Enough Punakha, let's go to Thimpu!

April 8, 2009.
I wake up with the certainty that I cannot stay for 3 nights in this hotel. My sheet is splotched with the blood of several hefty mosquitoes, and also the town behind the hotel is not a place you would want to walk around in, looking mostly like a modern tenement. I call Mr. Karma of the Bhutan Tourist Agency and plead with him to let me go to Thimpu now. He is very calm and nice and we agree that before leaving I will go see the Bhutan Production Training Center, which trains 20 disadvantaged girls in a one-year course, and leave a present of school material, which I brought from Brazil. In addition I will visit shrine to the irreverent madman, who in the 15^th century used outrageous and funny methods to make people pay attention to what he said. He was, what you may call today a ‘cocksman’ and the flying phalluses painted on many house, are there to ask for his protection.

When I see Ugen reach into his ‘gho’ and get out yet another thick green betel leaf, smear with a lime-stone paste, wrap it around part of a betel nut, and pop it into his mouth, I decide to learn a little more about this habit. ‘How many times you do this every day?’ I ask. ‘150 times,’ he says without hesitation. I ask – now miming a bit - whether it makes him feel high or hyper. ‘Yes,’ he says, and smiles with the red liquid brimming around his teeth. I know the routine: after the chewing comes the wet clearing of his throat, and then the sonorous spit, which stains the Bhutan pavements with red marks. Later I ask my Tshering for a better clarification the effect and he says the betel nut warms the body. There is a way of chewing without getting the red teeth, he explains, particularly indicative of lower-class men and women. Apparently you chew only the nut. When I later see Tshering – who has beautiful white teeth - dressed in his cotton ‘gho’ with only a shirt under it in the chilly Thimpu morning, I wonder whether a betel nut is making the big bulge in his cheek.

I meet a Finnish woman at the school where several young women are engaged in designing and producing quality souvenirs, which will be sold in the government outlets throughout the country. Although the supervisors are wearing their own ‘kiras’, the apprentices are in uniforms. The production manager shows me around and explains about their work, I buy a religious banner and leave the girls chewing on Brazilian fruit caramels and holding Bic pens, ‘Thank You!’ Then we are off the to the madman’s shrine, which stands on top of a hill. With several stops in the thin air I manage to get up there – it feels so weird to be standing heaving for breath every now and again, but the peace and the view makes it all worthwhile. It reminds me of visiting a monastery in Elmira, N.Y. many years ago. In the temple I find several wooden penises and outside two ‘chortens’ are topped by ancient stone penises. When we go back down again, we see first one then another bull carefully tethered with easy access to food. This is interesting, because I have noticed that the cows – almost all of them black - seem to have a very good life here. They spend the day out somewhere foraging for food, and when it is dinnertime they make their own way back to their covered enclosures. I even see a black cow resting in the midday sun, lying under a tree and looking at the view.

I am running short of Bhutan money, ngultrum or‘nu’, and suggest we stop in Punakha, which we have to pass through on our way out, to change money at the bank. I am shown into a dark cluttered office with many bunched receipts on the shelves and stacks of ledgers. The clerk seems unsure about the exchange rate, but once he has settled that, he grabs a ledger and writes all my information down, including passport number. Then he gets a second ledger. All of this takes time, and although I am not feeling that well, with my fever and cold, I make a little chit-chat with the other people in the room, mentioning Brazilian soccer players, always a hit. When the clerk grabs the 3^rd ledger, I ask incredulously, ‘You really need to fill in another one?’ ‘No,’ he retorts sternly, ‘you are finished; now you go wait there for some time.’ ‘There’ turns out to be a hot waiting room with about 30 locals, who have obviously already waited for some time. This is very overwhelming for me, and I return to say, ‘I can’t do that. I’m sick. I can’t sit and wait with all those people.’ He says, ‘You must! Go!’ I begin to cry (and realize that I really am not that well) and sob, ‘Give me back my money!’ He looks astonished and just hands me my $100 and I am out of there.

It’s a beautiful sunny day and our trip across the pass – where I sometimes wonder how well Ugen is doing with all that betel, as we clear yet another hair-pin curve with centimeters to spare – is graced with the view of the whole snow-capped mountain range, glimmering in the sun. Three and a half hours later I am entering Thimpu, curious about my new abode, and finally checking into a hotel that has wireless internet. I have the usual buffet dinner with many vegetable options and amuse myself by listening to a neighboring table of several Danes on their Easter holiday.

Here are the pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/LeavingPunakhaForThimphu#

WAKING UP IN PUNHAKA…

April 7, 2009

It is so quiet in Bhutan that you forget about your usual needs for music, news, etc. When I wake up and look out at the misty mountains I hear the most wonderful bird song. I run for my camera and catch but a flash of a scarlet bird, then a blue one, then others.

