M Y O B

The arrow points to the island of Penang

Sunday, 20 October 1968

Checked out a little history today. The Japanese bombed Penang and Kuala Lumpur for 3 days early in 1940, after which the country capitulated & was occupied for 4 years until liberated by the Commonwealth. That explains the fortifications. And I haven’t left Buddhism behind—it’s just changed from Indian-style (more or less) to Chinese, so the temples look a lot different. Visited the “Pagoda of a Million Buddhas” today, & while it was a bit “touristy”, rather interesting. But the spectacle was the Funicular railway up Penang Hill, which ascends 2200 feet in 2 stages; from the cars and the top of the hill fantastic views are to be seen, & very pretty walks. There’s hotels and other facilities, all the material for which was either taken up on the railroad or dropped by Helicopter (in modern times), there being no auto road at all. Trails abound, of course, & one can take the railway up & hike 8 miles down to Waterfall Gardens, another lovely spot near town. The rail was crowded today, but later in the week I’ll go up once more, after I get some film for the camera; shops are closed today (Sunday) & tomorrow (New Year Holiday) so it will be Tuesday or Wednesday.

Assessing my accounts the other night, I find that, not counting the photo work and the Honda repairs, 10 days in Bangkok cost me just a bit under $200.00; whereas I had exactly $50.00 worth of Bahts when I left BK, which carried me through the whole 10 days traveling to W. Malaysia. You see why I say Bangkok was expensive!!

This letter will be delayed a couple of days by the holiday—sorry about that!

Picked up the Penang Sunday Gazette tonight: Jackie & Aristotle? No doubt she’s lonely, but surely… oh well, everyone else has abandoned the JFK image and ideals, why shouldn’t she?

This may be the cave of 1000 Buddhas

But then again, it may not. If anyone recognizes it, let me know where it is. At this point all I know is, I went there!

Monday 21 October 1968

Another lazy day. Planned to go swimming, but the north beaches were all rather rainy all day, so I went around the other way & took in the Snake Temple and Reservoir Park. The Snake Temple is just a Chinese Pagoda where for reasons known only to themselves they keep a hundred or so snakes lying around! They’re a harmless variety of pit-viper, rather pretty, & growing to 4 feet or so. The place is filled with incense, which makes the snakes groggy—visitors, too, if one stays too long! The reservoir park is just that, very pretty & a nice place to sit & relax a while, which I did. Later went back to Waterfall Gardens, which has some nice foot-paths into the surrounding jungle that I explored. And of course the monkeys here are famous; semi-wild. They come down from the jungle in large numbers & get food from the tourists & visitors who enjoy their amusing antics. Since they are not caged at all, they are much healthier and prettier than the specimens one usually sees in zoos; and many of the she-monkeys carry their child monkey along with them, an amusing sight.

Well, time to close this long letter. Before sending it tomorrow I will try to ascertain an address in K. Lumpur that you can write me at; if I find out one, I’ll add it below.

Hope everyone continues well–I’m having a fine time of course & hope you all can come & see some of these same lovely places someday.

PS: Better skip K. Lumpur—not enuf time. But you can write to Singapore c/o Post Restaurant. I should get there in a month or less; better mark return to sender if not claimed by 15 December.

Love to all~

Bruce

BACKSTORY: On my first trip around the island, I had noticed a large parking area behind a seawall at the north end of the island. Later that evening I rode over there and saw a number of couples seated on the wall: it looked like lovers’ lane to me. I was putting along at idle when I heard a voice say, “hello”. I turned to find a youngster riding his bicycle beside me. I stopped: he stopped.We chatted briefly; would he like a ride on my motorcycle? Yes. He ditched his bike in the front yard of a house not far away, climbed on behind me and I took off. I drove back along the route I had done earlier. At a nice deserted beach we stopped and watched as night fell, standing hand-in-hand, listening to the surf. Then back to the bike, and as it was now dark, he was able to put his hands around me and into my pants. I drove on up the mountain, recalling that at the top was a bus-shelter where we could… The faster I drove, the harder his hand worked, and by the time I drove into the shelter, parked the bike, I was wound up tight. I threw the fellow over the seat and parked my car in his garage—about as violently as I ever screwed anyone in my life! He loved it. He remained my guide and boyfriend for the rest of my stay on Penang.

