Articles > Bhutan: kingdom of temples and traditions

‘Mushrooms, madame? Very good, age no problem,’ the old lady chuckled, baring her teeth stained red by betel nut as she pointed to the highly suggestive shapes in her basket. I blushed, ever so slightly, before turning my attention to the garlic. ‘This is good for health,’ explained an onlooker, ‘but it smells so we don’t eat it when we go to the temple.’

After the breathtaking flight from Kathmandu and its fabulous views of Everest sitting squarely on top of the world, I was back on familiar ground, wandering through Paro market awash with colours, sounds and smells and grinning faces asking to be photographed, for free. Ten years on, I was about to set off with guide and driver on a three week trip across the country, but would I still find the Shangri-La of my dreams?

Change is coming to this small Himalayan kingdom locked between Tibet and India. This year, King Jigme Singye Wangchuck, who promoted ‘gross national happiness’, is stepping down in favour of his son and the first democratic elections are on the way though in a trial run, most people voted ‘yellow’ which stood for preserving tradition. True, a few jeans have appeared in town, traffic is increasing and there is internet and satellite TV, minus a few channels blocked under parental pressure.

But for me, Paro remained a sleepy little place where most people wore the national dress and willows and prayer flags mingled their reflections in the river. The massive dzong, fortress and monastery all in one, looks across golden paddies and tiny shops and traditional houses line the streets, all finely carved eaves and conch shells and lotus bloom painted on the walls. We visited temples where deities in graphic embrace showed the alternative path to nirvana, explored the forlorn ruins of Drukgyel dzong, glowing honey-coloured in their rustic setting, and crossed the highest road pass in the land to spend a day in the beautiful Haa valley with not a tourist in sight. Up there, our driver Yeshi meditated in the snow to ensure a safe return.

His prayers were answered, with a bonus, for back in town the King was passing by. Farmers stood still in the fields, we pulled up to make way for the royal car and Yeshi confirmed this was a good omen for our climb to Taktsang, the Tiger’s Lair, the next day.

Clinging to a ledge 800 metres above the valley floor, Taktsang is Bhutan’s most sacred site where in the eighth century, Guru Rinpoche landed on the back of a tigress to bring Tantric Buddhism to the people. Winding up through blue pines and rhododendrons, the trail attracts myriad pilgrims and visitors, yet little disturbs the peace but the tinkling of prayer wheels and occasional sound of ponies offering an easy way up. ‘What’s this?’ I recoiled as I browsed a wayside stall, ‘a skull, madame, for ritual offerings, and this is a sacred horn made from a human thighbone.’ Recycling, I guess, and a way to earn merits after death, so why not?

We passed holy caves, neat rows of miniature urns containing a sprinkling of ashes and enjoyed dizzying views across the valley. Two hours later, after a well-earned rest in the half-way lodge and the final 775 steps, we reached the temples overflowing with paintings and offerings of fresh water, incense, biscuits, chocolate, money, delicate butter sculptures and more. Chimmi prostrated to Gurus and Gods and the deep chanting of monks sent a shiver down my spine.

Thimphu and beyond

A scenic two hour drive away, Thimphu, the capital, was in joyful mood. It was time for the annual Tsechu, four days of religious celebrations and fun as people in their festival best poured into the dzong. Tourists stood on the fringes but those who had borrowed a national dress melted beautifully into the crowds draped in shimmering silk and ceremonial scarves. Mothers feeding babies, bright-eyed toddlers, teenagers in traditional clothes sporting cameras and mobile phones, young and old, they huddled around the courtyard, clung to the steps, peeped through nooks and crannies, clambered on walls for a better view.

Masked dancers pounced and twirled on the flagstones, garlands of skulls whipped through the air and cymbals and gongs echoed all around. There were hilarious moments when medieval jesters teased the pretty girls and quiet times when we queued for a blessing of holy water, bitter sweets (what was that, I wondered?) and auspicious yellow threads. We picnicked local style on the river bank, the usual serving of rice, potatoes and chillies in cheese sauce, green vegetables and fresh fruit, and that night I dreamed of boy monks chasing pink balloons across the yard and archers practising the national sport, accompanied by song and dance and poetry reading.

