M Y O B

March 6, 2009

BEFORE I BEGIN THIS EPISODE

Even I was out of my seat several times as President Obama spoke to Congress–and to us–last week. It is so very refreshing to hear someone who can put thoughts into words and words into sentences! Listening (which I admit I was rarely able to do) to Ex-President Bush the last eight years was painful! Watching him I simply could not manage.

The republican response from Bobby Jindal was excruciating. Choosing him, presumably because his background vaguely resembles Mr. Obama’s, was tacky: that Bobby felt obliged to capitalize on it was even tackier. That his speech had been prepared without having heard the President is inexcusable. If Bobby Jindal is the best the repugnants can put forth to articulate their message, there’s little to fear from them. As usual, Rachel Madow summed it up best here.  To top it off, now we find he lied!  Sheeesh!

ONE MORE THING:

The router for my LAN gave up the ghost last weekend, necessitating purchase and installation of a new one. I have to say this for LinkSys: they’ve finally gotten their gadgets together with their installation disc and made the configuration far easier than it used to be. I actually managed to get the new router up and working without calling the Geek Squad or other assistants. Of course, there’s a down-side to that: some of those Geeks are really, really cute! But, on with my narrative.

SAN JOSE STATE

Although the summer job I took was located in Santa Clara, I elected to live in San Jose, not far from the State College campus. I had been so uncomfortable at UR, with all its rich kids, that I quickly decided SJS was a better fit for me. Additionally, it became apparent I could work part time at my new job and attend SJS in the fall. The job was far from onerous, in a small shop that specialized in repairing furniture and other “stuff” that had been damaged in transit. The boss had  contracts with several trucking companies and railroads, so a never-ending stream of broken, crushed and battered items came in. What could be repaired satisfactorily usually went to the customer who had ordered it. Some items were beyond repair (we were the deciders) and went to the dump. Some items that could be repaired but which the customers did not want went to various outlets. The work was varied and sometimes challenging and it fit well with the “fixit” mentality I had developed early on, which went back to my days in Carmichael and which found their way into Heartbreak Motel, one of my stories available at Nifty.

Come fall, I enrolled it SJS (now SJU) and discovered they had something called a “General Major” which led to a BA in “General Studies” (I think the program has long since been abandoned). Essentially, I could take courses in any department I wanted! I went back to Chemistry (my first love), but filled out the days with all sorts of other subjects: law, religion, music, physics, social studies, philosophy: I read the catalogue, and if a subject looked interesting I enrolled! It was a very interesting year-and-a-half: the extra semester was necessary to amass the necessary units and to pass, finally, the American History course I’d blown back in Junior College.

CONFUSION SETS IN

Soon after I entered San Jose State, Dad got married for the third and last time. My new stepmother and I did not get along all that well, but it was clear she loved my Dad and he loved her likewise: seeing him happy at last, I began to feel the usual family pressure to marry and settle down, despite my near-certainty a different life-style was preferable. So I began seeing the only girl who had ever paid much attention to me way back in High School: we had gone on a few trips with the Horseless Carriage Club together back when I was “into” old cars. No sooner than we got together on a couple of dates did I decide to propose marriage! I’ve really never figured out why I did this. I had absolutely NO interest in her physically: in fact, her body was quite repulsive to me when I saw more of it than I cared to when we went swimming.

Unfortunately, not long after this “affair” began, I recalled some of the descriptions of cruising I’d heard from my friend back at Redlands. One Saturday night I went to a local theater and sat in the very back row of the nearly empty place. A chap came in and sat right next to me and began a game of “kneesies”. When he departed, I followed him to the john, but invited him to follow me back to my little room. He was somewhat older than I, and no beauty, but it was he who first shoved a cock in my mouth: right there and then I knew I was born to be a cocksucker! I knew instinctively this was the kind of sexual activity I wanted, as often as possible!

My poor betrothed! She no longer had a chance! I maintained the charade for a while. Driving to visit her in Hayward, I would pick up hitch-hikers in the hope one would proposition me: none did. It slowly dawned on me that if I was ever going to have any guy-sex, I would have to initiate the action. It would be a while before I got comfortable with that idea.

Meanwhile, after about 6 months of living the lie, I called off our engagement. Darley was devastated, saying my being queer would not make any difference, and so forth and so on. But I was NOT going to put her through all that, so we parted, never to see each other again. When I announced to my folks what I’d done, my  new Stepmother’s reaction was, “Oh, thank goodness: for a while there, I thought you were really going through with it!”  She knew far more than she let on, but I continued to dissemble to my family out of worry they could not handle my being queer. In reality it was I who was having the trouble dealing with my sexuality.

