Lucky Number 7

Gom Kora

That’s the number of vehicles it took to get from Kanglung to Gom Kora and back to Kanglung, with the assistance of our legs. Scott and I have taken to hitchhiking as it’s a cheap (as well as safe) way to get around.

View of the road to Rangshikhar from our walk before we first got picked up.

On the way to Gom Kora, we met Sonam in his Hyundai, who picked us up after we’d been walking for around 40 minutes. We had already attempted flagging down rides to no luck and there just wasn’t that much traffic going our way. So when Sonam slowed down his empty inviting car, we were excited. Sonam appeared to be in his late-30s, was confident, friendly, and successful with a degree in engineering. He is in the private construction sector and seems to be doing quite well building farm roads. Sonam was on the road because he went to a project in Trashiyangste, had just been visiting his sister at Sherubtse College where she’s a student, and was heading back home to Luentse, a place he raved about and excitedly invited us to. Since he was going west and we were heading north, Sonam drove us past the immigration gate (which he somehow got us through without any problems; to go into Trashiyangste, Scott and I would normally need a road permit), over the bridge, and that’s where we parted. From the bridge, Sonam headed left towards Mongar where he’d continue on to Luentse. On foot, we went right on a road we hadn’t traveled on before.

We only had to walk less than ten minutes before another car stopped for us; we didn’t even have to flag it down. This car was smaller than Sonam’s and quite full. Besides the driver, there was a passenger, and a woman in the back carrying a small, sleeping child. When Scott and I piled in, it was a tight squeeze but doable. This car was headed right to Gom Kora.

We rode the twelve kilometers, passing the border to Trashiyangtse, and along the river. After the usually twists and turns of the road, we finally arrived at our destination – Gom Kora, the meditation spot for Guru Rinpoche, a Bhutanese God. Along with a picturesque temple, a ground of tents being set up and some already selling things, and a courtyard, there was also a huge rock, on the top of which Guru Rinpoche used to sit. Supposedly if you climb to the top, you can see heaven.

While the festival had officially started, the real festivities had yet to begin. There were groups of men and women rehearsing dances, elder pilgrims gathered together under a tent, monks going every which way, and people circling the prayer wheels and the big rock. The blue tarp shopping tents were filled with anything from momos and drying meat to cheap oriental rugs and kiras, from kitchen dishes to portraits of the king. The majority of the shopping tents had yet to set up. There was an intense buzz of preparation. Some people had arrived, but not nearly all. Almost everyone we talked to asked if we’d be there on Tuesday, the festival’s highlight day. While we said we’d try, realistically Scott and I know that getting back to Gom Kora during the work week will be near impossible. We met people who’d traveled from as far as Thimphu. The majority of the attendees pitch sleeping tents on or around the festival grounds and stay as long as four to five nights.


It being a gorgeous, sunny, clear day, Scott and I headed towards the river, our first opportunity to be so close to one. The bank of the river was crowded with large, smooth boulders and rocks, sand, and bathing monks. We relaxed on one particularly nice rock and on either side of us were groups of monks de-robing and throwing themselves into the river with only their underwear on. They were far enough away to allow some sense of privacy, but we’d still see large swaths of dark red and maroon being taken off and put on. Some of the monks would sprawl on the rocks, drying themselves in the warm sun. For other people as well, the river served as a bathing pool with people soaping up and rinsing off. Scott and I sat for a while by the river soaking in the sun and sounds of the flowing river.


We then walked around the festival grounds constantly remarking on how fun it would be once the crowds arrived and the actual festivities, like dancing, started. We also visited the temple which was in the midst of conducting a puja. There were monks chanting, drums, horns, warbling, and raw rice, lentils, and corn being thrown at the alter. We met Tshewang, the principal of a monk institute in Punakha. He was gracious, welcoming, and articulate in multiple languages including Chinese and French, as well as the customary five or six languages almost every Bhutanese knows. He helped explain must of what was going on, answered other questions we had, and warmly invited up to visit him in Punakha.

