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March 15th 2009
Published: March 15th 2009
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The second night of the trek we camped on a school playground. This was the school in the village of Adha, the first sign of human habitation we’d seen in twenty-four hours, six hours’ walk away from the nearest doctor, and where electricity is, at best, generator-driven - that’s if someone has managed to get enough fuel for the generator here by mule. The school’s catchment area extends to settlements three days’ walk away, so many of the children board, girls in one dormitory, boys in the other. Lights out is at dusk, though the some of the children do have torches. There are five staff, including the headmaster, Yeshey. As with all teachers in Bhutan, they are centrally-appointed. Yeshey comes from the far southeast of the country where his first language is Sharchop, a language different enough from Dzongkha and the children’s first language that it is easier for him to communicate with them in English; indeed, the children learn both English and Dzongkha from their very first day at school. His predecessors seem not to have stayed more than two years. There are 92 children at the school at present, divided into five mixed-ability classes, but numbers are dwindling because of the gradual move of rural people into the towns, and Yeshey is not sure for how much longer the school will keep going. Because of the difficulty in keeping an eye on the children’s health with so few staff, Yeshey has introduced a “health captain” scheme to incentivise the older children to check up on the younger ones on a daily basis. Classrooms are full, but all the older children seem to have books. Education is, effectively, free in Bhutan and has been made a priority in the country since the 1950s. This, together with its free healthcare, makes it an extremely attractive destination for potential Indian and Nepali immigrants, themselves a cause of unrest in the southern parts of the country. The youngest children sit on the floor and learn by rote; those around 10-12 in age sit on the floor, but have low desks to lean on; the oldest children, 13-15, sit on stools and sit crowded three- or four-to-a-desk that might, in Europe, accommodate two. Most of the children wear the uniform kira or gho, and all are tidily turned out. The house- and school- captains look self-conscious and nervous at assembly, but break into ready smiles in conversation with us. Some of the younger children look mildly stunned: this is only the third day of their school career - who are these people who have turned up with tents on the school field? What’s this all about? Nicholas and Anna have brought a frisbee to donate to the school and spend a hilarious hour or two teaching the children in the late afternoon sun, an easy way to break down barriers. I feel helpless and humbled. The staff here are so dedicated and working with so little. We ask what the school most needs, and Yeshey can’t really answer. In some ways, it needs so much. In other ways, it has everything.

Bhutan does festivals in a quite spectacular fashion, and the guidebooks encourage visitors to include one in their itineraries. Usually held around the tenth day of the lunar month - this was when the Guru Rinpoche is said to have arrived in Bhutan and is therefore regarded an auspicious time of the month - they are great showpieces of colour and tradition. Lasting several days, they are also a valuable time for people in the surrounding area to catch up with more-distant friends and relations, and for young people to meet. Dressing up is part and parcel of the fun, and the riot of colour and extravagance spills over into the audience to an extent I have not seen elsewhere. The national dress, the kira for women and the gho for men, is no longer mandatory everyday wear, but it is still required when visiting administrative or religious buildings. The kira is a length of cloth that is either worn dress-style, pinned at the shoulders and belted at the waist, or, more commonly nowadays, worn as a skirt, with a deep pleat at the front, and held in place by a colourful belt. In both cases, a blouse and jacket are worn, the jacket pinned at the front and the sleeves of both turned back together, so that the colour of the blouse is visible in wide bands at the wrist. The gho is, to put it simply, a full-length dressing-gown worn knee-length. It is therefore tied at the waist and the extra fabric bloused out above the belt. The surplus width of the material is folded into two deep pleats down the back. The gho and shirt sleeves are folded back into wide cuffs, but, for men, shirts must be white. When entering a dzong, both men and women have to wear a kind of scarf. The women’s rachu hangs simply over the left shoulder, but the men’s kapney is tied in a specific way and hangs as a sash.

