byerswithoutborders

”We don’t really know what we’re doing. We’re just making it up as we go.”- Jen speaking about our lifestyle at a luncheon for foreign volunteers.

On the surface that sentiment sounds reckless and irresponsible. But if we waited until we had all the answers, we’d still be sitting at home in Texas, shackled to a mortage. Accepting uncertainty is what frees us, it is our ethos…

It is also an ethos that finds humor in punishing us. Our recent transfer through Singapore is a perfect example. With a 16 hour layover, most of which would be spent at a friend’s pool party, we really didn’t need much out of a hotel, just a place to lay our heads for a few hours.

That the taxi driver didn’t believe there was a hotel at the address we gave him should of been a warning sign. On arrival his doubt made more sense. The hotel sign hung above a narrow door wedged between a welding supply house and a shop for industrial cleaners, in an area more apt to offer forklift parts than a turn-down service. But it was eleven at night, the door was open, so we soldiered on.

Up a dim flight of steps and into a cloud of blue smoke. Three Chinese men sat at a plastic table chain smoking and wondering why the Griswalds were dragging duffle bags into their living room. We quickly realized we had booked our stay at a hostel catering to Chinese workers. Unable to afford Singapore rent, these laborers rent a bunk and a locker (4-6 per room) and share a common kitchen, bathroom, and sitting area.

Fortunately our crew was large enough to warrant our own dorm. Of course we had to pass through another dorm to get to it. Past men whose only private space is half of a bunk bed, janitorial and lawn service uniforms hanging at the ends. A lesson for the kids, not everybody gets 3 bedrooms and a garage.

We are learning. We are picking up a few lessons about family travel and road schooling. For instance, we now know that changing countries often brings gastric-upset. And since the twins are at an age where farting on each other’s pillow is considered comedic genius, we now have a no-reckless-farting policy. ByersWithoutBorders is only allowed to pass gas on a toilet until further notice. Like the hostel, another hard-learned lesson.

We know to collect all the air sickness bags after every flight, since Stella can get motion sick from Discovery’s Shark Week.

We know that Isabelle needs space, Jen needs sleep, and Lily craves meat. We know that during our first days in a country I’ll be ripped off multiple times (in India I once paid $10 US to have my ears cleaned).

And after two trips to Bhutan, we now know the best way to recover from the high Himalaya is to beeline to sea level and the equator, and Indonesia has both. Its time for the big thaw.

Osho once said that the present is not part of time. Unlike the past or the future it has no duration. How long is the present? How many minutes, how many breaths? When we first arrived in Bhutan our present moments stretched out to the horizon and threatened to trample us in an never ending march of cold breathless misery. But now that we’ve boarded our flight to Singapore it’s different. The past two months feel like a runaway cart on a steep hill, each present moment coming in quicker and quicker succession, speed and momentum building until our Bhutan-life is a time lapse memory. Like watching video of a flower blooming in 10 seconds. Happiness does that, it shortens the present.

Two months sounds like a long time. It’s long enough to buy dish soap twice. It’s long enough to have a favorite vegetable stall, to learn a shortcut or two. It’s long enough to get into a comfortable rhythm, living not visiting.

Two months is long enough to settle into a place, and for that place to settle into you. Isabelle has adopted the affirmative head wobble so common in South Asia. All three children have stopped playing store, and now play immigration (complete with pretend work permits and route documents).

But is two months long enough to cause long-term change? For our efforts in Bhutan to take root and continue without us?

Last week we were interviewed by the Bhutan Broadcasting Service for a piece on the culture of volunteerism. I tried to make the point that volunteering is a two-way street. That I am sure we’ve gained more than we’ve given.

Living and working in Bhutan strips away a lot of life’s clutter. Real priorities become glaringly apparent, as things you thought so important fall aside. Life starts to feel lighter, less serious, but richer. Family walks become the day’s most important event.

Our Bhutan experience has forced our family to overcome adversity together (often in the form of nausea and diarrhea). We’ve become a stronger team.

I just hope that two months is long enough for the change I see in my family to be permanent.

Being in Bhutan means adjusting how you celebrate March Madness. This year we filled out our brackets with momo restaurants instead of basketball teams.

Momos are the ubiquitous fast food of Bhutan. They can be found from high-end tourist restaurants to street-level hawkers. I’ve eaten them in hospital canteens, at picnics, off plates and out of plastic bags. They were even offered as a post-race snack at the Bhutan International Marathon.

Usually steamed, these little dumplings traditionally come in two flavors, meat (ground beef) or vegetarian (cabbage-cheese mixture). Occasionally fried, they always come 5 to a plate, with a good-sized dollop of chili.

Oddly, momos are not Bhutanese at all, but a Tibetan import. And like many things Tibetan, they flourish outside their Chinese-occupied homeland.

