October 25th
First: I finally got the internet and posted all my back-dated blogs – all except the one from my birthday which I accidentally left in the ‘draft’ pile and which I’ve now posted. It makes sense of some of the subsequent ones so it may be worth going back to. And so on with the story.
It’s Saturday morning and after finally figuring out internet banking for my new NongHyup bank account, I check my balance and find over two million won in there. It was pay day yesterday – very prompt payment. Time to go shopping. I have a list and I’ve checked out what’s what in the town, so with shiny new cash card and a translation of ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ in my purse, I set out to spend.
The first shop I come across is ‘Beautiplex’ and I need mascara and lipstick. Like all the shops in Namhae, it’s small and for a shopaphobic like me, intimidating. Shop assistants don’t just hover; personal space is much smaller in Korea and combined with a deeply service oriented culture, they practically hang on to your arm while you browse. I feel committed to buying something. Helpfully, the Korean word for mascara is ‘mascara’ so the first item is easily selected. With the assistance of the all-too-willing assistant I choose what I think is a lip stain and matching gloss. At the till I interrupt a conversation between another assistant and an old lady who is sitting on a stool in front of the counter. They end their chat and the little old lady, who barely reaches my chest, gets up to leave, looking up at me with a warm smile.
The woman at the counter helpfully taps out the amount due on a calculator when I say that I can’t understand Korea and continues to explain in great detail, in Korean, the directions for using the several freebies she’s dropping into a bag.. The bag is nearly full. I offer profuse thanks and leave.
Next stop is the Adidas shop. I’ve owned possibly two pairs of trainers in my whole life, not having found the need for anything remotely resembling sportswear since being banned from P.E. by Miss Badley back in 1976, but all that is about to change. Along with being pretty and demure, it is a requirement of Korean culture to socialise with ones colleagues. My colleagues play volleyball every Wednesday. Though I seriously doubt I’ll achieve ‘pretty and demure’ while tramping around a volley ball court like a big galoot, at least I’ll be dressed appropriately. The shop assistants throw in a free pair of socks which marginally offsets the shocking price of trainers and track pants.
I wander to the outskirts of town to the big Samsung shop. It’s big for Namhae, but the display of cameras amounts to eight. I bought my last camera about 4 or 5 years ago and I’m well impressed by the developments since then. The young girl who serves me shows me the pros and cons of each one, or tries to. With my usual impatient shopping style, I settle on the pink one after about two minutes. It looks nice and is the mid priced one – what more do I need?
What I desperately need are work shirts, but the clothes shops are either cheap and nasty or prim and expensive. I go for cheap and nasty first. I find a nice top that will do for work and look through the t-shirts which I still need to complete my volleyball ensemble. The male shop assistant tears himself away from the conversation with his colleague and pulls out a few t-shirts for my inspection. I choose the two with the least glitter and fewest grammatical errors; it being compulsory here to have random English words and sentences plastered across any item of casual clothing. I recalled the hoodie one of my students wore on the school trip with the words to Madonna’s ‘Jump’ on the back – if only I could find that one. Instead I buy one covered in what seems to be the text of a computer manual and another with Rock! emblazoned across the chest.
I try a shop that looks like it may have some good clothes, but nothing would fit me unless I lose 20 kilos and have my bones removed. The three female shop assistants are sitting around a small table drinking tea and invite me to join them despite the fact that they speak no English. I pass up the offer and move on as I’m now hitting my shopping interest threshold, having been out now for almost an hour. One last shop on my way home – it looks a bit old-ladyish but I try anyway.
Scanning the rails I know that I don’t want to be paying these prices for what looks to me like mother of the bride blouses, but the three assistants are closing in on me and once again I feel committed. I spot some decent looking jeans – of course they have the obligatory sparkly bits and they aren’t cheap – but I need new jeans. They also look like they might fit me which is a bonus here. I indicate to the assistant that I don’t know what size I am; she eyes me up and down and offers me some to try. They are huge. I try to explain that they are too big and she hunts out the back, returning with an even bigger pair. After much gesticulating and frowning, the penny drops and she finds a smaller pair. I take them, along with a shirt that caught my eye, to the changing room – actually a two-foot square space between the shop and the store room. The jeans fit with room to spare but it’s too much hassle to risk trying for smaller.
I come out of the changing rooms to a semi-circle of shop assistants eager to serve. ‘These’ I say, pointing to the jeans ‘yeh’ (which conveniently is ‘yes’ in Korean) ‘this’ I say, pointing to the shirt ‘anio’. This little bit of Korean gets a rapturous reception - I am rewarded with another free pair of socks, a further 5% discount on top of the 30% already advertised on the window and the impression that I’ve just made the day of three very happy shop assistants.
It’s time to go home so I stop off at a supermarket to buy a bottle of beer and some cigarettes. In an attempt to feign respectability, I’ve tried to spread my booze and fags purchases amongst the various stores around town, yet despite this the girl at the counter reaches behind her for 20 Raison menthol before I even ask.
At home I retrieve my laundry from the rooftop washing machine and unpack my goods, trying on everything as I do. I’m particularly pleased with the top I bought for work and now that I know what size fits I may go back and get another in a different colour. The lip gloss and stain turn out to be two identical lip glosses, but I got three lots of moisturiser, two bars of soap and two sachets each of shampoo and conditioner for free, so I’m not complaining.
Tomorrow I want to go out a play with my new camera, but I also have a stack of students’ tests to mark, lessons to plan and other things I want to do, including learning Hangeul - Korean writing, which, it seems, is very simple and can be learned in a weekend. It’s just as well I have no social life, I wouldn’t have time for one if I did have any friends.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
The School Trip
Friday October 17th is the school trip. I have to be there at 7:20am for the three hour coach trip to Daegu. I arrive in plenty of time and hang around for another hour while the school organises itself to board the nine coaches that are lined up on the playing field.
The Vice Principal corners me. A tiny, slim and very friendly woman, she talks to me at every opportunity. She’s probably a little older than me – she’s told me her son is 28 and her daughter is an optician – and she loves to practice her English that she learns every Tuesday evening with Owen at the college. After several attempts, I understand about half of what she says. She’s in full hiking gear and I wish I had my walking boots with me. Faced with the prospect of ‘dressing comfortably’ while still under the restriction of ‘modest’, the best I could do is a long skirt, shirt and my red shoes. She tells me that the parents have prepared a picnic of raw fish for us – something I’ve already told her is one of my favourite dishes.
We hang around some more. I look at the lines of students and am happy that I remember some faces already, if not names. There’s a tiny disabled boy whose English is pretty good; another boy who chats to me at every opportunity and translates for friends and teachers; another who insisted that I remember him during our first class – in his ‘three things about me’ he said he would be a famous boat designer - and I do already remember his face. The rest are all clearly individual – unlike the Korean myth that everyone is both thin and beautiful, there is the standard smattering of overweight, spotty teenagers, those who are too tall, too small, too thin, geeky or dozy or otherwise distinctive.
The Vice Principal approaches me again. She was standing on the top of the steps as I wait at the bottom, gazing out over the crowd.
“Oh Daryl – your hair!” she comments as she flicks through my grey roots. “Me too! Dye hair. Oh dear. Hair. “ she repeats, tugging at her own black mop “Me too”. I make a mental note to hunt down a hair dye first thing tomorrow morning before I commit further crimes against prettiness.
Once on the bus, I settle into the front seat and drift into the passing scenery. Sun-mi is on the seat behind and another teacher across from me. We have the space to snooze and daydream. Food is passed around, as it often is. At school, at least once a day, some little gift is distributed; pieces of fruit, small bottles of ginseng drink, the Korean version of Yakult, biscuits, cake, kimbap. Yesterday it was tubes of toothpaste. Strange.
Today we are given two little packages wrapped in cling-film. I bite into it; it’s obviously made of some kind of rice flour, mixed with water and boiled to give it a texture similar to what you might expect boiled rice flour and water to feel like. It’s filled with red beans and nuts – after a few bites I recognise the taste – chestnuts. It’s not altogether unpleasant and undoubtedly healthy.
We cross Namhae bridge and I watch the countryside drift by. I’d be slightly more relaxed if the driver didn’t have half an eye on the film he’d put onto the screen for the students. We pass through some small cities and I wish I had a map so I had an idea where exactly Daegu is located. I doze, gaze and before I know it, we arrive.
More confusion and delays as passes are handed out. We are at an amusement park and the plan is for us each to go off in random groups to have fun. Whoopee. Funfair rides. I hated them even as a child. First, it is agreed, the teachers will have lunch using our free lunch tickets at the restaurant. More organising and confusion. Sun-mi and I lose the group as she comes with me to the toilets. I’ve avoided them so far, but today my only option is the little floor mounted urinals. It’s not so bad – a bit like camping.
The Vice Principal corners me. A tiny, slim and very friendly woman, she talks to me at every opportunity. She’s probably a little older than me – she’s told me her son is 28 and her daughter is an optician – and she loves to practice her English that she learns every Tuesday evening with Owen at the college. After several attempts, I understand about half of what she says. She’s in full hiking gear and I wish I had my walking boots with me. Faced with the prospect of ‘dressing comfortably’ while still under the restriction of ‘modest’, the best I could do is a long skirt, shirt and my red shoes. She tells me that the parents have prepared a picnic of raw fish for us – something I’ve already told her is one of my favourite dishes.
We hang around some more. I look at the lines of students and am happy that I remember some faces already, if not names. There’s a tiny disabled boy whose English is pretty good; another boy who chats to me at every opportunity and translates for friends and teachers; another who insisted that I remember him during our first class – in his ‘three things about me’ he said he would be a famous boat designer - and I do already remember his face. The rest are all clearly individual – unlike the Korean myth that everyone is both thin and beautiful, there is the standard smattering of overweight, spotty teenagers, those who are too tall, too small, too thin, geeky or dozy or otherwise distinctive.
The Vice Principal approaches me again. She was standing on the top of the steps as I wait at the bottom, gazing out over the crowd.
“Oh Daryl – your hair!” she comments as she flicks through my grey roots. “Me too! Dye hair. Oh dear. Hair. “ she repeats, tugging at her own black mop “Me too”. I make a mental note to hunt down a hair dye first thing tomorrow morning before I commit further crimes against prettiness.
Once on the bus, I settle into the front seat and drift into the passing scenery. Sun-mi is on the seat behind and another teacher across from me. We have the space to snooze and daydream. Food is passed around, as it often is. At school, at least once a day, some little gift is distributed; pieces of fruit, small bottles of ginseng drink, the Korean version of Yakult, biscuits, cake, kimbap. Yesterday it was tubes of toothpaste. Strange.
