Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Bhutan Diary 3: Thimphu, the capital with no traffic light

The drive to Thimphu from Phuntsholing is about 5-6 hours. It was COLD in Thimphu. We checked into Norling Hotel on the main street in the downtown Thimphu, Norzim Lam. The first couple of hours in Thimphu were spent getting used to the cold- a hot water shower followed by tea while sitting in front of the hot blower.
We started the next day by scouting around for a different hotel, for we weren’t entirely happy with Norling. A friendly man on the street just outside Norling (I can’t even remember how we got chatting!) suggested Centre Lodge to us. Centre Lodge (00975-2-334331/2) is a small hotel with just about 10-12 rooms, in the building next to the Cinema hall. It’s clean and lovely, but it really was the view that settled it for us. We grabbed it. It’s small and new, so don’t expect great service. The food comes from two restaurants downstairs, both of which are excellent, but both don’t open before 8. The reception is manned by two people, Suraj (00975-17687022), who has been to Mumbai and actually knows his Andheri from his Goregaon, and thinks Thimphu is expensive in comparison, and a girl called Sangeeta who always looks impeccable with her eye liner and dark lipstick in place and takes two steps at a time when climbing stairs.

Bhutan Diary 3: Thimphu, the capital city with no traffic lights

Next we went for a walk on Norzin Lam. By now we had read all the material we had on Bhutan and decided on the places that we might want to visit. In the process we had also realized that the trip might be longer than we had earlier anticipated, that we would miss Lensight for sure, and that we would run out of money. So in we walked into the Bank of Bhutan. We met the manager, who was sitting with the manager of a rival bank, the Bhutan National Bank, and we explained our problem. They both thought there could be ways around it, the faster one being through the BNB. Apparently BNB has an account with the Axis Bank. He asked us to get someone to deposit money into that account, with a letter stating who it’s for, including an identification such as a PANcard number, and then fax the letter to BNB. And voila we could then withdraw the money from BNB. We didn’t actually need to do this, but I wrote about it anyway because it highlights exactly how impromptu our trip had been, and therefore how ill prepared we were. But I guess ways open up when you really want something and are creative and optimistic about finding solutions.
The Norzin Lam seems to be the main street in Thimphu. A lot of hotels, shops and government offices are located on it. Typically the ground floor houses the shops, while the upper floors have the hotels and restaurants. There’s a lot of car traffic on this road. I believe it’s the busiest road, and the only one in Thimphu that needs a traffic controller, who stands at the one circle from which everything seems to radiate out.
The people mostly wear traditional costumes. The men wear the gho, which is a knee length robe, while the women wear the ankle length kira. We didn’t see many women wearing the full kira though the half kira, which is like an ankle length wraparound worn differently, is very common. The full kira is a lot more complicated, and requires some amount of traditional jewellery as well to hold the garment together at the shoulders. The women top it with a kind of jacket. Both the men and the women looked most elegant in the their traditional dresses, though I did feel a little sorry for the men because it was so cold. To fight the cold they all wore socks rolled right up to their knees.
Checks seems to be the favoured pattern for both men and women, as also the traditional one, as I was informed when I tried to buy a half kira. There are some patterns and motifs which are traditional and therefore more common, although these days, almost anything goes. The cheapest half kira will cost about 350-400 rupees, and that too at the local market. At regular shops, the prices start at 450. But there is no limit to how high the price can go. There is a tradition of hand weaving in Bhutan, and hand woven kiras, with simple but elegant patterns to intricately complicated ones, in monotones to absolute riots of colour, are all available, if you can afford it. We saw kiras that cost 50-60 thousand.
Our first stop that day was the Handicrafts Museum. Our printouts informed us that they had a good collection of books, and we wanted to pick up something about Bhutanese history and culture. We spent a good couple of hours there browsing through books, and taking an occasional break to look at the other displays. They had some very interesting masks on display. Another thing that caught my eye was this blue stone that was a part of a whole lot of jewellery. There must be a significance to it. We both bought one book each, and some other small knick knacks that we couldn’t help picking up.
By this time we were famished. Lunch was at Chopsticks, a restaurant in the same building as our hotel, and a place which we would visit often over the next few days. It was an amazing lunch of Chinese food, thukpa and sizzler if I’m not mistaken. At any rate, the food here didn’t disappoint, and I loved their suja.
The next stop that day was the Zangdopelri temple. Distances in the town centre are not much, and we spent a lot of our time in Thimphu on foot. That might also have been because neither of us was in a hurry to do anything, and we enjoyed walking around, savouring the place, taking in the sights and sounds, entering shops, especially book and coffee shops and striking up conversations with the locals whenever we could.
So we checked our printouts, asked for directions, and strolled across to the Zangdopelri. This is a relatively new temple, built in the 1960s. What attracted us to it was the fact that it is supposed to be constructed on a former battle site, in order to ‘pacify energies’. It doesn’t look interesting at all from the outside, but step in for a surprise. It has some very impressive murals. The Bhutanese temples and dzongs (forts) always had the most elaborate multicoloured wall murals. They all also had wall hangings of expensive looking silk cloth, also in many colours. In the Zangdopelri, I couldn’t see an inch of empty wall space. There were many idols there, and ofcourse we didn’t then know whose they were. We later got to know that Bhutanese worship the Padmasambhava, called Guru Rinpoche (the precious teacher) by the Bhutanese, the reincarnation of the Lord Buddha, who manifested himself in eight forms. Most temples have idols of one or the other of those eight forms. There was a wealth of stories in the paintings on the walls which we understood nothing of, but were still awed by. I have to let the pictures speak the rest, no amount of writing, none that I am capable of certainly, can quite describe it anyway.
The Bhutanese have this typical way of offering their prayers, in which they fold their hands high above their heads, bring them down still folded, kneel on the ground, and go prostrate and fold their hands again, then get up and repeat the whole procedure. This is typically done three times. In the Zangdopelri we found a woman who kept doing this the entire time we were there. She had some stones with which she was keeping count. So everytime she was prostrate with her hands folded, she would move one stone from one pile to another. Ramya observed this for awhile and told me it wasn’t just a simple moving of one stone from one pile to another, but something more complicated. She was moving stones, but in some strange pattern that we couldn’t figure out. I couldn’t help but admire the muscles on her arms. Well, what do you expect, with all those near-push-ups?

