tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48470987431411752222024-03-12T17:47:52.975-07:00Yankee in BhutanYankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-30507670735148483202017-08-18T19:13:00.000-07:002017-08-18T19:13:07.087-07:00What I Will Miss 2: Afternoon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>AFTERNOON</b>:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The twenty students are in four perfect
rows in their ghos and kiras, a row of boys, then a row of girls.
The music, a plaintive traditional song for yangchen (somewhat like a
pipa or a hammered dulcimer), begins and the students bow at the
waist in honor of the "chief guest" at this rehearsal for the National Day
celebration (December 17). Their arms are extended, palms forward,
fingertips nearly touching the ground, eyes down. And then they
begin to dance.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Traditional Bhutanese dance is, in its
aesthetic and its energy, the opposite of Bharatanatyam, the
athletic, percussive dance of south India with which I was so
enamored. <i>Boedra</i> (traditional dance & music) is performed as a group
with the dancers moving in perfect unison, stepping slowly forward
and back with an unemphatic bent knee kick in between. Like so many
south and east Asian dances, the hands are the focal point: in what
seem to be stylized <i>mudras</i>, the dancers turn their hands at
the wrists, bringing the middle finger to the thumb as in a <i>karana
mudra</i>, a hand position that dispels negative energy or evil. The
arms are relaxed and move, winglike, up and down in rhythm. The dance
is slow, graceful, almost hypnotic, and the dancers execute their
steps effortlessly, looking straight ahead. The even, lulling pace
of these dances reflects, for me, the attitude towards life of the
Bhutanese: take things easy; don't expect too much; live a simple
life; laugh.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Were students in America asked to
perform contradance or even a tap dance (two kinds of dance
considered traditional in the States) for a 4th of July event, they
would likely sneer. In the American teens' imagination, traditional
dances are considered the purview of old people or religious
dissenters who still rely on horse and buggy. Here in Bhutan,
participating in a performance honoring the birth of the first Druk
Gyalpo (king), who unified the nation's warring districts in 1907, is
a high honor: the students performing on Tuesday are 12th class
students who completed their exams on the 14th and are free to go
home, yet they have volunteered to remain until the celebration ends on
the 17th. Their earnestness and commitment to perfecting their dance is remarkable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some of these students were in my
English class, and to observe them in this context, where they are so
clearly expert, is a joy. As they slowly turn, step, kick, step,
deliberate and perfect, I realize how much I will miss these students
and the warm, unhurried simplicity of life in Bhutan.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-30653317572549271202013-12-12T06:14:00.002-08:002013-12-12T06:14:40.177-08:00What I Will Miss, Part I: Morning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>MORNING</b>:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The stairs that lead from the girls'
hostel to the canteen and the Academic Block beyond are carved into a
steep slope, as is nearly everything else in this country. Below the
stairs is where the school cows are fed and milked, and where the
Agriculture Club keeps a small garden, now, in December, greening up
with saag and radish, the chile, maize and bean crops long gone. The
location of this miniature farm means that the view from the stairs
above is unusually unobstructed as most of the Chirr pines,
pomegranates, guavas, and jacarandas were long ago removed. Thus,
every day as I walk from my flat to the Academic Block I stop halfway
down those stairs to look at the Po Chhu valley and the mountains
beyond to gauge the progress of the seasons.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJuGoNB2Vh8QlG8XUeDDxsvlWjVN1b8e3z7UHJw1kmkqpNPoeYDNaEYr6m-SQZkQ5wm6dA2Z79VKSMWlTZyKJV2NQycYDsmJnxomeLqSOtfaT-5uLtriE3iEb1_VRlnpti4ikbu8HjiIO/s1600/The+View,+October.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJuGoNB2Vh8QlG8XUeDDxsvlWjVN1b8e3z7UHJw1kmkqpNPoeYDNaEYr6m-SQZkQ5wm6dA2Z79VKSMWlTZyKJV2NQycYDsmJnxomeLqSOtfaT-5uLtriE3iEb1_VRlnpti4ikbu8HjiIO/s400/The+View,+October.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The View from the Stairs, October</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The valley is almost entirely terraced
rice paddy with the glacier-blue river braiding through it and hills
of conifers and broad-leaved forests rising on either side. One can
see, here and there, clusters of traditional Bhutanese houses that
make up the villages that students refer to when one asks them where
they are from. A village can be as small as two or three houses that
share an outside water tap and a pitted, rocky farm road; or it can
be several houses that have a community kitchen, also outdoors, to
use during festivals, and its own small lakhang tended by one or two
monks.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I arrived last January, the
paddies were sand-colored and the mountains hidden in cold clouds.
The colorful tarp tents of the Layap, the nomadic people from north
of Punakha, gumdropped the landscape. Their small, sturdy horses
grazed lazily on spent rice stalks. The river was slow and shallow,
posing no threat. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPTxFLsmjljWFlNa-7J141-u7vqE5RFZy8OV_Goqn4N343fKC_8imARKqlJUwx_nKQPNL8UBgKu6qqPnr4cKrD6w41tQWLeahjmSG7WW0JBNdWNNJzQ1qX28U-vLnaEFKpv9utXmrXQPN/s1600/January.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPTxFLsmjljWFlNa-7J141-u7vqE5RFZy8OV_Goqn4N343fKC_8imARKqlJUwx_nKQPNL8UBgKu6qqPnr4cKrD6w41tQWLeahjmSG7WW0JBNdWNNJzQ1qX28U-vLnaEFKpv9utXmrXQPN/s320/January.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Po Chhu Valley, January</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> By March, the labyrinthine irrigation channels
that only rice farmers understand and control were flooding some of
the paddies; a shadow of green appeared. Oxen and cattle, wearing
wooden yokes as in Chaucer's day, pulled plows through the mud,
steered by sun-browned men with stick arms and legs. Soon after,
whole families could be seen transplanting rice seedlings into the
turned terraces, the tender stalks a stunning pistachio green. The
peaks of the mountains to the northeast that border Tibet and Lunana
began to appear through the diminishing cloud cover, some capped with
ice, others simply sheer vertical rock faces of granite. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZcgYkNaVPlIbSMjaPsezGQU2iRvZu7fLzX68GKOZsG5mglLHL4Rp3x6wqlAst_o2XYVqwIqgi0iHDKaCQfAtb5SAPQLaZBN3ku9Y_pwHNFiYWNlpXWOC4MdHAm3ocMBd4Qnm7BEkKStD/s1600/Late+Feb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZcgYkNaVPlIbSMjaPsezGQU2iRvZu7fLzX68GKOZsG5mglLHL4Rp3x6wqlAst_o2XYVqwIqgi0iHDKaCQfAtb5SAPQLaZBN3ku9Y_pwHNFiYWNlpXWOC4MdHAm3ocMBd4Qnm7BEkKStD/s400/Late+Feb.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Late February</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, in
August, as the river thrashed with the power of the melting snows
from the glaciers above, the rice was tall, a vital, blinding green,
and the mountains stood black and clear and tantalizing. Cattle
roamed and fed; the Layap were long gone.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9FiZt_IHPJ8cg44q7a_LY5eaa0RMRlHMYwu49OFvku4A5A4XtqG_ZVL8Oh_R_DznekKkQxnHEamwDIMubVQ0YB8UQS1aag_jECmp-LpUnheZAmcJimTpYz0YY5YbyoLNu8j2wVHQ45nG/s1600/rice+in+september.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9FiZt_IHPJ8cg44q7a_LY5eaa0RMRlHMYwu49OFvku4A5A4XtqG_ZVL8Oh_R_DznekKkQxnHEamwDIMubVQ0YB8UQS1aag_jECmp-LpUnheZAmcJimTpYz0YY5YbyoLNu8j2wVHQ45nG/s400/rice+in+september.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rice in August</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQv0YiC0q4eDmHynTJnzDpT7A_yuGZz6C0UGI7vLVUtjOqMc7NR-Geo0cxhMp0mQhLPVgbchdWVFj2DldVuR5oPb3FL2yIQPRXEYcGhu2__tRGptqqVTEMjQBN3lI6AY2vaWsHWqE7BBV_/s1600/half+harvest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQv0YiC0q4eDmHynTJnzDpT7A_yuGZz6C0UGI7vLVUtjOqMc7NR-Geo0cxhMp0mQhLPVgbchdWVFj2DldVuR5oPb3FL2yIQPRXEYcGhu2__tRGptqqVTEMjQBN3lI6AY2vaWsHWqE7BBV_/s320/half+harvest.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Half-harvested paddy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphzYXl0YRG-BI450CVoDRCfm_45gl7KQ3o3-_a-QS_i0uAKIHlJ_sdt-ZPoz1BliDD_UNYnvvhQub3BbuzOiLd7ahxgyxYEl6qxSaC40Y5_qZc09mSWfI0Z7AlXeHBRF05r2XsXrwBtrG/s1600/rice+drying.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphzYXl0YRG-BI450CVoDRCfm_45gl7KQ3o3-_a-QS_i0uAKIHlJ_sdt-ZPoz1BliDD_UNYnvvhQub3BbuzOiLd7ahxgyxYEl6qxSaC40Y5_qZc09mSWfI0Z7AlXeHBRF05r2XsXrwBtrG/s320/rice+drying.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rice drying in the paddy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2E8V4TIb5qqHEtpA4GRwXtorlx1JR_jMQH-O7KMpPeq944lHnCjpIgDUmzgKcfxnSdNosvY7iyc5bleSFCjMuOcLErBEjLuqeWjYAMBDM0LLTHN2Gw4yGdos8ArBgQ_P2KuC5gkDPAPN/s1600/August.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2E8V4TIb5qqHEtpA4GRwXtorlx1JR_jMQH-O7KMpPeq944lHnCjpIgDUmzgKcfxnSdNosvY7iyc5bleSFCjMuOcLErBEjLuqeWjYAMBDM0LLTHN2Gw4yGdos8ArBgQ_P2KuC5gkDPAPN/s320/August.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">August</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In late September and October, the harvests began.
From early morning until the sun sank everyone, from old women to
four year old children, were out in the paddies. Each would grab a
stave of rice and then, with a handmade sickle, cut the stalks at
their base and lay the stave flat in the sun to dry. Gradually, the
valley became a green and tan puzzle, each piece a paddy. Still, the
mountains razored the sky. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPetDJa8vVnA4DxWsY6Gj6K2VVkUqAS1EQlkKgOphj-PuquuaKF9L10VXUCH4t80INCH_j2KkhFXkfZ6f7LcPtmOfBj94w5LPTE30T4uk6w9afaaQBJuphbjwZL1lOsfxhqv3cvnK6Wa2n/s1600/1st+harvest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPetDJa8vVnA4DxWsY6Gj6K2VVkUqAS1EQlkKgOphj-PuquuaKF9L10VXUCH4t80INCH_j2KkhFXkfZ6f7LcPtmOfBj94w5LPTE30T4uk6w9afaaQBJuphbjwZL1lOsfxhqv3cvnK6Wa2n/s320/1st+harvest.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rice Puzzle</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9QSD0EkVamFbe9nw9YeVnxNRFa53js7EtVQAKl-zuDuXjVEj4nIPhGGZqi9rt_3woeGqOkTyxRMyVNhVQOP1e3Ll4D4_MDqzODOfLtvkncH_CbiUULF5lIy_I0cflA5vwdFf1dy237i9/s1600/family+in+paddy+late+sept.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9QSD0EkVamFbe9nw9YeVnxNRFa53js7EtVQAKl-zuDuXjVEj4nIPhGGZqi9rt_3woeGqOkTyxRMyVNhVQOP1e3Ll4D4_MDqzODOfLtvkncH_CbiUULF5lIy_I0cflA5vwdFf1dy237i9/s320/family+in+paddy+late+sept.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Family harvesting</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsVPb39uvU36z_cX5F_U853_5MRWdsBEOmyysh7Vw9plPz0flTrs3m0K2CQjkKVbvsS6UXxNQgTaKjmSA3mLyXf-vwCg3W1m8s6vut-U5L8U3oqYWFpPG6Jz53Eqfu-VQ9aHZPUh0SGRN/s1600/Sept+Valley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsVPb39uvU36z_cX5F_U853_5MRWdsBEOmyysh7Vw9plPz0flTrs3m0K2CQjkKVbvsS6UXxNQgTaKjmSA3mLyXf-vwCg3W1m8s6vut-U5L8U3oqYWFpPG6Jz53Eqfu-VQ9aHZPUh0SGRN/s320/Sept+Valley.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">September</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">By late November, as the temperature
dropped into the 40s, the valley became sere and dry; cold winds came
down from the mountains stirring up the red dust. The ruddy
shelducks arrived in honking squads, skidding across the river. The
sheaves of rice were collected and threshed by hand, the kernels
bagged, the chaff mixed with whey left over from homemade cheese and
fed to the cattle. The remaining stalks were expertly stacked into
the Bhutanese version of a hayrick, topped with a thatched hat to
keep out moisture. The cattle will feed on these all winter.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCm1XEtZ3FXKP9ZtejxUtYeLqfZ-Vyfwc4SW8N8206CQqHDkZWmPNzVyr5A0Cl2YHiKuroAFbJzlNp3cjkRpZpVczu-vAsnvnZaFyDh7-R26PdEQUqBNywGaBDzAUsQzbQ14XFONm1yWrE/s1600/hayrick+nov.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCm1XEtZ3FXKP9ZtejxUtYeLqfZ-Vyfwc4SW8N8206CQqHDkZWmPNzVyr5A0Cl2YHiKuroAFbJzlNp3cjkRpZpVczu-vAsnvnZaFyDh7-R26PdEQUqBNywGaBDzAUsQzbQ14XFONm1yWrE/s400/hayrick+nov.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rice stalks stacked for winter fodder</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsW6v_DuStQjHnOaU4iCFk3-gR3H1srl6QxpT1AlHYMLVLmh4deamQUR7fTF13yfpODsc58cQnEpSr2SOK_I6N-pdIQ-AnIYNS9T3MLLGHSg2zDoYZy_XAQOhd7jcRxMAlyzkvRnQFBRu-/s1600/carrying+rice+stalks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsW6v_DuStQjHnOaU4iCFk3-gR3H1srl6QxpT1AlHYMLVLmh4deamQUR7fTF13yfpODsc58cQnEpSr2SOK_I6N-pdIQ-AnIYNS9T3MLLGHSg2zDoYZy_XAQOhd7jcRxMAlyzkvRnQFBRu-/s640/carrying+rice+stalks.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A young man carries rice stalks to his cattle, December</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, in December, the sunrise,
announced loudly by the yellow-billed choughs, is late and sunset
early. The river is again quiet and shallow and the morning mountains have
pulled a thick grey quilt of clouds over their heads, clouds that fade as the sun climbs. I will miss this view. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLFvIQe3MYfGj-cYoHROoHV2sXvbZxBUGLKBtHCiWH0HimoXblGFXCMEhDVZAFdEbSggRlp_o_YSa1wT2Qrr70vb-KHzzaejYD2hDXee_NQ_feAzxF5GKNW1enmCPtU2da1NjTalUGaA0/s1600/Dec.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLFvIQe3MYfGj-cYoHROoHV2sXvbZxBUGLKBtHCiWH0HimoXblGFXCMEhDVZAFdEbSggRlp_o_YSa1wT2Qrr70vb-KHzzaejYD2hDXee_NQ_feAzxF5GKNW1enmCPtU2da1NjTalUGaA0/s400/Dec.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">December</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-67683644862539895902013-10-30T08:41:00.001-07:002013-10-30T08:41:12.405-07:00What I Will Not Miss About Bhutan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The lone school photocopier does not make multiple copies; if you try to make more than 10 or so, it eats the paper. In addition, we are discouraged from using too much paper and ink. So, to avoid using the photocopier to make exam prep worksheets for my 80 class 11 students, I try to use a projector.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>9:15 am:</b> In the Staff Room, I ask Karma Choedup for the key to the CR Lab (a computer lab); he says it is with Madame Dechen who is in the Conference Room across campus. She says it is with Sir Binod Rai who is in the Staff Room. Binod Rai says it is with Sonam Phuntsho who is there in the CR Lab now. I go to the CR Lab and indeed he is there and is happy to give me the key, but there in no longer a projector in the room. If I like, he suggests, I can use the projector that is in the Conference Room. But the Conference Room is being used for exam prep. So I go to the other Computer Lab beneath the Staff Room; it is locked. I ask Sir Karma Wangchuk, the Computer Lab Assistant, for the key--it is with Sir Tashi who is on leave and Karma Wangchuk claims he doesn’t have his own key. He suggests I ask Vinod V for the projector, but Vinod has told me that the projector he uses belongs to him and he will not lend it to anyone. Everyone else asserts that it belongs to the school. Anyway, I cannot find Vinod V. because he on leave. I go to the Conference Room hoping I can take the projector out of that room and use it in the CR Lab. There is no projector in the Conference Room. I go to the Principal and tell him I need a projector. He calls Sir Tashi who is on leave and tells him to figure out how to get me a projector. I begin correcting exams at a picnic table near the Computer Lab as I wait for a projector to miraculously appear. After a few minutes, I hear the lock on the Lab door pop and the door open. I turn to see Sir Karma Wangchuk--who said he didn’t have a key--enter the Lab. After about ten minutes, he emerges to tell me that Sir Tashi called to tell him to tell me I should use Vinod V’s projector which he keeps in his desk in the Staff Room. At <b>11:30 am</b>, we both go to Vinod’s desk; it isn’t there. We look in his wife’s desk, and lo and behold there is a school projector in a ratty black canvas bag stuffed behind a briefcase full of exam papers. Miraculous.</span></span></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-90844042774952266712013-10-27T09:18:00.003-07:002013-10-27T19:10:07.720-07:00"Hidden-Ox-Rock": A Transformative Hike to Beylangdra Monastery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0hUUiro3LvGLoNHEF31WEw1NE_Wu9iS4L5zPQ8qN9h6VVHdY6XzW-pU6d9C9L4n7L-UtOuTcoG4BTucAEpcQs-6pLARbAdpN2KlRdgNeN_NILqYtsz-_VBv1YI7fBUdQD-a8ePIdwVs-/s1600/DSCN2241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0hUUiro3LvGLoNHEF31WEw1NE_Wu9iS4L5zPQ8qN9h6VVHdY6XzW-pU6d9C9L4n7L-UtOuTcoG4BTucAEpcQs-6pLARbAdpN2KlRdgNeN_NILqYtsz-_VBv1YI7fBUdQD-a8ePIdwVs-/s640/DSCN2241.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Beylangdra Monastery, Wangdi Phodrang</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Like
Takstang in its apparent ability to defy gravity, Beylangdra
Monastery is not otherwise visually impressive: recently completely
rebuilt, it does not convey the stalwart enduring quality that
Takstang does, nor does it reveal its considerable history. However,
the handful of monks in residence there, some of whom recently
completed their twelve year retreats, awaken in the receptive visitor
a sense of belonging, light-heartedness, and mystery unique--in my
experience--to Buddhist monasteries. Granted, I had a distinct
advantage: I visited Beylangdra with my friend and colleague, Thubten
Senge, a Nyingma monk who had previously visited and who was
returning to participate in the Descending Day puja (Descending Day,
or </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Lhabab Duechen</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> commemorates the day in the Buddhist
calendar that Lord Buddha's emanation returned to earth from
so-called Tusita 'Heaven' where he had gone to preach to his deceased
mother and the gods).</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Beylangdra
lies at the end of a stunning valley, 22 kilometers from the turn-off
at Chuzzom in Wangdi. Those are 22 rough, rocky, bone-shattering
kilometers, but when one tumbles out of the car, it is only an hour's
hike up to the temple. If one wishes, one may first stop at the
small lakhang that looks, observed Senge-la, like a cereal box: it is
simple and square, and serves a small community of young monks who
attend the <i>lobdra</i> (school) associated with it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiiTZro2JqauJQ1mzSuW_UXfrcqaDIhoDGF1OR0siTKnk1JovgaLT7oqbR-2GQde47XQ8YTG8_Ha7U1pGj7G2fCtRErh_YJXWlMOY3M5X7OSRXQKE_PvSkw4uAc1pJWVayUlIR8OC2fJT/s1600/DSCN2292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiiTZro2JqauJQ1mzSuW_UXfrcqaDIhoDGF1OR0siTKnk1JovgaLT7oqbR-2GQde47XQ8YTG8_Ha7U1pGj7G2fCtRErh_YJXWlMOY3M5X7OSRXQKE_PvSkw4uAc1pJWVayUlIR8OC2fJT/s400/DSCN2292.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lakhang below Beylangdra</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Behind the
lakhang and up a short path is one of the retreat "huts"
where a monk might spend three or twelve or even twenty years in
silent meditation. There are more, smaller huts next to the monastery
as well. Marking the half-way point is a shed housing butter lamps
and another with prayer wheels both inside and out. The very devout
stop here to increase their merit by sending prayers into the karmic
soup by spinning the wheels and lighting lamps as they recite their
mantras ('Om mane padma hung' being the most commonly heard, but
there are countless others).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodnEmrGYZIuK5m7XI5_YoEyiFmIfEgOQz28PWnvfiH2xfvPfhBNU41KahQJkfkCNq4WvL0tvHajkQ-dQKbqXi5ThwvWG-Y-nBY4PI5uYbqLDbNpIGBRYc0MWI-Za4z-pEYj7wF6a_OWcj/s1600/prayer+wheels.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodnEmrGYZIuK5m7XI5_YoEyiFmIfEgOQz28PWnvfiH2xfvPfhBNU41KahQJkfkCNq4WvL0tvHajkQ-dQKbqXi5ThwvWG-Y-nBY4PI5uYbqLDbNpIGBRYc0MWI-Za4z-pEYj7wF6a_OWcj/s400/prayer+wheels.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Prayer wheels</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9_T-PmUK8N9nG7w06yONE1hBhQqcxQz4y2X4SrblY-A6I7VmiIfrXF40xONVzmKCPfRMVnFPljsQnAHRPaz-pvWIUMlYJi8VaEgRf2DvABpYfJwv-W1MBNfN3GGu6AXTifrcNysvbj1u/s1600/butter+lamps.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9_T-PmUK8N9nG7w06yONE1hBhQqcxQz4y2X4SrblY-A6I7VmiIfrXF40xONVzmKCPfRMVnFPljsQnAHRPaz-pvWIUMlYJi8VaEgRf2DvABpYfJwv-W1MBNfN3GGu6AXTifrcNysvbj1u/s320/butter+lamps.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Butter lamps</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">According
to one of the resident monks, Beylangdra was founded in the 8th
century and is yet another of the many sacred spots where Guru
Rinpoche is said to have meditated in a cave. Around this cave the
temple and retreat center have been built, clinging to the cliff
face. There is a newly constructed wooden building overhanging the
valley where one can leave one's backpacks or sit and rest or
reflect, and below that are the monks' kitchen and toilet. The altar
room is in a separate building--the one whose back wall is actually
the cliff.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">This wall
is the key to the "hidden" reference in the monastery's
name ('<i>bey</i>'). Concealed by the altar, the black cliff face (<i>dra</i> means rock, as in Bey-lang-dra) has a
round impression at about knee level that is believed to be a sealed
chamber in which are sacred <i>terma</i>--treasures hidden by Guru
Rinpoche that can only be revealed by the preordained <i>terton</i>,
or 'discoverer of <i>terma</i>.' The <i>Tertons</i> are
reincarnations of Guru Rinpoche's original 25 disciples, some of whom
are alive today. The <i>terma</i> themselves are of two kinds: some
are actual texts or ritual implements or images; others are in the
mindstreams of the reincarnate <i>tertons</i>. There are <i>terma</i>
hidden all over Tibet and Bhutan, some of which have been discovered
and shared with the world, but many of which are yet to be released
from their hiding places. The statues in the altar room disguising
the portal to the <i>terma</i> are of Pema Lingpa (himself a <i>terton</i>),
Dorji Lingpa, an intriguing wrathful representation of Guru Rinpoche
as he subdues the demon <i>lang </i>(ox) and, at the center, Chenrezig,
the bodhisattva of compassion, in what is called the 'yab-yum' pose,
representing the unity of male compassion and female wisdom (I had
never before seen a yab-yum statue on an altar in Bhutan). </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWt4cPjUrkNj9AghyphenhyphenX1DmlQ6q_AUgMIwx7klHbKw9q_oB_2O-YeIMO3sIjjoMU8tiCBBnKiLPGpEwVJ-RR274yct7eahCrW1aTKE9brBmDGSkzPVpNF3BwQxNeelh2XTg3PzhBfZMXuaO/s1600/yabyum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOWt4cPjUrkNj9AghyphenhyphenX1DmlQ6q_AUgMIwx7klHbKw9q_oB_2O-YeIMO3sIjjoMU8tiCBBnKiLPGpEwVJ-RR274yct7eahCrW1aTKE9brBmDGSkzPVpNF3BwQxNeelh2XTg3PzhBfZMXuaO/s400/yabyum.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chenrezig (Avalokiteshvara), the Bodhisattva of Compassion<br />in the yab-yum pose</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When we
arrived, we left our packs in the wooden 'welcoming' building, took
off our shoes, and climbed a short staircase to a typically steep
ladder, emerging into the altar room. The monks were performing the
days' puja, reciting prayers as offerings, accompanied by the
inimitable honking, crashing and thrumming that serves as the score
to Buddhist prayer. Bhutanese from all over central and western
Bhutan arrived with bags of <i>dalda</i> (the oil used in the butter
lamps), incense, Wai-Wai and Maggi noodles, red and green and yellow
packets of biscuits, chocolates, apples, guavas, and, of course,
money. All this was heaped in a pile in front of the head lama and
attended to by a young monk who kept the pile from spilling into the
area reserved for prostrations.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-k7mA135HHp301hhRvyZnCfSYdOi23hz3qP5fh0rM7gtfM0v-814n9e0kxyq0R3kqNFPNq264bdc-fr4i5T5SWJgSr9yer04Rr6NEFyxIeEI7CCosijmBzvhQw0EMVdtAIbeeRNpWYZR/s1600/loot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-k7mA135HHp301hhRvyZnCfSYdOi23hz3qP5fh0rM7gtfM0v-814n9e0kxyq0R3kqNFPNq264bdc-fr4i5T5SWJgSr9yer04Rr6NEFyxIeEI7CCosijmBzvhQw0EMVdtAIbeeRNpWYZR/s400/loot.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Offerings</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Everyone
who comes to a lakhang or other Buddhist devotional site does
prostrations, regardless of age or encumbrance. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW2JLl8jQt-xNxnv1pdK07xqB6SEfvmkuFf3fKi_eT-k_0goEBo_tTEF3HJoWA8cJpY7-AWVuxRp8dLL6i6HTT2P0zyDZSPgp_YB42_BV3kX_QKTuNsrgpYJC9aIlM_xD2UiGoSAsaYrd/s1600/young+protrator.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW2JLl8jQt-xNxnv1pdK07xqB6SEfvmkuFf3fKi_eT-k_0goEBo_tTEF3HJoWA8cJpY7-AWVuxRp8dLL6i6HTT2P0zyDZSPgp_YB42_BV3kX_QKTuNsrgpYJC9aIlM_xD2UiGoSAsaYrd/s320/young+protrator.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Little girl prostrating</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lVhRVNSNzBTnYwlLcxRZHROeIrdbpJ8dDPU9pzB3zU-x-d94nNOlZ0URWLEuhx5i6BmhmFBqQ7-rwD-ToUI-4PMJ11VBQEFavMs9HccY9HnT2WTL6ybEH-pw_LYnIDFQwLwp6bugifmo/s1600/baby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lVhRVNSNzBTnYwlLcxRZHROeIrdbpJ8dDPU9pzB3zU-x-d94nNOlZ0URWLEuhx5i6BmhmFBqQ7-rwD-ToUI-4PMJ11VBQEFavMs9HccY9HnT2WTL6ybEH-pw_LYnIDFQwLwp6bugifmo/s320/baby.JPG" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mother with baby in kabney, prostrating</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In Bhutan, we first
prostrate three times in the direction of the head lama's seat to
acknowledge his power, and then make at least three prostrations to
the figure at the center of the altar which is simply a
physical representation of our own inherent Buddha nature. After
Senge and I completed our prostrations, one of the monks performing
the puja whom Senge had previously met called him over and gestured
for him to sit with them; another monk found me a seat at the end of
the line of monks so that, had I been dressed differently and shorn
of my hair, I could have been mistaken for one of them (except that I
can't sit in a lotus pose).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVK7tQ1hd2raz1R7ND7Vuo73fnSE_D-vDPiEEcwqjwLNdPEyQ19wmAu0EKJKs_N3LVGaUV11u6z14-Ttk3xHvAvAP1LeDZ9npP3xdNaxlNFwo5IqcwUBz07Hzkgh24uN-sIA-HDHbqoIG/s1600/altar+room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVK7tQ1hd2raz1R7ND7Vuo73fnSE_D-vDPiEEcwqjwLNdPEyQ19wmAu0EKJKs_N3LVGaUV11u6z14-Ttk3xHvAvAP1LeDZ9npP3xdNaxlNFwo5IqcwUBz07Hzkgh24uN-sIA-HDHbqoIG/s400/altar+room.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The altar. The objects in pink, blue and yellow next to the statue are <br />made out of sculpted butter.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I welcomed
this opportunity to try to meditate, but I am not yet adept enough to
prevent myself from being distracted by the people coming and going,
the monks chanting, the <i>slinyen</i> crashing, the <i>dungchen</i>
blurting, and the incessant pounding
of the <i>nga</i>.
Nevertheless, I tried hard to focus on my breath until the old monk
next to me elbowed me in the ribs and chin-pointed towards Senge. He
was grinning at me, raising his eyebrows to ask, "You ok?"
Indeed, I was better than ok. </span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7T79BVSBO9kJCMtI1MTeOv7O-JIRKIIGhn_-g8pe-WUunSa0SBpjeHShEQaTK0EURUtyN_Z5wlVTW6JR8d5lEtC7UxQov3rFqGUniYJGbp7a5H1GYFmB1HC7ZCwwsvdTPBl4jJBCjnEW/s1600/moks+puja.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin7T79BVSBO9kJCMtI1MTeOv7O-JIRKIIGhn_-g8pe-WUunSa0SBpjeHShEQaTK0EURUtyN_Z5wlVTW6JR8d5lEtC7UxQov3rFqGUniYJGbp7a5H1GYFmB1HC7ZCwwsvdTPBl4jJBCjnEW/s320/moks+puja.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Monks performing puja; Senge is beating the <i>nga</i>.<br />Note the <i>kangling</i>, the two horns on the floor <br />traditionally made out of human thighbones.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZW-LIOQ7CewW9S3VxnLp_nj4eBSiqWTsvj45l5T_4u8qSIEr2w_zmCwJQjMY2JjeTXfaxGTuFHZnDz48S-nSYxv8O_CMiGyzfrQwkCsOf1OX1G8jkLUpd2ifWF2vzAg4mLfb5fIaoPVL/s1600/Senge+with+conch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZW-LIOQ7CewW9S3VxnLp_nj4eBSiqWTsvj45l5T_4u8qSIEr2w_zmCwJQjMY2JjeTXfaxGTuFHZnDz48S-nSYxv8O_CMiGyzfrQwkCsOf1OX1G8jkLUpd2ifWF2vzAg4mLfb5fIaoPVL/s320/Senge+with+conch.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And here he is blowing on the conch</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Despite
the din and the controlled chaos of the devout bowing and
circumambulating and handing out cash to the monks, I felt a sort of
giddiness--a sense of simple, unaccountable happiness. This feeling
was not at all like the profound emotion I had at Takstang; there, I
had been overcome with an awareness of the power of the place. Here,
it was just me in a beautiful place with people who radiated a
contagious playfulness and calm affection and true wisdom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpTNhMxuoTxvQSG58G0ESjTXnfHup7kNd1pr0KolhV_e6wMXc5W0yZ74XNalnrKjGLnmihO1XnvIWDMzA6JlWhfoIcIfNZ06xiObBax9UeEu41nYsmn2uEbebTdb8qv3xu_HU9685cHnl/s1600/dungchen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpTNhMxuoTxvQSG58G0ESjTXnfHup7kNd1pr0KolhV_e6wMXc5W0yZ74XNalnrKjGLnmihO1XnvIWDMzA6JlWhfoIcIfNZ06xiObBax9UeEu41nYsmn2uEbebTdb8qv3xu_HU9685cHnl/s320/dungchen.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Playing the <i>dungchen</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">After
a few minutes, the music stopped and the monks all rose and began to
leave the altar room. "We've been asked to lunch," Senge
said, and so we joined the monks in their 'dining room' for suja, red
rice and ezzay. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In
a line, we walked back down the inhumanely steep ladder (nearly every
traditional building in Bhutan has these--it is a mystery why they
have to be so steep except that the steepness preserves living space)
and the stairs and then down another short flight of stone steps,
past the reeking toilet, through the 'kitchen' which had four
enormous curry cookers in it, to a narrow, dank and soot-blackened
cement room with a cement counter on which were three large battered
aluminum pots. One was full of red rice, one of mushroom datse, and
one with green beans. A bowl of simple ezzay--just green chiles,
datse and onions--sat nearby. One plastic chair was placed by the
window which provided the room's only light. It offered a
particularly vertiginous perspective on the green and gold valley
below. On the plastic chair sat a gray haired man in a stinking gho
who was cutting chiles. He graciously vacated the chair for me as
lunch was served, and a delicious lunch it was. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> As we ate, Senge and
Lama Tandin, a youngish monk with a lame leg (which is what got him
into a monastery in the first place--his parents sent him because
they were concerned he'd be ostracized at a public school) joked
about the challenges of learning English during a twelve year
retreat. He wore his long, shiny black hair in a pony tail, the
length of which indicated how many year he had spent in retreat. A
few of the other monks also had long hair tied back, and a few had
added a surprisingly stylish twist to his monk attire: Lama Tandin
was wearing a white Chinese "silk" Mao shirt under his robe
with red and gold trim. Standing quietly nearby was Lama Kunzang, a
<i>tsampa chenpo </i>(someone
who has completed a twelve year retreat), observing. A very old monk
with stringy, long gray hair, a large furry mole and a crooked yellow
fang stood at the back of the room rolling two handfuls of rice mixed
with butter in his hands. I was later told that this was because I
had unknowingly commandeered his plate, but in the monasteries when
monks have their lunch, it is often while they are in the lakhang in
seated prayer. They place a white cloth on their laps and open their
hands to receive their rice from a monk who carries a large bucket of
it and ladles it out; when the rice is rolled into a ball, it is
easier to eat. So he was used to it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfyJRgePJ3vFoZISfHAZWt3a1U1blgtqpUnNfcN45oU4IgbBw4cqfZ0UyOKiE6C2rLG5mbUadp6aEioXQaO2JEXneTpFSuyE5sRty5Dje-MUTk6meAxukG49Ss0U53kHruQwRqqioaSuC/s1600/lunch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfyJRgePJ3vFoZISfHAZWt3a1U1blgtqpUnNfcN45oU4IgbBw4cqfZ0UyOKiE6C2rLG5mbUadp6aEioXQaO2JEXneTpFSuyE5sRty5Dje-MUTk6meAxukG49Ss0U53kHruQwRqqioaSuC/s200/lunch.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Handful of rice</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Though
neither Senge nor I speak Dzongkha, Senge can speak Chokyi (classical
Tibetan) which many monks understand, so he was able to communicate
with relative ease. He chatted with Lama Kunzang about the difference between his own mind and the mind of someone who has meditated for twelve years. "I see everything clearly and you don't," said Lama Kunzang. For him, there is no real distinction between the subject and the object: he sees what is called Mind in all its luminous clarity (this is how Senge explained it to me later, but I am not certain I have it right). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Before embarking on this adventure, I had asked
Senge if he'd be willing to translate for me so that I could have a
few questions answered about rebirth and the <i>bardo, </i>so
halfway through our enormous portions of rice, he asked my first
question: Why is it important for a Buddhist to believe in rebirth?