Today we are given two little packages wrapped in cling-film. I bite into it; it’s obviously made of some kind of rice flour, mixed with water and boiled to give it a texture similar to what you might expect boiled rice flour and water to feel like. It’s filled with red beans and nuts – after a few bites I recognise the taste – chestnuts. It’s not altogether unpleasant and undoubtedly healthy.
We cross Namhae bridge and I watch the countryside drift by. I’d be slightly more relaxed if the driver didn’t have half an eye on the film he’d put onto the screen for the students. We pass through some small cities and I wish I had a map so I had an idea where exactly Daegu is located. I doze, gaze and before I know it, we arrive.
More confusion and delays as passes are handed out. We are at an amusement park and the plan is for us each to go off in random groups to have fun. Whoopee. Funfair rides. I hated them even as a child. First, it is agreed, the teachers will have lunch using our free lunch tickets at the restaurant. More organising and confusion. Sun-mi and I lose the group as she comes with me to the toilets. I’ve avoided them so far, but today my only option is the little floor mounted urinals. It’s not so bad – a bit like camping.
The group are already at the restaurant and we join them there. The raw fish with its accompanying bean paste, chilli sauce and slices of raw garlic are passed around the tables. Someone is tasked to put in the food order and I ask Sun-mi choose for me. I get bibimbap – a dish of rice and mixed vegetables, but I wish I’d been more assertive and asked for the udon noodles and kimbap she has.
Lunch is over and Sun-mi and I wander off to have fun. I try to explain that I’ve been a coward since birth and hate any ride that is fast, spins or appears even slightly dangerous. She tells me that we are going to wait in the queue for the roller coaster. We are joined by a handful of students, including the boy who insists I remember him, who has a fantastic camera and takes photographs. I pull out my cheap mini-camera and take a few fuzzy shots. We chat for a while, but naturally the conversation reverts to Korean and I stand bored waiting for the endless queue to dwindle.
Two tedious hours and two and half terrifying minutes later, I stagger off the roller coaster swearing that I will never, ever climb aboard another one as long as I live. After climbing the first slope, I squeeze my eyes shut, put my head down and hold my breath until I am certain we have come to a final halt at the exit. I lose my ride pass too. Conveniently.
But I’m not going to be let off the hook so lightly. With only an hour to go before we have to head back for the bus, the boy who wants to be remembered drags me into the ghost house with Sun-mi’s ticket. She is terrified of the dark, she tells me, so she won’t go in there. I sense a kind of injustice. Still, the ghost house is nothing more than a walk in the dark and it’s quite funny, occasionally jumping and shrieking as kids hide behind corners to scare us as we pass through.
Time for one more ride and the boy who wants to be remembered insists I go to the place with wet glass. Walking across a dirt forecourt, we pick up what looks like plastic dustbin lids with string handles. As we approach, I realise I am about to slide down a steep hill of grass with water jets spraying from either side. The boy and I take our places in the queue and I give Sun-mi a look which I hope suitably portrays my desperation and unwillingness. She returns a look of encouragement. This is my duty, along with looking pretty and demure, but I’m wearing a skirt and I have the co-ordination of an epileptic frog.It’s our turn, and there is no going back. I take the cross-legged seated position on my dustbin lid without further instruction, much to the joy of the boy who wants to be remembered. “Go!” he shouts, translating the Korean instructions called over a speaker. I’m sliding and for a few minutes it’s actually quite fun. Somehow the boy who wants to be remembered is in front of me. “Get out of my way!” I shout, hoping that his English is as good as his steering, but it’s too late. I crash into him, spinning as I do. I’m not sure what happens to him, as I’m no longer leaning backwards as I face downhill but leaning backwards as I face uphill – the corresponding difference in angle and momentum giving me just seconds before I simultaneously grab my skirt which is flying up over my knees, hit my head on the grass and slip off my dustbin lid. I slide, laughing uncontrollably, for a few more seconds before coming to a halt in the wet, wet grass.
I stand up, my skirt and jacket dripping, and stagger out to Sun-mi who is unsure whether to laugh or apologise. The boy who wants to be remembered joins us, excitedly analysing my manoeuvres. Sun-mi takes me back to the toilets where I stand with my back to the hand drier trying to regain some dignity. A little girl stops and stares. Her first experience of a Western woman – drying her backside with a hand drier - will forever be ingrained on her memory.The bus ride home is less uncomfortable than I expect. The still balmy weather has my clothes almost dry before we arrive at Namhae just after sunset. With hindsight it was a fun day, but I don’t want to do it again.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Exploring futher
My second Saturday in Namhae I spend lesson planning, washing, cleaning and shopping. I’ve tried many of the shops now, and everyone is helpful and friendly. The girls in the bakery love to shout “See ya, have a nice day” as I’m leaving, though they wait till I’m almost out of the door before they dare. I greet everyone with ‘annyong haseyo’ whenever I can, though most people want to practice their ‘hello’, nudging each other and whispering it under their breath before one individual is forced to say it out loud. When I respond with ‘hello’ I get fits of giggles and a chorus of ‘hello’s from the rest of the group.
Toddlers in supermarkets are my favourite source of amusement. As they race around the aisles they stumble across me and stop dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed and motionless until a parent drags them away. Old people also stop and stare, but always in a kind and curious way. The town is small enough to bump into my students. They are still unsure if I’m ‘Morgan’ or ‘Daryl’ as Koreans put their family name first followed by their two syllable hyphenated personal name, so I’m often greeted with a loud ‘hello Morgan’ as one of my students joins me in the supermarket queue, casting a proud glance to the cashier to be sure they’ve noticed he knows this foreigner by name. It’s like being a minor celebrity, with all its advantages and disadvantages. The last time I was greeted like this by a student I was hurriedly stuffing beer and fags into my carrier bag.
Sunday, and with all my jobs out of the way, I set off with the tourist map and go to find the sea. I should have set off earlier, but by the time I get my act together it’s about noon and the sun is high in the sky. I wish I’d bought one of those wide-brimmed sun-peaks that many of the women wear. Like the better-off in 17th and 18th century Britain, tanned skin is avoided as a sign of peasantry working the fields; pale as possible is the desired skin tone. Sun-burnt red has, as far as I’m aware, never been attractive in any century or culture.
I buy batteries for my camera. As soon as I get paid I’ll buy a new one, but it’s an opportunity too good to miss to try a few shots with the simple one I have. I set off to the far end of town – it takes me about fifteen minutes to reach the main road that marks the town boundary. I look back and orientate myself with the two landmarks I know – my school, easily identifiable with its pink and green colour scheme and the college behind it. I live behind the college.
I cross under the main road via the subway and follow a long country lane that I hope leads towards the sea. On either side of me are mainly rice fields. Every inch of land, even small patches of what might otherwise be waste land is filled with produce of some kind. Where the rice has been harvested, garlic has been planted. Where it’s too small for rice, chillies or cabbages or pumpkins are growing.
I carry on walking. On this side of town people are even more inclined to stare. Scooters slow down to take a better look at me. An old man on a tractor almost mows me down as he swoops in too get a closer look. Passing through a village, a group of older women sitting out in a garden call out ‘annyeong haseyo’ and when I call back they answer ‘hello’ and giggle.
Nearly an hour and a half later, after seeing the sea in the distance, I finally turn a corner to be greeted by a small harbour. Two men are sitting, smoking, on benches under a tree. More men are doing things in boats on the water. It’s almost silent and very beautiful.
I walk a little further and find a place to sit on the sea wall, trying to make out the northern tip of Namhae and the northern tip of Changseon but the mountains blend into one another on the horizon.
Further down the road I see two men picnicking under a tree, disability scooters parked on the side of the road. I greet them with ‘annyeong haseyo’ and they call back inviting me to sit with them. I decline as politely as I can and keep walking. I have no idea how far back it is to Namhae on this road, but I’m feeling good and the scenery is amazing. I look back inland and can see the town in the distance. Between me and home looks like partially reclaimed land – an inland salt-water lake and some swampy ground at best – the only way back is to follow the road ahead.
Finally the road begins to curve inland again and I can see that I’m heading back towards the main road. By now it’s very hot and the flying insects are buzzing about in gangs. Like all the insects here, they seem oversized. Huge spiders hang in webs in trees; these little beasties look like miniature red helicopters.
On the way back to the main road I pass more fields of chillies close enough and ripe enough to pick.
Finally, after about two and a half hours of walking, I hit the main road that runs past town.
It’s Sunday, but the garlic still needs to be planted.
I’m almost home. Even from this approach, I’m familiar enough with the town now to recognise that I live just to the right of here.
And I finally discover the distances on the island, or at least some of them. I’ll come back another day to take a better photograph of this sign. It’s some of the most useful and detailed information I’ve had so far.
The Sangju Silver Sand beach is the most southerly tip of the island and I live about in the middle so I estimate the island is a little less than 40k long and not quite as wide. The whole population is 52,000. About the size of the Furness Peninsula with a population smaller than Barrow? I’ve never been good at estimating distance, but that seems about right. It’s certainly Hicksville here, but a beautiful and unusual one. With the small town scrutiny being magnified a thousand fold by virtue of the fact that I’m an obvious foreigner, it will be interesting to see how well I survive under the microscope here. With a year contract and a lucrative salary, it seems I have little choice.
Toddlers in supermarkets are my favourite source of amusement. As they race around the aisles they stumble across me and stop dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed and motionless until a parent drags them away. Old people also stop and stare, but always in a kind and curious way. The town is small enough to bump into my students. They are still unsure if I’m ‘Morgan’ or ‘Daryl’ as Koreans put their family name first followed by their two syllable hyphenated personal name, so I’m often greeted with a loud ‘hello Morgan’ as one of my students joins me in the supermarket queue, casting a proud glance to the cashier to be sure they’ve noticed he knows this foreigner by name. It’s like being a minor celebrity, with all its advantages and disadvantages. The last time I was greeted like this by a student I was hurriedly stuffing beer and fags into my carrier bag.
Sunday, and with all my jobs out of the way, I set off with the tourist map and go to find the sea. I should have set off earlier, but by the time I get my act together it’s about noon and the sun is high in the sky. I wish I’d bought one of those wide-brimmed sun-peaks that many of the women wear. Like the better-off in 17th and 18th century Britain, tanned skin is avoided as a sign of peasantry working the fields; pale as possible is the desired skin tone. Sun-burnt red has, as far as I’m aware, never been attractive in any century or culture.
I buy batteries for my camera. As soon as I get paid I’ll buy a new one, but it’s an opportunity too good to miss to try a few shots with the simple one I have. I set off to the far end of town – it takes me about fifteen minutes to reach the main road that marks the town boundary. I look back and orientate myself with the two landmarks I know – my school, easily identifiable with its pink and green colour scheme and the college behind it. I live behind the college.
