Don performing a knee arthroscopy in the O.T. (Operating Theater) - this is a relatively new procedure here in Bhutan.
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Thursday, July 28, 2005
Our Tibetan Uncle
In July of 1993, we brought 7-month old Thompson with us to Bhutan. Despite the color of his nearly-nonexistent hair, he became increasingly "native" as the month went on - eventually I was tying him on my back with a woven fringed kabney just like all the other mothers here, and he was sporting a suntan glow from being outdoors all the time. Near the end of the month we hiked to Cheri with three solicitous Tibetan monks - Dawa Lama, Tsultrim Lama, and the third one who carried the umbrella and didn't speak any English. Actually neither Don nor I can remember exactly how we met them or how we came to climb Cheri with them. Dawa and Tsultrim were both born in Tibet just prior to the Chinese takeover in 1959, and escaped with their parents over the border before it was closed (it is still closed). They studied in Tibetan monasteries here in Bhutan and became monks and fast friends. They seemed like an inseparable pair (Mr. Umbrella was just a temporary third wheel). We spent a lot of time with them in 1993 and donated some funds for the Tibetan lakhang they were building in Thimphu.
The two of them are still working together at the Tibetan lakhang, and when Don has come to Thimphu each time he has looked them up. This time we dropped in on a puja in their temple on the 10th (the commemoration of Buddha's first sermon) and there they were, side by side, looking like slightly grayer versions of their former selves, still radiating the peace and happiness that attracted us to them in the first place. They agreed to come to dinner at our home one night this month.
What do you serve when a Tibetan lama is coming to dinner? Well, I made red rice, potato curry, spinach with chilis, and served pork momos. Dawa Lama was unable to come, so Tsultrim came alone, and this gave us a chance to quiz him about how he became a monk and listen to his stories of his travels out of Bhutan to India. He hopes to be able to go to Tibet someday - he has been granted Bhutanese citizenship by the king himself since they share a guru. We prayed before dinner and then he prayed before dinner too, so our food was well blessed.
Even more fortunately, Tsultrim immediately reciprocated our invitation by having us over to dinner this evening. He lives in a comfortable two-story home not far from the HVO house, with an incense oven in the yard for daily offerings (it's like a small clay bread oven, and a fire is built under a pile of green cedar branches which makes a thick white pleasant-smelling smoke). He lives with his sister and her college-age daughter, home for summer holiday from her BA program in business administration from a small college in Sikkim, India, and they keep house for him. They had cooked a lovely dinner and we ate in the living room balancing our plates on our laps and talking. Tsultrim asked us for two favors, 1) to help his other niece (who lives in India) obtain a visa to visit the US, and 2) to mail, from the US, a book of Buddhist scripture to a guru in Italy. In return he and his sister bestowed a gift of a really beautiful hand-woven kira on us. At the end of the evening he gave us all katas (white silk ceremonial scarves) around our necks and walked us home with his plastic red flashlight shining and his rubber flip-flops slapping on the dusty road.
Friendships are sometimes unlikely things. A little like lightning, you don't know exactly where they will strike. This is one friendship we probably could never have predicted would be this long-lasting and rich, despite time and distance, culture, religion, and language. Yet it has been a real blessing for us and fills me with a sense of wonder at the paths God has laid out for us & the rich pattern of human connection across the globe. Don't you think it must amaze even Him sometimes, who we connect with?
The two of them are still working together at the Tibetan lakhang, and when Don has come to Thimphu each time he has looked them up. This time we dropped in on a puja in their temple on the 10th (the commemoration of Buddha's first sermon) and there they were, side by side, looking like slightly grayer versions of their former selves, still radiating the peace and happiness that attracted us to them in the first place. They agreed to come to dinner at our home one night this month.
What do you serve when a Tibetan lama is coming to dinner? Well, I made red rice, potato curry, spinach with chilis, and served pork momos. Dawa Lama was unable to come, so Tsultrim came alone, and this gave us a chance to quiz him about how he became a monk and listen to his stories of his travels out of Bhutan to India. He hopes to be able to go to Tibet someday - he has been granted Bhutanese citizenship by the king himself since they share a guru. We prayed before dinner and then he prayed before dinner too, so our food was well blessed.
