Bhutan, known as the Land of the Thunder Dragon, is a tiny and remote kingdom nestling in the Himalayas between India and China. The Tshering Farmhouse is a popular place to get a taste of traditional Bhutanese meal.
Little moments make life big.
Take a different path. Find another way. Pick a road less traveled. That's exactly the plan for today, to proceed away from the city and out into the rustic Tshering farmhouse in Paro.
Our local driver skillfully maneuvers the van, lurching over potholes and honking at groups of children playing on the dusty streets, warning them to get out of the way. At an intersection, a sturdy if stubborn cow blocks the way. We continue on off the main road, down a rutted, rocky lane. It ends at the start of the field of the Tshering farmhouse. Raising his eyebrows, our guide Kuenzang announces with childlike enthusiasm, Nalu! We're here!
The flight up the narrow-treaded stairs leads to a curtained entry way. We are gently nudged to remove our shoes. Kuzoozangpo la, our host murmurs the appropriate welcome.
Past the foyer, we peer through a second curtained doorway from where we are ushered into a squarish common room with uneven wood flooring. Along its three walls are long, thick blankets for seating. In the middle of the room is a wood furnace. We are gestured to squat and at once offered oja milk tea by our host. Smiling with eagerness, she holds up a bag of what looks like toasted buckwheat. We surmise her wordless gesture to mean that the crunchy grain will be delicious with the warm drink. She then meekly disappears behind the doorway.
Looking around, I see bits and pieces of the homeowners' lives in the neatly-folded quilts, soot-covered pots, sacks of barley and maize leaning against the wood cupboards, and the bright red and green chilis spread out to dry on a smallish table.
From a nearby room, I hear the occasional banging of pans. Food... I mumble. I'm hungry. The pungent aroma of freshly-ground spices that are familiar and yet cannot be readily named wafts in the air.
Soon enough, dinner is served. Dishes come quickly. Small pots of steaming food, blurry with color and fragrant, are set on the floor. For starters, we're offered boiled red rice. It is a staple. I scoop a dollop on my plate. It's pale pink, soft and slightly sticky.
Instinctively, we take out a small sanitizer bottle before proceeding further on but glancing sideways, I note our company each taking a pinch of the rice from their plate and rolling it between their palms into a small ball. I show a quizzical look and wonder, Is this the way to eat the rice? Perhaps sensing my quandary, Kuenzang explains with a gleam in his eyes, We clean our hands. Like this, then discards the rice ball.
Everyone starts to unceremoniously eat with their bare hands. Fun! I'm thinking, but our hosts have thoughtfully handed us a couple of spoons. According to Bhutanese etiquette, when offered food, one says, Meshu meshu, covering one's mouth with the hands in refusal and only giving in on the second or third offer. But I ignore protocol.
We ladle onto our plates a helping of the ubiquitous national dish, ema datshi, made from chili peppers and cheese. Our guide quickly explains, Ema means chili, and datshi means cheese. I give a soft grunt of approval after the first mouthful. The chilis give a wonderful bite. The potatoes, mushrooms, eggplant, and carrots organically grown in the farm, sauteed with dried beef in pork fat, are fresh on the tongue. The fried edible ferns are my favorite. Zhim bay. Delicious.
When all is finished, we are politely offered an after-dinner drink of ara, a homemade rice spirit. But what about dessert? Preferably exotic and sweet, has been the unspoken wish that keeps nagging in my ears. Our driver must have read my mind, for he casually comments, No need for dessert.
He then retrieves a pouch from within the ample fold of his gho robe. This, he quips, with a glimmer of humor in his eyes, better than dessert. It is the seed of the betel palm, along with leaves of the betel pepper and slaked lime, which he offers. We politely decline, while everyone, our hosts included, proceeds to chew - their reddened lips curled in a wide, satisfied smile and a sense of well-being.
We talk about this night becoming just a dream. But tomorrow, the dream will be better. Because you can make the dream whatever you want it to be, I say softly. The conversation is animated. Hands wave through the air in a relaxed gesture with each remark, each joke, as the night lengthens.
It makes me fantasize how I can retreat from the world and take up a solitary life in such company, in such a house, on such a piece of terrain.
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