Hong Kong, day one

By mutual agreement, Miss H and I decided not to do much today. I was exhausted from my losing battle against Singapore's confounded autocracy, and my other half had just come off a startlingly harsh week at work (and a long flight). So we went to bed early the night of Saturday, August 2, and had a lovely lie-in Sunday morning. 

The weather was a factor as well. I hadn't expected Hong Kong to be the hottest, most humid, most stinkingly sweltering destination on my journey, but that it was. We could hardly breathe. The heat and wet were living things, clawing at your throat, clamping your clothes against your body, blocking your pores like some invisible blob monster. I've always been prone to sweating when the temperature's anywhere above 70 degrees, and whenever the humidity's above 40 percent. You can imagine how I felt in Hong Kong, with the temperature hovering around 85 and the humidity at 81%. Even Miss H was melting. 

Nonetheless, we hadn't come all this way just to sit in our air-conditioned room. We practically sprinted the ten feet between the hotel lobby and the entrance to North Point MTR station, and then we were on our way to Central and the IFC Mall. 

The view from the roof deck. We'd been planning to have cocktails up there, but the prices were exorbitant.

Pepero is the Korean version of Pocky, a Japanese biscuit stick covered with chocolate. So weird seeing it labeled in English in Hong Kong...

We did a bit of shopping (Victoria's Secret, Dymocks Bookstore, Godiva) and ate a hefty lunch of salads, sandwiches, and smoothies. Then we went to see The Guardians of the Galaxy in 3D. It cost about $15 per person—not including the glasses!—but what the hell, it was a date. In Hong Kong. 

Back at our hotel—ibis North Point—we switched rooms. I'd gotten one of the cheapest double rooms, but 1901 was a closet-sized space with a view of the building behind. So we paid an extra hundred HK$ (about $12.89 US) per day and moved our stuff up to 2504, which had a gorgeous view of Victoria Harbor and Kowloon. 

the death of Neo-Confucianism in Korea...?

All eyes are once again on Asia this week, President Obama having wrapped up his four-nation Asia tour (leaving hearty Filipino protests in his wake) and the Sewol disaster fresh in everyone's minds. However, yet another disaster—or near disaster—in South Korea has stolen the public eye. 

You might have heard about the subway train accident we had this Friday. QiRanger does a very thorough video update about it here, where you can get all the facts.

I'm not here to debate particulars, cast blame or express relief that everyone aboard those two trains survived. I'm not here to tell you that I travel on Line 2 all the time and could have easily been involved in the accident. (I have, actually, been aboard a Line 5 train that braked so hard and so unexpectedly that all six dozen people in the car with me went sprawling like dominoes, and I wound up flat on my back with a rucksack full of booze under me and my livid fiancée on my stomach.) 

I just want to say two things. 

First, subway accidents in Korea never happen. They are the exception, not the rule. Korean railways are tightly and safely run. The Seoul metro is one of the cleanest, safest, most efficient and easiest-to-use metropolitan light rail systems in the world, despite being one of the busiest. Its safety record was, to my knowledge, flawless up to this point. There was a nasty incident in December 2013 when an inexperienced train operator filling in during a strike ordered the subway doors closed too early, and an 84-year-old woman was dragged a short distance and killed. Oh, and the Daegu subway fire ten years before that, I suppose. But those were freak occurrences brought on by circumstance: a vengeful cab driver and an unschooled scab, as it were. This recent subway accident took place during regular hours, and wasn't caused by a mass murderer or a strike. It just happened. I would have said it was impossible.

Second...you may be witnessing the death of Neo-Confucianism in Korea. 

An Hyang (1243-1306), widely
considered to be the founder of
Neo-Confucianism in Korea.

As I discussed in my previous post about the Sewol sinking (which I linked to above), Korea's guiding star has been the Neo-Confucian model ever since the early days of the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910). Some of Confucianism's central tenets are filial piety, respect and reverence, loyalty, and shame. It is unthinkable to disobey or show disrespect to one's elders. There is a very strict social hierarchy wherein each individual is classified according to age, experience, seniority, and other factors. Someone who's above you on that scale deserves the highest respect; anyone below you is yours to command. 