Even more fortunately, Tsultrim immediately reciprocated our invitation by having us over to dinner this evening. He lives in a comfortable two-story home not far from the HVO house, with an incense oven in the yard for daily offerings (it's like a small clay bread oven, and a fire is built under a pile of green cedar branches which makes a thick white pleasant-smelling smoke). He lives with his sister and her college-age daughter, home for summer holiday from her BA program in business administration from a small college in Sikkim, India, and they keep house for him. They had cooked a lovely dinner and we ate in the living room balancing our plates on our laps and talking. Tsultrim asked us for two favors, 1) to help his other niece (who lives in India) obtain a visa to visit the US, and 2) to mail, from the US, a book of Buddhist scripture to a guru in Italy. In return he and his sister bestowed a gift of a really beautiful hand-woven kira on us. At the end of the evening he gave us all katas (white silk ceremonial scarves) around our necks and walked us home with his plastic red flashlight shining and his rubber flip-flops slapping on the dusty road.
Friendships are sometimes unlikely things. A little like lightning, you don't know exactly where they will strike. This is one friendship we probably could never have predicted would be this long-lasting and rich, despite time and distance, culture, religion, and language. Yet it has been a real blessing for us and fills me with a sense of wonder at the paths God has laid out for us & the rich pattern of human connection across the globe. Don't you think it must amaze even Him sometimes, who we connect with?
Halle and the crop of schoolgirls who dropped by our yard this afternoon. Behind them is our view looking east over the rest of the city.
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Packing Up, Already?
Tomorrow will be the children's last day at school and the next day we will have to figure out how to fit everything back into the luggage. We're coming home with many more clothes than what we arrived with - school uniform ghos, kiras, etc, not to mention the new curtains, along with schoolbooks, some small souvenirs, and a truckload of memories that luckily don't add extra weight.
End of the month business for the HVO volunteer involves having the phone bill delivered to the ortho clinic and then walking it down to the Bhutan Telecom office and paying it in cash. In America all this face-to-face has been replaced with online payment, of course, but here, you've still got to do it in person. Likewise the cable bill - the office is on the way home from the kids' school so I stop in to pay the monthly charge. We leave some notes for the future families in the house logbooks. We clean out the fridge; we put together some small gifts for the kids schoolteachers.
Food roundup: We went through several bags of red rice, two pounds of Amul butter from India, some spaghetti and canned Prego, uncounted bottles of Bhutanese mineral water and boiled/filtered water, at least a case of Mirinda soda, two bags of powdered milk, a canister of drinking chocolate, several trays of local eggs, half-dozen boxes of Kelloggs cereal... one 10 Nu bag of Norbu white sliced bread lasts a day around here, and 12 of the tiny lemon-flavored bananas barely make it through breakfast and snacktime. Three trips to the weekend market for potatoes, onions, tomatoes, chilis, and mangoes.
End of the month business for the HVO volunteer involves having the phone bill delivered to the ortho clinic and then walking it down to the Bhutan Telecom office and paying it in cash. In America all this face-to-face has been replaced with online payment, of course, but here, you've still got to do it in person. Likewise the cable bill - the office is on the way home from the kids' school so I stop in to pay the monthly charge. We leave some notes for the future families in the house logbooks. We clean out the fridge; we put together some small gifts for the kids schoolteachers.
Food roundup: We went through several bags of red rice, two pounds of Amul butter from India, some spaghetti and canned Prego, uncounted bottles of Bhutanese mineral water and boiled/filtered water, at least a case of Mirinda soda, two bags of powdered milk, a canister of drinking chocolate, several trays of local eggs, half-dozen boxes of Kelloggs cereal... one 10 Nu bag of Norbu white sliced bread lasts a day around here, and 12 of the tiny lemon-flavored bananas barely make it through breakfast and snacktime. Three trips to the weekend market for potatoes, onions, tomatoes, chilis, and mangoes.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Our now-familiar route up & down - this water ditch provides lots of amusement for the kids. Our shortcut across the weedy field is at the top of this hill just around the bend. New apartments spring up all around Thimphu like these ones.
