Gangteng, Bhutan
November 5, 2012
Altitude: 9,425'
It was my third night in Bhutan. Much earlier in the day we'd left the sultry, fertile Punhaka Valley to the much higher Phobjika Valley, at 9000'. We had climbed steadily through forests of rhododendrons and the ubiquitous Bhutanese blue pine--tall and lovely. Twice, we'd travelled over high mountain passes--one with a spectacular view of the Himalayas at 10,000'and another, Pele La Pass, at 11,204'. Like Tibet, thousands of prayer flags were strung between trees--their prayers fluttering to God thanking him for a safe ascent and a safe descent. Almost immediately, upon our descent, the vast, glacial Phobjika Valley came into view.
It was late afternoon, and the sun had already set behind the hotel where we'd spend the night. No sooner had a settled into my lovely pine-panelled room when the electricity failed.
It wasn't much later than 5:30 p.m. I pulled a chair out of the room, settled myself onto the balcony, watching the last spalashes of light ascend the southern ride of the vlley. My thermometer read 59 degrees.I'd just have to wait for the electricity to come back on.
I desperately wanted a shower. Several hours earlier I'd left the village of Ganten and had hiked from the monastery in the village, through the village, down a pine forested hillock into the central valley where I followed a country lane for several hours.
The monastery had been a treat. It was Sunday, and the prayer halls were filled with monks and young novices--red-robed, spinning hand held prayer wheels and chanting. Theri chants were inspersed with the slow beat of a drum--five slow beats, then three in rapid succession followed by the clanging sounds of cymbels.
"Om mani padme hum," they chanted. "Om mani padme Hum."
They were invoking the powerful benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the Tibetan embodiment of compassion.
The monks chanted separate prayers while the lama--the priest--recited another. It was absolutley hypnotizing.
Yeshey told me that they were praying for the dead, asking the deities to bless the deceased with a happy afterlife and for a good reincarnation.
But the valley beckoned. I'd been in a car too long and the trek looked enticing. I told Yesehy that I wanted to walk to the hotel. He reluctantly showed me a cluster of building--specks really--several miles away. I'd been in the car too long, at times spooked my roads that were as narrow as ten feet across, switchbacking down mountains with nary of guard rail in sight. Had we slipped off the road it was, at times, hundreds of feet to the bottom. I really wanted to walk!
I put on my boots, grabbed my hiking poles and took off and slipped through the village. How nice it was to drop into a lush blue pine forest. Immediately, two black dogs began to accompany me. They were fast than I. At times they'd look back, wait for me, then resume when I joined up to them. They were pleasant companions and stayed with me almost all the way.
Soon, the macadam road turned to a track of hard dirt and stone. Above me, on both sides of the valley, tall 12,000' mountains stood sentinel. Climbing the slopes was a deciduous variety of cypress that blazed in full autumn yellow. All around me were small apple orchards. Apples had been harvested and the trees were bare of leaves.
The track had little traffic. I'd pass a settlement of a few homes--all designed in the unique Bhutanest architechtural style with murals of flowers or Bhuddist iconography painted on the side.
There was an autumn flavor in the air. Fields were full of yellow mustard, bright red barley and green turnip leaves. We were at the 27th parallel, so despite the altitude, the days were still warm enough for crops. I'd been told earlier that the mustard flower was usd to make oil and that the turnip leaves would be dried, stored through the winter, and used in stews and soups.
Tall white prayer flags fluttered in the afternoon breeze. More than once I'd pass clusters of of 108 flags--each flag narrow and attached to a 15' pole of bamboo, with Buddhist prayers stamped on them. Yeshey had told me that a family would erect them after a love one died. The prayers would blow supplication to the deities in the never ending breeze of this glorious valley.
Indeed, in Bhutan Buddhism is inscribed into the very landscape of the country--much like decorative crosses that dot the landscape of rural Quebec or France. Prayer flags, prayer wheels and chortens (the Butanese form of a stupa) were everywhere.
By now my hike brought me to a series of small farms. The dogs and I shared the track with a team of cows walking down the road. I have no idea where they were going, but the bells around their neck, the metal inscribed with Buddhist scripture, was bucolic music. In one farm, a woman was milking a cow, and in another a family was arranging bright red chillis on the roof of their home to dry in the brilliant sun of the high plateau. Yak cheese was formed into small square cubes then strung on long strips of thread then stretched between doors and windows. People wre preparing for winter when food would be more scarce.
Homes were fenced by a series of poles planted into the ground, then criss-crossed with rough hewn planking mixed in with bamboo running horizontally.
People were tending their chores--picking vegetables, preparing dinner, tending to the few animals they had.
