by Chris Tharp
The latest flare-up happened in the spring of 2008, when President Lee Myung-bak made the decision to re-allow the import of US beef, banned since 2003, due to concerns over mad cow disease. Suddenly the country was again gripped by a spasm of anti-Americanism, though less venomous this time, and cloaked in the language of “health” and “public safety.” Spurred on by organizers on the far left, tens of thousands of people took to the streets of the nation’s cities, demanding an immediate reinstatement of the ban. Attendees of candlelight demonstrations–made popular during the upheaval of 2002–swelled to around one million in central Seoul on at least one occasion.
Though supposedly about food safety, it soon became apparent that these protests were more about villainous Uncle Sam than about eating questionable beef. The original marches in Seoul were organized by the same hard-left agitators who were behind the ruckus of 2002, and though later joined by frightened and misinformed high school students (told they would be receiving the most dangerous beef in their school cafeterias), anti-Americanism was the engine behind them.
I wandered through several demonstrations in the streets of Busan, and the imagery alone told me all I needed to know: pictures of menacing cattle heads with glowing red eyes, on which were imprinted the Stars and Stripes. These posters and flyers said one thing, and said it very clearly: Big, evil America is going to once again overwhelm small, pure Korea. America demands that we do its bidding and we say no!
Like the tragedy of the two middle school girls, Internet rumors, misinformation, innuendo, and straight-up lies had poisoned the well of public discourse. Claims were made that Alzheimer’s disease could be transmitted from tainted beef, and that the US only exported its sub-par, at-risk, diseased beef. A notorious “investigative report” on Korea’s MBC channel argued that Koreans were genetically more susceptible to mad cow disease, and made several other bogus claims (legal action was later brought upon the producers by the government). I remember arguing with Da-jin, my Korean girlfriend at the time, who was convinced that the US government was purposely trying to export tainted beef into Korea in order to poison the Korean race. Kim Min-seon, a well-known Korean actress, famously stated that she “would gulp poison rather than eat US beef.” This is how ridiculous things got, but, like every geyser of anti-Americanism here, it too died down, and today you can find delicious American beef in many stores and restaurants, at a fraction of the price charged for the domestic stuff.
APEC Bandae!
November of 2005 saw a big event in Busan: the APEC conference. APEC, which stands for Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation, is an annual meeting of all the Pacific Rim countries. Delegates get together behind closed doors, eat the host country's cuisine, dress up in indigenous costumes, and do away with pesky “trade barriers” like union laws and environmental protections. And it's not just a meeting of delegates from the member countries: it also includes each nation's head of state. So, for a few days in late 2005, Busan was graced with the presence of Russia's Putin, Mexico's Fox, Canada's Martin, Australia's Howard, China's Hu Jintao, Japan's Kozuimi, and yes, the devil himself, George W. Bush. If the presence of Bush on the ground weren’t enough to inspire a good ol’ anti-American Korean street protest, I don’t know what would.
Let’s just say that I wasn’t disappointed.
The gathering of leaders took place on a Saturday and Sunday. I correctly figured that the action would be greatest on the first day, since the anti-APEC activists had had over a year to prepare for battle and would be chomping at the bit. So I made my way down to Gwangali–one of Busan’s most famous beach areas–where I saw a gathering of marchers. I wasn’t sure where they would end up, but I figured if I joined and followed them, that they’d lead me to the riot.
Most of these marchers were farmers who had been brought into Busan on buses. Opening up Korea’s rice market to China was on APEC’s agenda, and these mostly elderly old farmers were concerned that their homegrown rice–which was protected by entrenched government policy–wouldn’t be able to compete with a flood of cheap Chinese grain. Their livelihoods were at stake, and they weren’t going to sit passively while some delegates sold them out in the name of globalization. Two weeks prior to the demonstration, two of their ranks had committed suicide by ingesting herbicide. These guys wanted the world to take them seriously, and I was happy to march by their side.
