M Y O B

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

Arrow points to Trang

Monday 14 October 1968

Hello again all~

Well, yesterday was one of “those days”! It began pleasantly enough with 7:30 rising in Phuket & a nice breakfast. Decided to change the oil in the Honda, which was accomplished without difficulty. Then a 20 km or so drive to the west side of the island, there to take a quick dip in whatever ocean it is at a lovely (& deserted) beach, (golf-course[!!] adjacent. Then on back to the main road. I’d just crossed the bridge back to the mainland when I recognized the curious “unstable” feeling of a tire going flat—and sure enuf, my second flat of the trip had occurred. This time it was a puncture from a very small nail, so I was able to get the tube patched at the next town (15¢), thus not losing a tube as previously. But it took time to change and what with other dalliances, I suppose it was nearly 11 o’clock when I left Khlo kloi, and it was sprinkling just a bit. That stopped almost at once, though, and it was a pleasant warm drive to Phang nga, where I stopped for a Pepsi. From here on, the road got much more spectacular, ascending by way of a long and twisty grade a range of very lovely mountains, then descending the other side into what proved to be a very large inland plateau. The mountains are solid chunks of [limestone] rock, with many sheer faces to which the jungle somehow clings. A spelunker’s paradise, I should guess, gathering from the number of caves I saw. The road was good, and the surroundings much more like what I’d expected on the crossing to Ranong. Not long after reaching this nice interior plateau, though the “interior rain” commenced, and my goodness!! — how it did rain! I was better prepared this time, & had a plastic raincoat (on backwards) under a cloth rain-coat (forwards). But there’s no keeping out rain like this so there is no choice but to get—eventually—soaked through. The worst of the storm passed after about 1/2 hr, but from that time on for close to 3 hrs it was slow but steady rain. I drove on through it all, though one has to go more slowly, and one gets tired more rapidly because greater attention has to be paid to driving. Thus, with all the delays, slow roads, rain and so forth it was nearly 6:30 when I reached Huai Yot (I’d missed Krabi altogether—it’s off the highway a bit), and the last 28 kms to Trang were in early evening darkness (thankfully, not too buggy). Exhausted and very wet, I checked into a hotel, got around a plate of fried rice very quickly, & sacked out!

Arrow points to Nakhon Si Thammarat

BACKSTORY: Though I say above I “got around a plate of fried rice”, the fact is I “got around” only a few bites. There was NO one in the hotel who spoke english, but I managed to get across to the cook “flied lice”, and in due course, a lovely plate-ful appeared, looking soooo innocent, with lttle shrimps and everything—and some green and red specks I didn’t recognize. Years later I learned these specks were pickynoos, a tiny kind of pepper that packs more wallop per unit size than anything I’d ever tasted. Holy mackerel! My mouth was on fire! There were handfuls of these thingies in there, and I though I would die if I tried to eat all that. So I didn’t, much to the mystification of the cook.

In my last letter, incidentally, I was right on my directions before I changed them. Studying the map a bit and getting my bearings, I shall be going down the west coast of west Malaysia; Hua Hin is on the east coast (or western shore) of the Gulf of Thailand, which I have been circling more or less this whole trip.

According to my diary, I spent a day in Trang, which does not square with the dates on these letters: A lazy day in Trang. Stocked up on soap, razor blades, tooth paste, but can;t find film. Tomorrow I go to Nakhon Sri Thammarat for overnite & back next day. I did drive to Kan Tang (to get my shoes dry!!) which is on the sea & end of the branch rry. Only steam here!

Somewhere on the way to Nakohn Sri Thamarat

Apparently I found some film!

We passed a freight train at Ron Phibun

Train with #353 in charge: I can’t read the station sign

RSR Loco 353 departs with its train

Somewhere we passed this fine locomotive and train

Tuesday, 15 October 1968

Well, it turned out to be a one-day round-trip excursion after all, and a very pleasant one indeed. No less than 6 different engines were involved (3 up and 3 back): 4 of these were Baldwin 3-cylinder jobs built in Philadelphia in 1929, and the other two were Japanese 2-cylinder units built 20 years later! All were burning wood, and all had rather inefficient spark-arresters, so I arrived back in Trang somewhat “holier” than when I left. The trip began at 6:30 AM, and the climb up to Thung Song Junction was pretty, cool, & a bit foggy (somehow, I’d not expected fog in the tropics). The train splits there and a short run, mostly down hill, takes one to Khoe Chung Thong Junction; from there it is essentially flat to Nakhon, which turned out to be less of a town than expected. Arrived shortly before noon, and the return train left at 12:30, which just left time for a bowl of chok and a pepsi. The return was warmer, clearer, and a bit faster, so we pulled into Trang at 5:30 PM. There were a dozen engines chugging around in the yards at Thung Song—truly a wonderful sight. Although the railway is buying 30 diesels this year, they will still have lots of steam engines rolling for some years. They have wood enuf stacked here and there to keep them fueled for years, and although it seems like a lot of wood, it has barely made a dent—if that—on the thousands of acres of jungle where it is cut (all by hand, incidentally).

So, tomorrow off to Phathalung. The map shows some squiggles in the road that I interpret to be another mountainous crossing—I hope—and I also hope to avoid rain by getting an early start. Will probably go all the way to Songkhla, which is another beach-resort sort of spot, very pretty I’m told—and probably my last stop on the east coast of the gulf of Thailand for quite a while.

Friday 18 October 1968

Two days ago I departed Trang about 7:30 AM. I soon reached the “squiggly” part of the road shown on the map—a thoroughly delightful & very twisty steep grade over a nice range of mountains. From the bottom of the down-hill side the road straightens out and goes doe a long alluvium to the north inland shore of the huge bay—a point I reached about 10:00. It’s pretty—there are  a number of islands—but no beach. After re-tracing my steps to Phathalung & stopping for a pepsi, I proceeded on around the bay, and around 11 ran into rain, some of which I waited out at the roadside. Eventually, I reached Haadyai (Hat Yai on the map). Now, Haadyai was the surprise on this leg of the journey: it’s just a dot on my map, but once again the cartographer erred, for it is a large town, and it is the junction for the two rail lines coming north from Malaysia. There is a brand-new and very nice railway station-hotel complex, new engine shops, a big switching yard, & oodles of steam engines. I watched all this for about an hour, drying off a bit, then went on to Songkhla (pronounced “sing-kla), where once again it was raining lightly. The town itself is a rather dismal place, though there are large resort-type hotels surrounding all the beaches. After bidding farewell to the Gulf of Thailand, I drove back to Haadyai, checked into a hotel, then poked around town, getting some dinner, etc, & went to be rather early.

The next morning I gravitated naturally to the railway, and found myself poking around all sorts of places I’m sure I was not supposed to be; but the Ass’t Chief Fitter, who spoke some english, took me under his wing, taking me home for lunch, then back to the shops for the afternoon, and later back to his home for drinks and dinner. Altogether a very pleasant day!

The Assistant Chief Fitter had apprenticed in the Baldwin Locomotive Works in the US, hence his rusty command of english. He was older than methuselah, but very spry; he seemed to have no real job to do, but he fully understood my fascination with steam locomotives and even got me a ride on the yard engine. Alas, he failed to understand my fascination with his nephew, present at both meals, a spectacular youth that had my mouth watering even more than then food!

