Monday, February 10, 2014

Book review: Cambodia's Curse


Joel Brinkley's book of recent history in Southeast Asia, Cambodia's Curse, is an arduous read. Not because of its density, nor its length, nor its obscurity. In fact, the book is neither dense, nor lengthy, nor obscure. What makes this book a difficult read is the subject matter and the depressing picture it paints.

Brinkley is a veteran foreign journalist who made his name reporting on Cambodia at the time of the fall from power of Pol Pott's murderous Khmer Rouge regime. He won a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the Vietnamese invasion that occurred in 1979.

Cambodia's Curse, however, deals with the post-Khmer Rouge years of Cambodia. Mercifully, Brinkley does not dwell on the abuses that occurred during the Pol Pott days. They're mentioned, but I expect he deemed that enough has already been written about that. And what he does write about is bad enough.

After a brief historical synopsis, Brinkley launches into an exposition of the state of Cambodia in the immediate aftermath of the genocidal years. Cambodia became a laboratory for high-minded United Nations experimentation. The UN and its constituent members found a state in utter chaos and poverty and responded with a generous attempt (to the tune of $3 billion) to create a modern nation-state ready to join the community of nations. The UN attempted to introduce notions of self-determination and good government to the traumatized Cambodia people. But, Brinkley reports, Cambodia wasn't ready for it. Cambodians were mostly illiterate and uneducated and their history, since the days of the great Angkhor kings in the 8th century, was of a land governed by feudalism.

Brinkley chronicles how the well-intentioned efforts of the global community fell victim to the  Cambodian curse of government nepotism and corruption. He relates how the people, downtrodden and despondent, have learned to accept their condition.

Cambodia is a nation that will not face its past. For example, Khmer Rouge war criminals live among the people they once wantonly killed without fear of being held to account for their crimes. Mental health experts estimate that much of the population suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. (Remember, Pol Pott and his gang murdered nearly one quarter of the nation's entire population.)

Cambodian government is little more than organized crime. Government leaders, among them crafty strongman Hun Sen, jealous princeling Norodom Ranariddh, and Sam Rainsy, the clownish opposition leader, spend tremendous energies vying against one another, playing to foreign governments, maneuvering for political position, and generally ignoring the needs of their desperate people. As foreign aid money pour into the country, the cancer of corruption metastasizes.

Brinkley also describes the plight of everyday Cambodians: survivors of the notorious Killing Fields, impoverished farmers, people displaced by aribtrary and corrupt government policies. Cambodian children often grow stunted from the effects of malnutrition. There are precious few doctors and educators and other professionals in the country. No one is free from the effects of corruption. Those children lucky enough to attend school are expected to provide bribes for their teachers who, in turn, pass a portion of their cut up to the principal. Government services are pay-to-play. Poor sanitation, nationwide, lead to regular outbreaks of sanitary-related diseases.

This is why Cambodia's Curse is an arduous read. It is a depressing and near-hopeless portrait. When I got to the end, I didn't see any reason to expect anything better for Cambodians in the foreseeable future. Quite sad, really.

Brinkley has a matter-of-fact delivery. His language is plain. His assessment of politics is thorough. One nit I had with the book was that I could have used more instruction on the pronunciation of Cambodian words.

Cambodia's Curse is informative and factual. I can't say I enjoyed it. But I learned from it. That's enough to make it worthwhile.

Sunday, February 09, 2014

Blizzard of '14

Picked Maty up from work
Weather reports on Thursday told a harrowing tale of log-jammed traffic a mere half-hour's drive to the south of my place of employment. Interstate 5 was bound for miles in both directions according to the ODOT weather cameras, causing myself and many of my coworkers to abandon the office and flee northward before the advancing front.

Driving north, I saw evidence of the storm on the refugee vehicles around me. Snow clung to bumpers and tail lights and gathered at the base of rear-view windows. But the pavement was still clear when I arrived home.

Not so a mere hour later. Snow was falling in miniscule, dry flakes. It accumulated in the frozen gutters and scudded in wisps across the pavement, driven by a fierce east wind. (Ever Portland's scourge, that wind.)

At 2:30 pm. I made the short drive to Maty's place of employment to spare her the cold walk home. At that hour, the snow was thick, burying the street curbs and speed bumps.

Setting out for Freddie's
Maty was restless when we got to the house. "Weather like this, you never know," she said. "Let's go to Fred Meyer and buy food." So we bundled up and set out.

