Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [87]
“It’s even bigger than it seems on television!” Ngawang picked up some sand, gently, as if she were handling a precious flower. “Is this where Baywatch happened? Every teenager in Bhutan knows Pamela Anderson!”
This was almost as good for Ngawang as an actual celebrity sighting. She spun around in a circle, soaking it all in.
Across the Pacific Coast Highway, she spotted something else, a sleek modern structure, all glass, windows tinted dark. “Up there, look!” she said. “That’s my first black house. I’ve never seen a house that was black before.”
IT WAS 1:00 A.M. Monday, time to report for work. Though these overnight hours were punishing, they had their advantages: They kept me out of the politics and manic deadlines that were the hallmark of working dayside. An added bonus was the occasional turnaround day off to adjust to the new schedule. Working the graveyard shift meant a different sort of rush, putting together and then delivering three seven-minute live newscasts, with several hours’ break in between each one. It was pleasant enough, and fun, too, though the dulling effect of the inverted hours was a bit like having a straitjacket on your brain. Whenever my head really hurt from the flip-flopping schedule, I imagined what it was like for my grandmother, who’d logged overnight shifts at the Brooklyn Navy Yard while raising nine kids in a three-bedroom apartment. That put nuisance into perspective.
Taking Ngawang to the studio in the dark of night made sense; this way she could ride out her jet lag, the office was less busy and therefore less intimidating, and with fewer people around, there was less chance she’d get in the way. There wasn’t really anything for her to do but observe. Just seeing how we worked, the pace, the intensity, the fixed deadlines, would be shocking, and unlike Kuzoo FM in every way.
We entered the back door using the special after-hours code, and snaked around the maze of cubes to my show’s area of the building. She thrilled when the automatic lights popped on as they sensed our presence. Imagining it through Ngawang’s eyes, I felt embarrassed by the largesse, the plushness of it all. Even the oldest computers were three years newer than anything in Thimphu, and there was one on every desk. Without people behind them at this hour they seemed like even more of a luxury, machines standing by, just in case.
There were other, even more wondrous visions: the office kitchen, with its dueling microwaves, toaster oven, dishwasher, and a cabinet stuffed full with mugs. The plentiful supply of tea and coffee and sugar and little coffee creamers in different flavors. Milk was far too dear back in Bhutan to waste in tea; instead, caffeine was whitened with milk powder. And at Kuzoo, the small stash of beverages was kept under lock and key, reserved for special guests.
“Free?” she asked, amazed, and then she saw the pharmacy cabinet, which momentarily trumped the drinks supply. “Free meds, too?”
The five coworkers who shared these miserable hours welcomed Ngawang warmly, and sleepily volunteered to help explain their particular jobs on the show. While I went about putting together the first newscast of the evening, Ngawang meandered around the office, snooping at the colorful pictures and artifacts that decorated each cubicle. That each person had his own dedicated desk was another curious luxury.
As we walked to the studio to go live, Ngawang asked, very loudly, the name of one of my coworkers who she’d been talking with earlier. “That fat girl,” she explained. She was having as hard a time with our names as I had, at first, in Bhutan. I told her she must not, under