220
The wrong sort of bees
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When it did eventually start, the dance proved to be well worth the cramp and the extremely long wait. Two monks appeared, dressed head to toe in crimson robes with brightly coloured sleeves and other attachments. The bull's head masks that they wore meant that the dancers were totally covered, and they whirled and twirled, leapt and stepped, dancing like demons. It was over in three minutes. The purpose was to cleanse the area of evil spirits - and it worked as far as I was concerned. I am afraid to say that I had had enough. I had been standing in a most uncomfortable and twisted position for an hour with one arm stuck up in the air. I was afraid that, like Pooh Bear when he had been observing the wrong sort of bees from a balloon, my arm would stay up straight in the air for more than a week. Added to that I was being pushed in the back by people who had, some of them, been walking for the best part of three days, presumably without the advantage of a hot shower every day. Besides, I thought it only fair for some of them to get a shot at the front row.
Outside I found a cool corner to watch the world go by and collect my thoughts. As I left the dzong there was still a steady stream of people coming in past the policeman at the main entrance standing, incongruously, with his fixed bayonet. If they were all heading for the viewing gallery, I realised that I had indeed chosen the right time to withdraw. It might be days before the front row could extricate itself.
From my shady vantage point I could see some wooden shacks standing in the shadow of the citadel. From these dwellings I heard the sound of a child screaming in distress. It struck me that until now I had not heard this all-too familiar sound in Bhutan; Bhutanese children all seemed to be smiling and happy, but this experience proved them to be the same as children everywhere. However, I should have had more faith. On inspection through my binoculars I saw that the little mite was screaming with delight at being chased round and round by an elder sister.
All too quickly, we realised that the only thing left to do on our trip was to get back to Paro for the night, in time to catch the plane the following day. There was a real sense of last night blues in the restaurant where we had dinner. A few of us felt compelled to sing a song or tell