M Y O B

CHEMISTRY

Among some old textbooks in my Dad’s library I found a few about chemistry, and quickly developed an interest in that subject. Something about it “spoke to me”, and I found it very easy to comprehend. I converted an old potting-shed behind our garage into a “laboratory” using various “found” items. It was leaky and cold, so Dad helped me build something a bit more substantial: perhaps he realized I would soon be needing a place where I could be alone! I ransacked various middens around town for chemicals and containers and eventually got a chemistry set. I cannot imagine these are still available in anything like the form they were then: there were real chemicals in sufficient amounts for numerous experiments—or for committing suicide! But leaving this earth was far from my mind in those days, so I did the experiments, and learned. I begged a friend for his high-school chemistry workbook and did as many of those experiments as I could, as well.

The friend who supplied that book was “Gerry”, a chap four years ahead of me in school and far ahead of me physically. For some reason, he was willing to pal around with me. He had a scientific bent similar to my own, and we spent a lot of time together in the “Bramson Laboratory” (so the sign on the door stated). I was fascinated by Gerry’s prominent basket, and got up the nerve to push myself against it as often as I could, but never had the “balls” to grope him forthrightly. Damn! Mind you, I was still not getting my own erections yet, so my interest in Gerry was fairly innocent.  Whatever his interest in me, it appears now to have been entirely above reproach. If he had only allowed me to explore I’d have been in seventh heaven: but, he never touched me.  Damn!

HIGH SCHOOL

Again, having begun grammer-school at 5, I was just 14 when I entered Modesto’s only (then) High School. Not surprisingly, it was called Modesto High School, MHS from here on. My freshman year did not go well. For one thing, there was the same old problem with PE, which I could not get out of. My peers, with few exceptions, were ahead of me physically, and I still had the problem of surreptitiously enjoying the views in the locker-room and showers. One of the coaches did take my problems into consideration, allowing me to play hand-ball in one of the two courts out on the playing field: but I had to find someone willing to play against me, and since hand-ball was considered a “sissy” sport, I usually played with my (tennis) balls by myself. Coach also assigned me as towel-boy for the PE period I had, which cut my playtime a bit short, and put me behind a counter where I could watch the boys toweling themselves, but they could not see me below the middle, giving them less excuse to badger me about my lack of equipment “down there”.

My favorite class was General Science; my favorite teacher taught it. Mr. Bosch (not his real name) was a tall, lanky blond in his thirties. He had a rather Germanic appearance and bearing, with a butch haircut and a melifluous voice. But he was a good instructor, got us a lot of interesting movies, and took us on several field-trips around town. I developed a crush (my first) on Mr. Bosch, and did some terrific learning for him and from him. But what I would have liked most to have gotten from him—a pat on the head, or elsewhere—I never got. Apparently, some DID! A couple of years on he was discovered to be diddling some of the boys, and was summarily fired and run out of town. Like everyone else, he never touched ME! Damn!

My freshman year was also distorted by the death of my mother. It was not unexpected: she died a horrible death, from the cancer we had discovered 5 years earlier. This put us all in a funk for a while, and that summer we took a long trip around the US to recover.

But the major event of my freshman year occurred as that school-year was winding down. I had gone to watch our basket-ball players practice for a game to take place that night. I would not actually attend the game itself: I was supposed to be home, studying. But I tended to hang around that hated gym when the guys were playing basketball because I was rapidly becoming a “leg man” (which I still am). In those days (unlike today) most sports were played in very brief shorts: between where these ended and knee-socks began was a gorgeous display of healthy young thighs, and now and then in a particularly  vigorous run-up or jump, one got a glimpse right up to the jewels within. Indeed, many of the guys wore shorts they split up each side, to be as revealing as possible! Believe me, there is NO fun watching a basketball game any more, what with those stupid bloomers the guys wear now!

Anyway, there I was getting my fill of eye-candy, when I happened to overhear two chaps nearby comparing their ability to shoot their jizz. All at once, a whole lot of things fell into place! The scene from years before, when my cousin had shown me the ropes, sprang instantly to mind: I knew at once what the boys were discussing and describing, and it occurred to me I was probably missing out on something.

That very night, alone in my little room at the top of the stairs, I determined to find out just exactly what those boys (and my cousin) were experiencing. Dad was downstairs showing slides to friends, so I figured I’d have some time to myself. [He’d invited me to watch with them, but I told him I had to study: he must have known “something was up”, ’cause I NEVER studied!]

I laid my bod across my bed, pushed my pants down, and went to work with my fist: I can remember it as if it were yesterday! By this time almost 15, my body was ready, even if my mind wasn’t. Once I “got the feeling” (which didn’t take long) I could NOT stop, and before long I shot my first wad all over the place, just as I heard my Dad’s foot-fall on the steps to my room! Jesus!

By the time he opened the door I had hiked up my pants and was seated at my little desk with a book open, but the tiny room reeked of semen and I’m sure Dad knew what I’d just done. Nevertheless, satisfied I was studying, he departed. No sooner was he gone, I dropped trous’ again and whacked off a second time, then set about cleaning up the mess. It was the first of an untold number of joyous jack-offs.

Some of these early experiences, hugely embellished, can be found in my story, Central Valley High, at Nifty.

To be continued …

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.

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!

Bangkok, Thailand October 4 1968

Dear all~

I shall again begin this letter today—& heaven knows when—or where—I shall finish & mail it. Received Dad’s letter of 15 Sept/10 Oct this afternoon—the first word I’ve had from home in nearly 2 months. When I first thought PA&E was going to surplus me, I ordered mail forwarded from SF to Robb; in the ensuing weeks of confusion I never changed that, so mail dried up even before I left Saigon. Probably will get things from Glendale tomorrow.

