Nima visits regularly, along with his roommates, Arun, a tall, emaciated southern Bhutanese who wants to be a doctor, and w.a.n.gdi, short and st.u.r.dy and almost irritatingly cheerful. I try to learn the subtle tonal differences between a "no-thank-you" that really means "no" and one that means "yes but I'm being polite." Often I resort to asking, "Is that a Bhutanese no?" They are so tactful that I have to learn to read the most minute indicators. Nima winces slightly when I flip a spoonful of sugar into his cup backhandedly but says nothing. "What is it, Nima?" I ask.

"Nothing, miss."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, miss ..." He clears his throat and runs his hand across his shorn head. "Actually, miss, in Bhutan, we never pour anything in that backward way unless someone in the house has died. That is how we serve the dead."

During these visits, I learn not to whistle inside someone's house (it may call in spirits) or step over religious books. I learn to flick a drop of tea from a full cup before I drink as an offering to hungry ghosts, whose excessive desire in previous lives has left them wandering in a realm of perpetual lack and longing; their stomachs are grotesquely swollen with hunger and thirst but their throats are knotted up. I learn to eat rice like the Bhutanese do, with my right hand, using my thumb to sweep the food neatly into my mouth. I learn to make b.u.t.ter tea, and eat chilies for breakfast.

The students balance my view of rural Bhutan. Yes, they say, things in the village are peaceful ... on one level. "People are very jealous," one young woman named Chhoden tells me. Her hair is cut in an asymmetrical bob, and her kiras are bright silky prints imported from Bangkok. Her immediate family lives in Thimphu, where her father is employed in the civil service, but she says they still visit their ancestral village in Mongar once a year. "You don't see it, ma'am, because you are just seeing from the outside. There's a lot of jealousy and backbiting. And people have very strict ideas about what is proper. When I go home to the village, I have to become a different person. Boys can roam about and do as they please but if girls do that, everyone will say oh that girl, she's a bad character, always roaming here and there. If I try to argue, my parents say that I have been spoiled by school."

I talk a lot about language with the students, about English and Sharchhop and Dzongkha and Nepali. The Nepali-speaking students advise me to learn their native tongue; Nepali is more useful, they say, more people speak it and anyway it is easier to learn. The Dzongkha-speaking students frown at this. Madam, why you are learning Nepali? You should learn our national language.

I want to learn both, I say. Isn't that okay? Thinking to myself, it must be okay, you can all speak each other's languages plus English and Hindi with a smattering of Bengali or Tibetan. But we are talking about something more than language here, I only wish I knew what. I want to learn both, I repeat, and neither group looks very pleased. As if, in choosing both, I had chosen neither.

I learn that thank you very much in Dzongkha is name same kadin chhe. Name name same kadin chhe. Name means no sky, means no sky, same same no earth. no earth. Name same kadin chhe Name same kadin chhe means thanks beyond the sky and the earth. I learn that the script was developed in Tibet in order to translate the teachings of the Buddha, and it is therefore called means thanks beyond the sky and the earth. I learn that the script was developed in Tibet in order to translate the teachings of the Buddha, and it is therefore called Chhoeki; Chhoeki; the language of religion. I learn to write the alphabet, which hangs from an invisible upper line, with the tails and heads of letters stacked together to create combined sounds. The spelling is murderous. "Why does the language of religion. I learn to write the alphabet, which hangs from an invisible upper line, with the tails and heads of letters stacked together to create combined sounds. The spelling is murderous. "Why does joba joba have to start with an 'm', of all things?" I complain, exasperated, to Nima. "Why not a 'q' or a 'p' or heaven forbid a 'j'?" He explains that because the language is monosyllabic, extra silent letters are used to distinguish one h.o.m.onym from another. I almost give up, but the language looks so beautiful on the page, with birds flying above the words and lines ending in swords. The birds are o's, the swords full stops. have to start with an 'm', of all things?" I complain, exasperated, to Nima. "Why not a 'q' or a 'p' or heaven forbid a 'j'?" He explains that because the language is monosyllabic, extra silent letters are used to distinguish one h.o.m.onym from another. I almost give up, but the language looks so beautiful on the page, with birds flying above the words and lines ending in swords. The birds are o's, the swords full stops.

Another student gives me a list of "everyday phrases" in Nepali: what is your name, why are you laughing, wooden leg, heart's disease, warm bed, mother's blessing, permission, advice, dark night, song of the river truth, love story, remember, again, voice, enemy, friend, forget setback, lack, lake, fire, water, mountain, sun, rain king, minister, rich, poor, apple, pear good morning, good evening, good bye A very small announcement on the notice board invites all staff and students to attend the Hindu celebration of Durga Puja in the auditorium. Shakuntala tells me the story behind it, from the Hindu epic Ramayana: Ramayana: Ravanna, the demon king of Lanka, abducts Sita, the wife of the G.o.d Ramchandra. Ramchandra worships the G.o.ddess Durga for nine days, and on the tenth day is empowered to defeat Ravanna and bring his wife home. Durga is also Kali, the G.o.ddess of destruction, smashing the old to make way for the new in an endless cycle of change. Ravanna, the demon king of Lanka, abducts Sita, the wife of the G.o.d Ramchandra. Ramchandra worships the G.o.ddess Durga for nine days, and on the tenth day is empowered to defeat Ravanna and bring his wife home. Durga is also Kali, the G.o.ddess of destruction, smashing the old to make way for the new in an endless cycle of change.

