Below us on the outer ramparts of the Dzong is an enormous flag pole on which flutter four pennants. Respectively they show a Druk (dragon), a Garuda (ditto), a snow lion and a tiger. Sonam tells us that it is a reminder of the impermanence of the physical world: only the last creature still exists. Even if our guide had pointed out the image of a tooth fairy, we would likely have all nodded sagely; Bhutan has this effect on you. It is difficult to think or even to imagine a country and its culture which is more mysterious, charming, bewildering, mediaeval, beautiful and yet so highly sophisticated.
The country is a landlocked Himalayan kingdom about the size of Switzerland. But it has barely three quarters-of-a-million citizens, upon whom Buddhism is a profound influence. The country's jagged snow capped peaks, lush fir covered mountainsides and lowland paddy fields are jammed between the two most populous nations on the planet. Such a situation invites attention far beyond the tourists and travellers who visit; Bhutan has had to guard its sovereignty and cultural integrity with skill and determination. When the British tried to poke their noses in, during the nineteenth century, the Bhutanese saw them off at the battle of Dewangiri. Unusually, the British took "No" for an answer and only properly re-appeared fifty years later when they helped to instal the first Druk Gyalpo, or dragon king. Famed for its inhabitants' prowess with the bow and arrow, today Bhutan's biggest money spinner is hydro-electricity, most of which is exported to its gigantic neighbour to the south. Tourism, although tightly controlled, is the next biggest earner. The Buddhist establishment also attracts a great deal of money from wealthy patrons overseas. Closer to home, there are some signs of development in a mostly rural economy widely dispersed by the unyielding features of geography and geology. But the transport structure is rudimentary: there is only one proper main road which meanders in the image of a tape worm from west to east. There are few planes and no railway. The tap water too, which passes the bladder of many a yak, herdsman, hill farmer and Buddhist hermit on its unpasteurised way south from the melting Himalayan glaciers, is undrinkable to any but the locals. Gastric infections caused by helicobacter pylori are commonplace.
Thus some of the facts. The facts however, only get you so far. Our charming and immaculately turned out guides Sonam, Karma and Wonchin give us a level of dignified and frequently silent attention which amounts almost to a form of devotion in the two weeks which we spend in their company. All three are evidently and deeply ingrained by their Buddhist faith and show great respect to the person of the king and the religious culture of their country: each attends punctiliously to his personal ritual at the numerous temples and monasteries which we visit along the way. At various intervals, Sonam disarmingly and undogmatically explains what is his "understanding" of Buddhism which gets denser and more mysterious as the days pass. There is really no point trying to think about any of this in a western linear way: just remembering even a handful of the numerous deities and their equally numerous variations is like trying to recall every make and model of every plane that was ever built. And that is before you even consider the more esoteric elements of Buddhist philosophy. As an aid to concentration however, you are rarely far from serried ranks of fluttering prayer flags in the elemental colours of the air, water, fire, earth and the forest. These colours are also used in the representations of the various deities and bodhisattvas: white for compassion, green for pacification, red for subjugation and yellow for enrichment. The image of the impassive White Tara, the all-seeing deity of wise compassion, quickly becomes a favourite, her numerous eyes expertly scanning the hidden vices of those who behold her.
Yet we must at least try to orientate our minds, otherwise we are going to miss an awful lot and there is no time to achieve an understanding through familiarity and practice. The Buddha (as in "the" Buddha) was born sometime between the Fall of Nineveh and the Battle of Marathon, but the bigger deal of a deity in Bhutan is Padmasambhava or the "Lotus Born", who appeared well over a millennium later in what is now Tibet. It was he who took exile in Bhutan, subdued various malignant and disobliging local spirits before co-opting them for Buddhism, spread the word and left his physical imprints on a number of mountainsides. These are now quietly guarded by tiny monasteries precariously attached to precipitate rock faces. While the Buddha is invariably depicted with an expression of alert impassivity which is not unkind, the visage of Padmasambhava is rendered in a variety of moods and with a curling moustache and neat goatee which suggests a rakish intelligence. Certainly he was farsighted enough to know that Buddhism would not easily outlive his passing and so left a number of "treasures" hidden in rocks and crevices as proof of his provenance. These were much later revealed in miraculous circumstances by a series of "treasure finders" who thus got Buddhism rolling again. Among them was Pemalingpa, an artisan who dived into a mountain cascade with a burning lamp and re-emerged a distance further with flame still aglow and treasure in hand. Naturally, various academic spoilsports have tried to discredit the former blacksmith as a lowly born charlatan ever since, but Buddhism has very much come and stayed.
We hike, very slowly, because of the thin air: rarely are we below 9,000 feet and climb as high as 13,000 feet. The mountainsides are covered in scarlet rhododendron, pink and purple primula, white flowered daphne and euphorbia. Occasionally, a red-chested pheasant is seen. The trees are uniformly evergreen and reflect the contour heights at which they grow - Himalayan and brown Oak at the bottom, Tsuga (Hemlock), Juniper and Blue Pine in the middle range and silver downed firs at the pinnacles. All clinging with stoic and weather defying tenacity to the seemingly barren rock. Bhutan's development is today measured in units of Gross National Happiness rather than GDP. The basic idea involves a vox pop at various intervals to see if folk feel any jollier than they did last year. Naturally, this is supposed to capture the people's appreciation of improvements in healthcare, transport, communications and education as well as their own individual satisfaction, but critics have scoffed at the somewhat imprecise nature of the concept. More pertinently, some think that it has held back the country's long term economic development when it is used as an excuse for procrastination about decisions which might have an adverse impact on happiness in the short term. But this is a concept which is gradually gaining purchase in the developed world too as folk, jaded by mis-firing capitalism, seek intangible or non-monetary yardsticks for their lives and spiritual sources of satisfaction.
