Drive Misty for Me- A Roadie's Tribute

The trees in the forest keep shifting their shapes, like some giant-plant-chameleon forever merging with the landscape around it and at times, just plain sticking out like some melancholic silhouettes planted by nostalgic highwaymen. The mountains fold and glide and hide.

The national highway from Phuentsholing to Thimphu, the ‘Gateway to Bhutan’ is literally that, a doorway and a ride that delivers more than just trade. It’s a living, breathing, winding organism snaking 175km from the foothills up to the mountains.

There are more symbolic gateways around the world than there are literal ones. My first sight of the gateway to India was unlike anything I’d imagined. You see, I’d imagined the gateway as a literal gate through which people and goods flow. Seeing that gateway, known as the ‘India Gate’ was a reminder in the power of symbolism but symbols are sometimes just that-a symbol frozen in time. In that sense, the ‘Gateway to Bhutan’ is unique, for it’s an actual modest gate constructed in the traditional Bhutanese way bordering another people in another country. The fact that everything, vehicles, goods and people move through this very gate to make a living or conduct business on either side of the border makes it all the more special and without any exaggeration, sentimentally grand and emotionally intimate.

I grew up this in this little border frontier off the edges of West Bengal and down in the foothills of the kingdom of Bhutan at an altitude of 300m. The powers of a porous border can never be underestimated, for what exchanges take place when people are free to move about is beyond any control mechanism, which, by nature, is and will always be limited.

I grew up in a prospering Phuentsholing in the early 80s. Bhutan started and ended in this little frontier. We lived in what was called the wireless colony. Communications via telephone was still a luxury so people had the Department of Wireless to keep in touch with their loved ones. Morse codes were the buttons of the day. I heard my father do the finger-tap and echo words like Alpha, Beta, Charlie, Tango et al.
He was then a wireless-man, Deputy Director of the erstwhile Department of Wireless, a title somewhat misleading, for he’d be busy trekking on foot carrying heavy-duty wireless sets most months of the year. Since my siblings were all boarding students spread across the country, I was the only one studying in what was then Phuentsholing Jr High. Today it’s a warehouse of sorts.

The cool breezy evenings were a personal favorite, particularly during the hot summer months. Life was simple- naughty boy shoes and school, swimming, Gulli Danda, Kabbadi and Gotis. Another pastime was looking far up at the winding roads in what was known as the “Saat Gumti” or the ‘Seven Turns.’ We’d sit and look up, spot a vehicle and make that our own, gazing at our adopted transportation and tailing it. The one who managed to hold the vehicle in sight till the last bend was the winner.
Decades on and this 175km stretch of asphalt still gets me like no other road in the country. Whether I’m in a bus, hitching a ride or driving my 1992 Toyota Corona, the road enthrals me. The monsoon rains wash it, the winter chills freeze it, the spring generation renews it and autumn colors mesmerize it.

The Jumja trail or ‘Shiva’s’ Smoke’ as I like to call it, is one stretch where your car actually transforms into a spacecraft and you’re in the cockpit together with the temptation to go, “ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”
The misty stretch canopies you. The occasional tree silhouetted against a foggy backdrop brings to mind a Salvador Dali masterpiece. It’s a surreal foggy affair. Thoughts of death and dying, life and living seem to arise out of nowhere just like the mist. The fact that this stretch is always like this is surprisingly comforting. You are still on this bend and the cockpit voice surfaces again.

“Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We’re cruising at 25kmph at an altitude of 1400m above mean sea level. You can un-strap your seat belts and feel free to stretch your limbs and while you’re at it, look out the window and enjoy the disorientation. You are not hallucinating. It’s not a mirage either and it’s not a drug and no, this is not the Bardo. No. we are not dead. Not yet. Thank you.”
This road’s had more wear and tear than any other highway in the country. There’s more traffic and trafficking here than in any other road in the country. If there’s a strike in neighboring WB than this road feels the stalemate. When this road feels the deadlock the capital, Thimphu, along with Paro and Haa suffer the consequences. Suddenly daily commodities like cooking oil, LPG gas, petrol and diesel, salt, sugar and the bellybutton prices go through the roof. Rationing becomes the norm and the Bhutanese are suddenly queuing. It’s a nightmare. The opposite is also true. When times are good there is everything in abundance but the wear and tear of serving the nation for some 40 odd decades has taken its just toll. Bumps, worn-out manholes, thinning asphalt, rough edges, deforestation, landslides and rocks and boulders bully the highway.

