Wednesday, 21 January 2009
오바마-"Obama"
In honor of the Inauguration, which I was quite sad to miss, here is the link to the GW Expat article that I wrote back in November. The article was published two months ago, but I never got around to putting it up here.
Friday, 2 January 2009
Travel around South Korea, Part 1
Hello y'all, been busy during the past month with the end of the semester and having my mother visit for two weeks. Rather than returning to America, I decided to explore my adopted home country instead.
Starting last Thursday, we rented a car and braved the roads of South Korea. Korea gets very different once you leave Seoul, going from millions of people jammed into the metro to valleys populated only by ancient apple farms.
From this:
To this:
The trip started out rather inauspiciously, stuck in the elevator of the rental car building. To make matters worse, it was Christmas morning, but we still managed to find an elevator repairmen who could get us out of there.
Our first destination was a famous mountain in Korea by the name of Seoraksan. The mountain attracts bus loads of mountain-climbing old people from all over the country. Despite it being a particularly cold time of year, we managed to get to the summit and see a great sunrise from the nearby beach.
Seoraksan is in the upper southeast corner of the country, by the end of our trip we would be as far in the southwest as possible. In between, the weather went from snowdrifts to palm trees, then, weirdly enough, back to snowdrifts on the supposedly tropical island in the south.
Seoraksan is actually part of a mountain chain that contains buddhist temples, famous waterfalls, and immense columns of rock. We were only able to see a few of the sights, but every hour spent in the open rather than in the apartments of Seoul was priceless. It's hard to realize just how closed in a city is until you finally escape it.
Finding a motel by the mountain and getting around by car was the beginning of a long period of being forced to speak Korean with strangers. The bad news about walking up to strangers was that they assumed if I could ask for directions, I could understand whatever rapidfire answer they shot back at me. The good news is that saying just a few words in Korean to people in rural areas is pretty astonishing, after saying nothing more than, "how do I get to the hotel?" you might have thought that I just recited poetry from the suprised and appreciative responses I received.
Traveling outside of cities in Korea also brought me in contact with a lot of older people and children who have seen very few white people. The kids were cute about it, staring open-mouthed and running over to their parents once they laid eyes on me. The older people were less endearing, mainly glaring at my mother in I with looks that ranged from surprise to disdain. I'm used to both reactions, but it was harder for my mother to get used to strangers being much less friendly than they are in the U.S.
I'll finish up with a shot of lakes in Korea, taken by Andong. Later on, we traveled to Yeosu, Mokpo, and Jejudo, that'll be for another post.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Trip to Yonmunsan
There are a lot of Buddhist temples in Korea.
Some are more picturesque than others, and making a pilgrimage to the really nice ones is a popular activity for believers and nonbelievers alike.
My sociology professor managed to turn the trip into a school-sponsored excursion, and so I got my first chance to leave the city in three months.
As you might be able to see, this trip happened to be during the height of the autumn foliage in Korea, which is pretty amazing, even for a jaded New Englander like myself. People here love their leaves, and I'm happy I was here to experience a season that doesn't freeze my hands shut or drown me in hot rain. :)
Our professor managed to secure us an interview with a monk at the working monastery, who was pretty welcoming to our questions about his life and Buddhism. I finally found out why they always wear those cool grey robes, (supposedly, they are the least bothersome garments, allowing them to focus solely on meditation), that they can use any modern convenience so long as it does not tie them further into the self-destructive bustle of this world, (you might be able to see the computer behind him), and why Buddhist like babies (they are a pure, neutral metaphor for the soul a Buddhist wants to attain).
Also at the temple was an 1100-year-old gingko tree, which was supposedy planted by the staff of a Boddhisatva. I'm a little skeptical, but the tree could be that old. It's hard to tell from the picture, but the thing must have been at least 80 feet tall. The monk said it is the oldest living fruit-bearing tree.
I also got a picture of the mountains around Seoul on our way back into the city. It felt really good to be away from the skyline for a while.
And this is a picture of my campus at about the same time, its ringed by mountains.
Some are more picturesque than others, and making a pilgrimage to the really nice ones is a popular activity for believers and nonbelievers alike.
My sociology professor managed to turn the trip into a school-sponsored excursion, and so I got my first chance to leave the city in three months.
