​Now it was my turn to get the nasty cold and cough Matt had been fighting since leaving Thimphu. Therefore, I was in a bit of a daze on the early morning bus ride from Trongsa to our jumping off point to begin the Nabji-Korphu trek, a low-elevation route good for the wintertime to rural communities of the Mon and Kheng peoples. The Monpa are believed to be the first inhabitants of Bhutan, numbering around 3,000. They speak their own language and sustain elements of their pre-Buddhist animistic Bon religion along side contemporary Buddhist practice. We had been in communication Phurba, a local guide from the Jangbi, one of just a few Monpa villages within Jigme Dorji National Park. He met us shortly after we deboarded the bus, and after sorting out a little mix up with our permit situation to enter the National Park with a few phone calls, we began hiking toward his village.

Local people believe that seeing a langur monkey on your journey is good luck, whereas spotting a mischievous macaque monkey will bring the opposite upon you. So we took it as a good omen for our trek (and my health) that we passed by a tree full of the gorgeous golden langurs shortly after crossing the river into the Park. After a few hours of walking uphill, we reached Jangbi, seemingly just a few houses and several of which belonged to members of Phurba’s family. We took tea in the altar room and chatted with his sister. Eventually, she invited us in to the much warmer kitchen with a bukhari, but warned us that we might think it was “dirty”. By dirty, she meant undeveloped and it became apparent that the family was a little self-conscious about having chilip guests in their humble home. We did our best to put them at ease, sitting on the wood floor, playing with the…uh, how to say, not-so-clean kids, and enthusiastically tucking in to the super spicy food Phurba’s brother, Chimi, prepared over an open hearth. Just before dusk, we took a tour of their farm, learning what cardamom plants look like, that porcupine are nuisance to their crops, and wondering about the unharvested pomelos rotting on the ground.

At dinner, we were offered homemade ara and Phurba’s father shared a hardcover book with us that turned out to be an Indian grad student’s dissertation on the Monpa’s intimate relationship with their forest environment, something we would see in practice time and again as we continued the trek. Already, we had been served at dinner a bitter dish of cane shoot collected from the forest. Phurba’s family had been interviewed in the data collection and thus received a copy of the dissertation in appreciation. I would have loved to review the research in more depth, but I was heading toward serious dysfunctionality with my cold, so we excused ourselves for an 8 o’clock bedtime.

We bid farewell to the family the next morning and set off with Phurba and Chimi into the jungle. I was grateful that the trek was not so strenuous since I was struggling for energy despite 11 hours of sleep and Dayquil in my system. We encountered golden langurs several times, as well as a striking rufous-necked hornbill. After a hot packed lunch at an overlook of the valley marked by a chorten, we passed by a historical site where Guru Rinpoche had meditated, the evidence being an imprint of his (quite large) head in an overhanging rock. He also left a few footprints and fingerprints in an impassable cliff face that he cut a path through.

About seven hours after departing, we reached the trekker’s campsite at Kudra, not quite as nicely maintained as the one in Jangbi that Phurba’s family is in charge of. There was no water and the boys had forgotten matches to start a fire, so they ran off to the two-house village to connect some hoses and borrow matches. Dinner included some wild spinach that they harvested along the trail. We ate next to a cozy campfire until a light rain sent us to bed in the cooking shelter since we did not bring a tent for this trek.

We visited four more historical sites of Guru Rinpoche’s adventures while trekking toward the village of Nabji the next day. The first was a cave system of tight passageways said to emerge at Kurjey Lhakhang in Bumthang, near where we live. In this one, we also encountered a tremendously scary spider on the wall where we had been bracing with our hands, but happily it did not move as we inspected it. Another was a deep bore hole in a rock, actually a phallus imprint where the mighty Guru had “subdued” a demoness. We had planned on camping in Nabji as well, but we found the campsite to be in disarray. Cows had been splatter painting with their poop inside the shelter where we would need to sleep and again there was no water. We sought out a homestay and learned that the village committee had decided that trekkers must stay in houses rather than camp, likely to generate more income for the community.

Our host, as well as the entire village, was in “celebration mode” thanks to the annual tshechu beginning the day before. We seemed to have a knack for happening upon these events. After Chimi took over the kitchen and we ate dinner, we headed down to the village’s temple for the evening session of masked dances, featuring a rare ter cham, or treasure dance. Before we arrived to the courtyard, Phurba emphasized that we could not take photos of this particular dance, and we clearly agreed. He reminded us several more times while we watched other dances leading up to it, and each time we reassured him we would not pull out our cameras or our phones. Then, an atsara (festival clown) came over to let us know there would be a “special” dance that we could not photograph. Laso (okay), no problem. Not long after that, a fire marshal type looking man introduced himself, then got right to the point of officially informing us there could be no photos. Yes sir, no photos. During a pause between performances, an announcement was made to the entire audience regarding the ban on photography for the next dance. Phurba translated for us, and we nodded in concurrence, then he translated it two more times just to be sure.

Finally, the lights in the courtyard were shut off, and only the glow of fire in the middle of the dance floor remained. A group of men and, surprisingly for us, young boys emerged from a nearby building wearing white cloths tied around their heads and…(almost) nothing else. The men wore a thong-like string configuration with their bare “treasure” tied up to it, so that it was better on display, I suppose. Many treasures were also decorated with puffs of fluffy feathers, colorful strings, perhaps bells. It was a little difficult to see the details in the dark. They whooped, hollered, and clanged bells as they danced, then took turns running around the perimeter of the dance area, pausing to energetically shake what they got. The younger boys left the dance as things got more intense, but returned towards the end to be part of the phallus blessing. The naked dancers formed a circle around the fire, and women of all ages walked clockwise within it, in a continuous bow to the men’s honored parts. In the fall, we had also witnessed a more sexualized and homoerotic version of this ter cham during the Jambay Lhakhang tshechu in Bumthang. It made this one seem tame in comparison. Nonetheless, seeing elderly women being blessed by the penises of boys who could be their grandchildren was one of those fascinating moments of travel that required a large helping of cultural relativism to appreciate.

Apparently, the naked dance originated in this village and the neighboring village of  Korphu in the 8th century. According to one travel company’s website, “legend has it that a band of devils were obstructing the construction of a Lhakhang (temple) in Nabjikorphu, delaying the work. As a ruse and to distract the devils, Terton Dorji Lingpa launched the naked dance. It served its purpose as the outrageous antics of the naked dancers kept the devils spellbound. The construction was thus completed. The dance reached Jambay Lhakhang since Terton Dorji Lingpa also consecrated [it].” A Terton is a treasure revealer, and refers to finding hidden scriptures and other religious artifacts, often in natural features like caves, as well as having dances such as this one revealed to their consciousness during deep meditations. Another travel company website claims, “The locals…believe that the penis is one of the most precious treasures, as all sentient beings are brought into the world by this organ.” Hmmm, interesting, because I can think of one other organ that might fit that description as well…

On the way back to our homestay, I considered playing a joke on Phurba by asking him if he’d like to see the amazing photos I took of the naked dance. I thought better of it though, fearing that if any other villagers overheard me, I might get instantly pummeled. And in a moment of sweet irony, we had spotted the pushy chilip photographer from the Trongsa tshechu at the naked dance as well, forced to actually stand back and watch something without his righteous tool to behave like a jack ass with.

We thought it was a little odd that two neighboring villages held their tshechus on the exact same dates until we learned from a German anthropologist studying the Korphu tshechu that they used to be staggered so both villages could attend the other's. A rivalry in recent years has caused them to competitively claim the same dates. We were trying not to play favorites though, and also wanted to explore another village, so we hiked for a couple of hours up to Korphu. After touring the village with Phurba’s monk friend and being offered some fresh homebrew known as singchang along the way, we entered the courtyard for the smallest tshechu we had ever seen with no more than fifty people in attendance. Despite this, we were intrigued that the atsaras were all about using a microphone hooked up to a large and in charge sound system, and got confirmation that this was a new adaptation as a result of the recently constructed road to the village. Like Nabji, there was also much more involvement of children in the tshechu than we had seen at the larger ones, from child atsaras to a lunch break karaoke/dance hour featuring most of the kids in the village.

We were so in love with this tshechu that we didn’t return to Nabji until its daytime festivities were wrapping up. However, just as we settled in to the kitchen for dinner at our homestay, we were informed that we needed to get out of the house because it would be “danger” to remain inside. Given our communication challenges with Phurba, the best we could surmise was that an intense fire ritual was about to be performed that could catch the house on fire. We rushed down to the Lhakhang just in time to watch a procession bringing down torma to eventually throw into a huge bonfire in the field below. We thus concluded the risk of remaining in the house was in a spiritual sense rather than a practical reality. The evening’s program continued with a very repetitive but endlessly humorous play, at least for those who could understand it. We sipped ara for our amusement instead, as well as to guard against the dropping temperature. Feeling a bit tshechu-ed out for the day, we took our leave just as a community dinner was being served, followed by more dances late into the night, of course. It seems these rural communities really go all out for their tshechus!

The following morning our packing routine was interrupted by Phurba excitedly busting in to our room to inform us of an old Monpa woman performing a shamanic ritual to rid a neighboring house of sickness. We were welcomed to observe the chanting and drumming on the deck of the house for a while, then returned to our hosts' house to settle up. Down at the Lhakhang, the tshechu was getting underway with blessing ceremonies. After getting some crowd-pleasing special attention from the atsaras, we joined the line to receive a blessing from the presiding rinpoche and another from a phallus presumably dipped in holy water. Afterwards, the women were getting picked up and twirled around by the men. I was no exception as the husband of the couple who hosted us grabbed me, although he noticeably went easy on me.

