This man and his teapot live in Thimpu, capital of the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon, Bhutan. See more photos from Bhutan in the Bhutan Gallery at EarthPhotos.com.
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Read an excerpt from a story about Bhutan after the jump.
From the eventual book, Common Sense and Whiskey, by Bill Murray:
Only about thirty of us were flying to Bhutan, so the back of the plane held cargo: a couple of computers strapped to the seats, a boom box, a crock pot, several unmarked boxes, a quilt. And in the back seat a flight attendant drank in sleep - I mean, snored. She, Mirja and one more were the only women.
The river Brahmaputra wound out toward the Ganges near Dhaka. Sunlight glinted and skipped across tens of thousands of acres of flooded rice paddies, miles and miles north of the Bay of Bengal. Sometimes the clouds lifted over the northern Burma and Bangladesh.
Still the floods. Four hundred miles north of Rangoon a bend in the river ate half a town. It was July 4th. While Americans celebrated independence, South Asia grappled with the monsoon.
When time came to drop through the clouds into Bhutan, the pilot announced, “We will maneuver the aircraft in the valley. This is a little different from large commercial aircraft. It is standard procedure. You will see the houses and trees a little closer than you are used to. The scenery is beautiful. Please enjoy the ride.”
He just picked a hole in the clouds and dove through. He did a 180 into the Paro valley. The automatic sensors called out, “too low,” and for the record he kept repeating, “acknowledge, override,” into the cockpit recorder.
This was George, bluff, barrel-chested, a real dude with a wide gray moustache, and one of just fourteen people ever to fly for Royal Bhutan Airlines, aka Druk Air. We said we’d buy him a beer if we saw him in town and he told us he’d drink it.
The mountain kingdom’s capital city, Thimpu, isn’t served by an airport. The only airport in the country is in Paro. an old west one-horse town spread three hundred feet, and no more, across the valley floor, hardly movin’ in the midday sun. Uniformed Indian soldiers drank “Thums Up” brand cola.
*****
Phruba and Jigme, our guide and driver for the week, gathered us up for the trip to Thimpu. Irrigated rice grew just about before your eyes, and every river was a tumult.
We trundled around corners (all week) in a Toyota Yokohama van. Jigme and Phruba both wore traditional skirt-like wraps, called ghos in Bhutan. Phruba’s legs stuck out below the knee. All week long he sat there in that passenger seat, the picture of Bhuddism, calm, hands clasped.
Tall and 28, he used to play basketball with the young king.
“We would stay outside and pick teams,” Phruba told us. “When he was in a good mood the king would invite us in to play. When he was in a bad mood he would play with his bodyguards. He is very good at the three point shot.”
Being taller than the king sets up a sensitive question: Does one shoot over the king’s head? Yes. The king’s bodyguards are some of the biggest men in the country, Phruba said, so he reckoned the king was used to it.
*****
Read more from the eventual book, Common Sense and Whiskey.
The river Brahmaputra wound out toward the Ganges near Dhaka. Sunlight glinted and skipped across tens of thousands of acres of flooded rice paddies, miles and miles north of the Bay of Bengal. Sometimes the clouds lifted over the northern Burma and Bangladesh.
Still the floods. Four hundred miles north of Rangoon a bend in the river ate half a town. It was July 4th. While Americans celebrated independence, South Asia grappled with the monsoon.
When time came to drop through the clouds into Bhutan, the pilot announced, “We will maneuver the aircraft in the valley. This is a little different from large commercial aircraft. It is standard procedure. You will see the houses and trees a little closer than you are used to. The scenery is beautiful. Please enjoy the ride.”
He just picked a hole in the clouds and dove through. He did a 180 into the Paro valley. The automatic sensors called out, “too low,” and for the record he kept repeating, “acknowledge, override,” into the cockpit recorder.
This was George, bluff, barrel-chested, a real dude with a wide gray moustache, and one of just fourteen people ever to fly for Royal Bhutan Airlines, aka Druk Air. We said we’d buy him a beer if we saw him in town and he told us he’d drink it.
The mountain kingdom’s capital city, Thimpu, isn’t served by an airport. The only airport in the country is in Paro. an old west one-horse town spread three hundred feet, and no more, across the valley floor, hardly movin’ in the midday sun. Uniformed Indian soldiers drank “Thums Up” brand cola.
*****
Phruba and Jigme, our guide and driver for the week, gathered us up for the trip to Thimpu. Irrigated rice grew just about before your eyes, and every river was a tumult.
We trundled around corners (all week) in a Toyota Yokohama van. Jigme and Phruba both wore traditional skirt-like wraps, called ghos in Bhutan. Phruba’s legs stuck out below the knee. All week long he sat there in that passenger seat, the picture of Bhuddism, calm, hands clasped.
Tall and 28, he used to play basketball with the young king.
“We would stay outside and pick teams,” Phruba told us. “When he was in a good mood the king would invite us in to play. When he was in a bad mood he would play with his bodyguards. He is very good at the three point shot.”
Being taller than the king sets up a sensitive question: Does one shoot over the king’s head? Yes. The king’s bodyguards are some of the biggest men in the country, Phruba said, so he reckoned the king was used to it.
*****
Read more from the eventual book, Common Sense and Whiskey.
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