Just another average Sunday . . .

We were heading out to Gyanyong. A little drive out of town, up the mountains to go swimming in the river which flows down to the valley below offering fresh cool pools of refreshment amongst the green my companions described to be just like Ireland "if they had ever been there". So there we were: Myself, the driver, her Korean boyfriend in front, myself and her daughter and the two dogs in the back. We finally had piled all in and were just on the outskirts of town where the inevitable happened: a car accident. It happened as all car accidents do: in slow motion. Being a passenger in Korea is like being a pin ball in a pinball machine: you must relinquish your fate to the person operating the buttons and hope fate falls in your favor between the many blinking lights and bumpers. So, outta nowhere the car in front of us was in a full and complete stop. Even with the emergency brake pulled, we abruptly bucked into his shiny black bumper. 

     Without hazard lights or even pulling over out of lane of traffic, we sat and waited for further instruction. Trucks were whizzing by us with such speed that our little four door rocked and the dogs whimpered with each pass. We waited there for the insurance man to arrive on a Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, we were with the driver's Korean boyfriend who could communicate with the disgruntled "used car salesman" we bumped into. The damage to his car was one tiny little scratch to his bumper but as any good used car salesman would do, he was insisting on a brand new bumper. An hour, adequate information exchange, and the begrudgingly loss of some significant income later, we were back on our way to a relaxing day in the sparkling clean moutain waters of Gyanyong.  We were, however. almost out of gas. 

    Half way up the mountain and a Murphy's law realization, we turned back down to revisit the fuel station we streaked by in hopes for another. We got gas and soon enough we were unloading dogs, people and flip flops out of the vehicle at the top of a steep hill which was also the entrance to a very inviting Buddhist temple. 

   Our destination surrounded us with cool clear, white water cascading down black and earthy rocks sheathed under layers of tropical green. Between sprouting bamboo shoots we lumbered, carefully passing over unturned rock after unturned rock to stick our toes in the frigidly refreshing bubbling water between baby falls. 

     I found a boulder to sit upon. I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. I inhaled deeply smelling the pure green-ness around me. I listened only to the falling water, perpetual and endless. It was not a sound to me, it was a feeling.  It was the feeling someone feels knowing  they are in the presence of something that is greater than themselves while simultaneously feeling great within themselves. It was at that moment I was reminded of why I have traveled so far, so far on an outward and inward journey: to know that that greatness is not with in me, it is what passes through me. It was time for a swim. 

This is a "rock wish". Korean's stack stones as high as they can and make a wish.

Gorgeous Asian plums

Typical Korean dining experience.

Amy as a crazy sore thumb . . .

    Um .... ok, so as I have mentioned before, anywhere you go in South Korea as a "waygook" (foreigner) you are, well, extremely noticed. In my experience, Korean people are very peaceful, friendly, and insatiably curious  Some days I find I just don't want to deal with the ritualistic peering eyes and barrage of questions in confusing English I endure at the bus stop everyday. I have found the best way to avoid such encounters when unwanted is to disengage by means of sunglasses and ipod. Today was one of those days. 

   I was walking down the alley to my bus stop when a Korean man in his mid forties stops me in his extended bright yellow van. He makes a movement which implies take out your earphones. (Apparently even my best efforts can be foiled by eager spectators.) and I oblige. He asks me with a giant smile where I am from. He says, "I want speak English with you. We go now, I take you . . . We have tea, eat, drink . . . I want be your friend. . . .  Get in . . .  Where are you going? . . . .I take you." I told him I had to go to work and he insisted as he patted his passenger sear "Come, come, I take you." 

    This whole spontaneous conversation has my red flags standing at attention. In the states, we don't speak to strangers in vehicles whom demand you get in there car. In the states, smart girls definitely don't get in the vehicle of the aforementioned stranger. In fact, a girl that does that kinda stuff is never seen again. But I am not in the states and this endearing man with gentle eyes and a giant smile that beems with ecstatic joy in the thought that I might just sit down and talk with him . . . and, well, abandoning better judgement . . .  I got in the van. 

