Back to the Books

Here is another example of how the inner radar or gyroscope helps us to be positioned at the right place at the right time.

I rode to Pakse in southern Laos from the Thai border. I didn’t think 45 km would be much of an effort on a new bike, but the heat sapped my energy. I got into town and had time only for a quick shower. I had to trace where the books might be. They’d been sent the night before from Vientiane by bus, but as things are done in Laos, if you’re not right there when the bus arrives at four in the morning, you often have to go to the bus driver’s house or find out where he’s sleeping. In this case, I had to cycle 20 minutes to some intersection as instructed over the phone. So, I’ve found the bus and I’m told that someone took the books away in a truck that very morning (900 books). One voice in me said, “You’re screwed” and then the more sensible voice said, “The printer probably asked his friend in Pakse to pick them up.”  It was confirmed and the next step on the treasure hunt was to track this man down in a store somewhere in Pakse. Of course the third voice that actually spoke whined, “nobody told meeee.”

I’d already had enough for a day. An iced coffee didn’t help and I had decided to go back to the guesthouse for a nap before chasing geese again. On the way back, I saw a large stationary/copy store and decided that I needed to buy some invoice sheets and carbon paper. I walked in and right there on my left was a complete shelf of momobooks. Not just one or two, but five tiers and five rows making an impressive display. The effect was just as I had imagined once in Luang Prabang when I was trying to convince some lady to replace her rack of postcards with my books, just for a week’s trial of sales. But I wasn’t in on this plan and voice #1 in my head said, “This is not possible.” Wiser voice #2 said, “Well, you’ve found the store.” Audible voice #3 didn’t convince the shop guy of my serendipity.

What’s the moral to this story? Maybe, “What we’re looking for has already arrived.” It’s back to the books, not only in the sense of selling them, but also in the sense of learning more how this mysterious world works.   

Role of the dice

In high school, I knew someone who was a genius at math and physics. He said that when watching dice fall, he’d automatically calculate the probabilities. Calculating probabilities or calculating luck? Or simply anticipating how a dice will fall?

A dice falling is just a blur to me, but sometimes a blurred state can be very accurate. I was in Hua Lamphong station in Bangkok. I’d gone to the last car to load my bicycle and instead of going back directly to my seat, decided to look for the pineapple on sale that I remembered seeing near the first car. The pineapple was gone, but guided by an odd intuition I decided to walk through the train cars rather than on the platform even though that would mean maneuvering through a cramped corridor. That’s where I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in more than five years. 

That wasn’t the first time on a Thai train. I’d been more accurate before when my reserved seat was directly facing someone I knew – knew from the past, but of course didn’t know he’d be on that train . Or so I think.

A friend tells me that some things are determined in our lives. They’re determined at birth because we pop into the world at a specific time and place that will never be repeated again. The only accurate measurements of such time and space are the positions of the stars. At the same time, we have volition and will. If the car is our fate, the way we drive it is our free will and we are wisest if we try to know what kind of car we’re driving so that our destinations are realistic.

In essence, we’re watching the dice fall at every moment. Sometimes it happens too fast for rational judgment to be useful. Sometimes the results look like luck, but maybe it’s just lucky that we had insight into that moment.

On the edge of the world

Some people say the world has ended. The more exacting say that what has ended is the world as we’d known it. In other words, the world isn’t flat after all.

Someone told me that Hindu tradition dictates that in the latter half of life (post-50) we should either becomes a hermit or an itinerant teacher. Is it possible to do both? I don’t have a cave, but I’m very, very satisfied to spend an entire day silently working on texts. I also realized the other night that the room I found was so satisfying because of the thick concrete walls and ceiling that blocked out any sounds from neighbors. And being an itinerate trader counts, doesn’t it? If possible, I don’t want to be a “teacher” anymore. It’s too pedantic. Teachers who have taught too long tend to stand on podiums rather than converse. Anything you try to express to them ends up being a footnote for their exposition. These days, I just want to disperse books like Johnny’s apple seeds. Throw and grow. Shake and bake.

I’m not sure if it’s a Hindu tradition, but another friend told me that after 50, it’s important for humans to know what their material requirements are in life. I think what that means is that time is up and we can’t enjoy chasing our tail anymore. There’s a limit to material desires. It’s antithetical to traditional economic fundamentals, but maybe those under 50 can do enough consuming and chasing to keep the world spinning.

