Going Up Country - Thai Style

Back in the 60s during their Woodstock concert Canned Heat had a small hit GOING UP COUNTRY.

"Going up country, baby, do you want to come along?"

After Altamont longhairs abandoned the rip-offs, bummers, and downers of the big cities to establish Aquarian communes in the hinterland offering free love, organic food, and reefer to establish a democracy on the foundations of the new age agrarian revolution, unfortunately few of these utopias lasted past the past the winter of the Moral Majority after the Summer of Love.

Why was well-portrayed in T. C. Boyle's novel DROP CITY about the collapse of a Northern Californian commune and the surviving members' exodus to Alaska, but that didn't keep hippies from coming together for another try.

Like Alan Lage in Encinitas. 1974.

The Iowan had survived cancer as a teen and was living with an LSD professor on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I dropped acid with him and his blonde girlfriend on Black's Beach. Leslie looked like Pattie Hearst, the kidnapped heiress turned bank robber. The cops raided us as SLA revolutionaries. The acid was on paper. They touched it. Within twenty minutes the officers were getting a rush. We left town that night not wanting to witness the cops' wrath in the morning. I said good-bye to Alan and his girl on the PCH.

"We're going to Marin live off the country."

I almost joined them, but the cops up north would be after Pattie Hearst too.

A year later he showed up in Woodstock New York. Leslie had been replaced by Nona, half-New Jersey/half-Filipino. Skinny as Olive Oyl and smelling of cinnamon. They had a commune of two in a chicken farm. Grass, organic food, and John Lennon. Nona danced to Alan's guitar. Her sinuous body weaved a trance invading my dreams. She was Alan's chick and while I might covet my friend's chick I wasn't going to steal her, because I only break one commandment at a time and this night I went home with a fat girl I met at the Joyous Lake Bar. Babs had big breasts. We had sex in her bathtub next to a babbling creek. Later in her bed we committed sodomy. I should have stayed, but had the ambition to become a writer in New York.

And I thought writers needed to live in the city.

Not the country.

Almost 35 years in Boston, New York, LA, Paris, Hamburg, Bangkok, Pattaya.

My first Thai wife doesn't like Pattaya.

She preferred living in Ban Nam Phu west of Chai-nat.

2 hours by bus from Pattaya to Morchit. Another 3 hours to Chai-nat, then a 50 kilometer car ride.

Over our years together she has bought 20 rai of land and ten cows. The land was being prepared for a teakwood forest, so we can sell carbon rights to polluting factories and harvest the timber in 15 years. I went up once a month to visit my wife and daughter.

Crossing the river at Wat Sing we entered a land without farangs.

Rice paddies, egrets, buffalos, butterflies, pigs, trees, mountains, dirt roads, and early evenings drinking beer with rice farmers under a billion stars in the sky.

"Going up-country, baby, do you want to come along?"

Sometimes I think it'd be nice.

Smoke a little weed, drink a lot of beer, but what would I do for work?

Grow rice?

Only to brew lao-khao whiskey.

Teach English.

The headmaster of my daughter's school would like that.

10,000 baht/month.

Nature. Quiet. Wife. Daughter. Farm. Beer. Reefer.

But then I ask myself what would happen if civilization collapsed under the weight of global warming. No electricity. No cars. No airplanes. No way to get back to the West.

The sea would flood Pattaya and Bangkok. People would flee inland. I would head up to my wife's farm. It was on higher ground. 110 feet above sea level. My daughter would be happy to see me. My wife would view me as another mouth to feed.

"What can he do?"

Back in 1995 I was in Tibet with my friend Tim Challen. The road to Nepal had been smothered by a mudslide. We were sort of stranded in Lhasa. He asked, "If the world fell apart, what would be do to live here?"

The choices were simple in Tibet.

"Become a monk or a clown. A clown like Sean Connery and Michael Caine in A MAN WHO WOULD BE KING."

Tim liked the idea and several years ago I had everyone laughing at a family dinner telling them about getting a penis transplant from a horse and charging everyone 10 baht to see the farang with the ham ma yoow or long horse cock.

20 baht to touch it.

A hippie freak show clown.

That would be my calling after the Armageddon.

"Going up-country, baby, you want to come along?"

No Dave's Luncheonette

Wednesday evening I arrived at the Santos Party House at 7pm. Walter Durkarcz the organizer for Mark Kamins Celebration Of A Life had asked me to come in early. Jorge Socarras was handling the guest list.

"How long you want me to do the door?" I asked upon starting the night

"I have some young guy taking over at midnight," Walter assured me and ran off to attend the thousands of loose ends unraveling at crunch time. He was a busy man, as was I once the crowd assailed the door. Santos' security had a system. I was old school. They admonished my letting people skirt their entry policy.

"I won't do it again." That was a lie.

The hours passed quickly without incident. I greeted old friends, assisted musicians to the stage, and talked of Mark. He was the man and everyone wished that he was with us, instead of cached in the Here-Before.

