M Y O B

After a week or so in Singapore, I was ready to move on: I wanted to get past the equator!. So I booked a flight to Denpasar, on the Indonesian island of Bali. Before departing, I converted all the Singapore dollars on hand to Rupiahs: the rates were better than in Indonesia itself. This was the only time on my trip that I fooled with money matters, and as it turned out, it was fortuitous. At exactly the weekend I decided to fly, French President de Gaulle had also been monkeying around with money matters, and for a few days, all trading world-wide came to a halt. I had already purchased my ticket for Bali, so when I reached the Singapore airport, I went to check my bag as usual. The agents wanted to tag the bag for Djarkata, but I insisted I was going to Denpasar. They had no tags marked Denpasar, but I insisted and finally they wrote “Denpasar” on a blank tag, strapped it to my bag and off I went.

Handsome bills

The Singapore estuary on the back of the fiver

Highly polluted in those days

My own photo of the estuary

American currency is so dull!

At all events, what I had left of the beauties above got me a huge wad of those below:

Not worth much in 1968

But the bills were colorful

Doncha love the big numbers!

Still, not quite as worthless as the Italian Lire

I salted my stash of Rups in a travel-bag, kept a few in my pocket, and off I went. It turned out the plane went to Djakarta before going to Bali: everyone entering Indonesia came through Djakarta, and the requirements were that a) all luggage was searched thoroughly before  going onward, and b) an airport transit-tax had to be paid in local currency. This latter requirement meant folks had to cash travelers checks—except no one was accepting TCs because of the money freeze! There was a huge line at the bank window, total confusion, and in the melee, I sidled over to the tax window and quietly paid my transit-tax with my imported rups! No fuss, no muss, no bother. And my bag, having been marked for Denpasar, was carried from one plane to the other, bypassing the search routine completely!

Paid for with illegal rups!

Flew First Class!

Plane about to depart for Denpasar

There were, as it happened, not a lot of folks going to Bali, so the airport tax situation got ironed out somehow, and before long off we went. By this time, of course, I was south of the equator.

The arrow points to Denpasar, on the island of Bali

Denpasar, 23 November 1968

Dear Everyone~

By now you should have received my “published” letter from Singapore, with itinerary, which should have enlightened you on my plans.

Singapore is quite a place; I recommend it to world travelers as a very up-to date place, well worth seeing, and worth shopping in as well. As the world’s fourth-largest port, it has most of the advantages, and surprisingly few of the disadvantages, of a port city. Its botanical gardens are very excellent, spacious and well-kept; the orchid gardens are particularly beautiful. The city is clean, streets are fine & traffic quite unexpectedly moderate and well-behaved. Hotel facilities range from my old stamping-grounds—the chinese hotels—to the plushest sort, with about 800 posh rooms under construction now & the same number (at least) is planned. There’s a real get-up-&-go atmosphere that pervades everything, right up to the tourist association’s slogan “Instant Asia”, which is quite apt.

But having planned & paid for the extravagant itinerary mentioned, I had to get on with it—time, alas is short! Hence on Friday I flew to Djakarta (stopover only) & hence to Denpasar, Bali. Now, this part of the trip is costing extra, for some obscure reason, but I see already that it is well worth it! How to choose among the amazing range of (cheap!) souvenirs is the only problem I’m likely to encounter here, except for the problem of seeing it all in so short (till Thursday next) a time. My hotel room is costing $1US per day, meals about 0.25 each! By contrast in this still quite un-mechanized city (the taxis are horse-drawn carts) rental of a Honda [motorcycle] to tour the island is $6 per day! Two days of that will be enough. Currently I’m caught in the international money squeeze—even travelers checks are frozen at the moment. Conceivably I could get stuck here, but I can think of worse places for that to happen! Hippies here, by the way, but they don’t seem so out-of-place as they might wish in this slow, relaxed and easy-going society. The weather is warmer and more tropical (I’m finally south of the equator), and rain does not start till next month at the earliest. There is an active volcano on the island (last erupted 1963) which I’ll see tomorrow. Except for another stopover of about 3 hrs on Thursday, I shall have to skip Djakarta itself this trip—and unless I happen to get a view from the air (not likely), the huge Borobudur Temple near Jogjakarta. There is really a great deal to see in Indonesia, and at a later date a motor-bike tour of it would be very rewarding, though just a bit more political stability would be comforting.

BACKSTORY: It devolved that there were several items which were in great demand in Bali when I got there. If that suitcase that evaded the search in Djakarta had contained just three things, I’d have made out like a bandit. Everyone wanted to know if I had any 1) Beatles records; 2) Levis; or 3) ball-point pens! Sadly, the bag mainly contained dirty clothes, and there was no demand for them. I did, however, manage to trade the ball-point pen the airline had given me for a fine carving, which I still treasure:

The mythical Garuda

The wad of Rups came in very handy as well: in fact, I found myself buying meals for a few down-and-out travelers who had run out of cash. Before I departed Denpasar, the crunch was over and money markets returned to normal.

Because of the absurd US stance toward Mainland China (Mr. Nixon is a hard-liner in this respect, apparently, which will prove very unfortunate later on) it is not possible to bring back souvenirs made in China. I don’t want any because I have to limit myself somewhere & so draw the line at countries I have actually been in (as Todd does with stamps). But there are many lovely things coming out of China, and of course the embargo only has the effect of encouraging smuggling. Several shop-owners I talked to in S’pore have regular large-volume customers (USA) who buy jade & take it back to the US via Canada—at a huge profit to themselves. Of course a lot of junk comes out of China as well (as, too, from Japan & HK) but the bone carvings, jade, jewelry & cloisonné work are still first-rate and available nowhere else except Taiwan (and Customs prohibits most of that, too, unless you get the certificates of origin in HK—Singapore certificates aren’t acceptable for reasons best known to the politicians who have nothing better to do than make up silly rules like these). Every country I’ve been in (except Thailand) has a healthy trade volume with China, as well as some sort of diplomatic contact, usually at a fairly low level: China herself has recalled all but one Ambassador (to Egypt), but has lower grade relationships well established everywhere. The argument—often advanced—that we can’t have diplomatic relations with China because we don’t “know” who is in power there is ludicrous in the extreme: without diplomacy we’re never going to find out, until it is much too late. Even the UN can’t bring itself around to the so-called “two china” policy, and before they manage to accept that, there will be “three” chinas (Hong Kong is on land leased from China, which reverts about 30 years from now) to deal with! I fail utterly to understand how it can be argued that there is in existence today anything other than China (Peoples’ Republic of, so-called) and Taiwan—period. With our help (and probably only with our help) Chang Kai- shek rules the latter, and no matter how fervently he may wish to once again dominate the mainland, it is a pipe-dream & he may as well forget it!

And as for the UN, its helplessness is only exceed by its budget, and unless the nations that make it up can agree to give it some sort of police power, I’m for abandoning it (its useful work—UNICEF and such—can be carried on under most any guise). So long as it remains an “exclusive club” as it is now, excluding some nations & admitting others on capricious whims, it is a mockery of its name; so long as it has no power to prevent or even solve disputes—as is amply demonstrated in the Mid-East—it is essentially useless, and hence extravagant in a world where the money spent could do more good in alleviating suffering or feeding mouths. Many argue that the dialogue in the UN is a useful thing in itself, but I question that, when, after all the dialogue is over, absolutely no change in anyone’s position has taken place. There are other ways to encourage dialogue, if that is the objective; but peace is supposedly the objective, and despite untold quantities of dialogue, the world is no closer—if as close—to peace now than when the UN was formed—replete with its patently unworkable formula that gives a few nations unwarranted power over the other members.

25 November 1968

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Well, the Balinese are certainly the original “flower children”, and as such antedate the current american hippies by a few centuries! Doubtless this is the most unspoiled place I’ve been, but still it is badly affected by westernization, and the trend is obviously gathering steam. The basic religious-community structure is more-or-less intact, and to a large extent remains a matriarchy. But as usual, the influx of “Tourodollars” has had a potent effect, particularly since 1966 when the huge and disgusting Bali Beach Hotel was opened up.

