The Uzbeki family is horrified that they are Cecile’s closest neighbours and slept through the incident. The wife, Lola, who has refused months of afternoon-tea invitations from Cecile, starts dropping by to check on her. They are a devout Muslim family and, apart from a nod if we pass each other on our evening stroll, they have mostly kept to themselves. That changes. A 15-year-old daughter we didn’t know existed appears at our door with a plate of spicy shredded meat and rice. Lola seeks out Mal for advice on their hot-water geyser. Her husband works for the United Nations and wouldn’t have a clue about such things, she says. Next thing I know, Mal is taking his toolbox over to the Uzbeki home and Lola is sending us regular food platters.
The taciturn estate manager, who lives with his children in a log cabin and has always ignored us, starts to smile when he sees us. This odd community, with its wealthy Bhutanese land owners alongside workers and expats from wildly different cultures, bonds a little bit closer. It is ironic that at the same time our little village seems scarier, it also becomes friendlier.
Driving to work, I look more closely at the shutters on the shop windows. They are made of steel. Nearly every shopfront in the main street of Norzin Lam has one. I wonder why I hadn’t noticed that before.
I listen with new awareness at Bhutan Observer news conferences as the reporters tell of knife wounds treated every night at Thimphu hospital, the family that was robbed of rice and cooking utensils by armed intruders, and handbags being stolen through bars on ground floor windows in the next suburb.
Thimphu has a crime problem. It’s not New York, but it’s a problem all the same.
6
The Biggest Story Not Reported
To commemorate 100 years of monarchy, Bhutan Observer runs an essay-writing competition for students, and Phuntsho asks me to join the judging committee. I start to make excuses. I know little of Bhutanese history and can’t read Dzongkha. She says half the essays are in English and it won’t hurt me to learn about their royal family. She is a smiling steamroller: it’s impossible to say no.
The judging panel – comprising the three section editors and me – meet on a Saturday in the boardroom. I walk into a heated discussion: the rules published in the newspaper said there would be only one winner, but the editor of the Dzongkha edition argues that the languages can’t be compared, so we will have to choose two winners.
I don’t understand the problem. Isn’t the winner the one who writes the best essay about the Kings? What does it matter if they write it in Dzongkha or English?
The arts editor, who was raised in a Dzongkha-speaking home, explains that it wouldn’t be fair. Dzongkha has five words for compassion and five words for knowledge, and the language is more internal than English, which revolves around the external. In expressing the sublime qualities of the Kings, a student fluent in Dzongkha can write more profoundly and with more nuance than a student who uses English. They have an enormous advantage.
That shuts me up. I ponder it for the rest of the morning. Five words for compassion? How can you parse the meaning of compassion into five different slivers? Why do they need to? Does it follow then that Dzongkha-speaking people understand knowledge and compassion better than we English speakers? I start to become conscious of connections between culture and language that I hadn’t considered before.
The judges decide that, to be fair to the students writing in English, who are at a disadvantage with just one word for compassion, we will award two winners – one in each language.
Judging the essays gives me a crash course in the history of the Bhutanese royal family. By the time I leave the room some five hours later, I’ve read hundreds of essays and learned about the achievements of the Kings. It is a strangely humbling experience.
I’m as cynical about royalty as any journalist who has spent time covering the scandals of the British royal family. Years spent working on Fleet Street newspapers and Australian women’s magazines crushed any faith I might’ve had in the monarchy. But I find myself developing a grudging respect for the Bhutanese Kings. They were mavericks, each of them, and moved the country forward regardless of what was going on elsewhere in the world.
The First King united the country. Centuries after the Zhabdrung had died and Bhutan had gone back to being a mess of warring tribes, he brought peace and encouraged trade within Bhutan by improving transport and communication. He also established education outside the monasteries.
The Second King opened medical clinics and signed the first treaty with India. He repaired infrastructure, including bridges, monasteries and temples.
