ROK Fleet Naval Base, Busan, Republic of Korea
About 4K into the traditional USN/ROKN 5K Friendship Run, a young ROK sailor trots up alongside me. Since I haven't run much lately, I've set a deliberate training pace, not looking to set a PR or take any chance on injury. So I'm running casually way at the back of the pack. I expect this much younger, fitter ROK sailor will blow past me as quickly as he materialized from behind.
He does not. He matches my stride almost step for step. After about a half a kilometer more I realize he's not leaving my side. I believe he may have already finished his race. He's probably just being friendly and pacing the older American sailor at the back of the pack. (Maybe he's a medic...? Nah.) Whatever the reason, he stays with me deliberately. I am sure of that.
I may have felt slightly annoyed at first. I usually run alone. In a race no one seems to be on the same pace as me. Yet here's this ROK sailor, matching me stride for stride, silently and inscrutable. I begin to appreciate, then enjoy the experience. And so we continue through most of the last kilometer. We even pass a few others who have stopped or slowed to a steady walk.
The final stretch of the course runs first abeam the premier ROK amphibious ship. A few hundred meters beyond that lies the finish line, abeam our own U.S. Flagship. As we pass the ROK ship, I spot the finish line ahead. ROK and USN photographers are taking pictures of all the finishers as the back of the pack straggles to the end. Inspired, I catch my new running partner's attention and I tell him, "Katchi Kapshida. We go in together."* He smiles his understanding. We continue to match each other, step for step.
As we near the finish, we raise clasped hands high above our heads and cross the line together, triumphant not only for the attention and photographers' flashes, but for the friendship we demonstrate, friendship that extends beyond these two random sailors to include the two free nations working arduously together to preserve the peace in this part of the world.
Finally past the finish line we shake hands. "Kamsamnida," I say. "Thank you."
Later we pose with smiling, jubilant shipmates for a group photo. Friendship.
At the end of the event we all join the large group of ROK and US sailors who raise hands high, and enthusiastically repeat after the US and ROK Fleet Commanders:
English speakers: "Katchi Kapshida!"
Hongul speakers: "We go together!"
What a great way to start a day.
*"Katchi Kapshida" is the motto of the USN/ROKN alliance and friendship. It literally means, "We go forth together."
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Not Back in the USSR
This morning I put on my service dress blues and went topside to photograph a momentous occasion, our arrival into Vladivostok (Владивосток), Russia.
(Followers of this blog already know that I've had problems uploading photos lately. Apparently it works better in Russia. I complain not.)
Several decades ago, my dad and a few of his siblings capitalized on an opportunity to tour the USSR. I don't recall the exact year, but I suspect that most of them were already older than I am now. It was an auspicious event for all of them, in spite of the restrictive entry requirements and control over their personal movements while in country. I know that they visited Moscow, and perhaps St. Petersburg. I am certain they did not get to see Vladivostok. As the headquarters of the Soviet Pacific Fleet, this storied port city was closed during those years, and not only to foreigners. Even Soviet citizens required special permission to enter.
Times do change. As a child of the Cold War, I was fascinated today as our Flagship pulled into that same naval base and moored alongside a freshly painted Russian cruiser. Sailors from both navies lined their respective rails in mutual honor and respect. Both national flags flew side by side on the pier. Similar to last year when we visited Vietnam, setting foot on this soil is a privilege and treat beyond my dreams. I continue to wonder how or why I am so fortunate at this stage of my life.
Unlike Vietnam and most of our other ports, there will be no bike riding or running here. Our purpose is to exchange friendship and camaraderie with our Russian counterparts. We will proudly wear our uniforms at all times, even at liberty.
This is a special weekend for the Russians as well. They commemorate "Victory Day", День Победы, celebrating the capitulation of Nazi Germany to the Soviets at the end of World War II. Three planned events highlight the visit: 1) A "Big Top" reception that we host on our deck; 2) Sunday Mass at Mary Mother of God Mission; 3) Our Sailors and Marines will participate in a multinational parade in celebration of Victory Day.
