Conference in Thimphu

Protective Garuda for our Drive

I depart Taktse in the thick fog that lingers into morning after a night of torrential rains and an electrical storm lasting nearly three hours. In my mind’s eye I can still see the bolts of lightening plunging down through the wet darkness not twenty feet from the front door—sizzling jolts of pink light followed instantaneously by deafening claps of thunder. The Land of the Thunder Dragon is speaking. Our trip to Thimphu hugs the narrow winding road that snakes alongside mountain slopes dropping thousands of feet to the churning Mangdu Chuu river, as swollen now as it was at the height of the monsoon season. Everyone is commenting on how odd the weather is this year. Usually, October and November are peak tourist season in Bhutan, primarily due to the fact (or it was a fact until this year) that the weather suddenly and dramatically clears, clouds vanish into the deep blue of a sky that seems to go on and on. But not this year. This year clouds, rain, and an early cold have gripped the country so that everyone is mentioning it. My hope that I might actually see the mountains of Bhutan dissolves as we stop for lunch just short of the Pele Lha pass. An important Bhutanese minister has just finished his lunch at the restaurant, and we are invited in to eat for free. Since I have managed to get a ride with the Director of ILCS, who is also a well-known monk, we are ushered into the VIP room—a small space festooned with brocades, thangkas, and Tibetan-style rugs. It’s a bit too bad, since the main room is warm and cozy from the large bukhari stove and this one is freezing, but we sip cups of milk tea and wait until the friendly owner brings us a large serving dish filled with steaming red rice, and two more dishes—kewa datsi (potatoes, cheese, and chilies) and ema datsi (chilies and cheese). Since I have yet to describe the experience of eating ema datsi, now seems like a good time. I take a small helping of rice and a spoonful of ema datsi—a thick cheesy sauce in which large pieces of hot green or red peppers are immersed. Traditionally, one eats ema datsi with one’s hand, scooping up rice mixed with the thick sauce and depositing it into one’s mouth. So far, I’ve only had to do this once—an experience that proved to me that eating rice with one’s hands is an art form that can only be perfected over time. Otherwise, one just ends up a complete mess, with cheese, bits of rice and peppers dripping off one’s fingers. Happily, our lunch proprietress provides us with utensils. But the other thing to know about ema datsi is that it is hot, hot, hot. Bhutanese food is said to be one of the hottest (i.e. spiciest) cuisines in the world. Those peppers that make up the main part of the dish are hot peppers. I manage to eat about five or six peppers mixed in the cheese sauce before my mouth is burning so much that I almost can’t feel my lips. But it’s an interesting experience in that the spiciness of the peppers has a physiological effect on one’s whole body. One feels flushes of heat throughout the body and there is almost a sense of tingling. Now that I’ve eaten enough ema datsi to get to that particular experience, I can understand why it’s addictive. There’s almost an exhilaration to it. I wonder if this is the explanation for Bhutanese eating so quickly, almost without any talk at all—that is, they start in on the peppers and just get carried away by the sensations. I know I’m not there yet because I have to pause for long moments to let my mouth recover before I can continue. But I digress.

Poem in Concentric Circles

We finish lunch and sit for a while around the hot bukhari before piling back in the Toyota Hilux. Lopen and I chat about ethics, wondering about the transformations that can take place in a person if he or she is placed in an extreme situation. Since most of us usually have a sense of what we feel is “good” action in the world, it is interesting to speculate about the kinds of actions we might all end up performing if, for example, we were starving and unable to find “acceptable” kinds of foods. Would you eat human flesh if the choice were either that or starving to death? By the time we reach Thimphu, darkness has fallen and the chill Himalayan air forces me to put on every layer I’ve brought with me. Lopen drops me at the guesthouse where I’ve reserved a room. It’s a pleasure to walk into the warm café owned by the guesthouse. I know the owners and its lovely to see them again. Since I have not been in Thimphu for over two months, I am not sure how I will find the “big” city. But I am happy to discover it still feels warm and friendly. After a bit of catching up, I am shown to my small, wood-paneled room. I’m exhausted and the conference is starting the day after tomorrow. I turn on the electric panel heater and climb in beneath the huge heavy comforter and blankets. Slowly I get warm. Outside my window, the endless packs of dogs that roam the streets of Thimphu are gearing up for another night of interminable barking. Earplugs help to dull the noise and I am so tired after eight hours of being bounced around in the truck that I fall asleep remarkably easily for me.

