WORLD SO HIGH (life in Bhutan)

One Last Adventure

2010-12-21T21:05:00.000-08:00

One Last Adventure

I step onto the tarmac and take a final picture of Bhutan. Then I continue walking towards the airplane. The pilot steps out and reaches his hand out to me, “Madam Kellie, welcome! Come with me.” He is a father of one of my students and recognized me from the tarmac. He escorts me away from Economy where I was headed to executive class, right next to another ELC student. After all the passengers have boarded, the Stewardess tells me that the captain is requesting I follow her to the cockpit. I thought that I would get a quick view and then be escorted back to my seat, but no, they strap me into a seat right in the center, happy strap and all.

As we shuttle down the runway the pilot explains the wind direction and how complicated it is to land and take off in Paro. The tower gives the final okay and he turns to me, “Are you ready?” The engines start roaring. Am I really leaving Bhutan in the cockpit of a jet? We speed down the runaway and I crane my neck to take in every last view. The sky couldn’t be more blue. We rise into the air and the pilot points out a tiny Tiger’s Nest beneath us. Having this jet last time I hiked it would have been very convenient. In the distance appears Kachanchunga, the highest mountain in India and the third highest peak in the world. Surfacing above the clouds in the far distance is Everest.

Soon everything is silent and we start talking about his daughter and the quality of secondary schools in Thimphu, his sister living in New York City. As if he’s not flying a plane full of people. As if we aren’t surrounded by the highest, most glorious peaks on the planet. As if we aren’t soaring as high as the atmosphere will let us. “How long will you be in Bangkok?” he asks. “Oh, I’m actually not getting off in Bangkok, I’m getting off in India.”

So before heading back to the US to settle down, get married, have some kids, learn to cook (just kidding grandma, you wish), I will be settling in India. My plan is to realize my dream of becoming an ambulant salesperson selling shell roti and fireworks. I will work one week a year during Diwali and live off the profits the rest of the year. Just kidding again. But I am going to India. The plan is to drink tea in Darjeeling, take a photo in Princess Diana’s pose at the Taj Mahal, and who knows what I will do with myself in Delhi.

The Bhutanese do not agree with this decision:

“They cut off people’s heads for American passports in Delhi.”

“You should duct-tape your money to your inner thigh and lock yourself in your hotel room. Don’t come out for ANYTHING.”

Bhutanese: “ Once, my friend went to India.” Me:“Oh, how did she enjoy it?” Bhutanese: “Nobody ever saw her again.”

“The strongest man I know was drugged and robbed at the train station in India. They took his leather jacket. He never got it back.”

But before I can be consumed by the India subcontinent and all the unsavory creatures that dwell there, I would like to say thank you for reading and I’ll miss you. From the sound of things, it is more likely for me to come back dead than alive.

Goodbye

2010-12-12T11:51:00.000-08:00

The light of the bonfire gave everyone’s face a sepia glow and I felt like I was looking back on this scene from twenty years in the future. In two days I won’t see these faces anymore. I won’t come to this compound everyday and stand in front of assembly as students say their prayers, sing their national anthem and practice meditation. I will no longer dress in kira. I will no longer be a teacher at The Early Learning Centre.

Earlier today was graduation for the sixth graders, class of 2010. They came dressed in their most elegant kira and gho. Each one wrote a speech to reflect on their years at ELC and thank those who have helped them along the way. Most speeches were long and detailed. Some were not. One of my favorite speeches went like this:

“I have been at ELC for...nine...long.....years. [heavy sigh]. Thanks to all my friends who gave me supports and guidences.” [even longer heavy sigh and deep exhalation into the mic.]

That speech could of summed up my feelings too, essentially. But I am an adult and sometimes things aren’t so simply stated anymore. So instead I delivered a speech to the sixth graders about independence, doing their laundry without being asked and making good decisions even when no one is watching. Looking into the eyes of the sixth graders who weren’t busy gnawing on their tassels, doing origami with their diplomas or poking each other in the neck, I decided I really like giving speeches because you can plan out what you need to say ahead of time and make sure that all necessary advice and farewell can fit into a neat three minutes. After I gave my speech I didn’t know what to do with myself. How do I say all that I feel to each and every one of these students who have meant so much to me?

After the ceremony and the frenzied photo session concluded, the crowd seemed to know what to do next. I did not. I am so bad at saying goodbye. When you say goodbye you have to acknowledge all that has happened and all that failed to happen between you and the other. Especially when you are saying goodbye for an indefinite period of time, possibly forever. The graduation program read, ‘Tashi Lobay’ as the very last item. I wondered what it was but didn’t ask. As the picture-taking concluded, the crowed floated into place forming two concentric circles. I was pulled into one of the circles and the crowd began to chant, softly singing in Dzongkha. All of us glided together following the current of the dance, sometimes moving forward and sometimes backwards. As we danced I looked at all the people singing and swaying around me. Some were Dashos, some very small children, all of my students, my colleagues. I had no idea what we were doing together but I liked it.

After the dance finished a parent approached me to ask if I had given any thought to her proposal of going into business together as tourist agents. I said that was not in the immediate cards for me but took the opportunity to ask about the significance of the Tashi Lobay that I had just participated in. “ It’s a way of saying, ‘May all good things befall you until we meet again. We perform it when something is ending.” I had managed to stay tear-free through the graduation, but when I heard these words my eyes welled up. Somehow in language I do not understand I took part in a ceremony that perfectly professed all the feelings I had not been able to verbalize. I found out later in the day from Letho that there is no word for “goodbye” in Dzongkha. Instead you say tama che ghe or ‘see you later’ even if you know may never see that person again.

Later that night, all the teachers and students gathered again for one last, more intimate farewell around a bonfire in the school courtyard. The gathering began festive and we sang and danced together to American, Bhutanese, and Indian songs. Cara, Kueron and Tobden performed a farewell dance in my honor, so did Madam Anju. Later though the mood became serious as everyone tried to articulate to all the ‘leavers’ what they needed to say. All day I had been so preoccupied about what I should say that I didn’t consider that there might be something I needed to hear. Among other farewells that I will never forget, it was Kueron, who has always put into words the most vague feelings who told me what I needed to hear but somehow already knew. She looked at me from across the ring of the people who have been my life since my arrival and said, “Oh Kellie, what to say? I feel confident to say now that whatever you were looking for here, I think you have found it. But, you are always welcome back.”

Designing for Change

2010-11-17T05:55:00.000-08:00

“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.” Robert F. Kennedy

One of the first of many books I read about Bhutan was a memoir by Canadian author Jamie Zeppa. Not knowing how to cook upon arriving to Bhutan, let alone where to buy the vegetables or how to ignite her stove, Jamie lives on imported cookies and crackers that come in plastic packaging. Coming from a part of the world where you take your trash to the curb and a truck comes to take it away forever, Jamie is baffled about how to dispose of her trash in remote Bhutan. So she keeps it piling up in her house for months. When her students finally weasel their way into her living quarters they are overjoyed to see how much trash she has collected. For them trash is not something to be disregarded and removed from sight: rather, it is raw material to be repurposed into other things like flower pots, cooking utensils and toys.

Since Jamie has written her book things have changed here. Now trash is in the rivers, along the roadsides, dumped in monstrous piles in the center of communities. It is true that Japan donated a pair of miniature trash trucks that play classical music as they cruise around, but the threshold of trash seems to have exceeded the capacity of these fetching little inventions. Scraggly dogs and roaming cows feed on the scraps they can find. It’s surprising that this is the case because Bhutan manufacturers almost nothing. So every bit of trash is imported from India and Thailand. It travels all that way to rot teeth, add to increasing obesity rates and finally fester among otherwise untouched natural beauty.