    He took out a piece of paper and wrote down his name "Kim Chun Ock" underneath it he wrote his phone number and under that he wrote 'Good Friends'. He kept emphasizing that we would be good friends. He went on musing about our life long acquaintance: exchanging emails and phone calls long after I went back to the states. My heart started to pound as I considered the possibly tragic mistake I had made in getting into this Korean's van, but I tried to tell myself that, no no... he was not a phycho killer, he was just really excited at the thought of a friendship with a "waygook". Grinning ear to ear the whole time, he rambled on in barely English and I understood most of it, I think. He wanted to make plans. He wanted to talk. He went so far as to say that if I called him he would pick me up and take me to and from work everyday where we could talk 'englishee' together. 

    We picked up his sister who was waiting on a corner up the road. He said "I must stop. I made promise to give ride to my sister." A middle aged Korean woman lumbered into the back of the van with three bags plastic grocery bags: one full of corn in husk, one full of colorful towels, and the third full of whole fish. (My confidence in the fact I was going to get to work was fleeting.) "She works at Soju Bar. I take her to work then I take you Hagwon." The newspaper headlines were passing through my head "Stupid American girl disappears in Suncheon .  . . " But he did as he said. He took her to work and then he took me to Hagwon. 

    As we pulled in to the parking lot I can't say I wasn't relieved. He reminded me to call him when I got off work and he would take me home. He said, "Have good day." I smiled I got out of the van, very much alive and replied  "It was strange but nice."  As he drove away he waved and exclaimed "Very happy to meet you!!" I slowly walked in to the Hagwon a little jaunted by the whole experience. Did that actually just happen to me? Was I just a victim of a hit and ride?

     Later I asked a few Korean teachers about this surreal experience. They insisted that my new good friend was guilty of nothing more than a little (or maybe a lot) of eccentric courage. They encouraged me to meet with him, to be his 'native speaking' friend. "Not to be worried", they consoled me. After all, Koreans love speaking English with English people. They did however have one suggestion:" Until you know Mr.Kim better, maybe it best you ride with bus." 

Finally Ribs that are served with gloves!

Badminton with Jesus?

 My first Typhoon. The best I can sum up it up is that it is a whole lot of rain. A LOT of rain, Like the kinda rain you wear shoes knowing they will get soaked, pants rolled up to your knees and still they are wet to your thighs . . . the kinda rain that even with your umbrella, it was like you were outside in pouring rain with out one. . . . there is no staying dry in a typhoon. 

  It is the beginning of my understanding of what a "monsoon season" is, and from what I have been told, a month long of it to look forward to. "Understand, you will be wet, and you will be wet all of the time." So after the long day of down pour I looked longingly out the window of my Hagwon to realize I had no umbrella and in the aftermath of my journey home I would have been dryer if I had taken a dip Yellow Sea. In procrastination, I tinked around on the computer at school and in happenstance a Korean teacher walked into the office. She said, like an angel, "I have car. You need ride home?" 

  I most whole heartedly (thinking in my head: soaking rainy walk to bus, smelly wet bus, soaking rainy walk to apartment home) said an enthusiastic yes. This Korean teacher was always very smiley and welcoming and spoke, at best, broken english.  As we pulled out of the parking lot in her glorified box on wheels she turned to me and said "You have dinner?"  I looked out the window at the daunting rain, taking into consideration the possible uncomfortable nature of an enduring conversation between two people that cannot understand each other and said "of course."

   She took me to an end of town that I have never been. (Suncheon actually translates into "very very country" but there is really nothing rural about this place.) We parked and meandered down a street that looked lit up like vegas between the neon lights on the signs and the reflecting puddles rippling in the street. She lead me up a stone staircase to a cozy Korean restaurant. 

   Let me note here that there are two seating areas in a Korean restaurant: take off your shoes and sit on the floor (Korean Style) or keep shoes on and sit at a table. (Western style) So, I have learned that you wait in shoe limbo to find out your next move. I know this of because of a few awkward instances off taking shoes off only to put them sillily back on again. We were sat at a table, or should I say two couches with a table between them. It was possibly the most comfortably I have ever sat down for dinner. 