I certainly plan to digitally chronicle and share these events and other activities during our brief stay here.
I may sample some of the local drink as well...in the interest of international friendship, of course.
(Followers of this blog already know that I've had problems uploading photos lately. Apparently it works better in Russia. I complain not.)
Several decades ago, my dad and a few of his siblings capitalized on an opportunity to tour the USSR. I don't recall the exact year, but I suspect that most of them were already older than I am now. It was an auspicious event for all of them, in spite of the restrictive entry requirements and control over their personal movements while in country. I know that they visited Moscow, and perhaps St. Petersburg. I am certain they did not get to see Vladivostok. As the headquarters of the Soviet Pacific Fleet, this storied port city was closed during those years, and not only to foreigners. Even Soviet citizens required special permission to enter.
Unlike Vietnam and most of our other ports, there will be no bike riding or running here. Our purpose is to exchange friendship and camaraderie with our Russian counterparts. We will proudly wear our uniforms at all times, even at liberty.
This is a special weekend for the Russians as well. They commemorate "Victory Day", День Победы, celebrating the capitulation of Nazi Germany to the Soviets at the end of World War II. Three planned events highlight the visit: 1) A "Big Top" reception that we host on our deck; 2) Sunday Mass at Mary Mother of God Mission; 3) Our Sailors and Marines will participate in a multinational parade in celebration of Victory Day.
I certainly plan to digitally chronicle and share these events and other activities during our brief stay here.
I may sample some of the local drink as well...in the interest of international friendship, of course.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Chance Encounters of the Nihonjin Kind
One just never knows how even the simplest Japan sojourn will turn out.
An unusual afternoon departure curtails the available liberty time on our last day in Fukuoka. Barely two and half hours of free time remain after the morning operations brief. I resign myself to stay on board with no chance to upload blog photos until our return to home base later in the month. Then an aviator shipmate, whom I'll call "Carol" because gender plays a role in this story, appears at my door. She opines that we may have time for an expeditious sortie out and back to Starbucks and possible WiFi. Efficiently working the time-distance equation we summarily create a plausible flight plan that will at least feed our mutual Starbucks addictions if not also provide some quality internet time.
About 45 minutes later, with laptops slung over our shoulders (mine sans battery), we alight from a taxi at the Canal City Mall. I optimistically note a much smaller crowd than what I encountered here yesterday. We make a straight-in approach to Starbucks, where Carol handles the ordering while I search for an electrical outlet. No joy. I even pull out the cord from my laptop bag and show it to the barista, "Doko electuricu outleto desuka?" She shakes her head. "No. Sorry." Indeed, internet squatters are not encouraged here.
But I already have a visual on the mall wall outlet that I used yesterday, so once again I sit on the floor, plug in, power on, log on, sip my latte, and then nearly spill it for excitement as my internet home page leaps onto the screen. My shipmate, with her enviably functional laptop battery, occupies a more conventional bench not far from my floor space. I notice her talking to a twenty-something Japanese woman, whom I had earlier seen conversing with the barista after my futile request for electricity. As she and Carol look at a Japanese/English translation book, the young nihonjin casts furtive looks in my direction. I am mildly curious, but remain focused on task and return my attention to my computer screen.
No sooner do I bring up my G-Mail inbox than I am approached by shipmate and nihonjin together. "I think she's trying to say that they frown on using these outlets," says Carol, mimicking the typical crossed arms Japanese sign for "Dame" or "Not allowed." Mortified at the thought of committing a cultural transgression, I immediately start fumbling through the log-off procedure. (I almost just yanked the plug from the wall, but I know too well what can happen to Vista when suddenly interrupted.)
"She says there is a McDonald's that has internet desks," my shipmate continues. "I think she will show us." As my laptop slowly grinds through the log-off and power-down process I look hastily at my watch. The target window is closing rapidly, but it's still worth a shot. At least I have my latte.
