Ghos and Kiras

For those of who have been eagerly awaiting pictures of Chris in Bhutanese dress, your time has come! Yesterday, after a shopping expedition to complete my kira collection, we decided to play dress-up, primarily to see if we were able to correctly put on Bhutanese dress. As expected, the process was somewhat challenging! I tried to do my wifely duty and help Chris with the process, but he was determined to do it alone. As you can see, he did an exemplary job transforming himself into a Bhutanese scholar.  

Not being allowed to help him, I had to content myself with attempting to wrap the five yards or more of fabric included in the kira (the long skirt part of the outfits you see me in here) around my waist so that the folds hung appropriately and the length was reasonable. Apparently, it is possible to take the kira to a local tailor and he or she will sew it so that all I will need to do is fasten some hooks at my waist. When I spoke with our landlady about this, she laughed and told me that she too found wrapping the kira to be challenging. So much for me! The upper part of the women’s dress has two aspects, the inner silk blouse with VERY long sleeves called a wonju, and an outer silk jacket called a toego. There are so many varieties and colors its hard to decide which combinations to put together. All in all, as you can see, they are quite gorgeous and I am still somewhat amazed that Bhutanese women wear such lovely clothes everyday. 

I keep thinking that when I come back to the US perhaps I’ll be able to wear such clothes to a fancy party or dinner, but otherwise they’ll probably hang neglected in my closet. So, its fun to imagine we can wear these beautiful items here—that is—once the weather cools off. Chris and I both worked up a sweat just getting ourselves dressed, never mind going anywhere or doing anything! I am constantly stymied by the amount of clothing many people wear even in what I consider to be quite warm weather—it is not surprising to see men and women wearing heavy (and I mean the heaviest type) down jackets and hats on days when Chris and I are both sweating wearing t-shirts. This mystifies me. Anyone who can explain why us lowlanders, accustomed to east coast New England sweltering summers (or Midwest equally sweltering heat), should find ourselves so hot in a climate where the summer temp does not seem to get above about 80 degrees Farenheit, will receive an (as yet undetermined) award. 

The Happy Bhutanese Couple

A View of Downtown Thimphu

The walk downtown takes about a half-hour. First, I lock the inside door of the apartment, and then slide the bolt and lock the enormous gold padlock that secures the outer door. These padlocks are ubiquitous and I often wonder if the keys are exchangeable. On the stairwell, we press ourselves against the concrete wall to avoid jostling the woman coming up the stairs balancing three huge bowls of what looks like fried rice, each with a fried egg on top. She is bringing lunch to the offices of Druk Green Energy Co.—offices that surround our apartment on three sides. It smells delicious.

As we enter the parking lot, we have to weave in-between the cars that are double, triple and quadruple-parked. In fact, the entire parking lot is chock full of cars, so full that in order for anyone to leave, those who parked in the entrance will have to pull their cars out so that the next line of cars can move and so on and so on until the parking lot is empty. We wonder how they strategize who parks on the outer edge and who is utterly boxed in? We wonder too, how so many cars jive with the notion of “green energy?”

Approaching the main street leading downtown we pause, waiting for a few long moments before traffic coming each direction has cleared enough to dart across the street to the one sidewalk leading precariously down the steep incline the street follows. I’ve learned early on that in Bhutan, pedestrians do not come first. They do not even come second. At best, they might come in third. Cars rule. No one slows down or moves over if you find yourself walking by the side of the road. Given that people drive British-style, this means that we often look the wrong way when we do try to cross any street, narrowly missing stepping out into the path of an oncoming Maruti.

