Finding the Words...

"The limits of my language are the limits of my world.❞
‒Ludwig Wittgenstein

This morning I find myself working happily in the small bar at the rear of the Tara Guesthouse. It is slightly more expensive than the cafe on the main road, but is has a much quieter ambiance, more conducive to activities such as this. There is a small pool, barely wide enough to execute a single stroke, but quite pleasant on a hot day. Today though, it is overcast and remarkably cool for Thailand, the mercury barely managing to reach 28 celsius. Such days though are to be appreciated here in normally sunny Siam, much like Goldilocks’ ideal: not too hot, not too cold.
I have spent most of the morning since a juggling session at 6.30 a.m. struggling to improve my nascient Mandarin. I have made efforts, infrequent and intermittent it’s true, but efforts, to acquire this most challenging of languages for about four years now. Some urgency has been added to the task as it now seems likely that I will be back in the Centre Land (Zhong guo, so called apparently because the Chinese perceived their country as being the centre of the World) by the end of November.
Why is it that language acquisition is so difficult beyond one’s teenage years? I am not the brightest in the World, but I am not the thickest either (though, at times, I have my doubts...), but acquiring another language at this stage of life does seem to be an immensely difficult undertaking.
I have posed this question to several of my fellow travellers whilst here in Kanchanaburi, but without receiving a satisfactory response up to now. Some of them speak a second language, several are even polyglots, but none seem to have acquired much fluency in another language later in life. I did meet an American in One More Bar who seemed to speak adequate Thai after living in the country for seven years. His understanding though was limited to the spoken word, as became obvious when he tried to translate the writing on a cigarette packet. Even with the obvious context, a gory picture of impending damage if one should actually enjoy the product therein, he still found it difficult. I was impressed both by his obvious intelligence and his willingness to risk embarassment whilst seeking to improve his skills, but a little discouraged by his inability to understand the fairly simple text.
I recently spent some time in France (see blog) and was pleasantly surprised with just how much French I knew. I had told my travelling companion before we left that essentially I had no French, but when faced with the reality of seeking out some pain killers in a pharmacy it became clear that I knew far more unconsciously than I had given myself credit for. Thus emboldened (this happened on the first day of the trip) I had a lot of fun inflicting my enthusiast, if somewhat dubious, language skills on the local population. Apart from the odd ‘zut alors’, they seemed mostly encouraging!
The thing is though, somewhat depressingly, my French comes from my long lost childhood, from a time when language learning actually seemed to somehow stick. The famous psychologist and all round renaissance man, Noam Chomsky, once opined that all children are born with a Langauge Acquisition Device (LAD) embedded into their neurology. I have personally witnessed many examples when children of mixed nationalities or those who find themselves growing up in a different country to their parents homeland quickly and easily pick up the local language. Unfortunately, Chomsky also was of the opinion that this device atrophies somewhere in the latter teen years, thus making it progressively more difficult to learn another tongue as we get older.

Noam Chomsky

On the positive side, there has been a veritable explosion on the internet in recent years, particularly perhaps on Youtube, of people advocating ‘hacking’ a language. They use techniques such as focussing their attention on frequency tables (lists of the most commonly used words), flashcards, basic grammar hacks that quickly reveal how each language’s grammatical assumptions work and several other such ‘quick fix’ ideas. Sometimes though, I wonder if it is not the simple willingness to make mistakes, the sheer thick-skinnedness, of these individuals that allows them to make progress. Indeed, perhaps this is what we lose as we get older and mature from teens into young adults. As children, we are often unafraid of making a mistake, occasionally even making a fool of ourselves, but the older we get the more we tend to dread such embarassing situations. As our personalities ossify with the passing years perhaps it is that very process that makes further learning more and more difficult?
These language ‘hackers’, from Benny Lewis (the Irish Polyglot) to Tim Ferriss, tend to have one thing in common; a willingness to take a risk and to be unafraid of making mistakes, even advocating such situations as a way of learning. They are a brave and somewhat extrovert bunch, but perhaps their methods are not applicable to everyone.

After starting this week’s blog I found myself in a situation when I was forced to employ German with some fellow travellers who share the same verandah in the Smiley Frog. Again, much to my surprise, the German I had learnt as a 30 year old in pursuit of a certain young lady in the fair city of Stuttgart came readily to mind. It was by no means fluent, but I found I could understand 95% of the conversation and could contribute myself to the extent where I was readily understood. Interestingly, to learn the language I had used a very esoteric method known, at least at that time, as accelerated learning. Large parts of the sessions consisted in lying back, eyes closed, listening to baroque music from the 18th century and gradually, very gradually being fed German whislt you were in this relaxed state. Amazingly, despite the rather disconcerting conscious feeling that you were not learning at all, the stuff seemed to stick.

