The girl is silent in a spinning world of questions and traffic and other people. As shapes, relatively formless--the girl does not lift her head, so she cannot discern otherwise— d rift by, teenagers, arm in arm with long black hair, bangs in their eyes, turn and look at the anomaly—the blank, hazy, foreign lump on the bus stop bench and the confused-looking man behind her. Giggling, several long T-shirt (or mini-dress) wearing early twenty-some-things walk by, disregarding the pain in the alien faces, the distress and the anger. As they pass, they turn blatantly to stare and exclaim with surprise to one another in Korean that the couple is attractive. The girl understands them and is annoyed that the natives of this country seem unable to consider the unfamiliar with conventional standards of social behaviour. Turning and pointing and assuming one's complete ignorance of Hangook (not to mention universal body language) is quite rude, thinks the girl. Allowing this thought to consume her otherwise impassive, vacant-feeling consciousness, the girl's desire to remain in a hushed state, as a means to suppress her ultimate wish to scream and kick and criticize nothing in particular (but everything, cumulatively), prevails. Leaning her head against the smog coloured, no-longer translucent bus-stop glass, she shuts down…..
When angered, she becomes absolutely silent, void of all emotion or sensory perception. When questioned, a robotic nod of the head, or a tinny "No" from the back of her throat is all she can conjure, so absent does she feel. She remembers how, in her youth, the slightest nudge to her temper—the most minor bump-- would send her flying into fits of rage and emotional hysteria. For many years, the anger had defined her, shaped her like a sculptor's fingers manipulating the clay, cutting parts away, making edges sharp. As a child, she would slam doors and write Crayola coloured obscenities inside the walls of her closet; she'd sit perched on the pile of fallen clothing strewn across the wardrobe's floor and coated with cat hair. They told her not to scream, you see, so her bedroom was the only place she felt able to handle the silence (or near silence)—nothing but her own strained breathing and an occasional gasp for air—as she struggled through silent tears of frustration.
Sitting beside her on the bus-stop bench, he watches her closely for any signs of life, some glimpse of recognition in the eyes that look so eerily clam and glazed over. He wonders if she's taken her pills, like she'd said, or if maybe she'd thrown them up when they went for tea earlier in the day. He wonders if her silence means she prefers to tune him out and escape into a wormhole of neurosis and loneliness, swirling around clumsily, like a dancer in the dark. He wonders if the trip had been a bad idea. He begins to regret it. He begins to think that perhaps her silence means she has tired of him, of his voice, of his mouth, of his lips. Maybe she thinks that being lost in a strange place, staring out into the streets and the multitude of dingy, local seafood restaurants is preferable.
The girl knows he is upset. He is digging, asking her questions, attempting to initiate a more satisfying response than the monosyllables she's been whispering between half closed lips. It's an odd sensation, feeling angry for no one particular reason. She realizes how awful it is that by continuing to speak, he is inadvertently making himself a target of her silent, little temper tantrum. That he is standing before her, waiting for an answer, forcing her to converse, begins to anger her... It makes her think of how, as a child, no matter how often her mother told her to "Just ignore them," choosing to disregard others was never actually an option. Choosing to sit against the heater in her bedroom, singeing the back of her jeans, as she read, rather than watch idiotic ultra violent action movies or police dramas of a similar ilk with her family, somehow managed to transform her into the catalyst for tension and discord throughout the household. When he—her ever present and rarely silent father—screamed, she wasn't allowed to walk away. He wouldn't leave her alone or release her reflection—it was small and warped and it quivered in beat with his drippy red pupils—from his dark eyes until she spoke, her voice muffled by tears or scorched with rage, "Yes, Daddy."
Silence has always come naturally to me, but in Korea, the inability to communicate effectively has made it an essential part of life. If I am upset or annoyed, no good will come of raising my voice—nothing will be accomplished. My protests, however eloquent they may be, will not be understood, but instead, laughed away with an apologetic shake of the head and, "English, no." At work, I speak constantly to my students, and by the end of the day, I am rather hoarse and wonder how many of my words were lost in translation or even listened to at all... At home, I collapse into a chair in front of my laptop and allow my voice some respite. I drink the Cheonji Dew tea I picked up with my ceramic tea set in Insa Dong. It tastes sweet and fresh and I wonder about how something so fantastic can come from a tiny, shrivelled leaf stuffed into a cardboard cylinder. Perhaps words function in the same way. Maybe it's best to say little and sacrifice yourself to the judgement of your appearance and movements. Someone famous (the name escapes me, momentarily) once said, "Many attempts to communicate are nullified by saying too much" and based on my experiences this year, trying to spark the slightest glimmer of comprehension, is easiest when you stick to one word and proceed to act like a mime, rather than try confusing synonyms, in the hope that one will register. Should dramatic eyebrow raising and hand gestures prove to be impossible, I've found that a note pad on which to draw often proves quite useful.
