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was commemorating, it was certainly doing so with great Excitement and Atmosphere.
Across another courtyard, up a dark flight of wooden steps to a square viewing balcony with space for perhaps 40 people to stand next to the railing, looking down into
Temporarily speechless
one of the most amazing and moving sights I have ever seen. So much so I had to leave after a few minutes, and go and look at the sunlight and distant mountains before venturing back in, still in a state of some shock. Seated one floor below us, lit only by smoking candles, cross-legged on the wooden floor, were four rows of monks dressed in their dark blood-red habits, two rows facing the other two rows, 48 monks in all. Each had a drum of about two feet in diameter, which was held vertically with the aid of a three-foot pole. They were beating these drums and chanting in the deep-throated growly tones that one only hears in Buddhist temples, all to a set but irregular rhythm without the apparent aid of written music or any other form of instruction. Wandering along the ranks of seated chanters was a sergeant-major or choirmaster with a large and solid-looking stick in his hand. He used this to apply a none-too-gentle rap on the shoulder to any monk whose drum was not held perfectly upright. I regret that my less than classical education made me think of Indiana Jones when he was deep inside the Temple of Doom amongst the thuggees. I apologise if I am upsetting any reader's sensitivities with this comparison, and I freely admit that there could hardly be less similarity than between a gentle Bhutanese monk and a murderous Indian thuggee.
Seated behind these monks, beneath our viewing platform, were countless other monks - some with instruments, some without. Some of these, it seemed to be the young novices, for no apparent reason received three lashes each on the back from a gentle monk carrying a cat-o'-nine-tails. (Parent: 'Did you have a nice day at the temple today dear?' Young Novice: 'Yes thank you mama.' P: 'Did you get thrashed?' YN: 'Yes mama - thrice.' P: 'That's my boy! Your father and I are so proud of you.')
Back to centre stage, where the performers were considerably more