Breaking All the Rules

by Kendi Stoneberg (United States of America)

Making a local connection Korea South

Don’t talk to strangers. That’s the number one rule we all learn growing up. Stay away from them. Don’t talk to them, don’t eat their food, don’t wander off with them in unfamiliar places. These are the rules. These are textbook, basic survival 101. I know this, and yet… I broke every one of these rules in a single afternoon. Honja. I learned this foreign word in a way that I will never forget, on the hour-long ferry ride from the southern coast of the Korean peninsula headed toward one of the many islands located in the area: Somaemuldo. Honja means ‘alone,’ which I was. And for anyone traveling solo, young women especially, it’s strongly recommended that you don’t tell that to the ahjussis (middle-aged men) that have you cornered on a boat in open waters. Still, it was blatantly obvious that I was honja without having to mention it to anyone, being the only person on the ferry that wasn’t wearing a neon windbreaker and hiking boots. And also, the only non-native—a young American white girl in her mid-twenties feeling like the centerpiece of a store-front window display. I was anxious. Small town, random boat, only foreigner, linguistically inept—to name a few obstacles. I chose a spot near the railing and planned on doing nothing but staying completely to myself, listening to music and staring out at the water until we reached the island. Then, about fifteen minutes in, one of the more confident ahjussis and a few other members of his hiking group came to me with their broken English to ask, “Honja? Where you from?” In my sudden panic, I instantly forgot all safety precautions, imagining worst-case scenarios and drawing a blank on how I would get myself out of them. They smiled and drew closer. One pulled out his phone and asked, “Picture with you?” I quickly went from being the isolated window display to feeling like the Black-Friday bargain item that everyone rushes to buy. I was offered a seat and immediately surrounded by at least three different groups of people hoping to practice their English on the slightly bewildered waegookin (foreigner) in their midst, some of them shyly asking if they could take a picture with me, too. They told me what Somaemuldo had in store for them: a fishing trip, a work retreat, a best friend’s fiftieth birthday outing—all the while peppering me with questions using exaggerated hand gestures, working together to find English words that made sense, and many more that didn’t. They saw my honja-ness and refused to allow it. And then they saw my empty-handedness. This was not a planned trip on my part. I bought the ferry ticket on a whim per the last-minute recommendation of my Airbnb host. And even though there would be food available on the island, they were concerned about the money it would cost me. Very soon my hands and pockets were full. Apples, tangerines, granola, and carefully wrapped homemade rice balls. The ahjussis were eager to show me how to feed the swarm of seagulls that flew close to the ferry, handing me chip after chip and laughing at my cries of surprise every time a bird swooped in to snatch the salty snacks from my fingers. I talked to all the strangers on that boat. I hiked the island with them. I stood center in their pictures. I sat at their picnic table eating myungrang hotdogs, drinking soju, and telling stories, communicating in our limited knowledge of each other’s languages with no reservations until our ride returned hours later to take us back to the mainland. They all wanted to tell the stranger-far-from-home where they came from, who they were, why they were there. They wanted to be a part of my travels, a part of my story, so that one day when I looked back on my time in South Korea it would be their smiles that I remembered. Their enthusiasm. Their kindness. It's true; I broke all the rules that day. But what if I hadn’t? What if I'd stayed honja? A word that had somehow effected friendship and inclusion would have remained, then, just a sad, lonely little word.