On the way down the hill the following events take place: a group of small boys wearing matching small ghos pass us heading the opposite direction. They scream “Hi!” at the top of their lungs in spite of the fact that we are right there. “Hi,” I say in response, smiling down at them. They scream “Hi!” “Hi!” “Hi!” all the while laughing hysterically as we continue on.  Second, a woman with long dark hair flowing over her shoulders, dressed in a brilliant purple kira (Bhutanese women’s dress) with a matching purple jacket, smiles shyly at me as I meet her curious stare and greet her with the traditional Bhutanese greeting, “Kuzuzangpo-la.” Her high-heeled sandals pose no impediment to her ascent of the nearly vertical slope she is climbing. Her gaze lingers on my large, white feet, flip-flopping casually down the hill. Third, from one of literally hundreds of construction sites that can be found throughout Thimphu, a large group of Indian laborers halt their work, their dark heads swiveling towards me with what I might find a humorous synchronicity if it wasn’t for the fact that I feel completely undressed beneath their burning gazes. I level my umbrella at an angle that at least obscures my view of them, whether or not they can still see me. It makes me feel better. Chris positions himself slightly in front of me, further obscuring their view. It is our agreed-upon strategy every time we pass a construction site. Fourth, a group of teenaged-school girls approaches up the hill. Each girl is dressed in her uniform kira, a backpack slung over one shoulder, carrying a colorful, wicker basket with her lunch (or whatever is left of it) inside. They stare at us as we pass, giggling madly. Their laughter follows us down the hill.

The main street of downtown Thimphu is bustling with an array of activities. Women from the country perch on their haunches at the edge of the sidewalk, an array of greenery—asparagus (bought once and even though cooked nearly to death it was much like chewing on a bunch of sticks), spinach, peppers, apples, sometimes tiny yellow Chanterelle mushrooms hand-picked in the wild (these are my favorite!) spread out on the cement in front of them. A few monks in red robes sit at intervals along the main drag (there really is only one main street) reciting their texts. One is wearing a red hat with a huge yellow flower on top. He looks adorable but I am too shy to photograph him. Men in various colored ghos, women in kiras, some of them with the traditional short bowl-cut hairstyle, a child slung in a colored scarf across the back, an occasional tourist bearing a huge camera and looking vaguely stunned by the bustle and action. Mannequins gaze serenely out at the activity from their stands in front of “western-style” clothing stores. Various configurations of the most typical “shop” sign prompt Chris and I to catalogue the progression of attempts to communicate the essence of the shop’s contents. There are shops selling electronics such as TV’s, cell phones, and computers together with washing machines and refrigerators. There are shops filled with Thai and Indian dry goods—biscuits, cereals, rice, barley, soy sauce, nuts, together with hair products, facial products, soaps, children’s toys and shoes. Numerous fabric stores sell ready-made ghos and kiras as well as bolts of fantastically woven fabric that can be sewn at the nearby tailors shop. Feed stores sell different kinds of grains for “roasters” or “layers,” depending, naturally, on what kind of chickens YOU have at home. Tiny, one-room “restaurants” send out tantalizing smells—meals available for about $1.

Arriving at the justly famous Thimphu Weekend Market, we try to keep track of how much money we spend to supply ourselves with fresh produce for the coming week. As we wander through the colorful array of people, veggies, and various nameless and most curious items, we try to decide which vender to buy from. Usually we buy from as many venders as types of vegetables. It’s impossible to tell whose wares are “better.” They all look wonderful or odd or simply unknowable—what on earth would I do with such an item if I did buy it? Chris purchases bananas from a woman who tells him in a loud whisper that she “has a special price for Sir.” (On a side note, we went to check out the Tashi-Taj Hotel—the only Five Star hotel in downtown Thimphu and noticed to our great amusement that I was also referred to as “Sir.” “Sir” this and “Sir” that—it seems to be an honorific title of sorts.) Climbing back up the mountain through the afternoon rain carrying our bundles, we calculate that we spent less that $25 for a week’s worth of vegetables and fruits, including three large bags of those fantastic Chanterelle mushrooms, fresh! Anyone who has ever bought those in the USA knows how expensive then can be. 

