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     Patong Beach, Island of Phuket, Thailand

     Sunday, 5^th September 1993

     Currently I’m sitting inside Peter Shuster’s bamboo and rattan, open-air restaurant at his Patong Penthouse, next door to my town house, enjoying an excellent Viennese pork Schnitzel mit noodles - washing it down with a Singha Beer.  The restaurant is shaded by a gigantic, parasite jungle tree that has totally grown around a full sized sugar palm.  Living in this monolithic tree are two birds that have fluttered down onto my right shoulder – joining me for lunch.  One is a snow white sulfur-crested cockatoo named “Bee-Bee.”  The other bird is black with orange trim and red eyes, larger than a parakeet, named “Foley,” and I’m not certain what type it is.  Both are very friendly and tame – having free-run of the hotel – and I hand feed them bits of noodles.

     Goddamn me with a spoon, dear reader, is it ever good to be back “home!”

     Having pigged-out on noodles, the birds abruptly departed – returning to their giant tree haven.  For they have sensed something was about to “attack” me.  Sure enough, a light brown furry ball of fun came under the table and jumped into my lap.  It’s my buddy, “Mekong,” a three-year-old hylobates lar (white-handed) gibbon.

Mekong and Me hanging out at the pool... trolling for babes.

     No, dear reader, this is not a monkey.  It’s the smallest member of the ape family – light, agile, extremely fast and highly intelligent – minus a monkey’s tail.

     Obviously he’s missed playing with me and wants to wrestle.  I calm him down by grooming him; presently he’s at peace and putty in my lap.  This is an unnatural environment for Mekong, because gibbons are designed to live in the upper canopy of the jungle; resulting in abnormally long arms and short legs.  They are born, raised and mate in the rain forest’s upper canopy; only making contact with the ground when they die.

     For every gibbon in captivity here at Phuket, on average, five gibbons have been murdered to obtain merely one.  It’s the method of capture that causes this.  During the first two years of a gibbon’s life it’s joined to its mother like glue; this is how it learns to survive.  When Thais hunt gibbons they deliberately look for a mother with a baby attached, then blow them out of the tree with a shotgun!  Rarely does mother or baby survive either the shotgun blast, or the 50-foot drop to the jungle’s floor; hence the high mortality rate.

     Technically it’s against the law to own a gibbon; a law seldom enforced.  Even so, there are crusaders out here attempting to return captured gibbons to the wild.

     One such individual was Terrance Dillon Moran - or “TD” to his friends - an expat from Hawaii.  He had studied zoology in college, later got into filming TV commercials, and was the first to mount a camera on a skydiver’s helmet.  He also wrote screenplays and eventually got involved with the Magnum TV series being filmed in Hawaii.

     Not as a writer, but as an “expediter” – one of the many items he provided for cast and crew being cocaine.  Unfortunately a powerful Samoan family, controlling the coke market on Oahu, came after “TD” for cutting into their business; prompting him to bailout and wind up on Phuket.

     By sheer accident “TD” fell back on his zoology background. He set up the non-profit Gibbon Rehabilitation Project designed to gather captured gibbons, place them in isolated cages in the jungle, re-acclimatize them to jungle food and living, then ultimately pair them up and release them on uninhabited, protected Royal Forestry Preserve islands.

“TD” at the GRP.

“TD” checking in a gibbon for rehabilitation.

     “TD” would also lead raids on illegal gibbon owners, coercing the local police to enforce the law.  In the long run, I felt the gibbons were as much “TD’s” salvation, as he was theirs.

     In the next three years, when he becomes an adult, I will set Mekong up in this program, getting him back to the rain forest on a protected island with a mate.  It’s the very least I can do for my little buddy.

