The Road to Rukubji

The next day I continued my journey solo. No Mr Thukten by my side and no convoy to get me out of paperwork scrapes. It was exciting. I knew the first leg up to Dochu La as I'd been there before, but beyond the magnificent temple and the chortens, it was virgin territory for me.

Before I left I went to visit Mr Thukten's family in Thimphu. They live in the courtyard of a temple. Inside the temple the Buddha sits with half-smile and half-closed eyes. Legend has it this statue spoke a word in the fourteenth century. The temple has been there that long. It opens out onto a small courtyard, around which the family lives – four generations. I met a child of 11 months and his great-grandfather. I had the privilege of sharing their Losar lunch, which was spectacular and massive! As is always the case here, the company was friendly and fun. I am made welcome everywhere in Bhutan, by everybody I meet. It is very important in Bhutanese culture to welcome guests as family, and tea is served everywhere within minutes of arrival, be it Suja (butter tea) or Naja (sweet tea). I lingered here, despite the lengthy drive I had before me. Perhaps I was a touch nervous too... At 2pm, I headed for Dochu La and from there, into the unknown.

The road wound down the side of the mountains in snakey turns to the Punakha valley, Wangdi and then back up the next range of mountains to Pele La. I stopped for tea in Wangdi two hours after leaving and then went on. The road deteriorated as I headed up. Evidence of recent landslides could be seen, and several sections seemed poised on the cusp of immanent collapse. The edges of the road were crumbly in places, and there were long sections of rubble. It wasn't too bad though and I was enjoying the drive.

As I headed up Pele La, the foliage changed from lush temperate woodland trees to highland spruces and pine. Mists descended and it grew cold. I'd already picked up one hitch-hiker, an old man, drunk from his Losar celebration and in high spirits. He giggled for about half a mile and then got out. As the temperature plummeted, a boy of 12 stepped out into the road with his arms waving. Behind him was a woman and 5 young girls between 3 and 15. I did a quick calculation of car space, ignored the result and stopped.

Bhutanese are hardy. They live in a steeply mountainous country and most of the population are subsistent farmers. They can handle work. They can handle the cold. They can handle themselves. But this was too much... the family was walking over the snow-smattered pass as the sun was falling. When I dropped on the other side (having driven alongside banks of snow), I figured it would have taken at least an hour and a half walking, probably two to make the journey. I put the heater on full to get their bones warm and played them eighties classics. I'm not sure how the classics went down, but the heat was appreciated.

As I descended towards Rukubji the visibility dropped to about 10m. I arrived at 7pm. Iman came to meet me by the main road because the turn off to the village is a jack-knife turn onto a thin rubbly path that is barely visible from the road. I somehow managed to see her headtorch bobbing in the valley!

Rukubji. I could describe it as a sandwich of ancient earth bread with heavenly layers of yaks, cows and potatoes. but that would be a bit daft, so I'll just say it's lush. It has real-life Ents - million year old oak trees that crowd a hillock on the edge of the village. It has a river, two in fact, that rush down the valley sides and meet in the middle. It is rural like you might think of olde England as. Potatoes grow everywhere because they supply Bhutan with them. The water comes straight from the hills and tastes sweet. First thing in the morning, the air is a tonic, a gaseous elixir that probably has the same effect on the body as a good hour of yoga (this is artistic license – I've never done a full hour of yoga). It's a very beautiful place.

At first I was insanely jealous, because this vision of lushness is what I had in mind for myself when I decided to come here. It's much harder for her – no indoor plumbing for instance. No hot water unless it comes from a metal pan that sits atop the bukari (wood-burning stove). It's 3000m up, so its cold too. In her first few weeks, clothes left on the line would be iced up in the morning. If a little green light isn't on in her kitchen, she can't even use a rice cooker because all the electricity comes from a micro-hydro plant. If she turns her heater on, lights go out in the village! And there's very little English spoken. Luckily, she is well-suited to the circumstances. She's hardy too, and to be honest, dream or no dream, I'm not sure how I would cope. She has systems. Lot's of them. I'm a bit slapdash. Systems tend to erode with time. So perhaps it's for the best that I'm here in Pakshikha with mates around me and my hot shower.

And I am happy here. I do have mates. The school really is a family. Sure I miss stuff - my kingdom for a night in a bar with a good pint of English ale and old mates. Or some rock to clamber up! A five-a-side football pitch to run like the clappers around. The staffroom banter at Chepstow. Banter in general (though I'm making inroads on this front).

I will start teaching properly tomorrow too, and that is the main reason I came here. The classroom will change everything, especially as I currently have 33 periods of 50 minutes timetabled in each week. We collectively pray for science teachers to materialise, me more than anybody. If anyone would like to volunteer to come and help... I thoroughly recommend it, and I'll put a good word in for you...   

