Dog Yum Yum

The islands of Ternate and Tidore had been the destination of European explorers seeking to circumvent the Ottoman Empire’s spice trade monopoly . Only one ship from Magellan's fleet returned from their historic voyage around the world and the spices purchased on these islands paid off the cost of the trip and enriched the investors beyond their dream.

In 1991 I flew from Ambon, the Spice Island's administrative capitol, to Ternate. I was the only westerner on the airplane. George Bush had ordered troops to the frontier of Kuwait to confront Saddam’s invasion of that oil-rich country. Indonesia is 95% Muslim. Ternate was 100%. The hotel manager asked if I were American.

"No, I'm Irish." I dropped the green passport on the counter. I had received citizenship thanks to my Nana from County Mayo.

"Maybe tidak apa-apa."

He gave me a room next to the front desk.

"I want a room with a view.” The volcanic island of Tidore lay across the bay. Its slope were covered with cloves. Their fragrance mingled with the Kretek cigarette smoke. on the tropical night air.

"Room with view apa-apa banyak."

Apa-apa means trouble. Banyak much trouble. He feared something worst than mosquitoes.

"You only Mistah here."

"Any Israelis?" A bunch of discharged IDF soldiers had occupied the Dutch hotel on Biak. The Indonesians thought they were dirty. I didn’t disagree. They smelled even worse. Indonesians disliked them almost as much as haughty Italians.

"No Israeli, you only “mistah."

The Dutch overlords had insisted on the Indonesians calling all white men ‘mistah’.

“Then no apa-apa. Like I said I am Irish.

The tropical evening fell like a black cloak on the streets lit by 40-watt bulbs. I walked to the harbor for dinner. The eyes in the doorways were sullen. The TV screen were filled by the 'Shock and Awe's destruction of Baghdad. The war had started in Iraq. Mullahs at the Mosques called out for evening prayers. The faithful kneeled in the direction of Mecca, but not all.

Some followed me. The quay was illuminated by the bright lights of restaurants. I stood before an offering of foods. None of them were familiar. One smelled good and everyone else in the restaurant was eating it. I ordered one plate with rice. More men stood glaring at me. I ate quickly, but the dish was so good I ordered another to show I wasn't scared of the gathering crowd.

Each man had a clove cigarette dangling from their lips, I came from the South Shore of Boston. We never ran, unless we could and retreat was became impossible as the 20 became 30 and the 30 grew to 50. It was time to order the bill. The older waitress placed the bill on the table. I read two orders of Danjing.

"Danjing?" I knew this word in Bahasa Indonesian.

"Yes, danjing?"

"Dog?"

"Yes, dog," she said it loud enough for the mob to hear and they laughed realizing I had unwittingly dined on dog. I smiled as the butt of joke should and said, “Irish eat dog.”

"George Bush eat dog." A voice in the crowd shouted and the men laughed without humor. I agreed with the mob. George Bush had trained the Guatemalan and El Salvador troops in counter-insurgency. Hundreds of thousands of Mayan peasants had died in his pogroms.

"Walk, don’t run," I told myself. Two cops were across the road. They turned their heads. I bought a loose cigarette from a tobacco shop and smoked the kretek butt, as the mob tramped several feet behind me. Upon reaching the hotel the manager asked, "Tidak apa-apa."

“No problem.” I grabbed my room key and barricaded the doors, as the crowd chanted, "George Bush eat dog."

The police ordered the crowd to go home, I listened to the BBC on my world-band radio. The battle of all battles was a blow-out. Iraq’s tanks burned in the desert, but my safe escape was seriously in doubt, since I figured the odds were 5000-1. Worse than Custer, yet no one smashed down the door and in the morning when I ventured from the hotel, the faces on the street were smiling.

Several men gave me the thumbs up.

"Rambo #1. You # 1. You eat dog."

And like that they switched sides, because everyone loves a winner and I liked dog enough to eat it twice.

DEEP MUD FROM DANAU POSO By Peter Nolan Smith

Indonesians travel by ships, boats, and ferries between the many islands of the Far East archipelago.

In 1991 I had been diving off Bunaken Island and after two weeks of drifting along the reefs I boarded midsize Pelni liner at Manado with a second-class ticket. I was headed around the top of Sulawesi to Palu with a brief stop on Borneo.

