Madam, How Many kg's is Your Head?

I just hitchhiked with some awesome people. A brother and a sister. He worked for Anti-Corruption (I love how much that sounds like Harry Potter) and she worked for Human Resources. They were listening to North American pop on the radio in their SUV, and for some reason this just floored me. I had never been so excited to hear popular music in my life! She gave me some real mint gum (most of the ‘gum’ you can buy here is fruit or chocolate, and the one mint flavour I’ve found just crumbles in your mouth and sticks to your teeth) so I chewed ecstatically and rocked out to Michael Jackson and Shaggy in the back.

Conversation flowed really easily (a blessing when you are desperate for a ride and hitchhiking with random strangers), and before I knew it, I was at Lawala Pass. I hopped out, said my unromantic goodbyes and let go of these beautiful people offering dentene peppermint and a musical taste of the west.

There, at the pass, an old man must have recognized me as the foreign teacher who waits at Lawala for rides into the valley after visiting her mop (details on this potentially misspelled Dzongkha word later). He flagged me down, waving excitedly and speaking Dzongkha with a personalized sign language. I understood only 'going' and '?' in Dzongkha (they have a word that means basically a question mark has been added to a sentence), and his sign language indicated we should be 'going' together. He hobbled over to me as I danced on one foot trying to put on socks to warm my feet at the cool, high altitude of the pass.

Socks on, I ran to get the old man a nice flat rock to sit on so he wouldn't have to squat in the mud. I brought it back to him and asked him to sit in what I hope was the polite way (I have been told there is an impolite way to tell your students to sit, but I can't remember which is which). It's ok, add a 'La' to any sentence and it becomes polite. He asked where my rock was, so I ran off to find myself one. But I didn’t actually sit because I’ve been wearing out the bum on my favourite and only pair of jeans from all my rock-sitting since I’ve been in Bhutan. Already I had Gyen Sir stitch them up, for which I gave him an assortment of Canadian pins, but this created a jealousy fiasco among the teachers at my school that I won’t even get into.

Anyway, it didn’t matter because I could hear the low roar of a massive engine struggling up Lawala. Big engines are a good sign when you really just want to get home. To expand on Carson’s hitchhiking rant, big engines mean big trucks, which means drivers probably won’t speak English and will still be more than willing to pick you up (I assume any company is good company when you drive for extended hours at a time.)

I climbed up the ladder and into the massive loading truck, tossed my bags on the seat and turned around to help the old man climb up. I hoisted him by the arms and marveled at the strength still left in his body.

A small boy of maybe four, tiny limbs and great big eyes with irises so dark they looked almost black in the evening light, sat on a bench near the window watching us. It was surprisingly spacious inside and quite fancy. Really, I shouldn’t have been surprised given the way they usually decorate the outside of the transport vehicles; hand painted flowers and designs, shiny tinsel and bright tassels hanging everywhere, personalized messages of faith or jokes that aren’t that funny printed on the back bumper above the ever-present “Horn Please”. Keep your eyes on the road and your mind on God, A man who marries young is good, a man who marries old has fun… And then the strange sentences I have always wondered about, painted on the windshields or the side of the trucks like Missed Call 115 and I love you. I mean, it's always nice to hear someone loves you, but I’ve never really understood why it’s painted on the truck.

Inside the transport truck I was in, there were big glowing red and green lights in the shape of flowers in the roof. Pictures of the 3rd and 4th Kings I had never seen before hung in shiny plastic gold frames above the dash, above our heads. Buddha, in a matching shiny plastic gold sat next to a patient prayer wheel on the dashboard, to the left of the driver (the driver’s seat is on the right here, something I always forget when climbing into the vehicle as a passenger). I looked up to see a bunk bed above my head. It appeared as though it could slide down four poles to make room for 2 people to sleep comfortably in the truck. I wondered if the driver and his son lived in the truck. A big pile of comfy blankets were folded neatly to my right.

We stopped on the way into the valley because a farmer was crawling up the side of the mountain waving his arms. I stared at the little boy while the driver conversed with the farmer. I kept getting lost in his black eyes. I felt a poke and pulled my gaze away from the child; the driver wanted me to look out his window.

Down the steep cliffside, the farmer had crashed his tractor. It lay broken, red and crumpled on top of its trailer. I gasped involuntarily. I had no idea how the man was all right, and how he crashed his tractor in the first place. I mean, those things go very slowly, and he had to have had time to see that he was heading towards the edge… I hoped he hadn’t been drinking, or it might hurt even more the next morning when his family found out he crashed the only tractor they probably have.

