M Y O B

August 12, 2009

Letters are coming about once a week now.

Sat. 7 April 1968

Dear Everybody~

Pardon my using up this ti ti paper—I seem to have run out of the larger stuff I had around.

The week began well enough, with receipt of a letter from the IRS acknowledging their error and promising to refund all my money plus interest. Indeed, I have received one check already. It only took them two months, along with five letters from me to get it straightened out!

Early in the week I busied myself with more refrigerator work and similar stuff. Midweek, however, I was called to see the Inst. Mgr. (Dan Smythe), and it seems that when the Army inspected us on March 14, they didn’t find the Lab situation too pleasing, and so rapped (or “gigged”, as the Army puts it) him pretty hard. Naturally, he produced reams of “CYA” material (CYA = Cover Your A–) through which he laid all the blame on CMO, and after we’d gone over that thoroughly, he laid the monkey squarely in my lap—just what I’ve been waiting for. He hasn’t yet any idea of the pandora’s box he’s opened, but since he is soon to be relieved as near as anyone can tell, it won’t really matter. Today I finally got to see the right people at USARV, and received a most sympathetic and even enthusiastic response there. All sorts of possibilities are opening up, though the implementation will take boocoo time, no doubt. Eventually, there’s even the possibility I may go to Japan to buy equipment (I’d have to think that over very carefully!); the presently projected staff to comply with Dan’s ideas is about 14, and to comply with what the Army seems to have in mind will be even more! Naturally, I’ve elevated my self to Chief of Water Lab (actually, Dan so addresses me)! Among other things that I hope will become involved here is transfer of the Lab to new quarters as near as possible to Tan Son Nhut (to facilitate transportation of samples and field support teams), and to get away from that infernal dust at LB. It’s all at a very nebulous stage now, and will stay that way for awhile through the technical discussion period. The plan is to start tunneling from two ends—USARV and CMO—and hope we meet somewhere along the line.

The news from home this week has certainly been fast breaking—and heart breaking. I was only mildly surprised at Johnson’s decision not to run, because several commentators had suggested the possibility, and because Johnson is, above all else, a politician: politically, he has taken the surest road to coming out of it all smelling like a rose no matter what happens. If he allows himself to be drafted, and loses, he can always say, “Well, I wanted out back in April”; if he wins, no one will even bring the matter up. And of course, if he actually refuses a draft, he will have served notice far enough in advance. Above it all is his “lofty purpose”, to which he can always pridefully point: to be President uninterrupted right through his full term. And BEHIND it all, is the fact that his “new” policy on VN may becalm the Kennedy and McCarthy sloops. This sudden and dramatic about-face on VN may well take a lot of wind out of all his opponents’ sails, and if he actually gets any concrete response from Hanoi, he’s assured, I think, of a popular-acclaim draft for another term (in spite of the fact I still don’t think he deserves it).

The saddest aspect of it that I can see is what I interpret as pretty solid evidence that his TIMING in the matter was almost solely timed for political expediency, rather than for the good of the country. And as subsequent events have shown, he has sold America down the river as a result. His lukewarm response to his own commission’s riot report (which as I write this is probably being reappraised by him and will be the major topic in his address to Congress Monday) certainly did not help matters a bit.

As to the prospects for his halt-the-bombing step resulting in any real progress, the feeling here runs from a high of exceedingly cautious optimism down to total rejection. I would place my own feelings in the former group. I think the most significant thing in Johnson’s speech may have been his pointed omission of anything related to what he may do if Hanoi does not respond positively, or if Hanoi takes the opportunity (as most everyone here expects they will) to re-trench.

The news of Dr. King’s assassination was received here with considerable unofficial jubilation. Racism is more rampant here among the americans than at home—if that be possible. The ignorance revealed by most peoples’ notion that Dr. King’s demise will calm things down in america is, of course, made apparent by reports of renewed violence, which is bound to become worse before any relief is gained. America seems bound for a revolution at last, and perhaps the only thing that can be said for it is that the sooner it runs its course the sooner some sort of normalcy—hopefully with some important improvements—can be resumed. That revolution has been in the works for some time, and that it probably could not have been prevented by anyone seems evident to me: but I believe wiser leadership by the President might have made it a less destructive and more constructive sort of revolution. It remains to be seen, of course, but I have the feeling that little constructive progress in the field of human relations is going to appear in the US for some years. I have no reason to think that Kennedy or Nixon—should either get elected, will (or can) do much about this, and I fear that McCarthy lacks the drive to back up  his determination.

The weather here has grown steadily hotter, though by no means unbearable as far as I am concerned. We logged 108° F a few days ago, but had an hour of rain at LB one night (though none in Saigon!).

Schools reopened in Saigon April lst, and in the AM & PM both, the streets are awash with youngsters, for the most part dolled up in blue pants or shorts and white shirt (boys) and black pajamas with white ao dai’s (girls). Where all these kids have been keeping themselves the past weeks I don’t know, but with all of them out on the streets now, traffic is hampered considerably. All schools are on double session—8-12 and 2-6. They run the full year ’round, with a break only at Tet and numerous one-day holidays throughout the year. The week is six days long.

I had letters on Wednesday from all branches of the family. For everybody’s information, a water point is simply a well, creek, etc. where water is produced for consumption, either potable for drinking purposes or non potable for industrial use. Over here, it is usually a well-pump-generator set up, with a chlorinator. Nothing to it really, and I haven’t yet had to run one.

Guess that’s 30. Oh: I continue to enjoy the radio, and we’ve been having some power outages here lately that drop out all the fluorescent-light static, and reception is very good! I suspect I may have my tapes shipped over, though: machines are very cheap,here, and I miss a lot of my music.

Love to all
Bruce

At this point in my narrative, I had been in Vietnam for about 9 weeks. Suddenly, I became “legal”—my USARV “pass” was issued. I wore this on a chain, along with several other items, but usually tucked them all into my shirt pocket.

Saigon USARV Pass

I don’t recall any occasion when someone actually asked to see it, but there must have been a few times when it got me into some place I might not otherwise have been allowed.

I also got to carry the document shown below: I no longer recall what is was supposed to be for, as it is all in Vietnamese. Perhaps it was a local drivers license?

Saigon Document

Virtually all documents we were required to carry got encapsulated in plastic one way or another: otherwise, humidity and mildew were likely to cause them to disintegrate quite rapidly.

Here is another letter, written a week later: note at ten weeks, the first mention of leaving Vietnam!

Easter Sunday,14 April (here)

Dear Everyone~

Just a week ago I sat here writing of the fairly eventful week that preceded last Sunday. The week I now write about has been less eventful here, but (predictably) fairly eventful at home. Until Teusday night, AFVN suspended normal programming in deference to Dr. King’s demise, and all flags (including the Vietnamese ones) flew at half-mast. The news from all corners of the world was of the intense and bloody reaction that followed the assassination. Though I never heard San Francisco specifically mentioned, word from friends there indicates that there was some disorderliness there, which, of course, I would have found surprising had none occurred. All this is only a presage of things to come; revolutions generally follow pretty predictable courses, so there is bound to be much more activity, much more bloodshed, and much more hard feeling.