I phoned my mother collect from the hotel. The operator connected with Boston in less than thirty minutes. My mother was happy to know where I was. I had left her a map of Indonesia with my planned itinerary. She was concerned about my safety.

"No one is giving me a hard time about being an American." The USA and its allies were fighting the mother of all tank battles with Iraq. Indonesia was 95% Muslim.It was better that I didn't tell her about a mob harassing me in Ternate. "I'm taking a boat tomorrow."

"You never wanted to leave home as a young boy. Now you travel the world. Be my eyes and ears."

"I will."

I boarded the Pelni liner an hour before departure. The pier was packed with Javanese deportees headed to remote islands. I had an air-conditioned berth to myself and listened to the BBC on my bed. The war was progressing well for the Coalition of the Willing.

The ship cleared Manado harbor and skirted the coast past coconut plantations and Bugis villages. Few of their names were marked on the Nell's maps. Palm trees were the taller than the houses. A small dirt road veered in and out of sight. The overland journey from Manado to Palu on the island's west coast was a three-day ordeal.

"Jalan tidak jelek," said every passenger with a shiver.

"Sepanjang japan di Sulawesi jelek," warned a Javanese businessman.

Bad roads were bad roads no matter where.

I had driven icy rutted roads in Maine.

Death had waited around every curve in the French film THE WAGES OF FEAR.

I wondered how dangerous the roads could be in Sulawesi and enjoyed the smooth surface of the sea.

Everyone was glad to be on the ship. Its top speed was 12 knots. Our ETA in Palu was for tomorrow morning.

Dinner was a simple nasi goreng, fried rice with chicken and an egg. I washed the food down with a cold Bintang beer and went out on deck to watch the night sky. A lightning storm throbbed in a distant thunderhead and the stars numbered in the millions.

I lay in my bunk and read Joseph Conrad's VICTORY.

His novel was set on these island back in the last century.

On shore it was still 1890.

The ship arrived in Balikpapan around midnight. Oil tanks lined the harbor. The stop lasted about two hours. I stayed on board. A large number of Indonesians of all tribes and clans hustled up and down the gangway. I was getting used to the chaos and drank another beer.

The crew called 'Semua papan' or 'all aboard'.

Hundreds of people waved good-bye from starboard. The ship leaned several degrees off the beam and the captain blew the departure horn. Within minutes we were once more under way.

That night the BBC announced reported that Saddam's army was surrendering in droves. The liner's engines pounded out a steady beat. I fell asleep dreaming on the tropics.

AS predicted the ship reached our destination a little past the dawn. Palu was a small port. There were no Europeans on the dock. A driver came up to me and asked, "Dari jalan?"

I explained that I was heading to Lake Poso and asked how was the road.

"Jalan bagus."

Bahasa Indonesian was an easy language. Good road was a good thing and I sat in the front of his Toyota Pathfinder for the hundred mile ride to Poso.

Poso on the Gulf of Tomini was a bigger town than Palu with a population around 40,000.

Most of them Muslims, but also a melange of ethnic groups; Butung, Kaili, Bugis, Tolaki, Muna, Gorontaloan, and numerous others.

No one was driving to Lake Poso until tomorrow. Poso City seemed pleasant enough and I booked a cheap hotel for $5.

Nothing about it was clean and that night I opted against dining in their dingy restaurant in favor of a Chinese karaoke restaurant. The cuisine was a nice change from cold Malay dishes and I watched several women sadly sing songs, while gazing with longing at the pictures of Singapore or Hong Kong, wishing they were there and not in exile from their homeland.

At my small hotel I slept feeling like I was on the other side of nowhere, but nowhere was up in the mountains to the south.

The next day I rode up into the highlands. The road was paved thanks to money from the Japanese. The Empire's troops had occupied all of Indonesia during the War of the Pacific.

"Nippon bagus." The driver liked Japanese tourists. They paid twice as much as other tourists.

"Nippon bagus sekarang." They were good now, but now was different from 1945.

Not the jungle on either side of the road.

This was true rain forest.

Teakwood trees soared overhead.

No one lived here, but the road was paved and I enjoyed the view, as the car struggled up the steep inclines.

Coffee bushes dotted the slopes. The beans dried on the verge in the sun. The smell was tantalizing.

