The Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan is not natural terrain for modern transport. For centuries, the Bhutanese moved around their relentlessly mountainous land on foot, carrying their belongings on mules or yaks. The first roads were not carved into the near-vertical mountainsides until the 1960s. The country’s only international airport, at Paro, was not able to handle jets until 1988.

Landing at Paro Airport is a white-knuckle ride. On final approach through a narrow valley, the plane skirts perilously close to a high ridge before simultaneously diving and turning toward the runway. Only eight airline pilots are qualified to land here.

You might be tempted to kiss the ground when you disembark, but it would be premature. Getting here is just the beginning. Now you have to get around, and that means braving the mountain roads.

No special qualification other than your driving license is required. Oh, and courage. Over the next few days in your rented SUV, you will often find yourself driving on the edge of a precipice. Literally. There will be no margin for error.

My own initiation into the perils of Bhutan’s roads came almost within sight of the airport. At the start of the 30-mile drive from Paro to the capital, Thimphu, a crane blocked the road. I joined other drivers and passengers staring down into the valley below. Foot by foot, the crane winched a crumpled truck back up to the road. It had gone over the side a few hours earlier. There were no survivors.

And this was the easy road. The asphalt was relatively broad and smooth. There were barriers to guard against some of the sheerest drops. Once the crane completed its task, we hesitantly resumed our journey. Beyond Thimphu, we knew conditions would be more difficult.

In the morning we set off for the remote region of Bumthang. It would take two days to get there, passing through some of the world’s most spectacular scenery, reaching towns and villages seemingly unchanged since medieval times.

Driving in Bhutan is only possible thanks to teams of Indian and Nepalese workers battling around the clock to keep the roads clear and repaired. The road workers live in clusters of decrepit wooden shacks located strategically along the route. They are hardy people, invariably covered in dust and grime, toiling against the odds.

Close to the breathtaking town of Trongsa, which clings to steep slopes, we saw them in action. We reached a long line of stationary vehicles. A landslide had dumped a mess of rocks, boulders and upturned trees onto the narrow carriageway. The road workers were already carving a way through with shovels and a small bulldozer. They appeared gung-ho, nonchalantly pushing the rubble over the side, not watching as it tumbled more than a thousand feet into the river valley.

When I talked with them, I found they have acute respect for their environment. All too many of their colleagues have been lost or injured in the course of their daily work. The pay is a pittance, the living conditions are horrendous, and yet there is immediate job satisfaction. When the traffic started flowing again, the workers stood to one side and accepted the thanks of the motorists.

Bhutan’s infrastructure is exceptionally fragile, constantly at the mercy of incidents, accidents, blizzards, flash floods, landslips or landslides. Every safe arrival is a relief. When you bed down in a guesthouse, you can’t help but think of the maintenance crews, still out there, still engaged in the Sisyphean task of keeping the way open. For them, there is no start to the road. And there is no end.