Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [39]
I decide to go for a walk every day, out of town, along the curve of the mountain to the waterfall and back, alone. The first day, I lock my door—not because I fear theft, but because I know from experience that if I leave it unlocked, I will have a houseful of people waiting for me when I come back—and walk quickly through the bazaar. Sangay Chhoden comes running out of her mother’s shop as I walk by.
“Miss!” Even when she shouts, her voice is just audible. “Miss, where going?”
“Korbé,” I say. Roaming.
“I coming, miss? she asks, pushing her heavy bangs out of her eyes and smiling shyly, and I cannot say no. Soon we are joined by Phuntsho Wangmo. Sangay and Phuntsho practice English, I Sharchhop. What is this? This is a road, a rock, a tree. That is a house, a cow, a chicken. Big dog, little dog. Where do you live? This is the temple, that is the school.
The next day, several more students join us. Soon, half my class is waiting for me after school. They insist on carrying my jhola because “in Bhutan student is always carrying lopen’s things,” and we continue our lessons. I learn about the intricacies of Bhutanese names. Although most are used interchangeably for boys and girls, there are a few which indicate gender. Wamgmo, Chhoden, Lhamo, and Yuden are girl’s names. Wangdi is always a boy’s name. Phuntsho Wangmo would definitely be a girl, Phuntsho Wangdi a boy, but Phuntsho Tshering could be either. All the names have religious or natural meanings. Karma means star, Sangay means the Buddha, Pema is lotus, Tshering is long life. The combinations can be surprisingly poetic: Pema Gatshel, lotus of happiness, Karma Jamtsho, lake of stars.
The kids try to teach me the name of every tree and shrub and plant but I only retain the name for the marijuana which grows wild everywhere: it is called pakpa nam, pig food, because it is given to the pigs. We move on to adjectives and human traits, and I learn that it is okay to be poor if you are kind, it is even okay to be lazy if you are generous, but the very worst thing to be is arrogant. “Showing proud,” the kids tell me, their faces wrinkled in disgust. “Like a high shot. This is very very bad.” I ask them to describe various people. The school captain is proud. Mrs. Joy is angry. The headmaster is strict. “Mr. Iyya?” I ask. He is nyospa. They tap their foreheads to show me. Mr. Iyya is mad. We are shaken by a fit of conspiratorial giggles.
I begin to string together longer sentences, and my students are pleased with my progress.
One evening after my walk, I find Mr. Om Nath, the Bhutanese science teacher, waiting for me on the doorstep. Over tea, he says that he has come to explain about “day duty,” which each staff member takes turns doing. Tomorrow will be my turn to supervise morning study for the senior students (six a.m.), an hour of social work (seven a.m.), breakfast (eight a.m.), lunch (noon), dinner (six p.m.), evening study (seven p.m.), and lights out (nine p.m.). At the end of the day, the duty officer must record his or her comments in the duty register. For me, day duty will also include morning clinic (8:15 a.m.), classes (8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m.) and library duty (four p.m.).
Mr. Om Nath tells me I don’t have to worry about the girls. Miss Maya is the girls’ matron; she looks after the girls. He says this rather darkly, nodding at me knowingly. I nod back knowingly. I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s going on about, but I think I’ve taken in enough for today.
The next morning, I plod across the playing field at dawn, listening to the children’s voices droning morning prayers. In the silvery light, the world feels like a large, cool temple. I sit bleary-eyed in a classroom while the