The Soul of Korea

I’d stare out my motel window for ages. Taking it all in, and how different it was but mostly I was just trying to get some fresh air. The motel had central heating that I had no control over and it was cranked up far too high. It was like a Korean summer in my motel room. I’d turn on the fan and stand by the window trying to adjust the shock my body temperature had gone into, after changing from the freezing cold to extreme heat.

The tall buildings and blinking lights kept me entertained. I was most fascinated by the cheesy 007 motel across the way, and the uniform high rises on the other side of the dirty canal. I saw them everywhere; almost every neighbourhood had a set of these identical symmetrically placed apartments. Their gardens were usually attractive but the blocks weren’t and they towered above most other buildings.

I’d do this when I got home at around 11 pm after having dinner with the teacher I was replacing. We got on easily enough and I found myself sorry to see him go by the end of the week. Maggie joined us occasionally, and I’d listen in fascination as the two discussed their interest in Koreans of the opposite sex. I couldn’t yet relate to Maggie’s attraction but I understood Alex’s. The women here are almost all petite, in the most feminine way. They’re naturally thin, with small hips and waists. Their exposed legs are silhouetted by high heels, their silk hair flows long or is cut stylishly short to frame their faces. Their skin is a creamy white and their makeup is perfectly placed. They’re the most groomed society of women I’ve ever seen and the men are no different. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the boyish good looks in skinny jeans, accessorised with man bags. Their hair more groomed than mine, their shoes more uncomfortable than mine.

Most men here have impeccable style, they look almost feminine, with their tosseled hair they’re always adjusting to perfection. They, like the women, carry hand held mirrors or use the camera on their phone to ensure everything is in place.

The older more middle aged Koreans aren’t as pleasant to look at though. They don’t age so well, despite doing all they can to protect their skin from the sun. You won’t see a Korean woman without a beautifully adorned sun umbrella, covered in lace, beads and floral print. Alternatively they wear the less attractive visor. Now these are the only things you can find in Korea that only come in size extra large and extra extra large. They tend to be hideous looking in general, you can obtain them in various bright colours or alternatively, and more commonly, they are available tinted, like giant sunglasses they’ll cover your entire face so you can get the Muslim look going, while still being able to see without having to expose your eyes.

The middle aged Korean women here are an institution. They’re a fundamental part of the society, unlike the men who kind of just fade into the background as they get older. No one really wants to look at them anymore, they’re unattractive and generally annoyingly drunk on soju, still under the impression that their standing as a male makes them dominant. My boss suffers from this delusion.

There is a special name for the middle aged Korean women, and it is ajuma. She has worked hard to raise her children, to cook kimchi soup, she sells clothes and vegetables on the side of the road, she’s spent so many years hunched over the rice fields that her back no longer straightens and she walks around looking, quite frankly, like a mobile table. She runs the local restaurant and will happily feed unwitting western men. Showing them how it’s done Korean style, she’ll chop the food up and shove the spoon or chopsticks in his mouth. She is passing on her culture, her essence, she is the ajuma and the soul of Korea.

Like a snail toward a carrot

It dragged by, like watching a snail make its way over a six foot wall. Waking up each morning was difficult. The jet lag was wearing me thin. My busy mind would struggle to fall asleep, I’d have nightmares and wake up to the unfamiliar sounds of my new surroundings. The repetitive, slow days training with Alex, watching him teach would lull me to sleep. I would force my eyes open, just waiting for the class to end.

Everyday would begin with monotony. I would find an English series on the cable channel, needing the sound of a familiar language. It would almost always be interrupted when I was collected at the same time every day, by Mr Kim or his wife, Mrs Park. They would always take me for lunch. Each day was an experiment in Korean food. Some days were better than others. I had doncass stuffed with sweet potato, kimchi jigae, beef bone stew, a seafood soup and more foreign foods than I could conceive of trying. It was all overwhelming, but most of the food was wholesome, they were like home cooked meals, although entirely foreign, they were a comfort. The forced awkward conversation that went in circles, however was not, and I would rush through lunch just to get to class.

Things weren’t much better in class though. I was becoming increasingly intimidated by Alex. My boss could not stop boasting about him, how well he taught, how much the students adored him and watching him teach it was obvious how good he was. It was obvious how much the children loved him. I had big shoes to fill. I had to do this without experience in teaching, without experience in children, or even a fondness for children. Most of my life I kept my distance from them, I didn’t know how to communicate with them, and they always seemed so annoying to me, so selfish, wanting, needing, demanding attention.

