Calm on the Surface – Bhutan, 2023.

From above, the mountains looked endless, rising and folding into one another, disturbed only by a few white houses scattered as if someone had gently dropped them there.

No buildings, no noise, no traffic. And, the strangest part, no one.

Paro is no big city, but it isn’t supposed to be empty either. My mind sprinted through the most dramatic scenarios. Had I missed a warning sign? An earthquake? A hurricane? Had I just landed in the middle of an evacuation zone?

Some Journeys Begin with a Coincidence

My favorite part of any trip begins long before it: sitting in front of a map, letting my eyes wander. That day, they stopped on Asia.

Where can I go now?

Among a few tempting options, there it was: Bhutan.

I looked at that tiny country and started picturing its remote villages in the Himalayas, its temples like no other, its monks in red robes. I made up my mind: Bhutan would be my next destination.

And then, something unexpected happened.

I was waiting for my dance class when Mirela arrived. We had met in that same class, and the connection had been instant. Besides our shared love for samba de gafieira, a partner dance from Rio, we were both passionate about wine, food and, above all, traveling.

So, I mentioned I was planning my next vacation to Bhutan.

“No way!” she said.

Then she opened her phone and showed me messages with a travel agent about the exact same trip.

The only difference was the timing, just a few months apart. We solved that quickly and decided to go together.

I had also invited Marcia, who needed to check her work schedule first. Soon after, she called: she was in.

A few months later, the three of us were landing in Paro, staring down at a town with no one in it.

A Quiet Valley Hiding a Festival

A few minutes later, the mystery solved itself: it was the Paro Tshechu, the valley’s great festival, and the entire town was attending. Soon, we would be there too.

As a preview of the days ahead, we were welcomed with a small ceremony and given a Tashi Khaddar, a white ceremonial scarf that symbolizes purity and good wishes.

We had just landed, and the country was already showing us its rhythm: calm on the surface, intriguing underneath.

In 2020, I had photographed Holi in India from inside a storm of colored powder. This time, there was no powder or water flying everywhere. Which meant I could simply step into the middle of the crowd and watch everyone having a blast, dressed in their finest clothes: the traditional gho for men and kira for women.

The weather couldn’t have been better for an open-air festival: blue sky, soft breeze, perfect temperature. The dzong was alive with people, and in the courtyard, colorful dancers moved in wide circles to the steady beat of drums. It looked like a performance. It wasn’t. These were rituals, meant to purify, protect and teach.

One masked figure caught my attention, and the crowd’s as well. He kept walking around, teasing the dancers and joking with the audience. He was the Atsara, the sacred clown: part jester, part protector, bringing humor to a festival that is otherwise deeply spiritual.

Experiencing the Dotsho

To match a perfect festival day, nothing beats a hot-stone bath: dotsho. At least, in Bhutan.

It’s considered a ritual of relaxation, purification, and healing. Oh, come on. Who doesn’t need at least one of those?

It was our last activity that day. The place looked nothing like a spa. It was simple, almost rustic.

When we arrived, it reminded me of a small farm: a main house, and the old stalls turned into individual bathing rooms.

The traditional method is uncomplicated. The stones are heated until they glow red, then placed in a separate compartment inside the tub, usually divided by a metal grate. Water is poured over them, the heat spreads through the bath, and more water or more stones adjust the temperature to your liking.

I’m a fan of hot water and a sworn enemy of anything cold, so as long as it was almost burning my skin, I was perfectly happy.

That relaxation was much needed: the next day, we would hike up to a monastery hanging 900 meters above the valley. Tiger’s Nest.

The moment I had been waiting for since that day in front of the map.

The First Sight of Tiger’s Nest

In the morning, I was filled with the kind of emotion I’ve become addicted to: that mix of anticipation and quiet anxiety right before heading to a place I’ve long dreamed of. Tiger’s Nest had been at the top of my list for years.

Even the name sounds like a legend, and it is one. Guru Rinpoche is said to have flown to this cliff on the back of a tigress and meditated in a cave for three years, three months, three weeks, three days and three hours. That is how the place became Taktsang, the Tiger’s Nest.

At the trailhead, the three of us and our guide, Tshetrim, whom we lovingly called Tim, stood staring suspiciously at the temple hanging from the cliff.

Is it really only 900 meters up? Is it true we don’t actually climb the cliff? How on earth did they build that up there?

Without further hesitation, we stepped onto the trail, a sandy path marked by tree trunks acting as steps.

