Das Road

By Brian Bakos

A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Readers travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, just beyond reach, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey.

A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating that will haunt your dreams. A siren call to your wanderlust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Bakos
• Release date: Apr 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301079650

Brian Bakos

I like to write and travel. I'm from the Detroit area originally and try to see other places as often as possible. My most recent travels have been to China, Ecuador, and Belize. Am thinking of my next destination. It's wonderful how travel inspires the writing process. Attended Michigan State University and Alma College.Not much more than that. Anything else I have to say comes out in my books. If you really want to know more, please contact me through my website, https://www.theb2.net/. May life bring you many blessings!

Book preview

One: Oori Nara Korea

Whatever road I take, the guiding star is within me. – Anthem, by Ayn Rand

1. Wild Ride to Choon Chun

I don’t know where I am!

A crowd is squeezing me in its claustrophobic grip. I hate crowds. Steps appear in front of me; the mob forces me upwards.

An empty seat emerges, and I plop back into Korea. The alcohol murk in my brain retreats a little. The Korean guy sitting next to me looks over, his face brightening like a Christmas tree.

"Glass Sonseng!" he cries.

A sobering chill tingles up my spine. I can think more clearly now. Who?

The man’s Christmas lights dim.

Are you not Mr. Jon Glass? he says in English.

No!

Excuse me… uh, your sunglasses… I am very sorry. The man turns away.

I hadn’t meant to raise my voice, but what the hell is going on? This is the third time this week somebody has mistaken me for this ‘Jon Glass’ character. First, a couple of tea room girls and now this guy.

Who the hell is Jon Glass?

The guy next to me looks mid-30s and is friendly enough, but I’m in no mood for company. I stuff my bag under the seat, retaining only my camera.

Koreans pile aboard—middle-aged women adjumonis carrying bulging pochecki scarves, high school boys in camouflage school uniforms, elderly men maneuvering with walking sticks. The pungent smell of kimchee hovers in the still June air, betraying the contents of one pochecki.

My claustrophobia kicked in again. This crowded space seems to be no longer an ordinary bus, more like a coffin on wheels. I fight the urge to jump up and push my way back outside. I close my eyes, and the blessed soju buzz returns, three big slugs worth.

Who is Jon Glass?

The name rings a faint bell, but I am certain I’ve never met him. The ID gaffs are unsettling, especially people’s acute disappointment when they realize that I’m not him. Somebody takes the aisle seat across from me. Eyes still closed, I fantasize about who it might be. Is it some lovely yoja hoping to share the ride with a dashing young American?

She’ll be looking over at me thinking: My God, how fortunate I took this bus today!

Or maybe it’s Yun Hee herself.

Right! She’s heard of my imminent departure and has rushed here to make up with me. I’ll be aloof at first, slowly letting her back into my good graces. Then I’ll take her hand across the aisle and…

Fingers, tough as old leather, stroke my bare forearm. I jerk as if from an electric shock; my eyes pop open behind the sunglasses. An ancient haraboji in white robes and a horse hair hat is sitting across from me, exploring my Caucasian forearm.

He mutters in amazement, something to the effect: Look at this hairy Westerner!

My seatmate finds this amusing, judging by his broad grin. So nice that he’s entertained.

Would you rather sit by the window? he asks.

Yeah, thanks. I move over.

I study the man surreptitiously. He might be a public school teacher, as he reminds me of the English instructors at my middle school. He has that down-at-heel dignity of a man with good status but low income, and his English isn’t bad.

The driver, a short, husky guy with close-cropped hair, bounces into his seat with authority. The bus girl shuts the door, and we start moving through the Seoul outskirts—crowds of people maneuvering along the sidewalks, dingy little stores and repair shops, bus and automobile traffic spewing a poisonous miasma. Not exactly the National Geographic ambiance I’m always seeking.

But soon we are cruising past beautiful green rice fields and small villages. A light rain begins, and the tires hiss along the pavement. The miles roll by pleasantly. I pull the lens cap off my Pentax and gaze into the glassy depths. The lens glitters at me, gold and blue—a Jewel Eye promising romantic adventure.

