The Astrologer

The father of a young woman died two days ago. The Proprietor of a hotel adopted the woman when she was four years old because the father was unable to care for her due to the death of his wife. Today, the Proprietor and I met with the local Astrologer to determine (based on the exact time of death) when the body should be cremated and what the deceased’s next incarnation will be. This is conventional Bhutanese custom.

The afternoon sun is hot. The Proprietor and I head down to the soccer field where we will meet the Astrologer. While young men play soccer, sleeping dogs waken and amble to areas of the field that promise less disruption. One comes over and settles down next to us. Alongside the bamboo fence we lay down a grass mat and frame it with stones to secure it against the pervasive afternoon wind.
With a bag slung over one shoulder and a cane ploughing into the earth at his feet, the Astrologer raises himself from the car that delivers him. He is cheerful, as is the brother of the deceased who accompanies him. Everyone settles down on the mat while the driver lays out tea and cookies. From his bag the Astrologer removes two books: a Tibetan almanac and a much older astrology text written on long thin pages.

The Proprietor offers a small gift of domo which is received with enthusiasm; the Astrologer is addicted to chewing betel nut as are many Bhutanese folk. Within minutes, red juice is forming in the corners of his mouth. Using the weight of his swollen knuckles—as brown as his gho—he arrests the wind’s assault on his books. We wait and watch as countless pages are turned. The dog wriggles on his back. The brother of the deceased takes notes. The Proprietor shields his face from the wind and the sun.

They speak in Dzongkha and my imagination begins to wander. The deceased drank—apparently, he drank a lot. I imagine his spirit has stumbled over to the soccer pitch to hear what will become of him. The dog moves closer to me and grinds his back into the dusty, dry grass, then stops his sunny satisfaction and gazes at me. This dog could be someone’s still born infant, tripped up in the cycle of birth and rebirth. Or someone's grandmother. The dog barks. The Proprietor raises his hand to shoo him off.

The Astrologer’s conclusion: Although the deceased had been a priest in a previous life he is due to return as an animal—likely a bear—because of bad karma accumulated in his most recent incarnation. More shocking to the people gathered: the cremation has to occur the following day shortly before six in the evening; a schedule that leaves the Proprietor little time for preparation and arrangements.

Crows

The crows are unrepentant; they caw—call—cry, wind-ripped and worn. The prayers in the wheel rotate unaffected. The wind carries sanctified appeals from white flags up high to the Himalayas. The murder of crows is gregarious. They escape, blustering on a cold current of air.

Walk in the Woods

“There is a baby buried under this rock, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Babies are not burned; they are buried.”

“But how do you know it’s under this rock?”

“I know, Sir.”

Jigme stood quietly and watched me as I absorbed the information. We were deep in the forest and I had to ask several times if they were certain we could find our way home. Oh, yes, Sir! they all shouted.

Today, Jigme, Kuenga and their friend, Sonam, took me on a hike. The sun was warm (what sweet relief) and the forest smelled of hot pine needles. The boys are as nimble as goats in their flip-flops, skipping over slippery stones to navigate a rushing river, and scaling abrupt inclines to find another favourite path. They showed me three of their preferred swimming holes, and as hard as they tried to convince me that the water temperature would rise come summertime, the glacial water prevented me from believing them. But they know that Sir is often cold.

When we approached a small, cultivated field, we loaded our pockets with rocks to throw should the big dog appear who is given to chase and bite scenarios. It was serious business and they wouldn’t allow me to proceed until I had sufficient munitions. Then the three of them ran quickly ahead, forgetting their promise to stick close by so I wouldn’t get left behind and lost. I ran as fast as I could through the newly ploughed field with a killer rock clutched in each fist.

Far above a secret cave where the charred overhang gave evidence of nighttime fires, the boys pointed up to the location of a large bee hive. A thick, three-metre-long stripe of waxy yellow white stuck to the vertical rock face below the entrance to the hive. Kuenga found a long bamboo pole nearby that had once been used as a torch to smoke out the bees. If the effort had been successful, I have no idea how the hive could have been reached and the honey removed.

I taught the boys how to use my camera and occasionally we stopped to take pictures, to drink some water or to eat an orange. But just when I would catch my breath, the boys would insist that we keep moving on; there were so many things to show me.

It seemed to me that they saved the most important sight for last: a small spring of holy water that trickled from a chorten over mud and shining rocks. They instructed me to fill my hands and drink. They assured me that the water was clean and would, in fact, prevent illness. After we each drank, I followed their example of closing my eyes and pouring a small amount of the water over my head. The simplicity of their gesture stirred my heart; their joy of adventure fed me until bedtime.

