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Picture this. Sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the ships row in, and I watch them row away again… oh wait, I ain’t no Otis Redding!
Still, I was sitting by the ocean, loving the gorgeous view of fishermen boats quietly floating on the water, the sun shining through the clouds. The fresh salty smell of the sea was gently amusing my nostrils while the sound of the waves made me feel more peaceful than ever.
While this has been my daily stop on my way home for a while now, followed by the oh-so-awesome horse-petting a few minutes from home, I was pleasantly surprised to come across “the crew”.
Pickup trucks loaded with old people in tired clothes, ajummas (old women) slowly riding their bicycle with a basket full of seafood and crops, others riding on an old scooter, the exhaust spitting a giant black cloud of smoke. Petrol is so expensive now; I suspect they are using another form of carburant…
She looked so serious and tired. She had a frown on her wrinkled face and her aching legs were painfully pedaling. Like all the other ajummas, she was wearing a worn-out shirt and some dirty loose pants.
The socks she had on used to be white, and her plastic slippers looked like they once were pink. In the intent of protecting her old skin from the sizzling sun, she was wearing a big hat and an old piece of fabric was covering her ears and forehead.
She looked so small, yet so grand. Her half-bent posture and frail bone-structure contrasted with the respect and admiration she woke in me.
Probably 70 years old, she was coming back from a long day working the field or the ocean. They all were.
I greeted her and her face immediately lightened up. Her smile was gorgeous. She got off her bike and sat next to me. Without any words, I offered her a banana and she sunk her teeth right into it. She did worry that I might be hungry, but my appetite was nothing compared to this hard-working woman’s.
We heard someone yell and she turned around, shouting something back in Korean. Of course she didn’t speak English, but we managed to communicate for a little while. I learned that she is a haenyo (woman diver) and that she lives near my school. She learned that I’m a sangsengnim (teacher) from Canada and that I’m leaving in about a month.
Probably worried about her friend, another ajumma was slowing approaching on her bicycle. As soon as she reached us, my ajumma started yapping and gave her half the banana.
I searched for some kind of affection in their voice, but their actions spoke louder. At 70 years old, they were all diving together, day after day, looking through their old goggles to find some expensive seashell they’d later sell in order to make a living. They are tired, but they keep doing it. They don’t really have a choice. But they have each other.
Only women can be haenyos – thus the husbands work the field. I always find it quite endearing to see them pick up their wife on their scooter at the end of the day. It seems romantic to me – though Miss Lee says there’s nothing tender about it. She has never even seen her parents kiss, hug or cuddle.
Another ajumma yelled something our way and the two women shouted something back. They smiled at me, one of the bowed, and they hopped back on their bicycles. I could still hear them laughing “Ooooh! Canada!! Sangsengnim!”
The whole crew kept going and my heart felt so good. Boy, do I admire them ole ladies! They may have old bikes, old clothes, and they may be old people too, but they are so dynamic and young at heart.