PS - I appear to have mislaid all photos of Rukubji and the Black Neck Cranes that we went to see. They're the spectacular birds that fly over the Himalayas every year. I was lucky to see them - none of the teachers I have spoken to here have (except for on telly). A bit gutted about that. Ah well.

Braving the Roads of Bhutan...

I hardly expected the 600km road trip to Rukubji to go completely smoothly and devoid of incident. The bounces and bumps were anticipated, along with the inevitable near-death experiences as my rattly toy-car clung to the edge of some precipice in the roaring shadow of an Indian MONSTER-VAN. Grrrr. They're bullies, them big trucks, with their gaudy headlight-eyes and the ubiquitous 'blow horn' graffiti smeared across their backsides. Those tyrants of the road care nothing for lesser vehicles. And you never see the drivers; I suspect they may not even have any. It would explain the consistently inhumane behaviour they show towards the rest of us.

But I didn't expect to be stopped at the first checkpoint and told that I couldn't drive! There I am 70km from home, bubbling with excitement about my road-trip, handing over my work permit and my UK license and smiling like there's really nothing whatsoever that could possibly go wrong, and... the policeman tells me it is illegal for me to drive in Bhutan. I've been assured it is perfectly fine, but when a policeman says 'No', and you say 'Yes', and neither of you can speak much of the other's language, where can the argument go? Downhill. For me.

My good friend Mr Thukten was in the passenger seat and the Vice Principal was in convoy, so I had help, but I got on the blower to one of the Bhutan-Canada People anyway, the guy who's in the know... the fixer. He spoke to the policeman on my behalf and then assured me everything would be okay. With a sigh of relief I put the phone down and tried to extricate Mr Thukten from the radio room where bosses were being hailed. But the policeman called me back and again told me I couldn't drive. I rang the fixer again. He spoke to the policeman again. Misunderstanding! Everything is now sorted. No problem. Phew. Except the policeman tells me that I still can't drive and must find somebody else to do it for me. By now I am feeling confused and a little helpless. Mr Thukten is philosophical. The Vice Principal is doing everything he can, but it's not looking good.

It becomes clear that I just have to get through this checkpoint to the capital, then I can drive, because it's Losar (New Year) and nothing administrative will happen for days, but my Bhutan license is 'in process'. The policeman has no desire to be bawled out by his boss in the holiday season. If he lets me through another official grabs me on the road and makes an unreasonable fuss, he'll get the old Ferguson hair-dryer treatment.

I am mastering the art of patience and understanding. Last week I spent 6 hours waiting at the Dzong for my Principal to organise a transfer of a teacher to our school where her husband teaches. I was freezing. I was hungry. I mastered the art of waiting. Deep breath then and set to it.

We have to find somebody to drive the car the 80km to Thimphu. Mr Thukten has no license. The Vice Principal has his own car to drive. So... complete strangers. We start asking and after drawing a few blanks we find an amiable fellow who courteously agrees to drive said vehicle to said capital. For 500 Ngultrum! I accept. I don't even negotiate. I just want to get out of there now and reignite the joy of road-tripping. Can't they understand I'm just trying to live dream? I reason that if I ply the amiable chap with enough banter he'll find it impossible to take money from me. The universal currency of good company, gratitude and banter will see me though. And good music of course. It works. He drives me to Thimphu. He was going there anyway, so he hasn't really gone out of his way, but I resolve to balance karma by opening my doors to all hitch-hikers henceforth.

The swirling machinations of fate cut my first day of driving in Bhutan in half, but I still had 450km to cover. Next day... Dochu La, then unknown territory, new lands to discover... the Punakha Valley, Wangdi, Pele La, the Black Neck Cranes and my final destination... Rukubji...    

Badly-Formed Haiku... A Blog for the Short Attention Spanners

For all those folks whose minds have been eroded by facebook and text-speak, here's some simple blogging in the style of poorly-formed-haiku... (incorrect syllable countage/no references to nature)...

Putting on my gho

tightly pulling belt until I suffer

holding seams with pinches

Singing with my work-mates

Laughing like a goon

we scream when we find the chorus.

Dripping tap. Grrr...       (This is my favourite)

Speaking very slowly

caaaannnn yyyoooouuuu uuunnndeerstaaand meeeeee

time itself goes slow

Pictures on my wall

finally

I love to see colours

And in the absence of any references to nature, here is a cow! 

Ps - I survived the 600km roadtrip. Details to come...

Clearly Bonkers on the Roads of Bhutan

People sometimes tell me I'm bonkers. In recent years I've noticed it happening with greater and greater frequency. Maybe I am. Bonkers. The average Joe usually deploys the word 'crazy', a far inferior synonym to my favourite word. I think my actions are perfectly reasonable at almost every turn. Almost. And I can explain why. Almost.

