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saying: 'Hey! We booked Bhutan this week. What are you lot doing here?') What we were about to see must have been on the itinerary of every other tour group in the country. I was lucky enough to squeeze up to the front, and stand facing sideways in the general squash but with a reasonably good view of the floor below. After a while, two of the shorter horns (akin to oboes) started up and the general air of expectancy increased tangibly. Then two of the long bass horns started blowing their deep notes; each horn had to be held by two monks. They were blown for about five minutes, and then they were joined by the oboes. By now there was an enormous sense of anticipation, rather like at the beginning of a concert listening to orchestra tuning up but never quite getting there.
Then came the officials, looking resplendent and led by a pair of horn players (the oboe variety). One official had a large and lethal-looking cat-o'-nine-tails, which was this time, thankfully, being used to thrash the floor in front of the other dignitaries. However, judging from the conspiratorial grin he flashed at me when he passed by, he would probably be happy to thrash anything (or anyone - even me).
The official procession having passed, some of the dignitaries returned with their families - and we realised that we had committed something of a faux pas. When trying to get to the best vantage point at the railing, I had noticed that some brightly coloured mats had been placed on the floor. It did cross my mind that it was a pity to have them trampled under foot by the assembled multitude, and then I thought nothing more of it. Until, that is, that I saw one of the official-looking gentlemen, clearly disappointed, motioning to his wife to the area near my feet. Like the proverbial Germans at the hotel swimming pool, it seems that these good people had reserved their spot at dawn, only to have it snaffled. Ho hum. I do not know what he did, but it was clearly impossible for him to claim his spot. I was squashed sideways onto the rail itself; at my waist was a child's head, and underneath her were two more wriggling youngsters.
Meanwhile, back on the stage, there was some activity. One orange-robed monk led out a team of 15 red-robed brethren and stood with them in a little huddle, talking sotto voce. He was like the coach at the beginning of a rugger match. ('Now, lads. I want a good clean puja.')
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saying: 'Hey! We booked Bhutan this week. What are you lot doing here?') What we were about to see must have been on the itinerary of every other tour group in the country. I was lucky enough to squeeze up to the front, and stand facing sideways in the general squash but with a reasonably good view of the floor below. After a while, two of the shorter horns (akin to oboes) started up and the general air of expectancy increased tangibly. Then two of the long bass horns started blowing their deep notes; each horn had to be held by two monks. They were blown for about five minutes, and then they were joined by the oboes. By now there was an enormous sense of anticipation, rather like at the beginning of a concert listening to orchestra tuning up but never quite getting there.
Then came the officials, looking resplendent and led by a pair of horn players (the oboe variety). One official had a large and lethal- looking cat-o'-nine-tails, which was this time, thankfully, being used to thrash the floor in front of the other dignitaries. However, judging from the conspiratorial grin he flashed at me when he passed by, he would probably be happy to thrash anything (or anyone - even me).
The official procession having passed, some of the dignitaries returned with their families - and we realised that we had committed something of a faux pas. When trying to get to the best vantage point at the railing, I had noticed that some brightly coloured mats had been placed on the floor. It did cross my mind that it was a pity to have them trampled under foot by the assembled multitude, and then I thought nothing more of it. Until, that is, that I saw one of the official-looking gentlemen, clearly disappointed, motioning to his wife to the area near my feet. Like the proverbial Germans at the hotel swimming pool, it seems that these good people had reserved their spot at dawn, only to have it snaffled. Ho hum. I do not know what he did, but it was clearly impossible for him to claim his spot. I was squashed sideways onto the rail itself; at my waist was a child's head, and underneath her were two more wriggling youngsters.
Meanwhile, back on the stage, there was some activity. One orange- robed monk led out a team of 15 red-robed brethren and stood with them in a little huddle, talking sotto voce. He was like the coach at the beginning of a rugger match. ('Now, lads. I want a good clean puja.')
Page 270Page 271
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