Paro (Bhutan)

...banks, we drove back into Paro at about 11 in the morning…and quite possibly ready to climb back into bed.

This was our last day, however, and it was not to be wasted.

THE TOWN & THE VALLEY:

Paro is where most visitors will get their first taste of Bhutan. The country's only airport is here. On our arrival, we'd pretty well by-passed the town heading straight for the capital, Thimpu ~ so our real experience ...
...in the centre of the Paro River valley it looks as though it has grown dark and gnarled with age. The heavy wooden shop-fronts with their small windows and dark interiors hidden behind, the alleyways, the half-demolished/half-built (it's hard to tell which) constructions resting precariously on their bamboo scaffolds, all speak of tradition and settlement, and of a placed getting on with its own ancient life in spite of the modern western encroachment. ... more

I'm really not used to getting up at 3.30 in the morning. On the rare occasions that I've had a champagne breakfast, it hasn't previously involved porridge or chip butties.

Ordinarily, I sleep very well on buses trains and planes.

Ordinarily I don't have a snow-peak sunrise to tempt me from my bed….and maybe it's just that I've never been offered champagne & chips at six in the morning before…certainly the twisting bumping roads and zero-suspension mini-buses do not allow for sleep. If the views were becoming familiar, and we had graduated from click-happy to 'yeah, that's pretty' in such a short space of time, there were still treasures and surprises to be found when least expected.

We had a weaver with us, who had talked us through several of the techniques and fabrics and who was desperate to see one particular traditional method in use. For all the places we visited where weaving was to be seen, Rosie was to be disappointed in her quest.

Until this final road journey, driving along a valley floor road, of ordinary splendour…suddenly the cry went out. "Woah! Stop! Back-strap loom!"

Quite what the poor women thought is beyond me. There they sat, outside a couple of cottages, miles from anywhere, just the two of them, chatting as you do, working away ~ archetypal small scale make a few Nu industry ~ when this hoard of tired-looking westerners pile out of their bus, trample across their garden (well, no, actually, we did use the path) and peer at their work. No-one else had Rosie's professional interest in the endeavour, but we'd all heard so much about it, we took an equal delight in her finally getting to see it in action.

So far as I can understand it, the backstrap is used in conjunction with the footrest to tension the frame upon which the cloth is woven. The weaver sits on the floor, leaning back into the strap, legs outstretched to push on the foot-log ~ the whole fabric being strung over a triangular frame, which rises to about four or five feet above the ground. The distance between the backstrap and the footrest determines the tension. That I should be unable to follow the purpose of the many rods and threads surprised me not in the slightest. The product speaks for itself - beautiful lengths of silks, with stripes of geometric patterns in bold bright colours.

And so with more excitement tucked into the memory banks, we drove back into Paro at about 11 in the morning…and quite possibly ready to climb back into bed.

This was our last day, however, and it was not to be wasted.

THE TOWN & THE VALLEY:

Paro is where most visitors will get their first taste of Bhutan. The country's only airport is here. On our arrival, we'd pretty well by-passed the town heading straight for the capital, Thimpu ~ so our real experience of the place was to be by way of departure.

Sitting in the centre of the Paro River valley it looks as though it has grown dark and gnarled with age. The heavy wooden shop-fronts with their small windows and dark interiors hidden behind, the alleyways, the half-demolished/half-built (it's hard to tell which) constructions resting precariously on their bamboo scaffolds, all speak of tradition and settlement, and of a placed getting on with its own ancient life in spite of the modern western encroachment.

Turns out most of this is scarcely 20 years old.

It is both a warning as to what could become of Bhutan, and a hope that it might not. The 'Lonely Planet' guide speaks of the central area being "littered with shops and video stalls as well as eating and drinking places of varying standards". That is both true, and not the whole story. This is a kind of a frontier town…a place where a country could sell its soul. It seems to have tried…it seems to have failed. Thankfully.

We had lunch in what I suspect was one of the better restaurants, which in context could not be faulted, but had none of the charm of places we'd been elsewhere on this trip. A post-prandial idle wander found the streets quiet, business slow…indeed several of the shops seemed to be closed. Perhaps only for lunch, perhaps Friday is early-closing. Traffic was light. The 'No Parking' signs obeyed. The town square, an area of concrete, with lighting, and seating and ornamental bridges and painted fencing, with the traditional tower-enclosed prayer wheel, was deserted.

The market square was empty but for wind-blown litter and scavenging dogs. A couple of middle-aged gents seemed to be loitering ~ it occurred to me that I'd not previously seen anyone "loiter" in this country. It made me uneasy.

Ah, but I'm easily distracted. A street away some lads were playing…what? Something between shove-ha'penny & snooker. Table-hockey? They simply smiled at my intrigue and carried on playing, far too intent to bother explaining the rules. A puck was being slid around the table, to move other pieces…a court was outlined and there were clearly 'goals' …beyond that…I couldn't say. One more reason to go back, maybe some one could teach me to play.

