“Are you Korean?”
My Asiatic acquaintance had caught me in a rather not-so-subtle mood.
“I am North Korean, do not offend me please,” he replied.
“Holy shit, wh-what are you doing here?” I asked.
I was understandably perplexed. I’ve met a few South Koreans (probably how I recognised his distinctive ‘Korean’ look) in my time, but why would a North Korean, be out in the Sunshine Coast hinterland, attending a hectic, private Halloween rave?
“Oh, I come here because Australia is very smart country with good export. Much to learn, take back to home country,” he said, his voice calm and focused.
“Aw fuck yeah, doin’ some recon hey? Spreading the international communist dream!”
“Yes haha, very much.”
“Haha! That’s sweet! Like the Internationale? Like, spreading the good word!”
“Yes good for Party, make country stronger.”
I paused and looked my North Korean comrade up and down. He was wearing a white button-up shirt with little light blue splotches on it and some beige shorts.
He looked like an imposter who was trying to look like a normal guy.
My first instinct was to talk shit. I wondered if I could talk this guy into thinking that a one-party system is not, in fact, a true socialist idea.
“My name’s [REDACTED], nice to meet ya mate!” It’s instinctual – whenever you meet a foreigner you tend to lay on the Australianisms.
“Oh, yes my name Jung.” (sounds like ‘young’).
“I reckon we should go down to the portal (a little lit up area set up away from the party) so we can chat!”
“Haha yes I will follow.”
Jung trailed after me as I led him behind the cars, down the little grassy path to the neon-purple lit couched area where I was hoping to get some privacy and figure out what this ‘North Korean’ was all about.
Unfortunately, the place was filled up with revellers. It was a loose night and the portal was bustling with demons, undead cowgirls, blood covered surgeons, witches, glowing skeleton babes and other Halloween-inspired hedonists.
I asked some of the nice people to skootch over for me and plonked myself down on the couch.
Jung was standing awkwardly outside the circle of people, and I looked up and beckoned him over.
Alack. There was nowhere for him to sit and, after looking around for a second, he turned and headed back to the party.
It was the last I ever saw of him.
Four hours later, as the sun rose, I asked my good friend Lila if I was so fucked that perhaps I had hallucinated the whole thing. She was sceptical. I wasn’t that fucked, I only sampled a little bit of everything and didn’t even finish my six beers. But she was also sceptical of the North Korean part. It was more likely that someone was pulling my leg, she supposed.
By the daytime, everyone, including myself had sobered up. I asked one of the organisers if he saw anyone that was North Korean. He hadn’t heard a word about it. He said, truthfully, there were a lot of wild characters around. I, for example, was in my full UNSC Captain’s uniform and had a very silly night.
“I think someone was just having a laugh with you,” he concluded.
But it wasn’t funny.
Jung wasn’t in a novelty outfit, he seemed to sternly, reflexively suggest that calling him ‘a Korean’ was offensive. His stated reason for being there is consistent with the national interests of the DPRK.
Is it impossible that North Korea sends its agents to snoop in on the strange goings on of Australian culture? Is it possible that one found his way into a private, south-east Queensland rave?
All I can do is report the facts as I remembered them.
Captain Smith, United Nations Space Command