Blessed with lush yet rugged mountain scenery and ancient dzongs, or
fortress monasteries, Bhutan has comfortably courted a niche tourism market
since 1974. In 2011 it had 37,481 tourists, 2,795 of them from Britain. “High-value,
low-volume” is the official mantra. That is not about to change, though
more tourists and their income would be welcome.
As Chhimmy Pem, head of marketing at the Tourism Council of Bhutan, explained
to me, visitor numbers are skewed by two cultural events. The vibrant tsechus,
monastic festivals with music and dancing, at Thimphu, the capital, and Paro
are famed tourist magnets. For a week in spring and autumn, flights and
hotels fill, briefly “stressing” the tourism infrastructure.
So while most visitors embrace cultural tours by attending festivals and
visiting monasteries, barely 10 per cent trek in the Himalayan landscapes.
Bhutan feels there is a void to fill. “We need to diversify in terms of
product, season and geography,” said Pem. To that effect, one new and
relatively short trekking route opened in autumn 2010 at Sakteng in the
remote east, and more are expected to follow.
Just over 700 foreigners walked the Laya in 2010, making it Bhutan’s
third-most popular trek. Its length and yo-yo topography, with five
significant passes, require commitment. Other shorter treks are probably
better suited to those who also want a conventional cultural tour. Ours was
a small group ranging in age from forties to sixties, including Lesley, a
proof editor from London, Maire, a Canadian pathologist, and Paul, a retired
telecommunications engineer. Bob, a Californian golf course manager, was
notable not just for his steady stride but for his relative inexperience as
a traveller: until this trip he had barely stepped beyond the United States.
We had begun in the shadow of Drukgyel Dzong, a crumbling 17th-century
fortress built to commemorate a Bhutanese victory over invading Tibetans. It
was late September – autumn – and the start of the Himalayas’ prime trekking
season, yet the forest trails were still muddy and slippery. The surging
Paro River lapped our ankles at a few confined sections, a result of the
unusually prolonged monsoon. Simple cantilevered log bridges drew us deeper
and higher into the misty valley and its dense forests of oak, maple and
pine.
Supported by a 20-strong caravan of ponies and pony men, our camp and kitchen
crew went on ahead each day to reach designated camping spots well before we
arrived in the afternoon. A mess tent gave welcome respite from the nagging
rain that sapped morale during the first few days. We paused for two nights
at Jangothang, a treeless meadow camp overlooked by a tiny ruined fortress.
In preparation for the first pass, a day was set aside for an
acclimatisation walk where one climbs high but sleeps low. Fleeting gaps in
thick clouds lent tantalising glimpses of huge ridges and mountains framing
the horizon, but rain seemed set on diluting our spirits.
Happiness, then, was a chilly but dry dawn in brilliant sunshine. By our
calendars this was day five, but for the Bhutanese it was “Blessed
Rainy Day”, which traditionally marks the end of the monsoon. The peak
of Jomolhari filled the head of the side valley with a blinding wall of
snow. Over breakfast I noticed steam rising from a pile of sodden
saddlebags. Things were really looking good.
We strolled up the valley with a spring in our steps before climbing to a
notch in the ridge. Jichu Drake, another gorgeous peak, soared off to the
north. Vultures glided among craggy cliffs to our left. Below, and hemmed in
by vast scree slopes and barren mountains, stretched a slender meadow with
stonewalled pens used by shepherds in summer.
One final slow-motion effort took us up to the 15,980ft-high Nyele La, or
pass, the first real milestone. Kinga solemnly exclaimed “Cha tshe
lo” – something like “I prostrate before you” – by a
cairn and added a rock. We paused for 10 minutes before plunging into a
stark landscape tinged slate-grey and lichenous green.
The following days were governed by an elemental routine, starting with
bed-tea at about 6.30am and departure by 8am. Calorific breakfasts comprised
porridge, eggs and toast, sometimes sausages and baked beans. We would pause
for copious pre-cooked lunches – red rice (a Bhutanese favourite) or pasta,
cheesy vegetables and apples – and usually make camp by 4pm. Fuelling up
again with tea and biscuits, we could contemplate nature, books or life
until dinner at seven, when “Radio Paul” was called upon to relay
snippets from the World Service. Increasing fitness was matched by mounting
grime.
There was little local traffic on the trail. Once we saw locals taking sacks
of medicinal herbs back to Paro on ponies. High above Lingshi village, one
of few en route to Laya, we passed its small yet picturesque dzong.
Two young monks refused us entry, claiming our permit was invalid (all
foreigners require written permission to visit Bhutan’s monasteries). Kinga
protested in vain. Hours later, we passed a dozen of their cheery comrades
in brilliant scarlet robes returning from rituals and rites at another
village.
We paused to visit Lingshi’s little school. Its pupils board from the age of
seven or eight, and are taught in Bhutanese and English. Lessons began at
6.30am and the school day wound down at 8pm. That morning, textbooks were
open at a section on lice and scabies. Dressed in an immaculate traditional kira,
the head teacher mentioned – in perfect English – that her colleagues had
just returned from a village archery competition.
As we reached the trek’s remotest stage, its few scattered hamlets grew more
picturesque. Stone houses with open-sided lofts and tiled roofs nestled at
the foot of a great cliff in which a dainty yellow-roofed temple was wedged
like a swallow’s nest. In another side valley headed by groves of tall
juniper trees and a roaring waterfall, millet dried from poles slung beneath
deep eaves. This was also prime bear country – occasionally half the village
might turn out to make a racket, chase them away and protect their crops.