On the auditorium stage, an altar has been set up with a fierce statue of Durga garlanded with marigolds and silver tinsel. Incense hangs in delicate streamers in the air. There is an offering of milk and honey to the G.o.ddess, and then we are given tikka, tikka, a smear of red powder on our foreheads. Dil Bahadur is looking unusually somber as he a.s.sists with the ceremony on stage. His longish hair has been cut, and he is wearing loose white pants and a white shirt. He ties a piece of colored thread to my wrist, and another student gives me a handful of sweets: these are a smear of red powder on our foreheads. Dil Bahadur is looking unusually somber as he a.s.sists with the ceremony on stage. His longish hair has been cut, and he is wearing loose white pants and a white shirt. He ties a piece of colored thread to my wrist, and another student gives me a handful of sweets: these are prasad, prasad, the offerings made to the G.o.ddess and given back to the worshipers. Tomorrow they will go to the river to immerse the statue, a female student named Gayatri says, and invites me to come along and see. I sit for a while in the auditorium after the other lecturers have left, listening to the songs flowing one into the next without pause, with a tabla and bells as accompaniment. the offerings made to the G.o.ddess and given back to the worshipers. Tomorrow they will go to the river to immerse the statue, a female student named Gayatri says, and invites me to come along and see. I sit for a while in the auditorium after the other lecturers have left, listening to the songs flowing one into the next without pause, with a tabla and bells as accompaniment.

Scholars claim that Buddhism developed as a reaction to negative elements of Hinduism, in particular the rigid caste system and the excessive, empty ritualism that had built up over the centuries in India. Hinduism and Buddhism are not wholly separable, however. Most of the Hindu deities turn up in the Buddhist pantheon, and the two systems share many concepts, including reincarnation and karma. Moreover, by the time Buddhism came to the Himalayas, it had picked up many of the practices of Indian Tantrism. Although Durga Puja is more flamboyant than the Buddhist rituals I have seen, its colors more gaudy and its music less somber, the two do not seem fundamentally different.

Offstage, something is wrong. There is much running off and returning and urgent whispering. Beside me, Gayatri is twisting her handkerchief into knots. "Is something going on?" I ask her. "No, ma'am," she says, but her face is strained and unhappy.

The next morning, she appears at my door dressed in a cream-colored salwar kameez, a knee-length dress over loose pyjama pants, her hair freshly washed. At the auditorium, a large group of students is waiting, holding flowers, incense, jugs of milk, a tabla, the statue of Durga, and khukuris, khukuris, fierce knives, long and cruelly curved. At the college gate, the crowd stops unexpectedly. I am lost in the middle and must stand on tiptoe to see what is happening. What is happening is the older students are having an argument with the princ.i.p.al. It is the first time I have seen authority openly challenged in Bhutan. fierce knives, long and cruelly curved. At the college gate, the crowd stops unexpectedly. I am lost in the middle and must stand on tiptoe to see what is happening. What is happening is the older students are having an argument with the princ.i.p.al. It is the first time I have seen authority openly challenged in Bhutan.

"Princ.i.p.al wants them to put on national dress and they are telling they have to wear their Nepali dress because they are the pundits doing the puja," Gayatri whispers.

This is serious-I can see it in the princ.i.p.al's anger-blotched face and the physical stance of the students, in the number of khukuris catching and throwing the sharp October light. And then there is this: balanced precariously on the wooden fence is the newly appointed administrator of the eastern zone, whose office is ten kilometers away. He is grinning around the cigarette jammed into the corner of his mouth, and he is recording the scene with a sleek new video camera. It seems highly unlikely that he was just driving by with a camcorder in the backseat and decided to stop at the college in the hopes of catching a bit of defiance on tape. A cloud of nebulous fear begins to form in my gut. Don't be silly, I tell myself, a bit of resistance to authority is to be expected. This is a college, after all. In Canada this would be nothing. But this is not Canada, and the video camera makes me very uneasy.

The crowd breaks up, and the students return to their hostels to change their clothes. Since the dress law does not apply to foreigners, I go back to the auditorium and wait. It occurs to me that I could slink off, go back home, stay out of it. But no, I will not. These are my students, and they invited me to go with them. Besides, I am too curious to stay at home. They return wearing ghos and kiras that have been put on in haste, bunched up and tied loosely. When I see Dil's dragging on the ground behind him, I realize it is not haste but defiance.

