Life, death and beauty in Bhutan: a photographic odyssey

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This meal could be my last. This walk, too. And when I go to sleep tonight, I might not wake up tomorrow. For many Bhutanese, reminders of their imminent demise are woven into the weft of daily life. Tsa-tsas – palm-sized cones moulded by monks from the ashes of loved ones – are speckled across caves and roadsides in prayers for the departed. White flags hoisted on poles bristle on mountain tops, releasing well-wishes into the wind. In the country’s numerous temples, flesh-devouring demons, skulls and hellish monsters dance across the walls in timeworn Technicolor. All there to remind you: you’re going to die.

Bhutanese folklore maintains that in order to be happy, one must contemplate death five times a day. Only by acknowledging your limited time can you focus on what matters and let go of what doesn’t. And between its snow-cloaked mountains and marshy flats, this tiny Himalayan kingdom offers plenty of opportunities to contemplate meeting your maker. There’s the armrest-clenching descent into Paro International Airport, the plane’s wings skirting hillside farms so closely you can almost count the chillis drying on the corrugated tin roofs. Hairpin roads inch past valleys of vertiginous depths. There are face-offs with yaks, 2,000lb colossi of bulging muscle and fur that you really don’t want to catch in a bad mood.

But where there’s death, there’s life. In Bhutan this axiom retains real meaning. A brilliant vitality radiates from its landscape: endless Himalayan peaks, forests muddled in fog and draped in lichen (an indicator of clean air), rice terraces that pour over the slopes like acid-green molten lava. Tucked in among it all are ancient villages, all rammed-earth walls, kaleidoscopic window frames and prayer-flag bunting, standing as testaments to backbreaking work and human ingenuity. What many of their inhabitants lack in ngultrum in the bank, they make up for with an overabundance of what we in the west might call simpler joys: every meal straight from the field; spiritual recourse in shrines on every corner; lungs full of clean air, perfumed with pine.

Here the pursuit of happiness is an actual government policy: the famous Gross National Happiness (GNH), whose index emphasises spiritual, social and environmental health over material riches. In his documentary Agent of Happiness, which debuted at Sundance this year, Bhutan-born filmmaker Arun Bhattarai follows two census workers on a trip across the country as they poll the happiness quotient of everyday Bhutanese. Going door-to-door, they meet a teenager worrying about her alcoholic mother, and three wives – all married to a self-centred patriarch – who find hope in their sisterhood.

Despite their misfortunes (and, in some cases, tragically low happiness scores) there’s equanimity in the stories they share. “One of the biggest lessons I learned while making this film is about the acceptance of your present reality,” Bhattarai says. “I think the ability to acknowledge the present gives Bhutanese people the strength to go through adversity. We’re all interconnected, and our neighbour’s happiness is as important as our own.”

Another interviewee, a man grieving the death of his wife, finds solace in believing that she has been reborn as his grandchild. Like most Buddhists, the Bhutanese trust in a return to Earth over and over again, which might also explain why they’re collectively so deeply devoted to preserving the natural environment. The forest is protected, and cherished, as a living, breathing being that sustains the nation and its people. Plastic bags have been banned since 1999. A commitment to keeping at least 60 per cent of land surface cloaked in trees is embedded in its constitution. The bamboo- and oak-filled valleys absorb more carbon dioxide than the country emits, making it the first – and currently the only – carbon-negative nation in the world.

As this once-hermitic kingdom further opens up to global tourism, visiting it becomes increasingly less arduous. Earlier this year, the national airline, Drukair, launched new flight connections with Dubai, eliminating the need for an overnight stopover in Delhi or Kathmandu. The Sustainable Development Fee, a tourist levy used to funnel funds into natural conservation projects and citizens’ healthcare and education, has temporarily been halved to $100 per person per night – a very small price to pay for a journey into a society still demonstrably untainted by greed and competition.

In a world that races against time, Bhutan offers a rare pause. Physical and spiritual solace is there in the tenebrous forests, where on long, winding walks, you’ll have only birds and myriad spirits for company. It’s in its dzongs, whitewashed fortresses that feel like portals to a bygone century; and in the temples where shuffling pilgrims finger prayer beads and murmur incantations, leaving a pebble on the windowsill for every clockwise circumnavigation.

In humanity’s ongoing game of life, death and the spaces in between, Bhutanese culture feels both ancient and urgent, a reminder to savour what’s fleeting. It imposes, ever so gently, introspection and contemplation – whether through the Buddhist teachings that infuse daily life like incense, or the pureness of the humanity you encounter, like signposts to meaningful living, along the way.

So if you’ve got the means, go. And soon. Because a Bhutanese would tell you you can never be sure which walk will be your last.