Homestay in Ura

Driving over the pass to Ura, there are so many trees. The density is hard to grasp. How big would this country be if the mountainous blanket was stretched out tight? It’s so hard to imagine what it looks like for the birds. Here on the ground, the only things that exist are within the grip of the nearest mountain.

Ura valley is cut into fields of rounded rectangles, in shades of gold and straw, separated by the brown pegs of wooden fence posts. A cluster of houses huddle close together, surrounding the lhakhang. They blend into the land. Whitewashed stone walls reveal their age with worn patches of mud and woven bamboo peeking through. Stacks of firewood make tall extensions atop rock walls marking the winding paths through the village.

Our host, Aum Tashi is the eldest half-sister of our landlord in Thimphu. We haven’t been able to get in touch with her on the phone but we ask around town and have no trouble finding her; she is the wife of the Gup, local village head. The house is huge—three stories of sand colored stone, and wooden penises hanging from the cornices of the vaulted roof. Out front, two little boys are neatly stacking a huge pile of firewood. In the back, two girls are stomping around in a tub of clothes as if it were grapes; laundry I Love Lucy style. Aum Tashi comes out; she is tall for a Bhutanese with full lips to match her full figure. We apologize for showing up unannounced, though we know that in Bhutan unannounced is the only way to show up.

Inside, we leave our shoes in the entryway and step into the kitchen. It is long and dark with just one set of narrow windows on the far wall where a low table sits in the corner with floor cushions arranged in an L shape. She introduces us to her friend who is sitting on the floor beside a big wood-burning cement stove; its design serves a dual purpose to cook and heat the room. Tashi asks us to sit for tea and we drink the first of many cups of Naja to be consumed in this kitchen over the next few days.

She and her friend insist on carrying our bags up to the room. Traditional Bhutanese staircases are more like ladders and we climb two of them to reach our bedroom on the third floor. The air gets colder with each ascent, the wind blowing freely through the top floor as the design leaves the ‘attic’ open on all sides for drying and storing hay and grains. Two old, ceremonial drums hang in the corner and the terrifying face of a protector deity lingers on the opposite wall. The doors are all cloaked behind heavy curtains—to keep out evil spirits…or cold?

Our corner room is big and well lit with two sets of windows offering a steady breeze from outside, even when closed. The wide floorboards are a beautiful honey color and the walls are painted floor to ceiling in gold and yellow clouds, roof beams decorated with ornate dragons.

We spend the day walking slowly through town. The only people we see are two old ladies; one doing laundry at the community tap, the other carrying her grand-baby on her back; one young girl scrubbing her sneakers; and several young boys with dirty faces and all with the same green snot dripping from their noses—a rough and tumble kind of crew. There seem to be far more cows than people. But there is a funeral going on so we assume the majority of the villagers must be there, sitting in the tents telling stories and drinking ara.

Ura Lhakhang

Guru Rinpoche

On the main road we turn east and walk until we come across another crew of little boys pushing each other on a tiny bike with a tall Mickey Mouse backrest. Curiosity battles shyness as they coyly answer our questions in English. The oldest, probably 8 or 9, and his little brother, 4, are of Nepali origin by the sound of their names and live in the crude labor housing on the hill outside of town. Their friend, a Bhutanese boy, maybe 7, has wide cheekbones and a dark, rosy face. We buy them mango juice and cookies from the random lone shop in front of where they are playing. They sing ‘thank yooouuuu’ in unison.

Across a crunchy field I can see a little orange gompa and when I point and ask them about it they all shake their heads saying ‘no go there.’ This makes us even more curious and we go against their advice. The boys stay behind. A white and a brown horse stand butt to butt and move in perfect synchronicity when I try to get closer. There is a flower drawn in white chalk on the gate door. A triangle ladder takes us up and over the barbed wire fence. Trees are drowning in lichen, tangled in a jungle of dainty sea foam strands. On the opposite ridge, branches only grow on one half of the trees atop a Tetris cliff. Small holes in the metal electric poles sing a haunting drone as the wind passes through. I shiver. We decide to leave before whatever the boys were talking about finds us.

 

be the lichen

Our friends are waiting and escort us to the local’s trail that leads back to Ura village. After a bit of persuading I convince them to push me on their bike. They trudge through the freezing streams and hunt for cow bones. We practice handstands, cartwheels, and forward rolls before saying goodbye again.

Mist begins seeping out from between the ridges and the wind turns colder. Cows are being herded in for dinner—one boy kicks a soccer ball at the heels of his herd which seems to be an efficient technique. As the sun touches the top of the mountain, bodies begin to emerge and wander home.

Back at our house we start piecing together the family tree; Kezang Yeden and Samten Yeshi are Tashi’s niece and nephew who she cares for while their parents look after her cows in a village two days walk from here. The youngest, Jigme Namgyel is adopted-- his mother was a drunk, Tashi tells us. Her daughter is Rinzen Pema-- she's a dedicated Barbie fan and her C-grade animated movies play constantly on the 38in. flat screen.  