Throughout the week, these events at home came up in conversation often. The general concensus was always to the general effect that “we” were going to have to kill off a whole lot more of “those n—–s”, in order to straighten out this thing. Quite predictably, when I suggested the simple alternative of just treating the black people like people, which they are, instead of like animals, which they are not, these conversations came to a quick halt (precisely what I desired). Actually, moving into these circles here is like stepping backwards in time about twenty years. Where, in the US, one can usually count on generating a little sympathy for the black mans’ cause in just about any group, here, among the professional expatriates who make up the bulk of the american population, one is considered wildly radical if he departs from the hard-line racism in the slightest degree. Hence, I am considered a dangerous liberal: if most of my acquaintances here (I consider none of them friends!) were to know just how far my liberalism goes, I would probably be totally ostracised. Fortunately, I was not unprepared to be trapped in this mire of ignorance: my internal idealism and seemingly perpetual optimism are both bearing up well. My faith in the fortuitous process of dieing-out of the current generation with the slow but inexorable consequence of change in attitudes is not diminished; this, coupled with the determination of many people of many colors to erase the color line will, I am sure, combine to bring about a better time for everyone: the tragedy lies in the fact that what should be so simple a task turns out to be so difficult.

As far as work goes, I can’t report much progress, but at least I have managed to generate some sympathy for my predicament both in fairly high eschelons of the Army and at CMO. Taking Dan Smythe’s mandate as a starting point, and interpreting both it and our contract with the Army as broadly as possibly, I am developing a program of magnitude that will, I am sure, set Dan back on his heels! Briefly, the essence of it includes three basic concepts: 1) that responsibility for the laboratory be returned to the Installations Department of CMO; 2) an entirely new laboratory be constructed from the ground up; and 3) supplies and equipment for at least a year’s operation be procured under my direction through direct US purchase and flown over by the AF; meanwhile going through the normal Fed Stock System in the hopes that future re-supply can be so obtained.

A program of this magnitude is about equivalent to setting up a central water laboratory facility for the state of California, and will involve in its first year the expenditure of about half a million dollars. The staff will grow rapidly to some twenty persons; the lab will occupy about 10,000 sq ft (as compared with about 1000 in the present structure). New applicable Army Regulations deal heavily with “CBR” agents (Chemical, Biological, and Radiological), which require vast quantities of expensive equipment and very sophisticated personnel to run it.

Assuming the program is adopted and implemented (and several people at USARV are most enthusiastic), there is a distinct possibility I might have to go TDY to the states to supervise the initial procurement. When this will be is impossible to foretell now. Almost certainly, one or more trips to Japan would also be required, since that is the logical place to procure the more bulky lab furnishings, as well as some items of instrumentation. I contemplate definitely getting an AA unit like we had at [previous employer].

All the vagueries of this entire situation here, however, combine to make all this very tenuous at best, and quite possibly no action at all will be taken towards implementing this program. In that event, I won’t stay here in Vietnam past June 30th, when the company must perforce give everyone a “completed contract” in order to close out its FY contract with the Army. At such time there is always a shake-up in personnel for all sorts of reasons. If I see no future in my position by then, I shall, in local parlance, di di mau—though not to the states you can be sure—most probably my next stop would be Indonesia, where a number of more or less international oil firms are quite busy, and where I think I might have a good possibility of getting on. Time will tell!

The weather is beginning to change subtly. It remains hot, of course, which, as I have repeatedly mentioned, is a delight for me. The humidity is beginning to rise above its usual 80%, or so, which results is surprisingly little discomfort if one can dress properly for it. Already it has rained occasionally, twice in Saigon and three times in LB so far. So far it has been light by tropical standards. These are the first rains since 10 December, and it will continue sporadically now, becoming more frequent through May and June, with almost daily showers through July and August, and almost continuous rains through September.

I haven’t yet found an issue of the Geographic with the Saigon article. Todd is correct when he says that one goes out Le Van Duyet to get to Hiway 1; I have been incorrect in referring to the Hiway I ride daily to Long Binh as Hiway 1: 1 think it is 1A, but the local name is simply Xa Lo Bien Hoa (X VN = S Eng) or Bien Hoa Hiway. (Bien Hoa is pronounced “been wah”). Hence, one goes North-East on Phan-thanh-Gian, which becomes the hiway to Bien Hoa, which is adjacent to Long Binh. I’ll draw a little map to enclose which may make all this a little clearer.

That about does it, except for whatever personal notes I may add to individual letters. I expect there will be letters awaiting me at LB tomorrow AM, as there have been none this week: as Todd says, we’ve been crossing in the mails, aided by the fact it takes longer for letters to get from there to here than from here to there. Cest la Post!

Love to all~
Bruce

Here is the map I drew:

My Hand Drawn Map

The map is deceiving, because there’s no scale. Where it says “much of Saigon not shown” is an understatement. From that point to Long Binh was about 20 miles or so.

More letters in a few days!

NEXT

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE AN AD MAN DEPARTMENT

I was amused a while back when UPS ran it’s “WHAT CAN BROWN DO FOR YOU?” adverts. Because, when I was coming out in my early twenties, a popular euphemism for fucking was “browning”. It was used as a verb, “to brown”, as in “I’d like to brown him”. Somewhere in the east there was a school called the Browning School: gay guys in my generation loved to have a picture taken of themselves under the sign “Browning School for Boys”. The term seems to have died out, along with “corn-holing”.

More recently, there was the flap about the Repugnant Party expropriating the term “tea-bagging” for some silly protest march. Reporting on that gave Olbermann many opportunities for delicious puns.

So yesterday I opened The Nation and found this ad:

The answer of course is C U M ! Or is “pearl necklace” another term we used to use that’s gone by the wayside?

THE CURRENT PORN SCENE

I do wonder if one reason guys don’t want to be in the showers together any more is because so many of them are shaving off their pubic hair. According to some bloggers, close to a quarter of today’s young men are doing this. As for the porn stars, they shave all over! But all the signals are mixed: why festoon your lovely body with tattoos, if you’re afraid to strip down and show them off? How long before the gym showers are segregated into straight and gay? It is all very confusing.

ON WITH MY NARRATIVE: MY OLDER BROTHER

Towards the end of my time with Johnny, there came a weekend when I simply HAD to get away. I asked my older brother to wire me a plane ticket to Southern California, where I spent time with him, his wife and kids, and several boxer dogs. On my last night there, my brother said, “I sense there’s some problems you are working on: if you wanna talk about them, we gotta do it tonight cuz I gotta go to work in the morning.”

It was now or never! I steeled myself for his reaction, up to and possibly including throwing me out of the house, and said, “Well, for the last several years, I’ve been married to this guy, and it hasn’t been going well at all.”

Bro said, “Yeah: we know all about that. I was in the Navy, we had some gay guys on board, and as Captain I had to deal with it. You see how Leena and I get into it now and then: it seems to come with the territory. But, if the situation isn’t what you want, get out of it.”

No histrionics. No hysterics. Matter of fact. My brother already knew I was gay. He had never mentioned it.

What a relief!

MY OLDEST BROTHER

Motivated by yet another flare-up with Johnny, one night I sat down and wrote a long letter to my oldest brother, revealing all. His reaction, when it came, startled me. He reminded me of an occasion years before when he had arrived at the family home in Modesto: I remembered it well. He had driven in with a lot of noise and honking, and when he came into the house, Butch and I (we’d been carrying on in my bedroom) were dressed and composed. It turned out, my brother had driven by the house and seen a strange car in the driveway, and a light on in my bedroom. He parked a few doors away, walked back and and peeped into my bedroom, observed Butch and me for a while, then made is his noisy entrance. He never said a word to me about it until years later! Whether I was gay, straight or otherwise, he could care less!

MY FOLKS

I soon discovered that both of my brothers had discussed my being gay with my father. Of course, he discussed it with my stepmother. So, when at last I broached the subject with my Dad, he finally asked me if I identified my self as a homosexual, and I had to reply that I did. He took it in stride, and we rarely ever spoke of it again. Eventually, he gave me the same advice with respect to Johnny as my brother had, and helped me cope with some of the fallout when the “divorce” finally eventuated.

