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.

Discovering the land of the Thunder Dragon. Bhutan

“What instrument do you measure Gross National Happiness with?” we’re asked, ten minutes into our ride from the airport.  I contemplate this question for a moment, trying to think of a profound and wise reply but Mal comes back quickly with “Why by the size of the smile on your dial. The bigger the smile the more happiness buck you’ve got in the soul bank”.  “Then I hope you will feel like a wealthy man after leaving Bhutan” comes back the reply.

If smiles are anything to go by there was certainly a lot of deposits being made.  The moment we entered the embarkation hall in Tribhuvan Airport at Nepal in readiness to board our DrukAir flight, the smiles were wide and the atmosphere filled with eager chattering and laughing.  It was as if we were all about to head off on a big school excursion, the excitement palpable.  We all knew we were going to the same place, possibly see the same things and most probably, bump into each other along the way. People were introducing themselves and asking ‘which tour company’ and ‘when are you hiking Tigers Nest’.

It would have to have been one of the few flights I’ve ever taken where everyone is happy and chatty and when it was time to disembark we’re all blissfully waiting our turn to file up the aisle with not a single huff and puff in sight. Not even when we realised we all had to wait for the VIP that was on our plane to be given a red-carpet roll out and all the staff of the airport ran onto the tarmac for form a guard of honour. 

Once off the plane we are greeted by the prettiest airport embellished in beautiful decorative artwork and large billboard sign displaying a most handsome couple – the fifth king of Bhutan – Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck and his beautiful queen – Jetsun Pema .  Cameras are whipped out and people start wandering around the tarmac posing beside the plane, the terminal, and in front of the billboard.   There’s a feeling was of complete cheerfulness and unlike other airports where security is at a premium and any sign of a camera brings scowls and reprimands,  not so at Paro International Airport.  Inside passengers are in awe of the decorative ceiling and continue clicking away at the mandala that takes centre stage. By time we’ve get to baggage collection many of us have introduced ourselves, compare itineraries and depart with a ‘might see you around at one of the towns’.

Outside the front door of the airport everyone is gathered up by their guide and driver.  There’s not a taxi tout in sight – just lots of men dressed in Ghos (the National dress for men in Bhutan) and wide smiles.  Straight away we see our names on a placard held by a man in his thirties – he has dark hair, beautiful twinkling eyes and beaming smile – our guide.  Next to him stands our driver, of equal age, but he has a quiet contemplative look about him. They both look extremely distinguished in their sharply pressed-not-a-wrinkle-in-sight Ghos. 

For a split second I get a slight panic feeling as I think, oh my I hope these guys are nice, we’re about to spend nearly every minute of the next 17days with each other – I hope we’re friends at the end of it.

Our first night in Bhutan will be spent in Paro itself, about a half-hour drive from the airport and yet it’s almost next door to the town.  The reason it takes so long is  we have to traverse the full length of the airport landmass – twice. Once up one side of the runway, over a river and then back the full length only the road runs out at one section and we enter a ‘paddock’ with a bumpy track which we need to crawl along. 

“Free massage” quips our guide.

Just past the airport we stop for our very first sight - a magnificent white building on the side of a cliff. Below it, the sweetest little covered bridge and above it sits another white and redbrick structure, also clinging to the cliff – the watchtower.  This is the Paro Dzong, also known as Rinchen Pung Dzong. A fortress that was first built around 1644 and over the years has survived earthquakes and fires to rise many times over.  Our guide tells us we’ll be exploring this in the afternoon and leads us across the road to a grassy park-like area where archery practice is taking place.  He directs us to almost centre of the firing line and tells us to take a seat. “What in front of the archers” I exclaim.  “Don’t worry madam, they are professionals.” An arrow wizzes past and thuds into the small target that’s been ‘stabbed’ into the ground.I look at the tree next to me – there are perfectly round holes in its trunk.

We’re zipped through the main street of Paro – ‘old town’ – a quaint little town full of building adorned in glorious art and colour and my eyes widen when I notice that many of the drawings are of large than life penises, and out again, heading towards forested mountains and chequer-board farmlands till we soon arrive at our hotel cum resort.  We will notice that nearly every hotel/guest house has the word resort in their name…but they nothing like the standard resorts found in other Asian countries.  These are quaint little hotels with gorgeous gardens and lots of stone steps. 

There won’t be a pool in sight nor a cocktail bar… and definitely no kids club.
 