This letter will be continued on my next page, where I describe reaching Malaysia.

NEXT

ORGANIZING MY DEPARTURE

Once I had resigned from PA&E, I had to firm up my plans in a hurry.  It was necessary to get an Exit Visa from the Vietnamese immigration authorities. I left this to PA&E, since they had functionaries who dealt with immigration all the time. I  filled out a form in long-hand, gave them  my  passport and took a receipt. All other preparations for departure I undertook myself, distrustful of PA&E’s ability to handle my exit which was so different from those of their other employees. I put off my actual departure until the Thursday flight to Phnom Penh, scheduled out at 4:00 pm, to be sure I had time to get everything ready.

Meanwhile, I closed down my apartment, sold off whatever I could not carry, and moved to a hotel. A suitcase full of clothing was packed and sent unaccompanied—one could do that in those days—to Bangkok. There remained only one problem: that .38 revolver given to me by the fellow who freaked out soon after our arrival had been stored in the bottom of my suitcase. I had to dispose of the gun. I could probably have turned it in to some authority, but which of the many “authorities” available could deal with it? What kind of questions would they ask, and what amount of hot-water would I get myself into?

In the end, I wrapped the 6 bullets in newspaper and stuffed them into the holster with a stone: I tossed this into the Saigon Canal, confident that the numerous bugs in that polluted water would chew up the holster in a hurry. The stone and bullets would sink into the muck, never to be found. The gun itself I dropped into the elevated wall-cistern for the toilet in my hotel room. I figured that by the time anyone discovered it, it would be a mass of rust beyond any hope of use. For all I know, that gun may still be there!

PA&E, on the other hand, was slow in preparing my paycheck and getting the exit visa. Good thing I left extra time!

DIARY ENTRY:  Wednesday, 4 September 1968: Well, PA&E nearly fucked up the works, but through perseverance I managed to get nearly everything set to go tomorrow. The paycheck wasn’t ready until after lunch, which left precious little time to get travelers checks and plane tickets. Whereas I had to wait 4 hours just for two signatures to be applied to my final paycheck, I got the travelers checks and airplane tickets done in just under two hours—and that included three separate calls at AIR VN & @ the bank! They talk about orientals being slow??? Have to get some form or other @ Air VN regarding my bag—certifying it can go through Customs locked; have to get passport @ Australian Embassy, & have to get to TSN tomorrow—all should be relatively easy. Of course, I won’t really be sure this scheme is going to work until I & the Honda are safely ensconced on the plane!!

There was a charming young lady at Air Vietnam who explained in detail exactly the steps I had to take to buy a ticket for myself and for the motorcycle and to purchase travelers checks. The machine had to be weighed: she told me exactly where to go to get that done, and it went without a hitch. (Of course, I rode the bike to all these places: it would not actually be prepared and drained until the very day I left). Buying and paying for the tickets and checks was complicated by the restrictions on money, and involved several trips to the bank—a branch of Bank of America!—but in the space of an afternoon all of this was done. As always, I found that by following directions and smiling a lot, I had no problems.

I was told the bike had to be “drained”, that is, no fuel in the tank when it went on the plane. But this meant that at the other end I would have no idea where to purchase fuel and hence how to get the bike back on the road. So I took a small bottle of gasoline tightly sealed in one of the saddle-bags, and these I carried on with my satchel. The form from Air VN certifying that my bag need not be inspected allowed me to get away with this little subterfuge.

On my last night in Vietnam, I had a nice dinner at the only fancy restaurant going at the time: it was french cuisine (not my favorite), but did have white table-cloths and good presentation. Afterwards, I had one last quickie with my friend Nguyen, which helped me sleep.

Come morning, I would be off on a new adventure! With my passport in hand. . .

Passport

. . . I had my visa for going INTO Vietnam “voided”, on the theory that I might run into someone who objected to my having been there. . .

Voided visa

. . . and I had my visa for Cambodia:

Cambodia visa

The chop in upper left is my departure stamp, which took some doing to get! Stay tuned!

NEXT

Finally, I got to call myself a Senior! (Funny what a thrill that was then, but now that I’m a senior again, the appellation has lost its luster!) I pretty well had a lock on graduation, having managed to get passing grades in everything, even PE.

Secondary sexual characteristics were finally making their appearance, so with my body more nearly resembling my peers, and with them growing up and realizing the folly of beating up on a defenseless kid,  I was able to enjoy my final year in high school. My old Dodge made it into the yearbook,

My Final Year in High School

though stuffed with people was a rare sight: my classmates for the most part thought I was really peculiar to have eschewed the popular Fords and Chevies they drove.

Though my “career” as a writer would come much later, I did do a lot of writing in  high school and college. I still have a large binder with my oeuvre from that time collected in it: looking over it now, I realize how clear it must have been to adult readers (teachers, councilors, and so forth) that I was queer: my regret is that it wasn’t equally clear to my classmates, who probably would have rewarded me with a lot of rampant cock, if only they had known! How I would have loved it, if only I had known.

My English Lit teacher was amused by several of my poems. The most famous one, submitted to (and rejected by) numerous contests was this quatrain:

The day was cold

The food was old:

Soon it was covered

With ugly mold.

Only slightly more serious, if a trifle  longer, was a parody (1951) on a famous poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

DIRT WITHOUT MUSIC

I am not resigned to the dumping of dirty dishes into the hot water.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been for time out of mind:

Into the water they go, the dirty, the greasy.

Crowned With bones and scrapings they go:

but I am not resigned.

Scraps and bones, into the garbage with you,

Be one with the gravy, the indescribable mess.

A fragment of what we ate, of what we chew,

A  tidbit, a morsel remains, but the best is eaten.

The celery crisp and green, the stewed tomatoes,the onions, the beets

They are gone. They are gone to feed the dogs.

Elegant and curled Is the broccoli. Fragrant is the broccoli.I know.

But I do not approve

More precious was the taste of that lamb than all the Four Roses of the world.

Down, down, down, into the suds of the dishwater

Gently they go, the greasy, the gummy, the gooey;

Quietly they go, the handle-less, the broken, the chipped

I know, but I do not approve, and I am not resigned.

So that year my mischievous nature asserted itself: I pulled off numerous pranks, harmless kid-stuff, which nevertheless greatly vexed the Dean of Boys, in whose office I found myself quite regularly. The man was a pompous fart who harangued me about such things as morality, living an upstanding life, and so forth (remember, he was convinced I was queer and active, but unaware that I was not even out to myself). He reported to my father regularly, and may have been surprised when Dad refused to chastise me for any of it: he knew I was just “feeling my oats” and testing the system, something quite normal for a late-blooming teenager. As for the Dean, he  became a role model (years later) for Newt Gingrich. The day after his wife announced she had cancer, he filed for divorce and took up with a young bimbo half his age. This was too much for red-neck Modesto: he was fired and run out of town. I went on to graduate, a gangly nerd with a lot of very strange habits, totally out of synch with my classmates.

This is me in rented drag for High School Graduation.