MORGAN

During my first Semester at SJS, I met Morgan, a musician, and one of the most beautiful guys I ever met. He was a preacher’s son, and we got along famously, except for one thing: I wanted to get into his pants in the worst way, but was afraid of rejection, so I never could bring myself try it. We took some trips into the hills and did some camping together, but the subject of sex never came up, dammit! At the end of that year, he went off to Juilliard. We corresponded, and his letters came back filled with “hairpins”! It seems he had had the hots for me, but could never bring himself to say so. Bummer! However, when summer vacation time rolled around, he returned to San Francisco, stayed with his parents, and took a temporary job in a local church while their regular organist was on vacation.

After a joyous meeting at my place, where “all was revealed”, we fell into a routine where I would drive up to San Francisco in time to appear at the door of the church as if I had attended the service. When Morgan’s Postlude was finished, we would repair to a twinkie-bar for a couple of drinks (the speciality of the house was a “Thunder Collins”: Thunderbird wine watered with Collins-mix. Just the thought of it now makes me gag!) Then we would return to the church: the sunday-school room had a carpet on the floor, and we would have an afternoon of wild sex! Fortunately, no one ever came back for something they forgot: we were never interrupted.

But at the end of that summer, Morgan went back to Juilliard, and eventually settled in Chicago. I rarely ever saw him again. Our “relationship” had been entirely one of wild, crazy sex: there had been no thought of love, permanence, or anything except getting together and getting off!

To be continued: Finally, I come out!

[email protected]

NEXT

Here is the last letter I wrote from Vietnam before departing. I was disillusioned, annoyed for having wasted nearly eight months with nothing to show for it. I was also itching to get on my way to Cambodia, where (at the time) peace prevailed.

Friday, 30 August 1968

Dear everyone~

After the last letter I wrote, I don’t think any of you will be surprised to learn that I finally resigned from PA&E. I just can’t face 11 months of wasting my time and the government’s money, no matter how much of the latter they might pay me. The lab program is a dead horse no matter how one views it, and any attempts to revive it (within the framework of PA&E) is an exercise in futility. The company is falling apart. More adverse publicity at home. A group of disgruntled former employees who went out in the course of the Qui Nhon debacle have formed a consortium of sorts to bring a lot of pressure from back home, as well as suits. There’s much talk of a stop-work injunction being sought. The whole affair stinks, and I’ve had all I can stand of it.

The deed is done, and plans are well along for the trip to Bangkok. The paperwork involved in getting out of VN is worse than that required to get in. Supposedly I will get my exit visa on Wednesday, and my ticket to Phnom Penh; I should get my Cambodian Visa on Thursday, and I’m booked to leave the same day on the 4 PM flite. This is cutting it pretty thin, but there is another flite Friday (no more ’till Teusday ff.) that I maybe can take if some hitch occurs on the Thursday one. Airlifting the bike is costing more than airlifting me—naturally, as it weighs more than I do. But the entire fare is less than 65 bucks for both of us, and the approx. 20 kilos of luggage I’m taking along. Am sending one large suitcase unaccompanied, as I think I mentioned before: that will cost about 12 bucks.

What with the transfer, my word to the post office a month ago, and other difficulties (not the least of which is that the PA&E mail room can’t seem to understand the difference between EMD and ECMD), I got a big wad of mail yesterday: a card from the folks in Canada, two letters from Todd (both written prior to one other later one that came straight through), the family letter from the southern branch, and two letters from Willie in Qui Nhon, the chap I roomed with through the Tet days in Jan & early February. I rather think there may be more letters from the folks wandering around somewhere.