We stopped at a small roadside warung to let the engine cool down. The coffee was instant powder and the sweetened milk came out of can. For hundreds of years the Dutch colonists had shipped the spices and coffee to Europe. Some things never changed, but Asians liked talking about good things and I said to the driver, "Jalan bagus."

"Ya," he explained that the road on the other side of Lake Poso was the worst in Indonesia.

"How bad?"

"Sekali jelek."

The rest of the passengers murmured their agreement and the driver motioned for us to get in the LandCruiser.

Lake Poso was the third largest lake in Indonesia. A covered bridge crossed the outlet river. The driver dropped me at the ferry.

I once more asked about the road to the other end of the lake.

The driver laughed in my face and said that the road was a river of mud.

"Tomorrow you see."

The other passengers filed onto the ferry and laid in the shade. The boat wasn't leaving till the night, because of engine trouble.

I walked to a high hill in the hot equatorial sun.

The lake was bigger than it looked on the Nell's map.

Mountains rimmed the horizon. The people living on the slopes had been headhunters. I stayed close to the lake.

The ferry left near sunset. Another Westerner was on board. Ilke came from Germany. She was traveling alone. Michael Jackson's BEAT IT was on the radio.

I love Michael, but you can't play this around a campfire."

She didn't laugh. Her mind was on our trip.

"Have you heard about the road on the other side?"

"Everyone has been telling me that it's bad, but people tend to exaggerate. When I was in Ambon, the people there told me that the people living on Seram were all witches and the people on Seram said the same thing about the people on Ambon. Same thing probaly for this road."

"So the road will be fine."

We'll see soon enough."

The light faded fast from the sky.

The sunset was spectacular.

The darkness was complete.

The winds picked up and the ferry pulled into an inlet. We drank beers around a fire, as a young boy played Michael Jackson hits. One was BEAT IT. The reach of Jocko was worldwide.

We arrived at the southern end of Lake Poso at dawn. Clouds of fog lingered on the mountains. The air was cool as to be expected this high above sea level. Passengers from the ferry packed onto a waiting bus. The cost of a ride down to the Makassar was $3. A Toyota Pathfinder driver offered a seat for $10. For Indonesians as well as us. It seemed expensive.

"What do you think?" asked Ilke.

"The bus is cheap, but I'm not taking a chance." I was hoping to reach the mythical highlands of Tana Toraja by evening.

"I'm with you."

The road was paved for a good ten miles.

We stopped at a warung, where a young girl served us sweet instant coffee and cold rice with a salty egg.

"Why we stop?" I asked the driver.

"Jalan apa-apa." He pointed to a bulldozer hauling a bus from the mire. The high line of mud was well above the wheels. Two foreigners on board told us that they had been stuck for over a day.

"We tried walking, but almost drowned in it," the girl cried into the shoulder of her friend.

"Jalan sekali jerek."

I walked around the corner and saw how bad.

A mudslide had covered the road for about a hundred feet to a depth of ten feet. Workers were clearing the avalanche. I returned to the warung and said to Ilke, "We'll be here for hours."

The driver tapped his watch. "One hour."

His English was good, but I doubted he was an engineer and drank some more coffee. The cute girl's name was Indah.

After an hour I decided to walk to the other side of the slide.

The coffee was strong for instant.

Ilke joined me for the ankle deep trudge through the muck.

"When I left the USA, I wanted to come someplace like this. Someplace lost from the rest of civilization."

"You have gotten there and so have I." Ilke was in a good mood.

Standing in mud got boring fast and we trudged to the nearest warung.

Road crews were eating breakfast. We joined them. Our Nissan showed up thirty minutes later. We got back in the car and left behind the bad road for good.

By afternoon we reached Tana Toraja. The town had primitive feel to it, but we booked into a clean hotel for $5. Ilke got her own room.

That night I bought Ilke several beers and we had a good laugh about the mud.

"I wonder where the bus is."

"Still in the mud."

And that was the difference between $3 and $10 in 1991.

April 24, 1981 - Key West - Journal Entry

Only another three days in Key west. My strength has returned, mostly because I haven't been drinking so heavily and stopped snorting cocaine. Drink and coke were my basic diet while I was working at the Jefferson Theater. Right now I'm sitting on the end of a wharf, watching the sun set into the Gulf Stream . It's flattening as it approaches the horizon. A hippie's flute floats over the distance from Mallory's Pier, where everyone comes to watching the demise of the day's sun like they were extra's in a Thomas McGuane novel.

