Carol Anita Ryan's Blog, page 10

The Man in a Wooden Hat

The Man in the Wooden Hat

The Man in the Wooden Hat is a companion to Jane Gardam's masterpiece, Old Filth.  It's an entertaining and enlightening expose of Betty Feathers, the wife we met and came to wonder about, in the earlier novel.  Gardam created so many intriguing characters in Old Filth that there was a need for this book (and I hope, others).   

It's hard for me to imagine this book separately.  The characters were so well drawn in the prequel that this book simply fills in the back story.  Perhaps that's why a plot is secondary; this novel is strictly character-driven.  But, much like Old Filth, the examination of well imagined characters set in an interesting world (the legal world of Hong Kong and England after World War II) is more than enough.  The reader of Old Filth has the good fortune to have many lingering questions answered in this book. 

I was a bit disappointed in Betty's character.  There didn't seem to be sufficient reason for her to be so instantly and permanently drawn to Veneering—the arch rival to her husband.  This is a central mystery that propels the whole story.  One thing the book demonstrates is the difference between generations in emotional reactions.  Perhaps Betty's decisions are understandable only to someone of her time and place.

Maybe Gardam should consider a Hong Kong Quartet to appease her fans?

Soap Opera Novel Changes History

A book that helped change publishing

 

Boob Tube: A Novel by Lesleyann and Mark Coker

 

This is a light weight novel composed of murder mystery and romance, set in the contemporary world of Soap Opera production.  One of the authors actually worked as a journalist for a Soap Opera newspaper prior to writing this novel.  The book is based on her actual experience in the odder-than-life Soap Opera world.

 

Before the novel starts the reader is told that the story is fictional but based on reality.  Elements of the story are right out of Soap Opera plotting.  I had a problem keeping track of so many characters with both their novel names and TV character names.  Part of my problem was the difficulty of caring about the characters in the book that seemed to all turn venial, superficial, and boring once introduced to the corrupting Soap Opera world.  

 

But I read this book for its historical value.  Mark Coker helped his then girlfriend, now wife, write this book.  At first a traditional publisher wanted to publish the book, but the deal fell through.  The creation of www.Smashwords.com one of the primary eBook distributors in the world and a genuine rival to Amazon in the eBook competition, was in no small measure the direct result of Mark trying to publish and distribute Lesleyann's novel.   Publishing will never be the same because of this book about Soap Operas.

 

Losing the War in Afghanistan by Shear Stupidity

 

Afghans once welcomed interested westerners

This week's dispiriting news from Afghanistan, that Qurans were 'accidentally' burned, infuriates me.  I start with the ridiculous assertion that a holy book of Islam can be 'accidentally' burned.  It's like we invaded the Vatican and 'accidentally' desecrated communion hosts.  No one in any capacity in Afghanistan should be that dumb, or that culturally unaware.  It's not like it's a big secret that Moslems don't like the Quran being burnt (deaths have recently resulted from a previous case of Quran burning).  Everyone in Afghanistan must know the basics of Afghan culture and how Islam is practiced in the country we have invaded and now occupy.  We have spent billions of dollars and lost thousands of U.S. lives and now the whole enterprise may be lost by an Afghan Spring of our own 'accidental' making.

 

The other thing about this disaster is the role of cultural ignorance that many Americans like to celebrate.  We can't afford to be an international player if we are going to remain tone deaf to other cultures' values.  Why do so many politicians and commentators see this form of knowledge as weakness?

 

Although I seldom agree with Newt Gingrich, he may be onto something.  We should take this Afghan uprising against U.S. and NATO occupation as the opportunity to leave Afghanistan.  Bin Laden is dead; we've done all we can do to rid Afghanistan of Al Qaida, let's take this opportunity to get out now!

 

Gold Country Treasure

History of a Place Called RESCUE by Teie and Carpenter

 

The California Gold Rush!  Few eras of history have been more exciting or more intriguing.  It forever changed California.  But, what lasting impact was there in northern California where it all happened?

