Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [83]
“Are you really here at the station all night long, la?” one of the guides asked shyly. Ngawang giggled; no one at Kuzoo liked to admit that the station ran 24/7 thanks to a computer. It seemed duplicitous somehow, inauthentic.
“Virtually,” I said, pointing to the computer, and we left it at that.
The trip was so successful, I suggested another. “Let’s go somewhere in the area, so you can show me something,” I said. The course leader saw my point. There was a tour bus out back and a driver at the ready.
It’s a beautiful, cloudless winter day. The guides are bursting with energy, thrilled to be out of the conference room again. We drive into the parking area at Dochula, and they all gasp in unison. We have hit the equivalent of the view jackpot; it’s one of those days when all the mountain ranges are perfectly visible from this spot. In the foreground is the Punakha Valley, and off in the distance at various points are spiky, soaring snowcapped peaks. There isn’t a sign of man-made life as far as the eye can see.
Everyone rushes off the bus. Suddenly, I’m a schoolteacher with a classful of star pupils.
“Madam, that’s Gangchenta, the Tiger Mountain.”
“And that there is the highest peak in Bhutan.”
“Madam, look over there. That is China, there. Can you see?”
“In that direction, see? You can see Gasa, the only district in Bhutan with no motor roads. It takes five days trekking and you can get to the most beautiful hot springs.…”
Now my guides insist we walk to the maze of 108 religious structures, chortens, that form the memorial portion of this stop. Again I am bombarded with factoids.
“The number 108 is symbolic, madam, for it is the number of volumes in the Kanjur. That is the Buddhist scripture. And that is why there are 108 chortens here.”
“They were built thanks to Her Majesty the queen Ashi Dorji Wangmo. This is a memorial for fallen soldiers.”
“Yes, la, the soldiers died in 2003.…”
“Up there, over there. See, Her Majesty is giving us a sacred temple. See? Over there? It will be opened soon, madam.”
A few of us stroll among the statues. They’re at different heights, and as beautiful and impressive as they are, as sacred as they may be, they’ve got nothing on the view, the endless ridges of mountains. The afternoon wind is picking up now and most people aren’t wearing overcoats on top of their national dress. Soon we are gathering near the bus, where the coldest of the group are huddled together, a few of them grabbing a smoke, a few others continuing their discussion of the spectacular view. A transistor radio has materialized; it must be Kuzoo playing.
The group is being corralled for a picture, and they insist I must stand in the center. Several cameras are passed down to the front. “Emadatse,” shouts the photographer, the Bhutanese equivalent of “Say cheese.” And as we smile and pose for the shot, some of the guys are singing along, and I make out the song that’s wafting out around the country, and entertaining us here on this fine winter afternoon. It’s the old hit by R.E.M. “Losing My Religion.”
WHEN I HAD only a couple of days left in Bhutan, at the station, Ngawang asked for a favor.
“Would you call me there?” she asked. “To the United States?”
“What does that mean, exactly? To call you? What do you need to be able to visit?” I had learned from this trip that Bhutanese citizens could only “call” foreign visitors if they could explain to immigration authorities the favor that had been performed for them, or establish the existence of a long friendship. This was to avoid skirting the payment of the tourist visa. The challenges of “calling” a visitor to the United States were different, of course.
“I think you just have to write a letter.”
“What about? Work?”
“Sir Pema would let me take leave. Especially if I was