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.

Family, Friends and Neighbors

The Bhutanese are a very social. To go anywhere alone is essentially incomprehensible. Walking to school, walking to the shop in the afternoon, certainly a trek from Gaselo to Chamgang via Nahi. Even a group of Bhutanese will have a guide for a hike, they want someone along who is familiar with the area. None of the take off on your own frame of mind which is so prevalent in the U.S. However, navigation here is much more difficult. The trails are a result of use and generally lead to someone’s house. Signs are unheard of and routes can be mysterious, especially when wandering in the rural areas. There are established hikes that are written up in guide books and those trails are usually easier to follow. Everyone here is just programmed to have company of some sort all the time, even if it is for a five minute stroll to school. I am always asked, “charo?,” meaning friend, where is your friend? At one nearby monastery, Shalipanca, an older monk looked around behind me apparently disbelieving I was walking all that way by myself, he kept asking, charo? Many times I spend the evenings cooking dinner for myself and reading. The Bhutanese clearly think I am deprived. I have always enjoyed quiet alone time, especially here where each day is filled with the challenges of communicating in a foreign country. To their dismay I do not even have a TV!

     Television has become ubiquitous here, every house, tiny rural shacks to urban apartments, every place of business, some the size of a closet open to the sidewalk, has a TV on all the time. The picture is often grainy, the TVs are generally small, of low quality, and the reception poor but it is a window to a different world. The programming consists of a few Bhutanese channels, one of which is national news, several Indian channels, soap operas and movies, BBC which is nice, CNN, and some American channels which include lots of wrestling, Discovery (which is quite popular), and some older shows and movies. Sports are also popular, football (soccer), cricket, and the NBA seem to be the ones many people follow. No one knows anything about American football, they all think it is the same as rugby. Another aspect of TV everywhere is cable stung from every building and run to every apartment in random lengths, often wrapped around a pole or even a house as it seems they are reluctant to cut the cable to size. People here are curious about the world but their connection to family and friends is very strong and most folks find comfort in being close to home. 

     The building I live in is four units, two up and two down. The other three are occupied by families of at least four people ranging in age from one to me as the elder. This little neighborhood provides a lot of company for all who live there. Everyone is in and out of each other’s place all the time, I am on the low end of the visitation scale. They take care of each other’s kids, share meals, and just provide company so no one is alone. The building is new and we are the first set of tenants, but they are all Bhutanese so they are automatically familiar with each other no matter how long they have been in this area or where there home might be. Obviously a marked contrast to the U.S. where so many people do not know their neighbors and often feel wary of them as strangers.

      The traditional Bhutanese house has a large room for the kitchen. It is the communal area of the house, it is likely where everyone is unless they are doing something specific in another part of the

house. Meal prep can be an ongoing affair during the day as food is readied for three meals. Many people might help and meals are taken on the floor with everyone sitting in a loose circle around the serving dishes. A few folks coming and going is not uncommon, meal times are flexible and it is OK for folks to eat when the have time. Meals are pretty quick, Bhutanese are efficient eaters and socializing, except on holidays, is generally at a minimum during the meal itself. Many newer Bhutanese houses, like mine, have a separate room for the kitchen, a bit like the houses built in the U.S. during the 50’s and 60’s. It confines the cooks to an area away from the group which seems very un-Bhutanese to me. In the U.S. all kitchens in newer housing include living areas so many people can congregate where the action is. Perhaps Bhutan will move in that direction in the future.

Traditionally Bhutanese sit on the floor, furniture is sparse, but more and more folks here have furniture in their living areas. Some of them, like most Americans, have gotten stiff and do not sit on the floor comfortably. Others just seem to like the idea of furniture. I was at my neighbors for dinner the other night and the whole group ended up pushing the table aside and sitting in a circle on the floor, clearly the more comfortable arrangement for these folks. Fortunately we sit on the floor a lot at home so I am happy to sit there any time.

     Even though their country is rather sparsely populated the Bhutanese have no personal space issues. They will walk close together, frequently brushing against each other. When someone is walking past them they will give just enough room to squeeze through but not always without touching. I have seen many tourists, North American and European, with expressions that indicate they believe they have been rudely treated when this happens, whereas in reality they are getting treated like everyone else. People of all ages and genders will sit close together, touching or arm around the shoulders. However, this does not apply to couples, public displays of affection at any level are nonexistent. 