Tshiring appears at breakfast, not in his usual ‘cho,’ but dressed like a boy from Rio with shorts and t-shirt. We pile into the Toyota again and drive on a bumpy dirt road along the river, which takes us beneath a huge suspension bridge, then up a ways until we see the horses waiting to be loaded, and meet the cook, the horseman, and his assistant. The poor horses have to carry gas tanks and burners, water, mattresses, food – it all gets pressed into huge sacks and tied in pairs on the horses, who grunt unhappily standing in their piles of hay. Soon the trekkers are off walking uphill at a fast clip and I am left alone with Ugen, who will be at my disposition until they get back.

Here are some pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/WakingUpInPunakhaAndTheTrekBegins#5323830195861142930

The plan is I will stay in a Punakha riverside ‘spa’ (ha-ha) hotel for 3 nights and then meet the others when they come out from their trek. Ugen drives me back to the hotel to check in – it seems pretty empty and there is no internet. I have some lunch and off we go to see another Dzong, the Wangdue Phodrang, which lies in a little old village nearby. I am immediately charmed by the much less glamorous appearance, although beautiful and ancient. It feels more alive, monks of all ages dart here and there and I hear some not so expert sounds from a music class, which I get to peek in on. Before I get to the classroom I notice several lustrous and bored-looking roosters. Obviously no women here. In the low ceilinged classroom the boys sit on the floor in their saffron robes, blowing into horns so long they have to rest on the floor. When we approach the last temple, the one you have to remove your shoes and put away your camera to get into, I hear the droning of the teacher reading from those flat rectangular Buddhist scriptures I have been seeing in beautiful cases in the stores. He does not look at his students – older boys – who sit in pairs and who, in turn, seem to pay no attention at all. In fact several are checking their cell-phones, or, in one case peeling off a decal to put a tattoo on his leg. One student rises and pours camphor-flavored water into our hands, which we touch to our faces. Ugen prostrates himself on the floor and makes several bows to Buddha. When the teacher stops – and I steal a look at him – he, too, in on a phone. Once outside I admire the age of a wall, which to my artistic mind (so I think) looks a bit like a Mimmo Rotella (Italian artist), although with two faucets. I turn to Ugen, who smiles with his mouth red with betel and says, ‘toilet.’ Suddenly I understand the markings. Later we pass a classroom, which has absolutely nothing in it – just a dusty floor – with a great view of the surrounding mountains, of course.

I take a little walk through the village, which is ancient and messy and with the curious fact that all same-looking stores seem to sell the same stuff - those puffy bags of potato chips hanging in the windows, and inside the sacks on the floor with basic food stuff.. A little shaven headed boy attaches himself to me. It must be time for school to be let out, because all the children are in clean and neat versions of the traditional garb. I take pictures and the boy says, 'I have one dollar.’. When later I give two cute little girls a pen and a Brazilian candy each, the more forward one shouts, ‘Thank you. I love you!’

Leaving town, I see that the local cactus has big fig-like fruits and ask Ugen to stop so I can take a picture. He offers to get me one to try. I am dubious. I have experience with a similar type, which has to be cut practically floating in water and with utensils – there are so many spines, but he assures me, oh, no, and pulls out a really big knife from his ‘cho’ to cut it in pieces for me. An old man stops to look, and when he sees me embark on eating a quarter of the fruit (like one would a fig), he says, ‘you must not….’, but it is already too late. I have hair-like little spines on my fingers, on the sides of my mouth, on my lips and way inside my mouth. This is not pleasant and it will be several days before I pull the last one out with pincers from under my tongue. Then Ugen drops me at my hotel, where I have my solitary dinner and an early night.

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TheWangduePhodrangDzong#

NEXT STOP PUNAKHA

Monday, April 6, 2009

The road towards Punakha, which is built around the massive historical Punakha Dzong (monastery), takes us along a gorge in the bottom of which flows a turbulent river glittering in the bright morning sunshine. At a bridge and military checkpoint – the latter are wherever you enter a new province; we can see the confluence of two rivers moving towards a hydroelectric plant (which we cannot see). Apparently Bhutan successfully exports electricity to India. An hour or so later we reach the highest point, the Dochu La, unfortunately shrouded in the mist, because from there you are supposed to see the distant Bhutan mountain range. They have never been climbed by man, since they are considered to be holy. We can however walk around in the mist and admire the many prayer flags strung between the trees and see the 108 ‘chortens’ - sort of offering columns, which were built in atonement for the losses of life in a 2005 border skirmish. The Bhutan people believe all conflict can be resolved peacefully and resort to violence and war only when there is no other option. The setting is mysterious and Kurosawa-movie-like. We have tea at a restaurant right at the top and consider the several and usual matted dogs sleeping on the ground outside. The road continues to weave around the edge of the mountains and the unflappable Ugen takes us very close to the edge indeed. I assume there is a rule that if you see a truck before you, you beep and overtake – on a curve, whether you can see oncoming traffic or not, or whatever. Conversely, those approaching a curve slow down. I’d like to see that practiced in Brazil – or in India, for that matter.

