Stephenson, Neal - Mother Earth Mother Board

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Archive | 4.12 - Dec 1996 | features

Mother Earth Mother Board

The hacker tourist ventures forth across the wide and wondrous meatspace of three

continents, chronicling the laying of the longest wire on Earth.

By Neal Stephenson

In which the hacker tourist ventures forth across the wide and wondrous meatspace

of three continents, acquainting himself with the customs and dialects of the exotic

Manhole Villagers of Thailand, the U-Turn Tunnelers of the Nile Delta, the Cable

Nomads of Lan tao Island, the Slack Control Wizards of Chelmsford, the Subterranean

Ex-Telegraphers of Cornwall, and other previously unknown and unchronicled folk;

also, biographical sketches of the two long-dead Supreme Ninja Hacker Mage Lords of

global telecommunications, and other material pertaining to the business and

technology of Undersea Fiber-Optic Cables, as well as an account of the laying of the

longest wire on Earth, which should not be without interest to the readers of Wired.

Information moves, or we move to it. Moving to it has rarely been popular and is growing

unfashionable; nowadays we demand that the information come to us. This can be

accomplished in three basic ways: moving physical media around, broadcasting radiation

through space, and sending signals through wires. This article is about what will, for a short

time anyway, be the biggest and best wire ever made.

Wires warp cyberspace in the same way wormholes warp physical space: the two points at

opposite ends of a wire are, for informational purposes, the same point, even if they are on

opposite sides of the planet. The cyberspace-warping power of wires, therefore, changes the

geometry of the world of commerce and politics and ideas that we live in. The financial districts

of New York, London, and Tokyo, linked by thousands of wires, are much closer to each other

than, say, the Bronx is to Manhattan.

Today this is all quite familiar, but in the 19th century, when the first feeble bits struggled down

the first undersea cable joining the Old World to the New, it must have made people's hair stand

up on end in more than just the purely electrical sense - it must have seemed supernatural.

Perhaps this sort of feeling explains why when Samuel Morse stretched a wire between

Washington and Baltimore in 1844, the first message he sent with his code was "What hath God

wrought!" - almost as if he needed to reassure himself and others that God, and not the Devil,

was behind it.

During the decades after Morse's "What hath God wrought!" a plethora of different codes,

signalling techniques, and sending and receiving machines were patented. A web of wires was

spun across every modern city on the globe, and longer wires were strung between cities. Some

of the early technologies were, in retrospect, flaky: one early inventor wanted to use 26-wire

cables, one wire for each letter of the alphabet. But it quickly became evident that it was best to

keep the number of individual wires as low as possible and find clever ways to fit more

information onto them.

This requires more ingenuity than you might think - wires have never been perfectly

transparent carriers of data; they have always degraded the information put into them. In

general, this gets worse as the wire gets longer, and so as the early telegraph networks

spanned greater distances, the people building them had to edge away from the

seat-of-the-pants engineering practices that, applied in another field, gave us so many boiler

explosions, and toward the more scientific approach that is the standard of practice today.

Still, telegraphy, like many other forms of engineering, retained a certain barnyard, improvised

quality until the Year of Our Lord 1858, when the terrifyingly high financial stakes and

shockingly formidable technical challenges of the first transatlantic submarine cable brought

certain long-simmering conflicts to a rolling boil, incarnated the old and new approaches in the

persons of Dr. Wildman Whitehouse and Professor William Thomson, respectively, and brought

the conflict between them into the highest possible relief in the form of an inquiry and a scandal

that rocked the Victorian world. Thomson came out on top, with a new title and name - Lord

Kelvin.

Everything that has occurred in Silicon Valley in the last couple of decades also occurred in the

1850s. Anyone who thinks that wild-ass high tech venture capitalism is a late-20th-century

California phenomenon needs to read about the maniacs who built the first transatlantic cable

projects (I recommend Arthur C. Clarke's book How the World Was One). The only things that

have changed since then are that the stakes have gotten smaller, the process more

bureaucratized, and the personalities less interesting.

Those early cables were eventually made to work, albeit not without founding whole new fields

of scientific inquiry and generating many lucrative patents. Undersea cables, and long-distance

communications in general, became the highest of high tech, with many of the same

connotations as rocket science or nuclear physics or brain surgery would acquire in later

decades. Some countries and companies (the distinction between countries and companies is

hazy in the telco world) became very good at it, and some didn't. AT&T acquired a dominance of

the field that largely continues to this day and is only now being seriously challenged by a

project called FLAG: the Fiberoptic Link Around the Globe.