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Bhutan-isms
Tonight we went out to dinner with one of Don's colleagues at the hospital and his college-age daughter. She had gone to Chagangkha School like our children, and she asked Halle which teacher she has in Pre-Primary. "What's her name?" she asked Halle, and Halle said, "It's Madam."
I was passed on the sidewalk by a mother & child and the child must have explained to her mother who I was, because I heard the phrase, "English Mom." Our children are called "English" here (not "American"). The Dzongka word for foreigner is "chillip" and we hear that quite a bit in people's conversations as we pass by. I kind of like the sound of "English mom," it has a cheery ring to it.
One of Don's OT takes the same road that we take to school so we see him every morning on his way to work, his white coat neatly rolled up and tucked under his arm. Today he was not wearing a gho, but a nice pair of black pants and white dress shirt. He looked so different. Don says that Bhutanese call that outfit "shirtpants." As in, "tomorrow, should I wear gho, or shirtpants? I think I'll wear shirtpants."
Today Don saw a rough draft of Bhutan's constitution - definitely a work in progress. The first article said that Bhutan is a "Socialist Democratic Constitutional Monarchy," and the second one said that Buddhism is the state religion - which makes it a theocracy, too, so I think they've got everything covered.
The king is the supreme court - the final word in lawsuits - and if you don't like his decision, you can go to jail. But to bring new meaning to phrase "time-share," you can bring a friend to serve time with you and cut the time. One man who got six months only had to serve three because his brother served three alongside him and that made six in the eyes of Bhutanese law.
I was passed on the sidewalk by a mother & child and the child must have explained to her mother who I was, because I heard the phrase, "English Mom." Our children are called "English" here (not "American"). The Dzongka word for foreigner is "chillip" and we hear that quite a bit in people's conversations as we pass by. I kind of like the sound of "English mom," it has a cheery ring to it.
One of Don's OT takes the same road that we take to school so we see him every morning on his way to work, his white coat neatly rolled up and tucked under his arm. Today he was not wearing a gho, but a nice pair of black pants and white dress shirt. He looked so different. Don says that Bhutanese call that outfit "shirtpants." As in, "tomorrow, should I wear gho, or shirtpants? I think I'll wear shirtpants."
Today Don saw a rough draft of Bhutan's constitution - definitely a work in progress. The first article said that Bhutan is a "Socialist Democratic Constitutional Monarchy," and the second one said that Buddhism is the state religion - which makes it a theocracy, too, so I think they've got everything covered.
The king is the supreme court - the final word in lawsuits - and if you don't like his decision, you can go to jail. But to bring new meaning to phrase "time-share," you can bring a friend to serve time with you and cut the time. One man who got six months only had to serve three because his brother served three alongside him and that made six in the eyes of Bhutanese law.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
We Meet a Reincarnate Lama
Sunday dawns bright and sunny - Don is off for the whole day, there is no school (the boys all had school on Saturday morning!), and the weather is gorgeous. We sleep in and then brunch in a leisurely way at one of the hotels, and then we taxi to the trailhead of Tango Monastery (pronounced Tang-goo). Everyone is in gho and kira except Thompson, who feels more comfortable in his khakis and new Bhutan T-shirt. Don has been up to Tango twice before and it's one of his favorite spots near Thimphu. It is a comfortable hike of about an hour on rocky paths thick with fallen leaves, that takes us past similar scenery we saw on the hike to Cheri - trees with moss on them, with ferns growing out of the moss. Dappled sun marks the path and we make quiet headway up the trail, just enjoying a slow hike.