When the Design for Change contest reached us from Riverside School in Ahmadabad, India we agreed to be the Bhutan country partner. Our students loved the idea of participating in a global contest and they came up with their idea of change pretty effortlessly. I had some of my own ideas for change like, catalytic converters for cars, or sending the sixth graders on an extended vacation to Siberia until they completed puberty, or a community initiative to teach the town cows how to use a litter box. But the contest is only for children’s ideas of change. Their idea was to stop contributing waste to the landfill that they had recently visited on a field trip. They imposed a rule on themselves and all teachers that everyone would bring packaged food only one day a week. Other days were designated food focus days when students would eat traditional Bhutanese food, fruits, vegetables, and homemade food. Eventually we made our way to being a zero waste school sending absolutely no waste to the landfill.

Being the country partners, it was ELC’s responsibility to get other schools to enter the contest. On November 11, the Fourth King’s birthday and Children’s Day, ELC hosted Bhutan’s first ever DFC Contest Awards Ceremony. Throughout the year we have been working to make this a reality. More than a few twelve hour work days and weekends went into the planning and preparation for the November 11th presentation.

Last December Principals were given the task of educating for Gross National Happiness. Nobody could argue with that. But once it was agreed upon that happiness would become a priority in the classroom, educators were left with the question about how to educate for GNH. Participation in this contest has been the answer to that question. Students become participators in their communities, they learned leadership qualities and developed their powers of mind along the way. The best part is that they are self motivated to seek out information, to teach each other and truly affect change. Happiness is capability.

Watching the ceremony did feel like the culmination of a fruitful year of our efforts, but more than that it felt the beginning of something bigger. Donors from all over the country came forward to offer financial support. After the awards had been distributed students began to ideate for next year. The enticing thing about this contest is the hope that it could become a way of life. If students are taught the skills for making change and empowered to do so it could be a whole global generation that internalizes the process. I just finished reading The Blue Sweater by Jacqueline Novogratz, one of the world’s most eminent idealists. She stresses over and over the importance of individual leadership, just like Bhutan’s present King. Teaching people to listen, observe and take action is the hope for a sustainable and enjoyable future for all. With a lifetime of change-affecting leadership under her belt she reflects:
Today we are redefining the geography of community and accepting shared accountability for common human values. We have the chance to extend the notion that all men are created equal to every human being on the planet...Though the average citizen cannot, of course, match the enormous gifts made by Warren Buffet and Bill Gates, each of us in his or her own way can contribute something by thinking-and acting--like a true global citizen. We have only one world for all of us on earth, and the future really is ours to create, in a world we dare imagine together.

It turned out that the means became more important than the end in the case of the DFC contest in Bhutan so I'm not even going to tell you who won...

2010-11-15T07:19:00.000-08:00

Julie and Jon in Bhutan

2010-11-15T06:44:00.000-08:00

    It is one of those mornings when you wake up before the alarm goes off because you are so excited. My parents are arriving today. Out the window a giant orange sun is rising between two mountain peaks. Their landing between the steep crevices of another worldly landscape will not disappoint. I know that in just one hour the tiny plane will be arriving right here in Bhutan, a nose dive right into the impossibly skinny Paro Valley.
    Jigme and Sonam pick me up in the school bus. We arrive to the Paro International Airport and before we can exit the car we have already met three people we know. That is one of the most enjoyable things about Bhutan, wherever you go, there is your community. What other international airport in the world lets you wait for your loved ones, surrounded by familiar faces as they wait for their loved ones on a daily basis? “Kellie! Your parents are arriving today?” One friend calls out. Another friend has been on their flight and is now exiting, “ Kellie, I’ve just met your parents! They’re absolutely charming!” And then there they are in the flesh. I wave frantically. Don’t they see me? Before they exit my dad makes a hard left and disappears for a few moments.
“?”
When he reappears, he has a sizable bottle of Scotch in his hand, his first purchase in the country from the duty free shop. Now he is ready for Bhutan. Julie is also ready for Bhutan. In her hand she has a giant Toblerone bar and I hope for a fleeting second it may be for me? But no, that is for her. I am so happy to see them and we hug and kiss in a wild display of affection that is not very Bhutanese. Around us, Bhutanese give us warm smiles anyways. Parent-child love is universal. I take hold of my dad’s hand and don’t let go for three days.
    We load Julie and Jonathan onto the school bus and take them to the trail head for Jimoulhari, the tallest virgin peak in the world. The mountain has never been summited because there is a deity residing there who may not be bothered by adventurous humans. From the trail head we marvel at the jagged snow covered peaks. Around us old men mutter their mantras and spin their prayer wheels. Within moments of arriving in Bhutan, you are really in Bhutan. There is none of the metropolitan buffer that usually greets you in international journeys. As we drive back to Thimphu I try to answer all their questions the best that I can. I point out the natural elephant on a cliff face. I point out the haunted house that supposedly revealed some treasures several centuries earlier. My cell phone rings. Several of my class six students have baked a cake and are waiting on my doorstep to present it to my parents. This is just the beginning of the tremendous hospitality they will enjoy during their visit.
    Every class I teach held welcome parties for my parents, showering them with homemade food and traditional gifts. One morning I arrived late to assembly and Julie had organized an impromptu hula-hoop contest. In her quiet yet stimulating way she commanded even the most hyperactive student’s attention. She personifies teaching as the art form of compassion and enlightenment that it is.
    One weekend we piled back into the school bus with Madam Deki, Chechay, Madam Manju, Jane from Santa Cruz, Joe, Jen, and Jigme. We drove six hours to Phobjikha Valley, the sacred home of the endangered black necked cranes.We enjoyed amazing hospitality at the Phodrang Monastic Lodge right behind the stunning Gangtey Temple. The guesthouse is perched on a little hill looking out over the valley with young monks running all around. At night we sat around a bonfire under millions of glittering stars and passed around a canteen of Jane’s coronation whisky. It was our only hope for staying warm.
    The night before my parents were due to leave we all sat around in Madam Deki’s house eating some of the most delicious food I have ever tasted (thanks Deki, Kueron and Chechay). All my loved ones were together and even though they had only known each other ten days, they professed their deep admiration and respect for each other. My parents were showered with gifts and treasures to forever remind them of their time here.
    The next morning, all too quickly their trip is over and I’m riding with them back to Paro. Julie happily chirps to the non-English speaking driver how she will be returning next year to teach at the Early Learning Centre. For free. She loved it that much. She tells him how in Madam Deki’s new school she will have her own living quarters right above the school so she’ll never have to leave.
    My dad looks at me with a weary smile. I know what he is thinking, “How much of that Scotch is left for the three day journey home?”

G Chat

2010-10-28T09:30:00.000-07:00

me: tomorrow is a holiday for the descending of lord buddha. so we are going to buy hand woven textiles and singing bowls.

then on saturday we are taking the school bus (principal included) on a trip to see endangered black necked cranes.

naturally

Sent at 9:16 AM on Thursday

Caitlin: hahaha

naturally.

well i am making mashed potatoes in my robe, transcribing audio interviews with rural el salvadorans about grocery stores and their beliefs on oral health, THEN im going to martins for home made buttermilk fried chicken

im glad to see we lead such similar lives. yours sounds more interesting

Flies on My Face

2010-10-12T03:19:00.001-07:00

"Knees up! Eyes straight!"

