanity, my mind feels bright and clear. Thoughts vanish into emptiness like the white clouds unweaving themselves into the blue sky. I could stay here forever if I wouldn’t miss everyone I love so much.

Chris and I settle down on the steep slope and hungrily devour our lunch of nuts, raisins, the ever-present peanut butter, crackers, and biscuits. We’ve been hiking hard for over three hours and we’re famished. Around us the sky unfolds in multiple shades of blue and shadows climb the slopes. While Chris snoozes briefly in the warm sun, I scope out our small meadow, hoping to find a “real” trail. No luck. As soon as we are rested we dive back beneath the forest cover and thrash our way back to the game trail, which at least continues to go up. After another forty minutes or so of scrambling, (and a fair bit of worry that our trail isn’t actually going to go anywhere so that we will be forced to retrace our steps, or rather, slide down the side of the mountain on our asses since its so steep we’ll never be able to walk down), again a bit of blue appears through the trees. This time, when we emerge into the light it is clear we’ve come almost to the top of Taktse mountain.

To our right, the “lake” (little more than a large pond) shimmers beneath the afternoon sunlight. To our left, the final hump of Taktse mountain is bedecked with prayer flags so worn from weather and time that they are white or even non-existent. Only the poles from which they once waved their prayers remain, slanted at odd angles against the hillside. Having come this far, we are determined to reach the summit. The wind rushes over the stiff grass and white dancing faces of mountain yarrow. We hike slowly, not only because we are tired, but because we have easily gained 1700 to 2000 feet in elevation and its not quite as easy to breath as it was at 7500 feet down at our residence.

The summit of the Taktse mountain is wide and rolling. I can easily imagine bringing a tent up here and sleeping in the silence with the stars clustered overhead. But all too soon it is clear that we must get going back down. It’s taken over four hours to reach the top, and by the time we get back down, it will be near to dark. Descending to the lake, we easily find the real trail (and the students, who are still lounging about with their tea). Since they are not yet ready to leave, we continue on down the trail that winds along the side of the mountain keeping us in the open and in the sunlight. It’s a far easier descent than our ascent has been. But after some time, the trail again plunges back beneath the dark green shadows of the trees and descends precipitously through rocks, much, and tangled tree roots.

I’ve pulled ahead of Chris when I hear a loud rustling sound and notice that the top of one of the trees near me seems to be bending swiftly and dramatically toward the ground. As I watch, I see a hand reach toward the next tree and a large, golden-haired body swings through the air. In a second, another follows. This time, the creature stops, perched on a high branch, looking directly down at me with its dark eyes and white furry face. For just a second, our gazes meet, and then it turns and leaps into space, grabbing for the next set of branches, its long golden tail swinging behind it. Another follows, and again, just for a moment, it halts to study me as I fumble clumsily to get my camera out of my pocket. Then another follows, and perhaps even one more. I am no longer sure, but the whole forest seems to rustle and sway with movement that does not come from the wind. As Chris comes down the trail, I point and whisper, “Monkeys! Huge! Golden ones.” We figure out that these must be golden langurs. According to our guidebook, these elegant, arboreal monkeys were not even known to the scientific community until the 20^th century. They only live in these valleys in central Bhutan. I am amazed I saw them and—even more--that they saw me. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the color of their gorgeous golden coats and their long tails. But mostly, I remember the look of awareness in those dark eyes as they watched me from their leafy perches. Later on, Lopen Choten tells me that sighting these monkeys is considered very good luck. I’m willing to go with that!

By the time we finally emerge back into the ILCS construction site we are leg and foot weary. All I want is to experience the famous Bhutanese hot stone bath, but sadly, no one has yet made the effort to get such a thing going. Other than that, I am dying to take off my shoes and rub my feet. We stagger back to our residence in the dusky light. It would not be wrong to suggest that perhaps, just perhaps, this place is growing on us.  

