In August 1994, I woke up in Punakha.
Two days in Bhutan and the rest of the world seemed like a distant dream. The beautiful, remote Himalayan valley on top of the world, with gradually sloping rice paddies and farms dotting the countryside, seemed ripe with promise.
I had stopped here for two and a half days of sightseeing on the way across the country. It was low season for tourists; and I was the only guest at the Zangtopelri Hotel, a sprawling affair on top of a mountain at the southern end of the Punakha valley, with rooms and little bungalows built around a large lobby and restaurant. It was amusing to have the entire hotel staff, which numbered about 20 men and women, focused entirely on me, so much so that I merely had to look in the direction of an empty glass at dinner and four waiters would rush the table with sloshing pitchers of water.
My trip to Bhutan was prompted by Bhutanese friends I’d met at the UN in New York in the early 1990s, who encouraged me to visit. I was planning a long trip to India and Europe, so I added two weeks in Bhutan to my itinerary. It sounded intriguing and quirky—big selling points for me to visit a place. So, in a way, it was a whim that first brought me to Bhutan. That and the fact that my Bhutanese friends were the most interesting and witty people I knew.
The hotel was cheerful and bright, built of white adobe with colorful Bhutanese iconography painted on the walls. The lobby was filled with Bhutanese treasures and weavings; it looked like a museum. The Bhutanese decorative motif is “early over-the-top”—anything will do as long as it has lots of color. If it’s not colorful, it’s carved. I think this is a law. Carpets and upholstery were also in the Bhutanese style—like plaid on acid. The Bhutanese are weavers, and their designs are rich and striking. I surmise how it evolved: the busy, detailed art is a wonderful counterpart to, and a nice distraction from, the austere, isolated life. The Bhutanese flair for decoration is matched only by their attention to the well-being of their guests. With impeccable, effusive manners and seemingly genuine goodwill, they make every visitor feel welcome.
There are very few people lucky enough to get to Bhutan. It’s hard travel to get there, and many Westerners don’t have the time. Even now, there are only 20,000 people per year who make it there, and the government requires that they travel with a guide. This helps protect Bhutan’s fragile environment.
The first day, I ambitiously decided to walk the length of the valley. I had the standard-issue guide and a car and driver; but that morning I saw them sitting on the grass outside the hotel, playing cards with some of the hotel staff. I told them I wanted to walk into the valley alone; and they were positively elated, because, they said, it was the best way to see Bhutan. They grudgingly agreed to forego accompanying me so I could have this solitary experience. In a supreme act of sacrifice, they would continue playing cards until I came back.
I followed the hotel road to its intersection with the main road through the valley. Then I took the valley road past the imposing Punakha Dzong at the confluence of the Mo Chu and Po Chu—the “mother” and “father” rivers—and through to the other side of the valley. Punakha Dzong, an old fortress and monastery, sits at the mouth of the valley. It looks like 300 Japanese pagodas meeting 300 Swiss chalets, and it is so large it competes with the surrounding mountains in scale.
There are 19 principal dzongs in Bhutan, built in or around the 18th century, as fortresses and religious and government centers. They are still used today as government offices and as housing for the monks and religious leaders. The dzongs of Bhutan are full of history. When marauding hordes came down from Tibet and Mongolia, the people would hole up in the dzongs. There are vast underground stores inside them that once contained enough food to feed thousands of people from surrounding villages for months, maybe even years. Many are built over water supplies. They also have hundreds of secret temples tucked inside. Massive, sprawling, and mysterious, the dzongs are built of pounded mud, stones, and wood. They were built with no architectural plans and no nails; beams were lashed together with rope to allow for give during earthquakes. They are painted white with red roofs (the temples have gold roofs), and they look like castles—or what I suppose castles should look like in a land that time forgot.
Bhutan is suited to the leisurely pace I was setting for myself. Unlike India, where I had been traveling for about a month, here, I could let my guard down and walk. There were no beggars. The Bhutanese I met on the valley road were polite and smiling, but mostly they left me alone.