To be continued …

email:     [email protected]

NEXT

Go to COMING OUT TO FAMILY

For some years, my parents had been sponsoring a young boy in Vietnam through FFP (Foster Parents Plan), known only as Tai and a number. It seemed natural that I should try to get in touch with him while there.

My letters were also referring to my “Number one friend”. This was the masseur I had met in the parlor on Phan-Than-Gian Street: he stayed with me, used the motorcycle, and kept me well pounded with his massage skills. We had sex occasionally, but mostly that was taken care of by the boy I’d met first at the Loc Building who helped me move to my apartment, and who visited regularly.

Monday, 13 May 1968

Dear Everyone~

First, belated Happy Mothers Day to those to whom it applies: somehow in the week’s chaos I forgot about it—there aren’t all the advertising reminders down here (since the Holiday is unknown to the VN).

The accompanying article tells a number of tales. The bunker complex referred to was discovered about 2-1/2 miles (line of sight) from me, and it is that area which I’ve watched US planes work over several times. Last night, E-4 Jets struck it four different times (apparently the VC were trying to move back into it) with B-40 rocket-bombs. These are big ones, and at 2-1/2 mile range they sound as though they were next door, and shake the building pretty hard, yet there is little to see unless one is atop the Rex, and even then the haze usually prevents seeing much.

Yesterday, and possibly again last night, the VC managed at last to hit and cause damage to the NewPort bridge, so that this AMs news broadcast said traffic on the Xa Lo Bien Hoa was limited to essential Mil only. My bus came at its appointed time, but I was discussing a block away the liklihood of its getting through, which seemed small, so I didn’t go. I expect it will just get tied up in a monumental traffic jam and eventually return to town. I’ll try tomorrow, unless I hear otherwise, to go to work, though of course the only real reason I bother is to get mail.

Yesterday, Hung and I went out to the Cho Lon PX as planned. It was open, swamped with people, of course. There was a good deal of shooting not far away, and when some jerk cleared his rifle near the entrance, you should have seen everybody (including yours truly) dive for cover! At that moment I was waiting for Hung to come back from the Va Ep (garage) where he was getting the left-turn signal lights on the Honda fixed. When he got back, we di di mau’d!

On the way out there, we stopped to see my “family”. Their place is not bad by Saigon standards, but they sleep in a bunker every night, and are getting ready to move to what they hope will be a safer area—for which I can’t blame them, but where they will go I’m not sure. There is an uncle on the scene, related somehow to the Papasan who isn’t around, and he works for PA&E! He’s a photographer, but has not been able to get to Tan Son Nhut to work all week. He’s Phillipino, speaks good English, and is very pleasant. Apologetic, of course, about the house situation, but of course under the circumstances…

Having boo coo time, I think I’ll try later today to get in touch with Miss Green at FPP and see what I can learn of Tai. I hope, of course to be able to get good news, but there is always the possibility it will be otherwise.

On the way to Cho Lon yesterday we passed a large refugee camp put up on the site of what was to have been a large new school: I’d been by it when it was just a couple of acres of cleared land awaiting construction. Now, it is a forest of semipermanent tents (wood bottom, fabric top). I do not think it was designed by an Architecture Professor at Cambridge! It was, at least, orderly, if crowded, and the Red Cross was much in evidence, so it is quite likely that many of the occupants are better off than in the hovels they inhabited before!

I just went out and bought 4 Saigon maps to send with this—I’ll mark them with useful info to help keep you up to date. The accuracy of these is poor, and there’s no scale of distance, however. . .

Later, Monday, 4 PM

I have just returned from visiting Foster Parents Plan. This morning I took the Honda and went seeking the place, but somewhere along the way the number 160 Yen Do had got fixed in my mind, and I was not able to find that: of course I had the letter with me, but dinky-dau me, I didn’t have sense enough to look at it until I got back to the apartment, where, of course, I found the number was 105 Yen Do. This afternoon after lunch I tried telephoning, but Miss Green was out until 2 PM; hence about 2:30 I got a taxi and headed out again, this time to find that it is at the corner of Yen Do and Cong Ly, so I’ve passed it many times on the way out to CM0.

Miss Green turned out to be precisely the charming older lady that I’d expected, with a copy of “Suffer Little Children” on the bookshelf. The outfit seems to be the best organised of any I’ve found here yet: they’d received a copy of the letter from New York, and although she scolded that office for forgetting the “V number” (Tai’s ID) they had dug out his card and were actually more or less expecting me.

The faily lives in a portion of Cho Lon into which Americans are not presently allowed: she was not more specific, probably fearing I’d try to go there. They have positive news that the family did not suffer in the Tet offensive, but do not have information on the current drive.

All of the familys receiving assistance within a 60 mile radius of SGN come to the Yen Do office to pick up their moneys and visit the caseworker: someone from Tai’s family, if not Tai himself, is expected in on Wednesday 22 May, and I am to go there on that day and meet with whoever shows up: the caseworker will act as interpreter. I’ll take that day off (if indeed I am working again by that time); there isn’t time to get a letter back from you with any specific questions you want asked, so I’ll have to sort of play it by ear.

Miss Green was highly doubtful that the letter you say was written in January actually was, since she says they are generally running farther behind than that. She was also interested in my own “family” and what little I had done for them. Alas, she is not at all optimistic about the future, feeling that much more hardship and war will hit Saigon before it is over. That of course remains to be seen.

So there you have all the news I can get at this moment; I’ll write the evening of 22 May (be prepared for the possibility that no one will appear: what with curfews and limited movements in many parts of Cho Lon it is quite possible they won’t be able to keep the apointment, but much depends on what happens in the next few days), which will mean you should get some info around 29 May.

Saigon HAS been quiet all day so far: not a sound I’ve heard even in the distance, which seems a little odd considering how noisy it’s been for the last week. I spoke to some chaps at noon who said the remaining lane of the Newport bridge was successfully tested at 60 tons this morning, so traffic should begin to move some, but it will be congested. There is an alternate route to LB through the “boonies”, but military escort is required to traverse it because of the dense jungle that surrounds it and the known presence of snipers. I’ll not try it, I think!

More tomorrow:

Letters arrived from home, and one was from my brother Rob, who worked for an aircraft company and was being sent to VN for some purpose he could not divulge. He mentioned having to get a lot of inoculations, just as I had done.

Long Binh Tuesday AM, 14th May 1968

Made it through to LB OK this morning; structural damage to the New Port bridge is not great and the section that dropped into the water can be replaced without too much difficulty.

Yesterday  remained quiet, all through the night as well; same parts of the curfewed areas are being opened up slightly. It would appear that the offensive is over for the time being.

Received letters from everybody this AM. Todd’s with his latest set of notepapers which are indeed lovely and ought to sell well; Dad’s with the welcome pictures of the family taken at Easter; and Rob’s letter telling among other things about his proposed trip to VietNam.

Todd’s letter included photocopies of the downtown area of SGN from the Nat’l Geographic article. I still haven’t gotten hold of a copy of that issue—it would have been faster if someone had bought one and mailed it over! The particular photo he sent does not show any part of where I have lived, and my present location is just off the picture at bottom right, as is the Rex BOQ. The area that I lived in before moving is in about the opposite direction from the view in the picture, as you all may be able to figure out from the enclosed maps.

