by Chris Tharp
“Very important! Do you understand?”
All heads turned my way. Maritime safety was paramount in the wake of the Sewol catastrophe. This guy was performing his duty with due diligence and wasn’t about to let an American tourist slip through the cracks.
“Yes, yes,” I stammered, half full of shit. “I completely understand!”
He wasn’t buying it, but had more important things to worry about than some foreigner’s Korean listening skills. He eyed me warily before resuming his safety lecture. When he finished, our section responded with a round of rather enthusiastic applause. The man bowed, shot me a hard look, and then moved on to the next section.
After a while I got up to explore the ship. One thing was certain: the Sunflower was a seasoned vessel that could have benefited from a deep steam-cleaning and scrub-down. The walls were scratched and the carpets were stained and filthy, but that didn’t stop many folks from rolling out pads and mats and making themselves at home right there on the floor. Geriatric passengers seized the opportunity to sleep; everywhere I looked, there were little grandmas and grandpas sprawled out and snoring, like hibernating gnomes. A group of college kids (some of the rare young people on the boat) spread out a mat of their own and played card games. Elsewhere, packs of red-faced older men sat snacking on sliced pigs’ feet and pouring each other shots of soju, while their female counterparts sat in separate groups, yammering and sipping sweet instant coffee from paper cups. As I navigated my way through these spontaneous floor parties, it was obvious that I was the only Westerner on the boat. It was also obvious that people were enjoying themselves. Their vacation had begun the moment we pulled away from the pier.
I ambled back to my seat, popped in my ear buds, activated the “Sounds of Nature” app on my phone, and did my very best to enjoy the ride.
*
“Minbak?”
The grandmother grabbed me by the right arm, stopping me in the midst of the river of passengers slithering off the ship. She held a sign advertising her minbak, or homestay.
“Minbak?” she asked again.
I quickly sized her up. She wore baggy floral pajama pants and a purple shirt. Her hair was done up in a high, slightly loose perm. Her eyes were quick and smart and she wasn’t shy around foreigners, which might have meant for some hard bargaining ahead.
“Minbak.” She pulled on my arm. “Come. It’s good.”
“How much is it?” I asked, mustering my best Korean.
She dodged the question with a half-wave of her tiny hand.
“It’s nice. Very clean. Come with me.”
Having made no better arrangements, I followed the grandmother off the quay and over the gleaming metal suspension bridge that lead new arrivals into the tiny town. Seagulls swooped and squawked in the air, which tasted of kelp. A large sign hung above, proclaiming, “Welcome to Ulleungdo” in bright, playful letters. I turned and looked at the narrow harbor to my left, penned in on the far side by sheer, volcanic rock. A metal walkway was bolted into the ancient black lava, providing a kind of catwalk around the pitching water. This rock shot straight up into the grey skies, quickly turning into the face of a mountain, blanketed with pine trees up top. The water had a blue-green tint but was otherwise clear, and I could easily make out the sea floor. A few colorful painted squid boats were roped to the bulkhead at the water’s edge, their racks of round glass lights looking fragile as they jerked and bobbed in the weak waves. Several blood red tents were erected in front of the boats, under which were tubs filled with gurgling ocean water and captive sea life. Two hardy women manned the tents, where they sliced up the unfortunate creatures for paying customers who sat at a couple of white plastic tables just beyond the tent’s edge. Next to them were a few vendors selling instant coffee, roasted chestnuts, and grilled cuttlefish, along with hotcakes filled with melted brown sugar. Further up were racks of drying squid, which hung and fluttered in the breeze like pale, tentacled pieces of laundry
Dodong occupies a narrow valley, a mere stretch of dirt between two mountains. Everything is squeezed together and compressed, reminiscent of the compact villages found throughout Europe. The town was buzzing as we snaked our way up the main street toward the old woman’s house, and I began to sweat in the dank press of the afternoon. The passengers poured off the ship and bubbled up the side streets and alleys or crammed into minibuses and taxis that would transport them to accommodations on other parts of the island. The streets were choked with these vehicles, which lurched and honked and squeezed by each other with just inches to spare. Every thirty seconds the grandmother—who was surprisingly quick for her age—would turn around to make sure she hadn’t lost me. I imagine there had been incidents before when other potential clients had pulled a runner. She wasn’t going to let that happen this time.
Eventually we came to a side road which climbed up toward the mountainside. “There,” she said, pointing to a small wooden house about halfway up. “Minbak.”
