chants & prayers

When I was staying in the village of Langjo Pakha, north of Thimphu, Bhutan, I had the privilege of taking a field recording of a funeral puja for a deceased woman and former neighbor of my host, Darlene Ricker. Every morning the monks and lamas would arrive to chant and pray for her passage. The following is the sound I would hear every morning from the other side of the wall shared by the two flats.

the road to Bumthang

Today I am traveling to Bumthang. A driver is picking me up at 8:30 am, but when the time rolls around, I see Gama at the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am going with you to Bumthang.”

I am thrilled. She’s hired us a driver, Domchu, to take us on the 8-hour journey to Bhutan’s center, the Bumthang valley and the very heart of Bhutan. We load up the Toyota Prado and I bid farewell to Darlene, my delightful host of the last 4 days.

The one lane road is a torturous 269 km (167 miles) snake that winds up and down the very edges of mountains. It is not for the weak of stomach. I pop a handful of candied ginger, just in case I get queasy, and brace myself for the long journey.

I ride shotgun with Domchu, a deceptively young looking man who was once a monk but is now married with a 7 year-old daughter and a second on the way. He is a cautious driver, maneuvering the winding roads past grazing cattle that like to stand in the middle of the road and are in no particular hurry, colorfully decorated trucks bearing goods, stray dogs, Nepali road crews, and the occasional family of rhesus monkeys.
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the monastery

Today I get to be lazy. Tshering, YDF’s driver, is taking me to Dechen Phodrang, the monastic school, at two o’clock in the afternoon. I have a gross of toothbrushes to deliver.

In the morning Darlene and I visit her neighbor and landlady Dinka, who lives down the path from us. Dinka’s family is having their yearly puja for good luck, health and prosperity. We are welcomed inside and sit around the bukhari, or traditional Bhutanese wood-burning stove, and the family members bring trays of snacks mostly made of puffed rice or pounded maize. We are handed two steaming bowls of savory rice porridge, a comfort food that warms us to the core. The porridge contains btis of yak fat and chugo, the hard yak milk cheese. You cannot really eat chugo unless you’re prepared to gnaw on it for a few hours. It’s hard as a rock, but it’s soft and delicious in the hot porridge. I scarf down two bowls and go into the altar room and take photos of the chanting monks and the family altar, decorated with colorful butter sculptures. We’re invited back for dinner later tonight.
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bombay dreams, good night sleep

After a breakfast of fruit and buttered toast, Darlene and I go next door and pay a visit to her neighbors. They’ve been performing puja for weeks now, both mourning and celebrating a relative who recently died of cancer. In the morning, a lama and several monks come and chant before the altar, which is all lit up with butter lamps. In the evening, after the monks leave, the family gets drunk. This goes on for 49 days.

The matriarch rolls out a bamboo mat in the main room of the flat and quickly brings us milk tea. The Bhutanese are hospitable and would think nothing of a total stranger coming into their home. A guest is always treated with honor.
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the King and I

5:30 am: I wake up at first light and pull back the curtains. It’s a clear morning, and the light is just right to photograph the dzong, the massive fortress-monastery and the administrative center of Thimphu. The view of the dzong from Langjo Pakha is breathtaking, so I traipse out into a neighbor’s field and use a fence post as my tripod. Fences are to keep animals in, and no Bhutanese would object to a person passing through their property.

This morning Darlene and I are meeting Ugyen’s brother Penjor. He will be our guide today when we go the stadium. Today, Sunday, the people of Bhutan will be presenting the kata, or white ceremonial scarf, to their sovereign. Thousands of people, almost all of them Bhutanese, file into the stadium field and we sit in double rows, one half us us facing south, the other half facing north. I’ve borrowed one of Darlene’s ready-made kiras but it barely fits me. I can’t quite close it shut, so I use the belt to hold it together.

When we get to Penjor’s family home, his older sister takes one look at me and shakes her head. Immediately, she drags me inside and starts readjusting me. Somehow, I’m able to hook the kira closed, and Penjor’s sister wraps the belt as tight as a corset. I can barely breathe, but I’m looking pretty dandy.
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the village of Langjo Pakha

Today I am packed and ready to go live with Darlene in her traditional Bhutanese house. At breakfast, I run into Ugyen Namgyel, Gama’s father, and I give him a big hug and share some friendly banter with him. He asks about my plans, and suggests I ride to Bumthang with him later in the week. He is having breakfast with another YDF volunteer, Sabine Leibherr, who has just arrived from Germany. Sabine refers to Ugyen as “Dasho,” and I suddenly realize I’ve been addressing a nobleman like a I’d speak to a good pal and wonder if I’ve committed a faux pas by being so informal with him. I try not to think about it. There’s nothing I can do about it now except apologize later.

I meet Darlene at 9:00 am and we walk to her friend’s, who is also named Ugyen. Ugyen is a popular name. So is Karma, Jigme, Tashi, Chimi, Tshering, Dorji. The phone book is totally useless to me here where people have no family surname, just two first names. Ugyen will be escorting us to the Chamlimithang Stadium so we can watch some of the cultural programs. Ugyen’s family runs a small bar on a back street in Thimphu. The bar has a giant phallus above the door, the sign of the Divine Madman. Lama Drupka Kunley (1455-1529), the Divine Madman, is one of Bhutan’s most beloved saints. He traveled throughout Tibet and Bhutan as a yogi espousing his crazy wisdom via songs, humor, and outrageous, often obscene, behavior. He felt the rigidity of the clerical body prevented people from learning the true teaching of the Buddha. His sexual exploits were legendary, and the huge flying – and often squirting – phalluses are his symbol.
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do kiras come in XXL?

