Update

As promised, here is a rundown of our travels subsequent to the previous post.

INDIA: A+, cradle of civilization

MALAYSIA: A+, amazing Chinese/South Asian fusion cuisine, beautiful forests, don't miss the world's largest bird sanctuary

VIETNAM: A+, California-like blending of ecosystems allowing you to enjoy gorgeous beaches, mountains, and jungles within hours, unparalleled soup game

AUSTRALIA: C-, lot of racism, marsupials very cute though

INTERVENING EIGHT YEARS OF ESTABLISHING A CAREER, PURSUING ARTISTIC AND PERSONAL GOALS, GROWING AS AN INDEPENDENT ADULT, ACHIEVING AN ADMIRABLE CREDIT SCORE, SEEING MY FORMER PUPILS BECOME FULLY REALIZED PEOPLE WITH UNIQUE INSIGHTS AND DREAMS AND EVEN CHILDREN OF THEIR OWN: meh

Interlude

I'll be back soon with detailed accounts of our recently concluded Southeast Asian adventures, but for now be sated with this conversation I had with a former student on facebook chat:

Me: Have board exam results come out yet?

Kuenga: Yap

Me: How did you do?

Kuenga: Sir

Kuenga: Not that gud

Me: I'm sure it was ok

Kuenga: Sir

Me: What is it, Kuenga? Or are you just typing "sir" after everything you say? You don't have to do that

Kuenga: Ahha

No sir



(Also, he says he passed his board exams and wants to go to college, which I consider a win)

Write your own damn blog posts, I'm at the beach

OK, fine. After a year of not blogging enough because of stress, my excuse now is excessive relaxation.

This is the opposite reaction almost everyone in the world has, of course, in traveling from the serene Himalayas to their hyper-populated neighbors. The theme of the year has been anchoring, that most deeply human phenomenon in which your happiness is entirely relative, based not on some fundamental quality of your identity but on your tangible experiences and exposure to a certain set of circumstances; it's the phenomenon that explains why millionaires are not ecstatic all the time, and in fact many are rather depressed. This can only begin to explain to all of you how being constantly offered sure scams, tourist-trap accommodations, and suspect aid is both a comfort and a relief to me.

The most difficult and most successful teaching I did all year involved two weeks in which I tried to teach the concept of critical analysis using my least favorite part of the syllabus, a propaganda speech by Bhutan’s prime minister about the concept of Gross National Happiness. In it, he shares an anecdote in which the government tries a pilot program of giving rural farmers genetically modified, high-yield rice. After a single year, one farmer has doubled his rice production. Thrilled, the Department of Agriculture begins talking with him about expansion, increased labor, etc. The farmer, though, interrupts them mid-consult to declare that instead of producing twice as much rice, he would simply take a year off from farming and live at the same standard as before.

The prime minister wanted us to see this as a sign that the Bhutanese do not care for material wealth so much as their own contentment. (I used it to prod the students about the definability of happiness, and the impossibility of absolute equality, for which the concept of anchoring played an important role.) Safely out of Bhutan, I can now admit that my initial reaction was, Damn, that guy is lazy. Having filtered my perceptions of Asia solely through Bhutan, I was slow to judge. As expected, having spent less than a full week in India, I am now ready to judge the hell out of them.
If Bhutan is content, India is the opposite. People here do not seem unhappy on the whole, but they are all striving. In Bhutan, store owners would frequently tell you to go next door to buy something they sell rather than stand up and get it for you. Thus, it has been something of a comfort to walk down the street and be yelled at by twenty consecutive vendors. Surely it is a betrayal of my capitalist upbringing and prejudices, but it’s just nice to see people hustling so hard to make something of themselves.

