The Final Curtsey (14 page)

The next lap, by an internal flight, was to Bagdogra, over the seemingly endless dry brown plains of India. We touched down at the very foot of the Himalayas and on disembarking were presented
with the first of many white silk scarves, the gift of which ascribed to the recipient the blessings of long life and purity. The polite and correct response was to return the scarf to the donor,
but nobody told us that and we returned home with a trunk load of them. Still, a scarf is always useful especially one with special properties. The electrifying drive, as passengers in a Sikkim
version of a jeep, to the capital Gangtok was mostly through thick jungle but with hairpin bends and sheer drops. We frequently met Indian Army convoys, the lorries driven by Sikhs with total
abandon and disregard for what might be coming in the opposite direction. There were regular checkpoints at which every conceivable scrap of information contained in our passports was painstakingly
copied by hand.

But at last the jungle thinned and climbing over two thousand feet we were enchanted to glimpse the first houses of Gangtok clinging to the precipitous slopes, the curved blue and green roofs
shining in the sun. We went straight to the guest house which came complete with an imposing Sikkimese servant whose long hair was braided round his head. After dinner that evening our friend
Cocoola called in with her brother, the bridegroom. He was charming, shy and serious and came bearing the gifts of hard liquor, pouring every kind of drink down our throats, which after
‘dry’ India was convivially therapeutic.

The next morning we were escorted to the palace to pay our respects to the King. It was small — as palaces of my acquaintance go — and reminded me of a Scottish shooting lodge but
with brilliantly coloured carvings on the facade. I was bringing a message of good wishes from our Queen to their King, who met us on the doorstep. He was a tiny man, but somehow impressive and he
led us into a reception room furnished with heavily brocaded sofas and chairs, the sort of thing you might have found in a five-star French hotel in the days of the
belle époque
. The
only thing missing were the potted palms. We sat rather nervously on the edge of our chairs and having conveyed my loyal greetings, I made polite conversation. Then suddenly the King said:
‘Would you like to see my paintings?’ I imagined a collection of Old Master works, like those which decorated the interiors of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, but he led us to a
small room covered floor to ceiling with strange, brightly coloured representations of mountains. They were without light or shade, or perspective. Rainbow shapes, whorls, circles and intricate
patterns flared across the skies and His Majesty explained that these were symbols of the spirits, which he could see, but which — and he was very apologetic about this — we
couldn’t!

The dominant painting was of an immense snow-capped mountain, with an awe-inspiring figure bestriding the peak. This, the King explained, in quite matter of fact tones, was the Yeti — what
we call the Abominable Snow Man — which always visited him on the 29th of every month. Sometimes this visitation took the form of a wild animal, but when the Yeti was in a good mood it wore
golden armour.

We struggled to say the right thing, but mercifully, on that bizarre note he ushered us out of his very own National Gallery. Cocoola told us that the Yeti was intensely real to the people of
Sikkim. Part spirit, part beast, it made a strange whistling noise which she imitated. Evidence of its existence was to be found in the high pastures where the bodies of yaks could be discovered,
their necks twisted round and their huge horns embedded in the ground. Yaks are big animals and this was something that no human being could do. We spent a couple of days sightseeing, and we were
later shown the chapel in the palace garden, where the Dalai Lama took refuge when he escaped from Tibet over the Nathu La pass, away from the invading Chinese.

However, it soon began to dawn on us that chaos loomed over the wedding arrangements. A large contingent of ambassadors was due from Delhi, plus an equally large number of Indian Maharajahs and
a crowd of the bride’s American relations. But there was no one, apart from the immediate Sikkimese royal family, capable of organising anything like a royal wedding. My only experience of
such an event had been that of Princess Elizabeth, sixteen years earlier, and then my role had been solely decorative. George VI had solved his guest accommodation problem by putting most of them
up in Claridges and picking up the bill, but in faraway Sikkim it was all hands to the pumps as they say.

