Quotes of the Day

Afew years ago, I met a Bhutanese who carried a carved wooden phallus on a key chain. He told me it was for good luck. In Bhutan, not only do these lucky charms, known as dorji, dangle from the corners of every roof, but imaginatively detailed painted penises grace the whitewashed walls of many homes as well. Spouting fire or draped in ribbons, and sometimes more than a meter tall, these lurid depictions are some of the first images visitors encounter on the drive from Bhutan's sole airport. Only after passing the fourth did my curiosity get the better of my bashfulness. I quizzed my guide, Tshering Dorji, a bon vivant who shares his country's Falstaffian predilection for earthy humor and double entendres. "Oh, the great dorji, my namesake," he winked, "I'll take you to where it all began."

A few hours later we arrived at the Chimi Lhakhang, a temple near Bhutan's former capital, Punakha. A low, square building capped by a golden peaked roof and surrounded by a thicket of white prayer flags, Chimi Lhakhang squats atop a bodhi tree-crowned hill that rises from a sea of rice paddies like a turtle's back. It was built in 1499 by one of Bhutan's favorite Buddhist saints, Lama Drukpa Kunley. Often called the Divine Madman for his outrageous teaching methods (which included womanizing, boozing and, some say, sleeping with his own mother to shame her into going on a meditation retreat), Drukpa Kunley is celebrated for whacking errant demons over the head with his steel-hard penis. So potent was his phallus that he was able to subdue all of Bhutan's resident demons and turn them into protective deities. Bhutanese now use the symbol to ward off evil and deflect gossip—vital in a tiny country where wagging tongues carry far more weight than the sole newspaper, a weekly called Kuensel.

Bhutanese children grow up on tales of Drukpa Kunley's adventures, and Kuensel carries a serialized (and uncensored) comic strip of his life. Although Bhutanese are in many ways highly conservative, their celebration of the Divine Madman's scandalous interpretation of Buddhist teachings and his unorthodox approach to handling problems extends across all classes. And like Drukpa Kunley, Bhutan has nothing but its natural endowments with which to battle the cultural and military Goliaths next door, India and China. To do so, in the face of an encroaching globalization that threatens to overwhelm the country's unique existence, requires a hardheaded cultural protectiveness that can appear to the outside world as visionary, quaint and Draconian.

Upon his coronation in 1974, King Jigme Singye Wangchuck declared that Bhutan would maintain a minimum 60% forest cover—a canny decree, considering that protecting the watersheds would in turn safeguard Bhutan's greatest export, hydropower. Other national policies, such as the wholesale banning of cigarette sales to preserve the health of the citizenry or the enforced wearing of a national costume (a knee-length kimono-like garment tied at the waist for men and a narrow, handwoven sheath for women), push Bhutan firmly into the realm of nanny states.

Some might think the country's heavy-handed tourism policy does the same, but the Bhutanese would disagree. Soon after his coronation, the young King—only 18 at the time—embarked on a controversial campaign. For the first time in Bhutan's modern history, foreign tourists would be allowed in, provided they paid a government-mandated minimum daily tariff. He called it high-value, low-impact tourism. Shaking down visitors may not earn Bhutan friends among the backpacking set, but as the government sees it, that's not the kind of visitor they want, anyway. "Travelers from the West come to Asia thinking they can spend less than the price of a cup of coffee back home per day to get the experience of a lifetime," says Thuji Dorji Nadik, joint director of the Department of Tourism. "What good does that do us?"

Bhutan can still afford to be picky about whom it lets in, but things are changing: the recent arrival of satellite TV—and the accompanying advertisements—has dangled before the Bhutanese such showy baubles as Toyota Land Cruisers, washing machines and microwave ovens, all of which require foreign currency. Seeking to increase visitor numbers, without diluting Bhutanese culture, the government has been looking for help. And in the absence of Drukpa Kunley, it has turned to the private sector.

Bhutan's tourism policy requires visitors to plan their itineraries in advance. Although the national airline's two planes land only in Paro, few visitors allow time for lingering in the tranquil valley, choosing instead to drive directly to the capital, Thimphu, two hours away. Because I wanted to get a feel for the country, I had decided to walk, an undertaking that inexplicably required four days, six ponies, two guides, a chef, an assistant, a sleeping tent, a dining tent, a potty tent (including a toilet seat) and a dog. Somewhat abashed, I asked Tshering what the fanfare was all about. "You are paying $200 a day to be here," he shrugged. "We are going to make it the best $200 you ever spent." I was not entirely convinced this was necessary. I consider myself a seasoned camper and generally scoff at such effete luxuries as air mattresses and portable showers. But stumbling into camp with the last rays of the setting sun—after an arduous climb through pristine forest, over rocky gorges and past thundering waterfalls—to be greeted with a steaming Bhutanese sundowner of rum, hot water and honey, I began to rethink my approach. By the time dinner was served (on china and by a chef in a white jacket), I knew I would never be able to go back to the days of Primus stoves and powdered soup. My printed menu read, "chicken Madras, gingered potatoes and seasonal vegetables with fresh cheese." The seasonal vegetables were chanterelles and fiddleheads picked by the chef en route. I wasn't even sure I wanted to make it to Thimphu.

