Between Bagdogra and Bhutan

Beyonce sits down on the foot of my sunbed with his mani/pedi basket and looks disapprovingly at my legs. He tells me that if I don’t let him wax them, no boys will love me. He says it makes me look the same as a man and I will never get a nice boyfriend because he won’t like the way I look. I tell him that’s ok. I tell him that several nice boys have loved me and that I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now. He says fine, I can keep my legs the way they are but not my eyebrows. He’s right and I let him thread away the strays. I’m trying to find something between vanity and sloppiness. I spent so many years dressing myself up in order to mask my inner shame with outer beauty. Lately I’ve swung too far the other way, perhaps, neglecting to take proper pride in my appearance and actually allow my physical form to be an expression and extension of my natural radiance, goodness, and intelligence.

I go snorkeling with a Danish guy and when I climb down the web of thick tree roots that has climbed up a sheer rock face, he says he’s never met anyone like me. Girls don’t usually take the lead and inspire him to try new things, he says. My mind churns out proofs that highlight all the places his logic may have gone awry in leading him to that conclusion but I’m learning to pick my battles. We sit down in a cool cave to rest while bats fly around our heads and fasten their feet to the walls around us. When I wave my hand in the air, one turns his ears to follow the movement, swinging like a tiny trapeze artist with a tiny piggy nose. Thomas and I look at each other with shared delight. I can tell that if I hold our eye contact any longer he might try to kiss me so I look away.

The Saturday night market in Otres Village is full of ex-pats selling wares and young travelers rolling spliffs, watching the live music on stage. A Swiss woman selling wire jewelry, a French couple selling essential oils, a Kiwi selling gemstones, an Argentine selling camisoles, Italians selling cheesecake (I can’t decide: Bailey’s or mango). This place sings a kind of siren song and the shore is full of washed up bohemians that meant to just sail through but got beached here. I found the real live sirens in the Gulf of Thailand — the creatures that gave rise to the myth. The dugongs, payoon, lady of the sea. He told me to go see them and I did. I was so happy to finally have a map from him that I might follow. Still, it didn’t lead me to him. Still, it never leads me to you. I win a free cocktail at the night market because I’m the first one in the crowd to say “Dusty Springfield.” I order red absinthe in water with a little sugar. I feel the subtle pang of longing and nostalgia sweep across my rib cage and barely graze my determined heart: I know I cannot drift off into this Dionysian dreamland. I know this is not my stop and I mustn’t fall asleep at the wheel. I’ve tied myself to the mast and I’m leaving tomorrow. I have to find a way to let you go. I need the time and energy for other things now. I have to find a way to let in the truth of your absence. Though it isn’t really about you at all, is it. How could it be? I hardly know you anymore.

I spend the last night of hibernation back in Bangkok with the friend of a friend. I’ve never met him before but sitting across from each other on his balcony while my dirty laundry spins around in his washing machine, my heart effortlessly replenishes its waning supply of feeling connected and understood. I don’t have the clothes or the books that I will need for the year but I’m as ready as I’m going to be. You have to be ready only to leave — you don’t have to be ready to arrive. If you wait until you’re ready to arrive, you will never leave. Because some of the essential preparation necessarily takes place in the space between the two, does it not?

There is a dragon holding the wheel of dharma printed on the door of the airplane. The morning air is humid and I feel off balance walking up the portable staircase. I smile at the father and daughter sitting next to me and their faces remain completely blank in response. The meal served on board is elegant and each dish is happily situated in its own compartment: aloo gobi, croissant, yogurt, fruit, black tea, and white cake with pistachio cream. The fruit is cut and placed like sashimi: pineapple, grapefruit, papaya, and dragonfruit. For some reason, I think about all the sushi meals that various men have bought for me over the years. I stare into the face of the deep seated belief that I will need the patronage of men in order to enjoy certain luxuries in my life. I bare my teeth and growl at this belief, unseating it ever so slightly.

And then, all of a sudden, I’m standing curbside at the airport in Bagdogra, India waiting to be picked up by my program leader from Bhutan. I don’t have a working phone or her contact number for that matter so I’m really hoping I’m in the right place. I googled “greetings cultural norms Bhutan” yesterday because I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot but she greets me with a warm hug that assuages some of my uptightness and trying-too-hardness. I have to find a way to forget how I love the smell of your breath in the morning. I have to become interested in the smells right in front of my nose. I have to find a way to fall in love with myself. The windy roads are a free-for-all and I’m glad I’m not driving. My colleague tells me not to bother with my seat belt because that way, if we go off the edge, it’s easier to jump out.

Just before we reach the border of Bhutan, which is marked by an ornately carved and painted gate, we stop in the small town of Chimurchi. To enter the immigration office, we walk under a clothesline and through a small wooden gate. I can’t find the words to describe just how every little detail of the phenomenal world is different here, but it is somehow. I have to hurry to keep up with her as she walks up the stairs and disappears behind a curtain. She teaches me the way to invite someone to take their seat with respect. We sit down at the desk of an important looking man and someone brings in tea and biscuits. I hand over my passport and the piece of paper I printed out that says “Caroline Hope Leach, Single Entry, Bhutan, Visa no. 0001293471738.” A few minutes later the whole thing seems to be settled. Drink your tea and let’s go, she says. Next door is a small shop and she gestures for me to follow her as she walks confidently into the back room. The shelves are solid rainbows of woven fabrics. She holds up two kiras and I choose one. She ties it expertly around my waist and chooses a blouse and jacket that match. She looks me up and down and we nod at one another in mutual approval. She is kind and funny and direct and I like her very much already. “Come, Caroline” and she turns on her heels.

Before we reach Samtse, we stop on the side of the road for lunch. She orders paneer with peas and black tea with milk, speaking in Hindi. Later this afternoon she will buy vegetables at the market speaking in Nepali, request an advance on my salary from payroll speaking in Dzongkha, tell the doctor I need my blood drawn for my work permit speaking in English, and shoot the shit with the other professors in our department speaking in Sharchop. Over lunch she tells me that in addition to developing curriculum for the Master’s program, I will be teaching two courses in the Postgraduate Diploma in Counseling program this semester. I ask her when classes begin and she tells me not to worry about it. Drink your tea, she says.