Winston
Just a short one, as I just woke up and should get ready for work now.
"Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the 'worst' form of Government except for all those others that have been tried from time to time."
If we were only to listen to our fearless leaders, democracy would surely be the best of all worlds, while the problems it entails are negligible. Not so.
Democracy as we know it is susceptible to all kinds of influences which you can observe for yourself any time. If your campaign budget is too small, you don't even need to try to run for president. If you have had a lot of media exposure, you have a very serious advantage over the other contenders. (Remember Arnie?) Powerful special interest groups can - and do - sway elections. And so on.
There is another side as well. Democracy has always been resting on the assumption that the advantages of majority-rule outweigh the disadvantages. That assumption should at least be questioned because said rule may not be the wisest.
When you look at the serious mess we have maneuvered us into, not only in the States, but in many places and not only environmentally, but also economically (Various deficits, anyone?), and socially (The widening rich - poor gap in many democracies comes to mind. There's a growing education-gap as well.), then even a person who has grown up in our cultures could have his doubts. Humans are supposedly guided by enlightened self-interest, but they are also thinking notoriously short-term and are very selfish beings. In fact, they are downright stupid. :-) To deny this would be to make the same mistake that the original theorists of socialism and communism made. Humans are highly imperfect and we have to take that into account when thinking of politics.
So why should people in Africa, in the Middle East or in Asia not come to the conclusion that democracy is not the right way for them, but the western way into decadence and destruction? Maybe to them it seems that the right way is instead guided by their religion - or whatever else they may choose. And who are we to deny them their own experiments? We've certainly tried our ways which include feudalism, slavery, and a whole host of other equally beautiful concepts. To me the righteous feeling of the people who insist that democracy is the only way to go smacks of the conviction of a fervent socialist but a short while ago.
Oh, and I almost forgot one thing. Mussolini arose out of a democracy. And so did the man with the mustache.
http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm2.showMessage?topicID=211.topic
Friday, November 28, 2003
Scientific Method
While it may be the best method we have of coming closer to figuring out what is going on, it is pretty useless when it comes to values. Values aren't usually arrived at by cogitating until smoke pours out of our ears, but are handed down from parents, teachers, peers, society at large. What seems like rational thoughts to explain our values are usually just rationalizations which we make up after the fact - long after these values have become totally ingrained into us. (And that facts change, while societies cling to their old values and taboos is yet another story.) These values are the lenses through which we see the world and because we all have a different set, we all see things differently.
Even when we all grew up in roughly the same conditions, we still see things differently because of the weighting we attach to the different values. Different priorities, different lenses, different view of the world.
The question I ask myself is this: How do I go about trying to be as objective as possible? How do I avoid cultural bias while at the same time trying to give people the cultural space that they need?
Maybe an example will illustrate what I mean. In 1980 in Afghanistan there were only about two out of a thousand Afghanis who didn't either actively or passively support the fight against the Russians. In the end the Russians had to leave Afghanistan (although resistance may not have been the only reason). It looks like the situation in Iraq is rapidly heading into the same direction.
So, forcing either the Afghanis or the Iraqis into a western-style democracy is probably not going to work. But what *is* the right, long-term good thing to pursue? Just leaving them cutting each others throats as has been happening in Afghanistan for countless decades somehow doesn't seem the right way either. Kick out the bad guys again and again to let "the people" find their own way? That gets to be a pretty big job as well after a while - never mind that no voting public will support that course of action for long.
When I examine the problem, I realize that I am still looking through my own cultural lenses. I know very little of what the people over there think about the situation. And even if I do, I may have to strongly disagree with them - the treatment of women by the Taliban comes to mind. Can't very well say, it is their way, it is their right to do things like that and leave it at that, can I? So, again, I impose my cultural values.
And since these values are simply handed to me, I am where I started. I can't spend ten or twenty years in each place to understand what is really going on and I can't always moan "I don't understand" and refrain from forming an opinion. But of course, mostly the opposite happens, and people form a very strong opinion - the stronger the less they know about the situation.
Take South Africa during "Apart-Hate". Almost anywhere in the west there was only one opinion and it was uniformly against the then government. Boycotts were organized, boycotts that may have done more harm than good, but that was not really the point. The point was, they *felt* good.
People who actually took the trouble of going there and checking out what was going on there, were far more careful when judging what was going on there. All of a sudden, no more blanket statements or hot-headed calls for action. Instead confusion, a questioning of why things looked so different from afar and right there and then. (No way can you properly understand another culture vicariously through only books, films, music, and so on. There is always a big piece missing - just look at the America-haters for confirmation.)
So, then, what is left?
"Ours is an age of criticism, to which everything must be subjected. The sacredness of religion, and the authority of legislation, are by many regarded as grounds for exemption from the examination by this tribunal. But, if they are exempted, and cannot lay claim to sincere respect, which reason accords only to that which has stood the test of a free and public examination."
I haven't come across any shortcut or method in which to evaluate things so far. The only thing that I resort to time and again is to go there and see for myself and then let good old common sense be my guide.
While it may be the best method we have of coming closer to figuring out what is going on, it is pretty useless when it comes to values. Values aren't usually arrived at by cogitating until smoke pours out of our ears, but are handed down from parents, teachers, peers, society at large. What seems like rational thoughts to explain our values are usually just rationalizations which we make up after the fact - long after these values have become totally ingrained into us. (And that facts change, while societies cling to their old values and taboos is yet another story.) These values are the lenses through which we see the world and because we all have a different set, we all see things differently.
Even when we all grew up in roughly the same conditions, we still see things differently because of the weighting we attach to the different values. Different priorities, different lenses, different view of the world.
The question I ask myself is this: How do I go about trying to be as objective as possible? How do I avoid cultural bias while at the same time trying to give people the cultural space that they need?
Maybe an example will illustrate what I mean. In 1980 in Afghanistan there were only about two out of a thousand Afghanis who didn't either actively or passively support the fight against the Russians. In the end the Russians had to leave Afghanistan (although resistance may not have been the only reason). It looks like the situation in Iraq is rapidly heading into the same direction.
So, forcing either the Afghanis or the Iraqis into a western-style democracy is probably not going to work. But what *is* the right, long-term good thing to pursue? Just leaving them cutting each others throats as has been happening in Afghanistan for countless decades somehow doesn't seem the right way either. Kick out the bad guys again and again to let "the people" find their own way? That gets to be a pretty big job as well after a while - never mind that no voting public will support that course of action for long.
When I examine the problem, I realize that I am still looking through my own cultural lenses. I know very little of what the people over there think about the situation. And even if I do, I may have to strongly disagree with them - the treatment of women by the Taliban comes to mind. Can't very well say, it is their way, it is their right to do things like that and leave it at that, can I? So, again, I impose my cultural values.
And since these values are simply handed to me, I am where I started. I can't spend ten or twenty years in each place to understand what is really going on and I can't always moan "I don't understand" and refrain from forming an opinion. But of course, mostly the opposite happens, and people form a very strong opinion - the stronger the less they know about the situation.
Take South Africa during "Apart-Hate". Almost anywhere in the west there was only one opinion and it was uniformly against the then government. Boycotts were organized, boycotts that may have done more harm than good, but that was not really the point. The point was, they *felt* good.
People who actually took the trouble of going there and checking out what was going on there, were far more careful when judging what was going on there. All of a sudden, no more blanket statements or hot-headed calls for action. Instead confusion, a questioning of why things looked so different from afar and right there and then. (No way can you properly understand another culture vicariously through only books, films, music, and so on. There is always a big piece missing - just look at the America-haters for confirmation.)
So, then, what is left?
"Ours is an age of criticism, to which everything must be subjected. The sacredness of religion, and the authority of legislation, are by many regarded as grounds for exemption from the examination by this tribunal. But, if they are exempted, and cannot lay claim to sincere respect, which reason accords only to that which has stood the test of a free and public examination."
I haven't come across any shortcut or method in which to evaluate things so far. The only thing that I resort to time and again is to go there and see for myself and then let good old common sense be my guide.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Culture
Yesterday I stumbled across the word again, this time in a narrative about a circumnavigation. The author met a captain of a cargo ship that was trading all over the world. They met in the Solomon Islands and the captain looked like a movie star. Top Gun sunglasses, crisp white shirt, tanned like Tarzan, and efficient like hell.
But the only thing he talked about was his home in Hamburg. He said he missed the cooler climate there, and the food, and the fact that things worked when you expected them to. But what he missed most of all, he said, was the culture. He was talking about the theater, and the opera, maybe even the movie theaters. He was thinking of museums and jazz festivals, galleries and exhibitions.
The same captain refused an invitation to visit the yachtie on his boat and never spent any time at all with the people from the Solomon Islands or anywhere else. He didn't even realize that he sailed right past places with cultures just as diverse and interesting as his own, cultures that probably won't be around for much longer. He was blind to everything that didn't fit into his scheme of things.