With that unexpected experience as our grand finale, we gave final assurances to multiple inquiries of which local tshechu was better that BOTH had been uniquely amazing, then started our hike down the road leading out of Nabji. While we were certainly honored to have witnessed these intimate community traditions up close and personal, our enthusiasm was ultimately no match for Phurba’s. He had not been to either of these Khengpa villages for eight years, yet he was constantly bumping into old classmates, friends, and acquaintances for whom he remembered exactly how they knew each other.

After all of the festivities of the few days, we were grateful for the simple, quiet movement of an easy hike down the road to the village of Nimshong. We noticed Chimi snapping off a couple of fern fiddleheads as he walked ahead of us and wondered if nakey would be on the dinner menu. When he answered in the affirmative, Matt pointed out that he would need to find a whole lot more. A grin spread across his face as he opened up the fold of his gho to reveal a heap of young fern fronds tucked inside. As we approached Nimshong late in the afternoon, Phurba informed us that we would ask around to stay in a house rather than using the campground as we had expected. We were a bit put off by this sudden change in plans, not because Nimshong appeared far less prosperous than Nabji and Korphu with its unadorned stilted wooden houses, but rather we were feeling saturated with wonderful but energy-intensive social interactions and were hoping for a more relaxing evening. Phurba put forth various reasons, but what it really came down to is that, except for the nakey collected on the hike, they were low on provisions.

After settling in to the altar room of a sweet old woman’s house, we were plied with tea and local mandarin oranges. Then Phurba informed us we had been invited to the annual prayer ritual at another house, similar to what we had experienced at the Haa Valley Homestay. We rallied our energy for the opportunity, amazed at how much ritual we had stumbled upon during this trek. We sat outside of their altar room and sipped ara while the monks prayed and played instruments inside. When the ceremony had finished, we were served bowls of rice topped with thick strips of chewy pork fat, considered the best part of the pig in Bhutan. We made a weak effort, but it was pretty difficult to stomach. Luckily, Chimi had also been cooking up the fiddleheads and other dishes for dinner back at our host’s home, so we excused ourselves for a second dinner. When we returned to the house having the annual ritual afterward, the mood had definitely turned purely celebratory and we were soon pulled into the circle of dancing in the tiny altar room. We captivated the attention of a very drunk young woman who repeatedly insisted that her (4-5 year old) “baby” told her that we were his true parents and that we needed to take her baby home with us. When this claim was less effective that she had hoped, she then tried to get us to come to her house to give us oranges. Phurba tried to help, but “My baby is sleeping. You are his momma.” persisted while firmly grabbing my hand, so we got out of there after just a few dances.
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The following morning, we rejoined with the main road running through Zhemgang and had our “divorce” with Phurba (and Chimi) as he called it, sealing the deal with a shot of whiskey at a roadside shop since they did not have ara. They caught a bus heading north back toward their village shortly thereafter. We were left once again on our own, sitting on the side of the road, but this time without the benefit of our trusty two-wheeled companions to help us get to where we were trying to go next…

After a few days of taking care of travel logistics in Thimphu, we were ready to take on the most intensive cycling section of our trip. We pedaled up to Dochu La for the second time, with the mountain panorama mostly enshrouded in clouds this time. Then we bundled up for the descent down the other side to Punakha, a fun ride on a freshly paved double-laned road, perhaps the most completed section of the ongoing effort to widen the entire East-West Highway.

However, we were far from finished climbing for the day, since we managed to select a homestay in a village high above the valley floor. We called our host, Aum Leki, at the turn off to begin the ascent and estimated it would take us an hour to reach her farmstead. She informed us that a monk would be waiting for us on the side of the road since it would be difficult to find her house on our own. One hour turned in to two hours, and after gaining about 2,500 feet, we finally saw a cell phone light illuminating the outline of crimson robes in the darkness. We apologized to the monk, who was Aum Leki’s neighbor, for the long roadside wait, but Sonam responded that he simply used the time to conduct his evening prayers and immediately launched in to the specifics of US politics until we reached his house. Then Aum Leki’s father-in-law took over escorting us down the rough dirt road to their house, unnecessarily grabbing on to my bike to “help” me walk it along. With only partial control it was a bit difficult to keep the bike steady with the weight of the panniers on the back rack, but he was quite determined not to let go.

Aum Leki was quite relieved to see us arrive and per Bhutanese custom, we immediately sat down in the altar room for tea, snacks, and welcome pours of ara. We were soon joined by a guide, Chencho, and his Australian client, Pete, both of whom we had met in the Bhutan Swallowtail office in Thimphu a couple of days before. At first we were a little put off by the “hotelness” of our room, but as soon as we realized our attached bathroom had a piping hot shower, all misgivings of lack of authenticity were somehow forgotten. After cleaning up from our long day of cycling, we headed over to the kitchen and sat on cushions around the bukhari to eat a typical Bhutanese dinner of red rice, ema datsi (chilies in cheese sauce), dal (blended lentil soup), and bitter gourd and finished up with a few more cups of ara before heading off for an early bedtime.

The next morning we bid farewell to Pete and Chencho and sat outside on a sunny patio with lovely views of the valley for a late leisurely breakfast. The lower elevation of Punakha made it feel semi-tropical with roses blooming in the garden and citrus ripening on the trees. We walked around the property and met Aum Leki’s “pet” wild boar kept in a tiny enclosure, which she caught in her fields as a boarlet. Apparently the boar is a picky eater and only eats rice, so she wants to give it away, but not to anyone who will eat it. Looks like she will be keeping it for a while…

Aum Leki took us on a short hike to Norbugang village, the home of the four Queen Mothers. We passed by their Royal Palace where preparations were underway to celebrate the first birthday of the Gyalsey (the Crown Prince) on February 5th. Then we met a Forestry Officer returning from a wood use inspection, and he invited to his house for tea. It was getting late in the afternoon by the time we began walking again and we were ready to chill back at the farm, but for some unknown reason Aum Leki seemed to really want us to see her daughter’s school, so we kept going. The students were on winter break, but we explored the grounds and met the friendly principal while he was washing his car in the driveway.

Meanwhile, the father-in-law had been preparing a hot stone bath for us, and indeed the third one of the trip was also a charm. It was one big tub sunken in to the ground enclosed in a wooden hut, but the open doorway allowed partial valley views. This time I overdid it asking for hot rocks, so we spent about as much time out of the tub cooling off as we did soaking, but it still worked wonders on our sore muscles from our ride the day before. After we were finished, their friends came over to enjoy the bath while dinner in the kitchen was a similar affair as the night before, this time with the addition of some fresh curd that Aum Leki had picked up at a neighbor’s on the way back from our walk.

The following morning, I bought one of Aum Leki’s weavings as a way to remember her sweetness, then got going on the epic day we had plotted out for ourselves. We zoomed down to the floor of the valley and crossed the river, rejoining the National Highway at Bajo. The reality of cycling through the road widening work hit us hard with a very dusty and loose gravel section right off the bat. Fortunately, as we slowly progressed up toward our next pass of Pele La, the road substrate improved even if the dust levels did not. Matt had developed an energy-zapping cough that was further aggravated by the cold temperature and road dust, so it became a struggle to reach the only lodging we knew of, a simple guesthouse a few miles below the pass. We rolled in around 7pm, tired and hungry, and grabbed one of the frigid rooms above the restaurant. After snarfing down rice, kewa datsi (potatoes and chilies in cheese sauce), and dried beef curry, we brought a bucket of hot water from the kitchen up to the bathroom since the pipes were frozen, then crashed in our sleeping bag on top of the bed, both for warmth and the fact that it was obvious the sheets had not been changed for quite some time. We know this because there were little pieces of chewed doma (betelnut) and stains of its characteristic red spit when we pulled back the covers, as well as a forgotten flashlight.

We got a fresh start on tackling Pele La the next morning, taking about two more hours to reach the top and having gained about 7,000 feet of elevation since leaving Punakha Valley the day before. With not much to see at the pass except a chorten and some souvenir stalls, we did not linger and began our hard-earned ride down towards Trongsa. It took most of the day to reach a famous viewpoint of the Trongsa Dzong at roughly the same elevation across the valley, so close but still so far away. We were reminded of cycling along the fjords of Iceland, as we had to descend all the way down to a river cutting through the back end of a side valley and ride all the way back up the other side to actually reach the spot we had gazed upon a few hours before.

The road dust had turned to mud in the side valley excursion, so we arrived to the wonderful Tashi Ninjay Guesthouse in a sorry state of cleanliness. The lovely staff were not phased in the least and gave us a great room with a balcony overlooking the massive, stately dzong brightly lit up in the night.

Purely by luck, we arrived to Trongsa midway through a multi-day tshechu (Buddhist festival) held in the courtyard of the dzong. We decided to stay an extra day to attend the remainder of it, as well as to let Matt recuperate. Pushing through his sickness for two big days of cycling had definitely caught up to him. Having observed several tshechus already, this one felt familiar, but also had a few dances that we had not seen before. Much like visiting Bhutan’s monasteries, there is a high degree of commonality between tshechus, but each provides a unique experience created by the setting, the local community in attendance, and paying attention to the details of the costumes and the dancing.

Matt rested up in the afternoon, while I watched until the end of the cham (sacred masked dance) performances. In the evening, we wandered through a temporary tent city of restaurants and karaoke bars that had popped up for the festival. We cozied up next to the bukhari in a particularly inviting tent for some momos (dumpings) and beers, trying not to be too obviously intrigued with a group of monks who were fully participating in the drunken revelry surrounding us.