Although a mere four city blocks measure the distance between our house and Fred Meyer, it was an arduous trek nonetheless. The wind blew ice directly into our faces and the sidewalks were treacherous.

Before we did our shopping, we walked the extra block to the pho place and ate bowls of pho and drank hot tea against the cold.

Nothing like pho on a snowy day
Fortified and encouraged we went to Fred Meyer. The aisles were all hustle and bustle. We were not the only Rose City folks to see the prudence in a trip to the grocer. We purchased fish (snow cod, appropriately) and other groceries.

Made it
Thus provisioned, we hurried home. Our backs were to the wind on the return trip. Between that fact and the reassurance we took from our supplies, the homeward leg wasn't nearly as bad.

That was Thursday. Today, Sunday, conditions haven't improved much. The snow is still here with an added layer of frozen rain. But the wind, at least, has abated.

It's a veritable blizzard, but we're getting through it alright.

Hang in there, Rose City! Let's not go all Cormac McCarthy on each other.

Thursday, February 06, 2014

Book review: The Luminaries


With Eleanor Catton's Man Booker Prize-winning second novel, The Luminaries, the young New Zealand author has established herself as a more-than-accomplished writer. Ms. Catton was 27 years old at the time of the book's first printing, and given the astuteness of her perception, her skill as a plot developer, and her convincing (and at times, playful) narrative voice, that is an amazing fact. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The Luminaries is set on the western coast of New Zealand in 1866. A gold rush is on at this, the far frontier of civilization. A disillusioned and disinherited young Scot named Walter Moody arrives at the small seaport of Hokitika where he hopes to earn his fortune panning for "color." Mr. Moody has had a harrowing voyage; he's the witness to a sight that has left him disquieted and in doubt. But he finds no respite when he seeks to relax in the smoking room of his hotel that evening. Rather, he interrupts an urgent conference between 12 men of diverse appearances, social classes, and races. A series of unexplained events have occurred in Hokitika. A hermit prospector has been murdered; a fallen woman has made an attempt on her own life; and an ambitious politician has arrived in town. Each man at the gathering has a piece of the puzzle that connects these events, and each has an interest in learning the truth about them, although for widely divergent reasons. All of this is made clear to Mr. Moody as the men turn to him for advice and perspective.

What unfolds from there is an intricately-plotted, haunting and beautiful tale of betrayals and deceptions, isolation, disillusionment, honor and dishonor, and love-in-spite-of-everything. It's an ambitious and daunting achievement.

There are many aspects of this multifaceted novel that bespeak Catton's extraordinary skill.

Like David Mitchell, Ms. Catton experiments with structure. The Luminaries mimics the progression of the zodiac in its composition. Each chapter of the novel is prefaced with a zodiacal chart. The chapters wane in length like the phases of the moon. The first chapter, "A Sphere Within a Sphere" is the longest (the moon is full). Subsequent chapters are sequentially shorter (the moon wanes) up to the last chapter, "The Old Moon in the Young Moon's Arms," which is but 2 pages in length.

The narrative voice the author employs is Victorian (think Charles Dickens or Emily Brontë) and it is spot on. Catton's prose evokes vivid imagery and reveals an astuteness toward human nature that is astonishing for such a young writer.

The characters are so well-drawn and vivid that, as my friend Kurt Kemmerer wrote of them: "The folks were standing in my living room as I read." 

Further, Catton exhibits a genius for plotting. The Luminaries is a complex novel. A score of major characters appear, each with his or her own motives, agenda, and goals. The reader is challenged to keep track of how the agendas of the characters interlock and relate to one another. The timeline jumps forward and backward. Foreshadowing, mirroring, and rich symbolism permeate.

And just to give you a sample of her beautiful prose, I include here an excerpt from the book. This is a pivotal scene and it comes late in the book. See what you think:
The Maori man carried a greenstone club upon his hip, thrust through his belt in the way that one might wear a crop or a pistol. The club had been carved into the shape of a paddle, and polished to a shine: the stone was a rippled olive green, shot through with bursts of yellow, as if tiny garlands of kowhai had been melted and then pressed into glass.
Carver, having delivered his message, was about to bid the other man goodbye when the stone caught the light, and seemed suddenly to brighten; curious, he pointed at it, saying, "What's that --a paddle?"

"Patu pounamu," said Tauwhare.

"Let me see," said Carver, holding out his hand. "Let me hold it."

