The Worst Motorcycle in Laos

by Chris Tharp

  These extreme acts are rare, but show just how potently Dokdo looms in the Korean psyche. For nearly ten years I have seen and heard it firsthand: “Dokdo is our land!” is the refrain, repeated ad nauseam by politicians, celebrities, housewives, businessmen, taxi drivers, restaurant owners, grandparents, and students of all ages. It is everywhere: a constant, inescapable bombardment of a single message, a patriotic tape loop on infinite repeat, much like the rote sermon delivered by the lone old man at the ferry terminal. For a while Dokdo swag was all the rage: there were T-shirts, towels, key chains, coffee cups, hats, ashtrays—even socks—all advancing the singular point of view. Companies used Dokdo to market their products. Images of the islets even appeared on the side of milk cartons: Have you seen us? Pro-Dokdo groups have even taken their cause to America, purchasing full-page ads in the New York Times to make their case.

  At first I sympathized, which gave way to head shakes and eye rolls, which in turn resulted in a total desensitization. In the end, my feelings on the matter were and are irrelevant. Dokdo matters to Koreans. It drives many of them to the point of obsession. The whole nation is bound by a deep reverence for these otherwise obscure islets, so is it any surprise that, after nearly a decade in the country, I was compelled to see them myself, firsthand?

  *

  The Dolphin was a smaller craft than the Sunflower, and we felt every wave. The rollers hit us from the side as we rumbled east from Ulleungdo toward the islets. The boat pitched, rose, and fell, and I knew at once that I was in for it. The tentacles of seasickness gripped me right away and I went green.

  Things were not helped by my condition that morning. Drinking a bottle and a half of sweet pumpkin rice wine the night before had been a moronic move. My head hissed and my stomach gurgled before I even stepped foot on the boat. Equally idiotic was my choice of breakfast. The terminal for the Dokdo boats was located twenty minutes away from the main town. There were no restaurants in or around the complex. The only dining option was a convenience store selling ramen and some other processed, instant foods. I settled on a packet of goopy yellow curry over rice, which was now doing its best to find a way out of the agitated pool of bile sloshing around my stomach. I took a deep breath, let out a small, gassy belch, and resigned myself to my fate.

  As with the Sunflower, most of the passengers on the Dolphin were middle-aged or older. There was a definite geriatric vibe. Two exceptions were the girls sitting next to me, Sung-hee and her little sister Su-kyeong. Sung-hee was in her early twenties. She wore jean shorts and a T-shirt and held two banners to her chest, to be unfurled once we reached the islets. Her sister was about sixteen. An expensive-looking Canon hung around her thin neck. They both were originally from the south coast city of Masan, but had called the US home for much of their lives. Sung-hee’s flawless English reflected this.

  “We live in Indiana,” she said.

  “Indiana?” They have Koreans in Indiana? “What’s a good Hoosier girl doing on a boat to Dokdo?”

  “My sister and I are travelling around Asia right now. It seemed like a good time to come.”

  “As a Korean, do you feel specially connected to Dokdo?”

  “Of course. Japan needs to recognize that this is Korean territory. They should have when they returned the islands at the end of the war. I think they’ve been very unfair about things.”

  Sung-hee was no fire-breathing nationalist. She admitted that this was more of a sightseeing trip than anything else, but she was still very clear where she stood.

  “It’s not just Dokdo,” she continued. “I correct my friends when they refer to the East Sea as the ‘Sea of Japan.’ And guess what? Once I explain it, they agree with me. It’s just a matter of educating people about the past.”

  Sung-hee and Su-kyeong quickly nodded off—rocked to sleep by my own tormentor, the rolling sea. There is something uniquely miserable about seasickness. Seasickness is an awful, demoralizing condition that strikes you at your core. Your equilibrium is thrown out of whack and the whole universe turns rank. Once it sets in you know there is no way out, save violent retching, which only brings temporary relief. It’s a stopgap measure: if you stay on the boat, you’ll find yourself once again possessed until you end up with the dry heaves. I’ve wrestled with seasickness many times in my life, and I envied those two girls next to me who snoozed away so peacefully, unaffected.

  A crew member walked down the aisles, distributing plastic grey barf bags to any stricken passengers. His manner was soothing and solemn, like an employee of a funeral home. When he got to me he stopped. I attempted to put on a brave face, but my lack of color betrayed me.

  “Are you okay?” He gave a slight, sympathetic smile.

  “Fine,” I said. “A-Okay.” I popped one thumb into the air, dying inside. I may be seasick, but I’m not going to chuck into a bag. He nodded and continued on his way.

  I held out as long as I could, but finally gave in, squeezing by my two conked out companions and hurrying to the back of the cabin, where I located the head and immediately ejected the Technicolor curry and rice into the awaiting toilet. This afforded me some temporary relief, and after splashing off my face I emerged, reborn. As I steadied myself and tried to walk back to my seat, I took some solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone. Many other passengers also found themselves in the deep throes of nausea. Some held their heads in their hands and sighed, while others forwent their chairs, electing instead to curl up on the carpeted floor, groaning with each deep buck and sway of the boat. These were mainly elderly folks, whose advanced age seemed to make them more susceptible to the unbalancing ravages of the sea.

