Happy Together

Plenty (February/March 2007)

Kate Siber treks into the jungle of Ecuador to spend four days at an ecolodge run by the Huaorani tribe.

By Kate Siber

Tradition meets modernity in the Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan
By Kate Siber

On a sunny October morning, I sat in the cold stone courtyard of a monolithic, white-walled, red-and-gold-trim dzong, a monastic and administrative center, in the small burg of Jakar in central Bhutan. Monks twirled and leapt through the courtyard with three-foot-tall peacock-feather hats and hand-stitched harlequin costumes with draping sleeves that nearly grazed my cheeks. The breeze off their long skirts washed past my face and the beat of their drums reverberated through my core.

On the periphery of the courtyard, among hundreds of local Bhutanese villagers dressed in their finest silk ghos and kiras, the national attire required by law, a dozen Western tourists performed their own scripted ritual—;they flashed cameras, ran fingers through guidebooks, whispered and exchanged nods with guides. They came for this four-day series of dances, a tsechu, which the Bhutanese believe wards off evil spirits for all who attend. The two spectacles were equally compelling: It was as though I was watching a small event in a little part of a tiny country slowly contribute to a major transformation, like noticing a wrinkle or a silver hair as a sign of aging—barely perceptible, but unstoppable.

The concept of Bhutan as a lost Shangri-La is exactly why people go there—and why it has become a trendy destination for au courant travelers: The number of arrivals rose from 5,137 in 1996 to 13,626 in 2005. But Bhutan is also in the midst of the giant internal process of modernization. In 2008, King Jigme Singye Wangchuck will hold a referendum to approve the country's first constitution, institute a more democratic monarchy, and abdicate the throne to his son, the crown prince Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuck. In light of the country's rising tourist numbers and increasingly steady clop into the 21st century, I went to find out if Bhutan really was a wonderland of the happiest people and most pristine landscapes on Earth—and if so, whether that could possibly last.

Never colonized and largely isolated from the world until the mid-20th century, Bhutan, a Himalayan Buddhist kingdom half the size of Indiana and located south of Tibet, is still, in some ways, a stronghold of centuries-old traditions, customs, and beliefs that seem deliciously romantic to busy, overindulged Westerners like myself. With a population of fewer than 800,000, the country is home to more than 2,000 monasteries and tens of thousands of monks who practice Mahayana Buddhism. Many villages are still only reachable by tiny, snaking footpaths through the mountains, and more than three quarters of the population still relies on the land for subsistence.

This quotidian life passes in front of a backdrop of wild and beautiful landscapes, including 20 peaks over 23,000 feet. More than 70 percent of the country is covered in forest and more than a third of the land is federally protected. The government places a premium on cultural and environmental preservation through the governing concept of Gross National Happiness. Instead of considering the impact of legislation on the economy, the king considers the impact on the culture and environment. The results of this seemingly impossible fairyland approach to government are real world policies, like the minimization of timber extraction to save the forests for future generations.

My own journey started with the notoriously precarious flight into the country that only a handful of pilots are qualified to make. After my pilot casually mentioned that we could see Everest and Kangchenjunga, the third-tallest mountain in the world, from the left side of the plane, he banked hard, stomach-testing turns, navigated tight valleys as our wings barely missed the steep mountainsides, and descended with gusto before skidding to the very end of the minute airstrip, delicately positioned on what seems like the only patch of flat land in the country. We were in the province of Paro, in western Bhutan.

Because there are so few roads and services in Bhutan, my itinerary, out of necessity, was pretty much the same as most tourists'. I traveled from Paro to Thimpu, the capital city, to the beautiful lowland valley of Punakha, which is garnished with a spectacular dzong, and through the monasteries and highlands of central Bhutan before backtracking. My small ad-hoc group included another solo traveler, Enrique, a Spanish trekking guide who was preparing for a group trip he plans to offer in April, and two Bhutanese guides, Chencho, and Dorje Phuntsho, from Bae-Yul Excursions, the requisite tour service I hired.

No matter how wide and far a person may have traveled, it's nearly impossible for anyone to resist Bhutan's trance, brought on mostly by the intense spirituality infused in every aspect of life. I was no exception. Before setting off for Thimpu, I visited Taktshang Goemba—Tiger's Nest—a monastery hanging off a cliff that requires a long, breath-stealing uphill hike. Bhutanese believe that Guru Rinpoche, the eighth-century religious figure who brought Buddhism to Bhutan, flew to the perch on a tiger and meditated there for three months. To me, the idea of building a monastery on this precarious spot seemed downright harebrained at first, but after I received holy water from quiet monks in front of golden Buddhas, then ogled the view from the small balcony, it seemed unmistakably obvious. Amid only the breezes, sunshine, and views of unmarred forests and mountains, this was a singularly perfect place for spiritual practices of any ilk.

