IN CAMBODIA

1 Feb 2010

Arrival in Phnom Penh
I arrived in Phnom Penh January 28th to start a three month mission at Emergency's hospital in Battambang, the 2nd largest city in Cambodia located in the country's northwest corner, near the Thai border. This is my fourth trip to Cambodia, but only the third to work with Emergency.

The Hospital
The hospital was established over 11 years ago to deal with the large number of landmine and other war-related injuries in this Khmer Rouge dominated area. With the end of the civil war, de-mining operations, and rapid post-conflict aid-generated development the boundaries of the killing fields have shifted to now include the roads. Every day hundreds of shiny, new motor scooters are added to the many thousands already crowding the country's improved and expanded road system. The growth in the number of cars follows at the same rate, though the numbers are smaller.

Changes
Fifteen months absence from a rapidly developing country can seem to the returned visitor that she has landed in a completely different country. Readily observable change is the operative word. It is not just that buildings exist that were not present before or land use has transformed the landscape. The style, materials, and shapes of the structures don't look like the old. New means the sharp, modern lines of glass and concrete that typify global urbanization. The new buildings could be in any city. Even traditional houses sport new bright red, green, or blue metal roofs that make them stand out rather than blend with their surroundings.

The changes seemed particularly impressive because I was driven from the airport to Battambang skirting Phnom Penh through the early stages of a brand new "international city". Not until we completed the by-pass loop and turned onto route 5 far to the north of the capital did I find familiar landmarks: irrigated rice fields, roadside stands selling lotus flowers, jars of pickled bamboo--each particular item of merchandise clustered along a short kilometer of the road where they have been in the past. Most telling of all the familiarities were the delicate spires of Buddhist temples rising above the trees in the middle and far horizons.

Battambang
Though much building has taken place in Battambang, such as a new 5 storied police building and high rise, flash hotels--the grounds and buildings of the Emergency Surgical Centre have the same clean, white walls that set this NGO apart and give the hospital an inviting, peaceful air.

The market in the middle of the city remains unchanged. One end is filled with the smell of dried fish and the fragrance of Khmer food cooking. The other end houses seamstresses fashioning tight-fitting sequined and beaded peplumed wedding attire on their treadle sewing machines in their tiny shops. Around the periphery the fruit and vegetable sellers set up their wares in colorful pyramids.

And in the park along the river a red shrine sits in the crouch of a gnarled much hacked-at Banyan tree--Ficus religiosus, the holy fig of Buddhism. Fine ash from the spent wands of incense litter the flags as they have for many years

PARO Bhutan

Christmas in Bhutan

After a visit to the Folk Heritage Museum in Thimphu on Christmas morning Judy and I traveled to Paro, the small town in one of the broadest of Bhutan's valleys. Every air passenger to Bhutan arrives and departs through Paro airport, the only one in the country. The Druk Air flights curve in an ascending or descending series of turns between forests and villages, skirting steep -sided mountains. No radar or directional signals are useful in such a non-linear situation and the pilots are dependent on visual flight rules. When I asked how the pilots determine when the conditions are safe, my gaze was directed to a monastery on the top of a mountain just northeast of Paro: when this is visible, the weather is acceptable. What better than this in a Himalayan Buddhist Kingdom?

The Tiger’s Nest

We hadn't come to Paro to fly, but rather to walk to the Taktshang Goemba, the most famous of Bhutan's many Buddhist monasteries. Guru Rinpoche flew to this holy site on the back of a tigress in the 8th century, giving it its name, The Tiger's Nest. The monastery buildings are perched on the sheer side of a rock face 900 meters above the floor of Paro valley. According to the guidebook, the original building was held to the rock by the hairs of female celestial beings who also carried the materials to build monastery on their backs.

