A Bhutan Memory

I don't think of my trip to Bhutan in a chronological order of events, so instead I have experiences that are staying fresh in my memory which indicates to me that they should be written about.

I was on Day 10 of my trek through western Bhutan when we reached the remote village of Laya. I was starting to get into the rhythm of Bhutan and my trek. Breathing had grown easier at altitude, and my legs were accustomed to walking uphill. Our hike into Laya was supposed to be one of the easiest days with only 60m of elevation gain which one would think would be almost flat when that elevation gain is spread over the 10km distance. But as I had been finding, the guidebook description was not always my experience and this day was a good example. The day before had been technically our hardest day reaching the highest pass of 5003 metres and I had felt strong. This day I was finding the up and down of the trail tiring, it felt like we were trekking faster and I was ready for the hiking to be over for that day. Perhaps a bit of a lower key feeling after the euphoria and emotion of the day before. The work felt worth it though when I saw the village of Laya below me. It's nestled against the Himalayan mountains and as I was standing there on the trail I felt like I had been transported into a National Geographic documentary.

Sonam had told me that he had arranged for me to spend the night in a farmer's home. I had two feelings about this. One: that culturally this was an exciting opportunity and was feasible because I was travelling alone. And two: there could be a chance I would be sleeping in close proximatey with farm animals and this might be a rustic and sleepless experience. You just never know what to expect when travelling in a third world country. But in the spirit of adventure I was looking forward to it.

Walking around the village displayed that Laya may be remote but was quite prosperous and there was plenty of construction of new homes going on. The large three storie house where I was staying looked nice from the outside.

It was obvious that Sonam had a warm relationship with the farm couple. For his treks he hires the gentleman and his pack horses for our final 4 day journey. Once we got to the village we were ushered up the narrow stairs and into the kitchen of their home. This was my first time in a Bhutanese farm house, but based on other third world countries I had visited it was sort of what I thought it might be. Sparse, with a small wood stove in the centre of the room. The ceilings and sides of the wall were blackened with smoke although the stove did have a pipe venting out through the ceiling. The door of the stove was open so there was some smoke back drafting into the kitchen which gave it the smell of burning wood and made my eyes water. There were a few plastic chairs, a small table and open shelves that had food, house supplies, some dishes. I was reminded of how much excess we have in North America and how different the distribution of wealth was. I was offered butter tea and cookies. I had tried butter tea once while on my trek and had found it greasy and made me abit queezy. But that was at higher altitude when nothing tasted very good so I figured I would try it again as I didn't want to refuse the offer of hospitality. The worst case scenario was that I would choke it down. I still expected it to be far more palatable than the fermented horse milk I had drank while sitting in a ger in Mongolia or the pulpy banana beer sipped out of a communal bucket in Tanzania.

The tea was not as rich this time. The familiar taste of butter had a comforting effect although I was still aware that while my tastebuds didn't mind it, my stomach might, so I sipped slowly and declined a refill. As I surveyed the somewhat dark kitchen I was formulating a mental picture of where I would be sleeping. There were no animals meandering about so I decided this wouldn't be so bad afterall. The farm woman was amiable and gracious, her and Sonam struck up a lively conversation. I asked if I could take photos of her and she was delighted, and smiled when I showed her what I had taken. She shyly motioned if I wanted to buy her hat (a very interesting woven pointy hat that most of the Laya women wear), remembering that the Lonely Planet Guide cautioned against buying the hats if they were made with precious family beads and this one was, I declined, and she smiled again as if she didn't really expect me to buy it anyhow.