What Will Be, Will Be

At 4:00 o’clock on this cold and rainy Saturday afternoon, a welcome celebration for new students and teachers was held in the multi-purpose hall at the school. I arrived dressed in my gho and discovered that I was the honoured guest. Tshultrim Dorji, the head teacher and principal, directed me to sit with him at the front. A hand-lettered sign on the stage read, “Welcome Mr. Grant to Chumey MSS.” Early in the program I was ushered onto the stage to say a few impromptu words before the commencement of the student portion of the program.

We got off to a good start: Three young men sang a traditional Bhutanese song which was followed by a traditional dance. Then the power went out. Five hundred students behaved themselves remarkably well—far better than I imagine most North American students might in a similar situation. After several minutes I began to worry how long the students could keep it together. I suggested to the assembly that they sing for me the Bhutanese national anthem, which they did—beautifully. Still without electricity, I sang for the students the Canadian national anthem to much appreciative applause. I encouraged two student teachers to lead the students in a traditional song. Lovely. Still no electricity on this late afternoon which was sinking quickly into darkness. Mr. Dorji suggested I teach the students a new song—did I know a Canadian one? My mind went completely blank and out of nowhere I proceeded to sing, “Que sera, sera”(!!!) (The unconscious editor in me managed to alter “little girl” to “little child.”) We sang the song several times. Then, for almost two hours, the girls and boys (who sat on opposite sides of the hall) took turns singing the modern Bhutanese romance songs of which they are so fond. When the room had reached almost total darkness (with a biting chill), it was decided that the evening’s program would have to be postponed. My dynamo crank flashlight from Lee Valley Tools was instrumental in ushering the children (girls first, then boys) to the doorway. I walked with Mr. Dorji to his home for dinner. Altogether, it was a lovely, if somewhat surreal, successful evening. So: there are now 500 Bhutanese students who can sing Doris Day’s (Canadian) classic.

What will be, will be.

Chumey

Our bus arrived in Chumey yesterday. We stopped briefly to visit the school where I’ll be teaching and to check out the accommodation arrangement, and then we drove on to the Dzongkhag (district) capital, Jakar, to stay at the River Lodge for the evening. During dinner, reality accosted me; morning would mean I’d be driven back to Chumey and left on my own. I went to bed early and slept fitfully. Each time I awoke I battled with fear. Chumey, like many of the small villages we passed through in the last three days, is wholly unlike Thimphu, the capital. For this westerner—and I have done very little travelling—a visit to such small towns takes me back in time. Do I contain the necessary mettle to live in these conditions?

In the morning, Nima (one of the lovely drivers for BCF) and Ann and I made a quick visit to the Jakar market to purchase some last minute provisions and then headed back to Chumey. The morning was sunny in contrast to the previous day and, thankfully, everything seemed a little better. The room in the guest house where I will be staying had a brighter appearance; the handpainted details in my room are cheerful and bright and the sun pours in through windows facing east and south. The owner, Lhamola (whom I now call “Appa,” or father), had set up my kitchen and brought extra furniture into my room—a couple of comfy chairs and a desk. There are geisers (water heaters) in the bathroom and kitchen, and an electric radiant heater in the main room—both are welcome and useful, especially when the electricity in Bumthang is actually working! But there were tears in my eyes as I said good-bye to my BCF cohorts. The Bhutan vacation is over and the transition to the reality of why I am in Bhutan is far more difficult than I ever imagined it would be.

Appa does not speak English. His two young sons, Jigme and Kuenga, attend Chumey MS School in grades 7 and 9. Although both are shy and soft-spoken, their English proficiency is more than sufficient for communication. But it is Pema, the eldest daughter who returned home two years ago after the sudden death of mother and eldest brother, who has been my lifeline. She cooks for me and answers my countless questions. Pema gives me the courage to continue; she assures me that I am part of the family and that she’ll look after everything from cooking and laundry to arranging for a phone line and internet to be brought into the home.

The BCF Teachers

There are eight of us in total, all feeling incredibly fortunate to be in Bhutan. The Bhutan Canada Foundation, a young entity, made enormous efforts to make this happen. Here we are pictured at dinner in Paro, the evening before we, in turn, mustered up the enormous effort necessary to hike/climb to the Tiger’s Nest Monastery (I’ve yet to write that post!). As you can see, we are wearing the national dress. You may also notice that the more senior members (ahem) of the team are seated, as they should be.

