This is a country proud of its astounding beauty and rich tradition, although many citizens are certainly drawn to the heady appeal of the West. The youth especially will push the limits of the law by wearing Western clothing when they shouldn't, risking governmental fines for not upholding tradition and wearing sanctioned attire in town. Of those who wish to venture West, many only endeavor to gather enough money to return and provide a house and a car for their family—the real symbols of success in this culture. Their fascination, like that within many of us, lies within the illusory promise of the unknown, but their heart remains within this ethereal land and its people.
Dechen and I are in the town of Paro, in the Paro Valley of western Bhutan, and we wander through the happenings of its Tshechu festival on this baking March afternoon. The festival is celebrated throughout the country at different times of the year, but is held here annually in spring for five consecutive days and honors Guru Rimpoche, the miraculous figure regarded as the second Buddha. Dances are performed to bless and protect onlookers, and it is believed that through the power of the deities invoked during these dances, adversity may be overcome, luck increased, and wishes fulfilled. As this is the only time of year for villagers to gain respite from their lives of subsistence farming, it is a major social gathering. People walk around us in their finest attire, garnished with family jewelry and ornaments. They chatter in small groups along the festival grounds, and they hurry through the crowds to find a decent perch from which to devour the days events.
The sun glazes overhead, and I see Dechen's young copper skin and marvel at its pattern and texture: it is a dried lakebed, denied the privileged baby softness that the average American 10-year-old doesn't even know they have. The altitude and lifestyle will age her quickly, but it will do so while imbuing wisdom into her soul through a paradise of spiritual and environmental richness that the same American 10-year-old will never know they've lost.
As we walk through the festival markets, stallholders and their families set up in brightly colored tents, selling whatever wares they have made or acquired. The market is a cornucopia of treats. Dried cheeses strung onto pieces of twine hang from tent railings, slices of thick cow skin swim around in vast kettles of pungent sauce (my cowardly tongue declines tasting this delicacy), traditional handmade weavings paint a rainbow-colored tapestry over tent interiors, and ancient Buddhist artifacts, that you are forbidden to take from the country, scatter hundreds of years of history over wool rugs on this dusty dirt trail.