Maybe it's alright that most people can't understand me here anyway. I've answered the same barrage of questions countless times especially when attempting to buy something, "How old are you? Where are you from? Are you married? What do you do? Do you have a point-card?" When this happens, all you can do is try your best to hold the smile and utter the words from behind gritted teeth, even as they stay staring, sizing you up, expecting you to dive into a barrage of more interesting facts about yourself, very curious and mildly surprised to see someone so different (allegedly) in their presence or gracing their store-fronts. Perhaps they imagine that an alien's perspective is dramatically different from their own and are merely attempting to satisfy their curiosity by asking questions of apparent interest. Or, perhaps they feel complete silence is a trait of the foolish or the miserable, character flaws if ever they existed, here in Korea. As I exit stores, I mutter my "Kamsamnidas" and "Anyongi Keseyos" in what I can only describe as a perpetually embarrassed hush. As I make my escape, I hope that should I ever return, someone else will be at the till or that the curiosity about me will have run dry and that my silence can be accepted as respectful or exhausted, or Zen-- any one of these will do.
At work, we are currently in the summer semester, which means I start earlier in the day and work twice as many classes as I normally would since most students actually have the time and energy to attend. My boss and I exist in this school, 'Bicycle,' together but rarely acknowledge each other's existence. Either I work and then go on break while he works, or we teach two separate classes at once, and then trade. Needless to say, approaching him is really very difficult. I sometimes say "Hello" in the mornings or "Bye" as I'm leaving for home, but it's rare for him to concede to my presence by even looking up or saying anything more than, "Neh," the Hangook word for "yes." Lately, I've been getting utter silence from him, so I no longer feel the desire to even make an effort. I can be very non-communicative as well.
As my contract draws to an end, I think my boss is finally beginning to understand that without me, he's rather fucked. I don't think he realized that only two months remain for me, until earlier this week when I demanded he give me back my university diploma, which he had insisted on keeping because supposedly, he'd wanted to display it. He removed it from the same manila envelope I'd sent it in; my own hand writing was in the corner. Before he handed it to me, he made a fumbled attempt to smooth out the tears along the edges, a result of being crammed into an over-crowded book-case, I'm sure. I stood there, silently, waiting as he used both hands (a sign of respect in Korea) to pass it to me. I'm certain I looked highly incredulous. I had asked for my degree back several times throughout the last ten months without success. I'm almost positive that he felt holding it in his possession would be a way to keep me at his school; I know he must be aware of what a terrible boss and a terrible host he's been to me. With only two months left and my recent declaration to him that I would be going straight to the ministry of labour if another problem arose, I imagine he figures I've decided to tough it out a little while longer and won't be making a Midnight Run…
My recent workload has not afforded me ample free-time, and so this has been my first attempt to write in approximately a month. Work is very much an unpleasant experience, sometimes, not because of the teaching or the students, but because of my boss' continuous disregard for me; I've decided that he is unable to view me as anything but a worker, because unable (but more likely, unwilling) to communicate with me, he cannot sympathize with me or regard me with any sort of human compassion. Last week, I was sitting at the computer at the secretary's desk—she was staring at my screen and trying to read it, instead of doing whatever it is she does—typing up a lesson plan, when the boss came over and starting speaking with her. Within a moment, it was clear that he was talking about me, not only because I am able to understand many words in the language, but because he was deliberately pointing at me, as if I couldn't see his hand a meter from my face. Rather angry, I tolerated this behaviour for a good 5 minutes before silently getting up and returning to my desk, my lesson plan nowhere near complete.
