Travels in the Korean Countryside
by
Randy Johnson
Originally published in Orientations, September 1979
It really wasn't my fault. I hadn't planned to roam the backroads of South Korea with a crazy troupe of Westerners -- it just turned out that way.
October, and the tourist season was over in Japan, along with the oppressive summer heat. After four months in Tokyo, I took a month's holiday to discover Japan on my own. Somehow, I squeezed Korea into my plans, and from Kyushu (Japan's southernmost main island), I struck out for Shimonoseki to catch the thrice-weekly night boat to Pusan. This is the cheapest route between Japan and Korea, and the favorite of Western vagabonds, scouring Asia for some trace of their lost souls. The over-night cruise affords an opportunity to swap stories with a variety of fellow castaways.
There is no rush to get acquainted on a 16-hour voyage with two hundred roommates. The foreigners congregate in one or two corners of that vast tatami mat known as "Ordinary Second Class" which occupies an entire lower deck level.
A strange cross section of people find themselves making this decidedly bothersome voyage. There are a few Japanese families, several of Korean or mixed origin. They settle in for the duration, alongside a few curious college students, expatriates fulfilling visa regulations by leaving the country for a day or two, and Koreans returning from a visit to Japan.
Of the few Japanese who defy the mutual hatred pact between Japan and Korea, most are men, who come primarily, if not ostensibly, to pick up Korean women, supporting an enterprise which, despite the presence of the U.S. Armed Forces, thrives largely on visiting Japanese businessmen.
Most of these arrive on package air tours, but here on the boat are young clerks from rural Kyushu, a few years out of high school and verging on arranged marriages, off to find the kind of adventure American sailors find in Hong Kong. Over in the far corner, the Businessmen's Association of a farming center in western Honshu play hanafuda and drink uproariously into the night.
The dozen Westerners I bivouacked with were an unusually green lot. After four months in Japan, I found myself the veteran among young travelers whose first stop was Japan, now confidently embarking the next stage, unaware that Korea is another story entirely. Yet they exuded the eager excitement of discovery, while I lapsed into the role of the expatriate.
I had planned my trip around the annual Korean Folk Arts Contest at Cheong-ju in central South Korea. The others were bound, for lack of other direction, for Seoul.
I got acquainted with Ken in the bath, one of the obscure pleasantries of taking the ferry. He and his new wife, Leanne, were from Brisbane, off to see the world. A likably shrewd character, Ken showed an Australian flippancy toward unhelpful Asians. He wanted to hear more about the folk festival and 'reckoned' he shouldn't miss it if it were at all adventurous.
Little was said about Korea that night. A few of us gathered in the canteen for tax-free beer, then watched from the top deck as the squid boats trolled under their blazing floodlights.
The next morning however, as we were packing, Ken and Leanne expressed their desire to go along with me to Cheong-ju, "if I wasn't averse to a bit of company." A bit of company, I was not averse to; by the time we docked however, the whole platoon had joined my expedition into the countryside.
Nine of us converged on the Pusan bus terminal. I located a friendly local, showed him a picture and recited the names. "Ah," his face lit up and he ushered us to the ticket window and explained to the woman there. Soon we were rolling down the new Pusan-Seoul Highway.
By the time we arrived in Jeon-ju, it was pouring with rain and the afternoon was upon us. Yes, Jeon-ju sounds a great deal like Cheong-ju, but then so do Chung-ju, Yong-ju, Won-ju, Kwang-ju, and Kyong-ju.
Yes, the Folk Arts Contest was held in Jeon-ju two years ago. The bus driver agreed that we had been misled, but certainly not by their cute little ticket lady.
It seemed fruitless to argue. We were destined to be -- indeed, already had been -- the butt of this episode, and a crowd was already gathering. Ken, however, was not about to give in. He cornered the bus driver, then the first passerby who could speak some English, and insisted that we be taken to Cheong-ju. The driver only suggested that we purchase tickets to Tae Jon, back on the main highway.
