While the United States was distracted (and is still distracted, most likely) with Hurricane Isaac, we had a bit of meteorological excitement ourselves out here in Korea.
Typhoon Bolaven, to be exact.
Now, I've never been in a hurricane. Nowhere close to it. I've never lived far enough south for hurricanes to be a factor in my life, any more so than a few gusts of wind and some giant raindrops. Floods and blizzards were the disasters of choice in North Dakota and Wyoming, and in California, you rarely have to worry about anything more serious than an earthquake. (I've slept through more earthquakes than I've actually witnessed.)
So when I turned on the weather reports and found out that the Korean peninsula was expecting a freakin' typhoon, I was rather excited. Late summer is the rainy season for this region, and we'd been deluged for the past couple of weeks. But I hadn't bargained for this.
All sorts of wild rumors were flying around at school. I was told that I should cover my plate-glass windows with newspaper and duct tape; this would strengthen them against the wind and prevent those of us inside the apartment from being diced up if they broke. This sounded bogus to me, but I did take some precautions. Miss H picked up some tape at the store. I sealed all the windows and the cabinet under the counter where the A/C unit is (don't ask). Being a veteran of desert windstorms, I felt that this at least would prevent moisture and debris from blowing in.
Alice (the head teacher on the second-floor building) informed us on Monday that we would have Tuesday off. Bolaven was expected to make landfall somewhere on the Chinese border sometime in the afternoon. We had little cause to celebrate; we would make up our Tuesday classes on Saturday. This was particularly grating as Miss H and I had planned to be on a southbound train to Busan right about then. Oh well, you can't struggle against nature. To be on the safe side, Miss H and I also laid in some supplies: extra liters of water, canned goods, and granola bars. We had no idea how bad Bolaven was expected to be.
As it turns out, it wasn't. Miss H and I spent Tuesday laying around and watching the storm, which, except for some rolling clouds, high winds and spitting rain, didn't amount to much. The wind was strong enough to rattle the windows and shake the lintel, but that was it. I even went out and took a walk and got some shots of the city. There were downed tree branches in the park, the black clouds boiled overhead, and the wind roared and yammered. But there was no rain, and there was still a respectable number of cars and even pedestrians out and about.
That evening Miss H and I went to Hyundai Department Store for some shopping and dinner. Inside the building it was as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on. I had some delicious sushi at my favorite (and only) sushi bar in the basement, and we went back home and went to bed.
Apparently it was bad everywhere but here in Bucheon. I saw news stories like this and this, which told me that central Seoul had gotten far worse winds, and that down on Jeju Island there were even some deaths (mostly Chinese fishermen, poor souls). Up north, though, was where Bolaven made landfall. I can only imagine how bad things must've been. Crops blown away, flimsy houses knocked over, and no infrastructure or Red Cross or state aid to help the poor people in trouble. Deplorable.
And to make matters worse, now I gotta work Saturday.
Shazbot.
After living in a place for 18 months (soon to be three nonconsecutive years), you get to know it pretty well.
I'm not an authority, but I like to think I've observed the idiosyncrasies of Korean culture with a journalist's eye, and gleaned some insight therefrom.
Sometimes I feel like I'm not properly documenting those insights, though. I mean, I've posted plenty about the quirks of living in Korea. I've never actually stepped back and written a comprehensive treatise on the fundamental differences between Korea and the western world, however. After all, it's not easy to describe a country where vegetable gardens are squeezed into the meager margins between buildings and roads; where the two most beloved national heroes are remembered for inventing the Korean alphabet and whooping hell out of the Japanese Navy, respectively; where howling ambulances stop for red lights and city buses blow them; where pop songs are written and performed for the launch of new mobile phones (and frequently top the charts); where hordes of tiny schoolchildren in matching uniforms are herded about on field trips, attached at the waist by a running line; where trash bags are piled under trees on the sidewalk rather than in dumpsters or trash cans; where a tiny reading lamp costs fifty dollars; where a shop can increase its curb appeal by painting a pidgin English phrase on its front window; where the people sprinkle sugar on ham sandwiches and corn dogs; where neon swastikas are hung everywhere (being, as they originally were, Buddhist good-luck symbols); where the most popular pizza toppings are sweet potatoes and corn; where soccer and baseball are religions, not mere sports; where cans of Spam are given as luxury gift items, like flowers or wine bottles or fine chocolates; where things like limes and turkey are unheard-of exotics; and where one may find bread-flavored soda pop, aloe vera juice, canned guava, squid jerky, and red ginseng candies on any supermarket shelf.
Korea can be a weird place.
And yet it's not so different from back home. The skyscrapers look the same. The apartment buildings are a bit different than what we're used to, but they all conform to the same cookie-cutter design. People drive on the right side of the road. The stoplights and roadsigns are recognizable. One may easily find a McDonald's, Costco, Burger King, Chevrolet, Dunkin' Donuts, 7-11, Hyatt, Starbucks, Hilton, or Pizza Hut on any street corner. (There's even Taco Bell, Subway and Quizno's in places.) English is written everywhere, and spoken almost as much, particularly in the urban areas. There are toilets, running water, electricity, and so much free Wi-Fi that it makes one's head spin. Everybody, down to the last twelve-year-old child, knows who Maroon 5 is, and David Beckham, and Tom Cruise.
There are times when I can readily believe I'm living in a foreign country. Other days, it hardly seems apparent at all. Those are the days when that phrase I learned in college ("global village") hit me hard. The world truly is becoming one. That may be a good thing for international relations and cross-cultural understanding, but we may learn (too late) that it also erodes cultural boundaries. I'm sure no Korean from the 15th century would even recognize his home country these days. And for me, your humble correspondent, it hardly seems worthwhile to write florid travel articles and in-depth treatises about a place that's so highly Westernized.
I need to get out of here. Like Paul Gauguin, I feel the need to escape from "everything that is artificial and conventional." After I finish up my two years here, I'm going off the grid. I'm going someplace that's so drastically different from the U.S.A. that I won't know which way is up. The toilets will flush in the opposite direction—if indeed there are any flush toilets. I won't be able to read the alphabet; almost no part of the native tongue will owe its roots to English. The buildings and shopfronts will be strange, eldritch, alien, of unrecognizable architectural roots and filled with unknown purpose. People's clothes will be radically different, the local customs' functions almost unguessable. The food will be delicious but totally foreign. Western fast food chains and designer stores will not exist. Cars will be few and far between, and those dented and dusty. The roads will be narrow and hardly paved. Civilization will be younger, narrower, more old-fashioned, less quick, less harried, less pretentious.
I've survived life in urbanized East Asia. Now it's time for a breath of fresh air.
