So it’s my 40th Journal update and I thought, being such a nice, round number, I would update my blog to reflect the newest additions to my website.
Firstly, as a recent Matador University Photography Alumnus, I have learned lots that will undoubtedly help me navigate the waters of creating more exciting blogs. This will include videos, photography discussions, a weekly favorite pick of the best photographs on the internet as well as the latest gear to come into the mainstream. And I will be looking for input from readers that are interested in more.
Here’s my graduation banner:
My website, cyleodonnell.com, is in it’s third year, while the photo galleries, books and blogs have been running since 2005 and, to some extent, beyond. And during that time, I have trekked nearly 30 nations, ridden my bicycle through 12 countries, written 10 books, produced a database containing more than 25,000 images and made a dozen films from my research and documentary photography.
It’s been a blast. It’s been an amazing and highly recommended experience. And sometimes, it’s even been bittersweet. But it’s never been disappointing.
Please stop by and visit the website. Check out the newest additions to the photography section and then come back to the blog and post a comment here telling me what you think. The website is cyleodonnell.com/photography. And it’s a “Hover” site. Just hover the mouse over the link on the menu until another menu appears. It’s not really intuitive, and because of that, I have made menus on all of the pages just in case you accidentally click early. So you’ll need some patience in navigating the links.
Updates include: Indonesia galleries; a new gallery in the Thailand page as well as updates to the galleries in Thailand; North and South Korea galleries; more Malaysia galleries; a new Singapore gallery; and the publication of my newest book which will be available soon.
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!
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.
This morning I hopped on a bus, then another bus, then a train, then another bus and then humped it to the subway which dropped me about 25 meters and four floors away from my hostel: the dingy and abandoned-looking Actor’s and Backpacker’s Guesthouse.
This place is owned by a fellow traveler and self-proclaimed thespian. In the basement at most hours you can hear his troupe practicing their acts so loudly you’d think they’d been invited to Broadway. But it affords a nice view of the city and it’s right in the middle of two consignments of city fun. There’s food and bars where the hostel is. But not far away is the university quarter where the bars and nightlife are.
But using those two points as vectors for triangulation, just head south and you’ll hit the beach which I won’t get to see tonight, but plan on seeing tomorrow. Today agenda includes seeing the temple in the middle of town and eating strange, new things.
In my hostel were two journalists working for Samsung. And that might come as a shock to think of a writer/reporter and a photographer to be working for just an electronics company. But let me tell you a little bit about this little family business as it occurs in its home country of South Korea.
Samsung may only been seen as some small framing on your TV or stereo equipment. But here in Korea, they reign supreme. They are everywhere, are seen in everything and have their hands in just about every market you can think of. Here, the Samsung family makes cars, distributes medical supplies, owns hospitals, has a media enterprise and even has a line of ship-building compounds (the second largest in the world). They opened a theme park in 2002 called Samsung Everland Park. They have amassed several four-star hotels ranked within “2009’s World’s Best Top 100 Hotels” by Institutional Investor. There’s a branch of the Samsung group called Samsung Heavy Industries whose engineering firm was ranked 35th out of 225 global construction companies. Samsung has an entire city named after it, Samsung Town, where its headquarters are located. And they are currently the world’s largest technology production company.
It’s amazing what you don’t know about your world until you find yourself nestled smack in the middle of your most recent unexpected find while exploring the world.
Anyway, so the journalists seemed keen on hiking around the temples with me so we headed out the door and off to the subway.
Once at the temple, we couldn’t really see much because of some very strange crow-crazed speech that was underway by the time we got there. Some obviously influential speaker was rabble-rousing from center stage as people in the audience fell under his spell, donned funny, blue hats and listened intently as his propaganda blew out from the loudspeakers all around the temple. It was a little uncomfortable. But it seemed like most people were pretty okay with it.
Walking further, we could see that it was quite a lovely temple with lots of additional interest paid to the towers overlooking the city. And all around it were these really cool buildings peppered with little mini-gardens where Buddha was looking over them.
There was even crowd control in the form of shop owners playing with their toys in the street in order to attract attention – and hopefully sales. There were artists, painting passersby. There were people perched under huge, blow-up octopi. There were street venders really not wanting their photo taken. I saw shoemakers, people hanging around huge photos of athletes, ladies making breaded cookies out of these strange, tubed presses. There were even drunk people dancing in the street. It was, as Korea has proven to be, unexpected – a truly Korean experience.
[click on the photo to enlarge]
After leaving my fellow journalists at the scene of the temple, I headed back to the subway to see if I could make it back before my stomach chewed a hole through abdominal muscles. But on the way I noticed some interesting things about people on the midday trains.
As Forest Gump proclaimed, you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes. Generally, they tell you where they might be going. And, as one might expect, the midday traffic filling those shoes consisted mostly of out of work college students or business types. That was kind of a given. But what I liked the most about the train cars was that there was a section dedicated just for the old people. And I don’t think I have seen a single older lady in that section in between breakfast and dinner times. There are just always a couple of strange characters sitting there sleeping or reading the paper in their zoot suit – or the ever-present pocket vest. It’s strange that much fewer women appear on the trains during these times. But the guys that wind up napping the afternoon away really claim that section of the train. And even if the car is totally packed, you better not think of sitting in one of these spots unless you’re receiving a pension – or risk a cane whack to the shins.
