Bob shudders. “I’ll write more about that later, after I’ve had a few beers.”
I laugh. It’s easy to laugh, now that the danger is over.
“What’s the title of this travelogue?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Bob says. “How does An East Asian Tour sound?”
“Not much of a ring to it,” I say. “How about, Tour de East Asia?”
“Yeah, that’s better, Tyler. What’s ‘East Asia’ in French?”
“Beats me.”
Bob spoons up soup – quiet and thoughtful. Then inspiration strikes.
“I’ll call the journal DAS ROAD,” he says.
“Excellent!” I say. “It has not only a whimsical, pseudo-foreign sound but metaphorical resonance as well.”
“I agree,” Bob says, “whatever that means.”
He closes the notebook. The cover is printed to look like blue denim and sports the English notation “Seminar Note Book for Young Fashion.” Toward the bottom is a picture of two little kids in a bucolic setting with lambs and birds. It looks incongruous in Bob’s large hands. He writes DAS ROAD in bold, felt tip letters along the top.
“Here’s to DAS ROAD ahead!” I toast.
We clink tea cups. A drop sloshed onto the diary cover, smearing the ink.
17: Good Times
From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West
We board a ferry for Osaka via the Inland Sea. What could be better after a harrowing ocean passage than another boat ride? But there’s beautiful weather and fabulous scenery. Best of all, the water is calm.
From Osaka, we’ll head for Kyoto. Tokyo next, then on to climb Mount Fuji.
Maybe I’ll pass on the mountain climbing part. Fuji has become an obsession for Tyler, a kind of spiritual quest. He even uses Fuji film in that camera of his. But for me the whole thing just sounds like a lot of pain.
I wish he’d lighten up. Right now, for example, there’s a beautiful Japanese woman standing at the rail in front of us. This sensuous female shape framed by glittering water. And what’s Tyler doing? Reading another book, Inside the Third Reich no less!
I don’t want to give a negative impression. Sure, Tyler’s a little odd, but aren’t we all a bit nuts in some way? He gives me a sense of life’s possibilities. Like when I fronted off those punks in Pusan, or that New Zealand jerk. Having Tyler around made me almost wish that a fight had broken out.
“Hiroshima is that direction,” Tyler said at one point, gesturing over the water. “Do you think we were justified in dropping an atomic bomb there?”
How was I supposed to answer – and on such a glorious day as this one? All I know is that the big leaders never consult guys like me when they make their death decisions. The President didn’t ask me if I’d like to go to Vietnam, all I got was a notice ordering me to Fort Wayne for an army physical.
The worst day of my life. Plodding along with a bunch of other depressed guys like cattle, being manhandled and jabbed with needles. I saw my entire life going down the sewer. But by some incredible miracle I failed the physical exam and escaped getting drafted. I don’t know the exact details – I was too overweight, my blood pressure sucked, whatever.
I’ll never forget the mournful faces of the other guys. How many of them got killed or maimed in Vietnam, or came back crazy? God bless them all.
We churned on towards sunset. Long shadows moved across the boat, and the water sparkled golden. Tyler braced his camera on the rail and leaned down to compose a picture. Suddenly he jerked upright as if he’d gotten an electric shock. I thought the camera was going overboard. He stared at the rail for several seconds, then retreated back inside.
What the hell? I examined the railing. Something was written in blue felt tip – Korean text along with the English letters “J G.”
I couldn’t make out the Korean words as the light was dim, and my knowledge of written Korean is also pretty dim. Let’s just say that I wasn’t the Peace Corps’s shining star when it came to language skills.
Why all the fuss? Tyler sure has his strange moods.
Kyoto / Nara
We caught the train to Kyoto and checked into a pension. Mrs. Hirao, the owner, was gruff and unfriendly. She didn’t display the Japanese hospitality I’d heard so much about.
“Well, it’s cheap,” one of the foreign lodgers said. “That’s why we’re all here.”
The place accommodated numerous bedraggled “world travelers.” Some had been wandering for years. Mostly they hung around the hostel talking about where the cheapest deals could be had. They were okay, I guess, but I didn’t leave any valuables lying around.
