Another Side of Hualian

Another Side of Hualian

   

Slipping over rapids, our boat swirled past rocks. The river divided the horizon. Clouds draped mist over forested hills…

    

    

Ruisui calms you the moment you leave its two platform train station. A tiny town in Hualian county, its’ one storey buildings only take a portion of the sky. There are bicycle and scooter rentals, a tourist information centre, hotels , homestays, noodle restaurants and a 7-11.

      There’s plenty of accommodation in Ruisui. We found our place just two minutes from the station.

     ‘Hey, look at this,’ shouted the boss. A smiling woman with permed hair, she showed us a stag beetle in a blue basket. ‘You can buy him for one hundred Taiwan Dollars,’ she announced. ‘Before I would have said fifty dollars, but he’s grown.’

     Three singing children jangled keys before as they led us from reception. The rooms were cleaner than you’d expect, for a hotel that shows its customers insects.  Just as I thought she was about to produce more invertebrates, our host pulled out a map of the river, and helped us plan the rafting trip.

    At 9am the next morning, we were sitting in lifejackets by a pebbly riverside. Misty air blew between the hills.  

    ‘Don’t hold the paddle like this,’ yelled the straight-backed lifeguard captain. He held both hands together at the top of the handle. ‘Or like this,’ he boomed, grabbing the paddle by its’ …paddle.

    On the river’s slow stretches, the day became an organized water fight. Each boat had artillery of two plastic pails. Paddles, hands, and even shoes were also used as hydro-projectiles.

    ‘Aaarrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!,’ shouted our most determined adversary.       ‘Arrrrrrgghhhh, you are going to die.’ His team mixed aggression with cunning.

    ‘Could you lend us a water pail, ours is lost.’

    As I said no, loaded water pails unleashed from hidden corners. Across the water, a rafter let go of her pail accidentally. The pail flew into her enemies boat. Cheers laughed against the rocks.

     In the evening we rented bicycles from the shop by Ruisui train station. We rode for five minutes , and were surrounded by the chatter of insects, the tweeting of birds, the dipping and buzzing of bees accompanied by silent winged butterflies. Pineapples presented themselves in cactus-like fields, betel trees were thin palms on the horizon, mountains stood crowned by clouds.

     We breathed in air that tasted of the plants around us, pineapples in the ground, pomelo and jackfruit in the trees, tea in the hills, and the sun itself, invisible yet delicious in the air.

     Rain drizzled the next afternoon. A truck of betel nut stood downstairs in our hotel. On the way out of town, we cycled past a betel nut factory. Kids ran around while workers peeled the nut from its’ green shell.

     From the Tropic of Cancer, we looked out over the valley. The Tropic of Cancer marker is a white, straight structure that points to the sky. Every midsummer, the sun shines directly above the Tropic of Cancer. On June 22, at noon every year, the structure has no shadow at all.

     ‘It takes two years to grow a pineapple,’ said the woman in the adjacent shop. A chicken crowed over the dipping hills. ‘We grow all our pineapples and tea leaves in the fields behind this house.’

    The Saoba Stones are a pineapples’ throw from the Tropic of Cancer. Two Stonehenge like monoliths, they point directly at the sky. Nobody is sure why.

    ‘Maybe the people who planted these stones had an early form of astrology or science,’ Rox said. ‘That’s why the stones are so close to the Tropic of Cancer.’

    ‘Maybe they saw that on midsummer’s day, the stones had no shadow,’ I said.

     Rareseed Ranch is just off Route 9, signposted by two cows on a bicycle. A minute from the main road, hills fill the sky, and small storks hop in the fields.

     It’s a genuine farm with an open café and a pleasant veranda. Two ostriches entertain visitors. They strut up and down, guarding a field where cows and storks graze alongside each other.

    We bought  a set of mantou- Taiwanese milk-bread, cheesecake, yoghurt and milk, all for 135NT dollars.  The sky was blue, but we sat under umbrellas. A dog sat beside us, we leant back in our chairs,  and watched the hills rest as the  sun began to fade.

Ruisui is accessible by train from Taipei. Tickets cost between 450 and 550 NT and take 4 to 6 hours depending on route and train number. A tourist information centre and a number of hotels are located next to the train station. Many hotels will help organise a rafting package.

Chinese New Year: G- Strings and Boats in Southern Taiwan.

