Visiting Museums in Bhutan

I have seen too little of the world outside Bhutan but that little experience away from home awakened my appreciation for the depth of our own country. Now I desire to travel deeper in our own country and its history than anywhere away.

Isn’t it sad that we have nothing much written down as history. We say we are rich in oral literature and history but if you realize, much is lost in transmission from one mouth to another and one generation to another. More than losing is the threat of manipulation as stories travel through time.

What hasn’t been changed, what hasn’t been altered are the stories stored in objects from the past. But sadly those stories are collecting dust in museums, and much of what people had in their homes have flown to Nepal through black market routes and rest are waiting in the handicraft shop to be sold out to western tourists.

So considering that our villages are transformed, though even if they were intact not many of us spend time there, museums are our only hope of finding original stories that are rarely heard, or never heard in its truest form.

Sometimes the mystery of our unclear history is frustrating but other times it turns out that the same mystery defines what Bhutan is. It is that desire to explore the unknown, which makes life all so meaningful for some of us. It’s the urge to travel in back in time and not just live life forward but also add a backward dimension to life. Life becomes so much bigger.

While time machine called museum is as cheap as Nu.20 per adults and Nu.5 for students; a pizza can fund a class of 40 students to any museum in Bhutan but in my 7 years on Facebook I have seen thousands of pictures of children posing with pizzas but not a single picture of child posing outside a museum.

Paro Penlop Dawa Penjor Heritage Farmhouse, one of the private museums I visited was confused when my group asked for visiting fee. They have never received any Bhutanese visitors and therefore haven’t thought of an entry fee for Bhutanese. The lady was so happy to receive the first group of Bhutanese visitors that she offered us ara and suja like she did for fee paying tourists, all for free. We were so touched the we offered no less than any tourists.

Dear parents take your children for swimming to given them the best physical exercise, take your children to a library for the best mental exercise, and take your children to a museum to exercise their imagination. Take them back in time because so many answers they may seek in the future are buried in the past.

Following is a list of Museums I have visited. It’s just a list for now, specifics of each will be written in the following blogs.

• National Museum of Bhutan, Paro
• The Tower of Trongsa, Trongsa
• Paro Penlop Dawa Penjor Heritage Farmhouse, Paro
• Folk Heritage Museum, Thimphu
• Simply Bhutan, a Living Museum, Thimphu
• Druk Home Museum, Paro

*BookMyTour has a museum specialised travel guide to help you in case you are planning a museum tour in Bhutan

National Museum of Bhutan

The Tower of Thongs

Druk Home Museum

Paro Penlop Dawa Penjor Heritage Farmhouse

Simply Bhutan, A Living Museum

Folk Heritage Museum

Crime Hidden in Pine Forest

In 2003, I was severely ill in the first week I reached Sombaykha Primary School. I wanted to run back home but I was officially four days away from everything familiar to me. I knew I was going to die in the place so new and so remote. Everything about the place made me lonely. It was then that I accidentally broke a thick red ruler in headmaster's office. You won't believe how the scent of pinewood that came from the broken ruler suddenly made my heart race. I took the two broken pieces with me and kept them hear my pillow. From the next morning I felt more alive than ever.

Coming back to Paro and living among the Pine trees is a gift of natural happiness. I know the trees, I grew up with them, I played on their branches and slept under their shade. The scent from the free sends me heart dancing. I am home. But wait, what's under those trees?

Below my training centre in Dop Shari, there is a small patch of pine trees. It's too small to be called a forest but the small group of trees seemed to have survived so many human interventions. Between the trees and the road there is clearly a pit overflowing with garbage. It doesn't seem like a recent activity but now that we live and work in that area, people could easily blame it on us. My colleague Ram took it on to himself to clear that area as part of his social initiative. He got us gloves and sacks.

