Bhutan Travel Inspirations

A PLOUGH IN LAYA

The yak pulling the plough was already scoring the field opposite the three storied house. The door, like most of the village houses, was adorned with an elaborate giant phallus, colourfully and meticulously painted in typical Bhutanese style. This of course horrified the puritanical sensibilities of my North American trekking companions. In spite of all being succesful professionals and obviously well traveled, they — to my embarrasment — continued to unabashedly judge the culture and social mores of these kind, naive, generous people.

They became even more horrified when they saw the enormous red, wooden ones hanging from the corners of the roof eaves, floating lasciviously against the deep cerulean skies typical of high altitude.

Our guide Tashi, smiled at their apparent discomfort, explaining cheerfully that in Bhutanese mythology, all demons are females. And the phalluses painted on the door and hanging from the corners of the house, crossed with even more phallic looking wooden swords?
— Oh, they just symbolized there is a man in the house that would fight the demonesses to the death, from penetrating (no pun intended) his abode.

My North American friends giggled, while I shivered…I know for a fact one shouldn’t giggle or make any type of joke at anything that has to do with male demons, but if female? Even less.

It was a beautiful sunny day in the outskirts of the town of Laya, at altitude 3.800 mts/12,500 ft, making it one of the remotest and highest settlements on this planet, very close to the Tibetan Border. So it’s pretty cold, and the air so thin it feels like one is breathing icy pins and needles. The tallest Himalayan craggy peaks surrounding us blanketed in snow, pierce the deep blue dome on a sunny day, but on an overcast one the purplish mountains blend themselves with the clouds looking like an inverted meringue.

The indigenous peoples of Laya, live in the sheltered long valley nestled between those snowy Himalayan peaks — which King Jigme Signye Wangchuk does not allow to climb, because of the potential danger — are known as the Layaps. They were expelled from Tíbet in the 15th century. Semi Nomadic, they raise yaks, herding them up to very inclined tundra pastures at upwards of 6000 mts, from whom they get milk and churn butter for their salted barley tea, and their very thick waterproof wool which the women weave into tents and clothing. Even though men use the traditional bhutanese Gho, a kimono like garment, woven in cotton or silk of naturally dyed colors, their women dress in a different and curious way— instead of using a Kira, the long piece of woven material wound around them and clasped with silver pins, under a short jacket
called Toego— they use the woven thick Yak wool which is mostly a dull dark brownish black, and fashion it into jackets and long skirts which have a blue silk border, adorned with stripes of the woven material the men use for their Ghos. They also wear a curious tiny basket woven coneshaped hat made of darkened bamboo strips, almost on their forehead. Their religious beliefs are a mix of the ubiquitous Bhutanese Buddhism with Bon, or animism, with lots of superstitious beliefs about animal and nature spirits which they constantly need to appease and keep happy. Both spiritual religions co- exist peacefully each protecting the other. So they firmly believe that if they stop wearing their hats, they will upset the village spirits. They use spectacular chunky coral and turquoise necklaces, that I wish I could buy them all to bring back home. But I don’t dare ask. Where on earth they get coral and turquoise high up in the Himalayas? But the most curious thing of all to me is the collection of silver teaspoons they hang on their jackets as decorations, and as a measure of their wealth and status. Again I ask myself, where on earth do they get dainty silver British teaspoons in this remote very high valley in the Himalayas? That is beyond my understanding. As well as other happenings…

We were on our way to the Masang Gang close to the Tibetan border, when Karun, our horseman, in charge of the yaks and the horses that carried all our whole campsite: our duffle bags, foods, tents, supplies, and who constantly offered me a horse to sit on, up and down the steep mountain path. He would walk next to me and sing in a beautiful operatic voice. Like a Bhutaneses Plácido Domingo. The Americans joked about it, and said he liked me, but I payed them no heed. They called me the “ Hot Tamale from Venezuela” I profusely rolled my eyes… since we don’t even eat them in Venezuela… oh well cultural differences once again. I couldn’t believe that I was closer in the same page with the Bhutanese, than with my fellow Americans from the North. I thought it was because I always joked with the crew, and took their goodnatured whistles and jokes in stride, while my Americans friends, thought of it as harassment, and didn’t engage with them at all.

