For My Good Friend Raymond

My very good friend and brother in arms, from Texas, Raymond, recently left a comment (well, actually two separate comments) on my Blogs from last week

I first met Raymond at Kagnew Station in Africa in 1967. He was a quiet person that didn’t hang out with the people in my coterie. We worked on the same shift (Trick) and saw one another on a daily basis. I found his Texas drawl and the colloquialisms that he used to be very amusing. I was a city boy from the North and was amused very easily with the language that southerners used.

Raymond was what we called a “ditty bopper” (Morse Intercept Operator) and I worked as a Non-Morse Communications Analyst. He spent seven eights of each work day listening to the high pitch sounds of Morse Code (He did the same while stationed in Viet Nam), I, on the other hand, wore headsets for about two hours per shift.

I have a little impaired hearing in my left ear. Raymond is on VA Disability with total hearing loss in his left ear and has to wear a hearing aid in his right ear. Others from our unit suffer the same problems, but to a lesser extent.

One of Raymond’s comments was “NOW this is the ZAZZ I love to read.”

For years Raymond has lived vicariously through some of my emails about the former loves of my life. Most of these stories are not exaggerated or embellished (maybe slightly to make my physical prowess look better than it actually was).

Therefore I will relate a story (on this Blog), for Raymond, that I have not previously told to anyone living or dead.

The Story!

It was in the spring of 1969 that I met a lovely young lady who worked for the Central Intelligence Agency at a party in a neighbor’s apartment in Laurel, Maryland. I was still serving in the Army at this time.

This girl, Nancy, was a Columbia graduate and had been recruited by the CIA in her senior year of college. She wanted to become a field agent but instead was put into an administrative position. She was not a happy camper! But the CIA kept leading her on and she continued to work for them.

She was from Glen Cove, Long Island but lived with her grandmother, just off New York Avenue, on 1st Street NW in Washington DC. Not one of nicest neighborhoods in DC.

Nancy and a few others of her female co-workers (as well as several young ladies that worked for the FBI and No Such Agency) would travel to Laurel, Maryland on the weekends to attend the bacchanalian parties that were held at a place simply referred to as T-2 (the apartment number). They came to drink, dance and find male companionship.

As I recall, there were usually more female guests at the party than male guests – this was good odds for me.

The night in question I was chasing after a blond named Dewey who worked for the FBI and lived in Arlington VA. The farther the distance from the party the better chance that you had with the young ladies spending the night. Plying them with alcoholic beverages also helped.

After drastically failing with my pursuit of Dewey, I moved on to Nancy. We danced and we drank. She was a nice girl and I was a bad guy. Opposites tend to attract.

At roughly one in the morning, I suggested that we adjourn to my apartment a short block away. She agreed.

When we arrived, we immediately headed for the bedroom (which I shared with a roommate - Marty). Much to my chagrin, Marty was laying planks with Dewey. I grabbed my pillows and a blanket and headed onto the living room floor with Nancy.

We made love for several hours (not an exaggeration), and then exhaustedly passed out. We lied naked on top of the blanket.

At the un-Godly hour of 9 in the morning there was a knock at the door. It was our upstairs neighbor, who also served in the same Army unit as I did. We never locked our door, so after a brief knock, he entered to find me and Nancy lying buck naked on the floor of the living room.

The funny thing was that he was more embarrassed than we were; we just laughed and covered up with the blanket.

Nancy went back to Glen Cove in early July; tired of the CIA feeding her Bullshit. We had three good months together; a lot of love making and mad passionate sex.

The Beach Bum

A Warm Fuzzy From A Friend

Tonight I received a very touching email from an old Army buddy. He is a member of my email group of old Kagnew Station friends. I recently admonished the group for being too political and for their one line obscene comments (that are made all in jest and friendship). It’s not that I mind obscene language; I hate one line emails. I feel that email should be the same as writing a letter and sending it to a friend (would you waste the cost of a postage stamp on what you have just written?).