And in fact, this system, which served Korea well throughout its long and often brutal history, was just what caused the deaths of so many children during the Sewol debacle. The children and other passengers were told to stay put in the cabins and corridors, and bowing to the captain's lofty position and experience, they obeyed. Unfortunately, the captain proved to be an incompetent and untrustworthy coward, and many children met their fates as a result. This event, as I noted in my blog post about the sinking, has shaken Korea to its roots, particularly the younger generations. Many in Korea seem to have begun to doubt the worth and universal applicability of Neo-Confucian values. 

Nowhere is this growing doubt more apparent than in the subway train passengers' reaction to the drivers' instructions in the moments following the collision at Sangwangsimni Station. They were told to stay put, and hardly any of them listened this time. Quite a number of passengers pried open the train doors and leaped down onto the tracks and into the tunnel.

Now there's something I never would have believed possible. Korean folks disobeying instructions from a competent authority? Prying open doors and leaping onto train tracks? Anarchy!  

Does it mean that the Neo-Confucian underpinnings of this country's culture and society are beginning to erode? Only time will tell, but I think the signs are there. Goodness knows what will happen if I'm right. A complete paradigm shift might be in the offing. You may rest assured that I'll keep an eye on things over here, and let you know if I see anything noteworthy. 

But now you must excuse me. I have a four-day weekend to get back to. Children's Day is Monday and Buddha's Birthday is Tuesday. Two unrelated lunar holidays in a row. That never happens here, either. The unexpected double-whammy has convinced all the foreigners on the peninsula to throw a grand Cinco de Mayo bash. Colored lanterns are strung up all across the city, Seoul's high society are turning out in droves in their best tailored suits and tulle skirts, and the Americans and Canadians are getting blitzed in the bars and staggering around Itaewon wearing sombreros in broad daylight. Me, I'm taking introspective walks by the Yangjae Stream and meeting friends from out-of-town for a bite of Thai-Japanese fusion and a sip of beer. Oh, the expat life. 

Postie out...

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 17: talk to three strangers

Why?

Why do it?

Why talk to that schmuck a few feet down the bar?

Six very good reasons. You expand your network. You meet new friends...and potential mates. You increase your social skills. You learn new things. And most importantly, you boost your confidence. If it's one thing all the manly men I know have, it's confidence. Confidence is one of my core values, but even if it wasn't, any one of those aforementioned things would be a fine reason to reach out to someone you don't know. As long as you're honest, genuine, and act interested, you can gain a wealth of information (and perhaps a good friend in the bargain). 

So I done it. I spoke to three strangers tonight during a date with Heather in Itaewon — the same date, actually, that I planned on Day 9.

The first person was the owner and proprietor of one of the foreign food markets. He and I had a short discussion about two things: Cheesy Ragù sauce and unflavored Ruffles. I asked if he had them in stock, and he explained that the Ragù is difficult to come by in Korea, that the Ruffles usually come in once every two weeks, and it's up in the air what flavors he'll get. At least, I think that's what he was implying. He's from Pakistan and he's a very busy man, so he speaks quickly and is sometimes difficult to understand. After bestowing these bits of comestible information upon me, he wandered away to hector a couple of his employees who weren't facing the stock assiduously enough.

The other two were a pair of foreigners on the Line 6 train heading east to Bonghwasan. I had spotted them earlier, smoking and standing outside the Paraguayan restaurant where Miss H and I had dinner. On the subway I overheard them speaking in accented English about the express line heading to Incheon Airport, so I up and asked them where they were catching it. Hongdae? Digital Complex?

Digital Complex, it turned out.

One of the men was a long-haired West African with dreadlocks and the other was a dark-complected and rather handsome southern Asian. He could have been Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi for all I knew. They were indeed taking a flight out the next morning. The Asian fellow got off at Yaksu Station only a few seconds into the conversation, but Miss H and I engaged the African man for a few moments longer, until our inevitable departure at Cheonggu. He looked to be about our age. We never got his name. He was flying home to Sierra Leone to see his family, he said. It would be a 30-hour flight. He hadn't seen his family in three years, and was very much looking forward to being home and surrounded by familiar faces. I couldn't say I blamed him. I've been feeling the need — no, the compulsion — for something similar for a long while now. We wished him well on his journey, then leaped off the train and switched to Line 5 for the last leg home to Gwangnaru. If we'd stayed on the train a little longer — which I kinda wish we had — we'd probably have learned his name, and maybe even become friends with him.

Oh well. Ships that pass in the night, as they say. Let's not forget the salient fact, here.

