da blogs da thang

… I figured this Picture Daze from 2006 was worth reposting.

Disclaimer: This edition of Picture Daze utilizes photos from other sources to facilitate the telling of the story. … which happens to be true

1967, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The first time I saw him, he was emerging out of a huge dumpster wearing a semi toothless grin delighted in his paperbags filled with empty bottles. I was all of 8 years old at the time and waiting at the parking lot behind the offices where my father worked.

This triangular parking area was nested behind the High Court, the Masjid (mosque) Jame and a block of shops. The unobservent eye would only see an open parking lot anchored to the north by a covered parking area where the cars of the High Court magistrates were kept. This little sliver of real estate however was a world unto itself. This was the original center of the city. 100 yards away, tin was discovered in the 1800′s at the confluence of the Klang and Gombak rivers from which the vibrant city of Kuala Lumpur (Mud Junction) would emerge.

The parking lot was worked during the day by “the 4 abangs” (big brothers) who earned their living washing cars and providing valet parking due to the limited space the area provided. One of them was our one-handed driver, Mamat, but his is a story for another time.

A teh tarik stall was situated under the outer over-hang of the covered garage run by a good natured Indian Muslim man and was the hub of choice for the various office workers on their breaks.

At around 10 AM the Chinese chee cheong fun man would roll in on his trishaw cart followed soon after by the crusty old Malay nasi lemak lady. Over the next 3 hours the parking lot would evolve into a bustling dining hub with the best that street food could offer.

It was in this setting that I befriended Playboy – a Chinese man in his 60′s with a ragged bush jacket, a floppy jungle hat holding down long stringy hair, a wispy “fu manchu”and a twinkle in his eye. This street person kept his entire belongings in 3 bundles in one of the covered parking stalls where he slept at night. I would find out later that the magistrates knew him well and always left that stall vacant for him. He supported his survival by pulling out bottles and cardboard boxes from dumpsters and selling them at Central Market… practicing recycling before it ever became fashionable or a movement.
(The High Court)
As I usually had an hour wait in this area after physiotherapy sessions nearby, Playboy and I soon became fast friends. He would always take the time to tell me stories, jokes and share what little he had to help me while away the time. Understanding very well that a whole hour was an eternity to a little boy. Often he would offer me bruised fruit he found in the dumpsters… always washing them and cutting away the bruised part before handing me a piece. He knew I loved mango and often when I turned up there would be a mango peeled, cut and ready for my consumption. I found out from “the abangs” much later that these mangos were never found but bought. I should have caught a clue because he never ate mangos… in fact it was one of the few fruits he didn’t care much for. (Masjid Jame)

Whenever he told me a story he would make a clicking sound with his mouth… as if to punctuate important sections to his story. It may have just been a tick but to a little boy it was theatre. He also had a wonderful cackling laugh that was infectious. I saw him 3 times a week for 2 years. My parents never discouraged this friendship which taught me that a friend is a friend no matter who or what their social standing was. Besides, all our dealings were out in an open parking lot with lots of people around.

Over that span of time I had heard rumors from others. Some said he was once a high powered Oxford educated lawyer, others said he was an eccentric millionaire, yet others claimed that he had been institutionalized. To me he was a kooky and funny old man who happened to be my friend.

Early in 1969 he disappeared for a whole month. No one knew where he was. When he did reappear he had changed. He was more reserved and he just didn’t look well. We would still chat… but he was different. There was a spark missing. I would later discover a bit of his past from my father and the reason for his antic demeanor.

In May 1969 political race riots broke out in Malaysia. We were under curfew for several months. When things calmed down I went back with my father to find Playboy. He wasn’t there. The parking stall that used to be reserved for him housed a black Mercedes Benz. It was then Playboy’s story began to unfold.
(Here is a rendering of Playboy I did from memory.)
Apparently he had actually once been a millionaire Tin Baron in the state of Perak. Polygamy was not outlawed in the country and he had 2 wives. Through a gambit the 2 women had conspired to gain control of his holdings. They succeeded and the old man blew a fuse and had to be institutionalized. When he was released he skipped town to get lost in the big city of Kuala Lumpur. He had successfully stayed under the radar for close to 15 years. Then early in 1969 they found him again and re-institutionalized him in a bid to get the rest of the cash that they thought was squirreled away. They found nothing and he was released… broken by the whole experience.

After the riots social services picked him up and put him in again. He died there 3 months later. Years later I was convinced he died from a broken heart and the loss of his freedom.