At 5:00pm today, we loaded up a bus with our luggage for an early morning departure. There are mattresses, gas stoves, water filters, dishes, bedding, food stuffs, suitcases, etc. etc. piled high and tied down on top of the bus. Having made the Paro—Thimphu drive a couple of times, I’m vaguely familiar with the roads. Should the bus go topsy-turvy and fall off a mountain, I’m hoping that the mattresses will simply bounce us back into place (and that the gas cylinders will not explode). Parents of young BCF teachers: Do not be alarmed nor waste any time imagining such eventuality. Say your prayers and reassure yourselves that our driver is highly experienced.

Dogs

Mr. Ramon Carver partially tells the truth (See December blog post, “Say No to Bhutan”). There are an awful lot of dogs in Bhutan and, like dogs all over the world, they bark—they bark a lot. They party down in Thimphu town. But if you love dogs—like I do—they present no problem whatsoever. Granted, I brought 48 pairs of earplugs with me to Bhutan(!) so I’m not personally affected by nocturnal barking. A woman I know remarked that she would like to hire children to poke sleeping dogs during the day so that they might sleep at night.

Bhutan has tried a variety of approaches. Apparently, in the 1970’s, an attempt was made to round up dogs and (humanely) deliver them to their next incarnation. However, once the school kids got wind of what was happening, dogs were mysteriously disappeared; hidden wherever the kids could find doggie sanctuary. At another point in time, the Bumthang Dzongkhag (district) collected truckloads of dogs and moved them to the Mongar Dzongkhag, kind of like Alberta likes to transport its petty criminals. Much inter- Dzongkhag animosity ensued. Today, attempts are made to spay and neuter dogs, but resources are scarce. We saw plenty of dogs on the hike to Tiger’s Nest Monastery today, and I believe it will be decades before the folk who neuter dogs can get their surgical equipment up the mountain. Meantime, I enjoy having the doggies about and I hope I’ll develop some good canine friendships in Chumey.

Great Big Buddha

Today we walked to the great big Buddha whom we’ve noticed has been sitting on a mountain above Thimphu these last several days, encased in scaffolding. We walked on a road built especially for the Buddha and it all seemed easy enough until we noticed that the Buddha always remained just a little further on, much like enlightenment, I suppose. Himalayan peaks which are not visible from the city rose into view as we ascended, and several of us remarked how impossible it is to capture the beauty of these mountains on digifilm. When we reached the site of the great big Buddha, steel gates prevented us from getting any closer (it being a construction site, after all) but after some time had passed a wonderful Bhutanese fellow (aren’t all Bhutanese wonderful?) invited us into the site office for tea and then suggested when tea was done that we enter the site and roam at will.

The current landscape that the Buddha inhabits is lunar and sandy; today the winds came from below and enveloped the place. The Buddha sits atop a four-story building with one eye peeking out between scaffolds and netting. All of us scattered, pointing our cameras first to the Buddha, then to the breaktaking vistas around us. This setting will become a garden by the fall of 2010 and will surely be one of Thimphu’s tourist attractions. But thinking of this I wanted the Buddha to remain a golden secret, visible only to the people in the valley upon whom his gaze rests, undiluted and pure.

During a halt on the walk back home, my colleagues and I discussed the advantage of taking a shortcut between the switchback roads. With favorable opinion of my ability, I led the way. Within seconds I was sliding out of control and then rolled once or twice before stopping. Andrea noted later, “you were laughing, which didn’t necessarily mean you were okay, but that—at the very least—you were breathing.” Within those several seconds I lamented that I would fall off the mountain in an inglorious end to my journey to Bhutan which had only just begun. My ankle is on ice as I write—a little swollen, but none too damaged. Hugh, an orthopaedic surgeon also staying at the Yeedzin Guest House, visited my room several minutes ago and assures me that the damage is minimal and all will be well in two or three weeks time.

So: the journey is the destination, and there will sometimes be a nasty spill, but there is always something wonderful to walk towards.

You can read more about the great big Buddha at the Buddha Dordenma Project .

Bennett Jones LLP

I promised the folk at Bennett Jones LLP (my previous employer) that I would spin a prayer wheel for the health of those who kindly helped to cover some of my initial expenses. On Thursday last, we walked to a beautiful 15th century temple above Thimphu valley. The caretaker monk who lives at the temple allowed us to enter and offer prayers in the presence of a magnificent Buddha who sits in quiet and darkened majesty. We left gifts of a few Ngultrum and incense for the monk.