Very nice camera, the man beside me says. Is it Japanese?

Yes.

He gives a thumbs up. Japanese cameras, very good. Japanese people, not so good.

I smile, not wishing to overtly disagree. I’ve never met a Korean yet who doesn’t hate Japan. This guy might be old enough to remember the brutal Japanese occupation too.

My name is Mr. Jong. He offers a hand. I am English teacher at boys’ middle school in Choon Chun.

I’m Tyler Lakatos.

Glad to meet you. He continues with typical curiosity. "Why are you in Oori Nara? You don’t look like G.I."

He’s slipped the Korean phrase for ‘our country’ into his English.

I’m a Peace Corps volunteer.

Peace Corps very good! Another thumbs up. You know Mr. Jon Glass? He is also Peace Corps, I think.

Is that so?

Mr. Jong counts on his fingers, folding the thumb in first, Korean style. Mr. Jon Glass. He can drink, he can sing, he can fight! And number one with girls.

He sounds like quite a guy.

The standard questions begin: "How long have you been in Korea, Lakatos Sonseng? Are you married? How old are you?"

One year. Single. Twenty-three years old.

By this time, we’ve reached the mountainous areas of Kang Won Province, and the gyrations of the bus cut off further conversation. Something has gone haywire with the driver. Ignoring the wet conditions, he careens the bus down the steep, curving road much too fast, then guns the engine for the ascent. We rock fearfully in our seats.

"Aigoo, chugetda!" Oh, I’m going to die! A passenger exclaims.

The driver growls something and yanks us into another descent. My stomach churns. I’ve always prided myself on being philosophical, but when the going gets tough, an alcohol buzz sure helps. Mine is fading fast, though. I raise the Pentax and begin snapping pictures out the window. In the rectilinear world of the viewfinder, at least, I am invulnerable.

A mist has settled on the treeless mountains, making the scene mysterious and inviting. Green rice fields nestle in the low areas, along with little thatch-roofed farmhouses. Elegant white cranes take flight from a field.

Click, wind, click, goes the Pentax.

At every valley and picturesque village, I want to get off and explore the impenetrable mystery lying at the root of all life. But this is an express bus, and the driver won’t stop. Besides, he’s crazy.

We zip past a billboard touting the government’s reforestation program. Each year trees are planted on the barren slopes, then poachers hack them down. Each year people in picturesque little villages die in mudslides from the denuded hills.

The driver whips us through a gut-wrenching turn, and Jewel Eye clicks the last frame on the roll of film. I pack away the camera and pull out my smokes. Mr. Jong’s face is a pale, stony mask through which he is trying to maintain some dignity. I offer a cigarette.

Oh, thank you. He accepts with a shaking hand.

Just as I light a match, the bus begins skidding out of control on a curve. A horrified gasp shoots through the passengers. A precipice looms outside the window, and my stomach drops over it without me. I jerk my eyes away.

Isn’t your life supposed to flash before you in such situations? All I see is the match flame burning huge as a forest fire. The bus becomes deathly quiet. Then my terror suddenly vanishes, replaced by a deep sadness. This is it? I’m checking out before I have accomplished anything worthwhile?

I glance out the window again. The world is moving in nightmare slow motion. The sky is pitch black, and the hindquarters of the bus look ready to swing over the edge, taking us on a leisurely, backward plunge into the abyss.

Let’s get it over with already!

The driver, with skill matching his recklessness, brings the machine around safely. All wheels bite the pavement, and we begin an ascent back to the world of the living. A collective sigh issues from the passengers. I light our cigarettes.

Whatever madness possessing the driver seems to depart, and he guides the big vehicle across the mountains without further incident. I resume sightseeing.

Without my camera eye, things should look ordinary again—the familiar scenery, my aimless life. But things have clarity now as if the world has been etched into sharp glass for me.

Yes… Jon Glass.

Choon Chun appears, nestled in its humid valley.

Mr. Jong has taken a liking to me, or maybe he feels like celebrating his survival. Anyway, he invites me out for a night of drinking, beginning with dinner at his house. The bus rolls into the station, and we passengers trundle off.

I clap the driver on his shoulder. Thanks for the ride, pal, I say in English. It was real.