In which the Hacker Tourist encounters: Penang, a microcosm of the Internet. Rubber,

Penang's chief commodity, and its many uses: protecting wires from the elements and

concupiscent wanderers from harmful DNA. Advantages of chastity, both for hacker

tourists and for cable layers. Bizarre Spectaclesin the jungles of southern Thailand.

FLAG, its origins and its enemies.

5° 241 24.932' N, 100° 241 19.748' E City of George Town, Island of Penang, Malaysia

FLAG, a fiber-optic cable now being built from England to Japan, is a skinny little cuss (about an

inch in diameter), but it is 28,000 kilometers long, which is long even compared to really big

things like the planet Earth. When it is finished in September 1997, it arguably will be the

longest engineering project in history. Writing about it necessitates a lot of banging around

through meatspace. Over the course of two months, photographer Alex Tehrani and I hit six

countries and four continents trying to get a grip on this longest, fastest, mother of all wires. I

took a GPS receiver with me so that I could have at least a general idea of where the hell we

were. It gave me the above reading in front of a Chinese temple around the corner from the

Shangri-La Hotel in Penang, Malaysia, which was only one of 100 peculiar spots around the

globe where I suddenly pulled up short and asked myself, "What the hell am I doing here?"

You might well ask yourself the same question before diving into an article as long as this one.

The answer is that we all depend heavily on wires, but we hardly ever think about them. Before

learning about FLAG, I knew that data packets could get from America to Asia or the Middle

East, but I had no idea how. I knew that it had something to do with wires across the bottom of

the ocean, but I didn't know how many of those wires existed, how they got there, who

controlled them, or how many bits they could carry.

According to legend, in 1876 the first sounds transmitted down a wire were Alexander Graham

Bell saying "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you." Compared with Morse's "What hath God

wrought!'' this is disappointingly banal - as if Neil Armstrong, setting foot on the moon, had

uttered the words: "Buzz, could you toss me that rock hammer?'' It's as though during the 32

years following Morse's message, people had become inured to the amazing powers of wire.

Today, another 120 years later, we take wires completely for granted. This is most unwise.

People who use the Internet (or for that matter, who make long-distance phone calls) but who

don't know about wires are just like the millions of complacent motorists who pump gasoline

into their cars without ever considering where it came from or how it found its way to the corner

gas station. That works only until the political situation in the Middle East gets all screwed up,

or an oil tanker runs aground on a wildlife refuge. In the same way, it behooves wired people to

know a few things about wires - how they work, where they lie, who owns them, and what sorts

of business deals and political machinations bring them into being.

In the hopes of learning more about the modern business of really, really long wires, we spent

much of the summer of 1996 in pursuits such as: being arrested by toothless, shotgun-toting

Egyptian cops; getting pushed around by a drunken smuggler queen on a Thai train; vaulting

over rustic gates to take emergency shits in isolated fields; being kept awake by groovy

Eurotrash backpackers singing songs; blowing Saharan dust out of cameras; scraping equatorial

mold out of fountain pens; stuffing faded banknotes into the palms of Egyptian service-industry

professionals; trying to persuade non-English-speaking taxi drivers that we really did want to

visit the beach even though it was pouring rain; and laundering clothes by showering in them.

We still missed more than half the countries FLAG touches.

Our method was not exactly journalism nor tourism in the normal sense but what might be

thought of as a new field of human endeavor called hacker tourism: travel to exotic locations in

search of sights and sensations that only would be of interest to a geek.

I will introduce sections with readings from my trusty GPS in case other hacker tourists would

like to leap over the same rustic gates or get rained on at the same beaches

5° 26.325' N, 100° 17.417' E Penang Botanical Gardens

Penang, one of the first sites visited by this hacker tourist partly because of its little-known

historical importance to wires, lies just off the west coast of the Malay Peninsula. The British

acquired it from the local sultan in the late 1700s, built a pathetic fort above the harbor, and

named it, appropriately, after the hapless General Cornwallis. They set up a couple of churches

and established the kernel of a judicial system. A vigorous market grew up around them. A few

kilometers away, they built a botanical garden.

This seems like an odd set of priorities to us today. But gardens were not mere decorations to

the British - they were strategic installations.