**********

The chief glory of Penang for me was the Penang Hill Railroad, mentioned in a letter above. I rode it a number of times and took many photos. From the net I learn the funicular is still there, but it has been modernized. In 1968 it was really two funiculars, which meant changing cars at the (more-or-less) half-way point. I understand it has now been converted into a single cable-run, and modern photos show operators in the car, so the motive-power seems to have changed. There is a lot of information about it on the web. My photos are below.

One of the two winding-houses

As originally built, there were in reality two funiculars: it was necessary to change from one to the other. Each had a winding house—I don’t recall which this one is, but they were essentially identical. The operator sat high up where he could look down the line; he responded to the bell over the window, which was rung by the conductor on each car. The dial pointer showed him where each car was located, something he had to know since there were intermediate stations between top and bottom.

The view down the line and to the flatland below

Note the passing-track on a curve! This funicular was an engineer’s dream. The poles along the track carry two bare insulated wires. Each conductor carried a wooden pole one end of which was clad in brass. To signal a change, he only had to touch his wand to both wires, completing a circuit which rang the bell in the engine-house. The codes were the same as steam engines, cable-cars and streetcars: one ring to stop, two to proceed, three to back up.

A car approaching the (bottom) end of the line.

Intermediate stops allowed people who lived on the hill access to their homes. A particularly nice time to ride was in the afternoon when school-kids were on their way home. So much eye-candy!

The approaching car in the passing zone.

Each car had a box used to carry freight or luggage. Empty sheaves to the right will pick up the cable as soon as the car passes downwards. As in all funiculars, the outer wheel-sets of each car had flanges both inside and outside the rail: the inside wheels had no flanges at all. Thus, each car followed the outer track at the passing zone, preventing collisions.

Get your partners for the tunnel!

This is one of the stopping-places along the line, located just before the tunnel (if you are on a down-car), or just after the tunnel (if you are on an up-car). Close inspection of the picture shows there is someone on the path, walking away, so he has probably just gotten off an up-car and we are continuing on up.

On the first lift section

Photo is taken from a car going up on the left track; the balance-car is descending, as can be deduced by the cable lying behind it. The down-car will rejoin the single line just beyond the curve.

Passing track on the upper flight

My car is going up: the cable in the sheaves is attached to the balance-car going down. The weight of the cars, and particularly that of the cable, is so large that the system would never know whether there were people aboard a car or not.

Lower end of the upper flight, and change-station

Approaching (or perhaps departing) the change-station. Winding house for the lower flight is at left, gantry-crane for lifting cars for maintenance is overhead, and repair shops to the right. I understand that the system has been rebuilt fairly recently, and the change-station eliminated. This makes this funicular the longest in the world.

The main departure point at the bottom of the funicular

A pathway, possibly a road passes under the right-of-way, and a crane can be seen used for lifting cars for maintenance. Just visible in the distance are small souvenir shops and a parking-lot.

On our way to the top

An engineering marvel! I hope at least one of the original sets of winding machinery has been preserved. It was 46 years old when I was there, and functioned perfectly. It was approaching 100 when replaced.

Looking out of the tunnel

No way to know if I was ascending or descending when the picture was taken, but either way the ride was spectacular and great fun. I rode at least once each day I was on Penang, and on several occasions twice or more. The views at night were breath-taking.

Funicular with curves!

The British engineers who built this thing knew what they were doing!  The modernization was done by a Swiss mob. In this day when everyone is in such a hurry, I suppose the delay at the change-station had become intolerable.

Modern cars passing

Each car now has an operator: my guess is the propulsion system is now regulated by telemetry, and there is no operator in the winding-house. But there MUST be a winding house: just how the system is controlled now I’m not sure, and I’d love to have someone tell me.

Looking down from the change-station

This view and the next were taking in 1968.

Georgetown seen from the top of Penang hill, 1968

A fairly recent view of Georgetown

Much has changed since 1968!

