Nursing a cold, but nothing too bad. I am actually happy to stay in my room today after a rigorous and exhilarating walk yesterday with Patrizia, an Italian who grew up in Afghanistan and Iran, moved to Bhutan in the 80’s and married a Bhutanese man who now serves at the Minister of Foreign Affairs. She is ebullient and full of energy, sharing stories and insights into the people and direction of Bhutan. Her biggest pet peeve is connecting “indicators” to track GNH. This is a philosophy, not statistics, she explained. It was what the King said was the be valued over GNP. She told me that when the Prime Minister heard about linking GNH with measurable outcomes, he said, ‘I measure my happiness by the breadth of my smile.’ But indicators have indeed been established in the interest of foreign aid agencies. These indicators are based on: Time Use (value of civic and voluntary work, value of unpaid housework and child care, value of leisure time, paid work hours); Living Standards (income and its distribution, financial security - debt and assets, economic security index; Natural Capital (soils & agriculture, forests, fisheries and marine resources, energy, air, water); Human Impact on the Environment (solid waste, ecological footprint, greenhouse gas emissions, transportation); Human and Social Capital (population health, costs of crime, educational attainment).
Patrizia’s history is extraordinary. She talked of visiting the Bamyan Valley every year, 143 miles northwest of her former home in Kabul, with her family where they vacationed in the valley of a thousand Buddhas. Once a central stopping point of silk route traders, Bamyan is now famous for the Taliban’s policy to destroy all ‘idols.’ In 2001, after using dynamite, anti-aircraft guns, artillery, and anti-tank mines to chip away at two huge Buddhas (one was 180 feet tall, the other 121) for weeks, men were ultimately lowered down a rock cliff to place explosives into holes in the statue’s faces. Patrizia explained that the valley contained countless states, paintings, and rooms built into the surrounding rock faces. It was a lovely place to vacation and one whose memory continues to captivate her. She recalls being stuck en route to Bamyan as nomads with hundreds of camels lumbered along the road, their possessions piled atop their long-legged beasts of burden. The family sat and watched for two hours as the caravan carefully negotiated the high mountain cliff road until disappearing into the dust.
Our caravan consisted of two women and a sweet natured little black dog, named Chu-Shon or “small face” (forgive all spelling and recollection of Dzonka!). We three walked the steep trail, winding through lush rhododendron trees and pines draped in soft gray-green mossy-lichen. Yaks walked unyoked, wandering vertically up and down the mountain, jangling musical bells tied to their necks. We stuck to the rutted switch backs, carved for centuries by monks, pilgrims, and long-dead yaks, who no doubt provided the genetic material of the off-duty off-spring clanking through the trees today. It snowed lightly on us as we passed chortens (small monuments), picked up garbage left by careless hikers (most likely the monks themselves!) and talked of Patrizia’s two children, the difficult birth of her first born, and her passion for Bhutan. She had no tolerance for ineffectual foreigners with good intentions but bad ideas.
“They cannot make mistakes here. The Bhutanese are allowed the occasional mistake, but foreigners who come to help, have to make Bhutan the priority, not their own interests. We can not afford the mistakes of outsiders.”
When we reached the monasteries (were there ten? twelve?), we rested, drank water and watched the children of the yak herders playing with wooden darts. Dogs barked and chased one another as puppies yelped for milk from their skinny mother. We looked down at Thimpu, a city modernizing at an alarming rate, from a vantage point seemingly a thousand miles and years away.
Our trip down was quick and we arrived at Patrizia’s car at dusk with a bag of trash and made our way back to her house. Her husband, Ugen Tserling, the Minister, had just returned from India on business. He was getting a cold, and seemed quite tired; after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s the year before, everyday is a struggle for him. He was beyond kind and gentle, and I shared an early dinner with him, Patrizia and their fourteen year old daughter Laura, home for the holidays from a Thai boarding school.
Patrizia told me that Ugen had finally opened up about his condition to Michael J. Fox, a fellow sufferer, who visited Bhutan looking for clues to happiness and exploring optimism for a documentary. In Bhutan, while there are people fighting Parkinson’s, apparently no one discusses it openly. Ugen was able to share his experience with perhaps the most famous, and certainly most well traveled (he’s gone back to the future in a nuclear Delorean!), person in the world. Patrizia said that this meeting offered Ugen a great deal of comfort.
And so here I am, listening to the deep notes of the long Tibetan Buddhist horns being blown, punctuated with the crash of cymbals. It’s impossible to escape Buddhism here, not that I’d want to. The smell of incense, the ready smiles, the deep earthly bellowing chants, and the dry rattle of pray beads are enveloping. So many travel here to understand what makes this place so magical. I hope TTF can, in a small way, show Patrizia that we’ll heed her warning and do good here. She did laughingly ask if she could open TTF’s Bhutan office. Not a bad idea!
~ Betsy