Perhaps this is the answer to my own conundrum. It is clear that many of our most fluid and fluent skills are completely unconscious. Indeed, when the conscious mind tries to interfere with them it is often to the detriment of performance. If you try to consciously think, for example, of how you actually perform the act of walking and then try to control it with that part of the mind, you will invariably find that it becomes much, much more difficult. The skillful execution of a golf swing, the playing of an instrument, the construction of a long and complex sentence in conversation, all these are generally done completely unconsciously and very much best left so.
With these heady thoughts in mind, I think it is time to finish imbibing this beer and consign this week’s effort to the World Wide Web. The venue has moved on to the Triple B Bar on the main drag, musicians crank out “I still haven’t find what I am looking for” which, in the circumstances, maybe quite appropriate. But maybe, just maybe, I have my first clue!

Juggling commitments....

“If there is to be any peace it will come through being, not having.”
Henry Miller

It is late on a balmy Friday evening, something of a relief after the mercury touched 41C mid-afternoon; a slight breeze stirs the air pleasantly. I find myself sitting in the open air Tara Guest House restaurant enjoying a large and very refreshing Chang (Thai beer) and a plate of what are described on the menu as 'Pineapple Flitters'. These come with either honey or chocolate, or even both if one is feeling particularly indulgent. My lifestyle here is generally quite healthy but this, I have to admit, forms something of an exception.
I did actually stay here for a few days on arrival, opting for the very reasonable 'superior' suite at a relatively expensive £12 a night. Normally, by this stage, I have settled into some kind of long term accommodation, usually involving a cold shower and a lack of air conditioning, but this time I have been in somewhat indulgent mood and so the pleasures of fresh sheets, fresh towels and a small but cooling swimming pool have proven too much to resist.
Although such temptations sometimes get the better of one, I still find myself frequenting the much-loved but distinctly down market 'Jolly Frog' on a regular basis. The accommodation may not be the best in town and the service internationally renowned for being terrible, but they do have the most wonderful garden and a peripatetic clientèle of wonderfully eccentric characters, some of whom seem to have become regular visitors over the years.
The garden is also a wonderful place to take some exercise; the air is fresh, the flowers beautiful and the fact that the river Kwai runs so close by all lend a unique ambience to the place that has charmed many a weary wanderer (including your footloose flaneur). When I arrived last week, I immediately headed for the place to practice a little qigong and indulge my current fascination for swinging nunchucks. I have little interest in using such weaponry for any aggressive purpose, but love learning the wonderfully flowing and co-ordinated movements that are necessary if one is to perform with any degree of gusto.
On the first day in the garden, whilst practising a few of the more advanced moves, I met a German guy by the name of Alex and a young French lad called Ansulyman, both of whom were practising juggling in the same garden. A mutual exchange of views on the subject of skill acquisition followed, and so it was that, for the last four or five days at least, an informal school dedicated to such performance arts sprung up quite spontaneously amidst the palms, tamarinds and bougainvillea of the Jolly Frog.

Others guests and various itinerants have happened by over the last week and found themselves drawn into the process. At any given time one can find oneself learning various forms of juggling, particularly with balls and skittles, nunchucks, qigong, tai chi or other, equally exotic forms of martial and performance arts.

The atmosphere is very informal, relaxed and supportive; all in all, very conducive to learning such skills without any sense of pressure and, basically, just for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it. For my part, I have focussed so far mostly on picking up juggling and am now, after a few days of trying, able to manipulate three balls at once without injuring the spectators or dropping them too frequently. One young man has progressed from neophyte to attempting five balls in a mere four days, although it has to be admitted that it can be a somewhat hazardous undertaking to stand anywhere in close proximity when he attempts to do so. 

