Bawdy Bhutan

“Drukpa Kunley was affectionately known as the ‘Mad Saint’ or ‘Divine Madman,’ depending on who you talk to,” explains our guide, Kesang, as our minibus rolls to a standstill in the hilly outskirts of Sopsokha. Swivelling in his seat, he greets our blurry eyes as they adjust to the light; the sinuous three hour mountain drive from Thimphu, Bhutan’s capital, to our latest stop here in the district of Punakha, has clearly tired us out. “Some called him ‘The Saint of 5000 women’ - can you believe that?!” This last moniker piques our interest, as we sit up and wipe the saliva from our chins.

Over the past few days, we’ve visited more Buddhist architecture than we’ve eaten hot Ema-datshi - the national dish of chilli in a cheese sauce. The temples, the dzongs (fortress-like), and the chortens (similar to the Indian stupa) all vie for our attention like the spicy curds in our bowels.

For now, we ignore these rumblings. No matter how crazy he was, Mr Kunley has bequeathed a legacy. For there, perched on top of a hill, past a village whose houses are embellished in an interesting choice of artwork, sits Chimi Lhakhang: a monastery built to commemorate his life’s work. Known for his bawdy poetry and overtly sexual manner, one might imagine Drukpa as an earlier version of the Shakespearean fool as he sought to shake up the frigid teachings of authority with his unorthodox methods and ribald ways.

We stroll through the village, passing many houses whose exterior walls and doorways are emblazoned with brightly painted male reproductive organs. We dine at a restaurant where a four foot high, carved, wooden penis guards the entrance. Similar sculptures stare down from rooftops and peek from shop windows. “These statues and images, which many say first appeared with the teachings of the 'Madman',” Kesang continues, “are believed to ward off evil spirits." I pause to consider if this is why so many secondary schools’ physics textbooks are adorned in a similar fashion.

Locals harvest rice as we tip-toe over the narrow, muddy bridges that divide paddy fields, before a short uphill track leads to the temple erected in his honour. Apparently, many childless couples make the short pilgrimage across these agricultural fields, seeking divine sanction they hope will produce offspring. We are informed that such blessings routinely involve being struck over the head with ten inches of ivory, bone, or wooden phallus by the Lama in residence. The ‘Laying On Of Hands’ seems trite in comparison and we are perturbed when we receive no such assault. If only some children knew what their mothers had to endure.

Sensing our slight disappointment, our guide seeks to leave us with a lasting formidable impression: “It is a well-known fact that many males bestow a pet name upon their manhood...Drukpa’s was known as The Thunderbolt of Flaming Wisdom!”

I make a mental note to tell my wife about a name change when I return home.

Everest: The Harder Way

Passengers aren’t supposed to be able to open the cockpit door in this day and age. This one is not only wide open, but the plane’s on-board GPS keeps flashing “Terrain Ahead!” through most of the flight. I’m not sure what is most worrying: the message, or the fact that the pilot keeps hitting the cancel button each time it pops up.

“Milk tea? Lemon tea? Black tea?” Our Sherpas scurry between chairs and legs, flasks in hand, to offer us some refreshment. We’ve been in Lukla barely half an hour and I’ve already swallowed half a pint of sweet, milky tea. It could have been a stiffer beverage after that flight from Kathmandu. However, since this is a school trip and I’m in a position of responsibility, I opt to refrain. I compensate by eating half my rucksack weight in biscuits. This, I am sure you will agree, is not easy when surrounded by a gaggle of adolescents who have a penchant for anything with an e-number in its ingredients.

I’d like to say the path to Everest Base Camp is fraught with crevasses and frostbite around every corner but it’s not. It’s thronged with endless tea-houses and hundreds of tourists, all kitted out with the latest in outdoor fashion and accessories. Porters plod incongruously alongside in weathered flip-flops and replica tracksuit bottoms, heads bowed under obscene loads. We see men and women carrying 15 feet lengths of timber using just their own bodies for leverage and support. This is neither strange nor unusual.“Why is that man carrying a door on his head?”

I begin to question the wisdom of choosing to accompany nearly thirty students on a trip like this.

“How much further is it until we stop for lunch?” Only five minutes have passed since they last asked. Ignore what they say about sarcasm; it’s often a teacher’s best weapon in the fight against stupidity.

Yet somehow, it can all be worthwhile, despite the inane questions and the endless chatter. Just before we reach Namche Bazaar (so that was where the door was going...), there’s a deafening shriek from one of the girls. “Look, Sir, a panda!” We all cast our eyes downwards and peer hard through the trees. A black and white horse treads tentatively up the hill, hidden partially by some low branches. Despite one teenage dream being dashed, the rest of them have enough ammunition to sustain them for an afternoon of ridicule.

Finally, we reach our destination for the day and the struggle subsides. We are quickly offered more tea and biscuits. Dorje, our lead Sherpa, has summited Everest eight times, but is obsequious when it comes to keeping cups in the business of tea. Plates of fried egg and homemade chips make their way out to hungry mouths. One boy, egg yoke running down his chin, asks me if there will be any uphill sections on the trek tomorrow.

I wonder to myself, “Are we nearly there yet?”

Riding The Rhine. With Children.

We pause to consult our faithful guidebook; we want to follow the lake’s north shore. Immediately, we are greeted by a fellow cyclist: “You follow the Rhine, yes?” he guesses correctly. “That direction,” he motions furiously. “Good luck!”

Several miles further - and thirstier - we realise that we’ve been ‘helpfully’ pointed along the south shore. We turn back and retrace our tyre tracks. We’re still an hour’s ride from our campsite and have already sweated through 70 kilometres in today’s parching sun.

But it’s worth it. We are several stages into a 1380 kilometre bike trip, following the River Rhine from its source in Switzerland, to where it courses into the North Sea. Six countries stand in our way. It might have been less tiring if we’d decided not to bring our children, aged four and two. The boys bicker behind me in an in-line trailer that continually turns heads as we progress onwards; my wife tows a less garrulous, but equally cumbersome load in our camping provisions. Our intention is to spend each night under canvas, unless we have a particularly challenging day.

Small Swiss villages amidst steep hillsides clad with grapevines, give way to fertile farmland. We play “I Spy...” for hay bales, horse chestnuts, a myriad of fruit and vegetables, and halt temporarily beneath a railway siding to gather copious blackberries. Occasionally we inhale the sweet aroma of freshly-harvested onions piled idly in fields and the game becomes “I Smell...” which rarely bodes well.

Another long, scorching day with several wrong turns sees us on the outskirts of Germersheim. The guidebook mentions no camp sites and we’re all exhausted. We meet a local elderly couple who know a place we can camp about five kilometres back in the rough direction we have ridden from. My wife casts me a knowing glance, but we have already committed ourselves to their good intentions.

Following them through dusky woodland, we eventually reach their intended destination (accommodating static caravans), parking our bikes next to the busy lake-side restaurant. The man goes inside before returning to exclaim: “It’s good. I speak to the bar manager. This place is not for tents but you can eat here and I think it’s alright if you use their toilets and build your tent. Not legal, but I think OK.” And then they disappear.

We are unsure what to do. We eat a hearty meal and decide that it might be best not to pitch our tent. We opt to ride back to Germersheim and succumb to our first hotel of the trip. Yet they all seem to be closed. The only one we find with an available room isn’t keen on the two children. It is now dark. One of my pannier bags breaks. Surprisingly, after such a long day, the kids are upbeat. We pedal back to the river, hastily erect the tent in a ditch, and clamber inside, hoping the next day isn’t so eventful.

We’ll stick with the guidebook tomorrow.