Wangdi’s Phodrang

Wangdiphodrang, Bhutan

Wangdiphodrang Dzong. All these years later, to hear that name makes a vision leap out of that niche in my memory which recalls absolute delights with the vitality with which it stunned me that first day: a real live fort, stuffed with ancient weapons; a monastery filled with mystery and intrigue. The sun squeezes through narrow arrow slits. Rickety ladders straggle up tall towers, disappearing into gloomy mystery. Passageways twist and turn through narrow, dark openings.

The clarion call to battle leaps out from every nook and cranny, stunning the imagination. From dark and mysterious corners, evil eyes glare at me as I cautiously creep along.

The Dzong was overrun with cats! It was built in 1638 by Nawang Namgyal to celebrate a victory in battle. There were various far less prosaic stories about its construction. Some people said Namgyal had a dream in which he was told that he must build a dzong in the form of a sleeping bull. If he did, the country would have peace.

Another version had it that four crows were seen flying off in four directions. This was considered auspicious, as religion could be spread to the four winds in a similar way. Yet others maintained that someone saw a boy building a tower of pebbles on the riverbank.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I am building a phodrang (tower)’.

‘What is your name?’

‘Wangdi’.

Ergo! A dzong is born. So the site was selected and called Wangdi('s) phodrang.

As with all dzongs, there is not one nail in the structure. The stones are individually cut to fit together like a massive jigsaw. To enter the cobbled outer courtyard of the dzong, you climbed a huge, steep staircase through guarded gates. The stairs were of various heights and widths. Negotiating them after coming home after a night on dragon rum would have been tricky, unlikely given the supposedly temperate and holy nature of the inhabitants.

A huge kitchen darkened by the smoke of centuries of culinary mediocrity clung to the courtyard walls. Oliver Twist would have felt right at home. No electricity allowed! Even the Dzongda and his staff, in offices overlooking the courtyard, positioned their desks to catch the light that squeezed through the arrow slits. From the outer courtyard, along narrower, steep steps, through a low, gloomy tunnel and into the inner courtyard, the monks lived and performed their religious and other duties. Huge prayer halls, the Lhakangs and Guangkhong, loomed over you, themselves dwarfed by the six-storey central tower, the Uchi.

The monks were aged from six years up. Not so long ago, a law obliged that the third son from each family had to become a monk. Nowadays, if parents decided to, they presented their sons, along with gifts of cloth, betel nut and money, to the Lama. Once accepted, the ‘gifts’ spent their life studying the Buddhist scriptures.

If they could not repeat exactly what they learned on the day after they had been taught it, they were in danger of being whipped with a four-tailed leather whip! Some of the young monks looked so forlorn. Some looked distinctly unwell, but the children in the village seemed generally in more straightened circumstances.

My friend Karma, who had joined me for the trip sought out the Lama. He was in his cell and Karma called out to him, motioning to me to stay back. A sudden scurrying of red clothes disturbed the peace. Three adolescent, half naked bodies fled out the door, down the corridor, giggling and adjusting their robes.

A rheumy, red eye peeped through the curtain. Rearranging his own robes, the Lama emerged beaming but slightly breathless, his mouth filled with doma.

He beckoned us to follow him on a tour of the inner sanctums, took us into the central tower and started to climb up yet more staircases and ladders, all smooth with age. Musty caves lurked left and right. Intriguing corridors led off in all directions. The low murmur of chanting wafted from behind mysterious doors, while all the while the constant whirling of prayer wheels provided a mesmerizing accompaniment.

As we climbed higher, the wind howled through the towers, the calls of the birds swirling around us from their shelters under the eaves. It was summer and yet the place was bitterly cold. What would it be like in winter? At the top of the tower, we removed our shoes and entered one of the holiest chapels in Bhutan. Small, about ten by eight meters, bowls of water, rice and candles adorned its altar.

Behind it, a mural etched in gold, into which were set five locked doors, provided a spectacular backdrop.

Holy statues and images stood in vast array behind the doors. They could be opened only in the presence of the King. Facing the altar, at the opposite side of the chapel, was the Lama's throne.

The chapel was decorated with colorful cloths, umbrellas, textiles, cymbals, drums and trumpets. Providing a jarring counterpoint to the normal religious paraphernalia, were numerous helmets, shields, swords and daggers plus a bizarre collection of the most demonic weapons you could imagine, mostly captured from Tibetan intruders. Others dated from the days of internal battles between the warring factions of old Bhutan. Many were centuries old.