I wrote a letter to Todd & mailed it today. I was a bit caustic, I fear, regarding Bangkok, since my camera and watch (no money) had just been stolen the day before. So far I have retrieved neither and have little hope for it. But even before that happened I was disappointed by Bangkok and its people. The contrast between Cambodia and Thailand is phenomenal; where the Khmers are so wonderfully friendly, spontaneously warm and helpful, the Thais are sullen and cold, not particularly accommodating, and greedy—a bit more-so I think even than the Vietnamese. Prices on nearly everything are frightfully high, and gouging is as frequently encountered as in France—if not more often. If Bangkok today represents the result of close cooperation with (actually, inundation by) America, then I have to agree more strongly than ever with Senator Fullbright—and I have to agree completely with Prince Sihanouk, who wants more than anything else to keep Cambodia Khmer.

BACKSTORY: Bear in mind that I was in Bangkok in 1968. It was, then, on the infamous “R&R” circuit for american soldiers fighting in Vietnam. The Thais built an industry around the R&R concept, designed to part soldiers from as much money as possible and from whatever shred of virginity a few of them might have had left after “20-p alley” encounters in VN. Consequently, since I was the right age, it was assumed I was a soldier on R&R, even though I was riding a motorcycle and entirely on my own. This led to many disappointing encounters, chief of which was the night I treated two youngsters to a “night on the town”. It was, of course, a “set-up”, and the truth is, I was “rolled”. The further truth is it was my own fault, as I had consumed more Singha (delicious Thai beer!) than I should have done. I remained mindful enough to put my wallet, passport and so forth out of reach, but left my trusted pocket-watch in my pants and my camera in plain sight. After we three had had rather desultory sex, we fell asleep—at least, I did. I was awakened some time later when the sound of my room’s door being closed sank through the fog, and I awoke to find the boys gone. Along with my watch and my camera. Shit!

I got the Honda back from the shop yesterday. It has been running well, but the work I had done in Saigon was pretty hap-hazard, what with no parts available for the larger models. (And, that was done 3000 km ago. The bike has over 12000 km on it—it was used when I bought it.) Here, at the Honda branch-factory, everything was at hand. Surprisingly, new cylinders, pistons, rings, bearings & valves, and assorted other small items came to only $57—and it runs like new; in fact, I shall have to break it in all over again. But, as you point out, Singapore is quite a ways from here—about 2500 miles as nearly as I can gather.

I surely shan’t stay in BK ’till the 15th, though, and may depart in the next couple of days, probably missing a little mail thereby. My actual plans are characteristically vague. I shall not replace camera or watch until I reach Penang (a free port); my only retribution against the Thais for the most inhospitable way I’ve been treated here will be to take no photos in their land—and I shall warn everyone I meet who is heading this way to be very careful. I would like to find a small resort with reasonable off-season rates somewhere in Malaysia where I can get the sun I missed in Sihanoukville, but have no particular spot in mind. If I could find a suitable place, I might stay several weeks there. And when I once reach Singapore, the question arises as to where to go from there? Todd once discussed the idea of meeting me in Australia early in the year—but I probably won’t have enuf money left by the time I get to S’pore to do that. Instead I shall probably hop a freighter bound more-or-less for Glendale by Christmas.  This is subject to change—don’t count on it until I get a little closer.

BACKSTORY: When I entered Thailand, I’d received only a ten-day visitor’s visa. It became apparent I would over-stay that without an extension. A chap I had met who was helpful in some ways assured me he could arrange for the extension—for a price. Instead, one morning I consulted my map, found out where Immigration Department was, found out which bus-line would get me there, and set out. The building was old (it has recently been replaced), and I could not read any signs, but by dint of approaching people politely, I was eventually guided to a chap whose desk was in the hallway! He extended the visa as requested, without charge, and sent me on my way. The extension thus cost the few baht on the bus, and the chap who had wanted to get the extension for me was royally pissed when he learned I’d done it myself.

Entry visa, Bottom; Extension Top.

I’ve been delightfully ignoring world news on this tour. I gather Nixon is out-foxing Humphrey for votes—which is not surprising. In a restaurant the other day I picked up a copy of the Bangkok World & read that Long Binh had been hit by 40 VC rockets—must have been spectacular, but “damage was described as light”. If I vote absentee, it will have to be at one of the embassies en-route, and I shall try to manage it.

While I think you are essentially right that Humphrey’s record has been essentially liberal through the years, the effectiveness of his support leaves a lot to be desired as far as I am concerned. The vastness of the task of overhauling so many of america’s policies—so badly needed—exceeds both his capabilities and those of Mr. Nixon (even both together, I think!) There are many people in this part of the world who regret that neither candidate is really committed to the sort of changes that are desired. Many people I’ve talked with are really mystified by America’s policy towards mainland China. Our ostrich-like behavior is widely ridiculed, and the usually-given excuse that “China’s government is not a democratically elected one” is laughed at (as well it might be) because in the context of our recognition of such countries as Russia, Spain, and many others (South Africa, even!) the excuse is simply not germane at all.

I wish you could have seen the current issue of “Kambuja” (Cambodia), the official Cambodian news-magazine. It is, of course, 100% propaganda, except for the last 20 pages of political cartoons reproduced from all over the world. In the context, those dealing with assassination & lack of gun control in the US, and with the abortive Resurrection City incidents in Washington, are particularly devastating. The world is a whole lot smaller place than most americans seem to think, and our little foibles can no more be swept under the rug than can anyone else’s. Many people in this part of the world are far-better read on the US than most people in the US are about this part of the world—and with few exceptions I find people quite impatient with us for not getting on more quickly with the tasks of putting our house in order at home. I wish (and many people have expressed the same sad hope) that either of the current Presidential candidates were more firmly committed to doing just this.

I went to see the first movies I’ve seen on nearly a year last night. “2001″, in Cinerama, in a fine theater here. I thought the price—$1.00—quite reasonable, and found the reason—¾ hr of filmed commercials—after I got inside!! The story-line of the movie I found a bit obscure, as did others, but the photo & model effects are breath-taking and made the movie entirely worth seeing. “Man For All Seasons” is also here & I may take it in, too since the price is reasonable (one can get a seat for 50cts).