I cross under the main road via the subway and follow a long country lane that I hope leads towards the sea. On either side of me are mainly rice fields. Every inch of land, even small patches of what might otherwise be waste land is filled with produce of some kind. Where the rice has been harvested, garlic has been planted. Where it’s too small for rice, chillies or cabbages or pumpkins are growing.
I carry on walking. On this side of town people are even more inclined to stare. Scooters slow down to take a better look at me. An old man on a tractor almost mows me down as he swoops in too get a closer look. Passing through a village, a group of older women sitting out in a garden call out ‘annyeong haseyo’ and when I call back they answer ‘hello’ and giggle.
Nearly an hour and a half later, after seeing the sea in the distance, I finally turn a corner to be greeted by a small harbour. Two men are sitting, smoking, on benches under a tree. More men are doing things in boats on the water. It’s almost silent and very beautiful.
I walk a little further and find a place to sit on the sea wall, trying to make out the northern tip of Namhae and the northern tip of Changseon but the mountains blend into one another on the horizon.
Further down the road I see two men picnicking under a tree, disability scooters parked on the side of the road. I greet them with ‘annyeong haseyo’ and they call back inviting me to sit with them. I decline as politely as I can and keep walking. I have no idea how far back it is to Namhae on this road, but I’m feeling good and the scenery is amazing. I look back inland and can see the town in the distance. Between me and home looks like partially reclaimed land – an inland salt-water lake and some swampy ground at best – the only way back is to follow the road ahead.
Finally the road begins to curve inland again and I can see that I’m heading back towards the main road. By now it’s very hot and the flying insects are buzzing about in gangs. Like all the insects here, they seem oversized. Huge spiders hang in webs in trees; these little beasties look like miniature red helicopters.On the way back to the main road I pass more fields of chillies close enough and ripe enough to pick.
Finally, after about two and a half hours of walking, I hit the main road that runs past town.
It’s Sunday, but the garlic still needs to be planted.
I’m almost home. Even from this approach, I’m familiar enough with the town now to recognise that I live just to the right of here.
And I finally discover the distances on the island, or at least some of them. I’ll come back another day to take a better photograph of this sign. It’s some of the most useful and detailed information I’ve had so far.
The Sangju Silver Sand beach is the most southerly tip of the island and I live about in the middle so I estimate the island is a little less than 40k long and not quite as wide. The whole population is 52,000. About the size of the Furness Peninsula with a population smaller than Barrow? I’ve never been good at estimating distance, but that seems about right. It’s certainly Hicksville here, but a beautiful and unusual one. With the small town scrutiny being magnified a thousand fold by virtue of the fact that I’m an obvious foreigner, it will be interesting to see how well I survive under the microscope here. With a year contract and a lucrative salary, it seems I have little choice.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
My Fellow Expatriates
Sun-mi and the caretaker told me on the first day that my next-door neighbour is a fellow Westerner and another lives on the floor above. On Tuesday morning I leave a note on the door next to mine saying ‘Hi, I’m your neighbour, give me a knock if you feel like it.” Wednesday evening there is a knock on my door.
“Hi, I’m Chad”.
I invite him in, but living in a single room with nothing much more than a bed, it’s an awkward situation. We stand in the doorway and exchange information briefly. He’s American, starting his second year teaching elementary school in Namhae, but he’s been in Korea for four years. He’s 35. He rightly guessed that I’m British (the spelling of ‘neighbour’ was a clue) and had discussed with Kenny, his friend from upstairs, that Daryl can also be a girls name and the handwriting was definitely female. On cue, Kenny appears. He’s 45 and also American. I babble rapidly; it’s been nearly a week since I had a conversation at a normal pace and elevated my vocabulary above elementary English. Chad tells me there are 6 or 7 other Westerners living in Namhae and they meet fairly regularly on Fridays to go for a drink or something. I ask him to let me know when and where. He says he will.
Thursday evening and Chad calls. Would I like to go for a walk around the town and maybe get a beer. Of course I would. We wander round the streets, lit with a hundred neon signs but very little street lighting. He shows me the best supermarkets, his favourite bar, the market. Though he doesn’t drink much (and, he tells me, Kenny doesn’t drink at all) we go to a bar. It’s above a shop as so many things seem to be here. Each building is multi-purpose and houses a host of activities. The bar is lovely, though almost empty We get a booth seat and Chad calls the waiter over and orders a bottle of beer each. A few hours later Chad is still sipping his first beer and I’m sitting behind several empty bottles and a full ashtray, wishing I was here with either one of my Saras, or Arrian, or Celia. Condensed life stories and teaching tales are swapped and I’m slightly better informed about what to expect of the coming year and pretty certain that, though he’s a good, kind person, Chad and I don’t have an awful lot in common.
Friday afternoon coming home from school, Kenny shouts to me from the roof - he’s doing laundry. Tonight the ‘group’ are going bowling, do I want to come? Of course I do. Chad knocks on my door an hour later and I surprise him by asking him if he’s coming bowling. Hey, it’s a small town.
They call for me at 6.30 and we walk towards the bus station to one of the many high rise buildings. Up the lift to the third floor, we find the bowling alley. So far only one lane is taken and it’s obvious it’s ‘the group’. I see they are unpacking beer from carrier bags and I’m directed down to the first floor shop where I can buy some; Chad and Kenny never thought to inform me of that detail. It may be a fun evening after all.
I’m introduced, but names are quickly forgotten. There are two couples, one American and one South African. The South African woman has a weekend visitor, an old friend from school who is living in Seoul. There’s ‘smoking Eddie’, another American who I talk to most by virtue of the fact that we nip out to the hallway regularly to have a cig. It’s a habit I want to break, but it’s a friend-maker. There’s also a Korean-born American and, like most of the group, is in his late twenties or early thirties. The fact that I am the only single female westerner to live on the island for a long time is humorously noted and I suspect that I’m something of a disappointment – at least insofar as I am older than most of the group by quite a way. The absence of Owen is also noted – the Australian college teacher that the Vice Principal of my school has talked about. Apparently he’s a fitness fanatic and another non-drinker who spends most of his time running or cycling around the island.
So we have a pleasant evening bowling. The South African visitor and I only play one game as we are both hopeless and less than enthusiastic. I try my first soju, which may also be my last. It tastes like a cross between gin and retsina and not likely to be my drink of choice. Korean beer is fine. It’s not Gambrinus, but it’s good.
By eleven the bowling alley is getting ready to close. We were the first in, the last out and the only people drinking. Apparently Koreans take their hobbies seriously – bowling is bowling and drinking is drinking. The girls of the group have promised to contact me via Chad when they are doing something again. Some of the boys are itching to go on somewhere else but I’m ready to go home. I walk back with Chad - Kenny is on his newly acquired scooter- and I flop into bed feeling a little less alone in this odd little town.
“Hi, I’m Chad”.
I invite him in, but living in a single room with nothing much more than a bed, it’s an awkward situation. We stand in the doorway and exchange information briefly. He’s American, starting his second year teaching elementary school in Namhae, but he’s been in Korea for four years. He’s 35. He rightly guessed that I’m British (the spelling of ‘neighbour’ was a clue) and had discussed with Kenny, his friend from upstairs, that Daryl can also be a girls name and the handwriting was definitely female. On cue, Kenny appears. He’s 45 and also American. I babble rapidly; it’s been nearly a week since I had a conversation at a normal pace and elevated my vocabulary above elementary English. Chad tells me there are 6 or 7 other Westerners living in Namhae and they meet fairly regularly on Fridays to go for a drink or something. I ask him to let me know when and where. He says he will.
Thursday evening and Chad calls. Would I like to go for a walk around the town and maybe get a beer. Of course I would. We wander round the streets, lit with a hundred neon signs but very little street lighting. He shows me the best supermarkets, his favourite bar, the market. Though he doesn’t drink much (and, he tells me, Kenny doesn’t drink at all) we go to a bar. It’s above a shop as so many things seem to be here. Each building is multi-purpose and houses a host of activities. The bar is lovely, though almost empty We get a booth seat and Chad calls the waiter over and orders a bottle of beer each. A few hours later Chad is still sipping his first beer and I’m sitting behind several empty bottles and a full ashtray, wishing I was here with either one of my Saras, or Arrian, or Celia. Condensed life stories and teaching tales are swapped and I’m slightly better informed about what to expect of the coming year and pretty certain that, though he’s a good, kind person, Chad and I don’t have an awful lot in common.
Friday afternoon coming home from school, Kenny shouts to me from the roof - he’s doing laundry. Tonight the ‘group’ are going bowling, do I want to come? Of course I do. Chad knocks on my door an hour later and I surprise him by asking him if he’s coming bowling. Hey, it’s a small town.
They call for me at 6.30 and we walk towards the bus station to one of the many high rise buildings. Up the lift to the third floor, we find the bowling alley. So far only one lane is taken and it’s obvious it’s ‘the group’. I see they are unpacking beer from carrier bags and I’m directed down to the first floor shop where I can buy some; Chad and Kenny never thought to inform me of that detail. It may be a fun evening after all.
I’m introduced, but names are quickly forgotten. There are two couples, one American and one South African. The South African woman has a weekend visitor, an old friend from school who is living in Seoul. There’s ‘smoking Eddie’, another American who I talk to most by virtue of the fact that we nip out to the hallway regularly to have a cig. It’s a habit I want to break, but it’s a friend-maker. There’s also a Korean-born American and, like most of the group, is in his late twenties or early thirties. The fact that I am the only single female westerner to live on the island for a long time is humorously noted and I suspect that I’m something of a disappointment – at least insofar as I am older than most of the group by quite a way. The absence of Owen is also noted – the Australian college teacher that the Vice Principal of my school has talked about. Apparently he’s a fitness fanatic and another non-drinker who spends most of his time running or cycling around the island.
So we have a pleasant evening bowling. The South African visitor and I only play one game as we are both hopeless and less than enthusiastic. I try my first soju, which may also be my last. It tastes like a cross between gin and retsina and not likely to be my drink of choice. Korean beer is fine. It’s not Gambrinus, but it’s good.
By eleven the bowling alley is getting ready to close. We were the first in, the last out and the only people drinking. Apparently Koreans take their hobbies seriously – bowling is bowling and drinking is drinking. The girls of the group have promised to contact me via Chad when they are doing something again. Some of the boys are itching to go on somewhere else but I’m ready to go home. I walk back with Chad - Kenny is on his newly acquired scooter- and I flop into bed feeling a little less alone in this odd little town.
