I’m tired of hearing myself complain. About the cold, the litter, the mysterious ways of the Bhutanese, about being lonely and stiff of limb, about work overload and the lack of art and music in my life, about the scratchy sound of the domestic helper’s out-of-tune radio playing in the yard while she basks in the sun on her day off. It’s so easy to find fault. Enough.

This idea of focussing on gratitude has been on my mind for a while now (see last post) and so I decided to put some concerted effort into it.

I spent the morning contemplating what is good in my life, what I can be thankful for. Like fresh milk and a good mattress and the way the sun hits my meditation cushion at exactly 7:30 in the morning right when I’m imagining the syllable AH, that I even have a meditation cushion and all sorts of nice things on my shrine, and that someone very special has taught me what to do with these things, that no one lives upstairs from me, that the disturbing sound of merenge and bachata music has not entered my ears since I left New York, that I have no mice, that I have no cockroaches, that I have good friends (though far away) and teachers, that my family is healthy, that I can make hot chocolate whenever I want, that I have a view of the dzong and can be at the top of Taktsang in a matter of hours if I’ve got the urge.

As I made this mental list, I felt something relax in my chest where anxiety has been dominating for weeks.

I had meetings in Thimphu that afternoon so I walked into town through the rice fields, thankful for the sunshine and for the man chopping wood and for the baby cow. Thankful that I have arms and legs and lungs (although my legs feel as if they are screwed on incorrectly, perhaps from weeks of being stiff with cold). Thankful for the eyeful of snow capped mountains. As I entered the town through the main street, a taxi slowed to a stop near the empty lot where the town dogs were all resting from a night of barking, lying in the sun between discrete piles of garbage. The driver rolled down his window called, “Thimphu Thimphu!” and I was grateful that I didn’t have to walk to the stand and wait for half an hour for a shared taxi to fill up. And grateful that I could make the driver and the other passengers smile. Yes! A full taxi meant we could all go straight away. The other passengers were together in the back seat so I got to sit up front, and was grateful. I acknowledged a glimmer of innocent joy in my bones.

And then—as if I was being rewarded for this repositioning of my attitude, for intentionally feeling positive and noticing the good things—I suddenly noticed a very good thing sitting on the dashboard of the taxi. My hat. My beloved straw hat that I’d purchased at the Spring Street flea market last summer and which I lost about two months ago when it fell out of my bag in a taxi. “My hat!” I exclaimed. “You found it!” And everyone in the car beamed. “I kept it there for finding,” said the driver.

We drove merrily along to Thimphu and no one was chewing gum and I was grateful. In Thimphu everything went smoothly for a change. I had meetings at the Royal Education Council, The Royal University of Bhutan, the Bhutan Foundation. Everyone was kind and helpful, the conversations were stimulating and fruitful, and I ended up with a large stack of excellent text books. I did my errands without a snag. Printing, fetching, collecting. I picked up my plane ticket at Druk Air where they’ve started using an orderly number system and my number was called and the ticket was cheaper than I expected. All the while I tried to feel gratitude and offer it up, imagining that someone who was hitting obstacles could receive a dose of this feeling of ease. All the while thinking, this could end at any second.

But it didn’t end. Having crossed off every last thing from my list, I hopped in a local taxi that took me to the lot where Paro taxis collect passengers and there was one waiting for a final person. No waiting in the cold lot, no hassles. No one was chewing gum and the driver was careful on the curves. He was also willing to take me all the way to my doorstep in Olothang. I unpacked my straw hat, gave it a good sponging, and set it on the sill to regain its shape. How miraculous that I have it in my hands again.

Night fell. I was grateful for my big bed and my nice flat, cold as it may be. I was grateful that someone invented the hot water bottle and that there was hot water for me to fill it. And grateful that my big Khampa friend just gave me the most wonderful warm slippers (two pairs!) and fleece lined socks a girl could wish for.

In a few days I’ll be sleeping around again, many beds to come as I take a trip to the tropics, something for which I am profoundly grateful.

Isn’t that refreshing?

Manny’s place, Thimphu (January 2, 2012) — I had a big meeting on Tuesday morning with all the stakeholders of the Lho Mon Education Curriculum Design Workshop. I took a shared taxi, my pin striped suit packed in a small duffle. In my pocket was the key to Manny’s place. Aum Pek had handed it to me last week at Thimphu’s little rag tag public library where we met and wrung our hands about the affect of media on Bhutanese youth. Manny works for her at the Bhutan Center for Media and Democracy but he’s in Bodhgaya getting is Kalachakra on. I barely know Manny so it was extra nice of him to trust me to spend the night alone in his room.

It had snowed on new years day, a lovely way to start the year. And on the way to Thimphu I saw a rainbow. And in Thimphu I met a movie star who drove me in her bathrobe to see a Buddha. So when this is the kind of thing I can say about a regular day, I should be grateful. Gratitude is one of the things happy people practice on a regular basis, I read recently.