The rudimentary motor road meandered through the valley, paralleling the wide, brilliant turquoise Mo Chu, which began to flow as glacial runoff above Gasa to the north, then passed through Punakha on its way to India. All Bhutanese rivers eventually make their way into India—some, like the Brahmaputra, take a detour through Bangladesh first. The long valley curled around lush mountains terraced with bright green rice paddies. It had been raining all summer, so the vegetation looked ready to explode with emerald ripeness. Leafy, geometrical orange groves made a lovely counterpoint to unruly red poinsettia trees. Farmhouses and the occasional royal palace, all painted with the distinctive iconography, dotted the fields. Gold-roofed Buddhist temples, which you see all over Bhutan, sat high up in the mountains above the farmland. The air was delicious, clean, and sweet smelling. I felt light-headed and giddy. It could have been the altitude, or the onset of dengue fever, or bliss.
Children stopped their playing to watch and wave to me shyly, but with obvious delight, as I passed by the occasional house at the side of the road. The bravest of the children, one boy, stood as if at attention and said, “Hello, Englishman!” incorrectly judging both my nationality and my sex. I smiled, said hello, and threw in a wave. He smiled and waved back, rewarded for his effort. I was surely the most interesting thing to have come down the road in a while.
As if on cue, a herd of cows meandered past on their way to the other end of the valley. A strong smell of grass and excrement wafted around them. Some wore bells around their necks that clanged rhythmically as they walked. I let my mind drift, imagining being a cowherd in this obscure Himalayan valley. Or even a cow. It didn’t seem bad.
Two hours into my walk, the valley walls on either side of the road had become steeper, the mountains more imposing. It had been some time since I had seen people or cows. The combination of high altitude and exercise had made me very hungry. Although the scenery was still breathtaking, it was clear that I should turn around and go back to the hotel and the lunch that would surely be waiting for me.
Before I turned back, I went down to the river’s edge, which was about 50 feet to the right of the narrow road. There the Mo Chu was wide but shallow, with clear water flowing over smooth brown stones. I had heard it rushing beside me all the time I was walking. I took my shoes and socks off and rolled my pants to my knees. I’d just dip my feet in the icy-cold water. It would be something to tell my grandchildren if I ever had any. I inched my toes into the startling wet; and just as I thought how slippery the stones were and how I should be careful not to fall, I fell.
I laughed and pulled myself out of the water. When I put weight on my left foot, a sharp pain went up my leg. I quit laughing. I sat on the riverbank and examined my foot. I’d twisted my ankle, not badly; but I could feel heat, and it was already starting to swell. The thought of walking all the way back to the hotel, including the last 20 minutes up a mountain, made me wince. My walk had taken an unpleasant turn.
As I struggled to put on my socks and shoes, I tried to keep calm and upbeat by thinking of worse predicaments I’d been in. Unfortunately, I couldn’t come up with any. Getting hurt or sick is what every woman traveling alone dreads, and until now I’d successfully avoided it. With enormous effort I got my boots on. The support of the boot on the bad ankle made it feel a little better. This is not so bad, I thought. But it was.
I made it back to the road. There were no cars, trucks, people, or even dogs, and there were always dogs around in Bhutan. Where was everybody? I limped along, dragging my injured foot, telling myself that it would be okay. I wasn’t lost. Eventually the people at the hotel would come looking for me because I was all they had. If I could just get down the road a little bit, maybe I could find a car, a truck, a tractor, something mobile to give me a lift.
But soon the pain became my focal point. Fully miserable, I had to stop and rest after a short distance. I sat on a rock at the side of the road near a small temple that was partially obscured by an enormous boulder.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but it became clear that no one was coming. So I made myself get up and start walking again. Almost at once, I heard the sound of a motorcycle behind me. I put my arm out and scooped the air like I’d seen hitchhikers do in Bhutan. A man wearing a gho and a black helmet with a visor passed me slowly. He didn’t even glance in my direction. I felt panicked.
Then, a few yards down the road, he swung the motorcycle around and came back. “Where going?” he said. Most people in Bhutan speak some form of English.
I hobbled toward him. “Can I get on? Will you give me a lift?” He didn’t reply. Too many questions. “Please let me get on,” I said as I positioned my good leg to take my full weight and swung my bad leg over the back of the bike. I couldn’t let him get away.
He turned his head sideways and said again, “Where going?”
“The hotel on the mountain,” I said and pointed up. “Zang-toe-PEL-ri.”
