We crossed back over the road and approached two men who had parked their van near our Scoupe and were preparing fishing rods.
“Fishing in the channel?” we asked, assuming that this was the only logical choice.
“No, over there,” one replied, pointing to the pond.
“Oh. In the dammed water?” I remarked.
“No, it’s the Han River,” he declared assuredly.
But the Han, of course, flowed nowhere near here. “The farmer told us that the pond is formed from a little dammed stream,” I said politely.
“No, no, no, no, no, it’s the Han River!” he boldly insisted.
I could not in good conscience let such an egregious error slide. “But the farmer said for sure it was a local stream,” I tried innocuously, because I did not want to appear overly didactic.
“You sure?” he asked breezily.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said, not giving it a second thought.
“Why did you think it was the Han?” I queried curiously.
“I was just guessing,” he said blithely. With that I present the quintessential Korean male: so absolutely confident in his abilities, so supremely sure of himself, so convincingly self-possessed that the mere thought he could be wrong, ever, about anything, would never enter his consciousness.
After Heju and I had a quick look at the dondae, we returned to the car and drove a few kilometres south to Gwangseong Citadel, where the hundreds of Korean soldiers had met their fate when they clashed with the Americans in 1871. We popped our heads in to the tourist hut by the parking lot and asked if we could get a short tour. It was already 4:30 and closing time was in a half-hour. An English-speaking guide, Lee Nam-suk, reluctantly agreed to take us around. She appeared weary and slightly aggrieved. “It’s busy this time of year,” she told us. “We get up to two thousand visitors a day.”
She led us up the path to the fort, which was built on a high, broad, circular promontory, heavily wooded and overlooking the channel below. It jutted several hundred metres out into the water. The grand front gate of the fort was a massively thick wall of cut granite blocks with a tunnel through it. Atop was a heavy-looking traditional wooden arched roof that curved sharply upwards at the corners. The fort was originally constructed in 1656, and had been repaired in 1977. Unfortunately, our guide was unable to show us the fort, since we had so little time.
We walked up the dirt path that ran parallel to the channel It was lined with beautiful pine trees, their roots exposed from the erosive action of rain and wind. In a small clearing, seven gravestones honour the Koreans who died in the battle that took place here. They call this spot Sinmisunuichong, which translates as “A Tomb for Those Who Died Righteously During the Year of the Sheep.” A small stone monument, Ssangchungbi, or “Memorial Stone for Loyal Twins,” honours General Eo Jae-yeon and his brother Eo Jae-sun, both killed during the battle. Their bodies were interred in their hometown, Eumseong, in North Chungcheong Province, but of the Korean soldiers killed by the Americans here in 1871, the ashes of fifty-three remain.
I was puzzled and asked Ms Lee why there were no names of the dead on the graves, only a reference on the plaque to “nameless heroes.” Ms Lee replied that many of the soldiers weren’t professional military men, rather, they were peasants or servants of the lower class who not only often weren’t well-trained, but this segment of society often had no names. “Many of the bodies were too mangled to be identified, too” she added, “and families didn’t come to search for the bodies because they probably lived too far away.”
We continued down the path that led to the water and came upon a low stone rampart; behind it, three cannons faced the channel, weapons that were likely fired at the American ships.
When Ms. Lee returned to her office, Heju and I strolled farther out onto the spit, where pine trees lined the shore. We were the only ones there; everything was so still. The only sound was a flock of geese that passed low overhead, calling out as they flew northward in their V-formation. It was high tide and the murky brown water in the channel — only about half a kilometre wide at this point — flowed swiftly in the middle. Moss-laden boulders lay just off shore. The sky had turned grey in the growing dusk, and I trained my binoculars on the Gimpo mainland.
I scanned the heavily wooded shore, but nothing moved. A bit farther along, a small village appeared devoid of inhabitants. Then I noticed the telltale signs of military presence — barbed wire that topped the chain-link fence that ran along the shoreline was partially hidden by trees. At regular intervals tall floodlight posts and camouflaged guard posts poked up.
Dusk fully upon us, Heju and I returned to the car and headed back to town for some dinner.
Back in town, we stopped along the main road at a brightly lit chain restaurant, which, from its familiar name, I knew would offer modest prices. Inside was bustling, and a feeling of warmth and congeniality pervaded. This was common in many restaurants. You see, Koreans love eating out, whether with family, friends, or work colleagues. I contend it’s a national hobby, along with mountain-climbing and drinking (the latter particularly with men). Young kids often accompany their parents to restaurants, and run and play, which can make for a hectic, lively, and noisy environment.
At the table beside us sat two older gentlemen. One wore a blue jacket. He reminded me of Larry King, if Mr. King were Asian. Sitting across him was his pal, about ten years his senior, who was decked out in a wrinkled green coat, listening to his companion with rapt, earnest attention.
The man’s soliloquy must have been fascinating, so I whispered urgently to Heju. “Tell me what they’re saying, please. Maybe I can use it in the book.”
“I don’t want to,” she said. Understandably, she did not like to get involved in strangers’ matters.
“Come on, please! What they’re saying could be very important!”
Heju reluctantly acquiesced and sat quietly and unobtrusively, listening. Several minutes later she relayed their conversation to me. “One guy was saying: ‘I’d like to live with a Japanese woman. I don’t like Korean women. They’re too tough. They try to control you all the time. Japanese women are softer.’”
I learned quickly when I first arrived in Korea that public displays of emotion — be it anger, impatience, happiness, joy, sadness, or surprise — often displayed with dramatic aplomb, can be part and parcel of Korean society. I’d watch as two ajummas, for example, verbally jostled in a market, or a female customer unhappily harangued a shop clerk, or a pair argued vociferously at a café. Public spats can be compelling theatre, like watching the final tempestuous act of a Shakespearean tragedy, though such occurrences seemed to warrant scant attention from passersby. It’s a stark contrast to Canada, where public etiquette and politeness is a national trait.
The connotation ajumma in Korea usually refers to a housewife of mid-age or older who has jettisoned most proclivities to retaining youth, and whose demeanour can at times be aggressive. The word can also equate to a female of working-class distinction. When I’m at my local outdoor market, I’ll ask the woman behind the fish stall, “Ajumma, godeungeo eolmayeyo?” (Ma’am, how much is the mackerel?), and she won’t blink an eye. But at the bank, I once used ajumma to address the fortyish teller, and she rebuked me.
Dr. Horace Allen noted in his 1908 book, Things Korean, that when Korean women were “pressed too far, they will turn, and the fury into which they then work themselves is something awful to contemplate.”