Friday, April 13, 2007
Things are back to normal. We are in the Beijing airport with an hour before flight time, the new computer is working like a charm and I have time to blog! All is right with the world.
Thinking back to Bhutan…it seems like a month ago, but it’s really only a few days. We all know Einstein’s old saw that time is relative, but it is never more apparent than on a trip like this. Each day is crammed packed with activity which on the one hand makes the time fly by, but what we did last week seems eons ago. Go figure.
Bhutan is a small kingdom of about 600,000 people approximately the size of Indiana and tucked into the Himalayas bordered by India, China, and Nepal. We flew Royal Druk (Druk means dragon) from Bangkok to the Paro International Airport, Bhutan’s only airport. It is international because literally every flight is coming from another country, but you may as well be flying to East Podunk. Royal Druk’s entire fleet consisted of two fairly large planes (I never know the type), but they recently bought two Airbuses so now they are prepared for the onslaught. An article we carried around was entitled “Why is Everyone Going to Bhutan?” and basically the gist of it was that by limiting the number of tourists admitted, they increased the “cache” and those in the know (like us) couldn’t wait to go. We had heard that the government limited the number of tourists in order to preserve the purity and integrity of the country, but we found out that the number was automatically limited by the number of planes (2) and the availability of hotels/guest houses/ hostels (not many until recently).
So, as one Australian lady told us, we have now become members of a very exclusive club—foreigners who have been to Bhutan. And we also belong to the most arcane branch of that club—foreigners who have climbed to the Tiger’s Nest.
Bhutan is a land of contrasts and incongruities. Buddhism governs every aspect of the Bhutanese’ lives and as I understand it, one of the major tenets of tantric Buddhism is Compassion. They kill no “sentient being” which includes bugs, flies and rodents. If a spider is on the floor, they don’t step on it, nor do they swat a fly or hit a rat with a broom—they simply shoo it away, gently.
One obvious result of this “compassion” is that the country is over-run with stray dogs. The dogs are everywhere—sleeping in the streets, foraging in the trash, and most of all barking all night. We decided they were too tired to do anything but sleep after a strenuous night of barking. They are mangy and under-fed. They are not cared for and if there is a humane society it is not evident. I asked Kuenley, our guide, about that and he didn’t know, but the next day he said he had investigated and found out that a small group of animal lovers were forming a volunteer group that would act as a Bhutanese SPCA. The dogs must be Buddhists, though, because they are not angry, but rather friendly and quite sweet. They will walk up to you and just stand there rheumy-eyed, hoping for a hand-out, I guess, but when none is forthcoming, they eventually give up and wander off.
Another contrast is the Bhutanese “Indian guest worker” program. On the third day in Bhutan, we drove the mountainous route from Paro to Thimpu, the capital city (I use the term loosely) and describing that drive will be like describing our first ride in a pedi-cab—there are literally no words. But I digress. All along the route which is under major construction and must be completed for the coronation of the new king in 2008, the Indian workers are working under the most primitive of conditions. There are sheer cliffs with no guard rails so the drive is harrowing enough with traffic going in both directions hell bent for election, and these poor souls are literally breaking up the rocks one at a time with hammers and carrying rocks from one side of the road to the other one by one. The object of this exercise is to widen and pave the dirt road that connects the towns, about 60 km I think, and there is no way it will be finished in time although Kuenley assured us that it will (because it has to be was the reason). No one knows exactly when the coronation will be, the royal family hasn’t announced the date as yet, but it will be in 2008 and the road will be ready. End of discussion.
The workers live in hovels of the worst kind and Kuenley said they are portable—as they finish one section of the road (no section could be even remotely called finished), they would move, hovel and all, to the next. Small children, babies really, would be sitting unattended so close to the edge of the precipice that you cringe with fear for them. Other babies were strapped to the backs of the women and were lurched up and down as the mum worked. And yet, as we inched by, if you caught the eye of one of these poor wretches, they would smile broadly and wave, seemingly unaware of the terrible inequities that are mere accidents of birth. Is it possible that, like certain American “guest workers” they have it better here than where they came from?
But those things are so negative. The positives are many, and Bhutan lived up to its reputation as a kind and gentle nation of loving people whose spirituality is awe-inspiring. Kuenley, our guide, and Tshering, our driver, are both deeply religious Buddhists who, after explaining the history of the monastery, would prostrate themselves on the floor and pay homage to the Buddha while quietly chanting a mantra. The picture you see of Kuenley shows him in the native “gho” with his white prayer shawl which he must wear when entering a temple. “Gho” is the name of the robe-like garment that the last king decreed as mandatory dress for all Bhutanese males, while the women wear the “kira”, a long sari type dress with a blouse and jacket over it. The fabrics are especially beautiful and although no fabric is actually made in Bhutan (silks, cottons, blends, etc. are all imported, mostly from India), they do produce beautiful textiles woven on “back-strap” looms which take months to complete and then they make ghos and kiras from them. Tom and Neil were snickering at first at “men in skirts” but I think they look very masculine in their colorful ghos, high black or argyle socks and dress shoes. They wear them so proudly and it is unusual to see a Bhutanese man in Western garb. In general, they are not a particularly beautiful people—they have rather flat faces and Mongolian features--but now and then you see one that is drop-dead gorgeous, either male or female, and when dressed in the native garb, they are a sight to behold.
