tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25854846924136721392024-02-19T01:14:27.381-08:00An Englishman in BusanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-22383864368437672022014-01-16T11:22:00.002-08:002014-01-16T11:25:53.947-08:00A Taste of Asia<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 10); line-height: 115%; }P.western { font-family: "Liberation Serif",serif; font-size: 12pt; }P.cjk { font-family: "DejaVu Sans"; font-size: 12pt; }P.ctl { font-family: "DejaVu Sans"; font-size: 12pt; }A:link { color: rgb(0, 0, 255); }</style>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
I will never forget
the exact moment I first tried Asian food. I was thirteen years old
and previous to that I had only really been accustomed to the
traditional British fare that my mother would serve. The closest we
ever got to ‘foreign’ was a spaghetti bolognese on a Friday
night. So, I was to find myself sitting in a Chinese restaurant in
the port town of Le Havre, France on a rather dismal night, staring
at a menu not only in a language I had little grasp of, but
containing a whole array of exotic sounding dishes I had never
encountered before. Getting me in the restaurant had been a feat in
itself. I was somewhat of a picky eater, but with my parents patience
wearing thin I ordered the “Chicken with Cashew Nuts” and
tentatively took my first bite. It was at this serendipitous moment
that my love affair with Asian food and cooking in general began.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Britain, being the
multi-cultural hot pot that it is, afforded me an opportunity to
experience the best Asia had to offer. From fiery Indian curries to
the complex layers of flavors that is Thai, I greedily ate up
everything and anything placed before me. As I grew older and began
to travel my palate accompanied me on a culinary awakening. So, when
the company I was then working for decided to send me to Korea, the
thought of the myriad of gastronomic possibilities that awaited me
filled me with anticipation. On arrival, however, I was, to put it
bluntly...a little disappointed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Don’t get me
wrong. I love Korean food. I love their warming stews and broths. I
love the social occasion that is Korean barbeque. But the cuisines of
other nations were sorely lacking or non existent. I therefore had
to wait for trips back home to fill my suitcase full of ingredients,
until someone told me of the existence of an “Asian Supermarket”
right here, in Sa-sang, Busan.
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJOojyPn1d6PVyHoTgjri-yLcPqnxRY-lHEu_fQW-PREJf9oL8sBf3v7lmr0LaukT48_emjHkf3CbyFQjdkVbR3oMPzPGUWgcXNoUwD9EF7HKwdDVavojdpDTXArovoh9VvoMOElFohPM/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJOojyPn1d6PVyHoTgjri-yLcPqnxRY-lHEu_fQW-PREJf9oL8sBf3v7lmr0LaukT48_emjHkf3CbyFQjdkVbR3oMPzPGUWgcXNoUwD9EF7HKwdDVavojdpDTXArovoh9VvoMOElFohPM/s1600/1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
My first trip there
was like bumping into an old friend. The shelves were stacked high
with ingredients I thought I would never see again: cardamom pods,
cumin, ghee, basmati rice, lentils, fresh lemongrass and coriander,
and lamb. Here in this tiny little shop I had everything needed to
get re-acquainted with my favorite food.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Over the years, as
the foreign population of Busan has grown, most notably with migrant
workers from South and South East Asian nations, so has the number of
stores. At the last count there are now four. All pretty much sell
the same. But in each there is always a surprise waiting: shallots,
Thai bird’s-eye chillies, tamarind, shrimp paste and even bags of
salt ‘n’ vinegar potato chips. One of the best bargains is “Thai
Jasmine Long Grain Rice”, which at only $15 for a 10kg bag is
considerably cheaper than Korean rice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj4y7ccuKOX5nJE8YsLEdJ1itOCZ00G1-bRYORYACphbQcOKt75vhkUAxevMhFvGkjoEteVXBIS66Fbb7v5TzR3fuZmGJBbZ07M2UtMLbpQiLOYHRY6SsRhsG1AIBavFMulQL5wRIpsI/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyj4y7ccuKOX5nJE8YsLEdJ1itOCZ00G1-bRYORYACphbQcOKt75vhkUAxevMhFvGkjoEteVXBIS66Fbb7v5TzR3fuZmGJBbZ07M2UtMLbpQiLOYHRY6SsRhsG1AIBavFMulQL5wRIpsI/s1600/3.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Most of the owners
are from South Asia. The owner of the newly opened “Shahjan Mart”
hails from Balochistan, somewhere on the Iran-Pakistan border, he
informed me. He himself, will be a familiar face to anyone who has
bought a kebab from the van outside Family Mart in Kyungsung on a
Saturday night.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
The first and
original store, “Asia Mart”, that poky little store I first
visited all those years ago, has recently undergone a significant
expansion and face-lift. It’s probably the easiest to shop in, but
I always make a point of buying something from all the stores
including “Asian Food Mart and “New World Mart” on my visits
there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Of course, times
have changed and most supermarkets now have an “International Food
Section”. But if like me you crave for something more authentic,
such as the rewarding feeling of crushing up lemongrass, chillies and
galangal to make your own green curry or the aroma of the
sub-continent eminating from black cardamoms, cinnamon and cloves
sizzling in a pan. Then, a trip to Sa-sang never fails to disappoint.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
<i>Directions: Take Subway line 2 to Sasang and either transfer to
the LRT line to the airport, one stop</i><i>,</i><i> to Renecite, or
follow the </i><i>LRT </i><i>line on foot until you get to E-Mart.