The only thing I seemed to be skilled at was getting the hang of the Little Fox website. The Little Fox schools run all of their lessons through its website. The children learn a story over two days. They listen to it, repeat it, answer questions based on it and learn the vocabulary in it. All of this is accessed on the internet and played on the big television screens in the classrooms. I’ve never had difficulty grasping the logics that go into computer software and this program was no different. At least I impressed Alex with that. My confidence and my teaching ability would have to be worked on. I was growing a fondness for the children though. Their wide eyes, questions and curiosity warmed me to them.

There was so many of them though, swarms, and I was overwhelmed by all their names. I’ve never had a knack for learning names and their faces all looked so similar to me. To make matters worse I soon discovered I wasn’t going to teach the same classes every day. Most classes I only taught once a week and a select few I would teach twice a week. By the end of the first two days though, I had already learnt a few favourite names. Or should I say a few favourite students’ names. Julia, Jerry and Belle.

Wishing for Friday night to come did not help the week pick up its pace, the carrot dangling before me made time move that much slower. It was Alex’s last big night out, and my first. I was eager to have a few drinks and meet some people. I was eager to discover Sponge, I’d heard so much about it.

An adoring welcome

As I shrink beneath the Korean towers I hang back ever so slightly, following the group, as we make our way toward a restaurant. I find it hard to conceive of ever making sense of where I am, of ever getting my sense of direction back. I see a future in which I’m always lost. I’m comforted by the English chatter though. Maggie, Alex and I are rattling away at regular speed.

I already feel so much more informed but once we’re seated in the restaurant and Maggie begins to read off the menu and order in Korean I become slightly intimidated. This feeling grows as I get to hear more about her Korean experiences and I’m left wondering if I’ll come to know the country and the language as well as her.

We all play tug of war over a shared menu, the first on a long list of annoying Korean customs. One menu per table. A Korean server brings us four small metal tin cups filled with water, matching silver chopsticks and soup spoons.

As Mr Kim helps me to become more familiar with the different choices on the menu, which all have a large, clear picture, Maggie talks about her weakness for the very unhealthy doncass. A confused look must spread across my face because someone at the table translates for me. Doncass is the crumbed and fried pork. And so begins the process of learning the long list of Korean foods.

I’m overwhelmed by the choices, and nothing seems to be particularly appealing, although I’m relieved that they’re not entirely unfamiliar or unusual. I feel pressure to make a choice, and as dried out, fried pork with dry rice doesn’t tempt me in the least I opt for the dish that Mr Kim compared to a kind of curry. Before the food has arrived, my small tin cup of water has already been depleted. Alex gets up, collects the cups and goes to a water dispenser. When he returns he informs me that it’s very much self service here, with an unlimited supply of purified water at every restaurant.

This is my first real meal I’ve had in days, and fortunately it’s in front of me in a matter of minutes. Korean efficiency yet again, I soon discover you never wait longer than 10 minutes for you food to arrive. I go straight for the metal chopsticks, I’m not worried about eating curry and rice without a knife and fork because I’ve had enough practice eating sushi in Cape Town. Except it doesn’t take me long to realise that metal chopstick, unlike their wooden cousins , aren’t as easy to control. I, however, eventually manage to get every last morsel of rice digested, while making a mental note to practice with metal chopsticks.

I have no idea how much my meal cost, I haven’t yet figured out how to convert to Rands. I know it’s supposed to be cheap, I’ve heard all about how affordable it is to eat out here and after my first meal I expect it is cheap. It was nothing gourmet, a better description would be decanted and reheated tin food. My mind flashes back to the tinned curry my parents would feed our gardener and a twinge of homesickness runs through me. I chase town a small tin cup full of water and my boss is looking at me with fascination, an expression that was going to become increasingly frequent. He asks if it was too hot for me, referring to if it was spicy. Not at all I comment, telling him about all the hot food I’d eat at home, and my dad’s huge chili trees. Homesickness flows through me again.

Mr. Kim, suddenly gets up and pays the bill and Alex and I are ushered off to his car. I’m becoming nervous now. I have no idea what to expect from the school or the children but comforted by Alex’s presence. He tells me all the children are expecting me, and in Mr. Kim’s company his comments on the school and children are all positive.

The elevator opens up onto the 5th floor, we’re early, so there aren’t many kids around, I’m relieved and as I take a look around. I’m impressed and pleased to see the school is in a much better condition than the other center, with television screens equally as big. Then, I’ve barely acquainted myself with my new work surroundings when I’m covered in tiny little smiling eyes. Alex is greeting them by name while I try to take in all the little people, with their adoring faces.