“See the Imperial Palace in Tokyo,” one guy said. “I was there when Nixon resigned. I listened to his speech on the radio. What a rush!”
We toured the ornate temples of Kyoto, then Nara. I got saturated but didn’t complain, as I’ve left the scheduling up to Tyler. Later I found out that he’d also burned out; he’d only set things up this way because he thought I would like it! I should stop being so lazy and help plan things.
Everything is so neat and well organized. You practically glide along the crowded sidewalks. Even the cheapest train station box lunch is tasty and pleasing to the eye.
I think the girls here are prettier than in Korea, but I’d never say as much to Tyler. He’s still bummed about his Korean girlfriend. He regards the whole thing as a blown opportunity. Or was it just an opportunity to get blown? Better not say that either.
Bid a fond farewell to Mrs. Hirao, she grunted something back. Then we got on the Shinkonsin bullet train.
The bullet train is twice as fast as any American one – why don’t we have them? While we were waiting in the station, another Shinkonsin express roared through sending a blast of air over the platform. There seemed to be some kind of poetic image here – things passing you by, whatever. Tyler would be able to figure it out.
As we approached Tokyo, Mount Fuji hulked in the distant haze.
“Look!” Tyler practically climbed out the window taking pictures.
Tokyo
The first thing we did was dash to the McDonald’s franchise. In Korea, burgers & fries were available only at U.S. army bases, if you had black market dollars.
“This isn’t very dignified,” Tyler said as we hurried down the street.
“Right!” I picked up the pace.
Usually we ate at Japanese restaurants with wax menu items in the window. Such an exciting city! Daytime sightseeing, Imperial Palace, etc. Kagaes sold fruit at shock prices. Namu pisamnida! (too expensive) as we’d say in Korea.
Nights were best. Blaring neon signs everywhere, bustling crowds, bars, gambling joints. Pachinko was the big draw at the gambling parlors. Looking in from the street window, I saw rows of flashing devices like small upright pinball machines. People fed in little steel balls and flipped levers, as if they were in a trance.
“Let’s go in,” I said.
We were nearly through the door when we noticed a guy in a puffy green cap sitting at a machine. He was turned our direction just enough so that we could tell he wasn’t Japanese – even through the cap was pulled low over his face. Tyler stopped cold. He looked really pale, but that might just have been the crappy lighting.
“Think I’ll pass,” he said. “Those people look like robots.”
I’m very suggestible. Once I was enjoying some bread until somebody told me it was made from zucchini. Then I didn’t want it any more. I didn’t want to play with robots, either.
Funny thing is, I don’t mind zucchini itself, it’s just the word ‘zucchini’ that turns me off. If it had a cool name, I’d like it better.
We wandered into a flashing, blasting hostess bar. Two Australian girls were performing on a little stage. Their outfits were scanty to say the least (or most). Later they joined us for a drink. The next night, some Japanese college students eager to practice English treated us to food and booze.
Then on to Mount Fuji.
r /> [addendum] Time to grim up.
18: Mount Fuji, Ho!
Random chance was not a sufficient explanation of the universe. Random chance was not sufficient to explain random chance. – Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert A. Heinlein
Tyler’s Account
The Jon Glass inscription appeared again – on the boat railing this time. Just as I was getting into the rhythm of the trip, this jarring reminder of the past materialized.
Bob said that Jon was leaving Korea. It is possible, therefore, that Jon has taken the same route as us. But there must be numerous ferries on the Inland Sea, why did I happen to be on the same one? Who is this guy, why do I keep finding evidences of him? And that creepy dude at the Pachinko parlor ...
Anyway, things are going pleasantly enough. Bob is lots of fun, if you don’t try to out drink him.
***
From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West
The bus dropped us part way up Mount Fuji, and we began climbing amid a sizable crowd. I felt awkward amid so many compact Japanese. We were the only foreigners. Soon we were above the tree line and the slope was all stones, cinders, and crap.
