M Y O B

The red arrow point to the island of Fiji

Fiji is more mountainous than I expected

Nadi, Fiji 06 December 1968

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

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

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

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

And so thin you can see right through it!

20 FP Francs was a more manageable size

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

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

Love to all~

Bruce

Fiji arrival noted

Soon after I was there Fiji converted to the dismal system

The sterling system was unfathomable

Sunday 8th December 1968

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

The Fijian deck-hands were very handsome!

Lovely weather, calm sea, tiny island

About to board the glass-bottom boat

Deck hand shmoozing the girls: damn!

The Fiji mainland seen from our boat

Returning to Lautoka from Tai island

Nearly back to Lautoka

Regrettably, not in use the day I was there

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

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

NEXT

February 8, 2020

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

The arrow points to Singapore

SINGAPORE

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

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

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

Building new apartment-blocks in Singapore

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

A fancy villa in the foreground with a swimming-pool

I had not expected the lushness of the hills

Red tile roofs everywhere

Getting closer to the city center

Looking like the Singapore I expected

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

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

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

Queens Walk: I think it is still there

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entrance to the Tiger Balm Garden

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

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

More unusual blossoms

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

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

And the national monument:

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

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

Everything is made ready

More Lion Dancers, more fire-crackers

Lion Dancers, fire-crackers on the streets

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

There they go!

Air thick with smoke: what a racket!

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

(Click to enlarge)

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

NEXT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT

DEVELOPMENTS

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

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

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

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

Single Truck Birney “Safety Car”

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

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

CARMICHAEL

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

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

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

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

Iron-Rite “Mangle”

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

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

1947 Bendix Front Loader Washing Machine

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

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

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

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

To be continued …

NEXT

February 5, 2010

BEFORE I RESUME MY TALE:

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

Why, indeed?

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

The arrow points to Malacca

Saturday, 9 November 1968

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 10 November 1968

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

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

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

The arrow points to Johore

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

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

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

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

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

12 November 1968

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

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

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

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

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

Love to all~

Bruce

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

Colorful 1 Ringgit bill

The Malaysian bills were very pretty

As is true in many countries, bills are different sizes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Chrysler

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

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April 2, 2010

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

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

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

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

Firing up a locomotive, early AM in Duran

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

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I’m happy to report I still have some followers!

Courtesy of Statcounter

In my last page, I mentioned my return to Ecuador in 1994. Referring back to my passport collection, I find it really was 1993:

I took a room at the Grand Hotel, which was air-conditioned—at least when there was electricity. It was pretty intermittent, and the small room could get really hot and stuffy quickly. However, I did not plan to spend much time there, and the next day after I arrived I was across the River to Durán to see if there was going to be a steam train that day. The only thing going was a railbus excursion, available only to those with tickets. Bummer! So I rented a taxi and headed for Bucay. The road was in terrible shape, barely passable in spots, but the driver got me there in one piece. As soon as I set foot on the ground, I spotted a steam engine at the water tower. It was #53.

Engine 53 taking water

Sinking slowly into the ground at the tower

Engine 53 relaxing before the climb

It was mid-morning, and clearly preparations were under way for a run “up the hill”. Without knowing it, I had a long wait ahead of me, but ANY ride on steam is worth waiting for. I wandered around town, keeping my eye of any movement of #53. The first thing needed was to turn her around:

Engine 53’s front end as she heads for the wye

Headed for the wye

I had taken with me a number of packets of pictures I had snapped on my stay in 1979: I handed these out to any of the railway workers who seemed interested. They seemed appreciative, and enjoyed the pictures, as there seemed to be plenty of time before anything was to happen.

Now turned around, #53 waits for her train

More waiting!

Around noon, the  day’s Mixto arrived with diesel power at the head end. These new diesel electrics looked to me to be far too large to get past Bucay, but perhaps they could. In any case, today the mixto was to be pulled onward by steam: yaaay! The mixto must have been made up after I was in Durán: I had seen no part of it earlier. Perhaps it had left early!

Here comes the Mixto.

Typical baggage on the daily Mixto

The train was spotted at the low end of town, and the Diesel disconnected: it moved into the wye to await Engine 53’s arrival for connection and further movement.

Engine 53 will back down to connect to the Mixto

Venerable engine #53 takes her place at the Mixto

After taking this picture I ambled down in time to take a seat on the tender, awaiting the thrilling climb up the Andes  I had experienced so many times previously.

Pulling into the main drag, on a 3.5% gradient and curve

The mechanista’s portion of the cab

We stopped opposite the Railway Restaurant:

However, it was closed

From my spot on the tender, I could see this fine construction

There was the usual delay as cars were added or removed from the Mixto. Engine 53 waited patiently.

Ready to go!

By this time it was well past noon, and I was getting hungry, so I climbed down, took the picture above, and found some hot food. Eventually, everything seemed ready, so I clambered back to my favorite spot on the tender and waited some more. What happened next will be the subject of my next page.

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MISCELLANEOUS

• I read a lot of blogs, including some by youngsters dealing with finding themselves gay. Of course, every situation is different, so there’s no universal advice to be given. Except to say, “hang in: as my own blog will eventually relate, I figured things out to my own satisfaction and had a full and interesting life. It does take time…

• While I empathize with these kids, I envy their ability to put together blog pages and web sites that are absolutely smashing! The process has pretty much defeated me so far. Maybe some cute young thing who likes old men (yeah, right!) will come along and give me a hand. With the blog, I mean…

• As it is developing, my format seems to be a chronological exposé of my life:  So far, I’m not even out of high school! But, the pace will pick up as I got out into the world. A buddy (well, he started out as a lover but things quickly degenerated) and I went to Europe the summer of 1963. This was my first glimpse into other life-styles. Later, I spent time in Vietnam, rode a motorcycle from Phnom-Penh to Singapore, worked in Australia, Philippines, Egypt, Ecuador and elsewhere, so there is much to tell. Here are a few photos to give you some idea of what’s in store:

Ready to depart Saigon, September, 1968, on a Honda CB-160

I have two saddle-bags and a cheap suitcase strapped on the luggage rack. The bike is a Honda CB-160 bought used from a compatriot leaving the country. The national assembly building in the background had been hit by a rocket a week earlier: note the canvas roof, top right.

All wood Siemens Train, Athens 1979

These beautifully maintained all-wood Siemens train-sets were still in use in Athens in 1978. I loved riding them. I hope some have been preserved.

Guayaquil & Quito Railroad, Ecuador, 1979

Perched on the tender of Engine Number 11 of the Guayaquil & Quito railroad, Ecuador, 1979. I had a fabulous time riding almost everything they had working at the time. I went back in 1994 to find very little of it running, and now there seems to be almost nothing left.

• Throughout it all I was queer—not flaming, but not really hiding it either. I had my share of “interactions”, and have no regrets, now that things are winding down.

• The chronology will be interrupted from time to time by observations on the current scene, political or other sorts of rants, and whatever else occurs that I think worthy of note.

To be continued …

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CHEMISTRY

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

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

HIGH SCHOOL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued …

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