I knew my re-found friend Paul (Loopy) for only a very short time at Kagnew. I was a new guy and he was a short timer. I have one black and white picture of us sitting together in the enlisted man’s club (Oasis) with several other guys and two local young ladies. He was more of a friend of a friend than a personal friend. But he was a character that one could never forget. He had a quick wit with very good verbal acumen. I, as well as others in our group, had searched the Internet for years seeking him. Surprisingly he found us.

I would like to share this email which he sent to me tonight:

Every so often I sit back and think about members of my family who I knew so well but never "really knew." I grew up with my 2 brothers and my sister who were all a bit older than myself. As each reached the ripe old age of eighteen, they one by one moved away from home to begin their own lives. The people I thought I had known became strangers as they formed new friendships, new experiences, and new ideas and ideals.

At eighteen, the age when all young men believe that they know everything, I was learning about myself and my world. My eighteenth birthday was celebrated as part of a basic training company at Fort Ord, CA. I made friends there. I served in other units from Fort Lewis, WA to Fort Huachuca, AZ and then got out of the Army. There were more new friends at each new duty station. I re-enlisted in 1965 and found myself at Fort Devens, MA, the place of my birth. My Father was a career Army man stationed there in 1942 with the 18th Inf. Rgt.

My return to Fort Devens was as part of the Army Security Agency, which was totally misnamed as we were training in Intelligence, not Security. I served in different duty stations during the last 4 years of my hitch. It was at Kagnew Station, a strategic listening post located atop the Hamassian Plateau in the then Province of Eritrea, Country of Ethiopia, where I met more young men who I called "friends."

Many years have passed since I last saw or spoke to any of them and some I knew of but really didn't know since we all wore the facade of the people we wanted so desperately to be seen as being. About eighteen months ago, I happened upon a web site dedicated to that long ago duty station and while scanning the visitors log, happened upon several names of old room-mates. Only one had a current phone number and I became reacquainted with a group of these grizzled old Vets.

This group of old Vets remind me of the family I used to have when I was a kid. The vulgar jokes, ribald stories, exaggerations that become greater every time an old story is retold, petty spats, hurt feelings and making up again all remain just like they were in those old days of my childhood. These men have become my family because of all the shared experiences, good and bad. I have come to depend upon the morning ritual of turning on the computer and checking for incoming mail. This group of men have been together as a support group with an annual reunion for a number of years before I stumbled upon them and I know that they looked for me as they did each other.

Due to my responsibilities as a full time caregiver for my bride of almost 40 years, I am unable to attend their reunions, but I hope that they know that I am with them in spirit. My bride asked me recently how long I had known these men. There was only one answer I could possibly give her that would tell her, them, and the world just how much they have meant to me. That answer was, "Not long enough!"

Loopy

Thank you, Paul, it made my day!

The Beach Bum

Surrogate Mothers

While I am in still in that nostalgic craze about my time spent in Africa in the 1960’s; I thought that I should write this story.

There was an older lady (in her early 50’s – we were all in our early 20’s) that many of us GI’s from Kagnew Station knew intimately. We called her Mama Kathy or Mama K. I am not too sure if that was her real name. But we all called her Mama out of deference.

Mama K had a cheese and wine shop bordering on the street in the front yard of her house; it was more like a kiosk. She sold Italian cheeses, sausages, fruit and wine. For about $2 you could get a plate of food for lunch with a glass of wine.

As a youth I ate a lot of different types of cheese, primarily Wisconsin cheese. But none of those compared to the Italian cheeses that Mama would serve. Hard cheese, soft cheese, goat and sheep milk cheeses that were served with spicy sausage, fruit and a glass of cheap red wine (Barbera). It was an epicurean’s delight. I became a regular patron.

Mama K and I had many conversations over lunch and coffee.

When Mama K was much younger, she was a Padrona (the word she used) to an Officer in the Italian Army that was stationed in Asmara. In 1941 he was sent back to Italy and she accompanied him as his mistress (I’m not sure if he was married or ever had a wife).

The Italian Officer was killed in battle and in the early 1940’s Mama returned to Asmara. She was pregnant and wanted her child to be born in her native country. She had a son. Several years later, through an affair with a local Asmara businessman (also Italian), she had a daughter.

