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.