Gross National Happiness is of a piece with the Buddhist culture of the country. At Punakha we visit a magnificent Dzong. The jacaranda trees have sadly lost their distinctive violet blossom but the whole complex, which is one of the most ancient of the administrative and monastic centres of Bhutan, is en-fete. The courtyards are full of men in their magnificent and practical ghos and the women in their beautiful, kaleidoscopic and elaborate kiras. There is a buzz of dignified excitement - we are waiting for the appearance of the Sakya Lama, the leader of one of the four main strands of Tibetan Buddhism. The charged atmosphere and swirls of colour around the gigantic and ancient fortress cannot fail to fire the emotions of even the dullest sensibility. There is almost too much to take in. Meanwhile Sonam is trying to explain the detailed, elaborate and vividly painted religious and sacramental scenes which cover the most prominent walls. He intuits that our understanding is already beyond the otherwise workmanlike explanation that most of the images are "to ward off evil spirits". But now he has to describe the gradations of Buddhism and how the Sakya strand relates to the practice which prevails in most of Bhutan. We also need the Buddhist "Who's Who", as various senior clerics weave past us bobbing their heads in friendly greeting. Allowing one's own mind to wander risks missing the path in an instant.
The numerous temples are the preferred routes to exposition. Their interiors are silent and scent filled oases of hand carved and decorated wooden fixtures; totems made of clarified and solidified butter; mountains of perishable offerings brought by the devout; thrones for dignitaries and teachers and sacred images and statues. Occasionally there is the steady monotonous hum of incantation or the sound of horns and drums. Photography is not allowed.
Amongst the profusion, the mandala is a complicated geometric pattern painted inside the entrance vestibule of most monasteries and ancient buildings. In the Jakar Valley we are allowed inside a private temple erected at the instigation of the Bhutanese Queen Mother. Within there is a gigantic three dimensional mandala which is a mass of tiny and intricate carvings and logic defying constructions which would have baffled Piranesi. Like the pictures of the numerous deities and of the Bhavachakra ("Wheel of Life"), the mandala is a visual aid to enlightenment. Merely by gazing upon these representations is to receive a blessing. It seems the central tenet of Buddhist philosophy is that the path to enlightenment is achieved by the control and expulsion of negativity from ones conscience. There does not seem to be such a concept as "original sin"; rather the focus is on the forces that corrupt our consciousness such as ignorance, aversion and attachment. In that sense, the rather fierce images of deities like Purba, with his grotesque tusks and wings of fire, are there not for adoration so much as contemplation.
This Buddhist concept of the infinite individual consciousness making its way from the mortal world of samsara to the realm of perfect enlightenment (nirvana) via numerous earthly re-incarnations seems very alien to the Jewish/Christian tradition of the redeeming power of faith alone. But the Augustinian precept of the opening of the self to the work of God's grace does not seem so very different from the Buddhist one about enlightenment. Indeed is it possible the evolution of the early mediaeval monastic movement (with its emphasis on withdrawal, immobility, collective ritual and discipline) towards a more individualistic approach to the seeking of God's grace was influenced by the far more ancient Buddhist tradition of finding the path to enlightenment?
On the other hand there is something Homeric about the narrative arc of Buddhism with its profusion of deities, the fateful courses of a being's existence and its paths to the mastery (or otherwise) of the delusions of human consciousness. Yet the deities of the Odyssey are cruel, vexatious and capricious; not at all like the bodhisattvas who despite their frequently fierce appearance are in fact entirely benign (or so we are assured). Had Ulysses been taken to the bosom of the Green Tara rather than Calypso, his journey might have been more enlightened but perhaps less heroic.
For to western eyes there is something innately passive about Buddhism and its preaching of acceptance. It makes for charming and non-judgemental hosts while casting doubts on the sustainability of a culture already eroded by the pervasive use of English, the insidious influences of the internet and the increasing number of young folk who emigrate. The monastic communities and profusion of monks young and old suggest a country where the religious ethic is stoutly underpinned. Yet it is also one which is dominated by ritual rather than by evangelising and there are the occasional hints that the lifestyle of the majority of the clergy is just a shade too parasitical. The monk who sits in total isolation for three years and forty-five days contemplating the infinite in his quest to become a Lama can be admired for his abstinence and discipline: but not perhaps for his social conscience. It is not a coincidence that the king (and his forebears) are revered as much for their can-do spirit as for their royal blood.
We take our leave, fitter if not leaner and having made some wonderful discoveries and friends. We have experienced the utter charm of our hosts throughout the country, the delicious food and awesome landscapes. There have been eagles, hermits, singing shepherds and grizzled folk among their herds of yak, chilli, betel juice and the smell of burning juniper. We have taken off and put back on our shoes more times than we care to remember, the tiniest marks of respect to a country which deserves so very much more.
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