Far from the airport in Paro and the seat of government in Thimphu, Eastern Bhutan sees far less tourists than the western part of the country, and yet has rich cultural heritage of its own.  For many years, I have wanted to visit the semi-nomadic peoples who inhabited the eastern villages of Merak and Sakteng in the area around Trashigang, and finally set off this fall to do so.  We were a group of four – three women and two men – three of us in our 60s and one in her 70s.  

 

The trip began with a flight from Delhi to Guwahati, the capital of Assam.  Here we were met by Kinley, our guide, and Sangay, our “Buddha” driver.  From Guwahati, we headed out on a chaotic drive to the Bhutanese border town of Samdrup Jonkhar.  The road was under repair and a blend of elephants, busses and trucks belching diesel fuel, bikers, cars, and other assorted vehicles that defy definition.  It took slightly over four hours to arrive at the border, check out of the insanity of India and into the relative quiet of Bhutan.   

 

Lodging in the east is rather basic, to say the least, and we overnighted at the basic TLC Hotel.  Rumor hath it that with new hotel competition coming in, TLC is going to do some renovation, but “nothing is real ‘til its real!”  For now, rooms are basic, hot water is sporadic and food is heavy in carbohydrates and light in spices.  

 

The town is simple, perched with a market near the border that picks up on weekends.  There is a simple temple or gomba, and our visit connected with the chanting of the monks.   There is also a cement plant and some small industry, but overall, this is not a place for great sightseeing.

 

From Samdrup Jongkar, the road winds (every road in Bhutan “winds”) up the hill towards Trashigang, capital of the district.  Lunch was at the top of a hill by the side of the road, with lovely viewsacross the hills and fields below. Farther on, we stopped in Kanglung at the handicrafts center, to find that the girls were busy rehearsing their song and dance for the upcoming fall Tsechu festival in Trashigang.Shy and giggling, they persevered under the watchful eye of the teacher, while we watched their practice, taking photos along the way. Then we headed down the hill to see some of the beautiful weavings in their store that are typical of this area – both cotton and silk.  Prices here in Kanglung were about half what they are in Thimphu at the market, so it was good to pick up some bargains.

 

Our path lead past Sherubtse College, until recently the only institute of higher learning in the country and producer of many a Bhutanese government official and finally to Trashigang and a new lodge – KC Resort – just above town.  Although it was fairly simple, at least it was better than Trashigang’s only other hotel – the Deojung.   Food was better at the Deojung, but the KC had better rooms.

 

We had time to do some exploring the next day around Trashigang.  One of the most interesting stops was a small temple and monastery called Gomphukora.  Here, in the spring, there is a fascinating Tsechu festival, where tribal people from all over Assam as well as northeastern Bhutan assemble, not only to worship Guru Rimpoche, but to sell their wares as well.  As luck would have it, we arrived just as the monks were starting a service, and could sit and absorb the calmness of the chanting.  Some of the monks were having trouble staying awake and tooting their horns or banging the drums on time  . . . even religion is human!  

 

Just below the temple is a huge black rock, said to bear the imprint of Guru Rimpoche, when he meditated here.  The rock is both wish-fulfilling and a cleansing rock.  To get your wish fulfilled, you need to climb up over the rock.  Then,  to cleanse yourself of sin, you squeeze through a tiny dark passage beneath the rock.  Obviously obesity is a sin in this place, as no one even slightly overweight could fit through the narrow slit in the rock!  Thinley, our guide, squeezed through, but the mud at the bottom of the passage convinced me to hang on to my sins for a while!

 

Early the nextmorning, we drove out of Trashigang to the town of Chaling, to begin our trek.  The road soon gave way to a dirt road, where we bounced around as though we were in a mix master for a couple of hours.  Finally we bumped to a halt on a knoll overlooking the river and villages below. 

 

Here we met our staff  . . . and horses . . . for the trek.  We had two guides, Kinley, who had been with us since Guwahati, and Kesang, a local guide from the town of Merak.  He had been married, was a lay monk and had an amazing way with animals.  Namgay, our chief cook, was a friend of Kinley’s and a very experienced cook.  As we discovered along the way, he was fabulous, cooking the best food I had eaten in Bhutan since my first visit in 1991!!  He brought his team of Tshering and Karma, who looked rather like a refugee from the Manchurian steppes, with him to both help on the trail and in the kitchen.  

 

Bhutanese use horses on treks, as opposed to mules, yaks or people, so we also had a group of horsemen and some excellent horses.