That said, big-city India is incredibly depressing. Chennai offered very little in the way of non-Indian-food-related fun. (The Wikitravel introduction to Chennai reads something like, “So, you have arrived as a tourist in Chennai! Why did you do that? There is nothing to see here. Perhaps you are seeking a job in the IT sector?”) Once we made our way to Trivandrum and now Aleppey, though, it’s been much more relaxing. Trivandrum would still be considered a medium-sized city by most, but we were able to wander up and down almost the whole thing, cover all the non-temple sites in the tourist pamphlet (sorry, we’re just done with temples), and spend a glorious half day at the beach. Aleppey isn’t thrilling, but we haven’t yet taken a boat through the backwaters of the jungle, which is what you come here to do.

In general, I’ve been very happy striking a balance between getting tourist things done and doing nothing, which we feel we deserve after our year of hard work. It’s a tenuous balance, given we may not actually deserve it, all of us being unemployed now and whatnot. But for now we are not worrying about that, because it is 85 degrees out, there is a beach, delicious Indian food is $1 per meal, and, for a brief, shining, glorious moment, we do not work with children.

This country good

The rate of signage in India is approximately 1 sign per square area that will fit a sign. These are my favorites, or the most confusing ones.

"Doctors' relaxation center"

"Shoppers Shop"

"GOLD!!!" (this one is pretty frequent, and makes me question Adi's claim that there are no Jews in India)

"Witch shake" (on a juice shop signboard)

"Wine Shop (A Government of Kerala Undertaking)"

I like this country.

Lack of wood fire

Almost overnight, it became too cold to be a decent human being anymore. Right around December 1st, it started to get so frigid that life would only be tolerable under a highly specific set of conditions, most of which involved huddling, inactivity, and Coronation Silver Jubilee rum.
There is some righteous indignation involved here. I mean, it’s not really that cold, not much colder than winters on the East Coast, but there are factors that make it seem considerably more painful. Insulation is not a concept here. Our apartment is made of plaster and cement, and many of the window frames warped over the seasons such that some of them don’t close all the way anymore, allowing an icy draft to permeate that entire place. Our Chinese coil heater has been some consolation, but only when we are crowded directly around it, just like hobos around a trash-can fire, right down to the unkempt beards and two-dollar bottles of whiskey. (The best that to happen to us recently was the purchase of a “Heat Convector,” which the box promises is both “powder coated” and “computer tested.” It’s called a “Blow Hot,” a kind of name which might have caused embarrassing misconceptions in less chaste Asian countries.)
In these conditions, your first thought, of course, is about the many luxuries you took for granted in your cushy Western life. You don’t think about where the water from your taps comes from until it comes directly from a glacial lake. That strand of thought passed fairly quickly (it’s such a cliché.) What’s been sticking in my mind is the idea that the formalities and social graces we hold so dear are not based on any kind of God-given cultural superiority but on the fact that we have hot water readily available. What can I do? I take pride in being a hygienic, highly civil person, but doing laundry in the sink is physically painful. After two socks, my hands are throbbing and numb. There is a point where my deep-seated need to be respected by those around me is superseded by my desire to possess working extremities that I can feel at any given time. Sometimes when I talk to my other white friends here, who all live in much nicer apartments in town, I see the looks of 17th-century British ambassadors talking about the local peoples of the Orient. “A smelly, savage people…they wear the same shirt for days at a time and spend much time laying about in bed, shameless of their godless, primitive ways. Send Bibles.” Well, no one is born a savage. You have to go awhile without hot water first.

Is it?

You may have noticed that I have not made a post on this blog recently. You may not have.

12 Science: making my life worth living

I'm not sure exactly what I've ingrained into these students, but it's something. Exchanges like these make getting up in the morning doable.

Me (staring directly at student): Ugyen, do the assignment.
Ugyen: Sir, I can see your soul through your eyes.
Me: (staring menacingly at student from close range)
Ugyen's desk-mate (somberly): Sir's soul is red with the blood of innocents.