For now though, I had a rendezvous by the river. A short walk was planned through the valley and up to the Dzong which houses the national museum.

As we left the main town, we could hear the rehearsals in progress for the celebrations the next day. It would be King Wangchuk's birthday and the whole country would celebrate. School children practising their choral and dance displays. It had somewhat the feel of 'forced celebration' of the kind seen in extreme socialist societies ~ but when you listen to the people you wonder. There does seem to be a genuine affection for the royal family, and their impact on the development of the country cannot be questioned. It is entirely progressive, yet benevolent.

Away from the centre lie the scattered homesteads that may have constituted the original Paro. We have grown used to 'towns' & 'villages' being close-built collections of dwellings. Here the houses stand in small clusters ringed by their fields. Small fields, straight edged and hand-worked, at this time of year they were largely colourless after the harvest. We crossed the Paro, its low waters scudding whitely over the bouldered river-bed, and wondered how it would be after the spring-melt, through the now-bare apple orchards, to a threshing field.

It was a scene that Thomas Hardy would have recognised. The rice field is hard and dry at this time of year. The crazy-paving cracks in the earth telling tales of how wet it is at other times. A fire is smouldering, not for warmth or cooking, but for smoke. The smoke is to show the wind direction, so that the threshing can be done into the wind to allow nature to separate the grain from the chaff. A dozen or so people - from an elderly woman to a pre-school child - were hard at work. The women in their traditional kirtas and blouses, their hair bound up in white linen scarves that might just do ceremonial duty on other occasions, the men having swapped impractical Gho's for sweatpants and fleece tops. The height of sophistication was the modern, treadle-operated threshing machine, which looked scarcely less hard work than thrashing the sheaves on the ground. Certainly it was still a hand-sheaf by hand-sheaf operation. Only one such machine was in use. Others raked, or winnowed, or swept the grain into neat piles, or gathered the straw for animal bedding. The field would be stripped bare and all would be of use. Dawa explained that this would either be an extended family, or more likely two or three neighbour families. The fields would be worked in turn, communally. Each would own their land, but their labour would be freely shared.

We looked to the lowering cloud ~ and could only hope they would finish by rainfall. That night I would lie awake with the torrential hammering on the corrugate iron roof and wonder if they had…and how bad it would be if they had not.

PARO DZONG & TA DZONG: the main complex the Rinchen Pung Dzong (fortress on a jewel-heap) goes back to the fortress building campaign that seems to have swept the country in the mid seventeenth century. It frequently saw action in defending the valley against the Tibetans and survived 19th century earthquakes, but was nearly destroyed by fire in 1907. Our approach from directly below, up the steep mountain path, gives a clue as to its strength in the days before roads and mechanised transport. It still has only a single entrance.

The complex houses the usual mixture of government offices and monastic accommodation ~ provided the setting for some of the scenes in the film Little Buddha.

Above it sits the watch-tower the miniature (relatively speaking) Ta Dzong, which since the 1960s has been under development as the National Museum.

This was what we had come to see, but we were conscious that time was short. Too short it would transpire. Announcements were made about imminent closure of the museum…but our hosts were determined that we should see as much as possible before departing…a conflict with the museum staff who were determined we should leave on time. A sufficiently unnerving tactic is to simply cut the power. There is something more than a little spooky about standing on a rickety stairway in the depths of a fortress, when the lights go out.

When you remember what you will see if and when your eyes get accustomed to the gloom…the demonic dance masks and evil puppetry…the stuffed and somewhat melancholy snow leopard…the weaponry…it does occur that, on balance, one would really rather not have to spend the night here. I don't like being rushed…but maybe I was ready to leave.

The last admission is 30 minutes before closing ~ this should carry a warning that you will not have time to see the whole museum. Spread over five or more floors (though not all galleries were open) it covers the entire history of the country, from prehistoric geology & archaeological discoveries through to the present day, with galleries given over to natural history, domestic developments, war & weaponry, and a whole floor to the Bhutanese obsession with the postage stamp. There are walls full of art in the form of dance-masks and thangkas. Ancient maps. It is a museum in the old style, where the exhibits simply sit there, with a little interpretative literature. No games to play, no computer interactivity. Just 'stuff' ~ to make you think. My kind of museum.

This was easily a place to spend a whole day. Unlimited time in the museum itself and then time to wander the beautiful gardens and courtyards, to marvel at the architecture…maybe to catch a competition on the archery field. Then on to the main Dzong…

Another time.

HOTEL(S):

As you might expect from a point of entry, Paro is well-supplied with accommodation ~ most of it scattered on the low slopes above the main town. Many of them are what the guidebooks term "resort style", that is the rooms are scattered chalets clustered around a central restaurant/admin block.

Our scheduled one-night stay was in just such a place: The PELRI COTTAGES.

The cottages themselves are paired concrete blocks, white painted, with traditional black wood windows picked out in colourful motifs, with similarly carved and painted lintels above rising to the corrugated iron roofs. A porch protects the entrance door, which is quaintly fastened with a standard iron bolt and padlock, with a fortress-weight key. A similar locking mechanism operates from the inside.