Bangkok has the same “over-employment” problem I observed in Denmark. There are always more people than necessary to do a job. The busses have a driver and 2 (sometimes 3) collectors. Delivery-vans never have less than 3 people aboard. Even small restaurants have a half-dozen waiters, and larger places veritable hoards of waiters, assistants, bus-boys, and so forth. The restaurant in the Thai Hotel next door must have a payroll (with cooks, musicians, bar-tenders, waiters, cashiers &c &c) of close to a hundred per shift—and it could not serve any more people than that at one time; the Thai Hotel is not really a tourist hotel on the “circuit”. BK has also developed the american-ism of youth-worship far beyond the extreme to which we have carried it. Whether this is wholly imported or to some extent an expression of some Thai cultural traits I can’t discern. And a new deal (with Krupp, Germany) has just been signed for diesel locomotives to replace the wonderful wood-burners still operating on the Royal Siam RR—alas!

At this point of my letters, probably through remorse that I was not still there, I returned to my wonderful visit to Cambodia, and especially the temple complex. Remember, I am writing in 1968: I’m sure it has radically changed!

You—all of you—must put Angkor on your itineraries for future travels—hopefully soon, before Cambodia is destroyed by “development”. I can heartily assure you that the lack of diplomatic relations with the US will not hinder a trip to Cambodia in any way. There are flights from BK and Phnom-Penh direct to Siem Reap, and there are several excellent hotels. The Auberges Royal des Temples is directly across the moat and road from Angkor Wat, & not ten minutes from the airport. The Grand Hotel is nearer the town & a little cheaper, perhaps, though no less touristy. The Hotel de la Paix where I stayed is just on the fringe of town, & while not luxurious, is clean, comfortable, has good food, and is cheap! Personally, I enjoyed the 6 km ride from town out to Angkor Wat (& the rest of the park); what with trees & such, one arrives at the south portal of A-W very unexpectedly—just all of a sudden, there it is! Arriving from the airport it is visible for the whole distance, & somehow not so impressive, though one does come in at the main (west) gate. The very best time of year, I’m told, is January, when the jungle is still moist but rains are finished. Later as the weather warms up it gets dusty & some sort of pollen apparently settles on everything, making it quite dirty. The view from the Phnom Bakheng is splendid (as it was intended to be!) & worth the climb up, though if desired you can rent elephants to make the ascent. And if it should rain when you are there, go directly to Ta Prohm (do not pass GO!) and experience the incredible eeriness of a jungle-surrounded temple in the midst of a deluge. It is an experience you will never forget, & worth a thousand words. Drive all around the West Baray, also; stop frequently for views from the banks. This is an artificial lake over a thousand years old, created in part to supply the moat for Angkor Wat and mostly for irrigation. It is still in use, though about half of it has been reclaimed by the jungle. The perimeter is 35k m [60 mi], hence in a sense it is one of the largest undertakings of the old Khmer empire. The East Baray, a similar artifice, is only slightly smaller. There are immeasurable fine walking tours to take, to say nothing of climbing about in the temples themselves. And some interesting trips to slightly out-of-the-way temples, too; be sure to see Banteay Srei (a marvelous, though minor temple) and Banteay Samre, notable for its state of preservation (as is Banteay Kdei). Do not spend less than a week in this place—you’ll always regret it if you do, & be sure to wander about the town of Siem Reap (it’s small—you can cover all its major streets in an hour), which is a very typical Khmer town & very little affected by tourism.

Here’s a picture of Phnom Bakheng as it was in 2006:

As the letter continued, I found time for a dig at my step-mother:

Tommie: I find printing hopelessly slow. Sorry you have some trouble deciphering my letters, but at least you have something to decipher. I don’t recall having the opportunity of deciphering your own expert hand much since I left the US.

I did go to see “Man For All Seasons” last night, and found it well worth the praise & awards it received. One (or at least I) comes away from it wondering just how much social progress the world has really achieved since those days—the trappings are different, but human-nature is piteously slow to change.

6 October 1968

I wandered through the Erewan Hotel the other day. Had to do it. Of course, I wore shorts for the occasion! It was built about the same time Todd was here. One wonders whether or not that crazy music-review might not have been fact: the chamber-music room of the Erewan now sports a quite new Yamaha grand. The hotel is dated, but spacious—and expensive.

Through a curious set of circumstances, I have recovered the pawn-ticket for my camera, so on the way out tomorrow (today being Sunday) I will pick it up—’twill cost me 70 baht ($3.50). The watch fell into the hands of a thoroughly detestable expatriate american Negro “fence” by the name of Tony Rocca. I’m sure I could buy it back, but I shan’t do so. With american examples like this character around, Thai attitudes are perhaps a bit more understandable—though no less reprehensible.

At all events, I leave Bangkok tomorrow—hopefully forever—thereby perhaps missing a letter form Todd, but it will probably be returned. Since this letter has already developed into 7 pages, I shall mail it tomorrow as I pass the RR Station.

Love to all, of course,
Bruce

BACKSTORY: I was surprised to find the two thieves where I had met them initially—Lumpini Park—and found them seemingly contrite. They admitted stealing the camera and using up the film taking photos of themselves; the film was being developed. They also agreed to take me to the man who had purchased the watch from them. I was able to find a policeman willing to accompany us. But Tony Rocco was a smooth operator, and what with the language barrier, the policemen was no help: what he wanted was a pay-off, and what Rocco wanted was for me to buy back my own watch! By this time I was disgusted with all the players, and unwilling to part with any more money, so I dropped the matter. But the boys had given me the pawn-ticket for the camera, so I was able to retrieve it. Lumpini Park was—and I believe remains—the place for “trade” in Bangkok, much of it rough.

By the way: before leaving BK, I went for one last ride on the old streetcars: I waited in vain, and read in the paper that night that the day before had been their last. There was quite a ceremony, all of which I missed. Damn! Anyone who doubts Bangkok once had streetcars can learn more here.

