Blessings and Lunch in Tang Valley

We duck into a narrow room hanging out over the cliff. Three walls and a slanted floor made of wooden planks are built around a supporting rock wall where a fire charred boulder has been converted into a kitchen and big, fat pots blacken over open flames. Women and children line the perimeter of the floor and two little ones are shuffled to the side to make room for us to sit. Bright light leaks through slender, glassless windows, slashing silver streaks across the room washing the shadowed faces in a soft, serene glow. Everyone is staring at us, eyes wide and full in the center, pinched like a teardrop at the outer corners, plump lips curled into amused grins.

Today has been my favorite day in Bhutan.

Bhadraman, our taxi driver for the day, picked us up late morning in Jakar and as we turn left off the paved east-west highway, (only wide enough for two cars if one drops his tires off the shoulder) the dirt road begins climbing up and over the ridge into Tang Valley. With each rotation the skinny tires find larger rocks and ruts to navigate. The fact that this little car can crawl its way up these mountains is incredible—Indian made Maruti Suzukis are Bhutan’s modern day mule.

We pass a tour bus parked at the trailhead leading to the much fabled Mebar tsho, ‘Burning Lake,’ but continue on past a plateau crowned by the Pema Thekchok Choling Shedra nunnery; a monastic school (shedra) housing 100 nuns ages 11-70. Our little mule-car grinds away without complaint, the road conditions worsening with each zigzag. Bhadra leaves the steed on the side of the road and we begin the short but steep hike up to Kunzangdra Goempa, a tiny little monastery nestled in the hollow of a cliff.

Built in 1488 by the infamous spiritual treasure finder, Terton Pema Lingpa, the monastery served as both his residence and a meditation point for Guru Rinpoche. Overlooking Lingpa’s birthplace, Drangchel village, Kunzangdra is one of the most significant sites for followers of the Nyingma Buddhist tradition and a revered place of pilgrimage for Bhutanese, housing several sacred relics including a stone bearing Lingpa’s footprint. Pema Lingpa was born to the Nyo clan and his direct descendants, the house of Wangchuck, woud later become the hereditary kings of Bhutan.  Lingpa is known as the Patron Saint of Bhutan. 

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The subtle hum of animated voices lets us know we’re getting close. Colorful figures appear dotting the vertical stone steps up to the temple. A circle of women and children dressed in rainbows sit around big cardboard boxes overflowing with miniature bags of Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips, Center Fruit gum, orange soda and Coca-Cola; the modern evolution of temple offerings.

Today is the 5^th King’s birthday which happens to coincide with the lhakhang’s annual puja held in honor of Pema Lingpa. Kids are running up and down the stairs, dogs trying to stay out from under feet. The slightest snow is falling, so soft it may not be happening at all. A Himalayan hawk floats overhead, his enormous wingspan outstretched, effortlessly embracing the whims of the wind. Fields in the valley below are cut with smooth, rounded edges that melt into the natural contours of the mountain. Bright green wheat shoots splatter the dry scape with little puddles of color; the first crops reborn in the barren fields of winter.

Climbing the steps we exchange endless kuzuzangpo-la’s, hello’s, Tashi Delek’s, head bobs, exaggerated bows and hearty smiles. Everyone is dressed in their best gear; kiras and gohs in every imaginable color combination. People are glowing. As soon as we reach the first level we are quickly ushered across a little bridge and into the gonkhang, Pema Lingpa’s former living quarters.

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Lunch is being served! You must eat! Please, please. Come, come!

I am quickly handed a small bowl/cup and before I have time to fling the puddle of water out of the bottom it is filled to the brim with singchong, a home brewed wheat beer. Each family brings their own batch to the puja where they are combined in a big bucket mixing each brewers style and flavor. The result is a sweet fermented lemonade of sorts and I tell myself that the alcohol will surely kill whatever could have been lurking in that water puddle. Before I can finish my first cup, another round is poured.

Then for the string of polite refusals for food; a customary three “no thank you’s” before we are passed a plate shoveled with a giant ladle full of rice served out of a five gallon insulated drink cooler. A big chunk of butter plops into the middle of my rice mound followed by a pinch of salt sprinkled by the head hostess herself. This one woman show is enthusiastically directing the lunch circus, ensuring that all bellies are full of both food and laughter. Her gestures are wild and her voice even louder, the theatrics growing larger each time the room explodes at her jokes. It appears she has not been skipping her own cup on the rounds of singchong as she teeters back and forth, clearly pleased with herself and her hilarious sense of humor. She insists that I am very skinny- “eat more, more, up to your neck,” she says.

Michael adds, “Yes, I like fat women, the bigger the better,” and she nods contentedly. One young man in the corner is shaking with laughter, face bright red, cheeks bulging trying not to spit out his rice. I guess he speaks English.

I am served a big mug of warm milk and a bowlful of broth with chili and potato. I look around surveying everyone’s eating techniques—they scoop up a handful of rice and butter and smash it into a ball in the palm of their hand. One old man wearing thick, dark glasses is sitting across from me using both hands to make huge baseballs of rice. I cannot bring myself to fist the food so I pinch off as much as I can between thumb and peace fingers, shoveling quickly into my mouth as pieces of rice rain back onto my plate and lap.

hostess/ring leader

The hostess points to the old man making rice baseballs and says what I interpret as, ‘he’s naughty.’ The entire room bursts out laughing. I don’t understand until he smiles a huge grin revealing just one tooth… ‘he’s no teeth.’

I successfully refuse offers of seconds, thirds and fourths and still manage to get an approving nod from the hostess as I pat my belly. We kadinche-la profusely and make our way back outside where the sun has chased away the snow. I rinse my hands under a faucet but am left with a thick residue of butter, the water just beading and rolling off my fat slicked fingers.

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two boys hiding from the monk

We climb to the top two temples and pay our respects to the statues of Guru Rinpoche, Pema Lingpa and several other disciples whose names I couldn’t understand. Coming down the haphazard steps I am thankful that I didn’t drink a third cup of singchong. My toothless friend takes hold of my buttery hands and mumbles a string of indecipherable blessings. Michael promises that he can be my husband in the next life. His grandson translates and the old man is elated at his good fortune. 

Sidestepping the groups of picnickers and napping dogs we offer many goodbye’s, thank you’s and Tashi Delek’s. I, like the old toothless man, cannot erase the smile on my face.