Perhaps my mood in those six short days in Korea had been hijacked by the anxiety of presenting a paper, and the frustration of having to deal with an uncooperative airline. But looking back, as with many experiences and moments in life, it was not so terrible after all.
Someone told me that there is romance to be found in being lost in translation, and perhaps now with the benefit of hindsight I am gradually starting to feel it. To be honest, of all the places I have been in the world (so far…), I have never been exposed to this sense of ‘alie(n)-nation’ as I have felt in Korea. Encounters with the locals often result in the other person and me talking at cross purposes in our own tongues coupled with wild, exaggerated gestures and games of charades. Admittedly, the odd written traditional Chinese character does seem to get the message across.
It does make me wonder: Why is it that in a sophisticated society with such highly educated people the standard of English (or Engrish) is so bad? Or perhaps it is my utterly sordid (read: non-existent) grasp Korean— which goes no more than “anyounghasehyo” (hello) and “gamsahamnida” (thank you)—that is to blame for the ‘culture shock’ in those few hours of arriving.
Despite the problem of not knowing what it was I was ordering at the restaurant a lot of the time, the country and its people did gradually grow on me. And the cuisine, despite the overabundance of kimchy and chilli paste, which gave me a sore throat and stomach, was healthy and always so neatly arranged on beautifully crafted ceramic ware.
Strangely, in Korea, there are many sights, sounds and smells that remind me of my homeland Taiwan. From the narrow and winding side-streets and alleyways with stinking open sewers, to the disorienting bustle of people and traffic; from the flashy and dizzying flash of neo-light displays and ubiquitous convenient stores and restaurants, down to the obsession with cleanliness and washing hands, and the oddly placed English proverbs in front of urinals and bathroom cubicles. If it were not for the scribbles of lines, circles and squares, often I felt I could easily closed my eyes and imagined that I was back home already.
There may be a number of reasons why there are so many similarities. Taiwan and Korea are both “Asian Dragons”— countries a few decades ago were poorer than most African States, but today have thrived to become economic power houses and earned positions in the top twenty trading nations. Both countries lived under decades of dictatorship, but today are held up as models of how to achieve a bloodless transition to a free and open democratic society. Both Korea and Taiwan seem to exist vicariously on the last theatres of the Cold War, living with the constant threat of war emanating from their trigger-happy communist neighbours, while playing the role of pawns in the grand-scheme of the United States’ post-WWII attempt to cling on to its geopolitical influence in the Asia-Pacific.
Both countries experienced Japanese colonisation, albeit very different versions of it. While Korea bore the excesses of forced assimilation of Japanese language and culture, Taiwan, perhaps due to its status as Japan’s first overseas possession, was treated benevolently (if colonisation can ever be described as such) as a model colony. Different national sentiments too may explain the difference in the two countries’ colonial experience. Koreans, with a history as a proud, boisterous and, at times, hot-blooded people, are not ones to submit to foreign reign without resistance. On the other hand, Taiwanese people, being docile Pacific islanders who have seen European colonisers come and go, and the influx of the Han Chinese diaspora throughout the centuries, may be just content to adapt to whatever fate and history blows in from the ocean.
Evidence of the strong attachment Koreans have to national identity and pride lies in the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis, when ordinary Koreans en masse and voluntarily handed in whatever gold and valuables they muster to the government in order to stave of a deep nationwide recession. Not infrequent have I heard stories of second or third generation overseas Koreans having to endure social pressures and frowns for engaging in a relationship with a person of another race.
Whatever the merits are of such a homogenous, or perhaps closed, society, any visitor to Korea cannot deny that it has served to preserve much of the native historical and cultural heritage, which elsewhere in the world is being either gradually erased or overwhelmed by the onslaught of capitalist consumerism, McDonald’s and the tedious desire to build tall, shiny skyscrapers.
