After one and a half days on the
road from Thimphu against the elements and deteriorating road conditions (thanks
to the summer rains) it had been a long ride. I was elated to arrive at the
Mongar bus station, though somewhat sad to see my break behind me. I waited as
the bus driver and a few helpers unloaded dozens of boxes and bags from the
roof of the bus, kept safe along the ride by a large blue tarp and endless rope.
Yet ahead of me was quite a walk.
Roughly a mile from the station to my house with a steep incline the entire
way. My bags upon my back, I felt lugged down but adrenaline aided in my
journey. I followed the road for some time under the harsh midday sun, already
starting to sweat, until I came upon a narrow path used as a shortcut into
town. This shortcut didn’t come without consequence; it was virtually straight
up—nearly to the point of climbing on all fours, hugging a rocky cliff on one
side and a messy slope of weeds and other prickly plants to my left. I forged
on knowing within the hour I’d be back home.
As I began up the slope I saw an
older woman and her granddaughter ahead of me. They walked dreadfully slow, as
most Bhutanese do, and eventually slowed to a stop. Passing was simply
impossible so I waited and tried to see what lay in front of their path to no
avail. The woman then reached to her left and broke off a branch from a bush
and just then I could see what blocked their path: a small herd of cattle. The
women without fear of retribution whipped at the cows until they started to
turn back up the path and the two squeezed by. After they escaped the cows
turned back to their original direction and lazily strolled down the path,
chewing on plants on their way.
Greeeeeaaaaat, I thought. A man, a villager no doubt by his weathered clothes and ample wrinkles, came down and whipped at the cows, pushing them ever forward. He must be the herder, I thought. I decided to wait until they had passed and tucked myself into a small rocky nook carved into the cliff. Once they started to move he returned back up the hill and left from sight.
Greeeeeaaaaat, I thought. A man, a villager no doubt by his weathered clothes and ample wrinkles, came down and whipped at the cows, pushing them ever forward. He must be the herder, I thought. I decided to wait until they had passed and tucked myself into a small rocky nook carved into the cliff. Once they started to move he returned back up the hill and left from sight.
A couple cows passed me then the
group came to a complete halt. I was trapped between horn and hoof. I looked
around but no one was in sight—just the harsh sun upon my head and the
ever-present ache of my shoulders taking on ample weight. “HEYYYY,” I shouted.
No response. “I’m not a freaking cow herder! Help me!” I couldn’t help but
laugh at the ridiculousness of this bovine buffoonery (making contextually relevant puns like "mooooooo-ve", of course) but until I came upon
some exit strategy I’d be stuck here. I decided to continue making a ruckus for a couple
minutes until finally the old man
came down, laughing heartily at my misfortune and set them upon due course with
ease. I thanked the man and continued home, laughing about the whole thing.
To show these wonderful creatures I harbor no ill will, here's all the photos of cows I have taken this year ;)
To show these wonderful creatures I harbor no ill will, here's all the photos of cows I have taken this year ;)
