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 There is a point where my deep-seated need to be respected by those around me is superseded by my desire to possess working extremities that I can feel at any given time.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.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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)
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)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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?”
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?”
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
"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.
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