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Bhutan Diary 2: Phuntsholing to Thimphu

The route to Thimphu is completely mountainous, and our taxi driver, Sonam drove like crazy as long as there was light, ignoring our pleas for tea. He finally stopped at 5:30 at a small restaurant where he had momos, and we had that life saving liquid called chai. He wanted us to have dinner as well, but dinner at 5:30? Only after we positively implored did he agree to make another stop later.
Every small and big restaurant in Bhutan seems to serve liquor. The route to Thimphu is dotted with restaurant-and-bars, as is every other place in Bhutan. It was getting to be really cold by this time. Every time Ramya opened the window for a smoke, we could feel the icy cold winds. Sonam said that it was going to be much colder in Thimphu, though it hadn’t snowed yet. ‘Shit’, I thought, ‘it snows in Thimphu’, followed by ‘whippee, it snows in Thimphu’.

We stopped at a sweet little place called Damview for dinner. I spent most of my time sitting next to this big heater, sipping hot suja, butter tea. We had some more delicious Bhutanese food, served to us by a giggling 16 year old girl called Ganga. She must have taken a liking to us, for she showed us the view of the valley from an adjoining room.
The pictures: (1) Ramya having dinner at Damview, (2) me warming my hands at the heater and (3) our driver Sonam (left) and the giggly Ganga (right)



(To be contd)

