Just a zhong at twilight — a few days in east Bhutan
We crossed into east Bhutan from north of Guwahati in Assam, and I have never experienced such a surprising contrast when crossing a land-border: the surprise being even greater as I had done zero research on Bhutan. From the customary charming chaos of India, just through the Bhutan Gate the streets were clean, most people were wearing national dress, the buildings were new and substantial but with traditional decoration, pictures of the royal family were everywhere, and all the signage was in a uniform style, blue with white writing both in Dzongkha and English. A very regulated society, apparently all by popular consent. Smoking is banned, and all Bhutanese in government service, or entering a government institution, must be ‘formally dressed’, meaning a gho for men or a kira for women. And for a fiercely Buddhist country, it was surprising to see almost every shop doubling up as a bar, apparently a fairly relaxed attitude to sex, and meat on every menu (although supposedly the animals and chickens are shipped to India for slaughter.)
Until the 1960s Bhutan had no proper roads, no schools, no hospitals. Even now the roads in East Bhutan are very poor, generally cut out of the mountainside and constantly being washed away or covered in landslides. All the maintenance work is done by Indian labourers who live in shacks by the roadside, as the Bhutanese are not keen on manual work except on their farms.
Lonely Planet describes the road along Menlong Brak as ‘the day’s most dangerous section of the road’. A bit hairy, but we had complete trust in Kinga our driver. But of course there was not much option.
Bhutan’s ‘low-volume high-value’ approach to tourism requires payment of a fixed daily rate, which covers everything except beer, and so we had both a guide (Kuenzang) and a driver (Kinga) from Bhutan Green Travel. So we felt a bit like Lord and Lady Muck in our private car and staff, but it’s the only way to get to these places, and we did get used to the flexibility.
We had chosen to enter the east which is less developed (and has a cheaper daily rate), and found that we were staying close to the home village of both our guide and driver, called Bartsham, which sounds like something from Jane Austen. We were even set up to meet Kuenzang’s grandmother by the roadside, who gave us some nibbles and some home-made wine. She was wonderful, great hair and terrible teeth, and she only a rough idea how old she was: there were no records when she was born.
Every village and town has its annual festival, and in the neighbouring village of Bidung we were lucky to see them practicing for the next day’s masked dances, but without the masks.
We were doubly lucky in meeting the family who were paying for the external decoration of the new temple, who talked the chief monk into allowing us to see the masks that were to be worn the next day.
Each district has its ‘Zhong’, which originally started as massive forts in the 17th century, and then have changed into shared between civil administration and a monastery, showing the extraordinary tight connection between Buddhism, civil society, and the Royal Family. Like many of the temples, the largely wooden zhongs have periodically burned down, it is thought through careless use of butter-lamps. Almost all historical documents have been destroyed through fires, which still regularly occur: there are traditionally no plans for zhongs, and so rebuilding must be tricky.
There is only one road connecting the east to the west of the country, and at points it is not much more than a track. As we climbed to the highest pass of the trip (Thrumshing La at 3750 metres), we paused for a view of the waterfall at Namling Brak. 50 years ago everyone walked or rode along tracks over the passes, which were steeper but far more direct. I don’t think any vehicle in East Bhutan ever gets above third gear.
Bhutan is wedged between powerful neighbours, and has close economic ties with India, supplying them with hydro-electric power (Bhutan prides itself on being carbon negative). The only road access is through India in the south, but Bhutan is culturally far more similar to Tibet to the north, although there no road connections and little contact with China. Many Tibetan refugees escaped the Chinese takeover of Tibet by walking over the high passes: they then had to choose to assimilate and start wearing national dress and so on, or carry on into India. Those who chose to stay now run many of the businesses. But this aim for social cohesion has its price: in the 1990s 100,000 people of Nepalese descent were encouraged to leave, or expelled, from the country and ended up in UN refugee camps in Nepal (who did not want them either).
Even our guide Kuenzang warned us about overdosing on temples, but down in the Bumthang valley we visited three in one morning’s walking — and all were fascinating. Photos are not permitted, but even with images it would be difficult to get the overwhelmng impression of the massive colourful, uber-baroque statues and murals, depicting both mythical boddhisatvas and real historical figures whom have become miraculous, rather like saints. Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambava) is the main character who introduced Vajrayana Buddhism to the region in the 8th century, but there are specific Bhutanese figures that are venerated everywhere: 17th century Zhabdrung who started the zhongs and essentially unified the country, and Thangtong Gyalpo, who is supposed to have built over a 100 iron suspension bridges in the 1400s throughout Tibet and Bhutan.
First was Jampey Lakhang, supposedly built in 659, and visited by Guru Rimpoche who left a footprint. One room was out of bounds as it was only for local people to worship their local deity, but hanging outside was a wallful of dusty bows, shields and helmets left over from wars with Tibet in the 1600s. (This is where the annual naked monks’ dance takes place, but we read that it is actually performed by drunken actors)
Then on to Kurjey Lhakhang, which features an impression of Guru Rimpoche left when he meditated in a cave. In many of these temples we were blessed by a monk, either by having an extremely heavy sacred wooden box placed on our heads while prayers were said, or having camphor-flavoured holy water poured into our hands, which is then sipped and then the remainder spread on our hair.
Finally Tamshing Goemba, a monastery established in 1501 by Pema Lingpa, another venerated historical figure, who was a blacksmith, discovered numerous sacred texts left behind by Guru Rimpoche, and is supposed to have painted the extraordinary unrestored murals on the walls.
Perhaps surprisingly, temple fatigue did not set in, perhaps because there was a couple of miles between each one. Then we were off, driving past the Bumthang brewery set up by a Swiss who came out here as a volunteer and never went back: its white beer was rather good.
Changing hotels every day was quite exhausting, and we were generally on our own in cavernous, cold dining rooms for dinner, as it was low season and bitter at nights. So lots of attention, lots of beer, and lots of chilli cheese.