Within seconds of arriving at the resort two petite women appear, wearing long skirts and beautiful silk blouses and they have our twenty kilo backpacks out of the car and are carrying them up the steps to the lobby.  We protest but they ignore us and shuffle away, Mal runs after them and tries to take the bag off one – there’s a little tug-a-war. The woman wins.  

Our room is amazing and the view spectacular but we are given no time to ooh and arh and we’re whisked away for lunch – our first taste of Bhutanese food. Our taste buds are salivating.Our tastebuds are salivating. We're to eat back in Paro and are led to back streets where every building is beautifully decorated and windows hand with chili drapes. Up a set of old and somewhat dark steps, we enter into a room that is as exquisitely painted inside as out and we sit down, excitedly await for the menu.  It doesn't arrive. Instead our table is laden with various dishes - rice, noodles, broccoli, cabbage, fried chicken and momos.  We stare at it and feel a slight touch of dismay. Other than the momos, it all looks very western - and very plain.  We wonder, where's the spice, where's the flavour we've heard so much about.   I scoop up rice and vegertables onto my plate and am just about to lift my first fork full into my mouth when a cockroach crawls out of the rice. Oh dear... it's not a good start. But all is quickly forgotten an hour later when we head for the "Fortress on a Heap of Jewels" - the Paro Dzong.

Our guide takes us first to the old watchtower, which was until three years ago the National Museum, but was damaged in the 2011 earthquake.  The museum is now in an impressive building just behind the tower.  Here we see the incredible masks of the Tsechus (festivals) that Bhutan is famous for and age-old stunning thangkas – some hundreds of years old; their colours still vibrant. 

Downhill, past farm homes with chilli’s spread across their rooves to dry – ‘a hot tin roof’ quips Mal - we hike to the massive fortress, the Dzong.  Before going in our guide puts a cream colour scarf across his Gho – it is required that all visitors to Dzongs be attired in formal wear – and this includes tourists – women must have long sleeves and men to wear collared shirts.  The Dzong is incredible.  We walk up a huge flank of steps past two enormous doors and into a darken corridor adorned in stunning buddhist art – wheel of life, images of Guru Rinpoche and the four friends.

From the  corridor we step out into a stunning courtyard with a temple in the middle.   Our guide tells us that Dzongs house both a monastic community and administration services for the area and some have courts.  We don’t know where to look first, the art work and majesticness  of the Dzong has us spellbound.  One thing we must remember is to always walk clockwise around anything.  There are prayer wheels everywhere to and each time we past one we give it a spin, sending out endless prayers to the universe.  The Dzong sits on the edge of a cliff and has the most commanding views of the Paro valley and river below – the Pho Chuu. 

As we stare down at it, the DrukAir flight leaving the Paro Airport flies past. After hours of being mesmerised by the beautiful artwork of the Dzong and its temple, we then trek down a wooded path to the quaint timber and rammed earth covered bridge that crosses the Pho Chuu. It’s adorable.

The sun is beginning to lower and the air turns to chill and a stiff breeze whips up but this doesn’t deter us from wanting to explore the ‘old town’ of Paro.  At first our guide stays close and tries to direct us to various shops, but I am not use to being led around.  This is my first time ever on a tour and a first time every with a guide – both a requirement for your tourist visa to Bhutan.  We ask our guide if we are allowed to wander around the town by ourselves.  He’s reluctant to let us – this being our first day – and tells us that he should be with us, to help.  We assure him we won’t go far and agree to meet him in an hour.  Once away I find a charm and delight in discovering Paro. 

Every building is decorated – Hansel and Gretel windows painted with flowers and swirling linesThe sun is beginging to lower and the air turns to chill and a stiff breeze whips up but this doesn’t deter us from wanting to explore the ‘old town’ of Paro.  At first our guide stays close and tries to direct us to various shops, but I am not use to being led around.  This is my first time ever on a tour and a first time ever with a guide – both a requirement for your tourist visa to Bhutan.  We ask our guide if we are allowed to wander around the town by ourselves.  He’s reluctant to let us – this being our first day – and tells us that he should be with us, to help.  We assure him we won’t go far and agree to meet him in an hour.  Once away I find a charm and delight in discovering Paro.  Every building is decorated – Hansel and Gretel windows painted with flowers and swirling lines. 

Ribbons of chilli’s hang over the windows like curtains and Buddhist artefacts, smiling penises and gold and wooden prayer wheels peek out of glass panes.   Inside the shops are filled with the finest weavings, ornate carvings, softest scarfs and vibrant thangkas – a treasure trove of incredible workmanship.  As I watch a woman sit at a handloom, weaving the most intricate piece of fabric, I feel the presence of my guide – it’s time to head back to the resort, he tells us.  Dinner is at seven and we are whisked off.  

