A culturally insensitive, politically incorrect and historically inaccurate account of trekking in the Hermit Kingdom.
Chapter One – Warrior-Monks and a Philosopher-Cynic
“It’s not the journey but where you start and finish that matters.” So says ‘Bagger’ our Philosopher-Cynic on this trek through the Chomolhari region of Bhutan. “It’s also important to consider all the paths that we could have taken but didn’t. Regrets build character”, he rambles on at 4,000m. I’m impressed he can talk so much at this altitude and still continue up the steep path. I am having trouble keeping up with both his stride and his thinking.
Bhutan has a rich history of colorful Warrior-Monks. We have a Philosopher-Cynic.
We’ve been learning about the Warrior-Monks from sporadic lessons given by our guide, who is not always on speaking terms with us. Tantric Buddhists without exception, the Warrior-Monks share suspiciously consistent background stories. The typical Warrior-Monk was born in a cave or lived in solitude in some hole for a long time. After years of quiet contemplation he encounters a demon, wrestles with it in epic battle and finally subdues it. Victorious against the demon, he emerges from seclusion to change the world in his own unique way. One built an improbable monastery, the infamous Tiger’s Nest, high in a cliff face outside Paro. Another, who possibly contracted Tourette’s syndrome during the battle with his demon, took to abundant use of profanities in all future discourse, even in the presence of King and Queen.
Our favorite is the ‘Mad Monk’ who did his demon fighting high up in the Chomolhari region. He emerged a Bhutanese version of D’Artagnan and commenced to shag every woman in this valley and several adjacent ones, just to be thorough. For this he earned enormous respect and fame. He is remembered today by an abundance of phallus images we can’t help noticing everywhere we go. They are painted in huge stylistic detail on the side of otherwise quaint mountain homes and inns. River rocks that appear to be naturally eroded in near-perfect anatomical detail, and on a scale that would suit an adolescent Titan, are perched atop carefully constructed 12 foot stupas. The bored check point guards at a hut halfway up the Himalayan hillside have carved an enormous wooden effigy, put wings on it, painted it in flesh tones and branded it with Druk Air insignia. Even the pilot of this craft is a dick-head. We are not sure if this is a tribute to the national carrier or some kind of consumer protest in a land where they cannot shame a service-provider by moaning on Twitter.
Most ominously, the number two horseman from our party buys a life size wooden version of the Mad Monk’s favored weapon at a small supply shop on our way to the first camp. He pockets it and follows close behind Ben for the remainder of the day. We are just starting to realize how little we know about the group we are travelling with. There are the five of us, our recalcitrant guide, a cook with two assistants, and three horsemen for the 14 pack animals we need. The horsemen are by far the toughest of the lot and this probably has Ben worried. We agree with Ben to call them horsemen even though they lead ponies not horses. ‘Pony-man’ just doesn’t sound right. And there is no sense in pissing off a guy who will be sleeping near our one-man tents for the next eight nights, is carrying a freshly purchased wooden penis and might be the only one who can get us home if things take a turn for the worse.