1989, Fresno, California. I had been commissioned to adapt “The Little Match Girl” by Hans Christian Anderson for the stage. (BTW, this was my first commissioned piece.) I only agreed to do it because I hated the original story – poor little girl hallucinates in the snow and dies! So, in adapting it I decided to “fix” the story but still maintain the spirit of it. I set it in 2 time periods – one being the turn of the century, both of which were set in Fresno. In the contemporary time period I decided to pay tribute to Playboy by creating a street character named Percy.

Anyway, the opening night premiere of the play was scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving at the Memorial Auditorium. We had had a rather iffy final dress rehearsal that afternoon. Two hours before showtime, my friend Zonthar (who was playing the Percy character) and I went down to a local store nearby to get some cigarettes. It has to be explained that Mugahlis was a grocery store where the local downtown winos came to get their “supplies” from. This usually occurred at 8 in the morning and 5 in the evening.
We are standing in line to pay for our purchases behind 6 or 7 other people… 5 of which are winos armed with their bottles of Night Train or Thunderbird. Earlier, Zonthar and I had a discussion about how to play the part of Percy… a result of jitters for opening night and a shakey final dress. As we stood in line… the man in front of us (a wino) turned around and beamed at us. He pointed to his sweater and said,

“Look at this. My daughter gave this to me yesterday. Can you believe that? She invited me over for Thanksgiving. We had dinner. Look at this. She gave it to me. I haven’t seen her in 10 years. I didn’t even know she was married. I have grandchildren now, you know? I don’t knw if I’ll see her again but she gave this to me. She may have bought it at a thrift store… but she gave it to me. She gave me something. She gave this to me… look at it.”

He then paid for his Thunderbird and as he walked out of the store he turned, smiled again and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.” As he left, I couldn’t help thinking about Playboy and how differently his family situation played out so many years ago.

Zonthar and I returned to the theater and opening night was wonderful! The cast was stellar and Zonthar performed the part of Percy with a quirky dignity and pathos. Years later I used our encounter with the man in the store for another play.

Each encounter took place 20 years apart… yet were somehow connected. These 2 gentlemen from different times in my life and different parts of the world provided me with material and inspiration for 2 different plays. One play is titled “Bundle Of Wishes” and the other “The Holiday Show.” My sincere thanks goes to both of them for the lessons in compassion they taught me. I hope I have honored them through my work. * As a tribute to them and the season I will email PDF copies of both plays to the first 20 commenters to this post.

And so ends another edition of Picture Daze.

* This offer was made when this entry was first posted and is currently not valid. However, a selection of my plays will be available soon on the internet.

Disclaimer: This edition of Picture Daze utilizes photos from other sources to facilitate the telling of the story. … which happens to be true

1967, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The first time I saw him, he was emerging out of a huge dumpster wearing a semi toothless grin delighted in his paperbags filled with empty bottles. I was all of 8 years old at the time and waiting at the parking lot behind the offices where my father worked.

This triangular parking area was nested behind the High Court, the Masjid (mosque) Jame and a block of shops. The unobservent eye would only see an open parking lot anchored to the north by a covered parking area where the cars of the High Court magistrates were kept. This little sliver of real estate however was a world unto itself. This was the original center of the city. 100 yards away, tin was discovered in the 1800′s at the confluence of the Klang and Gombak rivers from which the vibrant city of Kuala Lumpur (Mud Junction) would emerge.

The parking lot was worked during the day by “the 4 abangs” (big brothers) who earned their living washing cars and providing valet parking due to the limited space the area provided. One of them was our one-handed driver, Mamat, but his is a story for another time.

A teh tarik stall was situated under the outer over-hang of the covered garage run by a good natured Indian Muslim man and was the hub of choice for the various office workers on their breaks.

At around 10 AM the Chinese chee cheong fun man would roll in on his trishaw cart followed soon after by the crusty old Malay nasi lemak lady. Over the next 3 hours the parking lot would evolve into a bustling dining hub with the best that street food could offer.