In Bhutan I get called bonkers for the most unbonkers of things, like walking down to the river. Completely bonkers! Why would anyone do that? All that lush vegetation and the river rushing underneath the 25ft high metal foot-bridge, the thigh-pump of a 900m ascent and the fast-flow bounding from rock to rock on the way down. Stay at home and watch telly, that's the reasonable thing to do. Or climbing up the highest mountain I can see from the school, the only one that tops out into rock with patches of snow? Clearly bonkers. Imagine the view? Who'd want that? Although there may be bears, which changes everything. I have no mace.

So imagine the reaction when I started asking around for a car to rent for a 600km round trip journey on the notoriously dangerous Bhutanese roads to say hello to some of the other teachers. You can guess what they said: bonkers. But after the fourth or fifth time of asking they could tell I was serious. They may have picked up on the fact that until I get my 'see Bhutan from behind the wheel, free and carefree' bug out of my system, I may be no good to anyone.

Let me put this in context. I'm in the Himalayas. But I can't see them! The foothills are rippled so tightly and so steeply that the big 8000m monsters of rock and snow are hidden from me. But I must see them!

My approach to this year can be summarised by a word: service; giving as a default and taking without asking for anything in particular. It's a wonderfully liberating feeling to not be thinking about the self all the time. There's no career ladder here for me. There's no race to be ratty at. There's just service – doing the best I can. I'll no doubt take away more than I expect in ways I haven't fully realised, but for a year (minimum - contractually - maximum 5), I give myself to the Bhutanese and do what I can to enrich the education of children who hail from materially poor backgrounds and have very limited access to stimuli beyond their villages and the recent encroachment of bad tv. Service... but...

... the Himalaya! I'm so close! The only condition I really had on this adventure was to be immersed in the mythical natural beauty of Bhutan. I pictured a log cabin in an alpine meadow with white-toothed peaks guarding my sleep. A stroll over rushing white water and through rice paddies to get to work. I didn't get this. When I knew I was getting this, I voiced my concern. My concerns were assuaged, perhaps rightly. So I am down south. The Indian adventure wouldn't have happened were it not so. I wouldn't have met Mr Sanjay, Mr Gembo, Mr Tucker, Mr Rinchen, Mr Bal Badr, Mr Amber and all the rest of my colleagues. I've been welcomed into my school as a brother to a family by a Principal who is always keen to stress that a school is a family. Teachers are more than parents; the school is more than a home. It's all great... but... the … mountains... Must... see... the...

So I rented the car. I braved the precipitous drops and the crazy trucks that don't seem to acknowledge the existence of cars. At the first checkpoint the police told me my UK driving credentials didn't amount to diddly-squat. I had to pay a stranger to drive my car the last 80km. 500Rp. Luckily, when he got out at the other end he refused to take my money. I must have changed his mind with banter. Tonight I sleep in the capital. Everybody I know here isn't here, except the inimitable Mr Tucker (real name: Thukten, but it's ok, he calls me Mr Greener). Tomorrow I drive solo for the first time and I go by Dochu La, from where the peaks can be seen. Then Punakha. Then Rukubji. Solo.

Herein lies the rub. When people tell me I'm bonkers, it seems to me like I'm just doing something fun. Exciting. I don't get it. Perhaps there's some risk, but what things are fun that lack some risk of some variety? People drive here all the time. I can drive... So.... I can drive here, eh?

I've had a couple of beers now and I'm hungry so there's nothing wrong with saying things like... you've got to make it an adventure when you can! If life reads like an exciting story you'd like to be in, you must be doing ok. There's only one life after all. Make it a page turner. When you can (in episodes - not always easy to maintain).

Last night Thimphu didn't let me be alone. I ended up in the company of UNICEF staff and their families at their Losar Party (New Year) dancing all night. We ate heartily, drank well and danced for hours. I even startled the assembled dancers with a few carefully purloined Bhutanese moves. Bollywood, however, is beyond the limitations of my dancing ken. Lesson learned.

A Brief Encounter With Broadband delivers... a Video!!!

Singers on the way to The Tiger's Nest... a short video delivered by the grace of a dodgy but functional 5 minutes of broadband...

Storms in the Land of the Thunder Dragon

The first storm! It's amazing. I love it. I love rain. I love weather. I love it when all the dust gets slapped back down into the earth and told in no uncertain terms that nostrils are not good places to be. Especially mine. It gives me time alone that I cherish too. There is much to do. Term has started and the students have been here a few days. My literary club has attracted 42 students. In the service of banter I asked for 2 and compromised my way up to 5. That was a joke, but 42 is going to be interesting to manage. How many students does it take to change a lightbulb? Or organise a short story competition? Lightening! Boom!!! Right outside my window. It's getting exciting.