While Wm. Lederer’s “ugly american” is hardly an exaggeration, he overlooks the tremendous pressure that is put on travelers to be ugly american types, even if by nature they are not thus inclined. It is stronger here than anywhere I’ve been—the whole tourist organization and peripheral services are geared to de-walleting the travelers. It begins before you even get to Bali: the exchange rate in DJK was $US=420rp (Rupiahs); in Bali it is only 390, though for green on the black market one can get close to the DJK rate. US green is, of course, the preferred medium of exchange. [This morning the bank rate has dropped to 385, but I can’t get any reliable news about the “crisis” & whether the dollar has actually been devalued, as was hinted-at when I left S’pore].

Money problems aside, though, the grossness of americans is both legendary &—unfortunately—real. Yesterday I took in a “Barong Dance”, organized & performed strictly for tourist benefit (“cultural”) and dancers’ benefit (monetary). A couple of bus-loads of tourists (predominately american) came out from the Bali Beach. Most of the poor devils didn’t even realize they were seeing what is in essence a “fake” performance, replete with printed programs! The character sitting next to me didn’t bother to even read his, so when the musicians completed the overture, his remark (loud) was, “Where the hell are the dancers?” Then he got up & wandered around a bit, & wound up standing with his back-side to the stage when the dancers entered! In my coldest sarcastic voice I told him that the dancers he was so eager to see were on stage, but he missed the sarcasm altogether and whirled around, eyes a-bug, doubtless expecting a stage-full of scantily-clad girls. His disappointment (manifest but fortunately unvoiced) came in finding only the barong (mythological beast) and increased through the whole performance during which only 3 girls participated!! I was delighted, both by his disappointment, by the beauty of the dance (really a play), and by the other members of the cast.

Gamelan orchestra for the Barong Dance

Somebody gets it!

As a leg man, I was captivated by the dancers!

Well, after that I motored on, with guide as it turned out, to see various villages & temples and so forth. Because of the guide, it turned out more of a tour of “art shops” than I cared for, and tomorrow I’ve arranged to go alone to the largest temple and the volcano, neither of which we reached yesterday because of too many extraneous stops and because the poor 100cc Yamaha with 2-up was just too slow-going. But I did get a beginning view of the countryside, still one of Bali’s greatest attractions, and certainly breath-taking. Except for the steepest parts of the mountains, the whole island—every square foot—is cultivated, mostly given to rice and some tobacco, where fortuitous weather & plentiful water regularly allow 2 rice crops a year. Traditionally the island exports rice & imports bulgar wheat and that is about all there is to its economy, except of course the ever-increasing dependence on incoming tourodollars, which could quite conceivably destroy the original economic base completely before long. It will get worse: Denpasar aeroport goes international at the beginning of next year, with direct flights by PAA and other international carriers.

It is paradoxical and tragic that the tourist organizations in all the countries I’ve visited—save perhaps Cambodia—in their zeal to promote tourism destroy slowly & surely the very thing that forms their raison d’être. The emphasis on providing travelers with every luxury while touring insulates the tourist from the very thing they have presumably come to see. Few tourists seem to ever realize they’re being had, and fewer still strike out on their own to see anything that is not “on the circuit”. Fewer still are the leastwise interested in the people they see, except as “objects” that are (variously) “quaint”, “comical”, and (God help us!!—) “cute”, but never human! I almost threw up yesterday when one dowager in the crowd at the barong dance, upon catching sight of the dozens of hawkers extending their wares over the fence, exclaimed loudly, “Oh, I must get a picture of that—it’s real local color” {snap!} She thinks that is “local color”, and ignores 3 miles of (relatively) pristine local color as she rides in her air-conditioned bus back to her air-conditioned bar at the air-conditioned hotel, and probably isn’t even aware of the opportunity to wander around in any of the dozens of villages where truly “air-conditioned” local color abounds! I’m beginning to favor Pres Johnson’s tax on foreign travel, not as a revenue measure, but as a possible check on the appalling impact tourism (particularly american) has on the world.

At the opposite end of the scale, as it were, I find here and there various Christian missionaries who seem intent, by design rather than by accident, on destroying all they touch also. Among this group, of course, the adjectival descriptions of the people are of a different sort (un-saved, forgotten, pitiable—bilge like that), but one makes an error if he views the missionaries’ misguided destruction as more concerned with “humanity” than the tourists’ ravishments. My attitudes towards the “export” of christ were formed long ago: my curious friendship with Stan [redacted] was formed from a diatribe on the subject that was my first “literary” effort I submitted to him at MJC—at a time when he had just returned from a stint as a missionary in Haiti. I did find the attitude hardening pretty much on the same grounds as my objection to the export of “democracy”. Neither (christianity or democracy) has proved either eminently workable, practical, or consistently “better” than the existing practices they each intend to replace. The evangelicals are busy here in Indonesia (currently, Oral Roberts) busily overlooking the fact that the natives have a well developed religion—itself an import a long time ago—which serves them well. In fact, it seems to serve them “better” in many respects than christianity does us, for the Balinese (at any rate) “live” their religion much more than we do. Their community and social organization revolves entirely around their rather unique adaptation & combination of Siva-istic Hinduism and Mahayana Buddhism, and while the whole is shot through with plain and simple superstition, certainly christianity cannot claim to be less so. The argument (debatable) that it is their religion that has kept the Balinese “backward” is only valid if one agrees that they are backward, itself a value-judgement of the most biased or non-objective sort. Even if I were to agree that the Balinese are backward, I would find it hard to prove their religion to be the cause of that; one must consider a lot of other factors, such as economy & politics.

I’m willing enough to agree that some environmental facts could be advantageously changed here & elsewhere I’ve been, mostly related to alleviating needless pain & suffering (not necessarily aimed at altering birth & death rates, though, as this creates new problems to solve later): but why must the price for this be fealty to a new religious concept, “foreign” in the extreme, and especially a concept that has been responsible for at least as much suffering in history as it has alleviated, if not a whole lot more???

All religions—political factions also—proselytize to some extent, and some more-so that others at various times in history. But I should imagine that a concerted, well-financed campaign in the States to convert christians to Hinduism—to bring the “lost souls” into union with the “oneness of nature”—would be very coldly received, and rightly so I think. As with anything else, I think if christianity were exemplary in every actual respect, rather than in ephemeral ideologies, it would “sell itself”—no proselytizing would be required, for people would flock to it. So long as it retains its un-proved and un-fulfilled status, though, I see christianity having little appeal & less value as a replacement for other established religions, equally faulty though the latter may be.

BACKSTORY: I’m not sure how I got off on that diatribe, but I did manage to find a charming fellow in Denpasar who showed me around, rode behind me on the rented bike, and rode in front of me in bed several nights.

There’s more about Bali coming up: stay tuned!

NEXT

AND NOW, FOR A SPECIAL COMMENT

With apologies to Keith Olbermann! He and Rachel Maddow are the freshest breaths of air to hit televised news in years! I’m sorry they have to share MSNBC facilities with that loathsome “Predator” series and the interminable, disgusting “Lock-up” crap, but at least they are ON THE AIR!

So far in this blog, I’ve described some of my life up to the age of 15, when I finally discovered what the thing between my legs could be used for besides taking a whiz. In today’s environment, especially in San Francisco, I can’t imagine a boy reaching the age of 15 without making this wonderful discovery much earlier. Indeed, polls at many of the blogs I read suggest that it’s fairly typical for boys to get their first blow-job around 12, by which time, one presumes, they had been jerking off for some time. [Now that the “Fondling Fathers” have been largely put out of business, this age-level may rise a bit]  {chuckle}.

But, it is fair to ask, how did I manage to get to 15 without even masturbating? Even after a cousin had been so kind as  to show me how!

Well, for one thing, my “hormone treatments” were late to arrive. I had my own bedroom always, so it was unusual to see even my brothers nude. I rarely saw my parents in the altogether either, and seeing any other people nude, in fact or photos, simply did not happen in those days. While I’m sure there was an underground trade in “smut”, it was never seen or discussed in my family. And remember, in those days, even Batman & Robin, always fully dressed, didn’t show a lot of basket, and genitals were routinely air-brushed out in most of the illustrations in the National Geographic! I do remember poring over the Monkey-Wards and Sears catalogues, looking at the underwear ads. Even there, though, “bumps” were not prominent, body hair was generally de-emphasized (on those guys and men who would have had any to start with), so there was really almost nothing salacious for a budding young queer to enjoy! I was not into sports or swimming, so even a classmate in a bathing-suit was a rare sight.