From time to time, clusters of prayer flags appeared, hanging from the trees and adding pinches of color to the omnipresent green.

We also passed a few giant Buddhist prayer wheels. Their shape, their calligraphy and their red and gold tones turn them into works of art.

Every now and then, I looked up at the monastery, and it still seemed impossibly far. I could almost hear it teasing us: Catch me if you can.

We kept making our way up, stopping for photos and soaking in the views. And at a certain point, it was there, right in front of us. No longer a tiny white dot on the hill, but an imposing temple embedded in the cliff.

The scene was so powerful I had trouble moving forward. The tree-trunk “steps” had now been replaced by real ones, and it was only a matter of minutes before we reached Tiger’s Nest.

The temple itself is simple, just like many others in Bhutan. The difference is how it rises in layers, adapting to the cliff as if it had always belonged there.

Although stepping inside was moving, the best moment was seeing it from the outside just before we arrived. That view is still printed in my mind. I would walk the entire trail again if I could.

Then it was time to head back. On the way down, everything works in your favor.

Fulfilling a dream, visiting Bhutan’s most iconic site, overcoming a physical challenge, or simply praying in a temple that felt unreal: for each of us, it was a different mix. But when we returned to where we had started, we were all overwhelmed.

No “This Looks Like…”

Bhutanese architecture is hard to overlook. Not only because of its carved wooden windows, painted motifs and white facades, but because of something even more distinctive: its homogeneity.

And that isn’t by chance. It’s by law.

One architectural element stands out above all: the dzongs — monumental fortress-monasteries that combine civil administration and monastic life within the same complex. They felt like Bhutan’s version of castles.

It’s not every day that I find myself looking at houses, dzongs, and temples that all look like each other and nothing like anything I’ve seen before. No “this looks like…” anywhere in sight.

And moving through it all, in their brilliant red robes, were the monks, like brushstrokes of color. I lost myself watching them go about their day. It felt as if they had been made to be photographed.

Of course, the photographer in me was ready to start shooting nonstop.

But then I sensed something: the monks didn’t like being photographed as they went about their day. The candid shots I love most were out of the question. Now and then, Tim would ask someone if I could take a portrait. Some said yes. But considering how kind and thoughtful he had been throughout the week, I didn’t want to ask him too often. 

So I lowered the camera.

Not every temple asked for that kind of restraint. Chimi Lhakhang, surrounded by rice fields, brought a playful charm of its own. On the way there, we started noticing shops selling colorful, decorated wooden phalluses. And of course, none of us left without one.

And then there were the chortens. I already knew these stupas from Nepal, but in Bhutan they seemed to appear at every turn: a square base, a rounded body, a golden spire, sometimes a pair of painted eyes watching the road. Some stood alone above the valleys, like Khamsum Yulley Namgyal, which we reached only after crossing rice fields and forests. At the Dochula Pass, there were 108 of them, spread across a hilltop against the Himalayan range.

But the place that felt truly singular wasn’t defined by its architecture. It was Sangchhen Dorji Lhuendrup Lhakhang, a monastic training center for women. The building was larger than many temples and stood high on a vast mountain, but what made it unforgettable was the presence of the women themselves.

Some of the nuns were making bracelets by hand. Unlike the monks I had met before, they didn’t seem to mind the camera. A few looked shy and some even smiled. For once, I didn’t have to keep my lens down. 

The Spice Level? Himalayan

Being hungry is my natural state. When I’m traveling, add curiosity about the local food. A dangerous mix.

During the trip, we tried several Bhutanese dishes. The cuisine is quite simple: lots of vegetables and meat, mostly beef, pork, chicken and yak. Homemade comfort food. Nothing fancy at all.

Ingredients come straight from the fields, and because of the cold weather, they often use dried meat that lasts longer.

And here’s an important piece of information: they are absolutely crazy about chili peppers. Not “they like it.” No. They are obsessed.

Their national dish, ema datshi, is basically chili peppers cooked in cheese. For them, chili isn’t a spice. It’s a vegetable.

Back home, still curious about all that chili, I looked it up. Part of it is survival: chili keeps the body warm through the freezing Himalayan winters and helps preserve ingredients.

I love spicy food and I usually handle it like a pro, but Bhutan humbled me. Even Indian dishes suddenly felt… mild.

Like Mexicans, they add chili to everything, from breakfast to dinner, sweet to savory. More than once, Mirela, Marcia and I were red-faced and crying at the table. And I can assure you: none of us were sad about anything.