A few days later, I began the 35-mile trek to Thimpu on the Druk Path, which Phuntsho said his grandparents had traveled on horseback before the road between Paro and Thimpu was built. Most visitors travel this leg by car, so I only saw two other hikers over the course of four days. Soon, though, the Department of Tourism plans to transform the Druk Path into a community-based trek. Such treks will be aimed at dispersing visitors around the country and throughout the year (nearly half of all international visitors currently arrive in March and April), and will benefit remote villages by allowing the local people to offer camping, cooking, entertainment, and handicrafts. In November 2006, the first community-based trek, Nabji Korphu, in the central Bumthang region, officially opened to visitors. Best hiked in winter, when temperatures are mild, it leads through the low, tropical broadleaf forests of Jigme Singye Wangchuck National Park, inhabited by endangered golden langurs and rufous-necked hornbills, and scattered with tiny mountain hamlets. Money from the visitors who trek the seven-day route goes to projects like building irrigation ditches, renovating monasteries, and organizing community events and festivals.

My group traveled through the high mountains and operated in the typical Bhutanese fashion: leisurely and luxurious. A cook, two horsemen, and a trekking guide accompanied the four of us, and mules carried our provisions, tents, and a slew of fold-up tables and chairs. Most days we walked for fewer than five hours at a gentle pace, focused more on the scenery than on our progress. The first day, the scenery included apple orchards, moss forests, and a small village, where every yard hosted a mess of horses and chickens.

That first evening, I climbed up to a tiny monastery. The wind whipped the prayer flags that were strung along a ridge to send written prayers to heaven on the breezes. A boy monk hidden in the wind-rattled stone tower sang a stark, melodic phrase, but other than those hushed murmurs, there was silence. This was another corner of the world that held much spiritual power, obvious even to an atheist like myself. I emptied my brain of thoughts and watched the shifting sea of prayer flags in front of a crisp skyline of peaks, dark against the setting sun.

For the next three days, we traveled along rolling, exposed ridges and through forests of pines and rhododendrons, alternately climbing and descending. Our efforts were rewarded with views of 23,997-foot Chomolhari, Bhutan's highest peak, and other royally magnificent peaks; cloudless nights; and evenings spent feasting on curries and Bhutanese specialties, like chilies in cheese sauce, next to a campfire. Temperatures plummeted after dark, but we were well-fed, well-warmed, and tuckered out from the alpine wind, sun, and walking. We slept soundly.

By day we chatted with yak herders and passed lakes that the Bhutanese believe are haunted by fickle, powerful spirits. One morning we found evidence of one of the world's most elusive creatures, a snow leopard, who had unsuccessfully stalked our mules after dark. By night, we chatted about Arnold Schwarzenegger films and movie stars who have visited Bhutan—"I saw Demi Moore one time!" chimed in quiet, shy Phutsho one evening as we huddled around the fire.

In many ways, my guides, particularly Chencho, personified the country's transformation. In my room later in Punakha, Chencho told me about the nature of his Buddhist practice and how he performs rituals in his hometown's temple in order to appease his protective deities while he flicked through channels looking for English soccer, a country-wide obsession. He adores basketball just as much as archery, Bhutan's national sport, and listens to Kenny Rogers and 50 Cent as well as Bhutanese traditional and pop songs. He was constantly punching text messages into his phone but also prostrated solemnly in front of shrines in temples without hesitation.

Chencho, who is 28, is a prime representative of the first generation of Bhutanese to be introduced to Western life—a generation that grew up with an aching awareness of the outside world and a desire for its trappings. Modernization has come late but quickly to Bhutan. Until the '50s, when the third King Jigme Dorji Wangchuck initiated the process, the country was essentially a feudalist state, operating much as it had been for centuries. With the help of subsidies from India and other countries, it slowly developed an infrastructure of roads, national health care, and education. In 1971, Bhutan joined the United Nations and established ties with other countries. It was only recently, in 1999, that television and the Internet were introduced; cell phones only came two years ago.

After four days in the hills, Thimpu, the capital city with a population of 50,000, seemed like a buzzing metropolis. Its main thoroughfare of handicraft stores and general shops seem to successfully sell the exact same things: bottles of Fanta, bags of Lay's, plastic trinkets, and leather shoes. The heart of the town is the spectacular dzong, where the nation's assembly meets. The city is one of the few places in the country where one can watch a movie in a grand theater or go out to a half-dozen discos. Overall, though, Thimpu is extraordinarily mellow. It is often noted that it's the only capital in the world with no stoplights. Instead, the centers of rotaries are filled with colorful, long-stemmed blooms, or a traffic cop whose directions seem to be a mix of air-traffic control signals and an imaginative, ballet-like dance.

Thimpu, however small, is still the center of Bhutan's fragile fledgling economy, which is the pivotal factor in the country's path toward sustainable development. The tourism industry, which employs a large percentage of the population, seems to promise a favorable source of income for the country. In 2005, visitors brought more than $18 million into Bhutan, which has a miniscule GDP of $840 million. But many worry that tourism, paired with unchecked modernization, could threaten Bhutan's unique culture—and with it, the experience of a remote, untouched cranny that tourists seek there.

The government's solution of low-volume, high-yield tourism, enforced by a daily $200 tariff and required guides, has helped limit visitors while maintaining economic benefits. In order to disperse the impacts, the Department of Tourism has started to promote other seasons and develop new attractions. In addition to new community-based treks, outfitters are offering mountain biking and rafting trips.