Yesterday I stumbled across the word again, this time in a narrative about a circumnavigation. The author met a captain of a cargo ship that was trading all over the world. They met in the Solomon Islands and the captain looked like a movie star. Top Gun sunglasses, crisp white shirt, tanned like Tarzan, and efficient like hell.
But the only thing he talked about was his home in Hamburg. He said he missed the cooler climate there, and the food, and the fact that things worked when you expected them to. But what he missed most of all, he said, was the culture. He was talking about the theater, and the opera, maybe even the movie theaters. He was thinking of museums and jazz festivals, galleries and exhibitions.
The same captain refused an invitation to visit the yachtie on his boat and never spent any time at all with the people from the Solomon Islands or anywhere else. He didn't even realize that he sailed right past places with cultures just as diverse and interesting as his own, cultures that probably won't be around for much longer. He was blind to everything that didn't fit into his scheme of things.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Vendée Globe Challenge
It's been more than eight years since I've been sailing. Sometimes I miss it and sometimes I am glad that I don't have to work so hard to maintain my boat. And worry about anchors slipping, or bad weather or getting sick far away from the next doctor.
Other times I think I am wasting my life not going sailing right away. As far as I am concerned no other mode of life can live up to the intensity of sailing across oceans, of circumnavigating.
Isn't everything worth doing also uncomfortable, difficult or dangerous? Or all of them at once? Why is it that everybody simply assumes that safety, comfort or even luxury are the goals that we should strive for in life?
Last Sunday, before we embarked on a long drive into a truly remote place in northern Taiwan, Liping & I saw a documentary on the Vendee Globe Challenge. It's a single-handed non-stop yacht race around the world. Not for ordinary mortals as they boats alone cost millions.
The weather down there is atrocious or even downright deadly. It is the equivalent to trying to emulate Reinhold Messner and climbing one of the highest mountains in the world without the help of oxygen and other modern technology. Only half of the boats made it to the finish, several guys had to be rescued - very close calls indeed - and one guy was lost at sea.
Still, I would like to go down there.
Liping on the other hand, cried big tears when she thought of the wife and daughter of the guy who didn't make it.
I guess I won't make it down there. At least not any time soon.
It's been more than eight years since I've been sailing. Sometimes I miss it and sometimes I am glad that I don't have to work so hard to maintain my boat. And worry about anchors slipping, or bad weather or getting sick far away from the next doctor.
Other times I think I am wasting my life not going sailing right away. As far as I am concerned no other mode of life can live up to the intensity of sailing across oceans, of circumnavigating.
Isn't everything worth doing also uncomfortable, difficult or dangerous? Or all of them at once? Why is it that everybody simply assumes that safety, comfort or even luxury are the goals that we should strive for in life?
Last Sunday, before we embarked on a long drive into a truly remote place in northern Taiwan, Liping & I saw a documentary on the Vendee Globe Challenge. It's a single-handed non-stop yacht race around the world. Not for ordinary mortals as they boats alone cost millions.
The weather down there is atrocious or even downright deadly. It is the equivalent to trying to emulate Reinhold Messner and climbing one of the highest mountains in the world without the help of oxygen and other modern technology. Only half of the boats made it to the finish, several guys had to be rescued - very close calls indeed - and one guy was lost at sea.
Still, I would like to go down there.
Liping on the other hand, cried big tears when she thought of the wife and daughter of the guy who didn't make it.
I guess I won't make it down there. At least not any time soon.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Pain, Misery, Hardship and Suffering
I don't really know what started me thinking about this. Perhaps it was somebody who was of the opinion that there are plenty of writers that write well - but without anything meaningful to say. Or it might have been books by Orson Scott Card, which I re-read recently. And then again, it might simply have been that people I know are suffering and I wondered if that was really necessary.
When you first think about it, you are tempted to say that pain and suffering are wholly bad concepts and if only we could overcome them somehow, we'd all live in a better world. Soon, you realize that pain serves a very useful function - if there were no pain, our bodies would soon stop to function altogether since we wouldn't even know that there was a problem. So, at least in a physiological sense, pain is indeed necessary.
But what about emotional pain? What's that good for? What purpose does heartbreak or loneliness serve? The loss of a loved one? Feelings of inferiority? The list is endless. And again, most people would think that we are way better off without all these things. In many ways we act in order to avoid these unpleasant feelings and we might even be more motivated by the avoidance of pain than by a striving for pleasurable feelings.
And maybe that's where it gets interesting. Maslow's Pyramid of Needs, maybe a rather old concept, but still useful to conceptualize what I am talking about. On the lowest level, survival, just imagine somebody who has suffered from hunger, thirst, cold, or any of the other things that threaten his continuing existence. Obviously he feels pain and suffering. But might not this pain guarantee, that he will try harder to avoid being in the same situation in the future? And, moving up the pyramid, might not this "pain" do the same thing on every level of the pyramid?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several years ago, 1997 to be precise, I felt vaguely dissatisfied with my own life. I didn't know what I was unhappy about, I just experienced a feeling of unhappiness without being able to pinpoint where exactly it came from. We had decided to spend the summer vacation at home. The idea was that maybe we needed a real break, not work, not travel, nothing but relaxation. Maybe that would cure the problem. As luck would have it, it rained almost the entire vacation. So much so that our lawn turned into a swamp and the house got muddy inside. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse and worse. Life didn't seem to be worth living anymore. Didn't I have all the time in the world, wonderful books to read and an even more wonderful wife to cheer me up? Still, it didn't seem to be enough.
Then a friend came by and we talked about books. I confessed that it had always been my dream to write a book. He immediately seized upon the idea - not unlike a terrier, really - and didn't let go until I had promised him that I would at least give it a decent try. Which meant doing my utmost of course. Guess what? No sooner had I embarked on the project than my feelings of discontent began to evaporate and while the project took years longer than I had envisioned, it finally came to a successful conclusion a couple of years ago. But, you see... If there hadn't been any "pain" in the first place, then there wouldn't be a novel around now. There would not be that feeling of accomplishment, either. No pain, no gain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And when I look back upon my life and remember the times when I felt pain and suffering, I come to the conclusion that it has changed me more often than not. The miserable time in high-school and my abominable performance there has encouraged me to look for different ways to go. And to work harder at them then I otherwise would. The divorce from my first wife, painful as it was, has probably made me a better husband. Or so I hope. I am sure there are more examples, but these will have to do for now. What really concerns me, is not really my own life, as I will certainly strive to avoid hardship just like everybody else.
Maybe what prompted my thinking about all these rather unpleasant human affairs, is how the parents of my students deal with their children.
The parents had a rough time when they were young, as Taiwan then was not all that dissimilar to the Vietnam of today. Liping, for example, lived in a ramshackle hut with no toilet. Her mother was sold to her father in order to raise bride-money. Her father was captured on the fields in China and never saw his own family again. Often there was not enough food in the house. One of her brothers died while still a kid.
Now, of course, these people have children themselves and they are determined that their kids should not suffer as they did. Certainly understandable and the parents go to great lengths to ensure that this won't happen, often denying themselves in order to provide ballet-, piano-, or violin-lessons for their offspring. They go further than that and try to protect their children from ALL pain and suffering, at least as far as they can.
And this is where the whole story gets complicated. The children treat their parents little better than their personal slaves. They are not motivated to do anything, but watch TV and play computer-games. Maybe read comic-books. The rant could go on, but you get the picture.
I haven't made a graph of this, but it looks almost as if the richer and more over-protective the parents are, the worse the kids turn out. Since nobody here is truly poor, I can't tell you what a control group would look like. But I do know of a few Chinese people who were truly poor. As Liping's family was.
So when Liping left home at 15, she had to work in a factory to support herself. (Her sister left at 12 and learned her lessons on the streets.) School wasn't a problem as a scholarship took care of that. But working in a factory was such a horrible experience for her, that she vowed to get into one of the best schools or else. After the factory experience, she worked much harder than before and finally made it into a good school. Not in order to amass a fortune or impress her friends (well, maybe a little :-), but much more in order to avoid having to work in a factory for the rest of her life. Without the pain of her early life, she would not be the woman she is now.
But how can my students get similar experiences? When they constantly eat in five-star restaurants, get brought to school in a limousine, when their mobile phones are always the latest model and their phone bills dwarf those of a small-size business? Aren't they being set up for major disappointment later on when father and mother can't protect them from the realities of life anymore?
Or maybe they will turn into what sociologist Yamada Masahiro called parasite singles?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Which reminds me of a Japanese proverb: If you love your son, don't help him.
Fortunately I still have a few years to mull these issues over, but as things stand right now, I am pretty sure that a bit of controlled hardship for my child may be better in the long run than growing up without. Not that I am overly worried that hardship, pain, suffering and misery won't crop up all of their own and without my interference.
Peace & Boat Drinks!