Want to expand your collection of G-Strings? Think it's more fun to chuck a boat in the air than take it to sea? Get pissed off when someone else drives on the same road as you? If you answer yes to these questions you should follow me to Lan Yu, Taiwan's southernmost Isle.

Here are some of the things I heard about Lan Yu:

'Green Island is better.'

'It is difficult to go now.'

'You will probably throw up.'

Ok, the last prediction was actually in reference to the boat trip. It takes two and a half hours to get there, and after two and a half minutes I was rushing onto deck with one hand over my mouth. Once I'd steadied my gaze onto the horizon, though, my guts were steadier than the vast chopping waves. The same can't be said for the woman standing (fortunately), downwind of me.

Me and Rox stood happily, enjoying the wind, the waves and the sea spray. We were happy, at least, until the spray became more of a horizontal waterfall.

Being hit by a large wave is like getting slapped by nature. Nature is cold and wet, and it doesn't give a damn how long your shoes take to dry. 

'Shall we move to the other side of the boat?' shouted Rox.

'Not much point now,' I shouted. I shouted that because I didn't think it was possible to get any wetter. I was wrong. When we stepped onto dry land, it wasn't dry for much longer, and the locals probably assumed we were rescue cases rather than passengers. 

The view on arriving made up for that. Lan Yu looks like an island. That might sound obvious, but it really does. There's no other land on the horizon, and from a small distance the forested mountains appear uninhabited.

The view from the boat just after landing.

Soaked.

Our homestay owner turned up in a white van with a kicking stereo system and a bin liner for a back window. He used his seat shaking speakers to treat us to a play list of Western pop songs. If there is one consistent

rule of travel it is this; wherever you go you will hear songs you were trying to get away from.

All I wanted was a piss and a shower. But our host drove us around the thin winding road and stopped in the first village we got to.

'Is this your village?' I asked, observing the one storey houses, the kids, goats and chickens running, sitting, and pecking in the road. 

'No,' he said. 'We'll stop here and play.' He got out of the van, and I realised he was drinking a vodka alcopop. 

People sat outside houses, and a stall barbecued lunchtime sausages.What seemed to be the village square was full of people sitting around. Many held cameras, and were probably tourists from mainland Taiwan. 

'Is there a toilet anywhere?' I asked our host.

'You can use the police station?' he said. 

 I walked into the police station. 

'Is there a t-,' I began. The small, tiled room was full of men dressed like this:  

None of them were holding a camera. They were either painting Chinese characters on each others' backs, adjusting the position of their swords, or helping me find the bathroom. 

'Yes,' one of them smiled. 'Through there, on your left.'       

'What the hell was going on in there?' I said when I got back outside.  

'They are preparing our traditional performance. It is very important,' said our host.

 'Important?' 

 'Yes, before we had no clothes on this island, only-. This performance is to signify and remember that.' 

 Before I could ask more the crowd got bigger and started closing in on the market square. 

 'Careful, you lot,' people shouted from raised platforms and balconies. 'Leave an entrance, leave an entrance!' 

I soon saw what the entrance was for. Wearing only cloth underwear and swords the men charged in , shouting in guttural voices and flexing their fists at each other. 

 More men ran in, screaming primally, and holding a large, intricately carved, canoe like boat. 

Even more men ran in and gathered round the boat, shouting like they were about to fight. Something was going on in the centre. Then something rose up from their middle; the boat. Hands supported it, and pushed it up, up. The boat jumped above the men, and they shouted and cheered with each jump it made. 

The boat arrives in the village square. 

                

Then the boat went down and there was more mysterious commotion in the middle. And more near fighting on the outskirts. Then there was an outcome; they had selected a leader. 

The man was raised up in the boat to deafening, wordless approval. The hands went up again, the boat rose and fell , and the chief relaxed in his airborne, seaworthy throne. 

 People began yelling from the balconies again. 'Make an exit, make an exit.' 

We made an exit, and the men rushed past us, clenching fists, shouting, grimacing. Some carried the boat and the leader, and took him the short one hundred yards, down to the rocky beach. 

 With cameras all around, and birds dipping above the waves behind them, they re-created the village square scene, only this time, they let the boat go higher. 

When the boat came down, they took it towards the sea. In the water, they stopped the fist clenching and grimacing, and took to splashing each other instead. When the ceremony was finished, the boat, with a few selected locals on board, went out to sea. 