Friday, October 10, 2008
My first week at work
The annual humiliation of the school photograph is over by eleven. I appear to have passed the test on the clothes and make-up front, having had very obvious compliments on the shade of my eye-shadow and the colour of my shirt.
Without classes until Thursday I arrive at work at 8:30am and leave at 4:30pm giving me lots of time to begin planning lessons. Not an easy task considering I have yet to meet my classes and get an idea of their level of ability and their interests. It’s not until Wednesday that the very evident and obvious fact sinks into my brain – this is a BOYS school. Just boys – all of them between years 7 and 9, i.e. 12-15 year olds, otherwise known as hell on a stick. I rifle through the lesson plans I’ve brought on my laptop to find things suitable for pre-intermediate boys, as pre-intermediate is the level I’m assuming from the ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s followed by big blank smiles I’ve experienced from students in the corridors so far. I find I’m as short on appropriate lesson ideas as I am on appropriate clothing.
Lunch time is great though. All four hundred boys and all 30 or 40 teachers line up with their metal trays to be filled with the one-option menu then sit at the long tables in the school canteen. Always rice, always a bowl of soup but everything else is a surprise. In which school in Britain would you get away with octopus stew as a school dinner? Try your best Jamie Oliver, but I doubt even you would get that one to work. Though I now have the ‘don’t eat meat’ excuse to decline the more obvious chunks, the advice is as useful as ‘don’t drink water’ as almost everything has some piece of animal flesh floating in it somewhere. More often than not the meal is fish and sometimes tofu - meat seems to be a once or twice a week event, though the stock is undoubtedly meat based.
The other teachers do their best to make conversation with me at lunch, but it’s not easy over the noise of a crowded dining hall. Mostly they ask if I like Korean food, which is self-evident as I wolf down every morsel with enthusiasm or if I find the food hot (apparently Peter didn’t like spicy food though Korean ‘hot’ is on a par with a medium curry) or compliment me on my ability with chopsticks. Even the slipperiest noodle is not beyond my grasp now.
Before I’m burdened with lessons to teach, I find time to go with Sun-mi for my medical which is the last condition of my contract. Back in Samchoenpo we walk into the hospital with no appointment and I’m seen immediately with minimum form-filling. I’m weighed and measured, my eye sight is tested (it’s not good, but it’s too hard to explain the glasses v contact lenses astigmatism thing) my blood taken, my chest x-rayed and my urine sampled. It’s all finished within forty minutes and we are free to go.
I plead once again with Sun-mi to help get my laptop connected. I need an adaptor and an internet connection. Mr Lee the Taxi Driver’s words come back about Korean unreliability – this is something that is always going to be done tomorrow. Eventually I persuade Sun-mi that this is first-order priority and she stops off at her husband’s work (they live in Samchoenpo) and asks him to order an adaptor for me off the internet. Next we go shopping and head for the big department store, which turns out to be Tesco. Several thousand Won later I have an iron, some crockery, a few sets of chopsticks and spoons, a drying rack and a few other of life’s essentials.
Still with time to kill before my classes start, I’m invited at the last minute (all information seems to reach me at the last minute) that I’m going with the Year 7 English teacher to a High School in the south of the island to attend a conference. As usual I have no idea what’s going on, but go anyway. After sitting through many power-point presentations in Korean, I gather that this is a government initiative to increase success in English lessons throughout Korea. I’m listening to the success stories of half a dozen pilot schools’ newly tested ‘Global Zones’, and our school is to have one of its own early next year.
Two and a half hours into unintelligible speeches, graphs and statistics, my co-teacher and a teacher from another school (whose daughter is an Anglophile and would love to correspond with me; I give her my email address) slope out to see the real Global Zone in this High School.. It’s an impressive three-room affair, with the evidence of large amounts of cash thrown at it. Huge flat screen TVs for films, karaoke and games in English, video-conferencing equipment, books, posters, even a stage for drama. It seems I’m going to help set up something similar in Namhae Middle School. Sounds like fun.
Thursday I finally get to teach my first lesson. As anyone who knows me as a teacher will know, I hate being observed. I can be as silly and as dramatic as I need to be with a bunch of kids, but put one adult in the room with me and I’m a tongue-tied lump of shyness. Every lesson I will teach in Namhae Middle School I will teach with a co-teacher. Not so fun.
My first lesson is with Year 7 and needless to say, a disaster. After spending the day with my Year 7 co-teacher at the Global Zone conference I’m concerned by his level of English, never mind that of the students. The purpose of the co-teacher is to translate when necessary and keep discipline. He seems capable of neither. Five minutes into the lesson and with the students hopping around like a box of frogs, I realise the only person present who can understand me is me. I slow down my speech and limit my grammar to the simplest baby utterances and wait for it to be over. .
I do detect though, that with a computer and a screen in every class room, power-point is my best friend in getting the attention of unruly and mono-linguistic teenagers. At least I can get a ‘wow’ out of them with a few fancy animations.
Quickly modifying my lesson with help from some of the stuff Peter left on the PC (though mainly it’s of a god-bothering nature) I dumb it down to a ‘who am I?’ question and answer picture presentation and the second group Year 7 lesson is better. A look of comprehension passes over my co-teacher’s face and I know I’m on the right track. My instincts guide me to exaggerate circumstances in order to relate to the kids. I was born near Manchester (big whoops and calls of ‘Manchester United!”). Photographs fascinate and dare students to ask questions (how old is your son, how old is your daughter – and the favourite, how old are you?). The answer to this last question gets a ‘wow’ and even a ‘your face is too young for 47’ which I take as a compliment but is probably one of the standard and limited text book responses.
My lesson with Year 9 is much better. Not only is it the same lesson, now refined and rehearsed, but the Year 9 co-teacher is a much better ally. He carries the fabled big stick though he doesn’t need to do more than rap on the desk occasionally; these students are disciplined and interested. Having time left over for free-style conversation, my co-teacher asks a question; “Where is your husband?” Whoops. Divorce is a pretty shameful topic in Korea, so I’m about to add to my list of social crimes by admitting I’m divorced. For a brief moment I consider saying that my husband is dead, but that seems an exaggeration too far. My response is more truthful (if they find out I’ve been married three times I may be tarred and feathered) and is met with looks of pity and embarrassment. My co-teacher apologies after the lesson for asking the dreaded question, but what can I say? I’ve never been happier.
Finally I meet Year 8 and I’m well in the swing of things now. Sun-mi is the Year 8 teacher and is a joy to work with. We laugh a lot during the lesson. The students are also a well-disciplined lot, with only the occasional hair and ear pulling needed from Sun-mi to keep them in check. We all laugh good-humouredly at student’s statements of ‘my hobby is kimchi’ (the Korean national dish) and ‘I was born on Earth’ and ‘I like you’ (most students answered I like football or I like sleeping.)
Once I’ve met each of my classes I have to test each of them on reading, writing, speaking and understanding a Cumbrian accent, which may be bad for them but gives me a grace period to prepare some lessons of more substance. If I’m going to appeal to this bunch of teenage boys I need to find out all I can about Ji-sung Park, Manchester United, baseball and the Korean pop groups ‘Wonder Girls’ and ‘Rain’. It’s a learning curve.
Without classes until Thursday I arrive at work at 8:30am and leave at 4:30pm giving me lots of time to begin planning lessons. Not an easy task considering I have yet to meet my classes and get an idea of their level of ability and their interests. It’s not until Wednesday that the very evident and obvious fact sinks into my brain – this is a BOYS school. Just boys – all of them between years 7 and 9, i.e. 12-15 year olds, otherwise known as hell on a stick. I rifle through the lesson plans I’ve brought on my laptop to find things suitable for pre-intermediate boys, as pre-intermediate is the level I’m assuming from the ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s followed by big blank smiles I’ve experienced from students in the corridors so far. I find I’m as short on appropriate lesson ideas as I am on appropriate clothing.
Lunch time is great though. All four hundred boys and all 30 or 40 teachers line up with their metal trays to be filled with the one-option menu then sit at the long tables in the school canteen. Always rice, always a bowl of soup but everything else is a surprise. In which school in Britain would you get away with octopus stew as a school dinner? Try your best Jamie Oliver, but I doubt even you would get that one to work. Though I now have the ‘don’t eat meat’ excuse to decline the more obvious chunks, the advice is as useful as ‘don’t drink water’ as almost everything has some piece of animal flesh floating in it somewhere. More often than not the meal is fish and sometimes tofu - meat seems to be a once or twice a week event, though the stock is undoubtedly meat based.
The other teachers do their best to make conversation with me at lunch, but it’s not easy over the noise of a crowded dining hall. Mostly they ask if I like Korean food, which is self-evident as I wolf down every morsel with enthusiasm or if I find the food hot (apparently Peter didn’t like spicy food though Korean ‘hot’ is on a par with a medium curry) or compliment me on my ability with chopsticks. Even the slipperiest noodle is not beyond my grasp now.
Before I’m burdened with lessons to teach, I find time to go with Sun-mi for my medical which is the last condition of my contract. Back in Samchoenpo we walk into the hospital with no appointment and I’m seen immediately with minimum form-filling. I’m weighed and measured, my eye sight is tested (it’s not good, but it’s too hard to explain the glasses v contact lenses astigmatism thing) my blood taken, my chest x-rayed and my urine sampled. It’s all finished within forty minutes and we are free to go.
I plead once again with Sun-mi to help get my laptop connected. I need an adaptor and an internet connection. Mr Lee the Taxi Driver’s words come back about Korean unreliability – this is something that is always going to be done tomorrow. Eventually I persuade Sun-mi that this is first-order priority and she stops off at her husband’s work (they live in Samchoenpo) and asks him to order an adaptor for me off the internet. Next we go shopping and head for the big department store, which turns out to be Tesco. Several thousand Won later I have an iron, some crockery, a few sets of chopsticks and spoons, a drying rack and a few other of life’s essentials.
Still with time to kill before my classes start, I’m invited at the last minute (all information seems to reach me at the last minute) that I’m going with the Year 7 English teacher to a High School in the south of the island to attend a conference. As usual I have no idea what’s going on, but go anyway. After sitting through many power-point presentations in Korean, I gather that this is a government initiative to increase success in English lessons throughout Korea. I’m listening to the success stories of half a dozen pilot schools’ newly tested ‘Global Zones’, and our school is to have one of its own early next year.
Two and a half hours into unintelligible speeches, graphs and statistics, my co-teacher and a teacher from another school (whose daughter is an Anglophile and would love to correspond with me; I give her my email address) slope out to see the real Global Zone in this High School.. It’s an impressive three-room affair, with the evidence of large amounts of cash thrown at it. Huge flat screen TVs for films, karaoke and games in English, video-conferencing equipment, books, posters, even a stage for drama. It seems I’m going to help set up something similar in Namhae Middle School. Sounds like fun.