Indeed, Korea is a country steeped in Confucian traditions and mannerisms, and guided by the Buddhist belief in equanimity and balance. Indeed, the Taegeuki, the flag of the Republic of Korea, has at its centre the sign for Chinese yin and yang in perfect balance, forming the unity and endlessness of a complete circle. Surrounding the circle are trigrams from Yi Ching, or ‘Book of Changes’, an influential text of divinations, which dates back to almost a millennia before Christ, and which dictates that all universal processes are underscored by the balance of opposites, and undergo the inevitability of change. Yet, with church spires and Bible thumbing evangelist abound, the vast majority of Koreans are actually Christians who have somehow grafted their ancestral roots and deep-seated Korean-ness onto the technological advances and omnipresent capture of Wi-Fi and the latest 4G handsets. The stories of such conglomerates as LG and Samsung owe their success not just to the hard-working work ethic and strong sense of community, but also derive from the ability to make, brand and sell anything and everything from container ships to jet engines to PDAs and instant noodles.
But leave the sprawling and modern cities, and you leave behind the noise, the traffic, and call of street vendors. Which I did when I clandestinely freed myself from the stuffy academic debates of the conference, and ventured to Gyeongju. Located in the South-Eastern corner of the Korean Peninsula, the ancient city was the old capital of Korea during the Silla Empire, which united warring Korean factions and reigned for almost a millennia. The city is filled with ruins, castles and temples, a tribute to the region’s rich history and heritage. No wonder UNESCO designated the city’s limits as a significant World Heritage site.
Somehow I managed to negotiate a bike, and felt my mind and spirit immediately freed as I peddled quickly into the countryside. On a busy road, I cycled past peaceful hills which lay like giant boulders in fields of gold and yellow in a scene reminiscent of Van Gogh’s paintings. The Autumn sun beat down on stems that were laden with heavy luscious grains of rice ready for reaping. A gentle breeze sent the tranquil scene swaying, and was captured in smooth surfaces of the little creeks and ponds that dotted the landscape.
Twenty kilometers or so outside Gyeonju lies Bulkuksa, ‘Temple of the Buddha Land’. Though ransacked and burnt to the ground during Japanese invasions in the 16th Century, it was eventually restored to its former glory during the authoritarian period of the 1970s. As Korea’s most prominent temple, the complex is home to several of the country’s national treasures, including the Seogatap (Pagoda of Buddha) and more elaborately designed Dabotap (Pagoda of many Treasures). Both stone-carved pagodas are a testament to the wisdom and calm nature of Buddhist teachings, as well as the opposites and contrasts of the world. While the former is simple in shape and form, representing the depth of the spiritual domain, the latter is highly decorated, symbolising the complex and chaotic nature of the material world.
Elsewhere in the temple complex, are various shrine halls that house different incarnations of the Buddha in his different terrestrial and celestial forms. The roof edges are ornately and colourfully designed, carved in shapes of dragons and other mythical creatures, whose ferocious looks are supposed to scare away evil spirits. Tiles and temple walls were etched with natural and simplistic designs of flowers and leaves, as well the Buddhist swastika—commonly known in East Asia as the symbol for eternity and serenity.
A few kilometres further up the mountain, hidden behind the dense foliage, is Seokguram Grotto. Hiking up the mountain took up a good hour, and left me panting in the heat. Overlooking the land below, and imagining the sea in the foggy distance, how painstakingly tough it must have been centuries ago for the craftsmen and artists to haul those gigantic rocks and building materials up the steep gradients.
Inside the grotto itself, a tall Buddha statue sits atop of a lotus flower, with leg crossed and hands in a posture that symbolise fearlessness and resistance to the evil ways of the world. The smooth sculpture radiates with an almost divine sense of stillness, yet the Buddha’s serene face and expression hold such strength. All around the Buddha, sublimely carved into the face of the domed structure, are the Buddha’s disciples and various other deities. For centuries till this day, the Buddha’s silent gaze guards over this land, day and night, night and day. The “Land of Morning Calm”.
