2011 Ed 13 Jul 20
Bhutan is not called the land of the Thunder Dragon
for nothing. My last journey there left an indelible impression on me in more
ways than one. While the images speak for themselves more or less, my trial and tribulation for no fault of my host
country, became akin in terms of sheer physicality and labor, to the cleaning
of the Augean Stables by Hercules. I made my first error when I decided to test
the status of the rail and road combination route exiting out of India. Having
booked the return journey by Druk Air, Bhutan's national airline from Paro to
New Delhi, I felt that by seeing the current condition of the road during the
monsoon, where it traversed through that remote corner of India (West Bengal
state) near Bhutan, would be a useful input for the next season.
The North East Express is a train of national
importance serving the north east of India and linking it to the Capital,
Delhi. It was the tail end of the monsoon season. When the train crossed into
the state of Bihar, all around us was a sea of water. Looking to the horizon and seeing the immense
"water world", reminded one of the famous film by that name, and
whose hero was the American actor Kevin Costner. At approximately 3 pm the
train came to a grinding halt. And it remained that way for 12 hours.
Surrounded by water, the electronic signals were submerged outside the
Mughalsarai station, a major train junction since the days of the British Raj.
The second class air conditioned compartment in which I was (and the best on
this train) soon became a living hell. The toilets were grossly filthy, their
latches sharp enough to cause injury, and rusted enough to kill a passenger
from tetanus, all the while the rainwater flooding the inside of the
compartment. When I asked for the complaint book, the ticket collector
grovellingly asked "why sir, what has happened?". I said “there is
rain water inside the compartment”. He quickly said "but sir, it is
raining outside!" I insisted and the grand ceremony of writing a written
complaint and receiving a duplicate was embarked upon, and completed.
At midnight all passengers were asleep barring me,
along with a vibrant and energetic young man, in the field of education. We
tried using our phone contacts to get the numbers of the Railways at
Mughalsarai. All attempts failed. I decided to wake the ticket collector who
was sleeping rather comfortably. He said he did not have a number for
Mughalsarai, but only one for Agra. I said "call them". He said
"my phone doesn’t have a signal". I said " here's mine, and it
does!" In the meantime we saw four other trains whizzing past, as they were
on an obvious priority, the Rajdhani being one. The ticket collector spoke to
control in Agra and got a non- committal reply, as the entire area was flooded.
I took the phone back, passed the number onto my contacts in Delhi, and then we
all began calling the number. Finally the train budged. I reached at 9 pm
instead of 7 am. I got a taxi, and the taxi man and his cohorts clambered all
over me. Where do you wish to go sir? "Bhutan Gate", I said. 300
rupees sir. In the fatigued state, I thought this was a good deal. Let’s go!
..As I clambered into the jeep, someone said "where did you say you wanted
to go? " Bhutan Gate, I answered again. " "Bhutan Gate! that is
a 180 km and a 3 hour journey! that is 3000 not 300! Again, in my fatigued
state, I thought it a good deal! Having settled for Rs 2500, we proceeded. The
journey was four hours, and of this, the first three were over craters, a foot
to two feet deep. The road had become rippled and wavy due to the poor
construction, and overladen trucks. This was communist West Bengal at its best.
It was pitch dark, and the dense jungle for much of the way was inhabited by
wild elephant (as I knew from past knowledge) making the journey that much more
tension filled. At four am my Bhutanese guide finally met us at the border,
having waited since midday, the previous day. I crashed onto a bed, in what seemed a heavenly Bhutanese
lodge. State of the art fittings had been used, but placed poorly in some
cases. Anyway the excellent springs of the bed invited me. For the first hour
my head and ears continued swaying and humming with the momentum of the awful
road journey.
After breakfast at 9 am, we set out on a six hour
mountain road journey ever rising upto the capital, Thimpu. The road was
excellent, and the best of India’s workmanship was seen. The Indian Army had
built a tremendous road, with fantastic bridges, surfacing and edging. But the
mountains spare no man, and there were some gruelling sections of landslides to
negotiate. I finally reached Thimpu, and
after a night halt, we embarked on trek.
Wonderful vistas accompanied us and our pleasant
guides. But there was a bit of inexperience on their part, and it would cost me.
After the long, damp train journey, the
wheeze I had contracted, coupled with the rough road trip, now followed by a
four hour walk, the outer fly of the tent touching the inner, resulted in it
being iced over on the inside ceiling
the next morning! This did further
damage to my lungs through the night.
The next day entailed an uphill climb of seven hours
from 10,000 ft (app 3200 m) to 14,500 (app 7,200 m). Carrying a not so light
day pack, I was done for, after five months of faffing around without much
physical activity, during the Indian summer.
And then the nightmare began the second day. I could
barely breathe, and was wracked by coughing so violent, my stomach was sore, as
if repeatedly punched. I needed to be supported. To do all this and yet take
decisions for the team (including my English clients which included the late
Sir David John KCMG ex Chairman of British Petroleum) became extremely taxing. The shorter route
was to go back over the pass but the vertical one was impossible for the pack
pony. I could not move on my own, and the team had no way to ferry me on a
stretcher. So, I had to do a two day
walk in one. It was an eleven hour marathon exercise to get down to the road
head by nightfall, six being on a small mountain pony. She was a great little
mare, but had crude tack and untrained leading hands. Had I not been a horseman
in my own capacity as well as a polo player, I would never ever have survived
that day.
The small wooden saddle as is used in Asia’s mountains
had a pommel hoop, and no stirrups, so I used a primitive rope loop. The
breastplate served as a stopping rein because there was only one open rein,
used by the pony man to lead. A horse
generally picks the right route ninety eight percent of the time. But on
occasion it picks entirely the wrong one. At some of the forked paths, the lead man would not look
back to guide the pony onto the right path, and so the pony ended up taking me
to the edge of a sheer cliff face with a thousand foot or more drop! In my
delirium I had to admonish the pony man and ask him to keep his wits about him.
Again when going past narrow rocky defiles, I had to raise my legs to avoid
injury to my ankles, increasing the strain. When one went up an incline, I had
to rise up in the stirrups, (as a considerate rider does to aid the horse) at
which time the iron hoop of the saddle would catch my stomach, already bruised
from hours of coughing.
We broke journey, and after a short break I had to confront
the very sharp decline. I was partly carried by one guide who commented,
"you must have carried me in a past life, sir, which is why I must carry
you now". This too was hard to
bear, as his shoulder, and the bounce, knocked the already depleted wind, from
my lungs. I then half walked, and half let myself be lugged down the slippery
and rocky mountain, into thick jungle, by two men. The sheer pace of their
momentum, and gravity rushed me off my feet, sweat pouring down my body, in
spite of most of the effort being on the part of my helper. The endless trek down
the mountain, ended in the pitch dark, and to my relief, a car came to
extricate me, and take me to the hospital. The Doctor at the Emergency said,
"heart fine, blood pressure fine, chest- a slight infection." While I
had escaped pulmonary oedema, a dangerous and unpleasant condition, the slight
"chest infection", had played utter havoc with my physiognomy.
Bhutan is an unusual country and does not permit mountaineering on account
of the mountains being sacred. I guess I had not appeased the Gods this time on
the Dag Lang Lake Trek-The Trek of a Thousand Lakes! Even so, I enjoyed Thimpu
thoroughly, in spite of being exhausted from the experience. The Tsecho
Festival and dances, which occurred just before the Royal Wedding was
captivating , as was all else about Bhutan, Land of The Thunder Dragon.