RTC Lhakang and Campus at Nightfall

The next morning I am up early with my computer working through my power-point presentation (let it be known that I officially hate power-point presentations) for the conference sponsored by the Royal University of Bhutan entitled “Insights from PhD Journeys”—the first conference of its kind in Bhutan. I am delighted that I’ve been asked to present on my research, but a bit concerned that my isolation in Taktse has kept me from doing as much research as I might like. I notice that after the keynote speaker, I am the first presenter. I wonder how much this has to do with the fact that I am from Harvard University and I pray I don’t embarrass myself too much. While it will be nice to get my presentation out of the way and relax, it would be better to be able to watch others first and get some sense of what to both do and not do! There are 29 presentations in all—a lot to get through in only two days. The conference itself is being held at RTC—Royal Thimphu College—the only privately funded college in Bhutan where students must pay tuition. RTC is newly built and operational in the last three years. As my friend Sonam drives me up into the mountains to the campus, I am struck by how different the Thimphu landscape seems now that winter has come. While the sky is still mostly cloud covered, rays of sunlight stream down through the trees with a sharp golden light that is echoed in the yellow leaves. Deep green pine forests look calm and peaceful with their needled floors in the silence and the wind. The air is crisp and cold. By the time we reach RTC, we are far above Thimphu and can look back down the valley to where the Buddha Dordenma perches on a promontory overlooking the rapidly growing city. It’s a lovely campus complete with luxurious faculty and student housing and even a large temple building for cultural performances. I am staying with my friend Rachael, who is teaching at the college. After letting myself into her apartment, I make a cup of tea and await her return from classes. I don’t have long to wait before she arrives and we eat pizza I’ve brought from Thimphu as well as a lentil orange soup she made. As I lie down to sleep beneath the thickest comforter I’ve yet seen in Bhutan I notice that the stars are gleaming outside my window like a river of diamonds. The clouds have finally cleared off and the moon is down. I drift off to sleep beneath billions of flaming jewels in the perfect silence of the Himalayan night.

The conference opens with a speech by the Vice Chancellor of RUB on a new policy being developed by the government of Bhutan to move the country toward becoming a repository of knowledge—a knowledge-based state. In light of this, the kind of work being done by PhD students in Bhutan is essential. Then there is a speech by the RUB director of research concerning the purpose of this “faculty research meet,” which is to provide a discursive forum for RUB faculty and international scholars to share experiences, insights and perspectives from their research projects. This event is the first of its kind in Bhutan, but it is anticipated to be an annual event. It, along with an annual student research “meet” and other research activities are designed to build research capacity and to enhance research at RUB and in the country. I listen to both these speeches with interest since I have been so isolated at Taktse that these developments are unknown to me. I realize that I am participating in the first of these events to take place in Bhutan, and this seems quite auspicious. Our group sits in a circle around a large table. The shades are drawn over the windows, which is a shame considering that the day has dawned absolutely clear and high white snow peaks are visible across the valley, but necessary in order to view the power-point presentations. Multiple electric panel heaters are plugged in around the edges of the room, but in spite of their valiant efforts, its quite cold and I’m glad that I am wearing long underwear beneath my long kira skirt and multiple layers under my tego and wangchu. 

Participants of the 2011 RUB Faculty Research Meet

The keynote speaker for the first day is Professor Janet Schofield who is currently one of the main developers of RTC and a tenured professor at the University of Pittsburg in Psychology as well as being a Senior Scientist there. I met Janet back over the summer and feel a strong bond with her and her husband Doug, who are two of the loveliest people. True to form, Janet’s address focuses on the practical necessities of doing research, such as—formulating an important research question; fitting the methodology used to the question; planning carefully how to gather data in the field, etc. She is direct and clear and the information she imparts is relevant for everyone in the room. Unfortunately, since the opening speeches took so long, we are behind schedule already and the moderators try to get Janet to speak quickly. We’ve been told that we each have fifteen minutes to present and another fifteen for discussion. I feel sad that Janet’s talk is cut short, since it is so useful. Now it’s my turn. Due to my distaste for power point I’ve actually never given a presentation in which I’ve used it. Now, it’s immediately clear to me that my power point has too much information in it. Since it’s far too late to do anything about it, I just make my way to the front of the room and launch into my talk. One of the good things about having to talk out loud about a project is that one quickly discovers what works and what doesn’t—sadly, that happens after one has spoken. My presentation is entitled “Writing Liberation: Drukpa Kunley’s Literary Practice of Self-Formation,” and it describes my plan to explore how the writing of this particular kind of liberation narrative can be understood as a technology of the self—or—a way that a person remakes him or herself through writing about the self. In addition, I am interested in exploring how my Buddhist saint, Drukpa Kunley, the mad yogi of Bhutan’s (whose autobiography provides me with my case study) biography has morphed into other kinds of rituals, images or stories that also work to transform those who practice or hear them. In other words, what kind of ethical persons arise from hearing or coming into contact with the story of this crazy saint? I can tell my audience is interested. Everyone in Bhutan knows Drukpa Kunley (one of the main reasons I am here) and its fun to talk about something that everyone is interested in, even if I am sure that I lose most people when I get into talking about rhetorical strategies, etc. But the feedback is overwhelmingly positive when I am finished and many people have very helpful comments for me, especially concerning the ethnographic part of my project.