I remember being fascinated by a boy named Frankie in my Carmichael days: I was particularly attracted to his arms, which were finely shaped. He was many shades darker than me due to some mediterranean blood I suppose. I joined the Cub-Scouts, not because I had any interest in badges and all that stuff, but because the pack generally met at his house where his mom was den-mother. When it turned out all they ever did was play tag football on the huge expanse of lawn there, I lost interest in the scouts and retreated into my fantasies of touching Frankie’s lovely limbs. I still enjoy a well-shaped arm. It does not have to be particularly muscular; in fact, many of the photos I see nowadays are of guys whose arms are too muscular. My favorite pics are of naturally well-built fellows without the evidence of “pumping iron” so common nowadays.

There were lots of “pin-up girls”, but I was utterly uninterested in them: the belief that I ought to be interested led to a lot of grief!

Neither my own parents nor any others I knew were particularly demonstrative. Anything beyond a casual embrace was reserved for times when we kids were in bed! There were no TV shows for me to watch: Dad didn’t allow a TV into the house until good color-sets became common (late 1950’s).

Carl (he of horse fame) did show us (often) his dad’s collection of porno pictures, clearly obtained through underground sources. But these were straight porn, all in grainy black & white, and mostly in a tiny wallet-size format. Despite being dog-eared and grimy, they seemed to do it for Carl and his friends: they did nothing for me!

But the most telling feature that led to my remaining so innocent so late was my belief that I was some sort of one-off freak. In those days, “gay” meant light-hearted and charming; “queer” meant odd or strange; a “fairy” was something that took a tooth in the night. It would be years before I heard the word “homosexual” uttered by anyone, even though throughout most of my high-school years, the faculty and administration thought I WAS ONE!

WHY THE F*CK DIDN’T THEY TELL ME?!

I learned, years later, they all thought I was sucking every cock in the school. If they had only told me, I’d have obliged, willingly!

Even after my revelation in the gym, overhearing two boys discussing their alleged shooting prowess, I did not immediately realize my peers were probably doing and thinking the same sexual things I was because I was convinced they would all be thinking in terms of doing it with girls. Even when I kind-of figured out that guys might be relieving themselves just as I was soon doing daily, the idea of approaching any of them to do it with me remained beyond the pale. Much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to proposition any of the guys I lusted after and dreamed about. Damn!

So, I blundered on, oblivious to what adults around me thought I was up to. I was a Junior in college before I learned there were, in fact, other guys with feelings similar to mine, willing to act on those impulses. I was in my 20’s before I got or gave a blow-job, but that’s for another page later on.

To be continued …

NEXT

June 17, 2009

Before continuing, I want to remind my readers (if any) of the name of this blog: “MYOB”, which stands for “Mind Your Own Business!”  Nowhere was this exhortation driven home to me more forcefully than in VietNam!

Saigon 1968 Street Scene

CONTINUING WITH LETTERS FROM VIETNAM

Looking back over these letters written 41 years ago, I am struck by my belief that we were safe in VietNam. In part, this was deliberate, trying to keep family from worrying about me. But it was also because I had CA’s council, and he knew far more about the country than I. For example, our compound on Phan-than-Gian street was large, and the hotel portion was behind a big old mansion: the hotel could not be seen from the street at all. The VC, CA said, weren’t looking for us in any case, and probably did not even know we were there.  Additionally, directly behind us was a garrison of Korean soldiers.

In addition to Americans, there were in VietNam soldiers from Korea, Australia, and New Zealand, and Filipinos who were non-combatants working mostly in hospitals. Of these, the Viet Cong  feared the Koreans most  because they had a policy of never taking prisoners: they ruthlessly shot anything that moved when on patrol. They rarely went on patrol, however, and spent most of their time running the bars and brothels in Saigon. They also controlled the PX, which meant they had first dibs on anything that came into the country destined for anyone who had access to the PX (which was almost everyone except the Vietnamese). CA explained that the VC would not even consider taking on the Koreans bivouacked behind us.

It is also worth noting that, having arrived on a Saturday, some of us got to our duty-stations on Sunday the 28th, others on Monday the 29th for initial briefing. I got to Long Binh on the 30th. But there were rumors that “something was up”, though no one had the faintest notion of the scale of of the offensive, which began officially on the 30th, the first day of the lunar new year. It was recognized that zillions of fire-crackers going off would make fine cover for gun-shots, so we were requested to stay put “until Tet was over”.

Another thing to mention by way of background is that folks at home probably had more up-to-date information on what was happening than we did — we who were right in the thick of it! Locally, all there was in english was Armed Forces Radio, and they told only what the brass and local government wanted told. Most of the time they played pop music, which seemed quite inappropriate. Once mail began to flow, I got clippings from my folks, weeks out of date, which described things I’d had no inkling of as they played out around me.

So, here goes with the next letter: unable to send it out, I simply continued it from day to day as events unfolded.

Tuesday, 30 January 1968
1st day, year of the monkey

Dear folks,

By the time you receive this letter, you’ll all have heard a lot of rumors about what is happening here in Saigon, Unfortunately, as of this writing, I can’t fill you in too much. We are under an unofficial curfew. Today in Saigon two american civilians were killed—under what circumstances we don’t know. Additionally, during a heavy attack on Qui Nhon, two PA&E employees were also killed, although they were—for unknown reasons—quite far from their installation.

As you know, the “truce” was officially ended this morning. For reasons known only to themselves, the VC launched numerous attacks on VN installations today; as I write I can hear distant heavy artillery, even above the incredibly numerous fire-crackers that are an integral part of the Tet celebration.

This Tet business makes our “safe and sane” fireworks into a laughing stock. So many fireworks have already been set off that the streets are literally deep in the red paper remains. I saw, for instance, whole packages of firecrackers strung together from the top of a three-story building down to the ground, waiting to be set off at the bottom. Each package is about 50 of the little crackers we’re accustomed to, and there must have been about 50 of these packages strung together!! There are also available fire-crackers about 3 inches long and an inch wide that pack quite a wallop—to say nothing of rockets, sparklers, etc. There may be a few evil people left after all this, but certainly no evil spirits!! Tet lasts until next Thursday night, so there are two more nights of this “siege” (which lasts far into the night) for us. Very few of the populace work during this period, so everything really slows down. We have no idea what other difficulties the next few days will hold . . .

I visited the site of my assignment today—Long Binh. PA&E installed some while back a “water laboratory” on the Long Binh post. Apparently, through mismanagement & other circumstances, it has been largely unable to perform any useful function. My job—presumably — will be to get it under way again. The “presumably” is in there because there are some political overtones in the situation that may come into play. This remains to be seen. . .

The next few days will be spent in final processing at the PA&E CMO [Contract Management Office] at Tan Son Nhut; following the completion of Tet, I’ll be able (on Sunday) to locate quarters which will be in Saigon, there being none on the base, which is OK because it is a pretty bleak place. It is, incidentally, an 85,000 acre installation, so you can imagine the size and complexity of it. The complexity of the administration of it staggers the mind, and the paperwork involved is overwhelming!! I’ve already filled out so much paperwork it would probably stretch from here to Long Binh (laid end to end), a distance of about 22km (12 miles, give or take).

Having re-read this epistle so far, I think I may have accidently given rise to some fear for my security. Please don’t be alarmed. The situation is very far from normal in any respect: the Tet celebration has no equivalent at home. During all this carrying-on the town is over-run by “white mice” (the local euphemism for Saigon local police; a very slightly derogatory allusion both to their diminutive stature and their “colorful” uniform). VC infiltrators generally are not aiming at us civilians, but the fire-crackers bit already described serves as excellent cover for sniping, in which innocent people may become involved if they place themselves in a position to become so: I shan’t do so.

Saigon is essentially regarded as a town under siege. The perimeter is lit with flares all night long, and everything is heavily patrolled, both by white mice as described, by VN security police, by US MPs, and others. Essentially, trouble comes only to those who go looking for it—and of course, there are some people so inclined.

Of course, some very well publicized incidents have occurred, and some more are bound to before all this comes to some sort of conclusion. From my present quarters I can see the burned out hulk of a hotel allegedly set afire by the VC; the ammo dump at Long Binh has been blown up twice (no injuries); the Brinks BOQ has been bombed; the town itself has been shelled from time to time. But still, the odds on my surviving for several years here are very excellent—especially as I am one given to the use of good common sense to a greater degree than many of the expatriates here. Furthermore, I’ve been very fortunate to be billeted so far with a gent who has spent a previous TD [Tour of Duty] of 4.5 years here—and I’ve been able to learn a great deal of the “ropes” through him. My personal safety on Saigon streets—when I do venture out—is virtually assured. Please don’t worry—I don’t!!

