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.
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