Tango is a very beautiful goemba (temple) - it has a massive curved wall on one side, and lovely flower gardens, and a large meditation retreat building for monks from other parts of Bhutan. We are met at the entrance by a large crowd of monks - we found out later that they had just finished a lengthy meeting with one of the government ministers, so that explains why there were so many of them at the entrance at one time. One of them takes our permit and looks it over and takes it on himself to be our guide. He takes us into the three levels of the tall central tower. Each level is reached by an extremely steep set of stairs (he runs up & down, we take our time, it's as steep as a ladder) and features a cool, high-ceilinged hallway with wide-plank hand-hewn wooden floors that are smooth and cool under our bare feet. Two doors on opposite sides of the hall lead into treasure rooms. Three floors, each with two treasure rooms, so six in all. We respectfully file past some very beautiful statues of seated Buddhas, each of them at least 8 or 10 feet high: in one room, a compassionate Buddha with the most tender expression on his face; in another, three representing Buddhas present, past and future. Some rooms have a thousand gilded small Buddha statues lining the walls in glass cases, each wearing a tiny silk robe. Most have beautiful and detailed wall murals. In one room there are several sacred relics on the altar - smooth dark granite rocks that we are told bear the footprints of Guru Rinpoche and his consort. In addition to the tzichu (the holy water poured into our outstretched right hand in each room), we receive blessings on our heads from a variety of special objects in different locations throughout the monastery: a walking stick of an important lama from the 19th century, a book of scriptures wrapped in silk, a sacred spring of water that our guide, Tendin Tshering, says flows from the heart of the compassionate Buddha statue upstairs.
Tendin Tshering then leads us up the hill outside the walls of the dzong - here and there on the hillside there are small homes and since it is a sunny day (rare this week), nearly everyone has done his washing, and there are red robes draped on the fences, clotheslines and roofs drying in the sun. He brings us to his own home, which is a wooden lean-to up against another building, consisting of two rooms each no larger than 6x8 feet. There is electricity but not running water - so his tiny kitchen has shelves with a one-burner propane stove, an electric rice cooker, but no sink - there is a spigot outside somewhere - and his bedroom has a low couch piled with his bedding which he spreads on the floor at night, some bookcases to hold his scripture texts, one fluorescent tube light, and pieces of silk fabric and sheets stretched tight over the walls with no apparent pattern and tacked tight to cover the walls entirely. It is quite a comfortable room, actually, though I can imagine it is very cold in winter. Several other monks poke in their heads to meet the American family, and someone produces a can of Diet Coke for us to share. I wish suddenly that we had brought some kind of gift to give them.
Here is some Bhutanese serendipity. One of the monks who comes into Tendin Tshering's tiny apartment to greet us, has met Don before in 2002 when he was here in cold February with Thompson and Forrest. They had use of a car to drive to Punakha and back, and on the return trip they stopped and picked up a monk and gave him a ride to the Dochu La pass. This monk remembered them and the boys (including their Bhutanese names), and Don was so surprised and delighted to meet him again. His name is Thubthen Norbu and we made sure to snap some photos to send him later. He also took us to his small two-room quarters in the next building and provided us with refreshments and cookies - and I remembered that we had some American fruit leather in our bag and gave them what we had.
These two monks, after letting us rest a while in their rooms, walked us farther up the mountain to a building where two young reincarnates give public audience on Sundays. Reincarnation is a key belief in Buddhism, and prominent lamas or religious leaders, Bhutanese believe, are often reincarnated and then recognized as reincarnates as very young children. Today we met Gyalsay Chhotu Rinpoche, the reincarnate of this monastery's leader from about 130 years ago. He is now 12, but Don had the chance to meet him in 2000 when he was 7, and we understand that he was recognized and brought to the monastery when he was only 2 or 3. We waited outside his doorway until the monks motioned us in. He does not speak to his guests, but he seemed interested behind his thick glasses when some (American) children his age came in. We respectfully bowed and offered gifts and received a gentle touch on the head from his silk-wrapped bundle of Buddhist scriptures. We met a second reincarnate also giving audience today, who was in his teens.
We took leave of our kind hosts/ new friends and headed down the trail. Partway down we were rewarded with meeting a family of enormous monkeys right in the trees next to the trail. The largest of them was easily twice the size of Jacob, with a tail as thick as a soda can, staring us down from the tree and making monkey-comments to the other nearby members of his family.
