Well, I am home and finally settled from the two weeks in Korea. It was an amazing experience. Overall, Korea is a place of hidden gems. There is a sense of “manufactured” environment in many of the parks and reserves. But in all that, it’s still something to be experienced. It has a sense of human manipulation that I haven’t seen anywhere else. It’s like they had a picture of what the environment was supposed to look like. And instead of simply leaving nature to its course, they “made” it look permanently to their scale of how it should stay.
And it’s things like that which make Korea unique. Of course there are beautiful places that have been left to the elements and have weathered into wonderful view-scapes of hillside and country. And there are plenty of peaks to climb and villages to see. But I think if you’ve ever been in a place where you look at something and your eyes don’t immediately register the information in your brain and you eventually figure out that it’s just an obscure scene; that’s what Korea is. The customs and traditional life that takes place here, even with pop culture and fashion trickling in from all sides, are the stranger of the two things that your brain thinks your eyes are creating an images of. You just know that what you’re seeing in Korea could quite possibly be normal. But upon further investigation, they’re simply not. They are the refined items that Korea has created over the years. And there they sit; seemingly normal but profoundly off-centered.
As my time passed traveling throughout the Korean Peninsula, I was reminded of the joys of traveling to these new and fascinating places. I was gifted with the insights of a new way of thinking. I achieved experiential knowledge and the lessons it uses at imparting that knowledge. And I had a peak into a new world with new rules. It was truly something that I won’t forget. Soon, I will be headed for Hong Kong; a city straddling the Bay of Victoria and bursting with lights and sounds of a busy metropolis. I hope to come back with great photos of architecture, nightlife and of course, the people who make it all run. It will be my forth time passing through, but this time I plan on putting in some time and visiting as much of it as I can.
Until then, I hope that you have all enjoyed this latest entry into my blog of travel and research from around the globe. And I hope to have you back with me soon.
Be sure to go to my website, cyleodonnell.com, for the best and newest photography from these and other travels and for my latest books available through the site. I hope to have at least two more published in the next six months. So keep an eye out!
So it’s my last night here in Korea. I decided to leave Jeju and come to Incheon where, I once thought, the city’s Chinatown held new opportunities for some great market photographs or architecture. I was, I guess, hoping for some Chinese temples where I could snap a few shots of the animals cresting their eves or a dragon greeting me at the entrance. Maybe I was expecting lots of commotion as bustling streets flowed with people moving goods and foodstuffs around with a sense of navigation that westerners can only stand back and gawk at. Or perhaps I was hoping for some food that swelled with the heat that comes off it, food that you don’t have to crack open or cook yourself.
Alas, there was nothing. Or perhaps I should say, there was nothing worth taking photos of. Drab and somber, the entire area looked more like it was the outskirts of something much more interesting. Its grimy streets and heavy overcast gave it a feel of old timey poverty just before a dustbowl was set to come in and put to rest any fleeting images of holding on to the last few drumbeats of an economic heartbeat. It seemed like this was the place that was bashed with North Korean gunfire back in 2010. But even that place was not far from here. Only about 30 kilometers or so.
At any rate, I followed what I thought were Lonely Planet’s directions for a motel near the subway that I would take in the morning to get to the airport. But after walking way too far with all my gear, I finally just used my visual knowledge of reading Korean signage and found a motel across the street from a pizza joint and down the block from a subway entrance and called it a night. These two landmarks represented what my will had been ground down to; food and the quickest way to exit this country. I’m certainly not regretting my time here. It just seems like, now that the end is right around the corner, I may as well get it over with.
Anyway, apparently in my learning of Korean advertisements, I could read enough to know that the sign said “motel.” But clearly I hadn’t learned what the text for “love” was. When I checked in, I thought that it was odd that they owners didn’t give me a key to my room. They also kept asking me in Korean if it was going to be just me in the room. I kept saying that I, alone, was going to be sleeping and needed a key to protect my valuables. But they were simply not happy with my response.
Before I go on, I think it would be better if I explained just what a “love motel” and its purpose is. Now, normally one would simply think, ‘Oh, well it’s obviously a cathouse and there’s nothing more to think about it.’ But, like most other things here in Asia, it has a deeper meaning and purpose. And, make no mistake, its meaning and purpose follow lines to a source that hold no bearing on whether or not the western world would approve or even understand that logic.
A love motel can be rented by the night or by the hour. A man can get a room alone, wake up with a woman and never feel shame from the owners as he’s checking out. The owners of these establishments generally offer a woman to single men checking in and can suggest a man for the single ladies. A love motel is a place most often occupied by actual couples. But it can also be used as a discrete meeting place for strangers.
In America, it undoubtedly seems a little strange that a couple would check into a hotel for one night – or even a few hours. It might also come off as odd that the owners might have some say in the eventuality in the population of each room’s occupancy. It may also come as a huge shock that these motels have resident “lovers” who, from birth, have lived there to pay off their parent’s debt as sex slaves. But then again, there are many things that Americans will never understand about what goes on in this strange corner of the world.
As the tradition goes in most parts of Asia, it is expected that the children, once married, move into the house of the husband’s parents. It’s also expected that the wife becomes, for lack of a more polite description, a slave to the parents – fulfilling chores, errands and other demands. Keeping in good with a family that demands strict adherence to a very conservative lifestyle, then, becomes an everyday challenge. Sex, therefore, is a bit of an uncomfortable item which brings a lot of stress to the already difficult nature of a new marriage.
Love motels sprang up out of the resulting need for privacy in these new relationships in the turning of the world’s traditional ways. These motels were first used as places for dating couples to spend anything from a few days of relaxation to just a quick visit between their busy lives. From there, of course, the Asian culture of why-can’t-we-have-everything-we-want came into play and they started to gain popularity for other types of visits. And as for the lifetime resident lovers; well, that was a tradition long preceding the invention of the love motel.
For thousands of years the ideals of Buddhism played into the perpetual cycle of reincarnation and parents thought once their daughters were born when they were expecting a boy, it was their karma giving them the requirement of payment for their ills in previous lives. So giving up their daughters as payment for this karma was the right thing to do. Their daughters, in turn, were taught their life of sexual servitude was them paying off their karma as well – otherwise, why would they have been born as the payment of their parent’s karma?
It makes a lot more sense once you have been living in Asia for a while and can understand the mentality of all the intricacies of what goes along with the absolute and unquestioning belief in rebirth.
So there I was, being probed by the owners of this motel and the lady starts moving her hands through her hair. I had no idea what this meant until some time later. But once she was satisfied – though not very pleased – knowing that I would be staying one night, alone and not be in need of anything “else” from them, she came up with her price and charged me for the room.
Once checked in, I dug out some cash and went across the street to the pizza place for edible, non-seafood that I didn’t have to break the shells off of or barbecue myself. On the way, though, I kept wondering what the lady meant when she was combing her hands through her hair. And it eventually came to me. She was asking me if I wanted a woman for the night. Then all the other mannerisms came into understanding as well.
The couple were upset that I didn’t want a woman because they could charge me more for the room. They were displeased that I would only make them money on the room when, ultimately, this was not the kind of place where they only charge for the room. This also explained the delay in coming up with a price for the room – essentially an overcharge. And they didn’t give me a key because they wanted me to ask them for the key every time I wanted to enter the room because they didn’t want me hiring a woman from the street or from the little paper advertisements I would see taped up to the underside of steps throughout the alleyways all over the city. That was the competition. And for these elderly, Asian pimps, that’s just not the kind of place they run.