The last day of the tshechu displayed a thondrol, a beautifully embroidered multi-storey tapestry featuring Guru Rinpoche, a great Tibetan saint that liberated many parts of Bhutan from demons. The thondrol is believed to be able to remove one’s sins upon sight. It is only unfurled once per year at daybreak, and while we were still snoring away at that point, we did make it to the courtyard before it was rolled up again. Semi-organized, or perhaps semi-chaotic, lines had formed in the courtyard to pass by the base of the thondrol and underneath a statue of Zhabdrung Ngawang Ngamyel, Bhutan’s unifier, to receive a blessing. We skipped the wait for the blessing and instead did some fascinating people watching from a balcony overlooking the entire courtyard.

Unfortunately, the person who most captivated our attention was a chilip in a bright green jacket and a camera with a tremendously long lens. He seemed to think that his camera gave him absolute entitlement to walk anywhere he pleased at any time and point it at anyone he felt like with any prior permission or interaction. He would stand in front of others and block their view, then walk across the dance floor in the middle of a performance for a new angle. With the lens he had, there was really no need to do either. Even if he was a legit professional, which somehow we highly doubted, his behavior made us cringe, yet we did not have the willpower to ignore him and gave in to watching his every annoying move.
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After we had done our own more discreet documenting, we took our leave from the tshechu and spent the remainder of the day cleaning off our bikes, hand washing some laundry, sorting out gear, and shopping for an immanent two-week diversion from the cycle tour to explore the little-visited southern district of Zhemgang the least developed dzongkhag of Bhutan.

We spent most of New Year’s Eve cycling from the lovely Haa Valley Homestay to Thimphu. Heading downstream, the road actually brought us higher and higher up as the valley narrowed. This road has not yet been subjected to widening construction, so it was a really pleasant ride with sweeping views of rural homesteads dispersed across rolling hills. We descended abruptly to Chuzom, a river confluence and road junction point, then rode the “busy” road back to Thimphu mostly in the dark.

We celebrated NYE by taking a cold shower (not by choice) at our usual Thimphu base, Hotel Sambauv, then headed out to our favorite restaurant, A La Carte, for our favorite food in the city: amazingly authentic tasting Thai papaya salad with grilled chicken, and a “KFC” chicken burger, much better than the real thing. The place was already packed with partiers dressed in their best ensembles, knee-high boots, 80s ripped jeans, purple faux fur coats, and the like. As for us, we splurged out on some $1.25 drink specials, hot apple cider whiskey and butter-fried ara, of which the latter tasted like a harsh egg nog when using a bit of imagination. Then, as our tradition dictates, we were in bed before midnight, listening to fireworks and a surge of general revelry around that one very special minute.

Our arrival in Thimphu marked the end of our concrete plans for the rest of winter break, so we had to put in some time figuring out the logistics of, well, the entire month of January. We met with our friends at Bhutan Swallowtail who were a great source of knowledge and advice, of course, being that they own a travel company and all. Slowly, and with a few investigatory phone calls and follow ups to those communications, a somewhat confirmed itinerary began to take shape.

Simultaneously, I took advantage of the down time in Thimphu to get up close and personal with Bhutan’s nationalized health care system. It had been several years since I had a thyroid function test to ensure I was on the proper dose of medication for my hypothyroidism. While traveling in Asia, I could walk in to any pharmacy and get the prescription medication for a couple of dollars, so there was little incentive to seek out a doctor after leaving the States.

Upon arriving at the Jigme Dorji Wangchuck National Referral Hospital, I had no idea where to begin the process of getting a blood test, so we walked in to the Emergency Department and were advised to go to “Old Building 1,2,3,4,5”. We asked passersby until we found the Old Building, and then deduced that I needed a numbered call ticket to queue outside of either door 1,2,3,4, or 5. After a short wait, my number came up and I entered door three, not sure what should happen behind it. I had barely uttered hypothyroidism and blood test before the “generalist” doctor had written up a lab order, kindly but efficiently instructing me to go to the lab the next morning because it would already be closed for the day. We decided it would be a good idea to preview the lab’s location and found it in the New Building. The door was still open and we noticed a technician drawing a patient’s blood, so I simply walked in and sat down at a sampling station. We would have to come back the next morning for results though, which we did, queuing in a long but fast-moving line at a little window in the outdoor courtyard of the New Building. After receiving my print out of the test results, we hustled back inside to the window that gives out numbered call tickets to visit the “specialists” upstairs. This is where the real waiting began. After a few hours of sitting in the hallway, my number was finally coming up, so I huddled near the door along with a few other numbers ahead of and behind me, as custom appeared to require.

The doctor competently reviewed my test results, but was a bit dismayed that she could not reference my medical records in a hand written composition notebook like the other Bhutanese patients carried. I explained that my medical records were kept in my health care provider’s computer system in the US and assured her that I did not have a very interesting medical history. She wrote a prescription for the same dosage of levothyroxine that I had been self-medicating with, and a lab order for a whole slew of blood tests including liver and kidney function, glucose, electrolytes, and cholesterol. I first had to go next door to get a blood pressure check, then I was free to take my prescription to the pharmacy in exchange for a numbered ticket. The order was filled quite quickly and I received my pills in an unlabeled plastic baggie.

The next morning, we walked to the hospital for the fourth time (one time was a futile attempt when we didn’t realize it was closed for a national holiday), this time confident that we knew the drill. I got the follow up blood test and was told I could pick up the results between 1 and 2pm. When we returned in the afternoon, the print out was indeed ready, but the specialists were already gone. According to a bystander who noticed us looking around in confusion, once a doctor reaches 60, they stop seeing patients for the day. We weren’t terribly upset by this since all of my values fell within the normal range and I had done my own research regarding what each test signifies.

I left the hospital having paid nary a ngultrum, nor owing any, only having spent a decent amount of time there over the course of three days. I received reliable services and quality care even if the process was initially a bit confusing for an outsider. Ultimately, it was fascinating to participate in a system of health care so different from the US. At least for my scenario of non-urgent preventative care, I certainly preferred the investment of time over money. By shifting more of the responsibility and legwork to the patients, the hospital was able to operate efficiently while still accommodating all the people seeking medical assistance. Seemingly, no one is turned away because they cannot pay, because they are uninsured, or because they could not get an appointment. They have to wait their turn with patience, they have to keep track of their own medical history, they have to run around to different windows in different locations, but this system allows lab results to be available in a matter of hours and specialists to consult at least 60 patients per day. Could you imagine a doctor in the US with 60 appointments in a single day? That said, Matt and I wondered if we would have a similar reaction with a more complicated and/or time-sensitive medical condition. We have the privilege of paying for privatized health care if we need it, but most Bhutanese could not.
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By then, we were ready to move on from Thimphu. Each time we are there, we always have the best intentions of doing fun stuff like day hikes, visiting local temples, and even a few museums. Yet somehow, running errands, shopping, eating non-Bhutanese food, and sorting gear always takes precedence. This time was no different, but it was essential for the success of the rest of our journey back to Bumthang.

We were proud of ourselves for getting a fairly early start (for us) to what we anticipated would be a challenging day of cycling over Chele La and down into Haa Valley. Even so, after a quick stop at the ol' ATM and a few photo shoots along the way, including a plane taking off through the narrow valley with Paro's majestic dzong in the background, it was late morning before we reached the turnoff for the pass and began our long ascent. We could see the summit from our base in the valley and it looked daunting. However, the road was graded consistently and quite reasonably, so we soon settled into a rhythm, albeit a slow one, switchbacking through the forest. 

Once while we were taking a break, it quickly became apparent that we managed to stop in the middle of a yak crossing and while the massive beasts shyly kept their distance, it was a bit unnerving to be completely surrounded by them. As we approached the top, we could see the wind blasting the extensive collection of prayer flags lining the road. The temperature was dropping quickly too, so we bundled up before cresting the pass and had just enough sunlight for a few photos before it sank into a bank of clouds sitting on the other ridge of the valley below us. We had pedaled against 6,000 feet worth of gravity to reach Bhutan's highest motorable, and cycleable, pass at an altitude of 13,000 feet. With the sun, we too began our hard earned descent, pausing a couple of times to rewarm fingers and toes and at least mentally combat the windchill with chocolate. Still, I can think of worse ways to spend Christmas.

We hit the valley bottom in total darkness and called our host at the Haa Valley Homestay for the last leg of directions. As soon as we reached the gates of their courtyard, we were ushered inside and our bikes were swiftly lifted up a ladder-like staircase for safe keeping inside on the first floor. We were shown our cozy room inside the historic house and after taking off a few layers, we sat down in front of the radiant bukhari in the kitchen for further rewarming with tea and bamboo baskets of Bhutanese snacks. We were introduced to some of the family members, Ugyen the father, Dole the mother, Tenzin the 13-year-old daughter, and "Auntie". Dole's aunt lives with them as well. Kinga, their 15-year-old son, was away at a football (soccer) camp. Ugyen's nephew and co-manager of the homestay, Sonam, was also there giving us a really helpful orientation to the house and the area. We soon figured out that through the ever present small country connections of Bhutan, Sonam had been recommended to us as a trekking guide by his ex-pat college professor whom we had randomly started chatting with at a coffee shop in Thimphu a few weeks before, completely separate from our booking at this homestay.

