Journey to Gasa Hot Springs

Finally, STARS! So many stars.

I gaze up from the bottom of the valley, walled in on all sides by enormous mountains cloaked in shadows, their outlines barely visible against the pitch black sky. The encroaching silhouette of the mountains exaggerates the domed ceiling of stars, creating the feeling of being in a planetarium. The constant rushing static of the river carries my thoughts far away from where I sit, to memories of many starry nights in the company of friends and strangers.

A dog howls and I come back to this place; seated in a dark valley at the gateway to the high Himalayas.

Gasa village survives deep in a north-eastern valley of Bhutan, surrounded by some of the country’s highest peaks. The road here was completed three years ago; before then, it was a steep 3 day hike from Punakha valley. The dzong was built centuries ago to protect against raids from Tibet.

village on the way to Gasa

Life for villagers is easier since the completion of the road, but the little town remains one of the most remote areas we’ve visited in Bhutan. (More remote still is Laya; a two day trek north from Gasa, in the furthest reaches of the Bhutanese Himalaya).

Since time immemorial, Bhutanese have been making the long journey to Gasa to visit the medicinal hot springs. A natural spring boils at the bottom of the valley where the Mo Chhu River rages past on a furious descent from its glacial headwaters above Laya.

Far below, we begin our journey in the golden rice terraces of Punakha, following the Mo Chhu (female river) upstream along the valley.

Her sapphire waters, infused with sage cream, wash steadily over time- smoothed boulders. As we climb higher, her intensity becomes more menacing; intimidating patches of rapids threaten to suck you in even as you gaze safely from above. She is a beautiful metaphor for a head-strong woman; exploding from the flood gates, young and determined, full of vigor, tireless, focused on her goal. She flows confidently through gorges and over cliffs, plummeting hundreds of feet into pools the same color as her icy eyes. Somewhere along the journey she softens, slowing to look at the forests that surround her, acknowledging the rocks that broke from crumbling mountains high above.

By the time she reaches the terraced fields of Punakha she is relaxed; she warms her shallow waters in the sun and provides refuge for golden winged ducks and splashing children. She glides gracefully past the Punakha Dzong, where she meets her duality, Pho Chhu, the male river. There they merge into one body; her creamy waters mix with his turquoise and they create an entirely new shade of beautiful. Together they continue as one—down, down, down until they spill, exhausted, into the plains of India.

As the new road climbs up the valley, the forest begins to change. Pines are replaced by towering cypress dressed in sweaters of auburn colored ferns. Wild purple orchids cling to tangled trunks and limbs and groves of banana trees make their unlikely home among the alpine foliage. The mountains are more jagged here—far more severe than the soft contoured giants bordering Thimphu valley.

The mountains are extremely steep, so rather than travelling along the valley floor, or trying to go up and over, the road carves along the belly of the mountains, traversing its way aaaaall the way up one fold, then aaaaaall the way back out. To one side, an abyss dressed in trees; to the other, a granite wall. Looking across the valley at the mountains opposite us, I imagined myself on the other side of the river watching us drive along and seeing what was above, and below, that scar of a road.

Four hours later, the taxi turns right off the “highway,” onto a white gravel switchback sliding its way down the face of a 500 ft. sand castle. It’s raining now and very cold as the late afternoon clouds roll in. At the bottom of the impossibly built drive is a cluster of big cement block buildings, like dormitories. These are the guesthouses. We left Thimphu on a last minute bus to Punakha and figured we would do Gasa the Bhutanese way:  just wing it. While Thinley makes phone calls and several mad dashes back and forth in the freezing rain, we make friends with the dogs and snuggle a kitten who thinks he’s a parrot. We’re shivering by the time he tells us that he got us a place.

The Room

The room is empty. 

The naked wood floors need to be swept and the wind is blowing through the spaces around the windows. We were not prepared for this. There is an L-shaped cement counter with a sink that empties into a grate in the floor. And through the door, another empty room with a wet, smelly bathroom attached. There is no gas, and sorry, no restaurant. Apparently the hot springs is one trip that the Bhutanese prepare very well for: they basically bring their entire home: carpets, sleeping pads, blankets, propane tank, gas stove top, rice cooker, pots, pans, plates, bowls, spoons, fuzzy bathrobes. After peeking into our neighbor’s apartment, I thought, Damn! If I had only brought my bathrobe…

After a few minutes, I collect myself and feel less desperate about our three colds nights in this bare room. We have sleeping bags and our camping pads, and enough fruits and vegetables not to starve. Thinley negotiates with Tashi, the “new guy” running the place, to cook us dinner. He disappears for a couple minutes and returns with a red, twin mattress (which I guess is his) and a water boiler (also his). With everything settled, Thinley says goodbye and heads down to the springs for a quick soak before his long drive back.

