216
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
216
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 sold-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
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