From the car park, the only access to the monastery is by foot or horse. A few western tourists with guides walked the path, but most of the travelers were Bhutanese and Tibetan families on pilgrimage, with little ones making the 2-hour one-way journey without complaint. Starting in silent blue pine forest, walking on a thick carpet of pine needles and between huge granite boulders strewn about, the path rose gradually to a small glade where a water-turned prayer wheel chimed the rippling passing of a small stream. The three shaded shrines, the sound of running water and bells in the absence of people made the setting that much more conducive to the presence of "other beings”. From that point, the trail rose in steep switchbacks and the blue pines gave way to mixed broad leaf oak, holly, and rhododendron forest thickly laced with spanish moss.

Some journeys achieve their power by making the pilgrim wait for the splendid revelation of the goal until the final bend in the road. From the beginning, from the road outside Paro, every lowly pilgrim has the Taktshang Goemba in view. As the path opens at certain places and the details of the rock face make evident the improbability of finding such a building plastered to the side of the mountain, one's appreciation grows and the fatigue of the climb diminishes, spurring one on forward

Just when the monastery seems within an easy biscuit toss from across a ridge at an elevation of 3140 meters, the path descends into the chasm of an icicled waterfall before the final ascent along the cold mountain wall to the dank buildings. I have little appreciation for Buddhist iconography--the names and stories confuse me. Judy feels little different, so we didn’t spend time in the cold monastery buildings. We retraced our steps to enjoy a seat in the brilliant sunshine and eat a picnic lunch on the ledge across the chasm that had on our approach enticed us with such a magnificent view. A perfect place to savor hard-boiled eggs, crackers, and tangerines, lightening our load for a leisurely descending stroll.

Riding the Himalayas Down

Our friend, Nicola, had suggested a 14 kilometers bike ride, from Paro into the mountains to visit the ruins of the Drukgyel Dzong. The prospect of riding into the Himalayas, to the head of the trail that leads into Tibet, seemed a suspect Sunday activity for a couple of middle-aged women, neither of whom particularly fancy uphill cycling. Nicola assured us it was an easy road, though we didn't realize until later that she hadn't herself made the ride.

It was still frosty at nine when we picked up the bikes at the shop, (contact: Kuenga, cell: 17684660) donned helmets and gloves and headed north up the Paro valley. The heavy mountain bikes were in fine shape, but within a minute, we realized that the hard seats would cause far most lasting discomfort than sore legs from pumping uphill. Once outside Paro town the traffic on the one lane road thinned. Drivers politely honked to show that they saw us. To a person, they made good on the biker's ideal of sharing the road.

After about 7 kms the farms gave way to forest, the same blue pine forest we had walked through on the way up to the Tiger's Nest. The road steepened, but still didn't require a full-out effort or the lowest gears. At this point the road conditions improved due to less use, and though the sun had become warm, the forest held a lovely coolth. Having gained some altitude, we also had more curves, buzzing around them with only the hum of tires on dry pavement. Coming into a clearing south of Jetshaphu village the solid white cone of Jhomolhari (7314 meters, Bhutan's second highest peak) came into view between the peaks of closer mountains. Though we hadn't climbed more than a several hundred meters in altitude, seeing that tall mountain’s perfect cone so close made us feel we'd accomplished something of merit.

Drukgyel Dzong

Another couple kilometers and a short pedal to the village of Drukgyel Dzong, we reached the end of the road. And there, across the rice fields, perched on a rise were the ruins of the 17th century Dzong. The name comes from Druk--Bhutan, and gyel--victory. The Dzong had been built to celebrate the victory of Bhutan over Tibetan invaders in 1644.

The building's characteristic Dzong white wash has weathered away over its 50 years of disuse after a fire destroyed its inner buildings. It has all the appearance of a medieval European fortress with the buildings of its village neatly assembled around it within easy reach for needed protection. Walking up to the ruins, around the intact outer walls, and approaching the inner courtyard through the bent entrance, I saw shades of crusader castles, especially Krak de Chevaliers in Syria, with its similar strategically defensive architecture. The courtyard had a similar layout to those of other dzongs we had seen. Except for the remains of the central tower, little remained of the inner buildings, though the deep prisons in the bowels along the outer walls for holding Tibetan prisoners looked particularly cold and unhealthy.

