I planned for my first impression of Bhutan when I stepped off the plane to be one of wonder and awe. From the breathy, reverent utterance of the word "Bhutan" I had heard from other travelers to the country, I imagined that even the sparkle of the tarmac would sweep me off my feet and that I couldn't help but be enchanted from the first second to the last. My knees decided a different fate.
They chose the first moment of touchdown to seize up in protest of the previous day's bus journey followed by the morning plane ride. Instead of getting off the plane swept off my feet with enchantment, I was nearly swept off my feet with a burning, breathtaking pain in my joints as I limped my way across the tarmac to the visa checkpoint.
I did notice that the single building that comprised the airport was like none that I had seen before. There was nothing silver or modern about it. There was nothing metal on it except for the corrugated aluminum roof painted a dark, dull maroon so that it blended in with the building's cornice. It was a thick white stone structure, much like the style of all the houses I would encounter later that week in Bhutan. Its window and door frames and cornice were made of a rich, dark wood which was decorated with colorful swirls of paint. Inside, the airport was tiled and more modern than its outside appearance conveyed. Everything was glossy and swept clean. The visa process was done orderly and quickly, and soon I was passing through the front of the airport and intercepted by Sangay, my Bhutanese guide for the week. Still, my impressions were overshadowed by my joint pain, which kept me from feeling the least bit impressed.
Sangay and the van's driver, Neemah, were both dressed in traditional Bhutanese garb, as was 90% of every Bhutanese person I encountered. The traditional dress of the Bhutanese man is called the Go and most closely resembles a man's knee-length bathrobe, belted at the waist and made out of dark, tartan fabrics. The robe has thick white cuffs folded up to the middle of the arm and a high neck rather than a collar. Men wear argyle or solid color knee socks with the robe and black shoes or sneakers. Women wear floor-length, high-waisted skirts of similar but more colorful fabrics that they belt at the waist and accessorize with a short-cropped jacket. The women's jacket has a high neck and thick cuffs like that of the man's Go, but the cuffs are made of bright pinks or oranges and te jackets are cropped short at the waist. These outfits are not traditional costumes worn for the sake of tourists, for ornamental dances or for lack of funds to buy Western clothing. This is what is worn out of tradition, pride and choice. This is one of the things that make people say that Bhutan is a country like no other. But I overlooked the funny outfits and focused on my knee pain.
It was much colder than Kathmandu, when the travel agent led me to expect that it would be warmer. And heavy, dark thunderclouds loomed above the airport and the emerald mountains threatening rain and letting only drips of sunshine hit the valley. Bhutan means "land of the thunder dragon," but I wondered it should have been named "land of the thunder cloud" instead. Sangay took me to some ancient forts, Dzongs and monasteries in and around the city of Paro. I mustered a smile and looked forward to getting back to the hotel.
On the following day, I awoke to the same thunder clouds hanging over the city, the same chill in the air that required me to put on my fleece jacket, and the same knee pain that made me shudder at the idea of climbing another fort or monastery. We headed to Thimpu, the capital city, a 2 1/2 hour drive away through the mountains. We did some more sightseeing, ate some meals at restaurants designated for tour groups. The day's activities ended at 4pm and I was nearing the end of War and Peace. I started questioning whether I was meant for group tours. That night, I awoke at 1am with a high fever.
I waited until the morning and asked my guide to take me to a doctor. He tried to convince me to drink some tea and continue to the next town, but I stood my ground. An hour later, I was hooked up to an I.V. in the hospital in Thimpu. I was not only shivering with fever and diarrhea, I was also dehydrated and had a blood pressure reading of 80/40. By the afternoon, I was vomiting the two crackers I had attempted to eat into the hospital garbage can (held by my trusty guide) then nearly passed out over the squat toilet and had to be assisted back to bed. This was not quite the idea of Bhutan I had pictured in the reverent description of fellow travelers and the travel agent.
Thank God for Cipro. Two days later and with heaps of buttered toast, I was back on my feet. And except for the still nagging, but slightly improved knee pain, I was ready to really see Bhutan. When I was ready again, we were in the valley of Wengde. The marvelous, magical valley of Wengde. The sun came out. The jacket came off. Everything looked green and glittery. This was a magical fairy tale land after all.
The leaves on the trees shimmered. Magenta flowers lit up the deep green mountainsides. Birds chirped and cast shadows over the valley in their quick flights. Rivers hiccuped and bubbled. Cows whipped their tails and munched on roadside grass. I didn't have to screen my eyes from noticing litter on the road and around every corner. There was none. Pink and white bougainvillea climbed buildings. Bushes of yellow wildflowers littered roadsides. Lavender poppies coated the valleys. The houses were the same white structure as the airport. Thick and white with wooden, decorated framed windows. All the structures were built of the same ancient tradition, the same quality. Each structure was placed with thought to the landscape so that everything seemed to subsist in balance with its natural surroundings. As if every house and road and bridge were set up for a landscape painting.
And then there are the people -- working the fields, weaving fabrics on traditional looms, drying grains on the sides of the road. The women and children were rosy cheeked, skin and eyes that looked more Chinese than Indian. But fairy tale like in their spirit of work, their rosy cheeks, dressed in tartan fabrics, knee socks and high necked jackets. The national sport is archery. Bhutan is a kingdom ruled by a king. The people of Bhutan are united in spirituality under a single spiritual leader and all practice tantric Buddhism. The people of the kingdom are happy and prosperous. The only thing missing was the fairy princess, the decorated white steeds and the plotting witch. But from that point forward, I was enchanted with the country. It is much richer and deeper than I am describing here. Comparing it to a place of fairy tales is selling it short of its deep spiritual ties.
I failed to describe anything about that side of the country, which is truly the richest part of its heritage, one of the most compelling reasons to visit. I failed to describe the most impressive dzong in the middle of the country. I did not mention the opportunity I was given to climb to the top of a monastery to see the preserved body of the countries most revered spiritual leaders where I sipped holy water, splashed it on my head and tied prayer strings around my neck for a three-day blessing. But these are things to be experienced and not described. At least not by me.