Since having been back in Taiwan, I have done more research into this and have talked to natives who indicate the benefit of short-term motels is much greater than having to put up with the prying eyes and ears of older, more traditional parents who would just as soon have their daughter-in-laws doing back-breaking work than to spend their nights corrupting their respectable son’s sensibilities. They also confirmed that the majority of the love motel’s use was limited to these situations rather than for the sex-shops they’d more easily become reputed as being.
Nevertheless, my last night in Korea did little more to put me at ease but ultimately summed up all my experiences in that amazing country. No matter where you go in Korea, you’re sure to find yourself in one inextricably unique situation after another as you navigate the intricate web of peculiarities of everything from traditional Hanok Villages kept in the old ways complete with dances to entice the soil’s richness, to parks dedicated to phallic splendor.
Stay tuned for my last blog on my Korea trip and a toast for things to come.
If it’s not the broken foot that made this trip great, it was certainly the motorbike that broke it. This trip was just what I needed after a night of gloom and a hangover that threatened to chew its way right out of my abdomen like some alien movie. But all things considered, that would have probably been an experience all in itself. And therefore, I’d probably embrace it as I have the rest of the oddities along this long, winding road carved into the limestone bedrock of the Korean Peninsula.
The day started off great. I was up at 6am to hop a bus to the south of the island where I would take part in one or more of several key items listed on Lonely Planet’s inventory of must-see’s abound. They ranged in definition from slightly dangerous to downright taboo. And I was navigating my morning in the wake of a fresh detox. So what I saw was a recipe for fun and ordered up a heaping helping of misadventure with a side order of senselessness.
Unfortunately, one hour into my ride I found out that I was not on the right bus. But that was only a minor setback because I had plotted points all over the map that I wanted to see and there were a couple in that direction as well.
Once off the bus, I snapped a couple pictures of the volcanic tuffs in the horizon. Then I went on what turned out to be an early morning 5k walk and found out the hard way that this stretched out town along the sea was no place for a sweaty westerner with an expectation for seeing all there was to see in just one day. It just wasn’t going to happen in the time I had if I had to walk it all the way.
I eventually came across this little shop run by an older couple. The husband had a cap that I hired as the mule that would save me from walking another 10 kilometers into town. But whether I was walking or in a whatever I employed to speed up my sweaty trek, the Korean oddities just kept coming. All along the roadway there were things that just looked normal being in Korea, but so abnormal had they been in any other place.
On the other hand, the people that have added so much flavor to the preceding moments of this trip were out in full flavor as well. I snapped a shot of this shipbuilder grinding down the last of his nicks and burrs off the anchor he’d been repairing. And the closer that I came to the capital city of the south of the island, Seogwipo, the more interesting the buildings looked and the more flavorful the people.
Once in town, I headed straight for the oceanfront. It was very quiet all around, but I made my way to the pier and could tell that it was going to be a nice, bright day with lots of opportunities for great shots.
Looking directly across the inlet, I could see what looked like a huge park with inlets hidden by the large, vertical pillars building up the volcanic rock wall. I’d find out later that there were plenty of great little hikes, waterfalls and seaside resting areas to check out along the way.
What I expected to find was these amazing geological oddities. But along with finding them, I also found some other amazing things in the area.
Columnar basalt rock comes from areas of high submarine volcanic eruptions. Once the magma opens up on the sea floor, it quickly hardens, creating conditions where jointed columns of volcanic flows can be forced up over the seabed and given a longer time to cool and, under pressure, make large, polygonal pilasters. The areas where millions of these pillars (and other basalt formations) have been pushed up through the ocean floor to the surface are called “tuffs.” They are also known as pyroclastic rock formations. But whatever they were called, I was on my way to see the most awesome tuff I of all. Well, besides the fact that it was a famous one, it was technically going to be the only one I have ever seen. But I was no less excited to do so.
But before getting there, I knew I had to rent a motorbike to see all that this spread out expanse of land had to offer. So, on the way, I found a a place to grab a bite and sat on the steps inside to fuel up before I kept on. While I was sitting there, though, I noticed and interesting sign.
Now, I have seen a lot of strange translations on signs throughout Asia. And most of the time, I wonder how this translation got all the way through the design phase, through production, printing, constructing and finally even being posted without someone actually reading it and wondering if there might be a better translation out there somewhere. In fact, I often wonder if anyone actually even asked a white person how this phrase was supposed to be worded before putting up a ridiculous sign that means something much more comical than the author had intended. But this one definitely perplexed me. It was a sign on a trash bin. And, well I will just let you see if you can try and figure out what the hell they were trying to tell you what to put in there other than your dog.
Walking along the coast was great. I really liked the gardens and the way they were kept. It was cool to see so much use of the volcanic rock that was so readily available. And the things they crafted with it include everything from fences and sculptures to stepping stones and even curbs and sidewalks.
Moving onward, I could see that I was nearing a large waterfall that I had known would be around there somewhere. It was cool. Just a quick hike down and I was at its base. It was very tall — 20 meters or so. And I could see that during seasons of high rainfall, this could really be a very active one.
After that I made my way back up the hill and into town where I rented a motorbike and set off westward to circle the eastern roadways and head back to eventually make it back to the hotel on the other side of the island. It was a long, comfortable ride punctuated with wonderful seascapes and vistas of people, animals and object of a very diverse nature in their own world. It was something I won’t soon forget.
But another thing I won’t soon forget is the crash that snapped my left foot completely backward and left me limping for days as my blue-black ankle swelled to near bursting before the trip even started. I wish that I could say that I wrecked to save some poor child who’d run into the road after is bouncy play thing had found him careening into my path and it was either him or me. I wish I could say that the bike malfunctioned and the brakes went out, sending me barreling into the curb at an uncontrollable speed and I dove from the bike having known what to do in an instant’s notice and rolled to safety. Hell, I wish I could say anything but the truth. Which is that I turned to look at some random noise that happened behind me and when I turned back around, I was half-a-second away from plowing into the curb. But I must admit the truth. And when I hit the curb for lack of operable ability to manipulate the handlebars with cat-like calculation, I was sent over the handle bars and then the bike came over top of me.
It was completely embarrassing. But what’s worse is that I scuffed up my favorite pair of shoes. They remind me of Indiana Jones. They’ve been with me for the last seven years of travel. They’re so comfortable. And they’ve even been resoled to keep me from having to try fruitlessly to find a size-12 in Asia to replace them. They’re great. And the best part is that I bought them for $10 at a thrift shop in Mercer Island, outside Seattle, Washington. I will be oiling the hell out of them to try and save them. But I am not holding out too much hope. Time will tell.
Making my way to the tuff it was so awesome when I finally breached the last turn before seeing it tower high above the mainland below. I had no idea that it was that big or amazing. It was really something impressive. Hiking up its western side, there’s only one way that you can view it. But it was enough to be impressed. The surrounding area from the top is really interesting, too. It’s sea-chiseled bluffs and land jetties were quite random and beautiful from way up there. Here are a few photos of the climb and the surrounding area.
You can click on them to enlarge the photo just like in the galleries.
Well, this could be a very long journal if I detail every single experience that I had while pulling over to all the awesome places that I saw along the way back around the coast. But I think I will just add in a gallery and hope that the photos will fill in the blanks. It was an awesome trip and I was so happy that I got to do it — injuries and all.
Remember, click to enlarge!
Okay, there’s one more blog on the way and I will be home from Korea.