Midnight passed without a young guy replacing me. I hadn't a drink and Walter said there were no drink tickets. My wallet was empty and I scrounged a sip of a beer from a few people. At 1 John Argento the owner of the legendary Danceteria grabbed me.

"Are you getting paid?" John had long silver hair running over his collar.

"No." My most recent attempts to regain my hippiedom had failed in March.

"Then you're coming with me." John liberated me from the door and we went downstairs to the basement bar to drink beer. They weren't cheap. $10 each. John was generous and ordered a couple more for me. A friend came up and John said, "I'm buying what do you want?"

"A water."

Both of us laughed and I said, "Water? Go get it at the cooler."

"More beer for my friend."

John and I conversed past 2am and 3am. Walter joined us at one point. We toasted his successful evening with more beer.

He excoriated me for having earlier written in mangozeen.com that the Boston Marathon bomber was a forty-two white

male from New Hampshire.

"You know it's Islamic terrorists." John was Italian. His family had been fighting the Moors for centuries.

"I do now."

Earlier that evening the FBI had announced that they had two suspects captured on video. They were young.

"I hope they don't see tomorrow." John was dead serious.

"I feel the same way too." Boston was my city and while I support the Liberation of Palestine, I don't condone the killings.

"Let's drink to that."

We drank to freedom, Italy, the Romans, the Celts, the Irish, Danceteria, and Mark Kamins. He offered me a shot a tequila. I refused, which was probably the smartest thing I did all evening.

The club's manager turned on the house lights at 4. We finished our drinks and headed out into the night.

"Where to?"

"If it were 1980, we could go to Dave's Luncheonette for an egg cream."

The diner on Canal Street had been a favorite eatery after the closing of the Mudd Club and we walked to the corner.

"Not there."

"It hasn't been here for a long time."

"Only in our memories. Time for me to go home." John waved down a taxi and I entered the subway.

The Fort Greene Observatory was two stops away.

Getting there took fifteen minutes.

I walked into the door with shoes in my hand.

It was 5:33am.

I have no idea why the trip was so long, but I climbed the stairs to the top floor and crashed into bed like a bag of potatoes falling off a truck. It had been a good night.

Thank you for everything, Mark.

Abbey Road Plus 50

Fifty years ago in 1969 Iain MacMillan climbed a ladder and shot a foto of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road for the cover of an LP of the same name. The iconic image has captivated the souls of the Fab Four's fans and earlier today hundreds thronged to commemorate the event.

The album topped the charts for two months until the Rolling Stones' LET IT BLEED knocked ABBEY ROAD from # 1.

I prefer the Stones' LP, but best wishes to Beatles' affectionados around the world.

Today is your day same as it was fifty years ago.

Camping Kibo Lodge # 7 - Kili Initiative 2019

Over the next two days the Kili Initiative 2019 team engaged in various bonding challenges presented them by JM. Ma'we, and Fast Steve. These exercises were designed to interlocked the team into each other. Not as rivals, but as comrades.

Jackman, Vanessa, Maureen, Ubah, Jaubah, Larry, Laityn, and Natatlia were young people.

None of them knew each other.

But they were growing close thanks to these games.

I remained at a distance.

This was their time to bond, but I was glad to be with the young. I had been alone too many times in New York.

We left the Kibo Lodge rooms for tents.

"When was the last time you camped outside?" asked Jubah asked.

I decided not to tell about sleeping in the rough on Rockaway Beach and said, "1990 in Nepal."

"I wasn't even born then."

"None of us were."

"You got that right."

I had a tent to myself and the evening air was filled by the scent of flowers

The night was special.

I drank Kingali Cognac.

The young people remained sober. It was one of the rules.

We danced, sang, and laughed into the night.

I spoke with Vanessa, Maureen, Ubah, Natalia, and Laityn.

Sorry, I've been distant. I might live in a city of millions, but I sometimes feel alone."

"We all feel that way. Young and old, but not tonight," said Ubah and she smiled with s shyness swearing to her truth.

"Thank you" was all I could say.

In the morning the preacher man would wake us at 5:30 and we would hiking the Tsaavo plains.

They stretched across Kenya.

And for better or worse we were ready for them.

Kili Initiative 2019 # 1- JFK to NAIROBI

In early February this year I met Natalia Rios, Larry Fishbourne, and Laityn Graham at JFK Airport for a flight Nairobi, Kenya. The young New Yorkers were the members of the Kili Initiative's 2019 team.

The Initiative's goal was to broaden their horizons by climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa.

The trio knew nothing about me other than I was old and Larry from Red Hook asked why I had been chosen as their 'chaperone'.

"Firstly I'm not your chaperone, but neither am I a teacher and mountaineering isn't my expertise, however the director thought I could provide guidance." I couldn't tell them the real reason.

"How so?" demanded his sister Laityn.

"I don't know, but I've traveled everywhere in the world."

"Meaning?" Natalia narrowed her eyes. I was several generation down stream from hers.

"That I will always be there for you."

"How do you and the director know each other?" Larry looked at the travel board. Our flight was boarding for departure.

"Tim and I met in Tibet. It's a long story."