Idiosyncrasies Number 1

·      Garbage: Our first week in Thimphu I found myself concerned with some basic issues. I.e., what does one do with one’s garbage? Given that no one is composting; all food scraps go into the garbage can; and it’s the monsoon—you can well imagine just how quickly the garbage begins to smell. After looking about in vain for a dumpster or other large receptacle into which I could throw the garbage bags, I finally asked our landlady. “Oh,” she said, “the garbage truck comes three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.” This was fantastic news. However, the reality turned out to be somewhat more complicated. Here’s a synopsis: there is only one garbage truck in Thimphu. It announces its presence via an ancient siren somewhat akin to those used on police cars in old black and white movies. One can hear this siren echoing up the valley long, long before the truck itself makes an appearance. When the truck does arrive at one’s street, it blasts the siren as it makes its way to the end of the street, at which point, the siren is turned off. The truck then makes its way back along the street. Anyone who wishes to get rid of his/her garbage must come into the street bearing the garbage bags and personally deposit the bags into the back of the truck. The guys driving the truck are just that, drivers. It’s impossible to tell exactly where the truck is at any given moment once the siren has been turned off, so invariably one ends up standing by the side of the road holding one’s garbage and waiting for the truck so that one does not miss the precious opportunity to eliminate the smell of rotting food in one’s domicile. So far, this has involved us running back and forth to the window in order to ascertain just how much more time we have before we have to be on the street. As might be imagined, this makes for a most relaxing morning. On the other hand, I'm pretty grateful that the garbage is getting picked up at all! I have no clue what I'd do with it otherwise.

·      

Men’s Clothes: in particular, this refers to the gho, the national men’s dress of Bhutan, which is not unlike a Tibetan chuba, but which is considerably more complicated to put on and arrange appropriately. In fact, in a dramatic reversal, it is possible to say that men’s clothing in Bhutan is substantially more complicated, time-consuming, and labor intensive than women’s clothing! Given that Chris will need to wear a gho to work, we have now visited two different fabric shops in order to outfit him appropriately. He is, it should be noted, less than enthusiastic about this aspect of his employment in Bhutan, feeling as he does, that a gho looks suspiciously like your grandfather’s old bathrobe, hiked up to show one’s knees and tied tightly around the waist so that the top portion forms a kind of pocket—or, as I like to say—a man’s purse. While it was impossible to talk Chris into buying the local pattern (orange or red plaid or striped fabric), we were successful in purchasing three ghos—one solid back, one light blue, and one a pin-stripped dark gray. We even got Chris a pair of high, gray knee socks, which I regret to inform you all he has not yet tried on. The most complicated part of gho-wearing involves putting it on so that the folds and pleats are properly arranged. Suffice it to say that the man cannot put this thing on by himself and requires the assistance of his doting spouse (me, in this case) to fold, hoist, and tie it in place. So far, we have not yet been successful in this enterprise, likely due to the fact that neither of us is exactly sure what to do or how to do it. After all, we’ve only just watched the fabric store owner tie it on Chris. Don’t worry, as soon as I get him in it, I’ll post pictures!

·      

1996 USD Currency: if and when you come to Bhutan, be sure to check the issue date on any US currency that you bring with you and if you discover that some of your bills were issued in 1996, you may as well leave them at home for all the use they will be to you here. We are sorely wishing we had known this rather odd fact before we brought the equivalent of $800 USD in one hundred dollar bills, all of which turn out to radiate some kind of, as Chris says, bad juju. The bank won’t take them, not even as “seed” money in setting up an account. The travel agent we had to pay for our tickets to Paro checked the issue date first thing and politely informed us that she could not accept our money—and did we have other bills? No one can explain why 1996 bills are anathema, they just are. So there.

·      

Washing Machine: the point here is merely this—WE HAVE ONE! At least for the time being while we languish about in Thimphu. Let’s face it, even though this washing machine is a “twin tub,” i.e., you wash clothes on one side in cold water by manually adding the water, turning it on and letting it “agitate,” then drain it manually and fill it again to rinse, then you shift the clothes in small batches into the other “tub”, the spinner, and spin your wet clothes as quickly as possible before hanging them up to dry on the line, the fact is that we do not have to wash everything by hand (or by foot—see attached pic from our adventures washing laundry in Kathmandu)—an enormously time consuming process. I will even admit that we looked in various stores in downtown Thimphu to see just how much it would cost to buy a washing machine to bring with us when we move to the middle of the country some time in September—we’re that desperate!  