We left the man there and headed on down the valley through the pine trees and the wandering yaks. The little boy kept half his body hanging out of the window the whole time, watching the land pass by outside. The old man tried to pull him in a few times as we squeezed past huge trucks on the impossibly thin road, but the boy was glued to the world passing by outside.

I remember contemplating if a kid from the west could stare at the outside world for so long without getting bored, or if they would need more stimulation, something electronic.

* * * *

I stopped at Nim’s shop long enough to buy some abnormally big bananas. I was told they came from Punakha, which is very near to me. I try to avoid buying fruit from India if I can after I was told some scary stories about the misuse of pesticides there. I’m not sure if it’s any better here, but my Bhutanese teachers say that eating too many Indian Mangoes makes them sick. I was told that Bhutan gets their pesticides from India, and India gets the rejected pesticides from the west that are not fit for use or do not work.

After I asked Nim about where the bananas came from, she expertly selected a banana based on how it felt when she gently pressed on it. She is so sweet to me, she asked me to try it. Normally, I detest the bananas here; they are sour and slimy, oozing their way down the throat and leaving a bitter taste in the mouth. And if you leave them sit long enough they develop hard black seeds inside, but I buy them anyway as they could be the only fruit I have in a month. But this Punakha banana was comparatively tasty, so I took six, hoisted them over my shoulder and stepped outside the shop.

On a bench outside, Singay Sir, a teacher from the community school down in the bottom of the valley, was sipping mango juice with a friend I recognized but didn’t know. Singay told me of his teacher woes, being transferred to the community school (he used to teach at my middle school), being understaffed, over-worked, no spares, I’m lucky to have one, I came here to volunteer all of my time didn’t I? Teachers in isolated placements have a tough time- I interjected with the common idea of teaching as a “noble profession”. He hit me back with a complete dismissal of the idea, Noble being a word the establishment uses behind their desks while doing no work with needy children or knowing of the real lack of materials, space, funds and staff in the rural schools. I couldn’t argue with this, he made a valid point. But the young and inspired teacher inside of me disagreed with him silently, and he seemed nowhere near finished so I made an attempt to leave. Out of nowhere, Lhakpa’s bear of a brother picked me up in a crunching hug from behind. I’m not sure if he really doesn’t know that I don’t speak Dzongkha, but he always converses with me as though I do.

“Che joni mop mo la?”
“What’s a mop Sir?”
“Mop is husband.”

He’s not my husband. (Nga joni boyfriend la). Then the conversation turned to marriage and my age. They seemed to think that I was 23, I told them I was 27, knowing full well where this was going. Some days when I don’t have the energy, I let them refer to him as Husband, but some days, like today, I have the stamina to defend my cultural beliefs. Maybe it was the potassium in the banana.

They told me this was an age I should be married at. I tried to explain to them that in Canada, 27 is still a very young age to not be married at. Young people are spending time on education and traveling, and marrying later, but my argument teetered to a halt as I stared into unreceptive faces who might be potentially be changing their moral judgments of the foreign teacher educating their children. I sighed and cursed myself silently.

Yes, mop joni is just easier.

* * * *

If no teacher shows up to teach my Class 6 students after my science period is over, they will often bombard me with question after question in an attempt to keep me in their classroom. Their questions are so amazing and they are so adorable, I will often sit with them for the whole period, laughing and doing my best to answer them.