So, that’s the news from the “Paris of the Orient” right now —

Love to all,
Bruce

Note my reference to “surviving several years” in Saigon. American civilians working for PA&E (and other contractors) were generally on eighteen-month contracts, largely because in those days Americans who stayed out of the country for that length of time owed no income tax on their earnings. After my run-in with the IRS, the idea of avoiding taxes for several years was attractive, and at this point I was ready to re-up for a second stint if it became possible.

The letter continues:

Next day, Wednesday, 31 January 1968

Continued

Well—there’s nothing like being right in the middle of the action! The irony is that we know as little as anyone as to just what is actually going on. The first reports this morning on the storming of the [American] Embassy reported that it was taken by the VC and that it was re-taken by paratroopers landed on the roof who worked their way down floor by floor. Later reports conflict this, and say only that the VC held the compound for a while, but did not enter the building.

After completing last night’s letter I went to bed but slept only fitfully. I heard much of the distant action as well as some closer by. Tan Son Nhut AFB was temporarily entered by the VC, and sustained slight damage. Since PA&E’s CMO [Contract Management Office] is there, we might normally have been on hand. Today, we’ve been confined to quarters, however—there is no one at the CMO, and for all we know, there may not even be one left!!

Since we cannot venture out of our hotel, I couldn’t mail last night’s letter, & so decided to add to it instead.

Enemy positions about a mile from our hotel were strafed, rocketed and mortared this afternoon, setting off quite a fire. At least four other fires could be seen from here [by going up on the roof of the hotel]. The air is alive with US helicopters, keeping their eye on what little movement of the population has been allowed, and occasional gun-fire and mortar rounds can be heard from the general down-town Saigon area. Things are relatively quiet now, but I suspect tonight will be pretty active—and is likely to continue through Thursday night, when Tet ends. After that is anybody’s guess, but the feeling seems to be that things will quiet down again & the siege will lift. Just how soon we can return to our processing and assignments also remains to be seen.

9:30 PM

The above was written about 2:00 PM. Since then, our street has been completely cordoned off and all traffic has stopped. About an hour ago there were some shots fired, apparently because someone who moved failed to halt on demand.

Meanwhile, Tan Son Nhut AFB has been receiving heavy mortar fire from enemy emplacements in the Delta, and the New Port facilities, which were afire most of the afternoon, have been re-kindled. Long Binh is under siege, I’m told, but I cannot confirm this.

11:00 PM

Things are a little quieter; the heavy offensive against Tan Son Nhut appears to have been repulsed, but since no planes are going in or out, we assume the runway has been damaged heavily. Except for a helicopter that crashed on top of a nearby building earlier (no apparent casualties) we’ve observed no loss of planes.

Going to bed now with hopes of sleeping – more tomorrow.

Love,

Bruce

All 16 of us were holed up in the Loc Building, two to a room. I was bunked with CA, whose familiarity with the country I found most useful, even comforting. I was ready to “go with the flow”, as he recommended. Others in our group, despite receiving the same council from CA (we all ate dinner together) had different reactions, running the gamut from “ho hum” to “what the fuck is going on?” to “get us outa here!” I was the youngest of the group, there were several in their mid thirties, several approaching mid forties, and CA was the oldest, well past 55. Several chaps were attempting to phone the CMO almost every half hour, but there was no response. It was clear that some of the guys were afraid, but unwilling to show it.

Throughout these days, the hotel staff managed to feed us well and bring in a constant supply of Ba-mui-Ba beer. Beer “33″. It was horrible stuff, and I could not stomach it (not being much a beer drinker anyway). But regular drinkers managed to swill it down, with predictable results. Most of  our group, except CA and myself, were regular drinkers.

We discovered before too long that our group had been extremely lucky to have been billeted in the Loc Building: ordinarily, PA&E used the Tourist Hotel, right down town, which was a pretty awful place by then. It seems every war we start involves taking over at least one local hotel for purposes of housing Americans coming and going, for whatever reason. Travelers housed in-coming and out-going PA&E personnel, foreign correspondents and many others. More about the Travelers as my tale unfolds.

Again, unable to get mail out, I continued the letter begun on the 30th:

Next AM, Thursday 1 February, 1100 hrs

Remainder of the night was relatively quiet. This AM Pres. Thieu had declared Martial Law, and we are still confined to quarters. Some traffic was allowed past our hotel for a while, & much of it was carrying D & W (dead and wounded) from the area to the west [Cho-Lon] where we observed heavy strafing and rocket attacks. We will never know the extent of the casualties, but they obviously had to be heavy.

The 11:00 am news carried the first reports of last night’s heavy action we observed on the outskirts of town, but only sketchy descriptions. Tet ends officially at midnight tonight, and we hope things will calm don thereafter—there’s no guarantee of this, of course.

There’s a lot of wild speculation about the meaning behind the widespread coordinated attacks by the VC at this particular time. For one thing, it is almost a tradition that a lot of terrorist activity takes place during Tet, because it affords such excellent cover for it. Privately, I’m inclined to feel that the intensity of this year’s offensive is Ho’s [Ho Chi Minh] answer to our refusal to halt bombing raids in the North. The truth may never be known.

So here we sit, awaiting orders from the PA&E management on what happens next. The second-in-command side-kick to the Contract Manager lives here in the same building, so we’ll doubtless get the word as soon as anyone. Although there is no official reason why we can’t leave, there are at least a couple of dozen trigger-happy guards in the street—we still hear occasional weapons fire there (mostly warning shots)—who are a very strong deterrent, so far as I am concerned!! More later . . .

4:00 PM

You may—or may not—hear it referred to as “The siege of Saigon”, but that’s just what it is. An estimated 2000 VC are within the city, and no one knows how many outside it. Streets have been completely cleared all day except for mil. personnel & ambulances. From our particular vantage point (not a very good one) we can hear—but never see—street skirmishes in all directions. Several major fires erupted, one of which may have been the main PX—as of now we really don’t know. Six BOQs [Bachelor Officers Quarters] have been assaulted in one way or another; 2 VN police precinct stations last night were attacked.

Strangely, today has been quieter, though, than yesterday. The ARVN has been active today, with the “Free World Forces” (i.e., U.S.) very lightly deployed. This is certain to change with nightfall, as our more sophisticated equipment will take over, and I rather imagine tonight will be quite a show.   More later . . .

Next AM – February 2, Friday

The show I expected (locally) didn’t come off. The night was fairly quiet, with a heavy curfew enforced. We had ARVN soldiers in the building, watching for snipers from the roof-tops. A few mortar rounds fell fairly close (a couple of miles) and occasional street skirmishes were heard all night. The curfew applying to us is still in effect; it might be lifted at noon, but we doubt it.

I hope you aren’t too worried about me—except for boredom, there are no real threats here. I can’t get any mail out, so there’s no way to reassure you except to chronicle these events—dull as they are, really—and get this to a PO as soon as the curfew is lifted. The package I mailed ahead is waiting for me, along with any letters that may have gotten through—assuming that CMO HQ is still there!! We simply have NO news.

The local radio station—AFVN—is heavily censored by the local government. As soon as I can, I will get a short-wave set which will pick up VOA [Voice of America] from Manila, which gives much better coverage. But no one in the building has an all-wave set, so we sit here right in the thick of it with practically no idea of what is actually happening. By now, you at home probably know more about it than we do! Well—the orient has its own way of doing things!! More later…

10:30 AM

A “banana chopper” came by this AM to take away the helicopter that crashed day-before-yesterday on the building a few blocks away. It was a typical “ooops!” operation however. Instead of making a direct lift-off upwards, they dragged it off a bit sideways. Unfortunately, a broken-off  tail section was attached by a secondary sling, and that caught on the railing of the building that had fouled up the ‘copter in the first place; the result was they lost the whole thing down on to whatever was below. This may have been a street, but was probably low buildings. All we saw was a cloud of dust . . .

Not a half-hour later, two VC snipers were captured in the street in front of us after quite a bit of gun-play. There are now ARVN soldiers and white mice stationed atop our building and many others nearby. “How about that?” as Snubs would say. More later . . .