The Wedding of the King

Engagement Photo

After the Wedding Ceremony

Most of you know that the King of Bhutan got married last week. And probably most of you have seen the pictures of his new queen. But I thought I’d present a description of the event from the inside, so to speak, even though Chris and I were not able to attend the ceremony itself. I am not exactly sure who was able to attend the ceremony, but a few unimportant foreigners such as ourselves were not likely to be invited. Sadly. Nevertheless, this event was a very big deal for most Bhutanese, especially, I think, younger people, as they are unlikely to ever experience another event like it in their lifetimes. The wedding was held in the Punakha Dzong on Thursday October 13^th. 

Punakha Dzong: Site of Royal Wedding

Jetsun Pema Arriving for the Wedding

Ceremonies began at dawn and continued throughout the day. In fact, the entire country was on holiday for three days to celebrate. People came from every part of Bhutan and the report I heard was that they were gathering outside the Dzong beginning at about 4am. According to friends here in Taktse, the ceremonial rituals would go on for most of the day. Outside the Dzong, cultural dancing and performances also went on all day long and thousands of people sat in the sun picnicking and hoping for a glimpse of the king and his new queen. On the television propped up on cardboard boxes in the small canteen entirely constructed out of cardboard boxes here in Taktse, I caught a brief glimpse of the king going from group of exquisitely-dressed guests to group beneath the vast canopies of tents lining the borders of the Dzong, shaking hands, smiling, and no doubt doing what he is best known for—paying attention to each and every person who comes to meet him, or in this case, to celebrate his wedding. Apparently, he has made a promise to try to personally meet every Bhutanese citizen. Given that the population of Bhutan is less that one million, his promise is perhaps feasible—certainly, he looks to be making a strong effort to fulfill it.

Arrival Day

The above aside, the morning of the wedding dawns cloudy and gray in Taktse. Walking up the long hill to the academic block for the start of the wedding celebration and cultural show being put on by ILCS students, other faculty assure me that this is a good thing considering the fact that we will be sitting outside from 8am until 2pm watching the show. If it had been sunny, we would spend much time trying to keep from getting burned or sweltering. Might as well look on the bright side, I think, hiking up my kira skirt to keep it from dragging in the fine, gray dust that has recently replaced what used to be mud on all roads. Chris walks along beside me, trying, I am sure, not to sweat in his gho—the first time he has worn one here in Bhutan. The king’s wedding seems the proper event at which to debut his Bhutanese garb, and indeed, he is greeted by other faculty and students with delighted appreciation. (Not so long ago, Chris and I were approached by a group of male students who accused Chris of not being patriotic, since he never wore Bhutanese dress. Madam, however—me—was exempt from such criticism since she had been observed fully attired in full proper kira.)

Cloudy Morning

Arriving at the courtyard that has been prepared for the celebrations (I had seen students sweeping the muddy ground and attempting to remove at least a decent percentage of the rocks, debris, and various sharp objects littered everywhere the day before), we are ushered into the front row where a line of cushioned chairs sits in front of the railing looking out over the courtyard. Two chairs in the middle were larger, cushier, and draped with large pieces of brocade fabric. One was for the Director of ILCs, Lopen Lungtaen, the other for a local Rinpoche who had been invited to attend.

To my chagrin, I am gently pushed and prodded into a seat directly to the Director’s right. I should note that my chagrin is mostly due to being placed in what is very much a seat of honor and less due to sitting next to Lopen, who I adore and am happy to sit next to anytime. But why I, the mostly invisible foreign woman who spends her days holed up in her residence attempting to translate an obscure Tibetan biography from the 16^th century should be seated next to the Director of ILCS for the celebration of the King’s wedding is a mystery I can only solve by guessing that it is due to the fact that Bhutanese generally do not want to sit next to VIP’s. This is part of the cultural practice of remaining humble and not putting on airs, but it also has to do with the fact that many Bhutanese are intimidated by VIPs such as Lopen Lungtaen and don’t know what to say, or don’t want to risk saying anything offensive or demeaning to themselves or the honored guest. Foreigners like me are exempt from this, probably largely due to the fact that we tend to put our feet in our mouths rather easily and without any awareness that we are doing so. Hence, no one cares too much and we are easily excused. However, seated right in front, next to Lopen, with Chris on my other side, I feel very exposed and visible. We are right in the center of everything and every performance, the entire five hours we sit there, is oriented to face us. I don’t even dare to cross my legs, since this is considered rather impolite. Chris too, spends a fair amount of time trying to keep his knees together while sitting upright in his chair—a feat made more difficult by the fact that he is wearing his gho, which exposes his knees (and whatever else might be visible when his knees aren’t pressed together!).