 

Somewhere around eleven, the horses were packed and we set out on our way, leaving Sangay behind to meet us about six days later when we finished hiking.  

 

For me, this was an interesting adventure in humility. Over the past 25 years, I had trekked all over Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet, visiting Everest Base Camp four times, crossing Thorung La five times, hiking to Mt. Kailas in western Tibet.  Yet this was different.   I had a bum knee, and knew it would not take a trek. Rather than cancel the trip, however, I decided to ride a horse where riding was possible – not an easy decision.  Yet, I knew well that if I wanted to get to this part of Bhutan, it was the only alternative.  Fortunately, I love riding, had used horses before on treks, and figured when the downhill was too steep for the horse, I would walk using my stick.  My horse was a young buckskin, full of energy and a mind of his own.  He was blind in one eye, and would shy if approached suddenly on his blind side.   For me, this made the experience even more fun.

 

The weather began gloriously as we started up the hill.  Our destination, according to the itinerary, was either Shatimi or, if we could, Damnonchhu. Hah!  Whoever wrote “Damnonchhu” must have been a local Bhutanese villager, as it really was too far for a group of even good hikers leaving at eleven AM.  The locals could easily get there by nightfall, but they did not stop for lunch, or talk along the way.  To me, a trek has to be fun – you need to stop, chat, have snacks, and enjoy yourself.  No trek should be a forced march!

 

Well, we were lucky to have Shatimi within a reasonable distance, because, after lunch, our gloriously sunny day suddenly clouded over and it began to pour – not drizzle – pour!  We slogged on for another two hours or so after lunch, finally arriving at Shatimi around 4PM.  

 

The crew had arrived before us, and set up tents.  The campsite also boasted a fire pit with benches and a wooden cover, and even a stone well for garbage, built by the Bhutan Tourism Corporation (BTC).  The only thing we did not have was a bathroom tent.  Had we hiked to Damnonchhu, there was a toilet built by BTC, but Shatimi had no such extra.  Bless the crew – they took their plastic, rigged a toilet tent, and then hung an umbrella over it to shield the inhabitants from the rain.  Then they built a roaring fire in the covered fire pit area, where we could dry our wet clothes and warm up as the chill, damp night settled in.  The major challenge was not stepping in a large puddle of water or mud while trotting to one’s tent or to the bathroom, but everyone seemed to manage.

 

Dinner was magnificent, particularly the mushroom soup prepared by Namgay.  There was something for everyone – vegetarians, carnivores, those who liked non-spicy American food, and those of us who loved to burn our lips on emadatse, the chili and cheese dish beloved by the Bhutanese.    Even the rain let up and a few stars peeked out from between the clouds. 

 

Crawling into my sleeping bag, I could not help but feel blessed.  We were in good hands, the crew was wonderful.  Kezang and Kinlely could not be better as leaders, and I loved my tent, with its warm light, spaciousness and cuddly bag to keep me comfortable.

 

 

Sometimes we get so comfortable in our daily life with its thermostats, fancy beds or sheets, up-to-date kitchens and other modern accouterments, that we forget the beauty of simplicity – a world in a tent.

 

The next day the clouds had lifted for the most part, and we could see the knoll where we had camped.  Below us were some yak farms and a rainbow peaked out from above the hills.  A yak herder was taking his animals past our camp, and down to their winter grazing quarters, and we ran up to photograph these magnificent animals.  

 

Then we started off for Merak. The trail climbed up along beautiful forests of rhododendrons, spruce and fir, up to a small meadow and then to Mindrula Pass at 10,088 feet.  From here we could see down across the meadows and on to the hills, behind which lay our destination.  I rode up to the pass, and then walked down the hill reveling in the beauty of the area.

 

Near the bottom of the hill was Damnonchhu, the campsite built by BTC that had been listed as an alternative to Shatami.  Frankly, given when we started trekking yesterday, we did well to stop at Shatimi, as we would never have reached Damnonchhu in the light.  It was just too far.

The trail beyond the campsite led through a series of streams, some with bridges, and some without! Riding the horse through the streams was fun and easy for me, but crossings were harder for hikers.  Atone point, where the stream had no bridge, Kezang picked up each of the trekkers, including Dick at about 190 pounds, and carried each person across the waters – despite our protestations that we could do it ourselves!

 

 

Lunch was in a herder’s shack off the trail well below Damnonchhu.  In Bhutan, people carry food in small nesting metal containers that fit inside a put to keep the food warm. Namgay had made lunch before leaving camp, and Tshering carried these containers along so that we would have a hot lunch each day.  Sometimes we are all too spoiled!

