Ngawang Phuntsho

Growing up in rural Bhutan, the richest people in the village often had very little cash. They were known as chukpo , 'the ones with cattle'. And no one asked how much money a person had in the bank. No one or only a countable few had bank accounts, anyway. Wealth was measured in fields, cattle, grains, and the ability to carry a family through the seasons. Cash existed, but it played only a small role. Most exchanges happened through barter. Rice for chillies, soya beans for Sichuan peppers, cheese for eggs. I still remember that a ball of homemade cheese was worth two fresh eggs. Nobody needed a calculator because people simply knew. The most remarkable part of the system was the exchange of labour. During sowing and planting seasons, families needed extra hands, yet labour was rarely paid in cash. If I spent three days helping on your farm, you spent three days helping on mine in return. No contract was needed to be signed. No money changed hands. Wealthier households so...

Living away from Bhutan reveals who we are in unexpected ways. Here in Perth, we often notice this in ordinary conversations. When someone learns that we are Bhutanese, her face brightens.  Almost every time, they mention a Bhutanese they know. “They are kind, respectful, hardworking people.”  Those few words always stay with us. Even far from home, Bhutanese continue to live the values we grew up with. Helping others without being asked. Working sincerely. Treating people with respect. Without realising it, we become representatives of our country through the way we live each day. At a time when Bhutan is opening itself to the world through the visionary Gelephu Mindfulness City , this matters even more. The world is beginning to look toward Bhutan with curiosity and admiration. When they meet Bhutanese abroad whose actions reflect compassion, humility, and integrity, the image of Bhutan becomes something real and human. At the same time, living abroad also tests how much of ...

Bhutan's ongoing textbook delays have exposed something larger than a temporary printing problem. They have revealed a growing mismatch between a modern curriculum and an old delivery system.   This year, Classes IX and XI began learning under the new Cambridge-aligned curriculum. Yet many students started the academic year without printed textbooks. Schools relied on soft copies, handwritten notes, and borrowed materials while waiting for books to arrive. According to reports by BBS Bhutan and The Bhutanese, delays emerged at multiple stages: design, printing, and distribution. The Ministry of Education and Skills Development explained that textbooks had to be developed under a new model while also supporting local printing firms. Schools adapted because they had no choice. That adaptation is worth examining carefully.  Bhutan's classrooms have already begun moving toward digital learning, not by design but by necessity. Teachers are sharing PDFs. Students are reading ...

On quiet mornings, over coffee, certain thoughts return with unusual clarity. One of them is relationships. Among Bhutanese who move to Australia for study, work, and a better future, I have often noticed two very different stories unfolding inside relationships. Both begin with hope. Both begin with sacrifice. But they do not always end in the same place. Migration changes many things. We speak often about jobs, permanent residency, children’s education, and financial security. What we discuss less is what migration does inside the home, between two people, in the quiet space behind closed doors. I have seen couples who arrive here and grow stronger. Australia (any other foreign country for that matter) quickly teaches people that survival is shared work. Rent is high. Bills do not wait. Both partners often work long hours, sometimes in jobs far removed from what they once imagined for themselves. A husband who never entered the kitchen back home learns to cook after a late shift....

When I first came to Perth, I did not notice much grey in my hair. Maybe a strand here or there, but nothing to worry about. A year later, things changed. My hair started turning grey in a way I could not ignore. Some friends told me it was stress. Moving to a new country, starting over, learning to build a life from the ground up. Stress can show up in strange ways, they said. I nodded, but I also had my own theory. Back home, as children we were told that salt makes your hair turn white faster. If salt had that kind of power, then why not salty water? I convinced myself that the Perth water was the reason my hair was changing. It made sense to me. I am yet to discover any scientific experiment, if any. But for now, that's a topic for another blog post.  And then I noticed something else. The speed at which our hair fall. All of a sudden grey hair do not bother us anymore. The amount of hair I lost every week was shocking. Friends and acquaintances shared the same story. Almost ...

Some of my friends still update their blogs, though less often than they once did. I stepped away from mine for a long stretch, (lost a year or two in between) despite how much I valued it. That absence feels like a loss. And it is.  The shift is easy to explain. This is the age of social media and vlogging, where video dominates attention. Readers, even those who could easily turn to text, often prefer images and voices on a screen. Newspapers have seen the same decline. For those who once relied on print, television and digital media now deliver news instantly. Even major outlets fight for shrinking audiences, with survival tied to depth and serious analysis. And that's my excuse of my failure to blog more consistently?  Of course, for bloggers, the space has narrowed. I feel that our audience is even smaller. The influence weaker. Yet I am not ready to abandon mine. I want to keep it alive, even if posting comes only once in a blue moon. But when that moon rises, it makes ...