PUNAKHA Puja

Punakha: 2 February 2013

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.

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.  

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.  

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.

108 Chortens to Atone for the Battle Against the Assamese

Himalayas from Dochu-la

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.

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.

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.  

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 ghos, 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 lakhang (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 Lost Horizon or Coleridge's Kublai Khan.  We all questioned whether what we apprehended there could really exist?

Punakha Dzong

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, zangs dung (telescoping brass horns),  rkang dung (horns made from the bone of a femur), and the dhyangro (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.  

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 atsaras, are the only beings permitted to poke fun at the rituals of Bhutan.  

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.

Me with the Suspension Bridge in Background

It's long!

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.

View from Andrea's

Andrea's Kitchen

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.

Monks in the Paddies

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 doma (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 "Kuzuzampo la!" Again, this could not be real, we all thought: places like this no longer exist.  But they do.

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: sip, or beaten rice, fried corn flakes, and  three kinds of zhao, 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.  

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 chhang, 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 ara, 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.

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. 

Mustard in Rice Paddies in Punakha