Bhutan

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BHUTAN

An old woman sits on the tin roof of her spare mud-brick house spinning a hand-held prayer wheel. As each clockwise turn sends hundreds of prayers scattering towards the snow-clad peaks, I think about how much competition they face. It is difficult to scan any pine-draped hillside that isn’t bisected by a cluster of vertical white prayer flags. It’s almost impossible to cross one of the many narrow bridges without brushing against the strings of colorful, tattered prayer flags fluttering in the wind. Mountain-top monasteries and river side dzongs with rows upon rows of prayer wheels for the faithful to spin on their circumambulations. Every minute thousands of prayers sprint towards the high passes of this remote Himalayan kingdom. But luckily there are ample mountains to receive them. This is Bhutan, a tiny, devoutly Buddhist country tucked between Tibet and India in the folds of the Himalayan foothills. It is like no place I have ever been.

Helaine and I just spent 10 days hiking and exploring parts of western Bhutan with our friends Hallie and Scott. Our guide, Uygen, and our driver picked us up in Paro, and our first introduction to Bhutan was a brief stop at an archery tournament on the edge of town. Archery is the national sport of Bhutan. The contestants square off against one another about 50 yards away, with four of five men on each side. All take part in a brief ceremonial song and dance whenever anyone hits the target (even the opponent, which seemed a bit puzzling). Most of the men were wearing ghos, the robe-like traditional dress of the country for males. Women traditionally wear kiras, which consist of a long skirt of a wrap-around cloth, often accompanied by a bright, ornate jacket.

From Paro we drove to Thimphu, the capital, supposedly the only one in the world that does not have a single traffic light. Instead a white-gloved policeman stands in the center of the traffic circle providing a bewildering number of signals to oncoming cars. A traffic light was briefly installed a few years ago, but thought too impersonal by the citizens, and the traffic director was promptly restored to his post. The town is truly tiny, consisting of only a couple of main streets. It is the summer home for the monarchy, while they spend the winter in the warmer environs of Punakha. The fifth king just recently abdicated as formal head of the government to allow democratic elections for the first time in Butan’s history. However, from what we gathered from Uygen, he still maintains an ultimate veto power over any decisions made by the assembly, and he is still greatly revered by the Bhutanese people.

On our second day in Bhutan, we hiked outside of Thimphu through giant rhododendron to the Tango Monastery, set on a promontory overlooking the Himalayan foothills. We passed several monks on their way down the mountain and after an extended uphill climb reached a Tibetan stupa surrounded by prayer flags adorning the view of the surrounding mountains. Just around the corner we saw a group of monks playing badminton in a grassy area adjacent to their housing. One of them even sported a saffron tank top, surely the latest in Bhutanese monk sportswear. They even invited Helaine to play on the return trip down the mountain.

The monastery itself occupied a prominent spot with a superb view onto the clouded hills below. The structure was made up of the traditional whitewashed walls and detailed dark wood windows that form the essentials of traditional Bhutanese architecture. This formula can be seen in the dzongs, monasteries and most houses, even in the smallest villages. We entered the main gate between two giant prayer wheels and stepped into a large courtyard with a small structure in the middle filled with votive butter lamps. Monks and novices stood in several of the open windows above the courtyard. After walking around the courtyard, we removed our shoes and stepped into one of the most unique scenes I have ever witnessed. In a dark room the monks and novices sat in two rows facing each other, giant images of Buddha (past, present and future) occupying the adjacent room. The prompting by the clanging of a gong triggered a musical repertoire made up of an eerie combination of horns of various sizes and drumming. The music ended as it began, with the solemn banging of the gong, followed promptly by the deep, throaty chanting of the monks. It felt as if we could have been standing in a scene 10 centuries ago, and we all walked out in a bit of awe.

As we hiked back towards Thimphu, we talked to Uygen in more detail about his family in Bhutan and his past studies in India. We walked through a couple of small villages and in one saw people assembling mud bricks to construct a house. Most of the homes had the aforementioned traditional Bhutanese architecture, consisting of a squarish house with whitewashed walls (normally adorned with various Buddhist images and the occasional phallus, a tribute to Drukpa Kunley, the Divine Madman, a saint known for his way with the women as much as for the miracles he performed). Normally, there are several sets of windows with extensive dark wood trim; they have 4 or 5 rectangular-shaped openings, rounded at the top. The top floor is usually an open air space used for storage and drying various crops such as chillies. We also passed by a family taking part in a Bhutanese stone bath. This consisted of a family of 3 seated in a round wooden tub as an old man with giant metal tongs lifted hot stones from an adjacent fire and dropped them into the tub. I feel certain there is a fancy spa somewhere charging hundreds of dollars for a treatment similar to this medieval operation.

