M Y O B

Egyptians bargain for everything. It’s in their blood, and unless you bargain, you will be taken and will not be respected, The concept is not easy to understand for westerners, and for some it was impossible. Generally, the approach that worked for me was that I would decide in advance what I would pay for an item or service, then I would give over somewhat less and let the vendor argue me out of the balance. They have to come away feeling they’ve gotten the better of you. Among themselves, the bargaining is more akin to haggling, and it can approach violence at times, with barterers grabbing at each other and making loud threatening sounds, but when agreement is reached, they are all smiles and the money changes hands.

Unfortunately, money changed hands all too often! The smaller bills particularly became filthier and filthier: they were never removed from circulation and replaced; when a bill became so scuzzy no one would accept it, the holder was stuck and either burned it or threw it away. For us foreigners, whose per diem was paid in local cash and large bills, having the right amount for a simple transaction like a taxi ride was a problem. Drivers would usually refuse a large bill, saying they had no change. This was often not really the case, but making the change would deplete their reserves of “small money”. Naturally, they would happily take the large bill and give NO change.

On a train one day from Cairo back to Alex, I saw a well-dressed gent paying for drinks with all brand-new bills. I asked him how it was that he had so many, and learned he was the administrator of a large Bank in Alexandria. I explained our problem, and he arranged that I could being a clutch of large bills into a teller and exchange them for small ones. We set up a revolving fund, and I sold off the small bills to my compatriots, so thereafter we usually had small money for the taxis (who were not happy about it!)

There were coins (aluminum), but they were not in circulation much. There was a 1 piaster coin, equivalent to our penny, but I only saw one or two in all the time I was in Egypt.

Egyptian currency was changed often to thwart counterfeiters, so there were often several different versions in circulation at any given time. Getting clean, uncirculated copies was difficult and often impossible!

If nothing else, the bills were colorful and all of different sizes, so keeping track of them in one’s wallet was easy. Unfortunately, as the bills wore out, they tended to stink! I have seen small money used to wipe dipsticks, and shudder to think what other things they might have wiped!

Anyway, here’s a representative group of the money in circulation while I was there. One Pound  (written £E) was a US$1.50

The Egyptian Pound was colorful, and = $30

Egyptian 10 Pounds. = US$15

Egyptian 5 Pounds, = US$7.50

One of at least two 1 Pound notes circulating then

More recent 1 Pound note, = US$1.50

An older 50 piaster note

Newer 50 p note. 1 p is 1/100th Pound

The Egyptian 20p note

Older 10p note still circulating in the late 70s

This bill was only about 4 inches long

Towards the end of my stay in Egypt, new, smaller bills of uniform size were being introduced. Since these may well still be circulating, I feel obliged to stripe the images.

These new bills were about 2/3ds the size of the old ones

The bills remained of different sizes by denomination

But all were more nearly “wallet size” than formerly

The 25p note was altogether new, replacing the 20p note

As I mentioned earlier, our per diem was paid in local currency. Basically, it was a means of getting cash into circulation, since we were paid far more than we coupld expect to spend, even if we rented quarters locally. We were “cash cows”, and on a future page I will explain what a lot of my per diem went for.

NEXT

IN OUR LAST EPISODE, THE TRAIN WAS MADE UP IN BUCAY WITH ENGINE 53 ON POINT

At long last, around noon, the train was made up, Engine 53 was up to pressure, and I was aboard the tender, ready (I hoped) for the wonderful ride up to Alausí. Bear in mind we have a heavy train getting under way on a 3.5% grade, and on a curve (also the main street of Bucay). The mechanista took some throttle, we began to move, and within a few feet one set of drivers slipped off the rail! The engine tilted alarmingly, the fireman blew out the fire (steam jets are provided for this eventuality) and I clambered down from the tender, happy the engine had not fallen right over on its side.

Ooooops!

Something has to be done!

Making the nick-name “weed-whacker” meaningful!

I really wondered if that massive crack-pin on the ground was all that prevented the engine from toppling all the way over!

Grounded!

Workers trying to get a re-railer into place.

Over the next several hours, poor little 53 was eventually returned to the tracks, aided by re-railers, stones, planks, and the removal of her train and substitution of a diesel to pull her back. A single new sleeper was inserted and spiked into place, gauge was checked and found within some limit, and once again the engine moved forward past the bad spot. Our train was reattached, and off we went, about 4 O’clock. Darkness set in rapidly, so further photos could not be had. To see my photos of the same run in 1979, see “Ascending the Andes behind steam” in this blog.

Diesel power to the rescue! These Alsthom Diesels look very large The diesel engine has replaced the train. Not much progress yet.

The train has been spotted elsewhere, and the diesel attached  to #53. At this point she has been dragged backward, but she’s not yet back on the rails.

Note the condition of the ties, really just logs Unfortunately, the tender had also spread the rail Digging out a rotted sleeper

Back on her feet once again. Engine 53 will be getting up steam again shortly.

A single new sleeper was put in place Under way at last! Approaching the first bridge over the Rio Chan Chan

We made it to Huigra, and no further. I was told there was too little fuel to get the train to Alausí. The people on the train, who probably had relatives nearby, disappeared. There was no power, so what light there was came from oil lamps. Fortunately, I had included a flash-light in my little bag, but I had no more than a quick change of underwear and a few toiletries, as I had expected to stay overnight at Alausí. Eventually, with help of locals, I found a woman willing to rent me a room for the night. It was a spooky place (still no power, no light) and was just rough boards to make an enclosure on the top floor of the building. There was a smelly squat-toilet one floor down, and the bed was a thin mattress heavily stained. There was no lock on the door. I slept poorly, having had too little to eat, but thank glub there were no chinchas. It was a long night, made more-so as I thought of the relative comfort of the room at the Grand Hotel for which I would pay but not use.

The farthest building on the left was my “hotel”

In the next page I’ll describe how I got back to Guayaquil!

