I am very Chinese noodle

“I am very Chinese noodle.” It’s statements like these that make my job seem both totally futile and a complete joy. This comes from one of my advanced students as we sit in the ICT room, along with the rest of the budding actors and linguists who have come together on a Saturday afternoon to rehearse our adaptation of The Three Little Pigs. Sun-Mi asked me to be here for twelve though, typically, I’ve just had a message from her to say she won’t be here till two. Meanwhile I try to organise the Chinese noodle and his classmates into some semblance of order. It’s like herding cats. The line between not being able to understand me and ignoring my requests is a fine one that the students straddle to perfection.


Some of them are complaining of being hungry and I have no idea what I’m meant to do about that. Eventually I persuade enough of them to begin a performance and the other join in, so when Sun-Mi arrives I appear to be in charge of things. We sit around for a while longer and I’m really wondering why I’ve been asked to volunteer a good portion of my weekend for such an aimless activity. Sun-Mi’s responses to my questions about plans and intentions are vague, as are most of the conversations I have here. Around two-thirty at least some of the mysteries are solved in the form of a delivery of noodles from the local Chinese take-away. We eat (which it is now clear was part of a plan that everyone knew about, except me) and then begin making props for our play.

Sun-Mi has bought, begged and borrowed a variety of craft materials but after a brief discussion it’s agreed that we need to go to scavenge a few more things; large cardboard boxes from the local electrical goods store, sticks, bricks and straw. We split into two groups and I can tell without understanding the conversation that In-Hee is insisting that he is in my group. I go along with the decisions, whatever they might be, and follow everyone outside.

It’s a beautiful, bright winter day. My jumper, short wool skirt and thick tights are enough to deal with the chill that is starting to grip Namhae, though I may have decided against three inch heels with ankle straps if I had known I was going to spend the afternoon climbing through hedges and trailing through country lanes with half a dozen fourteen year old boys. The school backs onto a field, as do most buildings in the town, and a small delegation from our party approaches the crouched figures busy at work planting garlic. A few minutes later we are the proud owners of a bundle of rice straw which the boys carefully stash by the roadside.

We stroll along chatting about nothing in very broken English and I stop fretting about working the weekend and relax into the slow pace of life in the country. I ask my students questions that had often occurred to me as I walked around the town – what is this building? why is that there? – and though the answers are hardly clear and concise, I feel as though I’m a bit more part of the community than I was before.

I ask about the very modern and quite beautiful round building that we are approaching as we pass the bus terminal. In-Hee tells me that the fourth floor is a church and the fifth floor is his home. It’s then that I realise with some trepidation that this is where we are heading.

Six of us squeeze into the lift to the top floor and arrive at a front door. In-Hee lifts a lid on a key pad cover and taps in a code; the door unlocks and we enter a small shoe-filled hallway. I curse my shoes once again, their fiddly little buckles mean I am still struggling half crouched as In-Hee’s mother arrives to welcome me inside. The rest of the boys have already dived in and dispersed. I am left with a woman I’ve never met before who is clearly flustered at having not only an unexpected visitor, but one who doesn’t speak Korean.

They have a dog, a Yorkshire Terrier, which seems to have recently returned from a jog as it is dressed in dog-sized sports wear. It is manic and demands my attention which is good as I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself. In-Hee has disappeared into the kitchen to find items to support his role as the Good Wolf (it is a very loose adaptation) and I am left to converse with his mother. She’s an English teacher at the local academy so we do manage a few exchanges as she peels and slices enough fruit to feed a troupe of monkeys. She tells me that she’s really happy that her son has finally taken an interest in learning English and it’s because of me. I’m flattered and saved from my embarrassment by the boys’ return to the living room. We all sit on the wooden floor around a low table and eat the Korean pears, satsumas and persimmons with little forks.

The flat is crowded with toys and other family possessions. Many things would not be out of place in any home in Europe, though the ornate screens over the windows fill the room with a hazy Eastern light. I want to go and explore this, my first glimpse of a real Korean home, but In-Hee’s mum has already mentioned being caught out in an untidied house thanks to her son’s surprise visit, so I try not to look like I’m inspecting the place.

Though it is a pleasant visit I’m relieved when we finally leave and wish I was more adept in social situations. We meander slowly back to school, stopping to collect our straw which has been purloined by some other passer-by and the boys have to beg another bundle. An old man who happened to be passing harangues the boys. He is convinced they plan to use the straw to commit some sort of rural vandalism. Once they’ve escaped from his rantings they tell me that they understand that his anger is not about them but is part of the anger many farmers feel because of the current low price of rice and the high price of oil, making it tough for all these land-dependent people. I feel helpless as the responsible adult, unable to stand in the boys’ defence.