Bhutan Diary 1

One of the first things we noticed was the friendliness of the people. We needed directions to the hotel we were headed towards. The first man I asked was friendly enough, giving elaborate instructions. The next one actually walked us to the entrance to the street on which the hotel was located. Agreed it wasn’t far, but we were still impressed. And then it was the politeness and friendliness with which they would respond and try to be helpful. It was heartwarming. It led to Ramya’s second one liner, ‘I want Bhutanese citizenship.’
The hotel (Bhutan Hotel) was clean and cosy, the staff pleasant and friendly (again!) and reasonably priced. One of the men at the reception was particularly friendly and his English was excellent. His Bengali sounded equally good too. Bengali?! ‘I studied in India, in Siliguri. You have to learn Bengali when you are surrounded by Bengalis’, pat came the reply. He told me we would need our voter IDs or passports to get travel permits in Bhutan. We weren’t carrying either. We were carrying our PAN cards, and hoped they would suffice. The man wasn’t so sure.
We did, after all, sleep in Bhutan that night.
Dinner on the other hand, was another matter. By the time we freshened up and stepped out for dinner at about 9:15, everything seemed to have come to a standstill. The streets that were bustling with activity a while ago were now deserted, and we couldn’t find any restaurants open. The only one we did find had this to offer when we asked about vegetarian food, ‘chicken rice, beef rice, pork rice…’ We found one small place open though, on the Indian side, that did serve vegetarian food and with hot chapattis too. Wonderful! The food was decent, and accompanied by a Govinda film playing on TV, to an avid audience of several men. Ramya and I played a game of ‘guess the heroine’. He was sitting with his back towards the screen and trying to guess the identity of the actress from her voice. He didn’t succeed. I don’t blame him. I was looking at the screen and thought it was Farah, from the voice. It was only when a close up shot appeared could I finally tell that it was Madhavi. Oh well.
I did wonder at one point about these films from the 80s, and their strange sensibility. Ramya on the other hand said he quite enjoyed watching them as did millions of other Indians. As if to prove his point, one man at the restaurant told us he had seen the film a good twenty times already. Well, well.
The next morning I went for a walk, and had chai at the tapri from the previous evening. There were mostly men there, crowding around the tapri, and a lone woman having chai by the roadside all by herself did attract a few stares. There are absolutely no roadside chai shops in Bhutan, what a pity. Though all restaurants do serve tea. A short walk into Phuntsholing and I was at the bus station. The last bus for Thimphu is at 1:30, but there is also the option of taking a shared cab.
A little while later we were at the Bhutan tourism office trying to get our travel permits. The man at the hotel had been right ofcourse, they don’t accept PANcards. Will our trip to Bhutan be so shortlived? We weren’t willing to give up yet, so we asked if they would accept it if we got permission from the Indian immigration office (a suggestion from the friendly guy at the Bhutan hotel reception the previous night.) Yes, they would. A glimmer of hope.
On the way to the Indian immigration office, I came up with another idea. Perhaps we could call our respective families and get them to fax copies of our Voter IDs/ passports. Except that Ramya has neither. Not even a ration card. What the hell! I cursed him a bit, and reassured myself that we would find a way out of the situation yet.
As it turned out, it was a cakewalk. The guy at the Indian immigration office didn’t blink once, just asked for photostat copies of out PANcards, which we went out and got. Ofcourse Phuntsholing is a small place and you don’t exactly find photostat shops at every street corner. So when he decided to be a jerk, and sent us back for a Photostat of my driving license as well, for God-alone-knows-what purpose, I was all but ready to blow my fuse. Ramya sensed that I think, for he offered to go back for the extra photostat. After that it was quick. It helped that the man was from Delhi. Oh lord, these regionalisms amongst Indians.
Incredibly, Ramya later apologized for having stopped me from giving that man a piece of my mind. He thought it was justified and he should have let me. I thought his intervention saved us time and a lot of trouble. The man did our job, he could have held us up. This also led to a small discussion how this man managed to retain his unpleasant and unfriendly nature even when living in this beautiful, noise, traffic and pollution free little town, in the midst of the happy, friendly Bhutanese.
Back to the Bhutan tourism office. The man behind the counter there was amazing. He kept asking people to stand in a queue, and not crowd around the person whose picture was being shot. Ofcourse, Indians being Indians, there would always be some among the crowd who wouldn’t listen. So at some point he lost his temper, which is to say he spoke louder and commanded instead of requesting, and then promptly apologized. ‘You people don’t listen, you make me speak like this. I don’t like it.’ Adorable.
Next was a visit to the netcafe for Ramya and a temple for me, from where I called mom and loaded film into my camera. Our first Bhutanese lunch was at a restaurant called Capital (I think.) We started with trying out the local liquor, a shot of whisky for Ramya and gin and lime for me. I don’t remember another occasion when I drank at 12 in the afternoon but it wasn’t bad at all. For lunch we had kewa datsi, a preparation with cheese, chilli and mushrooms, and a curry with egg, I forget the name. Interesting, this datsi business. The ema datsi is the national dish of Bhutan, and made with chilli in cheese curry. That’s it, its just juicy big, green chillies, in cheese and salt and water! Made well, it tastes great. The chillies aren’t all that hot at all. Variants of this are kewa datsi and shamu datsi, made by adding potatoes or mushrooms to the same basic ingredients. Everywhere we went these are the options we got for Bhutanese vegetarian food. There really isn’t much choice for vegetarians.
By two we were armed with our permits but the last bus had left. We didn’t find any others going towards Thimphu either, so we ended up shelling out 1400/- as cab fare. We tried to pick up books or literature on Bhutan or Buddhism, as we had in Siliguri, but found nothing.