We saddled up for the ride down to Paro in brilliant noon sun. After a stop for tea at the Amancora resort where we were given gracious hospitality among its luxurious surroundings despite our inauspiciously sweaty clothes and disheveled appearance, we sailed down the mountain, coasting against the wind, feeling very pleased with ourselves and our Himalayan adventure.

Bhutanese Buildings

I look at architecture with an untrained eye as to how buildings are put together or what is 'right' as far as design. What determines my pleasure in a building is based on beauty and functionality and I like to think these two should go hand in hand. Traditional Bhutanese architecture of white-washed stone or pounded mud with wood framed windows and doors rates high on both the beauty and function scales.

Traditional buildings

The traditional rural houses I've seen around Thimphu, Paro and on our trip east to Bumthang are usually 2, 3, or 4 stories high and rather large to accommodate an extended family and lot of "in house" functions that are necessary in rural life. There is an open loft under the roof for drying food and for storing fodder and wood. The wooden beams supporting the upper floors, door and window lintels are painted in traditional colors and patterns, contrasting with the stark white of the high.

The decorative paintings of swastika, cloud, conch shell, lotus, wheel, and animals, such as deer, tigers and mythical Garudas eating snakes give a whimsical quality to the buildings. Phalluses are commonly painted on the white walls of rural houses. These are said to ward off evil, spouting a spiral of semen. I can't imagine what my neighbors would say if I painted a handsome penis prominently on the wall of my house. Stone and wood phalluses emerge from walls, are the conduits for water fountains, or hang in flying form from the corners of roofs. (See picture of painting a house).

Buildings are traditionally made using no nails. Wood beams and posts are precisely cut to fit and ceilings are secured to cross pieces with bamboo strips. Roofs are flat stones in the form of rectangular or square tiles, wood shingles, or iron sheeting. Clay is sometimes used to hold down the stone tiles, but large rocks--often round, white, river rocks laid directly on the shingles, or laid on a plank of wood that holds down a row of shingles or pieces of metal--are the normal means to keep the roofs intact.

Public buildings, such as the covered, cantilevered foot bridges, temples, and huge dzongs (the large, fortress-like combined administrative and monastic complexes that are the center of provincial government) are built in the same style of whitewashed stone or tamped dirt with the same sort of beamed construction and no nails.

Besides building without nails, traditionally buildings are built without plans. This fact is stated by guides and repeated in books with pride. It seems that much else in the country is done without plans.

Modern buildings

Modern buildings in Thimphu are made in a traditional style, but of concrete (like "adobe" construction in Santa Fe). The square concrete "beams" function only as decorations. The shoddy modern workmanship does not shine like that of the glorious and loved buildings that most Bhutanese outside the towns live in.

BUYING KIRAS

Bhutanese Dress

Already having a closet full of ethnic attire, I resisted the temptation to add a Bhutanese ensemble to a growing collection of beautiful but unwearable clothes. It is not just the grace of the floor length kira skirt with its perfect side pleat or the shiny material of the boxy jacket, the taego that convinces a western woman that this might just be the ethnic statement she was born to make. It's the combinations of colors and patterns meant to complement, not match, that lets one think of clothes in a completely new frame. Basic black is not a Bhutanese concept.

Buying my Kira

The first jacket I picked up at the wholesaler was shiny purple brocade with a pattern of gold, orange and turquoise flowers. Busy and gaudy, it was exactly what I wanted. The shop women laid a thin silky turquoise wonju, under blouse, over the taego, that perfectly picked up the turquoise in the flowers. The wonju's fabric is self-patterned with sprawling dragons. The half kira I chose is horizontally striped in blue, purple, black, orange, gray, and maroon with embroidered yellow-gold highlights. All these colors allow a kira to be matched with an assortment of jackets and blouses in combinations that go beyond anything I had been taught was acceptable.
Trying the clothes on in the middle of the store over my staid black, I felt daring--breaking every rule of the "clothes police". Who would have thought of such wild combinations? And there were so many more I could have taken.