“ Madam, how many scientists are there in Canada?” (I’m stumped, trying to count the universities and the potential scientists per institute).
“ A thousand?” (Oh, God, I hope people reading this aren’t angry).
“Madam, where are the doors to the airplane?”
“How did you get off the airplane? Was it steps?”
“Madam, did you get to choose your meal on the airplane?” (I explain the awesome concept of first class and choice and free alcohol, then disappoint them with my economy budget truth).
“Madam, where did you meet Mr. Carson? In Canada, Thailand, or Bhutan?” (I’m smiling because some of the adults must have been talking. Clearly these kids know the answer to that already, even though I only told one person that I met Carson in Thailand.)
“Does Madam have a baby?” (This question is still funny to me. Yes, I left it in Canada and I never talk about it.)
“Madam, how many stories tall is your house in Canada?” (I’m thinking of my apartment near Corydon. I lived on the 4th floor.)
“How many rooms?” (3. They count the kitchen and the living room as rooms as well.)
“Did it have a toilet inside?” (Yes dear children. It can get to -45 c outside. Not fun.)
“Do you live by yourself Madam?” (Yes.)
“Why???” (Me laughing. Because children move out and live alone after a certain age!)
“Why???” (Because… Maybe they don’t want to still be living with their family when they are older.)
“Madam, why???” (By now I’m really thinking, and it doesn’t seem so normal anymore. Families here, even extended, often continue to live with each other until they die.)
“Because maybe they want to live a separate life from their family.” (Now it even sounds weird coming from my mouth, especially considering how much I miss my family these days. Family is life here.)
“No one else, just Madam.” (They are in disbelief. Why would I do that to myself?)
“Well, my cat lived with me,” (Great, just where I wanted this conversation to go.)
“Madam has a cat???”
“Had. She died last week in Canada.”
“Omigod Madam!”
“Yeah, while I was in Zhemgang.”
“Did Madam cry?”
“Yes, for many days.”
“What was the colour of Madam’s cat?” (I tell them about the gray striped cat I named after the Credence Clearwater Revival song Suzy Q. They can tell I am sad, so they move on to my family.)
“What is the name of Madam’s mother? What work does she do?” (Her name is Sharon, and she works for a bank in Canada). They like the name Sharon.
“What is the name of Madam’s father? What work does he do?” (His name is Robert, and he is a farmer). They are always surprised to hear my father is a farmer. I think maybe they aren’t sure that we have farmers in Canada, and they equate farming with a lot of hard work and very little money. Same deal in Canada kids, same deal.

I tell them about my stepmother. The family conversation leads to divorce, a concept they are familiar with.

My favourite question;

“Madam, why did your parents divorce?” (How to answer…)
“Do you like your step mother?” (Yes, love her. It was different growing up but now we are very close.)
“What is her name? What work does she do?” (Her name is Sandi, and she works in a hospital like a nurse.)
“Does she help your father when he is sick?” (Ha, I think so! Unless he has recently pissed her off or something.)
“Does she help your mother when she is sick?” (What an interesting question.)
“Um, they are too far away from each other. My mother gets help from her family and friends when she is sick.”
“Do they talk? Your mother and step-mother?” (Sometimes. I told them about how gracious everyone was at my brother’s wedding in Mexico, how everyone was kind and relaxed.)

Satisfied, they want to know more about the long journey from Canada to Bhutan. They know I switched planes three times, but they want to know the exact route of the plane and where it stopped. I tell them we flew over the North pole and Siberia, and we stopped in China for 6 hours.

“Madam, what do Chinese people look like?” (Um…)
“Madam, what subjects do students learn in Canada?” (This is easier. I tell them most of the subjects are the same, but they learn music as well.)

Music stumps them.
“Canada is very rich!” (Yes. For the first time in my life, I truly get that.)
“Do they learn Dzongkha Madam?” (Ha! No. I tell them about French, and Canada as a bilingual country, just like Bhutan.)
“What is French Madam?” (My answer was this; it’s another language. I really could have elaborated, but sometimes simple is best.)
“Who is living in madam’s house now?” (It’s gone, everything is sold and gone so I could come here.)
“Where will Madam live?” (Hmmmm…)
“Madam can stay in Bhutan!”

They take notes on the things I say; they write down my birthday, my parent’s names, they copy my sketch on where the emergency exits are in an airplane. They check their social studies books to cross-reference my estimates at populations and distances.

My God they are thorough.

* * * *

I have to end with one last comment. I have been teaching weight in Class 3 math, and we have been doing some pretend shopping for chilies and potatoes so the student can become more familiar with measuring, estimating, and converting grams and kilograms.

As I was walking back to my house from my most recent interview with Class 6, one of my class 3 students caught up with me. She reached over to hug a small boy in class 1, and she told me how beautiful this boy was. I found this curious, since I had often wondered about the developmental health of this child. His head is quite a lot bigger than the rest of his body, and his forehead is wide and protruding, with a fairly flat face. My student touched his skin and told me how white it was. Then she commented on the size of his goti, or head.

“Very big Madam.”
I agreed silently and contemplated the preciousness of this moment.

Then she paused thoughtfully, tilted her head slightly and asked, “How many kg’s is Madam’s head?”

Awesome.