Even in autumn, Bhutan’s mountains often dealt four mercurial seasons in a
day. We would set off in cold drizzle, but soon warm shafts of sunlight
filtered through billowing candyfloss clouds swirling around us. Later,
excitable flies would appear amid sudden luxuriant warmth in valleys lush
and green, and Maire would further cheer us with tales of Calgary’s long,
cruel winters. I helped Bob and Paul compile our top 10 albums or try to
match lyrics and songs to the path’s ever-changing moods and features.
When a yak caravan approached the other way, its handlers whistling and
cajoling their skittish beasts, we stood aside to let them pass. Later we
glimpsed bharal, or blue sheep, grazing on a hillside as we walked
below. On the eighth day Kinga pointed out a distant hanging valley –
tomorrow’s route to our highest pass, the Shinge La – and noted with relief
it looked snow-free.
That evening, following our roped river crossing, Alison reiterated the wisdom
of an earlier than usual start. We were fit and strong, but although the
route was straightforward it would be a long climb to the top – about four
hours. Initially steep, the path eased into a gentler ascent through a
barren valley that funnelled us through sleet showers towards grey-brown
crags and jagged pinnacles of rock. A final stiff push brought us to the
16,400ft-high pass, a rapturous moment and a place to savour if not one at
which to linger.
Amid tattered prayer flags, Bob planted a picture of his daughter inside a
cairn. My four-year-old son wanted a “magic stone” from “Bootarn”,
so this seemed a worthy spot to find one. It was incredibly still and now
unfeasibly warm, but Kancheda, or Great Tiger Mountain, another giant peak
on the border with Tibet, remained hidden in cloud. Laya village was now
firmly within reach.
Some way down from the Shinge we met a couple of Layaps, or people from Laya.
The woman, with an infant strapped to her back, wore a distinctive conical
hat with what resembled a knitting needle poking through the top. Her
husband looked anxious. They were looking for their straying horse, but we
could only sympathise. Days later we heard they had actually crossed the
pass simply to retrieve their animal and bring it back over the mountains.
That night I awoke for a pee, stepped outside and stood aghast. Frost gilded
our tents, which now sparkled in brilliant moonlight; Great Tiger Mountain
stood proud and gleaming. It was still ravishing at breakfast as we ate al
fresco while our crew cheerfully broke camp. By eight we were trotting along
an undulating trail that descended through sun-dappled forest.
Laya’s first house appeared around noon amid a broad shelf of fields, cradled
by rugged hills and distant peaks, high above the river. We made for a
fallow field in the heart of the village, where our team were pitching
tents. Prayer flags fluttered from tall poles by almost every house. Many
homes had been improved recently with decorative projecting window frames,
and much timber was still being sawn and trimmed. After 10 days’ walking, it
seemed like a town.
In fact, Laya has prospered of late – principally thanks to a fungus.
Cordyceps, or “caterpillar fungus”, is much in demand in China and
Tibet for its supposed anti-ageing, aphrodisiac and stamina-boosting
properties. There’s plenty of it here, and Bhutan’s strict harvesting regime
seems to have ensured good prices.
Later that evening, Kinga arranged for a group of Layap women to perform folk
songs around a bonfire. Yet I sensed their priorities lay elsewhere. Words
were mumbled or simply forgotten, as the performers shuffled around the
bonfire. Some took calls on their mobiles (yes, they’re even here),
straining to hear above the hubbub. When someone joked the lyrics were being
phoned in, there wasn’t a dry eye among us. Meanwhile, a white mare and her
foal were determined to enter a nearby house, and the repeated shooing added
to the whimsy.
Three days later we reached the tortuous road to Punakha and Thimphu, an
overall descent from Laya of just one kilometre – but never had down
required so much up. “My thighs,” exclaimed Lesley on the bus, awe
tinged with regret, “they’re like pistons.” Indeed, but where the
legs are strong the heart will surely follow.
Getting there
Bhutan’s Tourism Council acknowledges that “accessibility continues to be
a major bottleneck for the tourism industry”. More than 80 per cent of
tourists fly in and, with the exception of a tiny Nepalese airline, this
means using Druk Air, the national carrier. At popular times, mainly around
the Thimphu and Paro tsechus, seats are in short supply.
Druk flies to just four countries. India has the majority of routes –
currently five, with two more in the pipeline – so those travelling from the
UK do well to opt for an Indian carrier such as Jet Airways to minimise
transits and add flexibility in reaching or exiting Bhutan.
Amar Grover travelled to Bhutan as a guest of KE Adventure (01768 773966; keadventure.com)
and Jet Airways (0808 101 1199; jetairways.com),
flying via Delhi and Kathmandu. KE has two departures (both in October, one
coinciding with Thimphu’s annual tsechu) for the Laya Trek: from
£3,695 for 20 days, including flights, meals and transfers but not visas.
Article source: http://telegraph.feedsportal.com/c/32726/f/564440/s/1cd208a8/l/0L0Stelegraph0O0Ctravel0Cactivityandadventure0C90A960A540CBhutan0Ehigh0Eadventure0Ein0Ethe0Ekingdom0Eof0Ehappiness0Bhtml/story01.htm