My stepmother, who had connections in education circles in Modesto, finally admitted she had heard on the “grapevine” that the administrators of my high school were all convinced I was gay! I wish they had told me, dammit! It seems they all thought I was sucking dick at a great rate, when in fact I was so sure I was some sort of misfit I wasn’t doing diddly-squat. (Except whacking-off every chance I got). Sheeeeesh!

EPILOGUE

Many years later, when Dad had retired for the third time, I was home one weekend. He explained he had been going through all the books in the house, disposing of out-dated texts and so forth. I asked him if he had gotten rid of my favorite of his books.

“What book was that?”

“ The Sexual Life of the Child, by Alfred Moll.”

He consulted his card-file. “No, I still have it. Why were you interested in it?”

“‘Cause I usta steal it from your office and read it! It had a lot of case-histories ‘n stuff. And, Moll  advanced the theory that because the penis is a muscle, masturbation favored development.”

Dad chuckled, and (punning unintentionally) said, “You know, we’ve come full circle on that topic in my lifetime: why, I can remember going to the Denver YMCA when I was about 14 to hear some guy tell us all about the ‘evils of masturbation.’ In fact, that’s where I learned about it!”

Well, old Moll was something of a nitwit, but the book had been written in the twenties. I still have it. His theory about masturbation favoring development has long since been disproved. But I love the picture my Dad conjured of some old fart going around the country talking about the “evils of masturbation” and thereby introducing hundreds of horny boys to it.

We used to say, “Join the YMCA and do it the Christian way!”

MOVING ON WITH MY LIFE

At this point I was approaching 30. Out, when it mattered. Out to my family, to whom it did NOT matter. I had a decent job, my Dad’s old ‘53 Chrysler V-8 to drive. The next major event in my life would occur in 1966.

Stay tuned!

[email protected]

NEXT

May 29, 2009

NUCLEAR NON-PROLIFERATION

Before I begin the next phase of my narrative, a word about non-proliferation. It seems to me the notion is flawed, as it maintains some who have the bomb, and some who do not. Inevitably, those who do not have the bomb want it, hence Iran, and other countries  trying to make one, or buy one from North Korea (who needs the money and will sell anything to anyone).

My answer would be to scrap the non-proliferation treaty and offer a bomb (or several) to  any country that wanted one and was willing to take on the expense of maintaining, protecting and accounting for it. It seems  to me that everyone who does not have one would take one (or a few – the number does not matter). What matters is that when everyone had “the bomb” anyone tempted to use one would know they would be subjected to instant annihilation if they did so. The plan is Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD) carried to its ultimate extreme. While it could lead to the end of the earth as we know it, my feeling is that would not happen. MAD did a good job of staving off nuclear war for many years, until Dubya substituted his “Preemptive Strike” (PS) doctrine, and see what that got us! The problem with preemptive strike is that anyone can strike preemptively: there is nothing to prevent Iran or North Korea or any other country from adopting that policy, and there is really no rational protection against it. MAD would be a far more potent dis-incentive to “strike first and ask questions later”, which is how George implemented PS. The total destruction of a sovereign nation (Iraq) was the result: there is a lot of blood on George’s hands, and I wish to see him pay the appropriate price for it.

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

The two years between 1964 (divorce from Johnny) and 1966 (next love) were relatively uneventful. At work I was moving up the ladder slowly; away from work I was foot-loose and fancy-free. I played the field, often spending Friday and Saturday nights at a mixed bar called Bligh’s Bounty. At the time, it was a pretty laid-back place where guys who liked black men could hang out, and where black men who likes whites could do the same. I got to know some very nice fellows: most of the time the juke-box was low enough so a decent (and occasionally indecent) conversation could be had. That came to an end with the installation of live go-go boys, who danced to a much louder juke-box.

The guys were pretty enough, though they rarely were allowed to “let it all hang out” in those days: they wore skimpy speedos or posing-straps. But the notion they were up there being looked at by all the guys in the place resulted in awesome attitude problems: they were untouchable, whereas the more ordinary folk in the bar were at least open to the notion of a toss in the hay. I managed to trick from Bligh’s now and then, but most of my sex was occurring in the tubs, specifically the Turk Street Baths.

The TSB was, in those days, a fairly classy and reasonably safe place. It generally filled to over-flowing on weekends, but my favorite night was Thursday. The Thursday night crowd was mainly made up of guys who couldn’t wait for Friday and who were “hot to trot”. In the feverish weekend crowd, too many guys were waiting for “Mr. Right”, so a less-than-perfect guy like me went without. But on Thursdays? Whooooopee! I could usually score, and had some really wonderful nights there.

Just once in those days, I contracted a case of anal clap. I knew I was taking a chance on a fellow I’d not seen before and who was a bit more drunk than I’d have liked: but he was cute, and hung poorly-enough that I could manage. Later, at the City Health Clinic, a nurse gave me two shots of penicillin, one in each hip.

She said, “A few deep squats will help relieve the sting”.

I replied, “Lady, how do you think I got into this condition?”

She fell out, laughing: I’d made her day.

I resolved to be more careful.

FATEFUL MEETING

One night I stayed at Bligh’s later than usual, and joined some fellows who invited me to ride with them over to the Jumping Frog on Polk Street. I’d heard of it, but had never gone: it stayed open “after hours”. But when we got there, it was packed beyond managing, and was filled with fumes from smokers, and everyone there was more drunk than I, and more drunk than I cared for, so I departed, planning to catch an “owl” bus that took me within a block of where I was then living. I missed a bus by minutes, and had to wait an hour on the street for another. When it arrived, now around 3 in the morning, there was only one person (beside the driver) on it, a black dude seated at the back of the bus. I dropped down beside him, and we struck up a desultory conversation that soon lapsed, until it devolved that we both got off at the same stop. I suggested he could stop in for coffee, and he agreed.

I was not immediately drawn to Cornell: I got the impression he was straight, but we were engaged in somewhat similar work and there were topics we could discuss meaningfully. We drank coffee and chatted amiably until nearly 5 A M, when he decided he should be getting home. For whatever reason, as he stood, I simply said, “I’d really like to hug you before you go”.

THE STORM

That was all it took! Pretty soon we were rolling around on my bed, kissing and carrying on. We were in no hurry to get undressed, and in fact never did. He got my manhood out of my pants, but for the most part, we engaged in frottage, something with which I was not very familiar. We went at this for at least an hour, and I found him very exciting: he was gentle and caring: what of him I could feel was smooth and silky, and I wanted more, more, MORE!

All of a sudden, he leapt out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I got there soon after to find him mopping up: he’d had an orgasm in his pants! The familiar smell of cum (not to mention hours of exciting fore-play) led me to jack off and add my seed to his, a process that took only a few moments, but which was explosive on my part. Then I helped him clean up, gave him a clean pair of my own tighty-whities, and sent him on his way after exchanging phone numbers.

The upshot of all this is we saw a good deal of each other for a few months. I discovered that Cornell was an expert fucker: he fucked me often, and made me enjoy it every time. To do so, he had to get nude, and I reveled in his superb body, very black, glabrous, and without any adipose tissue at all. He was not particularly muscular, but just perfectly constructed and sexy. I was very soon wrapped up in Cornell, and it seemed like he liked me and appreciated my sense of humor and my horniness whenever he came around.

In late March that year I took a short job in Albuquerque, New Mexico, then took a train to Chicago, thence to Montreal and St. Hyacinthe, PQ, home of the famous pipe organ builders Casavant Freres Ltee. The notion at the time was I should go to work there. Cornell looked after my place while I was gone.