Three weeks ago, I finally managed to take four vacation days, which was a challenge. In my absence, my students informed me that all they did was do listening tests, which means the principal popped a tape into the cassette player and left the room. It's unfortunate for them, but I really needed to get away. In the middle of the week that I took off, it was a National Holiday, which meant I had Monday through Friday and both weekends on either side to my disposal. It was the most time I've had off from any job ever. I looked forward to an escape from my current reality, which before I came here, seemed like the ultimate in escapist fantasies.
On my first Saturday, John and I decided to make the very long trip by KTX train to Daechon beach in Boryeong, as it was the first week of the Mud Festival. The festival is on the beach and is essentially a free-for-all of alcoholic hysteria and mud fights with specimens from around the world in an assortment of colors. It's supposed to be excellent for one's skin.
The train ride was interesting. Though we'd purchased tickets beforehand, we were not assured a seat until an hour and a half into our three hour journey. Like many others, we propped ourselves and our bags up against the exit area's walls near the restroom, moving each time someone needed to pass. In the cars, standing people held onto anything they could, hovering directly over the seated, squirming inward whenever the snack cart (which contained an assortment of convenience store treats—kimbab triangles, eggs hard-boiled in soy sauce and Pringles) clacked by, heaving with both the weight of the load and the sway of the train in motion. We were lucky enough to get a seat on the metal steps for awhile, though each time anyone got on or off, we had to rise and make way, inevitably losing our place. When we got our seats, mine was occupied by an older man, who I felt rather badly about showing my ticket to and asking him to leave. But, that's how it is, here. People will do as they feel until someone tells them they mustn't. He complied immediately.
Upon sitting down in the relatively comfortable seat, I fell asleep. John was sitting several rows behind me, as we weren't lucky enough to get placed together. As I slept, I recalled my only other trip by train: I was six years old and with my sister and brother and mother (my father did not attend my mother's family functions) on our way to Toronto for my uncle's wedding, a lavish ceremony to celebrate his second marriage. This trip had been much less chaotic and is actually one of my favourite memories. I remember sitting by the window counting telephone poles and playing "I Spy" with my sister. My mother had packed some fruit and sandwiches and I remember feeling excited and very important to be taking such a trip, my first time beyond Montreal. To keep us entertained on the 5 hour voyage, my mother had packed coloring books and readers and bought each of us a little present. When my mother handed me the box, I remember being captivated with the contents, as I was a very imaginative child, fond of princesses and unicorns and fairies; Inside the translucent plastic box, her limbs secured with white twist-ties strung through the back, was a beautiful blonde, blue-eyed doll in a white dress wearing a silver crown. Beside her, there was a plastic lion with wings and a blue crown. I called the princess Aurora and the lion Roarie, as clearly, I hadn't developed the keen sense of originality for which I am currently known.
Sitting on the KTX train, my head nodding, I thought of that day and how happy I'd been and how easy it had been to get me there. I find it terribly unfair that the more we age and the more freedom we have to make our own trips by train and provide our own entertainment (an iPod and Chuck Palahniuk's "Rant" in my case), the more likely it is that we'll become desensitized to adventure and play. The dreaded hush will come over us and we'll fall asleep, waiting for the ride to be over so we can move on to the next anticipated, convoluted thing (which more often than not, proves somewhat disappointing).
We arrived in Boryeong late, missing the mud (somehow they 'ran out', which considering the ingredients, seems a little odd to me). We met some friends at their hotel, and had a few drinks, catching up on the events of their day and the melodramas and arguments of the particular moment. It's very difficult to be among very drunk people when you are entirely sober and tired. Talking is a bit forced, but eventually, I reached a comfort zone. We were not in Boryeong long, considering the length of time it took to get there. We spent the night drinking and searching for people who'd run off, angered or sullen, onto the beach and into the water, which was cold and shallow. I went swimming, briefly. It was my first time in the sea. I haven't been swimming in a very long time and I was never very good, but I had fun.
Despite the festive nature of the evening, I spent a significant portion of the night by myself, wandering around the beach, searching for lost friends with a cell phone that wasn't working properly. I must have gone up and down the length of the boardwalk, three times, at least. The crowds were enormous and fireworks, a stage with a rock show (if you can call Korean singing, such) and food vendors were everywhere. Little girls in sun dresses played with sparklers, shrieking in delight, and drawing pictures in the sand with their bare toes.
