PusanWeb Writings - Essays, Fiction, and Poetry from Busan, Korea

by Sheila Windle

1, MEATLOAF

Mr. Brotherhood told us about language barrier in grade ten geography class. Mr. Brotherhood was an excellent teacher: well prepared, highly knowledgeable, and able to draw on a wealth of personal experience. He and his wife had travelled the world, and Mr. Brotherhood brought the world to our pre-internet classroom through slides, stories, activities, pictures and movies. In grade 9 we were too mischievous to benefit much. During slide shows, even on the slides where there were just trees or tall animals, we would ask in whispers to one another, “Is that you, sir?” or “Is that your wife, sir?” Granted, they were a stately couple, Mrs. Brotherhood just an inch shy of her 6’3” husband.

One day Mr. Brotherhood gave Phil Sirosky a detention for talking too much. Phil answered, “I can’t sir. I have to put the meatloaf in the oven at 3:45.” We laughed. Mr. Brotherhood said, “Is the meatloaf that important, Philip?” Phil answered “Yes sir. A man’s got to eat.” More laughter. Mr. Brotherhood: “Tell me young man, are the Sirosky’s having company tonight?” Phil: “No, sir.” Mr. Brotherhood: “Well they are now. A man’s got to eat,” he said, taking out his plan book. “Let’s see … you’re putting the meatloaf in at 3:45 … it should be ready by 5:15. Let your mother know I’ll be there at 5:00 for a small chat before dinner.” We were impressed; Phil was panic-stricken.

We had settled down considerably by grade 10 when, in World Geography, Mr. Brotherhood mentioned language barrier as a potential source of difficulty when travelling. This was not hard to grasp or to write on a test. It was one of those abstract terms you “learned.” Fifteen years later in Korea, I learned something else: it was a lot easier to write “language barrier” on a test than to experience its reality.

2. WHAT THE …?

I recall taking the Pusan- Seoul train for the first time. Periodically, announcements would come over the public address system. Not understanding a single word was not as disconcerting as the seeming urgency of the messages. A more logical mind might assume standard announcements such as the next stop, caution to not forget one’s belongings, guidance toward the proper exit. This mind, however, was prone to taking off on its own track, a dangerous run-away fuelled by imaginathene and extrapoline. Did they say there’s a blockage of the tracks up ahead? What’s going on? Maybe we’re not going to get to Seoul. Maybe we’ve already passed Seoul. This might not even be the train to Seoul. I got on the wrong train! People kept staring too. Why are they staring? Maybe the announcement said all foreigners had to get off the train or move to the baggage car. Something is going on here. I’m not paranoid but that sounded like a military order. We must be getting close to the DMZ. That’s it: the North Korean army is threatening to hijack the train. Or maybe somebody got caught for smoking in the bathroom. The language barrier was fertile ground for many an odd thought, like three days later when I left Seoul.

Sunday afternoon, the subway level of Seoul Station was pulsing with people, like Grand Central in New York but the throngs were more dense, the people moving faster, the ceilings lower, the walls closer, snippets of conversation incomprehensible, public service announcements blaring, people staring … the noise, the walls, the people, the pace, the stares, … they’re all going to attack on cue from the public service announcer… gotta get out … people blocking my way … on purpose? What are they doing? More announcements blasting through ... can’t understand anything …“Remove all foreigners from the building. Exterminate all foreigners immediately.” There’s an exit! I took the stairs two at a time, hauling my bag, wrenching my back, …doh. Outside. Breathe. Nobody was in pursuit. Rain fell lightly. I wanted to know … wanted to know … what people were saying, how to speak … and suddenly from within emerged a great desire to phone Mr. Brotherhood and say, “I got it! You know what you taught us about language barrier? I got it – I mean, really got it! …Ya. Grade ten. … What do you mean who is this?”

There were less odd encounters with the language barrier. Our pay cheques were direct deposited. This was convenient for the “in crowd” who could read the bank machine screen. The “in crowd” of Korea: how confidently they swaggered up to the machine; how nonchalantly they pushed the right buttons - in the right order, no less; how regularly they walked away satisfied; how pompously casual they were about it all. The “out crowd”, on the other hand, stood wide-eyed, trying to make sense of the pretty characters on the screen until rescued by one of the “in crowd” or pressured by deep breathing on the shoulder area and/or the threat of heel stepping. Bank lines were one place where personal space issues could be felt out, so to speak.

