#1 Seven Mountains, Yak Cheese, and Peace in My Hair

Beyond seven mountains, seven monasteries, and seventy seven sharp turns, lies Paro.

I need to get there today so I can sit down calmly at my desk in a hotel and not lose my mind before heading back to work tomorrow.

A hotel taxi would cost me 1,000 ngultrum, which is around 8 dollars. Not bad at all. That’s exactly what I’d pay for a ride from my Valencian apartment in Maritim to the Old Town. The difference is, here I’d be traveling 60 kilometers, not 6. If I share a taxi with other passengers, it’ll be only 300 ngultrum.

What does that mean? It means the following: I first have to throw my “bundle number one” on my back - a 25-kilo trekking bag, and sling “bundle number two” across my front - a 10-kilo daypack—and walk about 3 kilometers to the intercity taxi stand. My alternatives are hitchhiking or walking for two days. So yeah, I choose my taxi.

The driver finds me himself, I stand out enough in the crowd that he already knows exactly what I need. He gestures that we’re still waiting for two more passengers before we can leave. Works for me, I can wait, I’m in no rush. Bhutan is a country of patience. It’s good to practice it sometimes.

Three other women join me in the car. The oldest of us sits in the front. She has a warm, serene face marked with the trails of time, deeply etched around her mouth and eyes. You can tell she’s lived a joyful life. She’s wearing a red kira and a colorful little hat. The whole way, she chats with the driver in a calm, gentle voice. That’s just how things are here in Bhutan. Quiet and peaceful.

The music on the radio is the same - soft, melodic, almost hypnotic. It all works on me like a lullaby… or at least it would, if not for the two other passengers sitting next to me with a huge, long package (that’s what she said) wrapped in elegant fabric, giving off a very intense smell (that’s what I hope she didn’t say).

A smell not unlike the one coming from my trekking boots after 14 days on Himalayan trails. Both women are incredibly kind, gifting me with their warm, toothless smiles. 

I smile back too, slightly crooked, but honestly, because it’s always nice to experience everyday local life. If you need to transport some seriously smelly yak cheese, well… it is what it is.

The fact that it’s wrapped in two layers of shiny fabric (and still smells unbearable, so you can imagine how strong it is) makes me think it might be an offering for a temple. Maybe these two proud cheese carriers are going to ask Buddha for something important, and sweeten the deal with dairy. If I spoke Dzongkha language, I’d definitely ask for details. But all I can do is smile warmly and come up with increasingly creative ways to block my nose.

I wonder if these women are the Bhutanese equivalent of my grandma Ela and aunt Gosia traveling from Warsaw to Otwock, bringing back vegetables and cold cuts that are supposedly better than anything they can get in the capital.

Maybe. The more I travel, the more I see how full of symmetry the world is.

Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to capture the cheese—but the driver and a few bits of the taxi crowd made it into the shot.

I think about home, about my neighbourhood Chomiczówka, and just before the seventh mountain, the seventh monastery, the forest, and the seventieth seventh turn, I fall asleep. Before my closed eyes, I see yaks we‘ve met high in the mountains. Then I dream about a yak milk cheesecake I had 16 years ago in magical Dharamsala - so delicious and just as rich as my grandma’s soft yeast cake.

I wake up as we’re entering Paro. I recognize the majestic fort towering over the town, and even higher - the snow-covered Himalayan peaks watching over its people.

Paro from my room

If the taxi had taken us another 40 kilometers east, we would have reached the base of Tiger’s Nest, the most famous monastery in Bhutan, a true wonder perched above a cliff. I did climb up there. After a thousand steps and three hours of steep hiking. but that’s a story for another time.

Tiger's Nest - what a view!

Paro feels much closer to me than Thimphu, the capital. Maybe because it’s smaller (two streets instead of twenty two), tucked deeper into the mountains (which I love), and less visited (almost nobody stays here longer than it takes to clear visa checks and transfer to a hotel). And it was Paro that welcomed me to Bhutan first—making my heart leap higher than the mountains around me.

This is where, for the first time in my life, I heard the silence of a city. Where the mountain wind tangled long-awaited peace into my hair, brushed my cheeks, and promised me that everything would be okay.

But that, too, is another story. One of many I have to tell. And each of them is for you, and because of you, Grandma ❤️