Warmth in the Cold

Last night, lights delighted above bars. Sinchon's streets were filled with Seoulites escaping from their worlds; men hit a fairground style punchbag, a girl wailed into her phone. I pulled my shoulders in, felt the enclosure of my coat.

Just a couple of beers inside me, I'd left the bar early. It was four am. Food stalls lined the stretch of road that led to my apartment. They were tented like bungalows of warmth, steam escaping from vertical openings that marked the four corners.

Entering, the change was in something more than just temperature. Ambrosial, heat swirled from the soup, the oil and dakbogi. Friends huddled on plastic chairs , and the owner, face lined, showed his slanted teeth in a carefree smile.

'Ne, Annyong Haseyo,' he said as his wife entered through the far corner.

'Annyong Haseyo. Food mix chom chuseyo,' I blurted, 'One, hana, duguae chuseyo. Mix dakbogi, sa chuseyo, incheon obec won, kamsa hamnida.'

This ridiculous smattering of English and Korean had no right to be described as language of any sort. Yet it produced a complement, even if it was one I couldn't understand.

'Hangulmal chota , chota,' said the woman sitting on my left.

'What?' I said.

'Good. You Korean, very good,' she said. Her hair was scraped back harshly, but her face was friendly.

'Well...ok,' I replied, sitting down.

There followed what was probably my first conversation in Korean, and this after six months in the country. When I say a conversation, I mean they spoke and I nodded, but it was the first time I'd spoken to Koreans without them either switching to English or walking off.

This might have been because they were drunk. Substituting the traditional soup , the owner produced a bottle of beer and offered me a cup.

'Serviss-er,' he said, meaning free. I nodded gratefully and clinked cups with the owners and the woman next to me. I forgot my cup was cardboard, and when I raised it to my lips the rim was dented from the enthusiastic cheers.

'What's your name?' I asked the other customer in Korean. She responded with the name of a ubiquitous Korean dish.

'Kimchi??' I asked.

'Aniyo. No. Mrs. Kim Hee Jae.'

'Mrs. Kimchi,' I nodded, 'Mr. Kimbap,' I said, pointing at myself and adopting the name of seaweed rice roll. This produced more of a laugh than expected, with the owner happily ladling soup and the other customers smiling.

The feeling was better than the conversation, atmosphere more important than the limited words which passed over the guidebook foods. It was one of those moments when I remembered I was in Korea. The routine of work was forgotten and I could have been travelling, moving between experiences, peering into other worlds. The owner filled my cup.

Half an hour later, I tried to pay , but was met with an insistent barrier of 'Serviss-er, Serviss-er.' In such situations, I've never been one to protest too hard. I said goodbye, and left clumsily through the slit of an exit.

Out in the cold, I could hear their convivial laughs. I held my head down and hunched my shoulders as I walked. Air stung my ears, but I was warm inside.

Big Brother Back Home

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article4882622.ece



I was born in 1984, a year which was also the title of George Orwell's dystopian classic. In the year of my birth, Britain was a long way from the society that novel predicted. Those who feared it might come true could breathe relief as they considered the imperfect, but basically free, place that was their home.

So far, I have been undecided about the planned introduction of ID cards. I felt that those who thought they signalled the start of a Big Brother style dictatorship were overreacting. I have an Alien Resident Card in South Korea. I don't feel oppressed by having to carry it around, though I do worry I'll lose it when I'm pissed. It's an encumbrance, but it's not fascism.

This week, though, when searching for a discussion article for class, I came across a Times report that definitely signals a step too far. I already knew that the ID card scheme would involve storing everybody's data on a National Information Register, I already knew that the government had been trying to increase periods for detention without trial, I was already aware that Parliament kept on proposing laws that undercut liberty, usually under the guise of 'anti-terrorism measures.'

But the new proposals make the above look like drops in the water. The government plan to place a 'live tap' on every electronic communication device in Britain. This will mean that phone calls , emails and Internet histories will all become available to the authorities without them needing special permission.

What the hell is happening? How would the British public have reacted ten years ago if the Government announced they would tap every phone call in the country? Have we become so blinded by this threat of terrorism that we are prepared to allow the government to do anything at all to stop it?