Yet I didn’t give up and tried everything they served. And — Catia being Catia — I casually mentioned to our beloved guide that I’d love to try the famous Bhutanese yak.

Tim, the sweetest, managed to get me a yak dish for my last dinner in Bhutan.

Even though it was served as a stew, the meat was on the dry side. But honestly? I thought it was really good.

Grace and Rhythm at the Crosswalk

One day, we were walking around Thimphu looking for a few décor pieces to bring home and probably driving Tim a little crazy. Poor guy. By then, I think he was relieved our trip was almost over. Three energetic women who never stopped asking questions are not an easy job for anyone.

When we stopped at a street corner to cross, I looked straight ahead and froze.

There he was.

I immediately turned to Tim: “What is he doing?”

He just smiled and answered, casually: “He’s controlling the traffic.”

I couldn’t believe it.

A traffic policeman, in a formal uniform, including white gloves, standing inside an ornately painted wooden booth and performing an intricate hand choreography to direct the cars.

He moved almost like a professional dancer: full of grace, rhythm and precision.

And honestly, it matched the overall atmosphere perfectly. A boring, charmless traffic light simply wouldn’t fit Thimphu. I later learned that Thimphu agreed with me: a traffic light was once installed there, then taken down after residents complained it felt impersonal.

It turned out to be the longest street crossing of my life. And without a doubt, the only one I’ll never forget.

Bhutan does move at its own pace. It only opened to tourists in 1974, and during our trip we could see a country still in its early stages of tourism: only a handful of international hotel chains, and even fewer restaurants catering to foreign tastes. None of them, I suspect, with chili levels adapted for non-locals.

We were warmly welcomed by our guide, by the restaurants, and by the hotels. At times, we also sensed a mix of formality, shyness, and inexperience. After all, they are still learning. Never rudeness.

The language barrier added another layer. English is the language of Bhutanese schools, but accents are another matter.

During one of our transfers between cities, we were running a little late. Tim apologized profusely, with the seriousness of someone announcing a major crisis, and told us that we wouldn’t go to the hotel first. Instead, we’d visit the sights and check in later.

Mirela leaned over: “I didn’t understand. Did something happen to our lunch? I heard something about chicken.”

For a second, I was completely lost. Then it hit me, and I answered, almost crying with laughter: “He said check-in. Not chicken.”

And we laughed until we could barely breathe. Including Tim.

My Restless Mind Inside a Ceremony

On our last day, there was an optional ritual for an extra fee, and we had to decide whether we wanted to go. I was curious, and my friends not only shared that curiosity but also wanted to pray and receive the monks’ blessings.

As soon as we entered the temple, we were guided to the main hall, where a few monks were already waiting for us.

For a brief moment, I let my eyes wander around the room. Many temples share the same deep red interior, just like the monks’ robes, a color I can never resist.

Someone explained that the main monk would start the ceremony and that we should close our eyes and elevate our thoughts.

I tried. I really tried.

But after a while, my mind was racing, and I couldn’t resist opening my eyes for just a second.

Lowering my camera had been hard. Keeping my eyes closed was impossible.

And that’s when I noticed a small movement: white envelopes being quietly passed from hand to hand.

At that moment, I didn’t know what to think: part cultural practice, part donation ritual, part something I didn’t fully understand. But I did understand one thing: the extra fee had found its path.

Prayers Released into the Wind

Of everything we did in Bhutan, one ritual stayed with me longer than the rest: the first time I hung prayer flags.

We were taken to a path high above the valley, a place filled with strings of colorful flags dancing in the wind. The scene was both vibrant and peaceful, and I immediately slipped into a contemplative mood.

Tim explained that prayer flags carry a deep meaning. They’re printed with mantras, prayers and sacred symbols, and the moment the wind touches them, these blessings are carried across the landscape, reaching all beings: humans, animals, and the very environment itself.

Each color represents one of the five elements: blue (sky), white (air), red (fire), green (water), yellow (earth).

That alone was beautiful, but what struck me the most was the generosity behind the act. The blessings are not meant for the person who hangs the flag. They’re offered to everyone and everything.

The ritual instantly became one of the most beautiful forms of prayer I’ve ever seen.

We hung ours with so much joy, as if our hope had been quietly recharged.

I like to think I come back from every trip carrying a little more of the world: its culture, its history, its food. Not to mention a few pieces of home décor.

On that hill, for once, I wasn’t taking anything. I was leaving something behind, for whoever the wind found next.