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.

Fitting in

Mr Kim, owns two centers. He runs the center I work at, the new one called center two. His wife, he tells me, runs center one, which is where we will be going first to meet Alex. I’m given all this information as I listen with half an ear, my focus being consumed with his driving.

When we get to center one, which is also called Little Fox, I realise it’s some kind of English language school franchise. I left South Africa in such a hurry I was almost entirely unprepared and hadn’t done my research. Very unlike me.

It looks old, and in need of an upgrade, grubby almost, and as if knowing it doesn’t make for the best first impression, Mr Kim says: “Center two very nice, it is new, this center is six years.” Despite its outdated look though, I can’t help but notice the televisions. They’re the central focus in each classroom. They’re huge, bigger than any I’ve seen in someone’s living room. I’m not entirely sure of their purpose but I’m impressed. Korean technology has not disappointed.

Mr Kim then asks if I have spoken to my family yet and I explain to him that I don’t have a laptop. That it is my intention to buy one here. He immediately offers to loan me the money, saying he’ll deduct it from my first full month’s wages. I gladly accept. He then shows me to the computer in the teacher’s room and tells me I should email my family. I happily oblige, desperate to get in touch.

We then go downstairs to meet Alex, whose waiting outside for us. I’m nervous but excited to finally have some flowing conversation, to be able to get the information and low down on what to expect. I’m also curious about the teacher I’m replacing, about who I’ll be spending the next few days with.

He’s waiting for us outside and I spot him immediately. He’s short but attractive, with an inviting grin. He looks American, the basketball playing kind, with an oversized jumper, baggy jeans, shaven head and that distinct swagger and shoulder dip as he walks. “I’m from LA,” he tells me as we wait for Maggie.

Maggie is one of the teachers at center one. She doesn’t take long to join us. Her big smile and happy attitude is infectious. I immediately relax because her chatty disposition makes for easy conversation. I notice how she’s also casually dressed. Her short hair is clipped right back out of her face, she is also wearing a big jumper and jeans. For the first time since I arrived in Korea, I feel overdressed. I’m wearing my black polar neck, black skinny jeans, my purple scarf that adds that all important touch of colour, and my styled black and white London coat. It’s a relief to know that I won’t have to compete with the Korean’s style, that as foreigners, we can be the exception.

Driving me mad

He’s a little late, my boss, I’m very aware of it as I anxiously wait for him. I have no idea what to expect and I’m about to get my first decent meal since I left South Africa. The banana I had hasn’t quite hit the spot after all the airline food I’ve eaten. I’m especially nervous about the food, I’ve heard varied opinions. Mostly that it’s spicy which I don’t mind, being my father’s daughter. It’s the kimtchi and the seafood that I’m wary of though.

I’ve decided to wait outside because I’m not sure if my boss will come upstairs to my motel room, so the cold is biting into me again and making me all the more aware of my watch. When he arrives I hastily get into the warmth of his car. “Oh, next time I will come up, you no need wait outside,” he tells me. Clearly he has no intention of being on time in future. As he drives off he tells me we will be meeting Alex for lunch. The teacher who I am to replace. I’m relieved, I find talking to my boss to be a strain, and not just because of the language barrier.

I’m very aware of how he’s driving, and utterly confused. If I thought crossing roads here seemed complicated, driving seems even more so. Like a true backseat driver I bite my tongue and tense up every time he turns a corner because I think we’re going the wrong way, because I don’t realise we have right of way, because to me, we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. He also seems to be going through red robots, I mean traffic lights, I must remember to say traffic lights, I think to myself. I assume there must be some traffic light exception that I don’t know about. That’s not the case though, after walking around the streets of Daejeon and taking taxi’s it’s not long before I realise that Korean drivers, day or night, go through red lights if there is no oncoming traffic.

Their driving frightens me a little, and everyone seems to have big, bulky cars. When I read a paragraph in the book, ‘Korea: A Walk Through the Land of Miracles’ by Simon Winchester, that refers to the Korean driving back in the 1980s I’m grateful for the little improvement there has been. I’m also pleased to know it’s not my road skills that make walking along Korean roads daunting.

“But my strong impression then on the road to Kwangju [Gwangju] – and it was an impression that didn’t alter very much en route - was that the Korean driver is a very dangerous animal indeed, a beast totally without understanding of speed, pathologically incapable of steering, utterly ignorant of the width of his vehicle, and eternally forgetful of such luxuries as the brakes and mirrors with which his car is invariably equipped. He knows only one device, and that is the horn, on which he seems to spend most of his time sitting if not standing.”