Fun recent tangents and discussions:
--why Disney is evil, even though The Lion King was a good movie
--why drug laws in the U.S. promote institutional racism and unjust class differentiation
--why I am better at tongue twisters than you, my students, are
--why I cannot get you an American girlfriend by email (this one was for the teachers)
--how I will try to get you an American girlfriend in downtown Thimphu (for both teachers and students)
--how logic works (for everyone)

An Open Letter to the Bhutanese People

Dear Bhutanese,

I have now lived in your country for nearly seven months. Perhaps the most repeated theme is that of your culture, and the tenuous position it occupies. At the forefront of every modern Bhutanese dialogue is the fraught dichotomy of tradition vs. modernization. From teaching methods to clothing to our students' essays, every tiny facet of modern life here bears the weight of both Bhutanese cultural pride and the younger generation's urge to Westernize.

It is a near-impossible problem. It seems that every decision, every minute action, represents a declaration of purpose: everything either gives the statement "Traditional culture is what makes this country what it is" or "We are an economically vibrant country who cannot afford to curb its development."

I occupy a bizarre position between these two poles. I cannot help yearning for the comforts of homogenized Westernization, but I cannot deny that the national dress, the language, the way Buddhism is integrated into everyday life--these are the things that lend Bhutan its aura of magic and timelessness. I am certainly a modernist, and a realist, but at the same time, I live in a place which seemingly exists solely to show the meaninglessness of capitalist excess. How can I whine about burrito cravings when I pass wild horses and incense-waving monks on the way home from work?

These are difficult issues in an infinitely complex time. In conclusion, I would like to say one thing to all of you in this wonderful place, a single message borne on the wings of hope and carved from the wood of compassion:


STOP PLAYING THE GODDAMN WAKA WAKA SONG. THE WORLD CUP IS OVER. IT WAS ANNOYING THEN, AND IT'S EVEN WORSE NOW. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE SHAKIRA IS FROM.

Thank you, and God bless.

HOSPITALITY, BITCH

Sorry that I haven’t been on top of blogging recently. Or ever. But honestly, most of my brain, will, and hand power have been taken up in teaching, and if I used this space for my own personal catharsis it would all be whining about teaching and how hard it is. It’s hard, by the way.
Here’s a small episode on a more positive note.
Maybe a month ago we had three Bhutanese friends over for dinner. We only had several pounds of rice, so it was crisis mode time. We asked a few people to bring rice with them, but they all came late, so I had to go begging to our landlords.
I’ve written about Dawa before—she was the meek, friendly, absurdly selfless woman who woke me up to give me tea. Her husband Tsewang is also ridiculously generous. As an example—we live on his property on an apple orchard. We pick apples most days for breakfast. Yesterday he invited us in to his house and gave us a giant tote bag full of at least 50 apples. We declined them, already guilty for having illicitly stolen from him, and he responded “but you never pick apples! Come on, just a few!” We left with ten. It’s hard not to feel guilty living around these people, who don’t drink but keep wine and arra on hand to forcefully offer us whenever we enter their house. We’d feel guilty even if they weren’t so nice, because they rent us a room in this peaceful family neighborhood, and...I mean, would you want to rent us a room?
So I bashfully knock on the door and ask to borrow some rice. Tsewang says they probably have some to spare, and leads me to the kitchen where they have an industrial-sized vat half full of rice, or roughly enough rice to feed an anorexic Bhutanese midget for several days, assuming he is on a religious fast for at least one of them. They fill me up a big bowl and I thank them profusely. At this point, as casually as I can, I take out a few ngultrums—about the cost of one kg. of rice—and place it unsurreptitiously on the counter. And then we do the most comical money dance ever.
Speaking little English, Dawa picks up the bills and gently places them back in my hand. I push them back at her. She pushes them back more intently. We go back and forth a few times, both of us smiling widely. Then I make a bold gambit: I simply throw the bills onto the far side of the counter, 5 feet away from Dawa, and run towards the door, bowl of rice in hand.
I will never forget the next moment. It’s one of those instants when time slows down and your perception sharpens, like a near-death experience, or a hit of really good PCP, or both. I am walking briskly towards the front door, yelling my thanks, and smiling at one of the adorable children watching TV in the front room. And then, with the Earth-shaking charge of a genetically reconstructed T. Rex, I feel an impending presence behind me. With a guttural roar—“NOOOOOOO!”—this mild-mannered housewife full-body tackles me from behind. All 110 pounds of her come swooping down in a Viking rage. I barely keep the rice bowl from completely tipping over. The most emotion I’ve ever seen from this woman was mild pleasantness when serving butter tea, but at this moment, she is king. Having a death-grip on my torso, she turns me around, and with a triumphant grin she spikes the bills forcefully into the rice, as if to say, WHAT NOW, BITCH! I OWN YOU! I AM THE MOST HOSPITABLE!
People in pickup basketball games here sometimes apologize when they drive past you.

