Meeting Mr Kim

by Jennifer Barclay

  Towards the end of the afternoon I started walking back towards the village and said hello to the man on the temple souvenir stand who had given me directions early in the morning when I’d passed by. He was so surprised to see me only just returning, eight hours later, that he gave me a pack of postcards as a gift. He spoke very good English, and explained to me what was on each of the postcards, giving me much more information than I’d been able to glean before from the stilted English on the signs. He explained how the lotus symbolised the Buddhist heart, the flowering of a soul, and that there were many fascinating connections to be made between Buddhism and Christianity – the Buddhist Maitreya is the equivalent of the Christian Messiah, and the Indian word ohm is used in the same way as the Christian amen.

  This inspiring encounter made my day. It seemed much more important than my intended mission. I bought a couple of Buddhist wooden necklaces, inscribed wooden blocks threaded on fine brown string, thinking to repay him for what he’d taught me, but he insisted on giving me a discount of one-third of the price, presumably all his profit, and labelled the packages carefully for me after I explained which was for my brother and which for my boyfriend. He said he understood that travelling for a long time means not making money, and therefore he realised I probably didn’t have much to spare.

  I had just left the company of this generous, interesting man and was continuing on my way back to the village when I spotted two older men walking towards me in in full hiking regalia: khaki trousers tucked into colourful hiking socks, walking sticks with built-in functions, and short-sleeved plaid shirts under sporty waistcoats with countless pockets. The older of the two, trim with grey-white hair, also sported a bandanna tied neatly around his neck, and natty white cotton gloves to keep his hands dry. I thought immediately of the photographs I was supposed to be taking of typical Korean hikers for the Herald. They would make an ideal picture as they strolled along, but I didn’t want to snap a photo of complete strangers without their permission. So I asked, and they readily agreed.

  They posed in a practised manner together, chin out and head held high, hats and walking sticks at rakish angles, then insisted on each having their photo taken with me. We ended up with plenty of photos. They introduced themselves politely. Kim Wook-hyuon, or Wook as he said I should call him, was distinguished-looking, with dark hair, slightly protruding ears and a bit of a paunch. He spoke excellent English with great enthusiasm, having worked some years as an interpreter. He introduced Pyo Jae-suk, or Jae, as his ‘older brother’, then explained.

  ‘We have been friends for twenty years or so!’ He pronounced it ah-so! ‘I like him because he is always candid and direct. Even when he is lying, he lies directly!’ Nice one.

  Jae, who spoke little English, was a retired athlete and physical education teacher, with twinkling eyes and a mellow smile. The two had left their families behind in Seoul for a few days of recreation. They searched for something to give me as a present, to thank me for choosing to take their photograph. Jae looked in his knapsack and presented me with his own bamboo fan, demonstrating with a theatrical flourish how to use it. Fans were popular in the heat and humidity of late summer. I protested that I couldn’t take his fan, but he insisted happily that I must have it. Wook wrote down their names and addresses in my notebook.

  We talked in good spirits for a while and then took our leave. But shortly after, we happened upon each other again near the bus station, where I was looking for a place to stay, and Wook took the opportunity to invite me to spend the evening with the two of them in his little country house, so I could experience real, rural Korean life.

  ‘It is very poor, very poor, but I will be honoured if you stay at my house.’

  I was not fit to be taken anywhere, having camped out the previous night, not had a shower, then hiked up mountains all this hot day. My clothes were covered more than ever in salt stains from sweating in the humidity. These two men were dressed for hiking, but immaculate, with not a stain or mud spatter in sight. I thanked them but declined. Wook insisted it would be no trouble, however, and at last I couldn’t resist the opportunity. There are few places in the world where a woman would feel comfortable accompanying two strange men to a house goodness-knows-where, but Korea felt like one. If I’d taken that minbak room and the practical option the night before, I wouldn’t have been looking for a place to stay and would never have got this chance. I should take it.