I began to have second thoughts. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get carried away by Tyler’s enthusiasm. I wished that somebody would carry me away to a comfortable hotel!
Tyler said the trail was not particularly difficult, but I was wearing out fast. Many Japanese hikers had large backpacks, walking staffs, and heavy parkas. How cold was it supposed to get anyway? Hopefully my Cheju Do sweater would be sufficient. I hadn’t needed it yet, as I was plenty overheated without it.
The scenery was dramatic, but I was in no mood to enjoy it. The trail became steeper, and I had difficulty breathing the thin air.
Finally we reached the “guest house” that was to be our overnight lodging. The plan was to move on early the next morning and catch the sunrise on the upper slopes. Think I’ll pass on that. If the air gets much thinner I’ll be going into cardiac arrest.
The lodge didn’t look bad from the outside, a one-story building made of wood and stone, but once we got inside, my kibune plunged. (That’s Korean for “spirits” or “morale”) The place was set up like a concentration camp barracks with tiers of sleeping shelves reaching up to the ceiling. We were supposed to pack ourselves onto these like cord wood.
Numerous Japanese peered at us from the sleeping platforms. I half expected to see prisoners in striped uniforms among them. But what else could we do, camp outside on the rocks? At least it was friendly. Our two spaces were on the top shelf, and Tyler went up to check things out.
“God damn it!” Tyler said loud enough to stop conversations below.
He bounded back down with a major league grim expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“I’m just so sick of this, Bob!” he said.
He asked the manager if we could move, but the guy said we’d gotten the last two available spots. I was totally confused, and embarrassed, too. Tyler climbed back up and I joined him a few minutes later.
I don’t know what the big complaint was about. Our spots didn’t seem worse than any others. Each was only about two feet wide and maybe six feet long. Fortunately, the other inmates were still below so we had some room to maneuver.
Hunched beneath the ceiling, we spread out our things, organized them, and repacked our bags more efficiently. The light was pretty low and somehow I managed to jam Tyler’s Cheju Do sweater in with my stuff. On the support beam by his space, Tyler had fastened the torn-off front cover of Inside the Third Reich.
“Can’t say much for your taste in interior decorating,” I joked.
Tyler didn’t answer. He was tense, upset. Later, when he went out to the john, I peered under the book cover. Damned if somebody hadn’t written Korean words on the beam in blue felt tip, along with the English letters J G. Just like the inscription on the boat railing.
Who the hell was doing this – Tyler? What would motivate him to secretly write some bizarre Korean message and then freak out as if somebody else had done it?
It had to be Tyler writing this, who else? Unless you wanted to believe that somebody was going on ahead and leaving little souvenirs for us to stumble on, like dog poop. I didn’t know which idea was more twisted, so I decided to think about food instead.
The staff was cooking large pots of curry rice and we all dug in, washing it down with tea. None of the Japanese spoke English, or else they were too embarrassed to try. They shared their munchies with us. I think more than one joke was told at our expense.
I informed Tyler of my plans to descend solo in the morning, and we arranged to meet tomorrow at the tourist hotel we’d seen from the bus. I was wondering how we’d be able to squeeze onto our shelf. When the lights went out, though, Tyler stayed on the ground floor, sacking out alone by the doorway.
19: The Great Climb
The dirt mound from which Emperor Yao addressed the people was only three feet high, yet he is remembered through the ages. The builders of the Great Wall are forgotten. – Chinese proverb
Tyler’s Account
Bob cut out early and headed back down. I am frankly surprised that he made it this far. It’s good to be on my own for a while, if you call being sandwiched into a crowd of Japanese hikers as being “on my own.”
My ascent is delayed because I can’t find my Cheju Do sweater. I tear apart my bags, search the area repeatedly, gesture my predicament to the other hikers – all without result. Dark thoughts of thievery descend on my brain.
Then it strikes me. Bob must have packed my sweater in with his own stuff yesterday. The dumb oaf! How did he manage to do that? Worse yet, how come I hadn’t even noticed?
