Articles published in October, 2024
Journeys, I have come to believe, are made in the imagination. When the mind is distracted by physical discomfort and unsatisfied cravings it is difficult to appreciate the beauty and significance of scenery and events as they unfold. After ten weeks in France and England I was still cluttered by the desire for the meat and wine of Europe; my skin was uncomfortable in the heat of Madras; I was impatient to find my balance again.
September 19th 1976
Went to dance performance at Vani Mahal, a theatre. Many gorgeous Hindu ladies present. One professional dancer very good – but very little explanation. In audience was Vera Goldman, Israeli from Australia. She talked to me first and went to Chola Hotel for coffee. No espresso coffee – so I asked for a slow one instead. She told me about Aboriginals. Had spent time with them – “dream time” – a time space without chronology in which thought roams free to produce song and art. A woman of great force and temper who worked at Kulashatra Dance Academy directed by a Mrs Arundel (widow of an English theologian). She describes Mrs A. as an evil dragon. Murari and Rada think she’s wonderful. Am fascinated by Vera’s passionate Jewishness, the amazing curves of her face. Nose and mouth. At times beautiful, at times hideous. Ending a dreadfully tempestuous love affair with an Indian dancer. Murari’s gate locked when I return. I lock bike up outside, go to bed and think paranoid thoughts, then get up again to stay with bike. But this time my movement wakes M up, who says he meant to stay awake. Ignominy!
20th
Today the eggs I bought yesterday, which could not be cooked then because it was a holiday, are made into scramble with onions. Good. Go through my tools and parts. All in good order. Write letters to PH, RAC, Th’an, Carol. Mum, Adrienne and Sai Baba. Tea with Rada Krishnan. As he emerges he appears very loose and flabby and his speech is difficult to follow. Quickly it becomes easier and he himself seems to assume a more definite form. Talks most humorously about his dealings with the artists’ community outside Madras founded 11 years ago. Painting on the wall by the president is a nice one. Tale of the ‘untouchable’ who felt that his caste was being oppressed because nobody bought his paintings. Sad story of ugly man who drew painstakingly beautiful line drawings in which he appeared as a lonely, shunned figure. While they were all wondering how to help him he committed suicide.
Also, the visit of Sai Baba to open the hospital of R’s father-in-law.
[Colonel Muirari was a disciple of Sai Baba, a famous holy man with an ashram in Bangalore. He spoke to me often of Sai Baba’s “miracles.” Mysterious appearance of honey and ash, called “vibuti.”]
The light in half the hospital went off, but R swears there is only one fuse. (How could that be? How many bulbs were there?) On to dinner with Vera. V in flames about the hammering rock music. But cools down and tells more about her life. Beautiful parents from Vienna (Hammerbrod?) Recently died. She gets a monthly sum to keep her going. Mother died of cancer. Story of love affair. I engage in amateur psychotherapy, talk a bit about myself. Her lover’s personality sounds like a Peter Sellers. We go on to the Marina and walk around the tomb of the DMIS leader [DMIS stood for the Directorate of Military Intelligence and Security.] then sit on steps facing the beach. Group of Khaki police stroll by, flipping truncheons. Warn us to stay off the beach. Eventually take her home to Ardyor, ten miles along Mount Road.
20th
[I was gradually getting ready to leave. My plan was first to follow a well-trodden path to the temples which are a famous feature of this part of India. Thee first if them was at Kanchipuram.]
More packing. Breakfast. (Rice pancakes). To post office, Cook’s, Lucas. Feels good on bike. Seem to be thoroughly acclimatised again. Most impressive man so far at Lucas. Also hopes to make some introduction to Sai Baba through friends. [Didn’t happen].
21st, Tuesday. To Kanchi
From Madras, 15,121 miles. [I was keeping record of mileage since odometer change, probably in San Francisco.] New oil. Once out of town the flashback to Middle East was most noticeable. The environment felt very similar to Nile Valley. The arrangement of the houses – in occasional clusters ¬– differs from S.E. Asia where each house is larger, better evolved, set in a larger space, a little aloof from road and neighbours. Here also it’s mainly paddy farming with water buffalo, but there are also teams of oxen, maybe six pair, charging through a field in circles, moving much faster than I remember. The people make a different shape too. The men longer sinewed, black, naked but for a triangle of cloth, gleaming thighs, long like Arab thighs. Women in separate groups, very colourful among the greenery. Many brick kilns and quarries. A bright blue bird with darker “wing flaps.”