Instead of making it to my destination, I got off on the wrong stop. I thought that I was headed in one direction on the train, but clearly was misinformed. I’d done pretty well up until that instance. But navigating the subways here is surprisingly easy. Nevertheless, as I poked around the entrance to the street-level stairway, I gathered that there was a beach nearby. So, rather than get frustrated and hop back on the train to spend another hour in transit, I figured I would just get something to eat while I was here and maybe scout out a different hotel to sleep in for the night. The place I’d booked, while filled with nice people, just wasn’t up to my cleaning standards.
Looking around, I found lots of food stands, restaurants, bars and lots of other places leading down to the beach. There were even the steamed silk worm larvae that I ate near the DMZ. So naturally I dove into a small bowl of those while I walked around. All along the beachfront, there was some pretty amazing architecture. Lots of hotels and apartments made up to look quirky added quite a bit to the ambiance of the area.
After lunch and sightseeing, I headed back to the subway to get off near a stop where I had heard of the “Dragon Temple.” This was supposed to be a temple built on the rocky coast nearby. It turned out to be pretty cool. There was a Buddha near the entryway whose belly had been rubbed so much that it started to get an oily polish to it. There were also life-sized sculptures of all the animals of the zodiac — complete with guards looking over them.
There were dragons on the columns, pagodas in the courtyards and even an intricately built bridge that welcomed visitors to the main area of the temple. But what i really thought was interesting were all the miniature pagodas lining all the stairways of the temple area.
They were made out of concrete, but they were all lighted from the inside and had little lanterns in them for when it was dark. I am sure that it makes for a great feel to the place after the sun goes down.
In between all of the statues and sconces are natural flora drooping in over them and growing in around them like a garden fighting for its real estate. But it’s not enough to make it seem overgrown. I think that it had a good mix of old and new worlds mixed in with the natural setting right there on the beach like that.
After the temple tour, I headed down to the street entrance where I noticed a restaurant and thought I would grab a bigger meal for dinner than I had for lunch. Bugs and soda only carry you so far. So I found the Hae Dong Yong Gung seafood restaurant and ordered some spicy soup with noodles. It was mostly a wildly thrown-together batch of octopus, shrimp, muscles and clams with pepper sauce, water and ink-stained noodles. It was good. It was hearty. But more importantly, it filled me up and I had enough energy to go back and see the area around the hostel that I didn’t get to see previously.
But, since I have used up my gallery for this blog already, I will continue that in part two of this journal entry.
So I found out where all the youth of Korea lives. I’m not kidding; I have never been in a population of people where the average age was so extensively lowered by teeny-boppers and iPod-jammers than in this little coastal nook. The last town I was in, I couldn’t sit on a bus in my own seat because it was full of pensioners with eager canes. This town, I can’t stop sucking in my gut for fear of chuckles and pointed fingers.
At the bus station, I found myself talking to the clerk when another woman showed up next to me and started shouting something at her in Korean. I didn’t know what she was saying, but I felt that whatever it was it could wait until I finished talking and turned back to finish my appropriation of purchasing a ticket. Then, as though I had become the nuisance in the situation, the teller stood up and began shouting at me. I stepped back and tried to reassess the situation. I realized that she was being stressed out by the situation and allowed the other conversation to continue. Once the other lady was gone, I again asked her for my ticket and she indicated I was at the wrong window. I suppose that the other lady was in a hurry to buy her ticket because her bus was about to leave and assumed that I, as a foreigner, simply immediately took the backseat to any rush that may occur for locals. I moved to the correct window, purchased my ticket and took my seat in the waiting room.
I arrived in Samcheok after only a couple hours on the bus. But, waiting outside and talking to one of the local military kids (before I boarded my bus) that could speak English, I found out that two hours is quite a long way away. As he explained, ‘You live in America, everything is big. Two hours is nothing. Here it is so far because we all grew up in the same village and have never left. Going to work in the military is very scary for us.’
And scary, it must be. Right out of bootcamp, South Korean soldiers are expected to stand watch at the DMZ, a place of international apprehension so profound that it literally has dozens of nations keeping round-the-clock tabs on the news coming from the region. That’s a rough first duty station. And the moment that this all fell on me, I was brought back to my own experience with boot camp putting out electrical fires in full firefighter gear. Because when there’s a fire on a ship, we’re all fire fighters – or we’re all dead.
Now that was enlightening. In fact, it’s conversations like that one that really help my perspective take the back seat as I really meld into the new, foreign cultures and what they’re used to around the world. Just the two-hour bus ride that I took a nap on was one that he and all of the friends (which were graduating boot camp with him that day) had never experienced before they left high school. Now, faced with this new, big country (about the size of Indiana), they are only focused on the next 22 months of forced dedication to their government’s military.
I remember when I joined the military, I flew half-way across the nation – a distance that would be the equivalent to South Korean teens traveling from their country to Southeast Asia. And I didn’t even know this sentiment existed until I spoke with this young man today. I suppose, when I joined, I was about the same age, cared about the same things (which is to say, very little) and paid attention to little else. So, seeing it from his perspective, it was a really interesting interaction.
