"Ara"n't cha glad I didn't say Ara?

It is the night before we leave for our trip East. As I sit contemplating the unfinished - let’s get real -  unstarted packing job I have ahead of me and the laundry left to be done, stress grips me. I procrastinated, I whined. Suddenly, memories of our last trip grips me and the anxiety of readying myself for the trip pales in comparison to what has made my stomach churn thus.

We are embarking on another trip with Dasho Colonel Kado, a man of extreme kindness and in possession of a wicked cool beard, and the trip ahead of us will certainly involve Ara.  Ara, a home brewed Bhutanese alcohol made with wheat, maize, rice and millet is part of the “real Bhutanese experience” that Colonel Kado, like the exquisite host that he is, is very intent upon showing us.  I might also add that the dzongkhag of Lhuentse which we shall be visiting, is the birthplace of this..ambrosia of the Druk. 

Our first interaction with Ara came about half an hour after our group had gotten off of the public bus in Bumthang, the twelve-hour ride just behind us.  We sat down to the hotel dinner table wearied, hungry and slightly dehydrated.

“Ara first, dinner after. This is how the Bhutanese do it,” Colonel Kado insisted.

“Colonel Kado, I think we’re a little hungry from the ride-” Professor Kim interjected.

With a matter-of-fact tone, he responded, “It has egg in it.”

Thus, the idea of warm, protein-rich eggs that had a little kick to them settled our protests.

“May I go see how the eggs are made with Ara?” I asked Colonel Kado.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, as he led Ludi and I into the kitchen just off of the dining room.

The Bhutanese kitchen staff glanced up from their prep work to smile at us as Colonel Kado spoke to the woman who would be our Ara chef. Handing her a large bottle that had, at one time, contained a brandy of some sort and now contained a much stronger spirit he insisted to us several times that this Ara was from the Eastern part of Bhutan and was thus, “the best.”

Ludi’s and my stomachs grumbled as the slab of butter began to melt ever so succulently in the pan.  Approximately two eggs were then cracked by the cook’s capable hands (I say approximately because my body was nearly keeling over in hunger and numbers were not my forte at the moment) into the butter just as it had begun to brown around its edges, the center bubbling from the heat.  The smell of cooking eggs filled my nostrils, the sound of the cook’s wooden spoon scraping against the pan’s bottom filled my ears as she scrambled the lovely little eggs. 

“Oh my..” Ludi and I sighed in unison.

The cook, said something I’ll assume went along the lines of “It’s Ara time!” in Dzongkha and uncapped the Ara bottle, splashing the small amount into the pan and mixing. 

The idea of scrambled eggs with a small amount of grain alcohol mixed in wasn’t displeasing at all...until the cook picked up the bottle again. Her wrist formed a ninety degree angle as the entire bottle of Ara splashed into the pan with the same sizzle that the sound of my hungry dreams made, disappearing in a sea of hard alcohol.

What progressed next was beyond words.

But I’ll try:

The covered pot containing hot Ara and egg was placed before our hungry eyes on the hotel’s dining room table. 

Colonel Kado stood before it.

He ignited a match and dropped it, lit, into the pot. 

The flames shot up half a foot into the air, highlighting the silvery shade of the Colonel’s beard. 

The liquid, still lit with blue flames flickering across its surface was poured into a small soup bowl in front of me.

As the Ara cooled, I noticed the bits of egg below the thick, milky surface of the alcohol.

Peer pressure ensued.

I drank.

It is a delicacy, it is a tradition, it tasted, to my untrained tongue, like glorified gasoline.

Our training with bottles of Black Mountain whiskey (which at the local Eight Eleven costs the equivalent of about four U.S.  dollars) had clearly not been strenuous enough.

Long story short – the next night we had egg and Ara again. And Bumthang will probably on red alert for the Wheaton group’s second visit..

Insight Via PB&J Sandwiches..

Humming to myself, I laid out five pieces of thick bread, unscrewed the lid of the peanut butter jar and sank the knife into its depths.  Tomorrow I was taking the four young nuns I teach English to on a fieldtrip to Lamperi Park, the first Botanical Park in Bhutan.  We would be accompanying Adam and Ludi’s primary school students and I was doing my best to stifle my nervousness as to whether they would behave themselves, if they would open up and befriend the other students and what on earth I was to do if they didn’t have a nice time.