He came, I saw

Last Monday, His Majesty the Fifth Druk Gyalpo of Bhutan Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck (HMTFDGOBJKNW) visited our school. If you have never lived in a country with a Dragonkingocracy, let me assure you: it was a really big deal. We spent a solid week postponing regular life to spit-shine every aspect of the school and our lives, from having my kids draw pictures to tape over their desk graffiti to holding numerous practices for the welcoming ceremony to setting up a special chair to assembling a fruit basket. We even set some of our Indian workers to polishing grout off the floor with what actually looked like a toothbrush. (By the way, if you have never seen a monk lovingly assemble a fruit basket, I recommend you find some way to witness this sight. It is among the last truly awe-inspiring phenomena left in the world.)

After three days of false alarms, His Majesty arrived on Monday. We gathered at school forty-five minutes early, to stand in our special assembly formation. Everyone had highly specific bowing routines to go through, which had been practiced at length, leaving the white people in a mildly awkward position: how should we greet the king? Do we bow like everyone else, but without having the ritual scarves the sweep on the ground? Do we bow halfway? We turned to our all-knowing Principal for guidance.

“Ah, yes, the non-Bhutanese,” he said, his voice oozing authority, confidence, definitiveness. “You can greet his majesty however you want.”

Let me say at this point that I did, largely, know what to expect from H.M. Many of our whitey friends have met him; some are even close with him, or have enjoyed his company at non-official social calls. Though the Bhutanese preparations for his visit fairly glowed with reverence, I was most excited just to talk to an extremely intelligent, highly educated, worldly Bhutanese person about the many problems in the educational system and country at large. As I unsuccessfully directed my kids to do—to (actual) protestations of “Sir, I have no opinions;” “Sir, the country has no problems;” “Sir, we do not have strong feelings about things”—I racked my brain to prepare biting but respectful questions about why certain things in Bhutan’s status quo were run the way they were. I knew the king loved white people because they did not bow and scrape to him; I’d heard time and again that he relished honest feedback and near-equal treatment. I was pulsing with excitement at the prospect of an in-depth conversation with a Bhutanese person about important issues of our time; in other words, a conversation that did not follow the three Standard Bhutanese Conversation Tracks of

1. “So, are you married?”

2. “So, you are enjoying Bhutan?”

3. “We must preserve our traditions and culture, but also there is development. It is very difficult.”



So, he came. He gave a well-spoken but clearly oft-repeated speech to the kids about taming the dragon within their hearts. (Which led to a week of awkward, unanswerable questions from the lower school about whether dragons were real.) The students left assembly for class. And in the cool glare of the early-morning sun, the Dragon King ambled (majestically) over to the rigid line of teachers. In a veritable orgy of auspiciousness, I was Teacher On Duty (acting principal) that day, and thus first in line. So it was directly at me, making Dragon-Kingly eye contact, towards which he opened the royal mouth. Screwing my courage to the sticking point, I prepared for the conversation of a lifetime, an interchange in which I would simultaneously charm my way into the royal family’s good graces and also change the future of the country with my incisive observations about its societal practices. In what I knew would be a moment I’d always remember, he looked directly at me with the dreamy royal eyes, squaring the royal waistline to my own, and with a vibration of the royal vocal chords, he said:






















“So, are you married? Are you enjoying Bhutan?”

