The room quivered at the roar of thunder. Foiled. We would have to wait for a break in the storm and catch the next bus. I hoped we wouldn't miss anything.
Four hours later we arrived in Cheonan- a bustling city of half-a-million people and third-rate bathroom facilities. I discovered this when I detoured to the lavatory and found three very unpleasant surprises waiting for me there. The lights had malfunctioned, casting the bathroom into almost pitch black. Second, water was dripping from the sagging ceiling directly into the stalls. Lastly, and I think there is a lesson to be learned here, there was no toilet paper. None. Wherever you go in Korea, bring toilet paper with you.
Oh, and did I mention it was a Turkish toilet?
Rattled and wet I met Comrade to find our way to the Independence Hall of Korea. At least the girl at the help desk spoke some English- enough to tell me that our destination was another 30 minutes by bus. Two-and-a-half hours each way by bus. This wasn't exactly the way I had wanted to spend my weekend, but I had high hopes for the Liberation Day festival. I expected the Koreans to express their pride on this day, maybe even show a little nationalism. Actually, I anticipated a lot of nationalism- today was important.
The Japanese occupation of Korea had been brutal. Not that it has been spoken of much, but the Japanese took many cues from Nazi Germany. Awful as that was, Korea's problems began before that. For over a hundred years prior, the peninsula had been caught between three great powers- Japan, Russian and China- that tried to assert their influence in the region and control its commerce. Only fifty years ago on this Sunday did Korea finally regain its autonomy.
I looked up from the help desk and spotted a television monitor. Korean president Lee Myung-Bak was on the screen addressing the crowd gathered at Independence Hall. My spirits dampened again. I had wanted to be there for this speech. For a minute I watched. The cheering crowd punctuated each of his phrases for him. I didn't understand a word. Maybe, if we were fast, we could still catch it.
We rushed for the intra-city bus-stop and climbed aboard. The ride before us reminded me why I never want to drive in Korea. In the crowded transport I clung to the overhead grab-bar, trying not to be thrown into the lap of the old lady sitting nearby. The vehicle quickly accelerated then lurched to a halt as a taxi cut it off. A delivery-boy on a scooter prompted another sudden stop as he flew through a red light right in front of us. It was a long thirty minutes before we arrived.
The park was worth it by itself. The grounds of the Independence Hall of Korea are enormous with various monuments erected to celebrate their nationalist endeavors. The names on the signs were translated into sometimes pitiful engrish, but the art was impressive. The raised, minimalist relief style of some of the sculptures reminded me of the fascist monuments erected in Nazi Germany and Mussolini's Italy.
The scale, however, was far more grand and the art celebrated the human spirit. The fascist style of Nazi Germany only glorified an ideology that cast humans in the role of mindless, obedient ants.
A Korean skating team greeted us as we walked the promenade towards the great hall itself. Wearing rollerblades and baring significantly more muscle-tone than most of the inhabitants of Chungju combined, they put on a small, awkward spectacle. The walkway was uneven (as are nearly all walkways in Korea) and completely unsuited to skating. A poor girl fell on her rear and another stumbled on their way over a bridge.
We came upon the 'White Rotus Pond' (sic) and wondered at the lack of flowers. The surface of the water glittered gold with the teeming koi. Perhaps the overfed fish had greedily devoured them in an attempt to keep their fellows from accomplishing the same. They certainly seemed intent on not sharing any child-supplied treats with their turtle neighbors.
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