I know what I can’t live without at this point. I can’t live without my laptop (hermit) and my bicycle (itinerant trader). There are a few other things, but they generally fit into one bag.

I’m not saying I’m a guru or something silly like that. I’m not saying other people should do the same thing. I’m just saying that if the world that we (know)(knew)(had known) has ended, it’s our chance now to peer into other worlds, ones which are sometimes richer and many times more rapturous.

Coming attractions

Judge a book by its cover? 

You bet. 

I make the covers when the end comes into sight.

They're getting dressed for printing. 

Eight to be exact, though several more are in the works. 

Of course there are many intimidating details to be worked out, but the intention is simple; 

they must be done.

All in a Day’s Work

This is my typical workday, now that I’m not selling books. I’m concentrating on preparing the next set of texts so it takes some discipline. I wake up around 5:30, go for a bike ride and try to get some writing done before breakfast. Work will continue right up to lunch if there are no errands to do. An afternoon coffee will keep me going until evening and into late night with just an evening exercise and a dinner break. A good day is ten hours of writing.

OK. There’s a catch. I admit it. I’m in Bali. The 5:30 morning wakeup call is done by a rapturous chorus of excited fowl. Every morning in Bali is exciting because its creation re-created. A bicycle ride actually means riding through monkey forest where the thick canopy of Banyon trees hide the dawning of a pink/powder blue sky morning. When the sun comes up higher, bits of gold hit green.

Back to the guesthouse, I can settle down to work on a veranda chair. A simple breakfast is served and I can give my eyes a rest by filling them with the garden view, lovingly and meticulously maintained to supreme beauty. When afternoon coffee calls, there are endless choices in Ubud and now that it’s slow season, it feels like I have the whole town to myself. The final luxury among luxuries is the silky quiet nights giving me time to get down another few pages. I know, pitiable me.

Aid for Laos, buy a doorknob

Wattay International Airport in Vientiane. It’s small, but nice, but a little eerie. It doesn’t feel like Laos, it’s Japan recreated down to the last detail. That’s not a wonder since it’s been funded and built by the Japanese along with bridges, schools, roads and just about anything else in Laos. This airport feels like Japan because everything apparently is from Japan.

I know because I’ve seen these exit signs, the particle boards, the duty free shop shutters, the plastic chairs, the floor tiles, the Seiko wall clocks, the air vents, the blue vinyl benches, the switches, the lighting fixtures, the window knobs, the blinds…. No, the newspaper rack looks local, though all the newspapers on them are Japanese. The toilet sign has Lao script, but only that makes it Lao. I recognize these things because I spent so many years in Japan. Japan has been recreated here in excruciating detail and it’s not even supposed to be a theme park.

It’s a pretty nice gift, an entire airport basically exported from Japan. Isn’t it amazing that airports can be exported? That means all the concessions are contracted in Japan servicing all the people who make shutters and doorknobs and particle boards. There are formalities for bidding for these contracts, but I’m sure a good amount of money is exchanged for these sweet deals. It kind of captures the whole essence of the development industry, “We’ll do something nice for you, but we’ll certainly make sure we profit in the process”.

Speaking of airports, this was written in the Thai newspaper The Nation (March 30,2009 9A). It’s about the Suvarnabhumi International Airport in Bangkok. “…Bt 1 billion contract for ground services awarded to a Singapore-registered company whose owner was traced to a derelict house in the Bangkok suburbs; Bt 4 billion for wiring and ducting to a company with no track record; half a billion for luggage trolleys of unbelievably chunky quality; Bt 5 billion for operating security guards; Bt 3 billion for limousine services; an allegation that Thaksin’s sister demanded a bribe of Bt 300 million for the car park concession; and advertising concession to Thaksin’s son; and a Bt 8 billion contract for building drains allocated to the family of another minister. (Exchange rate 36 baht / dollar – you get the point).

So the next time you donate tax-exempt money to a charity that claims to build schools for illiterate minority children who are vulnerable to malnutrition and human trafficking, consider that your money might go to retirement benefits for staff who’s full-time job is to canvass for donations, or maybe it goes to the government official consultant who needs not a jeep, but a mini-hummer to do surveys upcountry because everyone else has the same kind of vehicle parked in the ministry lots. In other words, you might be buying a very nice doorknob.