Her son managed a local Italian owned Night Club, famous for its European performing acts; including dancers, singers and acrobats. He didn’t like us Americans being in the club nor did he like us visiting with his mother. He was well known for shooting at cars driven by US Servicemen near his mother’s house and the kiosk. Therefore this place of business was Off Limits to military personnel. I visited regardless.

The daughter was a couple years younger than me. She was sent off to college, by Mama, to Pennsylvania in 1967. I often wonder if she returned to Eritrea or stayed here in the States. I had met her one time when she was working in the cheese and wine shop; she was cute.

I have always wanted to get more details about Mama’s life. A few people that were stationed at Kagnew Station in the mid 1950’s have written (to me) about her, but they called her “Miss K”. She was a legend and a wonderful person to know and to be acquainted with.


The Beach Bum

A post script note: (Mr. Richard Feder – Please note that I have intentionally ended another sentence with the preposition with).

Bad habits last forever – good habits die too soon.

Memories of Ethiopia

Two of the photographs that I decided not to post on the Guest Blog by my friend Dave, evoked several powerful memories of the time that I spent in Ethiopia.


After seeing them, my first thought was of the children that I had met in the rural areas outside of the city of Asmara. I had worked, with other GI’s, on several projects (including building a windmill) that benefited the local village population. Many other US military people did much more than I did for the people of our host country.

The children would gather around us (and as Dave says “they loved to ham it up in front of our cameras”). Although they never begged, we would give to them tokens of our friendship; usually small change and sometimes even an Ethiopian dollar (40 cents US). We would also bring items to these children such as paper, pencils and clothing from the Post Exchange at Kagnew. Many of these children had never left their village and had never seen the city of Asmara, just 30 miles away.

To the rural population outside of the city of Asmara, an Ethiopian dollar was a lot of money, considering that their annual family income was about $60 US (in 1967) or less. They bartered livestock (goats and sheep) for grain (mainly Teff) and other food stuffs. In drought years the grain was sparse and the livestock were very lean (little spare food or water to give them). But there were always hot peppers that would grow in any soil and under the most adverse conditions. These peppers were a staple in many Ethiopian dinners.

Ethiopia is where I acquired my taste for spicy foods. There was a local dish called Zigny (Zigne) that made Curried foods seem tame. Zigny was a stew that was seasoned with many spices that were roasted to make a powder called Berbere (Beri-Beri) which predominately was made up of local hot peppers. Just looking at the powder would bring tears to your eyes.

The most common Zigny was made with goat meat. It was served in a community pot placed in the center of the dinning area (usually a two foot tall table) and often accompanied by an equally spicy lentil dish. A flat sourdough bread called Injera (made with Teff flour) was used to scoop the Zigny from the pot. As in very many Mideast and African countries no utensils were used; you ate with your right hand only (never your left).

I had been honored several times, by locals that invited me to their homes for a Zigny dinner (one time we brought a live goat as a gift for the host). As my friend Dave said the people there were amazingly friendly and looking for nothing in return but a pleasant conversation.

Unlike my world traveling friend Dave, I’ll never return to Ethiopia; perhaps I should have never left!

The Beach Bum

Guest Blogger III

Last October my world traveling friend Dave took a 5 week trip to Africa. We had both been stationed in Africa, at a place named Kagnew Station, in the mid to late 1960’s. Dave was an Italian Linguist and I was a Communications Analyst.

We, as well as many of our Kagnew friends, often rue the fact that we didn’t take in more of the African culture and sights when we were given the opportunity of a lifetime, to do so, compliments of the US Government.

I took several short trips including one to Axum to see the obelisks. My only major trip was a camera safari to a wildlife preserve outside of Mombassa, Kenya.

Last January Dave sent a bunch photographs that he had taken on the trip. He added personal comments to many of them. I recently asked him to expand his comments because I thought that I would make a good TravelBlog.

One of the things that I noticed was that things haven’t really change much since I departed over 40 years ago (Dave and I left Africa a day apart in October 1968). Things still look the same and the outgoing friendliness of the people (to complete strangers) still remains the same. Dave mentions being invited into homes for coffee (Ethiopian coffee is great) on several occasions.

