Paro, Sunday morning

Today is my last day in Bhutan. The group cycling trip is done, and I had plans to ride by myself halfway up the pass I drove with Chador last week.

I woke up tired and a bit sick, and decided to spend the morning shopping and drinking coffee. As I walked down to the town I was submerged into an unexpected Sunday morning.

First, a straggle of runners in a full marathon, the numbers on their clothes all lower than 50, navigating horses and cows and hills and loneliness.

On the recreation field, men practicing traditional archery, their cheers the noise I could hear from my hotel room. And men and women in a gorgeous traditional dance. Performing for their own pleasure, not for tourists.

I watch for a while, then go in search of a bank machine. I render one useless, and then find one that is willing to give me Nu. Which I promptly spend on a prayer wheel, a goat mask, some books on Buddhism that Chador recommends, and an antique prayer chime.

After two Americanos, I’m suddenly ready for a ride.


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