Confessions of a Russian Spy

When did the Red Scare, McCarthyism and all that other craziness occur? Was that the late 40's to the 50's? Prompting every spy movie that came out to feature the evil, yet masculinely handsome Russians as the nefarious villains? Now I think we tend vilify the Arab nations, seeing as we're so keen to stereotype and ostracize. Anyway, I think it leaves us with some residue of resentment and suspicion at the cold war nation. Well, I dare to now confess to you that I am under suspicion as being a Russian spy.

Any good detective will mark the first clue as occurring several years ago in the summer of '01 when I studied in Moscow. Out with my class one day in one of the numerous parks scattered throughout the city, we walked among the various and sundry statues. This particular park showcased the disgrace of the evils perpetrated by the communist regime, displaying headless statues of Stalin, a depiction of the mass murders, and various other leaders. As we stood before an imposing 20 foot statue of, I believe, Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, I exclaimed, "Cool! The KGB!" My excitement was sparked not by my historical interest or any affinity for this organization, but rather due to its role in my then favorite program, Alias. Nonetheless, it drew withering stares from my classmates, all of whom failed to share my enthusiasm.

My excitement exhibited for the founder of what would become the KGB is insufficient evidence to indict me as a spy, however. So allow me to continue.

A surprising number of Russians live in Korea, having migrated here to escape the communist regime. Given few opportunities for work, I suppose, the women gained a reputation as being prostitutes. This is a stereotype that has been ingrained into the minds of older Koreans. Thus, when asked if you are a Russian, you are essentially being solicited. Vexingly, I am often asked if I am Russian.

Initially not realizing the connotations to this question, I once was cornered by a man in a train station who queried in English, "Russian?" Hoping to deter him from talking with me, I answered in Russian that I don't speak any English. Rather than deterring him, however, he took this as an acceptance of his unspoken question. I ended up shoving him away and he began to irately yell at me. I quickly learned my lesson. I now emphatically emphasize that I am not Russian.

Just before leaving Korea to go home, the evening of the Bambi incident, I was to meet Mel and Liz for dinner near the beach. The summer traffic is so dense that I decided to exit the taxi early and walk to the restaurant. While waiting to cross the street at a traffic light, a man on a motorcycle turned the corner. Coming to an abrupt stop, he examined me and stated with a confident question, "Russian?" I answered with a roll of my eyes and a shake of my head. "Uh," he grunted, reassessing me. "American?" spoken with a hint of hopefulness. Not wanting to lie and merely hoping for the light to change, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded, looking away. "Ah," he said satisfactorily and again confidently. "Have sex?!" So shocked at this directness that I just started laughing, I managed to get out a scandalized and emphatic, "NO!" as I illegally crossed the street to escape him, laughing uproariously.

Later that evening, out with John and Pierre, I retold the story yet again. Shrugging, John pointed out casually, "Well, he probably thought if you were Russian, he'd have to pay; if you were American, he could get it for free!" Oh, sad. Because that's probably exactly what he thought.

Regardless of my insistence at not being Russian, I am generally suspected by most Koreans to simply be lying. This leads me to my final confession.

Last week was still vacation for me, so while friends were working, I filled my days with various activities. On Thursday I decided to go hiking on Jang Mountain, a 15 minute walk from my apartment. Arming myself with a water bottle and my Ipod, I took off a little before 10 am (lazy girl... I slept in). The hiking was glorious, really. Once I reached beyond the outdoor exercise area filled with active Koreans, the path became quiet and serene. Only seldomly did I pass other hikers. Deciding to explore, I took a number of paths off the main one, hoping to be rewarded with seclusion and grand views. I found both and enjoyed the time wandering. After hiking for two hours and nearly finishing my water, I decided that I should turn around. I did so and began the way back. As the trail meandered, I remember thinking that it looked unfamiliar. But I kept walking, assuming it would feed me onto my initial path. If you have any sort of perception whatsoever, you will be able to follow where my story is going: I got lost. As I kept going down, though, I assumed that I would eventually reach the bottom. Were it to be different than my point of origin, finding my way back would be easy enough.