As Head of Science I decided I needed to pay a visit to a nearby school to tap up the science teachers for schemes of work and yearly action plans. A chance encounter with a physicist when I was opening a bank account with my principle facilitated this audacious move. And it meant I got to borrow the warden's car! Genius. The freedom of the roads (including the 11km suspension smasher) was mine. I want a car. My mate Greg included it in his list of 3 freedoms he had to arrange on return to UK – phone, broadband, car. Ford was on to something, and loathe them as we might, they don't half set you free, especially in a place like this. So off I went on my first solo adventure of any significance (walk to river aside).

They use a 'spiral curriculum' over here. The material builds over the years with frequent revisits along the way. It's good, but it means that if you haven't taught before, it's impossible to figure out what depth you teach the material to in the examination year without going through all the previous years' textbooks. And if you taught everything in the textbook or on the syllabus for this year, you wouldn't finish. You wouldn't come close. The Bhutanese curriculum is much harder than the UK curriculum year-on-year. GCSE equivalent here includes a lot of A-Level stuff and there's generally more material to cover. They touch on relativistic effects on mass in GCSE! And there's more practical science relevant to this society too – machines and mechanical advantages etc.

Rain is screaming down now, battering my roof. Lightening frequent. Checked for leaks. I have some. Right through the front door is a good one! My two rivers might meet and make a lake. Luckily the towel I bought here has no absorbent qualities whatsoever so I can use it to block up the door.

The start of the year is very different here. Most of the work we would have completed before students arrive is done when they arrive. So work is being done in the staffroom and the children are pootling about the place tidying rooms and generally entertaining themselves. This sounds outrageous, but it doesn't lead to the mischief and mass revolution that it would lead to back home. I get a courteous bow whenever I walk by. Sometimes the girls shuffle away from me nervously. Every child stands up if they were previously seated. In the first assembly the school stood for an hour. On their feet! Without calling their human rights lawyers. Or whining. I did a little, on the inside.

Back home education is taken for granted, especially by a large percentage of students who see it more as a sentence than an opportunity. Perhaps that's an unfair statement given the current state of the economy and the degradation of higher education in the misguided pursuit of 'University for All'. Education is very much a privilege here. Student's were turned away. The government aims for total inclusion, but it's difficult. The student's here all come from the villages I described, and this place must be surreal in the first instance. What it offers is nothing short of miraculous. The first tranche of politicians all seemed to benefit from exchange programs, gaining their education in places like Oxford, Harvard and the Canadian universities. The selection process was rigorous and ruthless. Make the cut and you're destined for wealth and greatness, miss it and.. I don't know. Nothing changes. But they come back. Economists who could be running banks run Ministries or join the Civil Service. They appreciate their gain and respect their roots. I suppose not all of them do, but it's more common than you'd think.

The cut isn't quite so brutal nowadays, but at the end of the year, those that achieve high enough marks will get college places sponsored by the government. Those that don't might pay for themselves. The rest will 'loiter'. It's a word I've heard several times. It suggest being left behind, but with an implication of fault. 'To leave oneself behind'. But they'll still be ahead because they've had something that their parent's perhaps only dreamt of – an opportunity to develop their minds and become critical in their thinking, to become independent and empowered, which is after all the fundamental aim of education.

The electricity went out ten minutes ago and now my head torch is lighting the way. It's getting cold. The rain is easing off but the sky is all crackles and booms. The Land of the Thunder Dragon is in full roar.

The Real Bhutan ???

Two weeks in Thimphu and a few days in a school that was only built last year can colour your impressions in all sorts of misleading ways. Yesterday I went for a walk. I'd already gone down to the river (think going down Sca Fell and back up – it's not a casual venture). I'd passed through some 'villages', each composed of 2 or 3 houses, but my stomping brain must have been turned on because I didn't really register what I was passing through. I gave out Kuzuzamgpo-las and big smiles to everyone I passed. They either returned in kind or stared at me like I was an alien. I was hunting for nature and solitude, and it felt like the world was at a little distance, ever so slightly removed from me.

So yesterday Mr Tukten and I went wandering and in no time at all we found ourselves in one of these villages. We met some folk there and Mr Tukten engaged in the kind of passing-the-day banter that I would love to be able to indulge in. Dzongkha lessons absolutely necessary now. Turns out the young lad was one of my students-to-be, the Year 10 School Captain no less. He invited us for tea. We accepted and went into his house.

In the first room, the fire was blazing and the air was smoky. This was the room where it all happened. I was unable to discern the function of the next room I passed through, but the final room was the 'good room', replete with shrine, a soft cushion, cuts of meat drying on the rafters and what appeared to be a very ill 83 year old man wrapped up in the corner. Turns out he'd fallen foul of Sunday afternoon drinking. Mr Tukten and I sat down. In no time at all, a cup of Suja appeared in front of me along with fried rice snacks, maize and biscuits. I struggle with Suja. It's tea, of a sort, made with butter and healthy dose of salt. It's basically butter and hot water and the thought of it now makes my mouth go oily! I drank it happily.

