M Y O B

I INTERRUPT MY NARRATIVE …

… to discuss a matter of some importance to several large segments of our population: pornography.

I’m old enough to remember vividly the days when there was NO commercial porn. What porn there was consisted mostly of typewritten material, often second-and third- carbon-copies, occasionally with crude drawings included. A friend of mine had a HUGE collection of this stuff. Later, when the firm for which we both worked got a dry copier, he made Xerox copies in large quantities. Since he was the “key operator” for the machine, he got away with it for many months, until he left an “original” on the platen which someone else found. There was a bit of a dust-up, of course, but only a very few knew he was the perp, so he went on with it, being more careful! But I digress…

As I completed college, I found there were some magazines available here and there: these were not really pornographic in today’s sense of the word. There were no “dirty-book stores”: only a few magazine-stands would carry these off-color rags. One of these was a tiny (like, 5″ X 7″) black and white booklet called Tomorrow’s Man. It was mainly devoted to body-builders, posing (often oiled) in miniscule thongs and jock-straps. Penises were generally stuffed out of the way, which gave rise to the notion that most body-builders are not well hung. (The porn revolution has busted that myth!) Fizeek was another of these magazines, very similar in design and scope and there were several others.

Then there was AMG (Athletic Model Guild), in a slightly larger format, also black and white. This was produced in Southern California and appeared to contain mostly navy guys (”seafood”) earning a little extra cash (to buy booze and girls, of course). I suppose a collection of these magazines would be worth some money nowadays. In the early issues the boys were mostly dressed, usually shirtless, and showing some basket (sometimes enormous ones—I often suspected salamis had been substituted for the real thing). The intent of these photos was certainly to provoke a salacious reaction in the reader, and I suppose it was successful for some: but the other intent was to “push the envelope” and get porn main-streamed. As time went on, the guys wore less and less and various symbols (often scratched on the negatives) were used to indicate sexual preferences, physical statistics and so forth. It is difficult, now, to believe that to state (or even suggest) that someone was “gay” or -gasp- homosekshull, was forbidden! [When someone implied Liberace was homosexual, he sued (libel), and WON!] The cute stuff in AMG was all designed to avoid prosecution for distributing “obscene” material under a whole bunch of court rulings generally lumped together and called “obscenity laws”

TM eventually disappeared (a copy from 1954 was available recently for $95.00), but AMG pushed on pushing, their material becoming more prurient and occasionally in color. Then, in 1973, came “Miller v. California”, which, while not opening the flood-gates exactly, did make it obvious the definition of obscene was not an easy task. It gradually dawned on people in general and on the courts, that obscenity was as much “in the eye of the beholder” as in the producer: by this time, AMG was definitely obscene, and was to become far more-so before it folded.

However, from the 70’s on, pornography “took off”. Large-format magazines that had kept the air-brushes busy removing “lumps” began including explicit (and occasionally real) hard-ons: the air-brushes went to work enhancing rather that deleting! With the useful addition of “adult” bookstores where all this stuff could be displayed and sold, the pornography market exploded. Specialty-subject mags appeared, including kiddie-porn, which as quickly as it appeared was legislated out of existence. My favorite title of the “niche rags” was Stump, and I leave it to my readers to imagine its contents!

Professional pornographers were quick to exploit technology: even amateurs quickly saw the possibilities of the Polaroid camera! I had a neighbor in the early 50’s who took photos of every hard-on he could find (he’s immortalized in Piece on Earth at Nifty). Prior to that, all porno had been produced on conventional film, an expensive and laborious process given that one had to find places to develop film that would NOT call the cops if they found a hard-on (or worse). The advent of the electronic camera for production (professional and otherwise), and the internet (for distribution) has radically changed the whole “porno” scene. Kids growing up today have this phenomenal wealth of porn available if they want it, and the ready means to produce and distribute it themselves if so inclined:  and they do, as I’m sure my readers know.

It’s all pretty amazing stuff for old farts like me who have watched it all unfold.  My own career, such as it is, writing “fuck stories” began in 1987 with First and Second Cousins: it has been on Nifty practically from its inception.

PeeYes: I’m also old enough to remember that the Nifty (gay) Archive was originally accumulated by someone at Cornell University: whether student or faculty I’ve never known. Its original URL ended in cornell.edu! I suppose someone eventually discovered it and forced it off-site! But it still exists here and contains thousands of original gay stories; many are fine examples of “one-handed-reading”.

NEXT

Let’s take a ride behind steam on the G&Q!

I’ve already covered the part from Durán to Bucay, so will only repeat a bit of that here. But the real fun starts in Bucay, where average grades run between 4 and 5%. Even getting the train under way at Bucay is not easy, as the rails are on a curve at several percent grade!

Here we go:

Here’s your ticket!

Work gets under way early. Engines may have to be fired up from cold, or brought up to pressure if a night-hostler has kept them warm.

Number 11 will take us to Bucay today. This little Atlantic is only 68 years old! Her fire is little balky, lacking a good draft.

The train has been made up, and number 11 struggles to get traction on the wet rails as it pulls the train into the station.

Note the lack of a fireman: the engine was just being moved down to its train, so the night-hostler did the needful.

As we pull out of Durán, we pass several old engines, but the one at right is Number 58, the last engine to come to the G&Q from Baldwin, and one of the last Baldwins built.

We have arrived at the southern end of Bucay. Here the train brakes will be set, and number 11 will enter the yard for a well earned rest and drink of water. She will take a small freight consist back to Durán. Number 46 awaits us and will back down to pull our train on up to Bucay Station.

At 33 years of age, Number 46 is a youngster compared with Number 11! This Consolidation will take us on up to Alausí.

Meanwhile, Number 17 is being fired up to take a freight extra down to Durán.

Number 11, rested and watered, backs to her train back to Durán.

And Number 17 moves back to her train, a freight running extra.

After thorough oiling and turning on the wye, Number 46 will back down to replace Number 11 at the head of our train.

Under way briefly, we are pulled up into Bucay town and station, right up the main (and pretty much only) street in town.

We approach the station at Bucay. Here we will wait for some problems to be corrected.

Derailments are not uncommon, as most of the ties are rotten in the ground. Spreading a rail is all too easy.

One of our group wanted to ride this little chair-car, but he was chased off: the car was reserved for a big-wig of the railroad!

Here is the business end of Engine 46.

Pretty simple, really!

Looking back as we depart Bucay with many passengers on the roof of the boxcar.

We cross the Rio Chan Chan immediately as we depart Bucay. We will cross it many times!

Further on we pass a diesel engine and a steam engine in the hole for us.

The rails look more like a foot-path, but we will pass over them momentarily.

We soon cross the ChanChan again. Note the still-lush flora; it is not quite so tropical here as down in the flats. Before we reach Alausí we will reach past the treeline.

That’s the ChanChan in the foreground, and another bridge over it in the distance. We are getting into the hills now.