Somewhere along the round-the-island road

This snapshot was taken somewhere on the road around the island of Penang. No doubt the road has been improved: it’s likely now a 4-lane highway. Time marches on, but I will always remember my stay on Penang with great fondness, and I’m particularly glad to see that the Penang Hill Railway is still operating.

My next stop was Ipoh, Malaysia.

NEXT

May 29, 2009

NUCLEAR NON-PROLIFERATION

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

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

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I resolved to be more careful.

FATEFUL MEETING

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

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

THE STORM

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, indeed!

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

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

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

NEXT

PHOTOGRAPHY

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

National Geographic, June 2009

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

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

FINDING MY WAY

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

THE SAGA CONTINUES

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

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

The Only Picture I Took of Angkor Wat Itself

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

Banteay Srey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Track to Chau Srei Vibol. The Puddle was formidable!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming up: on to Thailand!  Stay with me…

NEXT

AROUND THE COUNTRY

To get our minds off Mom’s demise Dad took us on a trip around the country: basically, we went to Quebec by way of New Orleans. This was the summer of 1951: “Jim Crow” was in full swing, and Dad hated everything about the South, but felt we boys ought to see it. I’m glad he lived long enough to see much of the discrimination reduced.

We traveled in our 1948 Chrysler Windsor, pulling a Higgins trailer. Ours was blue, like the one in the photo, and as far as I know, they all were.

A Higgins trailer like the one we had

These were popular in the late forties and early 50s, and our family, now of four, fit inside just fine. We saved a lot of money not staying in motels. The two halves of the trailer lid opened out on hinges and a canvas tent popped up on metal stays. Sleeping-bags went on the  two opened flaps, and there was room for two more on the floor of the thing. Here’s a view inside: I slept right up there, and my older brother slept on the one opposite.

The two halves of the trailer lid opened out on hinges and a canvas tent popped up on metal stays.

Dad and my oldest brother flopped on the floor. We had cooking equipment and carried our own food, so we  slept and ate nearly all of our meals in and around this contraption for the  whole summer.

My biggest problem under this regime was to find times when I could exercise my new ability to jack off. I expect my brothers had the same problem, but none of us ever thought of taking matters in hand together. So the summer was spent whacking off in gas-station rest-rooms, behind trees at camp-grounds, and at other places that presented the opportunity.

On the way home, Dad remained in Denver for some conferences, so my brothers and I continued on our own by way of Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. I often jerked off in the back seat of the car, believing my bothers did not notice. I expect they did, though, but chose not to say anything about it. I recall wandering off alone in Yellowstone one day (a fascinating place for a budding chemist): watching a small geyser erupt, I could not help myself. I pulled my pud and erupted right along with it! Far as I know no one was watching, but who knows? Maybe I gave a voyeur something to remember.

GROWING UP

With hormones now ruling my life, I grew up another foot, and out by an inch or two where it really counts. Better yet, I began to find some hair here and there where there had been none. So, when I entered my sophomore year at MHS, I was catching up to my peers in ways that made me feel a little better about myself. Nevertheless, there were residual effects from the hazing I got for being so immature: I became completely pee-shy, unable to piss in the presence of another person (unless I sat in a stall).

This pretty well put an end to my cruising for dick in the boys’ rooms, and in fact led to a permanent aversion to “tea-room” sex.

SOPHOMORE YEAR

The science course in my second year was Biology. We dissected frogs and did all the usual icky stuff. We also got some rudimentary sex “education”, in a class separated by sex. The girls, who probably would have benefited from some insight into how boys work, saw films about girls. The boys, who might have found useful some insight into how girls work, saw films about boys! If what the girls saw was as unenlightening as what we did, the whole exercise was futile. How  can you spend a half hour discussing sex with a bunch of horny teen-aged boys and NOT EVEN MENTION masturbation? Sheeesh! However, the episode did give me an inkling that I might not be so different from my peers as I had come to think.

I endured PE, this time with the help of a lanky fellow named Bill who enjoyed playing hand-ball as much as I did. We actually got pretty good at it, kept score, and once in a while induced another guy to attempt it with one or the other of us. I got a passing grade in PE for the first time in my life!