Drukpa Kunley with Bow, Arrows, and Hunting Dog

Once I am done, the next speaker begins his presentation on “Monitoring and Evaluation System for Improving the Job Performance of Block-level Extension Agents in Bhutan.” I am clueless about what exactly is a “block-level agent,” but this is not my time to find out, as Professor Francoise Pommaret and I slip outside so that she can give me some more advice on my project. Francoise is a fascinating person who has lived in Bhutan for over 30 years, publishing numerous articles and books, and consistently working to put Bhutan on the academic map. She is one of the few foreigners who has been made a Bhutanese citizen. She is smart and funny and her advice is priceless since I know she knows what she is talking about. So, while I miss the second presentation, it’s more than worth it.

View from RTC of Buddha Dordenma Beneath Snow Peaks

Tea break is next and we all gratefully munch on cheese momos and biscuits while sipping hot milk tea. Since I was too nervous to eat any breakfast, it tastes delicious. I wonder what the rest of the day will be like. Having read through the program, I notice that I am the only researcher working in the Humanities. (In addition, there are only three foreign researchers-- myself and two others. Everyone else is Bhutanese) All the rest are doing research either in the hard sciences or in the social sciences. I wonder if I will have anything to offer to the presenters? I have little to no knowledge of the fields of agriculture or animal husbandry, but at the very least I realize that I will learn a lot about the various concerns taking place in Bhutan. And in fact, as the day goes on, this turns out to be absolutely true. While the titles of the presentations sound technical and impenetrable, depending on the enthusiasm of the speaker and the subject, many are fascinating and provide an insight into aspects of Bhutan that I would never otherwise have known anything about. For example, one Bhutanese woman, Nayzang Wangmo, speaks about her doctoral thesis on infectious waste management in hospitals in Bhutan. She is smart and very clear and her research has revealed a number of serious problems in how hospitals are dealing with infectious waste, both from the point of view of the policies in place to give guidance and in terms of actual practices of waste management. It is revealed during her presentation that although she has a clear sense of measures that could and should be taken to address these issues, no one in any position of influence has allowed her to present her findings, despite repeated requests on her part to do so. I can’t help feeling delighted that she is able to say these things in a forum in which she is being heard, not only by other researchers but also by people in positions of power who can actually give her findings an audience.

Another presentation is entitled “Monitoring Water Quality Using Physico-chemical Parameters and Benthic Macro-invertebrates”—an impenetrable topic if I ever heard one. But after listening to Nandu Giri present his findings, I find his work fascinating. He’s been monitoring the water quality along one river in Bhutan for a number of years—from the source of the river down to where it empties into larger rivers in India by using tiny organisms found in potable water called “Benthic Macro-invertebrates,” scary-looking microscopic beings that he projected up on a large screen. These tiny creatures are indications of pure drinking water—who knew? And his findings have shown a decrease in these little guys as various kinds of industrial and agricultural projects have grown up along the riverbanks.