We bid good evening to the driver and guide and go into the resorts restaurant – it’s a buffet meal, enjoyable, but all continental dishes.  Just as we’re finishing our main the staff come over to ask if we care for any more as they are about to remove the buffet – there’s a second sitting.  We go to move but they say we can stay for our coffee; they are just clearing away the food.  The restaurant fills up - Indian Nationals - and then our noses are tantalised, spicy aromas waft past -  the new dishes being put out are curries.   I watch Mal’s face drop at the realisation he is too full to indulge.  We wander back out into the common sitting area, order a Druk Larger.  “At least it’s not dry Tuesday” I tease  him – a smile splashes across his dial.

Buddhas, Bombs and the Babu - Book Trailer

Once upon a time, in a time long, long ago,  a little girl had a dream, a dream to sit in a room all by herself.  This room would be filled with books, lots and lots of books spilling from the bookcases, stacked on desk, covering the floor and anywhere else there was space. It would have a desk covered with stuff - pens, writing pads, scrunched up balls of paper and cups of cold coffee,  and it would have a big overstuffed chair with a side table covered in  remanent stains of coffee rings.  This girl dreamed of sitting in this room and stare at the wall while her fingers tapped furiously away at a machine, pounding out words, turning words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs and whipping it all into a story.  Her whole life, all she wanted to do was sit in the room and write.  

Well not quite all. 

She also wanted to dance across the contours of borders, wander an open road, to fly across a sky of uncountable stars and then write all about it.  That was the dream.  To be a writer, to be an Author. 

And in a few weeks time the 'Author' dream is about to become a reality.  So as I await the realisation of this dream I find there is much more to being a fully fledged author than just tapping out a few words, seeing it bound and maybe ringing up the local radio station for a speal on the book. 

I have to build a BUZZ.             

                             Cause a vibration.

                                                            Start a wildfire.    

I knew I had to do some marketing work - organise some bookmarks and postcards to send out to book shops,  poster here and there, contact a few book groups and libraries to chat too, but as I googled the sites on "marketing your book"   I learn there is so much more.  Amoung the fountain of ideas was The Book Trailer.  

Now up until a month ago,  I'd never even heard of a book trailer.   Sure I'd heard of trailers for movies and I'd come across countless videos of author chats and 'how too' videos but not book trailers.  So a little google wander sent me of a whole new journey, and it turns out, book trailers have been around for years - huge in America - and are now becoming the norm in Australia,  most of the big publishers make and send them out to the bookshops as part of the marketing package.   I had a chat with a bookshop owner friend of mine and she explained they are a brilliant Author Package Tool as they bring an auditory emotional feel to the book,  if the trailer is engaging, just like a movie trailer,  it'll entice the shop owner to put the book on the shelves.  Turns out my book will be competing with 7000 titles that hit the market every month - anything to give an enticement,  that got me interested in definitely making one. 

So where to start - I didn't have a clue.  I am not a movie maker,  hopeless at even taking a video on the camera - a bit of a shaker, with an addiction to the zoomer -  so I wasn't sure how I was going to come up with something that might be worth even glancing at.   I also had to find some software. I might work on a computer all day, but I don't know the first thing about computers or software.   Thankfully I have a writer friend who  knows a little something about PowerPoint... that was a start, then when she had a look at what 'freebies' her computer had come with - there was MovieMaker.  With her generous offer of a day of her time, armed with a couple of photos I landed on her door step first thing in the morning and we began the day musing over the photos picking the 'best' ones - that was hard because I love all my Nepal photos equally... except for the ones of me... then we installed them, lost them, found them, lost them again, argued, took time out for coffee, then discovered they (the photos) had set up their own little file which we had to wrangle them from .  Finally the photos fell into a movie strip, and text and fades were added, only to lose the whole bloody thing again.  It was wine o'clock time by that stage.

 

Over the following week I scoured the websites for music I could use. Every tune I thought  might work was voted down by the new production team I'd suddenly found gathered behind me.   But seriously, it was all my fault in the first place for this happening, as I had come home with the put together piece and insisted that M, Bud and the Gorgeous Gal look at it and give me their thoughts.  A once over wasn't not enough,  I insisted they look at it,  over and over, and then some more.  So when it came to choosing the music, they felt they now had an invested right.  I eventually came across a fabulous website called 300Monks (royalty free music) and  after much shuffling through endless wonderful tunes, finally found the perfect beat we all agreed upon. "Chakra Superstar" from the A Magnificent beautiful day by The Winston Giles Orchestra (a Melbourne band),  is just so quirky and upbeat, and for me evoked the mystery and joy we had found in Nepal and its people on our first visit there.

