Yayaya, I know I'm about 14 hours getting today's post up, but I have a doctor's excuse.
My wife and I are in Bali for four days of peace and relaxation, which means neither. At this very moment, we are trying to contact my daughter who occasionally works in an area of Jakarta that is in chaos at the moment from a terrorist attack earlier today.
Furthermore, today we had a 5.7 earthquake in Bali, though you could flog me with a sharp stick and I swear we felt nothing. I didn't even know until just now when I checked the Quake-O-Meter on my desktop.
Furthermore, Tuesday is Nyepi, which is a high holy day among Hindu where no one can work, cook, use tools or appliances, lights, etc. That means we are flying out Monday night before the island shuts down for 24 hours.
The concern is that Muslims and Hindu has been fighting for centuries because Muslim don't like anyone who worships multiple gods, much less their god. We are planning a night of fun and frolic in Legian, which is the Occident's version of New Orleans' French Quarter. It's the site of the 2002 Bali bombings. Most people think it was an attack on tourists and foreigners. Not so. It was an attack on the fact that the Hindu section of Indonesia gets more attention and money than the Muslim section.
At any rate, we are staying at the Novotel Resort in Nusa Dua and having a fantastic time. This morning, we went to the included breakfast buffet, where I gorged myself on PORK! That's right, I ate pork sausage, bacon, rashers, pork roast, and all the friggin' pork I could find.
Tonight, we went to the local supermarket and bought four kilos of pork. We bought pork sausages, pork bacon, pork rashers, smoked ham, more ham, and a bit of ham just for good measure.
Unless you live in a predominantly Muslim country, you might not understand this obsession with PORK.
In Jakarta, it is very hard to find pork, and when you can, it is very expensive and the selection is miserable. There are three locations in Indonesia which are pork-friendly: Manado (Sulawesi), Medan (Sumatera) and Bali, because the majority of the residents are either Christian or Hindu.
Tonight's excursion into Denpasar confirmed three of my defining characteristics: I hate religion, I hate crowds and I hate shopping.
Yes, I'm a hater and I am damn friggin' proud of it (he says juiced to the gills on London Dry Gin, which can be purchased at the local grocery store at reasonable prices in Hinduland).
I hate religion because it sets large groups of people on a collision course with each other. The Hindu believe that Vishnu destroys the Universe on occasion to start over. The Muslims believe that they will conquer the Earth and bring on the 12th Imam. The Christians believe that the Anti-Christ will destroy the Earth before Christ comes again (and they are trying to help). The Jews believe they must subjugate the Earth and destroy all non-believers before their Messiah comes.
Doesn't anyone believe in a Paradise of our own making? Oh yeah, the Buddhists.
Basically, three-quarters of the people on Earth are trying to destroy it in order to prove their religion is true. Friggin' idiots.
Then there's crowds. I hate crowds. I hate that I can't trust anyone. I hate that I am forced to assume that everyone who bumps into me just stole something from me. I hate that people have all the manners and social graces of a pen full of swine. I hate that if someone panics in a crowd, the entire bunch of them will mow down anything in front of them to get away from...whatever spooked them - flashing lights, muffler backfire, pure imagination.
And then there's shopping. I friggin' despise shopping. I hate jostling with other humans to get a handful of PORK. I hate comparing prices. I hate looking at expiration dates. I hate the whole friggin' experience.
I believe that for the right price, anyone will deliver anything to wherever I am sitting at the moment - for the right price. In Indonesia, the right price is just about right. Why should I get mauled and suffer horrible bouts of paranoia and have to touch other people I don't know and don't want to know, when for a few extra bux, I can ask someone else to do it who actually likes that kind of shit.
Basically, I am a misanthrope living in one of the most densely populated cities on Earth who hates crowds, other people's beliefs and opinions, and having to worry about someone else's sensibilities.
You know what? You don't like PORK, don't buy it and don't eat it. Screw you for trying to keep me from eating it. You don't like alcohol? Screw you. I do. I'm going to have a drink and I will breathe on you if you don't like it. You don't like privilege? Go shove it in your sphincter. I work my ass off for a few extra bux to take my wife on holiday in a tropical paradise that is two hours of flying time from my house. I really don't care what color you think I am or whether you think I have some privileges that others don't.
I work for them.
Oh yeah, apparently today was Earth Day. You know what? Screw Earth Day. Screw the people who dimmed my lights for an hour in pretense of saving the Earth. Screw anyone who has a heart beat who thinks they can do anything but kill themselves to save the Earth.
If you are breathing, you are killing something to live. If you are a vegan and think you are doing something special to save live...screw you. You kill plants, I kill animals. Same friggin' difference. If you are a vegetarian, double screw you, because you are killing some animals thinking you are doing something good for the world.
In the end, I am a misanthrope because I am fed up to my gills with hypocrisy. No one can live a perfect life or save anything but themselves or believe in anything that doesn't destroy something else.
And that's what I've learned from staying in a tropical paradise for four days.
Oh, by the way, there's an incredible electrical storm tonight - no rain, just lightning. I'm enjoying it from my privileged porch in my privileged suite in my privileged resort that I worked 18 months to be able to enjoy. I don't give a flying f%%k what color you think I am (bright pink after a day on my privileged private beach), I earned this vacation and no amount of liberal whining is going to diminish my enjoyment.
By the way, four days in Bali is only costing me $300, if my wife will stop spending money on PORK.
When I lived in Texas, I was hours away from Big Bend. When I lived in Dublin, I was hours away from Sugar Loaf Mountain. When I lived in Barcelona, I was hours away from San Tropez. When I lived in Munich, I was hours away from the Schwartzwald. Now I live in Jakarta and I'm just hours away from Bali.
The point is, we are all just hours away from Paradise. All we need to do is realize it when we are there.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
25.3.17
17.5.13
Real Hope, Real Change
A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Or so said the ads that used to run on American TeeVee back in the 70s. The ads were so effective that the entire world has since embarked on a multi-decade effort to completely eliminate education from schools and replace it with indoctrination.
Indonesia is not immune. In the past several months, there has been an effort to 'reform' the elementary curriculum to achieve the goal of eliminating the sciences in favor of more religion.
As usual, government-sponsored 'education' involves little more than reinforcing those things which reinforce the state power.
It should be noted that the 'religion' content mentioned is strictly Islam, and does not include the other three religions officially recognized in the nation's constitution. One must assume that morality is the sole province of only one belief system.
It should further be noted that "nationalist fervor" has historically not come to any good. In fact, it usually ends in violent upheavals as the fervent individuals seek to eradicate those they deem less or differently fervent, not unlike religious cataclysms.
I am not singling out Indonesia. It is a global phenomenon and one that has afflicted Mankind since dense population centers have existed. In fact, the only thing more manipulated than the female form throughout history is the mind of a child.
As an example, children are not taught why humans consider certain people and things beautiful. They are not educated on concepts like balance, rhythm, harmony, context, and other aesthetics. They are not given explanation about phi (the Golden Ratio) or how lighting and perspective can change beautiful things and reveal more detail.
If they were, they would have the power to observe the Universe and determine for themselves what is beautiful, and to be able to explain why and possibly convince others of their point of view. They would learn to appreciate the world as they find it, rather than work tirelessly to conform nature to some artificial, politicized ideal.
Instead, they are taught what to consider beautiful. They are shown models and photos and representations of what they are supposed to find attractive. Then they are expected to conform the world around them to these implanted and commercialized ideals. Thus, young women starve themselves. Young men inject steroids. Mountains are carved with political images. Cities become concrete and glass abysses.
By the same token, children are taught political slogans and agendas carefully formulated to keep them controllable and incapable of free thought. They are implanted with 2-dimensional choices of left and right, completely ignoring the infinitely more creative 3-dimensional approach to problem-solving.
Education is about reading and discussing multiple disciplines and applying a large body of historic, scientific and artistic information to novel solutions. In the absence of such ability, civilization has advanced very little in the past century. We've been recycling the same old ideas, adding little more than ring tones to things already conceived and designed in the late 1880s. The lack of innovation mirrors the stultifying atmosphere of the modern classroom.
We treat our children like cattle and expect innovative thinking from this environment. They are herded from room to room, seated in rank and file, and spend priceless hours cramming 'correct' answers in their heads so that they have a fighting chance of selecting those answers while regurgitating on standardized national exams. They don't need to express well-formulated arguments in whole language, just get lucky enough to guess the 'correct' fact from a list of four - 25% random chance per question.
These products of bovine inculcation then go on to be teachers, though they have no clue what to teach. They have degrees in 'education' - the ultimate triumph of style over substance. They have no expertise or authority in any subject, only the skills to slide whatever message they are told into the unsuspecting mind of the child. In other words, teachers are but empty vessels to be fill and disgorged as the political class sees fit.
Being incapable of expounding on any real topic, the teachers have little choice than to demonstrate proper condom use and repeat commercial and political rhetoric. They know nothing other than a few selected techniques for softening young minds, and so are incapable of teaching anything.
Education, as it is practiced today, is nothing more than a control mechanism for those who believe they are in control. It serves their immediate goal of remaining employed to produce nothing while being paid money stolen from those who do produce. As such, 'education' is a social poison pill. At some point, it will destroy all of human civilization.