The headquarters was Kew Gardens outside of London. Penang was one of the forward outposts,

and it became incomparably more important than the nearby fort. In 1876, 70,000 seeds of the

rubber tree, painstakingly collected by botanists in the Amazon rain forest, were brought to Kew

Gardens and planted in a greenhouse. About 2,800 of them germinated and were shipped to the

botanical gardens in Sri Lanka and Penang, where they propagated explosively and were used

to establish rubber plantations.

Most of these plantations were on the neighboring Malay Peninsula, a lumpy, bony tentacle of

land that stretches for 1,000 miles from Bangkok in the north to Singapore in the south, where

it grazes the equator. The landscape is a stalemate between, on one hand, the devastatingly

powerful erosive forces of continual tropical rainstorms and dense plant life, and, on the other

hand, some really, really hard rocks. Anything with the least propensity to be eroded did so a

long time ago and turned into a paddy. What's left are ridges of stone that rise almost vertically

from the landscape and are still mostly covered with rain forest, notwithstanding efforts by the

locals to cut it all down. The flat stuff is all used for something - coconuts, date palms, banana

trees, and above all, rubber.

Until artificial rubber was invented by the colony-impaired Germans, no modern economy could

exist without the natural stuff. All of the important powers had tropical colonies where rubber

was produced. For the Netherlands, it was Indonesia; for France, it was Indochina; for the

British, it was what they then called Malaya, as well as many other places.

Without rubber and another kind of tree resin called gutta-percha, it would not have been

possible to wire the world. Early telegraph lines were just naked conductors strung from pole to

pole, but this worked poorly, especially in wet conditions, so some kind of flexible but durable

insulation was needed. After much trial and error, rubber became the standard for terrestrial

and aerial wires while gutta-percha (a natural gum also derived from a tree grown in Malaya)

was used for submarine cables. Gutta-percha is humble-looking stuff, a nondescript brown crud

that surrounds the inner core of old submarine cables to a thickness of perhaps 1 centimeter,

but it was a wonder material back in those days, and the longer it remained immersed in salt

water, the better it got.

So far, it was all according to the general plan that the British had in mind: find some useful

DNA in the Americas, stockpile it at Kew Gardens, propagate it to other botanical gardens

around the world, make money off the proceeds, and grow the economy. Modern-day Penang,

however, is a good example of the notion of unintended consequences.

As soon as the British had established the rule of law in Penang, various kinds of Chinese people

began to move in and establish businesses. Most of them were Hokkien Chinese from north of

Hong Kong, though Cantonese, Hakka, and other groups also settled there. Likewise, Tamils and

Sikhs came from across the Bay of Bengal. As rubber trees began to take over the countryside,

a common arrangement was for Chinese immigrants to establish rubber plantations and hire

Indian immigrants (as well as Malays) as laborers.

The British involvement, then, was more catalytic than anything else. They didn't own the

rubber plantations. They merely bought the rubber on an open market from Chinese brokers

who in turn bought it from producers of various ethnicities. The market was just a few square

blocks of George Town where British law was enforced, i.e. where businessmen could rely on a

few basics like property rights, contracts, and a currency.

During and after World War II, the British lost what presence they had here. Penang fell to the

Japanese and became a base for German U-Boats patrolling the Indian Ocean. Later, there was

a somewhat messy transition to independence involving a communist insurrection and a war

with Indonesia. Today, Malaysia is one of Asia's economic supernovas and evidently has decided

that it will be second to none when it comes to the Internet. They are furiously wiring up the

place and have established JARING, which is the Malaysian Internet (this word is a somewhat

tortured English acronym that happens to spell out the Malay word for the Net).

If you have a look at JARING's homepage (www.jaring.my/jaring), you will be confronted by a

link that will take you to a page reciting Malaysia's censorship laws, which, like most censorship

laws, are ridiculously vague and hence sort of creepy and yet, in the context of the Internet,

totally unworkable.

In a way, the architects of JARING are trying to run the Kew Gardens experiment all over again.

By adopting the Internet protocol for their national information infrastructure, they have copied

the same DNA that, planted in the deregulated telecom environment of the United States, has

grown like some unstoppable exotic weed. Now they are trying to raise the same plant inside a

hothouse (because they want it to flourish) but in a pot (because they don't want it to escape

into the wild).

They seem to have misunderstood both their own history and that of the Internet, which run

strangely parallel. Today the streets of George Town, Penang's main city, are so vivid, crowded,

and intensely multicultural that by comparison they make New York City look like Colonial

Williamsburg. Every block has a mosque or Hindu temple or Buddhist shrine or Christian church.

You can get any kind of food, hear any language. The place is thronged, but it's affluent, and it

works. It's a lot like the Internet.