The young soldiers left for their bus and I sat, breathing in the crisp, clean air coming in from the arctic winds and gathering together with the salty, North Pacific currents and pondering many times past. I honestly haven’t breathed in air this fresh since being back in Alaska. It was such a refreshing feeling. I sat there with my eyes closed in a crowded bus station just drifting into someplace else that had nothing to do with Korea.
On the bus, an older man sat staring at me with the emotionless observation of a motorized camera mounted behind bulletproof glass. It continued for the bulk of the time we were in motion. When I’d look over at him he’d look quickly away as though he was looking at something else. Then, when I looked away, he’d return his studying gaze to me and examine me with all his attention. And it occurred to me that Asians, Koreans in particular, really can’t conceptualize the idea of seeing at something without looking directly at it – sort of the way I was “watching” at this guy.
The same was true when I was in Central America. I had sunglasses on and I knew that a man was looking at me and where I’d hidden my camera after taking it out frequently to snap shots off the side of the boat on our ferry ride from Punta Renas, Costa Rica, to the Montezuma coastline on the inner jetty of the Pacific peninsula. I finally dropped my sunglasses down onto the lower bridge of my nose and looked directly at him. And when our gaze met, he looked away and never looked back at me.
There is definitely a different kind of mentality and awareness that takes place in developing nations than that which is learned by westerners as they grow up. “Don’t stare. It’s rude,” our mothers would say, reminding us youngsters of the ability of others to be aware and to be made uncomfortable by someone leering at them incessantly. But, as I have noticed in other Asian nations, it simply isn’t instilled in their youth as it is back in the U.S.
On to Samcheok; the entire reason that I came here was because I read about the Haesindang Park (http://visitkorea.or.kr), or phallic sculpture park.
Now, this seemingly simple park dedicated to the manliest organ in the human anatomy sits on a beautiful, craggy coastline with an amazing view of the North Pacific. It would appear that at some point, the locals may have wanted to put something together in such a way that they were perhaps tired of the same old parks and the kitschy things abound therein. So they
erected (excuse the pun) these stoic phalluses in an effort to shake things up.
But this is not the case. Rest assured that there is a truly deeper and more interesting meaning behind these formations. Located in a little village surrounded by mountains and agricultural valleys, this park sits alongside lots of other parks including an aquarium and a fishing village folk museum.
Legend has it that a young boy’s unending passion for a young girl, Aebawi, who drown in the shores off the coast of the area that this park overlooks, spurred the construction of this peculiar place. But what’s more popular is the story of her spirit, who, as the fable goes, was affecting Sinnam’s fishing catch.
The locals thought, rather than changing tides, warming ocean currents, climate change or simply a series of coincidentally bad fishing seasons, that the maiden’s soul was wandering alone and desperate without her lover so she was angered into finding vengeance in the form of low marine yields. And in response to this, and in an effort to appease her, they produced a multitude of items they thought comprised all a girl could want.
In fact, more than 50 of these oversized constructions were placed at the cusp of the cliff side to allow her some satisfaction (again, with the puns; I am truly sorry). Among them are drums, cute little seats and even a huge bench – complete with carved areas that support the genitals and vaginas for legs. There’s even an area at the upper entrance to the park that represents the 12 animals of the zodiac (photo above), presumably so that just in case the specter was into bestiality she’d be covered.
There would be more of these magnificent monuments, as the town used to host a penis sculpture festival and contest. But Christian protestors put an end to that. But they couldn’t stop the Moon Festival in February following Soellal, Korea’s New Year, which is normally around the end of January. It’s the first day of the lunar year. In this festival, there’s still a slight inclination to giving the faithful the finger as the “tug-of-war” and “jousting” competitions are afoot and in full, suggestive effect.
Most of the figures are carvings from local felled trees. But there are some castings from concrete as well. Her likeness appears as a bronze statuette overlooking the entire park. There are even what appear to be three extremely excited villagers calling to her from atop the overlook in an effort to welcome her with open arms – and zippers.
Of course, by the size of the creations in this park might just be the Asian response to being genetically slighted. I won’t speculate as to which is more true. But I just like calling a spade a spade, reporting the facts, posing inquiries and, of course, posting lots of photos.
And, speaking of that, please enjoy this gallery of just that.
The Gallery:
Heading back to town, I plan to head to Gangneung and Jeongdongdin to check out the exotic gardens that are said to be religiously attended to and have the air of beauty unlike any place in the region.
But the more interesting thing for me is to investigate the 1996 incident where a 35-meter long North Korean sub containing 25 frightened commies and one pissed-off commander who destroyed the evidence of their espionage before it could be retrieved.
As the story goes, the sub ran aground on the rocky coast and made a break for it, heading northward in hopes of somehow making it back to their country. And, of the 26 men that planned to brave hundreds of miles of electric fences, minefields and wild, Asiatic bears through the DMZ or tempt fate through arctic waters, one escaped the South Korean army.