 

In this part of the world, a trail is a super highway, and a porter is a container truck. Often, when we passed someone, they would

stop to ask where we were going and where we were from, how the trail was, and if anything exciting was happening along the way. As we walked we passed several people carrying large pieces of board for a house, hunters dressed in the furof some local animal, herders and other people walking from one village to another.   

 Each person merited a conversation, and since there were few westerners who visited this area, we were definite curiosities.  We, on the other hand, were fascinated by the people we met!

As we walked along the path, Kezang told us a bit about the chief deity, Ama Jowo, who led the Merakpas (as the people of Merak were called) up into the hills to their village of Merak. The area near Merak is dotted with special stones bearing stories of Ama Jowo, her exploits, and imprints of various parts of her body.     

Ama Jowo also is the protector of the different fauna of the area, and one cannot eat meat before making a pilgrimage to her holy mountain.  Each year, in the summer, there is a big local festival honoring Ama Jowo, and the people hike up the hills to worship at her temple. 

One of the sad moments as we walked was passing a chorten, a small religious monument to the gods often built in memory of someone or as merit points for a next life. When building a chorten, one always places some special relics inside for the gods, as well as food for them to eat, flowers and other things they might enjoy.  Often too, there are some beautiful carvings that are part of this monument.  

We passed just such a chorten along the way, but the carving that sealed it was gone, and the inside was empty.  Kezang explained that the stone and relics had been stolen and then sold to collectors for a large sum of money.  Everyone in town knew who had done it, because the people had bought a car and other things, but no one had done anything.  

 

Here in this country of Gross National Happiness, a country that was trying to develop positively in this modern world of internet, television and other “things”, it was sad to hear that the trade in stolen art existed, just as it did in Nepal and many other countries.  This is one of the reasons that the Bhutanese have tried to control where tourists can go and not go, and limit access to certain places.  Yet, as this theft shows, the buyers may be foreigners, but the thieves are local.  

 

The trail began to climb and the forests gave way again to alpine meadows.  Eventually, we passed a small town called Gengo, where Kezang had once been the caretaker for the local temple or gompa.  Across the ravine from Gengo was our campsite and Merak was just beyond.  

 

It had been a full day, with a lot of ups and downs, and we were thrilled to be in camp.  We had time to do some wash, have tea and write in journals.  Since Merak is at 11,480 feet, as the sun went down, the air became quite chill.  We bundled up in our warmest clothes, enjoyed the soup and warm food Namgay prepared, and went to sleep rather early, looking forward to spending a full day tomorrow in Merak.

     The woman's thin lips were chalk white next to her brown skin as she slid down under her bus seat.  Hands reached out to drag her up.  "Birami chha", "she is sick," someone said, opening her window.  A man hung her out the window, holding on to her red sari, while she proceeded to throw up continuously for the next hour and a half.  "Her first time on a bus," the man noted sourly.

     Three seats back, a small baby, naked from the waist down, his tiny body girded by strings tied at birth by the Brahmin priest, nursed feverishly at his mother's breast, oblivious to the chaos and slightly sickening smell of vomit that began to pervade the bus. 

     Behind the baby, a rooster, tucked into a basket, squawked mournfully, perhaps aware that tonight he was to be the main ingredient in someone's chicken curry.  Near the rooster was my seat - a large wooden suitcase perched in the aisle that I shared with three other people.  The suitcase belonged to a lovely Nepali couple who had taken pity on a foreigner with no place to sit.  As our bus lurched downhill over the rutted roads and around hairpin (and hair-raising) curves, we all slid into each other constantly, bouncing mercilessly on the hard timbers of the box and skidding precariously up and down the narrow aisles.

     This was Nepal by bus - a two hour ride from beautiful, cool, hilly Tansen in the west to hot, crowded Butwal in the Terai, where we would get a second bus for our ten hour return trip to Kathmandu; a slice of the real life of the country; an opportunity to literally rub shoulders with Nepalis of all castes, ages, sexes and smells... not to mention assorted goats, chickens and sheep.  This was also a ride that would see a flat tire outside the dusty town of Mugling in 90 degree heat, several stops by rivers so we could water down or cool off, and a complete breakdown about half an hour from the Kathmandu bus station.

     "Go Greyhound.  Leave the driving to us!"   