The family stayed in the kitchen while Yenten, the boy, brought us these things. Bhutanese hospitality is the stuff of legend. Arra came next. I was warned about Arra, the local Saki-esque liquor. They told me it would keep appearing in my cup. Yenten brought out a a big bowl of it, and when Mr Tukten told him he didn't eat egg, another smaller bowl appeared without egg. So I had a bowl designed for two. I love it when it's hot, but I'm not too keen on it cold. So I got stuck in. We stayed for a while, chatting and enjoying ourselves and then took our leave with great difficulty – they wanted to feed us dinner and had been sneakily preparing it despite Mr Tukten's adamance that we would not be dining. I left a present of a bag of cashew nuts and off we went.

We got about 300 yards before another family invited us in. More Arra. I hadn't had lunch and was starting to get a bit tipsy and sicky, but I was really enjoying myself. It felt like I was in Bhutan! So we stayed for a while again. The gentleman was a primary school teacher and we had plenty to talk about. When I went to the toilet he made apologies for it's condition. He also told me the home was temporary, clearly concerned unnecessarily about my impression of how they lived. We left again, and in the absence of cashew nuts, I promised to return.

We got about 200 yards before another family invited us in. And gave us Arra. By this stage I'd loosened up plenty and was really enjoying myself. The first thing that struck me was how cute the kids were, a lad in a baseball cap who just stared at me the whole time and a girl of about 7 years who was a bit more playful. I tried to get her to sing into a video and made a fool out of myself leading by example. Their grandma was a very striking looking and warm woman, all smiley and giggly and very friendly. I felt completely relaxed in this home and we managed a basic level of banter with help from Mr Tukten.

Life here in the real world is different to the cloistered concrete school or the city of Thimphu. It's dirty. It's hard work. It's cold. It's what you expect of an 'under-developed' country; poverty. It isn't like the destitution of the homeless Indians because they have houses, they own land and they eat. But they have to work for it. You can read the difficulty of a person's life in their hands and feet, and all the hands I saw were swollen with work, all the feet tough and leathery; a far cry from the condition of my privileged digits. There's very few possessions here at all. A peacock feather was worthy of note. But what stuck out was the dirt. It's a part of life here in the villages and even those who have the facilities to clean kitchens or toilets tend not to do so with any rigor. Perhaps through habit. What a strange picture I must have made on my hands and knees scrubbing the walls of my toilet with tea tree! The immune systems of the Bhutanese are probably far greater than those in the over-sanitised west.

The meat on the rafters was another surprise for me. I presumed that hanging up raw meat would stink, lead to illness and bring in the flies. But it just dries up there, protected by 'oils', I was told. This is worthy of one of those 'imagine that' moments. Try to imagine sitting in your living room entertaining guests with pieces of raw and old meat hanging like socks from a clothes line above you, spanning the length of the room.

By the time I got home I was a bit wobbly; my first Arra came at about 2pm and now it was evening. Mr Tukten and Mr Rinchen came back to mine for a night cap and a chat, but I was in bed fairly promptly. I reflected that in many ways I would prefer to be down there in the villages instead of up here in the school. Some of the other teachers live down there and it could be an option. To what degree would I miss my hot shower? I'm having an easy ride in some respects, and I'm not sure it's what I want.

The children arrive tomorrow.

This Is Where I Live...

This is where I live now...

Pakshikha MSS
Gedu
Chukha
Bhutan

Send me a missive like they did in the old days! I will be most splendidly grateful.

Two Trips to India in a Day

Off we went at 8am down the 11km car-battering feeder road that connects the school to the main road from India to Thimphu. It's a miracle cars survive more than a month on these ripped up rough and stony tracks that have been gouged miraculously out of the side of the mountains. Phuensaling is another 46km away down a remarkably twisty-turny, back and forth, precipitous jungle road. It cries out for a motorbike and a sunny day. Can I justify buying a bike? The freedom would be immense. Risk factors would magnify.

Phuensaling is different. It's a border town. It's got the edgy feel that border towns have and a fence that cuts right through the middle of town like The Wall in old Berlin. One side is India, the other Bhutan. I can't go into India because of the visa situation, but it seems that at this particular delineation of states, restrictions are... flexible. My principal assured me that curtains are cheaper in India, so to India we went with the assurance that we could always 'talk' if there was a problem. So I went to India. Twice. In one day. Bizarre. And for curtains, of all things. In the gatehouses, the military were idling and asked no questions of the parade of faces that passed by them. Not even mine, and I guarantee it, mine stood out. No tourist would come here unless he was overlanding to the heart of Bhutan, in which case they'd be going full pelt because it takes so long to get anywhere here. They don't measure miles; they measure days.