Now to South Africans this description doesn’t sound altogether unfamiliar, as a certain mode of public transportation springs to mind, so you should have a relatively good picture of Korean driving. It is no longer as bad as this paragraph depicts, there certainly are improvements and the cars don’t appear to have suffered many accidents as Winchester goes on to describe in his book.

It goes without saying, I arrived safely at my destination that day, and every day that week. It was not driving that became my growing concern, however, it was walking. Crossing roads without the guidance of the little green man seemed a grave risk. I was never sure which side the cars would be coming from and while the robots, I mean traffic lights, may have been red it certainly didn’t stop the cars. The little green men, however, rarely appear, and there’s no button to summon them. I become impatient as I wait, so I’ll attempt to cross but just as I do, a car careers around the corner. I step back in line, with the rest of the Koreans, waiting to obey the light, waiting for it to turn green, and when it does I rush across as it counts down the remaining time I have. I now know why we call them robots, the traffic lights that is.

Keopi please

Everything looks different in the harsh daylight. The buildings, signs and roads look dull and grimy. It doesn’t seem as attractive as it did the night before. Its spring but for me it’s as cold as winter, colder. Even my London coat doesn’t seem to keep out the chill, as I walk down the street. I decide to keep going straight, that way I can’t get lost, I don’t know the name of my motel, I don’t have a mobile and I can’t ask for directions, getting lost seems very plausible.

I feel like an intruder, there’s eyes on me from every angle, I feel like an outsider, like I don’t belong and it makes me nervous. I feel small bellow the towering buildings that line the street, it’s so unfamiliar to me, and disorientating. I’m desperate to find an internet café and am adamant there must be half a dozen, after all this is the online gaming capital of the world. I see nothing on the first floor of every building, its mostly convenient stores or restaurants. I’ve seen several bold signs displaying PC 방 on many of the buildings and I wonder if the PC refers to computers, but I can’t be sure and I’m too nervous to explore or ask strangers for any help. They were in fact internet cafes, 방 pronounced bang, means room, but I wasn’t to learn this for another couple of days.

After walking for a while I begin to give up hope of finding anything, and not wanting to be late for my boss, or get lost I decide to turn back. There was some instant coffee in a plastic tube back at the motel and as my boss had bought me milk, I figured all I needed was some sugar so decided to pop into one of the convenient stores. I could do with a cup of coffee by this point, the jet lag and early start was beginning to get to me. I pace the aisles but once again, bombarded by unfamiliar text and brands I can’t seem to find any. So I muster up all my courage and approach the man behind the counter.

“Sugar,” I say. I get a confused look and realise he has no idea what I want. I decide to try something else. “Coffee,” I say this time. He points me to the back of the shop where there’s a coffee machine. I’m impressed he knew the word and happy that I’ll be getting a caffeine fix, although it won’t be much of one judging by the size of the cups.

The Korean shop assistant had in fact no idea what I’d said in English though. The only reason he understood that I wanted coffee was because the Korean for coffee is 커피 pronounced keopi, and sounds almost identical, like coffee with a p instead of an f and he’s probably used to the poor pronunciation of foreigners.

I make it back to my motel no problem, walking straight meant it wasn’t hard to find. I have just over an hour left before my boss is expected to pick me up so I just relax on the bed, enjoying the cable television in my room. There’s a handful of English programmes to chose from and it makes me smile to hear the sound of a familiar language again.

Fearing the unknown

This time I help my boss carry my luggage as we take it up to my room in the motel. From the outside it doesn’t look like much, neither does the location but once inside my fears subside. It is a spacious en suite room with a huge bed. The bed is covered in a soft silver embroidered duvet cover and supported with a dark wooden headboard that matches the dresser.

We put my bags down in the corner and then my boss finally opens the plastic bag he’s been carrying around. “I thought you will want milk in morning,” he says as he takes out a bottle of milk decorated with cows. He also takes out a bunch of bananas and a box of chocolate brownies. It is my welcoming gift, slightly absurd to me, but I realise it’s a very sweet gesture and thank him.

He tells me he will fetch me “Maybe 11:30, so you can get much sleep.” We then begin our awkward goodbye’s and he reminds me I can now use internet to email my parents, then as an afterthought, as I’m about to shut the door behind him he says, “You must lock.” The paranoid South African in me suddenly becomes suspicious at the comment, after all why wouldn’t I lock the door behind me. I’m suddenly filled with fear, fuelled by the unknown. I know nothing about the country I’m in, the place I’ll be working at, or where I am going.