We thought an afternoon would be enough but as we dug we discovered that the place was used for ages. The waste was obviously from a hotel- countless wrappers of milk, sugar, biscuit, frozen chicken, wine bottles, broken plates and glasses, carton boxes,... It doesn't require much intelligence to analyse that the former occupant of our office was responsible. This place was earlier a tourist hotel, and evidently a very irresponsible one.

Tip of Plastic Iceberg

What we discovered later broke my heart completely. Beyond the pit, cleverly hidden under the pine trees was a secret world of plastic. It was clearly years of intentional and irresponsible dumping of plastic waste, which should be a criminal offence to the nation. It's a wonder how the authorities didn't spot at least the pit that was just below road to Paro Dzong.

The bigger question is, where are other hotels hiding their waste? I have seen a few patches of landfill here and there in Paro. Above Gaptay I have seen a depression in the woods filled with hotel waste, and above that I have seen at least three hotels. It seems to a trend in Paro to hide their waste in the woods. I would therefore like to alert National Environment Commission and Tourism Council of Bhutan to investigate this issue in Paro and perhaps elsewhere in the country. 

Revealing the Hidden

In Paro the problem must have cropped from the failure of the Dzongkhag Municipal. I assume that they can't possibly assist the hotels in managing their waste when they seem to fail in managing the waste in the middle of the town. The waste collecting trucks are small and manually operated, and the frequency of collection seems very less. The bins placed at prime locations are small even for a single user, and therefore are seen overflowing perpetually. Everything seems so half hearted.

Wherever the problem is there seems to be a serious need of intervention. This beautiful country we are so proud of may soon lose its countless adjectives, and our proud environmental efforts may just turn into myths on paper. 

I'm Scared of Him No More

I knew Au Sonam since my days in Gaupay, way back in mid 90s. He was a terror. He lived outside our school gate with his father and stepmother. His muscular body, complimented by fluent English made him a fearful star in the neighbourhood. He was always high on his substances and would be surrounded by bunch of bad boys from our school. Every little problem in school will reach him and he won't hesitate getting into our campus and solving it his way.

Once even I was on his hit list. Someone went to the godfather and he came looking for me. I was in the dinning hall over lunch. It was like a typical scene from Bollywood movies, where the villain comes to the college and nobody says anything. Even the teachers won't want to mess with him, so there I was on my own. He found me out and to my surprise he said, "Jada, he is just a kid. Give me some big guys." After that day I, like hundred other avoided being seen by him.

Over the years, I have seen him in Thimphu, Paro and Phuntsholing, always alone and high, swaying from one end of the road to other. There weren't many people, even from across the border who dared offend him, let alone Bhutanese.
With Au Sonam (Center)  After so many years here he was, as our honourable guest speaker at the Royal Academy. Well dressed, well spoken, very committed and very open with his thoughts. He was invited to speak to us about his life and to give us insight into the minds of addicts. He is now one of the successful recovering addicts who is doing everything to help those who are headed into the direction he once was. 

He said he hated his stepmother, and went on to give her hard times after he grew up. She passed away and his father also left him few year later. He got married and gave his wife hard times too, and she left him. He became father and never justified his role as father. Everybody closed their doors on him. He slept on streets, begged from friends. He went behind the bars several times. He wanted to stop everything and live a normal life but it was no more in his hands. He relapsed several times, and in his low days he got beaten by his rival gangs. Once when he had his withdrawals he had walked from Paro to Haa and his relative there sent him away with Nu.100. On his way back he hallucinated and jumped of a taxi. The driver left his bag on his still body and drove away.

He said that's when he hit the 'Rock Bottom', the time in life where you turn around and see nobody and nothing. You are alone in the world. He said the pain of addiction is not the beating you get from gangs and cops, it's not the pain from hunger and cold, it's the not the pain from the withdrawals. The real pain is realising that all the doors are closed on you. That's what he called the rockbottom. There is now one important decision to make- to leave or to live. And he decided to live.

