Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [68]
MORNING ARRIVES AND I walk into town; the streets are as empty today as they’d been the night before. The ridge that juts out from the mountain, where a line of cypress trees are perched on the edge, grabs me every time. Just the right distance between them, as if nature had intentionally yard-sticked the arrangement. Their simple beauty looms high above the city; just looking at them makes me happy. They would make my list of three good things almost every day.
Except I haven’t done a list in weeks now. I’ve been so caught up in the richness and fullness of every minute here, I haven’t even remembered to make lists. I haven’t felt the need. It’s become second nature just to look at each day, even when it was ordinary or even when something was going wrong, and find the goodness.
Today, in honor of the twin holidays, three of my expat friends are celebrating with a special lunch. Today’s gathering will be much different from our usual appointments to drink Red Panda beer in my apartment or grab enormous plates of fried rice for $1 at the restaurant Chopstix in town. Instead we are heading up to the fancy resort, the Aman.
I spot Ed near the long line of prayer wheels on the square. He’s all spiffed up today, wearing a sports jacket. The attire seems perfect on him, but out of context given the surroundings. Too country club. Several Bhutanese stand around him, smiling, grinning. They are wearing woven triangular hats, hats I haven’t seen before.
“Nomadic yak herders,” he explains, gesturing toward them, clearly confused about what to say. “They don’t speak any English, but I think they want money. I gave them some.…”
They also want to stare at him. Likely they’ve never seen a tall, light-haired Caucasian man dressed in casual business clothing. I step into sight, and they want to examine me, too, a short lady covered in black clothing. I wish more than I have the entire time I’ve been here that I could speak their language, so I can ask what they’re thinking. I’d heard stories from Bhutanese who were my age and had grown up in the villages, without seeing paper—paper!—or wristwatches until they were teenagers. As much as I think I comprehend the magnitude of the changes here in recent years, as compassionate a student as I may be of the impact media will have on the people, I am aware that I don’t really have any idea what it’s like to be Bhutanese.
Pam arrives. She’d come from the hospital, where she’s preparing medical equipment to take to the remotest reaches of the country. Ever since her divorce, she’s been running around the world to volunteer as a nurse in different countries. Most of the villages here in Bhutan that she’ll visit have never seen Western medicine of any kind.
“Good day.” She nods, even though she knows they don’t understand. “Have a good day,” she says, and moves us toward the road, politely and firmly. Ed and I obediently trot along behind her.
Yet I find myself magnetized and looking back. I don’t have a nursing degree like Pam, but there must be something useful I can contribute out here in the world, out from behind the desk to which I’d long been tethered. Face-to-face with the most traditional Bhutanese I’ve met, I want to know more. Not just about Bhutan, although there’s no question I haven’t had enough time here. These nomads inspire me to want to see more of the world, experience more of it. To become a bit more nomadic myself. To help the world somehow, instead of chronicling its demise from a journalist’s perch and a newsroom. I believe I have just made a Losar resolution of a sort.
Our friend Mayumi rushes up from the street with a wave. My three companions peel me away and into the taxi, and we start the drive out of the center of town and up, up the winding road.