우리는 어디로 가는 걸까, 대답은 알 수 없어도.
(Where could we be going, though we cannot know the answer)
태양은 다시 떠오르겠지, 내일 우린 여기 없을 테니까
(The Sun will rise again, since we'll not be here tomorrow)
-자우림 (Jaurim), "우리에게 내일은 없다 (For us, there is no tomorrow)"
Unlike most developed countries, Korea requires two years of
military service (give or take a few months depending on the unit) for all
able-bodied men. Individuals with flatfeet, astigmatism, or deep pockets are usually placed in some civilian role, but few
are able to entirely avoid the barracks.
For Korean residents this waste of two years is the source of much
exasperation, but not the source of any social ostracism at university, as half
of the student body is forced to undergo the same process. For those fortunate enough to study
stateside, however, the two years of compulsory service, coupled with the year
or two most of them lost when transferring to schools in the US (the Korean
school year begins in March, not August), leaves most graduates of the military
program feeling some level of mental regression, like Kindergarten teachers
forced to interact exclusively with their flock of bed-wetters.
Two years ago, while living in
Seoul as an intern at a Korean governmental agency, I went to visit a friend of
mine, who we’ll call “Woo,” who was at the time finishing up his first year of
service in the Korean Marines (해병대). There’s actually a special application process for the Korean Marines, as
it is objectively one of the most grueling and soul sapping of Korea’s various
military branches. For those of you who
remember the incident at Yeonpyeongdo (연평도), the marines were the ones
put on duty and told to write up makeshift “Last Will and Testaments.”
There is a Korean phrase
that I think accurately captures why anyone would join the Marines when they
could easily join the Army, spending their two years largely devoid of anything
resembling the military imagined in film and literature: “같은 값이면
다홍치마 (If
it’s the same price, buy the shiny red skirt).”
For Woo, an unassuming and occasionally naïve
university student, joining the Marines was a way to prove to himself and his
classmates that he was a patriotic man's man.
It’s
difficult to get much in the way of vacation when you are a marine, but they do make certain exceptions for family members that are not made for friends of the
enlisted. The plan was for Woo’s parents
to drive me and another friend down to Kanghwa Island (강화도), spend the day together, and then have a "family emergency" in Seoul once it
was too late to return Woo to base, so that we three friends could spend the
night drinking and going to Karaoke (note:
approximately 80% of Korean social outings eventually devolve into these
two activities).
The
only catch to our brilliant scheme was that Kanghwa Island does not present
much in the way of nightlife. It is so
backwater as to be the only Asian town outside of the Gobi desert to lack
potable water (re: McDonalds). Like much of the Korean countryside, it is
approximately three decades behind Seoul in terms of development, and
approximately 40% behind in terms of the attractiveness of its female
constituents (all the hotjumma have emigrated to Seoul, a move so common as to
demand its own two-character noun in the Korean language: “상경 (sang-kyong)”).
After checking into a 찜질방, or sauna, for the evening (yes, Koreans can and often do sleep in saunas), we settled into a bar. As to be expected amongst twenty-one year old
males the conversation quickly turned to sex, just as starving men are known to
discuss their favorite recipes. I don’t
remember much in the way of specifics, but I do recall being impressed that the
other friend, who I’ll refer to as “Sung,” had managed to convince some girl at
a bar that the reason he spoke English, rather than being his years of study in
the states, was that he was a secret agent working for the Korean government as
an undercover Korean-American. As I’m
sure that Korean women are inherently aroused by those brave souls spiriting valuable intelligence from the
powerful Kimchi cartels to the Korean government, I hope to one day have an
opportunity to present myself to an unsuspecting woman as an undercover
American-Korean (though first on my bucket-list of pickup lines is that of the
father of one of my closest secondary school friends: “Hey,
my name is [ ]. I’ve got a job, a
driver’s license, and I’ve never been to jail.
What’s your number?”).
Having concluded the first round of drinks, we headed into the nearest
Karaoke, which, like the rest of the town, was empty. There was something else that was off about
the place, but I couldn’t determine precisely what it was. The seats were a bit different, the alcohol
selection was a bit larger, and the room seemed a little less focused on the television
screen, but again nothing was unequivocally odd. The female owner walked us in and asked what
we would like to drink. Responding that
we would need a minute to decide, she continued:
“So, how many girls?” (아가씨들 몇
명?)
“Pardon?”
(네?)
“How
many girls should I call in for you guys?” (아까씨들 몇 명 부를까요?)
Ah, that’s what’s different.
Regardless of our lack or excess of desire to stay, at the time all three of us had pockets far too shallow to comfortably afford the tab we were likely to run.
Hanging our heads, we declined the Madame’s offer and made
our exit.
I should note that this
type of institution is not in the business of prostitution. The girls will not sleep with you, or at
least, that isn’t part of their job description (if they like you, they might,
but such behavior is non-contractual).
All they do is pour you drinks, cozy up to you and coquettishly call you
“오빠,” the Korean term for “older
brother” used by women to refer to slightly older men. If a term exists for the sibling equivalent
of “oedipal,” I am certain that it is buried deep in the lexicon of the Korean
tongue.
Walking around the city in
search of a “He-man woman haters” karaoke, the three of us quickly discovered
that in fact there were few karaoke joints that did not promise girls. We also discovered that despite this bravado
there were no girls, only middle-aged women (remember, the young and pretty ones have already moved to Seoul) faux-coquettishly twirling their
tar-stained fingers and coughing out raspy renditions of “오빠” to clients young enough to be their own offspring. After finally entering a “normal” karaoke, we
sang some and returned to the sauna to shower up and head to bed.
The sauna offered little in
the way of normal comforts. Returning from the hot baths to find my watch missing, Woo
correctly remembered the presence of a mousy thirty-something creeping by the
corner of our lockers when we had been undressing. After convincing the owner of the sauna to
open what we believed was the man’s locker, we found my watch. But though it occurred to me that I might not
want to be present for the man’s discovery of his lost spoils, we had already
paid the entrance fee and would have to stay in the eye of the storm for the
duration.
The night passed
uneventfully, and the three of us awoke with no discernible knife marks on our
torsos. We also awoke to the chattering
of a group of ajumma who had
apparently made the executive decision that everyone sleeping in the public
space should be prepping for the day ahead by 7 a.m. (despite fervent protests
from the adjacent group of ajosshi). Having no recourse to these fearsome
creatures, we got up, changed out of the sauna’s uniform into our civvies, and
left for the bus stop so that Sung could catch an early departure. In a fitting end to the trip, as we
approached the bus station we saw a woman cleaning up a “barbershop;” one replete
with heavily tinted windows lest passing children witness the inappropriate
cutting of hair that would take place throughout the day.