NEXT

It seems I do have a few followers, as revealed by Statcounter:

Regarding my hip replacement: It has been a piece of cake, as they say. And the latest news is I may not have my knee replaced after all! According to the latest MRI, everything that needs to be “there” is still there in my knee. The issues I have walking are due to muscle tone (and lack of it). So, I have been sent for “aggressive” Physical Therapy, and the therapist is sure she can eventually get me to walk again. We’ll see!

MEDICAL ISSUES

Early in 1987, the week before Easter, I paid a visit to my Stepmother. She was still mourning the loss of her husband; I was mourning the loss of my “lover”. I thought we could commiserate. However, I began feeling ill, and cut the visit short. My Doctor (for reasons only he knew) took a urine specimen and sent me to bed. Two days later my temperature was up to 104º, and I was feeling really, really bad! When I told the Doc the next day my temperature was still rising, he told me to check myself into the ER. I went by taxi, and after the check-in, I was seated in a wheel-chair to await triage.

Time passed, but eventually a nurse came by and stuck one of those new-fangled digital thermometers into my mouth. When it beeped, she departed and brought in another one and stuck IT into my mouth. When it, too, read 107º, she pushed the button: Code Blue! Within the next few minutes I was whisked up to an empty room and bed, and quickly surrounded with bags of ice. They began trying to insert an IV, but I was so dehydrated the nurse had a bad time and I was poked several times before a vein could be found. Sleeping among bags of ice reminded me of a few tricks!

Meanwhile, my Doctor had phoned in the results of his tests on my urine; I had a blood infection (septicemia) and the infectious agent (whatever it was) was susceptible to a particular anti-biotic, which they began feeding me through the IV. Within a couple of days, my temperature returned to normal and I was released with a prescription for Cipro. A temperature excursion like I had does “unwire” a few thing in the brain, and I felt rather strange for a week or so, but eventually got back to my normal routine.

Thus began a series of medical interventions of various forms. I got so that I could tell when the “bug” had gotten into my bloodstream again and I could head off calamity by chomping down more Cipro. The consensus was the bug was lodged in my prostate, which sent my PSA test results sky-rocketing. This required several uncomfortable biopsy procedures to be sure I did not have prostate cancer. Eventually, prostatitis required that my prostate should be removed: two weeks in hospital (the first week on massive IV drips of several antibiotics: they wanted a sterile field when they operated; then the operation; then another week of antibiotic drips) and a short recovery. Not much after that had been finalized, I began peeing blood. This turned out to be polyps in my bladder. Altogether, I had six operations to remove these, eventually successfully, although I go to this day twice a year so my urologist can have a look inside (though a cystoscope inserted like catheter is—OUCH)!

Through all this, from 1987 to 1994, I remained employed and got many things done to my house. I basically gave up sex, except for self abuse (why in the world do people use that term? “abuse” is nothing like it). My last “fling” lasted only three weeks, when I met a young fellow whose partner had passed away. I was impressed with the fact he’d stayed with his “significant other” for five years. But it quickly devolved that his previous paramour had lavished money and attention on him, and had required nothing whatever in return. When I made it clear I expected at least respect, and got none, I sent him packing.

Then, in 1994, I decided to go back to Ecuador and see what had become of the Guayaquil & Quito railroad. This time I took along a good camera, so the next 5 or 6 pages of photos will be devoted to that wonderful —and almost gone—railroad. Stay with me…

NEXT

The red arrow points to Sydney, Australia

MELBOURNE

As previously described, I arrived in Sydney after flying many hours through several time zones. Phone calls to friends in Melbourne were successful, so I hopped on a TAA flight to Melbourne, arriving there in the late afternoon. I was dead on my feet, so quickly found a hotel and went to bed. It was Saturday night. I awoke in the wee hours of Sunday, ravenously hungry, to find that on Sunday Melbourne does not wake up. There was nothing to eat at the hotel (no room service, not even a “Mr. Coffee” (it had not been invented yet) in the room. I slept fitfully and finally got up and out around ten: there wasn’t a soul stirring anywhere, everything was closed. I wandered around aimlessly, but suddenly heard the unmistakable rumble of a street-car. Following the sound, I spotted a lovely MMTB “M” and decided to take a ride—I didn’t care where it went. Now, I don’t remember where it went, except that somewhere along the way I spotted a cafe that was open and I managed to get some food.

The red arrow points to Melbourne

The luggage tag on my bag full of dirty clothes

Style “M” tram crossing the main drag

MTB trams used a zone system

My friends picked me up at my hotel that afternoon and we went to their home in the outskirts: we used the wonderful interurban system, and while at Flinders Station I spotted some wonderful old red cars. I simply had to ride in these the next day, and wound up at St. Kilda Beach.

Great old electric train-sets still running

Soon to be retired, however.

Another panorama shot, repaired

St. Kilda Beach, Melbourne

To say that I was underwhelmed by Melbourne is an overstatement, and the prospect of working there for any length of time really did not appeal. In particular, the lack of ethnic diversity struck me forcibly, since I had just spent over 10 months in and around SEA. Melbourne was distressingly “white”. But my friends felt they really needed my expertise on the Bay Project, so they wined-and dined me, took me to a game preserve to meet some unusual critters, and did their best to make me feel at home. But it didn’t work, and after just a few days I was anxious to move on. The itinerary I planned called for stops in New Caledonia, Fiji, Tahiti, American Samoa, Western Samoa and Hawaii, arriving back in the states in time for Christmas.

I returned to Sydney, once again simply transiting and changing planes. Before long, I was in Noumea, Capital city of New Caledonia.

Transport to TAA

Off to New Caledonia

Noumea, 4 December 1968

Dear all~
Well, after spending nearly 11 months in South-East Asia, I find I am experiencing “withdrawal symptoms”, or perhaps one could say I an SEA-sick. In any event, I find I miss the calm and ingenuousness of the people [there].

