The Search for the Disembodied Genii...

Tomorrow I get on a plane and I go to Mandalay, from which I take a motorcycle (a little one) and head out into the countryside, hopefully to find some real villages and meet some real people. Bangkok is whirlwind of modernity, where maserati showrooms and prostitution commingle within easy distance, where you find malls filled with characterless human sandwich boards advertising Gucci and Zara and all the other rubbish brush up against legless beggars in the street, a place of great progress and development if ever there was one. Back to the villages where legless beggars are helped onto benches and brought tea. 

So I go for just one week. I imagine I may extend, but this is supposed to be a short break in my writing. The Atlanta has been wonderful. I came here with an ambition to get the unwieldy monster that is 'Jacks' finished, a book I've been working on for a good number of years - 12 if you count the short story that I had published in Australia many years back, the kernal from which it all sprouted. Unfortunately, the publication of my first book - Music of Maninjau - left such a sour taste in my mouth that the idea of finishing another book just didn't appeal. The publisher was called Bluechrome. Th other authors call it Bluechrime. They disappeared off the face of the Earth sometime around 2009. Abducted by aliens perhaps. Or bankrupt and on the run. The trail goes dead very easily, even when we follow the timeless imperative to 'follow the money'. But enough fleeing from the unpalatable. It's time to finish one.

The Atlanta is a haven for writers and I'm lucky enough to have been able to arrange a sort of patronage for my time here. It has an energy that is conducive to both creativity and concentration, perhaps due to the amount of words that have been scribbled in its lobbies and writing rooms. The walls are filled with signed copies of authors that have worked here or used it as a place to cogitate and find inspiration. One such author is Elizabeth Gilbert, writer of Eat Pray Love, a book I haven't read, but I have watched her fascinating TED lecture about what happened when her book went bonkers. She found herself anxious at her writing desk for the first time in a long time. Why? Because she knew her 'best work' was probably behind her, or at least her most successful one. The follow up would be expected to be a disappointment. The critics would be waiting. She thought this was ludicrous, so she got interested in the process a bit more. Where do ideas come from? What fires creative flow?

Her research took her back to the Greeks and Romans, as research often does. Back in days of yore, the word genius meant something external to the person to which it was applied. We say Newton and Einstein were geniuses. In ancient times, an artist would be said to have a genius, a disembodied 'other' that dripped ideas into the host. The artist as channeller, interpreter, muse, voice-piece. But it was more of a collusion - the artist works with the genius. She liked this idea. As long as she turned up for work every day, people couldn't be too harsh if her next book was a bit rubbish - I did my bit, but the genius... well he wasn't on form. Well, I guess the Atlanta is a good place for these little disembodied spirits of creation because I've been writing at a pace I've never before managed. When things seize up, I go take a swim, drink a coffee, have a massage... whatever. Next tie I sit down, there's fresh produce in my mind to munch on. I hope to finish a full draft of Jacks before I fly tomorrow. I hope to  complete final tweaks when I return. I hope to finish in three weeks.

This is good news, but it means I inevitably have to swim in publishing waters again. I swam with a shark and brushed up close to a jelly fish on Koh Tao. That was fine. This is different. So I either try to get an agent, one who can convince me that Jacks is good enough to cut above the water and make some kind of splash, or I publish it myself through Amazon, both e-book and conventional paperback. In the former case, royalties will be about 10%. Unless it goes bonkers and sells like hot da vinci codes, you never really see a return, but you do have chances at prizes, you get reviews easier, and you don't have take the full burden of being a salesperson. In the mainstream, you really have to be near the top or you're nowhere and your book disappears. In the latter case, I get 70% and I keep hold of my work but I miss out on the possibility of distribution and marketing, the elusive 3 for 2 Waterstones deal that shifts books en masse etc. I'm tending towards going my own way. Anyone who writes fiction for  money is clearly bonkers, and I'm a teacher. I only try to write books that I haven't read or seen before, which makes publishers nervous. This nervousness is a telling symptom. 

Anyway, if anyone out there has any opinion on this, or thinks they might be able to help with finding a really good agent, I'd be interested to hear from you. It's a big decision. In the meantime - for the next week - I plan to wash it all from my mind and let the wind in my hair (beard) whisk me away. TO BURMA! And don't spare the horses.      

Elizabeth Glbert's Fascinating Lecture: CLICK HERE

A Word Cloud of the Challenges and Rewards of Voluntary Teaching in Bhutan

This is a word cloud of the last post. Do I have nothing better to do? Yes.

