Meeting Mr Kim

by Jennifer Barclay

  After only a few years of peace and freedom, however, Korea would be plunged into war, and the Japanese economy would do well out of that, too.

  It wasn’t an unusual noodle dish that caused the first bout of stomach problems to strike, but a dodgy snack late one night from the famous Egg Sandwich Lady in Hooker Hill, where we roamed after a night of dancing at Hollywood. In the early hours, Gav couldn’t resist a fried egg sandwich, and it did him no good.

  For the first day, he simply felt unwell. But he made it to work to play the full four sets, dashing to the bathroom in between. By the third day, he lay in bed shivering and pale under several blankets and two army sleeping bags, although it was now early June and swelteringly hot. Every hour or so he would rush to study the bathroom fixtures – which had the brand label Nam Jon, giving rise to the quip that he was doing a tour of Nam – then stagger weakly back to bed. An increasingly frustrated Florence Nightingale in our little flat day after day, I couldn’t go out and leave him, and couldn’t do much to help except offer sympathy. I wished he’d either call a doctor or say he’d be fine and didn’t need me there. Eventually, he went to see a doctor recommended by the hotel, who X-rayed him, diagnosed something vague and gave him a large bill and a variety of medications. The fish oil just made him sick, but we hoped the other stuff would clear up whatever he had.

  Summer had begun, and it was sunny, but the city air in Seoul could be oppressively smog-laden, the humidity seeming to trap the traffic fumes. There was another smell: rubbish piled in bags at the roadside waiting for the truck to take them away. It could send out quite a reek as the days got warmer. In the evenings, electric fans whirred.

  Luckily, our apartment was on the steep lower slope of Namsan, or South Mountain; a few near-vertical steps from our doorstep was the main road that winds around the mountain, and beyond that an expanse of green park and trees. On the Friday evening, needing exercise and space after days sitting around doing nothing, I took a walk up the hill.

  The steep paths were rough but much frequented. Crooked pines had shed a carpet of needles on the ground. Rounding a bend, I came across a clearing and was surprised to see an outdoor gym. If everyone was young and in Spandex, you’d think it was New York perhaps, but no. A woman in her sixties massaged her limbs before going back to lifting a bench-press. Men were doing sit-ups and pull-ups; others were sitting around playing chess. Kids played hula-hoop, and a few old folks waited to fill plastic jugs with water from a spring. How bizarre. I stopped and looked down on the city far below. The grey sky was assuming a tinge of red, and the wide river, the Hangang, gleamed below; the flow and surge of traffic on the bridge now sounded distant. Instead, I was surrounded by magpies and crickets.

  I continued and found myself on a road lined with parked cars that wound up the mountain; it passed through pine forest overhung with leafy creepers, and I breathed deeply. There were walkers and joggers, and a family carrying butterfly nets, everyone taking advantage of the peace and quiet. Then I looked into one of the cars, and jumped! People were sleeping inside. Two grey-suited businessmen lay straight back, hands by their sides, sound asleep with their ties firmly in place. There were people sleeping in several of the parked cars, not homeless people but ordinary folk just having a sleep there in public, in their car. How strange.

  I carried on up the road to a park at the top. From there I could see to the other side of the city, the smoggy business core with its abundance of office towers. As the sun set, grey department stores started lighting up, transforming into brilliant neon palaces. Among the clutter of buildings, the Chongno Tower stood out: an office high-rise with a big square cut out in the middle. From up here I could also see the craggy mountains that ringed the city.

  I wandered by the remnants of Seoul’s old fortress walls, originally built around the city in 1395 after Seoul became the capital. They were reinforced in 1422 by King Sejong, the progressive monarch who introduced the phonetic alphabet, and then again a few centuries later. Here was an old beacon signal station that would have used smoke by day or torches by night to signal danger, connected to a countrywide network. There were five stone beacon stands; one would be lit to show ‘situation normal’, two for ‘enemy across border’, three for ‘enemy approaching’, four for ‘border violated’ and five for ‘battle’. But most of the city walls were demolished by the Japanese occupying forces in the early part of the twentieth century in the name of modern city planning, during Korea’s liberation in 1945 and during the Korean War.