The Third King was educated in England from the age of 15, and opened Bhutan a little to the outside world. During his reign, the country joined various international organisations, including the Colombo Plan in 1962 and the United Nations in 1971. He signed up India to pay for roads and telephone lines. He also abolished serfdom and capital punishment, and established an independent judiciary.
The Fourth King gave the world Gross National Happiness, and introduced democracy to his country.
Schoolchildren learn about the royal family in class. Kathryn can recite the full names of all four Queen Mothers in order of seniority, using a sing-song chant Mal made up to help her remember them all. Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuck, Ashi Tshering Pem Wangchuck, Ashi Tshering Yangdon Wangchuck and Ashi Sangay Choden Wangchuck. At the end of the year she makes a card for the Fifth King, decorating it with hearts and bells and wishing him a ‘Merry and Happy new year’.
Despite being the most important people in the country, the royal family rarely make it into any of the newspapers. The Fourth King and Fifth King are only covered when they attend an official function to which newspapers have been invited. Mostly it’s a photo opportunity and the palace provides the pictures, while the stories reproduce their speeches in their entirety. I ask Needrup what would happen if the palace didn’t like something in a story. Would someone phone him? He shrugs. He doesn’t know, as it’s never happened. He would never publish something the palace wouldn’t like – not out of fear but because, like any good editor, he knows his community. Censorship doesn’t come from the top; rather, it comes from the bottom. Respect and reverence for the royals is hardwired into every reporter, editor, reader and person on the street. It’s part of their cultural fabric. Bhutanese deference means ordinary people won’t look their royals in the eye. Drivers have been known to plough into rice paddies when they meet a royal car on the road and lower their gaze.
The royal family seldom comes up in news conferences. There is no media coverage of a car accident involving one of the Fifth King’s brothers, a handsome young prince-about-town. Nor is it mentioned when Bollywood’s hottest actress flies in for the coronation or when a beautiful young Bhutanese woman starts to accompany the Fifth King to functions. The palace doesn’t volunteer photos or information on who she is, and the newspapers don’t ask. No scandal, no speculation, no reducing the sacredness of the Druk Gyalpo to ordinariness. The people most emphatically do not want that.
But it’s not just any potential scandal that goes unreported. Even the Fifth King’s good works are mostly ignored. Some of the stories I hear from expats or in Bhutanese homes suggest the King is rather good at his job. He appears to be a genuinely kind man. It’s just not reported in the newspapers.
Although single, the Fifth King adopted two sons, both poor orphans with special needs, and they live with him. One of them, Ugyen, is at Rosemary’s School with Kathryn. He wears thick glasses and appears a happy, well-cared-for child, with his own devoted attendant to take him to and from school. When the Fifth King is out of Thimphu, the attendant comes to the school’s performance of The Jungle Book to cheer him on and take lots of photos.
I hear from expat friends about an Austrian doctor in a country clinic who had to tend to a royal uncle after he fell into a rock crusher. It was a horrific accident and the man was dead when he was broug
ht in, but Dr Susan was told to try to save him anyway. Knowing it was futile, she went through the motions of an emergency resuscitation. The sterile packets she opened were mouldy, and when she turned to look for a nurse there was no-one. Unbeknown to her, the Fifth King had turned up unexpectedly and, shocked by the sight of him, the staff had fled. The Fifth King had been visiting flood victims nearby when he heard of the accident. Seeing that Dr Susan was alone, he offered to help her clean the body, which she said was a messy job. When they finished she thanked him, saying her adult sons wouldn’t have been able to perform such a gruesome task. He replied humbly that it was the least he could do. Then, just as quietly as he appeared, he slipped away. No fuss, no fanfare and, even when I tell the reporters about it, no interest from the newspaper. They are not surprised or excited by stories about the Fifth King performing good works. That’s what he does. Such stories are not newspaper fodder; they circulate by word of mouth.
