A Futile Resistance

by James Jakimowicz

New Year's Eve, 1999, and Seoul was no place to be. All indications from the Blue House were that the millennium bug wasn't a problem worth addressing, and would pass into the annals of the great misbeliefs of history. Towing the official line, the Korea Herald lamented the catastrophising and alarmism of the day. But that didn't stop my boss, in a rare fit of altruism, from loading me down with a twenty-four pack of tinned tuna and some sensible advice. "You'd better buy many cartons of water. And be careful in town tonight."

"If the foundering regime of the north was looking to go out with trumpets blaring, then the millennium bug's crippling of Korea would provide it with just the chance."

The stakes were high. Fifty-five odd kilometres to the north, you could almost hear the sound of heavy guns being primed, and conscripts rustling in darkened caves. When the lights went out—and the millennium bug conspired against the ceasefire on the peninsula—Kim Jong-il's men would start blasting. Two thousand seven hundred and fifty T-type tanks would roll across the DMZ; outdated Mig-17s would fly suicide sorties across the line of control, and heavy artillery would flatten a third of Seoul before their positions could be identified and destroyed. If the foundering regime of the north was looking to go out with trumpets blaring, then the millennium bug's crippling of Korea would provide it with just the chance.

Hooker Hill's notorious lanes behind the tourist trap of It'aewon offered the ideal place to await the carnage. The view from Euphoria was that of a squat grey cityscape, not dissimilar to any large North-East Asian town. I ordered a bottle of soju and a beer from the Madame, and watched otherwise lonely young marines roam the hills with Korean girls held fast under their arms. The Madame oversaw the delivery of our drinks and apologised, "Oh, we are busy tonight, no girls for you." Escotto, an Italian friend who'd arrived from Bangkok the previous day, folded his arms and huffed. "Yeah, good idea this. Thanks."

We downed shots of burnt rice liquor and envied the patrons who'd arrived early enough to ensure companionship. Our conversation struggled beneath a medley of mid-eighties pop. Escotto grabbed each girl that wandered past, but they were all spoken for and made the fact abundantly clear. "Oh, no honey tonight."

"He called the Madame over and convinced her to sit on his lap. But the business of the night soon tore her away, and Escotto was left with a warm thigh and sad look."

To relieve a mounting frustration, Escotto produced a bottle of Lariam and flicked one around the table. "You won't need them, Scott, there's no malaria this far north," I assured. He popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with beer. "No, I have to take these for two weeks after I leave Thailand. Doctor's orders."

The TV in the corner of the room showed jostling hordes gathered outside the golden Lotte department store. In typical Korean fashion, breathing space appeared at a premium, and trainloads of merrymakers arrived by the second to shore up the tattered rear of the crowd. "Imagine being there, poor bastards don't know what's coming." I leant into Escotto and shouted a prophesy of doom.

"What?"

"They don't know what's coming." I threw both hands in the air to indicate an explosion. Escotto slumped in his chair. He called the Madame over and convinced her to sit on his lap. But the business of the night soon tore her away, and Escotto was left with a warm thigh and sad look.

"Let's go. I want to kiss a girl at midnight."

The previous day we toured the DMZ of Panmunjom. Escotto and I, as sober-minded as could be, followed our guide around the model village, the negotiating room, and past interminable barricades of barbed wire. Peering into North Korea with rented binoculars proved unsettling. Everything seemed so perfectly still; like a poised fist. "Hmm, they say this will be the end of the world one day." Escotto handed the binoculars to me.

"Apparently, that day will be tomorrow midnight. It's been nice knowing you."

Ten, nine, eight. The countdown began in the chilled street. A large illuminated clock straddled the intersection, Escotto scrutinised its time with a stare. He pointed at the clock and then into the sky. The counting approached nought. A surge brought the crowd forward and lodged us against a wall of people. Two, one, zero, was met with a deafening cheer and the roar of fireworks. I tried to watch each and every light covering the Lotte store, waiting for the first flicker that would indicate an impending doom.