Without quite realizing it ’till I got there, I wound up in Melbourne as far south of the equator as San Francisco is north of it (well below the Tropic of Capricorn even), so the weather was much the same as SF right now, except that summer is approaching in MB while winter lies ahead for SF. Through the good offices of Don & Marian, we went on Sunday to Healesville Animal Preserve, which is an elaborate sort of zoo with at least as many beautiful beasts on the outside of the cages as on the inside. Because of good weather, the place was crowded with people, and the kangaroos were so sated with hand-outs all they could do was lie in the sun & let the children maul them! Emus wander about the place in numbers. A nice feature of the place is its huge walk-through bird-cages where you are inside the cages with the birds. Got to see a lot of animals I’d never seen before, and they even have a platypus on display—quite difficult to achieve because the platypus is extremely sensitive to humans—and a lyre-bird pair and chick, though my only view of the he-lyre-bird was at a great distance as these birds are even more shy than the platypus.

I don’t remember what this was

Unusual beasts: echidnas

There’s a Koala in that tree

A Wallaby. Looks like a good pet

On Monday (2nd Dec) Don & I conferred with various departments of the MMBW (Melbourne & Metropolitan Board of Works) on aspects of the Environmental Study of Port Phillip Bay, to which I would be assigned if I decide to return to do so. Although Australia is about the last place on my list of choices to work, a temporary assignment of 6 to 8 months might not be too bad (starting in January the weather gets very warm). Melbourne itself is a huge metropolis—actually, it is nearly all suburbs—with some good points: the architecture is very victorian, they have a good street-railway and an excellent (but ancient!) interurban train system. The cost of living is surprisingly low, roads are excellent, and there are lots of interesting places to go in the interior: gold-rush towns, etc., etc. But the population is so bloody white and all the customs so british! Movies, including those shown on TV, get a censorship-board rating (inexplicably, “Star” gets an “AO”=Adults Only rating!) which (on TV) is superimposed over the title at the beginning so one can hustle the kiddies off to bed before settling down to an evening of surreptitious thrills. Except for a few (visiting) Asians, people of color are rigidly excluded from Australia, so one has to get used to seeing the uniformly sickly pallor typical of the english (“slug” as Stephen Potter would say). As for my working for the MMBW, they seem quite agreeable, and I did file an application, but the decision awaits further investigation of alternatives by me, and frankly I hope some better alternative presents itself!

Luggage tag to Noumea

Tuesday morning I took a TAA flight to Sydney, where rains have extinguished most of the brush-fires, and on to Noumea. New Caledonia is a curious island, being just a cigar-shaped mountain-range about 250 miles N-S and +/- 30 mi E-W. The west coast is quite un-tropical and very dry; the predominate tree is a variety of eucalyptus, which burns well—there are several fires burning here, too—in fact one just up the little hill behind my hotel which broke out a few moments ago. The east coast, where all the rain falls, is said to be typically tropical, and I hope to go over there tomorrow. It is colorful here, though—frangipani, and some sort of flowering tree [Poinciana] is brilliant orange here, and bougainvillea are everywhere and very beautiful. The town shuts down from 11:15 to around 3 PM. I will take in the aquarium this afternoon, and I swam at Anse Vata [beach] this morning. Just around Noumea alone there are a dozen or so good beaches, and of course there’s 500-600 miles of shoreline all dotted with them. Noumea “dies” completely on weekends, though; nothing is open. So Friday morning I depart for Fiji where I hope the same is not true. I hear that Tahiti is so commercialized now it is hardly any fun—so I may decide to go to Tonga instead,and fly home direct from Samoa. Or I may go to both places for briefer stays. Don’t know yet—will wait and see what I learn in Fiji.

The red arrow points to Noumea on New Caledonia

[Later]

The aquarium is, as all the pamphlets say, small: but oh, my what gorgeous things they have! The fish, and more especially all the other animals they have on display (corals, sponges, anemones and so on) are just not to be believed. The owners and developers of the aquarium (it is privately owned) discovered some years ago the “luminescent” (i.e., fluorescent) corals that glow under UV light, and have what is claimed to be the only display of them in the world. They glow only if they are alive, so the dozen or so tanks they have devoted to these are really fascinating, and unimaginably beautiful.

Typical tank in the Aquarium in Noumea

Australia, has, incidentally “ATV”, a single government-run non-commercial station. On it [while in Melbourne] I saw an excellent documentary called, appropriately enough, “Toward Tomorrow”: it is about C-B-R warfare, and shows in actual photos how far along we and particularly England are with this charming branch of study. Man’s capacity for evil may be exceeded only by his lack of judgement; in any case, the research in this area is a multi-million dollar investment already (cf. previous letters, this topic) as the movie more than adequately shows. Shown also is the lack of judgement, so evident in many of the interviews with people involved in the work. The american viewpoint is lengthily discussed by some Major-General whose appearance (and most of his pronouncements) is almost imbecilic. While one or two of the workers lament their involvement in what is obviously an offensive job, none appear to have enough strength of conviction to get out and find a less offensive job; one wonders what fascination compels them to remain? The most pathetic to me was one “scientist” whose only excuse was that he felt the “quality” of the work being done (in england) was “very high”. The fact remains that biological warfare a) is already in use (in VN and apparently in Yemen); b) is capable of mass demolition of humanity that makes Hitler’s pogroms look like child’s play; and c) is contemplated by military authorities with no less enthusiasm than other currently “conventional” methods of destroying adversaries. KQED might get hold of this film—I hope—but if you get to see it, take tranquilizers first. It is one of the most unpleasant things I’ve seen in years.

05 December 1968

Alas, the east coast will have to wait—the local transportation is not good enough to make a one-day return trip to “the other side”. Another time, perhaps. Instead, I shall take a boat ride this afternoon to the 100 year-old light house, on an island off-shore a ways, and see what else there might be to do there. I depart for Fiji at 7:15 AM (!!) tomorrow.

I took a few photos in Noumea, but in the main I was not impressed with the place.

Noumea was a deep-water port

Anse Vata beach near Noumea

There was a fire on the hill behind my hotel

Noumea was nothing if not colorful!

The flame trees were spectacular

My letter continues on the next page, as I move on to Fiji.

NEXT

I returned from Australia mid-1970, somewhat foot-loose. I bought a single-cylinder BMW “thumper” to get around on, and did some odd jobs for friends to earn a few pennies. As summer approached, my brother Todd asked me to look after his studio in the Sierra foothills while he scoped out prospects for summer art sales in Alaska. I spent the summer months in Sutter Creek; where Melbourne had been dull, SC was utterly dead (at least for a young gay guy like me). I often drove all the way down to West Sacramento, where there was a sort of tubs I thought might provide some relief, but I don’t recall ever actually finding a trick there.