It was in this setting that I befriended Playboy – a Chinese man in his 60′s with a ragged bush jacket, a floppy jungle hat holding down long stringy hair, a wispy “fu manchu”and a twinkle in his eye. This street person kept his entire belongings in 3 bundles in one of the covered parking stalls where he slept at night. I would find out later that the magistrates knew him well and always left that stall vacant for him. He supported his survival by pulling out bottles and cardboard boxes from dumpsters and selling them at Central Market… practicing recycling before it ever became fashionable or a movement.
(The High Court)
As I usually had an hour wait in this area after physiotherapy sessions nearby, Playboy and I soon became fast friends. He would always take the time to tell me stories, jokes and share what little he had to help me while away the time. Understanding very well that a whole hour was an eternity to a little boy. Often he would offer me bruised fruit he found in the dumpsters… always washing them and cutting away the bruised part before handing me a piece. He knew I loved mango and often when I turned up there would be a mango peeled, cut and ready for my consumption. I found out from “the abangs” much later that these mangos were never found but bought. I should have caught a clue because he never ate mangos… in fact it was one of the few fruits he didn’t care much for. (Masjid Jame)

Whenever he told me a story he would make a clicking sound with his mouth… as if to punctuate important sections to his story. It may have just been a tick but to a little boy it was theatre. He also had a wonderful cackling laugh that was infectious. I saw him 3 times a week for 2 years. My parents never discouraged this friendship which taught me that a friend is a friend no matter who or what their social standing was. Besides, all our dealings were out in an open parking lot with lots of people around.

Over that span of time I had heard rumors from others. Some said he was once a high powered Oxford educated lawyer, others said he was an eccentric millionaire, yet others claimed that he had been institutionalized. To me he was a kooky and funny old man who happened to be my friend.

Early in 1969 he disappeared for a whole month. No one knew where he was. When he did reappear he had changed. He was more reserved and he just didn’t look well. We would still chat… but he was different. There was a spark missing. I would later discover a bit of his past from my father and the reason for his antic demeanor.

In May 1969 political race riots broke out in Malaysia. We were under curfew for several months. When things calmed down I went back with my father to find Playboy. He wasn’t there. The parking stall that used to be reserved for him housed a black Mercedes Benz. It was then Playboy’s story began to unfold.
(Here is a rendering of Playboy I did from memory.)
Apparently he had actually once been a millionaire Tin Baron in the state of Perak. Polygamy was not outlawed in the country and he had 2 wives. Through a gambit the 2 women had conspired to gain control of his holdings. They succeeded and the old man blew a fuse and had to be institutionalized. When he was released he skipped town to get lost in the big city of Kuala Lumpur. He had successfully stayed under the radar for close to 15 years. Then early in 1969 they found him again and re-institutionalized him in a bid to get the rest of the cash that they thought was squirreled away. They found nothing and he was released… broken by the whole experience.

After the riots social services picked him up and put him in again. He died there 3 months later. Years later I was convinced he died from a broken heart and the loss of his freedom.

1989, Fresno, California. I had been commissioned to adapt “The Little Match Girl” by Hans Christian Anderson for the stage. (BTW, this was my first commissioned piece.) I only agreed to do it because I hated the original story – poor little girl hallucinates in the snow and dies! So, in adapting it I decided to “fix” the story but still maintain the spirit of it. I set it in 2 time periods – one being the turn of the century, both of which were set in Fresno. In the contemporary time period I decided to pay tribute to Playboy by creating a street character named Percy.

Anyway, the opening night premiere of the play was scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving at the Memorial Auditorium. We had had a rather iffy final dress rehearsal that afternoon. Two hours before showtime, my friend Zonthar (who was playing the Percy character) and I went down to a local store nearby to get some cigarettes. It has to be explained that Mugahlis was a grocery store where the local downtown winos came to get their “supplies” from. This usually occurred at 8 in the morning and 5 in the evening.
We are standing in line to pay for our purchases behind 6 or 7 other people… 5 of which are winos armed with their bottles of Night Train or Thunderbird. Earlier, Zonthar and I had a discussion about how to play the part of Percy… a result of jitters for opening night and a shakey final dress. As we stood in line… the man in front of us (a wino) turned around and beamed at us. He pointed to his sweater and said,

“Look at this. My daughter gave this to me yesterday. Can you believe that? She invited me over for Thanksgiving. We had dinner. Look at this. She gave it to me. I haven’t seen her in 10 years. I didn’t even know she was married. I have grandchildren now, you know? I don’t knw if I’ll see her again but she gave this to me. She may have bought it at a thrift store… but she gave it to me. She gave me something. She gave this to me… look at it.”

He then paid for his Thunderbird and as he walked out of the store he turned, smiled again and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.” As he left, I couldn’t help thinking about Playboy and how differently his family situation played out so many years ago.