I talked to a West African today.

Who have you talked to lately? 

Gapyeong and Namiseom

Yesterday, my usual day off, I was up early and thought the weather too nice to spend inside. So I went forth to Cheongnyangni Station and caught the ITX for Gapyeong. It's a small city on the Bukhan (North Han) River in eastern Gyeonggi-do, right on the border with Gangwon-do and not far from Chuncheon.

The main tourist attractions in Gapyeong aren't in Gapyeong at all. They're in the middle of the river: Jaraseom and Namiseom, two tiny islands just a few hundred meters upstream. My target was Namiseom. I got off the ITX at Gapyeong Station, took a five-minute, minimum-fare taxi ride to the wharf, and stepped out into the autumn chill.

As I threaded my way through the bus parking lot and the crowds of chattering middle-aged ajummas and ajusshis (immaculate in their hiking gear and backpacks), I heard a hissing, rasping sound from overhead. I looked up. High above me, two hooting people in harness were sliding down a zip-line from a tall tower to Namiseom Island.

I was delighted. I knew I had to try this novel way of traversing the Bukhan; a humdrum ferry ride wouldn't suffice. I wanted to zip-line in like a ninja or a U.S. Marine.

After stumping up ₩38,000 (and stepping on a scale, to my shame), I and seven other would-be ninjas crammed ourselves onto a creaky elevator and found ourselves on a wobbly platform 80 meters above the wharf.

My zipping partner and I climbed into our chairs and placed our knees against the departure gate while the attendants gave us a safety briefing and strapped us in. Then, with a "three, two, one" (in English) we were off. I stuck my legs straight out as ordered. My considerably greater weight caused me to gain speed and outdistance my partner. I hissed down the 940-meter cable, whistling one of the triumphal numbers from the movie Dumbo, my hair flying off my brow and the greenish-brown river water gurgling by hundreds of feet below. After a spring-loaded halt at the bottom, I detached myself, snapped the only picture I could of the run, and entered Namiseom proper.

You can call it "Nami Island" if you're confused. "Seom" is, I take it, the Korean word for a smallish island. The big ones are just called "do" (Jeju-do, Ganghwa-do, Geoje-do)...but this is the same suffix used for provinces as well, causing confusion. "Nami" comes from the name of a general who is buried on the island. His story is...well, reprinted here for your convenience (click to embiggen).

I didn't know this at the time I toured the island, but apparently—and only half-jokingly—it considers itself a micronation. There were signs everywhere promoting the "Naminara Republic." I didn't buy a ticket at the wharf, I bought a "tourist visa" (for ₩8,000). There were flag-draped "embassies" everywhere on the island; it has its own minister of culture, foreign secretary, currency (though Korean bills are accepted), passport, and postage stamps; and, if Wikipedia is to be believed, the tiny island has sent emissaries to foreign countries. The island is a literal stone's throw from Gapyeong in Gyeonggi Province, but technically belongs to Chuncheon...so hey, I guess I can say I've finally been to Gangwon.

It's tiny. Namiseom is only 430,000 square meters in area and about 4 kilometers in diameter. (To give you some perspective, the New South China Mall in Dongguan has 430,000 square meters of floor area; most of it unused, sadly.) But the miniscule dot of land in the middle of the Bukhan is jam-packed with museums, art galleries, cafés, restaurants (even one that served Peking duck), scenic pathways, trails, open fields, picnic areas, open-air stages, ateliers, bungalows, gardens, ponds, even a friggin' ostrich paddock.

Here, take a look through my eyes (and camera lens):

The tomb of Nami, the boy general.

 

The east side of the island. That's Gangwon Province over there. Pretty, huh?

World-famous Nami sausage.

Your not-so-humble correspondent.

...scribbled by an Iranian poet.

The Metasequoia Path.

The Gingko Path.

The carpeting of the Gingko Path.

If I've read that sign on the left there correctly, this odd wigwam-like structures were once used for fermenting kimchi. Not sure how that works. Kimchi is usually stuck in a pot and buried for months while it ferments. These look more like smokehouses. Mmm...smoked kimchi. There's a vivid thought.

No idea.

Outdoor library (?) by one of the for-rent bungalows.

The west (Gyeonggi-do) side.

The ferry landing.

Some other zip-line ninjas came whirring overhead as the ferry crossed the river.