Dogs and……

This past week my extended family had to help two beloved border collies move on to their next flock. These two lovely girls had filled our hearts and lives for 13 and 15 years. Certainly they were spoiled and certainly they deserved every moment. Dogs are omnipresent in Bhutan but in such a different role than in the U.S. Here in Bhutan all dogs, with a few exceptions, are considered stray dogs. That means they have no specific owner but they are an accepted part of the community. Their role is well defined but so different than my concept of dogginess. The dogs are free to do whatever they like. They lie where they choose, they wander where they will, their territorial disputes are overly dramatic, all of a sudden you will hear what sounds like a fight to the death with enough fierce growels and woeful yelps to believe one is being eaten. In the end one will demur and all returns to normal in a moment. The dogs are chased out of buildings when they come in to check things out. Chasing out consists primarily of a lot of “tsh tsh tsh tshshshtt” on the part of the chaser, occasionally some stick waiving or stone throwing finishes the task. Left over food (rice) is dumped in the yard with the anticipation some critter, likely a canine, will eat it. The dogs are primed to the sound of trash dumping. I sort my trash carefully, the only person in this part of Bhutan to do so I’m sure, I dump my organic waste over the bank. Every time the dogs come running only to find vegetarian kitchen scraps, very low on their menu.

Affection for dogs seems to be limited to kids and puppies. It is not unusual to see little children with arms full of puppies. The puppies here have the same forlorn “oh well if I have to” look as puppies everywhere seem to have as part of their DNA. But the number of puppies does not add up. Here, puppies are often seen in ones and twos. Litters do not work like that, quite what happens to the others is a mystery to me even after several conversations “around” the topic. The communities, with help from the government, do encourage neutering and even have large events in some of the bigger towns to try and control the population. The dogs, for the most part, are very well socialized, by and large they appear to be content, generally well fed and reasonably healthy. Dogs seldom get treatment of any kind so if a dog is ill or injured it is left to care for itself. However, one puppy did start visiting me when she was quite little, 6, weeks or so, she is now several months old and still comes to visit and responds to my voice whenever we meet out and about. My own personal share of the community dog bank.

The acceptance of all living critters is prevalent here. The sight of the cow parallel parked in perfect position between two cars provided me with a long and wonderful laugh. It is hard to capture in a snapshot but I still chuckle when it crosses my mind. Cows are a constant form of speed control on the roads, they have right of way and do indeed seem to be oblivious to anything so trivial as traffic. Speed on the roads makes me think. At home speeds are always dangerous and very often potentially lethal. A crash at 75mph is a serious matter. Here the average speed is around 30-40kmph or about 20-25mph. It is a bit like riding around in go carts or bumper cars. The danger from collisions is much less, however the roads are narrow and in poor condition and many roads frequently have huge drops if you go off the road on the downhill side.

The cows are placid and well trained, they are taken out to “pasture” every morning and brought home in the evening. The trip out and back can be a pretty good hike, many cows spend their days in the forest with someone to tend them. Here the boy who looks after the cows is called a cowboy, one of the lowliest positions in the workforce, they are generally uneducated and illiterate and on the path to a life that has been lived in this part of the world for centuries. In the

villages the cows graze every available patch of grass. From a distance many rural houses look like they have verdant green lawns around them, the cows are the primary caretakers when it comes to keeping everything trimmed. Every day I walk around cows in the yard or in the path munching whatever is available and mowing at the same time. They are tethered with any old scrap of rope and strap which is tied around their horns. If there is a possibility of the cows wandering into nearby vegetable gardens a stake is driven into the ground to keep them securely tied. Often they will be simply tied to a bush and it is not unusual to see a cow wandering around with an uprooted bush at the other end of their rope.

Many Bhutanese want to improve their existing house or build a new one, often right next door. The process begins by accumulating materials when they become available. This process can be spread over many years. The primary material to be obtained is wood. Whenever a tree falls nearby it is sawn into large timbers and stacked close to the house. Corrugated metal is laid over the top to protect the investment. In many areas the majority of houses have these stacks of wood

in their yards. Next is stone. The stone is dumped in piles of large rocks. It can sit like this for some time before the process of breaking it into useful building stones beings. The large rocks are broken with a sledge hammer and stones of about the same size are collected to be used in walls. They are laid with enough concrete to fill in around the irregular shapes. The traditional form of building is with pounded mud. It is inexpensive, readily available, relatively earthquake resistant, but does require maintenance and is not considered to be as permanent as stone. However the still standing ruins of villages that have been occupied over the centuries dot the rural countryside attesting to the durability of the thick, pounded mud walls.

