The Mad Woman Cured of Her Diseases

Class 4 beauties.

“MADAAMMM your voice is not the same!”

“Madam needs to go to a nose workshop!”

“Madam needs to just chop of her nose.”

-       - exclaimed three of my students excitedly when I opened my mouth in class last week.

I have come to the conclusion that the only place worse to be sick in than Bhutan is in the depths of the Himalayan jungle. Outside. 

I say this of course as a completely over-priviledged and selfish princess. However, there is truly no other time when I question my decision for moving across the world to what I sometimes refer to as, “the middle of nowhere,” than when I am sick.

I lay in bed on Saturday night as close as I could get to being completely immobile without actually being completely immobile. I stared at my concrete ceiling, huddled in my -10 sleeping bag, clad head to toe in long underwear, fleece and covered by a wool toque. I was picturing myself in a hot shower back home. After this I would slip into my pyjamas and huddle on the couch with my mommy as I sip tea and obnoxiously slurp homemade chicken soup. Then I would get under my huge duvet and retire for the night.

I continued to stare at my concrete ceiling propped up on two pillows to help my cold- a good mommy tip. I had three options that could potentially help my situation. I could get out of bed, fill up my water heater, wait half an hour until it boiled, and then wash and absorb the steam. I could remain in bed and attempt to sleep. Or I could satisfy my craving for soup by mixing up the following ingredients (the only ingredients) that sat in the cardboard box in my kitchen:

•       rice
•        potatoes
•        onions
•        tomatoes
•       asparagus
•       cabbage

Close friends from last year.

I went for option number two. I tossed and I turned. I listened to the moths pitter patter on the piles of marking I had on my desk. I listened to them pitter patter on the window behind my wool head. I felt them pitter patter on my forehead.

I lay wide awake for about an hour, desperate for sleep.

And then the horns started. The monks and Lamas upstairs, in preparation for their house warming party, which I thought would start the next day, began to play their horns. The noise drifted from the upstairs apartment right into my ears.

-----

There are approximately 25 foreign teachers in Bhutan as part of the Bhutan Canada Foundation, ranging from places as close to Bhutan as Singapore and Australia, to as far away as Canada and the United States. We begin the year forming deep friendships for two weeks in the capital and then we are dropped off one by one to our remote locations, hoping we see eachother ever again. Many of my friends are 20 hours away drive on rough roads. Our friendships are bounded by one major similarity- we are all experiencing Bhutan together for the first time. When things get rough, or really really good, we let each other know. We are all in cell phone range but I am one of few with internet access.

-----

The horns continued to blast. I texted an American teacher, to her response:

“Only once you’ve lived in Bhutan, can you find yourself in a situation that you want to yell at monks.”

The text I sent before actually said something about stabbing monks, but I feel including this is too inappropriate for my Buddhist friends who are reading this right now. I have never stabbed a monk or even thought these morbid things really but my sick, weak, and fatigued body was finding myself growing more and more frustrated that evening.

Have I seriously grown into being this selfish that I want to blame a monk for my current unhappiness?

“Just let the horns float into your ears and calm your mind. Calm your soul. Give you strength to last the night,” I said to myself.

Fuck that, Sarah.

I slipped under my two pillows and deep into my sleeping bag. I tried to get as far away from the horns as I could.

A loud knock awoke me at the door accompanied by “Misssssss saaaaaaarahhhhhh”

Ohhh myyyyy goodness they have heard my thoughts.

I opened the door to find my housemate. She explained that the monks would be coming through the house with fire, and throwing rocks, to scare away the demons. The ritual is known in Dzongkha as “Gatey” and is typically performed to cleanse a house, especially after someone has died or has been really sick. In this case, it was being done to ensure that no bad spirits remain in the house after this special occasion.

Was I the demon?

I lay in bed thinking to myself, “At an unknown time in the next hour, monks are going to run through my house with fire and throw rocks. This is the third time it has happened this year. Which means this activity has actually become semi-normal for me.”

I screamed from my bed, “Gyem Lham is it sacrilegious for me to shut my door and sleep through this puja?”

“What?!” cried my housemate.

“Can I lock my door so the monks don’t enter my room?”

Silence.