Inexperience with illiteracy caused me to seek out students. This might be a valuable learning opportunity for both sides, I thought. The students had other thoughts. Their gasps, nervous laughter and expressions of alarmed disbelief suggested they were thinking, “It is not possible: all-knowing foreign teacher knows nothing.” They managed to overcome their incredulity long enough to give a demonstration with instructions: “Begin … this … kurigo … ha ha ha … and … pimil … uh … secret … secret number give me please … and … this … here … and … how muchee? … and … okay.” It worked. “Thank you very muchee.” I failed to take notes.

The next payday, I went it alone. How hard could it be to take money out of a bank machine? How hard? Well, how hard is impossible? The young man next in line helped. “Pimil?” I gave him my secret number. “How muchee?” He explained the transaction, pointing to the receipt. I nodded my ignorance. Bowing, extending two hands, he gave me the money. I thought him an exceptionally polite young man. I thanked him and departed. “Oh – oh – sir – ca-deu.” He gave me my bankcard. I thought him an exceptionally honest young man.

Things came regularly in the mail. My apartment number was on the envelopes. They looked like bills: there were numbers in rows and a bigger number in a coloured box. At the top or bottom were what looked like dates; dates that had one thing in common – the past. Whether hastening to pay overdue bills made any sense is questionable. What is unquestionable, though, is the imprudence of paying bills without knowing what they were for. One might have been for electricity, the other heating and the third … well, I had no idea but the bigger number in the coloured box was so small it didn’t warrant asking. All sound reasoning aside, it felt good to pay a bill. It felt good to do something ordinary citizens were doing. The post office teller would take the money, stamp the paper, give me change and say something conclusive. That was the exit cue. In a virtual linguistic vacuum, such small accomplishments produced inordinately great feelings of satisfaction.

One bill really screwed me up though. It was the bill that apparently did not have to be paid. It was a receipt; possibly it was paid directly from my bank account. I never knew. The third time I tried to pay it, the post office clerk got out a dictionary and wrote on the envelope: “Money – not necessary.” I kept that envelope, each month thereafter matching it up with the incoming bills and not paying it. Still, I never knew what it was all about and I would think to myself as I did on so many occasions, “Ignorance is bliss.” Accepting this in all honesty and humility was part of dealing with the language barrier. Living in the vacuum too, allowed a person to explore the musings of her crazy mind.

In department and grocery stores, the messages were always loud and energetic; not unlike cheerleaders’ chants but more irritating. The tone, the volume, the speed, my complete ignorance and overactive subconscious all combined to have me wondering whether the North Korean army was approaching as we traversed the aisles of the supermarket. Scouting the district, it seemed nobody else was scrambling for shelter so I ruled out that possibility. Maybe the store is closing in five minutes and the message is: “Hustle in, hustle out, hustle, hustle, hustle!!” as Hummer Hume, our baseball umpire used to holler between innings. Scanning the aisles, I could see no group hustle underway so then I wondered if they were announcing big sales. Buy 10 cans of Spam and get one free! You must leave store with minimum purchase, 11 cans of Spam.” Or, “Tuna – not ordinary – peas and carrots already mixed in tuna can. Easy – tuna salad you can make. Today special – tuna with pea and carrot, one bread and one mayo. All together, let’s buy. These great American products were sold there. What’s more, at holiday times, they were boxed into gift packages: capitalistic residue left over from the war.

3. PATRICK

Keeping one’s sense of humour helped in dealing with the language barrier. In the mix of crazy foreigners in Korea were some comical ones reminding us to step back and laugh. One such foreigner whose humour was remarkably similar to Crazy Phil Sirosky’s, was Crazy Patrick Lane. Patrick described one of his experiences with a taxi driver: “I was going to teach in Daeyon Dong. This cab driver picked me up in On-chun Jang. His taxi was impeccable; Buddhist beads hung from the rear-view mirror. As soon as I got in, I could feel calmness. You know how you sometimes feel that at the temples? It was like that in this guy’s cab. He seemed like the ideal Buddhist follower: composed, controlled, of respectful disposition. I tried to talk to him but he didn’t speak English and my Korean is pathetic so I thought I’d just kick back and tune into the calmness. Even the tape he played was peaceful: Buddhist chanting. It was so relaxing, watching Mount Kum Kang go by, cruising in Korea. I was even considering shaving my head and giving it all up for big brother Buddha … when the driver suddenly hit the brakes and swerved. Another car had cut him off. Under his breath, he said, “**cking son of a bitc*.” I couldn’t believe it until he said it again louder. I just started laughing. He laughed too so I said, “Son of a **tch,” and he came back with “Co** **cker” three times. So I said, “F*** you” and he smiled into the rear view mirror and said, “F*** you *rick!” All he knew were swear words, and he knew how to use them too! I think he learned them in the army. For the rest of the ride, we just swore at each other in English, pausing long enough to laugh and then start again. When I got out of the cab, I shook his hand and said, “Thanks, son of a b****,” and he said, “Bye bye stupid bast***.” I stood there, laughing like a fool as he drove away with his Buddhist chants spilling out the window.”

