Finding happiness along the Affirmation Highway

“Don’t hurry or your family will worry.” 

“Mountains are pleasure only if you drive at leisure.”   

“You must be the change you want to see in the world.”
 

There’s no such thing as a roadside advertising billboard in Bhutan, and as we drive along the ‘affirmation highway’ - as I’ve dubbed the road from Haa to Thimphu - we are given gentle reminders to slow down and savour life.  It’s not until we realise that the country side we are viewing is absent of the garish bombarding of commercialism and oversized advertising signs that it dawns on us how open and free the countryside feels and the views of quaint mud-rammed houses dotting rice terraces that cascade towards a wide aqua-green river gives us a feeling of serenity.

Although it's an ice-cold morning, we leave Haa in a blaze of sunshine, the heavily forested mountains glowing in a green and golden hue.  The road hugs the side of the mountains, and we are awashed with views of chequered board fields in gold, red and green with villages of adorned white and timber houses. Far below, deeply plunging valleys fold into a coursing river that’s  embroidered with rapids. 

Every now and then we pass a chortan, a swathe of brightly flapping prayer flags or a long mani wall, the gold Sanskrit shining in the sunshine.   The villages we passed through are idyllic, tiny winding laneways where the homes are beautifully decorated, as if each neighbour was trying to outdo the other. 


Not only the windows, doors and walls painted and embellished, but so are the eves.  At one village we stop and take a walk through – our car to meet us at the other side -   the laneways laced in flowers, herbs and five leaf ‘mull’ plants that we’re told are only cattle feed – no wonder the cream coloured jerseys we see wandering around and lazily chewing their cuds have such sleepy doe-eyes. 

Just passed this village we view an enormous Dzong, once a jail for the worst of the worst and our guide tells us of how the prisoners were dealt with many years ago; tied into a sack and thrown down into the river, apparently if they survived the icy, turbulent waters, they could go free. It’s an impressive looking buildings perched high on a hill – indeed a room with an amazing view, but maybe one ‘you’ rather not see.

Lunch time is approaching and our guide tells us we’ll be having lunch in a local home.  We’re excited at the thought of being invited into a Bhutanese home and seeing how they live.  We soon arrive at a small, but beautifully intricately decorated abode that’s still in the process of being built.  Next door is a small restaurant.  The home and the restaurant are sitting in the ‘middle of no-where’, not another house or village that we can see around.  We jump out of the car and rustle through our packs for a couple of packets of macadamia nuts we’ve brought from home to give as gifts to our host.  We’re introduced to a young woman, called Tenzin, and are taken around the back of the house and directed up a small ladder-cum-stairs to a room that doesn’t have any furniture, but is beautifully painted in swirls of orange on bright yellow, and adorned with photos of the royal family – I love it.  We’re told to go into another room and here we find a small table and four chairs and a small cupboard in one corner.  We take a seat, eager to chat.  Tenzin smiles, gives a small bow then disappears from the room.  Our guide opens a picnic basket and proceeds to unpack the meal, then tells us to help ourselves.  We’re a little confused.  “Is Tenzin not joining us.” We ask.  “No, Tenzin has to serve in her restaurant” is the reply.  We eat our lunch and drink our tea, just us and our guide and driver.  Then it’s all packed up and we’re told it’s time to leave.  Back downstairs we’re directed to get back in the car, but we say we’d like to go into the restaurant to thank Tenzin for the use of her home.  Our guide is reluctant and tells us he has already thanked her.  We insist on thanking her ourselves and go into the small, but cosy restaurant.  It smells divine – the aromas drift around us and tantalise our tastebuds.  We’re surprised to see how busy it is, every table filled with happy, hungry diners. We wonder where they’ve come from. We thank Tenzin then go back to the car, as I get in I ask our guide why we didn’t eat in the restaurant as it looked lovely.  He gives me a concerned look and answers with ‘too dirty for tourists’.  I’m shocked and assure him that it is far from that, but he shakes his head and tells us that tourists can’t possibly eat the food there, besides he adds, ‘it’s too spicy for you.’  I feel uncomfortable at how the expectations of tourists are perceived in Bhutan and wonder if it is just what our guide thinks or if this is the actual perception across the board.

