jul/aug 2010

Bhutan: A Discovery of
Shangri-La—Heaven on Earth

by Karin-Marijke Vis

As a rule, travelers have to arrange their trip to Bhutan—landlocked between China to the north and India to the south, east and west—through a travel agency, which costs about $200 per person per day. Travelling with a tour-group is not our way, nor does it fit our budget, so this provides a new challenge: entering Bhutan on our own, without a visa. Will we succeed?

An oversized, square gate in Jaigaon marks the border with Bhutan: the words painted white, "Welcome to the Royal Kingdom of Bhutan," stand out on the adjacent blue road sign. The gate is open—officially we never leave India and without a drop of sweat, we are in Bhutan. 

Mystic Bhutan, veiled in mist
Phuentsoling is a quintessential border town that lives on trade, legal or grey market, between Bhutan and India—and abounds with markets and vendors. Outside town, on our way north, we encounter several checkpoints but the gates are open. Travelling in India for a year taught us not to stop until explicitly demanded to do so, and thus we simply drive on. No alarm bells go off. A thick fog that shrouds the area in obscurity probably helps us to get through the checkpoints without being noticed—it most certainly isn't because of our very conspicuous BJ45 Land Cruiser. Soon we climb up to 2,000 metres over a perfect, smoothly tarred road into the interior of Bhutan.

Since the fog prevents us from seeing further than two metres ahead, the journey becomes tiring and tense. The Bhutanese have learned how to drive from their neighbouring Indians: their overtaking is just as unpredictable and speeding is the only pace they know. Strangely enough, they have not taken over the Indian habit of honking the horn, which in these mountains, with hairpin bends, would most certainly serve a purpose.

"Please go back to register at the checkpoint."
After about 100 kilometres, we find a parking lot to spend the night and the next day we continue into the Paro Valley. Just before we turn left to cross a bridge, we notice another checkpoint on the road ahead, which leads to the capital Thimpu. While we turn left, we hear shouting but pretend not to hear it and continue driving into the Paro Valley. Contrary to yesterday, the sky is clear and the views are a painter’s palette with blue skies, white clouds and an ocean of green rice paddies. All of a sudden, we are followed by a police car, which motions us to stop. The officer asks us to return to the checkpoint to register—in fact, it's not really a question but a friendly command.

Two guards greet us with angry looks but the others look friendly enough. I step out of the car, walk to the booth and put on my most guileless face.

"Do we have to register here?"
"Yes, why didn't you stop yesterday, at the previous checkpoint?"—where similar shouting had ensued but no one had come after us.

"Do we have to?"
"Sure, everybody does.”
"Sorry, we thought that was just for trucks. India is full of checkpoints for trucks, we never had to stop there—which is true—so we concluded it worked the same way here.”

That sounds reasonable enough and they discuss it among themselves. One of the angry looking guards isn't convinced though: "Papers, please,” he grumbles. The passports and car papers change hands among the officers and are thoroughly checked.

"Everything is in order. You may continue,” is their verdict.

I have to stop myself from fainting on the spot. We can drive on? The papers are in order? No questions about the missing visa stamp? This is the last we expected but no complaint from our side. A hard knot of tension in my stomach dissipates on the spot and without showing it, I heave a sigh of relief. We promise the police officers that from now on, we will stop at the checkpoints for registration.

"Excuse us for the trouble of asking you to register but it is for your own safety,” they explain. "Sometimes accidents happen and cars end up in a ravine, and this way at least we know how many people we have to search for.”

Sounds reasonable enough.

 

Welcome to the Royal Kingdom of Bhutan—with or without a visa.

Local architecture stands the test of time in Bhutan.

Laundry day—and a day of rest for the Land Cruiser.

Woodcarving and painting of the Paro Dzong—quite an accomplishment.

Photos by Coen Wubbels