Outside, I had the opportunity to begin the several hundred spins that are owing to former colleagues at Bennett Jones. Again, I’d like to convey my many thanks to those who materially helped to bring me to Bhutan—the land of the thunder dragon.

Blessed Synchronicity

Every day I have more adventures than I’m entitled to. Here is a 30-minute tranche from today's adventures. Everyone who knows anything about Bhutan is familiar with the iconic Tiger’s Nest Monastery near Paro. We will be visiting it next Saturday. Today, after a wonderful hike to a 15th century temple (more about that in another post) we returned to a small Chinese restaurant in Thimphu. It was packed, this being the night before Losar—New Year’s Eve, in effect. Some of us were able to sit down while the rest of us waited for a table. A monk sitting with two small boys gestured for me to come and join him. Only one of the children could speak some English. But after much back and forth I discovered, through the facility of the child’s translation, that the monk with whom I was sitting was the Lama from the Tiger’s Nest! I’m only able to provide his name phonetically as I heard it from him: Lama Rinshing. He was in town to do some shopping for Losar. And how did it all end? We exchanged cell phone numbers, of course!

Go Gho Crazy!

Just have to let you admire my alternate, dressy gho. It’s easy to see how well I’m blending in here!

A Trip to the Barber

I’ve just returned from the barber shop and I am born again! For 70 Ngultrum (about $1.60), I received a wonderfully stylish haircut plus a full chiropractic treatment. The latter was totally unexpected and more than a little shocking. The barber (a very small Indian man) placed one fist on the top of my head and then started hammering with his other fist with a passion that made me cry out. This he continued to do, striking my head from several angles until I felt movement and heard noises deep within my cranium. The teenagers who had gathered outside the shop door howled with laughter. The barber grabbed my face in his fingertips and pushed nose to ears, lips to eyes, and forehead to chin. My neck was snapped and cracked, my arms were twisted behind my back and the length of my spine was pummelled. The strength that this little fellow employed was truly amazing. Before long I was both yelping in pain and laughing loudly, astonished by the sight of my pomegranate head in the mirror. Everyone in the shop laughed at the entertainment I provided. When I paid for the service I felt newly liberated, not just from the hands of the barber(!), but from unseen worries and concerns. A new-found confidence propelled me into shops along the road; it was the first time I've dealt with shopkeepers without the assistance of the kind Bhutanese men who work for The Bhutan Canada Foundation. And so I began my search for the many things I’ll need to buy in order to set up house in Chumey where I begin teaching in two weeks time.

Good to Gho!

The gho is traditional men’s wear in Bhutan. The government of Bhutan requires all men to wear the gho if one works in a government office or school. Today, my colleague Nick Morris and I went shopping for ghos with the capable purchasing and bargaining assistance of BCF employee, Nima (ka drin che, again, Nima!). Although it looks like nothing more than a knee-length house coat, Nick and I worry that it will take some time before we are able to dress ourselves without the assistance of an experienced dresser. (The young men at the front desk of the Yeedzin Guest House have promised us that they will help us into our ghos in the morning.) The gho falls to floor length until hiked up and neatly pleated in the back, all held in place with a tightly cinched cloth belt or kera. Underneath, a short silk shirt is worn with startling bright white cuffs that wrap several inches up the forearm. I chose a traditional pattern for everyday use (click picture for larger view) plus an additional, brightly coloured pattern for special occasions. Tomorrow I will wear the latter (with black knee socks and dress shoes, natch) to sign my contract with the Royal Government of Bhutan. Nick and I attracted a good deal of attention from passers by after we had completed our purchase. I must confess I felt a bit like the emperor with his new clothes. A passing monk stopped to adjust one of the pleats on my gho before allowing me to continue.

I am Here

After 26 hours in transit I stepped off the Drukair plane at Paro Airport and burst into tears! The morning sunshine pouring through the mist on the mountain tops, the men in their ghos running across the tarmac, the airport, shimmering with meticulously painted patterns, all of these new impressions entered my sense organs and my heart simply exploded! (I’m not generally given to “bursting” into tears!)


I’m now in Thimphu. This posting is simply to say that I’ve arrived in Bhutan safe and sound after 26 hours in transit. I travelled with the wonderful Ann Berman, a new-found friend and fellow teacher. We kept ourselves in good spirits, and giggled especially with our precise and elaborate preparations and attempts to sleep. The final Drukair flight from Delhi to Paro was breathtaking with glorious views of the Himalayan mountains.