In its bowl of mountains, Thimphu has no airport – you land in Paro- but the capital claims the first and only traffic lights. Where were they? I searched in vain. ‘Over there,’ said Chimmi, ‘can you see the policeman?’ He stood in the middle of the road, waving a red-tipped luminous baton with the grace of a ballet dancer. The colour never changed, that would be confusing, you just have to watch which direction it is pointing.

There is plenty to see in Thimphu, the Painting School, Memorial Chorten, temples, museums, takin reserve –this Himalayan goat-antelope is a national symbol-, the panorama from the telecom tower, the Institute of Traditional Medicine. Both traditional and modern, free healthcare has raised life expectancy from 47 to 66 in 15 years. Chimmi, 22, Yeshi, 26, and myself topping their combined ages, had no pressing medical needs but we agreed that before the long journey east, a special blessing would be a good idea.

So we made our way to Chiri, a hilltop monastery off the beaten track. It is lower than Taktsang but spectacular nevertheless, strangely quiet as you climb through the trees, except for the roar of the river below. An oversized goat greeted us at a gate festooned in auspicious signs and we climbed up a rickety ladder to receive the blessing of an elderly Lama. We never missed out on a blessing, most memorable that of the Divine Madman who a few days later, hit us on the head with a wooden phallus. I’m not sure what it did but it certainly broke the ice for after that, we sang and danced all the way to the east.

Now we could safely drive up the Dochu La pass. At just over 3000 metres, surrounded by 108 chortens, we stopped for hot tea in the summit lodge, gazing at the log fire and a basket of souvenirs. ‘I’d like to give you a present,’ said Chimmi,’ what would you like?’ I glanced at the clay phalluses in various sizes but opted for a roll of prayer flags. The high Himalayas rose in the distance and we felt on top of the world, reluctant to leave, though Punakha beckoned, in a lush tropical valley where crickets sang in golden chir pines and bottle brush and marigolds bloomed at the roadside. As we approached the elegant dzong, poised like a ship at the confluence of the rivers, life seemed to move in slow motion and I packed away my watch. Why worry about time? Sun and stars would do just as well.

Central Valleys

Crossing the Black Mountains at 3400 metres, the Pele La pass marks the dividing line between western and central valleys. Overhanging rocks and boulders, trees struck by lightning, strands of lichen hanging ghost-like from twisted branches, it is an eerie place where hairy yaks stare ominously and a chorten garlanded in prayer flags invites you to stop and burn incense for the Gods. On the way down, three silvery wagtails fluttered in front of the car, a lucky sign for sure. The scenery was superb, mountains and valleys, fields of golden rape, rushing streams and the lovely hillside town of Trongsa, the end of my journey on the previous visit. There I had attended a Tsechu, wondering at the diminutive policeman waving a bunch of nettles at the entrance. ‘People must wear shoes,’ he smiled, ‘if they don’t, I sting their legs.’

We popped into the dzong for memory’s sake then continued to Bumthang, the land shaped like ‘a bowl of holy water’ and renowned for its beautiful girls. The four valleys of Bumthang are wide and open, their gentle slopes sprinkled with hamlets and farms. Here you can join a ‘cultural trek’ through unspoilt villages, feast on buckwheat pancakes and noodles, buy cheese and apple brandy in the Swiss ‘factory’, visit temples and the Dzong of the White Bird. Following local custom, we threw a few coins in the legendary Lake of the Burning Flame.

But at the Thangbi Mani Festival up valley, the flames were for real. We watched in awe as men, women and children ran through burning haystacks to purify their souls. Chimmi emerged as good as new but after due reflection, I decided to keep my sins. Back at the lodge it was time for a traditional bath –water heated with stones straight from the fire- before a stroll around Jakar, a bustling provincial town where horses ran wild on the river bank and shops sold ‘fancy sweets’, fine hand-woven cloth and garments from Bangladesh.

Tucked between the high passes, Bumthang was idyllic though in winter, the wind can be fierce and the local men baring all at the Naked Dance Festival must be the bravest in the land.