Though Senge succeeded in asking the question, translating the
answers was another thing, so Senge went up to the lakhang and
recruited three reluctant Bhutanese to be our translators. The
sophistication of the vocabulary and concepts needed for this
discussion was understandably beyond their language ability, and so
after they provided their own answers ("You have to believe in
it in order to have a better rebirth!") we released them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I
did not get an answer to my question (yet). However, Senge then asked if
Lama Tandin or Lama Kunzang could offer me any pointers for a beginning
meditation practice. Both demurred. In the Nyingma tradition, one of the four
central vows is that one will not lie about his religious
accomplishments. The result of this vow is that most monks will not
admit that they know anything about Buddhism. Lama Kunzang's reply
was, "She should ask her teacher." As if I have one. But
Senge pressed on, and by the end of our lunch, Lama Kunzang and I
agreed that he would be my teacher and would provide instructions on
meditation techniques. He will provide them, he said, on the next auspicious
day in the Buddhist calendar (like the Tibetan and Chinese calendars,
it is lunar) in English, via mail.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eysSuxECjaEcdrPJoAHpFbHnxRGdMSpoTor_kYOwxeamzoX0PGFnj-_eZvY0aQAIbHk6RkA_OgPesQ9lGM_pLbPS-W-wtHafMGWPk_TU2yQ8PsoG7Wn9lIx6N6vefgAYeL4v54OuWVNa/s1600/kunzag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_eysSuxECjaEcdrPJoAHpFbHnxRGdMSpoTor_kYOwxeamzoX0PGFnj-_eZvY0aQAIbHk6RkA_OgPesQ9lGM_pLbPS-W-wtHafMGWPk_TU2yQ8PsoG7Wn9lIx6N6vefgAYeL4v54OuWVNa/s320/kunzag.JPG" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lama Kunzang</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWm7wE_Zb4Njtqvd2811ZaB52f-xZ0qSxxkm5iacuX16qtdcXE9Vu8IijAKthtntqaPdj4tGHnKRx2pagcneeikpp5Z354rOCI3s3Mybpb82Fz96ZgEOhlmmodErVJs2x9M86westcEoQ/s1600/monks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWm7wE_Zb4Njtqvd2811ZaB52f-xZ0qSxxkm5iacuX16qtdcXE9Vu8IijAKthtntqaPdj4tGHnKRx2pagcneeikpp5Z354rOCI3s3Mybpb82Fz96ZgEOhlmmodErVJs2x9M86westcEoQ/s400/monks.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some of the monks of Beylangdra with Senge. Lama Tandin is on Senge's left.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">After lunch the puja continued. During this period of prayer, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Lama Kunzang tied a red thread around my neck--a sign of blessing and protection that all Buddhists wear. I have had many of these tied around my neck and not one has lasted longer than a few days. I was hopeful that this one would last.* </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">He then showed us the hidden rock where Guru Rinpoche hid the <i>terma</i> and explained that it was on the site of this monastery that he had subdued the demon in the valley that took the form of an ox (<i>lang</i>); hence the wrathful expression and posture of the statue in the altar room, and hence the name of the monastery: hidden-ox-rock. At about 2:30 the monks took a break, and Senge and I joined them for one more cup of suja (butter tea). We were invited to stay the night so that we could continue our discussions, but we had left our taxi driver waiting at the lakhang below. We expressed our gratitude for the monks' generosity and said our reluctant goodbyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTLUmTHclCNyOuVJXEfKAl6qq8poWd1m6ugyUlXiz0MD9FeFlO-0mdAD_v9RbCfwXpODqYuxkWL-c2cojvY-qmv4E0ouNVJrxl16gF3h0ORJ-7fGXWFo6pva6MbfDJfpM4WLAVd-XouTR/s1600/wrathful+guru+rinpoche.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTLUmTHclCNyOuVJXEfKAl6qq8poWd1m6ugyUlXiz0MD9FeFlO-0mdAD_v9RbCfwXpODqYuxkWL-c2cojvY-qmv4E0ouNVJrxl16gF3h0ORJ-7fGXWFo6pva6MbfDJfpM4WLAVd-XouTR/s320/wrathful+guru+rinpoche.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A Wrathful Guru Rinpoche</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In my decades of exploring Buddhism I have met
many teachers, some western and others from Tibet, India and Nepal.
But there was something different about Lama Kunzang and the other Beylangdra monks. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The monks at Beylangdra were remarkably warm and unpretentious, and it was clear that they were eager to be helpful to both Senge and me in our respective practices.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Perhaps I have been transformed: maybe Bhutan has made me ready to receive whatever teachings Lama Kunzang can provide. Or maybe it was Senge's artful facilitation. Or, as
my Buddhist friends and students would assert, it was just my karma to finally find a teacher on the Day of Lord Buddha's Descent from Tusita Heaven in a remote
monastery at the end of a pristine valley, just past the 150 foot,
1200-year-old cypress tree that arose from Guru Rinpoche's walking
stick, a tree that symbolizes the enduring power of the Dharma in
Bhutan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8MNKCdNHesdoYD1tpCg8c7rkSdfgJOTYoJtRnJOurd1bemv96xa1KcyXErt2mcDAymkGNzMizM1iZcYuW9ekUCRvIQd0iPbqQqSQtdPmu_4gMuIaOqFH0ZJFVvdZZuSdEd-qJKysfqiJ/s1600/bey+cypress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8MNKCdNHesdoYD1tpCg8c7rkSdfgJOTYoJtRnJOurd1bemv96xa1KcyXErt2mcDAymkGNzMizM1iZcYuW9ekUCRvIQd0iPbqQqSQtdPmu_4gMuIaOqFH0ZJFVvdZZuSdEd-qJKysfqiJ/s400/bey+cypress.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Guru Rinpoche's Cypress below Beylangdra</b></span><br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;">* My red thread fell off as I was making dinner the day after we had visited Beylangdra.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-70607817966826250212013-10-01T08:02:00.001-07:002013-10-01T08:02:44.244-07:00EZZAY: Bhutan's OTHER National Dish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhex8I5zfU6xGYhtQgrVD-9dzMlI9O7L-CDmvxY49NkoR663yKZag7ZtS4exZCMx3IHzaFGYwrlE61FbeXcIWfI9tFU_eJHltja4F5FTqI-4_tOENTTTWZl_agEqWa_qv-wtt1uKAxgxQGj/s1600/ezay9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhex8I5zfU6xGYhtQgrVD-9dzMlI9O7L-CDmvxY49NkoR663yKZag7ZtS4exZCMx3IHzaFGYwrlE61FbeXcIWfI9tFU_eJHltja4F5FTqI-4_tOENTTTWZl_agEqWa_qv-wtt1uKAxgxQGj/s400/ezay9.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Photo stolen outright from BCFer Andrea Chisholm's blog, <br />"From Down Under to the Top of the World." She makes a<br /><i>bee-uuu-tee-ful</i> ezzay! (Thank you, Andrea)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;">For a primer on the how and what of ezzay, Bhutan's ubiquitous 'salad,' <br />click on the this link:<br /><br /><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/8jk2xb2jvvn0beh/EZZAY.ppt">Ezzay Primer</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-11266591963885477592013-09-12T08:55:00.000-07:002013-09-12T08:55:03.242-07:00All One Hundred and Twentynine of My Students (except one, who has a boil on her arse)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWu38RS6Kkk0C3gX_agwUf8sBpbyPhZJqXAoK1IZ-AhpXd4UInviGAqF26t3BRWkBoQAFWMaBS5hzLWTPFRcV8fYGbUGz0QGUZ1tk_LRXc9_c0_wM_0kLjpmflmzLedyEeGv_ivEeG2W5S/s1600/11AB.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWu38RS6Kkk0C3gX_agwUf8sBpbyPhZJqXAoK1IZ-AhpXd4UInviGAqF26t3BRWkBoQAFWMaBS5hzLWTPFRcV8fYGbUGz0QGUZ1tk_LRXc9_c0_wM_0kLjpmflmzLedyEeGv_ivEeG2W5S/s640/11AB.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Class: 11 Arts B</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">July and August were, as predicted, hot. Punakha received less rain this monsoon season than usual, but it appears that the rice crops are unaffected: now, in mid-September, the rice is tall and luxuriant and a green that is so intense it hurts the eyes. I remember arriving here when the paddies were brown and dry and the evenings cold enough to warrant long johns and a space heater. I guess those days will soon return--the heat has given way to a subtle coolness and a lovely autumnal sun with night falling now at 6:30. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took advantage of an especially stunning day during midterms--when all the students and I were unsuccessful at focusing on schoolwork--to have 'class photos' taken. I am wearing a kira because the Dzongda (a political position like a governor) and the Director of Education had visited the school that morning to award our ten 'toppers' (the students who are the top scorers on exams) with certificates from the King. In these photos I am sporting perhaps the worst haircut I have ever gotten, but I paid exactly $1.00 for it and it took ten minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Below are just a few photos of me with my lovely students.</span><br />
<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GIXoYaHLCmcm5zLT0pnRZ5u6Vi3YE_Ki6vPNh8kyl05RKe9B3jdQmDG73j8fEqMwKPmdulI1_8vNa_PL_QRy4HXRXiV8pO7veZdDyLsJSc4-SI0sE3YauFXhK6CaQ_zMBnZ6WC3e-hno/s1600/Arm+Wrestling+w+SOnam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GIXoYaHLCmcm5zLT0pnRZ5u6Vi3YE_Ki6vPNh8kyl05RKe9B3jdQmDG73j8fEqMwKPmdulI1_8vNa_PL_QRy4HXRXiV8pO7veZdDyLsJSc4-SI0sE3YauFXhK6CaQ_zMBnZ6WC3e-hno/s400/Arm+Wrestling+w+SOnam.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Arm wrestling with Sonam from 11 Commerce B</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7-KjWT-aCqmOs2QYwkd5bjtwt0cK7eSb8-EBZofPbO9xfeXVhMkGICAP3EtYfzvjPMxxUmujBVQH3Y1PTaehZ24ukDOmiWjBV2wtmYA_em-I0Et48_GaF0e0qqqzFp38A16ctP8-tpUl/s1600/captains.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7-KjWT-aCqmOs2QYwkd5bjtwt0cK7eSb8-EBZofPbO9xfeXVhMkGICAP3EtYfzvjPMxxUmujBVQH3Y1PTaehZ24ukDOmiWjBV2wtmYA_em-I0Et48_GaF0e0qqqzFp38A16ctP8-tpUl/s400/captains.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My 11 Arts B Captains: Ngawang Choden and Jigme Paldon Shangson Rai<br />(A 'captain' is a class leader, appointed by the 'class teacher'--sort<br />of a glorified homeroom teacher. 11 Arts B is my class.)<br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D7Hk42uZFUpSyyAVDWp-xgoJ1D_KiHIWAsHrKQK9vldR5sAAHX2GJjY8EiyDNTxYwZY-JuFbbvFxMmpV4nKItAtqX6ANoxyO4EVt-LVYMKUs1Y2lubcopKPUV0NujkQiQOxCwMLdj3ZI/s1600/DSCN1785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5D7Hk42uZFUpSyyAVDWp-xgoJ1D_KiHIWAsHrKQK9vldR5sAAHX2GJjY8EiyDNTxYwZY-JuFbbvFxMmpV4nKItAtqX6ANoxyO4EVt-LVYMKUs1Y2lubcopKPUV0NujkQiQOxCwMLdj3ZI/s400/DSCN1785.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chhimi Selden, 11 Arts B, and I</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbHSSr6V4GnJXOc1rQNdpUYFNQpBUijmfNptxX65pzO9LuF1ElEHeg9RVKxQbx6hGeZl4GIrGI2rtSeIT_7qSeIhyphenhyphenlVr20UwSA4UfTtzw_MVcm_GVb-1DbMm1Yjo3drJUJvxXX_balklK/s1600/boys+of+12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbHSSr6V4GnJXOc1rQNdpUYFNQpBUijmfNptxX65pzO9LuF1ElEHeg9RVKxQbx6hGeZl4GIrGI2rtSeIT_7qSeIhyphenhyphenlVr20UwSA4UfTtzw_MVcm_GVb-1DbMm1Yjo3drJUJvxXX_balklK/s640/boys+of+12.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Boys of 12 Arts B</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMNZ3lNZUnjLqrN08Yg0uXtYHymN_-aEAfJ040UQlOqothM7IG3tX0Kx2uJaIPVS5eALArSIXPClRuKIpP_twQ7UWxPp3LteZj5ubzHnjRSp0CqRJ3JYQD5LeyB8hCLIXcTu5XcpRe2Om/s1600/girls+of+12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMNZ3lNZUnjLqrN08Yg0uXtYHymN_-aEAfJ040UQlOqothM7IG3tX0Kx2uJaIPVS5eALArSIXPClRuKIpP_twQ7UWxPp3LteZj5ubzHnjRSp0CqRJ3JYQD5LeyB8hCLIXcTu5XcpRe2Om/s640/girls+of+12.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Girls of 12 Arts B</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRIy9N-ab7AfdWKe5O6wxwIF0ynodppmlsOx3sqMnigO6AtsxeECusN_UgtmSQ_k43bdk2oFhyphenhyphenNqc-KYxc3KDJYpw7Wt2UkVlJiAVk_XlV_HtTuCZosJX-iAilmdIrzQ4UYnb7K_xXqgx/s1600/whole+class+12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRIy9N-ab7AfdWKe5O6wxwIF0ynodppmlsOx3sqMnigO6AtsxeECusN_UgtmSQ_k43bdk2oFhyphenhyphenNqc-KYxc3KDJYpw7Wt2UkVlJiAVk_XlV_HtTuCZosJX-iAilmdIrzQ4UYnb7K_xXqgx/s640/whole+class+12.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Class 12 Arts B, All 46 of them!<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5L3Dumj_X7u1i4t8Q7EmxQgJGUajv1PvqI2stnW6Hc8IXHRgLKusA20eCix4kgAl_7JGyZjtD1LdNPgtSYdghnnV8RHmI-zh_pwwuvfG9VNKweS9bPw6rkX2NhSoPl-hQn7w6hioSzddD/s1600/kanjur+and+suresh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5L3Dumj_X7u1i4t8Q7EmxQgJGUajv1PvqI2stnW6Hc8IXHRgLKusA20eCix4kgAl_7JGyZjtD1LdNPgtSYdghnnV8RHmI-zh_pwwuvfG9VNKweS9bPw6rkX2NhSoPl-hQn7w6hioSzddD/s640/kanjur+and+suresh.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Kanjur Om, me and Suresh Rai with a great shot of the Dzong</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJb3YRdlSyevU0n220pFNELquxicbxq5NGYAQgUk4VjjZCjKPIFh357po2X2a-xnyIoGTWJTLmzVhyphenhyphenmX4Ey4qKlBPQWYCEt-V3jxTPrFPZK1WO7g-MKdlXM3dq1A9bSKpZv0_cIZrhyfl/s1600/11+CB.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJb3YRdlSyevU0n220pFNELquxicbxq5NGYAQgUk4VjjZCjKPIFh357po2X2a-xnyIoGTWJTLmzVhyphenhyphenmX4Ey4qKlBPQWYCEt-V3jxTPrFPZK1WO7g-MKdlXM3dq1A9bSKpZv0_cIZrhyfl/s640/11+CB.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">11 Commerce B</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CKtiVV70pGIuaIPscst1B61sOuBnSzfQPM4yuqMCbuM2zdFEf7Rpu827fmOaaVniCHymlm_crvZsAKyAB-keAf87no1Q4CpoHbXROknTTZdeE54P9u0BJdOgVn2FY4lVZcBZpCsg1uX-/s1600/Me+and+the+BOys+11+CB.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CKtiVV70pGIuaIPscst1B61sOuBnSzfQPM4yuqMCbuM2zdFEf7Rpu827fmOaaVniCHymlm_crvZsAKyAB-keAf87no1Q4CpoHbXROknTTZdeE54P9u0BJdOgVn2FY4lVZcBZpCsg1uX-/s640/Me+and+the+BOys+11+CB.JPG" width="520" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some of the cool boys (and Pelden) from 11 Commerce B<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrkFJTd-XG-uKFzngXtpsIxmM_EeNkYNmMHI_vsWc7xoTi0OtHm_16X9nDymoxi803oL0tFYUh6EtSVA_6GL6GFWz52hH9eIW_T8RK0FdJGzo7EH-4JseCq4cc3EQ78s3fxSPP_0G52BK3/s1600/11CB+capt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrkFJTd-XG-uKFzngXtpsIxmM_EeNkYNmMHI_vsWc7xoTi0OtHm_16X9nDymoxi803oL0tFYUh6EtSVA_6GL6GFWz52hH9eIW_T8RK0FdJGzo7EH-4JseCq4cc3EQ78s3fxSPP_0G52BK3/s320/11CB+capt.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Class Captains, 11 Commerce B<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-69990885647814633432013-08-06T09:30:00.002-07:002013-08-06T09:30:35.952-07:00What I Did On My Summer Vacation: MERAK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_H5TYlB5UXVRtk9o73l1WNQ_XBAqT9CUn7ZuYNG_vLYqZTQuhGFXuLooubM4RF8xOxGZbpuCGWfD2Rqzzn2Tz5v1AdCLA-f38_dQZmuFrzg5_0Fj9Ls20maCaiHvd4moXcSKjGEes5t7/s1600/from+Gangu.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_H5TYlB5UXVRtk9o73l1WNQ_XBAqT9CUn7ZuYNG_vLYqZTQuhGFXuLooubM4RF8xOxGZbpuCGWfD2Rqzzn2Tz5v1AdCLA-f38_dQZmuFrzg5_0Fj9Ls20maCaiHvd4moXcSKjGEes5t7/s640/from+Gangu.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Merak, as seen from Gangu</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is hard to believe I was really in Merak, that it actually exists, that a nomadic group of Tibeto-Burman people, the Brokpa, who do not dress or look like other Bhutanese still manage to thrive and maintain their ways of living. Hand made houses built of dry stonework, mostly tiny single story, one room dwellings, are stacked up the mountainside. These houses do not have the traditional Bhutanese windows, decorative painting and cornices, elevated roofs, open attics or first floor paddocks. There are no chimneys except in the rare homes with Bukharis--most people vent their cooking fires through a small triangular hole built into the wall. Smoke also escapes through the cracks between the bricks, a very inefficient and COLD solution. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The paths between the houses are narrow and rocky--and muddy in the summer. Livestock--the pack horses that travel to Tashigang for supplies and the yaks and dzhos that provide milk for cheese and butter and hair for clothes--wander the paths and graze lazily wherever they can find forage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjimX56r0gdLtmCh3mcm4yyVNSy-OJtcAXZlXgCcjlhlefWTgvCq3KL3zAEQ7vr7yA92FDZiQ7OLzH5OL-NPcCoqNknmzWnEZNRFablWkFh-8ZS_TGZhaAqBP4bTx_-TdbpaXQUmQ17CH/s1600/going+to+school.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjimX56r0gdLtmCh3mcm4yyVNSy-OJtcAXZlXgCcjlhlefWTgvCq3KL3zAEQ7vr7yA92FDZiQ7OLzH5OL-NPcCoqNknmzWnEZNRFablWkFh-8ZS_TGZhaAqBP4bTx_-TdbpaXQUmQ17CH/s640/going+to+school.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Going to school in Merak. There is only a primary school--once kids complete<br />6th grade, they go to a boarding school in Phongmey.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6SXU8OdgpzB9RgfQgbmMrUXETavDqvoeZvMtL4bblGeGcRe3te1viUL1K5vaTJxXGawtah-oEvX-UG5SlSxLL5gqNtGd20x5ymWe_BfUyvAwP5kpc27GmoxGS-e35VvjtMSBsmWgxKJZ/s1600/pak+yak+and+homes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6SXU8OdgpzB9RgfQgbmMrUXETavDqvoeZvMtL4bblGeGcRe3te1viUL1K5vaTJxXGawtah-oEvX-UG5SlSxLL5gqNtGd20x5ymWe_BfUyvAwP5kpc27GmoxGS-e35VvjtMSBsmWgxKJZ/s320/pak+yak+and+homes.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A pack-yak outside a Merak home</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7-QfzLkUHWBPHy3zw0TCM-9bwQav5SLvkl2y7DzQ0L_l9ZbrGPolqm4ZsdxcawoJDEjlO9VBKXzIGcuTLnnsZYFWIXmS7gLNLofKqVR0mzMea5YvED3xPmgksQNDXzVt47IQhN6lDWX9/s1600/merak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7-QfzLkUHWBPHy3zw0TCM-9bwQav5SLvkl2y7DzQ0L_l9ZbrGPolqm4ZsdxcawoJDEjlO9VBKXzIGcuTLnnsZYFWIXmS7gLNLofKqVR0mzMea5YvED3xPmgksQNDXzVt47IQhN6lDWX9/s320/merak.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Merak roofs</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Brokpa people are stocky compared to other Bhutanese and are inhumanly strong (on the path down to Phongmey, we passed a man with skinny legs wearing flip flops carrying on his back a metal desk all the way to Sakteng; another came up the trail with a refrigerator strapped to his back). They do not wear the ghos and kiras mandated by the Bhutanese government as a sign of citizenship. Instead, the men wear a red wool jacket cinched tight with a gho belt over which they often wear an animal skin poncho. The women wear red and white striped wool dresses and the trademark Brokpa hat: a yak-hair beanie with five spidery that legs that draw the rain away from one's face (in one of the few truly touristy acts of my time here, I bought one of those hats). In this region of Bhutan, the people Gelugpa Buddhists--they revere the Dalai Lama rather than Guru Rinpoche or Longchempa.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZw6NkibnB-znuJc70W1DDn_6oo4oBvohM9MdACYczuDw4QncciJDZ1XL0gp1tmJSSbaGatXqro5juRAqHh5t4PuCBUXlLuhg5qy5V0KurhCjbKBh7bEn9aGR_X3oTKtaTLS5CjYH4br3/s1600/brokpa+women.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZw6NkibnB-znuJc70W1DDn_6oo4oBvohM9MdACYczuDw4QncciJDZ1XL0gp1tmJSSbaGatXqro5juRAqHh5t4PuCBUXlLuhg5qy5V0KurhCjbKBh7bEn9aGR_X3oTKtaTLS5CjYH4br3/s400/brokpa+women.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brokpa women wearing their very cool hats and characteristic dresses</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPsjzFcMl_b6doHjlGDDCzG5AlkpAQ-zc2YLpScfbtqtxYwTl53tp-q6Vx3FRPfpgMVhknqggGT4cMK7GK3a62OmIsWKaKnHnohS3dWbOYe5quYvYrJ-hi4QpXMdBw9t_x9WmnQqMKZ2j/s1600/red+wool+jacket.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPsjzFcMl_b6doHjlGDDCzG5AlkpAQ-zc2YLpScfbtqtxYwTl53tp-q6Vx3FRPfpgMVhknqggGT4cMK7GK3a62OmIsWKaKnHnohS3dWbOYe5quYvYrJ-hi4QpXMdBw9t_x9WmnQqMKZ2j/s400/red+wool+jacket.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Man in a Brokpa jacket loading a yak</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We woke in Merak to the surprise of high clouds and, blessedly, no rain. Brick had gotten up before me and had found the elusive caretaker of the guesthouse, securing for us a real bed for that night with a Bukhari for $2 a night. We encountered a group of three Bhutanese young men in a large tent in the schoolyard outside our classroom 'hotel,' one of whom owned a tour company in Thimphu. He and his two friends were exploring the Merak-Sakteng area as tourist destination and invited us to join us at the village lakhang for the end of the annual community rimdro (a religious purification ritual). Determined to see as much of Merak as possible, we told them we would meet them there later, and we spent the morning meandering aimlessly, completely enchanted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_NpJPyWTpjl7VcMiF_UNbmSdNyHDlqekAPnyc4PGXMe3zZd8gEMs45J0gSDEJ_cNvHc_2n4Uyf5tyfTmbX7nCUucvcDbjdPb7YzB5LhnO9zqGUvA2PGju769FW9UnOgo4C_4xQSSgh0Y/s1600/lakhang+in+merak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_NpJPyWTpjl7VcMiF_UNbmSdNyHDlqekAPnyc4PGXMe3zZd8gEMs45J0gSDEJ_cNvHc_2n4Uyf5tyfTmbX7nCUucvcDbjdPb7YzB5LhnO9zqGUvA2PGju769FW9UnOgo4C_4xQSSgh0Y/s640/lakhang+in+merak.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Merak Lakhang</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we arrived at the lakhang it was lunchtime and the dogs knew it: they were lined up outside the community kitchen (all villages have a kitchen near the lakhang where food is made and served during festivals and other public events) waiting for leftovers. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzwfWyhjAhAqxdhXqM9Udn5tkfhyphenhyphenG1ZFJxu6yaiAG3nWdl4lolhbmKPrbWChtTutYCAekmDdki37sSod9kaFyp5fY4wKSNQlCtFoL9J3U3xLcjea48SeqeHdQOVJmWkxoLyU-Eb8Sxl9U/s1600/hopeful+dogs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzwfWyhjAhAqxdhXqM9Udn5tkfhyphenhyphenG1ZFJxu6yaiAG3nWdl4lolhbmKPrbWChtTutYCAekmDdki37sSod9kaFyp5fY4wKSNQlCtFoL9J3U3xLcjea48SeqeHdQOVJmWkxoLyU-Eb8Sxl9U/s320/hopeful+dogs.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dogs outside the kitchen hoping for lunch. Notice the traditional<br />
Bhutanese roof: tiles of slate held in place with rocks. One sees this<br />
all over the country, even in the capital, Thimphu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We visited the tiny old lakhang as the monks rested from their chanting and took some tea, noting the countless photos of the current Dalai Lama on the altar. Nyengda, the owner of the tour company, came and got us so that we could join him and his friends Sonam and Thinley for lunch in the community kitchen in the building next to the lakhang. As we watched a monk fashion torma, the sacred sculptures made of colored yak butter that decorate the altars of all lakhangs, we were given enormous momos that had been fried in a vat of salty yak butter with a side of ezzay, the fiery chile "salad" that accompanies almost all meals in Bhutan. The ezzay was so salty neither Brick nor myself could eat more than a few bites. This did not deter the dogs: after all the humans had eaten, the scraps were put into a trough outside the lakhang where the dogs had a field day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKnqJm4EY98Tvtp1kvjxjiYrWFmVjsQ1kR-lh8eMxIaMzwOiymxZT0ZRdDoXStzq8i2jcpgBfzTX_KCVM_wGpFZdMbxXk_ozU_4sykpm_dQBryLG-0UH6xH2gCvSh2Dvz54xQ4f7BiB24/s1600/dog+trough.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWKnqJm4EY98Tvtp1kvjxjiYrWFmVjsQ1kR-lh8eMxIaMzwOiymxZT0ZRdDoXStzq8i2jcpgBfzTX_KCVM_wGpFZdMbxXk_ozU_4sykpm_dQBryLG-0UH6xH2gCvSh2Dvz54xQ4f7BiB24/s320/dog+trough.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dogs at the trough. Note almost all of them are Tibetan Mastiffs mixed with<br />something else, except that cute little tan puppy wedging himself between two others.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nyengda had arranged to film a performance of a traditional dance which wasn't normally done during the summer, but the dancers obliged so he could film them for his promotional materials. Vigorous and athletic, it looked to me to be a dance about the Megoi, but we were told that it was the Iron Bridge Dance (the Bhutanese have a real fascination for bridges which makes sense in a country with so many rivers to cross) about a spirit who threatens to sabotage the construction of a bridge, but a powerful lama stops him (or something like that). The rain had begun long before, so the dancers were stamping and spinning in huge muddy puddles, splashing their audience and each other. Best of all, a young boy in pink overalls stood behind the dancers and accurately mimicked every step, hand gesture, and facial expression of the middle dancer; the boy's level of concentration, accuracy and sheer joy was more engaging than the dance itself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyQXhW42iNJIMUaK_DcMFvthCmFhTTWMK9cGu1lQiR_WJvrryKxXurPuLHXq8yXDE3oABRd6TIbXykXH3U8erUMbCHU-lIfZIfSZ7h7SZ7UeYXdOhl5-NFBycUh4rb89rZzOZOG4Kor6K/s1600/dancers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyQXhW42iNJIMUaK_DcMFvthCmFhTTWMK9cGu1lQiR_WJvrryKxXurPuLHXq8yXDE3oABRd6TIbXykXH3U8erUMbCHU-lIfZIfSZ7h7SZ7UeYXdOhl5-NFBycUh4rb89rZzOZOG4Kor6K/s400/dancers.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Iron Bridge Dance</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aZV3GfkPojL2Zhfv-TSs2BKH9aM1OU1-ZphyphenhyphenD8OFfJdVc0TSfpWJ-6hfPXzAZ_hvMyLmObP1ISZB_Ko_8ox-mACH0TAnlrxqChDdp0yKUCWM7_G4UJNei6tLj7GCH3pEwq5v4aQkcOxq/s1600/pink+coveralls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aZV3GfkPojL2Zhfv-TSs2BKH9aM1OU1-ZphyphenhyphenD8OFfJdVc0TSfpWJ-6hfPXzAZ_hvMyLmObP1ISZB_Ko_8ox-mACH0TAnlrxqChDdp0yKUCWM7_G4UJNei6tLj7GCH3pEwq5v4aQkcOxq/s320/pink+coveralls.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Boy imitating the central dancer</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LUSjYpQV3BiJHeUdScTM5x0frjR3Vg0I3lan90lKAVF4K6AG_SDgyQtsfNaMtyAa8exsX9gF62fxSlmjiWe28dO5adJCh1EdbmPXtf78v6DwD1ru_wCZMCwHvt7if1UYmbbsIt5RbMLF/s1600/snowman+dancer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LUSjYpQV3BiJHeUdScTM5x0frjR3Vg0I3lan90lKAVF4K6AG_SDgyQtsfNaMtyAa8exsX9gF62fxSlmjiWe28dO5adJCh1EdbmPXtf78v6DwD1ru_wCZMCwHvt7if1UYmbbsIt5RbMLF/s640/snowman+dancer.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKlLnqJlUeEDyy6vEr-W_8VMZ5P-kwNjaGy71qrmjkvvl-T8Z8R48TViAmmaaflv7zSTZrRQr_BTc3y-RNVd4BzM8gddGvHy_Llyd0XZzI7imoyqigkkdlxqzEiwNre_KNn5GaWPHF1TD/s1600/audience.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKlLnqJlUeEDyy6vEr-W_8VMZ5P-kwNjaGy71qrmjkvvl-T8Z8R48TViAmmaaflv7zSTZrRQr_BTc3y-RNVd4BzM8gddGvHy_Llyd0XZzI7imoyqigkkdlxqzEiwNre_KNn5GaWPHF1TD/s320/audience.JPG" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Merak Brokpas watching under protection from the rain</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After the performance, Brick and wandered down to the school where local students home from boarding school and college were practicing traditional Bhutanese dances for a cultural program they were planning to put on for their parents the next night. We passed a woman washing saag (greens) in a public tap and bought some from her, and some potatoes from one of the two shops in Merak for our dinner. The shop was dark, lighted by one dirty window, and was recognizable as a store only because of the huge pile of Druk 11000 bottles stacked outside. Both shops sold the same items: Wai Wai noodles, incense, crackers, toothpaste, mango juice and beer--the basics. Everything else is grown or made in Merak: their clothes, saddles, ropes, furniture (there is almost none), cheese, butter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a surprisingly satisfying meal of Wai Wai noodles augmented by the potatoes and greens we had bought, Brick and I sat by our Bukhari as night fell. We would be leaving early in the morning with Nyengda, Sonam and Thinley for Sakteng. They had hired horses to carry their gear; we decided it was a good idea and so hired a horse of our own to carry my pack in which Brick would put the heavy items from his pack. Though the 9 hour hike to Sakteng would take us over Nyuksangla at 14,ooo feet, I was sanguine about hiking without a pack, rain or shine. But I was sorry to have say goodbye to Merak.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYYYON4X16Ac07iT9VeILN6TTyOjGplfhVG6J53x1FivIYHlEQYLo37wSLHqb_Q29ZeCsEUruKbb6YmzWg5BEfbxB0JtbK-JqnLPSs6MWNENn5y8A4n1iFhHEBYXbTgf4CS7XqnoCyZn-/s1600/puppy+out+of+the+rain.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYYYON4X16Ac07iT9VeILN6TTyOjGplfhVG6J53x1FivIYHlEQYLo37wSLHqb_Q29ZeCsEUruKbb6YmzWg5BEfbxB0JtbK-JqnLPSs6MWNENn5y8A4n1iFhHEBYXbTgf4CS7XqnoCyZn-/s400/puppy+out+of+the+rain.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anomalous tan puppy in Merak trying to stay dry.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</span></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-82839221323192424762013-08-04T10:24:00.001-07:002013-08-06T07:26:32.934-07:00What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Phongmey to Merak, Day 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As every
student's speech in Bhutan begins with a quotation (or a "thought
for the day") which has absolutely no relevance to their speech,
here is an introductory quotation for this posting:</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"Tourists
don't know where they've been. Travelers don't know where they are
going."</i> --Paul Theroux</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But this is
relevant.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When my
friend Brick Root and I began talking about spending our abridged
summer break in eastern Bhutan, I had an inchoate notion about where
we might go. I'd heard it was wet, it was remote, it was too far, it
was rife with hideous leeches and, most compelling, it was "the
real Bhutan." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Punakha is somewhat derisively referred to as
"the city" by my eastern compatriots. There are paved
roads; a hospital; restaurants; and, most coveted of all, internet
access. But to those from the west, Punakha is hardly a city. It
has all those things, for sure, but it is still a large village
surrounded by rice paddies where cows sleep in the streets and
chickens come in one's front door. That doesn't happen in New York.