Another time, Patrick was on his way from Pusan National University to Nam-po Dong. It was 2am after a night of drinking. He had kept just enough cash for a cab home. He mumbled to the driver, “Nam-chun Dong.” The driver responded, “Nam-chum Dong.” Patrick passed out for a while. When he awoke, they were driving through a tunnel. Patrick told the story like this: “I knew there was no tunnel on the way to Nam-po Dong so I said, “Hey, ajasshi … Nam-po Dong.” And he said, Nam-po Dong *&^%!%/, Nam-chun Dong!” So I said “Anni anni! Nam-po Dong!” There was no turning back at that point. The whole way through the tunnel we yelled back and forth: Nam-chun Dong! Nam-po Dong! Nam-chun Dong! Nam-po Dong! I wished he could speak English so we could just say, “Did too.” “Did not.” “Did too.” “Did not.” “Liar.” Liar.” ‘I know you are but what am I?” As it was, when we finally emerged, I couldn’t tell you Nam-po Dong from Nam-chun Dong or Ding-dang Dong from King Kong’s Dong … I just wanted to get home. The driver wanted the fare showing on the meter and he wanted me out of his cab. I gave him every last won I had, right down to the coins, but it wasn’t enough. He looked at me with disgust. I thought he was going to spit in my face but he didn’t. He just started yelling furiously. I slammed the door and he squealed out of there like a bat out of hell.

There I was, stranded on the wrong side of the Hwang Ryung Tunnel at 2:30am with no money. I asked the man in the booth, “Phone?” but he just shook his head and gave me the exact same look of disgust the cab driver had. Just as well he refused to open his window; that way he couldn’t spit. I figured walking through the tunnel was illegal but no other ideas ran through my blank mind so I began. You know, that cement ledge is only yae big: about six inches. Sober it wouldn’t have been as bad but I was still half in the bag. I really had to concentrate to not fall into the traffic lane. At first it wasn’t bad but the further I got into that tunnel the more car exhaust there was. I started coughing. The worst of it all was the freaking horns. Not one of those f***ing cars would stop to give me a lift but every last one of those horny bast*** blared like there was no tomorrow. What the hell were they honking for? To let me know that horns sound 50 times louder in the f***ing Hwang Ryung Tunnel? I was coughing, plugging my ears, and trying to make my way along that ledge. I must have looked like a total freak of nature. Every now and then I’d stagger a bit and that only brought on more horns.

“So you walked the whole way through?”
“Oh ya, all the way. And believe me, that’s a long tunnel. By the time I got out, my ears were booming and my chest was heaving.”
“So what did you do?”
“I had a cigarette, of course. I know how to look after myself.”
“You’re a wild man, man. About how long did the Hwang Ryung Walk take you anyway?”
“I don’t know: definitely more than an hour. You know, there’s quite a bit of traffic going through there at that time of night. Man, I can still hear those horns, echoing and amplifying off the walls. The next day, let me tell you, I had the ultimate pounding headache - and I think I’m still suffering from tunnel vision.”

We had some good laughs at the hands of the language barrier and at the mouth of Patrick. Over time, as we gained a better “sense” of Korea and Korean people, the fear associated with language barrier dissipated. Before it diminished, however, there were three unforgettable episodes. Both the bronze and silver medal performances took place during the first 48 hours; gold in the Scared Sprint would be championed three weeks later.

