top of page

Primal Connections: Honoring my shaman ancestors

FIELD NOTES

Karma Dorji, Bhutan Himalaya Expeditions

With thoughtful itineraries honed since 1999, we unveil the depths of Bhutan's happiness philosophy, the daily physical adventures through the beautiful Himalayan landscape complemented by the intimate and in-depth cultural experiences sensitively curated for you every day. 

Through the eyes of a select few informed leaders we saw the dilemmas of a culture: A hitherto sheltered nation discovering the arguments for and against remaining a cloistered society in this 21st Century. I loved the adventure, and I loved the discovery. Unlike anything else I have ever experienced!

Lola W., California 

Share

Share

Butter, fermented barley beer, K5 whiskey, libations, and incense are smeared, poured and lit over the ritual figures he smashes and raises from shapeless rice like a master origamist. He populates the large aluminum bowl in front of him with Lamas, spiritual teachers; Yidams, or visualization deities; Dralhas, the fierce warrior protectors of the mundane plane; and Gektor, little rice effigies that are reverse voodoo dolls: Instead of putting a hex on you they take away your troubles and misfortunes. Their backs bristle with "the thorns of your worldly afflictions,” the old shaman says. “When scattered to the four winds, they take your barchhey [karmic shortfalls] and give you lamdrel [good luck] in all your endeavors.”

This is an ancient ritual my family has practiced for centuries. The shaman says he’s happy I’m back. “Not everyone believes it’s important anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Many people—especially the young ones—think it’s old rubbish.”


Embedded in the elder shaman’s prayers are the muttered names of my ancestors. Now he joins my name to the flow of ancient invocations, as well as those of my sons, connecting us through an unbroken river of timeless incantations to the primal forces that connect us to our past, present, and the future.

The drumming and chanting finally reaches a crescendo, the old man’s supplications for our annual spiritual renewal ascending towards the mountain that is not a mountain but the protective 'grandfather' of our people, an ancient spirit who watches over us in mountain form. Then several things happen at once. First there’s a loud buzzing, a heavy vibration in the air, as if the earth itself is murmuring with the man. A cloud of bees circles a nearby tree. Several celebrants point delightedly at the insect cloud, seeing it as an auspicious sign.  Then a large black raven —sacred bird of Bhutanese myths—descends on the forest glade, and eats the offerings, another good omen. Several aggressive, flowing-tailed striped magpies hop among the branches above the makeshift rock altar eyeing us sideways. And, as if on cue, a loud, rolling thunderclap, a cosmic tearing, ripping, rippling sound that shoots clean across from one end of the sky to another. The taut skin-drum doesn't miss a beat. Boom! Boom!  Boom! says the Shaman drum. Crackle! Crash! says the electric sky, releasing a quick shower that washes away all negative potentialities, leaving us damp but inexplicably unburdened, the world suddenly transformed into an emerald, sparkling, dewy place, full of promise and renewal. We walk into a crystalline world, washed clear of murky uncertainty.

***

THE OLD SHAMAN has a face like an ancient Mongol warrior.


The ends of his eyes sweep upwards, and the skin on his face is taut over sharp, tilted cheekbones. He is 80, but his back is strong, his belly flat. “Grandfather is old and weak now,” he says, referring to himself, but his bull-neck and heavy, corded forearms belie his words.

To receive similar updates in your inbox, please subscribe to our newsletter

Swipe left above for more

See our upcoming journeys

bottom of page