“I mean, I am looking forward to seeing the monks!” I said.

I got out of bed and joined my housemate and her boyfriend. Fortunately, the bells sounded outside my window and the monks came right in no less than 5 minutes later. They chanted their mantras, visited each room in our house, threw small stones in each corner. They hit me with rocks and said, “don’t mind miss,” carried their torch and headed out as a couple of my students giggled behind.

Approximately 30 seconds later I took my wonder drug, also known as Nyquil, and passed out.

At 5 am the bells sounded again. I cranked my aching neck to turn around behind me. Blue skies enveloped the mountainous landscape that I call my backyard.

I went back into sleep. At 7am a knock pounded on my bedroom door. My house owner kindly stormed right into my room, “breakfast misssssss!” he bellowed out.

For lack of better words, my body felt like total shit. I told my housemate that I would have to take today off. I would try to join in the festivities later but for now my aching body needed rest.

Best dressed award. 

Again, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Too sick to fall asleep or read a book I listened as village people crowded the cement outside my bedroom. They sat down on woven carpets and held out their mugs to receive tea and biscuits. Many faces I didn’t recognize. They must have hiked the two hours up the mountain from Tangsibji, the village below mine, to join in this celebration. Our house had been built two years before but the house-owners decided this weekend they would celebrate its construction. Our house was decorated in its finest for its big birthday. Colourful yellow, red, and blue flags hung from the roof. Colourful scarves draped down from the corners. I suddenly felt underdressed in comparison to my house-turned-temporary monastery.

An overwhelming sense of guilt suddenly came over me. This was not only an incredibly special celebration but also a deeply spiritual and religious celebration. I feared what people would say if I was not present. I decided to suck it up, throw on my kira, the national dress for women, and head upstairs.

Our house is made up of 6 apartments. People were crowded in every one, sitting on the floor, drinking tea, and eating handfuls of buscuits. I saw the teachers in my friend’s apartment and joined them.

“Sarah something is wrong with you,” said my friend bluntly. “What is going on. You look like mad woman.”

“Mad woman, eh?” I thought. I guess I could’ve at least tamed the fro sitting atop my head.

I sat down. Content to be here, but feeling my body slowly crumbling into the floor. Students, acting as servers for the day, hurried over to me with a mug followed by suja- traditional butter tea (exactly as the title sounds). This particular cup was very smooth and perfectly satisfied my first meal of the day. I opened my hands to receive gifts from the students- pieces of fruit, cucumber, sweets, doma, and a 5 ngultrum bill. All of these were a thank you and appreciation for coming.

Approximately 5 minutes later, overwhelmed by the people and activity, the mad woman was back in bed.

By Thursday of that week my principal politely told me that I looked “horrible” and sounded “not normal.” He recommended I visit the hospital. We have a basic health unit in our village, but for any thorough examinations you must hitch a ride 45 minutes to Trongsa town and visit the hospital. As this day was National Environmental Day, and you could therefore not drive, I informed my students that I would be missing their classes on the Friday.

“Madam I hope the hospital helps you get rid of all of your diseases. Good luck,” exclaimed my grade 6 student as I headed out the door.

I waited on the main highway above my house for a ride. I ran into a good friend Sonam. His wife had just left this year for New York City for a month and I continued to see the emotion in his face each time I asked how she was doing. Today I changed the subject to his new bicycle he had beside him. We caught up for some time until another woman joined us, hoping to give her datsi, fresh cheese from her cows, to Sonam and send them off to Thimphu on the bus.

A beat-up old van rattled towards us. I waved my hand and tried to look like the most charming mad woman. The van slowed down and the driver stuck out his head.

“Kuzoo Zangpola Sir! Trongsa?” I asked

“Yes. But maybe this car is no good for you. Very dirty. You want lift?” He replied.

“Yes please! Kadinchela,” I exclaimed.

I waved goodbye to Sonam and his friend and hopped in the back along with a younger woman and an older farmer in the front. Both smiled kindly. We drove for some time, before the driver said, “you don’t remember me?”

………

“Hahha, sir you do look familiar! But I am sorry. Are you from Tshangkha?” I said.

“Ahhh yes yes yes yes. Livestock sir. We meet on road often.”

