Taktsang moments

A pair of butterfly wings pressed into the mud yellow on black a common speckling   a hundred and eight passing feet  will flatten them further  'sinners' on the way up 'enlightened' on the way down   all bodes well for an auspicious rebirth   perhaps next life, a Bhutan Glory  (Bhutan Glory, Bhutanitis ludlowi is the national butterfly of Bhutan) *** Step by step hand in hand the lovers climb  140 years between them their romance just three years new Beside the path a young fern uncoils tender-green fronds  *** At the dinner table the bassoon player from Hong Kong town plays a soulful tune we recognize uncertain notes In his poems, questions of dharma and great devotion to the master Before our Takstang hike, he says "there’s nectar at the top bring a plastic bottle" *** Up here the air is thin breathing  laboured the going is slow But don’t despair, there is a Gentleman Walter  to hold your hand over the rocks and through the mud It may take a while but Guru Rinpoche can wait all day and blessings for Gentleman Walters are infinite. *** Horses descend the muddy track embroidered saddle cloths flapping    free  (from western bottoms) *** At dinner in our hotel the American travel journalist couldn’t believe his luck: fourteen writers to tell his story to (again and again and again) *** Entering the Taktsang Gate the chock, chock, chok of an axe on wood Excited voices from the teahouse I think of Japan a place I have never been *** In the teahouse restroom queue a Polish girl: flouro-pink singlet flouro-pink nails The Japanese girl in front fills a flouro-pink bucket ready to flush *** A worker carrying steel rods flies up the steep muddy track bottle green board shorts and a jaunty hat music playing on his phone I feel like dancing dangdut (Dangdut, the popular music of Indonesia has Hindustani, Malay and Arabic influences) *** Halfway up my arms begin to tingle the prick of a thousand tiny diamonds on my skin Altitude sickness? No, a tinkling light rain or perhaps a splash from the water fall near Yeshe Tsogyal’s meditation cave. ***
No gadgets allowed in Tigers Nest no phones, cameras, I Pads, I Pods, even our notebooks and pens, we must leave in the locker The policeman checks us before we enter Earlier, between frisks I heard him sing under his breath a low sonorous mantra  *** In the small gonpa of Guru Rinpoche’s cave thirteen monks and their lama chant a long life puja for the Royal Grandmother They will go all day, one of the monks tells me in between breaths Where are you from? How long will you stay?  he wants to know Are you Kagyu? I ask No, Nyingma, he replies Me too, I tell him with a grin Out come the long horns and cymbals to join the low beating of the drums A wild primordial punctuation before they speed their up chant double time. Butter lamps flicker wildly the water offerings shimmer In front of the altar a flock of flies air-circling  in a merry dance
(C) Jan Cornall,  September, Bhutan 2015
Read more writing from westerners in Bhutan here
Jan Cornall leads international writer's workshops and retreats. Find out more at www.writersjourney.com.auhttp://www.writersjourney.com.au/  Heading out next  Morocan Caravan, Feb 20 - Mar 5.