But the weather sucked! Winter was over, but Spring hadn’t sprung: it was miserably cold, and I quickly decided it was no place for a native Californian. Also, I spoke no French, and it was clear that to work there I would have had to do so. I shortened my stay and took a train to New York: Easter was fast approaching, but I really wanted to get back home to Cornell. I phoned him my ETA and headed west by plane on Easter Sunday.

When I entered my house, it was empty. Until I reached the bedroom, where Cornell was waiting to surprise me. Man, oh man! Coming home to a beautiful guy I was hoping before long to call my lover: what more could a 30 year old gay boy want?

What, indeed!

A few days later, the roof fell in on my life. Cornell announced he was already married (to a guy) and that his dalliance with me was over. It had just been a ”lark”, a conquest, and it was done.

Jesus H. Christelberger! I went into a deep funk. I managed to keep working, but going home every night, alone again, no prospects, no nuthin’, sent me into a tail-spin. I stalked his house, hoping for glimpses of him, but he eluded me. I was, to put it mildly, heart-broken.

How I got out of this depression will be reported in my next episode, so stay tuned!

NEXT

CLARIFICATION NEEDED

I began my last page with comments about Xe/Blackwater.

PA&E and Blackwater had very different missions: in Vietnam, we were principally working in support of the military: maintenance of equipment and facilities was the biggest part of it. We worked closely with RMK-BRJ, whose mission was construction of facilities for the US Army. Many projects by RMK-BRJ, when completed, were turned over to the Army, then to PA&E for maintenance.

Blackwater’s mission in Iraq, however, was protection, mainly of US Embassy personnel and high-level visitors.

With that out of the way, here are two subsequent letters:

8:30 PM Sat. 02 March 1968

Dear Everyone~

Guess I’d better write a letter to all, although there is getting to be less about which to write. I fired off a short note directly to Todd [brother] inasmuch as his letter sounded so alarmed about the possibility of Saigon being wiped out. Your news is apparently being exaggerated grossly. I saw a clipping a fellow at work had the other day, from a Ventura paper. Some fellow, arriving about the same time as myself, had written a letter home. which had been passed on to the newspaper and liberally quoted. It contained such gems as “87 PA&E Americans killed”, “thousands of Vietnamese civilians killed in Saigon”, etc. ad nauseam. It will be accepted as gospel, alas, despite the fact it was, when written, untrue, and is still largely so.

The battle at Hue was, of course, much more severe and the loss of life and property staggering. Apparently, the VC slaughtered civilians there wholesale when they moved in—a favorite tactic to ensure “support” from the remaining population. The city is virtually wiped out now, and certainly will never be the same again. . .

Day before yesterday, very early in the AM the VC managed to somehow blow up three Equipment.Inc trucks at the Thu Duc intersection on Hiway 1. One truck was loaded with 55-gal drums of ammonia, while the other two were loaded with—of all things—G-rations. We understand two drivers were killed, but there has been no official report. When our bus arrived about a quarter to 8, the traffic jam was simply not to be believed. It was an hour and a half before we got through, and I’m sure traffic backed up all the way to Saigon. At one point, there were ten traffic “lanes” abreast, all outbound on the 4 lane highway + shoulders + ditches + fields beyond! Incredible—but typical of the sort of thing that happens from time to time. Hundreds of people were picking over the rubble of the burned tins, scavenging whatever they could, which added significantly to the confusion!

I spent this AM at the CMO office, where I picked up some very valuable information. I’ve decided to “go for broke” on setting up a functional laboratory. It will incur the everlasting enmity of Dan Smythe (because I plan to get the lab transferred out of his jurisdiction) and a few others—which bothers me not a bit. The plan hinges on getting the cooperation of the 20th Preventive Medicine Unit at Bien Hoa, which has the power to make an inspection and wrote an unfavorable report, which ought to shake PA&E up a bit. Of course, the result might be to abandon the whole thing—but at least that would get it out of the absurd state of limbo it now is in. This latter would mean I’d have to be reassigned to another job classification—pity!—so I may end up driving trucks or something.

Here is an example of the kind of tom-foolery that goes on over here, though. A few days ago, our electricity went off [at Long Binh Post HQ]. Having nothing better to do, Mr. [redacted] and I went over to the generator shed to see what was wrong. The generator operator (who presumably has a perfectly good name but who is known by the all-too-pervasive appellation of “papa-san”—a corruption that grates on my nerves whenever I hear it) explained in poor but passable English that the generator brushes were worn out, hence no excitation, and so no output. Brushes are supposed to be replaced after 500 hrs operation, but these had logged 3000 hrs and hence were no longer long enough to reach the commutator. Well, this sounded reasonable to me. About this time, 4 or 5 fellows arrived to see what was wrong (all “TCNs”). They proceeded to start the unit and try every switch and control on it: still no output, so they shut it down. About this time the American Elect. Maint. Spvsr. showed up, and he went through the same rigamarole of starting it up, working all the switches, etc. Now, the “cycles” gauge was the only one that showed anything at all, and it would only go to 47, instead of 60. (When there is no excitation, though, this gauge is meaningless). Nonetheless, the Spvsr decided the engine wasn’t running at speed and that the fuel filter must be plugged up. So he set the fellows to removing and cleaning that. That operation complete, the unit ran exactly as before—no output. Next, the supervisor explained that there were no replacement brushes in stock, so it would be necessary to move to a standby generator and repair the faulty one later. So, a “deuce-and-a-half” (2½ ton truck) and crane were secured, a new unit was moved in, and work was begin on getting it set up. It was minus two fan-belts on the engine—none in stock— but a used one was found and the crew fell to getting it hooked up. The supervisor remarked to me that “papa-san” had spent 20 years in France as an electrical engineer. While all the other activities had been going on, he [Papa-san] had quietly chattered at someone else who went away, and who presently returned with a whole handful of brushes, exactly the right part-number and all. So, while the other crew was working on the stand-by unit, “papa-san” was quietly inserting the new brushes—about a 20 minute operation—and needless to say, both generators got running—perfectly—at the same moment. About an hour and a half was lost, needless labor was consumed, and so forth. What a waste—and what a waste of talent to have an electrical engineer as a generator operator!

So – situation remains status quo – for the moment. I’m going to write a couple of short notes to Todd & Rob [brothers] which you can send along with the copies of this epistle. Tomorrow is Sunday – I may try again to learn something about the organ in the Cathedral; so far I can’t find any priest in the place who speaks English!

Love to all—
Bruce

_____________________________

Monday, 4 March 1968

Dear Everybody~

Once again today—no bus to Long Binh. Apparently the schedule has been moved up a half-hour, but I wasn’t informed (being at CMO Saturday), so I missed it. Pity!

In desperation, have been doing some reading of late. Here at the Hotel there’s a curious collection of pocket-books left by various itinerants. Among them I found “The Rothchilds”—a very entertaining account of that family’s past and current history. Also I found “The Heart of the Matter” by Grahame Greene, which has some remote parallels to my current situation, and which otherwise is a good yarn. Also found a book—title forgotten already—on the Sacco-Vinzetti business which is also interesting. There doesn’t seem to be much else of interest in the collection, but pocket books galore can be picked up downtown—and it looks as though I’ll be doing more reading than planned, since the 7 PM curfew appears likely to remain in effect for some while. After that goes, I hope to get active in the Vietnamese-American Association (VAA), a little-known (in the States) organization devoted to teaching the Vietnamese in a sort of adult-education night program. It is 4 nights a week, I understand, and pays a stipend (which I cannot legally accept, but can give to charity). It would give me a feeling of accomplishing something worthwhile to get involved in this. (Presently, of course, its activities are suspended. . . )

The enclosed articles (Saigon Sunday Post, 3 March 68) are just for general information.

