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the ground.
Unobserved, I saw through a latticed window at the back of the hall the younger monks coming off duty from their performance next door. They were walking along happily, chatting and joking, just as young people would do anywhere, and pulling snacks from deep within their flowing robes.
Returning my attention indoors, I saw that the wooden floors were also, in their own way, a work of art. Onto the pressed mud floor had been laid three-by-nine-inch joists, over which, cross-wise, had been placed two-inch thick planks. And over this second layer was a third, also two-inch planks, laid at right-angles. This last would eventually become the floor and would have the feel of polished marble when finished.
In the so-called civilised world, with so many obvious technological and other advantages over an undeveloped country such as Bhutan, would it be possible to use traditional skills, methods and materials to rebuild one of our national treasures if it were destroyed? I very much doubt it. It was most moving to see such skill and attention to detail.
Then a workman's mobile phone rang.
Brother, can you spare me a dance?
It was time to return to the viewing place as the monks were about to do their traditional dance. I don't know about you, but I don't normally associate monks with dancing. I was intrigued. Crossing the courtyard again, the sense of Something About To Happen was greater than ever. Some of the people wandering about were clearly important officials. They were wearing very smart gos, but the traditional white shawl in these cases had red designs on it, and they had extremely fancy woven footwear to boot. More to the point, they were carrying large shiny swords. All Bhutanese gave them an extremely wide berth. I thought it wise to do the same.
The viewing balcony was more crowded by now, even some other tourists. (Apart from ourselves, foreigners had been very few and far between during our trip - almost to the extent that some of us were
218
the ground.
Unobserved, I saw through a latticed window at the back of the hall the younger monks coming off duty from their performance next door. They were walking along happily, chatting and joking, just as young people would do anywhere, and pulling snacks from deep within their flowing robes.
Returning my attention indoors, I saw that the wooden floors were also, in their own way, a work of art. Onto the pressed mud floor had been laid three-by-nine-inch joists, over which, cross-wise, had been placed two-inch thick planks. And over this second layer was a third, also two-inch planks, laid at right-angles. This last would eventually become the floor and would have the feel of polished marble when finished.
In the so-called civilised world, with so many obvious technological and other advantages over an undeveloped country such as Bhutan, would it be possible to use traditional skills, methods and materials to rebuild one of our national treasures if it were destroyed? I very much doubt it. It was most moving to see such skill and attention to detail.
Then a workman's mobile phone rang.
Brother, can you spare me a dance?
It was time to return to the viewing place as the monks were about to do their traditional dance. I don't know about you, but I don't normally associate monks with dancing. I was intrigued. Crossing the courtyard again, the sense of Something About To Happen was greater than ever. Some of the people wandering about were clearly important officials. They were wearing very smart gos, but the traditional white shawl in these cases had red designs on it, and they had extremely fancy woven footwear to boot. More to the point, they were carrying large shiny swords. All Bhutanese gave them an extremely wide berth. I thought it wise to do the same.
The viewing balcony was more crowded by now, even some other tourists. (Apart from ourselves, foreigners had been very few and far between during our trip - almost to the extent that some of us were
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