Lost in my thoughts, I jumped when I heard Adam’s voice beside me.

Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure they’ll want these? I mean, don’t most Bhutanese not like sweet things?’

Anger flared alongside the doubt inside me as I slapped another pat of jelly onto a slice. ‘Kids love peanut butter and jelly, Adam,’ I said in my coldest tone.

‘Yeah, but I mean, have they ever had it before? Did they tell you they wanted-‘

‘Adam, did you eat PB and Js as a child?’ I intoned, ‘they’re sweet, full of protein and filling. They’ll love them.’

But as Adam left the kitchen with a shrug and I continued to spread the gooey goodness over thick, bakery-fresh bread, doubts began to fill my mind:

-What if one of them is allergic to peanuts?!

-No, I asked them if they liked peanuts already, and I’m pretty sure they understood what I meant.. Besides kids love peanut butter and jelly.

-Don’t the girls mostly eat rice at the nunnery? Who is to say they’ll want this?

-Goddamnit, Ellie, everyone loves peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, stop worrying!

I tried to continue the methodical and happy pace of my work as before, but that anxiety that grips mothers the night before they send their child off to school for the first time had ensnared me. 

Quickly finishing up the sandwiches and wrapping each of the five carefully in plastic wrap, I felt Momo nuzzle my ankle. Upon meeting my gaze she cocked her head with that puzzled expression she usually reserves for when one of us does something outrageous or calls her to ‘Come.’

 ‘Don’t give me your sass, Momo, they’re going to like them.’ She sighed as if to say she was far more Bhutanese than me and has a much better grasp on the situation and nestled down on her bed for the night.   

As we sat in the grassy field the next afternoon the long bus ride, the beautiful walk through the park and all of the excitement weighed down on the nuns and myself, making us very hungry. 

‘Ready for lunch, girls?’ I asked, ‘I’ve made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!’

Ýozer, Ngawang Chezom, and Rinzin sat around me quietly chattering in Dzongkha while the oldest, thirteen-year-old Ngawang Yanden asked, ‘Hmm, Miss?’

‘Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,’ I repeated with mock confidence, ‘do you like peanut butter and jelly?’

‘Jelly like jam? Jam is good..’ Ngawang Yanden said, with a trace of apprehension, ’what is this pea-nut butter?’

’You’ll see, it’s really good!  We eat it all the time in America! All the children do, they love it!’ I responded, my misgivings showing through the speed of my speech and the squeak my voice ended in at the end of every statement. I went about quickly unpacking the bag of sandwiches I had brought with us. 

As each of my little nuns accepted their sandwiches, they studied them; the purplish red and brown congealing against the plastic wrap, the texture of the now slightly-sodden bread.  Ngawang Yanden, being the most polite, was the first to take a bite, and the others followed suit soon after.

            I don’t think I can properly describe the look a small Bhutanese girl’s face makes when she bites into something utterly foreign and thoroughly disgusting.

Ngawang Chezom’s freckles seemed to turn the shade of her maroon kab-ney and stood out against her sweet ski-jump nose. Rinzin’s lips, usually taking the form of a smirk or smile, turned down in a frown of confusion.  Yozer, the sassiest of the four, promptly began to rip hers into pieces and throw it to a fat old dog nearby who, with several cursory sniffs, dismissed it and left them to lie in the grass. 

            The primary school girls, seeing the distress of their new friends, quickly came to our circle with offerings of rice, emadatsi, kiwadatsi and tea which the three younger nuns hungrily accepted. 

            ’It’s good, Miss,’ Ngawang Yanden said, seeing my crestfallen face. Yet I couldn’t help but notice she was struggling to swallow globs of the alien gooey mass I had presented so excitedly as her lunch.

            As Ludi and Adam sat nearby chuckling at the reactions my packed lunch had elicited, I had to admit that it had been pretty ethnocentric of me to expect little nuns from the other side of the world whose meals regularly consist of vegetables and rice to want the odd concoction of peanut butter and jelly I had provided.

            As I looked down at my sandwich, shaking my head at my own silliness, I came to another shocking realization.

’Goddamn,’ I whispered to myself, ‘I don’t even like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that much!’