  Soon thereafter I was boarding an icily air-conditioned bus with my two new companions. Our journey took an hour, with a change of buses at Miwon, where an amiable man who looked forty-five but claimed to be seventy told me in an American accent that he had served in the Korean War. When we reached Undugmal, Wook’s village, it was dark and quiet, and there was a velvety black sky above, full of stars.

  We walked past dusty farms, some with curly tiled roofs, and there was a pleasant farmyard smell and only darkness beyond. When we reached Wook’s house, however, it was hardly the rustic hovel I was led to expect, but a flat-roofed bungalow with a lily pond and pretty cast-iron lawn chairs. Wook was fastidiously clean and tidy, and everything was in its place. He ordered me to go and take a cool shower, bossily making me stay in the bathroom as long as possible to make the most of the cold water; it was seen as one of the benefits of being in the country during the humid Korean summer, and Wook talked proudly about how cool the water was here. The bathroom had a proper bath and all mod cons. Meanwhile he and Jae cooked up a bachelors’ dinner of tuna, steak and eggs, all with Korean touches.

  He and Jae had got to know one another when they both taught at the same school, Wook teaching history while Jae taught physical education. Over dinner Wook told me that this was his father’s house, where he grew up, though he’d lived in Seoul for over forty years, and he and his wife had travelled all over the world, from New Zealand to Italy to Vietnam. He said he would be honoured for me to visit his house in Seoul also – if his wife would allow it.

  ‘I love my wife, more than anyone else. But... I am scared of her.’

  In a Korean family, the wife is in charge of the home, which was perhaps why Wook needed to get away from time to time. He showed me photographs. His two ‘obedient’ sons still lived at home, though both had good jobs in finance. I knew that the younger family members were supposed to obey their elders, though it still sounded unusual to hear a father talk proudly about his grown-up sons as being ‘obedient’. But obedient children are doted upon, not repressed. His good-looking thirty-year-old daughter was married.

  ‘Her husband is very intelligent and very kind to me and my wife. In Korea, a daughter is very important. She is my only daughter. I like and love my daughter. I am her slave!’

  He asked about my plans for tomorrow. I had planned to go to Tanyang where there was a scenic lake with rocky islands, but he advised against it at this time of year, although it was his favourite place, because the water levels would be too low still. You had to see a place at the right time of year, naturally. We would decide tomorrow. In the meantime, he showed me to the bedroom, which would be mine: he and Jae would sleep on the living room floor. A traditional Korean bed, it was simply a reed mat on the floor with a thin cotton quilt, the reed mat being there to keep you dry in the summer. I was very happy to be getting used to sleeping on the floor, though my limbs had a tendency to lose feeling sometimes. The whole place was spotlessly clean and tidy.

  ‘I am very proud,’ said Wook. ‘You are the first foreigner to sleep in this room. I hope you will have happy memories of Korea.’

  I went to bed, and heard Wook and Jae next door clinking soju glasses together til late in the night. I reflected on the things like this that had been happening to me all over Korea, outside Seoul. Sometimes I felt like a guest of the entire Korean people: at Kirimsa, of the man who promised to drive me personally to King Munmu’s underwater tomb next time; in Kampo, of the woman who invited me into her house though we could barely communicate, gave me photographs and her wooden
Buddhist bracelet; at the cave hermitage of Kolgulsa, of the day-tripper from Taegu who stuffed ice-cold drinks into my bag. And earlier that day, the souvenir seller had done everything he could to make me remember my time at Popchusa well. I remembered that very first moment of kindness, when the man looking after King Muryong’s tomb allowed me inside. In other places, his motives might have been different, but in Korea I was certain he’d given me that opportunity because of pride in his culture.

  People had come to my rescue and helped me constantly, perhaps partly because I was traveling honja. The discipline, obedience, orderliness and etiquette of Confucianism was more than balanced by the Korean people’s natural exuberance, their love of life and their country, and the unstoppable generosity and hospitality of the Buddhist spirit. They were a tight-knit family, but not unwilling to draw you in and make you a friend. I was acquiring very happy memories of Korea.