    So we talked, kinda. .  . I learned that she was from Jae Jeu Island, "the Hawaii" of South Korea. Hearing this I said, " I would love to go there someday" and with out hesitation she replied "Tell me when you go and I will prepare a room for you at my parents home." This is an unaccustomed response I have encountered in Korea. Hospitality is NOT an illusion but an authentic gesture of respect. The communication between us a liken to a ride in a bumpercar.  She asked me in broken English if I believed in Jesus. (a question I avoid answering at all costs) She then said she had not been a real Christian her entire life but as of, and she was very specific about this, January 2, 2008. That was the day, she said she had heard the Voice of God. She said she had been praying as she had many times before and out of no where she heard a voice that said "Do you love me?" She said she heard it and replied "Yes, do you love me?" and to which, in her interpretation, God responded "Yes, now move to China and spread my word." This came to her not in verbal means but in visual terms: she said she felt love and saw pictures of Asia in her mind. Since then, she tells me, she is able to pray in 3 different languages: Chinese, Arabic, and Japanese with out actually ever learning these foreign dialects. She calls it "speaking in there tongue." She insists that this multilingual occurrence only happens while she is alone and in prayer, but that her sisters: one in Sacramento, one in Austria also have the same ability. It is now her goal to travel to China and do missionary work because God on January 2, 2008 told her so. Then she asks me if I would like to play badminton with her at her church on Sunday. Images of birdies sailing over a taut net between Koreans and a white robed Jesus suddenly rush into my mind. I smile out of the corner of my mouth and reply in true California style."Sunday? Would love to but unfortunately I already have plans." 

"Where's the beef . . . . from?'

     My walk home from work takes me right passed the train station. I discovered that it is also the location political protests are held in Suncheon. On my walk home this night,  I encountered another candlelight vigil in progress. (There have been three since I moved here three weeks ago.) The protest usually entails a peaceful crowd holding candles and quietly nodding as tag-teaming speakers spit angrily into megaphones. Between speakers, a small group of people in white robes pound on traditional Korean drums with such fervor it feels like a second heart beat in my chest. I cross the street and avoid getting involved even periphally with the anxious crowd. 

   I have inquired with the other foriegners about what all the protesting is about with out much of an answer. One teacher told me that other protests must of have been about the Iraq war because her boyfriend, who was Iraqi, was called by his consulate and instructed not to attend any protests over the weekend. When I returned to my apartment, another teacher who lives in my building called me to say it was NOT dangerous, but probably best if I stayed in tonight considering there were protests going on this day nationwide (remember, the state of Michigan is Larger than entire country of South Korea) and there was one happening right on my perverbial front lawn. She told me that I should be fine because I am female "and they usually leave the women alone." She also told me that the most the protesters have ever done to any foriegner is throw rotton vegetables at them as they passed by. This is enough information to keep me avoiding any other "peaceful protest" for my entire stay in South Korea. 

    I turned on my TV in an attempt to solve the civil dissodant mystery to find broadcasts of enormous vigils going on in Seoul and Busan. It all seemed very important but the language barrier again . . . so it was eventually through the internet surf of the information super highway that I finally discovered the purpose for all of the mayhem: American beef. Yes, yes, beef. The South Koreans were very upset with their president for making, what was considered by most be, a snakey and secretive deal with President Bush exporting American beef that the citizen's of Korea deemed unsuitable. Now almost the entire country is convinced they all will get mad cow disease and die. The protests, apparently, had an effect because a cabinet member resigned that very day in response to the uproar. After talking with some of my students later they explained the issue further: The citizens of S. Korea were outraged at their president for doing something for money that threatened the health of his country, which they take very, very seriously. In their minds, the wrong person was removed from office and this is one of many instances that this president (4 months into his 8 year term) had made desicions which benefit him financially at the expense and safety of his people. (perhaps this sounds familar?) I am reminded once again that although democracy boasts rule by the people, capitalism always discriminates.

Fear and Loathing in South Korea . . .

I Like the way your sparkling earring lay. . . .

    Sucheon Bay was a beautiful place with boardwalks extending out into grassy marshes that further extended out into the sea. I wandered aimlessly through meandering families holding hands. I was wearing a summer dress but felt under-shoed around the high heels my Korean counterparts were wearing.  Armed with only blades of grass, many people were bent over the boardwalk catching crabs that were scurrying in the sand below. Crabbing with blades of grass you ask? This is a simple process: 1. Pluck long blade of grass from marsh. 2. Lay, belly side down, on boardwalk. 3. Spot biggest crab. 4. Reach blade of grass below and taunt large crab until he angrily latches on to the grass with pinchers. 5. Retrieve crab with other hand. One man confirmed this cycle when he ran excitedly with up to me with a bowing blade of grass, fearfully dangling and the end of it was a twirling crustacean.  He shouted something at me laughed, abruptly handed it to me and ran away. How odd. 

