Remembering: Korea

When the phone rang at 2:30am, the Army client that I was traveling with quickly said, "I received a call from Washington. We have been ordered to bug out. Be down in the lobby at 6:30am to fly to Japan then back home."

This was after just one day's work.

I tried to fall back asleep, but the fever that was starting and the adrenaline from the call kept me awake.

I got up, packed, and lay awake until I showered and left for the lobby.

Downstairs, I learned that we had bombed Libya. To be safe, they wanted us to return home.

I needed to get home, so I was lucky. By the time I got on the plane in Japan, I had a fever of 102 degrees. I had caught some respiratory infection that would take weeks to recover from.

That dramatic evacuation in the 1980s marked my first experience with Korea, but it wouldn't be my last. Over the following decades, I watched the country transform in ways that still astound me.

None of the countries that I have visited has changed as much as South Korea. It bypassed generations of growth stages to become one of the most modern countries in the world.

When I first visited in the late 1980s, Seoul was a different city entirely. Dirt roads crossed parts of the capital, and Korean-made cars were basic vehicles nothing like today's sleek Hyundais and Kias. The transformation has been remarkable.

Airports, rail, and shopping are all top notch. Yet amid this modernization, traditional markets still thrive, offering everything from ancient herbs to modern electronics—a fascinating blend of old and new Korea.

But an hour's drive north of Seoul it is a different world. It remains a war zone.

I have been to Panmunjom a number of times. My first visit was like being on the set of the MASH TV show. The conference room literally had a line separating North from South Korea on the conference table. Standing there, straddling that line, you could feel the weight of history. But this wasn't TV, and there was no messing around. It was a tense scene.

On later visits I was taken to tunnels that North Korea had dug into South Korea. You entered the tunnel and just kept walking down, mostly into darkness. Some lights lit the direction.

All I could think of was how many North Korean people died working this tunnel. It looked like it had been chipped by hammer and chisel. And you had to get the rock out. It had to be gruesome work.

Over time Panmunjom changed as well. On the South side, a building was built for tourists visiting the border. On the North side, flew a huge flag. A few hundred yards out was a fake city. No one lived there but there were speakers blaring music.

Today, it remains a stalemated war zone, but now with nuclear weapons on both sides—a sobering reminder that despite South Korea's miraculous transformation, the peninsula's future remains uncertain.

But even with all that, if you get a chance, go visit. Old and new Asia bound as one.