We soon set ourselves to work, ferrying bed clothes, curtains, carpets, cushions, towels, soap, champagne, whisky, flowers, even copious supplies of disinfectant to a village of bamboo huts
called bashas where the ambassadors and the American VIPs were to stay. The Maharajahs were to be installed for the duration in an ugly newly built block of flats, appropriately called Elephant
Mansions. We organised a press reception with lots of liquor and a rather more restrained Corps Diplomatique reception to appease the ambassadors who were complaining because insufficient attention
was being paid to them.

We assumed the roles of Master of the Royal Household, Equerries, Ladies-in-Waiting and Footmen. Drawing on my memories of grand affairs at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle we ensured that
tablecloths were cleaned and ironed, drew up seating plans; arranged the flowers, polished and counted the glasses and plates; kept pork away from the Muslims and the strong stuff from the drunks.
We dished out birds’ nest soup, sea slugs, tripe, octopi and a great many other things the ingredients of which we were only too happy to be ignorant about. And all this gluttony was before
the wedding day itself.

The ceremony itself was pure theatre, the curtain rising on a scene of great splendour. I was in my most elegant Ascot outfit, and Denys wore a tail coat and top hat. The American women looked
as if they had stepped straight out of a Hollywood movie: Central Casting would have been proud. But the Sikkimese and Indian women outshone us westerners, shimmering in saris of brocade, gold and
silver lamé, floating chiffon and gleaming satin. Top hats mixed with turbans and fezzes and the Sikkimese royal family resembled jewelled Fabergé ornaments. The King and the
bridegroom were in stiff, brocaded gold coats, and the bride was in white, with a silver lamé cloak, her dark hair piled high. The jewellery which decorated all these people must have been
priceless, but the congregation also included many poor Tibetan refugees who had settled in Sikkim.

The chapel was illuminated by hundreds of little butter-fuelled lamps. The bride and bridegroom sat cross-legged on a high dais and to put the demons to flight a Llama band blew trumpet fanfares
louder than any Joshua ever knew. Important parts were played by ‘the Man of the Earth Serpent Year’ followed by ‘the Boy of the Water Dragon Year’ and ‘the Lady of
the Iron Horse Year’, to mention just three invocations of divine symbolism. There were lots of prayers and the bride lit the sacred lamp before the altar of the Lord Buddha. Heaven knows
what the American guests made of it all, and, as I overheard one confused blonde remark: ‘We just don’t do it this way on Rhode Island.’

The palace gardens were festooned with coloured lights draped from tree to tree. One very large tree was unadorned and we were warned not to go too close, because the spirit of an old man lived
there and did not wish to be disturbed. Regardless of this injunction one of the King’s grandsons, about ten years old, kicked the trunk, saying that he didn’t believe in all that
rubbish. We learned the next morning that his kicking leg was so badly swollen that he couldn’t walk. The spirit of the old man had obviously been seriously discomfited. The palace doctor was
baffled, but then the Buddhist version of a witch doctor was summoned to do his stuff; cast a spell and lo and behold the princeling rose from his bed and walked. Were we, I pondered, in a land of
miracles?

The religious ceremony at last over, four full days of partying began. A smart Bombay band had been imported and played up to the minute European rock and roll. It was strange to see the
Sikkimese and the Tibetans gyrating away like mad, the girls as graceful as reeds. Even the little old King took to the floor. The kilted palace guard was on duty, and like all good mountain men
they had a pipe band. Someone suggested, certainly not me, that an exhibition Eightsome Reel should be performed. The Gangtok school mistress, Martha Hamilton, a Scotswoman far from home, and I
were the only guests who knew how to dance it, but all I can say is that it was nothing like the Ghillies ball at Balmoral. The pipers never quite achieved the right time, and the gentlemen
participants were all Indian generals who had taken full advantage of the liberal liquid refreshments. Total chaos ensued and I hoped that the audience thought we were a comedy turn. My partner was
a towering Sikh and we made a right spectacle of ourselves. I was thankful that no other Scots were present to witness my disgrace. Sadly, despite a wedding heavy with religion and mysticism
Thondup and his wife divorced in 1980, and although he did his best, he also had a rough ride as King. By the early 1970s there were rumblings in the political rank and file, demanding the removal
of the country’s ancient monarchy and the establishment of a more democratic government. I suppose it was inevitable, but in 1975 Sikkim became the twenty-second state in the Indian Union and
the authority of its King was removed. Thondup died a heartbroken and lonely man.