Later tonight we spoke with Dr. Gadho about the reincarnate lama. He told us that the boy's parents are ordinary villagers from eastern Bhutan, and that the boy began asking around age 2 to go to the dzong and talked a lot about his monastery, describing things about Tango even though he had never been to Thimphu. They consulted with the head of the dzong there, and eventually brought him to Tango. His health is not good - Dr. Gadho says that he has health problems of an "old person," such as cataracts and spleen problems, and a sensitive digestive system. On meeting such a young lama, one wonders what his childhood is like - does he play, run around, etc? I don't know, but Dr. Gadho who has met him says he is a naturally serious person, holds himself with dignity. When Don met him five years ago, he peered at Don from behind the huge glasses that make his eyes look enormous, and asked his translator to tell him that he knew Don from a previous life. While Don doesn't recall this past life with the same clarity as Gyalsay Chhotu Rinpoche, we certainly respect his role and left with a sense of wonder at the special place that is Tango.
Tango is a very beautiful goemba (temple) - it has a massive curved wall on one side, and lovely flower gardens, and a large meditation retreat building for monks from other parts of Bhutan. We are met at the entrance by a large crowd of monks - we found out later that they had just finished a lengthy meeting with one of the government ministers, so that explains why there were so many of them at the entrance at one time. One of them takes our permit and looks it over and takes it on himself to be our guide. He takes us into the three levels of the tall central tower. Each level is reached by an extremely steep set of stairs (he runs up & down, we take our time, it's as steep as a ladder) and features a cool, high-ceilinged hallway with wide-plank hand-hewn wooden floors that are smooth and cool under our bare feet. Two doors on opposite sides of the hall lead into treasure rooms. Three floors, each with two treasure rooms, so six in all. We respectfully file past some very beautiful statues of seated Buddhas, each of them at least 8 or 10 feet high: in one room, a compassionate Buddha with the most tender expression on his face; in another, three representing Buddhas present, past and future. Some rooms have a thousand gilded small Buddha statues lining the walls in glass cases, each wearing a tiny silk robe. Most have beautiful and detailed wall murals. In one room there are several sacred relics on the altar - smooth dark granite rocks that we are told bear the footprints of Guru Rinpoche and his consort. In addition to the tzichu (the holy water poured into our outstretched right hand in each room), we receive blessings on our heads from a variety of special objects in different locations throughout the monastery: a walking stick of an important lama from the 19th century, a book of scriptures wrapped in silk, a sacred spring of water that our guide, Tendin Tshering, says flows from the heart of the compassionate Buddha statue upstairs.
Tendin Tshering then leads us up the hill outside the walls of the dzong - here and there on the hillside there are small homes and since it is a sunny day (rare this week), nearly everyone has done his washing, and there are red robes draped on the fences, clotheslines and roofs drying in the sun. He brings us to his own home, which is a wooden lean-to up against another building, consisting of two rooms each no larger than 6x8 feet. There is electricity but not running water - so his tiny kitchen has shelves with a one-burner propane stove, an electric rice cooker, but no sink - there is a spigot outside somewhere - and his bedroom has a low couch piled with his bedding which he spreads on the floor at night, some bookcases to hold his scripture texts, one fluorescent tube light, and pieces of silk fabric and sheets stretched tight over the walls with no apparent pattern and tacked tight to cover the walls entirely. It is quite a comfortable room, actually, though I can imagine it is very cold in winter. Several other monks poke in their heads to meet the American family, and someone produces a can of Diet Coke for us to share. I wish suddenly that we had brought some kind of gift to give them.
Here is some Bhutanese serendipity. One of the monks who comes into Tendin Tshering's tiny apartment to greet us, has met Don before in 2002 when he was here in cold February with Thompson and Forrest. They had use of a car to drive to Punakha and back, and on the return trip they stopped and picked up a monk and gave him a ride to the Dochu La pass. This monk remembered them and the boys (including their Bhutanese names), and Don was so surprised and delighted to meet him again. His name is Thubthen Norbu and we made sure to snap some photos to send him later. He also took us to his small two-room quarters in the next building and provided us with refreshments and cookies - and I remembered that we had some American fruit leather in our bag and gave them what we had.
