Ajummas in the Korean TV drama "Reply 1988" / Courtesy of CJ ENM

About five minutes ago I was sitting in a café trying to write an academic paper with a deadline looming unpleasantly large in my consciousness. I've completed most of the research so now it's just a question of shaping the argument and sorting out all the fiddly bits.

Apart from me, the place was empty; I was focused, completely absorbed in the task at hand. And just as I was in the middle of scribbling a few more edits on my text, in trooped a gang of at least eight ajumma – I suppose the best translation for this evocative Korean term would be old ladies, but I'm not sure that does the word justice.

The members of this group seem to all be mostly the same height; they display a range of hairstyles and sartorial tastes, but I think many dear readers can already create a fairly accurate mental picture of the gang.

The first item on their agenda seems to be what to have to drink, and the discussion is as lively and heated as any debating society could ever hope for, even though of course each one of them will choose her own drink. The majority seem to be in favour of the iced americano, but there is a spirited minority advocating more exotic flavoured drinks.

From the sight of the first immaculately-coiffured head of hair it became plain that all hope of work on my article would now be futile, at least unless I found another place to work. I donned my headphones and turned them up to the highest volume that my computer says is safe for my ears, but the sound of about 70 percent of the group all shouting at once pierces through the music as easily as I knew it would. My headphones are not noise-cancelling, as has become painfully evident. So I have temporarily given up my essay and instead switched to writing this, an ode to the ajumma.

When I first visited Korea, I had a very bad image of older Korean women. Who are these women, I thought, who elbow me on the bus so viciously? Why do they shout so loudly in public? What is the need to all speak so aggressively and, for that matter, simultaneously?

My thoughts were inevitably founded in my own Western experience and understanding of etiquette, but they were also based on my relative inability in the Korean language and probably on a fundamental misreading of underlying motives.

And I think now that in my sullen youthful(ish) resentment of the aged I was almost entirely wrong. Perhaps this has always been the way of the world: the young look grumblingly upon the old until they too start to age.

Having improved my Korean skills a lot since my first bright-eyed visit to the country, and having lived here for more than five years, I have now a completely reformed view of the ajumma.

The tumultuous effusion of words that seems to erupt in any meeting of the ajumma is not simply anarchy but rather a great bubbling of life and fellow-feeling, the kind of social experience that younger people so rarely experience in this world dominated by kiosks and mobile apps. There is something so life-affirming in the sight of a group of ajumma animatedly chatting away, physically and emotionally present in the conversation. Not a single earbud in sight.

Life for this generation of Koreans certainly isn't easy, nor has it ever been really, which surely has a bearing on how ajumma act and speak. As the country ages and the pension pot drains, I can only imagine life for the elderly will continue to get harder, barring some technological or economic revolution that reshapes the whole society.

But the apparently harsh exterior almost always encases a far sweeter nature than I ever suspected on my first trip here. There is far more consideration for others than I had realised, and seemingly-rough actions are often the result of a deep-seated desire to show kindness: I remember several occasions when an ajumma rather aggressively grabbed my visibly-pregnant wife and practically forced her into the seat she had been occupying. Tough love indeed.

In fact, soon after I gave up on my academic work and started writing this article instead, one of the crew here in the café turned to me and asked in hesitant English if they were making too much noise and distracting me. Of course I insisted that they were not, which is true: although I did indeed pause my other work, the group have inspired me to write this in an overflow of affection for the ajumma – and perhaps out of a kind of guilt about my original hostile view of them.

The sight of the gang chattering away inevitably makes me want to smile, if also cover my ears. Since becoming a father I have found it easier to see the kinder sides of the ajumma – and of society for that matter. If I go outside with my daughter, especially to a park, I will frequentlyfind myself in amiable dialogue with an old person who seems to find sincere delight in the mere fact of our conversation.

As I sit here, sneaking furtive glances at the group, I must admit that they seem to lead a more active social life than I do, and probably than I have done for a decade. I mean, how often do people meet up outside of education or work in large groups to just chat? Perhaps I'm too busy, too insulated and focused on my work and domestic life, but it seems to be a wider problem with society: we're so focused on working hard that we can't have a good old-fashioned chinwag.

The ajumma gang have left the café now, the various cups of iced coffee and fruit-based beverages consumed, the lively meeting concluded. It is once again quiet and I can return to my work. But this little break has been a precious reminder about the value of society. I hope I can live with that much vigour when I reach the later stages of middle age, and I hope I can retain the same fundamental kindness that I so often see in the eyes and actions of older people.

Dr. Scott Shepherd (scottshepherd@chongshin.ac.kr) is a British-American academic. He has taught in universities in the U.K. and Korea, and is currently an assistant professor of English at Chongshin University in Seoul. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.