The differences between India and Bhutan were huge and immediately in your face. The cows in India, for one, plodding sacredly around the markets. The shop-keepers. The variety of goods. The beggars. The destitute. This difference slapped me sideways, though I should perhaps have expected it.

Whilst waiting for my principal to finish buying shoes, a young woman and three children approached me, all filthy in rags and hungry looking. One of the kids had sores of an indeterminate nature erupting from his 5 year old face. I'd already had young children clutching my arm or holding my leg insistently, their faces desperate. And the crutchless guy with the amputated leg rolling through the sea of feet wit his begging bowl. I was absorbing India when the family approached me, just standing there like there's a culture-hose on me and letting it smack me in the face until I got used to the pressure. I try not to give money to beggars, but I''d never been faced with such destitution, so I reached into my pocket without thinking twice and pulled out 20 Ngultrum. I confess I was pleased it was neither bigger nor smaller than that sum, but I later found out it was a fortune of charity. Once she had it, the mother took the child with the erupting growths by the hair and pulled his head back so I could see his torn up face more clearly and told me there was no doctor for the child. 'No doctor.' The child's face was pressed towards me, not violently, but necessarily. I was the big target. The walking ATM, and I'd already spilt some cash.

I thought many things during the ten minutes or so that I stood there waiting for my principle to finish buying shoes, with this desperate family in determined attendance throughout. I thought about how little would be required to lift them for even a short amount of time out of their struggle. Hunger is brutal and unforgiving. I thought about how little even a thousand Ngultrum would really do to change their circumstances. Any charity would be alleviative at best, palliative at worst. I thought about how many of these broken people there were in India and how quickly my pockets would be drained if I started opening them with serious intent.

When I was surface-grappling with the inevitable questions that India's brutal society raises, I remembered the story of Gautama and it made sense that his enlightenment had its origins in India. When Siddhartha left his palace to find the real world, he found these people and worse, the destitute, the cripples, the hungry, the filthy, desperate and dying. He realised that their unabated struggle and pain was not exceptional to the human condition; it was vivid form of what is a fundamental and universal aspect of the human condition – suffering. This realisation prompted him to give up all the trappings of comfort and security (tools for temporary respite of suffering) to find a way to live with acceptance of the truth of suffering that was at the same time neither unbearable nor depressing. Quite a challenge.

In a knee-jerk reaction that had its root in undefined guilt, I too felt the urge to throw open my bag and let go my stupid possessions. All the junk I owned: the laptop speakers; the ice gauntlet snow gloves; the smart shoes; the climbing knife; the headtorch; the kindle; the mp3 player; the hardrive; the 'stuff'. What value did any of them have in the face of this suffering? Then I felt the anger. How dare you stand there and make me accountable for the poverty that exists in the world? Who are you to take the 20 Ngultrums I gave and consider it not an act of charity but a free pass to press down harder and more unfairly on my feelings. How dare you? And then... of course! I am the rich one, standing here in my soft-shell trousers with my western complexion and a bag full of stuff. What do I expect?

Looking away from the family and back into India I thought: 'how dare the crowd flow by these people like they're mere rocks in a river, slowly eroding them with their indifference'. What is it in the Indian culture that makes this scene possible? The caste system makes untouchables out of people that are born innocent. Is it an extreme interpretation of karmic reincarnation that allows for such indifference to suffering? The dogs in Thailand are treated badly because they are considered to be reincarnate ill-doers (the same belief is held in Bhutan but it obliges them to be compassionate – the dogs here have a dignity that they would never have in Thailand, even though the Butanese would rather live without them).

The final thought I had – this doesn't happen on the other side of the fence. The family wouldn't be allowed to suffer in this condition in Bhutan. The government wouldn't allow it. The people wouldn't allow it.

My trip to India shook me up and set me thinking in unanswered questions:

At what point does indifference become cruelty by consent? How is the systematic abuse of the poor different to other crimes against humanity? How can suffering to this degree be so institutionalised that it is no longer visible when it's right in front of your face?

Poverty of this kind and in this environment is dehumanising for both the poor and for the indifferent witness of their poverty, but I fear this statement may be a peculiarity of my middle-class western up-bringing that only permits a narrow and cloistered appreciation of the prevalence of poverty and of what it is to be human in this world.

The very last thought: the children at my school should see this place. Everybody should. Televised or reported poverty only exists in the mind – it isn't felt. Everyone should hold that desperate woman's eyes as she clutches at an arm and tells you that her disfigured and hungry child has no doctor. Why? Because when I put my head down on my fluffy down pillow it is still a truth of the world that she is there even if I can't see her, and if I can do nothing to alleviate her suffering or change the nature of life on this Earth, I can at least have gratitude for the pillow beneath my head. If everyone was truly grateful for something as simple as a pillow, a principle cause of inequality might disappear.