Several times I passed chortens--small shrines--that housed religious relics or the ashes of a Buddhist saint. And more than once, using energy from brooks running off the mountaisn, I'd see prayer wheels genetated by the free power of water. For me it was mesmorizing. Prayer wheels are always a part of temples, and it's been my custom to spin them, but I'd never seen ones generated by water power.
Closer to the guest house my walk took me through a long, half mile planting of willows--their leaves a soft and warm yellow at this time in November.
Many times I'd stop to gaze out at the wide glacial valley. I could only imagine the forces that generated this 10,000 years ago when glaciers made their way north. In the center of the valley, yet close enough for me to see, were pairs of rare black-necked cranes who'd come to this valley from their summer home on the high Tibetal plateau. They were not only protected, but had become an integral part of Bhutanese folk culture, and were much loved.
By now the sun was slipping behind the mountains and there was a decided chill in the air. I accelerated my stride and got to the hotel just before dark. Yeshey, I think, was relieved to see me. I'm sure leaving tourists alone for too long is frowned upon the agencies that hire him.
When I turned into the guest house, the dogs looked puzzled. They didn't follow, turning around, instead, and heading back to Ganteng.
I was dusty and dirty from the long hike. I think it was when one of the boys who worked in the hotel came by with a candle that I lost hope.
"I'm sorry, sir," he told me. "We don't have electricity tonight. I will light this candle for you."
Candles? No shower...at least not a hot one?
Well, I'd learned a long time ago to roll with the adventures travel often brings. I managed a very cold sponge bath, changed into something cleaner, and got to a candle-lit dining room in time for dinner.
I had to admire the staff. They'd prepared a delcious meal under very difficult cirsumstances.
Without lights, sleep came early. By first light, I was fully awake. My thermometer read 47 degrees. Thank heavens for good Bhutanese down comforters in all rooms. I'd used two of them.
Still, there was no electricity, but I could hear the quiet bustle of the staff who up earlier than usual I imagine.
By 7:00 am there was a knock on my door. "For you, Sir," the young man said as handed me a large Chinese thermos full of hot water. "For bathing, Sir."
"Thank you," I told him. I silently thought I'd need to tip this boy more than usual.
Instead of seeing that as some travel obstacle, it had become an adventure--the wonderful hike from the village to the guest house, the candle lit dinner, a cold night tucked under two warm blankets and then...the magic of warm water the next morning.
Gangteng had been great!
November 5, 2012
Altitude: 9,425'
It was my third night in Bhutan. Much earlier in the day we'd left the sultry, fertile Punhaka Valley to the much higher Phobjika Valley, at 9000'. We had climbed steadily through forests of rhododendrons and the ubiquitous Bhutanese blue pine--tall and lovely. Twice, we'd travelled over high mountain passes--one with a spectacular view of the Himalayas at 10,000'and another, Pele La Pass, at 11,204'. Like Tibet, thousands of prayer flags were strung between trees--their prayers fluttering to God thanking him for a safe ascent and a safe descent. Almost immediately, upon our descent, the vast, glacial Phobjika Valley came into view.
It was late afternoon, and the sun had already set behind the hotel where we'd spend the night. No sooner had a settled into my lovely pine-panelled room when the electricity failed.
It wasn't much later than 5:30 p.m. I pulled a chair out of the room, settled myself onto the balcony, watching the last spalashes of light ascend the southern ride of the vlley. My thermometer read 59 degrees.I'd just have to wait for the electricity to come back on.
I desperately wanted a shower. Several hours earlier I'd left the village of Ganten and had hiked from the monastery in the village, through the village, down a pine forested hillock into the central valley where I followed a country lane for several hours.
The monastery had been a treat. It was Sunday, and the prayer halls were filled with monks and young novices--red-robed, spinning hand held prayer wheels and chanting. Theri chants were inspersed with the slow beat of a drum--five slow beats, then three in rapid succession followed by the clanging sounds of cymbels.
"Om mani padme hum," they chanted. "Om mani padme Hum."
They were invoking the powerful benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the Tibetan embodiment of compassion.
The monks chanted separate prayers while the lama--the priest--recited another. It was absolutley hypnotizing.
Yeshey told me that they were praying for the dead, asking the deities to bless the deceased with a happy afterlife and for a good reincarnation.
But the valley beckoned. I'd been in a car too long and the trek looked enticing. I told Yesehy that I wanted to walk to the hotel. He reluctantly showed me a cluster of building--specks really--several miles away. I'd been in the car too long, at times spooked my roads that were as narrow as ten feet across, switchbacking down mountains with nary of guard rail in sight. Had we slipped off the road it was, at times, hundreds of feet to the bottom. I really wanted to walk!