The room was what I'd grown to expect. Polished wood floors, whitened walls. Solid dark wooden furniture, with beautiful, traditional blankets. Smoked glass mirrors and wall lights were a departure. The ensuite had a bath (oh such luxury) as well as the shower & basin. The plumbing was reliable, and the water hot…if not exactly temperature-specific.

At the rear the room gave onto a verandah with views uphill, past the votive flags to the white-capped hills beyond. As we checked in before midday, those hills were gloomy and the sky already lowering onto them.

That evening we gathered in the foyer of the main block, which doubles as the bar. A woodstove warmed the easy chairs scattered around it. The guides and drivers who had been enjoying a post-work drink, felt the need to move out, which I felt was a little sad. One of the pleasures of travelling with Spencer Scott is their principle that the staff are part of the group (that includes the local staff, as well as those travelling with us from the UK). When it works, this means that over shared meals and sitting around afterwards, you have the chance to share and gather more insight than is possible during the walking/working day. There is a chance to get to know them as people.

The restaurant is spacious, tables on this occasion set to accommodate at least two large(ish) groups in long rows. It may be that at other times they are scattered for the use of individual families or couples. Food was served buffet style as ever…and was the usual chilli-based vegetable dishes, with a few western variants thrown in. You can tell the real tourist areas of Bhutan…they serve chips! The potato is a relatively recent import into the country and now a mainstay of production - but much of the crop is exported to India; it is not traditional Bhutanese fare.

Breakfast the next morning proved equally 'touristico' ~ by which I mean the attempt to serve what they think people want, rather than what they are good at. There was porridge and fruit and yoghurt - so it was definitely possible to ignore the other options. But, possibly in view of the number of Brits and Americans that no doubt pass through here there were also offerings of bacon (small choppings and cooked to a crisp), eggs (I don't eat eggs, I couldn't begin to comment) and the newly discovered chips.

And OK, I confess. Yesterday had been a long and fascinating day and I was faced with a long two day trip home (I thought) ~ so a double helping of chips and tomatoes it was. And tea that actually tasted of tea. I should be ashamed. I enjoyed it immensely.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

I nterlude.

The two-day trip home should have been a short hop from Paro to Kolkata. A day there, a flight to London, a bus to Norfolk.

Didn't quite go according to plan.

We'd spent the night listening to the rain pounding on the roof…arrived at the airport in thick fog or ground-level cloud…spent the day being entertained by the airport authorities and despatched back into the Paro night.

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So we found ourselves unexpectedly at the VALLEY VIEW. Whether this was luck of the draw or Eileen's superior negotiating skills I am in no position to judge.

We arrived prepared to bunk up however should be necessary. We were happy to have beds and roofs. By the end of check-in, which went as quickly and smoothly as if we'd been expected, we all had rooms…singles for the singles even.

Temporarily, anyway.

It was not long before all of we single people in double rooms were asked if we'd mind doubling up. As this was entirely with people from our own party, I don't believe anyone demurred for a second. It doesn't take much to realise that the person needing your room should have been on your flight…and it could easily be the other way around.

We arrived in the dark and left in the early morning, so my experience of the hotel is entirely limited to its internals.

The room had twin beds, a surprisingly modern décor - more alpine than Bhutanese. The bathroom was white, amply supplied with fluffy towels and hot water, bath and shower. Even a pair of towelling slippers.

The tiny bar, and adequate restaurant, still made me think of Swiss lodges. Gingham comes to mind. And pine.

Our local guide was still around and being solicitous. This was Dawa's day off. He should not still be here. We were grateful he was. His unceasing good humour undoubtedly eased the frets that were already setting in about the knock-on implications of the delay.

I seem to remember that the dinner was ordinary, the breakfast a little below par (but then we'd asked for an early call before they were usually serving). Even on the best of trips, there comes a point at which, you wish you were somewhere else. I'd just reached it.

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Flying out of Paro was an even greater experience than flying in. The rain-lashing we had received, had fallen as snow on the high peaks, and we wove our way out among Himalayan hills dressed in all their glory.

And of course, the camera was in the overhead locker!

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

I travelled in November 2006 with:-

• from the UK Spencer Scott Travel Services: http://www.spencerscott.co.uk/
• from Bhutan: Etho Metho Treks & tours http://www.bhutanethometho.com/

The National Museum is open Tuesday-Saturday 9.00am to 4.00pm (last admission 3.30pm).
For more details on the museum see: http://craftrevival.org/southasia/bhutan/museums/nationalparo.htm
or contact: nmb@druknet.bt

For more information on the Pelri Cottages (or Perli in some incarnations!) see: http://www.windhorsetours.com/bhutan/perli_cottage.php

For general information & inspiring photography (with which I cannot compete) see: http://www.kingdomofbhutan.com/kingdom/kingdom_.html

Related reviews (including general information on the country) are currently being uploaded on this site.

~~~
© Lesley Mason
hiker@Ciao!
21.1.07

 

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