But that was all in the then-unknown future, and before we left we were introduced to the Prime Minister of Bhutan, Jigme Dorji, who made a tentative suggestion that the following year we might
visit his country. It was next door to Sikkim and not long before had been an enclosed sort of Shangri-La; the last place on the roof of the world, isolated and only possible for strangers to enter
as guests of either the King or the Prime Minister.

Jigme Dorji was quite enthusiastic, but it was a fateful encounter. Over the next twelve months plans went ahead for our Bhutan exploration, the correspondence being conducted directly with the
Prime Minister. The arrangements were progressing well, but one morning, sitting having breakfast in our dining room in Devon, Denys picked up
The Times
and was horrified to read a report
that Jigme Dorji had been assassinated. That very morning we had received a letter from him saying he was looking forward to welcoming us to Bhutan. Very spooky. We assumed that our trip would now
be impossible, but after a gap of a few weeks we received a signal from the new Prime Minister, Lhendup Dorji, that it could go ahead. Under the hereditary system in Bhutan he had succeeded his
murdered brother in office.

We flew to Calcutta and spent two nights with a married couple of our acquaintance. They had a large house and garden, and a swimming pool that appeared to be filled with warm green soup.
Perhaps our hosts were suffering from a lack of chlorine. Our next destination was once again Sikkim, for a trek into the high western country, which started in the autumn. Since our wedding visit
the old King had died and Thondup had succeeded him. By coincidence he was flying in from Zurich and met us in the VIP lounge at Calcutta airport. On the way to the airport, we passed a huge
advertisement announcing in three-feet-high scarlet letters: ‘Blood, urine, sputum and pus examined here’ – a charming thought to carry with us.

Together with our host we then boarded the flight to Bagdogra in the foothills of the Himalayas. After a few ceremonies we set off in Thondup’s Mercedes sports car for the palace escorted
by a Jeep load of Sikkim guardsmen. The police commissioner led the cavalcade, waving a red flag to warn all other drivers off the road. At each Sikkimese village along the way Thondup’s
procession stopped for ceremonies of welcome. At each stop we were garlanded with marigolds and even more white scarves.

That night we were put up at the palace. We had an en-suite bathroom, which was a great luxury. Denys decided that his hair needed attention and having forgotten to pack his Mr Trumper’s
hair lotion, in desperation he used my anti-perspirant lotion to smooth his locks. At first the results were quite pleasing, but after a while it set like concrete and he looked like something out
of Madame Tussauds. We had dinner at little individual tables and were given chopsticks. Our hopelessness in using them reduced the waiting Sikkimise servants to giggles.

Our trek at last started. We drove to a small guest house where the road stopped. It was pouring with rain and the windscreen wipers didn’t work – it got dark and we got lost.
Eventually we arrived, quite late in the evening. We ate something out of a tin and crept into our sleeping bags, only to be woken by the arrival of some Indian soldiers, whom, we discovered, had
swiped our bottle of whisky; Denys was not pleased. After some porters were found to carry our tents and provisions, which included a live goat, we set off on foot. We soon came upon a small Gumpa
– a chapel, where we were greeted by a venerable monk, who led us in and seated us, offering us dirty glasses of what looked like water.

An old crone appeared and pointing at our glasses, she whirled around, laughing madly and pretending to be drunk. A sip confirmed that it would be safer to abstain. That night was spent at
Yuksom, a tiny community, where the first King of Sikkim had been crowned. The village headman came to meet us and invite us to his house for the evening. It was dark when we got there and we came
to a small room filled with people. In the flickering light we could just make out the ochre-robed figure of the village monk in the corner. We were given Chang to drink, which is made from millet
seed. We drank from hollowed out bamboo cups, which were filled up from an old black kettle. The women started to dance and invited me to join them – it was a memorable evening.

We spent a total of four nights camping, the last at 14,000 feet. Denys began to feel ill with mountain sickness – luckily I was all right and decided to walk on up to 15,000 feet where
there were some rows of prayer flags. The view was spell-binding. We had achieved our objective and had walked in the region of 70 miles in four days.