Approaching that bridge over the ChanChan.

The Rio ChanChan has gone on numerous rampages over the years, so this section of the railroad has been rebuilt repeatedly. That’s our way forward above the water-line.

There are several tunnels. Riding on the tender of a locomotive is not the best place to be when going through, but fortunately, there was light at the other end.

Get your partners for the tunnel! Better yet, put a shirt over your head and stop breathing!

The mechanista often has a tough time when the rails are wet and slippery. But sometimes it is a family affair!

We are entering a canyon, and will soon reach Sibambe. The Cuenca branch of the railroad can be seen coming down the hillside.

It’s worth looking back whence we’ve come once in a while!

Onward and upward! the Engineer has one hand on the throttle and the other on the brakes as the engine works. The Fireman is alert to whatever is ahead, and maintains the fire. He also sees to it water is fed into the boiler as fast as it is used up.

It is necessary to sand the flues often. Bunker C oil burns badly and makes a lot of soot that reduces the rate of heat transfer from the fire to the boiler tubes. Sand passing through knocks off the soot, and also rains down on whoever might be sitting on the tender. Like me!

There are numerous water-stops along the way. Working on heavy grades, these little engines boil a lot of water!

The Engineer keeps a sharp eye out for rock-slides and other hazards.

There is our first glimpse of the Nariz del Diablo: the Devil’s Nose.

Still working hard! Sibambe is not far around the next corner, and the Cuenca branch comes down from the right.

The two cuts comprising the switch-back on the Devil’s Nose can be seen clearly. Our little train will be up there fairly soon!

Looking up from Sibambe at an autoferro ascending the Devil’s Nose.

Our train takes water again and has bit of a rest at Sibambe.

The station at Sibambe.

We depart Sibambe. The train will go as far as it ever did up the canyon of the Rio ChanChan.

The Canyon walls close in as we struggle upwards.

We encounter a train in Huigra pulled by S&C Number 18.

We depart Huigra. From here it is not far to end of line. (Except for the switch-back, that is).

Approaching the first switch. Once clear of it, we will back up on the track seen at right.

Our train has cleared the switch, and will now back up on the track curving left.

We back up around the Devil’s nose. The Engineer cannot see the end of his train, and has to take it on faith that his train remains on the track! Of course, there are numerous brakemen who keep watch as well.

When our engine clears this switch, it will be thrown to put us on the forward leg of the switch-back.

We approach the reversing switch. The rest of the train is out of sight around the curvature of the Devil’s nose.

The Engineer seems bored. I suppose it was all in a day’s work for them, but it was exciting for me!

This is the view looking back down to Sibambe!

We have pulled ahead on the upper track and are headed for Alausí. Note how the flora has changed! We are still on the Devil’s Nose here.

We are just about off the Devil’s nose itself. Our train is perched delicately on this rocky ledge.

We are off the Devil’s Nose. Alausí is not far ahead.

That’s our line ahead. The ChanChan is now far below us. We will be in clouds before long!

Number 51 resting at Alausí. She’s dead-heading down hill after helping a freight up the hill seen beyond the town. That way lies Riobamba, but in 1979 only the Diesel electrics were making that run.

That’s my tale of a trip up the Andes behind steam. Sharp eyes will note that several engines are used in this excursion, which is really a compilation of several such runs at various times. I rode the G&Q every chance I got, and on some days made the ascent from Bucay to Alausí several times. It was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, as the old saying goes, and many years later I returned to ride again, by which time the railroad was pretty far gone. I’ll cover that in my narrative later on. Meanwhile, before returning to Cairo, I will put up one more page of miscellaneous sights on the G&Q.

NEXT

I seem to be losing readers. This is not surprising, since the blog is only being updated sporadically.

Thanks to StatCounter

But, never mind.

We recently had occasion to entertain a group of architects who were interested in my house. I though it would be fun to have the dining table set up as if the owner (when the house was built) was going to entertain the President of the US (when the house was built). The guests were, therefor, Mr. and Mrs. John Coop, and President and Mrs. Grover Cleveland. We fashioned a typical Victorian table-setting with all the finery we could muster. The results are shown below:

An over all view, with the gas lights lit

A closer look. The table-cloth is Thai silk

Coffee service and Cognac at the ready

The “menu” was developed from period sources and I thought it would be quite awful if ever actually prepared. Terrapin was included only because I happen to have the terrapin forks (which I have never used).

Appropriate vegetables included for each remove

All quite vomitous, I think!

That’s all, until next time!

March 27, 2009

I have survived, so far!  What the Doctors failed to tell me is that when the pain-killer they left inside my knee wore off, the pain would intensify to something far FAR worse than I had experienced up to then. Tramadol has been the best at alleviating the pain, and turning me into a vegetable, but I am now able to get around, still with crutches. A post-op exam occurs on Tuesday, when I shall know more about what they did, and what to expect going forward (or backward, depending…)

In a week or so I hope to resume my blog.

NEXT

Ecuador used some very colorful paper money when I was there. However, in 2000 the government adopted the US Dollar as its currency, so the bills shown below are no longer valid.

10.000 Sucre bill

1.000 Sucre bill

500 Sucre bill

100 Sucre bill

50 Sucre bill

20 Sucre bill

10 Sucre bill

5 Sucre bill

There were other things going on in Quito while I was there. Most of my weekends were taken up with railroading, but many evenings were spent in el Ejido park. There was a major shortage of power in 1979: the diesel generators were down for maintenance, and the expected flows of water did not materialize for their hydro-power, so electricity was severely rationed. The Hotel Colon, where I stayed, had its own generators, so we were cozy and comfortable. The Colon also had a rear entrance, which made it possible for me to sneak in looking like something the cat dragged in after a weekend of riding the railroad. It also allowed me to bring in tricks without passing through the lobby and front desk. Very convenient!

But I quickly discovered that when the word got around that the usual lighting in the park was turned off several nights each week, the local folk got out, got down, and got dirty in great numbers. Yours truly was right there among them, sucking dick as often as possible, which was frequently. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that the police did not venture into the park, lights on or lights off. Once in a while one would walk through the park, usually just going from one place to another.

Many nights I would sit on the base of the statue of Eloy Alfaro, pretty much in the center of the park. If the lights were on, I just enjoyed the fine weather; if the lights were off, I’d be cruising up tricks. I have found world-wide that Catholic boys are particularly horny, and the Ecuadoreños were no exception!

One event struck me as quite unusual. Located as it is, Quito has all sorts of unusual climate phenomena, one of which is the sudden development of a thin fog—and the equally sudden evaporation of it. Sitting in the park of a cool night, the fog might form and be there for twenty minutes or less, then be gone. During just such a situation, a uniformed policeman appeared out of the fog, groping himself madly: I had him down on the grass in a trice, and had him off in time to make his departure moments before the fog lifted. He thanked me appreciatively and disappeared!