Apparently.

“So no school today?” he asked.

“Oh we do have school. Very busy preparing for exams. I need to visit the hospital though.” I croaked.

“So we will go hospital first and then I have to go to Dzong,” He said.

“Ahh that’s very kind of you I said. But I can climb up to the hospital. I’ll be okay,”

“Ha! Not for you,” he chuckled. “My leg is not working! I am going to the hospital.”

“Haha aaaalways thinking about myself. Oh no! It’s never good when your leg is not working. Good idea to fix it,” I said.

We picked up one more passanger, a hazelnut farmer, before we left our region and headed around the steep mountain curves to Trongsa.

Yesterday a good friend spent the afternoon making
me Bhutanese dumplings (momos) to cheer me up!

Trongsa hospital, of all of the places I have experienced in my area, has the best view. It sits above the town overlooking the entire valley. If I was a bird, which I am not, it would be my ultimate playground.

After giving my name to the receptionist I bounced to “office number 2,” excited to be cured of all my “diseases.” I sat down outside the office until a familiar monk came up to me and we began chatting.

“I still remember that picture we took together. I come visit your house some time?” He said.

Who is this charming monk? Perhaps I do really have more diseases than I thought.

We continued to talk and he mentioned a good friend of mine, Jude, a Canadian professor at the college where he works. Yes! Jeez, I spent an entire holiday with this monk and his family! We had picnics outside his house, and indeed we did have a photoshoot.

I asked Drumsey about his family and his paintings. I told him that I was trying to put together a mural with my students and asked if he could offer some help. He was delighted and insisted we meet for tea to discuss further. Then he gave me a good tap on the back of my head, similar to what my father does, and skipped off in his draping red robes.

I walked into the office in my cardigan. The doctor checked me out and hurried me to get a blood test, fearing for tuberculosis.

I sat down in the chair, held out my arm waiting for a needle, thinking for 30s if it was hygienic. Zap! In went the needle as I turned to the nurse beside, googling “wiki how.”

How much confidence do I really have in these doctors?

Inside the x ray office, I threw on a gown and stood with my arms up as the technician pushed me against a metal plate.

“Just relax,” said the technician.

Just relax, I thought.

I waited outside the x-ray office at the hospital until the technician came out with an image of my lungs and said, "need light, go dry outside."

So, I stood outside with my lungs blowing in the wind until yet another elder patient came up to me with his lungs.

Told you the view was okay.

"I like your lungs,” I said with a thumbs up.

He flashed me a smile. I asked him if he thought my lungs looked alright, or if I was sick. He gave me the traditional bhutanese headtilt, which I translated to, "they look super healthy!"

So we both stood with our lung images blowing over the mountain top gazing at the cliff drop below us and the flowing river. The rice fields dotted along the steep mountains were beginning to wake up after a long winter. Soon their colour would be a rich deep green and flooded by the monsoon rains.

I wonder if birds can get tuberculosis, I thought. 

We can beat this.

I remember sitting in a lecture hall in Teacher’s College only two years back, surrounded by 400 of my friends. The professor displayed a situation on the board and we were told to think-pair-share- a standard teaching strategy where students are required to think about the answer independently, share with their “elbow buddy” and then finally share their answer with the class. The situation read something like this:

Your new teaching job is located in a remote part of the world. You are surrounded by teachers who are constantly beating their students with sticks and using other forms of corporal punishment to discipline their students. You know that it is wrong but you want to blend into the culture. Teachers tell you that if you do not beat the students, you will not be able to control them.

I remember thinking quickly about how I would tackle that situation. I decided you have to do whatever you can in your own classroom, use your own teaching methods, and do not bother with those around you. As a teacher, you have certain values, and changing these values does not define being able to “adapt” to a new culture, especially if there is evidence that your actions are benefitting these students.  

A good pic.

I received a call from a friend during our first week in our Bhutanese placement. She was in a rage. I calmly asked her what was wrong and she proceeded to rant about the discipline happening in her school- children were being beaten with bamboo sticks, fists, and having their ears pulled. I could not believe what I was hearing and fortunately could not offer any advice since none of this was evident at my school. We discussed for a long time and she ended the conversation saying that she was going to keep track of the teachers using these methods and try her best to make a change in her school.

