Out of the frying pan... What next for Burma?

I begin this post some eight hours deep into a flight from San Francisco to Osaka. The map function on the seatback display informs me that we are several hundred miles east of the northernmost Japanese island of Hokkaido. North lies the sea of Okhotsk and the eastern fringes of Russia, a corner of this fair planet I will likely only visit during games of Risk.

Japan is the jumping off point for a two week trip to Burma and Thailand led by my good friend Dwight Clark. I met Dwight on a bright Fall morning in 1998. I was nervously awaiting an interview for the Payson Treat Fellowship, a cross-cultural exchange program run by the small non-profit Volunteers in Asia. A kindly gentleman offered me a cup of tea while I waited and struck up conversation. He carried himself with such graceful humility that I was surprised to learn later that not only was he VIA's president, he had been so since he founded the organization in 1963. The tea and conversation soothed my nerves and, very contrary to my expectations, a few days later I was selected to the fellowship.

Five years later, I came to work for VIA as a program director. All the while, Dwight and I have made a point of getting together for tea or dinner to catch up on life, revel in the horse race of American politics, and share thoughts and information on world affairs, particularly those pertaining to Asia. Dwight and VIA have been just about everywhere in Asia over the past 46 years -- Indonesia, China, Japan, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Vietnam, the Phillipines, etc. Since his retirement in 2003, Dwight has not slowed down a bit. His focus these days, and the focus of many of our dinner chats, is increasingly the troubled nation of some 50 million souls now officially known as Myanmar.

Burma has been receiving some press of late over the ruling military junta's decision to continue detaining Nobel laureat Aung San Suu Kyi under house arrest through next year's elections. The charges, which stemmed from a bizarre incident in which an American man swam unbidden to Suu Kyi's heavily-guarded home, are consistent with the junta's efforts to marginalize Suu Kyi and pro-democracy leadership regardless of the flimsiness of the rationale.

Burma's military regime has existed in one form or another since 1962, a remarkably tenacious ruling clique. One of my primary interests in Burma is the question of what will happen within the country once the regime, now known by the Orwellian moniker State Peace and Development Council, finally passes by the wayside. Once a fairly prosperous nation, Burma is now among the poorest in South East Asia. Embargos, sanctions, and a general unwillingness to be associated with a government as roundly condemned as Myanmar's has meant that the country has seen little of the rapid economic growth of its neighboring 'Asian Tigers'. (An exception to this standoffishness is China, which has had fewer qualms with its resource-rich neighbor's tendencies towards political repression and human rights violations). When sunnier political days come and Burma strikes a more open posture, the country will be one of the low men on the economic totem pole in the region. Multinationals will be tempted to shift their factories and sweatshops to Burma. The IMF and the World Bank will vigorously champion structural adjustment as the non-negotiable right of passage into the global marketplace. In agriculture, there will be tremendous pressure to move even further in the direction of unsustainable, cash-crop monocultures. In short, Burma will find itself hitched to the globalization express both for better and for worse.

The alluring question for me is to what extent Burma can emerge from its long political isolation without immediately becoming the latest sweatshop to the world. To what extent can the country maintain extant pracitices, structures, attitudes, sensibilities, and knowledge that promote environmental and cultural health? I don't intend to romanticize 'traditional' Burmese society as it exists under the junta or downplay the acute suffering that repression engenders. Yet to the extent that there still exist ways of life in Burma and across the globe that are less energy and resource intensive, I believe the knowledge embedded in those ways of life offer invaluable lessons for our species as we enter an era in which one of our most urgent needs is to relearn how to live more lightly on the planet.

On the Road

Dear friends,

Beatrice and I rolled into Monterey on Wednesday, nineteen days and several thousand miles distant from Chattanooga. Questionable directions resulted in a slight detour through North Carolina, Virgina, the Northeast, Illinois, Wyoming, Idaho, and the Pacific Northwest. Along the way, I had the distinct pleasure of touching base with several friends and family members (and was tantalizing close to others. Next trip!). Many friends from the UC Santa Cruz farming program are now plying their trade throughout the country, so I tried to get a sense of where and how these folks are pursuing their passion for sustainable food systems. Sincere thanks to all for their hospitality and wonderful company!

After unpacking, I immediately repacked for a 12-day workshop with the environmentalist and educator Joanna Macy which I will be joining tomorrow. Shortly thereafter, I will be joining my good friend and founder of Volunteers in Asia Dwight Clark for an educational tour of Myanmar (Burma) he is leading through his non-profit Learning Across Borders. After the dust is settled, I will surely be writing about these experiences. Until then, please enjoy a little piece on a short visit I made to Walden Pond as well as this collection of photos from Chattanooga and the road.

All the best!
Chad

Savoring to the last

Dear all,
My calendar informs me that just six days remain before Beatrice the Buick and I set a meandering course back to California. Less than one week! How did this happen? I strongly suspect time theft. I am following leads as to the whereabouts of the month of missing month of June.

Unsolved mysteries aside, the impending departure has inspired a modus operandi for the coming week: savor the day!