Having eaten hundreds of momos, and inspired by our friends Eat Your World, we decided to create a momo-lovers guide to Thimphu. So, for any future volunteers, or tourists who can escape the guide-approved trail of bland buffets, we offer to you the standouts of the Thimphu momo scene.

Please note, only veg momos were sampled during our research, as most were had during one of Bhutan’s meatless months.

#1 Momo Corner

Nestled next to the rice merchant’s area of the weekend market, these have to be our favorite momos in the capital. It is said the 5th king enjoys eating here. However, royal recognition is not the sole reason for their popularity. They seem to have the highest cheese to cabbage ratio (a bonus in our book) and both steamed and fried are on offer. Only open on market days, seating is sparse so be prepared to jostle.

#2 Zambala 1

Just above the Hong Kong market, don’t confuse this with the unrelated Zambala 2. The second iteration is an spacious second-floor restaurant near the traffic circle. Where as Zambala 1 is the quintessential momo dive, located  down a small alley with plastic chair seating and camp-level hygiene standards. Locals agree this was the best momo in all of Thimphu until Momo Corner came to town. Many loyal adherents still claim they’re the best. An added bonus of Zamabala 1, is the option to wash down your snack with a cold beer.

Notable Mentions:

Coffee Culture–
A hip coffee bar for upscale Bhutanese, these guys offer the national dish, Ema Datsi, stuffed into a steamed momo. Consider ordering something to quench the fire, as Ema Datsi is strips of dried red chili floating in a cheese sauce.

Burger Point–
Also in the Hong Kong market neighborhood, our favorite on the menu is the potato momo. These little morsels are pure comfort food. Imagine snacking on steamed packets of chive spiced mashed potato.

Busy Bean–
Having organized the first ever Thimphu momo crawl, byerswithoutborders was excited to hear that the coffee shop on the first floor of the ……… hotel offered a Nutella momo. Desert momo!!!! What a perfect way to end our gut busting tour. We should of known something was amiss when they brought the chili paste to the table. In a classic Asian twist of fate, Bhutanese translate Nutella as soy chunks. So consider the Busy Bean for a nice vegetarian snack, but sweet tooths should give it a pass.

What causes a middle aged plodder to toe the line of a Himalayan half marathon wearing what is functionally a shorty kimono? A misplaced sense of adventure and a chance encounter with a postage stamp.

I Discover An Unlikely Tourist Destination

The national postal museum of Bhutan might not be the top tourist destination in this tucked away Himalayan kingdom. However, after a few weeks in the capital last year, I found myself wandering along display cases laying out the history of the Bhutanese postal service. Not surprisingly (in a land that waited until 1999 to receive television signals) the Bhutanese postal service got a late start, in 1962. Prior to the modern era, important official letters were hand carried throughout the kingdom by runners known as “garps”. Traveling by foot, these runners were exposed to high altitudes, leopard attack, and banditry. Due to his superhuman speed and endurance, the most famous of these runners was Garp Lungi Khorlo (Wheel of the Wind).

I only needed to read the name once to be inspired. Wheel of the Wind! Suddenly I wanted to glide down an alpine path, feet dancing among the stones. I wanted to float through a forest of blue pine, softly padding a carpet of needles. I wanted to run across a high pass in the diamond light of the Himalaya.

An “Easy” Run with 1800′ Elevation Gain!?

No matter my fitness app once categorized an “easy” 8 mile trail run above the capital as an hour and forty minutes of sprint repeats. That “easy” run had 1800 feet of elevation gain. There are no flat bits to this country, but no matter! I was inspired. I was infused with the spirit of the Wheel of the Wind! I was going to run a race in Bhutan, and I was going to do it wearing a Gho, just like those postal runners of old.

It turns out, I am unable to put on a Gho with out an assistant (my very patient wife). There are confusing pleats, one big hike-up, tucking, and then a cinching-wrap. It takes the two of us and an ample amount of cursing to get me into national dress.

Lined Up In My Gho

So, on March 3rd, when I lined up at the start of the 5th Bhutan International Marathon/Half Marathon, it wasn’t the altitude or the distance that had me worried. I was preoccupied with the image of coming unwrapped at mile 6.

368 runners completed the race behind 22-year-old Japanese winner Yoshiyuki Hara (2:27:18). No easy feat in a race that started at 6700 feet.

The course meandered along the Mo Chu river through bucolic Punakha Valley. Villages, terraced fields, hilltop temples, and a 300 foot suspension bridge, the run overflowed with scenery before depositing finishers at a centuries old fortress-monastery.

I doubt my performance will earn me a running nick name as cool as Wheel of the Wind. I did not glide. I did not float. I did not summit. I plodded. But I also smiled, because when you’re the only foreigner wearing a Gho, every Bhutanese becomes your cheerleader.

