the monastery

Today I get to be lazy. Tshering, YDF’s driver, is taking me to Dechen Phodrang, the monastic school, at two o’clock in the afternoon. I have a gross of toothbrushes to deliver.

In the morning Darlene and I visit her neighbor and landlady Dinka, who lives down the path from us. Dinka’s family is having their yearly puja for good luck, health and prosperity. We are welcomed inside and sit around the bukhari, or traditional Bhutanese wood-burning stove, and the family members bring trays of snacks mostly made of puffed rice or pounded maize. We are handed two steaming bowls of savory rice porridge, a comfort food that warms us to the core. The porridge contains btis of yak fat and chugo, the hard yak milk cheese. You cannot really eat chugo unless you’re prepared to gnaw on it for a few hours. It’s hard as a rock, but it’s soft and delicious in the hot porridge. I scarf down two bowls and go into the altar room and take photos of the chanting monks and the family altar, decorated with colorful butter sculptures. We’re invited back for dinner later tonight.

I meet Tshering and we drive up the winding road to Dechen Phodrang, hih above the Thimphu valley floor. The monastic school houses 450 young monks, most of whom could not be cared for by their families or come from broken homes. Tshering finds one of the head monks and teachers. We shake hands and I give him the boxes of toothbrushes. He invites us in for tea and cookies, and then Tshering and I wander around the open areas so I can take photos for a future YDF brochure. One of YDF’s programs is Sponsor a Monk, where a donation of $250 provides for a young boy for 2 years. I have already vowed to sponsor a monk in 2009. I visit one of the classrooms where dozens of the youngest boys in red robes are sitting on the floor chanting. Sort of. It’s pretty noisy, just like any classroom, and there’s a bit of horseplay. Boys will be boys. I am not permitted to enter, but I can observe through the door. I can’t help but wave and lots of little hands wave right back. When we leave, Tshering offers to take me to the Zilukha nunnery down the road, a tranquil place where 50 Buddhist nuns make their home.

After we pay our visit to the nunnery, Tshering takes me to the Motithang Takin Preserve. The takin is an odd animal whose taxonomy baffles scientists. It is unrelated to any other animal and looks like a cross between a musk ox and a goat. Legend has it that Lama Drukpa Kunley created Bhutan’s national animal.

In the early evening I attend a meditation class at the Youth Center that is taught by Lama Zhenphen, a visiting monk. Lama Zhenphen is quite a charismatic character, and funny as well. He teases latecomers, and pokes fun at two young men for closing their eyes all the way. “I’m going to prop open your eyelids with toothpicks so you don’t fall asleep.” We do several rounds of 10 minute meditations interspersed with teachings and observations. I realize that all my volunteer work and giving has not been exactly selfless. There’s always been something in it for me, whether a portfolio piece or even a thank you. When one gives selflessly there is no expectation. When you are detached, it doesn’t matter whether someone acknowledges your actionsor not. Giving should be as natural and instinctual as breathing. We don’t think about breathing, we just do it. It’s something I need to work on. I am so physically tired from trekking today that meditation comes easy. My mind is a total blank.

After our session with the Lama, Darlene and I walk home to Langjo Pakha. The moon is nearly full and the night is clear and cold, but the vigorous walk is warming. We go to Dinka’s, and her family brings us milk tea, followed by green beans in cheese sauce and grilled beef with rice. I have a lovely conversation with Dinka’s 18 year old niece. She is bright and articulate and wants to study art at the Halifax School of Art and Design in Nova Scotia. I don’t doubt that she will. Most Bhutanese study abroad. The women in her family are ambitious and wear the pants in the household. In Bhutan women play a dominant role. Women own most of the land, and polyandry is common in some parts. I’m not sure how I’d like having more than one husband. One man is more than enough.

bombay dreams, good night sleep

After a breakfast of fruit and buttered toast, Darlene and I go next door and pay a visit to her neighbors. They’ve been performing puja for weeks now, both mourning and celebrating a relative who recently died of cancer. In the morning, a lama and several monks come and chant before the altar, which is all lit up with butter lamps. In the evening, after the monks leave, the family gets drunk. This goes on for 49 days.

The matriarch rolls out a bamboo mat in the main room of the flat and quickly brings us milk tea. The Bhutanese are hospitable and would think nothing of a total stranger coming into their home. A guest is always treated with honor.

Today I’m supposed to go to Punakha and give a lecture on design to the girls at the Souvenir Production Center, a combination boarding school and vocational institute where teenage girls learn to make handicrafts and entrepreneurship. I’m to meet Gama at YDF at 10:00 am. I’m running a bit late, so I practically run down the long hill from Langjo Pakha to Thimphu, greeting passing monks with a hasty “Kuzuzangbo la!”

Gama and I go out for coffee — my first cappuccino from a real espresso machine — and little toasted cheese sandwiches with pickle that taste of mustard and curry. Jigme, the programme officer for the Souvenir Production Center, is unwell, so Punakha is off for today. Besides, there’s a musical at the big Youth Center at 6:00 pm and I’m invited. I spend a few hours at the YDF office checking my emails (60 junk emails; 2 from friends.) I take a break around noonish and run into Darlene doing her grocery shopping. I want to go back to the Handicraft Emporium and purchase another thangka, and she joins me, enjoying any excuse to see the beautiful works inside. I’ve already bought a vibrant one of Sakyamuni, the historical Buddha, and settle on Chana Dorje, the god of power and victory whose thunderbolt is the fundamental symbol of Tantric faith. He is pictured in a wrathful form with an angry face and one leg outstretched.

I treat Darlene to a cup of lemon tea and we part ways at the top of the hill, so I go back to YDF and write more emails.

At five I meet Darlene at the north end of Norzim Lam and we walk together to the Youth Center. She is teaching her yoga class today, and though I could use a good stretch, I’ve made plans to meet Gama and her cousin Mila at the auditorium for the musical.

Tonight we’ll be watching Bombay Dreams by Andrew Lloyd Weber, performed by the high school kids from Himali Boarding School in India. They have come all the way from Darjeeling for the Coronation and to put on a show. They are extremely professional for their ages, delightfully talented with flawless singing voices, and with exquisite costumes. I have a great time, but wasn’t prepared to stay out all night and am seriously underdressed. I start to shiver, and can barely hold my camera, so Gama whips off her pashmina and tucks it all around me. I feel a little warmth at last.

Afterward, Mila drops us off at Gama’s house and I get to finally meet her mother Norzom. I meet Ugyen at the kitchen door and he sees how cold I am. He gives me a great big bear hug and rubs me vigorously. “Thanks, apa.” I love Ugyen so much, and I realize my previous faux pas was nothing to worry about.

Norzom promptly gives me a coat, has their servant prepare me some soup, pizza, and cheese, and opens a bottle of Australian shiraz. In minutes I am myself again, and we all have an animated debate over who’s the best James Bond. Ugyen and I both agree Sean Connery is Number 1, but Daniel Craig is no slouch and has the best abs.

At 10:30 Gama and her brother drive me back to Langjo Pakha. Darlene is home with Ugyen (the civil engineer) and his wife Karma. Darlene is having stomach trouble from something she ate, and her friends and keeping an eye on her until I get home. Tonight I give Darlene back her portable heater that she had lent to me to keep the spare room warm. She’s unwell and could use a bit more comfort besides her down sleeping bag. Tonight is the coldest night yet, and I got to bed wearing three underlayers, a wool sweater, fleece vest, gloves, and hat. This will be the best night sleep so far.