Facing E-Mart look for the small street to the right</i><i>. Three of
the Asian supermarkets are on this street</i><i>. “Asia-Mart” is
just around the corner to the </i><i>right.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWoNby-Zkqob-p0RDmLgncFV0NUto1sCm9F7s5DhWNJUId_6pv8KOG2CEcVfqfI_wqwuQ8znTnPfTBFkh5S0724FRpzU5FXcenNrx7p8hyphenhyphenu5vEVwUPn_9sPdgjKpANfMvHUQxFahqE4E/s1600/composite_stores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWoNby-Zkqob-p0RDmLgncFV0NUto1sCm9F7s5DhWNJUId_6pv8KOG2CEcVfqfI_wqwuQ8znTnPfTBFkh5S0724FRpzU5FXcenNrx7p8hyphenhyphenu5vEVwUPn_9sPdgjKpANfMvHUQxFahqE4E/s1600/composite_stores.jpg" height="285" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Naver Maps Street
View Reference: <span style="color: blue;"><span lang="en-US"><u><a href="http://me2.do/xtcJ7tfu">http://me2.do/xtcJ7tfu</a></u></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
Google Maps: Street
View: <span style="color: blue;"><span lang="en-US"><u><a href="http://goo.gl/maps/bPhWC">http://goo.gl/maps/bPhWC</a></u></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-66047286535788209282013-11-14T03:33:00.000-08:002013-11-14T03:40:09.210-08:00Lest We Forget<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 10); }P.western { font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; }P.cjk { font-family: "DejaVu Sans"; font-size: 12pt; }P.ctl { font-family: "Lohit Hindi"; font-size: 12pt; }</style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixy6Usbp2HMN9_AOmwsyrVpH-KECGFYbRUGB_dX31twLY6CFqyCAnsxyeQwAjmL9KlBHt1qQ76IFuvAbFewe87g8m1Ie76p3fAvAXOOP7RxR7T0I8TXXsNAivQVMzhuDI_vcSzw6oKVgw/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixy6Usbp2HMN9_AOmwsyrVpH-KECGFYbRUGB_dX31twLY6CFqyCAnsxyeQwAjmL9KlBHt1qQ76IFuvAbFewe87g8m1Ie76p3fAvAXOOP7RxR7T0I8TXXsNAivQVMzhuDI_vcSzw6oKVgw/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For the past ten years,
when I’ve been able, I’ve made a point of going to the U.N
Cemetery in Busan on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, the
exact time and date that hostilities ended in World War 1. For
Britains, Canadians other commonwealth nations and notable nations
such as France this day has come to be known as Remembrance Day when
those countries remember those that have sacrificed their lives. Not
only in the first Great War, but in all conflicts since. The day has
become synonymous with the red poppy of remembrance inspired by the
poem “In Flanders Fields”.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first time I went
to the U.N cemetery I had expected there to be some sort of service
or ceremony, but to my surprise there was no one there. In hindsight
this wasn’t totally surprising. November 11<sup>th</sup> isn’t
commemorated in all countries like it is in the U.K and Canada.
Although America does have Veterans Day on November 11<sup>th</sup>
there main day is Memorial Day. Koreans Memorial Day is in June and
of course the Australians and Kiwis commemorate ANZAC Day.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxxp3dA4_8Vg6cIazVgrccDp5kt1djT2OfLcXMmpFMwKq0JCMpinfeksD9LHtfGUJEzamBc2ECgpDEvt-iYpttg7w9IpzlY5tplSZ_8oH1J0HE2-iKm9XvMQ2wE8LudgawT3YWzRwHsU/s1600/14270_4437781415261_1130971198_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxxp3dA4_8Vg6cIazVgrccDp5kt1djT2OfLcXMmpFMwKq0JCMpinfeksD9LHtfGUJEzamBc2ECgpDEvt-iYpttg7w9IpzlY5tplSZ_8oH1J0HE2-iKm9XvMQ2wE8LudgawT3YWzRwHsU/s320/14270_4437781415261_1130971198_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So each year I would
find myself alone in the cemetery and would find a gravestone of some
soldier, any soldier and pay my own private, silent tribute to him
and those that had given their lives. Not only those in the two great
wars that my Grandfathers and their fathers before them served in.
But also those that gave their lives in the Korean war. A war that
sixty years ago decimated this country that I’ve come to call home,
but has seen a quite miraculous transformation from the ashes to rise
to the economic powerhouse it is today.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then about five years
ago I noticed a small, but noticeable group of foreigners and Koreans
holding some sort of service near the newly built “Wall of
Remembrance”. A group of Canadian veterans had decided it right
that this day should be remembered. The following year the group was
much larger and with the noticeable presence of some Korean veterans.