My computer finally shuts down and I yank the defiling plug from the outlet. Not wasting time to repack it all, I tuck the laptop, transformer, and cord under my arm and we hurry away behind our Japanese guide. She adroitly steers us through busy stores into another wing of the mall that is very, very, very crowded and noisy. I spy the golden arches at the far end of a gamut of open stalls that would stop my son in his tracks because it is all manga, anime, Shonan Jump, One Piece, Bleach...the entire range of Japanese pop culture icons, typically engaging hundreds of Japanese teens. In short, a perfect spot for a McDonald's.
Under those golden arches full rows of carrels with individual electrical outlets await us. Time is too short to consider buying French-fries or similar fare to justify our presence here, but the line of Japanese youth at the food counter tells me that McD's is doing fine without our yen. So again I plug in, power up, log on, and gratefully return to the internet.
Now our new best Japanese friend, whom I will call "Saki" because that's her real name, clearly thinks we have plenty of time for conversation. This is where gender enters in, because she directs the majority of her attention to Carol, leaving me to play the disinterested male role as I pound away on my keyboard. I feel only slightly guilty about this. We both endeavor to be polite and friendly while also staying on task and getting done whatever work we can. Less than a half hour remains before our flight plan dictates a launch back to "Mother."
We succeed beyond measure...at the polite and friendly part. After a few minutes of halting conversation, Saki-san departs the pattern. Now our fingers pound on keyboards at full pace. Attempting to upload my photos to Facebook I find I cannot use the expeditious Active X method, probably because of my laptop's security settings in the public access mode. As I'm fumbling to change my security settings, Saki-san abruptly returns, now with gifts for each of her new American friends. They come nicely wrapped in the typical Japanese way, each adorned with a tag printed in kanji, but also with English, "Thank you for your kindness."
Who should be giving gifts to whom here?
"You open," says Saki-san. We each discover a small cloth, the kind that Japanese people always carry to wipe their hands and faces. Some thought went into their selection. Both have floral patterns, but each sports a different background color. Carol's is dark pink. Mine is dark blue. My photo uploading project now becomes much less important to me than the cross-cultural human contact of which I am most fortunate to partake. So I resolutely begin the power-down process to turn my attention as fully as I can on this young Japanese lady, who for no apparent personal gain has befriended a couple of intensely focused gaijin in the middle of a busy mall.
We exchange names, which I try to pronounce syllabically for Saki-san. "Ma-i-ku" rolls off my tongue fairly easy. (The "u" is mostly silent in Japanese.) But there is no "l" equivalent in Japanese, so I stumble after "Ka-ro..." and finally blurt out something like, "Ka-ro-ru". Saki-san seems to understand, as she and Carol exchange e-mail addresses.
But now we really must expedite our departure back to the pier. We hastily pack up our laptops, trying our best to explain to Saki-san that we have to go back to work. Disappointed but polite to the end, she leads us toward the taxi stand. We pause briefly in the mall patio where another nihonjin graciously memorializes our trio onto my digital camera. Arriving at the taxi stand Saki-san tries to learn where we want to go so she can direct the driver, but we've previously had that written out for us in kanji. After effusive bows and "Domo arigatou gozaimasu" all around we jump into the cab and call out "Mata ne" ("See you again") to our new friend.
We cross the ship's brow fifteen minutes ahead of the liberty deadline. I feel slightly regretful that we could have spent a little more time relishing this chance cultural encounter. But we are Americans, after all, and always in a hurry. Later that evening Carol sends her an e-mail of appreciation, but alas it bounces back.
Hopefully Saki-san will initiate contact from her end. Otherwise, how sad to lose track of a generous new friend so soon after meeting.
An unusual afternoon departure curtails the available liberty time on our last day in Fukuoka. Barely two and half hours of free time remain after the morning operations brief. I resign myself to stay on board with no chance to upload blog photos until our return to home base later in the month. Then an aviator shipmate, whom I'll call "Carol" because gender plays a role in this story, appears at my door. She opines that we may have time for an expeditious sortie out and back to Starbucks and possible WiFi. Efficiently working the time-distance equation we summarily create a plausible flight plan that will at least feed our mutual Starbucks addictions if not also provide some quality internet time.
