Magic of the mountains
On a bike ride to Bhutan, Sankar Sridhar finds warmth everywhere, from the hot ema datse to the friendly locals, besides breathtaking views
We were heroes until seconds ago: Adventurers from India brave enough to guide their 99 cc bike all the way to Bhutan. The duo that nursed sore limbs and bottoms made sensitive from friction with the seat during the 800 km journey from Kolkata, but were gung-ho about hazarding the remaining 850 km through the switchbacks of this mountainous kingdom.
The news spread rapidly through the border town of Phuentsholing that Sunday morning and we drew appreciative nods and gasps of awe from the crowd that had gathered. We had been through a lot in the past two days, we told our newfound fans — almost crushed under the wheels of a bus, almost locked up for photographing a bridge, almost taking the wrong route at the fork of a road on a moonless night and almost giving up out of sheer exhaustion. Nothing could stop us now.
The “now” had however turned “then” a moment ago. Now, as the waiter places the ema datse on the table, we realise that we have ordered our deepest, darkest fear. This terror could make us turn back because if the waiter was to be believed it would make its way to our table each day at lunch and dinner. For, ema datse is the king of the Bhutanese kitchen, a dish that’s as hot as its name is cool. It’s a main course in which chillies — red, yellow and green — are the main, nay, only ingredient, if you discount the coating of cheese that hides the fiery vegetable. It makes the eyes water, burns its way to the stomach and stages an equally excruciating exit the next day. It’s an experience that makes you want to run away faster than your poor nose.
And run we would have; run the gauntlet of maniacal bus drivers, drunk truck drivers and cratered roads all the way back through the districts of Jalpaiguri, Malda, North Dinajpur, Darjeeling and back home where chillies are still considered a spice. But the enigma of the last surviving Himalayan kingdom made us decide otherwise. So after requesting the waiter to give us some sugar and lots of tissue we kick-started our bike and headed to Thimphu, the capital, 130 km away.
At 20 kmph, it was 20 minutes before Phuentsholing dropped away behind the fold of a hill. We would not be heading this way again unless officials at Thimphu refused to give us the restricted area permit required to proceed beyond and exit through Samdrup Jhonkar where Bhutan shares its border with India’s northeastern state of Assam.
Being denied a permit is a very real possibility because His Highness King Jigme Singye Wangchuk expressly detests hippies and backpackers. One reason might be because Bhutan has one of the world’s largest wild marijuana crop. To keep visitors in check, they are asked to make all bookings — hotels, vehicles, guides — before they enter his kingdom. We had none of that having dropped in without notice, on a whim and a seven-year-old bike.
That story in a nutshell goes like this. I had quit my job and my brother won a month-long leave. So we planned a bike trip to the Northeast. The bike served us well on the 605 km journey from Kolkata and, with time on our hands, we decided to cross countries instead of states. The road did the rest and we found ourselves at Phuentsholing.
It was easy to get ourselves a permit to Thimphu even though it was a Sunday, given the interest and curiosity our appearance at Phuentsholing had generated. And being Indians gave us the rare privilege of entering by just showing our voter ID cards as proof of our nationality. But at the capital, the officer told us as we headed out, it could well be a “different story.”
On roads that could make a dervish’s head spin, we made only 65 km till Chimakothi, the only human settlement on the way to Thimphu, before deciding not to tempt rotten luck in the dying light.
Without budget tourists, hotels are rare and cheap hotels unheard of. Thankfully, people were warm and hospitable and opened their doors to us, in part because we requested them to, but mostly because they considered us a novelty. And to show how much they appreciated the adventurous streak in us they treated us to ema datse and rice. Pork, and beef too, are consumed with great relish, to our great relief. We were told that pigs are fed copious quantities of marijuana to keep them happy and because they grow big and fat and their meat fetches a better price. This we understood made their owners happy. And since the meat tastes better, the people who eat it, which I take to be the whole of Bhutan, are happy. We tried pork over ema datse that night and were happy. It all made sense, I thought as we headed to bed, for this kingdom to measure its wealth in “gross national happiness.”
We woke up stiff and brittle the next morning but stretched swiftly when we realised we had to reach Thimphu early; after paying the house owner Rs 100 we set out on our way.
After Chimakothi, Thimphu seemed state-of-the-art with neatly stacked multi-storeyed houses — each painted with murals and adorned with decorative woodwork, by order of the king — broad streets, prim policemen guiding traffic on the solitary road that loops twice around the capital and a mini-market with two cybercafés. The capital also boasts the only cinema hall in the kingdom and keeping with the theme of gross national happiness was screening Norbu, My Favourite Yak.
Adding to this magical experience is another diktat, passed in 1989, that makes it compulsory for all citizens to wear the national dress in public. So men wear a gho and women wear a kira. We took in the sights and sounds while locating the immigration office and once there placed our application. “No guide?” the officer asked. “No bookings? Then, no permit.”