Altogether, I had a wonderful time in Ecuador, but of course it was the railroad that really left the most lasting impression. Here are a few more shots taken here and there along the G&Q.

SCENES IN AND AROUND DURÁN:

A view of the shops at Duran

Wrecker Number 1. It probably got a lot of use!

Air compressor

Car number 28 being rebuilt for the nth time.

Freshly painted car. These date to the beginning of the railroad.

Engine 18 at Duran. It was on the S&C line originally

SCENES ALONG THE LINE:

This old structure near Milagro was disappearing into the jungle.

Autoferro in the hole for an up-bound mixto hauled by Diesel power

Number 11 hauling freight

Engine Number 51 thunders into Sibambe

SHOPS AT SIBAMBE:

The Sibambe shops are perched on a hillside above the town

Number 51 at rest in her home

Number 17 at Sibambe looked to be in poor health

ALONG THE RIGHT OF WAY:

The diesel engines were powerful: that’s an 9-car train on the Nariz

A mixto pulled by a diesel engine crosses the Alausi bridge

The world’s highest mountain, according to some, seen from Riobamba

Some of the motion on Number 11

The counterweights outside the frame gave these engines the moniker of “weed-whacker”

There will be one more post about the G&Q: I rode it to Ibarra, and got a few photos before night fell.

NEXT

May 7, 2009

I am happy to report that my knee is healing rapidly.  I went to Southern California last weekend: perhaps the SoCal sun, or (more likely) the reduced number of stairs to navigate daily seemed to help, and I find I am walking almost “normally”.  I think perhaps I’ll recover!

The trip south was to ride behind this fabulous locomotive:

They just don’t build them like this any more!

We rode in this equally fabulous restored Vista-dome car:

Now privately owned. The smoothest ride on the entire train.

This accounts for my lack of posts for awhile! So, now back to Egypt.

After about 6 months of working in Alexandria, I decided to see what was “going on” in Cairo. There certainly wasn’t much “going on” in Alex! I had managed to seduce a couple of lads there, but there was no organized gay life that I could ferret out. One of the few places in Cairo where we felt relatively safe eating the food was the Hilton Hotel. This was just back from the banks of the Nile river, and there were always a clutch of feluccas tied up there to take tourists for rides. There was a granite-block staircase down to the landing. I discovered a handy place under some bushes beside that staircase where I could entice various guys to help themselves to my services. This began a regular retreat from Alexandria each week-end: I would take the train (Hungarian diesel) after work on Friday, and return Sunday evening after “entertaining” a good many lovely and appreciative youths. For many of them it seemed to be something “new”, and perhaps it was, but the language barrier made it difficult to learn. In any case, it was not unusual for chaps to come back for more, bringing a friend or two as well. I rode the railway so often I got the pass-book that gave me favored seating:

Very useful book for using first-class trains

Somewhere in my travels—I did not make a note of where—I snapped the picture below of the only derelict steam engine I ever saw in Egypt:

An old British engine rusting away

There were many unspoiled spots on the Mediterranean Sea westward from Alexandria that were quite beautiful. One of these was Agiba:

Great swimming here, water crystal-clear

Another spot was Ras el Hekma. To get there we always had to bribe the soldiers guarding a nearby microwave tower, but a pack or two of ciggies usually sufficed:

The red arrow points to Ras el Hekma

A wonderfully protected pool, great swimming!

My friend Gary visited for a while. We went to Ras el Hekma often

Further West was Marsa Matrouh. It was off-limits to us at first, but several of us crashed it and stayed overnight. Soon thereafter it was opened to all.

The red arrow points to Marsa Matrouh

The welcome sign was welcome: it is a long drive.

Approaching the town of Marsa Matrouh

Beach at Marsa Matrouh

Closer still to Alex was Sidi Abdel Rahman. It had a decent beach and both a hotel and houses to rent. However, the mosquitos were often numerous and fierce!

Lovely beach. Could be “touristy” at times

I read recently that this site is about to be “developed”, which means spoiled. They’ll have to solve the mosquito problem, however.

View from the hotel

Nearer to Cairo was Lake Qurun:

The red arrow points to Lake Qurun

A favorite hunting-ground for the British

The old British hotel at the Lake was a hoot! A friend and I actually stayed overnight there, but it was  badly run-down. I wonder what became of it?

Potentially a nice place.

South and west of Cairo is the odd Pyramid know as Meidum.

The red arrow points to Meidum

Presumably the steep sides resulted in collapse

For more about this unusual structure, click here.

Further South from Cairo is Luxor:

The red arrow points to Luxor

I have many pictures taken in Luxor: here are just a few.

A portion of the Temple at Karnak

Dramatically lit at night

The scale of these temples is astounding

When these temples were new, the Pyramids were already 2500 years old!

Rocks are heavy! How did they construct these pillars?

Further still lies Aswan, about which I will have more to tell in a future page. Stay tuned!

NEXT

The red arrow points to Jakarta

Economy class again

Luggage tag for my suitcase full of dirty clothes

Garuda flew Lockheed Electras – my favorite airplane

Melbourne, 29.11.68

Hello again~
After 6 days of Bali, I confess I was fed up with constantly fending off people trying to sell me every imaginable thing. I did, as I believe I mentioned last letter, see quite a bit and get yet another nasty sunburn (which today is all peeling off). So, on Thursday I boarded another Electra bound for Djakarta, via, as it turned out, Surabaja, where there was a brief passenger stop. Because of a mistake on Garuda’s part in Denpasar, I was not confirmed on the 9 PM M-S-A flight to Sydney, but at DJK I got that straightened out soon enough (I was confirmed, but DPS had my name wrong). Having about 5 hours, I decided to at least go into downtown Djakarta for a quick look round. I questioned the taxi kiosk, 2 information kiosks, and 2 taxi drivers outside about getting from the aeroport to downtown DJK: in every case, instead of information, I got a hard-sell pitch for a 2-hr hired-car sight-seeing tour, and my 6 days’ experience in Bali made me balk. Actually, I was furious, though in the orient or Asia it is best not to let this show. So I resolved to just sit out the lay-over at the aeroport. On the “waving deck” cokes were Rp 300 (=75¢ US); I balked at that too, but found on the next deck up the same coke only Rp 75. Here, though, the waiter did not even bother to bring back the change from the Rp 100 I gave him. So, instead of also ordering perhaps a sandwich later on, I did without, and spent nothing except the inevitable Rp 400 Aeroport Tax. About 7:30 I was informed that my flite would be about 1½ hrs late. The dispatcher, hearing of my difficulty with the taxis, arranged to take me along when he was driven home at 8, and the driver took a rather circuitous route back, so by night, I did see a little of Djakarta after all—free! It reminded me too much of Saigon: about the same size (4M), and in only a little better condition. Traffic is ghastly, & there were more “tri-sha’s” than anything else—more even than Saigon. At least in DJK they are brightly painted and festooned with all sorts of gewgaws, so are more colorful than the broken-down pedicabs in Sgn. Well, making a long story short, the plane departed four hours late, around 1 AM local time. Trouble with the landing gear, and it wasn’t really right: the brakes grabbed badly when we landed in Sydney, and later I heard the return flight delayed for at least an hour.