Both Penang and the Internet were established basically for strategic military reasons. In both

cases, what was built by the military was merely a kernel for a much vaster phenomenon that

came along later. This kernel was really nothing more than a protocol, a set of rules. If you

wanted to follow those rules, you could participate, otherwise you were free to go elsewhere.

Because the protocol laid down a standard way for people to interact, which was clearly set out

and could be understood by anyone, it attracted smart, adaptable, ambitious people from all

over the place, and at a certain point it flew completely out of control and turned into something

that no one had ever envisioned: something thriving, colorful, wildly diverse, essentially

peaceful, and plagued only by the congestion of its own success.

JARING's link to the global Internet is over an undersea cable that connects it to the United

States. This is typical of many Southeast Asian countries, which are far better connected to the

US than they are to one another. But in late June of 1996, a barge called the Elbe appeared off

the coast of Penang. Divers and boats came ashore, braving an infestation of sea snakes, and

floated in a segment of armored cable that will become Malaysia's link to FLAG. The capacity of

that cable is theoretically some 5.3 Gbps. Much of this will be used for telephone and other

non-Internet purposes, but it can't help but serve as a major floodgate between JARING, the

censored pseudo-Internet of Malaysia, and the rest of the Net. After that, it will be interesting to

see how long JARING remains confined to its pot.

FLAG facts

The FLAG system, that mother of all wires, starts at Porthcurno, England, and proceeds to

Estepona, Spain; through the Strait of Gibraltar to Palermo, Sicily; across the Mediterranean to

Alexandria and Port Said, Egypt; overland from those two cities to Suez, Egypt; down the Gulf

of Suez and the Red Sea, with a potential branching unit to Jedda, Saudia Arabia; around the

Arabian Peninsula to Dubai, site of the FLAG Network Operations Center; across the Indian

Ocean to Bombay; around the tip of India and across the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman Sea

to Ban Pak Bara, Thailand, with a branch down to Penang, Malaysia; overland across Thailand to

Songkhla; up through the South China Sea to Lan Tao Island in Hong Kong; up the coast of

China to a branch in the East China Sea where one fork goes to Shanghai and the other to

Koje-do Island in Korea, and finally to two separate landings in Japan - Ninomiya and Miura,

which are owned by rival carriers.

Phone company people tend to think (and do business) in terms of circuits. Hacker tourists, by

contrast, tend to think in terms of bits per second. Converting between these two units of

measurements is simple: on any modern phone system, the conversations are transmitted

digitally, and the standard bit rate that is used for this purpose is 64 kbps. A circuit, then, in

telephony jargon, amounts to a datastream of 64 kbps.

Copper submarine cables of only a few decades ago could carry only a few dozen circuits - say,

about 2,500 kbps total. The first generation of optical-fiber cables, by contrast, carries more

than 1,000 times as much data - 280 Mbps of data per fiber pair. (Fibers always come in pairs.

This practice seems obvious to a telephony person, who is in the business of setting up

symmetrical two-way circuits, but makes no particular sense to a hacker tourist who tends to

think in terms of one-way packet transmission. The split between these two ways of thinking

runs very deep and accounts for much tumult in the telecom world, as will be explained later.)

The second generation of optical-fiber cables carries 560 Mbps per fiber pair. FLAG and other

third-generation systems will carry 5.3 Gbps per pair. Or, in the system of units typically used

by phone company people, they will carry 60,000 circuits on each fiber pair.

If you multiply 60,000 circuits times 64 kbps per circuit, you get a bit rate of only 3.84 Gbps,

which leaves 1.46 Gbps unaccounted for. This bandwidth is devoted to various kinds of

overhead, such as frame headers and error correction. The FLAG cable contains two sets of fiber

pairs, and so its theoretical maximum capacity is 120,000 circuits, or (not counting the

overhead) just under 8 Gbps of actual throughput.

These numbers really knock 'em dead in the phone industry. To the hacker tourist, or anyone

who spends much time messing around with computer networks, they seem distinctly

underwhelming. All this trouble and expense for a measly 8 Gbps? You've got to be kidding!

Again, it comes down to a radical difference in perspective between telephony people and

internet people.