     Nepal is famous for its trekking and mountain climbing opportunities, but little has been written about any other ways of seeing the country, particularly by road.  Yet road travel in this area is extremely exciting, to say the very least!  Over the past eight years, I have bused a good part of mountainous Nepal, often as the lone westerner, and each trip has been a true happening - a far cry from the sheltered world of the trekker, solicitously cared for by Sherpa guides. 

     Nepalis love their buses.  Where there are roads, Nepalis jam into their buses, whether to travel short distances to school or to markets or long distances to visit family or friends.  For the naive westerner, however, buses do pose some problems.  The first obstacle is simply selecting the best bus for your destination from the myriad of companies running vehicles at all times of the day and night.  In Kathmandu, the major bus station, Ratna Park, covers several street corners and is a model of diesel fumes and confusion.  The best solution to finding the best bus is to ask a Nepali for help.  Only a Nepali, and not everyone at that, truly understands the system.  A knowledgeable Nepali can choose the bus company with the newest buses or better time schedules and tell you how the  night bus drivers tend to get drunk and have accidents.

     Depending on what town you are in and where you are going, you can buy seats for different parts of the bus - the cab with the driver and his cronies, the first seats behind the cab, or even the roof of the bus, with the chickens, goats, and passengers who either get car sick or hate the stuffy inside of the bus.  Of course you have to hang on tightly around the sharp curves and over bumps when you are on the roof in order to not fall off; but it's easier to jump off the bus in case of accidents.  Note that in Nepal, just because you have reserved a seat does not mean you will always be the seat's sole occupant.  Nepalis have a different sense of personal space from Westerners.  When we touch each other accidently, we apologize profusely and try and keep our distance.  Nepalis will sit on top of you with no compunction.  I will never forget the 15 - hour bus trip from Jiri, the jumping off point for Everest trekkers, to Kathmandu,  in our "reserved seats" by the door.  At one point, three men and myself were scrunched on a two-person seat; a woman was asleep with her head on my lap and her feet out the door; and Ang Pasang, my travel companion was trying hard not to be car sick through the open window.

     The Jiri route taught me a lot  about the ticketing system.  Passengers going from Jiri to Kathmandu support the bus service and must pay full fare.  Yet all the people who live along the route and want to travel from village to village can ride for free.  This makes for a very crowded bus, as everyone wants a free ride - wives going to markets, students traveling to and from school, people going to visit friends. 

     On the other hand, if you ride the local bus, as I did recently from Bertamod to Biratnagar in the eastern Terai, the fare structure is different.  Here, the locals support the bus route with their rupees.  In a car, the trip between the cities should take only about 45 minutes, but on a bus time is irrelevant.  The bus  trip can take up to five hours, while bus staff waits for a sufficient number of local patrons  to clamber on and pay enough to cover the bus costs.  Fortunately, the Bertamod route has tons of fruit and vegetable markets, so one can drink tea and nibble bananas while waiting.  On this last trip, I sat next to the owner of five buses on the Bertamod route.  While sharing his delicious fresh lichees with me, he lamented the expenses of gas and bus repairs and told me he was going into film making.  Of course he wanted to know if I knew any American producers who would be interested in the cassette he just happened to have with him in his briefcase!

     Nepali buses are a trip -  running the gamut of new Japanese-made, very luxurious night buses to some amazing rattletraps with bald tires that hardly belong on the road.  Most are decorated with Indian paintings and wonderful signs, although Nepalis are beginning to do their own artwork.  One of my favorite vehicles was a jumble of metal and wires that ran between Lumbini, Buddha's birthplace and the airport at Bhairava.  There was no hood on the bus, just a metal stump with some wires and tubes that the driver connected when he was ready to start.  Once the wires were connected, three people pushed hard from behind to get the bus and engine rolling, then leapt aboard.  The whole trip to the airport was not more than ten kilometers; but it took us almost two hours,  with several tea stops for the driver and subsequent complicated start-ups in this Rube Goldberg contraption.

     Nepali bus staff differs a bit from our typical lone Greyhound driver.  On non-local trips there are usually at least two more people - one person takes the tickets and sees to it that the reserved seats go to the reservers.  A second oversees when the bus can leave, pushes people into crowded buses and helps the driver navigate through spaces he cannot see.  Nepalis have a whole code of banging on bus sides  to help drivers back up, turn around, or even squeeze through narrow spaces.  Extra friends of the driver or ticket takers also often ride along and  can be very useful in breakdown situations or if there are flat tires.

