As if on cue, the wintry breeze of Seoul drifted into our room through the undersized window in the opposite wall when I came out of the bathroom from a hot morning shower.
The nippy air brushed through my half-nakedness, prompting me to put on a pair of khaki pants, plaid long sleeves, and a layer of fluffy down jacket. I thrust my feet into a rugged pair of rubber shoes before I polished my attire in front of the mirror.
“Casual. Almost close to being smart”, I thought, glaring at the mirror. Our tour operator had told us to observe proper dress code, so we wore what we deemed fitting.
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In my head, I recalled my friend’s reaction when she knew that my mother and I had signed up for a tour to the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) at the boundary between North and South Korea. “Ano naman ang mapapala niyo sa boundary? Eh parang Taguig-Pateros lang yun”, she blurted. (What would you gain from seeing the boundary? It’s as if you visited Taguig-Pateros.)
I burst into an inner laughter.
Once fixed, I secured the things we need for the day. Mobile phones? Checked. Passports? Set aside. My mother? Done with her rituals.
The two of us descended the flight of stairs of the five-story apartment toward the main street. We felt our soles struggle against friction as we strode on the downhill slope of Namsan toward our rendezvous in Eulji-ro—Lotte Hotel.
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We hid our hands in the side pockets of our jackets throughout our morning walk to Lotte Hotel. Wisp of fog escaped from our mouths whenever we spoke. Our facial pores tightened. Koreans didn’t seem to care.
We found ourselves standing in front of Lotte Hotel, a high-rise building that impressively emanated grandeur from the base to top. Glass doors at the entrance automatically opened every time guests came in and marched out of the hotel. We went in.
When we arrived at the office of the agency on the 6th floor of Lotte Hotel, the lady at the front desk greeted us with a pleasant you-are-on-time hello. No questions asked, we presented her our travel documents, handed our payment, and received instructions to proceed to our assigned bus at the parking area on the 2nd floor.
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On the bus were tourists of different nationalities and age groups. There were Americans, Sri Lankans, Venezuelans, among others. It was an instant melting pot back there, which made the trip more interesting.
As we read the pamphlets of the tour, a modulated voice of a lady started talking on the microphone. I sat bolt upright and wandered my eyes to the source of the voice.
Standing at the front aisle was a short-haired lady whose beauty exuded that of a typical Korean woman. Her milky white skin glowed radiantly. She introduced herself, but her name didn’t register in my head. It sounded Joan, so I coined her Joan from then on.
Her gentle voice sustained its calmness until she mentioned “NOT” on “Do not take pictures”. Her emphasis of the warning—no, threat—was sharp it felt as if a double-edged sword shattered my camera into smithereens. I got bothered.
The bus moved forward. It was 9:30 AM.
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“If taking pictures from the Civilian Controlled Line onwards are not allowed, why are the tour rates so high?” The question kept running in my head until we arrived at War Memorial and Museum, about 15 minutes since we departed the hotel.
As if we had been mind-controlled by the set of rules, we cautiously moved out of the bus and formed two lines as soon as we touched the ground. Joan laughed hard, so hard I imagined her almond eyes almost closed as she did so. “You guys are too obedient. No need to form a double file here”, she ended her sentence with another laughter. We spread apart.
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On command, we stopped at the facade of the museum, and Joan started asking for our countries of origin. She revealed that the spot we were standing at was actually a gallery of marble monuments inscribed with names of thousands of soldiers who died in the Korean War, and that the names were grouped according to country.
I scanned the overwhelming list in an attempt to find my country, the Philippines, to pay my respect for my fallen countrymen. I paused when I found it, and my eyes ran through the small engraved names. It was heartwrenching. I called my mother so she could see it as well, then we continued to walk.
A grey-haired lady, probably in her 60s, welcomed our group when we all gathered at the lobby. She became our guide in the museum, and she was the one who led us to the major sections of the building.
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The most moving part of our museum tour was when we were shown a video of the chronology of Korean War and how the two Koreas became cold neighbors.
After watching the clip, we learned that in June 1950, the war broke out. That in June 1950, North Korea’s supposed military practice was actually a disguised surprise invasion. And that on the day of the attack in June 1950, soldiers of South Korea were on leave to plant rice. Five million people separated because of the war.
Inside the dark room, the audience rubbed their eyes as if the gods of emotions implanted pity and disdain in their hearts. They left the museum with heavy loads.
The bus moved forward. It was 11 AM.
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Joan took the mic again and shared many trivia about the war, the DMZ, and present-day Korea as we headed north toward the boundary.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will look to your left you will see bald mountains lack of trees. You know why? Because people on the other side cut them and ate the bark”, she professed, pointing to North Korea across Han River. Everybody was like, seryoso?
We traveled for more than hour from Seoul to Paju, a city just south of Panmunjom on the 38th parallel. I gazed through the window and took notice of the cluster of buildings. The streets were almost devoid of people. There was a greenhouse farm. Barbed wires. A drone.
Our bus came to a complete stop when we reached Unification Park in Paju. Joan gave us a 20-minute refreshment break to go the restroom and to buy drinks.
We disembarked and walked straight to the park. The sky was clear, the sun was up, but the wind was cool so we didn’t remove our jackets yet.
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Unification Park was built in honor of the soldiers who fought in defense of South Korea during the Korean War. The monument also stood as a symbol of hope for the long-awaited unification of North and South Korea.
We took pictures at the park. As soon as I realized I was holding my camera, I searched for Joan. She was inside the convenience store, so I came in.
I collected enough courage before I threw her the question that was bothering me since we left Seoul. “Excuse me, Ma’am. I just want to ask if we could take pictures at the JSA”, I maintained the tone of my voice so as to sound less offensive.