As the day goes on, it’s clear that we are far behind the scheduled timing. Although there is a timekeeper, as per most “meetings” in Bhutan, no one seems to pay much attention. This might be due to the fact that the timekeeper is a young female student from RTC without any kind of authority. Upon being told that he has only five minutes left, one presenter actually states that this doesn’t apply to him (?!!) By the time we get to the end of the day around 5pm, there are still two presentations left. I grit my teeth, thinking that I can surely make it through at least one more. But the presentation on “four-way stop contrasts in Dzongkha: a phonetic and phonological investigation” dives into the realm of linguistics complete with a technical vocabulary that is utterly obtuse, including endless graphs and acronyms such as VOT, CD, VLT, SB, etc., which no one in the room other than the speaker can understand. Fifteen minutes of this might have been fine, but the presenter goes on and on, utterly ignoring the signals that his time is up. After forty-five minutes, when he shows no sign of letting up, I’ve had it. I quietly gather my things and slip out the door. I’m trying not to feel irritated but failing. Although the presenter told us at the beginning that he was afraid he might lose us in technical jargon and that we should stop him to ask for clarification, such a caveat is lost after about three minutes, when so much technical jargon has been put out that there’s no possibility of going back. The most irritating part is that the findings of all this could have been summed up in a simple statement concerning the uniqueness of one aspect of Dzongkha (Bhutanese) language.

View from Rachel's Kitchen Window

After another night in the silence of RTC’s campus I am ready to try again. The second day of the conference contains a number of fascinating projects. After a bit of a rocky start due to a projected power cut at 10am, we get under way with two presentations from the previous evening that there was not enough time for—gosh, I wonder why? This immediately sets us back about an hour and a half. Again the window shades in the conference room are drawn, but today an additional five or six panel heaters have been brought into the room. Instead of being a bit cool, its stiflingly hot. It’s one of those situations I can never get my mind around. Why doesn’t someone just say—can we turn off a couple of heaters? But I know that no one will, especially not when the Vice Chancellor is in the room. As a chi-lop, I could do it myself, but after a while I get tired of being the one who asks for adjustments. Since I seem to have come down with a cold, I tell myself that its probably better to be too warm than too cold, but the hot air makes my congestion worse and I’m sneezing every few moments.

A few highlights from the second day of the conference: A presentation on (believe it or not), “The Genetic Structure and Biodiversity of Pigs (Sus scrofa) in South Asia” by a very dynamic speaker named Karma Nidup, a PhD scholar working at CNR (The College of Natural Resources) in Lobeysa revealed how important maintaining biodiversity of livestock resources for achieving food security and alleviating poverty in developing countries. While much of the presentation was given in the form of graphs that I could not read, the presenter’s enthusiasm and interest in his subject nearly convinced us all that this was of the utmost importance. His presentation was a great lesson in how much important it is to have genuine curiosity and concern for one’s research subject. Another fascinating topic was by a Cambridge University PhD student, Jonathan Tae, who presented on “Healing Trajectories in Bhutan.” His work considers how three different modalities of healing (modern medicine, traditional Tibetan/Bhutanese medicine—gsoba-rigpa--and “religious” healing methods such as pujas, ritual healers, shamans, etc.) are used by individuals as part of the stories they use to explain and explore their own healing processes. In addition, Jonathan is looking at how this integration of modalities is affecting policy, practice and patient experiences in the Bhutanese medical system.  Another Cambridge University PhD student, Riamsara Kuyakanon Knapp, is exploring the relationship between environmental conservation and Buddhist beliefs and practices, with emphasis on the ways in which the conservation landscape is infused with notions of the “sacred.”In particular she is looking at a phenomenon called ridam/lhadam. These two terms literally mean “mountain/blocked,” and they refer to a Buddhist practice whereby it is considered forbidden to climb to the top of certain mountain peaks at certain times of the year for reasons of environmental conservation, but within a uniquely Buddhist framework. I find Riam’s work particularly interesting and realize that if I had not been a natural textualist, I would have loved to study sacred geography. Another presentation on chili by PhD student Tulsi Gurung is a quintessentially Bhutanese subject. Everyone loves it and the room is filled with laughter and jokes. However, as the afternoon moves on, I find myself feeling less and less well. Finally, by about 5:30pm, when there are still at least three presentations left, I have to leave and go lie down for a while. The lack of sleep and my cold have taken their toll. 

Dochu Lha: Chotens and Mountains

The next morning I am ready to go. I am lucky to get a ride back to Taktse with the Director again and I get a ride early to his house. The day is completely clear and for the first time it will be possible to see the views from the high passes we will cross on the way back. Sure enough, by the time we crest the Dochu Lha, the mountains spread out to the north in a dramatic panorama that literally takes one’s breath away. Now, for the first time, I really see just how amazingly beautiful Bhutan is and why, for so many years it has been considered a beyul or “hidden land.” The jagged snow peaks of the Himalayas pierce the deep blue sky like sharp, white teeth. The air is clear, cold, and filled with the silence of high mountains. Even the cars of other travelers and tourist cannot break that vast silence. It’s a stunning display of geographic power and beauty. I am reluctant to leave, but Lopen and one of the other ILCS lecturers, Tenchok, regale me with stories of the magical powers of the fourth King of Bhutan, who is considered to have placated a fierce protector deity by carrying loads of offerings on his back up the valley from Punakha to Talo Monastery (the deity’s home), a distance of about 15 or more kilometers up a mountain. He is also known to be the only person who is safe navigating the high mountain lakes above Thimphu.

