Dispatches from the Peninsula

by Chris Tharp

  Scott and I took down our eel with fervor, though. The woman who ran the stand was tickled to have to these two very green foreigners giving it a try, laughing at our fascination with the dish, and thrilled to be letting us in on one of Busan’s secrets. She didn’t have to sell us too hard, though, because the meal was delicious. It was also aided by several bottles of soju, which helped to make the flow of the market melt into a happy blur. Jagalchi is both the heart and soul of Busan. To understand the market is to understand the city’s history, and this first trip gave me a taste of the old city, which, while disappearing a bit more each day, will always be alive down at Jagalchi.

  Take Me out to the Ballgame

  The place was packed. Thirty thousand rowdy fans squeezed into Busan’s Sajik Stadium to watch their beloved Lotte Giants take on rival Seoul’s Doosan Bears. It was early May, and while much warmer than the previous few frigid months, the cold still lingered–especially after sundown. I had come to the game with my new friend Angry Steve, who was and is a consummate baseball fan. He was fully determined to turn me onto the sport that is not just America’s pastime, but Korea’s as well.

  Baseball didn’t really grab me until later in my life. As a kid I never played Little League and took the most remote interest in the travails of my local team, the Seattle Mariners, the then-perennial bottom-dwellers of the American League West. It wasn’t until the late ‘90s–when the Mariners suddenly got hot–that I began to take real notice of the game. Call me a bandwagon jumper, but I caught the fever. This enthusiasm was short-lived, however, as the Mariners once again went into a freefall from which they have yet to really recover. I came to Korea with a whetted appetite, but was in no way not what you’d call a real fan.

  Steve, on the other hand, was real. Though he grew up in Massachusetts, he was an avid Yankees fan. Like a lot of East Coast guys, Steve knew the game inside and out. He picked up on every nuance and watched the action like a manager from the dugout. Baseball was in his genes, it seemed. It coursed through his veins, and watching a game with him was always an education.

  I knew that the Japanese were crazy about baseball, but Koreans? Well, it turns out that they too have embraced the game, nowhere with more passion and dedication than in Busan. People said that Busan fans were the most ardent in the country. They supported the team through all their ups and downs. An early-season sell-out stadium for a team just two slots from last confirmed this fact. The Giants had become a squad of losers, a team that usually falls short, but always plays with heart. This is what I was told, at least, and to see the masses of fans settle into their seats, or just lay some newspapers down on any available space and turn toward the field, only served to confirm this.

  The Korean Baseball Association is made up of 8 teams, representing the largest cities in the Southern Republic. They are named for mascots which, more often than not, are versions of tried-and-true American staples: Bears, Tigers, Lions, Giants. Sometimes the mascots do get more creative, such as the Wyverns and the now-defunct Unicorns (really), but these are the exceptions. The real marketing genius behind the naming of Korean teams lies in the fact that instead of being called by the names of the cities they actually hail from, the teams carry the corporate titles of their conglomerate backers: Samsung, SK, Kia, Hyundai. The result is that rather than chanting “Busan” or even “Giants,” thirty thousand ticket-buying fans instead shout and sing “Lotte!” in unison. This is in turn televised nightly. It’s an epic scam. You couldn’t ask for better PR.

  As I made my way through the stadium with Steve, I was struck most by the anarchy of the surroundings. Unlike MLB games in the States, which are carefully controlled occasions to soak the fans for as much money as possible, this Korean game was a complete free-for-all. Aside from a closed-off area behind home plate, no seats were reserved. It was strictly first-come-first-sit, or, more accurately, first-come-first-put-as-much-shit-as-possible-over-any-available-seats-to-reserve-them-for-your-friends-who-will-come-later. People walked into the cement ball park with full coolers in tow, which in turn were stuffed with food and booze. Though No Smoking signs graced the stadium, men lit up openly, driving home the point that such signs are suggestions rather than rules in modern Korea.

