Peace Corps Malaysia

Letter from Victoria Institution to parents Sep 4, 1966

Dear parents, 

It appears to be impossible in the near future for me to produce another gala tape production for US consumption – the microphone is on the blink, and the hostel kids are just too noisy.  And if they heard me praising Japan, and comparing it honestly with Malaysia, I’m afraid I would lose a lot of friends. People are damn sensitive over here, and 100% ethnocentric, so I’ll just have to play it safe for now with a letter.

It’s going to be impossible to make this vacation report accurate. If I had visited Japan straight from the US, and taken the usual tours, with the usual tourists, the recording would be easy. But I flew to Japan straight from a small tropical country where getting a dollar or a girl or a trip to England are the only goals in life, and where "culture", the arts, and even modern "Western" living is a thin veneer covering I’m still not sure what.  After nine months in such a social climate, Japan took us completely unawares. Honestly, we really felt like hayseeds visiting New York or Paris. I can’t begin to tell you how refreshing those three weeks were. But I’ll try anyway.

First, a word about my two traveling companions. Dave Almquist is a Peace Corps English teacher in a school for Malays in Kuala Lumpur, and he’s full of brains. He went to Andover (class of 60 also, but I didn’t know him well then), then Yale, then Harvard, where he studied Chinese literature and history. He was a great help, because of his knowledge of Mandarin, on everything from menus to how not to offend a host. Mrs. Barbara Nottingham (now, divorced) teaches art in another school in KL. Speaking frankly, she was along because she knows every art instructor in Japan. Thanks to Barbara, we spent all but about four nights of our stay in private homes. We three made a darn good team. My Japanese always got the ball rolling when we were met by our next family host (I can bluff my way through about 10 words of Nihongo); then David would read a few Chinese characters (the crowd would go wild); at meals are facile chopstick handling had them begging for more; and Barbara would lead our final trump card later in the evening with her inimitable hula. The Japanese families never knew what hit them. Putty in our hands, I tell you, putty in our hands.

We planned the trip very carefully, writing six selected families, and giving them approximate dates when we would be in their respective areas. They all answered promptly, and also generously. Typical quotes: “Thank you for your letter my all family enjoyed very much to see your letter, especially my old father did “ (Genzo Ohno). “I wish that you come here with your friends. My house was reformed and became more convenient."

We flew from KL on a Saturday morning, arriving in Hong Kong in time for a quick trip to the Park hotel and our first whiskey and water in ages. Hong Kong sounds romantic and all,  but after Penang and Singapore… Well, you know how it is. I mean after you've seen one Chinese free port, you’ve seen them all. But we did have sense enough to change our money there. The flight to Tokyo that same day was a delight. Japan airlines is certainly the nicest I’ve flown on, and we had the extra benefit of a plane load of Girl Scouts from India, Pakistan, and Iran. Someday, Mom, I’m bringing home a sweet young thing from Kashmir. Wow.

Our first logistics problem confronted us at the Tokyo International airport: two families and one extra fellow met us, despite all our careful planning. I tell you, this Japanese hospitality is for real. We diplomatically talked our way out of one of the families and the extra fellow, and left with Mr. and Mrs. Hideyoshi for three days in the suburbs of Tokyo. He actually turned out to be very rich and very western (chairs and beds and all). The myth of Japanese serenity was shattered for the first of many times ten minutes after we arrived, when Hiyashi stripped to his bathing suit (it was hot, I confess) we followed suit, his son turned on Thelonious Monk on his hi-fi, and the beer chest was brought out. I tell you, never have I felt so much at home so soon. He actually runs an art gallery in a posh area of Tokyo, and his house was full of artsy items (masks, paintings, rugs, knick knacks), mostly pretty awful, but also a lot of fun. A Picasso and a Chagall horse hung over my bed, and there were art books on the shelves. I honestly felt like crying right on the spot. They even kept the dog for a pet!