I shouldn't be so dismissive of the hoi polloi. I am no one and recognize that I am no one.We are all no one's together. The breeze is unbelievably balmy. Wispy clouds are polished silver by the dying rays. Night is coming fast. I am alone. Behind me the stars are popping from the gathering black. I wait for all light to cease, then I go into town.

Last night I ran into Tina and Hiram at the supermarket. I was with Giuliana and Alice. I didn't recognize the star of Fellini's SATYRICON. He looked excessively healthy. He had stopped doing blow. Tina is excessively pregnant. We were mutually surprised to see each other, since we hadn't seen each other since September, when they were living in 256 East 10th Street. One floor above me. They had left to act on a film in Jamaica.

"We were talking about you the other day." The movie star pointed to his wife.

"I was telling how we broke into your apartment with me squeezing under the window gate. I couldn't do that now," she said patting her belly. "Hiram and I are having a baby."

"So I see." I introduced them to Alice and her mother. Guiliana was star struck as would have been any Italian who had met a Fellini star. Alice just thought he was handsome, which was the truth. one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. "How was Jamaica?"

"A war broke out after Seavey won. Manley's gunman from Frenchtown refused to accept the results. "But why don't you come over and we'll talk later."

I went off with my friends to Hilton Haven road. I read a book and planned on meeting Hiram tomorrow. Gianca and I watched TV. He lies on the couch and I rest on the floor with a pillow under my head. Comfortable and sleep came faster than a tropical sunset.

Softer than soft A Key West breeze Carrying the breath of the sea Through the palms To a milk box On which I sit Watching Apollo finish his day's race With the Sun A peace, a crazy peace, touches my soul Creating a Satori state My senses cocaine dead rise from the grave The clouds catch fire Dusk shadows stretch down Duvall From the East Dusk turning to night On the Gulf Stream Soon it will be night.

Key West Light - April 1981

Palms wavering in the Key West light. High noon I hide in the shade My eyes blinded by brightness Maybe it's the light Making the horizon so close As if it were the edge of the world Sailors fear the edge of the world I have no fear I stand on land. Key West. I swim out a hundred yards. No fear The water is only chest-deep My feet rest on sand. Key West of the past I will not awaken any sea monster Nor tread on a dead fish I am scared of sea monsters Lurking under the waves They could be America's Godzilla Waiting awakening to burn Miami to ashes. One must be scared of sleeping monsters Monsters in strange waters at the end of US1.

Ireland - ELK BOOKS The Last Issue

Jocko Weyland has published his last issue of ELK and included an excerpt from my journal entries from my long stay in the West of Ireland. 1997. Ballyconneely. Twenty-five years ago.

Yeah, Todd and my stay in Ballyconneely was weird. September was fine ,but October grew grim and November the rains struck with a sodden ferocity.

On my first day in the farming town I went to the village's only pub, expecting penny whistles, singing around a peat fire, and frothy Guinness. Instead a brooding huddle of sullen EU-subsidized cow-farming bachelors greeted my entrance with squinty gazes.

I offered a round. They accepted them with any thanks.I hadn't expected any and settled into getting drunk on Guinness, listening to the brogue and warmly thinking, "This is Ireland, the land of my grandparents".

A shove interrupted my fond memories of my Nana.

"Whatcha lookin' at?" asked a gnome wearing a tam over a Brillo pad of a sweep-over.

I answered the local color honestly, "The wall."

"Well, I'll be troublin' you to not look at that bit of the wall. It's mine."

The bartender told Mikey to shut his hole and the pub sunk into the sullen silence of the West of Ireland.

Over the following weeks the locals avoided Todd and me. Mikey always told me not to look at the wall. It was the only contact I had with the village males.

It didn't matter. I walked through the bogs to the Atlantic. Wellingtons kept my feet dry.Todd had a bad back and stayed close to the haunted schoolhouse, which we had rented from the Guinness family. His girlfriend called the house every day and told him how sunny it was in LA.

He later married Malibu Stacy.

On my next birthday in New York, we drank margaritas at Banditos in the East Village and went swimming in the East River. She wore a tablecloth as a sarong. Todd hated me. They married and had a daughter. They still are married.

The reason for going to Ireland was that my mother's deathbed wish that I marry someone like her, my sisters, or aunts. This sounded fairly incestuous, but the only women in Ballyconneely were fourteen year-old girls pregnant from their pimply boyfriends, women in the forties, and two lesbians from Clifden.

