Update #5: A week of festivals

It’s not hard to see why October-November is festival season in Bhutan: the crops are harvested, allowing a brief break in the endless working of plowing-sowing-weeding-guarding-harvesting-storing, the skies are clear and sunny, and though the nights are cold, the winter has not yet descended. In this respite between the rains of monsoon and the cold of winter, the weather is unbelievably perfect. The mosquitoes have abated, but the days are still sunny and warm. With little work to do, and perfect weather, everyone is in the mood to celebrate.

The celebration in Trashigang began last Sunday [Nov. 19, or so, I’ve been without internet for a while] at the dzong, with a rehearsal of masked dances, sans masks.



Seeing the monks whirling and spinning in their traditional red robes, albeit decorated with various ritual objects and scarves, made them appear much more human than they did the following day, when their identities were hidden by masks, many of a frightening appearance.



The dances of the tshechu instruct viewers about the sorts of visions and spirits they may encounter in the bardo between death and rebirth. Having a preview of the types of characters and situations one may encounter in the bardo helps the individual negotiate it more successfully, recognizing certain situations as they arise, so that he or she may make skillful decisions that lead to a better rebirth, or even enlightenment.

In Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, sentient beings are of six types: gods, demi-gods, humans, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell-beings, each inhabiting their own realm. To be born in the human realm offers the best chance of enlightenment, as the gods and demi-gods are in danger of too much indolence and enjoyment, and thus lack the necessary motivation of suffering to work toward enlightenment. Beings are continually reborn into one of these six realms, depending on their karma, where they replay again and again the samsaric existence of birth, suffering and death. The way out of this cycle is through enlightenment – that is, a true understanding of the nature of mind, and therefore, the nature of all things – which may, on occasion, be obtained in a moment.


One way of obtaining instantaneous enlightenment is to gaze upon a thongdrol, a gigantic appliquéd mural that is hung down the front of the four story dzong early in the morning, before the sun can hit it, on the second and third mornings of the tshechu. The thongdrol depicts key Buddhist figures, their various manifestations, and important aspects of their story. The intensity of this work of art – whose name means ‘enlightenment on sight’ – is thought to lift some viewers beyond the samsaric realm.



Seeking enlightenment, I was tied into my kira by 6 the next morning, and joined the throngs streaming toward the dzong. As tshechu is the one time of year when people come together in concentrated fashion, it is the time to see and be seen, and everyone wears their best kira or gho.



The kiras, in particular, are exquisite, covered with delicate embroidery that is actually woven into the fabric of the cloth. The east is the center of weaving for the country – in nearly every home, you can find a loom – so people are actually less particular about displaying their finery than they are Thimphu, where ‘keeping up with the Dorji’s’ is the capitol’s favorite game.

Between the fashions of the onlookers and the elaborate dress of the masked dancers, the tshechu is a riot of color and form. Remarkably, it all seems harmonious, and every where you look, there’s something to delight the eye. As the majority of the populace has been illiterate until recently, the tshechu delivers didactic messages visually. In addition to the instructions about the bardo after death, an atsara (clown) was informing people about safer sex. Dressed like a motley fool, the atsara typically carries a red-painted wooden phallus, a symbol of strength that wards off evil, that he uses tease or bless onlookers. This atsara’s phallus had a shiny coating, which I finally deciphered as a condom.



People crowded into the dzong’s courtyard to see the thongdrol on display in its shimmering glory, and monks and officials performed offering ceremonies in the front half of the courtyard. A number of tourists had gotten up even earlier than I, and formed the first row all the way around the courtyard. In their trekking pants, fleece jackets, and black camera beaks, they stood out from the crowd. As the crowd surged forward, I found myself at the limit of my tolerance for the Subcontinent’s sense of personal space (none), and retreated home to eat breakfast. Scheduled to conduct interviews that had been delayed by over a week because of a vehicle breakdown and unavailability of necessary officials, I was wary of the time.

My assistant Prem had arranged for a friend of hers (the Nepali engineer who disdains social science) to drop me in Tshenkarla as my vehicle was still under repair, but once again, we were plagued by vehicle troubles. His car needed air in its tires, but the electricity, and thus the air compressor, was not working. When I reached Tshenkarla an hour later than planned, I discovered that the government official deputed to help me was busy taking the census and issuing ID cards for the upcoming elections. This could easily have been conveyed with a phone call, sparing me an hour drive, but that is not the way of Bhutan...

After three attempts to reach Tshenkarla, and repeated obstacles, I decided that interviews were not meant to happen there. The Nepali engineer was headed further up the road to visit the black necked cranes at Bomdeling Wildlife Sanctuary, where I had conducted my first research in Bhutan six years ago, and I was happy to tag along with him and his friend and play tourist for the day. During the summers, people had always told me about the cranes, who migrated down from Tibet to feed on the grains remaining in the fields after harvest, but I had never had the opportunity to see them. The cranes – known a thrung thrung (pronounced thoong thoong) – are a major tourist attraction, and their arrival is so notable that one of the political parties has taken them as its symbol. After lunch with a couple other Nepali speakers who were amused at my efforts with Nepali, we drove 8km up a rubble-strewn road in search of cranes. The valley has developed quite a bit since I was last there, with the addition of a couple schools, a fancy park headquarters and renewable natural resource office. Where I walked with my backpack before, there is now a road.


When we reached their wintering ground, the driver pointed them out immediately. I couldn’t see them in the fields across the river until someone said “they look like sheep.” Suddenly, the humped white backs that I had ignored as livestock came into focus as the bodies of huge birds, bent over feeding. When we got too close, they gave their distinctive thoong thoong cry, and took off into the sky, circling the valley to find a quieter dining spot.