Yesterday PM I went to the Rex BOQ “cookout”, where for $2.50 [MPC] one picks out his own choice of Filet Mignon or T-bone steak and cooks it on charcoal broilers set up on the “roof garden”—it was very good, and I got two large glasses of milk to go with it. Accidently dropped my dark glasses, though, & broke one lens cleanly into two pieces. I’ve repaired it with Epoxy today and ordered another from my optometrist in SF, which will take ten days or so.

All the news fit to scrawl for now!

Love to all,
Bruce

the Rex BOQ (formerly the Rex Hotel) commandeered by the Army

This was the Rex BOQ (formerly the Rex Hotel) commandeered by the Army. The dark structure at street level is a generator shed. The greenish stuff at the top is the “roof garden”, an added structure (mainly made out of scaffolding and corrugated plastic). Note the jeeps on the street along with a the Peugeot taxi. The street is Le Loi Boulevard. The Rex billeted a lot of upper-level Army Brass: I’m sure that if “walls could talk” the place could tell some fascinating tales!

Later on I lived a block away from the Rex, and when the rainy season hit, the sound of monsoon rains falling on that plastic roof was deafening!

Stay tuned for more adventures in Vietnam, coming up soon.

NEXT

Bangkok, Thailand: 27 September (I think!) 1968

Dear Everybody~

After 7 wonderful days in Siem Reap (1 out for Battambang), I departed 25 Sept about 8 am. Siem Reap turned out to be one of the cheapest places I’ve been—7 days, most meals at the Hotel all for $35.00—one of the first times I’ve actually achieved living for $5.00/day! Despite the intense tourist flow (at its lowest ebb in September, thank goodness) Siem Reap is very little spoilt: the relaxed rural atmosphere pervades the town in spite of all the hullaballoo of tourism. Most of the hotels are out of town a bit, which doubtless has something to do with it. But I’ve never relaxed so well as I did here, and I truly hated to leave. As is customary, I wrote a letter to Prince Sihanouk praising the country and the people (and indirectly, him): it was not empty praise, for my 20-day 2800 km tour of Cambodia was a most pleasant & memorable experience.

Seeing Cambodia in its relatively pristine beauty (especially after witnessing the mess in VN, and now that I’ve arrived in Bangkok) makes me feel Sihanouk is right in not wanting his country occupied by Americans. As for its (Cambodia) being a “haven for the VC” I see no evidence to support this, and indeed, much to the contrary. In the provinces near the border the National Police & Army keep things under pretty close watch: I went through a number of these check-points (where the police, astonished by my appearance, were nonetheless unfailingly kind and helpful).

Returning to Siem Reap from Battambang I got a chance to assist a family having trouble with their Corvair (Chevy) automobile—that silly fan-belt arrangement. Getting them on their way eased my conscience, since every time I stopped to rest my machine or myself in Cambodia, someone invariably stopped to make sure I was not broken down & in need of help. This sort of friendliness is all too rare in the world, and it was most refreshing!

BACKSTORY: The folks with the Corvair had passed me at a high rate of speed, nearly blasting me off the highway with the electric-air horn everyone seemed to have in those days. Anywhere else, I have given them the finger, but as I was a guest… Anyway, somewhat further on I began to smell something “hot”: I check the bike carefully, and nothing was wrong, but as I continued on, the smell became more and more noticeable. Presently, as I came around a corner, there it was: the Corvair with its rear boot open, and lots of smoke emanating from it. The Corvair rear-engine Chevy had a fan-belt that ran over four pulleys so it could turn 90º, and it was always a source of trouble on those cars. When the belt wore out or flipped off, the air-cooled engine quickly overheated. I pulled up behind the stricken car just in time to prevent the owner from pouring a bucket of water on the engine (which would surely have cracked something critical by cooling it too rapidly). Using only sign-language, I made it clear he should wait until the engine had cooled naturally before putting on a new belt (which he had). I stayed with it until I could put my hand on the engine without getting burned, then went on my way. Before long I was overtaken, again with a blast of the air-horn, but this time with much waving and many smiles.

Well, as I said, I departed Siem Reap regretfully about 8, and got to Sisiphon & a bit beyond before encountering the first storm. I could have out-run it, except that the road was in poor shape in many spots, so suddenly I was right IN it; stopped at a check-point where I was graciously received—given the only chair in the hut and a beer. The storm passed on, and after about ½ hour I was able to proceed the remaining short distance to the “frontier”. Formalities there took about 10 minutes on the Cambodian side, and about 1½ hrs on the Thailand side; meanwhile more rain.

BACKSTORY: When the rain hit, I pulled up under a large tree to seek whatever shelter it offered, quite unaware that nearby there was a bivouac of Cambodian soldiers. They had a semi-permanent set-up of tents over wooden platforms. There were perhaps a dozen of them, and they traipsed out to greet me, all smiles: I suppose very little in the way of anything happened out there, since the road led to a closed border, so my appearance must have “made their day”. They gave me their “place of honor”, and the first Singha beer I ever drank. Conversation was greatly limited, but as was the case everywhere, they were polite and charming. Once the rain stopped, I went on my way, probably leaving them to discuss my incursion for many days. Who knows? I may have been the subject of an “Official Report”!

(This letter will be continued with the Thailand portion of this blog, yet to come)

REFLECTIONS ON CAMBODIA

The three weeks I spent touring Cambodia were some of the best weeks of my life up to that point, and they rate high in my all-time list as well. I was treated with respect, kindness, and warmth without fail wherever I went in that lovely country, and of course, seeing and poking around in the temples at Angkor was an unforgettable experience.

Cambodia was a country at peace. Granted, the Khmers and the Thais and the Laos and the Viets have been at each other through the ages, but the borders in place when I was there were generally respected (the border with Thailand was closed, although I did cross it). One feature of Cambodia then was that there was no poverty and no begging and no thievery: none! I met a couple touring from Holland, who went off on a bus tour of several days’ duration and realized too late they had l left an expensive camera at the restaurant they’d eaten in the night before leaving. Just on a chance that the camera had been found, they returned to the restaurant when they got back to Phnom Penh, and found the camera exactly where they had left it, untouched! They were greatly impressed!

I mentioned earlier the State magazine; in the english edition I found letters published, written to Norodom Sihanouk. These were from travelers who commented on whatever they had seen while in Cambodia. So, one of the last things I did before departing Siem Reap was to write my own note to the Head of State, telling him how favorably impressed I was with Cambodia. Whether the letter was published I will never know, but to my surprise, I received a reply from Mr. Sihanouk, send through diplomatic pouch to the UN and mailed from New York!

Later on, I sent him a copy of the general letter I wrote to “all”, relating my trip, and received another reply from Mr. Sihanouk. His reply makes it clear he had read the letter in some detail.

Sihanouk’s first reply

Sihanouk’s second reply

Following my trip through SE Asia, I wound up working in Australia for a while (as will be recounted in due course); upon my return to the US in mid 1970, I was appalled to see on the TV places I had been in Cambodia being bombed to smithereens when “tricky dick” Nixon widened the already-doomed Vietnam war into Cambodia. Once again, I wrote to Mr. Sihanouk expressing my shock and regret over what had transpired: I addressed the letter simply to “Norodom Sihanouk, Peking, China”, as I had learned he had retreated there. Without a more specific address, I expected no reply, but to my surprise, he answered the letter by telegram!

“Please accept my thanks for your friendly letter stop cordial consideration”

The destabilization of Cambodia brought about by Nixon’s illegal incursion into a sovereign nation should have brought impeachment, but it did not. And the rest, as they say, is “history”—a horrible history, as it turned out, for whom no one has ever really been called to account. The wonderful Cambodia I found in 1968 no longer exists, although the monuments at Angkor do.