I started savoring in earnest Wednesday evening. Carrots were anathema at market. Not one customer would so much look upon a carrot. This was unfortunate. Williams Island Farm is lousy with carrots, phalanx upon phalanx of carrots. A vast underground army of root vegetables. Consequently, Noah and I found ourselves at 7pm parked riverside cutting the green tops off of several million carrots to prepare them for storage. The day had been piping hot and protracted. Noah, always pregnant with ideas, birthed an exceptional one. Let's buy a beer. Ten minutes later, we are again topping carrots. But now we are topping carrots with a 22 oz bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale. This is a beer of such complete and forceful delight that it insists upon being savored. Resisters soon cry uncle!

And then I was savoring everything. I was savoring the breeze curling up from the river, fat handfuls of blueberries from the Keeners' farm, and I was savoring Noah's fine company and conversation.

Carrots topped and ale imbibed, I still had more savoring in me. I went to Lupi's. These Lupi's folks are pizza wizards. Their pies are not so much made as they are conjured out of magical substances. What's more, this is very much a Community establishment. At closing, I cornered the manager TJ and subjected him to my effusive praise and appreciation. I fear I may have waxed sentimental about pizza and Community.

Feeling so satiated, so light of step, I walked one block east to the Hair of the Dog pub. Now I was making the rounds. This was the late night writing spot of choice where you would be scribbling intently at the bar and, without a beat skipped, suddenly discover yourself discussing the dietary restrictions of Seventh Day Adventists with the bartender whose father was a pastor and the guy next to you whose father was also a pastor and wasn't it odd that they won't eat spicy mustard?

By now it was late and the moon was a floodlight when I paddled across the river. Crossing the river is always savored, always. I have done it a hundred times and more. The day that canoeing across the Tennessee River fails to thrill me is the day I lose all sense of wonderment and gratitude.

So much to savor, so little time. On Thursday I savored Shakespeare's Twelfth Night over at the Ripple Theater. The play was performed by six MFA candidates from Regent University, each playing multiple roles. It was a wonderful, intimate performance. I chatted with the troupe afterward--pitching the idea that they consider "Shakespeare on the Island" one of these days.

On Friday I savored a resplendent harvest morning and the lovely diversity of people that are drawn out to the island to volunteer their time. Hoeing a patch of winter squash, I bantered with Clark (old time musician), Yuri (social worker), and Mary (photo and video documentary artist). These folks come and share their company and labor, sometimes taking a few vegetables home with them in return, but mainly to build a connection to their food source. It is a joy to see this connection take root. Our friend Yong has been volunteering once a week for the past month or so. A month ago, he had never seen a carrot growing. Now he has harvested many thousands of them and has become something of an authority on that activity.


Friday evening, when the heat had finally subsided, we headed back out to the field to plant sweet potatoes. Summer evenings on the island are exceedingly pleasant. The fireflies hover in the trees, the setting sun illuminates the clouds above Signal and Elder mountains, and the crickets begin their chorus.


There is much to savor in Chattanooga these days. There is energy and enthusiasm building around local food, around the arts, around greater community orientation. I have been fortunate to have landed amongst a collection of individuals who are all engaged, all pushing things forward in exciting and positive directions. This has been a charmed season of my life, a largely harmonious balance between physical work, intellectual and creative exploration, and community involvement. I return home with notepads of writings and re-writings that require still further re-writings, a camera full of photographs, and a deep sense of connection to this place and its people.

Take care, be well, and savor away!
Chad

PS - Here are some new photos from the island.

Tank Man

Dear all,
I am back in Chattanooga after a brief but very full trip to California. The trip home brought into focus the fact that I have just under a month left of this particular season of life in Tennessee before heading back to California. It will be sad to leave this wonderful place and the people here. I plan to soak up the experience in the weeks to come.

In August and September, I will be traveling to Japan and Myanmar with my old friend and Volunteers in Asia founder Dwight Clark and a group of university students he is leading. I will be writing more about that program as the trip approaches.

I mainly wanted to share this link to the "Tank Man" clip from the Tienanmen protests of 1989 that many of you will be very familiar with. I have watched it a dozen times in the past few weeks. There is also a fascinating 8 part video on YouTube called The Tank Man. A truly moving moment of history.

All the best,
Chad

Stories

We were in the Spring garden thinning carrots. It was midmorning and the day had not wasted time in getting hot. My baseball cap was cocked at a ridiculous angle to block the sun. The going was slow, so you put your water bottle ten paces ahead as an incentive and as a measure of progress.

Noah and Daniel were talking about how to deal with flea beetles. Matt and I were swapping jokes. He knew some good ones. There was one about a talking dog and another about thermometers. I vowed to myself that I would remember them, even though I knew I would not. I could only remember one joke. I told it, drawing it out as long as possible, trying to make up in duration what I lacked in quantity.

And then he says, “Where’s that old woman with the toothache?!” I had stopped
thinning carrots to deliver the punch line with added flair. This paid dividends. Matt was down the row convulsing.

You know what I’d love to study? I said. Story-telling. What a beautiful, lost art.

