The problem was solved when a guy showed up on a motor bike. He talked with us a few minutes, then the girl rode off with him.
“How do you like that?” Tyler said. “What’s he got that we don’t?”
“Looks like a motor bike,” I said.
Macau didn’t interest me much. All those shabby old buildings got to be depressing. Then we came to a big gambling casino, and my whole outlook changed. The front was covered with neon lights. When night came, the place would sparkle like a fairyland castle.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for!” I cried.
“Uh huh.”
That’s Tyler for you – the original fun guy. He unfolded his map. Probably looking for some cemetery to go creeping around in.
“There are two islands south of here,” he said. “Coloane sounds interesting.”
“How do you get there?” I asked.
He pointed towards a bridge shooting across the ocean from our side to a misty, empty shore. It arched high in the middle, and junks were sailing underneath. The thing looked bigger than the Ambassador Bridge between Detroit and Canada, but it kind of blended in with the water and sky. I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Might be fun to walk,” Tyler said.
“How long is that bridge?” I was dizzy just looking at it.
“About a mile and a half,” Tyler said. “Then a mile across Taipa island and another bridge to Coloane.”
Here I’ve got the promised land right in front of me, and I’m supposed to wander off on another of Tyler’s bizarro adventures instead? No way in hell.
“Think I’ll try my luck at the Casino,” I said.
We agreed to meet back at the Kowloon flop house. I handed him my reserve packet of traveler’s checks.
“Hang on to these for me? I don’t trust myself in there.”
22: Showdown in Coloane
I was tiring of this tolerant, interconnected world. I wanted something more secretive, more elusive. – Stealing from a Deep Place, Brian Hall
I ride a taxi to Taipa Island. I never intended to walk over the bridge and had only said so as a way to discourage Bob – if the casino didn’t provide enough incentive for him to stay behind. I need a break from him and from the constant city bustle.
I step out of the taxi into a different world. The dense, urbanized atmosphere I’ve been living in for many days is suddenly replaced by empty countryside. I walk a mile across the island, avoiding a small village, and do not see another person. The non-stop commercial transaction of city life comes to a blessed halt.
Yet, the island has a tentative feel, like a quiet rural area that’s been zoned for a shopping mall. Development can’t be far off. Why else that huge new bridge? In the coming years, builders will march over it bringing the cramped urban world with them. But for now, it is great to be here alone.
Odd that somebody like me, with such a craving for open spaces, had been assigned to Seoul by the Peace Corps. I’d been very upset and had considered quitting on the spot.
One of the PC staff members put things in perspective. “You wouldn’t like a small town,” he said. “You’d be bored with everything.”
He was right, I have to admit. Most people annoy me after a while. The chatter of everyday conversation bores me. Maybe I’m smarter than most people I meet, or else I’m just walking down a different road. Often it seems as if I’m speaking a different language from those around me. Maybe Yun Hee was right to break things off. Over time I would have probably gotten bored with her, too.
Then there’s Bob. Nobody would claim that his was a towering intellect, but I enjoy his company, most of the time. His sunny temperament is a good counterpoint to my introspection. In a way, I almost feel that he is an externalized aspect of my own personality – the sociable, contented part that seldom gets out.
Now there’s a bizarre thought! But no weirder than the strangled cat hanging on the cemetery gate. The cruelty of that scene hit me an almost physical blow. Worse yet was the Jon Glass moniker, scratched into the gate like a tombstone epitaph. The murdered cat drove me from that place. The inscription propelled me along.
I’ve not encountered any signs of Jon Glass in Hong Kong or Macau, but I look for them constantly. Jon has preceded me everywhere I’ve gone. Why? What is his motivation, or does he even have one? Does he know what’s going on any more than I do?
If I could figure out what’s driving Jon Glass, I might have some answers about myself. Then again, maybe I’ve seen the last of him. I sure hope so.
Or do I?
