Our pace is leisurely, and I start to feel some concern. The director had mentioned that we were supposed to attend a presentation.
“What time are we expected?” I ask.
“Twelve o’clock,” Gloria says.
I looked at my watch, 12:35 already. “We’re late!”
She gives me a mildly exasperated look.
“Are they supposed to begin without the participants?” she says, as if explaining something to a small child.
I shelve my rigid Yankee sensibilities. When in Rome – just be late like everybody else. We arrive at last.
The gathering is designated a “Freedom Festival,” and it has definite political overtones. It occupies a large, dusty field where games, music, and food are provided. A stage is set up on the outskirts for people to give speeches. Those sitting on the stage, including the director, are apparently the local movers and shakers.
The speeches are pretty dull, and the crowd pays scant attention. Then somebody suggests that I, as a “Representative of America,” should make a speech. The idea catches on quickly and, despite my protests, I am hustled to the stage on a wave of popular acclaim.
Shoved behind the microphone, completely unprepared, I proceed to make an extemporaneous pro-democracy statement. Before I realize what’s happening, my remarks turn into a thinly veiled attack on the Marcos dictatorship in Manila.
“Political leaders talk about ‘freedom’ and ‘justice,’” I say, “but they have to back up their words.”
I point to what seems a northerly direction. “They can’t just sit in the capital city claiming to be the ‘for the people’ while, at the same time, they deny basic human rights!”
A wave of horror strikes me in the back from the dignitaries, but the crowd applauds enthusiastically. After I leave the stage, the director seizes the microphone and attempts to “clarify” my remarks.
“I really blew that,” I say when I return to my friends.
“No, no!” Gloria cries. “You said what all of us are thinking!”
So much for the clueless American routine. Anyway, the tempest in a teapot dies down soon enough, and Gloria had been impressed – which is the most important thing. A band is playing music for the latest dance craze called the solsa.
“Good grief!” I tell Ping “Do you know what ‘solsa’ means in Korean?”
“What?”
“It means ‘diarrhea,’”
“Really?” he says. “I think ours is more fun.”
I dance with Gloria, then with Debbie, then with Gloria again. Dang, two women competing for my attention! I can’t help feeling puffed up.
Games, food, sunburn. I get pressed into service as a judge for the singing competition. Things take a nasty turn when a disturbance breaks out at the nearby cock fighting arena. A security guard fires into the melee, hitting the brother of the barrio captain.
Agitation sweeps the crowd. Gloria becomes highly upset. I lead her away so that she does not see the body being carried out. It is definitely time to leave.
An uncle of Gloria and Debbie’s lives on a small farm nearby, and we stop to visit him. We sit around the table talking and drinking. The uncle ran unsuccessfully for office at one time and has interesting stories about the rough-edged world of Philippine politics. Electioneering can be a dirty business, he says, and he has been the victim of skullduggery.
“Yes, I had goons too,” he admits, referring to the private army he recruited for the campaign.
The other candidate apparently had a better goon squad. You need to have some firepower to run for office, the uncle says, though the government crackdown on guns has moderated the situation.
A storm kicks up and rain pounds the metal roof. The old guy keeps talking, unfazed – the dim ceiling light showing through his sparse hair. Thunder roars. Under the table, my hand brushes against Gloria’s, and we entangle fingers.
Finally the rain stops, and we take our leave. All except Debbie who is spending the night with her uncle. Ping splits off, and then it is just me and Gloria walking together, hand in hand. Gloria plays an occasional flashlight beam along our route.
“Do you like it here?” she asks.
“Very much,” I say. “It’s so quiet and friendly.”
“That’s the kind of life you want, Tyler – quiet and friendly?”
“Yes ... ”
How can I explain? Yes, I want a stable existence, and no, I can’t tolerate the idea. I want to be settled and wandering at the same time. I want an excellent woman like Gloria in the center of everything – be loyal to her – and I want to blaze a sexual trail across the world.
“You seem unhappy,” Gloria says. “Why is that?”