The group moves silently forward, out of the gate, down the road past Pala's, and as soon as we have turned the corner, the students begin to sing. Gayatri says the song is devotional, but the voices are too loud and khukuris are flashing everywhere. At the river, the statue is immersed in the rushing white water, and milk and flowers are poured over it. Dil and his friends clamber up and pose for photos on boulders above the river, shouting and raising their fists in the air. Beneath the singing, the ringing bells, and the wild, joyous rhythm of the tabla, the whole celebration has this antagonistic undertone. When it is over, the men and women separate into two circles and sit at the side of the road. The men talk urgently in Nepali, the women wait for them to be finished. Annoyed with the segregation, I get up to return to campus. Down the road, I am joined by a senior student named Rajan.

"Rajan, can I ask you what's going on?"

"Oh, now the puja is over," he says, "and we will all eat-"

"No, no," I interrupt. "I mean: What. Is. Going. On."

He is silent for so long that I think he will not tell me. Then he says, "You know, ma'am, they did not want us to have our puja."

"Who didn't? The princ.i.p.al?"

"Not only the princ.i.p.al. They-the northern Bhutanese." And he tells me that there is trouble in Bhutan, between south and north, Nepali and Drukpa. "They don't want us to be Nepali anymore," he says. "We have to wear their dress and speak their language. We can no more be who we are."

The others catch up with us, and we walk in silence.

The campus is oddly still. The students return to their hostels, and I go home, wondering about Rajan's comments, and how long the alleged trouble has been bubbling beneath the appearance of calm, wondering about that videotape and who arranged for it and how they knew there would be a confrontation at the gate, and what will happen. It strikes me that I may be on that videotape, and I wonder if I will be implicated in what is happening, whatever it is.

The Situation

And now there is a Situation. This is how the students speak of it. This situation, they say. The situation is serious. The situation is serious. Sometimes they speak of the Problem, which calls to mind the Irish Troubles, but I can't believe that things will go that far in tiny, peaceful, quiet Bhutan. Aside from a few oblique comments in the staff room, none of the lecturers speaks of the incident at the college gate. But overnight, there is a physical division between the students. They change places in the cla.s.sroom: north sits with north, south with south. I talk to Shakuntala about it. We are in her dining room, drinking lemon tea. We often sit here until late at night, talking and working and laughing. On her walls are portraits of students she has drawn, pencil studies of leaves and flowers and ferns, photographs of chortens and prayer flags. I feel nostalgic, looking at her work, as if that Bhutan is already over. I cannot shake this feeling of dread. I tell her about the video camera at the gate and the flashing khukuris, and the separation in cla.s.s of northern and southern. "The thing is," I say, "why do they have to make dress into such a big deal? If the Nepali students want to wear Nepali dress for a Hindu puja, let them." Sometimes they speak of the Problem, which calls to mind the Irish Troubles, but I can't believe that things will go that far in tiny, peaceful, quiet Bhutan. Aside from a few oblique comments in the staff room, none of the lecturers speaks of the incident at the college gate. But overnight, there is a physical division between the students. They change places in the cla.s.sroom: north sits with north, south with south. I talk to Shakuntala about it. We are in her dining room, drinking lemon tea. We often sit here until late at night, talking and working and laughing. On her walls are portraits of students she has drawn, pencil studies of leaves and flowers and ferns, photographs of chortens and prayer flags. I feel nostalgic, looking at her work, as if that Bhutan is already over. I cannot shake this feeling of dread. I tell her about the video camera at the gate and the flashing khukuris, and the separation in cla.s.s of northern and southern. "The thing is," I say, "why do they have to make dress into such a big deal? If the Nepali students want to wear Nepali dress for a Hindu puja, let them."

But Shakuntala doesn't agree. "It's not such a big thing to ask," she says. "To wear your national dress when you leave the campus."

"But it's a religious custom," I say.

"Still, it's not much to ask," she says. "No one is saying they couldn't have their puja. No one is saying they couldn't be Hindu anymore, that they all had to become Buddhist. They were just being asked to obey the dress law."

Not a dress code but a dress law. law. "I understand that it's to preserve Bhutan's culture, but shouldn't it be voluntary? How will it ever work, otherwise?" I say. I don't say, "What about the other cultures and traditions that exist in Bhutan? What about preserving them?" I am caught between two ways of seeing, two possible interpretations, unable here to have faith in either one. "I understand that it's to preserve Bhutan's culture, but shouldn't it be voluntary? How will it ever work, otherwise?" I say. I don't say, "What about the other cultures and traditions that exist in Bhutan? What about preserving them?" I am caught between two ways of seeing, two possible interpretations, unable here to have faith in either one.