Thursday I finally get to teach my first lesson. As anyone who knows me as a teacher will know, I hate being observed. I can be as silly and as dramatic as I need to be with a bunch of kids, but put one adult in the room with me and I’m a tongue-tied lump of shyness. Every lesson I will teach in Namhae Middle School I will teach with a co-teacher. Not so fun.
My first lesson is with Year 7 and needless to say, a disaster. After spending the day with my Year 7 co-teacher at the Global Zone conference I’m concerned by his level of English, never mind that of the students. The purpose of the co-teacher is to translate when necessary and keep discipline. He seems capable of neither. Five minutes into the lesson and with the students hopping around like a box of frogs, I realise the only person present who can understand me is me. I slow down my speech and limit my grammar to the simplest baby utterances and wait for it to be over. .
I do detect though, that with a computer and a screen in every class room, power-point is my best friend in getting the attention of unruly and mono-linguistic teenagers. At least I can get a ‘wow’ out of them with a few fancy animations.
Quickly modifying my lesson with help from some of the stuff Peter left on the PC (though mainly it’s of a god-bothering nature) I dumb it down to a ‘who am I?’ question and answer picture presentation and the second group Year 7 lesson is better. A look of comprehension passes over my co-teacher’s face and I know I’m on the right track. My instincts guide me to exaggerate circumstances in order to relate to the kids. I was born near Manchester (big whoops and calls of ‘Manchester United!”). Photographs fascinate and dare students to ask questions (how old is your son, how old is your daughter – and the favourite, how old are you?). The answer to this last question gets a ‘wow’ and even a ‘your face is too young for 47’ which I take as a compliment but is probably one of the standard and limited text book responses.
My lesson with Year 9 is much better. Not only is it the same lesson, now refined and rehearsed, but the Year 9 co-teacher is a much better ally. He carries the fabled big stick though he doesn’t need to do more than rap on the desk occasionally; these students are disciplined and interested. Having time left over for free-style conversation, my co-teacher asks a question; “Where is your husband?” Whoops. Divorce is a pretty shameful topic in Korea, so I’m about to add to my list of social crimes by admitting I’m divorced. For a brief moment I consider saying that my husband is dead, but that seems an exaggeration too far. My response is more truthful (if they find out I’ve been married three times I may be tarred and feathered) and is met with looks of pity and embarrassment. My co-teacher apologies after the lesson for asking the dreaded question, but what can I say? I’ve never been happier.
Finally I meet Year 8 and I’m well in the swing of things now. Sun-mi is the Year 8 teacher and is a joy to work with. We laugh a lot during the lesson. The students are also a well-disciplined lot, with only the occasional hair and ear pulling needed from Sun-mi to keep them in check. We all laugh good-humouredly at student’s statements of ‘my hobby is kimchi’ (the Korean national dish) and ‘I was born on Earth’ and ‘I like you’ (most students answered I like football or I like sleeping.)
Once I’ve met each of my classes I have to test each of them on reading, writing, speaking and understanding a Cumbrian accent, which may be bad for them but gives me a grace period to prepare some lessons of more substance. If I’m going to appeal to this bunch of teenage boys I need to find out all I can about Ji-sung Park, Manchester United, baseball and the Korean pop groups ‘Wonder Girls’ and ‘Rain’. It’s a learning curve.
Monday, October 6, 2008
October 6th
My first day of work also happens to be my birthday. Forty seven years old.
My first birthday present is being told that the students are in the middle of exams until Thursday, so I won’t be teaching until then. Instead I’m quickly introduced to the other staff and shown my desk. I have a stand alone PC connected to the internet so I rapidly check emails, whisk off a few messages and print myself a map of Korea. My second birthday present: I am on the very Southern tip, opposite Japan, exactly where I would have wished to be if I had chosen my ho
me for the next year or two.
After an hour or so, Sun-mi whisks me away to finish some more administration. We drive to Jinju, the nearest big city, where I verify documents and sign more papers. It’s an embarrassing moment when I fill in my date of birth, then today’s date and Sun-mi and the Board of Education man realise it’s my birthday. They both offer profuse congratulations and apologies that they didn’t know before now.
My third birthday present: the man at the Board of Education goes through my contract and tells me I am a Level One teacher – the highest pay grade plus countryside allowance. Hunting down all those certificates and references paid off. We go from Jinju to Samchoenpo to register my presence in Korea. In a week’s time I’ll get my alien registration card and I’ll officially be an alien. As if I need a card to verify that.
Driving to and from Jinju I get my first real impression of the island, which is bigger than I thought. It takes about twenty minutes to drive to the Namhae bridge and on to the mainland, but coming back via Samchoenpo which is further east along the coastline, we cross the Changsoen bridge and follow the road that does almost a full circuit of the islands back round to Namhae town, taking about forty five minutes.
Changsoen town, though smaller than Namhae, looks more tourist oriented. The sea pops into view at every turn in the road, always with hazy mountains on the horizon. Green and forested mountains are everywhere, the valleys filled with fields of garlic, chillies and rice. Terraced paddy fields are cut into the hillsides and every now and again we pass through some small community of high rise buildings mixed with pagoda roofed houses and neon-signed shops.
Back at Namhae we eat the most fantastic Udon noodle soup and bimbap – Korean sushi. My biggest birthday surprise is saved until last. Earlier in the day I’d been stupid enough to show Sun-mi my latest collection of bites – my middle finger was a swollen lump of blood, two more bites on my hand and wrist were weeping and sore. Another small bite on my upper arm was surrounded by a raised, red patch that stretched from my armpit to elbow. Added to a touch of sunburn on my face and chest, Sun-mi decides I need urgent medical attention. Despite my protests that this is a pretty standard state for me to be in on arriving in a hot and unfamiliar climate and that all would regulate itself with nothing more than my super-regenerative healing powers and a bit of acclimatisation, she whisks me off, first to the chemist and then, on their advice, to the hospital where I receive a shot in the arse and a dose of tablets. I can’t refuse –she pays; a birthday gift. As a salve for my pains and with Sun-mi as a witness, the doctor adds the ominous but welcome words - ‘don’t eat meat’.
As a person who rarely takes as much as an aspirin, lives by the motto that you should save antibiotics for the next outbreak of the Plague and generally avoids doctors, I feel more than a little pushed-around. Doing my best not to feel resentful, we finally arrive back at my building and I am eager to be home and alone.
“Just before you leave,” Sun-mi says hesitatingly as I open the car door, “your clothes – they aren’t… appropriate”.
I’m stunned. She tugs at the neckline of her buttoned up shirt and looks at mine. I look down at, in my opinion, my most modest work shirt – a loose fitting long sleeved v-necked shirt and my just-above-the-knee skirt.
“Korea is a very conservative culture and our Principal is a very conservative man – trousers or below the knee skirts would be better and no..,.” she taps her palm on her chest. No cleavage, I surmise, though I swear I have not a single centimetre of cleavage showing. “and,” she continues “tomorrow is school photograph day, so wear make-up, look pretty. Today I wore no make up and they said ‘why aren’t you wearing make-up today Sun-mi? In Korea it’s important to look pretty.”
“Oh god,” I think “she’s going to book me in for plastic surgery and a breast reduction next”.
“Oh, thanks” I say She was clearly upset at having to be the bearer of a reprimand and I had to admire the tact of telling me just before I got home rather than having me walk around all day feeling like a brazen hussy. “If you ever need to tell me anything else, if I do something wrong or offensive, just tell me Sun-mi, I appreciate it” and with smiles we say goodnight.
With my front door shut behind me, I light my first cigarette of the day and ponder - allowing a whole variety of emotions - anger, bemusement, frustration, embarrassment, joy and wonder to flutter through me. On the whole it’s been a good day. But what the hell am I going to wear tomorrow?
My first birthday present is being told that the students are in the middle of exams until Thursday, so I won’t be teaching until then. Instead I’m quickly introduced to the other staff and shown my desk. I have a stand alone PC connected to the internet so I rapidly check emails, whisk off a few messages and print myself a map of Korea. My second birthday present: I am on the very Southern tip, opposite Japan, exactly where I would have wished to be if I had chosen my ho
me for the next year or two. After an hour or so, Sun-mi whisks me away to finish some more administration. We drive to Jinju, the nearest big city, where I verify documents and sign more papers. It’s an embarrassing moment when I fill in my date of birth, then today’s date and Sun-mi and the Board of Education man realise it’s my birthday. They both offer profuse congratulations and apologies that they didn’t know before now.
My third birthday present: the man at the Board of Education goes through my contract and tells me I am a Level One teacher – the highest pay grade plus countryside allowance. Hunting down all those certificates and references paid off. We go from Jinju to Samchoenpo to register my presence in Korea. In a week’s time I’ll get my alien registration card and I’ll officially be an alien. As if I need a card to verify that.
Driving to and from Jinju I get my first real impression of the island, which is bigger than I thought. It takes about twenty minutes to drive to the Namhae bridge and on to the mainland, but coming back via Samchoenpo which is further east along the coastline, we cross the Changsoen bridge and follow the road that does almost a full circuit of the islands back round to Namhae town, taking about forty five minutes.
Changsoen town, though smaller than Namhae, looks more tourist oriented. The sea pops into view at every turn in the road, always with hazy mountains on the horizon. Green and forested mountains are everywhere, the valleys filled with fields of garlic, chillies and rice. Terraced paddy fields are cut into the hillsides and every now and again we pass through some small community of high rise buildings mixed with pagoda roofed houses and neon-signed shops.
Back at Namhae we eat the most fantastic Udon noodle soup and bimbap – Korean sushi. My biggest birthday surprise is saved until last. Earlier in the day I’d been stupid enough to show Sun-mi my latest collection of bites – my middle finger was a swollen lump of blood, two more bites on my hand and wrist were weeping and sore. Another small bite on my upper arm was surrounded by a raised, red patch that stretched from my armpit to elbow. Added to a touch of sunburn on my face and chest, Sun-mi decides I need urgent medical attention. Despite my protests that this is a pretty standard state for me to be in on arriving in a hot and unfamiliar climate and that all would regulate itself with nothing more than my super-regenerative healing powers and a bit of acclimatisation, she whisks me off, first to the chemist and then, on their advice, to the hospital where I receive a shot in the arse and a dose of tablets. I can’t refuse –she pays; a birthday gift. As a salve for my pains and with Sun-mi as a witness, the doctor adds the ominous but welcome words - ‘don’t eat meat’.
As a person who rarely takes as much as an aspirin, lives by the motto that you should save antibiotics for the next outbreak of the Plague and generally avoids doctors, I feel more than a little pushed-around. Doing my best not to feel resentful, we finally arrive back at my building and I am eager to be home and alone.