Ken stomped off to confer with the station master, while the rest of us tried to appear unobtrusive as we spotted the Tae Jon bus loading passengers. Our image was rapidly degenerating and some of our onlookers had become openly hostile. 'Alaska' and I were left with five young women, all of light hair and now open game for the headier young men in the crowd.
Ken's crusade was held up by the language barrier, and the official preference to ignore us in hopes that we would catch the next bus north. Finally he emerged from the station. "Everybody get on the bus; we're going to Tae Jon, courtesy of the bus company." Ken consistently bore witness to what can be achieved by making a big enough nuisance of yourself.
We emerged into the late afternoon drizzle of Tae Jon, and were officiously greeted by Lim, who was to be our "aide" during our brief stay -- whether we liked it or not. Lim spoke English with the flair of one gregarious with American soldiers. "Hey, you American? Hey, you need a place to stay? C'mon, I show you real cheap place. Hey, where you from?" We exchanged leary glances as he helped us with our bags. We were not about to be plucked twice in one day. But Lim only overwhelmed us with his helpfulness.
The hotel sat beside the bus station and of course Lim was on joking terms with the landlady, but we couldn't complain about the prices. His advice on where to eat was less enlightening, and we roamed the streets of Tea Jon before locating a likely looking eatery. Pork cutlet was the only item I could read on the menu, but it was a grand meal, with vegetables, salad, kim chi, rice, and barley tea.
It was during this feast, and after a couple of OB beers, that 'Alaska' showed us his stuff. Rick was a young homesteader from Alaska, off to see the world before the spring thaw. He possessed the unselfconscious aplomb of the backwoodsman, illustrating with exaggerated gestures what he roared in English to the startled Korean waiters and patrons, dwarfed by his 6-foot-4-inch frame.
We all shuffled onto the local bus for Cheong-ju the next morning, despite mutinous speculations that it either did not exist, or was not worth finding. Lim was there to help us off, and we scraped together a small tip -- as much for not robbing us as for his help. He flashed a grin and tugged on the brim of his baseball cap. "Hey, you be very careful, OK?"
Out of Tae Jon, we kept to the back roads, lined with brilliant autumn foliage and flanked by fields where farmers still plow behind an ox, one row at a time. The harvest was almost finished and the rice sheaves hung in the padis on racks so full they resembled haystacks. The fields glistened in the crisp morning sun as country women sang and danced in the bus, rustling their great full skirts.
Yes, this Korea is a different kind of place from Japan -- coarser, bolder, uninhibited. The winters are hard here and so is the work; the people simple and open, quick with a smile, a song and a dance -- yes, even on the bus. Their personal brand of freedom transcends poverty and political repression with an all-out enthusiasm for life.
This must be the place! The gateway to Cheong-ju fluttered with colorful streamers and the streets bustled with activity. A huge South Korean flag hovered over a large stadium and this dusty provincial center quickened to the spirit of the harvest celebration. We soon found two rooms in a Spartan yoguan (inn) at the far end of town, and headed for the festival.
The stadium was already teeming with people. Performers were singing and dancing on a large raised platform near the front of the stadium, and we joined a number of photographers clustered about the stage for a closer look. Marshals kept the Koreans in the grandstands, but anyone with a press pass or a foreign face was welcome to stand by the stage. We watched several traditional masked dance dramas, which present satirical caricatures of kings and aristocrats. There was a bawdy skit about the tiger, the most well-worn character in Korean folk tales.
Another play satirized the problems of a nobleman who kept both a wife and a concubine, highlighting the troubles he brought upon himself. Even Buddhist monks came under scrutiny in an adventure where pious extortionists were foiled by their own selfish schemes. The performances all served to illustrate the drawbacks of wealth and power, enjoining the farmer to enjoy his simple life.