Rob: How to contact me if you reach Saigon is a problem. I have seen a number of [Company] people around the Rex, and I’ll contact them and find out where the office is. I can put you up OK, though not in the most luxurious surroundings: if you’re on an expense account, the Caravelle is only a block away, but expensive. Numerous other less dear hotels in the area, though. You will, if you come into Saigon, arrive at Tan Son Nhut AB, and transportation into downtown is not difficult to arrange—if you go by taxi it costs 100 piasters (less than $1.00), and your destination would either be the [Company] office or my place. If the latter, tell the driver “Rex” or Nguyen-Hue / Le-Loi (Nyoon Way / Lay Loy) and he will drop you at the circle. The map below will direct you to my place. If I know the exact day you arrive, I’ll have Number 1 friend on hand to let you in, otherwise I might be at work unless you come Saturday afternoon or Sunday. On the other hand, if you let me know exact day, I can take a day off to be on hand, perhaps even meet you at TSN. I can be reached—with patience and luck—by telephone on any Military class A telephone, the number Long Binh 2268, but don’t rely on it! Cam Ranh Bay, is of course, a number of miles North, and with sufficient notice I might get travel orders to enable me to accompany you there for a few days, but it would take time. As for HK or elsewhere, I really don’t know, but I’II see what I can find out. Anyhow, sure would be swell if we can get together however briefly while you’re in country. As for the sore arm, well, toi rat tiek: now you know what I went through!

Will close this now and get it off to you all.

Love, as always~
Bruce

___________________

SAT 18 MAY 1968

Dear everyone~

Since I last wrote, and I can’t remember exactly when that was, things have quieted down quite a bit. Midweek there were some more rockets landing in Cho Lon at night, but otherwise little action around Saigon. Curfews are being relaxed somewhat, although it looks as though the 2100 to 0700 one will be with us for some time.

Emergency repairs are started already for the New Port Bridge. The major effect of that damage has only been to slow traffic to a crawl: most of the week it has taken nearly two hours to go out in the AM, but somewhat less coming back at night: but today, coming in at one PM, it took more than two hours!

Dad’s letter of 12 May, packed with clippings, arrived this week. Among other things, he mentions being puzzled still by the fact that the French Beaucoup comes out in Vietnamese as “Boo Coo”. Well, now, it doesn’t AWAYS sound like that—sometimes one hears it nearer to the French pronunciation. But transliterations usually get somewhat garbled in the process anyhow.

The Vietnamese alphabet is composed of 12 Vowels, 17 Consonants, and 9 Double Consonants; there are about 30-odd diphthongs, however, each having (to a Vietnamese!) distinct sounds: as if this were not enough to master, there are 5 diacritical marks which further alter the pitch (for the most part) of a spoken sound! Through this latter expedient, a single word can—and usually does—have an assortment of meanings depending on the accents. A simple word like Ba, for instance, has at least five distinctly different meanings (among others, it means three, old woman, and father)—not to mention contextual shades of meaning that also may appear!

We understand that on the eve of Senator Ribicoff’s investigation (recommended) of USAID, PA&E and RMK-BRJ, PA&E has been sold to some outfit I’ve never heard of called Gulf & Western Industries: they’re listed on NY Stock exchange at 50 or so, but I suspect that when the word gets out they bought PA&E it will drop to ten or so! They’ve bought themselves a peck of troubles, if it is true. What effect this will have on the employees, or on myself in particular, is hard to guess at this point, probably little: but it is increasingly clear that my tenure with the firm will never reach the anticipated 18 months, for I am completely useless to the organization—and trapped by Smythe in such a way I can’t transfer to some duty-post where I could at least do a day’s work for a day’s pay. Just where I’ll go, or when, or how remains to be seen, but one of these days. . .

In anticipation of a possible visit from Rob, I got my passport back from the Company and was surprised to find that in three month’s time they succeeded in getting my “Brown-Book” receipt, which means I am now legally in the country! A lot of people don’t ever get them, and I probably will never see the brown book itself, which is a work-permit and residence visa combined. But with what I have, I can get exit and re-entry visas with little difficulty, as long as I do it myself and don’t rely on PA&E to do it for me.

That about brings you up to date: the frequency of my letters varies inversely as the VC activity apparently, so when you don’t hear much you can assume things are status quo. I will write Wednesday nite after my meeting (if any) at Foster Parents Plan.

Love to all~
Bruce

As the letter above makes clear, I was pretty sure the lab was never going to be approved. There had been talk almost from the day I arrived at Long Binh that Dan Smythe would be transferred, but either no one could accept him, or (more likely) he was one of those who “knew where the bones were buried”, and was invulnerable to attack or transfer, no matter how much his staff hated him. I began formulating plans to escape this place, not because I did not enjoy it, but because I was a useless appendage to the US effort. With rockets landing frequently, Saigon at this time was a dangerous place to be, so if I was going to remain useless, I was going to go elsewhere!

Nevertheless, the possible visit from my brother was something to look forward to!

More letters to come!

NEXT

A WORD ABOUT FORMATTING

I am transcribing my letters from longhand, exactly as written. It seems I was enamored of the mdash in those days: I used it far too often! After a while, I was able to obtain a typewriter, and these letters I should be able to reduce using OCR. We shall see…

Bear in mind, while reading the next letters, that I had been in Vietnam all of 18 days, and was beginning to get my eyes open!

Thursday, 15 February 68

Dear everybody –

Two letters, both mailed on the 10th, arrived today from home. I think improvement in delivery will be observed when commercial flights into Saigon are resumed The only way in (except military) is still Air Vietnam from HK or Bangkok. Pan Am has flown in a few charters, but no scheduled flights yet. Apparently, mail is going out on a better schedule; this is bound to lead to confusion and crossing of letters en-route, but so it goes.

I am well, and by no means hungry. Except for my first experience with “Ho Chi Minh’s Revenge” (the local euphemism for “Montezuma’s Revenge” in Mexico)—probably brought on by food but possibly encouraged by Primaquine (malaria pills)—there is little news. Vietnamese curfews have been relaxed somewhat again, a good sign.

The clippings and articles are much appreciated and I’ve been passing them around. Oddly, I liked W. Lipman’s article concerning his contention that Johnson and Wilson have failed to observe the meanings in power-shifts in Asia. The LA Times article “perspective” has only one debatable issue—re the declaration of martial law, which they see as smashing the “constitutional facade” built after the Buddhist revolt. This is unfair, from the present vantage point—only time will tell whether or not the “facade” is restored along with the return to normalcy. A coordinated attack (by outside force) in any part of the US would almost certainly be met with the same response, as was, for example, Hawaii following Pearl Harbor.

There is really little to distinguish calling out the Nat’l Guard to cope with internal disorders, or declaring Martial Law in the case of external attacks. Such times require prompt decisions—even if they later turn out to be the wrong ones—and simply cannot wait for a debate by a National Assembly. Even in the recent [USS] Pueblo fiasco, the decision on retaliation or negotiation was made by one man, regardless of what sort of “constitutionality” or other terms it (later) becomes couched in . . .

