Bugs and alleyways
It was pouring, the streets gathered rain in the pockets of uneven sidewalks, and I realized as I sat down on the subway that I'd forgotten my cheap $2 umbrella at the phone shop where I'd stopped to add minutes to my mobile phone. (or what I've been forced to say, against all literary snobbiness..."rechargee.")
I was on my way to meet my friend Mary at a Halal restaurant in Itaewon, the most culturally diverse neighborhood of Seoul. It's a mecca of Indian, Malaysian, and Nigerian immigrants, along with the prevalent presence of young American military men, with flattops and cigarrettes dangling from their mouths. And among these, are also a spattering of other foreign English teachers. Itaewon is one of the few places in Seoul where one can get a meal that is authentically foreign, meaning, if it's Indian food, it's actually cooked by someone from India. I have a love/hate relationship with this area. It's both comforting and revolting. It is an area where English is the primary language and even the most freshman of travellers can navigate, but it is also one of the 'dirtier' places of Seoul. It's international influence has not only influenced the food and the language, but also it's offerings, complete with the infamous "Hooker Hill," a street where prostitutes grab passing foreigners from doorways and entice them to enter their tiny lairs.
Ah, but I digress. Back to the Halal. Mary has been in Korea for 3 years and is leaving to return to Canada at the end of September. She's a friend from the previous school I worked at and is one of the few people I've stayed in contact with since my departure. We meet every month or so to converse and swap stories about the nuances of each SLP.
The restaurant, unfortunately named "Foreigner Restaurant," was a Halal buffet, filled with curry dishes and Nan bread. I was in heaven. Or so I thought. As we began to eat, I bit down on a chunk of chicken only to find it filled with bones. I not so gracefully began pulling the bones out of my mouth and continued eating. (It's really helpful to not be a picky eater here). Several bites later, I bit into something hard again, although a little softer than bone. I chewed several times and found it's texture a little different than chicken. So, I again began to pull it out of my mouth like the bones. But, what I pulled out wasn't a bone. I dropped it onto my plate and stared, rather sick to my stomach, at a giant bug.
I tried to ignore it, pretend it was some sort of nut, but as I stared at it's black body, with little antennae poking out and two ridged wings, I put my fork down and stopped eating. Mary, for her part, tried to convince me it must be a raisin, but I know raisins don't taste like that. I refused to examine it, certain that if I found out for sure that it was a giant cockroach, I would swear off Indian food for life...and I love Indian food too much. Instead, I claimed to be full and tried not to make eye contact with the giant creature lying lifeless on my plate next to a pile of bones.
On the subway ride home that night, I refused to stand so two ajimas could sit, as my stomach was feeling a bit queazy. Midway through the ride, with my one headphone in my one good ear, I noticed all of the passengers staring in the direction three elderly people. It takes quite a bit of commotion for Koreans to actually take notice, so I turned off my Ipod to find out what the entertainment was. I heard an old man and an old woman shouting at each other (shouting is not very common here, especially on the subway) and then a second woman began yelling at the man again. There was anger and desperation in there voices. Everyone on the subway looked on, slightly amused and highly entertained. The shouting kept getting louder and louder. And then I heard the man laughing and when I looked over, he began poking the old woman sitting next to him with his umbrella. Poking might be a gentle term...jabbing was more like it.
Finally, two Korean men jumped in, grabbed the old man by the arm and said something to him in Korean. Then, just as soon as it had started, it was over. The women became quiet, and the old man set down his umbrella and went silent. Everyone went back to reading their papers and talking on their cell phones as if nothing had happened.
Unfortuntately, this is not the first time I've seen this here. I've seen a man cock his fist back and flick his girlfriend in the forehead, and I've seen a man cock his fist back as if he were going to hit his girlfriend and then a few minutes later, watched him hit her several times on the top of her head, while she held his other hand and kissed it. I feel so uncomfortable and useless in those situations. In the states, I've interrupted domestic violence, actually stopped a man who was choking his girlfriend while I was on a jog one day. But here, I don't know what to say or to do. I stare at them, I say things under my breath, I glare, I curse at them in my head and hope that maybe with me watching, they'll stop. But they don't.
It always makes me thankful that I live in a culture where this is not accepted. It also makes me thankful that I grew up with a strong woman as a role model, who showed me that women aren't second class citizens, and that being strong is more beautiful than anything. And it also made me thankful that I grew up with two men who were always supportive and respectful. I'm a lucky girl.
