Them's the Rules

Originally published in The Groove
August 2007

A Stark View
By Tracey Stark

Them’s the rules

Since it’s already more than midway through 2007, I thought it was about time to do my good deed, my selfless act, if you will, for the decade. I figure I’ve lived in the Haebangchan neighborhood for almost a year, so I should give something back.

My project: to clean up a festering pile of trash down the street from my house that had been there for about three months. Now, some people might say, “Why hadn’t the trash collectors cleaned it up yet?” The answer is: because there is a right way and a wrong way to dispose of your rubbish in Seoul. And this was definitely the wrong way.

You see, in Korea there are rules for almost everything you do. Some are actually laws, like the one requiring you to buy special bags for your trash and to sort recyclables and food rubbish as well. And then there are customs, such as the one where women over 50 years old must get a perm and dye their hair. These customs strengthen over time. Ask an ajumma today why she gets a perm and she may not know the answer, but she will assure you that if she doesn’t it will likely result in her death by stoning. When given the choice, in fact (and I have nothing with which to back this assertion), more Koreans will choose customs over laws in almost any circumstance.

For example, while hiking a few summers ago at Soraksan my friends and I stopped to eat our bagged lunches partway up the trail. Not knowing any better, we packed mostly sandwiches and fruit. A large group of locals walked by us very slowly and a murmur began to pass among the hikers. I asked a friend who spoke better Korean than I do what we had done.

“It’s what we didn’t do that has them bothered,” he replied.

“What did we miss?” I pleaded, really worried by this point that a lynch mob was being formed just around the next bend.

“We didn’t pack kimbap,” he said gravely, “and we aren’t wearing black or red clothes.”

Needless to say, we turned back and headed for the car.

On another occasion, I went to a public swimming pool with a few Korean friends. When we got there, they donned swimming caps and jumped in. This is a requirement at pools to prevent great clusters of hair from bunching up and dragging some small child under to his or her death. But I shave my head clean, so I jumped in without a swim cap. Almost immediately a lifeguard summoned me out of the pool and ordered me to put on one of these rubber yarmulkes. I balked and pointed at my bald head, but he wouldn’t budge. “Everyone must wear one,” he said. There was no getting around it. On went the cabesa condom.

But my faux pas don’t stop there.

One morning last autumn I was riding the bus through one of the Namsan tunnels. It was a cool day and I was heading to work, enjoying the morning breeze through my window, which was open about an inch or two. About 100 meters into the tunnel the man behind me literally climbed over me and slammed my window shut. He had a look on his face that said, “You idiot! We could’ve all died from breathing tunnel air!” It’s like that silly game my sister and I played as children during long trips where we would hold our breath when passing a cemetery or lift our feet when crossing railroad tracks. (Well, almost the same except these are adults here.)

After five years, though, I think I’m getting the hang of it, which is why I decided to help someone out who obviously didn’t know any better.

So I bought the biggest trash bag available and headed for the flyblown pile of trash down the street for a little karmic workout. As I separated the tennis shoes from the broken beer bottles an old woman with a bulletproof perm, plaid pants and a floral shirt walked up, stopped for a minute, pointed at me and muttered something about doing outdoor work without wearing white cotton gloves and a vest. Then she walked away shaking her head in disgust.

(I hope she doesn’t report me, because I can’t remember if that one is a custom or a law.)