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I do not mention my own serious breach of protocol. “Did His Majesty have time to read Mr. Iyya’s poem?” I ask.

The headmaster smacks his hand to his forehead. “I hope not,” he says, and we both break into laughter.

Entrance

Just off the headmaster’s office is a closet which contains the school’s ancient, manual ditto machine. Using it is almost as much trouble as copying everything by hand: the copy fluid leaks, the machine chews the paper and swallows it, the handle jams after every third copy. I tried to operate it myself this morning, and now Dorji Wangdi is pulling out shreds of wet, inky paper from the machine’s jaws. I stand around uselessly in the headmaster’s office which contains a desk, a heavy, old, oily typewriter, grey metal filing cabinets, and a globe. I put one finger on Bhutan and another on Lake Superior, amazed at how far away I am from home, half the world away. I have come as far as I can. In fact, if I go any farther, I will be on my way back.

Dorji emerges from the ditto room, hands smudged black. “Sorry, sir,” he tells me. “Today no.”

“Oh well,” I shrug. “What to do?”

I shouldn’t have tried to do it myself, but I was feeling particularly able after fixing my leaking roof. Yesterday, I had climbed into the rafters and placed an empty coffee can over every waterstain on the wooden beams. Early this morning, when it began to rain, I sat up in bed, listening with great satisfaction to the sound of water dripping into tin. The day before that, I had taken a few planks and bricks from a pile of building materials behind the school and built a low platform in the bathroom. I wasn’t able to fix the drain, but at least I no longer have to stand in dirty water to bathe.

After school, I go up to the market to get my daily half-bottle of milk and a ball of cheese from Tshering, the woman who owns the last shop at the end of the road. The cow, a silent black and white bulk, is tethered to a pole just outside the shop. Today I give it a tentative pat. My kids find my fear of cows extremely funny. “Miss, you is not having cows at your village?” they ask when they see me making feeble shooing motions at cows on the road. “No, I am not having cows at my village,” I say crossly. “Shoo! Shoo, cow, shoo! ” They come to my rescue, swatting the cow’s flank with a stick and hissing “Shhhht!”

The shop smells warmly of grass and manure and fresh milk. Tshering removes the bamboo covering from the metal bucket and fills my bottle with a hand-carved wooden ladle. Today I have to tell her that I cannot pay her. Once again, my salary has not come. The other teachers line up outside the headmaster’s office on the last day of the month to receive their salaries in cash, but now, for the second time the headmaster says that my name is not on the payment list. The Education Department has not received my posting order yet, and the headmaster has no money to pay me. He has sent a message to Thimphu, he says, but it will take some time. I have finished the last of my ngultrum and yesterday went to the Bank of Bhutan (Pema Gatshel Branch) to cash a traveler’s check. The sole bank employee in the bare room took the check and studied it, back and front, for a long moment, before shaking his head gravely and handing it back to me. I owe money for milk and cheese, and I need rice, coffee, chilies, soap, kerosene, everything.

“Ama Tshering,” I say. “Tiru mala.” No money.

The woman shrugs. “Dikpé, dikpé,” she says. “Omé bilé.” You can give it later. I go down to Sangay Chhoden’s shop, where I tell her mother my story and she nods sympathetically and gives me tea and the same answer. She doesn’t even bother to write down the amount I owe her. I walk back home, partly relieved, partly still worried. Even though no one seems particularly alarmed or surprised that I have no money, I feel terrible buying things on credit here. I know that my students think I am immeasurably wealthy. Miss, how many cars your mother is having ? How much money your father is making? Zai! Yallama! Miss,