On some level, the thought of losing the Glass trail makes me feel rather empty. It would be a mystery departed from my life, leaving me poorer than I was – like a fascinating door closing, stranding me in a bleak hallway.
Here’s another weird thought: Bob could be the one who is placing the signs in my way. He is in a position to do so, and he knew Jon Glass, though he’s tried to deny it. Maybe the two of them cooked up a scheme to drive be batty.
And don’t forget that convenient separation at the cemetery in Taiwan – plenty of time for him to string up the cat. Was there something sinister under Bob’s genial facade?
Absurd! But how could I know for sure? Think of all the serial killers who are very pleasant on the outside. People are astonished to discover the monsters lurking underneath.
What I want most is to simply be my own man again – without strange ideas squirming around in my brain turning me paranoid. I’ve been running scared, but here, on these isolated islands, I will get back into base. If something haunting and mysterious awaits me, let it come.
I arrive at the causeway to Coloane and begin walking over the water like some bogus prophet seeking enlightenment. Finally, tired and foot sore, I reach a little hotel overlooking the water. It is mostly empty, a new and undiscovered resort type place.
My room is pleasant with pastel walls and a sliding glass door to a patio. I enjoy a luxurious shower, eat dinner, and settle in for the evening.
Lounging on the chair by the little writing desk, I feel righteously tired – a man who has put in a good day’s effort and is entitled to disdain those who have not. I gaze over the darkening water through the sliding door, my uneasy thoughts drifting away.
Of course, it isn’t long before I start feeling restless. Whatever situation I might be in, I generally want another one. Like the boat ride from Pusan. While it was happening, I’d have given anything to be someplace else, but by now my memory has revised the experience into a romantic adventure.
The warmth and security of my current environment makes me long for a rougher edge. I pull out my guidebooks.
I’ve been a mere tourist up to this point on the trip. I want to discover an unbeaten track leading to destinations conventional people never reach. Maybe I could find it in the Philippines.
An oval mirror with a curlicue frame hangs on the wall opposite the writing desk. It seems that I should be able to view my reflection from my position, but the glass is blank except for a light fixture peeking in from the upper left edge. Some mildly interesting optical effect, I think.
I shove the books aside, too tired to think about the next trip phase. Better to catch up on letter writing instead. Grandfather Alois is due a communiqué, so I pull out an aerogramme.
What to write?
Dear Grandpa, having a wonderful time, wish you were here.
Yeah, it would have been fun to have him along on some of the activities. He would have loved the Inland Sea. Or how about that hostess bar in Tokyo? I could just picture him with his old world demeanor and handlebar mustache, a hot Australian babe on each side! I laugh and rock back my chair, my hands joined behind my head.
Then I glance at the mirror again and my mood begins to sour. The damn thing still shows the identical reflection, even though I have changed my position. I should be able to see myself, but all the mirror displays is part of the ceiling light fixture poking in on the upper lef
t edge.
I look toward the ceiling to gauge the angles. The globe of frosted glass spreads soft illumination. I look back into the mirror. The light fixture in the mirror is different from the one on the ceiling!
There’s some explanation. I bang my chair back down. Don’t let it creep you out.
But it is creeping me out, big time. My eyes dart about the room. The light fixture on the ceiling is a glass sphere, while the one in the mirror is boxy and edged with filigree, like the mirror frame.
I scan every nook of the room, find nothing to explain this phenomenon. The hairs on my neck start prickling up and the hands bracing my head feel cold. Then the light fixture in the glass starts swinging back and forth like some crazy hypnotist’s pocket watch.
“Godammit!”
In an instant I’ve reached the hallway door and jerked it open. Then I pause, my heart pounding. My legs vibrate, aching to move, and I have to force them to keep from running down the hall. With an intense effort, I turn back toward the mirror. It hangs innocuously, waiting for me. Thank God I can’t see into the glass from this angle.
Now or never, Tyler, I tell myself.
I rush the mirror and yank it off the wall with a savage heave. As it comes loose, I catch a fleeting, blurry image in the glass – a person that is not me. I shove the mirror into the closet, bury it under some towels, and slam the door. Then I stride out to the patio.