Abode of the Gods

As we attempt the long drive up the next pass, the Pele Lha, a squeaking noise forces us to stop while Lopen, Tenchok and the driver all attempt to figure out the problem. Any indication that there might be car problems must be dealt with immediately on these remote twisting mountain roads, otherwise the problem might escalate and one could easily be stranded far from any source of help. I amuse myself by watching the towering white peaks of the nearby mountains. Fortunately, the problem is easily solved and we are soon on our way. 

Car Repair View

How Many Bhutanese Does it Take to... (Not that I'm any help!)

But before we have gone far, we make a necessary stop in the tiny village of Nobding, perched high up along the road to the Pele Lha. This town is a place to which I must soon return for it has many associations with Drukpa Kunley. But for now, we are there mainly for the peppers! As winter comes on, the pepper season is dwindling and Bhutanese are frantic to buy and store as many peppers as possible before none are available for the winter months. I am greatly amused by the frenzy that overtakes my road companions as they dive into a huge basket of peppers, eventually buying about 20 kilos. Apparently, Nobding is the place for peppers, since the villagers there grow many of them and sell them cheaply. We easily spend 45 minutes with the pepper farmers, negotiating, weighing, and determining which are the best for drying. 

Chili Madness

How Many Kilos?

I receive a lesson from Lopen on the best ways to make ema datsi and I plan to try it out on my father for Christmas. Lopen is clearly an expert and explains to me that it is better to pull the chilies apart with one's fingers instead of cutting them with a knife so that the jagged edges of the chilies will more readily absorb the melted cheese. However, one must first coat one's hands with oil so as not to burn the skin with hot chili juice! I am determined to get him to give me a real cooking lesson. When we finally get back on the road, we are all hungry and tired. We realize that we have been taking our time so much that we are not likely to arrive back in Taktse now until after dark. But this, as Lopen points out, is the best thing about traveling home—one does not have to hurry, as one’s home is already set up and waiting for you. As darkness falls we finally enter back into the steep Mangde Chuu valley and I can see Taktse across the valley as the sun slides behind the peaks of the Black Mountains. I wish I could somehow take wing and simply fly across the valley, but we still have at least a two hour drive to get us there. Being home, being back with Chris, will be lovely!

Mangde Chuu Valley at Sunset, ILCS Taktse on Hill on Left

Life in Taktse II

The Wheel of Life

Zzzzzaaaapppp!!!! Four bulbs blow at once and the overhead flourescent tube suddenly emits a sound like a giant nest of wasps. I jump up and flick off the light switches, shocked in the sudden darkness. For a moment, all is quiet. Then the smell of burning metal and plastic filters into the room and I realize that the bathroom fan, which I had left on after bathing, is silent. Opening the bathroom door nearly asphyxiates me and I run to open the upstairs door to the balcony. After gulping a few lungfuls of freezing cold fresh air, I suddenly remember the kitchen appliances. I leap down the stairs, entering the kitchen just as the hot water boilers makes a loud rasping cough. Quickly, I pull the plug, but I have no way of telling whether or not its been fried out by the huge power surge. What's odd, of course, is that this is not, in fact, a power surge at all. It is simply the way the power is now. When we first moved in, our power was so weak that a rice cooker that would normally take about 20 minutes to cook two cups of rice, instead took nearly two hours. The ugly flourescent tubes on the ceilings never had enough power to light up and we were generally forced to use the few regular incandescent bulbs scattered in haphazard locations throughout the apartment, even though the light they did shed was barely enough to see by. Through trial and error, we discovered that we could only run our precious washing machine by turning off every other possible draw on the power--all the lights, the water boiler, the geysers, the refrigerator, etc. Even then, we had to dump buckets of water into the machine and slosh the wet laudry around with our hands to be sure it had thoroughly rinsed. The refrigerator never did get enough power, and rather than the freezer unit actually producing a frozen space, it just dripped water over everything else inside. After a few weeks, we wondered if we'd ever have enough power to see at night. Then, in spite of the rainy season supposedly being "over," the rains closed in again, fog descended or ascended depending on which way the clouds decided to move through these steep, narrow valleys, and winter, as the Director of ILCS said, came early. For over a week, we never saw the sun (and this during the time of year that is peak tourist season in Bhutan--in other words, it never rains) and our weak power, too fragile to power our one electric heater, decides to abandon us altogether.