Students lined up in Courtyard

The ceremonies get underway about 8:30am. Standing in front of a shrine that has been erected to the royal couple, the MC gives a long introductory speech of which I understand not a single word (or maybe I understand a single word here and there) since it is given entirely in Dzongkha. While he speaks the ILCS students stand in rows in the middle of the courtyard. Around the edges of the courtyard, local villagers, staff, faculty, and all the students of the local primary and secondary schools sit and watch. When the MC finishes, the Dean of Students gives another interminable speech during which all the students remain perfectly still, only their eyes roving about the venue and their fine kiras and ghos fluttering in the cool morning breeze.

Waiting to Begin

These speeches last perhaps thirty minutes and I’m afraid that since they are in Dzongkha I cannot repeat what is said other than to guess that there are many introductions, praises, descriptions of events to come and there is also, I am sure, a long benedictory prayer—I recognize much more when that is recited since it is in Tibetan.  Once this is finished, the performances begin. It is impossible to describe all of the individual performances, of which there were a total of 32. Instead, I will give some of the highlights.

Dancing Begins

Folk Dance

The first thing to know about Bhutanese cultural performances is that they all follow to some degree the same pattern. They include very precise and orchestrated dance steps put together in different variations, some of which are traditional and some of which are new or “modern,” together with music, again either traditional or modern. The dancing is beautiful and ordered, so ordered, in fact, that I sometimes wish the dancers would break out a bit and show some spunk rather than moving so placidly through their steps.  When the occasional student actually seems to be enjoying him or herself, it’s a delight to watch. In particular, I love the fact that Bhutanese men train in dance from a very young age and are utterly unselfconscious about it. Even though many of the dance moves strike me as quite “feminine” in that they involve elaborate hand and arm gestures, the men perform them flawlessly. In many ways, I find myself more interested in watching the boys in the dancing at ILCS, since many of them seem far more engaged in the dancing, or singing than the girls—who tend to exude an air of embarrassment. And yet, the girls are dressed so beautifully and move so gracefully that it’s impossible not to watch them. Lopen and I have a discussion about dancing and he tells me that training is voluntary at ILCS, which is, after all, the Institute of Language and Cultural Studies—dancing, singing, and playing traditional Bhutanese music are some of the primary electives the students can opt to train in. But it becomes clear that Bhutanese children train in dance and music from a very young age, as is evidenced by the fact that both the primary and secondary school kids also offer a number of dances. In some ways, these are even more fun, as the younger the children, the less self-conscious they are in performing the elaborately romantic moves that some of the dances require. Its hardly unusual that ILCS students, most of who are somewhere between the ages of 18 and 21 would be the most self-conscious! In the US, we’d probably find that teenagers would be the most self-conscious, but in Bhutan, due to conservatism around sexual and relationship issues, it seems that the kind of self-consciousness that comes with puberty and having romantic interests happens a few years later. However, I shouldn’t generalize too much, as many of the ILCS students are enormously talented and clearly earmarked for careers in dance, music, or singing.

One of the Most Traditional Dances

Most of the dances we watch (30 out of 32 performances) follow the pattern I just described. For the first ten or so, never having seen these forms of dance, its fascinating, but as the morning wears on, even the tea, biscuits, saffron rice and soda that are served as refreshments cannot quite eliminate the sense that we are watching the same dance, albeit with different dancers, over and over and over. Each dance, because the steps and the main melodies repeat again and again, goes on just a bit longer than my attention span can handle—about ten minutes per dance. It would be one thing if the dances were substantially different from each other, but their sameness results in a sense of comfort and familiarity, but also boredom.  

