My day starts simply enough. The school bags are packed, the kids are strapped in, and the goal is simple: drop them off, get to the office, and start the workday. In a perfect Thimphu city situation, this should take about ten minutes. I know because I've done the math. I've clocked it on a quiet usual morning. Ten minutes. That's the lie I tell myself every weekday as I turn the ignition.
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The reality, of course, is a 25-to-30-minute odyssey that tests the very fabric of my sanity.
The first act of our daily drama begins near the school. This is where I encounter them, a brand new car (with a I-have-just-learned-to-drive ) driver. You can spot them metres away. Their knuckles are white on the steering wheel, their faces a mask of intense concentration usually reserved for bomb disposal.
They approach a simple, gentle right-hand turn as if it's a calculus problem. The indicator goes on (thank you for that), but instead of turning, they stop. Completely.
In the middle of the road. What follows is a beautiful thing, a snaking line of traffic materializing behind me like an accordion being slowly stretched. Horns blare in a futile attempt to break the spell. I watch in my rearview mirror as the line grows, a metal serpent of frustration, all because the sacred art of the rolling stop has been lost to a generation. (No pun intended la!)
We finally untangle ourselves and inch forward, only to be greeted by our next obstacle: the narrow divider. Some urban planner, in a stroke of geniusness decided that the best way to "ease" traffic flow was to squeeze two lanes of cars into one, using a concrete barrier that feels like it was designed by someone who has never actually driven a car.
What was meant to be a solution has become a daily chokehold, forcing every car to merge in a desperate, every-man-for-himself scrum. My kids have learned new words during this merge.
If the divider is the chronic condition, then the storm drains are the acute emergency. Lately, it seems like every small road in the city has been deemed unworthy of its asphalt. Cones appear overnight, herding us into single-file chaos. Diggers sit idle in giant holes, like metal dinosaurs dozing on the job. It's infrastructure week, every week, and my commute is the unwilling host. The ten-minute route is now a frustrating course through a municipal works project.
Through all of this, the men in blue are there, bless them. The traffic police stand in the middle of this madness, waving their hands, blowing their whistles, trying to impose order on chaos. They are the unsung heroes, the conductors of this insane orchestra. They do their bit.
But their biggest challenge? Our "all-knowing" drivers.
These are the kings and queens of the road. Encased in their steel and glass chariots, they feel invincible. A painted line is merely a suggestion. They weave through the snaking line of patient cars, treating the emergency lane as their personal express lane. They cut across lanes of traffic at the last second to make an exit, blissfully unaware (or uncaring) of the chain-reaction braking they just caused. They are protected by their bumpers and their anonymity, and they wield their vehicles like weapons of mass impatience.
So, as I finally pull into the office parking lot, 25 minutes after I should have, I sit for a moment. The car is quiet. The kids are at school. The storm drains are still being dug. The dividers are still narrow. And a fresh batch of newly licensed drivers is probably taking a rolling stop right now.
And I think to myself: We need to change how we hand out the keys to this kingdom. A written test and a quick loop around the block isn't enough. We need stricter tests, tougher exams, and perhaps a mandatory course on the simple physics of a turn signal and the profound social contract of the merge. Because a commute shouldn't feel like an endurance sport. It should just be a way to get from home to the office in ten minutes.
With all due respect, only 10 minutes la...
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