Okay, so this morning, I didn’t think I was going to make it to the airport on time. In fact, I don’t think I actually did make it on time.
For starters, I thought that my flight was at 9:30. And when I woke up at 9:15, I almost lost my breath. I can’t believe that I had slept through my alarm. But partying until 3am sometimes has that effect. At any rate, I threw my clothes on, packed my bags and ran out to catch the bus to the airport. It was quick and efficient, but expensive as far as buses go in Korea.
A half-hour later, I was sifting through people at the small but crowded airport when I realized I didn’t know what airline I was taking. Luckily, in the domestic gates, there were only two airlines. So I have a 50/50 chance of getting it on the first shot. Korea Airways and Asiana were my choices. And since the Korea counter was closest, I headed over and checked in. They found my flight was actually booked for 10:30.
It was 10:15 when I arrived, so I had just enough time to grab a sandwich and a water from the shop and run to the gate for probably the easiest time at an airport in recent memory. It was a breeze. It was like the held on to the flight for me, didn’t give me any crap for carrying on my umbrella and then gave me a snack break in order to get some breakfast down.
Once on the ground, I was able to make my way to a beachfront hotel and check in. I spent the rest of the day editing photos, so I didn’t get to see much. But I can say that the first thing you start to see everywhere on this island are these interesting little statues. They really are everywhere. People put them in their gardens, they’re on fence posts, overlooking bridges and building entryways — everywhere!
They come in all sorts of sizes and are mostly made from the volcanic rock that’s found all over the island. But they are also seen in wood and other substances. Mostly they just have this stoic look on their faces. But every once in a while you’ll see one smiling or made to look more like some animal or something.
There are so many of them that it started to feel like I was on Ester Island — but still in a city.
There are a lot of interesting things about Jeju Island. Firstly, it’s the only autonomous province in Korea. It’s Korea’s largest island. It sits in the Korea Strait. It has the larges flowing lava tube in the world. And it’s got tons of amazing geological formations. There’s everything from waterfalls and lava tuffs to columnar lava pilings and hot springs.
It can be visited in just a couple days. But to see all that it has to offer, it’s best to spend a week here.
Now, I have to say that the people have been getting more and more abrupt the further south I have traveled in Korea. In fact in Busan people were practically yelling at one another, and the most I could gather, beyond the fact that they were not really angry with each other, was that they were simply a rougher breed than their northerly cousins. But here in Jeju they are basically all out at each other. They really enjoy screaming into the phone and generally being as hostile as they can possibly be.
Much of the gloom can be pretty well seen in the representative water park in town. Once you come to the main stretch just past the bus stop, you come to this “T” junction — another main artery through this part of town — and as you peer through the rusted out gates, you can see this disheveled park in its ramshackle state with upturned metal shards on the platforms where rust has withered its once-sound support system underfoot. It’s frightening to look at. But what’s worse is that it’s still functional — and I am assuming that term is used loosely — during the warmer months. It’s frightening because kids play there, young adults congregate there; and all the while, the holes in the walkway threaten to break knees and remove toes as people break through them. It’s a mystery that in a developed country, this place passes inspection.
So, after my day of temples, bugs and journalists, I have compiled a nice gallery to go along with Journal 35 (part 1) and it follows.
For the rest of the night, I pattered around the beach closest to the hostel and noticed some nice sights around the area.
The buildings that surround the little bay that makes up the area’s beach are lit up in dazzling colors. It’s great for the views, but they also bring out a lot of other interesting things as well. Firstly, the musicians and painters like to flock around lighted sculptures shaped like huge elk from Montana and oversized pottery that looms over the fishing blocks.
The artists might be expected. But things that were a little abnormal were, for instance, the reiki master who scans his clients’ bodies for illnesses and ailments and then gives the customer a reading of how to fix these problems. That guy was probably the last one I would expect to see there.
But I kept going and tried to cover as much of the area as I could because I knew that the next day, I’d be on a flight to Jeju Island — a place teeming with crazy and cool things to do like see the sex sculptures on the west side; or go to one of the myriad golf ranges on the island; or do bumper cars, ride go-carts or go horse riding — available all under one roof — in the south; or ride a motorbike around the outside of the island. But tonight it was all about the beachfront bars and lights.
I spent a good deal of the night walking around the beach. But then I went into what looked like this nice place overlooking the water to have a couple games of darts and go home. But I would up getting invited to a club called “Billie Jean’s” in another part of town. It was all that it sounds like it is: music from the 80’s and Asians who love to dance to it.
So that was my night. I rushed home at 3am to hopefully get enough sleep to make it to the airport in time to make my 9:30am flight to Jeju. But, knowing how time works here in the southern part of Korea, I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be too much of a problem.
Soon it would be fun in the sun and checking out all that Korea’s most prized tourist island has to offer. I just hope that it’s not too sunny out. I haven’t been reacting too well to the sunburns that I have gotten so far. And if it’s anything like the sun in most tropical islands I have gone to in this part of the world, I am in for a few nights of jamming on the bed, oiled to the gills in aloe and watching all my episodes of “Raising Hope” that I got just before I left for this trip.
But here’s hoping that I will make it for three last days in style.
I know that these photos speak to the amazing work that went into these temples. But, again, I can’t say that they come close to being in this majestic place. I tried to get the photographic proof of this, but I am not sure that it’s evident in the photos. So I will just tell you that each of the different colors here were brush-stroked on. That means that there were no screen printing, no spraying, no machine or stenciling that has put all this work together. Each painting on the flat surfaces were hand painted by experts in the history of the region. Each of the beams in the staggering eves were painted with near-perfect calculation. And the pilings, supports and ceiling buttresses were all detailed after the construction of these amazing buildings were erected. That means that someone hung, sweating and uncomfortable for countless hours unfettered until each image was suitable and every nook of this microcosm of angles and planes was filled with dutiful skill and creativity.
To try and put it into words, the scale of this temple setting was simply baffling. It was not a remarkable opus of woodworking like many of the other palaces/temples I have seen. But it was, far and away, the most exacting conglomeration of composition and detail-in-design masterpiece that I have ever seen. No question about it. It was quite an unexpected treat to add to my repertoire.
Tomorrow it’s off to visit a Penis Park and check out the snowboarding scene at the local ski resort one city south of here along the eastern seaboard of SOUTH KOREA!!
Just flying into Korea in the daytime is amazing. You begin to feel, by the sight of all the mountainous formations jutting up from the carpet of green farms and fields, that you’re about to enter into a Japan-esque countryside where people weave bamboo threaded clothes and there are serene waterfalls around every turn. And while I have yet to see them, I’ve only seen a small part of Seoul. And even at that, I spent most of this time navigating the maze of allyways and streetside nooks trying to find my hotel.
Intricate Web That is the KTX
The first stop was Incheon, where the plane landed. Then I boarded a bus that would take me into Seoul. The last light from the sun was burning the same side of all the buildings in the distant city into a dramatic yellow hue. The expectations that I had for the city streets was not quite met, though, as I almost immediately got onto the subway system – which required tackling a massive, intermingled web of underground rail lines servicing a city of 10 million, known as the “Korail.”
The Four-Tier Subway System
But once in the Gwanghwamun District, where I would be staying, the buildings and their proximity to each other looked much like the urban regions of Ha Noi, Vietnam. I was headed for the Banana Backpackers Hostel, planned so that it would be down the road from a huge, city-preserved palace wherein people live as they did hundreds of years ago. But when I arrived at the address in the book, I found that it was blanketed behind a wall of debris-shroud and under full, reconstructive renovation from bottom to top. Scaffolding surrounded every inch of it.