“Yes, you can, but only when I tell you to do so”, she responded, smiling. My soul punched the air with a loud, blissful “yes!”. I thanked Joan.
The bus moved forward. It was 12:30 PM.
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For lunch, we stopped at Imjingak, a park close to the Demarcation Line. Joan led us to a restaurant on the second floor of the building.
The server placed a pot of bulgogi over an open flame on our table, then he carefully arranged the chopsticks and utensils, together with small ceramic bowls filled with mouth-watering authentic Korean side dishes.
Once set, we gobbled everything down. All but kimchi ran empty, even my second bowl of rice. That lunch was like our last. It was deliciously good!
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Right after lunch, we climbed to the observatory at the roof deck of the building for a panoramic view of the surrounding area. We peeked through the installed telescopes and saw objects that were as far as beyond Freedom Bridge.
When we came back to our bus, a handful of Japanese tourists had joined the group. They had their own Japanese-speaking tour guide, a Korean lady whose age I assumed was the same as Joan’s.
The bus moved forward. It was 1:50 PM.
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On our way to Camp Bonifas, Joan stood once more and reminded us of the NO picture-taking policy starting from the Civilian Controlled Line, unless she stated otherwise. The Japanese-speaking guide followed suit, in Japanese language.
Joan reassured that we understood the rules well. She did not want us to have the same fate as those previous groups who were denied access to Joint Security Area (JSA) because of failure to abide by the rules. She highlighted that the guys in JSA are stringent, and that they impose sanctions to whoever breaks the rules. Failure of one tourist would definitely affect the entire group.
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Our bus crossed a bridge and was about to enter JSA. We approached a checkpoint on the other side of the bridge. Uniformed men inspected us from the ground. CCTV cameras.
We heaved a sigh of relief when we passed the first security checkpoint. Our bus drove toward Camp Bonifas.
Upon arrival at the second checkpoint, Joan spoke on the mic once again, “Everyone, please prepare your passports for inspection”.
Amidst the silence in the bus, a stocky officer emerged from the door and started verifying the roster. When he turned up at our row, we handed our passports without making any eye contact.
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We stopped at JSA Visitor Center and alighted the bus for JSA orientation. We instinctively formed a double file and walked toward the hall as if we were preschoolers on a field trip. We were not allowed to bring any bags; small items were kept inside our pockets.
At the JSA Visitor Center each of us was handed a clip-on guest badge and a waiver form to append our signature on.
Most of the items listed on the waiver were easy to follow and internalize, but certain notes had somehow made me hesitant to sign it. Of all the tourists in our group, the Venezuelans had the most difficult time signing the waiver.
Don’t point, don’t wave, don’t make any threatening gestures. These were some of the rules I could remember. When the slideshow presentation was over, we were transferred to a different coach going to JSA as part of their security measures.
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On the second bus were two military personnel from the United Nations Command (UNC): the first was the driver, and the second was the leader of our group. Both of them wore black ballistic sunglasses. One of them resembled Cyclops. Psyclops, because he reminded me of Psy as well.
As much as I wanted to take snapshots of the view outside, my fear of being caught prevailed. I saw Propaganda Village on the North Korean side from my window seat, as well as the controversial towering North Korean flag pole that reached to the clouds. Too bad I didn’t have the chance to shoot. Psyclops was watching us.
The bus stopped in front of the Freedom House. Right on cue, we disembarked and grouped ourselves once more into two lines. We walked past the vacant hall and climbed the staircase toward the back.
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We came across military officers who remained stationary during our visit. From the Freedom House we were led to the MAC Conference Room at the back of the building.
MAC Conference Room was the highlight of our JSA and Panmunjom tour. The famous small blue building is where South and North Korean forces stand face-to-face, and where diplomatic engagements between the two nations are being held.
Inside the MAC building were uniformed men standing motionless on all corners. A sturdy table was in the center of the room. Later on, Joan revealed that the table stands in both countries: half of it belongs to North, the other half to South. She said that we were standing on the North Korean side.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you only have two minutes to leave this room”, commanded our leader from the UNC. We scurried outside. Psyclops was serious.
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For the record, both conflicting countries had set up plenty of CCTV cameras close to the boundary. Surprisingly, South Korea had the most number of units installed. Many, as in many, cameras faced the opposite side, like guns aimed at the enemy.
A single North Korean military patrol at the opposite building held a pair of binoculars, pointing toward us. South Korean officers maintained their taekwondo stance from the other side.
From the Freedom House, we traced our path back to our bus.
We drove to the Bridge of No Return, our last stop. The officers did not let us get off the bus, but Joan gave an overview of the bridge. It was where the two countries exchanged prisoners of war; 83,000 returned to South Korea. We took snapshots of the bridge from inside the bus, and then returned to JSA Visitor Center.
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I came back to the question of my friend, “What would you gain from seeing the boundary? It’s like seeing—” Let me cut you there, my friend. For one, there’s a big difference between Taguig-Pateros and North-South Korea.
The Korean boundary speaks more than what many people might think of it. The boundary that drew the line between North and South Korea, barricaded with massive barbed wires and equipped with countless surveillance cameras, taught me life lessons that I would always reflect on as I grow older.
Selfishness could damage a relationship, even with someone you consider as a close ally or family. Selfishness tore Korea apart.
But there is always hope. I gained hope. I clinged to hope that one day, the two Koreas would put an end to their disagreements, and that they would finally settle upon a reunification.
Did my KRW 77,000 pay off? Yes. The enlightening experience was more than enough, despite the unfathomable restriction in taking photographs. Even so, I came to think that not all objects are meant to be captured by a camera’s memory card, but by the memory of the camera owner himself.
Our tour was over.
The bus moved forward. It was 4 PM.
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