'Well then, time to go home and wash,' said our host in Chinese. 

'Is he suggesting we're dirty,' said Roxanne in English. 

 'I don't think so, I've never got a better wash than on that boat ride.' 

 'Maybe you smell like a fish.' 

 'I wouldn't rule that out.'

After settling in to our large, cheap, and sunny room, I rented a scooter from the guy in the house next door. It cost more per day that our room per night. I was too happy to bother bargaining. 

Riding a scooter in Taipei isn't as fun as riding a scooter should be. If you're not lost in a sea of safety helmets and revving engines, you're frowning at traffic signs or wondering if you should turn left through the visored  army of oncoming two-wheeled traffic. 

Lan Yu is freedom. Still wearing wet shoes,I turned left at the crowing rooster, and right at the sleeping pig. Within thirty seconds I was out and alone. On my right there were fields and mountains, on my left there was stones and the sea. I shouted with delight, and nobody heard me.

Afternoon nap. 

I returned from my test drive and took Roxanne out for a tour of the whole island. We did it in about two and a half hours, and it was only a bit difficult when there was a drop from the road and a high wind coming off the sea. The rest of the time there was nothing to crash into at all.

Usually I try not to eat meat. But the goats roaming the hills, chickens climbing village steps to return home, wandering pigs and fresh seafood, all made my concerns about livestock conditions and factory farming somewhat redundant, if only for the weekend. For lunch we had seafood and goat noodles. For tea our host cooked us octopus he had caught himself the night before. Many nights, he told us, he donned diving gear, grabbed his harpoon and waterproof torch, and crossed the rocky stones to catch his dinner. 

Drying Fish

Flying Fish Fried Rice

Free Range Chicken

Free Range Pig. 

The next day we rode around again. My shoes were dryer and our pace was slower. Everyone was friendly, nobody spoke English, and I was practicing Chinese at every corner.  We crossed the mountain slowly, taking in the lighthouse and generator at the top. There were sharp drops but the mountain goats were unconcerned. We went down carefully and explored the rocks and caves that surrounded the coastline. 

Our rental.

Traditional fishing boat being made.

The sea.

Typical village scene.

Goat resting on a bench.

An apple. A change from a grass based diet.

Village sign.

Leaving.

After a week in Taipei, Rox has announced that she is 'Lan Yu sick.'. In Taipei, people stare at us and assume our nationalities and language abilities are directly correlated to our skin colour. In Lan Yu, people smiled and started conversations. Everywhere has it's problems and annoyances, but Lan Yu was a perfect getaway.

Note: Lan Yu (蘭嶼) is a transliteration of the Chinese name. In English it is called Orchid Island. But no one uses that name and it is only useful for searching on Wikipedia. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orchid_Island

Our home stay was great value. The owner enjoys local liquor but was always sober enough to go fishing after a day of beverages. His blog (with excellent pictures) is here.


tw.myblog.yahoo.com/ff2800/ 

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Hanboks in Lesbian Park

It was a morning of gentle beauty and random kindness. The sun lent the streets a milky warmth, and my jacket relaxed around my shoulders. With a smile , I stepped on the uncrowded subway.

It swung me to Sindorim. At Exit 2, I rang my lost cellphone. It was answered by Ewha, who'd found my phone after I'd left it in a taxi.

'I'm just coming,' she spoke English well, with a bright, near American accent, ' I can see you from here.'

Ewha must have been nearing forty. But her boots bounced with a symmetric energy. With the phone, she handed me a genuine smile.

'Thank you so much. That's helped me loads. Would you like a coffee or bottle of coke?' I pointed at a snack stall.

'No that's ok. It's my pleasure. Last month I lost my phone and I couldn't get it back. It caused me so much trouble. It's my pleasure.'

'Thank you.'

'No problem,' she turned and walked , her head in line with tower blocks along the horizon.


Back in Sinchon, drums distracted me from my route home. I turned right, and saw the gathering in Lesbian Park.

Too often , Lesbian Park is a place that doesn't live up to its' name. For a start, it doesn't have any grass. Due to the Korean government's assertion that grass is expensive, Lesbian Park is a tiled pavilion. In England, it would never be called a park. But in Seoul, it's the closest thing there is.

Seemingly at least, the place is also lesbian free. Rumours circulate that it is a late night meeting point. But activities there appear in line with a culture unfamiliar to open homosexuality.