Learning to wear the clothes

When I brought the package back to the apartment to show Judy, I couldn't remember how to tie the kira. It all has to be done in a special way, with the pleat on the right. Half dressed I asked the woman across the hall to show me. It is still a chore and when I wore it to the hospital the female orthopaedic techs shook their heads and re-did it.

Judy's Kira

Our friend, Nicola, helped Judy find her kira at a different wholesaler, a huge store with a choice that went on and on. After Judy's first purchase, she bought taegos for her sisters, another 2 for herself and has ended with a stunning collection of brocaded jackets that will make her the bell of any ball.

Last Sunday we returned to the fabric wholesaler, what we now call the kira shop. After four or five visits, we have become well known to the proprietor and so familiar with the merchandise, that we simply walk behind the counter, pullout the taegos, line them up on the counter and start matching them with silky wonjus and the bolts of kira fabric. We like to think we've developed the eye, the "Bhutanese eye" that looks at the color and pattern combinations and finds symmetry in amazing combinations.

The French Connection

A woman and two men chilups, French chilups, came into the store with a guide who was assisting them in clothes buying. The store's proprietor helped the men buy ghos, the men's belted national dress. Judy and I had the pleasure of showing the woman how to tie and pleat a half kira. We directed her in choosing a "Bhutanese color combination" that made her all black coat, pants, sweater and boots stand-up and cheer. After choosing their ghos, the men took interest in buying ensembles for their wives. Everyone left the "Kira Shop" with something. For Judy and me, we had the fun of mixing and matching, putting colors and patterns together, without paying.

BHUTAN'S NATIONAL DAY CELEBRATION 17 December

Special invitations
Invitations for the National Day celebrations were suppose to have been received before 09:30, 16 December. By the time we left the hospital at 15:00, no invitations had arrived. Dressed early in our bright, silky Bhutanese national dresses, Judy and I were sure are native beauty and gallant efforts to look the part could not help but secure reserved seats. As we walked through the painted entrance on the far side of the stadium, a man rushed up to us explaining that this was a national holiday, the 102nd anniversary of the first king's assumption of the throne. I was sure he was going to tell us to go in the plebian entrance. Our identification as volunteers at the hospital and taking a photo of him beside the effigy of the first king with a promise to send him a copy brought out his card--Senior District Cultural Officer of Thimphu. Our invitation!

With innocent ignorance I flashed the Senior District Cultural Officer's card at the first entrance where it was given a skeptical look and a nod to go to the next entrance. The card was still viewed with an irregular gaze, but no one wanted to be a spoil sport, or get in trouble by showing that they didn't recognize a special invitation when duly presented and we were welcomed inside. Our seats on the north end of the stadium were in full, glorious sun.

Beautiful Ghos and Kiras
All the spectators were dressed beautifully. The men wore colorful striped and plaid ghos with their white sashes, topped (or bottomed) by embroidered and appliquéd cloth boots. They sat under the awning and in the VIP stands in rows like church deacons in belted and sashed vestments as portrayed in 5th century mosaics. The women were dressed in gloriously patterned kiras and taegas, (long sarong skirts or dresses and boxy cuffed and collared jackets) the latter often shot through with shiny metallic threads. Everyone was scrubbed and bright in strikingly attractive color juxtapositions. Who would have ever thought peach and sage green were meant for each other? From a distance, anyone can distinguish the chilip (westerner) females in Bhutanese clothes from the Bhutanese women. Few chilips have the imagination to don the color and design combinations that the Bhutanese women wear so effectively with casual grace.