Then beautiful girls in dazzling costumes dashed onto the stage and danced to the rhythm of their changgo, (hourglass drums), while others portrayed familiar folk legends and parables. Traditional farmers' bands accompany the folk singers and dancers. The band includes a flute, a piri, (oboe), a large changgo, a jing (large gong), and a small Chinese fiddle. For centuries, each small community has maintained such a band to inspire the farmers as they labor during the planting and harvest seasons.
The festival is actually a Folk Arts Contest, with each group competing for cash prizes in several categories. In this way, the Cultural Information Ministry encourages local communities to perpetuate folk art traditions which are otherwise dying out. Over 1,200 folk artisans from all over the country converged here to participate.
At the end of a long day of performances, a mass of dancing bands in bright costumes swarmed the arena, carrying banners, and filling the air with the sounds of their drums, flutes, and gongs. Dancing and spinning, they sent long tapes attached to their hats dancing through the air in fluttering arches over ten feet long. Then they joined in human pyramids four tiers high.
We spent many hours by the stage without ceasing to be fascinated. But we were ourselves being watched, as we had been since we stepped off the boat. Off stage, brightly dressed and comically costumed performers gaped at us and even took our pictures as we took theirs.
This phenomenon reached its limit of absurdity on the streets of Cheong-ju after the festival. Our troupe wandered down the main street, leading a Pied Piper's horde of laughing children and several adults. When we stopped at a peddler's cart, a sea of bulging eyes swept around us. 'Alaska' offered some candy to one small girl, but he was immediately swarmed by twenty others, tugging on his clothing and screaming with hands thrust up in his face.
Finally we entered a small cafe at the end of town and found a private room at the back. It was dark when we ventured out again. The kids were gone, end after a round of beers we felt a bit more human. Back at our yoguan we attacked a few chores before attempting any more forays on the streets. Two of the women however, defied certain bedlam by heading off for the public bath. They apparently caused quite a furor, but managed to return unharmed, if a bit shaken.
Meanwhile, we had somehow arranged for a boy to fetch us some makkoli, the proletarian rice beer. Makkoli is not bottled, but dispensed at makkoli drinking houses, where you may also bring your own vessel to be filled at the back door. He brought us two small kettles -- the simple tin tea pots used to serve the stuff.
Makkoli is fermented rice -- that's all. It forms a thick milky liquid with an overpowering taste and odor. I later grew quite fond of makkoli and the decorous gatherings that center around its consumption, but that first draught was a humbling experience.
Meanwhile, the landlord was firing up perforated charcoal cylinders and placing them in the ducting system beneath our rooms. Despite its drawbacks -- hard floors and uneven heating -- this simple heating system provides relative warmth for the majority of Korean country folk.
The festival was over, but not our journey. A French photographer had recommended a secluded mountain monastery, so the next morning we all struck off on the 7 am. bus to Mt. Sokri. The trip was a pleasant if jarring jaunt, meandering slowly up into the mountains. It was still icy cold on Mt. Sokri when we arrived a few hours later, but here were young children, half-naked and barefoot, washing up in a trough of cold water.
The single word yoguan brought instant results -- several were clustered around the bus depot. Several box-like stucco shops and lodgings have sprung up for the tourists who are being wooed to this tiny town, but we managed to discover an old yoguan off an alley which till adhered to the traditional "cluttered-mud-hut" style. Here we took a stark room with enough space for the nine of us, at 200 won (50 cents) each.
The inn was a maze of paths between separate rooms and the wash facilities. Here and there stood the ubiquitous clusters of brown ceramic pots which hold -- yea, produce -- the year's store of kim chi, that delicate blend of what must be the world's most commonly grown vegetables: cabbage and peppers. The peppers must flourish here, for kim chi, aged in the crock, is unnervingly potent. The jars, from one to four feet high, are seldom found in stands of fewer than ten, usually twenty or more.