Clouds Descend

For three days, we all shiver in the chill, raw, rain and huddle in blankets or around makeshift campfires around which all of us, Bhutanese, Chillips (the four of us), and Indian laborers spread our cold, swollen fingers. Bedtime is about 7pm, since complete darkness falls by 6pm, and the effort to cook and eat in pitch darkness with flashlights and hands nearly too cold to cut vegetables is a weary chore. I take to wearing five layers inside--a long underwear tank top, a wool shirt, a fleece jacket, a down vest and another shell over the top, along with the mandatory wool socks and a hat at all times of the day. Still, if I go for more than an hour without a hot drink, my fingers start to lose all feeling. The only time I feel warm is when I go outside for a walk, trying to ignore the mist or rain, moving fast enough at this altitute to breath heavily. The only other time I feel warm is in bed, still wearing my hat and wool socks. I tell Chris that it is time for someone to invent a nose cozy--kind of like a tea cozy, but small enough to fit comfortably on my icy-cold nose.

The irony here, by the way, is that right before we actually lose power altogether (no one has yet to tell us why we lost power), the IT people had finally arrived at ILCS to set up the high speed internet. This moment can only be described as an ever-receeding horizon, so the fact that someone actually did arrive and actually did configure the equipment, so that for one blissful day I had full connectivity--fast, efficient, easy to upload or download documents--was nothing short of a miracle. And, like most miracles, it was extremely short-lived. Without power, not only can I not shower, read, see anything, get warm, but obviously, I cannot charge my computer. Without power, the internet receiver on the roof cannot function.

Academic Block Internet Server Room (When it Works...)

But the further irony is yet to come. After three days, the power suddenly, and again with no explanation, returns. But now, rather than being too weak, it is blisteringly strong. The power surge that zaps out five of our lights at once and burns out the bathroom fan is the same power surge that also blows out the internet receiver so lovingly placed on the roof. In the half-day where we actually have power, most everyone loses at least one appliance, many of their lights, and even, in one case, his computer and cellphone charger. Before anyone can really do much more than blink, we again lose power all together. Today, as I write this, its been about 48 hours of no power and no end in sight. If we didn't all have propane two-burner stoves upon which to cook, no one would even be able to eat. As it is, we are all using so much propane to cook and boil water for washing (bucket baths in 35-40 degree bathrooms--my new favorite pastime), that it is likely we will run out of gas and have to find transportation for the hour drive to the nearest town to replace the gas cylinders.

Second Snow

The only upside is that the rain (knock wood--actually I can't knock wood since this apartment is made entirely of concrete) finally ceases and the mountains emerge from cold fog covered with mantles of brilliant white snow that gleams through the crystalline air like a shaft of hope. During the day, the sunlight shimmers with an unearthly translucence and for the few moments it shines in the back window, I moved nearly to tears by the warmth. Of course, I knew that there is no such thing as indoor heat in Bhutan. Most people have what is known as a "bukhari"--a small wood burning stove that differs from the kinds of wood burning stoves we have in the US by virtue of the fact that it only burns a bunch of wood all at once. The combustion produces a large wave of heat, but since there is no insulation in any of these buildings, the fire burns out almost immediately. These residences have no such thing, nor, apparently, did the architects consider that such a thing might be useful at nearly 8000 feet in the winter time. (Oddly, they did consider it important to install overhead fans in every room. Since the temperature probably never rises about about 65 degrees farenheit here, this is a mystery we have yet to solve.) What I didn't anticipate is just how cold it actually is--indoors. The truth is that we have no source of heat whatsoever (since we have no power) and its about 35 degrees at night, perhaps 40 during the day. Ok, enough about all this. Just one last comment--the latest projection as to when we might get power back is in about five days...