Still, I remained very much a “loner”. I had only a few friends, one of them a devout and proper Catholic boy who I liked a lot intellectually, though I was not attracted to him physically. He was a bit pudgy; my aversion to adipose tissue was already evident. But at the end of that school year, Gary went off to Bellarmine Prep School, determined to be a priest, so he went out of my life. The tall and lanky basket-ball players remained my favorites and fantasy-fodder for innumerable jack-off sessions—by myself, as usual—and while I often contemplated broaching the subject of mutual JO to other boys, I never did so. I generally got my rocks off twice a day: once after getting home from school, and once before going to sleep. On week-ends, with many hours spent alone in my little “laboratory”, I might scatter my seed on the floor several times. My last act of every day was to whack off in bed, where I just rolled on my side and shot my wad on the wall. I’d be asleep in minutes: masturbation is nothing if not a good soporific!

I was beginning to form some fixations that have lasted to this day. One was a fascination with arms (and legs) which I have already mentioned. Another was a fascination with boys’ adams-apples, since my own did not yet show.

But my primary fixation was on the phallus: furtive glances in the gym were not what I had in mind! It would be a while before I got my hands on one other than my own!

ANOTHER MOVE

As that school year drew to a close, Dad moved us to a rebuilt house on the outskirts, nearer to his job and nearer to the railroad.

The move resulted in one of the most embarrassing moments of my youth. When the bed in my room was removed by the moving crew, the wall beside it (which had once been all white) was found festooned with yellowing cum-stains! Their location on the wall made it abundantly clear that little Bruciebabe had been spraying his load repeatedly on that wall! It’s twoo, it’s twoo!  I’d been shooting off every night for a year or more; the incrustation was not only obvious, it shouted out to anyone who looked: that little kid’s been spankin’ the monkey! I was mortified, but not a soul mentioned it. Whoever bought the house musta painted that little bedroom quickly.

Ironically, we had a half acre of almond trees again, but never harvested them ourselves: Dad sold the crop to the neighbor who also had almonds. The impetus for a new house was his remarriage, too soon after Mom’s passing as it turned out. His new wife was a real bitch, and she had a bratty kid from a former marriage who was too young to be of much interest to me.

However, our move put me closer to a fellow I admired named Jim. He and I shared many interests in mechanical things and, above all, CARS! Jim had several, and through his influence I was able to find a beat-up 1926 Dodge sedan that cost me all of fifty bucks. The windows (except windshield) were missing, and the upholstery was in tatters, but it ran well and I loved it. That car was the first of a bunch of them, all unusual in some way. I had a lot of fun with a 1933 Oldsmobile straight-8 sedan: the engine was so worn out it got only 18 miles to the quart of oil. A few trips the length of the town’s main drag on a hot summer night would lay down a formidable smoke-screen of blue haze. It did not look anything like this restored one, except for the shape: mine was black and ready for the junkyard. (Oh, wait: that’s where I got it)!

Restored 1933 Oldsmobile Straight-8 Sedan

Jim and I bummed around a lot the summer following my sophomore year. Dad and his new shrew wife were off on what I later learned was anything but a honeymoon, so we had plenty of time to go places and do things. One night we were tinkering in his work-room when he asked me a question I certainly had not expected: “Have you ever jacked-off a dog?” Holy cow! It was the first time he’d mentioned anything even remotely about sex! I had to answer truthfully, (see my story Animal Crackers at Nifty), “Yes, why do you ask?”

In the end, we went behind his garage and I showed him how to JO his mutt, at the conclusion of which it was obvious Jim had a hard-on, just as I did. We went inside the garage, sat side-by-side with our backs to the wall, opened our pants and fondled ourselves for a few minutes. Then it happened: Jim reached over and grabbed my prick! I thought I’d died and gone to heaven: it felt absolutely incredible, and utterly unlike how it felt when I held myself. Within seconds, I had his dick in my fist and … well, you know what happened.