Another contrast is the food. We had heard that it wasn’t the best in Asia, but we were un-prepared for how truly terrible it is. And yet, after each meal Kuenley would ask if we had enjoyed it and we would say, yes delicious, because he would look so anxiously for a positive response. We began rating the restaurants according to the number of star(che)s served, so in a four-starch restaurant your meal would consist of noodles, rice, potatoes and bread. In a five-starch restaurant, you would get red rice as well as white rice. The meat, when served at all, was almost inedible and one morning there were sliced un-cooked hot dogs on the breakfast buffet, and some other kind of meat that I think was uncooked Spam. The national dish which is served on every buffet is a melted cheese affair with chilis—it’s so hot that even the guys wouldn’t eat it, but the Bhutanese lap it up.
But you gotta love them! They are so eager to please and so proud of their country that you tend to overlook minor problems like food. Throughout the area are large banners or signs that proclaim “Long Live our Beloved King!” and it makes me think a little of that would be nice in our country in place of the constant griping. By the way, did you read about the Swiss man who was sentenced to seven years in jail in Thailand for slandering the name of the Thai king? He was pardoned by His Majesty himself in a magnanimous gesture of mercy but I promise you he will never do it again. They are not kidding when they say they will not tolerate disrespect of their royal families. It is the same in Bhutan. The new king of Bhutan is 28 years old, unmarried, and a bit of a heart throb even in Thailand where our guide Bee said to put in a word for her if we had the chance. He is known as the fifth king and was appointed just a month or two ago by his father, the fourth king, who although only 54 decided to pass the baton on to his first son. Their pictures are everywhere along with kings 1, 2 and 3. Kuenley would constantly refer to the third king or the first king or whatever when telling his stories and the reverence in his tone is amazing.
But moving along, as you can see from the pictures, the architecture is very unusual, in fact, I think it is unique in the world and very beautiful. Every house or public building is white stucco with wood trim that has been hand painted in the most elaborate designs. The designs are proscribed by law and are mostly Buddhist icons and symbols. The whims of the artist are not allowed and art students are taught exactly, with no variation, how to do the drawings. But while the outsides of the buildings are very beautiful, the insides are plain vanilla with steep ladder-type stairways and little if no adornment except in the alter rooms (which are present in every home and even in every hotel and business). We had a visit to a farmhouse where the 17-year old daughter showed us the house while her mother and grandmother stayed discretely out of the way. She will be going to college in India next year and Keunley told us afterward that she didn’t pass the entrance examination to get into the only college in Bhutan.
I could go on and on about the cultural details, but I had better concentrate on the highlights of what we actually did. The highlight of the visit to Bhutan and probably the most memorable, if not the most enjoyable, event of our stay there was the trek to the Tiger’s Nest, the old monastery perched on the side of a steep mountain. After our arrival the first day, Kuenley took us to several important places in Paro, the historic dzong (fortress) now a museum, and the large monastery which dominates the town of Paro. The next day we were to meet him at 8:00 for the trek.
It is said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and so I guess the four of us must qualify as fools. I had told our travel agent in the States early on when planning the trip “no trekking” because to me trekking means straight up a mountainside at 10,000 feet, but that hiking was fine and in fact we walked all the time and were very fit.
So dressed in tennis shoes and armed with walking sticks provided by the hotel we drove to the site where the climb began. I have posted a picture of the monastery looking like a mere speck of white and that’s where we were headed. I balked a bit saying it looked a little treacherous, but Kuenley, in his sweet soothing tone, said not to worry, we can stop any time you want and go as slow as you want and if we want to turn back we will. There was a teahouse situated just less than half way and it took us two hours to get there. At the teahouse we had tea and crackers, but decided against lunch because time was a-wastin’ and we wisely felt that the rest of the climb on a full stomach would not be a good idea.
The trek to the tea house was extremely difficult, for me anyway, because it really was practically straight up. The path was irregular with lots of rocks and areas where you had to step gingerly, but at least I didn’t feel like we were going to fall off the mountain. Not so the second half.
