Day 3
Today our destination would be Thimphu, the capital and largest city in Bhutan. Before leaving Paro, however, we went to the weekend market.
One of the great things about Bhutan's protective visa system is that, while tourists are welcome, they are not the raison d'etre. The visitor really gets to see how the locals live, without a “canned” experience. Most of the crowd was in traditional dress, wth all kinds of varieties of patterned textiles. The monks were out doing their shopping, in their deep red robes. It was a hot, sunny morning and sellers spread their wares and produce out on blankets, some with bright umbrellas up as parasols.
The “holy month” had just concluded, during which it was forbidden to slaughter or import meat. So the local population was looking forward to their first tastes of fresh meat (rather than preserved) in a month.
Neighbors were gossiping, a blind man was playing a stringed instrument for alms (the only time we saw anything like this).
We ran into our hostess from the dinner in town, and Tashi enjoyed a little harmless flirting. In short, the market was colorful and boisterous, with all manner of local and imported foods including some freshly butchered meats.
The road to Thimphu winds through the Paro valley along the run of the river, then back up hill along the Thimphu river from the confluence of the two. The rivers run clear and fast, dropping swiftly through 1000 verticle meters (and back up an almost equal amount) in less than a hundred miles. At the intersection of the rivers is a checkpoint – here roads lead back to Paro, on to Thimphu, or 8 hours downriver to the bordertown with India, the biggest of only three ports-of-entry to the country. Once we cleared the checkpoint (all foreigners are registered here and all locals are tracked) the guys declared that they were again married.
In Thimphu we visited a Nunnery, as a contrast to all the monks and monasteries we had been seeing so far.
The place was crowded with pilgrims and people inside praying. We did our best to respectfully review of surroundings without intruding. It was a little hard, as we had to wind through the crosslegged penitents inside the main shrine.
I got a lot of curious looks from laypersons and nuns alike, I tried to smile deferentially when a nun would look up from her mantras to smile at me.
We kept our visit inside brief, and silently slipped back out to the courtyard, happy that we hadn't caused a disturbance to the proceedings. We joined the stream of people circumambulating the shrine for one loop (always clockwise, BTW), when an old woman who had been sitting along a wall caught sight of me. She was a tiny little thing, maybe 5 foot tall, wizened and frail-looking. But her hilarity gave her voice a volume to wake the dead. I have no idea what she said, but her insisting that we pose for photos (so she could see on the camera's LCD) got the whole crowd laughing with us.
Still awkwardly trying to be respectful, I was happy to stand next to her without touching (what are the rules here?) she lifted my arm up so she could show that her head was lower than my armpit, then pulled in around her waist as she smiled and gaffawed with the crowd.
The parade of pilgrims came to a halt, and hundreds of sitting faithful stopped their prayers to take in the sight of the giant and the little old lady. I think it's really easy as a traveller to get really self concious. You try hard to see without being seen, almost apologetic for being a tourist. But the folks here don't see you as some kind of invasive species, just as another human being. And so it is not an intrusion to share a humorous moment together. This isn't the austere religious space of a Puritan. This is the hub of a community, socializing and humor are as welcome here as prayer. We left with big smiles.
Next stop was the giant Thimphu Dzong.
This is Whitehall and Westminster Abbey in one. (Recall that the Dzong are the fortress-monasteries that house the government offices as well as the monks. This particular Dzong is the provincial and national capital.)
As we approached the main entrance, along meticulous gardens I leaned in for some photos (“Hey Tashi, can I walk on the grass?” “No, please don't!”) You can see the Kings palace nesled in a depression along the river and surrounded by trees. We saw the royal bodyguard, and I paused to take a good look. “Please don't stare, keep moving!” says Tashi. I jumped, lest the red-berets assume I am some Nepalese-Maoist spy casing the joint (there was a small bombing in the provinces the week before we arrived). After China and Lao (another sweet country, but still autocratic) I have trained myself to take the “don't mess with the uniformed officials” warnings seriously. But my concern for a black-bag and Abu Graib style interrogation was misplaced. It wasn't my safety that concerned Tashi, but our shared obsession with good manners. Evidently furtive looks are OK, but just as you would (should) avert your gaze in the royal presence, you don't stop and stare at his residence.