Zonthar and I returned to the theater and opening night was wonderful! The cast was stellar and Zonthar performed the part of Percy with a quirky dignity and pathos. Years later I used our encounter with the man in the store for another play.

Each encounter took place 20 years apart… yet were somehow connected. These 2 gentlemen from different times in my life and different parts of the world provided me with material and inspiration for 2 different plays. One play is titled “Bundle Of Wishes” and the other “The Holiday Show.” My sincere thanks goes to both of them for the lessons in compassion they taught me. I hope I have honored them through my work. As a tribute to them and the season I will email PDF copies of both plays to the first 20 commenters to this post.

And so ends another edition of Picture Daze.

Growing up Catholic in a Muslim country was really no big deal at all… at least not for me. When I grew up in Malaysia respect and understanding for people of other faiths was a matter of fact. Muslims, Hindus, Taoist, Buddhists, Sikhs and Christians were fervent in their faiths, cultures and traditions and respected each other for theirs.
I have to credit my mother for initiating the Christmas decorations at our home. We were one of 2 Catholic families living on our street. So when the Christmas season came along she would setup the Christmas Tree project among the neighborhood kids. This meant that we were all decorating the tree together. It didn’t matter what faith you were.

Over the years this event became quite the neighborhood tradition. Usually on the week of about the 12th of December the house would be filled with neighbor kids all working on the tree. The excitement and anticipation on “tree day” was only surpassed by Christmas Eve.

In my memory there was only 1 traditional tree that ever graced our home. Mum was quite the crafty person so ideas for the Christmas tree was always a little outside of the norm.

In the picture above Mum was inspired by the a Winter scene with leafless branches. So, a branch of a Guava tree was cut, sprayed white and decorated. Looking back I have to admit that there was a certain elegance in it’s starkness.

One year we scrapped the idea of a tree altogether and went with a cotton snowman instead. It was cute and all but not a particular favorite of mine. I guess I was ready for a new motif and it came the following year.

When I was 8 or 9 she totally scrapped the idea that the Christmas tree should have anything to do with Winter. She had a point because we did live in the tropics. That year, bamboo was sprayed silver and served up as the central ornament representing Christmas. I have to say that Mum’s idea of going “local” had quite the stunning effect. So much so, we repeated the same idea the following year (this time in gold) and the results were breathtaking.

The usual neighborhood “Christmas Tree Crew” had by now dwindled to a stalwart 4 or 5. They included my neighborhood buddies including Tambi, Ganeshen, Balan and yours truly. We would begin at 3 PM and 5 or 6 hours later step back to admire the results. Relatives and friends had by now come to expect to see something different at our home for Christmas… and they usually did. Sometimes a little more different than they were ready for… more on that later.

By the time I was 12 I had taken over “creative control” of the tree decorating duties. One year I decided that 3 “payongs” (paper umbrellas), opened in 3 different stages would make up the tree. Here are a couple of pictures of said tree… one without lights and the other one lit.

At this point I guess I should explain how we celebrated Christmas. Christmas Eve was always my day. When I was younger the neighborhood kids would all come by and each of them received a present from my parents. Nothing fancy… usually a little toy or trinklet of sorts. After all, during Chinese New Year all us kids got “ang pows” (little red packets of money) from the parents of our Chinese friends. So in the big scheme of things us kids always scored “big time” during all the major festivals celebrated in the country.

When I grew older, my “crew” (now about 15-20) came by on the evening of Christmas Eve. By 10 PM we would walk about 5 blocks the local church for Midnight Mass. I went out of religious obligation… my non-Christian friends went to check out the girls. (O.K. I did too but don’t tell my Mum.) We would be back home by 1 AM for the Christmas feast prepared by her. The menu always included Eurasian Chicken Pie, Devil Curry, Curry Puffs, Sebak (a sort of Eurasian salad), Pineapple Tarts and Sugee Cake . Then games would be set up at various areas of the house. Once we were tired from playing carrom, monopoly or blackjack we would all stretch out on the floor and fall asleep… usually by 4 or 5 AM.

By 9 or 10 the next morning everybody would get up and straighten out the house. Usually 3 of my crew would stay. The reason for this was simple… Christmas Day was when my parents had their friends and workmates over, so my friends and me became the “waiters” for their do. This practice continued even after my Dad passed away when I was 12.
I posted the picture of the “horn” or “saipan” hat above only because I couldn’t find a picture of the Christmas tree I made by stringing 4 of them together one year. That was one of my all time favorites.