Everyone Wants to Watch

A Small Observer

Traditional musical instruments, which are apparently only used on the most formal occasions, of which this is considered one, are a flute (lim), a six-stringed lute (dranyen), a two-stringed violin played with a bow (piwang), and a trapezoidal tabletop zither played with two hammers. “Modern” music, or Bhutanese pop music is known as rigsar, a compound word meaning “traditional/new.” It is hugely popular and consists of a combination of traditional Bhutanese music with modern pop melodies and themes. Every time we have traveled anywhere in Bhutan, either by taxi, bus, or by private car, the driver inserts a flash-drive into the stereo (here’s an innovative technology that I’ve yet to see in the US), and the sentimental, romantic rigsar songs take over the space. Rigsar is kind of like a combination of Hindi, Tibetan, and Western melodies. As far as I can tell, all the songs are love songs. Although almost all Bhutanese dance/music performances tell a story of some kind or express some kind of emotion in daily life, sadly, I was only able to elicit information on a few of the dances.

Two of the dances we saw stand out particularly in my mind, probably due to the fact that they were specifically religious dances usually performed at the most popular of Bhutanese festivals, the monastic tshechus, which celebrate the deeds of Guru Rinpoche, the 7^th century Indian siddha who is said to have brought Buddhism to Bhutan.

Phag Cham Dancer

Dancing to Purify the Space

The first is known as the “Pig Dance,” (phag chams). Two men, wearing pig masks and ornate yellow skirts and holding juniper fronds dance into the four corners of the courtyard in order to purify the space. The second dance is known as the “Dance of the Drummers” (Drametse Ngacham). In it, twelve men wearing yellow-brocaded skirts and animal masks beat drums as they dance. Both of these dances were terma revelations, or visions, of Kunga Gyeltshen, the son of the 16^th century Bhutanese treasure revealer, Pema Lingpa. The dances are hypnotic and fascinating. The dancers represent Guru Rinpoche’s entourage and their dance celebrates the victory of the Buddhist faith.

Beginning the Dance of the Drums

Drum Dance Mask

As I watch, it seems that my consciousness is suspended between beats of the drums held by the swirling dancers. Their movements, a strange combination of twirling, hopping, and leaping seem to slice the sunlight that finally emerges from behind the clouds into rays of scintillating light. As the dance goes on, the dancers seem to move not only through space, but through some odd dimension of time. I can almost see it, but not quite.

Dance of the Drums

According to our friend Karma, who trained at Drametse Monastery in Eastern Bhutan in this dance form, the real movements have never been taught exactly as the visionary (terton) revealed them due to their esoteric power. When monks perform this dance, it lasts for over three hours. At our ILCS celebration, the dancers performed a dramatically abbreviated version, lasting probably only about fifteen minutes. I was very impressed by the students’ skill and clearly, the power of the dance was felt by everyone present. No one moved or spoke while the dance lasted—in great contrast to activity during most of the cultural dances when everyone seemed to be involved in various amusements. Seated in our prominent spots, Chris and I were unable to roam about or chat, but instead observed everyone else.

Stag from Drum Dance

Life in Taktse

The Front of the main ILCS Administration Building showing the amazing detail in painting

Up-close Detailing

It seems about time for me to describe exactly what our day-to-day life is like living in Takste on the new ILCS campus that is still very much under construction. Hopefully, my report will not come across as too depressing, but will incorporate at least a general sense of humor, since it is, in fact, often the only resort we have to making this work. I have decided to split this blog entry into various categories, so as to thoroughly cover different dimensions of life here.

Teaching

Chris is teaching two classes, each of about 30 students, on the subject of “Academic Skills.” Basically, this means that he is teaching students how to do such things as take useful and organized notes; paraphrase and analyze assigned readings; learn the difference between plagiarism and original essay writing; interact with other students in the classroom; formulate questions, etc. Each class meets four times per week. Students must remain in the classroom (each “year” has one classroom in which all classes for that group are conducted) from 8:45 in the morning until 3:20 in the afternoon, except for bathroom and lunch breaks. Saturdays are the exception where the required class-time hours end at noon. Chris has suggested that since students have not grown up in a self-motivating environment, if staff and teachers are not on them, they don’t really do anything. Hence, the thrice-weekly “assemblies” held at 8:15 in the morning mainly consist of lengthy exhortations to students to remain in their classrooms and not run off to play volleyball (very popular!) or other extra-curricular activities.. In another posting I will discuss the popularity and variety of "clubs."