    I walked through some of the small stony gardens that surrounded the marsh and happened upon a yellow tented booth where an Asian man and woman were offering tea. They called me over enthusiastically and insisted that I have some. I picked a small ceramic cup from the orange linen clothed table and held it out with both hands in front of me ( this is what I now have learned is the traditional way to accept drink in Korea) and she poured some steamy tea to the brim of my cup. It was the best tea I have ever tasted, nutty and green, refreshing and soothing. I finished the tiny cup quickly and before I could say a word she was refilling it.  They were inquisitive and kept asking me questions even after I indicated that I did not speak Korean. The man knew a few words in English and asked me where I was from  . . .  I think. I said California. (Sometimes I say CA, sometimes OH, Sometimes New York, the fact is I'm from a lot of places.) "Oh!" The man said or should I say sung (and I am so serious about this) "Wel-ome to row-tel Ca- wi-for-na . . . "  "Yes, Eagles!" I exclaimed. I giggled thanked them for tea and headed back to the bus to get back to town. Guess it is true what they say, for every moment in life their is an Eagles song playing somewhere softly in the background.  

The brand of Japanese condoms in Korea.

 

Finding new faith in the kindness of strange strangers.

   So decided that today was the day I was gonna figure out how to go somewhere- anywhere sans brevity and ease of taxi cabs (expense as well) and go see something besides the minor urban route to my school and back (which after some trial and failure can do without worry).  So with the little Korean I had my fellow teacher jot down on a yellow post-it note (which translated only into "suncheon bay" which if pronounced says Suncheon Man- which was also funny to me because I was approaching friendly-appearing Koreans saying "Odis mika Suncheon Man" - which to me meant "where can I find a Suncheon Man" ).... I arrived at the bus station and stared bewilderingly at the giant bus schedule in front of me.  After good while of studying,  began to laugh a full belly laugh at how impossible the bazillion characters in front of me were supposed to guide me to where I was supposed to go. Thankfully my phone rang. It was another teacher from my school with impeccable timing. She has been described to me as the person who knows how to get around Korea in English. She is Korean-American or should I say American-Korean for when I inquired about her it was mentioned to me that I was more Korean than she was. (reminder I am from Ohio and very NOT Korean.) You know, some people have the impression that when in a foreign country that if people do not understand you just speak louder and suddenly the language barrier will disipate? She has been quoted several times yelling "I don't speak KOREAN!" to innocent bystanders.  Anyhow, I'm digressing . . . She called and when I explained to her my predicament she informed me that I was standing right in front of the tourism booth in Suncheon. "Just walk in and ask them" and by ask them it means do a great deal of charades, mumble some things in broken Korean and hope for the best. So I did.

  "Hello! Very happy to meet you!" said the smiley ole man from behind the counter.  I mustered my best greeting in Korean and asked "where is the bus for the Suncheon Man?"

He told me in what I am most sure was very helpful Korean and I shrugged my shoulders in a way that said "I have no idea what you just said." He pulled out another yellow post-it note (post-it's, very big in Korea) and wrote the number 67 down and pointed in a general direction across the street. He said "seventy-six, you go." and then gently pushed me out the door. 

   So that's the direction I headed, armed with my little post-it note, my little yellow badge of courage, to a strange street on a strange corner in the world  . . . .  to prove to myself that I, this girl from suburban Ohio, could get somewhere else from work to shoebox in Korea by herself.

    I stood on one corner for a bit, looked puzzlingly at the signs surrounding me and waited . . . . . . .  for the bus? Finally, a nice Korean gentleman approached me and said what I could only assume was something like " Can I help you figure out where you are trying to go?" I showed him my slip of paper and said again "Odis mika?" He pointed down the street and I had to hope that was the right direction. 

    I walked down another street and contemplated giving up. . . but no, no as to those that no me enough, I always follow through, and found yet another bus stop. I stood again in front of another coded bus schedule and again hoping for the best. To here I will note that one of the best and worse qualities of the Korean culture is that they, are for lack of better word,  curious.