 Families here are very different from those in the U.S. In Bhutan the bonds that bind a family together are determined by birth. One’s family ties remain pivotally important throughout one’s life no matter what. In the U.S. we determine the bonds that tie us together by how much time we spend together. It is very possible for family members in the U.S. to grow apart from each other to the point they seldom communicate or see each other. The small size of Bhutan along with the homogeneity of the population make things easier but the culture here dictates absolutely that family ties are permanent. Many children grow up in boarding schools only seeing their parents for a few months each year. Parents think nothing of leaving their children with relatives while they travel abroad for an education or move to another part of the country for a job. They do not need to worry about developing that strong sense of family through time spent together like we Americans do. As a result Bhutan has only a very few older people who are not being looked after by their children. However, as western ideas move in the number of geriatric indigent is growing. Time will tell where things end up here in Bhutan.

Tsechu, a Buddhist county fair?

The country of Bhutan is divided up into 20 districts or Dzongkhags. Each one is a bit like a county, small enough that the administration is quite accessible by everyone. The Dzongkhag officials are responsible for the schools in the district and for overseeing the other civil servants and their respective duties. Every Dzongkhag has a ceremony called Tsechu, typically a three day event which happens annually but at a different time of year for each district. There are perhaps 20 other Tsechus as welI which are hosted by various monasteries and such. I reside in Wangdue Phodrang and this past week, Thursday, Friday, Saturday was our Tsechu. Since Sunday is our holiday for the week this gave me four days off in a row. I felt like I should really do something with the time but I did not want to go to far because I did want to see some of Tsechu.

Not too long ago roads were few and far between in Bhutan and people traveled by foot over trails that had existed for centuries. Folks living here in Gaselo would walk over to Nahi and up over Hingle La and down to Thimphu. I had been curious about this walk since I arrived. There is another BCF teacher who lives in Chamgang, this side of Thimphu, which gave me a destination a bit short of going all the way down to the city. So Thursday morning I rose early and hit the trail at 5:30 which is not too long after first light this time of year. I walked to Nahi, a route I had explored and was somewhat familiar with, which took me past a trio of ancient chortens which have become dear to me as a special gate from “my” part of the valley around the ridge toward Nahi. At Nahi I walked the road which accesses that valley and ran across a barking deer and a fox with bushy black tail. I had a bit of a mix up at the end, the road petered out and I walked up to a house where I saw a young man standing in the yard. As I approached I said that I thought I had lost my way. He agreed in a matter of fact way indicating that he understood there was no way his yard was my intended destination. He explained my error and walked with me back to the fork in the road I had missed due to a “shortcut”. It was nice to be pointed in the right direction and a 20 minute side trip was not the end of the world. The road ended shortly and then I was back on my favorite route, the old trail leading toward Hingle La, the pass between me and Chamgang. The trail is little used although very well established. Bhutanese do not hike for recreation so there is little traffic on the trails. This trail is apparently one chosen by the Fourth King as a mountain bike route, he is an enthusiastic rider himself, which might have contributed to how well cleared the trail seemed to be. A surprising number of hours later I was over the pass and resting by a very

old water driven prayer wheel and two old chortens. The whole way up had been in forest with only an occasional glimpse of the surroundings. When I checked the altitude and found it to be 10,700ft I soon understood that I had climbed about 5000 vertical feet, no wonder I was tired and the time so late! As I began the 2 ½hr walk to Chamgang it began to rain, it rained steadily almost all the way, I was a drowned rat by the time I reached Matt and Lucy’s. Just as well they weren’t home and I could spread out, bathe, become human again and be ready to catch a ride to Thimphu to meet them for dinner. Being treated to dinner by Matt’s parents was wonderful after what turned out to be close to a 20 mile day with a big climb.

The following day I ran errands in Thimphu and succumbed to the temptation of a western style lunch with Val, a fellow BCF teacher from Rukubji which is also in Wangdue. After enjoying a fresh salad, pizza and beer sipped from a coffee mug, all restaurants will serve beer before the official 1:00pm “opening time” but it is done discreetly, I headed out of town. I was waiting at a major junction outside of town when a college student who was with a group going on a 3 day “picnic” approached me and said they had 16 bus tickets and only 15 students, would I like to use the extra. So I ended up on the bus over Docha La, things so often work out in Bhutan in unexpected ways.