The Processional
The procession of the monks was a costumed parade of color and costume, hats, robes, wigs, with drums, horns, and cymbals. The display, pomp, and purposefulness of the whole thing, the shades of a warrior cult with the swords along with the robust and obliging religion showed the workings of power. Bhutan is not a theocracy. Like Saudi Arabia, the state and the official religion work hand in glove ruling the country. It was like an historical reenactment taken to the extremes and we the audience, in our own costumes, were part of the show.

After the processional the king gave a long speech with awards to various citizens. I was told that King's words accompanying the red sashes and swords, the equivalent of knighthood, carried the admonition that the color was that of the Buddha, like the king's yellow, and carried the distinction, not of power, but of responsibility.

The show began with the dancing groups. I was told these came from different areas of the country, though the rhythm of strings, flutes and drums and the uncomplicated male-female singing duets sounded alike to my untrained ear and the gentle movements of lined men and women also had similar lulling qualities. There were no high jumping theatrics, nothing with the least motions of flirting or sexual insinuation.

Nature Story or Saving the Tree or perhaps something else
The following is a description of my favorite performance and from the reaction of the crowds laughing and cheering in the stands, theirs too. N.B. My version is most romantic and in its Golden Bough search for meaning and sacredness, beats all others, even if it is wrong.

The setting: A tree, which I assume stands in for all trees, if not the sacred grove, erected with some effort in the middle of the field. The background music: bird and sounds of nature.

A group of men in gold helmets with neck and cheek flaps, garbed in leopard and tiger skin skirts with tails and legs making the hems, to reinforce the idea of their primitive nature, danced around the tree brandishing their long curved machetes to a wilder beat. They were quite vigorous and one could easily imagine all sorts of variations on virile tree worship. These warriors left and out came a procession of "villagers", the men in shirtless lungis and the women in toga-like vestments wearing crowns and holding offerings or playing flutes. Some religious types followed in their finery--the staff of office, the vestments, their assured carriage. The bird/nature music resumed and one could easily imagine scenes from the Mahabharata or stories of cavorting Dionysian virgins--take your pick.

The music changed to approaching thunder, forcing the "villagers" to take cover with the return of the leopard/tiger-skinned warriors. These latter joyously danced around the tree, but when they moved in as a group with their swords raised to chop down the tree, they are repulsed not only by the thunder from the music, but some magical force from the tree that sent them sprawling on the ground after each attempt at destruction. (a crowd pleaser)The male "villagers" returned with bows and arrows and a great stylized battle took place between the two armed lines, striding forward, retreating, all choreographed against loud, martial music and thunder sound effects. I think the archers won this battle, but it wasn't clear. My assumptions derive from knowing archery is Bhutan's national sport and rational thoughts that that this should show superiority, especially in a National Day celebration. But following the story in the stadium, the religious guardians, accompanied by the bagpipes, cymbals, and drums of Buddhist monks, saved the tree, enticing all the combatants to put down their weapons, with all men now living in harmony.

I was so excited to find this "sacred tree" theme in the Himalayas, expressed so energetically on a Bhutanese playing field in glorious sunshine. Surely, it is hard-wired in human DNA? That a universality of ideas inspire mankind is a soothing thought, able to banish many darker aspirations, unless one looks too closely as the hard-wired nature of evil. When I asked my Bhutanese orthopaedic colleagues the next day to confirm my mythical, universalist rendition, I was told the story probably had something to do with folklore, but neither of the surgeons knew the story and thought it had a more modern ecological meaning of fostering a respect for Bhutan's nature. I will hold to my own version.

Dance of the Monks
My second favorite performance was the dance of the black-hat monks. (Not the traditional Black Hat Dance as done during the festivals.) Dressed in wide-sleeved, voluminous, long, belted robes of red, black, blue, or gold and swathed in various other colored layers the booted monks danced in a studied ritual of circling in a circle. Slowly twirling the handle of their two-sided drum and hitting first one side and then the other with the flexible curved metal "stick", they swooped in forward-bending, back-kicking circles to the low registered drone of long horns. Colors flared with every graceful movement. The tall, conical, and brimmed hats are made taller with a discoid centerpiece and the many strands of braids flowing from under the hats, give the monks a decidedly witch-like aspect. I don't believe (even in my quest for universality) that the origin of these monks' dances align with those of the mystical Sufi dervishes who whirl in their journey to find god. But could the result be the same?