I picked up a used Instamatic camera cheap. Just my sort of thing, no adjustments of any kind. A go/ no-go type light meter built in. Nothing fancy, but ought to provide some record of the trip. I have a tentative arrangement with a motorcycle enthusiast’s magazine in the states to publish an article on my trip, so you may eventually be able to “read all about it!” Of course they want some photos, too. Their most recent report of this sort was by a man & his wife who took a BMW with sidecar(!) from Brighton, England to Sydney, Australia. (Part of the way was by boat…)

The enclosed photos (please circulate) were taken this morning: I lashed on all my gear just to see how it looks and how the bike rides with it in place. I can’t even feel it there, and there is no effect on the handling. It takes me only a few minutes to drop it all off, buckle the saddlebags together and flop them over the grip, giving me a neat single-handle package to carry into hotels, etc. Fortunately, I learned the art (and the value!) of traveling light while in Europe. Better than half the weight of what I am taking is in tools, spare items, tire patching kit, etc. Having had the engine overhauled, I don’t expect much difficulty. but I’m ready for it. Oriental craftsmen, though hopelessly slow by our standards, are resourceful, and they can—and frequently do—manufacture parts that are not otherwise available. There are many pre-WWII motorcycles still in regularly use here, machines that parts are hard to find for even in Europe now I would guess. It is a paradise for seekers after vintage machines, though generally owners are reluctant to part with their venerable machines. Can’t say that I blame them—I’ve seen a number of large old bikes that I would enjoy having in my stable if I were permanently located somewhere.

But my Honda should take me nicely along to BK. It is light a enuf machine that it does not have to be “herded”, and so is not so fatiguing on the long runs, but is still heavy enuf to take me and my luggage without strain. I’m still running in the new parts, so the first 500 miles will be at under 40 mph, though 50 is altogether fast enuf under any circumstances for a conservative motorcyclist like myself. Needless to say, there is NO place where one can go that fast—or anywhere near it— in Saigon: if it were possible to get out into the VN countryside. though, it could be done.  There, the faster the better, because a fast target is harder to hit!

I have to spend many hours searching for trinkets to send along home. As I am sure Robb  can attest, there is really nothing available here though that is worth the cost or trouble. The little native art available is usually quite bulky, and nearly all the small stuff is either made in HK or Japan. In Cambodia, far away from this scene, the situation may well be different: I hope so!

This is the last of my letters to be routinely distributed: henceforth we will resort to the Xerox approach, through the good efforts of the folks. I am selling my typewriter, radio, linen, etc., to a friend tonite, and move to a hotel tomorrow AM in order to close down the apartment on the last day of the month. I believe you can send mail to me c/o American Express, Bangkok: but I would reserve that for essential items only, knowing that they are probably as disorganized there as in Europe. Better wait ’till I get there then send along whatever has come in one package (along with whatever has been returned from here).

Thus, if all goes well (and in the Orient one is never quite sure) the next communique should be from Phnom Penh!

The Demo[cratic Convention] debacle is all over, and the outcome was quite as predicted. Odd that both candidates chose running-mates that no one had ever HEARD of before. McCarthy’s failure, also quite predictable, is going to have repercussions long after the fact though. Given the current choice, and barring additional assassinations, I think I shall sit hi one out.

It is particularly unfortunate that the elections and associated falderal have overlooked the really best alternative here in VN. There might have been a time when I would have argued that communism is less of a threat than we seem to think, and that recent indications are that “varieties” of communism are cropping up, tending to reduce the world-domination threat. Czechoslovakia pretty well proves that this is naive (and it certainly shot McCarthy down in flames!).

The alternatives presented by the two parties seem to be: Dem’s will continue Pres J’s policies without substantial change, pressing for negotiations to solve the problems here. The Republicans are couching the SAME approach in slightly different terms, so there is really no alternative at all. McCarthy and followers, at the opposite extreme, advocate the pull-out and coalition bit. It is sad that (largely out of ignorance, I think) so few people see that there IS another alternative. Not a very pretty one, perhaps, but one that seems increasingly necessary in the light of current events.

The achilles heel of our VN policy since early in JFK’s career had been our policy of gradualism; a more misguided policy I cannot imagine. General Taylor (who seems to have been the author of it, and who sold first Kennedy then Johnson on its “merits”) ought to be hung for treason and a whole lot of other things. I don’t see how anyone can dispute the obvious fact that the ONLY deterrent that communism understands as such is superior FORCE—force that is ready at all times, and that is known to be in a position where any overt action will be met with an overwhelmingly superior reaction. The absurdity of the VN war has been that 30 billion bucks annually has not produced this force, because gradualism dictates that any enemy action is only MET, not STOPPED. Had this been our policy when we entered WWII, Hitler would probably now be Führer of america and much, much more. Because we dilute and twitter away our strength waiting for the enemy to engage us (at his whim and when he feels ready), our costs soar, the local economy bogs down, corruption flourishes, and all the other ills that have popped out of Gen Taylor’s Pandora’s Box labelled “Gradualism” bloom across the land.