I want to let my family know where I am, that I’m safe in a motel, if anything just to reassure myself but it doesn’t take me long to discover that when Mr Kim said I could use the internet at the motel he meant the wifi, using a laptop I didn’t yet have. So I promise myself I will get up early to go in search for an internet café so my parents don’t panic.

Exhausted from the longest journey I decide to flop straight into bed and into the soft duvet covers. Flopping into bed proves impossible though, it is rock solid. To me the mattress, like the headboard, is made of wood, not springs or foam. I’m too tired to care though and happily stretch out my feet and assume my usual position, diagonally across the bed, corner to corner.

I’m suddenly awoken by noises, except I’m not sure if it’s real or if I’m dreaming. The noises sound close, loud, I get the feeling someone is trying to come in, like someone is banging down my door. I hide under the blankets frozen with fear.

Next I know I wake up again, it’s still pitch black in my motel room and I can’t believe it’s not morning yet, I feel for my watch in the dark but unable to see the time, I brave stepping out of the safety of the blankets to hit the lights. Its 7:30 am, I’ve only managed seven hours of restless sleep and somehow I feel wide awake. I’m still uneasy, unsure whether I was just dreaming, exaggerating the unfamiliar noises in the night or if someone was trying to get into my room.

I find the mobile phone I brought with me, it’s on its last legs, and doesn’t work in Korea at all, but is loaded with all my familiar contacts and still has the South African time on it. Looking at it comforts me as I think about what everyone back home is doing. Then wondering why the sun isn’t glaring through my windows yet, I go to take a peek outside. I discover the windows are shielded by wooden shutters. Now this I could get used to I think, as I slide them closed again shutting out all natural light. I then head for the shower, deciding there’s no sense in trying to get back to sleep.

Finding my voice

The bus comes to a halt and as I’ve been sleeping comfortably, for the first time since I left Johannesburg, I’m a little groggy and unsure whether this is the first or second stop. I’m supposed to get out at the second stop – Government Complex. I look out the window at the unfamiliar darkness and hope I didn’t sleep through it. I look around me but I’m a little nervous to ask the strangers for help, something that was soon going to have to change.

It’s late, after 11 pm and I’m pleased to have gotten a solid couple hours sleep, and nestle back into the comfort of the limousine bus as it pulls off again, trying not to worry about possibly having missed my stop. When we come to the second stop a couple minutes later I gather my things together but then hesitate. Before I get up I turn to look around me and spot the friendly face of a younger Korean girl, please speak English I think. I ask her, “Is this Government Complex.” She smiles and nods. I can’t tell whether she understood me or was just being polite. I jump off the bus anyway. Almost as soon as my feet land on the pavement I’m greeted with a huge grin. A middle aged small Korean man, small glasses perched on his nose, hair slightly balding. “You Nicole?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr Kim?” I respond.

I’m filled with a sense of relief, glad to see my boss isn’t at all intimidating and knowing that I’ve gotten off at the right stop. As I point out my luggage he goes to pick it up and I feel bad, letting this tiny little man carry my heavy belongings. “So little bags,” he says, adding, “Most foreign teacha come with many many bags.”

I’m a little surprised to hear this, knowing I’m a few kilograms over the limit, and knowing I usually over pack. I just nod and laugh. We climb into his spacious jeep, and begin driving. There’s little conversation, I’m tired and at this point I’m still my shy awkward twin. He tells me I am going to be staying in a hotel for the first week. That the foreign teacher I’m going to replace will be moving out of the apartment only the following Sunday.

Talking in circles, as I was beginning to realise most Koreans do when they’re speaking English, it was evident I needed to say more, that he expected more confidence from me. A key characteristic they look for in the teachers they hire. Most of his teachers have been Americans.

“You do not speak so fast, like other foreign teecha,” he says to me. At the time I assume it’s a compliment but I know better now, how a Korean boss, somehow foreshadows criticism with compliments, how he can make criticism sound like advice, or a suggestion. What he was really trying to say in that moment was that I didn’t speak enough, that I didn’t have enough to say. Sure enough I changed that.

Lekker lights

Next I had to book myself a bus ticket to Daejeon, I had relatively specific instructions on what to do but still a little unsure I sauntered over to the first information station I saw and was relieved to find someone who could speak a bit of English. She directed me to the bus ticketing counter, the way I would discover most Koreans give directions in English, with painful repetition, and slow description.