Holg
I don't really know what started me thinking about this. Perhaps it was somebody who was of the opinion that there are plenty of writers that write well - but without anything meaningful to say. Or it might have been books by Orson Scott Card, which I re-read recently. And then again, it might simply have been that people I know are suffering and I wondered if that was really necessary.
When you first think about it, you are tempted to say that pain and suffering are wholly bad concepts and if only we could overcome them somehow, we'd all live in a better world. Soon, you realize that pain serves a very useful function - if there were no pain, our bodies would soon stop to function altogether since we wouldn't even know that there was a problem. So, at least in a physiological sense, pain is indeed necessary.
But what about emotional pain? What's that good for? What purpose does heartbreak or loneliness serve? The loss of a loved one? Feelings of inferiority? The list is endless. And again, most people would think that we are way better off without all these things. In many ways we act in order to avoid these unpleasant feelings and we might even be more motivated by the avoidance of pain than by a striving for pleasurable feelings.
And maybe that's where it gets interesting. Maslow's Pyramid of Needs, maybe a rather old concept, but still useful to conceptualize what I am talking about. On the lowest level, survival, just imagine somebody who has suffered from hunger, thirst, cold, or any of the other things that threaten his continuing existence. Obviously he feels pain and suffering. But might not this pain guarantee, that he will try harder to avoid being in the same situation in the future? And, moving up the pyramid, might not this "pain" do the same thing on every level of the pyramid?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several years ago, 1997 to be precise, I felt vaguely dissatisfied with my own life. I didn't know what I was unhappy about, I just experienced a feeling of unhappiness without being able to pinpoint where exactly it came from. We had decided to spend the summer vacation at home. The idea was that maybe we needed a real break, not work, not travel, nothing but relaxation. Maybe that would cure the problem. As luck would have it, it rained almost the entire vacation. So much so that our lawn turned into a swamp and the house got muddy inside. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse and worse. Life didn't seem to be worth living anymore. Didn't I have all the time in the world, wonderful books to read and an even more wonderful wife to cheer me up? Still, it didn't seem to be enough.
Then a friend came by and we talked about books. I confessed that it had always been my dream to write a book. He immediately seized upon the idea - not unlike a terrier, really - and didn't let go until I had promised him that I would at least give it a decent try. Which meant doing my utmost of course. Guess what? No sooner had I embarked on the project than my feelings of discontent began to evaporate and while the project took years longer than I had envisioned, it finally came to a successful conclusion a couple of years ago. But, you see... If there hadn't been any "pain" in the first place, then there wouldn't be a novel around now. There would not be that feeling of accomplishment, either. No pain, no gain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And when I look back upon my life and remember the times when I felt pain and suffering, I come to the conclusion that it has changed me more often than not. The miserable time in high-school and my abominable performance there has encouraged me to look for different ways to go. And to work harder at them then I otherwise would. The divorce from my first wife, painful as it was, has probably made me a better husband. Or so I hope. I am sure there are more examples, but these will have to do for now. What really concerns me, is not really my own life, as I will certainly strive to avoid hardship just like everybody else.
Maybe what prompted my thinking about all these rather unpleasant human affairs, is how the parents of my students deal with their children.
The parents had a rough time when they were young, as Taiwan then was not all that dissimilar to the Vietnam of today. Liping, for example, lived in a ramshackle hut with no toilet. Her mother was sold to her father in order to raise bride-money. Her father was captured on the fields in China and never saw his own family again. Often there was not enough food in the house. One of her brothers died while still a kid.
Now, of course, these people have children themselves and they are determined that their kids should not suffer as they did. Certainly understandable and the parents go to great lengths to ensure that this won't happen, often denying themselves in order to provide ballet-, piano-, or violin-lessons for their offspring. They go further than that and try to protect their children from ALL pain and suffering, at least as far as they can.
And this is where the whole story gets complicated. The children treat their parents little better than their personal slaves. They are not motivated to do anything, but watch TV and play computer-games. Maybe read comic-books. The rant could go on, but you get the picture.
I haven't made a graph of this, but it looks almost as if the richer and more over-protective the parents are, the worse the kids turn out. Since nobody here is truly poor, I can't tell you what a control group would look like. But I do know of a few Chinese people who were truly poor. As Liping's family was.
So when Liping left home at 15, she had to work in a factory to support herself. (Her sister left at 12 and learned her lessons on the streets.) School wasn't a problem as a scholarship took care of that. But working in a factory was such a horrible experience for her, that she vowed to get into one of the best schools or else. After the factory experience, she worked much harder than before and finally made it into a good school. Not in order to amass a fortune or impress her friends (well, maybe a little :-), but much more in order to avoid having to work in a factory for the rest of her life. Without the pain of her early life, she would not be the woman she is now.
But how can my students get similar experiences? When they constantly eat in five-star restaurants, get brought to school in a limousine, when their mobile phones are always the latest model and their phone bills dwarf those of a small-size business? Aren't they being set up for major disappointment later on when father and mother can't protect them from the realities of life anymore?
Or maybe they will turn into what sociologist Yamada Masahiro called parasite singles?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Which reminds me of a Japanese proverb: If you love your son, don't help him.
Fortunately I still have a few years to mull these issues over, but as things stand right now, I am pretty sure that a bit of controlled hardship for my child may be better in the long run than growing up without. Not that I am overly worried that hardship, pain, suffering and misery won't crop up all of their own and without my interference.
Peace & Boat Drinks!
Holg
Repatriation & Reintegration
Last night I talked to a friend who used to live in Taiwan for many years. Five years ago he moved back to his hometown. His wife is Chinese and had no big problems getting used to life in a new country. She now speaks the language well and has found a satisfying job, too.
Not so my friend. Although he managed to land a good job, he has made no real friends over the last five years and he really misses life in Asia. Nor is he the only one. It seems to be a recurring theme for many if not most of my friends who went back.
It's not that they are too shy or don't have the opportunity to make friends. It isn't that they don't like the people over there, either. The crux of the matter is that after a short while of pleasant small-talk, there's nothing to talk about anymore. No common ground. My friends just can't get that excited anymore about those topics that people back home find interesting.
And the new acquaintances soon get tired of topics they can't really relate or contribute to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are quite a few studies on the net dealing with reverse culture or re-entry shock. I had a look at several of them, but what I read there is more or less that this is a problem that can be overcome. A bump in the road.
And I have friends for whom this would be true. Maybe the first one or two years were tough, but sooner or later they felt at home again. The episode abroad is viewed as an enriching experience, but there is not necessarily a desire to leave once more. Some, to be sure, have resigned themselves to living back home because of various constraints and try to make the best of it while many are genuinely happy.
But for others this is not a bump in the road, but a major disaster. They have been irrevocably altered by living in a foreign culture for so many years and many of them will never fully reintegrate. Just imagine you learned Bahinemo and moved to live with that particular tribe in Papua New Guinea. No matter how long you lived with them, you would still always be the outsider, you would never really fit in. That's what it feels like to some of my friends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That is one of the main reasons why one them went back now instead of later. He has three young children, and he figured that while it wasn't sure that the jump would be successful now, it is almost certain that with each additional year the odds would get worse and worse.
As for me, I am pretty sure that it is too late for myself. I enjoy living the way I do way too much to give it up. Plus, I am definitely infected with the sailing virus - although I am fully aware of all the costs - financial and otherwise - hardship and danger involved. But who knows what will happen? And who knows where I will finally end up?
Peace & Boat Drinks to you all!
Holg
Last night I talked to a friend who used to live in Taiwan for many years. Five years ago he moved back to his hometown. His wife is Chinese and had no big problems getting used to life in a new country. She now speaks the language well and has found a satisfying job, too.
Not so my friend. Although he managed to land a good job, he has made no real friends over the last five years and he really misses life in Asia. Nor is he the only one. It seems to be a recurring theme for many if not most of my friends who went back.
It's not that they are too shy or don't have the opportunity to make friends. It isn't that they don't like the people over there, either. The crux of the matter is that after a short while of pleasant small-talk, there's nothing to talk about anymore. No common ground. My friends just can't get that excited anymore about those topics that people back home find interesting.
And the new acquaintances soon get tired of topics they can't really relate or contribute to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are quite a few studies on the net dealing with reverse culture or re-entry shock. I had a look at several of them, but what I read there is more or less that this is a problem that can be overcome. A bump in the road.
And I have friends for whom this would be true. Maybe the first one or two years were tough, but sooner or later they felt at home again. The episode abroad is viewed as an enriching experience, but there is not necessarily a desire to leave once more. Some, to be sure, have resigned themselves to living back home because of various constraints and try to make the best of it while many are genuinely happy.
But for others this is not a bump in the road, but a major disaster. They have been irrevocably altered by living in a foreign culture for so many years and many of them will never fully reintegrate. Just imagine you learned Bahinemo and moved to live with that particular tribe in Papua New Guinea. No matter how long you lived with them, you would still always be the outsider, you would never really fit in. That's what it feels like to some of my friends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That is one of the main reasons why one them went back now instead of later. He has three young children, and he figured that while it wasn't sure that the jump would be successful now, it is almost certain that with each additional year the odds would get worse and worse.
