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When I plan a trip, I do it with a suitcase loaded with passion, with enthusiasm; as if he were a child for whom any discovery produces a convulsion of joy, because everything results in learning and novelty.
That is the attitude I try to have, when I get on the plane and when, after long hours, I get off it. In Seoul they were waiting for me: a friend who accompanies me to drop off my luggage and then to dinner.
Despite the hours that had passed, I was not there to miss a wonderful barbecue, in a very lively fashion establishment, nor, after it, a Korean Karaoke session (whose format is far from ours), and in which we ended up emulating Frank Sinatra , in My Way as a duet. Although in honor of the truth and in that room, we distorted his song somewhat.
The walk through the Hongdae area, enjoying K POP, TIKTOK and GANGMAN, was the finishing touch before showering and resting, before, the next morning, taking the bus that, on a contracted tour, would take me to the DMZ ( Demilitarized zone).
There are several options for the visit, which in no case can be done individually, since authorized agencies are the only ones that obtain said permission. Among the options, I chose one day, not half a day, and without lunch. It cost 85,000 won, about 60 euros.
A brand new, high-end nine-seater vehicle picked us up from the hotels, until we regrouped on the bus. Of very different nationalities, there were 31 of us who started for, after a journey of just over an hour, and in which they gave us a varnish on the recent history of Korea; We arrived at a large parking lot, with a shopping area and circus included.
The commercial area could fit the bill, because of the memories, and the needs for restoration or going to the services. But seeing merry-go-rounds, strollers, and little colored lights, in an environment of so much contemplation and feeling, didn't quite put it in place, the truth is, and it was such an early hour that the circus had not yet started.
After a few minutes of free time, they regrouped us again to begin the visit. The day was dressed completely in gray, sky and earth, and except for the extemporaneous circus, for me everything there was, and it matched my feelings.
It is true that autumn tried to reverse it, turning the leaves of the trees into ochres and yellows, but inevitably it was gray that prevailed.
We were able to contemplate monuments in which Koreans requested, from hopeful and mortified souls, reunification; while they venerated those who had fallen in their war. One of many that shame the history of humanity, ancient, recent and current. We also heard their songs, which were nothing but a melodic and perpetual lament.
We could see a dilapidated closed bridge, rusty tracks under a disused locomotive, and many wishes, written in little bows that were tied around the gigantic and endless barbed wire fences.
Gift shop, postcards to send and the sculpture of two seated women, accompanied by empty chairs.
If until then the pain has not penetrated you to the bones, contemplating them does. They represent two mothers. One, for each Korea. And the attached empty chair is the one they save for the return of their respective children.
And again to the bus, to travel through "the area." That extensive strip that is supposed to be free of weapons and wars and in which only rivers and wastelands seem to be perceived. But there are barriers and requests for passports. Military men who approach us and scrutinize us. The omnipresent grey, which remains, like the tense calm, the military and warlike foreboding.
And it's not just the control zones, their uniforms, their watchtowers that say it. It also becomes permeable in the observatory, from which and through powerful cameras with video screens included, we get a view of North Korea.
Its flag and its buildings, in unoccupied cities, totally empty, without a trace of life, but which serve as propaganda. You can also see sparse, brownish mountains, very different from the dense forests of the southern part, if we compare them. They explain to us that, due to the need for firewood and heat, their very poor inhabitants have made any trace of vegetation disappear from them.
Believe me, my words are not behaviorist in any way, I'm just describing what I see. And my soul continues to be gripped, because it is grief and war that occupy all the space and time of the morning.
The time has come for the tunnels, orifices through which I can escape trying to reach the desired and legitimate freedom, and which I cannot access due to my claustrophobia. I take a seat in a kind of room that they have prepared prior to their entry, and while I wait for the group, I notice that they have installed enormous fans that work non-stop.
The congestion with which those who have descended return, with reddened faces and labored breathing, mean that I do not need to reflect on the opportunity of said installation, and of course, corroborate the success of having stayed at the doors of the trip to the center of the earth. .
I slowly look around at souvenirs, soldiers, and disoriented travelers on the mend. I think it has stopped raining, so I prefer to spend my remaining time outside. Between the gray and the oriental gardens, neatly trimmed and ornamented. Watching. Trying to find some serenity for the soul.
Nature and the chirping of birds, as the only alternative to silence, achieve this, even if timidly and for a very short time. The arrival of tourists breaks the spell and my loneliness, beginning the photo session. Yours and mine, because I consider that joining is my most sensible and profitable alternative, given the circumstances.
It's time again to get back on the bus, and I take the opportunity to gobble down, at maximum speed, a sandwich bought at the vending machine on the corner of the hotel the night before. And that I keep as emergency supplies, along with the water bottle, in my backpack. I have to do it before going up, for the sake of respect for others, as extraordinary as it is unusual, given what we are used to. The smell of food and the noise we make when eating; It is a cause of discomfort to others, and in this country, respect and sensitivity are an intrinsic part of their life habits and behaviors. Hooray for them.
One last stop in the reunited village. With residents from both Koreas. Mostly ex-combatants. Their income comes from agriculture and tourism, and although a priori it may seem like an achievement in concept itself, in reality, freedom and joy, as well as progress; They are not palpable. The place is so guarded and limited in movement, space and initiatives, that I end up perceiving it as just another ghetto.
I buy some chocolate-covered soy peas at the store, to give as a gift and to help their precarious economy, and we return to Seoul.
Back I can't sleep, not even take a nap, restless, with taste, bitterness. And my gray turns to red, because my sorrow turns into indignation.
"Inglourious bastards," I say to myself, like the title of the movie starring Brad Pitt.
Those who declare, promote and promote them are not usually the ones who suffer from them, lose and die.
Damn wars, damn wars.
