Colors and Faces of Thimphu Tsechu

Gnome Poem: Haa Valley

I overheard an older gentleman telling a story about Haa. All the children throughout the region, he said, knew if they didn't eat a hearty dinner on the night before the festival, the elves would come and steal them away in the night. This is a very old wive's tale, he explains, "I grew up believing it was real too," though he never made any assurances that there was no threat of elves today.

So, a few weeks later when we boarded a bus heading west, I already had this image conjured in my mind of little people with felt hats poking their heads out from behind boulders and curtains of lichen.  

Chele La

Views from Chele La pass, the highest motorable road in Bhutan at 3810 meters, 12,500 feet. 

Hot Stone Bath

Armed only with a torn page from an old Tashi Delek Magazine, I set out for Paro determined to find myself an authentic Bhutanese hot stone bath. The article featured warm photos of families relaxing in steaming wooden tubs. And I wanted to be there. There was no address or phone number so all I had to go off was the owner’s name, Aum Kencho.

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.

Blessings and Lunch in Tang Valley

We duck into a narrow room hanging out over the cliff. Three walls and a slanted floor made of wooden planks are built around a supporting rock wall where a fire charred boulder has been converted into a kitchen and big, fat pots blacken over open flames. Women and children line the perimeter of the floor and two little ones are shuffled to the side to make room for us to sit. Bright light leaks through slender, glassless windows, slashing silver streaks across the room washing the shadowed faces in a soft, serene glow. Everyone is staring at us, eyes wide and full in the center, pinched like a teardrop at the outer corners, plump lips curled into amused grins.

Jakar Town

Warm in bed at the Swiss Guest House, bukhari  blazing, our adopted German Shepard curled up on the rug. Coziest sleep ever.