"The fireworks replaced the blackened sky with falling kaleidoscopes and sound. Escotto started crawling. He squeezed between long boots and scrawny legs to forge a path along the street."

"Nothing happened. Nothing at all!" I exhaled and wondered what I'd do with a hundred bottles of mineral water scraping the ceiling of my apartment. "Escotto, it's alright, nothing happened, we're going to live." I patted him on the shoulder though he shrunk from my touch.

He crouched low and tangled his fingers around his head. "The bastards, let's get out of here Jack!" The fireworks replaced the blackened sky with falling kaleidoscopes and sound. Escotto started crawling. He squeezed between long boots and scrawny legs to forge a path along the street.

"What are you doing?" I grabbed the back of his shirt. "It's only the fireworks, they won't hurt you."

"The bastards have started already. Let's get out of here."

Despite my pleas and persuasions, nothing would make Escotto believe that what was happening was little more than the traditional and controlled use of gunpowder. Each cluster that made itself known above the buildings resulted in Escotto grabbing the back of his head and burrowing as far as he could into the bitumen. When we made the back of the crowd, he flipped over and sat panting.

"Jack, come here. And keep your head down for God's sake."

I approached.

"Now, we've got to get out of here before the DMZ defence breaks. If we make it to the Italian embassy and you keep your mouth shut, then we'll be safe." He grasped my sleeve and lowered me to the footpath. Thousands of people moved this way and that without paying the slightest attention to the two conferring foreigners.

"Safe from what?" I demanded. A fresh round of explosions hammered the sky. Escotto winced with the force of the shock wave. "The Migs, you idiot, do you want to be killed like the rest of them?"

We traced our way through the backstreets—a precaution Escotto insisted on—and wound for an hour and a half to the Italian embassy. Two guards slouched in front of the gates, both Korean and disinterested in the proceedings of the night. "Why here, why not the Australian embassy? At least we make decent beer." Escotto approached the guards who looked wearily at this stranger.

"Your countrymen were more active in the war. Do you think the dear leader's memory is that short? Your country's a target, mine's not."

The guards waved their guns in inoffensive ways, and insisted that we had no business being in that part of town. Escotto pleaded with them, in Italian and the little barroom Korean he knew, and even tried to force his way over the barricade.

"They're invading! Ha correto per suo vive," he shouted, finding his attempt at scaling the perimeter frustrated. The guards looked at each other and nodded. Northern aggression seems inevitable to the people of the south, and any news of the occurrence would relieve the constant day-to-day recalculation of when it will take place.

"Come on Scott, they're not interested, let's go back to Euphoria," I said.

"I can't believe this. You want us to face down tanks with a bottle of soju. I'm getting in here and they can airlift me home." He began a desperate howl, mixing English curses with Italian pleas, and tempted the guards to shoot us dead right there in order to gain a moment's peace.

One of the guards raised the butt of his rifle, I jerked Escotto towards me and received the brunt of the attack in my forearm. The other guard levelled his barrel at Scott's face and shouted at us to raise our arms. Escotto kneeled to the ground, folding his hands behind his head. "The bastards, they're agents for the north Jack, we're doomed."

The commotion grew too distracting for the residents of the embassy. One approached with a bottle of wine in hand. "Che e il problema?"

Escotto heaved in the execution position. I explained that my friend thought the invasion had begun, and wanted to claim refuge. "Has he had the LSD or the mushroom?" the man asked. "Not that I know of."

"The cocaine, the marijuana?"

"No. He's only had a bit of soju and some beer."

"Is he having some medication?"

"Only malaria tablets. Lariam, I think."

The man ordered the gates released and an Italian sentry appeared from the dark to lift Escotto inside. "You idiot! Mefloquine with alcohol is the hallucinogenic! You are no friend to him!" The gate slammed on the doctor's rant and I was left in the street with two Korean guards still agitated from the encounter.

"Gentlemen," I wished them good night and caught the next taxi for Euphoria. I've seen Escotto twice since, the first time he marvelled at the hurried reconstruction of the city. He returned to Bangkok just last week, and claims that for him the war was a very traumatic time indeed.

Copyright © James Jakimowicz 2003