As for me, I am pretty sure that it is too late for myself. I enjoy living the way I do way too much to give it up. Plus, I am definitely infected with the sailing virus - although I am fully aware of all the costs - financial and otherwise - hardship and danger involved. But who knows what will happen? And who knows where I will finally end up?
Peace & Boat Drinks to you all!
Holg
Future Plans & Sailing
My friend Herbert Salvenmoser recently went sailing with Wolfgang Hausner http://www.wolfgang-hausner.com/logbuch.html . He's been sailing and living on catamarans since 1965, circumnavigated the world twice and lives now on his boat in Cebu, Philippines. He also has a daughter, Vaitea, who is now 15 years old.
Wolfgang and his wife Gerti didn't opt for an Austrian or German http://www.deutsche-fernschule.de/index.htm education http://www.ils.de/index.php?rf=http://www.ils.de/fernlehrwerk.php , but instead went for home-schooling American style, through the Calvert School http://www.calvertschool.org/hs/homeschool_title in Maryland. The results seem to be more than encouraging, with apparently no problems as far as socialization is concerned.
I have always been interested in home-schooling and distance education, especially since Liping checked it out and got her 2nd degree in Organizational Behavior http://www.bbk.ac.uk/manop/op/courses.htm from the University of London http://www.lon.ac.uk/colleges.htm on our last trip in 1994/1995.
I did a fair bit of research those days about Master's Degree programs, but now I am more interested in courses for children. Home-schooling programs for elementary, junior, and senior high school. I used to teach some of the "kids" living on boats years ago and my impression was very positive.
*****
What I would really like to do, is go and buy another catamaran http://www.yachts-in-greece.com/multihull.html in about 2007, something like an Antigua 37 or a Catana 40 . Somewhere in the range of 38' to 42', big enough for a family with kids, but small enough to handle for one person alone.
And then slowly, slowly sail through the South Seas, from island to island, and from country to country. Not like last time, in a hurry to cross the Pacific before the cyclone season sets in again, but with long breaks here and there. Perhaps even make it a permanent lifestyle, like some of my friends have done. And if it gets tedious after a while, what with all the work, the dirt and the anxiety, maybe settle down on one of those islands.
*****
By far the biggest change and challenge, however, is that this time it won't be just Liping and me, but our child and us. That's why 2007 seems about the earliest reasonable time to go. (I did help by boiling lots of water when one of my friends gave birth on her boat, but I am not all that keen to repeat the experience. :-)
Maybe this is all a bit crazy, but then most of my past ventures fall into that category. As I know people who have done it, it is definitely do-able, the only questions that remain are whether it a good thing to try and do and whether we can actually handle it.
So far, it is just a dream or a plan. I constantly make many of those and almost all of them get discarded at one stage. I hope that this particular one doesn't.
Cheers!
Holg
*****
Boy, it does look ugly with the links like that, doesn't it?
My friend Herbert Salvenmoser recently went sailing with Wolfgang Hausner http://www.wolfgang-hausner.com/logbuch.html . He's been sailing and living on catamarans since 1965, circumnavigated the world twice and lives now on his boat in Cebu, Philippines. He also has a daughter, Vaitea, who is now 15 years old.
Wolfgang and his wife Gerti didn't opt for an Austrian or German http://www.deutsche-fernschule.de/index.htm education http://www.ils.de/index.php?rf=http://www.ils.de/fernlehrwerk.php , but instead went for home-schooling American style, through the Calvert School http://www.calvertschool.org/hs/homeschool_title in Maryland. The results seem to be more than encouraging, with apparently no problems as far as socialization is concerned.
I have always been interested in home-schooling and distance education, especially since Liping checked it out and got her 2nd degree in Organizational Behavior http://www.bbk.ac.uk/manop/op/courses.htm from the University of London http://www.lon.ac.uk/colleges.htm on our last trip in 1994/1995.
I did a fair bit of research those days about Master's Degree programs, but now I am more interested in courses for children. Home-schooling programs for elementary, junior, and senior high school. I used to teach some of the "kids" living on boats years ago and my impression was very positive.
*****
What I would really like to do, is go and buy another catamaran http://www.yachts-in-greece.com/multihull.html in about 2007, something like an Antigua 37 or a Catana 40 . Somewhere in the range of 38' to 42', big enough for a family with kids, but small enough to handle for one person alone.
And then slowly, slowly sail through the South Seas, from island to island, and from country to country. Not like last time, in a hurry to cross the Pacific before the cyclone season sets in again, but with long breaks here and there. Perhaps even make it a permanent lifestyle, like some of my friends have done. And if it gets tedious after a while, what with all the work, the dirt and the anxiety, maybe settle down on one of those islands.
*****
By far the biggest change and challenge, however, is that this time it won't be just Liping and me, but our child and us. That's why 2007 seems about the earliest reasonable time to go. (I did help by boiling lots of water when one of my friends gave birth on her boat, but I am not all that keen to repeat the experience. :-)
Maybe this is all a bit crazy, but then most of my past ventures fall into that category.
So far, it is just a dream or a plan. I constantly make many of those and almost all of them get discarded at one stage. I hope that this particular one doesn't.
Cheers!
Holg
*****
Boy, it does look ugly with the links like that, doesn't it?
Taipei, 1990
I had received a telegram, the very first one in my life, that I was urgently needed back in Taiwan. Also, there might be a chance for a reconciliation, which prompted me to quit my job at the Hotel des Roches in Kourou, French Guyana, on the spot.
A few days later I flew with Minerve Guyane to Paris and soon I was back in Taipei. Unfortunately I stood in front of locked doors and it soon transpired that my services were no longer needed, that, in fact, my presence was not convenient at the moment.
"Wait a minute!" I thought. "This is my bloody school here!"
But the locks had been changed and apparently it was my former father-in-law who was now the legal owner of my school. Surprise, surprise! Apart from anger and emotional upheaval, never mind a boat sitting in the middle of some jungle-bay in Amazonia, there were all kinds of technical problems to take care of.
I didn't have a roof to sleep under, didn't have all that much cash and was stranded on the wrong side of the planet. So I didn't worry all that long, but did what I usually do when the excrement has hit the air-conditioning and went to the pub.
Which is where I ran into Johnnie Ah-Hong. Six beers and two phone calls later, I was all set up. Johnnie's friends had a "safe-house", which was nothing more than a little house in a quiet suburb, where Johnnie and one of his "brothers", named Xiao Lu, lived at the time. They didn't have to pay any rent, as the guy who owned the place owed the "brothers" so much money, that a lifetime of rent wouldn't be enough to pay for it all. And since that man valued his health and the intactness of his bones, he was more than happy to let the brothers use the house for as long as they wished or until the debt had been paid off.
Xiao Lu, it turned out, was an ex-cop, who got seriously pissed off that the guys he was chasing all the time made a lot better living than he did on his meager salary. So, one day he simply quit his job and joined the brothers. That was years and years ago, though. Both he and Johnnie were excellent cooks and when I inquired into the matter, they told me that jail was a very good place indeed to learn cooking. Later I found out that it is also a top-rate language center.
So I was living with a bunch of brothers from the "Bamboo Union" gang and since they had lawyers and accountants and all kinds of other professionals on their payroll, they promised me to check out the legal situation concerning the sudden transfer of ownership of my school. The gangster-lawyer guy came back to me a couple of days later. The expression on his face told me that there wouldn't be any good news.
"It's watertight," he said. "From a legal angle there is absolutely nothing we can do."
The "we" kind of worried me, but I had made it very clear to Johnnie that I would not be part to highly illegal proceedings. He said, "But when I need to borrow some money, you'll give it to me!" It seemed like a reasonable request at the time and when later I did lend him a major sum of cash, I got all of it back, albeit in a different currency.
The news from the lawyer-guy were a major blow, so there was nothing for me to do, but go to the pub once more. Not to drown my sorrows, mind you, but to figure a way out of the pickle I now found myself in. Luck was on my side once more in the form of Richie. Richie had a language center as well, we had both learned under the same couple of guys and our methods were almost identical. And Richie needed a teacher! Lucky me! Lucky Richie! Lucky everybody!
The arrangement was almost perfect. I hopped on my bike, a small 125cc Sanyang, a Honda copy, and drove to Richie's school where I had a second breakfast of beer and noodles. The first breakfast at home consisted only of beer. Richie didn't mind the beers as long as I did my job properly. He even videotaped the classes and one day when I was particularly out of it and had to hold onto the desks in order to avoid keeling over, I surprised even myself because on the video everything seemed to be completely under control. Classes were over at 10:00 pm and I went straight to the pubs and clubs where I usually hooked up with Johnnie and Xiao Lu and whoever was with them. There were always a lot of young girls, sex and drugs and rock'n roll, there seemed to be an almost unlimited amount of money flowing (the bill often was in the vicinity of a thousand bucks US) - basically it was partying non-stop. Often the parties would continue at the "safe-house" as well.
