Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [20]
In his speech, the king acknowledged the Pandora’s box he was unlatching, the effect media might have on his carefully crafted policy of Gross National Happiness. Television and the Internet, he reminded his audience, possessed both positive and negative qualities. Their use required good sense and judgment. When it came to their consumption, the king trusted his people to deploy what the Buddhists call the Middle Path: moderation. He believed firm religious footing would ultimately hold more sway than the mesmerizing power of the screen.
Whether that made the king an idealist or simply naive would be revealed soon enough.
THE NOTION OF Bhutan as Shangri-la has to do with its unspoiled landscapes and striking views of stunning Himalayan mountains, believed by some to be the dwelling place of the gods. Adding to the mystique is its fierce commitment to the preservation of age-old traditions that are the mainstay of the country’s cultural heritage. Western Buddhists plan once-in-a-lifetime visits to worship at the hallowed historic monasteries scattered throughout the land and soak in the energy of the country’s storied religious festivals, called tsechus.
None of this was what drew me to Bhutan.
For me, the prospect of a relatively media-free universe was as close to utopia as I could imagine. No wonder the country was considered the happiest on earth! The promise of a place where life was simpler—unsaturated by the menacing forces of mainstream media, which had kept a roof over my head for years but which I found increasingly noisy and bothersome to consume—appealed to me. That Bhutan was guided by intense spirituality, by connection to home and community, held great allure. I was tired of sleep-deprived, stressed-out, too-busy people who shirked downtime in the service of making money so they could buy more stuff; tired of it taking months to see dear friends who lived across town because traffic and overcommitment made it impossible to coordinate a shared meal. It felt like some people stuffed their calendars full so they could seem important, or at least, not have to face themselves during unplanned moments. In Bhutan, I suspected, human connections were more important than how many digital pals you racked up on Facebook. Rather than passively consuming depictions of the world pumped out to them on various screens, the Bhutanese, I imagined, must savor their lives, really live them, thoughtfully and yet spontaneously.
It seemed unlikely that the Bhutanese swirled about busily through the days, never quite triaging their to-do lists, assaulted by the modern scourge known as multitasking. Surely life wasn’t marred by such jarring interruptions as call waiting, and the disorientating phenomenon of barely audible cell phone calls made to “check in” with friends and family and give the illusion of connection. Thumbs weren’t maniacally text-messaging so the humans they were attached to could “keep in touch” while averting their gaze from others in their paths.
I longed for a way of life in which people made it a priority to look into each other’s eyes and communicate, soul-to-soul, uninterrupted, like in that Zulu warrior greeting we’d practiced in happiness class. I yearned for meandering conversations about all things important, all things banal. Bhutan, I imagined, might be as close as you could get on earth to what I’d been craving—a real, live, actual community, where being wired took a backseat to being present, face-to-face, experiencing the here and now.