·      

Alcohol and Drugs: Bars in Thimphu. Guess how many licensed bars there are in Thimphu, a city with less than 100,000 people, whose borders may be traversed in about 20 to 30 minutes on foot? I guessed about 12. I was promptly corrected—there are 800 licensed bars in Thimphu, about 8000 in the country as a whole! Apparently, alcoholism is a major issue and one which has only recently begun to be addressed, but is now being taken very seriously. In the country we were told, it is possible to find households that begin the day, not with a cup of tea or coffee, but with a large glass of arak, a grain liquor not unlike vodka made from barley, millet, rice or wheat. Many of the bars in Thimphu are what are known as “shop cum bars,” tiny little holes in the wall with a couple of stools where you can purchase a quick shot of whatever strikes your fancy (your fancy had better be limited to whiskey or beer for the most part) and a packet of digestive biscuits. As for drugs, there is a steadily increasing drug problem among young people in the capital city. When we inquired what sorts of drugs, we were told that marijuana and pills were the main culprits. The marijuana is not hard to imagine given that fields of it grow next to the side of the road, sending their pungent odors into the air as soon as the rain stops. It’s everywhere! Most of the conversations we have had about this emphasize the fact that many foreign aid workers together with local organizations are working hard to address both alcoholism and drug use. 

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! 

“Everyone in Bhutan has high blood pressure.”

Re-reading what I posted last, I see that my trip to the Golden Buddha was perhaps not long enough to prepare me for the return to the hospital! Hot, sweaty, and tired upon reaching the “after hours” treatment wing of the hospital, I am most relieved to find that the first line (at the end of which one pays the medical certificate “fee” and writes one’s name on a form) is blissfully short. Phew. But the second line (at the end of which one enters an examination room to have a medical exam and to have one’s form signed by a doctor) is longer.

We stand in line, surrounded on one side by giggling young Bhutanese girls waiting for an examination so that they can get their driver’s permit and on the other by young men in plaid ghos perhaps waiting for the same thing, or perhaps waiting for a certificate in order to get a job (both getting a job and acquiring a driver’s permit require this “medical certificate”). Slowly, the line inches forward as one by one people disappear behind the opaque examination room door.

When there are about five people left in front of me, a man comes walking quickly around the corner. When he sees the line, he stops for a moment, clearly thinking about how to circumvent having to wait. He circles around the line, detouring over to a nearby desk and storing a bag he is carrying beneath it. He then comes to stand near the head of the line, facing me. I meet his gaze squarely, making it clear that I am not about to let him slide in front of me, which is what he obviously intends. For a few moments we stare at each other, me towering over him, as he is rather short. I shake my head. He seems to smile slightly, but moves away back toward the end of the line. I relax. But in a moment, he appears on my left side. Conveniently, a desk extends from the wall of the examining room just at the point where we all have to enter into the examination room. I place my hand on the desk, blocking Mr. Line-cutter. The young girls behind me in line seem anxious to repeat my gesture.

Now I’m the next person. I stand facing the examination room door. As soon as it opens I enter. The doctor sits facing the door slightly to left with a vacant seat beside him. He gestures for me to sit down. I do, handing him my paperwork. He mumbles something about my getting a “dependent card,” which is what my paperwork says.

As the doctor is talking, I look up, noting in astonishment that Mr. Line-cutter has followed me into the exam room. He is standing against the wall watching my “exam” with a slight smile. The doctor wraps a blood-pressure sleeve around my upper arm and presses the button that inflates it.

“That man,” I say, indicating Mr. Line-cutter, “has been cutting in front of everyone who is waiting to come in here.”

The doctor completely ignores me. He doesn’t even look up.

“It’s very rude,” I grumble, directing my gaze at Mr. Line-cutter. He meets my gaze impassively.

The blood pressure sleeve slowly deflates and the doctor writes down my numbers.

“Well,” he says, “its just a bit high, but nothing to worry about. A bit high, you see.”

Damn straight, I think. I’ve never had high blood pressure in my life, but I suddenly realize the nature of the statement made by the western monk we met earlier in the day at the coffee shop. “Oh,” he laughed, as we told him we had to go through the medical exam again, “everyone in Bhutan has high blood pressure.”