The South Koreans, on the other hand, were not so lucky in the skirmish. In the 49-day search-and-destroy mission by the SK Rangers, they lost 16 civilians and soldiers to enemy fire and another 26 were injured.
But things were not all roses and sunshine for the North Korean soldiers either. Eleven of the crew members, rather than be captured, committed murder-suicides, 13 were killed when entangled in firefights with the South and one lucky guy got captured, and even given a job as an advisor to the South Korean Naval Fleet Command. It is thought that the last member actually made it out of the country alive. But I am sure he didn’t head back to North Korea. They’d probably torture the poor guy in retribution for his buddy’s promotion.
Day 6: Seoraksan National Park and the Naksan Provincial Park
Okay, so yesterday it was rainy and cold in Sokcho: the perfect day for editing photos, catching up on the journal and planning the next few days on the road. So after a nice, relaxing day to rest up and take it easy, I headed out this morning to the Seoraksan National Park. And, among other things, it’s absolutely breathtaking. The rock formations, the temples, the statues and artistry therein: beautiful.
The bus ride up to the park, though, was a great start to the day. Along with being the right thing to do, all over Asia, it’s expected that if you’re on a subway or bus, you give up your seat to elderly people and pregnant women. So, having that knowledge I graciously offered up my first seat to the elderly lady that boarded our half-filled bus two stops into the trip. Then the second. Then the third. Eventually, I just gave up and stood, noticing just how many old people live in this town. It’s amazing. They must have a great pension plan in this region of the country. It must be a hot spot for whatever Asians do instead of Bingo in their old age.
Whatever the case, I was becoming quite the entertaining element for all the old ladies at the back of the bus. Finally a seat would come empty as the bus emptied through the city. And the stop after I would sit, inevitably someone would board fitting the description of needing-the-seat-more-than-me. So I ended up just sitting half-assed on the inner wall of the wheel well that protruded past the seat above the driver’s side rear wheel. This pulled all but applause from the chorus of Asian cackling in the aft decks. But I knew that they all loved to see a foreign person obeying their virtues and being respectful. So I didn’t take any offence. Besides, I had hiking on the brain with a hefty reward of great views ahead.
And speaking of that: I am finding that “hard hikes,” per the Asian description, are more like easy. So unless they say, “It’s very, very difficult,” you’re likely to have a nice, easy climb to the top of whatever mountain you were told about by your nice, Asian “suggesteur.” Nevertheless, I decided to take the lazy way up the mountain and see the sights from there. I am glad that I did because I got a late start. But even if I went up earlier, the sun didn’t really give me too much to work with in the morning. Or perhaps I should say the clouds didn’t.
One thing I noticed, looking around at everyone who was at the park, though, is that they all love to wear their latest purchases at the lovely, little designer gear shops. Even in this tiny little town, items right out of Paris can be found in their full majesty. From sporty shoes to expensive suits – neither of which are useful in this snowy part of the world – can be found peppering the main drag of Sokcho.
But it’s still Asia. So, along with Hilfiger and Armani, they’ve also come up with amazing ways to provide quality, garner sales and still manage to save the customer’s hard earned Won. I give you The Red Face brand of outdoor gear; which carries all the latest fashions, all the climbing, hiking and camping equipment you’d ever need and even comes with a three-month warranty.
At any rate, though it was a tricky day for setting the camera for the ever-changing light patterns, I still wound up coming away with a great set of photos for the trip. So, in keeping with the great tradition of all good photographers, I will, instead of describing all the wonderful sights in detail, just let you get a peek at the peak from the pics.
The gallery below includes the best shots from the top and surrounds. I know that they are not the same as being there. They never really are. But hopefully you will enjoy this lovely little corner of northeastern South Korea from your computer screen in the best view that I can provide.
The atmosphere at the top was really cool. Once the cable car drops you off, it’s only a 10-minute hike to the very cusp of the mountain’s summit. You can literally stand on the very top of the highest rock on the peak. And just below it there are families having lunch and enjoying the brisk gales passing over on their way to the clouds above. The teenagers blasting their latest downloads from their iPods was a little annoying, but I guess you can’t have everything.
And if that wasn’t the most impressive part of the mountain, there was another unexpected item there. There was this guy running a little “shop” just below the summit. And, by the look of his face and physique, he’s exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to find there. He had climbing ropes and other gear available for those willing to brave the shear vertical cliff face. But what you wouldn’t expect to find there was his very large table, goods for sale (other than climbing gear), little medals (presumably to reward yourself for climbing the 10 minutes to get there), and his engraving gear for the medals – complete with power generator and etching tools.
How they got all the way up there is a wonder, but there they were; adding to the strangeness of the situation. I was going to ask him if he took credit cards because I just wasn’t ready for another shock. But I enjoyed the interesting conversation I had with him while I was busy snapping away in all directions.
I even noticed people in designer hiking boots while I was talking and taking photos. The guy must have thought I didn’t care at all for what he was saying. But he acted polite and forgiving enough.