Despite our tired legs, we spent our first day in Haa getting a lay of the land by taking a leisurely cycle up to the end of the valley, or at least until the guarded gate of the Bhutan Army post. There is a permanent presence of both Bhutanese and Indian military in Haa due to its proximity to the Tibetan border. On our return, we stopped in Hatey village in search of the Lechuna Heritage Lodge where Lonely Planet made mention of serving filter coffee, as in real coffee. We instead found the Soednam Zingkha Heritage Lodge and ended up with some regular old Nescafé, not realizing the Lechuna was a separate entity until after it was too late. 

In the evening we rewarded our Chele La efforts with a hot stone bath in a private hut in the house's courtyard. This time we each had our own deep wooden "trough" to recline in, but similarly we would give a little holler when we needed new stones from the fire to be added to a compartment of the tub that stuck through the wall for outside access without disturbing the bathers. We felt that we could really become connoisseurs of the hot stone bath, except we felt guilty about how much work goes in to it and how much wood it burns. At least we were relieved of one worry when the family took advantage of the opportunity when were finished, even the adorable grandparents came over for a soak. As for the wood, Bhutan has 72% forest cover and is the only carbon negative country in the world. Of course, we all know that carbon emissions stay within national borders, right?

The next day we tried our hand at Bhutan's national sport, something I had been hoping to have the opportunity to do since moving here. Even though we stood at a fraction of the distance that Bhutanese archers shoot at the target from, our best attempts were quite amusing for the crowd that instantly materialized as soon as they saw two chilips pick up the traditional bamboo bows. Once our fingers hurt plenty and we fully acknowledged there was no hope for hitting the target, we tried a couple of other traditional target-aiming games that we had not seen before. Jigdum is sort of like knife throwing with a short stick whittled to a point on both ends. Soksum is akin to a javelin and the most difficult to use of the three.

In the afternoon, Tenzin became our de facto tour guide and showed us the recently renovated Lhakhang Kharpo, or White Temple, and the Lhakhang Nagpo, or Black Temple. Both were originally built in the 7th century by the Tibetan king Songtsen Gampo, making them some of the oldest of their kind in Bhutan. The White Temple houses Haa's Dratshang, the monk body of the district, whereas the much smaller Black Temple is associated with the protective deity of Haa Valley. 

We still had some time to spare after a tea break back at the house, so Ugyen suggested that we visit the government run trout fishery. Since it was a few kilometers away, we asked Tenzin if she had a bike and she responded in the affirmative. As we were leaving, her father was urging her to wear a helmet and she used us as rationale why she didn't have to since we were skipping them for the minor ride. Only after we departed did we realize that she was not very confident with her bike riding skills and the bike was actually a rental for homestay guests, but fortunately there were no accidents. The fishery itself wasn't much to see, but Tenzin was so enjoying practicing riding a bike with us that we continued to explore down the valley and tried to teach her how to shift gears.

Our third day was the first day of Lomba, the Haap New Year, and the reason we timed our visit when we did. When planning our trip, I was searching for places to stay in Haa and came across a blog post by a couple of Australian teachers who visited Ugyen and family during Lomba a few years back. We began the day with a marathon hoentay making session, sitting crosslegged on the incredibly polished and always immaculately clean hard wood floor of the kitchen. As special food is central to most celebrations in the world, hoentay are an essential part of Lomba. No ordinary dumplings, the dough is made with buckwheat flour and the filling has no less than ten ingredients, depending on who was explaining hoentay to us. These included an item that no one new the English translation for but we suspect were ground black mustard seeds, as well as turnips, and turnip greens, Sichuan pepper, mushrooms, cheese, ginger, garlic, onion, butter, and of course, chili... Ugyen and Dole were the experts in the production line. Dole made perfectly symmetrical dough cups which would receive a spoonful of the filling by Ugyen before he shaped the mass and closed it with precise and delicate pinches. Then Dole would collect a batch and boil them on the wood burning stove. The more I tried to imitate Ugyen, the worse my hoentay would look, so eventually I "perfected" my own style that, while perhaps not proper, held their own in the aesthetics department. Matt and I also found redemption in the fact that our dumplings looked no worse that Tenzin's! I inquired how many hoentay the tremendous bowl of dough and filling would make and Ugyen estimated a couple hundred. Why so many? Well, it turns out that neighbors not only share hoentay with each other, essentially creating an elaborate hoentay swap, but send them across the country to dispersed relatives and friends via Bhutan's skeletal public transportation system. Adding to that, traditionally hoentay are the only food eaten at Lomba dinner!

Once the hoentay were all boiled up, we accompanied Sonam and Tenzin to the Black Temple where there was a ritual underway for the village's protector deity. Each household in Dumcho village had sent a younger family member to bring back a piece of torma, dough shaped into a small decorative tower, which had been blessed during the ceremony. This would then be mixed in with the dough that each household will use to create a lu, a small effigy that removes negative energy from the house at each new year. The youth also set about collecting samples of various plants that surround the lu.

Upon returning to the house, Sonam began molding the dough into a figurine of a little man riding a horse while we observed and sipped the obligatory late afternoon tea. We were impressed with how quickly he made it and the level of detail involved, even dressing the lu in a robe, and adding a miniature butter lamp, offerings of grains and hoentay and money. Each member of the house then created a chi chi by squeezing a length of dough inside their fist to make their unique palm print. The piece of dough was then passed around the body to remove the person’s negative energy and spit on, then placed on the plate bearing the lu. Lastly, the butter lamp was lit and a trail of flour spread from where the lu sat on the kitchen floor to the door of the house. As the lu was carried out of the house, Tenzin swept away the flour trail. Kinga carried it all the way down to the river and set it down facing south, all the while the group was yelling loudly to scare away the lu. As an extra precaution to ensure the lu did not return to the house with all of the negative energy it was carrying, the boys lit a couple of firecrackers, which didn’t exactly blow up the lu, but did crack the plate it sat on. Then we returned home and ate plenty of hoentay for dinner, of course.

The next morning we got a fairly early start on a hike that Sonam invited us to join him on, along with his friends from the village. The Tourism Council of Bhutan had recently built the Meri Puensum Nature Trail to help promote tourism in Haa, taking its name from a series of similarly shaped hills known as the Three Mountain Brothers. These sacred hills represent the Rigsum Gonpo, a trinity of three important deities called Chana Dorji, Chenrizig, and Jambayang. The group of young men from the village had decided to take on the upkeep of the trail and their mission that day was place rubbish bins proclaiming “Use Me!” at intervals along the way. We were pleased to keep pace with them in the middle of the pack while still stopping to pick up litter as we saw it, despite taking the steep shortcuts in between gentler graded switchbacks intended for mountain biking. Even though this was designed as a  mountain biking trail, it would have been a pretty rough one, requiring a good deal of pushing and even carrying in a few sections, so we were happy with our decision to be hiking it. 

The guys were quite welcoming to having two random tagalongs join their close knit group and while we didn’t understand their jokes or good natured banter, it was apparent that everyone was in high spirits. While I hold no illusions that “Happiness is a Place” as the Bhutanese tourism tagline would like the world to believe, I had an overwhelming feeling of contentment within myself on this particular day and sensed that our companions were experiencing the same. We stopped for a break in a meadow midway up and were amazed to watch most of them pull out full size thermoses of tea out of their small packs. Likewise, at lunch on top of the ridge that runs behind the Meri Puensum hills, bulky insulated containers of packed lunch appeared out of those same bags. While traversing the ridge, we had yet another great view of Jhomolhari from a new angle, then descended back into the forest to complete the kora (loop) around the three sacred hills. We returned to Ugyen’s house at dusk, to the surprise, and perhaps relief, of the older family members who were doubtful we would make it out of the forest before dark. Best of all, Sonam informed us that we must have been the first chilips to hike that trail, yet another place to add to our list of first foreigner to visit in Bhutan. 

We were awoken the next morning before daylight by a chorus of deep-toned horns, bells, drums, and guttural chanting. We laid in bed just listening to our unique but lovely alarm clock for a while. This was the first day of the family’s annual ritual, a two-day affair on auspicious dates determined by the local astrologer. Yesterday, a few monks had spent the day at the house creating torma, elaborate towers made of colored butter shaped onto a base of dough. The collection of torma were lined up the length of the altar where the monks had begun conducting extended ceremonies in honor of each torma in the altar room. Meanwhile, Ugyen’s family was busy preparing special foods for their relatives arriving from Thimphu, Phuentsholing, and perhaps beyond. We joined them in the kitchen just in time for some tasty thup, a savory spicy rice porridge, and filled up on it assuming that it was breakfast. It turns out it was just a pre-breakfast and a mid-morning feast of meat curries over rice was served as official breakfast. As soon as that was wrapped up, preparations for lunch began, with Ugyen and Dole donning their kabney or rachu to dash in to the altar room for a specific prayer or ritual as required, then returning to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Matt and I gave a bike maintenance crash course to Sonam, Kinga, and their Uncle Dodo to help them take care of the rental bikes they had recently purchased for homestay visitors. At lunch, dried yak meat was served, including pieces of pure fat that Sonam coached us on the best way to eat: put the cubes on your plate first and cover with steaming rice to soften, then eat them last, like dessert. It didn’t exactly substitute for chocolate ice cream in my opinion, but it was still cool to try a delicacy that came from the family’s herd of yaks currently grazing at pasture above Paro. We socialized with recently arrived relatives in the afternoon, then got out for a stroll around the village just before dusk to get some fresh air and attempt to digest a bit before dinner. We had noticed that a suspicious number of dogs had been lurking around outside of the house that day and we soon figured out why. They recognized the sounds of the annual ritual and knew that the torma would be carried out of the house and discarded. As soon as Ugyen and Kinga set them down and walked away, a pack of black dogs devoured the beautiful displays of butter and then cows finished off the job with the dough and turnip bases. It was a good reminder of the prevalence of the concept of impermanence in Buddhist philosophy. By the time we ate the last large meal of the day, we were more stuffed than any Thanksgiving. In fact, the whole relaxed day filled with special food and family felt a lot like Thanksgiving, sans parades and football. And since we had not spent the holidays with our own families, this was the best substitute we could have imagined. 