Absolutely Wonderful

Though it felt absolutely wonderful to jack each other, we completed the “off” part individually, much as we would have done if alone. In fact, that remained the pattern whenever we got together, which was often. I discovered Jim got horny when driving, just as I did (and, I think, many men do), so most of our jaunts into the Sierra foothills on back roads resulted in one or more JO sessions together. It was a fun and busy summer: the wall in my new bedroom remained clean since Jim and I got off together often, and because when I pounded one out at home, I used an old towel I kept under the bed.

JUNIOR YEAR

At the end of summer my Dad and his new bride shrew returned and life should have returned to normal. Several events occurred to render the school year different. It quickly became apparent  that Dad’s love-life did not exist, and his marriage was headed for divorce. Lillian, a fiery red-head, might have been a hot number once, but towards my Dad she was utterly frigid. When it came some months on, the divorce was based on the fact their marriage had never been consummated! Now that I was learning the importance of getting off, I had a new appreciation for Dad’s dilemma: his needs were obviously not being fulfilled by this witch. Can you spell  G-O-L-D   D-I-G-G-E-R ?

More importantly, now that Jim and I were on intimate terms, I learned he had been using his expensive polaroid camera to photograph as many hard-ons as he could find! Mine joined his rogues’ gallery soon enough, but the erection that fascinated me most was attached to a fellow nick-named Butch—I forget his real name now. Imagine my surprise, then, when I learned Butch was only a seventh-grader, and a classmate of my (for the moment) step-brother! For some reason, Jim had lost interest in Butch, but I was fascinated by the photo of his toad-stabber, and through the agency of little Dougie was able to make Butch’s acquaintance. He lived only a couple of blocks away, had a car, and loved to let me play with his salami! Despite his being younger than I, Butch was taller, far more precocious, and well ahead of me physically. I coulda cared less: he was willing to let me play with his prick, which was enough for me (it was enough for two, to tell the truth, but I kept him for myself)! [Jim and his photos, and Butch, found their way into my story, Piece on Earth: read it at Nifty].

Dad was busy most nights and his “wife” would take her kid and go somewhere (I didn’t care where, as long as they were away!) so I had the house to myself. I’d call Butch, he’d drive over, and we’d play for several hours. Don’t ask me why: we never tried sucking or fucking! We just played with each other’s hard-on and felt each other up elsewhere (remember, I already loved legs and arms, and Butch had some fine examples). He seemed to get a kick out of my lack of precocity, just as I was fascinated by his abundance of it. When he got tired of playing, he’d announce a “race” to see who could cum first: I always won. It seemed with all that length to deal with (I did measure, and he was fully 8½ when hard) it took him a long time to reach nirvana. Perhaps watching me shoot helped, for soon after I shot my wad on to the wooden floor he would blast his likewise. That signaled the end of  our tryst: he’d hike up his jeans and drive home. I was so wound up, I’d often whack off again, then wipe up the mess before going to bed.

Those grand romps came to an abrupt halt: some gal got him up one night and stuck that lovely thing in her snatch, and it was all over: little Bruciebabe couldn’t hold a candle to the “real thing”.  Damn!

As a Junior, I was taking Chemistry as my science subject. However, since I’d already done all the experiments and knew the subject well, the instructor appointed me as “lab assistant”, so while he was lecturing I was prepping his “show and tell”.  Perhaps the association of chemistry in my little home lab with the number of times I whacked off there was the cause: whatever, I jacked off in the school lab frequently while the lecture in the adjoining room was in progress.

I was also on television that year, on a program called “Science in Action”. This is described in some detail in my story, Central Valley High: read it on Nifty.

FRUSTRATION!