“Just before you leave,” Sun-mi says hesitatingly as I open the car door, “your clothes – they aren’t… appropriate”.
I’m stunned. She tugs at the neckline of her buttoned up shirt and looks at mine. I look down at, in my opinion, my most modest work shirt – a loose fitting long sleeved v-necked shirt and my just-above-the-knee skirt.
“Korea is a very conservative culture and our Principal is a very conservative man – trousers or below the knee skirts would be better and no..,.” she taps her palm on her chest. No cleavage, I surmise, though I swear I have not a single centimetre of cleavage showing. “and,” she continues “tomorrow is school photograph day, so wear make-up, look pretty. Today I wore no make up and they said ‘why aren’t you wearing make-up today Sun-mi? In Korea it’s important to look pretty.”
“Oh god,” I think “she’s going to book me in for plastic surgery and a breast reduction next”.
“Oh, thanks” I say She was clearly upset at having to be the bearer of a reprimand and I had to admire the tact of telling me just before I got home rather than having me walk around all day feeling like a brazen hussy. “If you ever need to tell me anything else, if I do something wrong or offensive, just tell me Sun-mi, I appreciate it” and with smiles we say goodnight.
With my front door shut behind me, I light my first cigarette of the day and ponder - allowing a whole variety of emotions - anger, bemusement, frustration, embarrassment, joy and wonder to flutter through me. On the whole it’s been a good day. But what the hell am I going to wear tomorrow?
Sunday, October 5, 2008
October 4th and 5th
It’s the weekend and I have two days with nothing to do and no-one to see. Time to explore. First my flat.
The previous occupant was Peter, a young American, who was also the native language teacher at the school where I will be working. It’s surprising how much you can learn about a person even from the little bits and pieces left behind. I clear the left over toiletries from the bathroom cupboard. The after-shave and the Dr Chuk prescription lotion is discarded, but the Old Spice deodorant may be useful in an emergency. The shaving foam is welcome, as is the bottle of Aloe and Snake Gall cleansing milk. The bathroom itself is a small windowless room with a toilet, a shower head, two taps and a mirror. No shower cubicle, no sink. A pair of plastic shower shoes have been left – essential for trip to the toilet when the floor is wet, which it usually is.
In the other room I make up the bed with the thin quilt that serves as a sheet and the slightly thicker quilt on top. I hang my clothes in the wardrobe, check out the fridge. It needs a good clean, but I’ll do that later. In the freezer I find some fish and a bag of dimsum, the contents of which I can’t decipher from the Korean packaging, so I leave them for now too. Peter has left the remnants of a jar of coffee and some tea which I find undrinkable. Much as I would like to, I cannot savour the flavour of green tea. There is a glass, a plate, a frying pan, a sauce pan and not much else. I won’t need much more as the kitchen consists of a sink and a two-ring gas hob in the corner of the room.
With the contents of my suitcase almost cleared, I open the drawers of the TV cupboard to stash the remaining bits and pieces. Peter has left books, films, a course in Korean. ‘Oh good,’ I think, until I look more closely. The Korean language course is on tape and against my better judgement I left my cassette Walkman back in England. The books and the films all have one theme: God. ‘King of Kings’, ‘Glory Revival’ and ‘St. John in Exile’ to name but a few. Even in my most desperate moments I doubt I will turn to the Lord to relieve my boredom. St. John’s exile continues in the shoe cupboard by my front door.
Peter did leave one thing I desperately needed for my further enlightment; a tourist map – ‘Treasure Island Namhae County’. Even though I don’t know which part of Korea I’m in, at least I know now that I am, as I suspected, on an island. Namhae is really two islands – Namhae and Changseon - joined by a bridge, with each island connected to the mainland by its own bridge. I know from Sun-mi that the nearest city is Jinju, about an hour by bus, and Busan, Korea’s second biggest city (after Seoul) is two hours away. This means, from my recollection of the map of Korea I saw on the internet before I left, that I am somewhere on the south coast.
I’m in Namhae-eup, or Namhae City, and the building behind mine is Namhae College, which I find on the map. I find the bus terminal where I arrived also on the map, but I still have no sense of size of either the island or population. It is clearly a tourist destination; landmarks include ‘Garlic Land of Treasure’, several fishing villages and ‘Raw Fish Towns’, half a dozen temples, beaches and the Hilton Namhae Golf and Spa Resort.
I venture out to explore. I’m carrying a stack of Korean notes big enough to make a pre-Euro Italian feel comfortable (I’ve worked out that a 10,000 Won note is about £5) and a list of ‘must-buy’ items. It’s not hard to find my way into town – through the yard past the stray cats that hang out round the bins….
and I’m in the centre of town.
Grocery shopping remains a mystery. Apart from instant noodles, I don’t know what else to buy. Almost everything is either an alien vegetable with no clue to their preparation or flavour, or bizarre items wrapped in indecipherable packaging I buy the obvious: coffee, soya milk, tofu, eggs, rice, noodles and plan to invent a meal from them later. I can always survive a weekend on omelettes and boiled rice. I find a bakery and after observing other customers I figure that purchases are placed with tongs onto a tray and taken to the counter for payment and packaging, I leave with a few items that look vaguely familiar and will serve as a breakfast surprise.
Once my groceries are stored at home, I set out again, this time, just for the hell of it and with the intention of getting lost and so learn my way around town. I walk for an hour or two taking any turn that attracts my curiosity. The smell of fresh fish draws me and I find myself in a covered market. Women sit on the floor behind their low stalls laden with all varieties of fish and shellfish. Some are prising mussels, apparently raw, from their shells, others are peeling prawns of various sizes. In the baskets on the floors, heaps of fish wriggle and writhe in their death throes, waiting to be sold to a hungry customer. All stalls seem to sell some kind of crucified dry fish, its insides gaping as its flesh is held apart by wooden stakes. Most of the women smile and talk to me in Korean, offering their goods, picking up handfuls of wet shellfish innards and offering them to me. They laugh as I walk on by and I hope they are simply amused by me and not being mean.
I walk the whole length of the fish hall and circle round the back to take another look at the edges of the market again. I’m tempted to buy something, but what? What do you do with live tiger prawns? Or with long silver slippery fish still intact and flipping?
By now it’s around one in the afternoon and it’s hot. I can feel my skin burning and itching, but I don’t know how to get home and out of the heat. I try to find a few landmarks – the FamilyMart, the ZZYYXXZZ bar, the big pink Christian church (no doubt Peter’s favourite hang-out). Finally after a few false turns and circling my street closely without realising it, and eventually finding the best back alleys to take,
The previous occupant was Peter, a young American, who was also the native language teacher at the school where I will be working. It’s surprising how much you can learn about a person even from the little bits and pieces left behind. I clear the left over toiletries from the bathroom cupboard. The after-shave and the Dr Chuk prescription lotion is discarded, but the Old Spice deodorant may be useful in an emergency. The shaving foam is welcome, as is the bottle of Aloe and Snake Gall cleansing milk. The bathroom itself is a small windowless room with a toilet, a shower head, two taps and a mirror. No shower cubicle, no sink. A pair of plastic shower shoes have been left – essential for trip to the toilet when the floor is wet, which it usually is.
In the other room I make up the bed with the thin quilt that serves as a sheet and the slightly thicker quilt on top. I hang my clothes in the wardrobe, check out the fridge. It needs a good clean, but I’ll do that later. In the freezer I find some fish and a bag of dimsum, the contents of which I can’t decipher from the Korean packaging, so I leave them for now too. Peter has left the remnants of a jar of coffee and some tea which I find undrinkable. Much as I would like to, I cannot savour the flavour of green tea. There is a glass, a plate, a frying pan, a sauce pan and not much else. I won’t need much more as the kitchen consists of a sink and a two-ring gas hob in the corner of the room.
With the contents of my suitcase almost cleared, I open the drawers of the TV cupboard to stash the remaining bits and pieces. Peter has left books, films, a course in Korean. ‘Oh good,’ I think, until I look more closely. The Korean language course is on tape and against my better judgement I left my cassette Walkman back in England. The books and the films all have one theme: God. ‘King of Kings’, ‘Glory Revival’ and ‘St. John in Exile’ to name but a few. Even in my most desperate moments I doubt I will turn to the Lord to relieve my boredom. St. John’s exile continues in the shoe cupboard by my front door.
Peter did leave one thing I desperately needed for my further enlightment; a tourist map – ‘Treasure Island Namhae County’. Even though I don’t know which part of Korea I’m in, at least I know now that I am, as I suspected, on an island. Namhae is really two islands – Namhae and Changseon - joined by a bridge, with each island connected to the mainland by its own bridge. I know from Sun-mi that the nearest city is Jinju, about an hour by bus, and Busan, Korea’s second biggest city (after Seoul) is two hours away. This means, from my recollection of the map of Korea I saw on the internet before I left, that I am somewhere on the south coast.
I’m in Namhae-eup, or Namhae City, and the building behind mine is Namhae College, which I find on the map. I find the bus terminal where I arrived also on the map, but I still have no sense of size of either the island or population. It is clearly a tourist destination; landmarks include ‘Garlic Land of Treasure’, several fishing villages and ‘Raw Fish Towns’, half a dozen temples, beaches and the Hilton Namhae Golf and Spa Resort.
I venture out to explore. I’m carrying a stack of Korean notes big enough to make a pre-Euro Italian feel comfortable (I’ve worked out that a 10,000 Won note is about £5) and a list of ‘must-buy’ items. It’s not hard to find my way into town – through the yard past the stray cats that hang out round the bins….
turn right onto the side street….
Right again at the agricultural shop on the corner and straight ahead down the street with the huge tree in the middle of the road,
Straight on past some more agricultural shops (if I ever need fishing nets, garden fencing or a spade, I know where to find them), past a few restaurants …
Straight on past some more agricultural shops (if I ever need fishing nets, garden fencing or a spade, I know where to find them), past a few restaurants …
and I’m in the centre of town.
Grocery shopping remains a mystery. Apart from instant noodles, I don’t know what else to buy. Almost everything is either an alien vegetable with no clue to their preparation or flavour, or bizarre items wrapped in indecipherable packaging I buy the obvious: coffee, soya milk, tofu, eggs, rice, noodles and plan to invent a meal from them later. I can always survive a weekend on omelettes and boiled rice. I find a bakery and after observing other customers I figure that purchases are placed with tongs onto a tray and taken to the counter for payment and packaging, I leave with a few items that look vaguely familiar and will serve as a breakfast surprise.