We took our first Japanese hot baths that evening. I volunteered to go first. That turned out to be a stupid move. I have never in my life felt such hot water. While sitting in it up to my neck, Dave’s sneaked in and took a flash picture. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a bit obscene so we had to scratch it. From then on, I wised up: either let Barb and Dave go first by faking a trip to the head, or just not bother getting in at all. But by the end of our stay, I seem to have developed a tolerance for 140° water, and it almost felt pleasant once or twice. Boy, that was a stupid move that first night.

Sunday we bombed all over Tokyo, via the monorail, and Hiyashi's car. I spent half the day in the Mitsukoshi Department Store's toy department, the other half watching kendo fighters, with time in between for the palace grounds and the museum. Dinner was fabulous: cold noodles, roast, beef, baked squash, bean pods and yellow potatoes, tossed salad, seaweed, and rice, peaches, and homemade plum brandy – almost everything new to us. Malaysian food is delicious, but sometimes rather overpowering: it’s sort of shouts at you with its flavors (especially is fruits). Our Japanese meals always had just enough finesse to remind us we were in a classy country. 

Monday we were driven to Kamakura for the traditional tourist gape at the great Buddha – I got a bigger kick out of the Zen temples in the vicinity. In the afternoon we visited Hiyashi's gallery, which was full of gross pop art paintings (women straddling Wheaties boxes, etc.), and I sneaked across the street with his assistant to buy some Japanese prints (two Hiroshige and two Hokusai). Dinner was another masterpiece (spaghetti, potatoes, peaches, rice mixed with tea, pickled eggplant and cucumber, and more plum brandy. Whee.) I was third in the bath, and spent most of my time picking Dave’s hairs out of it, to make it more presentable for the next bather.

Tuesday, a friend of Hiyashi's agreed to drive us to Nagano (about seven hours by car) in his taxi for about a third of the normal cost. When we took leave of Hayashi and Mii, she handed us some sandwiches, a few gifts, and then started softly crying. It was the first time I’ve seen anyone cry, since I arrived in the east. Hell, Then we almost started to cry.  It was great. You know, every two weeks or so I sneak off to the films in KL by myself, just for a good cry. I bawled at Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Born Free, and even The Longest Journey. I sat through Dr. Zhivago twice, and broke out weeping every time Julie Christie came onto the screen. Just last weekend, I caught myself breaking up over a book (Pale Horse, Pale Rider). I guess it’s a sign of homesickness, or rather of a longing for a whole host of things Malaysia just don’t have; it sure makes movies and books more fun, though.

Well, I am off the track. We were met in Nagano (get your map out!) By Professor Nagashima, who teaches art history at the University there, and who spoke lovely English. He was soft-spoken and gentle, and knew enough of art and architecture not to tell us anything about what he showed us until the next day, when it had time to settle in. It’s nice to visit some great works of art without knowing beforehand what they are, when they were made, and why you like or dislike them.

The nicest thing about our Nagano trip, besides, Professor Nagashima, was our youth hostel accommodations. We stayed right on Lake Nojiri in a perfectly lovely Japanese youth hostel with tatami floors, soft futons for sleeping, kimonos, sukiyaki for dinner… the works. Next door was a group of kids our age, playing guitars, and playing cards, and outside was the lake, warm from hot springs, and filled with bathers, canoers, and sailboats. We spent three lovely days by this lake, eating, swimming, walking, and in the evening, listening to Nakashima talk about Shinto art (his specialty).  We even had an earthquake one night (this is the area hardest hit earlier this year, by a fearsome quake, which took dozens of lives).  Around the lake, tobacco and mulberry trees are cultivated, the latter as food for the silkworms we could hear munching inside the farm houses as we passed them on our walks.  Barbara tried out some black seed like objects in front of one house and pronounce them delicious before Nagashima pointed out they were silk worm droppings. She stuck to her original opinion, though. That girl has guts. One afternoon we visited an 800 year old Shinto shrine within a grove of huge Cryptomeria trees (related to our giant redwoods, I think). Its roof was of thatch, 2 feet thick, and its walls of huge, raw beams of wood. For our last night we had our first sashimi (raw fish) with hot sauce. Pretty tasty stuff. The next morning we took the train back to Tokyo. Air-conditioned. Clean. As we passed each station, the attendant would bow to Honorable Us. What a country.  Incidentally, Professor Nagashima, and professor Goheen of Stanford University are friends – the latter even owns one of Nagashima’s landscapes (of Lake Nojiri). What a small world it is.