So, diving back into the Lonely Planet’s offerings of places to stay, I wound up heading just a few alleys east and a one block north to the Korea Guesthouse which, by way of mostly luck, was cheaper, had free breakfast, shampoo/soap, laundry and wi-fi and closer to the palace. In fact it was almost directly across the street. And so things were already looking up. Throw in a couple of nice new people and there I was enjoying my first evening in Korea.
So, going back over my day, I have accomplished much. This morning I awoke in Taiwan packed and ready to go, boarded Kaohsiung’s MRT system to the Taiwan High Speed Rail which dropped me off two hours later right at the second terminal where my flight would be departing an hour later. And after only a slight misunderstanding about my carry-on tripod (which, nowadays, must be less than 25cm to be carried onboard; making it more of a large, aluminum daddy-long-legs than a tripod), I was aboard flight OZ712 to Korea. The plane landed at 5pm on the nose (excuse the pun), and I have since covered 40km on buses, 5km on subway track, at least 2km of flat, careening alleys and three flights of stairs to find me here in my bunk writing the first journal of my Korean visit.
As for my first impression of the people; well, I knew that public drunkenness was accepted here, but I didn’t think that at 7:30 on a Thursday night would have me dodging vomit on the sidewalk and watching laughing, stumbling couples falling all over one another. It was, to use a pun, staggering. But that, in a sense, is what I came to see here; the Real Korea.
And speaking of what I came here to see, tomorrow I will be riding the hostel’s bike all over the Guanghwamun and Jungno Districts to see lots of new sights. On the list: the Korea International Art Fair (kiaf.org) at the COEX Convention Center; the Seoul Medicinal Herb Market Festival (you know, with a title like that, it’s got to be good), full of Shamanist ceremonies and spiritual consultations; the Seoul Drum Festival (drumfestival.org), full of international enthusiasts who find lots of different ways to make noise; and at night there’s even a “Seoul By Night” walk which takes three hours and goes all the way up to the North Seoul Tower where I plan on getting spectacular views of the city (55cm tripod included).
But for now I will go grab a bite at the spicy pizza joint I saw on my way here and then enjoy my first night’s sleep in Seoul.
Day Two: The Walled Fortress
Okay, so my illustrious plans of visiting all the months-long festivals was quashed when I was lying in bed reading about a walled fortress built in the late 1700’s King Jeongio of the 22nd Joseon Dynasty. He built the wall around the then-center of Suwon’s city, Hwaseong, in order to move the capital 40km south from Seoul. Unfortunately, the people’s will, and his untimely death, had a lot to play in keeping it in its current location.
Nevertheless, this UNESCO-listed heritage fortification is impressive. Complete with observation towers, command posts, innovative entry gates at the cardinal directions, fire beacons and many other advanced items, the wall spans up hills, crosses waterways and spans 5,744m from start to finish. Most of this has had to be restored due to everything from age and weathering to earthquakes and North Korean invasion. That’s what I will be checking out today.
On the way:
The need for sunblock is fast approaching as I sit and wait for the train to deliver me to Suwon. And I am thinking of the perfectly good tube of 35-SPF sunscreen sitting in my bag at the hostel. I got up thinking I had plenty of time to get to the city before the hottest part of the day – also the worst light for photography (but wound up getting there at just that time). But was mostly not worried about the sun because, by the looks of the morning gloom and thick overcast, I was sure there would be no problems walking around in what looked like mild weather. In fact, I didn’t even think I would be able to make use of my camera, the light was so bad. But the sun peaked through at around 10am – just as I disembarked the final bus from the train station at the south gate of the fortress wall.
But before getting into that, I wanted to talk about what I have been noticing about people; I boarded a subway that, all of a sudden, broke into the street level and even crossed the Han River, eventually becoming a full-fledged train. And I really got a good feel for how Koreans interact – and not just with each other, but with foreigners, too.
irstly, they pack in like sardines when they have to board crowded subways or buses. They will even face the person seated in front of them and never even look at that person (as they’re likely busy watching a movie on their iPhone). It’s a strange kind of closeness. It like either no one seems to mind or they’re purposefully attempting to deny themselves the acceptance of having someone that close in proximity that they need to do something to disengage from the situation. I, on the other hand, was given plenty of room – for some strange reason. Even in a crowded subway, I couldn’t help but notice that no one wanted to be in my “bubble.” It was a situation where someone could say, “You can’t swing a dead cat in here without hitting… [an Asian or whatever]” and actually be wrong about that statement. I had plenty of room. Eventually I thought that I just smelled really bad. But I had just taken a shower and I had been on an air conditioned train all morning. So I can’t imagine what else it might have been. I guess I’m just super bad-ass and everyone knows it.
The other cool thing about being me on a subway is that I am tall. Now, I am no germ freak. But there’s no denying that I get a little queasy when I think about how many hands touch handrails, doorknobs and, of course, the bracing bars on trains. But probably the only great thing about being 6’4” in a country designed for pigmies is that I can reach all the way up to the very top bar that nobody else can reach. So that has to be germ-free, right? Score!
The Pocket Vest Patrol
Anyway, on the subway-turned-train, I also noticed that there seems to be a lot of middle-aged and older men wearing pocket-vests. And that was reaffirmed today. It’s like the main staple in men’s attire here. I am not even sure that they put anything in the pockets. They all just seem to take on some unspoken responsibility of initiating themselves into the ranks of elderly fashion icons by way of a look that most closely resembles an army of pole-less fishermen.
I can’t lie; I am sporting one, myself. But mine is functional. I have lenses, memory cards, lens cleaners, and personal items stuffed into every nook of my pocket vest. And I will even admit that I look really funny walking around like this. I am full-bearded at the moment, and with my camo-fest, military bag and camera slung around my neck it kind of makes me look like either a Vietnam-era photographer, a pirate, a lumberjack or a mercenary. But, then again, I have on shorts which must tie the entire thing together in the one last-ditch effort to add tragedy to comedy. All told I look like a red-bearded light bulb in urban camouflage uppers and boney knees.
But there’s something different about their getups. They look like they’re all on their way to the biggest catch of their lives. And there are no fish hooks in sight. No bait. No proverbial fishy smell emanating from them. Nothing, other than these funny little vests that they all rock like there’s a sale at Eddie Bauer.
On a lighter note, though, I have noticed that they dearly love one another. All sarcasm aside, the men really dote on their wives. Boarding the subway, they move with their arms in front of the woman in an effort to stave off any mistaken back-step by someone already on the train and bumping into them. Then, when seated, they take out a fan from their pocket and fan cool air onto the lady as they talk to other passengers. It’s really mushy and, dare I say, sweet.
And while they treat their wives like queens (I am only assuming that they are their wives, by the way), their dogs aren’t so lucky. First off, no matter what the sex or size of the dog, they all shave their pooches to look like male, dominant lions – manes and all. They do this in Taiwan, I’ve noticed and, like Taiwan, none of the dogs are any larger than small poodles. But what’s more surprising is that at the first hint that their little yappers are about to bark, they slap them ruthlessly. Then, just seconds later, they scoop them up and coddle them like little babies. I can’t imagine what this would be about other than to assume that it’s in an effort to reassure them of how loved they are by their dedicated (but firm) masters.