6:30 PM

A major pitched-battle 2 long blocks westward of us routed & killed quite a number of VC this afternoon, & touched off a fire that consumed a number of houses. Air action has been very limited, and sniper activity since this morning in our area is essentially non existent.

We have been entirely confined since Tuesday afternoon. Prior to that time, I’d made only two or three trips away from here—and hence have seen very little. Went to the McCarthy BOQ twice for meals—it’s right down town and is one which has since been attacked by VC.

Got over to the 5 Oceans BOQ [with CA] once for an excellent steak dinner; it has also seen some action since then. When I was out, before the 24 hr curfew was clamped on, there was less of an “armed camp” atmosphere than there is now. But all the streets are littered with concertina-wire now, and heavily armed ARVN and white mice are literally everywhere.

Amidst all this, Bougainvillea blooms in profusion, and in a variety of shades I’ve never seen: many are orange, rather than the brilliant magenta we usually see at home. Some sort of tropical tree with very lovely 5-petaled flowers is also to be found everywhere, and potted “mums” in all shades line every drive and walkway in the more prosperous sections of town.

I’ve had to stay indoors more today than yesterday because of a bit of facial sunburn I got then, which gets uncomfortable whenever sun befalls it again. But the weather has really been fine, and such a welcome change. Well, more tomorrow unless we can get to a PO tomorrow, which seems unlikely.

This letter was continued over several more days, and it will appear here on future pages. In the meantime, here are a few snapshots taken in Saigon soon after we managed to get “out and about”: I have no pictures taken during the Tet Offensive, since we were confined to barracks as it were.

Police confiscate a seller’s cart for some infraction (probably selling black-market items)

Saigon Police Load Confiscated Street Vendor’s Cart

A typical scene at the Saigon port. No deep-water vessels could get near, so everything came ashore in lighters.

Pandemonium at the Port. No doubt the folks there knew what was going on, but the general appearance was one of confusion.

Vegetable Sellers on the Street in Saigon.

More of the Tet Offensive and the part I played in it (which was nothing) will follow.

PeeYes: Anyone wondering about this line: “How about that?” as Snubs would say” in my letter can write me at [email protected] for an explanation.

NEXT

The red arrow point to the island of Fiji

Fiji is more mountainous than I expected

Nadi, Fiji 06 December 1968

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

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

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

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

And so thin you can see right through it!

20 FP Francs was a more manageable size

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

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

Love to all~

Bruce

Fiji arrival noted

Soon after I was there Fiji converted to the dismal system

The sterling system was unfathomable

Sunday 8th December 1968

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

The Fijian deck-hands were very handsome!

Lovely weather, calm sea, tiny island

About to board the glass-bottom boat

Deck hand shmoozing the girls: damn!

The Fiji mainland seen from our boat

Returning to Lautoka from Tai island

Nearly back to Lautoka

Regrettably, not in use the day I was there

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

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

NEXT

February 8, 2020

I note with interest that I am picking up more readers. Thanks to StatCounter. Today’s my Birthday, and I feel like sh*t: I have a frozen knee that needs some attention. I plan to find a doctor today who can fix it!

The arrow points to Singapore

SINGAPORE

I did not wrote any narrative letter from Singapore, so what follows is from memory. I did write a letter from Singapore, which went to many friends, bringing them up to date on my whereabouts. The letter encapsulates much of what has been written in this blog; I reproduce it to close this part of the trip. Apparently I borrowed a typewriter there.

On November 13, 1968, I departed Johore mid-morning bound for Singapore . I had readily at hand the paperwork for my motorcycle, as I figured this is where it would be necessary to go through some importation routine. However, I simply drove across the causeway, presented my passport for a chop, and drove on: someone crossing into Singapore on a motorcycle was nothing unusual—there were dozens of others doing the same.

Not far into the hills, I spotted a construction site where a pile-driver was in operation. Now, I have always enjoyed watching a good steam pile-driver: there’s something quite sexy about them. But I was in for a surprise: this was a diesel pile-driver, the first I’d ever seen. The really weird thing was though, as I watched, the pile was coming out of the ground, rather than going in! This was the first friction-pile construction I had ever seen: a hollow steel tube with a sacrificial point is driven into the ground; it is filled with concrete and re-bar cages, then the tube is pulled up and out. The vibration brings the wet concrete into intimate contact with the surrounding soil, creating a much higher degree of friction (hence much greater resistance to further movement), and the steel tube is used again and again.

Building new apartment-blocks in Singapore

I continued on into Singapore, stopping often to take photographs.

A fancy villa in the foreground with a swimming-pool

I had not expected the lushness of the hills

Red tile roofs everywhere

Getting closer to the city center

Looking like the Singapore I expected

Once in the city, I found a 5-floor walk-up hotel just a couple of blocks from the famous Raffles Hotel. I had stayed in a number of these chinese hotels, mostly because they were dirt-cheap. Generally, they consisted of a large space broken up into cubicles with open wire mesh stretched over wooden frames, with plywood panels attached for a modicum of privacy. There was a space of 18 inches or so from the floor up to the bottom of the panels, and from the top of the panels all was open to the ceiling or (in the current case) roof-rafters. The point was to allow air circulation, but any sort of real privacy was difficult to achieve! There were communal showers and so forth nearby. However, since I rarely did anything except sleep in places like this, they served their purpose just fine.

On my first night in Singapore I hailed a taxi which took me to Bugis Street, about which I had heard from someone way back in Saigon. It was gaudy and commercial; a procurer finally agreed to find me a mate, but that turned out to be a transvestite who only wanted to be—erm—”approached” from behind. I bailed out: I can manage (if sufficiently enthused) to screw a guy so long as he looks like a guy, but a guy that looks like a gal just doesn’t do it for me! I’m queer that way.

The next day, naturally, I lingered around the part of Singapore called Queens Walk, expecting that there surely would be some sort of action there. But, there was none. It was mostly families and amahs walking their kids, and few if any single folk. Elsewhere, wandering the streets, I found plenty of eye-candy, but most people were going about their daily routine: a foreigner in their midst was nothing unusual. There was another caucasian hanging around my hotel, though I wasn’t sure if he was staying there. After a couple of days I was getting horny, and having no luck whatever finding anyone to provide relief.

Queens Walk: I think it is still there

It rained one afternoon, so I repaired to my cubicle and fell asleep. However, I was awakened by the unmistakable sounds of two males having vigorous sex in the cubicle next to mine. It was easy to deduce that one of the pair was local, and the other was not: beyond this, I could learn nothing, but listening to someone else having sex only made my condition worse. In time, their tryst over, the lovers departed, and not long afterwards I did so as well, since the rain had stopped. Some hours later, once again frustrated by lack of contact (and now I knew it was possible) I returned to my hotel: I had seen an advert for a movie I wanted to see, and figured maybe a theater might offer some opportunities. As I reached the top of the stairs there was an old sofa and a couple of chairs there; on the sofa sat the fellow I had seen around the place, and a nice-looking, much younger local chap. On a small table were cups of coffee; they greeted me and offered to send someone out for a cup for me. Conversation ensued between we two foreigners: it turned out the fellow was from Australia, stationed somewhere nearby, who happened (as I had already learned) to like boys. He was interested to know about my trip and so forth: it was a very polite and stilted conversation such as any two strangers might strike up. The coffee arrived, the conversation lagged, and so this fellow explained that he knew his way around the Singapore pretty well: was there anything I wanted to know that could assist me?

I replied, “Yes: where does a gay guy go in Singapore on a Friday night?”

The Aussie turned beet-red, and his boyfriend smiled knowingly. It turned out they had been speculating about me. The Aussie was sure I was straight, his friend sure otherwise. Now, of course, they both knew, and the conversation became more relaxed. I got the “skinny”, and was assured if I showed up there, I would find someone. I resolved to go, after my movie, since they explained things got underway pretty late.

At that time, the local “watering hole” for gays was the Pebbles Bar in the Intercontinental Hotel! I’d have never found it on my own, and it was not obviously gay, except for there being almost no females. It resembled a restaurant in many ways, with booths and so forth. Soon enough, I was approached (I’m sure my buddies from the hotel set me up); the rest, as they say, is history. Andy and I got along famously, and, riding two-up, he showed me many of the more famous places in Singapore.

Meanwhile, I had to dispose of my motorcycle. I took it to the local Honda cycle agency, where one of the mechanics bought it for half what I’d paid for it in Saigon. He explained that registering a bike that was without importation papers would be troublesome (though I am certain he knew exactly how to do it). Thereafter, Andy & I travelled by bus.