Corn growing in the center of town.

Jen and Polenta!

I will be thanking you for your visit for a long time.

For the past three days I have been woken up by a fly that keeps landing on my nose and other parts of my face. One morning, it was the fly and my cell phone that rang three times before 7 a.m. This morning, I was dreaming that the relentless fly was a faceless student. Determined to irritate me to the point of exasperation, but not motivated enough to complete their project work. Every night, the howling of the dogs sounds like violent warfare. Not lonely cries to a full moon, but fury charged gunfire-like barks that rouse me even after I have attained unconsciousness. “Just wait till you go home,” my yoga teacher says. “Then you will know what real noise sounds like.” She’s of course right. My home being several yards from a train track and a taco shop. Teenagers howl at each other until dawn rather than dogs. However, there are no flies. Instead there are yapping seagulls who roost outside my window as soon as the sun has popped up. I imagine they discuss the tide, the winds that blew in from Mexico during the night. The delicious mackerel devoured last weekend. So why am I so annoyed?

On Friday night Jen, Joe and I finished a couple bottles of wine and danced in the living room. Hotel California came on shuffle and the longing of the song that I had never sympathized with before was now resonating quite strongly. “We analyzed this poem in fourth grade,” Jen said. “I heard it’s about rehab,” I responded. Then it struck me, it’s not about rehab. “It’s about self-exile.” Jen stopped dancing to listen to the words, “We are all just prisoners here/ of our own device.” “It IS!” she exclaimed. We decided to come here. It all sounded so romantic from California. Images of prayer flags, verdant mountains, picturesque little cottages haphazardly perched on ridges. Then you get here and it is all that and more. Being referred to as “Aunty” is so quaint. I’ve never been anyone’s aunty and now I am anyone’s. Running in to acquaintances at the veg. market makes you feel like you have put roots down. Even barking orders to unruly students has some kind of satisfaction; you know them well enough to tell them what to do.

So when does the grass start looking greener in the place you left behind? It may be the little things that start to compound, the dead rats on the side of the road, the diesel fumes of dinosaur-like trucks, day after day of rain and thick grey clouds. The way the taxi drivers drive like this ride is their first time behind the wheel. Or is it coming from the other side? Is the irritation I am experiencing a result of all I feel I am missing at home? Caitlin’s facebook photos of a home-made ice cream, Carris’s shots of stonesteps sunsets, Dylan describing in careful detail the delicious meal he just enjoyed. I miss the ocean, the meditative trance it induces. I miss pastries from Darshan that taste like the original Viennese masterpieces. I miss painting because I am inspired and exultant. I miss bike rides down Neptune, tortillas and avocados.

I feel like I need to write a “All that being said, I love Bhutan and stand one hundred percent behind my decision to self exile myself to the Himalayas” paragraph. Well, maybe I can speak so freely about my homesickness because ultimately, I do stand behind my decision one-hundred percent. Bob Dylan wrote in his memoirs about the first time he left for New York City, “When I left home, I was not in search of love or money.” Journeys initiated for the quest of love or money are filled with discontent and dissatisfaction until you strike it rich or meet your soulmate. When I left for Bhutan I was not looking for love, and certainly money was not going to make the experience worth it. Journeys like the one I embarked on over eight months ago didn’t have an objective. Anything that I was to come across would eventually become part of the reason I had chosen to leave. So even in a state of homesickness, regret and dissatisfaction are not part of the experience. By coming here I have gained more than I could have anywhere else. The gifts have not been monetary, the rewards not always instantly obvious. Instead I have had to rely on the kindness of people who used to be strangers: my principal, my roommates, my friends, the pharmacist. I have had to resign myself to the fact that I can’t do everything I want to do here in a single year. I have had to admit that adventures can be tiresome and sometimes all you need is a good night’s sleep. In the midst of this adventure it is still hard to recognize the rewards that come from prolonged challenging experiences. The inevitable nostalgia that always follows a trip like this will take a firm grip in a couple of months and while eating my tortilla chips and guacamole, enjoying the sunset over the Pacific with friends and family I will probably crave a cheese momo. I will remember evening walks to the BBS tower and wish that I was headed to teach at ELC the following day to bark orders at children about picking up their toes and keeping their eyes straight while marching.

saturday staff room fun

2010-09-27T08:18:00.000-07:00

I Won't Talk Too Much About the Fungus

2010-08-14T04:31:00.000-07:00

DFC Student Reps

Zilukha School Students Listening to DFC

Future Leaders of Bhutan

ELC and Jeffery Sachs

The rejuvenating Jen N Joe

Zilukha School

At four P.M. on Saturday afternoon, I still haven’t left the house. I haven’t brushed my teeth or changed out of my P.J.’s. This is the first weekend in a month that I have enjoyed a free weekend with nothing to do. It’s been heavenly. I have two new roommates, Jen and Joe who wake me up with breakfast ready on the balcony and put coffee into my hand as I stumble groggily out of my room. I have spent the whole day looking through photo and travel blogs and eating delicious food sent by Jen’s mom from the US. Thanks Karen!

The Design for Change Group, Bhutan, has hit the ground running since returning from summer vacation. The students and we teachers have presented the global contest we are participating in to around seven hundred people including the Minister of Education, the Unicef Country Rep, and most of Thimphu’s principals in less than thirty days. The idea of waste reduction in all schools in Bhutan is spreading. Equally exciting has been watching our group of six students go from eager yet fidgeting and fumbling, to little professionals who get their message of change across clearly, succinctly and eloquently to any group willing to listen. If you are an educator, a parent, or anyone with access to children, I heartily recommend entering the Design for Change contest. Watch your kids change the world in one week. (www.designforchangecontest.com)

Last Thursday we got the notice that world famous economist Jeffery Sachs was going to give a talk in Thimphu that afternoon. We recruited students to write questions to ask him, screened them for proper etiquette, and loaded them onto the bus after reading them his wikipedia-ed resumé. They slept patiently through his entire talk and then gorged themselves on the refreshments afterwards as they chased each other in the courtyard like possessed banshees. From an adult perspective, his talk was brilliant. With the Prime-minister, most of the cabinet and other influential decision makers in the audience, he advised Bhutan to step-up their agricultural sector, demand every rupee they are entitled to from India for hydro-electric energy and prepare urban areas with sustainable transportation and infrastructure for increased migration in the next ten years. He based all of his economic advice on the four pillars of Gross National Happiness and basic tenets of Buddhism. Immediately following his speech, he and his family were escorted into the “Executive Lounge’ and I’m sure the according legislature will follow. Afterwards a western man and his lady friend approached me to find out what I was doing here in Bhutan. The man invited me to come back on Friday for his talk on Space Tourism. He was one of the first space tourists in the world. Later on, another guide approached to ask if I was American and would like to have dinner with Congressman Brian Baird. In Bhutan you meet people you would never dream of back at home.