The grandmother was right. The room was clean and quiet, and the air was good. I had my own bathroom, with a toilet, sink, and hot water shower. Like any minbak, there was no proper bed, just a couple of thin pads and blankets that I could fold out on the floor. This was exactly what I was after, and the price was right, so I happily paid and settled in. She lived in the house with her husband, a thin, stooping man who often sat on the platform outside in front and smoked. They were both from South Chungcheong province in the middle of the country, but had moved to Ulleungdo some decades before.
“I live in Busan,” I told her.
She shook her head. “South Kyungsang province people are so loud! They come off the ship and it’s ‘blah blah blah blah blah blah.’ I couldn’t live with them. They drive me nuts.”
Ulleungdo is an impossibly rocky place. It was formed by a rather diligent volcano over the ages, with the last violent eruption occurring 9,350 years ago. The explosion was so big that it deposited volcanic stones as far away as central Honshu, Japan, some 800 kilometers away. It also blew off the top of the mountain, forming a caldera that exists today.
As a result of this tumultuous volcanic past, Ulleungdo has very few natural beaches. Most of the shoreline consists of sea meeting rock, so the government has created a couple of sea walkways in parts of the island by blasting the rock and constructing bridges, stairways, and metal platforms where necessary. This is the only way that the public can witness the island’s rugged beauty from the shore. One such walkway begins in Dodong, so after a lunch of sanchae bibimbap (mixed rice with wild vegetables) I made my way there.
As I left the edge of the town, I passed a group of anglers. They leaned their long poles over the railing and saturated the water with ladles full of reeking chum. I stood among them for a few minutes, watching as they brought in a few small, spiny fish. They unhooked these fish and threw them into holding pots, which were then lowered back into the water. These fish would be eaten later, raw.
I was alone as I entered the Ulleungdo GeoPark, a 1.7-kilometer shore path that features the different kinds of volcanic rock formations found on the island. Over the millennia, the ocean’s relentless assault has stripped away layers of rock, revealing clear evidence of past eruptions and pyroclastic flows. Much of the solidified lava was black, though there were parts where deep red veins were blasted bare by the wind and water. The patterns and textures on the rocks came in beautiful and psychedelic waves and ripples, amazingly symmetrical in their composition.
The East Sea stared back at me on my right as I made my way down the jagged coast. It heaved and roiled on the horizon, smothered in a constant grey mist. Water pummeled the gnarled, rocky shore—hissing, grumbling, and belching foam and spray up onto the path at times. Seabirds silently hung on drafts of air, looking down with empty, black eyes. The place was quiet and forlorn, save for the growl of the wind and sea.
The shore path ended abruptly at a small beach. Spires of stacked round stones known as dol teop rose up from the jumble of roc
ks. A crumbling pier disappeared into the surf. At one point there must have been a settlement there. The wind chewed ruins of an old building stood nearby. It looked as if it had once been hit by a bomb; only portions of three walls remained. A dirt trail climbed up to my left, past a raw-seafood tent blasting Korean pop from the 1960s. Bulbous orange sea squirts sat in a big glass tank; a lone, middle-aged woman staffed the otherwise empty establishment. She wore a rubber apron and rubber gloves, and sat looking bored in a blue plastic chair. I waved as I ambled by. She answered my greeting with a dead stare.
The trail rose up over the spine of a small peninsula that jutted out like a digit from the hand of the island. A wooden sign appeared, pointing me toward a lighthouse on the apex of the rise. The trail climbed more steeply than before and I took it easy, watching my footing the whole way. The dirt path advanced through two small clearings populated by a family of goats, who bleated and kicked while they chomped on the shrubbery. I stopped to savor the moment. The sight of free-range animals is a rare treat in Korea, where most are shut away out of sight in dark barns or industrial agri-pavilions.