Low content post

The best work my students have produced since before midterm break is the following metaphor:

"Bhutanese students are like ema-datse because they make foreigners sick."

I have realized I am very susceptible to tangents in class, because I am usually willing to indulge the one or two students who are in any way curious about anything. In the last three weeks I have tried to explain the Singularity, the sociological differences between Judaism and Christianity, and tautological arguments to kids who took two classes to understand haikus. Last period I spent five minutes explaining why jet-propelled aircraft cannot hover. I have some improving to do, teaching-wise.

Inauspicious return

So, it's been an absurd amount of time since I last blogged. My apologies. There have been some truly interesting things going on, our summer-break backpacking trip, touched on briefly by Zeb being the most prominent. As of now, I have a cold, one and a half cats, a new temporary roommate, and a cup of fermented millet-buckwheat juice called tong-ba. His Majesty the Fifth Dragon King is coming to visit the school on Monday, and we've spent the majority of the previous week preparing for it.

Teaching is as frustrating and unrewarding as ever. More, perhaps. Still, I'm at peace, largely due to a slowly but consistently increasing interest in Buddhist ideology. I am far from practicing--meditation still baffles me--but more than anything I have found that the nuances of Buddhist thought support and reinforce ideas that I have always found to be fundamentally true. Reading and talking about Buddhism has just made me think more about them, and about myself. In the process, I think I am starting to strengthen some of my good habits and begin the long journey towards eliminating the many bad ones. While I may not stay here for the rest of my life, I hope I carry with me forever the emphasis on introspection and self-improvement created not only by Buddhism but simply by living in such a remote and timeless place.

More substantive (and more entertaining) blogging coming, I swear.

Seriously though: if the U.S. does not beat Algeria, EVERYONE is getting cut

"Sir, can I go to toilet?"

"No. If you leave the room, you will not be allowed to finish the test."

"Sir, please, it is an emergency."

"An emergency? As in, you feel that you are in serious medical danger?"

"Yes sir. Very serious."

"Do you feel like there is a greater than 50% chance you will die if you do not go to the bathroom before the test ends in 15 minutes?"

[...thinking...]

"Yes sir."

"Okay, you can go."

"Wait, let me finish this question."

Send them out

I tried to explain clowns to someone today. They understand class clowns, and clownish behavior, but I was thinking of a circus clown. Like, big red nose, seltzer-spouting flower pin, oversized shoes. How do you explain a clown?

If the U.S. does not beat Slovenia, I am going to cut somebody

I will not get into the details here, but basically, today somebody pulled the biggest Dick Move I have ever experienced in my life. I am defining Dick Move as a move that, by its dickish nature, identifies you as a huge, huge dick. That is all I care to say on the subject right now, except that this particular Move directly affects me and Zeb, and it would be catastrophic if it was not for Principal Karma, who is a saint.

I've been thinking a lot about what differentiates people on the most basic levels. I mean, we have some pretty good Bhutanese friends, good enough to really understand what motivates them. These friends are healthy, educated men in their mid-20s, so what motivates them is primarily sex and beginning a fruitful, prosperous career in order to attract a classier brand of woman to have sex with. There are some definite if subtle differences between us and the Bhutanese, though, however well we get along. I've started to conclude that what really makes the difference is not beliefs, background, or ideology. What makes the difference is priorities.

I've discovered something about myself in this first year of Real Life: I have a lot of pride in myself as a competent and professional person. Even if by nature I am basically a lazy slob, when I have a job to do, some evolutionary-cultural-familial switch clicks, and suddenly I am all about getting that shit done, and well.

This strikes at what I have observed to be one of the most fundamental dichotomies in Bhutanese-American priorities. Maybe I should do this as a list, because lists are easier for my tween reader base to digest.

AMERICAN PRIORITY: BEING GOOD AT STUFF

BHUTANESE PRIORITY: NOT BEING AN ASSHOLE

This is such a basic truth of life I don't need to go over it. I consider myself to be really good at stuff, as do many Americans. I have overwhelming pride about stuff, and being good at it, better, even, than other people are. This pride motivates a solid majority of my behavior, especially in my professional capacities.

