Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [16]
“We’re coming to the checkpoint,” Ngawang said.
The government kept track of who traversed these roads, inspecting whether visitors were in possession of the proper permits. Bhutan had opened up, but that didn’t mean total freedom of movement. Thanks to the government’s increasing engagement with the outside over the past few decades, including the introduction of modern air travel, and, apparently, my karma, here I was in this faraway kingdom. With each passing kilometer, it became more evident just how distinct this universe was from my own.
Gazing out at the foreign landscape dissolved my worries, my failures, my triumphs. I was humbled by all that surrounded me. What difference did it make what I had and hadn’t accomplished, under what circumstances I had come here, or that I had come here alone? I was here. I was fortunate to be here, to see how other humans lived in a place unlike anywhere else in the world. I had the chance to interact with people from an entirely different culture, on this planet we all shared. My world had simultaneously become infinitely larger and smaller, and the very anticipation of what lay ahead drowned out my usual litany of concerns and self-criticisms. Worries petty and large began to shrink away. No longer was I some burnt-out career journalist with no idea how to escape the grind. No longer would I see myself as a failure as a woman, either, for not having had a successful long-term romantic partnership that yielded a happy home filled with children. This long-crafted definition of myself, of a nice gal who had made a mess of her life, started to melt away. Replacing it now was a new vision of me: one part proud ambassador from the United States, one part curious anthropologist, 100 percent human. I resolved to be the best person I could be—and to stay alert to the possibilities before me.
TWINKLING LIGHTS ACROSS the landscape signaled that we had entered the capital city of Thimphu. It was dusk now. A cold gust of wind blew through the valley, as if to welcome us and remind us it was winter. Eight hours later than our anticipated arrival, the Kuzoo van drove through town and up a short hill to the Rabten Apartments, a small two-story building that was to be my home.
Ngawang let us in with an enormous brass key, and Kesang hauled my suitcase up the steps and into my apartment, then downstairs to the bedroom. Ngawang plugged in the space heater in the living room, the only source of heat. As the sun set, the air cooled fiercely. She asked how I liked the place, was it okay? As long as there was a bed for me to collapse into, I was sure it was.
I did a quick survey of the accommodations. The focal point of the living room was the television set. Pushed up against the wall to provide the perfect line of sight was a worn old wood-framed couch, two matching chairs whose cushions had seen better days, and a wall of mostly empty bookcases, fringed with colorful, ornate Bhutanese woodwork. All that sat on the shelves was a pamphlet from the Center for Bhutan Studies explaining Gross National Happiness and two old Bhutan Telecom phone directories, neither volume thicker than an inch. So accessible was the royal family that the king’s private phone number was said to be listed; I’d have to take a look for that later.
“I picked out this apartment for you,” said Ngawang with pride in her voice. She clunked around in her heels, flipping switches, and determined the TV remote control was dead. “That’s bad. We’ll get that fixed.” Then she hurried out the front door while dialing her mobile phone, explaining that she was off to fetch the landlady to bring me tea. “Sir Phub Dorji asked me to call as soon as we got here,” she added. The twin impact of jet lag and bewilderment weighed on me now that we were “home.” As eager