Whatever the intentions, the expression on the dogs’ faces undoubtedly convey a sense of confusion and shock as their tiny doggy brains sink deeper and deeper into a hugely developed love-hate complex – not knowing whether to bark for the only affection they’ll get, or keep their trap shut for fear of a merciless whack on the noggin.
etting off the bus from after the train into Suwon, I continue to notice nuances specific to these people. Stopped at crosswalks and intersections, I see that Koreans never jaywalk and rarely speed through red lights. And this is even if there’s plenty of time to walk across and no other cars are in sight. This is a far cry from the rest of the Asia I have seen. In most other places, you’re lucky if you’re pulling through on a fresh green light and not get T-boned by a pimple-faced teen on a moped.
Now, perhaps this is because they love law and order. Or it’s because there’s symmetry in their society that acts as a sense of control and civility. Possibly they are just a patient, tolerant people. Or maybe it’s because they respect one another enough to simply wait. But I suspect not.
I think, rather than any or all of the above, it’s because everywhere you look – and I mean EVERYWHERE – there are cameras peering out over the masses undoubtedly forming a video matrix of coverage that would require alien technology to decipher. There’s no getting around the exposure to these menacing eyes, which are surely equipped with the latest in face-recognition software and vigorously poured over by the thousands of Asian emissaries comprising the nameless entity known only casually as the Korean “Big Brother.”
Whatever the case, their need to observe is a little on the obsessive side. And it’s not hidden in any way. I even saw a camera in the men’s room of the subway far beneath Seoul’s streets. I’m not kidding. After my third and final jiggle, I turned to see a single, prying eye that gave me pause in a way I’ve never experienced in the restroom. And believe me, there have been plenty of awkward moments in suspended bathroom duties in my day.
Walking further, another trend that keeps reappearing is the nonsensical teen (and younger) T-shirt logo. Ubiquitous is the fashion sense of teens at basically the same time, I am noticing, that strange new concepts emerge all the time – and without reason or in any noticeable pattern. But this one is particularly amusing.
Now, I am not sure because I don’t know the maker. But it’s possible that these seemingly random words may be the calculated scribblings of some Asian inside joke; or simply the first words that came to the mind of the screen printer just moments before the first shirt was cast; or, in drunken moments with friends the night before going back to work at the design shop, napkins were passed, words were added and BAM! New Shirt Idea! The only evidence either way is whether or not their strangely coordinated verbiage is spelled correctly. That’s the only giveaway – and then only in the drunken napkin concept.
The sayings on these shirts are things like “Good Time Speed Love,” and “Happy Forever Peanuts,” or “I really, really please.” I couldn’t imagine a pattern or system of design that would be able to come up with such random but popular emblems on which today’s T-shirt fashion is based. I grew up when the “Shit Happens” and “Have a Nice Day” T-shirt craze was afoot. But then, these relics in American history probably never made it very far over here. And even if they did, it would probably still translate to something like “Excrement Takes Shape in Occurrence,” or “Make Yourself Gratitude Afternoon.”
But, back to the walled fortress: Entering Hwaseong Haenggung, or Hwaseong Palace, it seems like Suwon’s 400 years of dynastic history-turned-shopping-Mecca wasn’t quite what the originators had in mind. Of course I am speaking from the liberal mindset of green living and conserving of our consumerism and they may well have loved the idea of using this historically important region as a central location for doing just the opposite: consume, consume, consume.
Some nice handicrafts at the Jungju Market
One side note was that I was happy to see handicrafts. There weren’t many and what they did have lacked that pizazz that I am used to. But nevertheless, I was liking the beads and pottery shops that old folks made together.
Whatever the case, the word “wall” certainly embodies this place well. Since wherever you walk there are walls and walls of everything from designer watches and lady’s handbags to handicrafts and home furnishings, it just looks like another Bangkok. I am beginning to wonder just how much perfume the average Asian person can handle. The clothes that line the walls of hangers, hooks and harnesses also weird me out.
It seems that no matter how different young people try to look from everyone else, they’re still abiding a certain hidden agenda by the designers – and therefore wind up still looking the same. I mean, ultimately, there are only about 50 or so different fashion statements made with each new trend and everything that young people wear is simply an offshoot of that trend. And that begs the question, what independence do they gain in attempting to free themselves from the shackles of those who would clothe them in uniformity when it is they, themselves, who kick and scream to be the first in line to volunteer their hard earned money to do just that?
It seems so foreign to me, today’s fashion. Women wear very unflattering hip-boosty-things with frilly, blouses. And the men wear these ankle-tight suit pants with pointy, leather shoes and shiny, button down slicks below kitschy low-cut cardigans and a Ken-Doll hairdo. And this is supposed to represent the coming era in the way of masculine threads?
I have had the same travel shoes for six years. The same clothes for at least that many years. They’re functional, comfortable and I don’t find myself embarrassed to be seen in them. So why would I replace them at the rate young people do these days? I suppose I have always felt this way. I used to work at a thrift shop when I was in high school and wore clothes that I got from there – and I wore them well after high school. I found that to be a very independent addition to my lifestyle. Firstly being able to support myself at that age, but also keeping that idea of sort of a non-conformist, silent rebellion as I did (though much of my rebellion was anything but silent). But these are the things I think about when I travel, I guess.
And speaking of that, why not get back into the point of this journal? So there I was noticing different things about Koreans when I was stopped in my tracks by this little oddity just off the major street a block or two from the South Gate. It was this great little mini-temple tucked away from the hustle and bustle but still packed well inside of it.
Palace outside the South Gate
Upon approaching the intricately painted and designed “Old-World” houses, I noticed a Tao monk just looking at one of the paintings on the outside of the building. He invited me up to talk with him and I found out that he spends three hours each day looking at that painting. It was his favorite. His teacher painted it – and built the house to which it was attached. But in watching him view it, it would seem that it was his first time ever seeing it. He was made so excited to talk about it – about new things that he saw in it every day. The way the hair swayed on the warrior; the tiger’s gaze at the warrior; the wind playing at the bamboo leaves in the background. There was always something new, he would say, that he simply didn’t see before. And since these monks aren’t known for their drunkenness, I wondered how, in such a simple painting, nor memorizing every detail after staring at it for three hours every day, was even possible. But I let it pass as I listened to him continue.
I slowly approached the entryway of the main temple and noticed lots of signs with Korean lettering and some costs notated next to them. And I thought that I might be charged to enter and take pictures. But as I walked up to the entrance, I was bowed to deeply by the ladies in the foyer and given these genuine smiles that I have come to love and admire when hanging around monks and those who support them. Each time I see that warm face and smiling set of eyes that seems to come from a place we in the west have simply never taught our children the capacity to understand, I know that I could never be a monk because the envy, alone, that I feel for that peace would keep me from the peace and trueness I see in them.
Nevertheless, the ladies offered me in and I didn’t want to be rude, but holding cameras, lenses, packs and the like would have prevented me from gracefully untying my shoes to enter this holy place and I declined. And to my surprise, because they were bringing me in to drink cold water because they saw my poor white ass in a sweating frenzy, they brought it out to me instead. It was all I could do to keep from hugging them. So I slurped graciously at the water and asked to take photos of the monk’s quarters and, along with a swarm of questions about myself and who I was and where I was from, they allowed me entry to the entire facility.
