The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 4: Moving the Mountain

Previously on The Summer Sojourner: a group of eleven BCFers left Lingkhar Lodge, drove up to Merak trailhead, and walked the rest of the way to our accommodation.

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 4: Moving the Mountain

We set our bags down in the upstairs quarters and sat down inside a kind of gathering room for tea. The room was actually someone’s home—it was evident by the various household items indicative of everyday living. There were knickknacks interspersed between kitchenware, a TV, clothes, and various cultural relics I couldn’t begin to describe. They had all been moved to the side to give us space to sit cross-legged on mats and decompress from the day’s events. We ate crackers and sipped on tepid milky tea before taking a short hike up the mountain to catch the view.

Setting out against the waning light, our expedition was destined to fail. But we weren’t done breathing in the cool, fresh air. I went with a second, smaller group some 15 minutes after the first, so from the outset it was clear we weren’t going to see much aside from the increasing presence of darkness. I took this opportunity to get to know one of the guides, Yongten Dema, better. She told me she and Pema are sisters, which I’ve learned in Bhutan is just another statement that befuddles foreign conceptions of relations. The two girls are unrelated altogether, but the sister status indicates a close relationship. Both girls had graduated up through class 10 and sought out work, eventually getting offered prestigious positions at the upscale Lingkhar Lodge. They only recently started taking people on treks. Pema had done it twice before, but this was Yongten’s first go at guiding foreigners through Merak and Sakteng. She voiced her nervousness, being ever humble about her linguistic capacity as she tried to explain her situation.

Photo credit to Alex Rothman

Just before the sky turned jet black we ran into the first group and decided it was time to turn around. We came back to eat a quick and simple Bhutanese dinner consisting of rice, kewa datsi (potato and cheese curry), sag (mustard greens), and daal (Indian soup made from orange lentils). We were told we needed to eat quickly because we had guests coming to join us for evening festivities.

Soon thereafter various members of the local community came into the room wearing traditional garb. The Brokpa wear a unique interpretation of the gho and kira, one that best suits their lifestyle in higher-elevations laden with precipitation. Men wear yak-leather boots and trousers with yak-wool belts and dyed-red woolen robe-like jackets whereas the women sport ankle-long dresses with an inner layer and jacket with detailed embroideries reminiscent of a Christmas sweater. Most characteristic and identifiable of their costume is what I refer to as a “spider hat”. These black hats are made from yak hair and have 5 distinct down-facing points to defer rivulets of rain from their faces and are worn by both men and women.

As they came in a few began to place bottles of clear liquid in the center of the room. Many of these were housed in reused soda and beer bottles while some were in oversized thermoses. There were also traditional arra containers: beautiful vessels reminiscent of a mini-keg with a wooden frame, finished with sections of black varnish between gold-colored metal rings. Just when I thought they were finished they would put down a few more. Finally, after placing well over a dozen bottles in the center of the room, they sat down. One of the house owners set a large metal pot on top of the bukkari stove. Hot arra, I thought, could be good.

My POV from the room

Photo credit again to Alex Rothman

I looked around the room and realized the Brokpa representation was overwhelmingly female. 9 women, 2 men—spanning mid-thirties to fifty years of age by the look of them. I asked about this later and found out that in Brokpa culture women tend to command more respect in community matters, as they are the deciders of important decisions like marriage, migration times, and family finances whilst the men tend to yak herding or command some other trade.

Pema Choden then began the introductions, translating for us. She informed us that in honor of our arrival to Merak the townspeople would like to offer us arra and sing some local songs for us beginning with the traditional song to commence such an evening all about drinking, community, and the like. We expressed our gratitude and sat quietly as they began to belt into song. While Bhutanese traditional music can certainly vary, it is by its nature soft and undulating with moments of vibrato. The sounds were very soothing, enhanced from the heat given off by the stove and our ever-constricting blood vessels as we sipped on the potent arra.

After a couple songs they asked for our names, countries of origin, and where we were stationed. They then requested that teachers representing each country sing a song native to their homeland. We Americans huddled in the corner conspiring some song conducive to our humble singing abilities. Meanwhile our guides, who both possessed beautiful voices, continued with their own renditions. After a few of our fellow teachers sang their tunes, we performed ours. Our performance was mediocre at best, but perhaps less cringe-worthy than it could’ve been.