Every year it grew until the organization of the event came under the
wing of The Ministry of Patriots and Veterans Affairs and the local
Busan and Nam Gu governments. Last year and this the ceremony became
quite a big affair. Government ministers rub shoulders with veterans
from Korea, Britain, Australia, The U.S, New Zealand, Canada and
Turkey to name just a few. A military band plays sober music in the
background and tributes are read and speeches given.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiC1RBhakhHu0flFL7aJK3ey4MM91xKfFptldZCndCloAbXI7SA9ETUStjTCq6hnH1Ze-ZabdFhvVzbafhkb2MntkOp0dnWRPmfw_UOCrGaiiPE84zZwmJhyleHazoLTu4DWT_YdBADg/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiC1RBhakhHu0flFL7aJK3ey4MM91xKfFptldZCndCloAbXI7SA9ETUStjTCq6hnH1Ze-ZabdFhvVzbafhkb2MntkOp0dnWRPmfw_UOCrGaiiPE84zZwmJhyleHazoLTu4DWT_YdBADg/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a>Sometimes I wish again
for the days of my own private act of remembrance, alone in the
cemetery. The ‘2 minute silence’ isn’t silent at all since the
band plays over the top. The 11<sup>th</sup> hour isn’t observed
either. Maybe it’s significance isn’t realized here. But at least
they are remembering. For that I am thankful.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUc0n1XUcN07icBVeXy74su2vhuJs-iL_JA0bsUp5_yWHUury89vXasFTWo1KRYq8vuGqtC4aQgQdoav9vEhn54NybYWXNq55KNYec0BWNFPBaXe3_14JYROx_E2HCBk8p8L585ZGYk0/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUc0n1XUcN07icBVeXy74su2vhuJs-iL_JA0bsUp5_yWHUury89vXasFTWo1KRYq8vuGqtC4aQgQdoav9vEhn54NybYWXNq55KNYec0BWNFPBaXe3_14JYROx_E2HCBk8p8L585ZGYk0/s320/11.jpg" width="190" /></a>As I walked away from
this years ceremony, I made a point, as I always do, to walk around
some of the gravestones. To read the names of the men who died. This
year one gravestone stood out. It was surrounded by Irish flags and a
basket of flowers with two rosettes perched on top saying “Proud
to be Irish!”. The grave belonged to a Private Keating, a gunner in
the Royal Artillery. He had died here in Korea in June 1953, aged
just 24. A gray haired gentleman came up to me and said, “That’s
mine. That’s my father. I don’t think he or any of them knew what
they were coming to. So young, so young”.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lest we forget.</div>
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<br />
Addendum: I rushed this piece out for one of the local magazines here in Busan so it wasn't subject to the usual meticulous scrutiny I normally afford my writing. The editor of the magazine did quite a bit of editing on it and I appreciate his input. Actually, I prefer what he did!<br />
Here is the edited version if you wish to read it.<br />
<a href="http://www.busanhaps.com/article/lest-we-forget-marking-remembrance-day-south-korea" target="_blank">Busan Haps - Lest We Forget</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-82902602234740505792013-06-28T02:17:00.000-07:002013-06-28T12:52:54.909-07:00A Brit for All Seasons<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: left; }P.western { font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; }P.cjk { font-family: "DejaVu Sans","MS Mincho"; font-size: 12pt; }P.ctl { font-family: "Lohit Hindi"; font-size: 12pt; }</style>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shortly after arriving
in Korea there is one thing that you become very quickly aware of and
that is that Koreans are mightily proud of their seasons. For those
that don’t live here you may be wondering what I’m talking about,
so, I’m about to let you in on a little secret.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Korea has... wait for
it... FOUR seasons. That’s right, not one, not two, not even three,
but a whole whopping four! When the weather gods were handing out
climates at the beginning of time Korea hit the jackpot. They got the
royal flush; they struck gold; they got the whole caboodle. Spring,
Summer, Autumn and Winter.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Koreans love to tell
you about their four seasons. They have set activities for each one
that everyone wholeheartedly participates in. The country is adorned
with giant photographs of famous landmarks and landscapes,
beautifully capturing each season. So if you have chosen to live here
you had better embrace and join in the celebration that is Korea’s
four seasons or jump on the next flight back home.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now those that know me
might detect a slight hint of sarcasm in my tone. Some might even
accuse me of being a tad disparaging toward my adopted country. But
there is a reason that I sat down to write about the rather mundane
topic of seasons and weather. I absolutely love the seasons in
Korea. They’ve shown me what they have to offer and I’m sold.
Each and every one of them is unique. Even the
sweat-ridden, hell hole that is a Korean summer, but more on that
later.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So why have I bought
in? The reason is quite simple. I come from England. As a kid I was
told that my country too was blessed with four seasons. But my
parents and teachers lied to me as their parents and teachers had
lied to them before creating a never ending vicious circle.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let’s look at the
facts of the British seasons. Winters are cold and dreary. The never
ending drizzle that soaks you to the bone just sucks the will to live
right out of you. Spring has a few things going for it; slightly
warmer weather gives you hope for bright, hot sunny days, barbeques
in the garden, driving round with your friends, top pulled down,
tunes pumping out the stereo. Then summer arrives and it’s like a
kick in the gut. The temperature struggles to get into the twenties and
on those few days that it does, the rain is always guaranteed to
spoil the party.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What I’ve always
found amusing about the British psyche is our inability to deal with
extremes in weather that occasionally come our way. Take summer for
example. If the temperature somehow creeps above 25 degrees the
tabloid newspapers go to town. “Ohh What a Scorcher”, “Barmy!”