We are almost at our destination, the Zangthok Pelhri hotel, when I spot a vegetable market – vendors squatting on the ground next to their wares displayed in baskets and folded down sacks under an improvised plastic awning. We get to stop and take pictures of some of the exotic vegetables – amongst which lie some pitifully small ‘jacas’ – and then move on to the hotel, which is situated on a hilltop. When we inspect our rooms, Ole says – in his Danish way – ‘It is not as good as the Raunuk Plaza in Delhi’ ha-ha. We know what THAT was like. But we have a balcony with a view to unspeakably beautiful rolling hills and bed and running hot and cold water. We’re just fine. We descend to the usual buffet lunch and then move on to the Punakha Dzong, supposed to be the best of its kind – the Versailles of Bhutan. It is indeed an amazing structure, with many courtyards with overhanging intricately decorated balconies, though which we meander admiring details like the Snake altar on our way. At the entrance of the grand hall – where the kings are crowned – we pocket our cameras and remove our shoes – forgot those socks again! What awaits us inside is simply stunning. Gold glimmers from 54 pillars, many of them made from real gold, and at the end of the room sit 3 huge statues of Buddha, the Guru Rinpoche (the founder of Nyingma Buddhism, who flew in on a flaming tigress in the 8^th century),and the Zhabdrung with another 3 older statues behind. Everywhere are flowers, silken hangings, and robed saints behind glass. Saffron robed young apprentice monks are cleaning the room after a ceremony. Some are more willing than others and I see a supervisor push a slow kid into action. Some are using the traditional brooms, which – apart from being excruciating – are remarkably inefficient, composed of a bunch of branches about 50 cm long. The back wall is covered with a floor to ceiling painting of the life of Buddha, the story of which Tchiring tells so well in his perfect English that other tourists stop to listen.

At this point there is no mistaking my cold. I fell hot/cold/tired/heavy and I know only a miracle will have me hiking the next day. I draw our guide aside and suggest he start thinking of a plan B for me

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/LeavingParoTheDochuLaPassAndThePanukhaDzong#

The Paro Monk Festival

You can now see the photos at:

http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TheParoMonkFestival#

I still can't upload pictures to the page GRRRR

Today we will see the famous Paro Tsechu. We have instructions from Mountain Kindgdom to dress ‘’smartly’, so we do our best with what we have short of the traditional short stiff brocade ‘gho’ jacket with pinned at the front with a brilliantly colored soft silk under jacket with large cuffs showing and the wraparound intricately woven Kira skirt (although tempted, in the end we decided it was silly to buy). The men wear their usual ‘gho’ outfit with sober ankle length socks and formal snouty shoes, but, in addition, they drape a rather nice natural colored fringed linen shawl just so, loosely knotted and hanging from one shoulder and looping below the opposite hip. We are told not to wear hats inside the Dzong. Luckily we get to sit in the shade, because the sun is fierce. The inner courtyard, amply decorated with the holy yellow cloth we have seen everywhere, begins to fill with crowds of locals, beautiful young smooth-skinned children and their weather beaten parents. A fair number of tourists are also in attendance bearing expensive camera equipment. Most of the tourists we have seen, actually, are not young. Neither are we of course. Jytte offers the explanation that they have more time now and have been everywhere else, which I think is an excellent consideration.