Eastern Reaches

The further east you go, the fewer the crowds. Unlike my previous trip when large groups were the norm, there were now smaller parties and couples or friends on tailor-made tours though after Bumthang, we barely met a dozen travellers. As for traffic, I counted 26 vehicles on the all day drive to Mongar, rarely reaching 30km per hour, so we could stop in the middle of the road to look at the view or stretch our legs to the sound of the latest pop tune, Auntie Number 1, most appropriate, thought my young companions.

The road to the east crosses the Thrumshing La pass, at 3800metres a fantastic but hair-raising experience when you secretly hope all those blessings gathered along the way will do the job. The car struggled on vertiginous bends but Yeshi was a cautious driver, watching every sign, ‘no hurry, no worry’, ‘reach home in peace not in pieces’, and I relaxed in a pristine environment of waterfalls, forests, mountains and pastures where herds of silken cows roamed free. Here nature is a divine gift to be nurtured and respected. This tiny kingdom has nine National Parks and Reserves, 60% of its land covered in protected forest, strict logging restrictions and a ban on plastic bags and tobacco sale. Solar and hydro electricity are promoted to preserve wood and only visitors who forget to pack a torch mind the teasing problems.

Away from the capital, the eastern lands are the most traditional. Wooden phalluses dangle from the eaves and the necks of new-born calves - raised for milk as Buddhists do not kill them. Children bowed respectfully as we drove past and the schoolteacher covered his mouth as he spoke not to pollute the air we breathed. We shared our picnic with road workers, chatted to lemon grass cutters and feasted on wild berries and guavas sold at the roadside. Beyond Sheri Chu, dry barren slopes plunged down a precipitous gorge to the foaming river.

On a lonely knoll, Trashigang dzong appeared like a mirage, watching from afar over remote valleys where women spin and weave on the doorsteps from morning to night, for in this land of arts and crafts, creating beautiful things is an act of worship. The East may be traditional but it claims its own College of Further Education with 1200 students, 28000 books and 300 computers. Education is free, conducted in English as there was no written material in Dzongkha in the early days, and schoolchildren and students happily clean their surroundings to prepare them for adult life.

Branching north beyond Trashigang, our final goal was the lost valley of Tashiyangtse, one of the most attractive and peaceful places I have ever seen, rice terraces tumbling down to the river, forested slopes all around, dwellings painted and carved like dolls’houses, dzong and snow-white chorten with the eyes of the Bhudda in every direction. Walk towards the phallic rock and if you can fit your thumb in the hole, eyes closed, you are without sin. ‘Will you try?’ asked Yeshi. Remembering my failings at the Fire blessing, I declined.

The moment we arrived, Chimmi was off, recruiting a team of porters and cooks for a three day trek. ‘Women have made real progress’ she said, ‘ten years ago, I could never have been a guide, not even in town.’ We set off in glorious sunshine as yellow butterflies hovered along the trail and farmers made their way to market. It was cucumber season and we were offered so many we could hardly carry them. We camped on a holy site, which meant pitching the toilet tent across the stream, tricky in the night, and in the morning we followed a bounding Lama through the bush to see the Guru’s imprints and crawl through sacred rocks.

Day two was spent climbing up and down forested hills among hemlocks and daphne plants before reaching the hilltop monastery of the Three Gods. I was looking forward to the monks’ guesthouse. My room was huge, no bed, no furniture, but there was a candle and I felt like a queen. Soon after dawn we woke to the chanting of monks and veils of mist drifting across the mountains tops. Far below was Bumdeling, one of two valleys where in a week or so, the black-necked cranes would arrive from Tibet to winter in warmer climes. The birds are auspicious and as long as they come, said the monks, Bhutan will survive. After all, where else would overhead cables be banned for the sake of sacred birds, or a Coronation be postponed when astrologers predict an inauspicious year?

‘But 2008 is ok,’ commented a young man as we shared tea back in Thimphu, ‘we are so sad our King is stepping down but we understand. We accept change but we must be cautious and preserve traditions.’

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