The road was almost empty, very narrow, with bumpy tar. I rode the whole way at 30 mph and it didn’t seem too slow.
Walking round my first Indian temple, Ekambareswarar. A great slab is held up by carved columns about ten feet apart, some long, some short.
A variety of people are there – all of them give the impression of having been cast there by enchantment. An elegant group with shaven heads and bright saris sits there around a small fire with large aluminium pots, shaped like this. U.
Others like young tramps. A bearded gent approaches me with a holy look and moves his arms in a kind of semaphore.
The man in Siva’s lodge at the entrance also had an imperious look, rather [illegible] I thought, beckoning me to make an offering to some dark, mysterious object behind him (a lingam I suppose). All the way I was accompanied by a dark, graceful man with a sweet smile who simply murmured quietly “Ah, those boys,” when the kids came to me. For a while I sat under some other columns and photographed an elephant, foot in chains, and some people.
Then approached the temple entrance. A tariff of rates, in Hindi, offered 39, 75, 1,25 and 2,50. What for? I asked to see a pamphlet, but it was historical, not descriptive. But the rates didn’t apply to me, and I was shepherded instead around the outer corridors by a younger man – “I am not a guide, I am a priest.” He gave the unintelligible commentary, and led me inexorably to the mango tree, 3000 years old (?) with four branches, bearing different qualities of fruit, sweet, sour, bitter, and something. An elderly man gave a routine patter and led me round the tree – it might have been a mulberry bush. I was told that 10 rupees was the least I should give to be shared “among these friends” – his arm embracing the various acolytes I had acquired along the way. Ungraciously I gave 2 rupees and paid even less attention to my priest on the way out while wishing I had the calmness in refusal that I would have liked. Of course, I was a-dangle with cameras and lenses. The priest got nothing from me – nor the boy with the inevitable “coin collection.” The quiet man at last drifted away. I passed him later in the street, still with the same smile. Was it sincere, or stock in trade?
Round the bike a crowd of children from school. I clowned with them a while and felt better. Then one of them spotted by pen. “Pen, pen,” they cried. It was almost seized from my shirt. I moved it to my trousers and as I got on the bike I felt it slip from my pocket. My good nature failed to survive this, but at least I didn’t become too obnoxious. Now have this lousy pen, bought at a stall.
22nd, Wednesday. From Kanchi
Caught in rain storm just before bed. Moved into hotel corridor. Breakfast, then East to Chingleput for petrol. Took road to Sardas. Beach. Boy to guard bike. Heavy waves. Burning sand and sun. Fishermen scouring water on rafts of four logs and paddles. Later roundabout route to Mahabalipuram. Stopped at village to photograph silk combing.
Offered hank of silk for five rupees, but colours were wrong. Men friendly but no word of English. At M. tried PWD [Public Works Department maintains rest houses.] No success.
ITDC [India Tourism Development Corporation hotels.] far too expensive. To Manali Lodge. 5 rupees. Then rode out to see carvings from solid granite.
Temples, elephant, etc. then had fish at Rose Garden. Intelligent young Indian proprietor – deserves to succeed. Next morning to photograph Arjuna’s Penance. Then hot ride to Pondicherry. Again roundabout route. Got to Continental Hotel at 4pm. Had beer and mutton curry, met Murray Masters, thence to Government Hostel. Not feeling good. Terrible dry cough and inflamed throat from bad night at Rada Krishnan’s house. It is now Thursday night.
Had beans and onions for breakfast at Kanchi.
24th, Friday
Long uncomfortable day with touch of fever. Made leather box for razor. Talked to night man at hostel. Was in Malaysia before war, looked after by sister. Back to India in 1940. British army in North Africa. Demobbed in 1947. Tiny gratuity. Says the French paid vastly better. Told story when he was yardmaster at Suez, and brigadier tried to boss him about. Lots of bluff and bravado. One crazy tooth and a mischievous face.