While I agreed that her situation was serious, my initial reaction was that it’s not our place, as an outsider, to change the entire system. I was hurt by what was happening, but I was not sure that influencing others’ actions, culturally, was the right thing to do. Certainly I was not going to beat in my own classroom, but I was not sure how much influence I could have on the others. Additionally, because these students grew up on this system, I did feel that they were more mentally and physically stronger and hence able to deal with this type of punishment. That being said, no part of me agreed that corporal punishment was having a positive impact on the students in the longterm.

A little while later I stood at the front of our daily assembly. I have grown to truly enjoy this community experience. It always begins the same way with our hands in prayer, followed by two students presenting a speech, some announcements and the anthem. One particular day, however, this calm, meditative experience was suddenly shattered when our principal took a fist to a couple students’ heads. I brainstormed what they could have done- killed someone, stolen money, poisoned a teacher. Of course none of this seemed possible nor did even these actions warrant the principal’s behaviour. I turned to the teacher beside me, “oh these two are not paying attention,” and she started to chuckle.  

Neither am I, I thought. For twenty minutes, you must stand completely erect, hands by your side, facing the front every morning. You have an itch? Scratch it quickly. Be subtle. The dogs are fighting beside you? Don’t you dare turn your head. The hardest for me, is trying not to watch the birds soaring in the valley below. Almost every morning they grace us with their beautiful performance, but I must hold my attention on the assembly. An impossible task for the antsy and fidgety type- AKA me.

Over the course of last year, I began to notice the corporal punishment in the school and my anxiety, the inner conflict of how to react as an outsider was compounding. It became increasingly clear that the concerns my friend faced at her school, were very much embedded in our system as well. I want to emphasize that not every teacher at school beats, but many of them do. And many of them beat severely. The advice I told myself in teachers college no longer seemed that easy. I’d walk into class to find giant bamboo sticks hidden away in the corner:

“For beating Miss!” exclaimed the students excitedly.

I continue to throw the sticks out the window to the applause by the students up until this day.

Grade 7 test answer, Namgay Choden. 

My concern grew as did my confusion about how the students were really being affected by their punishments. How could a smack by a bamboo stick across the back of your head warrant a big belly laugh by the students? It seemed so contradictory to have this reaction in a Buddhist culture which so much values selflessness and respect and sympathy for others. Certainly seeing their friends being beaten would make them think twice about their behaviour. And maybe it does.

The assumption I made halfway through last year was that students were beaten because their behaviour was what Bhutanese teachers would deem as “insufficient” and not conducive to creating a positive learning environment. This did not justify their actions, but I could understand it, without assimilating into that culture.

One day last year, I was walking out the door of my grade 6 classroom, to an overwhelming, “Don’t leave Miss!”

They couldn’t possibly enjoy English class that much.

The roar from the students continued, “Don’t leave us Miss!”

A student quickly explained that they would be receiving their science tests back in the following class. For every wrong answer on their test, they would be beaten by their teacher. This means, a student who scores 18 out of 20 would still be beaten. Would still be mentally brainwashed that they are “not good enough,” “that they don’t understand the concepts,” and most of all “must do better than the last test.”

What they remember is not that they almost got perfect, but that they were physically hurt by their teacher. They become fearful and anxious.

The equation is obvious: study for your test, work hard, and you will not be beaten. This is easy. The teacher no longer has to try. They don’t have to focus energy on creating a positive learning environment where their students can learn and question their learning. They can simply motivate through fear.

I can recognize this, but I cannot explain it effectively to Bhutanese teachers. Nor do I truly feel that as an outsider, it would be appropriate. Corporal punishment is so much embedded in the system that any change seems unreasonable and far too ambitious for them.

Turning our classroom into the solar system. 

I was fortunate to attend a workshop last year on “Educating for Gross National Happiness.” I was beaming for most of the weekend with the progressive ideas presented by the teachers, the new ways of teaching, which emphasize cooperative and interactive learning. It was exciting and incredibly motivating to be surrounded by engaged and active teachers. But my mind continued to be drawn to the corporal punishment I had witnessed at school. Why don’t we work on weeding that out of our system, before we can even discuss the values of “gross national happiness?” These progressive ideas contradict the fear that the students are so much experiencing every single day in almost every single class. There was a giant paradox in trying to implement these ideas in a system that is already so laden with authoritative practices.