The dancing is beyond words. The monks move as if in a trance in gorgeous and elaborate costumes and hats. The musicians play ceremonious drums, we cannot really see them, and the wing section walks through from time to time with really long clarinet-shaped horns, from which emit eerie repetitive sounds. All this takes place in a sunny courtyard with spectators sitting on the floor and crowding three rungs of decorated balconies where the flounced yellow material moves in the wind. We do not understand much, but a near-by guide explains the meaning of a particularly long and trancelike dance with many monks dressed in black embroidered silk overdresses over swirling skirts in many colors and with special hats, is about their attempt to cheat the devil and put him in a box. It is exhausting work that much is clear, but they are successful and bring happiness to the people.
We lunch at a hotel nearby where we furtively observe a large table of Portuguese tourists. They are speaking loudly, ‘safe’ in the knowledge that no-one will understand (and it IS hard), but we do. An animated man from their group suddenly approaches us with an offer to share in their bottle of Scotch, which we accept (token size), but I confess to understanding all they say and advise caution, just in case.
An interesting philosophical question is raised later, when we pass a turbulent river and I ask our guide whether any fishing done there, ‘No,’ he says alarmed, ‘we are Buddhists and not allowed to kill fish in Bhutan.’ ‘But they served fish for lunch,’ I say. ‘Oh – those are INDIAN fish,’ he explains, ‘they were already dead.’
After lunch the plan is to hike up to a tea house near the famous Tiger’s Nest, nestled in the sheer rock about 900 m above the city, making you wonder how in the world they could construct something like that. When you reach the teahouse there are more than 600 steps down to a gorge and then up to the actual building IF you have the stamina. Sadly, it turns out I haven’t. Since Kathmandu I have been feeling a cold coming on, depleting my energy and making me feel out of breath. This trial hike is quite steep uphill through a forest and though I have my new walking poles and have been taking altitude medicine in the manner advised by the UFRJ people, I can simply not keep up with our guide who skips effortlessly from knot to knob, and J & O, who walk unfalteringly behind him. I have to stop and heave for breath and feel my legs leaden and uncooperative, especially, as Maristela, my divine knee physiotherapist, warned me, my thigh muscles don’t want to obey. This is of course very hard to admit, but I finally ask my group to keep going and then find myself a place to sit, where I can observe the view, enjoy the silence, play with the ‘aperture priority’ on my camera, and wonder what this means for the rest of the program. Throughout this Bhutan families cheerfully walk up and down with no effort at all.
Here are pictures of the area:
http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TheHikeToSeeTheTigerSNest#

Finally, I carefully make my way down and ask the waiting driver, Ugen, to take me into town, where there is a street fair. I am now very concerned about the advisability of going on a 3-day hike feeling way less than a 100%. We discuss this over dinner, with soup and locally grown asparagus, and later in J & O’s cottage, where we decide to sample the, actually very good, bottle of rum, which Raj gave to us. It will all work out somehow….

On to Bhutan

Saturday, April 3 2009
ON TO BHUTAN
It’s 8am when our cheery Kathmandu guide gathers his flock of 3 for the ride to the chaotic Kathmandu airport. Another guide takes over and runs off to pay airport taxes and get seat allocation, very important, since you can see the Himalayas, which we will fly by, only on the left side of the plane. The chauffeur looks away for a second, and a man, who we actually think is one of the company guys, wheels our luggage for about 50 meters then rudely demands a tip. We are getting really sick of this whole tipping business. But this irritation is soon replaced by larger frustrated feelings as first we have to put our whole luggage through the x-ray machine and then get body searched – once again. By this time I have gotten used to having my breasts touched by small Asian women in uniform, but it is a first when she also puts her hand on my pubis. I wonder what she thinks I could be hiding there, and realize at the same time that the curtain is not really closed and a cleaner is watching the procedure reflectively leaning on his broom. Then there are lengthy forms to be filled out and lines to get our passport stamped. The final flourish is a long slow line – men and ‘ladies’ separated – to get our hand luggage searched very, very thoroughly. Now we understand why the agent wanted us to be at the airport 3 hours before departure.
On the plane we are served a butter sandwich, 3 triangular crust-less pieces of white bread smeared with butter piled on top of each other – also a first – we will later find out that people only eat white bread in Bhutan – but all is forgiven when the huge craggy forbidding Himalaya peaks begin to show on our left, looking magnificent against the white clouds at their bases and the clear blue sky. Although many mountains are quite easy to see, only the top of Mount Everest is visible, from a side which slows a snow covered slope.

 It is a short flight and soon the pilot picks his way into Paro airport amongst the surrounding mountains, where there are moments it seems the wings will touch the forested hills.
Here are some photos of the mountains and the landing:
http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TheHimalayasAndArrivingInParo#
We feel we have landed in a scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The airport building is trimmed with hand painted colorful friezes, and in the immigration hall brightly colored patchwork rectangles cover the doors. The service, however, is excruciatingly slow. We are the last to retrieve our baggage and meet the tall handsome young version of Chow Yun Fat, Tchiring, which pronounced sounds an awful lot like my own name, who will be our guide throughout our stay in Bhutan. He went to university in Darjeeling and speaks excellent English and has a high-pitched, cheerful laughter, reminiscent of my son’s. He takes us to our new hotel, the Olathang, high up on a hill, where we are installed in adjacent (dark) chalets. At our hotel lunch we observe an animated table full of Danes– sort of the last thing you would expect.
The food, served buffet style, is surprisingly good with choices of white and red rice, interesting new vegetables, such as wild fern and bitter guord - something between a cucumber and a courgette with a severe skin ailment, a heavenly stir-fried noodle dish with thinly sliced vegetables, and, of course, meat and fish. Chilies are eaten as a vegetables, and you’d better steer clear of them, ‘course those things are STRONG.
We are let loose in the downtown area for the remaining afternoon. All the shops look the same, with small rectangular decorated windows, and, in the case of food shops, with garlands of air-filled Lay’s potato chips. There is a special flavor called Marsala – pretty strong. Along with the encroaching fast food, which we see in the hands of many children, are sold the traditional stables, which rest inside the dark shops in big sacks on the not-so-clean floor. Sweeping is done with a back-killing bunch of branches, which are about ½ meter high, making the sweeper walk along bent over at the waist. 

