Dispatches from the Peninsula

by Chris Tharp

  “They keep changing the curriculum. It’s so unprofessional.”

  “The air’s so bad here.”

  “Koreans are so rude. Just yesterday an old woman elbowed me out of the way and took the last empty seat on the subway.”

  “Jimmy’s always smoking in the back room and it stinks. I can’t believe they smoke so much here. They’re dirty.”

  The telling point with this couple came when their vacation time rolled around. It was their first real break since arriving. They were given a week off, and rather than spend it at some exotic Asian locale just a few hours away by plane, they instead elected to fly back to Houston. They had been in Korea less than a year, but evidently really needed that fix of Americana. In fact, after returning to Busan, they both incessantly talked about the highlight of their journey: a trip to Sonic Burger for some real fast food. How they had missed good ol’ Sonic Burger.

  I hung my American head in shame.

  It wasn’t too long after that they explained to us, their fellow teachers–over a pitcher of beer–that they had decided to pull what’s called a midnight run.

  “We’re going to Japan. In the morning. We haven’t told Jimmy. I mean, it’s just so much better there. The people are nicer. They’re not all liars and alcoholics. They don’t spit in the street. The food isn’t all spicy and inedible. They treat foreigners well in Japan. Not like here. Yeah, we’re going to Japan.”

  With that, they were gone, and the rest of us were all given extra hours–with the same pay–to cover until a new teacher could be found. Thanks, guys.

  To be fair, they were young, fresh out of school, and not just a little bit naïve. They probably would have been better served to stay back in America and have daily access to their beloved Sonic Burger. They probably would have been happier in a place where smoking is strictly regulated and public spitting is almost nonexistent. Regardless, they did teach me one thing: most of the people who come to Korea and hate it are just people whose lives haven’t sucked enough back at home yet.

  CHAPTER 3: SAFE IN A WAR ZONE

  When I told my friends and extended acquaintances that I was going away to live and teach in Korea, many people were concerned:

  "Is it safe there?”

  "Aren't you afraid of terrorists?”

  "Are you sure that this is the best time to be living outside of the USA?"

  Most Americans are untraveled, internationally. This is reflected by the fact that, according to the State Department, only one in four of us own passports, a point much-derided by the many Canadians and Europeans that I’ve met abroad. For many Americans, anywhere outside of the huge womb of our country is strangely dangerous, swarming with anti-American mobs and prone to terrorist attacks. This attitude was especially prevalent in the years following the 9/11 attacks–when I came to Korea–during the reign of our most untraveled President, George W. Bush. Bush’s “pre-emptive” wars and go-it-alone cowboy diplomacy caused our country to become deeply reviled throughout much of the globe, and stories filtered their way back home of a heightened level of hostility toward Americans everywhere we went. Also, most Americans knew close to nothing about Korea–other than that at some point we were in a war there–so I could understand some of their concern.

  It turned out that Busan is one of the safest places I could possibly be. It is certainly safer than any city in the States. There is pretty much zero street crime. You can walk (or even stagger) down a dark street at four a.m. and no one will bother you. I have never heard of someone getting mugged in Busan. Sure, there is a lot of petty theft–bikes, motorcycle, and bags frequently disappear–and, like almost anywhere, women need to exercise caution when alone. But terrorism? No way. There is a big difference between Busan and, say, Mogadishu. But many people back home seemed unable to make the distinction. Baghdad, Kabul, Karachi, Busan: all the same place, a sordid, violent place where good Americans got kidnapped and their heads turned up in ditches, complete with a set of bloody nuts in the mouth. These are all places where the people are all vaguely… brown. One must watch out. Too much caution is not possible.

  Okay, maybe I'm being unduly harsh. People’s concern for my safety abroad generally came from a good place. It's because they cared about me and loved me, right? I could have said, "Hey, guess what, I'm going to volunteer in an ebola hospital in the Congo," and my friends could have said, "Seize the day!” I could have been secretly hated and universally wished harmed. But that's not the case. People were worried. They were so concerned that many, poker-faced, would ask me:

  "Are you going to teach in North Korea?”

  "You guessed it. Not only that, I'm defecting. I've received a personal invitation from Kim Jong Il. We're going to swap hair tips."

