I have been home from Bhutan for a week. Still fresh in my mind is the drive across the Muller Bridge into Holyoke on that first day. I was in the left lane. A car sped up to my rear bumper. I moved into the right lane, but not before the other driver, obviously impatient, made a motion to pass me on the right. I had already begun my lane shift, however, so I went to the right lane. Then, in about 20 seconds, across the bridge, I stopped behind a line of cars waiting to turn right. I noticed, too late, that the car that had just passed me wanted to cut in front of me to turn right, but I was already moving.
As he pulled in behind me, I could see his angry face, and his raised middle finger.
Road rage. I had forgotten what that was during my two months in Bhutan. In fact I'd forgotten what rage was. If it exists in Bhutan, I never saw it.
Actually I did see road rage in Bhutan. Once. It was at the second road block of the day, on the major east west highway, above Punakha. My roommate and I were traveling with my guide turned friend Tshering. We had set off to join our fellow volunteers. They had left earlier that Saturday morning with Kinley Dorje. He is the head physiotherapist at JDW National Referral Hospital. He had invited us to his country home in the village of Wangdue, situated on a pleasant hillside of rice paddies, above Punakha. We had arranged to go rafting on the male branch of the Punakha River the next day.
We had a slow start, since the road closure for lane widening right outside Thimphu was supposed to happen from 12:30 to 2, but they decided to close it early, at 11:30. So the 3 of us turned back into Thimphu for lunch at a little Indian restaurant. Then we made our way over Dochu La, with its 108 chortens honoring the soldiers who died in Bhutan's only war.
It was 2003. Indian separatists from Sikiim had ensconced themselves in the jungles of the South. They refused to leave. The king "K-4" himself led the troops. The war lasted about a week. Actually only one day, according to an army captain I met in Chibitse, during my trek. Despite the fact that the front was about 1000 miles long. The rest of the week was "clean up" according to the captain. He believes that there was something supernatural about what happened - similar to what happened when the Tibetans invaded Bhutan from the west, in the 17th century.
According to legend, the founder of the kingdom of Bhutan Shabdrung, had one line of Bhutanese soldiers exit in formation from one door of the massive Punakha Dzong, then secretly circle around, enter the dzong, and exit again. So the Tibetans thought that the army was a lot larger then it was. The Tibetans wanted and artifact, one of the relics of the guru who had brought Buddhism to Bhutan. When their army reconnoitered, Shabdrung, in full view of the Tibetans, pretended to throw the relic into the Punakha River. But it was just a fake. There is a long history of stories that support the view that Butan is protected from outside enemies by the deities.
The view from the pass, of the high Himalayan peaks, as seen from the hill of chortens and prayer flags, was stunning. Then came a series of typically hair raising hair pin turns downs towards Punakha. The second road block came an hour or two later. It was already 4:30 pm. The road was going to be closed for about another hour, for widening (we think). So a drive that would take about an hour in the U.S, would take us more than five.
But no one in the line of cars, tourist buses (what we called vomit vans) and dressed up lorries from India, were complaining. Roadside stands, already set up by entrepreneurial vendors, lined the road. We bought roasted corn on the cob. I met an American woman who was kicking around a soccer ball with the son of her Bhutanese boyfriend. She was on her third stint as a volunteer helping on the business side of the Youth Development Fund, established by the queen (one of them) to assist needy youth. We got to talking. She later invited me to a traditional dinner at the Folk Heritage Museum in Thimphu, but she had to cancel because the queen invited her to dinner.
At last, we got ready to move. A small banged up car from behind squeezed around us, nearly cutting us off, narrowly avoiding a lorrie. It had a Tasmanian Devil painted on its bumper which read "Changsu Charlie". The driver waved his fist comically out his window. Then he drove straight at a truck coming towards him, ahead of us. No one honked. This crazy driver then had to back up right towards us, to let the truck by.