Another strange thing that came about from the trip was that they asked me for my ticket to return back down the cable car. At first, this isn’t really that interesting. But what if I lost my ticket? Would they make me throw my belt over the line and zip down the 1400-meter descent to the park? Again, I wasn’t going to ask. But I figured I would jot it down on my little note pad for writing this journal later. Ahh, the things I think about when there’s nothing but thoughts and new experiences to entertain the mind…
For lunch I had fish sausage (yep, fish sausage) in “spicy paste” and dumplings with kimchi. It was delicious. So much so that I took a photo of it just to share it with you – in some small way. The good part about eating out in Korea is that they force you to chow down without silverware. Chopsticks alone with one, tiny napkin and your meal. If you don’t have alcohol with
your meal they look at you like you’re far too sober to understand the question. This is, of course, evidenced by the fact that they ask you several times if you want an alcoholic beverage. Then, when you say water, a familiar look of disgust aligns the panes in their face just before they turn to retrieve your tasteless (but refreshing) beverage.
After lunch I headed toward the bus station by way of the tourist shops. I have to say; they had some top quality knick-knacks in there. It wasn’t your normal trinket dive. They had everything from marble sculptures that you wouldn’t even be able to carry home to elegantly crafted small, wooden figurines of monks standing in the wind – or so the bark was shaped to indicate. And, of course, they had your everyday stuff like back scratchers and necklaces. But I had a bus to catch. So I couldn’t hang around too long.
I am not sure how many of you readers know much about meditation and the hand movements and finger movements that form ideas, or Mantras, for the person meditating. But on the bus ride back into town, I met this monk who decided he wanted to tell me all about the hand gestures that mean different things for meditative purposes.
For instance, holding the hand up, palm out, and thumb-to-ring finger connected means waterfall. Invert that same hand palm up, and you have a tree or mountain – depending on what you like better. Index finger-to-thumb and all other fingers connected and extended straight up means wind. Invert that same coordination and you have fire.
He was going to continue, and I was very interested in finding out more, but he got a call on his cell phone and spent the rest of the time LOL-ing with his BFF. So that’s all I could get from him.
Now, I am not artist, and therefore have no artist’s eye. But I know enough to know that this place has been painstakingly refurbished in the type of time-consuming manner that we in the west – well we simply don’t have time for. And as a non-artiste, I will again turn you over to the photos that I was able to capture of this absolutely magical place. That entertained me until I got to the Naksan-sa Temple just outside the beach area and up the hill overlooking the lower part of town. It was established in 671 and is protected from the sea by the Goddess of Mercy, Gwaneum, represented in a 15-meter-tall statue of her looking southward just barely
within eye-shot of the temples. Unfortunately She’s not a multi-tasker, though, since she’s not done any good at protecting the temples from the many fires that have besieged the surrounding forested areas since its inception.
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!
Looking back on the troubles of transportation that I endured in Laos, they seem more humorous now that I am looking back on them. So perhaps this journal will be a bit more lighthearted than the previous one.
View from the hotel window at Vientiane
At any rate, I left off after the first day in Vientiane: The next day I attempted to purchase a ticket for the slow boat up to the Thai Border. I was pushing my timetable back quite a bit and the boss back in Bangkok was beginning to send me some eerie vibes of dismissal if I was to not show back up on the predetermined date. I knew that he was more worried that I would do to him what many before me had done and simply wait until the last minute before jumping ship and thereby getting as much of my salary as possible from the company before springing the news on them. The news would probably sound something like, “Hey, I have a family tragedy and need to return to the states.” That line (and many others) has no doubt been used since the beginning of this type of profession. Not only does the international job hunt invite some interesting characters to the trough, it also has its share of excuses to high-tail it when the paychecks come in. The translation to most of these excuses probably goes a little something like this:
I have worked for you just long enough that I have made the money to travel elsewhere. No hard feelings and sorry for providing you with fake transcripts and dodgy resume references. But I had a nice time and now that I am finished sponging up the last of the funds you’re willing to dole out, I will be on my way.
I am not naïve. I am dedicated to my job and I have long will no longer surrender my integrity for money. But I know that there are people that come here just to support their travels and then they are off to the lands of elsewhere. The company I work for happens to be one of the better ones at spotting these types of individuals – albeit there are a few that slip through the cracks. But I work with an office full of guys that have either been there for the last five years or are married with Thai children and are established here. So I don’t really see a lot of drifters.
At any rate, the edge waters and aquatic thoroughfares of the Lao terrain are not to be missed, so I have heard. And I wasn’t aiming to miss any of these. The Mekong has been a long coveted waterway that I have wanted to navigate for some time. I was to take the five-day ride through what I was hoping was as moving and enlightening an experience as the Songkhla River to the Tonle Sap in Cambodia. And if you have kept up with my journals, you’ll have an idea of just how monumental and eye-opening that trip was.
Once at the boat dock, though, I was met with an impasse – the dry season had already started and the mountain runoff had been too little to bring the waters to a navigable level and river and so no boats were running. I had to take a bus, the ferry guide said, but that may prove to be fortuitous because I would skip the longest leg of the river and might even have a better chance of catching the higher part of the river at Luangprabang. The bus, a short jaunt of about 18 hours by, you guessed it, a sleeper bus, would have me there and ready to ferry the rest of the way to the Thai border.
