Update #4: Tomijangsa
In episode #3, our heroine learned “why social science is a good field for ladies: it doesn’t require that much effort,” according to a Nepali engineer.
*****
When last we saw our heroine, the Lady Social Scientist, she was being born north, toward Trashiyangtse district headquarters, reclining on her palanquin, accompanied by her parasol-carrying and corset-tightening maidservants, who ensured that she did not expend “much effort” in the conduct of her work.
After becoming accustomed to such indolence, she was greatly surprised to find herself in the village of Tomijangsa, where she had to walk as much as an hour-and-a-half uphill (both ways, natch) to conduct interviews. Her companions were sure that a walk of any greater distance would be damaging to her delicate constitution.
Yet, somehow, miraculously, the Lady Social Scientist survived more than a week in the village, at a house in the middle of an orange orchard, suffering only the minor-est of calamities: a young bachelor host who, though gallant and welcoming, was unaccustomed to cooking; a vehicle breakdown; a sprained ankle; and a mild case of giardia. The ankle and intestines are on the mend, the vehicle’s engine block has gone to Thimphu to be repaired, and the Lady Social Scientist has returned to town where vegetables are more plentiful..
******
The minor inconveniences of village life were more than offset by the kindness and generosity of the villagers, the large number of interviews I completed, and the opportunity to participate in two local festivals. The grandest celebration was the three-day 11 November celebration. 11 November is the birth anniversary of the revered Fourth King, Jigme Singye Wangchuk, who recently abdicated the throne in favor of his son, Jigme Geysar Namgyel Wangchuk, commonly known as “Geysar.” This year’s festivities were to be especially grand, as King Geysar, the Fifth King will be crowned in 2008, and thus people especially wanted to honor the Fourth King who has done so much for the country.
The day was doubly auspicious as it was also a Hindu holiday: Bhi (younger brother) Tika (blessing). On this day, part of the long festival of Dasain/ Dusshera celebrated by Hindus in India and Nepal, elder sisters give blessings to their younger brothers, who in turn must treat them as a god for a day. In male-dominated Hindu society, this is pretty much the only time when females are given any regard at all.
The auspiciousness of these celebrations is increased if a foreigner or special guest is present, and thus I had multiple and conflicting obligations for the date. The Dzongdag, the head of the District, had invited me to come to the district center for their celebration, which would be one of his first official acts as new Dzongdag. I arose at 5:45, so that I’d have plenty of time to wrap and re-wrap my kira before the hour and a half drive to Trashiyangtse.
The route to Trashiyangtse goes past the home of some Hindu friends, who had previously invited me to celebrate Bhi Tika with them. As I was passing by, they insisted that I have breakfast with them. Over Nescafe, they informed me that the road to Trashiyangtse was blocked by a broken down truck and thus impassible. Instead of proceeding onward to Trashiyangtse, I returned to the 11 November celebration in Tomijangsa on the school grounds. By 10 am, I was back where I’d started. The school’s principal took me into the white tent, where officials and lamas were sitting in the shade, while school children and villagers, seated on the ground around the school’s playing field, baked in the hot sun.
From the comfort of plastic deck chairs in the tent, we sipped sudja (butter tea) and watched traditional Bhutanese dances performed by the students, a cham (dance of the tshechu) that went on for nearly 30 minutes, and various foot races and competitions, including a sack race, an obstacle course, and a balloon bursting competition.
I walked onto the playing field to photograph the tug-of-war, only to discover that the back of my kira had come loose, and the whole thing was threatening to unravel. One of the teachers noticed my predicament, and rushed out to assist me as I stood on the playing field facing that perpetual nightmare of appearing in public with no clothes. Much to the amusement of on-lookers, she re-wrapped the kira and re-wound the kira belt, tightening it securely. It is a strange country where even adults need help getting dressed.
That evening, a “cultural show” was a chance for everyone to let loose after the formality of the official 11 November celebration. It took place inside the school’s packed and sweaty auditorium, with people seated on the floor and jammed in the doorway. Babies were passed from hand to hand over the crowd like so many sacks of potatoes. Most of the adults were drunk, wandering in and out, and shouting for the prettiest girls. This was a side of Bhutan I hadn’t seen before: people were rude, vulgar and aggressive, a far cry from the official courtly manners of driglam namzha that are the norm. The scene reminded me of a high school dance, where students make the most of a few precious hours of freedom before being returned to the watchful eyes of their parents.
I found a spot near the door, but people kept falling on me. A sixth grade girl invited me to take an empty seat next to her. She translated some of the skits for me – one was a morality tale about the trials and tribulations of two girls who had left from this area to go to Thimphu. They met two boys, and ended up with HIV. The skit followed one of them to the doctor, where she received her diagnosis, and then to her unhappy life as a household servant for a rich man in Thimphu. As the girl was describing the story to me, she asked if I had heard of Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan. It was only then that I understood just how small the world that these people inhabit is. At two long days’ drive away, Thimphu is impossibly far away – a storied place of bright lights and dangerous diseases and demeaning servitude for those who aren’t educated – but not really part of their world. I had thought that this particular girl might be a bit more worldly, as she lives on the main road where her father owns a shop (and where I had bought beer earlier in the day, coincidentally). But Thimphu is really not part of the understanding of these people. Most have never left the place where they were born. At most, they may travel to the nearby towns of Trashigang or Trashiyangtse, but these places are still very far from Thimphu. Now that electricity has arrived here, people watch television – the places depicted on TV must seem like planet away from the grueling daily work of farming: planting, guarding the crops against predation by wild boars, moving the cattle between pastures, harvesting, drying, winnowing grinding, and storing the grain, only to begin again in the spring.
