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Himalaya gypsy
A puppy among the peaks is a memory to treasure
By Laura Dvorak
February 17, 2008
LAURA DVORAK
Gypsy rests from her arduous adventures. In this valley, Gyo Gompa is nestled high within the cliffs to the north. To the west, beyond Gypsy, is Jichu Drake. |
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BHUTAN – Goddess Chomo loosens veils of roiling white clouds to reveal the most spectacular view in the Himalaya: Chomolhari, a stunning 24,500-foot peak capped with aqua glacier.
It is the third morning of our 100-mile trek that began in Paro, hiking along Paro Chu, then wending through autumn reds and yellows in Jigme Dorje National Park. At our base camp, the rising sun begins to ease the chill; golden light shines on strings of fluttering prayer flags sending good will to sentient beings – including the grazing yaks.
Running cautiously around these wide-horned shaggy beasts is a lively calico-colored puppy with a lopsided grin. We chase each other briefly before collapsing. The air is fragrant and thin here at 13,268 feet. I rub her soft round belly, and pronounce her “Gypsy.”
Guidebooks back home warn about Bhutan's dogs, suggesting pre-trip rabies vaccination. My guide, Passang, tells me that dogs, ubiquitous in Bhutan, are treated well as it is believed they will next become human beings. When our small group breaks camp to head for Nylie La Pass (16,135 feet), I smile; Gypsy is trotting behind the cook, her curled tail canted starboard.
STAN DVORAK
These monks visited with trekking guide Passang. The Lingshi dzong, built on a rocky outcrop high above town, once provided protection against invading Tibetans.
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On day four, Passang and I hike to view the valley beneath Jichu Drake (22,290 feet), where a river of pale jade flows peacefully around glacial rubble of boulders. He describes the three sins, according to Buddha: ignorance, hatred and attachment. Little do I know that soon I will be guilty of all three, simultaneously.
I watch Gypsy sniff the scarlet tundra. This is harsh country; severe climate and scarce food challenges every living being. But for now, it is sunny. As we hike back toward camp, Gypsy takes advantage of the remaining bits of flesh on an ivory horse skeleton, the bones articulated across our path. She tugs at the pelvic girdle, which is larger than her thin body, pulling shards of meat loose. I continue walking, glancing back occasionally, and pass a yak herder's thatched-roof home smelling of yak dung burning. I feel a light tap on my leg. Gypsy is at my feet, patiently waiting for me to hike on.
Day five is clear and crisp. We walk to the 13,156-foot town of Lingshi, where there are several houses, a post office, one telephone, an elementary school and a medical clinic. Passang ducks into the post office to use the phone while we explore. Gypsy, sniffing her way through her first town experience, wanders off. When I remember to look for her, she is a tiny speck in the distance.
LAURA DVORAK
Archery is Bhutan's national sport, and Bhutanese love an arrow zinging competition. Teams sing, dance, and taunt opponents, standing next to wood targets placed more than the length of a football field away . The men are wearing traditional gho, required for public venues.
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I head down the path to retrieve her – cautiously. There are arrows zinging in front of me. Archery is the national sport in Bhutan; often, traditional bamboo bows are used. Not these guys; they're using high-testosterone composite bows. With Gypsy in tow, we walk uphill toward the dzong. Built in 1620 as a fortress against marauding Tibetans, the whitewashed rock structure now houses 14 young monks, who run to greet us, carmine robes swirling. Unlike many Bhutanese children, they do not speak English.
“Puppy,” I say, pointing to Gypsy.
“Puppy,” they reply.
“Puppy,” one boy repeats, pointing toward two tethered dogs behind us.
STAN DVORAK
A summer yak herder home in Guilpho is built of stone with a grass covered wood roof. The yaks are moved from this 14,205-foot elevation to lower pastures in October. Pats of yak dung (used for fuel) are stacked neatly along the fence.
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Clearly it has been some time since either was a puppy. They are snarling and straining to get free. I smile and nod at the boys while Gypsy carefully negotiates her way around Bruiser and Killer. Suddenly, the boys vanish with a twirl of their robes. Passang tells me it is their tea time; we go into the monastery courtyard where the boys are seated in a circle around a large bowl of rice, lifting pink plastic cups. There are several thermoses inside the circle. The boys breakfast on tea and rice, lunch on tea and rice, and their dinner consists of tea, rice, and curry. Occasionally they'll have meat, if someone from town provides it.
When we are ready to leave, I call to Gypsy. She seems drowsy and lacks energy to climb the steep monastery stairs. I pick her up, and head down the trail. A monk appears at the wall above us with prayer hands, pleading “Pup peeee.” He gestures toward my arms and then to himself. He wants Gypsy!
I consider the karmic ramifications of denying this monk's plaintive request, but rationalize the problem: Dog diet of rice and tea and bruiser dogs as pals – no way. Gypsy is not mine to give and she sure isn't staying here.
I shake my head at the boy while clutching the puppy closer, and continue down the path. Gypsy gobbles my leftover breakfast tidbits the morning of day six as the crew prepares to break camp and head on to King Jigme Singye Wangchuck's fishing hole at Tso Phu lakes (14,100 feet). They will catch up with Passang and me in a few hours. I feel heavy-hearted, wondering if Gypsy will tag along with them. Whenever a sentient being tugs at your heart and wriggles into your soul, there is never a best time to say farewell.
“Goodbye, Gypsy,” I whisper, not really wanting to think this is goodbye. She smiles her crooked grin and gives me a puppy lick.
We head off, climbing past miles of rhododendrons under brilliant sapphire skies. Occasionally I look back, hoping to see that familiar little bit of calico trotting into view, but she is not with the crew when we reach the pass. My premonition has proven true, and refusing lunch, I cry silently, turning away from Passang and the crew's puzzled glances. Later, they tell Passang that Gypsy followed behind until meeting another dog. True to her name, she ran off with this new friend.
As Passang relays this heart-wrenching information, I berate myself for having become attached to her. Buddha might understand; I don't.
Wherever you are in Bhutan's Himalaya, I hope you're well and still smiling, Gypsy.
 Laura Dvorak is a San Diego writer.
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