Bhutan, Friday, March 30, 2007
Festivals, such as the one we attended, are celebrated monthly on the 10th of the month according to the Lunar Calendar. People dress in their finest clothes, and come see the Buddhist monks dance and play music. It is a celebration of the Monk who unified the Kingdom of Bhutan
We arrive just in time to hear the giant gongs and horns (which sound a little like bagpipes warming up) and see the beginning of the procession down the steps of the Paro Dzong into the festival area. A series of brightly costumed people proceeded to the performance space in an ordered parade. I wandered around admiring the explosion of color in the costumes of the performers, and in the dress of the people attending. I watched the dancers.
I sat under a tree to write in my journal, and attracted a curious but shy crowd. People here were marveling at the novelty of this white American tourist sitting and writing, just as I marveled at the beauty of the people and the festival. The explosion of fantastic color, beautiful clothing, and smiling faces is something I will never forget. At one point, an airplane took off from the airport, and it was completely anachronistic--a very bizarre event in the setting in which I was immersed.
The sounds are different here. There is no noise pollution. Every sound I hear is distinct. The wind--both a close breeze in the trees, and the wind whipping through the valley below. I hear voices of men talking in the distance, and also the sounds of the music coming up from the festival to the clearing where I now sit. In the distance I can see the worlds tallest peaks, covered in spots by traces of snow.
A family sits down nearby, and begins to unpack their picnic lunch. They were talking and laughing as the women worked to set up the simple meal. The bowls were passed, and a woman came up to me and handed me a bowl. I must have looked puzzled, because she gestured that she wished me to join them. I dined on a lentil stew and the local red rice with my new friends. We communicated little with words, but with some gestures, and a lot of smiles. It was not so much the generosity of the Bhutanese people that struck me, but their happiness. I think that happiness and generosity are connected. Gratitude also. I was grateful for the gesture of sharing what these people had to give. A simple lunch. A few smiles. A lifetime memory.
The sounds are different here. There is no noise pollution. Every sound I hear is distinct. The wind--both a close breeze in the trees, and the wind whipping through the valley below. I hear voices of men talking in the distance, and also the sounds of the music coming up from the festival to the clearing where I now sit. In the distance I can see the worlds tallest peaks, covered in spots by traces of snow.
A family sits down nearby, and begins to unpack their picnic lunch. They were talking and laughing as the women worked to set up the simple meal. The bowls were passed, and a woman came up to me and handed me a bowl. I must have looked puzzled, because she gestured that she wished me to join them. I dined on a lentil stew and the local red rice with my new friends. We communicated little with words, but with some gestures, and a lot of smiles. It was not so much the generosity of the Bhutanese people that struck me, but their happiness. I think that happiness and generosity are connected. Gratitude also. I was grateful for the gesture of sharing what these people had to give. A simple lunch. A few smiles. A lifetime memory.
So, this weekend, as Caleb talked about the gesture of sharing food with travelers, and I remembered this family in Bhutan, I also thought about how food offers an instant connection for people. It connects us with our family, our friends, places, and traditions. The gesture of sharing food and nurturing spirit and body, is one of the most generous gestures I've experienced.