These questions about myself, while identical to those I’d been asked at the entry point of several places so far here in the part of the country so close to the paranoid North Korea, were not the same at all. What I mean to say is that while the words were the same, the interest was much different. These ladies didn’t often see white guys interested in seeing culture. The most they ever see of westerners is their backsides as they are on their way to the shopping centers and clothing malls. But here in this little villa perched into a tiny space of the city, there questions were fashioned with a sense of interest in who might come to see them instead of their well-priced consumer goods. It was beautiful. And of course I am including the artistry engrained in their craftsmanship and artistry. But I am also talking about the interaction that I shared (and have always seemed to share) with temple volunteers of the Buddhist inclination.
This experience, in my best Asian description, is empty. But not empty in the way westerners think of the word. I don’t feel saddened or let down or that I have lost something in the interchange. Instead, I feel empty in a way that I felt after I left the Tiger Cave after a three-day retreat. I was an empty cup – waiting to be filled with my new experiences having accepted, learned from and let go of all my previous experiences.
Stairs to the fortress wall
After moseying the grounds, I bowed as well as a slightly Buddhist-knowledgeable westerner could bow and was on my way. Two blocks down and I found myself at the palace walls. The entry to the South Gate wall is about a block to the west (or left, if you’re facing it). And I’m not gonna lie; it looks intimidating. But, as all mountains look from the top, it wasn’t that bad. I think I counted only about 264 steps to the top of the first corner lookout tower. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t sweating like a glass of iced tea in Georgia.
I’d have thought that this nice climb and great view would have been adorned by lots of young people. But I didn’t see a single person within 20 years of my age. I was the junior of every person I met. There were so many older couples just taking their time walking the almost 6000 meters of this rock wall, strolling along and looking out to either side; giving adequate time to soak in all that view had to give them and then turning to look in the other direction.
Upon cresting the next lookout tower, there is a tourist information center, small shop and bathrooms. Once seated and gulping down another water, I regained composure, sopped up all my sweaty parts and relaxed a bit. Then I went to the bathroom. And it was at the sinks that I met Kim Cheol Hwan. At first, he was just a nice, older guy that smiled and wished me a pleasant day while I was rinsing out my perspiration-soaked handkerchief. But when I walked outside, I saw that he’d stood there waiting for me – the only thing visible on his face as my eyes adjusted to the sun was this big, crooked-toothed smile under a fedora.
He followed me up to the wall again and as I walked, he explained all the details of the palace: it’s history, how long it took to build, when it was threatened by natural and human-stimulated disasters – everything any top rate guidebook would tell you about it. He just kept talking. In fact it took several handshakes, thanking him for his time and goodbyes for me to realize that I would have him with me no matter how far I walked or at what speed.
But it was alright. It was nice to have someone around who loved to hear himself talk. At times I think he was smiling more out of some supreme sense of satisfaction from his own words than for my comfort alone. So to have someone do all the talking and I just shoot my photos and jot something down every once in a while; it was nice.
At the beginning, I actually attempted to engage in conversation with him. I’d ask him, “How many times have you walked around this wall?” He’d reply, “Three times a week.” I’d chuckle and ask, “Okay, how many weeks have you worked here?” And he’d reply, “Every week.” I eventually let it go and gave him the stage for the next two-and-a-half hours as my impromptu guide.
The wall itself was not as impressive as when you actually climb down to see it from the enemy’s perspective. Now that’s an intimidating view. From up top, you can look around the city below and see how things used to be, drifting back 300 years and picturing ox-driven carts and palace guards slowly making their rounds; the merchants in the markets selling fish and hand-made goods. Still today, looking at the way the markets work – the workers selling goods while sitting on the ground with their fish wriggling in buckets beside them – it’s not a far cry from the way it probably was. And therefore it’s easy to understand why taking on the challenge of repairing and maintaining this great wall is so important to maintaining a link with the past.
Stone Mason’s Signature
Cheol Hwan would talk about the inscriptions on some of the rocks and tell me about how they could read the stone-cutters name and how he’d honored his supervisor by including him above his own name. The stone mason of the West Gate was named Pbak Sang Ghil. In fact the West gate was quite impressive in how that mason acted as the architect in its design. The gates, of course, are the weakest point of any walled area. Therefore, they must be fortified the best. Sang Ghil’s design was to have a half crescent outer wall constructed so that battle-rams and large garrisons of men couldn’t have a running go at breaking down its doors, and still have the ability to let in friendly sentries and villagers. It’s clear by this construction that many assumptions can be made about the time, my guide said. He indicated that trade was very important and that because it was such a big village for its time, it was a central hub for much of this trade and therefore these doors saw much action in letting in traders and keeping out traitors (I had to).
It also indicates that there was a lot of coordination in attack and defense tactics. Each wall which faced a different direction had a different assemblage of flags on it. The west flags are white (for the white lion), the east flags are blue (for the dragon), the south gate was red (for the snake) and the north gate was black (for the turtle). Based on how these flags were arranged, and how the battalions were ordered to station them, they could organize an assault in minutes – shooting arrows and pouring boiling liquids down through cleverly placed gun-ports in the walls.
It was quite a thing to see. And I think that I am most proud of having completed the entire wall in mid-day heat. It was a lot to do, but after I finished, I traveled up through the city that I’d just circled and found a nice little place to eat. And it began to remind me of something I hadn’t thought about in a long time: my experiences walking around little villas in Central and South America.
I would escape the heat in these little, fan-cooled cafes and swallow some sweating glass of whatever before the waiter even left the table in order to have him bring another as soon as possible. I’d learned to order lots of small waters or lots of ice in a glass because I’d only finish half the large water before it was warm again – making me disinterested in carrying it with me any further. Then I’d look over the entire menu at least three times before finally settling on chicken and rice with some variety of sauce or spice on it. Then, once both my stomach and circulatory system are satiated, I’d sit back and look out into whatever dusty town I was in and admire the diversity of the place for some new and different reason (even though many places are quite similar in that part of the world).
But there I sat in that little restaurant sucking back waters and eating my chicken with spicy barbecue sauce (and rice) and thinking of all the places I’d been and things I’d seen that ultimately brought me here and that will undoubtedly take me further until I have so many places in my memory that I cherish for little to no reason at all. And I will probably still be thinking of how I love the simplicity of it all and how I want it to continue.
Day Three: First Eye Blind
[The shot above is from the base of the Nangsam Tower in Seol. You will have to read the next blog to see more like it as I spent the night on the third day climbing up to it. Hope you enjoy them next time!]
So whatever aspirations that I had for seeing the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) today have been put to bed as this morning I woke up with an all-too-familiar face-seizing pain in my left eye. In Thailand I injured my eye one drunken night on the beach in Khanom (blog about my Thailand misadventures will be updated shortly) and that’s left me with the recurring trouble that I woke up to this morning. Basically put, I removed a small piece of my eye that never properly healed and every so often the patch of tissue that didn’t regrow correctly dries out over night and when I open my eyes in the morning, it rips back away from the affected area and causes a considerable amount of pain – not to mention it leaves me with the requirement of remaining in my bed laying absolutely still until the pain recedes enough for me to open it without tearing up incessantly.
And so I had to reschedule the trip for tomorrow morning. Luckily it gave me the day to finish my journaling and to visit the local Hanok village that I wanted to see which is right across from the hostel. I am paid up until tonight anyway, so what I think I am going to do is just pack up in the morning and bring all my things with me to the DMZ and leave from there to the east coast to visit this little fishing village that I read about.