Guide to Angkor I used while there

NOTE TO READER(S): I will be away for several weeks on a trip to Pennsylvania and back. I will resume blogging when I am back home in San Francisco. Thailand was my next adventure.

NEXT

Map of Sri Lanka

The red arrow points to Colombo

I mentioned on my previous page that I had a brief look at Sri Lanka as part of a team investigating the situation regarding water supplies in that country. In the main, I found it a rather bleak country, though the fine old Galle Face hotel in Colombo

Faded elegance in the old portion

was something of a hoot, parts of it dating back to 1864. We did not stay there, but often gathered of an afternoon to compare notes, sip a lime & soda and watch the lovely sunsets.

A lovely sight

We stayed at a sort of pension a bit off the beaten track.  After a few days in Colombo (Sri Lanka’s Capitol), we were taken by train north to Jaffna.

The red arrow points to Jaffna

It was quite a ride, interrupted at times by inspections required because of the unrest in the country in general and the far north in particular. As it was, we stayed in a fine hotel, quite new, but we were the only guests!

We departed for Jaffna

Our engine and crew

Slow going: no crossing guard

Our train hurtles through the countryside

Old rolling-stock seen along the way

Doesn’t look useful any more

Muddy waters!

The President’s special carriage?

A division point on the Railway

Inspecting a bridge for possible sabotage

We made it!

Temple and well near Jaffna

We returned to Colombo by train, then were driven south to the town of Galle,

The red arrow points to Galle

where we stayed at the Galle Fort Hotel. This structure dates back many years and was the home of a Dutch gem merchant, later barracks for soldiers, and then turned into a hotel—of sorts. I had a huge room with several beds, all sorts of old furniture, and a bathroom with a tub large enough to drown in. In those days the place was gritty, but great fun. I had come to the conclusion that the Tsunami in 2004 might have washed it away, but apparently not: it is now owned by Australians and is the place to stay when in Galle.

I sample Coconut Milk

Well fitted with submersible pump

This ancient device mechanically measured water as it flowed from a reservoir. No longer used, but preserved.

We made the obligatory visit to Candy, then after several weeks, our team turned in our reports and went home. What, if anything, came of our brief presence I’ll never know!

Getting reacquainted with my cats

I also mentioned previously that Sri Lanka had colorful paper money: I will put these on a new page, as this one is already rather long.

NEXT

The red arrow point to the island of Fiji

Fiji is more mountainous than I expected

Nadi, Fiji 06 December 1968

For reasons never determined, the light-house boat didn’t go, so it was just another lazy day in and around Noumea. Can’t say I found the place all that charming. And last night was a real deuzy: the previous 2 nites cooled off enuf to enable sleeping under a sheet, but not last night. It was all too reminiscent of Gulf State Park [Alabama], with some of the most aggressive mosquitos I’ve encountered on the whole trip. Got to sleep around 4 AM, only to have to awaken at 6:30 for departure. Add to this a water shortage (no water after 8 PM), and you will see why I was not too sorry to leave. The plane was jammed with two large tour groups—only 3 passengers not on one of them—all bitching about poor accommodations, high prices, “mostiques”, etc., etc.

From these people and others I’ve pieced together a gloomy enough picture of Tahiti to make me willing to skip it altogether—astronomic prices, indifferent people, and spoilt scenery. Assuming I can make the arrangements, I will go instead to Tonga and to Western Samoa; then very briefly to Am. Samoa and directly to LA (stopover only in Honolulu). Flights to Tonga go direct from Suva, Polynesian Airways DC-3s, ditto to W. Samoa & A. Samoa.

It looks like Fiji is more interesting than New Caledonia. En Parle englais, which helps! Tomorrow I will take a boat from Loutoka to Tai for an afternoon of snorkeling, etc. Sunday hope to ride the free (!!) narrow-narrow gauge railway (about 2-ft gauge) its length hereabouts, and monday take a bus the 130 miles to Suva, Capitol of Fiji. Nadi (pronounced, approximately, “Nahndi”) is really quite a small place, but has some good surroundings. Fiji has left-hand drive again, and is still using £stg, though Jan 19 the switch to dollar-decimal system. (Noumea of course uses the French Pacific Franc, 100 of which make up a very large paper bill printed by the Banque de l’Indochine).

This note is large: 8-in X 4-/4-in

And so thin you can see right through it!

20 FP Francs was a more manageable size

Prices in this part of the world are certainly different from Asia—hotel rooms (the cheapest) about double Asian rates, but not double the quality. The french don’t seem to know about electric fans (Bali was the only place I stayed in Asia without one). My room here in Nadi, though $1.50 cheaper than Noumea, is modern, has a fan, and breakfast is included!

Not enuf news to start another page, so will close and mail this tomorrow—you should get it quickly, as US mail goes daily from Nadi Int’l Aerogare—I mean aerodrome; sorry!

Love to all~

Bruce

Fiji arrival noted

Soon after I was there Fiji converted to the dismal system

The sterling system was unfathomable

Sunday 8th December 1968

Oops! Forgot the intervening weekend, so will add this now & mail it all on Monday. Yesterday I took a local bus up to Lautoka arriving just in the right time to board a boat (package cruise) bound for Tai—a tiny island in the lagoon. It was a swell trip in every detail: reasonable price (about $6 which included food, drinks, and everything else); a stupendously beautiful day; a small cosmopolitan group (one Swiss, 2 Japanese girls, one Aussie, a Kiwi couple; one dour frenchman and myself). The Captain was British, his engineer a young dutch fellow, and the 1st and 2nd mates Fijian. Two Fijian hostesses completed the group. We arrived at the island about 11:30, and of course swimming was first on the list. I tried some snorkeling, but with little success: my lack of adipose tissue makes me sink like a stone even in salt-water, and the snorkel was not quite long enough to overcome this problem. The island, perhaps 400 feet in diameter, had an interesting rocky shore to windward, but a colorful coral-sand beach on the leeward side. After swimming, eventually an excellent feast was got up and eagerly devoured by all. A while later we clambered into a small out-board glass-bottom boat for a look at the coral just off the island’s shore, and this was one of the best parts of the trip for me. It is really amazing what goes on under the water’s surface, The most commonly seen fish was tiny (~2″) one of brilliant blue hue, though the brightly colored parrot-fish and others were also around. Sea-slugs about 2-ft long; sea-urchins with 12′ spines; colorful star-fishes, and so forth ad infinitum: truly amazing & beautiful beyond description. The rest of the afternoon was more swimming, shell hunting, dancing or whatever, and departure was 4:30, arrival at Lautoka at 6. Very, very nice trip, and except for being a light pink color all over today, one I shall not soon forget!

The Fijian deck-hands were very handsome!

Lovely weather, calm sea, tiny island

About to board the glass-bottom boat

Deck hand shmoozing the girls: damn!

The Fiji mainland seen from our boat

Returning to Lautoka from Tai island

Nearly back to Lautoka

Regrettably, not in use the day I was there

Fiji is one of only two countries (Australia is the other) where I was propositioned by a female. Even that is not accurate: I was propositioned by the girl’s father, who wanted me to marry her so I could take her away to america. Dad was a taxi-driver; I hired him one day to give me a tour of the island. He drove well, and of course knew the roads. The rugged scenery reminded me of some of my favorite haunts in California. Needless to say, there was a lot of talk between us, in the course of which he made it clear I could have my choice of any of his daughters! He even took me to his modest house to meet the family. I would have gladly married any of his sons (there were eight children, as I recall), but the girls were uniformly homely. Besides, I’m not queer for girls—never was, never will be! On the tour to Tai island, there was one other person not mentioned in my letter: a Japanese fellow, very handsome, but very shy. I learned eventually that he was on assignment: he worked for a tour agency, and his job was to go all over the world, take in local events and “report back”. I thought this  might be a career I could be interested in, given my penchant for travel. However, I never followed that lead. I’d have followed him to the ends of the earth if he’d wanted it: but he didn’t!