Before departing the last morning, we were invited to join Ugyen and Kinga on the covered roof of their house, which serves as a "cellar" for dried turnip greens, strips of meat, chilies, and grass fodder for their cows. The father and son performed an offering ritual to Dumcho village’s protector deity and we were honored to witness it. It was one of those travel moments made more rich and meaningful because we chose not to bring our cameras up the ladder hewn out of a single massive log. We were fully focused on absorbing every vivid detail with our senses without the filter of lenses. 

As we bid farewell, Ugyen told us that it was karma that brought us together to celebrate Lomba and their annual ritual, because even members of their own family were not able to make it. Indeed, the traditions seemed strong and vibrant from our perspective, but some relatives spoke to us about how the current celebration is an echo of the past, a time when the entire family would gather for a week or more without the pressures of modernity and distractions of technology. Regardless, we were grateful for our temporary adoption into a welcoming Bhutanese household and earnest inclusion in their festivities.

Being a little tired from finishing the Druk Path Trek the day before, we had a leisurely morning of packing up and getting out of the hotel, thus beginning our Bhutan cycle touring tradition of never arriving to our intended destination before dark. Actually, that might just be a Matt and Casey cycle touring habit in general...

We might have made it before the sun set, had we not made it our mission to document the plethora of very punny, rhymey, and/or straight up bizarre road signs expounding all sorts of wisdom between Thimphu and Paro. Gems such, "Peep Peep Don't Sleep!" and "If you are married, divorce speed" come courtesy of Project DANTAK of the Border Roads Organization, a subdivision of the Indian Army Corp of Engineers, which has build more than 1500 kilometers of roads in Bhutan since 1961. The signs have always entertained us during the many times we had driven between Thimphu and Paro, but the freedom of the bicycle allowed us to honor them in their full glory for the first time. 

Other excuses for our slow progress were a decent headwind whipping through the canyon until we reached a river confluence at Chuzom, which then transformed into the rare and elusive tailwind that we never seem to feel at our backs. And then there was that ridiculously steep hill after passing through Paro as the final push of our day, but our reward made it worthwhile. Our much anticipated arrival at the Taktshang View Hotel included tea by a cozy bukhari (wood burning stove) in a gorgeous lobby that made me gasp with surprise when I walked in the door. Every wall was painted floor to ceiling with detailed Bhutanese motifs and traditional Buddhist scenes. Dinner was served in an equally beautiful dining room that felt grand enough for a king's banquet. This would definitely be the fanciest place we would stay during our independent travel this winter break. The friendly staff took an interest in our preference to travel by bicycle, so we ended up chatting with them for a while before heading to bed.

In the (not too early) light of the morning, we got to see why Taktshang View is aptly named. It does indeed have a great view of Bhutan's most iconic landmark, the Tiger's Nest Monastery, hugging a cliff face at its midpoint roughly 3,000 feet above the Paro Valley below. Leaving the hotel, we zoomed down our hard-earned hill and turned north for a ride up to Drukgyel Dzong towards the end of the valley. The dzong was built around 1650 to commemorate victory over attempted Tibetan invasions of Western Bhutan. Mostly in ruins since a butter lamp started a fire in 1951, restoration to its former glory began in early 2016 in honor of the birth of the Gyalsey (Bhutan's Crown Prince) as well as the 400 year anniversary of the arrival of Bhutan's great unifier Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyel. We parked our bikes and hiked up to its hilltop location to see what there was to see, which was mostly a construction site, but also included exploring a series of watchtowers that historically protected access to the dzong's water source far below. 

Passing by the window of only handicraft shop in the little village at the base of the dzong, a tiny painting of a chorten on a square of wood caught my eye for its absolute uniqueness. To my disappointment, the shop was locked but some men nearby quickly offered to fetch the owner for me. I was curious enough about it that I agreed. When I picked up the little painting, I was shocked at how heavy it was, at least two pounds, and not wood but stone. I literally had to weigh if it was worth carrying on my bicycle, after all, we had actually done a decent job of packing lightly for once. I decided it was. Merry Christmas to me, a hefty little Buddhist painting, lol!

Speaking of the holidays, we spent a good chunk of the following day scouring the internet for Christmas and Chanukah gifts to order for family members. This turned out to be a striking reminder of how far removed our lives have become from consumer culture with our particular existence in Bhutan. While working, meals are provided at the cafeteria and we live high up on steep hill above the main town. We can go weeks without actually spending any cash, and even then it is usually just a bike ride down to town to stock up on a very limited selection of treats: locally made yogurt and honey, Cadbury chocolate, and mid-grade Bhutanese whiskey at $5 per bottle. This is not to deny that there is growing consumerism as Bhutan continues to modernize, but there are few temptations for us chilips amidst the cheap imports of Western clothes and, well, the usual plastic crap.

In contrast, I found myself sucked in to the website Uncommon Goods, beginning to fantasize about owning cute house things and kitchen gadgets I would never use, at the same time I was incredulous that anyone would spend $20 for a pack of 10 snowflake-shaped marshmallows from Williams-Sonoma. We couldn't even deal with the endless options for the same thing on Amazon. Is it real or will you get ripped off with a knock-off instead? Are those real or fake reviews? Aargh! What to do? We were reminded of the lesson we learned returning to the US after our extended journey in Asia in 2014-16. More choice does not lead to deeper satisfaction with life, and by choice I refer strictly to the consumer kind. Rights and freedoms are another matter altogether.

Of course, we wanted to show appreciation to our families, and at the end of the day we found items that we felt expressed it well, but we definitely benefited from the therapeutic de-stressing effects of a hot stone bath that evening. Somehow we had been in Bhutan for seven months without enjoying this Bhutanese tradition, perhaps because it is a bit labor intensive. Rounded granite river stones ranging in size from a softball to a soccer ball are embedded into a raging bonfire for several hours until they are literally red hot. Then the very skilled attendant removes them with long tongs and plunges them into a compartment of a wooden tub that heats the bath water while also releasing minerals from the rocks. Medicinal herbs such as artemisia (wormwood) are mixed in as well to further soothe sore muscles and ease aches and pains. Since the water gets pretty darn hot, we were told that tourists rarely last longer than half an hour. Of course, we were determined to get our money's worth and were proud to soak away an hour and a half.

For our last day in Paro, we hired a taxi to drive us up a windy road climbing up the side of the valley to the Sanga Choekor Shedra, a Buddhist college where the monks were about to begin their exams that morning. We easily picked up the trail for the Bumdra Trek, usually a two day excursion that we were going to do as a day hike and end up back at Taktshang View. After an hour or so of hiking, we reached Chhoe Tse Lhakhang, a simple temple tended by an single elderly lama who invited us in to his home for tea (and entertainment by his three kittens as companions). He showed us the altar room where we left some fruit we had carried with us and a small donation. 

As we continued upwards, we hoped that the cloudy sky would clear by the time we got to the luxury camp below Bumdra Goempa, embedded into an outcrop of cliffs. The heavy clouds made no effort to dissipate, so we were out of luck for mountain views for the day. We poked around the camp and marveled at the wall tents with real wood framed beds inside, as well as the effort that was required to haul them up there.  Then we climbed a couple of extended ladders from the base of the cliff to pay our respects to the singular altar of Bumdra attended by a rather shy monk. From there, we descended steeply through a rhododendron forest and, of course, the sky began to clear. By the time we emerged at the collection of temples dispersed along the slopes above the cliff face of a Taksang, it was warm and sunny. We visited inside whichever temples were already opened or those where we could find a caretaker without being too disruptive, each with their own unique features, and passed by the rest. 

Reaching the main trail to the Tiger's Nest late in the afternoon, we decided to bypass the star of the show since we have been lucky enough to visit it three times before. Besides, in the five temples visited along the way, we had definitely done plenty of prostrations, taken many pours of holy water, and spun enough prayer wheels for one Christmas Eve! We bombed down the well-trodden trail past the row of "Buy something!" souvenir vendors in the parking area, arriving back to Taktshang View at dusk. In 11.5 miles, we hiked up 3,800 feet and came down 5,300, surely a logical way to rest up before we would leave Paro the next morning and cycle over Bhutan's "highest motorable pass"...

Upon returning to Thimphu, we were in for a bit of a surprise. When we had departed for Dochu La a few days prior, we had left a bag in the hotel storage with all of our camping gear and other items we would need for the rest of our time exploring Bhutan. It turned out that one of the drivers for the SFS program had recognized the bag when he was leaving and assumed that we had wanted it sent back to Bumthang with him. This predicament was definitely going to put a kink in our travel plans and we would certainly not be departing for the Druk Path Trek the next day as scheduled. Fortunately, things have a way of always working out one way or the other in Bhutan, as long as you always throw in a healthy dose of patience to the mix. I got in touch with our program coordinator who informed me that a driver would actually be returning to Thimphu the next day and could drop the bag back at our hotel. The best of all possible resolutions!