By this time in the early afternoon, a gentle breeze had come up, tempering the hot sun. The silk appliquéd awnings and yellow ruffles of the royal pavilion billowed and fluttered. In true Bhutanese fashion a dog wandered into the field, curled up, and slept. A marching band in yellow ghos, embroidered boots and gold helmets looking a bit like roman legions on the march, performed a routine that would be fitting of a staid half-time football entertainment.

The King's departure
The end of the celebration was a slow dance, the tashi lebey, in a round to which everyone was invited to participate. Judy and I watched. When it was over we waited for the departure of the fifth king, the young handsome king. He turned to us, bowed, and thanked us for coming.

LIVING IN THIMPHU

Judy and I have been living in Thimphu for almost 2 weeks now, in the two bedroom flat for the nurse anesthetist HVO program. The kilometer + walk to the hospital in the morning is all downhill and the reverse in the afternoon. The orthopaedic guesthouse is on the hospital grounds but suffers from the lingering presence of an offensive dead rat smell. Also being large and cavernous, it is not heatable with the available appliances. Days are sunny and pleasant, needing only a shirt and a fleece, but the nights are well below freezing and space heaters make no dent in the heavy cold.

Changangkha neighborhood
Though Thimphu is a small town with only a couple of major streets, it has taken us this long to get to know where we are and how to describe it to others. We have a map, but none of the locals, including the cab drivers, know the names of the streets. We have learned to give the general neighborhood, Changangkha, the name of an old fortress temple and monastic school, Changangkha Lhakhang, perched on the heights above us. But the best directive we have is DHL. For some reason everyone knows where the DHL office is located. Rounding the corner form the DHL office, our next coordinate is the dripping faucet that identifies our gate from the others. Not exactly a GPS reading, but it seems to do.

Streets are known by obscure names. Colloquially known "Swimming pool Road" is marked as Doebum Lam on the map. Doebum has nothing to do with swimming pools. Directions are given as up or down. The cardinal points of the compass mean little, since nothing lies in a straight line. Even the ups and downs curve most surprisingly.

Shop Number 7
Number addresses mean nothing. Business establishments are in "buildings". And somehow one absorbs these names in an organic manner. Names are another quirk. We were told about a nearby grocery, referred to by everyone as Shop Number 7. Easy as chips--a left and a right, up and up--can't miss it. After a bit of confusion, a helpful woman pointed it out: M/S Lhatshog General Shop and Imports. Yes, the same as Shop Number 7, but the number is nowhere written. The story: Shop Number 7 used to be down in the town where there was some attempt at order with numbering the establishments. When it moved up to Changangkha neighborhood, everyone still called it by the old name. No one knows the present one; I can't even pronounce it. Advantages of shopping at Shop Number 7 is that the walk home is all downhill and one can pick wild marijuana along the road.

Garbage pick upGarbage pick up is another unique cultural experience. A collection truck comes by Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, honking its approach between 06:45-08:30. The distinctive horn blasts from the street, followed by the sound of doors opening and slamming, and slipped feet slapping down the stairs announce garbage pick-up. It is almost a community affair with neighbors meeting in the street in various forms of dressing. This seems to be the normal operating procedure throughout the city's neighborhoods.

Thimphu's DogDescriptions of Asian cities are incomplete without some mention of the dogs. Those in Thimpu, and throughout Bhutan, form a separate layer of society that shares the same space with humans, but functions on a completely other plane. They are a constant presence but the Bhutanese treat them as an unseen and unacknowledged underclass that is allowed to go about its business without interference. I walk to work when the few people on the streets and foot paths are cleaners and manual laborers, maybe a few school children, and of course the dogs. Curled up still sleeping in the streets or in hollows in the bush or in protected crevices in broken concrete or already about their business, they are the most obvious denizens of the city. Even in packs they are unthreatening and the only abuse they receive from humans is neglect. Unlike Nepal, I've not seen any physically mistreated. As a whole they don't look particularly disreputable, but many are skinny and the lactating females look particularly forlorn. A patch of sun in a monastery courtyard, the hospital driveway, or the middle of the road is bound to be decorated by a curled canine catching a few Zs so he can join his fellows for the regular nighttime chorus.