I do not see ANY of the major (or minor) parties this year as understanding this point at all, and none of them have stepped forth with the only plan that can really end this thing. We do not have to escalate at all: we need only re-deploy (and effectively utilize) what is already here. It should begin in Paris with a clear ultimatum to Hanoi: withdraw at once from South VN and the demilitarized zone, or face massive, coordinated drives to eliminate them. And in Saigon, we must inform Pres. Thieu that from here on out, it is play for keeps, and if some South Vietnamese happen to get in our way, it’s too bad: the picnic is over. Either play it our way (having invited us in in the first place) or GO IT ALONE. But the crux lies in our repudiating the policy of gradualism: we MUST assert ourselves—and quickly—or go down in History ignominiously as a nation of masochists who bent over and BEGGED both the South and the North to “sock it to us”. There is ABSOLUTELY NO REASON why 30 billion dollars should not have ended this war a long time ago, except that it has been so miserably mis-spent. Unless we start spending it wisely, this will be a bottomless pit into which we will continue to pour billions—and lives—at an ever increasing (”gradually increasing”) rate: when at last our own economy breaks from the strain, communism will move in grinning, because it has gone all according to (their) plan.

If the foregoing diatribe sounds strong, it is mainly because I am not only appalled, I am ASHAMED by the way we have bungled this whole affair, and I would like as much as anyone else to see it ended. Both parties talk about ending the war “honorably”. But communism (understand that I use that word in a wide sense meaning present-day soviet-style communism) knows nothing—NOTHING— of “honor”, as we understand it. Berlin, Korea, Hungary, now Czechoslovakia, China, Yemen, all these countries and more show that honor is something that is meaningless to communism as it is presently constituted. Communism, once entrenched, has NEVER been successfully over-thrown. It will continue to expand just as fast as its economies allow—unless it encounters some obstacle: that obstacle will (can) only be a force (and economic strength to back it up) that is clearly superior, and which is KNOWN to be ready and willing to defend itself “offensively”. It worked in Cuba: that was before “gradualism” came to the fore.

The defense of gradualism really boils down to the question of nuclear weapons. The possession of, and WILLINGNESS TO USE, IF NECESSARY an arsenal of deployed nuclear weapons really obviates a large ground force. Gradualism is a way to keep the necessity for a ground force alive (thus perpetuating handsomely the “military-industrial complex” that Mr. Eisenhower spoke of). We should stand up now and say, Hell Yes we will use nuclear weapons (again)—if we feel it necessary. Just to prove the point we ought to set off a small-yield one right here in VN, in the remotest area we can. The second one could be right on Hanoi—except I feel certain there would be no need for it. I don’t think for the moment the communists are “chicken”—they’re just smart, and if they actually thought (better, knew for sure) that if they fooled with us we would wipe them out, they would pull in their horns and be quite happy with what they have now.

You will say I advocate escalation of the cold war. Precisely. A cold war does not kill people. A hot one (even if it is not a “declared” war, even if it is a “limited” war, or whatever euphemism one may choose) does kill people. IF we are so firmly committed to saving of human lives (as is so oft said) then we MUST embrace the cold-war approach. Certainly it is dangerous. Are we possibly afraid that we are not smart enough to take on the soviets verbally? Teddy was right: speak softly and carry a big stick—AND be ready and willing to use it. Bullies will invariably bow to this situation—it is human nature NOT to risk your neck if you KNOW you can’t win!

Well! Enough of that! I hope you are all well.

Later:

Folks:

There is not much to add, actually. We’ll be out of touch for a while, sort of: in fact I don’t really advocate writing until I reach BK. The Cambodian visa is good for only 3 weeks, but I imagine I will use it up. Plan to spend several days just lolligagging on the beach at Sihanoukville, trying to unwind from this altogether unhappy affair here. Then will spend most of the rest of my time in & around Siem Reap, near Angor, poking around among ruins, etc.

Pls circulate the enclosed photos. Keep track of Xerox charges, though I probably won’t be sending more than three or four letters from Cambodge. Will get a typewritier again as soon as I reach BK in order to prepare the MS for the magazine.

Love to all~
Bruce

_____________________

Can you tell I was “fed up”?

As for Sihanoukville, it was rainy and cold! But that’s far ahead. I have to get out of Vietnam, first. That tale is coming up soon.