As it turned out, there was no struggle to fill the extra time in Thimphu. We met with the guide we had hired through our friends' travel company Bhutan Swallowtail about the logistics of our upcoming trek, then did a thorough scour of a few grocery stores that offer good selections of imported chilip-friendly food and put together a trekking meal menu that we were pretty excited about (even if our guide and his assistant wouldn't be so much...). While picking up the last few items at "8-Eleven", an energetic blue-eyed woman poked her head through the aisle in between some loaves of bread and said, "Hello, not to be creeping on you or anything, but are you Matt and Casey?" Cathy had just added us to a Thimphu ex-pats Facebook group and checked out my (our) profile in the process. She invited us to join her in meeting up with some other ex-pats for dinner and we accepted. It was certainly interesting to hear the stories of foreign volunteers working in hospitals, colleges, and even providing veterinary care to the takins (Bhutan's national animal) in Thimphu's Takin Preserve, but it made for a late night of packing. We did get a bit of extra sleep though since our hotel had had no water supply for the last 24 hours, so last minute showers were not an option. 

Our guide Ugyen picked us up in a local taxi promptly at 6:30am as promised and we drove to Paro after also picking up his friend Kunzang on the way. We tried to acquire a couple of liters of some kerosene at the petrol station for the cook stove, but due to shortages it was strictly regulated, so we ended up with the lovely fuel option of diesel instead. The taxi drove us as far up the rough road as it could manage, then we got situated on the side of the road with our bags, or in Kunzang's case, woven bamboo basket with horribly uncomfortable looking thin rope straps. To make things worse, he then piled their on ridiculously bulky and heavy tent for two people, but the only one they could find to rent independent of a company tour. Treks in Bhutan typically involve an entourage of pack horses, a horseman, cook, and kitchen assistants in addition to a guide, so the concept of lightweight gear and backpacking minimalism is almost nonexistent here. We tried to prep Ugyen and Kinzang for a different style of trekking than they were used to, but going against the grain had already served up some challenges.

We hiked up a logging trail to the Jele Dzong perched on a ridge line overlooking the Paro Valley. With the dzong under renovation, the structure wasn't particularly striking, but the chapel provided a unique opportunity to see an altar dedicated to Paro's protector deity. We lunched in a field of prayer flags with a captivating view of Jhomolhari and then continued on to our first night's camp, a dusty yak herding pasture that had a distracting amount of litter strewn about. The sun had dipped behind the ridge by the time we were setting up camp, and we were quickly introduced to the reality of just how cold the nights were going to be on our dead-of-the-winter trek. It wasn't long before Ugyen and Kunzang had a beautiful campfire going to keep the shivers at bay, which we welcomed despite our confusion about why we brought a camp stove when they ingeniously set up a configuration of stones and branches to begin cooking dinner over it. We had some celebratory cinnamon hot chocolate spiked with Bhutanese whiskey, followed by a decent soup with dehydrated pumpkin and chicken sausage over rice, the last rice these Bhutanese men would eat for several days and a situation almost unheard of in Bhutan. We had warned them: no rice, and BYO chilies...so...do you still want to come? With a quick look at the spectacular night sky and an early bedtime for all, it felt nice to be camping after a long while.

The next day we took the high route along the ridge lines above our campsite for continuous 360 degree views with Ugyen, while Kunzang hiked a shorter lower route through the valley. At the end of the day, we descended purposefully to Jimilangtso, an alpine lake set back in a steep sided valley. This made for an extra cold but scenic campsite with far less garbage, but many landmines of uncovered poop pits dug by commercial trekking groups right in the prime spots to pitch a tent! We were a little surprised that Kunzang was not already there waiting for us, but through a very traditional Bhutanese communication system of hoots and whistles, Ugyen determined he was at the other end of the half-frozen lake. 

Rather than joining us as expected, his whistles became more persistent as we set up the tent a relatively safe distance from any crap craters. Ugyen continued to ignore him, until finally we asked, "Are you sure Kunzang is okay over there?" We had a sneaking suspicion that he had already set up camp and was not planning on moving, but Ugyen had already said there was no place to camp at the other forested end. Finally, Ugyen set off to see what was going on, and returned with Kunzang to help us move our tent to the other side of the lake where suddenly it was a better place to camp: warmer, out of the wind, and with more firewood available. Even if that were the case, by that time we had totally unpacked and were feeling frustrated about how the miscommunication had been handled, so we resisted and they quickly agreed to move their tent to our side. 

We spent the night freezing in our sleeping bag despite wearing all of our layers, including our rain jacket and rain pants. The next morning everything was covered in a heavy frost and the sun teased us for hours by traveling horizontally behind ridge above us, taking its sweet time to crest the top, which was essential for defrosting both the tent and us. Meanwhile, the alternative camping option basked in the sun at least an hour ahead of us. True punishment for being stubborn, of course.

It was a slow steady climb out of the valley, including a stretch of carefully constructed cairns that more closely resembled the ubiquitous chortens that dot the landscapes of Bhutan. We crested the ridge and began traversing across ravines and vertical ridges, shallow cirque valleys and bulges, visiting more small alpine lakes and yak pastures as we went. At our lunch spot near a yak herder's shelter, we were adopted by a mellow black dog who traveled with us to our camp, walking ahead and napping until we passed by him. Despite the painfully slow start to the morning, we reached our intended campsite of Labana before dark, settling in next to an eerily dark-stoned dry lake where people had constructed more of the cairn-chortens. This campsite was the nicest of the three, with only the scars of multiple fire pits to contend with and the occasional whiteout of clouds rising up from the broad valley below.

Dinner was a big hit with Ugyen and Kunzang, still cooked over the open fire since we had discovered the camp stove was not working when Matt persistently tried to fire it up the day before. We introduced them to couscous and magically produced sealed packets of pre made Indian food to top it with. We had been pleasantly surprised to stumble upon the Paneer Butter Masala and Aloo Matar in Thimphu, a strikingly similar equivalent of the "Tasty Bites" I grew up backpacking with. To be honest, this meal conjured up a strong childhood nostalgia despite so many other elements of that moment being drastically different from backpacking in Glacier National Park with my family.

We had been promised a spectacular sunrise, but Matt had set the alarm for after the fact and Ugyen came to our tent yelling "Sunrise!" as it was happening, so I stumbled out of the tent grumpy and discombobulated to a blinding light above a sea of almost equally blinding white clouds below. Given that I don't even do sunrises in the first place, I squinted into the general direction I was supposed to be excited about, then went about my morning routine of actually waking up while Matt enthusiastically snapped photos (of the early morning light, thankfully, not me...).

At a reasonable hour to be awake, we broke camp and had just a little elevation to gain for the day, taking a last look at the panorama of peaks to the north. A dramatically perched chorten at the edge of the ridge marked the beginning of our steep descent to Phajoding Monastery with its tiered roofs spread out across the hillside below. Beyond Phajoding was a hazy view of the city of Thimphu filling the valley and creeping up any slope not too steep to support a building.

Our black dog unadopted us as we approached the monastery, like to avoid starting a turf war with the resident canines there. We were unable to enter the temples since the monks were taking written exams inside of them, so we continued down endless switchbacks through the forest to emerge at a road where our taxi driver from the first day was waiting for us. We felt a sense of accomplishment for having trekked from Paro to Thimphu and in about half the time a standard tourist group would take. As the Druk Path is one of the most popular treks in Bhutan, the trail was well defined and in retrospect hiring a guide was not really necessary. Nonetheless, we really appreciated having Ugyen's additional knowledge and insights to deepen our experience. Since we could not rely on the camp stove, Kunzang's enthusiasm for fire building and skills cooking over it were also essential to our warmth and, well, survival.

We said our thank yous and goodbyes to Ugyen and Kunzang and checked in to the lovely Hotel Sambauv where there was at least water now, but no hot water. Hmmm...we were thoroughly dust-covered from the trail, smelled of campfire and worse, and hadn't showered for two days before the trek either. "What to do?" as the common phrase goes around here. Quite luckily for us, we had a backup option. The SFS program director had kindly given me a gift certificate for pool and gym access at Taj Tashi, a five star luxury hotel. So after having pizza delivered to our $20 hotel room, we wandered over to the Taj and confidently presented the voucher for "us". The attendant did not bat an eye, so we rushed off to our respective bathrooms for truly amazing showers before a soak in the almost-hot-enough jacuzzi. The perfect juxtaposition to our trek was also a wonderful way to wrap it up.

Afterwards, we poked around the lobby and wondered what all of the extra dough for your digs really gets you. In this deeply Buddhist and Hindu country, the hotel was one of the few places we had seen decked out for Christmas. A decorated tree stood in the center of the room and as we walked by I instinctively redirected my path to keep it on my right, subconsciously treating it like a chorten. I recognized my reaction to the Christmas tree a little after the fact and laughed, "You know you've been in Bhutan a long time when you automatically circle another religion's objects clockwise!"

It’s funny to think back to nearly two years ago when we spent ten days in Bhutan as a “once in a lifetime” experience. As we careened around bend after bend on the narrow mountain roads with barely any traffic, I daydreamed about how amazing it would be to freely cycle Bhutan. Never gonna happen though, how would we ever get such an opportunity? At best, we might be able to join an organized cycling tour, someday, after first winning the lottery.