The problem with the taxis was my own misunderstanding as to just where I was! The airport for Djakarta then was right on the outskirts of town: if I had had sense to walk out to the main road (perhaps a quarter of a mile) I could have hired a tri-sha and been in Djakarta in less than 20 minutes! I had become accustomed to airports that were miles from anywhere, as in the States. The taxi drivers did not want to drop the flag for what would have been a very short ride. Likewise, I had spent down my rupiahs, as they would be worthless the moment I left the country, and did not want to cash a travelers check and have a wad of worthless rups left over.

One amusing thing happened on the flight from Denpasar to Djakarta. My seat-mate was a funny-looking little Frenchman who works as a doctor in a remote village in the Congo. Once a year he goes out for a holiday. He had little to say, but kept repeating that over and over. Finally he said that although he liked Bali, he was disappointed by the Balinese women—they just weren’t “as good” as he’d been led to believe. I guess I was in a bitchy mood, but after the aforementioned annoyances in Bali & this character’s incessant babble I could not hold back, so I said, “Well console yourself with the realization that there is probably at least one Balinese women back there saying right now, ‘I was disappointed by that Frenchman—he wasn’t as good as I’d been lead to believe’”. We completed the trip to DJK in blessed silence!

The pass shows where to board the plane: clever!

Amazing what stuff I’ve saved all these years!

It was night, of course, when we finally departed DJK; first light came only a couple of hours later (after we’d passed over a fantastically beautiful electrical storm—I’d never seen one at night from the air, but wow!! what a show!) and sunrise a couple of hours behind that. I could see quite a lot of Australia below, and it certainly has some fascinating topography. We gained one hour of lost time, and there was a three hour time difference, putting us in Sydney about 10:30 local time. We flew right over the huge brush-fire that literally surrounds Sydney and has it in a state of emergency at this very moment. But it was a very cold 70° F when we stepped off the plane! I immediately put in a couple of phone calls, and on the basis thereof decided to transit Sydney for the moment & proceed to Melbourne.

I know—since you’ve all asked—you’re wondering what I’m going to do after Christmas; if I knew for sure, I’d tell you, but I really do not. A number of possibilities are in mind, and a new one opened up here today, though frankly is is so far the least attractive of the lot. My old job is, I hear, open again, and may still be so when I get home. They want me back, but it would be so prohibitively expensive for me to re-settle in SF that I think that is out of the question. I cannot remain states-side more than one month without losing my tax exemption for 1968, which would be a disaster. To prevent this, I’ve set aside enough to keep me reasonably well in Mexico as long as might be necessary to negotiate a new overseas job (I’ve joined Overseas Craftsmens Association, a specialty placement agency with excellent reputation). On the other hand, it is clear that I could come and work here in Melbourne, even on a relatively short term basis, helping (indirectly) [redacted] on the study they’re making of the waste-disposal problem in the harbor here; actually I’d work for the Melbourne Works Board and the salary would be little more than maintenance, but perhaps preferable to frittering away 6 months in Mexico (where I’m welcome to live but not to work).

On the other hand, I must admit having for some time now entertained a notion whereby I might be able to continue traveling but still make money. Frank Lew, my room-mate back in San Jose these many years ago, has been working for some time for Cost-Plus in SF; when I left I know he was getting an urge to do some traveling again, too. The idea has occurred to me that we might team up to open a small import shop (probably in Mill Valley) and art gallery; one of us would stay to run the shop while the other went on buying-trips, and we’d take turns. I’ve seen so many really fine things in SEA that we just don’t seem to be getting at home. A carefully selected & properly displayed sampling would sell very well I’m sure. Thus, the incidental pleasures of the buying expeditions would be, essentially, free. I will explore all this with Frank when I get home—he probably has plenty of reasons why it won’t work, but if anyone would know, he should!

This traveling I’ve been doing since September has really whetted my appetite. A 6 month’s or so stint here wouldn’t really be bad at all, though I find the Australians about as dismal as most americans. They seem to combine the least fortunate aspects of English appearance with the worst of american manners. Perhaps I am over-reacting to re-entering “the West”—it will be interesting to see how I react to america after 11 months’ absence! But frankly, after the down-to-earth Asians, westerners seem so hopelessly over-blown it’s almost disgusting. It’s hard to put my finger on the essential difference, but western “role-playing” is one obvious one. After being with people for nearly 3 months who are on no way afraid of being seen for exactly what they are, westerners all look like walking parodies of themselves! The “hollow men”—wasn’t it Whitman who coined that phrase? Who coined it doesn’t matter: it expresses exactly my impression of western “culture” today.

Our M-S-A flight landed out on the tarmac at Sydney; the stewardi sprayed the cabin to kill bugs, so we had to wait for that to happen before we could disembark. When the door was finally opened, there was a bus parked a dozen meters away, its doors open, with ropes on pylons stretched between the bottom of the gang-plank and the bus. There was absolutely no question what was intended: we should walk down the stairs, walk over to the bus and get into it. There was no other choice. Nevertheless, there was a uniformed gent at the bottom of the steps loudly telling us where to go and gesticulating wildly, as if we were all blind. At that moment, I had the first-ever experience of culture-shock. For ten months or so up to that point, I had been used to finding my own way quite successfully without anyone really telling me what to do or where to go: so this officious fellow struck me as silly and the whole scene as ludicrous. In fact, as I walked along to the bus, I got the giggles, and when I finally got to Australian customs, I was still chuckling. They must have thought I was “on something”, for they went through my bag of dirty clothes with a fine-toothed comb, but found nothing except dirty clothes!

I’ve got sidetracked! What I was about to say was that Australia is, after all, a good jumping-off place for just about any part of Asia, so 6 months or so here might be tolerable if a few week-ends could be spent renewing friendships in Asia—and there’s lots of new territory to explore closer by for that matter. New Zealand, Papua/New Guinea; Indonesia; so forth and so on. I’d like best to work a year or two in Cambodia, which is unlikely, though I guess not entirely out of the question. OCA will know of any possibilities that may exist.

Picked up a recent copy of the Asia edition of News-Week, and was appalled to find Bell Helicopter advertising its latest assault helicopter, describing in glowing terms its various “virtues”, its handy-dandy clamp-on rocket-launchers, bomb racks, etc. ad nauseam. Replete with photo in simulated combat situation. Business—as suppliers of arms to some 40 nations—must be slack; think what a threat peace must be to that segment of our economy. President Nixon, I see, has lately drug out the old chestnut about america being peace-maker for the world (my least affected reaction to that “line” is an offensive and unprintable expletive). Why must we hide behind such meaningless platitudes? Why not just bill ourselves as arms-makers to the world and be done with it? Why not just stop being hypocrites altogether—let the world see us (and thus, see ourselves) as we really are—human beings with all the usual human short-comings (and virtues as well)—instead of the “supermen” we seem to become convinced we are?