     As for “TD,” I’m sad to say, his future wasn’t so bright.  He accidently discovered an illegal logging operation on one of the Royal Forestry Preserve islands and blew the whistle on it – getting it shutdown.  A powerful Chinese-Thai family ran this illegal operation and put a “hit” out on “TD.”  Upon settling in at a crowded, local go-go bar one night, two Thai men deliberately bumped into “TD” – one of them spilling a tall drink down “TD’s” back.  They both apologized profusely, and then melted away in the mob.  Wearing a T-shirt, the spill dried out fairly quickly in the air conditioning.  Finishing his Sang Tip and soda, “TD” moved on to another, quieter, favorite bar.  Greeting the Thai barman, an old pal, “TD” ordered a beer.  As the barman turned to get it, he heard “TD” say, “Gee...I feel tired.”  Coming back with the beer the barman found “TD” had laid his head down on the bar, and failed to wake up when the barman shook him.  “TD” was dead.  The police wrote it off as a heart attack – no autopsy was performed – “TD” was quickly cremated at a local temple.

     Several years later my “spies” with the local police informed me the cops had caught, and jailed, the two Thai men who had spilt a drink laced with arsenic down “TD’s” back.  A method, I’m told, employed by Mafia assassins in the States.  These jailed “hit men” were relatives of the Chinese-Thai family that put the “hit” out on “TD.”  The case never got to court – the Thai cops were paid off – the “hit men” were released to the bosom of their corrupt family.

     I’m discovering one sad aspect as to living in the “Terry and the Pirates” fantasy out here, dear reader, it can be dangerous – both on the ground as well as in the air.

     As for the Gibbon Rehabilitation Project, I’m happy to say it gained a foothold and continues on to this day, manned by enthusiastic volunteers.

     In time, as I groomed Mekong in my lap, a one-foot long, curved, white bill abruptly slid out from under the rattan table – opened a crack and nipped Mekong with its point on his calloused, leather-like rump.  Mekong took the hint, and in a brown-flash swung out of there for the huge parasitic jungle tree above us.

     Enter the fabulous, and extremely jealous, “Bo-Bo.”

     My good Austrian friend, Peter Schuster, who owned this hotel, had previously named all of these free roaming critters, dear reader, thence their odd names.

     “Bo-Bo” was a plain-pouched hornbill (Rhyticeros subruficollis) a bird that terrified any cat or dog that crossed its path.  This is why: “Bo-Bo” stood virtually three and a half feet tall, with a wingspan of five feet, and weighed eight pounds! 

     He was the epitome of the 500-pound canary joke, dear reader: “Here kitty...kitty...”

     Now he rests his head, with that giant chomping horn bill, in my lap; cracking the horn bill slightly open atop my “family jewels!” 

     It resembled resting my “privates” in the open maw of a raised guillotine, dear reader.  “Here kitty...kitty...”

     With extreme, gentle care, I slowly stroke the back of ‘Bo-Bo’s” head.  Hopefully this is the attention he craves.  And as he settles in, eventually closing his eyes in contentment, I get over my fright and really start to examine him – fully appreciating what a rare privilege this is to be this close to such a wonderfully, wild jungle creature.

     On either side of “Bo-Bo’s” head there is a band of snow-white feathers flowing down to his chest.  However, at the back of his head these feathers evolve to an incredible rusty-red brown.  His eyes are ringed in a bright red, with eye balls of the same color.  Below his horn-like bill is a yellow pouch of thin, soft skin, resembling a blown up balloon, with a single black stripe at its bottom.  As for the heavy feathers covering his body they’re jet-black, except when sunlight hits them they emit a deep metallic-green hue.  As for his tail feathers, they’re over two feet in length in shocking white.

     As my fear ebbs away, being replaced with awe, dear reader, it at last hits me at what an extraordinarily beautiful bird this is.

     Sipping beer, stroking “Bo-Bo’s” head, surrounded by the peace of a stunning jungle-garden, I’m quite content to spend my afternoon with this activity.

     That evening, I caught a spectacular sunset at my favorite restaurant: Baan Rim Pa.  In Thai this translates to “House on the cliff.” 