As you might be able to see, this trip happened to be during the height of the autumn foliage in Korea, which is pretty amazing, even for a jaded New Englander like myself. People here love their leaves, and I'm happy I was here to experience a season that doesn't freeze my hands shut or drown me in hot rain. :)
Our professor managed to secure us an interview with a monk at the working monastery, who was pretty welcoming to our questions about his life and Buddhism. I finally found out why they always wear those cool grey robes, (supposedly, they are the least bothersome garments, allowing them to focus solely on meditation), that they can use any modern convenience so long as it does not tie them further into the self-destructive bustle of this world, (you might be able to see the computer behind him), and why Buddhist like babies (they are a pure, neutral metaphor for the soul a Buddhist wants to attain).
Also at the temple was an 1100-year-old gingko tree, which was supposedy planted by the staff of a Boddhisatva. I'm a little skeptical, but the tree could be that old. It's hard to tell from the picture, but the thing must have been at least 80 feet tall. The monk said it is the oldest living fruit-bearing tree.
I also got a picture of the mountains around Seoul on our way back into the city. It felt really good to be away from the skyline for a while.
And this is a picture of my campus at about the same time, its ringed by mountains.
Comfort Women Protest
A long time ago at GW I started learning about "comfort women" a euphemism for the Korean women used as sex slaves in Japanese military brothels during WWII. While their continuing demand for a sincere apology from the Japanese came up often during discussions of lingering animosity between Korea and Japan, it was difficult to grasp the intensity of the continuing struggle until I saw the women in person.
Every Wednesday afternoon, former "comfort women" collect in front of the Japanese embassy in Seoul. There aren't many women left at this point, a vast majority were either executed or died from disease during the last days of the war. Still, a large group of young Koreans gather to support the women and to listen to their strident appeals for reparation and admission of guilt.
(it's really interesting to look at the faces of the women in this photo)
As with many events in Korea, I felt uncomfortable lunging in front of protestors and snapping a photograph, they aren't there to be tourist curiosities.
While apologies have been offered by the Japanese government, there still remain right-wing officials who claim the women were not coerced or were even privileged to be serving the Imperial Army's ambitions.
At the protest, the most spirited of the remaining women shouts a fiery oratory at the front of the embassy, denouncing the Japanese and her own government for not forcing an apology out of their neighbors. I don't know if the event has ever turned violent, but there are always riot police between the two parties. ( the second picture shows just how young and bored-looking riot police are in Korea. Despite the fearsome reputation of Korean protests, most of the day for the policeman, who are serving as part of their military term, is just spent standing around).
During the protest, there was a speech by a representative from Amnesty International, which is working diplomatic channels to secure an apology. The audience also collectively sang and danced for the women, a measure that would "give them strength" to continue. I think more protests should involve dancing.
Throughout the protest, the Embassy remained silent, with all windows shut, a rather forbidding metaphor for the country's longtime feigned ignorance toward the phenomenon of Japanese sex slaves during the war.
If my language sounds strong, it's because many violent episodes in Korea's past seem far less settled than those I am familiar with in America. The women who suffered are still alive to press their case, those who suffered under the military dictatorship in the 60s and 70s are up and walking around, and other episodes seem barely under the surface.
Every Wednesday afternoon, former "comfort women" collect in front of the Japanese embassy in Seoul. There aren't many women left at this point, a vast majority were either executed or died from disease during the last days of the war. Still, a large group of young Koreans gather to support the women and to listen to their strident appeals for reparation and admission of guilt.
(it's really interesting to look at the faces of the women in this photo)As with many events in Korea, I felt uncomfortable lunging in front of protestors and snapping a photograph, they aren't there to be tourist curiosities.
While apologies have been offered by the Japanese government, there still remain right-wing officials who claim the women were not coerced or were even privileged to be serving the Imperial Army's ambitions.
At the protest, the most spirited of the remaining women shouts a fiery oratory at the front of the embassy, denouncing the Japanese and her own government for not forcing an apology out of their neighbors. I don't know if the event has ever turned violent, but there are always riot police between the two parties. ( the second picture shows just how young and bored-looking riot police are in Korea. Despite the fearsome reputation of Korean protests, most of the day for the policeman, who are serving as part of their military term, is just spent standing around).