I put on my boots, grabbed my hiking poles and took off and slipped through the village. How nice it was to drop into a lush blue pine forest. Immediately, two black dogs began to accompany me. They were fast than I. At times they'd look back, wait for me, then resume when I joined up to them. They were pleasant companions and stayed with me almost all the way.
Soon, the macadam road turned to a track of hard dirt and stone. Above me, on both sides of the valley, tall 12,000' mountains stood sentinel. Climbing the slopes was a deciduous variety of cypress that blazed in full autumn yellow. All around me were small apple orchards. Apples had been harvested and the trees were bare of leaves.
The track had little traffic. I'd pass a settlement of a few homes--all designed in the unique Bhutanest architechtural style with murals of flowers or Bhuddist iconography painted on the side.
There was an autumn flavor in the air. Fields were full of yellow mustard, bright red barley and green turnip leaves. We were at the 27th parallel, so despite the altitude, the days were still warm enough for crops. I'd been told earlier that the mustard flower was usd to make oil and that the turnip leaves would be dried, stored through the winter, and used in stews and soups.
Tall white prayer flags fluttered in the afternoon breeze. More than once I'd pass clusters of of 108 flags--each flag narrow and attached to a 15' pole of bamboo, with Buddhist prayers stamped on them. Yeshey had told me that a family would erect them after a love one died. The prayers would blow supplication to the deities in the never ending breeze of this glorious valley.
Indeed, in Bhutan Buddhism is inscribed into the very landscape of the country--much like decorative crosses that dot the landscape of rural Quebec or France. Prayer flags, prayer wheels and chortens (the Butanese form of a stupa) were everywhere.
By now my hike brought me to a series of small farms. The dogs and I shared the track with a team of cows walking down the road. I have no idea where they were going, but the bells around their neck, the metal inscribed with Buddhist scripture, was bucolic music. In one farm, a woman was milking a cow, and in another a family was arranging bright red chillis on the roof of their home to dry in the brilliant sun of the high plateau. Yak cheese was formed into small square cubes then strung on long strips of thread then stretched between doors and windows. People wre preparing for winter when food would be more scarce.
Homes were fenced by a series of poles planted into the ground, then criss-crossed with rough hewn planking mixed in with bamboo running horizontally.
People were tending their chores--picking vegetables, preparing dinner, tending to the few animals they had.
Several times I passed chortens--small shrines--that housed religious relics or the ashes of a Buddhist saint. And more than once, using energy from brooks running off the mountaisn, I'd see prayer wheels genetated by the free power of water. For me it was mesmorizing. Prayer wheels are always a part of temples, and it's been my custom to spin them, but I'd never seen ones generated by water power.
Closer to the guest house my walk took me through a long, half mile planting of willows--their leaves a soft and warm yellow at this time in November.
Many times I'd stop to gaze out at the wide glacial valley. I could only imagine the forces that generated this 10,000 years ago when glaciers made their way north. In the center of the valley, yet close enough for me to see, were pairs of rare black-necked cranes who'd come to this valley from their summer home on the high Tibetal plateau. They were not only protected, but had become an integral part of Bhutanese folk culture, and were much loved.
By now the sun was slipping behind the mountains and there was a decided chill in the air. I accelerated my stride and got to the hotel just before dark. Yeshey, I think, was relieved to see me. I'm sure leaving tourists alone for too long is frowned upon the agencies that hire him.
When I turned into the guest house, the dogs looked puzzled. They didn't follow, turning around, instead, and heading back to Ganteng.
I was dusty and dirty from the long hike. I think it was when one of the boys who worked in the hotel came by with a candle that I lost hope.
"I'm sorry, sir," he told me. "We don't have electricity tonight. I will light this candle for you."
Candles? No shower...at least not a hot one?
Well, I'd learned a long time ago to roll with the adventures travel often brings. I managed a very cold sponge bath, changed into something cleaner, and got to a candle-lit dining room in time for dinner.
I had to admire the staff. They'd prepared a delcious meal under very difficult cirsumstances.
Without lights, sleep came early. By first light, I was fully awake. My thermometer read 47 degrees. Thank heavens for good Bhutanese down comforters in all rooms. I'd used two of them.
Still, there was no electricity, but I could hear the quiet bustle of the staff who up earlier than usual I imagine.
By 7:00 am there was a knock on my door. "For you, Sir," the young man said as handed me a large Chinese thermos full of hot water. "For bathing, Sir."
"Thank you," I told him. I silently thought I'd need to tip this boy more than usual.
Instead of seeing that as some travel obstacle, it had become an adventure--the wonderful hike from the village to the guest house, the candle lit dinner, a cold night tucked under two warm blankets and then...the magic of warm water the next morning.
Gangteng had been great!
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