This brings us about 3 hours in, the water finished long ago, the heat starting to get to me. I was walking along a road at this point, which I took to be a good sign, meaning that it would eventually connect with the city below. And though I passed a sign showing an "x" on this road, I prayed that the Korean, roughly translated, read something like, "Road closed for construction. Find alternate route. Except for hikers, of course." If so, I would merely make my way around the construction and keep going down. It was a steep decline and so I walked quickly, trying to think about how hungry I was as opposed to how thirsty I was because the need for food was significantly less.

A half hour after passing the sign, I came upon a gated area with a booth set up next to it. As I approached, a young Korean in uniform stepped out with an intimidatingly large gun. "Ahn yeong ha say yo," I said lightly, explaining in Korean that I don't speak Korean. With a shy smile, he called to the other guard, who spoke English.

"No, no. This is military. No go here," he said.

"Oh," I managed, wanting to cry. "So I have to go back?"

"Yes," he said somewhat apologetically.

"Oh," I repeated, shoulders sagging. As I turned and began walking up, I wheeled around and asked, "Can I just have a little water?"

He nodded empathetically and brought out a 2 liter bottle. I drank about half, thanked him, then turned again to make my way up. By my calculations, this meant that the hike up and then around to the correct path would be at least another two hours. Whimpering, I began to imagine myself dying on little Jang mountain, eaten by the lone wild deer in Korea.

The hike up was excruciatingly difficult, given that the slope was about 60 or 70 degrees, the heat was intense, the humidity was as thick as the ocean, and I had no water. I began praying for any car to come by; I would, for the first time ever, hitchhike. But, while ten cars passed me going down, no cars came up. Twenty minutes into walking up, I heard a stream trickling off the rocks. With animal instincts, I bounded from the road and pounced on the helpless water. I filled my water bottle twice and drank all in it. Filling it for a third time for the road, I got back on and felt somewhat revived.

Altogether, it took me 45 minutes to reach the sign again, which I consider rather impressive given the conditions. Just after passing it, I heard the noise of a car approaching. Jumping into the road, I held out two hands to stop it. Thankfully, they obliged. It was a green van with three Korean gentlemen in it. "Excuse me," I said in Korean. "I don't speak Korean." Then the sign language came out. "Me (pointing at self) molayo (Korean for "I don't know," coupled with looking all around me, confused). In car (pointing from myself to in the vehicle)? Jangsan park (the name of my starting point)." They obliged and allowed me in. I sat in the back and they immediately handed me a water bottle (I hid the remains of my stream water). The man in front of me expressed disgust and kept looking at me, likely because I appeared to have just stepped out, fully clothed, from a shower.

They did a U-turn in the car and began back down the hill. "No," I said, surprised. But then I kept quiet, not wanting to confuse them ("No, you don't want a ride down the mountain?") and realizing that it would be easy to backtrack when they were turned away. Down, down, down. As we reached the gate, I prepared for the interrogation as to their business on base. But the guard merely saluted as the driver waved, continuing down the road. Another five minutes and we were at the base next to the road. Thanking them profusely, I tried to pay them. But Koreans never accept money for acts of kindness. So I thanked them more, said, "Sarang hey-o!" or "I love you!" and left.

Now I have a deeply philosophical question to pose. If I were to have been Korean, would I have been turned back at the gate? Did they spot me coming, nudge eachother and whisper, "Russian spy," as I approached? Apparently I appeared to be very dangerous, a rogue spy armed with an empty water bottle and practically crawling to keep moving. In any case, it wasn't a risk they considered worth taking.

So if I am ever arrested as a Russian spy, you will be able to shrug, nod your head knowingly, and sigh, "I always supsected as much."