This morning, though, the park was a festival. Men crouched over board games, while women dressed in traditional hanboks gathered outside, beating drums and dancing. Then they entered and circled through the melee, their loose, exotic clothes flapping lightly in the breeze.

I entered and filmed the gathering on my phone. To them, it might have been a normal Sunday. To me, it was a step into Korea before Samsung, Christianity and cosmetic surgery changed the face of this curious land.

In an adjacent foodstore I bought cheese and porridge. The shopkeeper was watching the park through the window. For no reason, he handed me a free satsuma along with my bought goods.

Walking back under the sun, I bounced the satsuma from hand to hand, in time with the beat of the drums.

Kissing

‘Do you wanna get a taxi?’ asked Rox as we neared the subway station. It was total laziness, but the backs of my thighs ached from the hike.

‘Yes,’ I said.

The taxi had placed itself ineptly by a lamppost. It was impossible for customers to enter. We had to knock on the window before the driver moved his vehicle into a sensible position.

‘Sinchon-yok chuseyo,’ said Rox, as we breathed and let heat massage our muscles.

‘Taxis are fucking great,’ I leant back, ‘they’re just so warm.’

The sangyapsal rested in my stomach and I put my hand on Roxanne’s leg. My mind moved back to our post-walk restaurant, the look an old man had given me as I placed a kiss on her lips.
‘Are we breaking some huge taboo?’ I’d said.

‘Yes,’ said Rox.

Korea’s position on public kissing is less clear than that of other Asian countries. In India, tonguing on a train is almost as offensive as a blowjob in a bank. And in Thailand you won’t need to tell couples to get a room; they‘ll get one before they begin.

On my first night out in Seoul, I noticed teenagers kissing against walls together, like British fourteen-year olds at bad discos. When I asked my students what old people complained about in Korea, one of the gripes was snogging in the streets.

‘They say young people are so rude, because no one used to kiss outside.’

In the taxi, not knowing how bad it was, I leant over to Rox, moved my lips towards hers, wrapped arms about her warmth.

‘Excuse me,’ piped the driver suddenly, ‘you, your partner, seeing each other?’

‘Pardon?’ I said.

‘Speaking English, English I don’t know, is it called, seeing each other?’

‘Yes,’ said Roxanne, ‘it’s called seeing each other, or dating.’

‘Or going out together,’ I added.

‘What is your country?’

‘England.’

‘America.’

‘What is your hometown famous for?’

‘Stonehenge,’ Roxanne prompted me.

‘Stonehenge,’ I said.

‘Stonehenge,’ the driver frowned in the rear view mirror, ‘I don’t know well. What is it?’

‘Just a bunch of stones, really,’ I said.


Conversation paused as we rose on the road over the river. Lights, pulling softly, held the horizon and the sky together.


‘Actually I don’t like kissing,’ said the driver. We bumped onto hard ground. ‘ I don’t like kissing in my taxi.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said quickly, ashamed I’d been so insensitive.

‘Why not?’ pushed Roxanne.

‘My wife, she never kiss me now.’ said the driver.

‘Is it rude, though?’ I asked, ‘kissing in the back of a taxi?’

‘She says that if I can make money, then she will give kiss to me.’

‘But is kissing in taxis impolite?’ I repeated.

‘I am jealous of your action.’

‘But is it rude?’

‘No, no, not rude,’ said the driver.

‘Well in that case…’ I kissed Roxanne. Both Rox and the driver laughed.

‘You are actor and actress,’ he said. I wasn’t sure why. Lights around were closer now, buildings clamouring for space.

‘Excuse me, what is your job?’

‘We both teach English,’ Rox said.

‘Ah, English teacher. I used to teach English. Now I am taxi driver. Not enough money. My wife, she tell me to make more.’

‘Ah, chogiyo,’ Roxanne leant forward, ‘ This is my stop Joe. I’ll call you later.’

‘Ok,’ I said.

‘Excuse me, your girlfriend?’ asked the driver as we pulled away.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Very beautiful.’

‘Very,’ I said. I smiled, and the lights got brighter.

An Unplanned Protest

The shouts came into my apartment. It sounded more raucous than a normal Friday night. I wasn’t going out, but I needed some food. Maybe bimimbap if a place was open, or mandu from a local stall.

Coat wrapped about me, I headed out. Hearing the shouts coming from my right , I forgot about food and ducked through an alleyway.

