Back to Bhutan

The trip in seems a repeat of the previous entry, with an overnight in Bangkok, and an in-flight conversation with a Western aid-worker.  I didn't know it at the time, but this man acts as a Greek chorus of sorts, and many of the things he mentions returned to me while I was in country.

There are no yaks off my wingtips on approach this time, but it is equally exhilarating, bumping from cloud to cloud, the wings waving as if greeting the houses that dotted the hillsides.  (I remember the quip of one Himalayan pilot, "Our clouds have rocks in them.")

Our guide Pema meets us in the usual fashion, by draping scarves over our necks.  Much like with Pacific Island leis, it is always awkward to receive them, as the visitor is never sure when exactly to remove them.  Luckily the brevity of the first drive dictates this for us, and emerging shortly afterward at Jangtsa Dumtseg Lhakhang we are thus unencumbered. The temple presents the Bhutan I remember, a squat stone structure rising upward in a thick tower, with prayer wheels running along all four sides, and the usual group of traditionally-clad worshippers endlessly circling the grounds like film extras.  The hillside above is topped with prayer flags, and the hill itself is nearly covered by tiny white chortens, which I find out later are made of clay mixed with the ground down bones of the departed. After going one round, I climb the ladders inside the temple to view the paintings within, as the scent of butter lamps hangs thickly in the air.

The drive to Thimphu is also as I remember, along a road that clinging firmly to the riverbank.  The trio of chorten are exactly where I recalled, protecting the confluence of rivers, rooting out the bad mojo that tends to accumulate there. A grisled old cowboy sits before a general store.   India-style road signs lead us in, each with a quip whose level of wit must surely amuse the average 10 year old.  The wind too pushes us onward, as it whips through the narrow valley. 

Arriving in the capital, I am amazed at all the building that has gone on since 2003.  New buildings are of a number that could rival only that of the ones currently going up.  Traffic too, pedestrian and otherwise, seems heavier than before, and while Thimphu can hardly be called a city, it has certainly become a town a-bustle.  I don't recall this many cars moving along the main thoroughfare; my memory tends toward dogs sleeping on the irregular sidewalks.  We move along these, to buy books, and a series of traditional outfits to wear during our week in country.  The curiosity in the eyes of the people we pass, many of the younger types offer greetings.  Like elsewhere in Asia people seem to be just hanging around.  The monks are the only ones who look like they have someplace to be.

At dusk, we visit the dzong, which I'd been prevented from entering in 2003 as the King had been visiting that day.  Today, there are a number of tourists about, taking selfies beneath wooden ladders and white stone. Fifteen years ago, I'd only seen one other tourist group during my 12-day stay.  No surprise really as at that time, only 7000 tourists or so were allowed in.  Today that number has grown to 180,000.  Another change is that the locals no longer need wear their native dress.  Many still choose to do so, but there are as many people walking around in jeans and T-shirts.  Thankfully baseball caps aren't all that popular yet.

Our friends and hosts live nearby, and we enjoy a lovely dinner as the shadows of the dzong lengthened under the arc lights.  Tshering works for the royal family, and as such, he is a fount of information about a country quite curious to the outside world.  Providing an astounding amount of facts and insider knowledge about the kingdom, he is in many ways the man behind the curtain.  And his wit and conversation help shorten the long car rides in the days to follow.

Body on Japan time, I awake early, so walk over to the Memorial Choten.  A few dozen worshipers precede me, and are already undergoing their circumambulations.  A small structure has been set aside for the lighting of lamps, a practical decision in a region that often loses temples to fire.  Beside this I notice a small bit of paper decorating a rock, which reminds me of a little of Shinto.  I attempt to take a photo but am quickly scolded by a guard.  So I join in on circling the chorten, doing a series of rounds before sitting off the one side to meditate awhile.  I'm finding this difficult of late, as the passage of feet in motion tends to present a metaphor for my own life at the moment, movement dictating the current tempo.

That movement is far less physical though than the trio clad in maroon undergoing full-length prostrations.  This facet of Vajrayana continues to puzzle me.  So different than the dignified quiet of shikantaza in Japanese zen, "just sitting."  Is the idea here to use the body in order to deny the body?  And if so, isn't it a little bit absurd, like someone who spends far too much on a fine automobile, then has no money left over to actually go anywhere.  

But we at least have places to go.  We begin with a quick trip up to the Tango Buddhist college and its marvellous paintings.  The walk up at high elevation proves good training for Tibet later, as a parade of monks descends toward town, and at the top, a group of workmen continue their restorations beneath the snow-capped Himalayan foothills.

I'd heard that Thimphu's beloved Swiss bakery had closed, but Ambient Cafe proves a fair substitute.  Here is best exemplified what I most love about Bhutan: the random encounter.  During the course of a single lunch we meet a renowned explorer, a Welsh lama, and Tshewang Dendup, the lead actor in the film, Travellers and Magicians.  On Tshering's mischievous prompting, I ask the latter two my question about Detachment vs. Compassion.  Dendup is in the midst of answering when he stops and says, "Actually that's a pretty stupid question."  And I agree with him.  Getting too caught up in dogmas is a distraction from reality itself.

We arrive in the Phobjikha Valley just past dark, and immediately light a fire to warm our cabin.  Morning dawns brighter and warmer, so we set off on a long hike along the hilltops that define the valley's eastern edge.  It is refreshing to pass through a healthy forest, the path laden with pine needles.  In one village, a trio of men is moving timber into place for a new roof.  A black dog adopts us and tags along.  When we stop, he plonks himself down to sleep. You might not be so tired if you and your friends hadn't been up barking all night, you bastard.  He follows us for an hour or so until reaching a bridge.  There he suddenly turns back, having reached some sort of invisible internal barrier of his territory.

A spur of land provides an overlook.  Some benches provide a perch from which to muse.  The valley spreads out below, and its silence fills us.  We humans all share the same ability to recognize beauty in features.  There is a commonality in what we find beautiful about an anomaly in the landscape, in a passage of music, in art, or even what we consider the perfection of the human face. Where does that come from?

This valley of course is renowned for its beauty, and even more so for what it represents, as the winter migration grounds for Siberian black-necked cranes.  The birds appear to recognize beauty themselves, as they partner up for life.  How much sadder then the fate of Karma, a crane living alone at the nearby Visitor Center after having one wing permanently disabled by dogs.  And how miraculous to see another crane feeding alone out in the nearby marshes, as if staying behind to accompany its mate?                  

We retrace our drive back to Wangdue.  Unlike Japan, only a few farmhouses we pass look abandoned, no matter how remote or impossible the terrain.  Our digs for the night is another cabin, this time at the Eco Lounge that overlooks the ruined dzong, destroyed by fire in 2012. Ironically, I now find myself on the opposite side of the view that I had enjoyed on my first morning here in 2003, when the dzong had been intact.  Large turbines spin on the hill above us, as Bhutan experiments with its first wind power generation.  It is pleasant to sit in the sun on the balcony and watch the temples in the peaks above disappear with the light.  Go to sleep to the stars, awake to the Himalaya.