  This concern really illustrates the American character. It shows that one: we're really nice people at heart; and two: we don't know shit about the rest of the world.

  Yes, there was a war. There was a really nasty war. Over thirty thousand Americans died, along with hundreds of thousands of Chinese, and two to three million Koreans. In fact, the war never ended. A peace treaty was never signed–just an armistice. So, technically, I was living in a war zone, and it was the safest place I’d ever been. I'd lived in rough neighborhoods in Seattle, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Believe me, this was nothing. However, all it would have taken was one soldier, hothead, drunk, or worse yet, a rogue general (à la Doctor Strangelove) to start taking potshots across the DMZ, and the shit could’ve all kicked off again, and I'd have been practicing my breaststroke all the way to Japan.

  The prospect of me teaching in North Korea was and is absurd. But North Korea does loom in our minds as some sort of hellmouth, out of which springs part of the world's extremism and bizarre aggression. After all, weren’t they part of Bush’s infamous Axis of Evil? Aren’t they our sworn enemy? The North Korean government has one of the worst reputations of earth–a reputation that, honestly speaking, didn’t spring out of a vacuum. They have often been up to some very nasty stuff. Aside from oppressing their own people through executions, slave-labor camps, starvation, and pure brutality, they have, over the years, employed sabotage and outright terrorist tactics to destabilize the Southern regime and further their own ends. They have sent commando teams south, most famously in 1968 in an attempt to attack the Blue House and assassinate then-President Park Chung-hee. They blew up a Korean Air jetliner in 1987, and in 1983 murdered 17 South Koreans–including four government ministers–in a terrorist bombing in Rangoon, Burma. There have been numerous naval incursions and skirmishes, including one in 1999 that resulted in the deaths of over 30 northern sailors. In March of 2010 the South Korean Navy vessel Cheonan was sunk by what an international team of investigators claims was a North Korean torpedo, resulting in the deaths of 46 sailors. This event increased tensions on the peninsula to their worst point in decades. Over the years, the North Koreans have also abducted a number of South Korean and Japanese citizens, some of whom still live in the Stalinist state. The Cold War never ended on the peninsula. In fact, less than two months before finishing this book, North Korea let loose a full artillery barrage on the civilian-occupied South Korean island of Yeonpyeong-do, killing two residents along with two soldiers. This was an international incident that brought the peninsula to the brink of all-out-war. This place is, in some ways, an ideological time warp, so perhaps my American friends' worries weren’t so unfounded.

  Abducted!

  Abduction can be an effective tool to achieve your ends, but we would be mistaken to believe that it’s just the North that has a monopoly on abductions. The Southerners are adept at it too, as I was to find out one night in my second week there.

  Those first two weeks were really hot, accompanied by a steam-bath humidity that, as a West Coast native, I was completely unaccustomed to. Humid places stay hot at night, and this particular night was no exception. I was sweaty and restless and wanted a beer–maybe even two or three. So I went down to the convenience store of my buil
ding, bought a couple of beers, and (being bored with my little apartment) sat down at the little plastic table in front of the store, and proceeded to drink. Korea, like many evolved, non-police-state countries, has no laws against public drinking. It’s not really encouraged, but it’s accepted. If you want, you can sit outside and sip a beer. No hassle. No cops. No nothing. In these small ways, the country is much freer than the Land of the Free, where so much seems hyper-regulated by the finger-wagging nanny state. Try walking the streets of most any American town while sipping a beer and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

  Picture this scene: as I sip on my nice, satisfyingly cold beer, two Korean businessmen and a woman sit down at the table next to me. The men have obviously just gotten off work, as evidenced by their rumpled white shirts and ties. The woman is casually dressed in jeans and a tight shirt: strictly non-professional attire. The three of them begin to drink beer as well, and at one point, the woman notices me sitting alone, and turns to talk to me, as best as she can. Koreans are often anxious to try out their English, especially when a bit of alcohol dampens their debilitating initial shyness. She introduces me to the businessmen, Mr. Park and Mr. Young. (Park, Cho, Young, Kim, and Lee are the dominant surnames on the peninsula.) She tells me her name, which I immediately forget. I'll refer to her here as Margaret Cho, due to her resemblance to the well-known Korean-American comedienne.