Learning Curve

Although in many contexts two months is a substantial amount of time it is a much smaller span than the ten months I had to look forward to when I moved to Gaselo in February. When I arrived Gaselo was completely foreign to me. I knew where I lived and how to get to school on a daily basis. The area is quite rural, the houses and small villages are scattered around, there is no discernable center or obvious group of businesses. Shopping of any kind seemed to be absolutely minimal. 

Recently it occurred to me how much I have learned about living in Gaselo over the past months. I am now able to procure many local products including red rice, dairy products, garden produce and locally distilled ara. I have learned locations of the few shops and what they are likely to have on the shelves. Recently I purchased, from the wife of one of my colleagues, fabric woven by her hands here in Gaselo which was delivered in two identical rolls. Even in this nascent state the fabric is referred to as a gho. I was guided to a tailor in Bajo to have the fabric stitched into a garment, he took one measurement, base of my neck to the base of my spine. He then snipped a narrow strip off the end of one of the rolls and handed it to me as my receipt which I would have to show to claim the finished product. I was told it would be ready in a week. The following Saturday I stopped in at the tailor, he said it was not ready but took my fabric strip and cut it in half, he kept one part and gave me the other. It appeared to me this was his scheduling system. He could tell everyone to come back in a week, when that person returned he would take half the strip and put it in his pile of short strips which meant they needed to be done soon. This time he told me it would be ready on Tuesday. 

School employs one person as a driver for the seldom used bus. The driver, along with another school employee, both have taxis which they drive as a second job. Very often school sends one of these folks to town to do school business, at this time they are also available and always willing to do errands for faculty. The types of errands are endless but typically domestic in nature; go to the

bank, pick up this or that at a store, drop this off, etc, etc. So on Wednesday I arranged with Kinley to take my fabric strip to the tailor and pick up my gho. Sure enough he came home with it that evening. I have learned an amazing amount about wearing Gho.

Originally I had no idea there could be much to know, how could one be so much different from another? This gho, which seemed to be the same 6-8lb cloak as any other, proved to be very different indeed. The first time I put it on it went on easily and felt right. The fabric is heavy, a bit rough to the touch, the gho is fully lined with a light sheet-like material. It feels substantial when I put it on, the real thing which Bhutanese have been wearing for centuries. The comments all day told me the appearance was good as well, one boy told me I looked like I was 30! Amazing to think this gho had metamorphosed from loose thread to fabric through a hand driven loom and from rolls of fabric to a complete garment via a single measurement, in the end it felt and looked just right.

B & B, Bicycles and Bhutan

For me, Asia always brings to mind streets filled with throngs of bicycles. I have certainly experienced that in Hanoi and Bejing. In India it means throngs of vehicles of every sort. Bicycles, scooters, pedicabs pedaled and motorized, horse drawn carts, cars, trucks, buses and trucks and a

few dozen other types I have forgotten. In Bhutan however, over the road travel by vehicle is still a recent development and there are only perhaps half a dozen types of vehicles on the roads. Very small cars, both private and taxis, small minivans, both private and taxi, midsize SUV, Toyota Hilux or Kia Tucson in size, all private or government, trucks of the Indian good luck variety and a few small to midsize buses and the very occasional scooter or motorcycle. Bicycles are very few and far between. The few Bhutanese who do own bikes seem to use them for exercise/recreation and not for transportation. The people’s favorite, the Fourth King, is an ardent mountain biker and I’ve heard that his son, the Fifth King, is also an enthusiast. So there is some acceptance of mountain biking as an activity. Every year the country hosts a grueling bike race from Bumthang to Thimphu, it is a national event and attracts riders from around the world. So cycling does have a presence in the consciousness of the Bhutanese but in practice it is essentially nonexistent.

There are a few mountain bikes for sale and for rent. The rental business is definitely aimed at tourists and a few young people like students. There are two shops in Bajo which rent bikes, I chose the one which had older bikes but someone in the shop who was working on bikes and seemed to know what they were doing. Three bikes to choose from, the first had an inoperable front derailleur, the second seemed OK, so after turning in a copy of my work permit, my phone number, and about $28, a large sum in Bhutan, I had a bike for 48hrs, Saturday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. I did

get a helmet but no pump or patch kit. My friend Sarah’s bike had a broken seat bracket bolt which I was trying to replace so I asked at the bike shop, no, sorry, no parts. I went to three hardware stores, no, nothing that big, they told me I would have to go to the auto workshop. The closest one was not far away but as I headed out my back tire went flat. I walked the bike back to the shop and the mechanic took wheels off the other two bikes and put them on mine, topped off the air, checked the brakes and I was ready to go but now a bit nervous about flats.