Now here he is clean and a respectable man, though still fighting his personal battle with his past and its implications. He vividly remembers those last individuals who opened their doors for him and he is striving to do the same for those in need. He is working with Chithuen Phendhey Association in Paro. Of all the people I never thought he would make it, he is an inspiration. 

The one regret that he says will always haunt him is his misinterpretation of his stepmother. He realized that the problem was never with her, she had tried her best. She raised him. But he lived with the stereotypical notion of stepmother, which never allowed him to understand her and love her. He admits that any mother would kick son like him out, but she didn't. He wants to say sorry and hug her and thank her for trying so hard but he has waited too long.

NOTE: His office in Paro has established a Pre-Rehab centre at Shari, the place where they keep their clients before finding a suitable place and funding. And he is looking for some recreational tools, like books, carom board and computer to keep them occupied. If you wish to donate please come forward.

Paro Has a Problem

Paro is a gateway to Bhutanese economy, and that explains why our economy is unhealthy. I am quite new to this place to understand the secret to how they managed to keep the town so dirty. It's amazing how people can adapt to living in dustbins and I don't quite know how responsible authorities manage to sleep peacefully.

Someone told me a story about attitude of business people in Paro town; Once an elderly woman was seen dumping her waste in the drain in the middle of town, and as matter of fact he went to ask her to take care of her waste. You know what she replied? "O Boy, don't worry, scouts will come to clean up the town on Saturday." It's clear that all the good intentioned cleaning campaigns school children conducted in the town went on to pamper these people and it only taught them how to take waste for granted.

I confirmed the story firsthand within my short stay in this place. One day Clean Bhutan brought along a passionate group of college students and cleaned the entire town. For the first time I saw the town clean. As always it took a cleaning campaign to let the town breadthe fresh air. I don't know how no Parob felt guilty about letting people from as far as Shrubtse and Gedu colleges clean their town. Quite obviously, unthankfully, and unfortunately I saw the town back to its sorry state just a few days later. Following are the pictures of one spot I took to show you the state of Paro over the past weeks. Now they are waiting for another cleaning campaign! 

Before the Cleaning Campaign

After the Cleaning Campaign

Later, and few days after

People living in this place should know that their irresponsible way of living could damage the image of the whole country. While they deserve to suffocate on their own garbage, they should not forget that they live on the gateway to Bhutan. Tourism keeps the heart of Paro beating and it's their natural responsibility to make the place worthy of the privileges it gets. Be it the town or the way to Taktsang, it's time Paro stopped waiting for the goodwill of responsible people from elsewhere.

Jangsa Bridge

 For now there seems to be no municipal body in Paro, and if there is one perhaps it's time they surprise us by justifying their role. The location and size of mobile dustbins should be intelligently changed. The frequency of garbage collection around the town should be upscaled. Irresponsible people should be heavily fined, because education seemed to have failed but again they might say the garbage trucks don't turn up or the dustbin in the town corners are tiny. So basically it must begin with the change in system. I still remember following a garbage collection tractor along airport road that spilled waste all over the place as it sped ahead of my car. The plastics were flying on to my windscreen and sacks of waste were dropped on the road. Can you believe these were the people entrusted to manage waste?

Tamchoe Lhakhang

I also think the handicraft shop owners should lend their clean hands to make the town clean for their potential costumers to happily visit them. The same should be the moral responsibility of Guide Association of Bhutan and Association of Bhutanese Tour Operators (ABTO) to make the town welcoming for their bread to fly in. It is more than ever important to let Paro shine and glitter because 2015 is going to be big for tourism industry as Bhutan observes Visit Bhutan year. If Thimphu is the heart of Bhutan, Paro is truly the face and we can't present a dirty face to our guest. We haven't done it thus far and let us not set an unglamorous precedent by doing it when we are inviting the world to come visit our pristine country. 

Bottomline: Stop giving Paro fish, teach Paro how to fish!

(I think everybody knows about the effect of solid waste on our environment and ultimately on ourselves, therefore I am not discussing the cliché in this article.)

