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It’s 3pm in the afternoon. I’m lying on a massage bed in the middle of the Bhutanese mountains. On the menu? A treatment I can honestly say I’ve never had before.
“Is the butter warm enough for you?” My masseuse asks me. I gulp and nod – and over the course of the next hour, she proceeds to slather me, head to toe. Not just any butter, though: it’s yak butter, with a smell that’s decidedly more pungent than its garden-variety cow counterpart.