This tree made of halved coconut shells on a rattan tree was the second last one I designed back home. By this time we had moved to the new house. Mum had retired from government service and we had to leave the old neighborhood behind.

Yet, Ganeshen and Balan would still come by to help set up the Christmas decorations for Mum even after I left for the US. Mum delighted in their company and the fact that the little tradition she started with the neighborhood kids kept going into their middle age. They continued to visit every year to help decorate until Mum finally moved here to join me 7 years ago. We still hear from them at Christmas. It is this sharing of the season with my friends that I now miss the most… but times and places are different. The memories stay and we move on.

I’ll end with this picture of the very last (and most controvertial) Christmas Tree I designed and created in Malaysia before I moved here in 1980. Yes, it is constructed out of panties! This particular tree over the years has become legend and is now part of the lore among friends and family back home.

Our Christmas is celebrated quietly now. I decorate the mantle over the fireplace in the living room… no trees. However, I make sure that the Devil Curry and/or the Eurasian Chicken Pie is still on the table for Christmas dinner. And now, it is I who does the cooking.

For other editions of Picture Daze… look in the sidebar.

This week’s Picture Daze edition is a small sampling of life here in the Big “NO”. These pics were taken last weekend.

The annual Big Fresno Fair was in town and scarysquirrelman and I decided to grace the event with our presence. The traffic was ridiculous but we finally made it into the in-field parking, past the metal detectors, through the scary tunnel and out into the Fairgrounds.

I am constantly amazed by the humanity I see at the fair. It truly is a cross section of the city’s population… every social, economic and racial stratas are represented.

It’s a huge county fair with local livestock and produce displayed with pride and for competition. In fact this particular cloven hoofed critter has award winning udders. SSM seemed quite taken with her.

Every town in the county turns up with their produce to be judged… it’s quite the buzz. My personal pick this year for fruits & veges galore was the city of Easton.

Then there is fair food! Everything seems to be deep fried and on a stick. Here is SSM in mid-chomp on a corndog. I went for a hotlink myself. I suspect checking out the award winning udders earlier significantly affected our food choices.

We had dropped some bucks at the horsetrack earlier and I think that eating a whole load of heart attack food provided some comfort for our losses. Of course no trip to the fair is complete without visiting the Commerce & Industry pavilion.

Exhibitors hawk every thing from hot-tubs to gadgets that are halfway useful. This sign made us very curious. Turned out to be attachments to a weedwhacker.

There are of course the concerts, etc. But for me this annual event is a reminder of the heart of the valley… the fact that this area is known as the “bread-basket of the world.” It’s a celebration that I live in a place that toils the earth and am blessed that our food is always fresh.

It’s all about the food really.

My Dad passed away in May 1971. For the Christmas holidays that year (which ran for 7 weeks) I was sent packing off to the hamlet of Sitiawan in the state of Perak. My uncle Mark lived there and sending me away provided my mother a much needed break to recover from the traumatic events of the year.

This was hardly my first trip there (and far from my last.) I knew the place well. The town itself was built on the junction of two roads. One could walk around the entire town in 10 minutes. It was also 7 miles away from the resort seaside town of Lumut (now a Naval base) which in turn was a 30 cent ferry ride from my favorite island, Pangkor. The gentle, pace of life was so different from the “big” city that I grew and lived in. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city but only in a place like Lumut could I witness a malay boy slap the lapping sea water to summon a wild dolphin which he would swim and play with every evening.

Uncle Mark (my Dad’s cousin… in the pic above at his 25th wedding anniversary) was like a second father to me. He was a man of respect in town… sort of an Andy Griffith in a Malaysian Mayberry. Rights of passage I would have missed with my Dad’s demise were supplemented by time spent with uncle Mark in Sitiawan. Some of these included: my first inebriating taste of “toddy” at the tender age of 13, digging for cockles in the mud of the Sitiawan river, “kopi ganja”, a coffee blend that included marijuana served at a local coffee shop (or so I was told), line fishing for squid and prawns, picking sour mangos off a tree and eating them with salt, seeing my first dead person who had committed suicide by hanging himself in front of the local movie theater and of course trips to Pangkor.

The journey there was an adventure in itself. My favorite route was taking a train to Michelle Yeoh’s hometown of Ipoh. From there it would be a bus or cab ride to Sitiawan where you hopped on to another (local) bus to Lumut. From there one would get on to a ferry across to the fishing village on Pangkor. Half the village was built on stilts over the water and teeming with all sorts of fish trading activity. You can see some of the village in this pic of me on my last visit there in 1981. Then you either walked or took one of the 2 cabs to the beach on the other side of the island.