Everyone in the house has a job which they perform without complaint. It is common in Bhutan for ‘Aunties’ to take care of children whose parents are out in the fields, tending cattle or yaks. Rural kids are often sent to live with a relative in town because they have better access to schools. In exchange for caring for the children, the parents care for their relative's livestock and the kids are expected to perform chores. Since Tashi is busy with the funeral, Kezang steps up as chef, stirring and frying an impressive conglomeration of pots between the wood stove and gas top burners. The older boys sweep up and bring in firewood. Rinzen and little Jigme sit watching princess movies. On the floor, neighbor grandma sits cross-legged chopping dried meat on a tree trunk cutting block. The cat scrounges for rouge pieces that fly across the room. Kezang turns out to be an excellent cook and we eat well during our three night stay. Each evening unfolds much as the first; everyone in the kitchen delegated to their tasks, all so well behaved, or simply resigned to their duties, and silent; all of us unwillingly trapped in a Barbie movie trance.   

bathtime

little Jigme in his tree house

In the morning I wake up warm and groggy under a foot of heavy blankets, the sunlight turning gold as it passes through sheer yellow curtains. There's a little knock on the door and a head pokes in to tell us breakfast is ready. Coming downstairs I notice the cat jump into a box so I peek in to pet her and discover three kittens! Tashi is at the funeral so it’s just us and the kids which gives us an opportunity to bring them out of their shells a bit. Kezang is in class 10, Rinzen class 8, Samten class 7, Ugyen class 6 and Jigme in pre-primary. Today is the last day of their three month winter break, school starts back tomorrow. We made some headway, winning several smiles and some giggles, but when I excitedly tell Jigme about the kittens, he looks at me like, yea, so? Apparently the kittens are a week old but they were so silent that I hadn't noticed them. The kids aren't at all excited about them-- one had already died-- but I take full advantage of the snuggle opportunity.

Outside the sun is blazing but there is no hint of its heat from inside the cold, dark house. I desperately shed all my layers before we even get to head the hiking trail. It is muddy and icy in places and a miracle that I managed not to fall in any of my slip and slides. The Forest opens up into a sloping meadow and an enormous vulture takes flight, wingspan wider than I am tall. He seems to struggle a bit to get into the air, belly engorged on the dead cow he was tearing into when we disturbed him. A second scavenger, camouflaged in the carcass, abandons the feast as well, and the crows rejoice the opportunity to partake.

At a water wheel we decide to cross the stream instead of following another steeper trail up the mountain. Returning to the forest we traverse along the belly of the ravine listening to the river below.  Thicker now, the sun struggles to find an entry point between the trees, its rays scattered, setting moss and lichen aglow, glittering in the fragmented light. Over another stream and down into a smaller meadow is a yak herder camp set up under a cliff. There are pots scattered about, one crusted with rice from last night’s dinner. The herders must be close by.

Above, the crumbling walls of a house long ago abandoned. We sit at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the makeshift camp and I try to imagine what life would have been like for the family that used to live here. So isolated, so quiet; their own enchanted forest.

With no watch or phone to tell the time, we assume it’s getting late and decide to make our way back. Ten minutes later I know we’re on the wrong trail so we start backtracking and realize that there are trails everywhere; yaks. For a short moment I have the panicked thought of having to spend the night out here, maybe we could go back to the herder’s camp? But the paranoia is short lived and we are soon headed in the right direction.

In the first meadow we crossed, the vultures have been replaced by an enormous black and white yak, his curled horns freshly sharpened. We both stop and stare at each other. Are these things aggressive? We give the beast a wide berth and he goes back to munching grass, clearly not interested in us. At a safe distance we pause to admire the creature; his curly hairdo make his face appear gentle, only his size and horns are intimidating. His presence reminds me that we are in his territory and I realize what an incredible feat it is that people have managed to domesticate these animals and survive in this wild place for centuries.

The mist returns to paint the horizon white, tickling the tips of the trees. Night is upon us as we walk back into the village, the air is filled with the smell of fires burning and chili cooking in cheese.





We find the children all gathered in the kitchen, a butter churn in the middle of the floor. Kezang has made fresh butter and pours us a glass of sour ‘milk water’ (buttermilk). I am amazed at the skills this young girl has acquired at only 15 years old. I think back to what I was doing when I was her age and acknowledge the fact that we are from entirely different world . She scoops the curd and remaining milk water into a big pot on the stove, stirring with a big strainer spoon. Once it is cooled, she scoops up a handful, squeezing out the water, and makes little balls: datsi-- the unsalted cheese used in Bhutan’s national dish, emadatsi (chilies and cheese).The family has two milk cows out back that produce about seven liters of milk each day. Kezang said she used about 20 liters to make one kilo of butter and 13 balls of datsi, which would last the family about two weeks. 

Just your average evening in the village...

**The majority of these photos are Michael's. Thanks, love for your beautiful perspective.**