Morning assembly at Chagangkha Lower Middle Secondary School, Thimphu - singing the national anthem.
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Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
The kids peering in a window where I am shopping in Wangdi - the shop is too small and crowded for them to come in with me.
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Wangdi Market Day
If you really want to make an impression as an American in Bhutan, evoke comment, and appear as an exotic exhibit, then shop at the weekend market in the cliff-dwelling town of Wangdi Phodrang. Wangdi is known for having had a fastidious district adminstrator, who insisted on streets being clean and who would turn off the town's electricity if it wasn't kept up properly. The town clings to a high promontory over the river, with the dzong perched on the very end of the promontory, and on Sundays there is a busy outdoor market on the hillside. We spend the middle of the day at the market and wandering the main street with its busy shops. There are children buying empty notebooks for the start of school the next day, red-robed monks out doing the shopping, and lots of taxis clustered in the central square. Down in the market the sellers are as interested in us as we are in their wares. There are the kinds of produce seen in Thimphu, though in less quantity, and some that I have not seen: one dark red bud the size and shape of the first appearance of Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors turns out to be a banana flower, and they show us how to peel it (sort of like a giant red endive) and pull out the little flowerets inside, remove the stamens, and then cook them into curry. Well, we are having dinner guests later this week, so we must try this and we buy one.
Back up along the main street, we stroll with our children having sudden fits of shyness and clinging to us, slowing us down so that we look like one giant 6-headed amoeba wending its way along Wangdi's shopfronts. We buy a handful of candy from one of the plastic jars sitting outside of nearly every shop, with individually wrapped pieces: Centerfresh mintgum, Milk-n-Nut (a coconut taffy), and Froote (mango hard candy with a prize wrapped around it). When we ask for a restaurant recommendation, two schoolboys proudly march us to the Kuenga Hotel (hotel in the loose sense here, meaning a public eating establishment), and then join us for the meal upon our urging. Don eats lightly of the stewed beef having seen the meat-house at the weekend market up close. One of the boys has had his money to buy school notebook stolen and is worrying about his mother's scolding. We spring the 50 cents for his two notebooks before taking our leave of Wangdi.
Back up along the main street, we stroll with our children having sudden fits of shyness and clinging to us, slowing us down so that we look like one giant 6-headed amoeba wending its way along Wangdi's shopfronts. We buy a handful of candy from one of the plastic jars sitting outside of nearly every shop, with individually wrapped pieces: Centerfresh mintgum, Milk-n-Nut (a coconut taffy), and Froote (mango hard candy with a prize wrapped around it). When we ask for a restaurant recommendation, two schoolboys proudly march us to the Kuenga Hotel (hotel in the loose sense here, meaning a public eating establishment), and then join us for the meal upon our urging. Don eats lightly of the stewed beef having seen the meat-house at the weekend market up close. One of the boys has had his money to buy school notebook stolen and is worrying about his mother's scolding. We spring the 50 cents for his two notebooks before taking our leave of Wangdi.
Zangtho Pelri
Our weekend trip over the pass to Punakha and Wangdi Phodrang means an hour of winding mountain road up out of Thimphu, including passing through a police checkpoint, to the Dochu La Pass. This is the only route over the north/south range of moutains that cuts Bhutan from its border with India up to its border with Tibet. At 3140 m (around 10,000) Dochu La is clouded in much of the time, including today, and is festooned with prayer flags. There used to be a single large chorten there, but in honor of the king's victory over the terrorists in Southern Bhutan, the queens have commissioned and built 108 chortens on a rounded hill around which all the traffic must flow. We walk around them a number of times and meet the friendly stray dogs padding around at the pass. Then we begin a 2-hour decent on very twisty, narrow & wet roads. Thompson is prone to carsickness (but, oddly, only in Bhutan) and we tell him not to read in the car, but he ignores us and so (natural consequences) even on the ride up to the pass begins to feel ill. On the way down he turns a faint shade of spring green and sits grimly by the van window, making small adjustments in how open the window is. We have to stop a couple of times to let him walk around. Eventually the Dramamine takes effect and we figure out that he doesn't get sick sitting in the front (less bouncing around). Meanwhile the road is dropping fast through semi-tropical rain forest, with primordial ferns and some banana palms, with considerable moisture and some roadside waterfalls. While walking around outside the car, Passang cautions us against leeches.