The divorce was finalized mid-year and Lillian & Doug were gone. For good! My sex-life consisted of an occasional wank with Jim and non-stop wanks at home. One day in Latin class a fellow I liked a lot stuck his leg out into the aisle, which caused his jeans to ride up, revealing some leg above his socks. I was fascinated by the hairiness there, since my own ankles were as yet glabrous and skinny. I wanted desperately to see more of that leg—and him, so set about developing a plan. It eventuated that he accompanied my Dad and myself when I drove Dad to a conference in the Bay Area. Ed and I were alone in the car on the way home, and as night fell I managed to get our discussion worked around to sex. I got hornier and hornier, and so did he, so we finally agreed to jack off together (or so I thought). I drove off the highway to a spot I knew where we would not be bothered, hoping to slide across the seat and extricate his meat in preparation for some funzies, but before I could move he was out the door and into the back seat! Damn! It was dark, so I couldn’t even see what he was whacking at back there. We shot our respective wads into paper towels (I was prepared), he returned to the front seat and we drove home, our desultory conversation turned to less interesting things. I never made another attempt on him, and think maybe my aversion to body-hair may have originated from the frustration of not having had a good time with him. He was the only fellow in high school I even tried to lure into my clutches.

To be continued …

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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 …

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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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The arrow points to Djakarta (Jakarta)

26 November 1968

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

Mt. Agung behind the Besikih Temple complex

Looking back on Besikih from the flank of Agung

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

The original paste-up panorama

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

Improved photo; standing on the rim of the ancient volcano

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

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

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

Love to all~

Bruce

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

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

That’s a local taxi in Denpasar

The “main drag” of Denpasar in 1968

Families gather for a funeral

The pyre has been lit

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

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

The stark whiteness contrast with the usually dark stonework

Doors are important in Bali

Doors were important to ancient Egyptians, too

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

The countryside around Denpasar was spectacular

Roads made for motorcycling!

Somewhere on Bali, a typical village scene

Looks like work to me!

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

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Let’s take a ride behind steam on the G&Q!

I’ve already covered the part from Durán to Bucay, so will only repeat a bit of that here. But the real fun starts in Bucay, where average grades run between 4 and 5%. Even getting the train under way at Bucay is not easy, as the rails are on a curve at several percent grade!

Here we go:

Here’s your ticket!

Work gets under way early. Engines may have to be fired up from cold, or brought up to pressure if a night-hostler has kept them warm.

Number 11 will take us to Bucay today. This little Atlantic is only 68 years old! Her fire is little balky, lacking a good draft.

The train has been made up, and number 11 struggles to get traction on the wet rails as it pulls the train into the station.

Note the lack of a fireman: the engine was just being moved down to its train, so the night-hostler did the needful.

As we pull out of Durán, we pass several old engines, but the one at right is Number 58, the last engine to come to the G&Q from Baldwin, and one of the last Baldwins built.

We have arrived at the southern end of Bucay. Here the train brakes will be set, and number 11 will enter the yard for a well earned rest and drink of water. She will take a small freight consist back to Durán. Number 46 awaits us and will back down to pull our train on up to Bucay Station.

At 33 years of age, Number 46 is a youngster compared with Number 11! This Consolidation will take us on up to Alausí.

Meanwhile, Number 17 is being fired up to take a freight extra down to Durán.

Number 11, rested and watered, backs to her train back to Durán.

And Number 17 moves back to her train, a freight running extra.

After thorough oiling and turning on the wye, Number 46 will back down to replace Number 11 at the head of our train.

Under way briefly, we are pulled up into Bucay town and station, right up the main (and pretty much only) street in town.

We approach the station at Bucay. Here we will wait for some problems to be corrected.

Derailments are not uncommon, as most of the ties are rotten in the ground. Spreading a rail is all too easy.

One of our group wanted to ride this little chair-car, but he was chased off: the car was reserved for a big-wig of the railroad!

Here is the business end of Engine 46.

Pretty simple, really!

Looking back as we depart Bucay with many passengers on the roof of the boxcar.

We cross the Rio Chan Chan immediately as we depart Bucay. We will cross it many times!

Further on we pass a diesel engine and a steam engine in the hole for us.

The rails look more like a foot-path, but we will pass over them momentarily.

We soon cross the ChanChan again. Note the still-lush flora; it is not quite so tropical here as down in the flats. Before we reach Alausí we will reach past the treeline.

That’s the ChanChan in the foreground, and another bridge over it in the distance. We are getting into the hills now.

Approaching that bridge over the ChanChan.

The Rio ChanChan has gone on numerous rampages over the years, so this section of the railroad has been rebuilt repeatedly. That’s our way forward above the water-line.