Sun-Mi’s group return ten minutes after us, with yet more straw, a few bricks and twigs and three enormous cardboard boxes. We spend a few more hours making quite passable pig’s houses, and yet another half hour rehearsing with the new props.

It’s dark when Sun-Mi drops me off at my flat, leaving me with a carrier bag full of sweet potatoes – half of the gift she was given by the parents of one of her students. I check my emails and find that I’ve been invited to go out for dinner tonight with my fellow ex-pats; they met ten minutes ago and I’ve missed my chance to contact them and find out where. I’m too exhausted anyway. It’s not the effort of teaching or working at the weekend or even of building houses for little pigs. I’m exhausted from living in a state of constant spontaneity; when communication is so poor that I’m never sure what’s going on and what’s going to happen next. At 9pm I’m in bed, feeling very Chinese noodle.

Another working week

I wonder sometimes how I fill my days and evenings, yet I never seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do and it goes so quickly. It’s exactly a month since I arrived in Namhae, yet I feel (as always happens) like I’ve lived here forever. Walking to work in the morning through the quiet, narrow backstreets, I fall into a semi-trance as I think about the day ahead and am surprised that my feet have instinctively brought me to the college where I can cut through the car park to my school. I barely notice the tiny bent-over old ladies pulling carts of pumpkins or the gaggles of short-skirted schoolgirls who look like they have just stepped out of a manga. It’s all just another day.

Having almost completed the Herculean task of administering a speaking test to each of my 400 boys, I have now begun teaching in earnest. Lesson number one is disastrous of course. Fortunately I’ve been teaching long enough to accept this as inevitable and quickly revise the lesson plan for a better afternoon delivery. I find it hard to get to grips with teaching very elementary English to such young students, but I take Lisa’s advice even before she gives it – choose three points and drill them continuously for 45 minutes. Serendipity turns up the ‘Real-English’ video clip website which reduces the number of times I have to repeat ‘I am Korean, I am from Korea’ to only 87 times a day. I also discover the Zamzar website where I can download Youtube clips and save them to my USB drive and then insert them into my powerpoint presentation, making me look like I’m really on top of the game. The students respond well. I even manage to slow down my speech and simplify my vocabulary enough for the Year 7 teacher to understand, which is a challenge.

The highlights of my working week are the pre- and after-school lessons where I teach small groups of students, many of whom are far more advanced in the language than their classmates. Having time to get to know them in a less formal setting, playing games and making jokes is what I really love about the job. Despite the fact that they have already destroyed two of my three school-issue white board markers in their competitive enthusiasm to write answers on the board and stolen the padlock to the ICT room, they are very friendly and eager to learn. The younger ones are almost primary school affectionate. In Korea, secondary school is very hard, starting early, finishing late (as late as eleven pm when they take additional classes at ‘academies’ for English and other subjects) and of course they attend school every other Saturday morning. A good education is of the utmost importance. As a result, Koreans tend to over indulge pre-secondary school children and they are loved and cosseted by everyone. Physical affection – pats on the heads, arms around shoulders – don’t ring the bells of social services like they do in Western Europe. So I have one or two tiny younger boys who, during our pre-school lesson, will pull up their chairs as close as possible to mine and lean on me as I speak to the class. It’s quite sweet really.

Though I’m supposed to ‘co-teach’ each lesson, Sun-Mi has recognised that I am a competent teacher and occasionally leaves me to it while taking the opportunity to get on with her many other pressing tasks. Moon-Seong joins in with my lessons, translating where necessary, laying a firm and threatening hand on any boy who chatters or dozes. The Year 7 teacher, whose name continues to elude me, seems incapable of managing his classes. After one or two impossibly distracted lessons I take control and instil a bit of discipline into the class, even having a word with the class captain to remind him of his duty to bring the class to order at the beginning and end of each lesson. The teacher seems pretty oblivious to any of this, so I become oblivious to him in return.

Showing a bit of competence has its down-sides. While being mired in test-marking and transferring results to the county education board website, developing a framework of competences and course outlines to go with them, teaching about twenty lessons a week and still getting to grips with the school layout and the remaining domestic issues, Sun-Mi tells me that I also need to develop and direct a short play, to be performed by the students, in English, at the school ‘expo’. On the 20th November. Shortly after that, the provincial Board of Education will come to observe Sun-Mi and myself co-teaching and a lesson plan must be submitted by 1st December. It’s just as well it’s almost winter and I have nothing better to do with my time.

