Bhutan: Korphu and Nimshong

We awoke the next morning to our alarm, did our usual inside-the-tent routines, and waited for the hot tea. It seemed to be running late, and when voices began to draw closer, it didn't sound like the usual guys who brought the tea and hot water. Then one of them said, "Ho ho ho." It was Santa Namgay, wearing a cotton beard and bearing chocolate!

We learned later that delay was due to two things. It took a while to borrow the red jacket, which belonged to a monk (still asleep) that a lady in town knew. Also, the beard kept falling off. All was forgiven when this smiling visage bearing chocolate appeared.

There was another surprise at breakfast.

This one was really yummy too. Today we took our breakfast plates to an overlook gazebo, separate from the dining pavilion.

The view into the valley was grand.

The trail on to our next destination, Nimshong, passed again through Korphu. Of course, some children noticed us.

As we walked by the house we had visited yesterday, our host called out to us, and a dialog ensued between him and Tsewang. Although we were running late, we went inside, and it was a fabulous experience. They were taking a break from the ABC (annual blessing ceremony) and offered us butter tea. I have never had butter tea before, and this was good. The butter is churned into the tea so thoroughly that there is not an oily film, just a rich texture. Tsewang is right to say that it's excellent for chapped lips. If the butter had been around too long, then the flavor would be off, but what we were served was excellent.

Here the monks look on as the host assembles his family for us, to pose for a photograph.

This video clip of the same action gives you an idea of the sound of Bhutanese speech.

Here is the assembled family. The patriarch and matriarch are on the right.

As we stood up to leave, I got a better view of the monks. You can see some of the tormas on the altar in the upper left of the photo.

 As we trekkers assembled in the courtyard the ceremony picked up again.

Korphu was a high spot of the trek. We had been greeted warmly, as welcome guests, and serendipity had smiled again in the variety of experiences given us.

Today's hike would be to go downhill, almost to the valley floor, and then back up, reclaiming some but not all of the downhill, and then a rolling "level" until a final climb through the village of Nimshong. Shortly after starting the descent, a view opened up that explained why the fields of the Nabji/Korphu area are often called "the peacock tail."

Along the trail, we came upon a golden langur. Check out the length of that tail.

As we stared in admiration, the family came up to join him.

Twenty minutes later, we were treated to three male rufous-necked hornbills chilling out in plain view. Binoculars were useful, as the birds were not immediately by the trail.

Another twenty minutes down the trail, and we encountered the female.

Jillian takes a stretch.

At this point, a pony and his boy catch up to us.

As we got closer to Nimshong, agricultural terraces began to appear.

We paused to study a spot that had a lot of bird activity. In this photo, the barred underparts point to a lesser yellownape woodpecker, while the crest suggests a greater yellownape. Life is uncertain.

The village of Nimshong is spread out vertically, as you see, and our camp is at the top.

As we climbed up through the village, we got permission to take a picture of this family processing this year's grain, winnowing and grinding.

 A view of our campsite from the dining area.

That evening, around the campfire, we did some singing. Joan, always a showtunes fan, sang "Oh What a Beautiful Morning." Tsewang expressed a fondness for the Beatles' "Eight Days a Week," which the group limped through -- my eternal weakness is remembering only snatches of lyrics. So in case you encounter Tsewang in future, here's a study guide.

Ooh I need your love babe,
Guess you know it's true.
Hope you need my love babe,
Just like I need you.

Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
I ain't got nothin' but love babe,
Eight days a week.

Love you ev'ry day girl,
Always on my mind.
One thing I can say girl,
Love you all the time.

Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
I ain't got nothin' but love girl,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I love you.
Eight days a week
Is not enough to show I care.

Ooh I need your love babe,
Guess you know it's true.
Hope you need my love babe,
Just like I need you.

Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
I ain't got nothin' but love babe,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I love you.
Eight days a week
Is not enough to show I care.

Love you ev'ry day girl,
Always on my mind.
One thing I can say girl,
Love you all the time.

Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
I ain't got nothin' but love babe,
Eight days a week,
Eight days a week,
Eight days a week.

And that was a very eventful Christmas Day. Its glow increases in memory as I review it for this post.

Bhutan: Nabji and Korphu

It was a sunny morning, and although it was cool, one bull seemed to be seeking the shade. Hay was drying on platforms or in trees.

Our first visit, not far from camp, was to the temple dedicated to Guru Rinpoche.

This temple, in addition to holding a teacher's chair, the shrine, and its offerings, encloses a large stone impressed with the thumb- or hand-prints of two kings, and of Guru Rinpoche, who mediated a truce between them.

I should mention the two universal features of temple etiquette. One, take your shoes off. Stocking feet are OK, and I often wore two layers to defeat the chill. Two, photographs are not allowed inside the temple building itself (courtyards are fine).

It turns out that Nabji is within one of the areas of Bhutan for which Google Maps has high-resolution images.

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Here's a good view looking down the valley as we descended towards the river.

Inscribed stones are all that remain of an ancient stupa; little is known about its original location.

Jen found the hollow of this tree to be a perfect fit.