After a couple of nights in Thimphu, which included our introduction to the barking dogs of Bhutan, standard Bhutanese fare (for breakfast, lunch and dinner), and Druk 11,000 (self-proclaimed “super strong beer”, we left for the town of Punakha, which requires an arduous climb to the 10,500 feet pass of Dochu La, before dropping precipitously into the valley on the other side. At the top of the pass are 108 white chortens, and apparently on a clear day you can see the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, including Kachenjunga. Unfortunately, it was a bit cloudy on that day. We saw several yaks on the road up to the pass, and Scott and I jumped out of the car on the other side of the pas to snap a photo of one particular devout specimen standing under a group of white prayer flags. We quickly dipped into sunshine on the other side of the pass and were dropped off for a hike down the valley towards Punakha. The temperature was at least 15 degrees higher than Thimphu, and we were working up a nice sweat by the time we reached the stream running through bottom of the valley. From there we paralleled the valley on narrow red clay paths through pine forests towards the town of Punakha.

We stayed in a lodge above the town of Punakha. There was a a great indoor/outdoor bar at the hotel with a spectacular view into the valley in the opposite direction of the main town. This became both our sunset and sunrise spot, the former to have a few post-excursion drinks, the latter to catch the sun coming over the nearby mountains. Scott abandoned the Druk 11000 for Tiger beer, while Helaine and Hallie stuck to the extensive wine list.

We were growing accustomed (not without some resistance) to our standard Bhutanese fare of red rice, asparagus, buckwheat, an unrecognizable meat or two, potatoes, and a dish of cheese and chillies. This was almost invariably served for every meal, with only the occasional egg thrown in at breakfast. I never thought I could hate asparagus, but I’m taking an extended break from it following Bhutan. I also discovered that there is something with less taste than plain white rice; that would be red rice. It was completely edible, just amazingly bland. On the other hand, I reserve most of my disdain for good old buckwheat, the grain you wish you never knew. On the trip we had buckwheat noodles, buckwheat dumplings (a consensus worst food of the trip), and buckwheat pancakes. And I’ve had what are allegedly buckwheat pancakes in the U.S. I assure you they are not. Imagine the burnt taste of excrement in your mouth and you will come close to capturing the magical flavor of buckwheat. But, of course, we didn’t come for the food.

On our first full day in Punakha we visited the Khamsum Yuley Namgay Memorial Chorten, which involved a hike across one of the many narrow, prayer-flag lined bridges over the river and through small fields and up a steep hill overlooking the river and valley below. It was a local holiday, and we were accompanied by many townspeople huffing it up the dirt path to the scenic chorten/shrine. The views from the top of the chorten were spectacular, and looking farther up the valley we caught our first glimpse of massive snow-capped peaks in the direction of Tibet. The hike back through the village paralleled a beautiful portion of the river, and the trail weaved along the edge of fields of the hot chillies common to Bhutan. They form the main ingredient of their national dish, which includes green chillies smothered in cheese. It’s actually quite good.

From the village we headed for Punakha dzong (a monastery/fort), arguably the most beautifully placed dzong in the country. It sits at the confluence of two rivers in the middle of the valley. We were lucky to see the fifth king and his entourage leaving in several vehicles as we approached the dzong. Inside we also saw the jhe kanpo, head abbott of the country. They were holding a special ceremony due to the holiday, and we amusedly watched the disciplinarian as he scolded the young monks and novices being called to the main building for the event.

On the morning of leaving Punakha, we drove towards an adjacent town and walked to a temple dedicated to Drukpa Kunley, aka the Divine Madman. Of course this temple was known for the wooden phallus located near the main altar, alleged to grant fertility to women who are brave enough to touch it. If they subsequently have kids, they must make an annual journey to the temple to pay appropriate tribute. I got a couple of great photos of village kids as we hiked back towards our van. We also encountered several village people chewing doma, a combination of betel nut and lime, that sounds like it has a similar effect to the coca leaves often chewed by rural villagers in parts of South America. On almost any village path in a rural area you will see the bright red splatter marks of this combination chew.

From the temple we took the snaking one-lane road back towards Dochu La Pass, where we embarked on one of the longest hikes of the trip, mostly due to the fact that we took a wrong turn and tacked on 3 or 4 miserable miles on some type of logging road. Prior to that portion, the hike took us through forests of giant rhododendron in route to two lesser-visited monasteries. The second one in particular was fascinating, and it was obvious they have very few visitors. The young novices stood within a couple of feet of us and stared unabashedly at their strange guests. But of course civilization was only moments away. Seconds later, as our guide was in the midst of explaining the Buddhist scenes painted on one of the walls, the head monk’s cell phone began ringing and he had to step out to take the call. The incongruity of that universal ring with this ancient monastery was particularly stark as we climbed down the steep wooden ladders to the main courtyard.

Although the long dirt road to the main highway wasn’t exactly the highlight of the trip, it again provided interesting insight into the extremely difficult lives of the itinerant laborers of Bhutan. We walked by woodcutters sliding freshly cut logs down a mud path to the road below, just before watching a family strap a huge stone to a young woman’s back to carry down the path. This is one image of Bhutan that has been jarring, given the idyllic landscape and the self-contained citizens in the land of “gross national happiness”. From the moment we left the airport until the time we departed, it was difficult to walk or drive a mile without running into the poor laborers working on various highway construction projects or sweeping the sides of the road with makeshift brooms. According to Uygen, most are temporary workers from India and Bangladesh and are brought by independent contractors from those countries. They are granted one to two year work visas by Bhutan and live in ramshackle huts on the outskirts of whatever project they are engaged in. While presumably their situation is better here than in their home country, it’s still quite depressing to compare their situation to that of the regular citizens of Bhutan.