25th Saturday
Had early adventure with bad egg. Then rode out to Auroville with Murray on back. Low expectations – but found excellent people. Jocelyn the girl; Chris, American; Michael, English. The “revolution”. The meditation chamber. The French Auromodel homes. Bernard. Long rides over sticky red mud. Reforestation. Casuarinas. Neem tree. Banyan. Beginnings of symbiosis between Auroville and the Indian villages. Good feelings. Ride back to Pondy along crowded road and through clouds of insects. Conversation outside Continental with human scrap on pavement. Remarkable person – 40 years old. Address book is full of tourists’ names ¬– mostly German. Head normal. Chest baby-sized. Rest shriveled and contorted beyond recognition. Scarcely 18” above ground. His accomplishment in making contact with people seems very superior to me. Would like to pursue the matter.
There’s much more about all this in Riding High.
I’m going back to California next week to preside over the election of Kamala Harris (I hope). Brexit was terrible, Trump could be even worse. What causes this suicidal impulse? I guess a lot of people just didn’t feel anyone was paying attention.
So I might not be back here for a week or two. Goodbye and Good luck.
[My arrival in India could not have been more fortunate. I had an introduction. Three years earlier an Indian friend living in London had invited me to stay with his uncle, Colonel Murari, retired, whose home was in the outskirts of Madras. I had anticipated that disembarkation from the Chidambaram would be an endlessly frustrating affair, so I was happy to find it was only ordinarily time-consuming, and I was able to get to the Colonel’s house at a reasonable time. Not only that, but my friend also happened to be there for a short visit.
There were three central figures in the household – the Colonel, his middle-aged housekeeper, Gaja, and an elderly man, Rajaram, who was the resident guru.
Rajaram in the colonel’s courtyard
It surprises me now that I wrote almost nothing in my notebook about this period in the colonel’s home, although it is described in detail in Jupiter’s Travels, and I can still recall it vividly. I remember how peaceful it was, how perfectly I seem to have acclimated myself to the heat. Rajaram had a daughter who was preparing her wedding and, as was traditional, a vast number of relatives were expected to attend. Rajaram was in high good humour.]
Rajaram – “there are 4000 people – each is getting a tamarind leaf with one grain of rice.”
Rajaram’s daughter and friend discussing the wedding
[Later he examined me closely with his large, luminous eyes.]
Told me I learned to fly and that once I threw stones at a cat – or hit some animal when I was eight or ten – and got hit by some relation.
Rajaram instructing the colonel
[There was a Lucas office in Madras and I connected with them.
Just as I was getting ready to move on, they received a telegram for me from Peter Harland at the Sunday Times. The news was shocking. My stepfather had suddenly died. Even though I had been determined that my journey would be a single, complete and unbroken journey around the world, I would have to break it to be with my mother.
The newspaper generously offered to pay for the flights. I left my bike with the Lucas people, and they took me to the airport.]
Flight from Madras to Bombay – up into monsoon cloud. Plane rocking all over, with Indian music tinkling and the Calcutta tea merchant sitting next to me shooting his cuffs.
London beginning of July. Off plane at London airport. Met by Peter. Very kind. Amazingly familiar. Almost impossible to relate anything new. So, for a message to carry conviction there must be [illegible] at both ends.
We go to pub. The Blue Lion. Drink a bitter, then up to the office after much hesitation about the effect of appearing there like that. Left film for developing – 3 rolls. Projector missing. Driving license I found immediately in parcel. Pretty bad first impression. Lunch. Greek. Retsina. The little place down the road.
Harry [Harold Evans, the Editor] received me and gave me two minutes of enthusiastic time, before being distracted. I had to gulp my bitter lemon to get out in time. Said I’d met Denis Hamilton in Cairo and remarked on my holiday plan for Harry – perhaps that was a bit gauche since I can’t remember how I put it. H seemed to have almost disappeared – shriveled I put it afterwards, naively. But he had read the bludger piece [This was a column I had sent from Australia.] I saw his memo describing it as “refreshing” – and there was a row after it had been cut.