Swiping my visa card, loaded with dollars I paid the 21 000 won wondering how much I had just spent. I then headed over to the little convenient store, I was suffering from in flight dehydration and needed change to call my boss and let him know what time my bus would be arriving. I was confronted with products and symbols that meant nothing to me, I wanted juice or an ice tea but instead opted for what looked like it must be water. Stick to what I know I figured. I then phoned Mr Kim, using the payphones, slotting in as many coins as I had, hoping they would be enough.

My bus was scheduled to leave at ten past eight, and since I had a couple minutes I decided to make use of the free standing computers and let my parents know I was alive and had arrived safely. It all took a little longer than usual as I navigated my way around the Korean text, using the habitual routes I knew. Then once I’d found a way to convert the keyboard from Korean to English, I typed my email. By the time I was finished I had two minutes to make it to the bus, which I thought was just outside, the sliding doors behind me.

Looking at my ticket I read the platform number and begin walking toward it, it didn’t take me long to realise I wasn’t as close as I had assumed, so I begun to pick up the pace a little, until watching the giant digital clocks overhead click over, I started to break into a run, with two tog bags and a 50 litre backpack. I was almost there but needed to be on the other side of the road, so determined not to miss my bus I crossed the road right there. This was the first time I almost got run over in Korea. Because as far as I’m concerned they drive on the wrong side of the road over here.

After causing many Koreans a heart attack I made it to my bus just in time, the driver had to get out and open the luggage compartment just for me. I was exhausted but as soon as I got on that bus and saw how luxurious it was I knew why they called it a limousine. I flopped into the lone, soft leather seat and pressed the first metal button. A foot rest popped up, I pressed the second metal button and my seat went back. It went back so far I was almost lying down completely.

The bus immediately pulled off and at first I was taken in by the television screen displaying some Korean movie. Soon though, my eyes were drawn to the view outside my window. Lights, everywhere. Big, bright, colourful, flashing lights lining the length of high rise after high rise. “Look at all the lekker lights,” my grandfather would have said. I smile with a burning excitement and remind myself I’m somewhere in Asia, a million miles away from home.

Sifting through my past

I passed through passport control with ease. No queues, only Korean efficiency. As I came through customs, though, I was targeted by security. They could read the fear on my face because as I came off that flight and took my first steps in Korea I was carrying the full weight of my decision with me. I had jumped into this so fast I barely had time to accept what I was doing, where I was going and how truly different it would be. I was just desperate for different.

So my baggage was put through an x-ray before being dissected with gloved hand yet again. My luggage had been sealed shut with not only zip ties but plastic wrap, the kind only South African airports seem to have available for travelers. It became obvious early on that the awkward Korean security official designated to search through my bags, spoke very little English. Using a box cutter he battled his way through my security measures. As he finally unzipped and unclipped my bags he begun to remove and examine everything I’d chosen to take along with me from my past. I soon began to feel guilty and worried. So I pointlessly explained everything in his hand.

“It’s an antihistamine, for my allergies, I sneeze a lot,” I say as he opens up every box of my four month supply and pulls out the foil casing to examine it. “Oh those are vitamins, so I don’t get sick, I use a lot of vitamins. Do you have vitamins in Korea?” I ask. No response, I suddenly feel a little awkward. He then goes for my four month supply of birth control pills. “I take those so I don’t get pregnant, so I don’t have a baby.” As the words come out of my mouth I instantly regret them, I’m feeling even more awkward now. I should have just said they were birth control pills I think to myself, at least he wouldn’t have understood that. I resolve to keep my mouth shut from this point. Next up he pulls out my supply of tampons. I’ve brought a lot with me, apparently you can’t get them out here. He opens up one of the boxes, pulls out a tampon and curiously stares at it before placing it back in the box and setting it aside, so as to search through the other boxes I’ve brought.

So it continues, I stand there for an hour. Eventually he’s pulled everything apart and satisfied I’m not smuggling drugs or weapons. His curiosity gets the better of him and as he replaces everything, he can’t resist, and asks me about the tampons. “What these?” he says, in his basic English as he waves a tampon around in the air. I’m laughing to myself now, it’s my turn to make him awkward. “For ladies,” I explain. “We use, once a month,” I continue before he blushes and says, “Oh sorry.” Needless to say I was on my merry way shortly after that.