Students here are either in what is called a “degree” program (in which they remain in residence for three years, eventually receiving the equivalent of what we would call a BA) or in the “diploma” program, which is a two-year program of basic training in Dzong-kha—like an associate’s degree. The ILCS’s forte is the training of students in Dzong-kha, the “national” language of Bhutan, or at least, the language that the government of Bhutan is promoting as its national language, encouraging all Bhutanese to learn it. In fact, in order to get a “good” job, one must have proficiency in Dzong-kha, so there is quite a bit of incentive to study it. And, it seems to me that most people actually do speak it. However, the combination of having both English and Dzong-kha is the best and ILCS is supposed to be the place for that.

View of Admin Building on the walk up from the residences

A few other details: Chris is expected to take attendance, but was given no class roster—there are none. And, since we arrived here in Taktse two weeks late, he’s not exactly sure how many students he has. (Actually, we arrived in Bhutan one week later than the semester was supposed to start—we thought we were going to be very late, but in fact the semester began six weeks later than it was supposed to due to this move and new construction.)

No communication system exists for informing instructors of university holidays, meetings, class cancellations, etc. Chris usually finds out either the day that something is cancelled or scheduled or the day before when an announcement is made as someone interrupts his class to inform everyone.

There are no facilities for making photocopies or handouts and no printing can be done because the only printer on the entire campus has a cartridge that has “run out” of ink. It does not seem to be possible to get another one. If Chris does want to make photocopies or handouts, he must pay for them himself.

Students not supposed to write in their textbooks, which are technically “on loan.” The makeshift library is a room with books spread out on a bunch of desks, their covers curling in the humidity of the mists, their pages moldy and wet since the room itself does not yet have class in any of the windows. The actual library, which is nowhere near completion, will be a beautiful building with high glass windows and wide-open spaces. The main issue is that it will be freezing in the winter, since, as we have to remember, there is no such thing as central heating anywhere in Bhutan.

Every staff person at ILCS is required to “donate” money for toilet paper (!), and photocopy paper, as well as to put money into a general “death insurance” pot. The idea being that if a member of any staff’s family dies, this “bonus” money would be given to that person. (Personally, I think this is quite a sweet thing, though the mandatory nature of it is somewhat odd).

Staff meetings are lengthy (as are all meetings in Bhutan), but are held mostly in Dzong-kha. Chris’ notes, shown below, give you a sense of how things proceed. EUDD=Extended, untranslated, Dzong-kha Discussion. MEUDD=more extended, untranslated, Dzong-kha discussion. There’s not much effort to let Chris, or Matt (the other American teacher) into the loop throughout the two-plus hour meeting.

Notes Taken Toward End of Meeting

As a side note, plagiarism is a huge problem in Bhutan due to students not understanding what it means or how to formulate analytical thoughts or theories based on the materials they are studying. For them, writing an essay means finding something on the internet that matches the subject matter upon which they have been asked to write and copying that material directly into their essays. One could say that this is not really the fault of the students or the faculty at all. And given that fifty years ago, there was no educational system in Bhutan other than shes-dras (traditional Buddhist colleges in which monks and nuns “studied” the Buddhist teachings primarily through quite amazing feats of memorization and rote repetition) conducted by local monasteries, the level and scope of education in Bhutan is remarkable. RUB (The Royal University of Bhutan) was originated through the efforts of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche—whom I wrote about earlier—a very high level Buddhist master. So, since it has only been a couple of decades since formal education was extended to the general populace and since the monastic model was predominant, one could say that there has been quite a bit of progress in the educational system here. Nevertheless, the model for education is still primarily that of rote repetition and memorization. Neither students nor the younger instructors have had much, if any, training in how to think critically and independently, to formulate questions, or to interpret, theorize or analyze textual materials. The few classes that I sat in on (there are only a couple taught in Tibetan—chos skad—all the rest are taught in Dzong-kha, which is different enough from Tibetan that I cannot understand it), consisted of the lecturer (often a young recent graduate of ILCS itself—most are about 21 years old) asking students to stand up to repeat the lesson from the previous day. Chris and I are part of an initiative to help educate teachers and students in analytical thinking. It is clearly recognized that the entire system requires a dramatic pedagogical shift. Instructors and certainly the high-level administrators recognize this problem and are working to shift the university’s orientation to learning, but it’s going to take some time. It’s fascinating to see, but not as inspiring as I might like in terms of forming academically-oriented relationships. I am certain that things will change, but perhaps not in a way that is obvious while we are here.