In defense of telephony people, it must be pointed out that they are the ones who really know

the score when it comes to sending bits across oceans. Netheads have heard so much puffery

about the robust nature of the Internet and its amazing ability to route around obstacles that

they frequently have a grossly inflated conception of how many routes packets can take

between continents and how much bandwidth those routes can carry. As of this writing, I have

learned that nearly the entire state of Minnesota was recently cut off from the Internet for 13

hours because it had only one primary connection to the global Net, and that link went down. If

Minnesota, of all places, is so vulnerable, one can imagine how tenuous many international links

must be.

Douglas Barnes, an Oakland-based hacker and cypherpunk, looked into this issue a couple of

years ago when, inspired by Bruce Sterling's Islands in the Net, he was doing background

research on a project to set up a data haven in the Caribbean. "I found out that the idea of the

Internet as a highly distributed, redundant global communications system is a myth,'' he

discovered. "Virtually all communications between countries take place through a very small

number of bottlenecks, and the available bandwidth simply isn't that great.'' And he cautions:

"Even outfits like FLAG don't really grok the Internet. The undersized cables they are running

reflect their myopic outlook.''

So the bad news is that the capacity of modern undersea cables like FLAG isn't very impressive

by Internet standards, but the slightly better news is that such cables are much better than

what we have now.Here's how they work: Signals are transmitted down the fiber as modulated

laser light with a wavelength of 1,558 nanometers (nm), which is in the infrared range. These

signals begin to fade after they have traveled a certain distance, so it's necessary to build

amplifiers into the cable every so often. In the case of FLAG, the spacing of these amplifiers

ranges from 45 to 85 kilometers. They work on a strikingly simple and elegant principle. Each

amplifier contains an approximately 10-meter-long piece of special fiber that has been doped

with erbium ions, making it capable of functioning as a laser medium. A separate semiconductor

laser built into the amplifier generates powerful light at 1,480 nm - close to the same frequency

as the signal beam, but not close enough to interfere with it. This light, directed into the doped

fiber, pumps the electrons orbiting around those erbium ions up to a higher energy level.

The signal coming down the FLAG cable passes through the doped fiber and causes it to lase,

i.e., the excited electrons drop back down to a lower energy level, emitting light that is coherent

with the incoming signal - which is to say that it is an exact copy of the incoming signal, except

more powerful.

The amplifiers need power - up to 10,000 volts DC, at 0.9 amperes. Since public 10,000-volt

outlets are few and far between on the bottom of the ocean, this power must be delivered down

the same cable that carries the fibers. The cable, therefore, consists of an inner core of four

optical fibers, coated with plastic jackets of different colors so that the people at opposite ends

can tell which is which, plus a thin copper wire that is used for test purposes. The total

thickness of these elements taken together is comparable to a pencil lead; they are contained

within a transparent plastic tube. Surrounding this tube is a sheath consisting of three steel

segments designed so that they interlock and form a circular jacket. Around that is a layer of

about 20 steel "strength wires" - each perhaps 2 mm in diameter - that wrap around the core in

a steep helix. Around the strength wires goes a copper tube that serves as the conductor for the

10,000-volt power feed. Only one conductor is needed because the ocean serves as the ground

wire. This tube also is watertight and so performs the additional function of protecting the

cable's innards. It then is surrounded by polyethylene insulation to a total thickness of about an

inch. To protect it from the rigors of shipment and laying, the entire cable is clothed in good

old-fashioned tarred jute, although jute nowadays is made from plastic, not hemp.

This suffices for the deep-sea portions of the cable. In shallower waters, additional layers of

protection are laid on, beginning with a steel antishark jacket. As the shore is approached,

various other layers of steel armoring wires are added.

This more or less describes how all submarine cables are being made as of 1996. Only a few

companies in the world know how to make cables like this: AT&T Submarine Systems

International (AT&T-SSI) in the US, Alcatel in France, and KDD Submarine Cable Systems

(KDD-SCS) in Japan, among others. AT&T-SSI and KDD-SCS frequently work together on large

projects and are responsible for FLAG. Alcatel, in classic French fasion, likes to go it alone.

This basic technology will, by the end of the century, be carrying most of the information

between continents. Copper-based coaxial cable systems are still in operation in many places

around the world, but all of them will have reached the end of their practical lifetimes within a

few years. Even if they still function, they are not worth the trouble it takes to operate them.

TPC-1 (Trans Pacific Cable #1), which connected Japan to Guam and hence to the United States

in 1964, is still in perfect working order, but so commercially worthless that it has been turned

over to a team at Tokyo University, which is using it to carry out seismic research. The capacity

of such cables is so tiny that modern fiber cables could absorb all of their traffic with barely a

hiccup if the right switches and routers were in place. Likewise, satellites have failed to match

some of the latest leaps in fiber capacity and can no longer compete with submarine cables, at

least until such time as low-flying constellations such as Iridium and Teledesic begin operating.