We reach a cluster of small towns. Don has told Passang we might like to follow the footpath to Chimi Lakhang, an imposing lakhang way out in the open surrounded by green rice fields and small villages. It doesn't look that far away from the road, but it has been raining a lot and once we get out of the car and literally slide off the path because of the 2-inch deep mud, the walk doesn't look like such a simple matter. As we slowly pick our way across the small paths that separate rice paddies, our feet making smucking sounds, the rain picks up a little, and the lakhang, by some illusion of space, seems to be getting farther and farther away. When we finally reach one tiny village downhill, drenched and with muddy cuffs and shoes, we don't seem to be one whit closer to Chimi. We stand for a while under someone's large eaves, watching villagers walk by with large jugs to fill them with water from the one tap in the center of the town. It rains harder. We abandon the plan of going all the way up to the lakhang, and focus all our energies on getting back up to the van through the mud and rice fields... slow, messy, wet progress through the bright green and the rain. Chimi is known for being a pilgrimage site for women whoh are having trouble getting pregnant. I guess this is an unmistakable sign that we are done having children if we can't even get close to the temple at all.
Passang drives us to our hotel, the Zangtho Pelri near Punakha. "Zangtho Pelri" means the heavenly abode of Guru Rinpoche, and it is set high on a hill overlooking the Punakha Chu, very quiet with only birdsong in the lush green trees and the faraway sound of the river... none of the ambient sounds of our home in Thimphu (dogs, construction noise, trucks, Hindi music). We have two rooms in a cottage set on the cliff with nothing below but cowpaths and rice paddies. After we clean up and change into national dress, we go down into the town for some lunch (momos, red rice, dal, some kind of curry, chowmein + sodas = what is becoming a very typical lunch here for us) in a diner with deep piles of dead flies in the corners of the windowscreens. Then we spend the afternoon at Punakha Dzong - I have already written about that - and then head back to hotel. The kids have heard that there is a swimming pool. If so, it would be one of the few in the entire country. There is supposedly an indoor pool in Thimphu, but I have not seen it yet, and swimming is not a common pastime here - the rivers are too swift and the lakes too few, and the ground not level enough hardly anywhere for such a thing to be built. But Zangtho Pelri has one, and the staff even tells us it is open, but I'm glad we didn't change into swimsuits before looking at it - murky and olive green, with insects roiling up from the depths. Only Jacob is disappointed we can't swim in the pool, and cries about it, but Don tells him he'd have to have antibiotics if he went in.
That night, we went to bed in clean sheets thinking how nice it will be to sleep where it's quiet. But you know, it only takes one large noisy fly and two mosquitoes hovering near one's ear but just out of swatting reach to prevent a good night's sleep, and Halle was in bed with us and kept kneeing me in the kidneys from behind - so maybe Guru Rinpoche rests in peace in Zangtho Pelri, but unfortunately not us.
The only other guest at the hotel was a Dasho, the equivalent of a knight in the government, a very trim and gracious man, with his entourage of drivers and guards. We told the children that Dashos are permitted to carry swords and use them with impunity (which is true), and amazingly this worked to keep the noise level down in the kids room; they feared being beheaded without further discussion if the Dasho's sleep were disturbed. We met him in the morning and he seemed rather mild, but we assured the kids that you never know about these things and it's best to be considerate.
We reach a cluster of small towns. Don has told Passang we might like to follow the footpath to Chimi Lakhang, an imposing lakhang way out in the open surrounded by green rice fields and small villages. It doesn't look that far away from the road, but it has been raining a lot and once we get out of the car and literally slide off the path because of the 2-inch deep mud, the walk doesn't look like such a simple matter. As we slowly pick our way across the small paths that separate rice paddies, our feet making smucking sounds, the rain picks up a little, and the lakhang, by some illusion of space, seems to be getting farther and farther away. When we finally reach one tiny village downhill, drenched and with muddy cuffs and shoes, we don't seem to be one whit closer to Chimi. We stand for a while under someone's large eaves, watching villagers walk by with large jugs to fill them with water from the one tap in the center of the town. It rains harder. We abandon the plan of going all the way up to the lakhang, and focus all our energies on getting back up to the van through the mud and rice fields... slow, messy, wet progress through the bright green and the rain. Chimi is known for being a pilgrimage site for women whoh are having trouble getting pregnant. I guess this is an unmistakable sign that we are done having children if we can't even get close to the temple at all.
