Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Being a tourist in Bhutan is an unusual experience. There are so few of us here that we are perpetually running into people from our flight. There are zero tour buses. A group is officially considered three people. And while there are certainly tourist sites, there are so few tourists that nothing feels that way. Last year, the country received just 20,000 visitors, most of whom were American. (To provide some context, Jordan’s Petra alone saw 400,000 tourists.) While Bhutan doesn’t officially cap the number of tourists allowed, economics and geographic difficulty keep most people away: you’ve really got to want to come. The Bhutanese tourism board is forthright in declaring that they are trying to avoid over-development. Bhutan prizes its natural environment and puts its money where its mouth is: over 50% of its land is protected forest.

We left Thimpu one morning and drove an hour outside of the city to hike to Cheri Gompa, where Bhutan’s first body of monks was established in 1620. Within 10 minutes we were deep in the countryside, twisting our way over narrow roads, as ice blue streams rushed through rolling green hills. The air smelled like spiced cider – a scent I’ve always associated with autumn, but that will forever remind me of Bhutan. I laughed when I saw the sign indicating that we had arrived at a national park: we were the only ones in sight. We picked our way through the canopy, passing local families carrying bags of mushrooms. At the top of the path sat Cheri Gompa, clinging desperately to the hillside. Goats munched grass from the abiding field as monks in maroon and gold robes studied us carefully. Ancient prayer wheels spun. Maikael went to soak in the view below, acres of trees stretching as far as the eye could see. A shroud of mist floated through the valley below. I truly felt as if I had stepped into a fairytale. I find myself constantly shocked by my surroundings: am I really here? Does this place really still exist in 2008?

The greatest crowds we encountered – between 15 and 20 people, a virtual stampede by Bhutanese standards — were on our way to Taktshang monastery, the site in which the great Guru Rinpoche flew on a tigress and proceeded to meditate for three months. It is considered Bhutan’s holiest site, attracting pilgrims from all over the Buddhist world. “The Tiger’s Nest” clings to the sheer rock face 900 meters above the valley floor, and the only way up to the top is to walk: there are no trams or animals to assist in the journey. I huffed and puffed as Dorji effortlessly maneuvered his way up the rugged trail, the top half of his gho wrapped around his waist to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with a suitcase. The Bhutanese are a nation of accomplished walkers; I am convinced they must have all been mountain goats in previous lifetimes. The higher you climb, the thinner the air and the crowds. We walked through stands of pine trees; the ones near the top were delicately draped with Spanish moss, looking like tinsel.

The view from the top is unreal. I have seen photos that epitomize Asia – rustic structures perched on great cliffs, in which tufts of fog billow by. That is exactly that Taktshang looks like – no more and no less. I felt as if I had stepped into a painting in someone’s living room.

I feel so grateful that I could experience Bhutan before things change too much; the signs are already there. TV and DVD has arrived. (“We get CDs and cassettes,” Dorji boasted.) Even monks carry cell phones. Bigger, sleeker hotels are going up left and right, washing away the dowdy, but charming, digs that currently dominate the lodging landscape. And yet, who am I to judge progress?