 
When learning new skills is a pleasure, almost an indulgence, such activities become very pleasant indeed. I sometimes think back to the pedagogic horror which formed my own education, to the woefully inadequate methodologies employed, to the stress laid upon discipline imposed from the outside (whilst discipline is clearly necessary, that imposed from within is often far more powerful, and far more effective), to the simplistic 'chalk and talk' methodologies, and many other unpleasant and ineffective conventions, and realise that, for me at least, conventional education was merely something that I had to survive rather than having any real value in terms of knowledge or skills acquisition.
Since those far off days and the daily frustrations and humiliations one suffered in the process of poorly acquiring skills that were often completely useless from that moment forward (working out tangents has not come up even once in the intervening years, and as for the learning of the (mis)doings of various Kings and Queens of England… such knowledge only turned me into a lifelong and convinced republican). Since those happily far-off days I have invariably found myself enjoying learning a range of new subjects and competencies in so many areas. All of these seem to have been acquired relatively easily, just as long as I was given at least a modicum of encouragement and support to do so. Looking around the 'school' in the Jolly Frog this morning, the thought struck me that such learning is so normal, so natural, so enjoyable for all of us, if only the right ambience is created.
Back in the Tara they are closing up for the night and I find myself faced with a pleasant ten minute walk back to my hotel on the river front. Kanchanaburi is even quieter this year; so quiet in fact that one wonders how long the almost deserted bars can survive. On the other hand, those of us who are more open to the less inebriated, daytime pleasures of the place are enjoying the current state of affairs immensely. And so, as this late but still

very steamy hour, I must bid thee a fond farewell and prepare this rather over-exercised body for a night of hopefully recuperative slumber.
Night night….

Methinks me thinks too much....

A bright and early start for this week's submission. It is just a few minutes past eight on a pleasantly sunny morning on the rural outskirts of Kanchanaburi. I find myself sitting outside my room at the Morning Guest House sitting at an old wooden table and sipping a rather pleasant banana shake whilst listening to the sounds of what seems to be a huge variety of ornithological life going on around me. There are the ubiquitous cock's crowing, at least four or five of them, struggling with each other for dominance. One of the main weapons employed in this struggle seems to be just how loud and just how long they can keep crowing. This particular battle has been going on since the first sign of light in the Eastern skies. The smaller birds chirp merrily whilst a couple of much larger creatures are whooping in a very melodious manner from the tops of the palms. Various others add to this post-dawn chorus; listening out in this moment I can distinguish at least eight different types of calls. Like most of Thailand, once you escape the dominance of humanity, this place teems with life.

There seems to be but one other person apart from myself out and about at this hour of the morning. Generally speaking, Thailand is quite literally a sleepy place, maybe because of the constancy of the heat. Most of the shops and cafes in the local area will not open until sometime between ten and eleven in the morning. Even then one is likely to be faced with somewhat sleepy staff who would rather still be tucked up in their beds or hammocks than serving customers. The one person who is about is the old dear who runs this place. If one were to hazard a guess at her age it would be somewhere in the region of eighty. At full height one would estimate her to be around five feet tall but it is a long time since she stood that straight. She speaks not a word of English despite running this guest house for many years (she even gets a mention on tripadvisor.com) but, despite this, still manages to communicate very clearly through a mixture of gestures and smiles. In point of fact, that seems to be her dominant expression, she smiles a kindly smile constantly. One sees her happily working around the place from early in the morning until late at night busying herself with all manner of chores.

Having finished sweeping the paths she now stands at a table with a pestle and mortar beating the mixture in the bowl to an almost liquefied pulp. For a person of her advanced years her hands move very quickly, very skilfully. There is a steady and rhythmic sound to her movements, clearly practised for many a long year. She whips the mixture into a consistency without the need to think, collecting the various stray parts and adding them into the consistent paste that she is creating.

For me, it is always a joy to see such skills displayed. Often I find myself amazed at just how skilful people often are when they don't put their mind to it. By this I mean when they don't actually think consciously about what it is they are doing. If one takes one's times to observe day-to-day life as a flaneur should, one cannot help but see skilful displays of this type constantly.

I have a good friend of many years standing, let's call him Chris for want of a better name, who I used to share a love of golf with many years ago in the days when I used to enjoy that challenging game. Chris was, as the expression has it, a 'natural'. He would be chatting happily one second and turning around to hit the ball the next. Almost invariably in those days he would hit a decent shot, sometimes even a remarkably good one. Not for him all this business of pre-shot routines, half a dozen practice swings, settling into a stances and an almost pregnant pause whilst one awaits the moment to actually hit the ball, No, not for my friend. His whole routine consisted of walking up to the ball, looking at the target, and hitting it.

In later years Chris started to think about his golf. Some well intentioned soul told him that he swung the club back too low and deep. This was meant to help but, from that moment on, he started to think consciously about what he was doing. Unfortunately, Chris' conscious mind was nowhere near as good at swinging a club as his unconscious mind. He had learnt his golf as a child simply by watching good golfers play on the television and had modelled what he did quite unconsciously on such fine exemplars as Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson and, his personal favourite, Severiano Ballesteros.