There are several tunnels. Riding on the tender of a locomotive is not the best place to be when going through, but fortunately, there was light at the other end.

Get your partners for the tunnel! Better yet, put a shirt over your head and stop breathing!

The mechanista often has a tough time when the rails are wet and slippery. But sometimes it is a family affair!

We are entering a canyon, and will soon reach Sibambe. The Cuenca branch of the railroad can be seen coming down the hillside.

It’s worth looking back whence we’ve come once in a while!

Onward and upward! the Engineer has one hand on the throttle and the other on the brakes as the engine works. The Fireman is alert to whatever is ahead, and maintains the fire. He also sees to it water is fed into the boiler as fast as it is used up.

It is necessary to sand the flues often. Bunker C oil burns badly and makes a lot of soot that reduces the rate of heat transfer from the fire to the boiler tubes. Sand passing through knocks off the soot, and also rains down on whoever might be sitting on the tender. Like me!

There are numerous water-stops along the way. Working on heavy grades, these little engines boil a lot of water!

The Engineer keeps a sharp eye out for rock-slides and other hazards.

There is our first glimpse of the Nariz del Diablo: the Devil’s Nose.

Still working hard! Sibambe is not far around the next corner, and the Cuenca branch comes down from the right.

The two cuts comprising the switch-back on the Devil’s Nose can be seen clearly. Our little train will be up there fairly soon!

Looking up from Sibambe at an autoferro ascending the Devil’s Nose.

Our train takes water again and has bit of a rest at Sibambe.

The station at Sibambe.

We depart Sibambe. The train will go as far as it ever did up the canyon of the Rio ChanChan.

The Canyon walls close in as we struggle upwards.

We encounter a train in Huigra pulled by S&C Number 18.

We depart Huigra. From here it is not far to end of line. (Except for the switch-back, that is).

Approaching the first switch. Once clear of it, we will back up on the track seen at right.

Our train has cleared the switch, and will now back up on the track curving left.

We back up around the Devil’s nose. The Engineer cannot see the end of his train, and has to take it on faith that his train remains on the track! Of course, there are numerous brakemen who keep watch as well.

When our engine clears this switch, it will be thrown to put us on the forward leg of the switch-back.

We approach the reversing switch. The rest of the train is out of sight around the curvature of the Devil’s nose.

The Engineer seems bored. I suppose it was all in a day’s work for them, but it was exciting for me!

This is the view looking back down to Sibambe!

We have pulled ahead on the upper track and are headed for Alausí. Note how the flora has changed! We are still on the Devil’s Nose here.

We are just about off the Devil’s nose itself. Our train is perched delicately on this rocky ledge.

We are off the Devil’s Nose. Alausí is not far ahead.

That’s our line ahead. The ChanChan is now far below us. We will be in clouds before long!

Number 51 resting at Alausí. She’s dead-heading down hill after helping a freight up the hill seen beyond the town. That way lies Riobamba, but in 1979 only the Diesel electrics were making that run.

That’s my tale of a trip up the Andes behind steam. Sharp eyes will note that several engines are used in this excursion, which is really a compilation of several such runs at various times. I rode the G&Q every chance I got, and on some days made the ascent from Bucay to Alausí several times. It was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, as the old saying goes, and many years later I returned to ride again, by which time the railroad was pretty far gone. I’ll cover that in my narrative later on. Meanwhile, before returning to Cairo, I will put up one more page of miscellaneous sights on the G&Q.

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Arrow points to Trang

Monday 14 October 1968

Hello again all~

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

Arrow points to Nakhon Si Thammarat

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

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

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

Somewhere on the way to Nakohn Sri Thamarat

Apparently I found some film!

We passed a freight train at Ron Phibun

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

RSR Loco 353 departs with its train

Somewhere we passed this fine locomotive and train

Tuesday, 15 October 1968

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

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

Friday 18 October 1968

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

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

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

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

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ORGANIZING MY DEPARTURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passport

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

Voided visa

. . . and I had my visa for Cambodia:

Cambodia visa

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

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