  Vendors walked freely through the stands, displaying no sort of official ID or licenses. They sold beer–both in cans and from backpack taps–along with roasted chicken, fried chicken, pigs’ feet, kimbap (rice and ham rolled in seaweed), hard-boiled eggs, rice wine, cuttlefish, boiled potatoes, water, milkshakes, coffee, tea, and ice cream. But unlike back home, the price wasn’t hyper-inflated to gouge a captive audience. The pure competition kept everything more than reasonable. And if you didn’t want to buy from a vendor, you could just walk down to the convenience store inside the stadium which contained all manner of goods, for the same price you’d pay on the outside. There was none of the corporate fascism we see so much at home–with its endless rules, profiteering, and overzealous security. An air of total permissiveness permeated the ballpark. Everyone was settling in to eat, drink, and watch some baseball. It was pure fun.

  Eventually Steve and I found a couple of outfield seats. We bought few beers, along with a box of chicken (forget peanuts and Cracker Jacks, Korean baseball is all about chicken), and attached our eyes to the game unfolding on the field.

  “You know, the level of play isn’t bad here,” Steve commented. “It’s about on par with good minor league back at home. They flub a few catches, make an error or two, but hey, it’s still pretty good. And at five bucks a seat, who’s gonna complain?”

  I took an interest in the game all the while talking with Steve. The cans of beer went down well and relaxed me into the atmosphere. As each Lotte Giants player went up to bat, the crowd got onto its feet and erupted into a song or chant composed for that player alone. I knew neither the players’ names nor the words of encouragement, but that didn’t stop me from taking to my feet and pretending to join in. It was contagious.

  The music was nonstop. As the game went on, the crowd become drunker. Some lost interest in the game, turning to each other instead, pouring drinks, stuffing their mouths full of pork and chicken, and engaging in loud, red-faced conversations. This was less of a ball game and more of a complete, massive piss-up. The screen kept showing shots of the cheerleaders–slim, sleek-thighed girls with shiny, waist-long hair. They were led by a disturbingly enthusiastic man, who jumped and clapped and worked the crowd over a headphone mike.

  “I’d like to bang every one of them,” Steve quietly remarked, “except the guy.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  The game was close and held our attention the whole time. There had only been one home run, and that was by Doosan in the 5th inning. By the bottom of the 9th, the Lotte Giants were down 3 runs to 2. As they went up to bat, all thirty thousand fans once again rose to their feet. By this time most everyone in the crowd was wearing orange trash bags on their heads. These are always handed out in the 7th inning for people to pack up with all of rubbish that’s left over at the end of the game. Busan fans have taken to blowing them up and tying them around their heads. It’s a tradition. Another tradition is the singing of “Busan Galmaegi” (“Busan Seagull”), a tune about lost love and longing that has come to signify the Lotte Giants. It’s a mournful song, sad in that way that only old Korean music can be, and when thirty thousand people sing it in unison, I dare you not to get goosebumps.

  The song must have worked its mojo, for the Giants managed to get runners to both first and second base, but now had two outs on the board. This was it. The batter stepped to the plate, feeling the eyes and hopes of the whole stadium upon him. At that moment, I noticed the Koreans next to me looking up and pointing. Our eyes followed, only to take in a lone, white crane flying just above the stadium. It swooped over, as if giving a sign. The players too looked up and a hush overcame the otherwise drunk and boisterous crowd. Finally, it passed, disappearing into the dark, above the range of light. Doosan�
��s pitcher then hunkered down, stretched, and threw.

  Lotte’s batter slammed the ball. It arced over the shortstop and rolled past the center fielder, bouncing all the way to the wall, just in front of where we sat. Steve and I leapt to our feet. The runners sprinted for it as the Doosan player scrambled for the loose ball. The runner from second scored, and the man from first ran for all he was worth. The Doosan midfielder got hold of the ball and cannoned it full strength, but it was too late. The second runner ran across home plate, putting the Giants over the top–the most dramatic finish I’ve ever witnessed at a live baseball game. Angry Steve–along with the other thirty thousand people sitting in Sajik that day–slapped hands and hugged each other. The young Korean guy next to me threw his arms around me in crushing embrace. The place exploded incendiary hot with the kind of spontaneous joy that only sports can ignite. Fireworks shot up into the sky. I grabbed my beer and took down the last swallow, screaming with the crowd as I crushed it on my hand. This was baseball in Busan.