We break the drive to Paro with lunch in Thimphu at Hotel Druk.  There we meet Karma Wangmo, who'd guided us in 2003.  As we await the meals, Tshering and I dash out to buy books around the corner.  We'll stop again later to cross the iron bridge at Tachog Lhakhang.  The temple itself is privately owned and in a corresponding state of disarray.  I appreciate most the run-down nature of these nondescript places, one unlikely to continue as such due to a cafe being constructed in a side valley just below.

In Paro again, we climb the hairpins to the end of the dirt road where Tshering's own temple is. The views of the valley below are incredible, on a bare promontory wrapped in forest.  The runway of the airport stretches seemingly to our feet.  I doze in the room offered us, then am awakened to be told that we'll be returning to the valley since there is a problem with the water system.  Our replacement digs are equally nice, in a refurbished farm house that has a bath warmed piping hot by heated stones. 

The following day, our last, we take slow.  The original idea had been to climb up to Tiger's Nest, which I'd visited during reconstruction (and our guide Pema had been a workman there at the time.  This former yak-herder had some interesting stories, the funniest being about trading cordyceps with irate Tibetans).   But as that is an A-list destination, it would keep for next time. Tshering instead suggests a hike up to Dzongdrakha Monastery nearby.   It is a pleasant stroll under spring sunshine.  The temple is known as Little Tiger's Nest, as it has a similar imposing cliff-face location, yet this one is privately owned and the lack of UNESCO funding adds to its rustic charm.  Snoozing dogs can't be bothered to greet us, but a few little kids are up and about, helping their parents with chores.  I smile when I see that one has an inflatable REI pillow.  

The walk builds up a thirst, so it is fitting that our next stop is a new craft beer brewery run by Tshering's cousin.  A notorious partier in college, he is now channeling that experience into a marketable skill, namely in the production of the world's first beer brewed with red rice. The affiliated taproom is a few weeks from opening, but his cook does us up some food, which match the beers amazingly well.  I am in my element, gazing down at the quiet airport runway, all flights finished for the day.

As we eat, Tshering mentions a property he thinks might be for sale, so we have a look in the sake of interest.  Nestled not far from the foot of Tiger's Nest, this former farmhouse has been haphazardly opened as a folk museum, a handful of exhibits strewn within the crumbling facade.  It is a beautiful location, set off the road amidst a small orchard and within two hours hike to one of the best loved temples in Asia.  Though the structure needs a lot of work, LYL seems serious about buying the place, and we again wander the rooms, discussing what we can do with them.    

At such moments my mind kicks into the 'what if' game, and I begin to imagine time spent there.  Meals at a large table out in the garden, within the security of the high wall.  Slowly building a library of books on the Himalayas and Vajrayana Buddhism.  Leading friends up the steep trails to Tiger's Nest.  The joy of having one's own temple, a base for resuscitating my own Buddhist practice.  Bicycling down to Paro and becoming one of the recognizable features in town.  Most of all, I feel it was destined somehow, as the beams of light I that had noted during my meditations just up the road at Kyichu Lhakhang in 2003 seemed to fall on this very spot.   Of course, there are also the cold winters to consider, plus the anxious and dark walks from the car, worrying about cobras and tigers.   (We cling to this vision for a couple of weeks, until the impracticality of it all awakens in us.) 

After a quick change back at our inn, we climb the bumpy road up to Eutok Samdrup Chholing Monastic College.  At our wedding party a few weeks before, we had asked guests to offer a donation in lieu of gifts, so as to donate to this temple.  The monks are either orphans or from broken homes, and unlike boys on loan from families for the purpose of becoming monks as a means of acquiring merit, these boys have few other chances in life.  The money donated will go to a water heating system for the temple, as the cold water tends to reek havoc on health and hygiene.  The head priest is of course delighted to receive us, and the feeling is immediately reciprocated, the man radiating such a calm yet solid presence.  (At the height of my Bhutan resident fantasies I imagine studying under him.) He leads the young monks in a blessing for LYL and I, the boys rocking back in forth as they chant, thigh-bone trumpets blaring up the line.  A Thai monk visiting from Bangkok  (who bears a strong resemblance to Benicio del Toro) keeps up a similar strong presence at the other end of the hall.  When it is finished, we are shown the paintings and treasures on the upper floors, among which is an empty room used for English lessons.  Then we are asked to take one of the snack offerings on the main altar, the goddess of compassion beaming down upon us. 

After another bumpy ride back down the mountain, I find Dorjee Wangchuk waiting for us back at the inn.  It is brief visit, but a joyous one, the young man who'd guided me in 2003 now a full grown man with a more filled-in life.  I suppose we can all make the same claim, as can Bhutan itself, having moved from a small country on the periphery of the modern world to one taking cautious steps on a path of its own making.


On the turntable:  Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, "Facing Future"
On the nighttable:  Aisin-Gioro Pu Yi, "From Emperor to Citizen"

In the Land of the Divine Madman XII

May 24, 2003

Awoke to the sound of crickets winding down and a few birds starting up.  It was peaceful, like the warming up of an orchestra.  At the airport just past 5 a.m.  The amount of security and paperwork was insane.  This was to leave the country.  We even had to go out and identify our luggage before it was let on.

We flew our incredible takeoff through a system of valleys, our turn beginning just as we left the ground.  Once above the clouds, a few Himalayan peaks popped up, the beauty of Kangchenjunga, the world's third highest, and later Chomolungma, aka Everest, as unspectacular as said, sitting rather uninspiring among a crowd.  Our plane's shadow was haloed against the clouds, bracken style.  

Dhaka too looked as expected, tree-filled villages dwarfed by rice fields.  Canals were everywhere, barges chugging along some of the bigger rivers.  The few roads teemed with bus and truck traffic.  The land looked wet, fertile, almost sexual.  A recent rain had left the broken down structures soaked as well.  This was very third world.  On the ground, the plane began to fill with passengers of a more South Asian type, and a guy scratched himself for as long as he took to refill the petrol.  Flying out, Dhaka city sprawled, small identical buildings looked like thousands of die rolled on a green felt.  

Sleepily, drifting dreamlike into Yangon, the chords of the Beatles "Flying" going through my head.  Lush jungle, winding rivers, and rice paddies that look like a cubist painting.  We were definitely in SE Asian again.  Gold stupas lean against lush forests.  Shacks line river banks, figures in the canals.  The roads hold bike traffic and slow moving figures.  (And why does this former British colony drive on the right anyway?)  The airport is golden.  As I watch its workers I try to remember the limerick, "There once was a man from Rangoon."  The Japanese start to get off and have to be told that we aren't yet in Bangkok...


