Satiated by Kathmandu’s crowds, smells and chaos, I board the Druk Air flight – the only airline with service to Bhutan, with a sigh of relief. We have been advised to get a seat on the left side of the plane, as to be able to glimpse Everest.

But the constant peering during the hour-long flight is fruitless – all I can see is clouds. Then the pilot announces our imminent descent and, like a scene in a Monty Python film, warns the passengers to stay calm, for no apparent reason. A few minutes of slight panicking later, it is clear why – the clouds remain above us and the plane drops suddenly, verging around the surrounding mountains at such proximity that its wings seem like they will scratch the slopes.

We land at Paro, the only place in the country with a large enough plain for a landing strip. The airport is at around 2,300 metres above sea level and, upon exiting the plane, I become breathless – I don’t know whether it is from the lower oxygen density or the view. From all sides, we are surrounded by gently-sloping hills and the clouds enveloping them are at eye level. I feel as if I have entered another, fairy-tale world and my breath stops from the quietness and the stillness.

Its difficult terrain and its complete isolation are among the reasons why the Kingdom of Bhutan avoided colonisation, unlike neighbouring India, Nepal and Chinese-occupied Tibet. The Land of the Thunder Dragon – a literal translation of the country’s name, was ruled by clans and noble families until 1616, when the warrior-monk Ngawang Namgyal came to these lands. He preached Tibetan Buddhism and united the southern valleys into a single state, establishing himself as its religious leader, under the name of Shabdrung Rinpoche.



Until now, Guru Rinpoche, considered by the Bhutanese as the second Buddha, is among the nation’s holiest figures. Drawn images of him can be seen on massive rocks and in monasteries.

However, the founder of modern Bhutan was the monarch Jigme Dorji Wangchuk. The country became a UN member in 1971 under his rule. His grandson, Jigme Khesar Wangchuk, who came to power in 2006, continues his grandfather’s and father’s politics of controlled development, focusing on the preservation of Bhutan’s environment and its unique culture, but he is also taking steps towards democratisation. The first parliamentary elections in the state’s history are expected to take place in 2008, after his initiative.

In its attempts to modernise, while simultaneously keeping its traditions and culture, Bhutan has become a land of peculiarities and contradictions. While the world measures its progress with the gross national product (GNP), the officially-stated goal of the Bhutanese government is a growth in its so-called ‘gross national happiness’ (GNH). Television and the Internet were kept away from the country until the not-so-distant 1999 and the first time Bhutan allowed in foreign visitors was only in 1974.

Nowadays, visiting Bhutan is not impossible, but it is highly regulated. In an effort to limit the threat to Bhutanese culture, the government demands that all tourists have a previously arranged and approved itinerary for their entire stay and that they pay between $160 and $200, depending on the season. I am exempt from the otherwise-mandatory tax since I have a personal invitation and my visa awaits at the airport.

We drive to Thimpu, Bhutan’s capital, which is a bit over an hour from the airport. In contrast to Kathmandu’s hectic atmosphere, Thimpu turns out to be a quiet and picturesque little town. It is the only capital in the world without a single traffic light. It reminds me of the quaint Bulgarian villages that are now protected as architectural reserves. Narrow roads wind up and down the hills, with houses scattered about them. The houses’ façades, painted with colourful plants and dragons, add to the feeling that we’re moving through a puppet theatre décor.

Whether old or new, the buildings are unified by this common style, one of the measures imposed by the government in its attempt to preserve the traditional architecture. Another measure is the requirement that local people wear national dress at all times.

This requirement is observed quite strictly and, on the streets, almost everyone is dressed in brightly-coloured national attire. Women wear the kira, consisting of a shirt; a large piece of fabric wound around the body, kept in place by two brooches on the chest; a woven belt; and a short brocade silk vest. The men wear the gho, which is a single, shorter piece of woven fabric, with knee-high socks. It’s a peculiar sight altogether, as the government rule doesn’t seem to apply to shoes and – underneath the rustling fabrics, there are completely unexotic trainers and sandals poking out.

Another element which sets Thimpu apart from a well-preserved Bulgarian village are the colourful prayer flags, hung all over the town, on the roads and in people’s backyards.