I set up “camp” and as we’re changing into our swimsuits Tashi pops his head in to say he will show us the way to the springs. The rain has stopped now and the clouds are just starting to dissipate. I’m standing beside a cute little grey haired granny when the sky opens up to reveal a fresh crown of snow. We both inhale at the sight of it and she smiles at me with eyes that reflect our mutual excitement. She points up enthusiastically and repeats a string of words I can’t understand. Her friend joins and translates that this is the first snow! We beam at each other and agree that it must be an auspicious day. 

First Soak

As we follow Tashi down the path, the 4 o’clock light hits golden hour perfection. This is our first full on view of the range and I’m captivated by the details; in this moment, in this light, I am sure it is the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. It is everything you could ever want in a mountain; a sharp tip dripping down into rivulets of rock; brave trees daring to grow in the most perilous of places, supported by an impenetrable network of brothers and sisters. My heart aches with joy as I study the rough black lines contrasted by soft pools of white nestled in every crack and crevice; the sinking sun painting pink highlights in the contours.

For a moment my bliss is interrupted by the realization that we don’t have a camera with us. Damn! A missed opportunity for the perfect photo! Then I breathe, long and deep, and come back to the sound of the river. I don’t need a photo. I will never forget that image. I close my eyes and let the light etch every little detail into my eyelids.

These photos were taken over the following days, though the light was never quite the same as that first glimpse. 

Michael pulls me out of my trance and we catch up to Tashi, who explains that he will come back in two hours to accompany us back up the trail. We insist it’s not necessary but he insists there are bears. He leaves us at the chorten and we continue down to the little cluster of bath houses.

There are eight tubs, at varying temperatures, housed in pairs in rectangular cement structures with a roof and a bench around the perimeter. Wet kids are running around the compound and old men walk cautiously from one bath to the other. We choose the hottest pool and sink veeery slowly into the big wooden trough. Our fellow bathers seem surprised and amused to see us. We are equally amused to see them; possibly Bhutan’s best collection of characters, and only a minimal amount of awkwardness about my bikini. To avoid the stares I focus on the aging cement wall in front of me: blue melting into green fading into yellow… like the landscapes on the way here…

Dinner at 200 Block

We soak until we’re lightheaded, dry off with a t-shirt and defy Tashi’s advice not to walk back alone. He spots us coming up the dark trail and tells us dinner is ready. We follow him back to his room, which is in one of the other cement dorms. We walk down the narrow hall, smells of cooking food attacking us from each room we pass. I peak in; kids and adults lounging on little bamboo mats, bed palates in the corner, mini propane tank and burner with a pressure cooker hissing on top. Tashi’s room is the third door on the right.

The room is small; less than half the size of the room we’re in. I step in without thinking, then hop back to the doorway, apologizing as I take off my boots. On one wall, he has a gas stove top on the floor—just like the one we have in Thimphu—connected to a full size propane tank. Next to that are his dry goods, salt, spices, and in the corner is a huge stack of pots, pans, and lids. On the opposite side of the room is a pile of pillows (no mattress), and boxes of noodles, crackers, orange soda, and Druk1100 beer. We sit on the floor on a worn bamboo mat and Tashi serves watery naja (milk tea). He refuses profusely when I ask that he have a cup with us. The same refusal, of course, when I urge that he eat with us. Dinner is a mountain of red rice with cabbage water curry. We’re hungry and reluctantly have seconds. I assure him it’s delicious.

Tashi awkwardly avoids watching us eat. We manage to pull a little bit of conversation out of him.  He tells us that these buildings were built and maintained by the government. He’s a government employee, working mostly in the national parks, and was stationed here three months ago. He will live here year round to manage the dorms and spring facilities. When we ask how long he think he will stay, he replies without hesitation; “Til dead.” 

He’s a one man show as we will learn, always juggling people and phone calls and complaints about the rooms. “This is the 200 block,” he explains, “The big rooms where you are cost 500Nu. Even the Bhutanese they are not liking these 200Nu rooms. Very small and they have to fit many people.” I’m somewhat relieved when his phone rings and he has a matter to attend to. He tells us we can wait here but we excuse ourselves on the note that we’re exhausted. When we get back to our big, empty room I am suddenly very grateful for the little luxuries it does have: electricity, running water, a toilet.  

Early bird soak, and a walk to town

The morning wakes early with sounds of cows and crows. The only thing getting me out of my sleeping bag is the promise of a warm bath down the hill, and a morning glow peek at those rosy peaks…

Already people are emerging from the dorm in bathrobes; granny and her girls leading the early birds down the hill, with the help of a cane and a bundle of kira and blankets under her arm.

