In vertical Bhutan, as Don says, there is always a long way, and a short way, to wherever you want to go. The long way will be paved, more or less, and passable by vehicle, pedestrian, cow and dog. The short way will be a footpath, barely wide enough for one, used by people, cows, and dogs. Yes, it will be a shorter way, but with steep switchbacks and kept in place only by the frequency of foot traffic. We take the short way down from the palace to the paddy road, single file, carrying our umbrellas and raincoats because rain is always imminent. Crossing the paddies, avoiding the swerving boxy taxi-vans who signal their approach with a Road-Runner like "meep-meep," our kids notice a large number of flattened frogs on the road, who evidently misinterpreted the meep-meep and met their doom. This distresses Jacob, who eulogizes them with the American national anthem and a short prayer for their frog souls.
At the end of the paddy road, we reach one end of Paro's main street, marked by a small unfenced green where bony cows are wandering, grazing. It is mainly what are here called grocery shops, some with names (in Dzongka and English) and others only numbers (Shop No. 57), and all of them one small room with wooden-shuttered windows open to the street so you can see the wares piled on the shelves in the back. The wares are brightly-packaged crackers and biscuits from India, cooking oil, powdered milk, bottled juice, bags of dried banana chips, sodas, candy, shoes, candles, incense, school paper, rice, baskets of chilis, and the like. The shops seem indistinguishable to me, with almost no specialization. Here and there a different category
emerges: the handicraft shop, which does not sell food, but fabric, carvings, offering bowls, ceremonial masks; and I see the occasional shop advertising an internet connection or a "B-Mobile" phone card. We stroll the street, talking to the children and the shop owners that we meet. People know a smattering of conversational English, sometimes are quite articulate and talkative. We learn Bhutanese hopscotch from a group of girls who are playing it in the street, using a piece of the orange clay dirt as a chalk. We take a digital picture of them and show it to them, to their amusement. We shop for Bhutanese clothing for Jacob and Halle in one shop, lingering for a long time to talk to the shop owner. Jacob now owns a lovely vertical-striped gho and plans to wear it often.The sidewalks are cement, with open running sewers alongside, and they are full of buzzing flies; each shop, however, is granted a government trash barrel painted with the words "Use Me" on it. Dogs run everywhere or sleep where they please, even in the road. Children play in the alleys with whatever is handy: a partly deflated soccer ball, an empty plastic water bottle. Halle is surprised to see a toddler dragging a piece of uncoiled wire as a toy. "She won't hurt herself on that poky thing," she tells me, recognizing with the unremarkability of what would be totally unacceptable in our culture.