Having decided to avoid Tahiti, I went next to Tonga.

NEXT

As the second tour of duty in Cairo neared its end, I was chatting with a fellow from Kansas CIty one night: we shared a huge old flat at the time, a Company facility that was being shut down. I mentioned that in the previous year I had tried to take the boat & train to Sudan, but had been unable to get a visa. “Well, let’s try again!” says he. We turned in our passports and requests at the Sudanese Embassy, and a couple of days later, the visas were approved. Committed now, we arranged for passage. Lance had not even gotten to Luxor, much less Aswan, so we arranged to spend some time in each place as we wended our way South.

In Luxor, we spotted this fine old steamer, now in private hands:

I got aboard and found the steam engine intact!

There was time for a few photos in Aswan:

That’s the Oberoi-Aswan across the Nile

More modern accommodations were available on the Nile

They tend to all look alike, but this one is classic

There were two boats to Wadi Halfa each week. The Thursday boat was run by the Sudanese, the Tuesday boat by the Egyptians. We got lucky and were on the Thursday run. The train took us right up to the dock, and the first “boat” we saw was this venerable WWII LST relic:

Still operational, this was our “motive power”

Lashed to each side of this thing were two much older relics of days gone by: ancient steamers!

It took much of the day, but in time all this got set to right and we were under way!

Wadi Halfa, here we come!

The trip is three days and two nights. There was nothing to do; much of the time one could not even see the shoreline. No progress occurred at night: the assemblage was at anchor and lashed to buoys. We had remembered to bring our yellow-books, and a good thing it was: yellow-fever inoculations were being given to everyone, all through the same needle! Fortunately, the “doctor” administering these accepted our yellow-book entries and let us pass. In the fullness of time, we arrived in Wadi Halfa. Our train was waiting:

Looks modern enough in this view

The train was hauled by a diesel engine, and there was an ancient dining-car in the consist, and at the tail end—thank goodness—a box-car loaded with fish, rapidly rotting in the heat. Once under way (after the usual interminable wait) I spotted this kilometer-post, No. 2 of  some 137 (if I recall correctly) before any sort of settlement was encountered.

Bleakness, sand, and scrub was all that one could see

Eventually, we began to find little towns where the train would often stop briefly. But somewhere near Berber, in the middle of the night, we became aware we were no longer in motion. We found all the passengers sleeping under the stars on the platform, the train motionless, everything dead calm. Eventually we were able to learn there was track-work ahead, and we had to wait for its completion. In the late afternoon, after more interminable waiting, the engineer gave a toot and started up the train. What a mad scramble there was for the passengers to get aboard! In the wee hours of the next morning, we rolled into Khartoum. A taxi driver took us to the Hilton, which was fully booked; he then took us to the Grand Hotel:

On the banks of the White Nile, the Grand Hotel

This had been a British hotel, but more recently it had been lovingly refurbished by a French Consortium. The accommodations were modern and air-conditioned, the restaurant was quite good and elegant, and best of all, one could sit on the verandah, sip a lime-and-soda and watch the White Nile, just across the road:

Just above the confluence with the Blue Nile

Down-town Khartoum was a leisurely 20-minute walk from the hotel, and a bus stopped at the hotel for those wishing to visit Omdurman:

The Mahdi’s Tomb in Omdurman

Of course we visited General Gordon’s home (preserved) and various other notable places, but the temperature was fierce, on the order of 110º at the height of the day. Lance spent a good deal of his time in his room, but I managed to wander around and find a few souvenirs to bring home. After a week or so, we returned to Cairo on an airplane which covered the distance in a couple of hours that had taken us several weeks to cover in the other direction!

I’ve always been glad I made this trek, because Sudan seems to have gone steadily down hill ever since. Lance and I just happened to fall into the short window of opportunity when visas were available. The ancient dining-car on the train was a real hoot, and the bowab must have been with it from the beginning!

I doubt they still use these colorful bills!

Ten Sudanese Pounds

Five Sudanese Pounds

One Sudanese Pound

Fifty Sudanese Piastres

Twenty-five Sudanese Piastres

Back in Cairo, I brought to an end the study of Cairo’s sewage that I’d been in charge of for several months:

Bench-scale treatment plant for Cairo’s wastewater

I had several assistants on this endeavor, who mainly went out each day and collected fresh examples for us to run:

My staff on the wastewater study

There were a few remaining sight-seeing trips:

I don’t remember the occasion, but I was there!

Here’s a picture of some of our drivers: the one at left was especially good-looking, I thought, but the one on the right was actually cuter.

Waiting for food after a long day’s drive

Once the shit-disturber had been shut down and the report written, it was time to head home. Next page: Manila

NEXT

I was taking pills for worms, but not “Pulvex capsules”—those are for dogs! No one rose to the bait, though.

Looking at the map (I got a Mobil one this time) I rather imagine I will slowly wend my way southward from Penang more or less along the coast, turning inland about 1/2 way along to Kota Kubu Baharo: weather permitting, I’ll then go farther inland to Kuala Lipis, which (natch!) is on the eastern branch of the railway. It looks like the trip from there north again to Kota Bahuru ought to be well worth taking, though surely it will take 2 or 3 days. It will doubtless be quite wet—the rainy season on the east coast is now beginning (as I found out today) while the wettest (though not necessarily rainy) season on the west coast is already well along. But the rail route I’ve mentioned goes through mountains exceeding 5000 feet, and largely wilderness-jungle lands.

The hiway system in Malaysia is extensive and good—already much better than Thailand. Good old “Straits Tin” has made this country quite wealthy. So I shall not have to retrace all my way back to the coast & go on to K. Lumpur. Distances are not great here—I’m only about 490 miles from Singapore. Malaya uses miles instead of km—so now my speedometer/odometer are a little more useful!

One reads about the “hot, steamy orient” so much that I was not prepared for the wonderful weather. It is true most of this trip has been through the cooler part of the year. Actually, though, since I left the US in January I’ve never been too hot—and I was in VN through the hottest season there. Nowhere have I experienced the sort of stifling, humid heat that one can get in the US eastern seaboard any summer day—that oppressing sticky sort of heat from which there seems to be no escape! As I’ve so frequently mentioned, the rain is no problem either. I figured out today it is better to put on my cloth coat (forward) first, then the plastic one (backwards). The cloth coat gets wet—then cold (from evaporation & wind) if worn on the outside, whereas if worn inside it keeps me warm while the plastic keeps me more dry. I must speak well for “hush-puppies” shoes, though; the pair I bought in Saigon for $7.00 is still holding up despite countless thorough soakings. I’ve only the one pair of shoes—and a pair of “thongs” to change into when I check into hotels & dry out.

Well, have to rinse out a couple of shirts & get to bed. Located a place that may be able to cash my tc for me tomorrow: if so, off to Lankawi; if not, Penang.