Once my groceries are stored at home, I set out again, this time, just for the hell of it and with the intention of getting lost and so learn my way around town. I walk for an hour or two taking any turn that attracts my curiosity. The smell of fresh fish draws me and I find myself in a covered market. Women sit on the floor behind their low stalls laden with all varieties of fish and shellfish. Some are prising mussels, apparently raw, from their shells, others are peeling prawns of various sizes. In the baskets on the floors, heaps of fish wriggle and writhe in their death throes, waiting to be sold to a hungry customer. All stalls seem to sell some kind of crucified dry fish, its insides gaping as its flesh is held apart by wooden stakes. Most of the women smile and talk to me in Korean, offering their goods, picking up handfuls of wet shellfish innards and offering them to me. They laugh as I walk on by and I hope they are simply amused by me and not being mean.
I walk the whole length of the fish hall and circle round the back to take another look at the edges of the market again. I’m tempted to buy something, but what? What do you do with live tiger prawns? Or with long silver slippery fish still intact and flipping?
By now it’s around one in the afternoon and it’s hot. I can feel my skin burning and itching, but I don’t know how to get home and out of the heat. I try to find a few landmarks – the FamilyMart, the ZZYYXXZZ bar, the big pink Christian church (no doubt Peter’s favourite hang-out). Finally after a few false turns and circling my street closely without realising it, and eventually finding the best back alleys to take,
I get home, have a shower and watch television with a few beers. OCN are showing the entire series of Heroes in one long evening so time passes quickly.
Sunday is pretty much the same. I don’t venture further than my town, finding my way home more easily than yesterday. I check the route to school – a ten minute walk through town. I do my washing then realise I don’t have a rack to hang clothes on. I improvise, clean cupboards, rearrange stuff and have an early night, ready for work tomorrow
Sunday is pretty much the same. I don’t venture further than my town, finding my way home more easily than yesterday. I check the route to school – a ten minute walk through town. I do my washing then realise I don’t have a rack to hang clothes on. I improvise, clean cupboards, rearrange stuff and have an early night, ready for work tomorrow
Friday, October 3, 2008
October 3rd
The next taxi driver arrives 15 minutes early, so with hair still dripping and only half my make-up on, I rush out the door leaving behind my shampoo and conditioner. I still have no idea where I’m going.
This taxi driver, Mr Lee, is fairly talkative and just about understandable, though the promise of ‘fluent in Japanese and English’ on his business card is something of an exaggeration. He tells me that Koreans are hot-tempered, impatient and don’t keep promises. The British and Japanese keep their promises, Koreans don’t, he insists, citing his too early arrival as evidence. As he’s only the second Korean I’ve met, I can’t offer an opinion either way. Only when I ask does he inform me that he’s taking me to the bus station where I will catch a bus. It’s about an hour’s drive to the bus station.
Once out of the airport complex I get my first experience of Korea. First Incheon, then Seoul. It’s early morning and the mist hides most of the scenery, but I do get a taste of this new land. Even with the windows shut I’m swallowing candy-floss mouthfuls of benzene, sulphur and other noxious substances. Outside is just a motorway with the signs in squiggles, the fog and the smog obscuring the view and adding to the sense of unreality.
As we approach Seoul there is more to look at and the fog has cleared. Everywhere there are high rise buildings, but along the roadside is a mish-mash of shop signs, some in Hangul, some in English. We sail past “Passion”, “Nail Story” and the curiously named “Sold-Out!” Shanty town meets Metropolis.
We arrive at the central bus station, haul my bags from the car-park to the ticket area and I’m told to wait while Mr Lee goes off to find out where to catch my bus. It’s still quite early and fairly quiet but everyone around me is Korean. One lone white guy, a 20-something with a back pack, strolls by without looking at me, even though we are the only non-Asians in the place.
Mr Lee returns and apologies: it’s the wrong station. We haul bags back to the car and drive for another twenty minutes. At south Seoul bus station he tells me to ‘wait here’ and I do exactly that, worried about getting lost in the commuter hour crowd. He returns to shove a ticket in my hand, point to the stop where my bus will leave from and apologise that he has to leave because his car is parked illegally. My bus will leave in an hour and a half. I am alone again, clutching a ticket that says ‘Namhae’ but the bus stops just have a series of squiggles. I match up the squiggles on my ticket to the squiggles on the stop and wait in hope.
Ten minutes pass as I stand alone in this new world and my confidence returns. I’m certain I can find my way back to the right stop, so I wander outside following the sound of a monotonous tone and find Buddhist monk, beating an instrument of some kind while kneeling on the pavement amongst the swirling crowds of people. I look around to find a sea of Korean faces. People look at me with curiosity: I look back in amazement. I’m an ethnic minority.
My bus arrives and everyone in the queue is extremely kind, confirming with nods and gentle pushes that I have found both the right bus and the right seat number. I, by accident or design, have been assigned the centre of the back row which is raised above the other seats. I’m facing the aisle, looking down at mops of black hair, the only white girl on the bus. I feel very conspicuous. I try to sit up straight and look confident and alert, a representative of the whole of Western culture but it’s hard when you have no idea where you’re going.
For an hour we crawl out of Seoul, avoiding the workday rush hour but hitting instead the holiday traffic as today is Korean Foundation Day, the day the sky opened and whatever god created nations in this part of the world, created Korea. In the next two hours we move from a crawl to a jog, then finally a normal motorised vehicle speed.
After three hours, watching the scenery of endless forested mountains and disappointingly familiar horse chestnuts, pines and gorse, we pull into a service station. The two men on my right explain this is a twenty minute break. This is the first conversation I’ve had since leaving Mr Lee.
My fascination with the place helps me ignore the stares and general sense of being an alien on a strange planet and I wander around the market stalls selling battery-operated dogs walking in circles, hammers and handbags, fast food halls smelling of noodle dishes, rice dishes, spices, fish, hotdogs on sticks and other unidentifiable fodder. I don’t buy anything because I have no idea what to ask for. Behind the mayhem is a small lake with people sitting around in the sunshine. The backdrop is more hills, trees and an unmistakably different landscape. This certainly isn’t Forton Services on the M6.
As I board the bus again the couple who were seated on my left approach me and speak, offering me a very welcome packet of biscuits. I haven’t eaten yet today. I have the sense that they were keeping an eye on me in case I got lost. Once past their shyness they ask lots of questions and tell me about themselves. They have two children at home in Seoul, 11 and 13, though they don’t look older than 25 themselves. They ask where I am going and I show them my ticket stub.
“Aahh, Namhae, it’s very beautiful, it’s a holiday place. You’ll like it. It’s the last stop, another hour or two” they tell me. I sigh inwardly. Two hours. I just want to be home, wherever that may be.
They get off the bus sometime later and I am left with just a scattering of fellow travellers. The scenery begins to get more interesting. I get glimpses of the sea and it is amazing: shiny, blue, clear and always with mountainous islands on the horizon. The trees look different and I’m glad about that. We approach a big red bridge that spans a large stretch of water and my hopes rise a little more We turn on to the bridge and my heart is fluttering – we seem to be moving on to an island.
There are more frequent stops now. Most seem to be on the side of a road next to a farm or at most, a scattering of tiny houses. Little old ladies wearing wide legged trousers and carrying shopping bags nearly as big as they are, manoeuvre their way down the steps of the bus and hobble off down dusty lanes. We pass terraced paddy fields where workers are bent double, wide-peaked hats shading their faces from the early afternoon sun. I feel like I’m travelling through a willow pattern tea set.
Finally, we reach the bus terminal. Everyone is getting off, so I do too. A young woman approaches me immediately – I didn’t need to carry a rolled up newspaper and a carnation to be recognised – and asks “Daryl?” then leads me to her car. “I’m Sun-Mi. I’m your co-teacher”.
First stop is my house. That’s how Sun-mi describes it. It’s actually a single room in a five story building, but it’s home. I drop off my bags and join Sun-mi and the caretaker for a quick tour of the rest of the building. Laundry rooms in the basement and on the roof, water coolers on every corridor, the strange little caretaker in his strange little room near the entrance where he lies on a bed watching television waiting to solve any problems that may arise. As we head back down the stairs, Sun-mi stops and points.
“Oh, look” she says “what’s that?”
I resist the urge to scream. “I don’t know. We don’t have them in England!”
A large, green insect, probably a grasshopper at least six inches long, sits motionless on the stair in front of us. I edge past and head for the door, trying not to listen to the crunch under the caretaker’s sandaled foot.
This taxi driver, Mr Lee, is fairly talkative and just about understandable, though the promise of ‘fluent in Japanese and English’ on his business card is something of an exaggeration. He tells me that Koreans are hot-tempered, impatient and don’t keep promises. The British and Japanese keep their promises, Koreans don’t, he insists, citing his too early arrival as evidence. As he’s only the second Korean I’ve met, I can’t offer an opinion either way. Only when I ask does he inform me that he’s taking me to the bus station where I will catch a bus. It’s about an hour’s drive to the bus station.
Once out of the airport complex I get my first experience of Korea. First Incheon, then Seoul. It’s early morning and the mist hides most of the scenery, but I do get a taste of this new land. Even with the windows shut I’m swallowing candy-floss mouthfuls of benzene, sulphur and other noxious substances. Outside is just a motorway with the signs in squiggles, the fog and the smog obscuring the view and adding to the sense of unreality.
As we approach Seoul there is more to look at and the fog has cleared. Everywhere there are high rise buildings, but along the roadside is a mish-mash of shop signs, some in Hangul, some in English. We sail past “Passion”, “Nail Story” and the curiously named “Sold-Out!” Shanty town meets Metropolis.
We arrive at the central bus station, haul my bags from the car-park to the ticket area and I’m told to wait while Mr Lee goes off to find out where to catch my bus. It’s still quite early and fairly quiet but everyone around me is Korean. One lone white guy, a 20-something with a back pack, strolls by without looking at me, even though we are the only non-Asians in the place.
Mr Lee returns and apologies: it’s the wrong station. We haul bags back to the car and drive for another twenty minutes. At south Seoul bus station he tells me to ‘wait here’ and I do exactly that, worried about getting lost in the commuter hour crowd. He returns to shove a ticket in my hand, point to the stop where my bus will leave from and apologise that he has to leave because his car is parked illegally. My bus will leave in an hour and a half. I am alone again, clutching a ticket that says ‘Namhae’ but the bus stops just have a series of squiggles. I match up the squiggles on my ticket to the squiggles on the stop and wait in hope.
Ten minutes pass as I stand alone in this new world and my confidence returns. I’m certain I can find my way back to the right stop, so I wander outside following the sound of a monotonous tone and find Buddhist monk, beating an instrument of some kind while kneeling on the pavement amongst the swirling crowds of people. I look around to find a sea of Korean faces. People look at me with curiosity: I look back in amazement. I’m an ethnic minority.
