M Y O B

March 27, 2009

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

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

NEXT

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 However, in 2000 the government adopted the US Dollar as its currency, so the bills shown below are no longer valid.

10.000 Sucre bill

1.000 Sucre bill

500 Sucre bill

100 Sucre bill

50 Sucre bill

20 Sucre bill

10 Sucre bill

5 Sucre bill

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

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

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

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

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

SCENES IN AND AROUND DURÁN:

A view of the shops at Duran

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

Air compressor

Car number 28 being rebuilt for the nth time.

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

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

SCENES ALONG THE LINE:

This old structure near Milagro was disappearing into the jungle.

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

Number 11 hauling freight

Engine Number 51 thunders into Sibambe

SHOPS AT SIBAMBE:

The Sibambe shops are perched on a hillside above the town

Number 51 at rest in her home

Number 17 at Sibambe looked to be in poor health

ALONG THE RIGHT OF WAY:

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

A mixto pulled by a diesel engine crosses the Alausi bridge

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

Some of the motion on Number 11

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

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

NEXT

May 7, 2009

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

The trip south was to ride behind this fabulous locomotive:

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

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

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

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

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

Very useful book for using first-class trains

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

An old British engine rusting away

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

Great swimming here, water crystal-clear

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

The red arrow points to Ras el Hekma

A wonderfully protected pool, great swimming!

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

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

The red arrow points to Marsa Matrouh

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

Approaching the town of Marsa Matrouh

Beach at Marsa Matrouh

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

Lovely beach. Could be “touristy” at times

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

View from the hotel

Nearer to Cairo was Lake Qurun:

The red arrow points to Lake Qurun

A favorite hunting-ground for the British

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

Potentially a nice place.

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

The red arrow points to Meidum

Presumably the steep sides resulted in collapse

For more about this unusual structure, click here.

Further South from Cairo is Luxor:

The red arrow points to Luxor

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

A portion of the Temple at Karnak

Dramatically lit at night

The scale of these temples is astounding

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

Rocks are heavy! How did they construct these pillars?

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

NEXT

The red arrow points to Jakarta

Economy class again

Luggage tag for my suitcase full of dirty clothes

Garuda flew Lockheed Electras – my favorite airplane

Melbourne, 29.11.68

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

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

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

The pass shows where to board the plane: clever!

Amazing what stuff I’ve saved all these years!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love to all

Bruce

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

NEXT

HARD TO BELIEVE:

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

BACK TO A CITY

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

JUNIOR HIGH

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

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

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

NOT ALL BAD

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

GS-4 Orange and Red

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

All other examples of this spectacular machine have been scrapped.

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

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

SP Cab-Forward Locomotive

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

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

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

EIGHTH GRADE

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

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

To be continued …

NEXT

June 5, 2010

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

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

Quito, a 28 de Febrero de 1.979

Dear Everyone~

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

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

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

The ticket for my trip

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

Early morning, ready to depart

The driver sits beside the engine

Cotopaxi is a nearly perfect cone

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

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

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

Looking through the windshield at a derailed diesel

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

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

Could this train be overloaded?

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

Two steam engines in one day? Wow!

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

The red car spread the rail & sank to the sleepers

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

Changing trains was the only way to make progress

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

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

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

Early morning in Duran, across the Guayas River from Guayaquil

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

Perched on the tender of No.11

Getting Engine No. 11 fired up

No. 11’s builder’s plate

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

What could the problem be?

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

Sanding the boiler: the hot sand descends on all

Examining the fire

Preparing to grease the motion

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

Approaching Yaguachi, with its splendid cathedral

Down-bound mixto in the hole for us

Taking water at Naranjito

Naranjito water tower

Negotiating the main street of Milagro

Goods were exchanged and sold at every stop along the way

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

Pulling into Bucay

Engine 46, seen the day before, awaits us

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

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

Engine 46 pulls the train up to Bucay Station

Getting under way on a severe grade and a curve

Looking back at Bucay

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

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

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

The mechanista was assisted by his wife (?)

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

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

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

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

The brakeman drops off to set the next switch

We proceed on the upper track

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

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

We climb ever upward: not the clouds!

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

Riobamba station

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

The road bed is everywhere in poor condition!

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

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

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

Sincerely,

BB

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

NEXT

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT

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

Handsome bills

The Singapore estuary on the back of the fiver

Highly polluted in those days

My own photo of the estuary

American currency is so dull!

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

Not worth much in 1968

But the bills were colorful

Doncha love the big numbers!

Still, not quite as worthless as the Italian Lire

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

Paid for with illegal rups!

Flew First Class!

Plane about to depart for Denpasar

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

The arrow points to Denpasar, on the island of Bali

Denpasar, 23 November 1968

Dear Everyone~

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

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

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

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

The mythical Garuda

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

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

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

25 November 1968

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

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

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

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

Gamelan orchestra for the Barong Dance

Somebody gets it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT

AND NOW, FOR A SPECIAL COMMENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHY THE F*CK DIDN’T THEY TELL ME?!

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

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

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

To be continued …

NEXT

June 17, 2009

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

Saigon 1968 Street Scene

CONTINUING WITH LETTERS FROM VIETNAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear folks,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love to all,
Bruce

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

The letter continues:

Next day, Wednesday, 31 January 1968

Continued

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

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

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

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

9:30 PM

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

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

11:00 PM

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

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

Love,

Bruce

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

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

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

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

Next AM, Thursday 1 February, 1100 hrs

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

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

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

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

4:00 PM

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

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

Next AM – February 2, Friday

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

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

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

10:30 AM

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

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

6:30 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saigon Police Load Confiscated Street Vendor’s Cart

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

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

Vegetable Sellers on the Street in Saigon.

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

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

NEXT