Not often, anyway.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thus, the
thought of somewhere even further removed from what we've come to call
civilization was very appealing, and Brick and I decided we would
head east after our retreat in Bumthang and go as far as time and
weather and roads (which are often blocked by landslides and flash
floods) would permit.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The dzonkhag
of Tashigang is the farthest east one can get and still be in Bhutan;
it shares a border with Arunchal Pradesh, now part of India but not
too long ago a kingdom in its own right that was traditionally
considered by China to be "Southern Tibet." Indeed, the
sixth Dalai Lama was born in Tawang, the area just on the other side
of the of the Merak-Sakteng Wildlife Sanctuary. This preserve was
established in 2003 to maintain wildlife and botanical diversity, but
also to protect the habitat of the Migoi, better known in the west as
the Abominable Snowman. Really. It was at first opened to tourists
but then closed almost immediately. It has just recently been
reopened for tourism, so very few westerners have been there. This
was where we decided to go.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a
two-day taxi ride from Bumthang through Mongar and into Tashigang
(for western travelers, taxis are an affordable form of
transportation but they are too expensive for most Bhutanese who take
the crammed, cheap buses I wrote about in my Phobjika entry), we rode
the last leg of the long journey without incident, over mountain
passes that were blanketed in impenetrable mist, along pitted,
tooth-rattling roads, and into the city of Tashigang. Tashigang is
the most populous of all the dzongkhags in Bhutan, which seems
counter-intuitive since Punakha and Thimphu, the capital, are both in
western Bhutan. It didn't appear to be populous: we walked around
the entire town in about fifteen minutes. Apparently, most of the
population is in the villages which are larger than those of the rest
of Bhutan, and Sherubtse College, the oldest college in the country,
is there as well, adding to the state's numbers. After a night at
the KC Hotel, highly recommended by our eastern BCF colleagues, we
headed for Phongmey, a tiny town virtually at the end of the
west-east road. BCF teacher Becky Story is a teacher there, and she
kindly offered us her "mouldy hut", as she calls it, for
the nights before and after our trip into the Merak-Sakteng reserve.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We arrived
there in a driving rain that threatened to cut off access to the
town. When it rains in Phongmey, the road, which goes right <i>through</i>
a river (not <i>over</i> it), is flooded, in which case one has to
climb into a metal cage suspended on a cable and pull oneself
hand-over-hand from one side of a very steep gorge cut by the
torrential river to the other. I was secretly hoping we would have
to do this, but, alas, the road was navigable, though just barely.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pIahlrWj7aIVYURI3JpQ0F2UjVqpYfQWBcHhVhWNcexDz52qbrXjXDdh1q3xiagi4K47rcPewxpExi-Fbi5aldFcLV8OqbK9rOEamJ2j5sNSnD6UHABeN-jWlf78B9JPmfm6ilqTVMhB/s1600/able.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3pIahlrWj7aIVYURI3JpQ0F2UjVqpYfQWBcHhVhWNcexDz52qbrXjXDdh1q3xiagi4K47rcPewxpExi-Fbi5aldFcLV8OqbK9rOEamJ2j5sNSnD6UHABeN-jWlf78B9JPmfm6ilqTVMhB/s640/able.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you look very carefully, hanging over the river--which is in the middle of the road--is the cable car <br />(it is painted yellow)</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6XeLDJjSaj8l_cgW9wi4kL3NEA4StZVXUKA9SEsOW8JlYhYvbs3yya59R7AaUytMG4aa2b3Nc7JGEi6IfkWlgxBN6Lx1TQr5STUTBLgFAzD6dzxXxDvgtqfPKXVFQjECs4XCAXc3_XWD/s1600/crossing+the+river+into+PM.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6XeLDJjSaj8l_cgW9wi4kL3NEA4StZVXUKA9SEsOW8JlYhYvbs3yya59R7AaUytMG4aa2b3Nc7JGEi6IfkWlgxBN6Lx1TQr5STUTBLgFAzD6dzxXxDvgtqfPKXVFQjECs4XCAXc3_XWD/s400/crossing+the+river+into+PM.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A car crossing the river in the road from Phongmey</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><u>DAY 1:
From Phongmey to Merak, July 5</u></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><u><br /></u></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we woke
in Becky's sodden concrete-block house, it was still raining. Hard.
Through the local high school Vice Principal, we had managed to
arrange to have a high school student, whose brother lived in Merak, guide us.
Sangay Tshering, 15, arrived at 6:30 am, an hour earlier than we'd
planned, dressed in flip-flops, track pants, and a thin sweatshirt,
carrying a small bookbag. I sheepishly crammed my fancy backpack
with layers of fleece, a sleeping bag and pad, some Wai Wai noodles
(ramen) and Oreos, extra water, toiletries, and an umbrella, all of
which, when compared with Sangay's spartan accoutrements, made me
feel like I was wearing a diamond tiara to a mud wrestling
competition.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I admit I
was reluctant to embark on this crazy adventure: it was pouring; I am
sensitive to altitude and on day two we would be hiking from 3000
feet to 14,000 feet in one day; there was no map (maps are uncommon
in Bhutan); and our guide was a bashful 15 year old I'd never met who
spoke only a few words of English. But what the heck, you only live
once.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So we went.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Almost
immediately, the trail--actually, a dirt footpath made by cow-herders
and farmers to avoid walking on the rutted, rock-strewn unpaved
roads--became vertical. In the driving rain, the path was like
potter's slip, covering our boots and making our footing unreliable.
Sangay marched confidently up in his flip flops as though he were on
concrete, stopping every once in a while so we could catch up (we
came to covet his flip-flops: he easily and frequently stopped and
washed off the mud, and wet flip flops dry almost instantly. Hiking boots don't).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The path
crossed the road every now again, and after about a half hour of steady climbing, I heard a tractor coming up the road. Tractors
in Bhutan aren't like tractors in the States. They are actually
motors with a seat to which one can attach a trailer for carrying
goods or people, or a roto-tiller, which is what they are most
commonly used for. At the wheel was a jolly, bearded farmer and in
the attached trailer was his young daughter; both were going up the
mountain to check on his workers in the fields. Neither seemed a bit
affected by the rain or by the horrific condition of the road. He
gestured to us to hop in, so we did, and what ensued was a hilarious
butt-bruising, slurry-soaked trip that nearly catapulted each of us
off into the road. We had to get out twice to push the tractor out
of the mud, but we eventually made it to his farm. He told Sangay in
Sharchop (easterners do not speak Dzongkha) that we were invited in
for tea, but we demurred, eager to keep the momentum going. We bid
him a warm and appreciative farewell.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We hiked up
and up, banked by orchids and rhododendrons, plucking leeches off one
another, my boots full of water. After three hours, soaked to the
skin, hungry and tired, we came to Kharbaling, the first village we'd
encountered which is, according to trekking websites (hikers beware!), the site of a
guesthouse and a recommended overnight stop. Fog and mist drifted
eerily, obscuring any view, making it impossible to see if there were
even any houses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-w3wa_GRFcpFSilRCHrhzMt77DJPDmn6R0950jk0ciXDKhgf3cfwgOzwmbneQIoHcFBkAV8zrTAx4_SBqk65qf_v9GA5fKeTzpZIiMcZu-CcrAGr8M_qqhmQlaK-VHIZ-XLzMN6D9lPAh/s1600/karbaling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-w3wa_GRFcpFSilRCHrhzMt77DJPDmn6R0950jk0ciXDKhgf3cfwgOzwmbneQIoHcFBkAV8zrTAx4_SBqk65qf_v9GA5fKeTzpZIiMcZu-CcrAGr8M_qqhmQlaK-VHIZ-XLzMN6D9lPAh/s640/karbaling.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karbaling</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp19f1JrIDLIC5Ux_UxUvUKXyx7ZwGJ8-M3maC2Xt3H7oPGikpPeODYrl5rLGD5k4WscBFRmNC9PE4sH2128zPHNBh-nwQsofH5M_tzO19NdtcC-lCM-IyxIAOTq5kb_-NXnO6A7BwaBzt/s1600/me+and+sang+in+karbin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp19f1JrIDLIC5Ux_UxUvUKXyx7ZwGJ8-M3maC2Xt3H7oPGikpPeODYrl5rLGD5k4WscBFRmNC9PE4sH2128zPHNBh-nwQsofH5M_tzO19NdtcC-lCM-IyxIAOTq5kb_-NXnO6A7BwaBzt/s400/me+and+sang+in+karbin.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In Karbaling. Sangay had changed into his gho to make hiking in mud easier.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sangay assured us there was a big house and we
could ask there for shelter while we ate lunch. We literally
stumbled across a deserted one room stone house where a skinny cat
yowled and ran. Sangay found the 'big house', but it too was
deserted. The guesthouse was ramshackle and locked tight; its roofed
porch, where we decided to huddle, was covered in animal dung. We
scraped away enough pooh to sit and have a lunch of hard boiled eggs,
carrots and cheese and crackers. And then we pushed on. Up and up.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The rain
began to abate, thank the gods, and the path became rockier and
wider. A dilapidated wooden gate marked some sort of dividing line
between the upward hike and a blessedly less steep trail.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAptn0lSTFchAxLeKzyJq5AU-w2_p834HGJmGzPYoqRGmHBWw1okc27vrER7-PSoMk_vAjmZIpzJ5kzH87Mm4EbTmtOBqyvUMdQsand4a-fvm0oDOh6cxLCFo1ko2wVBpRGdJTsHjwfvjN/s1600/gate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAptn0lSTFchAxLeKzyJq5AU-w2_p834HGJmGzPYoqRGmHBWw1okc27vrER7-PSoMk_vAjmZIpzJ5kzH87Mm4EbTmtOBqyvUMdQsand4a-fvm0oDOh6cxLCFo1ko2wVBpRGdJTsHjwfvjN/s400/gate.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mysterious gate</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Huddled
under a tree, drinking cheap Bhutanese rum was a man with a rainbow
umbrella and a pack horse. Sangay addressed him in Sharchop but the
man was a mute; he grinned and gestured and somehow Sangay understood
everything he 'said.' He and his horse became part of our bedraggled
convoy and he and Sangay kept each other company all the way to
Merak.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAEFR0nf-RyX0dIWQU2vwqVsTvO5xh7N8lbontRk_DMgKc-M8DxCWJeHEDAzPRuWXCiZXfTtlq7oIuP9YYmJD3lcW6cBxZ-6e2MQhiqAnhY8LGedBjV6nsnniesIZx_ZLgZmI4ar_5_oM/s1600/mute.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvAEFR0nf-RyX0dIWQU2vwqVsTvO5xh7N8lbontRk_DMgKc-M8DxCWJeHEDAzPRuWXCiZXfTtlq7oIuP9YYmJD3lcW6cBxZ-6e2MQhiqAnhY8LGedBjV6nsnniesIZx_ZLgZmI4ar_5_oM/s320/mute.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our silent companion</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eventually,
the trail wound around until it paralleled the sometimes wide river valley of the Dongme Chhu. Here,
finally, we came across the official sign for the Merak-Sakteng
Wildlife Sanctuary.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Hz0CgOJm7owUOsYHOvOGa1QvUsY-_TkKxvLudZiv6ykl2Eejn9UZFgv-MQt1lbJoTteiVQ-VdY-dhKhOQDCGoG9OuSdQtvCkmoBcHB1iGFHbYQu4Z4qZb61P7XXfMlccgqq_HJ7zOU5x/s1600/brick+and+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Hz0CgOJm7owUOsYHOvOGa1QvUsY-_TkKxvLudZiv6ykl2Eejn9UZFgv-MQt1lbJoTteiVQ-VdY-dhKhOQDCGoG9OuSdQtvCkmoBcHB1iGFHbYQu4Z4qZb61P7XXfMlccgqq_HJ7zOU5x/s320/brick+and+sign.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brick at the "entrance" to the Sanctuary. I don't think very many people,<br />other than locals, have seen this sign. It reads: "Welcome to<br />Sakteng Wildlife Sanctuary. Entering to (Migoe) Bigfoot Valley"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfjojERpA6w_lc5QtPFXCcF_6bp0ClhjhtJxqkcsxDvGD-LBKLecAGiLqnDw3mJNaXDRQg7b_H4Byj5taTX9d5v_P-1rQjNFj-M9TxWbvXUIulW0FtUUcQ1_HQUQTmhLDA-C8Dun_nMio/s1600/river+near+paintings.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfjojERpA6w_lc5QtPFXCcF_6bp0ClhjhtJxqkcsxDvGD-LBKLecAGiLqnDw3mJNaXDRQg7b_H4Byj5taTX9d5v_P-1rQjNFj-M9TxWbvXUIulW0FtUUcQ1_HQUQTmhLDA-C8Dun_nMio/s640/river+near+paintings.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The trail paralleled the Dongme Chhu (or Damnongchhu) for many kilometers.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span id="goog_772773462"></span><span id="goog_772773463"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Beyond that point, the landscape changed and
the hiking became more like walking and the rain stopped. Then,
unaccountably, there by the riverside in what felt to us like the
middle of nowhere, someone had painted stunning, detailed portraits
of the Buddha, Guru Rinpoche and Chenrezig, the emanation of
compassion. The paintings weren't quite completed; the staging the
painter was using was still there, as were some of his tools. At the
edge of the river, the painter had erected a rude shelter with a tarp
and some branches, the floor strewn with juniper boughs (burned by
Buddhists as offerings) and we sat under the tarp to appreciate his
art. I would have been content to sit there for a long while; my
back and shoulders were knotting up miserably and I couldn't adjust
the pack to fit better--but Brick was anxious to get moving: the sun
was beginning to sink behind the mountains, so we continued on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmABAcrmsx7LcAX1-5UIGNJulTnbJnMWRY4ttWoFlwQl6m-WqcWvvrGP8M97puCkVZ8Iz0hPLqw7salPt9jIpqjHb0myAj1I363YmxbdrXT137wYCSA2MX5UnLreTB7lFc-9wFIzNZbJO/s1600/paintings.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmABAcrmsx7LcAX1-5UIGNJulTnbJnMWRY4ttWoFlwQl6m-WqcWvvrGP8M97puCkVZ8Iz0hPLqw7salPt9jIpqjHb0myAj1I363YmxbdrXT137wYCSA2MX5UnLreTB7lFc-9wFIzNZbJO/s640/paintings.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sangay
insisted we were getting close to Merak, but in Bhutan "close"
and other references to distance have little meaning, so we didn't
give credence to his assurances. We came across a man in bright blue
gumboots carrying an empty bamboo basket that most farmers use to
carry everything from cattle feed to manure (carrying an empty basket
is considered bad luck; maybe he had something in the bottom of it because after we met him, our luck improved markedly). He also joined our parade, chatting now and
again with Sangay and the mute man with the horse and smiling at me
and Brick in that warm, welcoming way Bhutanese smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Somehow, we
came to a point where Sangay knew we were only 6 kilometers from
Merak. As our shadows lengthened ominously and my back screamed in
pain and my energy flagged, I asked the mute man if I could put my
pack on his horse for the last leg of our trek. Sangay negotiated,
and in the end, the man with the blue boots took my pack, affording
me indescribable relief. The sun, hidden for the ten hours we'd been
hiking, suddenly emerged from the mist, warming our soggy bones for
the first time in days.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We entered a
tiny village called Gangu, and off in the distance in a wide,
treeless expanse hanging off the side of the mountain, we could see
Merak.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kjDgV13hlQBwBRoZmgf4Gi8EKFzSnJFEJyU5Y5Mg9mdoI8Sxq6bMSohmVOx_eMHr3SoJO3bZCtaAONkkUEsxL_dzqJdX09UYOiYHp3ZBJkQj19YRbA7ruQpT1CBbJNfq7ynTH_FHxwE0/s1600/the+convoy+at+gangu.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kjDgV13hlQBwBRoZmgf4Gi8EKFzSnJFEJyU5Y5Mg9mdoI8Sxq6bMSohmVOx_eMHr3SoJO3bZCtaAONkkUEsxL_dzqJdX09UYOiYHp3ZBJkQj19YRbA7ruQpT1CBbJNfq7ynTH_FHxwE0/s320/the+convoy+at+gangu.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The whole group (except Brick; he took the photo) <br />and a local at Gangu.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this
point, even Sangay and Brick admitted they were spent, but the
promise of a place to rest and eat and sleep pushed us forward. We
stopped at the first building we came to, a brand new community
center built by the Swiss government just below the Gup's office and
said goodbye to our friends. I tried to give the man who carried
my pack some money, but he shooed it away, bowed slightly, and
disappeared. The man with the horse headed for home. We were hoping
to ask the Gup (the local village leader) about how to get a bed in
the government guesthouse we'd heard about, but the Gup was not in
his office. A young man in the community center, a brash, serious
college student home for summer break, assured us that the guesthouse
caretaker was not available, so we'd have to find somewhere else to
sleep. Bone-tired, we asked the young man where we would find the
Principal of the local primary school. Since we are teachers, school
administrators are a reliable source of information and assistance
all over Bhutan, so we were relieved when the young man pointed to
the archery range and said that the man in the black jacket was the
Principal.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPGEDpBvRj-99jW5ajmsf8M7AOTM73Ys2Z2xS4VplzeDx03IarOyiYOohy7NsOvDFEbVIhr29OHeLQtRUsZTyQ-3pS5iGhO5Ma9DbWXkR2tc6mCcjmRp-Xtc7RhX2YERY35aoHCCWpL87/s1600/entering+merak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPGEDpBvRj-99jW5ajmsf8M7AOTM73Ys2Z2xS4VplzeDx03IarOyiYOohy7NsOvDFEbVIhr29OHeLQtRUsZTyQ-3pS5iGhO5Ma9DbWXkR2tc6mCcjmRp-Xtc7RhX2YERY35aoHCCWpL87/s400/entering+merak.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Entering Merak. It is said that one of the stones on the <br />path into Merak is where Aum Jomo, the local deity, <br />stopped to rest and left the print of her vagina<br />on the rock.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tMcyvILM8kC-yx2EAvQ8qcjmP9juc2ntacF7fiZWUiAAYQJUcHIxLJDQ8LFX6LgcxrheXrLdgw5cN9vTOIhxyndJTrgBrZsXp3sMfK-QMmYqk-BhruiV3BUqxGF4l4ZrdMKYH6WtY-16/s1600/archery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tMcyvILM8kC-yx2EAvQ8qcjmP9juc2ntacF7fiZWUiAAYQJUcHIxLJDQ8LFX6LgcxrheXrLdgw5cN9vTOIhxyndJTrgBrZsXp3sMfK-QMmYqk-BhruiV3BUqxGF4l4ZrdMKYH6WtY-16/s400/archery.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The sun came out at the edge of Merak.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brick went
to talk to him as Sangay and I rested, and when he returned we had a
place to sleep: the floor of a classroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11pnMcbOeq-IG-vgpQEYFFjye2SjRvqjUP8wgR_iKHwlaK_zeH-LApATRAy2D1wzAtCZHGTE7WW8wYgAQbCBv957Cy61lEPCyIhHXjJL_oCMiJX9IiVOQCFyRdxTBWhauzO8ZQ1OIrsum/s1600/classroom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg11pnMcbOeq-IG-vgpQEYFFjye2SjRvqjUP8wgR_iKHwlaK_zeH-LApATRAy2D1wzAtCZHGTE7WW8wYgAQbCBv957Cy61lEPCyIhHXjJL_oCMiJX9IiVOQCFyRdxTBWhauzO8ZQ1OIrsum/s320/classroom.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First night's lodging. Sangay went to stay with his brother.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The Principal also told us
that after we stashed our gear we should come to his house to get a
water boiler so we could heat our noodles. When we got to his house,
warmed by the fire in his Bukhari, essentially a wood stove vented
through the ceiling, he took pity on us and had his wife and niece
feed us eggs cooked in at least eight tablespoons of butter, saag,
rice, tea, and, for Brick, a form of Batu, or meat soup with homemade
noodles. We could barely keep our eyes open seated by the warm, dry
fire with full bellies. It was splendid.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We went to
sleep at 9:30 with a plan to spend the following day exploring Merak.
Blessedly, as we nodded off, there was no sound of rain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUt_MfNFxVKYjq6wImMNm1cuHcZ5Bq30gjb1HRXwTm7oAgU5X6DqHxotR3S7zTVlBGf8p_FaoZxuc242OESFCyFnhrr9z46CXBrAk_L0cSUAp1T_djVh4sFUCSF-qaQwQPhi1XLtsSPYv/s1600/pacj+horses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUt_MfNFxVKYjq6wImMNm1cuHcZ5Bq30gjb1HRXwTm7oAgU5X6DqHxotR3S7zTVlBGf8p_FaoZxuc242OESFCyFnhrr9z46CXBrAk_L0cSUAp1T_djVh4sFUCSF-qaQwQPhi1XLtsSPYv/s400/pacj+horses.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A train of pack horses from Tashigang entering Merak. All goods<br />have to be packed in except what can be grown or made in Merak.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrxhvdpgoDMXB1vFmBrCjkeZCp1_1fngXROklmW8vsTo8-YkdBuTl1n1ZUqfpbl9ANti3_uG2wcqhRs9KDcRxQ4EBuBxEgfM83E2IZR0WwELJk_bNvj0RalilY32ya6dZZYVzErvcmO3t/s1600/me+and+brick+wet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrxhvdpgoDMXB1vFmBrCjkeZCp1_1fngXROklmW8vsTo8-YkdBuTl1n1ZUqfpbl9ANti3_uG2wcqhRs9KDcRxQ4EBuBxEgfM83E2IZR0WwELJk_bNvj0RalilY32ya6dZZYVzErvcmO3t/s640/me+and+brick+wet.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Me and Brick. Very wet.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-72631366399902625282013-07-25T09:02:00.002-07:002013-07-26T09:15:00.834-07:00What I Did On My Summer Vacation, Part I: Chamkar & Tang, Bumthang<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Bhutan's
history is peopled with foreigners who have had a lasting effect on
the culture here. Canadian Jesuits are responsible for bringing
public education to all of Bhutan beginning with Sherubtse College in
the far eastern dzongkhag of Tashigang; the Swiss, happily, brought
cheese and imported Jersey cows and established bakeries in Bumthang,
now known as 'the Switzerland of Bhutan" for its wide, green
river valleys surrounded by rolling, misty mountains. Buckwheat is
the main crop, versus wheat, rice and maize in other parts of the
country. The cows surely help define the landscape: honey colored
bovines bred for their fatty milk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWscLidlL2Z2VoAMj_NzLERZmw_JEuNFkp_6pmJHCAPFUGsxzBQB9YsNRw-NE-TZwllIjPC_gJAiqTzD9WhwsgtSLfvOSVI7yI85rqJIWA9rUc3YFLIPmOqmJoibBGLA9n0GMi8_1sJRMV/s1600/Tang+Valley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWscLidlL2Z2VoAMj_NzLERZmw_JEuNFkp_6pmJHCAPFUGsxzBQB9YsNRw-NE-TZwllIjPC_gJAiqTzD9WhwsgtSLfvOSVI7yI85rqJIWA9rUc3YFLIPmOqmJoibBGLA9n0GMi8_1sJRMV/s640/Tang+Valley.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Tang Valley in central Bumthang</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8wY8WAK3CuJrJN4Kz6qC8p7NXoINdNAjlhERYwEBzZKow24P2YBTYI6CcMBsdnso20Lu9G0IPOp9hsg2zqO4gad1MUIFjDrWe3ur51bzFWLEtdgaOI18RUFU4kHH0cLsMxO7brdONjIA/s1600/06_cheese-800x532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8wY8WAK3CuJrJN4Kz6qC8p7NXoINdNAjlhERYwEBzZKow24P2YBTYI6CcMBsdnso20Lu9G0IPOp9hsg2zqO4gad1MUIFjDrWe3ur51bzFWLEtdgaOI18RUFU4kHH0cLsMxO7brdONjIA/s200/06_cheese-800x532.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rounds of Bumthang gouda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">How
grateful were we Bhutan Canada Foundation teachers, after two weeks
of invigilating (proctoring) and scoring exams, to be whisked away for a three
day retreat in Chamkar, Bumthang? We were coddled at the River Lodge,
a small European style hotel near the Bumthang Dzong just down the
road from Tharpaling Monastery, one of the most important Nyingma
monasteries in Bhutan. On our arrival, we were greeted with gin and
tonics with ICE, wine, cheese and salami and crackers--all provided
by BCFs friend and former BCF teacher Mark Laprarie, now the World
Bank rep in Bhutan. We danced the night away, keeping the three
hapless hotel employees awake far past their bedtime. It was the
first time the two groups of BCF teachers--those from the east and
those from the west--had seen one another since our orientation in
Thimphu in January. It was a very happy reunion, followed by hot
showers (oh, how we love hot showers!) and comfortable beds. A
delicious beginning to three days of sight-seeing and reflection on
our Bhutan experience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dngKyAioF5kRtX2WpfhlMoAb9NoJflBDWTuAepD97l6ea96SLFMZneKzahbrmZZGcXJObwYoq38S5CoOzSsveLy9GhNGqR9bnCu6eSvdYq0rzG8rRxGCJGjR25ASdPOVpeRCXF_9Rh2M/s1600/River+Lodge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dngKyAioF5kRtX2WpfhlMoAb9NoJflBDWTuAepD97l6ea96SLFMZneKzahbrmZZGcXJObwYoq38S5CoOzSsveLy9GhNGqR9bnCu6eSvdYq0rzG8rRxGCJGjR25ASdPOVpeRCXF_9Rh2M/s320/River+Lodge.JPG" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The River Lodge</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Early the
following morning, we were driven to the Tang Valley, said to be the
most beautiful of all the valleys in Bhutan. On the way, we stopped to visit the
sacred Merab Tsho, or Burning Lake, visited by pilgrims from all over
Bhutan. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BzHCRFO7pXR3ZH6cLK1GDRRP91Bg8AX9HKrhWovXTWEoXC0Q73fBN33l0ncVXrRlOPy_vJxDONj1eLSt0jNk5NSF6fGAVLKkhvTHN0mBegzRORuaXy2ouzipWSaBHRFqUNzvLhA9Tx3a/s1600/Mebar+Tsho.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BzHCRFO7pXR3ZH6cLK1GDRRP91Bg8AX9HKrhWovXTWEoXC0Q73fBN33l0ncVXrRlOPy_vJxDONj1eLSt0jNk5NSF6fGAVLKkhvTHN0mBegzRORuaXy2ouzipWSaBHRFqUNzvLhA9Tx3a/s320/Mebar+Tsho.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGCD5xffRGyL8ezSPyydRDpy7seQjGgZnLfSPUBz3EEBflCIK8WXnBD7_ISG18xG9upjkpXg46k4vQzlsc2TMXs5fdD2Lxfr172WEodn1iDF8wqlKFdnx14X5btDiMnxV7ET4OTAhx7cq/s1600/Heath.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGCD5xffRGyL8ezSPyydRDpy7seQjGgZnLfSPUBz3EEBflCIK8WXnBD7_ISG18xG9upjkpXg46k4vQzlsc2TMXs5fdD2Lxfr172WEodn1iDF8wqlKFdnx14X5btDiMnxV7ET4OTAhx7cq/s320/Heath.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Heather Robertson crossing the bridge to the lake</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGq7SQe_UAHjYDoWvXXDFZm86IyaI0OBHqy0SIz79u1B4MYur4rrJGf84IGkh9qe7iLiJ2y83edeBeydRR_xsISMT5t5WKGv3UVW24PQhjaX1QL4qXS22KG89_HQuWNxYVA9lPbcjBLyh5/s1600/Senge+at+MT.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGq7SQe_UAHjYDoWvXXDFZm86IyaI0OBHqy0SIz79u1B4MYur4rrJGf84IGkh9qe7iLiJ2y83edeBeydRR_xsISMT5t5WKGv3UVW24PQhjaX1QL4qXS22KG89_HQuWNxYVA9lPbcjBLyh5/s640/Senge+at+MT.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Senge La meditating by Mebar Tsho</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">We were headed to Ugyen Choling, the preserved estate of one
of Bhutan's great religious and feudal families that is now a museum. It is also the
home of Kunzang Choden, a highly respected author and historian. She
is a direct descendant of the original family that established the
estate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_MYn5gdYbOF_Apx-hggqFA49u_uPnYOCU9Bq517S7wP1_HAZooWaobNqu9SZNyu4EwJCc3eDXXVvqocFnJYRXk4ugqf_LonL9uClsCxXgyStGBzpjTi7zejfvU5Ltv9Ox6Rbe42zft3g/s1600/entry+to+UC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_MYn5gdYbOF_Apx-hggqFA49u_uPnYOCU9Bq517S7wP1_HAZooWaobNqu9SZNyu4EwJCc3eDXXVvqocFnJYRXk4ugqf_LonL9uClsCxXgyStGBzpjTi7zejfvU5Ltv9Ox6Rbe42zft3g/s320/entry+to+UC.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Entry to Ugyen Choling, looking into the courtyard</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmjqWGFA_LjedYfslh_0XkAQTk7r38Yu34jVQKbBZOhiJgykclrU5KjG8bhCxC6ZkVE3t475bg1z4MpRcXmNpIoorElxINJOGnGFfNGyUtm66HfGkXtME2Z3MqulKsrclmZUWTKzcCHne/s1600/KC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmjqWGFA_LjedYfslh_0XkAQTk7r38Yu34jVQKbBZOhiJgykclrU5KjG8bhCxC6ZkVE3t475bg1z4MpRcXmNpIoorElxINJOGnGFfNGyUtm66HfGkXtME2Z3MqulKsrclmZUWTKzcCHne/s320/KC.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Kunzang Choden, author, historian and <br />owner of Ugyen Choling</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AHwzr0AOzbI8yczbxUpxLMpdn7wc8QZAtUNYE472qA93j7XSFnKWTu4OTqe2KDi0u5T7DngEyjLbAX-ayC4EIX5b15p8rEpqyq5HrURuIB0PgoCe2eXqxsU0KUYlv77kSsWXatDZJMBJ/s1600/UC+side.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AHwzr0AOzbI8yczbxUpxLMpdn7wc8QZAtUNYE472qA93j7XSFnKWTu4OTqe2KDi0u5T7DngEyjLbAX-ayC4EIX5b15p8rEpqyq5HrURuIB0PgoCe2eXqxsU0KUYlv77kSsWXatDZJMBJ/s640/UC+side.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Main house from the side--the house is <br />too big to fit into one frame from the front</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The history
of Ugyen Choling is worth retelling. In the 1300s, one of the most
important Nyingma Buddhist rinpoches, Longchempa (rinpoche means
'precious one'; it is a title given to reincarnated high lamas, also
called Tulkus, or to very highly regarded Buddhist masters), built a
small retreat on the land that is now Ugyen Choling. A hundred years
later, one of his followers, Dorji Lingpa, also settled there and is
said to have discovered many significant Buddhist treasures in the
area (thus he is known as a Terton, one who discovers texts or
religious implements or sacred places that were deliberately hidden
by previous Buddhist masters for him or her to discover). He and his
descendants are credited with spreading Nyingma teachings throughout
Bhutan.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In the 19th
century, 15 generations removed from Dorji Lingpa, Trongsa Penlop
Tshoki Dorji built the house that still stands at the top of a hill
overlooking the Tang Valley. The villagers, who used to be the serfs
and servants for this family, still refer to the house respectfully
as "the dzong" and their families continue to populate the
small village just below the house.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When we
arrived at Ugyen Choling, Kunzang Choden herself welcomed us with an
introduction to the estate. We spent a few hours exploring the many
rooms that have been kept as they were in the 20th century (which to
western eyes look like the 15th century).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">On the
property is an impressive lakhang (temple) that is still used by the
villagers. Inside it, a very old, nearly blind monk was reciting
prayers as we prostrated to the three imposing statues of Guru
Rinpoche ("the second Buddha"), Buddha and Chenrezig, an
emanation of compassion. The artwork on the walls and the altar
seemed to me to be purely Tibetan in their artistic expression,
untouched by Chinese and Indian influence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbVu8luh27fnLDWIv-v9nmPlcAkpF7rtE8UNFJA1zy-s7QbkcWI7RenKbn_b9AWokPdd2ORM7PdsyJp9VpeuzzO5KFpw3Eiqkc1NllIQ_ovNlVRuw4nhFA74hO1Yfcvpwo6Uyn7FtzTbg/s1600/UC+Lakhang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbVu8luh27fnLDWIv-v9nmPlcAkpF7rtE8UNFJA1zy-s7QbkcWI7RenKbn_b9AWokPdd2ORM7PdsyJp9VpeuzzO5KFpw3Eiqkc1NllIQ_ovNlVRuw4nhFA74hO1Yfcvpwo6Uyn7FtzTbg/s320/UC+Lakhang.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Lakhang at Ugyen Choling</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3RLuHElHxtxtSk4-ZhosRWGnDEqYSTC3EHMh263vw9p8QPyVp_RHl9xJowv0EIM5mf9pdjcrnlJpMtt5ugEJnoaeMEmU19Fd593eKHIfKVGaAFnNLx-EmGwMSvJF3V1opeX_-nV2kSLs/s1600/printing+blocks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3RLuHElHxtxtSk4-ZhosRWGnDEqYSTC3EHMh263vw9p8QPyVp_RHl9xJowv0EIM5mf9pdjcrnlJpMtt5ugEJnoaeMEmU19Fd593eKHIfKVGaAFnNLx-EmGwMSvJF3V1opeX_-nV2kSLs/s320/printing+blocks.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blocks for printing the house's library books</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMn37QVHYRv12-AXLux9Vu73NYcE-TchR1sumJHTeH7AVJ64Q8-XqgvG-w2jkmzpzt12GH8ENoqXWEhqi1SnhwyEn_Z6MMpXfoS0nMsktXuWqRUotXJQxbBr8kGWYmIFZNbXxnqDm_p2tS/s1600/baskets.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMn37QVHYRv12-AXLux9Vu73NYcE-TchR1sumJHTeH7AVJ64Q8-XqgvG-w2jkmzpzt12GH8ENoqXWEhqi1SnhwyEn_Z6MMpXfoS0nMsktXuWqRUotXJQxbBr8kGWYmIFZNbXxnqDm_p2tS/s320/baskets.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A collection of hand made bamboo and hemp baskets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wEKWFK22RZu5yus1LC_QHr5m4gNzoQwPCOjEJL_HSsdhcUF0F8KHMTfjkUsKK8Bf6xrFYiSvY08EKyfg_oNaPJahTZ-Z57XjJFBplOTkttyzGT20qVq5NTvr8kUlJMu5U_itTdV0xwUM/s1600/books.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wEKWFK22RZu5yus1LC_QHr5m4gNzoQwPCOjEJL_HSsdhcUF0F8KHMTfjkUsKK8Bf6xrFYiSvY08EKyfg_oNaPJahTZ-Z57XjJFBplOTkttyzGT20qVq5NTvr8kUlJMu5U_itTdV0xwUM/s320/books.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A reading bench and seat. Religious books are still made this way--<br />
