The Dragon's Voice

by Bunty Avieson

  Bhutan’s isolation has made the impact of television all the clearer, even if the government chooses to ignore it … One third of girls now want to look more American (whiter skin, blond hair). A similar proportion have new approaches to relationships (boyfriends not husbands, sex not marriage). More than 35% of parents prefer to watch TV than talk to their children. Almost 50% of children watch for up to 12 hours a day.

  In 2003, only 15,000 homes had subscribed to cable. It’s not possible that half the country’s children were watching up to 12 hours of television. In general, Bhutanese children attend school five days a week, sometimes six. If they live too remotely to get to a school, their families are unlikely to have electricity, much less a television.

  Nor did television alert the Bhutanese to the startling possibility of casual sex. Sex with or without a long-term relationship has been going on in Bhutan for … well, forever. The Guardian journalists were imposing a paradigm of Western morality onto a culture that has never seen the world so rigidly.

  The writers presented as evidence of their crime wave a dozen or so recent incidents – including a man driving his in-laws off a cliff in a drunken rage, six bank employees jailed for fraud, and a girl doing sex work in the border town of Phuentsholing. They said that though no-one could be sure, there was a wealth of evidence that the ‘impatient, selfish society promoted by television’ was a critical factor in these crimes. ‘The 700,000 inhabitants … had never experienced serious law-breaking before.’

  Long before television arrived, Bhutan had serious crime. The country has suffered a prime ministerial assassination, bombings, murders, rapes, embezzlement and high-level corruption. Needrup told me the story of Desi Chakpa Sangay, who in the 1850s was given a gho impregnated by his enemies with the smallpox virus. His painful, grisly death has become legend. Bhutan has never been the crime-free fairyland that Scott-Clark and Levy portrayed.

  When the two Guardian reporters arrived in Bhutan, the society was in the midst of a fierce debate about television’s influence and many were worried about what it would mean. Kuensel was publishing readers’ letters, editorials and interviews with community leaders, warning of its corrupting influence.

  But television, according to people inside the country at the time, had also brought benefits. The government surveyed Thimphu residents in 2002, and 90 per cent of teachers and parents said television was educational, helping to boost children’s level of thinking and ideas, and increasing their enthusiasm for co-curricular activities. A media impact study, published a few months after the Guardian story, showed that about two-thirds of respondents believed television had a good impact on Bhutanese society. Only 8 per cent thought it had a negative impact.

  To say television brought crime to Shangri-La overnight is simplistic and glib. The discussion in Bhutan is far more sophisticated.

  For the Bhutanese, now able to read the international press online, seeing what is written about them is sometimes a shock. Pek reported in her 2003 media impact study:

  People with internet access are now reading about what the world has to say about Bhutan. We find increasingly that the views about Bhutan may not be true … The UK Guardian, for example, reported on how television has led the Bhutanese astray and unleashed a crime wave of fraud, violence and even murder in Bhutan. A young government employee said that after reading the article, he has learnt not to believe everything that the media covers.

  It’s hard to quantify the influence of the Guardian story. The article was syndicated worldwide (I read it in Australia’s Good Weekend) and continues to be re-posted on blogs from South Africa to Iraq and inside Bhutan. In February 2013, almost a decade after it was first published, a Dutch man provided a link to the story via Twitter, ready for a new generation to be misinformed about Bhutan and the effects of television. Such is the nature of the modern, globalised media.

  The story is referenced in academic journal articles from institutions such as Harvard and Rutgers, all accepting Scott-Clark and Levy’s assertion that television brought serious crime to Bhutan.

  I recognise its central idea repeated in a story that appears about the 2008 coronation in the UK Telegraph. William Langley describes Bhutan as a kingdom in decline thanks to television:

  He [the Fifth King] was in a hurry to get back and begin bouncing Bhutan into the 21st century. So, upon his return from Oxford, he quickly convinced his father to embark on a fast and furious programme of modernisation. And this is where the current problems began. The first event to shake the kingdom out of its millennial slumber was the arrival of television.

  Not only does Langley accept the idea that television ruined Shangri-La, but he makes a further leap in saying it was the idea of the new young monarch, hell-bent on modernising the country. Langley ends his report:

  Few would suggest that Jigme is an unsuitable monarch, but his enthusiasm for change sits uneasily in this strange, remote land where traditional dress is compulsory and foreign languages banned. Even as they were clearing up after the party, a significant number of the new King’s subjects would have been wondering whatever happened to Shangri-La.

  Foreign languages banned? For decades Kuensel published editions in Dzongkha, English and Nepalese. Hindi is widely understood, thanks to decades of Bollywood movies at the cinema in Thimphu’s main street. A small Tibetan population continues to speak Tibetan. As for the people being unhappy with their new King and wondering what happened to Shangri-La, I can only think that Langley attended a different coronation in a different country.

  Bhutan as fallen Shangri-La, ruined by television, is just one of a bewildering array of narratives developed by the international media. Bhutan can represent a moral fable, an inspiring ideal, a wholesome past, a different future. It can appear as the antithesis of the modern Western experience. Some of these narratives have been created by the Bhutanese, but most reflect us more than them. In trying to explain Bhutan, too often we end up framing it in our own paradigms.