She waits for a reply, but I can’t give one. I love being here with her and wish I was thousands of miles away, too. She seems perfect in the tropical night, yet her presence restricts me with a web of expectations. Suddenly, Gloria’s hand feels like a vise crushing my own, though she has not increased the pressure.
I look off into the darkness. Which way has Jon gone?
Light from the admin. building glows in the distance. The rain starts again, very heavy now.
“Hurry, this way!” Gloria says.
She trots ahead, heavy rain drops slanting through her flashlight beam. I plod behind through the gathering puddles. We enter a small shed.
Toward the back of the shed, the roof leaks a steady drip, but the place is fairly dry and has a sweet, grassy scent. One thing leads to another – from lingering kisses, to the first tentative explorations under wet clothing, to a sensuous recline onto the straw. The rain stops, but neither of us notice.
Matters are rapidly approaching consummation when a loud blast interrupts everything. Gloria jerks upright.
“What’s that?” she gasps.
Someone cries out in the night. “Ai! Help!”
Then a string of desperate words in a language I do not understand.
“That sounds like Gil!” I say.
We fumble into our clothes and dash outside.
Gloria grips my arm. “Be careful, Tyler.”
I push her behind me and move as quickly as possible through the darkness. Flashlight beams pinpoint a prone figure some yards away. We arrive just as Mother and another security guard come on the scene. Gil sprawls on the ground, one hand covering his face, blood seeping through the fingers.
Mother barks something at the other guard. He and I help Gil up and bring him to the main building.
“I’m shot! I’m shot!” he keeps crying.
We lay him on a sofa. He’s suffered a gash along his face, from the cheek into the hair line. I know what’s happened. The damn fool was playing with his gun again, and the thing went off.
“You’ll live,” Mother says as she bandages him up. “Go see the doctor in town tomorrow.”
Her tone is almost regretful, as if she wouldn’t have minded too much if the wound had been fatal.
The romantic mood has been shattered. Gloria is terribly upset and crying, refusing all comfort. Two goddam shootings in one day! They must have conjured up memories of her husband’s death. She goes immediately to bed, pausing only long enough to down some aspirin. Gil spends the night sprawled on the couch while I retreat to my miserable little bedroom alone.
Of course, I’m frustrated as hell. Who wouldn’t be in my place? But I am also oddly relieved. What do I really have to offer this lovely and lonely woman? Just a quick sexual adventure, then more heartache for her when I leave. And I will be leaving.
Maybe this is only rationalization. A little tryst might be all she wanted – a pleasant memory for us both. Who the hell knows? This is a situation out of time and place. Tropical insects wind their monotonous serenade.
***
Come morning, I accompany Gil on his walk to town. Gloria and I talk about getting together again, but we know it won’t happen. Our relationship simply isn’t meant to happen, and no amount of lust can overcome t
hat reality.
As we depart the Foundation grounds, I am tempted to look back but decide against it. Maybe the place will disappear, like that little farmhouse in Korea.
Gil walks morosely, fingering his bandage now and then – no friendly banter, no majorette routine with the rifle. He must really be on the outs with Mother and it wondering if he still has a job. I’m a lot stronger and better rested now. The trek is not nearly as taxing as the inbound journey was.
We are near Kidapawan when we hear a powerful explosion, like a thunderclap out of a clear blue sky.
“What’s that?” I say.
Gil brings his carbine to ready position. “Nothing good!”
The bus station is a pile of smoking rubble when we get there. Crowds mill about the periphery, restrained by security forces. A terrorist bomb has gone off, we are told, and people have died.
It is way past time to get out of Mindanao.
30: Thailand Respite
“I’m hip about time, but I just gotta go.” – Captain America, in Easy Rider
From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West
It was great hanging out in Manila without Tyler to cramp my style, but I started to miss him. It must be true that opposite personality types make for good friends. Then he suddenly returned one day and threw cold water on my good time.
“Gotta be heading home now,” he said, “my money is running out.”
