Now, while I recognise that that may be taken as an inflammatory remark, I must say, that in my extensive experience, Koreans are a little weird.
Maybe not even as weird as Australians. But Still.
My Saturday did not exist before 11.30am. That is because I went to bed at the unholy hour of 4.30am. I decided to celebrate my late rising on this cloudy Seoul day by watching 3 episodes of Media Watch.
I then leaped out of bed, ate some home-made Sultana Bran (this + this + this), responded to many emails from Ellen and started writing the music for my installation.
I then decided that I needed some more substantial forms of sustenance, and, after encountering Sookong and Vikki in the kitchen, discussing my sleeping patterns, loneliness, slight sickness and the liters of orange juice left by Kushana (who left for New Zealand last weekend), I decided that I needed some nutritional rice porridge.
Rice porridge (juk) is very famous (in Korea) for it’s nutritional benefits, especially for the young, infirm, frail or sick. I decided on Sam Gye Juk (Well-being Chicken Soup Flavour).
A mother with her small girl-child came into the restaurant as I sat down, and ordered some porridge which (for reasons above my grasp of Korean) would take 20 minutes to prepare. A little disappointed, but willing to wait, she sat down at the table in front of me where her extremely cute daughter proceeded to wave in my general direction. When another woman came in with a noticeably older child, and plonked her down at the table (without asking) in order to assault the store person with an order for several bags of porridge, the first mother decided that it would be a fine time to instruct her 2-year-old in the finer points of Korean social etiquette. She facilitated an (imaginary) conversation between the two girls. She was adamant that the younger one first say hello to her oennee (older sister), and then go and sit next to her so that they could be friends. The older girl, about 4, being exceedingly shy, decided that this was her cue to leave, and scuttled off the chair to hang onto her mother’s shirttails. The younger, inquisitive toddler scooted right after her and, at the beck of her mother started waving her hands frantically in every direction which, as far as I could tell, was meant to be some form of greeting.
And then something curious happened.
The young girl, not happy with the lack of response from her new-found friend exclaimed YA! Now, from a small child, who hadn’t yet displayed any noticeable ability to form coherent words, I would have thought that this was at best a cute vocalisation intending to catch the older girl’s attention. But her mother thought otherwise. She quickly leaped up, grabbed the child’s hand, pulled her back the table and in a loud voice admonished “Ya?! Aniya! Oennee-ji!”. The child looked quite alarmed, and suitably humbled. You see, “-ah / -ya” is an extremely familiar suffix that you would ad the the name of a younger freind, sibling or loved one. Never someone older than you, and never someone you have only just met. Her mother had yelled at yer “Ya?! You think so? Epic Fail! Not even! Call her Older Sister, or you will be in serious trouble!” [my extrapolations were implied mostly through her tone, the consequent reaction of the small child and the ability of Korean to be expressed in the most fragmentory of sentences]. This child was learning early.
After another few minutes of waiting, the second mother left with her porridge and her child in tow, and told the llittle girl “Nappun dongsaeng, annyong!” (”Say goodbye to your naughty little sister…”).
But that’s not the weird bit.
The weird bit was that today I saw Aunty Kim again. Aunty Kim is a man that has to be at least 70. He sits in various places around Changdong, usually near the markets. Usually when you leaf expect him, he is there. “but there is nothing weird about this” I hear you cry…
Aunty Kim is always wearing a blouse. Actually, always wearing the same blouse. It is made of white lace, sequins and generous lashings of fake pearls. This ensemble is usually complemented by a pair of shorts and sandals, and a large hat with various pins, baubles and ribbons adorning the crown. Aunty Kim presides over his neighbourhood with warm smile, often times a gentle laugh and a giant sceptre. From what I can tell, his chosen implement of justice has been fashioned from a disused mop handle, to which he has attached with glue, cable ties and staples, a large contingent of colourful toys, bells, plush animals and pieces of plastic. It is large, and impressive, and he is very proud of it.
He is glorious, and has the strongest concept of anyone I know. One day, I too will be old enough to go about my business as I please. I look forward to the day.
In my quest to find a blank cassette tape (you remember what they looked like, right) I met, for the third time, a woman almost as strange as Aunty Kim. She is the proprietor of the art supply / gift card / stationary stall in the local department store / market / garage sale. She is always very helpful, and when Nathan and I first came across her, her first question was ‘do you live together’. You see, she is a student of English. She proudly displays her textbooks and resource materials in large binders behind her cash register. Her methods of self-regulated learning are rather dubious however, as demonstrated today when she engaged me in conversation.
Me: Tapeu issoyo? (Do you have tape)
Her: Museun tapeu? (What kind of tape)
Me: Eumak Tapeu… Norae… ah… Cassette… (Music… Song… then affecting my best Korean accent and employing English words in the hope that she understands)
Her: Ah… Opsoyo
[I see what I want behind her and point to them]
Me: Igoneun… animnida? (This one… isn’t…)
Her: Keuromyeon norae opsoyo (But there is no singing)
Me: Aniyo kuenchaniyo… Yoggineun hana juseyo (No, ok, here, I want one)
Her: Ahh, ahh…
Me: Oeulmayo (How much)
Her: Cheon… ah… One Hundred, ani, One Thousand of Won
Me: Kamsahamnida (I hand her the money and say thankyou)
Her: Ahh… Looking me (Hands me an English worksheet and points at me to read the bottom phrase)
Me: “Do you study English in the morning?”… Ahh, very good…
Her: Anyiyo nomu himderyo (No, it’s too hard)
She puts the paper back in her box and waves me away.
Now, my Korean is terrible (as demonstrated above) but I am pretty sure she wanted me to read the phrase to her in English so that she could respond. Which she did. In Korean. I’m not sure if she knows how that was meant to happen.
Ahhh… Korea.