It was late in the morning, so I wouldn’t make it to the buses leaving that day. But later in the day I could kill two birds with one stone by taking the night bus, sleeping on the bus and save myself the hotel fee. And since the Lao infrastructure was such that ATMs were scarce, this would help me out even more.
I went sightseeing through the city and took my time making it to the bus terminal and left later that afternoon. This worked out well, I thought, but I was soon met with more Lao letdowns. The man at the ticket booth gave me a horrible exchange rate for the last of my Vietnam dong (VN currency) and as he handed me the change for this horrible transaction, he just then happened to remember that the sleeper bus had broken down and my bus ticket had been changed to a local service bus. That meant that instead of spending 18 reclined hours on a slightly bumpy but air-conditioned transport captained by a tour agency professional, I would be sweating non-stop aboard a tiny, rickety rust box where I would likely eaten alive by mosquitoes while losing the feeling in my cramped, pretzeled limbs. But this was the good news.
About halfway through the trip – give or take a few hours of bobbing consciousness – our bus broke down and we had to wait roadside in order to board a larger bus filled with other passengers on their way northward. So I went from a most uncomfortable cushioned seat on which only half of my ass fit, to a completely uncomfortable ride where I found myself on a tiny stool on which about a third of my ass fit – and having to twist sideways and lean on the chair of the poor, tiny Asian next to me for the rest of the ride in order to hopefully drift off long enough to trick my body into thinking it was quality sleep.
I never thought I would make it. But I did. I am sitting here now thinking back to how laughable the situation really was. And if I think hard enough back, I can actually remember myself chuckling a few times at just how ridiculous the situation actually got. I would not have done it a few years ago. I would have stomped into the terminal and demanded my money back. But I have grown very patient under trying times in the past few years. And I am thankful for my lessons with each new hurdle. It has proved inestimable time and time again.
In Luangprabang, I was faced with more defeating news; the river was still unmanageable for larger transport boats. I again found this out at the boat dock and it again delayed my bus travel. But this time it was a real blessing because I got to see the most amazing waterfall and had the most fun I think I have had in a long time.
I trekked through a small bit of jungle and saw some wild Asiatic black bears to make my way to a multi-tiered waterfall with a rope swing. It was a welcomed retreat. I had a few hours to kill before I was ripped off, lied to and forced aboard another tiny bucket of bolts. So I figured I would treat myself to a nice, cool, glacial-fed dip.
It was truly magnificent. The ride is about an hour outside of town. This beautiful waterfall traversing lush foliage in northern Laos was called Kuang Si. And it was just like Disneyland. The water was cool, the grounds were kept by monks at the nearby monastery and you could take the half-hour hike to the crest of the mountain and see the entire waterfall and all its sparkling blue tiers that look like lily pads down on the ground. Walking up the trail, thick with trees, the sun-speckled water shimmered and writhed as it made its way down into each new, little waterfall. It was a great hike. And once I finished the hike I was rewarded with a nice, cool dip. The chilly, restful soak was like a fresh start. And looking all around while wading, its emerald-blue hue and strikingly cold temperature contrasted the thick, hot air above the water, I could see wildlife everywhere also enjoying this magical place.
To be honest, it was hard to believe that this place existed. I hadn’t heard about it in any of the books I read or from any of the accompanying travelers. But that was probably because they were as travel-fatigued as I was from their own particular mobile disasters. But there I was, swinging my big, tattooed self off a tree trunk and into an icy, blue brew.
I climbed, swam, snapped a few shots and headed back to my underhanded driver. He drove me about halfway to the bus and stopped to tell me that I needed to pay him some more money. So I swiftly hopped out, turned and stuck out my thumb. He changed his story and said that he could bring me back but I had already had enough of his antics. Besides, it was no time before another vehicle happened by and I climbed aboard for the ride into town. It was a pickup truck and to my surprise the back was filled with Spaniards. So I spoke the first Spanish that I have spoken in a long time. It was an interesting turn of events and I made it back to the bus just in time to run alongside it and throw my things aboard and dive into the swung-open door. It’s really anybody’s guess as to why he didn’t just stop. He seemed to have no problem with stopping more than a handful of times to relieve himself during the trip. But nevertheless, I was on my way to the last border before Thailand.
I touch down on the Thai border from the Mekong River
At that point, I would have to sail the Mekong. It was the only way to get to Thailand. And though it was only a five minute ferry ride, I enjoyed all five of them as though to also say goodbye to my Lao troubles and welcome back the smiles and simple life of the Thai people.
‘What a relief to be back,’ I thought, as I stepped off the boat onto the coarsely dry soil of the Kingdom of Thailand. I would spend a day trekking through Chiang Rai before heading to the latter of the mountain destinations; Chiang Mai.
I have never been to Chiang Mai since being here but it was great. I got a bedroom next to a fellow international bicyclist from Ireland and we swapped stories for the two days I was there about our travels. It was nice to have a good return on that perspective again. It was also nice to have a massage, a beer and an ATM.
Chiang Mai is just like my town, Surat Thani, in many ways. Firstly, it’s very slow and low key. However, it is very liberal and hippy-ish. That’s a sharp contrast to the wealthy, conservative atmosphere to which I am akin in the south. I liked the night life. I don’t do much bar hopping anymore. But I went out with my new Irish friend and had a hell of a time. We made our way to a place where there were several music bars playing all manner of western music. It was the first time that I had experienced a live band doing a good job of playing American favorites since I have been in Asia.