View of Student Dormitories (under construction) from our front porch

Sunset

Food

Um. Not very much to say here. I am surviving on peanut butter (which we specially ordered and brought with us from Thimphu—its going fast), jelly, cabbage, cheese, and eggs. Sigh. What I wouldn’t do for fresh fruit, fresh veggies, meat… (Sorry to all vegetarians out there, but I’m dying for some protein), not to mention things like corn chips, sushi, tacos, etc. I’m clearly a very spoiled eater who is used to a variety of edible options. Here, the options range from rice to potatoes to onions to noodles. 

Oh! How could I forget? Biscuits and Tea. The staple of most South Asian diets, other than rice, of course. The problem for both Chris and me is that we both love biscuits and tea. But when one’s diet becomes mostly biscuits and tea, it just doesn’t seem like a particularly nutrient-rich combination, nor does it do much for one’s waistline. And considering the fact that there aren’t any Bally’s or Gold’s Gyms down the muddy dirt road, exercise isn’t a “formal” affair, but rather one of circumstance—circumstance which we are not actively pursuing.

For a while, we got into making datse—cheese and chili dishes with some other veggie. But the “other” veggies are limited to two different kinds of what I would call “summer squash” although I’m not actually sure that’s what it is. They are huge, green football-shaped vegetables that look a lot like a giant cucumber and have a rather bland, but non-offensive flavor. When there were cucumbers, these too were huge—larger than footballs, and very flavorful. I am still mourning their disappearance. This report would be incomplete if I did not mention "Crunchy Munchy"--my favorite deep-friend Indian Moong Dal snack--a VERY healthy option when I don't feel like cooking, which is, as usual, most of the time.

Chris on the Front Porch

Looking toward the other set of staff residences

Construction

Well, it’s impossible not to address this element of daily life, especially since it is, in many ways, the most prevalent and pervasive aspect of each day. To begin with, every day involves either losing power or losing water. It’s actually quite humorous how consistent this pattern is. Every morning we make note of which we have and which is dwindling. For a while, we’d contact the main person here who is supposed to take care of such things until it became clear that we were dealing with a particular phenomenon that has emerged more and more.

For example, the other day, feeling fed up with the fact that we had not had any power for over 24 hours and, being thoroughly dependent on my battery-dead laptop to do any work, I wandered out the front door looking for one of the contractors to ask about the status of electricity. After a bit of searching I found one. She happened to be speaking with the other person I mentioned above, the young man who has the role of “buildings and maintenance” here. In typical forthright American-style, I asked, “So, what’s going on with the power?” Silence. They both looked at anything but me. After a little while, trying to be pleasant, I asked again, “Do you have any idea when the power might be back on?” This time, the woman said to me, “Yes, Madam, power is coming.”

Again silence.

I thought, well, let’s see how else I could phrase this question. I asked, “When do you think there will be some sort of regular power source?”

(I forgot to mention that both the power and the water are temporary hook-ups monitored by one of the other construction companies—three total—working on this campus. Hence, I have learned that any problems with the power or the water aren’t the “responsibility” of the company that is working on our residence. One must actually try to ask the other construction company.)