I know you are all dying to know: As for my fungus, it’s really a fungus. I can’t remember what it’s like to not itch. My armpits are indigo color from the medicine and anyone who looks directly at them runs the risk of exposure to ultra violet rays. The days here are hot leaving me longing not only for the refreshing ocean, but any deposit of water large enough to submerge myself in. I miss water. I find myself gazing longingly into storm drains and open sewers. Rivers and lakes are sacred here in Bhutan. Residents can ramble off long histories of horrific stories about those who have ventured into the holy waters and suffered terrifying fates for offending the deities who reside there. I’m not going to risk it. “How about a swimming pool?” you ask. One of my students relayed the information that H1N1 is festering in the town’s swimming pool. She herself was there to go for a swim one scorching day and was turned away by the life guard. “The pool is giving H1N1,” she said. “I looked inside Ma’am, and I could see liiiiittle white worms swimming around, those are the H1N1” She scientifically testified. We are studying folk tales in class V. Most morals conclude with, “The little boy fell into a hole. And that is why you don’t tell a lie.” or “The girl was never seen again. That is why we don’t steal meat.” One folk tale began with, “Once upon a time there was a land without soap and tissues and the children had no dreams.” After a careful description of a neighboring more hygienic land, the tale concluded with, “And that is why you wash your hands so you don’t get H1N1.” I will have to settle with doggy paddling around in my bathtub.

Whole Foods in Venice Beach, CA

2010-07-20T05:34:00.000-07:00

I barely set down my red pen after correcting the last of the midterms when I hopped on a flight to California. Thirty short hours later (I am a champion sleeper) I arrived at LAX. I walked through the same arrival gate that 25 years earlier my proud parents had walked through with a six-week old me to present to America for the first time. This time, I had butterflies in my stomach eagerly anticipating my (likely tearful and sentimental) reunion with glorious Dylan. (There’s your shout-out, Dylan.) To my dismay, he was NOT THERE. (Still want a shout-out?) At close to two in the morning, I still sat at LAX awaiting his arrival. Three hours later after I had given up hope, unassumingly reading in my plastic chair, I was pummeled from behind by a scruffy blonde man. Dylan! And I couldn’t have been happier to see him. He had a completely viable excuse for his tardiness: Hot dogs at the all-you-can-eat pavilion at the Dodger game!

I had so many expectations riding on this visit home. For weeks prior I dreamed of reunions with loved ones, the ocean, sushi, Darshan pastries, Pannikin, Mexican food, a southern California Fourth of July, Big Sur, bike rides, yoga at the yurt. The thing with California is that it never disappoints. It is always spectacular. The turquoise water of Carmel, the vineyards of Paso Robles, the charm of Leucadia, Mexican food is always better than you remember it. The same goes for all the people I missed while away. You are funnier, smarter and more beautiful than I remember! All of you! These feelings are exacerbated by a habit I call ‘sun-setting.’ It means that you experience life by putting an expiration date on everything. I was home for two weeks. I will be in Bhutan for one year. I will only commit to something knowing that there is a time limit. I think it creates appreciation that wouldn’t be so overt if the situation could continue indefinitely. It’s like watching a sunset. You don’t really appreciate the light of the sun until it is almost gone, hanging just above the horizon, casting golden light on everything.

One of the cherries on top of this indulgent return home was Melissa’s wedding. The wedding and all events surrounding it will be memories I will treasure till my dying days. Being home for such a short amount of time magnified all the appreciation and gratitude I have for my family. Melissa looked like she walked off the pages of a bridal magazine. The ceremony was sacred and the party following overlooking the Pacific Ocean will go down in family folklore. We should have a live band at every family gathering playing eighties music and Al Green (funerals included). What do you think Grandma?

So a word to those living in developing countries, if you ever come for a quick trip to the states before returning back, DO NOT GO TO WHOLE FOODS A HALF AN HOUR BEFORE BOARDING YOUR PLANE BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY. I’m not sure I have ever been more overwhelmed in my life. I asked Dylan to take me there ‘real quick’ so I could get a sandwich to eat on the journey. Walking through the sliding doors, I saw before my eyes a festival of earthly delights. More food than could ever be consumed by the entire population of Los Angeles is contained in that market. There is a burrito bar, sushi bar, cheese bar, meat bar, gelato bar, raw food bar, juice bar, smoothie bar, beauty bar, desert bar, wine bar. I had a similar feeling to what I have described in previous posts. But instead of my eyeballs being too small to take it all in, this time I felt my mouth and digestive tract would just not be big enough. My bag was already full of Trader Joe’s food to bring back to Bhutan. Tick, tick, tick. Half an hour till take-off. I was gripped by a sudden fear that if I was not able to haul these perishable treasures with me back to Bhutan, I was going to DIE of starvation. That’s when Dylan decided it was time for us to leave. Good decision. I might have abandoned my new life in Bhutan for good and instead sought permanent residency inside of that Whole Foods. There was room for me just next to the desert case.

So somewhat reluctantly I boarded my flight. It was not so effortless as the journey there because this time I was afflicted with a malicious armpit rash. I have been (knock on wood) healthy as a yak for my entire stay in Bhutan. It’s not until I returned to California that this mysterious, painful and repulsive armpit condition afflicted me. I spent the proceeding thirty hours fervently scratching my armpits like the ape I am, much to the concern of my row-mates. “It’s not contagious.” I nervously chuckled. (It probably is.) Back in my apartment in Thimphu I grimaced as I inspected the damage. They looked like the armpits of a rotting corpse. I’m on the mend now. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you all updated on that.

Now that that confession is out of the way I want to say thank you to all of my friends and family who made every moment of my time at home perfect. And I mean that, it could not have been more perfect. I am still reveling in love and memories.

On Deciding to Love 350 Strangers At Once

2010-06-22T13:02:00.000-07:00

I loved them before I got here. I planned it. I decide that no matter what, I was going to love each and every one of my students. My homeroom is only twelve so that’s easy. Then there are all the students I teach who aren’t in my homeroom, that’s another 62. Then they all have brothers, sisters, cousin-brothers and cousin-sisters (Bhutanese consider close cousins siblings). Then there are the kids who stop me in the hall to give me a kiss and ones who deliver love letters to me even though I don’t know and never did know their names. Once it’s all added up, siblings, close relatives, distant relatives in remote villages, etc, I figure I am committed to loving all kids in Bhutan, not just the ones in my homeroom, my classes, or even all of ELC.

In theory, this is easy. What teacher doesn’t love kids? Once a woman who came to talk to us future teachers in Santa Barbara warned about future job interviews, “When they ask you why you went into teaching, don’t say, ‘Because I just love kids,’ that really creeps me out.” Fair enough. I am learning that you can love kids and still experience more than mild irritation at them several times throughout a day. Especially when they draw with crayon on the walls, (that was the sixth graders), or when they are hiding feral cats in their ghos (Cara and I ended up adopting it), or when they interrupt a lesson on question tags to sing “I’ll be There” by Jackson Five or when they are caught peeing in the upstairs bathroom bathtub and cursing at you in Dzongkha.

I think you all knew where this entry was going before it started: even at their most irritating and infuriating, I cannot help but want to bring them home with me. Although maybe just for lunch or a a quick snack. When they sing Justin Beiber in unison replacing, “Baby” with “Ma’am” I get chills of happiness. When they misunderstand an assignment to write a three stanza poem of five lines each, and turn in a fifteen stanza poem of five lines each in a homeric tribute to their parents I want to hug them. One day I let them free write on any topic they want and then ask who would like to share. The consequence of the free write is that I now know the very complex and twighlight-esque love triangles of every fifth and sixth grade relationship in the entire school. For the rest of the day I bask in the memories of what it was live to be a tweenager in love. (That's a shout-out to you Danny Flannery.)

