The road from my apartment to my school runs straight and desolate, like the dusty streets on which cowboys duel at high noon. Guarding the entrance to my school, like a modern day gunslinger, is a middle-aged patrolman. He is broad of face and thin of hair, and in winter he wears gloves (I have noticed his hands a lot over the months). In lieu of a pistol he carries a bright red baton with which he directs children and traffic, ensuring that no harm comes to human bodies and automobiles alike. He is the gatekeeper to the school, and before I can set foot on the property I have to spar with him in a game which he has devised and which I don’t entirely understand.
I start my morning by doing my best to pretend not to notice the Patrolman. This is not an easy task, because for thirty infinite seconds I have to trudge directly towards him along that straight and desolate road. As I approach him, I take precautions to avoid making premature eye contact; I read and re-read the name of the restaurant on my left that also happens to be written in Romanized English – The Manjock. I scrutinise the coffee shop to my right as if I am going to be quizzed on it later. Then I look intently left again, at the seafood restaurant that stands next to The Manjock, carefully reading the sign which I don’t understand.
To get to my school I have to cross a road, and before I turn my attention to the front of me, I make sure to look both ways prior to crossing. After ensuring that no vehicles will strike me down I finally, reluctantly, make eye contact with The Patrolman, and then we dance.
I smile at him, as I do to every Korean adult I encounter at my school, and I greet him in Korean, “Ahnyounghaseyo.”
He smiles broadly at me, and then, very slowly, he brings his hand up to his shoulder, and curls his fingers in as if he’s hefting an invisible shot-put. He rotates his hand back and forth at the wrist, miming that he is screwing in a light bulb, and then he begins chanting: “Bungle-bungle-bungle!” Each word is punctuated by a deft twist of the wrist.
It’s my turn now. Mirroring him with slightly less enthusiasm and a great deal more confusion, I bring my clawed fingers up to my chest, give my hand a shake, and mutter, “Bungle-bungle-bungle!”
This brings such joy to the Patrolman, and he’ll once more repeat, “”Bungle-bungle-bungle!”
“Bungle-bungle-bungle!” I say for a second time, unsure of what I am saying and why I have to say it.
The Patrolman laughs, and I am free to enter the school.
That had been my ritual every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning since March, and I had finally gotten the hang of it. But then, about two weeks ago, the Patrolman threw a spanner in the works.
I began by ignoring him, as per usual.
I studied the restaurants to my right and left.
I checked for cars at the intersection.
I cross the street.
I greeted the Patrolman.
The Patrolman smiled and raised his hand.
I did the same.
The Patrolman began to chant, “Ah-joo-joo-wah!”
“Bungle-bungle-WAIT-WHAT?!” I said.
“Ah-joo-joo-wah!” said the Patrolman.
I was bamboozled, and hastened to regather my wits. “Ah-joo-wah-wah,” I said.
“Ah-joo-joo-wah!” His smile never faltered, and his hand continued to flick back and forth.
I tried again. “Ah-joo-joo-wah!” I said, thoroughly confused.
The Patrolman smiled and laughed, and I surmised that I had been granted access to the school.
I totally forgot about the incident until the following day, when the Patrolman and I repeated our dance. At the moment he raised his hand I remembered that the password had changed, but for the life of me I could not recall it.
“Ahh…” said the Patrolman, prompting me to say the phrase.
“Ah-wah-joo?” I said, uncertainly.
“Ah-joo-joo-wah!” said the Patrolman. It’s a dastardly simple phrase, but wretchedly difficult to commit to memory. It took the better part of a week to get all the words in the correct order, but now I believe I have it mastered.
I suspect that the Patrolman is doing his part to teach me some of Busan’s favourite colloquialisms, but I have no idea what they mean or how to use them, other than to get past the very man who is teaching them to me. As long as I remember these phrases, I know that I can confront the Patrolman with confidence. However, I live in constant fear of the inevitable day when he introduces a new password.
The Hangul Games 