*****
When last we saw our heroine, the Lady Social Scientist, she was being born north, toward Trashiyangtse district headquarters, reclining on her palanquin, accompanied by her parasol-carrying and corset-tightening maidservants, who ensured that she did not expend “much effort” in the conduct of her work.
After becoming accustomed to such indolence, she was greatly surprised to find herself in the village of Tomijangsa, where she had to walk as much as an hour-and-a-half uphill (both ways, natch) to conduct interviews. Her companions were sure that a walk of any greater distance would be damaging to her delicate constitution.
Yet, somehow, miraculously, the Lady Social Scientist survived more than a week in the village, at a house in the middle of an orange orchard, suffering only the minor-est of calamities: a young bachelor host who, though gallant and welcoming, was unaccustomed to cooking; a vehicle breakdown; a sprained ankle; and a mild case of giardia. The ankle and intestines are on the mend, the vehicle’s engine block has gone to Thimphu to be repaired, and the Lady Social Scientist has returned to town where vegetables are more plentiful..
******
The minor inconveniences of village life were more than offset by the kindness and generosity of the villagers, the large number of interviews I completed, and the opportunity to participate in two local festivals. The grandest celebration was the three-day 11 November celebration. 11 November is the birth anniversary of the revered Fourth King, Jigme Singye Wangchuk, who recently abdicated the throne in favor of his son, Jigme Geysar Namgyel Wangchuk, commonly known as “Geysar.” This year’s festivities were to be especially grand, as King Geysar, the Fifth King will be crowned in 2008, and thus people especially wanted to honor the Fourth King who has done so much for the country.
The day was doubly auspicious as it was also a Hindu holiday: Bhi (younger brother) Tika (blessing). On this day, part of the long festival of Dasain/ Dusshera celebrated by Hindus in India and Nepal, elder sisters give blessings to their younger brothers, who in turn must treat them as a god for a day. In male-dominated Hindu society, this is pretty much the only time when females are given any regard at all.
The auspiciousness of these celebrations is increased if a foreigner or special guest is present, and thus I had multiple and conflicting obligations for the date. The Dzongdag, the head of the District, had invited me to come to the district center for their celebration, which would be one of his first official acts as new Dzongdag. I arose at 5:45, so that I’d have plenty of time to wrap and re-wrap my kira before the hour and a half drive to Trashiyangtse.
The route to Trashiyangtse goes past the home of some Hindu friends, who had previously invited me to celebrate Bhi Tika with them. As I was passing by, they insisted that I have breakfast with them. Over Nescafe, they informed me that the road to Trashiyangtse was blocked by a broken down truck and thus impassible. Instead of proceeding onward to Trashiyangtse, I returned to the 11 November celebration in Tomijangsa on the school grounds. By 10 am, I was back where I’d started. The school’s principal took me into the white tent, where officials and lamas were sitting in the shade, while school children and villagers, seated on the ground around the school’s playing field, baked in the hot sun.
From the comfort of plastic deck chairs in the tent, we sipped sudja (butter tea) and watched traditional Bhutanese dances performed by the students, a cham (dance of the tshechu) that went on for nearly 30 minutes, and various foot races and competitions, including a sack race, an obstacle course, and a balloon bursting competition.
I walked onto the playing field to photograph the tug-of-war, only to discover that the back of my kira had come loose, and the whole thing was threatening to unravel. One of the teachers noticed my predicament, and rushed out to assist me as I stood on the playing field facing that perpetual nightmare of appearing in public with no clothes. Much to the amusement of on-lookers, she re-wrapped the kira and re-wound the kira belt, tightening it securely. It is a strange country where even adults need help getting dressed.
That evening, a “cultural show” was a chance for everyone to let loose after the formality of the official 11 November celebration. It took place inside the school’s packed and sweaty auditorium, with people seated on the floor and jammed in the doorway. Babies were passed from hand to hand over the crowd like so many sacks of potatoes. Most of the adults were drunk, wandering in and out, and shouting for the prettiest girls. This was a side of Bhutan I hadn’t seen before: people were rude, vulgar and aggressive, a far cry from the official courtly manners of driglam namzha that are the norm. The scene reminded me of a high school dance, where students make the most of a few precious hours of freedom before being returned to the watchful eyes of their parents.
I found a spot near the door, but people kept falling on me. A sixth grade girl invited me to take an empty seat next to her. She translated some of the skits for me – one was a morality tale about the trials and tribulations of two girls who had left from this area to go to Thimphu. They met two boys, and ended up with HIV. The skit followed one of them to the doctor, where she received her diagnosis, and then to her unhappy life as a household servant for a rich man in Thimphu. As the girl was describing the story to me, she asked if I had heard of Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan. It was only then that I understood just how small the world that these people inhabit is. At two long days’ drive away, Thimphu is impossibly far away – a storied place of bright lights and dangerous diseases and demeaning servitude for those who aren’t educated – but not really part of their world. I had thought that this particular girl might be a bit more worldly, as she lives on the main road where her father owns a shop (and where I had bought beer earlier in the day, coincidentally). But Thimphu is really not part of the understanding of these people. Most have never left the place where they were born. At most, they may travel to the nearby towns of Trashigang or Trashiyangtse, but these places are still very far from Thimphu. Now that electricity has arrived here, people watch television – the places depicted on TV must seem like planet away from the grueling daily work of farming: planting, guarding the crops against predation by wild boars, moving the cattle between pastures, harvesting, drying, winnowing grinding, and storing the grain, only to begin again in the spring.
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