Saturday morning I was in Wangdue on the Tsechu grounds as things were opening up. The Tsechu is essentially a 3-5 day Buddhist ceremony. The focal point of the event is the dance ground set up with seating on all sides. This Tsechu is currently being held outside, normally they are held in the Dzong which is the fortress-temple-administrative building for each Dzonkhag. These buildings have a history of burning and the Wangdue Dzong burned just over a year ago. The principal activity is three days of dancing, each dance is performed by a group of dancers in elaborate costume often

including masks. Each dance is a cultural event and the Bhutanese can tell you the story behind and the reason for each dance. The culmination seems to be on the third day when the dance depicts the eight manifestations of the Guru Rinpoche who is also represented in the dance by the High Lama of Wangdue in costume and mask. He is then seated and all the guests, which includes tourists, administrators etc are blessed and then it is time for the commoners. The residents of Wangdue queue up for many hours as thousands get blessed one by one, leave a small donation and receive an orange sunki (string) which is worn around one’s neck. I, for
some reason, disdain my opportunity to be with the tourists and wait in line later in the afternoon with everyone else.

            The day opened with a formal procession and a religious ceremony by the Wangdue monk body but next to the dance ground is an area with hundreds of booths set up. Food and drink, trinkets, clothes, games of chance and whatever else one might expect to find at the county fair. The crowd is decked out in their best kira and gho, the children are all excited, the festive atmosphere is pervasive.

            After a wonderful day I headed to Punakha to resume my usual weekend pursuit, a visit with Sarah and a walk on Sunday followed by some shopping in Bajo and the process of finding a taxi for the return to Gaselo.

            Tuesday I was walking to school and saw that all the cars were decorated, ribbons, balloons and bows festooned every vehicle. I found out it was an Indian celebration, Viswa Karma Puja, that has been adopted in Bhutan. It is a day for all creations to be blessed, this includes machines of all kinds which is why the cars were dressed up for their blessing. Bhutanese love their cars, very often they will be parked at the side of the road where a convenient stream or water fall is used as the water source for washing their car inside and out. So this day allows them to dote on their car and is enjoyed by many.

Rantum Scoot, Nga Shey Di Jo Mi

 Fellow BCF teacher Sarah , who is an english teacher in Punakha, reads a lot, etc. picked up a term from the whaling days on Nantucket Island. The whaling community had developed its own dialect and “rantum scoot” seems to me to mean random wandering, walkabout, aimless stroll. In Bhutan recreational options are limited, very few Bhutanese have any interest in physical activity as recreation, especially walking, hiking, trekking, whatever one might name it. However, they do

have a response to the ever present question, “going where sir?” My answer is “nga shey di jo mi”, I around am going. This is a perfectly acceptable answer, everyone is satisfied and no lies have been told. Many of our short weekends involve a rantum scoot on Sunday. This past Sunday we decided to explore the valley above the old town of Punakha.

We headed up the road out of town and soon set our sights on a Lakhan which sits atop a ridge high above. All the roads in Bhutan are new and there are always “shortcuts.” Often one is asked, how did you come down, by road or shortcut? Shortcuts are walking paths that cut the switchbacks or take another route all together. As we headed up the road, keeping to the route that kept climbing toward our ridge top temple, we were able to peek into valleys unseen from below and to spot Lakhans perched on ridge tops ever higher and more distant. The ever present summer clouds were playing on the summits, everything was green and growing like crazy, a perfect summer day in the foothills of the Himalaya. After walking far enough to begin to feel it we

ran across some boys watching a few cows and climbing around in some fruit trees. A bit of a visit saw us on our way with several persimmons and small pomegranates to fuel out travels. I was traveling particularly light on this day, camera in my pocket, so the fruit was much appreciated. We continued to climb steadily the cloud line playing hide and seek with the higher ridges but blue sky and sunshine at our level.

Three and a half hours of steady walking brought us to our intended Lakhan only to find it was construction site. The Temple, Choekar Khaling, had been damaged significantly in an earthquake and was being replaced. The monk’s

quarters were newly finished and the foundation for the temple had been laid. There was a crew of about a dozen laborers working on the project. All materials that could not be obtained from the surrounding forest had to be brought up the long slippery road in a trailer behind a farm tractor. We were talking with the foreman, a monk in civies who had done many things including some work as a guide, his english was quite good and he seemed to be interested in and comfortable with speaking with chilips. He invited us to have a cup of tea, again a welcome refreshment since I was carrying nothing. He told us many little stories about his life and the temple. He also pointed out a foot path which would take us down through the forest in a much more direct route than the one we had followed on the way up.

