Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [48]
“Folder with important papers lost by the Hong Kong market,” read the message submitted by a worried-looking man who showed up on the grounds one day. “Reward. Call 17-27-15-98.”
“Floodwaters rising near the dzong,” said the Ministry of Home and Cultural Affairs. “Please leave the area immediately until further notice.”
“Little boy lost by Changlimithang Stadium,” the police called to report. “Please claim him at the satellite police office in town.” Twenty minutes later came word that the child had been picked up, and a follow-up on-air announcement ensued. Being comfortable with writing copy quickly wasn’t a bad skill to have around here.
Doing quick bits of rewriting, helping with the pronunciation of English words, and sharing midday meals with Sir Tenzin were shaping up to be the mainstays of my contribution to Kuzoo. As each day passed, it became more apparent that I was little more than an accessory, not expected to do much in particular, really, besides be exactly who I was: the experienced volunteer consultant from afar. Any hope I might have had of inspiring these young broadcasters to use their new radio station as a tool to prepare for their impending democracy was folly. Of far greater interest to them was where to download Destiny’s Child and Alicia Keys on the Internet, especially given the slow connection speeds and dearth of computers.
To give myself a mission, I’d assumed what I saw as an equally important role: Kuzoo den mother. Lacking any formal duties, I’d sit around the station from very early morning till early evening, observing, offering suggestions, reading what came in over the fax, and making sure everyone ate, even though what I was feeding them was hardly food. Apart from spicy yak-meat pizza and cookies or chips, there wasn’t much in the way of take-out, not to mention common culinary ground—the pizza was only a slightly older and less exotic presence in Thimphu than I. I could educate by osmosis. Most of the staff—indeed, many Bhutanese—hadn’t interacted much with anyone from so far away.
My lunchtime discussions with Sir Tenzin about copyright violation, music royalties, and licensing fees proved futile. He was convinced, no matter what I said, that international laws could not possibly apply to Kuzoo.
“Who would bother coming after us here in Bhutan, anyway?” he’d counter dismissively.
While I suspected he was right, and that only a chance luxury vacation by a music industry executive who happened to turn on a radio might bust Kuzoo’s illegal goings-on, I felt it my obligation to point out the importance of respecting intellectual property.
Kuzoo’s desire to become more professional and its decision to import an outsider to help make that transition was understandable. It wasn’t uncommon for the radio jockeys, none of whom had appeared live on the air before, to forget the basics, such as turning on the microphone. A few, racked by nerves, compensated on the air by sounding a bit comatose when they spoke—a strange contrast to the bright bits of music they loved to play.
These kinds of mistakes could be easily solved with a little adult supervision and cheerleading. And in addition to providing both in person, I convinced Pema to ration a piece of printer paper from her Fort Knox of a supply cabinet, typed out in giant, bold forty-eight-point type a list of recommendations to get them started, then posted my rules inside the studio:
Before you go on the air, please remember to:
Take a deep breath
CHECK that the microphone is on
Remind listeners that they’re tuned in to Kuzoo FM 90
Encourage listeners to email us or call in or come volunteer—it’s THEIR station
Have fun! Enjoy yourself while on the air!
(After all, this IS fun, isn’t it?)
All of these were reminders I often needed myself back home, as did my beleaguered colleagues there. But at work in Los