In Bhutan, you get what you pay for. "When you realize that our daily tariff includes all your transportation needs, food, accommodation, entrance fees and the services of a guide and translator, it's not any more than you would spend in Hong Kong or London," says Thuji. "And it's hassle free." But the tourism director will be the first to admit that hotel accommodations are nowhere near five star, at least not yet, and that the country "has a bit of a plumbing problem." The culture and landscape may be first class, but the kind of tourists Bhutan is hoping to lure expect their showers to be hot and their toilets to flush, not to mention comfortable beds and luxurious linens. Most of the hotels in Bhutan were originally built to house foreign dignitaries for the King's coronation—and the amenities haven't changed in 30 years.

"Bhutan is not a place you visit on a whim," says Sue Reitz, project manager for Aman Resorts' upcoming Bhutan properties. "It's the trip of a lifetime. People are willing to wait for the right kind of facilities." Aman's sweeping project plan—six intimate resorts scattered around the country and slated to open next fall—is one of a handful of new developments tackling Bhutan's accommodation shortcomings. And Aman was selected over a bevy of eager international suitors for a reason: "Aman's respect for the environment and the local culture fits well with the country's policies," says Thuji.

Bhutan is a bold departure for the über-luxury purveyor, which finds its core market among the well heeled and ultra urbane. It's also one of Aman's most ambitious projects. Each of the small hotels (the largest, in Thimphu, has only 16 rooms) is in a different region. Aman guests will travel a circuit, visiting many of Bhutan's difficult-to-reach areas but still staying in style. "Our goal is to showcase the country," says Reitz. When asked if the walls of the Thimphu hotel will sport a dorji for luck, Reitz smiles and says, "I'm tempted."

Not far from Aman's Paro site, within view of Bhutan's iconic Tiger's Nest Monastery, local hotel developer Ugyen Rinzen is grappling with another national symbol. "Dragons," he grumbles as he circles a stack of massive pillars intended for the reception area of his new luxury hotel. They are covered in intricate carvings of the serpentine beasts. "This country is too dragon crazy." When Ugyen commissioned one of Bhutan's top temple carvers to design all of his hotel's woodwork, he asked for a multitude of auspicious symbols that would not only bless the hotel but also show off the country's classical artisanship. However, the master carver had a better idea of what best represented Bhutan, which in Bhutanese is called Druk Yul, meaning Land of the Thunder Dragon. When it comes to building Bhutan's first traditional luxury hotel, there are bound to be many differences of opinion.

The hotel's construction beautifully exemplifies the country's beguiling interface of medieval and modern, but the traditional stone walls are going up more slowly than Ugyen anticipated. He refuses to use the quicker concrete that foreign contractors would recommend. He's determined to keep the hotel as authentic as possible, even down to recruiting the local Buddhist clergy to name the place. "I've got three rinpoches working on it right now," he sighs, "but they are taking forever. You can't rush a rinpoche, and we have to do this right."

Among the Buddhist people of the Himalayas, there is a legend that speaks of secret valleys of extraordinary beauty, where peace and wisdom reign. These pockets of paradise, called beyuls, are said to be tucked among the Himalayas' rippled flanks. Bhutan, of course, is no longer a secret, but as the last independent Buddhist kingdom of the Himalayas, it remains a refuge for a rapidly disappearing way of life. Acutely aware of their responsibility to preserve this, the Bhutanese assume the quiet arrogance of a people charged with a sacred mission. The government's insistence on assigning every visitor a guide is part of that, and it's also what makes travel in Bhutan so easy. The guide serves as a translator, troubleshooter, dinner companion and cultural decoder. These Bhutanese Guys Friday stand between the tourist and any of the usual irritations associated with adventurous travel, but they can also stand in the way of the random encounters that make for a memorable travel experience and lead to a better understanding of local life.

On my last day in Bhutan, I was invited to pay my respects at the vigil for Queen Grandmother Gayum Phuntsho Choden, wife of the second King of Bhutan, who had died two weeks prior to my visit. I was ushered in to the grandmother's former sitting room by Princess Dechen Wangmo Wangchuck, elder sister to the King. Over cups of milky tea and crumbly cake, we chatted about her visits to New York City, her childhood and what her grandmother meant to her. Tshering, who usually kept up a nonstop chatter of jokes and stories, was subdued and rarely lifted his eyes from his toes. As the conversation continued, we covered religion, education and the difficulties of raising children in a modern world. It was a deeply touching exchange, made all the more so because it was never planned. Even though she was the King's sister, I learned more about the real concerns of a Bhutanese mother and citizen during one hour with her than I did during the rest of my stay in Bhutan, and from someone who had every reason to be reticent.

Naturally, dealing with exchanges like this is something that many Bhutanese, less cosmopolitan than the princess, will have to learn to do as the country comes slowly out of the clouds and into the 21st century. And as visitors, we need to learn how to respect their boundaries: whether we're seen as respectful guests or as the dollar-toting demons of globalization is entirely up to us.

• Aryn Baker
• Bhutan is slowly opening up— but, thankfully, its antique culture remains resistant to change