Busy, busy

Strakhov relates Dostoevsky’s own description of his epileptic ecstatic aura

“For several moments,” he said, “I would experience such joy as would be inconceivable in ordinary life – such joy that no one else could have any notion of. I would feel the most complete harmony in myself and in the whole world and this feeling was so strong and sweet that for a few seconds of such bliss I would give ten or more years of my life, even my whole life perhaps.”

The evolution of mankind

It all started with beer of course. The idea to tie helium balloons to a lawn chair and float over the neighborhood. He thought about doing it to his best friend-slash-nemesis whom he secretly hated, but why not show everyone once and for all. He strapped himself into his own destiny without resistance.

There was enough beer flowing at the party to make it all happen in minutes. Without a jerk, he elevated. His buddies burst into wild guffaws and he knew they were rolling their bellies in the lawn though he couldn’t see them. Already 10 meters high, he knew he’d roll over if he looked down.

Then he found himself laughing alone. He couldn’t hear his friends anymore and he suspected his familiar world had already collapsed into a google map. There was no wind because he was moving at the same speed. In fact, it was silent and silent enough to suddenly make him terrified.

Up and up and up. He broke out into a sweat in the way one does when the dentist drill comes close. The sun was glowing through the balloons and he could imagine god assessing his life. He had no reason to go to purgatory. He was faithful to his wife, he had kids, a dog, a car. He had just bought a new set of power tools. He suddenly became intensely nostalgic of his simple honest life. He wanted to go back.

Then he realized it wasn’t all over. He had scissors. He was prepared. He wasn’t that stupid. All he had to do was cut the string and he’d be back home in minutes. He friends would cheer and he’d be a celebrity. “Man flies in a lawn chair.” Simple. No sweat.

When the string was between the scissor blades, it started to vibrate like an umbilical cords. He couldn’t cut it. He became confused as to what life he was trying to save and what life he was yearning for.

First he heard the voice of his wife nagging him. “Why don’t you listen to me? I told you to take out the garbage.” Then his boss telling him he’d be fired if he dared to make another mistake. What mistake? Whose garbage? It wasn’t that he was disgusted with those voices or wanted to escape. It was just that he realized that they were far below him and way out of hearing distance. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. He felt no anger, no yearning, no discontent. He felt elevated.

It must have been the sun and the thinning air. He was giddy and light-headed. The blue of the sky had turned to an inky intensity and the clouds were crystalline. It wasn’t just the balloon cord vibrating. The entire sky was vibrating and in an astonishingly and harmonious way.

Then the image of the clouds began to peel like wallpaper. It was quiet like a movie set without action. In a clean cesarean cut, the photofinish surface of the world he knew unzipped and in that instant, he knew what his life had been printed on. He started to laugh with a joyous gurgle and his lawn chair picked up speed. He had nothing to steer with, but it zeroed in on the Kodak finish, photoglossy surface, straight to the slit that was opening wider to accommodate his lawn chair and then he sailed straight through to the other side.

What a foolish man. Darwin would have shook his head. Darwin spent all that energy and time to put the world into scientific order. Why would someone not cut the string?

 

Naughty artist

In the beautiful crumbly historic section of Savannakhet, some delinquent didn’t have spray-paint so opted for charcoal. It’s Lao graffiti and a defilement of a historic building. On the other hand, nobody really considers this a significant building so maybe it’s art. I think it’s art. It gives me great pleasure and that’s why I took this picture.

Today, I did a little teacher training. I was asked to compare Japanese and Lao students. I was told that Japanese are all smart. My response was that there’s “smart” in terms of people who do perfectly what they’re told and there’s “smart-smart” in terms of people who rebel against what they’re told to do and in turn do something magnificent. Like anywhere in the world, you can find both types.

I was told that Japanese are healthy because they live until 100. Of course there’s “healthy” in terms of living until 100 and then there’s “healthy-healthy” in terms of living vigorously to any age.

The Lao don’t need to compare. They have great potential for learning languages. Most people are bilingual or trilingual considering all the minority languages, dialects and the fact that they listen to Thai girls screaming on Thai TV dramas every day.