Now comes and Edwards coup. Back in Tokyo, we three decided our one chance to see the nightlife was to stay in a hotel for awhile, and just not announce our presence to our friends for the next three days.  And when in Tokyo, what is the natural hotel to stay in, for people with modest means? The Imperial, naturally. Forthrightly, I strode to the desk of the Old Imperial, explained our situation, mentioned "Peace Corps Volunteer" in every other sentence (the magic phrase all over the world now, it seems), and lo! We had a fantastic three room suite with bath, TV, fridge, etc. for US $15 a night (I won’t tell you what the usual price is - you wouldn’t believe me). What a wild place. I spent part of each day just roaming the corridors, nooks and crannies of Frank Lloyd Wright’s brain child, and returned, convinced that I didn’t like it, but that he must’ve known what he was doing. Barbara lent me her copy of The Wise Bamboo by J. Malcolm Morris, who was the manager of the Imperial for six years, and I can recommend it as pretty damn funny. The New Imperial is modern, clean, efficient, and making money hand over fist. The Old Imperial is on the way out, I’m afraid, but we made it, we made it. Wait until I tell Catherine.

Friday evening I pulled an even bigger coup. After reading about the mikado (worlds biggest and most expensive nightclub) in Life Magazine, Dave and I figured we had to get there. Somehow it was the same success story all over again. An earnest conversation with the manager, sprinkled with "Peace Corps Volunteer" references, and we were in there for three hours, two shows, and two English-speaking hostesses (gorgeous!), for a paltry ten bucks each. We felt pretty proud of ourselves that night. 

My final coup I pulled the following day. I rose at five, grabbed the subway, two trains, and two buses in succession, and by noon I was at the base of Mount Fuji. All the students I talked to on the way assured me the Fuji climb takes a minimum of two days. I was on top by 4 PM. In other words, I creamed that mountain. What a fine climb, too. August is the climbing month for pilgrims, and the trail was packed with white-robed priests, old ladies in colorful costumes, black-bearded fellows, looking like samurai warriors, and groups of the omnipresent students. On top I had my walking stick, stamped by the priest, my picture taken by a friendly climber, and I was down in 40 minutes (a straight shot running downhill in blacjc sand), and back to Tokyo by 10 PM. Ho hum.

The next morning we took the 175 mph Tokaido Express to Nagoya (just opened, and the fastest in the world), where we were met by two more families, the Ohnos and the Ichikawas. We democratically arranged to stay with each family two days. Nagoya is large and modern, and the girls seemed a lot freer and more relaxed. There were fewer kimonos on the streets, and more mods. Genzo Ohno lived just outside Nagoya, in Kariya City. He quickly put us at ease (and almost flat on our backs) by hosting a no-holds-barred beer party in our honor. Barbara’s hula was a smashing success. Later on, so was mine.

Genzo rented a microbus for us one morning and drove us down to the Ise shrine, the oldest and most venerated of Shinto shrines in Japan. The place was packed. We then drove onto the Miki Moto Pearl Industries, where they seemed to be giving away pearls by the fistful. Unfortunately, the censors have gotten to the women divers, who are now dressed up like astronauts, in their white diving suits.