On the turntable: Hayseed Dixie, "Kiss My Grass: A Hillbilly Tribute to Kiss" 

In the Land of the Divine Madman XI

May 23, 2003

Early start to Tahksang.  Drove into a beautiful pine forest then walked over a fence ladder into a clearing and up to a house that looked of Josie Wales.  A bow maker lived here, in this dark wood and stone shack surrounded by wooden fence posts.  

We rode for the first half of the trek, on little pack horses that weren't much bigger than ponies.  Mine was well behaved, but the others stopped repeatedly for no apparent reason.  The trail went through a forest awhile then broke into an exposed forest road.  While no horseman, I felt really good up there, at one with my animal.  At the prayer wheel, I was happy to get off the small wooden saddle covered by a single thin blanket.  The horses too seemed relieved. Exhausted, panting, they lay in the ground and rolled in the dust.  

The Japanese couple from Thimphu showed up around then, guided by a small black dog they called "Kuro."  I walked with them and Clarke, stopping occasionally to look up at the temple, majestic against the cliff.  I got a good look at the moss hanging from the trees,  Up close it looked like Tibetan writing.  

At the top was a temporary village built for the men working on the temple's restoration.  Clarke gave a balloon to a little girl and I played shakuhachi, drawing a crowd of workers of their lunch break.   We continued on a little but had to stop at the police post and wait for Dorjee and the permit.  I played shakuhachi a bit more, read Milarepa poems and basically stared in awe at the structure across the ravine.  In front of me was sheer drop of hundreds of feet.  Looking down made my balls shrivel, a vertigo certainly a side effect of Ken's death.  What was worse was watching the young workmen on break, playing around on the roofs above a certain fatal fall.  A waterfall cut the crevasse that enabled this temple to be built.  (Later I saw the falls dropping far below the temple.  Even now, I write this beside a small stream in the valley, no doubt of the same source.)  

When the permit arrived, we dropped down a shale staircase, broken in some places, into the crevasse, prayer flags between us and the drop. Passed the waterfall, the force of which turned a prayer wheel, then up the steep opposite side.  The front of the temple was an unfinished structure, and workmen pounded noisily on the roof above the main entrance.  Clarke burned a fire in a brazier which filled the narrow passage with smoke.  There were only four shrine rooms, all of which seems new with no thankhas and only a single figure in front of a simple altar with butter lamps.  These rooms were around narrow sets of stairs rather than open courtyards like in dzongs.  We sat in the cave where Guru Rimpoche meditated, definitely the best preserved room.  We read a blessing written spontaneously by Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche when he stayed here.  He describes a few geographical features of this area.  I had expected to find power here, but it was the least focused meditation of the entire trip.  I guess it was too built up and I'd expected too much.  We stopped in one final unfinished room where four deities were being sculpted.  There were wires where limbs and nails will later be attached.  There were squares cut into the chest, through which treasures will be passed to fill the empty cavity.     

Descended in a light rain.  Past workmen lugging and shaping stones.  I peed about a foot from a sheer drop, the urine hard coming since my balls were near my throat.  As I did, I heard a series of shouts and was nearly thrown over the edge by a bucket rushing quickly along a cable that brought up supplies.  Heart racing I moved on,  again followed by the black dog with a single white paw who'd followed me most of the way up.  Dropped quickly down to the cafeteria that marked the midpoint.  I sat and watched a mist come in and coat the mountain, leaving the temple the only thing visible.  Across the valley, sunlight filled a small patch, in the exact same point as yesterday and throughout the afternoon.  Yuun Kenshō?  (悠雲見性、my late son's Buddhist name, meaning small glimpse of enlightenment through the clouds.)  

Had a quick lunch and met an Indian couple from Delhi, currently on a trek.  This place had a trek lodge feel, with mountains and rain and bells rung by a water-spun wheel.  The rest of the descent went quickly, punctuated by occasional views of Tahksang.  A few women had set up blankets of souvenirs to catch tourists on the way down.  A symptom of Japanese tourism no doubt.  

I sat at the bottom, listening to a little stream and watching cows and dogs pass by.  One calf was unusually interested in me, grazing close enough to touch.

At dusk we drove up to Drukyel Dzong.  From the end of the road I looked up the valley, Tibet a mere day's walk away.  We walked around the ruins, above the ever darkening valley.  Through a gate then into the dzong itself, turning brown and quite overgrown.  At this time of day and in this light, there was an air of mystery, especially with the proximity to Tibet.  I could feel the age of the earth and just how old humanity is.  I passed through a standing gate, graffiti scratched into the walls.  the courtyard was covered in grass, trees pushing through the remaining buildings.  A group of small structures, probably monk's quarters, lay in a row of ruin.  I climbed up on a crumbling wall of the highest tower and looked for a long time into Tibet.  At the other end of the wall, some prayer flags hung limp, tattered and torn.  A meditation on impermanence.  After nearly two weeks of viewing Bhutan's splendor, a culture vibrant and alive and mystical, to finish this trip at dusk against ruins was the perfect metaphor.  


On the turntable: Andy Partridge and Harold Budd, "Through the Hill"
On the nighttable: Noel Barber,  "From the Land of Lost Continent"

In the Land of the Divine Madman X

May 22, 2003

Sat up front for the ride to Paro, through scenery reminiscent of northern New Mexico, with long red valleys over rushing water and high pine hills.  Passed three chortens built at a confluence, a temple with a large cave below, and a house, high up on a hill.  A new house was being built at a remote twist on the river.  A couple of funny signs, one saying, "Leave early, arrive early,"  one speed bump looking like a swollen anaconda, and "Wang's Wood."

We drove down Paro's wild west main drag, over the bridge and up the hill to the museum built above the Dzong, which previously had served as its watchtower.  A curved building, we started near the top and wound our way downhill through the seven floors.  Some of the walkways were crooked and rickety.  At the top was a temple with a 3D mandala of the four schools of Tibetan Buddhism.  There was a large collection of Bhutanese stamps.  In the basement were a variety of weapons, some incredibly long.  The clothes too were beautiful, their patterns getting more elaborate over the centuries.  Perhaps the Buddhas were most impressive, in varied sizes, types, and materials.  One Shaka was winking.

I finished my visit early, so I sat on a grassy area and looked at Paro below, its density lessening up the valley, until it was just a few houses whose white walls winked in the sun.  Down the hill to Paro Dzong.  No much going on, probably lunchtime.  In the temple, a couple dozen young monks sat in front of their prayer books, swaying and chanting.  I sat in the back and closed my eyes to meditate.  More monks must have come in during that time because the sound began to build and strange harmonies developed.  A very profound experience.  Out in the courtyard, a cat was playing around a small stupa, teaching its kitten a few things about life.  On a veranda nearby, a few monks were painting mandalas. One tried to hide a magazine when he saw me walk up.