This method of copying a role model is the way that many children learn. The human brain even has special cells developed precisely for this purpose. Known as 'mirror neurons' they enable the child, and the adult who is sufficiently open, to simply observe, learn and replicate. Unfortunately, the way that we are taught to learn though rational, conscious-level analysis, tends to trample all over this very natural way of acquiring new skills.

A quick demonstration may be in order at this point. As children we learnt to talk and walk and all manner of other useful skills that we do not need to think about at all, we simply do them. Now, for the sake of interest, try getting up and walking slowly across the room thinking about how you put one foot in front of the other, the way you transfer your weight, the way you move your ankle joint, which part of the foot you take-off from, which part you land on, how much you flex your knees, and so on. Something that was perfectly simple suddenly becomes horrendously complicated. A skill that was entirely natural to you suddenly becomes stiff and awkward. In sports, and in many other areas of life, this interference in a naturally learnt process is known as paralysis by analysis, and for good reason. With a little analysis we can turn even the simplest of skills into something horrendously complex.

Imagine, if you will, trying to learn a new skill; we can use table tennis as an example. How many books would you have to read on the subject, how much analysis would be necessary, to be as effective in learning the skill as half an hour hitting balls back and forth on the table?

In recent years several of the more ground-breaking sports coaches have realised the limitations of trying to learn or perform actions by logical analysis. This may well have started with W. Timothy Gallwey back in the 1970's when he wrote 'The Inner Game of Tennis'. He took several poor players who had been trying to learn the game for years and, in a matter of a few weeks, turned them into far, far better players who did not need to think (well, not consciously at least) in order to display their skill. He developed a methodology whereby the conscious mind of the player would be focussed on some simple aspect, say the sound of the strings contacting the ball or watching its seam in flight, whilst simply allowing the part of the mind that learns these things well to work it out for itself. The purpose of focussing the conscious mind by such means was simply to get it out of the way and thus allow those innate learning abilities that we all have to do their work.

Another coach who has taken up this theme in recent years is the American Garrett Kramer. In 2012 he penned another paradigm shifting work that he aptly named 'Stillpower'. He chose this title as a counterbalance to the ubiquitous idea of willpower; the notion that we must try hard to achieve results. Willpower has its uses, indeed it is a fine quality to possess in many areas of life. Unfortunately, the learning and displaying of skills requiring co-ordination is not usually one of them. Instead of helping in such areas it more often hinders – often in these situations the harder we try the worse we get.

This point was beautifully illustrated in the Tom Cruise film 'The Last Samurai'. Generally speaking, I am not really a Tom Cruise fan, but I have to admit that he has made a few really excellent movies. 'The Last Samurai' is one such. There is a scene in which he tries and tries to master the art of Japanese style swordplay but is continually defeated in practice. No matter how hard he tries the result seems to be the same. Then a young Japanese boy points out the root of the problem:

The Japanese, often through the medium of Zen Buddhism, have long been aware of this problem. There is an expression oft quoted in this regard: 'Zen mind, beginner's mind'. This means a mind purified of too many thoughts, of too much analysis and experience, a mind free to perceive clearly, not having to filter events and things through what it thinks it knows.

The game of golf perhaps yields the most obvious examples of situations where over-thinking can block a player's natural abilities. Unlike many other games where the flow of the action can carry a player through, golf offers ample opportunity between shots to have a good, long and often destructive think. 
In 1970 the amiable Doug Sanders was faced with a three foot putt on the 18th at Saint Andrews to win The Championship. After looking at the line of the putt from several angles he stood over the ball... and stood...and stood. Even the BBC commentator of the time, the venerable Henry Longhurst, could not help himself and exclaimed 'for heaven's sake, hit it man!' He did, eventually, and he missed.

Nineteen years later, at the Masters in Augusta, Georgia, an even shorter putt was missed by the unfortunately named Scott Hoch. Unfortunate because the pronunciation of Hoch rhymes perfectly with the word 'choke'. Ever since the otherwise talented and successful PGA golfer has gone by the the nickname of 'Hoch the choke!'

Back at the guest house my octogenarian hostess still effortlessly beats away at another bowl of grains and seeds, smiling benignly as she does so. She seems blissfully unaware that at her age this is supposed to be hard work. If someone had pointed this out to her she may by now be huffing and puffing (it is around 30C here at the moment). Happily ignorant of her supposed limitations though, she continues contently in her self-appointed tasks.

To finish on a simple, but hopefully clear note. I think this by now rather wordy essay can be best summed up in just three short words from Nike, the winged Greek goddess of victory:

 Just do it!