Jigme told me about the leopard he saw last week outside of Lhakpas’s shop. It was night, and the massive cat climbed up past the community water tap, crossed the road and passed by Gyen Sir’s house while he and his children and wife lay sleeping.
Now, Jigme works for the Royal Society for the Protection of Nature, and as such has a great capacity for understanding the nature and behavior of wildlife. He seemed to think the leopard probably just came down for some easy pray like dogs or chickens. He told me this as we drove a rusty van through the dark, past the same water tap the leopard crossed. We both stared into the dark, looking for a pair of eyes.
I found news of a leopard in my village somewhat unsettling, given the number of times that I have walked home through the mountains in the dark. What was even more unsettling was that when I tried to tell other people, they already knew! Why was I the last person in the village to find out, when really, I am the only idiot marching around at nighttime?
Everyone always asks me, aren’t I afraid to walk alone at night here? I would laugh and think about living in Winnipeg for 7 years, murder capital of Canada. But I guess I wasn’t thinking about leopards in the ‘peg… The thing is, my community has always warned me about leopards, bears and tigers living in the forests around the village. I just heedlessly dismissed those warnings like I dismiss any Bhutanese estimated times of arrival, departure, plan, prediction or deadline. My bad.
Now when I walk around at night, I walk around with a stick and I randomly shout out loud. If I wasn’t an idiot before … Yalama.
****
I came back from Carson’s village late on Sunday night. The monsoon rains have been washing the roads away; so to get to his village in the first place I had to climb the mountain. In the rain. The monsoons have also been washing the paths and portions of the mountain face away, so the path had completely changed and I could barely find my way up the mountain I have climbed so many times before. I had no idea if I was headed in the right direction, so while I had him on the mobile, I tried yelling up the mountain to see if he could hear where I was. Not successful at all, I was mostly just yelling into the phone. By the time he found me I was feeling disgusting, sweaty, soaked and incredibly cranky. We had to climb over landslides, me in my soaked boots that can’t seem to live up to their waterproof claim, and Carson in his barefeet. What a closet hippie.
I was supposed to get a ride home with some friends from my valley who were playing an archery match against Carson’s friends. As per Bhutan, but about 5 minutes before the little red taxi outside the school gate was about to leave, my friend Jigme phoned me up to tell me there was no room for me in the vehicle and I had “about 5 minutes before the little red taxi outside would leave”. I should take it, he said. So I frantically threw my things into my bag, and as I ran out the door Carson put a little plastic bowl of mushroom datse into my hand. I hate saying goodbye to him, and the drive down is usually a withdrawn and contemplative one. I watch my attachments to him and us come and go and then I eventually come to rest with the peace and joy of being who I am in this gorgeous country. This gorgeous country with perilous roads.
The taxi driver turned out to be the father of one of my students, so we had lots to talk about with a very limited amount of English. The two men in the back were all hopped up and possibly drunk after finishing their archery match. They were incredibly interested in the fact that I was sharing a taxi with them. I could hear them asking the driver questions about me, where I live, what I am doing here, how long I will stay, if Carson is my husband. They were trying to speak Dzongkha to me, but I couldn’t focus between my own emotional investigation post-Carson and watching with a tight throat as we skidded in the mud, slipping dangerously close to the edge of the mountain. I tried not to think about it as I looked down into the beautiful valley below, but there was often only a tire space between our own tire and the edge. Whenever I think that it is possible I could die on these roads, I just look up and out at the stunning Himalayas all around me and I think that if I died here, I’d have no regrets since I had seen the most beautiful place on earth. That thought may seem dark, but it’s strange how calmly I can approach death when I believe I am where I’m supposed to be in life.
Once we were on a main road weaving between mountains much lower down, I began to loosen up and talk with the men. They were asking personal questions about my salary and my family at home. The driver told me he needed to go to the town of Wangdue to pick up more passengers, in the opposite direction of my village. Given that it was already dark, I figured it would be a late night going back. But I jumped at the opportunity to go to the town, since I had a bit of cash on me and I was running out of noodles and other such fancy things.
We got to Wangdue, and I hopped out of the car, sprinting in the rain to my favourite shops. I grabbed cans of fruit, evaporated milk, mushrooms, and tuna. I filled a bag with cheap and crappy toilet paper and a bunch of Japanese sweets. I ran into a little shop filled with Indian civil engineers who all spoke great English and wanted to chat with me. I just needed to buy a few more buckets for toilet water and composting, but the little shop girl insisted on washing them first, so the Indian men got the conversation they were eager to have. They were here for one of the huge hydroelectric projects taking place in the country, a project that hopes to move Bhutan closer to financial independence in the future.