The next day I checked my email, showered, packed my things and boarded a train headed to Bangkok. From that point all the way to the bus that dropped me off in front of my friend’s house (where my other belongings were stowed while I was away) there were really no issues of note – or at least there weren’t any that stick so far out in my memory that they are coming to me at 11:00 p.m. while I am writing this. So I should say that this last leg simply went smoothly and I made it home safe and sound.
The next day I donned a suit, tie and shiny, leather shoes and headed off to teach a new batch of kiddies for the term. I was actually looking forward to a regular schedule again – even if that meant sweating under a shirt and tie.
More updates are on the way as I plan my new classes, edit my newest photos, build my website (cyleodonnell.com), enter photo contests, write, take photos, experience my expat life here in Asia and generally live the life that I love living.
Thanks so much for being there on this journey with me. It’s meant a lot to have had your comments, your support and most of all your friendship.
Well, I am all done with my latest trek and I have to say, these last four weeks are sticking to the corners of my mind like a tired, old, has-been band clinging desperately to their last functioning members. I just can’t shake these thoughts. It’s been exhausting trying to get back to Surat Thani by my company’s deadline but I am finally here and, with an elongated sigh of relief, I am resting. I feel physically drained but mentally motivated. I almost want to head right back out and do it again – if only for the wonders that travel like this exercises and incites.
As I said, I was trying hard to get through Laos to get back to Thailand by a certain time. Well Laos had its challenges to be sure. In fact, they started before I even got into the country. Traveling by bus has not been terribly bad until I got here. In fact, I think of my bus travel more as an important part of the trip rather than a hinderence. But in Laos it’s a different story.
Leaving Sapa to get back down to Ha Noi was no task at all. When I arrived at the station I knew that I had purchased a ticket to leave on the 8:30 p.m. sleeper to the city. But because Vietnam is Vietnam and, in that, a very disorganized country altogether – tourism travel included – my ticket was mixed up and when I went to board the train I saw that my time was designated for the later train. The place where you pick up your ticket is really just a restaurant. You wait for a guy with a white folder to show up and you give him your pay receipt and he reaches into his little file and pulls out what comes close to being your ticket arrangement. I simply didn’t look hard enough at it after he gave it to me. But no matter; there was a lady that needed to go on a later train with her husband and at the last minute I swapped out tickets and ran after the moving train waving my ticket and shouting. I felt a little like an Owen brother on the Darjeeling Limited.
In Ha Noi my options for travel into Laos were either an 18 hour seated bus or a 24 hour sleeper. I chose the sleeper and the next evening I was off. The hotel staff was nice enough. But nevertheless they were all out to get that almighty dong (or dollar, as the translation goes). It’s really scandalous, the raping of tourists that goes on there. But that’s another journal altogether.
My ticket arrangement had me being picked up by bus, which seemed pretty straight forward when I booked it. But after I’d been sitting for more than an hour after the time that the bus was supposed to arrive, it finally showed up. And this wasn’t the worst of the evenings dilemmas.
Once on the bus, I shot straight for the front seat as I knew that I would neither fit in the back seats nor did I want to be one of the poor, unfortunate souls to be pickled in with the abounding luggage that would surely be toppling over them as we stopped at more and more hotels on the way to the bus stop.
By the time we got to where we were going the wheels were rubbing against the undercarriage of the van and there were people literally lying overtop others in the back seats. It was not a comfortable ride. Nor was the fact that the “bus station” was really just an open spot below a highway overpass. Most of us paused when the driver stopped and told us to get out. I immediately asked him if he was actually the official driver or just a shiftless conman that happened to own a van and had a record of picking and dropping off unwitting tourists at the backs of abandoned buildings all over town.
But, as we found out just 45 short minutes later, the tour busses rolled in and we clamored aboard for the long trip ahead.
They call them sleepers. But by a truer definition, these sardine-can, shockless, foam storage units should really be called reapers – as that’s what you dream of in the 15 minutes of sleep that sheer exhaustion forces upon you after the 17th hour aboard one.
One redeeming quality of being awake in the wee hours of the morning is the view of the sunset. I did get an okay shot of that. And how many times do you get to snap a shot of the sun climbing over the countryside of Laos?
But speaking of edgy; they are, as one traveling acquaintance put it, very short sighted. The fact that the entire country is (at least in the more touristy areas) out to get your wallet and has no interest in leaving you with any semblance of a good impression of your time in their country, makes for a very difficult time in trying to write something positive about my experiences there.