Bangrak Museum: Street-Car

Coming up: I head south, and find wonderful steam locomotives!

DEVELOPMENTS

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

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

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

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

Single Truck Birney “Safety Car”

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

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

CARMICHAEL

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

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

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

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

Iron-Rite “Mangle”

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

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

1947 Bendix Front Loader Washing Machine

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

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

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

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

To be continued …

MILITARY SERVICE?

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

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

BY THE WAY:

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

OK, ON WITH COMING OUT: MY FIRST HUSBAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming soon: the family finds out about me.

[email protected]

February 22, 2009

MJC

First, I must tell you that my college days were nothing like the story I wrote years later called College Daze! That was written with the benefit of hind-sight, looking back on how it might have been If I had been “out”.

But, I was not out. This, despite the Creative Writing teacher who certainly was! I enjoyed his class and learned much, but as a person he had a couple of drawbacks: he was “nellie”, and he was too old for my already developing taste for peers and younger.

I was befriended by two older girls, who did show up in the story: these were the first lesbians I encountered in my life, even though I heard the term “lesbian” much later. One of these gals was a sort of “plain Jane”, far from ugly and feminine in her own way. Her mate was one of the ugliest women I had ever met! She was the butch one. Still, it was clear they both adored each other, and I’ve often wondered what became of them. I thought vaguely that guys might have similar relationships, and given the chance I would have related in any way he chose with the pole-vaulter that year! But my on-going infatuation with Jim and (and his nice dick), his camera, (and his nice dick) and his old cars (and his nice dick) took care of my libido.

So, I sailed through two years at Junior College with fair grades despite almost no studying. I had a knack for figuring out what the teachers wanted, and I fed it back to them. All except the “instructor” for my American History course. The man was a fervent Republican which led to many diversions from the topic, and the class occurred directly after lunch. I slept through most of his dreary lectures, and flunked the course cold. This meant I did not graduate from JC (American History was a requirement, and I had to repeat—and pass—it several years later). No doubt my Dad was disappointed, but I didn’t really care.

In an off moment somewhere along the JC years I submitted a poem to a competition sponsored by a small private college in southern California. The work garnered an honorable mention, so I decided to leave home for the remaining two years of college. I was in for something of a shock!

UR

Set, in those days, among a few surviving orange groves, the University of Redlands was said to be the “best Methodist school the Baptists have”. I got in on decent grades, my honorably-mentioned poem, and not much else. (Dad’s money helped!) Rather unexpectedly, I gravitated to the Music Department because of the large pipe organ in the chapel: I had always loved pipe organ music, and so to my Dad’s dismay I jumped from Science to Music. I quickly deduced that I could no longer give the instructors “what they wanted”, because what the organ professor wanted was that I could read music and play the damn thing, which of course I could not do. I struggled along, but had no real musical performance talent.

The organ department then had about 30 students, the music school perhaps a hundred. Of the organ students, I was to learn, all were queer, and of the other musicians, many were. Unfortunately, I learned all this just as was leaving Redlands! Throughout the academic year I was there, when I needed “relief” I drove my battered old Nash out into the hills and flung my seed upon the ground, for want of any better place.

Most of those wank sessions were enlivened by fantasies about an absolutely gorgeous boy living in Cortner Hall one floor below.

However, not one soul ever approached me, tried to being me out, or even mentioned what was going on right under my own nose: wild parties (off campus) which I expect I would have enjoyed immensely.

I did learn one important lesson at Redlands. The catalogue said it was “alcohol free”, and having been raised by my tee-totaling parents, I thought I’d fit in well. Yet, within a week or two of arriving and settling into Cortner, someone suggested we have a party in my room one Saturday night. Vodka and orange juice materialized: vodka was thought to be undetectable by smell, so we would be “safe” having a simple party. Unfortunately, the group assigned ME the job of bar-tender, so I was making “screwdrivers” with a ratio of 4 to 1. That’s four parts vodka to 1 part OJ! Things went along OK for a while, but suddenly the other fellows in the group disappeared! About the same time, I realized I was drunk, never having been so before. We had all consumed far more than we should, and too rapidly: the others fertilized the bushes in the quad, but I managed to stagger to the terlet before becoming very, very sick. Repeatedly! It took me a week to recover, and I have never been anywhere near that drunk since. I reasoned that if that’s what alcohol does to you, I want no part of it!

About a week before departing Redlands for summer vacation,  one of the organ grad students who lived off-campus asked me to dine at his apartment, and suddenly, all was revealed. He told me about homosexuals (first time I’d heard the word), lesbians (ditto), and many, many other enlightening things about “being gay” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The revelation for me was that there were other people just like me, who preferred to look at and (hopefully) interact sexually with other boys. My informant regaled me with tales of his own activities, played old Ray Bourbon records, explained the rudiments of cruising and made it clear I could relax and begin to think in terms of being queer without worrying much about it. He did not “bring me out” in the sense of having sex with me: like most everyone I’ve ever met, he was not attracted to me. I had simply triggered his GayDar, and he assumed I was out!

I left the University of Redlands intending to return, even though I sensed it was not the right place for me. It was something of a “rich-kids” school, and it was costing my Dad a lot of money for me to be there. It was super-abundantly clear I would never be another Virgil Fox, even though I had at least one prerequisite: I was queer. I was, however, not yet willing to let other people know it.

I had gotten a summer job in Santa Clara, California, where my life took another turn.

To be continued:  I find the way to San Jose.

[email protected]

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]

PHNOM PENH

Angkor Travel Brochure

NOTE TO READERS

The look of this blog will change slightly: I’m out of Vietnam, I’m in Cambodia, and I have a camera. There will be more pictures than there have been so far.

My letters all along were distributed to family and friends: so there is very little in them about gay things. From here on, I will occasionally interrupt the narrative from letters to interject a “BACKSTORY”, which will include whatever it was I did not put in my letter to start with. I’ll change the gay backstory text to blue, which seems appropriate! Other BACKSTORY entries will remain in black & white.