  But as each sliver is committed to print, digitised, stored and disseminated, it adds to the collective – a mix of sentimental, patronising, misunderstood caricatures that probably mean well but don’t do Bhutan justice. Bhutan is as flawed as any other country, dealing with issues of crime, alcoholism, domestic violence, youth unemployment, racial tensions and poverty. Its people share the human frailties of greed, ignorance, anger and desire.

  It is a society only just emerging from the feudal age and trying to face the modern world in an intellectually and spiritually robust way. If we are to fully appreciate and learn from Bhutan, then we need to look beyond the clichés we have created.

  13

  Work Habits

  One Saturday afternoon, I arrive home from work in tears of frustration. Mal and Kathryn have spent a glorious morning trekking to the top of the ridge behind Tashi Pelkhil village, picnicking on apples from the orchards along the way. I have spent it in the office, achieving exactly nothing.

  Saturday work hours are 9 am to midday. I’m there on time to print handouts and prepare for a 9.30 writing workshop, but of the ten or so reporters meant to attend, just one turns up.

  A meeting in Phuntsho’s office scheduled for 11.30 isn’t much better. For the first 20 minutes I’m the only one there. At 11.50 the management group starts dribbling in, and we finally get underway at 12.10 – which is about when I thought I would be driving over the bridge to Tashi Pelkhil and starting my weekend with my family. For the next hour and a half we discuss the same things we discussed last Saturday. It is like being buried alive. Slowly. Not everyone came to the last meeting so we must go over it all again. But in re-opening the discussion, decisions that we made last week are rescinded and reconsidered. The sun pours through the window, reminding me what a beautiful day it is outside, and I feel light-headed from hunger as we go around the circle again and again to express our views. The Bhutanese value consensus, so everyone in the
room must be heard. It is harmonious and inclusive but can also be intensely irritating when you actually want to get things accomplished. And the jobs allocated at the last meeting – find out this information, talk to that government department – are still yet to be completed, except for mine. I’m the only one who reports back with an update on my little patch. And to my rising irritation, no-one is held accountable for what they haven’t done.

  I complain to Mal about all the time-wasting but am hesitant to broach it with Phuntsho. These are her meetings. She’s the boss. While it is part of my job to advise management, as much as it is to train reporters, I’m not comfortable criticising her personal performance. Mal, however, says I need to find a way. I’m not doing anybody any favours by sitting through pointless meetings and then seething with resentment about them.

  I worry about it all weekend, before bringing it up with Phuntsho on Monday. I feel very Bhutanese as I dance around the topic, avoiding saying anything directly. I can see from her face that she has no idea what I’m trying to say. Finally I just blurt it out. The meetings are not productive. Nobody does what they are supposed to. I’m going insane. She is immediately receptive. She doesn’t think she is very good at running meetings, she says, taking the blame I have so carefully avoided apportioning. She asks how she can improve.

  This is management without ego, and I think it is one of the reasons Phuntsho achieves so much. She keeps herself open to suggestions and is flexible, willing to change direction on the spot.

  Together we establish new protocols for office meetings. The office manager will take notes, identifying who is to do what, and provide a copy to everyone first thing on Monday mornings. Anybody absent will be briefed on decisions made before the next meeting. Everyone will turn up on time. Everyone will be accountable for their own tasks. It’s a start.

  I spend a lot of time trying to understand Bhutanese sensibilities when it comes to work. I realised when I was working on the Faces of Bhutan magazine that I was worrying about it away from work. Would there be any stories? Would we meet the deadline? I had assumed responsibility for it and taken on all the associated worries, but no-one else seemed to – the Bhutanese editor who was supposed to work with me missed every single deadline. Mal sympathises with me. When making Travellers & Magicians he realised the contrast between how much he was worrying and how little the Bhutanese were.

  The Bhutanese are fluid about most things. People often don’t keep appointments, but may suddenly appear in the offices as the Thursday-evening deadline looms. I’m amazed at how welcoming Needrup is to unexpected visitors when he is behind deadline and trying to write his weekly editorial. Phuntsho is the same. A distant cousin from her village drops by just when she has an important appointment at a government ministry, but they have tea and biscuits and a relaxed chat. If she is agitated, she doesn’t show it.

  It takes me months of being told the head of a department is ‘at the bank’ before I realise that on Mondays he doesn’t come to work before 11 am. Ever. None of his department finds this strange. It’s certainly not a sacking offence. Everyone simply works around him.

  The arts editor suddenly takes off. He gives no warning or phone call explaining how long he might be gone. He just doesn’t turn up for days, and then weeks. On his return, two and a half weeks later, he explains he had to settle his younger brother at college in India. It’s not an apology or even a justification. He just mentions in passing that that’s where he’s been. I’m the only one who finds it odd.

  Another editor takes a week off to sort out his marriage problems. The week turns into a month, then three months, until gradually it becomes clear that he isn’t coming back.

  Bhutan Observer is already short-staffed. When senior editors disappear, the other editors take over. No fuss. No animosity. No-one passes judgment or gets annoyed. It seems to be a common thread in Bhutanese relationships.