Pakshikha... My Room, My Castle...

Well, I'm here. In a power cut. In a thunder storm. In Pakshikha. It's cold because my heater is electric, but that's ok. I've got a boiler in my bathroom that provides me with hot showers. This really is ok. There's 2 fans in the ceiling. This is amazing. I can't seem to stop a little of river of water that extends about 6 feet into my room from the bathroom area. I thought I'd resolved the issue but I haven't. It doesn't particularly bother me. There's easily another 15feet beyond the encroachment; plenty of room for little old me. It kinda feels like the anti-chamber that goes between a changing room and a swimming pool, but that's ok. It's big, perhaps too big given the scanty possessions I have to fill it.

Last night I opened all the windows and doors and scrubbed surfaces as I always do when I move in to a new place. Then I laid out all my bits and bobs in their provisional homes and surveyed my new castle. No turrets, but it will do. No, wait... it needs curtains. Soon there'll be kids running around everywhere, peering through the windows at this strange-looking fellow who teaches physics. So, I guess I need to go to India. Twice. In one day. Weird, unexpected, but true, and all due to my new principle.

Whenever I was asked what school I was going to by officials back in Thimphu and I told them Pakshikha, they inevitably replied by saying 'oh yes, you have a very good principle.' Turns out they were right. He's younger than I am by a few years but he recently won an award for basically being the best principle in Bhutan. Last night he invited me for dinner and I met his family over an urn of the local hooch – it's a boozy-eggy-oaty drink that is surprisingly delicious (and nutritious). I mean it too – eggy-oaty, as in, it has eggs and oats floating in it. And it's delicious if you drink/eat it hot. So drink/eat it fast! And be careful of bits of egg hanging from your lip.

On the topic of food, so far I haven't fallen foul of any nasty chilli experiences. I've been in the presence of such incidences, where other teachers have sweated and cursed and fled the scene, but for some reason, my mouth and guts have tolerated everything. To the extent that I am now treating the humble chilli as a vegetable and not a spice. This surprises me, but I do not question it. I am grateful for small blessings.

I fear I have digressed. Two trips to India in one day will have to be the title of my next post. And I haven't even mentioned what you see through my window. The school is 1500m up, perched on the edge of a jungly mountain. The valley goes all the way down and all the way back up. I can see for miles and miles and miles... As Hazel said when he found his Watership Down... 'You can see the whole world from up here'...

Now It Really Begins...

Departure is immanent. It's my last night in Thimphu. My friend's are either in their new houses or still bumping along dusty roads. I've done all my shopping. I've got my tea set. I've got a metal chest to lock things up in. I've got rice, lentils, pickles, chutneys, oats, ziploc bags, buckets, a hand-held immersion heater, sunblock, mozzie repellent, a world map, a little wooden Buddha and all kinds of other things. It's odd buying items-for-year. I wonder how much I'll take back with me? At least one gho – what a fine figure of a gentleman I'll cut as I stroll down Stoke's Croft all dapper in my Jedi gown. And the teapot and the little wooden Buddha.

I hear it's snowing in Old Blighty. That means snow-days and the euphoria of bonus days off work will be bringing smiles and sledges to one and all. Tomorrow I'll be in my new home in Pakshikha. It seems like a long time since I made this decision, and even longer since I decided that one day, somehow, I'd come to Bhutan. How does it tally with expectation thus far? Hard to say. Like any capital city, regardless of its size, Thimphu is not representative of its country. Dublin is not Ireland, London is not England. Thimphu isn't Bhutan, perhaps to a greater extent than either of the other two. Tomorrow I'll be in the Chukha province, in the Gewog Bongo, close to Gedu, in a village called Pakshikha. What do I know about this place?

If you look at a trekking map of Bhutan, the first thing you'll notice is that there aren''t any organised treks anywhere near here. This means two things. Firstly, there'll be no tourists like you'd get in Bumthang or Gasa - tourism doesn''t exist in any kind of disorganised way here, so no organised treks means no tourists. The celebratory impact of my peculiar complexion and flamey beard will no doubt be heightened. Secondly, there won't be any imposing white-topped toothy Himalayan peaks. I guess life isn't all just mountains, and I'll certainly get to see them before I go, but when I glimpsed them piercing the sky from the look-out at Dochu La, I felt drawn in their direction, dragged by compulsion to the railing until I was slightly leaning to get just a few inches closer.

What else? I'm up on a hill. I can see for 30km on a clear day. It's foggy sometimes. In the monsoon my clothes might succumb to the damp and develop black spots. I've got my own bathroom. I don't have my own classroom... over here it's the teachers that move around. No more will my classroom be my castle. And I've got a big responsibility; I'm the only physics teacher so the examination classes will all be under my wing. And probably the chemistry ones too. No familiar faces for miles or days around. There is however a technical college 12 Km away in Gedo with some Americans and a Canadian. I'll have to make contact. Familiarise myself with their faces!   