 

As I uploaded the trailer to Youtube and Vimeo,  I suddenly discovered I was now a 'channel owner' good grief!  I have my own 'entertainment station'  WOW, next step, Ted Turner land... (you can tell I'm a bit of a social media luddite!)    I notice now my book trailer is looking a little lonely on Channel Kerry Tolson.  Might have to BUZZ it up!   Once again I hit the google train and find the catch phase "VLOGing" .  A new 'frontier' for me to discover.

 

This brings to mind a line from one of my favourite Book Trailers, How I Almost Lost My Mind Trying to Understand My Brain by Dennis Cass. 

                  Quote: "That's the dream, twenty years when I wanted to become a writer, a big part of the dream was being able to put little videos on the internet. That's why we do this.  Maybe I'll just stop writing and I'll just do downloads, apps and widgets..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxschLOAr-s

Have a peek around the 'backyard'

from Savvysugar.com

There's a little (mis)quote attributed to the Dalai Lama that I just love and try to live by "Once a year As often as possible, go someplace you’ve never been before." and every year I plan a new destination, but while I dream and plan the next big trip,  I try to keep the wanderlust at bay by living a similar quote by Katja Hentschel (Travelettes www.travelettes.net) with her "Once a month, go somewhere you've never been before."....and try and find places close to my backdoor to go visit.  

Last Sunday morning, after our weekend 'chores' of early morning stroll around the village, check on the platypus in the creek and pick up our regular Sunday coffee from our local barista, we sat on our backdeck, and wondered where to go that was close and 'new'.  A flick through the local North Coast markets website threw up the name 'Pottsville'.  We had driven through Pottsville and it's twin village, Hastings Point countless times, but had never stopped - ever - not once in twenty-five years of living on the north coast.   So off we trundle with the treadlies, to the tiny little seaside village of Pottsville.

I had always thought of Pottsville as a very much blink and you'll miss it sleepy little hamlet with a peep-of-a-beach hidden from the road behind a large sand-dune.  Many a time we've just driven straight through it; winding our way off the main highway and following the coastal road from Brunswick to Tweed, thinking is was just a group of houses facing the ocean.  

But how wrong we were...

If ironing undies was an olympic sport....

As you know, this little blog is about my travels, both overseas and just outside my backdoor - if I could and if M would, we'd be stepping out the back door, locking it tight and popping the key under the potplant for a very looooonnnnnnnng time.  I love reading the blogs and pages of people doing exactly just that - drifting around the world living amazing awe inspiring journeys after selling up, de-mortgaging or were never mortgaged and will probably end up boomeranging in and out of the family home once their travels finish.  I have a lot of respect for them and appreciation of what they are doing - their spirit and tenacity is what keeps me going with the hope that one day, that could be me too. (Though I have promised my parents,  we would never move back into their house.  Bud on the other hand might not be so lucky to get such a promise.) I've even found inspiration from a woman who's travel blog is all about her yearly one month trips, where she buys a round the world ticket for thirty days and crams in as many countries as she can, then for the other eleven months of the year slaves away at her desk job  to save for the next RTW Ticket.  What really stirs my travel dreams is the experiences she 'infuses' into those 30days.... Ahhhhh dreams, they can become real!

 

While I continue to dream of an endless road around the globe and grab any chance I can in chalking up a some travel miles, even if it’s only for a few weeks, I'm also wandering along on another journey - that of a wistful writer who falls between moments of furious writing and industrious procrastinating.  I'm sure writers are the best multi-tasking procrastinators in the world -   there's even an actual name for it.... I looked it up... it's called MULTICRASTINATION :  the art of being proficient doing lots of unnecessary pointless things whilst at the same time never finding the time to do that one import thing. 
And I'm a wiz at it.

I have been known to iron undies and tea towels, wash the insides of CD case covers and rearrange my granddaughter's Lego blocks into colour co-ordinated units - if these were sporting events,  I'd have a wall full of medals'.

Though I do caution against using an ironing agent on the undies, for although the occasional waft of mountain breeze is all very nice, the crispness takes walking at a cracking pace, to a whole new perspective.