“You can’t mean that!” I said.
“It’s a sad but true fact,” Tyler said. “I’ve been on DAS ROAD for over two months. My return home is inevitable – like death or seeing the Frosty Virgin.”
I have other ideas, though. I desperately want to visit Thailand. He tells me to go ahead.
“Come on, Tyler, it wouldn’t be the same without you,” I said. “Just one more country – please!”
“Man, I’m running out of cash,” he said. “If I don’t get back soon, I’ll have to hitchhike.”
Yeah, and maybe he’ll finally meet that mysterious hitchhiker he’s always talking about – the one who chases after dead guys.
“I’ll pay your way,” I said. “I got lucky at the casino in Macau.”
“No, Bob. I can’t allow that.”
“Why not?” I said. “Is there some sacred law of the universe against it?”
“Well, no ...”
I grabbed his arm to let him know I was serious. “We’re right here, right now. This is not gonna happen again.”
“True ...”
“Come on, Tyler. I’ll just blow the money if I bring it home. Let’s enjoy it.”
He took a while to mull this over.
“Okay, you’re on,” he finally said. “But this is just a loan. I will pay you back.”
“Forget it, pal.” I pinched his cheek. “Your smiling face is all the payment I need.”
Tyler’s Account
I feel strange letting Bob pay for this leg of the trip, but I’m fairly sure that I’ve done the right thing. I’ve come to respect Bob’s wisdom. If he feels that a trip to Thailand is necessary, then maybe it is.
Bangkok is huge, bustling, hot – the streets are clogged with motorbikes, cars, and three-wheeled taxis. We move into a little hotel and do some sightseeing. We visit a temple containing a 150 foot reclining Buddha, gold plated no less, with a little smile on his face.
“He looks pretty satisfied with himself,” Bob says.
“He’s in a state of Nirvana.”
“Meaning what?”
“He’s found release from the cycle of death and rebirth,” I say. “He no longer has to suffer with human temptations.”
Bob indicates a nearby Thai girl. She is beautiful, golden skinned and dark eyed.
“I need to suffer more temptations before I’m ready for Nirvana,” he says.
We take a boat ride through the canals of the old city, zipping past stilt houses where people bathe and wash clothes in the brown water. We buy spicy Thai food from a tiny restaurant boat that seems about to tip over any second. Then night sets in, and we head to the Pat Pong bar district.
The area crawls with foreign men looking for sexual adventure. We enter a bar and make our way to a table near the front. Rock music blasts, lights flash around the ceiling, and two hot Thai girls are dancing on a little stage. We sit down, and soon two other exotic girls are at our side.
“You buy us drinks?” one asks.
“Right on!” Bob cries.
Soon Bob and I are getting tanked on beer while the girls drink some watered down concoction. Bob’s girl lights a cigarette and Frenches the smoke – sending a billow out of her mouth and then inhaling it up her nose. All the while, she keeps hypnotic eyes fixed on him.
“Oh man, look at that, Tyler! This is my kind of Nirvana.”
“Yeah, better than getting gold plated, isn’t it?” I say.
I am getting an alcohol buzz and should be feeling good. Instead, a profound sadness is taking hold. The tacky meat parade of the bar has little to do with love or romance, and I am realizing my crying need for both. Not that there isn’t anything to be said for unbridled lust, of course.
The girls on stage finish dancing and descend to enthusiastic applause from a legion of drunk patrons. Other girls mount the stage. The one beside me loops her arm through mine and says something in my ear. I smile noncommittally and buy her another drink.
Where the hell do all these girls come from, I wonder? What are their lives like? I glance around at the tables of Westerners. These men must run the whole gamut from decent guys, like Bob, who are seeking some kind of connection, to mean bastards who get off on mistreating women.
I drain my beer. Yun Hee, Kathy, Gloria. I’ve been dragged through every emotion women can elicit. And now this place. I am well on my way to becoming a morose bore and know it.
I stand up. “Hey, I’ve got to get going, Bob.”