Or stay with the Ichikawa’s was a real pleasure. He seems to be moderately wealthy, but, more importantly, has real good taste in art, and his house (which he designed himself) reflects it. Remember all those pictures of Japanese homes in the "See Japan" travel posters? They were taken in his home. My bedroom opened on one side to a garden with goldfish, waterfall, etc. and on the other side to a miniature pine forest. The furnishings consisted of one ikibana, one scroll, and one low table in the center. We ate our meals on the veranda off of his painting room, overlooking the rice padies in the area. Those Ichikawas really knew how to turn on the works. But serene? On the contrary – they had three cute devils for children, including one young boy, who had the run of the place (they don’t discipline their children until they are six, I am told). So much for Serenity.  Akira took us to the Toyokawa Inari. The nicest Zen temple in Japan, and wangled a Zen meal for us in the process (seaweed, curd soup, chrysanthemums, etc.).  We visited his school (the second largest in Japan) to talk with the English teachers, and later enjoyed a restaurant meal of what I figured was barbecued cheesecake. It came as a surprise to me to discover the pitiful state of the English language education in Japan – everything else seems so modern and progressive. And especially after hearing English spoken by everyone in Malaysia, and later, by almost everyone in Taiwan. The English teachers we talked to – get this – had never before spoken with a native English speaker. And they were typical of the English teachers we met in Japan. They were so bad I could only understand the third of what they were saying, and I’m sure they didn’t understand us at all. I have theories on this phenomenon, but no time now, to expound them. Honestly, by the end of the holiday, I spoke better Japanese than some of them spoke English.

We left Nara after a delightful tea ceremony performed by an even more delightful kimono clad thing (the local press photographer caught Dave and me leering, I’m afraid), where we stayed, thanks to a written introduction, in a Japanese ryoukan (inn). We got bagged on sake that evening, to everyone’s merriment; David even managed to urp a little on the sly. We sweated like pigs all night, under mosquito netting, and vowed never to touch the stuff again. During the night, Barbara snuggled up to me in her sleep, I moved over to David in defense, and morning found Barb on my tatami, and me and David on his. She hasn’t lived it down yet. We took a six hour tour of Nara the next day, and were soon up to our ears in temples, pavilions, shrines, and towers. My favorite was the mixed bathroom facilities at our lunch stop. Do you think France is public? Come to Japan.

No trip to Japan is complete without the Inland Sea boat trip, so off we went, all 18 hours of it. Were it not for some aggressively friendly Japanese fellows in the ships bar, I confess I would’ve been bored silly. I mean, you’ve seen one endless sea tour, you’ve seen them all. Still, I have some nice pictures of islands just like the one in that film for we saw (called The Island, I think. Remember?) We disembarked at that Beppu, where another introduction got us a ryukan complete with a swimming pool size hot bath: Beppu is a Hot Springs resort, popular with honeymooners. From Beppu, we took a bus ride to Mt Aso town, in the middle of Kyushu; and certainly the bus ride of the century. Air conditioned. Lovely hostesses. Scenery magnificent. And even a song by one of the hostesses (written by herself). They should do things, right in that country. Mr. Watanabe met us at the bus station, hustled us up mount Aso in his unbelievably tiny car for a look at the active volcano on top, and then onto his home in Kumamoto. It was the same story all over again: good food, gifts, lovely people, smiles, etc. etc. Kumamoto is a fine town with a lovely castle in its center.  That evening we dressed up in our kimonos, obi, and geta, and promenaded around the town. The Giants from the west. Even the polite Japanese were caught staring now and then. After all, tourists just don’t get to Kumamoto these days.

Hey, I’m running out of space. I’ll hasten my tale. We flew back to Osaka in two days, took a train to Kyoto, and family number six welcomed us with open arms. Kyoto is my city, gang. I’m going to spend a year there sometime. And we hit it just right: that evening of the Daimonji festival was to take place. Everyone was out in his or her her finest kimono, and even the geishas (normally kept from the public eye) could be spotted on the sidewalks. Our host had reserved a place for us on the banks of the Kamo river, the traditional spot to view the festival. Sitting immediately in front of us was a Maiko (apprentice geisha), entertaining her circle of men. On the hills around us were the huge bonfires burning in the shapes of Chinese calligraphs (torii, dai, and so on). It was too much. The next day, Dave and I were escorted around Kyoto by Tai, a lovely girl our age with a fascinating history behind her. Her ancestors have lived in the same house for 400 years (into which they moved after the Kumamoto war), and which we visited that afternoon. Her grandfather was the samurai of the Daikokuji, a famous temple nearby, and her father is a wealthy businessman who designs buildings in his spare time. What a house, and what a family. David and I fell in love instantly. We three shopped for pearls, agreeing finally a the strand at a poultry ¥1 million. A typical Thai-ism: “One sneeze mean someone loves you. Two sneezes means someone is talking about you.  And three sneezes? That means you have a cold “