 and I check out the many ‘handicraft’ stores and discuss the merits of the very attractive and colorful woven fabrics – surprisingly expensive. Then it’s time to return to the hotel for a drink and dinner – a repetition of lunch with the addition of a hot soup. We companionably end the evening with a whisky in J & O’s cottage.
Photos from downtown Paro here:
http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/DowntownParo#

Moving to the next Level

While Jytte & Ole have to leave their hotel at 4am to catch their flight to Kathmandu – which will turn out to be delayed 2 hours - mine is at the more humane hour of 1.40pm. I wake up at 5am, though, which gives me time to work on my photos. At 8.15 I decide I must try the hotel pool, where an attendant immediately brings me a mineral water and 2 fluffy white towels. After a swim I return to the room, where suddenly the remaining time seems short for getting everything ready. Immaculate in a freshly ironed shirt and yet another pair of cool shades Raj picks me up at 10 and we are off to the airport. It has only been 3 busy days, but it seems we have known each other for a long time and we make plans for a merry future trip through Rajastan with Oswaldo and Victor. ‘We are family now,’ says Raj.
Air France have put me on Business Class for this short flight, so having passed the extremely sullen and not very efficient Indian military security guards , I retreat to the relative splendor of the ‘Maharajah’ lounge, which, oddly, you reach by climbing a long set of stairs lugging your carry-on luggage. I get a frothy coffee with milk and type away at my blog. In front of me a tall Westerner, who must have travelled throughout the night, removes his shoes and places his feet on the cool marble floor, too tired to fix his glance on anything. When it is time I descend to my gate and get my 1A seat. An immaculately groomed lady swathed in a peach sari sits next to me. Her face is beautiful and calm with the red dot on her forehead. She reminds me of Claudia Cardinale. When we both get the vegetarian selection for lunch we start chatting – and never stop – children, politics, arranged marriages…. We are sorry to say good-bye. I have to join the long line for getting visas, and then feel my heart beat nervously as my luggage takes a really long time to appear, Outside waits a cheery little tourist agent with a MountainKingdom sign, and he takes over from there. I get seated in van and we drive through Kathmandu, aged, culturally so different from anything I have ever seen, and which makes me feel I’m in an Indiana Jones movie. The traffic moves in a similar manner to that in India, only with much narrower streets. It is an interesting question to ponder why these contemplative counties should have such ferocious drivers. We press on though a chaotic and tantalizing city scenery until we reach the Shangri-La Hotel, where I am shown to my room and immediately plop down on my bed, suddenly totally exhausted. J & O return from a trip down memory lane – they were here 30 years ago – and we decide on the need for a rest, followed by dinner at the hotel. There are no streetlights, and any wish to venture out anyway has been quenched by a recent tale of a tourist being robbed by about 10 Indian youths – this is broad daylight. We finish of the evening with the hotel’s grill night, where I – avoiding the meat of course – head for the stir-fry table, where an ample cook, his black hair in a net under the cook’s hat, sweats over a very large almost flat wok and makes divine stir-fries with a variety of ingredients, which we assemble ourselves at his station. We wash this down with the included Carlsberg beer and then go on to a local brand, The weather has changed to a cool drizzle and a band sits under an overhang a bit away, singing 60s and 70s hits in immaculate English, although they are obviously local. We wonder about the choice of music – is it because it is from the youth of most of the guests
present, or does it signify the glorious hippie years, when Kathmandu must have been ‘jammin’?