Tauwhare took the club off his belt, but he did not hand it to the other man. He stood very still, staring at Carver, the club loose in his hand, and then suddenly, he leaped forward, and mimed jabbing Carver in the throat, and then in the chest; finally he raised the club up high above his shoulder, and brought it down, very slowly, stopping just before the weapon made contact with Carver's temple. "Harder than steel," he said.

"Is it?" said Carver. He had not flinched. "Harder than steel?"

Tawhare shrugged. He stepped back and thrust the club back into his belt; he appraised Carver for a long moment, his chin lifted, his jaw set, and then he smiled coldly, and turned away.
The book is a weighty 800+ pages in length. A considerable effort, but one that is well-worth making. I've undertaken to give it another go even as I write this. The plot is so complex and interwoven that this book demands a second reading.

Elizabeth Catton is on my must-read list. I can't wait to see her next effort.

Monday, February 03, 2014

Super Bowl XLVIII: Party for the privleged

For those of you in the cheap seats I'd like ya to clap your hands to this one; the rest of you can just rattle your jewelry!”  --John Lennon 
Another Super Bowl in the can.

Maty and I actually watched the game this year. We and roughly 97 million other persons (according to Neilsen). What made it strange was that we watched because she suggested it! Maty, the gal from West Africa who doesn't even understand American football, suggested that she and I watch the game together. On teevee! She said she wanted to see the commercials.

Mismatched work schedules put a premium on the time that Maty and I have together and Super Sunday was our day. So we watched, even though it has been 20 years or more since I've had any interest in the NFL.

The Seattle Seahawks, our neighbors to the north, blew out the Denver Broncos in a surprisingly lop-sided game. Final score 43-8. Denver bungled their opening play from scrimmage and gave up a safety to the tenacious Seahawk defense. On the first play from scrimmage! For the Broncos, it was all downhill from there.

At some point in the day, maybe while enduring the breathless pre-game coverage on the tube, or maybe while enjoying all the chomp-at-the-bit sh*t-talking on Facebook, it occurred to me that the Super Bowl is prima facie evidence of the gaping resource chasm that exists in this country. I'm talking about the gap between those who have everything --the upper 10% --and all the rest of us.

The Super Bowl isn't really an event for most of us. Yes, we gather around our television sets in our millions, munching chips and guacamole. But we're spectators. We aren't included in the party.

Consider: according to the New York Times, cheap seats at MetLife Stadium went for $1600 per. For top-of-the-line corporate suites the price was $292,000. In Portland, that could buy you a very decent 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom house! Of course, most of us would have to take out a mortgage and pay it off over decades. No one I know has access to the kind of resources that allow you to spend over a quarter million dollars to spend a day partying.

I have to imagine that the vast majority of the people taking part in the Super Bowl event --the people sitting in those seats, enjoying Bruno Mars and the Red Hot Chili Peppers half-time show --are affluent beyond anything I can ever imagine. Of course, noblesse oblige dictates that the NFL relegate a few seats to charitable causes --Special Olympics kids, wounded war veterans, and so on --but the rest of us aren't really welcome at the party. It's an elite event.

Flawed presidential candidate John Edwards used to speak about there being two Americas. "One America that does the work, another that reaps the reward."

That speech, the "Two Americas" speech, came to mind while Maty and I munched Papa Murphy's pizza. We sat under a blanket on the couch in our drafty living room. Glued to our television screen. Watching the rich folks rattle their jewelry. At the Super Bowl.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Eight years with Maty Bombay

Wedding day, 2006
Maty and I were married 8 years ago today, in the lobby of the Lloyd Center Doubletree Inn.

Last year, on July 9th, Maty left Portland and me bound for Dakar, Senegal to visit her family. I wrote her this letter and gave it to her on the drive to the airport, with instructions not to read it until she was in the air.
My dearest love,
Words cannot express how much I love you. You are the light of my life and I can never be complete without you.
I am very happy that you can go to Senegal to see your family. I wish them love and respect.
I will miss you every day you are gone and I will never stop thinking about you. Always remember that I love you. Never forget that.
I will be happy for you while you are in Africa. And every day I will look forward to the day when we will be together again.
You are my love. You are my life.
Your loving husband,
Dade 
Maty would be gone for 37 long days. It was the longest separation we've endured in the 8 years since we've been married.

They say that once you've developed a taste for caviar, you can never go back to canned sardines. The truth of that adage was brought home for me in the time she was gone.

Eight years! Can you believe it, honey? Eight years!

