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The higher we hiked, the more rhododendrons we
encountered. Karchung brought it to my attention that 55 varieties
have been identified in that area of Bhutan. The forest was dominated
with mature spruce and pine, and thickened with fir, weeping cypress,
birch, stands of bamboo, maple and oak. We crossed a circular, grassy
meadow walled by spiraling trees, splattered in angular slices of
radiance, webbed in veins of glinting rivulets, dithering in autumnal
colors, like standing in the aperture of a kaleidoscope. We soon
crested the saddle of Sinchu La (Pass) at 13,000 feet, catching
a fleeting view to the south of several jagged, crystalline peaks
before they were obscured by angry gray clouds. I stretched out
on the base of a small stupa, resting and enjoying the high mountain
serenity, intruded on only by the soft flutter of prayer flags as
drifting clouds from the shaded north imperceptibly washed over
me and permeated the forest.
We started down the trail
on the north side into the fog and soon were greeted by gnarly trees
wearing thick, choking coats of moss, leaning over the trail with
tufted beards like wizened sentinels announcing the entrance to
the rain forest. We were never out of earshot of trickling water
or the crash of a waterfall, and Karchung whistled and sang. Pink
and white polygonum grew in sprawling patches next to the rainy
season cascades, issuing a fragrance like honeysuckle. Two monal
pheasant, the size of full-grown chickens, crossed the path and
disappeared into the bush. Clumps of yellow wildflowers abounded,
and there was an occasional flourish of the long-stemmed purple
primula, which also had a delicious scent. We encountered a barefooted,
middle-aged man who had started walking from Punakha at daybreak
and would arrive in Thimphu by dark, the same 25 miles I was doing
in three days with lots of help. Several mithun—a hybrid of bison
and cattle—grazed below. They are used for farm work in season,
and then sent up high for feeding the rest of the year. It was 2:00p.m.,
and my “manservant,” Nima, had disappeared with our lunch. We stretched
out next to the trail and waited on him while enjoying a view of
a line of mountains receding from the foreground of dappled shades
of green to a distant haze of cobalt. Nima didn’t show up.
The courtyard and surrounding steps, windows and
ledges of the Trashi Chhoe Dzong were a colorful sea of lay and
monastic devotees, parted only by the flagstone center stage of
gaily dressed dancers. They wore terrifying masks and printed yellow
skirts with ruffled petticoats of blue and pink, often leaping in
flowing twirls like dervishes. Clowns (atsara) worked the
crowd, wearing head masks of black and red, bearing menacing faces
slit with carnival smiles, parroting the performers and cadging
donations from the merit-hungry locals as well as from the tourists.
The tourists congregated in one area and looked more like the foreign
press corps, dressed in their multi-pocketed khaki jackets and bandoleers
of cameras and tethered water bottles. A few tourists had gone native,
wearing the kiras. Draped in yellow, the head monk entered
with the usual fanfare, and several ministers, some of my new buddies,
created a small flourish as they imperiously filed by, wearing orange
scarves signifying their rank, and wearing matching, embroidered,
traditional high leather boots, similar to those worn in some of
those go-go joints in south Dallas. The head monk’s mother sat above
in a window and proudly watched her god-like son enter. Children
were perched on windowsills, photogenically framed, and families
gathered below in tight circles on the fringes of the crowd and
ate and played games. Senior adults chewed betel, and their mouths
oozed with the crimson syrup of spittle. Opportunistic pigeons alighted
in the vacant spaces seeking a few stray crumbs, then neurotically
departed en masse in a whirring frenzy. Cymbals clashed in a crescendo
of fast dancing and heightened drama. The scene was vibrant with
all the exotic components of Bhutan.
The following morning, we set off from Lhasa taking
the Friendship Highway west and south across the 700 miles of rugged
terrain, eventually arriving in Zhangmu in Tibet on the Nepal border,
then on to Katmandu. The first day of the drive was uneventful until
we gained altitude in the twisting ascent to Kamba La (Pass) at
16,500 feet. A sleet storm had left a dusting of ice on the road.
We followed in the mushy, slippery tracks of other vehicles. With
no tread on the tires, our Jeep moved from side to side, on several
occasions nearing the unprotected precipices. We crested the pass,
as the ice storm grew more intense. Large cairns of rocks—altars
to the mountain and sky gods—crowned the pass like primitive chortens,
cloaked in flaxen scarves (kataks). Anchored masts of prayer
flags were randomly strung in a fluttering disarray, a tantric rubbish
heap of votive offerings. Buddhist travelers in need of merit often
construct a three-stone cairn, utter the mantra “victory to the
god,” then smoke a cigarette and hightail it on down to warmer altitudes.
In the valley to the south was the turquoise expanse of Yamdrok-tso
Lake, one of four holy lakes in Tibet. Ominous darkness shrouded
its waters, some kind of Zeus-like perturbation of the local demons.
To the north, a deep cirque was patched in fallow, linear fields
and dappled in a warm, dawning light, slicing through puffy towers
of cumulus clouds, one of those places where frostbite and sunburn
could happen simultaneously.
Short of breath and freezing,
we wended down the slushy track toward the lake, where the sleet
mutated to snow. Although the road was washed out at several points,
we followed the otherwise idyllic lacustrine verges, often dotted
with sheep and herds of yak. We passed a few Western cyclists, probably
doing a trans-Tibetan trip. They had succumbed to the inclement
weather and had taken a seat in the backup van. With burnt-red faces,
Tibetans in lorries badged with swastikas on their cabs churned
along the precariously grooved road, evoking obeisance from all
passers under the unwritten law of tonnage. We stopped beyond the
lake at a halfway point, where travelers from both directions, Tibetan
and non-Tibetan, converged for lunch.
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