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.
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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.
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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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.
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.
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 |
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.
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