The death of 52 people on July 7th, 2005 was a tragedy. The death of innocent people in the prime of their lives is always a tragedy. But the people who were blown up on that day in London died free, with their basic human rights and liberties protected by the law of Britain, a country which prides itself on free speech, and basic privacy and liberty for all it's citizens.

Even if the new measures will stop terrorism, and I doubt that they will (after all, terrorists will still be able to plot by spoken word, and from abroad) I would rather face the tiny risk to my life terrorist attacks pose than give up my basic liberties. Even if the current government doesn't use it's new powers in a negative way, such overreaching rights pave the path for an unjust government to abuse its' position.

Allowing the government to watch our every move is not the way to a safer society. I feel less threatened on the streets of India, Cambodia or Korea than I do after dark in the UK, a country with more CCTV than any other in the world. Britain won't change drastically overnight , but if we shrug our shoulders at every new method of tracking our actions, how long before the notion of privacy becomes a memory?

Adventures Underground: the Highlights

Part 2.

'I can't be fucked to get the subway yet, let's sit down and play the guitar.'

We had just spent an hour on the wrong bus, and were lost in some anonymous part of Seoul. The station passageway was deserted , and James moved over to sit by the wall. My new guitar hung lightly on my shoulders.

'Seriously?' he asked, and I nodded, even though I'd only been joking.

I laughed as I unzipped the case, and James placed two-thousand won in an upturned baseball cap.

'That's our float,' he said.

Unpractised fingers were soft on the steel of the strings. Leaning back, I reminded myself of the chords, plucked some tunes I could vaguely remember. Those who know me well will be unsurprised that I was soon playing Mr. Tambourine Man, and with no one around, my voice broke out into the air.

Shoes , followed by smart trousers, descended on the stairs. I fought my self-conciousness and kept singing loud, the businessman kept his head straight and walked on fast.

We weren't going to get that far with me singing. James took the guitar and began strumming Holiday in Spain, the words filling the space around us. A student took his headphones out and gave us the thumbs up. He was followed by a mother and child. The boy pointed while he dangled behind his mum, face lit with a smile.

When it happened, I blinked several times. The woman bowing to drop a 1000 won note.

'Kamsa Hamnida', I said, but I felt like chasing after her saying, 'I'm sorry, the hat, that was just a joke. We're not actually busking, you see, no one is supposed to give us money.'

'Awesome,' said James between lines, obviously pleased by the small, significant financial complement.

After Holiday in Spain, he handed the guitar back to me. Absent-mindedly, I began the intro to Wonderful Tonight. Another mother and child walked past. This time, the mum spoke to her son and pointed in our direction. The child began to waddle towards us, and once he was near, dropped a collection of coins in the hat.

'Cincha Kamsa Hamnida,' I said, stretching my Korean vocabulary.The boy toddled away, and my face glowed with happiness.

I strummed a couple more songs, and people smiled and gave me thumbs up signals, normally when I wasn't singing. Just when I thought it couldn't get much better, James began The Time of Your Life. While he plucked the interlude, a student couple dropped another note.

'This is awesome, I can't believe they're giving us money,' said James. 'Do you wanna get a taxi,' he laughed, 'I think we've made enough to pay for it.'

'Yeah, sod standing on the subway for an hour, let's go.' We packed up the guitar and hat and walked to the stairs. I was smiling with affection for this rushed, routine, random land.

Adventures Underground : the Highlights

Part One.

At first I thought he was just another off-centre local, trying to balance as the subway train lurched, speaking without regard for whether we understood him.

'Ne, ne,' he continued cheerily. His suit hung off his frame as though it were still on a coathanger, and his teeth jutted forward in the manner of an enthusiastic rodent.

Continuing his dialogue, he produced a business card. Most Koreans have cards, so this wasn't significant. But something was different about the white rectangle he dangled before us.

In the bottom right hand corner were two pictures of a womans' face. A few thoughts occured to me at once; perhaps he was canvassing for an escort service, or looking for a missing woman.

But a few words of English dripped through his Korean.

'New skin, new body, new skin,' he was saying. And I realised he was talking about plastic surgery, smiling all the while.

The salesmans' eyes ran over Jeni and Roxanne. He couldn't find any fault, though, and decided I was most in need of help.

'Here, here , here.' I recoiled as he prodded my moles. ' Cut, make new, clean.'

I took a few seconds to compose myself before wondering what sort of an advertisement this man was for good looks. It was like being sold diet pills by Pavarotti.

