In Bhutan: A Priapic Obsession And Real Luxury In A 300-Year-Old Farmhouse In The World's Happiest Country

Chimmi, the restaurant manager at the Aman, Thimphu, noticed me flinching with pain during the breakfast service. A catch in my neck—probably from a faulty sleeping position. “Let me organise a therapist at the spa,” she whispered. Even slight distress, on the road, registers intensely; you miss home more, wondering why you left familiar turf.

Outside the restaurant, framed views of pine-cloaked mountains; a sharp blue sky, cloudless. Boulders across the ridge like characters out of Bhutanese legends, ancient forms steeped in myth. A great spring coursing through the valley was audible in the Aman's comforting and beautiful spa, where Pema—the considerate spa supervisor—tried to ease the niggle in my neck and shoulder.

Happiness And Compassion To Counter Dukkha

Feted as the happiest country in the world, Bhutan is also home to some of the kindest people. On previous trips, I've encountered a specific kind of compassion here, without a vein of pity; it races to counter the experience of dukkha (it might also be that the Aman selects staff with a genius for thoughtfulness). Chimmi and Pema, with their motive-free desire to help, begged the question: are happiness and compassion linked with some subtle thread?

Amankora in Bhutan swaps opulence for intimacy. Photo: Author

The developing world prizes growth in terms of development—malls, freeways. Perhaps this metric of development, inherited from the West, is entirely broken. Psychological well-being, environmental conservation (Bhutan is carbon-negative), cultural preservation (the temples preserve exquisite iconography)—maybe these should be real markers of progress. After all, in countries with extreme development, like America, there are mental health epidemics - and political leaders best described as borderline insane despots.

A Priapic Obsession

There are penises everywhere—bold, stunning hard-ons. Painted on walls. As plastic keychains. Wooden boners nailed above doorways. Signs of fertility and symbols of divine protection, Bhutan's priapic obsession transcends anatomy and is anchored in spirituality. The 15th-century Buddhist saint, Drukpa Kunley—affectionately dubbed the "Divine Madman"—championed these symbols, enmeshing eroticism with enlightenment.

In Karma Choden's Phallus: Crazy Wisdom from Bhutan and Marc Domsky's photographic journey, Phallus Through Bhutan: Journey of the Magic Thunderbolt, we read—along with some far-out visual evidence—how they are talismans against malevolence, markers of prosperity, boons for progeny, reflecting a culture where the sacred and sacrilegious integrate fearlessly. I got a large wooden one for an aunty of mine. 

To Move Is To Risk

As I drive out to Punakha, the neck remains in agony. Mentally, I take stock of other writers who endured far worse fates on the road. Bruce Chatwin, fevered and frail in Patagonia, his body betraying him even as the landscape turned into his muse. Bill Bryson, sun-scorched in Australia, learned how heat tasers humour to stoicism. And Rolf Potts, wandering through Southeast Asia, saw in food poisoning not an enemy but an initiation—diarrhoea as portal to enlightenment.

To move is to risk; all risk entails surrender.

The landscape changed as we drove through a botanical park. Cherry blossoms dusted the streets with pale pink confetti. Jacarandas, a great riot of purple against the stern green of the hills. Along riverbanks, near monasteries where prayer wheels spun in unending devotion, rhododendrons erupted in hues of red and orange. White prayer flags, installed to honour the dead, were reminders of mortality. A pain in the neck humbled me. I recalled the Lord in one breath—although I was never so elevated as to withhold expletives at the Neck Pain Demons.

On the drive to Punakha, my driver Namgay Tshering and my guide, Kuenley Dorjee, both dispatched by the Department of Tourism, were ambassadors of Bhutan's savant grace. The driver slowed the car to soothe my condition. Kuenley got me a hot water bag with a print of teddy bears. Later we would go to the local market to buy offering bowls and saffron and camphor. At every step, their discreet concern was blessing in action.

A Micro-resort From Before Micro-resorts

Micro resorts, blending design-forward aesthetics with sustainability, have redefined travel experience, swapping opulence for intimacy. In Mexico, Hotelito Desconocido embraced an off-grid ethos, its palafitte-style rooms floating over an estuary. In Costa Rica, Las Catalinas, a walkable, car-free village conceived by Douglas Duany, integrates with its lush surroundings.

Amankora Punakha Lodge. Photo: Amankora

Long before micro-resorts became TikTok's biggest travel trend, there was the ten-room—though since slightly expanded—Amankora Punakha Lodge, designed by the late Kerry Hill, set in a 300-year-old Bhutanese farmhouse built by a former Je Khenpo (chief abbot). The resort, with pared-down interiors and an inviting autumnal palette, is among my favourite in the world. The sublime infinity pool overlooks fields and hills; there is a meditation room with a heart-stilling altar.

Pain, And The Palace Of Great Happiness

From here, I head to the Punakha Dzong (formally: Pungthang Dewachen Phodrang, meaning “Palace of Great Happiness”). Each spring, the majestic Punakha Dzong, Bhutan's former capital, turns into a stage for Punakha Tshechu, a lunar spring festival. The narrow road is lined with street food stalls and a hodgepodge of local crafts. Locals are dressed in their finery as we walk over a bridge; below, in the unifying currents of Pho Chhu and Mo Chhu rivers, large black fish float serenely. The scent of juniper incense is a rumour of divine presences. The crowds are orderly, reverential, polite to a fault; several devotees ducked so I might enjoy a clearer view. If such a gathering was in India, a stampede was a statistical possibility.

In the courtyard, monks and performers don masks and silk robes before racing down a long stone staircase, their dramatic movements echoing those of ancient warriors. Behind me, in the distance, more battle cries, men on horses.

Punakha Dzong (formally: Pungthang Dewachen Phodrang, meaning “Palace of Great Happiness”). Photo: Amankora

These magic hours come alive with faith and history. Dazzled by a retelling of ancient legends, I feel briefly free of the pain. I have entered the narrative—I am in the myth, which is to say: I am no longer in the first person. Travel, in the end, is not about miles covered but how the world—with heat or hunger, fever or fatigue—unmakes us until we find a way to glue back the pieces of our original self.

A young monk in a red robe smiles at me, his eyes radiating mischief. Perhaps he sees my dukkha as entirely novice, but his eyes also tell me that he understands—pain is pain, regardless of intensity. Then the ache rises, I look up at Kuenley, who knows without my telling that it is time to turn around.

Also Read | Death In A Plastic Bag: Why Japan Has No Public Dustbins