Feeding the hippos in Zinairé, 2007
Thai food with the families, 2008
Hangin' at the house with Sister Chae, 2009
At a friend's birthday party, 2010
Happy couple, 2011
Anniversary dinner, 2012
Anniversary dinner, 2013
Going strong 8 years later, 2014

Monday, January 13, 2014

Movie review: Her


Spike Jonze must have landed some influential funders for his newest effort, "Her." This flick has benefited from a load of promotion. And I'm sure it will do very well at the box office.

And why not? Given the contemporary subject matter the movie is bound to pry away the attention of thousands of forlorn and bewildered souls from their iPad screens. We are legion.

The film stars Joaquin Phoenix as Theodore Twombly, a lonely writer living in Los Angeles in the near future. Theodore is wrestling with despair. His job is to write customized love letters for clients (much like Gabriel Garcia Márquez's Florentino Ariza). Love seems to flourish all around Theodore, but his own life is desolate and bleak. When he discovers an advanced operating system that is designed to conform to the desires of its user (imagine a highly-advanced Siri), things seem to brighten up. The operating system behaves like an artificial intelligence, developing a personality. Theodore's perfect companion, "Samantha," is born. A love relationship develops between them.

The attraction of this film, frankly, was its pathos. Theodore is a character toward whom it is easy to identify in this techno-isolated society. I went to the film expecting an examination of the relationship between those two human but often contradictory needs: companionship and identity. The idea of a love relationship evokes longing. The reality of a love relationship can be smothering. This conundrum is certainly worthy of examination and today's hyper-technical diversions seem a perfect lens through which to view it.

But the film just doesn't work. As the story unfolds, the relationship between Theodore and Samantha comes more and more to resemble "normal" human relationships: mismatched expectations, hurt feelings, insensitive remarks... you get the picture. Other than Samantha's ethereal-ness, there's nothing that distinguishes the relationship as unique. That may have been Jonze's point, but I don't think so. He gestures at the birth of artificial intelligence as a new life form, but it seems like an escape valve for a story that has nowhere to go.

Hats off to Joaquin Phoenix. To the extent that the film succeeds, it is because of his touching performance. And there are some artful montages throughout.

But the film is based on a far-fetched premise. And in order for something like that to succeed, the story has to be nailed down in all four corners.

Sorry, Spike. Thumbs down from me.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

River (Pt. XVII)


Jonah holds forth:

El Cocodrillo led them up a muddy switchback that climbed from the bottom lands into the wooded hills. After him came Eligius, disarmed and despondent. The tatterdemalion mob, hooting and chattering like a band of unruly monkeys, followed.

"Given what you've no doubt heard about me, I can't blame you for being afraid,"
said Cocodrillo. He waved his arms as he spoke, the plume on his hat bobbing in time with his stride. "They'll have told you I'm a cutthroat and a warlock and that I've sold my soul to the Devil." He shrugged. "I know well enough what is said about me.

Eligius said nothing. His mind was on the hearth in the manor and Lupe's firm and loving hand, and forlorn, gentle Dolores.

Cocodrillo continued. "Whatever you've heard, I can assure you that my reputation surpasses my reach. If I had done but half of what they say I would be the greatest man in the New World. Never mind the Aztec priest-kings or Guayana Capac in his hidden stone palace. But truth is merely a notion, yes? Tell me, Eligius, what do you believe?

Eligius was too dispirited to answer.

Cocodrillo leaned forward against the steepening slope. "Let me ask you," he said, " have you heard of La Seca?" 

The name brought Eligius's heart to his throat. The name was part of the Cocodrillo legend. Eligius had first heard it mentioned in a whispered conversation between Lupe and Maximo, shortly after Maximo had returned from a voyage to Caracas. The half-heard mumblings between them suggested that La Seca was a remote fishing village on the island of Dominica. La Seca's people, mostly indigenous, were good Catholics and proud Spanish citizens. Because of this, the story went, when El Cocodrillo's barque, La Deriva, appeared one day in the little harbor, the good people had immediately dispatched a messenger to Grenada to inform the Spanish garrison of the whereabouts of the Carribean's most notorious buccaneer. Luck was not with the people though. The treachery was discovered and El Cocodrillo, in a diabolic fury, unleashed his crew upon the village. When Eligius  asked Maximo about the story later that day, the normally blunt Maximo replied, "If it must be that you learn of such things, so be it. But as I love you, hijo, you will not learn of them from me." 

Later, in the stockyard, Eligius inquired about the story from the slaves. 