William Teie and Francis Carpenter have created a lavish, well-documented and carefully annotated look at one of the areas at the center of the discovery of gold.  It's the area now known as Rescue, CA.  By their exhaustive research which includes maps and photos from the earliest settlement by non-natives in the area, they have produced a definitive work.  It's a beautiful coffee table book as well as an historical work.  Moreover, the accompanying map provides a fascinating look at where the historical places and events detailed in the text actually transpired. I found the map (inserted in the back cover) a treasure.  It shows the location of gold mines, modern roads, and original homesteads in one, oddly moving, piece of paper.  This map will be a favorite travel companion when I tour Rescue.  No GPS will ever compete with this map!

It's an expensive book, but none-the-less it is a great value.  It is the kind of book you can open to any page and spend any length of time perusing and come away, entertained and educated.  It reminds you of how hard life was way-back-when, and in some ways how different from today.  However, the human foibles revealed in the stories in the book remind me how unchanged we are.

You can learn more or purchase the book @http://www.deervalleypress.com/histor...

Syria, one of the most interesting places on earth

It was four in the morning when a commotion in the hallway outside my room woke me up. Victor, our dashing young guide was frantically banging on everyone's door looking for Greta.    She, the ancient and mysterious figure among us, had gone missing.  After determining that Greta was not up late drinking (as was her wont) with anyone in our group, the search became serious and scary.  After all, she was eighty, it was four in the morning and we had only arrived in Damascus that afternoon.  Where could she be?  How could she be found?  We were due to leave on a tour of the city in a few hours.  She could be lost forever.  Well, it might be nice to lose her smelly shoes, or not have to cringe at her cheapskate activities, but her drive to go everywhere and see everything no matter how exhausting kept all of us on our toes.  We had to keep up with her—she was eighty after all.

After interviewing all twenty of us, Victor was able to retrace her steps up to when the bar closed.  It turned out that she had made a mysterious phone call and then taken off on foot alone through the streets of Damascus.  She had earlier recounted some stories about her childhood in the Mid-East, including Syria.  But, who could she be calling?  Victor found the barkeeper and interrogated him about the call.

She had tracked down a distant cousin and was meeting him at a bar in another hotel.  Victor set off to rescue Greta.  What he found was a party in progress with Greta as the guest of honor having a fabulous time.  That Greta and Victor were perfectly safe at four in the morning in the streets of Damascus was typical of Syria in those days.  It was a police state, with government spies everywhere.  Our tour bus required one just to be permitted in the country. But, although the government (led by the father of the current ruler) was a dictatorship, the hospitality and genuine kindness of everyday Syrians was pervasive.  Greta's relatives' spontaneously party was just one example.

At seven a.m.  Greta was up ready for breakfast and another long day of sightseeing.  She taught all of us lessons in stamina and resolve. 

The few weeks I spent in Syria were fascinating and enriching.  I shudder to think of what is happening now to that country.

riding to the ruins of Palmyra, an ancient ruin in the Syrian desert

 

A masterpieced hyjacked by its title

It would be hard to imagine a less attractive title to a book.  Obviously the publisher did not request input from a focus-group on the title.  And, that may be the reason that Old Filth has yet to be the best seller it deserves to be.  From the moment I began reading this book, assigned as it was by my reading group, I was entranced. 

Filth, it must be said, stands for 'Failed In London, Tried Hong Kong' and it's the name the central character, a retired judge, comes up with for himself.  Luckily the reader learns this important fact at the beginning.  The rest of the story is a mesmerizing dizzying denouement of the story behind the nickname.

The author frequently writes a scene as through from a screenplay, moving the story along by flawless dialog, or descriptive passages that force the reader to pause with delight and amazement.  I read the Kindle edition (and I do object to the higher cost for that edition), but I found the dictionary feature essential.  This author is British and not only uses British expressions I'm unfamiliar with, but also uses many literary words not common in my general usage. (That reminds me of how dumbed-down most American writing has become.)   With the enriched vocabulary there are wonderful, evocative descriptions throughout the book, but not one unnecessary word.