'Have you had surgery?' I asked, pointing at his blotched nose, ' Not exactly a work of art yourself, are you?'

'Ne, ne,' he smiled, underlining the phone number on his card. 'Monday, ring monday, not today, monday.'

And after I took the card he turned his teeth towards the next carraige, opened the door and scanned for new victims.

Aikido

'Try to bend my arm,' my teacher said. He stood a stride away from me, and his wrist rested on my shoulder. 'My arm is tensed, so , try to bend my arm.'

Locking my fingers, I pushed down at his elbow. It gave way, and my ego preened itself as the black belt staggered for balance.

'Now my arm will be relaxed,' he said, returning to the same position. 'Push down again.'

I locked my fingers in the same way, convinced it would be easy.

His arm locked under my pressure, and the more I grimaced, the more it felt like a steel bar.

'See,' he concluded, 'technique is important. Not power.'


I'm not very good at Aikido. Each lesson consists of impressive, effortless demonstrations, followed by students practising in pairs. At this point I normally make a few clumsy steps and fall over, despite it being my turn to throw.

But the serene, strong atmosphere of the dojo breaks my day with interest. Following the typical expat lifestyle you can find yourself surprised when you hear Korean spoken . With the swords on the walls, the bearded masters framed by the door, I feel like I'm Asia.

Most of the students are Korean men, though there are one or two girls who send me effortlessly to the floor. One Canadian student, Richard, has dark, concentrating eyes.

'You need to relax alot more,' he told me, as I practised a basic throw. 'You don't need to tense your arms and use your strength. If you're in the correct position I can't move at all.'

There's something fascinating in every Eastern discipline I can think of. Similar philosophies stretch from yoga into kung fu, kicking into tae kwon do and Chinese medicine.

The link between mind and body seems a recent concept in the west; the subject of irritating articles in Sunday supplements. Eating raw carrots can fight depression. Just 3 starjumps a weeks could boost circulation. Exclusive: why sitting on your arse all Sunday reading shite could be bad for your health.

Asia is no wonderland. Philosophies are incapable of preventing people from being human. I've heard stories of Buddhist monks beating a muslim boy, seen knife fights outside temples.

Though everything is the same, something is different here. Perhaps it's the slight chaos that gives life more options than in overly ordered England. Or the image of some ancient wisdom, lingering in the backstreets and the temples.

Whatever it is, there are moments, moments when the sun catches the smile of a woman selling vegetables by the road. Cinnamon from a stall, a cackling tramp obstructing seriously suited businessman. Billboards for martial arts and Chinese medicine clutter the sky, and I feel I could stay here, learning forever.

Afternoon in Insadong

After class I meditated, the insistence of Seoul's traffic slowing to a susurrus while my stomach rose and fell, rose and fell.

Pacing my apartment, the glowing stillness lingered. Another afternoon falling into the abyss of work, work, sleep and food.

I had to get out.


Exiting Jongno 3, I asked an old man where Insadong was, but my Korean was like a new language that no one spoke.

'Ins-sa- dong,' I repeated, his frown deepening with every syllable.

But I didn't mind if I found Insadong or not. The afternoon stretched ahead, and no one dictated the direction of my footsteps.

Soon I was in a park. A pagoda marked the centre, its' roof a curving smile. Underneath, characters acted out their lives, gesturing, sitting, sleeping.

I walked into market roads and realised I was in Insadong; ginger and cinnamon floating amongst curio stalls, steam bustling from food stands, jostling amongst crowds.

Down side-streets, spinning barbers' poles signalled brothels, and stooping doors held hidden worlds.

At one junction, there were men who made people slow by hurrying them along. Stubborn pedestrians watched actors gesture on a set.

A gallery pulled me in, and I was alone in a surreal room, black lines following the walls, cones and teapots suspended in the air.

I glanced to my left and a man appeared.

'Annyong Haseyo,' he smiled, as if pleased he'd perfected teleportation.

'This art,' he said, 'are about relationship, relationship people to person, relationship person to world.'

I nodded wisely. The teapot continued to float, and music tinkled somewhere.


Seoul's streets were reality, west with an eastern flavour. Lemongrass in the air, lanterns outside restaurants, polished taxis , gliding down the streets.