This time I did get to the auto workshop, low and behold a used bolt was produced from somewhere in the back. So I set off for Punakha. When riding at home I sometimes winder about all the gear, gloves, shoes, hydration pack, etc. This was back to the basics but trying to keep my feet on worn and slippery platform pedals reminded me why I put up with all the gear when it is available. The ride is a few miles along the river, the sun had hidden itself behind the ridge, the scenery wonderful, the breeze at my back, I was so happy to be back on a bike I could hardly take it.

The next morning I took the repaired seat to rendezvous with Sarah before 7:00am and headed up the small valley from Punakha toward Shengana. The road climbs very steadily with the occasional less steep stretch. In these parts the side valleys like this one are short and climb quickly. The villages, rice paddies, archery and kuru matches, the scenery, was all near perfect. One spot we like is a typical water powered prayer wheel. There are hundreds of these all over Bhutan in every state of repair. The last time we had been to this one they were doing rehab work on it. Now it is freshly

painted, well greased, the watercourse unclogged and the wheel was spinning beautifully, its skirts aflutter. The road deteriorated past Shengana so we stashed the bikes to walk for another mile or so before stopping for lunch on a green knoll in a tiny village just below a new Lakhan (temple) which is under construction. The amount of timber that was going into this building was astounding. The walls are stone but the woodwork, which is a significant part of the structure, is comprised of huge timbers, many intricately carved, hewn from single massive logs. The views were stunning out over the valley but we were

definitely the main attraction as people peeked out at us and even came to see us, since we shared no language we could only nod and smile. The weather was deteriorating and the ridge top we had eyed earlier in the day was still far off and the big mountains behind would be shrouded in cloud. The cruise back to Punakha was everything I had hoped it would be, mainly a celebration of gravity. We had discussed hanging a string of prayer flags in support of Mark, a friend to all in BCF who had just lost his partner in a tragic turn of events. We did not find the right spot but we did find it would be helpful to have extra length in the form of more flags and light cord.

The following day, Monday, was a holiday so I had an extra day to enjoy the bike. Sarah opted for schoolwork so I set out late morning under a brooding sky. Little did I know a cyclone in India was going to push 18 hours of rain our way beginning that afternoon. I stopped in Kuru and bought prayer flags and line and aimed myself toward a tiny temple which has been taking shape for a couple of year’s and had just been painted white in the last few weeks. It sits on a steep hillside and shelters a natural cave in the back wall, Buddhists love their meditation caves. The cave and then

the temple had been a favorite spot for Andrea, one of the original BCF teachers who has recently returned to Canada. She has been a friend to Mark so it all seemed to fit. I began the climb on a steep, winding, rough road snaking its way skyward with an occasional set of switchbacks. I had only walked down the route I was trying to ride up. I left the road at the same place we always

joined the road, but with a bike it was not a good plan, too steep through the forest, pushing a bike is never much fun. I did get to the temple as it started to rain, not hard but the very steep hillsides were slippery and stringing the payer flags proved to be a bit of an adventure.

As I left the rain became steady. Fortunately, for all the clay in Bhutanese soil there is often an equal amount of coarse sand and gravel which prevented the road from turning into a slide of greased lightning. The descent was less than harrowing although one moment of inattention to my front wheel and my left hand (front brake) did result in an OTB (over the bars) experience. I rent my pants and smeared knee and shoulder in the wet dirt but no great harm, I was grateful I had asked for a helmet at the shop. I was very attentive the rest of the way down. As I continued back to Bajo the rain eased up and then returned in earnest. Weather has a way of focusing my being on the goal at hand, I paid no mind to the looks I received all along the way as I pedaled past. A bicycle is uncommon, someone riding in the rain is odder still, on top of that the rider is some gray bearded chilp, now that’s something to stare at.

Bajo was a welcome sight, my usual spot was just what I needed. A cup of tea, a bottle of mineral water, a change into a dry shirt topped off with a fleece and I felt like finishing the day. I returned my bike, it looked like a respectable mountain bike, wet, muddy, and happy. I did my weekly shopping and began to realize the odds of finding a taxi were very low, a number of things made travel a bit unusual on this holiday and they all seemed to be conspiring against me. But my faith in Bhutan was restored as I saw Damcho, a very reliable driver, pulling into town with a monk who had apparently needed to come to Bajo late in the day. I was first in line for a ride back and before dark I was home having my own cup of tea with a pot of water on the gas burner heating for a “bath”, even warm water out of a bucket feels glorious on an evening like this as the rain continues to pour, the memories and aches of the day make me feel alive and lucky. I will definitely opt for one or two more bicycle excursions.