Passang drives us to our hotel, the Zangtho Pelri near Punakha. "Zangtho Pelri" means the heavenly abode of Guru Rinpoche, and it is set high on a hill overlooking the Punakha Chu, very quiet with only birdsong in the lush green trees and the faraway sound of the river... none of the ambient sounds of our home in Thimphu (dogs, construction noise, trucks, Hindi music). We have two rooms in a cottage set on the cliff with nothing below but cowpaths and rice paddies. After we clean up and change into national dress, we go down into the town for some lunch (momos, red rice, dal, some kind of curry, chowmein + sodas = what is becoming a very typical lunch here for us) in a diner with deep piles of dead flies in the corners of the windowscreens. Then we spend the afternoon at Punakha Dzong - I have already written about that - and then head back to hotel. The kids have heard that there is a swimming pool. If so, it would be one of the few in the entire country. There is supposedly an indoor pool in Thimphu, but I have not seen it yet, and swimming is not a common pastime here - the rivers are too swift and the lakes too few, and the ground not level enough hardly anywhere for such a thing to be built. But Zangtho Pelri has one, and the staff even tells us it is open, but I'm glad we didn't change into swimsuits before looking at it - murky and olive green, with insects roiling up from the depths. Only Jacob is disappointed we can't swim in the pool, and cries about it, but Don tells him he'd have to have antibiotics if he went in.
That night, we went to bed in clean sheets thinking how nice it will be to sleep where it's quiet. But you know, it only takes one large noisy fly and two mosquitoes hovering near one's ear but just out of swatting reach to prevent a good night's sleep, and Halle was in bed with us and kept kneeing me in the kidneys from behind - so maybe Guru Rinpoche rests in peace in Zangtho Pelri, but unfortunately not us.
The only other guest at the hotel was a Dasho, the equivalent of a knight in the government, a very trim and gracious man, with his entourage of drivers and guards. We told the children that Dashos are permitted to carry swords and use them with impunity (which is true), and amazingly this worked to keep the noise level down in the kids room; they feared being beheaded without further discussion if the Dasho's sleep were disturbed. We met him in the morning and he seemed rather mild, but we assured the kids that you never know about these things and it's best to be considerate.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Hangen family in national dress in front of Punakha Dzong on the day of cremation of Je Khenpo, 6/16/05
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The three boys making the crossing over to Punakha dzong on the footbridge (shaky, shaky)
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Cremation of a Je Khenpo
Two Sundays ago, we visited the Royal Botanical Garden and walked out a path to its terminus at a large wooden picnic pavilion with a roof. From this vantage point we could see out across a deep green gully. On the far hill was a yellow-roofed lakhang and it was decorated with buntings and banners, which we could see flapping in the breeze even from this great distance. Thinley told us that one of the retired Je Khenpos had died and that his body was lying there in state. She told us that his body had not decayed nor would it, because of his great holiness. The state religion of Bhutan is officially the Drukpa Kagyu lineage of Himalayan Buddhism (according to my Lonely Planet guidebook), and its highest religious leader at any given time is the Je Khenpo who serves for a period of 5 years. This retired Je Khenpo was considered a very holy man, and his body had been lying in state for some time since his death in early June.
On Saturday we took the opportunity to take a weekend trip out of Thimphu, over a high moutain pass and down into a neighboring valley called Punakha - this is the winter home of the National Assembly and the monastic body. We hired the implacable Passang and his comfortable Toyota van to drive us there. This turned out to be a very auspicious weekend to be in Punakha, because the body of the Je Khenpo also made the journey over the high pass and down to Punakha, to be cremated at the dzong there.
We arrived at Punakha dzong, situated at the confluence of two rivers, mid-afternoon. It is not accessible by vehicle, but only by a gently swaying wooden footbridge suspended over the swift-flowing wide Mo Chu River, draped in fluttering prayer flags. Our dzong permits passed inspection and Don had put on his white kabney with some help from Passang, and we were admitted into the courtyard where the ceremony, it seemed, had just concluded. Sweepers with short-handled twig brooms were coming along and sweeping up the wrappers and the dust and leaves. Special ceremonial tents had been constructed in the courtyard, four of them surrounding a central tent with a dzong-like tin roof and turret. Inside this central tent, with red carpeting, flowers, bowls and tables piled high with offerings, and elaborate tormas (butter sculptures), was a central podium shaped with a Tibetan chorten. People were circling this central podium, so we joined the clockwise flow and slowly made our way around the tent, and then around the offerings inside the tent. Two monks were handing out reprinted photographs of the late Je Khenpo, His Holiness Je Nyizer Trulku. We realized as we passed by it, that the "chorten" in the center was in fact the pyre, with a kind of bread-oven opening on one wide blackened with smoke - smoke that was ever-so-slightly still drifting up into the air.