Late Afternoon Brilliance

So, let's move on to talk about something more interesting--what do people do here other than teach a few classes up at the academic block?  How do they stay warm? Get food? Relax? In general, its been so challenging just to be here that most of us have simply retreated to our respective dwellings, shut the door and gone to sleep. However, hardship breeds comradeship and more and more, people have been getting together and enjoying each other's company. For example, Chris and I have been struggling to figure out how to get fresh produce. For dried goods, we usually mooch a ride into Trongsa (the one real town in the area--only a short hour's drive on twisting mountain roads beside steep, plunging slopes down to the Mangde Chuu river) or hoof it the three and a half hours to Kunga Rapten, a tiny hamlet with one store and a few roadside shop cum bars. Happily, one of the lecturers here who is living with a local family, mentioned to us that the people he lives with have an enormous garden and that we should simply come and purchase vegetables from them.

Ama's Garden

So, one a lovely day when the sun is sliding through golden light behind the dark silhouettes of the Black Mountains, we hike over to Lopen Tsultrim's farmhouse. Its a huge house build in traditional Bhutanese style perched at the end of a long ridge that juts out over the valley like a peninsula in the sky. Lopen Tsultrim is not there, but our Dzong kha has advanced to the point where we are able to ask the lady of the house if we can buy some vegetables from her. Another young Bhutanese man, Leki, who works at ILCS, emerges from the house and together we all head out into the woman's immense garden. While we watch, she wanders through the garden, her sharp sickle knife slicing through heads of cauliflower (methog kopi--"flower cabbage"), bunches of spinach (saag), a few heads of regular cabbage (bande kopi), a huge bunch of green onions, and a couple of enormous turnips thrown in for fun.

Taktse Fields

Turnips

The cost for everything is less than $3. But while we've been veggie hunting, the sun has set. The clear sky is a luminescent dark blue along the ridges of the mountains that seem to surround us in a complete circle here on the peninsula. Leki invites us in for a taste of arra. Arra is local liquor, i.e., everyone makes their own from any kind of grain currently available. Thus there is arra made from wheat, from barley, from corn, or from buckwheat. The locals call it "wine" and I have yet to tell just what proof it is, but I certainly know at this point that it is stronger than wine! At any rate, arra is very, very popular and very warming. The best arra is said to come from Bumthang, where it is made especially pure. Leki has an old, plastic gasoline container filled with arra from Bumthang and he wants us to try it. As we sit on the floor by the stove, he first spoons a large blob of butter into a metal pot that is shaped more like a pitcher for pouring water than a pan for melting butter. Next, he cracks an egg into the pitcher. After a short while during which he continues to stir the butter and egg mixture over a low flame, he pours a good four cups of arra into the pitcher. Again, we wait until the mixture is steaming. Leki then proceeds to fill two teacups to the brim with the mixture of butter, egg, and liquor. For a few moments, I stare in bewilderment at the thick layer of melted butter floating on the top of the liquid in my cup. I'm supposed to drink this? I've heard of butter tea and drank it many times, of course--its a Tibetan specialty--but not of butter arra. Finally, I take a sip. It’s slightly salty and chunks of cooked egg slide down my throat along with the burning sensation that comes from drinking any kind of hard liquor. It's warm all the way down. As the cold, dark air filters into the room, I find my cup of arra more and more appealing. So appealing, in fact, that when Leki casually refills both of our teacups, I happily slurp mine down. I'm warm as toast now. My blood is surging. As we've been drinking three more Bhutanese men have come in and are sitting on the floor with us. Two of them I know--the estate manager, Kencho, and Lopen Tsultrim--the lecturer who invited us to come buy veggies. Leki sits down too and Chris and I suddenly have an audience for our surprisingly loquacious evocations on Bhutanese life. We talk animately about the uniqueness of Bhutanese culture and the power of mindfulness meditation to help us help others; we ask for stories about the others lives and offer numerous anecdotes (some rather personal) from our own lives. We laugh uproariously at jokes. Although I realize I'm the only woman, (I'm usually the only woman in any gathering here) it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Leki rises and makes another batch of arra. He refills our teacups, which have somehow become empty.

