The Great Mysteries of Korea

          August 29, 2000


by John Bocskay


   How is it that an ajumma, walking alone with the right combination of accoutrements, swerving, and changes in speed can single-handedly block a sidewalk so completely that nothing short of an armored column can pass her? Two or three old ladies walking together become a mobile Demilitarized Zone. Even though you approach them from behind, they seem to have an innate sense of your location and trajectory, swinging unaccountably into your path just as you thought you might sneak past. It recently occurred to me that this apparently natural tendency might have a practical social application. During times of civic unrest, the police often find it necessary to cordon off certain streets from angry demonstrators. My advice to them: deputize a special Ajumma unit and send them strolling into the trouble spots armed with a couple of shopping bags. Voila! Instant roadblock. 

   Korea is a very health conscious country. Traditional Chinese and Korean medicines are everywhere available for a wide variety of ailments. Home remedies are passed down through countless generations, and many people concoct special soups and dishes with palliative effects for all sorts of illnesses. Sick Koreans often wear cotton surgical masks, with the intention (I assume) of preventing the spread of their illness to their friends, classmates, or colleagues. So why is it that the same person will peel off their mask at the water cooler, and drink from the same unwashed cup that is used by every other person in the building? 

   Earlier this year I got a cell phone. I thought it would be easy; I brought along my bankbook, my alien registration card, my passport, and some recent bills, all with the intention of showing that I was legally and gainfully employed and had some money in the bank and a stable home address. Despite having all these things to my credit, the sales representative said he could not register the phone in my name because I was a foreigner, but that he would be happy to give me the phone if a Korean friend or associate would countersign.  

   Fair enough. My girlfriend couldn't  sign because she already had a phone registered with the same company, so I began racking my brains for a reliable Korean friend whose credentials were similarly respectable. The man said anyone would suffice, so my girlfriend signed her younger brother's name, even though he was not present and to this day has no knowledge of his guarantee of my reliability. I was happy to get the phone at last, but I was left wondering: Why is it more difficult for a solvent foreign teacher to get a cell phone than it is for an unemployed Korean high school student?

   Most Korean bookstores quite naturally do not carry any books in English. So why do they inspire false hope by printing the very English word "Bookstore" on their shop window?

   Many Korean restaurants quite thoughtfully take the trouble of translating their menus into English for their foreign customers. Why do they not go the next step and have them proofread by someone fluent in English? Anyone here ever ordered a "Cherry Cock"? Even though I know what they mean, I think I'll l pass on the "coffee made from Vietnamese growths" for the same reason I've never dreamt of submitting a resume full of misspelled words.  What does that tell us about the restaurant's attention to detail? If the menu was haphazardly slapped together, why should I assume that the food was prepared with greater care?

    Why do many "Western bars" in Korea, aside from being only superficially Western, (posters and baseball jerseys on the walls) seldom feature an actual sit-down bar? My advice to would-be Western barmen in Korea: Take out some of the tables and put in a bar, complete with that singularly Western touch, the barstool. The space created by having fewer tables will provide room to mingle with strangers (another Western eccentricity) and will dramatically increase the comfort level of people who would have been seated beneath the dartboard. If there is no dartboard, get one. And keep in mind that very few bars in North America have full-size cutouts of John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe on the walls. These may be safely removed.

   Born in 1971, plus the subsequent 29 years, somehow equals an age of 30 in Korea. I protest, "No, please, I'm  still only twenty nine." A year of my life just vanished when I came here. As a consolation, I learned that I gained one too: the nine months (let's call it a year) I spent incubating inside mom. It's an interesting idea, but I still feel it shouldn't count because I was attached umbilically to my mother and still incapable of independent life. But then, if we begin counting life only after independence from our mothers, that would make me roughly four years old. To make matters worse, some of my best friends have not yet been born. Maybe the Korean way is right and think of all the money I'd save on birthday cards to my unborn friends! It's still an unsettling thought that I was 28 years old for only four months. But I think I crammed a lot of living into that short year; I had just moved to Korea, and I had a lot to learn.

 

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