I am breaking his story in to two parts. Below is Part I and Part II will follow in a few days. The pictures are beautiful and each tells a story. You can see them at a larger size by clicking on them.

The Beach Bum

Travels in Modern Day Ethiopia

After 40 years I was back in Ethiopia – it was 40 years to the month since I was discharged from the U.S. Army Security Agency in the highlands city of Asmara, now the capital of Eritrea. I had spent 37 months as an Italian translator at Kagnew Station in Asmara, one of the army’s best kept secrets (in more ways than one). Now, in late 2008, I was back for five weeks of travel and exploration, mostly to visit places I had never seen before.

Addis Ababa, the capital, was a disappointment – sprawling, unattractive, devoid of any charm whatsoever. I didn’t meet a single Westerner who liked the city. But the place did have some interesting attractions, and even though I had never been there, it invoked a vague sense of familiarity. One constant was the role of the church, and how simply touching the cathedral seemed so important to the devout. As was reading the bible on cathedral grounds.




Something else that hadn’t changed was how kids could so totally enjoy a game using just a few pebbles. Or seeing women carrying firewood. Though I did find that a bit surprising in a capital city of three million.












But where the sense of familiarity was particularly strong was in the countryside and smaller towns. I had taken an overnight minibus from Addis up to Bahar Dar, and as the sun came up it was as if nothing had changed – people streamed along the highway out to the fields, some carrying a wooden plow, others driving a herd of goats, men with their arms propped on the staff they carried across the shoulders, some barefoot . . . beneath the surface almost nothing had changed.

Bahar Dar is on the tourist trail for good reason – Tisisat Falls and the monasteries on Lake Tana’s islands are so very colorful. But one of the things I found most interesting was how the monks and priests seemed to genuinely relish showing the tourist their biblical manuscripts and processional crosses.



Another pleasant surprise was the genuine hospitality of so many people. So many times as I was walking down the street, someone would invite me in for coffee, for no apparent commercial purpose. As did these three women.





Across the street from my Bahar Dar Hotel (Taken from in front of my hotel, located to the right, and out of the picture) were a series of small shops. These were basically little rectangular stalls, from 6-10' wide, maybe 4' deep, along the side of the street. They were open only on one side, and only above the counter. A few had display cases under the counter. Some were made of corrugated tin, some of old boards, some a combination of materials. One shop that I passed daily was operated by two sisters (Their place is down toward the end on the left). Whenever I passed by, they would smile and say hello and wave me over. Despite their limited English, it was fun joking and talking with the two sisters in their little stall. Unlike a shop, that you have to enter, you're closer and much more connected to stall keepers as you walk along. In fact you're much more connected to other people in Ethiopia just about everywhere.

















Unchanged, too, was the kids’ desire to be photographed - so many of them are hams. Like this bunch in Bahar Dar.



To be continued .......

The Lizard and the Fried Egg

I have a very unique filling system. The papers, letters and notes that I save eventually go into one of four boxes. These are not the regular store bought cardboard boxes (some assembly required – very dangerous words), that fall apart at the seams, if they are inappropriately handled; these are sturdy empty beer bottle cases. My four boxes are from four different beers.

The way that my system works is very simple. I let papers etc. pile up on the shelves of my computer desk. When the shelves get three quarters full, I transfer the material to one of the four boxes. But first I have to sort through the box and remove stuff that I no longer need to save; to make room for the new stuff that I no longer need to save. This can be an arduous time consuming task.

The other day my wife (who is currently visiting, here in Florida) asked me about some financial notes that I had made last year. I knew right where to look; Samuel Adams Winter Ale. I remembered that this was the last box that I had sorted through last March. How I remember this even amazes me; I’m the guy that can’t remember what he ate for dinner three nights ago.

I found the papers, but more importantly I found a letter written to me by a friend (Greg) on December 26, 2007. My friend lives in the Hotsy-Totsy Brentwood section of LA. In fact, not far from the Swartzneggers (he and Maria shop for groceries in the same store - well la-di-da). He is more of a Beach Bum than I am; he spends a lot of his time on the beach in Santa Monica (he’s friends with Bobby Shriver of the Kennedy Clan) and at Malibu Beach. He is still (mentally) living in the 1960’s and early 1970’s (he even continues to wear tie-dyed shirts). “Surf’s up, dude.”