  It wasn’t entirely natural or peaceful up on top of Namsan – many people had driven up the hill to visit the museum or theatre or the cafe and to get up close to the Seoul Tower, a modern, utilitarian observation tower that served as a city landmark. Families and couples wandered about decked out in dresses and golf shirts, availing themselves of the activities or the panoramic views. But I liked having this forest-covered mountain, with its thick woods and exercise areas, rising up right in the middle of the city; and clearly, so did everyone else.

  Hills have always made me feel happy, because I grew up surrounded by them, looking at rugged green hills from my bedroom window. I always feel more comfortable with hills on the horizon. How I’d happily lived in flat Toronto for years I don’t know – though I loved the tree-filled ravines that criss-crossed the city, and my favourite spot for a long time was the old quarry that had been turned into a wetland, with the sides of the Don Valley rising all around. When I’d taught English in Athens after finishing university, I liked to climb up the steep hill in my neighbourhood until I could see right over the jumbled mass of buildings, clouded in pollution, to the surrounding mountains and the harbour of Piraeus beyond, with the ships heading out to sea.

  I felt a surge of relief just being up here. Now that the initial excitement was over, Seoul seemed overwhelming – big and congested, the humidity tiring. I was leading a strange existence, between the surreal atmosphere of the Hyatt and a city neighbourhood just going about its business. I’d been before to places that weren’t used to tourists. But I’d forgotten what hard work they could be. Had I made the wrong decision by coming to a big, difficult city?

  I remembered when I went to Riga, the capital of Latvia, a few years earlier with my then-boyfriend who was translating computer programs. When I arrived, I couldn’t believe I was spending my three weeks of holiday in such a grim place. What had I done? Everywhere it was damp and freezing and dark, smelly and dirty and unfriendly. Warned it would be wet, I’d brought an umbrella, not realising they meant several feet of snow would be melting around my feet. The food was revolting – please, have some more eels in jelly – and I had no sympathy from my boyfriend, who’d grown up in a Latvian family. There were so many potholes in the street and cars dashing madly around corners, I hardly dared look up; but when I started to, I realised how beautiful the buildings were.

  Then one evening, we were invited to a seventieth birthday party. Vera and her husband lived in four tiny unheated rooms of an otherwise empty old collective building: their bed had been folded back into a couch, and a table folded out to seat ten people. The other guests were from a farm, and spoke Latvian, Russian and German, none of which were any good to me, so we communicated by raising a toast every few minutes, knocking back a sherry glass brim-full of vodka. We drank bottle after bottle of the stuff. Soon, I was dancing waltzes with farmers who spoke Russian to me, and looking out over one of the most beautiful views of an old European city I have ever seen. That evening changed everything, and I started to enjoy Latvia.

  If I could find the heart of Riga, I could find the soul of Seoul. It was a challenge, but I needn’t be so impatient: I was learning, slowly. It was just a question of meeting the people behind the faceless city, and finding its secrets. I breathed in deeply, and walked back down the mountain, ready to try harder.

  Gav recovered from his stomach sickness thanks to the medicine, so we spent an afternoon at another of Seoul’s old palaces, Changdokkung. Ther
e a sprightly pensioner wearing a checked shirt and khaki trousers, a sporty waistcoat with many pockets and a mobile phone on a cord around his neck offered to take our photograph. He introduced himself as ‘Mistah Lee’ and politely started asking us questions about our visit to Korea. Then he kindly guided us around the gardens, pointing out particular trees and buildings and birds. He mentioned in passing that he’d grown up during the Japanese occupation, and had had to learn Japanese in school, a very different language from Korean. From time to time, Mistah Lee asked, ‘Can you understand my English?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ we said. It was perfect, and we were delighted to have met this interesting man. ‘It’s excellent!’