they are printed on both sides on long rectangles of hand made paper and<br />
then covered with cloth and tied with cotton rope.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx7ALPrT0RhoxLet8UIhVX7qcyyoBlwXkA1KjlGZmd5l5gQVFsxMwf6H7YA_YKFVC4QXlOmtJ2PL9GY8eF4LtLqn-z5BIQgVEiVy_3Ij0Wyp6Tj0AajefYDaQKzxLLJhOzTuDODLePMBy/s1600/masks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx7ALPrT0RhoxLet8UIhVX7qcyyoBlwXkA1KjlGZmd5l5gQVFsxMwf6H7YA_YKFVC4QXlOmtJ2PL9GY8eF4LtLqn-z5BIQgVEiVy_3Ij0Wyp6Tj0AajefYDaQKzxLLJhOzTuDODLePMBy/s640/masks.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The mask collection. These are ritual masks used in religious rites. These masks are very commonly used</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">today, and are made by hand by artisans trained at the National Institute for Zorig Chusum </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(the 13 Bhutanese Arts--google 'Zorig Chusum'; it is fascinating).</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhy1mUTV6aOohgh4cE3CyGSPpLu5zwiWBkT11gQJDM0m3UfP7QbmwF1zDGv778gX92b3ZODY6AOSC12IrUOf3yS6-2NHF-fClDwdrVO63XVBiTqZKnSEHQDUQbk2eM4EvQa26_PQeZhLO/s1600/shaker+box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhy1mUTV6aOohgh4cE3CyGSPpLu5zwiWBkT11gQJDM0m3UfP7QbmwF1zDGv778gX92b3ZODY6AOSC12IrUOf3yS6-2NHF-fClDwdrVO63XVBiTqZKnSEHQDUQbk2eM4EvQa26_PQeZhLO/s320/shaker+box.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Doesn't this look remarkably like a Shaker style box?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">After we
had all completed the tour of the estate, we were treated to an
impressive Bhutanese lunch in the yard overlooking the valley. We
ate piles of <i>khuley</i>, the heavy buckwheat pancakes slathered in
Bumthang butter the area is known for, potato curry, ema datse (of
course), and a number of other homemade Bumthang dishes. We posed
for a group picture in front of the family chorten, surrounded by
prayer flags.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHeqMCAKv5HtW83NILyDConc6otutxIV3dXlM7qPN3wqvMbFHNHuWhqKLY-GM4tA7fgrXJX35GAtJOtptyzZ2k8st8OTizSnORwYc5HpJOWcOhJwr7oNhJ1tSDjluLRi4hOOjd4Tg9aKf/s1600/matt+and+heath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHeqMCAKv5HtW83NILyDConc6otutxIV3dXlM7qPN3wqvMbFHNHuWhqKLY-GM4tA7fgrXJX35GAtJOtptyzZ2k8st8OTizSnORwYc5HpJOWcOhJwr7oNhJ1tSDjluLRi4hOOjd4Tg9aKf/s320/matt+and+heath.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Matt Stretton and Heather Robertson at lunch</span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRE3JGnUj2n7nXddj5FTQlGXrmHr8J0uciRcs01SdMllKzqFZ3IjPfn3wpHTEtS_91qIqSU-UdApgCZxlTeRGyxUpfcnrmeEl1cXtThI-3EVxUZT1nbxhtHNyURC0HG4YwEkSAEHtJMCGw/s1600/lunch+at+UC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRE3JGnUj2n7nXddj5FTQlGXrmHr8J0uciRcs01SdMllKzqFZ3IjPfn3wpHTEtS_91qIqSU-UdApgCZxlTeRGyxUpfcnrmeEl1cXtThI-3EVxUZT1nbxhtHNyURC0HG4YwEkSAEHtJMCGw/s640/lunch+at+UC.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lunch at Ugyen Choling</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxqu6GeFVptpJbhl9uHhgp1k4HRx8aroOkQEYyM3jbHSpXA_rqlbftdPjAJVJdUsmvB2SM7ZJlKOkYh4q9Dz_M_cV1J37jPY5iK3QhnCGmXHkF5QX_BjOBXLXhRdqnWnng1KQKX9ZVBAc/s1600/group.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxqu6GeFVptpJbhl9uHhgp1k4HRx8aroOkQEYyM3jbHSpXA_rqlbftdPjAJVJdUsmvB2SM7ZJlKOkYh4q9Dz_M_cV1J37jPY5iK3QhnCGmXHkF5QX_BjOBXLXhRdqnWnng1KQKX9ZVBAc/s320/group.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bhutan Canada Foundation contingent, 2013<br />
<br />
***</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The next
day, Matt Stretton, Lucy Hopkins, Bob Chisholm (all Aussies), Senge
(U.K.) and I hiked from Chamkar to the mountain ridge that parallels the Chumey Valley and then across to
Tharpaling Monastery. The trail was nearly vertical, topping off at
10,000 feet. Crazy Bob Chisholm, whose wife teaches in Bumthang, got
it into his head to be the first human to push a bicycle up to the
ridge and there is no reason to doubt that he was. He carried it down the other side to the beginning of the road at the gate to Tharpaling and rode it home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47bK7Cm0G6rfuBOp9kmMZW6GhuSC_G5CpgeSy3xBE7B4LTIaOyxiFN9IlcW3rtp1tq9WaitjH7G8wn0e1HLtn2eLU8pb5QPqXaeyvtTU5maDZbFsgskIEN2w3q0UglXyF10dIQuPlr6E3/s1600/In+Chamkar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47bK7Cm0G6rfuBOp9kmMZW6GhuSC_G5CpgeSy3xBE7B4LTIaOyxiFN9IlcW3rtp1tq9WaitjH7G8wn0e1HLtn2eLU8pb5QPqXaeyvtTU5maDZbFsgskIEN2w3q0UglXyF10dIQuPlr6E3/s400/In+Chamkar.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Matt, Senge, me and Lucy pre-hike</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XPKmy1c6x2ou92ALWv-9-X6MG1FhNic0jXs491hngpxuN_7_KzUuRAEpxsR-BGJpxP7Bqh1IHTVGodRpe7-XhzrDT57hDnStCxRFKAAYSI4YdO9rFPybzmdRQxFD8Gxxhgc8q0_QnDIi/s1600/heading+to+tharpaling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XPKmy1c6x2ou92ALWv-9-X6MG1FhNic0jXs491hngpxuN_7_KzUuRAEpxsR-BGJpxP7Bqh1IHTVGodRpe7-XhzrDT57hDnStCxRFKAAYSI4YdO9rFPybzmdRQxFD8Gxxhgc8q0_QnDIi/s400/heading+to+tharpaling.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's steep! (And there's Crazy Bob Chisholm with his bike!)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4TrtPX9tO4p9fJhQ3qtJaKHnFDt0_iXhFr5LDTGOg1zDEfLvcMxb_VuWKFOgQwI_2bGcZQONhvbJj671CN2LoFPAS8D-0ejwxsR9Fx4sOSeMc6N2T_8I327slHr8CXPkyG3uLQMKv0nW/s1600/moment+of+rest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4TrtPX9tO4p9fJhQ3qtJaKHnFDt0_iXhFr5LDTGOg1zDEfLvcMxb_VuWKFOgQwI_2bGcZQONhvbJj671CN2LoFPAS8D-0ejwxsR9Fx4sOSeMc6N2T_8I327slHr8CXPkyG3uLQMKv0nW/s400/moment+of+rest.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A moment to savor the view from the ridge</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUtoC2B86sNtFr0HrkKtQs9ic4bW3t4xUGtFPSSEtdG2b8X9UmbWKjUeCJWk5QWFuGourdvYMTPVkhz15lAN4kBUdHtaLTgOg0BQHjrZzeLou4oFLEdc8VVIIgB46KFgaDkEmbabAzl3F/s1600/Over+the+top.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUtoC2B86sNtFr0HrkKtQs9ic4bW3t4xUGtFPSSEtdG2b8X9UmbWKjUeCJWk5QWFuGourdvYMTPVkhz15lAN4kBUdHtaLTgOg0BQHjrZzeLou4oFLEdc8VVIIgB46KFgaDkEmbabAzl3F/s400/Over+the+top.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lucy goes over the top</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When we reached the prayer flags and the statue of Longchempa above Tharpaling, Bob's family and BCFer Heather Robertson and her
husband Rob, visiting from Canada, met us with a welcome picnic. We
all hiked down to the monastery together. The buildings are being renovated to provide more warmth in the winter; sitting in meditation for hours on end in the cold can take a toll on your average monk. [We left Senge at the monastery; his
summer vacation, after three days of partying with the BCF crew, was
spent meditating and "monkeying around" as he calls it, at
Tharpaling and Gangtey monasteries, two of the most important Nyingma
sites in Bhutan.]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZ2BTK7mFe62eU-XBQ4Y3jddji99pUlJvlqGS5xFNXF_Y4wPtVNo9JQMX2rQu0ve84oMnCSfaumoipuF-1QIRvs3eUjRsx5_MQbvc7MVanpgg_tJVGNVm27WQFcQY8mB8gxxDJ0au9biB/s1600/tharpaling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZ2BTK7mFe62eU-XBQ4Y3jddji99pUlJvlqGS5xFNXF_Y4wPtVNo9JQMX2rQu0ve84oMnCSfaumoipuF-1QIRvs3eUjRsx5_MQbvc7MVanpgg_tJVGNVm27WQFcQY8mB8gxxDJ0au9biB/s400/tharpaling.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tharpaling Monastery <br />(I did not take this picture)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b>A note
about Nyingma Buddhism</b>: There are four 'schools' of Tibetan
Buddhism. The Nyingma school is the oldest; in fact, the word itself
means "old school." Each branch of Buddhism is associated
with a lineage of teachers who all had the same religious objectives
but who followed slightly different paths to reach those objectives.
Longchempa and his followers/descendants, such as Dorji Lingpa who
established Ugyen Choling, are the lineage holders of the Nyingma
school. The other schools are Gelug, Sakya and Kagyu. Most of
Bhutan's lakhangs and monasteries are Druk Kagyu (the Bhutanese version of Kagyu). The most well-known and
fascinating of the Kagyu rinpoches are Drukpa Kinley (the Divine Madman) and Milarepa, one of my personal
heroes. Their stories are well worth reading (see <b>The Life of Milarepa</b> by Tsangyon Heruka, translated by Andrew Quintman and <b>Divine Madman</b> translated by Keith Dowman) ! The Gelug school is
associated with the Dalai Lama and followers of Gelug practices can
be found only in eastern Bhutan. The Sakyas are found mostly in
India.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrQWkSZse1AkFy6jUJAHlFvj0nxLXlf1rPpbtwy50b70aAJsZTpCDmMMd8LoaaP_FF493GA_L_YGcBYOtqcrnExnvv59uP-07uHEDY9eATbtLU8D0lcjxqN9szZjZryo1gk1XFtnarmrQ/s1600/Green-Mila-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZrQWkSZse1AkFy6jUJAHlFvj0nxLXlf1rPpbtwy50b70aAJsZTpCDmMMd8LoaaP_FF493GA_L_YGcBYOtqcrnExnvv59uP-07uHEDY9eATbtLU8D0lcjxqN9szZjZryo1gk1XFtnarmrQ/s320/Green-Mila-1.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milarepa. Note the hand to the ear, and the green skin <br />
(from living only on boiled nettles)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></i>
<i style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">"Mila Repa, Drukpa Kunlek and other poet saints of the Kagyu-pa order are depicted sknging and holding their right hands to their ear. The same gesture is characteristic of the epic hero, when identified with the bard or when receiving revelations from the gods. The gesture expresses both religious and poetic inspiration in the saints' case, too, at the same time symbolizing their receipt of the oral transmissions" (R.A. Stein, <u>Tibetan Civilization</u>).</span></b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-86351352326664067502013-07-21T07:36:00.003-07:002013-07-21T07:36:57.039-07:00Random Stuff #2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because I have writer's block and thus can't seem to write about my incredible week in eastern Bhutan, here are some more random shots:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span id="goog_1330761011"></span><span id="goog_1330761012"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDHCFxNry3omOJziN51cwCrNEJPUxYtfoO5ddLDfhATvBSl2huMXo0Sy6KEvl8-IOFGCrHzHLvNZdHoYR_Y5Uj0bHQ9V6CGp6QYihqalf10anjJyFQ0ncko2tDImRCXXzybsaNEyrstvN/s1600/marijuana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDHCFxNry3omOJziN51cwCrNEJPUxYtfoO5ddLDfhATvBSl2huMXo0Sy6KEvl8-IOFGCrHzHLvNZdHoYR_Y5Uj0bHQ9V6CGp6QYihqalf10anjJyFQ0ncko2tDImRCXXzybsaNEyrstvN/s400/marijuana.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, this grows like, um, a weed in Bhutan. In the States, we call it...weed. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dvtWbFivnzv3S-F4Jtg_HWQjR0Ewlwpfhyfe8veyOqByXHWSbBG5gOC4RTgB2WP5e1S3jZkZ_MjMIylc-Q02LrbWWRM4-MAG8PHogdMPubTPcBxM_b0xKk8-eizVhdO2m_hEpN7uUYkH/s1600/swallowtail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dvtWbFivnzv3S-F4Jtg_HWQjR0Ewlwpfhyfe8veyOqByXHWSbBG5gOC4RTgB2WP5e1S3jZkZ_MjMIylc-Q02LrbWWRM4-MAG8PHogdMPubTPcBxM_b0xKk8-eizVhdO2m_hEpN7uUYkH/s320/swallowtail.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A swallowtail butterfly--they are everywhere, and come in<br />blue, yellow, white, red. . .The caterpillars REALLY creepy<br />and poisonous..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Qn2BCDCmik8biI1SpsRAlfGfLYT3EHAikPR98k255NcgmEuTqp4d3fz-MUXMRDRH_PUmYdDnTqUYUf3AFG4ZniglAsxy03PoeTXg1mIXgKJm78TQwlyef3hUKn1ttCmxZhaTrkRcbzC/s1600/bob's+bike.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi_Qn2BCDCmik8biI1SpsRAlfGfLYT3EHAikPR98k255NcgmEuTqp4d3fz-MUXMRDRH_PUmYdDnTqUYUf3AFG4ZniglAsxy03PoeTXg1mIXgKJm78TQwlyef3hUKn1ttCmxZhaTrkRcbzC/s400/bob's+bike.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy Aussie Bob Chisholm, husband of Andrea, a teacher in Bumthang,<br />decided he wanted to be the first human to <b><i>push</i></b> a bike up the<br />nearly vertical trail to Tharpaling Monastery at 10,000 feet in<br />Chamkar, Bumthang.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGLiUem-cSc80x2Nrg61SdXxDFIq3gOeoh65gOK2L9JdkGSnU3yEORj21KtCdKFgqxBJedYW8gWVjWd_paTUjAFjYEu7XVrOmcMQoQPmUA6RU3lcUE2o3JpV9kS4l2KpXBxwqJuzFMY9v/s1600/shop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGLiUem-cSc80x2Nrg61SdXxDFIq3gOeoh65gOK2L9JdkGSnU3yEORj21KtCdKFgqxBJedYW8gWVjWd_paTUjAFjYEu7XVrOmcMQoQPmUA6RU3lcUE2o3JpV9kS4l2KpXBxwqJuzFMY9v/s320/shop.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical Bhutanese shop in Phong Me. Here, one can get chips, doma, potatoes,<br />gum, shampoo, noodles, umbrellas. . .Just about all the basics.<br />Nearly all shops in Bhutan look like this. The young woman<br />was the salesperson, the daughter of the owner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_96yyejybN6HtLpEuBRj-8WIqxMXNNiiPI6HZh5D8RUDHKua_mwmM3WeQBSQFAXxKvVGKWeQ6R97jKQ9XFSqA2RUVEgFrNb8y2d7sJriwN78kNviWIfqDcN0y_3ow86lVPrCuHN3xFGr/s1600/weaving.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_96yyejybN6HtLpEuBRj-8WIqxMXNNiiPI6HZh5D8RUDHKua_mwmM3WeQBSQFAXxKvVGKWeQ6R97jKQ9XFSqA2RUVEgFrNb8y2d7sJriwN78kNviWIfqDcN0y_3ow86lVPrCuHN3xFGr/s640/weaving.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dear friend Wangmo weaves, as do many of the women in Bhutan. Here are three examples of sticks she wound with colored yarn to create a sample pattern for a kira material (some sample material is in the upper part of the picture). Many women in Bhutan own hand made looms. Nearly ALL textiles in Bhutan are hand crafted; the rare exceptions are inferior synthetic textiles imported from India or China sold mostly in Thimphu. The yarns are also made and dyed by hand one step at a time, as they have been for centuries, using local wool and organic dyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb-0PTlBacrxuOAQnGp7Cv4rRGCyqgO83_SWYNFP1Eg2s2fmfDQ9hT1mXO5HLIeLzCqpEY3iU-23g9IrK1CsLqVANr5SF_XNkuTViCguKQluJJeWG3HKVZV2GsWP5tFZqCOZi65M6zcet/s1600/beetle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb-0PTlBacrxuOAQnGp7Cv4rRGCyqgO83_SWYNFP1Eg2s2fmfDQ9hT1mXO5HLIeLzCqpEY3iU-23g9IrK1CsLqVANr5SF_XNkuTViCguKQluJJeWG3HKVZV2GsWP5tFZqCOZi65M6zcet/s320/beetle.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beetle. They grow 'em BIG here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtbtvSbTlltPLppJO55vgmCwjvpv-Q7xgqsrNyqnm7VG5ROFeOsDU6TFxy05ssCOtV-qBPLenya9U_1ejAl-vmvkBm-5NPA9w8NKLAit1S4Gz4rO_tXKztcWIsaBI8osn3EfSnlHwO9tX/s1600/jacaranda.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtbtvSbTlltPLppJO55vgmCwjvpv-Q7xgqsrNyqnm7VG5ROFeOsDU6TFxy05ssCOtV-qBPLenya9U_1ejAl-vmvkBm-5NPA9w8NKLAit1S4Gz4rO_tXKztcWIsaBI8osn3EfSnlHwO9tX/s400/jacaranda.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring in Punakha is marked by the blooming of the lavender jacaranda trees; <br />at the Dzong, they are especially dramatic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzpqL3BUbvw_FfHkiody-Gv7FSoaK4dua4oNkS5qJXAxU-tl4TJGNQeoEErV3F6sVzogGpLjXJqJ_gGXneFs7XdK8RfsFGcHVCcAWjGubC2W8M4EwZ-cBgmSa2-7CK_cy0nmpJpzN118h/s1600/BCF+teachers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzpqL3BUbvw_FfHkiody-Gv7FSoaK4dua4oNkS5qJXAxU-tl4TJGNQeoEErV3F6sVzogGpLjXJqJ_gGXneFs7XdK8RfsFGcHVCcAWjGubC2W8M4EwZ-cBgmSa2-7CK_cy0nmpJpzN118h/s640/BCF+teachers.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bhutan Canada Foundation teachers at our summer retreat at Ugyen Choling, a preserved grand estate in Bumthang where<br />we began our summer holidays. Second from left in the back row is Kunzang Choden, the owner of the house (which has been in her family for many generations) and<br />a highly regarded author, historian and feminist in Bhutan. Also pictured are BCF staffers and friends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJWDxH9e4ULplRoOwJUMPkDefY25eOrpT6C-AEQK-E69hICxNoZWFUbLEuQGHqkqLJ4u1jQKNvgtkSLWjHbX5SVfV75DR1d8RpmLm9Yrsl9-U1ML6TC8utdgKbbWsPY7uQ5xT6qdcgE-1/s1600/DSCN1302+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJWDxH9e4ULplRoOwJUMPkDefY25eOrpT6C-AEQK-E69hICxNoZWFUbLEuQGHqkqLJ4u1jQKNvgtkSLWjHbX5SVfV75DR1d8RpmLm9Yrsl9-U1ML6TC8utdgKbbWsPY7uQ5xT6qdcgE-1/s400/DSCN1302+(1).jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tsa tsas (mini-chortens made to create good karma) piled up at <br />
Merab Tsho, or "Burning Lake" in Bumthang.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few words about Bumthang: The central dzongkhag of Bumthang is often hailed as the most beautiful state in Bhutan, and there are few reasons to dispute this claim (except that after we were in Bumthang, Brick and I went as far east as we could get and visited Merak and Sakteng--arguably more beautiful but in an untamed way. More on that in another post). We had our summer retreat at the River Lodge in Bumthang, and were treated to hot showers (!!!!), wine, gin and tonics, real beds (!!!!!!) and a field trip to Ugyen Choling in the Tang Valley, a stunning, green, broad valley that encapsulates the Bhutan experience. I will write more about Bumthang, and in particular the village of Ura, in another post. </span></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-88589141328848304322013-06-14T09:28:00.000-07:002013-06-14T09:28:05.680-07:00A Selection of Somewhat Random Photos from the First Six Months in Bhutan, Batch #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Since arriving here in January, I have taken an impressive number of photographs. Many are not worth sharing, but there are a few that I think might help convey my experience here, as well as the changing landscape of the Punakha Valley from January to June. I thought I'd post these in small batches so as not to overwhelm.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span id="goog_472060318"></span><span id="goog_472060319"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hm6BMUC93RrQtPiqnCVYNH5VKVHmwkCOAksEi4q4GtlWLvCtrayEkSzQeOHLdJD4U_LJgFKFtHI0zJO3GFudVo5VpXLqyQ0R0ihtPZAQX8dZMHmvIOPdGMiAo1SV75zdCqxJKIufrhyphenhyphenx/s1600/IMG_3465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hm6BMUC93RrQtPiqnCVYNH5VKVHmwkCOAksEi4q4GtlWLvCtrayEkSzQeOHLdJD4U_LJgFKFtHI0zJO3GFudVo5VpXLqyQ0R0ihtPZAQX8dZMHmvIOPdGMiAo1SV75zdCqxJKIufrhyphenhyphenx/s640/IMG_3465.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Himalayas on the Border of Tibet from Gasa (north of Punakha)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBX81jwxY6184QPahvbJ38IkcXxMrJCbFNONCRP4Mu4Xbf_ogF7GRAYWmNXcyI5I7oSe40A0BXaTWPWTEZUxmoy13GTWpJ9rwcIFNltYVl0GYu3tholOEUwJJ6zMppLwozGD0dUMUzI41j/s1600/Cat+playing+the+cello+outside+the+lakhang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBX81jwxY6184QPahvbJ38IkcXxMrJCbFNONCRP4Mu4Xbf_ogF7GRAYWmNXcyI5I7oSe40A0BXaTWPWTEZUxmoy13GTWpJ9rwcIFNltYVl0GYu3tholOEUwJJ6zMppLwozGD0dUMUzI41j/s400/Cat+playing+the+cello+outside+the+lakhang.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat in Punakha Dzong<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAEqwEW5zCSNDzobBEB74_T3Wq-ktiV07G5BOs-CG0wUBiYr0JXNIKLORzvbu-K7TzKsiGggGwHNsv7YeoiAXdQc5TTAu9rHzdvA-3F29UjMpODGiBsJEstMS_CHcTuhDqNW5kU9M4vei_/s1600/DSCN1224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAEqwEW5zCSNDzobBEB74_T3Wq-ktiV07G5BOs-CG0wUBiYr0JXNIKLORzvbu-K7TzKsiGggGwHNsv7YeoiAXdQc5TTAu9rHzdvA-3F29UjMpODGiBsJEstMS_CHcTuhDqNW5kU9M4vei_/s320/DSCN1224.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dechen, me, Wangmo and Gakey wearing our gift from the King after the Royal Visit<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQz3z4Ohs5z1_fKtAHjO-iMQEtScxhsIIj46i6roxDtfXVNCM3tcuS_HWr4_f7FQFe2OmzEdMqrwX0Br3SXvCRKwVt4Hb2NWEzcp3rv1qj5Utf5KojRkP4wF99-i-_PNo_QcmUeTypcEz/s1600/DSCN0759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtQz3z4Ohs5z1_fKtAHjO-iMQEtScxhsIIj46i6roxDtfXVNCM3tcuS_HWr4_f7FQFe2OmzEdMqrwX0Br3SXvCRKwVt4Hb2NWEzcp3rv1qj5Utf5KojRkP4wF99-i-_PNo_QcmUeTypcEz/s400/DSCN0759.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning Assembly at school: Girls are wearing their red rachus over their shoulders<br />and boys are wearing their white linen kabneys. This is formal<br />wear for the day of our school rimdro when the building was<br />blessed and purified by monks. Note the sleeping dog.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9YjernjP2T_9bnMAuFM2D9JGEBbFyK1R-7pS0mJ9yBXhG4fJBsfWZJ-XMXtCqxdTiTYf0oaD07hPySOIigZboQGLzamNMgprMaoApYVphbm7WzpNVPKXSNFcgTiBKIhvT2-8aJq5a3rz/s1600/Prayer+Flags+outside+Chime.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9YjernjP2T_9bnMAuFM2D9JGEBbFyK1R-7pS0mJ9yBXhG4fJBsfWZJ-XMXtCqxdTiTYf0oaD07hPySOIigZboQGLzamNMgprMaoApYVphbm7WzpNVPKXSNFcgTiBKIhvT2-8aJq5a3rz/s400/Prayer+Flags+outside+Chime.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prayer flags looking south from Chime Lakhang, the temple of Drukpa Kinley,<br />the Mad Monk of Punakha. It is believed that if a woman is blessed here<br />by being tapped on the head with a wooden phallus by one of the<br />resident monks she will become pregnant.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJl6v17I6f9-jZxwUFRTaBtwDUgtPSvA7qRU9ynMYg5FePiNuUToSf66Se7Vsho6q6zrZWXjspzh1XINjwBXyYW3zk6OcL7mnLV5YszWLTIlNqozNcMO2EQ3MwHcXNSH92cvQvWVwaVQWS/s1600/IMG_3581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJl6v17I6f9-jZxwUFRTaBtwDUgtPSvA7qRU9ynMYg5FePiNuUToSf66Se7Vsho6q6zrZWXjspzh1XINjwBXyYW3zk6OcL7mnLV5YszWLTIlNqozNcMO2EQ3MwHcXNSH92cvQvWVwaVQWS/s400/IMG_3581.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thubten Senge walking over the bridge to Khamsum Yulley Namgyal<br />Chorten (a new temple built across from Kabesa on the Mo Chhu)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsbEi9mCgAm8G2anmsc9ybq0Co411w756h3EfwBMC8L14eWEpz62FdBgMHb40dqSf9OGu5-gmsMhg3R_joF56SobSsXM-VynIJmaEwIReI7o9RGzDkIyESh9WXO_ODqzNpr0-DyMRgyqo/s1600/Coffe+in+the+mug+I+bought+in+Thimphu+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsbEi9mCgAm8G2anmsc9ybq0Co411w756h3EfwBMC8L14eWEpz62FdBgMHb40dqSf9OGu5-gmsMhg3R_joF56SobSsXM-VynIJmaEwIReI7o9RGzDkIyESh9WXO_ODqzNpr0-DyMRgyqo/s320/Coffe+in+the+mug+I+bought+in+Thimphu+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I bought this mug in Thimphu!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-23290291075194301402013-05-27T06:34:00.003-07:002013-05-27T06:34:43.423-07:00Why I could not go running on the track today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His Majesty the Fifth King of Bhutan's livestock were grazing on the track/soccer field. Tomorrow they will be herded north to Gasa for the summer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtG25XrqKOL-2uzWT9AUx-mpfggyOZM9YQ_tjakvwyG0BnHM7FxAUboklXqENDo3YcLXqqfKSmRVuBrczmWwYcT7MBIkrXX9KaymxkILq6qCLBYWpVO29MG-4xSO02bQQmKkkEZO_ODNt9/s1600/on+the+futbol+field.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtG25XrqKOL-2uzWT9AUx-mpfggyOZM9YQ_tjakvwyG0BnHM7FxAUboklXqENDo3YcLXqqfKSmRVuBrczmWwYcT7MBIkrXX9KaymxkILq6qCLBYWpVO29MG-4xSO02bQQmKkkEZO_ODNt9/s640/on+the+futbol+field.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the soccer field</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Q4GNh9fxL07LLZO6HJ2wGMHSnIa-BGvG-sZTTtuw915mJJqYfYoJTwZYD3OmSvUmNiVtYnBEmh-6-wH6ilJukrxjOZUD-IOkxx93gZsc93V1YxHIfj1h8PFA_DHwvhsG0msGT7ZZzQDr/s1600/futbol.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Q4GNh9fxL07LLZO6HJ2wGMHSnIa-BGvG-sZTTtuw915mJJqYfYoJTwZYD3OmSvUmNiVtYnBEmh-6-wH6ilJukrxjOZUD-IOkxx93gZsc93V1YxHIfj1h8PFA_DHwvhsG0msGT7ZZzQDr/s640/futbol.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The real meaning of playing with donkeys</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWRO6E1bCfkaHzeqqfMXolmkXaUUDyFSYQdgGoeKQUeie_r9mVOw-cVBOHci_2DGGcSaFb_mbfyjDnkk_hq3Aw2B4LYVArZOu1tBhoYQxKM96ozSL3Xmg8rpeVLDgI4JejRReCE8wBuIV/s1600/Horse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWRO6E1bCfkaHzeqqfMXolmkXaUUDyFSYQdgGoeKQUeie_r9mVOw-cVBOHci_2DGGcSaFb_mbfyjDnkk_hq3Aw2B4LYVArZOu1tBhoYQxKM96ozSL3Xmg8rpeVLDgI4JejRReCE8wBuIV/s640/Horse.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The King's newborn colt</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRefVhXmzuI1LGI3rx74ptENIZ2VgZ6Aiv73AwOlBt030KONN_MnvkPpZz6Y4J5mHXjIhMGSEzoYo0vlZbVBGiRYIICfVxGHWKmmQ2qDmeEtiKK8NrD8PEDTW_kyaekmFilpK3kDONgtV/s1600/calf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRefVhXmzuI1LGI3rx74ptENIZ2VgZ6Aiv73AwOlBt030KONN_MnvkPpZz6Y4J5mHXjIhMGSEzoYo0vlZbVBGiRYIICfVxGHWKmmQ2qDmeEtiKK8NrD8PEDTW_kyaekmFilpK3kDONgtV/s640/calf.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-75394420722763202202013-05-27T06:18:00.003-07:002013-05-27T06:18:35.519-07:00Making Momos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Norbu Tshering, his wife, Yangchen, and their two sons live across the Punatsangchhu (the river created by the conjoined Mo Chhu and Po Chhus) in a somewhat traditional Bhutanese house Norbu's parents built for them when they got married.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To describe the house as a "traditional Bhutanese house" is stating the obvious: to preserve Bhutanese culture, all houses are built with the fancifully painted dentils and Moorish-looking windows one sees in all the photos of Bhutan.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What sets Norbu's house apart from a Bhutanese farmhouse is that it does not have a ground floor that was originally designed to house the livestock or an outdoor kitchen, nor does it have the wooden shutters and the slanted rammed earth walls that characterize the hand-crafted farmhouses of Bhutan (these features of the Bhutanese farmhouse--still the most common form of architecture here--are meant to provide stability to the building; the wooden shutters are not like those in the west that fold in on themselves.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Instead, they are solid boards that slide open, and, when shut, keep out the dust, heat, rain and insects while also helping to prevent the walls from cracking, a hazard of mud walls.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The inward cant performs the same function).</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Norbu is a fellow English teacher and his wife is a middle school teacher, and they are, in their tastes and behaviors, as urbane as a Bhutanese couple can get without living in Thimphu--their only livestock is a cat named Sando. It is my good fortune that Norbu is a master momo maker and that he invited me over to his house to learn the craft.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is a variety of momos--beef, chicken, pork, cabbage and cheese. Knowing I would want vegetarian momos, Norbu asked me to bring a kilo of cabbage and a kilo of maida, the highly processed wheat flour from India that is preferred for its smooth texture. It was the warmest and sunniest afternoon I've experienced since arriving in Punakha, and I had walked the three miles from Khuruthang to Norbu's, so the chilled Druk 11000 beer (brewed in Bhutan) that Norbu poured me when I arrived slaked my considerable thirst. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lA365Znv2Kn-f5Nc-f0KDj6H1GMuIpv5eThSvu3Z2i-uk5bGQD0MTeJb-ZaaNmZQCj9Q7XKpQ1rtJSb2Dmmpejqm3z1sox4E4r2xchaHQ87yDMOorGTNfhksjYM29swXxScWVzvzO5pA/s1600/druk-11000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lA365Znv2Kn-f5Nc-f0KDj6H1GMuIpv5eThSvu3Z2i-uk5bGQD0MTeJb-ZaaNmZQCj9Q7XKpQ1rtJSb2Dmmpejqm3z1sox4E4r2xchaHQ87yDMOorGTNfhksjYM29swXxScWVzvzO5pA/s200/druk-11000.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On a hot day it aint bad. The lager is better.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We sat out on his deck, the imposing and magisterial dzong across the river below, and chatted before Norbu gave me the task of mincing the kilo of cabbage while he mixed the dough for momos.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In Bhutan, there is no such thing as a measuring cup or spoons, so everything is done by eye and feel. As I sat on a low bench in Norbu's kitchen chopping cabbage, he, with a little help from his son Gephel, mixed what looked like a cup and a half or two cups of maida with perhaps a cup of water that he poured into a well he made in the center of the flour. To this he added a teaspoon or so of baking powder and kneaded the dough until it was somewhat stiff and only slightly sticky. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWLwMIJG5m3Ws0MadRJD8TK9oujF-65jQSbj9Q5LUBDOkGSfTA-akm017YAZAT7B1BVPOhRRQxzQqCuV5KULPx4UVQLO5ceC5Qw0AZsR0xTQ3FMalUil-lA04AvNRLHe2mjENFrc85VZn/s1600/Norbu+and+Gephel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWLwMIJG5m3Ws0MadRJD8TK9oujF-65jQSbj9Q5LUBDOkGSfTA-akm017YAZAT7B1BVPOhRRQxzQqCuV5KULPx4UVQLO5ceC5Qw0AZsR0xTQ3FMalUil-lA04AvNRLHe2mjENFrc85VZn/s320/Norbu+and+Gephel.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Norbu and Gephel mixing momo stuffing</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As he worked, I added several small chopped red onions and salt to the cabbage, and then cut some of the ubiquitous Amul cheese (like American cheese) into small cubes and added that to my mixture, an exorbitant and tasty--but unnecessary--addition. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Norbu divided the dough into balls about the diameter of a quarter. These he rolled out onto a small round wooden board with feet designed for this purpose onto which he had put a dusting of flour to keep the dough from sticking. Each ball made a disc about four inches around and about a sixteenth of an inch thick. Into each of these he put about a tablespoon of the cabbage mixture, deftly and quickly shaping the dough into crescents with artfully pinched edges. I tried to follow his lead and make a few myself, but my Ukrainian blood must be thin: my efforts created lumpy wads that didn't stay pinched. I took over rolling out the dough while he did the filling and shaping.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwlQBAbn7Heor21bd4IJqhvSA2PF8C05BiYCPUzs9vXtueheUC-R1iQaB4xVIhwSXHlMC_HPRzKDMJhIhjAA2JZ9qM1NkKabD73kZi-9wD2zNz6l1rg5lAM7-N643g5EIBXb_DpslC-qI/s1600/rolling+out+dough.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwlQBAbn7Heor21bd4IJqhvSA2PF8C05BiYCPUzs9vXtueheUC-R1iQaB4xVIhwSXHlMC_HPRzKDMJhIhjAA2JZ9qM1NkKabD73kZi-9wD2zNz6l1rg5lAM7-N643g5EIBXb_DpslC-qI/s320/rolling+out+dough.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rolling out the dough</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While we worked, a momo steamer was heating up. Momo steamers, I assume, can be used to make Chinese buns and any number of other steamed foods and can probably be purchased in the States in any large Asian market. Comprised of a deep metal pot with two layers of steamer trays and a lid, one simply fills each layer with prepared momos, puts the lid on, and then waits until the dough is just slightly sticky to the touch. This takes about seven to ten minutes during which time the filling is also steamed, melting the cheese and softening the cabbage and onions. Yum.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzZSh7kAVWQKrwhbvCkNa57A2-4DwrVfXkAixcm6pmSd5LnVkK_o7xHDI6hQevmma9qbprXCJPiRZT-mNFoKa5wd4C-x0hwVFIQcVkd_PyU4QeQHtBT8SRThOXhSVnklpjzcqWziyJnU5/s1600/pinching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxzZSh7kAVWQKrwhbvCkNa57A2-4DwrVfXkAixcm6pmSd5LnVkK_o7xHDI6hQevmma9qbprXCJPiRZT-mNFoKa5wd4C-x0hwVFIQcVkd_PyU4QeQHtBT8SRThOXhSVnklpjzcqWziyJnU5/s200/pinching.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy_H_xBJeK7uepitsa-f1n7lVDOpgGrFMm_3lb1mqAaIijc8uxDooYdy3QUYBt5a3F62G2dMb-U7LDmisHvNsFS-HfGj8DKLPu43qCdJOwQqwHXFpaGkKwT6yNEkVoWPJnRWWC9X8GLlf/s1600/filling+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKy_H_xBJeK7uepitsa-f1n7lVDOpgGrFMm_3lb1mqAaIijc8uxDooYdy3QUYBt5a3F62G2dMb-U7LDmisHvNsFS-HfGj8DKLPu43qCdJOwQqwHXFpaGkKwT6yNEkVoWPJnRWWC9X8GLlf/s200/filling+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Filling momos</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because in my blog I had said I could eat 15 momos, Norbu insisted that I eat 15 of our momos, so as they came out of the steamer they were piled on a plate with some store-bought ezzay. Delicious, hot and filling, I tucked into the heap on my plate. Norbu continued to make and steam them as I ate one after the other. Just as I was starting on my second plate, Yangchen came home and, after feeding the baby who had been sleeping the entire afternoon, made ezzay from scratch with red chili powder, grated red onions, cilantro, a little warmed oil, and salt (this is, essentially, salsa, and would be fabulous on black beans or tortilla chips). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9d33F8DGrwwjTZ3s8xkQenBeZJktkmSxSJrM5njm0O4lIzdm6GWc11embmRq0s1it7gO73zWehOU8znWlKbui6LsV6RQJwyJcuxP3Y27u47bre1d5x704i6cKZ-HNrA-rP3RHRBqiBf_/s1600/pinching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9d33F8DGrwwjTZ3s8xkQenBeZJktkmSxSJrM5njm0O4lIzdm6GWc11embmRq0s1it7gO73zWehOU8znWlKbui6LsV6RQJwyJcuxP3Y27u47bre1d5x704i6cKZ-HNrA-rP3RHRBqiBf_/s200/pinching.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Pinching it closed</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XI7t-i-dCqTr0Qk238NObsPiipUHaNwQDwB56VXE9feZnhSaCdluvkM7TMFqwoGcgDZSFwxEErVZCb5w9HE2aP_MIs6ajafNhisCRHvasHlrwsqMwTNm4GEIdfjBknyIqHYLPE0YK14U/s1600/completed+momo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XI7t-i-dCqTr0Qk238NObsPiipUHaNwQDwB56VXE9feZnhSaCdluvkM7TMFqwoGcgDZSFwxEErVZCb5w9HE2aP_MIs6ajafNhisCRHvasHlrwsqMwTNm4GEIdfjBknyIqHYLPE0YK14U/s320/completed+momo.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One completed!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFFswbkD74fx6McT89not3fReQ10OrkaM9ICeRElSyOb3JccphotUgwOgwuHcgw6b6ymp4kVwJLzSJQ9tgzrXukPExVSS-4BMqjiMbjyQSp9TjmPZD26Ra3Ohi0fd8XHvO1z_OtwajQTg/s1600/momos+in+the+steamer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFFswbkD74fx6McT89not3fReQ10OrkaM9ICeRElSyOb3JccphotUgwOgwuHcgw6b6ymp4kVwJLzSJQ9tgzrXukPExVSS-4BMqjiMbjyQSp9TjmPZD26Ra3Ohi0fd8XHvO1z_OtwajQTg/s200/momos+in+the+steamer.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two styles in the steamer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzz9ANMa1hwV1x6ZC62pVTkD9vZ8DNuSnweRTJoMjObq-gJ6Wo_E19p0ErtRuBnDFUH0t7gLWijqa1SfCRMmqWCLIARqZfkUfuED4471nVw5wzipCh-MOkT8jKvrn2KEYhe-mTIvnYww0e/s1600/ready+for+the+steamer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzz9ANMa1hwV1x6ZC62pVTkD9vZ8DNuSnweRTJoMjObq-gJ6Wo_E19p0ErtRuBnDFUH0t7gLWijqa1SfCRMmqWCLIARqZfkUfuED4471nVw5wzipCh-MOkT8jKvrn2KEYhe-mTIvnYww0e/s200/ready+for+the+steamer.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Ready for the steamer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It took quite a while to use up all the dough and all the filling; from start to finish, I think it took us three hours. But the recipe made enough momos for a meal for at least six people, unless one of the guests happens to be me!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYoEdEOX2sMtVIItNouBFig0yYx29KTQ4n8Pzt9_lhSfRb0y81kQUMNuGsrovNu6gQOM9nYtcIMGu_LgAKULMGrzg_iatttopAVIStKNK2BWJok9S58NH2BLSnBLtPxQlmSsU47rdF5x5/s1600/four+of+15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYoEdEOX2sMtVIItNouBFig0yYx29KTQ4n8Pzt9_lhSfRb0y81kQUMNuGsrovNu6gQOM9nYtcIMGu_LgAKULMGrzg_iatttopAVIStKNK2BWJok9S58NH2BLSnBLtPxQlmSsU47rdF5x5/s640/four+of+15.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first four of fifteen!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-12114075000039531302013-05-02T09:25:00.000-07:002013-05-02T09:25:00.348-07:00Food in Bhutan #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">People who have traveled through Bhutan