The most amazing things show up in the collection of “stuff” from my trip.

Of course, we took in the famous Tiger Balm Gardens. Since they are still there and little changed, there’s no point in putting in the few photos I took: a google search brings up many pictures and descriptions. Here’s just one photo of the entrance gate:

Entrance to the Tiger Balm Garden

We also took in the lovely botanical gardens, where flowers and orchids were spectacular. Here’s just a few pictures I took there.

I had never seen such a shade of green on an orchid

More unusual blossoms

We spent some time in the House of Jade, an accumulation put together by the same brothers who built the Tiger Balm Gardens.

If you like jade, this is the place to see it!

And the national monument:

Note the lack of sky-scrapers (which now surround this plaza)

But the most entertaining event we took in was the opening ceremony for a new Hotel: this involved more fire-power than I’d seen even in Vietnam!

Everything is made ready

More Lion Dancers, more fire-crackers

Lion Dancers, fire-crackers on the streets

The strings of fire-crackers from the flag-poles have been lit

There they go!

Air thick with smoke: what a racket!

Here is the two-page letter I wrote describing my trip.

(Click to enlarge)

Still three degrees north of the equator: I decided to fly to Bali. That’s next.

NEXT

The blog has been moribund for a while, but fortunately, I have not!  There just does not seem to be a whole lot going on in my life worth writing about, so I don’t. However, I found something (again) recently that amused me.

Odd things turn up from time to time. In the two photos that follow lie the origins of my life-long interest in steam engines.

For many years there was a “Lilliput Railway” at Fleischacker Zoo in San Francisco. The real steam engine and a number of passenger cars ran on a 22″-gauge track at the zoo. A high point of any trip to San Francisco in the 40s was a ride behind “Little Puffer”: a 1904-05 Cagney Class “E” locomotive.

On one such occasion my Dad, who then was taking 16-mm movies, captured just a few dozen frames at the very end of a roll of color film. Years later, I had all his movies transfered to VHS.

Today I ran the show and stopped the action long enough to make these pictures of the resulting screen images:

This picture shows the train arriving: the three heads in the foreground are Todd, me, and Rob (l to r).

(You can only seem the top few inches of my head).

In this photo we are seated in the reverse order as the train pulls away.

At some point, probably in the 60s, the railroad was dismantled and stored. It was re-discovered later and rebuilt by the Golden Gate Railway Museum. It has been in service again for many years and is a popular attraction at the zoo. Pictures of Little Puffer after a 2009 rebuild can be see at here and some clips are available at Youtube here and here. Below are two fine photos by Drew Jacksich.

That’s all for now: I cannot get calm enough to comment on the present state of politics in the US!

NEXT

DEVELOPMENTS

I lived the first four years of my life in Sacramento. Of many memories, there are two that I believe contributed to the later “me”.

My God-parents lived nearby: they had a daughter somewhat older than I. Bobbie was probably about seven when I was three-going-on four. We all lived near William Land Park, at one corner of which was a cluster of large bushes. We kids could get in under those and assume no one could see us: it was the typical “hideout” kids like to make. But what we did in there, instigated by Bobbie, was examine each other’s private parts, and “do number one and do number two”! Bobbie would raid her bathroom for huge wads of toilet-paper (I wonder what her parents thought). I was the only boy in the group, so of course had that “handy little gadget” that made peeing much easier for me. But Bobbie and her girl-friends were not much interested in my little pee-pee. I, likewise, was not much interested in what they had between their legs: it seemed so UNfunctional!

I attribute these amusements to my lifelong interest in urination, and assume the beginnings of my lack of interest in females began here as well. The lack of any significant difference in how boys and girls defecate left me with far less interest in that function of the body.

The other memory from that time involves my maternal Grandmother who liked to take me out on Sunday afternoons to ride the C-street trolly line. Even then, the tracks were not in good shape, and the little single-truck Birney cars were notoriously rough-riding. Birney “Safety Cars” looked like this:

Single Truck Birney “Safety Car”

This little model shows how the car extended past the four-wheel truck, which meant that any little dip in the tracks was communicated to the car itself. But I loved to ride those bouncy little trollies! They were called “Safety Cars” because the door and brake controls had been cleverly incorporated into a single lever: the door could not be opened until the lever had moved past the “full stop” position of the brake. There was no way the doors could be opened if the car was moving. A Birney car can be seen in operation here during the filming of “The Changeling”.

I attribute my lifelong interest in trains and trams to these early experiences, even though our move out of Sacramento (and the death of both Grandmothers) put a stop to those Sunday excursions. I’ll have much more to say about trams and trains later in this blog.

CARMICHAEL

Dad moved us to Carmichael early in 1940: I had my fourth birthday there. Why we moved, I’m not sure. Both my parents were essentially “city-slickers” with no farming experience. Perhaps Dad saw WWII coming.

We had five acres, mostly planted in almonds, an old farm-house, a large, dilapidated garage and some barns. The first couple of years were devoted to rebuilding first the house, then the garage, and minor improvements to the milking-shed of the barn. Not yet in school, I was under-foot for much of this renovation work, and suppose my interest in old houses and handiwork in general stems from that experience.

My mother had taught for a few years, but when we moved to Carmichael, she devoted herself to her family while Dad was the bread-winner. Both took very good care of us (three boys — I was the “baby”). Dad taught in Sacramento, so was gone all day, but we had week-ends and summers together: yet even on a single salary we were considered fairly well off. Mom suffered from terrible migraine headaches, but between these took good care of us, and cooked all our meals. Any sort of restaurant of note was miles away in Sacramento, so dining “out” was rare!

Dad’s salary did get Mom some labor-saving devices: she had a fine Singer sewing-machine, of course, and she made a lot of our clothes. She also had an Iron-rite “mangle” — a machine for ironing clothes not unlike this one:

Iron-Rite “Mangle”

Making, washing, fixing, ironing and sewing buttons on all the clothes for three growing boys was nearly a full-time job, and I often found Mom seated at her ironer when I came in from play or home from school. I wore many hand-me-downs in those days: by the time I got through with them they were just rags.

Mom also had a Bendix washer, first of the front-loaders. It looked similar to this one. I could not find a photo of our model, which was less sophisticated and earlier than this 1947 model. Ours had a triangular base painted black, and a clunky arrangement of the lint-trap: if the clip holding it in place got snagged and pulled open accidently, it dumped the contents of the drum all over the floor of our back porch.

1947 Bendix Front Loader Washing Machine

While the Bendix was an improvement over the old tub-and-wringer setup, it did have several idiosyncrasies. One was that soap had to be added by hand at the proper time (so much for the “automatic” feature), and if too much was put in, the thing erupted in suds which poured out of the filler-spout down over everything. The porch floor got frequent cleaning because of this.

The other problem involved balance: the tub was rigidly attached to the frame, so if clothes got wadded up, when the spin-cycle began the machine would walk right across the floor, eventually pulling the power-cord out of its socket, or pulling one of the hoses loose (which resulted in water spraying everywhere).

The “cure” for the balance problem was to bolt the machine to a large block of concrete cast for this purpose. Even this was only partially successful: a severely  out of balance load would result in the whole block being lifted up and down, pounding the be-jesus out of the porch floor. It sounded like the house falling down, and always resulted in a mad rush to get the thing unplugged before it fell into the basement!

We had that washer for years. We even took it to Modesto when we moved there. By that time I was beginning to grow up, and I found riding that wobbling machine, the filler-spout jammed in my crotch, strangely exhilarating! But, I’m getting ahead of myself!

To be continued …

NEXT

Go to MOVE TO MODESTO

February 5, 2010

BEFORE I RESUME MY TALE:

My room-mate’s grand-niece dined with us last week: she’s 7.  The conversation got around to recent films, and the current fad for animated movies. In today’s “out of the mouths of babes” department, she made this observation: “I don’t know why they have to use computers for this stuff when there’s plenty of people around to do it.”

Why, indeed?

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

The arrow points to Malacca

Saturday, 9 November 1968

According to plan, I departed K. L. at a reasonable hour yesterday morning. I’d intended to go to Seremban by a devious route, but discovered presently that I was on a main hiway after all! It was but a short way, and I found Seremban a pleasant, modest place but with some very striking new buildings. There is a small museum of some interest. Colonel Bramson was on holiday, but his amah seemed to think he was of Australian origin, so I guess he’s not related.