One Horsewoman of Taktshang

In these few years if you have visited Paro Taktshang you must have noticed that there are plenty of horses waiting at the base like taxis at Lungtenzanpa, and as you hike up the hill you would see many more horses plying tourists up to the monastery. It must be a very recent development because I haven't seen horses during my four initial visits from 1997 to 2006.

My late stepfather's sister is now one of the many horsewomen waiting at the base of Taktshang. I am so happy to see that she has finally made a easier choice in life, though climbing Taktshang more than once every days is by no means easy but comparing to what she has gone through Taktshang should be a cup of tea.

Horsewoman Dawa Bidha. Photo by Sonam Peljor

She was a brave lady who refused to accept any stereotypical notions of the rural society she lived in. As a beautiful young widow she could have accepted another proposal and made her life easy and nobody would have bothered after a while but she made the harder choice. She had to bring up two daughters and care for her old mother inlaw, and therefore remained single throughout.

I have heard of men travelling to Tibet in the dead of night, crossing mountains after mountains, through snow and sometimes blizzards, but my aunty was the only woman who did that all her life, and mostly all by herself because she didn't find likes of her in the company of men. She and her horses took that terrible journey thrice a year and then she carried her goods on her back and travelled the width of the country going from door to door and seeking shelter wherever the day ended. She has reached every Dzongkhag and she told me that she entered every Dzong to offer butter lamp and sell her posters (of Buddhist masters) and pocket knifes.

Now it's been some years since the route to Tibet has become very dangerous for poster traders like my aunty after some people started using it for smuggling sandalwood. She now gave up on Tibet. She is in her late 50s and it's time she hung the saddles but because she still has to care for the old mother inlaw, and her two daughters still lean on her with their children she can't sell her horses as yet.

So here she is at the base of Taktshang with her horses, still sweating and still panting yet happily doing her duty as daughter inlaw, as mother and as grandmother by being a horsewoman of Taktshang. Her name is Dawa Bidha.


P:S: Though I will never ride a horse especially to Taktshang but for the longest time I romanticised the idea of riding on a horse to Taktshang after seeing a 1971 picture of Aung San Suu Kyi. It was said that Michael Aris proposed Aung on the same day after reaching Taktshang. What they have achieved in their lives after that will be remembered by history. I personally am so grateful to late Aris for all the books he wrote on Bhutan.
During my fifth visit to Taktshang in 2012, my wife, daughter and sister inlaw took what-I-call the "Aung San Suu Kyi Ride" to Taktshang. Somewhere in the middle one horse ran downhill carrying my wife and if it wasn't for my brother Samtay who caught the horse the memory would have been ugly. While it's nice to ride horses to Taktshang always know that it's risky.

Aung riding to Taktshang, 1971

Copyrighted Road in Paro?

Japanese are very serious about copyright infringements and I heard even their fruits come without seeds because they don't want the rest of the world to grow their fruits. Talking about copyright, did they copyright the amazing farm roads they built in Paro?

The farm roads Japanese built in Paro are simply the finest example of how engineering when woven with nature can become timeless. They haven't used concrete nor were the roads blacktopped, but over the last 20 years the road stood the test of time. The gravels and sand just seem to know where to remain for ages, and this cannot be an accident. Japanese found the secret to building himalayan roads. And I am thankfully loving this road on my way to meeting my son on the weekend.

How is it built?

But the sad and obvious Bhutanese story is when the Japanese left we only kept the roads, we haven't learned their ways of building that kind of roads. In last 20 years our highways were redone over hundred times and we have built hundreds of funny farm roads across the country, if we knew the Japanese way it would have saved us millions from each kilometer so far. The Japanese came to overseas and mountains to help us but we just took their kindness for granted.

I'm wondering what those Bhutanese offices, engineers, and people who were involved with the Japanese projects were doing besides licking boots. What have they learned? Or am I right in guessing that the Japanese copyrighted the road, and never revealed the secrets? We will never know how good roads are built.

