Find Bhutan's spiritual side at this remote highland festival

The Buddhist charms hanging from the rear-view mirror tremble, and I worry our luck has left us. The car jolts its way up a road dug from the mountain as if with a shovel, raising dust and passing boulders that would look impressive if they weren’t quite so close. Every scattered rock sends me bumping against the side window, the headrest, once even the roof; I reach for the grab handle, but my strongest grip isn’t enough to hold me steady. The driver says something in the local Dzongkha language, though I can’t quite make out the words over the gasping engine: it’s either “Goley, goley” (‘Slowly, slowly’) or “Jogay, jogay” (‘Let’s go’).

Taking your time, hurrying up; it’s my second day in Bhutan, a small kingdom wedged between India and Tibet in South Asia, and already the dichotomy has come to define my time here. For while I’ve been on the road nonstop except to sleep, the journey ahead is still long. I’m heading to Laya, the country’s highest-altitude permanent settlement at 3,820 metres (12,533 feet) and one of its most remote, for the Royal Highland Festival, a celebration of mountain communities held for two days every October. Reaching it involves a six-hour drive from the western city of Paro to the northern town of Gasa; a three-hour 4WD ride on dirt tracks to the base camp of Taktsimakha; and a five-hour hike to the village.

There are many reasons why Bhutan isn’t straightforward to navigate, and all add to its charm. The nation opened to outsiders in 1974 after a self-enforced isolation aimed at preserving its way of life, and an air of mystery endures in part today. It’s proportionally the most mountainous place in the world, with 99% of its surface traversed by the Himalayas. Under the constitution, at least 60% of land must remain forested at all times — the ratio is currently more than 70% — and this has contributed to making it the first and only carbon-negative country. There are no trains and few highways; the southern jungles, central paddy fields and northern snowcapped peaks — some of the highest on Earth — must be experienced fully and, at times, viscerally.

“As more visitors come, we might get better infrastructure,” says guide Bishnu Kumar Limbu, dressed in a traditional knee-length gho robe and red hard-shell jacket, as we reach a makeshift car park, where 4WDs are unloaded and pack animals take over. International visitors must be accompanied by a guide and contribute a Sustainable Development Fee of US$100 (£74) per day, which supports environmental initiatives, free healthcare, education programmes and more. They’re pillars of the national brand of tourism, which aims to promote mindful travel and benefit locals. “You’re helping to build the country, but I’ll be with you the entire time,” he adds. “If you don’t like me, too bad.”

The cheekiness suits him. He has small incisors like milk teeth, and a moustache that’s whisker-wispy at the corners of his mouth — half Peter Pan, half Cheshire Cat. But he’s serious about the effects of opening the country up to travellers. As a result of the festival, a new homestay has set up in Gasa, something of note outside of bigger centres, where accomodation options can be few and far between. The unpaved road we’ve travelled on has been extended, cutting hours from the trek to Laya. And the villagers have profited, providing visitors with farmland to pitch a tent on — there are no lodges this far north — and animals to carry necessities.

“Mules!” The warning is shouted from behind us, and Bishnu rushes me to the side of the trail as a herd gallops uphill. We’ve just set off on the hike, joining a sparse but constant flow of walkers. The climb is more approachable than I’d expected, the temperature warm enough for short sleeves, the incline constant but not too strenuous. In fact, many of my preconceptions of the Himalayas have turned out to be wrong, something Bishnu says isn’t unusual. I’d pictured harsh slopes, where the sun glares and winds howl. I didn’t think I’d find this: an alpine haven, nurturing and fair.

The soft afternoon light filters through the branches as if misted, like ether given golden shape. The hemlocks and pines of the lower slopes give way to larches, junipers, silver firs. Usnea, a lichen known as ‘old man’s beard’ and found in high-oxygen, low-pollution environments, hangs from their branches in long strands, making them look ancient and wise. We spot a robin-like redstart and a white-crested laughing thrush, which calls in fits of giggles. The trees will stop growing at 4,000 metres (13,123 feet), where conditions are inhospitable for large plant life; over 6,000 metres (19,685 feet), the snow settles, and with it superhuman silence.

If the landscape seems enchanted, it might not be just my imagination. A majority Bhuddist nation, Bhutan prohibits climbing peaks taller than 6,000 metres, partly due to a lack of suitable rescue teams, partly because they’re believed to be home to spirits and deities. At 7,570 metres (24,836 feet), Gangkhar Puensum on the northern border is both the tallest summit in the country and the tallest unconquered summit in the world. Here at lower altitudes, I pass lungta, prayer flags inscribed with sacred mantras, hung so the wind might blow their protection downvalley. Crossing a stream, Bishnu points out a prayer wheel, which is rotated by the water to spread good karma, and tinkles with each turn.