A ways down we upon an area that had been roto-tilled by wild boar. We heard animal sounds in the not too distant brush which sounded like boar. Yep, we walked a little faster and I was happy to get onto part of the trail which was a wonderful pine needle strewn path with no sign of porcine earthmovers. As we neared the valley floor we encountered houses. Trails in Bhutan are created solely by traffic and so anytime a house is in the vicinity all paths will lead to the house, not necessarily in the direction in which you want to continue. At the first house we were greeted by an older woman who offered tea but it was getting late and we moved on. A ways below the houses the trail seemed to evaporate and we did some serious bushwhacking and paddy crossing. All part of the scoot, eventually we ended up on the road that we had travelled earlier in the day. A mile down the road we are across from the Dzong where I can put my 20nu down and get a cold, yes out of a fridge, liter bottle of water. I often feel this moment is the best 20nu ever spent in Bhutan as the

liter of cold water slakes my day long thirst and forgives me for traveling quite so light. So far this

year we have many memorable Sunday scoots. Rating them is hard as each has it’s own charm but

this one earns style points for many reasons. I am very fond circle or point to point walks. This one was a very nice circle. This one offered fruit and tea along with a near boar experience. This one covered new territory, offered new views and great views of our lovely Punakha valley. The other day I learned this derivation for the name:

Pung – heaps or mounds, could be grain,  Thang – ground or plain, field,  Kha – identifies the dialect. So,  PungThangKha – the fields where the mounds of grain are stored, in the Kha dialect, morphed into Punakha.

All in all I give this scoot a high rating and look forward to the next one on Sunday, which isn’t so random as we already have the destination picked out and plans have been made. Meanwhile, should anyone ask, nga shey di jo mi.

Paro, Puja, parents and porridge

We headed for Paro on a Friday afternoon, the trip is about 140Km (87mi) which we anticipated to take about 4hrs which means we planned to average around 37Km/hr (23mph). Nearly all of the trip was on main highways in Bhutan illustrating how twisty and slow the roads are, throw in some areas under construction and a few stretches of poorly maintained road and it is no wonder it takes so long. I was traveling with a friend who is a teacher at Gaselo LSS, Zimba Gyeltshen. Bhutanese make a clear distinction between home, where one was born,  and where one currently lives. If you ask someone if they are going home after work they are likely to tell you no, their home is somewhere else. His home is a village very close to Paro and his parents were having the annual cleansing ceremony, or Puja, on Saturday. Every building, institution, and house in Bhutan hosts this ceremony, we had one for the entire school in the fall.

Traveling with us was an 11^th grade boy, Tshering Gyeltshen, whose aunt was the hostess this weekend and with whom he had lived for a good part of his life. As we neared Paro we stopped at the only main intersection on the trip to wait for another relative who was arriving on a bus. While waiting for him a cab pulled up with two young women inside who were part of the family coming from Thimphu. So it goes in this tiny country where everyone is related to or acquaintances with what seems like half the country.

We arrived at Zimba’s home to find his parents in the kitchen, the main room of the house. His father was deftly cutting beef on a round chopping block seated cross legged on the floor. Each swipe of the sharp blade cleanly cut another chunk which was added to a growing pile. Eventually this pile of beef chunks was added to the very large pot cooking away on the open fire in the “kitchen” out back. This is really a large shed 2/3 of which is a stall for the two cows with the remaining 1/3 a cooking area with the open fire in one corner. The pot contained a large batch of “porridge” to begin the next days festivities. Bhutanese define porridge as rice cooked in excess water until it becomes a thick broth, spices are added, notably thingnea pepper and then the beef chunks are added as well. All this cooks overnight. I found Zimba’s father tending the fire the next morning when I got up for a bit of a walk before six. Around seven local cheese cut up into pieces was added to  bucketsful of porridge which were distributed to houses of nearby relatives. The family and many guests then gathered in the kitchen to enjoy several bowls of porridge, more guests would filter in and out and I have no idea how many gallons of porridge were consumed. I discovered, as I ate porridge, that the beef chunks were primarily bone, which made the cleaving of the night before all that much more impressive as every stroke cut another piece. The bone pieces were sucked clean and tossed onto plates set out for that purpose or piled neatly on the floor if no plate was handy.

Six monks and a Lama arrived to begin the day long cleansing ceremony, their first order of business was to have several bowls of porridge. The ceremony takes place on a large shrine room or home temple. The shrine room in this house was extensive, intricately decorated, and divided into both the inner and outer rooms. The ceremony is chanting accompanied by horns and drums which lasts all day. Each time the monks took a break the family had a meal ready. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all rice, chili and meat curries in a variety of combinations. One of the curries had small golden mushrooms in it and was delectable. One of the “aunties” sits cross legged on the floor patiently slicing chilis into quarters longways for hours to provide the mounds of chilies required for each meal.