Otherwise, I’ve been sticking close to home lately. The meeting went very well. That’s a subject for my other blog.

Thimphu (December 16, 2011) — Rebellion against the routine boiled over and I left Paro half packed, forgetting to turn off the geyser. I just had to leave. Where else but to the grand metropolis of Thimphu. I found a shared taxi that took the usual hour and multiplied it by forever, picking up and dropping off people on their errands. One had a bag of dried fish that smelled like a homeless man’s rotten feet. No one was snapping gum, so there was that. I remained patient, eyes on the prize of a change of scenery. 

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I took some money out of the ATM (praise the strong dollar) and went to get a hair cut. But first I had to make my way through a violent street fight, boys with knives and grudges. I slipped through their angry melee and watched from the window with the ladies at the salon. Only after it was over did I remember to take a photo so I missed the grimaces and tussles. 

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Maybe those boys slapping each other in the dirt did something to me. Fueled my own rebellion. I sat in the chair and asked the lady to bleach three chunks of hair white blond. It’s very bright. I tucked these strands into hiding and headed for Karma’s coffee for an important meeting with my fifth and final pilot project partner, the Bhutan Association of Women Entrepreneurs, and had a wonderful conversation about what we can do for young women who come to this town expecting riches and end up on their heels. Or worse. 

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Next on the agenda was Deer Park Thimphu for Lama Shenphen’s movie night. It was so good to see familiar faces. And the film was good too, Zhang Yimou’s Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles. Tashi and Bunty and Karen and lots of other people were there. It’s the last film night for 3 weeks while Lama heads off to Taiwan. I stopped off at Phuntsho Wangmo’s to drop my bags, have a chat and some tea, and then headed out with some friends to the new bar, Zest, which is actually really nice. From there we grew into a larger group and headed to Space 34 for some dancing. I let the blond fly. The deejay played the same old songs as usual, switching without rhyme and without heeding the needs of us on the dancefloor (read: please send music). But I still had a good time. Sadly, I heard that the club is closing down soon. Then what will a girl do?

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Clubs in Bhtuan have to close at 1 a.m. and there’s nowhere to go but drive around or hang out in a parking lot. So we drove around the chorten then to places that had views of the city, steering clear of police checkpoints and drunk drivers. 

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I stayed at Phuntsho’s, as usual, and headed back to Paro after a breakfast at the Ambient. Feeling rejuvenated.

Paro (December 18, 2011) — Today I went to the paro market and spent $4.20. The rate is about 10 nu = $.20. Potatoes (@15nu per kg), carrots (@25nu per kg), green beans (@20 per kg), limes (@2 for 5nu), tomatoes (@30nu per kg), pumpkin (@10 nu per piece), apples (@50nu per kg), broccoli (@ 25nu per bunch), eggplant (@30nu per kg), chucked green peas (@60 per kg).

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The peas were a bit of a splurge and I ended up needing a plastic bag for those but they are easy to freeze and I keep running out of food so they’re going to be my back up. Everything is local except the tomatoes and potatoes are probably from India. The eggplant also I’m not sure. Local doesn’t necessarily mean pesticide free but much less than the average 700% more than US allowed pesticide rates that coat most Indian produce. Local red rice has just been harvested in all the fields so I believe its a good time to stock up.

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After shopping I got a little bowl of thukpa at the local shop run by a former monk. This gave me enough fuel to walk the fifteen minute hike, through the fields, up a garbage strewn path, ducking around cows munching on dry weeds, up to the road, past the hospital, back up to my house.

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Cooking for one is really a whole lot less fun. I will make ratatouille and an apple tart.

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I haven’t been posting much because I haven’t been leaving Paro except for trips to Thimphu where I stay in Phuntsho Wangmo’s shrine room. Life has become somewhat routine for a change. I’m not adjusting that well. But lately I’m trying to make the most of it.

Phuntsholing, Bhutan (November 15, 2011) – From Samdrup’s in Samdrup Jongkhar to Phuntsho’s in Phuntsholing.

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I could have caught a ride directly up to Thimphu but my neck hurt from 10 hours of jostling on the terrible Indian highway. I was so tired and so ready to get home but not ready for any more action. Another option was to stay at the Central Hotel, like I usually do, but when I got there, I found that my single room was not available and I had no reason for a deluxe And so, once again, it was Phuntsho Wangmo to the rescue. She happened to be in town and invited me to spend the night at her Phuntsoling residence, which is usually rented out but currently empty. As evening fell, she and her husband Tenzin and her brother Sonam and I drank Special Courier and discussed the challenges of organic farming—how to convince people that pesticide perfection is not real perfection—until I nodded off.

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The room they gave me had a loom with a half finished kira. All those threads and colors.