This teacher-student love is flowing both ways. On my birthday I was accosted at the gate and before even entering school grounds, I had an armful of homemade cards, gifts, giant teddy bears, and Buddha figurines. I was blindfolded by the Head Girl who led my to my classroom where my homeroom class threw a very successful twenty-fifth birthday party for me with live musical entertainment, homemade food, and non-alcoholic champagne. Things got a little wild when I granted their requests for MJ and the moonwalking and gyrating began.

I know they love me too when they find me on Facebook (despite the lengths I have gone to tighten my privacy settings). I know they have checked up on me when the next day he/she wants a detailed account of every experience I have ever had up until now, beginning in my sophomore year of college when, “You and that blonde girl are eating bananas on a boat.” They have searched through every photo of me ever posted. This must be love.

At times, this is great for the ego but at the end of the day, they are teaching their teacher what real unconditional love feels like. I could be anyone. They don’t love me because I am me, even though it is an appealing thought. They just love so well. They love all of their teachers this much. We can scold them, give them a weekend full of homework, make them watch as their friends play basketball for some minor infraction and the next day it’s as if we are still the brilliant sun of their sky. I’m not saying I am going to be doing this forever. Screaming, “WALK IN THE HALLWAYS!!!!”, “What goes at the end of a sentence?” and ‘What part about, “Go pee in the toilet wasn’t clear?” gets old after the first three hundred and seventy five times, but for the moment I can’t think of a better way to spend my days. Deciding to love this many strangers has been a good decision.

Tiger's Nest and Tiny Eyeballs

2010-06-13T03:16:00.000-07:00

    For the most part, we are all born with eyeballs. We take in similar sights as those around us, we choose on what and where we choose to focus our attention. If we stay in the same place for too long, we sometimes even stop looking, stop thinking. We know what to expect so we can worry about other things instead. At any one time there are a thousand things going on all around us but we can really only look at one thing at a time. But the eyeballs are only doing part of the work because the interpretation of what we are seeing is where the thoughts spring from. Since arriving in Bhutan I have had the feeling of hovering a few feet about the ground because my brain cannot catch up to the sights around me. Since arrival I have never felt grounded. I am always hovering, observing from an outsider’s perspective and trying to make sense of the sights before my eyeballs that never seem quite big enough or capable enough to absorb all the newness.
    Yesterday we finally made the trip to Taktsang, Tiger’s Nest. It is one of the first sights that shows up when you google search Bhutan. We chose the perfect day. It was the first day since I have been here that was sunny from sunrise to sunset. The drive to Paro was worth the journey itself. Around each bend were ruins of ancient buildings to be seen, mountain peaks stacked upon peaks and at the bottom of the valley, a mint green river flowing through red cliffs. You know you reach Paro when graceful rice terraces appear along the base of the mountains. Marijuana is growing everywhere now along with wild iris, pink roses and potatoes.
    The night before our journey it occurred to me that I had the same feeling that I used to get as a kid when I knew that I was going to Disneyland the next morning. Not much has changed. We visit these places because we are looking for an extrinsic physical place to give us these feelings of excitement and wonder. Over the years, it’s just the places that change, the feelings don’t so much. When we’re younger it’s Disneyland, Six Flags in junior high, in early adulthood, Buddhist monasteries tucked into monolithic mountain sides and natural wonders of the world. Later, I expect it is museums. At the late stages of life, it’s more convenient for the relics to travel to you than to travel to the relics.
    Tasktsang is the place where Guru Rinpoche landed on his she-tiger when flying in from Tibet in the seventeenth century. He mediated in a cave still located in the depths of the monastery and emerged in eight different manifestations of his original self. The monastery burned to the ground in 1998 and was reconstructed in the original way, without a single nail. Yes, the exterior is magnificent and seems to defy physics, but it is the inside of the structure that was truly incomprehensible to my simple, un-enlightened human mind. Each winding staircase leads to a different alter room and each alter room could take up hours of your time as you let your eyes sift through each colorful detail that appears on tapestries, murals, and larger than life re-creations of the lives of Rinpoche. This is where I realized my eyeballs are just not capable enough, and the mind behind them is not much more competent. Each image tells a story and each story has something to reveal about your own human experience in relation to the universal truths of the world. Kind of like, “It’s a Small World” ride in a spiritual way.
    To interpret all you see takes visual processing to appreciate the skill and artistry of the images all around. It takes emotional processing to reflect on how you are being affected by such graphic, glorious and sometimes gory images. It takes physical processing because you have to react, you can prostrate three times to the various alters in the corners of the room, you can listen to the teachings of the monks and lamas, you have to remember to accept the holy water being poured into your hands, you have to be mindful in the volume of your voice and be careful to not point your feet at holy people or objects. It really requires every mode of processing we have to be present and mindful in such a place and I guess that’s the point.
    I left Taktsang with that feeling I described earlier, an understanding that my five senses are not enough for the depth of understanding that is possible.

    In other news, Liz forgot her cell phone at Kueron’s one day and came to ELC to find it. We met each other at the gate and decided to go for a sunset walk. During the walk a swarm of bikes sped past us. “Do you know who that was?” she asks. People only ask that about one person in this country: The Fifth King. On his way down he stopped to talk. The next day we tried our luck again; same time, same place. And to our wondering eyes he appeared again. Then again the next day and so on. We go walking everyday now and pause at the top of the mountain to gaze upon the a tiny Thimphu below us and the infinite sky above us. On lucky days His Majesty stops to talk and other days we can count on at least a wave and a smile. “Next time we’ll have orange slices and Gatoraide waiting!” I once promised.

2010-06-03T08:24:00.000-07:00

The Druk Path

2010-06-03T07:59:00.000-07:00

I write from the floor of a four hundred year old monastery. The electricity as been cut by the storm raging outside. The only light comes from Kathryn’s very fashionable yet useful headlamp. Glued onto the wooden-plank walls are pages from Hindi magazines of flashy women and gourmet food. To my left, against a crumbling clay wall is a DVD player and a television where, no doubt, child monks get their fix of American wrestling. The scent of pine incense is inescapable.

Our first jaunt into the wilderness of the Himalayas started two days ago. Since then the only other signs of human life have been our guides and the occasional yak-herder. After nine hours of hiking along mountain ridge after ridge I hear the roll of thunder in the near distance. I suddenly feel very vulnerable.I ask our guide,

“Dendup? Is it going to rain?”

“No, of course not. I prayed for no rain in the monastery this morning. Look! A dragon!”

Either he is alluding to Bhutan’s nickname, “Land of the Thunder Dragon” or a tiny little dragon just ran under my nose. It must have been a quick dragon because I missed it.

From a thousand feet up Dendup points down into an enclosed valley encompassing a dark lake, “There’s our camp.” And there it is, looking like a tiny village from our perch. I have never been in nature that is so vast and infinite. It is hard to believe that human life has weathered these elements and that somewhere, very far from here, the internet exists, and high rises and spaceships.

The horses, horseman, and cook always pass us on the route and have camp set up and have dinner waiting by the time we get there. We know dinner will be waiting in a luxury kitchen tent where we are served several courses beginning with tea and cookies followed by datsi with fresh veggies, Bhutanese red rice, and finally, fruit with cream. From this high up the camp looks like a microscopic version of itself made miniature by the enormity of the landscape around it, titanic mountains that still are growing a few centimeters every year. Talk about endurance.