When this thoroughfare was first laid down in the late 1950s until its completion in 1962, a lot of laborers died, (high-risk occupational hazards) of the winter cold, hunger pangs, sicknesses, attack from wild animals and just plain accidents. This was some of the little sacrifices made so that we could enjoy the journey today. The highway-construction is a list deserving of our highest admiration, the deepest tribute and of remembrance. We are what we’re today in no small measure to this stretch of road and the sacrifices endured.

The manifestations are all too obvious today. Villages that were isolated for centuries became connected and prosperous. Trade boomed and ideas free-flowed with the new transportation system. This road was to the late early 60s what Drukair, Royal Bhutan Airlines, was to become in the 80s and the 90s and the 2000s.
Today this blessed and sacred highway is, after a long hiatus of use, misuse and neglect, getting its due. Construction of a two-lane highway is already on the tracks and where the road has been widened, there’s a plush feeling of satisfaction and pride and that comes about because of the invaluable importance and servitude the road has rendered.

So the next time you’re driving down or coming up in this iconic living legend with an organic feel, know that every stop you make, every mountain you see, every waterfall you hear and all the flora and fauna that captures your senses was made possible because of the vision of a benevolent King to see his Kingdom united, prosperous and connected.

The misty-coasting ride from Jumja toTakthi Kothi and the tangerine sunsets are physical reminders of the splendid beauty of this highway and the largesse of our Kingdom. And should you experience any of the four distinct seasons Bhutan is endowed with, know that you’re among the lucky few experiencing such a sight.
In the end, it’s more than a mere a road; it’s a living breathing organism-pumping life into the veins and pulses of our country’s myriad nooks and corners. If you ever get on that road again, stop and pause awhile and know that you’re there because of the many sacrifices made in a time and a place when life wasn’t that easy and rosy. And in that gratitude you’d have earned the right to enjoy the ride, in the process enriching your own life.

In conclusion, like the signage-pointer from those limestone brushed DANTAK milestones, the idea is to “Enjoy the Beauty of the Valley; Drive without Hurry and in thankful Gratitude, be Merry.” Now will you also please ‘Blow Horn’ and know enjoy this trucker’s motto, “Driver’s life, Golden Life, Every Turning One New Wife.”


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

The person you’re trying to call is dead (EnCore)

My mobile phone died yesterday. I took it to the undertaker (the cell-phone-man). He performed an autopsy on it, said the phone had had an IC failure (that’s internal circuit). He did an M&M (that’s mouth-to-mouth) resuscitation. The bloody thing actually woke up! Like Lazarus he was back from the dead. I couldn’t believe it. The cell-man sat there, smug as any self-righteous GNH vicar. I gave the man 500 bucks and stroked my planet-proof Samsung B2100 (yes, that’s how they pitch the phone). A call comes in. I hear nothing. My ring tone, the Beatles’ “Come Together” is quiet. There’s nobody or nothing coming together. I’m shouting and going ballistic with a dozen ‘hellos’ and there’s nothing audible.

I hang the phone in disgust and contemptuously push ‘play’ on the music button, still no dice. So I go back to the cell-man, peeved at his expertise. He opens up the body, tears every cell apart and says, “The vocal tissue is dead.” Well, bury that junket six-feet under I’m thinking.
“Well, can’t you revive it?” I prod. “That will cost you another 500 bucks” he retorts.

I tell him to keep the dung. In my mind, I’d already cremated the bloody hoodwink. The phone wasn’t the only thing that died that day. A lot of other things were dying too. For starters, my faith in my fellow-Bhutanese drivers died.Why on earth can they not drive on the designated lane? What’s with the abrupt pullovers and indicators three seconds away from a turn? And why is it, against all the equity and justice I try and execute, that women just can’t park?

But this is not finger-wagging the above. If the so called-educated lot can’t spell ‘civic’ I’m not going to belittle the roadies. It is peanuts compared to the other significant deaths, mostly that of our politicians. But before I get to those venerables I've to tap the 'Traffic police' in here. My faith in the ability of our traffic-seers is dying too. The other day, the first of the year 2010, they ticketed me above 'Druk Pizza'. Said parking on the left-side was against the law. Well, throw me in the can and flog me a thousand times! How the hell was I supposed to get that intel? Where are the signboards implying that? I ask the motorcycling boys in blue. "It was in Kuensel" is the prompt answer I get. The two managed to ruin a perfect day for me. Every dog has its day, I consoled myself and parked the car in the designated inner area.