We stayed inside Punakha dzong for about an hour - we were ushered by friendly monks into two of the treasure rooms, where they let us light butter lamps and where we received scented water blessed by the monks in our outstretched hands (touch to mouth, spread on the top of your head...). One of the monks explained that there would be a puja starting at 5 - a collective recitation of prayers, chanting from rows of monks, beating of the tall ceremonial drums with curved red sticks, trumpets, bells, fluttering oboes. We stayed until it started and then when two small novice monks went by us with their arms full of wood we realized that the continuation of the ceremony also meant a continuation of the cremation inside the chorten. Thompson was a little horrified. Maybe the other kids didn't really realize what was going on - in any case, no body could be seen and the chorten wasn't really "body-shaped," so it was all a little mysterious.
The chants rose and fell across the courtyard; rows of people in their best clothing came in to perform ritual bowing: hands pressed together, touched to the top of head, the face, the chest in rapid succession, then kneeling and touching forehead to the ground, rising and repeating, and then took seats under the large tent and began to read the prayers in Dzongkha while the monks kept at their own prayers at a different speed and rhythm. The murmuring of both, punctuated with the unison drumming of some twenty gigantic drums, followed us out across the bridge and out of the spectacular Punakha dzong.
On Saturday we took the opportunity to take a weekend trip out of Thimphu, over a high moutain pass and down into a neighboring valley called Punakha - this is the winter home of the National Assembly and the monastic body. We hired the implacable Passang and his comfortable Toyota van to drive us there. This turned out to be a very auspicious weekend to be in Punakha, because the body of the Je Khenpo also made the journey over the high pass and down to Punakha, to be cremated at the dzong there.
We arrived at Punakha dzong, situated at the confluence of two rivers, mid-afternoon. It is not accessible by vehicle, but only by a gently swaying wooden footbridge suspended over the swift-flowing wide Mo Chu River, draped in fluttering prayer flags. Our dzong permits passed inspection and Don had put on his white kabney with some help from Passang, and we were admitted into the courtyard where the ceremony, it seemed, had just concluded. Sweepers with short-handled twig brooms were coming along and sweeping up the wrappers and the dust and leaves. Special ceremonial tents had been constructed in the courtyard, four of them surrounding a central tent with a dzong-like tin roof and turret. Inside this central tent, with red carpeting, flowers, bowls and tables piled high with offerings, and elaborate tormas (butter sculptures), was a central podium shaped with a Tibetan chorten. People were circling this central podium, so we joined the clockwise flow and slowly made our way around the tent, and then around the offerings inside the tent. Two monks were handing out reprinted photographs of the late Je Khenpo, His Holiness Je Nyizer Trulku. We realized as we passed by it, that the "chorten" in the center was in fact the pyre, with a kind of bread-oven opening on one wide blackened with smoke - smoke that was ever-so-slightly still drifting up into the air.
We stayed inside Punakha dzong for about an hour - we were ushered by friendly monks into two of the treasure rooms, where they let us light butter lamps and where we received scented water blessed by the monks in our outstretched hands (touch to mouth, spread on the top of your head...). One of the monks explained that there would be a puja starting at 5 - a collective recitation of prayers, chanting from rows of monks, beating of the tall ceremonial drums with curved red sticks, trumpets, bells, fluttering oboes. We stayed until it started and then when two small novice monks went by us with their arms full of wood we realized that the continuation of the ceremony also meant a continuation of the cremation inside the chorten. Thompson was a little horrified. Maybe the other kids didn't really realize what was going on - in any case, no body could be seen and the chorten wasn't really "body-shaped," so it was all a little mysterious.
The chants rose and fell across the courtyard; rows of people in their best clothing came in to perform ritual bowing: hands pressed together, touched to the top of head, the face, the chest in rapid succession, then kneeling and touching forehead to the ground, rising and repeating, and then took seats under the large tent and began to read the prayers in Dzongkha while the monks kept at their own prayers at a different speed and rhythm. The murmuring of both, punctuated with the unison drumming of some twenty gigantic drums, followed us out across the bridge and out of the spectacular Punakha dzong.
The central tent in the courtyard of Punakha dzong where Je Khenpo was cremated. The table in front is piled with packages of cookies, fruit, bread, other offerings. The chorten-shaped object is the crematorium.