I took time out after breakfast to go into Paro and do some business at the bank. It took two hours as the bank’s system was down I went and watched some archery and returned some time later to stand in a very slow moving line. I was almost to the window when the guard ushered a blind mind to the front of the line. I recognized him as a local celebrity who I had seen on BBS the night before. We had an interesting chat and finally I was able to make my withdrawal. 

The walk back to Zimba’s home was less than thirty minutes, during the walk I travelled from a busy street full of people, cars, and shops of all sorts, to the heart of the tiny village of Nemjo which is carless, surrounded by rice paddies and composed of only traditional farm houses. The walk was almost like traveling back in time to a Bhutan which had existed in isolation for centuries. However, closer inspection reveals the ever present TV that is always on, the ubiquitous cell phone which is ever present even in the hands of children, and the casual western dress of the younger generations, all of these remind me that I am indeed in the 21^st century in a culture that is stepping from the 1800’s directly to the present. By midday the meals consisted of 4 generations and several shifts to accommodate everyone.

After lunch we rounded up gho, kabney, and the necessary offerings of butter lamp, incense, and a bag of the first rice harvested this year and pounded into edible flakes. This was in preparation for a visit to Kichu Lhakan, one of the nearby temples which is one of the six holiest in Bhutan. When we visit there seems to be an event going on, the parking is full. Inside there is a fairly large prayer session going on, among the monks praying, in song, there are nuns. It is the first time I have seen women participate in prayer in a Lhakan. Our offerings made we head home.

Later in the afternoon I prodded Zimba to go on a walk to prepare for the next meal. He took me around to his apple orchard. The family has numerous apple orchards, rice paddies, and family members occupy five house in the area. Zimba’s plot of apple trees, perhaps an acre or two, is the spot he hopes to build a house one day to and live near to his home. We pluck some apples from the trees and they are tasty indeed. As we are leaving one of his many “uncles” calls from a nearby house to ask who is the chilip stealing apples. After they palaver for a bit and reestablish who is who, Zimba is a bit of a stranger in his village as his teaching assignments have taken him away from home for many years, all is well. 

We continue around to his grandmothers house, she is 88 and does not get out of the house much. She still lives above the yard where her husband, Rinzin, stabled his strings of pack ponies. He was a trader who spent much of his life traveling to Tibet with goods to trade and return to his storehouse at his home near Paro. His wife, Tshering Bidha, can still tell stories about traveling on foot to Lhasa as a young unmarried woman following the man she wanted to wed. She returned to Paro and had a child at which time her mother had to give up on her attempts to thwart the marriage of Tshering Bidha to the trader. The marriage lasted a lifetime and the family established itself as an integral and important household in the village of Nemjo. We have a nice visit and like all older folks Tshering Bidha appeared truly to enjoy the unannounced visit of her grandson and his unlikely companion. As we walked through the rice paddies we could see the rice heading out on the top of the stems, hanging over a bit heavily as the 

grain matured. Some of the paddies were starting to turn a little golden from the vibrant green they had been earlier in the summer. The rice harvest is still a ways off but things are beginning to change as the days grow ever shorter.

Unlike Eastern Bhutan many households in Western Bhutan are essentially dry. In the East the consumption of ara at every occasion, sometimes starting at breakfast, is the norm but not so in the west. So, nearing the end of our circumnavigation Zimba and I venture into town to enjoy a beer, a whiskey, and some conversation. Between the walk and the drinks we feel well prepared for the final meal of the day. 

In the morning we finish up the last of the porridge and bathe in the bathroom out back with water heated in the big pot on the fire. Hooks and hangers, none in Bhutan, I love hooks to keep everything off the floor, if Bhutan is going to adopt one more thing from the west I suggest hooks everywhere. After a bit we have breakfast, then it is off up the hill a ways to a monastery which is associated with the village. The visit to Kichu and especially to this monastery are part of the ritual of the Puja for Zimba. He invites the two younger boys and three little children to go along with us. This trip to the monastery which is quite old and rather small overlooking the village is a fitting end for our stay in Paro. We go back to the house, eat lunch, pack up, at which point Zimba’s mother loads us up with bags full of produce and a bag of rice for Zimba. 

The trip home includes errands in Thimphu and Bajo, a stop for tea this side of Docha La brings us back to Gaselo to enjoy the packed lunch which was sent along. Whenever Bhutanese have a packed lunch whether it is on the trail or on the road it is the same lunch they would have had at home, rice, emma datsi, meat curry, all packed in plastic bags and eaten as is.