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Their office manager Dorji got me the last ticket on the Coaster bus to Paro and met me at the station. Just six more hours of travel. The coveted front seat was occupied by a very loud woman with long nails painted frosty pink. She had all sorts of fake designer apparel, a fat wallet, and a coarse look. My earplugs could not protect me from her screechy voice. Between the seats in front of me was a gap through which I watched another woman watch the loud woman and I thought by her expression I had found an ally. She squinted quizzically as if to say, “how could you be so obnoxious?” So it wasn’t just me who was annoyed. I wished I could understand how everyone on the bus was interpreting the situation. All the Indian laborers were sitting in the rear. One listened to Bollywood songs on his phone. The man to left of me shoved endless bundles of betelnut in his mouth, then dipped his finger in an old makeup jar now filled with white lyme paste, smearing it onto his inner cheek. His teeth looked like charred timber. He had argyle socks pulled up over a pair of khaki pants that he wore under his gho.

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When my ally got off the bus at the police barracks, the way she said goodbye to the others I suddenly could tell she wasn’t really my ally, she was in fact in awe of the loud woman with her Adidaas and her Channel and her purse full of 100 ngultrim notes. The quizzical look was one of, “how can I get me some of that?”

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How on earth will people be convinced to by spotty apples when big bright apples are available?

Samdrup Jongkhar, Bhutan (November 14, 2011) —We were in Dewathang for two weeks of empowerments and pujas and meetings. Pawo’s grandfather hosted a final dinner at his home about 10 minutes from the monastery at the bottom of an orange grove. They had fashioned lights out of banana leaves and candles and built a bon fire. A cow stood by and bees were making honey. We drank rice wine and then it was time to go. Phuntshok had arranged a ride for me in Samdrup’s car to Samdrup Jongkhar. Samdrup owns a garage down there with 30 mechanics. He donated some of the cars we used during Travellers and Magicians and even acted as the driver of the big truck. It’s a one hour windy drive down from Dewathang to S/J but Samdrup did it in 45 minutes. We talked a bit about blood lines and culture. “You westerners don’t care so much about who your grandparents are but to us it is of great importance.” My mix of Iraqi, Basque and Welsh blood amused them. Meanwhile I became extremely car sick and was happy to arrive at Samdrup’s house. An elderly man with a huge mala opened the chain link gate and let us to the car yard. Samdrup’s house is just behind. His wife was very kind. They gave me a nice room. Maybe a kid’s room. We’d been up since 4 a.m. for Rinpche’s long life puja and I was glad to be so tired that I didn’t have to fill any time. Just went to sleep. In the morning I could smell the engines in the yard. Samdrup drove me to the border checkpost where I was stamped out of Bhutan. Am Chime, Sangay Tenzin and his wife met me there at 6:30 and together we waited for the police escort to take us across the dangerous parts of Assam. There is conflict and there were men with guns. We drove ten hours east to Phuntsholing where I was stamped back into Bhutan, dropped my bags and set about finding my way up to Thimphu.

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I am noticing that I have a permanent furrow in my brow with lines aiming up and outward from a point between my eyes. It’s the kind of thing people get botox injections for. Even when I am not, I appear concerned. But most of the time I am a bit concerned.

Thimphu (October 21, 2011) — On Friday night we decided to go dancing at Space 34, Thimphu’s oldest and most happening nightclub. We being: Chime Dorjee, Jamyang Dorjee, Jia-ling Loo, and Rigsal. O.T.s son Jamyang Lodro joined us for pre-dance fun at Om Bar. It’s interesting to note that all of these youngsters are blood-related to lamas of the highest rank. But it’s like that in Bhutan. Everyone is related.

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I like dancing in Thimphu, particularly at Space, more than almost any other club in the world. The music is silly pop. I’m not involved, not really connected, an therefor desensitized to any drama or attitude. My age doesn’t really seem to be an issue, though my height is a bit of a challenge. We just dance, in a circle, and have fun. I wonder though, should they install a blood testing machine to make sure you’re not related to your dance partner?

Sometimes boys with their Korean hair-dos get into slappy fights with one another. They pull swords off the wall and get hyper-mad but no one ever seems to get hurt. Younger members of the royal family often turn up. The clubs all close early by law and people drive to a nearby parking lot to “party” under the stars. I was eager for this part of the night to wind down so I could go back to the kangaroos on my bed.

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Chime and Jamyang invited me to spend the night with them at their auntie’s, who is also a friend of mine, Aum Yangchen, Choing’s mom. I stayed here back in 2002 after we wrapped Travellers and Magicians but the house isn’t as warm and cozy as it was back then because it lacks the warm presence of Aum Yangchen and Dasho are in New York visiting Choing. Chime kindly offered to share her room so we put another mattress down and she gave me the very soft kangaroo blanky. There was no floor space left. We chatted and laughed until wee hours as her phone buzzed with the texts of a misguided suitor.