Preserving the Last Shangri-la - Responsible Travels through Bhutan by Martin Li
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Uma Paro
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Recoiling in horror at the environmental scarring high tourism levels have inflicted on its Himalayan neighbour Nepal, Bhutan imposed quotas on annual visitor numbers and controls on their activities. These measures and a responsible attitude to tourism on the part of tour operators are successfully preserving this last untouched Himalayan culture.
Bhutan, the “Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon”, is no ordinary place. Almost all the country is mountainous and over two-thirds is densely forested, carved by furious rivers sourced in the high Himalaya. The dramatic landscape is coloured by mighty dzongs (fortresses) and monasteries, towering Buddhist prayer flags, lonely chortens (stone monuments containing religious relics and sometimes prayer wheels) and a friendly people clad in vivid traditional costumes.
Flying from Kathmandu to Bhutan’s only airport in Paro is literally a breath of fresh air. The contrast between the frenetic, choked capital of Nepal and the quietly civilised pace of life in Bhutan is as staggering as the view of Everest during the short flight. Even the small number of airport taxi drivers at Paro only enquire respectfully as to whether you might need their services.
Climbing and trekking are obvious income sources for countries endowed with high mountain ranges. Despite lacking any 8,000m peaks, many of Bhutan’s summits are eyed longingly by climbers. Jomolhari (7,314m) was a famous landmark on early Everest expeditions and George Leigh Mallory described it as “astounding and magnificent”. Yet Bhutan has opted not to sell its mountains to climbing expeditions. Fearful of areas ending up as high altitude rubbish dumps, like certain camps on Everest and other popular climbs, and out of respect for the religious sensitivities of its mountain populations, the Bhutanese are resisting the lure of the lucrative climbing gravy train.
Bhutan opened its mountains briefly between 1983 and 1994 but subsequently prohibited climbing on summits over 6,000m (each believed to be the abode of deity), and since 2003 has forbidden mountaineering altogether. At 7,541m, Gangkhar Puensum remains the world’s highest unclimbed summit. Many other lofty peaks remain unmapped let alone explored.
Trekking in Bhutan is permitted but only on a dozen or so recognised trails. Given the rugged terrain, walking is the best, and often the only, way to reach isolated settlements and experience the real soul of this little-explored land. Even Bhutan’s king walks. While I was on a trek to Jomolhari, Bhutan’s most sacred summit, King Jigme Singye Wangchuck strode in my footsteps as he travelled to meet subjects in remote settlements.
Bhutanese treks have a unique feel quite different from those in other parts of the Himalaya. Horses, and at high altitudes, yaks, are used instead of porters to carry loads. We encounter few villages and even fewer other trekkers, although we meet a gregarious group of doctors collecting medicinal herbs only found in Bhutan’s high meadows. There are no hotels or teahouses – a Bhutanese trek is a true wilderness experience where camping is essential.
Happily, camping Bhutanese-style involves little hardship. Our crew conjures up delicious meals which inexplicably get better the higher and more remote we get. Such luxury has its disadvantages though: sitting in a comfortable dining tent and tucking into a delicious feast whose dishes barely fit on our table, it’s all too easy to forget we’re in the middle of nowhere, at some 4,000m in the Himalayas.
Walking through Bhutan’s lush, high valleys can be magical: tranquil, unspoilt, almost spiritual. Simple stone and earth huts sunken into the ground provide cosy shelters for yak herders. Their animals share these elevated pastures with blue sheep and plump marmots. Large trout are temptingly visible in the clear still waters of mountain lakes. Bright alpine flowers speckle colour over high passes. It’s difficult to deny we’ve found Shangri-la.
Despite manageable visitor numbers, Bhutanese trek operators are conscious of the need to protect the landscape. Items that can safely be burned, such as paper, are burned during the trek. Human waste is buried. Tin cans are crushed and carried back to the trailhead. Our cook even carries a solar panel on his back during the trek to recharge our camp light. To cap it all, our final morning on the trail transforms into an impromptu litter collection crusade which even manages to conscript the help of a number of local children.
The Bhutanese are fiercely protective of their national identity and natural heritage. The country’s commitment to conservation is enshrined in a 1995 resolution that requires at least 60% of its land to be maintained under forest in perpetuity. Currently a remarkable 72% of the country is forested. But there’s no complacency. We don’t cut down trees to build our nightly camp fires. More than enough dead wood can be collected with little effort to fuel the cosiest of blazing fires.
Bhutan is cautiously opening its doors to discerning visitors who want to experience its many treasures. Whilst wilderness trekking and cultural tours of dzongs (especially during the colourful Tsechu festivals) are the country’s most noted highlights, for me, the gentle, unaffected charm of its people is at least as alluring an attraction. Nowhere else have I been greeted by so many genuine, captivating smiles. There was never a hint of a “cash for photos” demand; at most, subjects asked if we could send them a copy of the photo.
Should Bhutanese tourism ever escape its conservation shackles, the inevitable loss of this natural warmth would be sadder and less reversible than any resulting environmental damage. Fortunately, with the country’s circumspect attitude to cashing in on the tourism dollar, there is little danger of this happening in the near future. It’s refreshing to be able to recommend this Himalayan gem without having to add: “See it while you can.”