Little Maya- The Questioning Girl

October took away a part of us. Some things will never be the same again but November is slowly healing us and the new place is making a huge difference. I am still looking for a family house here in Paro.

Above all the worldly affairs was the experience of school visit last week. Going back to school was the greatest feeling. I think I was designed to be a teacher. Along that long rough road I finally felt the joy of having come back to Paro. Watching the farmers harvest their paddies along the road made me nostalgic about my childhood in Paro. There is so much I have to write about this place. Let me first settle down.

Well, lost in thoughts I was driving along the Dotey road and by the time I knew I was near Kuenga High School. I was supposed to be in Dotey (Doteng) Lower Secondary School. This part of Paro was not familiar to me, infact I have never come this way and therefor I was lost. It took me a while to turn back and look for that subtle gate that showed the uphill road to the school.

Let me keep aside the great day long experiences and the hospitality of the teachers for another time, let me focus on a little girl that caught my attention that day. I named her Little Maya. She was in class I. But I saw her among the students of class VII, and at first I wondered how small she was for class VII. Later find out that she was a visitor to their class. She would exercise her liberty of innocence anytime and anywhere with anybody.

There she is,  Still question two Achu's

When she saw me she ran to me and asked, "Are you Japanese?" I laughed and in my typical local accent told her that I was from Haa. She was convinced easily. Then she asked my name, my job, my family and why I was there in her school. Even the principal didn't asked half as many questions as she did. The keenness with which she question and sincerity with she listened to my answers made me want to talk to her for as long as she wanted. It was hard to make her understand why I was observing her teachers because I already told her that I was a students as a matter of fact.

She would twitch her nose when I wasn't very clear and ask additional questions without any hesitation. As I watch her interview me I could help admire her. She was full of questions and she was at all shy to ask her questions. As she set me free to join another group who were playing carom I asked to myself if I was ever so inquisitive as her. Then I look at other students around her, who are much older, and wonder why are they as comfortable as Little Maya? When did they stop questioning? Where did they lose their confidence?

And as a teacher these questions bothered me because I have always dealt with older kids and in them you don't see a tiny bit of Little Maya, because apparently our schools don't let Maya in us live for much longer. We all must have had Little Maya in us once upon a time, and if we rescue that in us it will make all the difference in the way we learn.

Seven Years in Bajothang

September 25, 2014 was officially my last day in Bajothang. This day was never in my plan. Infact I didn't have a plan beyond Bajothang. This just happened suddenly. I wouldn't have left this place for anything, but sometimes we have to make important choices, choices that are more than places and people, choices that are dream come true.

The Last Shot of the Beautiful Place I am leaving behind

I never thought I would spend seven years away from home, and gradually begin to call that strange place my new home but I think Bajothang was written in my destiny. Perhaps it was written for seven years. The seven defining years- the seven years that made me a happy teacher, husband, and father.

Seven years was a lot of time. So many things changed in these many years. First 3 batches of my students would already be in jobs and have started families. People came and went, I am among the few who came and stayed. Seven Years have passed thus. And now is the time.

Tomorrow I will pack my bags for Paro. That's another place away from home yet Paro has always been home. I began my school in Paro and finished my college from Paro and the seventeen years inbetween were spent in that beautiful valley. I am returning home. I am returning to my educational home to be student again, for two more years, to reshape the teacher that I am.

Counting the last days in Bajothang, settling things, meeting people, and attending farewell dinners, I realize I have earned the friendship of best of people in the town, yet because of my activist's activities I am told that there are some people whom I have disappointed, but I am hopeful that someday they will come to love me when they understand what I was trying to do to this place. It was never personal, and when they realize that they will hopefully begin to appreciate what I did. In seven years I dreamt to fix everything in Bajothang but as I pack my bag I can see that I couldn't turn a stone. So next time I must dream twice.

I hope I will find time to return to this place and finish two last projects I have begun here: The Museum in the School and Book Cafe in the town.

