“Dear Prime Minister,” I typed.
Only twice in my life have I written to a head of state. Eleven years back I sent a plea to the former prime minister of my adopted country, New Zealand, begging her to exclude us from what I suspected was going to be a disaster of a war in Iraq. Must’ve worked because she did precisely as I asked.
Second letter was somewhat different.
See, I had been wanting to visit Bhutan for many years. This is the tiny landlocked Himalayan country which lowered its drawbridge of isolation a mere generation back, and whose then-king disdained monetary value as a domestic measure, instead claiming his country’s standard to be “gross national happiness”. Now, how could you possibly not wish to travel to such a place?
Only trouble, to keep out the riff-raff the country has a policy whereby you must pay upfront $250 per day just to get in. (Includes hotels, meals and all touring; still...) Plus they don’t particularly encourage solo travellers. As a single, longhaired, bearded backpack-toting vagabond who at the lowest economic level has visited more than 50 countries, Bhutan no doubt had a picture of me imbedded in circle-and-slash nailed to its walls.
But when last October I read a most positive appraisal of its newly elected prime minister in the Times, I sat up and took note. And when the article claimed that the PM, who went to college in America (Pittsburgh, then later Harvard), loved basketball and jokingly had challenged Barack Obama, also a basketball nut, to a game of one-on-one, I couldn’t help myself. Despite odds ranging somewhere around infinity to nothing, I cranked up the laptop.
“If you don’t hear back from Barry O,” I wrote, “would you consider going head-to-head with Barry R, a 75 year old with wonky knees who 60 years back had an unstoppable two-hand set shot and could probably still give you a heck of a tussle?”
I stuffed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to “Prime Minister, Bhutan”, stuck on some postage, dropped it in a mailbox and promptly forgot about it.
Three weeks later I got an email purportedly from someone on the tourism council of Bhutan. Knowing how the cyber-crazies operate, I was about to delete it as spam, but for whatever reason one does improbable things I opened it.
“The Prime Minister has instructed me to invite you here,” the letter said, “waiving the standard daily fee of $250 and providing free accommodation at two of our finest 5-star resorts for part of your stay. Please select dates and email a copy of your passport.”
I don’t know whether you believe in karma. I do. And what I immediately reckoned was that either this was just reward for something really terrific I did in a past life, or I’m going to have my behind kicked severely next go-round. Who cares?
As noted, I’d already worn out several miles of shoe leather in my half-century traipsing the globe. Seen it all, I had. Nothing new, few surprises anymore on the highway of life. Then in August I spent 15 days in Bhutan.
And Bhutan blew me away.
(Actually, Bhutan is a name the English bestowed; the locals know it as Druk Yul, or Land of the Thunder Dragon. Leave it to the Brits to bland a place up.)
This tiny land of just 700,000 souls, ethnicity a blend of Indo-Mongoloid, Tibetan and a smattering of Nepalese, and predominantly of the Mahayana Buddhist faith, occupying an area of 18,000 square miles (halfway between the sizes of Maryland and West Virginia), is by far the most outrageously beautiful country, with the most amiable, intelligent inhabitants, I’ve ever experienced.
The land ranges from the perennially snow-capped Himalayas (up to 24,000 feet) in the north to semi-tropical in the south. In between are mountains and valleys and terraced rice fields and raging rivers and farmlands and untold villages inhabited by a variety of tribes sporting colorful traditional dress.
Fauna-wise, Bhutan claims leopards, rhinos, bears, 900 species of birds and more wild tigers than China. (The national animal is a takin. A what? Exactly.)
It is trekking nirvana. (The 28-day Snowman route is rated one of the most magnificent – and arduous – in the world.) Great rafting, too.
The truth is, you cannot turn a corner in this country without encountering a scene that screeches your breath to a halt.
Shangri-La? Indeed.
There are, however, a host of no-no’s:
Bhutan’s laws decree no mining of their supposedly abundant minerals. No fracking. No drilling for oil. No deforestation. (The constitution ensures a minimum 60% of the land to be covered in forests; presently there’s over 70%.) No chemical spraying. (Bhutan claims to be 99% organic and working on the final 1%.) No fast-food chains permitted entry. No climbing the eye-boggling mountains. (They’re considered sacred). No traffic lights. No buildings over four storys (and all must conform to traditional architecture). No advertising billboards. No gender discrimination in the government and private workplace.
Plus (wait, there’s more?), education is completely free to the highest level for all, as is health care. Should local universities not measure up to your innate abilities, the guv’ll ship you to one which does overseas. And if local medical facilities can’t fix you, they’ll pay to send you to a hospital in neighboring India.
I mean, the place is a Michael Moore wet dream.
All this goes on at the mandate of their present king (a gorgeous guy in his mid-30s, with a knockout of a queen/wife). Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck is king number five. His great-great-granddaddy began the string in 1907. Poppa-king, the gross national happiness dude (who by the way married four sisters, meaning there are currently no fewer than a quartet of queen mothers), handed over the crown in 2008. A constitutional monarchy was declared, but in fact the king still is the power here. And the man, holding this bizarre notion that his wee nation’s natural wealth should not be plundered for immediate goodies, rather preserved intact for future generations to enjoy, is as sensible, compassionate and adored a head honcho as our leaders are not.
King Jigme has declared that, unlike Thailand, unlike Bali, his country is not to have its heart torn out by brain-dead tourism and acquiescence to rapacious transnationals. And the current PM, Tshering Tobgay by name, appears determined to carry out his monarch’s edicts.
I met the PM for lunch. There were ten of us at the table, but Tobgay insisted I sit by his left hand.
He’s around 6 feet, athletic, a solid-bearing guy just shy of fifty. With a Masters from Harvard, the man is hardly a slouch. And he seems sincere in preserving his country’s pristine landscape while looking for ways to bring in business. (One of his stated goals is to have all electric vehicles on the road by end of decade.) The number one industry currently is hydro-electric energy, all of which is sold to India. Number two is the potential killer of ideals. Tourism.
The PM and I talked. Not talked down, condescending chit-chat; rather gut-stuff like long-time buds. When lunch ended (the food was outrageously good), I stuck out my hand. Tobgay virtually brushed it aside and reached in for a bearlike man-hug.
Actually, I see this now as a very clever distraction, for unbelievable as it may sound, it wasn’t until I arrived back home I realised that the one-on-one basketball challenge (which got me to Bhutan in the first place) had never transpired. And here I’d practiced for several minutes, actually working up a sweat, and on one occasion even got both feet off the ground attempting a jump shot. My take is the PM was afraid of losing face, thus the subterfuge. But then, he is a politician, right?
That aside, my punt is that Bhutan will escape the peril, will somehow avoid going the way of so many other lovely places that have become decayed through native greed and mindless turistas. But it’s going to be close.
Ohope, New Zealand
October 24, 2014
* Many, many, years back, Barry Rosenberg wrote extensively for Philadelphia Magazine, among other journals. He has been living on a 7 mile beach in New Zealand since 1980. His latest book, Finding Judi, details his 25 year search for a daughter adopted out at birth.