During the protest, there was a speech by a representative from Amnesty International, which is working diplomatic channels to secure an apology. The audience also collectively sang and danced for the women, a measure that would "give them strength" to continue. I think more protests should involve dancing.
Throughout the protest, the Embassy remained silent, with all windows shut, a rather forbidding metaphor for the country's longtime feigned ignorance toward the phenomenon of Japanese sex slaves during the war.
If my language sounds strong, it's because many violent episodes in Korea's past seem far less settled than those I am familiar with in America. The women who suffered are still alive to press their case, those who suffered under the military dictatorship in the 60s and 70s are up and walking around, and other episodes seem barely under the surface.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Ride Home
I decided to do something a little different this post.
I put together a little photo essay about my commute to and from school, I've already gotten a little positive feedback so I figured I might as well put it up here. The tone is different from what I've written so far, I'm interested to hear what you all think.
The young woman’s face is swabbed with makeup. Sharp black lines frame her crinkled eyes and perfectly pink cheeks corner her smile, all teeth. Two friends lean against her back in similar looks of ecstasy, they couldn’t imagine having a better time anywhere else. All because of Aritaum beauty products, says the bus stop ad, we dream of you only.
I pull my hood closer and stare away from the women, fluorescently bright against the dusk. It is autumn now, just cold enough to bring on a shiver and make waiting for a cross-town bus interminable.
First one, then two, then half a dozen buses, their illuminated interiors full of reclining passengers like living rooms floating by. I wait outside, my hands shoved deep into sweatshirt pockets, thinking of my own living room, so remote now.
5614 comes out from behind the curve, its number painted in orange lights upon its prow. I am getting on at the first stop, so I have my pick of seats. The driver greets me with “오서 오세요.” Once the bus becomes fully laden and each new rider must elbow their way onboard, the greetings stop and it’s just a silent run to the next terminal.
At each stop, I look up from my window seat and flicker my glance across the students and salarymen who are coming home from work. Unless clinging to a boyfriend or girlfriend, they all file silently into open seats, leaving the spot beside me empty.
Sometimes their gazes lingers for just a second on my face, the moment’s hesitation that tells me how unusual it is to have a white person ride the bus. Once every so often, if every other spot is full of packages and tired riders, someone will sit beside me, pulling their thighs to the other side of the bench.
Outside, neon brightens the way, advertising karaoke rooms and barbecue restaurants to all who pass by. Every ride back from campus brings a new sign, a new smiling animal mascot who entreats me to descend from the bus and discover how he tastes. Other shops peek out from side streets, single bulbs illuminating shelves smothered with plastic pipes and scooter parts.
The girl beside me, her hair dyed a violent shade of brown, straightens her sweater and stares intently at her cellphone.
My professors say that long ago, everyone read on the bus, before you could plug your ears into music and watch television in the palm of your hand. American singers are piped into my head and I think of how strange their crooning sounds amidst the quivering anthems of pop starlets on the bus radio. Sing to me of the silence down on Bleecker Street, sing to me of summer flings before college, sing the same songs I listened to in my real hometown.
Now my apartment block swings into view, uniform beige and brown towers that house the legions of men and women who work in Seoul. I step off the bus and cast my eyes upward, to where a lit kitchen window can show my host mother starting dinner.
I walk through one last wall of neon, 고기사랑, 안경 1001, and 꽃. Then I am in the courtyard, and the pulsing roar of buses and mopeds is quieted for the night. A little boy, wrapped up in nothing but a taekwondo robe, comes home after class, walking beside me for a moment before disappearing into his apartment doorway.
Fourteen floors later, I am home. My homestay 이모 calls out a hello from the kitchen and asks me if I’ve eaten dinner. For a second, I am just glad to talk to someone else, to explain in halting Korean that everything is alright, for now.
I put together a little photo essay about my commute to and from school, I've already gotten a little positive feedback so I figured I might as well put it up here. The tone is different from what I've written so far, I'm interested to hear what you all think.
The young woman’s face is swabbed with makeup. Sharp black lines frame her crinkled eyes and perfectly pink cheeks corner her smile, all teeth. Two friends lean against her back in similar looks of ecstasy, they couldn’t imagine having a better time anywhere else. All because of Aritaum beauty products, says the bus stop ad, we dream of you only.
I pull my hood closer and stare away from the women, fluorescently bright against the dusk. It is autumn now, just cold enough to bring on a shiver and make waiting for a cross-town bus interminable.