Realistically, it did seem rather improbable of finding two girls who'd probably lost each other, anyway. But, the time did afford me the opportunity to reflect and to appreciate the sea and the wind and the smells. The sound of people and their voices intermingled in languages I am unable to understand; Korean, Japanese. It all seemed so loud, but so wordless at the same time. The wind, buffeting around beach balloons tied to strings and pegged to the ground, scooped up words and whole sentences, weaving them in between each other, like an orange pylon obstacle course or a piece of fine embroidery. Everything bled together and an odd sort of peace was conceived from the noise, which I found ironic. It made me think of large seashells and how when you hold one to you ear, there's an echo-y, eerie sort of calm, that is most certainly audible, but indefinable as anything but silence. It's like how sometimes; things or people come from the most unlikely sources. Like how hope can be a product of destruction or disease; two polar opposites that loop around deformedly and link at the waist; Siamese twins; BF4EVR.
I never found them, but I suppose things worked out in the end, as I've seen them both since and they are neither drowned nor injured. In the morning, when we awoke in our hotel, about a ten minute taxi-ride from the beach and directly outside the train station, we decided we had no time to appreciate the beach by the light of day and that we should get our tickets and return to Bucheon by train as soon as possible.
The train trip back had standing room only. We managed to get a drafty little area (near the air-conditioning) in which to sit, free from people trampling us each time an entrance or exit was attempted. Returning home felt longer than the initial trip there, but I suppose knowing we had a very tight schedule—we had to catch a flight to Jeju Island (our vacation destination) at about 7:30 that evening, made it seem that way. Dismounting the platform at Seoul, we went to Yongsan and picked up a bit of reading material, as I have been stricken lately with the intense desire to read literature. That's generally how it is for me, though: When I read a lot, I don't tend to write often; at these times, I'd rather escape from my own rambling thoughts and bask in admiration of truly great writers. And, conversely, when I write, I very rarely read, as I try to avoid potentially adopting a style or tone that is not mine. I live too much in words and it is very easy for me to take on a foreign voice and imagine it as my own to the point where even my dreams are confused, my subconscious somewhat pathologically amnesiac.
From Yongsan, John and I went to my apartment in Bucheon, where I quickly threw some clothing and necessities into a suitcase. John surfed the internet to find out about the exact location of our hotel, a useful thing to do considering we were staying for a full five days. We made it to the airport at Gimpo (which is primarily for domestic flights) via a taxi to Bucheon station and then made a rushed transfer to another line halfway through the trip. Though my small suitcase has wheels, lugging it up flights of metro stairs when a thousand or so people are running down, is both vertigo-inducing and not fun.
We made it to Gimpo just in time. I'm sure we were the last passengers to check our luggage. The flight was amazingly short at only about an hour. I'd expected it to be longer; but then, I was never any good at reading maps.
From the moment we disembarked, it was apparent that there would be communication problems for us on the island. Unlike Seoul, a highly metropolitan city of dazzling neon lights and chic university kids who are quite aware of popular culture and the world outside of Korea, Jeju Island appears to have very few foreigners. I know that there are at least a few language schools in this part of Korea, but whether they are taught at by native English speakers or Koreans who can pronounce the letters in the alphabet (or press "play" on the tape recorder), is unknown to me. It seems to me that there is much more of an "island mentality" here when it comes to learning English. Unlike in Bucheon, where at any hour of the day, students can be seen on the streets, in between classes, munching on skewered chicken, dried squid, or any number of other street cart delicacies, here the uniformed throng of Hagwon (English Academy) school children on bicycles and rollerblades, buffeting around umbrellas and book bags is practically non-existent, which explains why no one seems to speak a word of English here.
The people of Jeju are not only poor at English, but seem mystified when confronted with western faces. I am convinced that most Koreans' experience of North Americans has created a dual bias in their minds of two types: the overweight, loud mouthed American and the celebrity; when the assumption is disproved, and a regular person is seen as neither overweight nor unattractive, the word "Movie Star" gets tossed about quite a lot. I can not recall how many times I was gawked at and complimented, but it was a lot. It did not make me feel very comfortable, being stared at so intensely. It made me uptight, irate and somewhat afraid to make eye contact with people, as they stared deeply, picking out every little detail of my face and body, analyzing and making assumptions.