Kuensel was invited to report on a royal visit to the east, providing a rare occasion to read about a personal interaction between the Fifth King and his subjects. In a remote valley the Fifth King met a woman who had been ostracised because it was believed she was ‘a poisoner’. Villagers thought they would die if they took food or drink from her hands. The 49-year-old woman accepted this as her karma.
According to Kuensel, the Fifth King was warned to stay away from her. Instead, he sought her out and embraced her. He drank two cups of ara (rice-brewed alcohol) from her hands, and the rest of his entourage lined up to do the same. The Fifth King told her to tell the world that she had served him in person and that stories of her poisoning others were baseless. Her life changed: from that moment she was welcomed back into her community.
The way the Bhutanese speak about their Kings, they sound like a cross between living gods and benevolent uncles who are very much part of their lives. When Phuntsho speaks of the Fourth King, her voice changes and she gets misty-eyed. She feels she has known him all her life. When he announced he was handing power over to a democratically elected government, and the crown to his son, she was devastated. It was a seismic shift of her worldview, and everyone else’s in Bhutan. But his wisdom is absolute. She respects the new King and is ready to become devoted to him. No question.
The Kings also provide a sort of royal largesse, solving their subjects’ problems in a uniquely Bhutanese way. The Fifth King criss-crosses the country giving kidu, which is translated as ‘royal prerogative’. It can be given in the form of money, land or authorisation for something. In effect it means he will use his considerable powers to help where he can. To farmers who have suffered as a result of land redistribution or a road going through their orchard, he has granted kidu in the form of money. To the media, in recognition of the difficulties they face through inexperience, he gave kidu by establishing and funding the Bhutan Media Foundation to offer training programs and scholarships, and by sponsoring newspaper subscriptions for all schools.
After his coronation, the Fifth King announces he intends to personally meet every one of his subjects, and he sets himself an exhausting schedule. He travels to the most remote corners, often walking for days through jungle and snow, sleeping rough, to hear firsthand the problems of his people. Often he drags along one or more of his brothers and sisters. And where he can, he grants kidu.
His father set the example of being accessible and granting kidu. After the Fourth King returned to Bhutan from England to take the throne at the age of 17, he never left the country again, except for a trip to India. Once a week he threw open the doors of the palace for people to come and tell him their problems. It was through these open days that the Fourth King met his four wives. The story goes that the eldest of the sisters came to tell him of her family, whose potato farm was struggling. He listened, gave some form of kidu and invited her to come back to tell him how her family was doing. Over time a friendship developed, and at some point she brought her sisters along to meet the King. I don’t know what happened after that, but somehow or other they all got married. It’s not in the history books or referred to in the newspapers, and there is only so much gossip about their Kings that the Bhutanese will share with a foreigner.
Bhutan Observer’s special coronation edition is a huge success. The Bhutanese are mesmerised by the pictorial wraparound, the country’s first: eight glossy pages featuring the Fourth King, the Fifth King and a rare treat – the rest of the royals. A series of photos shows the four Queen Mothers standing in line, laughing with the Gandhi family. Readers pore over every detail, admiring the Queen Mothers’ glamorous kiras and elegant red coral jewellery. The five princesses wear jewelled Alice headbands in their hair – a new style statement that will immediately be adopted by the fashion-conscious young women of Thimphu. Even the Fourth King’s much-loved sister Ashi Dechen Wangmo Wangchuck is photographed. She hasn’t been seen in public for years, spending her time in solitary retreat in a monastery near the border of Bhutan and Tibet. Her elaborate kira dispels rumours that she has become a nun. Clearly, she hasn’t taken robes and shaved her head.
To see the royals captured so informally is intriguing to readers. The edition sells out within a matter of days, their best-selling issue ever, with a circulation of around 9,000. National distribution in this mountainous terrain is usually a problem, but not this week. People in Thimphu buy extra copies to send to their families in remote villages. Whether the villagers can read the stories or not, they will proudly tape the pictures to their walls.