Within the next few years, several huge third-generational optical fiber systems will be coming

online: not only FLAG but a FLAG competitor called SEA-ME-WE 3 (Southeast Asia-Middle

East-Western Europe #3); TPC-5 (Trans-Pacific Cable #5); APCN (Asia-Pacific Cable Network),

which is a web of cables interconnecting Japan, Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Malaysia, Thailand,

Indonesia, Singapore, Australia, and the Philippines; and the latest TAT (Transatlantic) cable.

So FLAG is part of a trend that will soon bring about a vast increase in intercontinental

bandwidth.

What is unusual about FLAG is not its length (although it will be the longest cable ever

constructed) or its technology (which is shared by other cables) but how it came into existence.

But that's a business question which will be dealt with later. First, the hacker tourist is going to

travel a short distance up the Malay Peninsula to southern Thailand, one of the two places

where FLAG passes overland. On a world map this looks about as difficult as throwing an

extension cord over a sandbar, but when you actually get there, it turns out to be a colossal

project

7° 3.467' N,100° 22.489' EFLAG manhole production site, southern Thailand

Large portions of this section were written in a hotel in Ban Hat Yai, Thailand, which is one of

the information-transfer capitals of the planet regardless of whether you think of information

transfer as bits propagating down an optical fiber, profound and complex religious faiths being

transmitted down through countless generations, or genetic material being interchanged

between consenting adults. Male travelers approaching Ban Hat Yai will have a difficult time

convincing travel agents, railway conductors, and taxi drivers that they are coming only to look

at a big fat wire, but the hacker tourist must get used to being misunderstood.

We stayed in a hotel with all the glossy accoutrements of an Asian business center plus a few

perks such as partially used jumbo condom packages squirreled away on closet shelves,

disconcertingly huge love marks on the sofas, and extraordinarily long, fine, black hairs all over

the bathroom. While writing, I sat before a picture window looking out over a fine view of: a

well-maintained but completely empty swimming pool, a green Carlsberg Beer billboard written

in Thai script, an industrial-scale whorehouse catering to Japanese "businessmen," a rather fine

Buddhist temple complex, and, behind that, a district of brand-new high-rise hotels built to

cater to the burgeoning information-transfer industry, almost none of which has anything to do

with bits and bytes. Tropical storms rolled through, lightning flashed, I sucked down European

beers from the minibar and tried to cope with a bad case of information overload. FLAG is a

huge project, bigger and more complicated than many wars, and to visit even chunks of this

cable operation is to be floored by it.

We first met Jim Daily and Alan Wall underneath that big Carlsberg sign, sitting out in a

late-afternoon rainstorm under an umbrella, having a couple of beers - "the only ferangs here,"

as Wall told me on the phone, using the local term for foreign devil. Daily is American, 2 meters

tall, blond, blue-eyed, khaki-and-polo-shirted, gregarious, absolutely plain-spoken, and almost

always seems to be having a great time. Wall is English, shorter, dark-haired, impeccably

suited, cagey, reticent, and dry. Both are in their 50s. It is of some significance to this story

that, at the end of the day, these two men unwind by sitting out in the rain and hoisting a beer,

paying no attention whatsoever to the industrial-scale whorehouse next door. Both of them

have seen many young Western men arrive here on business missions and completely lose

control of their sphincters and become impediments to any kind of organized activity. Daily

hired Wall because, like Daily, he is a stable family man who has his act together. They are the

very definition of a complementary relationship, and they seem to be making excellent progress

toward their goal, which is to run two really expensive wires across the Malay Peninsula.

Since these two, and many of the others we will meet on this journey, have much in common

with one another, this is as good a place as any to write a general description. They tend to

come from the US or the British Commonwealth countries but spend very little time living there.

They are cheerful and outgoing, rudely humorous, and frequently have long-term marriages to

adaptable wives. They tend to be absolutely straight shooters even when they are talking to a

hacker tourist about whom they know nothing. Their openness would probably be career suicide

in the atmosphere of Byzantine court-eunuch intrigue that is public life in the United States

today. On the other hand, if I had an unlimited amount of money and woke up tomorrow

morning with a burning desire to see a 2,000-hole golf course erected on the surface of Mars, I

would probably call men like Daily and Wall, do a handshake deal with them, send them a blank

check, and not worry about it.

