The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 4: Moving the Mountain

Previously on The Summer Sojourner: a group of eleven BCFers left Lingkhar Lodge, drove up to Merak trailhead, and walked the rest of the way to our accommodation.

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 4: Moving the Mountain

We set our bags down in the upstairs quarters and sat down inside a kind of gathering room for tea. The room was actually someone’s home—it was evident by the various household items indicative of everyday living. There were knickknacks interspersed between kitchenware, a TV, clothes, and various cultural relics I couldn’t begin to describe. They had all been moved to the side to give us space to sit cross-legged on mats and decompress from the day’s events. We ate crackers and sipped on tepid milky tea before taking a short hike up the mountain to catch the view.

Setting out against the waning light, our expedition was destined to fail. But we weren’t done breathing in the cool, fresh air. I went with a second, smaller group some 15 minutes after the first, so from the outset it was clear we weren’t going to see much aside from the increasing presence of darkness. I took this opportunity to get to know one of the guides, Yongten Dema, better. She told me she and Pema are sisters, which I’ve learned in Bhutan is just another statement that befuddles foreign conceptions of relations. The two girls are unrelated altogether, but the sister status indicates a close relationship. Both girls had graduated up through class 10 and sought out work, eventually getting offered prestigious positions at the upscale Lingkhar Lodge. They only recently started taking people on treks. Pema had done it twice before, but this was Yongten’s first go at guiding foreigners through Merak and Sakteng. She voiced her nervousness, being ever humble about her linguistic capacity as she tried to explain her situation.

Photo credit to Alex Rothman

Just before the sky turned jet black we ran into the first group and decided it was time to turn around. We came back to eat a quick and simple Bhutanese dinner consisting of rice, kewa datsi (potato and cheese curry), sag (mustard greens), and daal (Indian soup made from orange lentils). We were told we needed to eat quickly because we had guests coming to join us for evening festivities.

Soon thereafter various members of the local community came into the room wearing traditional garb. The Brokpa wear a unique interpretation of the gho and kira, one that best suits their lifestyle in higher-elevations laden with precipitation. Men wear yak-leather boots and trousers with yak-wool belts and dyed-red woolen robe-like jackets whereas the women sport ankle-long dresses with an inner layer and jacket with detailed embroideries reminiscent of a Christmas sweater. Most characteristic and identifiable of their costume is what I refer to as a “spider hat”. These black hats are made from yak hair and have 5 distinct down-facing points to defer rivulets of rain from their faces and are worn by both men and women.

As they came in a few began to place bottles of clear liquid in the center of the room. Many of these were housed in reused soda and beer bottles while some were in oversized thermoses. There were also traditional arra containers: beautiful vessels reminiscent of a mini-keg with a wooden frame, finished with sections of black varnish between gold-colored metal rings. Just when I thought they were finished they would put down a few more. Finally, after placing well over a dozen bottles in the center of the room, they sat down. One of the house owners set a large metal pot on top of the bukkari stove. Hot arra, I thought, could be good.

My POV from the room

Photo credit again to Alex Rothman

I looked around the room and realized the Brokpa representation was overwhelmingly female. 9 women, 2 men—spanning mid-thirties to fifty years of age by the look of them. I asked about this later and found out that in Brokpa culture women tend to command more respect in community matters, as they are the deciders of important decisions like marriage, migration times, and family finances whilst the men tend to yak herding or command some other trade.

Pema Choden then began the introductions, translating for us. She informed us that in honor of our arrival to Merak the townspeople would like to offer us arra and sing some local songs for us beginning with the traditional song to commence such an evening all about drinking, community, and the like. We expressed our gratitude and sat quietly as they began to belt into song. While Bhutanese traditional music can certainly vary, it is by its nature soft and undulating with moments of vibrato. The sounds were very soothing, enhanced from the heat given off by the stove and our ever-constricting blood vessels as we sipped on the potent arra.

After a couple songs they asked for our names, countries of origin, and where we were stationed. They then requested that teachers representing each country sing a song native to their homeland. We Americans huddled in the corner conspiring some song conducive to our humble singing abilities. Meanwhile our guides, who both possessed beautiful voices, continued with their own renditions. After a few of our fellow teachers sang their tunes, we performed ours. Our performance was mediocre at best, but perhaps less cringe-worthy than it could’ve been.

