Every October, I wait for the black-necked cranes to return.
The birds fly over the highest mountains in the world to
winter in the soft wet fields of the Phobjika Valley where I
live. Here they grow fat, eating worms, slugs and the fallen
grains from the buckwheat we harvest each year.
I want to be the first
to see the cranes.
I look out my classroom
window and shout, “Look,
the cranes!”
My teacher sighs. “Kinga,
that’s only a flock of crows!”
Another day I see black
specks in the sky. “The cranes!”
My friend Pema laughs and
says, “They’re pigeons, Kinga!”
Day after day, I wait for the
birds we call trung trung with
their long necks and their loud
squawking calls.
“They’re here!” I shout.
Pema says, “Yes. I see
them too!” Everyone runs to
the windows.
T
he
cranes
circle
the
go
lden
roof
of
the
mon
astery
wh
ere
mon
ks
chant
pray
ers
for
the
well-
being
of
all
liv
ing
things.
They fly over the Crane
Center where Kado works. He
is called the Caretaker of the Cranes.
Kado tells us about these birds that have visited
Bhutan for thousands of years.
“Long ago many more cranes came to our valley, but
this year we counted only 203,” he says. His eyes are sad. “But
the more we learn to care for them, the more we can help their
numbers grow.
“To protect the cranes, we preserve our wetlands so they
have enough to eat,” Kado says, “but we need to find more ways
to help them, for they are our sisters and brothers.”
What can I do to help?
That night I tell my family about Kado and the cranes.
Grandmother says, “Trung trung bring us good luck for our crops.”
“For hundreds of years,” Mother says, “artists have painted them on the walls of our
houses and monasteries.”
Father finishes his butter tea and says, “The cranes bring strength to those
who love archery.”
I want to be a great archer like my father. At the village archery
contest, he pulls back his bow until just the right moment, then
lets the string go. Zing! When his arrow hits the target over 400
feet away, his team celebrates with a dance. They each stand on
one leg, then turn and jump up and down, just like the cranes.
“Wah-ha!” they sing, thanking the cranes that have flown so
far to bring the archers strength and good luck.
Maybe there is a way I can help the cranes.
The next day, I ask my class, “If people
come to our archery contests and to our festivals
to see the monks dance, would they also come to a
festival to see us dance for the cranes?” Their faces
shine, yes! Our teacher says, “We must ask the monks for
permission because all festivals are held in their courtyards.”
“Kuzu-zangpo la,” we say, greeting the monks. “Can you help us
make a new festival with a dance for the cranes?”
A monk named Sangay says, “Our dances have been
performed the same way for centuries and each one takes hours
of practice.”
He sees our disappointment and his face slowly breaks
into a smile. “Dancing to tell stories is part of our tradition,”
he says, “but before we can help you make a crane
dance, you must first watch the birds and learn
from them.”