In his letter he writes (among other things):

“Got your singing Christmas Tell-E-Gram. Nice to hear your single malt juiced, Marlboro cracked contralto. Slay-belles, my rectal obtrusion.” He was referring to me calling him on Christmas night and singing Winter Wonderland on his answering machine.

I met Greg when I was stationed at Kagnew Station in 1967. Someone had nicknamed him Lurch (because of the way he moved his head while making guttural sounds – just like the Addams Family character did) it stuck and to this day we all call him Lurch.

Lurch is an extremely intelligent person, but if you didn’t know him well you might think otherwise. To say that his sense of humor is a little off-center is a gross understatement.

The day that I met him he was crawling down the hall in the Barracks like a lizard. He did this to perfection. If a fly (and there were many flies in Ethiopia – we called them the National Bird) flew past he would try to zap it with his tongue. This was very impressive to say the least. He fit in well with us other nut cases.

Another sight gag that he preformed was the Fried Egg. He learned this from a guy nicknamed Waldo. Together he and Waldo would do variants of the Fried Egg, such as two over easy and a fried egg with bacon. Again, as with the Lizard, this was a true art form appealing to the minds of the demented. In fact, it was better then the fried egg on the anti-drug commercials (and that was a real egg).

He was also very proficient at shooting and killing flies with rubber bands. But he was best known for his putdowns of senior NCOs and Officers. He did this with class and finesse. The victim rarely realized what he was doing or actually saying to them. That was truly a gift.

Tonight I will drink a single malt scotch and smoke another Marlboro in his honor. And perhaps I’ll sing Winter Wonderland. It’s a good excuse for me to indulge in all of my bad habits.

The Beach Bum

The Drug Store

When I was stationed at Kagnew Station (Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia, East Africa) in the 1960’s recreational drugs were legal in that Country. But it was illegal for us, in the United States Military, to buy them. In fact, the downtown Asmara Farmacia was off limits to all US Citizens except for the Peace Corp personnel. This was not imposed by the Ethiopian Government, but by the US Government.

In the Farmacia, one could purchase prescription medicines and narcotic drugs over the counter. Tetracycline (the drug that the Post Hospital would give you if you caught Gonorrhea from the biweekly blanket exchange) was fairly inexpensive. A lid (one ounce) of very high quality (at least that was what I was told) Hashish cost 5 Ethiopian dollars ($2 US dollars). Opiates were just slightly more expensive. Since we were not allowed to go into the Farmacia, we couldn’t legally take advantage of these great prices. Only the locals, tourists and the Peace Corp could. Hmm!

When I returned to the United States in October 1968, I was told, by a friend, that a lid of Hash was going for $35 to $40. To put this in proper perspective, a Big Mac, Fries and Coke cost less than a dollar.

According to the inflation calculator, what cost $1 in 1968 would cost $5.90 in 2007. However, I was told by a neighbor (about a year ago), that the cost was about $100 to $125 an ounce. He doesn’t use the stuff, but a friend of a friend does.

I questioned why, in this time of inflation, is the price so relative low? He said “Hydroponics and Grow Lights.” He also said that the quality of the product (THC levels) is much better than in the past and that the plants have higher yields. Growing cannabis in a garage or basement has become a cottage industry. It cost very little to produce and it’s easy to grow.

The hard part is not getting caught selling it.

NORML has been trying to legalize Marijuana for years. But let’s say that we make it illegal to sell it, but not to grow or use it. The Government would set up a Farmacia style chain throughout the country (this would employ a lot of people); they would also buy it from the people who were now allowed to grow it (more employment) legally and sell it in their Drug Stores.

The Government would sell it to the consumers at a lower cost than the Drug Dealers charge and still make a profit.

But this is a moot point because we are too moralistic and using drugs is very immoral.

The Beach Bum

I Love Denny Crane - Ergo - I Must Love Myself

I spoke to two friends last night, one was a friend from my days (and nights) spent at Kagnew Station in Asmara, Eritrea and the other was with a young friend (53 years old) who lives in the western Chicago suburbs.

