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.
escape! |
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.
mrc |
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.
mrc |
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