These two monks, after letting us rest a while in their rooms, walked us farther up the mountain to a building where two young reincarnates give public audience on Sundays. Reincarnation is a key belief in Buddhism, and prominent lamas or religious leaders, Bhutanese believe, are often reincarnated and then recognized as reincarnates as very young children. Today we met Gyalsay Chhotu Rinpoche, the reincarnate of this monastery's leader from about 130 years ago. He is now 12, but Don had the chance to meet him in 2000 when he was 7, and we understand that he was recognized and brought to the monastery when he was only 2 or 3. We waited outside his doorway until the monks motioned us in. He does not speak to his guests, but he seemed interested behind his thick glasses when some (American) children his age came in. We respectfully bowed and offered gifts and received a gentle touch on the head from his silk-wrapped bundle of Buddhist scriptures. We met a second reincarnate also giving audience today, who was in his teens.
We took leave of our kind hosts/ new friends and headed down the trail. Partway down we were rewarded with meeting a family of enormous monkeys right in the trees next to the trail. The largest of them was easily twice the size of Jacob, with a tail as thick as a soda can, staring us down from the tree and making monkey-comments to the other nearby members of his family.
Later tonight we spoke with Dr. Gadho about the reincarnate lama. He told us that the boy's parents are ordinary villagers from eastern Bhutan, and that the boy began asking around age 2 to go to the dzong and talked a lot about his monastery, describing things about Tango even though he had never been to Thimphu. They consulted with the head of the dzong there, and eventually brought him to Tango. His health is not good - Dr. Gadho says that he has health problems of an "old person," such as cataracts and spleen problems, and a sensitive digestive system. On meeting such a young lama, one wonders what his childhood is like - does he play, run around, etc? I don't know, but Dr. Gadho who has met him says he is a naturally serious person, holds himself with dignity. When Don met him five years ago, he peered at Don from behind the huge glasses that make his eyes look enormous, and asked his translator to tell him that he knew Don from a previous life. While Don doesn't recall this past life with the same clarity as Gyalsay Chhotu Rinpoche, we certainly respect his role and left with a sense of wonder at the special place that is Tango.
A typical "Tshongkang" or little Thimphu grocery - candy, chips, doma, drinks, crackers, a rack of handkerchiefs hanging from clothespins. This one is the first floor of a home.
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Friday, July 22, 2005
Indian Scissorshands
After the scolding by the headmistress, we wondered if our boys needed a haircut. Well, they needed it anyway, and this was a convenient opportunity to check out the spangled and fascinating barbershop we often pass in the center of town. It's called "Lalon Thakur Saloon" (all barbershops here misspell themselves as saloons) and three barbers from India work constantly with large silver scissors (we mean LARGE) with the speed and accuracy of Edward Scissorshands. Jamtsho warned us about taking our children there, because hair would fly everywhere, but we wanted the local flavor and passed by the ones with posted advertisements for hair products and went to the one where the Indian workers go.
Haircuts cost 30 Nu (75 cents) and take about 3 minutes, but as you can see, with an excellent result. It starts with the BIG scissors and a comb, with a sharp rapid snicking sound, and hair flying everywhere as promised. It even includes the use of a long-handled single-edge razorblade dragged along your neck and around your ears to clean up, and it ends with being powdered with talc in the back of the neck and then whacked smartly with the towel several times, talc clouds rising over the chair.
The boys had haircuts simultaneously in the three chairs by the three different barbers, who talked to each other in Hindi all the while - not a single word of English was exchanged in the entire experience. The room is festooned with mylar garlands in bright colors, posters of hairstyles from the early 1980s with Indian models, and seems busy both day and night with hardly an empty chair, ever.
Haircuts cost 30 Nu (75 cents) and take about 3 minutes, but as you can see, with an excellent result. It starts with the BIG scissors and a comb, with a sharp rapid snicking sound, and hair flying everywhere as promised. It even includes the use of a long-handled single-edge razorblade dragged along your neck and around your ears to clean up, and it ends with being powdered with talc in the back of the neck and then whacked smartly with the towel several times, talc clouds rising over the chair.