We continue on and soon reach the highway to Thimphu, passing over the river and past a set of beautiful chortens that glisten in the sunlight. The next hour ls spent reading affirmations and road safety messages dotted alongside the highway.  Thimphu comes into view and unlike the delightful villages and small towns we’ve passed through, we find it to be a jungle of concrete buildings of various colours – all still decorated with the auspicious signs but no-where near as intricate or beautiful as the homes and shops of the smaller towns. 
Thimphu is heavily congested with traffic and is noisy and dusty, but we’re keen to explore it, but our guide says first we must go to the Post Office where we can get a stamp with our photo on it.  It sounds very kitsch to us and we say that we’re not really interested but apparently it’s a highlight on the tourist list and we are to do it.   We drive into a building that looks as if it’s in need of a good renovation and we’re taken up a dark stairwell to a small room where a number of other tourists are gathered and being encourage to get their photos taken for a stamp.  Again our guide suggest we too do this and again we decline. Instead we look at the stamps and first day issues and although I haven’t the least bit of interest in stamps, I buy a first-day-issue of the ‘strong man of Bhutan’, we do this because part way through our trip, our itinerary has us staying with the strongest man in Bhutan so I feel it’s only appropriate to have this little souvenir.  
Our guide then tells us our next stop is a weaving centre but I suggest to him that we’d rather go to the Bhutan National Library to see the world’s largest book.  Our guide insists we go to the weaving centre first, so off we go.  The weaving centre is a small two storey building with the looms downstairs and a shop upstairs.  We view the weaving – I’m astounded at how intricate the craftsmanship is and how these women work without a pattern.  The pieces are incredibly vibrant and stunning. Then we are directed to the shop but I decline to purchase anything, being so early into our trip, I’m really not ready to commit to a weaving yet.



I ask again if we can go to the Library but instead we are taken to an art gallery where the most beautiful thangkas and Bhutanese landscapes adorn the walls, once again it is suggested – ever so subtle -  for us to purchase a little piece.

We are then told we are going to go to a paper-making factory, but I say I’d like to be to be taken to the Library and, we’re told it’s now near closing time so it’ll be a quick visit.  I’m far from impressed when told this.

 

Bhutan’s National Library is gorgeous.  A stunning piece of architecture surrounded by the most beautiful rose gardens and with an even more stunning outlook. Inside the library itself is a beautiful piece of art – wide timber floors, worn smooth with time, intricately painted shelves and architraves, and rows upon rows of Buddhists texts in various colours behind glass, some of them hundreds of years old.  We’re taken first to a room to see a smaller version of the ‘world’s biggest book’, which is a pictorial display of Bhutan’s landscapes and culture, then we go to the main room to view the real book.  It’s huge and kept in a massive glass case.  The page is open to an image of mountains with prayer flags.  Photography is not allowed in the library but this doesn’t deter many of the tourists who sneak a snap on their smart-phones. As we leave the library, our guide suggests we now visit the paper-factory but all we want to do is put our bags in the hotel and go find a much need cup of coffee – preferably of the roasted beans variety. 

Once again the hotel we are staying at is well out of town – it’s big and impersonal and when we enter our room we’re dismayed to see that it quite run-down.  We’re here for two nights.  We quickly stash the bags and get the driver (and guide) to take us into Thimphu central so we can start exploring the capital city of Bhutan…and of course find that coffee. 
And again the guide is reluctant to let us go by ourselves, and tells us that Thimphu can be unsafe and that the traffic is bad, but we insist on being allowed to wander and look by ourselves.  We are finally dropped off near the “Times Square” of Thimphu a square with prayer wheel walls and a clock tower in the centre, and we go in search of coffee, finding it in a delightful café called ‘Ambient’ – it’s perfect!  The coffee just as good as home, the atmosphere fantastic and the Wi-Fi fast.  We spend a good two hours whiling away the late afternoon, then enjoy shuffling about in Thimphu’s vibrant main street, a collection of old-style timber shops with low doors and modern glass and chrome flash.  As the evening starts to fall the city becomes more bustling and the smells of Bhutanese flavours wafts out of small cafes and restaurants.   We’ve been told that dinner begins at seven at our hotel, so we catch a taxi back.  We are to find we should have stayed in the main street and found a dinner there, for the hotel fare is exceeding dismal. Once again the delectable ‘taste’ of Bhutan remains nothing more than an aromaous sniff.