I had with me a tablet of very thin paper, suitable for air-mailing, and I wrote continuous letters until I was able to mail them. Hence, some letters were long, covering several days. And now, without a typewriter, I am long-handing letters again, so for this blog all will have to be keyed in. This will slow things down a bit!

BEFORE I BEGIN

You will see quickly that in late 1968 Cambodia was a very pleasant place. It went quickly to the top of my list of “places I want to go back to”. You’ll also learn that I eventually returned to the states just in time to see places in Cambodia I had visited being blown to smithereens when Tricky Dick Nixon ordered the Vietnam war into Cambodia. There followed the horrors of the Khmer Rouge: Cambodia has not even yet returned to the condition it was when I was there, which grieves me to this day.

ONE MORE THING

I am utterly appalled by the behavior of the right-wing nut-cases raising such a ruckus over President Obama’s proposals about our health-care system. Former President Carter put his finger on it yesterday: racism is alive and well in the USA. We can only hope this bunch of nuts represents too small a portion of our population to cause more than noisy trouble, but I fear the violent nature of the rhetoric is likely to send some fool over the edge.

ON WITH MY STORY!

Just look at those prices!

Handy map of Phnom Penh as it was in 1968

Phnom Penh, 05 September 1968

Dear everyone~

Despite nearly everyone’s saying it couldn’t be done, here I am at Phnom Penh, exhausted, but delighted. The motorcycle is still at the airport—there are some customs formalities to complete tomorrow in the morning, also have to get proper exit visa so I can go out (as planned) via Arranya Prathet to Thailand (3 weeks hence). So I took a bus into town, have a nice Hotel, had a couple of hours of daylight for a quick walking tour; had a leisurely & plentiful meal of pork sautee’d avec champignons et. al., (very good), and am shortly going to turn in for a well deserved rest. It’s been a long day! Met a chap from Holland who is going on to BK tomorrow—he’s just come from Angkor & says it’s lovely and very devoid of tourists (this is not the season; the rains are not really quite over yet).

BACKSTORY: I checked into room 206 in the Hotel Mondial and took a short rest. When I went downstairs to the street to see what I could see, there was a clutch of cyclos and drivers at the curb. They crowded around vieing for my custom, and offering sight-seeing, girls, more sightseeing, more girls. But one chap sidled up and said quietly, “Would you like a girl—or a boy?” I agreed to take a ride in his cyclo, and once we were away from the crowd, it turned out the boy he had in mind was himself! We repaired to a small hotel of his choice, and had a wonderful romp! So, I had my first Cambodian within a few hours of arriving: he was not the last!

I am amused by a statement in a booklet I have before me that says, “Tourists of all nationalities except Chinese (mainland), Vietnamese, Thais and journalists can obtain visa . . .” Apparently they don’t like reporters! A very striking new University is along the route from airport to down-town; just beyond it is a clumpish big technical University built by the Soviets. It is unusual (for me) to see a Polish Embassy (I didn’t even see them in Europe!), but there is one, and Rumanian, and others as well. No American embassy, though—and I doubt I shall miss it a bit. Lots of English spoken here in PnhP, but I may get away from that later.

06 September 1968

The French have left behind throughout “Indo-China” a number of impressive monuments, not the least of which is a monumental bureaucracy that tends to put even us to shame! As a consequence, I still do not have my bike clear of “formalities”; I’m assured by the Australian Embassy however that we should be able to complete arrangements tomorrow morning sometime. Since the pressure is off, I can take all this philosophically; after all, I didn’t have to do it this way—I could have toured in the more conventional manner—hence there’s no one to blame for the delays but myself. But no matter—I got in a good deal of sight-seeing shuttling back & forth between the aerodrome, the Embassy and the Commissioner’s Office. The hang-up actually seems to be the requirement of a “caution”—actually an in-country co-signer who will assume responsibility if I fail to re-export the machine in the allotted time. Naturally, I know no one here who will undertake this, and (rightfully) the Embassy won’t do it either. But they’ve been most helpful—the Australians actually act in some capacities in lieu of an american embassy under a loose agreement we have with them—and I feel sure the matter can be cleared up tomorrow.

BACKSTORY: The real problem in dealing with the motorcycle was the language barrier: everyone thought I wanted to import the bike to Cambodia, which would have meant paying a hefty duty. I was unable to explain, my french and cambodian language skills being meager at best, that what I wanted to do was ride the bike in the country, and on out of it. Nevertheless, I was amused by the kind of forms the importers wanted to prepare: they had typewriters with carriages about 20 inches long, and huge sheets of paper to go into them! There were, of course, NO computers!

Hence, when 1:30 pm came along—everything stops then anyway—I took the more accepted “tour” of Phnom Penh, via “cyclo pousse”. When I get the bike I shall revisit all the spots for a more direct inspection.

I suspect PnhP is now rather like Saigon was in 1958 when Todd was there. It is, of course, much smaller than Sgn is now: about 600,000. Untouched by war in many years, it is hence much better kept, cleaner, & far less crowded. It is, among other things, much quieter: all the motorbikes have their silencers left in; thank goodness I brought with me the one for my machine, which otherwise would disrupt this place mightily. Since the Khmer are in general slightly stockier and larger than the Vietnamese, the Hondas popular here are the 65 & 90 cc models, though 125s are also around.

Another French institution that is universally found in the Extreme d’Orient is BGI (many americans call it British Gas Industries!). Actually, it is Brassieries et Glacieries de l’Indochine. Despite the limitation of the name, they are into all sorts of things—beer, soft-drinks, ice-cream, ice manufacture, etc.

This is the first city I have ever been in that is not plastered with “Beveté Coca Cola” signs. The signs are there, but they read “Drink Pepsi”!! I’m told that in the course of the falling-out with the USA, Coca Cola was somehow banned. How Pepsi slipped by I don’t know—the bottles all clearly say “bottled under license of Pepsi Corp, USA”. Ah, the mysterious East!