By a pleasant 20 mile drive, I next dropped by Port Dickson, which is less of a port and more of a resort—the road down the coast from there is lined with nice estates with lovely views and beaches. By a very pleasant route & a very leisurely pace, I meandered through some of the most typical Malay countryside I’ve yet seen to Malacca, arriving around 2. The weather all day was delightful—indeed it only rained twice, briefly, in K. L. while I was there—the rainy season here is about over. Today in Malacca was very warm & pleasant. Malacca [town] is a very historic place, a confused jumble of architecture & culture, all glossed over by relatively recent influx of english money.

For some reason, I went off on a tangent here!

Largely, the place is as anglicized as Bangkok is americanized, and in fairness it must be said that contemporary british are no less boorish & overbearing than contemporary americans. But I get the impression the Malaysians are more resilient than the Thais, and the impending withdrawal of Britain will be less of a hardship to most people than a corresponding withdrawal of americans from Thailand would be. Though many seem convinced that removal of westerners from SEA would automatically & instantly result in communists filling the vacuum, I am by no means convinced of this myself. I think Cambodia would resist this, and Malaysia as well. Burma is already essentially communist, and Indonesia’s new government may not have the necessary strength to survive. But of course the British are withdrawing not for any lack of colonial hopes—simply because their economy can no longer support their involvement here. At present rates, I would not be surprised to see Mr. Nixon faced with the exact same situation before his term expires. His pronouncements so far hardly encourage one to think he is aware of this. As for the blood-baths that everyone speaks of in the same breath as “withdrawal”, that would certainly involve mostly politicians, most of whom, having spent years serving their own interests rather than fostering the sort of Nationalism that is anathema to communism, will be getting about what they deserve.

Nat Hentoff’s article (War on Dissent) in Sept Playboy is chilling. Our slavish devotion to Science & Technology  since the Industrial Revolution has produced something much closer to a technocracy than the technocrats would have dreamed of. Unfortunately, we’ve overlooked the human aspects of existence much too long. It is quite one thing for a research scientist to spend millions of R & D dollars to develop a synthetic rubber, and for his associates in business to then “improve” their products by switching to petrol-based material. All overlook in this system the fact that the switch quite literally takes food from the mouths of thousands of people whose existence is largely dependent on the natural product. The scientist & businessman, in their isolated cellular environment, will argue that it is “progress”  and that the synthesized rubber has superior properties for which the public clamors. But the public is insulated and unaware of the far-reaching consequences of its actions, and the “progress” measured by some is offset by the recession elsewhere.

I can remember some years ago a period of struggle in my own mind about becoming involved in the main-stream of american technology—my deviations into the organ business and other schemes were largely the result of my decision to avoid it, a decision which, in the light of subsequent events, I shall always believe was the wisest one. When I read articles such as Hentoff’s; or those vilifying of praising Dr. Teller; when I observe the storm of controversy surrounding the few scientists who recognize their own  conscience & at least try to deal with it (Oppenheimer & his followers) I realize that, had I so chosen, I could be right “in the thick of it” myself; but I find it much more interesting & rewarding to be in the “thick” of average Joes (or Wongs or Pradits) who live much more humanistic—if often prosaic—lives. Should I return to scientific endeavors, I think it would be to try to develop some sort of selective “plague” that would only affect rotten politicians. The abuse of power, in whatever manner obtained, is, of course, nothing new; neither is the remarkable blindness to past failures that seems to affect everyone who seeks to regulate the present & future. But the true “public servant” has become the rarest of species in the Genus Homo S. And while it can be enthusiastically proclaimed by people like Stanley Kubrick that an answer to the current dilemma is posed by genetic regulation—just around the corner—I’m inclined to suspect a hydroponic public-servant factory would be far down the list of priorities for development. I’m certain that such a factory to produce invincible warriors would be established first. And, to discern the genetic code that says “learn from the mistakes & failures of the past” is likely to prove impossible, so obviously recessive is that particular gene!

If Hentoff’s article was chilling, an article I saw recently somewhere (I neglected to clip it—possibly because of revulsion—but perhaps you saw it too) which described the “state of the art” of chemical & biological warfare (a subject that came up persistently in my endless fruitless discussions with army personnel in VN) was absolutely appalling. Man’s capacity for destroying himself is by no means confined to nuclear holocaust; 6000 dead sheep in Idaho through a freakish accident are only a drop in the bucket when compared to the potential destruction being actively developed and stockpiled. Here, as with nuclear stock-piling, the specter of accidental use or intentional mis-use by a deranged controller conjures result almost too awful to imagine—yet the danger is real, & very certainly in existence. And, as with nuclear weaponry, the dollars & cents cost of the development & production & storage of these deadly arsenals (not to mention the inestimable “cost” in destruction of human values required to enable it all) must far outweigh the sums spent trying to find a path to peace in the world.

Well, enuf of these depressing thoughts for now—off to see what Malacca after dark has to offer—a celebration of some sort at the Chinese Temple, among other things, I’m told. More later.

Sunday, 10 November 1968

Malacca after dark serves up the usual asian fare—walking in the waterfront park, eating in the nearby string of outdoor cafes, etc. The celebration at the Chinese Tenple was colorful, but totally incomprehensible! Eventually I fell into a very interesting & lengthy chat with a group of residents out for an evening (it seems this was the first Satuday sans rain in some weeks!) & Malacca-style entertainment.

BACKSTORY: Malacca, with a long history of Portuguese and Dutch habitation (not to say occupation), had some of the most spectacular boys I found anywhere! The term “Eurasian” is often over-used, but I could see the influence of different genes everywhere, and the boys seemed to combine to good effect the best the foreigners had to offer. As it happened, there was some sort of fair in progress on the outskirts of town, and I repaired there in the late afternoon. Before long I had an audience of a dozen or so handsome youths, all anxious to know if I could help them in any way to get away from Malacca. Gosh! Here I was in a veritable paradise of youth (cf. remarks earlier about most SEA countries with over half their population under 19), and all the “youth” wanted to do was get away from it! The grass really IS greener on the other side of the fence. But if I could have waved my magic wand and settled down in a place where a superabundance of young men would make life pleasant in the extreme, I’d have settled in Malacca in a heart-beat. As it was, I only actually had a tryst with one fellow while there: we repaired to an old fortification on a hillside and waved our magic wands (and more) for several hours.

This morning I arose rather later than planned, but was on my  way, not quite sure where, by around 9. My route, coastal through Muar to Bandar Maharani followed for some miles the route of a local road-race (foot), so I had quite an audience for a while. Although the route lies on the coast, the flatness & the fact the road is about a mile inland combine to make views of the sea largely non existent. Both of the major river crossings, shown on the map as ferries, are now by toll bridge, so far neither of which has been washed away! The day was perfect, reminiscent of the better days in Cambodia—clear sky, mid-80s, slight breeze occasionally—really lovely. Of course, my nose burned again and the “up” side of my arms reddened up too: but for driving comfort, in short-sleeves, the day couldn’t have been better. At Bandar, I had the choice of going inland or coast; continued news of east coast floods, plus the lovely west coast weather described above conspired to keep me coastal, & I proceeded leisurely to Pontian Kecil, where I had an excellent mid-day dinner (Beef Stroganoff, of all things!!) at the Gov’t rest-house. And from there, it is a short 37 miles to Johore Bharu, to which I arrived around 3 PM. Though the (small) central shopping part of J. B. is not much, the surrounding town, all built on low hills, is strikingly beautiful because of the vast expanses of lawn—the whole city looks like a vast park. Two istanas (palaces) add to the majesty of it all.

The arrow points to Johore

Somewhere this morning my elapsed mileage topped 5000; the odometer itself flopped to 10,000 in K. Lumpur. From my hotel window I can look across the straits of Johore (badly polluted, alas) to Singapore, though the city itself is just below the hills there so there is not much to see. But only 17 miles separate me from S’pore at this moment—except that (weather permitting) I plan to go to Kota Tingii tomorrow, and sight-see here in Johore some more, before going on to S’pore tomorrow afternoon. K. Tingii is a resort area for Johore built up around what are supposed to be some lovely waterfalls. Quite possibly, (weather permitting) I may make the whole circle trip to Mersing, Keluang & back to Johore (may stay here one more night even). This will show me the south-east coast, thus leaving only the east-coast drive from K. Bharu through Trengganu & Kuantan un-traversed: it is strongly advised-against at this season, & news reports certainly confirm that (on a moto at least) it would be quite wet and oft-times impassable. On a return trip someday (!) I can do that, and can also make the arrangements necessary to get into the King George VI Park (game preserve) in Pahang (via boat form Kuala Lipis) which was somewhat beyond the scope of this particular jaunt, but which is said to be both cheap (Gov’t subsidized) & very worth-while  if you enjoy stalking game with camera.