Rushing up to meet my personal deadline 

Finishing Touch to the center piece...

It's Almost Ready. 

Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?

People are closing the chapter on the Suicide too soon, yet again, as expected. It's just a few of us who thought things will change forever, that the death of two young people hanging by one tree would awaken the country to the grave reality of suicide. Are you going to wait till someone hangs on the tree at your gate? Or will it take someone to hang on your bedroom fan to make it matter to you personally?

Suicide is a very fragile subject, which is differently understood by different people: Some think it's brave act to face one's death, while other say that someone who can't face life's problem is a coward. Some explain how it's an unchangeable fate, while others believe it's impetuous stunt to prove a point.

1957 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Albert Camus makes it sound so simple when he says, “Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?” Suicides are generally driven by simple problems that could be solved easily over a cup of coffee, if only we could hold on for that long, because it seems that for the victims there is no bigger problem at that point in time. That's why we need to discuss it, and make professional help easily accessible to people in problem. 

March 10, 1997: It was the reporting date for class VIII students in Paro Gaupay. Class VII students were announced to report after Paro Tshechu. I didn't receive my result sheet, which was to be delivered by post in January. However, nobody really bothered about my missing result because they knew I was the best. I had the reputation of being 'the boy who never failed' both at home and in the village. So they packed my bags and sent me on March 10.

My uncle was an army officer and he sent me in an Army DCM truck with several children from army camp. Those kids had received their results and their seat in class VIII were confirmed while I was to visit the headmaster and get my result first.

The driver uncle accompanied me to the headmaster's office, he looked confident because he heard from my uncle about how good I was. The headmaster knew me well because of the several visits I paid to his office the last year, and he was so pleased to hand over the result without even punishing me for not having submitted postal address like other kids. I have failed in three subjects. Headmaster told driver uncle to take me back home and send me after tshechu holidays, because that's when class VII students should report.

I turned numb with shame and guilt. I was scared. The army driver who heard so much about me from my uncle was thoroughly confused. He reloaded my bags into the DCM and asked me to join him in the front of the truck. I refused his offer and climbed on the back of the truck, where I was alone now because all the other children had passed and were staying back.

Then as we began our journey back to Dechencholing my fear began to escalate. I couldn't imagine facing the crowd at home. I feared my uncle even in normal times. That's when I decided to jump of the moving truck. I thought to myself- what would they do if I died? Would they forgive me? What if I got seriously injured? Would they forgive me? Hundreds of thoughts asking each other questions and making answers.

I still get cold feet when I think of that moment, that delicate moment when I was ready to jump. Then I sat down and calculated what would happen in the worse case scenario? How much will they scold me or beat me? By tomorrow morning won't everything be over? That decision I took that day, with half my body hanging from a moving truck was the best I took. I thank that 13 year old me for saving me.

We reached home at dinner time. The army driver knocked on the door, and upon calling he went in and gave a loud salute to my uncle, who was having dinner with houseful of family members - we usually have no less than 15 people seated at a meal.

"So you are back from Paro?" Asked my uncle,
"Yes Dasho" Army driver replied. I could hear the beat of my heart in my mouth.

"Did you reach my boy to his school?"

"No Dasho, I brought him back."

"Why?"
"He has failed, and Headmaster told him to come after Paro Tshechu."
All 15 people in the house laughed long and loud, and amidst their laughter I made my entry with a timid smile. They laughed more. And I laughed too. Someone went to pick my plate and I joined them. Nobody even scolded me.

The fear, shame and guilt were my own construction for which I nearly jumped of the truck. Over the funny dinner I thought what would have happened to this wonderful dinner if I had jumped.


After that year I never looked back. I rebuilt my "the boy who never failed" reputation at home and in village. Became the first boy from my village to qualify from class X, and from XII. Got degree, became a happy teacher and lived to write this post.