On the second or third night we went to a bar near our hotel and almost immediately, the staring started. John jokingly informed a man and his wife, their young daughter in tow, that I was really famous in Canada. That piece of information made us very popular. Some men at the bar bought us drinks and poured a few shots for John. In addition, several random people, including the family, insisted on my posing for their camera phone pictures and having me sign autograph pads. One man even invited us to come and learn how to SCUBA dive with him, an attractive offer, but one which wasn't exactly viable, as diving must be done in the morning or early afternoon, and it was rare that we left our hotel before 3 pm.
Apart from attempting to find decent, cocktail serving drinking establishments, we did manage to see a few interesting things, though the way Jeju is set up, everything of interest, apart from the beaches, of which there are many (it is an island, after all!) seems to be located in the middle of nowhere and isolated with nothing but temples or mountains around. Once, we tried to take a day trip to somewhere or other (my memory is a bit fuzzy and I should have written sooner than now) and the bus driver told us we were at our stop, which wasn't quite true. Getting out and watching the bus drive away was a bit confusing, as we clearly weren't where we had meant to go. Instead, black, ashy mountains stretched all around us. Below, we could see a squat elderly couple in rubber boots and sun-hats sitting beside their horses, which were probably being let for rent or short rides, like a kid going around the track at a village carnival. To the left of where the bus had dropped us, there was a small, somewhat vacant-looking Buddhist temple. The only people around were a taxi cab driver smoking outside his car and a girl in an information booth stacked with tourist pamphlets.
A bit annoyed and with few other options, we took the taxi and drove down to Seogwipo, a slightly (this is the operative word) more populated area. As we drove, I stared out the window and blinked my eyes at the sunlight, which was intense and warm for the whole five days. The terrain of Jeju seemed wild and lush to me, especially having come from the mainland, where there is little to no apparent vegetation. I was amazed at the palm trees. I've been on islands before, of course (Montreal is an island, technically), but none of them have ever been tropical enough to produce palm trees. The roads are narrow and all along the ditches and beneath bridges, vegetation tangles thickly; wild flowers and weeds mixed with vegetable crops.
Rice and barley are grown wherever it's convenient. Ditches seemed like a popular place, most likely because they act as water reservoirs of sorts. Driving by, my forehead against the cab window, I noticed old ladies, their backs to the highway, squatting and tending to their crops. They wore straw, cone-shaped sun-hats and 'gal clothes,' which are a very basic brownish-orange coloured outfit dyed with the juice of the persimmon fruit. This is considered to be the traditional uniform of the working (field-labourer) inhabitant of Jeju. Persimmon-dyed clothes, hats and purses are sold in nearly every tourist trap sort of store on the island. I stuck to relatively small souvenirs—some special Jeju honey, which is harvested from bees that consume pollen from the flowers on the top of the dormant volcano, Mount Halla, as well as some interesting jarred tea varieties like cactus flower and citron, which are apparently specialties of the island. I bought postcards, and tea spoons at one place, but after that, all the other tourist stores appeared to be exactly the same to me.
We spent a few hours at a beach on our second day, though I found it far too cold and windy to actually go into the ocean. I've never really spent much time near the water (minus the privately-owned lakes in the Eastern Townships), so it wasn't easy for me to get used to rough sand blowing in my eyes and sticking to my arms and legs, like a coarse second skin. The walk along the precipice was of much more interest to me and we took a lot of really good pictures. Looking over the edge, we could see people rooting around the black, slimy rocks, looking for seaweed or oysters, or other such shelled creatures, a staple of the diet here, which made finding variety in restaurants somewhat of a challenge. Before coming to the island, I'd read a bit about the 'Jeju Mermaids,' (usually middle-aged to elderly) female divers who collect large quantities of seaweed during the mornings. Apparently, they're a fascinating sight to see. I'm sorry to have missed them.