About 45 minutes later, with laptops slung over our shoulders (mine sans battery), we alight from a taxi at the Canal City Mall. I optimistically note a much smaller crowd than what I encountered here yesterday. We make a straight-in approach to Starbucks, where Carol handles the ordering while I search for an electrical outlet. No joy. I even pull out the cord from my laptop bag and show it to the barista, "Doko electuricu outleto desuka?" She shakes her head. "No. Sorry." Indeed, internet squatters are not encouraged here.
But I already have a visual on the mall wall outlet that I used yesterday, so once again I sit on the floor, plug in, power on, log on, sip my latte, and then nearly spill it for excitement as my internet home page leaps onto the screen. My shipmate, with her enviably functional laptop battery, occupies a more conventional bench not far from my floor space. I notice her talking to a twenty-something Japanese woman, whom I had earlier seen conversing with the barista after my futile request for electricity. As she and Carol look at a Japanese/English translation book, the young nihonjin casts furtive looks in my direction. I am mildly curious, but remain focused on task and return my attention to my computer screen.
No sooner do I bring up my G-Mail inbox than I am approached by shipmate and nihonjin together. "I think she's trying to say that they frown on using these outlets," says Carol, mimicking the typical crossed arms Japanese sign for "Dame" or "Not allowed." Mortified at the thought of committing a cultural transgression, I immediately start fumbling through the log-off procedure. (I almost just yanked the plug from the wall, but I know too well what can happen to Vista when suddenly interrupted.)
"She says there is a McDonald's that has internet desks," my shipmate continues. "I think she will show us." As my laptop slowly grinds through the log-off and power-down process I look hastily at my watch. The target window is closing rapidly, but it's still worth a shot. At least I have my latte.
My computer finally shuts down and I yank the defiling plug from the outlet. Not wasting time to repack it all, I tuck the laptop, transformer, and cord under my arm and we hurry away behind our Japanese guide. She adroitly steers us through busy stores into another wing of the mall that is very, very, very crowded and noisy. I spy the golden arches at the far end of a gamut of open stalls that would stop my son in his tracks because it is all manga, anime, Shonan Jump, One Piece, Bleach...the entire range of Japanese pop culture icons, typically engaging hundreds of Japanese teens. In short, a perfect spot for a McDonald's.
Under those golden arches full rows of carrels with individual electrical outlets await us. Time is too short to consider buying French-fries or similar fare to justify our presence here, but the line of Japanese youth at the food counter tells me that McD's is doing fine without our yen. So again I plug in, power up, log on, and gratefully return to the internet.
Now our new best Japanese friend, whom I will call "Saki" because that's her real name, clearly thinks we have plenty of time for conversation. This is where gender enters in, because she directs the majority of her attention to Carol, leaving me to play the disinterested male role as I pound away on my keyboard. I feel only slightly guilty about this. We both endeavor to be polite and friendly while also staying on task and getting done whatever work we can. Less than a half hour remains before our flight plan dictates a launch back to "Mother."
We succeed beyond measure...at the polite and friendly part. After a few minutes of halting conversation, Saki-san departs the pattern. Now our fingers pound on keyboards at full pace. Attempting to upload my photos to Facebook I find I cannot use the expeditious Active X method, probably because of my laptop's security settings in the public access mode. As I'm fumbling to change my security settings, Saki-san abruptly returns, now with gifts for each of her new American friends. They come nicely wrapped in the typical Japanese way, each adorned with a tag printed in kanji, but also with English, "Thank you for your kindness."
Who should be giving gifts to whom here?
"You open," says Saki-san. We each discover a small cloth, the kind that Japanese people always carry to wipe their hands and faces. Some thought went into their selection. Both have floral patterns, but each sports a different background color. Carol's is dark pink. Mine is dark blue. My photo uploading project now becomes much less important to me than the cross-cultural human contact of which I am most fortunate to partake. So I resolutely begin the power-down process to turn my attention as fully as I can on this young Japanese lady, who for no apparent personal gain has befriended a couple of intensely focused gaijin in the middle of a busy mall.