as tourists often complain about the monotony and insipidity of the
food. It's always the same, they opine, and it is often just
indistinguishable goo with tasteless steam-table rice and overcooked
vegetables. Often, there is a meat dish that is unidentifiable and
mostly bone with a lot of fat swimming on the surface. Breakfast
will invariably include fried eggs and toast (since bread is not a
staple in Bhutan, the toast is perfectly square white bread redolent
with a particularly odiferous and tangy type of local yeast) and corn
flakes, served with warm reconstituted powdered milk. The tea is
weak milk tea; the coffee is Nescafe. Having spoken to these
travelers before my arrival here, I was nervous about being a
vegetarian and about becoming bored with the tedium of the same foods
at every meal. I need not have worried.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The reason tourists have such negative
experiences with Bhutan's cuisine is because they do not actually
experience real Bhutanese cooking: the hotels that accommodate
tourists seem to cater to a caricature of a tourist--someone who
can't handle hot food, who won't eat what looks "weird",
who disdains rice, and who likes all the nutrients and texture cooked
out of everything. This cartoon traveler MUST have eggs for
breakfast and certainly will not tolerate any other hot liquid at
meals other than bland tea and instant coffee. Granted, Bhutan,
which is just now beginning to develop its tourist industry, has to
feed Japanese, German, Dutch, British and American tourists who all
have different culinary likes and dislikes, but it seems a shame that
Bhutan feels it must forsake its local cuisine as a result.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Real Bhutanese cooking does indeed rely
primarily on a trio of foodstuffs that appear in virtually every
dish--chiles, salt and oil--but by virtue of the need to be creative
with such a limited pantry and because of the influence of Indian and
Nepali cooking techniques and spices, Bhutanese food is delicious,
healthy (for the average Bhutanese person who labors in the fields
all day), inexpensive and easy to prepare.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpEMfEcDE5ybTIg3KqerQbpfVuM50LaZCdxObYtQm3J-r2iJSu2SpR4TL647rGoSF29RiydyXIgOKPV8idwT0Z3k-EVyq4pz1A78IaLuOj_bRI9RSrLCaNkVZuqxV8TEo00I06FCms8wx/s1600/chilies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpEMfEcDE5ybTIg3KqerQbpfVuM50LaZCdxObYtQm3J-r2iJSu2SpR4TL647rGoSF29RiydyXIgOKPV8idwT0Z3k-EVyq4pz1A78IaLuOj_bRI9RSrLCaNkVZuqxV8TEo00I06FCms8wx/s400/chilies.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Students Preparing Chiles for our Teachers' Day Meal</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the heart of Bhutanese cuisine is
<b>ema datse</b>, the chili and cheese dish I'd heard about from
previous BCF teachers. Very simply, it is hot fresh or dried chiles,
sometimes cooked with onions in oil to which is added the local
farmer's cheese, called 'datse', and a slice of Amul cheese, a
processed orange cheese from India that adds mouth feel and melts
quickly. A little water is added to steam the chilies and incorporate
the cheese. It is served as a dish separate from, but accompanied
by, rice, which is NEVER tasteless or overcooked: Bhutanese rice,
usually the red rice sold for $8 a half pound at Whole Foods, is
flavorful, something like Jasmine rice, and has a texture I can only
describe as al dente; it is chewier than white rice (here, a <i>kilo</i>
of this rice costs about $2).
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Everyone in Bhutan easts rice three
times a day, if not more frequently, and the quantity of rice eaten
at each meal is astonishing. I often see students with several cups
of rice mounded on their plates at lunch, eaten with about half a cup
of a simple potato curry (potatoes are the fourth staple in the
Bhutanese diet--again, cheap, easy to grow and transport, and
plentiful). Teachers bring their tiffins or their insulated lunch
buckets full of rice--probably three or four cups--and it is all gone
by the meal's end.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBY_UeM-Y74SuygqVtK1YTOP-hGj5Z5C6zmf_Ds_82UJP_rUqM-2ZYAqO5cNUBH_f1kG5WknKWplmxNWDBA5zTYR1uMvFc3ZtC2Gi6jtj0Zr2mJoSlhTVyFhyqqDvoSjdhQ5qxccwZC1h/s1600/DSCN0942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBY_UeM-Y74SuygqVtK1YTOP-hGj5Z5C6zmf_Ds_82UJP_rUqM-2ZYAqO5cNUBH_f1kG5WknKWplmxNWDBA5zTYR1uMvFc3ZtC2Gi6jtj0Zr2mJoSlhTVyFhyqqDvoSjdhQ5qxccwZC1h/s400/DSCN0942.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teacher Meal (from back to front): rice, bean curry, naja, <br />ema datse, potato curry. The pink container is full of rice;<br />the red container had a savory and salty fried dough<br />snack in it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To vary the diet, ema datse is
sometimes made with potatoes or with mushrooms or with any vegetable at hand (beans, for example, in the
spring). Indian spices such as mustard seed, cumin, or ajwain may be
added. Though it is hard to believe, I still enjoy eating ema datse,
the hotter (in spiciness) the better.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-K6C8cDYnrZVObYacaun2eXb4qTkJARa1tVArxp9Ucx9-ph3y6iJuETxYcyWWxPMylcomjz5qX7i0o2GcjJqxH9RMsnrxuBjk1nJ6hya-EO1Rk29pDf2woTv1Of5H2Dud5T86g_frm2M/s1600/Chiles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-K6C8cDYnrZVObYacaun2eXb4qTkJARa1tVArxp9Ucx9-ph3y6iJuETxYcyWWxPMylcomjz5qX7i0o2GcjJqxH9RMsnrxuBjk1nJ6hya-EO1Rk29pDf2woTv1Of5H2Dud5T86g_frm2M/s320/Chiles.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chile choices at the veggie market</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-KVA_OFyTtlI2Zt_RAthzrecx20Z1dTp7XnqHvgDgiuXGjhTOYBhX153XdRUR21DxL_FGUKlK88lqqr7vszjdmxbOKnNaSfQZ_Xzk6AZTGIqey-YFDcd5KowFlBC9DilkedAze3rr2ec/s1600/dried+chiles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-KVA_OFyTtlI2Zt_RAthzrecx20Z1dTp7XnqHvgDgiuXGjhTOYBhX153XdRUR21DxL_FGUKlK88lqqr7vszjdmxbOKnNaSfQZ_Xzk6AZTGIqey-YFDcd5KowFlBC9DilkedAze3rr2ec/s200/dried+chiles.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dried local chiles</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perhaps my favorite food here, however,
is Tibetan in origin: <b>momos</b>. Anyone who has been to
northeastern India, Nepal or Dharamsala knows the momo. It is
essentially a piroschki or pierogi, a steamed stuffed dough, here
served with <b>ezzay</b>, a sauce of chiles steeped in salt, oil, and
spices (the word 'ezzay' actually means salad, but it is usually
meant to indicate the chile sauce). The stuffing for momos can be
beef or pork, but most often they are stuffed with cabbage cooked
with onions, or cheese. When the dough is soft and the filling
cooked so that the cabbage is still just slightly crunchy these are
delectable. I can eat fifteen of them if left to my own devices.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2P1Ia8IWCFLmahBR7R5ku-9_BqUuHYDRy8TWViCUSmvfCOoXjXa9Z64dyz-PqShNilDsHut5qB4Gl0t_OwS2I3a5AD7scRpwMqot_4R8lhad9TYRm7HpZCkUaR2seGXW3_gvvuuTxlg5/s1600/momo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2P1Ia8IWCFLmahBR7R5ku-9_BqUuHYDRy8TWViCUSmvfCOoXjXa9Z64dyz-PqShNilDsHut5qB4Gl0t_OwS2I3a5AD7scRpwMqot_4R8lhad9TYRm7HpZCkUaR2seGXW3_gvvuuTxlg5/s320/momo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Cabbage momos and ezzay</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Accompanying almost every meal--indeed,
accompanying almost every move one makes--is sweet milk tea or <b>naja</b>.
Made with loose tea leaves and sweetened powdered milk boiled until
the tea is very dark to which is added ginger or cloves or cinnamon
or all three, this tea is addictive, though dangerously sweet (it
does not, however, approach the sweetness of Indian tea which I
actually could not drink). In colder weather or in the evening or
when someone just feels like having it, instead of naja there is
<b>suja</b>: butter tea. Fortifying, rich, and almost cloying, this
tea is not sweet. It is filling and nutritious--if one is trekking
across the Himalayas with one's yaks. I think perhaps it is not so
nutritious for sedentary teachers and government workers who get
their calories from cheese and mountains of rice and naja. Many of
us teachers complain about Bhutan Belly, the pudginess that results
from a diet that is almost 80% carbohydrates (a pudginess I resent
but have to learn to accept as a reality of my new life in Bhutan).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Other foods that are common here are
curries, a term used to describe any number of dishes made with mixed
vegetables seasoned with ginger, chiles (of course), turmeric, and
Indian spices. These are not the curries of the the Punjab or
Rajasthan--the use of chiles and the particular mix of spices
differentiates them from what we in America think of as a curry.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2J4WSbAqLR2tsZKukf5ZAzQ5yOqsOhiy_9n9-BY2pP_sviiBb2_BC5T6AB-bAi1TgiuXbO_3-5hyiBU-1m1ujgV0eB34m_8lyE0iihVa_qRlxMGmqiWrSTjK4Y0C7WxXdyaNrrFD4M6l/s1600/DSCN0281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2J4WSbAqLR2tsZKukf5ZAzQ5yOqsOhiy_9n9-BY2pP_sviiBb2_BC5T6AB-bAi1TgiuXbO_3-5hyiBU-1m1ujgV0eB34m_8lyE0iihVa_qRlxMGmqiWrSTjK4Y0C7WxXdyaNrrFD4M6l/s320/DSCN0281.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Preparing a curry</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The fast food of choice, aside from the
Indian version of Cheetos and Lays Potato Chips (which come in
"Tomato Masala" flavor and "American Sour Cream and
Onion") is Maggi, Koka or Wai Wai Noodles. These are all
essentially salty, spicy varieties of ramen and every restaurant in
Bhutan that does NOT cater to tourists has them on the menu as "Chow
Min" (sic). They are cooked up somewhat dry and vegetables such
as spring onions and beans are added. Frankly, it's pretty tasty and
filling. Students here at PHSS buy Maggi noodles at our canteen and,
prior to opening the packet, crush the noodles into tiny pieces, then
tear open the top and pour in the flavor packet. They then pinch
closed the top of the bag and shake the whole thing to evenly
distribute the salt and spices. This is their snack, often several
times a day (one cannot live on Maggi noodles alone: there is the
story of the married couple from Canada who came to Bhutan as BCF
teachers and who lived exclusively on Maggi Noodles. They were sent
home extremely malnourished, he with infected hemorrhoids).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For a while, my snack of choice was a
small, salted, dried plum. The initial taste is overwhelmingly of
salt, but when that is sucked off, there is a sweet little plum, like
an umaboshi, at the center. There was something about the
complementarity of the salty and the sweet that I loved. I became so
fond of these, I was eating them like popcorn. I had to stop when I
began getting leg cramps at night from being dehydrated from all that
sodium.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgia2JGkO1c46SnEXBep8cis9atarv6WoMJDYVuyowJ_7_1Hp1U-QVAaKWwC42FloYrnCCEot0HKxZXAgOFp0uljdyEtSfLq4DMWasFu6bYwi0ZzhVMYWdab3H4rBrso0c9rk98Ye9RaRia/s1600/plums.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgia2JGkO1c46SnEXBep8cis9atarv6WoMJDYVuyowJ_7_1Hp1U-QVAaKWwC42FloYrnCCEot0HKxZXAgOFp0uljdyEtSfLq4DMWasFu6bYwi0ZzhVMYWdab3H4rBrso0c9rk98Ye9RaRia/s320/plums.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dried Plums</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">NEXT INSTALLMENT ABOUT FOOD: Chile
Pops, channa, dal, and how to make an ezzay you can serve at
Superbowl Games.</span></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-16133986784172874862013-04-26T02:20:00.002-07:002013-04-26T02:20:09.186-07:00STUDENTS from PUNAKHA HIGHER SECONDARY SCHOOL #2: Dawa Tshering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPYDdmGnxKBbKc9yRtd80fjNfvT-SLM1NuXUKaRkZUIslHj5YAHBS_QY6V9-I5s-VWeaZntUzaSWclYQd9Unur5b3CAc281zc3lSR53_YVVVMkXVjfslZPdmssR_EXMi8MZi-hMOUTKI9/s1600/Dawa+Tshering.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPYDdmGnxKBbKc9yRtd80fjNfvT-SLM1NuXUKaRkZUIslHj5YAHBS_QY6V9-I5s-VWeaZntUzaSWclYQd9Unur5b3CAc281zc3lSR53_YVVVMkXVjfslZPdmssR_EXMi8MZi-hMOUTKI9/s320/Dawa+Tshering.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am Dawa Tshering and I am 16 Years old. At present I am in 11th grade and my class teacher is Miss Sarah. According to my perspective, I am a humble and hardworking boy. I graduated my 10th grade from a school in southern-Bhutan with exceptional marks.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I would like to share with you my interest. I am interested in listening to music, playing musical instrument, playing games like basketball and table tennis and also making friends with girls. I am a naughty boy but I stay in good manner according to the discipline of our school.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have experienced many things which I have wished for and I am glad that I have both parents and elders who love me very much.i have many friends from outside the country on FACEBOOK and hope you would also be a good friend to me.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The place where my family lives is Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan. My home town is at Dagapela but my origin is from Punakha and Tashigang. In Punakha the weather is hot and sunny. I am having a little bit of trouble in getting adapted because of the weather condition and school's strict rules and regulations.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our school is faced upward and the Punakha dzong which is one of the most popular dzong in Bhutan is faced towards our school. We have a park below our school where we go every free period to study and sight see. I think we could be a good friends, if you could share about yourself. What do you like and what don't you like? .</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Your friend in Bhutan,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dawa Tshering </span> </div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-63502553593554811362013-04-26T02:18:00.005-07:002013-04-26T02:20:23.763-07:00STUDENTS from PUNAKHA HIGHER SECONDARY SCHOOL #1 : Chhimi Selden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-FTZP7IfdjJKZJQAo38e_CGEGuktVhQis6Rrw-5WNdB63YbbJvxuOxUcULeymVUpTCxEj4DHYtcrGGXcF4Bg4HjyQr8hrrPoq-WuJkLDqVH02l6K61fNFvQuv_Bvzme9Q-Xz7NZtVgdy/s1600/Chhimi+Selden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-FTZP7IfdjJKZJQAo38e_CGEGuktVhQis6Rrw-5WNdB63YbbJvxuOxUcULeymVUpTCxEj4DHYtcrGGXcF4Bg4HjyQr8hrrPoq-WuJkLDqVH02l6K61fNFvQuv_Bvzme9Q-Xz7NZtVgdy/s320/Chhimi+Selden.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chhimi Selden</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Life is not a bed of roses. For me life is really challenging since I am from a poor background. My dad left me when I was only a month old. I have never seen him and I miss him sometimes when I see my friends with their dads. Since ninth grade I have been staying with my grandparents because my mom can't afford to send me to school but now I'm living with my mom. Now I'm in eleventh grade. Actually my mom used to stay in Thimphu [our capital] with my step father who is of no use. Since she was having some problems with him she shifted to Punakha [my village] with my two younger brothers. So me and my elder brother decided to stay with her and help her.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As there is no one to help my mom she sometimes goes to work under some people which I hate the most. I wanted to keep her from doing any work because most of the time she feels sick. But we don't have another option as there is no one to help us and my brother has completed class twelve last year and his marks were not good enough to get him a job. I really love to help her. Since she goes outside to earn money, I handle the chores at home. I do all the chores at home like washing clothes, preparing meals, cleaning the house, fetching water, giving baths to younger ones as I don't want to give her more burdens anymore. These are the things I do other than studying. I love to study and I have been doing pretty well in my academics. Helping my mom became my passion. Though I don't get good clothes to wear or good meals to eat, still I'm happy because I'm with my lovely mom.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because of all this I study very hard. Usually many people say that they can't study because there situation is not good and they can't concentrate. But I strongly disagree because for me this situation makes me work really hard, as this situation keeps on reminding me that I have big responsibility to do. To get a job whereby I can help my mom as well as keep her happy. Not only this, my aim in my life is to give the best education to my younger ones. So, I aim to be a Journalist if not at least a teacher.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My questions to all you readers are: What are the things that you do with your parents at home? What do you do besides go to school?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">From Bhutan,</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Chhimi Selden </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span> </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-30666748711204815212013-04-07T06:44:00.001-07:002013-04-07T06:44:09.394-07:00The Photo You've All Been Waiting For: Me Wearing a Kira<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbSBSqMZ0nDTRQ7pnyENVQG2B-6P3cpo6PlW1_EJXt2kdugUUkkWrY9a6vwWqbErJKta0vlqSNzxD_JsvHMrV-l5hQOVUXiuZ3djy0T4kslvjD_R4DJ8ouDX0vg5uCawLDthjazkR0GWr/s1600/DSCN0879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbSBSqMZ0nDTRQ7pnyENVQG2B-6P3cpo6PlW1_EJXt2kdugUUkkWrY9a6vwWqbErJKta0vlqSNzxD_JsvHMrV-l5hQOVUXiuZ3djy0T4kslvjD_R4DJ8ouDX0vg5uCawLDthjazkR0GWr/s640/DSCN0879.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At Uma in Kabesa</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of the perks of being a Bhutan Canada Foundation teacher is that every once in a while, Sam Blyth, one of the founders of BCF and its biggest promotoer and fund-raiser, travels to Bhutan and takes some of the BCF teachers out for dinner. Last night, Andrea Giesbrecht, Thubten Senge and I were treated to a five star meal at Uma, a very swank hotel north of Punakha. I felt it would be appropriate to wear my new, hand-woven kira. Here I am in it, standing on the balcony at Uma.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks to Sam for a really lovely evening and a break from saag and ema datse!</span></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-21134117438928925862013-03-18T22:34:00.000-07:002013-03-18T22:34:54.927-07:00How I Live: One Teaching Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
The students wake in the dark at 5:00, roused by a piece of rebar banged on an old truck gear; it starts the dogs barking. The girls' shouts and laughter in the hostel below me ring through the morning hearth smoke and mist that rises from the valley, obscuring the rumble of the river that flows south past the dzong, on down past Wangdiphodrong and eventually into the Duars, the green flat jungles of Assam. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7yoy5d58McNrrYLmv9Ssf9ALl6p4sCZaF71rxYLIPoqN3945hWlorXZKjeK2S_I9MDkYJhUQQVZkdyABls0Br_HbnHKeTpqCwxPL4qrUpD6qsKShTDMjapZmvLMlMmuN6qa3ypfabiN-/s1600/DSCN0726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7yoy5d58McNrrYLmv9Ssf9ALl6p4sCZaF71rxYLIPoqN3945hWlorXZKjeK2S_I9MDkYJhUQQVZkdyABls0Br_HbnHKeTpqCwxPL4qrUpD6qsKShTDMjapZmvLMlMmuN6qa3ypfabiN-/s320/DSCN0726.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "bell," a ubiquitous dog, and a side of beef (!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I am still sleeping in the $20 so-called North Face sleeping bag I bought in Thimphu, using my sheets as curtains until it gets too hot to use the bag. After the 5 o'clock bell and barking, I pull the bag over my head and sleep another hour until the alarm on my cheap used Nokia phone wakes me again. During the night, the warm, dry air has turned chilly; I turn on the heater next to the bed, put on my Crocs (so practical in Bhutan), and go to the kitchen at the end of the hall. Sounds of the neighbors' children practicing their times tables in English and the odd whizz of their mother Anidha blending tea come clearly through the cement wall that divides my apartment from theirs. I turn on the water boiler--a necessity in Bhutan, where the water is not treated before it comes out of the tap--and light the two-burner gas stove under a sauce pan I've filled with water the night before. I've found that these two containers provide just the right amount of heated water for a bath and a cup of tea or coffee in the morning. I know that heating the water takes about seven minutes, so I tuck back into my sleeping bag as the room warms up.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmE07d8LXQAaLclAYoJZBJkFi3b27_h1GkvEklSgs0lyQO62oiHpm1ZX1Upbk3BrfOifJKM4Nsa5nD-4MFN3GNVsg-IIC6cKzvg2oj8pyjNX-QTUc5A8DXny5lAqFQbV7ayFZ_MSlob6w/s1600/DSCN0708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmE07d8LXQAaLclAYoJZBJkFi3b27_h1GkvEklSgs0lyQO62oiHpm1ZX1Upbk3BrfOifJKM4Nsa5nD-4MFN3GNVsg-IIC6cKzvg2oj8pyjNX-QTUc5A8DXny5lAqFQbV7ayFZ_MSlob6w/s320/DSCN0708.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Bedroom</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The bath is Indian style: it is a 5 gallon plastic bucket of the water I've heated mixed with cold water I collected the evening before since there is no water available in the morning; the girls in the hostel are all showering as I am getting ready for school, and since they are below me on the hillside, the water reaches them first (it is pumped from the river uphill). I take my bucket of water into the small "bathroom" in which there is a large shallow plastic tub to stand in. I hang my clothes on the back of the door, setting my Crocs just outside. I wash my hair first, and then quickly everything else. The room steams up, but it is cold.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcaaxPJ0TCCDr6Rpri76H1QoUyheH1ZqxrXnOWrJnwrbCcAbqhr7hg_F3Wq1jZEfqBxnMNKr8Gc78GAH2jhf_fkXEbc8NVaJA9pyPwz0Si_hpRVIMoxqI5_677PqAiL_kp5ummrVwTr9tQ/s1600/DSCN0712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcaaxPJ0TCCDr6Rpri76H1QoUyheH1ZqxrXnOWrJnwrbCcAbqhr7hg_F3Wq1jZEfqBxnMNKr8Gc78GAH2jhf_fkXEbc8NVaJA9pyPwz0Si_hpRVIMoxqI5_677PqAiL_kp5ummrVwTr9tQ/s320/DSCN0712.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Kitchen</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
After the bath, I make coffee or tea in the small amount of water I've left in the sauce pan and take it to my bedroom where I do push ups and sit-ups as I listen to podcasts on my computer of news from the West. When I've finished my exercises, I have a bowl of cornflakes with almonds and raisins that have been soaked in warm water to remove the pesticides and e-coli and anything else they've collected on their journey from India. If I'm lucky, I've got yogurt--it is hard to get here--and if not, something that is labeled milk, but as it never seems to go sour even though I haven't got a refrigerator, I am not sure I trust the label.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
At 6:45 precisely, the pigeons begin to clatter and coo on the roof--their feathers and dirt come into my bedroom under the door; their smell and racket a constant irritation. At 7:30, I get dressed for work. I alternate between wearing my <i>kira</i> and wearing slacks, both for comfort and, because of the water shortage, I can't wash clothes very often so I have to be judicious about what I wear and when.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJipEJL1mzA5y8JTVZKh1S_nmGe0-ttK4oyDlHI28x2nIHepKLI_bETtzAL27Jdxtgg_UR6xfMmEuARbm88lv1dg2sbitLYRv8mSp0EwkYYqg51uZ_M41yW-O9ub4XcHXw4tJ6JYw6LWb1/s1600/Exterior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJipEJL1mzA5y8JTVZKh1S_nmGe0-ttK4oyDlHI28x2nIHepKLI_bETtzAL27Jdxtgg_UR6xfMmEuARbm88lv1dg2sbitLYRv8mSp0EwkYYqg51uZ_M41yW-O9ub4XcHXw4tJ6JYw6LWb1/s320/Exterior.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Flat</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The path from my flat to the staff room leads behind the girls' hostel, down a cement staircase, through the canteen where Lobgir, one of the support staff, always offers me sweet milk tea and a snack (in the afternoon, he gives me pakoras; in the evenings, Oreos). I pass the mess hall and the outdoor taps where the students wash off their plates and cups after breakfast and the dogs linger, waiting for the slop to wash down in their direction. Nearly every student bows as I walk by and wishes me a "Good Morning, Miss!" as they have been taught to do.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfmkXBnQjmkO851C8UQ2KhyphenhyphenP5AmgZOsAmL4F1HQqZX575Iq4JLVZuaFpTi5kqrJil-ynsTaIUdL0G4xI0TSQh4z4CKFJ866oorMiKToCjWTXVqW3SEW9UMSwQoellwp_nwzvWXGRgjO_J/s1600/girls+hostel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfmkXBnQjmkO851C8UQ2KhyphenhyphenP5AmgZOsAmL4F1HQqZX575Iq4JLVZuaFpTi5kqrJil-ynsTaIUdL0G4xI0TSQh4z4CKFJ866oorMiKToCjWTXVqW3SEW9UMSwQoellwp_nwzvWXGRgjO_J/s320/girls+hostel.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Girls' Hostel from my Porch</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The staff room is the second floor of a new building between the mess hall and the academic building where most classes are held. The first floor is the new computer lab where the only modem and router are located, so the staff room is where everyone logs onto Facebook or downloads music and illegal copies of American movies. Spending time in the staff room, one sees how productivity levels are severely affected by the presence of the internet: hardly anyone who owns a laptop is actually working. Most, including me, are distracted by the seductive winking of the icons on our desktops: <i>The New York Times, The New Yorker</i> and <i>iTunes</i> for me; Bhutanese music sites (which feature 1980s American C&W music, for some reason) and Bollywood videos for the native staff. I usually arrive early to the staff room to avail myself of whatever bandwidth can be used to download podcasts, articles, and music to access later from home since I do not have internet yet in my apartment, but bandwidth is narrow even when no one is using it, so downloads are always painfully slow.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
At 8:15, the students and staff gather in the courtyard for morning assembly. The courtyard is decorated with paintings of the eight auspicious symbols of Buddhism, the grammatically confused PHSS acronym, and the flags of Bhutan and of PHSS. Assembly begins with the morning prayer, in Chokyi (classical Tibetan), to Manjushri, the emanation of wisdom, followed by the national anthem and the school pledge, both in Dzongkha. Next, two students, after bowing to the flag, offer speeches on an inspiring topic, one in English and one in Dzongkha. The English speeches are almost always about either the importance of being true to oneself, or steps to success lifted from Stephen Covey or Dale Carnegie (self-help books that offer Seven Habits or Twelve Steps are extremely popular here). The speeches are followed by announcements from the principal and some form of chastisement, either for "defaulting" on the English-only policy* or for littering. Assembly concludes with a two silent minute meditation: remarkably, every student actually appears to be meditating during this short interval, their eyes closed, their hands cupped in front of them. It is a lovely way to begin the day.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