The Mujanggul caves were fairly interesting, though very cold and dank. Jeju itself, like many tropical islands, was formed when a mostly underwater volcano—Mount Halla—erupted, spitting molten lava all around it. Hitting the water, the lava cooled, forming solid land. Thus, Mount Halla is in the island's center, having spewed equal parts all around its fiery breach. Mujanggul is essentially, a place to see some preserved examples of the volcanic offspring—interesting rocks, massive stalagmites, and hardened lava trails among other geological wonders which I know very little about. Anyway, upon entering Mujanggul, we descended a staircase and immediately found ourselves in a dark, frigid, underground pathway pocked with ankle-twisting pot-holes filled with water which dripped incessantly from the ceiling (or the ground above our heads, I should say). Cold and concentrating on the relatively dry (though slippery-looking rocks), so as not to fall, we made our way along the trail, passing others on their way back, also trying to keep themselves steady. It was really quite eerie, taking a walk underground in the dark, jumping over puddles and onto rocks, like it was a visit to the heart of the island, or at the very least, its progeny.
Among other adventures in Jeju, we made a trip to the world's largest museum of Sex and Health, an informational and entertaining showcase not only of a variety of facts, but of games, art, and sculptures. Outside the museum, the yard is filled with statues of sexual expression—mostly phallic and vaginal. Touristy couples with cameras—ourselves included—found it an impossible courtyard to pass without taking a few posed photographs; there's no better way to remember your vacation than a picture of yourself standing beside a six foot tall marble penis…that's what I always say…(ha-ha).
A major goal for our vacation was to relax, as clearly, we both needed it badly. Beside our hotel, was a small spa where John received a massage and I got my first ever facial, which made my skin luminous, but felt tedious, as for an hour, a variety of different concoctions were coated over my face and eyelids, scraped off and applied again. I've decided it's a bit of an over-rated practice and I have no idea why it was necessary for me to change into a fluffy pink tube dress (which wasn't staying up very well) for the experience.
On our last day in Jeju, we did manage to catch wind of a very interesting spa experience at a very large, fancy hotel up near the mountains—our ears popped as we approached via bus. I had my reservations about attending a spa, as I'm not exactly comfortable with locker-rooms or bath-houses and the obvious requisite nudity. In Korea, bath houses are a way of life. Whole families go together and the males and females separate to their respective areas. Apparently, according to some male friends who attend on a semi-regular basis, it's not uncommon to see a teenage boy washing his middle-aged father and vice-versa.
Upon enrolling in the spa experience, we were told we had forty-five minutes to get ready and shower, before meeting up with the other members. I went left, as John disappeared into the Men's Bath at the right. Upon entering, shoes are removed immediately and stored in a special locker by an attendant who somehow remembers each person's number. I was shown to a locker, where I was expected to disrobe completely and make my way into the Women's Bath. I stood in my bathing suit for at least 10 minutes, watching the attendant gawk at me—I was the only non-Asian person in the room, of course, so I suppose I was an interesting specimen. Inside the Bath House was a sauna, some showers, and several pools of water, heated or chilled, as the case may be, to various temperatures. I showered, sat in a tepid pool of water for about minute, and then escaped to the privacy of the empty sauna, before deciding I'd had enough and that it was time I returned to my locker to put on my bathing suit.
Every member was given a robe to put over our swimsuits, and sandals to wear. Carrying my towel, I went to the meeting area, which connected the male and female changing rooms. When everyone was present—there were 4 men, including John, and about 10 women, including myself—we were escorted into the 'water-therapy' room, which is essentially a swimming pool with various jets of water that spray you really hard underwater, acting as a sort of massage. There were about 7 rows of water jets we had to pass through, squatting to let the water hit our legs, primarily. As we went through each row, the streams shot higher and higher up, targeting likewise areas; knees, thighs.
In the same room, as part of the water therapy, there was a basin (it fit about 6 people) with extremely pressurized water which fell from the ceiling above. It acted as a sort of waterfall, pummelling one's back and head. About five minutes into this experience, this violent thrashing, my hair having been beaten out of its ponytail and all over my face, the attendant informed us that it was time for a cold shower. I looked a little incredulous and she laughed.
After we'd all taken our icy showers and returned to the warm pool, we were given floating Styrofoam noodles to rest our legs on, and headgear to keep our faces afloat. The purpose of this exercise was to keep our ears in the water and relax as music was pumped up from beneath the pool. Above our heads, upon the black ceiling, a constellation show was projected. As I floated, occasionally bumping into random others, I listened to the music and watched simulated shooting stars. It did feel surprisingly serene and quiet; no words. Although the ultimate intention of this sort of exercise is to meditate and not think at all, of course, I found myself contemplating how odd it was to be in a room with 15 or so other individuals, none of whom was discharging nonsense or business into cellular phones or issuing obscenities or monotonous blather. No one uttered a single syllable; we all just spun around like space men in a hushed, zero-gravity ballet, staring up at the night stars.