The Lao are talented communicators and can make sure you’re not treated like a stranger. Formal education doesn’t tap into this talent, but rather smothers and chokes it to death in a cloud of authoritarian chalk.

I asked the teacher if she liked teaching. She said she didn’t. I asked why. She said because she’d rather work in rural development. I asked why. She said because that’s her mother’s wish and she’d love to fulfill her mother’s intent. I asked why her mother wants her to work in development. She said because her mother is a teacher. Aha! See! All roads go back to the same source.

It’s how we define words like teacher, student and school that determine if we’re talking about art or defilement. I felt today’s “teacher training” was successful because the teachers understood the spirit of it all. I think they know that there’s joy in watching a flower bloom especially when you’ve been a part of it. Likewise, it’s not much fun to watch shrinking violets die because they’ve been told they have no worth.

High tide

Sometimes I look at a calendar to check that I haven’t missed Thanksgiving or Christmas or New Year for that matter. It’s easier to keep track of time by noticing when pineapples are in season or when the Mekong is high.

The swelling and drying up of the Mekong are dramatic markers of time. In the dry season, you can practically walk to Thailand. Big bushes grow on the sand spits and you’d forget you’re even looking at a river. In the rainy season, it turns into a big brown swath of water that can easily be seen from an airplane or rocket. In this season, if you tried to swim to Thailand, you’d probably be swept down as far as Cambodia.

Many people like to ask how long it took me to finish the books. I could be poetic and say it took four rainy seasons or 49 phases of the moon, but I usually just say around three years. That’s not an exaggeration when I think about the time it took to learn how to type Lao. I didn’t know anything about InDesign and made mistakes like throw away all the links.

I figure you just have to keep moving. I will not get stuck, even on books. Laos will have fiber cables and broadband in five years and I’m going to get ready for that. There will be a day when schools won’t be necessary either. That’s what I think.

I’m happy that I’m 49 and I can still move. There are bureaucrats who would resist changing the position of their desk and I can’t really imagine how they’ll ever be useful to anyone else. 

Magic handlebars

There is a solar energy company in Laos. They use German technology and try to make it affordable for the rural Lao. They have lots of magical things like a solar powered water pump, a solar powered water purification machine, a solar powered water heater and a solar powered refrigerator. They also have an electric bicycle.

I took one for a spin. They look like normal shopping bikes, but with a slight twist of the handlebar you move silently forward with a surprising jolt. They say it’ll take you uphill.

What would life be like if I were coasting up hills? I could load 120 books and cruise around with no sweat. The thought is tempting and it’s hard to forget the sensation of twisting that handlebar.

I know it’d be hard to go back. It would be hard to get back on a regular bike and pump again. A regular bike would feel slow and ponderous and I’d never want to accuse a bike of such things. 

A bike is a bike is a bike and it can still do wonderful things. The other day, I swung into the temple school to bring books. I heard the novices murmuring, “The book seller’s here. The Japanese-on-a-bike-book-seller’s here.”

There was a small group of novices buying pickled fruit from this man. His handlebars don’t have magical propulsion, but they serve well to display his products. I’m sure when he too sells out, he cruises on home feeling light and happy.

Not a shabby breakfast

Yes, it’s been more than two months. Is Martin slacking off? No, not really.

It’s almost a year since the first books were printed, so momobooks and the board of directors convened for an annual assessment. Future strategies need to be hammered out. In reality, momobooks inc. still consists of one person, so the board meeting was pretty much a solitary night of tossing and turning.

The decision is to forge on. A complete curriculum is more convincing than a handful of books and if the dry rot is to be attended to, a new structure must be built. Most people agree there’s dry rot and most people agree that a nice house would be better, but most people don’t know where to begin. My job is to pick up the hammer.

It’s easier to keep hammering when I can imagine what the house is going to look like. There will still be more bent nails along the way, but the job will get done. These days, it’s not so hard to wake up to another day and appreciate a good breakfast.