4. WHITE GLOVES

It was a dark and stormy night. Okay, it wasn’t stormy, but it was night, and as with most nights, it was dark. Plans had been made. I was to purchase a second-hand computer from Dean, a young American who was heading back to the small town of Bath in New York State. That weekend he was to be best man at his best friend’s wedding and then, he was going to try to open up a Korean Bath House. It would be called the Bath Bath.
Dean had given me directions to his apartment next to Kwanganli Beach, one of the many areas of Pusan I had not yet visited. For all I knew, it could be Waikiki Beach. This complicated city had no grid-like organization like Calgary and Edmonton. Pusan’s roads wound in all directions over and around the mountains. On top of this, there were no street names or numbers. Now, language barrier is one thing but telling someone to go somewhere that has no address is quite another. Often the U2 song, “Where the Streets have No Name” came to mind. When I lived in Renfrew, where all the streets had names, I used to really like that song but like “language barrier”, after experiencing its reality, became less enamoured of it. Nonetheless, after a full day of teaching, I boarded what I believed to be the right bus and got off when the announcement sounded kind of sort of possibly something like Kwanganli Beach. There was no beach in sight. Where to now? I think Dean said, "Go down to the water ...” A snaky alley appeared to slide downward so I took it.

After doing the twist with that windy road, I stopped a couple of girls. "Mianhamnida. Beach?" One girl grabbed her girlfriend's arm, shoved her away from me, laughed nervously, and said, "No Englishee! Ha ha ha!" They ran away, looking back and laughing. What an insult. My best Korean and they took it for Englishee. I kept walking. The clock inside a convenience store said 10:40pm. It was late – too late to give up. Besides, Dean was leaving for the United States the following day so this was my only chance. A frightened-looking lady stood at the store counter. I made the same sublinguistic attempt: "Mianhamnida. Beach?"
She said, "Kwanganli Beachee?"
"Yea."
"Uhhh ... you go ... " She came from behind the counter, took my arm, led me to the door, opened it, pointed and said, "Go."

One syllable of English gave me hope and direction. Soon, something caught my nose: the sea! I stopped and listened. Is that the sound of waves? Oh, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, the East Sea, if there will be an answer let it be the East Sea. Smell and sound guided me toward ... yes ... sand plus water equals beach.

Thank goodness for signs in English. "Lotteria" is the Korean version of McDonald’s. Dean had said his apartment building was the first one after Lotteria. I walked faster now, past the Lotteria, to the first apartment building on the right. Two security guards were in the control booth. I heard one of them say, "*%$)/&#^&**%$(/*ayo?" I showed him Dean's name and apartment number. He could read English. He pored over his list of names. Then he re-pored in reverse, bottom to top, back to front. One more time forward, then one more time backwards. He was the most porous man I’d ever met. He asked, “*#*#^!^!**(#!^???” I shrugged my shoulders. The two guards broke into rapid discussion which, though Korean to them, was Greek to me. Every now and then, they would pause to ask me something. I would shrug and point at the paper, which only caused them to resume discussion at a higher volume and speed. They were becoming more immersed in finding a solution.

After fifteen minutes of watching, listening, wondering, pointing and shrugging, exhaustion and frustration overtook me. That what they were saying was what I needed to know compounded the frustration. In a daze, I looked at the men, watched their lips and hands move, heard every staccato syllable, but understood only one thing: that I understood nothing. As the saying goes, I couldn't take it anymore. I bowed to them, turned and walked back to the street.

The invisible language barrier had reached a critical mass that left me a weakened heap of exhausted futility. I wondered if I was losing my sanity. The cumulative effect of cultural, linguistic and geographic adjustment was upon me. For three weeks, a tough skin had absorbed or deflected tiny arrows of language barrier but now in this lost and overtired state, a point of saturation had been reached. One more might be the de-stabilizer.
There were no phones in sight and I had no coins. I went into the Lotteria, gave the teller a 1000-won bill and made the international "phone" gesture. She took the bill and gave me two 500-won coins. I found a phone and dialled the number.

"Hello?"
"Hi. Is this Dean?"
"Ya! Sheila! Where are you?"
"I'm at the Lotteria but I'm not sure if this is the right one."
"Can you see the beach?"
"Ya."
"Well, there's only one Lotteria on Kwanganli Beach so you're at the right place."
"Okay. Where should I go?"
"Just keep walking to the end of the beach and I'll come to meet you."
"Okay. I'm looking at the water. Which way should I turn - right or left?"
"Go right. You're almost at my apt. bldg."
"Okay but ... "
"Or just stay there. I'll come and get you."
"Okay."

Soon, I saw a tall, dark-haired foreign guy walking my way. Feeling relieved, I walked toward him, smiling. He walked past. A lot of Korean people walked by too. I could feel them watching me and when I would look at them they would quickly look away. I stopped looking. Five minutes later another foreigner approached. I played it cool until he said, "Are you Sheila?"
Wow - that sounded so good: English, my name, and the right guy.

"Yes, are you Dean?"
"Ya. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
We shook hands.
“What took you so long?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've been sort of lost."
"Are you okay?"
"Yep."
"My apartment is just up this way."

