The wonder of ideas

Ideas, , ,
They say everyone should have a hobby. Mine is debating. Not just arguing, informally – although analysis of everything, all the time, comes naturally now – but formal, competitive debate. One of my favourite quotes is from Ursula le Guin’s novel, The Dispossessed:
“They argued because they liked argument, liked the swift run of the unfettered mind along the paths of possibility, liked to question what was not questioned”
Debating is fast, competitive and intense. It requires concentration, quick thinking, engagement, knowledge, confidence and wit. It’s a great way to feel alive. That’s what people say about adventure sports. I suppose this is a little bit like an adventure sport, testing yourself, pushing your limits, adrenaline coursing through your veins.
It’s also addictive, in a way. Once you first learn the joy of being in the thick of that logical argumentation, of the shared experience of contemplating different solutions to complex real-world problems, with the tools of analysis, argumentation and persuasion, you either love it or you hate it.
Debate was the reason I went to Botswana at the end of last year. Every year, University students from around the world gather together to test their skills against the best in the world. For almost 10 days, they argue, in debate venues, over drinks, on game drives, immersing themselves in the incredible intellectual stimulation of coming head-to-head, on a contentious issue, with someone from a completely different context, paradigm, continent. The experience is so all-consuming that, for that little time, the world outside that bubble seems to fade away.
The events are part of the reason debating hooks people in. The people are another part. Because debating is an adversarial system, you learn, if you are a debater, to enjoy an adversarial relationship without it becoming unpleasant. You can handle friendly competition and disagreeing is not the end of a conversation, it is the beginning. You process news and information (especially news and information about far-away places) through the lens of a debating – “how will that help my argument?”, “hey, that is a clear violation of this international treaty I first heard about in a debate last night!”, “there are such strong normative arguments against those new tax breaks”, etc. You find yourself wanting to discuss news, politics, economics, with other debaters, for the logical analysis they will bring to the situation, because they will be interested in seeing both sides, because they will probably all have different perspectives, because they will argue about it and in the arguing, in the testing of ideas, you will form your own opinions and learn.
After years of constructing funding proposals and media releases about debating, years of talking about how it teaching people research skills and produces exceptional public speakers, I know, deep down, that that is not the point. It’s true, but it’s not the point. The point, the real reason we debate, happens in the room. It is that moment, after just a few minutes of thinking about it, when you stand up and present, in 7 minutes, the best arguments, using exactly the right information, constructed perfectly, delivered with wit and eloquence, the best, most persuasive arguments, and you sit down – adrenaline still pumping, feeling incredibly alive – and you know you’ve gotten it right or you’ve done better than ever before and (or) you’ve won a tough room.
Putting yourself out there every time, using your intellect, your experiences, your knowledge and your emotions to build a case and then putting it out there for others – whose skills and intellect you respect – to attack and tear down, takes courage. Doing it again and again takes determination. Doing it well takes training and practice and time. It’s worth it when it works. And it’s worth it because debating lets you slowly fall in love with the wonder of ideas and “the swift run of the unfettered mind along the paths of possibility”.

They say everyone should have a hobby. Mine is debating. Not just arguing, informally – although analysis of everything, all the time, comes naturally now – but formal, competitive debate. One of my favourite quotes is from Ursula le Guin’s novel, The Dispossessed:

“They argued because they liked argument, liked the swift run of the unfettered mind along the paths of possibility, liked to question what was not questioned”

Debating is fast, competitive and intense. It requires concentration, quick thinking, engagement, knowledge, confidence and wit. It’s a great way to feel alive. They say that about adventure sports. I suppose this is a little bit like an adventure sport, testing yourself, pushing your limits, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

It’s also addictive, in a way. Once you first learn the joy of being in the thick of that logical argumentation, of the shared experience of contrasting different solutions to complex, real-world problems, with the tools of analysis, argumentation and persuasion, you either love it or you hate it.

Debate was the reason I went to Botswana at the end of last year. Every year, University students from around the world gather together to test their skills against the best in the world. For almost 10 days, they argue, in debate venues, over drinks, on game drives, immersing themselves in the incredible intellectual stimulation of coming head-to-head, on a contentious issue, with someone from a completely different context, paradigm, continent. The experience is so all-consuming that, for that little time, the world outside that bubble seems to fade away.

The events are part of the reason debating hooks people in. The people are another part. Because debating is an adversarial system, you learn, if you are a debater, to enjoy an adversarial relationship without it becoming unpleasant. You can handle friendly competition and disagreeing is not the end of a conversation, it is the beginning. You process news and information (especially news and information about far-away places) through the lens of a debating – “how will that help my argument?”, “hey, that is a clear violation of this international treaty I first heard about in a debate last night!”, “there are such strong normative arguments against those new tax breaks”, etc. You find yourself wanting to discuss news, politics, economics, with other debaters, for the logical analysis they will bring to the situation, because they will be interested in seeing both sides, because they will probably all have different perspectives, because they will argue about it and in the arguing, in the testing of ideas, you will form your own opinions and learn.