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

The red arrow points to Tonga

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

I love to watch kids frolicking in water

The guy in the white shirt ignores the kids

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

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

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

Nuku’Alofa, Tonga
13 December 1968

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

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

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

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

Luv to all~

Bruce

The plane which delivered us to Tonga

Home of the King & Queen of Tonga

There really wasn’t much to Nuku’Alofa

A long-wharf at Tonga

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

Rather staid currency from Tonga

The backsides were more colorful

I was unable to find any crisp clean ones!

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

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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Several weeks have passed since I put up the last page dealing with what I found in the old shops at Durán. This page takes up where the last left off, still in 1993.

Using my collection of prints taken in 1979, I bribed the guard at the gate of the new shops. These photos were taken there.

It seemed the battery was still dead on Railbus Number 96: here, it is being given a tow-job by Alsthom  Diesel number 2407. That’s the Guayas river just beyond the end of rail: this is where all new equipment is landed from barges to get rolling-stock onto rails of the G&Q (ENFE).

Railbus 96 is looking a bit forlorn here, and clearly was not in the best of shape. Nevertheless, it departed later on fully loaded, headed uphill to Bucay (and presumably, beyond).

Inside the new shops, this juxtaposition of old and new caught my eye. Number 11 was preserved in grease, and Alsthom 2403, roughly a hundred years newer, sat over pits next to it.

A close look at the motion of Number 11. All the bright-work was slathered in heavy grease to protect it from rust.

The other side of Number 11, carefully painted then preserved. Presumably by this time its use was reserved for charters and special occasions.

A better look at Number 11. Number 17, also preserved, is parked ahead of it.

Number 17 was also there, carefully preserved.

Another look at Number 17.

Nicely painted, Number 17 also awaits charters and special occasions.

These small Atlantics were beautiful engines!

Number 18, from the Sibambe-Cuenca Branch was undergoing major repairs.

It is possible this engine was being cannibalized, but I rather got the impression it was being rebuilt.

The smoke-box of Number 18.

Builder’s Plate for Number 18.

I found it interesting that they used wood for lagging! I guess it worked.

Engine Number 7 was also present, and appeared to be in working order. It was not preserved. It had been the yard engine in 1979, and perhaps is still was.

Engine 7 had clearly been rebuilt after I saw it in 1979.

The New Shops at Durán are in the background: in the foreground is a trailer with the remains of a locomotive, apparently on its way to a scrap yard and melt-down.

I could get no clue as to what engine this had once been.

Scattered around Durán were remains of other engines; this was the hulk of Number 55.

Number 55 rusting away. One wonders whether the missing chunk of its front tube-sheet was taken out for use elsewhere, or blew out (which would have been quite an event!) It appears to have been neatly cut.

Another of the several hulks rotting away. This gives an good idea of the complexity of a boiler, though, showing many of the stays that hold it all together.Weeds overtaking another rust-bucket.

Yet another. My guess is these are all gone by now, as they were hauling one away when I was there.

There’s really not a whole lot left of this one!

This is the running-gear of one of the new Alsthom Diesels, which appeared to be brand-new.

Railbus 94, which I rode in 1979 was still looking good!

This heap of links was in a corner of the new shops. It is hard to determine how many locomotives are represented here!

The only person I saw in the few hours I spent in the new shops was this chap. shaping a chunk of metal for some purpose or other.

So, there you have it: all the photos from my trip to Ecuador in 1993. As mentioned previously, I came away dejected, feeling that steam was near the end of its life on the G&Q. From YouTube videos, I deduce that numbers 18 and 44 may still be running from time to time, although there is a video of 18 being trucked to Quito (perhaps for display only?)

In any case, the railroad seems to have been brought back to life, at least as a tourist attraction, which is a good thing. I recommend to anyone who loves railroads to get down to Ecuador and have a look and a ride: you won’t be disappointed.

And, for the time being, this ends my blog. Nothing much of consequence has taken place in my life since 1993, so until something consequential does happen, it’s good bye for now. I would greatly love to get updates on the G&Q (ENFE) from anyone who has been there recently: address me at [email protected] .

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THE PREVIOUS PAGE DESCRIBED MY LAST TRIP ON THE FFCC IN ECUADOR

The next day, I again rented a taxi and returned to Bucay. I didn’t really expect there to be much action, and indeed, there was none. Engine 53, which I had enjoyed the day before, was stone-cold, sitting next to No. 58, also looking a bit worse for wear.

