Journey in Bhutan:: Himalayan Trek in the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon

Journey in Bhutan:

Himalayan Trek in the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon

Trish Nicholson

Copyright © 2015 Trish Nicholson

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What makes us true travellers is not how far we go,

but how well we see.

Contents

Cover

Praise for Journey in Bhutan

Other Matador titles by this author

About the Author

List of Illustrations

Journey in Bhutan: Himalayan Trek in the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon

1: The Long Arriving in the Land of the Thunder Dragon

2: Paro Valley

Drugyel Dzong – echoing with the thunderous clatter of war horses

Kyichu Lhakhang – the constant rattle of prayer wheels

Taktsang Monastery – on a flying tiger

Paro Dzong – the ‘heap of jewels’ and the Raven Crown

3: Preparing for the Trek

4: The Trek

Paro to Shana – wet boots encircle the fire, quietly steaming

Shana to Soi Thangthanka – in the footsteps of travellers centuries ago

Soi Thangthanka to Jangothang – Jhomolhari , elusive Goddess of the Mountain

Jangothang to Lingshi – magic of the high pass at Nyile La

Lingshi to Shodu – yak herders, guardians of the high passes

Shodu to Dolam Kenchha – our last night around the campfire

5: Thimphu – The Capital – painted shops and silver coated almond biscuits

Tashichho Dzong – shawms bellow like a roar from deep in the earth

6: Punakha Dzong – where Dragon Kings are crowned

7: Reluctant departure

8: The View from Here

References and Suggestions for Further Reading

Appendices

Links to Maps

Glossary

History of Bhutan: Time-line

A Survival Guide to Bhutanese Buddhism

Praise for Journey in Bhutan

‘... astounding description, a detailed and lush understanding of language.’ Justin Bogdanovitch, In Classic Style magazine

‘An exceptional example of travel memoir. An intelligent, thoughtful and entertaining book that I highly recommend.’ Dionne Lister

‘...vivid, and lively, and totally engrossing.’ Gabrielle Kimm

‘The gold standard for travel stories.’ Amazon review

Other Matador titles by this author

Inside the Crocodile: the Papua New Guinea Journals – a rare insider view of the most culturally diverse nation on earth.

In remote valleys, students build their own schools, babies’ weights are recorded in rice bags, and women walk for days carrying their produce to market. Inside the Crocodile tells their stories and shares the author’s life as a development worker in this ‘land of surprises’ – including Frisbee, the dog she inherits.

‘An enormously enjoyable book full of touching moments, beautiful descriptive passages and plenty of humour.’ Christina O’Reilly

Writing Your Nonfiction Book: the Complete Guide to Becoming an Author – how to plan, research, write, edit, publish and sell memoir, travelogue, history, biography, self-help, documentary or any narrative non-fiction book on your chosen topic.

‘An essential ‘how to’ manual for writers of every sort.’ Anne Stormont, Words with JAM magazine

‘Don’t write before you read this.’ Anne Coates

About the Author

Trish Nicholson is a writer and social anthropologist, and a former columnist and feature writer for national media. After an early career in regional government in the UK and Europe, and tutoring in the Open University and Open Business School, she was for fifteen years a development aid worker in the Asia Pacific, including five years in West Sepik, Papua New Guinea, where she also served as Honorary Consul for the British High Commission. For three years she directed the Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) operations in the Philippines where she later completed a doctoral degree. Further research, on indigenous tourism initiatives in the Philippines, Vietnam and Australia, was partially funded by a grant from the UK Department for International Development. A shifting lifestyle she survived with a sense of humour. Other travels led her to extensive treks in Bhutan, Tibet, and Nepal. Trish Nicholson’s other works include books of popular science, travel, management, and writing skills. She lives in New Zealand.

www.trishnicholsonswordsinthetreehouse.com

List of Illustrations

1. Westward view from Nyile La

2. Kyichu Lhakhang, spinning prayer-wheels in the courtyard

3. Kyichu Lhakhang, child monks chanting sacred texts

4. Taktsang monastery, the Tiger’s Nest perched on a 1000 metre cliff

5. Padmasambhava on a flying tiger inside Taktsang monastery

6. ‘It was like walking through a wild shrubbery’

7. Shana, the round-house where we slept the first night

8. Prayer flag overlooking Jhomolhari camp

9. Mount Jhomolhari, Goddess of the Mountain, ‘like a massive uncut diamond’

10. Yak herder’s tent in summer pasture

11. Lobsang's wife and daughter

12. Lobsang making chogu, yak cheese

13. Bharal, the native blue sheep

14. Distant view of Lingshi Dzong towards the Tibetan border

15. Around Nyile La, peaks rise to over 6000 metres

16. Tashichho Dzong, monks walk in the courtyard

17. Tashichho Dzong, a ceremony in the monastery

18. An apple and a blessing from a sage

19. A weaver wearing a kira

20. Punakha Dzong where the rivers Mo Chhu and Po Chhu meet

21. Three curious little boys

Westward view from Nyile La

Journey in Bhutan: Himalayan Trek in the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon

Our blue tents nestle below like a patch of gentians in the scree, faded slightly in the weakening sunlight. Streams meander back and forth across the valley floor mimicking the silver traces of a snail. In this high, exposed spot the wind is terrific. The prayer-flag cracks out its mantras in a staccato chant – the flag half worn away with its piety, its role to calm the unpredictable earth spirits.

