Waiting for a plane
Paro Airport
I’m sitting here with a cup of very strong, very sweet Nescafe, waiting for the Druk Air flight that will take me to Bangkok, back to the ‘real’ world with its espresso and ATMs and salads and hectic pace. It’s rather bittersweet to be here, in this festively decorated airport that I’ve traversed half a dozen times in the past eight years, on what may be my final departure from the Mystical Kingdom. When I arrived in Bhutan this time, I was convinced that this was my last visit – my research is largely done (it’s hard to say that a research project can ever be *completely* done), and I suspect that some of the conclusions of my dissertation may be less than palatable to the Bhutanese government.
The sensitivity of the government may be changing though. Friends tell me that people are no longer so much in awe of the ministers, as they are now elected rather than appointed by the King. The new democracy seems to have created more room for discussion and dissent, though some topics are still off limits. With democracy, there is greater demand for accountability from the elected representatives. Looking ahead, it seems likely that several of my friends – highly intelligent and educated in the west – will ascend to ministerial positions by the time of the next elections in five years.
During the past two days, my friends in Thimphu didn’t ask whether I’d be back, but when I’d be back. All were convinced that I would return. No one said ‘goodbye’ – that’s not really a custom here – instead they say ‘see you.’ See you, and ‘safe journey.’ Traversing the mountains is always an uncertain proposition, and before any departure, people repeatedly wish each other ‘safe journey.’ And with the Bhutanese acceptance of impermanence – what is life, but change? – they don’t worry much about goodbyes, holding open the possibility of crossing paths in the future. Life here is so interconnected and coincidental that crossing paths again is to be expected. At the same time, some distances are so great, villages are so remote, and conditions so unpredictable, that it is equally likely not to cross paths again. I am repeatedly struck by the contingency of fate: just the other day, an army truck, full of children on their way to school, went off the road near Thimphu, sliding down the hillside and killing one of the children. It was only a fortuitously placed pair of electrical poles that prevented the truck from tumbling all the way to the bottom of the river valley. On the way to work, we were diverted around the accident and could see the truck hanging precariously from the poles from the opposite side of the river.
That’s what life is like here: both contingent and fortuitous. In reality, that’s what life is like everywhere, but much of the time, we manage to put enough padding and distractions between ourselves and this knowledge that we can believe we are actually in control. Though it’s more comfortable to have the trappings of western life, there is something bracing about life in the mountains, where little beyond a plate of rice and chilis is taken for granted. Though little is taken for granted, everything works out fine. Earlier in the week, five of us on our Gasa research trip, showed up in a village where we had already heard there was no place to stay. Not dissuaded, our local team members asked around, and eventually determined that we could share a room with a district official visiting that village. Six of us packed into a half finished room with a floor and roof, but no ceiling, doors, and windows. Not perfect, but no one was left out in the rain either.
I’m sitting here with a cup of very strong, very sweet Nescafe, waiting for the Druk Air flight that will take me to Bangkok, back to the ‘real’ world with its espresso and ATMs and salads and hectic pace. It’s rather bittersweet to be here, in this festively decorated airport that I’ve traversed half a dozen times in the past eight years, on what may be my final departure from the Mystical Kingdom. When I arrived in Bhutan this time, I was convinced that this was my last visit – my research is largely done (it’s hard to say that a research project can ever be *completely* done), and I suspect that some of the conclusions of my dissertation may be less than palatable to the Bhutanese government.
The sensitivity of the government may be changing though. Friends tell me that people are no longer so much in awe of the ministers, as they are now elected rather than appointed by the King. The new democracy seems to have created more room for discussion and dissent, though some topics are still off limits. With democracy, there is greater demand for accountability from the elected representatives. Looking ahead, it seems likely that several of my friends – highly intelligent and educated in the west – will ascend to ministerial positions by the time of the next elections in five years.
During the past two days, my friends in Thimphu didn’t ask whether I’d be back, but when I’d be back. All were convinced that I would return. No one said ‘goodbye’ – that’s not really a custom here – instead they say ‘see you.’ See you, and ‘safe journey.’ Traversing the mountains is always an uncertain proposition, and before any departure, people repeatedly wish each other ‘safe journey.’ And with the Bhutanese acceptance of impermanence – what is life, but change? – they don’t worry much about goodbyes, holding open the possibility of crossing paths in the future. Life here is so interconnected and coincidental that crossing paths again is to be expected. At the same time, some distances are so great, villages are so remote, and conditions so unpredictable, that it is equally likely not to cross paths again. I am repeatedly struck by the contingency of fate: just the other day, an army truck, full of children on their way to school, went off the road near Thimphu, sliding down the hillside and killing one of the children. It was only a fortuitously placed pair of electrical poles that prevented the truck from tumbling all the way to the bottom of the river valley. On the way to work, we were diverted around the accident and could see the truck hanging precariously from the poles from the opposite side of the river.
That’s what life is like here: both contingent and fortuitous. In reality, that’s what life is like everywhere, but much of the time, we manage to put enough padding and distractions between ourselves and this knowledge that we can believe we are actually in control. Though it’s more comfortable to have the trappings of western life, there is something bracing about life in the mountains, where little beyond a plate of rice and chilis is taken for granted. Though little is taken for granted, everything works out fine. Earlier in the week, five of us on our Gasa research trip, showed up in a village where we had already heard there was no place to stay. Not dissuaded, our local team members asked around, and eventually determined that we could share a room with a district official visiting that village. Six of us packed into a half finished room with a floor and roof, but no ceiling, doors, and windows. Not perfect, but no one was left out in the rain either.
Comments