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Ashti Sonam Pelden
Bhutanese parents do not name their children. Instead, they take them to a lama at a lakhang once they are born, and the lama (based on Buddhist astrology, his mood at the time, or some kind of calculation that has to do with birthday - I get different answers from different people about this) gives the child a name. One thing that all my informants agree on is that the parents never dispute the name, or try to influence the decision, and they just accept that this is the child's name, period. There is no family surname in Bhutan and no one changes a name at marriage. Sometimes people receive one name from the lama, sometimes two. And, there are only a limited number of names, which are not gender-specific & can be used interchangeably for first or second names. This is so different from our Western ideas about naming: individuality, uniqueness, expression of family relationship or personality, etc... none of that.
Here are some Bhutanese names: Chimi, Choedden, Dawa, Dorji, Gyeltsen, Jigme, Karma, Kezang, Namgay, Norbu, Om, Passang, Pema, Rindzen, Sangay, Sonam, Tashi, Tenzing, Tshering, Tshewang, Thinley, Tobgay, Zangmo, Wangdi, Ugyen. This does not exhaust the list, but gives an idea of what names are like - pick any two in any order, and you've got a name.
We have had our children named, most of them by Tashi's uncle, a prominent lama - in fact, he was one of four lopens at one time who were the assistants to the Je Khenpo, the highest religious leader in Bhutan, on par with the Tibetan Dalai Lama but certainly not as internationally well known. Uncle Lama named Thompson when he was a baby here in Bhutan in 1993 = Sonam Tobgay. Forrest was named by a lama who was visiting the United States for a Bhutanese textile exhibit in Salem in 1995 = Sonam Tashi. Jacob was named in absentia by Uncle Lama the last time Don was in Bhutan = Sonam Wangdue.
We had hoped to meet Uncle Lama in person on this trip, but he is in meditation for a prolonged period of time, in a small one-person hermitage high up in the mountains somewhere near Thimphu. He does not speak during this time, but can communicate for one hour a day by writing. Tashi's cousin visited him last week, and was kind enough to take up some gifts from us: a white silk kata or ceremonial scarf (traditional gift for the meditating lama who has everything), some tea & jam, and some photos of Don and Halle, and we asked him in a letter if he would please give her a name.
This evening Tashi came to say that his answer had arrived - I suppose with the cousin, but it could also have been by carrier pigeon or flying tiger, the way she said it had "arrived." Halle is Sonam Pelden. Translation: Sonam = merit, luck, positive energy. Pelden = glorious. Fitting? We think so. Ashti is princess, so she we added the title, making her the Ashti Sonam Pelden. She was thrilled with her name, and with the six "lucky" silk threads Uncle Lama sent in an envelope, one for each member of our family to wear around our necks. Such an honor and something that we have looked forward to about this trip for a long time, that she could be named.
We like the name, too, because now it will be so easy to call the children in for their supper of red rice and dal: just yell "Sonam!!" out the door.
Here are some Bhutanese names: Chimi, Choedden, Dawa, Dorji, Gyeltsen, Jigme, Karma, Kezang, Namgay, Norbu, Om, Passang, Pema, Rindzen, Sangay, Sonam, Tashi, Tenzing, Tshering, Tshewang, Thinley, Tobgay, Zangmo, Wangdi, Ugyen. This does not exhaust the list, but gives an idea of what names are like - pick any two in any order, and you've got a name.
We have had our children named, most of them by Tashi's uncle, a prominent lama - in fact, he was one of four lopens at one time who were the assistants to the Je Khenpo, the highest religious leader in Bhutan, on par with the Tibetan Dalai Lama but certainly not as internationally well known. Uncle Lama named Thompson when he was a baby here in Bhutan in 1993 = Sonam Tobgay. Forrest was named by a lama who was visiting the United States for a Bhutanese textile exhibit in Salem in 1995 = Sonam Tashi. Jacob was named in absentia by Uncle Lama the last time Don was in Bhutan = Sonam Wangdue.
We had hoped to meet Uncle Lama in person on this trip, but he is in meditation for a prolonged period of time, in a small one-person hermitage high up in the mountains somewhere near Thimphu. He does not speak during this time, but can communicate for one hour a day by writing. Tashi's cousin visited him last week, and was kind enough to take up some gifts from us: a white silk kata or ceremonial scarf (traditional gift for the meditating lama who has everything), some tea & jam, and some photos of Don and Halle, and we asked him in a letter if he would please give her a name.