Next to a 7-11, a green lushness waved through windows, making shadows on the pavements. Outside the shop , birds tweeted in cages.

Pushing leaves aside, I entered. Reaching fronds made curtains, and women gossiped in whisper friendly spaces.

A woman ushered me to a space by a waterfall, a drinks menu under her arm.

I leant back , pulled a book from my bag, let the afternoon forget itself.

'He's very ugly,' said one of my students, referring to a pen wrinkled pensioner I'd drawn on the board.

'Yes, he is,' I agreed.

'Is he Indian?' another one asked. And the mood moved from light humour to blatant racism, before I had a chance to catch a breath.

'Monkey,' said a studious looking girl on the front desk, and laughter hid under tables, words from my training manual running in my mind.

Students making racist or sexist remarks: Avoid getting angry, and tell them that these comments would not be acceptable in Western culture.

I told them; they nodded almost guiltily. The lesson continued, but my developing affection for Korea was shaken.

That night I got talking to a Korean girl at a food stall. She had a gentle smile and soft, cascading hair. I decided to refresh myself with her thoughts on other cultures.

'I don't like Chinese. It's not thought, it's just some sort of feeling.'

Steam got into my eyes, and the wide, humid streets took on a cold, closing rigidity.

Over the following days I ran classes on Stereotypes and Discrimination. Asked what stereotypes were prevalent in Korea, the students reported common conceptions of the Indians, the Chinese, and the Americans. They probably kept their ideas about the British to themselves.

Though they were aware of the stereotypes, many students said they 'didn't think that'. As with any place in the world, some people have bigoted attitudes while others are more tolerant.

We all judge people by appearance. If they're black, we notice. If they're Indian, we notice. If they don't seem local, we ask them where they're from. Their answer, just a few words floating in the moment, is pulled down with a package of preconceptions. And ideas are formed before the conversation takes shape.

We judge people by attractiveness, accent, occupation, sexuality, gender, mannerisms, dress, hair colour, facial shape, choice of beverage, sporting allegiance, political opinions, interests, proclivity of nasal hair and facebook profiles.

Young people form groups based on musical tastes. As if it matters. There's no reason why a jazz enthusiast can't enjoy a drink with a metaller. Bullies make jokes, their togetherness created by their common victim. Football fans kick each others heads in, fuelled by the need to belong.

In Korea, as elsewhere, people gather into groups and slag off other groups. But there are differences in South Korea that can make it appear to be a racist culture (Is it racist to say a race is racist?).

Appearances are more important here than in the west. Korean businessmen are immaculately dressed, while ten per cent of women have had plastic surgery. Ten Years Younger, whisper billboard promises, and models smile as they impose their false ideals.

Korea is not multicultural. 'Even if you stay here 100 years, you will not be a Korean,' a friendly man told me outside a 7-11. 'What are you?' students asked a Korean-American teacher, bewildered by his Asian appearance and American demanour.

'I don't like the French football team,' continued the man outside the 7-11, 'many are not French, original French.'

'You mean they're black?'

He giggled shyly.

'You don't like black people?'

'No I like black people, I like all people, but I think they should play, their own country.'

Dongsoo clearly wasn't racist; he was merely unfamiliar with emigration and multi-culturalism. Korean society, western and developed on the surface, contains ways of thinking vastly different to our own.

But being surrounded by this strangeness, this different way of thinking, fills me with fascination. The challenge of understanding a society I won't understand, it's advantages, it's disadvantages, it's unfolding newness, is one of the things I like most about being abroad.

'Let's go on a bender,' Amit said.

He might as well have suggested that a Londoner moved to England. Increasing sunlight was catching dust, steam and smoke, and the table was laden with soju, beer and p'ajon.

'What about going to the fish market?' Alex asked, ' It's gonna be opening up about now.'

We weren't planning to stock up on seafood, but somehow the idea was irrestible, even though the market was south of the Han river.

Two taxis took us there. Cruising between buildings and billboards, Rhiannon told us about the man she'd encountered on her earlier trek.

'He was completely naked, except for his shoes, praying at the top of the mountain. When he saw me he begged me to hide in a bush- he was scared someone else would see me. I was going to then I thought - I'm not hiding in a bush five metres away from a naked man on top of a mountain- he was begging me not to let anyone see me, he even kissed my feet, that's when I ran away.'