the headlines cry out. Front pages adorned with pictures of the great
British public descending en masse to beaches across the country,
their unsightly white flab protruding from ill-fitting swim suits,
frolicking in turd
ridden seas.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Winter is equally
absurd. All it takes is a few drops of whitish looking sleet to fall
down from the sky to send the nation into a mass panic. Schools and
offices shut down early and people raid supermarket shelves to stock
up for the long haul.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My seasonal experiences
haven’t only been confined to the U.K and Korea though. I consider
myself fairly well travelled and have been fortunate enough to live
in various parts of the world. Take Florida for example, where I
lived for nine months in the hip and hip-replacement happening town
of Boca Raton. They have three seasons there: hot, very hot and holy
shit it’s hot! Then there was Sydney; again they almost got the
full four seasons, but had to settle for the three that are hot, not
so hot and slightly chilly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Which brings me back to
Korea, where there are four seasons, four distinct seasons. Each
season has the correct weather, temperature and changes in nature
that allows that season to truly call itself a season. Now, I must
admit not all seasons are created equal here. The cold bits and the
hot bits are much longer than the other bits that intersperse between
them, but each one has its own unique characteristics.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0LV8KvVI9RA3U-cs2IYcNSveNmz_91ZW2aElsQArPtRn5oarzrNtBOqX8i3wItBK7oUPmBmjlVv6zN19USQnyBjT-awcaZAtX9BdN6ZLF_A8a101jPZnmsZr_5ErIqo1r0VE-XmDg3Q/s960/snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0LV8KvVI9RA3U-cs2IYcNSveNmz_91ZW2aElsQArPtRn5oarzrNtBOqX8i3wItBK7oUPmBmjlVv6zN19USQnyBjT-awcaZAtX9BdN6ZLF_A8a101jPZnmsZr_5ErIqo1r0VE-XmDg3Q/s320/snow.jpg" width="320" /></a>Let’s start at my
favourite season, winter. Now that might surprise some because if you
ask the average Korean and even the average ex pat, “What is your
favourite season”, the answer is pretty much guaranteed to be, “
Spring or autumn” (or fall, which is also a perfectly acceptable
word since both words came into being around the same time in
England. Fall ain’t American folks; it’s as British as Fish ‘n’
Chips!).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Korean winters are
refreshing. Sure, they are cold, but not too cold. You wake from the
snugness of your bed and step out in to crisp clean air, stunning
blue, clear skies and rarely does a drop of rain fall. When you come
home at night you snuggle up on the floor soaking up the warmth that
is the genius of Korean ‘Ondol’ (under floor) heating.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here in Busan, we don’t
get much snow. The few flurries we do get normally send people into a
dizzying frenzy of happiness. But go slightly north or slightly west
and Korea does pretty well on the snow front. So much so that those
decent, honest chaps at the International Olympic Committee decided
to give them an Olympics. Yes, another one. First there was the Seoul
88 Summer Games and in a few years time will be the PyeongChang 2018
Winter Olympics. And do you know why Korea will be able to boast a
summer and winter Olympics? Because they have four seasons, that’s
why!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyhow, I’m
digressing a little. Let’s get back to the seasons. Spring. Oh,
beautiful spring!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPJumCMhHT2KzFca0nWKUNux4fEG8YaIkAZu9-b_LpHYPv_FpqOJSO8wCJR06u63LbnBlQ1roHDNKad0CMj-hOtseIi5PkWwQpoBuSgtc5DkTKfDiivzVB38bCO3MlfxKA0xUumcRVlA/s960/spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPJumCMhHT2KzFca0nWKUNux4fEG8YaIkAZu9-b_LpHYPv_FpqOJSO8wCJR06u63LbnBlQ1roHDNKad0CMj-hOtseIi5PkWwQpoBuSgtc5DkTKfDiivzVB38bCO3MlfxKA0xUumcRVlA/s320/spring.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Like pink? Like pink
and white? Like pink and white and all the colours under the rainbow?
Like pink and white and all the colours under the rainbow and
flowers? Then, BOOM, come to Korea! The sensory overload of colour
that is the cherry blossom season is quite frankly a site to behold.
For a very few short weeks of the year, the concrete jungle that is
the city I live in is transformed into a blanket of pink beauty.
Normally drab uninteresting streets bring traffic chaos as people
swarm in their thousands to capture the blossoms. Whole cities, such
as Jinhae, make their entire tourist industry dollars off those few
short weeks.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then a few weeks
later, the blossoms fall...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It’s warm outside but
this tiny delicate pink flake falls past you brushing your cheek. You
think to yourself, it’s April, it can’t be snowing. But it is.
It’s snowing cherry blossoms.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitklHiAg92t8y18HaGuO0QmjZ-TSD7z6YJCufikbU7Fm_HqNY1T8NokxQ6STonKZFN4SzfFRUSEULg1R1TQFfMyebBS2mN9BTPFHgQdX-lx0j7lKgkdM89wmzkgaUmSIUf9QKpchF3ZU/s720/summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitklHiAg92t8y18HaGuO0QmjZ-TSD7z6YJCufikbU7Fm_HqNY1T8NokxQ6STonKZFN4SzfFRUSEULg1R1TQFfMyebBS2mN9BTPFHgQdX-lx0j7lKgkdM89wmzkgaUmSIUf9QKpchF3ZU/s320/summer.jpg" width="320" /></a>And then comes summer.
I don’t feel like writing about summer. Summer is a piece of shit.
But since this is a piece about all four seasons, I feel it deserves a
mouthpiece. After all it is a season and a very distinct one at that.