And now, with the School for Field Studies fall semester all wrapped up, that same dream was launched into reality. Panniers stuffed onto the back racks of our mountain bikes, mandatory route permit tucked in to a side pocket, and us wrapped in various warm and windproof layers to combat the winter morning chill, we set off from Hotel Sambauv, practically our second home in Bhutan. We were easing in to bicycle travel in Bhutan with a mini-tour from Thimphu to the top of the closest mountain pass, Dochu La, a wimpy 3,000 feet of elevation gain spread over 16 or so miles. We were relieved that it did not feel too strenuous, since that would not bode well for the rest of our itinerary, but in true Bhutanese fashion we stopped anyway for a tea break mid-journey in the village of Hongtsho. Of course, our ulterior motive was to locate the new Serbhum Brewery that had just started distributing Bhutan’s first stout to select pubs and bars in Thimphu. A nice local man offered to drive us a ways back down the hill, but the brewery was closed as the tasting room wasn’t finished and open to the public yet. But we will definitely keep checking on its progress during future trips to Thimphu.

We crested the pass and were greeted with a panorama of distant snowy peaks against a bluebird sky. After making the traditional three clockwise circles around a cluster of 108 small chortens (stupas) forming an island that gracefully separates the lanes of the East-West Highway, we continued a short distance down the other side of the pass to the Dochu La Eco Retreat. We settled in to a spacious but cozy wood-paneled room with a bukhari (wood burning stove) and an even more impressive view of the spread of mountains than from the pass. We felt high, at about 10,000 feet, but more so from a successful first day and the prospect of fifty more days of Bhutan exploration left ahead of us.

Our specific motivation for staying at Dochu La was the Druk Wangyel tshechu held the next day. This festival is unique in that it only occurs for one day every December 13th and commemorates the Fourth King Jigme Singye Wangchuck's efficient and effective expulsion of Assamese (Bodo) separatists hiding out in Southern Bhutan back in 2003. Dochu La is a fitting location since the 108 chortens were commissioned by Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuck, the eldest of the fourth king's four wives, as a memorial honoring the Bhutanese soldiers who lost their lives in the battle.

From the chortens, we passed through a decorative gate and down a long cobbled walkway, entering the festival grounds just ahead of the opening procession of dancers, dashos (VIPs), and even members of the Royal Family. One glance at the "dance floor", a perfectly rounded hillock rising above the seated audience, and we knew this would be a tshechu to remember. Not only was the backdrop of snowy peaks against a perfectly blue sky simply stunning, but the costumes were even more elaborate and vibrantly colorful than usual.

We were soon "adopted" for the day by a woman named Rinchen after we randomly began chatting with her while watching the dances. She claimed some of the limited chairs for us, introduced us to her husband and friends, and fed us tea and Bhutanese snacks like zau (puffed rice) throughout the day. We were meekly offered to join in their picnic lunch, but she was concerned that it had too much chili for us chilips (foreigners) to handle, so she did not insist as per usual Bhutanese hospitality.

Midway through the festival, some Royal Family members including one of the queen mothers, a princess, and a prince, as well as the Prime Minister, came out of a beautifully embroidered tent presiding over the festival grounds and mingled with the festival goers. When we noticed that they were greeting all of the chilips in particular and asking where they were from and about their experience in Bhutan, we tried to keep our distance and hide amongst the crowd. As much as it would have been an honor to meet them in person, we were unfortunately wearing our outdoorsy clothes. While tourists can get away with wearing Western clothes to a tshechu, Bhutanese must wear the national dress and usually opt for their finest ghos and kiras at that. We would not feel comfortable telling the Royal Family we live here in Bhutan while dressed as tourists at a tshechu, even with the excuse that our gho and kira would have taken up half the space in our bicycle panniers.

After watching the entirety of the program, including some dances specially choreographed to represent the battle with the Assamese militants, we returned to 108 chortens and combed the stretch of vendors set up along the road. We picked up some tasty beef samosas, amazing cheese momos (dumplings), some peppery thup (a savory rice porridge with bits of fresh cheese), and some ngaja (milk tea), then sat out on a lawn with other picnicing folks before wandering back to our hotel. That evening we were treated to even more beauty with a nearly full moon rising up through a hazy pink and purple glow on the mountains.

The following morning we set off for a hike through a dense rhododendron forest up to Lungchutse Goempa. The temple was locked and the only monk we could see around was meditating on a flat rock embedded into a ridge running below the monastery. We were not disappointed though, since the location provided our first glimpse of Jhomolhari, Bhutan's second highest peak. We descended down a different trail to Trashigang Goempa where we inadvertently aggravated a dog as we passed by the monks' living quarters. A monk, who later turned out to be much more afraid of the dogs than us, came out of his house to see what the commotion was and immediately invited us in for tea. While sitting in his courtyard and chatting, we learned that his monk friend staying with him was one of the dancers in the tshechu the day before. We happened to have a video clip of him, unmistakable in a large wooden mask of a blue-faced wrathful deity, which we showed him. Then he pulled his phone out of his robe and showed us an almost identical video of his performance, taken by one of his friends at the tshechu as well.

Our host, Penjor, gave us a thorough tour of the 18th century monastery which houses statues of certain Je Khenpos (Chief Abbots) who meditated there. While Himalayan Buddhist monasteries share many characteristics in common, each one still has a distinctive feel if you pay attention to the details. This time, while scanning an altar cluttered with relics, a brown oval-shaped polished stone set upright in a chalice caught my eye, much like a poached egg. Indeed, we were informed it was a dragon egg when I inquired about it. Penjor then took us to the monastery's source of water, a drupchu (holy spring) encased in a chorten. We filled our water bottles with the sacred water and wondered if the UV light of a SteriPen would also kill its holiness along with the bacteria. We parted ways with Penjor after forcing a small donation upon him and caught a ride back to Dochu La after walking for a while down down the dirt track from the monastery.

Our third time to a monastery that day was less than a charm. Despite having crossed Dochu La plenty of times since first coming to Bhutan, we had never visited the Druk Wangyel Lhakhang, a modern temple dedicated to the Fourth King that includes murals of monks using laptops, a DrukAir plane, portraits of members of the Royal Family and contemporary events. Unfortunately, the temple was guarded by a disgruntled monk who did not look pleased at the arrival of some chilips without a guide. Matt only enhanced his surliness when he unknowingly began to enter a side chapel with open doors that he was not allowed in to. Therefore, when I politely asked if we could go upstairs to see the unique murals, I was met with a harsh no without further explanation. We left without further ado and decided we would have to try again another time, already knowing that other chilips had been allowed upstairs in recent times.

Before leaving the hotel the next morning, we took a last look through the incredible gigantic binoculars mounted on the balcony of the Dochu La Eco Retreat. Besides seeing every detail of the mountains and villages below them, we lingered over the view of the Gasa Dzong, so close but so far away. Our intention for staying in Bhutan for the duration of the break between programs was to see new regions, so we had planned to cycle up to the northern district of Gasa after our time at Dochu La. It would have been a challenging ride made worthwhile by hot springs at the end of it, but the Immigration Office would not approve a route permit to go up there. Apparently there is no problem for tourists, but within the last year they have denied ex-pats entry. We were curious as to why, but no one ever offered any explanations. Since independent travel is outside of the norm of tourism in Bhutan, it tends to works in mysterious ways, so instead we headed back to Thimphu on a quick downhill ride.

It didn't take long to settle in to the ol' trekking routine again: settling in to a cozy guesthouse, dinners of the amazingly refillable Nepali staple of dal bhat, early bedtimes, and earlier mornings, well, at least for "vacation”, which I soon assigned the more appropriate name of "Himalayan Bootcamp”. While our route up to Lo Manthang generally paralleled the Kali Ghandaki, it frequently crossed the steeply eroded side drainages feeding the powerful clay-colored river. We were either hiking up or down all day long, but at the end of the day, we were at roughly the same elevation we had started at that morning. Nonetheless, the pure physical exertion combined with the simplicity of having no other agenda but moving through the landscape was as invigorating as it was exhausting.

On our first day out of Kagbeni, we mainly stuck to the jeep track that now runs from the border of Tibet all the way down to Jomsom, the artery of change in the Upper Mustang. While a Chinese-built road has facilitated modern cross-border trade with Lo Manthang for over a decade already, these lower sections of road development have made the Mustang all the more accessible for folks like us on a limited timeframe. Jeep tours, mountain bike tours, and even helicopter drop-offs curb visitation to the Mustang only by expense rather than time. And it is not just about the roads within. The road and air connections to Jomsom usher people right up to Kagbeni, the gateway to this “Last Lost Kingdom.” We were guilty as charged. Without a bus up to Jomsom, the Mustang would have been just out of reach for us given the length of our break. Although we opted to stay on trails away from the road as much as possible after reaching Chele, we were constantly reminded of the many ways we were benefitting from road access: a hot shower in every guesthouse, Lhasa Beer at an affordable price, electricity and free outlets in our rooms with real mattresses. These comforts made the Mustang feel far less remote than treks we had previously done just outside of Kathmandu.

On our second day, we took an alternative route that led us to the bottom of a deep canyon where the incredible Chungsi Cave lays tucked away up another side canyon. We really had no idea what to expect, but we had heard from numerous sources that it was not be missed. As we approached the entrance with strings of prayer flags radiating in all directions from a brick wall built out from the cave’s mouth, we realized the element of surprise would only enhance our experience. As we entered into his kitchen, a friendly caretaker from the Amdo region of Tibet greeted us, then guided us to the sacred features of the cave, mantras carved into formations of granite and various self-arisen images of Buddha and Guru Rinpoche in the walls surrounding a central shrine. Caves are central to both the historical and contemporary cultures of the region and this one was a great introduction to their significance and the Buddhist treasures that they guard.