  This lack of work ethic is endemic, both in the office of Bhutan Observer and throughout Thimphu. There is little sense of obligation to do the job you are paid to do. The Bhutanese consider it a national trait and laugh about it. They call it BST – Bhutan Stretchable Time. Newspapers write about the ‘laziness’ of the Bhutanese. The public send letters to the editors, bemoaning poor service in government offices. Druk Air flights are about the only thing in Bhutan that keeps to schedule. Somehow Bhutanese pilots manage to set their alarms and get to work on time, every time. It’s the rest of the country that struggles.

  On one hand I applaud the status that work is given: it is reassuring to find a place in the world where family, spiritual pursuits and even fun take precedence over earning money. But I also see the burden it places on everybody else. The newspaper, like any business, runs on a chain of delivery. If a deadline is missed, the effects flow through the whole company. The newspapers are late off the printing press, and instead of starting deliveries late on Thursday night, Bhutan Observer’s drivers have to deliver them throughout the day on Friday. That means drivers and cars won’t be available to take the advertising staff around the government offices for ‘collections’, where they pick up the money for advertisements that week. Without that money, Tenzin can’t pay staff their monthly wages.

  Collections also give advertising staff the opportunity to seek advertisements for the following week. Bhutanese etiquette means face-to-face visits are crucial for any kind of business, and Fridays are the best day for them. If the opportunity is lost, it doesn’t come again.

  Not going on sale on Friday morning is also detrimental because it means that efforts to make the newspaper a reading habit are disrupted. The bumper weekend edition of Kuensel comes out on Saturday, so Bhutan Observer only has Friday to be newsy. When the newspaper is late, circulation income always drops. The newspaper’s reputation suffers.

  After a particularly bad few months for the newspaper, Phuntsho and her husband sell some family land to cover wages. Seeing how modestly they live and their earnest aspirations, I feel cross at their staff. When they don’t turn up and do their jobs, the repercussions affect everyone else. It’s that Buddhist notion of interdependence at work.

  Phuntsho recognises the problem, but has no success fixing it. The attitude to work is deeply cultural. It is a reflection of the best of Bhutanese priorities … and also the worst. Phuntsho and Needrup have high hopes for the newspaper but when staff don’t show up, achieving their goals is impossible.

  Getting the reporters to work back is no problem. Evenings in the office are quite a social affair. It’s getting them in to start the day that is a challenge. Needrup publicly scolds late reporters in news conferences. He is grave, authoritative and impressive. Their reaction? They laugh. It’s a very Bhutanese response, which I’ve seen countless times and can’t explain. It doesn’t mean disrespect or disregard. It’s just the way Bhutanese react to disapproval.

  Phuntsho trials a system whereby reporters have to sign themselves in and out at reception. If they are late or don’t turn up, she docks their pay. But despite their best efforts, little changes.

  It takes a lot to lose a job on Bhutan Observer. Bad behaviour is tolerated to a degree that would be unacceptable anywhere else I’ve ever worked. Phuntsho and Tenzin are loath to sack anybody. The Bhutanese cultural trait of politeness makes firing someone highly unpalatable.

  Even theft is excused. When the man in charge of distribution is discovered to have been pocketing the money he collected on behalf of the newspaper, I feel betrayed on Phuntsho’s behalf. I know how tough it is for her and Tenzin to get this newspaper business up and running and I don’t like seeing people take advantage of them. She asks what a newspaper proprietor would do in the West. I tell her stealing is one of the worst things an employee could do – they might be escorted from the building and required to pay back what they stole. Phuntsho looks horrified. There is no way she would inflict such humiliation on anyone.

  For many months I
marvel at the appalling behaviour of two staff members. One is lazy, not doing his job; the other is arrogant and rude to everyone around him. I would have pushed them out the door in disgust long ago, and probably given in to the desire for a short lecture about their character deficiencies along the way. Phuntsho and Tenzin see it differently. They accommodate the bad behaviour and when finally the parting of the ways does come, it is mutual. At first, I think this approach is too soft, but then I start to see its advantages. There is no ill feeling. Egos are left intact. No one loses face. In a small society, this means everything. Both the staff members leave with goodwill for the newspaper and its owners. There aren’t enough capable writers in Bhutan, and within months both are contributing freelance stories to Bhutan Observer.

  The cavalier approach to jobs seems odd in a country with no unemployment benefits. Everyone needs an income to live. I struggle to make sense of their attitude. On one hand they seem excessively subordinate to authority, but on the other hand they have little fear of losing their jobs.

  Mystified, I talk to Kay Kirby Dorji. She explains that the extended family provides protection and, as a result, Bhutanese take longer to become independent. The lack of work ethic, she says, is a result of their ‘extended adolescence’. She believes it is holding Bhutan back.

  ‘There is this incredibly extended adolescence where they stay at home till they are about 30 years old. Everybody lives with Mummy and Daddy. Nobody gets out and stands on their own two feet and becomes independent. You have all these people who are 26, 27, pushing 30, still living with their parents, with no prospect of a job unless one of their relatives happens to own something,’ says Kay.