I conducted a presentation on positive discipline techniques upon arrival back at school from the workshop. I gave the teachers concrete ways that they could implement these practices in their classrooms with the resources we have available. We discussed the decision by the Bhutanese Ministry of Education in 1997, which stated corporal punishment should not be used in schools. We discussed the 2008 resolution to ban corporal punishment. I emphasized the importance of positive discipline and admitted that it will take many years before these practices can be implemented effectively. Students will take time to adapt and change their behaviour in response to that system. Most of all, I made a significant effort to be understanding and not condescending in how I presented the material. 

The response by the teachers was concerning. Many responded with lines such as, “but you don’t understand miss, this is how it has always been. This is how we do things here.”

Yes, that is true. But why not begin to make small changes and start somewhere?

I committed myself after this presentation and the workshop to doing exactly this. I decided to simply focus on what I was doing in my own classroom and not let the thoughts of other teachers get to me.        Most of all, not to become weak mentally in my own classroom due to the contrast in the teaching philosophies of those around me.   

The day after my presentation, I was surprised to see two of my students prostrating to our “goddess of wisdom” statue outside the school for an entire 45 minute period. I asked them why they felt the need to do that. Instead of being beaten the students were told to prostrate- to now associate religion as a form of discipline.

Progress, I thought.

My biggest challenge last year was with my rowdy, to say the least, grade 4 class. Students who would jump through the window, cut eachothers’ hair, swallow pen ink, and sucker punch their elbow buddy. These students in particular were so conditioned to a system of corporal punishment that any stray from that was simply an outlet for them to act out- mostly in a negative way. Positive discipline techniques, where students were rewarded for positive behaviour, where students recognized what they did wrong, were way beyond their limit.

But we worked at it. And we had lots of stickers. And students rewarded eachother with a big “thuuuumbs up” when someone did something positive in class. And we had circle discussions on ways to “make our class nicer, to be kinder to eachother.” And we created classroom rules. And we wrote constructive letters to improve our behaviour the next day. And I sent students on short runs during class to get rid of their energy so they could focus in class. And Miss Sarah continued to pull out her hair after class, because the progress was so small. But we continued to work. 

Until one day I walked in with a giant meter stick to measure the board at the back and the students grew silent. They were conditioned to see a stick and think “beating.”

This would be easy I thought. I don’t have to even beat I just have to put this stick on my desk.

But that’s not why I was here. I came to do what I could in my own class, to bring in new ways, and try to build a community, build a family in my class to steer away from this corporal punishment. To give these students the opportunity to recognize why what they did was wrong and do better the next day.

I continue with this battle. I am not an experienced teacher, but I am motivated and I am creative. I can come up with strategies the morning of, but implementing them in this rigid, corporal punishment system is my challenge.

Grade 7 Test answer, Tshering Dendup. 

Last week I walked up to a class with a class 8 student who works on my school newspaper. He’s a rowdy boy, but he is one of the more well-read and open-minded students I have met. I have grown to really admire him. He asked me on our walk which class I was going to and if these students were “naughty.”

“In fact, they do seem to be a bit more naughty than last year. But I think it’s because there are 40 of them now in that tiny little room,” I responded.

“Miss is beating?” I was shocked at his question.

“Oh no. Not me. Do you think beating is good, Jigme?” I asked.

“I think sometimes. Sometimes students have to be beat. But other students can learn when teacher advises them. But advice doesn’t always work.”

I thought for a moment. I think Jigme nailed the current challenges of this.

And so I continue to have to hope. I continue to gain strength in my own classroom, to recognize the growth in how the students respond to positive discipline. Most of all, to make my students realize their growth. I work against every grain to make my students comfortable enough that they can express their thoughts and speak without that constant fear and anxiety of that damn stick.

I walked into my 7B class the other day. I whispered to them, “I have a secret for you.”

“What!” whispered the class.

“I care about each and every one of you,” I whispered.

“That’s not a secret miss. We know that,” said Choney in the back. 