Here are a mere 20 photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TheImperialPoolAndKathmandu#

The Taj Mahal, the Red Fort and the crazy traffic

My wakeup call is 4.30 for our 5am departure. When the van arrives I am already waiting, dressed in my floor length ‘Indian’ attire, by the hotel gate in the dark with a huge guard wearing a strange feathered helmet and a smart white uniform; (those Brits really knew how to dress their servants). Jytte and Ole look like me – awake of course - but with that resigned look of wondering which time would be ‘normal’ for us. We haven’t had a single complete night of sleep so far. Rawat steers us past huge on-going road constructions – Delhi will soon have overpasses everywhere – and we pick up Raj, waiting by the roadside in South Delhi, where he lives. The highway fills with the traffic of tuk-tuks, motorbikes, rickety trucks, bikes laden to the max with huge bales of something barely held in place, tractors, or worn-out, resigned oxen, pulling open carts filled with workers. All drive for himself only (I certainly don’t see any women drivers – they are too busy carrying water on their heads or squatting with other women making cow cakes for burning from the huge piles of cow dung lining the road. There is no concept of lanes, much less keeping to them, and the road simply fills with this mixture of transportation moving and weaving in the most impulsive way. There seem to be no rules, nor – we learn - is there a tradition of driving lessons and tests; Raj swears that some of these vehicles are driven by 12yr old boys! Everybody is beeping, and everybody looks only ahead with a sort of deadpan solemn expression – maybe because they realize how very close they may be to their last hour! After a while the sun comes up over the utterly flat landscape, sometimes lined with partly harvested wheat fields, and to our surprise we spot several squatting men defecating here and there – in no particular hurry – with a reassuring bottle of water next to them for post-‘bathroom’ ablutions. White cows and groups of black buffaloes saunter or rest at the roadside, mixed with the growing human morning activity. We stop for Indian breakfast, where I delight in freshly baked and very hot Naan with mild yellow Dal topped with yogurt. It’s not only so very tasty, but also fun to eat.
It’s fairly fast moving along the highway, but when – after 3 hours we reach the outskirts of Agra, the traffic slows down to a maddening crawl. Eventually we pick up Vikram, the young man who will be our guide for the local sights and then we are at the monument. The first sight is breathtaking. The white-gray palace lies at the edge of a flat river, which floats at a lower level. Thus the lovely structure seems to float eerily midair, with groomed paths and water channels all leading towards it. The sun by now is so strong that the white marble hurts your eyes. We are told that abalone shells are mixed with the marble, making the whole structure shimmer at night when there is a full moon – which, regretfully, we won’t see. We take many, many pictures – the guides take more for good measure - and follow the substantial crowd into the tomb area where carved marble trellises shelter the two tombs and all the walls and pillars are decorated with inlaid flowers of agate, turquoise, lapis lazuli, and a flaming orange stone, which becomes hotly transparent under light. Groups of sari-clad women and their children rest picturesquely in shady crannies. There is an air of holiday and pride at being in such a special place dedicated to undying love.
We need to get out of the merciless sun and find a dark restaurant with surprisingly delicious food. Poor Raj is on his last day of fast for a Hindu festival and can only watch us tuck competently into our dal, naan, and so on. Whenever we emerge into the sun we are immediately surrounded by men and boys of all ages hawking all manner of things, mostly postcards. They are very hard to shake off and really irritating. I have adopted a strategy taught by Victor in Mozambique: look straight ahead, never make eye-contact, and never acknowledge their presence. This works fairly well, although I have to laugh when one teenage boy runs over to me, shouting, ‘postcard, postcard,’ and I realize he is furiously messaging on his cell phone at the same time.
After lunch we see the equally lovely Red Fort, a surprise of shady colonnades, tower look-outs, rooms with still visible faint decorations on the walls. The Mughal – who built the Taj for his favorite wife when she died in childbirth, apparently had a sizable harem, housed in attractive quarters facing his own. Possibly inspired by the surroundings Vikham explains to me that Indian men find saris very pleasing because they reveal a little bit of the tummy! He also confides he finds my skirt really stylish and wonders whether I got it in Europe (and not at a Delhi street market for $2). Monkeys, some rather large, play in the grassy areas, and, as we exit the fort, we are sad when we spot a distraught monkey mom dangling a dead baby monkey on her arm as she scurries through the throng of people, trying – I imagine - to find a place to put it down. The little open-mouthed face is still as she runs, darting worried glances at it, and she is followed by many other monkeys, some with healthy babies hanging on to the belly fur of their moms or dads.
It is 3pm when we head towards Delhi on what will turn out to be a trying and tiring looong drive only lightened up by meeting Raj’s handsome 16yr old son, who is waiting to pick him up near their home. The traffic is, if possible, worse, and it is past 8.30pm when I reach the cool perfection of the Imperial. I freshen up and head for the famous Spice Route restaurant, where I enjoy a solitary pomegranate martini, followed by a vegetable stir-fry and a dewy glass of Languedoc white wine, ‘que ninguem eh de ferro’ – meaning I feel I deserve to finish such a marvelously special day on an equally exquisite note.
Here are the pictures - you may have to copy and paste into your browser:
http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/TajMahalTheRedFortAndCrazyIndianRoadscene#