Through the entrance (and meal detectors) we entered a huge central courtyard.
One end was dominated by the central tower, originally a monastic reserve, then the first public lending library in Bhutan, now a general use government building with some ancient and some modern purposes. The other end of the plaza was formed by the facade of the central shrine.
We were midway our tour of this, with it's beautifully decorated ceiling and giant Buddha when monks started filing in for a ceremony.Tashi secured permission for us to sit in back and observe from a teenaged monk, and we did our best not to be obtrusive as the monks streamed in. Of course, when you are 6'8” and white in a country that is ethnically almost 100% Bhutanese or Tibetan, this is a little difficult. The monks ranged in age from 5 to 18 or so, and sitting in order of age put the youngest (and most easily distracted) in the back nearest to us. The patter of bare feet running to their assigned places was mixed with a few hits of the bells and blowing of the giant prayer-horns. Then, suddenly, an distantly familiar crack. Then another sharp snapping sound. Not a drum, my brain searched memory for the source as an adult monk, maybe 50 or so, came into view through the entrance holding a large whip, cracking it against the stone-tile floor. He paused from this procedure (scaring away evil spirits?) to whisper with Tashi. We were herded out, I guess the older, more senior monk was less comfortable with our presence.
Back in the plaza we chatted with Tashi, getting explanations of the “wheel of life” murals and other exterior decorations as we listened to the chanting, ringing, and horn-blowing flow out of the doors from the ceremony within.
Three senior monks sat on a bench just outside the door, whispering among themselves. “Why do they have whips?” we asked. “If the young monks are late, or don't perform their duties, they are beaten.” Susan just about jumped. Here is a reality check. The western tourist's view of Buddism is all peace-and-love idealism. The reality is, kids are still kids, and just as generations of nuns spent decades rasping students on the knuckles (and priests paddled insolent problem-students), control of large numbers of kids by small numbers of adults usually relies on corporal punishment – Buddism tenets of compassion or not. Another example that pragmatism, not politics, determines most of “real life.”
Renovations were underway as a part of a grand public works project leading up to the coronation of the fifth King.
Not just here, actually, but all over the country. The road from the airport to the capital was being widened to accommodate the distinguished guests (they expect leaders from 80 countries) in greater speed and comfort. The national stadium is being expanded. They expect a crowd in the hundreds-of-thousands, possibly approaching half the population of this kingdom of 700,000.
We took in another temple in the afternoon, a private one built from funds donated by a single patron, before retiring to our hotel (with a king size bed!). Along the way we quizzed Tashi about the politics of the ethnic-Nepalese. It's a complex history, but the general themes are familiar to anyone who lives in a country where the underclass are disproportionately represented by ethnic minorities. But it also seems that the recent stabilization in Nepal has caused certain elements to seek opportunities to export their extremism.
By and large, this is not a poor country. Certainly a good portion of the population live a difficult, agricultural existence. But the land is productive, and the insular history has kept most of the wealth in the country. Familial ties are strong, and in the event that some catastrophe or tragedy of personal failure should leave a person orphaned, handicapped or otherwise unable to support themselves, relations near or distant will step in to provide. This, and the sleepless efforts of the government to protect Bhutan's cultural heritage actually posed a challenge to modernization; there was no available source of cheap labor. This was addressed by the import of workers from India. Construction, road building, and similar projects are carried out exclusively by imported labor. They represent a slightly-hidden underclass, and we occasionally saw the shanties they occupy. The road workers, for example, live in mobile camps that move with the highway progress. Interestingly, they are granted resident status. Medical care is provided free of charge (as it is for all residents of the Kingdom) and special schools are paid for by the government which move with the camps. It isn't full integration, but it is far better than foreign unskilled labor without local-language skills could expect in, say, the United States. This is not a poor country.
The guys went to their homes for dinner, the first real break they've had since we arrived. It's a tough schedule for them, even if their work is seasonal. Never did Tashi or Phubu show an iota of fatigue or boredom.