  Kimchee on the Beach

  It had sounded like a good idea, at least the day before. After all, it was late July and surface-of-Venus hot. I had been in Korea for almost a year, and I lived right next to the beach, so why not spend the day there? This is what Scott proposed over a fried rice omelet at our go-to lunch joint, Kimbap Village:

  “You can just relax, read, take a swim, drink some beer, eat… whatever. Beat the heat.”

  “Sounds great.” I dug into a small pile of kimchee and took his word for it.

  So the next day I met Scott and his girlfriend, Hae-jin–a curvy Busan girl with plump lips and ink-black hair–along with Sam, with whom I had made countless glasses of beer disappear the night before at the JoinBar, a basement haunt near the beach that had become our local boozer. Sam’s eyes were painfully red, looking as if he had just taken about six bong hits. His bloodshot veins were instead the result of his wicked hangover, and just looking at them gave me a headache as well. I could see his capillaries throb.

  “What wrong Sam? Last night you is much drinking? I think maybe you go hospital or you is die!” Hae-jin teased.

  Hae-jin’s English was broken and error-strewn, but unlike most Koreans, she wasn’t shy to speak it. She belted out her mangled sentences with the confidence of an opera diva. This was refreshing, actually, as it contrasted with the looks of horror that wrinkled into other Koreans’ faces at the slightest chance of having to speak our tongue. Perhaps she should have been an ESL instructor: despite her mistakes, it was obvious to that she was doing something right.

  We made our way toward the beach, down the side streets lined with pork restaurants, beer joints, and small stores hawking sun hats and beach balls. Old women manned street carts selling chicken skewers, tiny sea snails, and steaming bowls of silkworm pupas–known as bondaegi–whose clouds of noxious fumes caused me to gag as we passed by. Sam turned noticeably green. He had eaten a few bondaegi at a soju tent next to my apartment building just a few nights before and immediately vomited all over the gravel underneath our table. These outdoor tents, known as pojang macha, are often erected over such gravel, which is very convenient for covering up the evidence of late-night pukings. This is done on purpose, I’m sure. Sam proved to be a trooper: after spraying the contents of his stomach onto the small grey rocks, he buried the evidence with his feet, and within five minutes he was onto another beer. Such is drinking on the peninsula, though pojang macha are a dying breed these days. The government has long been eager to rid the land of such reminders of a rougher, poorer time, and they’re now being replaced with whisky bars, fusion restaurants, and upscale coffee shops.

  Like the fish market, I smelled the beach before I actually saw it. Only this smell was foul and unnatural, nothing of the clean air and salt that one usually associates with the seaside. What instead assaulted my nostrils was the reek of refuse, and, moreover, people. I could smell the mass of humanity that we at once walked into: a sea of people next to the actual, real sea. The beach was a pulsating mob of human beings–sitting, walking, talking, eating, drinking, bobbing in the shallows, and lying under countless parasols, which sprouted up from the sand like mushrooms in profusion. I had never seen so many people in one place at one time. It was overwhelming–frightening, even. How could this be enjoyable?I had seen photographs of Spain’s Costa del Sol in the height of summer. I had spent a few years in southern California and passed days on Venice Beach during the most crowded of times, but nothing had prepared me for the sight which now writhed and bellowed before my eyes. It was unreal. We were on a stretch of sand with well over half a million other people. It was as if the whole state of Wyoming had decided to go swimming. This was Korea’s idea of a relaxing day at the beach.

  We rented a parasol from a couple of muscled-up guys working one of the stations that dotted HaeundaeBeach. They looked hard and sported a few tattoos, adding credence to the rumor that the parasol/inner tube/sun bed rental racket was controlled by the local mafia. But for just five bucks, the price was right, and after some recon, we managed to find a bit of precious real estate on the scorching sand. Scott set up the parasol while Hae-jin threw down a beach blanket. Sam and I followed suit with our feeble towels, and after a moment we were settled into the chaos, attempting relaxation in the midst of the mob of shouting Koreans.

