This is what 30,000 books look like

Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Preparing for books is one thing. Paying for the printing is another. Printing thirty thousand books is one thing. Selling them all is another. I try to count sheep to go to sleep, but I end up counting books and that keeps me wide awake.

Years ago, it started with classroom handouts. After Xeroxing came a Pixma Canon printer. Then, the first order from a real printer was 500, then 3,000 and now it’s not worth counting anymore. I asked the printer what he thought would be a profit-making volume and he said 300,000 a year. Well, that’s still only 5% of the Lao population.

You may think it’s getting out of hand, but …but.. what’s the metaphor? It’s like, if you need 7 eggs, you might as well buy a dozen. If you need a new faucet, you might as well buy a new sink. No, those aren’t good metaphors. Anyway as I see it, if I’m going to try to do the job of getting good texts out there for Lao students, try to really make a difference in the way people learn, I might as well try to cover the whole curriculum and the whole country. Then, I can call it a good day.

A star is born

I wish I knew what this boy is saying, or for that matter, what he’s doing, but for now, we’ll just have to assume that he’s getting ready for something real big.

It’s been more than five weeks since I’ve visited the deaf school. There’s still a lot of work to do. I have the students look over the drafts. They are just photos of words/signs, but I see kids running their fingers over the pictures as if it were text in a book. When humans get ready to enjoy a good read, we kind of wiggle our butts into our chairs like, “Ah, this is going to be good” and that’s how I observe the kids with the drafts. It proves again that books are a primary pleasure and people are starved for them when there aren’t enough. It must also mean that seeing one’s world represented in any form must be pretty fascinating and very satisfying.

The challenge of language is to use strange sounds and stranger squiggles to represent meaning thoughts and collective cultures. On the other hand, the physical worlds that we have constructed are already physical texts of collective cultures and political mishaps, but it takes scrutiny and knowledge of history to decipher them. Why is Vientiane filled with architectural examples of 60s American Modernism? Why is Luang Prabang being re-created in faux colonial style, or better yet, what are the true examples of neo-colonialism? Why is Watay Airport in Vientiane Japanese? What skills of interpretation do we have to answer these questions since the book hasn’t been written yet?

49

It’s funny how people deliver their lines perfectly and not even know that they were given the part. This morning I was paying for another night and the guesthouse lady says, “Ah, yes, March 21st.” Then I remembered, “Today’s my birthday.”

I gues that’s why I decided not to take the 6 hour mountain bus ride with a 100 books, but instead opted for a slow day. Maybe that’s why today was the first day of blue skies after weeks of thick, sooty air and why the main street was quiet, almost barren of tourists, and perfect for a truly nice cup of coffee.

Barbie’s not a thousand years old, but I’m almost 50 now. Who’d ever think I’d be here.

Climb Mt. Phousi

One of the main sightseeing attractions in Luang Prabang is Mt. Phousi. That’s why there’s a Phousi Hotel and a Phousi Guesthouse and Phousi this and that.

“Why not open up a Phousi shop?” That’s Jill’s idea after I fed her the idea of making “Phousi rolls”. I’m tired of rubberstamp businesses. A new idea like fruit shakes in plastic cups or mango cakes come once in a decade and then are copied to death. Why not just make a new cinnamon roll that peaks upward and call it a Phousi Roll?

In the Bangkok Post today, there was an article about some convention or some new magic concept that was going to pull the country out of a recession. It’s called “creative business” or something along the lines that every true entrepreneur should be doing all the time anyway. We’d never have things like Barbie Dolls if someone hadn’t figured out “creative business” a thousand years ago. (Barbie’s not that old).

Jill is a master of ideas. She said she grew up making up new ideas with her siblings and then watching TV a few years later saying, “Hey, they took our idea.” She didn’t need “Toys R’Us”, but ripped tissue paper into figurines, infused them with personalities, histories and personal issues and entertained herself in the back seat of a car for hours. We’re eating in a restaurant, but when I see how she’s absent-mindedly made the rice basket into a gyroscope, I’m convinced she’s a cornucopia of ideas.