I procured a NO BUSH sticker from a man in the procession, who slapped it onto the back of my black jacket, nodding and cackling in enthusiastic approval. We walked away from the beach, toward the Oncheon River, across which was the BEXCO complex where the bigwigs were rubbing elbows. I joined them in their chant, which was simple, yet effective:
“APEC bandae! Bush-y bandae!”
(“Against APEC! Against Bush-y”–the latter an example of the Korean tendency to add an “i” sound to foreign words ending in “sh.”)
As we approached the river, the crowd thickened: this was apparently where the anti-APEC brigade was massing up. The farmers comprised just one of many streams feeding into the huge lake of protesters. As we trickled in, I was waved over by another group of farmers sitting around a cardboard box that acted as an improvised table. They had their chopsticks out and were feasting on jjok pal (steamed pigs’ feet), washing it down with little paper cups of soju.
“Where are you from?” one of them asked. His face was dark and deeply lined, evidence of a long life working outdoors. A yellow band was tied around his head, on which was written a slogan in Korean.
“I am from America,” I replied.
“Ohhhhh… America?”
I turned around and pointed to the NO BUSH sticker on my back. The small group of old men immediately burst into cheers. They insisted I sit with them, and thrust a cup of soju into my hands. I drank up, ate a few slices of the pigs’ feet, shook hands all around, drank some more, and soaked up the moment of solidarity.
My belly and head now warmed by soju, I headed straight to the riverfront, where thousands of people had gathered. On the other side of the water I could see BEXCO–all shiny steel and glass. I pictured a hanbok-clad George W. Bush sipping a near-beer and trying to chum it up with Vincente Fox, mangling the Spanish language while chucking the mustachioed Mexican president on his shoulder. Bridges spanned the river at two opposite ends of the carnival; the authorities had blocked off all access, creating a barrier of shipping containers stacked on top of each other. On top of the containers were groups of riot police–young conscripts, most likely–crouching behind metal shields while manning water cannon to keep the agitators at bay.
I was soon joined by Sammy and Josh–my hiking partner in Jirisan Park, who was still visiting from America. Josh was anti-authoritarian to the core. Fighting the man was programmed into his DNA, and his excitement to be taking part in this demonstration shot out from his very pores. We walked through the throngs of people, taking in the various banners and signs. One summed up the attitude of the Korean left–perhaps the most nationalistic of all left-wing movements–perfectly. It portrayed an imperial Japanese sunrise flag on the left side, which melded into the Stars and Stripes on the right: Meet the new boss: same as the old boss.
The protestors had secured an insanely long rope to one of the shipping containers at the bottom. Hundreds of participants gripped the rope and heaved and ho’d, dragging the container toward them a fraction of an inch at a time. The protestors at the front were blasted by the water cannon, but braved the frigid temperature, soaked to the core. They pulled and pulled and pulled, finally dislodging the bottom container, causing the two on top of it to topple down–along with the hapless riot police standing on them. The young conscript cops plummeted to the ground, resulting in a victory roar from the crowd. It was shocking to behold; the poor cops–kids really–could have easily been crushed by the falling containers, and avoided being killed by a minor miracle. Their comrades came to their aid and they limped back behind their still firmly-held line.
As dark ap
proached, the majority of the protestors made their way to the other bridge. A dark line of hundreds of riot police now hulked in front of the containers–they would allow no more ropes to be attached. A van with loudspeakers pulled into the middle of the crowd and blasted protest anthems, including the infamous “Fucking USA”–a vitriolic anti-American rock tune made famous during the disturbances of 2002. A river of young men wearing surgical masks then jogged into the area, each carrying a long green metal rod, which they dropped into a massive pile. The organization behind it was staggering to behold, and then, as if on cue, hundreds of these hardcore students lined up and grabbed a pole each, immediately rushing the battalion of armored riot police waiting for them in front of the bridge. It was like a scene out of the movie Braveheart, as these men in their mid-20s, likely students in the same university classes, did a sort of medieval combat with one another. The clang of rods hitting shields reverberated through the night air. Josh, caught up in the action, grabbed a pole of his own and rushed the line, eager to take out his life-long frustration on a symbol of authority. The wounded began streaming to the back, blood running down their faces, where they had been clobbered by police nightsticks. Some of them limped on their own, while others were dragged back to improvised medical stations. It was pure combat, total violence–the most carefully-orchestrated riot I’d ever beheld.