Again there is a long, long silence while both of my informants look at anything that is not me. I ask the question again. The woman turns and walks away without saying a word. The buildings and maintenance guy, without actually looking at me, says, “Yes, madam, but it will be about eight to nine months before we have stable power…” he is terribly embarrassed and unhappy as he relates this information to me and as soon as he is done speaking, he quickly leaves me. I am sure that my own direct questioning and the fact that he has to tell me something is both true and not particularly good news has gone utterly against the grain. One thing Chris and I have both learned is that no one will actually report the truth if that truth is in any way outside of the what the listener wants to hear. The reason for this is that it causes both the questioner and the reporter to “lose face” if things are not always optimal. I am still trying to make sense of this, since to my mind, knowing the truth is a far better option than hearing endless platitudes that never amount to any kind of reality. But I honestly think that most Bhutanese are far more flexible and easy with whatever the situation is—they recognize very well that it will soon change—and therefore they do not get nearly as tweeked out as I do when one thing after another falls apart. I’d like to say that I’ve learned something from this, but I think mostly, I’ve learned how impatient and demanding I am.  

The story about the power, which came out very slowly, is that the power transformer required to supply the university was never ordered. Hence, someone finally ordered this transformer, which must come from Korea, and since such things are only made-to-order, it will take nearly a year to be delivered. As a result, power will be temporary, fluctuating, and often non-existent for that long.

Erecting pilings for a Student Dormitory

New Student Dormitory going up in front of our residence

There is so much more to say…

Stay tuned for the next posting after the King's wedding--a huge event here and one which I look forward to recording. Since I am now in possession of the ONE key to the room where there is high-speed internet, I plan to be here more often—except, of course, when the college is in session, at which time I must return the key to someone else…

Evening Clouds

The Passion

The two and a half mile-long road down to the only paved road in Bhutan is little more than a muddy trail, so pocked and rutted over the past two years by large construction vehicles that I am forced to watch nearly every step in order not to trip and fall. In the moments when I stop and allow my gaze to travel up the steep mountain slopes surrounding me on all sides, I am amazed by the beauty of this continuously changing landscape. Depending on the time of day, clouds, or angle of the light, different facets of these plunging ridges come into view. The silence is broken only by the distant sound of a falling waterfall across the valley, the rush of the water audible even over a distance that would likely take more than three hours to travel by car. Huge rhododendron bushes toss their branches in the cool gusts of wind that punctuate the intense heat of the late summer sun. A buzzing insect with wings of deep black and vibrant red dives by my ear, its body as big as the palm of my hand. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time. “That’s a bug?!” I wonder incredulously, “it is as large as a small bird.”

Every day I try to take this walk out of the active areas of construction into the silence of these magnificent mountains in an attempt to remind myself that the mud, noise, fluctuating availability of water and electricity, hammering and sawing are only part of my ongoing experience of being in Bhutan. Happily, I am now able to extend my morning work hours. Construction on our unit of buildings is nearing some form of completion—or at the very least, there is no longer endless pounding on the walls all around me and I am getting better at ignoring the noise from outside. As a result, I am reading and translating large sections of the biography of Drukpa Kunley, the fifteenth-century Buddhist saint whose life-story is the subject of my dissertation.

Today, while on my walk, I found myself thinking back to a book of stories I read as a child. Anyone who knows my family will know that we are not particularly “religious” in the Christian sense. I did not grow up Catholic, although the few times I went to Catholic mass with friends who were, I loved the elaborate ritual, so different from the white walls and simple sermons at the Congregational Church we attended semi-regularly. I barely remember Sunday school, though I think my sister and I did go for a while. I do remember sitting in the main hall of the church and listening as Reverend Johnson (who was the nicest man) read sections of the Bible and talked about them to the congregation. But mostly I remember feeling that I should try to recall all of the “bad” things I had done during the week in order to ask forgiveness for them. Understandably, expending effort in that direction never lasted very long and I’d find myself staring out the tall windows along the side of the church at the huge old maple trees that stood there shimmering in the wind.

But one thing I remember well—an illustrated book of stories from the Old Testament kept in the thick wood cabinets in our family room. Some part of me always felt that this book was somehow secret or special and I never did with it what I did with all my other books—store it away my room for long private reading sessions. Instead, I’d find myself waiting until no one was around and then sitting on the floor, on the orange and black wool carpet in front of the cabinet, crouched over the pages of this large book, reading through the stories and especially, looking at the pictures.