We walked by the first apartment building.
“I tried going in there but I think they said you didn't live there.”
“Oh ya. I guess my building is the second one. Sorry – I shoulda clarified that. Mine is the first big apartment building.”

Sorry? Not as sorry as I am.

It was after midnight. He booted up the computer and showed me how it worked. It was fine. I paid for it. Dean helped me haul everything into the elevator and to the street. He hailed a taxi. The man did not look impressed as we loaded his car with the monitor, keyboard, hard drive, earphones, and electrical cords. Dean gave the driver directions.
“Thanks Dean. Keep your nose clean at the Bath Bath.”
“Ha – bye!”

I squeezed into a small space in the back seat next to the hard drive.
He said, "*&^$%#@--)$!"
"Pansong."
Driver: "Pansong?"
"Yea, Pansong."
Driver: Sungsim Wea**%&$(/*^@%#?"
“Nea, Sungsim. Wee Pansong.
Driver: Ahhhhh ... Pansong Mal-go, "Pan-SONG!"
It all sounds the same to me.
He let out a sigh of frustration.

What’s his freaking problem? What’s he so mad for? Maybe he dosen't like foreigners. Maybe he doesn't like all this computer stuff in his car. Why is he wearing those white gloves? Why isn't he turning around to go back past the beach? I was nervous. He continued to drive away from the beach. He took a ramp onto an expressway. My mind raced. If he’s getting onto a highway, he must be leaving the city. If we’re leaving the city, this guy must be taking me out into the country somewhere. If he’s taking me out into the country … oh no … it's after midnight. He's wearing gloves. Why is he wearing those white gloves? He's a killer. He strangles his victims and wears gloves so there are no fingerprints. No. That's not possible. Settle down. You're just tired.

He spoke on his radio to someone in Korean. Frightened out of my mind, I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I heard the engine slow down. My eyes opened to see a big transport truck up ahead at the side of the highway. The back door of the transport was open. The taxi driver pulled in behind the truck. The transport driver was standing beside his truck. There were no other vehicles in sight. The taxi driver stopped his car and turned out the headlights.

It’s a trap. Of course: the taxi driver radioed this guy and told him he had a live foreigner. They’re gonna – oh no – and then dispose of me in the back of the transport. No witnesses. No fingerprints. As the taxi driver walked in front of the car, his white gloves began to unbuckle his belt. I knew this was it. Every pound of my heart was a shock of fatal realization:

I can't believe this is how I'm going to die.
... raped and killed on a dark highway in a foreign country
... my family will be sad
... naive
... set up
... not knowing what the hell was going on
... gotta run
... computer's history
... get out and run as fast as you can
... open the door and run
... go legs
... go faster

and then ...

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Running, full of terror and survival instinct, I glanced back. Thoughts registered in rapid succession. My mind snapped a picture and computed:

... big transport door wide open
... transport driver not moving
... nobody chasing
... taxi driver's voice scared and sincere
... scared and sincere?

I looked back again. Nobody was moving. The taxi driver repeated, "Sorry." He walked to his car, opened his door and motioned me back. In his voice was something that I understood beyond that single English word. It was concern and fear. He was not going to harm me.
Rubber legs took me back to the car. The transport driver did not move an inch. As the taxi driver pulled out, the headlights crossed the transport driver's face. Mouth open, jaw slack, he was stunned.
The driver again said "Sorry."
I said, "It's okay."
He said, "Okay. Sorry."

The de-stabilizer had been effectively launched. Its only visible effect was the growing circle of black on disappearing grey. Tears. They rolled onto my grey sweatshirt that darkened to black as it absorbed mind-altering fear. Out the window I looked at nothing, cared about nothing.
Crackling static snapped me out of submission. The driver was changing the radio from a Korean station to one with English music, his right white glove turning the dial. This must be a hallucination. I really have lost my marbles. It can’t be that song. But it was that song. It was the Beatles singing, “Yesterday ... all my troubles seemed so far away.” Of all times, in all places, of all songs … why here and now? That song cracked through the language barrier and put me on the verge of hysterical laughter.

