Ah, the post-travel funk. I knew it would hit sooner or later. A vague but nagging ache from the freckle biopsy today suddenly has me feeling vicious and uncharitable.
Where are my mountains? Where are my Himalayan children and my stray dogs cheerfully escorting me on my way?
This is a snap of the main street of Paro (which is not the capital of Bhutan, but does sport the country's only airport). The dogs of Bhutan are an interesting breed — they all have stiff, brushy tails which curl over at the top. They are, one and all, strays. Given the rabies problem in the country, they are probably all infected. But they're cheeful little sods, with very little aggression, and they take their escort duties very seriously, picking up passersby and walking them wherever they should wish to wander. We picked up one dog on the first morning of our trek, a second dog that night, and no less than five dogs on the second evening. By the end of the trek I think we had more dogs than people.
The other thing they take seriously is their night-time barking competitions. The dogs organise themselves in packs, and send up a rousing chorus looooong into the night. After that kind of exertion, sleeping during the day is an absolute necessity. But in a median strip…?