After a delicious lunch in town, we drove up to Kyichu Lhakhang, identical to Jambay Lhakhang in Jakar, except much smaller.  Repeated was the lazt western feel, of dusty courtyards, shade trees, and people slowly working through manual labor.  A monk chased a cat out of the main room, and showed us the four beautiful statues of Chenrezig, with incredibly detailed arms.  All the figures were beautiful and all seemed to grow quieter.  One person had apparently been so moved that there were foot indentations from all the prostrations.  The figures in a small antechamber had amazing power.  One Shaka seemed to be crying.  The front of Manjushri was blackened with the years.  Another figure seemed to be tilting.  A cloth wheel hung above the altar, spinning continuously from the heat of the flame below.  Walking back into the the bigger room on shifting floorboards, I found a quiet spot to sit awhile, in front of colored pine cones.

We entered another room across the courtyard.  Here was a room for Thangtong Gyalpo (?), his statue placed to the left of the enormous two-story Guru Rimpoche.  To the right was a picture of his reincarnation, the young boy we met last week.  We performed a small service, me in front of an elephant tusk, near the foot of Guru Rimpoche, nearly as big as me.  As I chanted I looked up at him, sunlight streaming through a spiderweb onto his forehead.  As we meditated I began to cry.  Why?  From the remaining energy of the boy lama?  I can't figure it out.  But as we came out, sun streamed into a small valley further up the mountain.  As I spun prayer wheels along the temple's walls, my eyes kept going to that place.

On to Chhoeten Lhakhang, a hallowed out pagoda of a type I'd seen the last two days.  This one had no light inside so the detail and color of the paintings was astounding.  The blues in particular really jumped out.  We walked the rounded center, up two more floors on rickety stairs, incredibly steep and shifting with each step.  A brilliant Chenrezig was in the doorway.  

I walked the kilometer or so back to town.  In the river, a few kids were swimming and an old woman washed clothes in the faster parts.  The area stank of manure, but as two girls walked by, I got a quick whiff of chewing gum.  I walked up the main street, looking in shops not unlike those in Thimphu.  Row after row of general stores.  Two young dogs frolicked in a dusty parking lot, and I ducked into a cafe for a coffee.  There was a cute Nepali girl behind the counter, who had an endearing head wobble.  Western music played from somewhere.  Three Indian guys flirted with the girl. They seemed to be laborers, their sweet spicy scents filling the shop.  I drank my coffee to the sound of three languages mingling.  

I walked back up the street. Two monks left a temple at the edge of town.  A dog slept in the median.  Another dog, ravaged with mange and with crusty ears, shivered toward death. People spun prayer wheels mounted before a shop without breaking stride.  Young mothers carried babies in a sling on their back, their older children playing nearby.  Old women sat on the sidewalk working their malas.  Indian women wearing sari as they gossip in the shops.  Young men take their gho from their shoulders.  A puppy tries to follow its mother across the street but gets scared back by a truck.  A girl gets smacked by her mother and howls.  Two teens kick a soccer ball up and down the street.  Men play some board game in a back alley.  A drunk sleeps it off.  An old guy holds court in a park.  Dogs roam in gangs.  Himalayan peaks peek through the clouds, down upon all.

We drive up to the hotel which sits atop a high hill.  From my balcony I can look up the valley to Tibet.  I think I see Tahksang atop a mountaintop my right, its whiteness fading with the light.  In the valley below, some kids play soccer in front of a small apartment building.  A boy on the next ridge does his homework at a picnic table.  His friend calls down from a trail across the valley.  The hill in front of me is cut with trails, nearly treeless.  Prayer flags wave from the crest.  A woman, her son and white dog come out of a house on the ridge and walk toward more lights further up.  Three women move slowly up another trail, carry loads nearly as big as they are.  I sip tea and listen to the river far below.  Magic...


On the turntable:  The Del Fuegos, "The Longest Day"

In the Land of the Divine Madman IX

May 21, 2003

Had a bath to take the edge off last night's headache.  Terrible breakfast, nothing out, or prepared, everything cold.  This hotel has no character, like a chain.  Last night, the front clerk got snooty with some Nepalese.  Despite that, this morning I am surrounded by posh English accents.  The best hotel in town they say. 

We go to the Memorial Chorten, very similar to yesterday's temple, with a 3D mandala for body, speech, and mind.  In fact, it will probably look like this in 50 years.  The carvings, as ever, are exquisite.  One figure, under foot, had such a pathetic look on its face.  Clarke told of a gay Naropa student who made a yab-yum mandala.  A vase contained fake flowers with plastic drops.  One small figure was wrapped in newspaper.  Outside, townspeople would circumambulate three times on their way to business.  

We had a coffee and Berliner at the Swiss Bakery before going to the Dzong.  We couldn't enter since the king was there, so we went to his house instead.  It was alongside a river with a long, low Japanese wall and Chinese gate.  Beyond this, cows grazed among the trees.  I half expected the wall to hide archers.  A single rock stood before the wall with a clear outline of Fudo Myo-O, or so I thought.  I guess I've been looking at too many thangkas.  

We spent the rest of the morning going to thangka galleries.  Beside one, students were rebuilding the art school, working hard at working little.  After lunch (with uninspired waiters.  Even a city this small has attitude problems), we rousted a tailor on his day off to mount our thangkas.  Then I was free!

I walked along the broken main street of Thimphu, the concrete being smashed by Nepalese workers with sledgehammers and poles.  One young boy was trying it out.  I popped into a few shops, and down along side alleys.  There seemed to be a fair amount of Indians working some shops.  Here and there were small booths big enough for one, and usually there was a beautiful woman inside.  And of course some young Romeo was out front in his best gho.  Up the entire length of the city, the shops seemed to repeat themselves, the same seven types again and again.  I popped in when something caught my eye, often surprising the shopkeeper.  Women walked down the street carrying babies, and kids in identical uniforms walked home from school.  

I walked to the end of town, then followed some side streets back, passing small modest homes and a few multi-story structures with laundry drying over the balconies, and people hanging from the windows, gossiping.  I ran into Dorjee briefly, then went back to the Swiss Bakery for coffee.  I lingered awhile, and in that short time, three groups of people came, ate and drank quickly, then left.  

I went back to my hotel, passing Dorjee in his car.  From the window of my room I could see both archery and soccer in the fields below.  Near the target, eight girls were cheering their heroes by doing a dance with identical steps.  Later, I went out to the plaza in front of our hotel and chatted with some kids doing Jackie Chan moves on each other.  Dorjee and driver Karma were sitting on another bench, getting their fortunes told by a sadhu-looking character. 

Dinner was at Karma Wangmo's place, a typical Asian middle class home, packed with photos, souvenirs, etc.  She laid out an incredible amount of food and drinks.  Karma's son, a tulku, was playing a wrestling video game with his cousin.  As we ate, the TV was on in the background, and I saw footage of our actual plane landing over a week ago.  The program was highlighting the official visit of the president of the World Bank.   After dinner, I tried on one of Karma's husband's gho, and incredibly tight traditional shoes.