Maths Teacher at The Fuel Pump

I have various stories of myself at the fuel pump, and in the last many stories I was either the clown who ran on empty tank to the empty pump, or the villain who shouted at the manager who thought he had nothing to do with the empty pump. But this time I didn't switch my role, I remained a teacher- a Maths teacher.
I don't know if you are used to keeping your investigative eyes on the fuel meter while fueling your car, because there are pump boys who are out looking for chances to steal a few drops from your purchase. You have to be extra careful while fueling at the stations where the old model pumps are still serving after their retirement age because you don't see the price and the rate.
I was at a Fuel Station in Paro this morning and I was already displeased at the old machine. I asked to be fueled for Nu.1000 and the boy stopped at 14.4 L. I thought his machine needed a break but no, the boy was done.
I just fueled in Wangdue yesterday and argued over why I was only given 15.2L when I would get 16L normally. I was informed about the latest price hike. It's surprising how a faintest news of hike in India could be taken so seriously and swiftly in a place where the hiked fuel trucks are yet to arrive.
The boy came for the money and I denied him, I inquired him about the rate and he started stammering and changing colors. I knew it wasn't a mistake, he was only trying to rob a little bit from me just as he did from many others, but this time he messed with a maths teacher who not only teaches his kids how to do maths but also live mathematically. I gave him a short division lesson and made him add 800ml more, which was rightfully mine before I gave him the money.
Now, it doesn't really take a maths teacher to figure out such simple robbery, your mobile phone has a calculator in it in case you have to stop at a gas station where they use old machines that do not show the cost. Every drop counts in such times and 800 ml is more than some drops. Be careful.


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Location:Paro

 

Shanghai to Paro Taktshang

Three friends from Shanghai were on holiday in Bhutan last week. A man and two ladies were walking their way to Paro Taktshang when we met last Sunday. There were people from across the world that day, but these three came into focus because of what happened to them then. My family and these three friends made it to the place, where the uphill climb ends, almost at the same time, of course we rode horses. We took a long rest there, the spot where Je Gaden Rinchen was born.
The three Chinese seemed to be in hurry, with their guide panting after them. Just then the man slipped and fell, almost falling down the hill. He lay flat on the muletrack crying in pain- his left ankle was twisted. His two lady friends were shocked and screaming. Their guide was loaded with their cameras to do anything. Another ten minutes walk would have taken them to Paro Taktshang.
They immediately attracted lots of attention but they needed help more than mere attention. That's when I ran to them with my sister in-law, who was once a doctor in China and therefore carries whole set of first aid in her handbag. She assessed the injury and massaged it with balm. The huge man was still crying in pain but my sister in-law had pain killer with her. She even gave him a few more tablets for the evening. The man was shivering and his faced looked scary. We wrapped him in our kabney and I used my teacherly skill to calm him, " It's a very lucky sign that you fell right here where a great saint was born- Je Gaden Rinchen. We consider it very lucky." The magic worked on the two ladies. They were nodding and even smiling. My brothers carried the man to a comfortable spot and ask him to rest while we sort out what to do next. It was confirmed that the man cannot walk anymore, and his journey from Shanghai to Paro Taktshang ends here.
I asked the guide to call his office for backup, but I was only talking to the office himself. Like many tour operators his was one man army- he is the guide, the agent, the office and the final backup. He was funnily blaming the man for not walking carefully, instead of worrying. I didn't want our guest to feel helpless, so I told him to wait for my family to return so that we could carry him down.
The two ladies were biting their nails, seemingly not wanting to go back without completing their journey but their guide was even more perplexed. Then I decided to guide the two ladies with my family so that the guide could stay back with the injured. They happily agreed, even the injured.
It was my fourth visit to Taktshang and I can comfortably be a good guide but I had with me seven members of my family who were there for the first time. It took me over an hour to explain everything to the nine of them with special attention to my sister in-law and the two ladies, knowing that they can never make it back for second time. Because I agreed to be their guide I couldn't help see them struggle with their heavy cameras- so I carried them as well. As if nine of them weren't enough a group from Bangkok asked me to explain to them a lot of things.
I then met two senior guides to who I explained about the injured man and the indecisive guide, and requested them for help. By the time we walked out of the monastery I got a call from the guide saying he got assistance from the senior guides and that they were carrying him down. I told him not to worry about his guests who were with me.
In one of the Goenkhangs I was explaining about the prophecies of Guru Rinpochee, and knowing my two guests were Chinese I asked if they were a big fan of Chairman Mao Zedong. They excitedly replied yes. I sorrily told them that "about 1300 years ago Guru Rinpochee prophecised that a man call Mao will come one day and become the greatest threat to Buddhism". Two ladies looked at me in disbelief, "1300 years ago?" "Did all his prophecies come true?" By the time they walked out, they told me I have changed their mind.
I had to carry my daughter and walk slowly with my wife and sister in-law, so I let my brothers deliver the two ladies to the base where the guide and the injured where waiting in the car. By the time we reached the base they were gone. The guide didn't call me after that. But I am happy that the Chinese will remember fondly about Bhutan and Bhutanese despite the unfortunate journey.

