For many hundreds of years Bhutan seems to have been part of a greater Himalayan region encompassing today's Nepal and the northeastern Indian states of Sikkim and Arunachal Pradesh. Feudal kings exercised elastic spheres of influence in the valleys, skirmishing with each other and with periodic invasions from Tibet. Buddhism was introduced to the Bhutanese area in the 9th century by an Indian apostle known as Guru Rinpoche, or 'Precious Master'.
In the 1640s the last of the Tibetan threats induced the birth of modern Bhutan as a hero named Zhabdrung emerged to rally the people to construct at strategic points a dozen enormous forts, or dzongs. The invasion was routed and after a few hundred years of largely clerical rule from the dzongs the adored monarchy emerged after some internal strife in the early 20th century.
So revered are Guru Rinpoche and the Zhabdrung that their images feature alongside that of the Buddha in every public temple and private shrine. Mahayana Buddhism is widely observed in the wider area (despite Chinese oppression in Tibet) but Bhutan is the world's only officially Mahayana state; folks further south are Theravada. Happily for the reader the distinction between the schools is eclipsed by my umbra of ignorance.
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Bhutan's borders were closed for many years. Foreigners weren't admitted at all until 1974, and the airport was only completed ten years later. The absolute monarchy ceded power in 2006, on the accession of the current 31-year-old king, the fifth in the Wangchuck dynasty (and quite the heart-throb in Thailand). Since then the pace of change has been rapidly picking up. New roads and new towns are springing up in the west, new land borders are opening in the south, and there are plans to build two new airports in the east. Bhutan recently played host to both an Indo-Pak summit and an ASEAN congress, which saw foreign visits peak from 25,000 to 40,000 in 2010.
Despite all this development, the country is still extremely isolated. There's only one real road, switching eastwards from Paro through many valleys and ending abruptly in the wild central region. Tropical jungle steams in the lowlands of the Brahmaputra valley, tigers roam in the unexplored highlands, and the vista stretches up to the mountains where the highest peaks - each the supposed home of a demon tamed by the Buddha - all remain unclimbed by order of successive kings.
The small population of only 700,000 (in an area of 30,000 square kilometres) is, according to recent studies, the happiest in the world. By royal decree, Gross National Happiness is enshrined in the constitution as the most important measure by which governance is judged. I'd like to see the wording of the appropriate section of the Bhutanese census form, and send it to Enda Kenny for cabinet review.
Although they seemed pretty content, and extremely polite, I didn't actually ask any of the people how happy they were. As a convinced phrenologist I thought it better to use my calipers. After much head-measuring I found that the Bhutanese are an attractive and stoic people, below average height, with homogeneous Mongoloid features. Perhaps this also makes them happy. Further research is needed.
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The dramatic landing at Paro on Druk - or Dragon - Airlines* was an exhilarating introduction to a landscape well suited as a backdrop for any fantasy epic. Above the clouds Himalayan peaks gleamed in the sunshine; below them the mountains suddenly walled on both sides. The plane followed the winding Paro valley making several heart-stopping low-altitude banks, the last only a few seconds before landing.
Stepping onto the tarmac the air was crisp and clean and dry and wonderfully cool after the crotch-rotting sweatfest of Bangkok and Burma. In fact it felt bloody cold, so after struggling with my backpack in the tiny terminal bathroom I put on trousers, socks and shoes for the first time in three months.
Passing through customs I was reminded that Bhutan is the only country in which tobacco is illegal - the laws were passed soon after the third king died of cancer in the 80s. The single cigarette in the pack in my pocket was detected and I was diverted to a booth to pay import duty. After some form-filling and multiple signatures I paid 40 Bhutanese ngultrum in tax - about a dollar, or twice the amount that the whole box had cost me in Yangon.
Onwards to immigration where I presented my credentials. Uninvited visitors must arrange a visa in advance and prepay the daily government fee of US$200 through an approved local travel agent. It's also currently required to fly either in or out of Bhutan on the expensive national airline. So the costs rack up pretty quick before you even set foot in the country.
To be fair the daily charge is all-inclusive and once admitted you only pay for souvenirs and booze. The hotels were pretty nice, the food was good and plentiful, and you also get a guide, a driver and a comfortable vehicle. The tour company prepared the itinerary based on my specified preferences and to a certain extent it's flexible on a daily basis. But for an traveller accustomed to making his own decisions and choosing his own route this prescriptive shepherding quickly becomes a bit of a drag.
* Drake is an old English word for Dragon. I wonder if this is a coincidence.