Namgay my cook was bringing up my bag. I cringed when I saw anyone struggling with my large awkward duffel bag. I hadn't given enough thought to being lightweight and compact as I knew horses would be carrying it. I failed to remember that people would have to carry the bag too. He was lugging the duffel up the narrow stairs and to the landing, the kitchen was on the left hand side and he veered right with me following behind him. As we walked through the door I was abit surprised, I was now in a living room. There were carved and lacquered side tables, photos of the king on the wall, and an area where people sat to listen to the radio. Family photos were interspersed with photos of Lamas and brightly coloured rugs covered a bench for sitting. It had a warm and friendly feel to it and I was pleasantly surprised as it looked like the obvious place where I would spend the night. However, Namgay wasn't slowing down and he pulled aside a brighly woven piece of cloth in front of an entryway and kept moving beyond this threshold. I was looking down to walk over the raised wood so was unaware initially of what I had stepped into.

Then I looked up and my breath stopped. I was in a sea of colour, tapestries, coloured flags, flowers, cakes, metal bowls, money, photos of the Dhali Lama and others. I was standing in a Buddhist Shrine. The transition from the dark and utilitarian kitchen to this sacred space had a disorienting effect on me. I looked at Namgay who had happily dropped my heavy bag and was leaving the room, on to more important things like preparing lunch. I was standing there wondering if there was a mistake of some sort. I couldn't be allowed to sleep in a shrine room could I? I had no idea that this space would be found in a farm house. I was standing there alone, trying to take in the visual sight and wondering what to do.

Sonam came in and I looked at him and said "Am I sleeping here?" He smiled and said yes and began to pull a couple mats and place some rugs over them for me. I think he was watching to see what my reaction would be, knowing the importance of this place. I sensed his pride that he could show this to an outsider, a special glimpse into his country. I looked around and said "does everyone have a room like this?" He looked at me like I had asked a very obvious question that could equate with "Does everyone in Canada have a TV and Telephone?" This culture shock was still bewildering me, that every home would have a space dedicated to worship. Not just a small area but an entire room. Given the look of the rest of the home I could tell that many of the items in the shrine would be expensive by Bhutan standards. I realized that if I hadn't seen this room my experience of the farm house and the family would have been much different. They choose to spend their monatery wealth in ways not readily apparent.

I was standing amidst the colour and gentle energy of the the shrine room with the gratitude that I was going to be able to sleep here. The opportunity to spend an evening in this sacred space felt like a gift. As the daylight began to fade I could see the flicker of light from the butter lamp casting movement on the ornate image of the Buddha. Soon the room was in complete darkness and I lay in my sleeping bag watching the dance of light.

I began to think about my last 10 days in Bhutan. How much I had been praying to the Buddha and the other boddhisatvas to show me a path that I could begin learn to transcend what I was carrying, my attachment to what was and my attachment to the fact that I desperately wanted my friend Colin back. There had been movement for sure, I had cried plenty of tears and began to feel that things stuck inside of me were beginning to move, shift and give space for peace and perhaps acceptance. I was grateful to feel this space, to know that while I wasn't able to stay there long, it was a place I could look forward to visiting again and one day take up permanent residence. It felt like the shrine room was giving me a physical experience of what peace and acceptance could look, smell and feel like. A mirroring of what could be found inside of myself. This isn't about a conversion to Buddhism but the feeling that there are benevolent forces at work. My prayers had been heard and it didn't matter if it was Buddha, Jesus or Great Spirit, I was just happy that someone or something was listening.

Before we left the next day I gave the farm woman some small gifts which I hoped she would appreciate. A small tin of Canadian maple syrup which I had to have Sonam translate what it was and what you would use it for. I'm not sure she understood but I hope that she at least tries it so it doesn't just sit on her shelf, that would be a waste of good syrup! I also gave her a small Canadian flag pin along with abit of money. The gifts seemed small compared the experience I had but I was happy that I could give back in a small way.

Bhutan is a rare country, not perfect by any standards, but continuing to operate on principles that much of the world has considered irrelevant. It has the ailments of most third world countries but there is pride in a country that has never been colonized or conquered. I sensed a inner steadiness of a people who base their happiness on buddhist values while still juggling the pressures of the outside world.

This memory feels like a precious gem that I can keep in my pocket and hold at any moment and I know that I'll find more. Bhutan was as I secretly hoped it would be.