What had I read in that children’s book? “The stuffed toys reflect your love like a mirror reflects your face.”
Do I love this hunk of metal and glass? That seems a bit of a stretch. Though maybe the Pentax Spotmatic II is my Velveteen Rabbit that will someday turn real, and about which I will say:
“Why, that looks just like my old camera that was lost!”
In the afternoon I catch a milk run bus out of town with the notion of visiting Choon Chun Dam reservoir. The atmosphere aboard is crowded and convivial. Nobody pays much attention to the gangling foreigner, thankfully.
An adjumoni boards with a couple of live chickens in plastic baskets. A farmer gets on lugging a vile-smelling canvas bag which he sets onto the floor with a thud. The bag squirms, and the pig inside squeals.
My heart feels as overburdened as that canvas bag. Why am I going to the reservoir anyway? The ghost of Yun Hee’s memory is hovering out there like some dismal vapor, and breathing it will do me no good.
We’d once spent an afternoon at the reservoir venturing over the water in a little rented boat. Once in the middle, I’d ceased rowing and had laid back contemplating – the broad cloudless sky above, the watery depths below, and us suspended in between.
“What are you thinking, Tyler?” Yun Hee asked.
She never could say my name properly, pronouncing it Ty-rer. I loved her for that, and for everything else.
“I’m thinking about how your presence unites these two infinities for me,” I replied in English.
She’d looked pleased, if a bit confused. She took my hand then, and ...
The thought of seeing the reservoir again becomes suddenly unbearable. And I can’t stay on the claustrophobic bus another moment, either. I approach the driver.
“Let me out, please.”
***
The bus rumbles away leaving me alone on the narrow dirt shoulder between the pavement and the hill sides. Across the road and down a steep embankment, the river bubbles cool and inviting. A small convoy of military trucks rumbles past bearing ROK. In their U.S. style uniforms and helmets, they resemble scaled down versions of American troops.
They call out to me, some in a friendly manner, others less so.
“Hey, G.I.!” one yells.
I respond with a thumbs up and a wave. This seems to please them, and many return my ‘Number One’ gesture.
I consider going down to the river. Some boys are playing on the embankment, though, and I don’t want to deal with them. Maybe they are the mischievous sort who will toss stones at the white whale foreigner bobbing in the water, confident in their ability to escape any lumbering pursuit. I look up the hillside toward the higher peaks. They beckoned seductively.
5: Highlands Idyll
Men, animals, trees, stars, they are all hieroglyphics; woe to anyone who begins to decipher them. – Zorba the Greek, by Nikos Kazantzakis
I ascend rapidly, pushing my physical limits, shoulder bag and camera jostling along. Within an hour I’ve reached the higher slopes.
I pause at the crest, heart pounding. Each inhale pulls in clear mountain air; each exhale blows out cigarette smoke and urban pollution. I am young and immortal, and it feels great! Sweat evaporating off my shirt brings a momentary chill. Far below, the river and its parallel ribbon of two-lane road wind back toward Choon Chun. Afternoon sun brings golden illumination to the valley’s rice paddies where elegant white cranes stalk about.
In all other directions mountains fill the world. Like our Smoky Mountains – misty peaks marching off in ranks, each one less distinct than the one before. But these Korean mountains are enchanted, as if they contain whole legions of spiritual forces – most of them kindly or at least benign, others more sinister. Siberian tigers once roamed here, and you can almost detect their echo.
In folk belief, a San Shin, mountain spirit, inhabits these highlands. Traditional paintings depict a benevolent old guy with a wispy beard reposing under a pine tree and leaning against a harmless, silly-looking tiger. I wouldn’t mind seeing him – sans tiger, of course.
Numberless wars have swept through this rugged terrain, the most ferocious one in my own lifetime. And the conflicts still continue. The newspapers constantly blare accounts of North Korean infiltrators prowling the highlands. I feel an added chill through my sweaty shirt.
But these mountains are a balm for my wounded soul. Here I can forget my sadness, become a wandering hermit and never run out of fresh vistas. I pull out my bamboo flute and start playing. The instrument has only five holes, but you can coax out a wide range of notes.