Word cloud made with WordItOut

What a Year! Challenge and Reward in Pakshikha

I've been reflecting on what I achieved at Pakshikha MSS, a school not even a year old when I joined, barely fitted out with the necessary equipment to teach, staffed by a young group of teachers, managed by a dynamic, ambitious and young principal, isolated on a hillside with no internet and unreliable fax and phone, home to over 500 children. There were many challenges for the school - water supply, beautifying what began as a dusty establishment and grew into a lush learning environment, developing administrative procedures and establishing roles...in short... working things out, defining the school. What a great environment to be in!  

In Bhutan, I worked harder than I have in any other job. Why? Because I was given the opportunity to do so! And because it meant more - the impact was tangible with the kids and with the school and that drove my motivation to take on more responsibilities and keep saying YES! Gratitude fired me on too, genuine gratitude, like that which I will always have for the people who looked after me there and taught me valuable lessons about being happy. The sense of achievement and reward for my efforts were always immediate and real. In a new school, much needs to be done. In a developing country with resourcing and skillset challenges, your talents (and I mean you now!), whatever they are, can make a real difference instead of being stifled. 

To anyone feeling this way at home, under-appreciated, under-used, stifled or bored, I would say to you - go somewhere that actually needs you. Forget about money for a while and choose to give and get back stuff of actual value instead. A developing country still values education, right across the strata of society, including the kids - you will get gratitude for having chosen the noble profession of  teaching, a gratitude that is thin on the ground elsewhere. 

Incidentally, I checked my UK bank balance twice in Bhutan. I checked my Bhutan balance perhaps half a dozen times. I mean it when I say 'Forget about money for a while.'

Here's a  record of what I did in addition to my teaching responsibilities. I post it because I'm proud of it, more than I realised when I had to put it together. And I'm grateful for it. Every box in this table represents another moment of trust and another opportunity, another challenge that I threw my arms open to and delivered on.  

And all of this happened with a timetable that looked like this for the first 6 months 

(55 minute periods, 33 out of possible 37!):

Of course, the last 6 months was not like this - we shaved it down to 24 periods. Still 3 more than I taught in the UK. Ayeeesh. But it was worth it. It was great, every minute of it (that's not quite true, but it's close to the truth)

If you want to teach in Bhutan, or if you want to help an organisation that places people like me in places like this then start here:

http://www.bhutancanada.org/

New York City is Killing Me - Off to Mandalay

It's a strange song to have whistling around your head as you say goodbye to a life you've pretty much loved and know that you'll miss dearly, but I couldn't get this song out of my head during those last two weeks and the time that followed. So late one night in Baby Rasta, after jamming along to reggae in the bar, I turned on the camera and tootled it out. It's down there at the bottom...

I suppose, deep down, I was thinking about what was on the horizon beyond Bhutan - back to the bustle of city living and the throb of consumer-driven economics, and Bangkok certainly is all that and more! Sometimes I think I'm living in the future here, Bladerunner style with the concrete feet of the Skytrain and all the motorbikes yipping about and the cars that seem to all be brand new and shiny and future-shaped. In the Siam Paragon shopping mall, you walk by a Zara shop and find next door, a Lamborghini shop! In the 'mall'. Everything moves real fast here and it's always a-buzz, and of course, anything goes. To get to the local 7-eleven to buy a toothbrush, I walk by ladyboys and fat middle-aged European men with dainty little thai beauties on their arm, all of them wearing very expensive dresses for their benefactors to sweat on. Not pretty. I look these men right in the eye. I'm not sure why.

I forget how much I've said about it, but I'm now in Bangkok for a month, staying at the Atlanta Hotel as a sort of 'writer-in-residence' with the aim of finishing one of my books. I'll put more photos up sometime. I was planning to do a sort of reflective, day-by-day blog about it, as I'm here to try to learn a bit of discipline and finish things off, which is hard and interesting in its way, shut away and locked in to my little writing room, but that won't happen. I have other things to write. 

