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By Root 697 0

had long been the only game in town. Its founder had been primed for the job with an education at the finest schools. These new rivals, the Bhutan Observer and Bhutan Times, hired young staffs with no training or experience, and who flirted with the promise of press freedom guaranteed in the not-yet-signed new constitution. But only a bit. Free speech, Bhutan-style, still did not extend to criticism or examination of the monarchy—a line few would dare to cross even if it weren’t forbidden. Most stories involving the royal family still had to be run through government censors, no matter how benign. And if they involved His Majesty, it was implicitly understood that they’d receive the most prominent placement, no matter how banal his actions. Nevertheless, the mere existence of competition began to transform Kuensel from a polite, deferential organ to a more solid, inquisitive journalistic news organization.

And then came this new entry: Kuzoo FM. Tenzin Dorji was plucked from the ranks of educators to manage the operation. A staff of nine twenty-somethings was hired. Anyone with time and curiosity was encouraged to just show up and volunteer, particularly if they were in high school. Kuzoo was a youth-focused station, after all.

At first, the station broadcast from an old closet in a government building that housed the youth sports department. A few months after its debut, Kuzoo moved to another structure on the property, which long before had served as the residence for the foreign minister. It was a two-story building with a narrow staircase, a warren of rooms, and worn burgundy carpet. The building’s two most charming features were a front porch on the second level that offered a lovely view of the grounds (although the floorboards wobbled precariously if too many people stood out there) and the sky-blue-tiled kitchen designated as the studio.

The space wasn’t converted as much as it was adjusted. Heavy white cardboard was laid over the sink to discourage anyone from turning on the faucets. A plastic tarp taped over a hole in the ceiling kept a flock of cooing pigeons from landing on whoever sat at the mixing board.

Several old computers were set up on battered school desks in the adjoining rooms, and the young staff began waiting their turn to “prepare their shows” (which meant downloading music illegally off the Internet) and adding whatever few CDs they might own or could borrow to add to the library of on-air music. Not that the library could ever grow very large. The average middle-class teenager in the United States had an iPod with a bigger hard drive than the one that engined Kuzoo.

As local radio stations and newspapers in the West downsized and dissolved in a rapid death-spiral—victims of media consolidation, the Internet, and the bottom line—Bhutan’s media landscape was expanding with abandon. Media were seen as a crucial component of the impending democratic elections, and afterward, a force to keep watch over the newly elected government. The king knew that for democracy to take root in this long-standing monarchy, a competitive news landscape was a critical part of the equation.

What he didn’t factor in is how much the kids loved their music.

4

BEWARE THE EMADATSE

KESANG, THE KUZOO DRIVER, LOOKED CONCERNED; his lips were pursed and he was shaking his head disapprovingly. After driving Ngawang and me to the store, he was now in charge of holding the basket while I stocked my kitchen, courtesy of Kuzoo. He appeared to be unhappy with my selections. Ngawang had taken us to a little grocery on the lower road, across from Changlimithang Stadium, where the coronation celebrations would be held sometime in 2008.

“My auntie owns this place,” said Ngawang, waving to the woman behind the counter.

The shop was the size of a small convenience store, but more chaotic in its inventory; floor to ceiling, every shelf was covered with all manner of packaged goods, from shampoo to potato chips to tea, side by side, in varying quantities. Two of these, ten of those, all teetering on top of one another.