It starts off OK. The spring flowers turn to leaves. You start
putting on shorts and flip-flops as you head out in the evening to
sit in front of the local convenience store late into the early hours
of the morning sipping on the deliciousness that is Korean beer. But
then summer decides that it doesn’t want to be friends. Slowly it
cranks up the heat dial and while it’s at it throws in a few
monsoons to add humidity hell to the mix. Air conditioners and fans
are turned up to maximum power, but still you suffer. Walking a few
hundred meters down the road turns you into a dripping, nasty, sweaty
mess that pretty much guarantees you scoring the leading role in the
next reincarnation of the Swamp Thing. But respite is at hand. Busan
is blessed with some amazing beaches so why don’t you slap on the
sunscreen and head out to the nearest one, where you can meet a
million other like-minded Koreans all scrambling for the same two
inches of sand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8u5jQkL1RQOgZ2mw7WtrXdDXa3mkPch_9R41UtcjIYFWummIqIK_OzpsLpMSZd6-peuUOcUlDEdk0DC6qttoijCcg5gvoLAfdY6t3J8P721cTwXfmyUy_ivm96F8vmMPKkmelBS3xO4/s720/fall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8u5jQkL1RQOgZ2mw7WtrXdDXa3mkPch_9R41UtcjIYFWummIqIK_OzpsLpMSZd6-peuUOcUlDEdk0DC6qttoijCcg5gvoLAfdY6t3J8P721cTwXfmyUy_ivm96F8vmMPKkmelBS3xO4/s400/fall.jpg" width="400" /></a>What I don’t like
about summer is that it’s a bit of a party pooper. That is the
party being hosted by autumn. Autumn does its best though, actually
it does better than that and gives the finger to summer by putting on
another glorious display of colour. For those that don’t know
Korea, there are a lot of mountains. In fact it’s seventy percent
mountains and with that canvas Autumn works it’s colour magic.
Reds, browns, yellows, golds, and russets fill the landscape. Koreans
and myself head to those mountains to soak everything in. Korean
hikers are the nicest people in the world. You may have gone head to
head with the same guy in your car earlier, but up in the mountains
the rules change. We are all experiencing the beauty of another
Korean season, therefore we are one. We are the same. People invite
you over to enjoy their homemade ‘kimbab’ (rice and vegetables
wrapped in seaweed) and never leave your glass empty of the ever
ubiquitous ‘soju’.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eventually summer
relinquishes its selfish humid grip on the weather and days become
pleasantly warm and nights start to get a little chilly. Shorts give
way to long pants and sweaters. Then that guy in
Seoul pushes the big button that starts winter again right on cue and
suddenly you are wrapped up in your thick fleece, beanie hat and
wool scarf. Winter is coming, another new season beckons, because
this is Korea, and in Korea there are four seasons.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Addendum:</b> I would like
to make it clear that my comments about British beaches were in the
context of my experiences of them when younger. Britain now boasts
some of the cleanest coastal waters in the whole of Europe and has
won awards for the pristine condition of the golden sands that can be
found all around her coastline. You should all visit them one summer.
Just remember to pack a sweater...
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-40596134763670007152013-06-14T10:11:00.000-07:002013-06-28T04:26:14.184-07:00Driving into the Unknown. <style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }</style>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I breathe in deeply, trying my best to
remain calm. A large black car, which has just rushed past the long
line of patiently waiting drivers, is now doing his best to force his
way in. One small car meekly relents and lets him in. I slam my
hand hard against the horn in anger. Why!? But this is Korea. And
I’ve chosen to drive in this country. Who am I to say what is right
or wrong?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Everyone who lives in Korea thinks they
are aware of the traffic and how people drive here. On the surface it
seems like a chaotic, dangerous death wish if you were ever stupid
enough to put yourself behind the wheel of a car. However in reality,
that’s exactly what it is!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I swore I would never drive in this
country. Why would I? The public transport system is reliable, cheap
and efficient. Need to get home at night? Taxis cost you as much as a
glass or two of beer. Need to move that big sofa? There’s always a
guy with a van who will do it for twenty bucks. So why would I choose
to drive?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The truthful answer is that my parents
came to visit. There was so much I wanted to show them of this
wonderful country, but they had so little time. Then my friend
offered me her car. My initial reaction was hell no! But, then the
practicalities dawned on me. It was either show them bits of Busan,
Seoul and Kyung Ju, or show them everything I possibly could. Show
them why I’ve made this country my home. So, I decided to become a
driver.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first step was to get my Korean
license. I went to the local driving center, handed over my British license, and told them I wanted to be one of them. “Just
go to that office over there and complete some basic tests”, the
kind lady told me. Apprehensively, I approached, wondering if the
driving skills I had learnt back home were up to the same standard as
Korea. After testing my eyesight I was asked to perform a series of bizarre
tests, which amounted to, jumping jacks, squat thrusts and
touching my toes. And then...they handed me a brand, spanking new
Korean license.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once stepping behind the wheel I was
hooked. It was nothing like I had ever experienced in my life. A
friend of mine, who had been driving for a number of years, told me of
his first experiences “It’s like a video game”, he said. “You
turn your car stereo up to full blast and dodge and weave and put
your foot hard to the pedal, the adrenaline is pumping fast and it’s
a frikking buzz!” He also added that there are no ‘lives’ in
Korea. Screw up and that is that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To be honest, I made some serious
mistakes in my first few weeks in the driver's seat. I think it was
the mistake of applying the way I had been taught back home to the
Korean roads. That simply wasn’t going to work. Back home you are
told to check your rear view mirror before attempting any manoeuvre.