I’ve mentioned the Gov’t Rest Houses several times. Virtually all the major towns have one. They are really first-class hotels, and are maintained at Gov’t expense primarily for the use of traveling gov’t employees (upper echelons) who have first claim on the facilities. But anyone else can use them, and tourists as well as Malaysians utilize them heavily. Except for universally uncomfortable (too soft) beds, they offer reasonable rates for really good accommodations (always with the proviso that you may be expelled if a gov’t entourage should show up unexpectedly (which rarely happens as those travelers generally book in advance). Cheaper hotels are available (which I’ve used mostly) and in some places more modern facilities can be found at a price; but one could easily & inexpensively travel all over this country staying only in the “Rumah² Persinggahan”.

The superscript “2″ needs explaining: in Malay, the plural form of any word is formed simply by repeating it twice. “Laki” is man; Laki Laki is men. Teksi is Taxi; Teksi Teksi is Taxis, and so forth. Rarely, except in the case of short words like Laki, is all this written out, especially on signs—instead, a super- or sometimes sub-script “2″ is added as appropriate.

I recall this as the Rest House at Johore, but I could be wrong

The major news today concerned (here) with the lightning arrest of 116 communists all over malaysia by the Federal Government. Perhaps the most amazing remark in response to this development comes from the Chairman of the Labour Party’s Selangor branch, Dr. M. K.  Rajakumar, who said this makes it “physically impossible” for the [communist] party to contest the [forthcoming] elections. He added, “I assume this is customary preparation for the general elections”. I think the development strengthens my thesis, though, that Communism is unwelcome here & will have a tough time taking over, with or without the Western “presence”. One must bear in mind as well that, along with political unpopularity, Communism is opposed by all the major religions & philosophies of virtually all of the SEA countries. Mao’s “wars of national liberation” therefore must first subvert Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, & (here) a substantial number of Christian converts (absurd as that sounds) and so forth, and success so far seems quite unimpressive. So far on this trip the only people I’ve run into who seriously entertained the idea that communism might be any improvement over current affairs was the French couple I met in Cambodia, who appeared to be admirers of Che Guevarra & Fide Castrol (oops!). As this couple was being paid by the Cambodian Government, I doubt this is an admiration they express very freely! Generally speaking, I think adherents like this can be dismissed as misguided [but I would agree that there are some Marxist principles that might well be adaptable to the SEA social scene]—after all, any nut who makes enuf noise—i.e., headlines—can get a following of sorts: George Lincoln Rockwell and George Wallace are two examples that come immediately to mind on the US scene.

12 November 1968

Weather didn’t exactly permit what I had in mind for yesterday! Although it dawned nice enough, as I went towards Kota Tinggi (rhymes with “dinghy”) I could see the storm piling up. The waterfalls are about ten miles beyond K. T., and about half  way there the storm broke with a passion! I returned to K. T. to wait to see if it would let up, but it did not, and I wound up returning to Johore—the trip to Mersing would obviously be too wet to be worth the effort. So I sight-saw in Johore for the day, except when the storm mover over it in the early evening. And this morning I drove the few miles on to Singapore itself, drove about aimlessly during the morning and in the afternoon located a suitable (I think) hotel. Also went to the GPO & picked up a letter each from Todd & Dad. I missed Todd’s in BK c/o American Express—didn’t even go near the place, and apparently missed Dad’s of Oct 5.

Singapore looks like it is going to be a pretty fascinating place—very big, lots to see, quite modern & all sorts of construction projects underway. Traffic, though heavy, is not as bad as I’d expected. One way or another I expect to depart in a couple of weeks, though, but am not sure just now bound for where! A couple of days are necessary for investigation of possibilities.

Had I known you were doing a [book] review of Angkor, I’d have mailed my Parmentier’s Guide, but maybe Todd was able to dig one up for you. Come to think of it now, though, mine is in my bag at the Singapore airport, which I have to get in the next day or two, with (probably) a lot of customs nonsense like BK.

Since this is already a “heavy” letter, & you will want to know I got to S’pore OK, I’ll mail this tomorrow & fill in plans in a later letter.

Mileage as of this moment—5200, and still 3½ º north of the equator!

Love to all~

Bruce

I didn’t bring back many bills from Malaysia, for some reason. I thought they were particularly nice, though.

Colorful 1 Ringgit bill

The Malaysian bills were very pretty

As is true in many countries, bills are different sizes

Coming up: Singapore. Only one kind of sling there!

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In 1994, I wrote The Orphanage. While it was on alt.sex.stories, it was reviewed by a reader who remarked about its “sly political humor”. As with all my stories, it wound up on the Nifty Archive.

In 2004, I wrote the sequel, The Orphanage Revisited and sent it to Nifty. Here is the penultimate paragraph:

“But in the end, it was Wayne Henry Lane who was right: the Hilltop scene couldn’t last, and it didn’t. The complete melt-down of the Middle East in 2005 and the world-wide economic collapse in 2006 put us and thousands like us out of business, but also put the skids under Dubya and his neocons and his “Religious Wrong”. There’s never before been an impeachment of both the President and the vice-President. The Republicans were crippled, and when in 2009 President Obama declared a state of emergency, it was so the New Deal could be dusted off and people could get to work to un-do the damage of the previous seven years.”

So, I was off a bit in my timing of the economic collapse (which we are living right now), and so far, the Middle East hasn’t quite melted down (yet), but it seems I WAS right about Senator Obama’s successful run to be our President. I’m delighted he made it!

My only regret is that Dubya will leave office, rather than being thrown out of office. Likewise, it annoys me greatly that none of the perps responsible for our current economic meltdown are in jail, or are even likely to be. There’s no accountability any more for ANYthing: I hope Barack can do something about that once he is actually seated in the White House.

Like many others, I’d made up my mind to leave this country if Mr. Obama lost to the Repugnant Party. This posed a little problem, because my house-mate (thinking likewise) thought New Zealand might be nice, but I thought Portugal was a better choice for me. I read a blog that includes wonderful photos of Portugal. Most of the men are too butch and beefy for my taste, but it looks like Lisbon closely resembles San Francisco; it has hills, a bay, bridges, antique trams, and pretty mild weather. However, except possibly to visit, I doubt I’ll go there.

Likewise, I decided that if Mr. Obama won, I’d have the engine in my Chrysler rebuilt: the car has gone just shy of 200K miles. I know I’ll never go out and blow 20-30-40 kilo-bucks for a modern plastic car that I don’t fit in, so $6K  to have the engine running well seems like a bargain.

My Chrysler

This car will run until I crash it or my body crashes! The engine rebuild is complete, and I’m still breaking it in. Too bad I can’t be rebuilt in like fashion.
My regular narrative will resume on the next page.

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April 2, 2010

Here are a few of the photos the Doctor gave me at my Post-op exam, when he concluded that my knee was healing as he had expected. He took out the sutures closing the two little holes through which all the instruments and cameras were inserted.

It seems entirely appropriate to me that I have a lot of “degenerative arthritis: I’ve been a degenerate all my life!

So I am now getting around using a cane, and it is clear I have quite a long recovery ahead. I have favored my left leg so long now that my left hip is sore and is likely to remain so until the knee is fully healed. It does not help that there are many stair-cases in this house, and my iMAC is in the attic! I awake rested in the morning, but by evening I am achy everywhere and ready for a mickey and bed. Nevertheless, I hope to return to work on a limited basis next Monday.

I hope my readers will stay with me. In a nutshell, I worked in Australia for a while, then in Egypt (with side trips to Greece, Sudan and other places); then worked in Manila for several short-term projects. Along the way I spent some quality time in Ecuador (1979) which was still running a good deal of steam on the G&Q. I got a lot of fine photos on the G&Q: here I will whet your appetite with just one.

Firing up a locomotive, early AM in Duran

So hang in, folks: I have a lot of fun times to share once I get away from all this pain!

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