I got to know many of the brothers. One time the very big boss, Ghost, invited me to ride with him in his sports car and told me proudly that he had gone to Kaohsiung on a whim, just because he wanted to be with one particular girl. He apparently made it down there, about 400 km and back, with the girl, before the party was over. I was glad that I hadn't sat next to him on that particular trip, as it would probably have scared me to death. And that simply wouldn't do with these guys. They detested weakness of any kind and I would have been out on my bare arse in minutes, blood-brotherhood or not.
But this little trip was not in order to exhibit superior driving skills. He wanted the whole story of my school again and we talked all the time in Chinese. After that there was a short silence and then he switched to English and said just one word: "Violence!"
The way he said it, matter-of-factly, after evaluating all the alternatives, gave me the shivers. I replied in Chinese and said that I would think about it and let him know. He nodded and that was the end of that. But I did let the brothers know that I was not interested in this particular option.
After about six months, it was time for me to fly back to my boat, as I had managed to save enough money. I packed my few belongings, said good-bye to Richie, Johnnie, Xiao Lu and the brothers and a short time later I was back on DHARMA BUM.
*****
Johnnie got busted with amphetamines and ecstasy and has been in and out of jail several times since.
--
Xiao Lu got in trouble with the brothers and had to leave Taipei to live in Hualien.
--
Richie shared my fate but a little while later, but is now happily married again and his wife is expecting, too.
--
Ghost was set up for a major heroin deal in Bangkok, took the fall, hit the headlines, went to jail - and miraculously got out again. Nobody knows whether he was actually working for the cops, used his family-influence or a major bribe to get out, for the laws in that respect are extremely strict in Taiwan. I saw him myself and he was in excellent spirits.
--
Oh, and BTW, I changed their names.
I had received a telegram, the very first one in my life, that I was urgently needed back in Taiwan. Also, there might be a chance for a reconciliation, which prompted me to quit my job at the Hotel des Roches in Kourou, French Guyana, on the spot.
A few days later I flew with Minerve Guyane to Paris and soon I was back in Taipei. Unfortunately I stood in front of locked doors and it soon transpired that my services were no longer needed, that, in fact, my presence was not convenient at the moment.
"Wait a minute!" I thought. "This is my bloody school here!"
But the locks had been changed and apparently it was my former father-in-law who was now the legal owner of my school. Surprise, surprise! Apart from anger and emotional upheaval, never mind a boat sitting in the middle of some jungle-bay in Amazonia, there were all kinds of technical problems to take care of.
I didn't have a roof to sleep under, didn't have all that much cash and was stranded on the wrong side of the planet. So I didn't worry all that long, but did what I usually do when the excrement has hit the air-conditioning and went to the pub.
Which is where I ran into Johnnie Ah-Hong. Six beers and two phone calls later, I was all set up. Johnnie's friends had a "safe-house", which was nothing more than a little house in a quiet suburb, where Johnnie and one of his "brothers", named Xiao Lu, lived at the time. They didn't have to pay any rent, as the guy who owned the place owed the "brothers" so much money, that a lifetime of rent wouldn't be enough to pay for it all. And since that man valued his health and the intactness of his bones, he was more than happy to let the brothers use the house for as long as they wished or until the debt had been paid off.
Xiao Lu, it turned out, was an ex-cop, who got seriously pissed off that the guys he was chasing all the time made a lot better living than he did on his meager salary. So, one day he simply quit his job and joined the brothers. That was years and years ago, though. Both he and Johnnie were excellent cooks and when I inquired into the matter, they told me that jail was a very good place indeed to learn cooking. Later I found out that it is also a top-rate language center.
So I was living with a bunch of brothers from the "Bamboo Union" gang and since they had lawyers and accountants and all kinds of other professionals on their payroll, they promised me to check out the legal situation concerning the sudden transfer of ownership of my school. The gangster-lawyer guy came back to me a couple of days later. The expression on his face told me that there wouldn't be any good news.
"It's watertight," he said. "From a legal angle there is absolutely nothing we can do."
The "we" kind of worried me, but I had made it very clear to Johnnie that I would not be part to highly illegal proceedings. He said, "But when I need to borrow some money, you'll give it to me!" It seemed like a reasonable request at the time and when later I did lend him a major sum of cash, I got all of it back, albeit in a different currency.
The news from the lawyer-guy were a major blow, so there was nothing for me to do, but go to the pub once more. Not to drown my sorrows, mind you, but to figure a way out of the pickle I now found myself in. Luck was on my side once more in the form of Richie. Richie had a language center as well, we had both learned under the same couple of guys and our methods were almost identical. And Richie needed a teacher! Lucky me! Lucky Richie! Lucky everybody!
The arrangement was almost perfect. I hopped on my bike, a small 125cc Sanyang, a Honda copy, and drove to Richie's school where I had a second breakfast of beer and noodles. The first breakfast at home consisted only of beer. Richie didn't mind the beers as long as I did my job properly. He even videotaped the classes and one day when I was particularly out of it and had to hold onto the desks in order to avoid keeling over, I surprised even myself because on the video everything seemed to be completely under control. Classes were over at 10:00 pm and I went straight to the pubs and clubs where I usually hooked up with Johnnie and Xiao Lu and whoever was with them. There were always a lot of young girls, sex and drugs and rock'n roll, there seemed to be an almost unlimited amount of money flowing (the bill often was in the vicinity of a thousand bucks US) - basically it was partying non-stop. Often the parties would continue at the "safe-house" as well.
I got to know many of the brothers. One time the very big boss, Ghost, invited me to ride with him in his sports car and told me proudly that he had gone to Kaohsiung on a whim, just because he wanted to be with one particular girl. He apparently made it down there, about 400 km and back, with the girl, before the party was over. I was glad that I hadn't sat next to him on that particular trip, as it would probably have scared me to death. And that simply wouldn't do with these guys. They detested weakness of any kind and I would have been out on my bare arse in minutes, blood-brotherhood or not.
But this little trip was not in order to exhibit superior driving skills. He wanted the whole story of my school again and we talked all the time in Chinese. After that there was a short silence and then he switched to English and said just one word: "Violence!"
The way he said it, matter-of-factly, after evaluating all the alternatives, gave me the shivers. I replied in Chinese and said that I would think about it and let him know. He nodded and that was the end of that. But I did let the brothers know that I was not interested in this particular option.
After about six months, it was time for me to fly back to my boat, as I had managed to save enough money. I packed my few belongings, said good-bye to Richie, Johnnie, Xiao Lu and the brothers and a short time later I was back on DHARMA BUM.
*****
Johnnie got busted with amphetamines and ecstasy and has been in and out of jail several times since.
--
Xiao Lu got in trouble with the brothers and had to leave Taipei to live in Hualien.
--
Richie shared my fate but a little while later, but is now happily married again and his wife is expecting, too.
--
Ghost was set up for a major heroin deal in Bangkok, took the fall, hit the headlines, went to jail - and miraculously got out again. Nobody knows whether he was actually working for the cops, used his family-influence or a major bribe to get out, for the laws in that respect are extremely strict in Taiwan. I saw him myself and he was in excellent spirits.
--
Oh, and BTW, I changed their names.
Berlin 1980
It was pretty late when our old diesel 250 Mercedes Benz rolled into town. My friend Burkhard was driving, pretty Tina and I were stoned to our gills, as we had to finish the weed before crossing into the communist part of Germany. Homegrown, from seeds out of Ghana and watered faithfully by my dad who didn't have a clue what those pretty plants might be. Or so he says.
The sky was gloomy, smoggy and all the buildings seemed to be poured of gray concrete. I was taken aback. I was supposed to live in this concrete jungle for at least four years? We rolled on and on, directed by Tina who lived in a factory-sized loft with a few fellow artists and hippies. Burkhard crashed on the floor and I went out with Tina's sister Petra, just as pretty as Tina, but a bit more crazy, as I would soon find out.
***
Since I grew up near a small provincial hick town, I had serious difficulties adjusting to a big city in the beginning. It seemed so ugly and so noisy after the peaceful countryside where I had spent so much of my time. I missed my friends, people made fun of my strong north German "fishhead" accent and grad school was not at all what I had expected. I had studied three years of Philosophy with a gifted teacher whereas at grad school everybody seemed to be interested in only one thing. Showing off. Nothing about "philos" or "sophos" to be found there. So, I made Sinology/China studies my major, dropped philosophy and took anthropology/ethnology instead.
***
Things got better after that. I slowly got my bearings, readjusted my expectations, and made some new friends. Cool cats they were, in the "scene", they knew all the hot nightspots and soon I did, too. Punk & Dub Reggae replaced the hippie music I had listened to for years. I took up Kung Fu and spent days and nights discussing the latest novel or what was happening in the squatter scene. Heady days. Pretty good, actually, especially since things were also going better with my studies.