2. Tea without Sympathy

"I wonder what I am good at? Not at love, it escapes me." – Valentina, speaking in La Notte

"I need tea now." Mr. Jong says.

We enter a nearby tabang and take a table near the back. It’s the usual type place—dimly lit with a largely male clientele. Pretty girls circulate around bringing drinks, flirting, and stopping occasionally to have a cup. A television set mounted high on the wall blares a Korean soap opera.

Mr. Jong downs a cup of tea and smokes a cigarette. Tension drains out of him. Compared to the distressed person on the bus, he now looks as fit as the New Socialist Man, though that’s a bad analogy for this part of the Korean peninsula.

I must go home and tell my wife to expect a dinner guest, he says. We have no telephone, unfortunately.

Sure thing.

Please excuse me. I’ll be back soon.

Mr. Jong departs, and I settle back with my coffee and cigarette. Tobacco smoke curls luxuriously, hovering over me like an old friend. These Korean cigarettes aren’t half bad if you stick to the top brands. Deferred exhaustion from the booze and the bus ride tries to overcome me. I might nod off were it not for the chatter coming from the television.

On the TV screen, a young couple dressed in traditional clothes is having a worried conversation. Their surroundings are all smashed up, like an area in a combat zone. This must be one of those melodramas about the Korean War era.

I look away and rummage in my bag for a fresh roll of film. Exotic East Asia is constantly passing before me, and Jewel Eye must be prepared to record it with Ektachrome snapshots.

My whole life seems frozen, like a snapshot. Not an ugly picture, but not all that fabulous, either. How close had I actually come to the end today? Have I been reprieved by God so that I can move on to accomplish great things and experience great adventures?

Or am I just fishing for insights like those dickheads back in college with their drugs and mystical religious experiences? It wasn’t God who saved me, but that crazy bus driver.

I’ve already missed the great adventure the government offered every male of my generation. I could have walked into any recruiting station and said: Gimme that one-way ticket to Vietnam.

Of course, I might have survived and come back home totally messed up, like my brother Victor…

The drone of Korean issuing from the TV abruptly changes to the harsh rasp of a different language. Russian? I look up to see a character dressed in a Soviet military uniform barking commands at the young couple. The girl is shrinking away in terror while her man tries to put up a brave front, failing miserably.

The actor portraying the Soviet officer wears a peaked cap pulled low to obscure his features, but I can tell he’s a real Caucasian rather than a made-up Korean. His performance is scary. Even from this side of the screen, he is intimidating—a man of great ruthless power who might unleash it any moment. The actress probably doesn’t have to work hard to look frightened.

The scene fascinates me on some primitive level as if I’m there myself. The Soviet officer is advancing on the couple, pulling out the riding crop from under his arm—

Agh! The tabang matron reaches for the channel dial.

A soccer game replaces the soap opera, and I snap back to reality as if from some low-budget nightmare. A tabang girl sits down across from me. Man, is she cute!

How are you? she asks.

Oh, fine. Would you like some tea?

She nods and gestures to one of the other girls to bring her a cup. Looking at her perfect face with its almond eyes and rosy health, obvious even in the poor light, I understand why I worked so hard to learn Korean. Why else study a language except to converse with beautiful women?

I start a chit-chat conversation. I’m really rapping the Korean mal now!

You speak our language very well, the girl says. How long have you been in Oori Nara?

The usual battery of questions follows, but I don’t mind. Her subtle perfume blends with the cigarette smoke into an intoxicating incense.

What’s her background, I wonder. She likely started working as a waitress or a bus attendant. Perhaps she is sending money to her family so they can pay for their eldest son’s schooling. That’s how it works among the poorer classes. The family honor rests with the male heir.

I thought I’d be taking an Asian beauty home with me—Yun Hee, a teacher at the boy’s middle school where I taught English. Things were going great with her. She even took me to meet her family, the ultimate sign of a Korean woman’s interest.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Yun Hee informed me that her parents frowned upon international marriage and had located a more suitable Korean fiancée for her. He was a man of good education, she said, with much potential for advancement in his career. They would be married in the fall. She wouldn’t have to work and could settle down as a dutiful wife.