Already cold after returning from Huigra the day before

There were three examples left of the Alco diesels I had ridden in 1979. These looked pretty battered, but might have been operational. None was running that day.

Not looking so very hot!

The other side of No. 161

There had been at least ten of these originally

Under the shed, perhaps still operable

This photo shows Diesel No. 167; next to it is a passenger car dating originally to the late 1800s, and beyond that is a new Alsthom Diesel in like-new condition. The photo encapsulates the history of the G&Q quite nicely.

These French diesel engines were brand new in 1993

Note that 2496 was named Eloy Alfaro, and marked ENFE

I’m not sure exactly when, but the railway system was renamed ENFE (Empressa Nacional de Ferrocarilles Ecuatorianos), essentially Ecuadorian National Railway Company. Steam was still marked G&Q or S&C as appropriate. The small speeder below looked new, or newly refurbished:

Just the thing for a quick trip up the Nariz del Diablo

Altogether, there was no action whatsoever around the shops, and no one bothered me as I poked around. It might have been a holiday. I got the photos below, but eventually had to return to Guayaquil by taxi.

Tired engines resting.

Number 58 looked like it was operational

Looking through the cab of 58 to 53

Outside there was a rail-bus being worked on

The markings are interesting: “Metropolitan Touring” suggests some sort of private company, but ENFE Ingaperca would indicate ENFE ownership. In any case, this one needs work!

Back at Guayaquil the next day, I talked my way into the Durán shops, old and new: these will be the subjects of future pages.

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Map of Sri Lanka

The red arrow points to Colombo

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

Faded elegance in the old portion

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

A lovely sight

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

The red arrow points to Jaffna

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

We departed for Jaffna

Our engine and crew

Slow going: no crossing guard

Our train hurtles through the countryside

Old rolling-stock seen along the way

Doesn’t look useful any more

Muddy waters!

The President’s special carriage?

A division point on the Railway

Inspecting a bridge for possible sabotage

We made it!

Temple and well near Jaffna

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

The red arrow points to Galle

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

I sample Coconut Milk

Well fitted with submersible pump

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

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

Getting reacquainted with my cats

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

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The arrow points to Djakarta (Jakarta)

26 November 1968

Today I took the little Yamaha motor-bike out by myself, taking in first Besakih, site of the largest Balinese temple, as usual a complex of three temples dedicated to Brahma, Siva & Visnu, respectively. I found the temple(s) disappointing, there being far less stone-work and embellishment than I’d expected. The site, though, is impressive, nestled at the base of Mt. Agung, a beautifully symmetrical bare peak, and the views inland and seaward are breathtaking. I then proceeded to Mt. Batur, the active volcano which last erupted here in a major way about 6 months ago, but which has been active for some years. The road across the island (very bad in places) proceeds resolutely but not steeply upwards, and one is aware of the climb mostly because of the necessity to go in third gear, and by the changes in scenery, which becomes quite sparse compared with the jungle which luxuriates the coastal plains. And all of an unexpected sudden, one comes right to the edge of the original crater of the volcano, & there in the middle of it is the now very large present-day Mt. Batur. The original eruption (eons ago) left a crater which is still quite intact and nearly 20 km across; about 1/3 is filled with water now. The new mountain rises neatly in the depression (the floor of the old crater is now several hundred feet down), and fresh lava-flows are readily discerned. Lava is still oozing from a fault in the side of the [new] crater, along with some smoke and fumes. Very interesting and lovely. Shot the last 4 photos on my roll of film (can’t seem to get any more here) to see if I can get a panorama. All and all, a scenic and lovely day. Had to buy and wear a Batik sarong mid-day to prevent further serious burn on the top of my legs, which at this moment are a bit uncomfortable. Tomorrow I languish around Denpasar & the beach, and Thursday depart for Sydney.

Mt. Agung behind the Besikih Temple complex

Looking back on Besikih from the flank of Agung

The composite below is the original panorama I put together after I returned home. The tape holding it together has yellowed badly.

The original paste-up panorama

An hour or so at the computer makes a considerable improvement!

Improved photo; standing on the rim of the ancient volcano

Perhaps I’ve discovered the source of the myth that the tropical people are “lazy” and that “it’s the weather”. The Balinese arise and commence work at first light—about 4 AM here now; the observers (tourists) are of course still sleeping off “the night before”. By early afternoon the Balinese are resting, largely having been working 8 or more hours by then. The air-conditioned tour-busses make their rounds and the occupants see everyone lounging or eating, the shops all closed. The tourists go back to their mint julips about the time the Balinese come to life again for a long evening of work and commingled fun. Somehow they seem to do all this on about 4-6 hrs sleep. I defy any tourist to survive one full 24 hr cycle, including 8 hrs toil in a rice paddy, and still feel the people here are “lazy”!