As the political class die off, they are replaced with the unthinking, uncritical bovine class. The bovines eventually invade every level of society so that there are no longer any people capable of creative thought. Thus, at some point there is no longer a group capable of formulating the slogans and paradigms of indoctrination. Finally, the whole system collapses as no one is capable of innovation and even the knowledge to maintain the system is lost.
We continue this practice at the peril of our species. By tolerating the current system, we tacitly approve of a parasite class indulging their lust for power and greed for possessions, while sacrificing the long-term survival of humanity. We allow the lowest of our kind to dictate culture to satisfy their immediate desires by encouraging (forcing) our children to conform to their wishes and ideals.
Religion and nationalism are not solutions to educational problems. They require only rote memorization and actuate regurgitation, which are both antithetical to real education. All they produce are compliant and unquestioning masses, which serves the purposes of the ruling and merchant classes, but does little to advance our species or even guarantee our long-term survival.
The only real solution is broad exposure to a wide range of ideas and disciplines, with exercises in applying them to creative thinking and novel ideas. Obviously, this kind of mind-set is not conducive to submission and obedience, and thus is not likely to be used by the leaching classes. However, it is conducive to innovation, creation and advancement - all of which promote growth and survival.
But first, we must overcome our own indoctrination. We must not be susceptible to peer pressure and group think. Just because we were herded room to room and bored stiff with empty lectures on non-topics does not mean we must settle for the same treatment of our children. Change can begin with little more than lively discussions around the dinner table and reading classic books aloud at bedtime.
Most importantly, fostering a desire for life-long education both in one's self and in one's children can change the world. Too often, people forget that education does not occur in classrooms.
Real education comes from travel (not tourism). Real education comes from reading great books - made even easier with the advent of tablets and e-books. Real education is gained by experiencing the world. Real education is patiently listening to well-constructed arguments, even when the point is diametrically opposed to one's own.
In other words, even the classroom itself stifles education.
We need to rethink the whole process and quickly. After nearly a century of the Prussian/Merchant style of education, we are fast approaching the point of no return, at which time there will be no one left capable of real teaching. Those afraid of this change will complain loudly and fight wildly, but only because they benefit from ignorance. They should be ignored.
At the core of all the world's current crises is nothing more - and nothing less - than education. It starts by changing ourselves. Reading, engaging in debate, learning new skills, and traveling widely are habits that encourage our own growth, and will be picked up by our children, as well. Leaving the political/commercial schools and pursuing more fruitful systems of learning is key to breaking the chain of stupidity.
Finally, trusting our own ability to reason and formulate conclusions is very important. As long as we rely on 'authorities' to confirm or deny what we believe, we will be slaves to oppression and destruction. We must be confident in our ability to think and reason, and that confidence comes from open discussions and intelligent criticism.
Most people are aware there are profound problems with our society, but few are looking in the right place for answers because we take education so much for granted. Many people have home offices (commercial activity), but few have home education centers, even though our technology can deliver all of human civilization to our doorstep.
To paraphrase a somewhat trite proverb, it is time we learned how to fish, so we can quit begging for our next meal from those who attach far too many strings to their largess.
Indonesia is not immune. In the past several months, there has been an effort to 'reform' the elementary curriculum to achieve the goal of eliminating the sciences in favor of more religion.
"Specifically, the reform efforts that were suggested indicated that science and social science classes were to be merged, and that more time would be spent on religious education and on classes that instill a greater sense of nationalist fervor. The linkage between removing and or minimizing science and improving student character remains unclear."
It should be noted that the 'religion' content mentioned is strictly Islam, and does not include the other three religions officially recognized in the nation's constitution. One must assume that morality is the sole province of only one belief system.
It should further be noted that "nationalist fervor" has historically not come to any good. In fact, it usually ends in violent upheavals as the fervent individuals seek to eradicate those they deem less or differently fervent, not unlike religious cataclysms.
I am not singling out Indonesia. It is a global phenomenon and one that has afflicted Mankind since dense population centers have existed. In fact, the only thing more manipulated than the female form throughout history is the mind of a child.
As an example, children are not taught why humans consider certain people and things beautiful. They are not educated on concepts like balance, rhythm, harmony, context, and other aesthetics. They are not given explanation about phi (the Golden Ratio) or how lighting and perspective can change beautiful things and reveal more detail.
If they were, they would have the power to observe the Universe and determine for themselves what is beautiful, and to be able to explain why and possibly convince others of their point of view. They would learn to appreciate the world as they find it, rather than work tirelessly to conform nature to some artificial, politicized ideal.
Instead, they are taught what to consider beautiful. They are shown models and photos and representations of what they are supposed to find attractive. Then they are expected to conform the world around them to these implanted and commercialized ideals. Thus, young women starve themselves. Young men inject steroids. Mountains are carved with political images. Cities become concrete and glass abysses.
By the same token, children are taught political slogans and agendas carefully formulated to keep them controllable and incapable of free thought. They are implanted with 2-dimensional choices of left and right, completely ignoring the infinitely more creative 3-dimensional approach to problem-solving.
We treat our children like cattle and expect innovative thinking from this environment. They are herded from room to room, seated in rank and file, and spend priceless hours cramming 'correct' answers in their heads so that they have a fighting chance of selecting those answers while regurgitating on standardized national exams. They don't need to express well-formulated arguments in whole language, just get lucky enough to guess the 'correct' fact from a list of four - 25% random chance per question.
These products of bovine inculcation then go on to be teachers, though they have no clue what to teach. They have degrees in 'education' - the ultimate triumph of style over substance. They have no expertise or authority in any subject, only the skills to slide whatever message they are told into the unsuspecting mind of the child. In other words, teachers are but empty vessels to be fill and disgorged as the political class sees fit.
Being incapable of expounding on any real topic, the teachers have little choice than to demonstrate proper condom use and repeat commercial and political rhetoric. They know nothing other than a few selected techniques for softening young minds, and so are incapable of teaching anything.
Education, as it is practiced today, is nothing more than a control mechanism for those who believe they are in control. It serves their immediate goal of remaining employed to produce nothing while being paid money stolen from those who do produce. As such, 'education' is a social poison pill. At some point, it will destroy all of human civilization.
As the political class die off, they are replaced with the unthinking, uncritical bovine class. The bovines eventually invade every level of society so that there are no longer any people capable of creative thought. Thus, at some point there is no longer a group capable of formulating the slogans and paradigms of indoctrination. Finally, the whole system collapses as no one is capable of innovation and even the knowledge to maintain the system is lost.
We continue this practice at the peril of our species. By tolerating the current system, we tacitly approve of a parasite class indulging their lust for power and greed for possessions, while sacrificing the long-term survival of humanity. We allow the lowest of our kind to dictate culture to satisfy their immediate desires by encouraging (forcing) our children to conform to their wishes and ideals.
Religion and nationalism are not solutions to educational problems. They require only rote memorization and actuate regurgitation, which are both antithetical to real education. All they produce are compliant and unquestioning masses, which serves the purposes of the ruling and merchant classes, but does little to advance our species or even guarantee our long-term survival.
The only real solution is broad exposure to a wide range of ideas and disciplines, with exercises in applying them to creative thinking and novel ideas. Obviously, this kind of mind-set is not conducive to submission and obedience, and thus is not likely to be used by the leaching classes. However, it is conducive to innovation, creation and advancement - all of which promote growth and survival.
But first, we must overcome our own indoctrination. We must not be susceptible to peer pressure and group think. Just because we were herded room to room and bored stiff with empty lectures on non-topics does not mean we must settle for the same treatment of our children. Change can begin with little more than lively discussions around the dinner table and reading classic books aloud at bedtime.
Most importantly, fostering a desire for life-long education both in one's self and in one's children can change the world. Too often, people forget that education does not occur in classrooms.
Real education comes from travel (not tourism). Real education comes from reading great books - made even easier with the advent of tablets and e-books. Real education is gained by experiencing the world. Real education is patiently listening to well-constructed arguments, even when the point is diametrically opposed to one's own.
In other words, even the classroom itself stifles education.
We need to rethink the whole process and quickly. After nearly a century of the Prussian/Merchant style of education, we are fast approaching the point of no return, at which time there will be no one left capable of real teaching. Those afraid of this change will complain loudly and fight wildly, but only because they benefit from ignorance. They should be ignored.
At the core of all the world's current crises is nothing more - and nothing less - than education. It starts by changing ourselves. Reading, engaging in debate, learning new skills, and traveling widely are habits that encourage our own growth, and will be picked up by our children, as well. Leaving the political/commercial schools and pursuing more fruitful systems of learning is key to breaking the chain of stupidity.
Most people are aware there are profound problems with our society, but few are looking in the right place for answers because we take education so much for granted. Many people have home offices (commercial activity), but few have home education centers, even though our technology can deliver all of human civilization to our doorstep.
To paraphrase a somewhat trite proverb, it is time we learned how to fish, so we can quit begging for our next meal from those who attach far too many strings to their largess.
5.1.11
A Tourist And His Money Are Soon Parted
Into the great wide open
Under them skies of blue
Out in the great wide open
A rebel without a clue
-Into The Great Wide Open, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Years ago, my second wife and I came up with an international symbol for 'tourist,' hold the left hand in front of you with palm up and with the right hand, pantomime handing out loads of money while smiling wanly.
It seems to be a given that tourists are simply prey, waiting to have their bones plucked clean by every passing carnivore. It's the reason American slang refers to 'tourist traps.' Entire nations spend billions of dollars to lure unsuspecting tourists to popular (or at least centralized) locations, where they can be easily fleeced.