Saturday, 19 October 1968

There being no money-changing facilities open in Alor Setar this morning, I set out about 9 for Penang—it’s only 60 miles. Though overcast, the day was warm and pleasant, and the drive very nice—first through rice fields then acres and acres of rubber plantations. Traffic is moderate; though the Malaysians drive no less erratically than other orientals, happily they drive more slowly! Arrived Butterworth shortly after 11, found a bank at once and got some Malaysian dollars. Then on to the ferry to Penang: one of the advantages of a motorcycle is that I (& others) passed a line-up of cars nearly 2 miles long waiting to go aboard—bikes and cycles go first, so I was in the very next boat out! It was raining slightly in Georgetown—not enuf to warrant a coat even—and that stopped soon enuf. I scouted around and found a hotel, dropped my luggage & set out (after a “lunch” of apples & such at a stand) for a quick turn around the island. This drive (about 45 miles) has got to rank as among the world’s most beautiful: the views & surroundings are gorgeous, and the road is a delight, reminiscent in places of the road up Mt. Hamilton [in California], and surely as many turns or more! By turns one goes through rice fields, rubber plantations, and in the mountainous parts (most of the island) tea and nutmeg gardens; from the higher vantage points lovely views of the sea & surrounding islands; and on the northern shore some very lovely beaches. I’ve booked 6 days here—will poke around in Butterworth at least one day—and may stay longer. I’m pleassed to report that I find most of the people more pleasant than the Thais. I get friendly waves & greetings here and there, which never happened in Thailand. Of course, nearly everybody speaks at least some english. There are many australians here: just north of Butterworth is a large RAAF base. Penang—I should say Georgetown— is a quaint place, some of it a bit madern & some old—literally miles of little shops selling every imaginable (& some not so imaginable!) thing, stuff from all over the world. Prices I haven’t checked out yet too much, but they appear reasonable & are said to be lower than anywhere except Singapore.

There is a bridge there now: ferry to Penang

Monday is a holiday—the Indian New Year again. Imagine! I always thought the Gregorian or Julian or whatever calendar we use is pretty universal—but not so: in Thailand it was 2511 if you were Buddhist and 3515 if you were chinese. Many of the (Thai) Buddhist Temples have the year worked into the pattern on the roof—which means they must rearrange the tiles somewhat each year. I haven’t found out yet what new year the indians here are celebrating, but it’s bound to be a different one yet.

Of course, I’ve left Buddhism largely behind, & Muslims, some Hindus, and some Christians replace it. And (unrelated thought!) there are remains of fortifications—concrete, so WWII vintage I suppose—all over the island. I don’t remember just how this part of the world figured in that episode of history, but evidently it was involved somehow. Tommorow—hope to locate the funicular railway that goes up the big mountain behind town, & perhaps swim a bit.

This letter concludes on the next page, my stay in Penang.

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The hiatus in posts occasioned by a software glitch seems to be over, so I can resume my tale. When last heard from, I was in Chumphon about to depart for Ranong and Phuket.

The arrow points to Ranong

Friday, 10 October 1968

Sorry about the mix-up in days—it’s hard to keep track—but I noticed last nite this letter and my diary didn’t quite agree! Well, it’s Ranong, period! I left Chumphon before 7. The road was beautiful, twisting its way up into mountains rapidly. I soon got into a rather cool fog, which apparently is more or less perpetual at this time of year. But the jungle was lovely, the road fun. About half-way through, the road construction began, so it not to be pavement all the way. The construction ranged from almost impassable to fair. Roads under construction here tend to be worse than Canadian ones, and the process seems much the same, only longer. And, they tear up very long stretches at a time, rather than finishing it piece-meal. Kraburi was not much of a town, and of course Burma, across the river didn’t look any different from Thailand. From Kraburi on a ways the road was completed and excellent, until it reached a large river (I think the upper reaches of a dammed lake) where the concrete bridge is apparently collapsing, so a new one is being built beside it. From here on to Ranong the road was under construcion again, and not very good. Passed a beautiful waterfall, and many elephants, the latter being used extensively hereabouts in the timber industry. It was nearly 11 by the time I got to Ranong and after exploring a couple of side roads I arranged the hotel and, as it was beginning to rain, relaxed a couple of hours while that was in progress. Later, I explored some more side roads; it commenced raining again around 5:30 & did so until after dark; some of this is written during that period. After supper I arranged to have a Thai massage: this is more on the order of a visit to a chiropractor, since you get completely mauled and unhinged in the process. But is is relaxing, and cheap, and it felt good after about 6 hours of spring-breaking dirt roads on the Honda. Ranong is quite an up-to-date little place, lumber, fish & tin mines being the principal activities. Near the edge of town is a long stone wall, all over-grown by jungle that probably enclosed something worth excavating. What little of the wall you can see reveals excellent workmanship, and one gateway (or what remains) I would say shows chinese influence. I have no idea what all this was. No one has yet been able to tell me, though I have run into a couple of people here who speak english. Tomorrow off to Phuket. The map shows no town likely to have a hotel between here and there, and it is 311 Kayems away. The road is said to be good, but Shell Oil Co’s ideas & mine of an “all weather road” don’t seem to quite agree!

BACKSTORY: Ranong was one of the few places I failed to “make out”. It did not take long to spot the local procurer: they tend to hang around the hotels. Unfortunately, the language barrier being what it was, he brought me a succession of girls. Despite fairly graphic sign-language, I could not persuade him to fetch me a boy. Eventually I took care of things by myself. That’s the best way to meet someone you like, anyway!

Somewhere on the Isthmus of Kra, River crossing

Saturday, 11 October 1968

It is certainly going to be a “new me” you see whenever I get back: my face is peeling again!  Got an early start from Ranong this morning. It was cool, a bit misty and foggy here and there. The highway—some of it quite new—ranged from excellent to quite poor: apparently the original topping put down was only about an inch thick, and heavy trucking has beat this up pretty bad in places. The road passes inland for a ways, then goes along the coast for a while where very spectacular views of the shore-line and ocean are seen. There are myriad villages, but no towns of consequence. Many rubber plantations, some coconut groves, banana groves and so forth. Not much rice here—not enuf flat land. I arrived about noon at the bridge connecting the mainland with the island Phuket is on, and lazed along the road to Phuket [town] admiring first an immense unspoiled beach, then more rubber plantations, and tin mines. Saw some elephants earlier, and on Phuket island another of those huge lizards. They aren’t iguanas, but have that general shape. They can move quite swiftly when so inclined. They are probably eaten by the natives, who I have seen apparently catching them.

The arrow points to Phuket

Phuket (the “welcome” sign says Bhuket) is quite a large and obviously old city, with rather a “Virginia City”-ish flavor, situated in a valley rimmed with tin mines. It’s about 1 km inland from what I suspect was once a lovely beach, but which is now vast mud-flats, washings from the mines, which are all worked hydraulically. Tomorrow, off to Trang, where I meet a branch of the RSR and where (steam trains permitting) I hope to take another rail excursion, this time up (and across the isthmus again) to Nakorn Sri Thamarrat, the place I didn’t get to before. I’m going to seal this letter up tonight—tomorrow being Sunday, I shall probably not be able to mail it, though, as it has now grown to 10 pages!

Much love to all, of course,

Bruce

PS: Passed up what is surely a gourmet delight on the menu here tonight: “Fried crap and asparagus”!! (Crab, I think)

BACKSTORY: On the east side of Phuket was one of the most idyllic beaches I ever found anywhere. I went skinny-dipping with a charming fellow I had met who showed me around the island, riding behind me on the bike. There was no one at all on this lovely beach, perhaps three miles long, lined with palms. I regretted not having a bathing-suit with me, but my friend explained we really didn’t need them, and before long we were splashing around in the water. Once out of it, having no towels, we could only lie on the warm sand and let the sun dry us off. One thing led to another, and we ended up having sex right there on that beach! After another splash and dry, we eventually returned to town, where we dined with his wife and three charming kids (alas, all girls).

Forty years later, this was the very beach (and all the build-up which had occured on it) that was heavily damaged by the Tsunami.

More “train”ing in store! Stay with me.

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