My playing sucks big time, if the truth is told, so I stop the racket.
I pull my Silva compass out from under my shirt. Not really necessary to take a reading, since the view is excellent from up here, and the route clear. But the compass gives me a grounding, a slice of the familiar
In previous mountain explorations I’ve discovered grave mounds, caves, little Buddhist temples. What else might there be? The mountains beckon to far horizons of adventure, yet I am planning to ignore their call. Hidden in some depression stands the great suburban billboard blocking my way.
I think of scrapping my resignation plans, but quickly reject the idea. Another aimless year at the boys’ middle school would be unbearable, and always I’d be glancing over at the desk in the big teachers’ room where Yun Hee used to sit.
I pause by a rock outcropping and light a cigarette. Then I notice something peculiar. Somebody has scratched an inscription into the stone. It consists of two Latin alphabet letters and some Korean writing:
My lips form the Korean words, “Saram choong eso han saram.”
Translation: “From among the people, one person,” or perhaps, “One man amid many others.” Something like that.
“Man of the people,” I say aloud. “That’s what it means!”
Who wrote this cryptic inscription? Some bearded hermit with a staff in one hand, bamboo flute in the other, muttering profound nonsense as he walks along? It is an immoderate mystery.
Were the letters J G somebody’s initials? My Judo instructor back at college was a Korean man named Yi Jang Goon. You don’t suppose he’d come here before? I know this is a small world, but ...
Victor, before he dropped out of college and got drafted, had toured Central America. While on a battered airplane flying to some Mayan ruins in the jungle, he’d met an elderly gentleman. Turns out the guy had just retired to Costa Rica. His former house back in the States had been only two blocks from ours.
A strange idea enters my mind: the J G must stand for Jon Glass. He’s been up here scouting this terrain and has left his mark for me – his alter ego and mistaken identity fall guy – to discover.
Absurd! I flick on my cheap little transistor radio; it protests with a burst of static. The tuning knob is starting to go, but I manage to find the American Armed Forces network. The DJ is playing up-to-date American rock, a foretaste of home.
I must have passed into a reverie – walking, listening to music and the gentle breeze, drinking in the scenery. Time passes without me being aware. Before I know it, the sun is cutting long shadows across the landscape. It’s high time to head back.
Half way down, dense thickets choke the mountainside. Narrow paths cut through the thorny tangles then disappear. I follow one trail, then have to double back and try another. I end up struggling in absolute frustration as dusk settles in.
“By God,” I vow, “I’ll make it down no matter what!”
Then I trip, wrenching my ankle and tumbling several yards downhill. A lightning bolt of pain shoots through me; the entire world focuses on my throbbing misery. I sprawl among the thorns inventing new swear words.
When the pain subsides a bit, I sit up and examine my ankle. No apparent broken bones, thank God. I wipe a hand across my face and it comes back smeared red. A coppery taste permeates my mouth. I check Jewel Eye and find it to be undamaged.
Hey, I can ta
ke a self portrait – title it: Idiot Posing on Mountain Slope.
I light a cigarette and ponder my dismal options. Negotiating these thickets in daylight is tricky enough, but in gathering darkness, with a hurt ankle, no way. Even if I do get to the road, will any buses still be running? Town is several miles away, and I could end up wandering the road past curfew. A military patrol might pick me up, but the ROK might not be so friendly again.
Evening moves in, pressing me with chilly hands. Violating curfew in town is generally not too serious. At most, you’d have to spend the night hanging around the police station, or else the authorities might simply tell you to go home once they see your Westerner’s face leering out of a flashlight beam.
But out here? Nobody could mistake me for a North Korean infiltrator during the day, but in darkness might not some edgy ROK decide to shoot first and investigate later? Speaking of North Koreans ...
I glance up the slope, fearing to see hunched figures with assault rifles coming my way. For a blazing moment of terror, I envision myself as a hostage in North Korea, imagine the hot needles poked under my fingernails, see myself on television mouthing some communist propaganda statement.
Jeez, get control!
