Land of the Thunder Dragon - Part 5: The Druk Strikes Back

I've given Bhutan more attention on the blog than perhaps everywhere else because it was the biggest unknown on the trip.  We don't know anyone who's been here and -in all likelihood- most people we know never will. Some might, but it's such an undertaking getting there, with relatively little experience-based information available on the interweb. So I feel a certain obligation to write it all down. Let's wrap this up.

The most impressive sight and the most famous Bhutanese landmark is the Taktsang Palphug Monastary - also known as the Tiger's Nest.  Its history is another fun mix of fact and flamboyant fever dream. The Guru Rinpoche (the chap who brought Buddhism to Bhutan from Tibet) is supposed to have flown here on the back of a tigress who was a manifestation of his consort/concubine who could also fly when in tiger form because this is Bhutan and you can't prove otherwise. He then meditated in a cave there for three months and subsequently anointed it as a place for a future monastery.

Citation needed

The modern structures date from the 17th century until they -surprise, surprise- burned down due to a probable electrical fault in 1998.  Who wired these places? Me?
Anyway, they'd fixed it back up by 2005.

It is a truly ridiculous place to build anything, being built into a cliff face above sheer drops 900m (3000ft for the old and American) above the Paro valley.  One climbs up the mountain via a winding track to  the top, only to descend into a ravine and across a rickety bridge to the main temple building.  The track is about 4.5km each way and one special lunatic has run it in 45 minutes.

You can hire horses to take you halfway up the mountain, but you may well get a pitying look from that octogenarian with the walking stick in the above picture.  Man up and walk.  I got separated from Chan and our guide at one point - I didn't realise we were stopping for tea at the cafe at the end of "Stage 1" and buggered off ahead - and ran into an American couple who were volunteering in the country for three months.  I asked if they had seen a lady with green hair and they replied that they surely would've remembered.  I was very confused but figured we'd end up in the same place.

I have not yet in any of these post mentioned the stray dogs in Bhutan.  They are common - not as common as the legions we saw in Chile (apparently in Bhutan there was a sterilise and release program enacted a while ago that has reduced their numbers)- but they are pretty much represented everywhere.   They also don't seem to let mere geography get in their way.  I don't think there was anywhere high enough or inaccessible enough that there wasn't a mutt or two waiting for us when we got there. The clever ones make their home in the grounds of one of the remote temples, monasteries or convents, as they are invariably fed the scraps from meals and looked quite plump and pleased with themselves.  Here was no exception.

'Sup

At the highest point of the initial climb, you find the first building in the monastery complex ("Stage 2"), where all the locals adopt their traditional garb before beginning the climb down to the temple area proper. Most of the other visitors were Bhutanese, for whom this walk is an important pilgrimage and something they might personally do once a year or several times a month. A hotel receptionist from Thimphu offered to carry me back down again if I was too tired.  Cheeky cow. 

It's at this point where you round the corner and get the money-shot:

It's still a silly place to build something

After allowing yourself a moment of self-satisfaction for making it this far, you steel yourself for the descent down the cliff-side and the final climb up the steps into temple (Chantelle has just read this and modified the previous sentence to "the fucking steps").  A fair number of people just stop here and take photos, but we are made of ambitiously sterner stuff.  
I hung around for a bit, waiting for Chan and Tshultrim to catch up - during which time I apparently became the unofficial greeter for the endless train of devotees and tourists walking by.  I had a chat with a couple of the monks in the interim. I really need to brush up on what's happening in football before I leave the UK; it'll really help me out in situations like these.

Monk selfie time.

Not long after we started climbing down, we found a shed-kitchen affair that was handing out butter tea for anyone who needed a cuppa. It was not the rush I was looking for, although I could've done lasting damage to a pint at this point.

The steps down have been hewn from the cliff face and doubled in width in recent times. Historically they were half as wide and lacking the metal handrail, which must've been fun.

At the foot of these steps, there is a further way up to a shrine made in the cave where Guru Rinpoche had his fateful moments of reflection, if you are so inclined (and your legs still obey) to explore further.

Otherwise it's time to cross the bridge, which runs past a couple of very pretty snowmelt waterfalls on the way to the temple entrance.   There you climb some very steep steps (Chan: "fucking steps") considering the Bhutanese are of generally shorter stature than we are, which is the last test of stamina before you get there.

At about this point, you have to put all your bags, phones and cameras in a locker before you're allowed in.

The statue of Guru Rinpoche within has its own mythos: the story we were told was that the statue's original position was in a temple in the Paro Valley. One night, the caretaker of the temple had a dream that the statue wanted the caretaker to relocate it to Taktsang Monastery. The statue was lifted by the 7-8 men needed as far as the top of the first cliff, where they were a bit stumped as the path down only accommodated a man at a time.  They were debating cutting it up to get it to the temple, when the statue told them to not worry about it, it's sorted (I paraphrase). The statue was that evening transported by the temple's protective deity into its present location.  An explanation I find slightly more plausible than men carrying it down that insane pass.  Needless to say, the statue survived the 1998 fire unscathed. 

Then it's just a case of dragging yourself back across the bridge , up the (fucking) steps and back down the mountain.  Our standard issue tourist lunch was served at the cafeteria on the way down.  It was one of my last chances to grab a bottle of Druk 11000 tramp beer before we left, and Chan managed to take a pretty fantastic photo of one of the local birds:

The way down took about an hour longer because Chan kept stopping to look at flowers and any birds we might've missed.  Thirsty for a bit more, and as it was an uncharacteristic clear day,  we were driven to within sight of Jomolhari, a sacred mountain.  To give you a sense of scale, this mountian (the snowy peak in the picture) is two days drive away:

That night we had our final meal with our guide and driver (normally we ate apart so they can eat real food and probably also so they can catch a break from us and gossip) and had our last taste of chilli-cheese and the blandest soup I've ever encountered.

The following morning, with legs still made of jelly, we said goodbye to Tshultrim and Raj, and they dropped us back off at the airport.

It was another place we felt genuinely sad to leave.  It's a special corner of the world with a singular pride and identity, and we felt quite privileged to experience it.

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.