The story jumps around in time and place and character's point of view.  The result is a suspenseful examination of a fascinating character and the particular milieu in which he lived.  I have wandered around former British colonies in Asia quite a bit myself and recognize the Raj Orphans/ex-pats and their predicaments in this story. What a magnificent book!

 

Trekking in Nepal leads to sailing in the Pacific

 

We had been trekking for several days, and after that last knee-destroying descent, Mark and I finally reached the hot spring for which the nearby village of Tatopani is named. Just before twilight, we stumbled upon it. Without a word we headed for the pool like wild animals to a watering hole. After dropping my pack and taking off my clothes, I eased myself, starting with my toes and proceeding up to my aching neck, into the muddy, sulfur-scented hot spring. We were close to the mighty Kali Gandaki River at the bottom of the very deep gorge between the Dhaulagiri and Annapurna peaks. From the vantage point of the hot spring, looking up towards the winking stars in the faraway sky, it felt like we had arrived at the very center of the earth.

 

Those quiet moments didn't last long enough. Two loud Australian lads arrived, pulled off their clothes, and jumped into the spring. A few minutes later, a friendly but more modestly attired Nepalese couple addressed each of us with their hands in the graceful prayer-like Nepalese greeting, "Namaste," and then elegantly stepped into the pool with the rest of us.

 

The hot water brought me back to life. We talked with our new friends in English and a smattering of Nepali. Near the end of the soak, the Australians suggested Mark and I should travel with them to North America. Their idea was for us to crew on a sailboat from Sydney to Seattle. Maybe it was the beautiful night in the spectacular setting, or maybe it was the relaxing water, but we both liked their suggestion; it would extend our trip all the way around the world. Except for a flight across the Atlantic, we would have done it all by surface transportation. And, except for the ocean crossings, we would have traveled all the way by local, public transport.

 

I didn't know then that the trade winds dictate an east-to-west course when traveling in the southern hemisphere. To head east, we would have had to first sail far north and then come south along the Alaskan coast. The voyage would not have been the Adventures in Paradise cruise across the South Pacific that I was conjuring up from the memory of my childhood favorite TV show.

 

It didn't matter because we never saw those Australian guys again. That was remarkable since there is only one path to Jomsom, how could we keep missing each other?   We were only a few days into the trek to Jomsom from Pokora but with eight months of overland travel behind us, we were starting to be considered veteran travelers by our peers—and we weren't ready to go home yet.

 

  But at that moment my challenge was finding a way to exit from the hot spring and get back into my clothes without embarrassing the Nepalese couple, or anyone else.  I was getting hot under water and the sky was finally dark.  Luckily the couple left first so it was just a matter of dressing in the dark despite the guys.  I tried to be nonchalant.  By that time we were all looking forward to finding a place in a Nepalese home to eat dinner and stretch out by the cooking fire for a night's rest, so I doubt if anyone was watching me. 

 

After three days on the trail we thought we were experts at trekking.  Dinner and a place to sleep by the fireplace in some villager's home would cost the equivalent of three dollars and fifty cents a person.  The evening meal would consist of a huge metal plate heaped with rice and lentil soup.  Chances are, in that lower elevation, there would be stewed vegetables included with dinner.  The village had looked prosperous on the way to the hot spring.  Judging from that; there might be yoghurt or eggs and chapattis for breakfast.  The only drink available would be 'chia'—the Nepalese word for hot tea. 

 

It turned out that along the entire Pokora/Jomsom trek Tatopani would be the best place to stay and to eat.  Not only did the lower elevation allow the villagers to grow more diverse food, but a Japanese trekker who had come through a few years ahead of us had married a local woman and opened a very nice Trekkers' Inn.  Our expectations for dinner were far exceeded, when we discovered a tasty pumpkin dish and soy sauce included with the classic Nepalese rice and lentils. The Inn had a separate upstairs area for sleeping.  It was perfect.   At breakfast there were banana pancakes on the menu. The international traveler's favorite drink 'hot lemon' was also available.  Life was good!