When the lights came on, and we left the pool, we entered a room with long personal sofas. Wearing our robes, and covering our feet with towels, we stretched out as attendants adjusted nozzles directly between our noses and mouths. As they left the room, for five minutes, we lay in the dark, as oxygen was released from the taps. I'm not sure of the exact effects of oxygen—other than that it can make you feel light headed and weightless—but I don't believe I was affected.
When this somewhat odd activity had finished, we were led into very strange rooms where there were mangers filled with hay and white sheets. We were instructed to wrap ourselves in our white sheet, and get into this manger that was somewhat reminiscent of a coffin—it was impossible to see over the edge—and allow the attendants to cover our bodies, with the exception of our faces, with hay. For twenty minutes, we were left to bake in this extremely hot—though I must admit, pleasant smelling— environment. I think the purpose was to sweat out toxins. Very once in a while I could hear people shifting uncomfortably in their wooden boxes, and laughing to myself, in my death-white shroud, in my coffin, I wondered why they didn't just stick us in a sauna. Perhaps, the discomfort and isolation of lying in a manger was meant to channel Jesus...or fragile items in the mail surrounded by Styrofoam packing peanuts—either one, really.
Finally, we were released from our boxes and led to yet another room where we were given mud to put on our faces. We were placed in little pods, which held four people at a time, and waited for the stuff to dry. We were sitting directly opposite a young Korean couple who did not speak much to each other. After ten minutes, a bit restless and considering the oddity of the last two hours, I began to make my jokes, speculating about how maybe they planned to gas us, Auschwitz style… Eventually, the shower-jets in the ceiling began to sputter, then stopped, then sputtered some more. Suddenly, water, icy cold, hit us in the chairs where we each sat. The Korean girl opposite me let out a little shriek. We rinsed the mud off, then, like magic, with a long, drawn out guuuuussssshhhhh-ing sound, the door to our pod opened. I almost expected coloured smoke for dramatic, sci-fi effect.
Finally finished, we put our robes on and went outside to an herb garden where we sipped freshly brewed tea. John and I met up in the lobby and managed to catch a bus that went directly to the airport, where we had stored our bags several hours earlier.
We got home on a Friday night, so it was good to have a few days to ourselves, to reflect. A week is the longest time I've ever been in the constant company of anther human being. Sometimes, it was stressful and worrisome for me, and I found myself craving wordlessness and dusk, some form of obscurity to limit my senses and let me slip into a self-imposed oblivion, without a doubt, one of my greatest talents. As I went to bed that night, listening to the traffic outside my window that never stops, and wishing my air-conditioner was a bit more powerful, I contemplated taking sleeping medication to hurry the anticipated sensation (or lack thereof) along.
Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, my heart-beat feels too slow—part of my neurotic fear of my physicality, I'm sure. When this happens, and I'm nearly there, perched on the cusp of sleep, my brain seems to screech me awake, and like a catapult, I heave my half asleep body to a sitting position, gasping, but glad to have evaded death for yet another moment…clever me. But this night, with thoughts of Jeju and John and water and stars swirling in and out of the usual paranoia, the sounds of the traffic and the air-conditioner and my own breathing overwhelmed me, as noise tends to do, and swallowed my consciousness, leaving everything silent and black.
They waited for the bus without knowing if it would make them even more lost, on the island, in the hush.
Half hour later, after being turned down by several taxi drivers who refuse to try to understand his attempt to speak Korean, frustrated and tired, the tension still unvoiced, they sit beside each other on the bus. She sits next to the window and immediately pulls a book out of her bag, her old stand-by, the taciturn alternative to speech. She'd always found staring quietly at word combinations she'd probably never use, archaic or oddly twisted phrases, seeped in imagery and meaning, quite calming; much more preferable to the sound of her own voice, which she's always considered very nasal and shaky, too young and too low. For ten minutes she tries to read, uncomfortable with her decision to do so, conscious of the fact that to the man to her left, something must be said. She tries to think of something to say, but her mind is a blank and incapable of anything but consuming the piece of literature before her. More time passes and the girl begins to entertain thoughts of commenting randomly about the scenery or the names of stores.
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