The second conversation consisted of reminiscing about people and events that happened more than 40 years ago. Old Army buddies tend to do that sort of thing. Inevitably the conversation will turn to our current ailments and how nice it was to be young and indestructible. That and the weather are the primary topics of conversation when people over 60 shoot the bull on the phone.

The earlier conversation with my young friend from Chicago was of a different nature. He had called me on Wednesday night, but I didn’t answer the telephone because I was watching Boston Legal on the ION Network and was totally engrossed in the episode. I could have put it on pause on the TIVO, but I didn’t.

I returned his call early last night, as I knew that he would be going to our favorite Forest Park watering hole at 8. We talked about the Chicago Cubs and Baseball in general. He mentioned that he was planning a trip to Florida (Clearwater) in March and that perhaps we can get together during that time.

He then asked me why I didn’t answer his call on Wednesday night.

(Since this is not a verbatim conversation there are no quotation marks).

He Sez – Were you out getting laid?
I Sez – No, I was watching Boston Legal!
He Sez – It’s been cancelled.
I Sez – It’s in syndication on a local channel (Six episodes -in order- per week).
He Sez – I’ve watched it from the beginning, it’s a good show.
I Sez - I didn’t start watching it until 7 or 8 weeks ago. I really like the show, I especially like the William Shatner character Denny Crane.
He Sez – That doesn’t surprise me.
I Sez – Why?
He Sez – Because you are Denny Crane! You like yourself.
I Sez – I’m not wealthy and I’m not a Lawyer.
He Sez – No, but you have all of his other attributes.
I Sez – What do you mean?
He Sez – You’re biased, bigoted, a lecher, a cavorter, a philanderer and a homophobe. You’re over opinionated and you don’t care whose feelings you hurt. However, you never let your friends down and everyone of your friends respect and tolerate you for that reason. That is why you are Denny Crane. And that’s probably why you like yourself.
(After a short pause, while I was thinking of a good comeback).
I Sez – So what do you think about the Cubs chances of going to the World Series this year?

The Beach Bum

40 Years Ago

On this date, October 18th, in 1968 (40 years ago) at 11:10 am, Ethiopian Standard Time (GMT +3), I was walking on the tarmac of Asmara International Airport. I was about to board a flight to Athens, Greece, then on to Rome, Italy and from there to JFK Airport in NYC. Including layovers and time zone changes, it was a travel time of 77 hours.

As I reached the top of the boarding stairs, I gave a final salute (this was a tradition) to the guys that were seeing me off on my long voyage home. They returned the salute and I boarded. No tears on either side, just smiles and laughter.

Although you were losing a buddy, a friend, and a brother, you were happy for them. They were going home, as you would be doing yourself in the near future. I went through this ritual many times during the 6 months before I left Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia.

I have kept in contact with several of my olds friend from Kagnew. Many of us couldn’t wait until our tour of duty at Kagnew was over; so that we could return home to the States to see our families and friends. Today we will admit that we should have stayed there until the termination of military service commitment. It was a great tour of duty and some of the best times of our lives; only we didn’t realize it at the time.

The Beach Bum

Once You Get Past The Smell

My Brother-in-Law John watches many hours of news each day on television. The other day, as I was passing through the sunroom, he tells me that they have captured a Bigfoot. Therefore I go to the WWW to see what this is all about.

The story that I read said that some guys in Georgia bagged a Bigfoot and were keeping in a freezer. There weren’t too many details.

I immediately conjured up, in my mind, the following scenario. Two good ole boys were walking in the woods with their hunting dogs and shotguns when they see what appears to be a bear. The dogs are going ballistic, shotguns are raised, and the bear is shot and falls to the ground. Clem and Rufus then discover that “this ain’t no bear”. “What the hell is that thang?” sez Clem. Rufus sez “I don’t rightly know, let’s take it home and put it in the freezer.”

When I just stationed in Africa I had a roommate named Jack Lapseritis. Jack was very intelligent but a little off center in his thinking. He planned to stay at Kagnew Station until his discharge and then go on to the Seychelles Islands in the Indian Ocean to Scuba.
And then on to the Himalayas to search for a Yeti.