 

 The next day, back on the trail toward Jomsom, we met the beautiful blonde identical twins Sheila and Stefani and their friend Elaine who had recently joined them from Manhattan.  They were so much fun to be around.  For one thing, I hadn't met many women traveling without a man since we headed east from Greece.  But aside from that, you couldn't help but enjoy their company since they were so positive about every experience.  I learned that a few months before, Sheila and Stefani had been stung by a huge swarm of bees while trekking in Kashmir. Both were in a state of shock when they were rescued from near death by a passing local woman.  Using honey and herbs she nursed them back to health over a period of weeks.  Even though communication with her was limited, they somehow absorbed a very positive, affirmative world view from the experience with the Kashmiri woman.  I noticed that whereas I would get annoyed or frustrated by things that 'went wrong' along the trek their reaction was to laugh and enjoy whatever came their way.  Just walking along with them turned the sometimes hot and strenuous walk into fun.  I loved being with them and I found myself laughing a lot, something that the rigors of travel had made rare.  Maybe I just needed new companions.  Traveling with a man had made me miss having girlfriends to talk to.

 

The next morning, Mark and I started off early by ourselves.  Right away we came across the first and only horseback rider ever seen on a trek.  Not only was a Buddhist monk on a horse, but his Lama's robe had the color and quality of light of the inside of a pomegranate.  The shirt-like garment he wore seemed to glow with its own silky light source; it, along with his distinctive hat, was mango colored.  Even the Dalai Lama, with whom we'd had an audience at his Indian palace-in-exile, had not been dressed so stunningly and he had not been riding a horse in the wilds of Nepal.  Walking along with the Lama and his horse was an entourage consisting of local men each of whom was carrying a Nepalese- style backpack (a basket on his back suspended from a strap across the forehead) and wearing flip-flops.  In addition there were half a dozen donkeys carrying covered loads of stuff, and a friendly young monk who seemed to be in charge.  They were going in our direction for the next day or so, and then the Lama and his group would veer off into the forbidden (at least to western trekkers in 1973) Mustang valley that borders Tibet.

 

Mark had finished an MA in Tibetan language back in Seattle the previous year and so the identity and importance of this Lama, was just the kind of thing he'd know.  One of our problems as a traveling couple was the fact he thought he knew everything worth knowing.  He was ecstatic about meeting this Lama, especially since the young monk accompanying the older one spoke 'textbook' Tibetan.  Mark and the young monk chatted in Tibetan as we walked along the trail.    The Lama was impressive riding while everyone else walked, although practically speaking the horse had a very difficult time with the narrow, steep, rocky trail.  I was glad to be walking; it was a lot safer.

 

 There was nothing or no one to compare with this Lama in the beautiful but humble Nepalese villages we sometimes passed through.  Everyone we encountered bowed and gave their polite greeting to the Lama and sometimes to us as well, since we appeared to be part of his group. 

 

In those days, in Mark's eyes at least, our karma was confirmed as 'good' by virtue of this auspicious meeting with the Lama.  I also recognized that something great had happened:  we'd both gotten what we needed.  I'd met some simpatico women and Mark had met the young monk with whom he could finally, easily, converse in Tibetan.

 

That evening when we were alone, Mark, who had been vexed with me for much of the time in the last few months, was exuberant and even affectionate.  The young monk had invited us to accompany the Lama's group to Mustang the next day.  We knew it was explicitly off-limits for our trekking permit, and I give Mark credit for talking it over rather than just leaving me along the side of the trail and heading off for Mustang without me.

 

I didn't speak Tibetan but I had become pretty good during the past several months at guessing what was being said by watching non-verbal clues.  While Mark had been transfixed by the monk's perfect Lhasa dialect, I had noticed a few subtle but odd behaviors.  The young monk's eyes stayed on me just a tad too long.  Some of his postures were unusual too—not like other Tibetans refugees we'd met.

 

I quickly dismissed those observations in light of the opportunity to travel to Mustang. We would be able to visit an area that was forbidden to foreigners, one that had an aura of mystery, and we'd be traveling with an important religious man who was riding a horse.  What could go wrong?  We'd even been invited by the holy man's assistant.

