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.