Invigorated by the mountain air, Jill and Annette turned their thoughts toward eggs fried, toast, and orange marmalade. After leaving England, they had made a run through the 'States' then stopped off in Japan for two weeks before striking out for Korea. The rest of us pondered how they could have made it this far without a supply of orange marmalade. Out on the street, ruddy Korean farm women proudly sauntered along in their long, high-sashed dresses, with babies lashed to their backs, or balancing huge bundles on their heads. Our women fell in after a few futile attempts to even describe orange marmalade to the local noodle-mongers. We only stifled our laughter and strolled on past hills of autumn red, orange, and gold.
After a short walk through quiet maple groves we arrived at the main grounds of the Beop-ju Monastery complex, founded in 553 during the Silla Dynasty. A colossal standing image of Mitreya Buddha towers over the clearing. Completed in 1964, the giant cement and stucco monolith is more noted for its bulk than its artistry. However, a number of quite old and venerable works of architecture and stone carving survive from ages past. Still remaining is a huge iron caldron, 7 feet high and 10 feet across, used to boil the rice for the 3,000 monks who lived here in its heyday. And for their kim chi, a great clay pit was dug 10 feet into the ground.
Numerous shrines dot the mountain peaks that surround the Beop-ju Monastery. At the Sujeong Temple we nibbled a dose of gin seng root, that famous wonder of the Korean apothecary, which lay drying in the sun. Tourist accommodations at Mt. Sokri consist in the new "mammoth resort" Hotel Songnisan, which caters to large groups of Japanese tourists. We were pleased to read in their literature that Mt. Sokri is "one of the eight most scenic points in Korea". Cheers went up at mention of a "public rock bath" so we inquired further at the desk.
The clerks didn't quite know what to make of our group, but we were foreigners, and they did have a "public bath". But it was the off-season and only the men's bath was open; and the water would have to be heated.
In fact the hotel was all but abandoned. At the end of October, it appeared doubtful that they would entertain another busload of Japanese until spring. But Ken persisted, informing the clerk that we would return for our bath after dinner.
We dined on curry-rice at a plain little shop on the main street. The meal was uneventful, except for the kim chi, which is always something of an event. A phonograph played some uninspired Korean lute music in the background. Fast upon our arrival however, there was some rummaging about in the back before the scratched and faded strains of an old Nat 'King' Cole record blared from the single speaker dangling over the kitchen door. The same record repeated again and again until we left -- then to be packed away until some future age when the next foreigners venture into the shop.
After a brief rest at our yoguan, we set off through the darkened streets, towels tucked under one arm, to find balm at the Hotel Songnisan. The women prevailed upon the management to open the women's bath, but had to wait for hot water. The sauna was not operating, but the bath was a real treat. Four large pools provided three different temperatures and a mineral bath, surrounded by tropical plants. Rounding out the pomp and splendor, a finely tiled six-foot breast protruded into one of the pools. A valve against the wall adjusted a stream of cool water which trickled from the nipple, or shot the length of the room.
A few kettles of makkoli rounded out the evening, and sleep came easily to nine warm, clean foreigners. Daylight arrived much too early, but a full day of traveling lay ahead of us.
At the Mt. Sokri bus depot, a hoary old man perched on his heels in front of the waiting room. Old men are a special breed in Korea. Here he squats in gray balloon trousers gathered above his white canoe-shaped shoes. He wears a full white topcoat, gray vest, and the vaudevillian miniature stovepipe hat of wide-meshed material strapped under his chin. His leathery, wizened face presides over a long wispy beard and his eyes are alive with wonder.
In the midst of a changing way of life, he knows how to be old in the venerable tradition. Through with struggling, through with obligations to men and society, he is free to reflect on life. His eyes dance through the milling crowd and out over the houses to the mountains beyond. They capture my eyes as I regard him, and he slowly nods his head with a twinkling smile that seems to affirm that he and I are somehow bound up in this life together.
Down out of the mountains, it was a brisk ride back to Tae Jon, where we lost a few of our number to the express train, never to be heard from again. But after a leisurely lunch of pork cutlets, six of us rolled off, under Lim's watchful eye, bound for the adventures that awaited us in Seoul.