Earlier visits were mostly family affairs often including my cousin, Anna, (pictured on the left) who was like a sister to me as I was growing up. We usually stayed at the government “rest house” and frolicked by and in the warm, salty sea for most of the day. Often the fishing boats came to shore and we would buy fresh catch for dinner. On one of these trips I learned a hard lesson in the local belief in “animism”. I was warned time and time again not to “kenching” (pee) by a tree lest the “datuk” (spirit) of the tree should become upset with me. I of course disregarded these warnings and that night my little boy penis painfully swelled into an ugly mushroom. My dad brought over a “pawang” (the local shaman) who while laughing at me performed a ritual and gave me an ointment of vinegar and tumeric to be applied 3 times a day to my tender nether region. I also had to go “apologize” to the tree spirit. So, there was no swimming for me the next 2 days which was torture for an 8 year old vacationing by the sea.

It was on another trip there where I last ran into my cousin, Lelly. We were both 9 or 10 years old at the time. Mind you, we have not seen each other in over 36 years. She now lives in Brighton, England and we only reconnected a short time ago through the internet. She claims that her last memory of me was of me swimming out and driving off the roof of this fishing boat. Now, through our blogs we have been getting reacquainted… and I have since discovered such a cool person who I’m proud to call my Cuz!

When I was old enough to travel on my own (I started at 12), trips to Pangkor became my escape to sanity. There was always a stop in Sitiawan to visit with Uncle Mark… then off for R&R on the island. I would usually stay at the “hotel” which was a collection of attap huts that were rented out for $1.50 a night. These rustic huts usually slept 2-3 comfortably and were frequented by backpacking Aussie student tourists. Here is a pic of my friend, Aziz in one of those huts. Nights included swims and sitting around the fire on the beach trading stories, food and joints. Kien and I also made several trips to Pangkor together… once with a troop of Girl Guides. We’ve shared lots of adventures there that we still smile fondly at.

I hear the place has developed quite a bit since I was last there. It’s no longer “relatively untouched” and is now a much sought after resort area. I guess time and development marches on. For me, Pangkor and Sitiawan will always be the places I went to regain my sanity in the gentler days of my youth.

And so ends another edition of Picture Daze. Check out the sidebar for other editions.

This time we travel back to my scouting days that at the time was such a big part of my life. I joined the cub scouts when I was in Standard 2 (2nd grade) and it was the primary activity throughout my schooling years. These pictures come from my mid-teens in the early-mid 70′s.

jungle camping
Once I hit Secondary (High) School I was a full on scout and the fun really began. At the time there were 2 scout groups working out of of my school… the 7th KL and the 8th KL. Somewhere between Form 2 & 3 (8th & 9th grade) the groups merged and we were officially known as the Eagle Scout Group. Our “scout masters” were from the upper grades so in a lot of ways caution was thrown to the wind. Liability? What was that?

me at camp
Now we either camped in the jungle or by the sea. Official camps usually involved packing our gear into the school bus. We were then driven to the edge of the jungle just outside the city and hiked in. Several of these places I had already known quite well. There were no “official campgrounds” so we basically set up close to a stream and pitched our tents. Camp tables and kitchens were usually constructed out of cut wild bamboo.

Essential camping gear per patrol (other than the heaviest army issue tents ever made) included dry clothes, rice, flour, some canned food, coffee, a live chicken or two, and sulfur. Let me explain the last two. Because of the lack of refrigiration the only way to eat fresh meat was to bring it live to camp. “Slaughter days” were always fun. Sulfur lined the shallow trenches around the tent to dissuade critters like snakes from crawling under the blankets in the dead of night. These days how we camped would be considered “survival camping”. It usually took about half a day to set up camp… then we had to cook, etc.

kien at camp
There were also the “unofficial camps” that we undertook on our own. Kien (in the pic), several friends and I would often just take off on some camping destination on the odd weekend. The jungle was always closer than the sea (only a bus ride away)… so, there were a lot of jungle camp trips. It seemed we were camping in the jungle almost every weekend.

“There is something seductive about the lush steamy jungle. It has a primal hum…a vibration that connects to the very core of your being. A connection that makes you aware exactly how you fit into the scheme of things. A place where life and death seems to nourish each other.”

