Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [47]
A messenger appeared at lunchtime from the Health Ministry to deliver the script for the new ad. Valentine’s Day was looming and schools were out on their two-month winter break. This meant extra nights of parties for kids with time on their hands, and the potential for hormones gone awry.
“ ‘Sexually transmitted diseases exist among us,’ ” Pink read slowly, deliberately.
“Herps,” struggled Pink. “Herpah-tet-ahs B. ‘Sexually transmitted diseases exist among us.’ ”
“So romantic!” cackled Pema.
“CONE-dom,” Ngawang intoned. “ ‘These infections are all passed through sex without a CONE-dom.’ ”
“No, no, no, CAHN-dom,” insisted Pema. Her love of reading, or perhaps it was her encyclopedic knowledge of Sex and the City, made her proficient with the script: “ ‘Gonorrhea, syphilis, and HIV/AIDS are all around us.’ ”
A cell phone rang. The tune was “Summer Nights” from Grease.
“ ‘These infections are all passed through sex without a CONE-dom,’ ” Ngawang tried again, her voice tentative. Her struggle with the word made rubbers sound very formal.
“CAHN-dom,” shouted Pema, even though the girls were sitting right next to one other. She was impatient, and a much quicker study than just about anyone else at Kuzoo.
“How do you say this word?” Ngawang asked me, pointing to the script.
“Pema’s right,” I said. “Cahn-dom.”
“Herps,” repeated Pink.
I walked over and peered over her shoulder. “Okay, no, it’s HERP-ees,” I said. “And that other word is hep-a-ti-tis.” No one asked what these afflictions were, which might have been because they knew, but could also have been mere disinterest.
“ ‘You cannot tell whether someone has an STD by looking at them. That is why you have to use a condom EVERY TIME,’ ” proclaimed Pema, her tone that of the smartest girl in the class. “ ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’ ”
“ ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ ” Pink and Ngawang echoed the last line of the script, which they would all read in unison. The three of them burst into laughter again. Then they shut the door and shushed me so they could record.
IT DOESN’T TAKE MUCH to create a radio program: a microphone or two, a mixing board, a transmitter, and a relatively quiet room. That was about all Kuzoo had, along with a couple of faded Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls posters taped up on the walls, and an ON-AIR sign mounted outside the studio. Its lighting mechanism worked about half the time, but almost everyone ignored it anyway. They’d just barrel into the studio regardless of whether someone was transmitting live.
Kuzoo FM was what most radio stations in the United States hadn’t been for a very long time, an anything-goes bullhorn to the people. A core staff of paid radio jockeys kept the station going, but anyone who was interested could just show up and contribute, however they wished. You could bring in music. You could hang out in the studio with whoever was hosting the show (though eventually there were rules prohibiting that). You could answer phones. Volunteers weren’t just welcome; they were encouraged. Even the typical college station in the United States had long ago ceased to be so egalitarian.
A highfalutin promotional campaign hadn’t been necessary to clue everyone in on the existence of Kuzoo. People started stopping by the compound that housed the station as soon as it launched, hanging out to see how things worked, answering phones or otherwise inserting themselves into the free-for-all. What might have been transmitted around the town or the country by word-of-mouth just six months earlier could now be communicated instantaneously, thanks to