As we approach the camp the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time we have reached the bottom, there is a full-on blizzard raging. The harsh landscape has come alive to put on an icy performance of swirling snowflakes, white wind and rapidly dropping tempuratures. That night, there is talk of cutting the trek short and returning to civilization. The storm rages through the night and Kathrin and I never quite fall asleep. In the morning everything is still again so we forge ahead. The day is clear and beautiful.

Come early evening, the snow begins to fall and we approach the steepest peak yet, marked by those who have come before us with a giant wooden phallus and an arch of fluttering prayer flags.

“Thimphu!” Dendup shouts.

    Thousands of feet below is Thimphu tucked into the crack of a single mountain range. At this point the snow again begins to fall in earnest. We start running down the hill to camp. As we reach, the tempest begins, raging wind and thick snow being hurled down from the sky. We tuck into the unsubstantial tent that is thrashing all around. We have to shout to each other from less than a foot away to be heard. This time, we are sure the tent will not hold up through the night. Dendup pokes a wet head through the flap up to announce that we have been given permission to “seek refuge in the nearby monastery.” We slog across the mountainside against the violent storm. The lights of Thimphu miles below us are faint and misty.

    Dendup bangs on the ancient door and an equally ancient and monk answers. Wordlessly, he leads us through a flooded courtyard up a rickety flight of stairs. He apologizes for the only room he can offer, which, religious traditions aside, looks like the manger where Jesus was born. (I speculate.)

    Now we sit here in the dark and the whole building, all four-hundred years of it is creaking and rattling like a ship on an angry sea. Outside, the thunder dragon continues to roar. Dendup has conveniently forgotten his sleeping bag and is happy to wedge himself tightly between Kathrin and me.

“Where will the others sleep?” I ask him about the cook and horseman. Thinking of the impossibility of sleeping in the wet, ravaged tent.

“Oh, they’ll be okay.” He says with a smile on his face. “I hope the rats don’t come out tonight.”
It's not the rats I'm afraid of, Dendup.

Happy Easter

2010-04-04T02:28:00.000-07:00

In Long Beach, California, a unique chicken laid this very special Bhutanese flag easter egg. Thanks Uncle Bob-O

When the King Comes a-Knocking...

2010-03-26T08:01:00.000-07:00

the students go a-hopping
the teachers go a-stalking
the entire school goes a-gawking

    We got the call on Monday and had one day to prepare for His Majesty’s visit. We got started on the mysostics IMMEDIATELY. For those of you who aren’t in the know, a mesostic is a type of acrostic poem. Instead of your everyday acrostic though, a mesostic makes a complete sentence. Japan can have their haikus, Bhutan will popularize the art of mesotics. Mesostic poems are the way that the Early Learning Centre expresses itself. The King’s first name is Jigme. His second name is Khesar. His third name is Namgyel. I was assigned to create the mesostic for his last name: Wangchuck. I was busy for a while. As other teachers laboriously glued tiny beads onto letters to make him a framed mesostic, I toiled in the corner to come up with the perfect Wangchuck poem. 3 hours later I was satisfied:

            Wise
   visionAry,
            iNtuitive,
      maGnanimous
       Charitable and
     farsigHted; The people of
          BhUtan are
      sinCere in their admiration of this
              King

    The news reached the students the following day. I have never seen kids so enthusiastic to clean a toilet. “Madam, what if his majesty needs to relieve himself while visiting class six?!” I try to picture His Majesty using our squat toilet. “He probably brings his own,” I think to myself. But I don’t want to crush their dreams so I reply, “Yes, students, most definitely you should go clean the toilet.” And off they go scrubbing and polishing ‘til evening.

    When I arrived to school today, security were already stationed at their posts. Most officers carried rifles, but His Majesty’s closest assistant carried a saber. I wonder where one receives training to maneuver a weapon like that?

    Students were asked to arrive early, shoes polished, noses cleaned. At 8:15 we started preparing our most engaging energizing activities: The Penguin Dance, One, Two, Buckle my shoe..., The Welcome song. The students were only half-watching, there was too much to be seen with all of the photographers, guards and important looking people with clipboards buzzing around. An officer approached me with his clipboard, “American, right?” Yes, how did he know? Maybe because I am the only woman in a 5 mile radius standing over 5’5 and looking incredibly askew in a kira, repeatedly practicing the correct way to bow. At 8:30 sharp teachers formed a receiving line. K-5’s (Fifth King’s) arrival was announced by the stomp of an army boot and a stern salute by his leading guard. He appeared through our humble gate looking majestic and kingly. Graciously, he shook each teacher’s hand warmly.

    We performed our penguin dance for him, shaking our booties and sticking our tongues out as respectfully as possible. I led the mediation and he sat down cross legged on the ground nearby saying, “Let’s try this out.” After the morning program he spent time laughing and talking to students. Then he made his rounds to EACH CLASSROOM. Can you imagine, he took the time to come to each class and interact with all students. When I got the message that he would be arriving to our class next, my heart started pounding and my hands were trembling. He entered with his entourage, (including the man wielding the saber) and in a soft but assertive voice began speaking to the students about some of the village schools he has visited. He explained how students walk barefoot two hours to school, two hours home. They carry their shoes around their necks as they walk so that when they arrive at school, their shoes are clean. He told my students that these are the people they will be competing with for jobs someday. “Do you have that kind of determination?” He asks my spellbound students. “If someone asks you why you go to school, would you say it is to serve your parents? Or to someday provide for your younger brothers and sisters?” My students look around in wonder. He closes by telling them that education is like a loaded gun. It can be terribly dangerous when put in the wrong hands. With education comes power and influence. That is why Gross National Happiness ensures that values and morals are at the core of Bhutanese education. He advised students to keep their strong values even when they grow up. “You may go on to get tattoos, like a dolphin jumping across your arm, or an ‘om’ sign, but that doesn’t mean that your values will change. Even me, when I was a teenager I had three earrings in one ear.” I giggled at the image of this stately and elegant man as a rebellious teenagers with three earrings in one ear . The students did not laugh. They looked at me wild-eyed like I had just killed his puppy. The King looked at me and smiled kindly. Yes, eye contact with royalty.

    I think His Royal Majesty was quite pleased with his visit to The Early Learning Centre. How could he not be? He received over 150 cards with his names represented in mesostic poetry, a gift from each student. He strolled through halls lined with the letters of his names represented in the witty lyricism that only a mesostic can evoke. And if that was not enough to make the visit worth his time, he received his very own framed mesostic, each letter created from beads no larger than a bug’s eye.

    The visit may have been just another day in the life of K-5, but at the end of the day, as I stood on the basketball court with the teachers re-living the day’s excitement, I knew that several people (myself included) will be forever reminiscing of the day the King came to call.

2010-03-18T05:34:00.000-07:00

we made it...somewhere

2010-03-18T05:29:00.000-07:00

It's All Happening

2010-03-18T05:22:00.000-07:00

    It happens when you open your eyes after meditating with the students in the school yard. The mountains of mythical proportions now are familiar and comforting. It happens when one day you instinctively turn and respond when a child cries out, “Madam!” in the street. It happens when late one night when you are returning to Thimphu on a bus and you think, “Almost home.” It happens in the middle of the night when you wake up and you no longer have to remember, “Where am I?” It happens when laughing sincerely around the dinner table with a group of people who just a month before had been unfamiliar faces in a staff meeting. When you leave the city, climb a mountain and really see with your eyes that you have done it, found the place where nature reigns. Where humans have not harnessed it in national parks and greenbelts. It happens when spending thirty dollars in one week seems like a small fortune. Or when you realize that you lived on three hundred dollars in a month, rent included. The last couple weeks have been filled with moments like this, when I understand that it’s all happening for me.