That’s a quote from a play of mine… and it’s how I still feel about the jungle.

the eagle group

Some of my happiest days as a teen was not at school but camping and the scouts. Camping by the sea was a whole different kettle of fish… but fun nevertheless. On one particular camp outing at Port Dickson the troop built a bamboo raft. One night Kien and I snuck out with it. We didn’t realize the tide was going out and the gentle current was taking us with it. Soon we were so far from the shore that our young frantic minds were convinced that we were half way in the Straits of Malacca and drifting to Sumatra. So, we took turns getting into the water and peddling/pushing… attempting to get the raft back. Shivering and scared we were finally pulled back to shore by a couple of older scouts in a canoe who came out looking for us. Sure, there are other adventures… but I’ll save those for another post.

half-nikked in oslo

I was also lucky enough to represent Malaysia (5 of the contingent of 15 were from the mighty Eagle Scouts) at the World Jamboree in Lillehammer, Norway. Being 16 in Scandinavia… let me tell ya… that was living!

My impressions of that experience:

• “It’s 10 pm and the sun hasn’t gone down?” “What’s the sun doing up at 3 in the morning?”
• “Man, these Nordic people are tall!”
• “Boy, these Scandinavian girls are really friendly!”
• “Beer warmers? What the hell are beer warmers?”
• “What do you mean by a 24 hour hike past the timber line?”
• “OK guys, this is how a Finnish Sauna works. You sit in this really hot room… then you run out and jump into the freezing lake… it’s all snow melt! I swear I heard my body crack.”
• “Check that out! The Saudi and Israeli groups are camping right next to each other!”
• “So, after 10 days here… we go to Sweden for 5?”
• “Skol!”

field in lilllhammer at the opening ceremony

At 17 I finally achieved the rank of “King Scout”. I wasn’t going to but my mother insisted that I “finish what I started.” Our batch were even invited to the palace to receive this honor from the King himself. My good friend Peter and I were now upper classmen and ran the group for a year. They were good days and we all even socialized even outside of scouting activities. The picture below is all of us at my place at Christmas.

xmas at home with the gang

So, that ends another edition of Picture Daze. Check out the sidebar for other editions.

Couldn’t blog the rest from SF as the damn “free WiFi” (that was incredibly slow) went down the last 2 days we were there. So, get ready for a long post (with lots of pictures)… which will include reviews to shows we caught up at the SF Fringe. Click here for Part 1.

Lets begin with reviews of the 2 shows I caught Friday night. The Ratings Key will be as follows: yeh, ok, not quite cooked, raw.
3 Plays About Your Mom by JUST THEATER (BERKELEY, CA). 3 local playwrights write 3 short plays with “MOM” as the theme. I thought that all in all it was a very competent production. Funny, poignant, quite pleasant actually. Rating: ok

Are Ya Working? by Steven Karwoski OTHER FISH TO FRY PRDUCTIONS, (SAN FRANCISCO, CA.) Stories (all true I presume) of growing up “working class” in Philly and the foibles of job roulette. Steven is quite engaging and manages to hook the audience on a fun ride through his adventures. Rating: yeh.
Saturday began with our usual routine of getting caffeinated at our usual joint at the Powell Street BART station. Love the mocha here. Our friend Laura was kind enough to provide us with her own personal “picks” for the Fringe that we looked over during our java sojourn. We then headed to the Exit Theater to start a day of fringing. Her first 2 picks were winners!

Fear of a Brown Planet by Nile Seguin THIRD MAN (TORONTO, CANADA). Now this was one funny ass show. Nile had us in stitches at a 1 PM show! Figure that one out! So good, we are hoping he will come to our very own Rogue Festival. Rating: yeh.
go! by Michelle Talgarow & Gillian Chadsey, THE TRAIN STATION, (NEW YORK, NY). A wonderful neo-absurdist piece that was performed with precision and theatrical flair. Funny, engaging and one muthafucker of a show. Rating: yeh.

Decided to head back to the hotel for a nap. Woke at 5 PM and headed out to NAAN n CURRY on Eddy Street for dinner. This included healthy helpings of Lamb Curry. Bryani, Veges, and Naans the size of elephant ears. The food was not compromised and retained its full heat factor. That was a mega bonus. Then headed back to fringe some more!