The doctor signs my “certificate” with a flourish and I (and my high blood pressure) stalk out of the room.

So much for the enduring peacefulness of my encounter with the Golden Buddha!

The Golden Buddha

More paperwork—forms to be filled out, fees to be paid, medical certificates to be completed. The process for getting a long-term visa in Bhutan isn’t quick or easy and I am very grateful that ILCS (The Institute of Language and Cultural Studies) has provided us with a facilitator. Otherwise, figuring out even which line to stand in would be complicated and very time consuming.

Chris and I wait at the Ambient Café, a western-style coffee house in downtown Thimphu with an excellent choice in music and great coffee (does every modern Asian city have at least one of these kinds of places, catering to the notion that even though the foreigner—me, in this case—has left home and come to a different culture, he or she cannot possible manage without decent coffee, cakes, and Wifi?) while Singye, our administrative assistant from ILCS, attempts to finally process our visas. We drink coffee (well, why not?) and read the local newspapers. When Singye returns, he informs us that since we do not have the same last name, the powers that be do not believe we are married and we may have to produce a marriage certificate in order for my visa to be processed. I will also need to get a medical certificate, a process we have just gone through the previous day for Chris at the local hospital which involves standing in line (a quite misleading concept in that although it looks like there’s actually a line, the fact is that most people know someone who is in line further up and, upon discovering that they have a pressing need to speak to that person, find a way to insert themselves into the queue so that it appears to anyone who is actually waiting in line that the line simply gets longer at the front), paying fees and filling out a form, and then being sent to another line for an “examination” during which the doctor merely takes one’s blood pressure and signs the form. We have, we think, just enough time to hike to the Golden Buddha and back before the “after-hours” medical certificate process begins again.

We strike along a southern route hoping to stumble across the winding road that leads up to what is locally known as “Buddha Viewpoint.” We’ve been able to see this site from other areas in Thimphu and most especially from Sangaygang—a huge golden Buddha seated high up on the side of the mountain looking out over the Thimphu valley, not unlike the Old Man in the Mountain (whose face fell off not so long ago), who used to look out over the Franconia valley in northern New Hampshire. This Buddha, the Buddha Dordenma (short for Buddha Dorje Den—or, in English—Buddha Indestructible Seat), is predicted to be the eighth wonder of the world. Seated, he is over 150 feet high. When we find the road, after a bit of help from local passersby, we keep catching glimpses of the Buddha as we round switchback after switchback.

As we climb, white sheets of rain are visible slowly descending down through valleys around us, and finally we ourselves are engulfed.At about halfway up the ridge, a small black dog rises at our approach and comes wagging her tail over to greet us. I am, at first, extremely wary of her as my sister was bitten by a dog in the short time she was in Bhutan and most dogs we have encountered have been less than friendly. But she keeps a little distance from us, simply wagging her tail and looking at us. As we continue hiking, she trots along ahead of us, looking back from time to time to see if we are still following. A book we have on trekking in Bhutan informs us that if a dog follows your trek the entire way, he or she is thought to be the spirit of a deceased trekker. But our doggie companion precedes us, and seems to me more like a protective guide than a wandering spirit. At any rate, as we ascend, different parts of the Buddha emerge through the falling rain.

 When we finally turn the last corner, I am amazed at just how huge and impressive Buddha Dordenma is. He seems to radiate a calm, golden peacefulness even in the midst of the construction surrounding him. (While the Buddha’s body and lotus seat are completed, the temple over which he sits is still under construction). I stand for a long time in the rain watching how the shifting light from clouds skirting back and forth across the sun causes various parts of the Buddha’s body to gleam in the sunlight—now a forearm, now a shoulder, now the upturned sole of the Buddha’s foot. He’s marvelously beautiful and a master work of art. He seems like a living presence looking out over the Thimphu valley. I don’t want to leave.