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I was met outside the airport by my guide, Rinchen, a serious 28-year-old from the capital Thimphu. Like all working citizens and schoolchildren he was wearing the national dress, the kirin, which is like a black or brown dressing gown with long white cuffs, hitched up and belted at knee height, leaving a large pouch at the stomach used as a kind of manbag. This is worn with knee-high socks and smart leather shoes. Women wear a longer gown called a goh under a short jacket.
Rinchen gave me a formal welcome and a white scarf, before introducing me to my driver Kile and immediately whisking me away to begin the itinerary in our brand-new Toyota 4x4. Our first stop was at a clothing store where I bought a sweatshirt. Twenty minutes later I was watching Rinchen prostrate himself before the altar in the temple of Paro dzong. This scene would be repeated five more times in five more dzongs, after which he would stand up, clear his throat and deliver a largely identical lecture on Bhutanese culture and religion.
He had acceptable English which he seemed to have learned from teenagers in Dublin 4. That is to say, each of his sentences contained the word 'like' at least twice. I would ask - who is this statue? "Out here, like, we have a statue of Guru Rinpoche, like. And like the thing about Guru Rinpoche is that he manifests in eight ways, like. And like he came here from India, like, and brought with him the Buddhist religion"
Rinchen tried his hardest to make me feel at ease, although my comfort levels were not increased by his rapid disclosure that a) his sister recently died of stomach cancer; b) he himself experienced stomach pains; c) his wife was heavily pregnant and d) his infant daughter was in the hospital with a skin infection. He also mentioned that toast made him nauseous, which really made me feel sorry for him.
He in turn pitied me for going to India, which he hated; he couldn't understand why I would want to visit even once, let alone four times. Very big, very dirty, very many people, dangerous people, don't trust any of them, and you get "shooting diarrhoea." But he had only been to India for a weekend trip to Guwahati to pick up some tourists. But why do you like India, like? he persisted. I didn't really have an answer that he would understand. He was too conservative and too insular in his views. But this didn't stop him from changing into leather trousers and gelling his hair in the evening.
With me he was also a little overly formal which made things awkward. I guess it's just luck which guide you get. I met some who were thundering fun compared to poor Rinchen. In an attempt to liven things up on our long drives he often began telling jokes that were so execrable that I was obliged to put on headphones and look out the window ("what's brown and sticky?") I felt like an exchange student being shown around by a painfully polite host family who secretly couldn't wait for me to leave.
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So I embarked on a journey that saw me in the capital Thimphu for two nights, Phobjika valley for a night, Gangtey valley for a night, and then Paro valley for two nights - about half-way into the centre of the country, and back out again. There's no real point in me going through these destinations day-by-day, as they were all rather similar. But it's a beautiful and serene country, there's no doubt about that.
As we moved eastward and gained altitude the landscapes became more breathtaking. The valleys began to narrow and the hills receded into the hazy blue distance one behind the other like shades on a Dulux palette. At every turn I my eyes caught the sun glinting off the stepped paddy fields carved into the contours of the slopes far below; from the peaks high above, far beyond the reach of piped water or electricity, monasteries peered down, admonishing me for my self-indulgence.
Along the road streams gushed from the forest and were channelled into small whitewashed shrines where their gurgling flow turned prayer wheels day and night. Passersby stopped and drank the ice-cold water and, more prosaically, used it to wash their cars. Nearby hollows in the overhanging rock were carpeted with tiny clay stupas deposited by generations of the faithful.
The flora and fauna changed visibly as the altitude increased. The trees turned evergreen, became sparser, and were suddenly swathed in long sheets of ghostly lichen. Yaks appeared and snorted angrily about. Eagles whirled and soared beside the road and dived out of sight. Above 3000 metres the forest opened onto wide fens of bogland thick with dwarf bamboo, reminding me strongly of the Wicklow 'mountains'.
We would drive for a few hours along these winding roads and then stop for tea and biscuits, or lunch, or for the night, in one of the approved tourist stops - all dim and silent and filled with heavy wooden furniture. In the centre of the room a wood-fired furnace was always blazing, often surrounded by skinny cats twisting in the warmth.
The food was average. Mostly toned-down Indian ishtyle, with some concessions to western tastes such as fried potatoes, boiled vegetables and porridge; it was all rather bland except for the shockingly hot national dish of green chillies in melted paneer. The meat was not great quality - although the Bhutanese eat a lot of it, they're too pious to do the dirty work, so they import Indian butchers.
