The King and I

Bhutan, a remote land tucked between India and Tibet, is a magical place, even more so if your trip includes a chance encounter with the king.


Though it was the rainy season when I visited, and fog dominated vistas of the country’s 10,000-foot-high mountain passes, I was thrilled to take in the scenery from a mountain bike. My guide Ugyen drove us to the top of Dochu-La pass, where we mounted and began our descent. I hugged the curves of the road, focusing on the lush forest to my right, instead of the sharp precipice to my left. On the way down, what we saw was spectacular: gigantic rhododendrons with whorls of leaves the size of umbrellas, blue firs draped in Spanish moss, and white Japanese anemones that fill the hillside’s rocky crevices. Instead of Power Bars, we snacked on roasted corn and apples sold by the side of the road. And apart from the occasional cargo truck, it was just Ugyen, me and the Bhutanese countryside. But after almost reaching the end of our 24-mile journey, I spotted a caravan of cars approaching, and Ugyen called to me to stop. I couldn’t understand why, but I thought it a good opportunity to take photos—that is until someone in the car yelled, “No photos!” Several vehicles with official plates passed, and a group of men on racing bikes came to a stop in front of me. One of them then spoke to me, inquiring about my stay in Bhutan in flawless English. I commented on the beautiful weather (the sun had just come out less than fifteen minutes ago), and the importance of proper rain gear. As we said our goodbyes, Ugyen, who had dismounted his bike a few feet behind me, came running in excitement, proclaiming my luck. “Why am I lucky?” I asked. He couldn’t believe my question, and replied, wide-eyed, “That was the king!”

Paula de la Cruz is a garden and travel writer living in New York

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