It took me at least a year to feel reasonably at home in Berlin. My new girlfriend, Sabine, with whom I am still in touch today, found a small apartment and we moved in together. That was another part of my ongoing education, as Sabine was my first "real" girlfriend and living together proved to be much more difficult than the paradise I had imagined it to be.
But what really annoyed me after a while was not Sabine, but certain other people in our circle. For one, there were the squatters. While what they were saying certainly made a lot of sense - there was a bad housing shortage at the time & many of the buildings were empty because the owners were more interested in real-estate speculation than in renting them out - I found out fairly quickly that these arguments were merely a facade. Much more important than that, was the fact that it was fashionable to be a squatter. As a squatter you were on moral high ground, you were daily proving your courage facing police raids and you were definitely showing that you were not part of the establishment, of the rotten "system" that so many of us despised.
Also, it was for free. Squatting saved a couple of hundred bucks which would otherwise have to be spent on rent. So far so good. But there was a small, but very persistent group of people amongst all the squatters, who took saving money to extremes. These "Schnorrers" free-loaded wherever they could, never bought a single beer for themselves, or food or anything else for that matter. They invited themselves to your home, helped themselves to whatever happened to be in the fridge and called everybody but themselves a reactionary. One of them came from my hometown and when I found out that he not only smelled abominable, hadn't had a wash, bath or shower in a couple of months, but had also stolen several things from our apartment, I had enough. I severed diplomatic ties and kept my distance from the squatter crowd from then on.
***
Another group that got on my nerves where the artists who never produced any art. Film-makers who were talking about making films, writers who would one day write great masterpieces and painters who would create the new Mona Lisa. Not a single one of them was actually doing anything but talking. At the same time they called themselves writers, painters, film-makers, sculptors and whatnot. They expected, nay, they demanded to be treated as the real thing. Of course we had to put up with their tantrums, we had to support and encourage them for the great sacrifice they were making, we had to buy them beers and we would have to nod sympathetically when they told us that nobody understood them. Everything else would have been uncool in the extreme.
If it had been one or two guys, this wouldn't have been a problem. If I hadn't had many musician friends back in my hometown, who practiced hours and hours and hours to get ever better at what they were doing, it probably wouldn't have mattered. Who knows, anyway. I vowed never to call myself an artist then. Not unless I had something to show. And now, anyway, I know that these specimens were nothing but a bunch of losers, who would stay that way forever. I know this for a fact. Word gets around.
***
It would be many years later, that I would meet any "artists" again. In fact, for about a decade, I went out of my way to avoid people like the "Schnorrer" freeloaders and "Schwaetzer" artist-talking-heads of my Berlin days.
And you know what? These new artists were quite a different bunch. They didn't walk about bragging about things that only existed in their heads. They didn't even brag about things that they had created and that were excellent. If anything, they were shy about it and tried to steer discussions elsewhere, so as not to appear pompous. They were not - for the most part in any case - substance abusers or throwing tantrums every five minutes or insisting that the rest of the world had a *duty* to support and admire them. They were, instead, working their asses off in the same way my musician-friends in far away Flensburg were practicing day after day after day to master their craft. And after many long years of hard work, maybe, sometimes something magic would occur and they would get IT, whether it was in music or in writing or in whatever it was they were doing.
And while they were doing their art, practicing it religiously in fact, they did their best to make a living as teachers, copy editors, gardeners, concrete-pourers, and and and. Some of them were married, some were raising children. And you know what? Most of them were happy, contented people. Almost not a single one of them chose to be a martyr, although many of them had been through rather rough periods in their lives - Am I doing the right thing here? Is it really worth it being this poor? Did I lose my wife/husband for this? - and quite a few of them were just barely scraping by as far as living expenses are concerned. I take my hat off to them. I admire them, and I am proud that several of them like me enough to call me a friend.
All that said, I would not like to live like most of them. From hand to mouth, with the future ever uncertain. If a genie asked me whether I wanted to trade with Jack Kerouac or Jack London or Albert Einstein, I'd say "no" without a moment's hesitation. As far as I can tell, they were driven to their work, they produced something outstanding - but they did not live a happy life.
And what good would it be, if I created another masterpiece while I was deeply unhappy with myself? Would that be good for the people around me, for the ones I love? I don't think so.
***
The funny thing is that not one of my artist-friends would like to exchange his life with mine, either. They think I am crazy and want no part of it. ;-)))
Cheers!
Holg
It was pretty late when our old diesel 250 Mercedes Benz rolled into town. My friend Burkhard was driving, pretty Tina and I were stoned to our gills, as we had to finish the weed before crossing into the communist part of Germany. Homegrown, from seeds out of Ghana and watered faithfully by my dad who didn't have a clue what those pretty plants might be. Or so he says.
The sky was gloomy, smoggy and all the buildings seemed to be poured of gray concrete. I was taken aback. I was supposed to live in this concrete jungle for at least four years? We rolled on and on, directed by Tina who lived in a factory-sized loft with a few fellow artists and hippies. Burkhard crashed on the floor and I went out with Tina's sister Petra, just as pretty as Tina, but a bit more crazy, as I would soon find out.
***
Since I grew up near a small provincial hick town, I had serious difficulties adjusting to a big city in the beginning. It seemed so ugly and so noisy after the peaceful countryside where I had spent so much of my time. I missed my friends, people made fun of my strong north German "fishhead" accent and grad school was not at all what I had expected. I had studied three years of Philosophy with a gifted teacher whereas at grad school everybody seemed to be interested in only one thing. Showing off. Nothing about "philos" or "sophos" to be found there. So, I made Sinology/China studies my major, dropped philosophy and took anthropology/ethnology instead.
***
Things got better after that. I slowly got my bearings, readjusted my expectations, and made some new friends. Cool cats they were, in the "scene", they knew all the hot nightspots and soon I did, too. Punk & Dub Reggae replaced the hippie music I had listened to for years. I took up Kung Fu and spent days and nights discussing the latest novel or what was happening in the squatter scene. Heady days. Pretty good, actually, especially since things were also going better with my studies.
It took me at least a year to feel reasonably at home in Berlin. My new girlfriend, Sabine, with whom I am still in touch today, found a small apartment and we moved in together. That was another part of my ongoing education, as Sabine was my first "real" girlfriend and living together proved to be much more difficult than the paradise I had imagined it to be.
But what really annoyed me after a while was not Sabine, but certain other people in our circle. For one, there were the squatters. While what they were saying certainly made a lot of sense - there was a bad housing shortage at the time & many of the buildings were empty because the owners were more interested in real-estate speculation than in renting them out - I found out fairly quickly that these arguments were merely a facade. Much more important than that, was the fact that it was fashionable to be a squatter. As a squatter you were on moral high ground, you were daily proving your courage facing police raids and you were definitely showing that you were not part of the establishment, of the rotten "system" that so many of us despised.
Also, it was for free. Squatting saved a couple of hundred bucks which would otherwise have to be spent on rent. So far so good. But there was a small, but very persistent group of people amongst all the squatters, who took saving money to extremes. These "Schnorrers" free-loaded wherever they could, never bought a single beer for themselves, or food or anything else for that matter. They invited themselves to your home, helped themselves to whatever happened to be in the fridge and called everybody but themselves a reactionary. One of them came from my hometown and when I found out that he not only smelled abominable, hadn't had a wash, bath or shower in a couple of months, but had also stolen several things from our apartment, I had enough. I severed diplomatic ties and kept my distance from the squatter crowd from then on.
***
Another group that got on my nerves where the artists who never produced any art. Film-makers who were talking about making films, writers who would one day write great masterpieces and painters who would create the new Mona Lisa. Not a single one of them was actually doing anything but talking. At the same time they called themselves writers, painters, film-makers, sculptors and whatnot. They expected, nay, they demanded to be treated as the real thing. Of course we had to put up with their tantrums, we had to support and encourage them for the great sacrifice they were making, we had to buy them beers and we would have to nod sympathetically when they told us that nobody understood them. Everything else would have been uncool in the extreme.
If it had been one or two guys, this wouldn't have been a problem. If I hadn't had many musician friends back in my hometown, who practiced hours and hours and hours to get ever better at what they were doing, it probably wouldn't have mattered. Who knows, anyway. I vowed never to call myself an artist then. Not unless I had something to show. And now, anyway, I know that these specimens were nothing but a bunch of losers, who would stay that way forever. I know this for a fact. Word gets around.
***
It would be many years later, that I would meet any "artists" again. In fact, for about a decade, I went out of my way to avoid people like the "Schnorrer" freeloaders and "Schwaetzer" artist-talking-heads of my Berlin days.
