Connections

I awaken to another overcast day, which is A-Number One-Terrific by me. Much of Korea has a temperate climate, but we're a short ferry ride from Jeju-Do, which is a sub-tropical island, and there seem to be mere degrees, both geographical and climatological between the two regions. Heck, we even have palm trees here. The locals don't care for the gray skies, but I quite like it, for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, it's cooler. But secondly, it creates excellent conditions for photography; the foliage shows exceptionally well.


I stretch, nod to Mudeung-san, and think back to 1993. I was on a ferry with my niece, Tonya, who was teaching in Hiroshima-cho, just outside Sapporo, Japan. Gesturing across the waters, she said, "That's Korea." And this is where I stand today. Never for a moment did I think that one day I'd set foot on that distant soil.


Rob is, uncharacteristically, sleeping in. Tiptoeing around, trying to quietly whip up a protein drink, I can now sympathize with his predicament most days, as I am usually later to rise than he. I drink the liquid and eat the lumps of congealed powder as I crack open the computer. I must confess, this meal isn't as vile as it sounds. I quite like the President's Choice vegetarian soy protein powder, even though most seem to think it chalky and bland. The lumps harken back to a youth in which I begged my mother to make lumpy, slightly burned oatmeal. Texture is everything, and daddy always said that with my penchant for grains and chewing I'd have made a good horse, presumably of the work/Clydesdale variety.


Before I can settle into checking email, my Teutonic tendencies kick in, and I decide to establish some much needed order. In organizing our workspace, I note that Nerdy Nerdnick (aka Husband) has already created flash cards to aid us in the acquisition of the Korean language.


When Rob arises, I prepare a frittata, a sort of modified bibimbap (except I cook the egg), and the very moment we sit down to eat, the door bell rings. It's Ryan, the program assistant. He's come to deliver converters for our small appliances. Though it's 9:45 a.m. on Sunday, he's already been working for hours.


As usual, Ryan looks effortlessly stylish with his tennis shoes, jeans, and sculpted bed head. We, on the other hand, simply look dishevelled, and our bed head is unintentional and not quite so fashionable. I quickly snatch the steaming plates of food off the table and stow them in the kitchen. It's the second time I've had to take such action since being here in order to save our guests embarassment. This is a culture in which everyone tries to ensure the other can save face.


After deducing and then rectifying potential computer problems, Ryan consents to having a cup of coffee with us. This is not the norm, for he is considered of lesser status in this country. We, as teachers, are his superiors, and he must defer to us. We tell him we understand this is the case, but let him know that we personally do not stand on ceremony and would be very happy to simply visit with him.


Ryan and his family are very well acquainted with the power differential in Korean society. His family line can be traced back to China with whom Korea had a "king-servant" relationship many years ago. Like many families, his has sought to ensure future generations have it better than they did. As a result, in the age old Confucian tradition of "self cultivation," education, for its own sake, is a number one goal. But Ryan says, this is more about the dreams of the parents, and not necessarily the children, who often study "without goals." Clearly, this is a nation under pressure to progress.


Ryan says the rigid social strictures are difficult for young people like him who prefer a more freestyle approach. They have no intense desire to fit in or mold themselves to attain someone else's goals. This sea change in thinking can, not surprisingly, be traced to the rapid expansion of the Internet. In a country with two million commercial PC (computer) rooms, with 100 thousand in Gwangju alone, it's not a surprise that Ryan's is a generation in which a global village is more than a notion. In his words, this is why the ancient social system "is collapsing." He says youngsters now have a "window," a chance to "find their voices" and "express themselves."


For those who think the Internet is simply a place where kids go to play games, Ryan puts this misconception to rest saying, "teenagers are now interested in politics." When he was that age, Ryan says politics were not "in my {his}dictionary." The very fact that Ryan understands an English idiom like "in my dictionary" speaks to the impact of globalization. His command of the English language is better than that of many of my students born and bred in Canada.