About 7 years ago I Googled Jack’s name (I was trying to find him to invite him to one of our reunions) and was not shocked at the results. Jack had written a book named The Psychic Sasquatch and Their UFO Connection. He tours the country giving lectures about the existence of Bigfoot, saying that they were brought to Earth by Aliens.

Jack was even on the “Howard Stern Show” where he admitted to having sex with one of these creatures (he said that she stank, but was a pretty good lay - this reminded me of the old line "once you get past the smell"). Howard and Crew were going nuts with laughter at this point in the show.

Jack now calls himself Kewaunee, the name that the Sasquatch gave him (probably using the Vulcan Mind Meld).

I’m sure that Kewaunee is now on his way to Georgia to see if this is one of his old buddies. Good Luck, Jack.

The Beach Bum

The Lost Ark

More than 40 years ago, I was stationed at Kagnew Station in Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia. Besides sampling the local nightlife (which was my favorite pastime), I did manage to take several trips into the Eritrean and Ethiopian countryside.

Before mid June of 1968 most of my close friends (AKA “The Gross Guys”) had left Kagnew for bigger and better things. Feeling lonely, I hooked up with a local girl in early June 1968. She worked on post and lived in a beautiful house not far from my favorite downtown Asmara bar (The Bar Fiore).

Her mother was half Italian and half Ethiopian and she was ¾ Italian and ¼ Ethiopian. Her mother was the mistress of an Asmara businessman (her Father).

One morning, at breakfast, I had a conversation with her mom and told her that I was going to see the ruins at Axum in a few days. She then related the following story.

When she was young (probably in the 1920’s) she travel from Addis Ababa to Asmara with her mother to be with her father (an Italian builder). On the way to Asmara they stopped at Axum for a day. Axum is a holy site and it was a celebration day. She told me that she had seen the Ark of the Covenant (but had a different name for it) being carried by the priests. I knew what she was talking about and shook my head in disbelief.

My first reaction was that there was no such thing – it’s a biblical myth. And why, if it did exist, would it be in Ethiopia? I went to Axum in July of 1968 and never saw the Ark.

Years later, in 1981, I saw the Steven Spielberg movie “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and I laughed at the possibility that the Ark of the Covenant did really exist. If you have seen this movie, and who hasn’t, you can understand the potential power of the Ark of the Covenant. That is, if you believe that it really does exist.

In this month’s Smithsonian Magazine there is a story by Paul Raffaele titled “Keepers of the Lost Ark”. Paul claims (as my Eritrean girlfriend’s mother did) to have seen the Ark in Axum (Aksum). He also claims to have taken pictures of priests carrying the Ark. He explains how and why the Ark was taken to Ethiopia. This is almost believable.

Believer or non-believer, it is a good article that is worth reading.

The Beach Bum

The Last Fire Drill

In a comment posted to one of my Blogs, a friend said that I should write some Kagnew Station stories in my blog. I feel that most of the stories that I tell about Kagnew Station, Eritrea, Ethiopia, East Africa are a little too obscene for this blog. Most of them cannot be toned down without losing the true essence of the story.

While looking through my files I found a story, written in 1999, that I could post to this blog. But before I post the story I must first give you some background information.

Artwork by Roxie HowardKagnew Station was a communications monitoring post located in Asmara, Eritrea (8200 feet above sea level). It reached its peak (no pun intended) in the late 1960’s and its closing began in 1973 with the withdrawal of the largest unit stationed there; The Army Security Agency. I had the good fortune of being there during the prime years (1966-1969). Subsequently I am the antagonist in a chapter of Michela Wrong’s non fiction book about Eritrea.

All that being said, here is a homogenized story about life at Kagnew Station in the late 1960’s. This is for you Pal Val.

It was the summer (rainy season) of 1968. Company "A" had just gotten a new Company Commander (LBJ – a sobriquet given to him because of his physique). I was on "A" trick, sharing a two-man room on the second floor with Little Willie. We were working Eves on the next to last day of the cycle. That night, after work, knowing we only had just one shift to go before our 48-hour break, we did what came natural; went downtown to savor some of the local nightlife.