  “Man, there’s a shitload of people here,” Sam remarked, shaking his head.

  “It’s the height of beach season,” Scott replied. “Come the end of August. They’ll all be gone back up to Seoul and we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “Thank God,” Sam sighed, opening his paperback.

  Beach Season. Haeundae, along with other of the country’s famous beaches, is only officially “open” from the beginning of July to the end of August. What “open” really means is anyone’s guess, since you can go to the beach at any time of the year, though lifeguards and parasols are only present during the official season. But the Korean beach-going public is very aware of these official dates. The day before the beach “opens” can be gorgeous, with scalding temperatures and blue skies. Come then and you will see a semi-occupied beach, at best. There will be plenty of room for you to set up volleyball nets, play Frisbee, or swim unmolested. Come the next day, when the season officially begins, and the beach will be a sardine can, monitored by overzealous lifeguards who are almost North Korean in their enforcement of the rules. I found this out for myself.

  “Fuck it. I’m going swimming.”

  With that, I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my shirt, and walked down the small path between the fields of parasols until I reached the actual water. Children, teens, and adults all frolicked in the sea, many floating on inner tubes, air mattresses, or wearing inflatable water wings around their arms. Most were fully clothed, skin and actual swimsuits being a rarity. The water was a sick brown color and disconcertingly warm. I thought at once of how much urine two hundred thousand kids could produce at one time. I could make out the outline of several plastic bags floating listlessly, like dead jellyfish. As I waded further out it cooled off, and I saw that there were almost no bathers out closer to the float-line that marked the boundary of the swimming area. I dove in and proceeded to swim toward the border, as far out of pee range as possible. When I came up I noticed something floating near my head: a chicken leg, with bits of meat and tendon still on the bone. Nice.

  When I got to the float line I turned over on my back, looking up toward the hazy sky and burning July sun. I gently splashed in the water to keep myself afloat, imagining myself in more pristine surroundings. After about thirty seconds, I heard the incessant chirp of a whistle cutting through the general roar. It kept on and on, and soon I changed positions to see where it was coming from. My feet reached the sandy bottom, while the water came up to the top of my stomach. As I turned toward the shore, I saw a red-clad lifeguard blowing for all he was worth, motioning for me to come in.

  What’s his problem? I’m inside the line.


  I held up my hand and gave him an OK sign, but the whistling continued at the same frantic pace. He shook his head and waved at me with even more fervor. I put my hands on my hips and just stared back, hoping he’d tire of his chore and walk away, but my disobedience served only to incense him further. Finally I gave up and made my way in, while he eyed me like a raptor. His obvious sense of authority buzzed like radiation as he crossed his arms and faced me, mirrored sunglasses obscuring his eyes. When I was close enough, he opened his mouth and pointed toward the float line, screaming, in English:

  “TOO DEEP! TOO DEEP!”

  “What are you talking about? It wasn’t even over my head.” I pantomimed where the water line was on my body.

  “NO! TOO DEEP!” He made an “X” sign with his forearms and then, sentry-like, turned and marched back to his observation platform.

  Exasperated, I returned to the parasol, plopped back into the sand, and recounted my story for my friends to hear. Scott calmly endured my ranting and explained:

  “Well, the truth is that most Koreans can’t swim. A lot of people drown here each year, so the lifeguards just assume that no one is comfortable in the water. They don’t understand the fact that most Westerners grow up swimming.”

  “Can you swim, Hae-jin?” Sam asked.

  “I no fucking swimming, only the float,” she replied, smiling.

  As we sat through the afternoon, reading and napping, a stream of vendors walked past, selling bottled water, cans of beer, boxes of chicken, kimbap, ice cream, dried pressed fish, and the ubiquitous grilled cuttlefish. We grabbed a few beers and even chowed on some fried chicken, which, when looking around at the other hordes of beach hounds, seemed to be the pick of choice. Korean fried chicken is damned good and sold en masse at any big gathering. We made sure to put the bones back in the box, though, so as to spare any other swimmers the horror of coming face to face with a floating, half-eaten leg, wing, or thigh.