Bali, incidentally, is the first place I’ve been on this trip where the chinese are decidedly not in evidence. As usual, they preponderate in the businesses here in Denpasar (except the sounvenir shops), but stay very close to home & do not mingle with the Indonesians. The Suharto government’s most serious mistake so far has been to quite deliberately exclude the chinese from participation in their programs to rebuild (Sukarno’s regine was a disaster for Indonesia). The drawback is that the Indonesians themselves don’t seem strongly inclined towards business enterprise, so there is a vacuum now being filled by expatriates of other countries rather than by local entrepreneurs.

I’ve got to mail this today, as it has gotten frightfully long—& heavy!

Love to all~

Bruce

The Batik sarong mentioned above made it back to the states after saving my legs from a bad sunburn. The little Yamaha I drove that day was really built for a female, so with my feet planted on the running-board and my shorts riding up into my crotch, the tops of my legs were vulnerable. Years later I hung the batik in my house, and someone wandering through exclaimed loudly, “Why, that’s a seven-color batik!” So it was, and so was somewhat rare. I had simply picked it at random from a pile of sarongs in a little shop somewhere along the way.

Here follows a number of photos taken in and around Denpasar. I did go to the beach one day, but it seemed rather dirty and I did not swim: it would have been nice to skinny-dip like I had done  in Thailand, but no one was there to make it worthwhile.

That’s a local taxi in Denpasar

The “main drag” of Denpasar in 1968

Families gather for a funeral

The pyre has been lit

Funerals were not a solemn afffair: they were a celebration of the deceased’s good luck in moving on to bigger and better things!

Weddings were also very colorful affairs. I watched a wedding procession one day, along with the whole town it seemed, out to celebrate. I found myself standing next to another “ugly american” woman who watch with a disgusted look on her face; finally, she exclaimed, “Oh, how pagan!” I turned to her and said, “No more pagan than driving around in a car with tin-cans tied to the bumper!” She stomped off, annoyed by my comment.

The stark whiteness contrast with the usually dark stonework

Doors are important in Bali

Doors were important to ancient Egyptians, too

The elaborate entrance at top is to a residence; that below I am not sure of.

The countryside around Denpasar was spectacular

Roads made for motorcycling!

Somewhere on Bali, a typical village scene

Looks like work to me!

I had a very pleasant stay on Bali. Now, I wonder if any of the carefree life I saw there remains. But, I had to move on, so it was off to Sydney and Melbourne by way of Djakarta. That’s next.

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09.September.68

Mon Chers~

I recall dashing off a short note at the bottom of my last letter that may have left you suspended a bit. To recount: last Saturday AM I returned to the Australian Embassy, where they prepared for me a letter to the Pochentong (airport) Customs authorities. I’m not sure what the letter said, but in any event it was the magic touch necessary, and after a whole lot of filling in of forms, books, etc., the Chef explained that I was free to depart “avec moto”, and to proceed to tour Cambodia entirely as I pleased. He gave me a warm “Welcome to Cambodia” (even If 2 days late) and hoped I would enjoy my stay.

So, having gotten beforehand a bottle of petrol (the bike had to be flown “dry”), and having on-the-spot re-attached the silencers, I got under way. Now, since having had the engine re-built in the Honda [before leaving Saigon], I’d never really gotten it broken in, & never had the chance to take a “shake-down” run. I’d intended to go to Vung Tao, but by the time I had time for that, the VC were making trouble out that way again. Just driving around Saigon, I had experienced an assortment of minor ills & had (I hoped) corrected them all. Re-attaching the silencers (besides making the machine quiet) seemed to improve its performance.

I visited the Palais Royale the same morning. It is lovely. Curiously, amid the splendor of the various buildings (most of them built around 1915) is a small 2-story building “a la style francaise”, a building built by Napoleon much earlier. But there it sits, all ginger-bread and bric-a-brac; it looks so out of place! After lunch I went through the National Museé (much of it currently being reconstructed). As Todd said, they have a large collection of statues of various Khmer Kings—but not a great deal else.

