BHUTAN BY BUS PART ONE – DEWATHANG DAWN

Early morning wake up time is hailed by the thin mournful cry of a bugle pushing its way up through this dense dank atmosphere. The sound climbs the curves and cascades of the creek, pushing ever higher up the mountainside from an army encampment couched deep in the valley floor below. Finally, it pierces the thin metal framed pane of glass above my warm cosy bed, urging me to pull aside the curtain and see what this day should bring.
This is not the dawn I know from home. In Australia, dawn is a parakeet, stretching her vast vibrantly coloured wings, arching from one end of the earth to the next, hiding her head all the while. Unseen yet utterly apparent. Our ancient gnarled land glows a thousand tones in anticipation of her advent and even the merest wisp of a cloud bursts brilliantly into flame to herald her arrival. Then suddenly, almost from nowhere, she raises one bright burning searing eye above the scrubby hilltops as though challenging me to a staring match which only she can ever win.
Here, in the unelectrified night of remote Eastern Bhutan and with the early onset of summer rains, dank folds of monsoon push an eiderdown of ghostly steam into every fault and seam of the mighty Himalayan range. As the darkness yields to dawn’s subtle yet relentless approach, ridges arise from the gloom wearing wooly blankets of white while tall elegant peaks sport thin transparent mantles around their shoulders as though protecting themselves against the creeping damp. Dawn seeps into this valley from the vast empty plains below – refracted from one tiny droplet to the next a million billion trillion times until she is robbed of every living hue and stands alone as light at its purest and most diffuse. Fog so imbued with her luminescence infiltrates my lungs, creeping through cracks and sneaking under doors, passing gaps in the eaves and down though the ceiling till it comes to rest in every filament and fibre of every single garment that I own.
The birds rejoice none the less. Another dangerous night in the jungle survived. Now they can see and now they are free to fly. Nothing can catch them on their swift wings and they chatter playfully to one another in bright cheerful calls.
As the last notes of the First Post carry on climbing to the cool rocky peaks above, an new resonance – deep, strange and haunting moves through earth, air and building alike to arrive in my body and ears at once. Like a didgeridoo from deep down in the ground, the lama’s longhorns bring one section of their puja to a noisy close. Next the thin reedy call of the Tibetan oboes and the booming of the bass drums echo up the valley like palls of the thunder dragon after which this country takes it’s local name.
I glance at my clock, 5am – still time to visit the gonpa before I take the bus. In this country of mountains, everything is either up or down so I scale flight after steep flight of concrete steps to arrive at the spacious lha khang on top of the even bigger temple. I peek through the heavy brightly painted open door into the dim cavernous space beyond and my senses are overwhelmed with rich odours. Incense, sandalwood, musty old tapestries and the waxy smell of oil from dozens of flickering light offerings which adorn the elaborate shrine. Large gold and brass statues of Buddhas and deities glint in the dancing play of light and shadow from the lamps as the music and chanting reaches another crescendo. Finally, a vacant lull heralds the next stage of the ceremony and the participants notice my arrival. Friendly monks beckon me to sit beside them, wriggling over to make a space on the thin seating cushion atop of a cold polished stone floor.
I am completely absorbed. Bells jangle in my ears and vivid colourful images of deities and protectors glare down at me from the walls – some soothing and serene, others wrathful and terrifying. Slowly, I  begin to breathe in time with the rhythm of the slow monotonous monastic chant and it feels as though something in my heart is resonating with the pure energy that these people are creating, even though I can not understand the words.
I savour that moment by moment.
Today I will be leaving this enchanted monastery in the foothills of the Himalaya overlooking the great plains of India. Leaving the steep verdant mountains – richly timbered with dense, luxuriant tropical rainforest. Leaving a place where almost everyone I see beams me a rich genuine smile almost every time I see them.
Revently, I back out of the lha khang, descend ever so many concrete staircases, gather up my belongings and with the gracious aid of a couple of monks, walk the kilometer or so down their steep gravel driveway to the main road below.
Today I am taking the bus to Thimpu.