The lighthouse stood atop the mountain, with its beacon rising above the low pines to warn any nearby ships of this deadly strip of land. Cliffs tumbled down to the sea on three sides. A wooden observation platform was constructed in front, accessed by a short foot path. I sat down, guzzled some water, and took in the scene in front of me. The sun had now managed to burn its way through the barrier of clouds, shining off of the dappled surface of the sea, hundreds of meters below. In the near distance the flat-topped island of Jukdo sat solid and squat, like a southwestern mesa surrounded by ocean. Music pulsated from a tour boat, warbling bass and treble mixing with the electrical hum of cicadas in the trees around me. Dragonflies zipped and flitted through the air as I rubbed my leg and wiped the sweat from my forehead. The seashore walkway continued on below. A long spiral staircase corkscrewed down to an inlet with crystalline water—a perfect place for a swim. Beyond that, several metal footbridges and spans lead to the port of Jeodong, whose white pylon jetty encircled the harbor like crooked teeth. A crane was in the process of shoring up the jetty’s defenses, lifting the pylons from the barge it sat on and depositing them on the ever-thickening barrier. I could clearly hear the engine grind and struggle as it hefted the obscenely heavy concrete Xs over the mouth of the harbor. It reminded me that Koreans are always hard at work, even in such idyllic surroundings.
That night I sat in one of Dodong’s little restaurants, just off the main street of the town. I tucked into one of the island’s famous dishes, honghap bap (mussels in rice), washing it down with a fat bowl of pumpkin rice wine, another local specialty. The rice wine was sweet, milky, and thick, and went down too easily. It complemented the bowl of honghap bap, as well as the four side dishes arrayed in front of me, and I quickly found myself feeling hot in the face and more than a little drunk.
A family sat at the table next to me: a man, his wife, and their son. They ate from a platter of raw fish and a pot of maeun tang, the spicy fish head soup that is always served with Korean-style sashimi.
“You eat Korean food very well,” said the man, pouring himself a shot of soju. His wife and son abstained. “Can you eat raw fish?”
“Of course. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Ha!” He turned to his wife. “I didn’t think foreigners liked raw fish.” He grabbed a slice of fish with his chopsticks and fired it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.
“My parents didn’t eat it,” I said, searching for more words, “but these days it’s different. Many young people like it.”
The restaurant’s husband and wife owners sat at an empty table nearby. “This is true,” the husband said. “Many of my foreign customers order raw fish.”
The man swallowed, raised his eyebrows, finished off his soju, and refilled his glass again. His wife looked my way and smiled, while his son paid me no mind, lost instead in the universe of his smartphone.
“Is your son a student?” I asked.
“A student?” the man slurred, reaching for another slice of fish.
“No!” his mother said, laughing. “He’s a doctor!”
“Oh,” I replied. “He looks so young. Congratulations.”
His parents beamed with obvious pride, while the son appeared to want nothing to do with the goings-on. In fact he was so detached that he was wearing sunglasses, indoors, at night. I sensed that his mom and dad came from a rougher class, that they had worked hard to put him through school, and that now he was ashamed of the old man’s uncouth ways. They had probably forced him to come along for the trip.
I turned to the owners. “Have you been busy lately?”
“No,” said the husband. “Not so many visitors.”
“Because of the Sewol?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” said the wife. “Because of the Sewol. People are afraid to get on the boat.”
The family got up from the table and made their way toward the door. The man was last. He drained his glass and grabbed the check, looking at me with a flushed face and shining eyes.
“What are your plans tomorrow?”
“Dokdo!” I said. “I’m going to Dokdo.”
“Ha! Very good. We went to Dokdo, today!” He smiled warmly and gripped my hand. “It will be good for you to see Dokdo. You can understand our feelings… you can understand our minds.”
I finished the night down at the little harbor, with a new bottle of pumpkin rice wine in hand. I sat on one of the benches and sipped the sweet brew from a cup, feeling the breeze cool my forehead as the waves lapped the bulkhead. Groups of old Koreans sat around me talking, smoking, eating squid, and drinking soju, but mostly just relaxing. They ignored me, which was great. By now I had reached the limits of my Korean ability, and was content to not speak. Joyfully at home in the pleasant soup of my own head, I just closed my eyes and sighed.
It was only nine o’clock at night, but I was tired, and I had to be up early the next day to make the boat. I stood up from the bench, swayed, and strolled back toward my minbak, but after just a few seconds, something stopped me in my tracks, something I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. There, in front of me, was a huge lit-up mural that served as a backdrop for the whole harbor. Submerged in the blue sea was a map of Korea—North and South. On the very top, connected to the mass of the peninsula, was the outline of Dokdo, rising up from the surface like the tip of an iceberg. Underneath, in white letters, read the following:
The Loss of Dokdo. The Loss of Korea.