The election outcome gets, to repeat Alice in Wonderland’s phrase, “curiouser and curiouser. Those who could see little to choose between Humphrey and Nixon can surely see even less, now, what with the “detente” between Nixon & Johnson. It goes to show how wrong those who thought Nixon would be a “change” were. The spectre of Nixon agreeing that Johnson’s bombing-halt was properly timed is almost macabre, since it came within a hair’s breadth of losing the election for him: had Nixon lost, I wonder what tone his endorsement of Johnson’s timing might have taken? As events have proved, while Lyndon’s announcement was almost perfectly timed for political results at home, it was consummately ill-timed as far as Saigon was concerned. All President Thieu needed was a few days—a week perhaps—to do his own very necessary politicking to get the proposal accepted promptly and a negotiating team whipped together. But US partisanship simply could not wait—and we have yet to see how far-reaching the consequences of that fact may be. Now, the appointment of Ky to lead the delegation to Paris is, I think, a portent that Saigon will give no more—to the US or Hanoi—and a long, drawn-out repetition of Panmunjom is in the offing, with rather similar “results”—if they may be called that—to be expected.

I think I shall post this tomorrow—as you can see I have run out of paper & shall have to pick up some more. I’ll see a bit of Melbourne tomorrow, and am scheduled to visit with [redacted] in the afternoon & stay to dinner. Monday I’ll spend pretty much with the lab director for the Wks Board, and Tuesday fly TAA (“Tee Aye Aye” in Australian) to connect with the Sydney flight to Noumea. Sydney itself I will just have to see some other time: it’s huge, and there’s just not enough time left.

This may reach you before letter from Bali—Indonesia Post is not all that good.

Love to all

Bruce

I did not stay long in Australia, but some photos will be forthcoming on my next page. Stay with me!

NEXT

HARD TO BELIEVE:

Despite growing up on a farm, watching animals being bred, watching Betty’s horses, and working with Carl, the notion of doing something other than taking a leak with my own little wiener never occurred to me. Even after an older Cousin, who must have been about 15 at the time, let me watch him jack off and reach an orgasm (he was into keeping his loads in a little bottle in the refrigerator for some reason) I did not put “two and two together”. Throughout my extended youth (I would turn out to be a “late bloomer”) not one person of any age ever touched me — dammit! [Why, if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have joined the Catholic Church (except there wasn’t one in Carmichael then)]. The blessed event that was my own first orgasm came much later. Meanwhile…

BACK TO A CITY

Dad took a new job in Modesto, roughly 90 miles south of Sacramento, so all our stuff got packed up and shipped in a huge van to a new house in a small corner of Modesto. There were a number of adaptations that had to be made, not the least of which was receiving milk by delivery in quart bottles: like, 20 at a time? On the farm, we had our own cows, and kept their milk in gallon jugs: my bothers and I would polish off an entire one at every meal, and that was whole milk, not pasteurized or skimmed. But the stuff we got in the bottles was skimmed milk, and we thought it was like drinking water: our intake of milk dropped off rapidly.

JUNIOR HIGH

The 7th grade was a whole new experience for me, much of it quite negative. For one thing, I was a natural hellion, and disliked regimen in almost any form. I also disliked sports, since I was very uncoordinated, but also could not see any real point to the kinds of sports we were required to play: baseball? I couldn’t hit the ball even off a stand! Football? I couldn’t hang on to it and run at the same time. And so it went. But the real problem was the requirement to dress for PE. Actually, we had to UNdress, put our clothes in a locker, change into little grey shorts, go out and play, then come back, UNdress again, shower, dry off, and put our street-clothes back on and go to the next class.

The problems came particularly in the shower-room: there were guys there who were men! They had hair down there! They had huge penises! And they loved to beat up little Bruciebabe, who was still a child.

Further complications arose because I loved to look at all the nude guys, but didn’t want any of them to see me watching! Of course I got caught peeping, so I also got towel-snaps and occasionally more brutal forms of abusive bullying. I tried getting a Doctor’s excuse: no deal—there was nothing wrong with me. I tried making myself appear sick: no deal—the Doctor saw through that in a heartbeat. So, I stumbled along, knowing there was something wrong with me because I hated sports but loved the nude guys! Such angst! I formed no friendships, kept to myself and somehow managed to get through the first year intact. I dreaded the approach of the eighth grade.

NOT ALL BAD

Modesto did have a few redeeming features; most notably (for me) its location on the main line of the Southern Pacific Railroad. Our house was just a few blocks away, and when I was not in school, I was usually somewhere around the railroad. I met the southbound Daylight every afternoon: it was due in at 4:50 or so, and usually made it. For this little tyke, standing beside one of those gorgeous GS-4 locomotives all decked out in the smart orange and red scheme of the Daylight trains, this was the high point of each day. Once in a while a kindly fireman would beckon me up into the cab, where all the heat, fire, handles and gadgets were simply awesome!

GS-4 Orange and Red

The Daylights ware Southern Pacific’s Premier trains in the hey-day of passenger trains. In my youth they ran from San Francisco to Los Angeles via the coast (The Coast Daylight), and between San Francisco, Sacramento, and Los Angeles (the San Joaquin Daylights); later they also ran North from Oakland to Portland (The Shasta Daylights). Still regarded as the most beautiful passenger trains to operate anywhere in the world, they are, of course all gone. Just one example of their famous locomotives still exists:

All other examples of this spectacular machine have been scrapped.

For most of my years in Modesto I continued to meet the afternoon Daylight as often as I could, usually every day. I could watch the train depart and ride my bike home in time for dinner. There was not a lot of other excitement around Modesto’s station, although once the local steam switch-engine failed to clear the high-iron for a northbound freight, resulting in a spectacular wreck. I lingered past dinner time to watch crews trying to untangle the mess, and caught holy hell for not being home on time.

The SP also occasionally sent one of their famous cab-forward locomotives down the valley if they had a particularly long train to handle. What went south had to come north, and this usually occurred in the afternoon when I was out of school. I would hear the distinctive sound of the air pumps on those huge machines and ride my bike over in time to see them getting under way again after having taken on water. These things were amazing:

SP Cab-Forward Locomotive

They are essentially two locomotives on a single frame and designed for heavy drag-freight use. They were used almost exclusively on Donner Pass. Putting the cabs in front prevented asphyxiating the crew when passing through snow-sheds which were essentially wooden tunnels designed to divert the avalanches so common in the high Sierra. On our trips to Tahoe it was not uncommon to see a freight-train with three of these mammoths working their balls off: one in front, one in the middle of the train, and one at the rear. The three crews could not communicate: they simply had to know when the engine was doing the right thing.

f the 400 or so of these built, just ONE remains – in the Railway Museum in Sacramento.