As we hiked down, we were often passed by villagers also on their way to Korphu. A ceremony performed at prescribed intervals for a recently deceased person was taking place at the temple there. Soon we reached the bridge across the Chamkar Chu and reached the other flank of the valley.

It was a steep climb up to Korphu, with plenty of switchbacks. Tsewang did give us opportunies to catch our breath, thankfully. My next photograph is looking uphill into the beginnings of Korphu village.

You may notice the interesting artwork at the first level of the house in front. I've been postponing this topic, but if you're still with me after a week in Bhutan, you're ready. You will see these exuberant phallus paintings on Bhutanese houses; they are commonly considered a sign of protection, derived from the stories of Drukpa Kinley/Kunley, the Divine Madman of the 15th Century, who is supposed to have subdued evil spirits using his phallus as a weapon. Some scholars point out that the phallic presence in Bhutanese culture considerably antedates the Divine Madman. Whatever its origins, it is omnipresent and not pornographic. I leave further exploration of this topic to you and Google; however, more such photos will appear. They are part of the landscape. (We will visit the temple dedicated to the Divine Madman in a few days.)

Another house is decorated with swords of wisdom and the animals of the four directions (snow lion, garuda bird, dragon, and tiger).

Here we are about to enter the 'main street' of Korphu, with the temple courtyard just beyond the portal.

The kids appeared, and we and they had fun with the photos. Jen and Jillian got us started.

Once you've snapped their picture, the kids dash up to see how they look.

Some were sitting on the second level and just watching.

Through the doorway was the courtyard of the temple where the CFMRD (Ceremony for Family Member Recently Departed) was being conducted. We were allowed to peek inside, but there was no photography. After a while we walked down an elevated path on our way to the camp.

The campsite is one more good climb above the actual Korphu townsite. I paused to take a picture looking back, partway up.

And here's multi-level camping, as seen from our tent. For some reason they put Joan and me far away from everybody else ...

After lunch we had time to explore Korphu. On the way down, I made a quick clip of this long column of prayer flags. If you turn your sound way up, you may hear them rustling in the breeze.

Our first stop, if I recall correctly, was the cooking house for the CFMRD. The family of the deceased, as part of sponsoring the ceremony, supplies great quantities of food to the monks and attendees. Here a large sack of rice is being poured into a cauldron of boiling water.

The merit from the generosity of the family is dedicated entirely to the deceased person, benefiting him or her in the next life. I understand that a few of the poorest people in Bhutan, such as the transient road workers, have converted to Christianity to avoid the financial burden of traditional Bhutanese Buddhist ceremonies such as this.

Next we visited the house of our local Korphu guide, Karma. We took off our shoes, sat down, and were offered ara. This was, I should note, our second encounter with ara, distilled liquor, or, having grown up in Tennessee, what I would call moonshine or white lightning. We had sipped at our first cup last night after dinner, in Nabji camp, and been introduced to ara etiquette. You always appear take a sip or three, but it isn't necessary to actually drink if you don't want to -- going through the motions to be polite is good. Being cautious Westerners, if the cup looks like it had water of unknown provenance sitting in the bottom as the ara was poured, we would not ingest. At Nabji camp and here at Karma's house, we did ingest, and everything was fine. Also, you always allow the host to add a second splash to the cup, even if you aren't really drinking. And at Nabji camp we learned that -- at least for informal campfire drinking -- one is supposed to come up with a one-word description after the first sip, such as "sweet" or "strong" or "bitter." Traditionally, the word you utter describes the housewife who brewed the stuff. I did find that ara was smoother than the white lightnin' I remember. It can be made from anything fermentable; grains or fruits are often used.

After leaving Karma's house we paused in the temple courtyard, and encountered a fellow who conversed earnestly with Tsewang. Soon we were headed down the block to his house for snacks (the Bhutanese equivalent of nuts and chips) and, yes, ara. Monks were at work creating tormas (elaborate sculptures of flour, butter, and coloring) in preparation for a house blessing to be held tomorrow. It turns out that our gentleman host was a previous headman of Korphu village who now lived in Trongsa. He and every family member who possibly could came back to the old family home in Korphu to host an annual blessing ceremony, usually held during the slow winter season. This is a strong tradition all over Bhutan. In his front yard a musical instrument for tomorrow was propped up against the fence.

After this visit, it was time to hike back up to camp and have supper. The clouds that had built up over the mountains every afternoon had gotten even thicker today, and while supper was being prepared, a gentle rain began to fall. It did not interfere with dinner, nor, as it continued to soften, with another wonderful facet of our Korphu experience. A dozen or so young ladies from the village came to the campsite, wearing their good kiras and, by firelight, began to perform several traditional songs and dances. The rain stopped. After several dances they urged us to join them, and even to a dancing-impaired person (me) it was clear that participating was the thing to do. It was tough to follow the dance steps, even though they were not complicated, because I couldn't see their feet. The kiras obscured the only clues for us novices! At one point, the girls suggested that we show them a dance. Here I must give credit to Jim and Jillian, as Joan and I were drawing a blank: we did the hokey-pokey, most assuredly not a folk dance, but fascinating and amusing to our dancers.

Then, it was time to retire. It was Christmas Eve.