  I sunk back in my chair and attempted to read, but this just hastened the return of my sour gut. Instead I looked out my window at the expanse of rolling blue water. The sky was cloudy but bright; it looked like the sun might make an appearance any time now. The seas were a bit high, but the weather was otherwise decent. There were no foreboding black clouds, no visible squalls. Even so, we were lucky to launch that morning. Often the Dokdo trip is canceled due to weather. Conditions have to be just right to allow the ships to head out. I arrived in Ulleungdo fully aware that the trip might not even happen. It was the rainy season and conditions were known to change by the hour.

  After two hours of rocking and rolling on the East Sea, the captain announced that we were due to arrive at our destination in fifteen minutes. This injected a bit of life into the otherwise zombified collection of passengers, who began to stir and collect their things. A palpable hum rose in the air. The omnipresent TVs—which had been playing a tear-jerking documentary about a family of a girl with a brain tumor—were finally shut off, and patriotic music was piped in instead. People slipped their shoes back on and grabbed their backpacks. We were almost there.

  I waited, counting the minutes. My nausea had returned in a big way, and I had serious doubts as to whether I could make it without another trip to the head. I squeezed the end of the armrest and breathed deeply, feeling my stomach rise up into my throat with each dip of the boat. Ugh. I may have to use a barf bag. Suddenly I heard a commotion from the port side of the boat. People shot from their seats and looked to the windows, murmuring and pointing. I saw a shadow on the water and then caught a glimpse of a dark, rocky mass. Dokdo! We had arrived.

  The crew killed the boat’s engine and we just sat there, bobbing up and down among the high waves. The boat pitched steeply from one side to the other, causing some passengers to stumble and grab hold of seats, pillars, or one another.

  A voice crackled over the PA system. I didn’t catch all the words, but the announcement was met with an audible moan from the passengers, who looked at each other with deflated faces.

  “Bad news,” said Sung-hee. “We can’t land. The waves are too big today.”

  This certainly wasn’t good news. Actually stepping foot on Dokdo was one of the main selling points of the trip. Most of the travelers were decked out in full hiking gear, in hopes of scrambling arou
nd the rocks in the thirty-minute time period we were to be allowed ashore. Two men—resplendent in a small fortune’s worth of spandex and helmets—had even brought their mountain bikes along, much to the annoyance of several of the crew members, who had muttered under their breath when the men wheeled them aboard. They’d have to bike Dokdo another day. We were sea bound.

  Despite the sketchy conditions, the crew popped open the door to the outer deck and invited us out for a photo op. I rose from my seat and joined the steady stream of my fellow passengers who excitedly pressed toward the bow of the boat and scurried up the stairs, into the morning light.

  As soon as I emerged from the cabin, I felt a surge of relief in the fresh, salty air. I felt refreshed and invigorated, despite the fact that the boat was at the mercy of the swells, which rolled and tossed it like a cheap toy. The crew members warned us to hold on to anything we could. People tumbled and fell. One grandmother slid by me and latched onto my leg. Another slammed into my shoulder. Both were unfazed, however; they were concerned with matters more pressing. Their glowing eyes were fixed upon the massive rocks emerging from the surf in front of us.

  Dongdo and Seodo, the two main islets, rose starkly from the boiling sea. Both were walls of black and grey, with a dusting of green up top. They were larger than I had imagined: no mere rocks, but staggering volcanic formations. I had never seen anything quite like them. They seemed wholly unique in makeup and above all, placement, sitting in the middle of an otherwise vacant stretch of ocean like ancient petrified sentries—truly impressive pieces of geology, surrounded by scores of lesser rocks. This was an enchanting, natural wonder, and I stumbled and swayed atop the shifting deck, truly awed by the surroundings.

  I grabbed ahold of the boat’s anchor chain and attempted to snap photos—a tricky task on a slick surface in constant motion. The wind whipped over my face and I took in deep lungfuls of delicious, satisfying air. The sky was alive with a moving mosaic of seabirds. They called to us as they shifted and swooped on the ocean air currents. As I looked to the islets, I saw thousands of them, a white flurry of gulls soaring and circling around the rugged stone rises they called home. Dokdo, it appeared, was a true haven for birds.

  The scene on the ferry’s deck erupted into an orgy of photography. I staggered over to Sung-hee and Su-kyeong, who had unfurled their banners and smiled brightly with the rocks in the background. One banner read: I LOVE DOKDO! The other proclaimed: WE SHALL ALWAYS STAND GUARD OVER DODKO! Su-kyeong handed me her camera, and I clicked away. Another group—a trio of young men— brought along the Taegukgi, the South Korean flag. They held it up, grinning widely. I took their photo as well, and they posed with me in turn. Suddenly I was surrounded by beaming Koreans. Many asked to take photos with me, which I gladly obliged. People greeted me in English and Korean, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand, flashing thumbs-up, and pointing to those splendid islets that we had all endured two ocean voyages to see. We had braved the sea together, at a time when no one in the country wanted to step on a boat, and the result was a fleeting taste of wonder. For just a moment I felt like I was one of them, like I just might belong. My chest heaved, my eyes glassed up, and I felt a bizarre, yet welcome sense of pride.