We had a long climb out of the canyon to reach the tiny village of Syanboche, arriving with just enough time to settle in to our own private guesthouse and still muster the energy to continue uphill to a popular sunset viewpoint. The seasonal clouds swirling about only allowed for glimpses of the snowy mountains towering over Mustang’s arid hills, but we appreciated the dramatic suspense they added to the scene. 

The following day brought us to the intensely red cliffs of Drakmar, made all the more stunning in contrast with green groves of poplar trees below and blue sky above. Finally far enough from the reach of roads, we stayed at a guesthouse that felt more like a home. We hung out with the didi while she distilled raksi (homemade rice wine) in the courtyard, while watching blue sheep in silhouette scamper along the clifftops overhead. We were welcomed to sit in her kitchen while she prepared our nightly dal bhat and Dawa filled us in on her story as they chatted back and forth. 

It was hard to believe that we were to reach Lo Manthang so soon, but it was not without my body putting up a fight. I struggled to appreciate our visit to Ghar Gumba, the oldest monastery in the region, as a decent head cold set it, my lower back tightened, and blisters completely encased both of my pinky toes. We finally crested the last ridge for the day and got our first glimpse of the ancient walled city, deceptively far away despite being dwarfed by the complexity of a Death Valley-like backdrop. Dawa sensed the magnitude of my struggles despite my verbal denial of anything wrong, and he kept me distracted with conversation until I finally hobbled in to the outskirts of town.

A rest day was certainly in order and fortunately we had pre-scheduled two days to explore Lo Manthang and the surrounding area. After a leisurely morning of “sleeping in” until 8, we started off with a tour of a photography exhibit and documentary featuring the work of a local senior monk. Then we entered through the main gate of the wall to explore the old town. We paused in front of the Royal Palace, sustaining cracks from the 2015 earthquake and without royalty as the elderly former King of Mustang has recently relocated to Kathmandu.

Then we were tipped off to the impending arrival of a High Lama from India, so we returned to the main gate where a crowd had gathered to welcome his procession. A long row of women in traditional dress held various offerings in front of them while young monks held out khatas (silky white scarves). It seemed that most of the population of Lo Manthang had gathered by the time that fancily-clad horses and horsemen proceeded through the gate, followed by a collection of brightly colored parasols and finally the Lama on horseback. Later that afternoon, we observed the same group of women who greeted him with offerings then performing traditional dances in the courtyard of a monastery. We were lucky to have timed our visit with the Lama’s as so many aspects of local culture were on display that may usually be more difficult to observe.

The next day continued to combine rest and exploration with a loop north of the city by horse. Dawa had never ridden a horse before, but he proved to be a natural cowboy as he tends to pick things up quickly. Matt turned out to be a bit “tall” for his short horse who tended to lag behind a good distance, thus allowing the horseman serving as our local guide to keep up on foot for the duration of the day. Our first stop was a cave complex that an entire village dwelled in for several years when the secretly CIA-trained Khampa fighters were based in the Mustang after the invasion of Tibet. We then peeked in to a monastic school at the base of cave-centric monastery before eating some noodle soup for lunch and aiming for the next village. As the day progressed, the weather got moodier, but it only enhanced the drama of the landscape we were passing through. Despite being a bit saddle sore at the end of the day, it was both relaxing and exciting to shake up the trekking routine. 

While Lo Manthang was both busier and more modern that we had anticipated, its uniqueness is undeniable and will seemingly be sustained even as it adapts to increased tourism, more influence of Chinese goods, and continued climate change. Perhaps no moment captured this better than sitting on the roof of our big new hotel that evening, sipping from a can of Lhasa Beer, and watching several sizable herds of goats heading home and taking over the street below, many pausing to poke into the doorways of all the souvenir shops as they passed by.

'Twas mid-monsoon in the Himalayas. The summer session of the School for Field Studies program in Bhutan had just wrapped up. Matt and I had roughly a month at our disposal for travel before the preparation for fall semester would begin. We had plenty of ideas of where to go, but they all sounded...well...wet...or very wet. 

But there was one place on our priority list that reputedly exists in a rain shadow: the Mustang district of Nepal, tucked up against the border of Tibet, north of the Annapurna Massive. And trekking at the fringes of daily deluge rather than in the heart of it sounded like our cup of tea, having just spent a couple of months in Bhutan, reputedly the rainiest region in the Himalaya. 

However, the tricky part would be actually getting to Mustang. An early morning flight from Paro to Kathmandu surprised us with excellent views of several 8000-meter peaks above a low-lying blanket of clouds--Kanchenjunga, Makalu, and good ol' Everest included. We weren't sure what to expect touching down in Nepal as our initial post-earthquake visit. On a broad scale Kathmandu Valley and the city itself seemed mostly the same, with only the occasional pile of rubble or missing building noticed. For example, our awesome trekking agency, Asian Heritage, had shifted to new location since their previous office had collapsed in the quake. We got our permits and final logistics sorted with our agent Nilam and met up with Dawa, our "little brother" guide who had also trekked with us for a month in late 2014. Of course, Nepal is still very much in the process of earthquake recovery, but little of that is visible to the occasional visitor's eye.

While typically I can only muster a sarcastic enjoyment of tourist epicenters such as Khao San Road or Siem Reap, I have an unabashed fondness for Thamel. I can't really explain it logically. Perhaps it holds a special place in my heart because it was the first place catering to Western tourists we encountered after a long crossing of China by bicycle, or perhaps because our Kathmandu to Pokhara trek had taken shape from there. But this time it was all about the food. We laughed at the irony of being excited about coming to Nepal for its Western food options as we slurped down iced mochas at Himalayan Coffee, ate wood-fired pizza at Roadhouse Cafe, and raided the Hot Breads bakery for breakfast to go the next morning. I guess coming from Bhutan, Nepal is both literally and figuratively closer to the West...

We arrived in Pokhara the next afternoon after an uneventful but long bus ride. We rounded out the foodfest with awesome crepes at Metro, then happy hour at a lakeside bar, and a some last minute haggling over umbrellas, just in case the monsoon found us up north. 

Well, the monsoon actually found us early the next morning before we departed Pokhara on a miniature version of a full size bus, neither a minibus nor a bus designed for your average-sized adult. It wasn't exactly ideal for Long-legged Matt with his knees banging in to metal bars in front of his seat with every bump, while Dawa and I had a few inches legroom to spare. I had a constant stream of water dripping on me from the leaky roof where our backpacks had been tossed and half-heartedly covered with a tarp. 

The discomfort soon became the least of our worries as the overcrowded bus lurched its way up the west side of the Annapurna Circuit, a legendary trekking route that was once accessible only by foot. Our "road" deteriorated into sections of steeply inclined mud pits perched high above the Kali Ghandaki River roaring down the valley bottom below. The driver had no choice but to gun it up the slick stretches, otherwise the bus would have become a permanent fixture in the mud. As the rear wheels spun out and we miraculously did not fishtail towards the edge, a young Nepali sitting on his bag in the aisle turned to us and emphatically stated, "Very dangerous!" Now at this point in our international explorations, we are generally not easily unnerved by sketchy transport scenarios. However, when locals take notice, we do too!

Fortunately, as we continued up in elevation, the dark chocolate mud gave way to rocky road. We relaxed a bit, which was helpful for getting in rhythm with the swaying of the bus from side to side as it negotiated embedded boulders. During a particularly rough section, Matt casually mentioned, "Next time the bus tips your way, look out the window on the other side to see an amazing waterfall above us." It was good advice.

As we closed in on our destination of Jomsom, our bus stalled out as the driver was carefully descending into a river crossing. The starter had gone out somewhere around the fifth hour of the journey, so a crew of passengers had been push starting it after tea breaks since then. This time, they could not push it forward into the river with enough momentum, so the only option was for everyone to get off the bus and push it backwards uphill. Finally, ninety-five miles and twelve hours later, we arrived. Alive. Eight miles per hour is still faster than we can walk, so we didn't have much to complain about in the end. As though to welcome us and our soggy backpacks, the clouds looming overhead briefly parted to reveal the snowy peak of Nilgiri bathed in the last golden light of a very long day.

The next day we made a leisurely three-hour walk up the suddenly and massively broadened canyon of the Kali Ghandaki to the oft-described "medieval" town of Kagbeni, all with blue skies overhead. With a landscape reminiscent of the American Southwest, we were smugly confident we were now under the protection of the all-important rain shadow. Kagbeni is the furthest north one can travel without the expensive special permit to enter Upper Mustang, so it gives those continuing on a good sense of the wonders to come and those turning back a taste of what they are missing. 

We had a surprisingly delicious yak burger and fries at the wittily-named YacDonald's, just because we can't resist a good and cheesy tourist opportunity. Then we set about exploring the maze of narrow passageways between the mud walls of traditional Mustangi homes in the center of old town. Dawa's charisma and outgoing nature led us to the opportunity to take a peek inside one woman's home, fastidiously neat, clean, and cozy inside despite the wear and tear of hundreds of years obvious in the exterior walls.

The next morn our smugness quickly dissolved with the rain drizzling out of low grey clouds. It seems the monsoon had found us yet again. But as much as I have focused on that aspect, escaping the rain was really only secondary to our real drive to experience the Mustang. As with most regions with fascinating histories and unique cultural identities, modern influences are shaping the current identity, a foundation of “old” topped with a layer of the “new”. Time does not stand still anywhere, and our very own presence in this restricted area of Nepal was simple proof of that. We passed through the permit checkpoint, now officially in the Upper Mustang, ready to make the most out of the next wallet-emptying ten days. (A permit for two costs $1000 USD!)

Zoom in for more detail!