The next day, I woke early and headed into Dongdaemun, the oldest wholesale market in Seoul. It's an area filled with traditional street markets where you can find everything from giant orchids, pick axes, hiking gear, traditional Korean medicine, and fabric. I was headed for the fabric market. It's a six story building, spanning four square blocks and filled entirely with fabric. Thousands of fabric stalls lined next to each other, small six foot squares jammed full of fabric. I've taken to sewing since I've been here and recently purchased a sewing machine.
I walked through the maze of fabric trying to navigate without bumping into the old men, with wooden backpacks, laden with hundreds of pounds of fabric strapped to their backs. One man's load looked so heavy he kept moaning every three or four steps. These old men haul fabric up six flights of stairs, only to walk back down and do it all over again. It appears that most of the hard labour in this country is done by the elderly. (I often seen the old women in the early mornings, pushing carts around the city picking up the recycling...) After several hours of feeling overwhelmed, I finally found a bit of fabric and went in search of some lunch.
As I left the building, I slipped down a side alley that meandered through buildings. The narrow street teemed with life, like an artery through the limbs of the city. I passed old women grilling whole fish on tiny barbecue, next to a man sewing zippers on an old industrial sewing machine, and stalls selling scythes and pick axes, and further down a cart cooking dolgoki (spicy rice cake). It's strange and always catches me off guard, when I happen on a place where the culture feels so alive. I always feel as if the Korean culture is so muted, lurking beneath the surface facade. But then I find it, hiding in the alleyways. And it's in these moments when I suddenly realize where I am, and my heart skips, and I hold my breath, because I'm not sure if I want this moment to end or to last. It's a feeling of fear and excitement.
Eventually, I find my way out of the maze, back onto the four-lane streets, littered with traffic. I duck into a small restaurant and order bibimbop, a mixture of spicy sauce, rice, bean sprouts, mushrooms, egg, seaweed, and a few other unidentifiable substances. It's a dish I've come to enjoy and found myself craving as I walked through the alley.
I've recieved e-mails from a number of you, wondering why I'm here, and I'm afraid I often write e-mails tinged with bitterness. Although I can say this has not been an easy journey, and it may not be the most ideal location, I also have moments of utter joy, moments that couldn't happen anywhere else in the world. These happen more often than the moments of disgust, but I usually am more fascinated by the things I don't understand. Beauty and culture I can understand, but I find there are so many more things in this country that don't make sense to me and I find myself writing about them. I hope this may ease some of your fears...
I was on my way to meet my friend Mary at a Halal restaurant in Itaewon, the most culturally diverse neighborhood of Seoul. It's a mecca of Indian, Malaysian, and Nigerian immigrants, along with the prevalent presence of young American military men, with flattops and cigarrettes dangling from their mouths. And among these, are also a spattering of other foreign English teachers. Itaewon is one of the few places in Seoul where one can get a meal that is authentically foreign, meaning, if it's Indian food, it's actually cooked by someone from India. I have a love/hate relationship with this area. It's both comforting and revolting. It is an area where English is the primary language and even the most freshman of travellers can navigate, but it is also one of the 'dirtier' places of Seoul. It's international influence has not only influenced the food and the language, but also it's offerings, complete with the infamous "Hooker Hill," a street where prostitutes grab passing foreigners from doorways and entice them to enter their tiny lairs.
Ah, but I digress. Back to the Halal. Mary has been in Korea for 3 years and is leaving to return to Canada at the end of September. She's a friend from the previous school I worked at and is one of the few people I've stayed in contact with since my departure. We meet every month or so to converse and swap stories about the nuances of each SLP.
The restaurant, unfortunately named "Foreigner Restaurant," was a Halal buffet, filled with curry dishes and Nan bread. I was in heaven. Or so I thought. As we began to eat, I bit down on a chunk of chicken only to find it filled with bones. I not so gracefully began pulling the bones out of my mouth and continued eating. (It's really helpful to not be a picky eater here). Several bites later, I bit into something hard again, although a little softer than bone. I chewed several times and found it's texture a little different than chicken. So, I again began to pull it out of my mouth like the bones. But, what I pulled out wasn't a bone. I dropped it onto my plate and stared, rather sick to my stomach, at a giant bug.
I tried to ignore it, pretend it was some sort of nut, but as I stared at it's black body, with little antennae poking out and two ridged wings, I put my fork down and stopped eating. Mary, for her part, tried to convince me it must be a raisin, but I know raisins don't taste like that. I refused to examine it, certain that if I found out for sure that it was a giant cockroach, I would swear off Indian food for life...and I love Indian food too much. Instead, I claimed to be full and tried not to make eye contact with the giant creature lying lifeless on my plate next to a pile of bones.