  ‘Ah, thank you, thank you, you are very kind.’ He explained that he used to work for a bank, and had been sent to work in Washington for a while, which was where he’d learned English. It had also been an eye-opening experience.

  ‘Many, many fat Americans!’ he exclaimed, with a shocked expression. ‘They walk like this’ – he waddled, pigeon-toed, hands out front as if holding a big stomach. ‘I think it is a big problem in America?’

  ‘Well, ahem, yes,’ we replied. ‘There are quite a lot of large people in America... There’s a definite problem there, apparently.’ We were about to move on when Mr Lee spotted a Korean child of about ten, somewhat on the plump side, kneeling over the edge of a fishpond.

  ‘Oooh, fat boy!’ he said, pointing openly. ‘Very fat!’ We nodded sheepishly, hoping the poor boy wasn’t taking English at school. It was quite unusual to see fat people in Seoul. Some of the young women were extremely thin, but even older women tended to stay trim, as did the men.

  Mr Lee explained that he had stayed in shape since his retirement by climbing mountains, like many Koreans, and he was proud of it. Over six per cent of the country was national park, mostly mountains and coastal areas. He suggested we visit Pukansan, a national park that could be reached via underground train from Seoul. We’d read about it but weren’t sure exactly how to get there, and the underground train system was so complex – but now I knew it was time to make the effort. He drew a little map in my notebook, which showed we should take Line 3 of the subway to Kupabal Station, and a bus from there. Before saying goodbye, he also gave us his HP, his ‘hand-phone’ number, in case we needed any help during our stay in Korea.

  The highest point of Pukansan National Park was at 837 metres, over three times the height of Namsan, and some of the park’s trails could take days to complete and involve serious climbing, while others closer to the city could be done easily in a few hours. At Namdaemun Market we acquired a tent and a water bottle – army surplus and very cheap with a bit of haggling. We had to keep reminding ourselves they wouldn’t sell unless they were making something on it. At Yongsan Electronics Market, we’d asked the price of a set of stereo speakers and were told 50,000 won, so we thanked the vendor and walked away, at which point he instantly said, ‘OK, twenty thousand.’

  Getting up early on a Sunday was becoming difficult with Gav’s nocturnal schedule, which I was naturally adopting. The novelty of staying up late every night and losing the morning was wearing thin, especially as I didn’t have a band to play in. Around lunchtime on this particular Sunday we strolled down the road to the Hyatt to find a taxi. As Itaewon Station was still being built, our nearest subway station was Samgakchi, beyond the US army base. We got in the back of the cab, said ‘Annyung haseyo’, and, smiling sweetly, I announced: ‘Samgakchi, chuseyo!’

  The driver looked blank, clearly not understanding.

  ‘Samgakchi,’ I repeated, enunciating slowly and carefully. ‘Chuseyo,’ I added, ‘please.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Samgakchi, samgakchi.’ That was the name of the closest underground station, right?

  No movement. In fact, he was getting a bit pissed off.

  ‘Sam-gak-chi,’ I tried, very slowly. Gav said no, it’s better to say it quickly, and in forceful rapid fire repeated: ‘Samgakchi.’

  ‘Ah, Samgakchi!’ With this, he gave a withering look, which seemed to say, if you’d just told me you wanted to go to Samgakchi in the first place, I’d have taken you there right away. I sat back, determined not to be defeated. The language was proving a little more dificult than it had first appeared. Although I could slowly spell out words on a page, proper pronunciation was eluding me, and sentence construction was a long way off. I was determined to get by in Korean. I’d studied Ancient Greek and Old English, for heaven’s sake.

  We passed the imposing War Museum. A wide sweep of steps led towards the long building, which had a dome over the grand but futuristic entranceway, and the Korean flag flying proudly. At the front of the building, stands were being built for the coming commemoration ceremonies. The hopeful euphoria that was, according to the English-language Korea Herald, overtaking the Koreas with the coming of the 14 July peace summit, had clearly not reached Seoul’s taxi drivers.