My favourite food was something that seemed to be a fern, suspiciously delicious, and also served in cheese. "Yes! Fern!" roared the beaming chef. What kind of fern? "Er... forest fern!" Like the local mushrooms they're collected from the wild and are therefore wholly organic. I also enjoyed the fruit, particularly the apples. The apple juice in Bhutan is dynamite.
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A diversion on dzongs and temples.
A dzong is a massive fort with sloping whitewashed stone walls and carved and painted wooden battlements enclosing a large keep of six or eight stories. Inside the main entrance there's a courtyard lined with administrative offices, and past the keep there's another courtyard surrounded by religious offices and temples - which are surprisingly small for the size of the dzong.
I visited six dzongs in six dzays. Some of them were bigger than others. Some were on hilltops; others at the confluence of rivers. One of them was ruined, and four of them had been ruthlessly restored so much as to seem newly constructed. Only one - Wangdu Phodrang dzong - was unrestored, and therefore was by far the most atmospheric and memorable. The whitewash was crumbling, the courtyard flagstones were broken, the keep was latticed with cracks from many earthquakes, and the wooden steps were worn shiny from hundreds of years of softly padding monks.
On entering a Bhutanese temple the first thing that hit me was always the size; the actual sanctum is always very small and dark in comparison with the size of the enclosing structure, especially if it's in a dzong. The next most striking feature is the smell, thick with years of incense and old wood, with a rancid hint from the numerous butter lamps (burning imported Indian ghee). Then there's the urgent tone of bells struck by giant spinning prayer wheels by the entrance, and the low murmur of mantras emanating from the elderly attendees as they rock back and forth.
The main focus in every temple is a massive golden statue of a serene double-chinned seated Buddha, ming-like Guru Rinpoche or grey-bearded Zhabdrung. Sometimes one figure takes precedence; sometimes all three are equally sized. Sometimes they are accompanied by past and future Buddhas, sometimes by the consorts of the guru, himself represented in up to eight manifestations. Hundreds of smaller statues are often encased in glass cabinets or in wall niches.
The altars are cluttered with religious paraphernalia: sacred statues; golden bells; silver cups; wooden boxes; even a few human skulls, halved, painted and used as vessels for holy water, although this practice is now officially illegal. All surfaces are scattered with offerings of money - retained by the lamas - and fruits, vegetables, biscuits and soft drinks - distributed to the faithful at regular intervals.
Every inch of the interior is richly decorated. The impact is sometimes overwhelming. Pillars and ceiling beams intricately carved and gilded in dizzying patterns. Walls vividly painted with scenes of mountain idylls and grotesque manifestations of gods and demons - often sporting giant phalluses. Some frescoes are still surprisingly bright having been covered for hundreds of years. Others are bright because they were painted last year. In fact several of the most splendid temples I visited - including the famous Tiger's Nest - have been completely rebuilt very recently which, like the widespread heavy renovation, deadens the impact considerably.
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During my trip I mostly just took it easy and surrendered to the itinerary. But a few incidents bear reporting.
In Phobjika valley I walked through quaint fields to a temple of fertility in which all the monks except the lama were children. This was an interesting experience. The kids - and they were really little kids - sat swathed in their robes, learning and chanting and dozing in a room adjacent to the temple. They seemed nonplussed by my fumbling lumbering presence as I tried and failed to take a decent photo without a flash.
While Rinchen was again prostrating himself inside the temple, the lama surprised me by reaching behind the altar and producing an enormous black phallus ringed with silver. He waved it around for a few moments with great solemnity while making low incantations. Then he beckoned and anointed me with this beast, only laying it aside to splash my face with holy water from a silver coffeepot. And so I was blessed with a dildo in a temple devoted to a divine madman catering for childless women. I don't know whether this is ironic or not but it was hard not to laugh.
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In Gangeng I insisted on doing some trekking. However, Rinchen's idea of a trek was an hour and a half's walk downhill - through admittedly lovely forest - to a wildlife sanctuary from which all the wildlife had flown away to Tibet several weeks previously, leaving one solitary sick and dying black-necked crane behind. Rinchen pointed excitedly, There! There! I could see nothing, and I wasn't particularly interested in black-necked cranes anyway. But he insisted that we go to the visitors' centre and look at the poor lonely bird through a telescope. It looked like it wanted to die.
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In Paro I ran out of cigarettes and consequently became light-headed and delirious. Cursed fags! If only they weren't so delicious. I had read in the Bhutan Times that an elderly monk had recently been sentenced to three years' imprisonment for smuggling into the country twenty packets of chewing tobacco, and the readers' letters were full of outrage at the severity of the sentence.