In those olden days, Bhutan's kings would pray in this chapel before going off to fight. The image of the god of war brooded over it all. This was a chapel? Its warlike atmosphere was difficult to reconcile with the peace and serenity of Buddhism.

But then, what about the Cathedrals of Europe, with their knights in battle armor and their stained glass windows celebrating God's support for the righteous who used his name to justify killing those who also used his name.

Karma and Phuntsho, his son, wasted no time soaking in the atmosphere. They prayed, prostrating themselves three times before the Lama's throne and three times before the altar. My back prevented my lithely following suit, though I managed. The Lama poured holy water into our cupped hands.

We sipped the water and then with moistened fingers, touched our head, eyes, ears, mouth and neck. He bought out a bowl in which were two dice. It was time for some fortune telling.

As each of us rolled the dice, we made a wish. Karma rolled a four and a three, followed by a one and a two, all propitious omens. My roll resulted in exactly the same! The Lama beamed at my ever so slightly raised eyebrow. Loaded dice? Perish the thought. Las Vegas or Jupiter's this definitely was not! Or was it?

After ensuring that my future was bright, the Lama led me to a window. The chapel was at the top of highest point in the Dzong. You could see for miles, ideal for keeping a watch out for attacking hordes! He invited me to photograph the view. The view, son, not the chapel. Then, back down the ladders and stairs and into the central prayer hall.

Monks sat in groups, reading aloud. Everyone seemed to be reading something different. Quietly cacophonous. Babel revisited? Again, we purified ourselves with water and reverently inspected the images, frescoes and icons. Small, exquisite statues lined the walls. Most were of the Buddha. Numerous frescoes portrayed scenes from his life. Others showed Guru Padma Sambhava, his ever-present thunderbolt scepter in his hand. Still others portrayed the Shabdung Rimpoche, Ngawang Namgyel, builder of the Dzong.

Outside the prayer hall were more frescoes, including the wheel of existence, the Bhavachakra: a visual synopsis of Buddhist belief that man can be brought into a relationship with the cosmos. The small circle painted at the center shows the human urge to action. Ignorance, passion and hatred are shown by the pig, the rooster and the snake. Only by conquering these three evils, are you able to attain the upper worlds. If passions and hatred overcome you, you descend to the tortured lower worlds and to hell.

Or so Karma tried to explain to me. He was, as always, very helpful. The Lama nodded sagely as Karma continued, though I am sure Karma knew that the Lama had no idea what he was telling me and, emboldened, he continued.

‘You see, Lansell, when you die, you go to hell, where you appear before two kings. They have between them a huge set of scales and they proceed to examine your life. For each good deed that you did, you get a good stone on one side of the scales. For a bad deed, a stone is placed on the other side of the scales until every act has been assessed and balanced. If the good deeds outweigh the bad, you MAY go to heaven. But first, you must be punished for your evil deeds. For example, if you squashed a bed bug, you will be suspended between two great stones, which swing together and crush you, nine times for each animal you have killed!’

‘You are then punished for your other sins, by being suspended over a cauldron of oil and alternately dipped in the cauldron till you are almost cooked. Just before your body disintegrates, you are pulled out and thrown onto the snow to freeze to death. JUST before you freeze to death, back you go into the oil, until the balance is cleared. If your good deeds are many, you may go to heaven. On the off chance that they aren't all that many, you try again! Of course, if your sins are many and outweigh your good deeds, you may return to this life to suffer as a sickly dog. The blind and maimed are considered to have done something amiss in their previous life.

‘If a stranger comes to your home and asks for shelter and you refuse him, you will be reincarnated as a tortoise and spend your life carrying your house with you as punishment.

After the tortoise dies, he may reappear as a human, if he is a good tortoise. Even the monks have to face judgment’.

That was something to check up on later. From what little I knew of monks to date, there would have been a lot of judgment to be faced. The gospel according to Karma may have been coloured with his own not necessarily accurate theological embellishments. No doubt a grain of truth existed in it all somewhere.

It was four o'clock and the monks lined up for dinner. We squeezed in behind two rows of young monks, no more than six or seven years of age, waiting in line, each with a bowl and a piece of cheesecloth.

The cloths and many of the robes for that matter, were caked with grime, while all around was the overpowering odor of centuries of accumulated cat's urine, dust and pigeon droppings. Each day, the government provided the monks with baskets of cooked rice. The monks’ meat and vegetables came from the people's offerings.