You should hear Jim Pfizer tell a story. I think he does it professionally. Got one those Marshal grants recently to maintain local tradition. Fifteen-thousand dollars.

Really? Never heard of Marshal grants. So he spins a good yarn?

“Jack tales”. That’s what they call them around here, I think. Jack tales.

Jack tales. I like that. We were closing in on finishing the second row of carrots.

My grandpa could tell a story, Matt said. That’s one of my favorite memories as a kid. Just sitting in the living room listening to grandpa talk about growing up in the depression in South Dakota and getting into all sorts of mischief. He could tell a story.

When I try to picture someone in their childhood, I just superimpose their grown up head onto a child’s body. The results are cartoonish and frequently comical. Imaginary Little Matt was particularly comical. Grown Up Matt wears a wide straw hat and a long, bushy, reddish-brown beard. In appearance and temperament, one might suspect that he escaped from either Lancaster County or perhaps the 19th Century. He teaches writing and literature at UT Chattanooga and speaks slowly and sonorously with the precision of someone who makes his livelihood with words.

My dad’s uncle Elmer… now he could tell a story, I said. Nick Harris Detectives. That was my favorite—Nick Harris Detectives. He drove out to Los Angeles from this small town in Illinois, kind of a last hurrah before going to study dentistry. And somehow he landed this job with this Hollywood detective agency for about two weeks of misadventure. I must have heard him tell it six or eight times, and it never took less than forty-five minutes. I recorded it before he died. That and his stories about the Philippines during the war.

We kept on in silence for a while and I thought about television and story-telling and that Wendell Berry quote Noah liked. Something about how we should always ask whether a technology increases or decreases the skill level of the person using it. I wondered what sort of stories I might tell my grandkids and against what kinds of games and gadgets I would be competing for their attention.

A cool breeze was coming in from the south. I finished my section and moved on to hoeing a row of Swiss chard. The ground was hard and caked after the prior week’s rains and the recent heat. The hoe did not slice easily through the soil.

Ashley called us in for lunch just after noon. She had made sandwiches with Matt’s sauerkraut, her own mustard, and a massive block of raw-milk cheese she had ordered from Wisconsin. With some of the limes we had inherited from Ann, she made the best tasting limeade I have ever had.

The food disappeared quickly and we sat around the table, satiated. Chocolate almond butter cookies materialized and life certainly could not have gotten any better.

I sold Anabelle this morning, Ashley said. It was funny; I met the lady in the parking lot at Baylor and the security guard kept giving us weird looks.

Well... you were in the process of selling a goat out of the back of a truck… Noah pointed out astutely. Everyone laughed.

You should have just looked incredulous and said, “What? You’ve never seen a goat deal go down before?” This was Matt’s contribution. I nearly lost my meal.

We all washed up and thanked Daniel and Matt for coming out. When would we be seeing them again? Soon, they said. They set off to canoe back to the Baylor dock. Clouds were coming over Elder Mountain from the west. I filled my water and shambled back to the field. As I picked up where I’d left off with the chard, my mind was filled with snippets of the voice and laughter of Uncle Elmer recounting his exploits with the famous Nick Harris Private Detective Agency of Hollywood, California.

The Story of Stuff

Dear all,
Here is a 20-minute video on global consumption not to be missed. It's something I would like to have made, only much better researched, articulated, presented, etc. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Thanks to Maribel Andonian for passing it my way!

Take care,
Chad

Ocra in the cove

Dear all,

Yesterday morning I defected from the island and made the 40 minute drive northwest to Sequatchie Cove Farm. Along the way, you dip briefly into Dade County Georgia and you cross into the Central Time Zone. This makes the drive seem more substantial. I was drinking strong coffee and listening to a podcast lecture about the Etruscans and their unfortunate encounters with the Romans en route. It was very close to the perfect morning.

Padgett Arnold and her crew of CSA workshares were planting ocra and tomatoes. It's typically too cold to plant ocra on the central coast of California, so I jumped at the opportunity. We planted 400 bed feet at twelve-inch spacing. That's a lot of ocra.

Sequatchie Cove is owned and operated by the Keener family, of whom my fellow islander Kelsey is the prodigal son (having returned from his stint at UC Santa Cruz). Their land at the cove is immodestly gorgeous. One of these days I will give the property a proper exploration and try to write a thing or two about the place. Until then, suffice it to say that it is immodestly gorgeous and that if you are ever within a three state radius of Tennessee it is worth a look-see.

On the 24th of May, the island will play host to an afternoon of workshops, talks, tours, and a potluck. Rain has pushed back the event date almost a month, but we have a good feeling about the 24th.

On June 7th, I am conspiring with my friends Tim and Amy Andonian to host an afternoon potluck and discussion on vocation (my next writing topic) at their house in Sunnyvale. Details to come. We'll hope to see some of you there.

And finally, here are some new photos from the farm and surrounds. Some are in the beloved sepia and others are in color. And to top it all off, here are three lovely poems by my friend Deena Miller. Deena read these at the March 14 event at the Alan Chadwick garden in Santa Cruz, and I've been meaning to post them ever since. Enjoy!

Chad