Next week I go to Myanmar for a week on a visa run with benefits! I'm heading for Mandalay, from where I pick up a tidy little motorbike and go off into the countryside. There's plenty of chatter about whether it's the right time to go - am I giving tacit support to a regime that has a seriously less than spangly reputation for human rights. But it seems that as long as you travel considerately and, ideally, alone, then it's considered a good thing to do, especially by the people there who want us to know what it's like and want to know what life it's like outside. The key seems to be to avoid channelling your money into the government, hence the travelling solo or in small groups, and hence my decision to get a motorbike and get off the beaten track and into the countryside. Ideally, I'll stay with families, if I can find any who are willing to take me in. I am led to believe the people are lovely, and it's still one of the most devout Buddhist countries there is, which is something I now realise is a good thing, much as I dislike all things religious. Buddhism tends to be a good culture in which societal values can grow, especially if allowed to pertain without too much outside influence - a good description of the Burmese flavour of it, even if the reasons for its isolation are unpalatable. I suppose this decision is a reflection of my feelings about leaving Bhutan. I miss civilised people, dare I say it. Koh Tao was overrun by hedonists. Bangkok is full of people making money. And it's too big. 

I waxed lyrical about the open-fronted Baby Rasta bar in my last blog, noting that nobody in Bristol would leave their bar open to the public through the night. I feel I should clarify - I'm not making a comparison between Thai and English or European. It's all about scale. Small is, as they say, beautiful. The social contract breaks down when there's too many people, like nuclei do when there's too many nucleons shielding the binding force. The crowd is a mitigating factor of sorts, but it's a poor substitute for community. So, back to the village. Back to real people and away from all these glossy poster girls and walking sandwich boards. But for now... back to the desk... 

Oh, and here's a song...   

Baby Rasta - A Video Tour

I promised it... here it is. A tour of Baby Rasta (which I believe I called baby Reggae in my last post). The whole place is built around a VW Camper Van frontage and backs into a series of terraces and platforms all at different heights and angles. Most of the building is done with what appears to found or drift wood. I'm sure if I tried to build something like this in such an organic way it would crumble and tumble and generally be a mess. But Bee takes care of the place on a daily basis, and despite the occasional wobble when folk walk nearby, it's solid as anything. I've seen places like this all over Thailand, and I'm sure it's not new to many of you, but this is a cracking example of it - I admire the initiative and creativity, the steady pace at which it grows, like the living trees it's struts and platforms so recently were.

You'll notice that there's no shutters on the front, no doors to lock and no windows to close. I asked Om if they ever had problems with stealing and he shrugged a no as if it was a peculiar question. If someone was inclined they could walk in off the street at 4am and take everything from the bar. But it doesn't happen. I had many conversations about the 'social contract' in Bhutan, though not using that term. It's normal for family to have concerns, especially parents when their son goes to the other side of the world and lives in a strange culture and swims with the unknown. But it's a simple fact - the social contract is stronger here than it is at home. I can't imagine anybody sleeping soundly in Bristol when their bar was open to the street and everything in it accessible to anybody passing by. It's irritating when people go 'travelling' and bang on about how much better life is in the place they happen to be in, but this is not subjective - would you sleep soundly in Bristol with your business open to the world. I'm sure it's an 'Absolutely Not!' from everybody. In which case, either the people here are  more civilised than we are in at least one aspect or... the protection rackets are more sophisticated. I guess we'll never know. 

It's nice to live with hardly a straight line around you. That's one thing I noticed. And its nice to be cultivating mindfulness in ordinary daily movements. Going to the toilet requires descending steps that are made from branches - not even planks - which means you have to take care with each step. This is a good thing. You move slower (might be the reggae in the background), and you take more care. 

Last night I took a few people down to the platform beneath my room, which I usually have all to myself, to play some songs after the bar had closed. There was Pau, from Barcelona, the kind of guy who can play anything, or can work it out in real time with few enough mistakes for it to be ok (a rare breed indeed) and Stella, a striking Malaysian-Swiss woman who had all the men falling over themselves to get closer and sang with a sultry and soulful French quality. Arvid swung in the hammock. A silent Romanian lay on his back nearby, as did Vincent, a hanger-on of Stella with brooding good looks but not a lot to say or do with them (I didn't see him speak once in 2 nights). When Vincent decided to leave, I offered to help with a torch and he politely refused, but getting from the back porch to the VW in the dark is like navigating an woodland obstacle course because nothing is straight and the floor is not always how you expect it to be - flat. So I'm glad I thought to offer. 

We finished up at a slightly alarming 4am, 3-part harmonising on anything from Beatles to Coen to Waits and had a fabulous time. I'll probably never see Pau or Stella again. Such is life. My plan to hole myself up in The Atlanta for a month now seems a bit like, well, throwing myself out of paradise and into prison. Who comes to South East Asia and locks themselves away for a month? Weirdos and crazies. And me. 

From Bhutan to Baby Reggae...

Enough of all this think-speak - a blog should surely, on occasion just say what I am doing. So, what am I doing?