“Seeing my country’s mountains makes me feel blessed,” he says. It’s views like this, he tells me, that inspired him to get certified as a guide when he first started working as a porter out of school. He’s Lhotshampa, Bhutanese people of Nepali descent who predominantly live in the south and practise Hinduism, but says he respects every belief. “I have a ‘one for all, all for one’ philosophy. I tend to follow everything that’s good and logical.”

It’s little wonder it should have led him here. Nearing the end of the hike, we turn a corner in the path and come face to face with Mount Gangchhenta, the first snowcapped peak we see at 6,840 metres (22,441 feet). Its tabletop reaches over the lower ridgeline, untouched and heaven-high. Never has something earth-made seemed like such a fitting home for gods.

Peak performance

A yak is dancing in front of us. The long-haired, horned bovine follows a choreography, keeping the rhythm set by hand drums: thud, it hops; thud, it sways its head with intention; thud, it drops low, kneeling on its front knees. But look closely, and those limbs reveal themselves to be sets of human legs. Two performers are hidden inside a single animalistic frame, animating its front and hind halves respectively. Their movements are natural, each step taken in near unison, so much so that I’m almost sold on the illusion.

This is the yak dance of Merak and Sakteng, mountain communities located in eastern Bhutan, one of the performances held at the Royal Highland Festival. It’s the next morning, and we’re sitting in a wide open-air clearing, cross-legged on the grass, oohing and aahing at the first day of the event. Also in the crowd are Bhutanese visitors, monks, a few foreign travellers, but mainly locals of Laya, people known as Layap. They’re semi-nomadic, splitting their year — and their population — between their village, higher yak herding camps and lower settlements, where mules and horses must be taken to survive the winter. The women are instantly recognisable by their attire: a woollen jacket and ankle-length skirt, black with decorative trims; and a conical headdress of woven birch strips, with colourful beads draping around the nape of the head.

There are so many of these hats here, I half-crane my neck to see the festivities beyond. The Royal Highland Festival was founded in 2016 by the current king Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck, with the aim of honouring Bhutan’s mountain communities. Held a short walk above Laya, the programme features parades, recitals and competitions by Layap and other groups. It’s getting more popular by the year — some 2,500 people are expected to attend this edition across the two days. And the presence of the king himself only adds to the excitement.

He’s still youthful in his mid-40s, wearing a gho and trainers, and he’s sometimes referred to as the ‘People’s King’ for his approachable style. Between performances, he walks the grounds to greet attendants, who answer briefly as per etiquette, flattening their scarves and combing their hair behind their ears. During the opening ceremony, he reminisced about trekking to remote places as a child with his father, the former king. “I see your presence as an expression of your support for this part of the country,” he said, addressing the international visitors, “and as each of you recognising the beauty it possesses.”

In Laya, you’re among the world’s giants. It’s unusual to be at an altitude of almost 4,000 metres and yet surrounded by even higher peaks. It makes the summits seem improbably close, an impression that’s pleasantly unsettling and hard to pinpoint, like watching a 3D movie for the first time. Usually distant and nondescript, the peaks here look like colossuses of rock, every scratch and scar in high relief, bare but for a scattering of yaks.

At the festival grounds, the creatures are paraded in colourful bells, tassels and pompoms. “They’re central to the life of nomadic people,” says Bishnu. “This is the locals’ way of giving thanks.” Native to the Himalayan highlands and Tibetan plateau, yaks can survive at altitudes as high as 6,000 metres and in temperatures as low as -50C, where the air is thin and vegetation sparse. They were domesticated some 10,000 years ago for transport, milk and wool; today, the average herding family owns around 100.

Kezang Wangmo, a Layap woman wearing a ‘Long live our king’ pin, is part of one such family and has come today for a yak milking contest. The rules are simple: all participants must squeeze out a litre of milk, one by one and as fast as they can. She’s up first and completes the task with unflinching focus, persevering when the animal grunts or milk droplets spill down her arms. “The yak’s calf drank a lot yesterday, so I didn’t get as much as I hoped,” she tells me when finished via Bishnu, who translates our conversation. “But all contestants are from Laya, so I’ll be happy no matter who wins. I was born and married here. I’m happy in my village.”