Finally, however, the practicalities of getting the medical certificate induce us to begin the descent. Now the rain is waning and there are periods of sun and rain combined, a mix that Bhutanese consider auspicious. There is even a name for this kind of phenomena—the metok-chharp or “blossom rain.” And indeed, a rainbow “blossoms” over the valley and the Buddha’s smooth back shines golden through raindrops in the afternoon sunlight. Our doggie companion, who accompanied us just to the edge of the main Buddha site, jumps up as we re-emerge, and again precedes us back down the road until we arrive at the same place we picked her up to begin with, at which point she lies down, pink tongue hanging out, her brown eyes following us as we continue on down the road.

Arriving back in the valley, I feel equipped to deal with the hospital lines for another day. (PS: For anyone who is actually reading this, if you wish to see other photos, I have added photos into previous posts.)

Sangaygang

Hoping to avoid the crowds of downtown Thimphu for a day, we head up the road behind our apartment into the mountains. Within a few moments, we find a cobbled footpath leading steeply uphill between the walls built around yards of homes along the mountainside. We have decided to go in search of the fabled takin--the national animal of Bhutan—a rather odd looking creature somewhere between a bison and gnu. According to our guidebook, there used to be a sort of mini-zoo up on the mountain that housed various animals including the takin. When the king of Bhutan decided that zoos were not amenable to Bhutan’s environmental and religious beliefs, it was taken down and the animals were released. The takin was so tame, however, that it simply wandered down into Thimphu looking for food. So eventually, the reserve was rebuilt and some takins still happily live there. Most takins apparently live in the higher altitudes of Bhutan, up above the temperate zone.

As we climb through the dwindling homes, we hear shouting. Rounding a corner, we come upon a group of Bhutanese men, dressed in traditional Bhutanese garb (the men wear what is called a gho, a kimono-like robe tied around the waist reaching only to knee length paired with black or argyll knee socks) playing a game of darts. Two groups of men stand about forty yards apart with a target on each side. The darts are thrown overhand and much shouting, dancing, and back-slapping takes place. No women are in evidence and it is clear that this is a boys-only pastime. I discover later that this game is called khuru, and along with archery (datse) it is one of the most popular national sports. Passing gingerly by the dart game, we continue up a winding one-lane road that disappears into the forest. The day is cloudy but moist and warm and we are both soon soaked with sweat. In spite of being at nearly 8000 feet, it is clear that Thimphu is still a Himalayan rainforest. Once in a while a car passes us, children leaning out the window and shouting “Hello!” with great enthusiasm.

At the edge of the takin reserve we stop and peer down through the pines. Almost immediately we spot one takin moving slowly across the pine-needled hillside and another nestled down at the foot of a tree. They seem quite placid, munching who-knows-what, and entirely incurious. They are indeed odd looking, but not so much as I would have thought. We also glimpse a few deer—barking deer as it turns out. Continuing on up the winding road we finally come to the prayer-flag strewn summit of the first hump of the mountain. We’ve been hiking for about an hour and a half and are delighted to get so far outside of Thimphu and to have such a great view of the city from above in so short a time. It’s what I’ve been waiting for—the ability to hike out my back door into the wilderness within a few moments. If this is possible even in the most populated city in Bhutan, I can only imagine what it will be like when we move to central Bhutan in the first week of September where the village we will be living in has a total of about 30 households!

The hill we have climbed is called “Sangaygang,” which I take to mean “Buddha’s Hill.” It is colorfully festooned with row after row of fluttering prayer flags all snapping in the wind. Against the pine trees and dark green mountains, beneath the shifting gray clouds, the prayer flags stream their blessings across the valley. We sit on an iron bench and listen to the silence and the wind. A trail behind us leads across the mountain to a small monastery about two miles away. Apparently the trail loops up and around the mountain forming an additional hike of about three miles. I immediately want to disappear into the hills, but its already past noon and we’ve brought no food and drank most of our water. So, we leave the longer hike into the higher peaks for another day. 

By the time we get back to our apartment, it is clear that even though it has been cloudy all day, we are both burned from the sun. Chris especially looks horribly red and I am surprised by how sore my arms are by the time evening comes. We now give new meaning to the term "red necks." Oops. Apparently, even under cloudy skies we are far more exposed to UV rays at this altitude. For dinner, I prepare our first homemade meal—a stir-fry of fiddleheads and mountain mushrooms over Bhutanese red rice. Yum!