 

We stayed awake that night for a long time considering the invitation.  Surprisingly, we both decided we'd better not go.  Even if we got into Mustang alright, we might have trouble finding our way out again since our trekking map did not include the necessary details for that area.  When we left Mustang, we'd be extra vulnerable being on our own in an off-limits area.  I had already seen the jail in Kathmandu and made a mental note never to get arrested in Nepal.

 

The next morning we reluctantly said our farewells to the Lama and his traveling group, and choose the path to Jomsom rather than Mustang.  Later that day we ran into our friends, the women from Manhattan. They were amazed by the story of the Lama on horseback.  Apparently we were the only westerners to have seen him.

 

It was several days later when we reached Jomsom and met some Tibetan refugees.  Mark wasn't able to speak as well with them as they were Khampas (tall and handsome, they were notoriously rugged Tibetans who were originally from the southeast part of Tibet far from Lhasa, and their accents were hard to understand).  Mark told them about our good fortune in running into the Lama going to Mustang.  What a shock when they told us that the Lama's young assistant monk was actually a CIA agent from the U.S.   His Tibetan was textbook perfect alright.  He'd learned it in Colorado, and was part of a CIA plan to support an invasion of Tibet from the Mustang district in Nepal by Khampas.  The Khampas said that the young CIA operative disguised as a monk was probably testing us to see if we'd actually go into Mustang.  If we had gone they believed we'd have been killed.

 

Years passed before our story of the Mustang CIA activity became widely known.  For one thing, the bigger issue was what was happening in south-east Asia.  The U.S. was still fighting the war in Vietnam.  Few were very interested in American dealings with Communist China in Tibet or its neighbor, the Kingdom of Nepal. 

 

Despite our near-miss with the CIA we still had to find our way back to Katmandu. On the way to Jomsom we had heard about a weekly supply plane that flew in from the capitol city.  During the difficult parts of the trek, I had toyed with the idea of flying out from Jomsom.  That was before I saw where the planes landed and the remains of several that had crashed.  The price to fly out would have been too high.

 

Like all trekkers I had become strong after trekking to Jomsom, and on the return trip I could almost keep up with Nepalese on the trail. From Pokora we took the public bus to Kathmandu. Judging from conversation onboard, everyone was obsessed with food and looking forward to the comforts of the city.

 

Back in the flat Mark and I rented in Katmandu, I felt like I was dying but I wasn't sure why.  Despite all the food choices neither of us felt like eating, let alone exploring the fascinating artistic treasures that were everywhere just outside our home.  Finally I went to the health clinic run by western missionaries in a nearby town called Patan.  I remember waiting in the lobby of the Women's' Clinic with a variety of young and ethnically diverse Nepalese women. Each of us had long dark braided hair.   I was distinctive in being childless and very thin.  As I walked into the office of the middle-aged English Doctor, she looked up at me from behind her desk and exclaimed, "My dear, you have hepatitis".  Somehow I hadn't noticed the fact that the whites of my eyes had turned yellow. 

 

Within days we realized that not only Mark, but Sheila, Stefani, and especially Elaine were all sick.  Despite our reluctance, the missionary Doctor insisted on hospitalizing Elaine.  Compared with other Asian hospitals of the time, the missionary one wasn't too bad. Maybe because she hadn't been traveling as long as the rest of us, Elaine was in very bad shape.

 

Mark and I had survived our brush with the CIA, but making it out of Nepal alive was still questionable. We decided it was time to fly home rather than chance it.

 

There Are Beautiful, Energy Efficient, Light Bulbs!

It's a new year and the old incandescent light bulbs we all grew up with are no longer being made. Like many people I dreaded having to live with florescent light, knowing that it was more energy efficient, but still made everyone look like a witch.  I was afraid of the future when the last of my incandescent light bulbs burned out and the world turned ugly.