And you know what? These new artists were quite a different bunch. They didn't walk about bragging about things that only existed in their heads. They didn't even brag about things that they had created and that were excellent. If anything, they were shy about it and tried to steer discussions elsewhere, so as not to appear pompous. They were not - for the most part in any case - substance abusers or throwing tantrums every five minutes or insisting that the rest of the world had a *duty* to support and admire them. They were, instead, working their asses off in the same way my musician-friends in far away Flensburg were practicing day after day after day to master their craft. And after many long years of hard work, maybe, sometimes something magic would occur and they would get IT, whether it was in music or in writing or in whatever it was they were doing.
And while they were doing their art, practicing it religiously in fact, they did their best to make a living as teachers, copy editors, gardeners, concrete-pourers, and and and. Some of them were married, some were raising children. And you know what? Most of them were happy, contented people. Almost not a single one of them chose to be a martyr, although many of them had been through rather rough periods in their lives - Am I doing the right thing here? Is it really worth it being this poor? Did I lose my wife/husband for this? - and quite a few of them were just barely scraping by as far as living expenses are concerned. I take my hat off to them. I admire them, and I am proud that several of them like me enough to call me a friend.
All that said, I would not like to live like most of them. From hand to mouth, with the future ever uncertain. If a genie asked me whether I wanted to trade with Jack Kerouac or Jack London or Albert Einstein, I'd say "no" without a moment's hesitation. As far as I can tell, they were driven to their work, they produced something outstanding - but they did not live a happy life.
And what good would it be, if I created another masterpiece while I was deeply unhappy with myself? Would that be good for the people around me, for the ones I love? I don't think so.
***
The funny thing is that not one of my artist-friends would like to exchange his life with mine, either. They think I am crazy and want no part of it. ;-)))
Cheers!
Holg
Koh Samui, Thailand -- February 2003
The heavy base guitars were deafening, they made the beer in my glass tremble as if T-Rex was on the prowl nearby and my mind was reeling. The only way to describe the feelings that were furiously attacking my brain is with a cliche: culture shock
Where I had expected quiet little streets with a few street vendors and some dilapidated restaurants, I found row upon row upon row of go-go bars, whores, whores, whores, techno bars, pubs tailored to specific nationalities, Mac Donalds', 7-elevens, discos, bowling alleys, blazing, humming and throbbing neon signs galore as well as restaurants from simple tourist rip-off to 5-star mega-tourist-rip-off. Shocked indeed. The uneasy feeling settled like a pint of ice-cold water into my stomach and I was contemplating whether I had ****** things up for this little vacation. Maybe we would have to pack our bags and beat a hasty retreat to Kho Pha-Ngan or even farther away. Maybe, for once, I should have listened to my friends.
I ordered another Singha Beer in desperation, waiting for Liping to show up again, back from a little shopping spree upon which she had embarked with glee. We were sitting in an "Italian" restaurant, as we had just arrived at 10:30 pm and were ravenously hungry. I had tried to make conversation with a guy who most resembled a traveler, but no luck. I had tried another guy, who looked pretty lonely, just to escape the fact that I might have screwed up mightily, but he wasn't interested either. If this continued, the vacation would turn into a write-off.
Although I was dog-tired, I kept ordering and drinking Singha Beers until 2:30 in the morning and finally crawled under my sheets.
*****
What a surprise when I opened my eyes the next morning! The beach was perhaps twenty meters from where I found myself. Gently rolling waves made a sound - which would make me drowsy later on while reading - and what was more, it was almost deserted. It didn't take me long to embark on a running start into the Gulf of Thailand. The water was *warm*, I realized with pleasant surprise. Where then were the hordes I had seen last night? Or was it all but a bad dream, crept upon me while I was hiding under the sheets? No, but it couldn't be, there was the moss on my teeth and the dragonflies in my head to prove it.
The situation explained itself while I sipped an ice-coffee on the veranda, listening to "Light My Fire" by Jimi Hendrix & Jim Morrison. It seemed as if everybody except Liping and me was grumbling about the weather. It was overcast, as it usually is at this time of year, which makes life a lot more pleasant than when the sun is blazing down with brute atomic power to singe your skin, frizzle your hair, ruin your eyes, rob you of all energy and make you perspire as you wouldn't believe. Still, it was around 85°F , the humidity was way op there in the stratosphere - but a gentle breeze wafted in from the ocean. Perfect! Except for 99% of the other tourists, who felt cheated of the sun.
Things got better steadily after that. We left all our stuff at the inn and set off along the beach. It got more and more deserted the farther we walked. The bungalows turned into huts, which again turned into the most simple A-frames without mattresses or electricity. We had to wade through a little river, where the water rose above our waists, and after that we came to a place where several small open fishing boats were moored. If you judge a boat by the paint, they were in bad shape. I had the feeling that it was more lucrative to work as a waiter in "town" than to go fishing these days. Town, by the way, consists of a single street parallel to the beach, but as touristy as you can possibly get.
At that point we had to literally run for cover, as huge black clouds were approaching rapidly, whipping up a strong wind with promise for a tropical downpour. We made it just in time to a little beach restaurant constructed entirely from one material: coconut palm tree in all its manifestations. I love those things, but I am afraid that they will be gone all too soon. You can watch one being built in one afternoon by a group of skilled workers, which is exactly what we had done in Viet Nam. But they don't last as long as ones built with corrugated iron and a variety of plastics. Well. I guess, I wouldn't like to rebuild all the time, either....
Liping sipped on a coconut - unfortunately from my point of view, not one of the giant golden "King Coconut" they have in Sri Lanka - while I was hard pressed to decide between Mekong Whisky and Singha Beer. In the end, they decided for me, as hadn't got any limes. We got out our books and spent a few hours reading and discussing what we were reading, seeing, smelling, feeling and drinking. My worries from the night before had gone the way of the dodo and the Tasmanian tiger, but there was another feeling now. I felt disconnected from reality, as if slightly stoned, except that I wasn't stoned or drunk or anything like that. Strange, weird feeling. It lasted for many hours and it came back every day for our entire stay.
When we went back to the inn http://www.sawadee.com/samui/lamaiinn/details/, we heard Jimi Hendrix wailing "Foxy Lady". Much as we wanted to avoid it, we had to go downtown again to exchange some money, buy a couple of things and get some food. I ran into a couple of masons or bricklayers from Germany and two teachers from the little island Bornholm in Denmark. The latter were quite pleasant to talk to, but they had already eaten and so they couldn't join us for dinner. Too bad. It was the last dinner we had in town, and it was just so-la-la. It had one redeeming feature, though. On the way back from that particular restaurant, I developed a case of terminal thirst, which again made me look at every single bar we passed like Old Eagle-Eye. Liping had her eyes peeled as well, only it was for the bikinis and tangas across the street. Finally we passed a bar that passed inspection. From then on every night ended at that particular one. http://www.pocahontasbar.com
The owner was a young guy from Denmark and while there were more than your usual share of Scandinavians around, I ran into a couple of Indians from Malaysia and two guys from Newcastle as well. We had plenty of fun with our accents and an ungodly amount of drinks to lubricate our conversation.
From then on we had our dinners right at the beach. Once in a while a massive downpour chased us under the roofs made from palm-fronds, but it was just as pleasant down there. There was a variety of excellent Thai food. Liping opted most of the time for different kinds of sea food, whereas I am more partial to really spicy Thai curries. All went well, except for one time, when we went to a particularly traditional place and I ordered a green curry. Dunno how people without a palate made from asbestos eat that stuff. But I managed to do it in the end, though I wouldn't have been able to without the help of one bottle of Mekong Whisky. We had one of those with every dinner. When that was finished, Liping would sip on her chilled white wine, while I would continue with beer. Most of the time Singha, but also a fair amount of Carlsberg.
When we ordered the very first bottle of Mekong, strictly according to how Paul/Neo/Drift would have done it, I thought it only fitting to propose a toast to PABD. Collectively first, and individually later, with a specific wish for every one. We liked the idea so much, that from then on we did it with every bottle of Mekong we had. [We brought four big bottles back to Taiwan with us, so we can continue the tradition for a while. If we only have the occasional sip, that is. Right now, we are both drinking Chardonnay, so as not to waste any of our treasures. ;-)))]
And, like I said before, every evening we ended up in our favorite bar and talked to interesting people from all over. Time was rushing past us at warp five at least.
Then Nick & Jocelyn showed up. Nick took us to "No.1 Lookout", which was definitely worth the ride in the tuk-tuk. http://www.into-asia.com/bangkok/tuk-tuk/ We went on to Chaweng, where I experienced culture shock once more, only much much worse. I'd stayed there before in '86 or '87 and now I sat amongst all the glitzy splendor, vainly looking for a Thai person anywhere. Even the waiters were mostly foreigners. I didn't see a single whore there! The average age of all the tourists was way up there, the prices were out of this world and I couldn't wait to get back to Lamai. We had decided to go to bed early, as we were flying the next day and actually made it to bed at 2:30. So far so good.