The belief I hold in the ability of our parliamentarians to do service for the greater good is sick and is dying. Even Laxmi, the Hindu goddess of prosperity, is going broke. And the Shylocks and Kanya’s of this world (our neighborhood, to be specific) look content and kind in comparison to the toys our MPs want to play with.
It began with sitting fees (is that an anomaly or an oxymoron?). Either way they get paid. I guess that’s why they look the way they do, you see, that’s what sitting on your bum does to your face, makes you a melodramatic Bollywood villain. Then it was patangs (an accessory to the blue scarf). The item was ticked and we thought that was it. We’d all been under the impression they were necessary tools required to enable them to function more professionally. Boy! We got conned hook, line and sinker. This was just a starter, a prelude to the performance that still unfolds.
Cloak and dagger games give me nausea and inertia. But this lot was getting sluggish and obnoxious!
The orders were becoming bolder by the day. They wanted customized-signature-plates announcing the importance of the man inside the van (to what end we wonder other than vanity and the display of power and arrogance or perhaps the Hip-Hop-Crib life is what they secretly want). But that was Okayed too. Then it was yet again increasing their salary to better execute their J.O.B, as they succinctly put it.
This also gets Okayed! Next was the CDG- a virtual re-election guarantee of plenty. This was over the top and the poor man’s response was understandably harsh and apt- no one wants monopoly in this day and age (though that’s another affair).
But their list was listless. They wanted trips abroad, drivers, porters, gardeners, man-Fridays and allowances that went short of being paid for the hair, the gel, the foot-massage and the missus.
Here comes the bombshell- now they want another raise.
We are being fed the usual autopsy reports about attracting better people to do the J.O.B. Anyways; my question is this, “Just what are better people? Who are the better people and where are the better people?” If that pitch is pure than we might as well have an early election and decides who stays and who goes, rather than putting up with the current lot for another 12410 days.
One can only imagine the consequences had these proceedings gone unobserved by the media and the smallness of our community. Which reminds me, when they commanded the BBS coverage-shutdown the excuses were so poor the beggar downtown was feeling insulted.
Buddhists love to say everything is constantly dying. That’s just such a ringer! Queuing is dead. Civic sense is dead. Humility is dead. Benign landlords are dead. Public service is dead. Altruism is dead. The Good Samaritan is dead. Decency is dead. Politeness is dead. Respect is dead. Kindness is dead and serving to serve is definitely dead and the antonyms to these synonyms are alive and grunting (we get kicked and elbowing is just so passé).
Then on our National Day we see our King and his deeds. He’s walking with us, talking with us, comforting us, encouraging us, inspiring us and promising us His service in Body, Speech and Mind.
He is radiant, inspirational and He is alive. He is so alive and stirring that I feel dead. I’m so dead I’m revitalizing myself. One way to do that is contemplation, which basically lead me to note these peculiarities.
How difficult is it to make that simple connection between what our King expects from us and the things we actually do? I’m not sour. This litany is not about bitter grapes. Really, it’s quite simple. It’s been almost two years and we have had the patience to wait for our elected-representatives to sift the wheat from the chaff. When that gets dragged on and on, really, it’s hard to keep the faith. Everything that gets done seem to have its roots in individual endowment of the personal kind.
The office you hold is honorable. You are a representative of the people. You have the good fortune and the honor to actually affect change- change in the way your brethren live on a daily basis and down to future generations, including your own children. This is an opportunity to write that legacy. It’s the reason why people fondly remember, recall and emulate Milerapa, Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, Che Guevara and closer home, our Kings. None of them are hoarders or millionaires. None of them were/are rich. Their bounty is in their character and therein lays invaluable treasures which they share with equanimity.
Finally, I’d think our reps would have realized the honor and sanctity of their offices and strive to go beyond the call of duty. The blame game between your two houses certainly makes a mess of good housekeeping and home improvement. Everything begins inside the gut (the right instinct), heart (the right feeling) and the head (the right action).
If those motivations are of the selfish kind, we all suffer. Sudden deaths are a tragedy but pre-motivated murders, even more tragic.
We’ll all die one day but in the mean time, let’s try and live and live reasonably.

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!