So, let’s put in print. All these ideas are credited to Jill: T shirts that say, “I climbed Mt. Phousi” or “My boyfriend climbed Mt. Phousi and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.” If you come to Luang Prabang and see an ethnic minority beauty shop where you can get Akha haircuts, Khamu henna tattoos and neckrings (in installments), it’s Jill’s idea. She says it’s gotta be a hit in Los Angeles. After all, “The neck is the next thing”.

Why not the world?

Some tailwinds are inexplicable. This one blew for two days and took me distances I’d never dreamed of before.

There’s a school I tried to work with a few years ago. Working there drove me to the edge. Nobody there wanted change (other than the students) and I had brick marks on my forehead from too much banging.

Now there’s a turnaround and the doors have slid open. They’re ready not only for change, but are ready to change Luang Prabang. “It has to start somewhere,” they say, “and it might as well be here”. They’re open to trying a whole new system and though I’ve warned them of the risks, they say they’re ready. I’ve committed myself to be back in July and set up the system. We’ll start in September. More details later.

The next jaw drop happened on the next day. It answered the second prayer; a distribution system. There’s a school that has done something unprecedented; set up private language schools in every province in the country (except for Attapeu. Poor Attapeu). We’ve already begun shipping books out in the hundreds to the provinces. For someone who started off selling books one -at –at-time going literally door-to-door, it’s-a-dream.

My friend so wisely warns, “Love letters written at night shouldn’t be sent until the next morning.” I’m sure there’s the Lao equivalent for warning about counting chickens that aren’t chickens yet so yes, I will try to keep my wits together and not take a vacation yet or something crazy like that.

What’s in a bike?

The other day, I packed a record 140 books on this bicycle. I should take better care of it considering my livelihood depends on it. The seat ripped, so it’s been stuffed with a plastic bag and taped down. The handlebar grips melted in the sun so I taped that too, but the tape melts and sticks to my hands so I’ve put plastic bags on it, secured with rubber bands. The rear derailleur broke, but if I tug on the cable manually, I can go uphill. A wad of paper stuffed under the cable also does the trick.

I like to park my bike against these potted plants. They’re popular in Laos and Thailand. The red flowers are fairly nice, but the stems are full of thorns making you wonder why people like them so much. They say it attracts money so I’ve come to like them too and make sure the bike is nestled among the thorns. I’m waiting for the day the guesthouse boss tells me to leave her plants alone.

BG, my new regional sales cohort, asks if foreigners believe in luck. He often acknowledges that many Lao worldviews are not consistent with scientific thought. I assure him that I have no problem understanding luck, fortune and fate. It’s a worldview I’ve formed by default, programmed from working in Laos.

If you’ll excuse more bicycle metaphors, there are headwinds and tailwinds. There’s fate and there’s will. I can’t change the direction of a headwind or make a steep gravely slope smooth, but I can persist and pedal until I reach the top. On the other hand, if there’s a rare tailwind on a flat stretch, I’ll also pedal hard because who knows when that chance will come again.

BG understands that because he says he never stops to rest.

Yesterday, I had a wonderful time taking with another biker. Sometimes I have to explain that I’m really a biker at heart since now I’m disguised as a bookseller in a long-sleeved shirt and the tattered bike would never convince anyone that I ride long distances. In this case, he’d just finished 190 kilometers and I didn’t have to explain anything because we bikers know each other’s heart upon first sight.

He said, “You’re really like a biker,” and what he said he meant was that I have pared my life down to the essentials and so can go wherever I want. I told him about Cambodia a few years ago when I didn’t even take enough things to fill both sides of my saddlebags.

“Traveling with a handbag”. It’s enough. Everything else is will.

This little piggy goes to market

Just to remind you that there’s no FedEx here. No Amazon.com either. If there were, I wouldn’t be riding upcountry with a pig. Actually, I’m in the front seat, comfortable with a clear view of the next pothole. The pig is strapped to the back, ropes tracing lines for the butcher might cut and prematurely smoked by truck exhaust. Not first class at all.

I’m trying to get to Udomxai before dark. The driver is making the late run because he’s
run out of noodles. He’s the sole distributor and there’s no soup the next morning if he doesn’t get the supply. I know he’s done this road a hundred times, but I can’t figure out his strategy. Is he aiming for the potholes? Maybe he’s deciding what axel he wants to crack first. Sometimes, he simply opts for the shoulder.