The first problem is that there is absolutely no room for anything resembling a “personal bubble.” This means that people are always touching you. In fact, they are always rubbing against you, tugging on you, even almost running over you. That alone was enough to keep me in my guesthouse the entire time – coming from Alaska where you have no choice but to spread out and claim a very large personal space for yourself. But when you factor in the idea that the people will literally chase you down the road to get you to buy whatever they’re selling; well it’s a little nerve-racking. It’s more prevalent in the larger cities but still a part of the interaction throughout the country. I even talked to a local at a shop who was teaching at a university in Ha Noi who was haggling with a man over a loaf of bread. I told him that you have to start really low in order to get the price you want and if they go too high, just walk away and wait for them to chase you, shouting out a better price. He surprised me by saying that he comes to this market every day and even though the locals know him by name, he still has to go into this huge spell of haggling before they will agree to a good price. His skin, he insisted, was the only reason for this, because even though he spoke fluent Vietnamese, taught many of their children in school, lived there almost five years, paid local taxes, knew local prices and supported local events, it was always the same. He was just white and that was all there was to it.
After that, I didn’t feel so bad. But on to Laos: Now Laos had some interesting troubles of its own. Not that the people, food or accommodations were bad. In fact they were all quite a lovely part of the experience. The people were simple, happy and helpful. The food was tasty, well-cooked and plentiful. And the rooms were clean, dry and came with mostly soft beds. It was just the travel – or lack of travel – that really upset me.
Just to get to Vientiane I had to really exercise patience. About ten hours in to the bumpy, edgy ride, I felt the bus come to a screeching halt and the driver spun out the door in a frenzy of noise and flailing limbs. It would have been entertaining had I been able to see it through the exhaustion-induced tears that puddled in my eyes. Trying to blink them away and gain perspective, I sat up to see what was going on. It wasn’t long before I knew exactly what happened. The bus ahead of us had suddenly died in the climb up into the mountains. It would have killed all of us if it hadn’t been for the high quality speed the driver inhaled before clamoring the bus throughout the roadways of eastern Laos.
I don’t know what you’ve heard about the conditions of the passageways that snake their way through developing nations. But believe them. Whatever the tall tale, however thin the yarn spun; believe it all. Forget barriers that might keep you from sliding off the mountainside off into the dark cliffsides along the roadway. Forget pavement. Forget a crew of government-paid workers who service the roads with any regularity. You could consider yourself lucky if underfoot there was gravel – under which was solid ground rather than the more common, long-since sloping handiwork of local chisel owners from thirty years ago.
Just before rolling over to try and get some sleep, my Auzzie bunk mate said that the last time he was in Laos, his tour bus driver ran a taxi off the road and over the side of the mountain and didn’t even stop. I wondered why he even came back, knowing that he was part of a tour that likely witnessed vehicular manslaughter. But he chuckled and turned away from me before I could fashion the question.
So it’s not just the shanty roadways (if you can call them that) that you have to worry about. It’s also the license-less drivers that traverse the night; foreign passengers in tow.
Once in Vientiane, after the arduous 20-hour ride through what I must have been my introduction to a series of the most unknown close calls in my life, I found a hotel, found a restaurant and found some sleep. The next day I would be off to Luangprabang. I wanted to take the river boat up the Mekong and over to the Thai border. But things would change the next day and I would have no way of guessing the kind of trouble that would change them.
Today I will be leaving for another one of my favorite pastimes; a photo-documentary excursion into a new and foreign culture.
This one seems a bit strange. I have had an odd feeling about this trip for the last few weeks and I just can’t figure out why. I have numbered it down to a few interesting points and possibilities, but I think the most likely source of my feelings is the idea that I am compounding travel. That’s to say that I have been living in Southeast Asia for almost a half a year, now, and it seems like every day has been travel. I have been immersed in a new culture, eaten nothing but odd new foods, worn the local style of clothing, adapted my speech and mannerisms to suit the respectable level of the community, and I have taken every opportunity that came up to go out and take photos and write journals about this amazing place. But since I am finding myself as settled as an expat can be, I am still going on what is known as a “traveling” vacation.
It just seems strange to me that while I am in a place of “all things foreign” I am still calling this little journey a “trip.” Perhaps I am finding life as a live-abroad expatriate less like travel and more like a semi-permanent, elongated personal study into the details of life of another culture, yet here I am, ambitious about leaving this place to go and see yet another new and unfamiliar way of life – one that’s still foreign yet not based where I am experiencing travel, absorbing customs and interacting as a stranger in a strange land.
…Or, perhaps I am just thinking too much about it.
In either case, I leave tonight to embark on the latest of what has been the most amazing line-up of events ever to grace me and my path through life.
I will be boarding an overnight train to Bangkok where I will hop on a bus and head east to the Cambodian border at Poipet. From there, I will decide whether or not to trek far into the country, to Siem Reap, and visit a longtime photojournalism goal of mine, Angkor Wat; or to detour by a day and go to Battambang and see the sights of a French colonial town with similar history. I will be reading up on my travel materials on the bus, so perhaps I will decide then. Or maybe I will have traveled too far and plans jumble, as they inherently seem to do, and I will stop short. Or, even more likely a possibility, I will be moved completely off track by some unforeseen circumstance and have to pop a tent somewhere in between.
That’s the information that tomorrow’s journal will bring.
For instance, holding the hand up, palm out, and thumb-to-ring finger connected means waterfall. Invert that same hand palm up, and you have a tree or mountain – depending on what you like better. Index finger-to-thumb and all other fingers connected and extended straight up means wind. Invert that same coordination and you have fire.