El Camino Loco by Kym Priess, WKYM RADIO (SAN FRANCISCO, CA) One crazy ass show. Think of it as a punk musical about a multiple personality street diva. Totally in your face but a little floaty. Rating: not quite cooked

Do The Clam by Jonathan James McCurley,THE POLECATS PLAYS,(TORONTO, CANADA) A valiant effort that didn’t quite make it up the hill. One of those pieces that needs more precision and discipline. Rating: raw
At this point I headed back for an early night while SSM hung, fringed and drunk with friend and SF blogger Generik.

These are snippets I overheard from street folk on the 4 block walk back through the Tenderloin that night.

“Hey muthafucker… just give me a bag!“

“You want to do What with your dick?”

After the usual routine of java guzzling the next morning we headed out to fringe again

Green Bamboo Hermitage by The Visible Theater, (BERKELEY, CA) Probably the most elegant show I saw at the fringe this year. Elegant and intellegent in the writing, acting and production aspects. I really like this show a lot… subtle and touching. Rating: yeh

Took a short break to visit with my friend Jonathan who came in to the City from Oakland. It was great to catch up and chat at the Fringe Cafe. This “down” period was essential because we were going to catch 3 back to back shows from 4 PM on … then the big closing party after. As you can see from the pic I was already begining to melt.
LOUNGE-ZILLA!: Asian Sings The Blues by Dennis T. Giacino & Fiely A. Matias THE OOPS GUYS COMEDY TROUPE, (ORLANDO, FL) This show has to be experienced to be believed! One of the funniest and outrages hours I spent at the fringe this weekend. Material and delivery are totally amazing! Rating: yeh

nEO-sURREALIST sYSTEMS presents! Matinee Experi-MENTAL, THE nEO-sURREALISTS (SOMEWHERE NEAR URANUS) I always try to catch the neos when I’m up at the Fringe. They are kinda like the “house band”. Cheese, Booze (not a show to go in sober), Love… and lots of nakedness! Rating: yeh

Here is a pic of one of the Neos in the restroom after the show. SSM will be exploring more on this in an upcoming post.
The Werewolf by John Rackham ROGUES’ YARN (FOLKESTONE, UK) Interesting story about a wolf bitten by a warewolf and changes into a man in the full moon. A fun show that I thought could have gone further. Rating: ok

The after party was held at Original Joe’s. It was fun chatting with Generik and sharing stories at the bar. Awards were given out to a “feel good” vibe and we all headed out into the night better and a little drunker. New friends and contacts were made. I got to see lots of theatre and eat well. Got to slum in the city and evesdrop on crazy people talk in the street. What could be better than that?

Really didn’t think this was going to happen… but found out that the hotel has free WiFi. Check out scary squirrel man’s blog for the part of the story.

SSM pulling out of the “shop-n-rob” in that California hotbed of sleeze Modesto. We had stopped there to get batteries and iced tea as we cruised the 99, I-5, 580, etc… on our way to SF. Oh yeah, SSM already covered that on his blog.

This is the view from our room at the Air Travel Hotel. We are treating this place as sort of a “transitional thang” until we once again score the new cool hotel where we can slum up in the city. If you have no clue what I’m talking about… check out this post. Our surly dispositions were flung out the window as 12 Chinese stewardesses checked in at the same time we did. OK, perhaps there could be some perks to this place after all.

Once we were checked in (and were done drooling over these oriental beauties) we headed out to lunch and down to Market Street for a shopping spree at Kaplan’s. I was turned on to this place by Kien when he visited from across the pond earlier this year. This has been my new ritual on my latest trips up here. Go to Kaplan’s and make at least 1 purchase that I can’t live without but don’t really need. This time I got a new Pith Helmet… made the old fashioned way out of cork. (picture will be posted soon.) We passed by this tornado in an alleyway on the way there.

Then down to the Tenderloin for dinner at Original Joe’s . I will allow SSM to elaborate on this. I’ll just say that the food is great there and portions are generous. This was a hop skip and jump to the Exit Theater (our real intent for this trip) where the SF Fringe is being hosted. Armed with our Frequent Fringer Pass… we failed to get into one show (that was sold out) and strolled into another that turned out to be really quite good. We then schelpped to see our uber-schelpper friend, Steven’s show at Original Joe’s.
Drinks and catch-up followed at the bar. After which we chatted some more on the street outside where the “real” theatre was occurring. We got into a somewhat inane discussion about the place called “Daldas” (featured in this pic) was really a plural form of the word “dildo.” What do you think? It is SF after all!

Then back to the hotel for some shut-eye and rest up for a full day of fringing today.

More to come later…

Click here for Part 2.