The normalization of deviance was a concept first brought to my attention by my anesthesia program director @Ken Kirsner. As I’ve recently come to understand, it means I’m no longer awoken by the exuberant throat clearings of our downstairs neighbor. It means the kids automatically cross to the opposite curb to avoid known territory of mean dogs. It means we can easily identify the 3 main smoke smells (cook fire, incense, and electrical). It means our nightly ritual of filling hot water bottles is as automatic as setting the coffee pot back home.

Normalization of deviance means wearing a warm hat to breakfast, drying meat with your laundry, and always watching where you step! It means we’ve been in Bhutan long enough to hit our stride. Long enough to slip off some of our own cultural norms and settle in. Jen and I have been traveling to Asia for 20 years. While we are no longer struck numb by its exotic sensuality, like that first visit, there is still a transition period.

Past the two week mark, and I am happy to report we are beyond that transition. It now feels less and less like a chaotic vacation and more like real life; vegetable shopping at the weekend market, homeschooling, laundry. Jen manages to coordinate business calls across a 12-hour time gap, while I putter along, tweaking my PowerPoint presentations. We are becoming blind to the deviances, this is our normal Bhutanese life.

And for Byers Without Borders “normal Bhutanese life” means spending a Wednesday in late February celebrating the King’s birthday.

The hospital arranged tickets for us to attend the celebration at the national stadium. Decked out in national dress we set off Wednesday morning to honor and celebrate the Druk Gyalpo (Dragon King).

Side note, the Dragon King wears the Raven Crown, the coolest of all crowns.

The prime minister spoke, there was a military parade, traditional dance performances, a lottery drawing, and even a strong man competition.

We were served rice porridge, salted butter tea, and a fermented rice wine that I can only describe as chunky sake. All of this taken in little wooden bowls stashed in the folds of my goh (the kimono-like robe worn by men).

Of course it was all in Dzongkha, and even though Bhutanese seated near us tried to explain things, four hours of traditional dances left us all a bit twitchy by the end. The girls were stoic throughout, and earned a sweet treat for yet another diplomatic win.

On our walk home we passed through the Thai-Bhutanese friendship park. None of us mentioned the boys still practicing their dance moves in the gazebo where Stella likes to meditate. Just another part of our “normal” Bhutanese life.

While in Halifax this winter I watched a duck land on a frozen pond. Its legs immediately splayed into a brief belly slide when momentum tipped it into a flapping, feathered, face-plant. That pretty much sums up our arrival in Bhutan this year.

The temporary apartment we frantically arranged en route from Newark to Singapore did not materialize. So after 40 plus hours of travel, we were trudging 30 minutes into town searching for accommodation. Fortunately, a guesthouse that caters to foreign workers had room for us, as long as Stella was willing to sleep on two armchairs pushed together. I had a little trouble directing the taxi back to the construction site that was meant to be our original apartment. Eventually, I was able to locate it, and the pile of gear we had cached there while in town.

Then back to the guesthouse, where I shuttled the duffle bags up to the 3rd floor, trying hard not to pass out the whole time. Thimphu is at 7600 feet. At this point, I felt like I’d been running wind sprints. Finally, it was time for us all to rest and relax, when Stella face planted in the bathroom.

Had we been at home in the U.S. stitches would have been the next order of business. But its Bhutan, we’d been on the road for days, it was getting dark, and a small stick of Dermabond skin-glue had found its way into our first aid kit. I really thought we were turning a corner, Jen and I were doing a passable job of approximating the wound, when we heard a sound like someone slowly dumping a can of peaches onto the wood floor of the front room. Isabelle was throwing up.

I can not overemphasize how bad we were suffering from jet-lag at this point. We had left Newark on Monday afternoon and arrived in Singapore on Wednesday morning. But strangely it was dark the entire flight. Somehow we had lost all of Tuesday. And we were still a day and a half from our destination! Its a weird kind of time-travel, flying over the dateline. It leaves us in a stuporous, lethargic fog for days. It is an exhaustion I’ve rarely felt. Like those 24-hour anesthesia shifts when I can’t make it to the call room.

It was in this state, squatting over a bleeding child, listening to another vomit, with no hot water and the promise of feeling cold for the next two months, that my strong adventurous wife broke.

Jen cried our first night in Bhutan.

It’s been a week. We are finally settled into volunteer housing, and the space heaters are running full blast. It surprised me that we would have a difficult transition this year. I thought things would be so easy since we’d been here before. Then Jen reminded me that, “knowing it’s going to be cold, doesn’t make your ass feel any better when it hits the toilet seat”.

We are already starting to joke about that first day. I guess we’ve sat here long enough to warm up the seat.