Daily works out of Bangkok, the place where banks are headquartered, contracts are written,

and 50-ton cranes are to be had. Alan "the ferang" Wall lives in Ban Hat Yai, the center of the

FLAG operation in Thailand, cruising the cable routes a couple of times a week, materializing

unpredictably in the heart of the tropical jungle in a perfectly tailored dark suit to inspect,

among other things, FLAG's chain of manhole-making villages.

There were seven of these in existence during the summer of 1996, all lying along one of the

two highways that run across the isthmus between the Andaman and the South China Seas.

These highways, incidentally, are lined with utility poles carrying both power and

communications wires. The tops of the poles are guarded by conical baskets about halfway up.

The baskets prevent rats from scampering up the poles to chew away the tasty insulation on the

wires and poisonous snakes from slithering up to sun themselves on the crossbars, a practice

that has been known to cause morale problems among line workers.

The manhole-making village we are visiting on this fine, steamy summer day has a population

of some 130 workers plus an unknown number of children. The village was founded in the shade

of an old, mature rubber plantation. Along the highway are piles of construction materials

deposited by trucks: bundles of half-inch rebar, piles of sand and gravel. At one end of the

clearing is a double row of shelters made from shiny new corrugated metal nailed over wooden

frames, where the men, women, and children of the village live. On the end of this is an

open-air office under a lean-to roof, equipped with a whiteboard - just like any self-respecting

high tech company. Chickens strut around flapping their wings uselessly, looking for stuff to

peck out of the ground.

When the day begins, the children are bused off to school, and the men and women go to work.

The women cut the rebar to length using an electric chop saw. The bars are laid out on planks

with rows of nails sticking out of them to form simple templates. Then the pieces of rebar are

wired together to create cages perhaps 2 meters high and 1.5 meters on a side. Then the

carpenters go to work, lining the cage inside and out with wooden planks. Finally, 13 metric

tons of cement are poured into the forms created by the planks. When the planks are taken

away, the result is a hollow, concrete obelisk with a cylindrical collar projecting from the top,

with an iron manhole cover set into it. Making a manhole takes three weeks.

Meanwhile, along the highway, trenches are being dug - quickly scooped out of the lowland soil

with a backhoe, or, in the mountains, laboriously jackhammered into solid rock. A 50-ton crane

comes to the village, picks up one manhole at a time using lifting loops that the villagers built

into its top, and sets it on a flatbed truck that transports it to one of the wider excavations that

are spaced along the trench at intervals of 300 to 700 meters. The manholes will allow workers

to climb down to the level of the buried cable, which will stretch through a conduit running

under the ground between the manholes.

The crane lowers the manhole into the excavation. A couple of hard-hatted workers get down

there with it and push it this way and that, getting it lined up, while other workers up on the

edge of the pit help out by shoving on it with a big stick. Finally it settles gingerly into place,

atop its prepoured pad. The foreman clambers in, takes a transparent green disposable lighter

from his pocket, and sets it down sideways on the top of the manhole. The liquid butane inside

the lighter serves as a fluid level, verifying that the manhole is correctly positioned.

With a few more hours' work, the conduits have been mated with the tubes built into the walls

of the manhole and the surrounding excavation filled in so that nothing is left except some

disturbed earth and a manhole cover labeled CAT: Communications Authority of Thailand. The

eventual result of all this work will be two separate chains of manholes (931 of them all told)

running parallel to two different highways, each chain joined by twin lengths of conduit - one

conduit for FLAG and one for CAT.

Farther west, another crew is at work, burdened with three enormous metal spools carrying

flexible black plastic conduit having an inside diameter of an inch. The three spools are set up

on stands near a manhole, the three ducts brought together and tied into a neat bundle by

workers using colorful plastic twine. Meanwhile, others down in the manhole are wrestling with

the world's most powerful peashooter: a massive metal pipe with a screw jack on its butt end.

The muzzle of the device is inserted into one of the conduits on the manhole wall and the screw

jack is tightened against the opposite wall to hold it horizontal. Next the peashooter is loaded: a

big round sponge with a rope tied to it is inserted into an opening on its side. The rope comes

off a long spool. Finally, a hefty air compressor is fired up above ground and its outlet tube

thrown down into the manhole and patched into a valve on this pipe. When the valve is opened,

compressed air floods the pipe behind the round sponge, which shoots forward like a bullet in a

gun barrel, pulling the rope behind it and causing the reel to spin wildly like deep-sea fishing

tackle that has hooked a big tuna.

