Salt, Salaries, and a Bhutanese in Piran, Slovenia

They say the word "salary" comes from salt. When I first heard this, I did what any Bhutanese would do: I thought of my own salary and wondered whether I should be grateful it isn't paid in salt. Back home, we already have enough salt in our ema datshi, and my mother would have been delighted by a payroll of Tibetan rock salt, but my landlord would not.

The peninsula of Piran

The mighty Roman Empire paid its soldiers in salt during the heyday of conquest. Imagine the face of a legionnaire on payday: "Sir, I conquered three provinces and all I got was this sack of seasoning?" Yet salt was precious then, and any town that produced it must have been rich and in control of the trade routes. Think of it as the Bhutanese equivalent of owning the only petrol pump in Wangdue: everyone must come to you eventually.

One such town is Piran, perched on the Adriatic Sea in Slovenia, where salt is still made the traditional way. No fancy machines, just sun, sea, and patience. As someone who grew up believing that the best things in life (like suja, dried chilies, and a good sikam) cannot be rushed, I felt right at home.

Piran was once part of the Venetian Empire, and it has never quite forgotten it. Its Italian roots are still firmly intact in the buildings, with their Venetian-style facades, and in the signs. Every sign is first written in Slovenian, with the Italian just below it, like a respectful younger sibling standing one step behind. As a Bhutanese, I appreciated this immensely. We too know the importance of Dzongkha and English sharing a signboard without either one losing face. The difference is that here I could not read either language, so I simply nodded wisely at every explanation Silva made, the way I do at a meeting when the finance section starts presenting.

Professor Silva

Our guide for the day was Professor Silva, who explained the history of Piran with such command that I half expected her to start charging entry fees. Halfway through, I told her, jokingly, that she had missed her calling and should have been a cultural tourist guide. She smiled, graciously ignoring the fact that she holds a PhD in Linguistics. Truth be told, she was simply showing the rest of us how a scholar does it: with a doctorate and a storyteller's heart.

I was fortunate to visit Piran while on an official assignment at the University of Primorska in the ancient town of Koper. Our hosts, with typical hospitality, bundled us into a vehicle for the 25-minute drive. In Thimphu, 25 minutes of travel barely gets you past the first hairpin bend and the first "I think I'm going to be car sick" announcement from the back seat. In Slovenia, it got us to a whole different historic town, with no one needing a plastic bag.

I left Piran with two lessons. First, a town that once ruled trade routes through salt can still charm visitors centuries later. Second, if I ever get my salary in salt, I now know exactly which Slovenian town to take it to for a fair exchange rate.

The motley crew in Piran's town-square

Kadrinche, Piran. And thank you (Tashi Delek) to Professor Sonja, her husband, and Professor Silva for making our day wonderful, and for giving me the best unofficial part of my official visit. Professor Silva is especially fond of the words "Tashi Delek."

I came home with no sacks of salt, but with a bag full of memories: the sea breeze on the old stone streets, the Slovenian and Italian signs I pretended to read, the laughter with new friends, and a pinch of Piran that will keep my stories flavoured for years to come.