To keep busy, I undertook some repairs on the facade of my brother’s little shop. One day as I worked at this a tall, lanky blond youngster wandered along looking for work. I hired him to assist, but could not resist putting the make on him during lunch. Typically of my luck, he said he wasn’t interested, and at the end of the day’s work, I paid him off and he disappeared.

The very next morning I was seated at the little desk in the shop when a police car drove up and parked in front of the shop. A uniformed officer got out of the car and came into the shop:

“Are you Mr. Bramson?” he asked.

Of course my mind ran wild: that blond kid must have blabbed, and now I’m in deeeep do-do!

“That’s me.”

“Your friend Ronnie in San Francisco called and asked us to give you a message — he’s forgotten your telephone number. He’d like you to give him a call.” The officer departed, and I heaved a great sigh of relief! The blond must have just been “passing through” — I never saw him again.

I PUT DOWN ROOTS

Late that summer I rode my little thumper down to San Francisco intent on staying with friends and spending a few nights at the tubs. By chance, I drove by the old house my Ex and I had owned, and noticed it was for sale. Now, I had always loved that house: that it held some unpleasant memories was not it’s fault, and I thought if I bought it by myself for myself, I could expunge the bad memories and have a nice hobby and a roof over my head as well.

Built in 1889

However, I had very little money and no job, so buying a house seemed out of the question. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized I wanted that house. I called the realtor, learned the price and terms and explained that I “had no money and no job, but I’ll get back to you.” I then called my old employer: did they have a job for me? “Can you start Tuesday?” was the response. Then I called my brothers, parents, and friends: before long I had commitments sufficient for a down-payment, so I called the realtor back. “I now have a job, I have some money, so I’m ready to make an offer.”

The long and short of it is that after some negotiations, my offer was accepted, based on giving the owners 90 days to vacate.

Meanwhile, through friends, I happened to meet the fellow who had been my immediate predecessor in my Ex’s life—and we found we had much in common. Learning that Johnnie had nearly driven Ted insane came as no surprise: he drove me nuts as well. So I moved into Ted’s house temporarily, until “The Mansion” was cleared out and I could reside in it.

My Ex, you may recall, had made arrangements to sell the house without telling me, so it was imperative that he get a quit-claim for my portion of it. This he got at knife-point, and the rest is history. Since 1964 the house had been occupied by a religious cult that took guys off the drug trip and put them on the God trip. (Out of the frying pan into the fire as far as I’m concerned.) Nevertheless, I knew from a member of the Board of Directors that the building had not been severely trashed, although there were 53 people living in it. This is how I knew they would not be able to vacate in the usual 30 days. Since I was in no hurry, I applied myself to my job again, built up my bank account, and waited.

The house was still not vacant at 90 days, so I informed the occupants they would have to pay rent; they did so for two more months before, finally, in May of 1971, the deal closed and I took possession of the building in which I still reside. I’m still renovating it, though it is in much better shape now than I am!

With all the current flap about toxic mortgages, I find it interesting that I got the house with just over 10% down. But the interest rate on the first mortgage was 18.5%, and on the second mortgage 25%! For the first year I occupied the house, I watched my equity “build” at literally pennies per month!

My house has been a very important part of my life for almost 40 years. I have zillions of photos showing the many renovations that have taken place over the years. I’ll try not to bore my readers with too many of these, focusing instead on other aspects of my life – my travels to distant places and so forth.

40 guys lived here!

There were several projects over the years of considerable magnitude. The first was to replace the roof, which leaked badly. This occurred in 1975, when a second re-finance brought forth the necessary funds. The most expensive part of the job was removal of the old roof, consisting of 4 and in some spots 5 layers of “modern” material over the original wood shingles. To save money, I did the removal myself, aided by a gaggle of Ted’s students. Ultimately, we removed and disposed of 9.5 tons of old roof! Among the interesting findings were burned portions of the spaced sheathing on the north slope of the roof: the 1906 fire burned itself out just half a block away, but clearly owners of my house had managed to put out “hot spots” and saved the Mansion from joining the thousands of others destroyed.

Another problem discovered was that the South stub-wall had shifted out of line rather noticeably, probably in the 1906 earthquake. I did not want to leave it so. When all the weight was off the roof, I used a 12-ton come-along to pull the wall back to plumb, assisted by jacks forcing the ridge-pole up. When all was aligned, two hefty membranes were added to lock the walls in place, and the rafters were further locked with tensioners that had not been installed previously.

Here’s a series of photos, from start to finish, of the first roof replacement during my tenure (it has now been done again):

Once a little area was cleared, the spaced sheathing acted as a ladder, and I could work comfortably. I always used a harness to prevent falling, however!

All the detritus was forced through the spaces onto the attic floor.

We rigged a block & tackle to an old fire-escape, and the trash was sent down to ground-level one garbage-can at a time.

At ground level the trash was put into a wheel-barrow and taken to the front of the house.

The junk was stuffed into an old hulk of a VW camper. In a day I could clear, and the guys could load, one camper-full.

Plywood sheathing was pulled up from below one sheet at at time and stacked in the attic. From there it was maneuvered into position on the roof and nailed down.

With weight off the roof, I used a come-along to pull the south stub-wall into place, assisted by jacks pushing up on the ridgepole.

There were other things to attend to, like repointing a chimney.

The 3/8″ plywood gave a better base than the spaced sheathing for the new roof of composition glass, tar and stone

Here I’m adding a skylight, without which the attic is rather dark.

After all the preparation was done, the professionals moved in! Here is their A-frame used to haul up bundles of roofing material.

All the new material was hauled up and distributed to workers.

It was a long way down to the street!

Growl!  Musta been a tough day up on da roof.

It was one of the filthiest jobs I ever did!