Later we joined in dance as the Brokpa sang. We hadn’t a clue how to dance to their songs, but we quickly learned the simple 4-step patterns, moving our feet in like motion back and forth, our palms gently moving the air up and down. We laughed at our attempts, more so at those less coordinated. I, meanwhile, tried my best not to be noticed. The hour grew late and after a long day we were tired. We thanked them again and set our heads upon our pillows for rest.

The next morning I awoke early, which would have irked me if I hadn’t been able to look out to the surrounding hills. The view was absolutely spectacular. I drank in the town’s diurnal visage, rife with a kind of rawness and simplicity that even the most faithful urbanite could appreciate. The air was untainted by exhaust fumes or the sounds of machinery. The land before me was virgin, familiar and yet still unknown. I could hear the sounds of horses, cows, and sheep—a faint knocking of an axe in the distance. Looking toward the town there were a great many more houses than I imagined for a town so small. The area was illuminated by the glinting light of the sun reflecting off the tin roofs. I am truly somewhere special, I thought to myself just before joining the others in the tea room.

We convened to dine on a breakfast of fried rice and eggs. As we ate we talked of plans for the day. First we would visit the school then take a walk around town to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. The afternoon could be spent casually and for those interested, we could attend a religious ceremony held at the local temple. Most of us decided to play it by ear while more passionate souls voiced their plans without a second thought.

We walked 15 minutes down to the local school and meandered around the campus. I spoke with some of the teachers, one who was from Mongar, and watched the students perform various activities. Some were cutting grass with metal sickles, some were gardening, and others still were practicing cultural and modern dances in small groups.

On the way up we stopped by Yongten’s aunt’s house for tea. The room was black from soot and dark with the wooden sliding shutters closed. She had no electricity, just the faint glow of the fire from the bukkari. The house felt truly authentic in its rustic charm. Tools hung from the wall as well as traditional containers, dried meats, and hardened cheese.

Photo credit to Fraser McInnes

Eventually we moved on at the behest of our guides toward the town’s temple. We took off our shoes and prostrated in front of the lama out of respect. With permission we ascended the weathered wooden ladder to the upper levels and admired the complex religious murals. There were macabre scenes of skeletons, trampled humans, and fire-breathing demons not far removed from the serene Buddhas and bodhisattvas; the contrast of which were further exaggerated by opposing color schemes. We gave our thanks and navigated the maze-like paths back to our quarters.

Once back we passed the early afternoon catching up on sleep, playing word games, journaling, and talking. A small group went out on a hike while some of us stayed behind to attend the religious ceremony. Pema and Yongten had the wonderful idea of procuring the traditional dress for us to wear thanks to a few gracious neighbors. We squeezed into them with their help and took a few pictures. The woolen gho I sported was quite itchy so I kept my jacket on underneath, which worked out for the best anyway as it began to rain just as we left.

We left the guesthouse and daintily hopped around mud puddles en route to the temple. There several people were already waiting outside, most underneath an overhang as the sprinkle turned to a deluge. They looked at us curiously, surely due to our attire. We took pictures with each other and some of the locals underneath the overhang of the temple’s roof.

POV from under the temple roof

Photo credit to Fraser McInnes and Lynne Maher
Left to right: Yonten, Cat, Nakita, Pema, Myself, Dorji, Holly, Fraser, and Tim.

Soon the temple’s lama, wearing a Tibetan-style religious hat (picture a giant yellow mohawk), exited the building followed by monks who were banging on drums and cymbals. More monks came out blowing on horns and the last group carried arcane religious relics. They moved toward one area on the edge of the grounds and we were all given chicken feed to hold. In the middle of this man-made circle was a great woven symbol as well as two monks wearing demon masks. They danced wildly around as the horns blew in deep, soul-crushing tones accompanied by high, trilling notes.

The head lama stepped forward and our guides turned to us, “When he gives the sign, you must think of negative thoughts and throw the feed at the dancing monks.” This act thus symbolizes the release of negative energy. We did as requested and it was great fun to be among the crowd, all tuned into a similar channel, hurling grain at these monks with utter force. After a half dozen cycles involving the throwing of feed, the crowd dispersed and we with it.

Grains being thrown

The remaining hours of the day were spent eating and playing games. We knew tomorrow’s full-day hike would take every ounce of strength we had so we called it a night earlier than desired.

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**Those with keen eyes may notice the titles from this series are established novels. I have chosen these allusions carefully as they align with themes, ideas, and environments parallel to my experience. They’re also all well-written and somewhat obscure books worthy of a read!