Well, I moved out of my beach-front bungalow and into a wee little room at the back of a wonderful little reggae bar tucked away on a backstreet of the main drag of Koh Tao. It's quiet there, completely chilled out in standard rasta style and I get to live with Thais instead of tourists which is infinitely more interesting and fun. The bar is built around an old VW campervan, from which there spirals a web of miraculously woven planks, boards, bamboo and driftwood that all interconnect to make something akin to the Ewok Village in Star Wars. If I attempted such an intricate and ad hoc build, I'm certain it would crumble. I sometimes wonder whether too much pressure on one secret node would bring it all tumbling, but it is resolutely solid. It's called Baby Reggae.

I also play in Baby Reggae. I had a feeling that coming out of Bhutan and into Thai travel culture would bring me back to music, and it has not disappointed. I met a French guitarist of the gypsy tradition who has the devil in his fingers but doesn't write or sing, so its perfect. We've played for an hour or two in the bar for the last 4 nights and jamming is a true pleasure. After each little foray into mutual musical warbling we utter a quiet thank you to each other, without really noticing - I only noticed it last night. But I think we are both grateful because we play so easily together. Stubborn as I am, I'm still playing mostly my own stuff and throwing in a few crowd-pleasers, but to my delight, the punters are asking for my songs. And last night, I made somebody cry with them. Twice. I think she was in an emotional place.

By far the best aspect of 'travelling' is of course meeting interesting folk that reaffirm how diverse life can be and remind us that life is full of possibility, something I easily forget when I'm ploughing my furrow somewhere. I met Erik and Kristn from Switzerland. It's not polite to ask a lady her age, but I ascertained that he was 56. Eight years ago they left home for what they anticipated would be '4 or 5 years' on their bicycle. Eight years later they've covered 61 000 km, been through Africa, up through the Middle East, a year through India, into Tibet, Mongolia, looped around China and stabbed through Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia to reach Koh Tao where they finally sat down, had a drink with me and graciously answered all my questions. Jordan was tricky - the kids threw stones at them. In Vietnam, they 'Hello' in an aggressive way. 'GRRRRRello'. 

Last night I met a guy who had just come back from Portugal where he was visiting his friend. This guy lived in the hills by the coast and made a living spear fishing. The guy reckoned he earned on average about a Euro a day, but he was happy firing his spear and sleeping beneath the stars that found their way through his rickety cobbled-together roof. I'm so pleased that these people exist!

Then there was Linnea, a young Swedish woman that I became close friends with over a day of snorkelling with sharks and riding the bike up hill and down dale. She was a goat-herder in Israel for 2 months. A goat-herder. In Israel. Wwoofing apparently.Brilliant. And her account of it tallies with every romantic notion that has ever cropped up in literature... whistling along a path, singing to the goats, sleeping beneath the stars, a trusty canine companion yapping alongside. I was sad to see her go, but it was her room I took in the Reggae Bar, so every cloud...

What next? Well, it looks like I might have negotiated a deal to stay in The Atlanta in Bangkok as a sort of 'writer-in-residence'. I explained that I've learnt much about the art of scribbling, but I still have a very significant, nay vital, aspect to master.... discipline. Whenever you read about the habits of good writers they're characterised by exactly that - habits. Rise at 5am, swim for an hour, take a stroll around the same park every day, eat breakfast... WRITE.... take lunch, stroll to same cafe every day, have a beer, eat (something steaky and flamboyant), do a little dance, make a little love... you get the idea. I've never been able to sustain anything approaching this way of life, so I'm going to use this tie to find out firstly if I can, and secondly, if it works. I've got two books to finish, but the priority is to finish 'Jacks', the funny shaped fugue-type little creature about a man who falls apart and puts himself back together in ever-increasingly strange of places. 

Then there is 'The Boy Who Drank Light', or 'The Boy Who DID NOT Drink Light', or simply 'Soulstreamers', which is a far more merry affair, a quixotic adventure full of optimism in adversity along the well-trammelled lines of the hapless Candide.

And finally there's the small matter of completing the reworking of Music of Maninjau, now perhaps to be called simply, 'The Musician'. I'm a long way into this (no doubt to the despair of all who know me), but a book of that nature written at 24 years of age is always going to be a bit flimsy in the legs, not to mention pretentious at times. 

So there we go.

I should put some pictures up of Baby Reggae. I will do sometime soon. But now... I have to fill in my Self-assessment Tax Form. A sobering thought, and in some ways, a welcome prospect at this time, if for no other reason than the ludicrous juxtapostion of what it represents and my life here in da Reggae Bar. One Love.