When I managed to scrape myself off the floor, I phoned Mom to say I was quitting the Peace Corps. Then I disposed of my meager furnishings, moved out of my house, and got drunk every day.

Now I’m on my farewell weekend to Choon Chun, the best town in Korea. Monday, I’ll officially resign and pick up my plane ticket home. But right now, I am enjoying the company of the pretty tabang girl. She sips her tea, eyes smiling coyly, while I sip in her beauty. Our table makes a pleasant little world.

The atmosphere changes drastically. Chairs scrape along the floor, angry mutterings. The girl’s smile fades, and her apprehensive eyes look toward the door.

Son of a bitch! someone snarls.

I twist around to see a couple of beggars moving down the aisle toward us. One is an elderly woman, toothless and gray, the other is a little boy, maybe four years old. A wave of hostility follows them like a blast of freezing air. The tabang matron rushes forward and speaks angrily to the old woman. The little boy walks on alone and stops right beside me.

Our eyes meet. I’m astounded by his appearance. He looks more white than Korean, with a rounded Western face and light, wispy hair. Almond eyes give away his mixed parentage. He must be the illegitimate offspring of some American G.I.—a man back in the States, unaware or unconcerned that he’s left a child behind. The little boy extends a chubby hand toward me.

Get out! shrieks the manager, seizing the boy’s arm and propelling him toward the door where the old woman waits in stoic humiliation.

Hey! I begin to stand up, but the tabang girl grasps my arm.

It’s all right. Don’t worry.

Some bastard at the last table kicks at the little boy as the manager drags him by. I fling off the girl’s arm and stand up. She rises to block my way.

"Please, Sonseng Nim, sit down!"

I brush past her and head toward the door. The man who kicked at the boy is chortling with his buddies, proud of his achievement. As I pass, I shove his chair hard, pushing him against his table. The laughter stops.

I reach the door and bump into Mr. Jong.

What’s the matter? he asks. Was I gone too long?

No, uh…

I hear somebody coming up behind me and spin around, expecting the hero I’d jostled to be coming back for more. It’s only the girl. She holds my camera and shoulder bag.

I am so sorry. She thrusts the items into my hands.

She and the tabang matron, mouthing apologies, escort us out the door. Throw us out, actually.

Looks like I missed some excitement, Mr. Jong says.

Yeah, right.

For a moment, I thought Mr. Jon Glass was here.

A taxi is waiting for us, and we get in. I scan the street but see nothing of the old woman or the boy.

Damn! It’s the same rotten deal all over the world. Innocent little kids get screwed while slime balls laugh at them. A thumper headache builds behind my eyeballs. I massage my temples with rigid fingers.

3. A Night on the Town

"You must keep company a long time with a man before you know him thoroughly." – Sancho Panza

We arrive at a bland new subdivision on the city outskirts, an area of straight lanes and uniform little walled-in houses lacking in picturesque, meandering ambiance.

Actually, even the ‘old’ section of Choon Chun is fairly new, as the entire city was leveled during the war and has subsequently been rebuilt. We get out at Mr. Jong’s place. Unlocking the gate, he leads me through the tiny courtyard and into the house. I take off my shoes at the door.

Mr. Jong’s wife approaches. She has the faded beauty so many Korean women develop after they marry. She appears to be about 35 and is several months pregnant.

I am sorry because our house is so poor, she says by way of greeting.

Not at all, I reply with ritual politeness, I can’t begin to say how nice it is.

There is no introduction of her by Mr. Jong. The wife appears strictly in the role of servant. This is correct etiquette, however odd it strikes Western sensibilities.

Anyway, who knows what really goes on in this house? Maybe Mr. Jong gets the hell knocked out of him every night, but for now, he’s lord of the realm. The wife brings us into a side room and indicates cushions on the floor beside a low table. After a brief interlude, she returns with a dish of sliced pears.

I have two children, and, as you can see, another is on the way, Mr. Jong says after his wife leaves. It must be the electricity in this part of town. It keeps going off so…

He makes an expansive gesture in front of his abdomen and laughs, showing a couple of gold teeth. The government says to stop at two, but that isn’t always possible.