As the Bhutanese seem to have tacitly discovered, this priority makes you an asshole. It just does. Bhutanese people are not assholes. The worst ones we've met are driven by the faults of stupidity or ignorance, but I am pretty sure we have yet to meet a bona fide asshole. As a compromise, they are not generally that good at stuff, which does not bother them at all. At times, it absolutely infuriates me. But that is because I am an asshole.

AMERICAN PRIORITY: HEALTH

BHUTANESE PRIORITY: LIFE

This is something else that has been written about ad nauseam by better writers (and thus bigger assholes) than myself, but I am forever thinking about my nutrient intake here, or how walking alongside unregulated Indian trucks is affecting my lungs, or about trying to have a meal that is neither fried nor covered in cheese. Our friend Ugyen made us a salad last week composing of--in its entirely--a tomato and salt. In about equal parts.

Needless to say, the Bhutanese are stick-thin and vibrantly healthy (except for Wangchuck) despite, and probably because, they are not constantly in a fit of nervous anxiety about their Body Mass Index. Instead, they just...do stuff. Outside. They sleep well. They relax. They probably do not have a Dzongkha word for "Health maintenance organization." It's just life, you know? You don't think about it all the time.

AMERICAN PRIORITY: INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS, RACIAL POLITICS, DEMOGRAPHIC CHANGE AND ITS EFFECTS ON POLITICAL STABILITY, THE STABILITY OF TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT AND INDUSTRY AS PARTS OF THE GDP, POPULAR CULTURE, THE MEDIA, NET NEUTRALITY

BHUTANESE PRIORITY: TEA

It's a cheapshot, but it's not an insult.

The Cup

It is a beautiful thing to be outside of the U.S. during the World Cup. Here are my experiences:

SOUTH AFRICA-MEXICO:
Zeb and I go to our friend Ugyen’s house to celebrate the opening of the Cup. We are also celebrating our first night of real-life work that truly felt like college: the night before, we had written our final exams, strictly following the government-mandated syllabus, meaning I had to write 40 pages worth of English exam. All the classics were there: absurdly involved late night snacking, caffeine pills, 3 A.M. showers, and the like.
Ugyen’s inhumanly hospitable brother Tenzin greets us, takes the bottle of brandy we offer Ugyen, and pours us heaping-full glasses of hard A. Needless to say, we belligerently root against Mexico, while the Bhutanese root for them, because they are the better team. They insist we stay for the evening game at 12:30 AM. Zeb passes out on the floor of the 8-by-10 room that both Ugyen and his brother sleep in. I stay awake, alone, for the entire France-Uruguay game. Ugyen and Tenzin are sharing a bed, adorably. I sleep on Ugyen’s bed while Zeb sleeps on the floor. We wake up at 7 AM and walk 45 minutes back to our apartment along a Himalayan mountain ridge in the glaring, revelatory morning sunlight. We have forgotten to lock our apartment. The Bhutanese criminals have not stolen anything, perhaps because they are busy faithfully tending to their elderly relatives, or praying deferentially to Lord Buddha, or not existing.