Here that rule is pretty much null and void. Sure, check your rear
view mirror, but all you will see is an SUV inches from the back of
your car, lights on full beam, aiming to make your 1997 Kia the meat
in his sandwich when the whole procession of cars comes to a grinding
halt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But over the years I’ve become more
and more savvy to driving in Korea. The key is aggressive self
preservation. In the hell that is city driving you have to be first
to act and never give an inch. Although my car is old, it’s a
manual, a concept alien to most Korean drivers. My gears are my
weapon. I’m always the first off the lights, giving me control of
the space ahead. Sure, the big powerful BMWs and Mercedes eventually
catch up to me, their occupants giving a curious, sideways glance at
the foreigner in the piece of junk that just sped off in front of
them. I’ve even had guys, in cars a hundred times more expensive
than mine, offering to race me at the next set of lights. They try
harder the second time around.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now that I have a car, I can’t
imagine life without it. The convenience of being able to drive
thirty kilometres across the city just to pick up some coriander, or being able to throw a cooler, tent and dog into the back of the car
and drive into the beautiful Korean countryside for a weekend camping
trip would be impossible without it.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Driving here is often stressful, but I
absolutely love it. Those who also drive will understand. The rest of
you, I’m sure, are still saying, “Hell No!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cars to the left of me,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cars to the right of me,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cars behind me,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Into the Jaws of Death</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Into the Mouth of Hell</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rode, my little Kia Avella...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-80048405562730507242013-04-16T13:51:00.003-07:002013-06-28T03:33:22.434-07:00Tales from North Korea<style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
August 7<sup>th</sup>, 2011. Dandong,
Liaoning Province, China</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20_B2uua56vnAKcOcN6gO9jB1VeNOWQAnsOA9tsl7xoBcq3SAUP1YrQsRMeADbBx3H-4hqoaMM5nOtnydUjN7sppXznDfmDyCRjLZ_fiVQJVQ0F5dGxPQxX0Y343MkCwyWUEqXe26_pQ/s1600/P1120545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20_B2uua56vnAKcOcN6gO9jB1VeNOWQAnsOA9tsl7xoBcq3SAUP1YrQsRMeADbBx3H-4hqoaMM5nOtnydUjN7sppXznDfmDyCRjLZ_fiVQJVQ0F5dGxPQxX0Y343MkCwyWUEqXe26_pQ/s320/P1120545.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
The K27 bound for Shineuiju pulls out
of Dandong train station at 9:30 a.m. After a few hundred meters it
crosses the Yalu river before arriving at it’s destination a few
minutes later. Soldiers carrying guns and wielding metal detectors
board the train. One approaches me and asks me to open my bags for
inspection. “Do you have any GPS devices”, he asks in impeccable
English. I reply in the negative. Once the search is over we leave
the train and are escorted single file under the platform down a
long, dark, dank tunnel to emerge in a large waiting room where we
are told to wait for three hours. On the wall the two smiling
portraits of the Great and Dear Leaders, Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il
stare down at us. Welcome to North Korea.
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I am about to embark on a four day tour
of a country that everybody has heard of, many have an opinion of,
but most will never get to see. I am part of a Chinese tour party,
about 50 strong. My co-travelers view me with curious stares. Some
try to practice their English skills, others kindly offer me food.
Some North Koreans civilians, easily identifiable by the Kim Il Sung
badges they proudly wear on their chests, buzz around us watching us
closely. I gather that these are to be our tour guides, or maybe a
better description should be our handlers.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I head downstairs to the gift shop.
It’s window opens up onto the station platform which is alive with
activity. In front of the building a group of twenty-something
females, all dressed in full uniform, are demolishing a wall with
sledgehammers and pickaxes. People are scurrying around to board the
train to Pyongyang. There are some civilians, most dressed in the
same drab green or grey work clothes, but it’s those dressed in
military uniforms that dominate. A group of sailors horse around and
soldiers, wearing high peaked hats, lean out of the windows of the
train chatting to their comrades on the platform. It’s a scene that
could easily be lifted straight from a 1940’s war movie, bar the
lingering kiss goodbye.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally, we are told to board the
train. As we line up again, one of the Chinese tourists raises his
camera to capture the moment. A female guard moves swiftly to stop
and reprimand him. As I get on the train I am surprised to find that
we are sharing it with some of the Korean locals, they seem
indifferent to our presence as they talk and send messages on their
cell phones. After a few minutes we leave the city limits and I am
greeted by a lush sea of green. Rice paddies and fields of corn
stretch as far as the eye can see. I think of recent reports of
famine and a starving population, but the evidence points to the
contrary. I wonder if the same story can be told beyond the distant
mountains on the horizon.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Along the way we pass villages and
towns. All with similar white washed houses topped with terracotta
tiled roofs. Farmers work in their fields, kids fish in the ponds and
streams that line the route. There is obviously poverty here, but no
worse than I have seen in other countries that I’ve visited. Inside
the carriage the heat is relentless. Women fan themselves, the Korean
males strip to their undershirts, the Chinese go bare chested. I head
to the restaurant car and order a beer in order to cool down.
“Product of Argentina”, it says on the can. It seems I will have
to wait until the nations capital in order to sample the local brew.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After nearly five and a half hours and
just under two hundred kilometers, the train arrives, on time, in
Pyongyang. I am greeted by my English speaking tour guide, a Mr Kim,
not surprisingly. He ushers me onto a waiting bus which drives a
short distance before arriving at the hotel. A gleaming 47 floor
tower with a revolving restaurant atop. My room is pleasant, ,a
decent sized suite with living room and bedroom. I search for a
power outlet to charge my camera, but find there are only two, dim, lights in the room with plug connections that I have never come
across before. Eventually the shaving socket in the bathroom comes to
my rescue, but the whole fixture falls off the wall as I plug my
charger in.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next morning I open my curtains to
get my first glimpse of Pyongyang. The Dae Dong river, lined with
bridges, snakes before me. To my left is the Juche monument and the
May Day stadium, the world’s biggest. But, it’s the magnificent
pyramid of the Ryugyong hotel that dominates the Pyongyang skyline.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As our bus leaves the hotel compound,
it's rush hour in Pyeongyang and people are making their way to work.