Her attitude is content, her tone soft-spoken. But around her, everyone’s out to play. The festival unfolds with more games and shows: horse-racing; a strongman match; a Rigsar (Bhutanese pop) concert by Layap youth. Lunch is a tokha (communal meal) served by volunteers, including sikam paa (pork with radishes and chillies) and kewa datshi (potatoes and cheese). Bishnu shows me how to eat it, rolling rice in my hand to clean the dirt from it, then again to scoop up the stews.

There’s more food on sale in market stalls around the grounds, from yak cheese to beetroot wine and bags upon bags of chillies. Bhutan has the world’s highest per-capita consumption of the crop, which is sun-dried on rooftops the country over. But the most prized souvenirs are cordyceps, fungi believed to be something of a folk cure-all, which can be worth more than their weight in gold.

They’re mainly found in the soil of high-altitude Himalayan regions, sprouting from dead butterfly larvae. Only local communities can collect them, and only for one month in early summer — restrictions to keep the harvest sustainable. It involves walking incredible lengths, scouring the ground for caterpillars the size of half a finger. For those who succeed, the income can last a year. Not quite dancing yaks, but pretty incredible still.

Village life

Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal, a 17th-century Tibetan lama and the unifier of Bhutan as a nation, arrived in the country from the northern mountains, crossing a pass near 7,194-metre (23,602-foot) Masang Kang. Through a military campaign, he brought together warring fiefdoms. He built dzongs, fortresses that still serve as administrative and religious centres. He’s even said to have first envisioned a monastery on the site where Paro Taktsang — or Tiger’s Nest, which clings to a mountainside in the Paro Valley and is Bhutan’s most famous site — now stands. Before all that, he rested in Laya.

The house where he’s believed to have rested still stands, and we head there in the late afternoon, after leaving the festival grounds. Pem Zam, a member of the family who owns it, welcomes us inside a room adorned with Buddhist motifs, posters and statuettes. She pours trüchu (blessed water) that she’s infused with medicinal herbs, into our dipped palms, then instructs us to take a sip and pour the rest over our hair, cheeks and neck.

Purified inside and out, we take a closer look at what are said to be gifts left behind by the unifier. A brass bowl, displayed in a cabinet draped with a ceremonial khata (scarf), silky and white. A Himalayan stone, in a silver chest with brass engravings. There’s also dezo, long-lasting paper handcrafted from the bark of daphne trees, inscribed with scriptures. “She’ll pass them onto future generations, as her family has for centuries,” says Bishnu, whispering as if not to disturb the sanctity of the space.

Traces of Bhutan’s past are not confined to this house. Set on a slope, the centre of Laya is a cluster of houses built following age-old architectural principles. The buildings are made of stone and rammed-earth, with sloping roofs and intricate woodwork around the windows, cornices and other features. The walls are white-washed but decorated with religious motifs, mythical creatures or phalluses, a curious and recurring symbol linked to an unconventional Buddhist master.

“We’re not preserving our ways, we’re living them,” says Bishnu. Some of these characteristics — the wooden details, the sloping roofs — are mandated by law. Cultural resilience is a central pillar of the Gross National Happiness (GNH) index, an economic philosophy unique to Bhutan, which balances material and non-material values.

That’s not to say time stands still. Passing a girl taking a selfie and young men with tattoos and mullets, we reach a general store cum bar, a simple wooden room with simple wooden tables, serving beer and low-alcohol drinks. We sip a blackberry-flavoured Bacardi Breezer drink and sit back, watching while other customers come and go, placing their orders via an open window. By the time we leave to catch the festival’s evening performances, there’s a queue at the counter, which is stocked with sacks of chillies and candies in equal measure.

The shows are held in the school yard, the crowd happy to sit on wooden planks despite the intermittent rain, nursing warming cups of butter tea handed out by volunteers. Some performers have come from the capital city Thimphu, including popular singers Kuenzang Lhamo and Dawa Tshering; others are local, like a Layap girl who sings Love Story by Taylor Swift, checking the lyrics on her phone.

The crowd claps, sings along, endures the rain when it intensifies and huddles around a bonfire when it lets up. For all the country’s myths and mysticism, the efforts to preserve and promote its heritage, there’s something about this scene — something so familiar, here, as far from home as I’ve ever been — that’s as rare as an unclaimed summit, as valuable as mountain gold. A raffle is drawn and the results announced — 2838 is the winning number. I check my ticket: 2837. Looks like I’ve used up my luck after all.