People were running, banners in hand. Police, like heavy armoured beetles, formed solid blocks along the road. Even in the January chill, the air had a heated energy.

Police were behind and in front, light catching on riots shields as they stood. People were walking and so was I . Slogans were shouted in Korean, someone was carrying a broom. I had no idea what was going on.

‘So what do you think of all this?’ a woman said to me. She had a strong face and a determined walk. If she was from England, she’d have lived in a squat in Brighton.

‘I don’t know what it’s about,’ I said.

‘You know the fires in Yongsan?’ she asked.

‘Yes, where the people died.’

‘Yes. This is about that. Also , people are tired of Lee Myong Bak.’

‘What do you think of Lee Myong Bak?’

Her voice became corrosive.

‘I hate Lee Myong Bak and this government. They care only about the rich people, they don’t care about the poor.’

I couldn’t see how that set them apart from most other leaders in this world, and wanted to see if there was more substance to the hatred. We were walking between lines of riot police.

I was about to ask more when I saw a teacher from my school, a Korean-American called Sherwood.

‘Sherwood,’ I called.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘What are you up to?’ I asked.

‘Just came out to see this craziness.’

‘You just finished teaching?’

‘Yeah.’

Sherwood wasn’t exactly pro- protest. He told me the protest was illegal because it was blocking off streets and infringing people’s rights to lead normal lives.

‘But people should be allowed to protest,’ I said.

‘Yes, but…’

Then he told me he wasn’t going to take any crap if anyone attacked him. I asked him why he thought someone might attack him.

‘They kicked the shit out of me at the American beef protests.’

‘What, really, why?’

‘I took photos. I think they thought I might be recording their faces and showing them to the police. They threw me to the floor. At least fifty people were going past, taking a swing at me.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m nervous to take pictures now.’

The protestors stopped outside Hongik University, blocking off the crossroads with their presence. Me and Sherwood climbed onto a mini platform and watched. Sherwood filmed a video on his camera.

‘No flash,’ he explained.

After a minute I decided to explore the melee before going home. I walked through the crowd and filmed protestors on my phone. The police were increasing their numbers, building an impenetrable wall, and people were staying still, shouting.

Food was what I had come out for. I walked over to a pie stall I’d been to before, asked the owner what he thought.

‘People always protest, you know,’ he said.

‘Do you like Lee Myong Bak?’

He shrugged.

‘…but, what does this achieve?'

I was watching the proceedings carefully.

‘Hey, if things start, to happen, you walk, this way. Other night, fighting, people falling, getting hurt.’

‘Thanks.’

Nothing was happening fast, the tension building like a slow game of chess. The next day , I was going snowboarding. I paid for my pie and walked home through straight-faced riot police. I wondered about their lives, their personalities, what was behind the uniform of their stares.

Music to Read to

www.Jango.com - Internet Radio

Restaurant at the End of the Road

I hadn't been there during my first seven months in Korea, put off by the 'Couple Seat' signs and shielding red curtains.

Roxanne suggested going in. My normal restaurant was closed, and cold closed in around the warmth of our breath. We passed under hanging lanterns, and pressed the buttons on the automatic door.

A board offered instructions in Korean and English, but we were still confused. There was a machine we had to buy meal tickets from. We looked at it until a Korean man came in, and memorised the options he chose.

Tickets in hand, we peered at the anonymous curtains. I looked around one and saw a kind of mini alleyway, with people eating soup on sectioned-off stools.

'I can't see any couple seats,' I said.

We went into another alley and sat either side of a small wood divider. A man sat alone at the end of the row. There were curtains in front of our booths. I pressed a call button and a waiter opened my curtain, explaining I needed to fill out an order slip.

I didn't know what I was ordering, only that I could choose between standard and spicy, and that I had the option of extra calcium.

'Are you going for extra calcium?' laughed Rox.

'Nah, I had a glass of milk this morning. '

Roxanne's soup came with a pile of white powder floating in the centre, whereas mine didn't.

'Is that Calcium?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said, mixing it in.

'You should have tried it by itself. '

The waiter pulled the curtains back down and we ate with the divider for company. I was grateful for its' protection when noodles dangled embarrassingly from my mouth.

After eating I took the divider down. We talked happily, and I wondered what more tastes of the strange I could find in the normalcy that had become Seoul.

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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