The opening ceremony takes place in the smaller, lower courtyard, which is hung with swathes of yellow silk, billowing out from a beamed loggia.
Out of 6000 monks supported by the government of Bhutan (there are 3000 others who live off private patronage), 200 live and work in this dzong, and before the crowds gather, I take a peek inside their rooms. The atmosphere seems very much like that of a Victorian public school. There are wood-panelled partitions, pegs on walls, dormitories with bare wood floors and rows of shoes at one end. I almost expect to see Dr Arnold striding round the corner of one of the dim and dusty corridors, heels clicking on the stone floor.
The courtyard is filling up. In the buildings on the far side boys’ faces peep out and figures in maroon robes flit across the windows, their shaved heads catching the sunbeams.
There are a few tourists, but they’re heavily outnumbered by local people, and heavily out-dressed as well. Not for the Bhutanese the polyester or the Gore-Tex. For them it’s fine cotton and silk brocade, or hand-woven wool, individually patterned. Colours and designs are bold but never brash. I’ve rarely seen showing-off done with such subtlety.
There are no rows of seats, no tickets, no security staff bristling with head-sets. Spectators are left to sort themselves out, though there is a jolly, smiling actor brandishing what looks like a cat o’nine tails, who occasionally intervenes to help little children and performers get to the front.
First in the arena are the atsaras, clowns with bright red costumes and face masks dominated by exaggerated, beaky noses. They look like Mr Punch. Some carry painted wooden phalluses, which they use for crowd control. In their half-frightening, half-funny masks they are extremely effective at everything, from keeping the crowd back to chasing off stray dogs who want to take part. They also keep the crowd’s spirits up with slapstick routines. Doje tells me that the atsaras, like court jesters, have licence to mock anyone involved in the tsechu, including the monks. This is quite necessary, as the long dances can become a bit tedious and are notably short on laughs.
They are, however, astonishingly rich in costume. From the very first number, described in the programme as Dance of the Lord of Death and His Consort, the profusion of colour and design, the sheer quantity of brocaded silk on display, the exuberance of the ankle-length robes with their wide, swirling sleeves, is marvellous to behold.
Big, expressive, brilliantly coloured masks complement the sumptuous costumes. If the deities are to be portrayed then they must be portrayed in all their terrible, magnificent glory. The music that accompanies the dance is played on eye-catching instruments ranging from the seven-foot-long Tibetan trumpets they call dungchen to painted and tasselled double-sided drums that look like cushions. Oboes, bells, cymbals, conch shells and a small horn made from a shin bone contribute to the clashing, tinkling, plangent sound.
As the morning goes on, the crowd swells, more and more people squeezing into the limited space around the perimeter until it’s barely possible to avoid being pushed forward. It gets hotter, the high bright sun slicing the courtyard in two, reminding me of the sol y sombra of a Spanish bullring.
The Dance of the Lord of the Cremation Grounds is followed by the Dance of the Black Hats. I don’t know the significance of these dances and the English translations are not always enlightening: ‘on the external edges of a symbolic mandala where the assembly of the secret tantric deities are residing.’ What is impressive is the poise of the dancers, often carrying enormously heavy costumes and headdresses, as they trip, turn, whirl and pirouette on the hard stone flags. In the last dance I see, the Dance of the Drum From Dramitse, the Black Demons are vanquished by the splendour of the White Gods, who swirl round in golden silk skirts hung with precious jewels. It is outlandish, frequently inexplicable and very wonderful.
Day One Hundred and Fourteen : Paro
After two days at the tsechu I take back all I said about Bhutan being an empty country. It feels as if, apart from two or three people left up in the mountains to look after the yaks, the entire nation is here in Paro. At certain times of the day, it’s queuing only on the elegant covered footbridge leading across the river and up to the dzong.I’ve heard rumours of over-booked hotels with tourists having to camp out in the grounds.
Dust rises from the crowds wandering through the temporary market, which has spread between the dzong itself and the out-buildings nearby, where much of the dancing now takes place. There are makeshift cinemas and fairground games like hoop-la and even bingo. I pass a packed tent where a Bhutanese man calls the numbers in a remarkably plummy English accent.
‘How do you do? Three and Two.’
Nearer the dancing, every inch of grass is taken up by picnicking families, many of whom look as if they have come down from the mountains. They unroll portions of seasoned pork and chilli, mushrooms and eggs and drink butter tea from thermoses. For them, tsechu is both pilgrimage and party.
Having devoted most of this morning to the Dance of the Judgement of the Dead, I feel in urgent need of some light relief and take up Khendum’s invitation to join her for an archery match.
For her, this means watching only. In one of the rare examples of sex discrimination in Bhutan, women are not allowed to take part in traditional archery competitions. Two other reasons why I’m relieved to be, like her, a spectator, are that it looks pretty difficult and most of the participants are roaring drunk.
The hospitality tent, set on a pretty, willow-strewn meadow, is full of bonhomie. Long, rambling stories are told, one man sings ‘Waltzing Matilda’ at full volume, another lurches by with a whisky and loud yell, another becomes droolingly amorous. Khendum introduces me to them.
One is the Secretary of Employment, another the Managing Director of the National Bank. Others are chairmen of this and that. I realize this is no ordinary hospitality tent. These are the movers and shakers of Bhutan, letting their hair down. And why not?
Well, I suppose one reason why not is that they will shortly be loosing off arrows at enormous speed in a field that contains not just the target but also women, dogs and small children.
The national game, they keep trying to tell me, is taken extremely seriously and any young Bhutanese boy, in a village or a palace, learns the skills early on. However, it’s clearly not a solemn sport. Though women are not allowed to play, they have an important role as vocal supporters.
Khendum tells me, with much amusement, that the night before a match the men sleep together in a dormitory with the door locked, as sex before a big game is considered bad luck.
She shakes her head in some disbelief.
‘So the women are integral to the game, but the night before they don’t want anything to do with them.’
Taunting is also an integral part of the game. Before a man shoots, it is the duty of his opponents to put him off by any means short of physical contact. Personal comments demeaning his appearance, physical irregularities, masculinity and the disloyalty of his wife are not only permitted but encouraged.