“You’re not gonna beat me!” I yell over the ocean. “So you can just fuck off!”
No answer comes from the black, placid water.
Four: Mad Pursuit
23: Philippine Islands
From the DAS ROAD diary, by Bob West
Some Edge of Weirdness thing must have happened on Coloane. Tyler was even more moody than usual when he came back, but not as dark, if you know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m saying myself, so I’ll drop it.
On the plane to Manila, Tyler was reading The Tenth National Congress of the Communist Party of China, documents.
I should have known better by now, but I asked to see the small red paperback. The front section had several photos of the Red leaders, especially Chairman Mao. They were mostly old men, but their faces were airbrushed smooth.
“Mao’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “His corpse is on permanent display like some temple idol. He’s one of the Communist death gods now.”
I returned the book.
“At least the Nazis were straightforward,” Tyler said. “‘We are the Master Race, you’re not, so we’re gonna kill you!’ Pretty simple philosophy, eh?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
“The Communists, on the other hand, destroy millions of human beings and it’s all out of profound ‘love for the people.’”
I twisted uncomfortably in my seat. Couldn’t we talk about something interesting, like girls, or getting drunk? But Tyler was on a roll.
“Have you read Crime and Punishment?” he asked.
“Yeah, in high school,” I said. “Isn’t it about a guy who brained somebody with an ax?”
Tyler nodded. “He wanted to be another Napoleon, so he committed murder to see if he could step over the obstacle of murder – be above morality.”
“He sounds like a fun guy,” I said.
“A lot of fun guys are running things these days,” Tyler said.
Manila
Manila is upbeat, exciting, and everybody speaks English, too! I felt immediately at home. Even Tyler lightened up. This is the first country with PCVs, so we jumped on a bus and headed straight for the Peace Corps office on Agno Street. A uniformed bus girl collected our fare, just like in Seoul.
The Filipina secretary at the office gave us a frosty reception at first.
“You’re from Korea, huh?” she said.
“Yes, we’re returning volunteers,” I replied.
She fixed a hard look on Tyler.
“Another Peace Corps Korea man came through here last week ... I don’t know his name.”
She actually shuddered when she said this, and damned if Tyler didn’t turn a little pale. He recovered quickly, though.
“How interesting,” he said, trotting out that slick Greek / Hungarian charm, or whatever the hell it is. “Did he happen to say where he was going?”
The secretary shook her head. “No!”
This seemed to clear the air, and the girl became more friendly. She referred us to a private home in Manila where we could stay. She also gave us a huge road map. She unfolded the lower half and indicated the large, southern island.
“Don’t visit Zamboanga or any place else on Mindanao,” she said. “The army is fighting the Moro guerrillas, much trouble.”
Tyler nodded. Let me guess – he’ll want to go down there.
“The Sulu islands are worse.” She pointed to a chain of islands off Mindanao. “Very dangerous there.”
We got a room at the house. The people were really nice. After a tasty meal we headed outside. It was an in between time, too early to hit the bars and too late for sightseeing.
“Ready to head north tomorrow?” Tyler said.
“We just got here! I love Manila.”
“Plenty of time for it later,” Tyler said. “We have to come back, anyhow, since the airport is here.”
I looked sadly around the street, the hustling crowds, the pretty Filipinas. I hated the idea of leaving. Then again, if Tyler said we’d do the town later, I could believe him. He’s got the lowest b.s. quotient of anybody I know.
“Okay,” I said.
“Great!” Tyler said. “We’ll go skin diving at the 100 Islands national park first.”
“In the ocean?”
“Yeah. Just mask, fins and snorkel, though – no tanks.”
I can barely get around a swimming pool. Now I’m supposed to be Jacques Cousteau out in the ocean? Well, I’ll go along, but I might have to say “no tanks” once we get out there.
