aveek iKons : Diary of a Road Tripper A few glimpses for you from the road.

Ugyen scuttled into a narrow lane. I was feeling quite helpless. With less than an hour left, I had no alternative but to follow this man. A few minutes back, Bhutan Immigration Officials denied to issue me permit as I was travelling solo.
With all my documents in hand, I almost trotted to keep up with his quick steps through the crowd. As I entered the lane, I noticed his brown robe vanishing in a multistoried. I rushed in to catch him at the staircase. He took me to a small room on first floor.
That day, around 12 noon, I arrived in Phuentsholing, miles away from Kolkata, my hometown. Dumping my luggage at hotel when I reached the immigration office, it was 12:50. That office closes by 2 o'clock on Saturday. Four officials were working there, all dressed in traditional 'gho'. Every citizen of Bhutan must abide by 'Driglam Namzha', the official behaviour and dress code. In 1989, when people from different ethnic heritage protested against this imposition, they were exiled.
An officer checked my documents. But as I told him that I was travelling alone, he gave me a queer look and said, “People like you go and start business there. They never return."
“But I'm a government employee in India,” I said showing him my office ID card as well as passport.
“No, I can't allow you. If you still want permit, you have to wait till Monday,” he looked for the next in queue.
I couldn't make out if it could be done on Monday then why not today! But hardly having any time to waste arguing, I moved on to other officials thinking if they could help. One of them showed me a person standing outside. As I detailed him, he ringed someone and gestured me to follow him. When I asked his name, he replied,“Ugyen”.
So I ended up in that small room. Two people from Assam with no documents were also waiting there. I remembered, the lady receptionist at the hotel had told me that individuals were generally not permitted to refrain outsiders from settling there. They believed migration would ruin Bhutan's culture. A man entered. As we got introduced, I came to know that he, Sonam Dawa, ran a tour operator company. He vouched for us as if we were touring with his company and in that way, he made us have our individual tour permit. But all that came at a price of 800 ngultrum each.
Fifteen minutes later, with the 'priceless' permit in hand, I was walking down the river side. A sound of gong came from the Kharbandi Goemba up in the hill. I wondered, if Bhutan could really save its culture.