The cops, having had enough of the initial mêlée, let loose a volley of tear gas, which cleared out the pole-wielding combatants in front of them. They then took the opportunity to move forward. When they stopped, they banged their clubs on their shields and let forth a huge yell, taunting their adversaries, who now held back, choking on the caustic smoke.
Calm now descended, like the mist of gas hanging over the improvised battlefield. The fighting was over. The protestors had faced off with the police and given them all they had. They had released their passion, their pent-up frustration, their very Korean angst. The whole thing had a ritualistic feel, as if both sides knew exactly how it would go down. The pressure valve was opened and the steam was allowed to escape. Some heads got busted and some blood was spilled, but at the end of it all, no one was severely injured. Just as quickly as it had begun, it ended, and the protestors sauntered away from the site, to swap war stories over late-night meals of grilled pork, soju, and beer.
INTERLUDE: FEBRUARY, 2006
SIEM REAP, CAMBODIA
I’m sitting in front of a computer screen in one of the town’s tiny PC cafes. I’m coated in dust and sweat after a day of scrambling around the various temples that make up the Angkor complex. I sip a Coke from a long-neck bottle, amazed at the fact that they even have the Internet in Cambodia, as slow as it may be. This is a country that still reeks of tragedy. You can see the trauma in the eyes of everyone around you: the genocide wasn’t so long ago, and many of the people you meet are survivors, while some surely took part in the carnage, as well.
The children of Siem Reap are all on the make, hawking photocopied books and T-shirts and guide services. They’ve memorized not just world, but state and provincial capitals in an attempt to ingratiate themselves with the international tourists that migrate to Angkor like Muslims on the Hajj. They’re also more than likely to know a few choice phrases in your own tongue. They’ll be sure to greet you warmly; look at a book and don’t buy, however, and they’ll spit curses.
“Fucking asshole motherfucker!”
I’ve never heard such venom shot my way from an eight-year-old girl.
I’m here with Kathleen, a dark-eyed ex-flame of mine from Seattle who agreed to meet me in Bangkok and come along to Cambodia. Our merry trio is rounded out by English Phil, an old friend from London who has not only quit drinking and drugging, but smoking as well. He huffs from a bizarre-looking plastic contraption that doses him regularly with nicotine, as well as satisfies his oral fixation developed through years of puffing cigarettes. It resembles an asthma inhaler, but acts as more of a pacifier.
Kathleen and I head down to Phnom Penh in the morning, then on to the beach town of Sihanoukville, where we’ll meet several friends of mine from Busan for some chill time. Phil’s heading overland back to Bangkok, where he’s attending an AA convention. Bangkok is a cruel place to send people who are fighting their demons, but if you can stay sober there I suppose you’ve really got it beat.
I read an email from my brother Glen.
Our dad’s been diagnosed with leukemia.
My tongue suddenly tastes like chalk, and I feel more perspiration bead up on my forehead. This is yet another malady thrown upon the sick pile, though from the tone of Glen’s email, there’s no pressing need for me to hightail it back to Bangkok and catch the first flight home. Dad has more time, but now we know this time to be quite finite, so right then and there I resolve to spend my next vacation back in the States.
CHAPTER 10: TIME TO EAT
At the end of my first school year at Gaegum University–a couple of months before the Cambodia trip, before I got the news about my father–I joined the other foreign teachers, along with our boss and a few of the Korean staff, for a day trip to neighboring South Jeolla Province. We boarded a bus and headed off into the early summer mist, stopping off at a famous green tea plantation, a bamboo forest, and a mock-up of a traditional Korean village. The point of the trip was to celebrate the end of the semester, bond a bit as a group, and experience a bit of “real” Korean culture.