It took me six weeks to clear the old roof, install the new plywood, and do most of the flashing. It then took the professionals less than a week to install the new 25-year roof. It actually lasted far beyond its guarantee, and never leaked. Nevertheless, in 2008 this roof was removed down to the plywood, and a new 40-year roof was installed. This time I let others do the whole job!

Another big project will be described here soon.

NEXT

MILITARY SERVICE?

Through all the convolutions of my life to the point described so far, there was the threat of military service: the draft was in effect. While my frequent contacts with the Navy had all been great fun, I was quite certain I would not survive basic training or anything else. As a confirmed pacifist who hated guns in any form, to me the idea of operating one was hateful, and the notion of using one to kill was beyond the pale. So I was well pleased when, after the first physical exam, I was rejected—for 6 months! Back again after that period, I was again rejected—for a year!

I felt certain the third time would get me into the Army, so I tried out for the Coast Guard, and was accepted for Officer Training School. I knew a chap who had done this, and he said it was an OK kind of thing. However, before I could actually sign on the dotted line with the Guard, I was rejected—permanently—by the Army. Whoooopeeee! Four-Eff! Never was I so happy to be rejected! Without the threat of service hanging over me, I could get on with my life.

BY THE WAY:

I watched President Obama’s 100th-day news conference. I came away more glad than ever that we elected him. After eight years of the kind of inane blather that was all Dubya could muster, to watch and listen to someone who can organize his thoughts, express them cogently, with dignity, and occasionally with humor is wonderful! He can even pronounce NEW-KLEE-ARE!! Whoopee!

OK, ON WITH COMING OUT: MY FIRST HUSBAND

There came the fateful night when I went back to the john at the Crystal to let some of the beer run out. There I met Johnny, a handsome black boy a few years older than I. Word had gotten out that the Crystal in San Jose was more fun than any of the gay bars going in San Francisco, so we would get a few car-loads of guys down from the City on weekends. So it was that Johnny had joined some friends, telling them as they drove down he intended to find a boyfriend that very night. He found me. He introduced me to his friends, then we repaired to my apartment and got to know each other quickly.

But I was young and impressionable, and Johnny said all the right things, did all the right things and soon had me wrapped around his finger (when I wasn’t wrapped around his cock). He courted me in San Jose for several weeks, driving down after school: he was a teacher, so out of the classroom by 3:30 or so. I was working 5- 8s, so by the time I got home he was there waiting. It was wonderful: I was in love again.

He soon persuaded me to move in with him in San Francisco. He already had a room-mate, a rather strange fellow named Sid, who was soon jettisoned to make room for me. The honeymoon lasted some months, but clouds developed before long. I soon figured out Johnny was a lush—badly addicted to alcohol—which was a problem I had never dealt with. Worse, he was not a happy drunk: quite the opposite, he got belligerent and then morose as he drank. For the better part of two years I held on, hoping there would be some change, and eventually a change did take place: we pooled our resources and bought a small Victorian house to fix up. This worked for a while: Johnny stayed somewhat more sober than usual in order to be able to help with the renovation.

In 1963, with the house in pretty good shape, we spent a summer in Europe. In those days black guys were much less commonplace in Europe, so he was very much “in demand”. I, on the other hand, believed strongly in a monogamous relationship. Soon we were both “playing around”, separately, and the relationship took a back seat.

I did, however, notice how many old people from America were in Europe, being herded around like cattle. We made up our itinerary as we went along, seeing whatever we wanted to see, but the tourists saw what the tour-guides wanted them to see. I thought it would be  horrible to travel in old age, and made up my mind to see more of the world when I was young enough to enjoy it.

Once back in the USA, our relationship  took a rapid nose-dive. Johnny’s heavy drinking  resulted in his having badly flavored semen, so I was becoming less enthusiastic about sucking him off. This frustrated him, which led to more drinking. It became clear that he had a deep-seated resentment of being gay: though that was not my fault, he took it out on me, and there were many long arguments, recriminations and bitching at each other. Through it all, he remained almost perpetually inebriated, only managing to keep his job with some difficulty. We stopped sleeping together, and I spent a good deal of time in the tubs, often staying away from the house for several days at a time.

Then, in 1964, Johnny discovered drugs. While I was sucking dick in the tubs, he was up in the Haight-Ashbury doing drugs. When, after a knock-down drag-out argument one night he went after me with a kitchen knife, I knew it was time to split.

The divorce was messy! I signed a quit-claim deed on the house, and Johnny sold it within a few days: seems he had a buyer all lined up. I got nothing, except my freedom, but the price was worth it. Johnny went through the $40,000 in a couple of years, buying booze and drugs. I’ve never seen him again. I never got to thank him for destroying my love for him before we parted: otherwise, it would have been tough, but as it was, I was delighted to be footloose and fancy-free once again.

Coming soon: the family finds out about me.

[email protected]

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Go to MY PROCESS OF COMING OUT

The red arrow points to Tonga

From Suva, there was a short bus-ride to the airport. I’d been told this would cost 50p, so I held on to some pocket-change. But there was one chap in our small group bound for Tonga who had depleted his local money: I bought his ticket for him, and we thus struck up a brief friendship as travelers often do. His name was Peter Salisbury, from Australia, and our respective itineraries were the same for a few days. I eventually deduced he was spending his inheritance on a round-the-world trip; a genuinely friendly chap, he was a trifle disorganized. In Tonga he stayed at the Intercontinental, but I booked the “bunkhouse” a bit further along the main street. Both were very close to the water, where there was a bit of beach, and many youngsters swimming, often nude. They were so cute: one hated to think of them grown up into multi-hundred-pound behemoths.

I love to watch kids frolicking in water

The guy in the white shirt ignores the kids

Since I was the only person Peter knew on the island, and vice versa, we hung out together a good deal. Peter often invited me to share the entertainment at the Intercontinental, mostly dancers, fire-breathers, and so on. Some of the guys were breathtakingly handsome, not yet having built up the excess avoirdupois that tends to characterize men there. I was particularly struck by the variety of ways the guys wrapped a lava-lava around themselves, and the speed with which it was accomplished: beginning with a simple strip of cloth, it could be fashioned into a crotch-hugging “bathing-suit” in a trice. Alas, they all had on skimpy posing-straps to keep the family jewels from showing. Damn!