The boys had haircuts simultaneously in the three chairs by the three different barbers, who talked to each other in Hindi all the while - not a single word of English was exchanged in the entire experience. The room is festooned with mylar garlands in bright colors, posters of hairstyles from the early 1980s with Indian models, and seems busy both day and night with hardly an empty chair, ever.
School Notes
This week the children have been in school and have regaled us with stories at the end of each day that highlight just how different the educational system is from what we are accustomed to in the US. Mostly this is very good, as the point was to expose them to different experiences, ideas, and expectations. They have learned a lot in one week and have covered some material, particularly in math, that they hadn't seen at home. Given the practical bent of the education, for example, Thompson's 6th-class "maths" for the week have been to calculate simple compound interest and net profit/loss.
On Thursday, each child was offered an iron pill in class by the teacher. Every child takes one, issued by the school, once a week. Schools are also arenas of public health, religious instruction, and indoctrination into national ideals. The sheer number of students in the school is impressive. We estimate at least a thousand in the school between the grades of PP (Pre-Primary) and 8. [Chagangka is one of 31 schools in Thimphu - Kuensel this week says there are 21,000 students in the Thimphu school district.] Class size is 25-30 students per class. I spoke at some length to Madam Karma, Halle's teacher and in her small classroom with barely enough room for her desk and four low square tables there are 24, but she said she often has closer to 40, and one year when they were short on teachers she instructed 63 in that space. Thompson says each room is issued the same amount of chalk, but that his class is running low - the teacher says this is due to the students not taking care of the chalk and that they won't go "begging" to other rooms for more chalk (I guess we know what our parting gift to his teacher will be) - he also describes that one game he plays to amuse himself is tossing his pen up through the holes in the table and catching it.
Discipline is impressive. Shame is a major teaching technique, and I heard the headmistress dress down the entire school body for infractions such as wearing hair too long (boys), failing to be considerate, not giving enough attention to studies, not returning school equipment, not eating a proper breakfast before coming to school, and ignoring other "rules and regulations" by which they are expected to abide. Children are often told how naughty they are, especially boys.
Each of our children has had stories to tell about discipline and shaming in their classrooms - very eye-opening. In Halle's class, the "naughty boy" was hauled before the teacher by his ear. In Jacob's class, children who fidget with pencils are made to stand up and pull their ears. Today he recounted that while the teacher went to the latrine, the class got "restless" and the class captain took initiative and went around "beating everyone with a stick," Jacob included. Jacob felt that since he was talking, he deserved this. Apparently the teacher approved of the class captain's actions. Jacob has been concerned that he hasn't received the same discipline as other children earlier in the week ("Why are they singling me out?") and so he was a little proud of his beating, though clearly uncomfortable with telling us all the details of it. In Forrest's class, he said the teacher told them she wasn't going to issue any beatings, but would take away marks instead if people were naughty. We have heard stories of children having their knuckles rapped for incorrect answers. In Halle's little PP class, she got to sing the "American version" of the alphabet song, which ends "Now I know my ABCs, Next time won't you sing with me." The teacher thought this was charming.... turns out that the final two lines of the one they sing in her class are "Please, Madam, don't beat me/ Now I know my ABC." I'm not making this up. She said she hoped no one in the US would sue them if they heard this version. For Thompson, who continues to have a nose in a book much of the time, his teacher commented approvingly (and in front of everyone) that he likes to read "storybooks," while most of the other boys "only know how to eat and poop."
Jacob's homework one day this week was to make sentences using words given in English dictation, including one that stumped him completely: Diwali (the Hindu Festival of Lights). In a lesson about the seasons which he carefully copied into his notebook, he learned that spring is "when we go to school," summer is "when we get muddy water," in autumn "we go to tsechu in the dzong" (the big annual religious festivals in each dzong district) and in winter "we use bukhari" (the indoor woodstove which is the primary method of home heating). He faithfully copied without a clue what these words meant.