  Suddenly, my new Korean friends get up from their table. Margaret Cho gestures to me to come with her palm down. This is initially confusing, since it quite resembles the Western gesture for get the fuck out of here. I stand up and walk toward her. She grabs me by the arm and pulls me into a taxi. Then we’re off…

  "You… want… gae-bah?" she says. "Gae-bah?"

  “What?”

  “You know… gae-bah?”

  The men are behind, following in another cab. She holds my arm and pulls me closer.

  "Gae-bah?"

  Rapid-fire Korean to the cab driver. Gestures, voices increasing in volume. Laughing. Then shouting. Are they now arguing? Busan people are known for their loud and rough demeanor. They often sound like they’re ready to stab each other when in fact they’re only talking about the weather.

  The two taxis pull off into a busy area by the beach. We get out. Margaret Cho again glues herself to my arm and we go into a nondescript building, climbing three flights of stairs. I am then led into an empty nightclub bathed in blue neon. The place is immaculate and designed with the utmost economy. Silver, white, and black are the dominant colors. Nothing superfluous exists. Sleek minimalism reigns.

  We sit at a bar facing the dance floor and are immediately joined by two striking Asian transsexuals: tall, sleek, elegant, and gorgeous. Gloved hands are extended.

  "He-lllllllo.”

  Demure looks, lingering hands.

  My hosts give some orders and soon there is a spread on the counter consisting of a beautiful platter of fresh fruit; a dried, flattened cuttlefish with various dipping sauces; several glistening bottles of beer; cans of juice and cold tea; and two large bottles of whiskey. We get right to it, eating and drinking communally, as is the custom. In Korea specifically, it’s considered the height of greed and rudeness to pour your own drink or to sip from an individual bottle. One bottle is always opened and used to fill everyone’s glass, usually from eldest to youngest, though a foreign guest may trump even an old man. So the whiskey starts flowing, followed by beer, bits of cuttlefish, and more whiskey. My hosts then gesture to me, to one our hostesses, and to the karaoke machine that sits at the head of the dance floor.

  "You go. You go."

  A karaoke book is thrust into my lap. The selection is dizzying, with thousands of songs in Korean, English, and Japanese. I settle on the Eagles' "Desperado," and am led to the machine.

  As I belt out the ballad, one of our hostesses dances to the slow beat of the song. She is a good six feet tall in heels and wears a form-fitting red dress. She performs a serpentine writhe as I give it my all. Applause. Ovations. More whiskey. Margaret Cho gives me the eye–with a certain unmistakable glint.

  Our hostesses sit across from us and make conversation, flirt, and put ice cubes in our glasses. They imbibe as well. Their English is good. We are then joined by a third hostess, a stunning beauty wearing all white. I get up and dance with her and make small talk; she tells me that she is a real woman. I want to believe her and do. The others, despite their beauty, are still quite tall and a bit too angular to be the genuine thing. I look for a prominent Adam’s apple, a giveaway for a man. I see none. I ask my hosts.

  "Yes, she girl.”

  "My sister," says Mr. Young.

  I step back up to the karaoke machine and Mr. Park joins me for a song. I choose the Sex Pistols’ "Anarchy in the UK.”

  "I am the Antichrist… I am an anarchist!”

  Mr. Park yells it out with me in full punk-rock glory. He is a bit pudgy, with glasses and a now-loosened tie: an Asian businessman straight out of Central Casting. Sweat beads up on his forehead as he hits each note with a quivering vibrato. It’s a Tuesday night. Where am I?

  We stagger away from the "gae-bah" toward a Japanese-style restaurant/ drinking establishment. Koreans never just drink. They always eat while drinking and drink while eating. The food is brought out quickly–some hot soup and a pan full of tiny octopuses in red pepper sauce known as nakji bokum, searing in its spiciness. Bottles of soju appear and our shot glasses are continually filled. I follow none of the conversation and laugh when they laugh, which is often. My tongue is burning. We are all getting very drunk. Mr. Park suddenly becomes worried about me. Perhaps he’s never drunk with a foreigner before and doubts my tolerance.