I hopped on the poorly out-of-shape bike that the hostel lets the tenants use to ride around town on, and sifted through this amazing little village which still has a few remaining edifices kept in the old way while many of the other buildings have been modernized. It makes for a strange but interesting view into how the times have changed – and the construction with it. Patched into the small network of houses in this area surrounding the village palace are simple but impressive pagodas, shrines and temples that have endured the test of time and have even been made over into classier versions of their older parent-houses. I imagine that the streets have managed to be located along the original arteries they started out to be, because there are old drainage areas and gateways leading out to up-to-date locations of the same points.
Looking over the tops of some of the buildings reveals large temples and overlooking villas on the hillside. And the attention to plants and artistry has clearly stayed true to the traditional manner in which this area was spawn. And the mix of old a new design was as immediately evident as it was very peculiar looking.
This village is called the Bukchon Hanok and it sits just outside a small but lively palace. In Korean, it means “North Village.” The palace and surrounding area has Seol’s largest concentration of Hanok (or traditional) homes and contrasts its surroundings profoundly. They seem completely out of place as per their bustling passageways. Yet, at the same time, they add such an old timey feel to this little community tucked away amid busier parts of town.
Because of the artsy additions and the fact that many of them have been renovated and made into cooking classes and houses for learning Korean or cultural additives, I get the impression that wealthier people have purchased them under some government guideline that requires them to be used in some light that preserves the traditional ways of life as well as the homes themselves.
Each of these houses has a courtyard (the size varying on whether or not it belonged to a wealthy, or yangban, or peasant family). Each uses natural lighting as in paper walls supported by posts and sliding doors. They all have either a tiled or thatched roof (again, based on upper- or middle-class ownership). And each has a system of under-floor heating called ondol. This area in particular has been saved by a 40-year expat and American member of the Royal Asiatic Society, Peter Bartholomew, who won a court battle with the government which claimed that they were irreparable, unsanitary and ultimately stood in the way of a redevelopment plan for more modern structures.
The Hanok, three and a half decades ago, was 800,000 strong in South Korea, now total only about 10,000. The modernizing of Korea, for all its honorable and environmentally progressive intentions, has overlooked the need for maintaining these roots. Based on the movement to salvage this and many other Hanok villages gave way to the National Trust of Korea. This NGO helps protect the Hanok and other prized national artifacts like them.
There is a huge movement all over the city, as far as I have seen, in the way of greener idealism. There are recycling bins everywhere you look and litter very rarely blows past on the streets. Another huge example of this is an area called the Cheong-gye-cheon – a removal of an old concreted highway to give way to the river below. It’s essentially a revived oasis in the middle of the city with riverbanks restructured, parks plotted nearby and green pinnacles of technology resembling the city’s dedication to a renewed metropolis.
At any rate, that’s my third day in South Korea. Tonight I plan on taking a walking tour that leads up to the Namsan Tower and hopefully get some nice shots of the city at night. Then, tomorrow, it’s off to the DMZ where I will hopefully get shot at for doing something stupid and memorable. So if this is the last journal, know I died doing what I love!
Even in Jakarta the malls are six stories and span for blocks
My search for shoes has finally ended. My sandals were looking a little warn so I thought I would find some shoes that would give them a rest and also help me hike up a mountain. Yesterday’s affirmation of failing to find clothes/shoes that fit, truly came to task today. It took me about three hours of rummaging through sizes to find a pair that came close to fitting. The biggest that anyone had was around a 43 (which is about a size 9). I need a 45-46 to fit comfortably and so I would find the shoe I wanted, but the size would be limited to 43 or smaller. Or the store attendant would suggest all these other shoes that were in my size, but they were of horrible quality or were simply not suited for walking the streets of Southeast Asia – much less, capable of scaling a primary forested volcano.
But alas, I finally took care of my shoe problem and like the way they feel. They are a little unsturdy, but I think they will serve their purpose. And these flip-flops forged a truly trodden trail across Asian Asphalt and joined me through joyful jungle jaunts. But it’s time to mightily motivate movement via varied vehicles. And so the flip-flops are to ride top-side for a few days while I prance in protected peds.
I stopped by a book store near my hotel once I got back to see if they had anything good. There was an exchange place for them. But I didn’t really get the impression that they had anything good. So I stopped looking after about five minutes or so.
Tomorrow, I think I will try and catch the train to Bogor. I would like to go to Cianjur for a nice day hike. There is a volcano there called “Gede Pangrango” that seems like it would be a good place to see. Reading up on it, it looks like it’s in the middle of the jungle and is so dense that you need a guide to find your way through. We will have to see when I get there.
Well, it’s been a long day of walking around. I could have stayed up a little bit longer, but I am not sure I wanted to keep the neighbor’s company. They just don’t seem like my type of conversationalists. So it’s off to bed. Tomorrow should be another long and enlightening day as I head south on my first Indonesian train. And as the giant, Indonesian bats rousing from their little “roosting places” in my ceiling to head out for their dinner, I ponder tomorrow’s adventure.
The heaps and heaps of trash are unbelievable. And children playing in them are gut-retching. But the mountains of garbage piled along the roadways and under bridges somehow seem to be a part of the backdrop as people just walk around them without really seeing them. And I am sure by now that they don’t even smell them. But I notice them and I smell them and they are terrible.
Surprisingly, prices in the city turn out to be cheaper than in rural areas. Perhaps it’s based on shipping, but I would have thought most of the services would be cheaper in the areas outside the places of high commerce. I talked a cabbie down to 12,000Rp (Rupiah) for a ride from the airport last night and now that I have been in a few bike taxis (becaks) and motortaxis, I can say that was a pretty fair deal.
But there were two looming problems with the cabbies here; they really don’t seem qualified to drive, and they know about as much of the city as I do. But whatever! It makes for good photography getting lost.
Indonesians look a lot like Thais. I think that it might be a mix between Thai and Cambodian. They are very dark skinned the further east you go – Papuans being the darkest of them all. In the cities where there is a mix of many races, the colors blend a little bit. But in the outlying areas the true ethnicity seems to be a variety of caramel colors. Needless to say I stand out like a big, blue bugger on a white wall.
There have been a lot of interesting things happen just before I arrived here. Firstly, about two weeks ago, a volcano erupted in [melapa?] spewing hot ash 7.5 kliks (Km) into the sky and burning hundreds of unfortunate people to death with a 600˚C blanket of smoldering volcanic particles. I think that this is just west of Borobudor where I plan on going to see temples and other sights.
There were also some bombings recently in one of the more touristy areas. There have been a lot of rapes on the island of Sumatra where Christian and Muslim clashes have been the biggest. I will have to go there and see what I can find out about that, too.
The Tsunami in October of 2004 hit this area pretty hard and I am interested to see if there was any damage left in the affected areas. Perhaps I can talk to other trekkers (if I find any) about where I might be able to find something like that.
Indonesians seem to love having toilet paper on the tables as napkins. Thailand is the same way. They even have little dispensers to mask the fact that you’re wiping your mouth with something designed for wiping the other end. They also love drinking out of straws – another similarity with Thailand. In asking Thais why they do this, they say that it is cleaner than drinking straight from whatever container holds their drink at the time. Everyone offers straws in the markets, at 7-Eleven and in restaurants. The problem, as I see it, comes when the same people who have been handling money that has made its way into and out of millions of hands are also grabbing these straws at the top in order to retrieve them from the box and then stick them in your drink. I can’t imagine it would be cleaner to drink from a funky-finger-fondled straw than a recently washed glass. But it’s not my custom, so I don’t think too much about it.