Delhi Sights

I decided that I must try the famous brunch and was not disappointed when I saw the setting. The I joined my remarkably fresh looking friends and we were hurtled into the city traffic, which I have to say is something else. Oswaldo asked, "Is it like Napoli?" and I paused while I thought for a word, No, it's like...anarchy!" There are no rules. People must die every day; I have never seen anything like it. Tiny little tuk-tuks - vans with the structure and soundness of a coke can, with 6 adults squeezed in, 1000s of motor bikes with whole families, only dad wearing a helmet, ox carts, intrepid pedestrians crossing the road - and everybody beeping. ALL THE TIME! Not in a Rio kind of way BEEEEP BEEEEP with significant hand gestures and opinions about the intelligence of the other drivers expressed with no reservation. No, here stone-face drivers and a kind of regular beep- beep pause, then beep-beep. It adds to the cacophony of the whole thing. Anyway we went through Old Delhi observing some really sad slums - all shades of grey dusty dwellings sort of camouflaged into the general dusty and grey road picture with the odd cow taking a rest. What catches your eye then are the colorful and glittery saris worn by the graceful women - maybe for this very purpose.
Our first stop was the ancient Jama Maishid mosque, where to our jet-lagged dismay we realized that we had brought neither extra socks nor the antiseptic gel for the now necessary removal of shoes. Lucky me was wearing socks, but Jytte had to brave the very dirty courtyard replete with pigeon droppings in her bare feet. We also had to wear large overdresses reminiscent of the clowns in Dumbo. With my belt purse I looked pregnant, but at this point: who cared? Having seen The Blue Mosque and others so recently, this surprised by its general state of disrepair. If you squeezed your eyes shut you could imagine a former grandeur, supported by the graceful slender columns and ornate archways. A group of confident boys caught my eye, as they strode through the colonnade, maybe on their way to a lesson, immaculate in starched white tunics and skullcaps, about 12 years old. Outside the mosque ancient man squatted surrounded by lemon peels bartering a lemonade we were unlikely to try. Another had arranged a colorful display of embroidered skullcaps. Next stop was Humayun's Tomb - also called Baby Taj - which we reached through another burst of traffic stopping briefly at India Gate for photos. We had all slept very little and were respectively 8 1/2 and 11 hours jet-lagged, so it was hard for us to take much in. Also, it was very polluted, which made my eyes smart. The tomb was enclosed in beautiful gardens where uniformed staff gathered leaves in a slow and meditative manner with very small brooms. We had a water (mineral water now comes sealed - and safe) in the shade and watched 4 'homeless' dogs stretched out comfortably on the soft green grass. Again the monument was most a shell reminiscent of former grandeur, few mosaics, no objects. Raj then took us to a very nondescript restaurant, which had a long line of customers waiting to get it. We understood why when we tasted the fabulous food. I had my first lesson in how to eat dal with nam and other sauces piled with cooling yougurt. Your fingers get messy - but it is sooo good. Freshly squeezed lemonade to accompany. We decided to head for Connaught Place for shopping, but left quickly when it turned out to be crowded and with no national character at all. Instead Raj took is to a great street market Sarjo ni Nagar, where Jytte and I were as happy as clams buying, for example, flouncy skirts (to hide those legs the Indians don't like to see) for 100 rupies ($2). We finished the shopping part of our day in the Cottage Industries shop with much higher quality items. Jytte revealed an admirable skill in bargaining as she faced down the salesman with gimlet eyes, before settling on a reasonable price for a gorgeous shawl. Then back to the Imperial for a well-deserved drink in the cool dark bar - and then an early night for the 5am departure for Agra the next day.
Check the photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/schateaubriand/NewDelhiDayOne#

The Delhi part

So what was I thinking? Quiet moments, computer blinking in obedient expectation as I formed elegant phrases about my impressions? Nada disso, as we say where I come from - or - not likely! I have traveled halfway around the world, barely slept, been hurled from place to place. I am on a high of excitement, this is so cool.
So, let's see. Rio to Paris - boring, tiny space (come on, Air France, be a a little more generous) overbooked and no tv in seat back. Then fairly swift connection to Delhi flight, this time with tv, where I watched 3 movies between naps and ate really excellent Indian food. Arrival was better than the US, if you know what I mean, and outside stood the ebullient Raj waiting with a big smile and full of energy - even at that late hour, now well after midnight. After a long wait outside in the muggy dark Indian night Rawat, the driver turned up in a spick and span white Toyota wagon - and I was taken to the amazing Imperial Hotel. Imagine very dedicated ballet students averaging 35kg body weight with black hair scraped back in tight little buns (or very well born Brazilian society teenage girls), add a floating red and black (yes, Flamengo!) sari, and you have the picture of the young women who greeted crumpled old me with exquisite manners now after 1am. The whole hotel is scented with something wonderful emanating from black candles set amongst the Colonial decoration and the stunning flowers. My room a dream with white marble floor and ditto bathroom. I sat in a warm bath while I talked to far-away Oswaldo on the sim-card that thoughtful Raj had provided. I went to sleep at 3 and was up at 8.30 getting ready for my Delhi tour. My fellow travelers, Jytte & Ole, who had traveled from Vancouver via Frankfurt slept even less having arrived at 3am to no waiting driver from their hotel.