The trip back was unpleasant. When I had to pay airport tax for the fourth time on this trip, I finally lost my temper. Didn't help things, of course. When I ran into the vast crowds at the airport in Bangkok, I was about ready to just say "eff this" and head back the way I had come.
And then a curious thing happened. While I had been feeling the "disconnect" every day at the beach, Liping got that feeling as soon as we were back in Taiwan. The weather and everything was OK actually, particularly for this time of the year. But still.... Something seemed not right. What with all the rushing and the grim faces and the dollar signs shining out of everybody's eyes. Something was amiss for sure, but it seems to slip farther and farther out of our grasp with every single hour we spend amongst the multitudes. And in just a few more days, in just one week, we will finally be back and we will have accepted that *this* is reality and the beach is what everybody says it is. A dream. And what a pleasant dream it is.
Cheers!
Holg
http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm7.showMessage?topicID=5.topic
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PABD/message/484
The heavy base guitars were deafening, they made the beer in my glass tremble as if T-Rex was on the prowl nearby and my mind was reeling. The only way to describe the feelings that were furiously attacking my brain is with a cliche: culture shock
Where I had expected quiet little streets with a few street vendors and some dilapidated restaurants, I found row upon row upon row of go-go bars, whores, whores, whores, techno bars, pubs tailored to specific nationalities, Mac Donalds', 7-elevens, discos, bowling alleys, blazing, humming and throbbing neon signs galore as well as restaurants from simple tourist rip-off to 5-star mega-tourist-rip-off. Shocked indeed. The uneasy feeling settled like a pint of ice-cold water into my stomach and I was contemplating whether I had ****** things up for this little vacation. Maybe we would have to pack our bags and beat a hasty retreat to Kho Pha-Ngan or even farther away. Maybe, for once, I should have listened to my friends.
I ordered another Singha Beer in desperation, waiting for Liping to show up again, back from a little shopping spree upon which she had embarked with glee. We were sitting in an "Italian" restaurant, as we had just arrived at 10:30 pm and were ravenously hungry. I had tried to make conversation with a guy who most resembled a traveler, but no luck. I had tried another guy, who looked pretty lonely, just to escape the fact that I might have screwed up mightily, but he wasn't interested either. If this continued, the vacation would turn into a write-off.
Although I was dog-tired, I kept ordering and drinking Singha Beers until 2:30 in the morning and finally crawled under my sheets.
*****
What a surprise when I opened my eyes the next morning! The beach was perhaps twenty meters from where I found myself. Gently rolling waves made a sound - which would make me drowsy later on while reading - and what was more, it was almost deserted. It didn't take me long to embark on a running start into the Gulf of Thailand. The water was *warm*, I realized with pleasant surprise. Where then were the hordes I had seen last night? Or was it all but a bad dream, crept upon me while I was hiding under the sheets? No, but it couldn't be, there was the moss on my teeth and the dragonflies in my head to prove it.
The situation explained itself while I sipped an ice-coffee on the veranda, listening to "Light My Fire" by Jimi Hendrix & Jim Morrison. It seemed as if everybody except Liping and me was grumbling about the weather. It was overcast, as it usually is at this time of year, which makes life a lot more pleasant than when the sun is blazing down with brute atomic power to singe your skin, frizzle your hair, ruin your eyes, rob you of all energy and make you perspire as you wouldn't believe. Still, it was around 85°F , the humidity was way op there in the stratosphere - but a gentle breeze wafted in from the ocean. Perfect! Except for 99% of the other tourists, who felt cheated of the sun.
Things got better steadily after that. We left all our stuff at the inn and set off along the beach. It got more and more deserted the farther we walked. The bungalows turned into huts, which again turned into the most simple A-frames without mattresses or electricity. We had to wade through a little river, where the water rose above our waists, and after that we came to a place where several small open fishing boats were moored. If you judge a boat by the paint, they were in bad shape. I had the feeling that it was more lucrative to work as a waiter in "town" than to go fishing these days. Town, by the way, consists of a single street parallel to the beach, but as touristy as you can possibly get.
At that point we had to literally run for cover, as huge black clouds were approaching rapidly, whipping up a strong wind with promise for a tropical downpour. We made it just in time to a little beach restaurant constructed entirely from one material: coconut palm tree in all its manifestations. I love those things, but I am afraid that they will be gone all too soon. You can watch one being built in one afternoon by a group of skilled workers, which is exactly what we had done in Viet Nam. But they don't last as long as ones built with corrugated iron and a variety of plastics. Well. I guess, I wouldn't like to rebuild all the time, either....
Liping sipped on a coconut - unfortunately from my point of view, not one of the giant golden "King Coconut" they have in Sri Lanka - while I was hard pressed to decide between Mekong Whisky and Singha Beer. In the end, they decided for me, as hadn't got any limes. We got out our books and spent a few hours reading and discussing what we were reading, seeing, smelling, feeling and drinking. My worries from the night before had gone the way of the dodo and the Tasmanian tiger, but there was another feeling now. I felt disconnected from reality, as if slightly stoned, except that I wasn't stoned or drunk or anything like that. Strange, weird feeling. It lasted for many hours and it came back every day for our entire stay.
When we went back to the inn http://www.sawadee.com/samui/lamaiinn/details/, we heard Jimi Hendrix wailing "Foxy Lady". Much as we wanted to avoid it, we had to go downtown again to exchange some money, buy a couple of things and get some food. I ran into a couple of masons or bricklayers from Germany and two teachers from the little island Bornholm in Denmark. The latter were quite pleasant to talk to, but they had already eaten and so they couldn't join us for dinner. Too bad. It was the last dinner we had in town, and it was just so-la-la. It had one redeeming feature, though. On the way back from that particular restaurant, I developed a case of terminal thirst, which again made me look at every single bar we passed like Old Eagle-Eye. Liping had her eyes peeled as well, only it was for the bikinis and tangas across the street. Finally we passed a bar that passed inspection. From then on every night ended at that particular one. http://www.pocahontasbar.com
The owner was a young guy from Denmark and while there were more than your usual share of Scandinavians around, I ran into a couple of Indians from Malaysia and two guys from Newcastle as well. We had plenty of fun with our accents and an ungodly amount of drinks to lubricate our conversation.
From then on we had our dinners right at the beach. Once in a while a massive downpour chased us under the roofs made from palm-fronds, but it was just as pleasant down there. There was a variety of excellent Thai food. Liping opted most of the time for different kinds of sea food, whereas I am more partial to really spicy Thai curries. All went well, except for one time, when we went to a particularly traditional place and I ordered a green curry. Dunno how people without a palate made from asbestos eat that stuff. But I managed to do it in the end, though I wouldn't have been able to without the help of one bottle of Mekong Whisky. We had one of those with every dinner. When that was finished, Liping would sip on her chilled white wine, while I would continue with beer. Most of the time Singha, but also a fair amount of Carlsberg.
When we ordered the very first bottle of Mekong, strictly according to how Paul/Neo/Drift would have done it, I thought it only fitting to propose a toast to PABD. Collectively first, and individually later, with a specific wish for every one. We liked the idea so much, that from then on we did it with every bottle of Mekong we had. [We brought four big bottles back to Taiwan with us, so we can continue the tradition for a while. If we only have the occasional sip, that is. Right now, we are both drinking Chardonnay, so as not to waste any of our treasures. ;-)))]
And, like I said before, every evening we ended up in our favorite bar and talked to interesting people from all over. Time was rushing past us at warp five at least.
Then Nick & Jocelyn showed up. Nick took us to "No.1 Lookout", which was definitely worth the ride in the tuk-tuk. http://www.into-asia.com/bangkok/tuk-tuk/ We went on to Chaweng, where I experienced culture shock once more, only much much worse. I'd stayed there before in '86 or '87 and now I sat amongst all the glitzy splendor, vainly looking for a Thai person anywhere. Even the waiters were mostly foreigners. I didn't see a single whore there! The average age of all the tourists was way up there, the prices were out of this world and I couldn't wait to get back to Lamai. We had decided to go to bed early, as we were flying the next day and actually made it to bed at 2:30. So far so good.
The trip back was unpleasant. When I had to pay airport tax for the fourth time on this trip, I finally lost my temper. Didn't help things, of course. When I ran into the vast crowds at the airport in Bangkok, I was about ready to just say "eff this" and head back the way I had come.
And then a curious thing happened. While I had been feeling the "disconnect" every day at the beach, Liping got that feeling as soon as we were back in Taiwan. The weather and everything was OK actually, particularly for this time of the year. But still.... Something seemed not right. What with all the rushing and the grim faces and the dollar signs shining out of everybody's eyes. Something was amiss for sure, but it seems to slip farther and farther out of our grasp with every single hour we spend amongst the multitudes. And in just a few more days, in just one week, we will finally be back and we will have accepted that *this* is reality and the beach is what everybody says it is. A dream. And what a pleasant dream it is.
Cheers!
Holg
http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm7.showMessage?topicID=5.topic
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PABD/message/484