I hobble to a less steep area and break down the underbrush to clear a space for my ‘camp.’ Then I sit down on a rock, light another cigarette, and brood while night closes in. What a humiliating predicament for Mr. Wilderness Survival!
Since taking a mountaineering course in Wyoming a few summers ago, I’ve prided myself on my outdoor skills. So, now I am trapped in the mountains with a bum ankle, a camera, a bamboo flute and an American Tourister shoulder bag filled with useful items – laundry, cigarettes, paperback books, toiletries, a half busted radio.
And don’t forget the condoms, those will really come in handy.
At least I can use the book pages to start a fire. Then again, the acres of dried underbrush would serve just as well. I can incinerate the whole damn mountainside if I want – do the human torch routine as I flounder about trying to escape.
I crush out my cigarette.
Now that I have accepted my fate, my last reserves of energy drain away. I feel like a wound-down mechanical toy. Adjusting my makeshift pillow of laundry into the least uncomfortable configuration, I settle onto my stony mattress and am almost instantly asleep.
Some time later, a dog jars me awake with ghastly, coughing barks and long mournful wails. I jump to my feet, glancing around the darkness, expecting an attack any second.
The howling continues. Sometimes it seems distant, echoing through the far mountains; other times it is fearfully close, the voice of some beast preparing to charge out of the darkness and rip out my throat. A terrifying passage from the novel Mulatta barges into my mind:
In the distance, a dog was howling because his sense of smell told him that the tree he was standing under would be used for a coffin.
“Cof-cof-coffin for whooooooo!” And the tree wept leaves.
Something stirs in the thicket beside me. I stumble back as a dark, brutal shape leaps into the air and flutters away.
Stealthy, four-legged intruders move just outside the limit of my vision. I hold the bamboo flute dagger-like in my left hand. I wrap Jewel Eye’s leather strap around my right hand, ready to swing the camera with skull cracking force against any creature that might emerge from the darkness. I crouch, ready for combat, taking in my dark, threatening environment – like Kirk Douglas in that Spartacus movie.
One time, back at college, I’d been taking pictures in a deserted alley when a derelict suddenly appeared.
“You got any fucking matches?” he said.
I looked away from the viewfinder to see this big, hunched-over man in a dark coat, his eyes burning out of a bearded, pale face. I’d never seen such frightening eyes before.
Don’t do anything to upset this guy! a voice in my head warned.
“Sorry,” I replied.
I kept a smile on my face while unobtrusively repositioning Jewel Eye in my right hand. If the situation looked to be turning violent, a surprise blow with two pounds of metal and glass could end the conversation in my favor. But the man just wandered off muttering.
I’ve since become familiar with such burning, ferocious eyes. They are the eyes my brother Victor wears at times.
Things quiet down on the mountainside, and I relax out of my gladiator pose. I light a cigarette – damn the fire risk, damn the North Korean sniper who’s drawing a bead on the glowing ash.
So, whose coffin had that dog been howling about anyway?
Night drags past with increasing chilliness. I observe the stars and shuffle around to keep myself warm. I have no watch, so I use the progress of the constellations to estimate the passing hours.
Julie Lindberg, my girlfriend back at school, pops into mind. She’ll be starting her junior year in the fall. My whole life has turned completely over since we last met, while her experience is still encompassed by the small liberal arts college. Maybe I can look her up when I get back ... if I get back. But this is a foolish notion. Someone as beautiful as Julie will have no dearth of boyfriends.
My surroundings are actually quite lovely and peaceful, once I get over my heebie jeebies. An insect chorus accents the silence, an occasional breeze rustles the vegetation. A crystal clear sky, illuminated by countless stars and a sliver of moon, arches overhead. Quite the transcendental stage set. I suppose you could have some great religious-type illumination in these circumstances, but I am not very receptive to such things.
I finally nod off only to awake with the first rays of sunlight. Of course, a good trail is only a few feet away from my camping spot. Had I been able to find it yesterday, this whole drama could have been avoided. I hobble down the path and am soon out of the thickets.