There are lots of new buildings, the most spectacular being the Unicversity mentioned earlier and the Olympic Stadii—there are at least two. A big bridge over the Tonle Sap looks like it might be new since Todd was here, but the “Phnom” seems to have been sinking, and a project is underway to shore it up by boring beneath it & putting in a new footing. The Royal Palace looks fascinating & I shall take the tour, tho’ possibly after I get back from Sihanoukville. My tentatively “planned” route is now:

09  Phnom Penh –> Kampot –> Kep . . . . . . . 195km

10   Kep

11   Kep –> Bokor –> Popokvil –> Sihanoukville . . . . . . . 100km

12, 13, 14: Sihanoukville

15  Sihanoukville –> Kirirom . . . . . . . 120km

16  Kirirom –> Phnom Penh . . . . . . . 125km

17  Phnom Penh –> Oudong –> Kampong Thom –> Siem Reap . . . . . . . 314km

18-24 Siem Reap & environs (Angkor, etc)

25 or 26 Siem Reap –> Poipet –> Bangkok . . . . . . . 420km

Subject to change! Will probably break the Siem Reap to Bangkok part into two parts, depending on availability of accommodations en-route. Divide the figures above by 1.6 to get miles, and the distances don’t seem so great—they aren’t!

Have to arise early tomorrow: life begins before dawn here, for some reason, and the Embassy opens at 7:30 am. Hence it is now time to get some sleep. Will add more tomorrow.

07.09.68

Got the bike today OK & toured the Palace—will get this in the mail & start a new letter soon.

Love to all~
Bruce

BACKSTORY: Once the folks at the Australian Embassy got clear in their mind what I wanted to do, they prepared a letter (in French) which I was to take to the Customs authorities at the aerodrome. Apparently the letter made clear to them what I wanted to do, because, after some delay filling out forms, they released the bike and told me I was free to visit any part of Cambodia I wanted: just to hand in the form at whatever point of departure I would use. Expecting the letter to do the trick, I had brought with me the bottle of gasoline procured in Vietnam and the silencer for the muffler. I installed the silencer, put gas in the tank, fired up the cycle and drove back into Phnom Penh. At night, the Mondial staff moved the bike inside the main entrance, not to protect it from thieves, but to keep the weather off of it!

This is the “Phnom” for Which the City is Named.

More letters soon!

PHOTOGRAPHY

Anyone reading this blog will have discovered I am not a photographer! I don’t have a photographer’s “eye”, and I did not have a photographer’s camera. That I got any pictures of this trip at all amazes me still. Film for my Instamatic was not universally available, and when I could find it, was expensive. I rarely stayed long enough anywhere for processing, so I accumulated the exposed rolls and had them all developed when I got back to the US. As will be seen, there were some problems with this, and in some pictures humidity caused the emulsion to stick and caused strange blotches. To the extent I can fix any of this by computer, I will, but some of the poor shots are bound to appear.

National Geographic, June 2009

I took just one photo of Angkor Wat itself: one of the most photographed antiquities in the world, I wasn’t even going to try to capture it with my little point-and-shoot. There’s no way my feeble skills could do it any justice! There are many sources on the web, and I don’t know how many times it has turned up in the National Geographic, including the June 2009 issue.

The Moto appears in many shots: remember, I planned to write an article for a MC magazine when I got back, so I included it as often as I could. The article never materialized—until now, 40 years later.

FINDING MY WAY

I’m often asked how I found my way around without the benefit of GPS. By golly, there were maps! The one I used in Cambodia appears on the previous page. The highways and roads were numbered, and stone markers were plentiful. Signs were usually in both Cambodian and english! Later, when I got to Thailand, I found a map that had each town marked in Thai, with a transliteration into english below. Road-signs, however, were only in Thai. So, I picked out some feature of the Thai name—its extreme length, or some odd squiggly letter, any distinguishing feature—then simply “read” the signs by looking for that feature. It was really quite easy, and I never felt “lost” anywhere. I happen to have a fairly good sense of direction: it helped.

THE SAGA CONTINUES

DIARY ENTRIES: Wednesday, 18 Sept. (continued): Angkor Wat—indeed all the monuments—is incredible!! Besides the feat of piling up all the stones artfully enough, the entire exterior & interior surfaces are decorated—every square inch. Though the pattern-work is repetitious, the effect—softened no doubt by time—is truly beautiful. I see now why Todd raved so about this area—and I have only begun to see it!!!

BACKSTORY: The town of Siem Reap is a few km from the temple complex, and the Hotel de la Paix was closer. A wide avenue, then lined with tall trees, led towards the park. The avenue ended at a crossing with the road around the moat which surrounds Angkor Wat itself. Approaching that intersection, I did not notice the Wat until I was at the junction: suddenly, there it was! Despite having seen my brother Todd’s pictures, and having seen many photos in the Geographic, I was totally unprepared for the size and scope of it. The road surrounding the moat is a number of miles in length.

The Only Picture I Took of Angkor Wat Itself

Thursday 19 Sept: Arose around 6:30, departed Hotel around 7:30 for Banteay Srey. A lovely, well-preserved temple & well worth the trip, even though the road is not as shown on the map. After leaving B. Srey, decided to keep on & see how far towards Beng Melea I could get—but the road got progressively worse &—lacking knobbies—I eventually had to capitulate. Explored a couple of side roads but lacking any useful map located nothing. Returned to civilization & went to Banteay Samre. Pulled OK through a stream well over the hubs! But got there (with a short walk). This is also an impressive temple worth seeing. Back to Hotel for lunch, then out to Preah Ko & Bakong—and also worth the effort. Lolei, very nearby, was not worth the trip and while I was there the afternoon rain hit—and eventually passed. Later took [road] #29 down to Phnom Krom. The temple isn’t worth the trip but the road up there is something else! Back to dine at Hotel, then out to Angkor Wat for classical dances—my only homage to the tourist circuit. Colorful and gracelful, but essentially meaningless because it is so studied & symbolic. Then back to the Hotel for rest. Tomorrow—Battambang.