Before I could think the words 'frustration' an older woman tapped me the shoulder and said "sixty seven Sucheon Bay, this your stop!" She even went so far as to shove the other ladies in waiting for bus down the small bench to make room for me at which I could do nothing else but oblige. I suddenly was in the company of five older Korean grandmothers who wanted nothing else but to make sure I got on my bus. We waited. We waited a good long while. We waited so long that I would of left a called it a day, but  I was assured with the occasional "you bus coming!" from one of the ladies next to me that I was not defeated. Finally, bus 67 arrived. "Here your bus. Come come!" The women said in unison. They even insisted I get on the bus first. Let us not begrudge the will of our elders!

    So there we went slowly:  ole ladies, bus, and I winding through parked cars and pedestrians til the urban glowing signs and geometrical architecture transitioned into pointed- earthy tiled roofs and then into the space of Korean country side: rice field after rice field. The sky became wider and the road windier. I saw small workers in straw hats with bent knees deep in mud between rice rows slowly working away at their crops. Bus stops let out at dirt paths to tiny islands of houses separated by shallow ponds of agriculture. I was slowly getting lost into the fresh air and skyline of nothing but mountains and green when I heard a pitching "Hey, Hey! " I turned my head behind me and it was my Korean grandmothers. "You stop next!" "Oh, kamapsamnida" I responded. (thank you.) I got off the bus sure enough there I was at the foot of the remote and beautiful Suncheon Bay. 

I am Sam, Clean Sam I am.

  

     As I said before, Koreans are serious about cleanliness. So serious that whenever the kindergarten class of New York Academy of English has a field trip (to the mountains, on a hike, to the river) all children must be cleaned and properly scrubbed before returning to their respective homes. I guess the thought of sending students dirty is unacceptable. Since my temporary host's home was closest to the school, her apartment was the volunteered location were such and event could take place. When I arrived at the apartment that afternoon there were twenty five tiny pairs of shoes lined up in 4 little rows by the door. And like an assembly line in a Dr. Seuss book, 25 dirty children filed into the bathroom and emerged as 25 sparkly clean children. They were quickly rounded up re-shoed and returned to school for a clean bus ride home to Mom and Dad. The most amazing part was the state of the bathroom- it was a complete un- disaster. As if there were no little children pitter-patting through our bathroom at all- not even a wet towel. Astonishing. 

Trash. Korean Style.

  Koreans are serious about cleanliness. So serious in fact it took me good week two find out where the trash is. This is very different from the way we see garbage in America: land of plenty (land of plenty garbage cans more like it.) In Korea, the point is not to have less trash receptacles but rather produce less trash. What a brilliant idea! I have to say though that this system although eco-friendly, is probably more out of necessity than conscientiousness. (that being that there is a serious spatial issue in the East.) Anyhow, it has been a confusing process figuring out how to of dispose of my personal waste properly and without getting fined. Yes, fined. Garbage is broken down into five different categories: paper, plastic, glass, food and un-recyclable waste. Each type of waste has a designated bag which is acquired at the grocery store when your groceries are bagged (smart huh?) You are charged 10 cents per garbage bag. Then you take your garbage bags home which are, by the way (only slightly bigger than our usual grocery bags), empty your groceries, and  begin to thoroughly separate your waste. 

     In some ways, I feel like I am at summer camp, separating my edible trash from my un-reusable trash, scraping my leftover food into the slop bin for the farm animals. Ultimately that is just what Korea does with our giant slop bin: we feed it to the pigs on a massive national level. It is one of the many ways this country has elected efficiency over personal convenience. It has made me very aware of the trash I make or try not to make, making garbage day a borderline intellectual endeavor. 

We now return to our regularly scheduled program . . . (almost).

Due to moving difficulty, I am interenet-less for a little while. 

But will be updating blog as soon as I am up and running again. 

stay tuned . . . 

some stories to share:

As 25 kindergartners showered in my bathroom today . . .

Grocery shopping in the form of slight torture . . .

Toast meet Amy, Amy eat toast . . . .

My first trip to the art store . . . 

My shower is my bathroom!

And for the record, I am your princess and I am your lover.