It was like that in Korea: a series of quirky dramas with subtitles in a different language. Audience perception could create horror from comedy and vice-versa depending on the interpretive filter that was the individual’s mind. For the most part, dealing with the language barrier was entertainment. On the other side of the screen were incidents so frightening I would have given my right arm to be back in the safety of Mr. Brotherhood’s geography class, writing with the spastic left, “Disadvantages of travelling to a foreign country: 1) language barrier, 2) …”

5. ENGLISHEE TEACHING OKAY?

I found it odd that so few native English speakers spoke Korean. Foreigners who had resided there three, five and ten years still could only say a handful of survival phrases. I thought, “Phhhh … lame-o.” Then I began to study the language and realized that I was “Lame-o.” It was hard for English speakers. Japanese speakers picked it up relatively quickly since the grammar and Chinese vocabulary base were similar. English and Korean, on the other hand, were vastly different. In the end, however, it was not the similarity or difference of the two languages that determined whether a person learned the language. As research has shown, the main factor was motivation. The motivation situation in Korea was unique. Even if a foreigner had personal motivation to learn the language, there were on the whole, more incentives to not do so. As I saw it, Korean people were “English crazy” in the year 2000:

Formerly nicknamed "the Hermit Kingdom," South Korea's destiny has changed dramatically in the twentieth century. This country has opened itself to the world, casting off its hermit's cloak and without a backward glance, delving into world markets and trends. It appears nothing will stand in the way of Korea's becoming a world economic leader. Pride in self and country motivates Korean people at the individual and national level to endure and overcome any obstacle in the path of achievement. Two more ingredients: i) an unrelenting work ethic within ii) a group-based society; have also factored into the rebuilding formula. Following Japanese Occupation (1910-1945) and the Korean War (1950-1953), literally from the ground-up, South Korea has toiled its way to the year 2000 when it stands as one of the world’s largest economies.

With this as its updated curriculum vitae, one ought not be shocked at the fervour with which South Korea has approached English language acquisition, another obstacle to be overcome en route to global prominence. Yet as Korean people march "diligently" toward their linguistic destination, many foreigners stand wide-eyed, for more reasons that one, witnessing this "national obsession" with English.

The English language is everywhere. Two all-English daily newspapers distribute nationally and abroad. A number of Korean radio stations offer daily English instructional programs; some present news highlights in both English and Korean. Advertisers, entertainers and politicians alike often infuse their messages with English catchwords, attempting to enhance appeal. On subways, messages are announced in Korean and then in English. In 1999, Pusan National University students finally put their collective feet down when campus buses began announcing in English only. Apparently, they needed to be told “where to get off.”

English has been taught in Korean middle and high schools for the last 50 years with a focus almost exclusively on reading and writing. Still today, the primary motivator for Korean students of English is obtaining a high score on the TOEFL(Test of English as a Foreign Language) examination. Results from these grammar- and vocabulary-based tests are fundamental screening criteria for university entrance and corporate hiring decisions. Consequently, Korean students have been programmed from a young age to understand and manipulate written English. English conversation has not been of concern until more recently.

As Korean corporations determined to gain larger portions of international markets in the 1970's and 1980's; as more Korean citizens chose to travel abroad; the need for spoken English instruction became glaringly evident. This was yet another obstacle to be overcome, so the call went out to English-speaking nations. In response, a wave of native English speakers flooded South Korea, ready to wag their native tongues.

That is what we were expected to do: wag our tongues in English. English-speaking foreigners represented a means of “getting an edge.” We were valuable tools, if they could just get their hands on us. Complete strangers invited us into their homes, no questions asked, to teach their children privately for big bucks ($40-$100 Canadian an hour). Some people thought pursuing the Korean language a foolish diversion in light of foregone profits. This pragmatic perspective of native English speakers meant there was little social encouragement or reinforcement for learning Korean. Strangely, while immersed in Korean language and culture, our role was that of English Machines. It was widely accepted by foreigners and Korean people alike that English Machines were fuelled by the almighty dollar and maintained with delicious food and gracious hospitality. Individualistic intrinsic linguistic desires were not of benefit to the system and in some ways ran counter to the expectations inherent in the English Machine designation.
English speakers were constantly propositioned and in fact pressured, to teach people’s children. Korean people we had never met before pried persistently until they knew our complete weekly schedules better than we did. Most foreigners were willing to teach privately since the pay was good and the people were highly accommodating. However, when a foreigner was not reciprocally accommodating, the would-be employers kept finagling until their agendas became ours. Before we knew it, they had wedged their will into that spare two hours we had been reserving for sanity retrieval - all this in a brief, unsuspecting subway ride. That is how it happened: first, the parents wedged their way into our agendas; then their children wedged their way into our hearts; and after that, there was no turning back.