The day had worn and late afternoon had set in, so we decided to leave the festival; we knew we had a long journey back home. We walked for less than twenty minutes before a truck slowed down for us. We jumped in the back where two boys were already standing, sat down in the bed of a clean truck, and enjoyed our first open air ride in Bhutan. It was going quite well – the sun was still shining, the views even more spectacular without any obstruction, I wasn’t feeling nauseous – but then the truck stopped at a nearby shop, so we hopped out and were back on our feet.

It wasn’t too long until another truck stopped for us. The driver was someone Scott and I recognized from the festival due to his t-shirt that read, ‘I’m a cop. Trust me.’ We hopped in the back again and within seconds I regretted it. The driver was younger and even his friend sitting inside in the passenger seat was holding on to a handle in front of him. With my arms extended on either side of me, my hands clenched the sides of the truck as we sped forward. At first, Scott seemed unfazed – after all he grew up in Wyoming where riding in the back of trucks was a normal occurrence – but when our driver passed the vehicle in front of us, Scott seemed a bit unsettled. I lost a year of my life on that ride, but all was fine as we pulled onto the side of the road before the bridge and immigration checkpoint back into Trashigang District.

We crossed the bridge on foot and walked up the mountain for some time. We saw clouds in the distance and we wondered how our laundry was fairing on the clothesline back home. Our hitchhiking luck wasn’t as smooth going the direction towards home. Still, a small red car pulled over for us – a father, two daughters, and a sleeping baby. The baby moved to the front and Scott and I squished in the back. The family had also gone to Gomkora and were on their way back home to Trashigang. The daughter in the back seat with us, Tema, was in secondary school and practiced her skilled English with us. She even took my number and gave me hers. At the turn off to Trashigand, we said goodbye and thank you to the nice family and resumed our relationship with the pavement.

The next ride proved the hardest to get. Many cars passed us by. There were other hitchers on the road. Eventually, a white Hilux was approaching us with seemingly plenty of room for two more. I made the appropriate gesture and the driver at first gave me the “I’m full” hand twist, but then he saw Scott’s white face and pulled over. I was right. The large white truck only held a husband, a wife, and their class six daughter in the back. We slid into the black leather seats and continued toward Kanglung. After a few minutes of talking, the family figured out that Scott was a lecturer (this seemed to really impress the wife), I taught at the primary school, and that we had recently moved to Kanglung from America. We learned that the family is from Rongthong, a village still 7 kilometers from Kanglung, and had just come from a puja in Radi. When we asked what work they were in, the husband said, “We’re famers,” and both him and the wife turned to look at each other and laughed. The man’s real name escapes me now as he insisted we call him by his nickname, “Country Boy.” Country Boy even liked American country music and commented on the band Alabama after confessing he didn’t know where Wyoming was. When we pulled into their driveway, we realized that they lived in the one of the most picturesque homes in Bhutan complete with a chorten, a house we’d noticed many times before on drives to and from Trashigang. Scott and I jumped out of the truck and said our goodbyes. Country Boy gave us his number and said we should visit his family on a Saturday. He said, “If you have any trouble reaching me, just ask people for Country Boy,” as he pointed to letters on his truck that spelled out just that – Country Boy. We left the picturesque home and the family from Rongthong and walked into an even greyer evening.

Six hitches in, we wondered if our luck had run out, if we’d be left to walk the remaining 7 kilometers home. Well, as the drizzle began and darkness fell, a car stopped for us and we jumped right in – lucky number seven. It was a Sherubtse student and his brother who was in the health field traveling around the country doing some kind of research. We happily got in the back seat and Scott did most of the talking as I dozed off intermittently. Scott relayed our escapades of the day and even when we got to lower market where the brothers needed to be, they continued, despite our refusals, to drive to upper market to bring us home. “It’s raining,” they said. They dropped us off right at our driveway. We thanked them very much and walked the last remaining meters to our front door.


By the river

The multitude of shopping tents

The rock to heaven