I grin to cover my discomfort.

Considering the short notice, the wife has prepared a fine meal. She brings in metal bowls of anchovy soup and an excellent selection of pan chan—dried seaweed, fish, tubu, kimchee, even some oysters. And rice, of course. Then she leaves us men folk to ourselves.

Two small children, a boy of about four and a girl a year or so older, appear at the doorway. Curiosity overcoming his fear, the boy enters. Mr. Jong cuddles him.

The little boy points a finger at me and says, "Mi gook saram." American.

"Kurochi!" I say. So it is!

I open my blue eyes wide and lay a finger alongside my nose to indicate its immense size, by Korean standards, anyway. The boy digs tiny fists into his eyes and cringes, to the great amusement of his father.

What is your name? I ask.

The boy braves up enough to answer, Kyung Soo.

He is almost too cute to be real.

Maybe I will have another son, Mr. Jong says. My wife dreamed about a big carp leaping out of the water. This is a good omen.

Right. As a Korean proverb states: Riches, honor, many sons. Poverty, lowliness, many daughters.

What’s your name? I ask the little girl hovering by the door.

She stares at me with something approaching terror. She backs away and is quickly gone.

After enjoying our leisurely meal, we, too, are gone.

I am in a good mood as we stride into the sool chip, but a little apprehensive, too. How well do I know Mr. Jong, anyway? Korean men can be fierce drinkers, I know from experience, and can be very unpleasant when drunk.

The teachers at my school, with whom I’ve been out drinking occasionally, seem to have entire souls full of anguish and frustration to wring out. They can really get blasted, drinking to forget whatever is painful in their lives. They place no premium on ‘holding one’s liquor.’

Another Oriental proverb comes to mind: You can go out drinking with twenty friends and find yourself surrounded by twenty enemies.

Put another way, how long does it take a room full of angry Koreans to turn on the only white guy? Well, it’s too late now for such considerations.

The outer area of the wine house contains the cheap seats for the all-male clientele. Numerous tables constructed from upended oil drums crowd the room. Braziers fitted in the tops sizzle with mounds of tripe or tak kalbi marinated chicken ribs. Smoke wafts up little chutes above each table, some of it escaping to create a murky atmosphere.

Two ROK—Republic of Korea soldiers—sit on stools at one of these tables. Poor and burdened with their country’s defense, they seem to symbolize common soldiers everywhere. Their crisp, green, American-style uniforms contrast with their gloomy faces. Each wears a plastic name tag with English and Korean script. One is called Kim, S. C., and the other Li, J. H. Although a young man, Kim, S.C. has many gray strands mixed into his short, bristly hair.

Paper lattice doors divide this main area from the small side rooms where better-heeled patrons cavort with the wine house yojas. A matron leads us into one of these rooms where two girls await.

You’re back! the girls cry.

I’ve never been here before and do not recognize them, but they are too pretty to disagree with.

Nice to see you again, I say.

So, the night moves on pleasantly. Booze, food, female companionship. What else matters?

I recline luxuriously on the floor and drain my cup of makoli ‘rice wine.’ It tastes horrible, synthetic—the government-mandated concoction that substitutes God knows what chemicals for the natural ingredients. Have to conserve rice, the official line goes. Too much of this stuff will blow off the top of your skull and give you a memorable case of the runs.

Munchies clutter the low table—octopus, sea slug, tripe smothered in hot sauce—stuff I could never imagine eating back home. All delicious. I feel contented for the first time in many days.

Yun Hee recedes into an alcoholic mist. She remains there even while the girl sitting next to me sings a traditional song of love gone awry:

"... although Kapsun’s heart was only for Kapdol,

on the surface she pretended it wasn’t so!" etc.

The girl has a beautiful, clear voice. With one hand she beats metal chopsticks against the table edge in time to the music. With the other hand she discreetly massages my crotch, kind of beating my chopstick, too. Mr. Jong sits red-faced across the table with the other girl, singing along lustily and out of tune.