Watching one of these get under way was incredibly exciting (with tender, these are a city-block long)! All the machinery is exposed and beefy. I could ride along the tracks for a quarter of a mile or so before the thing out-ran me: I’d stop and watch as 125 cars rumbled by, gathering speed, so the caboose receded into the distance rapidly. Naturally, I wanted to become a locomotive engineer, but while I was in college, steam died. Diesel locomotives just don’t have the charisma of steam!

EIGHTH GRADE

Too soon, September rolled around and I entered the eighth grade. But, something had happened along the way: I was beginning to grow up!

So, the eighth grade was perhaps a little less stressful than the seventh. I remember less about it, though I know my feelings of inadequacy and differentness persisted. By the end of Junior High school I was at least beginning to mature, and there were a few stirrings of the hormones beginning to rage. But, I was still far behind most of my peers physically: academically, I was ahead of many, being something of a bookworm, or what we now call a nerd. High School terrified me, because I knew the Physical Ed bullshit would continue for another four years!

To be continued …

NEXT

Go to HIGH SCHOOL

June 5, 2010

As mentioned in my previous post, I suddenly found myself in Ecuador, working in Quito. At 9500 ft elevation and just 11 km south of the equator, Quito’s weather tends to be spring-like all year, with assorted mini-climate events like fog and rain off and on. There was some discussion in the office about the railroad, but I was assured there were no longer any steam engines operating into Quito. But there were rail-busses and it seemed worthwhile to ride in one of those if the opportunity arose. It did, and the result is the epistle which follows, except this time I am able to illustrate the letter with the photos I took. By this time I had a cast-off SLR camera my Dad no longer used, so I got much better photos than previously.

Readers note: if you aren’t “into” railroading, you might want to skip the next few pages!

Quito, a 28 de Febrero de 1.979

Dear Everyone~

Those of you receiving this letter through the magic of the Xerox machine will have to forgive my resort once again to this impersonal medium. There is just not time to write out the following narrative more than once. So I take this means of sharing with you all a weekend of high adventure—double meaning intended!

By way of introduction, I have to mention that the weekend 25-6-7 February culminated the month-long “celebration” of Carnival. While the celebration here is not quite the big event that it becomes in Rio or New Orleans, it has its moments and figured largely in the events to be described. It was, after all, the reason behind my 4-day weekend—the only holiday I happened to get during my stay here. So, with others from our team I decided to take the “autoferro” to Guayaquil. Now, the principal ingredient of the Carnival celebration is water: water-filled balloons, squirt-bottles, pans, pails or whatever. So, practically since my first arrival here, one has been liable to a sudden drenching. There is also a local product called carioca, which comes in a pressure-can (the wonders of modern science applied to rowdyism—at a profit!) This stuff appears to be perfumed, sometimes dyed soap-suds. There’s also bags of flour, talcum or other white powder. During this final weekend, just about anyone goes a little loco, and it becomes impossible to remain dry for any length of time.

Anyway, we booked seats on the autoferro, as mentioned. This is a rail-bus, operating over the narrow-gauge railway line of the Ferrocariles Ecuatorianos between Quito and Guayaquil. It makes the down-trip T-Th-S, and the up-trip M-W-F. So we booked the Saturday morning run (90 sucres = $3.60). The 6 AM departure necessitated a very early rise on that day; we fortified ourselves with numerous sandwiches, our cameras, and light luggage, and set off.

The ticket for my trip

Our autoferro that day was #94, of comparatively recent vintage, and actually quite commodious, with reclining seats and a porta-potty in the rear (having booked in time to get front seats, we were not unduly bothered by the commode). Sunrise occurred shortly after our departure, so we had good views of Cotopoxi (said to be the highest active volcano in the world—though that activity is presently only a few fumaroles: elevation of the peak is 19,300 ft).

Early morning, ready to depart

The driver sits beside the engine

Cotopaxi is a nearly perfect cone

The route, which generally follows that of the Pan-American Highway, takes one through some truly spectacular scenery, and through a number of fairly sizable towns—Latacunga, Ambato—to Riobamba. (Chimborazo, higher than Cotopoxi but not active, was in clouds, but just the base of it was impressive!) The rail also goes through numerous villages, at nearly every one of which our driver would dump a pail of water out his window on anyone he could lure near. We reached Riobamba at noon, pretty much on schedule, & had a brief stop there. Then, from this, the half-way point, we set out once more, climbing out of the valley to Alausi. From here, there is a spectacular descent, on grades as steep as 5-1/2 % at times, and involving one double switch-back, to the town of Sibambe, where a branch line departs for Cuenca. The views down into Sibambe from the top of the switch-backs (called locally the “Devil’s Nose”) are breathtaking, and the line is perched in many places on a rock ledge only very slightly wider than the road-bed itself. Altogether it is a most formidable engineering feat, especially for 1908 when the line was built.

Many details of the trip thus far had reminded me of the White Pass and Yukon RRY in Alaska, except the G&Q is longer. The road-bed is every bit as rough, though the autoferro ironed this out tolerably. Fodor calls the G&Q the “world’s largest roller coaster”, but I think this is not very accurate, and in light of subsequent events soon to be described, I’d dub it “railway to the clouds”. But the autoferro rolled right along—much of the way being down hill— and we descended the devil’s nose without mishap. (Gracias a dios!)

Now, to this point we’d not seen another train of any kind—only a few boxcars spotted here and there. At Sibambe, however, we encounterd a diesel engine, derailed! A crew was endeavoring to re-rail her. And, waiting our arrival on the Cuenca branch were two rather smaller and older autoferros, ready to depart for Cuenca.

Looking through the windshield at a derailed diesel

Departing Sibambe, the route enters a deep canyon, following the same and going from side to side [of the Rio Chan Chan] over numerous bridges, and continuing on very steep gradients the while. The next town of consequence was Huigra, where we passed the upbound daily “mixto”, in two sections, the first of which was headed by a real, honest-to-goodness steam engine (S&C # 17). Both sections were parked on the high-iron, pitched at an estimated 5%, and had to move up the line to clear our turn-out. Figuring that this engine was but a temporary replacement for the de-railed diesel mentioned earlier, I hopped out of the autoferro with camera at the ready, feeling lucky indeed to get to see this venerable Baldwin in action. Poised for the first photo, I was drenched from behind with a pail of water, and a similar fate overtook our mates. But the steam engine, laboriously & with much slippage, moved up the line, with 4 cars overflowing with people (many on top of the cars); the second section (pulled by a diesel) cleared our path, so we resumed our journey, this time joining others on the luggage-rack of the autoferro (on top) in order to dry out. This we managed to do as we continued our steep descent, the vegetation on the canyon rapidly taking on tropical characteristics. Unfortunately, the weather did the same and it was soon raining, so we got wet all over again, and had to retreat inside the autoferro at the next brief stop.