One day Peter told me he’d arranged for a luau for the two of us; he introduced me to the local fellow setting this up, and my gaydar went to the pin. Not that he was attractive: too much adipose-tissue for my taste. I was pretty sure Peter was not gay (my gaydar stayed at zero around him), so I was not sure how all this was going to work out. The luau itself was entertaining and the food was excellent, but there was a lot more beer than was necessary to wash it down: I took it easy but Peter did not, and when he was pretty well sloshed, our host(ess) pounced: Peter freaked out! The luau was suddenly over! Thank gawd the host(ess) didn’t want me. Later that night, with Peter tucked safely away in his expensive hotel, I met a much nicer local chap as I was was walking back to the Bunkhouse: we repaired to one of those elevated houses the Tongans favor, and with his brother, the three of us had a grand romp!

Peter recovered, and the next day hired a local chap with a boat to take up out to a little island a bit off-shore. He had lunches packed at the hotel, and we went for a day’s outing—swimming, beach-combing, and so forth. There were two problems: the island was tiny, we could walk right around it in ten minutes, and there was not much of a beach. Nevertheless we managed to while away most of the day, until the skipper indicated it was time to head in—clouds were gathering. Of course, he could read the weather and the water, but we could not. By the time we got our act together, the wind was up, the water was choppy, and there were the three of us in this tiny dinghy with an ancient put-put motor heading for the home shore. Water broke over the bow, we got soaked, and all I could say to myself over and over was, “The Tongans populated the whole South-Pacific by boat: we must be safe in this guy’s hands”. We were safe, as it turned out, but  got to shore bedraggled and happy not to have drowned!

Nuku’Alofa, Tonga
13 December 1968

Dear Everybody~
Here beginneth the final epistle in this, the second phase of my 1968 pilgrimage; any letters I were to write following this would probably get home after I do. Such is the way when one flies, these days!

On my last day in Nadi I took another boat trip, mainly for coral-viewing. I did no swimming, as I was still smarting a bit from over-exposure the day or two before. But it was a relaxing half-day trip—all of four people aboard! Then on Tuesday, at the unholy hour of 6 AM, I boarded a DC-3 Fiji Airways plane for the flight to Suva. Egad! How small the plane seemed! My last ride in a DC-3 was in the passionate-pink “Standard Airways” flight Oakland to Burbank in 1963, the first leg of the infamous Terry Davis debacle. Of course, the seating is really superior to (tourist sections) of the larger jets, and visibility from the air—it did get off the ground, and with less effort than I’d remembered—is better as well.

Now, Suva is on the “wet” side of the island of the Fiji group (there are 300-odd in the group), and the contrast is quite remarkable. The dry side, which has low coastal plains (given almost entirely to culture of sugar cane) rises quickly into dry, California-like mountains—forest fires here, too. The whole South Pacific has been unseasonably dry for about the last 6 weeks; water shortages are common. Even so, Suva is conspicuously more moist, with lots of lush growth, beautiful flowers, wild fruit, etc., etc. The town itself is quite a small & quiet place. I took a car tour here in order to make the best of the one day I had; then yesterday, also very early, boarded a Hawker-Siddeley 748 Prop-jet for the approx. 2 hr flight to Tonga. We landed, to my surprise, on a grass air-strip; there was a big crowd because the King & Queen were on their way out on the return flight, and were indeed present & waiting. We then proceeded to cross the whole island in less than 15 minutes to Tuku’Alofa (sic) the capitol city. Now, I’d been led to believe Tonga was quite a prosperous place, but it seems not to be so. However, there is oil here, and that is under investigation for development, which could transform the island practically overnight. There is one Intercontinental Hotel with appallingly stiff tariffs, and one “bunkhouse” in which I am lodged at less steep but still too high rates. There is, essentially, nothing to do, which is just fine with me as I anticipate a pretty hectic time when I get back, and need some good, deep relaxation just now. A group of us may take bicycle rides around the island tomorrow, but otherwise it will be just lolligagging, swimming (fair beach here) and eating & sleeping. It looks as though three days in Apia (W. Samoa) and 1 or less in Pago Pago will complete the whole shebang—and certainly will exhaust my current supply of funds! The flight to Apia (DC-3, maybe 4) is “scheduled” for 11:15 Monday, but we are told it may go anytime thereafter, surely not before! Polynesian Airways obviously is run the polynesian way, which is, to put it the nicest way, “relaxed”.

So, I shall be seeing everyone quite soon—I hope this letter gets there before I do—and of course I look forward to at least the brief visit I shall have on the mainland.

Luv to all~

Bruce

The plane which delivered us to Tonga

Home of the King & Queen of Tonga

There really wasn’t much to Nuku’Alofa

A long-wharf at Tonga

Beautiful sky over boats at Tonga
The bunkhouse was just across the road from the ocean

Rather staid currency from Tonga

The backsides were more colorful

I was unable to find any crisp clean ones!

Further adventures awaited me in Western Samoa, although an unscheduled stop in Pago Pago was amusing. Coming up!

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The red arrow points to American Samoa

From Tonga I was booked to fly to Western Samoa: Peter was on the same DC-4, with just a few others. However, when we landed, we were in Pago Pago (American Samoa). It seems the Micronesian Airways plane needed fuel, which was cheaper  there than in W.Samoa. It further devolved that there were many passengers wishing to fly from PP to W. Samoa, so Micronesian Airways accommodated. We disembarked while the refueling took place, and when we re-boarded, the plane was full—every seat taken. Most of the passengers were women, on their way (I learned later) to a temperance meeting in W. Samoa. We seemed ready for takeoff, but the door was opened again, a man came in, went to the front and addressed us all in Samoan: there was a bit of discussion, and several ladies disembarked and we were on our way soon thereafter.

It’s a short flight to W. Samoa; once again we landed on a grass strip. The “airport” was a steel shed, and a bus awaited everyone for the trip to Apia. I found myself sitting next to the airplane’s Captain, so asked him what the reason was for the passengers who were left behind in Pago Pago: his answer amused me. Having taken on fuel, when loaded with all the ladies (most of them tres corpulent) the plane was overweight for landing successfully at W. Samoa’s grass field! To make the weight limit, they had jettisoned several passengers.