This morning The Today Show had a helpful segment on the types of bulbs now available and that show inspired me to go to Home Depot and see for myself.  Sergio, a helpful clerk, answered many of my questions but was hindered by the odd fact that Home Depot had very few of the exotic bulbs on display.  I had to rely on Sergio's promises the bulb's light wasn't too harsh.  I wanted my home to be lit like a Nordstrom's not a Wal-Mart.

So trusting Sergio I purchased one of each bulb-type I need in my home.  Some of the bulbs are $40 but the claim is they will save heat and energy and even more appealing to me, will last twenty years.

I brought the samples home and I'm very happy with the quality of the light.  I'm going to invest a small fortune in new light bulbs.  I may be one of the few people who intend to live where I am for twenty years, and so I can test the longevity claim for you.

Accidental Immortality

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

It's pretty obvious a lot has changed in the last sixty years.  This book will remind you just how far we've come as a society by recounting the stories involved in bio-medical research, the use of human cell/tissue cultures in that research, doctor/patient relationships, and the treatment of blacks during that period of history.  The author took on a daunting task: to uncover the identity of the donor who through the use of her cells, allowed medical research to make so many wonderful discoveries.  It was not an easy path for an author to pursue.  Many of us would have abandoned the project as years dragged on, people involved were angry and unpleasant (often for good reason, sometimes out of astounding ignorance), and there seemed to be no end—let alone payoff— in sight.

But the author persisted for ten years. This book reveals how a poor and ignorant black woman was treated by the medical profession in the early 1950s.  But, in telling the whole story we learn also of the sad consequences of generations of poor black people growing up and reproducing (often due to sexual abuse or rape within the family).  It is not a pretty picture and the reader gets a close-up look at the aftermath, the descendants of Henrietta Lacks (the person who unwittingly helped science help all of us).  It made me decide that the root of all evil is really ignorance.

Part of the book is the search for the story by the author.  So it has some qualities of a detective story.  Part of the book is the multi-generational tale of a multi-racial family in Maryland/Virginia from slave days to the present. The author does a great job of presenting various characters in the story so we care about them, and the search for the story about Henrietta, as though we were reading a novel.  And part of the book makes the reader think about ethical issues involved in bio-medical research.   So, it's a nonfiction book with overlapping genres.  Most people love it.  There are nearly a thousand reviews (overwhelmingly five stars!) on Amazon.  But, I also know that some readers hate a book with overlapping genres, so be forewarned.

My only criticism is there were too many names dropped in the extensive notes and acknowledgements.  Did the author need to enlist every contributor and include every note taken?    But, it easy enough to skip over if it's not compelling to you.

QR Codes Transforming Commerce

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Try out on your Smart Phone

I don't even have a smart phone.  Believe it or not I have no desire or need for one.  But I have a QR code for my book, Right Now Is Perfect.  I can appreciate the power of such a mysterious emblem.  The QR codes are appearing everywhere and only the old farts of the world are clueless.  I have only gotten on board in the last nanosecond of history, so I still consider myself part of that clueless class. 

But I do have an imagination and I can foresee how transformative these postage stamp-like symbols can be.  Here is an example:  In my neighborhood the MarketPlace, a huge shopping structure containing all kinds of vendors, offers various things for sale.  Most of the time the vendor/artist/author is not on the premises yet a QR code by the display of their offerings allows the shopper wandering by to access all kinds of information about the vendor or the product.  For instance, my book is available for sale in the 'local authors' bookstore there.  If I include my QR code in my display, a strolling smart phone shopper can be directed to my YouTube presentation about the book (or my web site, etc.).  This allows any vendor to provide any sort of marketing content –as they say—24/7. I could include the QR code on my business card, or any marketing material.

 In a very real way the QR code could revolutionize commerce in much the same way as eBooks have revolutionized publishing.  By allowing sophisticated marketing instantly, the QR code brings local crafts people and artists into the same league as the largest and most sophisticated retailers.  The difference is the MarketPlace for example, is distributing one-of-a-kind works of art rather than mass-produced 'made in China' consumer goods.  Now that is revolutionary!