A New Beginning (2)
I’m on a plane. After my meeting with my brother, the plane ticket arrived the next day and my departure was set. Two tickets came—one for the outbound flight and one for the return six months later. So it’s a six-month study abroad program. Did they even get me enrolled in a school? I never even finished middle school, and now my academic credentials are stretching out? I’m becoming an elite, huh?
Acting like a proper elite, I didn’t flinch when they took my photo at the airport. I let them snap the picture and take my fingerprints without a hint of panic. Destination: Mexico. The land of passion—or is that Brazil? There was a world geography book in my brother’s reading list; I should’ve studied it more carefully.
I remember Mexico as the birthplace of the Aztec civilization. It was colonized by Spain during the Age of Exploration. These days it scrapes by in uneasy cooperation with the United States, especially over drugs and illegal immigration. Manufacturing costs are lower than in the States, so plenty of factories have moved in—Korean automakers among them. My exact destination is Cancún. It used to be a popular honeymoon spot. Security issues have cooled its popularity a bit, but that pristine Caribbean coastline is still world-famous.
And I suffered like a dog. Last time I flew to Japan I sat in the front row and assumed that was how everyone traveled. This time I spent fourteen hours crammed into a seat where I couldn’t even stretch my legs. Then we landed in Los Angeles. I thought we were stopping to rest, but they told me to get off. Like a bus transfer—people getting off, people getting on. Couldn’t it work the same way on a plane?
After I deplaned, I saw a sign in Korean pointing to the transfer gate. That was oddly comforting. I followed the directions and was told to wait two hours. Then I boarded another cramped plane and flew another five hours to Cancún International Airport. This is insane. What kind of luxury am I chasing that I have to spend over twenty hours getting here?
I grabbed my luggage and stepped outside wearing light clothes because we were near the equator. Dragging a single suitcase, I spotted a middle-aged man holding a sign with my name on it. He had a beard.
“Hey, GB!” His energy was sky-high, reminding me of the crab fisherman I’d seen on Yeonpyeong Island. I greeted him and we exchanged names. When I said “Name, name,” he told me his was Gonzales. Common name, I guess—I’ve heard it before.
We made contact at the airport, I handed over my luggage, and we headed to the lodging. Honestly, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here. My brother’s style, right? No explanations. He called it study abroad, but… is he planning to enroll me somewhere? He could’ve at least given me a heads-up. I don’t even speak Spanish.
Whatever. I decided to just go with the flow. Before I knew it, we’d arrived at a hotel near the airport. He handed me the room key and said he’d be back in the morning. Out of habit I connected to the hotel Wi-Fi and opened the Skylight app to check on my businesses. Before the flight, after my meeting with my brother, I’d made my own preparations. I told the crew to report any problems after the fact and that I was leaving decisions to their judgment. I also gave Hamo and Uiri-nam the Candle account so they could keep receiving product. I’m trying to automate everything in my absence, but the connections are complicated. Nothing I can do about it. I warned them to be extremely careful and drilled the precautions into them.
I rested at the lodging. The next morning I met Gonzales in the lobby. He took my luggage and told me to get in the car. It was a Kia, probably about my age. Ever heard of it? The ever-confident Pride.
We drove for about four hours. Suddenly the paved road ended and I felt carsick for the first time in my life—outside of being on a boat. I asked to pull over. While we rested, Gonzales lit a cigarette and gave me a pitying look. Why? I’m just a tourist student, aren’t I?
I found out an hour later. We reached a small village with fields spread out in front and what looked like a school building in the center—there was a playground. Except the people on the playground weren’t kids playing; they were burly men training.
I gestured at Gonzales and asked what those guys were doing. Of course he didn’t understand Korean. He told me to get out. The moment I grabbed my suitcase and stepped down, he drove off in that cocky little car without looking back.
What the hell? Am I an international stray now?
I looked around, then reluctantly dragged my suitcase toward the village entrance. A man with a gun approached me. Seriously? A real gun? He asked in English, “GB?” I nodded and he motioned for me to follow. We crossed the playground and entered the building. On the first floor he pointed at a door. I went in awkwardly.
Inside sat a man who looked important. The guy who’d brought me said something in what sounded like Spanish. The important man waved him out. I bowed and left—and then my memory cuts off.
For three days and two nights I was beaten without sleep. And I learned Spanish. I tried resisting, of course. I told them I came from a democratic country where sovereignty resides with the people and all power derives from the citizens. If they treated me like this, they’d face the stern judgment of the law. They just looked at me like I was babbling nonsense and kept hitting me.
They hit me when I dozed off from exhaustion. They hit me when I raised my voice. They hit me when I wouldn’t stay still. They waterboarded me—forced water down my throat so I couldn’t even die. In truth, my resistance only lasted an hour. It hurt too much. I passed out while being beaten. After three days of that, they apparently liked the look in my eyes, because they suddenly brought out a tablet. I was still tied up. The armed man played a Spanish lesson on YouTube. I was grateful—because they didn’t hit me while I watched.
But they were thorough. They knew I was comfortable during the lessons, so they’d suddenly bark “¡Levántate!” (Stand up). If I didn’t react fast enough, I got hit. While I was learning the alphabet they’d snap “¡Reír!” (Laugh). How was I supposed to know random vocabulary during an alphabet lesson? Another hit. “¡Nombre!” (Name). “GB.” For the first time, I didn’t get hit. It was a word from the second lesson in our Spanish course. The lessons were simple travel phrases, not academic Spanish, so I actually recognized it.
Spanish uses the twenty-six letters of the Latin alphabet plus the ñ, for a total of twenty-seven. It’s widely spoken around the world thanks to the Age of Exploration. Back when Spain had its invincible armada, they sailed everywhere. Except for Brazil, most of Latin America speaks Spanish. So what? I want to go home!
Basic conversation took exactly one week. Watching the tablet twenty hours a day, getting tested, getting beaten—it supercharged my learning speed. How do I know it was a week? Because they let me sleep after the tablet five times. Ten days later they untied me. I was furious and lunged at them—there were no guns in sight. Then I blacked out again. The bastards tied me up once more.
After that the curriculum changed to hand signals. I got hit twice as much as during the Spanish lessons, and harder. I only lasted one day. Apparently the results were good, because one of them nodded and I was taken outside to roll around on the ground.
“¡Saltar!” (Jump) “¡Siéntate!” (Sit) “¡Poner!” (Lie down) I’m rolling around the drill ground right now—the same place I’d called a playground two weeks ago. Is this what military training looks like? For the record, I’m exempt from service. Still, I felt like I was getting special treatment. About ten people were watching me roll like a dog. Three stood nearby; the rest held guns at a distance. One shouted commands while two stood ready to hit me.
At first they gave one word at a time. Even after two weeks of Spanish I didn’t understand much, so I got hit. Once I adapted and got hit less, they switched to two-word commands. What could I do? I got hit. Someone once said humans are creatures of adaptation. After a day of beatings the words started making sense. I got hit less, so they moved on to full sentences. Son of a bitch. They’re messing with me by using infinitive forms. That’s exactly it—don’t raise the blue flag, raise the white one.