Later we joined in dance as the Brokpa sang. We hadn’t a clue how to dance to their songs, but we quickly learned the simple 4-step patterns, moving our feet in like motion back and forth, our palms gently moving the air up and down. We laughed at our attempts, more so at those less coordinated. I, meanwhile, tried my best not to be noticed. The hour grew late and after a long day we were tired. We thanked them again and set our heads upon our pillows for rest.

The next morning I awoke early, which would have irked me if I hadn’t been able to look out to the surrounding hills. The view was absolutely spectacular. I drank in the town’s diurnal visage, rife with a kind of rawness and simplicity that even the most faithful urbanite could appreciate. The air was untainted by exhaust fumes or the sounds of machinery. The land before me was virgin, familiar and yet still unknown. I could hear the sounds of horses, cows, and sheep—a faint knocking of an axe in the distance. Looking toward the town there were a great many more houses than I imagined for a town so small. The area was illuminated by the glinting light of the sun reflecting off the tin roofs. I am truly somewhere special, I thought to myself just before joining the others in the tea room.

We convened to dine on a breakfast of fried rice and eggs. As we ate we talked of plans for the day. First we would visit the school then take a walk around town to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. The afternoon could be spent casually and for those interested, we could attend a religious ceremony held at the local temple. Most of us decided to play it by ear while more passionate souls voiced their plans without a second thought.

We walked 15 minutes down to the local school and meandered around the campus. I spoke with some of the teachers, one who was from Mongar, and watched the students perform various activities. Some were cutting grass with metal sickles, some were gardening, and others still were practicing cultural and modern dances in small groups.

On the way up we stopped by Yongten’s aunt’s house for tea. The room was black from soot and dark with the wooden sliding shutters closed. She had no electricity, just the faint glow of the fire from the bukkari. The house felt truly authentic in its rustic charm. Tools hung from the wall as well as traditional containers, dried meats, and hardened cheese.

Photo credit to Fraser McInnes

Eventually we moved on at the behest of our guides toward the town’s temple. We took off our shoes and prostrated in front of the lama out of respect. With permission we ascended the weathered wooden ladder to the upper levels and admired the complex religious murals. There were macabre scenes of skeletons, trampled humans, and fire-breathing demons not far removed from the serene Buddhas and bodhisattvas; the contrast of which were further exaggerated by opposing color schemes. We gave our thanks and navigated the maze-like paths back to our quarters.

Once back we passed the early afternoon catching up on sleep, playing word games, journaling, and talking. A small group went out on a hike while some of us stayed behind to attend the religious ceremony. Pema and Yongten had the wonderful idea of procuring the traditional dress for us to wear thanks to a few gracious neighbors. We squeezed into them with their help and took a few pictures. The woolen gho I sported was quite itchy so I kept my jacket on underneath, which worked out for the best anyway as it began to rain just as we left.

We left the guesthouse and daintily hopped around mud puddles en route to the temple. There several people were already waiting outside, most underneath an overhang as the sprinkle turned to a deluge. They looked at us curiously, surely due to our attire. We took pictures with each other and some of the locals underneath the overhang of the temple’s roof.

POV from under the temple roof

Photo credit to Fraser McInnes and Lynne Maher
Left to right: Yonten, Cat, Nakita, Pema, Myself, Dorji, Holly, Fraser, and Tim.

Soon the temple’s lama, wearing a Tibetan-style religious hat (picture a giant yellow mohawk), exited the building followed by monks who were banging on drums and cymbals. More monks came out blowing on horns and the last group carried arcane religious relics. They moved toward one area on the edge of the grounds and we were all given chicken feed to hold. In the middle of this man-made circle was a great woven symbol as well as two monks wearing demon masks. They danced wildly around as the horns blew in deep, soul-crushing tones accompanied by high, trilling notes.

The head lama stepped forward and our guides turned to us, “When he gives the sign, you must think of negative thoughts and throw the feed at the dancing monks.” This act thus symbolizes the release of negative energy. We did as requested and it was great fun to be among the crowd, all tuned into a similar channel, hurling grain at these monks with utter force. After a half dozen cycles involving the throwing of feed, the crowd dispersed and we with it.

Grains being thrown

The remaining hours of the day were spent eating and playing games. We knew tomorrow’s full-day hike would take every ounce of strength we had so we called it a night earlier than desired.

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**Those with keen eyes may notice the titles from this series are established novels. I have chosen these allusions carefully as they align with themes, ideas, and environments parallel to my experience. They’re also all well-written and somewhat obscure books worthy of a read!