Live STEAM! Thought I’d died and gone to heaven!

Could this train be overloaded?

The rain did not last too long,and it had just stopped when we came to a halt behind a frieght train. Investigating, imagine my delight to find yet another steam engine (No. 45, G&Q) working this train!

Two steam engines in one day? Wow!

Thanks to a spare roll of film someone else had, I photographed it extensively, and even rode on it a few hundred feet as it pulled up a bit further, to some sort of fracaso ahead. Investigating this we found that yet another section of the up-bound daily mixto, also pulled by another steam engine, had de-railed two cars on a very steep and tight turn. The line being single, no progress in either direction could be made until this difficulty was cleared up.

The red car spread the rail & sank to the sleepers

The confusion was awesome! Everyone was running back & forth, basically changing trains, which would reverse direction, presumably, so some progress could be made. And a voluble crew was trying to re-rail the cars.

Changing trains was the only way to make progress

They’d succeeded in getting one back on the track before we discovered that two additional autoferros had been brought up below the trouble spot, so that we eventually re-assorted ourselves and set off down hill once again. The accident described happened to be just a short distance above the town of Bucay, where there was further confusion and re-assorting of passengers, but in due course (now running rather behind schedule, of course) we set forth, running almost at once into an intense tropical storm, replete with spectacular lightning and torrential rains. Not much further along, we encountered a tree fallen across the ROW. This was cleared with difficulty by a crew which appeared mysteriously, partly made up of passengers, who had only a machete to work with. Proceeding past this obstruction eventually, we soon encountered yet another tree. Here, there were at least 6 blown down over the rails. We got past 4 of them before darkness set in and we had to give up. We returned (in reverse) to Bucay, where amid even greater confusion than before some of us discovered a bus headed for Guayaquil, which we embarked and amid the continuing downpour and electrical storm we completed our journey (20 Sucres = 80cts). Arriving in Guayquil about 10, by which time it had stopped raining, we located a hotel and collapsed, feeling that it had been a grand adventure, and more or less planning to see Guayaquil and nearby beach resorts Sunday & Monday; we had airplane tickets for Tuesday afternoon for the return trip.

Sunday dawned typically tropical—overcast, sultry, warm; and we set out to see a bit of the town. It was, of course, shut up tight due both to Sunday and to Carnival. The locals were all off at the beaches themselves, so the town was largely deserted. I quickly concluded that Fodor is right: “Guayquil is not interesting. Ravaged by centuries of earthquakes, fires, termites and pirates, it is only now taking on an air of permanence.” We did take a pleasant boat trip Sunday afternoon. All of you can appreciate, however, that I, seeing that the G&Q operates steam trains regularly quickly changed my itinerary, determining to ride as far as I could back towards Quito behind steam.

Accordingly, I taxied to Durán Monday (across the Guayas River from Guayaquil proper) arriving about 5 AM since I knew nothing of the schedule. I quickly ascertained that the up-bound autoferro was scheduled out at 6:40 (and #94 was waiting in the station, indicating that the line had been cleared. The mixto was scheduled out at 6:45, and it, too was made up in the station. The consist: two boxcars, a mail and baggage car, and two relatively new all-metal chair-cars (class undermined). Scouting around in the still dark yards, I quickly found (following my nose & ears) two steam locomotives (No. 7 & 11, G&Q) sizzling quietly, attended from time to time by a sleepy night stoker.

Early morning in Duran, across the Guayas River from Guayaquil

This gave me hope—there were no diesels to be seen—and it was apparent that one of these two would pull the mixto, the other the freight train also made up and ready. And it all began to happen just as I’d figured. The autoferro pulled away on schedule just as No. 11 was backed down to engage the daily mixto. I’d bought my ticket for Riobamba (32 Sucres – $1.24) when the boleteria had opened about 6; but heartened by my earlier images of locomotives festooned with people, I asked the engineer if I might ride on the locomotive, and after telling me “no”, he waved me aboard! The locomotive carried a builder’s plate stating it had been 70% built in Duran (from Baldwin parts) probably about 1925, and rebuilt in Duran in 1955. We pulled out in the early morning half-light about 7 AM, yours truly perched on a tool-box on the tender, in seventh heaven as this old work-horse got under way.

Perched on the tender of No.11

Getting Engine No. 11 fired up

No. 11’s builder’s plate

Due to the fallen tree problem of Saturday, we had not, of course, traversed this portion of the G&Q right-of-way in the autoferro. The line goes many kilometers through the essentially sea-level plain at the base of the Andes. The area is lushly tropical, but very, very wet, & the road bed here is rougher than elsewhere. That the locomotive remained on the track surprised me at times. The loco wasn’t steaming very well—maintaining at best about 90 lbs pressure, so at the first stop the smoke-box was opened for inspection—nothing amiss, however.

What could the problem be?

So, on starting the engine again, the boiler was very liberally sanded—to the discomfort of myself and those riding atop the first boxcar. This helped, and so did some additional attention at the next stop, so thereafter we maintained nearer 120 lbs.

Sanding the boiler: the hot sand descends on all

Examining the fire

Preparing to grease the motion

Most of the small towns through which the train passes resemble early american frontier towns, with the trains rumbling to a central station right on the main street. There are cars & trucks, of course, since there are roads to these towns as well, but it was apparent that the train is still the life-line of these towns. Produce, mostly fish, was sold directly out of the first boxcar while the train stopped; cases of bottled drinks and cans of milk were also delivered, and newspapers were dropped in bundles in town, & singly at various houses along the way. We passed the downward-bound mixto, also under steam, at Yaguachi; coming into town and seeing another diminutive train in the hole for us was a wonderful sight. And of course, the train was a great target of water balloons, hoses and what-have-you, both in towns & along the way.

Approaching Yaguachi, with its splendid cathedral

Down-bound mixto in the hole for us

Taking water at Naranjito

Naranjito water tower

Negotiating the main street of Milagro

Goods were exchanged and sold at every stop along the way

We proceeded from town to town, the boiler being sanded during start-up at nearly every stop, climbing only a little, reaching 100 ft altitude at mile 31 (Naranjito) and 300 ft at mile 43 (Barranganetal); then commenced a bit steeper climb, passing the area where the trees had been cleared by a chain-saw gang, reaching 975 ft at mile 54, Bucay. The engineer had assured me that his engine would take us to Bucay, but a diesel would take the train from there. I was overjoyed, therefore, to see a second steam engine awaiting us at Bucay. This was a larger Baldwin 2-8-0 [Consolidation] with tiny drive-wheels, dated 1945 (No. 45 again).