It was said that Cocodrillo's men, the very men that were at that moment, following the boy up the slope, had each stocked himself with powder and shot, disembarked from their dinghies, and strolled up from the beach to the village, as casual as Sunday church-goers. The mayor of La Seca and a delegation of elders came forth to greet the men and plead for clemency. These, the pirates killed with a ragged volley. From there, they went to the threshold of each dwelling. Any men or boys they found were shot out of hand. Those who resisted were dragged into the village square, bound hand and foot, and left to lie in the scorching sun. Most of the women and children had fled to the church, where the village priest led them in exhortations to the Blessed Virgin for deliverance. They found none. The corsairs set fire to the church then lined up to form a gauntlet outside the narthex. To save powder, they wielded clubs and mattocks. When the flames grew and engulfed the little church, some inside ran out to escape the infernal heat. These, the crew fell upon, beating them until they fell, and then beating them further. It was said that the children, caught between the flames and the pitiless cudgels, gave up shrieking and huddled, solemn and silent, to await whichever demise would claim them. 

When the flame-engulfed church collapsed on the last of the refugees, the pirates turned again to the prisoners in the square: some dozen boys and young men. These they blinded, driving dirks into their eyes. Their bonds were cut and the sailors at last embarked again on their landing boats to return to La Deriva. The survivors were left to wander blindly among the ruins of their home, to stumble upon the corpses of those they had loved, to spend the last of their days grieving and contemplating the final images of their vision.

Eligius saw that Cocodrillo yet waited for an answer. He swallowed down the pain and fear in his breast. "I know of La Seca," he said.

Cocodrillo's smile was thin and touched with sadness. He cast his eyes toward the ground between them. "And do you believe what they say?" he asked.

Eligius, seeing Cocodrillo's lack of surety and sensing, anyway, that his own fate was out of his hands, felt a surge of defiance. "Is it true?" he asked.

"Truth," Cocodrillo scoffed. Behind him, Eligius heard low, mocking laughter from the vagabond horde.

Cocodrillo shook his head, then turned and continued up the slope. "The governor and his soldiers seek me out," he said. "They seek me so they might inflict their tortures upon me, to hold me to account for my many sins. And if one day I am brought to their justice, I will readily confess to whatever charges they lay upon me. But I tell you this, hijo:  no matter what infernal torments they put upon me, I will never confess that I sold my soul to any fiend in the hope of some reward. You seek truth. Well, know this: Though they torture me with their red glowing irons, I will howl to the heavens. Whatever role I have played in the cosmic drama, I never chose it. I have only played the part God thrust upon me."

The path rose steadily. Above them, the crowns of the hills seemed to glow in the sunlight.

After a time, the trail reached a rocky shelf from which one could espy all the lands that lay below them. Cocodrillo paused and turned toward Eligius. "Let us take see what we can see," he said.

Cocodrillo walked out to the edge of the rock outcropping and produced a spyglass from inside his jacket. He extended it to its full length and aimed it down at the flat fields below. He squinted through one eye, looking back along the stream that ran to the Fuentes estate. 
Eligius watched, but made no move to follow. 

Cocodrillo was a while in his inspection. But then he nodded, as if seeing in the topography some confirmation of a sad belief. He turned and extended the spyglass, eyepiece toward Eligius. "Your lesson continues," he said. "Come see."

Eligius did not move. Behind him, the vagabond horde tittered. "Too frightened to move, he is..." "Like a rat in the owl's shadow..."

Cocodrillo silenced them with a stern glance. "Come, lad, have a look," he said. He shook the spyglass at Eligius. 

Some force pushed at Eligius. He found himself stepping forward toward where Cocodrillo crouched on the rock outcropping. The spyglass hung in the space between them until Eligius's hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached out and took it.

 Cocodrillo pointed to a place along the dark ribbon of stream in the forest below. "There," he said.

Eligius held the spyglass to his eye and looked toward where Cocodrillo pointed. At first, he saw only forest, but as he watched he began to notice movement. Birds flitted among the canopy and a breeze stirred the foliage. Then, he noticed something else. People were making their way along the stream, the same way he had come earlier. A band of men moving with purpose and determination. "Papa," he gasped.

Cocodrillo whispered in his ear. "Soon enough, you will know for yourself. About choosing. About choices."

To be continued...

Read Part I here.
Read Part II here
Read Part III here
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here
Read Part VI here
Read Part VII here
Read Part VIII here
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here
Read Part XI here
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here
Read Part XIV here
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here
Read Part XVII here
Read Part XVIII here.