I have to admit I’m looking forward to getting to a “big” city. You know you’re in a small town when you end up eating at the same place three times a day. I tried to find options in the market that didn’t have spoonfuls of MSG in tt, but all I could find was biscuits, bananas and boiled eggs, which still ended up full of MSG. If you can imagine.

If this is the road to civilization, it’s got some high mountains to go through first. Villages flash by. This one is Hmong, this one is Khamu, this one is Lue. The Hmong villages are balanced on the very crests of the mountains. You’d think they’d have porches for the astounding views, but the houses are boarded up against the cold. It’s probably not about verandas and views. It must be something about getting away from everyone else or living as close to the sky as possible.

The driver fills me in. The power plant and electricity lines were put in by the Japanese several years ago, but now it’s all kaput. They’re getting electricians from Luang Prabang, so he says. I don’t think that’s a good idea because Luang Prabang is where the lights go out every Saturday. Maybe it’s the same for the road. It looks like it was good at one point, but now there are Godzilla gouges and rocky piles making for 130 km. one long stretch of massive speedbumps. He says the Chinese built the roads after liberation, and use them now to haul out natural resources.

The environment is messed up and the Khamu spirits are gone. It’s beyond my understanding, but I gather that what he’s saying is that his cosmology doesn’t function anymore. Now we’re higher up and he tells me what the pink sacks are. Piled on the roadside, they’re bags of pig poop for fertilizer. It’s natural, but they’re vulnerable to climate change. It rained too much last year and the harvest was bad. There won’t be enough rice. What do people do? I can’t hear his mumbled response.

He says people used to get rich by growing poppies, but people including his father got addicted and became poppies themselves. Some international reports say that farmers can’t survive on alternative crops after opium was eradicated. They’re technically not supposed to do slash and burn farming, but doesn’t leave them with much options. Most of the landscape is barren and smoldering. It’s still about survival.


It’s evening and people are coming home from the fields. Women have baskets on their backs full of kindling. Their load is so high that they’ve become twice their height.

More passes and potholes and we’re down in the lowlands again. Now there are satellite dishes and concrete houses, but know I now how far kids have to go to find a high school. When they do, many don’t make it because Lao is not their first language.

The pig got dropped off at the pass. I get dropped off in the dark in Udomxai, but with my bicycle, I can get around. It’s a new town; no connections, no knowledge of the schools. I’ll start up tomorrow morning.

This is how things are sold in Laos. Noodles have to get to their bowls and pigs to the market. There’s no sense in complaining because we all know there’s no easy way. Books have got to get to their readers so I’ve got some work to do.

Style of the day

I'd come unannounced as usual - just slipped into the gate of the orphan/ethnic minority high school. I hear they get a monthly stipend of around $20 US a month. I don't see Oliver Twist around but hope someone is interested in a book.

A young guy lopes across the schoolyard with curious sideburns. They looked more like earlocks. I know it's the fashion because he walks cool and I see it on others. Closer up, I can see that they're marked in with charcoal. He was kind enough to let me take a picture. I wanted to record what's the current rage at the orphan/ethnic minority school.

Blackout

Rumor has it that an American donated hundreds of books to the local high school. (rural district – name withheld). Later, somebody saw them locked up in storage and suspects that the teachers are planning to sell them for profit. If it’s true, it explains the venal look in the director’s eyes. His expression sours further when I tell him I’m here to sell, not to donate.

I get the half-nod of approval and work the classes. They are typical. I can identify the 2% of curious and bright minds that must wonder every day why god dropped them into rural Laos. Then there are those who are more concerned about their hair than buying a book. Nonetheless, I’m satisfied with the 70 books I’ve sold in a few hours.

I’m back on the road. This is where people cross streets to see what I have. They’re curious as if they haven’t seen a new book in years. At the same time, they hesitate to buy in the way I’d hesitate to put a down payment on a house. They’ll spend $1.20 for beer, for a bowl of noodles or to fill up their phone, but it’s likely that they’ve never spent money on a book before. There’s always a first time and it’s probably scary.