Saturday night I was poking around the city & stopped for a Pepsi at a small restaurant. The owner—to my surprise—spoke flawless english and welcomed me so warmly it was almost overwhelming. It turned out this man is an expatriate Vietnamese, and he was eager for news: I wish I could have been more encouraging. Of course, this episode lasted through several Pepsis, a large dish of Cambodian-style beef-steak (rather like Korean bool-goggie, but not cooked at the table [and served over water-cress] and so forth: it was after 1 am before I got back to the hotel for sleep! And by prearrangement Mr. Thang-Ny showed up promptly at 8:30 to take me sight-seeing. After petit-dejeunez, where we were joined by another friend, we took the bike in for a battery-charge (too much stop & go driving) and while that was in progress we walked to the phnom for relaxation and photos. It was a gorgeous day. Following completion of the battery charge, all 3 of us drove out [Highway 2] into the country-side (to and somewhat beyond Takhmau), had refreshments, then returned to to PPenh. I lolligagged most of the rest of the day, having not gotten enough sleep the nite before. Did some souvenir shopping—and am happy to say found local items. A good dinner, an evening walking tour, and then to bed to rest up for the trip to Kep.

BACKSTORY: Mr. Ny had introduced himself to me in the hotel lobby: he spoke passable english, and was eager to try it out. I was eager to try him out, so we had a nice afternoon romp right there in the Mondial, and arranged to meet the next morning for sight-seeing. His friend wasn’t bad, either!

Temples Like this One Near Takhmau) are Everywhere!

I got on the road about 8:30 am. Another beautiful day, perfect for touring. First stop was Takeo [via Highways 3 and 25] where I had breakfast of sorts about 10:15. Traffic is, indeed, light, but autos and busses (especially) go like mad and one has to give them a wide berth! Had a pleasant chat with the elder Takeo police Chief, who introduced himself warmly. I understood about half of what he said (in French), and hope he understood as much of my rejoinders (in fractured French).

New Police Meeting Hall

The Chief of Police in Takeo proudly showed off their new meeting-hall, recently completed. Not an automobile in sight!

Once the initial shock of seeing an American wears off, the people respond with warm & spontaneous affection that is both heart-warming and encouraging. But I am a rarity here, so that I get lots of unabashed stares, especially in the countryside. But a smile & a wave (a choumreap sour is pretty hard to execute with one hand on the throttle) brings instant response in kind.

It began to rain very lightly as I approached Kampot, so I stopped there for a bowl of “Soup Chinois” and sat out a typical tropical rain for about an hour. (Chinese soup—besides being very good, is one of the safest foods here; there’s likely to be anything & everything in it, but it is kept at a boil all day long.) After the rain stopped I shopped in the central market for Kampot Pepper, and bought a hand of “ananas” to eat later on. The little boy who sold them to me was so taken aback by it all—I’m sure it’s been a while since he sold his fruit to an american—but his charming smile would win any heart. 4 riels (about 8¢) for the bananas.

BACKSTORY: There was a group of stalls all selling bananas, but I chose the one being tended-to by the youngster, chicken-queen that I am. (His mother had gone on an errand). I guessed his age at ten, but you never know. He was all smiles and all business as he interpreted my proffered hand to mean I wanted a hand of bananas, and he held up four fingers to tell me it would cost 4 riels. I was tempted to swoop him up, put him behind me on the bike, and ride off into the sunset. But I didn’t: and now he’s over 50 years old, if he survived the K-R massacre. I wonder if he remembers that tall american with the big motorcycle.

As I proceeded to Kep [Highways 3 and 16], I was on the heels of a storm, so from time to time stopped under a tree for refuge—and bananas! And about 2:30 I came around a corner and there was the seashore, a lovely beach, lovely sunshine, and no more than half-a-dozen people to be seen!

Banana Break Near Kep

I stopped under this tree for a ciggie and banana: that yellow spot on the right side of the bike is the hand of bananas I bought earlier.Just over that rise is a spectacular view of the Gulf of Tonkin and Kep.

Happily, the machine is preforming flawlessly. The valve-gear in a Honda sounds like a thrashing machine, but they do run well, & as mine is still “running in”, I’ve taken it fairly easy. Tomorrow! A day on the beach. Have lotion, so I hope to avoid further burn (my face & arms burned slightly this morning before I realized it). As usual, will close this but add more anon~

Luv~
Bruce

A Rural Road, Somewhere Near Phnom Penh

The next day: Bokor and Sihanoukville. Stay tuned!

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