And so it happened, that our guide, Tashi, bashfully came one evening after dinner, and sat next to me — by the bonfire they built every night to keep animals away — and proposed marriage to me, in Karun’s name, as he couldn’t speak English, and of course I couldn’t speak Dzongka. I was very surprised, and honored, I said, but I would have to refuse, so sorry, and so so so honored, I repeated, but I had just had gotten divorced and wasn’t ready for another relationship. In fact this trip was precisely to reset myself after thirty six loong years. So thanks, but no thanks.
Kandinche lá…

But in Bhutan, that didn’t seem much of a deterrent and Karun insisted that once I saw his house and all the sacks of grain and chilies drying on the roof that he and his family had accumulated for the winter, I would be instantly convinced. So he arranged with Tashi, that we all deviate from the original path to go visit his town of Laya for lunch at his house, on our way back from Masang Gang to Phunaka. I was curious about the township, and of course what would lunch be like in the setting of Karun’s Bhutanese/ Layap family who didn’t speak a word of English.

The breeze, the sparse moor landscape in contrast with the intense blue sky, soothed and relaxed me...specially having Karun singing a beautiful musical soundtrack walking along side me as we approached the village.

So while we went to visit Karun’s family — to get the once over from his whole family, including his ex-wife who was now with his brother! Yes, his brother, all happily living together under the same dry chili covered roof. While I was being inspected — there was much giggling behind hands covered faces, thank God I don’t speak Dzongka or Layap — lunch was being readied to be enjoyed on a long table under a tree next to the field. We, the six females of the trekking group, ranging from the eldest May, 72 years old, to various in their sixties, to me the spring chicken just recently 50 years old, sat on the low dry stone wall surrounding the field, enjoying the peaceful view, talking and joking mostly about my marriage proposal, while observing the yak pulling the plough resignedly, slowly up and down. It’s tinkling bells adding to the musical psithurism of the thin altitude breeze thru the forest of pine trees. Or, as I would later learn, it was the Shing Dong trees, the demon trees, whispering…

Where the share had been, the dark earth pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. For some reason I couldn’t keep my eyes away from that plough. It’s rhythm appeased me. My heart was still broken. This whole talk of marriage bubbled up the pain of a failure. Or for what I thought was a lifetime project; a 36 year old one, with three girls, and one grandson, had finally crumbled away slowly and painfully. Love stories end. And that is part of life, but the pain brought by disloyalty and unnecessary lies was searing. I thought I knew the man I slept next to for almost four decades. The rough awakening had been heartbreaking.

And here I was, sitting on a low dry stone wall on the remotest, highest village in the small jewel, the true Shangri -la, the land of the Thunder Dragon, the Kingdom of Bhutan, with a group of judgmental strangers, which I found strangely liberating. What I didn’t realize when I meticulously planned my two month travel through Asia alone, was that inside my backpack, I was carrying not only my
camera, water and jackets, I was also carrying my broken heart, and so many regrets. You can travel far away to try to forget. To find yourself. You can fly to the other side of the earth to grieve in peace, to heal yourself. But you carry with you everything. Your heart and soul, and mind. Your joys, your pains, your ‘whataboutisms’ regrets, or guilts aren’t left behind. They are firmly carried in your
high falutin’ technical backpack.

That’s why I concentrated— on the way towards the Masang Gang on the Bhutanese Tibetan border — on my sensorial input focusing on my experiences, the gorgeous scenery. So different and exotic from my own Caribbean homeland, where part of me, lay broken still. So the yak tinkled its bells, the pine trees perfumed my steps, the earth gleamed and breathed beneath my steps, the thin cleansing air penetrated me, my eyes shielded from the blazing nearby sun, and all this while, the demon trees whispered...

Of course the subject of conversation veered to my companions’ point of view... again, criticizing this supposedly “demeaning machista society”. In vain, I tried to explain that Asian and Latin American women, in general, use and take advantage of our feminine wiles, our feminine traits as a means to an end. Without judgement. So, instead of trying to be recognized as powerful, by posing, dressing
and acting like men, we made the most of being females. We honored the goddess in us. And it worked. Mostly, I thought.