I singled out a shop attended by a middle-aged matronly woman - often an easy touch, I've found - and I sidled up to try my luck. First I softened her up by buying a bunch of stuff I didn't really need, and then I gave her my lost-schoolboy look and cocked my head discreetly at her sign "Sale of tobacco products strictly prohibited." Bingo! She mimed that the price was a hundred ngultrum - 500% profit! Stakes were high in this game. We made the exchange in a wonderful back-handed identical-suitcase manoeuvre, and I walked away whistling, no longer a lost schoolboy but a naughty one.
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I can barely remember the beautiful scenery on the 45-minute climb to the famous Tiger's Nest monastery in Paro Valley. This is because I was absolutely pouring with sweat and my heart was hammering so hard I felt that my neck might burst. At several points I was convinced I would perish on the hillside. I It would be nice to blame the altitude for this but I'm sure my absolute lack of fitness and chronic smoking habit were the real causes. Certainly, Rinchen stepped lightly up the trail, hands clasped behind his back, with never a bead of sweat on his furrowed brow.
The monastery itself was founded on a spot to which the Guru Rinpoche is supposed to have ridden a flying tiger in order to meditate for three months. Despite this preposterous claptrap, it's still an awesome sight, clinging to the sheer mountainside 3900m above sea level alongside a waterfall strung with prayer flags. Inside the gate I surrendered all my gadgets to the curious guards - no photos allowed, unfortunately. But that day I was the first tourist to make the ascent and therefore had the place to myself.
On descending we passed groups of flagging pensioners and pods of plump Indian families. How much further? they panted breathlessly. Oh, at least another hour! I took pleasure in replying. At one point I heard tinny music and I wondered who would spoil the occasion by listening to their phone as Asian kids tend to do at all times. Then I realised it was my own iPod in my pocket. Therefore I was probably the first person to broadcast Aretha Franklin in the Paro Valley.
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All buildings in Bhutan are required by law to be similarly constructed. None can be more than five stories above ground, and all must have long overhanging eaves and triptych windows. Even the airport looks like a series of extravagant Swiss chalets, and the king's palace is a modest affair whose roof slats are held in place by rocks. Livestock populate the ground floor of a traditional home, providing a certain amount of warmth for the humans on the first floor, below an open attic stuffed with junk, as are all attics throughout the world.
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One rather interesting aspect of Bhutanese culture is their, ahem, worship of the phallus. Like the ubiquitous Hindu shivalingam, the Buddhist stupa is phallic in its derivation (or so I'm told). But these Bhutanese images are less representative symbols than actual graphic pictures of giant penises, entwined with billowing flags, featuring a big pair of hairy testicles and a jet of semen. Sometimes they're also grasped by an opportunistic hand. And they're everywhere - most often painted in symmetrical pairs alongside the doorways of family homes.
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You encounter a different class of backpacker in Bhutan. I met only one other single male traveller around my own age. He held a PhD in theoretical physics from Cambridge, where he lectured, and had published both a novel and a book of poetry, but was was quitting penurious academia to become an exchange trader in the City. These salient achievements made me feel rather like a stupid oafish boy. But at least I succeeded in being younger than he. Together we did our best to bring down the average age of the tourist in Bhutan from the late 50s.
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Many Indians take as part of their conventional wisdom the view that India's traditional moral values are better than those of the west. Many Bhutanese naturally assume that their values are superior to those of the Indians - and the Chinese, and the West also for that matter. In fact I would venture to say that the Bhutanese have a superiority complex. Those who know me well could reasonably suggest that I might feel quite at home in such a place. But this was not the case.
The government says the high-cost tourist policy is in place to discourage the influence of what have been called "the less attractive aspects of global culture... the break-up of families, disrespect of elders, excessive consumerism, abandonment of religious values and worship of money."** This conservative and devout country doesn't want to become just another stop on the Asian banana-pancake backpacker circuit, awash with hedonistic dope-smoking westerners infecting the Bhutanese youth with liberal secular individualism.
But this influence is creeping through the valleys whether the king wills it or not. I was told that the Bhutanese youth take their cultural cues from Korea, and there were certainly plenty of spiky haircuts and crazy cutesy accessories on display. There are fast internet cafes everywhere, and we all know what happens then. Yes: Bhutanese kids come home from school, ditch their skirts for jeans (more's the pity) and spend the evenings playing Counterstrike. Traditional values, superior or otherwise, have taken a headshot and won't respawn.
** Edward Luce, In Spite of the Gods: The Strange Rise of Modern India
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