On the subway ride home that night, I refused to stand so two ajimas could sit, as my stomach was feeling a bit queazy. Midway through the ride, with my one headphone in my one good ear, I noticed all of the passengers staring in the direction three elderly people. It takes quite a bit of commotion for Koreans to actually take notice, so I turned off my Ipod to find out what the entertainment was. I heard an old man and an old woman shouting at each other (shouting is not very common here, especially on the subway) and then a second woman began yelling at the man again. There was anger and desperation in there voices. Everyone on the subway looked on, slightly amused and highly entertained. The shouting kept getting louder and louder. And then I heard the man laughing and when I looked over, he began poking the old woman sitting next to him with his umbrella. Poking might be a gentle term...jabbing was more like it.
Finally, two Korean men jumped in, grabbed the old man by the arm and said something to him in Korean. Then, just as soon as it had started, it was over. The women became quiet, and the old man set down his umbrella and went silent. Everyone went back to reading their papers and talking on their cell phones as if nothing had happened.
Unfortuntately, this is not the first time I've seen this here. I've seen a man cock his fist back and flick his girlfriend in the forehead, and I've seen a man cock his fist back as if he were going to hit his girlfriend and then a few minutes later, watched him hit her several times on the top of her head, while she held his other hand and kissed it. I feel so uncomfortable and useless in those situations. In the states, I've interrupted domestic violence, actually stopped a man who was choking his girlfriend while I was on a jog one day. But here, I don't know what to say or to do. I stare at them, I say things under my breath, I glare, I curse at them in my head and hope that maybe with me watching, they'll stop. But they don't.
It always makes me thankful that I live in a culture where this is not accepted. It also makes me thankful that I grew up with a strong woman as a role model, who showed me that women aren't second class citizens, and that being strong is more beautiful than anything. And it also made me thankful that I grew up with two men who were always supportive and respectful. I'm a lucky girl.
The next day, I woke early and headed into Dongdaemun, the oldest wholesale market in Seoul. It's an area filled with traditional street markets where you can find everything from giant orchids, pick axes, hiking gear, traditional Korean medicine, and fabric. I was headed for the fabric market. It's a six story building, spanning four square blocks and filled entirely with fabric. Thousands of fabric stalls lined next to each other, small six foot squares jammed full of fabric. I've taken to sewing since I've been here and recently purchased a sewing machine.
I walked through the maze of fabric trying to navigate without bumping into the old men, with wooden backpacks, laden with hundreds of pounds of fabric strapped to their backs. One man's load looked so heavy he kept moaning every three or four steps. These old men haul fabric up six flights of stairs, only to walk back down and do it all over again. It appears that most of the hard labour in this country is done by the elderly. (I often seen the old women in the early mornings, pushing carts around the city picking up the recycling...) After several hours of feeling overwhelmed, I finally found a bit of fabric and went in search of some lunch.
As I left the building, I slipped down a side alley that meandered through buildings. The narrow street teemed with life, like an artery through the limbs of the city. I passed old women grilling whole fish on tiny barbecue, next to a man sewing zippers on an old industrial sewing machine, and stalls selling scythes and pick axes, and further down a cart cooking dolgoki (spicy rice cake). It's strange and always catches me off guard, when I happen on a place where the culture feels so alive. I always feel as if the Korean culture is so muted, lurking beneath the surface facade. But then I find it, hiding in the alleyways. And it's in these moments when I suddenly realize where I am, and my heart skips, and I hold my breath, because I'm not sure if I want this moment to end or to last. It's a feeling of fear and excitement.
Eventually, I find my way out of the maze, back onto the four-lane streets, littered with traffic. I duck into a small restaurant and order bibimbop, a mixture of spicy sauce, rice, bean sprouts, mushrooms, egg, seaweed, and a few other unidentifiable substances. It's a dish I've come to enjoy and found myself craving as I walked through the alley.
I've recieved e-mails from a number of you, wondering why I'm here, and I'm afraid I often write e-mails tinged with bitterness. Although I can say this has not been an easy journey, and it may not be the most ideal location, I also have moments of utter joy, moments that couldn't happen anywhere else in the world. These happen more often than the moments of disgust, but I usually am more fascinated by the things I don't understand. Beauty and culture I can understand, but I find there are so many more things in this country that don't make sense to me and I find myself writing about them. I hope this may ease some of your fears...
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