We found a movie theater. Wouldn’t you know, it was showing Jaws? I practically jumped out of my seat when the severed head bobbed up. Tyler grinned wickedly.
“You’ve seen this already, haven’t you?” I said.
He only shrugged.
Yeah, very entertaining – the Watch Bob Have a Coronary show. The head was bad enough, but when the guy got his leg ripped off, I could barely keep from vomiting.
“Are you sure you want to go skin diving, Tyler?”
Another evil grin.
We went to a bar afterwards. It was in a seedy neighborhood, and I was feeling uneasy. A little honey named Lulu was grooving on me, though, so I hated to leave. Another American guy was there, an “old hand” in the Philippines, he claimed.
“It’s a lot safer now that President Marcos has confiscated the guns,” he said. “Used to be everybody was packing iron, murder in every neighborhood. People would shoot their wife, their best friend, a shop keeper – anybody who pissed them off. Crazy!”
“Sounds like Detroit,” I said.
He showed us a scar on his neck. “A few years ago, right in this bar, two Filipinos were arguing. One guy pulls out a gun. Well, I was too drunk to know better and I said, ‘Put that thing away!’ So he shot me.”
“Damn,” Tyler said, “that calls for another beer.”
He ordered a round of San Miguels.
“The bullet nearly cut my jugular,” the guy said. “I staggered out to a cab. ‘Get me to the hospital!’ You know, the driver actually argued with me about the fare.”
I could have done without hearing this story, especially after seeing Jaws. Maybe the Philippines isn’t quite as friendly as I thought.
Northward
I enjoyed snorkeling. You just float along looking at the corals and stuff. We took a little boat out and had a good time, except for when the current started pulling me out to sea. Tyler saw my situation and had the boat guy pick me up.
Tyler went out a couple more days, but I stayed at the
little bungalow hotel nursing a sunburn along with numerous bottles of San Miguel.
Next we headed north to the Banawe / Bontoc area around those terraced rice paddy hills you see in travelogues. The bus was a rickety piece of junk. I was sitting in front next to the driver when I noticed fuel leaking over the floor. I felt some concern, especially since the driver was smoking a cigarette. I pointed out the leak to him, but he said not to worry because it was only diesel fuel. That made me feel much better.
We met a Filipino who worked on a cruise ship. He said they were going to Iloilo, on Panay Island, for a big festival. Why not? We returned to Manila and got on the boat.
Iloilo
Huge crowds filled the street, dancing and blowing whistles. People dressed in wild costumes. I was never so drunk in my life. Tyler got made up in grease paint and joined the mob. I saw a big, fat guy leading the procession. He had a face painted on his torso – nipples for eyes and a belly button mouth. Later, somebody showed me a Polaroid photo. Damned if it wasn’t me leading the parade! I must have been even more bombed out of my skull than I realized.
We stopped for lunch at a little restaurant with a PCV named Kurt. We were served a stew of unknown composition. It didn’t taste bad, though.
“What’s in this?” Tyler asked.
“Probably goat meat,” Kurt said.
Tyler continued eating, unfazed.
“Say it’s dog,” I whispered in Kurt’s ear.
“On second thought,” Kurt said, “I think this is dog stew.”
Tyler shoved his plate aside. He looked green under his makeup.
“What’s wrong with dog meat?” I said and continued chowing down.
Sweet revenge for Jaws!
The Shady Cops
We met two Filipino policemen from Manila who were in the area on “business,” supposedly selling road construction materials. This sounded kind of suspect, but we didn’t ask questions.
One cop was quiet and shifty and didn’t stick around long. The other, who reminded me of the head bandito in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, said he had to go to the neighboring island of Masbate. He’d hired a motorized outrigger and offered to take us along.
He was pretty talkative and spoke of the many nights he’d spent sleeping in a cemetery rather than doing police patrol. We all sat in the cabin by the open doorway. A boy outside moved along the outrigger struts providing stability, gripping a wire line to keep from falling in. An occasional big wave splashed in, soaking us to a loud chorus of “Shit!”