the road to Bumthang

Bumthang. Today I am traveling to the geographic center of Bhutan. A driver is picking me up at 8:30 am, but when the time rolls around, I see Gama at the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am going with you to Bumthang.”

I am thrilled. She’s hired us a driver, Domchu, to take us on the 8-hour journey to Bhutan’s center, the Bumthang valley and the very heart of Bhutan. We load up the Toyota Prado and I bid farewell to Darlene, my delightful host of the last 4 days.

The one lane road is a torturous 269 km (167 miles) snake that winds up and down the very edges of mountains. It is not for the weak of stomach. I pop a handful of candied ginger, just in case I get queasy, and brace myself for the long journey.

I ride shotgun with Domchu, a deceptively young looking man who was once a monk but is now married with a 7 year-old daughter and a second on the way. He is a cautious driver, maneuvering the winding roads past grazing cattle that like to stand in the middle of the road and are in no particular hurry, colorfully decorated trucks bearing goods, stray dogs, Nepali road crews, and the occasional family of rhesus monkeys.

In a couple of hours, past gushing cascades and water-driven prayer wheels, we arrive at Dochu La pass (3140m; 10,301 ft), marked by a vast array of prayer flags and 108 chortens, and offering a dramatic panorama of the Himalayas. In the clear cold air, the perpetually snow-covered mountains are jagged and imposing. I am breathless from the thin air, but the scene before me is enough to take anyone’s breath away, altitude or no. Parts of the road that is still in the shadow of the mountain is slick with black ice. But Domchu drives well and we seldom can go faster than 40 kph (25 mph).

By noontime, driving past more cows, waterfalls, and happily waving children, we arrive at Wangdue Phodrang (aka Wangdi.) Wangdi reminds me of a border town, with many small stalls selling all sorts of goods from socks to fruit. We stop to pick up some persimmons for Gama’s family whom we will be visiting during our stay in Bumthang. Gama picks up some doma for herself. Doma is the areca nut and lime (the powder, not the fruit) rolled up into a betel leaf and chewed. It stains the teeth bright red, but the Bhutanese chew it religiously. It has a mildly stimulating, intoxicating effect and probably helps them cope with the thin air as well. In Thimphu the sidewalks are stained with doma spit. You can’t miss the brick red stains covering most of the sidewalks.

After a brief stop in Wangdi, we press on toward a roadhouse where we meet Gama’s father Ugyen, and her brother Garap, who have gone on ahead of us in another car. We stop for a lunch of red rice, dhal, daikon radish, and dried beef. I order a cup of suja, butter tea with a slightly salty taste. It is an appropriately warming drink that suits the ody on a cold day.

After a pitstop at the squat toilet, which is no mean feat in my sore knees, we continue onward toward Trongsa, about 2.5 hours away. Trongsa is dominated by an immense dzong built on a hill. At Trongsa we drink some coffee and order some momos (meat dumplings) to nourish us for the remaining 2-hour drive to Bumthang.

At the Yotong La pass (3425m; 11,237 ft), we are almost above the clouds. The tops of the mountains look like islands in the sky, made ever more dramatic by the setting sun. I notice something odd in the misty sky: the rising full moon is appearing above the sun. But even odder yet is that, a few kilometers beyond the pass, the moon appears again in the opposite side of the sky. Hmm.

By 5:30 pm and nearly dusk, we arrive at our guesthouse, a newly built resort owned by Gama’s uncle, Chimi. We are shown to our large suites up on the hillside, where the heater is on and the beds are covered in down comforters. After a quick shower, we meet for dinner in the main house, in a lovely dining room with polychrome beams and gorgeous woodwork. Soon, we are tossing back arra, and Ugyen and Chimi begin to tell tales of the Bumthang Valley.