I still remember Moses parting the Red Sea, the waves surging around him as his long hair flew up tangled in his billowing cloak; the gloating look on Delilah’s face as she held up the long dark tail of Samson’s sheared hair; the terror on the face of Isaac as his father stooped over him with the knife, ready to sacrifice him at God’s command. But in particular, I remember the story of Christ’s passion, the look on his face as he carried the instrument of his own death on his back up the hill, the tilt of his head as he cried out to God, wondering how he could have been forsaken, the trickle of blood across his chest and the palms of his hands, the bent forms of the grieving women who washed his body after his spirit had fled.

More recently, I recall sobbing in a dark movie theatre in Madison, Wisconsin, next to the man I would marry, as the film, The Passion, came to an end. Although many decried the extreme violence Mel Gibson elected to depict in that film, calling it gratuitous, I disagreed with their censors. The world that chose to crucify Jesus Christ was a world in which fear of what was not understood could easily lead to torture and violence—this was nothing new in the history of human beings, nor is it something we are strangers to today—but in choosing to highlight the suffering Jesus experienced at the hands of his torturers and in showing how, in the face of such humiliation, ignorance, fear, violence and pain, he continued to express only kindness and understanding, I felt Gibson captured the essence of what we all struggle with (in much less extreme ways) in trying to be good, kind human beings. What made Jesus a hero in that film was not his sacrifice on the cross, but his willingness to face the pain and suffering of his existence without losing his ability to forgive, to be kind, to have genuine compassion for those who caused him the most pain even when it was abundantly clear that those others cared nothing for that kindness, that compassion. This is what completely broke my heart--first in a way I could not make sense of as a child looking at the dark paintings depicting Jesus’ death, and later while watching The Passion.

Why do I mention this? Because in reflecting on the kind of person I am beginning to come to know through reading Drukpa Kunley’s autobiography (or as the term is know in Tibetan, his rang rnam thar—self-story of complete liberation), I try to make sense of how such stories work to collapse the very ancient past into the present; how they reach across time, space, culture, and ideologies to touch something present in the very fact of being human. Only if I can identify some of these elements can I begin to explore how Drukpa Kunley’s tales have something to say to me, to you, and to the world that cannot be said in any other way, and without which, we are lesser, poorer in our understanding of what it means to be human. Remembering my response to Christ’s passion, acknowledging fully that my knowledge and understanding of Christian faith and practice is very limited (in spite of being a scholar of religion), I can still say that something speaks powerfully to me in ways that extend far beyond my intellect when I allow myself to be addressed—and not only addressed, but transformed--by Jesus’ story. This, I feel, is important. If I am open to the possibility that such stories have something to show me about myself, that they hold up multi-colored mirrors in which my own reflection seems strange and unknown, in which someone or something else may know me better than I know myself, then this world will never be dull, never be old, never be bereft of the magic that gives us hope. Stories, in many ways, are the most tangible elements of what we have, of who we are. Even writing this blog is like telling a story. We are all telling stories—not only to others, but every day, every moment—stories to ourselves about who we are.

Perhaps Drukpa Kunley, revered as one of the greatest Buddhist saints of the fifteenth-century in the Himalayan Buddhist world, never imagined someone like me reading his stories. But in writing them the way he did, I feel certain that he envisioned there would be a need for straightforward expressions of what it meant to be “enlightened.” The more I read him, the more I see his humor and irreverence, his direct communication, and his continual willingness to step beyond “doctrinal” representations of his faith, the more I can’t help but wonder how much difference there is between the “enlightened” state and the condition of being at peace with exactly what it means to be a complete human being. How this state of being fully human is explored, expressed, and crafted in Drukpa Kunley’s narrative, and how my own condition, both the internal ups and downs, and the external environment, where currently there is no electricity and clouds stack themselves over the mountains into towers of shifting gray light, are all connected is what intrigues me most.