Throughout our trek they all had made fun of my bathing thoroughly every night with two hot water bowls that Sonam, the porter, brought to my tent, later rubbing lavender ointment on my poor tired feet before getting into my sleeping bag, and at dawn, before setting out, bathed in the pink golden light, I never left my tent without putting on lipstick and sunscreen always. “The Hot Tamale from
Venezuela”, they keep calling me. So... I used to retort, “Yes, I love and embrace being a woman, that’s what I have been born as, I love being respected as one.

Why pose, look, act and even worse - wrinkling my nose at their musky effluviums- smell like a man when you’re not, just to be “respected”? So... I’m guessing you all suffer from phallus envy?” I joked pointedly at the closest house’s decorated door. We all laughed, reminding ourselves that we may have been lacking oxygen, but never a sense of humor.

This debate had animated our daily treks tirelessly, always five to one, up and down the Dochu Lá and Chele Lá mountain passes. Along the white sandy banks of the Mo Chhú (male) and Po Chhú (female) rivers... on and on. To be more accurate, really not much debating
going up the passes at more than 10,000 feet. We needed all of our lungs to get in some oxygen. So we had a lull in the conversation, a truce. But going down, the constant jokes and debates took our minds off our knees, and feet banging on the stone steps of those gorgeous pristine mountain passes, laboriously gulping in the air so clean and thin it pricked our lungs.

To be fair, they didn’t know I had studied two years of Law School, so I could debate ‘till Kingdom come. Or... being in Bhuddist Bhutan, let’s say till all their Hells froze over.

It’s definitely a cultural thing. These Bhutanese ladies know very well how to administer their “charms”. I have observed that their men, in general, are wrapped around their little fingers...and toes. In spite all their masculine swagger and phallus adorned homes. No wonder all the demons of that particular Bhuddist Pantheon were believed to be female.

Watching the yak pulling its plough along the field, suddenly reminded me of a very popular colloquial saying in Venezuela, which described succinctly what I had been trying to explain ad infinitum. And so, I shared it with them as we were sitting in our idyllic setting for our lunch of pillowy momo’s and noodles. Loosely translated “A female pube pulls with lots more strength, than a plough [pulled] by
two bulls”. Of course they were horrified. We sat for lunch and enjoyed it in silence. The only sound came from the Shin Dong trees...

That night at camp, I came out of my tent to observe the million diamonds of all sizes strewn across the indigo velvet sky. With no luminous contamination in that pure thin atmosphere I could see all the stars of the Universe. Even the translucent alabaster luminous streak of our own Milky Way. After a while, I decided to sit in my tent’s “balcony” to meditate and give thanks for this amazing opportunity. This trip that would change my life forever, and would fill and heal my heart so I could love again. I don’t know how long I sat there meditating, breathing in and out the delicious pure cold air. When I finally opened them, the bonfire had almost died down to glowing embers. Hovering over the tents of my companions, I could see several pairs of red pinpoint lights dancing around them. They became smaller and smaller until gyrating in spirals they disappeared and came back bigger and redder. A mesmerizing dance. I hurried inside my sleeping bag and surrounded myself in pure glowing light. I closed my eyes tightly, as I fell asleep.

At breakfast they all looked haggard, with purplish smudges under their eyes, pale grey skin, whitish around their mouths. They almost ate nothing, all complained of terrible nightmares, seeing spiraling twin red pinpoint lights dancing around them. As if they were eyes. Haunting them. They ran and ran, down the mountains falling into a void, they said.

How curious, I said, that you all dreamed the same nightmare? How curious that you didn’t, they remarked peeved. They were convinced it was a hallucinatory, just apnea from the altitude.

So, after profusely thanking Karun and his family for their hospitality, and again bowing many times as I excused myself from any marriage possibilities in the near future, there was an eerie quiet surrounding us. No pithurism whispering today, or tinkly bells coming from the empty fields. As we left Laya that morning, I noticed the phalluses painted on the doors had vanished. The ones hanging from the eaves were broken on the packed dirt floor. The men of the village were nowhere to be seen. Not even the curious kids. Tashi and Sonam were unusually quiet as they hurried us away towards the Masang Gang, even our yaks’ bells, carrying our camp, curiously silent. The plough was not in the field. The Shin Dong trees were quiet as well. It was as if the whole village was frozen in time. And my trekking companions? Either they finally understood my point about this feminist subject matter, or the red eyed demonesses that had disturbed their dreams horrified them into silence for the rest of the trek.