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.