After a night carousing in the Thimpu bars, we made the twisting eight-hour drive to central Bhutan. Long, looping drives are integral to any trip to Bhutan, as the roads are seldom wider than one-and-a-half lanes and, according to a believable rumor, have an average of 17 curves per kilometer. Speeds upward of 30 miles per hour are virtually unheard of. On our way, we navigated around cows and yaks in the middle of the road, and glimpsed daily life in the tiny villages, terraced rice paddies, and orchards that punctuate the steep forests. Inside the car, Chencho and Phuntsho reminisced about their old flames as we listened to their collections of Eminem, Shakira, and Guns N' Roses.

We visited a farmhouse that once belonged to a queen's servant. One room was entirely occupied by an elaborate shrine, and the woman of the house said her family of four happily survived on a two-burner gas range, a carpet for eating, one mattress and a mess of blankets.

And while Westerners worry about the potential loss of cultural values and natural resources, for the Bhutanese people, the march toward the future provides some very tangible benefits. In the late '50s, Bhutan's entire school system consisted of 11 schools and fewer than 500 children. Today, access to education and health care is widespread. In 1960, the life expectancy of the average Bhutanese was about 38 years; today, it is about 66.

Before leaving central Bhutan and making our way back to Paro, we spent a morning at the Jakar dzong watching the tsechu. The dance was central to my experience of the traditional side of Bhutan, but like many travelers, I discovered some of the most beautiful parts of the country in accidental details. I loved how the big trucks that throttle and choke down the skinny, winding, one-and-a-half lane highways are decorated in tinsel, decals, colorful pictures of animals, sequins, and painted exclamations of "Good luck!" I loved sitting down in a restaurant in Paro next to monks reading the paper, smoking cigarettes, and idly chatting like the happy, old men one sees in town squares in virtually every country in the world. I loved lying in my tent in the mountains during my trek, listening to the voices of my guides, cook, and horsemen rise into eerie Himalayan melodies before they drifted off to sleep. I loved rambling through the Punakha dzong's temple and hearing the dull, sobering, reverberating thumps of my socked feet as I treaded the ancient floorboards.

On my last night in the country, Chencho and I drove the twisting, dust-choked road back to Paro. While he fixed a flat tire, I visited the Paro dzong one last time. As I crossed the bridge, festooned with prayer flags, and climbed the stone pathway up and up, I passed curious schoolgirls and boys and admired the immense medieval structure, imposing against the cloudless twilight.

The dzong guard almost didn't let me in without a guide, but then he flashed a smile and looked the other way. I was all alone in the empty stone courtyard, but I could hear the murmuring of monks, the fluttering of robes and pigeons' wings, and the quiet footsteps in the hallways. Down a couple dozen steep steps, another courtyard looked out over the few lights of Paro, the bends in the river, and terraced rice paddies. A teenage monk followed me. I looked right, he went left; I looked left, he went right. Two older monks entered and he went skittering away, giggling.

As I was about to leave, I heard, "Psst! Miss! Miss!" from one corner. A young monk beckoned. Through minimal English and sign language, he intimated that I was to make a donation. He tied a red string blessed by the Paro lama around my neck as his two companions chortled into their long-robed arms. He then motioned for me to enter the temple via a passageway. Inside, three dozen teenage monks sat chanting over Sanskrit scriptures, until they saw me.

First one, then three, then a dozen, then most all of them stopped to look at me, to watch me pass as I ambled the ancient creaking floorboards. Some smiled shyly, others beamed up at me with grins, and some brave ones waved me over to them, laughing and staring.

"Where are you from?" asked one.

"Where do you live?" asked another. They became braver as I answered.

"You're beauty!" said one.

"You're beautiful!" said another as the three dozen of them giggled, eyes twinkling, in my direction. After I waved goodbye, I walked out, pulled my shoes on, and dawdled in the breezy courtyard, as a lemon-wedge moon rose over the wall. I knew the monks' expressions were no come-ons, but simple, lovely expressions of curiosity. They may have never seen a Westerner my age, 26, alone.

In my flight out of Paro the next day, while I watched immaculate forests spread beneath us, I wondered how Bhutan might look in five years, whether its strong Buddhist traditions could survive the encroaching Western consumerism, and whether this concept of Gross National Happiness could sustainably see the country into the 21st century. I thought of one afternoon Chencho and I spent hiking to two tiny temples tucked high in the hills outside of Paro. On the way back down, I asked him what he would change about his life.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?" I asked, incredulously. "You're perfectly happy?" Everyone wants to change something.

"Yes, perfectly happy."

"That's hard to believe."

"I wouldn't change a thing. I'm perfectly happy," he said simply. I wasn't convinced.

Along the narrow path, we watched schoolboys on their way home, while bent old women carrying loads of rice stalks nodded as we passed. As I watched the afternoon light wane over the lime-green rice paddies, crawling the hills until overtaken by a salad bowl of pines, rhododendrons, and ferns, I thought I began to understand at least one indomitable thread of the spirit of Bhutan's people. And at that particular moment, I began to believe him.

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