Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [65]
An animated clock with a second hand that was rapidly flying around the dial flashed on the screen, and an announcer declared: “Time to file your PIT. Time to file your PIT. Time to file your PIT. Time is running short! File your personal income tax now.”
Beauty shots of flowers and birds, set to lovely music, flashed on the screen, and after a few seconds, a woman read in Bhutanese-accented English, as if she were reciting poetry: “Wherever you are, whatever you do, when you think of refreshment, think of ice-cold Coca-Cola.”
A static shot of a shop downtown, crammed with merchandise: “Kidsy, your exclusive kids store, announces Losar sales.…”
Photos of a newly relocated gym: “Sakten Health Club and Saloon are pleased to announce Relax and Recover and Rejuvenate.…”
Commercial break over, and back to the studio, where the anchorwoman informed the people of Bhutan about a stone-throwing mob attacking the deposed Nepalese king as he embarked on a pilgrimage. Of a court in southern India sentencing three members of a regional political party to death for killing three female students in 2000. Of the death-by-remote-control bomb blast of a key Pakistani health official, who was leading a polio immunization drive. In comparison to the outside world, little Bhutan lived up to its reputation as the last Shangri-la, peaceful and serene—its reward for being long sequestered. What would a villager in the remote reaches of the country think of these reports? News of a world beyond in strife, bracketed by simple commercials offering consumer goods. It was a good thing the government was committed to Gross National Happiness, because that philosophy seemed a crucial necessity to offset the effects of a few hours in front of the television. “Happiness with what you have” wasn’t exactly the backbone philosophy of advertising and media and news.
An email from Martin popped into my inbox, inviting me to dinner. “I have fresh greens here,” he wrote, knowing how enticing that would be to a nutrition-starved visitor; good-looking fresh vegetables were hard to come by in winter in Thimphu. His story was attached, and he insisted I didn’t have to read it.
I opened it immediately. It was beautiful, and funny, and long—an account of running into this woman and her friends as they toured a village. In the story, Martin confessed to what I suspected might be true: He turned on the sarcasm in the face of attractive women to mask his insecurity. An introspective scientist whose third language was English and who could write very well. This Martin was intriguing.
TUESDAY AROUND 5:30 P.M. I heard a chugging noise in the driveway outside my apartment. Martin had arrived to pick me up. When I got in the car, I noticed he was more relaxed, and more handsome, than I remembered.
I didn’t usually leave Kuzoo so early, but everything was so quiet, what with the holidays, which would keep schools and offices shut a few more days. The ride to Martin’s was comically short, just a quarter of a mile. All this time I’ve been here, I thought, this man has been around the corner and I had no idea.
The side door of the house opened into a lovely, homey kitchen. A dozen pairs of shoes of various sizes sat neatly lined up just inside the entryway. Martin offered me a pair of floppy women’s slippers in exchange for my boots; Claudine lived on. Blue glass bottles of filtered water and colorful Bhutanese thermoses, used to carry food on picnics or to work, lined the windowsills. A shopping list lay on the table: prayer flags, TP, salt. Martin motioned for me to sit and offered me a choice of a Red Panda or a bottle of the same wine we’d had with Walter and Madam Choden; I opted for the latter, since the taste of the red we