Banteay Srey

Photos of Banteay Srey. Far enough off the beaten track in those days to be still beautifully preserved. What has happened to it in the 40 years since I hate to think.

The Track to Beng Melea. Beyond the Honda’s Capabilities! The Road Down From Phnom Krom.

Sorry, it’s a lousy photo, but the bike IS in there!

Friday 20 Sept: Made Battambang about noon after leaving Siem Reap around 8. Weather excellent all the way. Road from Sisiphon to B.Bang not entirely paved, but not too slow-going. Met Thach Ny after a small lunch & we went to the modest home of his brother. Later, Ny, a little boy and I all three set out for Phnom Sampou. Before we got there we waited out a heavy storm, about 1½ hrs. Got into all sorts of trouble trying to get up the road, what with 3 people, mud, wetness, etc. Finally walked the last 1/2 way or so. Big cave with a sleeping Buddha at the top. Very pretty & green & wet. Rain began again as we descended, but had stopped by the time we got back to B.Bang. I later checked into the hotel, leaving Thack Ny with the understanding he was to meet me at the hotel next am at 7:30. Rain again, so I retired early, hence saw little of B.Bang: must go back again some day as it is a large place and nice.

BACKSTORY: But, Battambang much later was a K R stronghold, and the caves at Ph. Sampou now contain the remains of many who were killed. A portion of the hill is now being carved into a likeness of Buddha. The trip to B.Bang was mainly to reconnect with Thach, who had shown me much kindness and who shared himself with me often. How he got from P.Penh to B.Bang I do not know, and we met as planned, but he slept with his family, not with me! Oh, well, can’t win ‘em all!

Saturday, 21 Sept: Return to Siem Reap uneventful. Was unable to locate Banteay Chhmar. Will try to get info here on exact location (presumably near Sisiphon). Arrived around 1, & took the afternoon to do some maintenance on the bike. Took the glaze off the rear brakes—there is one wheel bearing in poor shape. The bike is a mess, but I may try one more off-the-beaten-track exercise tomorrow before cleaning it up. Changed oil—none too soon. Put in 40W this time.

Sunday, 22 Sept:Arose early. Had the Honda washed—a good job. Then proceeded to the park where I re-rode the main circuit, taking in the various monuments in greater depth than before. Ta Prohm is the best—pretty much left as it was found—very interesting how the jungle has over-grown it. The Banteay Kdei is fun too. Many monkeys were playing in the trees around it. A huge spider had dropped his web around the pathway—he was a colorful, though evil-looking beast. Observed army ants at work: fascinating!! Rain in the pm and mid-evening, maybe more later. May try to get to Chau Srey Vibol tomorrow—depends on weather, among other things.

Banteay Kdei. Note Hand of Bananas Strapped to the Bike.

Monday 23 Sept: Got a bit of a late start, went to Roluos & started off through the rice paddies for Chau Srei Vibol. Got about 4 km out & ran into water well over the hubs, so had to turn back. The cyclo boys say there is a new road in, but I can’t find it as it is not marked. Came back to Angkor and tried another road—it began better, but I came to a bridge that I’d have had to repair to get across, so I decided enough is definitely enough & turned back. Poked around in the Bayon later, & some back roads, then did a circuit of the West Bayon & eventually returned to Hotel to sit out the afternoon rain. Had a quiet evening of chats with some chaps, then off to bed.

Track to Chau Srei Vibol. The Puddle was formidable!

BACKSTORY: The track in the first picture is easily navigated on a motorbike. I actually traversed a puddle similar to the one shown in the second photo to reach this point. I decided this one was too deep, and who-knows-what was in the distance. The previous puddle I had managed to avoid by going around it. But, returning, I knew I could not climb the muddy bank I had come down, so I stopped to contemplate how I might get through the puddle itself. A little boy materialized and with no prompting waded into the water to show me how deep it was. So I revved up the engine, tickled the clutch and kept my feet down to stabilize and got through. (If water reaches the spark-plugs, it’s all over: if not, you get through.) I got through, and parked the bike to let it drain and to wring the water out of my pants. Just then a gent sitting on a high-wheeled cart pulled by a water-b came along and sloshed through the puddle I had just navigated. The look on his face, as clear as it could be, said, “What the f*** is this dude doing out here with a motorcycle? He needs a water-b!” He was right, and if I had had the time and sense, I might have hired him to take me to the temple. Another time, perhaps!

The Bayon: One of the Most Photographed of the Temples Besides Angkor Wat.

Tuesday 24 Sept: Up early, but with a slight head-ache for some obscure reason. Lolligagged over breakfast consequently, then went out to the park & poked around in Ta Keo, then Ta Prohm for a last look at my favorite temple. Rain commenced shortly after lunch, so I shopped in town a bit, tuned the Honda a bit, and otherwise killed the afternoon. Tomorrow—set out for Bangkok.

Looking Down from the Top of Bakong Temple. Banteay Samre and Preah Ko Entrance, Preah Khan Temple The Demon Gate to Angkor Thom

REMINISCENCES: I was there in the off season: most of the time there was no one but me wandering around the temples. But there were people using them: it was not unusual to find punk-sticks smoldering here and there, and now and then I’d get a glimpse of a saffron robe. I was trapped in Ta Prom one afternoon when it rained a bit earlier than expected, and that was an experience I won’t forget! The monsoons drop huge quantities of rain, yet inside the temple, under the trees which over-grow it, no water ever hit me directly. Instead, it ran down all over everything! Small water-falls appeared out of nowhere. It was dark, dank, wet, and fascinating!

In the dry season the ficus trees shed huge amounts of pollen, so much that the temples appear yellow in photographs. In the wet season the temples are washed clean every day.