This evening Tashi came to say that his answer had arrived - I suppose with the cousin, but it could also have been by carrier pigeon or flying tiger, the way she said it had "arrived." Halle is Sonam Pelden. Translation: Sonam = merit, luck, positive energy. Pelden = glorious. Fitting? We think so. Ashti is princess, so she we added the title, making her the Ashti Sonam Pelden. She was thrilled with her name, and with the six "lucky" silk threads Uncle Lama sent in an envelope, one for each member of our family to wear around our necks. Such an honor and something that we have looked forward to about this trip for a long time, that she could be named.
We like the name, too, because now it will be so easy to call the children in for their supper of red rice and dal: just yell "Sonam!!" out the door.
Quest for Takin
I asked Tona if she wanted to join me for a run tonight. I don't know why she said no; I'm sure it had nothing to do with being at 7500 feet starting on the side of a mountain with a planned 850-foot climb, nor with running through a town with an estimated 5000 unclaimed dogs (source: Kuensel weekly newspaper 7/16/05)... nor the fact that it was getting dark and we're in the middle of monsoon season with rain always imminent.
My run was pretty much uphill, on winding roads and occasional muddy paths with a goal of reaching Motithang and seeing the legendary takins. We've mentioned takins in a previous blog entry - they are the national animal of Bhutan and a small herd is kept in a preserve above Thimphu city. Forrest wanted to do a school report a couple of years ago in Stow on the takin, but was told by his teacher that takins were mythical beings and he had to choose "a real animal" for his report topic instead. As it gets darker, the dogs become bolder and I turn up the volume on my I-pod... maybe if you don't hear a menacing growl and bark, it doesn't happen, right?
I have been up this path several times before but since I am losing light, I ask a number of people if this is the right way to the takins. People look at me strangely and point in different directions, but I continue on the path that I am quite sure leads to the preserve. Towards the end, I take a path with a couple of log river crossings; the brush is pretty dense here, but at least I recognize that this is definitely the way... it's only when I get to the entrance of the preserve that I see a new, paved road leading straight there.
I don't see the takins at first. I find an old man sitting outside next to a woodfire, unravelling a bag used to carry rice and tying the ends together to make string. He has no teeth, speaks only Dzongkha, and is barefoot. I point in the direction that I think the takins are, but he leads me up to a muddy slope to a point where we can both see the herd. Bhutanese say the takins have the head of a goat on a cow's body - or is it the head of a cow on a goat's body? In the darkness, it could be a head of moose, or bear, and I really don't care. I'm happy to see any funny-looking head on a funny-looking body and get on with my descent back into Thimphu.
I'm expecting mythical knee pain when I wake up tomorrow morning.
My run was pretty much uphill, on winding roads and occasional muddy paths with a goal of reaching Motithang and seeing the legendary takins. We've mentioned takins in a previous blog entry - they are the national animal of Bhutan and a small herd is kept in a preserve above Thimphu city. Forrest wanted to do a school report a couple of years ago in Stow on the takin, but was told by his teacher that takins were mythical beings and he had to choose "a real animal" for his report topic instead. As it gets darker, the dogs become bolder and I turn up the volume on my I-pod... maybe if you don't hear a menacing growl and bark, it doesn't happen, right?
I have been up this path several times before but since I am losing light, I ask a number of people if this is the right way to the takins. People look at me strangely and point in different directions, but I continue on the path that I am quite sure leads to the preserve. Towards the end, I take a path with a couple of log river crossings; the brush is pretty dense here, but at least I recognize that this is definitely the way... it's only when I get to the entrance of the preserve that I see a new, paved road leading straight there.
I don't see the takins at first. I find an old man sitting outside next to a woodfire, unravelling a bag used to carry rice and tying the ends together to make string. He has no teeth, speaks only Dzongkha, and is barefoot. I point in the direction that I think the takins are, but he leads me up to a muddy slope to a point where we can both see the herd. Bhutanese say the takins have the head of a goat on a cow's body - or is it the head of a cow on a goat's body? In the darkness, it could be a head of moose, or bear, and I really don't care. I'm happy to see any funny-looking head on a funny-looking body and get on with my descent back into Thimphu.
I'm expecting mythical knee pain when I wake up tomorrow morning.
Kitchen view 1: Cooking supper (fried rice) in the kitchen. This is my two-burner propane stove, the sink & counter & the one window in the room.
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Kitchen view 2: water filter, bottled water, fridge, dish/food cupboard, and pots&pans, and necessary shopping bag for groceries! (Always bring your own bag...)
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