But then, after hearing about our travels and realising that we did not look like people who were here to make trouble, she signed the necessary papers.
There are many things wild and wonderful about riding through Bhutan: Streams thunder down steep hills, cicadas screech all day, autumn explodes in a riot of colour, painted phalluses on walls of houses keep demons at bay, gods are appeased with beer and Maggi and Dzongs loom protectively over villages and farmland. We saw them all on our way to Samdrup Jhonkar, packed into the 850 km that took us through eight of the 20 districts in Bhutan. It’s an experience we won’t forget in a hurry. We rolled and rested, negotiating roads more twisted than many minds, passing below the imposing Wangdi Dzong and over the Punakha Chu and Tang Chu (chu is river) to Wangdi Phodrang, the last “town” in Central Bhutan. Then we sipped on Suja at a hotel reeking of rum and betel nut and got lucky and found ourselves a host for the night.
The deeper we went into this nation the more overwhelmed we were. That floating phallus, ornate, colourful and “ready,” was one such sight that greeted us at a hotel in Trongsa. The phallus belonged to a monk, Drupka Kinley, who some time in the 15th century subdued many an errant demon by striking them on their heads with his penis. So scared were the demons that even a mural of the phallus scares them nowadays. As we moved further east, the symbol gained prominence. Walls, flags and even looming large on the wall of a hotel room in Trashigang, though given the message scrawled by the artist, it seemed to have nothing to do with saints or demons.
The vistas, the winding roads and an average elevation of 11,000 ft were a potent trance-inducing cocktail. But human habitation, or the lack of it, remained Bhutan’s most striking aspect. Not for nothing is Bhutan the only under-populated country in Asia. The kingdom is a massive swathe of forest. Towns are just a handful of houses hugging the solitary road.
But where there were people, there was a surprising acceptance of us. On each of the five nights we spent in a local resident’s house, the treatment was the same: warm water to wash our faces, warm quilts to sleep in, warm food to eat and the warmth of camaraderie. And its pristine, magical manner — and with really low petrol prices — Bhutan almost seemed an anomaly to our world. Even at 30 kmph, we seemed to be rushing through, for time in these highlands seemed in step with life itself — slow, sluggish and above all happy.
At Bumthang we learnt the secret to happiness at a curio shop. Garuda, the eagle of Indian mythology, who stares down from above the main entrance of houses and dzongs in Bhutan, shreds all forms of evil that try to enter. The cost of eternal happiness was 1,800 ngultrum. “It would have been 3,000 if you were non-Indians,” the shopkeeper told us. You could put it down to good salesmanship, but it broke our hearts to think that way. This was, after all, the holiest site in Bhutan where the sage Guru Padmasambhava meditated before taking on the daunting task of converting the pagan lot that were the Bhutanese to the Buddhists they are today.
We bought the souvenir. Call it superstition, but our journey from then on was a dream. The days were sunny, shepherds invited us to share lunch, and we even managed the dekko of a monastery and chatted with monks. How else could our bike have sprinted up the toughest of inclines without complaint, up to Dochu-la, Pele-la and the many other passes, on the way to Mongar?
But Garuda’s powers seemed on the wane at Mongar, far from the Buddhist heartland where the king’s word was law. The populace here seemed more comfortable in jeans and jackets. Hindi was the chosen tongue and friendliness, free-flowing for so long, in slightly short supply. But we were still welcomed well and for the first time put up at a hotel. Warm water would cost us, the owner said, and so would extra quilts. Switch on the TV and it would set us back by an extra Rs 100.
We paid Rs 200 instead, not for two TVs but to give our backs and seats the additional cushioning they so craved for. A 99 cc motorbike is not exactly the ideal mode of transport in these winding roads on which, many a time our mount needed a helping hand on inclines it fell 251 cc short. Worse still, it transferred some of its suffering and shock from potholes on to our bodies. And suffice to say, the roads, like the people, seemed rather unfriendly from the approach to Mongar.
Even the landscape here seemed different. On the 180-km journey to Samdrup Jhonkar, forests were replaced by ill-kept patches of road and eight km from India, at the last army outpost on the Bhutan side, came the ultimate downer.
As the Amy men checked our bags and Garuda popped in view, we heard the word “smuggler” being thrown around. The commander entered, asked for the receipt. We didn’t have any but remembered the name of the shop. A phone call later, we were free to go. But not before apologies were tendered and we are asked to have some tea. “Come again,” the commander told us. “Once democracy asserts itself, we too will have only a gross national product to show.” The point is driven home. “We will,” we promised. And it’s a promise we intend to keep.
– Copyright: Exotica, the wellness and lifestyle magazine from The Pioneer Group, available in all rooms of select five-star hotel chains across the country