  A standard undergound train fare of 950 won would take you anywhere in the city, including Kupabal. From there, we took a short bus ride to the village on the edge of Pukansan. The sun was shining through the haze. While I’d enjoyed the space that Namsan afforded, it felt so blissfully good to get right away from the city, from the draining experience the simplest conversation or transaction could turn into, as this morning had shown. Here it was just mountains and sunshine. Just inside the park were cool, sparkling rock pools. Families were picnicking on the smooth, flat rocks, and kids were jumping in the water below restaurants with shady terraces. Idyllic as it was, we pressed on until the day-tripping crowds thinned out, and took a path uphill. The city traffic still provided a faint hum in the background. A carpet of thick green trees rose gradually into jutting, rocky peaks. The trail struck steeply up the hillside. Hikers wearing multi-pocketed sporty waistcoats and colourful socks passed us on their way up or down and shouted cheery hellos, annyung haseyo!

  Suddenly, I turned a corner and saw a Buddhist statue the height of eight men standing in the midst of a tiny temple. The serene white figure looked out from the hillside over the gleaming, lush, green valley. The quiet was palpable. The tiny temple Dugamsa was little more than a lawn scattered with carved stones, a man-sized bronze bell in its own little pavilion, and the statue. We lingered awhile.

  From there, steep stone steps followed the wall of the ancient fortress, Pukansansong, first built in ad132, all the way up the side of the mountain to the peak of Wonhyobong. It was hot and tiring, and unfortunately we’d only brought one large bottle of water, which was depleting and fast warming up as we took gasping breaks in the hot afternoon. ‘Brought any teabags?’ quipped Gav. The other, army-issue water bottle we’d filled usefully with duty-free Irish whisky.

  The backpack dragged at my shoulders. But despite the agonies of the climb, when we reached the summit, the vistas were joyfully dramatic: glistening pine-green valleys spreading out between bare white rounded granite peaks. The mountains were not high, but their steep sides made them impressive. We sprawled out on the smooth slabs of rock, sweating and exhausted – but thrilled.

  As dusk began to fall, we knew we wouldn’t make it to the nearest designated shelter, so we discreetly set up our little tent between some trees a short distance off the path. It was less a two-man tent than a tent for two people who know each other very well. We had tinned tuna and bread and some sips of whisky, saving the rest of the water for the morning. Giggling, and not finding the sleeping mats very effective at masking the bumps in the ground, we fell asleep to the strange and soothing sound of drums and bells rising up the side of the mountain from the temple below. As the sun rose in the morning, a man began singing at the top of his voice from the nearby peak. This was what I had come here for – and I wanted more.

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE KIMCHI

  Back in Seoul, life was a far cry from the beauty of Pukansan.

  Some evenings I’d go along to see part of the show at the Hyatt, and between set
s Gav and I sat by the changing rooms to chat. I tended not to stay long, though. The music didn’t change much, and it’s awkward standing in a bar on your own when you can’t afford to buy a drink.

  Good Vibes weren’t getting along all that well. Shauna and Vinny had a bad start when they had an affair early on that turned sour, and Shauna threw a cup of hot chocolate at Vinny in the hushed and proper Hyatt dining room, behaving as if she were Whitney Houston, not just the hotel band’s requisite female. Perhaps she was very upset, but there was something about being adored by an audience, especially when they were rich businessmen and highranking army officers, that went to people’s heads and made them act differently. I thought it amusing, but Gav was angry because he felt, as a member of the same group, he’d be seen in the same light. Occasionally, we’d offer a spare couch to someone from another band on the hotel circuit who’d been ripped off for their final pay cheque or fired for no reason. The only person who never complained about anything was Leroy, who just grinned and said ‘Yeah yeah yeah!’ and practised his dance moves.