Most by foot or bicycle. Some take taxis, splendid looking 1970's
Volvos. The fashion is notably dated, not a pair of Nikes or Levis to
be seen. The buildings too are old. Utilitarian concrete blocks,
paint flaking, a few with polythene sheets where windows once had
been. Empty shells of unfinished building projects add to the
grimness. The few shops I see are void of window displays, the dim
interiors look sparse, the signs out front all using the same old
fashioned red font. There are no advertising hoardings, but instead
huge propaganda posters loom everywhere. It's as though someone
pressed a button circa 1972 and froze the city in time. But the
illusion is broken by the cars. Expensive, new Mercedes and Lexus
fill the roads. Occupied by military officers and the party faithful.
The priveledged few.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bus leaves the city and hits the
highway to Kaesong, one of only 3 major highways in the North. The
entire road is almost entirely straight, but the bus weaves and
swerves to avoid potholes, people and the occasional herd of goats.
Our first port of call for the day is the DMZ, the De-milatarized
zone, the line that divides the peninsula along the 38th parallel.
Before reaching the DMZ itself, we stop at the building where the
1953 armistice was signed. The original documents still lying in
glass cases. Our military guide tells of the unprovoked attack on the
peace loving north by the imperialistic American army and their South
Korean puppets, and their subsequent crushing defeat at the hands of
the mighty North Korean and Chinese armies. Sorry, my American
friends, but you lost!</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Next it’s on to Panmunjom, the
village that sits on both sides of the border. It's familiar
territory having been here twice before, but from the South Korean
side. We enter one of the huts where talks between the North and
South still take place. I 'cross the line' once again, but this time
it's back in to the country I've called home for the last ten years. We enter the building that overlooks the South Korean viewing
platform. I remember seeing this ominous looking building a few years
before and trying to get a furtive snapshot of the guards on the
North Korean side. But, now I stand on it’s balcony and those same
guards stand next to me. The realisation of the moment hits me hard.
I’m in North Korea.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After lunch it’s back to the capital
for one of the trip’s highlights. The Pyeongyang Metro. We take
the longest escalator I have ever been on down to the world’s
deepest subway and the incredible station below. Grandiose columns
reach up to high vaulted ceilings lined with opulent chandeliers, the
walls decorated with huge propaganda murals. A train is just
arriving, it’s old, but elegant, probably harking back to when the
subway was first built in 1973. We get on the train, again there is
no attempt at segregation from the locals and an elderly Korean
gentleman ushers me to a seat next to him. One stop later it’s off
the train into an equally impressive station, up another endless
escalator to the waiting bus outside.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We drive to Mangyongdae, the alleged
birth place of Kim Il Sung. A quaint, thatched cottage located in the
heart of Pyongyang surrounded by acre upon acre of park, but not a
person is to be seen. The resident guide, dressed in full hanbok
(Korean national dress), talks in a tragic, wailing voice about the
Great Leader, and grandfather of the nation. When a Chinese tourist
steps over a barrier to take a closer look she becomes aghast with
shock and disbelief at the sacriledge that is being committed, but I
am not convinced by her display.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I arrange to meet my tour guide that
evening in one of the many hotel bars for a few drinks. I order two
bottles of Dae Dong Gang beer, named after Pyongyang’s central
river. It’s a pleasant full bodied lager, which doesn’t
surprise me since the brewery was bought lock stock and barrel in
2002 from the U.K. But, it’s the soju I want to try, Korea’s most
famous drink. I choose a bottle of Dotori (acorn) soju and am
surprised not only by it’s strength, but also it’s taste. Unlike
the soju in the South, which has a taste somewhere in-between paint
stripper and battery acid, it’s smooth and very palatable. The
drinking culture is also very different. There is no ‘one shot’,
there is no touching your hand to the wrist to refill your friend’s
empty glass. Instead you pour your own drink and sip it warm from a
tall glass, not too disimilar to an aperetif. When it comes to paying
the bill, I thank the waitress using the polite, but informal <span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans;">고마워요
</span>(Go Ma Weo Yo) for thank you. My tour guide turns to me and
says angrily, “Do not use the South Korean way here! In North Korea
we are always polite. We do not lower our language! You have to say
<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans;">고맙습니다 </span>(Go Map Seum Ni Da,
polite formal)”. A little taken aback I correct myself and
apologise to the waitress, who appears a little bit embarrassed about
the exchange.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next day we head to Mount Myohang
and the Kim Il Sung, International Friendship Hall. It is a large,
lavish building, topped with a Korean traditional style roof. Inside
it houses all the gifts that have been given to Kim Il Sung and Kim
Jong Il from other nations. Our guide boasts proudly that if you were
to spend one minute viewing every gift it would take you two months.