Knightly came through and asked where I’d want to live. “Not Australia,” he said. “I didn’t think it was.” And off he went. Encounters are a bit fragmentary. Only Don Berry [a big shot at the paper] gave me a really warm smile and shook my hand, though I couldn’t remember his name at the time. PH gave me £20, which he said would be on exes, and drove me to Liverpool Street Station.
The train broke down just before Wickford, and we all stood on the platform. A Welsh woman with a man complained steadily about being stuck after their long journey from Wales – all of five hours, I believe, and I enjoyed my secret scorn.
Tried to phone from Wickford station but no reply. Then called taxi, which was unnecessary. Emotional home coming. Mother very happy to see me. Hanne there too, and Marta. [My aunts from Germany] Nell was there too. They said my mother had been crying a lot, and she also admitted it. I had not honestly been able to feel Bill’s death as a personal tragedy – my memories of him were not intimate enough, and I thought of him more as a craftsman and a ‘character.’ My emotional ties were with my mother and so I resolved to remain cheerful until the funeral was over.
TEN WEEKS LATER
15th September. London to Madras
[On the last leg, from Bombay to Madras I sat next to an Indian lecturer in Chemical Engineering, returning home from Frankfurt.]
He boiled all water in Germany before drinking it, because water is all polluted. “Don’t bother in Madras. We don’t have the same problem here. All our river water is pure.”
See snake farm by side of his institute – up to 5pm.
In Bombay he had met a friend at the airport who he said was “a great industrialist” in Madras. He rose from a cycle shop to manufacture scientific instruments. His daughter graduated and is running a new branch in Bombay. My friend persuaded him to offer me a lift to Kilpauk and we drove in my friend’s car, first to the latter’s home, where I was left to heat up outside the house for a while, then taken to Murari’s house. The “great industrialist” was not easy to talk to. I tackled him about quality control which I thought would be a great problem, but he brushed it aside. It was simply a matter of deciding whether you wanted to maintain quality or not. Those who didn’t went out of business – but meanwhile made things more difficult for the others.
Murari and Gaja seemed pleased to see me. My telegram from Bombay arrived the following morning. The place seemed different. The boy [my friend] had gone. The regime is more spartan. Obviously things are more special when “Nippi” is home. But Rajaram was his own sweet self.
September 16th
Trouble with Jet lag and climate. Slept very late. To Lucas in afternoon by auto rickshaw. The bike was beautifully cleaned and polished, but chain rusted solid in places. They put the battery back clumsily, with negative earth. Also, they seem to have lost the ignition key, and I rode off with a provisional connection on the leads.
17th
Time is better, but discomfort continues. Back to Lucas. They found the key. Meanwhile I found the spare. Only thing missing among my things was swimming trunks.
Telephone was cut off and Kutti [the housekeeper] has big scene with telephone people, rescuing torn up evidence from wastepaper basket.
I had bought a chicken in the morning – a bad move. When it appeared next morning it was all neck, head and bones. I asked innocently where the rest was but [she said] it was all in this tiny pot. Rajaram showed great restraint by eating with us at all and Murari felt very guilty.
[Those first days I felt completely out of sync – not just physically but morally and socially. Before leaving I had been perfectly adjusted, but now I was uncomfortable, led by my western appetites into making clumsy mistakes. I longed to get back to the easy rhythm I’d known.]
There was one passenger ship, the MV Chidambaram, that regularly crossed from Penang to Madras (now Chennai) and I was booked on it. Originally the ship had been named Pasteur and was a small luxury liner that crossed the Atlantic. It was known, I believe, to be a popular ship for wealthy gamblers. Some of that luxury was still visible in the upper decks, in the shape of a grand staircase sweeping down to a big saloon. At first the company insisted that “white people” had to travel First Class, which I found much too expensive. After some argument they changed the rules and sold me a Second Class ticket, which meant travelling with middle class Indians, mainly students. There was also a third class which I discovered on the second day. It consisted of wire cages stacked in the hold where poorer Indian families spent the four or five days of the voyage. They cooked their own food and, as far as I could tell, had no access to an open deck. The Chidambaram was eventually destroyed by fire. Here are my random notes on the voyage.