ARGENTINA-NIGERIA
On Saturday night, Zeb and I make our way into bustling downtown Thimphu. Zeb has a Skype appointment, so I watch the World Cup as it is meant to be watched: with intense passion, alongside one’s curbside compatriots, on a sidewalk on TVs being displayed in a store window. Eventually the store closes, leaving its patrons out in the literal cold, so we make our way to one of the fancy expat-catering bars in town, where I see my first black person in three months. It was a wonderful experience. I thought I was going to go a full year without seeing anyone with a skin shade darker than Bengali. Of course, this guy was Jamaican-Canadian-British and not particularly dark, but it was a surprisingly visceral relief to interact with him. I felt more human, somehow, being reminded of the heterogeneity I was brought up to value so deeply.
The bar closed at midnight, as they all do, before the all-important U.S. game. We called Ugyen, hoping he would let us rudely crash his apartment in the middle of the night to watch the game. The conversation went like this:
“Hey, buddy! How are you?”
“Jon. I am in Paro.”
“Oh, shit. Nevermind. Have a good weeke—“
“Please come to my place to watch the game. I have left the door open. Please come.”
“…”
We arrived at 12:40 and the door was literally open. Not the lock. The door was wide open. In the middle of the night.
UNITED STATES-ENGLAND
We watched the U.S.’s glorious draw next to a sleeping Tenzin. We thought we were the biggest assholes in the world. Five minutes after we arrived, two Bhutanese guys knocked on the door.
“Yes, is Ugyen here?”
“No.”
“You are watching World Cup, yes?”
“Umm…[sounds of World Cup game in background]…kinda…”
And they came in.
And they both sat on Tenzin’s bed.
And they turned up the volume—which we had on silent, the TV being two feet away from our sleeping angel of a teenager—to very loud.
And they took the blankets from sleeping Tenzin and both passed out on his small bed, forcing him onto the ground.
It’s a cultural thing.

This made two days in a row we had rudely violated Ugyen’s domicile. All Sunday, we avoided talking to him, embarrassed. We saw him at school on Monday. He was quite nonplussed with me, as I expected.
“You had a good weekend?”
“Hey, Ugyen. Look, I’m really sorry about passing out on your bed, and coming over at 1 AM and waking your brother up, and I swear I’ll make it up to you, and—“
“Where were you yesterday? World Cup game was on, yes?”
“Wha—Um, well, yeah, it was.”
“Why you did not watch at my place?”
“Um…because…”
Guilt. It’s a cultural thing.

Needless to say, tonight we went to Ugyen’s place to watch the highly anticipated
COTE D’IVOIRE-PORTUGAL
match. Ugyen was not picking up his phone. We decided to go over uninvited. We arrived, and Tenzin was sleeping soundly at 8 P.M. Being the perfect student and brother is a tiring occupation. Again, it goes without saying that there was a random Bhutanese guy there watching the game in the bedroom by himself while Tenzin tossed and turned.
Ugyen’s third roommate Bini—keep in mind, this is probably a 250-square-foot apartment—came home during the game to find us camped out alone in his living space. He asked petulantly why we were not drinking beer. He insisted we stay 2 ½ hours to watch Brazil-North Korea. He insisted we stay the night on his bed. His arrival woke Tenzin up. Tenzin’s response to seeing two white men unexpectedly sitting next to his bed watching his television loudly was this:
“[sleep groan.]”


“[pause.]”


“I will make you dinner.”


It’s a nice culture they’ve got here.

A Bhutanese Grammar Lesson

As an English teacher, I have paid careful attention to the patterns of spoken and written language during my stay here. I humbly present a short lesson on the uses of some common words and phrases particular to Bhutanese culture.

Is it?

DEFINITION:

1. A nonsensical, meaningless, grammatically characterless response to anything, given in order to alert the speaker to the fact that you have heard what he has said. Synonymous with “mm-hmm,” “yep,” “[grunting noise]”.

EXAMPLE:
“I am a human male currently relaying information to you via the medium of language.”
“Is it?”

2. An expression of caring meant to display the fact that you have the same level of concern for every situation in life no matter its importance or unimportance.

EXAMPLE:
“Yesterday I ate ema-datse, as I have done every day for my entire life.”
“Is it?”

“I am suffering through an existential malaise so profound as to call into question the very purpose of my life. I think I may end it all tonight.”
“Oh, is it?”


Only

DEFINITION:

1. Synonymous with “just,” but in the wrong syntactical position, and used a random number of times per sentence.

EXAMPLES:
“Yesterday only I went to the market only and bought a shelf only.”

“This year only the curriculum will cover all of Buddhist thought only and every other facet of the enlightened mind only.”