My girl finishes singing to appreciative applause. In her traditional hanbok with its puffy red skirt, white top, and flowing bow, she seems like some magical confection waiting to be devoured. Light rouge accents her perfect skin, and her tied-back hair, jet black, frames a face so pretty it should be illegal.

Mr. Jong thrusts the wine kettle toward me and pours unsteadily. My cup fills to the brim as the last contents dribble from the kettle. The girls applaud.

A good omen! Mr. Jong cries in blurred English. You’re going to have a son.

But I’m not married.

All the better.

It is my turn to sing. I bellow out a morose Korean song about a guy pondering his distant hometown and lost youth. At least it’s easy to sing.

Enthusiastic applause.

Thank you, thank you! I say.

It is one of those transcendent moments when you feel like you’re a true citizen of Oori Nara. Then I happen to glance at a mirror angled down from the wall. In the middle of the group of Asians gleams a pale white face. Things immediately jerk back into perspective.

Another kettle of makoli arrives and I fill Mr. Jong’s cup. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and detect a flicker of anger there.

A warning sign. The booze is melting his inhibitions and some bogeyman penned inside him is aching to bust out. I should be planning my exit before things have a chance to turn ugly, but my girl is prodding me.

Sing another song, please. You have such a manly voice!

I look away from Mr. Jong’s livid face. Through my makoli buzz, the girl beside me glows with heavenly radiance. Her lovely brown eyes, her little mouth, curving up just the right amount. She is every beautiful Korean yoja rolled into one. She is the perfect woman I was supposed to be taking back to the States.

I love you, I whisper in English.

Eh?

Nothing, nothing at all.

I begin a rendition of the old Confederate army song, Goober Peas. While I’m singing, Mr. Jong begins manhandling the girl next to him, grabbing her breasts and attempting to kiss her roughly. She fights him off and stands up.

Godammit! Mr. Jong cries in English.

My song trails off. Mr. Jong’s girl flings open the paper door and stalks away.

Your friend is very drunk, my girl says.

God damn! Mr. Jong says, his face a snarling beet. Fucking CIA! Fucking Peace Corps!

Not the old CIA routine again. Often I’ve heard the ridiculous story that Peace Corps volunteers are actually spies. Well, if I’ve somehow been spying for the CIA this past year, then somebody owes me back pay.

One thing is obvious, though, I have a mean drunk on my hands.

"Yobo seyo, look here, my girl says. Why not take your friend home and then come back for me? We can go to a yogwan. You want that?"

I feign ignorance.

A yogwan, why? I ask innocently.

Ai! She squeezes my crotch.

Okay!

I look over at Mr. Jong, hesitant to say anything that might anger him further.

Mr. Jong, shall we leave?

What you say? He demands in English.

We should be going, your wife must be waiting.

Fuck!

Big mistake. The mention of his wife enrages Jong further. He hurls an ashtray at my girl. Just in time, she throws up a hand to protect her head. A cloud of cigarette ash pollutes the air.

Her lovely face turns ferocious. Crazy S.O.B!

I intervene quickly, helping Mr. Jong to his feet while pinioning his throwing arm at the same time. I want to break it for him. With his free hand, he withdraws some bills from his pocket and flings them on the table.

Godammit! he says.

The sight of the money placates the girl. She becomes pleasant again and even escorts us out. The main room has largely emptied with only a few drinkers remaining to observe our inglorious departure.

At the door, Mr. Jong breaks from my grip and reels out into the darkness. Before I can follow, the girl seizes my hand.

You’re coming back? she says.

Yes, yes, in a little while.

It’s a 20-minute walk to Mr. Jong’s house, every step a bitter struggle. Twice he attempts to dash in front of traffic and I have to drag him back to the sidewalk. His language reels from profane English and Korean to maudlin statements like: You-me, America-Korea, same-same!

I feel like an idiot. Pedestrians gape at the disgraceful spectacle. I don’t dare hail a taxi for fear Mr. Jong will begin a row with the driver. I’m usually pretty good at locating places, but since I am fairly drunk, I stand only a problematical chance of finding the house again. Mr. Jong is too far gone to provide directions.

Thank God, after only a single wrong turn, I bring us to the same gate from which we’d departed in such high spirits a few hours before.