On the turntable:  Illinois Jacquet, "The Complete Illinois Jacquet Sessions 1945-1950"

In the Land of the Divine Madman VIII

May 20, 2003

This morning my shower took a little while to get cold water.  Afterward was a symphony of pipes, some ghostly, others like Scottish bagpipes.

At breakfast we met the hotel's owner, Dodo, who told us the story of Kuba, a Thai shamanistic monk who has an affinity with Bhutan. At an adjoining table was Albert, a Thai Chinese who told us more.  Kuba had fainted at a certain spot in Bhutan and said that he had died there. 

We drove over to Khamsum Yulley Namgyal Chöten.  Crossing a rickety wooden bridge over a fast swollen river, we went along a stream through rice fields, past cows being driven downhill.  A young woman hoe'd barefoot.  The trail began its exposed switchback ascent high above terraced rice fields, with cows grazing at multiple levels.  A few farmhouses stood high above the valley, with a high, narrow thumb-like peak beyond.  I wondered whether there were any hermitages up there.  Near the top of the trail, a dung beetle began its sisyphean battle uphill.  A fresh pile nearby pulsated with the labors of the bugs beneath. 

The trail stopped at a small gate whose bright paint contrasted sharply with the low white wall.  The temple was built like a chortan, tall and golden in a Thai style. On a hill sitting before a tree was a meditating Buddha.  Behind him, two old men sat under a small pavilion containing a pair of large prayer wheels.  In back was a Chinese goddess standing over a pool of water.  Very eclectic place.

I walked up the steps past a few sleeping dogs.  Inside were two massive protective statues which wrapped around 360 degrees, 108 manifestations of the same deity.  The figures were smaller at the bottom and got bigger near the top.  At the front was a small throne for the king, and directly across were a few protectors in yab-yum position, with drawn swords or bows.  The whole thing was of amazing detail and woodwork.  the walls too were painted with bright pastels, the lower part skulls on a red background.  Lower down were the nagas, female deities on a Freudian water background.  Higher were various Hindu and Buddhist figures, and at the top were strange death-like images, of skulls and flaming eyeballs and what looked like a strawberry.   There were two more floors above, each with deities in the same incredible pastel detail.  On each level they got smaller.  On the third floor were various Thai figures of gold.  One had hands clasped in a wai.  I felt great affinity with them.  There was a balcony area at the very top, with Thai Buddhas overlooking the valley.  Below were rice fields, almost dripping into one another.  In one section were huge boulders, the fields wrapped around them.  The Himalayas, as usual, were clouded in above.

I felt so at peace here, the perfect blend of elements to quiet me.  It was a place where I could easily finish out my days. 

On the way down, I passed a beautiful young farm girl.  Susan and Cheryl, with their parasols, looked like out of a book by Foster.  As the day was hot, I splashed my face a couple of times in the stream running beside the trail. 

After lunch we went to Punahka Dzong, a huge battleship at the confluence of two rivers.  Crossed the bridge behind some school kids who sang happy birthday until they were out of earshot.  We went into a small temple outside the dzong,  and the main Buddha had been found floating in the flooding of 1995.

Next we entered the Dzong itself, past a guard armed with a machine gun.  Beyond was a narrow hall ( with a crossword puzzle mandala on one side, and a color blind test on the other) that led to a large courtyard with a Bodhi Tree and a stupa.  This area housed the administrative offices. In a middle courtyard, from above, we could hear horns and cymbals.  Then, through a narrow wrap around hallway (with no thangkas surprisingly) into the courtyard housing the big temple.  On the entrance were four mandalas, one of them looking like a spyrograph.

Entering the main hall, we saw many small monks sweeping with brooms made of feathers, cleaning rice which stuck to your feet with every step.  The hall was filled with gold pillars, covered with fake gold and rising up to a ceiling high above, covered with hundreds of small Buddhas.  The doors were very tall, with a single knocker in the center.  The walls were filled with pictures depicting the life of the Buddha, one of which included a small ninja star.  At the back of the hall was a huge Buddha and few smaller deities.  Reconsecrated a few days before, they dazzled with their size and shine.  You could get enlightened just looking their way.  We and a few other westerners seemed awestruck.  There were a couple of guys who were incredibly tall, perhaps in town for a game of basketball with the king.

By now, the temple was bustling with the activity of young monks.  A couple of little ones were pulling dust balls out of holes in the base of the pillars.  Three were standing at attention, hands folded in front.  One monk seemed to be having trouble, so a "drill sergeant" monk would rap him on the head.  Three really small kids were standing at attention in the front of the hall, completely dwarfed by the big Buddhas.  A gong went off, and some of the older monks lined up, holding out their hands.  if something was amiss, they were slapped lightly in your face.  A few more were sitting in the doorway in a high seiza position, obviously uncomfortable.  Saddest of all was the one little kid skidding across the floor on his bottom, one arm raised to protect himself from the whip of his elder "brother." I wondered at where the compassion was, but I'm sure that the hard treatment makes them better monks, which could help them become enlightened.  Compassion.

An older monk came in and all the boys formed two lines, going from one end of the courtyard to the
hall and back. From outside it looked like a stream of red water rushing down,  Through a window at the opposite end of the courtyard, older monks had finished up a puja, their bells and vajra lined up along rolls of red carpet.  We followed the boy monks out of the courtyard, along the maze-like halls.  One of them was playing with a gameboy.  Instant samsara. 

The three hour drive back to Thimphu went rather quickly.  A burnt out temple stood silent in the valley.  Below Dochu La  Pass, a group of prayer flags on a ridge above looked like a samurai army.  Near this, we blew a tire.  A stray archer perhaps?   

We arrived in Thimphu at 7 pm, to have dinner with a guy in the conservation ministry.  We had a good talk, but about things other than conservation.  At the next table were a group of young Japanese: a couple from Ibaraki who had an interest in Asia, and a woman from Hiroshima working for the planning division.  Her American English teacher was married to a thangka painter who she met while traveling in Turkey.  She invited me for dinner the next night but I already had plans, which is a shame since I want to learn more about expat life here. 

Went home with a nasty headache.  Couldn't sleep because of the drunks early, and the dogs later.


On the turntable: Frank Sinatra, "Where are You?"  
On the nighttable: Tim Macartney-Snape, Everest: From Sea to Summit"

In the Land of the Divine Madman VII

May 19, 2003

We pulled out of Jakar, taxis in line with their yellow roofs. A house on the outskirts of town had intricate designs on the walls, one flame looking a lot like the symbol for Amnesty International.  After about half an hour we came to Pra Ngatshang.  Approaching the temple, we crossed an old rickety wooden bridge over an extremely fast river.  Atop a ridge stood a chortan, and just behind it was a prayer wheel, driven by water fed down a trough at the back, into paddle-like gears at the wheel's base.  The whole temple and village had a medieval feel, with the light rain and wispy clouds up the hillside.  In the main hall of the temple was an Amitayus statue with his consort in the yab-yum position.  Most pictures have the female looking up from below, but this one was leaning in sideways as if really planting a kiss.  There was a definite eroticism to it all, more than I've ever seen in an image.  The paintings in this room were incredible, strings and glue adding a 3D quality to the geometric patterns on the altar itself.  The walls below the mandalas were painted with a multi-colored mosaic.  Two skull masks hung above a curtain covered with skulls, protector deities for the lama beyond.  Fabric hung like dozens of neckties sewn together.  