Some prime examples include things such as the Eifel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, Red Square, the Glockenspiel, and of course any red light distrct you care to name anywhere in the world.
Things are no different here in Indonesia. They have what I call harga bule (foreigner price) and harga biasa (regular price). The foreigner price is guaranteed to be a minimum of 200% to 300% higher than the regular price. Things are generally so cheap in Indonesia that tourists think they're getting a deal, and in some ways they are. But the fact remains that tourists will pay more for everything, always.
Take for example the Eifel Tower. For all intents and purposes, it is the skeleton of an unfinished building with a grossly over-priced restaurant on the mezzanine level, and for a price, you can ride to the top and see, what else, Paris. In fact, you get a much better view as part of your ticket price while on final approach to Charles de Galle airport. Continuing with the Paris theme, you can pay to see Notre Dame, or you can go out of the city and visit thousands of similar late Gothic cathedrals for free with fewer tourists. The only thing missing is the bubious myth about a hunchback and his unrequited love.
Heck, while you're in Paris, you can visit the Statue of Liberty's twin for free, sitting right there on the bridge over the Seine river. No crowds (no one knows about it), no charge and no New Yorkers.
Some things, like the Louvre, St. Peter's basilica in Rome, the Grand Canyon, and the like, are just worth the price. So don't get me wrong. There are things worth paying for, although standing on a glass platform over a mile-deep hole in the ground with no visible means of support in NOT on that list.
When it comes right down to it, though, my best travel experiences are all from places far outside the well-trampled tourist paths.
For instance, there was the night Richard Nixon died. I was with my buddy Larry in the middle of nowhere in Bavaria, in a village that consisted of a guest-house, a couple of other buildings and a square. We spent that night drinking copious amounts of beer, snorting snuff, telling jokes, and generally having the time of our lives. The gang leader was a forty-something man named Ignatz. He kind of looked like Santa Claus on his day off, had 12 children and sat that the head of the table like Falstaff as master of ceremonies.
There was getting stuck near some Mayan ruins where tourists never go on the road between Belize and Guatemala. Once we got the Guatemala, we drove down a road with opposing sides of a civil war on either side of us.
There was standing on the dike in the Netherlands with the strange sight of the ocean on one side, and the tulip fields on the other, the the ocean was higher than the land.
There was sunbathing in the top of a tower connected to an ancient castle in Ireland while watching some people play lawn bowls down below us. Having to swim for my life after getting trapped by high tide at Dover. Getting bucked off a bus with two goats in the middle of a God-forsaken desert in Liberia. Sitting in an opium den in Bombay (now Mumbai...again).
None of those experiences would have been possible had I stayed on the well-trodden paths. You really gotta get out into the hinterlands to get the stories no one else can tell. And one of the advantages is prices are lower and you are less likely to get robbed.
That's the thing, if there are mobs of tourists, then there are people preying on them: pickpockets, con artists, souvenier salesmen. Prices are higher, also. And all of that only buys you a story thousands of other people can tell. Getting away from that, out in the backwoods, costs less, fewer predators and you get stories that likely no one else can tell. You see things that few foreigners will ever see. You meet people who might just turn into life-long friends.
There's a book in my Amazon store (right column) called 'Blue Highways.' It's all about the philosophy and practice of taking the roads less travelled. There's another book there called, 'The Journeyer,' which is an incredible fictionalized account of Marco Polo's voyage. Both those books inspired my travels from an early age. Both extoll the virtues and adventures of getting on the main road and getting out into the great unknown. I know this kind of travel is not for everyone, but if you feel drawn to it, then these books will push you over the edge to get out and do it.
Every single regret I have in my life occured when I was at home. There is not a single moment I regret from traveling. One of the single best decisions I have ever made was to backpack around the world when I was 18, between high school and university. Books can teach you scads about the theory of life, but travel teaches you the roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-your-hands-dirty version. It puts a little perspective on things. Sometimes it puts a lot of perspective on them. Your day-to-day problems seem a lot smaller when you're 10,000 miles outside your comfort zone.
When you're watching static discharges from the peak of a volcano on a cool, cloudless night somewhere in the jungles of Indonesia, the electric bill just doesn't seem all that important.
And you'll never get that experience out of a book.
28.9.10
Run For The Border
Tim and I met on the TGV from Paris to Madrid. He was a tall, lanky sort with thick beard who was teaching English privately in Spain, but the thing that got us talking was that he was from Waco, and I hadn't met another Texan in almost a year. That alone was cause for celebration, but he also had peanut butter, which at the time was virtually impossible to find in Europe.
I was packing a baguette, cheese, cold cuts, and grapes, so I was able to negotiate a dollop of his ambrosia. We both had wine, his Spanish and mine French, so we made a decent feast for ourselves.
The TGV was slick, and this was 30 years ago. It was unlike any train I had been on: smooth, sleek and beyond fast. Inside was comfortable and arranged with four seats around a table. Between the cars were automatic sliding glass doors and the bridge between was enclosed to protect passengers from the 300 kpm winds. There was a buffet car and an observation car, and walking around was not unlike being on a jet plane: the occasional minor lurch but otherwise solid.
Tim and I lucked out and took over a whole table. We spread our feast out and stuffed our faces and Provence slid by at dizzying speeds ourside. Out to a hundred meters or so, everything was a terrifying blur, but beyond that was acres and acres of wine country. Somewhere out there was the field I had worked in for about a month during harvest. I earned room and board, plus a handful of extra duckies. In the purple distance, the Pyrenees rose against the horizon.
Late in the afternoon, we had arrived at the foot of the mountains separating France and Spain. This was the end of the line for the TGV and I was sad to see it go. We had to get down and go through customs. This was the first time since I had arrived in Europe a year ago that I actually had to go through customs. Usually, the officers just walked through the trains and stamped passports. After crossing through the gates, we has to wait for the train that would take us across the mountains, so Time and I hunkered down and did some intense girl-watching.
After about an hour or so, the train pulled in. My eyes grew wide. I had descended from the 21st century and I was about to enter the 19th. The train through the Pyranees was a coal burning steam locomotice. I felt like I was stepping into a old western film, with the ringing bells and the chugging heartbeat of the train.
We boarded the train and soon it was pulling out. Unlike the glass-smooth acceleration and mind-numbing climb to cruising speed, this was a lurching, chugging wind up that took a good 30 minutes to get to speed. There was no air conditioning on this train, and the interior looked kind of like the Hogwarts train with a aisle on one side and a line of enclosed cabins on the other. Unlike Harry Potter's idealistic transport, this one had a trough running down the aisle against the side that had urine sloshing back and forth as the train climbed and descended through the mountains.
Tim and I had gotten a cabin with a Spaniard from Barcelona, two German girls, and a Brit guy. My German was pretty good, so I spent the time chatting up the girls, while Tim chatted with the Spaniad. The Brit just slept.
At one point, the heat got to me. There was no air circulation and the air was growing unbearable. Having never ridden on a coal burner, I slid down the window without thinking. Within seconds, the cabin was full of stinking black smoke and we all had to bail out into the aisle, where in the confusion, I stepped squarely into the piss trough just as it sloshed to the rear of the car. My popularity quotient had sropped precipitously in less than five minutes.
I cost me a full bottle of wine to make peace.
At the base of the mountains, we switched to a much more comfortable electric train for the trip to Madrid. I still reeked of piss but it had one advantage: nobody wanted to sit in the cabin with Tim and I. For the next six hours, I tied my shoes together and hung the offending one out the window. It helped a little and made the cabin somewhat more habitable.
We arrived in Madrid early in the morning. Tim didn't have to get back to his job for another couple of days, so we found a pension and began to loot and plunder the acient city.
Madrid is a beautiful city, with broad avenues, foundtains and lush parks everywhere that stood in start contrast to the arid and sweltering plains of central Spain. Tim and I wandered around soaking in the culture and flavor of Madrid and during siesta, we would find a cafe where the owner was happy to have the business, and we drank copious amounts of beer.
The second afternoon, after siesta and a case of ice cold beer, we had ended up at the south end of the city. Stangding like a white man at the African People's Congress was a castle of 14th or 15th century design. It was a classic castle with towers and parapets and ramparts that looked like they had stepped out of a story book. There were no signs, no tourists and no sign of life of any kind in or around the ediface, but the gate stood open far enough for a man to pass through.
Tim and I couldn't resist the opportunity and we slipped through the gate and into an empty courtyard. The place looked and felt abandoned and I was having fantasies about taking over and declaring the place a sovereign principality, with me as the prince, of course. We wandered around poking our heads into doors and windows, where we saw desks with papers and typewriters, so there was obviously something going on there. My dreams were fast evaporating.
I pulled out my camera and started snapping a couple of shots. My funds were limited, so I used film sparingly. I chose a couple of select scenes and recorded them for posterity.
Suddenly, there was a distinct sound. Tim and I were both from Texas, so we knew instantly what it was. It didn't just come from one direction, either. It came from everywhere all at once. It was the sound of a hammer being drawn back on a gun. I had heard it thousands of times, but this time it wasn't me doing the cocking. I did what any normal, red-blooded Texan would do when they heard that sound: I froze like a statue. In fact, I was so still I am still convinced to this day that my breathing stopped, my heart paused and peristalsis ceased in my intestines. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Tim was my mirror image.