I wandered around the taxi stand looking for my driver and car in the rain. When I found him, he was a little upset. The passengers we drove all the way tin the opposite direction to pick up got a ride with someone else, so it was just him and I heading back, (his concern caused me to be concerned that I might be paying the full fare of an entire car myself). On top of that, all of the drivers around us were urging us not to go, that landslides had caused blocks all along the road and it was dangerous to drive. The driver left it up to me.
Well, in my time here I have begun to generalize that Bhutanese people might tend to be slightly dramatic when it comes to describing a situation. But once upon a time I also thought they were exaggerating about the leopards, so really, what do I know. I still told him we should try.
We headed off in the pouring rain through the fog and the darkness. As we climbed in altitude, we had patches of fog so ridiculously thick I think the only thing that let us move forward was the driver’s familiarity with all the twists in the road. We passed by small landslides that were not there yesterday on my way in. The side of the mountain just crumbled and rocks and roots rolled down in a pile of mud. The landslides creep onto the road and then the cars have to inch closer to the edge, or skid through the landslide itself, equally dangerous activities.
Despite my nervousness, I drifted in and out of sleep, waking up every time few minutes when the car would jerk my head near off my neck as a result of the crater filled road. I woke up briefly when we stopped to talk to the driver of a public bus coming from the opposite direction. He told he just passed a big landslide coming down slowly, and that we ought to hurry. Love waking up to that kind of information. Well, then we really started cruising through the fog, rushing to beat this landslide coming down. We had already passed dozens.
We came up to the area where they are widening the road, and it was here in the soft minerals and soils that a huge part of the mountain face had collapsed due to the rain: boulders the size of our car and tree trunks even bigger were sitting at the road, waiting to inch forward. We passed carefully as I wondered how fast and sudden landslides can move. Being in this country has given me an incredible respect for, and curiosity about, nature’s processes.
We passed by two more landslides of the same size in this stretch of construction. The unfortunate part of this area is that it has the steepest drop off of the entire road between my house and Carson’s. There was just enough room for our car to creep by the landslide at the edge of the drop-off. I figured we would be the last ones through that night.
Once we had beaten the landslides, the driver and I relaxed a little. He encouraged me to sleep, and so, like the Bhutanese do, I let me head drop awkwardly and tried to sleep on myself without having the bumpy road smash my face into the window.
I reached home, and the taxi driver generously offered to cover half the cost. Sleepily, I told him I had spent all my money in canned goods frenzy and could I send the money with his son tomorrow. No problem, he was just happy I wasn’t upset about the cost. Since I usually hitchhike for free, it seemed due. I was just happy that the man had gotten me home alive.
***
It’s the kind of night that makes all the challenges of this country worth it.
I went for my daily walk. I usually start out at a jog just so I can hurry to get past everyone who stares at me in amusement as I jog/stumble down the mountain road during this silly activity that hard-working farmers have no need for.
I got almost to the half-way point of my route, and there sat Sonam Tobgay in the drizzle at the side of the road. He is a class 7 hostel student who comes to get boiled water from me every night before he goes to sleep.
I slowed down to talk to him, and he had a cell phone in his hands so I asked the usual assistant matron questions (they are not supposed to have cell phones). My heart is never really into scolding them for such things, besides, it was his mother’s and he was bringing it back to her.
He invited me to come to his house, which I thought was the village around the distant mountain that I had never been to. Immediately, something inside of me told me I should go, that a Bhutanese experience was waiting for me. But the rational, organized and disciplined side of me cautioned not to; I should get home, clean my laundry, make soup, do work, try for an hour to connect to the internet to send out happy belated birthdays. Ashley, if you are reading this, happy belated birthday.
But, as those of you who know me love to remind me, the rational, organized and disciplined side of me is really quite a small, insignificant part. These reasons not to go all seemed so… normal for my groove here. I was being invited by a student to meet his family, see his house and his village.
Well… just like I predicted and Sonam Tobgay casually dismissed, it rained as we reached Gamfey. That’s right, a village named Gamfey in the same valley that already has a village named Gantey. Which explains my confusion for the first half a year when people kept pointing in opposite directions to what I thought was the same village.
But Sonam Tobgay doesn’t live in Gamfey, as I found out. No, he lives past Gamfey, down the valley, across a river and up the other mountainside.
By the time we reached his house, we were drenched. News was spreading that Madam was in the ‘hood, and faces were piling up at the windows to peer at me. The language was completely different, just one village over, but I could tell by Sonam Tobgay’s response that he was explaining to the curious inquisitors that I was his teacher. More like purveyor of boiled water, nurse, dance instructor, ping-pong partner…
His family ushered me into the small dry house. Angi, the ultimate Gramma/Bhutanese host was all “Joo, joo” and “Jee, jee”, (which is sit, sit and eat, eat). They pulled out the best carpet and butt pillow, then parked me near the buccari, which was so shitty that flames were falling out the holes in the bottom, setting fire to the things below. One of Sonam’s cousins grabbed the burning canvas from beneath the buccari and ran it outside while little old Angi yelled about the offensive smoke blowing into my face.