(To be contd)

Saturday, January 5, 2008

A travel tale from 2007

It seems coincidental, but also somehow appropriate that I should have been talking about happiness quotient in my last entry before I left for a shoot on Dec 9, and visited the land of the highest happiness index right afterwards. Or maybe, as I have always believed, there is nothing like a coincidence…
So it was that I found myself in Assam, on a documentary shoot, and decided the shoot absolutely had to be followed up with some travel. You don’t travel all the way to a place like Assam, to only work. Its simply not done.

Assam

To begin with, I scouted around for company. I’ve never traveled alone (though I have a feeling that too is about to happen, like a number of other firsts in the recent past), and somehow didn’t relish the idea. I didn’t have to look far. A colleague and friend Ramesh, who was sound recordist on the same shoot, was more than enthusiastic. In fact, he had similar plans. Next we scouted around for potential destinations. I haven’t explored the North East, and therefore the choices were many. Assam itself had enough to offer, and then there was Arunachal, Nagaland, Sikkim, Meghalaya, Manipur… we could take our pick. And then we realized how close Bhutan was. That settled it for us.
Thus it was that we landed in this tiny Himlayan kingdom-nation, of a small population and high happiness quotient.

The journey to Bhutan was interesting enough. We were in Duburi district in Assam when some tribal groups called for a 1000 hour bandh. (I don’t remember the name of the organization, a pathetic reminder of how far removed we all are, or atleast I am, from the goings-on of the North east. Its truly shameful and I have no excuses to offer for my ignorance. Perhaps this subject warrants a separate entry.)
To avoid the bandh we started at 3 in the morning for Guwahati. Even though we were close enough to Bhutan in Duburi itself, information about how and where we should go was hard to come by. Helpful locals told us where we could cross the border from, but what then? We didn’t just want to cross the border. We wanted to go someplace, we just didn’t know what or where that might be. Internet connections were pathetically slow. All our attempts at sourcing information from the Net resulted in more or less the same few facts rehashed by various different websites. Finally we decided we had no choice but to return to Guwahati, and take a safer, if also long and circuitous, route to Bhutan.
So we spent a day in Guwahati surfing the net, finding out bus and train timings and finally rushing to the railway booking centre to book tickets to New Jalpaiguri in an overnight train. Miraculously we got tickets, for the same day, inspite of the ‘no availability’ that the website seemed to be professing. Moral of the story: in India, there’s always a catch, whether or not you know it, or are in a position to find it.
The rest of the evening was spent in preparing for the bitter cold we would find in Bhutan. We looked for thermal inner wear, and Ramya managed to find Jockey for himself soon enough. However, for some strange reason, shopkeepers in Guwahati seem to think that women don’t need branded thermal innerwear. Or atleast not of the Jockey variety. We also picked up monkey caps, something I haven’t ever actually seen anyone wear as monkey caps. Neither would we, though we used the caps extensively. If you’re wondering at the choice of monkey caps in particular, well, try finding a headgear warm and decent, without flowers or fake nike logos or badly imitated Che Guereva staring down at you, in Paltan Bazar in Guwahati, on a Sunday at 7 in the evening.
New Jalpaiguri is the train station nearest to Siliguri, a town that is the door to several North eastern states, as well as Bhutan. We landed there the next morning, a good two hours late, and headed straight for the bus station. After waiting at the Bhutan counter for two hours we were informed that the afternoon bus for Phuntsholing wouldn’t leave that day, owing to the strike. Apparently the 42 day strike had been called off, but another one called in its place. Thankfully this one was just a day long strike, and apparently it was our destiny to be hit by a strike after all. Gloomily Ramya and I roamed around Siliguri. We went to a monastery there and a school for Buddhist studies.
(An aside: walking around the monastery, in the lookout for some information about it, we came across a monk. We tried asking him what time the prayers happen, and if there were going to be any in the evening. We got a half hearted response from him, which prompted the first of Ramya’s one-liners, ‘this guy certainly hasn’t imbibed Buddhist values. He has a long way to go to monk-hood.’)
At the school for Buddhist studies we walked into a prayer class. There was a whole bunch of young monks, the youngest not more than 8 years or so, chanting various hymns. They were led by some older ones, and every once in awhile someone would play a wind instrument or strike a hanging drum. Another older monk was distributing sheets of hymns. The students had differing levels of concentration, some fidgeting in their seats, others rocking back and forth, and one actually yawned. I have attended a prayer session many years ago in a monastery in Ladakh, and it’s all very ordered. This was so different and equally fascinating. They all had cups and glasses, no two alike, in front of them. At one point a couple of monk-boys came in with big flasks which they held with a corner of their robes, and poured a hot liquid into them. We got two cups too, of the thin white liquid. It tasted like sweetened milk, diluted with water. I have had only cow and buffalo milk, and this was neither. Ramya left his after a couple of sips. I tried to be brave, but gave up halfway through the cup.
After awhile we decided to go back to the bus station, and began to explore the possibility of going to Phuntsholing by taxi and to look for other passengers to share the fare with. We so desperately wanted to sleep in Bhutan that night. Just then voila, Ramya heard a man yelling ‘Jaigaon’. (Jaigaon is the town to the Indian side of the border with Phuntsholing.) Yippee, we’re on our way.
Its about three and a half to four hours to Bhutan by bus, depending on the traffic on the highway, and the number of stops it makes on the way. On the way, Ramya got off once for a smoke and returned grinning and showing off an unfamiliar note, Bhutanese currency! In the towns close to the border, Bhutanese currency is accepted, almost common.
Jaigaon and Phuntsholing lie side by side, the border separating them, and a huge gate called the Bhutan gate providing the point of exchange of traffic. The passage between these two is free. Its quite a sight, and we both found it most delightful. We had multiple cups of tea at a tapri on the Indian side, next to the Bhutan gate, watching the steady stream of vehicles and people going to and fro. I was grinning foolishly the entire time.