1: The Long Arriving in the Land of the Thunder Dragon

Stepping from an air-conditioned plane at Delhi airport, the heat felt like a hot wet flannel slapped onto my face. Now, in the shuffling mass of other unwashed travellers being herded through embarkation checks, baggage collection and finally passport control, I could do with that flannel to filter the fetid atmosphere. Most passengers have been travelling for at least thirty hours; we present red-eyed, creased faces to the officers at the desk.

It is 11.30 pm local time and my onward flight to Bagdogra is at 9.0am. I am neither staying in India nor a transit passenger, Bagdogra is a domestic flight, but it’s not until tomorrow and no one seems to know what forms to give me. A weary figure in khaki asks where I will spend the night. He grunts and wags his head when I reply, In the airport, but it is too late and too hot to deal with anomalies – he shrugs, waving me impatiently out of sight.

By the time I find the domestic departure building it is well after midnight and the gaunt interior is in silence except for the hysterical squawking of my luggage trolley – all the more annoying for the handful of people trying to sleep on blankets on the floor. The expanse of black speckled marble is fringed with orange plastic seats fixed to the wall. Three of the eight ceiling fans work – or at least, whine. Unfortunately, the seats beneath them are already occupied by sleeping passengers, so is the floor space within their radius, so I settle down under a silent fan and prop my feet on the luggage.

At the far end of the room, a line of overhead destination boards above deserted check-in desks make promises of Patna, Calcutta, Bombay, and Bagdogra, but no flights are going anywhere for the next eight hours.

It is at such low points in a journey that the rational mind throws out the question – why am I here?

I recall a journey in my childhood: being reunited with my parents after 18 months – and the possibility of permanence – with foster parents at the other end of the country. The family trauma that caused this separation was resolved and we’d been travelling home on the top of a bus for what seemed half a lifetime to a child. Tired and fractious, I told my parents, with the blameless insensitivity of a five-year-old, I wouldn’t have come if I’d known it was all this way.

But the truth is I would have come to Bhutan whatever I’d had to go through to get here. I’d already sold my car to pay for the trip.

A couple of years ago, sorting through dusty boxes of old books and magazines left me by a favourite aunt, I came upon a National Geographic Magazine from 1914. A bookmark – a crinkly, yellowed invoice for marzipan (my aunt had owned tearooms) – drew me to the most amazing photographs of mist threaded mountains, exotic architecture, and distinguished looking men wearing what appeared to be navy blue dressing gowns with broad white cuffs. "Experiences and Journeys in Unknown Bhutan" – had my aunt longed to go there herself? Was the marzipan marker a message of some kind?

I have always believed in the power of serendipity. The few books I found on Bhutan were peppered with words like, dragons, dzongs, medieval fortresses, unknown kingdoms and mysterious monasteries perched on top of mountains. And its own citizens call their country Druk-Yul, Land of the Thunder Dragon. Finding out how to get there was my next step – the fact that I would get there was somehow taken for granted in my enthusiasm.

The world’s only Buddhist Kingdom, Bhutan is hidden away among eastern Himalayan peaks that reach 8,000 metres; about the size and shape of Switzerland, with less than a million people, it is sandwiched between India to the south, and Chinese occupied Tibet to the north. As if that were not difficulty enough, Bhutan isolated itself from the world until the 1960s, when a few travellers were allowed in among diplomatic exchanges and other tentative moves towards the international community.

Tourism began only in 1974: there were 287 foreign visitors in the country that year. Visitor numbers are still tightly controlled to protect the environment and culture, but a few foreign companies now link with a growing number of local tour operators to arrange small-group visits and treks: independent travel in Bhutan is not permitted. I had booked with an American company specialising in small-group expeditions.

Bhutan’s ‘coming out’ started when the first road was built from India into western Bhutan, linking Phuntsholing on the border, to the town of Paro, and beyond to the tiny capital of Thimphu. This is the road we would take. Having flown to Delhi, where I would meet up with the rest of the group arriving from various locations, our route involved a three hour flight to Bagdogra airport, transfer to the nearest town of Siliguri, then a long drive through Darjeeling to Phuntsholing.

The rattle of an approaching luggage trolley breaks my reverie; it heads straight for me. Hi, I saw your baggage; I guess we’re waiting for the same group.An easy deduction: we are the only non-Asians in the building. I’m Stefan, the short, thick-set figure and east European accent are deceptive – it turns out Stefan is from California where he does something complicated with finance. His smart safari suit is creased and saggy from a journey even longer than mine. From the trip list we are expecting five more Americans, including our leader, and one Australian.

In the eerie quiet of whirring fans and snuffling passengers we share our travel experiences, trying to convince each other, but mostly ourselves, that we are fit enough to handle this trek: it covers over 100 miles and crosses passes at 5,000 metres (16,000ft). According to the brochure, the route is ‘strenuous’; we should be ‘strong, regular hikers in good physical condition.’ Would the short morning jogs and long weekend walks over the heather – my ‘training’ over the last few weeks – prove to be enough preparation?

Our Scottish mountains are no match for the Himalayas – the lowest point in our trek is twice the height of Ben Nevis.

Stefan delves into a canvas bag, draws out a bag of dates and offers them – squashed to a clingy mush but delicious under the circumstances. We have passed a couple of hours in conversation. Leaving Stefan to keep an eye on the baggage, I investigate the toilets. The doors are labelled ‘European’, or ‘Asian’, not, I realise, an attempt to segregate, merely a choice of appliance. Already familiar with floor-level Asian toilets, I decide to go for local culture, aware that even this ceramic hole in the concrete will be a remembered luxury for some time