We wandered into another room containing the mummified body of Dawa Gyeltshen, placed in a gold chorten.  A can of Pringles held incense, sitting on the floor next to a large spittoon. From the window I could look down on the two adjoining houses where two women were weaving, and another was spinning yarn from a frame.  On the adjoining balcony, a little boy was trying to climb through a frame, which kept folding up like a beach chair.  He propped it up in a doorway, but after much trouble he gave up.  We went up yet another floor to an incredibly dusty, smokey room that seemed almost like a Taoist hermitage, with Chinese paintings glazed onto the walls.  In a small building across the garden was a shrine built to honor Dawa Gyeltshen's dead mother.  There was a group of various deities with Shakyamuni at the center.  On the wall behind were dozens of painted figures, who though male, all had rather nice boobs.  On the lama's altar were tow horns, built from human femurs, with copper fixings, which I'd never seen.  This shrine was dedicated to protector deities and reeked of death.  I felt uncomfortable and left quickly.  

We drove a little further to Zabney, where we stopped at a textile place.  At one point, a dog ran out of a general store with a ram's skull in its mouth.  The same dog climbed into a planter and pissed on a single flower.  

Now began the long haul back to Punakha.  In one village, a dozen dogs slept by the river.  Higher up, there were strange long-tailed birds and fungus hanging from pines like tinsel.  The pass was foggy, like a Chinese painting.  At one point Clarke, bored, threw a balloon out the window to some kids.  Coming across a couple of cute little girls a few miles later, he tried to blow up a balloon for them but it burst in his face, scaring them.  Their eyes lit up when he gave them candy.  We also had fun with the kids in a village where we had a pee break.  They surrounded our car, smiled, and carried on.

We passed through blacked out Wangdi, its Dzong ghostly on the hill.  Arrived at Punakha late, around 9:00...

On the turntable: Chick Corea Akoustic Band, "Live from the Blue Note, Tokyo"
On the nighttable:  Tim Mackintosh-Smith, "Travels with a Tangerine"

In the Land of the Divine Madman VI

May 18, 2003

Meditated this morning to the song of a child singing outside. We drove to Kurjey Lhakhang and wandered the parking lots.  Young monks ate long sticks of something, ran around and played.  One boy swung a cap gun, shooting down all those messengers of peace.  They all wore yellow sleeveless polo shirts under their robes.  One little boy, under one year old, wore only the shirt, with no pants as he clung to the bottom of his mother's kira.   Clarke met a monk he knew from Kathmandu.  

Today the courtyard was filled with sitting monks and people chanting as they came from the main tents.  We did a small ceremony in the main hall, then I sat out on the balcony and meditated, harmonizing my breath with the chant.  A small boy polishing the floor crept closer and read my sutra which I'd laid nearby.  Next I sat below the main hall, writing this and talking with a young boy who happily took my picture for me.  My writing finished with the chanting, the entire group joining in on the final part.  

I wandered down the hill to the wide plain and strolled the tents.  Some were places to sleep, others were shops selling Buddhist trinkets, pictures, clothes, cloth, snack food.  Others seemed to be tea shops, with tables and chairs under a high tarp.  In one shop, I tried to figure out what a cone of dung-looking material was.  The woman gestured repeatedly but I couldn't figure it out.  Later I found out it was tea. Closer to the river were thatch houses, with chimneys emitting smoke.  At the end of the plain were a few restaurants and bars, permanently built with stone.  I needed a toilet, so looking around, I finally found a woman to help me find one.  She had a little monk show me the way, and he led me into the forest along a dangerous path of loose stones to a nice commode.  Unfortunately she couldn't find the key, so I just peed off the side of a hill and was done with it.  I walked up through the blowing dust to the parking lot, passing people covering mouths and noses with their kira or monk's robes.  One woman had a sharp triangular nose and long thin eyes, like a Buddha.  At the car we met a tongdipa (sanyasi? hermit?) from Tashi Yangtse, with long beard, white robe, and long dread-locked hair coiled on his head, an antenna with direct reception to god.

We had a quick lunch in a hotel near a hospital, a long building which sprawled along the river, its upper floors connected by walkways.  behind the hotel was a large expanse of grass, and I marvelled that you'd never see such a 'waste of space" in Japan.  The hotel workers lived in thatch shacks behind the big building.  I wonder if the moratorium on tourists isn't as much to their protect their culture from us.  

After lunch I was dropped off at the edge of Jakar town.  With its wide dusty streets, wooden buildings, and long sidewalks it looked like a wild west town.  I went up to a small music store which turned out to be closed.  So I ordered a coffee at a cafe next door.  A two year old sat in a cardboard box, pulled by a string tied to the waist of his younger sister.  They came over and checked my camera, taking pictures of each other.  The two younger kids argued over the camera and an older sister said, "No fighting, no fighting," in English.  I let each of them write in my notebook.  The oldest girl asked "Who is your Darling?" so I showed them a picture of Ken and his mother.  They started to argue about who'd draw next, so I quickly finished my coffee and left.

I walked down the main street.  Many of the shops were closed, including the Basic Pool Hall, although most bars and restaurants were open.  A group of young monks sat in a cafe watching some kind of soap opera.  there were a few general stores containing just about everything.  Like in Japan, the family seemed to live in the back of the shop.  

At the far end of town, a group of young boys were yelling to me from the back of the truck.  They told me I looked like an action star, so I struck a pose.  I told one kid, wearing a touque, that I liked his hat.  Clarke showed up, and accepted a ride back to Kurjey.  I wasn't sure, and headed back up the other side of the street.  Not much was open, so by the time I reached the top, the truck was pulling up, so I flagged it down and hopped in back.

About fifteen of us rode in back standing up.  there was a rope tied to the back of the cab, but most of the kids loosely grabbed the sides, jumping in the air with every bump.  Clarke and I both clowned a lot, keeping the kids giggling through the ride.  I was leaning against the cab and every jolt shoved heavy bolts into my back.  The sky above was so vast and riding this way seemed the only way to judge its scale.  Standing this high enabled me to get a good view of the buildings, the farms, the rivers and mountains beyond.  This is definitely the best way to travel in Asia.