First one, then two, then half a dozen buses, their illuminated interiors full of reclining passengers like living rooms floating by. I wait outside, my hands shoved deep into sweatshirt pockets, thinking of my own living room, so remote now.
5614 comes out from behind the curve, its number painted in orange lights upon its prow. I am getting on at the first stop, so I have my pick of seats. The driver greets me with “오서 오세요.” Once the bus becomes fully laden and each new rider must elbow their way onboard, the greetings stop and it’s just a silent run to the next terminal.
At each stop, I look up from my window seat and flicker my glance across the students and salarymen who are coming home from work. Unless clinging to a boyfriend or girlfriend, they all file silently into open seats, leaving the spot beside me empty.
Sometimes their gazes lingers for just a second on my face, the moment’s hesitation that tells me how unusual it is to have a white person ride the bus. Once every so often, if every other spot is full of packages and tired riders, someone will sit beside me, pulling their thighs to the other side of the bench.
Outside, neon brightens the way, advertising karaoke rooms and barbecue restaurants to all who pass by. Every ride back from campus brings a new sign, a new smiling animal mascot who entreats me to descend from the bus and discover how he tastes. Other shops peek out from side streets, single bulbs illuminating shelves smothered with plastic pipes and scooter parts.
The girl beside me, her hair dyed a violent shade of brown, straightens her sweater and stares intently at her cellphone.
My professors say that long ago, everyone read on the bus, before you could plug your ears into music and watch television in the palm of your hand. American singers are piped into my head and I think of how strange their crooning sounds amidst the quivering anthems of pop starlets on the bus radio. Sing to me of the silence down on Bleecker Street, sing to me of summer flings before college, sing the same songs I listened to in my real hometown.
Now my apartment block swings into view, uniform beige and brown towers that house the legions of men and women who work in Seoul. I step off the bus and cast my eyes upward, to where a lit kitchen window can show my host mother starting dinner.
I walk through one last wall of neon, 고기사랑, 안경 1001, and 꽃. Then I am in the courtyard, and the pulsing roar of buses and mopeds is quieted for the night. A little boy, wrapped up in nothing but a taekwondo robe, comes home after class, walking beside me for a moment before disappearing into his apartment doorway.
Fourteen floors later, I am home. My homestay 이모 calls out a hello from the kitchen and asks me if I’ve eaten dinner. For a second, I am just glad to talk to someone else, to explain in halting Korean that everything is alright, for now.
Monday, 27 October 2008
Ssireum
A few weeks ago I tried out ssireum, a traditional Korean type of wrestling. I was at a Special Olympics-esque event on my campus, and the organizers asked me if I would be willing to do an exhibition match with a student from the physical education school. So that afternoon, I and another French exchange student tied on a sapa, (the cloth around your waist) and set about learning how wrestle.
Ssireum has more in common with Greco-Roman style wrestling than with sumo, requiring a lot of heaving and lifting of the other guy. I had a great time, but as you might guess from the pictures, my opponent had about eighty pounds on me and quickly ended my wrestling career. The crowd of children and their parents loved it though.
There was also a tournament for the fathers, which they took very seriously.
The goal of ssireum is to have the other person's back touch the san, while not removing your hands from the cloth tied around his waist. Essentially, you try to knock him off balance or hurl him over one shoulder.
One other picture is of the mothers in their arm-wrestling tournament, which was definitely the most competitive event of the day. Picture dozens of middle-aged Korean women, screaming at each other and shouting in unison for their champion. The students who had organized the event just stood around during the final round, shocked by the competitive spirit that had come out in women who would otherwise have been sitting in the shade, sharing lunch and watching their children play.
And then there is me, that incredulous look started when I first saw my opponent and didn't end until I was on my back in the sand. haha
Once again, I had to rely on my friends for these pictures. Some come from Sophie Corlay, and my picture comes from Nathanael Francisco, both of them exchange students.
Ssireum has more in common with Greco-Roman style wrestling than with sumo, requiring a lot of heaving and lifting of the other guy. I had a great time, but as you might guess from the pictures, my opponent had about eighty pounds on me and quickly ended my wrestling career. The crowd of children and their parents loved it though.
There was also a tournament for the fathers, which they took very seriously.
