Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [100]
“This is much improved since Rinpoche,” says my friend reverently, as if we were driving on smooth glass. I’m happy to have missed what it was like before. This particular Rinpoche, she explains, is the ninth reincarnation of a manifestation of the mighty Guru Rinpoche, the saint credited with introducing Buddhism in Bhutan. Just twenty-eight years old, Rinpoche is revered for his tremendous compassion. For three years now, this good holy man has been taking in boys whose families can’t care for them, or who have no families at all, providing them food and shelter, and educating them in the monastic tradition.
After the last hairpin turn we emerge at a magnificent spot. The crystal silence of isolation; an unseasonably warm winter day in the age of global warming. Right next to where we park sits a small chorten, a row of tall prayer flags, and the Neyphug Monastery, a large structure built in 1550 that has seen better days. Its exterior is literally crumbling. Phuntsho points to two hermitages that can be reached only by walking through the forest, a three-hour trek from here.
Off to the side, a dozen tiny boys wash themselves in a makeshift outdoor shower. A few larger kids are tending to chores; the rest are crowded in a small room to watch a cartoon—thanks to the one evident luxury: satellite TV. Forty children clad in red monks’ robes gaze intently at an old television set. Absent neighbors, this is their lifeline to the world.
If I hadn’t just been told they were orphans, I probably could have guessed. These kids may be lucky to be here, but these are hardly deluxe accomodations. Filthy, threadbare bedding lines the floors of several packed sleeping rooms; shabby posters of handwritten ABCs are taped up for decoration and instruction. A fraction of the belongings in the average American kid’s room would go very far here.
“You can come teach the boys English,” says Phuntsho. “They don’t learn much of it, for their monastic studies are in Dzongkha, but these days, everyone needs English.” A more immediate and urgent need is for futons, pillows, blankets, so the kids get more cushioned sleep. I make a mental note to investigate how to send them some.
Rinpoche is away, trying to raise money from supporters in Taiwan to build a dormitory for the kids. His eighty-year-old father, Lopen, greets us warmly. He wears the red robes of a lay monk, a gomchen, and he’s as round as a teddy bear. A sweet boy with a slightly crossed eye smiles at us as he serves us tea and lunch; it’s an honor to be so close to the visitors. I eat my red rice, politely, and pass my bowl of emadatse to Lopen, who appears only a bit surprised that I won’t eat it. Then he digs in himself. Afterward, he gives us a tour.
We walk the dark, dusty, cold rooms of the monastery. All the religious relics have been restored, Phuntsho says, but the building, like the living quarters, direly needs attention. A life-size statue of Guru Rinpoche fills one shrine; an enormous Buddha sits in another. There are wall paintings by a revered lama, images of a thousand Buddhas; the largest of them is believed to once have spoken. There’s also a sacred eighth-century statue of the guru that we don’t see. It’s opened to the public just once a year. All these relics, Phuntsho tells me, possess great power and many blessings. At each stop, she prostrates herself three times, and we tuck money on each altar as offerings. I say a silent prayer for a healthy and happy life for Ngawang, Mr. Japan, and their baby.
Back inside the small residence we have another round of tea; Lopen doesn’t want us to go just yet. He fumbles for his reading glasses and settles in to study the thick, bound astrological calendars Phuntsho has brought. The start of the Female Earth Ox year is a week away. Phuntsho pulls up her