Wednesday, and I arrive early for my pre-school lesson. The day seems harder than the others as I teach every other lesson on the timetable, leaving me an hour at a time to fill between classes. Three-thirty, with lessons over, I round up the stragglers who have avoided speaking tests and repeat the nonsensical questions another fifteen times. Four-thirty and I really want to go home, but as I have one final search for the padlock for the ICT room, Sun-Mi finds me. She’s on her way to watch the teachers’ volley ball game. I mildly protest, mitigating my anti-socialness with the promise that I have indeed brought my new (as yet unused) sports gear but I had to do the last tests so thought I’d missed it. “Lets go and watch anyway” she says, ignoring my rehearsed look of exhaustion.

In the sports hall the game is in full swing. Sun-Mi takes a look at my shoes and says “oh well, you just cheer us on” and joins her team. She hands me her watch for safe keeping, as good as shackles bolting me to the floor. I put down my jacket and bag, resigned to staying for at least another hour. It’s past four-thirty – my working day is officially over.

A woman enters the hall with a large polystyrene box and I’m familiar enough now with the sight to know it’s raw fish. She places it next to the beer and mandarin juice and fruit on the table. They are here for the long haul. I rest my head on my arm, my arm on the table, feeling utter despair. I know it’s only a matter of time before that ball comes hurtling towards me and smacks me in the face. Balls always do. I realise how much I really, really hate team sports, especially those involving balls.

It’s half time and they are changing sides. I look at the clock for the thirtieth time in thirty minutes; five past five. I’m horrified by the knowledge that I’m about to cry. Sun-Mi comes over to me as the players move to different ends of the court. “You look really tired” she says, “you don’t have to stay, but there’s raw fish…”. I begin to answer but I’m scared my voice will crack. I manage “I will go home if it’s OK, I am really tired…” and I slope out.

On my way home I feel really angry and upset. Even before I’m out of the school grounds I pull out my hair clip and I feel like I’m 6 again, fighting Mrs Lyons as she forcibly ties up my hair with a piece of string.

“I’ve warned you Daryl Morgan, if you come to school with your hair all over the place, I’LL tie it up for you”.

I hate Miss Badley and her stupid hockey lessons too. I hate being made to be part of a team, I hate being made to do things I don’t want to. I’m glad I have cigarettes at home so I can go straight there, through the college.

Once home I throw off my clothes, get into my pyjamas and light a cigarette. I sleep for an hour, and wake up feeling better. Sitting on my own in the peaceful oasis of my little room, I come to realise that I can live with the isolation, the constant barrage of a foreign language, the lack of meaningful conversation, the sense of being an outsider, so long as I get adequate amounts of time on my own. I remember a conversation with Sara P a year or two ago, when we discussed feeling exactly the same wherever we are, even in our home towns. Being on the outside of everything is an internal thing for me; it’s a perverse pleasure. Just don’t force me to join in. I let off steam to Sara H on MSN and she asks me if I’m lonely, and I can state categorically that I’m not. It’s not the aloneness that gets to me; it’s the lack of it. I fear that my lesson for this year is learning to be part of a group, joining in with the Korean colleague bonding culture – a scary prospect.

Thursday and I’m looking forward to school. I don’t teach until 11 so I arrive ‘just in time’ at 8.30am. Sun-Mi has finally phoned the bank for me and she needs my details, but I’ve left them at home. “We’ll do it first thing tomorrow” she says; she knows I need to send money to Sara before the weekend. My lessons are now well rehearsed and go smoothly. My colleagues are all friendly and one are two are getting a little more adventurous in trying their English. The students are spectacularly sweet today; In-hee finally solves the mystery of why I can’t find the recycling bags I’ve read are compulsory to use in Korea – Namhae doesn’t have a recycling system. The other students are overly-impressed that I can now read the Hangeul names ‘Kim’ and ‘Lee’ in the register. Four-thirty and I’m free to go home and sit on my own. Bliss.

The contents of my food cupboard

Shopping is interesting. Half the time I don't know what it is until I get home, the other half I buy things that I ate at school and loved and don't know how to cook. Thank god for Maangchi at http://www.maangchi.com/recipes/jjajangmyun.

From top left: crab sticks, aloe vera juice drink, noodles, soft tofu, seaweed, soy milk with green tea, ginger tea

Second row; Korean chilli paste (soy bean paste underneath) curry paste, dried shrimp, packet soups, fernbrake

Third row; lotus roots, chilli flakes, sesame seeds, dried shitake mushrooms, ordinary mushrooms

At the front; ginger, apricot juice sachet, small sweet potatoes, instant noodles.

And of course my fridge is full of garlic and onions and I have sesame oil and soy sauce for cooking.

I still haven't figured out which of the packets of little silver fishes are dried anchovies, and I need a rice cooker as I just can't get the hang of cooking rice Korean style.

It's a good diet, great tasting food and easy enough to make. If you don't go for the buying a whole fresh squid that is.