 

 

 

Bless you at the Haa Chu

“I think they should rename this place The Chilly Pass,” I say to Mal as I stand huddled next to a clay stove and try to garner some warmth.  Me along with ten others – all Indian nationals – try to find the best spot next to the fire.  In front we stare at the most incredible view,  upright white flags on a forest of  poles snaking along a ridge line to a peak, flutter against blue skies.  Either side, deep plunging green valleys spiral into dark voids and all around a kaleidoscopic swirl of colour flaps and strains and whips in the wind – prayer flags for as far as the eye can see.  We are at the top of Bhutans highest motorable pass – the Chele La at (officially 3,780meters, although the sign I’m standing next to says 3988meters and our vehicles altitude reader is spruking  4030meters.  Whichever it is, it’s high! And I’m starting to feel some affects of altitude.  A throbbing headache and a bit of a dizz, although,  I think that might be from the hairpin corners.

It was an early rise as we were in for a big day – leaving Paro to visit the Haa Valley.  It was super early for me though, up a three am, the body clock was way out of sync and the head throb had also started.  I’d been warned that it might happen at Paro but was assured by the guide that we were just under the level where altitude sickness happens and that if we took it easy we’d acclimatize.  I took his advice and threw down a couple of headache tablets, skipped my morning coffee and took it easy.  Not that there was going to be too much activity – our hotel was well and truly out of town and surrounded by dogs wandering around the roads, so a little stroll to check out the early morning local life wasn’t on the cards and at the hotel, we weren’t being allowed to lift a finger.  Even pouring our own milk into a cup of tea was a no-no.  We were to be waited on hand and foot.  I wondered if I could ‘get use to this’ then decided no -  I’d be drinking too much hot milk. (I’m to find Tea here is more milk than brew and weak is an understatement!)

Our guide and driver collected us bright and early and we were zipped along past rice fields and up into the mountains.  It was a long drive, winding and pot-holed but stunningly spectacular with views that went forever.  Every now and then we would drive under a swathe of prayerflags and past enormous Mani Wheels that spun at incredible speeds, throwing out their blessings, as they were operated by small waterfalls and fast flowing streams.    Part way up we turned off the bitumen road and bounced along a rough rocky track to a nunnery – the Kila Goempa – where we’re told about 100 nuns (young and old) lived in isolation.  We’re also told that they rarely got visitors, a statement we find a little strange, because when we arrive there are a number of tourist cars and a bus sitting in the car park,  and a number of tourists hiking along the narrow track that clings to the side of a steep cliff.   We join the trail of visitors and wander along the narrow path for about 150meters.  Actually it was barely a wander for being so high, the air is clean, crisp and thin and we both feel the shortness of breath - so much so, we huff and puff as we walk along and I tell Mal we need to be careful that we don’t blow the precariously clinging abodes away. 

The nunnery hugs the sheer cliff face and every view is spectacular.  It’s the most perfect place to meditate and contemplate the meaning of life and existence, though I think for me, I’d spend more time bird watching than inner thinking.  The birds are abundant, as are the flowers that cover the path.    The temples and small abodes that make up the nunnery are very simple – white, rustic and lightly decorated in the traditional artwork, yet the whole place is idyllic and beautiful.  We’re taken right up to where the nuns, of all ages, are sitting and chatting, a couple of them are trying to blow very large trumpets, and we’re told we can ‘take their photos’. 
I find this an uncomfortable proposition and decline.  I also feel like we have intruded upon their self-imposed seclusion and a sense of voyeuristic guilt drapes over me.  We thank them for letting us visit their home and our guide takes us to the small main temple which is stunningly intricate inside with its artworks and icons.  Now this I wish I could photograph, but photography in the temples is not allowed and is strictly monitored.

From the nunnery we head up another 5oo meters to the Chele La (La means pass in Bhutanese).  While we’re there our driver shares with me that the pass is extra special for him as two of the white flags standing on the peak are his offerings for a passed sister.  He explains to me that the white flags represent remembrance of lost loved ones for Bhutan doesn’t have grave yards.  After cremation, the ashes are scattered, and a white flag becomes their marker.

