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.
On our last night we had dinner in town at a local
restaurant. Aside from the family who owned the place, it was empty. Eventually
a few groups of diners trickled in. One fellow in particular was very chatty
with the family—he obviously knew them well as he laughed with his friend and
happily teased the baby girl. He seemed like the kind of guy who knows
everyone, so in one last attempt I showed him my torn article. He stood quietly
for a long moment then, “Yes!”
“I have been to these baths. Oh they are very nice la,
veeeery nice. You will like very much. I call my friend and find her for you!”
After several phone calls he had Aum Kencho’s number. By this time it was approaching 10pm. “You want to go now?
Stone bath veeeery nice at night,” he said bouncing his eyebrows. But we agreed
that, for the views, it was best to go during the day. He gave me his number
instructing us to call him from the cab tomorrow so he could give the driver
directions.
Yangtzo chopping wood for the fire |
The young woman who greeted us is Yangtzo; Aum Kencho’s
eldest daughter. Designed by her mother and built in 2010, these six baths are
the family’s primary source of income. Since mom isn’t here today Yangtzo, 21,
is running the show; shuffling back and forth between fire and tub carrying red
hot stones with a pair of gigantic forceps.
Just as the water in our tub has started to cool Yangtzo
pops her head in. Through the gap I watch her select a glowing stone from the
fire and drop it in the tub. It screams and hisses and the rumble is sucked
below the surface where it grumbles about, releasing its heat. I’m sitting
closest to the rocks and have to jump out to swirl the scalding water to the
other end of the tub. Some of the stones glitter; rays of light sneak under the
tarp igniting golden flecks in the rough, black flesh. Others are pyramidal
with alternating layers of red and orange. Some round and speckled like
dinosaur eggs. The minerals they contain supposedly seep into the water and are
said to be very medicinal, curing all sorts of ailments.
The kids in the bath next to us burst into a chorus of Frozen’s ‘Let it go.’ Even in the
middle of nowhere Bhutan, in the most rustic of settings, Disney finds its way
in.
Yangtzo peeks in holding up her peace fingers and says, “Two
more?” We agree and she laughs, looking at me on the edge trying to keep my
feet above the boiling broth. The rock routine continues like this every 30
minutes or so. We watch through the small gap as wet, flip flopped feet scuffle
past and cold rocks are thrown back in the fire.

After a few hours we are pruned and dehydrated. Changing back into my dry clothes I feel surprisingly clean (and like I have noodles for bones). Yangtzo congratulated us saying that we outlasted the few other chillups who never endure longer than an hour. We would be back, I promised, and next time we’ll bring lunch. And maybe a sleeping bag.
Walking back up to the road, we took pictures of surrounding landmarks to remember how to find the turn again. |
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