I guess it’s true what they say, by traveling abroad - you don’t only learn about the culture around you, you also learn about yourself.

J

Diwal-Incredible.

There we sat, my roommate Chimi and I, with our foreheads decorated in bright paint, our hands and hair full of Marigold pieces and white rice. As I opened my eyes, the smiles of the twelve people crowded around the bedroom greeted me.  ‘How did I get so lucky as to be here?’ I wondered to myself.

Diwali is a Southern Bhutanese custom adopted from Nepal and parts of India.  It is a celebration that spans several days and is held in honor of Lord Rama’s return to his palace and after defeating a demon dragon in an epic battle (it may be noted here that the God this festival is attributed to changes depending on whom one asks). Bhutanese and Nepali alike celebrate with dancing, singing, firecrackers and ceremonies, yet I had no idea about any of this when our roommate Hema invited Chimi and I to her family’s celebration of Diwali in Thimphu. 

As we walked up the stairwell to Hema’s uncle’s home we were greeted with bright garlands and strings of electric lights around his doorway. The sitting room just inside looked much the same. Garlands hung from the ceiling, bright lights decorated the walls and Hema’s aunts and little female cousins were swathed in beautiful saris, each in a different color.  Every member of the family bore bright paints upon their foreheads and kind smiles on their lips.  Ushering us to sit, her family greeted us with ‘Namaste,’ served Chimi and I sweet tea and asked about our homes.  When we had finished our mugs, Hema smiled her sweet smile and brought forth garland necklaces made of real Marigolds which had been strung together with white string.  To my delight, the shocks of orange and green were placed around our necks and Chimi and I were taken by the hand down a small hallway to the master bedroom.  The jolly chanting and musical accompaniment I had subconsciously registered since I’d entered the apartment was emanating from a computer screen inside the bedroom.  A video of traditionally-dressed Nepali dancers covered in Marigolds were singing praises to Lord Rama and Diwali. Chimi and I were motioned to sit upon a woven rug in the center of the floor while Hema’s extended family crowded noisily upon the bed, the dresser and the floor to watch as we received the Diwali blessing.  Before us on the wooden floor were several platters which contained butter lamps, incense, and apple, rice and even more Marigolds, these in several shades of orange and red.

Hema’s beautiful little nine-year-old cousin, Nikita, somberly picked up the brass vase of marigolds, tipped the water into her hand and sprinkled it twice around the rug we were seated on.  Another small golden pot held pieces of grass which Nikita ceremoniously dipped and swept upon the floor around us in a circle twice, then did the same with lit incense.  While Nikita performed her part of the ritual with incredible seriousness, the family and I beamed at each other and the drums and voices of the Diwali video rang out through the entire apartment.

  Nikita, with her younger cousin Mukita, then took handfuls of white rice and crushed marigold buds and alternated sprinkling them over our heads and into our outstretched hands, the sequins that adorned their little saris glittering in the light.  “It is time for your tika!” Hema’s uncle proclaimed, and from seemingly no where a large metal tray was produced on which there were several brass bowls of different colored paints.  With all the seriousness of brain surgeons, Nikita and Mukita went about placing the first layer of white paint in a large dot in the middle of Chimi and my foreheads then alternated like dancers between painting the insides of these dots for both of us in colors of green, blue yellow and red.  “Ellie, you look so happy,” Hema exclaimed from her place nestled on the large bed with her family.  I opened my eyes and realized that the chiming Diwali song, the dzongkha chatter and laughter Hema’s family made, the deep scents of marigolds and incense, the crunchy and smooth textures of the rice and buds in my hands- all of it had almost overloaded my senses and truly given me such a sense of pure happiness. I began to register that my cheeks were in a bit of pain from smiling so widely for such a long amount of time, but nothing could make me stop.

 Here, in the home of people I had only just met, taking part for the first time in a ceremony like this I felt more at home in a way I rarely had since coming to Bhutan.  I wasn’t able to understand what the family said to one another in dzongkha, or say more than ‘Namaste’ to Hema’s grandmother who spoke no English, yet the warmth that emanated from each of them, the feeling of close bonds and family inclusiveness made me feel that I was part of their flock.  ‘How strange,’ I thought, ‘that so far from anything I have known in these twenty years, I can feel so at home.’

With Sincerity, Ellie