My bus arrives and everyone in the queue is extremely kind, confirming with nods and gentle pushes that I have found both the right bus and the right seat number. I, by accident or design, have been assigned the centre of the back row which is raised above the other seats. I’m facing the aisle, looking down at mops of black hair, the only white girl on the bus. I feel very conspicuous. I try to sit up straight and look confident and alert, a representative of the whole of Western culture but it’s hard when you have no idea where you’re going.
For an hour we crawl out of Seoul, avoiding the workday rush hour but hitting instead the holiday traffic as today is Korean Foundation Day, the day the sky opened and whatever god created nations in this part of the world, created Korea. In the next two hours we move from a crawl to a jog, then finally a normal motorised vehicle speed.
After three hours, watching the scenery of endless forested mountains and disappointingly familiar horse chestnuts, pines and gorse, we pull into a service station. The two men on my right explain this is a twenty minute break. This is the first conversation I’ve had since leaving Mr Lee.
My fascination with the place helps me ignore the stares and general sense of being an alien on a strange planet and I wander around the market stalls selling battery-operated dogs walking in circles, hammers and handbags, fast food halls smelling of noodle dishes, rice dishes, spices, fish, hotdogs on sticks and other unidentifiable fodder. I don’t buy anything because I have no idea what to ask for. Behind the mayhem is a small lake with people sitting around in the sunshine. The backdrop is more hills, trees and an unmistakably different landscape. This certainly isn’t Forton Services on the M6.
As I board the bus again the couple who were seated on my left approach me and speak, offering me a very welcome packet of biscuits. I haven’t eaten yet today. I have the sense that they were keeping an eye on me in case I got lost. Once past their shyness they ask lots of questions and tell me about themselves. They have two children at home in Seoul, 11 and 13, though they don’t look older than 25 themselves. They ask where I am going and I show them my ticket stub.
“Aahh, Namhae, it’s very beautiful, it’s a holiday place. You’ll like it. It’s the last stop, another hour or two” they tell me. I sigh inwardly. Two hours. I just want to be home, wherever that may be.
They get off the bus sometime later and I am left with just a scattering of fellow travellers. The scenery begins to get more interesting. I get glimpses of the sea and it is amazing: shiny, blue, clear and always with mountainous islands on the horizon. The trees look different and I’m glad about that. We approach a big red bridge that spans a large stretch of water and my hopes rise a little more We turn on to the bridge and my heart is fluttering – we seem to be moving on to an island.
There are more frequent stops now. Most seem to be on the side of a road next to a farm or at most, a scattering of tiny houses. Little old ladies wearing wide legged trousers and carrying shopping bags nearly as big as they are, manoeuvre their way down the steps of the bus and hobble off down dusty lanes. We pass terraced paddy fields where workers are bent double, wide-peaked hats shading their faces from the early afternoon sun. I feel like I’m travelling through a willow pattern tea set.
Finally, we reach the bus terminal. Everyone is getting off, so I do too. A young woman approaches me immediately – I didn’t need to carry a rolled up newspaper and a carnation to be recognised – and asks “Daryl?” then leads me to her car. “I’m Sun-Mi. I’m your co-teacher”.
First stop is my house. That’s how Sun-mi describes it. It’s actually a single room in a five story building, but it’s home. I drop off my bags and join Sun-mi and the caretaker for a quick tour of the rest of the building. Laundry rooms in the basement and on the roof, water coolers on every corridor, the strange little caretaker in his strange little room near the entrance where he lies on a bed watching television waiting to solve any problems that may arise. As we head back down the stairs, Sun-mi stops and points.
“Oh, look” she says “what’s that?”
I resist the urge to scream. “I don’t know. We don’t have them in England!”
A large, green insect, probably a grasshopper at least six inches long, sits motionless on the stair in front of us. I edge past and head for the door, trying not to listen to the crunch under the caretaker’s sandaled foot.
Next stop is school. A ten minute walk from my flat, the pink and green three story building is fronted with those beautiful Korean trees with leafy branches like fat green biscuits randomly growing around a central trunk.Sun-mi picks up the keys from someone in the office and shows me the library, the technology room, the staff room and all the other usual spaces of a school, each of which I forget with every door that closes behind me. I remember the women’s rest room. Not the ‘rest room’ in the American sense, but the room with sofas and, unbelievably, a bed, complete with frilly duvet and pillow. “In case we are tired and need a little nap” Sun-mi explains.
“Now we eat together” she says “what do you want to eat?”
“Well, something Korean of course”
She is surprised. Apparently this is not the usual request of native speaker teachers, who generally prefer to find something that resembles Pizza Hut, Macdonalds or at best, Chinese. We go to a restaurant, remove our shoes at the door and sit on thin cushions at a low table. Sun-mi orders something and soon the waitress brings us a bubbling dish which she places on a burner recessed into the table. Despite my earlier explanation that I prefer not to eat meat, I see bones sticking out of the stew, but I’m trying to be polite and fit in. Several side dishes follow along with a small lidded bowls of rice and soup. I follow Sun-mi’s lead in tackling dinner, and I’m pleased that she comments on my dexterity with the chopsticks.
Having managed dinner without making a complete fool of myself and feeling gratitude for the tips learned in my little book of Korea, I reveal my true newcomer status by not being able to get out of the restaurant. The book failed to remind me that doors slide here.
It’s already after seven in the evening but people are still buzzing about and the shops don’t look like they are closing anytime soon. We go next door to the shop so I can stock up on essentials for the weekend. Tired and feeling a little overwhelmed, I browse the shelves of ‘the biggest supermarket on the island’ which to me looks like a cross between the Pound Shop Warehouse and a very large Asian market stall and settle for a few cans of beer and some instant noodles, insisting that I can manage to go shopping properly on my own tomorrow. Sun-mi seems happy enough with this – it lets her off the hook of baby-sitting me for the whole weekend, so she takes me back to my flat and says goodnight.
Finally home and alone, I pull out a few essentials from my case and after flicking through sixty-three Korean channels, find OCN – non-stop American films. I manage an hour of listening to the welcome sound of the English language and fall asleep.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
October 2nd
Surprisingly lively considering the lack of sleep, I leave most of my fellow passengers as they head for transfer flights while the few of us who are ending our journey in Korea make our way through passport control. It’s quick and uneventful and before I know it I’m standing with my all worldly goods alone in Seoul airport. I have the feeling that I’m in an airport – nothing more, nothing less.
Following instructions received in an 11th hour email, I change all my money into Won, find a pay phone and dial a number. The man on the phone is expecting my call and tells me a taxi – his wife - will pick me up outside Gate 8. She arrives promptly, says very little. We pick up someone else – an ex-Scot-now-Kiwi who has a few days stop over before continuing on home. He tells me we are being taken to a hostel near the airport, which is as much as I know about anything so far.
The hostel is lovely, and I have the five-bed room to myself. I take a much needed shower and return to Errol’s room to take him up on his promise of a tour of the local shops. He’s a friendly old ex-seaman from Aberdeen and we stroll about in the warmth of the early evening swopping stories. Back at the hostel we share a beer and smoke a few cigarettes before I return to my room and slip between the first clean and comfortable sheets I’ve seen in a few nights. The taxi driver told me someone would pick me up at 7am, so I need the early night.
Following instructions received in an 11th hour email, I change all my money into Won, find a pay phone and dial a number. The man on the phone is expecting my call and tells me a taxi – his wife - will pick me up outside Gate 8. She arrives promptly, says very little. We pick up someone else – an ex-Scot-now-Kiwi who has a few days stop over before continuing on home. He tells me we are being taken to a hostel near the airport, which is as much as I know about anything so far.
The hostel is lovely, and I have the five-bed room to myself. I take a much needed shower and return to Errol’s room to take him up on his promise of a tour of the local shops. He’s a friendly old ex-seaman from Aberdeen and we stroll about in the warmth of the early evening swopping stories. Back at the hostel we share a beer and smoke a few cigarettes before I return to my room and slip between the first clean and comfortable sheets I’ve seen in a few nights. The taxi driver told me someone would pick me up at 7am, so I need the early night.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
October 1st
I wake up early and forgo a shower in the dysentery filled bathroom. Despite having more than twelve hours to kill before my flight, I am not tempted to linger. I arrive at Heathrow armed against inflated airport prices with breakfast and lunch bought from a bakery at Earls Court before I left. All there is to do now is wait.
As soon as the check-in opens I’m there, second in line. Waiting, waiting, I’m fighting off fear and nervousness. I’m not concerned about the flight, or the unknown future, but after five long months of battling with paperwork, of hitches and delays, I’m worried that this might never happen. I recheck my passport, my ticket, my visa. I re-weigh my luggage – exactly 20 kilos, right to the gram and still I worry. It’s my turn. The cheery woman at the check-in hands me my boarding pass without further ado and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m on my way.
The plane is amazing, enormous. This isn’t your Easy Jet or BMI Baby. I’m given a seat with a family of five ex-Brits-now-Aussies who are returning home after a family visit. The mother of the family shows me the ropes – how to work the television built into the seat in front, where to plug in the headphones, when to expect food and drinks, the purpose of the little bag of goodies given out by the flight attendants.
We chat for a few hours, enjoy the free drinks then I watch ‘Sex and the City’. I doze through ‘In Bruges’ as it’s already eighteen hours since I last slept, but despite the cosy blanket and little pillow provided, I can’t manage more than fifteen minutes sleep at a time before I’m woken by some announcement or random movement. The time flies remarkably fast anyway
As soon as the check-in opens I’m there, second in line. Waiting, waiting, I’m fighting off fear and nervousness. I’m not concerned about the flight, or the unknown future, but after five long months of battling with paperwork, of hitches and delays, I’m worried that this might never happen. I recheck my passport, my ticket, my visa. I re-weigh my luggage – exactly 20 kilos, right to the gram and still I worry. It’s my turn. The cheery woman at the check-in hands me my boarding pass without further ado and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m on my way.
The plane is amazing, enormous. This isn’t your Easy Jet or BMI Baby. I’m given a seat with a family of five ex-Brits-now-Aussies who are returning home after a family visit. The mother of the family shows me the ropes – how to work the television built into the seat in front, where to plug in the headphones, when to expect food and drinks, the purpose of the little bag of goodies given out by the flight attendants.
We chat for a few hours, enjoy the free drinks then I watch ‘Sex and the City’. I doze through ‘In Bruges’ as it’s already eighteen hours since I last slept, but despite the cosy blanket and little pillow provided, I can’t manage more than fifteen minutes sleep at a time before I’m woken by some announcement or random movement. The time flies remarkably fast anyway
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