Preparing for the trip

If the travel literature is to be believed, then the combination India/Nepal/Bhutan contains a number of very serious threats to one's health. Not only does one have to get a health insurance with provisos for airlift out, but one needs to carry a full medicine chest, and have various kinds of inoculations. I am not very keen on needles, but last year - since I went to Africa - had updated my tetanus shots along with Hepetitis A and B. Now I wondered what more I could need? My friend Karen mentioned a travel clinic, CIVES - Centro de Informação em Saúde para Viajantes, at the federal university (UFRJ). Using their web-site I asked for an appointment and was promptly attended. A week later I stood in their office with two young doctors, who had prepared for my visit with printed medical charts of the three countries I would visit. They interviewed me carefully, discussed my itinerary in detail and settled on suggestions for typhoid fever vaccination and a polio booster shot, along with medicine for height sickness, re-hydration powders, in case of Traveler's Diarrea,  and powerful insect spray. A wish to prescribe rabies shots hung in the air, but I shrugged it off. I will stay clear of all dogs and even cows (yaks?)  who transmit rabies in their slime. My theory is that I will be so covered in clothes in the cold Bhutan climate that it will be hard to find an entry point! In typical friendly Brazilian fashion the CIVES doctors located the otherwise unavailable polio vaccine at Fiocruz and got me in today - all of this free of charge and very competently done. Fiocruz was another surprise, a spacy leafy oasis off crazy Av. Brasil, where another public travel clinic - Centro de Viajantes no Hospital Dia do IPEC - offers a similar service and administers vaccines, including Yellow Fever.

Meanwhile the stack of stuff to take grows on a table in my guest room - the sub zero sleeping bag, the liner, the socks, the winter clothes, the boots, the energy bars, the meds, the water purifying tablets, etc. etc.  - soon to be joined by the trek poles (for my ailing knees) and the insulating sleeping pad, also suggested by the doctors. My friend Amanda will bring them down from Florida this weekend. WHAT WOULD I BE WITHOUT MY FRIENDS? 

In a week I will be sitting on an Air France flight headed for Paris, then New Delhi, where 22 hours later, Raj, the driver, will be waiting to take me to the beautiful Imperial Hotel. 

Who's a lucky girl?

How it came to pass

You're going where? Bhutan? Where is that? I actually had to look myself. I knew it lay in the foothills of the Himalayas, but its relation to neighboring countries was not so clear. Now I know it lies north of India, east of Nepal and south of China and Tibet. 

Next question is: Why? I guess the easiest answer is to say I am following a dream. For a long time now I have wanted to fill my eyes with the sight of the tallest mountains - not sure why - and in my mind that dream is linked with Bhutan.

My chance to fulfill my dream came when long-time Danish friends, Jytte and Ole, who live in Vancouver and spend the toughest winter months in Rio, told me of their upcoming trip to Bhutan. Before they knew what had happened I had made plans to join them. 

We meet in New Delhi very late on March 31, spend 2 days and 3 nights trying to see as much as we can (not to mention shopping) in that area. We will have a driver, Raj, who drove Veronica and her family around 2 years ago. On April 3 we fly to Kathmandu and the Shangri-La Hotel for one night, where our tour begins. Then, on April 4, on to Paro (only airport in Bhutan) - on this part we will actually fly past Mount Everest, so we pray they have seated us on the left side of the plane.

We will spend 10 days in Bhutan, 3 of which will be trekking and camping in the hills near Paro. We are concerned with recent weather reports showing nighttime temperatures of -8C! I wonder whether my newly purchased Summit Mummy sleeping bag will measure up. I will be outfitted with a mixture of warm clothes, some my own, many belonging to the generous Bruno Stern, and a whole lot of accessories sent down by Chris Levin. I will have a headlamp so I can blog and read in my single tent. I also have a whistle - in case a stray yak bursts into my tent! I may, though, follow the advice of a guy who had done a similar trip. It was this: ear-plug in place, stocking-cap covering most of your head, deeply zippered into your sleeping bag, you take a sleeping pill and hope for the best!

Tomorrow I go to the travel clinic at the federal university. I hope they don't insist on rabies shots.