For lunch we went to a traditional Han jeong shik restaurant located next to the folk village. We all sat on the wooden floor around an impossibly long table and ate rice, soup, and about thirty different side dishes, known as banchan. These dishes ran the gamut from various pickled vegetables, fish, beef, quail eggs, assorted kelp and seaweeds, and even a few steamed chickens, called baek suk. We sat and ate and drank from bowls filled with rice wine, digging into the dizzying spread of banchan thrown out before us. Most of it was at least partially recognizable and almost everything was utterly delicious. A real Han jeong shik meal is an experience that’s hard to erase from memory; it’s an exercise is pure gastronomical variety. The amount of different banchan is staggering. I pity the dishwasher at such a place.
As I sat talking and munching away, a new dish was brought out. It looked like a kind of raw fish, sliced up and put onto a plate. I eyed it quizzically.
“You must try this one,” a Korean colleague sitting next to me said. “This is hong-eo, which is the specialty of South Jeolla Province.”
“What is it? Fish?”
“Yes, it’s a kind of fish… it is fermented… fermented… How do you say?”
“It’s fermented skate,” one of the foreign teachers joined in. “You know, kind of like a stingray. Go ahead and try it. It’s great.” He smiled and stared.
I grabbed a piece of hong-eo with my metal chopsticks, wrapped it up in some lettuce and put a bit of red pepper sauce on top. My Korean colleague eyed me expectantly. I popped it into my mouth and chewed.
It was tough, like a kind of crunchy rubber. It was, in fact, the most unchewable piece of seafood that I’d ever put into my mouth. It was all cartilage and sandpaper skin. Was there any meat in the meat? I had little time to dwell on the texture however, for a split-second later I was hit with the smell. It was like a gas bomb went off, releasing a blast of pure ammonia, which singed my sinuses and throat. This piece of hong-eo tasted like it had been soaked in acetone and bile. It was rancid and toxic, the complete opposite of palatable. I felt like a cat had just peed in my mouth. It was the worst thing I’ve ever attempted to choke down, and soon I was gagging, spitting the half-chewed atrocity into my napkin, and frantically searching for some water with which to douche my panicking mouth and throat. My face went red and I gasped for breath, attracting all eyes at the table. The Koreans especially were tickled by the spectacle, breaking into deep laughter, while I did my best not to puke all over the small dishes laid out in front of me.
The residents of South Jeolla province are considered the
most prickly and rebellious in all of Korea. The fact that hong-eo is their signature dish does a lot to explain this perception. To this day I am astounded, not only because people eat the stuff, but also because it’s a sought-after delicacy for many.
* * * *
Koreans love their food. Eating is central to their way of life. Life in Korea revolves around dining: three meals are observed daily. Everything stops and everyone sits and everyone eats. And Koreans eat heartily. They dig into the food in front of them and go at it with gusto, munching and chomping and slurping without a hint of self-consciousness. There is a simple joy that is evident in many Koreans when they gather with family or friends with the intention of taking down some food. In this regard they are no different than anyone else in this world. After all, who doesn’t like to eat?
Food is so central to the Korean experience that one of their standard greetings is Bap meogoesseoyo?, which literally means, Have you eaten? This has its roots in a leaner time, when the possibility of having not eaten was a painful concern, but the fact that it remains in common usage tells you something about the importance that these folks place on food. Food brings out the kindest, most generous side of Korean people: like many Asians, most everything is placed in the center of the table and eaten communally. Sharing is the name of the game: to eat alone and not offer some to those around you is viewed as some kind of cardinal sin of greed. I’ve often had complete strangers wave me over and invite me to eat with them. You see this sense of generosity in children, as well. I often taught kids’ classes, and during break times they love to bust out their snacks–chips, cookies, dried ramen, chocolate squid balls (really). Unlike American kids, who tend to either horde or barter (a reflection of our hyper-capitalist selves), Korean kids almost always dole out their snacks equally, sharing with everyone in the vicinity, including the lowest kid in the pecking order–not to mention the teacher, who is usually offered the food first. Everyone eats. I regularly turn down fistfuls of snacks that the kids–grubby hands and all–feel compelled to thrust my way each time I walk into the classroom. For them it’s a no-brainer. When you eat, you share. It’s just what’s done.