The MV Chidambaram (Née Pasteur) once highly luxurious.
Empty first class. Full dormitory. Packed bunks in cages.
Cockroaches, student ragging, measuring the gangways with half a matchstick. The filthy bar and the maniac barman with the huge, bruised face staring out of his hatch in neurotic hate and fear. The Indians are not graceful in their behaviour. They walk up and abruptly state their requirement in a harsh voice. Like Malaysians, they make a crowd where none need exist, crushing round counters with hands stretched out with money or documents or whatever. (In the post office the man sending a telegram with his nose through the bars watching every move of the clerk’s hand. In the hotel crowding round me simply to watch me write.)
The MV Chidambaram
Saturday morning – 6.30 – woken by unusual messages on speakers. Something about port and starboard. The engines have slowed right down. Are we at the first port? [The ship docked briefly at the Andaman Isles.]
I get out to find the port hatchway open and a man in long shorts and life jacket hanging out over a rope ladder. Someone is overboard. Did he jump? Or fall? Nobody’s sure. But when they threw lifebuoys, he swam like a champion. An old man, maybe 60. A lifeboat had been lowered and it seemed just a matter of bringing the ship round full circle to pick them all up. When the ship did come round it became clear that life wasn’t so simple. The boat was drifting, almost useless. It’s engine or propeller had been damaged in lowering it. There were oars, but with so few men aboard the oars hardly touched the water. The ship came past, beautifully navigated, to within 50 yards of the old man, now securely buoyed on two rings. But nothing happened and he drifted away again. Then the ship shuddered into reverse and slowed down.
“Number three lifeboat!”
This time I watched the boat go down. It was a sight of danger and violence I shan’t forget. The boat is lowered by two hefty steel hooks with pulleys through which the hawsers run. As the boat lowered it began to swing with the pitch and roll of the ship.
Halfway down the ropes were long enough to let it crash into the side of the ship. This happened several times, throwing the men about and bending the side of the boat, before they touched the water. There was a heavyish swell. One minute the boat was afloat, the next it was wrenched up by the tackle as the sea fell away beneath it. It seemed to be difficult to release the tackle. When one was free, the scene became far worse. As the sea dropped the boat bounced and swung, so that to grapple with the other tackle became extremely dangerous. And to make matters far worse, the other pulley, now dangling free, was swinging wildly back and forth across the boat hitting several men glancing blows. Heavy piece of metal. Surprised no-one was killed. Imagine it with a boatful of passengers. How was it possible?
At last the boat was free and away. Meanwhile a white-fin shark, of 7 or 8 feet, came close to the ship and, clearly visible, circled suspiciously. What, we all wondered, was circulating round the old man out there, rising and dipping in the ocean swell on his two rings of cork the colour of a Hindu cast mark? The shark made an exciting object – a brownish colour with all its fins and tail shading to white at the tips.
By now the man had been in the water for about an hour, although as he floated by he seemed all right. Was it sharks that prevented anyone from swimming out to him?
The new boat made its way slowly to him. When he was reached it seemed a long time before he was handed in. Then they went out collecting buoys and finally came back to the port side, but the swell prevented them from attaching to the side. Off again, to bring the other boat in on tow. Then, on starboard side where it was calm they strapped the old man into a mummy-shaped bundle and eventually man-handled him through a hatchway as he twisted and pitched face down and scraping over the metal of the hatch. Then the excruciating business of raising the boats again, just as lethal and bruising as before, with men hanging on to ropes for dear life as an officer shouts, again and again “Sit down! Sit down.”