The goal of ssireum is to have the other person's back touch the san, while not removing your hands from the cloth tied around his waist. Essentially, you try to knock him off balance or hurl him over one shoulder.One other picture is of the mothers in their arm-wrestling tournament, which was definitely the most competitive event of the day. Picture dozens of middle-aged Korean women, screaming at each other and shouting in unison for their champion. The students who had organized the event just stood around during the final round, shocked by the competitive spirit that had come out in women who would otherwise have been sitting in the shade, sharing lunch and watching their children play.
And then there is me, that incredulous look started when I first saw my opponent and didn't end until I was on my back in the sand. haha
Once again, I had to rely on my friends for these pictures. Some come from Sophie Corlay, and my picture comes from Nathanael Francisco, both of them exchange students.
Friday, 17 October 2008
Gwanaksan
Overlooking my campus is a mountain called Gwanaksan, which cradles the whole campus in really interesting way. After a month of just watching the green wall around my university, I finally hiked up one of the peaks, which I found out is actually a huge hobby for older people here. 
A map of the mountains, the buildings in the center are my university, I climbed the peak on the right.
Older Korean people never seem to stay inside and watch TV or retire in the American sense of the word. All throughout the day, convoys of older women and men, outfitted in violent shades of pink and blue, hike up the mountains around the city or bike for the whole day. Once the sun goes down, the men fill up barbecue restaurants all around the city and drink soju over chunks of spiced thickly-sliced bacon.
Hiking is weird fun here, maybe it's the fact that they leave trails full of rocks to be leaped over or that everyone drinks rice wine and passes out once they reach the summit, but its a hobby worth looking into.
Along the path, you can see small piles of pebbles that are stacked loosely. I think the practice has to do with Buddhism, but I don't know for sure.
The view from the top is pretty amazing, every so often, you hear someone shout "Yahuuuu!" from the top. Kind of like a glorious yodel of victory, but it confused the heck out of me the first time I heard it.
Autumn is starting in Korea, a little bit later than in America. It's supposed to be the most beautiful season, with none of the oppressive heat of summer or the bitter, dry cold of winter. There are enough mountains rising around Seoul so that you can see the foliage changing from almost anywhere in the city.
The tradition for hikers who have come down from a hard trek is to drink makkeoli, a milky rice wine that is really popular in rural areas. Supposedly, the liquor restores the energy you lost hiking, there are a lot of similar folk medicine/food remedies for problems in daily life here.
I found out that Koreans with a stomach ache will try to squeeze all the blood in their arm to the point of one finger, then prick that finger with a needle to release the black blood inside, (just a drop or two). I have never seen the black blood, but I have heard people swear it comes out and that it helps.
A map of the mountains, the buildings in the center are my university, I climbed the peak on the right.Older Korean people never seem to stay inside and watch TV or retire in the American sense of the word. All throughout the day, convoys of older women and men, outfitted in violent shades of pink and blue, hike up the mountains around the city or bike for the whole day. Once the sun goes down, the men fill up barbecue restaurants all around the city and drink soju over chunks of spiced thickly-sliced bacon.
Hiking is weird fun here, maybe it's the fact that they leave trails full of rocks to be leaped over or that everyone drinks rice wine and passes out once they reach the summit, but its a hobby worth looking into.
Along the path, you can see small piles of pebbles that are stacked loosely. I think the practice has to do with Buddhism, but I don't know for sure.
The view from the top is pretty amazing, every so often, you hear someone shout "Yahuuuu!" from the top. Kind of like a glorious yodel of victory, but it confused the heck out of me the first time I heard it.
Autumn is starting in Korea, a little bit later than in America. It's supposed to be the most beautiful season, with none of the oppressive heat of summer or the bitter, dry cold of winter. There are enough mountains rising around Seoul so that you can see the foliage changing from almost anywhere in the city.
The tradition for hikers who have come down from a hard trek is to drink makkeoli, a milky rice wine that is really popular in rural areas. Supposedly, the liquor restores the energy you lost hiking, there are a lot of similar folk medicine/food remedies for problems in daily life here.I found out that Koreans with a stomach ache will try to squeeze all the blood in their arm to the point of one finger, then prick that finger with a needle to release the black blood inside, (just a drop or two). I have never seen the black blood, but I have heard people swear it comes out and that it helps.
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