We smelt the fish market first. It's pungence emerged from a stairwell, commingling with the misty petrol smog. Against instinct, we descended, each breath becoming thicker and feeling less like air.

The first view was from a balcony- of a working commotion discordant with our lightened footsteps and warmed , soaked stomachs. But we went down, into the flavour of the Asian melee.

Most of the fish were alive, gazing from their glass worlds at the universe that made them commodities. There were fat fish, flat fish, striped zebra fish and fish that balanced upside down, as if performing some aquatic yoga asana.

'Annyong Haseyo,' said Jeni, smiling at the market traders who moved through their exotic, mundane lives. A steady layer of water flowed down the sloping floor; my jeans absorbed it's heaviness and dampness stroked my ankles.

Jeni stopped by tanks of reaching Octopi, watched over by a laughing ajumma. One restless creature pushed its' head against its' tank wall, tentacles clambering up and over.

The stallkeeper was happy to pose for photos, and she held a catch aloft as she did so. Jeni asked for an Octopus, and lifted it for a picture. Then she put her hand into the water, and let a tentacle nestle against her finger.

'Their suction pads are amazing, ' she said, and I was dipping my finger in, letting the strange netherworld pull at me.

We walked on, past lobsters, crabs, and fish that flapped out of trays, trying to get away across the ground. To our right, behind the stalls, there was some sort of auction; and tinned, sales-pitch Korean crackled out over loudspeakers.

A lone fish in a tray commanded our attention. Suffocating in air it opened its' gills in strong, occasional gasps.

We watched, transfixed, for minutes. At the last, poignant moment, a laughing trader struck an axe into it's eye, blood shooting out with the final spasm.

Jeni was running off then, towards where Alex, Amit and Rhiannon were nearby. Jeni broke into a slight laugh as her upset voice recounted the event.

And soon we were all laughing. I wasn't sure what about: the fish, or everything, or nothing.

A minute passed, and we walked back across the market, into another day on this tragic, bizarre, beautiful earth.

The car eased onto the freeway; and it felt free, even though you had to pay for it. Wide open roads stretched out between the fields, under the cool, comfortable blue of the sky.

I was in South Korea. The impressions weren't as intense as I'd expected, but the driver was cruising towards my new life, and my heart surfed on waves of hope and fear.

Suburbs built up around us, starting small, then sprawling. The road curved by a river, a banner on a bridge said Hi Seoul and a party of kites danced above buildings.


That night, I wandered from my Officetel, sleepless but exhilirated. The night was staggering for the morning, and a teenager puked in an alleyway. Laughing groups balanced on the pavement and I walked on, wandering into an anonymous bar.

San Miguel slipped down amongst the Jack Daniels banners and the groups of young Koreans . The barman was convinced that San Miguel was from the Phillipines and pushed ice at me.

'You Phillipines beer. Drink Phillipines stylee! Welcome to Korea. Drink Phillipines stylee!'


I went home , but Korea kept me up, its' flavours and faces flashing in my mind. When the sun rose I felt like I could sleep at last, but I dressed, fastened my tie, and left for the first day of class.

'Hey mate,' Geoff swung his arm into a handshake. 'Good to see you.'

Summer was beginning in Salisbury. Whole days lazed in the heat, and evenings lingered with a breezy possibility.

'Happy Birthday,' I said, handing him a beer and opening one myself.

Burgers lay burnt beneath the sun, and a drift of smoke made me blink. People were laid out on the grass, a frisbee circle floating nearby.

Steve and Nicole waved through the haze, and I felt a surge of homely happiness.So I sat down, drank in the sun, and talked about South Korea.

Ever since coming back from Thailand, I'd been unable to settle in Salisbury. Culture shock spun my mind across continents. Sitting in an office I was swirling through Phnom Penh, being bitten by mosquitoes in hospital, meeting Kitty, again and again and again.

But I was skint. I couldn't go back, I couldn't go anywhere.Apart from South Korea.

Geoff nodded when I told him about the free flights, accommodation and pay offered in exchange for teaching English.Paul sat with us and we talked about leaving school. Drinking cider and burning blazers behind the Church.

Our friendships stretched back into time, and memories made the present glow. But my mind was moving forwards, to my next venture, and the experiences it would bring.
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25/05/08
by Joe
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