An officer later said, smiling, that they practised putting boats into the water every two weeks. He said recently their radio operator had jumped in and they’d had him out in 11 minutes. There was a heavy swell today, he said. I suggested that perhaps the shackles couldn’t go down any further. “Yes,” he said. “they go down under their own weight.” But obviously they don’t. “Was anyone hurt?” I asked. “No,” he said, happily. Two minutes later, someone commented that several men were in hospital having injuries treated. “Yes,” he agreed, just as happily. He also added in explanation that if the boat had been full of passengers there would have been no trouble because of the boat’s extra weight and because, he said, “the passengers are asked to cooperate by moving to this side or that.” Since the men in the boat. when ordered to sit down, preferred to ignore the order, I can’t see how passengers could be expected to show more calm and discipline in a shipwreck. One swing of that massive iron shackle across the surface of a crowded lifeboat could be certain, I think, of meeting at least one skull. I’d like to be reassured that we do this kind of thing better. I’m glad this is my last ocean crossing. I think I shall cross the Channel by hovercraft.
Shipmates
The student girls. Easy chat. No shyness. Will sing, play piano, seem very close, but it means No.
The mini-bus party – theatrical Yorkshireman – craggy handsome face, grey windblown hair – self-consciously acting the part – but the world won’t fit his concept of himself, so he is harassed, nervous, and quarrelsome. Wife is a weathered trouper, son is dull and sullen, only (the) girl is open and equable.
Russ Powick – NZ via Aus, good sort if a bit noisy. Can’t help doing the “I say, jolly good show” bit with me. Nicest when he isn’t trying. Says the van party was like hell on earth. One endless squabble, with daughter as referee. Two young Englishmen returning from three years NZ. Two a bit older – one quiet bearded Aus, self-taught in life, from poor Sydney family; other a knowing, half-caste German from Hamburg (half Arabic I guess) Talks about the price of drugs and irritates me with “Rupes” for rupees.
Next week, India.
On my way back to the Choong Thean hotel.
June 19th
I didn’t mean to get to the border [between Thailand and Malaysia] so soon, but I’m loath to start any new adventures. How tepid – and here I am at the frontier. Another set of forms in quintuplet, and a pink one, and yet another, all laboriously filled out by the same young man with the pot belly, wide swarthy face and wearing the same shirt. Halfway through he reaches into his shirt, over his stomach and pulls out a pistol and dumps it in a drawer. Another thirty baht for stamps, and 50 baht for overtime. Saturday is a holiday. I must pay £3 to take the bike in and out.
At the Malaysian checkpoint I ask the customs officer whether he charges overtime as well. With all the smug understatement of a British official at a channel port he says, “This is Malaysia, not Thailand.”
On the new film, just changed fortunately, was a woman planting rice. Well there must be plenty of them about. Also my only picture of those strange outcrops of rock with tufts of veg on top. Would have also liked the long wooden two-storey houses – a full block in length – with shops below: fore-runners of the brick ones in Penang. But these are not colonnaded.
A telegram awaits me at the Choong Thean, telling me not to worry about the crankshaft. Strange. [I wasn’t worried, and had no idea where this came from.]
I’m obsessed by absence of word from Jo.
[I was in thrall to two women, Carol and Jo. All of this will have to be explained, another time.]
Bloat myself on a two-course meal at the Tai Tong restaurant in Cintra street, on corner of Campbell. Only decent restaurant I’ve found in Penang – thanks to Carol. And where is she now? And what does it mean to me? Once again, the sense of sliding away.
At the Kedai Kopi [coffee shop] on Rope Walk. Calendar on the wall. Idiot blond racing driver (Formula 2) wearing laurels and smoking Rothmans. “When you know what you’re doing ….“
Another shows idiot boat designer and client, both European of course, burning up State Express, the successful man’s cigarette.
And another from Lee Yean Lum, shows a woman on a collapsable divan.
Opposite me there’s a skinny brown fellow impatiently filling an empty Benson & Hedges Gold pack with cheap cigarettes. Tosses the empty packets on the floor. The manager screams, and he picks up the refuse. His trishaw waits outside. No, not his. He has only an enormous sack and a huge wicker basket which he carries and drags off down the road. The trishaw belongs to the other man with the fixed crook in his neck who’s always here going through the Chinese papers at night.
The other news at the hotel is that Th’an has got the sack. He looks at me imploringly as he returns my five dollars – which I return to him. But he might be slyer than I think.