And Peter Arnat, who probably sat out the attack in his suite at the Caravelle [Hotel in Saigon], speaks of “man-high mountains of garbage in front of the BOQs”—implying falsely that the garbage accumulated only there: and the “man” to whom he broadly refers must have been (like himself in all probability) prostrate with “Beer 33″. The Vietnamese men are, indeed, small in stature, but the least of them—vertical—stands well above any garbage piles I’ve seen (though he would doubtless be entirely lost in the piles in New York or Memphis. . .

For that matter, on a pound-for-pound basis, the stamina of the Vietnamese (whatever their political persuasion) has to be admired, for it far outstrips our own. A larger-than-average VN man, for instance weighs in at around 120 lbs. One sees commonly pedicabs (operated by one man) carrying whole families, not to mention articles of furniture, malfunctioning motor-bikes, large potted trees, and such manner of things—and all accomplished for wages that amount to less than a pittance. . .

The women, in general a bit smaller than the men, are, when under 30-35 years old, amazingly beautiful and congenitally feminine in intriguingly subtle ways. The national garb, called an Ao-Dai, (usually seen in slightly modernized version—i.e., without the closed, high-neck collar—introduced by Madame Nhu) adds marvelously to the effect. The women age very quickly—seemingly almost over night; one never see an aging woman, only young ones or old ones. Some of the old women have their own grace and charm, most notably in their calmness and wisdom. . .

Now, with american civilians here, it is another story altogether. I speak mostly of men, because there are very few american women here. All but a very few are here

Beer 33

primarily for the money; second for the women & booze—both of which are much more readily available than in the states; thirdly (in many cases) to get away from family or other obligations; and last and least, to work. PA&E’s management (I don’t doubt that other companies are the same) is composed of a boneyard of retired military people, few of whom have any apparent abilities beyond boozing and girl-chasing, at which they apparently excel. Earlier I mentioned the local beer—”33″ (Ba-moui-ba, usually pronounced incorrectly as “bammyba”). It’s facetiously referred to as “half formaldehyde and half embalming-fluid”. It’s not a great deal stronger (in alcohol) than US beer, but the only beer I ever tasted that was worse was English “Bitters”. For myself, I drank half a bottle-ful, sent the label home for a souvenir, and will never touch another one! Like anything else, one can acquire a taste for it—it’s not unusual to see some nut here put away a dozen bottles in an evening’s time—but why to bother with doing so is a great puzzle to me, bad as the stuff is! And hard liquor—US brands—without all the domestic taxes, are incredibly cheap, and hence sell extremely well. The VNese drink very little, if at all, and never drink 33!

I  sent home the wrapper from a packet of toilet paper. I wonder at the significance of the fact that it is one of the few items one see still labelled in French. . .

In fact, a gov’t decree forbids any signs in any language except Vietnamese. One sees a few—many of course on US reservations—but around Saigon proper, very few. About the only common one is “WASH CAR” along the Long Binh-Bien Hoa highway. The entire area is “off limits” to US civs & mil pers, which leads one to suspect—accurately—that the sign means something altogether else than what it says. . . (They also do wash cars, incidentally!)

It’s now 10:30 pm—ooops! 2230—and time for bed. I’m feeling better now. The distant booms of artillery to which one becomes rapidly accustomed here have begun, and can be expected to last throughout the night as usual.Tomorrow arrives earlier than one wishes. So – love to all – hope you’re well and not too worried about me: I plan to enjoy this experience, and so far have not for a single moment regretted coming over.

Love –
Bruce

That’s a modern bottle of Ba Moui Ba (which simply means “thirty-three” in Vietnamese), but the label is pretty much as it was in 1968. I’m told the beer has improved vastly: I certainly hope so!

So, how, after only 18 days in country, could I have discovered the sorts of things described in the letter above?  It turned out there were not a few people I came into contact with, PA&E folks and others, who were utterly disillusioned by the situation, and had no qualms about saying so: in these letters I am largely parroting them. Despite their misgivings, though, they were still in Vietnam! The reason for that, of course, was money. The eighteen-month rule for tax-free status almost guaranteed that guys who signed up for 18 months (as I did) would stay: they had nowhere else to go except home, which would negate their tax-free status.

Continuing:

Saturday, 17 February 68

Dear Folks~

Your note and clippings of Feb. 13 arrived today. Only four days, so I guess delivery is improving. The clippings are very interesting—most especially John Randolph’s one on Saigon as a “Sin City” ready for a knifing.

From what I’ve seen so far, I’m willing to bet that if the VC had not attacked, that article would never have been written. Yet everything he says of Saigon (and much more he didn’t say) is entirely true, VC notwithstanding.

It is clear to me that one of our biggest  mistakes in this “effort” has been to create the opportunity for the existence of companies like PA&E, RMK-BRJ,  and the various others who bring in the U.S. civilians. I cannot believe that any of the work we or others are doing could not be done through normal military channels just as effectively (if not more so), and at far less cost. The question boils down, of course, to the reasoning behind the existence of contractors to the military in a place such as this.

Certainly, the arrangement is not expedient, liaison between the military and the contractor’s employees gets to be a problem at times—frequently a bottleneck. The facilities constructed, operated or maintained by civilian firms are probably no better than the military could do for itself. There must be some other reason for the existence of our companies—and that reason is really very apparent here.

The U.S. civilian population here serves mainly as a channel for pumping money (US $) into the economy, in the mistaken belief that this will in some way benefit the Vietnamese. Americans being what they are, however, (cf. previous letter) the results aren’t as predicted (by economists, anyhow).

There are about 11,000 U.S. civilians here. They all have all the privileges of the military, can use most military recreation facilities and so forth. The only real distinguishing features between the civilians and military are 1) no uniform 2) higher pay 3) do not live in military quarters (some exceptions).

The single most prevalent local institution that figures into the economic situation is “the shack job”. Anything from 80.00 to 120.00 [dollars] a month buys the services of a mistress. There is nothing clandestine about it; the PA&E Asst to Chief of [redacted], who lives in this hotel, has his “wife” with him—a very charming Cambodian lady. While the “shack” is officially grounds for terminating, it is used only when they want to get rid of someone and can’t get anything else against him.

Now, one’s mistress is almost always not one’s maid. That’s a separate matter, though most maids only take care of one or two customers. They do all the laundry (for both), cleaning, bed-making, etc., for a monthly fee. So there’s another 50-75.00 per month going into the economy. Both the maid and the mistress, incidentally, pay VN income tax at a rate of about 40%. So does the hotel or apt-house owner; rents are running now 150-250.00 per month depending on location & conveniences.

There are other curiosities, though. For instance, it is commonplace for both military and civilians to get PX items to give their girl-friends and/or mistresses as gifts; this is perfectly legal. The most common items are cigarettes, beer and liquor. Now, the receiver rarely consumes these items, but sells them instead. (This is usually not taxable, because it is untraceable). Hence, a fellow who pays the equivalent of $1.00 or 2.00 for drinks in local bars is often paying for the very same liquor he bought for $1.00 or 2.00 for the whole bottle! The same for the other items mentioned.