A one-hour drive from Paro to Thimphu confirmed that this country is spectacular and beautiful. After a much needed nap, I wandered down main street Thimphu and eventually met a young Indian man who insisted on accompanying me to a restaurant for a very late lunch. Then I had more sleep which was followed by unpacking my bags for my two weeks at the Yeedzin Guest House.

It’s just past one in the morning. I’ll put in my earplugs, the barking dogs will fade away, and I will disappear into my dreams.

Be the Aperture

I dreamed last night I was in Bhutan standing in a great valley. I watched a Christ-like figure come down from a high hill followed by a group of photography students. I moved closer to hear what he was saying; “Be the aperture.” Some students wrote his words down in small notebooks. He then turned to me and repeated, “There is nothing for you to do here; only be the aperture.”
Advice as I leave for Bhutan today; I couldn’t have asked for anything more profound.

I Haven’t Told Mom

There are so many things to remember: I have lists that detail what needs doing, what needs bringing, who I need to contact, and at any given moment my unconscious mind busies itself with details. Since I made the decision to move to Bhutan there’s a thought that pops into my head every two or three days with a sort of panicked urgency—I haven’t told Mom—which is quickly followed by the mist of sadness that everyone who has lost their parents knows. Mom doesn’t know I’m off to Bhutan; she will never know. But my mind sometimes imagines she is aware of my plan; that somewhere far off where the perished and lost loved ones occasionally view the lives of those they left behind, my mother is sitting in a darkened cosmic cinema watching while I attend to all that needs attending to, and she’s thinking to herself, “garsh… isn’t that something.”

One day long ago my Mom confided in me some little worries she carried in regard to each of my sisters. At the end of it I asked her: What do you worry over for me? And I was surprised by the answer: “I never worry about you. Since you were little I always knew that you would be alright.” So, sometimes, when little doubts arise and catch me unaware, I try to remember my Mom and the off-hand and casual confidence she bore into me.

Gross National Happiness

Bhutan, as you might know, is a country that strives to practice and measure Gross National Happiness, with education being one of nine identified spheres that contributes to the collective goal of achieving happiness. Eight Canadian teachers are traveling to Bhutan (through the facility of The Bhutan Canada Foundation) to work with local educators to help facilitate the transition to a newly reformed, child-centred curriculum that stresses interactive teaching pedagogies.

I imagine that children in Bhutan have many venues in which to learn meditation, but I’m keen to teach meditation to students (as I understand it from 20 years of practice) at an age-appropriate level, and help them to apply the skills of attention and focus to their studies. I'm curious to discover if children in Bhutan are less afflicted with problems associated with "attention deficits" than are some of the children in the classrooms where I did my practice teaching in Toronto. I was encouraged to uncover a reference to teaching meditation in schools as a fundamental organ for increasing gross national happiness.† I suspect the fear of stirring up a religious hornet’s nest or—more likely—a non-appreciation of meditation practice has prevented western educators from perceiving the benefits of inner practice, whereas in Bhutan meditation would seem a natural fit. I'll let you know how / when / if this experiment proceeds!

†“Role of Meditation in Achieving Gross National Happiness” by Khenpo Phuntsok Tashi, a conference paper included in the Fourth International Conference on Gross National Happiness held in Thimphu, Bhutan presented by The Centre for Bhutan Studies in November, 2008. http://www.bhutanstudies.org.bt/admin/pubFiles/19.GNH4.pdf

See also: Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference on Gross National Happiness held in Bhutan, November 24-26, 2008 http://www.bhutanstudies.org.bt/main/gnh4.php

Say Yes to Bhutan

© The Globe And Mail, January 2, 2010: "There was a time not too long ago when Bhutan had no currency, no phones and no electricity. Until 1972, outsiders weren't allowed into the tiny Himalayan kingdom. But times have changed, and despite its isolated locale and seemingly archaic practices, Bhutan is now welcoming foreigners in its own way. Measures are in place to avoid overcrowding and to attract the “right crowd”. This is not a place for budget travellers: Visitors have to pay a minimum of $200 U.S. per day, and sightseeing excursions are limited to guided visits to stunningly positioned Buddhist temples – the Tiger's Nest Monastery hangs on a sheer rock face – and mountain hikes like the Jhomolhari Trek, which passes through remote villages. In the end, it's a small price to pay to visit the happiest country in the world, where people value Gross National Happiness over Gross National Product."