*
The Koreans call it Dokdo, meaning “solitary islands.” The Japanese call it Takeshima, which means “bamboo islands.” Up until recently, the tiny percentage of the world that had even heard of the place knew it as the Liancourt Rocks, named for a French whaling ship that nearly wrecked upon its shore in 1849. Both Korea and Japan claim the islands, with each country citing documents, maps, and other evidence going back hundreds of years. It’s a twisted, Byzantine chain of claims and counter-claims, but South Korea has administered the islands since 1954, when they sent a small naval contingent to occupy the rocks, much to the chagrin of the Japanese. Today the islands host a small and mostly semi-permanent population: a contingent of thirty-seven police that act as guards, a few Ministry of Maritime Affairs and Fisheries personnel, three lighthouse keepers, as well as a fisherman and his wife (the only permanent residents). So it would appear that Korea has the upper hand, for the time being at least.
Dokdo is made up of two main islets (Seodo and Deongdo) along with some thirty smaller ones, all composed of volcanic rock formed in the Cenozoic period. The islets lie 215 kilometers from mainland Korea and 250 kilometers from mainland Japan. Japan’s Oki Islands are 157 kilometers away, but Ulleungo is the closet landmass, lying 87 kilometer from the islets, which are visible to the naked eye on a clear day. The area is home to a unique marine ecosystem, with a thriving population of seabirds. Sea lions used to call the rocks home, but we
re overhunted during the Japanese colonial period and are now thought to be extinct. However, the fishing grounds around Dokdo are known as some of the most fertile in the region, and there also may be large deposits of natural gas underneath the seabed throughout the surrounding area.
The centuries-old Dokdo dispute was left unresolved at the end of WWII and has continued to fester accordingly. Dokdo was not mentioned in the peace treaty Japan signed with the Allies, a fact that Japan continually points to in order to bolster its claim. However, a map issued by the US military in 1946 clearly shows Dokdo to be in Korean territory. This map, known as SCACPIN 677, established the “MacArthur Line,” which delineated the postwar territorial boundaries of Japan. This is perhaps the most compelling piece of evidence for Korea’s current claim on the islands, at least from an American point of view.
Whatever the case, Dokdo has been a thorn in the side of progress between the two nations since they established diplomatic relations in 1965. Neither side has conceded an inch, and each accusation and claim has only salted old wounds and rubbed raw the anger, especially for the Koreans. Japan has offered to take the matter to the International Court of Justice, which Korea has continually rebuked out of fear that granting the request will somehow legitimize the Japanese claim. The most recent flare-up in this ongoing brouhaha took place in 2005, when Japan’s Shimane prefecture celebrated “Takeshima Day.” This was met with widespread protest and rage in Korea. Just this year things got even worse, with Korea condemning a series of Japanese elementary school textbooks that describe the islands as “sovereign territory.” In response to these new textbooks, which also call the Korean occupation of Dokdo “illegal,” Seoul recalled its ambassador from Tokyo.
Dokdo is an extremely emotional issue for Koreans. As foreigners, we often scratch our heads and wonder how people can get so worked up over a couple of rocks in the sea. It’s easy to dismiss Korean attitudes as overcooked nationalism, but the issues run much deeper than simple real estate. Japan’s insistence on claiming Dokdo has to be viewed through the lens of their colonial legacy. Japan annexed the Korean peninsula in 1910. They stayed until the end of World War II and were an exceptionally nasty occupying force. Koreans became second-class citizens in their own country. They were forbidden from speaking their language and were forced to take Japanese names. The Japanese did their best to stamp out an entire culture, at the same time ravaging the country for its natural resources. The most grievous crime, however, was that of sexual slavery. During the war, Japan impressed tens of thousands of Korean women into sexual bondage, forcing them to serve Japanese troops as “comfort women.” This was rape on an industrial scale. Koreans have not forgotten this. They have a deep sense of anger and humiliation over the fact that they were occupied and brutalized, and many believe that Japan has yet to make sufficient amends. The wounds still bleed, and Japan’s obstinacy over Dokdo only serves to rub their nose in the shit. Combine this with a series of South Korean governments that are too willing to stoke the nationalistic brushfire of Dokdo for their own political ends, and people lose their minds. Protestors have gone to extreme and bizarre measures to drive their point home: they have cut off their own fingers, covered themselves in bees, stabbed themselves in the stomach, decapitated live pheasants, rammed embassy gates with vehicles, placed severed dog heads on the sidewalk, and even self-immolated.
