On the first visit to our new village

On the first visit

to our new village,

half eaten buildings

like concrete puzzle pieces

strew the road

outside the capital.

There is some hope there

on my part

of being shown to the top floor

of an eighteenth century

farm house

with giant cedar beams

and delicate wooden shutters

red chillis drying

in the roof cavity

the woodstove charred

and blackened with soot.

But I have become an expert

in keeping expectations low

and prepare myself

to enter a desolate village

clinging to the side of a

mountain

built around the jail

for which the village

is so well known.

This is, I think,

my least favourite part of Bhutan

says our knowledgeable guide

and I count my breaths.

As the road leaves the city

it winds up a ridge

past a monastery

nestled amongst the pines.

Built in 1673

it is known

as the country’s oldest

and its faded burgundy roof

provides me with

something like relief.

Ice appears beside the road

a clear and frigid stream

burbling

in the gully.

In these quiet woodlands of

juniper, spruce and birch

I am in the territory

of leopards

demons and bears

and the city seems a distant memory.

Sweeping around each bend

we stumble upon jaunty

timber houses

messy piles

of split pine

stacked against the walls.

Children fling stones

at unseen targets

and stare

without waving.

The prison sits low

against the ridgeline

under Talakha’s

snow peppered peak

rising like a thunderhead

into the sky.

The yak herders

graze their animals

in the meadows

behind that peak

says our guide

and my mind slips

into images

of alpine lakes

bursting with trout,

alpine flowers

colouring the hillsides

an ancient

reverent space

still enough

that I can hear it

breathe.

  

In the village

shit-streaked cows

stand in the streets

eyeing our car.

The silhouettes

of village men

drinking 11,000

by the longneck

fill the windows

of Gyeltsen’s

General Store Cum Bar

and we climb

past the prison

and towards the school. 

Hulking

rammed earth houses

jostle

for space with smaller

blue pine constructions

bucklehouses

says our guide

and I can feel

the mountain wind

slipping in

through the glaring cracks

in their bark.

Timber piles

back onto cow pens

that flank outhouses

and border

vegetable patches

frozen in translucent layers

of mud and ice.

Stripped, naked

branches of walnut

and peach point

like fingers into the

soggy, clouded sky.

Our landlady greets us

with a mixture

of grace and embarrassment

shifting today?

she says, eyes wide

and sends her neice

to sweep out

our house and quickly

mop all the floors.

She brings us

steaming milk tea

thick with sugar

and orders in Dzongkha

for our neighbour

to connect us to his

electricity supply.

Today, I didn’t know

that you were coming.

she says and smiles shyly.  

The concrete house

has been painted

the inside walls

spattered

with erratic green paint

the colour fading

near the top of the walls

where the painter

has seemingly not

been able to reach.

The concrete floors

are cold and bare

the sink and drain

nowhere to be seen.

I run my hand

over an exclamation mark

of paint

and sand falls away in my hand

leaving me coughing

in a small cloud of dust.

The doors refuse to close

and cold winds blow puffs of dust 

through the gaps below the windows.

There are no delicate

wooden shutters

or giant cedar beams

no thick walls of rammed earth

to warm against the cold.

No ancient shrine room

housing golden effigies

of Guru Rinpoche,

no window in the hay loft

where I can look out towards

the mountains and dream

cloud encrusted dreams.

No stone landing 

sweeping down

towards verdant

rice paddies and fields

of billowing wheat.

But soon five boys

come bustling in

Good evening, sir! How are you, sir!

They fold themselves in half

bowing almost violently

enormous grins

plastered on their faces

carrying a huge iron bed

that they hustle and wrangle

through our too-small-doorway.

They jump and bang

and hammer and cajole

until each slat is firmly in place

every fibre of their bodies

brimming with energy

and helpfulness.

Can we clean for you, sir?!

Too embarrassed

I accompany them outside.

We walk towards the school

perched

on the edge of a ridgetop

high above the Thimphu Valley

which glitters and hums

below.

Snow covered peaks peer

through the clouds

and

looking back,

I see an endless forest

of rhododendron, oak and pine

stretching from behind our house

towards the Dargala mountains

and the valleys beyond.

The boys throw stones
and wrestle

their silhouettes

framed against the setting sun.

And I know

that I will be very happy here.