I left the cycle wherever and whenever to roam the temples. No one ever touched it, except a few times I returned to find it covered with card-board or something if it looked like rain.

In many temples I found small rooms with a lingam (google it) prominently displayed. Whatever, there’s no mistaking these phallic symbols. Just how they were used in the hey-day of the temples I’m not sure, but I did find one that had been anointed with sperm not long before I got there. I added some. I often found myself horny wandering around there: I’ve no idea why. I left some calling-cards.

Coming up: on to Thailand!  Stay with me…

HUA HIN TO CHUMPHON

Map of Thailand

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.

South Thailand Countryside, 1968

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:

Road to Chumphon, South Thailand, 1968

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 wood-pile! Chumphon, 1968

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!

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.

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!

November 1, 2009

The hiatus in posting was occasioned by a drive to Pennsylvania and back, by way of Denver, where a dear friend lives. He accompanied me to PA and back as far as Denver.

It was a quick trip, driving a lot of miles:

Trip Miles

That entry for Denver to Barstow is correct: I miscalculated the distance, and planned to stay in Las Vegas to shorten the day. However, I got off the freeway there, could not find a hotel, and could not get back on the freeway due to massive reconstruction. I finally said, “To heck with it”, and drove on to Barstow as planned. It was a long day!

Otherwise, the trip went fairly well, despite some bad weather and in spite of my taking a rented car rather than my own old Chrysler. About all I can say for the modern Chrysler “Town & Country” is that it went father on a gallon of gas than my old car.

Trip Gas Costs and Miles Per Gallon

One thing I found noticeable and annoying: since we ate in restaurants, we were subjected to numerous disgusting children, better known as rug-rats. With few exceptions, they were ill-mannered and loud, and their parents did nothing to induce better behavior.  For the life of me, I can’t figure out why americans are so afraid of gay people: at the rate mid-westerners reproduce, it can’t be they fear depopulation! Could it be that deep in their hearts, they’re worried that some of their own precious little brats will grow up to be gay?

I did have some time to complete a new story: Life After Charlie turns the Nature-Boy trilogy into a tetralogy, so read the Nature-Boy triplet first, then Life After Charlie. They are all on Nifty, and formatted pdf files are available if you drop me a line at [email protected] .

Once I get used to the changed time and catch up on a flood of emails, I will continue the narrative of my trip: Thailand turned out to be very different from Cambodia. I expect it still is.

Everything up to this point had gone too smoothly! I felt it wise to arrive at the airport well before departure time. Just after lunchtime, I rode to Tan Son Nhut and stopped outside the compound. There, I drained what little fuel remained in the tank, then walked the bike into the passenger terminal. I was able to take one picture as the Air VN chaps assisted me:

Tan Son Nhut Compound

beyond this point all photos were forbidden.

Getting out of Vietnam in those days was complicated by the currency restrictions. After relinquishing the bike, and presenting my ticket

Air Vietnam Ticket

everything was in order. The bike disappeared, my luggage as well. The next step was to convert money. Whatever MPCs and Dongs I had I turned in for US Green: not a lot, less than a hundred dollars as I recall. Henceforth I expected to rely on travelers checks.

The last step was emigration, where I presented my passport and ticket, which the Officer examined closely. He then said, “You can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Your ticket is to Phnom Penh, but the Exit Visa reads to USA.”

I knew there was no arguing, so simply retrieved my documents, stepped back, and joined the throng in the waiting room. When I got near the main entrance, I stepped out and hailed a taxi. I waved a $20 US under the driver’s nose and said, “get me to Immigration!”

Mind you, had I been stopped for any reason, having a wad of Green on me would have been difficult to explain and would likely have landed me in jail!

There followed a wild ride across Saigon: the taxi driver wanted that 20 bucks, but when we got to Immigration I held the money and told him to wait. I knew he would!

Inside, I found a fellow at a long counter who asked what assistance I needed. Fortunately, he spoke english, so I was able to show the documents and explain the problem. He rummaged around under the counter, pulled up a carton full of papers, and pawed through them: before long, he came up with the form I had prepared long-hand for PA&E; attached to it was the typed form some harried secretary at PA&E had copied. My long-hand version showed Cambodia, but the typed version showed USA. Since I was probably the only american who had ever left VN to go to Cambodia (virtually all US employees went back to the US) it was an easy mistake for her to make.

Examining the papers, the fellow said, “I can see how that happened, and I can fix it.” He picked up a pen, annotated the passport with a “(1)” next to USA, and wrote above “(1) via Cambodge”. With a chop, the deed was done. I thanked him profusely. He did not ask for payment, and he got only my everlasting gratitude!

Exit Visa Saigon

(Arrows point to the critical additions.)

Needless to say, the taxi was waiting, and I got a second wild ride across Saigon, where I was able to “infiltrate” the crowd and eventually present my documents once again to the Officer. He studied them intently, but finally said, “I’ll never know how you did that, but I cannot stop you now.” He added the exit chop and waved me through into the waiting area. I had at least an hour to kill before the plane was to leave!

The bike was loaded after I got on the plane, so I did not know with certainty that it was with me until I saw it off-loaded at Pochentong. I snapped one photo from the plane, which I did not expect to come out at all. Oddly enough after all these years, I can scan that photo and just use an enhancement in the scanner to bring it out better than it actually is!

Vietnam from the Air

The white spots are clouds, but the strips in the center near the bottom are recent strafing-runs.

It isn’t far from Saigon to Phnom Penh—about 180 miles—so the flight was short. There were very few passengers aboard. I snapped a photo of the tower at Pochentong as we taxied in,

Tower at Pochentong

then dashed off the plane in time to get a shot of the guys unloading the motorcycle.

Unloading the Motorcycle

I was finally out of Vietnam! Let the adventures begin!

But first, I had to get the cycle out of Customs. I left it behind and took a bus into town: it was growing late, I was tired, and I figured I could go back the next day and retrieve the machine.

Yeah, right!

Stay tuned!