7
The Light on the Hill
Phuntsho gives her staff a day off to thank us for the late hours we put in during the coronation celebrations, so Mal and I hike up the mountains that ring the city to a popular picnic spot by the BBS TV transmission tower. From here we can see into the next valley and glimpse the one beyond. The view sweeps across Tashichhodzong, a massive fortress built by Zhabdrung Rinpoche that houses both monks and the civil service, then over the modest palace of the Fifth King, along the meandering Wang Chhu river, across squat city buildings, and all the way to the foothills, where the Fourth King’s royal compound nestles in groves of cypress and pine.
The tiered golden roofs of the palaces of the Queen Mothers glisten in the sun. It must be an auspicious day because we can hear the sound of rhythmic drums and discordant trumpets drifting across the clear air. Monks are conducting a puja at one of the royal homes.
The transmission tower is much like any other and not the reason that anyone – apart from technicians – comes up here. The attraction is this view and the unique ambience, partly created by the forest of prayer flags that flap in the wind, setting up a baritone vibration that goes right through the body.
Joseph Campbell writes in The Power of Myth that the tallest buildings reveal what dominates a society. In a medieval town it was the cathedral spire reflecting the supremacy of the church. In an 18th-century town it was the political palace, the houses of parliament. In a modern industrial society the tallest buildings are offices, the centres of economic life. In Bhutan, mobile-phone and television transmission towers are edging their way up the mountains, but prayer flags and temples still soar above them all.
Mal and I hike up the steep path, past the transmission tower, to the temple along the ridge at the top. We know nothing about it except that it is there, which seems a good enough reason on this sunny, dry winter afternoon.
It is an uneven, winding path, and after an hour or so we reach the temple. While we are catching our breath, a wooden door creaks open and two monks appear, nodding and smiling to us as they walk to an outhouse. It is their laundry and toilet. We’re embarrassed to have encroached on their space and start to move away. Just then, a third monk appears.
He is young, perhaps in his mid twenties, with a round, pleasant face. He greets us in tentative English. It appears he wants to invite us in, but only if that’s what we would like. We don’t want to intrude, and the three of us smile and d
emur, the dance of polite strangers. Somehow, without actually agreeing, we end up following him through the wooden door in the wall, across a lawn where kitchen utensils are drying in the sun, and into a tiny courtyard. He explains that five monks are doing a three-year retreat here.
Mal starts to back away, apologising for disturbing them. The monk looks distressed. ‘No, no. Please. If you would like to come in, you are welcome.’
Leaning against a wall is a ladder made from a thick tree trunk with hand-carved steps. At the top is the altar room. Like everything else in this perfectly formed temple, it manages to be both small and grand at the same time. The row of Buddhist statues towers above us, filling the room – Buddha, Guru Rinpoche, Amitabha, Manjushri and Zhabdrung Rinpoche. Their faces glow in the flickering light cast by hundreds of butter lamps. The monk tells us that behind an ornate screen threaded with white scarves is Tara, the female emanation of Buddha. She is the protector of the temple and completely hidden from view.
There is just enough room in front of this imposing line-up of statues, each up to two metres tall, for the five monks to sit.
The monk introduces himself as Yeshe. He explains the temple is called Chhokhortse Gompa. It is 3,010 metres above sea level and was built in 1345, centuries before Thimphu became Bhutan’s capital. He invites us for tea. We follow him back down the ladder, across the courtyard – a distance of just six steps – and climb another hand-carved tree trunk to his quarters. He ushers us through a small room with a gas ring and groceries, and we enter his bedroom. It is so small that Mal and I sit shoulder to shoulder on the single mattress jammed against the wall. This is where he sleeps and meditates, for hours at a time, day after day. A low wooden bench acts as his table and stores his prayer books. The walls are covered in thangkhas, ornate wall hangings of Buddhist deities.
The Dragon's Voice Page 6