Settling In

We begin the hike to Wangditse Goemba after a morning of fog, rain, and clouds sliding up and down the green hills. While waiting for the rain to stop, I drink two huge mugs of Nescafé instant coffee (not bad if accompanied with whole milk--for those who are cringing), and try to imagine how far we can hike in an afternoon. Since we have been instructed to “settle in,” I have been trying to figure out what this might actually mean. How does one “settle in” to a new culture where one knows no one and where even the most basic protocols are nebulous? We’ve tried wandering through town, drinking coffee, buying produce at the weekend vegetable market, saying “Kuzuzangpo-la” (Hello! Or, more literally “Good Health!”) to everyone we pass on the road who stares curiously at our white skin, odd clothing, and large size, without necessarily feeling “settled.” But the process has at least given us a huge amount of freedom to wander about Thimphu with no obligations and only a sense of the unknown lingering uncomfortably on the horizon. I know I should be getting down to work, but there seems to be something indescribably valuable in feeling the earth here beneath my feet and the rain in my hair, and smelling the moisture and numerous alien smells of another world, something which I cannot get no matter how many hours I might spend sitting at my desk. I realize that this is the first time in eight years that I have not had the formal structure of an academic environment to keep me on track. Instead, I am utterly on my own and any discipline will require dedicated self-generation.

We begin the hike on a steep road steaming beneath the early afternoon sun. The intense heat immediately reminds me that this time of year is, in fact, the Himalayan monsoon season. Within seconds, Chris and I are both drenched with sweat. Happily, the road that leads to the trail to Wangditse Goemba (read: Wangditse Monastery) is less traveled than many and we are not overwhelmed by lines of tiny Maruti cars puttering up and down the mountainside. Along the way we visit the Zilukha Nunnery, a small nunnery of about 30 nuns perched above the road. At the entrance to the nunnery, we come to a halt, intimidated by the ever-present pack of ragtag dogs barking wildly at our appearance. But after a few moments, even they seem exhausted by the effort of barking beneath the monsoon sun and flop back down into an instant stupor.

We enter the main lhakang (shrine room) courtyard. It’s deserted but for a flock of pigeons that rise up in one great swoop of gray, fluttering wings. As we approach the entrance to the lhakang, a young nun hurries up and welcomes us. The lhakang is brightly painted inside on all walls with vibrant scenes from the Buddha’s life. A large golden statue of Sakyamuni Buddha sits serenely at the end of the hall, his shoulders and arms festooned with prayer flags and offering scarves in various colors. On either side of him are, respectively, large statues of Padmasambhava (the Indian mahasiddha believed to have brought Buddhism both to Tibet and to Bhutan) and the Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal (the Tibetan lama who came to Bhutan in 1616 after having a vision of Mahakala—a Buddhist protector deity—and unified Bhutan, becoming its first religious leader). In front of all three statues, magnificent tormas (offering cakes) like intricately carved castles of colored dough are artfully arranged. Butter lamps flicker in polished silver offering bowls. We wander about the lhakang asking questions and Ngawang Pal, our little nun guide, tells us the names and a bit of the history of the nunnery. She also insists on bringing us tea while we wait in the outer vestibulary where the nuns all have their Buddhist practice materials set up at small, ornately carved tables. A huge prayer wheel looms over the tiny space and pilgrims squeeze past us to turn it as we sip our steaming tea and munch on the ubiquitous wheat biscuits. The nuns are about to begin a Tara puja and a gong is stuck to call them to the lhakang. We finish our tea and depart.

The trail up to Wangditse Goemba is unmarked. We stand on the road gazing in confusion at the nearly vertical hillside crisscrossed with a network of trails, none of which seem to be going in any particularly consistent direction. Finally, we just start up one, weaving through the wet, dense growth, mud the color of chestnuts squishing up around our boots. By weaving along the hillside, we manage to maintain an upward direction, traversing gurgling streams and finally vanishing into a dense pine forest where the air and silence are so thick with moisture I find it hard to breathe. Wangditse finally appears through the branches of the trees and we emerge onto a small plateau, the back of which opens out on a range of mountains previously hidden from view—a huge range of dark green ridges disappearing into the high mists with a tiny retreat center clinging mid-way up one of the steep slopes.

Wangditse Goemba was founded in 1750 by Bhutan’s eighth desi or secular leader. It’s a huge, fortress-like, windowless building whose only light might enter through the high, temple-like top. The outside is painted white with a red band around it called a khemar. Along the band arranged at intervals are circular brass plates representing the sun. It’s very quiet. The only sound is the tricking of water from a small stream and the flutter of vertical prayer flags in the breeze. I had thought that Wangditse Goemba was a monastery, but when we make our way to the entrance, the old bearded monk who somewhat begrudgingly leaves his lunch to lead us inside is alone but for a few older nuns doing khora (circumambulation) around the outside of the goemba. Inside is dark and the air is wet and heavy. I find it impossible to speak loudly.

At the back of the main hall a huge, two-story statue of Sakyamuni Buddha gleams in the darkness, a few lone butter lamps flickering around him like sleepy fireflies. Behind the Buddha and around the edges of the lhakang, I can dimly make out the shapes of eight huge chortens (stupas which serve as mausoleums), housing the remains of who-knows-which important teachers. High overhead, flashes of color are all that can be glimpsed through the layers of soot of what must at one time have been magnificently painted mandalas. In spite of its darkness, the size and silence of the old goemba fill me with a sense of reverence and age. It’s beautiful in its somber, stolid presence. As we exit the main building, dark clouds hover in blue sky, backlit by the late afternoon sun, the goempa shining out white and red against the skyscape.

Rather than hike back down to the road, we decide to follow what is supposed to be a flat 2-mile hike back to Sangaygang and back down to our apartment from there. But the trail tricks us, continuing up and up into the pine forest, a muddy mess of trickling water, dislodged greenery, and incessant flies. After a while, the trail levels out and we find ourselves along a ridge that eventually leads in the direction we hope to go. At some point, a small house appears out of the mist, perched on the hillside under the pines, surrounded by small plots of growing things. It looks entirely peaceful and completely isolated. We are both intrigued, but the thought of how much work it would be to live like that quickly convinces me that it might not be ideal. Sigh. A nice, romantic fantasy, and one I’ve often nursed, but one whose reality makes me vividly aware of my attachment to some basic comforts!