I study the next issue of Kuensel, Kuensel, looking for some mention of a Situation, but there is nothing. I want to hear more directly from the students, but the atmosphere on campus has grown increasingly oppressive. Fear and anger pinch their faces, and they answer my questions elliptically. No one will give me a full explanation. I want someone to start at the beginning, I want someone who can complete a sentence, who can say it straight out: here is what's been happening, here are the two sides, now make of it what you will. I feel that I have come into the theater during the second act. I don't want to get on stage with the actors, I only want a summary of what has happened so far, but everyone seems afraid of saying too much. The only agreed-upon facts I have on the Situation so far are these: the Nepali students resent having Drukpa dress and etiquette imposed on them. The government feels that this imposition is necessary for Bhutan's survival. But there must be more to it than this. looking for some mention of a Situation, but there is nothing. I want to hear more directly from the students, but the atmosphere on campus has grown increasingly oppressive. Fear and anger pinch their faces, and they answer my questions elliptically. No one will give me a full explanation. I want someone to start at the beginning, I want someone who can complete a sentence, who can say it straight out: here is what's been happening, here are the two sides, now make of it what you will. I feel that I have come into the theater during the second act. I don't want to get on stage with the actors, I only want a summary of what has happened so far, but everyone seems afraid of saying too much. The only agreed-upon facts I have on the Situation so far are these: the Nepali students resent having Drukpa dress and etiquette imposed on them. The government feels that this imposition is necessary for Bhutan's survival. But there must be more to it than this.

There must be more to it than this because there are night patrols on campus, room checks each evening. When the students come to visit, they speak so softly I often can't hear half of what they say. Sometimes, one stands at the window, watching, while the others talk. There are spies now, they say. They have to be very careful. Some southern students have received pamphlets, they tell me, calling for the southern Bhutanese to rise up and demand their rights, demand democracy.

"But do you think Bhutan is really ready for democracy?" I ask. "What do you think is necessary for a country to be a democracy? "

They do not know, they whisper. They haven't thought about it.

"But how can you support something you haven't thought about?" I demand.

They look alarmed at my rising voice and shake their heads frantically. They cannot talk about these things here.

They do not come to visit me in mixed groups anymore. Even Nima and Arun come separately. "Where's Nima these days?" I ask Arun. Studying. Busy. Don't know, miss. I feel I can ask Nima anything, but he is a terrible source of information. He spends most of his time in the library reading religious books. When I ask what's happening, he says, "The Nepali students don't want to wear national dress."

"Oh, Nima, even I know that! What is really going on?"

"I don't know, miss, and I don't want to know. Buddhism teaches us not to get involved in politics. It distracts us from the real things." He has more important things to think about: he has been helping one of the Dzongkha lopens translate a Buddhist book into English, and he is trying to decide if he should become a monk after he finishes cla.s.s XII.

"But Nima, there must be values in Buddhism that people could apply to politics. Like tolerance and seeking the truth. Didn't the Buddha say to question everything? Wouldn't that help get to the bottom of things? "

"Yes, miss, but I don't think we can apply Buddhism to politics. Look what happened to Tibet. And Sikkim also."

I am chilled by this. I know full well what happened to Tibet but nothing about Sikkim beyond the Fantomes' mention of tragedy. I make a mental note to find out.

The whispered drifts and s.n.a.t.c.hes grow more distressing. I hear that some students at the National Inst.i.tute of Education in southern Bhutan have been arrested for writing pamphlets. I hear they have been tortured in prison. Tortured? I ask the students who bring this news. Surely not tortured? This is a Buddhist country. They look at each other and shake their heads at my naivete. I will remember their looks later when I find in my Sharchhop grammar book a section ent.i.tled "Punishment," which contains translations of "to torture, torture instruments, to slap, whip, fetters/chains."

I hear that one of those involved has committed suicide in detention. I hear that two British teachers at the inst.i.tute have fled the country. I hear they were also involved. I hear they helped write a pamphlet. I hear they were not really involved, they only edited the grammar. I hear that all foreigners will have to leave the country because of them. I hear this is just a rumor. I hear a hundred different fleeting whispered stories but I do not hear anyone talking openly. Without talk, nothing will be explained or understood, solved or learned. I want to write it on the sides of mountains, across the autumn sky. TALK TALK TALK.

Each week in the library I search the newspaper for some mention of the Problem, but each week there are only the usual development reports and farming news: irrigation workshop held, World Food Day celebrated, Australian wool for b.u.mthang weavers, two-headed calf born in Paro.

Dil and his friend are arrested and taken to the Tashigang for not wearing national dress outside the campus. They were on their way back from Pala's when the police picked them up. Many students, both northern and southern, wear jeans to Pala's. The arrest seems malicious and provocative. Dil and his friend return to school but a few days later, they disappear again. We are in the middle of a final review before exams. "Are they coming back?" I ask. The students study their notebooks, look out the window, do not answer.

I hear they have run away. They have gone to join unnamed others across the border after they were beaten up by northern students for wearing Nepali dress under their ghos. And then, five more southern students disappear. They are taken at night. Arrested, gone, delivered to Thimphu for questioning, I hear from the other lecturers. The students will not talk about it; they look terrified at the mere mention of the five who are gone. This is the most frightening thing.