After years of constructing funding proposals and media releases about debating, years of talking about how it teaches people research skills and produces exceptional public speakers, I know, deep down, that that is not the point. It’s true, but it’s not the point. The point, the real reason we debate, happens in the room. It is that moment, after just a few minutes of thinking about it, when you stand up and present, in 7 minutes, the best arguments, using exactly the right information, constructed perfectly, delivered with wit and eloquence; the best, most persuasive arguments, and you sit down – adrenaline still pumping, feeling so incredibly alive – and you know you’ve gotten it right or you’ve done better than ever before or you’ve won a tough room.

Putting yourself out there every time – using your intellect, your experiences, your knowledge and your emotions to build a case and then putting it out there for debaters, whose skills and intellect you respect, to attack and tear down – takes courage. Doing it again and again takes determination. Doing it well takes training and practice and time. It’s worth it when it works. It’s worth it because debating lets you slowly fall in love with the wonder of ideas and “the swift run of the unfettered mind along the paths of possibility”.

Where people sing

Uncategorized, ,

It’s a cool morning in small town South Africa. The sun will probably come out later but for now the mist has yet to burn off and it is pleasant. As I sit at my desk, working, a breeze comes through my window. The breeze carries the sound of singing.

I never knew there were places where people didn’t sing. I don’t mean didn’t sing ever, but didn’t sing often. Not like here. Not like home. Places were singing was considered the preserve of expert singers, except, perhaps, for the odd karaoke experience. Then I moved to another country. In Korea was the incessant blaring K-pop. Shops here play music, too, but there it is K-pop everywhere and all the time. I hardly used an mp3-player before I left. There I missed music so much, I used it all the time.

The first protest I saw in Korea left me bemused. A forlorn group of people standing around with some signs. No movement no energy. I had to ask a local to confirm that it was a protest. Such a far cry from the powerful, energetic, at-times-terrifying, singing, dancing protests of my homeland. Music – singing, dancing – was traditionally a prelude to war here, in much the same way as the Maori war-dance now used by the New Zealand rugby team. Singing and dancing express anger and frustration, as well as sorrow, fear and joy.

I am walking to the shops on a Tuesday morning. Across the road, also walking, is a group of 50 or so Working-on-Fire staff. They walk quickly, strongly, almost as if they walk in formation. And as they walk, they sing. Not the monotonous chants I associate (perhaps wrongly) with American-movie soldiers. They sing beautiful, 3-part harmonies. Deep, rich, chocolaty bass voices blended with elegant alto and strong tenor. They sing effortlessly, weaving their voices together. A gardener weeding a pavement flower-bed stops to listen. This isn’t a performance, they just happen to be singing.

Perhaps I too often buy into exaggerated stereotype that associates Africa and song, but I have lived where K-pop counts as music: It thrills my soul to catch the drift of song on the wind, to be reminded, gently, joyfully, that I live where people sing.

Craving kimchi

Botswana, Daegu, Food, Namibia, Travel, , , , , ,

It’s strange the things you find you miss when you’re not there anymore. I never, in a million years, thought kimchi would be something I missed. And yet, I found myself, last week, really, really wishing for some proper, hot, crunchy kimchi. It wasn’t even a specific nostalgia moment. Some days, for example, I really feel like going down to the hut and ordering kimchi-jeon and dongdongju and sitting there with those friends for hours on end.  The memory is so strong I can almost taste the heat of the kimchi and the icy-cold dongdongju and the touch of the table and and the sounds: the loud foreigners, the background of quieter hangul and, of course, ‘Congratulations’.

This wasn’t that. I just wanted to be able to pop down to the local ‘mart’ and get some kimchi with the rest of my groceries. Apparently there is a Korean mart, of course not in the small town I’m currently in, but as soon as I go to Cape Town again, Korean food it will be. I miss metal chopsticks, too. I guess the places you visit become a part of who you are.

It’s funny the things you miss and remember. I was idly sitting in front of the cooking channel, reading my book, the other day and they were making pancakes. Pancakes, South African-style, so crepes, rather than American pancakes (which we call flapjacks for some reason). Pancakes make the think of Windhoek now. One of the best things about the backpackers where I stayed in Windhoek was the pancakes in the morning. The price of accommodation included 2 cinnamon-sugar pancakes and coffee or tea for breakfast (7am to 10am). It was a gorgeous wake up, in the cool of the bar area, by the pool, early enough that the day wasn’t yet hot, with BBC World News on the TV, to keep track of what was going on in the real world.

That experience, traveling there, has changed my reaction to hot days, too. It’s hot in the Eastern Cape at the moment, hot and humid a lot of days, but it’s not hot like Windhoek. The cool of the morning reminds me of how hot it gets there. The cool morning air feels the same as it did in Windhoek in December.

The heat is like Gaborone. There was a thunderstorm here the other day and I found myself wishing for the downpours of Gaborone, the hard, pouring rain, relief after the glorious, exhausting, almost-overwhelming summer heat. The feeling of ice-cold water after a round in one of the sweltering venues. Sitting that hot, stuffy briefing room. Still hot at three in the morning. All the people. The Irish singing.

Sensory memory is so strong. Some days it makes me glad to be here, remembering. Some days it makes me wish for the things that were normal there – like kimchi and early morning pancakes. Other days it makes me wish to be off, a backpack and a guidebook, traveling again.