Glancing up, I could see the wall around the courtyard was lined with at least 50 men, but could have been thousands, as far as I was concerned. At our level was another 20 or so. Altogether, we had at least 100 weapons of various kinds aimed at us. My shoe wasn't the only thing smelling of piss at that moment.
One man walked up to me. I could see from the various things hung on his uniform that he was at least a colonel, if not a general. He had a meticulously trimmed moustache and dark, impenetrable eyes. He stip searched me with his gaze and then reached out and slowly divested me of my camera. He looked at it for a moment, then popped it open and began to slowly pull the film out while staring me square in the eyes. I didn't flinch, though my bowels had taken off running a while back.
"Oh shit," Tim croaked.
"You're telling me," I breathed, still locked on the general.
"No dude. This is Guardia Civil," he hissed.
I knew exactly what he meant. The Guardia Civil was the secret police under General Franco, and still operating, almost with impunity, even after the General's death. By reputation, at best they could make us disappear forever, and at worst, kill us with the flick of a finger.
As I stared a hole in the General's face, I saw the barest flicker of a smirk, involving only the right corner of his mouth. The rest of his face was frozen. He clicked the back of my camera shut without taking his eyes off me, then handed it back to me.
A single bead of sweat had taken up residence on the end of my nose and was making my crazy, but I dared not make a move, other than to put out a hand to receive the camera.
"Enjoh-ee yurrr stay in MAHdreed, gentlemen," the General's voice was a rock hard Seville perfection.
"We should go...now," Tim suggested.
He was facing the gate and I was facing the general. We began to inch glacially toward the gate. We had each other's 6. My feet felt like stone blocks. After what seemed like a month or two, we reached the opening and slid through. Without looking back, we made our way down the street, as close to running as we could be without actually breaking into hundred-yard dashes.
When we got to the opposite side of the city an hour later, we planted ourselves at a table in a small street cafe and began drinking Spanish wine like two men who had just stared into Oblivion and survived.
The next morning, Tim bundled up his gear and headed back to work. Within the hour, I met Klaus, a German guy about my age on break from school and backpakcing around.
"I'm going to Morocco," he announced in that way that Germans do, that make even the loosest of plans sound like they are written in stone.
Morocco, I thought.
We were on the train the next morning, heading for Algeciras, and beyond that, to north Africa.
I wished I had more peanut butter. It's my greatest comfort food, especially slathered on an Oreo cookie.
I was packing a baguette, cheese, cold cuts, and grapes, so I was able to negotiate a dollop of his ambrosia. We both had wine, his Spanish and mine French, so we made a decent feast for ourselves.
The TGV was slick, and this was 30 years ago. It was unlike any train I had been on: smooth, sleek and beyond fast. Inside was comfortable and arranged with four seats around a table. Between the cars were automatic sliding glass doors and the bridge between was enclosed to protect passengers from the 300 kpm winds. There was a buffet car and an observation car, and walking around was not unlike being on a jet plane: the occasional minor lurch but otherwise solid.
Tim and I lucked out and took over a whole table. We spread our feast out and stuffed our faces and Provence slid by at dizzying speeds ourside. Out to a hundred meters or so, everything was a terrifying blur, but beyond that was acres and acres of wine country. Somewhere out there was the field I had worked in for about a month during harvest. I earned room and board, plus a handful of extra duckies. In the purple distance, the Pyrenees rose against the horizon.
Late in the afternoon, we had arrived at the foot of the mountains separating France and Spain. This was the end of the line for the TGV and I was sad to see it go. We had to get down and go through customs. This was the first time since I had arrived in Europe a year ago that I actually had to go through customs. Usually, the officers just walked through the trains and stamped passports. After crossing through the gates, we has to wait for the train that would take us across the mountains, so Time and I hunkered down and did some intense girl-watching.
After about an hour or so, the train pulled in. My eyes grew wide. I had descended from the 21st century and I was about to enter the 19th. The train through the Pyranees was a coal burning steam locomotice. I felt like I was stepping into a old western film, with the ringing bells and the chugging heartbeat of the train.
We boarded the train and soon it was pulling out. Unlike the glass-smooth acceleration and mind-numbing climb to cruising speed, this was a lurching, chugging wind up that took a good 30 minutes to get to speed. There was no air conditioning on this train, and the interior looked kind of like the Hogwarts train with a aisle on one side and a line of enclosed cabins on the other. Unlike Harry Potter's idealistic transport, this one had a trough running down the aisle against the side that had urine sloshing back and forth as the train climbed and descended through the mountains.
Tim and I had gotten a cabin with a Spaniard from Barcelona, two German girls, and a Brit guy. My German was pretty good, so I spent the time chatting up the girls, while Tim chatted with the Spaniad. The Brit just slept.
At one point, the heat got to me. There was no air circulation and the air was growing unbearable. Having never ridden on a coal burner, I slid down the window without thinking. Within seconds, the cabin was full of stinking black smoke and we all had to bail out into the aisle, where in the confusion, I stepped squarely into the piss trough just as it sloshed to the rear of the car. My popularity quotient had sropped precipitously in less than five minutes.
I cost me a full bottle of wine to make peace.
At the base of the mountains, we switched to a much more comfortable electric train for the trip to Madrid. I still reeked of piss but it had one advantage: nobody wanted to sit in the cabin with Tim and I. For the next six hours, I tied my shoes together and hung the offending one out the window. It helped a little and made the cabin somewhat more habitable.
We arrived in Madrid early in the morning. Tim didn't have to get back to his job for another couple of days, so we found a pension and began to loot and plunder the acient city.
Madrid is a beautiful city, with broad avenues, foundtains and lush parks everywhere that stood in start contrast to the arid and sweltering plains of central Spain. Tim and I wandered around soaking in the culture and flavor of Madrid and during siesta, we would find a cafe where the owner was happy to have the business, and we drank copious amounts of beer.
The second afternoon, after siesta and a case of ice cold beer, we had ended up at the south end of the city. Stangding like a white man at the African People's Congress was a castle of 14th or 15th century design. It was a classic castle with towers and parapets and ramparts that looked like they had stepped out of a story book. There were no signs, no tourists and no sign of life of any kind in or around the ediface, but the gate stood open far enough for a man to pass through.
Tim and I couldn't resist the opportunity and we slipped through the gate and into an empty courtyard. The place looked and felt abandoned and I was having fantasies about taking over and declaring the place a sovereign principality, with me as the prince, of course. We wandered around poking our heads into doors and windows, where we saw desks with papers and typewriters, so there was obviously something going on there. My dreams were fast evaporating.
I pulled out my camera and started snapping a couple of shots. My funds were limited, so I used film sparingly. I chose a couple of select scenes and recorded them for posterity.
Suddenly, there was a distinct sound. Tim and I were both from Texas, so we knew instantly what it was. It didn't just come from one direction, either. It came from everywhere all at once. It was the sound of a hammer being drawn back on a gun. I had heard it thousands of times, but this time it wasn't me doing the cocking. I did what any normal, red-blooded Texan would do when they heard that sound: I froze like a statue. In fact, I was so still I am still convinced to this day that my breathing stopped, my heart paused and peristalsis ceased in my intestines. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Tim was my mirror image.
Glancing up, I could see the wall around the courtyard was lined with at least 50 men, but could have been thousands, as far as I was concerned. At our level was another 20 or so. Altogether, we had at least 100 weapons of various kinds aimed at us. My shoe wasn't the only thing smelling of piss at that moment.
One man walked up to me. I could see from the various things hung on his uniform that he was at least a colonel, if not a general. He had a meticulously trimmed moustache and dark, impenetrable eyes. He stip searched me with his gaze and then reached out and slowly divested me of my camera. He looked at it for a moment, then popped it open and began to slowly pull the film out while staring me square in the eyes. I didn't flinch, though my bowels had taken off running a while back.
"Oh shit," Tim croaked.
"You're telling me," I breathed, still locked on the general.
"No dude. This is Guardia Civil," he hissed.
I knew exactly what he meant. The Guardia Civil was the secret police under General Franco, and still operating, almost with impunity, even after the General's death. By reputation, at best they could make us disappear forever, and at worst, kill us with the flick of a finger.
As I stared a hole in the General's face, I saw the barest flicker of a smirk, involving only the right corner of his mouth. The rest of his face was frozen. He clicked the back of my camera shut without taking his eyes off me, then handed it back to me.
A single bead of sweat had taken up residence on the end of my nose and was making my crazy, but I dared not make a move, other than to put out a hand to receive the camera.
"Enjoh-ee yurrr stay in MAHdreed, gentlemen," the General's voice was a rock hard Seville perfection.
"We should go...now," Tim suggested.
He was facing the gate and I was facing the general. We began to inch glacially toward the gate. We had each other's 6. My feet felt like stone blocks. After what seemed like a month or two, we reached the opening and slid through. Without looking back, we made our way down the street, as close to running as we could be without actually breaking into hundred-yard dashes.
When we got to the opposite side of the city an hour later, we planted ourselves at a table in a small street cafe and began drinking Spanish wine like two men who had just stared into Oblivion and survived.
The next morning, Tim bundled up his gear and headed back to work. Within the hour, I met Klaus, a German guy about my age on break from school and backpakcing around.