Darlene meets me at the Yeedzin Guesthouse i the morning, and we wander down to the Wang Chhu river and browse the stalls at the Weekend Market. It’s time to shop for a few things for my family. My only regret is that I have little luggage space, because I‘ve had to pack wool sweaters and fleeces for the cold evenings in Thimphu. The days, however, are searing hot. For my mom I buy a little brass teapot for her large collection of tea sets; Kristy, my sister-in-law whom I am very close to, gets a padlock shaped like a fish with two intricate keys. I buy a coral and turquoise bracelet, most likely made in Nepal, for myself. The problem is that I find too many good things I want to keep. But what I really want is a custom-made kira with Velcro and side hooks, so after a lovely vegetarian lunch, Darlene takes me to the fabric shop. The little shop is full of colorful bolts of machine woven fabrics made in Bhutan, as well as imported Chinese silks and brocades. I settle on a lovely green & brown pattern that is a very typical Bhutanese design, and buy a brown brocade for the toego. The wonju is sage green, and the ready-made ones fit me just right. I buy about 3 meters of each fabric, plus a silk wonju, for about $40 USD. With my purchases under my arm, Darlene and I walk to the tailor. Inside that tailor’s shop I am measured and am asked to try on a few samples to get a sense of fit. Eyebrows are raised and I hear a few exclamations in Dzongkha when they measure my length and my arms. They’re not used to seeing such tall women. Soon I am the major attraction, and the shop fills with neighbors and even a few passing monks to watch the giant chilip woman get fitted. I’ll have my kiras in a week, and the total bill comes to 250 ngultrum, or about $5.
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coronation day

After a breakfast of Bhutanese porridge and coffee, I meet Darlene, the Canadian social worker, at my guesthouse. I’m going to wear my yellow and green kira today, Coronation Day, but need some capable hands to dress me. Darlene has worn a traditional wrap-style kira, but we’re just not figuring it out. She runs out and fetches one of the housekeepers, and in minutes two ladies are in my room fussing over me. I was given two lovely pins commemorating the Coronation of Druk Gyalpo Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck, which I wear with as much pride as the local folk, and I use them to close my toego and wonju.

In a little while, Phub comes to pick us up and be our escort for the day’s events. There will be three coronations: the first for the immediate Royal family, the second for visiting foreign dignitaries and friends, and the third for the people of Bhutan. In the popular Coronation, the King sat at the top of the stairs of the dzong, the fortress-monastery and administrative center of Thimphu. The plan was to have 15 queues across, where people would approach the bottom step and offer the white ceremonial scarf to their King. The plan changes due to security reasons, and now 15 lines are reduced to one impossibly long line. After a little discussion, we realize we’ll be standing in the searing sun for hours, and we won’t be able to take pictures. It is forbidden to photograph any member of the Royal family even in public places and festivals, so it diminishes my desire to attend this ceremony. Besides, there are other things to do.
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cold day, warm people

Today was cold and misty, and it looked like it might snow. Even though my Bhutanese friends complained about the chill, I found it comfortable. You would think they’d be used to the cold weather by now.

The altitude, which I am adjusting to day by day, is still giving me insomnia and lack of appetite. I woke up at 4:30 am today, just a wee bit early for my taste, but I felt refreshed and ready to get an early start. I grabbed my camera and headed out at 7:00 am, working my way down the hill to the Wang Chhu river on the eastern side of Thimphu. Along the way I chanced upon Zangto Pelri Lhakhang, a private chapel where some women where doing their circumambulations and spinning the prayer wheels. In a small building no larger than a storage shed, a giant prayer wheel stood amid vivid paintings of the boddhisatvas, protective deities, and historical figures of Theravada Buddhism. While I stood there admiring the art, a woman spun the prayer wheel. At the top, a small stick would hit a brass bell at each rotation, filling the small room with sound. I could feel the powerful sound waves as they resonated through me. It was simply magical.
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thimphu

The morning was hot and sunny. In the thin atmosphere, the sun’s UV rays are strong and piercing. Already my lips are chapped and bluish, despite all attempts to keep them moist in the dry and oxygen-poor air.

In the morning, my friend Gama picks me up at the Yeedzin Guest House and we drive to the YDF offices on the northern end of Norzim Lam. They’ve prepared a desk for me across from Jigme, one of the program officers. I give him a gross of children’s toothbrushes that were donated by my wonderful dentist, Dr. Weitz, for the young monks at the Dechen Phodrang monastic school. Many of the boys do not have much by way of dental care, so perhaps this might benefit them a little bit. Jigme offers to take me there in a few days so I can meet the monks myself.

I meet many of the staff members and other volunteers. Gita, YDF’s accountant, takes me to the Bhutan National Bank to exchange my dollars into ngultrums. I suspect my $200 will last a long time. Meals here are inexpensive, usually no more than $3 - $4. Perhaps I can splurge later on a pair of traditional boots, a few yak hair hats, and some textiles. Bhutan has a long tradition of weaving arts, which is best showcased on a daily basis in the colorful kiras the women wear. In Bhutan, people wear traditional dress during business hours, or when conducting official business, so during the day the streets are full of young professionals, all of whom are sharply dressed in their kiras (for women) and ghos (for men).
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