     I'm not sure which I prefer more in Nepal these days, the good roads or the bad ones!  The bad roads scare you to death as the bus perches over precipices, but the drivers must drive slowly.  On the newer, paved roads, you still hang over precipices, but  people drive faster!  Nowadays, on the beautifully paved Pokhara road, it is not unusual to see people staring over a cliff at the ruins of a bus, clucking in disapproval about the driver who probably had too much of the local brew en route.  Actually, road building in this country that rises from 100 feet above sea level to Mount Everest at nearly 30,000 feet, is somewhat of an amazing feat.  The Chinese do the best job, and are presently expanding the Pokhara road to three truck lanes.  Sometimes they are blasting into the mountains, and sometimes they are building concrete supports up from the river.  Unfortunately, contracting with the Chinese for this southern highway, so near the Indian border in the Terai, was a prime cause of the Indian embargo of Nepal in 1990.  The Indians were furious with the Nepalis about the number of Chinese so close to their territory, and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the road project.

     Building the roads, however, is only half the job.  Maintenance in this rocky world that is subject to the fierce monsoon rains is a major task:  where foreign aid often goes for road building, little is designated for repairs.  Too frequently roads are built without proper drainage or grading.  Come the summer storms, cascades of dirt and rocks turn car tracks into impassable mud piles and rivulets.  In fact, the second major cause of erosion in Nepal, outside of the natural geography of the country, is road and dam building. 

     Tourist amenities along the bus routes in Nepal are somewhat lacking.  Usually, on long trips, the driver just stops periodically when he needs to go to the bathroom.  Then everyone hops off and scurries for the nearest bush, if there is one.  Life is easier for men on buses than women, who often have to be very creative in their search for a "charpi" or bathroom.  Sometimes I have to wait for all the men to go back into the bus, and then entreat the driver not to leave me in the lurch.  On other occasions, I  follow a Nepali woman down the path, hoping that she knows more than I do.  Also, if there are two women together, there is safety in numbers and the men tend to stay away.  Unquestionably, rest stops are truly a test of ingenuity or, at worst, of a strong stomach.

     Food too, en route, is basic.  Usually the driver has his favorite restaurants, places where he can get a free lunch of the country's staple dish - "dal bhat", or rice and lentils, served in metal plates with a daub of vegetables or "tarkari", an "achar" or relish, and perhaps some curried meat.  One of the main transit points is Mugling, at the confluence of the Trisuli and the Kali Gandaki rivers - a true truck stop for east-west travelers through the Terai of Nepal.  There one can see the local restaurants cooking up some huge pots of dal for travelers in hot, steamy, dirty kitchens.  Everyone on the bus just piles in for lunch while the families of the owners dole out as much as you can eat for about a dollar.  The miracle is that people don't seem to get sick.

     Other than official stops, one can occasionally hop off at a market to get some fruit, crackers, or a cup of tea while new passengers are boarding.  Each town also has its hawkers, selling soda, coconut, ice cream, bananas or cucumbers.  The Nepali word for cucumber is "cakra" - a sound that is hard to repeat ten times rapidly (try it!); but which doesn't seem to faze the cucumber sellers.  Often the hawkers are children, charming you with dirty faces and persistence.  One young cucumber sales girl noted she sometimes earned 130 rupees a day, or about $2.50.  In a country with an average yearly income of about $100/year, $2.50 a day is not bad.

     Given the vagaries of bus travel, then, wherein lies the charm?  Well, for the economy traveler, one can see Nepal quite cheaply.  For example, to go from Kathmandu clear across the country to Tansen/Palpa, a lovely Newari hill town in the west that figures prominently in recent Nepali history with the British East India Company, costs only about $4.00.  A plane to a nearby airport could cost about $77; and a private car, at least $50.

     Secondly, if you are not rushed, feel friendly, and can take things in your stride, buses are a delight.  People always ask who you are, what country you are from, and where you are going.  On most routes, there are few foreigners and a westerner is the "ramita" or spectacle, subject to intense scrutiny, the whispers of children, and furtive glances of babies, who have never seen the "white eyes" before.

     At the same time, on a bus, a world opens before your eyes - peasants who squat rather than sit on the seats, girls in fancy red saris returning to their parent's homes for the first time after a year of marriage, children who support their families hawking bananas on the bus, or a bus owner who wants to be a film star.  So next time, hang up your trekking boots, fill your water bottle, bring your sneakers, and leave the driving to a "bus chaalaune manche"!

Antonia Neubauer

July 23, 1992