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 3: A Many-Splendored Thing

Last summer I posted about my happenings in eastern Bhutan through a mini-series I titled "The Summer Sojourner". It ended rather abruptly despite the fact that many things happened after that, mainly visiting a remote locale in Bhutan called Merak-Sakteng, which was a journey that irrevocably changed my life. The reason I kept these things close-to-heart was to fulfill a promise to my program head not to share such details over social media until one calendar year had passed. Well guess what time it is? 

***And for those that noticed I only wrote the first half of my final trip west, I assure you I have written its sequel and intend to publish them after this segment is out for the public. Without any further ado...

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 3: A Many Splendored Thing

Before long the retreat was at an end. Many of us split up to pursue different adventures during the break. The goodbyes were heartfelt and heavy, but as it turned out, I was going to see most again as I ventured west. Eleven of us, however, concerted ourselves to exploring Merak Sakteng. Lynn, a fellow BCFer from Tasmania, had suggested it weeks earlier, ever-persistent to see through this once-in-a-lifetime chance. We were hesitant to confirm before consulting our friends first, but once we all sat down at the retreat and heard Nancy’s spiel about the area’s description and allure, we were dead set on going.

Merak and Sakteng are actually two separate villages divided by a half day’s walk and a 4,200m-high peak. The area and its ethnic group, the Brokpa, are unique for several different reasons which I will elaborate on throughout the next several chapters. The Brokpa (translated as “herder”) are a semi-nomadic people who settled in Bhutan from Tibet hundreds of years ago. Their facial structure, language, lifestyle, customs, religion, and dress are distinctly different from eastern Bhutanese, primarily due to physical isolation; there is no direct road access in the summer and during the winter the snows prevent travel altogether.

The Merak Sakteng trek has only been extended to foreigners in recent years, part of a cautious experiment to see if tours through the region can benefit locals without causing harm to their cultural identity. In truth only the richest traveler can afford this trip due to lengthy travel time and additional expenses beyond the $250 per day tariff, so for us to be able to visit with our meager monthly stipend—let alone convince the government to grant us permits—makes us incredibly fortunate. In fact, the royal family only visited for the first time in the history of Bhutanese monarchy in June! 

             

That Friday morning the eleven of us crammed into a pair of Bolero taxis with the addition of our drivers and two Bhutanese guides. Pema Choden and Yongten Dema, two young women who grew up in Merak, were granted special leave from their posts at the Lingkhar Lodge to accompany us on our 5-day excursion. Their knowledge of the area and culture as well as being fluent in the local dialect would prove extremely useful.

We set out from the lodge, passing Trashigang and the majestic provincial dzong before navigating the country roads en route to Rangjung, a beautiful little town at the base of a valley. Months prior my friend Nakita and I visited Rangjung and stayed with our South African BCF buddies on a long weekend, but this time we were only making a quick pit stop before climbing up into the mountains. Our drive would take us hundreds of meters up, presenting increasingly impressive views with every passing switchback. Just when the vastness and complexity of the landscape seemed at its apex, we would climb higher and my expectations would be bested.

Some hours later as my stomach began to rumble we took a turn off the road, bumping down a rocky path to some unknown destination. We passed through a decorative gate and before long I realized we were stopping at the nunnery we had been told about earlier. In the parking lot I jumped out of the car and looked around, amazed by the ubiquity of vibrant prayer flags waving in the mild breeze of the afternoon.

I turned around and beheld the temple complex, which held a series of buildings, an open cemented ground, and a large temple touting the standard white-wash paint and distinctive red stripe which is found on every religious structure in Bhutan.

While we waited for a few others to arrive I took this chance to roam the grounds. I spotted a statue under construction judging by the bamboo scaffolding around it and walked down the steps to take a closer look. The statue stood above a kind of fountain. I stood at its base and turned around to behold a most colorful myriad of buildings, kissed with a subdued but charming pallet of pastel hues.

Religious complexes in Bhutan, at least the ones I had seen up until that point, have had a formulaic simplicity to them, but this was different. Even the prayer flags presented a new color to the scheme: pink.

I returned upstairs to be offered biscuits and soda by nuns. While I have encountered a few nuns in my day, I had yet to see one in Bhutan and that is saying something considering how often I cross paths with monks wandering the streets in their distinctive red robes. Nevertheless here they were, the women of the sangha (religious order) standing right in front of me. The practice dates back some 2500 years when the Buddha’s aunt pleaded to join his order. He had declined her request at first, but she continued to show her devotion along with 500 other women who had also cut off their hair, dressed themselves in second-hand monk robes, and committed to following the Buddha’s footsteps. Eventually he acquiesced to her request and the nun order was born.

