The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 3: A Many-Splendored Thing

Last summer I posted about my happenings in eastern Bhutan through a mini-series I titled "The Summer Sojourner". It ended rather abruptly despite the fact that many things happened after that, mainly visiting a remote locale in Bhutan called Merak-Sakteng, which was a journey that irrevocably changed my life. The reason I kept these things close-to-heart was to fulfill a promise to my program head not to share such details over social media until one calendar year had passed. Well guess what time it is? 

***And for those that noticed I only wrote the first half of my final trip west, I assure you I have written its sequel and intend to publish them after this segment is out for the public. Without any further ado...

The Summer Sojourner, Chapter 3: A Many Splendored Thing

Before long the retreat was at an end. Many of us split up to pursue different adventures during the break. The goodbyes were heartfelt and heavy, but as it turned out, I was going to see most again as I ventured west. Eleven of us, however, concerted ourselves to exploring Merak Sakteng. Lynn, a fellow BCFer from Tasmania, had suggested it weeks earlier, ever-persistent to see through this once-in-a-lifetime chance. We were hesitant to confirm before consulting our friends first, but once we all sat down at the retreat and heard Nancy’s spiel about the area’s description and allure, we were dead set on going.

Merak and Sakteng are actually two separate villages divided by a half day’s walk and a 4,200m-high peak. The area and its ethnic group, the Brokpa, are unique for several different reasons which I will elaborate on throughout the next several chapters. The Brokpa (translated as “herder”) are a semi-nomadic people who settled in Bhutan from Tibet hundreds of years ago. Their facial structure, language, lifestyle, customs, religion, and dress are distinctly different from eastern Bhutanese, primarily due to physical isolation; there is no direct road access in the summer and during the winter the snows prevent travel altogether.

The Merak Sakteng trek has only been extended to foreigners in recent years, part of a cautious experiment to see if tours through the region can benefit locals without causing harm to their cultural identity. In truth only the richest traveler can afford this trip due to lengthy travel time and additional expenses beyond the $250 per day tariff, so for us to be able to visit with our meager monthly stipend—let alone convince the government to grant us permits—makes us incredibly fortunate. In fact, the royal family only visited for the first time in the history of Bhutanese monarchy in June! 

             

That Friday morning the eleven of us crammed into a pair of Bolero taxis with the addition of our drivers and two Bhutanese guides. Pema Choden and Yongten Dema, two young women who grew up in Merak, were granted special leave from their posts at the Lingkhar Lodge to accompany us on our 5-day excursion. Their knowledge of the area and culture as well as being fluent in the local dialect would prove extremely useful.

We set out from the lodge, passing Trashigang and the majestic provincial dzong before navigating the country roads en route to Rangjung, a beautiful little town at the base of a valley. Months prior my friend Nakita and I visited Rangjung and stayed with our South African BCF buddies on a long weekend, but this time we were only making a quick pit stop before climbing up into the mountains. Our drive would take us hundreds of meters up, presenting increasingly impressive views with every passing switchback. Just when the vastness and complexity of the landscape seemed at its apex, we would climb higher and my expectations would be bested.

Some hours later as my stomach began to rumble we took a turn off the road, bumping down a rocky path to some unknown destination. We passed through a decorative gate and before long I realized we were stopping at the nunnery we had been told about earlier. In the parking lot I jumped out of the car and looked around, amazed by the ubiquity of vibrant prayer flags waving in the mild breeze of the afternoon.

I turned around and beheld the temple complex, which held a series of buildings, an open cemented ground, and a large temple touting the standard white-wash paint and distinctive red stripe which is found on every religious structure in Bhutan.

While we waited for a few others to arrive I took this chance to roam the grounds. I spotted a statue under construction judging by the bamboo scaffolding around it and walked down the steps to take a closer look. The statue stood above a kind of fountain. I stood at its base and turned around to behold a most colorful myriad of buildings, kissed with a subdued but charming pallet of pastel hues.

Religious complexes in Bhutan, at least the ones I had seen up until that point, have had a formulaic simplicity to them, but this was different. Even the prayer flags presented a new color to the scheme: pink.

I returned upstairs to be offered biscuits and soda by nuns. While I have encountered a few nuns in my day, I had yet to see one in Bhutan and that is saying something considering how often I cross paths with monks wandering the streets in their distinctive red robes. Nevertheless here they were, the women of the sangha (religious order) standing right in front of me. The practice dates back some 2500 years when the Buddha’s aunt pleaded to join his order. He had declined her request at first, but she continued to show her devotion along with 500 other women who had also cut off their hair, dressed themselves in second-hand monk robes, and committed to following the Buddha’s footsteps. Eventually he acquiesced to her request and the nun order was born.