This was the event all the women flew in for

It is 30 miles or so to Apia, and one of the first things one passes after leaving the “airport” is the wreckage of a plane that didn’t quite make it: the Micronesian Airways logo was still visible, which gave us a lot of confidence! Nevertheless, we had made it to W. Samoa, so presumably we would make it back to Pago Pago in a few days.

What is that huge cathedral doing there?

The chief glory of Apia, besides a surprising number of christian churches (which somehow seem very out-of-place) is something called the Palolo Deep. This is a deep hole off-shore some distance but within a reef: one is safe snorkeling or diving there from predators—sharks in particular. One walks out on the reef, wearing foot-protection, in water up to your knees until standing right on the edge of the hole. Because of the air-water interface, nothing can be seen in the water, which appears black. But the instant one puts on a mask and gets even just that below the surface, a whole new world opens up.

The bright blue patch surrounded by coral is the Palolo Deep

A better view of the Palolo Deep

I managed to find a snorkel that was long enough to overcome my tendency to sink, and spent a number of hours out there over several days. It was spectacular, and after I developed the sense to wear a tee-shirt to protect my back from the sun, I enjoyed snorkeling a lot. Fish, large and small, of all sorts and colors are there and have to some extent become inured to the presence of people: they come right up and peer at you from just inches away!

Peter also did some snorkeling, but ignored the warning to wear something on his feet, so he got serious cuts and infections which (I heard later) landed him in the hospital when he reached the US. There were signs everywhere warning of the danger of walking on coral; the ramshackle bunkhouse inn I stayed in had a huge pile of old sneakers there for the taking, as long as they were returned for someone else to use later. I used them always, and had no problems.

I had very little of this left over

The $2 bill was more colorful

However, there was not a whole lot of anything else to do in Apia, so I moved on after just three days. Peter remained there, and I never saw him again. The flight back to Pago Pago was uneventful, except that I was allowed to sit in the “learner’s seat” of the DC-4 as it was landing. I’d never realized how absolutely blind the pilots are; they have to guess where the runway is and when to touch down upon it.

There was an eight-hour layover at Pago Pago: what to do? I took a little bus into the town, and quickly spied the Tramway (Cable Car) up to Mount Alava. It was a spectacular ride. I was bemused by a sign which read, “Cable does not operate in winds over 25 knots”. I was willing to bet a ride in a 24-knot wind was exciting, but on the day I rode it was dead calm. I wandered around town for a while, then took the little bus back to the Pago Pago Intercontinental Hotel, from which another bus would take us to the airport. There were signs everywhere explaining that the hotel was not a “waiting area for airplanes”, yet there was no other place to kill time between flights.

In the lobby was a teletype machine (remember those?): it was thrashing away and there were several yards of distinctive yellow paper out on the floor. I picked up the end to read, but found it filled with nonsense: something was wrong, and it was only printing out random characters in endless streams. As I leafed through the paper to see if there was any pattern, I realized someone was looking over my shoulder. So, I began exclaiming, grunting and so forth as if I was reading it. That sent the observer off for drink! Finally I gravitated to the swimming-pool, where at least there were some cute youngsters frolicking, and ordered a drink from a passing waiter. “Are you a guest of the hotel?” he asked, rather tartly. “I certainly AM”, I replied. And I certainly was “a guest of the hotel”: note that he didn’t say registered guest… Anyway, I got the drink.

Totally obsolete now; state-of-the-art in 1968

Eventually, I got back to the airport, embarked on a flight to Los Angeles by way of Hawaii, and off we went. Some hours later, I returned to LAX, where my pilgrimage through Southeast Asia had begun eleven months previously.

For some reason, I grew a beard on the last part of this trip (after leaving Australia). Back at my folks’ house, I looked like this:

The only beard I ever grew

My brothers and I got together for a quick trip to Mexico over the Christmas holidays: that’s a subject for my next page.

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I joined a team in Alexandria that was trying to figure out what to do to improve the quantity and quality of drinking water in Alexandria. We had offices and a staff-house in these two large old mansions located in the part of Alex known as Sidi Bishr.

I understand these buildings have been razed and replaced with high-rise apartment blocks. No wonder: they fronted directly on the Cornishe, and the Mediterranean Sea:

In those days (and I have no reason to think it has changed), Alexandria was almost deserted during the winter months, when the weather could indeed be rather raw as it blew in directly from the Med. In the summertime, however, the city became home to millions of Cairenes who came to Alex to escape the summer heat of Cairo. Then, the beach might look more like this:

The water along the beach was frequently polluted by sewage dumped directly, so swimming was not a very safe thing to do, and I rarely did it. You cannot see in pictures like this that women, if they came to the beach at all, did little more than wade fully dressed: swimming as such was reserved for the men. I found it amusing that guys wore bathing suits, usually quite revealing speedos, so long as they were ON the beach, but to go inland only so far as to buy a drink or ice-cream, they would dress first. Those dressing-rooms were often good places to catch guys changing.

Note the blue bus in the first photo: this is one of a fleet given to Alexandria by USAID:  the busses were built in the USA, and were so shoddy that within a few months of arrival, all were finished. The APTA (Alexandria Passenger Transit Authority) had sent operatives to the US factory to explain the conditions of use the busses would be subjected to, but when these guys were ignored, they came home disgusted. What no one in the US could comprehend was that busses in Alex routinely ran at 200% capacity on poorly maintained streets and roads. So, the first time one of these went over a bump with 70 people hanging on the over-head hand-rails, (which had been pop-riveted in place), the rails pulled loose and were chucked out. The doors fell off soon thereafter. These were only slightly glorified school-busses (the company that built them had never built anything else). All this gave the US a major black-eye, and APTA went back to buying busses from France, as they had done for years.

Alexandria had a few antiquities left. It was the site of the famous Alexandria Library, nothing recognizable of which remained.

Alexandria did have a large fleet of derelict street-cars, most of them still running (more or less). Many had been purchased in Belgium. I rode them endlessly, as they were a real hoot!