"We have a fifteen-hour flight ahead of us. Do tell," asked Natalia.

I showed them a Polaroid from Lhasa.

"In 1995 my baby brother had died of AIDS and I set out on a pilgrimage to the holiest places in the world to speed his soul across time. Tim and I met in Chengdu China." I had told the story hundreds of times over the years.

"I'll give you five hundred words or less version version on the way to the gate."

The story ran from Bangkok-Chiang Mai-Kumming-Chengdu-Lhasa-Kathmandu to Varanasi.

They laughed at the right places and I cried thinking about swimming in the Ganges to expiate my brother's sins. Mine were indelible.

"I'll tell the longer version around a campfire in Africa."

"We can hardly wait," yawned Natalia.

Once on the plane I called my family in Thailand.

"Be careful," warned my wife.

She was scared a lion might eat me. My younger sister shared the same fear and thought I was foolish to climb Kilimanjaro, then again there is no fool like an old fool.

People did die on Kilimanjaro and lions are man-killers, however ever since I had been chosen to go to Africa, I had been dreaming about hyenas gnawing on my bones.

The carnivores were everywhere in Kenya, especially at night.

My nightmares had included a high-pitched laugh from the killers and they were hah-hah laughs either.

Forty minutes later the 777 rose from the runway and the airplane veered east over Long Island. The flight was not full and we stretched across the 3-seat economy section. Natalia and Laityn slept like queens, while Larry and I watched movies during the long flight. Neither of us shut an eye.

We arrived in Nairobi at dawn.

No one was waiting outside the terminal. Thousands of miles from the USA. I called Tim in Geneva. No answer. The three young people looked at me. I stepped closer with a smile.

"Where are we?"

"Nairobi," answered Laityn.

"Exactly and we are in Africa. The mother continent."

"Africa."

"The word sounded different here.

I called Sadique from Kili Initiative.

"Traffic is bad, but I will be there soon."

I told my young friends all was good.

They smiled with the trust of an old man.

Fifteen minutes Sadique showed up with an apology.

"No worries", said Larry.

We piled into a van. Our destination was the Nairobi YMCA.

The rundown hostel had a swimming pool. I swam in the cool water. Nairobi was equatorial, but high on the plains like Denver. I toweled dry and dressed for lunch, at which we met the Kenyan crew.

Juba, Jackman, Vanessa, Ubah, and Maureen.

They were young, although none of them said anything about my age and after the meal our group walked through the parks to the city centre.

"I don't see anyone smoking," I commented crossing a bridge over a pond.

"No one smokes in Kenya. It's too expensive," said Vanessa, a Kibera native. "Plus you can not smoke most everywhere and there are no ads. Do you smoke?"

"Rarely. Like maybe a cigarette once a month."

That is a good thing. Only White people can afford cigarettes."

I was the only M'zoongoo in sight. My friend and Kili Initiative founder, Tim Challen, had warned of this phenomena, but it felt good to be a minority.

Fast Steve was a trek guide for the Kili Initiative, but also belonged the rescue crew of Nairobi.

"I work for Kili Initiative, because if I do I am safe. If I do not then I have two options. Working or not working. If I work I am safe, If I do not, then I have two options."

He believed in safe after saving lives at January's DusitD2 compound attack. He was a true hero even if he was an Arsenal fan.

He took us the the site of the old US Embassy. The 1998 bombing destroyed the building and killed hundreds, mostly Kenyans. Another car bomb hit the US embassy in Tanzania. A memorial honored the dead.

"Where were you on 9/11?" asked Larry.

"I watched the second plane hit from my rooftop in the East Village." I had been 49. I looked at the names of the Nairobi dead from 1998. "So many people.

"I was three years old. The only way to end terror was through peace."

"I believe that too, but sometimes a gun cures violence." Larry came from Red Hook. He was telling the truth.

The projects had suffered dramatically during the Crack Epidemic. Things were better now.

Is there anything you want to see?" asked Old Steve.

"Yes, the old train station. I have a thing for them."

"We can go there tomorrow."

The rail terminal was in the near distance. I thought about going alone, but we were a group and I was a member of that group. I said nothing, as we wandered back through the city.

We ate a meal at a Turkish restaurant.

When I went to the bathroom, the waitress handed me one sheet of toilet paper. She did the same for all of us. We laughed about this through park.

Families were enjoying the day.

Juba related his hanging in the park as a child.

"This was our paradise. We walked from Kibera. Two hours. Africans like to walk."

Our team talked about themselves with caution. They were unsure of everyone, but we had a month to find who we were. Both for the others as well as ourselves. I wondered who I would be to not only them, but myself. Truthfully I really didn't care about who I was, since old men are invisible to the young and that is not necessarily a bad thing in 2019.

The One The Only Moondog

The blind musician Moondog lived in New York from the 1940s to 1972. Occasionally the Viking-attired drummer descended from Upstate to wander the streets of the Village. I saw him a few times and never thought much about it, until a friend turned me onto Moondog's music. The man was a genius.

Give a listen to HOPHEAD.

On this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phu641BKec0