               We thanked the nuns for their generosity once we finished and stood idly by the veranda, peering out at the mountains and valleys in the distance.

          A few of us then decided to peruse the temple grounds further. I walked to the opposite side of the complex and snapped a couple pictures of the yellow stupas, taking in my colorful surroundings before I was beckoned into the main temple. I ditched my shoes and stepped over the bronze-plated entrance panel inside. The inner sanctum was beautiful. Opposite the entrance were three statues, one of which showed the primordial Buddha Samantabhadra in passionate embrace with his female consort, a spirit named Samantabhadri. Their sexual union symbolizes a perfect balance of polar energies (think yin and yang) within the unsullied mind. Around the room were detailed frescos of gods and goddesses, skeletons, demons, and all kinds of lore in fresh paint. There was even a section that had outlines sketched in void of the final touches. We took turns prostrating out of respect to the picture of the head lama and the primary statue before taking our leave. It was time to continue our ascent.

On we went, passing Phongmae (Nancy’s original placement in the 1980’s) before leaving all civilization behind. The muggy summer air turned cool as we climbed. The once rocky ground turned soft then wet then unbelievably muddy. Our driver expertly navigated the terrain but at every muddy patch I was sure our plans were foiled. A couple cars got stuck along the way but with a little help we managed to free them. It was a wild ride of skidding and mud-slinging and it certainly got the heart racing.

Eventually we reached the pass and began a slow descent. The land was virtually untouched in its rurality, reminiscent of Cascadia with its brilliant emerald and rich, earthy browns. Here we were, at the very edge of the Sakteng Wildlife Preserve, otherwise known as the world’s only national park devotes to the protection of the yeti. Many tales of the yeti come from this region, though the infamous migoi has been part of Bhutanese lore across several of the country’s northern provinces of comparable elevation.

 As the land flattened out all traces of paved road were gone. We drove on dirt and grass, occasionally crossing shallow rivers. Just as I was beginning to relax and enjoy the fresh air, my worst nightmares came true. A swarm of wasps invaded the car, flying inside our open windows with. They settled in every corner. It took a matter of seconds for chaos to erupt. We waved our hands erratically in an attempt to the rid the pests, but they clung to any and everything. On the seats. On the floor. On our clothes. In the trunk. There were even 4 on my hat which I held in my hand. Somewhere between frozen panic and attempting to crawl out of my skin I tried to mentally stay myself and failed miserably. Fortunately my friend Holly came to my rescue with utter indifference to these stingers on wings and batted them senseless. After we successfully ridded the lot of them, I felt a bit sheepish for my lack of suaveness, but hey, I’m not perfect. In truth we were lucky considering only one of us got stung, but I’d be quite happy to never repeat that incident for so long as I live.

               We continued on the rocky road until the path was blocked by a car, parked in the middle of the one-lane road with no driver in sight. We exited the car and I began to walk ahead of the group down the path.

It wasn’t long before I beheld my first yak. These monstrous bovines are most impressive to behold and I was sure to keep a safe distance from them.

I kept walking until I encountered a few wooden shacks selling food and snacks. A number of people sat or stood idly by, a not-too-uncommon sight for Bhutan. Seeing as foreigners don’t come by too often, they gawked openly at my pale complexion and outrageous fashion sense. I tried to speak with them, but the locals here don’t even speak Dzongkha or much Sharchop—just a local dialect called Brokpa.

The others soon joined and we were ushered inside a small room with a bukkari (wood stove) for lunch. We ate the standard fare of rice, veggy curries, and daal. After eating we exited the store to find the trucks parked and unloading our stuff. I came to learn my camera had been broken during the drive, but everything else was fine—plus I still had my GoPro. We suited up and said goodbye to Nancy and friends as we set off on foot to the Merak trailhead.

It wasn’t long before we reunited with the muddy terrain we encountered earlier in the trucks. This time we were on foot though, and the ground was close to flat. We lugged our bags on our back for an hour or so before the view opened up. We were on the slope of a mountain sandwiched by pines on one side and green grass dotted with stones in every other direction. 

High up the slope we could even make out sheep grazing. We stopped along the way from time to time to hear local tales of where lamas had stayed demons in their tracks or great figures from Brokpa history had once walked, these sites designated by a ring of piled stones. 

Once over a hill we could make out our first view of the mystical Merak. We continued onward until the grass and dirt became stone and mud paths, carving our way up to our accommodation.