At the ungodly hour of 0645 the Company fire alarm went off. I, as well as others, thought that this must be the real thing. Usually in the past we had always been warned of upcoming Fire Drills. Most of the guys would shack up downtown to avoid participation.

Grabbing what we could to cover ourselves, we headed for safety in the street in front of the barracks (I wish I had a picture of this). Guys came out of the barracks in sheets, in blankets, in under shorts and some with towels wrapped around their waist.

The alarms and noise in the street had also awakened the dependants living in the family housing across the street from A Company. As we gathered, they gathered, waiting for the Fire Trucks to arrive.

Out of the building comes the new CO. He sarcastically congratulates us on our ability to vacate premises in orderly fashion. Boos and hisses followed. Most of "A" Trick dropped their cover, walking naked back to the barracks and bed. The dependants living across the street were appalled at sight of us being au natural. Some of the guys even waved the distinguishing mark of their sex at the dependants. The families complained to the Post Commander. From that day until the day I left Kagnew that October, we didn't have another fire drill.

The Beach Bum

A Return To Normality

It’s back to normality for me. I have spent the past five days cavorting with a group of my old Army buddies. The members of our group that are still allowed to drink alcoholic beverages consumed them in mass quantities. Given the choice of taking prescription medicines to prolong my life or to continue to drink alcohol and kill myself; I chose the latter. Pleasure is much more important to me at this juncture in my life than keeping myself alive and being totally miserable in doing so.

We spent most of the time telling stories about the time that we spent in Eritrea (Ethiopia, at that time). We had four newcomers to our group this year and we heard a bunch of new tales. Including one about me (extremely exaggerated and embellished), which I emphatically denied. The Tale-Teller was confusing me with another friend, but nonetheless it was a good story.

Unfortunately some of the regular reunion attendees were unable to attend this year or it would have been the largest reunion that we have had in the past five years. We spent a lot of time talking about them and cutting them down (since they were not there to defend themselves). We also signed a Happy Birthday card for Donald Rumsfeld (one of last year's reunion attendees), who will be 75 years old in a few weeks. Some of the comments on the card were hilarious.

At the Saturday Night Banquet we all took turns berating ourselves and others in our group. It was like a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast. When it was my turn, I saluted our fallen comrades with a toast. Somehow I managed to do it without choking up.

Thank you, my Brothers! I had a great time and can’t wait until next year’s reunion, which is already in the planning stages.

The Beach Bum

City of Dreams

Yesterday I received a belated birthday gift. It was a book from a good friend who will be visiting me on Thursday, titled “Asmara – Africa’s Secret Modernist City”. It’s a book about Asmara, Eritrea’s Architecture. There is also a DVD called “City of Dreams” available on Amazon.com concerning the architecture of the colonial Italians.


Asmara was the most beautiful city that I had seen when in Africa during the 1960’s. The Italians who occupied the country of Eritrea until the early 1940’s wanted it to be the “New Rome”. In the 1930’s, they sent Architects and construction crews to Asmara. The new buildings were built in the Art Deco style that was popular in Italy at that time. The design of some of these buildings would make Frank Lloyd Wright hold his breath and say “Why didn’t I do that?”

We tend to think about Africa as we see it (or, I my case, had seen it) in the Movies. Before being stationed there in the 1960’s my impressions of Africa were from movies like “The African Queen”, “Mogambo “and “Hatari”, and from pictures in National Geographic Magazine. Representations of Eritrea and Ethiopia were never on film, but I expected it to be the same as what I had seen in the movies. At the time, I thought it was just another African country and they were all the same.

Asmara is a beautiful city and the people living there were beautiful too, especially the women. Several of my Army friends married Eritrean women. I had also considered it (marring) for a brief moment, but decided I was too young and still in love with my girlfriend back home.

This Thursday thru Sunday I will be spending time with friends that I had shared time with at Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia. We will look at the pictures of the “City Of Dreams” and reminisce. We’ll recall great stories about the time that we had spent that in Asmara.

Most of us now look at the term that we spent there as one of the best times of our lives.

The Beach Bum