"I'm going to Morocco," he announced in that way that Germans do, that make even the loosest of plans sound like they are written in stone.
Morocco, I thought.
We were on the train the next morning, heading for Algeciras, and beyond that, to north Africa.
I wished I had more peanut butter. It's my greatest comfort food, especially slathered on an Oreo cookie.
9.9.10
Don't Fence Me In
If you pick up a handful of dust and see, not the dust, but a mystery...that is magic. Dr. Lao, The Seven Faces of Dr. Lao
I came with two bags and a $1,000 in my pocket. I had a couple of plans for things I could do to make a buck. I overall goal was to see Asia like few people see it, or anything for that matter. I really just had a feeling that I had to be here now.
That's pretty much the way I've always done it. I decide I want to do something, and if Universe wants me to do it, the doors all swing open and away I go. I've learned, through some spectacular trial-and-errors that if there's a big struggle to do something, then it's the wrong thing to do.
In many ways, as I ponder my half-century of life, that I have a lot in common with Huck Finn. As long as Nigger Jim and I are cruising down the river, life is grand. But when the raft drags up and I go into town to check things out, life takes tragic turns. Every time I get the crazy notion to settle down and sink some roots I light the fuse of the powder-keg that will eventually blast me back the river. It usually takes a few years, but I eventually forget the lesson and start thinking about getting off the river again, only to find that I was much better off with nothing, drifting along quietly.
My fondest memory is the day my daughter was born, but short of that nearly every other happy moment was when I had virtually nothing but the wind in my hair and the unknown in front of me. Backpacking around the world, going on tour, joining the monastery, driving tours in Europe, excursions to Central and South America, hitch-hiking willy-nilly around the western US all represent my happiest times. Conversely, my marriages represent some of my most miserable moments. The last one brought me as close as I've ever been to "domestic bliss," with the house, the family, the corporate gig with stock options, the two cars, the dog and the cat, and that left me a widower up to my ass with The Most Evil Creatures on Earth (often referred to by the euphemistic Children's Protective Services), completely broke, and living in a bottle for five years.
After I took the decision to haul my carcass to Indonesia, however, my fortunes changed radically. What was left of my Earthly possessions was precisely enough to get me here, a nod from Universe that I was on the right track. I have received just what I need when I need it to once again be able to grow and to smile a bit. I entered on an adventure unlike anything I have known up to now. I moved the the polar opposite side of the world and my life took a similar turn.
Nigger Jim and I are back on the river.
Three years ago, I never imagined I would get used to bucket baths, a profound lack of toilet paper in the bathroom and an equally profound abundance of it on the dinner table, the absence of winter, eating durian, bajaj and ojek, and monkeys in the trees. I live within five hours of Singapore, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Taipei, Beijing, Angkor Wat, the Great Wall, Gengis Khan's palace, and literally thousands of other exotic sights. I am surrounded by volcanoes and have experienced my first major earthquake. I'm pretty much as happy as I've ever been.
The only thing I can figure is that certain people are born to travel. The Germans, in their language, created a word for it: wanderlust. I am a gyrovague. I have only been fulfilled by the moments when I have had nothing but my pack and an open road. One could call it a curse, but I have touched what others have only dreamed.
I recall a theme from the book, The Journeyer, a fictionalized version of Marco Polo's adventures. It has stuck with me for many years. It is the idea that at the moment of my death, I don't want to think, "I wish I had gone there and done that." I don't want to regret that fear of the unknown had stopped me from learning and experiencing something completely foreign.
The sum of my regrets do not include a single minute of travel. No matter how disasterous a trip has been, I have never wished that I had not gone. I have not spent one cent on travel that I wish I still had in my pocket. Can't say the same about a lot of other experiences. I have met Geronimo's grandson on the side of the road. I have watched as two men who lived five blocks from each other in a small city in Kentucky met for the first time at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I have seen some of the greatest art and architecture our species has created. I have gazed on natural wonders and seen the ocean at night. I have been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and sat at the top of the Rockies. I have ridden through the middle of two warring factions. I have held a dying man's hand and received a baby into the world.
They say you can't take it with you, but that's only true of all the crap we accumulate as we cruise through life. The intangibles stay with us, tucked safely in the soul's kit bag. The little scraps of wisdom that I have wrested from Universe's clenched fist are mine to keep. The bonds of civilization are lost to Time when he comes acallin'. I'll take the road over a safe and comfortable bed any time.
As ole Huck might tell us:
The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied.
Mortgage literally means "death pledge." For better or worse, I slipped that bond and got free again. For better or worse, I got the wind in my hair and a pack on my back. For better or worse.
So far, it's always been better.
22.8.10
At The Crossroads
WARNING~
The following post may contain words and/or phrases that offend, anger or upset some people. If you have not read my other posts, then you may not be prepared for the fact that I use language, with all its connotations and permutations, to make points, in the tradition of William Safire or George Carlin. If there is a word or phrase that offends you here, then examine yourself, not my usage. You have been warned...
Having spent the night in the men's room of T2 at Changi Airport in Singapore, I have come up with a couple of revelations, as it were. One is, the restrooms at T2 have a nice shelf area behind the toilet, which if you are carrying your towel like I told you to, makes a rather nice free hotel room. Use the towel as a pillow.
The other is that I live at the crossroads of two very different cultures, complete with separate ideologies and goals. You may think to yourself, "Well, duh, doofus." But the profundity of the realization is startling. Living on the Far Side is 180-degrees from EVERYTHING.
So, there I was in Singapore. I was supposed to meet a long-time acquaintance and spend the day/evening discussing business and pleasure. I sent him a text from the airport at 10am, letting him know I had arrived at the precise time I had predicted, allowing for the fact that I was flying on an Indonesian airline, which meant that I had to give an hour to the posted time. I told him that I would take the MRT down to Orchard Road, which was very near his place. I received his confirmation to meet when I arrived at Orchard, so I boarded the MRT and made my way downtown.
Keep in mind that I am perhaps 80% blind due to MS. This was my third trip to Singapore and my second since becoming blind. I had never used the MRT and I was a bit apprehensive.
The first thing to mention is that Singapore is very friendly to the handicapped. Most stairs have rails and the treads have light-colored strips to highlight the end of level ground. There generally aren't any surprises, although that is not universally true. Outdoors is a bit of a challenge. But for the most part, I was able to get around effortlessly. There is almost always an elevator wherever a set of stairs exist, as well.
Another point is that people are paid to help. They actually look for someone who looks lost and offer assistance, particularly around the public services. Just because I was reading various signs around the MRT station, a woman, God bless her, came up and all but led me by the hand to get a ticket and explain the system to me, and yes, she was a uniformed employee of MRT.
I boarded the train and made my way, fairly effortlessly, to Orchard Road. Unlike someplace like New York, people in Singapore are more than willing to answer questions. Of course, you will want to use your most formal and polite English, just to be sure. English is the default language of Singapore. The locals speak Singaporean, which is a curious creole of Mandarin, Malay and English. Knowing a smattering of Mandarin and Malay/Indonesian will buy you Brownie points and get secret information and additional discounts, if well applied. It's kind of like knowing the secret knock at a speak-easy.
When I arrived at Orchard, I looked for a place to alight. I found an Italian street restaurant just outside of Ann City mall, where I proceeded to order Cajun fries and a Japanese beer (2-for-1 special in the afternoon). I sent Rajan a text and waited for the next five hours for a response. Being a planner, I also had another contact that I had made prior arrangement with, an Indonesian who was staying in S'pore at the same time. As backup, I sent Ivan a text, as well. In all that time, I received no response from either party.
And there you have the set-up for this post. Two very different cultures. Don't see it? Let's review. I spent the night in a toilet and both contacts did not respond to my text messages. If you are a Westerner, your feathers are already ruffled. There are two primary concepts at play here. One is punctuality and the other is frugality.
The first concept is something uniquely Western, in my experience. The idea of setting an appointment and actually being there at the appointed time is part of my British/American culture. If I say I will be at a place at a time, I am there at a minimum of five minutes early. I am bound morally and ethically, and perhaps genetically, to meet that schedule. For some unknown reason, Westerners have a punctuality fetish. For Germans, this rises to the level of obsession. The British invented the use of clocks for navigation and arbitrarily set Greenwich as zero hour. The Swiss are known for their precision in making time-pieces, not to mention cuckoo clocks. Which brings up a great quote from the Orson Welles character in that brilliant film, The Third Man:
In my experience, people closer to the equator have a distinct "get round-to-it" attitude. This is not a hard and fast rule, as one look at South America and Africa might tend to shoot a hole in the theory. Certainly, northern Europeans have cultures that are focused on time and punctuality. British high society has regulated its life around day parts, what with tea-time being a central part of those rituals. The invention of atomic clocks and alternating current are futher examples of this focus on time. Cettainly, the development of astrology for telling the future, and more recently the work of Clif High and George Ure with web bots displays a cultural focus on time and future.
It is possible to generalize the idea that cultures that focus on time are more successful than those that don't. No one would argue that American, British, German, and even Japanese cultures have been wildly successful in propagating themselves and in amassing wealth. Many American exports involve the concept of repeatability (e.g.-McDonald's, KFC, Holiday Inn), which I see as a function of time, and others about saving time (e.g.-assembly line, appliances, mass transit). Even the Dutch invention of the telescope was not about something so frivolous as looking at stars. They were to give the user a jump on the competition by being able to see arriving ships before anyone else, and thus have information that allowed for beneficial investments. Indeed, the whole idea behind computers was to save computational time for complex mathematical tasks. Ironic, since things like Facebook and games have become some of the greatest wasters of time. Even the medical focus on life-extension is all about having more time.