The Lama reappeared, carrying a leather thong and looking for all the world like a British public school headmaster of yore. He prowled down each line, occasionally gently cuffing one of the youngsters. No one seemed scared of him. He beamed with pleasure and even winked at me. He gathered his robes and processed into the main chapel, inspected it, nodded his satisfaction, came out onto the stairs and rang a gong. The dinner gong!

Immediately the older monks filed in, quickly and silently, smirks, grins and winks abounding as they passed by. One of them brushed against me and, lingering momentarily, lightly rubbed his hand against my crown jewels.

Stunned, but intrigued, my imagination ran in several directions. Reality reestablished itself as the next youngest group entered.

Barely teenagers, they processed a little less silently and a little less reverently than the first group. Finally came the ‘kindergarten class’, rushing in like a flock of chirping sparrows after fresh grain. The Lama cuffed a couple for good measure as they rushed past and took their place in the chapel, arranged in rows according to age, sideways to the altar.

Then began the puja—a responsive grace. The deep voices of the older monks stated a phrase and in reply, the high-pitched voices of the youngsters followed. This went on for about five minutes. Then food was served. The cheese cloths were held open. Servers carrying wicker baskets plopped a scoop of rice in to each cloth. The Lama followed the servers, as if checking the amounts, his whip at the ready!

The minute the rice was ladled in, each monk wrapped it into the cloth, tying it securely. Once everyone was served their rice, the youngest monks ran out of the hall to an adjoining room, where once again they sat in two slightly unruly lines. More servers appeared with buckets of cabbage stew, ladling it into bowls. Hordes of flies hovered by in stand-by mode.

The monks held their bowls and, when everyone was served, put the bowls down and opened their cloths. All was carried out with great dignity and absolute quiet in the main chapel. The ‘littlies’ were like littlies anywhere, boisterous and full of life, chafing at the bit as they waited for the ceremonials to finish so they could eat. Each one took a handful of rice and molded it into shapes. These they set carefully on the floor in front of where they squatted, until every grain was molded.

Then they began to eat! My fondling friend caught my eye and winked. He reached down and rubbed his crotch suggestively, leaving yet another cabbage and rice stain on his robes. This seemed an odd place to find a gay beat! Half expecting to be invited to join in the repast, we were left to stand and watch, mere observers.

Perhaps when my stomach became more acclimatized and I had my own cheesecloth...

Oh, to have stayed longer. I had been privileged enough. Not being able to take photos was no problem. The temptation to do so was overwhelming, but some things are special enough not to snap or video. As we left, the overpowering darkness of the place was alight with beaming smiles. Where were the dark recesses, the gloom, the dusk of centuries? This was a place that was alive with joy, purpose and vitality.

One had to remember, when invited into a dzong to be careful to have one’s official pass. If the police or the administrative staff caught you, your confrontation with the Dzongda could result in your trip being curtailed, your film confiscated and your stay in Bhutan ruined. My limits had been to film the outer courtyard of Wangdiphodrang Dzong.

The Dzongda stopped me at the main entrance. His main concern was that the films I had taken, albeit of the ‘allowed’ parts of the dzong, would be shown to others, either in Thimphu, or overseas and bring Bhutan into ridicule. He explained that it did Wangdiphodrang Dzong no good to be seen in such a poor state of repair! While it was magnificent, in places it badly needed repair. That added to its mystique. They were starting to repair it. The detail with which the craftsmen worked was amazing.

Apart from the obvious ‘newness’ of the timber, every change merged perfectly with the old.

Yet it was not the structure. It was the experience of being there that intrigued. To this day my imagination is crowded with the images and the sounds of the dzong: the murmuring of the wind, the crashing water from the rapids in the rivers far below, the faint chants of monks wafting from behind closed doors, bells gently chiming, prayer flags flapping, the cries of the birds wheeling overhead or sheltering under the eaves of the roofs. And of course, the cats!

It was not all a matter of peaceful prayer and meditation. Most of my impressions were of wonder and newness and ‘difference’. They do not necessarily make a sound basis for objectivity. These are but my romantic interpretations. Life must be hard. Majesty, reverence and beauty—Wangdiphodrang Dzong had it all, despite the dilapidation in some parts of the building. But hardship reared its head at every corner. Young monks, mere boys, carried large water pitchers from far outside its walls. Each tiny cell was no bigger than two beds. Bed was a box on the floor with a sleeping mat.

Life in Bhutan was not as idyllic as some would like to believe. Nor was the monastic commitment all that it should be as my friend the fondling monk showed me when he called on me later that evening in my guesthouse next door the Wangdiphodrang Dzong…