Again, I’m not following any marketing rules. If I had targets to meet, I wouldn’t waste time in places where a sale is a minor miracle. For example, I check out the high school “dorms” where the upcountry kids live. I figure we’re already in the country because my phone doesn’t work, but there’s country and then there’s country-country. These little woven bamboo shacks can hardly be called dorms. They’re dirt-floored shacks. Shacks like you’d make on a Boy Scout outing. Shacks like emergency shelters after a hurricane. Heat, mud, cold, bugs, noise, misery. And here I think I’ll sell a book.

I’ve discounted way down to 10,000 kip. In the city I sell for 17,000 or 22,000. That’s what’s printed on the books. When I say I’m selling for 10,000, I often hear surprised murmurs. They know it’s cheap, most still won’t buy.

One bouncy boy who has already bought a set leads me to potential customers. Many of the “boarders” are from ethnic minority groups. It’s remarkable that somewhere in the fields, digging around in the dirt or hunting for fish with a spear, some kids find the itchy inspiration to study. One boy looks at the book while the others crowd around like gang members. He has bravado, not because he has tattoos or knives, but because he’s getting ready to buy a book. It’d be too much to think that one book would make a difference, but I hope it does.

The girls are more vulnerable. They don’t get to become gang leaders because they study. I tongue lashed a mother once who wouldn’t buy her daughter the ABC book. The girl knew for some reason that I had books in my bag and tugged on my sleeve to see one. Her mother yelled at her, “You don’t need a book. You can’t even read.” I think she understood my Lao because I could see verbal whip marks on her face. “Don’t you dare devalue your daughter in that way. She can do a lot more in her life than just make babies.”

One book sells in the shack dorms to a petite girl with bright eyes. She looks happy, like I’ve just delivered to her doorstep the kind of juicy tomatoes she’d been dreaming of.

There’s an evening English class so I’ve filled my bag. I find one interested cluster of students, but then the lights go out. I assume we’re pretty much finished, but within seconds, cell phones become small flashlights and they go right on inspecting the books. It’s not that easy understand, or see for that matter, but something new seems to fascinates them. Someone scans my face with the light of his cell phone.

He’s the teacher and he says he knows me from three or four years ago. I don’t remember his face, but I can put the story together. He suggests I teach a bit and I think quickly how it can be done in the dark.

A lot can be done in the dark. You can concentrate in the dark. You don’t have to shout in the dark. You can shape sounds with varied nuances and people hear them. It was a new discovery, a new technique for Laos. How to learn without electricity.


(Note: this young man studies at the orphan/slash/ethnic minority school. Check out the fashion: his sideburns are charcoal.

Tourists, travelers and traders

Nong Kio and Meuang Ngoi are small tourist towns, mostly because of the dramatic scenery and laid-back river views. Some tourists are interested in what I’m doing, especially when they start to see the same bright blue book all over town. On the other hand, I’m not sure if one particular tourist gets it at all when he tells me, “Enjoy your travels around Laos.” I could get huffy about the acquired differences between tourist and traveler, but I’ll put myself now in the category of “trader”. After all, what motivated all the explorers in history to do crazy things? They were all after something. If I’m a pure merchant, I’ll worry about my investments, my stock and my rates of exchange. If I’m a trader, I’m going to enjoy the fun along the way. I have 300 books in two boxes that I can hardly lift. I’ve got my bicycle and a laptop to protect from dust, mud and jarring tuk tuk rides. The schools I’ve targeted for Friday are closed because of a national holiday. Then, I go upstream and discover that I’ve brought only Japanese books. People don’t buy. There’s no boat downstream and I have to pay $25 US. It’s all in a day’s work. I’ve only sold a handful of books, but why complain? We’re puttering down the river and floating through warm banks of air. It’s the kind of warm air that rises off asphalt on a late summer evening, so nostalgically delicious. Water buffalos are…. In the water, with just their heads and horns sticking out. They haven’t moved since the time I passed them going upstream. They’re clustered at a good spot where cooler water trickles in and they’re eyes read, “aaah”. It’s a good picture to use in a text to illustrate the word, “cool”. There are some shallow rapids. If the driver didn’t know his river, we’d be banging rocks. Instead, a headlong surge into a small wall of water sets off a fine spray. It’s the feeling when you get when you stick your head out of a fast moving car and open your mouth. Exhilarating. It takes your breath away. There’s too much to breathe in. Traders always have something to keep them going. Tourists usually have time limits and think about home.