"Next manhole! Next manhole!" cries the foreman excitedly, and pedestrians, bicyclists, motor

scooters, and (if inspectors or hacker tourists are present) cars parade down the highway,

veering around water buffaloes and goats and chickens to the next manhole, some half a

kilometer away, where a torrent of water, driven before the sponge, is blasting out of a conduit

and slamming into the opposite wall. One length of the conduit can hold some 5 cubic meters of

water, and the sponge, ramming down the tube like a piston, forces all of it out. Finally the

sponge pops out of the hole like a pea from a peashooter, bringing the rope with it. The rope is

used to pull through a thicker rope, which is finally connected to the triple bundle of thin duct at

one end and to a pulling motor at the other. This pulling motor is a slowly turning drum with

several turns of rope around it.

Now the work gets harder: at the manhole with the reels, some workers bundle and tie the

ducts as they unroll while others, down in the hole, bend them around a difficult curve and keep

them feeding smoothly into the conduit. At the other end, a man works with the puller, keeping

the tension constant and remaining alert for trouble. Back at the reels, the thin duct

occasionally gets wedged between loose turns on the reel, and everything has to be stopped.

Usually this is communicated to the puller via walkie-talkie, but when the afternoon rains hit,

the walkie-talkies don't work as well, and a messenger has to buzz back and forth on a motor

scooter. But eventually the triple inner duct is pulled through both of the conduits, and the

whole process can begin again on the next segment.

Daily and Wall preside over this operation, which is Western at the top and pure Thai at the

ground level, with a gradual shading of cultures in between. FLAG has dealings in many

countries, and the arrangement is different in each one. Here, the top level is a 50-50

partnership between FLAG and Thailand's CAT. They bid the project out to two different large

contractors, each of whom hired subcontractors with particular specialties who work through

sub-sub-contractors who hire the workers, get them to the site, and make things happen. The

incentives are shaped at each level so that the contractors will get the job done without having

to be micromanaged, and the roads seem to be crawling with inspectors representing various

levels of the project who make sure that the work is being done according to spec (at the height

of this operation, 50 percent of the traffic on some of these roads was FLAG-related).

The top-level contracts are completely formalized with detailed specifications, bid bonds, and so

on, and business at this level is done in English and in air-conditioned offices. But by the time

you get to the bottom layer, work is being done by people who, although presumably just as

intelligent as the big shots, are fluent only in Thai and not especially literate in any language,

running around in rubber flip-flops, doing business on a handshake, pulling wads of bills out of

their pockets when necessary to pay for some supplies or get drinks brought in. Consequently,

the way in which the work is performed bears no resemblance whatsoever to the way it would

be done in the United States or any other developed country. It is done the Thai way.

Not one but two entirely separate pairs of conduits are being created in this fashion. Both of

them run from the idyllic sandy beach of Ban Pak Bara on the west to the paradisiacal sandy

beach of Songkhla on the east - both of them are constructed in the same way, to the same

specifications. Both of them run along highways. The southern route takes the obvious path,

paralleling a road that runs in a relatively straight line between the two endpoints for 170

kilometers. But the other route jogs sharply northward just out of Ban Pak Bara, runs up the

coast for some distance, turns east, and climbs up over the bony spine of the peninsula, then

turns south again and finally reaches Songkhla after meandering for some 270 kilometers.

Unlike the southern route, which passes almost exclusively over table-flat paddy land, easily

excavated with a backhoe, the northern route goes for many kilometers over solid rock, which

must be trenched with jackhammers and other heavy artillery, filled with galvanized steel

conduit, and then backfilled with gravel and concrete.

This raises questions. The questions turn out to have interesting answers. I'll summarize them

first and then go into detail. Q: Why bother running two widely separated routes over theMalay

Peninsula?

A: Because Thailand, like everywhere else in the world, is full ofidiots with backhoes.

Q: Isn't that a pain in the ass?

A: You have no idea.

Q: Why not just go south around Singapore and keep the cable in the water, then?

A: Because Singapore is controlled by the enemy.

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Archive|4.12-Dec1996|featuresMotherEarthMotherBoardThehackertouristventuresforthacrossthewideandwondrousmeatspaceofthreecontinents,chroniclingthelayingofthelongestwireonEarth.ByNealStephensonInwhichthehackertouristventuresforthacrossthewideandwondrousmeatspaceofthreecontinents,acquaintinghimselfwith...

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Stephenson, Neal - Mother Earth Mother Board

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