After the obligatory photos and hug of the fire, we jump back in the car and head down again.  Just before we hop in the car, we meet up with two women on Royal Enfield motorcycles who are traveling the length of Bhutan.  They cause quite a stir with a large group of Indian Nationals who have come to Bhutan for their Puja holidays and they line up to have their photos taken with them.  There’s lots of laughter and giggles, and I’m quite impressed with the women and their bravery to ride Bhutan’s roads on such ‘ancient’ looking motorcycles.  In fact, I wish I had their tenacity and bravery.

We leave the pass and stop further down the road for a picnic.  We are to find the Bhutanese love their picnics – it’s a national pastime, to take a packed lunch in tiffin tins and spread out in a meadow, beside the road amongst the hills or near a raging river.  I love it!  We choose a meadow near a cow shed and enjoy a smashing meal of red rice, curry and an amazing potato dish that I just want to learn to create.  And of course the must have – chili cheese.

Zipping down the mountain the scenery changes from green to golden as we come across a grove of beautiful turned fir trees and maples.  Splashes of colour race up to meet us as we weaved through the hairpins.  Part way down we pass emergency vehicles – a tiny ambulance and two small cars filled with personnel in orange-overalls.  “Accident” comments our guide and we keep going.

The Haa valley is wide and green with a huge river running through the middle. Rice fields and cattle dot the landscape.  We pass a golf course and helicopter pad and our guide points out some army barracks – ‘Indian Army’ he says, ‘they protect us.’   Our first stop is to a Temple from the 7^th century,  we're not sure if it's the Black Temple or the White, but it has brand new buildings being erected around it and it’s interesting to see how they form the structures which will be painted just like all the other buildings in Bhutan with the traditional ornate features.  
We enter the temple and ooh and arh over the glorious artwork, the colours still vibrant and lush after years of being.  While there we meet up with a fellow traveller who had also been staying at the same hotel the night before.  He tells us that a dreadful accident happened at Chele La, a bus that was reversing plummeted over one of the cliffs, it had five Indian Nationals on it – the rest of the group were still waiting to board, at least one had died.  It dawns on us it was the same group who were at the pass the same time as us, the ones who were having their photos taken with the two motorcycle women.  We are devastated for them and their family.

We leave the temple with sadness and go to our hotel. Again it is outside of the town, and again the area is surrounded by numerous wandering dogs.  After dropping our bags to our room (and Mal has the standard luggage tug-a-war with the  baggage girls - they win), we ask our guide to take us to the town so we can explore.  He’s a little hesitate, telling us there’s not much to see in Haa, but we say we’d like to see it anyway.  Our driver takes us to the other side of the township so we can have a good walk through, and as we’re being dropped off we find ourselves having a bit of a ‘run-in’ with two cows.  Well not quite so much as a run in as a run away.  Just as I close the car door, two cows with nice little sharp horns, decide to have a tussle with each other, locking horns they push at each other and end up stumbling towards us.  I run towards the front of the car and almost get myself run over as our driver, realising the cows are heading for his car, launches the car forward then has to hit the brakes as I tap the front bumper.  This in turns results in the cows crashing into the side of the car and the horns make an enormous scrape mark up the side of the car.  Our driver is most upset - it turns out he doesn't own the car and vehicles in Bhutan are an expensive luxury few Bhutanese can afford.  We feel dreadful for him. 

From horn wielding cows, we find we have to run the gauntlet of street dogs when a pack of them realise someone new has entered their territory and come tearing towards us.   Thankfully, some of the locals come out and chase them away.  They give us cheery smiles and wave us on our way through their village.   It’s very rural, lots of small timber huts with hay stacks around, their homes however all sport the beautiful artworks of the twelve auspicious signs and dancing phalluses.  Prayer flags hang on the bridges and along fence lines and we pass goods carrying trucks that also look like works of art with their decorated cabins and images of deities and good luck wishes. 

The air starts to cool as we enter the main street of the village and we pass the everyday shops that sell packets of chips, bottled water and dried chilies, nestled in with karaoke bars and government offices. Our driver and guide are waiting for us and as we cross over a small swing bridge spanning the Haa Chu we are blanketed in a flap of prayer flags.  Never one to miss a word play, Mal pipes up with "Bless You".   I certainly do feel incredibly blessed.