I pick up Halle an hour before the others get out, and she has a couple of standard after-school games to play with the kids who congregate around her: one that involves picking buds and making "stew," and lots of hopscotch. They all know her as Sonam Pelden there, even her teacher. I think every kid in school knows Jacob, though when he told one person his name, something got a little lost in translation and the child repeated, "Chicken?" When we get home, a train of kids (the engine of which is Thinley of course) appear at our house for snacks, drinks, running through our house and amusing themselves with our sets of watercolors and blank paper.
On Thursday, each child was offered an iron pill in class by the teacher. Every child takes one, issued by the school, once a week. Schools are also arenas of public health, religious instruction, and indoctrination into national ideals. The sheer number of students in the school is impressive. We estimate at least a thousand in the school between the grades of PP (Pre-Primary) and 8. [Chagangka is one of 31 schools in Thimphu - Kuensel this week says there are 21,000 students in the Thimphu school district.] Class size is 25-30 students per class. I spoke at some length to Madam Karma, Halle's teacher and in her small classroom with barely enough room for her desk and four low square tables there are 24, but she said she often has closer to 40, and one year when they were short on teachers she instructed 63 in that space. Thompson says each room is issued the same amount of chalk, but that his class is running low - the teacher says this is due to the students not taking care of the chalk and that they won't go "begging" to other rooms for more chalk (I guess we know what our parting gift to his teacher will be) - he also describes that one game he plays to amuse himself is tossing his pen up through the holes in the table and catching it.
Discipline is impressive. Shame is a major teaching technique, and I heard the headmistress dress down the entire school body for infractions such as wearing hair too long (boys), failing to be considerate, not giving enough attention to studies, not returning school equipment, not eating a proper breakfast before coming to school, and ignoring other "rules and regulations" by which they are expected to abide. Children are often told how naughty they are, especially boys.
Each of our children has had stories to tell about discipline and shaming in their classrooms - very eye-opening. In Halle's class, the "naughty boy" was hauled before the teacher by his ear. In Jacob's class, children who fidget with pencils are made to stand up and pull their ears. Today he recounted that while the teacher went to the latrine, the class got "restless" and the class captain took initiative and went around "beating everyone with a stick," Jacob included. Jacob felt that since he was talking, he deserved this. Apparently the teacher approved of the class captain's actions. Jacob has been concerned that he hasn't received the same discipline as other children earlier in the week ("Why are they singling me out?") and so he was a little proud of his beating, though clearly uncomfortable with telling us all the details of it. In Forrest's class, he said the teacher told them she wasn't going to issue any beatings, but would take away marks instead if people were naughty. We have heard stories of children having their knuckles rapped for incorrect answers. In Halle's little PP class, she got to sing the "American version" of the alphabet song, which ends "Now I know my ABCs, Next time won't you sing with me." The teacher thought this was charming.... turns out that the final two lines of the one they sing in her class are "Please, Madam, don't beat me/ Now I know my ABC." I'm not making this up. She said she hoped no one in the US would sue them if they heard this version. For Thompson, who continues to have a nose in a book much of the time, his teacher commented approvingly (and in front of everyone) that he likes to read "storybooks," while most of the other boys "only know how to eat and poop."
Jacob's homework one day this week was to make sentences using words given in English dictation, including one that stumped him completely: Diwali (the Hindu Festival of Lights). In a lesson about the seasons which he carefully copied into his notebook, he learned that spring is "when we go to school," summer is "when we get muddy water," in autumn "we go to tsechu in the dzong" (the big annual religious festivals in each dzong district) and in winter "we use bukhari" (the indoor woodstove which is the primary method of home heating). He faithfully copied without a clue what these words meant.
I pick up Halle an hour before the others get out, and she has a couple of standard after-school games to play with the kids who congregate around her: one that involves picking buds and making "stew," and lots of hopscotch. They all know her as Sonam Pelden there, even her teacher. I think every kid in school knows Jacob, though when he told one person his name, something got a little lost in translation and the child repeated, "Chicken?" When we get home, a train of kids (the engine of which is Thinley of course) appear at our house for snacks, drinks, running through our house and amusing themselves with our sets of watercolors and blank paper.
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