My Team-Eight of them including my daughter

A Cup of Tea at Taktshang

I was talking about a cup of tea in the cafe halfway to Paro Taktshang on my Facebook wall and the few comments there inspired me to write it in my blog.
The Cafe is beautifully located, facing the gigantic cliff and the breathtaking Taktshang Monastery. The benches are strategically setup that one could just sit there and lose oneself. Who won't like to sit there and enjoy a cup of tea? If only a cup of tea was just a cup of tea! The cafe belongs to BTCL and they only had tourist in their list of costumers. In their description tourist means someone who earns in dollar, and therefore no Bhutanese can be tourist. A cup of tea cost Nu.84 and there is no concession for Bhutanese who could buy a whole meal with so much.
Bhutanese are expected to bring their own packed lunch and tea, and it is written in bold: "No picnic Lunch allowed here", which also goes out to Bhutanese. So I say, there is a beautiful Bhutanese Cafe half way to Taktshang that is only meant for tourist. And this is one among many beautiful and luxurious facilities in Bhutan catering to just foreign tourists, because there are some people up there who think Bhutanese don't deserve to have fun.

My Family Drinking Golden Tea

But the twist in the story was that I always wanted to visit that cafe, and coincidentally we were hungry and tired so we had to sit on those beautiful benches and drink funny tea- it didn't even taste good, we had to ask for more tea bags. Lesson learnt is that, there is no gold in that tea therefore don't forget your packed lunch and tea if you are head to Taktshang.

Preserving Paro Town

My visit to Paro last week gave me an opportunity to look at the town in a whole new perceptive. I have spent seventeen years of my life in Paro but it never felt that way until I spent these five years away. After having seen the changing faces of many Bhutanese towns the old street in Paro town is something that made me stop and wonder and then wish.

The Beautiful Paro

Paro Tshongdue the forgotten names means the business place, where the Bhutanese and Tibetan businessmen met to barter their goods long before we knew India and Bangkok. This town has history and it has the structural design well preserved to be called the Iconic Town of Bhutan. Interestingly many of these houses are converted into Handicraft showrooms thereby promising to remain so for years. But the desire for bigger and better houses has slowly eaten away at least two houses and many might want to follow soon. 

Government could adopt the street and preserve it creatively, without hurting the sentiments of the landlords and without freezing their desire to move forward. 

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The Last Bhutanese Town, Paro

Towns bigger than Thimphu are bound to come with time but if we lose Paro history may never forgive us.

Paro Dzong at Night

This was the shot I was attempting to get the last time I visited Paro, but because of the cold or may be my hand, I landed up getting blurring images. This time I made sure I came with my tripod so that I don't have to blame anything if the picture still came out wrong. And here is it!

Glowing Paro Dzong

Like a Diamond in the sky!