by Chris Tharp
We silently got back into the car, and thirty minutes later we were at the border. An immigration station flew the Thai tricolor, with the Mekong River surging behind it.
“There she is,” Joe said, pointing to the radio tower and settlement on the far bank. “The People’s Democratic Republic of Laos.”
“It’s interesting how pretty much any country with the word ‘democratic’ in its title is never anything of the sort,” remarked Steve.
“Ah man. You guys are gonna have a great time,” Joe said. “I wish I could come with you.”
“You can!” I said. “You have your passport?”
“Yeah, but I gotta get back to the wife and kids… I just can’t up and leave right now. But I really wish I could.”
“We’d love to have you,” said Steve. “I guess I’ll see you back in Korea.”
“On the court!” Joe said, pantomiming a free throw.
“Be well, Joe.” I wrapped him in an embrace.
“You too, man. Let’s hang out together in Korea sometime.”
“Sure thing, Joe. Sure thing.”
There was virtually no line at Thai immigration, and soon we were stamped, ushered through, and aboard the wooden longboat to take us to across the river. As we chugged away from the shore, Smokin’ Joe stood up on the embankment and waved, his grey ponytail blowing in the afternoon breeze.
*
Gino took the last piece of pork from the grill, dipped it in some samjang, and wrapped it in a sesame leaf. “No one knew he was sick. None of us.”
“It wasn’t his style to let on,” said K. “At the end of the day, Joe was a very private guy who did things on his terms.”
“I should have put two and two together,” continued Gino. “When I went to visit him in Thailand—just before I headed out to Nepal—I thought he looked even more gaunt than usual. And he wasn’t eating any of his wife’s amazing food. He’d just have some yogurt. When I asked him about it, he just said he had stomach problems at the time.”
Gino popped the wrapped pork into his mouth and chewed.
“You know he was a no-show at his own going-away party?” said K. “Well, he was sixty-four years old, which may as well be a hundred and ten for an English teacher in Korea. The university finally sent him packing, but he had money saved and a big pension, so none of us were too worried. Joe always landed on his feet.”
“An extremely adaptable man,” Gino noted.
“So I organized a going-away party for him and invited all of the Busan Bangers, since those were pretty much the only people he knew in town anyway. But I noticed, the week before, that he didn’t show up to ball on either Wednesday, Friday, or Sunday, which was unlike him, because I knew he was still in town. So the day before the party, I texted his girlfriend who responded with the following words: Joe left Korea last night.”
Gino laughed. “Classic. But making a fuss? That just wasn’t Joe’s style.”
“No it wasn’t,” said K. “But he did come back two months later to collect his pension money and grab the rest of his things. And get this: he showed up for ball. He was obviously tired, thinner than usual, and sluggish, but he showed up. JOE WILL PLAY. And he did. He played. But that night…” K leaned in and looked hard into my eyes. “That night was the first time in fourteen years of knowing the guy that Joe looked old. And it was the last time I ever saw him.”
Joe died on Valentine’s Day, 2012. K was informed via text message. Joe’s daughter sent the news to his Korean girlfriend, who forwarded it to K, who then passed it on to the Busan Bangers, as well as me. It took everyone by surprise.
“He had pancreatic cancer,” said K, “which is one hundred percent terminal. Once you are diagnosed with it, it’s not a matter of if, but when.”
“But he never let on,” said Gino, as the server took away the blackened grill and bowl of dying coals. “He told none of us. There were hints though. You know, when I visited him in Chiang Rai we were up one night, in the kitchen, talking. I told him about my plans to visit Nepal and hike the Annapurna trek… he became very excited and went away for couple of minutes. When he came back, he handed me a photograph that he’d taken of Annapurna in ‘74. It was a gorgeous picture, capturing the whole mountain on one of those rare sunny days when most of it is visible. He said, ‘Take it. I want you to have it.’ So I did, and not only that, I used it as the cover shot for my record.”
Gino reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of his recently released CD, Annapurna. I examined it. On the front was a brilliant color photo of the famous mountain, taken and given to him by the man himself.
“Well there’s not just that,” K remarked, lowering his voice. “It’s rumored that Joe had a massive stash. Something had to get him through those long stretches here in Korea. Some say that before he left the country, he bequeathed it to a worthy recipient.” He shrugged and held up his hands, palms out. “Mind you, I know nothing. This is just an unconfirmed report, but I think it’s safe to say that Joe’s legacy lives on to this day.”
“It’s out there,” said Gino. “Somewhere…”
“And that’s exactly the way Joe wanted it,” added K.
This news warmed me up inside. I felt a strange satisfaction that Smokin’ Joe had imparted his hippy ways onto others, even well after death. After all, Korea could do with a bit more grooviness.
Smiling, I reached for the check.
PUBLICATION CREDITS
Cobra
Published as “Eating Snake in Saigon,” Monkeygoggles, May, 2010
Published as “Eating Snake in Saigon,” Road Junky, March, 2011
Into the Wild West
Portions published as “From Shanghai to Kashgar: Crossing China along the Silk Road,” Homely Planet, September, 2009
Portions published as “Three Ugly Americans Go to Shipton’s Arch,” Monkeygoggles, October, 2010
Glimpses of Sumatra
Portions published as “Into Sumatra,” Haps Magazine, March 2012
Big in Japan
Portions published as “In Japan with the Muthafuckin’ Taint,” Homely Planet, December, 2006
Moscow on the South China Sea
Homely Planet, January, 2013
The Worst Motorcycle in Laos (Winner of the Solas Awards Men’s Travel Gold, 2008)
Traveler’s Tales, February, 2008
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book has been ten years in the making, and it would never have happened without the help and support of tons of people along the way.
First I’d like to thank my editor Marshall Moore, along with the rest of the team at Signal 8 Press. Next up is Steven K. Feldman, whose sharp eye and spot-on instincts helped along several key pieces, even though he was paid only in chicken and beer.
I’d also like to thank the people who supported and published some of these essays early on, including David Wahl and Geoff Carter at the much-missed Monkeygoggles, as well as the folks at Road Junky and Travelers’ Tales. The same goes for Bobby McGill and everyone at Haps.
Much of what makes this book are the people in it. Friends became regular characters, and I am deeply indebted to the following folks: Sam Hazelton, David Scraggs, Johnny Ioannidis, Kenneth May, Gino Brann, Stuart Driscoll, Skerik, Joe Doria, Matt Rafferty, Scott Knackstedt, English Simon, and of course, Joseph Louis Avallone, whose spirit hopefully lives on in the final chapter of this book.
I’d also like to thank Kevin Hockmuth, John Bocskay, and Scott Evans for acting as soundboards, comrades, and confidantes over many a beer throughout this process. I also owe a special thanks to Mike Laveck for his last minute sharp eyes. Thanks, too to the ragged crew at Sweet Pickles & Corn for putting forth some damned good writing.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my family back in the States for their continual love, support, and encouragement of me as a writer.
Finally, I’d like to thank my wife, Minhee Kim-Tharp, for her ideas, advice, love, built-in bullshit detector, and endurance of my ne
urosis throughout the hills and valleys that come with writing a book.