The Shugdrel

Thimphu, Bhutan

 Have you ever been to a Shugdrel? Bhutan has many. I was invited to one. Not knowing what is was, naturally I went. It turned out to be another one of those experiences that is so new, so unexpected and so utterly fascinating, that it will remain forever fresh and exhilarating. What is a shugdrel? It is an opening ceremony for official government meetings.

Most Asian governments revel in pomp and ceremony, in displaying the fact that they are part of the upper echelons of power and don't you dare forget it.

That was not totally the case in Bhutan. This particular shugdrel introduced the Dzongkhag Yagye Tshogchung, or the DYT, at the Thimphu Dzongkhag's Naktshang. And what does that mean? It means it was a consultative session for village representatives to discuss their concerns with their government officials in the government office.

The Thimphu Naktshang (regional Government office) was set amongst willows on the bank of the Wang Chu. The Wang Chu (River) roared past the Naktshang, a raging torrent swollen by the monsoon rains and the melting snow. Set near the entrance gate stood a chhorten, four meters square and twelve meters high. It was built hundreds of years ago to counteract the demons who used to cause trouble at that spot.

 Inside the chhorten, treasures and armaments were safely sealed behind its thick brick walls. 

We lingered in this pretty spot while waiting for the ceremony to start, not allowed to enter the building until the Dzongda (the head honcho) and the other dignitaries had arrived.

The first to arrive was an orange-cloaked Lama, with his attendant monks, clad in bright red. Gups, Dungphas, Mangi Aps and Chimis (in descending order of importance, the local officials) lined the right hand side of the path leading from the entrance gate, wearing their red and white sashes across their khos, side by side with the government officials in white shawls.

Then, timed for maximum dramatic effect (read: late), the Dzongda arrived, regal in his ornate costume, resplendent in the purple shawl of a Dasho and bearing a huge sword in a scabbard which glistened with gold. He processed up the path, keeping far to the left. The Gups, far to the right of the path bowed and scraped as he passed. The only thing I missed was the music from the Mikado. The Gups still did not move. They waited. The rest of us were ushered in for an audience with the Dzongda. The gups et al nodded, all smiles, as we processed past them. There seemed to be slightly less obsequious obeisance in their acknowledgement of our particular importance (if any) in the procession of dignitaries.

Inside the office, the Dzongda sat on an immense, tall chair, not unlike a throne, behind a massive desk, well raised above we mere mortals, set on a foot high platform. We looked up to him! We began to chat about the weather, the soccer match last week, where we had been, where he had been.

We covered the usual opening lines of consultants in which consultant and client become lost in the morbid details of misspent youth. Aha! He had been to Australia in 1965. His eyes lit up.

‘King's Cross? Is it still there?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

His eyes glazed over as he ruminated, all the while chewing doma and spitting it more or less accurately into a silver spittoon at his (and our) feet. Moving my legs a shade to the left helped delay the impression I was developing measles.

Preparations having been completed, we were called into the meeting hall. Seating for guests was on a row of unobtrusive benches placed well apart from the delegates who were arranged in two rows facing each other in the main part of the hall.

The monks had set up an altar. Twenty-one brass bowls of water, rice and fruit, adorned the altar, while incense sticks, wedged securely into peaches, smoked away on either side. Everything else was ready. Where were the delegates? Where were the monks? We were alone. It felt like opening night at the opera. The orchestra was about to assemble. First came the monks, followed by the Gups entering in reverential procession.

When everyone was in place, in strode the Dzongda. Once again, everyone bowed and scraped. He mounted another raised platform (Bhutan has a lot of raised platforms) at the other end of the hall, facing the altar. Yet another throne awaited him there. He acknowledged the lesser beings gathered in the hall with an imperceptible inclination of his head. Everyone sat.

Set out on a low table before the Dzongda was an arrangement of fresh fruit, the centerpiece a luscious pineapple.

Two incense tapers, set in peaches, wafted away at each end of the table. No one spoke.

The silence was enhanced by a chorus of coughing and shuffling, set against the accompaniment of the river roaring past outside.

Two men entered carrying small bowls. They touched the floor with their heads, bowed before the altar, then turned and did the same before the Dzongda. They then moved around the delegates, handing a bowl to each. Two more men entered, touched the floor, bowed and moved down the line of dignitaries, pouring mulled apple wine into the empty bowls. The bowls remained cupped in their hands. No one moved. A strange low growl began to fill the hall. I looked around, puzzled.

They had begun to chant a puja. The Don Cossack chorale or the Welsh Male Chorus would have found some real talent amongst the assembled gups. They pitched their starting note at least on a low D flat.

The Thimphu Naktshang Gup Gewog Chorale? It doesn't really have a commercial ring to it! When the puja finished, all sung on the one low note (allowing for minor semi tonal or quarter tonal vibratos, plus the occasional gasp for breath!), they solemnly lifted their bowls and drank the wine. Then they licked the bowls clean!

Two more men came in, this time with tea. Again the prostration before the altar and the Dzongda and again a puja started, a little higher in tone.

This routine was carried out eight times, the servers delivering tea, dried fruit, more wine, rice cakes, fruit juice, a little more wine and so on.

Each time they sang, the tone of the puja got higher and higher, the intonation less precise and the volume louder and louder.

Yet another morsel of rice was served, carried in a purple cloth and, with a silver ladle, ladled straight into cupped hands. Tea was poured into the bowls. This time, there was no puja. The servers then poured all the rice and tea which remained into a large bowl on the table in the center of the room. An official came in with a large spoon, moved to the table and lifted up the bowl and the spoon to the altar, as an offering. Everyone stood and proceeded in the loudest and highest tone yet to chant, asking for blessing on the meeting about to commence. They sat down. Another man came in carrying a spear on which hung the flag of Bhutan. Two girls entered carrying a coin and a pile of one ngultrum notes, one of which they distributed to each delegate.

More servers entered, with more doma, fruit, wine, bananas, apples and wine. The pujas continued getting higher and higher and louder and louder and less and less controlled. A man bearing bunches of roses entered and placed them on all the tables in the hall. More food was served and yet more wine. When would it end?

Then, without warning, everyone stood up, walked quickly outside, raced along the path to the riverbank, lifted their khos and peed into the river!