“The fun’s just starting!” Bob cries.
“No, really, man. I’m not up for it.”
Bob gives me a quizzical look. I know exactly what he’s thinking:
There goes Tyler again, pushing away a good time with both hands.
“Okay, pal, catch you later,” he says.
Come morning, I head out alone south to the Phuket beaches, staying at a modest bungalow style hotel near the shore. The first day out, as I lounge in the sand, a boy approaches me. He hefts a cluster of coconuts in one hand and a gleaming machete in the other. The coconut bunch seems too large and heavy for him, but he carries it easily.
“You want coconut?” he asks.
He doesn’t look unfriendly, but since he has a machete and I don’t, it seems wise to make a purchase. I pay him the small amount he asks, and he chops off a coconut top with one blow. He wields the big knife with more power than seems possible in his skinny arm. I take a tentative swig of coconut, then down the whole thing greedily – sweet, invigorating, like a magic elixir almost.
I obtain a bottle of rum from the hotel bar and keep it in my bag because every day the coconut boy reappears. Whichever beach I visit, no matter how deserted or isolated, he shows up with his machete and a huge bunch of coconuts. I come to crave my makeshift cocktails like a drug.
I journey several miles away to a pristine diving spot. For hours I hover above the corals and waving anemones, following the schools of colorful fish and chasing the occasional octopus into a crevice. The crunching of coral-chewing parrot fish seems to come from everywhere.
A thorny little puffer fish follows me, keeping a position to my right just beyond arm’s length. It stops when I do, then moves at exactly my speed, its huge eye rolling around. A school of tiny squid does the same on my left, moving as one body. When I reach toward them, they scatter, then quickly reform. What next – will a giant shark swim up to keep me company, some unemployed extra from Jaws?
I recall Bob’s horrified reaction to the severed head scene in the movie. Hilarious! My laughter burbles up the snorkel. I’d seen the movie before, of cou
rse, and was just waiting to see him jump.
Then I pause ... was that supposed ‘dog meat stew’ in Iloilo a case of payback? Hmmm.
Floating in the gentle swells, I see an analogy in a trio of beautiful fish swimming below me. Yun Hee, Kathy, Gloria – two that got away and a third who was willing to be caught but had been tossed back. Something glides past my restricted peripheral vision. I jerk my head around to see a dark creature swimming off into the murky distance. Maybe it’s Jon Glass taking his leave.
I exit the water and, as usual, the coconut boy is there.
***
Bob arrives with a Thai girl – the cigarette smoke artist from the bar.
“I love this country!” he cries. “Why didn’t the Peace Corps assign me here?”
“It is beautiful,” I say.
“I met this American guy in Bangkok, his name’s Paul,” Bob says. “He’s a former PCV, and he’s got an English teaching job at a university here now. The pay isn’t great, he says, but look at the fringe benefits!”
He gestures toward the girl, then continues in a conspiratorial tone. “She’s got a friend who will come down from Bangkok for you.”
I shake my head. “Think I’ll keep my bathing suit on. Thanks anyway.”
“I figured you’d say that,” Bob says. “You know, Tyler, you missed your calling.”
“How so?”
“You should have been a monk.”
A few days later we board a plane for home and our DAS ROAD adventure comes to an end.
Five: Restless Interlude
31: Return
“Salami.” – James Tipton, Alma College Dept. of English
The mind-numbing flight ends at Los Angeles airport. I shuffle through customs like a robot – mouthing replies to standardized questions – then I lurch out into the giant, bustling airport proper. Home at last.
Only it doesn’t feel like home. So many big, overweight people, so many Western faces! I feel disorientated, like somebody who has undergone a near-death experience and is no longer accustomed to earth bound reality.
We retreat to a little pub type restaurant and take an isolated back table. The waitress comes quickly, thank heaven, as I badly need a drink. She is an attractive black girl; I cannot tear my eyes off her.
“I know she’s hot,” Bob says after she leaves, “but screw your eyeballs back in, buddy.”