By the time we slink down to the baths, there is already a lively crowd. Our neighbors in the dorm have a nice set up on a little slope; granny laying cozily atop her blankets in the sun. Another old lady makes kora in her bathrobe. The faces of people in the tubs stare at us behind a thin veil of steam rising from the pool. Bright, young eyes shine from faces rippled with soft wrinkles of time. After a while, when the heat is too much and we’re sitting on the edge of the pool, skin steaming, head swirling a little, I notice that everyone looks like they’re floating, suspended in that spot where the steam evaporates from the surface of the water. 

I’m a noodle, but I sloth my way like Gumby (with the help of Michael pushing), back up to the dorm. Eventually we convince our bodies that they can climb up the sandcastle road to explore the village world above. The new paved road goes up and up and then a looooong way around and up again to Gasa village proper.

At a big curve in road sit three old farmhouses with arguably one of the best views in Bhutan. We walk around the houses to see their perspective of the glacier; glowing pink as the sun drops behind it. Here we end the day with a maté and a vista.

The Road to Laya

The next morning we find a taxi driver (who is staying at the springs with his family) to drive us up the mountain and drop us above the dzong. From there we walk along one of the world’s most remote roads. For 15 km it snakes up and beyond the outskirts of Gasa, blasting its way through the rocks, forging a road that was never meant to exist in a place like this. Eventually it will reach all the way to Laya. Eventually Laya will change because of it. Alas this is “progress;” as the rest of Bhutan’s people come to know and enjoy modern luxuries, assuredly those people still roughing it in the far corners of the Kingdom begin to want those luxuries too.







I am happy to be walking rather than driving on the road. It climbs impossibly along the face of a mountain which we never see the top of, each turn offering a new perspective of the ascending valleys.

the clouds!

The views are spectacular. White peaks textured with jagged black rocks; places no human has ever set foot; the sacred peaks. An hour later, the scenery changes again. Alpine jungle is painted ever so meticulously over carved granite ridges that rise and drop at whim. The forest cover is distinct here—mainly cypress and juniper—heavily laden with bronze ferns and moss-ball warts. Lines of silhouetted trees slice diagonally across the foreground, disappearing into a rising blue haze. 

Short cuts

We meet some Forest Rangers and follow them up a few shortcuts…the Bhutanese way: straight up. The old Ranger accompanying the two young recruits is as sturdy as a Himalayan blue sheep. The Rangers are out marking trees for future home plots, as the road will make the area accessible for settlement.

A couple groups of guys (construction workers, probably camping at the road’s end) pass us, trekking out—one guy carrying a bear cub puppy in shoulder bag made from an old vegetable sack; the other group lead by a miniature White Fang.

 

On the walk back I let some of my friend, Jay’s, ashes float down a sliding rock. A few minutes later we spotted a lone Takin! (You know, the strange guinea pig/cow creature; Bhutan’s national animal). Jay would totally dress up like a Takin….

Back on the main road in Gasa village we meet three hysterical school girls. Apparently Michael and I are the funniest sight they have ever seen because they Cannot. Stop. Laughing. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them peed her kira.

After a quick spin around the Dzong before sunset, we manage to flag down one of the few cars on the road, and they gave us a lift back down to our dorm. 

The walk from our room to the springs feels like an eternity for my feet. I melt into the “hot” pool—this time in a t-shirt to comply with the general dress code of the bathing Bhutanese ladies. Though the wet shirt feels much more scandalous than a bikini, all suctioned and clinging and claustrophobic. The florescent lights are blinding so everyone has their eyes closed and the silence is as thick as the forest that surrounds us. 

Maple the cow & One Last Soak

In the morning there’s a little brown and white baby cow at the bottom of the stairs. I walk down to greet her and she nuzzles me with her big wet nose and I scratch the little tuft between her eyes. She’s an absolute doll and Michael has to pull me away to go the springs.  As we’re walking down the path, I notice that my fingers smell like I’ve been finger painting with pancake syrup. So I name her Maple...

Our last soak was full of characters: a smiley old man with only two bottom teeth; a skinny, topless granny talking about –what I interpret as – her heartburn; a loud, hefty monk with boils all over his back; a beautiful young woman, and her older… husband?  Each time new people come to sit in the tub, they look around at all of us and chuckle. Quite the company, indeed! Those who stew together heal together.

The sun is high and warm when Thinley arrives to take us back to the city. We have a long, heartfelt goodbye with Tashi and I tell him about the sweet little cow friend I made earlier. “Yes,” he says, “that’s my Uncle’s cow.”

“Of course your uncle would have a cow that smells like maple syrup, Tashi.”

“Here is some milk from her mother,” he says, handing me a plastic liter bottle full of lukewarm cream. He apologizes profusely for not thinking to take us fishing. We appease him with a promise that when we return, he will take us to the river.

Until then, my bones will rest in a pool of nostalgia for this far away place, carved into the mountain at the gateway to the Himalayas.