               We thanked the nuns for their generosity once we finished and stood idly by the veranda, peering out at the mountains and valleys in the distance.

          A few of us then decided to peruse the temple grounds further. I walked to the opposite side of the complex and snapped a couple pictures of the yellow stupas, taking in my colorful surroundings before I was beckoned into the main temple. I ditched my shoes and stepped over the bronze-plated entrance panel inside. The inner sanctum was beautiful. Opposite the entrance were three statues, one of which showed the primordial Buddha Samantabhadra in passionate embrace with his female consort, a spirit named Samantabhadri. Their sexual union symbolizes a perfect balance of polar energies (think yin and yang) within the unsullied mind. Around the room were detailed frescos of gods and goddesses, skeletons, demons, and all kinds of lore in fresh paint. There was even a section that had outlines sketched in void of the final touches. We took turns prostrating out of respect to the picture of the head lama and the primary statue before taking our leave. It was time to continue our ascent.

On we went, passing Phongmae (Nancy’s original placement in the 1980’s) before leaving all civilization behind. The muggy summer air turned cool as we climbed. The once rocky ground turned soft then wet then unbelievably muddy. Our driver expertly navigated the terrain but at every muddy patch I was sure our plans were foiled. A couple cars got stuck along the way but with a little help we managed to free them. It was a wild ride of skidding and mud-slinging and it certainly got the heart racing.

Eventually we reached the pass and began a slow descent. The land was virtually untouched in its rurality, reminiscent of Cascadia with its brilliant emerald and rich, earthy browns. Here we were, at the very edge of the Sakteng Wildlife Preserve, otherwise known as the world’s only national park devotes to the protection of the yeti. Many tales of the yeti come from this region, though the infamous migoi has been part of Bhutanese lore across several of the country’s northern provinces of comparable elevation.

 As the land flattened out all traces of paved road were gone. We drove on dirt and grass, occasionally crossing shallow rivers. Just as I was beginning to relax and enjoy the fresh air, my worst nightmares came true. A swarm of wasps invaded the car, flying inside our open windows with. They settled in every corner. It took a matter of seconds for chaos to erupt. We waved our hands erratically in an attempt to the rid the pests, but they clung to any and everything. On the seats. On the floor. On our clothes. In the trunk. There were even 4 on my hat which I held in my hand. Somewhere between frozen panic and attempting to crawl out of my skin I tried to mentally stay myself and failed miserably. Fortunately my friend Holly came to my rescue with utter indifference to these stingers on wings and batted them senseless. After we successfully ridded the lot of them, I felt a bit sheepish for my lack of suaveness, but hey, I’m not perfect. In truth we were lucky considering only one of us got stung, but I’d be quite happy to never repeat that incident for so long as I live.

               We continued on the rocky road until the path was blocked by a car, parked in the middle of the one-lane road with no driver in sight. We exited the car and I began to walk ahead of the group down the path.

It wasn’t long before I beheld my first yak. These monstrous bovines are most impressive to behold and I was sure to keep a safe distance from them.

I kept walking until I encountered a few wooden shacks selling food and snacks. A number of people sat or stood idly by, a not-too-uncommon sight for Bhutan. Seeing as foreigners don’t come by too often, they gawked openly at my pale complexion and outrageous fashion sense. I tried to speak with them, but the locals here don’t even speak Dzongkha or much Sharchop—just a local dialect called Brokpa.

The others soon joined and we were ushered inside a small room with a bukkari (wood stove) for lunch. We ate the standard fare of rice, veggy curries, and daal. After eating we exited the store to find the trucks parked and unloading our stuff. I came to learn my camera had been broken during the drive, but everything else was fine—plus I still had my GoPro. We suited up and said goodbye to Nancy and friends as we set off on foot to the Merak trailhead.

It wasn’t long before we reunited with the muddy terrain we encountered earlier in the trucks. This time we were on foot though, and the ground was close to flat. We lugged our bags on our back for an hour or so before the view opened up. We were on the slope of a mountain sandwiched by pines on one side and green grass dotted with stones in every other direction. 

High up the slope we could even make out sheep grazing. We stopped along the way from time to time to hear local tales of where lamas had stayed demons in their tracks or great figures from Brokpa history had once walked, these sites designated by a ring of piled stones. 

Once over a hill we could make out our first view of the mystical Merak. We continued onward until the grass and dirt became stone and mud paths, carving our way up to our accommodation.