    When you leave home, what are you looking for? I know that when I left, what I wanted was to know was what is revealed when layers of familiarity and comfort are removed. In these small moments I am finding that what is revealed is definitely not fear and worry as we anticipate in the unknown, but rather new forms of familiarity and comfort. Happiness is to be found underneath and the excellent news is that happiness is not dependent on everything that you think you need at home but exists abundantly in the world at large. So when I say, “It’s all happening” I mean that over and over the universe is proving to me that it provides graciously.

    Spring is seeping through all of the cracks around here. Bright pink blossoms on trees pop out of the dusty landscape. Between uncharacteristic thunderstorms the sun shines. Going outside or to bed no longer requires three layers, beanies and gloves. I like this new side of Thimphu.

    School is three weeks underway. Today a parent walked through the gate during the all-school assembly. “Where is your son?” Asks Madam Deki, the principal. “He’s not coming today. He had very bad diarrhea all night,” replies the parent in front of THE ENTIRE SCHOOL. I wait for the thunderous laughter. It doesn’t come. I think about the lifetime of social ridicule that would have befallen an American student who’s father made such a comment in front of their entire peer group. Later in the day a student doesn’t have his homework, “I didn’t do it, Madam Kellie, because I had diarrhea last night.” That’s a new one, much more believable than the dog eating it.

Sleeping Baby

2010-02-28T09:46:00.003-08:00

2010-02-28T08:54:00.000-08:00

Punakha Chorten

2010-02-28T07:23:00.000-08:00

Punakha & Pancakes

2010-02-23T19:04:00.000-08:00

    It is not everyday you get tapped on the head with a wooden phallus by a monk. But today was my lucky day and I was on the receiving end of this phenomenon. I think I now get to chose the sex of my future child. I should have called this entry, “Pancakes, Punakha and Phalluses.” That seemed a little flagrant.

    After this blessing we ascended the miniscule staircases, one after another of the Chorten. We had driven three hours on roads that make Highway 17, (“death ridge”) in Northern California look like the bike lane at a retirement home. After a short but vertical hike we passed through the doorway to this paradisiacal mountain top temple. Greeting you as you pass through the archway is a tree that comes from the seed of the Bodhi tree under which Buddha achieved enlightenment in Bodhgaya, India.
    Every inch on the temple’s inner walls are hand painted with intricate bright Buddhist imagery. The way you navigate the Chorten is to begin on the bottom floor, complete your prostrations and make your offerings while circumambulating clockwise. You may then ascend to the next floor, then the next. At each floor you say your prayer and accept the holy water offered to you by a monk from a golden jug accented with peacock feathers. When you reach the pinnacle, you are outside alongside the golden steeple that can been seen for miles. For several minutes we sat silently in meditation and I couldn’t help but notice the sound of the crashing river thousands of feet below us and the almost silent sound of birds that soared below us. In every direction mountains layer each other, as far as the eye can see are emerald colored peaks skirted by fluid rice terraces.    The last memory of today that I would like to leave you with is after the three hour ride home we pulled over for dinner. The restaurant was a tiny home. We entered and took our places on benches built around a large wooden stove. On the stove were pots of boiling milk and porridge. We warmed our hands and feet. It has happened several times since I have been here that this same arrangement unfolds; the smallest infant in the family is placed closest to the heater and falls asleep in their warm bundle, then the adults get the tier around the infant. We all sat there around the baby laughing and enjoying our dinner while the
baby slept.
            ******

    The novelty of pancakes has never been lost on me. Some of my favorite memories from college took place in our tiny kitchen cooking pancakes with Caitlin while dancing to Jackson Browne or whatever music was pulling our heartstrings at that moment. It was worth it to be 20 minutes late to class if it meant pancakes for breakfast. It is a fact that novelty of pancakes increases when you are making them outside of the US. That’s why when Michael and Shafik invited us over one Sunday morning for pancakes I felt like I had just been invited to tea with the King. The best part was that they were not just any pancakes, but chocolate chip( a rare commodity in these parts). Finished pancakes went into the rice cooker to stay warm. Because there was no syrup we loaded up on jam, peanut butter and honey. Yum. Over breakfast Shafik gave ‘animal readings’. He assigns you and animal and explains why you are that animal. Michael assigned me a giraffe. He said I want to see everything and that my long neck allows me to eat from places where others can’t reach. He said I have hearts lining my entire neck and that means that I have extra love to give. After breakfast Michael invited us to a recording he was doing for Centennial Radio. He asked me to interview him so as he read, I scribbled down questions that came to mind. Then we were recorded having conversations about his writing. We don’t have a radio so I never heard it.

    The Kingdom rejoiced on Sunday in celebration of their Fifth King’s 30th birthday. We had a party for him at school. His image stood prominently on an alter surrounded by fresh fruits, candles, and other offerings. Thirteen sixth graders showed up to deliver speeches they had written wishing the King a happy birthday. Kueron and Sonam suggested I give a speech too, so I did. I said:

Today we celebrate the birthday of a King who’s vision for his country and reputation for benevolence has crossed continents and oceans. It is because of this vision that Cara and I are here in Bhutan. It takes a special visionary to imagine and implement an idea like Gross National Happiness. I already see it alive and well here. I saw it when we were welcomed so graciously by our colleagues here. I saw it when I met my new student, Kisang, and she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek. We feel honored to be here and watch these values take hold. We have the hope that we will bring these values back to the U.S. with us. Thank you, and Tashi Delek.

    We have a teacher at our school who is famous in Bhutan for her performances of traditional Bhutanese songs. She is also the Paula Abdul of Bhutan’s own version of American Idol, “Druk Star.” She performed the national anthem and later sang a song in Dzonkha. I looked around me at the end of the song and many people had tears running down their faces. Imagine celebrating one of our leaders in such a way and feeling moved to tears when you reflect on their life’s ever growing accomplishments.


    After eight days in a row working at school we decided to celebrate the King’s birthday in a different way. A new Karaoke bar opened so at 9 o’clock sharp we were there, mics in hand performing several ballads of love addressed to the King. The crowd pleaser was our version of “I’ll make Love to You” by Boyz II Men. Our version included some free style rapping by Sonam and the insertion of, “Fifth King” whenever the song refers to the nonspecific, “you.” At three a.m. we no longer sounded like the angelic sirens we had earlier in the night. That did not stop us from singing a few more; James Taylor’s “Handy Man” and Prince’s “Purple Rain.” How fitting for the King’s birthday. Highlights included dancing to “Mambo Number Five” and replacing the American names with Bhutanese ones, ie: “A little bit of Sonam in my life, I little bit of Kueron by my side, a little bit of Namgay’s all I need...” We felt deep inspiration our profession as teachers while singing Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” (“I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.”) Later on in the night we did not look the part of reverent teachers and I will keep those photos personal for the sake of professionalism. Unless I ever see the need for blackmail.