  I woke in the morning to sounds of throat-clearing in the next room, and moving of glasses and bottles from the late rounds of soju. While Wook was tidying up, I had a shower and took a walk outside, where the sun was shining over a valley of farms, surrounded by craggy racing-green hills. Wook had said the previous night that my boyfriend and I were welcome to come to stay at his house, and I imagined how beautiful it would be to sit on the flat rooftop, reading in the sun, in this stillness. When I got back to the house, Wook showed me his garden planted with flowers, and the carp swimming in the pond.

  I could smell breakfast cooking. Wook invited me to sit down, and a familiar green bottle appeared, and three shot glasses. Soju, with that sickly smell that was hard to forget long after you’d vowed never again to partake. When it was offered, with the formal gesture of outstretched hands, it was rude to refuse. But for breakfast? Protesting, I was allowed to toast the day with just a small measure, and it did whet the appetite. Wook had cooked up a hearty meal of leftovers, including a twenjang or bean paste stew with tiny fish and turnip and hot green peppers. He and Jae showed me how to wrap a crisp, salty square of dark-green dried kim around a mouthful of sticky rice using my chopsticks.

  Since the day was clear and sunny, Wook and Jae had decided to delay their return to Seoul in order to show me the nearby Hwayang Valley, an area of outstanding natural beauty. They’d been there just the other day, but wanted me to see it. I must have heard of it, Wook said. When I said I hadn’t, he looked at me astonished, as if wondering where I went to school.

  ‘It is very famous,’ he said, ‘with Koreans and with foreigners.’

  I smiled sheepishly. That was decided then – we must go to Hwayang. Wook unfolded a handwritten copy of a bus schedule from his shirt pocket, explaining that his son used his car in Seoul. By the time he’d deciphered his timetable, however, we were late for the bus, and had to make a mad dash through the flat, lush valley. Our huffing and panting was the only sound in the stillness. We waited a few seconds for the bus beside a magic carpet of hot red chilli peppers drying in the sun. These peppers, so vital now to the national dish of kimchi, were only introduced in the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century by Portuguese traders who brought them from Central America – before Korea had quite become the Hermit Kingdom, perhaps, or did they come via China? Occasionally outsiders had brought good things to Korea.

  At the Hwayang Valley, steep white cliffs towered over a clear sandy-bottomed river, strewn with massive boulders and overhung with shady trees. We made an unlikely threesome as we hit the trail. Jae walked apart, as he liked to be alone, apparently. According to Wook, he was once a famous basketball player, tennis player and ssirum wrestler – the Korean equivalent of sumo – though he certainly didn’t have a sumo build. Meanwhile, Wook walked with me and giggled that he felt like a country bumpkin, not wearing socks, his shirt untucked, and carrying a plastic bag filled with getnip leaves and peppers that he picked from the country garden to take back to the city. I, however, certainly felt the odd one out. I was feeling rather lithe and tanned from all my hiking, but somewhat gangly in my short army-green shorts, and awkwardly carrying an enormous green backpack.

  Hwayang, it turned out, was not only green pools and dramatic rocks. It was the site of a prestigious and renowned Confucian shrine and private academy, Hwayangsowonji, created in 1696 to honour outstanding scholars. Confucian academies were the main centres of learning of the Choson Dynasty, and the Confucian scholars who emerged from them became exceedingly powerful politically. By the eighteenth century there were more than six hundred such academies across the country, even more than in China. The monarchy grew tired of their dominance, however, and began to shut them down. Hwayang was closed because overbearing scholars were collecting excessive tithes for memorial rites, and most of the buildings were demolished.

  Signs indicated, in the typical way, which areas were of outstanding beauty and worth viewing or having your picture taken in, such as a lake of golden sand and picturesque cliffs. We walked around, admiring, and finally reached a wooden library built on a rock overlooking the river, where a great statesman once retired to read the classics. There we stopped to bathe in the designated swimming section of the placid river; the other parts of the river were closed to swimmers to keep them clean. Jae warned me that the water where it rushed through the rocks was deep and dangerous. Then he saw that I knew how to swim, and relaxed, rather impressed. We sat at a table and had cold refreshments while taking another set of photographs, Jae and Wook sitting up straight for the camera and looking serious.