     In 1988 a typically, gregarious New York barman arrived on the island, and built a beautiful teak house on the granite cliff at the north end of Patong Bay.  Having owned and sold successful restaurants at New York, London, Paris and Saint Martin in the Caribbean, his original intention was to retire.  Despite this, Thomas Joseph McNamara got bored, and by 1990 had turned his house into a remarkable 30-seat restaurant.

     Having “stolen” the Oriental Hotel’s top chef in Bangkok, who was trained in cuisine preparation for the Thai Royal Family, the dishes Baan Rim Pa produced were extraordinary.  And, for entertainment, McNamara imported concert pianist Tommy Doyle from Las Vegas, along with a grand piano.  Tinkling the ivories, Tommy produced a sophisticated and eclectic mix of pop, jazz, and classical piano; this accomplished musician having performed concerts for six U.S. Presidents.

Tommy Doyle “tinkling the ivories” with Tom McNamara in the red blazer. 

     Tom McNamara insisted on only the best, hence nothing was second rate at Baan Rim Pa.  Especially the eagle ice sculpture, carved every evening at 6 P.M., in front of the entrance. 

     On this particular night, by accident, I wound up on a back balcony, overlooking the moonlit bay, with McNamara at closing time. 

      As we nursed our drinks, Tom seemed to be in a chatty, reminiscing mood; lighting up another cigarette the 47-year-old heaved a sigh and remarked, “I never thought I’d wind up on an island in Southeast Asia as a fried rice salesman.”  We both laughed.  Tom was a large man with a full head of salt and pepper grey hair and matching mustache, having a face that at times reminded me of Jackie Gleason.

     Whenever I’d pass through Singapore, one of my Chinese SIA connections would slip me six tins of beluga caviar, pinched from SIA’s First Class.  He was repaying me for favors I had performed for his family, and I hadn’t the heart to tell him I hate caviar.  So I’d always pass the caviar on to Tom McNamara, which instantly made me his best friend.  Prompting his, I imagine, opening up to me and always “buying” me drinks.

     Therefore, on this night, Tom shared a rather interesting piece of intelligence from his past.

     In the early-70’s Tom opened a bistro in SoHo, a neighborhood in Lower Manhattan, New York City, as a sort of afterhours place for show biz folks, when this warehouse district was turning into a trendy area with art galleries and restaurants that attracted the wealthy and powerful.  Among the glittering personalities that patronized Tom’s bistro was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis; who became one of Tom’s regulars and a good friend.

     In this same period Tom took a swing down to Saint Martin, in the Caribbean, to check on his other restaurant there.  And who should stroll into his eatery at lunch time, surprising Tom, but “Jackie O” along with her kids, Caroline and John Junior.

     After lunch, being ever the gracious host, Tom loaded Jackie and the kids onto his Chris-Craft Runabout and ran them out to “Joe Blow’s’” yacht.  Tom promising Jackie that she’d know everybody on the yacht as it was a New York crowd throwing a soirée.

     Forgive me, dear reader, I’ve totally forgotten “Joe Blow’s’” name.

     In any event, upon boarding the yacht, sure enough Jackie knew everyone swilling champagne and got busy “pressing the flesh.”  As she worked her way down the starboard side, towards the stern, her back accidentally made contact with another back.  Both she and this stranger turned around to face each other.  Jackie had bumped into Gilda Radner. 

     At this point in her life Gilda’s stint on Saturday Night Live was causing her star to rise; finding her sudden celebrity a bit over whelming when rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.  Abruptly having bumped into “Jackie O” was simply too much for this little Jewish girl from Detroit.  She was holding a plate of food in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other; as her luscious mouth dropped open in disbelief, and her outsized, beautifully-dark shoe buttons eyes went pop!

     Jackie, ever the lady, smiled, amused at the obvious effect she was having on Gilda, and demurely extended her hand to Gilda, saying, “Hi...I’m Jackie.”

     To which Gilda gulped, and then replied, “No shit!”

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