The people are generally very respectful, helpful and polite. But when males are in groups of three or more, they turn into a pack of hyenas, laughing at everything that the others say and do. So when I am talking to them and they are speaking to me in Indonesian and then all of their buddies laugh at what the speaking man is saying, I get the feeling that they are laughing at me. So, naturally, I say something quick-witted and joke on them so I don’t feel left out. Usually it’s something about their protruding front tooth, their drifting lazy-eye or perhaps their breath which, if it could reach my altitude, would likely be unpleasant. Then I laugh hysterically back at them. And I have found out that the times when they are indeed joking on me, the laughing usually stops among them for a short time as they likely contemplate the idea of whether or not I understand them. I try to turn and walk away at that time just to keep them guessing. But I am confident, because of my experience in Asia, that most of the time people laugh because they are nervous or respectful and want to lighten the moment. This is in sharp contrast to the reasons people laugh at others in the west. And I have to remember that it is most likely my own personal perspective that makes me feel shallow in times like these.
Walking through a place called Pasar Baru, there are a lot of markets that seem to come together as one big one. As the two ends of the block surrounding the P. Baru entrance, there are five- and six-story shopping malls with piles and piles of purses, backpacks, clothes and shoes – none of which fit me. Basically, with only a slight variation, all of it is the same. So it really doesn’t matter where you go in the mall and it doesn’t make any sense to keep combing through the place as I did, because you eventually reach the point where you have seen everything that you’re going to see and the only scenery that changes is the people running the shops. It seems like they all simply get their stuff from the same boat from China.
It is interesting, also, that people tell their friends that a westerner is coming. They will whisper as if I don’t hear or see them and then their friends will turn and look and they all look away at the same time. This is the same thing that happens ever, single time that I walk into a new area of the mall. There is no crafty way they have figured out how to be more sneaky about it. There is no creativity in the manner of pointing me out to their friends. And there is no variation in the actions made to take note of me.
Every once in a while someone will tap their friend while staring at me, but the end result is the same: a couple of unbelieving stares, a slight smile piques their lips and then they turn away to discuss the big, white elephant in the room.
The roads and walkways on the street seem to be in surprisingly good condition for a developing nation. In most Asian cities I have seen, there is very little emphasis or focus on the care or maintenance of paved surfaces. People just get used to driving around the bad parts. But here there are very few potholes and the driving seems to be mostly organized without too many crazies buzzing around betwixt the traffic.
I have noticed that the motorbikes like to drive up next to the big tourist or city buses and stuff their trash in the handles along the undersides of the bus where the luggage compartments are. They will drive off as the bus honks angrily at them and they will turn laughing to reveal their conniving grin. It’s a funny process to watch.
Since being in Asia, I have learned not to eat spicy food for the first meal of the day. No curry either. But I have noticed that Indonesian food really isn’t all that spicy. There is a bit of tang to it, but mostly there is very little bit to it. It’s an interesting change to the Thai spice that I have become used to. I think that they use the world-famous spice that comes from these plowed islands.
There are very few foreigners here – at least not any western ones. I seem to be the only white person in sight. In fact, because of all the extended and almost uncomfortable stares I get from the locals, it seems like there is never really a big swell in the amount of white people that make their way here. I could be wrong. I have no proof or reason to think this. It’s only based on how foreign I feel.
Amongst the stares, though, I will get a “Hi Mistah!” mixed in there, or a “Ay boss!” and a smile. I smile back and say hello. Every once in a while, someone doesn’t smile back, so I know that there is some angst or misunderstanding taking place. But for the most part, they are very quick to smile back and engage the new, strange person in their city.
There are plenty of hostels in the Jalan Jaksa part of town. And having a room there, I have seen a couple of white faces. But even here, there seems to be very few of us. It is the rainy season, so that could be a contributing factor. But I still get the feeling that it is an unmet industry.
It’s a crap-shoot as to whether or not the people speak English or not here. I wouldn’t quite put it at 50/50 – possibly 30/70. But I think that the English is always better in the cities, so I am sure that is the case here. But an interesting addition to what I have noticed as far as language goes is that Indonesian has a lot of Spanish words. “Mas, Dande and miedras” are all Spanish or similar to Spanish that I have heard today. I took note of them to find out what they mean later. But it would be interesting to find out that they might possibly get their language from a mix of Filipino and Malay – as it sounds similar and Filipino is about 40% Spanish.
I will need to change some money from Ringgit to Rupiah and buy a cheap pair of shoes. I would like to do some hiking on this trip, and I don’t think my flip-flops can handle that kind of torture.
There are very few lady-boys here, that I have noticed. That’s probably because it may be seen as much more of an eyesore by the history of Muslim intolerance here. There were a few in Malaysia, and I think I saw a few in my short time in Singapore. But I just saw one and I would not have noticed normally, but since I haven’t seen one at all since being here, it kind of stuck out in my head.
The food is relatively cheap. I sat at a small eatery inside the mall and had a full plate of chicken, veggies and rice for about US$1.20. The prices are a little higher than advertised in Lonely Planet. But I really can’t complain for the price.
Walking around town was great. I enjoyed walking past these huge statues and monuments that are all over this area of the city. It seems extremely large. And they seem to put extra attention on the security as police appear on every corner and guard their monuments as they do their religious values.
I think that I have decided to spend the bulk of my time in Indonesia. I have a bit of reluctance on this issue because the last time I was in a country rife with stories of violence was in 2007 when Evo Morales was the president of Bolivia and there were scores of people running around La Paz wild-eyed and blood thirsty over G. W. Bush’s new decision to put stiff, new tariffs on all imports from Venezuela. Presumably this also effected Bolivia as there was looting and fighting in the streets borne of panic of possible collapse in the economy of the country’s capital city. I clung closely to anyone walking near me jabbering on in Spanish anything that would entertain the unsuspecting street-goers long enough to make it look like I was just some gringo with immediate ties to some local family.
Indonesia is different. Last year’s bombings in Bali about this time killed more than 200 people – most of them Australians – in a westernized dance club, sit heavy on my mind as I plan to go to a place I know little about. And as someone who stands out even in white crowds, I can’t help but think that I could easily be seen as the newest addition to an incoming wave of western influence that needs to be quashed with a quickness.
But even then, the risks still mount. Indonesia is a country with a geographic stability rating somewhere in the negative figures. From tsunamis to mudslides to earthquakes to currently active volcanoes in hundreds of places throughout the more than 17,000 islands that make up this mostly Muslim country of about 230 million people, “treacherous” would be a good word to start with.
Nevertheless, I am on my way. And though this idea came to me suddenly, many other things also came to me suddenly. The recognition that I have been reading a book that looks into the places I am seeing; the fact that I had a very opportune break from work with just enough time to make a small junket to the outlying areas; the addition of a small bonus from my company just large enough to take a cheap trip, but not so large that it would overshadow the savings that I will be able to make in the coming months with my new job; and the fact that I am now staring at the 2010 edition of Lonely Planet’s Indonesia guidebook which happened to have been left in my hotel room (which has a lovely view overlooking the action that has finally piqued my attention – perhaps in recognition of the swell of sounds and crowds in which I will soon be swimming).
Soon, I will be headed for Hong Kong; a city straddling the Bay of Victoria and bursting with lights and sounds of a busy metropolis. I hope to come back with great photos of architecture, nightlife and of course, the people who make it all run. It will be my forth time passing through, but this time I plan on putting in some time and visiting as much of it as I can.