  We took the bus to Cheongju, from where they could go to Seoul and I could go to Tanyang for another day of exploring, even though Wook had advised against it. Wook had other ideas.

  ‘Whenever I leave or return to my house, I feel hungry,’ he said, with a glint in his eye. ‘It is very strange.’ I imagined his wife kept him on a diet at home. Not for the first time, I noticed what a sly sense of humour Koreans have, and how much I liked it. So he led the way to his favourite restaurant, where we sat down shoe-less and cross-legged at a low table.

  The ajumma (the woman in charge of the restaurant) prepared the bulgogi pit in our table and brought side dishes. While slender morsels of beef sizzled on a grill over hot coals in front of us, two bottles of soju arrived, and the toasts began again. According to Korean etiquette, Wook explained, he must not refuse when his senior, Jae, offered him a drink. This was done formally by holding the glass in one hand, and touching underneath the forearm with the other. Exchanging glasses was also an important sign of friendship, so Jae must not refuse if his friend offered him a drink; he must take it, and fill another for Wook. And so it went, Wook and Jae getting gradually louder, rowdier and in better and better spirits. I seemed to be the only one eating. The meat, freshly grilled and wrapped in leaves with garlic cloves and bean paste, was delicious. Wook and Jae urged me to keep eating, while they kept drinking.

  ‘I am his good friend,’ said Wook, pointing to Jae. ‘His other friend is soju!’

  I was relieved to learn that ‘according to Korean etiquette, it is not good for men and women to exchange soju’. This rule fell by the wayside at some point, however, and I was urged to join in the toasts. I’d certainly been welcomed into the party. Then, with a triumphant gesture, Jae produced a tupperware jug from his knapsack: home-brewed wine, which his wife made as a present for Wook for inviting Jae to stay with him in the country. The smooth, honey-gold liquid was considerably more palatable than soju, though just as strong. Half the jug disappeared in no time. Dipping into his pack again, Jae, in excellent spirits, produced a small silver case; he removed an acupuncture needle and stuck it into his hand to demonstrate. I assured him I was feeling very healthy.

  Drinking has been part of the social fabric of Korean life for a long time. It provided Koreans with an escape from the rather stiff constraints of their hierarchical Confucian culture. In the eighteenth century, King Yongjo created fines for drinking alcohol intemperately, but the laws were flouted. The soju tents in Seoul were banned and frowned upon
but still persist. The one real way to seal a friendship or business association is to drink together. That’s why there are rituals surrounding drinking – as we have the round system in Anglo-Saxon culture. You don’t drink with strangers, which is why I hadn’t met people in bars in Seoul, I suspect. I realised that with Mr Che and Mr Kim on the beach at Pyonsan, with the staf from the Hard Rock Cafe and with my girlfriends in Kampo, I’d been sealing friendships by learning to drink with Koreans. Just as well, then, that I’d put my drinking boots on before I came to Korea.

  Two hours passed and, though this had turned into a meal to remember, I was nervous about getting to Tanyang. I might not get another chance. ‘Five more minutes,’ said Wook, several times. When we eventually got up to pay, there was spilled booze on the table and the floor from over-zealous pouring.

  ‘I think I have a little too much to drink,’ slurred Wook, a touch glassy-eyed, as we left the restaurant, and he took my arm. I offered to carry his bag of vegetables for him, as he now pronounced them too heavy. ‘I like you,’ he began, ‘because you are candid and direct, and...’ He gave up and lapsed into prudent silence. Standing waiting to cross the road to go back to the bus station, he noticed for the first time my wooden bead bracelet.

  ‘Are you Buddhist?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, no, it was a present from a friend,’ I replied, thinking of Kim Cheung-suk in Kampo.

  He nodded, and pointed to it again: ‘This will guard you from difficult situations.’