Land of the Thunder Dragon - Part 4

We were taken a bit further east to the Phobjikha valley, the pronunciation of which will baffle non-Bhutanese in perpetuity. We saw our first yaks on the way there too, which was quite a thrill, as you can imagine.

"Moo"

The herder lives in a yak hair tent (a yurt, in whichever language calls them yurts) which, using black magic, has a hole to let smoke out but also somehow prevents rain ingress. He/she tethers them up at night and during the day lets them stare balefully at passing tourists. The yaks, like the rest of the cattle in Bhutan, are only used for either utility or dairy.  I know the Bhutanese eat yak and beef, but they get other countries to do the gory stuff for them.

In the area is Gangtey Monastery, known for the intricate woodwork of its architecture. I don't know what the catchment area policy is for monks, and I'm sure its a respectable job regardless of where you end up, but I can't help but think it might be preferable to be stationed in one of the Punakha temples -with its subtropical climate and bananas- than living in a stone room on a windy Himalayan hillside with a rug for a door. But whatevs, I'm sure it's better than that yak herder's job up the page.

The valley is particularly famous for being one of the very few homes of the black-necked crane, which live either there or Tibet and bits of north India. There is a local festival about them, and their migratory route has them fly three times in a circle over the Gangtey monastery when either arriving or leaving - to which all kinds of auspicious and religious significance is attached as it mimics the kora, the clockwise walking around of holy places practised by Buddhists.

We saw  quite a few if the cranes while walking through the valley, a walk that felt a lot like playing Skyrim on the Xbox.  It has a certain moody photogenicity about it.

The land not protected for the wildlife is used for farmland. Specifically they grow potatoes here, which are not eaten widely in Bhutan and so are instead sold mainly to Bangladesh.  And business is good:  the farmers' need to expand their lands to fully exploit trade links with neighbouring countries is the main factor to negotiate for conversationalists in the area.

This is done almost entirely by hand.  This blog post is just stacking up with jobs I don't want.

We stopped at a small hamlet, and our guide took us inside one of the farm houses.

Round the back, they were busy chopping up turnips for animal feed.  A conversation took place and we were ushered inside.  Downstairs was used for the storage of tatties, so we had to climb upstairs on the 'traditional' stairway, which is essentially a ladder.

Upstairs, the family matriarch was (very) busy making up ara, the local rice wine.  Apparently it's drunk pretty much everyday to take the edge off, so she was making it in bulk.  That's what the jerrycans were for.  Obviously we were offered some and so -not being uncivilised- we accepted.  It was served warm as it had literally just been made, and tasted not too bad for moonshine, in that I was not immediately struck blind by ketone poisoning.

We were shown around the living area of the house, which was all the upstairs area.  The pride of place is the altar which all good Buddhist homes and apartments will contain.  Chan -not being backwards in coming forwards on the questions front- ascertained what she was cooking for dinner, but also found out that this house has been in the lady's family for 210 years, and that she had lived there personally for all of her 61 years, having been born there.  As an aside: property here is generally passed to the daughters of the family, with men sent out to find their own way.

I'll point out that our guide hadn't asked permission for our arrival beforehand, nor was he particularly familiar with this family, this is just the accepted level of hospitality and he considered this the best way to demonstrate their culture. So there you go.

Looking around, and at all the activity in the fields around, it was easy to think of this place as being stuck in some quaint 19th century agrarian existence, but then the lady pulled a mobile out of some hidden fold in her gown and went off for a natter in the next room.
Also, there is a massive satellite dish in the back yard.

They needs themselves some Geordie Shore

After our stay in the valley, we drove back to Paro - which is just as rocky and awful on the way back.  We are quite interested to come back in a couple of years to see if they've managed to fix their roads on time, they're looking for a 2018 finish.  The same job (chiseling out a few hundred miles of mountain) in the UK would have a schedule marked in epochs.  But you can do wonders with cheap labour and lip-service health and safety, so we'll see.

We did also see a family of monkey by the roadside on the way back. They did not pelt us with rocks as their friends had previously as we drove by, nor did they mistake my head for a watermelon, so that's one more diplomatic success to chalk up.