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.