Now the downside of progress, or, if you will, success, is that you can't keep the educated down on the farm. To wit, Ryan's 30 year old sister is married to a Korean-American and is living in New York, and his 27 year old sister is studying law in Seoul. It is an accomplished family, but one in which members only see each other every five years or so. Ryan says his father is having tremendous difficulty dealing with the distance, especially since the only thing that really matters to him is family. So, it's a classic Catch 22. He encouraged and nurtured his children, and made many sacrifices for their success. Now he's paying for it. It's the curse of having dreams come true.

Rob and I cast sidelong glances at one another upon hearing of Ryan's father's predicament. We explain to Ryan that his father is not alone. On the other side of the globe, Rob has faced similar challenges, and can fully understand the heartache his Korean counterpart is going through.

As he's readying himself to leave for his next appointment, we tell Ryan how much we appreciate all his help. We explain that beyond assisting us with technical matters, he's given us a great deal of important cultural information during our informal chats. We call him kyosu, or professor, and he blushes, saying that he is humbled by this title. But we speak the truth, for beyond language and customs, it's the little things, the tiny interpersonal exchanges, that link humanity.

In the afternoon, Husband and I head over to Sang-dae, which translates as "neighbourhood outside the back gate." In Korea, one navigates by neighbourhoods, rather that streets. The narrow sidestreets aren't even marked - people simply point to landmarks. Needless to say, maps are vague. I understand this Korean method for getting around, because that's exactly how I drive back home. Figuring out how to get from Point A to Point B becomes even more complex once one realizes that asking for instructions is pointless. If someone isn't sure how to direct the person asking the question, he or she makes something up in an effort to save face.

During our walk we encounter three little Korean boys about 9 or 10 years of age. One boldly approaches us and begins to speak fluent English. The precocious lad asks us where we're from and when we reply Canada, and says, "That's good!" I ask if I can take a picture of the trio of urchins, and they are more than happy to oblige, mugging for the camera.

We pop into a little shop where we order bibimbap and japchae, and we end up with only bibimbap, minus the egg or meat. To be fair, the woman did rather empathically try to offer us the upgrade, but we couldn't understand. What we had was scrumptuous! The variety of kimchi and pickled radish is truly amazing, so though one might think having the same dish day after day a drag, it is never the same from place to place. Again, I can't help but think how people who move to Canada must be bored out of their minds when confronted with our with our bland, colourless, standard fare.

Though parched, I fight the urge to drink the restaurant's tap water. I've already had tap water elsewhere, without incident, but I don't want to push my luck. We've been warned that there's agricultural runoff in the local water, so who knows what Monsanto monsters lurk within. We'll have to remember to bring along our UV filter when we're on the move. Ingesting liquids is a bit more complicated here than at home. For example, they don't do decaffienated coffee here. After a futile search, I cave in and visit the dreaded Starbucks, and even they come up short. I eventually unearth a box of instant packets at a convenience store, where this rare commodity costs 2 1/2 times that of regular. (Point of interest: Forget trying to be virtuous: The pictures on the boxes feature black coffee, but like the regular stuff, it 's loaded with creamer and sugar.)

In the evening we swing by the Gwangju World Music Concert, and it's truly world class. We hear three shows that include traditional Korean, traditional-modern fusion, and a percussion group that sounds remarkably like a Canadian Cree or Ojibwe drummers. The show ends with a flashy performance involving dancers that move like whirling dervishes across the stage. Some wear elaborate hats that look like gigantic cotton balls. Others wear hats from which stiff coils with big flowers or long ribbons schtoing out, and bounce around. They swing their heads, and their accessories take on a life of their own. For the encore, the troupe invites audience members on stage. Old and young, able-bodied and infirm, people throw caution to the wind as they dance and laugh.

Thinking that it might be considered rude to take pictures during a performance, I've left my camera at home. Others are merrily clicking away. Then I realize that I don't really need a camera to record what I'm seeing because I'm never going to forget it.