By 9:00, when the first of the six daily periods begins, the sun has dispersed the clouds and it begins to get comfortably warm, unless one is in one's <i>kira</i>, in which case it is hot. Due to the spring wind, a fine red dust covers everything and gets in one's eyes and nose, clogs computers and permeates clothes; many students have coughs and sore throats (and as of today, so do I). Every two periods, a tea break is scheduled. The students head for the mess or the canteen and get very weak sweet milk tea and chile chops (called "poppers" in America--batter-fried chillies) or pakoras. After fourth period is lunch. Depending on my schedule, I try to go back to my flat for a meal of apples and peanut butter; otherwise, I am strongly encouraged to eat with other teachers in the mess (that deserves its own blog posting) where there is always some variation on the theme of rice and potato curry (the frequency and amount of rice and potatoes in the Bhutanese diet accounts for my inability to slim down here). Sensibly, lunch lasts an hour--it actually feels like a real and welcomed respite in the middle of the day and permits one a few minutes of sitting in the sun and reading more of <i>War and Peace</i>, if one should be so inclined.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The teaching schedule rotates so that every day is different, a welcome change from the way we do things in Portland, though it can be confusing (on more than one occasion, I have gotten the schedule wrong and arrived late to a class or missed it entirely, which fazes no one--students remain dutifully in class with or without a teacher). </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Teaching here is so much less stressful than in the United States. The stakes are higher, especially in classes 10 and 12 because of the exams, but at the same time the expectations are lower since English is not the first language and, due to the size of the classes (I have from 32 to 46 students in my classes), there is very little homework given, so formative assessment counts as only 10-20% of the final grade. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Teachers are given a Teacher's Guide for every class that summarizes the learning objectives, associated activities recommended for use in the classroom, and assessment strategies. Though we are not required to use them, they certainly provide a welcome set of guidelines for a new teacher, and make lesson planning very easy since they are geared to addressing exam questions. I know that as long as I meet the learning objectives--however I choose to do that--my students have been given the chance to do well on the exams. The marriage of the Teacher's Guides and the lack of homework to grade makes my work load minimal compared with the daily assessments and the high level of discourse and use of technology expected in my American classes. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The students, once they become comfortable with the new <i>chillip</i> teacher (Dzongkha for 'foreigner'), are generally enthusiastic, though nervous about speaking English with a native speaker. They are respectful and well-behaved but as reluctant to complete homework as Americans, in part because it is so rarely given and even more rarely scored, as far as I can tell. They know it counts for very little in the end, so they are not as wound up about homework as Americans whose homework might count for as much 60% of their final grade. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In Bhutan, as in India, secondary school students are funneled into one of three "streams" after the results of their 10th class exams are released: Arts, Commerce or Science. It seems to be common knowledge that those whose scores are the highest are in the Science stream and those with the lowest scores end up in Arts, a misnomer as these students will be teachers (not by choice, sadly), low-level managers in banks or at service companies (Telecom, Bhutan Power), or, in a few unusual cases, journalists. Students who are actually interested in painting, sculpture, metalwork, weaving or the other "arts" (other than music, which is taught in monasteries) attend the National Institute for <i>Zorig Chusum (</i>'Thirteen Traditional Arts'). </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
A very few high-scoring students select the Arts stream because they are interested neither in a career in business nor in science, but for the most part they end up there because their scores were too low to qualify for the other streams. A student who wishes to switch from one stream to another is permitted to do so only if her marks are high in the classes central to that stream. So an Arts student who wishes to move into Science must have excellent marks in math, biology, chemistry, etc. Though this sounds egalitarian, the truth is that if a student is in the Arts stream, it is unlikely that she will have taken biology or chemistry, so she can't qualify for the Science stream regardless of her wishes. (Those who are considering school reforms that approximate this model with career "pathways" in the United States take heed.) Unlike India, Bhutan cannot yet offer the range of employment opportunities that would effectively support a three-stream education system: science careers are somewhat limited, mostly to agriculture, forestry, and engineering (hydropower in particular, which is government owned; most of the power is sold to India which built the power plants in the first place); commercial opportunities are mostly in small business and tourism or government work. Indeed, a government job is the most coveted type of employment as it provides insurance and a pension and not a little respect from the rank and file.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
My teaching assignments are 11 Arts, 11 Commerce and 12 Arts; untested as a teacher, I have not been entrusted with the presumed pinnacle of teaching, 12 Science. This is fine with me: though I do think the United States would benefit from developing a national exam, the stakes here are too high and the pressure on the teachers to ensure students' high marks too intense. Students who do not pass the 12th class exam do not qualify for a seat at a Bhutanese college and must either pay to repeat their senior year at a private school or quit altogether (the highest scorers are offered education abroad, paid for by the Royal Bhutanese government, as is all education, including college and university education). A test that measures student literacy and numeracy at graduation makes sense to me; a test that determines a seventeen-year-old's future does not. <b>[Side Note</b>: There are a few 'special schools' scattered across Bhutan for the blind and for the most needy Special Needs students, but, for the most part, I am not asked to provide accommodations or differentiation in my classes to meet the needs of those for whom learning is a challenge. No student is medicated and none appears to have ADD or ADHD or symptoms of bipolarity or other pathologies (such students may have permanently left school in their elementary years). Though I do think many students could benefit from IEPs and <span class="s1">any</span> class benefits from effective differentiation, the fact that I am not required to provide either makes my job very easy.]</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In addition to teaching, all teachers are expected to help run a club (in my case, the Media Club which shares current events at Saturday morning assembly and which, I hope, will explore media literacy and the use of media in learning); to be on committees (Library Committee and Literary Committee, which organizes intra-house debates and extemporaneous speaking competitions, and publishes the school magazine); and to assume regular duties such as Study Duty (morning, evening and night study) and Mess Duty (ordering supplies for the dining hall; determining the menu for the month). Thus, though my teaching periods amount to relatively few (18 teaching periods in a week), my actual commitment to working at school is pretty high. In addition, I have been providing remedial classes in English during evening study and will continue to do so.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Instruction ends at 3:35, but, depending on the day, this is followed by S.U.P.W. (Socially Useful and Productive Work, such as planting shrubs or painting the school), or by sports such as volleyball and football, or by clubs/committees (see schedule below). Every house (there are four mixed-grade and mixed gender houses) is assigned a plot of land to be tilled, planted and harvested during S.U.P.W. This is an agricultural society, so the students seem to appreciate the opportunity to grow their own food; the boys are especially grateful because they get to expend considerable physical energy hacking away at the earth with their spades. The girls tend to the watering and weeding and, often, standing around looking a little bored. Every one of these activities--agricultural work, participation in clubs, sports, debate--is competitive. Points are awarded and badges given, either to individuals or houses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJ6ZBS4qcpMibBUgXyEMlBnwLuyLxZmtyvHCzGxommbNZ4dcdPwJYZps5ATj5kPlTlbXIkbgPDbF4xpMw_pLi4NnNhBA3sVHlZG1eQuh4rXKLwP8OF9TWFazgfQdunslNl3tQeTdGq89n/s1600/watering.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJ6ZBS4qcpMibBUgXyEMlBnwLuyLxZmtyvHCzGxommbNZ4dcdPwJYZps5ATj5kPlTlbXIkbgPDbF4xpMw_pLi4NnNhBA3sVHlZG1eQuh4rXKLwP8OF9TWFazgfQdunslNl3tQeTdGq89n/s400/watering.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Girls Hauling Water from the River</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkdgY_tKOZ3ci1_w86Y4g3pHWWUay6o6cvVmkpkiH1Jh2yZzzgZU7MBVcE0up-IF3N_6k-OVOl0tbBr8mjkL16pux760jo2pU_KANymwfqW6Lq-HLfDn7xnuCSZ83m0vXVUx-NOQvHgvik/s1600/digging.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkdgY_tKOZ3ci1_w86Y4g3pHWWUay6o6cvVmkpkiH1Jh2yZzzgZU7MBVcE0up-IF3N_6k-OVOl0tbBr8mjkL16pux760jo2pU_KANymwfqW6Lq-HLfDn7xnuCSZ83m0vXVUx-NOQvHgvik/s400/digging.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Boys Digging Up Beds</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In general, the demand on students is remarkable--two girls I spoke with who are class Captains (an honor) told me they stay up until 11:30 organizing S.U.P.W. and studying, then get up at 4:30 to wash, do laundry, and fulfill their other captaincy duties. They complained that they are so sleepy in class they can barely attend to what is most important: learning.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
After I have fulfilled my commitments on campus, including hacking away at the earth myself, I pass back through the gauntlet of "Good Evening, Miss!" salutations and return in the gloaming to my home. My evening meals are usually Bhutanese or Indian in flavor, due to the availability of vegetables and spices: saag spiced with ginger, chillies and cumin with red Bhutanese rice and dahl. Cabbage and cucumber salad. Tea. Some evenings I spend reading for pleasure or writing (What rapture! What joy!). When I have water, I do the laundry, again in a bucket by hand. Sometimes, I visit with other teachers who live on campus, or have dinner in Kuruthang or Bajo with other western teachers in the Valley. Generally, I am asleep by about 10:30. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
This job is sensible, relaxed, rewarding; the Bhutanese are playful, kind and generous; the country is stunningly beautiful and for the most part undeveloped; and though the standard of living is very low, life is comfortable. Many people here have asked if I plan to extend my contract for a second year. Though I do not yet know the answer to that question, I would bet that my teacher friends in the United States would not just understand if I decided to stay--they might envy my chance to do so.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>*Consequences for defaulting (defaulters are caught by "informers"--students who have been selected to narc on their peers for speaking any language other than English during classes): First offense--50 prostrations in the courtyard; second offense--100 prostrations; Third offense--150 prostrations; 4th offense--write an essay on a given topic in one hour and then copy it fifteen times by the end of the school day AND do 150 prostrations. I and many of the students are troubled by the use of a religious practice--prostrating--as a punishment.</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The STUDENTS' DAILY SCHEDULE</i></div>
</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>5:00 am<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Rising Bell</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>5:30-6:00<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Hostel cleaning</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>6:00-6:15<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Wash and Change</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>6:30-7:30<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Morning Study</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>7:30-8:00<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Breakfast</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>8:00-8:18<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>S.U.P.W.</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>8:20-8:45<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Assembly</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>8:50-9:45<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>First Period</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>9:45-10:40<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Second period</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>10:40-10:55<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Tea Break</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>10:55-11:50<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Third period</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>11:50-12:45<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Fourth period</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>12:45-1:45<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>LUNCH</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>1:45-2:40<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Fifth Period</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>2:40-3:35<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Sixth period</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>3:35-5:15<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Tea Break/Sports</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>5:30-6:30<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Evening Study</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>6:30-7:00<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Evening Prayer</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>7:00-7:25<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Dinner</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>7:30-8:30<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Night Study</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>9:00<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Attendance for boarders in hostel</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>9:30<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>LIGHTS OUT</i></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-81561127474240889112013-03-12T03:27:00.001-07:002013-03-12T03:27:04.667-07:00Grammar After Hours<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gR0QzUST2vYdxNHrVSwqFml9pD6pz6_T0NQJ2O23o2qQFoZtdOnNgtjVrtzdehoVEb7U-sDaHIPS8DGN5Wgj0EJrxms50sc7re2ETv15yCKu1VEVF-Labhyphenhyphensyd_B1HrpZ6M6yGg6oe1v/s1600/DSCN0568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gR0QzUST2vYdxNHrVSwqFml9pD6pz6_T0NQJ2O23o2qQFoZtdOnNgtjVrtzdehoVEb7U-sDaHIPS8DGN5Wgj0EJrxms50sc7re2ETv15yCKu1VEVF-Labhyphenhyphensyd_B1HrpZ6M6yGg6oe1v/s1600/DSCN0568.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Morning Assembly, Punakha Higher Secondary School</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Those of us from the west teaching in Bhutan have been rending our clothes and grinding our teeth in the face of feckless faculty meetings, missing timetables, unannounced changes in our teaching responsibilities and intermittent water/electricity/internet/English-only language instruction (which is mandated by the Ministry of Education). Though our students are charming, kind, polite, and at least somewhat committed to doing their best, most are so far behind where they need to be in their reading and writing in English that it is hard to imagine them making it from lower primary school into upper primary, let alone scoring well enough on the 12th grade exam to qualify for a coveted seat at one of Bhutan's Royal Colleges.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Formative assessments of my 11th and 12th class students' writing reveal significant gaps in their understanding of basic grammar, very limited vocabularies, and inexplicable sentence constructions. As we've been repeatedly warned, Bhutan has not yet developed a reading culture (there is one public library <i>IN THE COUNTRY</i>, so far as I know), so there is no reinforcement of language acquisition outside of school other than bad Hollywood movies and Miley Cyrus singles. Thus, the combination of an incomprehensible school system and alarmingly under-prepared students can engender in a teacher a real sense of hopelessness or, at best, the feeling one is simply treading water under the crest of a Hokusai wave.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Given all of this, I thought the least I could do would be to identify the students who are at greatest risk of doing poorly on the upcoming quarterly exams and use their writing to analyze which skills they most need to improve. Each day, all boarding students have Morning, Evening, and Night Study, an hour each of mandated study time. The boys meet in the classroom (students stay in one room all day and teachers move from class to class) and girls in the dining hall to complete homework, read, practice writing in Dzongkha, or prepare speeches for the morning assemblies. I figured I could pull a small group of students out of Evening Study to work with them on grammar and then see in another formative assessment if it had helped their writing.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I identified four girls and two boys in my twelfth class to work with first on subject/verb agreement. In class, I announced that I would be seeing them in Evening Study and that I would spend half the period with the boys and half with the girls. This announcement, not surprisingly, was met with silence; I wondered if I would come to Evening Study and find my students inexplicably absent or be regaled with lame excuses for why it would be impossible for them to give up their precious Evening Study time. Nevertheless, I prepared twenty practice questions and had the office assistant make four copies (we are not permitted to make more than a few copies of anything; if we really want a class set of something, we have to take a taxi to Kuruthang, 3 km away, and pay for copies ourselves). I imagined spending about fifteen minutes going over the definitions of "subject", "pronoun" and "verb" and another fifteen minutes helping whomever I could rustle up with the practice questions. Heck, it was worth a try.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Imagine my surprise when I showed up for boys' evening study and was met by a small group of students from our class asking if they, too, could come to the grammar session even though I hadn't called their names. I thought they were trying to make it a social affair, so I rebuffed their entreaties, but they persisted. "Miss," they asserted, "we did not learn the grammar and we need it to improve our writing." I was flabbergasted: were teenage boys begging to have grammar lessons outside of the regular school day? Then more boys came into the room (Evening Study was about to formally begin) and ALL of them asked if they could come to the study session. Then, the four girls I had 'invited' came in to find out where we'd be meeting, and when they heard the boys asking for a whole-class session, they joined in, insisting that all the girls wanted to have special grammar instruction during Evening Study.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And so it came to pass: at about 5:40, all forty-two of my 12th class boarding students came for an hour long grammar lesson. Even the so-called knuckleheads (my term of endearment for the kids who have a hard time paying attention in class) were attentive; all the students participated; they asked excellent questions; they took thorough notes. When the bell for evening prayer rang and I was packing up to go, they asked me to do more sessions each night of the week at which I demurred: "I need some nights off, you guys!" I told them. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHoQrGCiY056Azd10PN3uZqP13Eq2hT3dJRfimuG1x-pmlsHkqYhEFLNA8loV17p6uNnuGpWRftnNEOZDE5MPSSB_O3e_T79Qot19MsCCZ1mDubRgNIs6_LS-oblpUFZwNI01_kIw2XtwK/s1600/DSCN0569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHoQrGCiY056Azd10PN3uZqP13Eq2hT3dJRfimuG1x-pmlsHkqYhEFLNA8loV17p6uNnuGpWRftnNEOZDE5MPSSB_O3e_T79Qot19MsCCZ1mDubRgNIs6_LS-oblpUFZwNI01_kIw2XtwK/s1600/DSCN0569.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of my classrooms</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As the class began to disperse, the students were so appreciative and expressed so much gratitude I was overwhelmed. A few of the boys told me they loved me; a bunch of them demanded high-fives, and many of them as they left the room gave me "thumbs up," a corny Americanism I use to establish a positive atmosphere in class. They offered to carry my backpack; they escorted me across the campus; both girls and boys repeatedly wished me "Good Night, Miss," in a tone that was somehow more earnest than the usual requisite "Good Night" I hear as I walk home in the evenings. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It may be that all the goodwill and mutual feelings of respect and affection generated this evening are fleeting; sometimes, a single auspicious day can bring about magical encounters with ephemeral results. Then again, perhaps tonight marked a real and lasting step forward in these students' learning as well as in my deep appreciation and respect for the crazy, unpredictable, maddening school system of Bhutan.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDwamVye8wBo15q2Cqy6Q6XBhk_97lQKlzVPuKHdp6UWGTXYEUmO6DbpeUEJMM4c1uNrpY8UOr8c68Y0GX0hpdNWQhADW0dPihNl43dQmsfxw2iYWbizyUaq880YV9rTv0byDknrXEpej/s1600/DSCN0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDwamVye8wBo15q2Cqy6Q6XBhk_97lQKlzVPuKHdp6UWGTXYEUmO6DbpeUEJMM4c1uNrpY8UOr8c68Y0GX0hpdNWQhADW0dPihNl43dQmsfxw2iYWbizyUaq880YV9rTv0byDknrXEpej/s1600/DSCN0357.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Punakha Higher Secondary School Academic Building</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-73784876186871691762013-02-28T03:08:00.001-08:002013-02-28T03:08:05.295-08:00Phobjikha Valley, Part II-- The Black Necked Cranes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37zqJ4enuGJRlgPWEuYs4RED-AKXYDEbfOZ7kpYoUE_CY4XZH3ueGV3GqJ5PR_FhuMhC2IJdtvCtCgvvEls9n3rwz8Zv-Beo22SxY1NhQFa4Ts1pya-JENw268swc4bEDByNKdKXdfXNY/s1600/Model+Crane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37zqJ4enuGJRlgPWEuYs4RED-AKXYDEbfOZ7kpYoUE_CY4XZH3ueGV3GqJ5PR_FhuMhC2IJdtvCtCgvvEls9n3rwz8Zv-Beo22SxY1NhQFa4Ts1pya-JENw268swc4bEDByNKdKXdfXNY/s320/Model+Crane.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Necked Crane at the BNC Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To Phobjikha Valley, Part II: <i>The Black Necked Cranes</i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The morning sky was the blue of the frescoes inside St. Marks Basilica in Venice; the blue of the gentian that grows in the upper Himalayas. Frost had painted the dry grasses silvery white and the breath of the Ferghana horses grazing at the edge of the marshes encircled their heads in clouds. </span><br />
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYldEMR6813oIoOnWdtx9hGnt97mVXCUscCQjbxCGXgtaZN2-Uax7TP5dv-2H8PXTUNBpod5sTJpY5kFifHmTgIswZqVHaUSK2Kp__Z6_KevNkWZ_abEkrR3nIK3zHN0xnKRSAmUkPuLj/s1600/Brick+in+the+Valley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEYldEMR6813oIoOnWdtx9hGnt97mVXCUscCQjbxCGXgtaZN2-Uax7TP5dv-2H8PXTUNBpod5sTJpY5kFifHmTgIswZqVHaUSK2Kp__Z6_KevNkWZ_abEkrR3nIK3zHN0xnKRSAmUkPuLj/s400/Brick+in+the+Valley.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brick Root in the Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoJNVaGzEAfvhiNwYN1oPWG_KAHcbTQj9p1Bk3dchzYH8NXPPsEM5kaHc7QQE3s_N3jLaBnkGlruhjWwQSJCaoJN2YZuzWGZ9Ta9skM5CNe_0_MRFY_YkXbSC5E8nX9uZr9j_j0fTWIm9/s1600/FROST+IN+THE+VALLEY.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfoJNVaGzEAfvhiNwYN1oPWG_KAHcbTQj9p1Bk3dchzYH8NXPPsEM5kaHc7QQE3s_N3jLaBnkGlruhjWwQSJCaoJN2YZuzWGZ9Ta9skM5CNe_0_MRFY_YkXbSC5E8nX9uZr9j_j0fTWIm9/s400/FROST+IN+THE+VALLEY.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frosty Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1OLgzXr7qTG55rGx8DW3ZH4M2zp1l40w8jtxcgtLDL-dXKx2zZtj1_StFN3BV-RKv3XGhyphenhyphenPfC1254W5VgKny5FL0iuLeyXjpFES3RxuWDU7iZ1xy2O3Wl8PhcwGq2QZZuhuPrkYShhfF/s1600/Ferghana+horses.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1OLgzXr7qTG55rGx8DW3ZH4M2zp1l40w8jtxcgtLDL-dXKx2zZtj1_StFN3BV-RKv3XGhyphenhyphenPfC1254W5VgKny5FL0iuLeyXjpFES3RxuWDU7iZ1xy2O3Wl8PhcwGq2QZZuhuPrkYShhfF/s320/Ferghana+horses.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferghana Horses (at least I think that's what they are!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">We had been awakened by the sound of the Black Necked Cranes calling to one another from across the valley as the sun's first light crested the mountain tops and spilled like melted butter over the spruce, pine and cypress forests ringing the widely scattered village of Phobjikha.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Inside Yueli Kiis, our lodging for the night, we were warm and sleepy under several blankets and quilts abetted by hot water bottles at our feet, but the cranes' honking gave us a reason to toss off the covers and brave the cold of the room The fire in our wood stove had burned down to embers during the night, and since we were leaving in search of cranes, we didn't bother to stoke it.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0oU5XnCm8RXGxBj62SiHmrfY25gMyTbT_VpMT5ZryoPr1cyjTBjZqrMAE4vWnkEJnxNJZqdpqqoWTzCEwRgvHPdlSaC2ZK36qkqZjRnN7qrm2J1AwdL3ZXnWfIgSbizOTwUKDZ2sPHngF/s1600/Yuelo+Kiis.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0oU5XnCm8RXGxBj62SiHmrfY25gMyTbT_VpMT5ZryoPr1cyjTBjZqrMAE4vWnkEJnxNJZqdpqqoWTzCEwRgvHPdlSaC2ZK36qkqZjRnN7qrm2J1AwdL3ZXnWfIgSbizOTwUKDZ2sPHngF/s320/Yuelo+Kiis.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yueli Kiis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Breakfast was impressive, especially considering that Brick, Lucy, and Matt and I were the only guests in the lodge--pancakes, cereal, milk tea and eggs--and the owner had packed Matt and Lucy onion sandwiches for their hike over the mountain to Wangdi where they were hoping to flag a taxi. They had hired a local to guide them; the trails across Bhutan are not marked, and are often barely recognizable as trails and criss-crossed with paths made by herders, villagers and livestock, including the yaks and horses that the Laya people lead down to the valleys to forage during the harsh northern winter. We drank too many cups of tea, keeping Matt and Lucy company as they waited for the guide to meet them, and then we all left, they for the trail and we in search of the flocks of cranes we could still hear from inside the lodge.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A dirt path that doubles as a road weaves across the valley floor, passing a cluster of tsongkhangs and houses and children washing up in the cold morning at the outdoor taps. Brick and I followed the road past the horses and past a cluster of three unusual chortens made only out of cloth (most chortens in Bhutan are stone or mud brick) affixed to poles; we were told this style of chorten originated in this valley with Guru Rinpoche hundreds of years ago. They cast weird shadows in the early morning sun.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpTscA31doeCeZ1xdmOXeye8JjoHxLq7kG4GbLtt3DQxTZiKxmWXTmwIj_uRr8TFWhj9b0iQUGFRAZ1NdzaMGbPf2LHXDcIvVx8fkYQsPUVpgSLw60R927AF4ntWBQ_dB3aYFV0GoQFkB/s1600/Cloth+Chorten.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpTscA31doeCeZ1xdmOXeye8JjoHxLq7kG4GbLtt3DQxTZiKxmWXTmwIj_uRr8TFWhj9b0iQUGFRAZ1NdzaMGbPf2LHXDcIvVx8fkYQsPUVpgSLw60R927AF4ntWBQ_dB3aYFV0GoQFkB/s400/Cloth+Chorten.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The road meandered across the valley and over a rill fed by the marsh where the cranes breed, and then followed the edge of a forest, past a water-powered prayer wheel, a common sight in Bhutan due to all of the waterfalls and streams that have their source at the tops of these mountains. It emerged in the sun on a rise above a large farm that might have grown buckwheat, potatoes, or barley rather than the rice common in the lower, hotter Punakha Valley. There, inside a fenced-in field about 500 yards across the valley, was a flock of perhaps 30 cranes, feeding on the gleanings of last year's crop.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJI4CfqN-Wx_5zcU18ZHn72AOFhRN5MC8a-9mWN_mFjarsGa_eUiZFRU5sDcXmsD0HTClHlAlAOnE3LdyKXBOzcWqlRJzxBXZhZhHowFabsm0XgXASdk9hFZFeSWbA63-gYclXGIWNyPq/s1600/Cranes+closeup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJI4CfqN-Wx_5zcU18ZHn72AOFhRN5MC8a-9mWN_mFjarsGa_eUiZFRU5sDcXmsD0HTClHlAlAOnE3LdyKXBOzcWqlRJzxBXZhZhHowFabsm0XgXASdk9hFZFeSWbA63-gYclXGIWNyPq/s640/Cranes+closeup.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The cranes, one of only fifteen remaining species of cranes in the world, are tremendous in size--they appear to be nearly four feet in height with pale gray bodies and black necks and heads. Known as Thrung Thrungs, or 'heavenly birds' in Bhutan, these birds appear in dances and folklore across Bhutan and Tibet. Globally endangered, they number only about 6000 worldwide; in the Phobjikha Valley, their population has increased from about 250 ten years ago to almost 400 today due to comprehensive protection efforts by the Royal Society for the Protection of Nature (RSPN) in concert with the willing support of the locals who benefit from the tourist trade generated by interest in these beautiful birds. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We retraced our steps along the road and then cut through the fields over terrain that reminded us both of the Alaskan tundra--tufted hillocks of peaty grass and duff--stepping carefully to avoid cow pies and puddles. As we drew close to the flock, we slowed our pace and veered away from the cluster of birds, hoping to take them by surprise by coming around from their flank. Not speaking, taking steps with great care so we wouldn't break sticks or make any sudden moves, we followed the fence's perimeter, heads down, cameras ready. When we were about fifteen feet from the nearest cranes, we very slowly rose to our full heights to take a picture, but the cranes' vigilance brought all their heads around toward us in unison, and in a great, loud honking whirlwind, they all rose into the air as though they were one creature and headed for the other end of the valley. Fortunately, Brick caught them in flight as they rose above us:</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjZhgSKAKjUZ_20oakrhTBwWBwLjDjaK60wr75Kz6VbjUluHBzX1_bqeoq3HqUszN6R-0LtqKd8afp6lEnckIZbI2g2DWOC0c64DqpJZKH6rOI4Ps7rdySqeImICkROjdTlenvXMnN6n4/s1600/Cranes+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjZhgSKAKjUZ_20oakrhTBwWBwLjDjaK60wr75Kz6VbjUluHBzX1_bqeoq3HqUszN6R-0LtqKd8afp6lEnckIZbI2g2DWOC0c64DqpJZKH6rOI4Ps7rdySqeImICkROjdTlenvXMnN6n4/s640/Cranes+4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXcwwJKftAvxbWAP6bSq_KE3DmkToHUefP2IddGVLY3Wj4PwaW2As4zeC2Jm0YgG1cdezC7YJMnguhAinonIv1xafHI-Jz3ZtTkBqDBWATsaEDVHH0DTijmLl2bF9EaiHWxB0b2r7guiw/s1600/Cranes+over+head+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXcwwJKftAvxbWAP6bSq_KE3DmkToHUefP2IddGVLY3Wj4PwaW2As4zeC2Jm0YgG1cdezC7YJMnguhAinonIv1xafHI-Jz3ZtTkBqDBWATsaEDVHH0DTijmLl2bF9EaiHWxB0b2r7guiw/s640/Cranes+over+head+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photos by Brick Root</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">We had been told by Matt and Lucy that the Black Necked Crane Museum was worth a visit and that we would be able to watch the birds through telescopes there, so we made our way to the main road and followed it through the village, past our lodge and the shuttered shops (February is the off-season) to the hexagonally shaped museum built into the side of a hill to maximize the scope of the view from the bank of windows that faces the valley. The museum doors were locked, but Matt had told us that an old man who lived at the farm up the hill from the museum had a key and would let us in and focus the telescopes for us. I found him chatting with a few young men on his front steps, and although he spoke not a word of English, he knew what I meant when I asked if anyone had the key to the museum? His teeth and gums were stained red from chewing doma, and the gritty juice ran from the sides of his mouth in a gruesome trickle. His knees were somewhat bowed and his gho was filthy, but he was very happy to help us and patiently waited while Brick and I watched several groups of cranes through the telescopes; Brick counted nearly 100, and we could see only a small part of the valley from the museum windows. We watched a short, informative video made by an ornithologist working with the RSPN and browsed the library of books about birds and other wildlife in Bhutan. After about 45 minutes there, we decided it was time to think about how we were going to get back to Punakha since the only bus heading west had left at 8:30 in the morning.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5s4sJMUGhpHc9rmMSxQCiDNBAbXehosg1320X5yEp_njTzvPqVWlRJyuA8wKsx-gJpionPbjtpL-_yc8xfQL-mLvxp4KtJqgJBgVh6rg8o0gvqqpH6VkeafQRCBOQ5QZIGd1NSMsNicq/s1600/BNC+Museum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5s4sJMUGhpHc9rmMSxQCiDNBAbXehosg1320X5yEp_njTzvPqVWlRJyuA8wKsx-gJpionPbjtpL-_yc8xfQL-mLvxp4KtJqgJBgVh6rg8o0gvqqpH6VkeafQRCBOQ5QZIGd1NSMsNicq/s320/BNC+Museum.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Necked Crane Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a lunch of instant noodles and milk tea back at Yueli Kiis, the owner's 15 year old son conjured a ride for us with his cousin, a clever ruse to get himself a free ride to Punakha where his friends from Ugyen Secondary School, a private high school near my public high school, would be waiting to show him a good time. He and his cousin were excellent company on the ride back--a ride that took half as long as the bus, thankfully--answering our questions about Bhutanese history and about the Phobjikha Valley and filling us in on the care and feeding of the typical teenager in Bhutan. They knew about Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones and had playlists on the car radio (which took a thumb drive loaded with music) that represented current American and British pop music. </span><br />