Seasons By Rice

We arrived in Bhutan midwinter, January, the grasses on the hillsides were brown, the pine trees a dry season green, the paddies and fields empty, snow in the mountains not too far away. Exploring the area around Gaselo was pretty easy as one could always walk the irrigation ditches and cut through the fields. The air was very dry as was the ground. Many blue sky days and starlight nights. During the winter compost from the livestock is dispersed among the fields one basket at a time borne on a woman’s back. The numerous piles of compost scattered in the fields correspond to many trips with a heavy load.

April and the flowers started to bloom, the red flowers of the etho metho (rhododendron) were the big display for a good while. Wild iris, jacaranda, chrysanthemums and roses in the yards also added to the landscape in their own time. Water appeared in some of the ditches which connect every field in an intricate web of smaller channels. I am used to seeing irrigation ditches which run with barely enough drop to keep the water moving so that the precious flow can travel as far as possible. Some of the larger ditches here do traverse fairly long distances but the land here is terraced on steep hillsides so many of the channels are gushing straight down the mountain. These gushing channels are often on small ridge tops which seems incongruous until you see how easily water is diverted left or right. 

Very soon, what appears to be random paddies turn a dense almost emerald green, vivid in the evening light against the brown winter backdrop of the empty fields. As it turns out these were densely planted with rice seeds and the seedlings sprout very close together forming a thick carpet of new green growth. While the seedlings are growing the rest of the fields are prepared. They are flooded and left to soak. The wet soil is then turned with a plow often drawn by a pair of “ox” trudging ponderously through the mud but clearly aware of the job they are doing. Many of the fields are small and irregularly shaped. The animals are adept at

getting the job done with the help of a hardworking farmer who gives commands and must maneuver the plow, physical labor that would be a test for anyone. Many farmers have moved into the machine age and have two wheeled tractors to draw the plow. The tractors are Japanese and fitted with paddle wheels to give them traction in the muck. Now the farmer is the only one working but the tractors do move faster and more consistently and more ground can be tilled.

After the fields are prepared they are flooded, then begins the tedious work of picking the

seedlings by the handful and separating them into individual plants, bundling those plants, carrying them to the field where they are to be planted and finally transplanting them one by one about 6 inches apart. After all the fields are planted they must be weeded at least once. Rice is a certainly a labor intensive crop when cultivated in the Himalayan foothills.

Summer is the rainy season. The air is warm and moist, rain is frequent, everything grows like crazy. Kitchen gardens spring up around every house where beans, chilies, peas, many leafy greens, tomatoes, coriander, corn, fill all the

plots. As the season progresses persimmons, apples, peaches, pomegranates appear on trees. Much of the fruit is very small and not too sweet which shows how we in the west have become accustomed to the large, beautiful, sweet and juicy hybrids that farmers have been nurturing for many generations. The summer season also brings clouds blanketing the mountains, putting them to bed for a long summer’s rest. During the summer the air is humid, the skies clearing to blue during the day but only over the valleys, a peek at the high mountains is a rare treat. Walking in the rural areas becomes interesting indeed. Wherever

there are paddies everything is very wet. The edges of the paddies are narrow walls of wet earth and often cannot be walked upon. There are paths which the farmers use to weed and adjust irrigation but these paths do not always go very far. If one knows where to find them there are “thoroughfares”, paths that wind through the paddy fields from one side to the other which the locals use when they walk to the neighbors, to the road, to school and such. All summer the rice is a beautiful green carpet cut into random shapes and stacked on the hillsides. Some places tall grass with flowing seed heads grows between the fields. The scene composed

of white houses with the requisite architecture set amongst rice paddies is truly a wonder to behold.

As the rice matures the terraces catch one’s eye as the green fades to a lighter color and then a hint of gold as it nears harvest time. The rice is harvested by hand and taken to local mills, in this form the term paddy refers to the rice as well as the field. The mill is often just a small threshing machine powered by an electric motor connected by a large belt reminiscent of early photos of the industrial revolution. The rice is fed into the thresher and pours into sacks as clean rice kernels. The rice is then prepared for winter storage or for sale. Once again the paddies are beginning to have the rough crew-cut look with a few inches of stubble covering the dry field.

Yesterday the air was clear and dry, a tiny hint of crispness in the breeze. The sky startlingly blue, the clouds few. The days shorten and once again it is full dark when I rise at 5am. Sitting with my morning tea I watch the sky lighten and for the first time in many months the jagged skyline is cleanly etched against the gentle dawn. The two big peaks behind and off to the left are harder to make out until the light is strong enough to bring their snowy whiteness into view. Below me the morning mists and low clouds of the deep, narrow valley lend their fluid transformations to this morning’s performance. As I write the first rays of the sun highlight the snowy peaks to give them their moment of celebrity in the sunrise program.