He let out a big laugh.
I learned later that Zangtopelri, besides being the name of my hotel, is the heavenly abode of Guru Rinpoche, a great Buddhist subduer of demons, a high holy man, and the patron saint of Bhutan, who brought his own brand of Tantric Buddhism to the region in the 8th century. I was pointing toward the sky and telling him I wanted to go to heaven. No wonder he laughed.
It did feel like I was going to heaven on the back of the bike. I was thrilled to be off my ankle and riding in the open air. It was my lucky day. This kind man, this wonderful man, had rescued me. He drove expertly, avoiding potholes and bumps, and he even slowed down as we passed the house with children playing outside. For all I knew, they were his children. They were pushing a small boy in a cardboard box around the yard. They looked up and, seeing me again, this time on the back of a motorcycle, shrieked with pleasure.
One little girl called out, “Hello, my darling!” as she waved furiously. They all giggled and waved and smiled elated, whole-face smiles. And I did, too, as I waved wildly with one hand and held the back of the man’s gho with the other.
When we got to the hotel, I hobbled off the bike and asked, “How can I thank you? Will you come in and have tea?”
“Me jhu. Me jhu,” he said. No, thanks. No, thanks.
I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want this dramatic rescue to end so abruptly. “Let me give you lunch.”
He shook his head. He didn’t want any lunch. I dug in my pants pocket and pulled out a wadded 500-ngultrum note. It was not an insubstantial sum—about $15 at the time—and probably more money than he would have made in a week. It wasn’t enough.
“Wait! Wait!” I cried to him, hobbling toward the front door of the hotel. “Stay!” I put my hand out in the universal gesture. Two men from the staff ran down the hotel steps toward me.
“Do you have any money?” I asked them. “I’ll pay you back!” They both looked alarmed. “I’m okay,” I said. “This man gave me a lift.”
One of them dug deep into the front of his gho and pulled out a wad of bills.
“How much?” he asked.
“All of it,” I replied and grabbed it. I hobbled back to the man on the bike and tried to give him the bills, which looked to be about 1,000 ngultrum. He was still wearing the helmet with the black visor, so I couldn’t see his face very well. But I did see him purse his mouth and tilt his head away from me ever so slightly, as if he was offended by my offer of filthy lucre. You have to offer things at least three times in Bhutan; it’s the custom. So I offered it again, and then again. But no matter how many times I proffered it, he refused to take the money. “He won’t take it, madam,” someone said.
“Thank you,” I said, resigned. I put out my hand.
“Most welcome,” the motorcycle man said, smiling as he shook my hand. He started his bike and drove away.
After a couple of days reading in the lobby of Guru Rinpoche’s heavenly abode with my foot elevated and the hotel staff swarming around me like bees, I could walk on my ankle again.
The driver and guide took me east to Bumthang, the holiest and most beautiful valley in Bhutan. On our way, we stopped in a small town called Wangdue (pronounced Wong-DEE), and short for Wangdue Phodrang (forget it), which zigzagged over an enormous ridge with a big dzong at the top.
Outside the guesthouse where we had lunch, I saw a baby cobra slither in front of me on the path. Excited, I told my guide about it. He got a worried look on his face and bent down and pawed at the grass. “What are you doing?” I asked. “The snake is long gone.”
“Looking for four-leaf clovers,” he said grimly. Apparently they are a universal good-luck charm.
It seemed the snake crossing was a bad omen. Perhaps he didn’t want to ride in a car with someone who had the Buddhist equivalent of the mark of the beast. I decided not to tell him that on my flight into the country I had sat next to a snake charmer with a cobra in a sack. He was part of a Rajasthani dance troupe that had come to entertain government officials and Indian diplomats during Bhutan’s Indian Independence celebration. Wherever we went after that, we three, guide, driver, and I, looked for four-leaf clovers. And often we found them. The pages of my small travel diary are still full of them, pressed and dried.
After a day of hard driving over narrow mountain passes, my first view of Bumthang valley shocked me with its almost supernatural beauty. Suspended between heaven and earth, green rolling hills and expansive fields with farmhouses and temples, it seemed to go on forever. No wonder it was a sacred place to the ancients who traveled in this part of the world. If there is magic anywhere in the world, and I’m certain there is, then it is unquestionably in Bumthang.