Well—the whole business goes on and on. It’s all here. In effect, by allowing the expatriates to create here what they feel is some sort of utopia (more often euphoria!) there is created a channel for dumping thousands of dollars per day into the economy. The evidence of it is everywhere, but as I’ve previously mentioned even that which gets in by this route fails for the most part to filter down to the indigenous poor; and the inevitable inflation in this system really hurts them the most. One can really believe they will inherit the earth. . .

With great justification, many Vietnamese come to look on us as Santa Clauses. Every now and then a VC turns up (usually dead) who was employed by a U.S. company! Regardless of their political persuasion, every possible ruse to part U.S. civilians (& military) from their money or possessions is used, from outright thievery & trickery right on up. It’s become a high art—and great sport—here, the philosophy being, of course, that with everything to gain and nothing to lose, why not?

Well—why not, indeed? We set ourselves up to be taken, so we certainly can’t complain when we are. But on a different tack, is this really the way to win friends and influence people? Can it be safely said that these policies instill any degree of patriotism among the populace? Any degree of sympathy for “democratic processes”? Or for that matter, any degree of real freedom—the sort we espouse so strongly? I think not—and I think events in the past few weeks have shown it conclusively. If anything, the general populace tends to feel we failed to protect them, and/or that our presence here caused the assaults in the first place.

Another curiosity is the policy of non-aggression. South Vietnam has no guerillas in North Vietnam. It has, in fact, precious few troops anywhere near the DMZ. Holding that part of the country, and bombing near Hanoi is strictly our business. But down here, we never engage the enemy—we wait until he engages us. Today as we left Long Binh around 1 O’clock, we were massing a line of tanks along the LB perimeter; a hundred or so VC were actually visible setting up some positions a half-mile away from the road. Similarly, the road from Long Binh on out to Bien Hoa complex was “red” all day – i.e., closed to all but emergency traffic because of VC activity in the fields that were formerly jungle but now have been burned off, nearby. For a while, a bunch of them were out there digging a trench WITH A TRENCHING MACHINE (in broad daylight), and all we could do was watch. A single mortar well placed would have stopped it cold—but that is “aggressive”, so we have to wait and wait and wait—and when they open fire, we can go to work. I make no claim to be any kind of military strategist, but the situation just doesn’t make sense to me . . .

One reads in the States, incidentally, that the Black Market has been wiped out in Saigon. Of course, nothing could be farther from the truth. What has happened, fairly recently, is to close up the channels by which money made on the black market could be sent out of the country—obviously this goes counter to the plans of getting it into the country in the first place. But (discretely, of course!) one can play the black market all he wants as long as he spends it all here—all it does is stretch one’s dollars a little farther in terms of goods & services bought. Here again—though BM operations are grounds for termination, a rather high PA&E official told me himself where to get the best rates on converting “green” (U.S. $) into piastres. The official rate is $1=118$. The unofficial rate hovers around $1=170$ (transposition of the $ sign designates US Dollars or piastres [piastre = dong; piastre was a holdover from the French].

I’m happy to report the dispensary had just what I needed for the minor gastrointestinal disorder that kept me busy for a day or so. It’s one of the occupational hazards one encounters here.

Will do some looking for an apt., and may add to this tomorrow.

Sunday PM, 18 Feb

Last night was a bit noisy. The long-expected “third offensive” apparently was mounted, somewhat haphazardly it turns out. Tan Son Nhut was hit again, and a number of delta towns were struck by mortars, but no follow-up ground action ensued. Nevertheless, from 3 this AM on our sleep was frequently interrupted by very loud blasts from various directions.

Went down-town this AM—things are picking up, and a number of stores were open. Went out to the main PX in (Cho Lon) and picked up a few minor items needed—and found out where it is located. Looked at a couple of apts in the AM—not much good came of it though. Most of them were too far from the bus-line to be suitable. But I’m in no particular hurry—and with the raft of resignations from PA&E (and other companies) resulting from recent action, there ought to be some good places on the market soon. Napped in the afternoon—catching up on sleep lost (or at least interrupted) this early AM. Had a pleasant dinner with a congenial group here this PM, and am now about to turn in with the Asian ed’n Time & Newsweek—which should answer your questions re those periodicals in last letter.

How about a subscription to Scientific American for my B-day? That will solve the problems of checks going around the world several times—and it’s the one magazine I haven’t seen hide nor hair of since I got here.

So, another week begins –

Love to all–
Bruce

We’ve been reading a lot lately about the foul-ups by the civilian contractors in Iraq: we learned nothing whatsoever from the experience in Vietnam! I later worked in several other nations where, though there was no war, there were a lot of U. S. expats whose primary purpose was to feed money into the local economy at a low enough level that less of it could be skimmed by the government (as opposed to funneling it through the government directly, where almost none of it trickled down to people who needed it).

ANOTHER SIDE OF THE STORY

Many years later, I wrote one of my “feelthy storiez” that incorporated some of my experience in Vietnam. Here is the relevant excerpt (from Back to Heartbreak Motel):

“Seeing that diminutive jockey sent me back to Vietnam once again. Viets are small people, and I thought the boys were especially cute. In those days, the ubiquitous garb for youngsters up to puberty (and occasionally well beyond) was a pair of brief shorts, sometimes a tee-shirt, and clogs: rarely much else. For a leg man like myself, it was paradise!

“I had arrived there with a group of other “round-eyes” just before the famous Tet Offensive launched by the VC in 1968: while that raged, we were confined to a small fairly modern hotel away from the city center. I knew nothing about Vietnam, so latched on to an older man who was returning for his third tour of duty:  he knew the situation well, and explained that as long as we laid low, we were in little real danger. The VC were after much bigger fry. But, almost two weeks without sex was a problem for me, then in my prime, and the situation was made worse by one of the boys on the hotel staff, who got steadily sexier-looking as the duration of my sexual deprivation increased. It seemed to me the lad made more than the usual number of excuses to visit our room, and subtle glances convinced me his gaydar had registered me appropriately. With my mentor around most of the time, I could not approach the boy, but I resolved to do so as soon as the coast was clear.

“However, my first encounter with a local fellow occurred in the whore-house just a short distance from our hotel. Once we were able to move about,  C. A. introduced me to getting a “steam-job and a blow-bath”, as it was locally known. I discretely enquired if the house had a masseur: of course they did, yet another vestige of the french occupation, I suppose.

“My first encounter was a revelation: I had never had any kind of massage in my life, but the practice of bathing first (useful, given the hot climate) was particularly enjoyable for me. The masseur’s name was Hung: he was small, wiry and strong! Yet, his touch was gentle as he soaped me all over, then rinsed me with cool water. After drying me off, he put me on his table face-down and went to work. He really knew his stuff! I found his rubbing, pounding, and punching very relaxing. When he tapped me to turn over, he discretely placed a small towel over my private parts and went to work on the rest of me. Of course, when he got to my legs, particularly my thighs, the little towel rose up majestically; I’m sure he knew it would. His touch became lighter as he worked his hands up into my groin, played with my balls, and ran his fingers through my pubic hair. By this time, I had let my left arm drop over the side of the table so I could explore his bare legs, and as he began working with me under the towel, I slipped my hand into his shorts: he had a nice little boner, but my fingers had almost no pubic hair to run through. When Hung put one hand around my engorged prong, two weeks’ of  frustration—repeated visual stimulation by the young boys all around, but no contact—worked their magic! He jacked me with his right hand as he fondled my shriveled balls and whisked the towel away just as I  got off: my gawd, what a mess! I shot my wad over and over, flooding his delicate hand: he in turn came in my hand. It was glorious! After another wash, it was over.