“These were put up by my brother Dhondup. He wasn’t doing so well in school…,” our host, Dechen, tells us, pointing to the prayer flags in her garden. The pieces of fabric are the local cure of all kinds of misfortunes. Each of them is imprinted with different Buddhist prayers and symbols. When the wind blows, it supposedly carries people’s prayers up into the sky.

Another Buddhist symbol, recurring in many spots, like window bars and yard fences, is the eternal knot – one of the eight auspicious signs of this branch of Buddhism. It symbolizes the link between all beings and Buddha’s eternal wisdom.



However, it is not the drawings, signs or prayers that make me realise the extent to which Buddhism affects people’s daily lives here. It dawns on me at dinnertime, when a mot lands on our host’s sleeve. He catches it carefully and goes outside to release it. I imagine this scene in a Western context – the mot would get smashed by a swift, instant swat. Here, killing a living creature is unthinkable. For that reason, I try to keep my mosquito-murdering activities to times when I am alone.

The next day, while walking about town, I come across an archery contest. This is Bhutan’s national sport and the only Olympic discipline, in which the country does well. Even though I can’t see the target in the distance, the archers are entertaining in and of themselves. After every successful hit, the whole team does a little dance and song in a circle –their modern trainers stomping to the rhythm of ancient Bhutanese songs.



After spending a few days in Thimpu, we head east to Bumthang – the district considered to be Bhutan’s spiritual centre, because of the high concentration of temples and sacred sites in the area. We go by a van – the biggest vehicle that can fit on “the highway.” The highway turns out to be a narrow winding road, on which cars have to slow down almost to a halt in order to pass each other. On one side of it, the mountain rises vertically and on the other, there is an abyss. Our van crawls along its edge in a painstakingly slow speed.

Though I felt too dazed to count, I read somewhere that there were about 70 turns per hour on this road – which makes sense, considering it takes us about twelve hours to go the 250-kilometre distance. My initial anxiety over the frequency of the turns and the depth of the abyss is eventually replaced by a noticeable temperature drop. It is getting colder and colder as we crawl upwards, towards the clouds.



I see small prayer flags hanging on the trees, and they multiply as we get closer to the mountain pass. Perhaps the higher up the flags, the easier it is for the wind to carry the imprinted prayers upward into the sky.

When we reach the top of the pass, we come upon a temple. The van’s driver goes around it three times – clockwise, for luck.

And this is just the beginning. Over the twelve hours, we go through four such passes, and I have to put on all of my warm clothes as we climb up and then take them off as we descent into the valleys’ heat.



In Jakar, Bumthang’s largest city, we find out that our visit coincides with a very rare Buddhist ceremony. Over the following month, one of the most respected lamas – Thuksay Rinpoche, reads sacred texts and blesses thousands of pilgrims. Supposedly, this lama – through a complicated chain, is the reincarnation of the monk who brought Buddhism to Bhutan, Guru Rinpoche.

Out of respect, I also don a kira, and notice that the new outfit has a mild, quite pleasant effect of a strait jacket – I instantly notice a change in the way I carry myself. My movements become smoother and more restrained, my steps get smaller, my posture – a little bent. Maybe that explains why people here seem so calm? When we arrive at the monastery where the ceremony is taking place, there are already hundreds of people gathered but there is an air of calm nevertheless. On the backdrop of the monotonous noise coming out of the monks’ horns, everyone patiently awaits their turn. Even when rain starts pouring down, the crowds don’t run for shelter.

When the lama and the monks approach us, I am told to bow my head, avert my gaze and cover my mouth with my sleeve – as a sign of submissiveness and respect. So, I have no visual recollection of being blessed; only a series of objects touching my bowed head.



Thimpu, upon return, seems like a big cosmopolitan city by comparison. After a last tour of the shops, which offer an impressive array of intricately carved silver and turquoise jewellery and colourful cotton and silk hand-woven fabric, I board the Druk Air flight again.



This time, I sit on the right side of the plane and, after a while, I see Everest – gloriously standing above the clouds, illuminated by the sun. At this moment, I feel a sharp surge of GNH – probably going well beyond the levels set in the Bhutanese authorities’ development plans.