We left Japan from Osaka international airport, but we didn’t want to. Of course Taiwan was a let down -  any country would be after Japan. But it served nicely to cool us down for reentry into Malaysia. We had a good contact in Taipei (another art professor), and he showed us the works – in particular, the national museum, which truly has the most magnificent collection of Chinese stuff you could ever imagined, and of course we loaded up on Chinese cooking and illegal books (they jump copyright and sell it 1/10 US cost); but, all in all Taiwan was not so much different from Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Penang, Hong Kong, or any of the other Chinese dominated cities this part of the world is so full of. It was the culture we had been immersed in for nine months, so it was difficult to get excited about it. Japan was our big treat, and we milked it pretty well. I don’t think I’ve ever had a trip which functioned so well from start to finish. And I am sure I had never had a trip which confronted me with so many really new places, people, and ideas. You could say I’m snowed.

This letter is really getting ridiculous. I’ll try to bring it to a close in a few more pages. Life in Malaysia is good, as usual. The most recent excitement is an impending strike by the National Union of Teachers over better pay, hospital, benefits, etc. NUT is a small union, but a vocal one, and most teachers will probably join in on the strike when it begins next Thursday. VI will also participate. We had a meeting last Friday, and we decided to follow the union's directive to abstain from all extramural activities (because teachers are not paid for them).  As a Peace Corps volunteer, I of course may not strike with the teachers, since I am technically employed by the Malaysian government, and under its thumb completely, but my sympathies clearly lie with the teachers. And in the long run, all teachers will strike, for otherwise they would have to do twice the work on extramural activities to make up for the loss of manpower. So it looks as if I’ll have a pile of free time on my hands beginning next Thursday. Whoopee. Incidentally, this is the first time a union has struck with any hope of success. Here’s hoping nobody gets hurt in the process.

Now, let me tell you a bit about something really big, which I may be in on. I wanted to keep it a secret until confirmation, but I like to talk. It seems to University of Malaya (this country’s only University) is opening up a computer center next year (Southeast Asia's only computer center), and I have been offered one fine, fat, job to help them get the computer center rolling. I would still be a Peace Corps volunteer, but I would have an office and all the extras at the University, I would get to use all my math, and of all things, the head of the math department wants to give me a Masters degree if I help him out. And the Peace Corps boss thinks all this is great. Now I couldn’t care less about the Masters degree (probably worthless in the US anyway), but the opportunity to use my training as a mathematician has got me pretty excited, and the opportunity to work with some really fine minds over an extended period of time on a really pioneer project has got me very excited indeed. There are still a lot of snags in my plans (getting out of my VI job one year early may be troublesome), but I think it will work out. Sound good? You bet it is.

Now, what does this have to do with you? It means for one that I will be in the country one year longer. That is, my stay will be three years instead of two, so that Len and I will finish together. But Peace Corps policy says that any volunteer who extends a year gets a free home leave of one month, so I may see you soon anyway. What do you think of all this noise? Pleased? Displeased? Think I’m slowly going to pot it in the tropics? I’d like to hear your reactions.

Nothing much else to write about. Anyway, my fingers are getting tired. Tell Bruce to write more often, and give me some idea of what Leningrad was like. Your postcard was tantalizing, I must say. You know, we Merrymen are covering the globe rather well of late. What a wild family. 

Love and kisses, Sammykins.

P.S. I am 24 in three more days. I still look, act and think like I’m 18. Will I ever grow up?