The guesthouse in Bumthang was next door to a dilapidated little school called Chumey Primary. The parade ground, a field next to the school, looked as if it would be fertile ground for clover. The first morning, I went over and walked the perimeter of the field. There was a fresh coat of dew on the grass; and several children in their uniforms stood near the school, though it would be a while before classes began. A boy greeted me in English and asked me what I was doing.
“Looking for four-leaf clovers,” I replied. Without a word, they all put down their books and pack lunches—tins tied up in bits of cloth and rope—and got down on their hands and knees. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, I glanced up to see the children standing in front of me. Each of them was holding a large bouquet of four-leaf clovers.
More children gathered, and then teachers and the principal. The students filed into rows facing a small platform and a Bhutanese flag on a pole for morning assembly. They sang a dirge-like national anthem; and then the principal gave a lecture in Dzongkha, the national language.
When assembly was over, a short, bald Indian man invited me to visit his English class. He was a friendly and engaging teacher with that Anglo-Indian clip to his voice that makes the last word in each sentence go up an octave, and he ruled his classroom with an iron fist. He asked if the students had done their homework.
“Yes, sir!” they said en masse with military precision. The children seemed to range in age from about 8 to 15, but it was hard to tell. Bhutanese children usually look younger and are smaller than their American counterparts. There were about 30 of them crowded into the tiny wooden room; and they sat on the floor cross-legged, with low benches in front of them for their books and papers. Some had no benches of their own and had to share with their neighbors.
The teacher explained that the children’s homework assignment had been to draw a picture of a goat.
“What smart boy will come to the front of the class and tell us about his GOAT?” the teacher asked.
There was a frenzy of waving hands in the air and lunging toward the front of the room. The teacher selected one boy. Hands went down, resigned, and the fury stopped. At the front of the class, the boy held his picture at chest level so his classmates could see it and said in staccato, “This. Is. My. Goat. He. Is. A. White. Goat.”
“Very, very GOOD,” the teacher said, pleased. Then, “What smart girl will come to the front of the class and show us HER GOAT?”
From the little girls in the class came the same wild flailing of arms. The teacher selected a small girl, who came to the front of the class with her picture and held it up.
“This is my goat,” she said. “He is a pink goat.”
To my amazement, he sprang up from his seat. “No! No! NO!” he yelled. Flustered, he jabbed the nosepiece of his glasses violently with his forefinger and glowered down at the girl.
“You cannot have a pink GOAT! There are NO pink GOATS. There are white goats and black goats and brown goats. There are NO … PINK … GOATS! Now sit DOWN.”
After the class, I chatted with the teacher. He was a good, intelligent, devoted person; but in his universe, there was no room for pink goats. There was in mine. In my classes, there would be pink goats, dancing goats, and goats driving cars. We would send goats to the moon and have them sing the national anthem. Realism was only one of many options in Bhutan.
Bhutan’s charm is powerful. Like so many people who visit, I was already thinking of how I could get back.
After two weeks in Bhutan, I traveled in southern India. I stayed at the Taj Holiday Village in Goa, a resort beside the Arabian Sea. It felt like the loneliest place on earth. The late-summer monsoons had swelled the ocean so that it was enormous and gray, like the Goan sky. Just off the coastline, a massive Liberian oil tanker, the same dreary color, had run aground and sat askew and ghostly in the water. The world outside Bhutan seemed drained of color. I had never been so in love with a place and its people as I was with Bhutan. For the first time in my life, I was pining for something.
After India, I met friends in Italy. Sitting at an outdoor café at the Piazza del Duomo in Florence, I chattered nonstop about Bhutan as my two friends drank coffee, rolled their eyes, and tried to enjoy the poetic beauty of the place. I’d even gotten my film from Bhutan developed in Italy, and I made them look at the pictures. “Don’t start with the Bhutan stuff,” they teased. “What about India? Weren’t you in India for two months? Look around you. You’re in Italy now. And you’re going to France!”
“I’m going back,” I said.
“Great!” they said, and offered to stuff me in a cannon and shoot me back to the Himalayas. I couldn’t help myself. I was already carried away.