A train of three ex-Belgium trams MUed

There were also PCC cars (ex-Toronto, Canada) which ran both singly and in trains of three

Here’s another three-car trainset ex-Belgium, the last car of which is a double-decker

There were also old narrow LRVs from Belgium, which ran around the very old part of Alexandria, seen here at Orabi Square

There was not a lot of gay sex going on in Alexandria. I eventually connected with a couple of guys from Luxor. They were pretty tight, but whether they were lovers as we would know the term I never was quite sure. But I enjoyed them both quite often. Ahmed’s friend was one of the prettiest Egyptians I met: for the most part, I was not particular taken with Egyptian men, who tended to treat me as they would a woman, quite brutally.

That’s me with my cat, Soda (which means “black” in Arabic) and Ahmed.

Ahmed’s friend was a real charmer! He knew how to dress to show off his tight bod.

Alexandria had also taken delivery of some brand new Japanese trainsets. These were fitted with pantographs, but the overhead system had not yet been properly fitted for them. When these cars rocked far enough to one side (on the uneven rails) a pantograph could swing past the hot-wire and entangle the hangers, with predictable results: damage and delays. I took the series of pictures below from the verandah of my apartment, and managed to snap photos when the inevitable happened: they got something mixed up with the 600-Volt line, with spectacular results!

As you can see, the “fireworks” drew quite a crowd!

Sooner or later the line-car and crew had to be called out to repair the damage:

Rebuilt from an old Belgian tram.

Then, early one morning, an early out-bound passenger tram collided with the line-car!

Trying to re-rail the line-car. Note caved-in front of car behind

In this old B&W photo, I am one of the “Four Musketeers”. Alas, only two of us are still alive.

The Four Musketeers

There you have a bit of life in Alexandria. Here’s another: this image has been seen all over the world, but I actually saw this happen many times!

Slightly overloaded!

I’ll describe some of my trips around Egypt in future pages.

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Cairo is located at the start of the Nile Delta

My three months in Ecuador passed quickly. I was always busy, either tramping around on horse-back in the mountains, or riding the G&Q (and the Cuenca branch, in a rail-bus), or carrying-on in El Ejido park. The work turned out to be entirely for nought: when the seismic team arrived in Ecuador, shortly after I departed, they took a look at plans and exclaimed, “You’re going to put a dam on the Boca and create a reservoir at the foot of an active volcano? You’re out of your minds!” The plan was scrapped in its entirety, and other sources of water were found for Quito.

One thing amused me: I had been studying Arabic while in Alexandria and Cairo, then suddenly found myself surrounded by Spanish. In Arabic, the meaning of any word is conveyed by its consonants: vowels are just connectives and can generally be “whatever works”. But in Spanish, vowels are vitally important! Soon after arriving in Quito, someone was describing some fracaso in which his brother had become embroiled. I intended to say, “Que pena” (how sad, what a pity…). But I came out with “Que pene”, which literally means “What a penis!” This broke up everyone within earshot. I decided (knowing I would return to Egypt) to learn Spanish on another trip!

I spent another year in Cairo, and generally found it quite dull. When I needed some “action”, I took the train to Aswan and spent my excess per diem on the local fellows. I was on a felucca with several of them the night that Anwar Sadat spoke to the Knesset: all agreed this was a good thing for him to do, but of course Sadat was too close to being a true statesman, so he had to be eliminated: this occurred shortly after I left Egypt for good.

My last assignment in Cairo involved working seven days a week for nearly four months. This wore me down, and when it came time to depart, I had planned to fly to Nairobi and take the train to Mombasa, just as a recreational trip. At the last minute I decided I was too tired to even enjoy that, and a Filipino engineer working with us suggested I go to Manila instead. Since I knew a couple who were working there, I sent off a letter to them and re-routed myself to Manila, via Athens, Bangkok, and Bombay, arriving late afternoon at the old Manila International Airport. The place was thronged with people, among which there was no sign of my friends. A taxi-driver found me a place for the night—a brothel, as it turned out—but I was exhausted, so that didn’t matter. I found a nice hotel the next day and called my friends, who were astonished to hear from me: my letter would arrive a week after I did!

It did not take me long to decide I had died and gone to heaven: there were more gorgeous boys per square unit-area in Manila than in any place I had been, and I looked forward to sampling as many as I could. But that is for another page. Meanwhile, here are just a few photos taken in and around Cairo. Most of the time there I was too busy to take many pictures, and Cairo is not really a photogenic place.

As long as you were far enough from it to be able to ignore the “floaters”, the Nile was quite beautiful. The floaters included entire dead animals and all sorts of other flotsam!

Cairo traffic was horrendous. You’ve heard of the “horny Arabs”? The only traffic rule was to sound the horn as often as possible!

Another view of Cairo’s traffic problem. Too many cars, too many pedestrians, too many everything!

The train-sets in use at the time had been built in Japan: maintenance was scarce and riders were plentiful, including chaps seen here clinging to the rear of a moving train.

Taken from some high spot, this panorama covers about a third of greater Cairo; the estimated population then was 13 million, but no one really knew how many people lived there.

This ebonet allowed me to ride Cairo busses without having to speak a destination. I rode them a lot, but only during “off-peak” hours, when they were actually quite handy and fast.

This beat-up freight train was photographed on the outskirts of Cairo.

A view of the Sphinx and Cheops Pyramid at Gizeh. I spent many hours trying to imagine building these monuments. To this day, no one is certain how it was done.

My Egyptian Driver’s License.

This derelict old palace in Cairo attracted my attention: I thought it would be fun to restore it. I doubt it has survived.

The “Gang of Four” at the Sphinx. Of these, I am the only one still living.

The main road to Gizeh, and to the Desert Highway to Alexandria, about 230 km distant.

Friends who have been back to Cairo say it is a much-changed place since I left it in 1982. So be it: I have no interest in returning there! Especially after spending time in Manila, which quickly became my favorite place in the world (even though there were no steam trains there). I’ll see if I have any photos from Manila to include on my next page. There may not be any!

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