Divine Messengers: The Untold Story of Bhutan's Female Shamans by Guyer-Stevens & Francoise Pommaret

Author:Guyer-Stevens & Francoise Pommaret [Guyer-Stevens & Pommaret, Francoise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BODY; MIND & SPIRIT, Shamanism, Religion, buddhism, General, Social Science, anthropology, Cultural & Social
ISBN: 9781611809183
Google: IhMOzgEACAAJ
Publisher: Shambhala Publications, Incorporated
Published: 2021-11-15T23:40:44.388545+00:00

10

Madness And Retribution

We had been told about another rizam that lived in Punakha, the valley just west of Paro, so bright and early the next day we headed out. Thimphu to Punakha by way of the paved road is about forty-five miles. It threads along the base of the mountains, following the zigzag hem of the narrow valleys and passing through the tiny villages that dot any spot wide enough for the land to flatten out into the shape of a field. Along the roadside, sellers sit with blankets or tarps spread out, waiting patiently for customers, with strings of dried yak cheese and whatever vegetable might be in season at the time. Turning off the blacktop, we followed a smaller dirt road that ended abruptly above a rushing river, white with foam. A steel suspension bridge wide enough to walk on hung high above it, each of its steel cables strung with colored prayer flags—a perfect place for them, I was told, since the constant current of the updrafts created by the rush of water over rocks kept the prayer flags in motion, continuously freeing their prayers into the ether. In a little dirt clearing down by the river, tour guides were preparing inflatable rafts for tourists. It had been such a long drive to get to this seemingly obscure spot that it was a surprise to see people preparing for tourists. It was a surprise to see anyone there, really.

Getting out of the van, we emerged into the little river canyon, nestled deep in the farmland of Punakha. As the bridge swung over the river a hundred feet below, we made our way across. On the other side of the bridge was the path that was walked daily by the people whose farms were on this side of the river. It was also the path to the rizam’s house. The pathway there was a walk through a veil of luminous verdant green. Every inch of ground that bordered the fields was crammed with every kind of wild herb and grass. The planted fields were full of every possible crop, but especially rice, all in various stages of budding into the warm, rich air. It was living and breathing green. If there had been any way to bottle that smell, that feeling, for another day, I would have done just that.

As we walked farther from the river, we ventured deeper into the peaceful quiet of a dirt path, of planted earth. A little stream ran down a gully between the terraces, while little birds hopped around the bushes that divided the fields. A hawk sat perfectly still on the branch of a dead tree above the stream, on the lookout for errant fish. Gray skies gave way to rain after awhile, but that abundant springtime of the fields of Punakha made me want to just lie down and wrap myself up in it, sleeping in its warm embrace.

After buying chilis and cucumbers from some of the farmers in their fields, we finally reached the local rizam’s house.

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