Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

To understand Bhutan you must understand Buddhism. There is no division between secular and nonsecular life; one flows seamlessly into the other. Every home contains an altar in which daily offerings are made. Monks in long maroon robes trimmed in elegant gold are everywhere. They walk down the street casually, chatting on their cell phones. They flow out of temples. They take taxis and airplanes. The landscape flutters with brilliantly colored prayer flags. Ribbons of horizontal flags zigzag over hillside, traverse ravines, and swoop over bridges. Vertical flags, skewered on long toothpicks, perch high on hilltops. “They must always be in place where the air is clean,” explains Dorji. When a person dies, their family climbs the steep terrain and perches 108 flags on the hillside.

The religion is such a pervasive part of the culture that it informs every aspect of daily life. The air is filled with the tinkle of prayer wheels, brightly colored cylinders that people circle and turn in a clockwise direction, sending their prayers to heaven. My favorites are the ones housed by streams, miniature water mills, the churning stream turning the wheels in a lovely, chiming rhythm. There are always old people at the wheels. “That’s because they have a lifetime of sins to wash away,” explains Dorji. It’s not uncommon for people to circle all day, chanting softly to themselves.

We visit countless dzongs, Buddhist temples, which are not only of historical and architectural interest, but form the backbone of a community. Dzongs breathe life. They are home to monks; the main dzong in Thimpu houses 4,500 of them, many of whom are children. Newborn babies are brought to the dzong to be named. Ceremonies are performed for the dead. Rites and rituals, for nearly every purpose you can imagine, are performed on a routine basis. “There is a special ceremony today,” says Dorji nearly every time we enter a dzong. At first we consider ourselves incredibly lucky to have arrived on such an auspicious day, but It soon becomes clear that everyday is special.

One afternoon we visit a dzong in Thimpu valley, one of the most important in the country. Dorji explains that the inner courtyard is packed with tourists at festival time, but this afternoon the square was nearly empty. Flocks of pigeons peck at the stone tiles, as monks duck in and out of secret doorways. We hear throaty chanting and bright horns floating from an unseen window above, not unlike a school band warming up. Dorji asks if we’d like to see the ceremony. We climb a dark, narrow stairway, leading to an open foyer where we remove our shoes. The sounds grows louder as we approach the colorful felt curtain separating us from the next room. The curtain is drawn, revealing two rows of monks, tidy rows of maroon and shorn heads.

We take a seat in the room, lit only by the late afternoon light that inches its way through the windows. Butter lamps flicker on the altar and spiced incense fills the air. The room throbs with sound. Some monks hold large drums supported by handles, looking like giant lollipops, tapping the surface with a twisting red candy cane drumsticks. Two monks play long brass horns, not unlike the Ricola commercials, which produces a low belch. The rest of the monks chant rhythmically, rocking back and forth, completely aware of our presence. We stare at them and they stare at us, caught in a trance of the senses.

In Bhutan, legends and myths are not things of the past; they are living, breathing, present beings. There is no “once upon a time.” There are no dusty fairy tales. Ancestors whisper in Bhutanese ears. At one dzong we learn that the statue of Buddha has been known to talk to the monks. There are stories of a great saints flying on tigresses, taking ferocious animal forms, burying evil spirits under great piles of rocks. One lama died and did not decompose; it was considered a miracle and he was interred in the lotus position in a great stupa. These stories are not told as myths, but are reported as actual historical events. We learn that the reincarnation of one of the great saints that lived hundreds of years ago is living in India. “You can go visit him,” says Dorji.

Astrologers are consulted on a variety of issues, from determining the dates of coronations to good days to travel. There are auspicious numbers. Three is lucky. So is seven and 108. In many cases Dorji can’t explain why these numbers are good. “The monks know.” It’s hard not to get swept up in the magic. I ask Dorji if we can visit an astrologer, but it’s something that takes time to arrange. And besides, he explains, I must go with a specific question or problem, of which I have neither. He offers an alternative; we can throw dice the next time we’re at a dzong.

When the time arrives, Dorji speaks to the monk, who disappears into a back room. He emerges a few minutes later, with an ancient brass tray holding three dice, which are ivory and impossibly old. “Each dzong has good numbers. The ones here are 9 and 14.” I am instructed to have a wish or hope in mind as I roll the dice. I concentrate hard, squeezing my eyes shut. “I want to be happy and find my purpose in life.” I release the dice, holding my breath. The number is neither nine or 14. The monk murmurs something. “A good number,” Dorji translates. I am guided to roll again. This time it’s 13. “Another good number. This is a good wish,” concludes Dorji.

I am confused, so Dorji tries to explain. “Sometimes we wish for things that are no good.” I think I understand: they are hopeless dreams that have no chance of being fulfilled. The dice tells you if it’s something worth wishing for. If you roll good numbers, it’s a worthwhile dream. “And if it comes true, then you know Buddism is true.” He says it with such conviction and clarity that I can’t help but believe in the mystery.