  “What do you think?” asked Sung-hee, as seagulls flapped and squawked just feet from our heads. A patch of clouds dissolved and shafts of sunlight blasted through, splashing across the surface of the water.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s just beautiful.”

  *

  The next morning, after a breakfast of fruit and instant coffee, I headed up to the Dokdo Museum, a gleaming, modern building tucked into the mountainside just above Dodong. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Could a whole museum be dedicated to Dokdo? Would it be informative or just dressed-up propaganda? Except for the barfing, visiting Dokdo had been a lovely experience, and the boat trip had been remarkably indoctrination-free. I had been expecting speeches, videos, brochures—but aside from a couple of patriotic songs, there had been none of that. Perhaps they knew their audience; after all, no one really needed convincing. I doubt any Japanese tourists take the trip, and it’s not like the issue of Dokdo is controversial in Korea. There is no debate, no point/counterpoint. Only one opinion is ever expressed, and it’s accepted as fact by every Korean I’ve met. Would the museum be any different?

  The museum was more subdued and less righteous in tone than I would have originally expected, but the whole purpose of the endeavor is to advance Korea’s claim. Admission was free, so as not to scare away any foreigners who may be on the fence, I supposed. I walked out of the already-sweltering late morning into a high-ceilinged foyer, complete with skylights on the top. On the wall hung a mural made up of hundreds of tiles hand-drawn by elementary kids, celebrating everything Dokdo. Most consisted of crayon-scrawled depictions of the islets, along with the Taegukgi and some common slogans. However, a few gems stood out:

  One tile showed a Korean soldier comically kicking a Japanese soldier in the butt as he ran back onto his boat.

  Another showed a mother in a hanbok (traditional Korean dress), cradling a baby Dokdo in her arms.

  One tile featured a beautifully drawn lotus flower with Dokdo in the center.

  Perhaps the best-drawn tile showed a pair of two vigilant eyes watching over Dokdo, with the Taegukgi as the pupils.

  My personal favorite was a nice drawing of the islets, along with the following words, in English: “Dokdo is ours. Duh.” I took it that the artist had spent some time in the States.

  The rest of the museum made Korea’s case for Dokdo through careful, sober documentation. It was all very scholarly; emotional pleas were generally excluded. There were maps, books, and letters spanning hundreds of years, each of which appeared to solidify the claim. Many of them were Japanese, which only lent credence to the cause.

  No Korean museum is complete without a lifelike diorama, however, and the Dokdo Museum didn’t disappoint. Supposedly based on a historical incident, the diorama depicted a group of irate Koreans in white hanboks chasing Japanese fishermen off one of the islets. The Koreans were confident and fierce, while the Japanese appeared disorganized and panic-stricken. Several had fallen to the ground and were literally scrambling to their landing boat, just seconds away from being thrashed by the stick-wielding guardians.

  After the museum I rode the cable car up to the top of the mountain that overlooks Dodong. I was accompanied by a group of about fifteen bellowing college students from Seoul. I was sweaty and grumpy and not really in the mood to chitchat, but when traveling you often don’t get to choose the when’s and where’s. I immediately became the object of curiosity for this boisterous group, peppered with the inevitable: “Hello!” “Hi!” “Where are you from?” “Oh, sunglasses good!” “What’s your name?” “Do you like Korea?” “Did you eat lunch?” “Handsome guy!” (A long time ago I learned not to take too much stock in the latter. Any Western man in Korea gets called “handsome” at some point, regardless of his appearance.)

  On top of the mountain is an observation platform where you can view Dokdo on a clear day. This was not a clear day. The sun slashed its way through the clouds, but the omnipresent grey haze of the rainy season buried the horizon, dashing any hopes to actually see the islets. This place is important to Koreans, as it cements their assertion that Dokdo can only be seen from Korean territory, making it all the more theirs. I took them at their word, and sat down at one of the tables for a lunch of iced noodles in tofu broth, a summer specialty.

  Having had my fill of all things Dokdo, I made my way back and jumped on a minibus heading away from the town. The bus crawled along the narrow road blasted into the jagged shoreline and then crisscrossed its way over the main ridge of the island, before weaving down to the other side. Ulleungdo’s north side is more rugged and less developed, with several rock formations rising from the sea and mountain peaks towering above the few villages dotting the shore. It has a rough, wild beauty, complemented by the
wide, emerald green sea.

  Eventually I jumped off the bus at the village of Tae-ha. I was sticky and in need of a swim, so I ambled down the hamlet’s empty streets toward the little harbor. The place seemed abandoned, except for one older, bald man, standing in a nearby doorway.

  “You look great!” he said, in perfect English.

  “Thanks!” I replied, waving as I passed. Wow. Nice guy. Korean islands can do wonders for a man’s vanity.