We got out at Kurjey and spent a couple of hours wandering the tent city.  I stuck with Clarke since interesting things tended to happen with him around.  He joked in Tibetan with most of the shopkeepers, who seemed in a relaxed mood as most of the crowd were up at the Wang, unlike earlier.  many of the women were sleeping, laying right across their textiles.  I bought a kira for my wife, finding it impossible to bargain on the belt, especially after a local woman showed me how to wear it.  Most shops were run by groups of women, usually of three generations.

Clarke and I stopped in a tea house, chosen on the criteria of drinking in one with the cutest waitress.  We found one with five or six young girls.  We sat and watched the rain, heavy by now, drinking beer and tea and eating chili chips and some spicy pakora/tempura hybrid.  I choked for a second at the sight of some guy with a Pancho Villa moustache.  Behind him, wispy clouds rose above the golden spires of Kurjey.

When the rain stopped, we decided to hitch back to town.  Just then, Karma and Dorjee drove up.  They had something to do, but agreed to meet us on the way back.  Clarke and I were talking about needing two hooks for my wife's kira, when a boy came up and asked if I wanted one.  The timing was truly strange and I would have bought it had there been two.  Assuming this one was found on the ground I refused.  His price then went from a hundred to fifty to zero.

A little bit up the road we came across four boys, three of them monks.  They had a balloon from which they sneakily let out air, and each time I'd pretend someone let out a fart.  We walked up the road, Clarke joking with them in Tibetan.  One of them, the non-monk, had amazing English.  We walked along a river along fields fenced in with barbed wire, ladders like pyramids stepped up and down the other side.  Then through a stone gate with a mandala on the ceiling, and past three small chortans.  The boys left road on a short cut, but we carried on, chewing paan for energy.  Soon, we bisected another trail heavily laden with Bhutanese coming home.  We followed, both sides of the road heavily covered with pot leaves, enough to fund my trip and possibly my entire future education. As we walked, we joked with the other walkers, and waved and slapped hands with those passing in carts.  Surprised that Dorjee hadn't shown up, we hitched a ride with a guy who turned out to work at the Ministry of Justice.  He was initially going only about 100 meters, but he took us not only to Jakar, which was hopping with people back from the Wang, but all the way up to our hotel.

We had tea and listened to Clarke talk about tantra.  We got a call that Thuksey Rimpoche agreed to meet us, so we headed out, without Clarke.  It was agreed that I would lead, and upon entering, I forgot to do prostrations, a major faux pas.  As I bowed, the Rimpoche gave me a gentle head butt, then blessed my mala with a short prayer.  He, the head lama of the Drukpa sect, was incredibly humble, somewhat shy.  We had tea and cookies, and at one point he actually got up and served us.  Such humility and warmth.  A great man.  Our questions went through two translations, from English to Drukpa to Bumthang dialect and back. Cheryl asked a question about doubt, and Rimpoche said we must trust in Buddhism as we'd trust in our own families.  

She then followed up by asking how to differentiate between good and bad doubt.  He said, you must serve tea to people you both like and dislike. Show politeness to all despite our feelings.  Welcome doubt in without distinction.  I asked him how to find a good teacher and he said that it was important to ask three or four people about a teacher's reputation, and to check that he wouldn't go on a long retreat during your training. 

On the way back to the hotel, we passed houses dimly lit from within, a few looking almost colonial.  We dined with Lama Wangdi, a friend of Susan's who had directed a play back in the US, and with an incense maker friend of Clarke's.  After dinner, a blackout caused me to write this by torch and candlelight.  As soon as the lights came back , a hard rain began to fall.  A small family of weird bugs slid around my sink.  And the bukhari burned a final night.


On the turntable: Groove Armada, "Soundboy Rock"
On the nighttable:  Anthony Weller, "Days and Night on the Grand Trunk Road"         
 

In the Land of the Divine Madman V

May 17, 2003

The weird bug in the bathroom and I have an understanding.  He can have one bath towel and I get the other.  In front of the hotel, a single cow was walking up the road, mooing occasionally and setting off a chain reaction at various farms throughout the valley. 

 Our first stop was Burning Lake.  A ancient woman on the trail had skin like leather, nails like claws.  Over the ravine were many prayer flags and a small group of deities.  We crossed the ravine and looking down from a large rock, we were supposed to have a vision.  To me, the river looked blood red (an omen?) with blues crests.  I could make out a patch of white, but its ever-changing shape made it impossible to make out.  Just beyond this small gorge, the river opened to a wide area with eddies, the swirling water like gelatin.  Our group did a wonderful chant, absolutely beautiful and song-like. We then, like most people here, gave offerings.  Everything, paper, leaves, money, when tossed in the lake, was sucked under, to rise again later. It was eerie the way things would pop out of the gloom.  A few people floated butter lamps, two of which swirled in an eddy, danced together, got pulled under and extinguished, yet one came lit again.  Clarke threw in two balloons tied to a kata.  The blue burst immediately, and the yellow got hung up on a branch.  It somehow freed itself, then floated downstream into a series of rapids and disappeared.  I sat on the edge of a big rock and played my shakuhachi, trying to harmonize with the rapids beyond.  Flies buzzed my head.  A young guy now living in India greeted me and told me the story of how when the king visited here, he dropped a medallion into the water, and then went in after it.  As I was playing, a piece of sod flew over me, thrown by a lama who asked me if I knew Susan. 

We gathered under a low overhang for meditation and another singing of that beautiful chant  Om Ah Hung Vajra Guru Padma Siddhi Hung.  As we sat, a monk meditated below us, with a halo of flies which looked like the model of an atom.  Also, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a yellow streak of a prayer flag being thrown across the ravine. 

We carried on up the road to the trail head for Kungzandra Monastery.  There was a road crew here, including a boy of two or three.  Just a little way up the trail stood the foundation of a house.  A lone gate stood on the hill above.  we walked past a small temple and farm, then into the forest.  There was a crow making strange noises up in a tree, the other trees surrounding it swaying and dancing against the blue sky.

We came upon a ridge with four new prayer flags, a post-hole, and a few de-branched trees laying  nearby showed the intention to raise more. In the lower part of the valley were a dozen fields which looked like a golf course, the wind whipping the wheat into waves.  High above were a few snow-capped Himalayan peaks.  I thought I saw a farmer in a field below but it turned out to be a scarecrow, and a damn fine one at that. 

 We stopped for lunch at the top of a difficult washed out section, beneath prayer flags.  Our intention had been to eat up at the top, but Susan and one of our guides were having trouble breathing and had turned back.  So we ate chicken, spinach, mushrooms and rice.  I passed on the ema datshi this time.   Eating lunch turned out to be a bad idea, as the next part of the trail was a hard slog after a long rest and on a full stomach.

We arrived at a clearing level with the temple.  Huge stones lay strewn about, sacred portals to a mystical area.  One stone looked like a giant seated Buddha, and high up the mountain was a stone pillar looking like a standing Buddha in the style of ancient India.  I looked back down on a scene Pema Lingpa must have seen, of farmhouses unchanged for centuries.  A long thin cloud came over the pass, like a whispy kata passed over from Tibet. 