We exchange names, which I try to pronounce syllabically for Saki-san. "Ma-i-ku" rolls off my tongue fairly easy. (The "u" is mostly silent in Japanese.) But there is no "l" equivalent in Japanese, so I stumble after "Ka-ro..." and finally blurt out something like, "Ka-ro-ru". Saki-san seems to understand, as she and Carol exchange e-mail addresses.
But now we really must expedite our departure back to the pier. We hastily pack up our laptops, trying our best to explain to Saki-san that we have to go back to work. Disappointed but polite to the end, she leads us toward the taxi stand. We pause briefly in the mall patio where another nihonjin graciously memorializes our trio onto my digital camera. Arriving at the taxi stand Saki-san tries to learn where we want to go so she can direct the driver, but we've previously had that written out for us in kanji. After effusive bows and "Domo arigatou gozaimasu" all around we jump into the cab and call out "Mata ne" ("See you again") to our new friend.
We cross the ship's brow fifteen minutes ahead of the liberty deadline. I feel slightly regretful that we could have spent a little more time relishing this chance cultural encounter. But we are Americans, after all, and always in a hurry. Later that evening Carol sends her an e-mail of appreciation, but alas it bounces back.
Hopefully Saki-san will initiate contact from her end. Otherwise, how sad to lose track of a generous new friend so soon after meeting.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Busan Receding
The city of Busan and south coast of the Republic of Korea slowly sink into the horizon aft of our underway vessel. For the past 16 days this busy Asian port has been our home away from our home away from home. Twice a year we support a major U.S. alliance by coming to the land of kim chee and Hyundai for game playing and networking with our ROK counterparts. Although I will not miss the constant northwestrly bitter wind that stifled a planned Saturday bike ride, I do take away fond memories and a deeper appreciation for the people of this country.
Similar to their neighbors to the east - with whom they have been sometimes enemies and now friends - these ROKs, as we call them, are hard working and industrious. One needs simply to sojourn about in Busan (or Seoul, which I was privileged to visit last fall) to recognize a nation of relative prosperity and brisk economic growth; home to a resilient people who truly relish their lives and freely share with foreigners. They are every bit as friendly as our Japanese allies, but with fewer of the cultural formalities of that society. I find this interchange always delightful, albeit frequently awkward when ROKs struggle to communicate in our language; a necessary burden since so few Americans ever attempt to learn Hangul. Anxious to facilitate the dialogue, I often embarrass myself with an occasional "hai" or "sumimasen," which my ROK friends politely ignore.
Being a committed foodie (as at least two thirds of my regular blog followers will attest), I am fascinated by Korean cuisine. I used to think that Korean barbecue was a single genre, a notion as naive as proclaiming only one style of American barbecue. Not that I have sampled the Korean varieties to any great extent. This was a working port visit, not heavy on liberty calls. But the different offerings that I did sample were pleasantly different and each delectable in its own subtle blend of texture, taste, spices, and abundant side dishes. The same is true of kim chee, of which I have grown quite fond. Korea has as many different styles of kim chee as Heinz has pickles. (I know, trite expression...) It is all good. The spicier the better.
I depart Busan with two lasting memories of my ROKN medical counterparts, at opposite ends of the two-week spectrum. The first occurred on the day of arrival, when we held our inaugural "staff talks" (term of art) with the ROK Navy medical leadership. The discussions were groundbreaking in the level of mutual sharing and understanding of each other's capabilities. Much more meaningful was the enthusiasm and camaraderie with which we approached these talks, and our shared delight at discovering similarities of purpose and process. Most satisfying was the abundant hospitality shown to us by our hosts, most of whom had traveled by train for a fair distance in the early morning, just to meet and greet.
An even deeper impression occurred, however, near the end of the fortnight, during the "Victory Party" between the two navies, hosted on our main deck. After due ceremony, complementary speeches, and random interactions with our ROK guests - made difficult by the language issue - I was well ready to go below out of that cold NW wind. I was stopped by a young ROKN lieutenant, which rank I had only recently learned to associate with the two diamonds on his uniform's collar device.