The Eviction.
At 14:30 today, 14 Dec, we found out that the owners of the flat near DHL have asked us to be removed so that a relative can stay here. The woman at the hospital is most upset at this abrupt change and we are sad to leave our cozy flat to move into the cold, cavernous ortho guesthouse. Neither of us is convinced the rat smell is completely taken care of and the whole eviction seems rather strange. We could understand if the neighbors had complained about the growing mountain of Druk 11000 beer bottles in a cartoon outside our door, but that doesn't seem to be the case. We will be too far from Shop Number 7 to make use of its downhill trip home, the garbage truck will no longer be a thrice weekly Olympic rush to the street, and we will no longer feel some affinity with DHL. The dogs will remain a constant to remind us that we are still living in Thimphu.

BHUTAN'S NATIONAL SPORTS

ArcheryAnyone who has been to Bhutan, watched movies or documentaries, or read about the country will know that archery (datse) is the national sport. An anachronistic sport that goes well with a culture where men wear generously cuffed, collared, and belted knee-length bloussomed coats as theirmain garment. Whether competing with traditional bamboo bows or the far more accurate American-made compound bows, men shoot at a small target 145 meters away at local archery ranges. Returning from a birding walk in Bumthang, Judy and I watched part of a match, but were more interested in the jests and personal antics of the players who make sport of all aspects of the game, including the abilities or disabilities of their opponents.

Hurling with the monksOn the same walk we passed three monks playing daygo, a game of hurling a heavy stone at a dug-out depression at the far end of the field. A variation of horse shoes or bocce with the goal of both placing your stone closest to the goal and also displacing your opponents' stones. Monks are prohibited from participating in archery. I wonder if this rule stems from the same sort of reasoning given by the medieval church, prohibiting churchmen from drawing blood. Militant arch-bishops and other religious notables still sat their saddles in the vanguard, cradling maces and rushing into battle to crush the heads of their enemies. They followed, if not the spirit of the Christian laws of brotherly love and turning the other cheek, then at least the letter of the law of drawing no blood.

Tsheten said the usual strategy is to get the heaviest stone one can throw, but also one that doesn't tire the arm before the end, at which time one's opponent with a smaller stone would have the advantage.

The all day darts game
The best sport show of all was a women's dart (khuru) tournament. Early on our second day birding, driving north from Punakha to the Jigme Dorji National Park, we stopped to experience a village darts game. Women from two villages were competing on a rough pitch about 20 meters long, formed from the lowest terrace of a recently harvested rice field. The teams of 8 or so players were made up of young and middle-aged women, done-up in their finest long skirts or dresses (kiras--more about them in another blog) topped off with traditional shining silk jackets, taegos, over a silky shirt, wonju to complete a most stunning and unsportif outfit.


The darts are about 12 inches (30 cm) long with a 3 inch heavy metal point, a bullet-shaped wood "bobbin" centered on the shaft and balanced with three feathers of thin plastic sheet. Thrown with gusto, the darts spin through the air and end up in a wide scatter around a two foot high target that had been pounded into the ground and angled from the players at about 50 degrees. The celebration after a hit brings the winner and her fellow players into a circle in the middle of the field where they perform a traditional song and dance accompanied with some superior laughter and a bit of showing off at the expense of the opposing team.


Late in the afternoon on our way back to Punakha, still hunting for the white-belly heron, the women's game was in full swing, encouraged now by a much larger audience of rooting fans and boisterous commentators, fueled by a day of festivities.