I’d been distracted, that’s why. My mind was in turmoil, and somebody could have swiped all my possessions without my noticing. That damned inscription popped up again, written on the wood right by my sleeping area! The Jon Glass beacon. Of all the trails and lodges on Mount Fuji, I had to pick this precise spot.
Something weird is going on, way beyond the realm of mere coincidence. I’m feeling more and more like that guy in the horror story who keeps meeting the same hitch hiker.
“Helloooo,” the hitch hiker calls. “Going my way!”
Finally the guy flips out when he learns that he’s actually dead.
To hell with all that! I’m here, in the living flesh, and I’m not going anybody else’s way.
I put on my warmest available clothes, two short sleeve shirts, and head outside. The Japanese are wearing parkas. Maybe this is a bit of overkill, but I sure wouldn’t mind some sort of outer garment. The trail steepens, requiring a fair amount of effort. If I had a jacket, I’d have unzipped it to allow cooling air inside. As it is, I am plenty cool. The encroaching damp mist increases my paranoia.
Who wouldn’t be paranoid in my place? I thought that I’d left all this Jon Glass business behind in Korea, now it is reaching out for me again. I don’t understand it, and that scares the hell out of me. But is understanding really necessary?
Think of a boxer pinned against the ropes, holding his arms up to shield himself from a rain of punches. How much understanding does he require? All he needs is the ability to endure and to slip away from the danger. And I will endure this. Something is trying to screw with my mind – with my basic sense of identity.
But I’ve come here to climb Mount Fuji and, by God, I will!
Sunrise is a disappointment, just a vague spot of light in the icy mist. I stop to watch amid a crowd of other hikers. They are all very still, while I keep moving around in place to keep as warm as possible.
Many cameras click, but I don’t pull out Jewel Eye. The fabulous sunrises I’ve heard about must be reserved for clearer weather, or maybe I’m just not high enough. Speaking of being high, I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink about now.
My lack of protection against the cold depresses me, the presence of so many other people robs t
he mountain of spiritual power. What am I doing up here, anyway – seeking some half-baked Zen insight?
I’d romanticized the old bromide that one must climb Mount Fuji to obtain wisdom. Mount Fuji is supposed to be sacred, but why? It is really nothing more than a pile of volcanic rock. The mountain’s significance comes through the multiplication of its component parts. It influences you to the extent that you permit.
This worship of gigantism seems to be a fundamental human error. On Mars there’s a volcanic mountain 7½ times the altitude of Fuji, with a base the size of Arizona. Would that make it 7½ times as sacred? The Grand Canyon is also regarded as sacred, but Mars has a huge gash that could swallow it many times over.
I wonder how many people have died fighting over sacred places and sacred doctrines while all the time failing to realize that they, themselves, are the pinnacle of creation. I wouldn’t claim God-like power or longevity, but why should I feel insignificant when staring out on this cloudy mountain vista?
Maybe I have gained some insight after all. In any case, the cold is penetrating right through me and numbing my brain. I simply can’t go on to the summit. A guy barrels up the trail behind me, passing the other hikers.
“Excuse me, man.” He brushes past me. “Interesting up here, eh?”
An odd chill seems to accompany him, a couple of degrees cooler than the already frigid air. He continues the ascent at a blistering pace. His jacket collar is turned up, and he wears a rather odd, puffy green cap. I can’t see much of his features, but he certainly isn’t Japanese – more like a human mountain goat. He wears dark sunglasses.
He pauses in his headlong rush and looks back down at me for a few seconds; an amused little smile seems to cross his face. Is he laughing at me? Then he is gone.
I take the express route back, charging down a slope of loose stones and dead cinders, my shoulder bag flying back in a slipstream of black, dusty cloud.
“Yahoo!” I cry. “Freeeeeee!”
Anyone hearing me rave might think I’ve gone nuts, but nobody is around. I’ve left behind the bovine crowd still toiling upwards. I begin sliding in a skiing type motion, nearly tumbling over a couple of times. I make incredible progress, rapidly blowing off the altitude gained by so much tedious hiking.