By contrast, cultures such as Indonesia, Mexico, Italy, and India all have cultures that view time more as a blob with fuzzy edges and certainly less linear. If you set an appointment with an Indonesian, you can almost bet they will be up to an hour late. There is no apology or worry about it, just a fact. If they arrive within the day, that is doing pretty good. These cultures even have expressions for this attitude. Indonesians talk about "jam karet," or flexible time. Mexicans use the expression, "mañana," or tomorrow.
With the obvious exception of Italy, which produced one of the most complex languages on Earth (Latin)and Hindi, many equatorial languages has simple or non-existent tenses. Malay/Indonesian and Mayan languages have very simple tenses which indicate general timing of events in a cause-effect manner, but little else. They really only see time as before now-now-after now, with NOW being the key idea. It's almost as if what is past is not worth talking about and the future doesn't exist. Perhaps that is the origin of Ram Dass' Be Here Now concepts, or the launching point for Buddha's Eternal Present.
The second idea I want to deal with is the lack of concern about the future, which is neatly capsulized with the distinctly American expression, "nigger rich." This goes to the idea that you really have nothing, but you finance the appearance of having something. It also refers to the habit of blowing all your cash on payday for temporary fun and having nothing tomorrow for dinner. This idea is related to the concept of time because the person who is nigger rich does not think about future consequences or needs, only about current looks and comfort.
It has been explained to me that the reason many Indonesians are not successful is that they tend to fling their pay out the window of appearances and never worry about saving for the future. I was told that the reason the Chinese are successful, and universally hated, in Indonesia is that they save their money and plan for the future. Indeed, it could be argued that part of the reason the Chinese culture has survived intact for 5,000 years (with some notable political upsets) is their focus on very long term planning. Surely, the Great Wall is a display of that attitude.
Nigger rich is not limited to equatorial cultures, though certainly the term implies that the practice in American culture comes from people of African origin. One could argue effectively that the collapse of the global banking system is caused by greed and expediency, which are both driven by a lack of long-term vision. Certainly, part of the cause of the fall of Rome, Egypt and Athens was predicated on the devolution of the cultures into immediate gratification.
In Indonesia, the holiday of Idul Fitri is fast approaching. At this time of year, sales of gold and cars soar. People buy flash to take home to the family in the village, to show how successful they are, and then promptly sell it all when they return to the big city. In fact, the best time (for planners) to buy gold and cars is immediately following Idul Fitri, as everyone unloads the flash.
I am told quite often that the reason Indonesians are not more successful on the whole is because of their short-term view. Certainly, I have witnessed similar practices in Central America and among certain demographic groups in America. By contrast, the Dutch have been quite successful over centuries, arguably because they are notoriously cheap (think Dutch treat).
Blowing your wad on payday and saving for a rainy day seem to be competing ideas that separate indemnic poverty from long-term success. Certainly, it appears that cultures that practice nigger rich are not as successful over the long term as cultures that save. I have heard it argued that the turning point for America is when people ceased to save and started hocking themselves to the rafters to buy gee-gaws and bling. Without a doubt, it is a massive debt load that is sinking America, and western civilization with it. The American desire for immediate gratification (i.e.-Halleluia! We found the printing press) has endangered multiple generations, and the same can be said for any group whose guiding principle is "nigger rich."
So, how does all this tie together, you wonder? Well, my frustration at not being able to contact and meet people in a timely manner, and my sleeping in the men's room at the airport are examples of cultural punctuality and saving money. I was extremely put out that just one hour after telling someone that I was in town and ready to meet after a week of preparation, and all of it failed. Also, my desire for immediate comfort was not enough to overcome my desire to save money, thus I found the shelf behind the toilet and my towel to be ample for my needs.
In the end, my delay of immediate gratification paid off by having a little extra jack to buy a bottle of Absolut reward, which this time actually made it all the way home. So I guess this saving thing does pay off.
Yeah, this post is a bit rambling, I know. But I am still jet lagged and a little stiff from my cheap hotel. Hopefully, the next one will be a little more focused.
Oh, and cheers!
The following post may contain words and/or phrases that offend, anger or upset some people. If you have not read my other posts, then you may not be prepared for the fact that I use language, with all its connotations and permutations, to make points, in the tradition of William Safire or George Carlin. If there is a word or phrase that offends you here, then examine yourself, not my usage. You have been warned...
Having spent the night in the men's room of T2 at Changi Airport in Singapore, I have come up with a couple of revelations, as it were. One is, the restrooms at T2 have a nice shelf area behind the toilet, which if you are carrying your towel like I told you to, makes a rather nice free hotel room. Use the towel as a pillow.
The other is that I live at the crossroads of two very different cultures, complete with separate ideologies and goals. You may think to yourself, "Well, duh, doofus." But the profundity of the realization is startling. Living on the Far Side is 180-degrees from EVERYTHING.
So, there I was in Singapore. I was supposed to meet a long-time acquaintance and spend the day/evening discussing business and pleasure. I sent him a text from the airport at 10am, letting him know I had arrived at the precise time I had predicted, allowing for the fact that I was flying on an Indonesian airline, which meant that I had to give an hour to the posted time. I told him that I would take the MRT down to Orchard Road, which was very near his place. I received his confirmation to meet when I arrived at Orchard, so I boarded the MRT and made my way downtown.
Keep in mind that I am perhaps 80% blind due to MS. This was my third trip to Singapore and my second since becoming blind. I had never used the MRT and I was a bit apprehensive.
The first thing to mention is that Singapore is very friendly to the handicapped. Most stairs have rails and the treads have light-colored strips to highlight the end of level ground. There generally aren't any surprises, although that is not universally true. Outdoors is a bit of a challenge. But for the most part, I was able to get around effortlessly. There is almost always an elevator wherever a set of stairs exist, as well.
Another point is that people are paid to help. They actually look for someone who looks lost and offer assistance, particularly around the public services. Just because I was reading various signs around the MRT station, a woman, God bless her, came up and all but led me by the hand to get a ticket and explain the system to me, and yes, she was a uniformed employee of MRT.
I boarded the train and made my way, fairly effortlessly, to Orchard Road. Unlike someplace like New York, people in Singapore are more than willing to answer questions. Of course, you will want to use your most formal and polite English, just to be sure. English is the default language of Singapore. The locals speak Singaporean, which is a curious creole of Mandarin, Malay and English. Knowing a smattering of Mandarin and Malay/Indonesian will buy you Brownie points and get secret information and additional discounts, if well applied. It's kind of like knowing the secret knock at a speak-easy.
When I arrived at Orchard, I looked for a place to alight. I found an Italian street restaurant just outside of Ann City mall, where I proceeded to order Cajun fries and a Japanese beer (2-for-1 special in the afternoon). I sent Rajan a text and waited for the next five hours for a response. Being a planner, I also had another contact that I had made prior arrangement with, an Indonesian who was staying in S'pore at the same time. As backup, I sent Ivan a text, as well. In all that time, I received no response from either party.
And there you have the set-up for this post. Two very different cultures. Don't see it? Let's review. I spent the night in a toilet and both contacts did not respond to my text messages. If you are a Westerner, your feathers are already ruffled. There are two primary concepts at play here. One is punctuality and the other is frugality.
The first concept is something uniquely Western, in my experience. The idea of setting an appointment and actually being there at the appointed time is part of my British/American culture. If I say I will be at a place at a time, I am there at a minimum of five minutes early. I am bound morally and ethically, and perhaps genetically, to meet that schedule. For some unknown reason, Westerners have a punctuality fetish. For Germans, this rises to the level of obsession. The British invented the use of clocks for navigation and arbitrarily set Greenwich as zero hour. The Swiss are known for their precision in making time-pieces, not to mention cuckoo clocks. Which brings up a great quote from the Orson Welles character in that brilliant film, The Third Man:
In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed - they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love and five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock!But I digress.
In my experience, people closer to the equator have a distinct "get round-to-it" attitude. This is not a hard and fast rule, as one look at South America and Africa might tend to shoot a hole in the theory. Certainly, northern Europeans have cultures that are focused on time and punctuality. British high society has regulated its life around day parts, what with tea-time being a central part of those rituals. The invention of atomic clocks and alternating current are futher examples of this focus on time. Cettainly, the development of astrology for telling the future, and more recently the work of Clif High and George Ure with web bots displays a cultural focus on time and future.
It is possible to generalize the idea that cultures that focus on time are more successful than those that don't. No one would argue that American, British, German, and even Japanese cultures have been wildly successful in propagating themselves and in amassing wealth. Many American exports involve the concept of repeatability (e.g.-McDonald's, KFC, Holiday Inn), which I see as a function of time, and others about saving time (e.g.-assembly line, appliances, mass transit). Even the Dutch invention of the telescope was not about something so frivolous as looking at stars. They were to give the user a jump on the competition by being able to see arriving ships before anyone else, and thus have information that allowed for beneficial investments. Indeed, the whole idea behind computers was to save computational time for complex mathematical tasks. Ironic, since things like Facebook and games have become some of the greatest wasters of time. Even the medical focus on life-extension is all about having more time.