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Brick and I plan to return to the Phobjikha Valley in the summer when it has greened to hike up to the Gangtey Monastery, the center of the Nyingmapa Buddhist tradition in Bhutan. It is the Buddhist belief in reincarnation that underscores the desire to protect the cranes in the first place--after all, according to Buddhism, all the cranes were once our mothers!</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Next Adventure:</b> Gasa Dzongkhag in northwestern Bhutan.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-81090363490496417412013-02-19T20:03:00.001-08:002013-02-19T20:03:14.891-08:00Vicissitudes of Language in Bhutan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlb2s3zRskvmV8s6RhUbTDrtEi9d0Qg8H7Lz1CVCEwtWDLmES8SwbApNVVljXFMDq7w8CAxZ_m-5uiMeUilh_9A-t-BBYvAD8ygeNOcTOOCrXZiRvxI5gh3kp1B7BhVpkPaYr5CSO6fp2R/s1600/index.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlb2s3zRskvmV8s6RhUbTDrtEi9d0Qg8H7Lz1CVCEwtWDLmES8SwbApNVVljXFMDq7w8CAxZ_m-5uiMeUilh_9A-t-BBYvAD8ygeNOcTOOCrXZiRvxI5gh3kp1B7BhVpkPaYr5CSO6fp2R/s320/index.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
If one looks at a topographical map of Bhutan, one can immediately see how the geography has shaped the culture: with the exception of a few broad valleys, this is a country of very steep mountains and very deep gorges, and, though the size of Switzerland, it still has fewer than a dozen paved inter-provincial (or inter-<i>dzongkhag-al</i>, to be more Bhutanese about it) roads. The peoples who inhabit these gorges and valleys are extremely isolated, and thus many languages have developed over the centuries independent of one another; each is incomprehensible to the other, though these days many people are multi-lingual, speaking the national language, Dzongkha, as well as Nepali, some English, and possibly one of the other minority languages of Bhutan: Kurthep, Sharchop, Choekyi (classical Tibetan, taught in the monasteries and nunneries), Khengkha, Bumthangkha, Mangdep, or Dzala.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Dzongkha has been the national language since the 17th century but, like Somali, was not a written language until the late 20th century. Though it uses Tibetan script, the <i>Lonely Planet Guide to Bhutan</i> claims that speakers of Tibetan struggle to understand spoken Dzongkha (though my monk friend who learned Tibetan in his monastery in Nepal seems to have no trouble at all). To the ear, Dzongkha echoes the chanting of the Buddhist monks; each syllable seems to carry the same amount of emphasis as the next, unlike our own iambic, Latinate/Celtic/Germanic/Norse/French soup of a language. Lengthier sentences in Dzongkha recapitulate the sound of rocks being tossed down a flight of stairs, each syllable a rock tumbling after the syllable before it (unlike Tamil in South India, which resembled a liquid cascade of sound with no distinguishable beginning or end to each word). To ask 'What is your name?" in Dzongkha, one says, "Ch<span class="s1">ö</span> gi ming ga chi mo?" and each syllable is a word or discrete concept, neither stressed nor unstressed except for the slight upturn in tone at the end to indicate a query.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Needful of basic Dzongkha to manoeuver in the marketplace and villages, I purchased a Dzongkha primer published by the Dzongkha Development Commission. Though it provides a far greater amount of detail than I can currently manage without a <i>lopen</i> (teacher), it includes the numbers, introductory sentences ("How much does that cost?" chief among them) and sentence stems that will be useful down the road. Best of all, it is clear that the Dzongkha Development Commission could not afford or could not find an English speaking editor to ensure the accuracy and comprehensibility of the text. This affords endless fun as one studies one's Dzongkha. This <i>Dzongkha Rabsel Lamzang</i> (the title itself is untranslated) opens with the following sentence:</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"The Dzongkha Development Commission experienced a lot of difficulties in pronouncing Dzongkha words written in Roman English due to the lack of a standard procedure for writing Dzongkha pronunciation in Roman English."</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EpIvXcIvkYutaxrR6eU2en_oEbqTvOm3d1R_nTTfsqWPiCljmfrrWQsUtDbKDQRa9kZ0q6sElxdnniS9BqOYa2qrt8bgfb27ts00O8GGjKIdqiH8PH_DIKIq1U1dFsGEygLNXt5fW6C8/s1600/51umHMAyWCL._SS500_.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2EpIvXcIvkYutaxrR6eU2en_oEbqTvOm3d1R_nTTfsqWPiCljmfrrWQsUtDbKDQRa9kZ0q6sElxdnniS9BqOYa2qrt8bgfb27ts00O8GGjKIdqiH8PH_DIKIq1U1dFsGEygLNXt5fW6C8/s200/51umHMAyWCL._SS500_.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
This tautology is proved by the following example: given seven different ways of writing the sound "<i>'Nya</i>" in Dzongkha, though all written the same way in English, and thus seven different pronunciations, we are informed that one of them is "used for honorific ear that is <i>'Nyen</i>" while another is "used for word honorific happy that is <i>'Nye</i>". The last of the seven is "used for hell that is <i>'Nyewa</i>." Good to know.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In her amusing memoir about her life in Bhutan, <i>Married to Bhutan</i>, Linda Leaming relates her own struggle to learn Dzongkha from a lopen at the school where she volunteered. After committing the 30 characters of the Dzongkha alphabet to memory, her lopen informed her that she would now need to learn the 100 consonants that, in combination with the 30 basic letters, make the building blocks of Dzongkha. As she notes, "This may not sound like a lot, but consider the possible permutations of 100 little attachments on 30 letters. I'm not now, nor was I then, a mathematician; but I knew I was headed down not only a difficult, bumpy road, but also a very long one." Lopen Palden taught her the following mnemonic "ditty" to help her remember the first four consonants in combination with some of the letters:</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ka-gee-goo-key</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ka-shab-jew-koo</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ka-dim-bow-kay</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ka-narrow-ko</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i></i><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Here is her explanation of what this Dzongkha nursery rhyme means: "The first syllable is the actual alphabet letter, and the ending syllable is what it becomes when you attach one of four consonants. "<i>Key</i>" is a little hook that goes on top of the letter [when it is written]. "<i>Koo</i>" is a hook attached to the bottom right. "<i>Kay</i>" is a kite tail that hangs in the air; "<i>ko</i>" is a little bird that sits on top of the letter." </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
She does not venture an explanation for the middle syllables; perhaps that's all for the best. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As I am beginning to understand, a lot of what is said in Dzongkha in <i>tsongkhangs</i> (shops) and other informal circumstances is ribald or is concerned with drinking. The Bhutanese are famously lewd, perhaps because of their national hero Drukpa Kinley, the "divine madman" of Bhutan, a likeness of whose penis adorns so many homes and businesses. Drukpa Kinley used his "thunderbolt" to rid Bhutan of demons and to expose people's hypocrisies; he did so while intoxicated, and not surprisingly drinking is a large part of Bhutanese culture--every family makes their own <i>ara</i> (distilled rice liquor) and <i>bam-chang </i>(an unfiltered drink made from fermented grain). I was more than a little surprised when I was offered a glass of K5, a Bhutanese whiskey made from a malt base imported from Scotland (K5 = the fifth king of Bhutan; it was created in honor of his coronation). There is also a Bhutan Highland whiskey and a number of Bhutanese ales and lagers, many served in recycled Kingfisher bottles.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Though I do not think I will need to learn to converse with my Bhutanese friends and colleagues about sex, I do want to be able to understand them when <i>they</i> are discussing it, if for no other reason than I want to be in on the jokes. Drinking vocabulary is indeed useful no matter where one travels, so rather than spend my time with the <i>Dzongkha Rabsel Lamzang</i> trying to unravel the subtleties of <i>'Nya</i>, I think I'd be better off spending my time in one of the tiny "Restaurant cum Bar" <i>tsongkhangs</i> that act as the center of village social life. There, I can get a shot of K5 and some <i>Koka</i> noodles (like ramen) for less than the cost of a pack of gum in the United States, and simultaneously learn the Dzongkha words to describe the drunken and bawdy shenanigans of my village neighbors. This, and "How much does that cost?" may be all the Dzongkha I need.</div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-25822037727376594232013-02-13T23:46:00.003-08:002013-02-13T23:46:55.304-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
Riding the Public Bus in Bhutan: From Punakha to the Phobjikha Valley, Part I</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Phobjikha Valley, at 3000 meters (10,000 feet) was muscled out of the slate Black Mountains in Western Bhutan by glaciers, leaving a wide, flat, somewhat marshy landscape unusual for this country of deep and alarming gorges. The valley is known for two things: Gangtey Monastery, the oldest Nyingma Monastery in Bhutan, and the black-necked cranes who fly thousands of miles over the Himalayas from Tibet, to summer here to avoid the harsh winters of the Tibetan plateau (it is winter in Bhutan now, too, but the winters here are so much milder than in Tibet that this is where the cranes fly to holiday). They have chosen only three valleys in Bhutan as their winter home, and are found in greatest number in the Phobjikha Valley. This is why I went, and why my fellow BCF teacher Brick Root joined me.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Getting to PV from the Punakha Valley used to take days, as did travel to any valley beyond one's own. Today, one can follow the loosely defined road from Wangdi in two to three hours by taxi, travelling just south of Punakha and east towards Trongsa, the Dzongkhag that marks the beginning of Central Bhutan. However, if one chooses to take the public bus, as we did, the adventure lasts five hours, and telescopes several insights into Bhutanese culture into one, long butt-numbing experience.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Bajothang, where one catches the bus to PV, is a planned town built in the past twenty years on the Tsang Chuu. Unlike most Bhutanese towns, it is laid out in a grid like a western city, and accommodates the businesses and services needed by the surrounding communities. It has a somewhat Wild West feel to it, maybe because of all the dust kicked up by the construction vehicles that gut its dirt roads, hauling sand and rock to the hydropower project on the river below or the new hotel being built on the mountainside above in Rinchingang. The roads are paved, but only in theory, and the uncurtained windows of several buildings on the uphill side of Bajo reveal empty flats and storefronts. It is peopled largely by Indian immigrants, brought to Bhutan on five-year contracts to do construction work or to teach in the schools. Brick, who will be teaching in Gaselo, a small village across the river from Bajo and 11 km up the mountain, took a ride with his Vice Principal to Bajo early on Friday to explore the town that will provide him with most of his "modern" needs--hardware, an internet connection, chocolate eclairs, and beer (brewed in Bhutan). He bought our bus tickets at 9 am for a 2:30 departure, and nabbed the 16th and 17th seats out of 20 available for 65 ngultrums each, or $1.25. He was told we should arrive at the station at 2:00 in order to load the bus to ensure a prompt 2:30 departure.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I took a taxi from Kuruthang, the planned town that serves Punakha, to the Bajo Bus Station and met Brick a little before 2:00. I had ridden the public bus in India: there, the famous Indian bureaucracy and the thousands of travel options make purchasing a ticket virtually impossible without a translator or guide. The impressive Victorian-era bus stations are crammed with families and their belongings and touts and old, leprosic beggars, creating a veritable carpet of humanity, punctuated by cows and the occasional official in his greasy uniform charging purposefully through the crowd but accomplishing nothing. The buses are built for people of small stature so that when a taller person sits down, she must tilt her knees to the side in order to fit into the narrow metal seat which invariably abuts the only corpulent Indian man who chews paan and leans across to spit out the window. Sudden stops along the route accompanied by unceasing honking, of which there are many, threaten the integrity of one's kneecaps and face. Crushingly loud Indian pop music assaults (or entertains) riders from cheap, buzzing speakers. A seat for two is filled with four, all redolent of sweat and curry or the rank oniony smell of meat-eaters; the aisle is crammed with luggage and people, and more hang off the sides. Worst of all, no one is able to tell you when to get off for your stop--or rather, everyone seems to know when you ought to disembark, but none agrees. Everyone is in a foul humor, yelling at one another in Tamil or Hindi as though they are furious, which they may be, but it is impossible to tell. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
At the bus station in Bajo, the bus sits in a vortex of dust in a huge, otherwise empty lot. A few languid dogs press their eyes closed against the wind. The 'bus station' is a window in a small storefront in one corner of the lot. Brick had no problem reading the schedule (though only departure times were listed, not return times), speaking to the attendant or purchasing the tickets. Eight or ten people, with their luggage, sat patiently on rocks next to the empty bus, waiting for the signal to board. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcu5kwA10usWjMo7Hl-XNL6_Sru939bQ0H70GR4OWdxihjNVDP5Y1l8vg6julRWEj7qNMpVLtuZ0W6u2V76l8ap7ofcZafQBoiY1TEQvy3y3P2Pd0XzwZj6ib6inXEgygCECSuWfcJHcS/s1600/BajoBusStation.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcu5kwA10usWjMo7Hl-XNL6_Sru939bQ0H70GR4OWdxihjNVDP5Y1l8vg6julRWEj7qNMpVLtuZ0W6u2V76l8ap7ofcZafQBoiY1TEQvy3y3P2Pd0XzwZj6ib6inXEgygCECSuWfcJHcS/s400/BajoBusStation.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Brick and I stood away from the lot to avoid the sandstorm, finding ourselves, serendipitously, in front of the Shangri-La Bakery where we bought a huge piece of chocolate cake. Precisely at 2:00, people began to board, so we dutifully joined them and took our seats which were nearly all the way in the back. The process was somewhat orderly and everyone was pleasant. Seated across the aisle from us was a family of three, their young daughter asleep in their arms. As 2:30 approached, the aisle began to fill with extra passengers sitting on their luggage, but there was no angry pushing and shoving or unkind words spoken. In fact, there seemed to be an unspoken etiquette applicable to how to accommodate and maneuver around people sitting in a bus aisle. Several times, the six or seven aisle-sitters rearranged themselves, clapping one another on the back, laughing, helping the elderly, stepping on the armrests to walk up and down the aisle so as not to force anyone to get up and move. Several fifty pound bags of rice were loaded into the aisle, forcing almost everyone to get off and then back on again. Finally, at precisely 2:30, the bus driver climbed aboard, having tied down the preposterously large load on the roof, and drove out of the lot.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rftM46IA6d0e1O20tupCEJP4Y6yj_2VMgJZymqx4lL-vgpHkG8_pHD3RgREAsh0V-sBDkdeUotszwK1CiWcDY53M2PteQN6tGfvbGP-0WJQtJHGr-LA6ZoQncRvgCbbxt_3MIScXTkBJ/s1600/Aisle+Sitters.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rftM46IA6d0e1O20tupCEJP4Y6yj_2VMgJZymqx4lL-vgpHkG8_pHD3RgREAsh0V-sBDkdeUotszwK1CiWcDY53M2PteQN6tGfvbGP-0WJQtJHGr-LA6ZoQncRvgCbbxt_3MIScXTkBJ/s640/Aisle+Sitters.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanguine Aisle-Sitters and Strap-Hangers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Within minutes, we had pulled into a petrol station. Several people got out and then others got in. Neither Brick nor myself could see if the driver had actually put gas in the bus, but soon we began moving again, accompanied by crushingly loud music of all kinds including old hip hop (the driver seemed to have his finger on the scan button--we heard no more than a minute of every song) up the crazy, winding, pitted, road so characteristic of Bhutan, along a sheer drop of hundreds of meters, at the hair-raising speed of...perhaps 25 kph (15 mph). The seats were wide enough and deep enough to get moderately comfortable, though the stuffing had long been reduced to a thin layer of compressed foam so that one could feel the metal through it. We settled in for the allegedly two and a half hour ride to Phobjikha.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Perhaps the ride is in fact two and a half hours if one drives all the way without stopping, and if one maintains a speed greater than 25 kph, but the public bus in Bhutan stops for anyone who flags it down for a lift. It stops for lunch, unannounced: suddenly, the bus pulled off the road at a <i>tsongkhang</i> (the small, locally owned shops that populate all of Bhutan), only about 20 minutes after leaving Bajo, and everyone got out to buy chips and mango Frooti and play an outdoor table game that looks like a combination of air hockey and snooker. A very elderly man with a grey beard and a filthy <i>gho</i> spent the lunch break scavenging for wood and cardboard so he could fashion a proper seat for himself in the aisle. Then after about thirty minutes, again suddenly, everyone filed back onto the bus and the trip resumes. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
We were told that this road had timed road blocks to allow for trucks to be loaded by track hoe with rock that had been drilled from the side of the mountains to widen the road, and then to drive down to the hydro-project where it is used for fill. We assumed we'd had the unscheduled lunch stop because of the road block, but in fact, not thirty minutes later we came to a long line of stopped taxis, tourist vans and the tiny boxy Suzuki Marutis with Tinker Toys for wheels that many Bhutanese drive. This was the road block--it seemed to us if we had not stopped for lunch we could have easily missed it and saved over an hour of travel time, but no one seem bothered by this. Everyone sat on the bus, chatting, laughing, singing, yelling out the windows to people they knew. We shared an orange with the girl next to us who had woken up for the lunch break. At least forty-five minutes passed. And then the line began to move. No one cheered; there was no expression of relief or impatience or surprise. As Brick noted, it was a perfect demonstration of Bhutanese compassion and patience and an opportunity for me and him to learn the same. What a contrast with India.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
We crested a 10,000 foot pass marked by a chorten and a lone yak and headed down into Phobjikha at about 6:00 that evening in the dark, so we could not see any signs for our hotel, or, in fact, anything at all since Phobjikha is not a populous place--there are no lights in windows or stores to indicate where the sides of the road or the buildings are. Overhead, infinite stars peppered a black velvet sky, clearer than ever in the thin mountain air. We asked our seat neighbor if he'd heard of our hotel, but he had not--clearly, he felt not need to prevaricate to save face. We asked others nearby us but no one had heard of it, which made sense since it is a newer hotel and it is the off-season for tourists to the Phobjikha Valley since it is still winter (the Black-Necked Crane Festival is in November and celebrates the cranes' return from Tibet; we were told they arrive "on October 25." Who knew birds had such a predictable schedule?). I called the hotel, the Yueli Kiis, and asked how we would find it in the dark. "Just walk up the road five minutes. Look for the sign for the Dewachen Hotel. We are below it." This seemed easy enough, but when we finally got off the bus, covered with dust, our butts sore, our teeth loose from the rough ride, we felt we had been dropped into empty space: we could see nothing except a few lights dotting the mountains. Our fellow passengers dissolved into the night like Macbeth's witches. Brick turned on his headlamp and we started heading up the road, hoping we would see the sign for the Dewachen, but since walking on Bhutanese roads requires diligent attention to what is directly underfoot, we walked right past it. Fortunately, the owner's 16 year old son had been sent to intercept us at the gate to the hotel. We heard his shy voice in the night tentatively calling, "Hello!" He must have heard our loud American voices.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
After hiking up a short hill, we were brought to an enormous, beautiful room heated by wood stove, and were met by Lucy and Matt, two other BCF teachers who had come the previous day (also by public bus--notably, they chose to hike to Wangdue and take a taxi back to Punakha rather than get back on that bus). We had a delicious five course meal washed down with Druk 11000s, were given hot water bottles to stave off the cold in the night, and slept like babies.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
We woke to the sound of cranes calling over the wide lap of the frosty valley.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9vo96iEK4QVXknnQz2HGNGhlshj4aQ2jLaGytwQMYqiB-D4GiWKJKYQrZTJrSjHTAbPRQ08_g2uw8Bth-nJhXPJ-0oUbSL3vyXrvBHyN_2dQq8yJ3Y4cs1Yb-McOqOY63oGZc3So1giV/s1600/FROST+IN+THE+VALLEY.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE9vo96iEK4QVXknnQz2HGNGhlshj4aQ2jLaGytwQMYqiB-D4GiWKJKYQrZTJrSjHTAbPRQ08_g2uw8Bth-nJhXPJ-0oUbSL3vyXrvBHyN_2dQq8yJ3Y4cs1Yb-McOqOY63oGZc3So1giV/s400/FROST+IN+THE+VALLEY.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frost in the Phobjikha Valley (photo by Brick Root)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-70648404141327879292013-02-04T09:22:00.000-08:002013-02-04T09:22:16.058-08:00PUNAKHA Puja<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Punakha</i></b>: 2 February 2013</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Four of us took a day trip to Punakha (where I will be teaching) at the invitation of Andrea Giesbrecht, a BCF teacher who has lived and taught in Punakha for four years (well, technically three: she suffered an accident at the beginning of last year that forced her to leave Bhutan early in the school year, but she is back). Andrea had been invited to a puja (worship) ceremony at the home of a local farmer who is the father of a friend of hers. The puja, as important in the Bhutanese calendar as Christmas is in ours, is an annual event in which monks spend the day at the home, performing rituals to bless the home and keep its residents safe and prosperous. Rather than make the trip by herself, Andrea invited those of us who have our work permits and who will be teaching in or near the Punakha Valley: me; Val, who will be teaching in Rinchingang; and Matt, who is headed to Rukubji. The four of us intended to begin the trip at 6:30 am., but ice at Dochu-la, the highest pass over which we were to travel, forced us to leave at 9 instead.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The trip is only 70 kilometers, but because there is just one narrow, irregularly paved road that travels east to west in Bhutan and that road has no choice but to climb the mountains between Thimphu and Punakha, the trip is long, slow, dusty and a bit treacherous as it consists of countless hairpin turns. One can take the bus for a mere $2, but it leaves only twice a day and often causes horrible motion sickness, especially if one sits in the back. We chose instead to take a taxi for all of $25 divided by four--we are not in Kansas anymore, indeed. Taxis in Bhutan are about the size of a Chicklet, and Matt is nearly 6'5", so he got the front seat. We three women were crammed into the tiny backseat so that at each turn, the g-force flattened us to one side or other of the cab. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The road out of Thimphu leads through Semtokha, the ugly urban result of Thimphu sprawl, but soon is winding up the mountainside where cypress, pine and rhododendron (not blooming just now as it is winter) dominate the landscape. Huge trucks with fanciful hand-painted designs, tourist buses, and more of the tiny Suzukis and Kias that proliferate here competed with us as we ascended. Andrea was generous with her Ginger Gravol, a concentrated ginger pill from Canada said to stave off motion sickness. For that, I was grateful. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After nearly an hour of climbing, the car crested the mountain at Dochu-la ('la' in this case means "mountain pass") where 108 chortens and a temple were built in 2005 to atone for the loss of life on both sides caused during a (successful) military engagement with Assamese rebels on the southern border (more on this battle in a later post). The view from Dochu-la is indescribable (and can't effectively be photographed, I'm afraid): before us, scarfed with clouds, was the entire Bhutanese Himalayan range at the Tibetan border, snow-capped and inconceivably huge. Matt, one of the most seasoned Himalayan travelers in the group, confessed that he had never seen such a breathtaking panorama of these mountains. We were all stunned into silence.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YVoFTrM3LgimIAj1xmH7Rij_328Mk5zGLEHM1G0OJ-_UMn7Ai3_qS_kyRrt7f8ltaZ-lYt-mQfYWgE_flm0mmeBBvnL6geBxmXdEF7e8TFULk-_oj25eCxqlM2xBZ96Hvf9ZhJKld0Bj/s1600/DSCN0297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6YVoFTrM3LgimIAj1xmH7Rij_328Mk5zGLEHM1G0OJ-_UMn7Ai3_qS_kyRrt7f8ltaZ-lYt-mQfYWgE_flm0mmeBBvnL6geBxmXdEF7e8TFULk-_oj25eCxqlM2xBZ96Hvf9ZhJKld0Bj/s1600/DSCN0297.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">108 Chortens to Atone for the Battle Against the Assamese</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7w1gaijeSOWm1Jnb7XhUCXZB__R7KJlQYGCZwqf2egdDCV4JNdb9LQAheupE0UEAcezC0WDJzVg6ibkKx7hELgNepimbBNqUeBw9C03KTnOZ6FO7rSP1pfinkmg0nb-n_EelJJ-yg8H_r/s1600/DSCN0296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7w1gaijeSOWm1Jnb7XhUCXZB__R7KJlQYGCZwqf2egdDCV4JNdb9LQAheupE0UEAcezC0WDJzVg6ibkKx7hELgNepimbBNqUeBw9C03KTnOZ6FO7rSP1pfinkmg0nb-n_EelJJ-yg8H_r/s1600/DSCN0296.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Himalayas from Dochu-la</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After ten chilly minutes, mindful of the puja , we wedged ourselves back into the taxi and began the descent into the Punakha Valley. After only a short while, the types of trees and other plants were beginning to change--the rhododendrons persisted, but the leaves were four times the size of those on the other side of the mountain; banana and palm trees appeared among the ferns; most remarkable for a New Englander were the ten-foot tall poinsettias with their bright red bracts (what most think of as the flowers) punctuating the landscape. Andrea claimed she'd seen monkeys here.