Warm in bed at the Swiss Guest House,
bukhari blazing, our adopted German Shepard curled up on the rug. Coziest sleep ever.
One peek out the curtain and I’m blinded. We stretch in the
warm morning air and the dogs yawn to greet us as we sit to join in their lazy
sun bathing. Two little cousins wander into our room picking up everything they see. They were a handful but I distracted them with some sick beats.
The Swiss Guest House was the first guesthouse in Bumthang and in
the 70’s, was the only place a traveler could find a hot bath on the long journey between Trongsa
and Trashigang. Many renovations have been made since then and the grounds have
grown into a beautiful orchard of apples, peaches and plums; their branches still
barren in the late winter heat.
A crew of lady dogs (and one handsome neighbor who is always over to visit) run the place. They are the sweetest and followed us everywhere which caused a problem with rival dog groups down the mountain. The drive here left us with quite a road
hangover, but eventually we drag our tired bodies down the hill and across the
river into town.
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| escape! |
Jakar is a ghost town. Yesterday being a holiday, all the little
colorful shops are closed—shopkeepers surely nursing a real hangover, strings
of dried yak cheese hanging stagnant in storefront windows. Bits of trash dance
through the streets like tumbleweeds. A few boys huddle at the empty
intersection looking as if the entire population has suddenly disappeared
around them and they are the only ones left. Two barefoot old men wander past in saggy
gohs, the soles of their feet black, worn out sandals in hand. Before coming here, someone described Bumthang as something out of a
Wild West film. She was right.
Penis galore! Almost every house and general shop proudly
bares its own uniquely crafted scrotum; long, short, chubby, ribbed, hairy,
lopsided, grey, pink, orange, brown or a colorful combo meal. A big group of
guys are playing
khuru (dart throwing) and tall poles hang on tight to
tattered flags flapping violently in the erratic afternoon wind.
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| mrc |
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| dried yak cheese hangs in a closed storefront |
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| oh the many contradictions of Bhutan! |
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| mrc |
We walk up to the dzong and sign the guest book while the security guard sleeps behind a tinted window. Cold shadows cast angular shapes across the narrow courtyard, the temperature contrasting drastically with the slashes of bright sun reflecting off white walls and metal roof. A small cat sunbathes on a warm step and several monks mumble prayers hunched over long rectangular scripts. One monk gets up to leave, scripts draped over one shoulder, cell phone in his other hand.
The wind has picked up now, carrying the night’s chill on the tip of its tongue. We cut down and across a road ending up in the yard of a man who gives us directions in excellent English with a happy, toothy smile. His cow lets me pet her.
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| mrc |
We veer off onto a path that wanders through a cluster of houses and find the illusive
triple penis—three heads born from one scrotum. Surely an auspicious sign. The day is complete.
Jakar is a ghost town. Yesterday being a holiday, all the little
colorful shops are closed—shopkeepers surely nursing a real hangover, strings
of dried yak cheese hanging stagnant in storefront windows. Bits of trash dance
through the streets like tumbleweeds. A few boys huddle at the empty
intersection looking as if the entire population has suddenly disappeared
around them and they are the only ones left. Two barefoot old men wander past in saggy gohs, the soles of their feet black, worn out sandals in hand. Before coming here, someone described Bumthang as something out of a
Wild West film. She was right.
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