2. A random two-syllable interjection with no set meaning or pattern of usage, except that it always follows nouns, adjectives, or adverbs, and never precedes them.

“To me only, the situation in China only will be exacerbated only by a rising fear only of global economic interdependence only. Only.”

“[any combination of words in English and/or Dzongkha] only.”

One

DEFINITION:

1. “A.” The article “a” is considered inauspicious, and is not used here. This produces occasional confusion for outsiders with the faulty assumption that “one” indicates specifically a singular object when there is the possibility that it may be plural.

This is an actual example, that someone actually said, actually:

“I am going into town to find one wife.”

This example is shockingly common. People frequently talk about how they are looking for one wife, or one house, or one job. Either there is some misunderstanding about the use of articles, or this society is much more interesting than it seems.

Nicely

DEFINITION:
1. Exactly the same as its English definition, but may only be used when describing beatings.

EXAMPLE:

“That one has no respect. He should be beaten nicely.”

“It was performed nicely, the beating was.”

“I said to him, I will do nicely to you, and by my use of that particular adverb, he knew I was talking about a beating.”

Just a quick thought

How do Bhutanese folks enter people into their cell phones? I mean, when 7 of your friends are named Ngawang Yeshi, and another two are named Kinley with no last name, how do you keep track of which is which? In our classes, kids have labeled themselves as Sonam Tshering A, Sonam Tshering B, Kinley Wangchuck 1-3, etc. It's functional. It would be a little demeaning in a peer relationship, though. How do you decide which of your friends is Kinley A?

This isn't a jab, by the way, it's a legitimate thought.

Also, sorry for updating so infrequently over the last two weeks. Real life is hard. I'll be back in force...soon...

Quotes of the week

Maybe you had to be there, but this is one of the funniest moments of my recent life. Ugyen was deadly serious here. We are discussing the logistics of a long hike the next day.

Ugyen: “You should bring a pack lunch.”

Me: “No problem, we just bought a loaf of bread, we’ll make sandwiches.”

Ugyen (after a pause): “Uh, it should be food.”

***

Middle-aged woman: “My daughter is verrrry ugly. We sent her away.”



(the same person, a different day): “My daughter is sooo fat. Lucky her brain is very fast.”




(Don’t worry, they sent her away to government school because she is so smart. But the exact order of those two thoughts was hilarious. And she also called me fat in the course of the same conversation, so fair is fair.)


***


My homeroom class, as unruly and troublemaking as they are, crack me up every day. This is probably the funniest interaction from the last week.

Me: I’m going to give you all a second chance, because I love all of you.

Male Student: That’s gay, sir.

Me: No, I love you like you were all my own children. It’s not gay to love your son, is it?

Male Student: Michael Jackson, sir.


Aaaand from today, at lunch:

Male student: Sir, I have to go to hospital. I have a boil on my knee.

Me: No. Go back to class.

Student: But sir, it's bothering me.

Me: You can have the health coordinator look at it, but you can't miss class.

Student: Aw, come on, sir.

Me: No.

Student: But my excuse is better than some other ones I've heard.

Have you ever had to violently restrain a teenager from washing your dishes after fervently refusing to eat the food you offered him?

Have you ever been given a scolding lecture on how drinking alcohol is evil ("If you drink one bottle today, you will have to drink two bottles tomorrow, and then you are addicted") by someone who has been rabidly chewing betelnut in front of you for several hours?

Have you ever listened to a virtuoso pianist play an incredible jazz piece and then explain to the audience the concept of improvisation?

Have you ever gone out on the town with a friend your age and then hear them tell someone else the next day, (in these exact words,) "I went out last night intentionally to find a wife, but I failed?"

Have you ever been invited to have Sunday dinner with an extended family who strictly does not drink, but who stops their car on the way and insists you buy beer even though you really don't want to, just because they have seen you drinking once before in a totally different context?

Have you ever had a Buddhist Lama crack wise about the dirtiness of your socks?

If not, you have probably not been to Bhutan.