Sunday 20th June
Last night slept in the Boss’s room. Surprisingly cool, and quiet once the mahjong players give up after midnight. Today moved back to room 6 – which should have a bronze plaque attached to honour me. Decide to send home everything I can spare. Don’t want my loose bits and pieces around to fall off and disappear. Think a lot depends on keeping a ‘tight ship’ for a while.
That’s a strange metaphor. Seems quite gross and inapt. But it’s a matter of control and outline. Just as any living cell may be composed of exactly the same ingredients as the surrounding environment but still must retain its individuality within a membrane to exist at all. Its form may fluctuate constantly and it is in permanent exchange with its environment. But the order on which it depends must be protected.
The thief ruptures my membrane, but only because it is strained and weak in certain places.
Things to do:
Pack extra things in box and post. $15
Buy ladles and fan
Buy Padlock
Make lense case
Buy gallon of oil
Postage rates: 1 Kg 11.60; 3 15.20; 5 19.30: 10 26.10
Send 9 kg parcel to mother. Contents: Carol’s boots, sweater, Jacket, Helmet. Club, 3 fans, 3 ladles, 2 baskets, maps and papers, sponge bag.
Last days in Penang
Met New Zealander, Jack, in room No. 7. He has inherited the trishaw driver, Jimmy who seems to go with the room. He has already tried opium and shames me. Together we visit Aik Seng bazaar (Smack Alley) and go to a den, one of several board shacks that line the alley. A plump man in pyjama trousers (with pocket) and small glasses squeezed onto a fat face, waits. Two double bunks at right angles fill one half of the room. A table in opposite corner. Bottom bunk is covered with line. Is very wide so that a man can lie on it crosswise. He takes the opium out of a shoe – little packets made from a leaf folded across once then folded again at the sides. Inside a dark brown tarry substance. The pipe is almost like a flute, dark polished wood hollowed and open at one end with a hole pierced in the side near the other end. Into the whole, and glued there by gum, fits the bowl. With a long needle he scrapes some of the resin off the leaf and holds it over a flame from a candle which burns inside a glass. The glass seems very thick, and has been cracked at some time, and patched up. We lie facing each other on the lino, on our sides.
My head is on a wooden block. He twirls the needled over the flame and the resin melts and bubbles out, making fantastic shapes as he rolls the needle to prevent the resin from falling off. The in its warm, pliable state he tamps it down and thrusts the needle into the bowl, first shaping it into a plug then twisting so that it remains in the small aperture with a fine channel for air left by the needle. The bowl is then inverted over the flame, and the art is to draw the pipe, long and slow, until all the opium has been exhausted, in one lungful. I got three lungfuls from a packet but was probably short changed since four or more are usual. When I’d mastered it (not difficult) he made approving noises – “Good, good.” – but instead of staying there to appreciate the effect we were ushered out into the street. All I felt was a prolonged haziness, no tension, which lasted till bedtime but much diminished. Following morning felt a slight undertone of apathy but not enough to stop me from doing my business. The main pleasure and interest was in the ritual and the conspiratorial intimacy of the atmosphere in that small, candle-lit box of cream and brown highlights and shadows.
Th’an, usually dressed in yellow, short sleeved vest and baggy cotton trousers. Usually seated, he flopped a little to the left with the shirt askew at the neckline. His feet protruded as dark and rather scaly objects in sandals. Iron grey hair in a real short-back-and-sides. Mouth usually open in an O shape, with the tongue tied back behind it.
“To go around the world you must have, I think so, five thousand dollars. Only then can you have enough, because I am too old. If I can go into the jungle or the desert I will die. “
As he expressed a sad thought, even though it is a purely hypothetical abstraction his face shows deep melancholy for that moment. It is in fact one of the great faces of my life. My Quasimodo.
I don’t know about you, but it feels very strange to be writing, gardening, cooking, drinking and laughing while the world around us seems to be rushing to a confluence of disastrous outcomes. It reminds me of when I was locked up in Brazil, with a not unreasonable expectation that they might “disappear” me. I found that I could only be really afraid for a few minutes, that you can only sustain it for so long before you start thinking of more enjoyable things. So I can easily imagine us all going laughing into the apocalypse. Right now I’m scared, but soon it’ll be time for dinner.