After our driver tracked us down from our misguided route, we headed back towards Thimphu. Another night in Thimphu meant another round with the ubiquitous barking dogs of Bhutan. I have spent time in Peru and seen plenty of stray dogs there and in places like Costa Rica, but never, never have I encountered the all-night sensation that dominates the night in every corner of western Bhutan. As soon as the sun goes down, one little howler will send every mangy mut within 10 square miles into an unchecked frenzy. By the middle of the night a shrill cacophony of howls, barks, growls and every other canine noise imaginable are bouncing off the surrounding hills and straight into your room. In some places like the Haa Valley, earplugs don’t even come close to muffling the sound. And they don’t stop barking until the sun comes up. Any dog you encounter during the middle of the day will be passed out cold on the side (or in the middle) of whatever street or path you are on; they will not even budge as you approach, exhausted from the previous night’s endeavors.

From Thimphu we headed for the less-visited region of the Haa Valley, only open to tourism since 2001. This was our most treacherous drive yet, and Helaine was passing out Xanex within minutes of our departure from the confluence of the Paro and Thimphu rivers. Bhutan roads are essentially one continuous curve, only varying in the direction of the next hairpin turn. One of the most common sounds of Bhutan is the preemptive honk of a car’s horn as you round a blind turn. I presume the hope is that an answering honk on the other side of the curve will be sufficient to prevent within approximatlely 1.2 seconds a head on collision and plunge into the bottom of the immediately adjacent ravine 3,000 feet below. Very comforting: there are even road signs exhorting drivers to adopt this brilliant safety practice. We climbed up these perilous one-lane roads, requiring the typical honk approximately ever 3 m for the 4 hours required to go 78 kilometers before descending into the beautiful Haa valley. This valley sits at 9,000 feet, and if you look straight down the valley towards the west, you see the precipitous white-covered peaks of Tibet looming above. While historically trade routes between Tibet and Bhutan, traffic over these passes is now completely curtailed. The Indian military compound in the town of Haa demonstrates Bhutan’s reasonable preoccupation with China to the north.

In the Haa we stayed at the Risum Lodge, a very rustic inn set on a slope of the valley. Scott and I tried our hand at Bhutanese darts, a form of yard darts involving a wooden board for a target and several oversized darts thrown from a distance of approximately 30 yards. We also visited two temples first constructed in the 7th century, and then returned to our lodge for the usual fare of potatoes, chillies and cheese, red rice, and the ever-despised buckwheat. We also had our first go with the local rice wine (ara), mixed with egg. It tasted like egg nog and sake, and Scott (the food martyr for the trip) was the only one brave or foolish enough to finish it.

As we were lucky enough to have a completely clear morning the next day, we asked the driver to take us to the 13,200 feet Cheli La pass (we were scheduled to cross it en route to Thimphu in a couple of days) to take in the tremendous mountain views. When we reached the pass, we saw the dramatic icy peak of Jomolhari and hiked up above the pass for even more expansive views of the surrounding mountains. I am already plotting the 10 day trek that takes you to the foot of Jomolhari. Because it is considered a sacred peak by the Bhutanese, no one is allowed to climb it. There are hundreds of prayer flags lining the hills at the pass.

That afternoon we took another village hike and saw one of the many local temples, its altar adorned with a figure of the local demon who had been pacified by the resident saint. We left the following morning for Paro, and our views of the Cheli La pass were even more dramatic as the valley below was draped in a thick blanket of clouds. We stopped to take pictures of the snow-capped peaks with hundreds of prayer flags in the foreground and caught our most dramatic view of Jomolhari. We avoided a couple of standard near-death collisions en route to Paro and then drove to the other side of Paro for a visit to Taktsang Monastery, aka Tiger’s Nest, probably the most famous site in all of Bhutan. Seeing the monastery requires a pretty brutal hike straight uphill for a couple of hours, but it is worth the effort to see this edifice miraculously constructed on the sheer limestone cliffs above the valley. There was no one inside when we arrived, and we toured a few of the rooms with the caretaker. One of the rooms included a sacred cave that was locked to all visitors except for one day out of each year when people could enter to receive a blessing. The views from the monastery were expansive.

We checked into the luxurious Uma Paro late that afternoon. It was welcome respite after a long week of strenuous hiking and rustic accommodations along the way. We had our last dinner with Hallie and Scott as they were heading out the next morning. Although we have much traveling ahead of us, I was reluctant to leave Bhutan. I’ve never been to a destination that felt so completely unexplored. Whether hiking a narrow dirt path through a village or listening to the eerie chanting of monks at one of the remote Buddhist monasteries, the sensation of timelessness was difficult to avoid. For the time being this tiny mountain kingdom has preserved its identity, and the people have retained those characteristics that make them uniquely Bhutanese. Most impressively, the people and our encounters with them seemed completely unaffected. At least for now, there is no other word that better captures the essence of Bhutan.

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