"Don't mind the driver, he keeps sleeping, but I'll keep him awake"

View from the Haa Valley, western Bhutan. 

I hopped onto a makeshift seat in a beat-up old van. This was the first ride that had come in about one hour of waiting outside Trongsa town- the closest village (22 km from me, 45 min drive on rough road). You can easily get a hitchhike from my village into town, where the closest market exists, but getting out? Hahaha. Beside me sat a woman probably around my age, a recent high school graduate in the front, and the sleeping driver. The graduate turned around, “don’t mind him in back, he’s our father. He’s been drinking since 4 am when we left Mongar. He’ll go to sleep.” (Mongar is approximately an 8 hour drive from Trongsa). I turned my head to see an older farmer grinning cheek to cheek behind me. I couldn’t help but stare at this alcohol-induced smile. It was fantastic. I flashed a smile back then glanced down at a recent text message I had sent to a friend about the ride I had taken to Trongsa earlier that morning:

Just got a hitchhike with a guy who ten min in called tourists “terrorists” and said the nickname of ….’s husband is ‘hitler’. Then he told me all about the farmers in my village whose faces were mangled from leopard attacks. And he seemed so damn normal at the start!”

Anything would be better than that initial ride. But maybe not half as interesting.

“So how do you plan on keeping the driver awake?” I asked the graduate.

“He looks awake, no? I just tap his shoulder, you’ll be fine. Bahaha.”

And so we went. At points, I actually thought the car was going to fall asleep along with the farmer in the back. And the driver. I glanced to the sheer mountain drop on my left to see how far I would fall if the car did start snoozing away.

“So you’re a spinster?” asked the graduate.

Haha. “How old do you think I am?” I replied.

“I guess 23.” (not bad.)

“Almost. 25. So that makes me a spinster?”

“You are 25. You are not married? Yes, you are a spinster. Bahaha”

I’ll take that. I remembered the car rides last year where I told men I was married and my six children were back in Canada. Eventually one of these days, it would come back to me. I’d take the same ride with the same guy and bam! get caught for all my fibbing.

Window faces. 

The calm bumpy drive quickly turned into an interrogation by the graduate in the front, who’s charm ended 20 minutes in. “Where you from? Our city equivalent to your village? Bahahaha. You like teaching? I would hate to be a teacher. Our students are terrible? Why you live in Tshangkha? You must miss your family. Bahaha. You travel alone? Do you have friends here? You are eating Bhutanese food? Do you cook? Bahaha.” If he didn’t laugh so much he could’ve easily added fourteen more questions in.

“You eat food?”

“Yes, I eat food! Do I look hungry?”

“I hear in Australia and Canada you don’t eat food?”

I learned quickly into my first year that “food” translates into “rice.” But it cracks me up every time, so I go along with it. “Oh my goooodness I’m staaaaarving, I haven’t had food for days” (as I jokingly keel over about to faint and die.). The Bhutanese have a great sense of humour and I think this particular confusion could be our favourite joke at school.

When the car finally stopped at my house, I shook the graduate’s hand and gave the family a bunch of broccoli- the only thing I could offer that wasn’t buried in the depths of my knapsack. The sister of course stuffed it right in my bag, shaking her head, as if to say, “very kind of you, but unnecessary.” After putting it on her lap about three more times, I finally handed it to the graduate who took it excitedly.

“Bahahaa” I thought.

---------

This ride took place during our local holiday of Domche. A festival lasting for four days during which family and friends would gather at the local Dzong (parliament buildings) to watch mask dancing and enjoy the music. The purpose of this festival is to rid us of our sins and prepare us for death (how ironic). After spending almost every long weekend last year traveling, I made the decision to stay in my village this weekend. Simply put, I was exhausted from the week.

Grade 6 girls giggling away. 

School in Bhutan begins about mid-F ebruary but it is not until March when you finally begin to teach. Teachers were dropping like flies at our school- transferring schools to be with their loved ones, transferring for better service opportunities, transferring to get away from the canadian kid…. It had been nothing but total craziness at our school for the past month as rumours spread that new teachers were coming, old ones were leaving, some decided they wanted to take off to Australia. We must have had about three timetable changes in two weeks. Really keeps you on your toes, “what will I be teaching today?” Having been trained as a science teacher, thrown into teaching three grades of English last year, I was happy to see on my schedule that I would be teaching a variety of courses this year- two classes of grade 7 english, grade 6 english, grade 5 social studies, and HPE (phys-ed) to class 2 and 4.

I was more than excited to relax for this weekend in preparation for tackling, if only, my new class 5s the coming year. The course distribution is done in a sort of auction-like way, where our names are placed on a board and subjects are called out. It never occurred to me last year when no one wanted the class 4s that there was a concrete reason for it. I threw my hand straight up in the air, “I’ll take them!”

I spent last year teaching three grades of english but focusing almost every ounce of my energy to keep my grade 4s from literally jumping out the window and off the mountain. Better yet, to keep me from throwing the students (or me) off the mountain. This was a class full of 35 students from remote villages in Trongsa, who were more content to cut eachother’s hair, swallow pen ink, fight with eachother, climb out the window, and scream profanities, rather than possibly sit in a classroom and listen. Numerous times I would catch myself yelling, “Sonam! Why are you cutting Tshering’s hair?” or the best, “Tshewang, why did you go to the toilet on the warden sir’s roof?” Was I really expecting them to respond with a reason?

The famous class 5s.

For some insane reason I predicted that after one month being away from the classroom they would have matured exponentially over the December break and come back like young adults. I found myself on the very first day, a couple weeks ago, raising my voice, “shall I throw you alllll off the mountain today?” to a huge round of laughter and our keen class captain piping up, “miss, this would NOT be a good idea.” I agreed and instead placed a map of the world on the board. “Can anyone tell me what this is?” A hand shot straight up in the air, as did this student’s voice, “MAP OF CANADA MISSSSS!!!!!” (Slow and steady, I thought). I handed out a map of Bhutan several minutes later. “What would be a good title for this map?” One of the keener, more quiet girls in the class threw her hand up, “MAP OF SARAH MISSSS!!!” Although they are some of the most endearing students I’ve ever worked with, I lose my patience quickly in this particular class. One morning last week, however, they were ridiculously good (which unfortunately triggers “you were definitely beaten ‘nicely’ by the previous teacher” in the back ofmy head). I complimented them on their behavior to the response by one boy, “see Miss Sarah? We have proven ourself!”

You’re right Pem Dorji, you will not be thrown off the mountain today.

I consider myself to be a pretty disciplined teacher most of the time. I try to keep my cool. I’ve never actually thrown a student off a mountain. Rarely raise my voice. But to try to discipline these students in one way or another only to know that they will continue to act in the same way the following days, continues to be a challenge. I love to laugh. I’m good at laughing. So, more often than not I have to

maintain my role as a teacher, to struggle to keep these students on the mountain, focusing on the task at hand, as I use every ounce of my energy not to roll on the floor in complete giggles at their jokes. This is the main reason I came back to Tshangkha- because of my students. I love them with all my heart and I genuinely miss them on long holidays, like Domche. And so hear we are, year 2, with the craziest of them all.