"Next year is an auspicious year to tear down houses."

I heard a loud knock on the door. It was 6:30 am on a school day last October. I had woken up a mere 5 minutes before. My hair was a bird’s nest of fun. My Bhutanese housemate was passed out on her stomach in bed as I crept through her room to get to the door.

I opened the door to see my landlord standing in our garden.

“Good mooooorning Miss Sarah!” he was almost singing.

“Goood mooooorning Sir!! Great to see you!”

(Who was I kidding?)

“Next year is an auspicious year to tear down houses. If I get bank loan I think we must tear this house down.”

“And where should I live?” I asked. Is next year also an auspicious year to be homeless?

My new bathroom!

Bedroom in my new house.

Houses in my area dotted the mountainous landscape but were few in number and already housed a combination of shop owners, schoolteachers, and staff employed in the national park directly across from my school. I could look out my window and see almost all of the houses. And could name all of the people who occupied them.

“Do not worry Miss! I will build you a temporary shack to live in.”

“So don’t worry Sarah,” I thought. I reflected on the last 8 months I had spent scraping mold off the ceiling of this house in monsoon season, mopping up the floor every time it rained because half of our roof was merely a pile of thin wood planks, and going to sleep to rat concerts every night. I would do laundry every Sunday to find almost all of my clothes eaten by rats so later tightly sealed buckets filled our house, protecting our clothes from those sneaky little rodents. We only had indoor plumbing in our bathroom, so all kitchen chores were completed outside in our outdoor tap. During monsoon season, we filled up buckets to bring inside or used the small tap in the bathroom and listened to the rain pound on the makeshift tin roof that was added so our toilet would be "inside." In fact I distinctly remember walking into my grade 5 class in March and the boy in front row piping up, “Oh miss! You moved into my house from last year! We moved because our roof blew off!”

I smiled and continued with the lesson.

My toilet!

For whatever reason, I actually began to find this place really quite endearing in the spring and summer. It was peaceful, my bedroom looked right out onto a picturesque Himalayan valley, and my newly adopted grandmother, or angay, would drop off fresh vegetables to my door every now and then. Would “a temporary shack” be better or worse?

I lived with a Bhutanese girl last year who kept me more sane and became a very close companion. We would spend our evenings huddled around our heater laughing our guts out, reflecting on the day, and talking of cultural differences between Canada and Bhutan, with Hindi or Dzongkha music crooning in the background. She was a couple years younger than I and was used to a slightly more luxurious life in the Bhutanese capital. When the rat concerts became less thrilling for her, she would bring her mattress into my room and sleep right by my bed for protection. I didn't mind her company.

Cow food! Yumm yumm

After picturing what my “temporary shack” could look like, I “shifted” houses on my final weekend last year in December. Four cooks from school showed up at my door, strapped my bed to their back with rope, picked up my few belongings and marched down the road to a concrete house directly across from my school. I’m now living on the ground floor of a big house in a small two-bedroom apartment surrounded by teachers, their families, park staff, and a tiger chaser next door. “Tap tap” the cooks knocked on my bedroom window that faced the valley below, “boys come visit at night sarah. Tap tap.” I chuckled it off, slightly questioning if the historical act of “night hunting,” a terrifying way of finding a spouse, still existed here in my community.

                                -------

My hot water source. Used for instant coffee,
laundry, showers, and everything in between.

I usually get home from school at about 4:00 after making the three minute hike down the mountain from the staffroom. I wash dishes piled up from breakfast and lunch quickly then either make some tea or head to my friend’s to have tea with her family upstairs. Any remaining food scraps I put into a bowl and stand outside screaming “Kaaarma.” Karma, my old student, runs up the mountain, takes the vegetables, and gives them to his mother who magically turns it into mush for her cows. (my brilliant way of keeping the cows full so they don’t wake me up with their, “moooooo!!” at midnight from hunger.) Now I am ready to go for a walk with teachers at school. We walk or run about 3 km to a local holy water well on the side of the mountain. “If you drink from here, your voice will be the most beautiful,” said my friend. If you drink from here, you will get stomach pains for the rest of the week, I thought, gulping down the water.

Look at that cute little kitchen!