By contrast, cultures such as Indonesia, Mexico, Italy, and India all have cultures that view time more as a blob with fuzzy edges and certainly less linear. If you set an appointment with an Indonesian, you can almost bet they will be up to an hour late. There is no apology or worry about it, just a fact. If they arrive within the day, that is doing pretty good. These cultures even have expressions for this attitude. Indonesians talk about "jam karet," or flexible time. Mexicans use the expression, "mañana," or tomorrow.
With the obvious exception of Italy, which produced one of the most complex languages on Earth (Latin)and Hindi, many equatorial languages has simple or non-existent tenses. Malay/Indonesian and Mayan languages have very simple tenses which indicate general timing of events in a cause-effect manner, but little else. They really only see time as before now-now-after now, with NOW being the key idea. It's almost as if what is past is not worth talking about and the future doesn't exist. Perhaps that is the origin of Ram Dass' Be Here Now concepts, or the launching point for Buddha's Eternal Present.
The second idea I want to deal with is the lack of concern about the future, which is neatly capsulized with the distinctly American expression, "nigger rich." This goes to the idea that you really have nothing, but you finance the appearance of having something. It also refers to the habit of blowing all your cash on payday for temporary fun and having nothing tomorrow for dinner. This idea is related to the concept of time because the person who is nigger rich does not think about future consequences or needs, only about current looks and comfort.
It has been explained to me that the reason many Indonesians are not successful is that they tend to fling their pay out the window of appearances and never worry about saving for the future. I was told that the reason the Chinese are successful, and universally hated, in Indonesia is that they save their money and plan for the future. Indeed, it could be argued that part of the reason the Chinese culture has survived intact for 5,000 years (with some notable political upsets) is their focus on very long term planning. Surely, the Great Wall is a display of that attitude.
Nigger rich is not limited to equatorial cultures, though certainly the term implies that the practice in American culture comes from people of African origin. One could argue effectively that the collapse of the global banking system is caused by greed and expediency, which are both driven by a lack of long-term vision. Certainly, part of the cause of the fall of Rome, Egypt and Athens was predicated on the devolution of the cultures into immediate gratification.
In Indonesia, the holiday of Idul Fitri is fast approaching. At this time of year, sales of gold and cars soar. People buy flash to take home to the family in the village, to show how successful they are, and then promptly sell it all when they return to the big city. In fact, the best time (for planners) to buy gold and cars is immediately following Idul Fitri, as everyone unloads the flash.
I am told quite often that the reason Indonesians are not more successful on the whole is because of their short-term view. Certainly, I have witnessed similar practices in Central America and among certain demographic groups in America. By contrast, the Dutch have been quite successful over centuries, arguably because they are notoriously cheap (think Dutch treat).
Blowing your wad on payday and saving for a rainy day seem to be competing ideas that separate indemnic poverty from long-term success. Certainly, it appears that cultures that practice nigger rich are not as successful over the long term as cultures that save. I have heard it argued that the turning point for America is when people ceased to save and started hocking themselves to the rafters to buy gee-gaws and bling. Without a doubt, it is a massive debt load that is sinking America, and western civilization with it. The American desire for immediate gratification (i.e.-Halleluia! We found the printing press) has endangered multiple generations, and the same can be said for any group whose guiding principle is "nigger rich."
So, how does all this tie together, you wonder? Well, my frustration at not being able to contact and meet people in a timely manner, and my sleeping in the men's room at the airport are examples of cultural punctuality and saving money. I was extremely put out that just one hour after telling someone that I was in town and ready to meet after a week of preparation, and all of it failed. Also, my desire for immediate comfort was not enough to overcome my desire to save money, thus I found the shelf behind the toilet and my towel to be ample for my needs.
In the end, my delay of immediate gratification paid off by having a little extra jack to buy a bottle of Absolut reward, which this time actually made it all the way home. So I guess this saving thing does pay off.
Yeah, this post is a bit rambling, I know. But I am still jet lagged and a little stiff from my cheap hotel. Hopefully, the next one will be a little more focused.
Oh, and cheers!
24.7.10
To Jump or Not to Jump
Thanks to my colleague George Ure of UrbanSurvival promoting my blog in one of his columns recently, I have been receiving some excellent and thoughtful letters from new readers, including folks here in Indonesia.
One in particular, from B.H. in The Panhandle State, got me to thinking, which is frequently a dangerous thing to do. What followed was my characteristically long-winded response, which seemed to lend itself to a post of my own. I don’t know how helpful I was, but perhaps I added some perspective that will help with his dilemma, to whit:
First of all, thank you for your thoughtful letter. I have taken a little time to consider my reply, so please pardon the delay. I deeply appreciate your support in adding my blog to your favorites. i will endeavor to keep it interesting and entertaining for you.
With regards to your question, first let me say that what I tell you cannot possibly fit all people and all times, but perhaps I can offer a little insight with my own experiences that will help you along in your decision.
As far as living abroad with a family (one or ten doesn't really matter, I think), I have always been of the opinion that a day's worth of travel is worth weeks in the classroom. So just from a purely educational standpoint, I would think living overseas would offer your family a unique and valuable educational experience that can never be had from a textbook. My father moved us (six children and wife) to Dublin in 79-80, and for me it was the eye-opening experience of a lifetime. Even now, 30 years on, my siblings and I reminisce fondly about the experience. Some of us still speak a little Gaelic, others have friendships that we have maintained there, and for me, it launched a year and a half backpacking tour of the world that was my coming of age experience. The value of the experience to your children is incalculable in terms of the opportunities and memories they will receive.
In terms of the reasons you gave for ex-patriating, that very reasoning figured heavily into my own decision to leave. As you say, you left California because you saw the writing on the wall, and I felt much the same when i left to take up residence here. I have very deep misgivings about the direction and leadership of the country, and I felt that staying was tacit complicity with all of it. Furthermore, my work horizons were quickly narrowing and leaving has proved to be a great way to expand once again and try new things that would not be available to me at home. I have gotten into businesses that would have been closed to me in the US, as well as met people in both casual and formal situations that most likely would not have been in my social circle otherwise. This fact alone has made the move more than worth it for me.
Not that it has all been a bed of roses. There have been both real and spiritual crises that would not have existed in more familiar surroundings. Certainly, going blind and nearly going bust a couple of times has made for some serious situations. However, being so far from home has also given me the motivation to push ahead where I might have given up otherwise. Having no reverse forces you to figure out how to go forward. Or put another way, that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
In the end, my choice to come to Indonesia was based on one primary factor. You see, when America dies, it will leave a vacuum that will suck the whole world in. No part of the world will be unaffected when such a large hole is left in the balance of power. I chose a place where most people are survivors. They know how to survive because they must do it every day. They are used to hardship and doing without. Americans are spoiled and lazy, and when they don't get what they want, there will be major trouble. So many people I know will devolve into a chaotic state if the electricity goes out, or the water doesn't come out of the tap, or the shelves are empty at the store. They will panic because in their entire lives they have never faced such a thing.
On the other hand, most Indonesians have a month of food in the house and tanks of water everywhere for both drinking and washing. They are used to not getting things easily and having blackouts regularly. They do everything with nothing. People still have skills and on my block alone, there are women who make clothes (and I mean starting with making the cloth), men who build things and an attitude of neighborly assistance that has long since died in America. When TSHTF, I want to be surrounded by people who know how to cope. Additionally, Indonesians are practical and realistic, unlike many Americans who refuse to see the obvious simply because it is too terrible to contemplate (it can’t happen here!).
So I guess all of this is to say that I cannot make your decision. I can tell you my reasons and my experience, and I can assure you that, for me, it was the very best decision I have made in a while. I can tell you that on the worst days, the schools here are better than American public schools on their best days. Yes, there is a steep learning curve when entering a new culture, but if taken as a challenge rather than a hindrance it becomes an exercise for your mind and keeps you alert and fresh. You will make mistakes and wrong decisions, but for me it is another reason I came: to learn. In three years, I have learned three languages, the customs and cultures of a dozen different peoples, and had amazing experiences that I could never have found in the safety of my homeland. For every bad experience, I have had a dozen good ones. And in so many ways, I am more free here than in the Land of the Free.
Do the classic test. Make a list. On one side, label it Pros, and the other label Cons. Start thinking of every reason you can to do and not do something. If you find your Pros getting longer, then maybe you should seriously consider it. If you decide to jump, have a Plan A, B and C. You WILL get to Plan C, so having one means success. In some areas, I am already on Plan G. You can cover many variables, but never all of them, so at some point you will have to take a leap of faith. That part gets easier with every leap. Certainly, the bird in hand is worth two in the bush. But if you have one scrawny bird and there's an entire flock in the bush, it might just be worth it to go for the gold.
I have offered you what I can. It's not much, some platitudes and experiences, and there's no magic bullet here, but to paraphrase Thomas Paine, I prefer the animating contest of freedom to the shackles of illusory safety. The one thing that finally kicked me in the seat of the pants was the thought that I will die, of that there is no doubt. So, do i die with my boots on or pass quietly with tubes in every orifice and regrets on my mind? Many years ago, I read a book called The Journeyer, a fictionalized tale of Marco Polo's adventures, which left me with something of a lifelong motto: I don't want to die with the regret that I didn’t go there or do that. Fear of the unknown is a killer, and from the other point of view, something is only unknown until it is known. There is really only one way to know if you can do something, and that is to do it.