The Situation finally merits a mention in the Kuensel. Kuensel. During the 68th session of the National a.s.sembly, the Ministry of Home Affairs announces that several anti-national and seditious letters and booklets were mailed into Bhutan. The allegations made in these publications were found to be baseless, malicious, and against the fundamental principles of the During the 68th session of the National a.s.sembly, the Ministry of Home Affairs announces that several anti-national and seditious letters and booklets were mailed into Bhutan. The allegations made in these publications were found to be baseless, malicious, and against the fundamental principles of the Tsawa Sum, Tsawa Sum, the Three Jewels of the King, the Country and the People. As such, they const.i.tuted an act of treason. The culprits and miscreants responsible could not be traced, the Ministry adds. There is no mention of a movement or any arrests. the Three Jewels of the King, the Country and the People. As such, they const.i.tuted an act of treason. The culprits and miscreants responsible could not be traced, the Ministry adds. There is no mention of a movement or any arrests.

The View from Here

We are going to visit a holy lake above Khaling, Tony and two Dutch aid workers from an agricultural project near Kanglung, and me. Tony is two months away from the end of his contract in Khaling, and will not extend. He is still quite thin, the result of a bout of typhoid and a stomach parasite. His nickname among the other Canadians is Bean, short for Bean Pole. His weight loss has no impact on his walking speed, however, and thirty minutes into the walk, I am winded. But I plod on, determined to keep up. I want to see the lake. I also want to be away from the Situation for a few hours.

We walk through an oak forest cool with early morning shadows, and I am thinking about Robert and Christmas and home. Nothing in me wants to go to Canada this winter. I finger memories, hold up images, run a scan through muscle blood bone, trying to find some tiny fiber that still wants to go. There is not one. Not even for Robert.

The forest opens into a meadow and the meadow rises into an immense hill, smooth and rounded and extremely steep, covered with golden gra.s.s and yellow flowers. The path zigzags up for almost four hours. We pa.s.s Brokpa, the nomadic yak herders from the easternmost settlement in Bhutan, with their herds of s.h.a.ggy, lumbering yaks coming down from the mountain tops where it is already winter. My legs are screaming at me to stop! stop! stop! and I do for a moment, huffing and puffing, sweat running into my eyes. A tiny Brokpa child in cracked blue rubber boots motors past me, st.u.r.dy legs churning effortlessly. "Are we almost there yet?" I call out. "A few more minutes," Tony calls back. "A few" turns out to be forty-five, but then we arrive and stand gazing at the small lake set in a shelter of ancient pines and mossy boulders. Stone cairns have been built along the sh.o.r.es, and we can see the blue of one-ngultrum notes in the clear cold water, offerings made to the lake spirit. Tony says that all lakes in Bhutan are considered holy. His students warned him not to pollute the lake, or bring meat anywhere near it, or leave any garbage nearby. They were full of stories of what would happen otherwise: you would get sick, or the lake would send mist and clouds to make you lose your way in the forest, or the spirit might even rise out of the water right then and there and that would be the end of you.

We eat our lunch of bread and cheese and hard-boiled eggs and as I am packing up, I am tempted to leave something behind, to test the stories, just to see what will happen. I tear off a minute piece of chocolate-bar wrapper, but at the last minute put it in my pocket. Tony proposes that we walk to a peak called Brangzung-La, not far from the lake. It is only an hour or so from here, he says, and the view is fantastic. We are exhausted from the long climb up in the broiling sun, but the promise of a view lures us onward. An hour or so turns out to be "or two and a half," and I trudge along behind the others, muttering and panting and cursing Tony, who must have been a mountain goat in his last life. As we ascend, the tall fir trees shrink into weeping blue juniper bushes and dwarf bamboo, knotted tightly against the cold, and I begin to feel pale and stretched and thin. Tony says it is the alt.i.tude. I cannot walk another step but I do and I do and I do. I hate walking, I tell myself, and I don't care if we can see the entire world from up there, it's not worth it.

But it is. The treeless peak is marked by a white chorten and ragged white prayer flags, the printed prayers blown completely off by the constant wind. The view lasts forever: snow peaks along the northern border, frozen white fortresses against the blue sky, and far away in the south, the plains of India, shimmering in the last of the afternoon light, and in between the north and the south, the valleys and ridges of eastern Bhutan spread out in waves. The others are taking pictures, but I want to memorize the view. I want to be able to close my eyes anywhere in the world and see this. We are not even very high up, and yet it is the best thing I've seen in my life.

"I don't want to go home at Christmas," I say suddenly.

"So don't go," Tony shrugs, adjusting his lens. He is trying to get a shot of Gangkhar Puensoom, the highest mountain in Bhutan.

Don't go. But if I don't go home at Christmas, that will be the end of my relationship with Robert. There will be no way to reconnect after two years.

Exactly, says another voice. It's not that you don't want to go home at Christmas ...

