Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
langur is one of the world's rarest primates, noted for its expressive black face set off by a
robe of dense golden fur. These forests are also filled with such splendid birds as brightly
colored pheasants and sunbirds and a cacophony of babblers and laughing thrushes, the en-
gaging troubadours of Asian forests. Some say that the rarest primate of all lives here, our
apelike cousin the yeti.
The desire to uncover such rareties by several of the most famous nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century Western expeditions to the Himalayas to visit Bhutan met with rejection,
as have many since. Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, the famed British botanist, explored neigh-
boring Sikkim in the 1860s but never crossed Bhutan's border, or at least he never admitted
to it. William Beebe, an American field biologist, wrote extensively about the magnificent
pheasants of the Himalayas, but he had to look for them outside Bhutan. Government policy
still discourages foreign-led expeditions today and severely restricts access by individual re-
searchers. Of this they are certain: if there is a rare species that awaits discovery or study, a
biology-trained Bhutanese will have the honor.
We arrived in Thimpu at noon under a brilliant blue sky. Traveling with me was my wife,
Ute, who had less interest in ibisbills and nuthatches than in Bhutan as a land where Tibetan
Buddhism still flourished. As we walked along the streets of the capital, it seemed that, at
least outwardly, the dense fabric of Bhutanese cultural and religious life had frayed little in
the years since my earlier visit. Whitewashed monasteries gleamed in the sunshine, Tibetan
prayer flags fluttered and snapped in the breeze, and men and women walked through town in
traditional dress. From the magnificent government centers called
dzongs
to the newest tour-
ist hotels, every piece of architecture still adhered to the national building code: a pagoda-
style roof, white walls, and highly decorative painted wood window frames and awnings.
Even so, sophisticated Thimpu residents stepped comfortably between two worlds—the mod-
ern world of television, cell phones, and Internet access and the traditional one of spinning
prayer wheels, oil lamps, and religious festivals.
My first visit, in June 1989, was ill timed, coinciding with torrential monsoon rains. Land-
slides blocked all road traffic and grounded me in the capital. With no chance to search for
rare birds and mammals, I stayed mostly indoors, meeting government officials. One misty
afternoon during a break in the weather, I opened my guesthouse window, which looked
out on a large meadow. I hoped that a flock of black-necked cranes would circle overhead
and magically land in the grass, but it was the wrong season to see Bhutan's most famous
endangered species. My fantasy gave way to a different kind of spectacle. Two dozen men
clad in brightly colored robes entered the field carrying old-fashioned bows. They broke into
two teams, and the archers erected targets about 150 meters opposite each other. The con-
test began. As arrows flew across the field, each team tried to disrupt the other's concentra-
tion with oaths, whistles, and lewd gestures, the men emboldened by swigs from hip flasks. I
feared that at least one bowman would be shot dead because the opposing archers stood next