"That's a cab driver from Changsu" Tshering chuckled. "Everyone knows him. He's crazy".
Road rage is so rare in Bhutan, that the one driver who exhibited it is known as a clown, someone to be laughted at, throughout this part of the country (if not the whole country).
"I don't think I'd take a ride in his taxi!" I said.
As he pulled in behind me, I could see his angry face, and his raised middle finger.
Road rage. I had forgotten what that was during my two months in Bhutan. In fact I'd forgotten what rage was. If it exists in Bhutan, I never saw it.
Actually I did see road rage in Bhutan. Once. It was at the second road block of the day, on the major east west highway, above Punakha. My roommate and I were traveling with my guide turned friend Tshering. We had set off to join our fellow volunteers. They had left earlier that Saturday morning with Kinley Dorje. He is the head physiotherapist at JDW National Referral Hospital. He had invited us to his country home in the village of Wangdue, situated on a pleasant hillside of rice paddies, above Punakha. We had arranged to go rafting on the male branch of the Punakha River the next day.
We had a slow start, since the road closure for lane widening right outside Thimphu was supposed to happen from 12:30 to 2, but they decided to close it early, at 11:30. So the 3 of us turned back into Thimphu for lunch at a little Indian restaurant. Then we made our way over Dochu La, with its 108 chortens honoring the soldiers who died in Bhutan's only war.
It was 2003. Indian separatists from Sikiim had ensconced themselves in the jungles of the South. They refused to leave. The king "K-4" himself led the troops. The war lasted about a week. Actually only one day, according to an army captain I met in Chibitse, during my trek. Despite the fact that the front was about 1000 miles long. The rest of the week was "clean up" according to the captain. He believes that there was something supernatural about what happened - similar to what happened when the Tibetans invaded Bhutan from the west, in the 17th century.
According to legend, the founder of the kingdom of Bhutan Shabdrung, had one line of Bhutanese soldiers exit in formation from one door of the massive Punakha Dzong, then secretly circle around, enter the dzong, and exit again. So the Tibetans thought that the army was a lot larger then it was. The Tibetans wanted and artifact, one of the relics of the guru who had brought Buddhism to Bhutan. When their army reconnoitered, Shabdrung, in full view of the Tibetans, pretended to throw the relic into the Punakha River. But it was just a fake. There is a long history of stories that support the view that Butan is protected from outside enemies by the deities.
The view from the pass, of the high Himalayan peaks, as seen from the hill of chortens and prayer flags, was stunning. Then came a series of typically hair raising hair pin turns downs towards Punakha. The second road block came an hour or two later. It was already 4:30 pm. The road was going to be closed for about another hour, for widening (we think). So a drive that would take about an hour in the U.S, would take us more than five.
But no one in the line of cars, tourist buses (what we called vomit vans) and dressed up lorries from India, were complaining. Roadside stands, already set up by entrepreneurial vendors, lined the road. We bought roasted corn on the cob. I met an American woman who was kicking around a soccer ball with the son of her Bhutanese boyfriend. She was on her third stint as a volunteer helping on the business side of the Youth Development Fund, established by the queen (one of them) to assist needy youth. We got to talking. She later invited me to a traditional dinner at the Folk Heritage Museum in Thimphu, but she had to cancel because the queen invited her to dinner.
At last, we got ready to move. A small banged up car from behind squeezed around us, nearly cutting us off, narrowly avoiding a lorrie. It had a Tasmanian Devil painted on its bumper which read "Changsu Charlie". The driver waved his fist comically out his window. Then he drove straight at a truck coming towards him, ahead of us. No one honked. This crazy driver then had to back up right towards us, to let the truck by.
"That's a cab driver from Changsu" Tshering chuckled. "Everyone knows him. He's crazy".
Road rage is so rare in Bhutan, that the one driver who exhibited it is known as a clown, someone to be laughted at, throughout this part of the country (if not the whole country).
"I don't think I'd take a ride in his taxi!" I said.
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