Everything about my relationship with Robert, in fact everything about the life I left behind, seems small and narrow in comparison with where I am now. Everything I imagine in that life is repulsive to me: a house in an affordable suburb, a car that I will hate because it is too big, sprinklers keeping the lawn green in the summer while we sit in air-conditioned rooms inside, sealed off from the elements, safe and smug. Part of me knows this is unfair to Robert but the rest of me doesn't want to hear it. I can see only what I have now, this view, and the dark, bright world below, with its stories of kings and curses and guardian deities, flying tigers and thunder dragons, religious scrolls hidden in rocks and valleys hidden in mountains by magic or Buddhism or both, and yetis and ghosts and the levitating lama in the temple on the ridge the sun rises over each morning, and all the places I haven't been to, and the stories I haven't yet heard, all the things I haven't figured out, like the Situation. Even with the Situation, and the frustration of being in it but apart from it, and the whispers and fear, I want to stay. I can't go home yet.

The sun begins to set, and a few stars chisel their way out of the pale sky. "It's only an hour down," Tony says, but by now we know what this means. We finish the last of our water and chocolate and follow Tony along a tenuous muddy track through dense bamboo. The shadows around us thicken, and Tony urges us to hurry. "This trail breaks off at some point, and if we take the wrong path, we'll end up in a nightmare of a bamboo forest above Khaling with no way down."

We hurry but the bamboo does not thin out, and the trail grows steadily worse. I am so tired I want to cry. We have been walking since seven this morning. The track is now the merest memory of a path. I know we are lost, and I know it is superst.i.tious and silly but it is all because of that piece of paper I was tempted to leave at the lake. Tony stops abruptly. "I think we're lost," he says. "We should be able to see the lights of Khaling by now." It is completely dark, and we have one slim flashlight between the four of us.

I explain about the piece of paper. The others listen without comment, but Tony says, "That is just about the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

Then we notice a l.u.s.trous sheen low in the sky, the rising moon. The light grows brighter and the moon appears, rising quickly, a full pretty silver face, rising higher and higher, throwing down armfuls of light. We walk single file along the path, which climbs out of the mire and joins another wider trail. When we come to the long edge of a dry gra.s.sy slope, I sit and slide down the hill, toward the steady yellow lights of Khaling.

Back in Kanglung, I sit on my doorstep, looking at Brangzung-La. A chill lays over the campus now until the sun is quite high above the ridge. More green has seeped out of the fields and hills, and outside my door, one cold white lily opens amidst the burnished marigolds.

I have just written two letters. One is a message for the field office in Thimphu, canceling my flight reservations. The other is a long, winding letter to Robert, full of my love for Bhutan, if he could only understand, I just cannot come home, and I cannot marry him because Bhutan has changed me, and I don't want the same things anymore. I add apologies and excuses, secondary reasons and supporting material, sign it and seal the envelope. I take it straight to the post office before I can change my mind.

Winter Break

The days in December are thin, empty, short. The students have left for the winter vacation, returning to their homes across the country, and the college bus took the Indian staff, including Shakuntala, to the nearest Indian town several days ago. The college will not reopen until February. After one year of service, the WUSC field office in Thimphu gives us a travel grant for a holiday in the region; I will go to Thimphu with the other Canadian teachers when their teaching terms finish next week, and decide where to spend the winter.

I sweep the floors, sort through clothes, preparing to go, and in the evenings, huddle in front of an electric heater that throws as much warmth as a Bic lighter. The staff houses were designed for India, with concrete ledges fixed above the windows to keep out the scorching sun, and a breezeway in the back hall to let in monsoon-cooled wind. I wish for a traditional Bhutanese house, with thick mud and stone walls against the cold.

When the power goes out, as it frequently does, I go to bed. Sometimes, I am in bed for the night at six p.m., under two woolen blankets, a sleeping bag and quilt, and all of my kiras. I cannot move, but finally I am warm.

I pack a rucksack for the winter holiday, and then repack, getting rid of all the extras in case of this, in case of that. I think of all those things I brought with me from Canada, my bags stuffed with things I didn't actually need. I could not have learned this freedom in Canada. But the feeling of lightness is counterbalanced by the worry that sits in my stomach. Several southern students swore they would not come back to the college in the spring because of the Problem, and some northerners went around boasting about what they would do if "these people" try anything. People do not become "we" and "they" overnight. This is a problem with a history behind it, and I feel desperate to understand it.