“However, it was commercial: not very expensive, true, but done for profit, not for fun. I resolved to find some play-mates who might be as intrigued by me as I was with them. The boy, Nguyen, at the hotel was at the top of my list, but the place was so small and intimate I knew anything I might do with him would be known within minutes.

“As soon as things returned to normal after Tet, I sub-let an apartment near the city center. I engaged Nguyen to help me move a few sticks of furniture into the place, at the conclusion of which he seemed loathe to depart. The massive bed captured his imagination, and he had long since captured mine. Seated close, I stroked his glabrous thighs, which was all he needed to begin stroking my somewhat hairy arms. His hard-on pushed at his shorts, and within minutes we were both stripped bare and pawing madly at each other. He seemed as taken with my body-hair as I was with his lack of it, and he was not at all bashful about sucking my dick, as soon as I had tasted his. He had a small prick, but in perfect proportion to his size; on his pubes there was not much more than the suggestion of a bush, and there was not a trace of fat anywhere. When he came, I thought I might drown: he seemed able to shoot forever, though he eventually calmed down.

“For the remainder of my tour in Vietnam, Nguyen dropped in several times a week; we carried on the same way every time, but neither seemed to get tired of it. I became hooked on the Asian somatotype, and remain so to this day.”

This is a snapshot of the masseur mentioned in the excerpt above

Nguyen was younger, and much better looking!

That’s all for this page: the saga will continue as time permits.

NEXT

May 29, 2009

NUCLEAR NON-PROLIFERATION

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

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

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I resolved to be more careful.

FATEFUL MEETING

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

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

THE STORM

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, indeed!

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

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

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

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HUA HIN TO CHUMPHON

The arrow indicates Chumphon

Wednesday, 9 October 1968

Following an early breakfast (there is one restaurant in Hua Hin that specializes—if you can call it that—in European food) I got on the road about 7:30. The day was spectacular—but of course in the tropics a beautiful day can degenerate quickly into a dreadful one; even the smallest cloud can suddenly drop prodigious quantities of water, and if one happens to be in the way, one gets wet. Today however it rained only once, & I had no more stopped & put on my rain coat than I drove out of it & had to stop again and shed. Had I known, I wouldn’t have bothered with the coat at all. From Hua Hin the road moves inland, through a series of large fertile valleys. Pineapples, bananas & coconuts appear to be the principal crops. The road has some ups and downs, but not much, as the hills are all low, but craggy and very pretty.

Driving along, I noticed a hill with a radio transmitting tower on top. As the road up there was not gated, I drove up for a wonderful view. The composite view above gives a good idea of how the lush Thai countryside looked. Another view is below:

View from Radio Tower Hill

Somewhere in South Thailand

There being little to delay me (except one very large lizard—nearly two feet long—that was crossing the road, and which I coasted quite close to before it saw me and disappeared into the bushes) I made unusually good time, arriving at Chumphon just before 1 PM!! Now, Chumphon is a division-point on the RSR [Royal Siam Railroad], so most of my afternoon was spent in the rail yards—and much of this evening as well. I shot up most of a roll of film, losing (for sure) only one or two, I hope, when the camera jammed a bit. It rained around 4, so I took the opportunity to wash up and take the camera apart. These Kodak gadgets are as much glued together as held any other way; although I began the trip with a tube of glue, it long since sprang a leak & had to be discarded. So I had to scout around here and find some glue, which I managed alright, and the camera is now back together, its critical part cleaned of dirt & lubricated.

NOTE TO READERS: Like any other railroad division point, Chumphon was a busy place. The station and yards were then out of town a ways, up a gently sloping divided road. In the median-strip there were several preserved locomotives on permanent display: their running-lights were wired for electricity and lit up at night. It was a lovely scene, but wouldn’t you know: the two photos I took were ruined when the camera jammed. I doubt if there is any trace of those locomotives left now.

Locomotives in the woodpile at Chumphon

Locomotive 375 being fueled at Chumphon

Strange things happen to luggage on a motorbike. Everything packs down into remarkably little space in the course of a day, but once disturbed it can’t be put back again. Pills disintegrate unless packed very tightly with cotton. Some toilet-paper I used to pad my shaving gear in its little plastic box is now a mass of shredded paper. Plastic bottles can chafe on something & wear right through, and tooth-paste tubes will do the same. It can all get pretty messy!

Already a change in plans is contemplated, I can no longer resist and if all goes well, I shall take the 7 am train to Phunphin, hopefully returning the same day. Phunphin is a town I do not otherwise expect to reach, but of course that is not the real reason for going there! Since I don’t want to miss what looks like a lovely (perhaps wet, but lovely) mountainous crossing to Ranong  by moto, the train trip will be a round-trip side-trip. We’ll see how it goes. Unless I get to bed soon, I’ll never wake up in time, so…

More tomorrow,

Bruce

NOTE TO READERS: I am having some problems with the software, so will break this post now and continue on the next page. Please bear with me: I’m not much of a computer whiz at all. By the way: the big lizard was a harmless Monitor Lizard, and the only one I saw!

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My letter of September 27th, 1968 continued:

Since the border is officially closed, there isn’t much for the customs people there to do, & they had to spend nearly 1/2 hr looking for the tax stamps (about 3¢US) required on the paper-work for the motor! But, at length, I proceeded. From Aranya Pradet to the intersection with Hiway 33, there is no pavement, & what with recent rains, the road was pretty bad in spots—slippery and muddy. When I got to pavement (about 60 km) the machine was covered with red laterite mud; but I ran into another storm almost at once which washed the worst of that off very quickly. I sat this one [storm] out [in a bus shelter] with a family whose son spoke  fair English, & so passed a pleasant half hour or so. Pressing on, dodging a couple more storms, I reached Chachoengsao just at dusk, and checked into a brand-new hotel, where I had a very comfortable room for US$1.75. Not much edible food, though (had a bowl of Chok, the Thai version of Chinese Soup; it has every imaginable [& some unimaginable] thing in it) but it is not bad. The next AM Ieft about 7:30 & was just nicely under way, with nice warm sun & cool breeze, when I had the first flat tire of the trip. The stem pulled out of the “chambre d’air”—inner tube—and it went flat instantly. That took about 3/4 hr to fix by the road-side (I had a spare tube), & I then proceeded as before.

First Flat Tire

BACKSTORY: Chachoengsao was a very frontier-ish sort of place. I met up with a group of pretty rough-looking guys who wanted me to take them to a movie: having nothing else to do, I did. The “theater” was a tent with some old wooden bleachers; the projector was an old 16mm, and the movie was an ancient US “western”. The boys—six of them with me—obligingly sat up on the rear-most seat, where it quickly became apparent some of them at least were horny: lots of clutching at their own crotches, a universal signal! With some trepidation I groped the boy nearest to me and found him hard. One thing led to another, as the old saying goes: in the end, we all jacked off together and left quite a mess behind. They all wanted to come to my hotel, but this I felt unwise, so when the movie was over I sent them on their way. It was cheap fun: the cost for the seven of us to watch the movie was less than a dollar!

