Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [17]
A young lady carrying a tray filled with steaming cups entered the front door. Ngawang talked to her urgently in Dzongkha as she served us. I could tell the faulty remote was at issue; I didn’t confess that I wouldn’t need it, certain that when I bothered to turn on the set, I’d keep it glued to the Bhutan Broadcasting Service. The warm cup felt good in my hands and I wandered into the tiny kitchen. No oven, just a two-burner hot plate fueled by a propane canister, the kind you might find attached to a barbecue grill. A worn-looking half-size fridge by a window, and a rice cooker sat on the counter. In a plastic dish drainer were a couple of plates, a few forks and bowls, and some unmatched glasses. Ngawang watched me drinking it all in.
“You have a geyser in your kitchen—that’s very fancy!” She meant the sink, which hardly seemed fancy until she said her place didn’t have one. For many Bhutanese families, even in the city, she said, their water source was outside. What seemed very modest to me was very lavish to her, which made the gift of this apartment all the more grand.
Down a short flight of stairs was the bedroom and bath, and they were simple, too: A blanket covered twin beds pushed together to make a king. A tired old cabinet resting against the wall served as a closet. A stall shower covered by a moldy plastic curtain, two thin white towels, and a sad wooden shelf made up the bathroom. This is fine, I thought. I can live anywhere—as long as there aren’t any mice, or worse, rats. Everything seemed too tidy for that.
A tall, slender man in his late thirties appeared in the doorway, a commanding, if solemn, presence. If his dark gray gho had been a suit, he could have stepped out of a bank in midtown Manhattan. It was Sir Phub Dorji, my benefactor. He had an air about him of a grown-up choirboy. Innocent, sincere, earnest, strictly business. After a flurry of greetings, he asked Ngawang to please make sure the landlady got me something to eat now—and to be certain she brought breakfast in the morning, too. With the plane arriving so late, we hadn’t had time to go shopping for kitchen provisions.
“We are so grateful that you are here,” he said. His tone wasn’t warm as much as it was serious and matter-of-fact, the same as in his emails.
“I can’t quite believe I am.”
“It’s a very exciting time for us right now. Kuzoo FM is causing quite a sensation. But we really could use your professional guidance.”
“I’m ready to help, however I can.” I sat straight up in my chair, thrilled to be of service to these kind people in this unusual place.
“I am sure this is quite modest, quite simple, these accommodations, compared to what you have back home,” he said. “My wife watches Desperate Housewives, and I’ve seen the kitchens. I hope this will be suitable.”
“This place looks to be about the same size as mine in Los Angeles,” I said. “Including the kitchen. Trust me—most of us don’t live like you see on television.”
The look on his face suggested he didn’t believe me. Or that I didn’t quite understand the extent to which daily life here was different from that in my world.
A plate of pinkish rice arrived; alongside it was a little bowl of what looked like stewed vegetables. They were fiery hot, and a bit too gloppy for my taste—covered in a runny, oily cheese sauce. So I concentrated on the grains.
“Let me tell you the story of Kuzoo,” said Phub Dorji. “It was a pet project of His Majesty the fifth king, created when he was crown prince. What happened was this: The youth wanted a radio station, and they approached him. He had been given the gift of a BMW car. He sold it at auction to raise funds, which he donated to start Kuzoo. And that is how the station began, as a gift from His Majesty to the youth of Bhutan.”
He paused. This was all so radically different from the big media universe in which I’d been dwelling for over twenty years. The media