Taksang Lhakang marks the place where Guru Rinpoche arrived, on the back of a flying tigress, to bring Buddhism to Bhutan. He surely had to fly there, because the spot is 900m above Paro on a sheer rock face, shielded by mist most of the time. The Guru meditated before subduing the demons that ruled the land before the arrival of the Buddha's teachings, and the sacred meditation cave has been surrounded by a monastery and temple (lakhang) for centuries. Taksang partially burned in the 1950s and was rebuilt, and then in 1997 or 1998, the entire construction went up in flames, probably from a butter lamp. It has once again been painstakingly rebuilt on its old foundation. I have heard that the local people were conscripted to dedicate a certain amount of time to the temple's reconstruction and to improving the foothpaths that lead up to it. Tourists to Bhutan -- of which there are only several thousand a year, due to strict government regulation -- nearly all walk the trail that winds through the woods, snakes around the mountain, providing tantalizing glimpses of the misty cliff with its white monastery clinging to it high above. The trail brings one to a teahouse, with strings of prayer flags all around, close enough to see the monastery in beautiful detail across a steep pine-covered canyon. Anyone may, if they are not completely winded from the altitude, continue on to a small checkpoint some 45 more minutes up the mountain, where incredible pictures like this one may be taken at nearly 10,000 feet up. From this point, the trail drops off the cliff and becomes a stone staircase, leading down many flights to a footbridge over a narrow frothy waterfall, and then up again on the other side to the monastery itself. Without a permit, tourists may go no further. But Liz and her husband George have gotten a permit, and this will allow them, their two daughters ages 11 and 13, and ourselves, for the first time, to enter the lakhang and see its treasure rooms.
Fortunately the weather is cool, cloudy, and some light rain. This cools us off as we hike and share snacks to encourage the kids. Liz and George have found Oreos in some shop in Thimphu and these are a welcome sight for our kids. We are accompanied here and there by stray dogs, some of them bearing grisly wounds from dogfights, watching us hopefully for dropped Oreo pieces. The hike is spectacular, and the path is well-trodden both by people and pack horses, though we see few other hikers today: only two other tourists, from Japan, and perhaps a dozen other Bhutanese people making the climb today. We are one day away from the low elevation of Bangkok and Stow, so we are struggling a bit with the altitude, which is here around 8000 feet and going up quickly. However, the group of kids meshes well and they keep a good pace, with Halle only occasionally flagging in her energy. We piggy back her part of the way, but the trail is not always conducive to this, so she takes some rests and the ten of us stretch out along the trail, meeting up again here and there to make sure we have all our hikers. Reaching the tea house feels like a major accomplishment, and we continue on to the photo checkpoint, and then it begins to rain as we start down the multiple flights of stone steps, some with railings between ourselves and the chasm, some without. I am concentrating on every step, breathing is labored, and my worry level about falling on the slippery wet rocks is high, but to look up and see the sheer rock face with the monastery perched on it is an incredible sight. The clouds are flowing in and out of the chasm like living animals, and the loudest sound is the waterfall coursing down between us and the monastery. We cross the bridge, with many dogs barking our arrival and their barks echoing out into the chasm and being carried away with the falling rain.
A Bhutanese policeman in camoflage uniform and flip-flops checks our permits. We respectfully wait, while a small novice monk sticks his head out of a nearby window above us somewhere and practices his "Hello! How are you?" We are admitted into the complex, a complicated arrangement of porches, wooden staircases, rooms, small temples, and vertical arrangement of tin roofs painted brick red, crowned by a central golden roof with a beautiful spire and golden gargoyles off its four corners. The rain is coming down at a good clip, and we shed our raincoats, sneakers, and camera bags at the doorways of the rooms we are allowed to visit. These number four, it turns out, though I don't think any of us knew ahead of time what was inside or how many rooms we would be allowed into. A small contingent of red-robed monks in their teens bring us from place to place, but none of them seems to know very much English. Each Bhutanese family is encouraged to have one boy become a monk, and they begin this training very early in life once their calling is designated; consequently they become quite expert in Dzongka and in texts and in writing, but perhaps (it depends on the monastery) do not study English as much as their counterparts in the public school system here. At any rate, we encountered the treasure rooms without commentary by the monks--esoteric Himalayan Buddhism in its richest, rawest, least interpreted state.
The treasure rooms are gorgeous... gigantic wall paintings of the life of Bhutanese saints, rich silk canopies and banners, pillows and mats on the floor with evidence of the ceremonies and prayers that take place there: giant round drums with curved drumsticks, trumpets, bundles of texts, chimes, bells. An altar wall in each one takes up the entire wall, with a central statue of Guru Rinpoche enconsed in a carved decorated house, surrounded by smaller niches for smaller statues, and an elaborate table in front with the seven bowls of water, detailed butter-sculptures, and burning butter lamps and incense. Liz and George have remembered to bring offerings of money for each room, and when they place them in the bowls, one of the monks goes and fetches a silver pitcher with a narrow curved spout, and a peacock feather on its lid. We hold out our cupped hands in front of us, and he pours a little of the perfumed water into our hands. We touch our mouths to the water, and then spread it on our already-wet heads. The rooms are quiet, there is only a kind of murmur from outside from the waterfall and the wind. By the second room, Halle begins to get sleepy. It has been a long 3-hour climb for small feet. She curls on my lap and nearly falls asleep. In one of the rooms the monks hand us silk threads to tie around our necks also. We respectfully spend some time in each room, looking at the beautiful objects and paintings, and then we gather our sodden sneakers and jackets and proceed to the next.
By the fourth room, Liz has decided to start down the path, and our two youngest are a bit weary of the rooms and decide to stay outside by the gigantic brass gong at the entrance. The rest of the group is permitted to enter the most sacred of the rooms and report to me that I have missed the most spectacular of all, with really enormous golden statues of the Guru Rinpoche and the Buddha, and a young monk with the most articulate English to explain them for us. It continues to rain as we cross the footbridge, and head up the stone steps. Across the chasm from the monastery I can hear a low buzzing chanting begin, like a deep hum from the mountain itself, prayers for every sentient being, from somewhere inside the lakhang. I know we each feel a keen sense of privilege at being permitted inside Taksang and also of accomplishment at finishing the ascent despite our lack of acclimation and the young ages of our children. This is no small thing for any of us.
It rains heavily down below the stone steps on the trail. In places the trail has become a small mountain stream, and our clothes are soaked. At the teahouse at last, we fuel on butter cookies and mango juice; Liz and George have some of the steaming hot milk tea that is served everywhere here. On the way down Halle is carried part of the way, but walks most of it herself, and the three boys are far ahead of us for most of the descent. The rain stops, or perhaps we walk down out of it; Don thinks it is still raining up at Taksang, and we cannot tell because the clouds have swirled in around it again. We started the hike around 10 am, and we are down at the bottom by 3, where the implacable Passang waits at the van for us. We have scaled the Tigers Nest, and we will carry the silken thread of that memory with us into our trip, while Liz & George will take it with them as their last taste of Bhutan on their way home to Denver. It is blessing both ways.