Soon, tea was ready, and ST and I were the only ones drinking while everyone else just stared. It’s so adorable and such an honour to watch them fuss over me and understand parts of their arguments. Usually it’s over how best to serve me, what’s cleanest, what more they can offer me.
Puffed rice, fried rice with local butter squished into it, and pounded flat rice all in woven baskets piled on top of each other. Angi- gee, gee… I was trying to drink as much tea as I could but she wouldn’t let the cup get even the tiniest bit empty, always full to the brim. And gee, gee, to the assortment of rice products, even while I was drinking tea with puffed, fried and pounded rice stuffed into both my cheeks.
The next thing I knew, they were handing me a plate of rice. “Dinner,” ST said, so I started eating, thinking we were having just rice. The whole family was watching me eat with my hands, observing my one-handed rice-squishing technique. Sonam was washing his hands with the rice, rolling it into a dirty little ball that he just set aside. He was also watching me shovel the rice in with my thumb. “Wait Madam, for the curry”.
Well, sweet mother of Zeus, this woman could cook. An ema datse which was mostly fresh datse, it had the texture of mozzarella and the chilies were not too spicy but packed full of flavour. The whole thing sat in a small bowl of oil.
Gee, gee, and I was eating again. Rice, curry, zow and tea, all at the same time in an attempt to satiate Angi, who was practically putting all these things into my mouth. They offered me arra; I refused. They offered again; second obligatory refusal. To take some home? Polite a tse-tse.
Phub Gyem had been staring at me with big eyes since she came in to the house. I kept thinking about how hard I am on her in class. I finally moved her to the front to encourage her to pay more attention and stop cheating on everything. And there she was, excited beyond belief to have me see her home, her village, and to have me be a part of what she knows as comfortable.
And she walks that distance everyday. Twice. And probably does chores all evening, as well as has parents that don’t speak or read either of the languages of instruction at school (a challenge in a country that has over 16 languages/dialects), so they would not able to help her.
Sonam Tobgay apologized repeatedly for how dirty his house was. I told him I liked his house. It’s good they are building a new one out of rammed earth though. That house must be freezing in winter with all kinds of draft coming in, considering I could see the pigs wandering around outside through the large gaps in the wood planks.
Abruptly, Sonam stood up to announce that we had to go, and fast, since light was disappearing and we had no torches. Lord knows, this kid is smarter than I am about leopards and such things. An hour and a half to walk yet through the mountains…
We slipped, fell, climbed, and stumbled up and down the mountains and valleys in the mud. This time we moved with no talking, at an obnoxious half-run half walk in the failing light. Huffing and puffing, we finally reached the turnoff to our village Yesa. I wanted to go up the road/path/sharp rock pile that I knew I could navigate in the dark, but ST wanted us to take the shortcut. In the pouring rain. Oh yeah, did I mention it was pouring rain? Just assume that it’s always raining here. Monsoon season. I live up in the clouds.
So I slipped and slid up the “shortcut”, and the next thing I knew, I was being herded into a narrow cow path with barbed fences on each side. The wet and muddy cow shit I was trudging through was up to my shins. We trudged along slowly, me holding on to dear life with one hand reaching for the intermittent wooden fence poles, the other hand clutching the bag of potatoes Phub Gyem sent along with me. I told ST that his path was the stupidest shortcut I have ever taken. I said stupid several more times loudly as I felt the cow shit seep into my socks.
“Yes madam,” he said, dejected. “This path is not good anymore”. He told me when he came down earlier, it was all dry. Such is monsoon season in the mountains I guess.
We eventually reached the school. I filled up a bucket of hot water and sent with him to the hostel for a shower. Now I am drinking the arra his family sent and counting my blessings for being here, knowing these people, working with them and for them, and learning about my own capacity for compassion and relief of cultural ignorance.
The hard part is that days like this make me wonder if I am leaving Bhutan too early, if one year is not enough. Maybe it will help me to focus on the things that really matter. Drive me to accomplish even more. Say yes to more things.
Am I making the right decision? What is the right decision? I want to be with Carson. I love him and appreciate so much about who he is. But what about Singapore? Can I have moments like this in Singapore? I have never, ever had moments like this before in my life. These experiences will be unmatched by any to follow, of that I am sure. But I have had unbelievable moments in my world travels where I know I can’t take anything away but a mere imprint, a photo maybe, just a still slice of the magic that happened at that exact moment, in that exact place, with those very people I almost always never see again.