In the end, the majority of English speakers had neither the spare time nor sufficient motivation - desperation - to learn the language. Though it was difficult and occasionally scary to not understand Korean, on an average day we could manoeuvre adequately enough in English to have our basic needs met. Nonetheless, I wanted to learn the language so I began to study. One of the first words I learned was the Korean word for rice, pronounced “bap,” which appeared on all restaurant menus. There was bibim-bap, bokem-bap, kim-bap, chori-bap, bap, bap, doo-wap, shimmy shimmy coco bap … you name it. This was Korean 101: if you ordered anything with “bap” you knew you were getting rice. That practically every Korean meal came with rice did not stop us language kindergarteners from celebrating that we could identify “bap” written in Korean, and what was more, we could say it. We took pride in knowing that when we said “bap” we were going to be served rice – not because it was a standard part of every meal but because we had read it and we had said it. Soon enough, we could see it in our bowls and on our plates. We would point and say,
“Bap.”
“Mmm … bap.”

It was primitive; we were primitive; but at least we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, one thing: bap was rice.

6. BAP CHUSEYO

Being a self-centred, gimmee gimmee kind of gal, I learned “chuseyo.” Chuseyo = “Give me please,” or “May I please have? Sentence order of Korean and English is different so if you were asking for water (pronounced “mool” in Korean) you would say “Mool chuseyo”; roughly, “Water, give me please,” with the same level of politeness as “May I please have some water?” Knowing all about “bap” and “chuseyo”; endowed with basic deductive ability; in the land of rice; with a pocketful of Korean won; nothing could be easier, I reckoned, than purchasing a bag of those lovely white grains. Five muted months had come and gone. The time was nigh to seize the day; seize the rice!

I went to the corner store where I thought I had seen rice before. It was not immediately visible. They must have rice. This is Korea for crying out loud. There must be rice in here. What is this – some kind of practical joke? Where the heck are they hiding the rice? The owner followed me around the store. This happened often in stores, not as a means of theft prevention but as a means of good service. Personal space was becoming an issue. She was gaining on me. I walked ahead quickly, trying to gain some distance. She picked up the pace and just as she was about to step on my heel, I turned around abruptly.

There was a decided difference in acceptable personal space. My hypothesis was that it correlated to the population density of one’s native country. Korea and Canada being at opposite ends of the population density scale, it seemed reasonable that most Canadians in Korea would experience discomfort. Additionally and admittedly, however, there was a more sinister, more powerful, idiosyncratic quirk at play. It all began in grade two at St. Francis Elementary School when we had to line up to go downstairs to music class or upstairs to the library. We lined up shortest to tallest, which put Jane McNally behind me. Jane had incredibly big feet. She tried to hide them but everyone in our class knew Jane’s feet were longer than our teacher, Mr. Bennett’s. Without fail, at one point of traversing the stairs, Jane would step on my heels. Far beyond fingernails on the chalkboard, heel-stepping was to become my worst pet peeve. This intense aversion went into remission, only to resurface in the environment of shrunken personal space, to elicit the defective behavioural adaptation of turning abruptly upon close followers and startling them so that they moved back. It was pathological, but effective.

The corner store lady jumped back. With that extra six inches, I gained my composure and remembered the day’s mission: seize the rice. I bowed and said, “Annyong Hassimnikka” (very polite hello).

“*~*~*~*~*~ikka?”

She was asking what I wanted. It was my big chance to say a complete sentence:
“Bab chuseyo.” The lady jumped back another six inches.
“Moosun Marimnikka?” = What did you say?
“Bab chuseyo.” I repeated.

Why is she looking at me like that? She looks confused and a bit scared but …why? No, that weird facial expression must be surprise. Of course: she can’t believe I can speak Korean now. That’s right, my good lady, you heard it right. I can speak Korean. This foreigner walks and talks. Oh yes, life is going to be different from now on. I got the lingo.

The lady led me to the door, pointed down the street and said, “&#&#&#&#eyo!” She was none too impressed. What the … ? She mustn’t have heard me. On an average day, I would have left but not today. It had taken five months to string together these two words – this complete sentence - and I was not about to let opportunity pass on by. I figured it must be an error of intonation on my part so four times I repeated it, stressing a different syllable each time: “BAP chuseyo”; “Bap CHUseyo”; “Bap chuSEyo”; “Bap chuseYO?” The lady became more agitated with each rendition. The language thing was going nowhere. Leaving my voice on my sleeve, I decided to show the her what I meant. Back into the store I went, muttering “Bab chuseyo”, more determined than ever to “seize the rice.”