2010-02-14T20:48:00.000-08:00

The Chorten

The Most Romantic Losar

2010-02-14T19:28:00.000-08:00

    The lights of the city get smaller and smaller below us as Sonam’s tiny Indian made Maruti barely makes it up the winding mountain roads. As we climb, stars approach eye level and I realize that no matter how long I look, I won’t see an airplane flying over us. Two airplanes land in this country on any given day and both arrive in the morning. Sonam and her friends sing in Nepali at the top of their lungs as we skirt thousand foot drops. No guard rails in sight. When we arrive at the top of this massive mountain white prayer flags flap furiously in the wind and tiny little lights of Thimphu, Bhutan’s largest city, look like a quaint mountain village. At three o’clock in the morning, the road is surprising still lined with cars as people head to Buddha Point to celebrate Losar, the Bhutanese New Year. It was an especially romantic Losar, falling on Valentine’s Day eve. We celebrated at Club Ace, Sonam’s favorite Disco. I told Carris this morning and her reply was, “What?! Bhutan has a disco? I thought it was a tiny Buddhist kingdom tucked in the Himalayas!” Yes, it is, but it can also have a nightclub. And what a nightclub it was. For hours we danced to everything from Hindi music to American hip hop to Reggaeton. I am unexperienced in the Bhutanese way to dance to Hindi music so I got some tips from two guys who looked particularly practiced in this fine art form. I noted that a passionate facial expression is essential to looking authentically bollywood. I was approached often by people curious about how I found my way to Bhutan. Everyone I talked to happened to know or be related to one of my coworkers at the Early Learning Centre.
    I am going on week three in Bhutan. Every day has been adventure, complete with lessons from our principal on how to take a shower and do laundry. We arrived on Monday, and Tuesday morning we began inservice at school. The school is private, owned by our principal who conducts the daily professional development sessions. Each session revolves around the ever-prevalent theme of Gross National Happiness. This is the concept that the Fifth King of Bhutan introduced when he imposed democracy on his admiring subjects several years ago. The idea is that such a small country that values its pristine nature and humanity so deeply will always attempt to prioritize collective happiness above monetary gain or gross national product. This vision is radically transforming the education system of Bhutan. Meditation is now required in every school. Our professional development seminars have included an expert intervention from the local Lama (Sanskrit word for teacher, or “highly learn-ed monk” as Sonam explains). We received instruction on how to properly meditate and how to inspire children to integrate mediation in their lives. We begin each session with several minutes of mediation and close each day with a prayer in Dhzonka (Bhutan’s national language). The last thing we do each day is recite the Gross National Happiness Invocation.
    This local Lama has become central to my life here in Bhutan. He holds weekly mediation class on Tuesdays and on Fridays screens indie films to encourage critical thinking and create a community of people interested in the Middle Path. Sundays are ‘Wisdom Tea’ where we huddle around an electric heater to read Buddhist literature and have a question and answer with the lama while drinking tea and eating lemon flavored popcorn.
    I want to devote a paragraph to talk about my gratitude for the people who have made the landing in Thimphu such a gentle and comforting experience. After our first day at ELC, two smiling faces offered to pick Cara and me up from our house and take us to dinner. The two smiling faces were sisters, Sonam and Cheychay. The took us to dinner at Ambient cafe. A wonderful restaurant/cafe/hotel/gathering place. Since then they have done something kind and generous for us every day. One day they invited themselves over for dinner. I was embarrassed because I had no idea how to feed them, but wanted to do something to return their generosity. They ended up coming over, making us dinner, cleaning our kitchen and then preparing teaching materials for us. Cheychay said it had been a scheme to get into our house and make it feel like a home. Mission accomplished. They have introduced us to their friends, invited us for meals, included us in their lives. They have taken us shopping, to the hospital, various ministries to clear our visas, and made our existence ever enjoyable. So thanks to them and to everyone else who has been so open hearted (Kueron, Namgay, Mme. Deki...)
    The first week I got here a brand new yoga studio opened. Cara (my roommate) and I attended one of the first classes and left having found a new favorite place and new friends. Since then we have spent almost every day with the people we met there. Michael and Noam are musicians who have provided many hours of entertainment. Even watching the two of them have a conversation is amusing, which is why they also have a radio show. Last night they put on a Valentine’s Day concert at the home of the local radio producer. Now it is Sunday and I am sitting at a very American feeling cafe. I just finished breakfast of hash browns and eggs. Michael and Cara are here. We are going to go for a walk across the river and then to the yoga studio tonight to watch our yoga teacher’s favorite French film called, “Bleu”. Tomorrow there is no work because of Losar. Life is good.

2010-02-07T08:47:00.000-08:00

Hello and Goodbye from Gate 128

2010-02-02T03:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my horoscope said, “Take your time. Life doesn’t change overnight.” I would like to disagree. Especially in the case that one boards a plane and lands in a small kingdom in the Himalayas, which is exactly what I happen to be doing today. So in this case, life does change, drastically, overnight.

As we drove to the airport I noticed that this time I did not have the old song “Leaving on a Jet Plane” on repeat in my mind. It is true that all my bags are packed and I’m ready to go but by the third trip to Asia in three months some of the romanticism has worn off. The song that has taken over in my mind is now Jim Morrison’s “Light My Fire.” As I approached Inglewood all I heard was, “The time to hesitate is through. No time to wallow in the mire” Since this time last year I have been anticipating this day and everything that is to follow. It feels that the goodbyes have been a long, drawn out process. Since leaving for China several months ago I have been saying goodbye only to return weeks later just in time to say goodbye again. So today from gate 128 in the Tom Bradley terminal at LAX, I say ‘goodbye’ in the physical sense, you won’t see me for a year. But I also say ‘hello’ because by reading my blog you may get more of me than you want.

Caitlin likes to remind me that just two years ago while on a bus ride from Brazil to Argentina, I made it perfectly clear that I was highly disinterested in Asia. “I have no need to ever go to the East.” She just reminded me of that yesterday. I didn’t realize then that I had just said that I didn’t want to see the other half of the planet. I think my maturing, (small minded) self was actually acknowledging that I had no context to understand the other half of the world. My roommate from my freshman year in college was from China. Back then I don’t think I could have named a single city in China. One time I thought to ask what her village was like where she grew up. She told me there had been ponds filled with lotus flowers. I didn’t know what a lotus flower was so I didn’t ask any more questions. That mentality was precisely why, when I landed in China several months ago, I felt like I had just discovered another wing in a house I had lived my whole life. Who knew there was so much to be seen, felt, and experienced? I didn’t even know what I had been missing. What if I went my whole life without ever seeing this? This feeling of discovery continued throughout my recent trip to Indonesia and Thailand.

So today I head back to Asia (wasn’t I just there last week?), the place I never thought I had any interest to visit. This time, I go to Bhutan, a country I didn’t know existed last year. The girl checking me in to China Airlines had also never heard of it, along with ninety percent of the world’s population. So now I know that it exists, I can even point it out on a map and tell you that Thimphu, the city where I am living is between 7,000 and 8,000 feet above sea level. I can tell you that a national symbol is the image of a penis, because I read that in the Lonely Planet Guide. I can tell you that my place of employment is The Early Learning Centre, a private school in the capital. I also know that if I sit on the back left side of the plane I may be able to see Everest when we fly over. Beyond that I don’t know much. So along with the theme of this entry, goodbye California. Goodbye to tons upon tons of massive freeways, goodbye to kids on leashes, to In-n-Out (can’t say I’ll miss that), to high rise buildings, to the ocean (that’s a big one), to familiar faces, to a boyfriend, to mass media, to Costco (there is one in Kuala Lumpur if I get desperate for dish soap or cat litter in bulk) and mom and dad. And hello to...Well, I can’t pretend to know. I’ll fill you in when I get there. Miss you already.