Chris rises and staggers out the door to try to find the outdoor toilet, one of the Bhutanese in tow to help him find the way. As I continue my discourse on....something, I notice that the room is tilting. I put my hand on the floor to steady myself, but the room continues to move. Chris comes back and I stand up to go myself. It dawns on me that I am really, completely snockered, but I am determined to act "normal." Leki accompanies me to the out house, likely to make sure that I don't fall in. I chatter away like "normal," except, of course, I almost never chatter away. Leki seems entertained, or at least, I tell myself that he is. As I re-enter the room, I realize that there is no way I can sit back down. I am much too drunk to sit still. Chris gets up and we fumble around trying to find our bags of veggies. Lopen Tsultrim insists on walking us down the long muddly trail to the main dirt road. I can't seem to stop giggling. Chris is giggling too and when Lopen Tsultrim leaves us after asking repeatedly if we are "ok" to get home, we stagger back and forth across the road. The bright stars wheel overhead. A cool wind slides up the dark hills. The bags of vegetables cut into my hands. As we near our residence and begin the climb up the very muddy driveway to our door, a truck comes barreling down the dirt road. It backs up and in a giant spray of mud and spinning of wheels manages to get up the "driveway." Lopen Tendzin has arrived with his belongings to move in next door. Chris and I look at each other. We know we should offer to help, but the thought of trying to carry pieces of heavy furniture across all that mud is simply impossible. We stagger up the muddy hill. At one point I realize my face is very close to the dirt. There is cool mud on my hands and the earth is soft under my knees. I've fallen on my face in the dirt. I'm not actually sure I can get up. Only the thought that Lopen Tendzin is about to walk past my prone form forces me to my knees and then to my feet. Thankfully, Chris has managed to unlock the door to our apartment and we both collapse inside. Our first arra experience comes to an end with my fervant promise never to have more than one glass of arra at a time!

Morning Lhasang

The next morning, as I awaken, I remember that our neighbor, Lopen Tendzin has planned a day-long ceremony to bless his new apartment. His wife, mother-in-law, and nephew are also engaged in the preparations. The smell of juniper smoke wafts into our bedroom as the lhasang fire is lit outside. Lhasang (Deity purification) is a popular practice done whenever one feels the need to expel negative forces or to bless a new space. Lhasang smoke, produced from the burning of wet juniper branches, is said to purify and cleanse the space of evil forces. The fragrant smoke is a familiar smell to me from my days living at Karme Choling in Vermont, and all my years of working and living in Shambhala Dharma centers. Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche taught all of his students to perform lhasangs, so this is something I know well. I dress and wander next door. Lopen Tendzin’s nephew motions me to go upstairs to the shrine room where the lhasang puja is well under way, complete with full instrumentation. Drum, jaolings (short horns not too dissimilar to oboes), and the long, deep horns most people associate with Tibetan Buddhist monks fill the small space with shuddering vibrations.

Tendzin's Shrine Room

Tendzin and Sonam

Shrine

Tendzin’s shrine room is beautiful, a complex mandala of colors, images, and smells. The practitioners chant from the lhasang text as I sit and sip the cup of hot milk tea that Tendzin’s wife brings me. It’s pleasant to relax into the humming space, to feel the thrum of the music in my veins, to remember that something is communicated through this kind of method that no other modality can quite effect. After some time, I return to our apartment and drag Chris out of bed. He’s a bit reluctant to leave the warm blankets, but a cup of “bed-tea” convinces him that its time to begin our “Bhutanese” day. As we re-enter Tendzin’s house, Kelzang insists we sit downstairs for breakfast—fresh white rice, butter, butter tea, and a cold mix of hot green chilies. (Truthfully, not my favorite way to start the day…). Chris eats mine too when I can’t quite get it down.

Bhutanese Breakfast

After a while we both go back up to the puja, which is supposed to last all day. We sit for a while before remembering that we have also promised to attend another puja—a purification ceremony for the brother of another teacher at ILCS, that is being held at the local Taktse lhakang, a very old temple built in the 16^th century. Oddly, even though we’ve been living in Taktse for over two months, we have yet to visit this spot. We make our apologies and hike up the hill to the Taktse lhakang. Inside the foyer of the old building the dark-wood floor are worn smooth by hundreds of years of footsteps. Again, we seat ourselves along the side of the room and allow the sonorous chanting, horn blowing, drumming, and ringing bells of the monks’ tantric instruments to wrap us in a timeless whirlwind of sound, prayers, and energy. But soon, Tsultrim arrives and motions us to join him outside. He wants us to stay for the lunch he is sponsoring in the smoky monastery kitchen. We wander around the side of the lhakang and find seats looking out over the still-gray mountains. But unlike the previous six or seven days, today is lighter, the clouds a shifting veil of white through which a bit of the sun’s warmth filters through to provide us with a bit of warmth.

Taktse Lhakang

Taktse Lhakang

To be continued... They are shutting down the server room right now...

So sorry to all my readers for such a long-delayed posting. I should be able to be much more regular now... but its been quite a journey.

Director and Chris at Tea in Our Apartment

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