The Thai’s drive on the left—which is a bit harrowing in itself, as I’m unfamiliar with that approach of course. They also drive like madmen, just as the Cambodians, but of course traffic is much heavier. One reaches the outskirts of Bangkok about 40 km out, and from there on traffic gets very heavy. I arrived about noon, wandered around till I found a reasonable hotel, took a nice lunch & flaked out for the afternoon!

I’ve decided to proceed to Singapore. This will take me down the Kra Isthmus, along the west coast of Malaysia, through Penang to Kuala Lumpur & eventually to Singapore. Depending on how my money lasts, I might go from there to Darwin, Australia, & by train from there to Melbourne (friends there, C&E people), but that is speculation. Accordingly, I put the Honda into the Agency Shop today for a check-up & engine overhaul: it has 7000 miles that I know of on it, maybe more, and this is the first place I’ve hit with a Honda-accredited repair team. Although the machine has run well, I want it to be in first-class shape for the next leg of the journey: it is 1000 miles, just to the Thai border, almost as far as Kuala Lumpur, and about half that to S-pore! So I shall have a week or two here in BK—about all I want, I think—it has all the modern conveniences, and all the modern ills, such as smog!

BACKSTORY: When I departed VN, my vague plan was to go north from Bangkok, across Burma, and across India. My brother, Todd, had done this ten years earlier, traveling by air and train, and had found Burma particularly agreeable. However, ten years later, Burma was (then as now) firmly closed. Southward lay Singapore…

Am having photos developed & printed; they should be ready (if the camera worked) to enclose with this letter in a few days.

BK has marvelous old (French) street-cars! Not many, but they must constitute some of the oldest rolling-stock in the world apart from the cable-cars in San Francisco!!

More later,

Bruce

BACKSTORY: Fond of streetcars anywhere, I rode the old cars in BK several times. The tracks ran along the sides of the streets, a few feet from the edge of the sidewalk: people parked their cars right on the tracks, which brought the old trams to a halt with much clanging and shouting. We often had to wait for some time before parked cars were moved. It was apparent these trams served only a few folks and were utterly out-of-place in Bangkok, trying its best to modernize. Little did I know!

The letter was continued on the 29th:

Why-why-why? do tourists insist on traveling with little children? I’ve met a number of travelers  poking around with under-2 year-olds with them. Not to mention the expense, there is an awful burden on themselves and others, and all it does for the child is to enable him to say in the future, “I was in wherever when I was a year and a half old and I don’t remember anything about it.”

I watched, fascinated sort of by the contrast, as a Dutch couple eating in a nearby restaurant spent all their attention on their little boy, harnessed into a chair; special food, heated in the kitchen just for them, special spoon, etc., etc., etc. (And mama & papa had to order for themselves something not on the menu).  Two tables away was a Thai family, with a littler little boy, who sat unassisted & fed himself from portions of the same food his parents were eating. No fuss.

Children grow up rapidly in the orient and they learn much more in the process—at least as much about living—than american children. Parents start their children walking as soon as they are weaned or before; toilet training the same time: I can’t see that either hurts the kids any. It is frequently astonishing to see the things small children do here—even hard work—without complaint.

Caught a small cold (air-conditioning territory again!) so have been rather sluggish. Besides, the Moto being in the shop means walking, which is OK except that BK is a big place. Took in Dusit Zoo (nearby) today; quite a good zoo, & very popular (on Sunday) place to go. Tomorrow I have to go to the airport, pick up and re-pack my bag there are and ship it on—I think now I’ll just send it on to Robb, since I can’t imagine having any use for the stuff in it for quite a while.

BACKSTORY: There really was a time when one could pack a suitcase and send it anywhere in the world as “unaccompanied baggage”. This was very handy, and you could arrange to have your baggage at your destination even before you got there! In my case, I had sent a bag from Vietnam to Bangkok, thinking at the time I might settle in, or get work in, Bangkok. I quickly decided this was not to be, so shipped the bag on home via by Brother, Robb. Getting the bag out of customs at the airport involved a little money under the table, of course, but I had become so used to this in VN that I thought nothing of it.

Bangkok is expensive. I want to take one of the bus tours in the next day or two, & then press on fairly soon. One sees in Bangkok a preview of what Saigon will be like ten years from now, and frankly it isn’t all that pretty. Grinding poverty in the very shadow of splendor; gawdawful traffic, & smog at times; very little of Thai culture—and much of the bastardized american-thai substitute.

The Thais do have what must be the most lavishly decorated trucks and busses, though. Most start life as a Mercedes or Toyota 1½ or 2½ T chassis. The bodies (except cab) seem to be built locally, mostly out of wood, all carefully finished and polished. The whole is decorated with vast amounts of chrome trim, with hammered designs, and (fake) rivet-heads running in rows everywhere; also popular are painted scenes in little chrome frames tacked on here and there. To all this is added rows of colored lights all over the place, so at night it all looks like a moving giant Xmas tree. (And I do mean Xmas!)

Curiously, one’s surroundings change quickly after crossing into Thailand. Of course, this is emphasized by the border being closed, hence the Thai and Khmer cultures do not mix. Thai homes are built of wood, on or very near, the ground & not raised up 10-12 feet as are Khmer homes. Bangkok is largely built of wood, & there are large fires at times (I see the remains of one in some shops just down the street from this hotel). One leaves French behind quite rapidly, too, at the border; not nearly as many people speak English as the booklets say, though. Street signs are frequently nonexistent &  it is a hard city to get around in. The layout is odd, & compounded by one-way streets, traffic-circles & such. Driving on the left still seems odd—I suppose it will for quite a while—but I’ll have that from here on, so I’d better catch on. Making a right turn against oncoming traffic becomes precisely the problem that making a left is in the states.

Enclosed photos better than I’d expected!

Much love to all,

Bruce

Buddhist Temple, 1968

Buddhist temples like this are everywhere in Thailand. This was one of the first I encountered, so I snapped a photo because the weather was fine. Of Bangkok itself, I got no pictures: the reason will become apparent in future letters.

Stay tuned!

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

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

I got aboard and found the steam engine intact!

There was time for a few photos in Aswan:

That’s the Oberoi-Aswan across the Nile

More modern accommodations were available on the Nile

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

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

Still operational, this was our “motive power”

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

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

Wadi Halfa, here we come!

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

Looks modern enough in this view

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

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

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

On the banks of the White Nile, the Grand Hotel

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

Just above the confluence with the Blue Nile

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

The Mahdi’s Tomb in Omdurman

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

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

I doubt they still use these colorful bills!

Ten Sudanese Pounds

Five Sudanese Pounds

One Sudanese Pound

Fifty Sudanese Piastres

Twenty-five Sudanese Piastres

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

Bench-scale treatment plant for Cairo’s wastewater

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

My staff on the wastewater study

There were a few remaining sight-seeing trips:

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

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

Waiting for food after a long day’s drive

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

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