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because we were paying a visit, we had to stop somewhere to buy oranges or sweets or something to give to our hosts. We passed a number of stands set up by the side of the road at which local farmers sold greens, spring onions, and mandarin oranges. We stopped at one such stand to check the prices and the quality of the produce. I have rarely seen such plump, inviting spring onions--purple toward the roots, dark green at the top. The greens were mustard greens--the leaves broad and flat with no sign of damage from pests or lack of water or poor soil. Though Andrea was confident that our hosts, who are subsistence farmers, would have plenty of greens, we couldn't resist them, and bought two bunches of mustard: Nu. 25 each (about $.50). When we came into Lobesa, a small market town where the road splits and one can turn north or south, we bought oranges--$2.50 for a bag, no doubt picked just before market time.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We took the turn north into the Punakha Valley, stopping at the planned town of Kuruthang, a grey, town built in a grid (rare in Bhutan) and known for its "brutish concrete architecture" according to the Lonely Planet Guide to Bhutan; here, the long taxi ride ends, and the short taxi ride to Punakha begins. The blessedly flat, paved road follows the Mo Chu ('Female River'), past Punakha Higher Secondary School where I will live and teach. Though we could not stop for lack of time, the driver slowed so I could get a look at the school: built on a rise on the western side of the river, the school directly faces the Punakha Dzong, the second Dzong built in Bhutan by the Zhabdrung, in 1637, and the site of an important military victory over the Tibetans. The materiel captured in that battle is still housed in the Dzong. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Dzong is an enormous five story, packed-mud building at the confluence of the Mo and Po rivers that serves as the winter home for the monk officials that comprise the second half of the dual system of government, one secular, one monastic (their summer home is in Thimphu). It is said that Bhutanese men can wear long johns under their <i>ghos</i>, the national dress mandated for men, until the monks move to Thimphu, after which time they must wear knee socks only (men prefer Gold Toes). The Punakha Dzong is said to be the most beautiful in Bhutan--surrounded by jacaranda trees, bordered by the Mo Chu, and detailed in red, gold and black. It houses an ornate <i>lakhang</i> (temple) whose murals depict the life of the Buddha; three huge gold statues there represent the Buddha, the Zhabdrung and Guru Rinpoche. Also kept there is the body of the Zhabdrung, sealed in a box, never to be opened. All Je Khenpos, the monastic counterpart to the king, must visit the room where the box is kept in order to receive its blessing before taking up their office. This improbably beautiful structure seemed--like so much we saw this day--to be from the set of Capra's <i>Lost Horizon</i> or Coleridge's <i>Kublai Khan</i>. We all questioned whether what we apprehended there could really exist?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6_3XQ29Qpav5s7IwFM4SZOj1A6ndaHRUlTYE0fDoOxLY7RKbC2MxEiP7d_NyEpSJZL74vYXz1uKWx20nWgFNG0T-oEdhTDgGRALwYuTg6F3A-sIp2tfx-SHhsV-Eg_WsAbTPQaaSbiuY/s1600/DSCN0301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6_3XQ29Qpav5s7IwFM4SZOj1A6ndaHRUlTYE0fDoOxLY7RKbC2MxEiP7d_NyEpSJZL74vYXz1uKWx20nWgFNG0T-oEdhTDgGRALwYuTg6F3A-sIp2tfx-SHhsV-Eg_WsAbTPQaaSbiuY/s1600/DSCN0301.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Punakha Dzong</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The taxi stand is nearly at the doorstep of the Dzong, and in order to get to the home where the puja was taking place, we had to walk over the bridge, past the Dzong, to the longest suspension bridge in the world that crosses the Po Chu. As long as we were passing it anyway, we thought we'd take five minutes to see the inside of the Dzong; we could not have known that, in preparation for the annual Punakha Tsechu, a festival held every February to honor Guru Rinpoche (each Dzongkhag, or district) has its own tsechu), the monks would be practicing their masked dances for the Je Khenpo and other local dignitaries. As we entered the first courtyard, we could hear the eerie sound of the ritual instruments used in Bon and Buddhism--cymbals, <i>zangs dung</i> (telescoping brass horns), <i>rkang dung</i> (horns made from the bone of a femur), and the <i>dhyangro</i> (drum on a pole, beaten with an arced stick). Three at a time, the young monks spun and hopped, their maroon wool robes blooming around them. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kof9_g01WtW6JvytSJyOwJbev7KkDp2eBs94yBjLHBqfHnD0c0zZava5c7l7qLBlTVq1lJRBPSERokZwzeifcr9ZK_cLJ8SPiJCuNgX8Y59Ahuu62RwKNzvACnojtnKzH-byAUhJUlFx/s1600/Monk+rehearsing+for+Tsechu.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kof9_g01WtW6JvytSJyOwJbev7KkDp2eBs94yBjLHBqfHnD0c0zZava5c7l7qLBlTVq1lJRBPSERokZwzeifcr9ZK_cLJ8SPiJCuNgX8Y59Ahuu62RwKNzvACnojtnKzH-byAUhJUlFx/s1600/Monk+rehearsing+for+Tsechu.JPG" height="433" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Three other monks, dressed in motley clothes, wearing burlesque wooden masks and carrying small hand drums and a long, freakishly pink wooden phallus taunted the audience and made rude gestures. These clowns, or <i>atsaras</i>, are the only beings permitted to poke fun at the rituals of Bhutan. </span></span><br />
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPASrvgdQhxT1ASmG0IR1pJkMx1IHsoHX6cbj5lbQyPD2kYCjyB42h6cZQR6WPJzVobZrgcS3XV8W-z_pRyBVdmyHwv1k5RxEJPodkmHyx91n6JA-BEJNPDv_sadFob4lfuj1OxIHXAK5y/s1600/DSCN0316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPASrvgdQhxT1ASmG0IR1pJkMx1IHsoHX6cbj5lbQyPD2kYCjyB42h6cZQR6WPJzVobZrgcS3XV8W-z_pRyBVdmyHwv1k5RxEJPodkmHyx91n6JA-BEJNPDv_sadFob4lfuj1OxIHXAK5y/s1600/DSCN0316.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="p2">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;">Andrea noticed the Punakha Dzongda, or governor of Punakha, sitting up in the balcony, and soon all of us were sipping sweet tea and watching the rehearsal with the Dzongkhag officials. By this time, it was after one in the afternoon--and Sonam and Karma, our hosts for the puja, had expected us much earlier. Here, though, people rely on BST--Bhutanese Stretchable Time--so arriving a few hours late is not necessarily considered rude. We made our apologies to the Dzongda and left the Dzong, walking along a dusty path toward the suspension bridge; Karma had been waiting on the other side to drive us to his father's home where the puja was taking place. The bridge is a dramatic piece of engineering running 200 meters across the Po Chu ('Male River'); built into the mountain on the other side we could see Andrea's home, a traditional-style Bhutanese house just below the school where she works. Because a number of us will not have anywhere to stay until the new semester begins at our schools, those of us in Western and Central Bhutan will be staying with Andrea for a few days, so, since I am one of those people, I was eager to pay a visit to Andrea's home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBWJO3S7dmZMLpFJ-RI3LZu7te08Wma97U9ct427f3bgTPFc98CV_Upz8-mSnBogtcF-zyLB9EdqeZ4KN3o8J-C4H99MXAF4HAZgAu8jrqMIWdKAKKjUeMzkbz1RlDDGyeBi-Gc45Si2T/s1600/DSCN0318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBBWJO3S7dmZMLpFJ-RI3LZu7te08Wma97U9ct427f3bgTPFc98CV_Upz8-mSnBogtcF-zyLB9EdqeZ4KN3o8J-C4H99MXAF4HAZgAu8jrqMIWdKAKKjUeMzkbz1RlDDGyeBi-Gc45Si2T/s1600/DSCN0318.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Me with the Suspension Bridge in Background</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIphj2RHVOtOZWNUSi3d44f4QM3G04m18p34-BPW8VdXETPMrqn4Owq8mgeSoB4jzbkSr9lrx5HBMOXd1CaihENG7MXk6HyWSVlO6NigXqIyLtbFwvWVBvI4t0rmyT8GKcolYNNnVhmKnq/s1600/DSCN0321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIphj2RHVOtOZWNUSi3d44f4QM3G04m18p34-BPW8VdXETPMrqn4Owq8mgeSoB4jzbkSr9lrx5HBMOXd1CaihENG7MXk6HyWSVlO6NigXqIyLtbFwvWVBvI4t0rmyT8GKcolYNNnVhmKnq/s1600/DSCN0321.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's long!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karma, a warm, funny military man whose English is exceptional, was more than happy to drive us up to Andrea's even though by now we were several hours behind schedule. Her house has four sizable rooms, and her bedroom looks out across the valley. Her kitchen, a concrete slab with a two-burner gas stove, and bathroom with an Indian style squat toilet, are separated from the main house. A garden with peach, banana and guava trees is fenced in on one side of the house. It is a lovely restful spot.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6K3F_bfL3n5tsAP_7XnJ34zj6WQmSAFlWCVLPWGRs93drIh9xIe50OsqibGAWDhuR9Oly1IakqKVIwSMzTnqQVAqbwX-xqbbr4Z2cPRAienrPJxXcwx1MEipRkbxQrp4vgihVGkuWarw/s1600/DSCN0322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6K3F_bfL3n5tsAP_7XnJ34zj6WQmSAFlWCVLPWGRs93drIh9xIe50OsqibGAWDhuR9Oly1IakqKVIwSMzTnqQVAqbwX-xqbbr4Z2cPRAienrPJxXcwx1MEipRkbxQrp4vgihVGkuWarw/s1600/DSCN0322.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">View from Andrea's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hZYrv-1cVp4L4dRou7N7_jL4vKv6rP1Bho17L97WAcCDRS_GdgqOZ7K15toVQswYBFgeLIVPzdileggJqwVoJK6gRvRQ0CDTPmOz35oO5EemE9Zv5Mq6PkT1PuFZl_lq3eOs8D0saBgw/s1600/DSCN0323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hZYrv-1cVp4L4dRou7N7_jL4vKv6rP1Bho17L97WAcCDRS_GdgqOZ7K15toVQswYBFgeLIVPzdileggJqwVoJK6gRvRQ0CDTPmOz35oO5EemE9Zv5Mq6PkT1PuFZl_lq3eOs8D0saBgw/s1600/DSCN0323.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Andrea's Kitchen</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">From there, we drove the rutted, iron-red road to Karma's father's farmhouse in a village a few kilometers from Andrea's. The house is not on a road, so Karma parked the car and we walked through dry rice paddies marked off in irregular shapes to preserve the natural contours of the landscape; some of these paddies were planted with winter wheat and some with mustard. Young monks, taking a break from their puja duties at others' homes, could be seen sitting out in the fields. Cows and chickens meandered nearby. A path lead from the road across these paddies to a squat hill on which the village stood.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeZ4cPkEeECs6F1qLAHowy4SCvAvqyDURyp1Af5lPBEJISxDo45CgnhCNbndyMe5EIZw6RtM7b4rgk0kZq9ynDXXXdZQGJs89ie5encyiLPSUTZZnVVimADKAOT_s7tSZa7QUj9MnXo2Q/s1600/DSCN0328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeZ4cPkEeECs6F1qLAHowy4SCvAvqyDURyp1Af5lPBEJISxDo45CgnhCNbndyMe5EIZw6RtM7b4rgk0kZq9ynDXXXdZQGJs89ie5encyiLPSUTZZnVVimADKAOT_s7tSZa7QUj9MnXo2Q/s1600/DSCN0328.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monks in the Paddies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The village consisted of only a few mud houses built close together, a large outdoor fireplace one of its central features apparently shared by all for cooking. Tiny red-cheeked children, noses running, barefoot, filthy, laughed and ran between the buildings, some waving at us or shouting "Hi!". Adults, their teeth and gums stained red with <i>doma</i> (betel nut) smiled at us, pausing from making sure the rice crop was drying properly or from cooking the afternoon meal to acknowledge us as we called "<i>Kuzuzampo la</i>!" Again, this could not be real, we all thought: places like this no longer exist. But they do.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the end of the path, a large paddy led to Karma's father's house, a large structure with a sizable outdoor kitchen from which smoke snaked as several women and young men tended the fire and the large pots of food for the midday meal. We were greeted with shouts and cheers by the family, many of whom knew Andrea: Sonam, Karma's wife, was especially happy to see her; her daughters and some of the other young women hid, shy in front of these foreigners, behind their mothers' backs. Karma and Sonam introduced us to everyone--his mother and father who spoke no English and were thus nervous about hosting us; his grandmother who had all of two protruding teeth in her mouth; and countless grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins and others, too numerous to keep straight. The first floor being the indoor kitchen, we climbed the ladder stairs to the second floor where we removed our shoes and entered the home. There were several small rooms all stuffed with bedding that had been leaned against the walls to make room for all the guests. We were led to the front room off the shrine room where we were given tea and four different snacks: <i>sip</i>, or beaten rice, fried corn flakes, and three kinds of <i>zhao</i>, rice fried in butter with sugar and what looked like ajwain seeds. Karma sat with us while the women disappeared, no doubt to tend to the cooking. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our conversation was accompanied by the chanting of the monks in the next room. Soon, large containers of red Bhutanese rice, mushrooms with hot chilies and cheese sauce, and a meat dish were brought into the room and each of us was given a generous helping. Small servings were poured from a pitcher of <i>chhang</i>, an unfiltered, semi-fermented rice beer was offered all around. For dessert, we were given saffron rice mixed with sugar, cashews (a rarity in Bhutan) and raisins followed by <i>ara</i>, the Bhutanese moonshine, distilled from rice. As we ate and laughed and talked, sunlight shone through the glassless windows, illuminating the otherwise unlighted room and reminding us that soon it would be dark, making the impending perilous drive to Thimphu seem especially hazardous. It was clear that it was time to offer our thanks to our hosts and head back to the city.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karma walked us back through the rice paddies to the path leading to the bridge; there we said our good byes, all four of us reluctant to leave this place, blessed by the puja and by the kindness of this family. </span></span><br />
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCiHNWjrS4CapF5tSEnsCoOJkKz40JZSVPVSp4jHRBqOvSdx0dcNyuCX83qAivn4d0xUepS17T1wFzkgHVV2FSPrtCmJMIZFaUxKMdRUTSaWoJIDpGANayd5P_I2g26j22IPToFxCrzxk/s1600/DSCN0327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTCiHNWjrS4CapF5tSEnsCoOJkKz40JZSVPVSp4jHRBqOvSdx0dcNyuCX83qAivn4d0xUepS17T1wFzkgHVV2FSPrtCmJMIZFaUxKMdRUTSaWoJIDpGANayd5P_I2g26j22IPToFxCrzxk/s1600/DSCN0327.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mustard in Rice Paddies in Punakha</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-76424144103346498762013-01-31T02:39:00.003-08:002013-01-31T02:39:45.800-08:00Thimphu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The capitol of Bhutan used to be Punakha, but 50 years ago the fourth Druk Gyalpo (King) moved it to Thimphu. At the time, Thimphu was a collection of small hamlets, but now 100,000 people live in greater Thimphu. Anchored on the northern end by its impressive Trashi Chhoe Dzong, Thimphu is home to the royal government ministries, several Lakhangs (temples) and monasteries, a university, and the Changlimithang Stadium where in 1885 Ugyen Wangchuck, leader of Trongsa (a district in Bhutan), defeated the leaders of Punakha and Thimphu in battle and thus became the first Druk Gyalpo of Bhutan.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinC1t4VHuH3j7XQBNYdspyHJCF9n09PuDJqyoNZ-mnDGvv2F-H1DspxOFWrZK0a6No1TTlBpe4NAIv50aROD2fAu05L630GuSemjuRu_9rUZupQGEeTe6ys6mwmIXrvVNZ5wCJIhjFlen1/s1600/DSCN0244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinC1t4VHuH3j7XQBNYdspyHJCF9n09PuDJqyoNZ-mnDGvv2F-H1DspxOFWrZK0a6No1TTlBpe4NAIv50aROD2fAu05L630GuSemjuRu_9rUZupQGEeTe6ys6mwmIXrvVNZ5wCJIhjFlen1/s320/DSCN0244.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Trashi Chhoe Dzong</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Wangchuu River runs along the eastern edge of the city. From the far side of the river, one can get a good view of Thimphu and the Standing Buddha that was a gift to Bhutan from the King of Thailand. The Buddha stands in Coronation Park where the current king, the Fifth Druk Gyalpo, was crowned in 2008:</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyEDSGlbhhIsoKs0GRz9cGGvFSQhyREdAdIFRZjUWyg8aw0d7qXj0w25B6BvVFL3DvFKSLV-6I4xSLQ5N_XMhArgt5yQ9ck3nvYgDtvuIA1h82gxnu1FF5WsCAzuQJFfRjyM53qM_Upo0/s1600/DSCN0275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxyEDSGlbhhIsoKs0GRz9cGGvFSQhyREdAdIFRZjUWyg8aw0d7qXj0w25B6BvVFL3DvFKSLV-6I4xSLQ5N_XMhArgt5yQ9ck3nvYgDtvuIA1h82gxnu1FF5WsCAzuQJFfRjyM53qM_Upo0/s320/DSCN0275.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bridge over the Wangchuu</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQlErdwRIzvt6FPifQB9VMntIsvgwO7PgYxzdyYdIviDRHpFMHkkimYfr291lkOFZ99tMNyh2WheE06EisBWpAdYEaIaWgHXTMwGnLGDDK6oCMCdHL_yJUjVeXlo3jHMh3jPA05LPFYyx/s1600/DSCN0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQlErdwRIzvt6FPifQB9VMntIsvgwO7PgYxzdyYdIviDRHpFMHkkimYfr291lkOFZ99tMNyh2WheE06EisBWpAdYEaIaWgHXTMwGnLGDDK6oCMCdHL_yJUjVeXlo3jHMh3jPA05LPFYyx/s640/DSCN0272.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Standing Buddha in Coronation Park on the Wangchuu</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">To cross the river from the eastern side, one uses a traditional covered bridge festooned with prayer flags that leads directly into the city's food market where on weekends hundreds of peddlers sell everything from apples and mandarin oranges from Punakha to dried fish, spices, and vegetables from India and China.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-La8cQKI2rkulp78M3akXPRGd_IzNtRPig2wVvH2RG49NRPfvE2-3E9Bj0SfObB7lzyvMqENH9rEyDtoRhEcpGZF8a5UGS1-qNDW9T4eLY5nGSuA_kxwNLSwnam6Zh8QeHmWI3EbeIa6n/s1600/DSCN0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-La8cQKI2rkulp78M3akXPRGd_IzNtRPig2wVvH2RG49NRPfvE2-3E9Bj0SfObB7lzyvMqENH9rEyDtoRhEcpGZF8a5UGS1-qNDW9T4eLY5nGSuA_kxwNLSwnam6Zh8QeHmWI3EbeIa6n/s320/DSCN0125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1H29J8G0dNlDp_5BIJjwGP14tjiXL-Cj34rQYo-1jr9i1a_umRJitoYJq-poj7yvyBsllp7mWsqirhHU0iSB7jQr91t-quOzM6oE7eoFvAkqLYruntu6jHhlY2KQKXhneaAANjx7RAIyy/s1600/DSCN0277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1H29J8G0dNlDp_5BIJjwGP14tjiXL-Cj34rQYo-1jr9i1a_umRJitoYJq-poj7yvyBsllp7mWsqirhHU0iSB7jQr91t-quOzM6oE7eoFvAkqLYruntu6jHhlY2KQKXhneaAANjx7RAIyy/s320/DSCN0277.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Though the most urban of all Bhutan's "cities," replete with coffee shops, bars, Thai and Indian restaurants and countless excellent bookshops, Thimphu still reflects traditional Bhutanese culture. Clocktower Square, at the center of the city, has rows of prayer wheels on each side and members of the community gather in the Square every morning to spin them and to pray. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xBeOcLVoxhaizD2cDlE1PQ97k-0k-isqL7paslQhntvPlq4QAGIKBUGUxq0Juxk3ry_DfwuSjLXm1lsHwarSrxr3MrqWSlKX9_r0lNyCEvU0iJZDmM96498kAKa_5JBhXSzFrfYOUotK/s1600/DSCN0264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xBeOcLVoxhaizD2cDlE1PQ97k-0k-isqL7paslQhntvPlq4QAGIKBUGUxq0Juxk3ry_DfwuSjLXm1lsHwarSrxr3MrqWSlKX9_r0lNyCEvU0iJZDmM96498kAKa_5JBhXSzFrfYOUotK/s400/DSCN0264.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There are some sites one can see only in Asia, and perhaps only in a very Buddhist country, such as this mannikin outside a shop that sells clothes and accoutrements for monks and nuns:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeV_OgMs7y3zkJpMNLzO9a7NDEbFZI5HB8LKYHpRVmpljghG6ITUsfymKOmSY6_b-qRE0L0LXOTU6B5FBSdCoUAC4Z5ro6SnLyha7EPiVHoOrnilPOeUwCEV4sL1nEPQtUznB-r5WgqFs4/s1600/DSCN0262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeV_OgMs7y3zkJpMNLzO9a7NDEbFZI5HB8LKYHpRVmpljghG6ITUsfymKOmSY6_b-qRE0L0LXOTU6B5FBSdCoUAC4Z5ro6SnLyha7EPiVHoOrnilPOeUwCEV4sL1nEPQtUznB-r5WgqFs4/s320/DSCN0262.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Best of all, since the winter air is so clear and the sun always shines in January, in Thimphu one can simultaneously see BOTH the Standing Buddha in Coronation Park AND the largest seated Buddha in the world (look carefully--they alost line up!):</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSGmTOGApTdxPJHKRQDbtT7KIEnsFbPB5LHb-5RF4YRxHlugkPnLaonFfFOBixHzMvZfa9-2hzefbLTUNgyOFTfVLZXOFsiw1mddfs7dT9II1_w12yMxfH8BdCkXbLvMCLY4UKMSHXgUc/s1600/DSCN0279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSGmTOGApTdxPJHKRQDbtT7KIEnsFbPB5LHb-5RF4YRxHlugkPnLaonFfFOBixHzMvZfa9-2hzefbLTUNgyOFTfVLZXOFsiw1mddfs7dT9II1_w12yMxfH8BdCkXbLvMCLY4UKMSHXgUc/s640/DSCN0279.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com1Thimphu, Bhutan27.44261 89.66732827.3299125 89.5059665 27.555307499999998 89.8286895tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4847098743141175222.post-90754550298681821682013-01-29T04:06:00.002-08:002013-01-29T04:06:36.131-08:00Dogs of Thimphu and Changri<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIncYj3MHQdkmLJOIg0hR48qu82xfc46nuCuaY3xhAwfdI6TZaOI8Y_dSqX5dUHHCL2NkBQpJYvvnQqbOeoBt0FXIshnFfbr3AkGgVGD7wgxzRyaklJRKHZnufj6JrDzN51X5EiDSmkTn/s1600/DSCN0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIncYj3MHQdkmLJOIg0hR48qu82xfc46nuCuaY3xhAwfdI6TZaOI8Y_dSqX5dUHHCL2NkBQpJYvvnQqbOeoBt0FXIshnFfbr3AkGgVGD7wgxzRyaklJRKHZnufj6JrDzN51X5EiDSmkTn/s320/DSCN0101.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAV6lcjjshVlhqgvJHkD-SIFS42Pzk9Dp5o8azGE4T2wOxuJd74oRpygcrY2l8OI0PqZhYuplEVTi9xmHeS105mlUMHsvvb8q_olXrJk_WN-dCkZuE_McuDWMGFJLRzY6Yo3R7MhQrbSM/s1600/DSCN0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAV6lcjjshVlhqgvJHkD-SIFS42Pzk9Dp5o8azGE4T2wOxuJd74oRpygcrY2l8OI0PqZhYuplEVTi9xmHeS105mlUMHsvvb8q_olXrJk_WN-dCkZuE_McuDWMGFJLRzY6Yo3R7MhQrbSM/s200/DSCN0098.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKQgPZkHhY0RnRcCliZc5NablbWVlotMN1O79sOSZAL-70kR4Lyhxi0zWGeEL2_XPcDukwZ3QVTnAPHJuY-2Y9JVzYyQIMZBiEMyjN57yrt6m7edkcJtBSbjGRLmbUaV1CckFsHZxi6Fh/s1600/DSCN0100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKQgPZkHhY0RnRcCliZc5NablbWVlotMN1O79sOSZAL-70kR4Lyhxi0zWGeEL2_XPcDukwZ3QVTnAPHJuY-2Y9JVzYyQIMZBiEMyjN57yrt6m7edkcJtBSbjGRLmbUaV1CckFsHZxi6Fh/s200/DSCN0100.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYonO9yvdLZJqHmZXoK239jygBCPVif3Bg48rUx4F7-qL-7DYo92k10WKj-FHKAlVRnym52Xt06ia10LEhEE5n5F7oAgyC5yHv11hODd7LgDS8i0TxwTZzybHat5PK8S20mY6Vm63VYj0R/s1600/DSCN0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYonO9yvdLZJqHmZXoK239jygBCPVif3Bg48rUx4F7-qL-7DYo92k10WKj-FHKAlVRnym52Xt06ia10LEhEE5n5F7oAgyC5yHv11hODd7LgDS8i0TxwTZzybHat5PK8S20mY6Vm63VYj0R/s320/DSCN0102.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUEjlBvLOZWw5UfUhLIW0hZr9lcCh_ySkQS5VffYmUZvIH69c3GgFm9AXM-K1OzNf3PfaUMHbyaPF7KW9zXMrKITOGfovWzOu4fU6_kZtQ7kNXThh1ElvpmmMxuobnbxqGkDtuMDDWwiwA/s1600/DSCN0103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUEjlBvLOZWw5UfUhLIW0hZr9lcCh_ySkQS5VffYmUZvIH69c3GgFm9AXM-K1OzNf3PfaUMHbyaPF7KW9zXMrKITOGfovWzOu4fU6_kZtQ7kNXThh1ElvpmmMxuobnbxqGkDtuMDDWwiwA/s320/DSCN0103.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVSDnA56g0hRY_sFiE7gJGTlt83e3NM5-FeJ_qSSKNrGLXzCxBvzQ7Ra5n_HHqTBKbVccQWiEK_rz9bMKLbdr_BRLQMzNwflZoErrd-21TW9f5o_ceuxLdNN92YP29M586MGrARyfFH0G/s1600/DSCN0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVSDnA56g0hRY_sFiE7gJGTlt83e3NM5-FeJ_qSSKNrGLXzCxBvzQ7Ra5n_HHqTBKbVccQWiEK_rz9bMKLbdr_BRLQMzNwflZoErrd-21TW9f5o_ceuxLdNN92YP29M586MGrARyfFH0G/s320/DSCN0105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvuIaLZGhpAfsGkc29jl2Jd7kFP912uF6FX0AvcFk0w-d0Ct7QDcHJJMFHaqQC_wHJD2pzdmITmk3ZCNhVT6ghlnu1f3a9N5Fmxg6kWR1j6EX2TCZscqQ5lUxPBQbRdEU7cLtXOOu9MaV/s1600/DSCN0104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvuIaLZGhpAfsGkc29jl2Jd7kFP912uF6FX0AvcFk0w-d0Ct7QDcHJJMFHaqQC_wHJD2pzdmITmk3ZCNhVT6ghlnu1f3a9N5Fmxg6kWR1j6EX2TCZscqQ5lUxPBQbRdEU7cLtXOOu9MaV/s200/DSCN0104.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VO62du_ekypDZJ_JaiwjRgNHXIXT1_61UNJlJcVNEAJExrIZjYnymImjj9CjxIdbaa5lC6LBrIASuR6Go9Xa8Pm5Pu2gUJLkMTuFv8sjmQRWSKibyq9gFXopCi08WZzJ7bjxNdqLfiGV/s1600/DSCN0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VO62du_ekypDZJ_JaiwjRgNHXIXT1_61UNJlJcVNEAJExrIZjYnymImjj9CjxIdbaa5lC6LBrIASuR6Go9Xa8Pm5Pu2gUJLkMTuFv8sjmQRWSKibyq9gFXopCi08WZzJ7bjxNdqLfiGV/s320/DSCN0107.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLosCyt2pt3EIA-JK5WjF8kn4ed5raAfine_36a3crOyTLCiNuCnd95As9Ge22vmzngabTT70GrKNx4OBhHzfZWSuKUZvq8vEBFs854QBZ-ahhjiCRV_FHJiZ0OId7VUuvdj8tYPPLaol/s1600/DSCN0109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLosCyt2pt3EIA-JK5WjF8kn4ed5raAfine_36a3crOyTLCiNuCnd95As9Ge22vmzngabTT70GrKNx4OBhHzfZWSuKUZvq8vEBFs854QBZ-ahhjiCRV_FHJiZ0OId7VUuvdj8tYPPLaol/s320/DSCN0109.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcmNjhOrcqr8NeduuE4dGbFiKr0qouJlk8xPakldO38cWY0iVye80NFXybUHGEhOLjjBby2GGznb4MX17bk_DFJ2MJWQn4LD031yN3xVUd98Y_-urAIpSHNZd81QJiR8_IvfLLiZXkVv9/s1600/DSCN0108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcmNjhOrcqr8NeduuE4dGbFiKr0qouJlk8xPakldO38cWY0iVye80NFXybUHGEhOLjjBby2GGznb4MX17bk_DFJ2MJWQn4LD031yN3xVUd98Y_-urAIpSHNZd81QJiR8_IvfLLiZXkVv9/s200/DSCN0108.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWpldGAWqhxzRI_okDbne5Ro8drBws6XFeigzG-EssqeET-fQ8nbuTtouZ2o6bqpgZ6sIBmoFuWke_Sf42w_5xp77i1AU8bG2mQsA9FeAqa4XHJ65xwTCxJ-td66LQWGVF5vwJU5HlzTq/s1600/DSCN0110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWpldGAWqhxzRI_okDbne5Ro8drBws6XFeigzG-EssqeET-fQ8nbuTtouZ2o6bqpgZ6sIBmoFuWke_Sf42w_5xp77i1AU8bG2mQsA9FeAqa4XHJ65xwTCxJ-td66LQWGVF5vwJU5HlzTq/s320/DSCN0110.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmu6sjExIbcgDitPUXm56vqGuMlHWfkF7EFFevd1eTBAN8JhWqtzhHj-71LpCxz5IhOZMwNXD3Znr-7wxRL3gheazt1hMSu3lwduTjeHVw2VN5aHm49nPbQU-wdz7geUlxaGC8HQm2Klf/s1600/DSCN0111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNmu6sjExIbcgDitPUXm56vqGuMlHWfkF7EFFevd1eTBAN8JhWqtzhHj-71LpCxz5IhOZMwNXD3Znr-7wxRL3gheazt1hMSu3lwduTjeHVw2VN5aHm49nPbQU-wdz7geUlxaGC8HQm2Klf/s320/DSCN0111.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUkwTdu1wz3uhYyXVfxXrlBpD5yIxQm29-hw_YnEGHyoInhRYAEwgEGwmMxXmMqxkWvZA6j7HpQSDxj59h7mdtC6ZWRi0RACpbVGWpnfYI3wlcSk4wVPffb-UZwAA_E8nQnAS-b-xaWjm/s1600/DSCN0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUkwTdu1wz3uhYyXVfxXrlBpD5yIxQm29-hw_YnEGHyoInhRYAEwgEGwmMxXmMqxkWvZA6j7HpQSDxj59h7mdtC6ZWRi0RACpbVGWpnfYI3wlcSk4wVPffb-UZwAA_E8nQnAS-b-xaWjm/s320/DSCN0131.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKE9OCaJ7IhRdTmDXvGqJ24XRw1xNHws1T3qsfejCyC9o0ia6KE4Q_RrMtWb8umgnM3ffywniLDjjR5C23s9g6r1RXI3emVwe-trcnn-OjeOv6wIO50GaRHmIDW6tP3f6LYHlmUFrWVq4/s1600/DSCN0135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKE9OCaJ7IhRdTmDXvGqJ24XRw1xNHws1T3qsfejCyC9o0ia6KE4Q_RrMtWb8umgnM3ffywniLDjjR5C23s9g6r1RXI3emVwe-trcnn-OjeOv6wIO50GaRHmIDW6tP3f6LYHlmUFrWVq4/s200/DSCN0135.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7e09ve5or80Qy8Xotmxf6c6gPxN2bEospzmTljunoAqwZpY85EXdxobh_OQkXSyPjDHn3DyHKyqa1TxmMtANK7wv_6wPjW6c3RrBkF7ryVwuqc6hjWxWidTKASlCc8A_vRCV693mmhoU/s1600/DSCN0134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7e09ve5or80Qy8Xotmxf6c6gPxN2bEospzmTljunoAqwZpY85EXdxobh_OQkXSyPjDHn3DyHKyqa1TxmMtANK7wv_6wPjW6c3RrBkF7ryVwuqc6hjWxWidTKASlCc8A_vRCV693mmhoU/s320/DSCN0134.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhto6gl9QtQfo1JFkP6J32g3AxDRhqZIGv2I4FXkkMoKOFryIqyisCNP3R1uFKjx6de2ivpB8t8cYhERTwQ266c-u-r2V6N0sQAJ-IkBtad2VvF2hmqN2t3Zvc7_FlOztvkW-muDpzyF_mU/s1600/DSCN0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhto6gl9QtQfo1JFkP6J32g3AxDRhqZIGv2I4FXkkMoKOFryIqyisCNP3R1uFKjx6de2ivpB8t8cYhERTwQ266c-u-r2V6N0sQAJ-IkBtad2VvF2hmqN2t3Zvc7_FlOztvkW-muDpzyF_mU/s320/DSCN0136.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOINZZ89_TZ373sl5O0Zs3lP_WjNZNhJ9pRk8YZKZzm1zZbAORFYLBrCHeavsG7XghINzgyriJbsz4PuIpECYnD32BLoD7ZuN7zxixp10JHHpENTdo70LHZBJHzktlWY92N-z4pRBCvD6Q/s1600/DSCN0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOINZZ89_TZ373sl5O0Zs3lP_WjNZNhJ9pRk8YZKZzm1zZbAORFYLBrCHeavsG7XghINzgyriJbsz4PuIpECYnD32BLoD7ZuN7zxixp10JHHpENTdo70LHZBJHzktlWY92N-z4pRBCvD6Q/s320/DSCN0137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MT0NkuwbH2oxp8Yxoz44MzUAvOkSAEpeAC0WW_hKyUMGehWbqlAU4KJS1mMDlU2nBQVcUUAKONXAn8EOBmBmjN-Tdy2ZkH8rZINH5HApLdbkZCj3nTSajQU7ePoOX6XqRBxkTCSXIJUE/s1600/DSCN0138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MT0NkuwbH2oxp8Yxoz44MzUAvOkSAEpeAC0WW_hKyUMGehWbqlAU4KJS1mMDlU2nBQVcUUAKONXAn8EOBmBmjN-Tdy2ZkH8rZINH5HApLdbkZCj3nTSajQU7ePoOX6XqRBxkTCSXIJUE/s320/DSCN0138.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mXj7YREyWoKTx1gLJEn9L24AHak3R1gHNj5dCA7JtGHxJCI5Cu1eMlZGvm-6oOkSWkWvWZ37BvIT1FALz1Yu3Wgs7rpmgFRrdDmY7GvXYcuvQfPWk25P3YpjlGzrj9pTNNlX9ya40_Tr/s1600/DSCN0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mXj7YREyWoKTx1gLJEn9L24AHak3R1gHNj5dCA7JtGHxJCI5Cu1eMlZGvm-6oOkSWkWvWZ37BvIT1FALz1Yu3Wgs7rpmgFRrdDmY7GvXYcuvQfPWk25P3YpjlGzrj9pTNNlX9ya40_Tr/s320/DSCN0141.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFTNiDwjgDt5o98UKVMo2GVj6mvsSf-SxLaVqvU5C4YpOCaWMQxL7QoJlKTRHUsyvv-8ap1vLfbMxj6fmWH6bG4sCQJDEh8b8ZYjDTY5NJj8RU6isnCdS05Ur4DUPDNliUO5pv8YWkAVL/s1600/DSCN0204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFFTNiDwjgDt5o98UKVMo2GVj6mvsSf-SxLaVqvU5C4YpOCaWMQxL7QoJlKTRHUsyvv-8ap1vLfbMxj6fmWH6bG4sCQJDEh8b8ZYjDTY5NJj8RU6isnCdS05Ur4DUPDNliUO5pv8YWkAVL/s320/DSCN0204.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc-WORGZoefRmE_2o8uDuIt4eLS6_BlZRCZVOAqvBPNQerAsoFfhYIbTIoD07sBXQW42XlJK6jZ-hAAoxPyeSyRo2nX__CcHlLsqG3h4P7pUzrMhsy9jC2Sxev-mL7LzNM7krwfMNhKrhu/s1600/DSCN0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc-WORGZoefRmE_2o8uDuIt4eLS6_BlZRCZVOAqvBPNQerAsoFfhYIbTIoD07sBXQW42XlJK6jZ-hAAoxPyeSyRo2nX__CcHlLsqG3h4P7pUzrMhsy9jC2Sxev-mL7LzNM7krwfMNhKrhu/s320/DSCN0170.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSHOcK_S9BcdZsb8WFfCZg0zd8H76Bn4U52xbO8eiBObbkenxLKm65pEpb1y3txbFCZs4Xg4_jgu8E-352hDBLw-ojAQXBoN-2dYChQWa1Z8C6Bqu_EQ5cnk5OJChMIlGohf3slKk6zoU/s1600/DSCN0203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSHOcK_S9BcdZsb8WFfCZg0zd8H76Bn4U52xbO8eiBObbkenxLKm65pEpb1y3txbFCZs4Xg4_jgu8E-352hDBLw-ojAQXBoN-2dYChQWa1Z8C6Bqu_EQ5cnk5OJChMIlGohf3slKk6zoU/s320/DSCN0203.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1yFpJOJefV3nvXDxvhZSRUr1SDWuTx956oZQ8xuyH7eG97__6JXD-lqetMXmGJoNO8v9FSPTeKQfiSDTxxr4j9PXaXo8ESfwx6ijpOCM5-MbYPVkh6T9flesqjTdzRoL-1Ur5VZIn7gS/s1600/DSCN0208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1yFpJOJefV3nvXDxvhZSRUr1SDWuTx956oZQ8xuyH7eG97__6JXD-lqetMXmGJoNO8v9FSPTeKQfiSDTxxr4j9PXaXo8ESfwx6ijpOCM5-MbYPVkh6T9flesqjTdzRoL-1Ur5VZIn7gS/s400/DSCN0208.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenkVQ52expuRTD5OZPSux1YmuCOG3G7a4lONYu-jAcPSHg4PIoV-816-UapSPY_T7wEuP-4CVT8UoinHXpZW6MXkWn-Pm2dbYOPlT0fpUstqfLda4gvEcKUYuOIMDS8ZD6ir40E4SPhN9/s1600/DSCN0209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenkVQ52expuRTD5OZPSux1YmuCOG3G7a4lONYu-jAcPSHg4PIoV-816-UapSPY_T7wEuP-4CVT8UoinHXpZW6MXkWn-Pm2dbYOPlT0fpUstqfLda4gvEcKUYuOIMDS8ZD6ir40E4SPhN9/s400/DSCN0209.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFBLqOnh15jkiwFMAyITmfyP9-Mo8kWfeudd4BCfYNbLcY6JZtajpaPObGeEINrexaF6osR9Ns_5nLJ2PYEYWcwk4-lI3BjdeyT665k63iu6EYJiKtc-yYuAKSsToZt5QBMWBO8rA2UJU/s1600/DSCN0241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFBLqOnh15jkiwFMAyITmfyP9-Mo8kWfeudd4BCfYNbLcY6JZtajpaPObGeEINrexaF6osR9Ns_5nLJ2PYEYWcwk4-lI3BjdeyT665k63iu6EYJiKtc-yYuAKSsToZt5QBMWBO8rA2UJU/s640/DSCN0241.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dog and Penis (to ward off demons) in Chagri</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Yankee In Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03356857598951740141noreply@blogger.com3