My magical mystical tour
Wendy Driver heads for breathtaking Bhutan where tigers fly and happiness is all that matters
WELCOME to the Land of GNH’ was blazoned across the poster in front of me as I stepped off the plane at Paro airport. I had just landed in Bhutan, where Gross National Happiness is considered far more important than Gross Domestic Product and economic success.
It certainly gave me food for thought. Before we had even touched down, I knew I was visiting somewhere unique. Miles of prayer flags lined the runway and instead of a soulless modern airport, the terminal had whitewashed walls and carved casement windows painted with ornate motifs. The only billboard showed a glamorous young couple, the fifth king and his queen, looking as if they had stepped out of a Bollywood movie.
Tashi, my guide for the week, was there to meet me, placing a white scarf around my neck as a sign of welcome. He was wearing the ubiquitous national dress, a knee-length wrap-over tunic hitched up by a wide belt. Women were elegantly attired in long sarongs with silk jackets and embroidered scarves.
This tiny Himalayan kingdom, wedged between Tibet and India, is a land of myths and magic – a Shangri-La where, as legend has it, tigers fly through the air and witches reside in ancient forests.
Buddhism lies at the heart of society. Houses are decorated with dragons, animals and phallic symbols to guard against malicious thoughts, and Buddhist monuments, known as stupas, are erected near rivers to defy the evil spirits that lurk beneath the water.
Massive dzongs, medieval monastic
fortresses, tower over the valleys and shrines containing gilded prayer wheels are dotted across the hillsides. Tiger’s Nest, the most sacred site in the country, is perched precipitously on a narrow ledge high above the Paro Valley. It was a hard, three-hour slog through dense woodland to reach the diminutive temple and I was left gasping in the rarefied air – but it was worth the effort.
I found myself walking through a canopy of brilliantly coloured prayer flags in the midst of sheer cliffs and deep gorges where Spanish moss lay draped over the pine trees like frayed silk.
Accommodation ranged from spanking-new hotels to delightful familyrun guest houses where I’d curl up in front of the wood-burning stove in the cosy bedrooms. Once the sun went down, the temperature plummeted.
ATRADITIONAL hot stone bath was an ideal way to keep warm during the chilly evenings and had the added bonus of supposedly curing aches and pains. At the Hotel Olathang in Paro, I gently lowered myself into a scorching steamy pool heated by white-hot river rocks that released minerals into the water. Afterwards I felt so relaxed that I fell asleep at dinner.
Travelling around the country isn’t easy. With many roads closed for repairs for several hours a day, a 50-mile journey can take up to five hours. Sometimes whole tracts of land had been washed away and we ended up driving across mudslides and along narrow dirt tracks with dizzying drops just inches from the car.
But the views were sublime. Far below, silver rivers snaked through the terraced farmland, while on the horizon, jutting above the swirling mists, were ranges of shimmering peaks. Wild yaks grazed on the high grassland while monkeys squatted beside the bamboo in the sub-tropical valleys.
Now and again we’d stop in remote hill villages and snack on freshly cooked momo dumplings stuffed with fried onions which Tashi bought at the market stalls.
We feasted on more local fare at our daily picnics, tasting spicy noodles and deep-fried pakora with chilli cheese – the eye-watering national dish.
After a hike along the Chokshor Chu river in Bumthang, we stopped for lunch in front of the head lama’s house surrounded by his dogs and cats while his wife brought us dry roasted rice. We shared the picnic with half a dozen of their rosy-cheeked grandchildren.
The Bhutanese everywhere were hospitable and welcoming. In the Phobjikha Valley, I was invited into a traditional farmhouse, climbing a roughly hewn ladder to the first-floor living quarters, passing trays of sliced turnips and red chillis laid out to dry.
Zam, the farmer’s wife, insisted I try her home-brewed Ara, an alcohol made from distilled wheat, while I sat on the kitchen floor. It tasted as sweet as ginger wine.
The valley is famous for the blacknecked cranes that spend the winter there after a flight over the Himalayas from the Tibetan Plateau. I gazed
enthralled as they greeted each other, puffing up their feathers while they danced and bowed to their mates
At the nearby monastery in Gangtey, we joined hundreds of local families at the Black-Necked Crane Festival, timed to coincide with the annual migration. There was a festive atmosphere as people jostled for space in the open-air courtyard. I squeezed past them to watch masked dancers dressed in flamboyant brocade robes and headgear adorned with peacock feathers.
Further east, the magnificent dzong at Trongsa is set on a pinnacle of rock at the head of three valleys. It is one of the largest in the country, with a whole city contained within its walls. I was soon lost in a labyrinth of staircases, courtyards and temples.
I removed my shoes to circumambulate the huge prayer wheels before entering one of the dimly lit shrine rooms where every inch of wall space was covered in exquisite frescoes of gods and demons.
Pilgrims prostrated themselves in front of a huge golden statue illuminated by hundreds of flickering butter lamps while red-robed monks sat cross- legged, mumbling prayers in a hypnotic chant accompanied by the sound of tinkling bells and clashing cymbals.
On our final flight back to Paro we were joined by a serene young monk and his entourage. It transpired he was one of Bhutan’s highest lamas and the reincarnation of Khyentse Rinpoche, the Dalai Lama’s spiritual teacher. The red carpet was rolled out for him to board the plane before he blessed us all with hands clasped together in prayer.
It really was a fitting end to this enchanting holiday.