In my last days, I flip through old Kuensels Kuensels and history books, hoping to find the missing pieces. Nepali immigration into Bhutan began as early as the end of the last century when laborers from the lowlands were recruited for timber and stone extraction; the laborers eventually cleared plots of land in the malaria-infested jungles of the south and settled there. Similar patterns of migration were occurring throughout northeast India, especially in Sikkim, where the British tea plantations and roads offered plenty of jobs. According to Nari Rustomji's and history books, hoping to find the missing pieces. Nepali immigration into Bhutan began as early as the end of the last century when laborers from the lowlands were recruited for timber and stone extraction; the laborers eventually cleared plots of land in the malaria-infested jungles of the south and settled there. Similar patterns of migration were occurring throughout northeast India, especially in Sikkim, where the British tea plantations and roads offered plenty of jobs. According to Nari Rustomji's Sikkim: A Himalayan Tragedy, Sikkim: A Himalayan Tragedy, the immigrants were an energetic group, hungry for land and extremely mobile. Because there was plenty of land, however, the indigenous tribal Lepchas, and the Bhutias of Tibetan origin, did not feel threatened, even when the immigrant population began to grow. "The Nepalese made no attempt to a.s.similate themselves with the inhabitants of their host country. Due to the rigidities of the Hindu caste system, they could not inter-marry freely with the Lepchas and Bhutias.... Few Nepalese cared to learn the languages of the land...." Under the Buddhist monarchy, which had been established in 1641, the Nepalese felt they were being treated as second-cla.s.s citizens; though they were now a majority, they were not in a position to aspire to the true political power under the existing system. Their calls for democracy in the 1960s and 1970s were an attempt to establish a government that would reflect the demographic balance and promote their own interests. Relations between India and China were still tense, and increasing political unrest gave India the opportunity to absorb the kingdom under the "sensitive border area" excuse. In 1975, the 334-year rule of the Sikkimese Buddhist kings came to an end. the immigrants were an energetic group, hungry for land and extremely mobile. Because there was plenty of land, however, the indigenous tribal Lepchas, and the Bhutias of Tibetan origin, did not feel threatened, even when the immigrant population began to grow. "The Nepalese made no attempt to a.s.similate themselves with the inhabitants of their host country. Due to the rigidities of the Hindu caste system, they could not inter-marry freely with the Lepchas and Bhutias.... Few Nepalese cared to learn the languages of the land...." Under the Buddhist monarchy, which had been established in 1641, the Nepalese felt they were being treated as second-cla.s.s citizens; though they were now a majority, they were not in a position to aspire to the true political power under the existing system. Their calls for democracy in the 1960s and 1970s were an attempt to establish a government that would reflect the demographic balance and promote their own interests. Relations between India and China were still tense, and increasing political unrest gave India the opportunity to absorb the kingdom under the "sensitive border area" excuse. In 1975, the 334-year rule of the Sikkimese Buddhist kings came to an end.

In Bhutan, the 1958 Citizenship Act gave citizenship to anyone who had lived in Bhutan for at least ten years and owned land. With the implementation of the country's first economic development plan in 1962, there was plenty of work to be found building roads, schools and hospitals, and Nepali immigrants continued to move into the country. Integration did not seem to be a concern; apparently, travel to northern Bhutan was restricted for the southern Bhutanese until sometime in the 1970s. South was south, north was north.

The south became an issue in 1988, when census records indicated a disproportionate increase in the population in the southern districts. In the neighboring Indian states of Meghalaya and a.s.sam, Nepali immigrants were being evicted. No room, no room, the state governments insisted. Go back home. We can't help it if there is no room for you there either. You are not our problem. At the same time, the Gorkha National Liberation Front in Darjeeling began calling for the establishment of Gorkhaland, which would spread across northeastern India, including parts of southern Bhutan.

A new exhaustive census was ordered, and local officials in the south were accused of allowing large numbers of illegal immigrants to enter Bhutan and register themselves as Bhutanese citizens. There was mention of unhappiness and dissatisfaction felt in the south over the harshness with which the census was being conducted, but these feelings were put down to rumors.

I don't know if I am any closer to understanding the Situation. I can see why Bhutan, living in the dark shadow of an annexed Sikkim and Tibet, must be concerned about demographics and sovereignty. But I can also see why the southern Bhutanese feel hara.s.sed and afraid. I close up the history books. The historical backdrop does nothing to alleviate the anxiety I feel for my individual students. If anything, it makes it worse.

On my last day, I lock up my house and take my rucksack to the college gate to wait for the vehicle. At Pala's, Amala calls me over. Her short straight hair is wrapped around pink sponge curlers, and she is carrying a trowel and a bucket of wet cement to repair a wall at the back of the restaurant. I have just eaten lunch, but she insists on feeding me again, and we drink tea out of shot gla.s.ses and talk about Amala's plans for the winter. She will go to her ancestral home, in Sakteng, on the eastern border of Bhutan, where her late father was once a high lama. His reincarnation has not been found, and his temple and house in Sakteng stand empty, except for a caretaker.

"Listen," Amala says. "Vehicle." It is my ride, a hi-lux packed full of Tony and Leon and several of their students. I thank Amala and climb in. Amala waves her trowel at me, and I begin the reverse journey, back across the country to Thimphu.

We arrive three days later, turning a corner in the dark to see the net of lights spread out in the valley below. "But it's enormous," Sasha says, and Lorna breaks into a chorus of "New York, New York."