(To be contd)

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Unhappy New Year

On the 31st evening I nearly scolded my friend X for what I thought was an overdose of concern and protectiveness towards his girl friend. Two days later I am most distressed to note that I’m ready to eat my words.
He had got a last minute call from this girl he adores, and he had to make plans for the evening. So there we were discussing at 6 on the evening of the 31st what his options were. One of these, which both of us thought was an excellent idea, was to go across to Pune, a lovely city and a favourite with many of my friends. Only he felt it was too late already, and if they tried doing that they might well end up spending midnight crossover to the new year in the bus on the highway. So I suggested that to be faster he should take a cool cab instead. His immediate reaction was ‘no way, they are too unsafe for a woman’. I pointed out to him that he would be with her, but he was adamant that it was not safe, and that in the event of any untoward incident on the way, there was little he alone would be able to do to help. I was a little miffed at this restriction that all of us have had to impose on ourselves at some point in our lives. Having grown up in Delhi, I have done that more times than I care to recall, or yet I have never grown used to it. This curb on my freedom inspires an unnaturally strong opposition in me and mixed feelings of anger, helplessness and frustration. This was what I felt yet again as I was having this conversation with X. I mean, this was Mumbai, this city is different.
Apparently not.
The cover story in today’s HT is how a mob ushered in 2008, for themselves and for a couple of young women, for whom the first two hours of 2008 will be unforgettable forever.
It was mobocracy once again.
My apologies to X, he was right. I’m sure he would never want his girl to be caught in a situation like that, and one can hardly blame him for finding the sacrifice of giving up on a romantic trip to Pune preferable to taking the risk.

An aside: If there’s anything to rival my feelings from the conversation a couple of days ago, it was what I felt looking at the pictures in the paper this morning.
Over the years I have realized that while anger and frustration are bad enough, its helplessness which kills me. What can one do except feel indignant at reading reports such as these. There has to be something, I haven’t yet figured out what.