Stop and Gho
Tucked between the sprawling mountains and trickling streams of Bhutan, lie terraced rice paddy fields, encompassed by monasteries and temples perching on rocky outcrops. Clouds blanket the sky, protecting the frosty peaks from the prying, corrupt eyes of the modern world. Down in the valley, the town of Paro bustles quietly in its forgotten life, where cows and stray dogs wander lazily across roads without traffic lights, completely unperturbed by swerving vehicles and impatient drivers. Men go about in Gho, the traditional plaid Bhutanese dress woven with cotton and puffed out at the back, and the women in long skirts called Kira. There are street vendors everywhere: in empty alleys, under bridges, on the edges of winding roads and outside temples swarming with tourists. They all seem to be selling the same things: bunches of browning bananas, cordyceps tea, grains of rice and Chhurpi( curds of yak cheese) hanging in cascading clusters. Souvenir shops present textiles and cloths, small trinkets and cheap I Love Bhutan shirts, all of which line the grimy display windows.
But nestled amongst the local produce is the unmistakable glare of packets of imported multicoloured snacks from India and Thailand, while signs in English fringe the traditional wooden architecture painted with gold dragons and lotus flowers. Workers crouch by the road, eyes fixed on their mobile phones, oblivious to the world around them. Teenagers in hoodies and jeans are littered around, eating KitKats and Cornettos.
High above, where wisps of feathery white tickle the coniferous forest below leaving trails of snowy dust, is a crumbling temple, hidden between the prayer flags that adorn the trees like tinsel. From afar, what seem to be white dots are sprinkled on the mountain sides, but in reality, they are dedications to the deceased – tall, white wooden poles in bunches, decorated with white cloth that flutters eerily in the wind, like sails on the mast of a ship.
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