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National law prohibited knives in polling places, which caused confusion among men in the remotest regions, who were not accustomed to leaving home without them. “We didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” one man said after having his machete temporarily confiscated. “The knives are just something we men carry with us always.”

The ballots featured thumbnail photographs of the candidates. This served two purposes: to assist the half of the population that was illiterate, and to help distinguish among contenders with identical names. In one of the races, for instance, four people were vying for the area’s National Council seat: Jambay Dorji, Sherab Dorji, and two Ugyen Tsherings—neither the one whose living room I was sitting in.

“Look, I won and lost in Paro,” joked Lyonpo Ugyen as the results flicked up on the screen. One Ugyen Tandin had received 2,886 votes. The other got 1,883. Sir Dorji and Sir Dorji trailed behind.

Of the four female candidates in various races across the country, three had claimed victory—a fact both news anchors mentioned several times, clearly impressed that their fellow citizens were willing to allow the fairer sex to govern. By 10:00 p.m., all victories had been announced. Attention and the television set were then turned to the real CNN, so that the guests could witness fireworks displays and other celebrations that marked the arrival of 2008 around the world.

ACROSS TOWN AT KUZOO, the radio jockeys performed their national duty, reading the names of the winners before resuming the music and their on-air party. A little before midnight, exhausted from the twin forces of a long journey and a week of overnight shifts back home, I turned the electric heater in the bedroom of my borrowed apartment on full blast, quickly stripped off my clothes, jumped into my pajamas, and crawled into bed with my little portable radio.

Three of Kuzoo’s new radio jockeys were leading the on-air party in the kitchen studio: Namgay (female), Namgay (male), and Choki.

“The phones are jammed with callers,” announced Choki. “Who’s this on the line, please?”

“Hi, guys,” the voice said. I recognized it immediately as Ngawang.

“Hey, it’s Kuzoo RJ Ngawang. Wow, great, how are you?” her colleagues responded.

Ngawang sounded as if she was a combination of glum and tired and was a bit hard to believe when she said, “Actually, I feel great, because my friend Lady Jane is here in town and that’s so good. I’ve missed you, Lady Jane, and I’m glad you’re back.”

The three radio jockeys sounded, in contrast, a bit too happy. I wondered if they were tipsy.

“Yes, yes, Lady Jane! Welcome back to Bhutan. Yes, yes, Ngawang! Happy New Year, everyone! You are listening to Kuzoo! Is there any other message, Ngawang?”

“Umm, well, I hope to see you more in this new year, Lady Jane. And I hope my dreams come true this year. Best wishes to everyone.” Ngawang sounded as if she might fall asleep.

“What song would you like us to play?” the female Namgay asked.

“Your choice,” said Ngawang.

And without the radio jockeys saying another word—thus a quicker return to their bubbly—the music started. The song they’d chosen was “Complicated” by Carolyn Dawn Johnson, a Kuzoo staple. It had to be the twentieth time it had aired that day.

Shortly after midnight, the Kuzoo radio jockeys took a break to run what they described as a very important New Year’s announcement. It had been recorded by the shy Sir Pema. The staff adored having him at the helm; he was studious and quiet, the temperamental opposite of Sir Tenzin, as well as a kindly, paternal advocate who listened to their hopes and aspirations. Sir Pema’s own long-term dream had just come true: He’d not only been accepted to a philosophy course in Bangkok but he’d been awarded a scholarship from the king’s office to subsidize it. Perhaps because of his imminent departure, he was willing to boldly transmit his voice across the land.

“After the partying and drinking,” he