We spend several bewildering days in the capital sorting out travel plans and visas, stumbling along the main road alarmed at the traffic and the number of streets, surprised by our sudden anonymity in shops and restaurants, feeling shabby in our monsoon-streaked, sun-bleached clothes. Our field director takes us for lunch at the elegant Druk Hotel, and we giggle and fiddle with the silverware and knock over the salt and pepper shakers. Hefty expatriate consultants in dark suits and polished shoes raise their eyebrows at us. The shops are full of so many things: things: paper clips, wall clocks, air freshener, plastic coasters shaped like fish. There are three video shops on the main road now, and "Fancy Shop" sells greeting cards and black high-top trainers. paper clips, wall clocks, air freshener, plastic coasters shaped like fish. There are three video shops on the main road now, and "Fancy Shop" sells greeting cards and black high-top trainers.

A poster in a travel agency announces that Bhutan is the Last Shangri-La. There seem to be more tourists in Thimphu this winter, and we scoff at their heavy camcorders and expensive travel clothes. Thinking about it later, I hear the ugly, arrogant tone in our voices. Ugh-foreigners' As if we were not. Bhutan is so difficult to get into, such an unusual and desirable location, that I have become swollen with pride, as if my being in Bhutan were a great personal achievement and not simply a matter of luck. It is one of the dangers of being a.s.sociated with Bhutan. At first you cannot believe your good fortune, and then you begin to think it has something to do with you. Look at me, look where I am! Bhutan is special, and I am in Bhutan, therefore I must be special too. Travel should make us more humble, not more proud. We are all tourists, I think. Whether we stay for two weeks or two years, we are still outsiders, pa.s.sing through.

We hear the story behind the British teachers who fled. They not only fled, they contacted Amnesty International, and their involvement, we are told, was viewed "most seriously" by the government. Aid agencies were reminded that it is strictly forbidden for foreigners to become involved in Bhutanese politics. I tell the field director about the videotape at the college gate. He makes notes grimly and says he will have to make inquiries. He reminds us to do nothing and say nothing and stay out of it. "We all came within centimeters of getting turfed out," he says. Even he seems infected with the Fear of Talk. "Don't ask questions and don't discuss it with the Bhutanese," he tells us, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder. In another context, it would seem laughable, a spy-novel spoof. No one is laughing, though, as we whisper nervously about upheaval and ethnic conflict in the Last Shangri-La.

Leon, Tony, Lorna and several others go to Thailand for the winter, and they urge me to come along. I want to see Nepal, though, and fly to Kathmandu with Jane from Tsebar. From there, we travel overland to Delhi. Northern India is exhausting. Along the way we are stared at, glared at, honked at, swerved around, groped, grabbed, pinched, poked, fondled, bullied, propositioned, lied to, proposed to, and sang to. It is a relief when we finally reach Shakuntala's book-lined flat in Delhi. Jane returns to England, and I continue on alone to Kovalum Beach in Kerala, where I spend my days swimming and reading and walking from one end of the beach to the other, eating yogurt, fish, pineapples and coconut. The three-day train journey back to northern India is warm and intimate. We pa.s.s through cool morning forests, hot midday plains and hills turning purple in evening shadows, and the Indian families in the compartment share their food with me, aloo dum and paratha and an a.s.sortment of homemade pickles, sweet basmati rice and chickpeas in tangy sauce. I have nothing to offer in return, but buy fruit drinks and ice cream for the kids, and we make stars and boats and flowers out of the back pages of my journal.

By the time I reach Calcutta, I am longing to see the mountains again. All winter, my thoughts have never been far from Bhutan. The bus from Calcutta to Phuntsholing barrels over a deeply gouged and rutted highway. The air becomes suddenly cooler, and I look up: ahead, without a prologue of knolls or hills, the mountains rise straight up. I feel a familiar surge of happiness. I am back home.

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Involvement And if you hit upon the idea that this or that country is safe, prosperous, or fortunate, give it up, my friend... for you ought to know that the world is ablaze with the fires of some faults or others. There is certain to be some suffering... and a wholly fortunate country does not exist anywhere. Whether it be excessive cold or heat, sickness or danger, something always afflicts people everywhere; no safe refuge can thus be found in the world.

-Buddhist Scriptures

We the Lecturers

The college is awash in mid-morning sunlight when I step off the Comet from Tashigang. I unlock my house and fling open all the windows. Mrs. Chatterji calls down to me, asking about my trip to India. She is very beautiful, with large brown eyes and pale skin and a fall of straight dark hair. Over her flowery sari, she wears two thick handknit sweaters against the cold, but when I suggest that she comes out into the sun, she shakes her head. "Bad for the complexion," she says, and points to the broom in my hand. "So today you are doing spring cleaning?" Actually, I was only going to sweep off the front step so that I could sit on it, but I nod. After living below her for six months, I know that housework is her entire day. She begins as soon as her husband leaves for cla.s.s in the morning-sweep the floors, beat the rugs, tend the garden, do the laundry, cook the meals, wash the dishes. "She needs a child," Mrs. Matthew once whispered to me.