Cityscapes Abandoned US base turned into chemical dump
A closed U.S. military base in Paju, Gyeonggi Province, is open to public access on May 12. A truck reportedly stopped at this bend in the road last Dec. 2 to dump unidentified chemicals.
By Ron Bandun
It was just me and this wild boar, on top of an isolated hill.
I was at an abandoned U.S. military base, far from the nearest human being. It was in Paju along the Western Corridor stretching northwest of Seoul, early last December.
The boar rushed forward, not quite charging, just coming closer to squint at this strange bipedal trespasser. It stayed in the brush, not stepping onto the path. It was a little smaller than a Jindo dog with stubby legs and I didn't see tusks. Boars make a distinctive noise when they move, their short legs sounding like two soldiers marching in lock step at a very fast pace. Before seeing the boar I thought two soldiers were chasing me.
I stopped at the top of the hill, where there was a tall silo with a ladder I could climb if things got desperate. I scared a couple deer that ran off toward the boar. My back no longer up against the figurative wall, I unzipped my bag and took stock of what I had. My usual trespassing gear. There was a tripod which could serve as a cudgel. I had a mask, which I wore on my back just in case the boar tried to sneak up behind me. I've heard this works for mountain lions, but no clue about boars. Probably not. But two heads are better than one, anyway.
After posting on Facebook, “I may have to fight my way past a wild boar to get off this mountain” (expletives removed) and sharing my location, I stalked back toward the boar, making as much noise as possible.
The boar didn't show its face again, but I could hear it tramping somewhere in the brush stalking me. Not a subtle beast.
And then when I thought I was clear, I heard an even more frightening sound: an approaching vehicle. I leapt off the path into the barren brush. Had someone come looking for me?
A dump truck pulled into view ahead, coming up from the back gate down to the front gate, both of which had been left wide open. Maybe it was just taking a shortcut?
As I followed it down, a few minutes later I heard another truck behind me. I jumped into the brush again. But this truck stopped at a corner, engine idling. I heard what sounded like someone dumping out fluids from containers onto the ground.
Finally, after at least 10 minutes, a door slammed and the truck pulled out. I hugged the brush as the truck trundled past me on its way downhill.
Once it was out of sight, I hiked up to where it had parked, but couldn't find any trace of whatever was dumped out. So I escaped before a third truck could come.
Heading downhill, the front gate was still wide open and several dump trucks were parked in front.
Months earlier, the
Seoul City Government tested the soil and groundwater around six USFK sites
in the city, searching for signs of contamination by U.S. forces. One site was the Eighth U.S. Army Religious Retreat compound, which would've been used for weddings, not storing Agent Orange or formaldehyde.
The contamination tests in Seoul didn't reveal anything too scandalous, but even if they had, I'd remember that U.S. base that once stood proudly between Seoul and North Korea, turned into a toxic waste dump. And I'll think of its fuzzy guardian hiding in the bushes.
The writer is a self-described “anarchaeologist.” Every detail about this story is true.