Goodbye to My Friends for a While...

So, today was a big day. Last night there was frantic packing of bags and boxes. This morning a bus, a Hi-Lux and a Bolero were crammed beyond the bounds of feasibility with enough fridges, gas cylinders, stoves, pots, pans, bags of rice, mattresses, pillows, water filters, buckets, bins and all the other accoutrements of everyday Bhutan living for 11 people. It was impressive to behold. But none of it was mine, and there was no packing for me to do because I was being left behind. It was my job to drink steadily throughout the evening whilst providing support and general banter to the frantic travellers. I leave on Tuesday, and with no schedule until then, I have the freedom of the city for a few days (and lots of shopping to do).

Meanwhile the other teachers have embarked upon the 5 day epic trip across the precarious roads of Bhutan. Along the way their number will dwindle. Eventually they'll all be installed in their schools and the group will be fully scattered across this land. The tightness of the group and the strength we've drawn from each other will serve us well as we face the challenge of teaching and living in our respective middles of nowhere.

Although the epic drive was not part of my plan, I was able to join the crew as far as Dochu La where I had my first glimpse of the Himalayan skyline that forms the natural border with Tibet. Once again we were spoiled by having the architect of the Chortens and the Temple-Museum in our party, so we had a guided tour and a detailed walk-through-talk-through of the intricately painted history of the 100 years of Bhutanese Monarchy. Afterwards we had tea and then the moment came to say our goodbyes. There's some brilliant people in this group, and some of the funniest people I've met.

Circumstances like these have a habit of bringing people close to each other at unexpected velocities. You smash through each other's atmospheres and reach depths that would never normally be reached in a mere two weeks of company. There's people here I'll miss, but there's plenty of people that I can and will call over the next year for a shoulder or a giggle. And I'll see them all again, hopefully beyond this year and beyond these borders.

So! Good luck to you all. You're all amazing and you're all going to be amazing. Ring me if you need some gibberish or a bit of a whine. I'll see you on a precipitous road somewhere soon...   

Tiger's Nest

This is where the Guru Rinpoche landed on his flying Tigress, heralding a new age of Buddhism in Bhutan that has sustained throughout the ages and is now the only remaining sanctuary of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. Legend has it when Guru Rinpoche heard the thunder booming through the high winds of the lofty Himalaya, he named this place Druk Yul – Land of the Thunder Dragon. The dzongh (temple-fortress) is almost 3000m up, around 900m from the valley floor. Up there the air is cold and dry. It's one thing I've noticed about this place. Dry air, fresh and cold. The lining of my nose has fallen to pieces. Something like this was bound to happen.

To get to the Tiger's Nest, you first walk through lush mixed woods. Pine suffuses the air. Fluffy green mosses hang from the branches and flutter in the breeze. Prayer flags are scattered amongst the trees, anywhere where wind can take the mantras and send them skyward. Every now and then a stack of prayer wheels invited your hand to brush against them. Fill the karma banks. Towards the end you walk out of the forest and into a cleft in the mountain, skirting a waterfall that terminates in a pile of snow that encroaches on the bridge. Every now and then the water carries snow with it and it crashes down around the path. It's really cold in this place where the sun does not reach and we all chill quickly before the threshold. At the entrance we are frisked for phones and cameras. Then you're in.

The rooms are all shrines to various enlightened ones. Pilgrims prostrate themselves before golden Buddhas, make offerings and take the waters. It makes perfect sense for me to do the same, and I do so. I have no idea who these deified people are, but it is sufficient for me to give thanks for the example set by the first Buddha. He taught that the ritualistic trappings of Buddhism must necessarily be discarded for enlightenment to be attained. The rituals in themselves are not the path, but they serve to remind those who stray easily from it and would like to keep close; signposts for the way, sticks to help them along. He also told us not to trust the words he left us, but to question them. Critical thinking, precisely what the purpose of education is. He also told us to think of death each day instead of fearing it.

Walking up the path to the Tiger's Nest, mindful of my steps and my breathing, I am reminded of all the places I've walked and I am grateful for the inclination to be a mountaineer and a hiker. My mind drifts back to dawn and dusk on the Cuillen Ridge on Skye, to the endless yellow arrows of the Camino de Santiago, to the glorious winter-summers of the high Alps, icy Scottish ice-climbs, the wild lands of Knoydart, multi-pitch Dolomite spikes and all the leafy dales and lanes of rural England - anywhere this quiet mind of steps has trodden. The world is full of glorious paths and life is mere steps to be taken one after the other, breath by mindful breath.