Around 6pm I light my gas stove, chop veggies, wash rice to put in my cute little rice cooker, and prepare a vegetable curry. If I happen to be out of vegetables, I put on my gumboots, grab my flashlight, and steal some spinach from tiger chaser’s garden.  I usually eat dinner by about 730 either alone or with my friend who lives upstairs. I’ll bring my rice and we’ll share curries. Due to my heavy course load this year, I tend to be up until about ten planning and in bed to read or watch my guilty addiction to Gilmore Girls until eleven.

Gas stove. "You should not light.
You will explode the house," said a teacher when he moved me in.

My refrigerator! Yumm yumm

I wake up naturally with the sun around 6 but doze in my bed until 6:50 am at which point an electronic british lady exclaims, “it is 6:50, it is now 6:50 tiiiiime to get up.” I have successfully mastered multi-tasking, a skill that has taken me at least a decade to accomplish. Here goes my morning routine. I dash to my bathroom, fill my 3L water heater, and plug it in. If we do not have electricity, I fill a big pot of water and put it on the stove. While the water is boiling, I wash one cup of rice with my indoor plumbing and kitchen sink, and put on the rice cooker. I chop one tomato, onion, spinach, and fry two eggs. After the rice goes “ding!” I add it to the veggies for my fried rice breakfast and wait for my water to boil to make my instant Nescafe, praying every morning, for Starbucks coffee.  I strip down, pour the remaining boiled water in my bucket and mix with cold water for my bucket (fucket) shower. Water takes about half an hour to boil, so I usually have enough for about half a bucket of water for my morning shower. I alternate mornings of soaping my body, or shampooing and conditioning my hair every morning. On Sundays I can take a full body and hair shower when I have an hour to heat up water. I get out of my shower, hear the school bell ring, signifying the start of yard cleaning for the students, giving me exactly twenty minutes to dress and run out the door, up the mountain, to school.

The bucket shower. 

The school week runs from Monday to Saturday at lunch. The closest vegetable and fruit market is in the nearest town a 45 minute drive away. So, after lunch on Saturdays, usually consisting of leftover fried rice from breakfast, I will wait patiently and charmingly on the side of the east-west high way outside my house for a nice driver to pick me up and drop me off in town. It can take anywhere from 10 minutes to 1 hour. Sometimes I try to look desperate and starving, so drivers will be more likely to pick up this foreigner in desperate need of apples and cauliflower. Because I do not have a fridge, I have to go about once a week for produce. For my sanity, I pick up a little chocolate and disgustingly sweet Indian wine in town too.

Living room in my new house.

Sundays are usually spent enjoying sleeping in. I really like coffee. In Bhutan, I mostly enjoy the act of drinking the coffee, versus the actual coffee itself. I like taking my time to sip my coffee. Sunday mornings give me the time to do this and enjoy fresh French toast, with the bread I get from town the day before. A plate of French toast has also proven to be a good bribery method for my neighbour to burn all my garbage, since I tend to light the garbage, and then get distracted. It would be just terrible if the foreign teacher caused a massive forest fire wouldn’t it? By noon I usually complete my laundry for the week. I soak it in soap in my bucket for about an hour, rub it to bits on the rock outside my house, squuuuueeeeze out the soap, and hang to dry as I contemplate that wool was the stupidest material I could have possibly brought to Bhutan.

Cooking curry most likely. 

My  one heat source. If there's no power, you freeze.

Laundry day!

There’s something ever so satisfying about putting effort into everyday basic activities that I take for absolute granted back home. I love that I make my shower and literally wash my laundry. I love that I know which garden everything in my kitchen comes from. I go to sleep on Sundays feeling satisfied. Thinking back to my life I know all too well and that I left back home, and how I’ve adapted to this completely foreign simplistic new life in ways I never thought imaginable, bring a smile to my face. Some days I do long for my fancy espressos and hot showers, but this is how I have chosen to live. I strongly believe that anyone can live anywhere. And that’s pretty cool to be able to slide right into another life just like that last piece of a puzzle. And so here I sit on my mat outside my house, gazing out into the himalayas, watching my bucket laundry dry, as I slip into this alternate, beautifully seductive world.