Pulling into Bucay

Engine 46, seen the day before, awaits us

The classic photo: No. 11 takes water after a hard run

It was approaching noon (54 miles in 5 hours averages just over 10 mph!) and amid huge festive crowds and hundreds of water balloons, the new engine was hooked to the train, the first boxcars were spotted on a siding, and presently amid much hooting & jollity we got underway. Naturally, yours truly had begged a place on the tender, to be joined there by numerous others with baggage, fruit, boxes of cokes, and all sorts of other paraphernalia, including a motorcycle. The engine got us under way slowly, with considerable tendency to slip due in no small measure to the amount of mud on the tracks (again, also the main street of town) occasioned by the Carnival water sports. But we did get going nicely, headed up the lush and narrow canyon, passing the now-repaired location of the derailment described earlier, without mishap.

Engine 46 pulls the train up to Bucay Station

Getting under way on a severe grade and a curve

Looking back at Bucay

It is 18 miles from Bucay to Huigra; in that distance, the line rises 3025 feet: that is an average gradient of 3.2%, and numerous short parts are much steeper. But the engine was an excellent steamer, maintaining 135 lbs easily under full load, and really pulling well. Except that, as we moved up the canyon & into the clouds, it began to rain.

It rains in the tropics! Yes, that is a motorcycle on the tender

The slick rails rapidly checked out progress, bringing the train to a complete halt. Most of the 18 miles was won my dint of some very fancy throttling by the engineer, and with help from several supernumeraries throwing dirt on the rails. I have a new appreciation for that old ditty, “The little engine that could…” Sometimes we’d get a little speed, but out-pace the dirt-throwers, then lose traction, halt, & get going again—winning the distance foot by foot.

The mechanista was assisted by his wife (?)

Having spotted other cars here and there, out train was now but 4 coaches; still, it finally became necessary to leave the two newer coaches parked on the track and pull only two cars the last grade into Huigra–even with only the two cars it was slow going indeed. We finally pulled into Huigra about 3 PM—the 18 miles had taken the better part of 3 hours! The rain had abated slightly, and I dried out (nearly) by the heat of the boiler. Our two old coaches were spotted on a siding, and the engine backed down to retrieve the two abandoned cars. I elected to wait in Huigra, watching the water-sports and having a little to eat.

Retrieving the other cars took an hour, making up the train and getting under way again took another half-hour, so it was 5:30 or so before we left Huigra, bound for Sibambe, 4 miles on and 875 ft higher (Ave. 4.1%!!) This was made with somewhat greater ease, as the rain had let up, but it was steeper and not easy; it was approaching 6:30 when we pulled into Sibambe, where the autoferro bound for Cuenca had waited patiently. It departed soon after our arrival, and soon thereafter a diesel (the one we’d seen derailed two days earlier) came down-grade to meet up & take us the rest of the way. I bid the steamer a fond farewell—it had really worked hard—rejoicing in getting to ride steam half the way to Riobamba. The crews switched engines, and apparently inured to my presence, the engineer invited me to join them in the cab of the diesel, so I was to get my first ride on one of those!

Now, out of Sibambe the line ascends the devil’s nose and two huge loops to Alausi, at elevation 8553; the average gradient is 5.4%! It was easy at first, so ascending the double switch-back went smoothly enough, but wow, is it spectacular climbing up; there are several vistas from near the top of the canyon looking down on Sibambe, with the two intervening levels of track, though often it is so steep that you cannot even see where you’ve just been! Wow!!

Our train has switched back, having come up the rail below

The brakeman drops off to set the next switch

We proceed on the upper track

When we clear that switch, it will be thrown to put us on the way up

The switchback is complete and we are on the way to Alausi

We climb ever upward: not the clouds!

But, powerful and smooth as they are, even diesel engines can—and do—lose traction. Moving into very wet clouds, this began happening, and the last 500 feet or so (upwards) into Alausi was once again gained inch by inch, various people including myself assisting in sanding the rails. With darkness falling rapidly, we ascended from Alausi on gentler grades (3% or so) to the high point of this section, 10,626 at Palmira, then began the long descent into Riobamba. This we reached about 10:30 PM.

Riobamba station

I should mention here that although all the rolling stock of the G&Q is old, one important feature of all of it is extraordinarily maintained: the brakes! A drop of only 5 psi in the train pipe served to lock everything up tight! With 5-1/2% grades to negotiate, it can be readily seen why they pay such attention to this matter!

The road bed is everywhere in poor condition!

There is not much left to this tale. Riobamba was wet and rather cold; Sangay, the active volcano nearby could not be seen. The town was filled with people on holiday from Guayaquil (hence the three-section mixto of the day before), and there were rooms available only in the chincharerros. I was advised at first there were no buses to Quito until the next day, but as usual this was incorrect, & in fact one departed at mid-night—I almost missed it because it came through 10 minutes EARLY! I was, of course, a sight—my hair was full of sand & cinders, my clothes filthy, but the bus was new, comfortable and fast, making it to Quito in just 3.5 hrs. So, 25 hours after departing my hotel in Guayaquil, I collapsed into bed (after a long, hot shower) in my hotel in Quito.

I should have had the foresight to take a hat & a cushion with me: I have blisters on both nalgas because of the exceedingly hard iron on which I perched them much of the way. But these will heal long before the memories fade of a truly fantastic ride, half of it on steam engines, on the “railway to the clouds”. Water balloons not withstanding, my faith in the basic goodness of people is restored—one could duplicate my experience every day of the week, for the mixtos and the “little engines than can” chug out of Durán every morning. Needless to say, the whole experience was a “high” point in my life, twelve reels of memories to revel in when I hit the old rocking-chair.

Anybody want to come down & do it again with me?

Sincerely,

BB

The upshot of this experience was that every following weekend that I could get away, I flew down to Guayaquil on Friday night. I stayed in the unofficial government whore-house (which to my surprise had a good restaurant) because there were always taxis there in the early morning, waiting to take errant gents back to their wives; this made it easy for me to get over to Durán in the early morning to watch the trains being made up, and then to ride one of them up (and often down) the Andes once or twice before returning to Quito. Consequently, I have many other photos to bore you with on a future page or two.

NEXT

On the 9th last, I managed to break my left hip. I hobbled around that day, hoping it was “just a sprain”, but by morning of the 10th, I knew something was terribly wrong: I could not get out of bed. The upshot is I had to have two hunky guys carry me down to a waiting ambulance, which deposited me in hospital. By noon or so after numerous X-rays, someone casually mentioned, “Oh, yes, it’s broken.”

By late afternoon a team of doctors had been organized, and about 7:30 PM they put me down and replaced the entire hip joint: ball, socket, the works.

I spent 5 days in hospital (boring!) and am now home, confined to one floor of my mansion. I’m looking at 12 weeks to recover from the hip operation (which is going very well so far) and then I’ll go back to have the left knee replaced. So I am pretty much out of everything for the rest of the year and on into 2011.

But I am determined to get through all this and walk normally again. The arthroscopic surgery on the knee was less than successful, and may even be the proximate cause of the hip failure. I have too many good years left to just say I’ll be an invalid for the rest of my life!!

When I can get back to the main computer upstairs, I’ll continue with this blog, but for now, it is a temporary goodbye to all!

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