Arriving in darkness

Korea Air was my first taste of Korea, literally. The airhostesses wore a pastel coloured uniform, their khaki, white and teal was in stark contrast to the navy blue of the SAA staff. Most wore some shade of pale pink on their nails. I became very aware of my bright red nails as I slid them under the food tray. Their skin was smooth and paler than I expected, not a strand of their silky hair was misplaced, tucked behind a stiff ribbon-shaped teal hairpiece.



I unashamedly stared at the people around me as the airhostesses came around with the food. I strained my ears to hear what was on offer. I couldn’t tell, too many loud clubs meant my hearing wasn’t capable of deciphering their soft spoken voices, or was it that they weren’t speaking a language I recognised. As the two Koreans seated next to me received their food I peered over at the choices. Airline meal number three and I was already queasy, I needed to know whether this was worth stomaching.

I watched as the one begun putting food from various containers into the empty bowl in front of her before squeezing a bright red sauce out of a tube and mixing it all together. The other meal looked more like something I’d recognise, rice and what looked like it was probably, hopefully chicken. The, by now all too familiar, sound of the trolley coming my way drew my attention to the airhostess on my right hand side. Chicken and rice or *insert strange sounds here*. No hesitation, chicken and rice I say. She gives me a, how unsurprising, look as she hands over the food, smiles and nods her head.

I tuck in, not too bad, better than SAA actually but still I need to get a real meal, something that hasn’t been prepared at 40 000 feet. The food is soon cleared away, and then comes a nice surprise, strawberry Haagen Dazs. I haven’t had that since I lived in the UK. What I didn’t know then was that Koreans love ice-cream. It’s everywhere over here. In fact if it’s sweet it’s on the shelves, it’s the salty snacks that are hard to come by. I’m yet to find salt and vinegar crisps.

It’s dark outside, nighttime in Korea. I can’t see my surroundings as we come in to land. Not like when we arrived in Hong Kong. The plane came in on an airstrip that jutted out into the ocean, you couldn’t see the ground and it felt as though we were landing on the water. As the plane turned toward its designated location the beautiful backdrop of mountains came into sight and I became filled with the excitement of my new surroundings, my new adventure. This time my arrival was shrouded in mystery.

Stepping Outside of South Africa

When I stepped off the SAA flight in Hong Kong, I stepped out of a world I knew and recognised. I was changing airlines so, would have to pick up my baggage but I had no idea where I was going. I followed the english signs that said exit assuming they'd eventually lead me to the baggage reclaim. After what felt like at least 2kms of walking I got to where I needed to be. I had no idea what the time was but knew I only had two hours between flights which didn't give me much time to check my stuff in.

Heavy luggage in tow I found my way to the departures check in. My flight was booked with Cathay Pacific, so I look out for their symbol and find my way to an open check in point. I promptly get redirected, apparently I'm not in business class. No surprise there. Then when I get to what I think is the correct check in aisle I'm turned away agian. Turns out I'm not booked with Cathay Pacific but with Korean Air, my flight booking was changed. I sift through the wads of printed paper I have and find my most recent flight print out. Ah my mistake. “Where is Korean Air?” I ask. Aisle G I'm told.

I walk to the end and get in line. I’m a little over weight and I’m worried she’ll charge me extra, I don’t want to have to dig into my dollars. I’ve got the heavy stuff in my handbag though, the big bottle of bodywash, shampoo and conditioner. Necessary beauty comforts. Who knows what they use in Korea. No problem my stuff makes it thorugh.

I on the other hand don’t. As my hand luggage goes through the x-ray point, they pull it aside and search through it with gloved hands. I feel like a criminal. “Can not take,” the security guard says in her basic english as she waves my bottled beauty products in my face. “Why?” I ask. Beginning to panic at the thought of having to abandon them. The giant half a litre body wash is hypo allergenic and I have very sensitive skin. I protest to myself. I’m going to need that to come with me.

“100ml maximum,” she says as she points to the 500ml measurement on the bottle. New flight regulations, thanks to terrorists. The South African airport security hadn’t seemed too bothered though. Typical, World Cup soccer security is clearly up to scratch I think.

“Can I check it in? I have to take it with me,” I explain to her.

She repacks all my things, keeping my liquids aside and escorts me out the back exit, and I find my way back to the Korean Air check in and the woman who had helped me. I explain my predicament and she goes off while I stand there for a while wondering what she’s going to do. She returns with a box and some duct tape. My stuff is sent on its way. What a relief I’ll have my non-allergenic body wash because God knows what I’m getting myself into.