The trail leads by a small thatch-roofed farm house. I try to creep past unobtrusively, but an adjumoni emerges from the kitchen. She is dressed in an ankle length brown skirt with a flower pattern and a mismatched red top with a different flower pattern. Rubber komoshin adorn her feet.
“Mua?” she says in surprise.
“Anyang Hasayo!” I reply with ersatz heartiness. “I’m just out for a little walk.”
She gives me a sideways, unbelieving glance. Korean-speaking Westerners probably don’t appear at this isolated farmstead every morning.
I make some b.s. statement about how much I am enjoying the lovely day. I must be making a hell of an impression – my clothes all rumpled and my face scratched, walking with a limp. She motions me to sit on the narrow wooden porch.
“Thank you,” I say, taking my place.
The paper door beside me slides open revealing an ancient haraboji smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He nods an acknowledgment to my greeting and takes me in with wise, kindly eyes. The adjumoni brings me a low table of food, typical Korean fare of rice, soup and side dishes. An incredible feast!
The old haraboji quietly observes me while I eat, a gentle, amused expression on his surprisingly smooth face. With his wispy white beard and dignified manner, he seems like the San Shin himself. The adjumoni brings us bowls of makoli – the real thing. Sweet and potent, with bits of rice floating in it.
The makoli courses through my body like a magic elixir, banishing the pain from my ankle. I fish out the last unopened pack of cigarettes – top quality Kobukson, Turtle Boat, brand – and present it to the haraboji with a polite two-handed gesture. He accepts with amused pleasure.
Draining my bowl of makoli, I catch sight of a medium sized brown dog standing under a nearby tree. I dare not look too closely to see if the tree has wept any leaves.
After many cordial thanks, I continue my descent with renewed vigor. When I turn back for a final look, the house is gone. Is this some trick of the landscape? I haven’t walked very far – shouldn’t the place still be in view?
I think of turning back but decide not to.
6: Seoul Nocturne
“
The Hungarians are a harsh people, very harsh.” – Nikita Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers, the Glasnost Tapes
Back in Seoul, I check in at the Nam Goong yogwan and crash for several hours. The yogwan has an exalted name for such a modest place: ‘South Palace.’ It is as clean as most inns, though – despite the occasional rodent – and it’s conveniently located on a narrow lane around the corner from the Peace Corps office.
Late afternoon, I clean up at a public bath house and am appalled by the amount of hair that shampoos loose from my head. Damn! Other PCV guys report this same phenomenon, maybe we aren’t getting enough vitamins or something.
After a restaurant dinner, washed down with two large bottles of Crown mekchu, I am ready to retire for the evening. I stop at a newspaper stand attended by a brown, wrinkled old woman, and buy a few loose cigarettes. I don’t feel like walking to a kagae on my sore ankle to buy a whole pack. Besides, I am a bit dizzy from the beer and want to get back to my room.
The news stand lady reminds me of some wise old Indian matron as she shuffles out my change from a coin pouch tied around her waist. President Pak Chung Hee’s gaunt face leers from the front page of the English-language Dong Ah Ilbo, East Asia Times. He is pinning yet another medal on somebody’s chest.
The rest of the front page is taken up with reports of the latest anti-Japanese incidents. “Women’s Body Protests Japanese Intrusion,” reads one story lead.
Korea / Japan relations are at a low point, and frequent demonstrations are breaking out in the streets of Seoul. The government seems to tolerate these public outbursts, maybe even encourage them. The people can vent their frustrations on a foreign power rather than at the corrupt, authoritarian regime.
Ah, yes, ‘Democracy Korean Style!’ Now that Pak has beaten down the last vestiges of press freedom, he can appear unchallenged in every newspaper. The American government attitude appears to be: “Sure, President Pak is an s.o.b., but he’s our s.o.b.”
It is reassuring to know that the U.S. is picking up the tab. Thousands of American soldiers are strung along the border with North Korean as a ‘trip wire.’ If war breaks out, these guys will be massacred on day one. I’d never claim to be a military expert, but this simply doesn’t make sense to me. Who thought up this troop deployment, the same transcendent geniuses that got us into Vietnam?