At the temple, we met two women who carried up tea and cookies for us.  They had no shoes on and one had on a robe with Chinese patterns.  The tea was most welcome after climbing the final steep stone step ascent to the temple.  In the entrance hung a fire extinguisher which looked as old as the temple itself. Tall pine trees with fuzzy fungus stood in front, the branches on the temple side cut away for firewood.  Someone had thrown a cassette through the trees, and it rippled in the breeze like a prayer flag.  Clarke lit a fire as an offering, making the nose of a black dog lying in the dust begin to twitch.  When Clarke chanted in Tibetan, the old women giggled. 

Inside the main temple building we had tea, cookies, and rice.  The women had expected nine of us instead of five (the other four had suddenly pulled out of the tour, as that spring of 2003 was the time of both SARS and the opening of the US attack on Iraq) , so we were force fed.  I sat on the throne of a lower monk, afraid to lean against the wall since only a thin piece of plywood separated me from a horrible fall.  The main image was Kannon, with an amazing amount of arms.  To the left sat Pema Lingpa, his eyes looking on, lifelike as you stood in front of him.  

We walked back down the front of this temple, then up another series of steep shale steps to a tall tower built right into the mountain.  Outside the Buddha room was a small group of stones for a firepit, a hole cut in the roof above. The building was built even higher up, a deadly fall onto trees below.  This small room contained a stone with the footprint of Pema Lingpa.  As we left, Teri and I pondered why we would consider this site to be medieval, a word that seems to define aesthetics rather than age.   

From here , we went to a building built further along the cliff face.  This was Pema Lingpa's cave, with entrance for males only.  When the three of us men were in there, our woman guide stood outside and chanted.  The room was small, about 4 1/2 tatami mat size, with a small pillow for a throne and no deities or thankas.  A perfect hermitage.

We made our descent, me pulling way ahead of the group.  Going down was incredibly easy after the hard climb.  I went along happily, watching the cows climb and graze, their large piles of fly-swarmed shit mining the trail.  Suddenly at one point, I felt uneasy, as if I half expected to see a yeti come out of the trees above.  (I could see how they could hide themselves in the lush forest and in the near unbroken darkness of night.)  What did appear was an angry black dog, his barking in harmony with a few others I could hear just below me on the ridge.  They all entered the trail just to my right, snarling and bearing teeth.  I walked on, not breaking my pace, not looking at them, trying not to show the fear that was most certainly in me.  Luckily, a farmer came out of the woods yelling at them, just as I was picking up a stick.  For ten minutes I went on, relieved, but suddenly three dogs were charging down a slope at me.  I picked up a long branch and thrust it toward them, yelling in my best kiai, like I was wielding a naginata. This stopped them for a second, then they charged again.  We repeated this scene a few times, until a woman came out of a farmhouse across the hill.  The dogs held their ground, snarling and barking, but at least they'd stopped charging. I kept on a little more quickly and steadily, carrying my branch all the way down to the road.

The van wasn't there so I sat on the bridge waiting and writing.  A strange crow hopped closer and closer, talking in what sounded like English.  Back up the mountain, it began to cloud over. A young woman came up the road carrying a phallus, to dispel bad luck.  As the rest of the group showed up, a herd of horses came up the road, one trying to hump another, which wouldn't stop to allow the satisfaction.  Their driver, an old woman with loose swaying breasts, threw a stone to break them up.  

We drove a short way to a farmhouse where we'd have dinner.  There were kids and young mothers everywhere.  Two very small twins were wrapped up in shawls and hats and socks made of yarn.  One kid had a terribly runny nose, and later I saw the mother suck it clear with her mouth.  An ancient woman chewed betel, her toothless gums moving frantically.  Clarke gave the kids a balloon, which they happily batted around awhile until it was hit high enough that a gust of wind carried it down the valley.  

We went inside the kitchen where the older women were making buckwheat noodles, putting a clump in a wooden press, lowering the lever by sitting on it, to squeeze the noodles into strands like Play-Doh.  These were thrown into hot water, ladled out with something like a lacrosse stick, one of which I'd seen hanging from a fence up the mountain.  The kitchen area, as usual for Asia, contained only the women, but one guy came in briefly, wearing Adidas sweat pants over his gho.  I stepped back on the balcony to watch the sun go down.  Huge phalli hung from each corner of the house, and one over the doorway.  Dorjee told me they were for strength and protection, but I told him that for most men, they bring nothing but trouble.  

Back inside, we were served the alcohol doma by a persistent woman in the Chinese shawl, who filled our cups despite our protestations.  Four young girls began to dance and sing in the adjoining shrine room lit up with candles.  All of the girls had beautiful voices and they harmonized perfectly.  This was professional level singing, coming from farm girls in a remote valley.  (It seems that traditional music can be sung well by all, while modern music only by a few, for better marketability.)   I was mesmerized and kicked myself for the hundredth time that I didn't bring my handheld recorder.  As the dancing went on, more and more girls joined in, and more kids came in to watch.  They and the ancient woman sat riveted, and I was so pleased to see young people so at ease and comfortable with their culture.  I took out my samba and began to keep a beat.  Everyone seemed to like it, especially one young boy who Clarke was thinking of sponsoring.  He tried to play, plus swayed and snapped his fingers, leading the other boys and laughing.  

At one point, I leaned over to whisper something to Cheryl and we were shushed and snapped at by Susan.  I was surprised, not used to such directness anymore.  I suppose Susan was disappointed at not finishing the climb.  Letting it go, I went outside, into full darkness, the only light the candlelight coming from the window of the shrine room.  The silhouettes of the dancers caused strange supernatural shadows, and the voices of the girls cut through the stillness outside, joined now by Dorjee's It was even more beautiful in this environment, under a handful of stars showing through gaps in the clouds I could have stayed forever had not the sound of barking dogs moving closer drove me back outside. 

Dorjee and I did a duet on "Hana" while the girls took a break.  He sang with his arm around me and I think we both did well, capturing the emotion of the song.  Before dinner, I was again given doma by the persistent woman.  I opened a window next to me and spat it two stories down.  The dinner that followed was elaborate considering the poverty here, and we were told to eat much and eat slowly so as to finish at the same time as the dancers.  Karma the driver offered us "Sikkim Milk," which turned out to be alcoholic.  This geared us up for a final dance, which we did with the girls. It lasted a long while.  

We said goodbyes, riding home in various states of merry drunkenness.  Dorjee, buzzed, expressed his happiness with this trip, saying that the things he'd seen and experienced wouldn't have been possible without us.  Back at the hotel, we all slept well. 

On the turntable: Gontiti, "Gontiti Recommends Bossa Nova'"
On the nighttable:  Gavin Bell, "In Search of Tusitala"