Magic still lives in the Bumthang valley. Tonight is very special, for it is the Meeting of the Nine Evils. On the full moon, in this very month, the spirits wander about. It is best not to work, but to rest and take it easy so as not to upset them, otherwise you will wake up with bites and bruises. This is not the stuff of fairy tales. Gama tells me that when she was a little girl she woke up with scratches all down her back. Ugyen and Chimi tell me stories about lakes of fire that hold sacred relics; of imprisoned lamas that flooded the valley, and only their release would make the waters subside; of snakes with jewels in their forehead that, if shown some courtesy, will drop their jewel and make the person immensely wealthy; of lamas who, upon their death, were found to have mantras carved in their skulls. But these are not legends of long ago; these things happened to cousins and uncles and neighbors. Magic exists, Ugyen tells me, because people still believe in magic. When they stop believing, the magic will one day fade away. I do not doubt these things are real, and even today we witnessed the strange lunar phenomenon, where the moon was in the west, then appeared in the eastern sky. I want to live in world where magic still exists, where spirits roam, and omens and portents are real. You only need to believe.

the monastery

Today I get to be lazy. Tshering, YDF’s driver, is taking me to Dechen Phodrang, the monastic school, at two o’clock in the afternoon. I have a gross of toothbrushes to deliver.

In the morning Darlene and I visit her neighbor and landlady Dinka, who lives down the path from us. Dinka’s family is having their yearly puja for good luck, health and prosperity. We are welcomed inside and sit around the bukhari, or traditional Bhutanese wood-burning stove, and the family members bring trays of snacks mostly made of puffed rice or pounded maize. We are handed two steaming bowls of savory rice porridge, a comfort food that warms us to the core. The porridge contains btis of yak fat and chugo, the hard yak milk cheese. You cannot really eat chugo unless you’re prepared to gnaw on it for a few hours. It’s hard as a rock, but it’s soft and delicious in the hot porridge. I scarf down two bowls and go into the altar room and take photos of the chanting monks and the family altar, decorated with colorful butter sculptures. We’re invited back for dinner later tonight.

I meet Tshering and we drive up the winding road to Dechen Phodrang, hih above the Thimphu valley floor. The monastic school houses 450 young monks, most of whom could not be cared for by their families or come from broken homes. Tshering finds one of the head monks and teachers. We shake hands and I give him the boxes of toothbrushes. He invites us in for tea and cookies, and then Tshering and I wander around the open areas so I can take photos for a future YDF brochure. One of YDF’s programs is Sponsor a Monk, where a donation of $250 provides for a young boy for 2 years. I have already vowed to sponsor a monk in 2009. I visit one of the classrooms where dozens of the youngest boys in red robes are sitting on the floor chanting. Sort of. It’s pretty noisy, just like any classroom, and there’s a bit of horseplay. Boys will be boys. I am not permitted to enter, but I can observe through the door. I can’t help but wave and lots of little hands wave right back. When we leave, Tshering offers to take me to the Zilukha nunnery down the road, a tranquil place where 50 Buddhist nuns make their home.

After we pay our visit to the nunnery, Tshering takes me to the Motithang Takin Preserve. The takin is an odd animal whose taxonomy baffles scientists. It is unrelated to any other animal and looks like a cross between a musk ox and a goat. Legend has it that Lama Drukpa Kunley created Bhutan’s national animal.

In the early evening I attend a meditation class at the Youth Center that is taught by Lama Zhenphen, a visiting monk. Lama Zhenphen is quite a charismatic character, and funny as well. He teases latecomers, and pokes fun at two young men for closing their eyes all the way. “I’m going to prop open your eyelids with toothpicks so you don’t fall asleep.” We do several rounds of 10 minute meditations interspersed with teachings and observations. I realize that all my volunteer work and giving has not been exactly selfless. There’s always been something in it for me, whether a portfolio piece or even a thank you. When one gives selflessly there is no expectation. When you are detached, it doesn’t matter whether someone acknowledges your actionsor not. Giving should be as natural and instinctual as breathing. We don’t think about breathing, we just do it. It’s something I need to work on. I am so physically tired from trekking today that meditation comes easy. My mind is a total blank.

After our session with the Lama, Darlene and I walk home to Langjo Pakha. The moon is nearly full and the night is clear and cold, but the vigorous walk is warming. We go to Dinka’s, and her family brings us milk tea, followed by green beans in cheese sauce and grilled beef with rice. I have a lovely conversation with Dinka’s 18 year old niece. She is bright and articulate and wants to study art at the Halifax School of Art and Design in Nova Scotia. I don’t doubt that she will. Most Bhutanese study abroad. The women in her family are ambitious and wear the pants in the household. In Bhutan women play a dominant role. Women own most of the land, and polyandry is common in some parts. I’m not sure how I’d like having more than one husband. One man is more than enough.