Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [50]
Pema, aka Oprah, obediently stepped into the studio, faded out the music that was playing, and, in her best “breaking news” voice, informed the people of Thimphu that the all-important test scores had been released. And that Kuzoo would be happy to give callers their results.
Class Ten grades determined whether a student could continue high school for free. Those who failed had to pony up close to $1,000 a year to finish their degrees at one of the handful of private schools in Bhutan, or had to study across the border in India, a more common fate. Given that the average midcareer civil servant took home a salary of $350 a month, coming up with the cash to pay for an education was simply out of the question. Failing Class Ten could decide your fate forever. Those who couldn’t complete two more years of education could never hope to get a modern job, behind a desk. Perhaps they’d even have to stay in the village to work in the fields. And with a population of children that swelled each year, competition for slots in schools as well as for employment was intensifying. The sweet Kuzoo driver, Kesang, must be from a particularly poor family, I deduced; since he didn’t speak English, he must have had to drop out of school very young to work.
Instantly, the phones lit up. Students—spared the trek to their schools to find out their scores—jammed the lines. Tiny voices identified themselves and asked to learn their fate: “Wesel Wangmo, la. Motithang High School. Did I pass?”
For two days, the staff and volunteers of Kuzoo fielded nervous requests for results. Kids even started calling in from outside the broadcast area; word had spread that Kuzoo had a copy of this important document.
But that wasn’t the only thing keeping Kuzoo busy.
AS IN SO many places, February is a dreary time of year in Bhutan. The difference is that the skies, when the gray does melt away, are perfectly blue and framed by snowcapped Himalayan peaks that make you feel as if you’re in a heavenly dream sequence. Assuming heaven also features tooting horns and foul emissions from the cars that jam the streets below. And thousands of those scruffy, barking stray dogs.
One thing bolstering winter spirits in Thimphu this particular February—aside from the first measurable snowfall in the city in two years—was Kuzoo FM’s Valentine’s Day contest. The young volunteers behind the effort had dubbed it grandly: the Symphony of Love. Two free dinners for two at the only hamburger joint in town were offered as a prize. Listeners were asked to call in and sing love songs on the air, then vote on their favorites. The meals would be awarded to the two most popular singers. It was the first time a contest of this kind had been held anywhere in the kingdom.
To build excitement, a taped announcement, recorded by Pema in the supply closet, ran a dozen times a day.
This goes out to all the LOVE-birds who are planning to go out on Valentine’s Day. Boy, do we have a treat for you! All expense paid for two couples at the Zone. You heard it right! Show your love how much you care. The person who gets voted the most wins. Call us. Text in your votes. Or express in words by writing a poem to us—we will be waiting!
Every night at 7:30 p.m. for the three weeks leading up to February 14, listeners transformed Kuzoo into a public karaoke bar, crooning and croaking their renditions of love songs over the airwaves. The irony of a bunch of Buddhists celebrating a holiday that started in honor of a Christian saint was completely lost on the city. Listeners didn’t seem to care, either, that each evening’s serenade was generally more cacophonous than symphonic. Kuzoo’s two phone lines jammed up immediately with singers and voters alike.
A ratty old notebook, pages shy of being completely covered in ink, was used for the tabulation. Whoever was hanging around would answer the phone and strike a tally beside the number assigned to each contestant. The question of accuracy wasn’t an issue. Everyone trusted their system—and one another. PricewaterhouseCoopers would never