One evening Mikey and I were drinking at the pub.. The village's only attractive female over eighteen was behind the Guinness stick. Mikey noticed my interest and called her over.

"Does my American friend stand a chance with you?"

"Not a chance."

"He punched my arm and said, "Right them, back to your beer and keep your eyes off my wall."

ZOE TO THE BONE A Poem By Peter Nolan Smith

The later in the day
The longer the shadow
The illusion of forever
Because zombies don't have shadows
At least that's what my Zanmi friends say
And they Haitians 'zoe' to the bone.

May Day For Green Acres Tavern

Last spring above Albany the land greened with spring. I traveled north with Kilmer on the weekend, transporting a U-haul filled with antiques. It was a five-day process and this morning we slept in late, re-charging our batteries for the return trip to the city.

In the afternoon Kilmer looked for a new car. I begged off this excursion. Most of the time I was strictly a passenger. Driving on the Interstates was purgatory and Kilmer believed in speed. I preferred obeying the speed limit, so when we reached Greenwich, New York, I asked to be let out of the Ford SUV. I wanted to walk back to Middle Falls.

Kilmer understood and said, "Call me when you are close to home."

I got out at the Batten Kill River. The sun was strong. Small flowers sprouted from the grass. I walked to a railroad bridge rusted by the seasons. The still river poured over the old mill dam with the overflow of a rainy week. Cars rolled on Route 29.

I walked through town past the post office and closed stores. Several buildings had taken on the ghost of ruin. It was hot. A cold beer was a good idea and I and searched for a bar. There were none.

I stopped to take a photo of a Civil War statue. The soldier faced south, although after Trump's triumph the Deep North felt more like Dixie.

I

I strolled along the sidewalk. This side of town was better off than the mill side. Several houses had been refuges for escaped slaves fleeing on the Underground Railroad to Canada. There were no blacks in Greenwich now.

No Mexicans too.

But the few other pedestrians looked like junkies or meth freaks.

Everyone else was in a SUV or pick-up truck.

At least none were sporting a Confederate flag.

The commercial section of town had expanded since my last visit. Tech firms were opening in Saratoga. Property prices were soaring for old milk farms. Gleaming tractors crowded the parking lot of the farm equipment dealer and brand new trucks shone in the car lot. A lot had changed, but the Green Acres Tavern remained a destination for early afternoon drinkers. I texted Malinda to meet me there. I entered the bar. One man sat at the bar. The TV was on a sports channel. I ordered a Labatt Blue from the bartender. Canada was only 110 miles from Greenwich.

The other drinker was slightly younger than me. His head was razor-cut and skin tanned by outdoor work. A bearded friend entered the bar. He was younger than me too. I was the old man at the bar. They said hello and spoke about the Giants. Big Blue reached far north from the Meadowlands. Malinda hated this bar. To her the Green Acres was filled with racists. She wasn't wrong, especially after I heard buzz-cut say, "Why do people celebrate May Day?"

"I don't know."

"Probably commies dance around a maypole."

I could only tolerate so much ignorance and I said, "No, May Day commemorates the Haymarket Riots in Chicago. The workers were striking for an eight-hour work day. The police charged the rally. A bomb exploded in the ranks. The violence as always was initiated by the police."

"Well, if the cops shot in Ferguson, there wouldn't be any marches."

I cut him short.

"Don't get me wrong. I believe in the right to carry. And the right to protect yourself. Machine guns too. Especially to kill the bankers who are the real criminals and the politicians. bomb at the anarchists. It blew up in their ranks. As for deporting people. I say let's get rid of the Russians. They're all commies. At least the Mexicans are Americans. What will you have to drink?"

"They ordered Bud Lite.

It was the fascists' beer of choice.

We changed the subject several times an they told me of a six-stool bar on a lake.

"Sounds like paradise."

"It was."

"Was?"

"Bank bought it. Shut it down."

I raised my glass.

"Death to all bankers."

We drank our bottles dry.

A horn beeped outside.

"It's my wife or as I call her my 'designated driver'."

We high-fived and I stepped outside into Spring.

Malinda gave me a dirty look.

Like I said she hated this tavern, but I can drink with anyone as long as they're willing to listen to my bullshit.