She was on my heels again, this time waving me toward the street. What the heck is she so freaked out about? Maybe foreigners aren’t allowed to buy rice. Why is she hiding the rice? I went up and down the aisles. She finally put an end to my rice search by hustling to the next aisle and heading me off at the pass. She forced a bar of soap into my hands, walked me to the door and waved me away, rapid-firing Korean the whole time. What’s with the soap? I sniffed my underarms. No problem there. I had showered two hours earlier. Maybe soap and rice are the same word in Korean. I went home and looked that up in the dictionary when I got home but “beenoo” did not sound anything like “bap.” That day I went riceless.

A month later I was studying Korean with a professor at our college. Professor Kim was stern with her students. They had to write a test at the end of each class. Otherwise, she said, they would not listen. This one day, Professor Kim told me about rice. She explained that there were different words for rice. Cooked rice was “bap” but uncooked rice was “ssal.” I told her the story about the day in the corner store. Stern Professor Kim began to rock and roar with laughter. I laughed with her. It felt good to laugh and to see Professor Kim having such a good time of it. After a few minutes, however, it became apparent that she could not stop. Hmmmm … it was funny but not that funny. She rocked right out of her chair, still roaring in laughter. Where the heck is she going - to the bathroom? Stern Professor Kim laughed her way to Professor Jeung’s office, and a minute later they both staggered in, doubled over in laughter. I had never seen either one of them this way before. Have they been into the soju? No … it’s the middle of the school day. I dunno. Korean humour sure is different. When they finally settled into intermittent bursts of laughter, Professor Jeung explained that there was more to this than “bap” – “ssal” confusion. “Bap chuseyo” was an expression panhandlers used. In effect, the day I had tried to buy rice, I had been begging. Professor Jeung said there was a rhyme that they used to sing as children, “Bap chuseyo,” and that her children still sang this rhyme when they played. It was like begging, “Can you spare any change?” Those were the things a foreigner some times had to learn the hard way.

7. WIND SONG

My second month in Korea Liane and I went hiking. We could hear men’s voices up ahead. They were yelling out aggressively. Liane was not bothered in the least so I said nothing to her but my thoughts were full of fear. It sounds like there are about 50 of them. Maybe they don’t like foreigners. What are they yelling about? Maybe they’ve spotted us and are passing the message on to invite their buddies so they can gang up and attack us. Maybe they want revenge on foreigners in general and we’re the unlucky targets. When you can’t understand a single word of what is being said, when you’re in an entirely new environment, it can be scary. In this particular instance, we came over the knoll from where the shouts had come. We saw the men: all four of them, shouting out from the precipice to the open space of the world. The view was beautiful. The mountains of Korea were respite for the soul.
On this day, however, these men got quite a jolt when they turned and saw two mountain women approaching. Liane always created a stir because of her height. Even in Canada a six-foot tall woman with a beautiful smile created a stir but in Korea, where people had never seen a woman this tall, they could not hide their shock, despite years of composure training. The most common reaction was, “Ooooowwwwaaaahhhhhh,” followed by nervous group laughter. We exchanged greetings and then as we continued on our way, one man yelled, “*$#*@!!+++^^^^^^^^^^ yo!” He ran after us and gave us each a tangerine. A little further down the trail a man, sitting on a rock listening to the radio, waved us over and gave us chocolate bars. Only in Korea, we thought, do you go hiking and come home with gifts.

Korea was a gift-giving society and people were especially giving to foreigners. They wanted to make us feel accepted and welcome in Korea. In the absence of a shared language, Korean people found other means of conveying our sentiments. They gave with sincerity from their hearts; you could see it in their eyes. The power of the language barrier could dissolve by connecting on a human level. On this day in the mountains, as great and intense was my fear when we went up the mountain, equally intense was my relief and gratitude on the way down. It seemed that out in nature it was much easier to connect with people. Time was not a constraint, people were more relaxed, the bpallee-bpallee way of life was left behind. Wind swept across the mountains, circling to chatter with maple leaves, swaying with the boughs of evergreen pines, and wasn’t it fitting that the pines of Korea bowed gracefully, respectfully, to the wind?

That Korean breeze sounded just like the one that blew through the trees of Mount Saint Patrick, near Renfrew, near Ottawa. Perhaps it had come across the Prairies, through the Rockies and over the Pacific; wind of the world singing its “one song.” Borders, languages and religions did not capture or slow the wind’s wordless song. If only our human languages flowed so freely!

shwindle@hotmail.com