One test I learned a long time ago that has seemed to serve me well is this: if you want to choose a path and all the doors swing open in that direction, then it is the right path. If on the other hand there seems to be nothing but obstacles, then Universe is giving you sign posts. When I made my choice, everything fell together like a thousand-piece puzzle. If you find yourself being drawn in a certain direction, then it may be the one you are supposed to take. Listen to your gut.
I hope my lengthy rant has helped some small amount. i wish I could offer you The Ultimate Answer, but really that lies within you. As the leader of your family, you must choose what is right and good for your family and you. The kids will gripe a little at first, but the adventure will grab them eventually. Your wife may worry about having food and shelter, but you know you can provide that. So, what else is there? Air conditioning? A car? A mortgage? Friends and family? Everyone will think you are crazy until you succeed, but they do that already. How many reasons not to go are real, and how many have you built around yourself like a fence? The thing about fences is that they keep things out, but they also keep things in.
My prayers go with you in your choice. If I can help with connections or information, please let me know. I will give whatever help I can. If you decide to leap, you will find many of us out here that form sort of a support group. We offer each other information, advice and connections to people and services. We all know what it’s like and why we are here, and we all stick together. Believe me, no matter where you go, you will find ex-pats already ensconced. You won’t be alone.
One reason I didn't choose the Philippines, is they are a magnet for typhoons. So, I chose an island in an earthquake zone surrounded by volcanoes instead. LOL!
Sampai jumpa!
Bernard
PS-I have attached an article you may find helpful. Also, with your kind permission, I would like to post your letter and this response. Maybe it will help others, as well. Thanks!
One in particular, from B.H. in The Panhandle State, got me to thinking, which is frequently a dangerous thing to do. What followed was my characteristically long-winded response, which seemed to lend itself to a post of my own. I don’t know how helpful I was, but perhaps I added some perspective that will help with his dilemma, to whit:
Dear Mr. Grover;
I am living in Oklahoma on a small ranch with the wife and 4 kids. We departed CA. 3.5 yrs. ago, knowing what was coming and now have a small but practical eco-farm. We have zero debt. being 63. getting SS for who knows how long (kids get checks too as long as they are under 18....
I was born in the Philipphines, my dad being american and I have lived there on the island of CEBU before as recent as 2005. Kids are 4, 3, 11,13......
Question is this:
should I even consider living abroad with a large family like this.? I know full well just how you describe life there in Indonesia as being ditto in Cebu for example, w/0 the ramadan factor....
Just give me an "if I were you".......answer. Being here is great, nice piece of property, productive but still with all the changes going on here and the proximity to the Gulf (not as close as Ure though) I think changing locations (going north) is only a partial fix..........Living abroad is very different, simple and the lack of trauma (that's going on here) is not benign but different in many ways.
Thanks for your reply, I just put your blogsite in my favorites.
First of all, thank you for your thoughtful letter. I have taken a little time to consider my reply, so please pardon the delay. I deeply appreciate your support in adding my blog to your favorites. i will endeavor to keep it interesting and entertaining for you.
With regards to your question, first let me say that what I tell you cannot possibly fit all people and all times, but perhaps I can offer a little insight with my own experiences that will help you along in your decision.
As far as living abroad with a family (one or ten doesn't really matter, I think), I have always been of the opinion that a day's worth of travel is worth weeks in the classroom. So just from a purely educational standpoint, I would think living overseas would offer your family a unique and valuable educational experience that can never be had from a textbook. My father moved us (six children and wife) to Dublin in 79-80, and for me it was the eye-opening experience of a lifetime. Even now, 30 years on, my siblings and I reminisce fondly about the experience. Some of us still speak a little Gaelic, others have friendships that we have maintained there, and for me, it launched a year and a half backpacking tour of the world that was my coming of age experience. The value of the experience to your children is incalculable in terms of the opportunities and memories they will receive.
In terms of the reasons you gave for ex-patriating, that very reasoning figured heavily into my own decision to leave. As you say, you left California because you saw the writing on the wall, and I felt much the same when i left to take up residence here. I have very deep misgivings about the direction and leadership of the country, and I felt that staying was tacit complicity with all of it. Furthermore, my work horizons were quickly narrowing and leaving has proved to be a great way to expand once again and try new things that would not be available to me at home. I have gotten into businesses that would have been closed to me in the US, as well as met people in both casual and formal situations that most likely would not have been in my social circle otherwise. This fact alone has made the move more than worth it for me.
Not that it has all been a bed of roses. There have been both real and spiritual crises that would not have existed in more familiar surroundings. Certainly, going blind and nearly going bust a couple of times has made for some serious situations. However, being so far from home has also given me the motivation to push ahead where I might have given up otherwise. Having no reverse forces you to figure out how to go forward. Or put another way, that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
In the end, my choice to come to Indonesia was based on one primary factor. You see, when America dies, it will leave a vacuum that will suck the whole world in. No part of the world will be unaffected when such a large hole is left in the balance of power. I chose a place where most people are survivors. They know how to survive because they must do it every day. They are used to hardship and doing without. Americans are spoiled and lazy, and when they don't get what they want, there will be major trouble. So many people I know will devolve into a chaotic state if the electricity goes out, or the water doesn't come out of the tap, or the shelves are empty at the store. They will panic because in their entire lives they have never faced such a thing.
On the other hand, most Indonesians have a month of food in the house and tanks of water everywhere for both drinking and washing. They are used to not getting things easily and having blackouts regularly. They do everything with nothing. People still have skills and on my block alone, there are women who make clothes (and I mean starting with making the cloth), men who build things and an attitude of neighborly assistance that has long since died in America. When TSHTF, I want to be surrounded by people who know how to cope. Additionally, Indonesians are practical and realistic, unlike many Americans who refuse to see the obvious simply because it is too terrible to contemplate (it can’t happen here!).
So I guess all of this is to say that I cannot make your decision. I can tell you my reasons and my experience, and I can assure you that, for me, it was the very best decision I have made in a while. I can tell you that on the worst days, the schools here are better than American public schools on their best days. Yes, there is a steep learning curve when entering a new culture, but if taken as a challenge rather than a hindrance it becomes an exercise for your mind and keeps you alert and fresh. You will make mistakes and wrong decisions, but for me it is another reason I came: to learn. In three years, I have learned three languages, the customs and cultures of a dozen different peoples, and had amazing experiences that I could never have found in the safety of my homeland. For every bad experience, I have had a dozen good ones. And in so many ways, I am more free here than in the Land of the Free.
Do the classic test. Make a list. On one side, label it Pros, and the other label Cons. Start thinking of every reason you can to do and not do something. If you find your Pros getting longer, then maybe you should seriously consider it. If you decide to jump, have a Plan A, B and C. You WILL get to Plan C, so having one means success. In some areas, I am already on Plan G. You can cover many variables, but never all of them, so at some point you will have to take a leap of faith. That part gets easier with every leap. Certainly, the bird in hand is worth two in the bush. But if you have one scrawny bird and there's an entire flock in the bush, it might just be worth it to go for the gold.
I have offered you what I can. It's not much, some platitudes and experiences, and there's no magic bullet here, but to paraphrase Thomas Paine, I prefer the animating contest of freedom to the shackles of illusory safety. The one thing that finally kicked me in the seat of the pants was the thought that I will die, of that there is no doubt. So, do i die with my boots on or pass quietly with tubes in every orifice and regrets on my mind? Many years ago, I read a book called The Journeyer, a fictionalized tale of Marco Polo's adventures, which left me with something of a lifelong motto: I don't want to die with the regret that I didn’t go there or do that. Fear of the unknown is a killer, and from the other point of view, something is only unknown until it is known. There is really only one way to know if you can do something, and that is to do it.
One test I learned a long time ago that has seemed to serve me well is this: if you want to choose a path and all the doors swing open in that direction, then it is the right path. If on the other hand there seems to be nothing but obstacles, then Universe is giving you sign posts. When I made my choice, everything fell together like a thousand-piece puzzle. If you find yourself being drawn in a certain direction, then it may be the one you are supposed to take. Listen to your gut.
I hope my lengthy rant has helped some small amount. i wish I could offer you The Ultimate Answer, but really that lies within you. As the leader of your family, you must choose what is right and good for your family and you. The kids will gripe a little at first, but the adventure will grab them eventually. Your wife may worry about having food and shelter, but you know you can provide that. So, what else is there? Air conditioning? A car? A mortgage? Friends and family? Everyone will think you are crazy until you succeed, but they do that already. How many reasons not to go are real, and how many have you built around yourself like a fence? The thing about fences is that they keep things out, but they also keep things in.
My prayers go with you in your choice. If I can help with connections or information, please let me know. I will give whatever help I can. If you decide to leap, you will find many of us out here that form sort of a support group. We offer each other information, advice and connections to people and services. We all know what it’s like and why we are here, and we all stick together. Believe me, no matter where you go, you will find ex-pats already ensconced. You won’t be alone.
One reason I didn't choose the Philippines, is they are a magnet for typhoons. So, I chose an island in an earthquake zone surrounded by volcanoes instead. LOL!
Sampai jumpa!
Bernard
PS-I have attached an article you may find helpful. Also, with your kind permission, I would like to post your letter and this response. Maybe it will help others, as well. Thanks!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)