After we left the teahouse, we started back up the mountainside and with each step the path grew more treacherous with steps carved out of the rock and of course no guard rails, but always with Kuenley or Tshering with an arm for Mary or I to grasp (which I at least would grab with circulation-stopping force). Of course the closer we got the more committed we became, can’t turn back now, have to make it, we can do it, ohmygod, all the while Kuenley intoning reassurance: take your time, slow down, rest, breathe, you’re doing fine. It wasn’t just the exertion, which was considerable, but the safety standards are relaxed to say the least so it was really scary. There would be a walkway for a little while and then all of a sudden it would turn into a path barely wide enough to walk on right at the edge or there would be steps winding every which way so that you would sometimes have to round a bend while literally leaning into the mountain so as not to fall off. (In re-reading this, the last sentence may be a bit of an exaggeration, but that’s how it felt). And along the way the ever-present prayer flags were blowing in the breeze in varying degrees of disintegration. They are very significant in tantric Buddhism. The colors and the inscriptions all have important meanings and after they are hung they are left to the elements until they literally disintegrate and disappear. To take them down would be sacrilegious. When I first saw pictures of the prayer flags, I thought they looked like laundry hanging on a clothesline, but seeing them up close is actually quite impressive and when you realize how important they are and how much faith the Bhutanese place in them, the laundry image disappears completely. And another thing I failed to mention: we were not the only people on the mountain. There were a group of American college kids who passed us on the way up and then met us on the way down while we were still trudging along and we had some good conversation with them. There were a number of other trekkers of the more serious type with proper hiking boots and muscled legs and forearms who clearly were trekking through the Himalayas and of course the locals who live there were running back and forth like monkeys carrying vegetables to market or trying to sell us souvenirs or just going about the daily business of living.
But back to us. In essence, this is testing my powers of description because I can’t do justice to the feelings of terror but at the same time feelings of exhilaration as the monastery loomed ever so slowly closer and closer. The last part was all steps, some up, some down, some over a bridge, some seemed to be suspended in mid-air, but finally we were actually standing on the threshold of the monastery. No cameras are allowed inside so you’ll have to take my word for it, but after we were cleared by the monk, we followed Kuenley and Tshering inside where they did their prayers while we stood awe-struck at the history of this edifice. Although it burned almost to the ground in 1997 and so the structure is not the original, it fairly reeks with centuries of Buddhist legend and religious dogma. I was so traumatized that I barely remember what the inside looked like, but I know that we walked around and up some more stairs and looked at the various buddhas all while in our stocking feet and not even wanting to speak for fear of disturbing the serenity. The monastery was founded in the fourteenth century by a monk who was said to have flown to the site on the back of a tigress, thus the name. I know I promised to include websites so that you could read more about the places we have been, but that has proved too difficult. I urge you though to look up Tiger’s Nest Bhutan and read about the fantastical legends that are ascribed to this most revered of the Bhutanese monks and his monastery.
As is always the case, descending was a lot easier than ascending and we made it down in a lot less time than it took to go up. The picture you see of the four of us is at the teahouse where we stopped for more tea and crackers and congratulated each other on our amazing courage and energy. And of course, after the fact we were thrilled that we had done it because now we have bragging rights and the aforementioned membership in the “club.” We found out later that the distance is about 7 km in all and the elevation increases 3,000 feet from where we started. Also, Kuenley finally admitted that we were the oldest people that he had ever taken to the top although one 82-year old made it to the teahouse and back. We are still talking about this incredible experience. We would never do it again, but we are very happy that none of us chickened out.
By the way, the weather was perfect.
These folks asked (politely) to have their pictures taken with us. This happened four or five times in China. We were a source of great amazement. We are known as Big Noses. Many of these people have never seen Westerners before.
This picture is just to illustrate the scale of the Forbidden City. The buildings are huge, the squares are huge, the buildings are plain.
Isn 't this adorable?
Another pix of the very large FC.
The Tai Chi Master about to face the greatest challenge of her life.
This scene attracted a crowd of Chinese snapping pictures.
C'mon guys, we're trying!
After we received our diplomas, we posed with our teacher and her assistant.
I love these signs--they are so charming. I was disappointed to read in the paper that Beijing has hundreds of English speakers looking for signs in "awkward" English so they can be "cleaned up" before the Olympics. What and ruin the charm?
The Great Wall with requisite steps. We have now climbed 4,387,653 steps. Only kidding.
Here we are on the "Mutinayu" section of the wall. Considering the wall covers about the distance from New York to LA, this is a small part of it indeed.
Pretty awesome
The courtyard of the farmhouse
Thoroughly modern young lady showing off the interior
Her bedroom complete with Leonardo DiCaprio posters
The living room
Prayer flags on the way to the Tiger's Nest
A close-up view
Part of the stairway approaching the monastery
Looks of relief to replace looks of sheer terror
That speck of white is the Taktshang Monastery or Tiger's Nest as it is commonly known.
Every country has its propaganda
We're going where?
The speck is getting bigger!
Mt. Everest from the Royal Druk airplane
The main street of Paro, Bhutan with dzong (fortress) in the background
The world's sweetest Bhutanese guide, Kuenley
Monk in courtyard of temple
Chinatown Street
Tiny crabs for sale
Street market
Lady making a betel nut concoction (somewhat addictive we hear) 
View from our window in the Oriental Hotel Bangkok
The Authors' Lounge at the Oriental where high tea is served and Joseph Conrad and Somerset Maugham (I think) used to hang out.
Tom and I on the grounds of the Oriental
The Terrace of the Oriental