We were heading to Punakha’s festival, and were in for double the fun. The first five days comprise the Domchoe and a recreation of the battle between the Tibetans and the Bhutanese in 1639. The original battle was brought to a sudden end when the Zhabdrung purported to hurl into the river the precious relic that the Tibetans were seeking to regain, and thus ensure that the object of the battle could be won by neither side. Of course, he threw in a fake, but the Tibetans were convinced and went home. Nowadays, the Je Khenpo, Bhutan’s “chief abbot” and head of Buddhism in this country, enacts this moment, and young (foolhardy!) men crowd the riverbanks in preparation for diving into the icy waters to recover the object. By the beginning of day five when we joined the party, the last couple of dozen warriors were demonstrating their prowess to the sound of drums and cymbals, descending the steps of Punakha’s fabulous Dzong, and parading out to the river. I only hope that they were a little speedier in the seventeenth century, otherwise they’d have been easy targets for even a blind man with a bow and arrow. Then the great and the good followed them, the dzongkhag governor and his cohorts, lamas and monks, and, of course, the Je Khenpo, resplendent in an enormous black hat. Having watched this from inside the Dzong, we moved off with the crowds to find a suitable vantage point from which to watch the relic-throwing. Everything was very laid-back - no crowd control measures required here - and people seemed, for the most part, content to watch where they could, no matter if it wasn’t the best view going.

The next day, the party continued, this time with the first of three days of the Tsechu (dance festival). Everyone moved into the Dzong’s first dochey to watch the ritualistic and traditional but colourful and lively dancing. From the swirling dancers in huge hats and enormous amounts of skirt, to the clowns and actors recreating the building of the Dzong, it was lavish entertainment watched, from his “royal box” enclosure by the Je Khenpo, even though he had no further role to perform in the festivities. All around it was Christmas, New Year, the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and an extra-long bank holiday weekend all rolled into one. Junior monks caught up with their families and friends; young girls chattered nervously in their finery; policemen, standing out in their ugly twenty-first century garb, wandered around officiously, but unnecessarily; tourists looked bemused. And we joined in. One of the huge advantages in travelling with Jeff and Tshetem is that we had a guide who knew us well and who would therefore tell it like it was. Most guides would be too nervous of their guests and their guests’ sensitivities to mention it, but Tshetem had suggested to us that we might like to dress up in Bhutanese national dress for both the Domchoe and the Tsechu. While it is far from a requirement for Westerners, he explained that the Bhutanese would appreciate the courtesy and I am indebted to him for this advice. Jeff and Nicholas, having been here before, had already acquired ghos, and Anna had bought a kira in Thimphu the previous week. In sending over the boys’ formal clothes, Tshetem’s wife had thoughtfully included an additional kira and I was lucky enough to have the chance to wear it. I felt a million dollars… even if I was still wearing trainers underneath. The joy of full-length skirts: you can wear comfy shoes and no-one can see. Tshetem was right: we all got lots of compliments and appreciation from the Bhutanese, as well as some startled stares from tourists. While I was very sorry not to see any other Westerner adopting this costume, I must say that I think it is the first time I’ve featured in an over-excited Japanese tourist’s photos!

Heading back to Thimphu that afternoon, we were all silent. This was the first step of our going-home process, and the sadness that an incredible trip was coming to an end was caught up in the myriad of emotions generated by such an intense week of experiences. That evening, we partied. Tshetem’s Nepali wife, Lakshmi, had invited us to dinner and she did us more than proud. Dorje ensured that the arra was plied generously, for the benefit of both humans and spirits, before starting on the beers where the spirits didn’t get a look-in. Tshetem’s children gradually overcame their nerves and produced the household’s newest members for our entertainment, three small balls of canine fluff. Certainly not Dog in terms of brains and charm, but very sweet nonetheless. The next day, we did our bit for the benefit of the Bhutanese economy before driving to Paro where we would overnight in a farmhouse so as to be close to the airport for the next day’s flight back to the twenty-first century.




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30th March 2009

Dresses and all
It's been quite awhile since i've seen you in a dress - don't you look just fetching in that one! Great pics, as always!
6th April 2009

Bhutan
Liz Great to see the pics of here. Family friends of mine in Scotland did a botanical trup there to hunt rhodidendrons. Never been able to look at one without thinking where they come from
24th April 2009

Hi Guys...... This came out wonderful...Great Job Thanks..... Tshetem

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