  "You okay? You okay?"

  “Sure, I’m fine!”

  “Too much drink, no?”

  I am fine, my head turning to jelly and the packed wooden restaurant now taking on a glimmering, crystalline look. I keep drinking with fervor, my face now steaming red from the booze and spice.

  Margaret Cho looks at me longingly. Mr. Park gets up and goes to the restroom. Mr. Young knowingly nudges me.

  "You like? You like?"

  He openly points to Margaret Cho. She feigns embarrassment, shooting me looks in between.

  "She like you. You go… You go her home?"

  Mr. Park returns to the table. He senses something afoot.

  He looks to Margaret and then locks eyes with me.

  "She my girlfriend. She… she… my girlfriend."

  He knows the score and defines the terms. He then pays the bill.

  We stagger outside. Margaret Cho takes my arm. I slither out of her hold.

  "She my girlfriend. She my girlfriend.” Mr. Park forces himself between us, much to my relief. There are times when I welcome the cock block.

  She looks at me. Mr. Park grabs her upper arm and barks at her in Korean.

  I then make my escape, running into the dark and taking in the sea air.

  Sweating It Out

  I awoke the next morning to a shrieking alarm clock. As I opened my eyes, the morning light poured through the window and stabbed at my receptors, blurring the images in the room that were attempting to spin into focus. My mouth felt as if every molecule of moisture had been seared away with a hair-dryer; my insides were swollen and aching dully; my head hissed and my throat felt like it was filled with biting ants. This was the beginning of a soju hangover, which must be among the most brutal in the world.

  I slithered into work and staggered through two hours of kindergarten classes, barely able to focus. I could feel the alcohol steaming through my pores, burning the skin on the way out. I gulped down countless cups of water and sipped green tea, in vain attempts to alleviate my misery. At one point in the class, shortly after singing “The Rabbit Song,” I slumped into a chair and just gave up, letting the kiddies run around and play. The mild physical exertion put forth in “The Rabbit Song” (it involves various hand gestures and jumping about) left the inside of my head cracking
, and I successfully waited out the last part of the class without getting caught. I was lucky enough to work at one of the few hagwons that had yet to place surveillance cameras in every classroom.

  I knew that I reeked of booze and so did the kids (after all, most of their fathers were Korean businessmen), who commented on it freely: “Oh, teacher, sul nemsae!” (Alcohol smell!) Jimmy picked up on it soon enough, as well. On a break between classes, he walked up, grinning, and holding the paper cup of machine super-sweet instant coffee that he was always sipping from, said:

  “Oh… Chris Teacher. Last night you were many drinking?”

  I smiled and shrugged. There was no denying it. Busted.

  Jimmy chuckled to himself and patted me on the shoulder. “You must be careful not to miss the class at the Bayridge Language School.”

  “Of course, Jimmy.”

  “After work you must go to sah-oo-na.”

  “Where?”

  “Sah-oo-na.”

  “Sah… What?”

  “SAH-OO-NA. The public bathroom.”

  “Oh, you mean the sauna.”

  “Yes. Go to sah-oo-na. There is across the street. There!” He pointed out the window to a large building with a red logo that seemed to be a symbol for hot water. “You go tonight. First sah-oo-na, and then jjim-jil bang.”

  “What’s the jjim-jil bang?”

  “It is kind of resting room. You must go. Very refreshing!”

  The idea of going to a Korean public bath intrigued me, though I have to say I viewed the prospect with some trepidation. While a hot soak and steam sounded ideal, I was still not thrilled about going and hanging out in a room with a bunch of other naked men. I’ve never been too keen to get naked with strangers. Perhaps this comes from my childhood, when my grandfather used to take me to the swimming pool at the local Elks Club, where he was a member. Attached to the swimming pool, were a locker room and a sauna. The locker room was always full of old naked guys just hanging out. These old boys would just stand around and talk to each other–business, family life, whatever–while their bits and pieces dangled for everyone to see. These were wrinkly, saggy old men, with swollen grey nut sacks that hung down to mid-thigh, like a couple of oranges wrapped in a baby elephant’s ear. I saw up close and personal the effect of forty years of steak and martini lunches on a man’s body.