"You are Fleet Surgeon," he said in enthusiastic if not fluent English. "Do you remember me?"
Years of leadership training prompted my, "Of course I do," verbal reply while my mind vigorously searched its overloaded cerebral hard drive for the corresponding memory bytes. Fortunately, it clicked right in, "You are from the medical department on DOKDO. We met here in Busan last summer." The young man was so delighted at the recognition that he almost swooned. I cannot tell you his name, even now, but that is strictly a linguistic thing. We then had a wonderful conversation about our mutual interests and opportunities to collaborate during the next exercise.
I promised to host our mutual medical staffs to Korean barbecue and kim chee the next time we're in port. Hopefully the ROK lieutenant will consider that a treat. I know I will. Because as he and my own staff lieutenants continue the interaction, I will sit back to enjoy my kim chee and barbecue, fully confident that the relationships we started during this trip really will endure to the next generation of leaders.
Similar to their neighbors to the east - with whom they have been sometimes enemies and now friends - these ROKs, as we call them, are hard working and industrious. One needs simply to sojourn about in Busan (or Seoul, which I was privileged to visit last fall) to recognize a nation of relative prosperity and brisk economic growth; home to a resilient people who truly relish their lives and freely share with foreigners. They are every bit as friendly as our Japanese allies, but with fewer of the cultural formalities of that society. I find this interchange always delightful, albeit frequently awkward when ROKs struggle to communicate in our language; a necessary burden since so few Americans ever attempt to learn Hangul. Anxious to facilitate the dialogue, I often embarrass myself with an occasional "hai" or "sumimasen," which my ROK friends politely ignore.
Being a committed foodie (as at least two thirds of my regular blog followers will attest), I am fascinated by Korean cuisine. I used to think that Korean barbecue was a single genre, a notion as naive as proclaiming only one style of American barbecue. Not that I have sampled the Korean varieties to any great extent. This was a working port visit, not heavy on liberty calls. But the different offerings that I did sample were pleasantly different and each delectable in its own subtle blend of texture, taste, spices, and abundant side dishes. The same is true of kim chee, of which I have grown quite fond. Korea has as many different styles of kim chee as Heinz has pickles. (I know, trite expression...) It is all good. The spicier the better.
I depart Busan with two lasting memories of my ROKN medical counterparts, at opposite ends of the two-week spectrum. The first occurred on the day of arrival, when we held our inaugural "staff talks" (term of art) with the ROK Navy medical leadership. The discussions were groundbreaking in the level of mutual sharing and understanding of each other's capabilities. Much more meaningful was the enthusiasm and camaraderie with which we approached these talks, and our shared delight at discovering similarities of purpose and process. Most satisfying was the abundant hospitality shown to us by our hosts, most of whom had traveled by train for a fair distance in the early morning, just to meet and greet.
An even deeper impression occurred, however, near the end of the fortnight, during the "Victory Party" between the two navies, hosted on our main deck. After due ceremony, complementary speeches, and random interactions with our ROK guests - made difficult by the language issue - I was well ready to go below out of that cold NW wind. I was stopped by a young ROKN lieutenant, which rank I had only recently learned to associate with the two diamonds on his uniform's collar device.
"You are Fleet Surgeon," he said in enthusiastic if not fluent English. "Do you remember me?"
Years of leadership training prompted my, "Of course I do," verbal reply while my mind vigorously searched its overloaded cerebral hard drive for the corresponding memory bytes. Fortunately, it clicked right in, "You are from the medical department on DOKDO. We met here in Busan last summer." The young man was so delighted at the recognition that he almost swooned. I cannot tell you his name, even now, but that is strictly a linguistic thing. We then had a wonderful conversation about our mutual interests and opportunities to collaborate during the next exercise.
I promised to host our mutual medical staffs to Korean barbecue and kim chee the next time we're in port. Hopefully the ROK lieutenant will consider that a treat. I know I will. Because as he and my own staff lieutenants continue the interaction, I will sit back to enjoy my kim chee and barbecue, fully confident that the relationships we started during this trip really will endure to the next generation of leaders.
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