I peer into the glass cabinets and note that the majority seem to be
from China or the world’s crackpot nations and despots. There is
also a surprising number from big, famous multi-nationals. Obviously
political ideology takes a back seat when it comes to money. Amongst
all the exquisite pottery, ornate wood carvings and elegant paintings
one gift sticks out like a sore thumb, a large 1983 Chinese made
ghetto blaster. An image pops into my head of a younger Kim Jong Il,
boom box on his shoulder, body popping and getting jiggy with it. I
laugh out loud. Bewildered heads turn to look at me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From here it’s back to Pyongyang and
to the governmental and administrative center of the city. Kim Il
Sung Square is flanked by large communist style buildings. Nearby
lies the Children’s Palace where we will go to see a performance.
The students that I meet there are so incredibly talented, that they would put to shame any kid who was the star of his or her yearbook. We get to see
fine arts, incredible musicianship and outstanding performances that
would make most South Korean parents green with envy.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I come across an art class and see this
one girl painting the most exquisite flower painting. I forget myself
for a minute and remark to her ‘<span style="font-family: DejaVu Sans;">예쁘다’
</span>(it’s so pretty). I see a brief moment of alarm in her eyes,
and she does her best to ignore me and carry on with her appointed
task. I too, realise my mistake and step away quickly. I pass the
same classroom again some forty minutes later. She is still there,
painting the same beautiful flowers. I hope she is OK...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then it comes to the highlight of
the trip. Not just for us the curious onlookers, but for the North
Koreans too. The Mass Games. It’s their showpiece, to show to the
world their brilliance. And, I have to admit, I was totally blown
away by what I saw.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Walking into the stadium felt a bit
like going to see a baseball game in the South. Excitement is high.
Soldiers, party workers, school children buzz around us. They are the
chosen ones for this evening. And then...semi disappointment. I
emerge into the word’s biggest stadium to be greeted by half
emptiness. In my section are about 50 foreigners. To my left are
about a thousand soldiers, all chanting some patriotic slogan. To my
right are several hundred middle school kids, acting like kids
should.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then, in front of me I see the most
magnificent site. Twelve-thousand high school kids. The chosen ones.
Those that provide the backgrounds for the mass games are being
whipped into a fury by some unseen conductor.
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Suddenly! A shout goes up and what were
those high school kids is turned into a solid wall of their high school's colours. The kids are chanting, the pictures turn
effortlessly from one picture to the next. There’s a ‘battle’
going on here. They are trying to out do each other. I sit
breathless watching it. And this is just the warm up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then...the performance starts. We
see the history of the Korean people, the deification of Kim Il sung.
Kim Jong Il’s beautiful birth on top of that mountain top,complete with rainbows and angelic voices. A rather
interesting homage to China and North Korea’s splendid victory in
the war. Fuck You! America. They had me convinced.
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then it was back to my hotel. The most bizarre trip of my life was done. <br />
<br />
The
next day beckoned. I looked out across the Dae Dong Gang river for one
last time before boarding my train. Again we trundled slowly through the lush paddy
fields. And finally I got to know some of the Chinese tourists who
had seemed oblivious to me until this point, but now they wanted to
be my friend. They told me that their best player had taken 5000
dollars in the casino in our Pyongyang hotel. I took him for 50 bucks. Small
victories...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00714565518623499051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2585484692413672139.post-90721717730611184612013-04-09T12:05:00.004-07:002013-06-28T04:25:42.409-07:00Thoughts on Thatcher...<style type="text/css">
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Over the last two days, since
Margaret Thatcher's death, a feeling has been rekindled inside me that I had
forgotten about and has been sorely missed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Over recent years, I've become
complacent and apathetic towards politics, and it took the death of
this remarkable, divisive, woman to get me thinking again.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The person who I am now is because of
her. She is the reason that I became interested in politics and
chose to study politics at university. But growing up, she was the
antithesis of everything that seemed just and right.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Don't get me wrong here. I was brought
up in a middle class household, my father worked his ass of his
entire life to reach the pinnacle of his profession and provide a more than
comfortable upbringing for my brother and I. My parents benefited
hugely from many of the policies that Thatcher implemented. But
those same policies destroyed so many people, they decimated
communities, brought discord to the streets of Britain and Ireland
and divided a nation.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From my early teens I felt something
was wrong. What I saw going on around me just didn't seem right. My
parents never expressed their political views to me, they didn't tell
me how to think. I was left to make my own mind up. However, like me,
my father had chosen to study politics at university and our loft was
filled with an Alla-din's cave of political and philosophical
literature: Marx, Engels, Lenin, Locke, Rousseau, Plato et al. I
devoured every one of them. I took on board what they said about the
human condition and society. Then, I looked out of my window and was
dismayed by what I saw.
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<br /></div>
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As I progressed through my teenage
years, my political convictions grew stronger. Most of my peers and
many of their parents seemed to be of the same mind as me. Now, I
look back and wonder if these people were just being righteous
and sanctimonious. My friend's parents were not working class, but
successful, affluent, middle class professionals. What right did they
have to declare affinity for the miners and the teachers and the
Irish and every other group and community that Thatcher sought to
quash? Did it really effect their own lives?</div>
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No. Is the correct answer. But, can a
decent human being stand around and ignore what is happening around
them? Again. No. Is the correct answer. Did my wearing of the
'Support the Miner's' badge during my secondary school years help
those miners in any way? Probably not. But did my refusal to pay my
poll tax, take part in demonstrations and risk the threat of fine and
imprisonment have any impact on the Conservative government's
abandonment of that policy. Well...for that one I would like to say
yes. Because it wasn't just me, a student. It was the working class,
it was the middle class (those that had benefited most from
Thatcher's policies). It was pretty much everyone who saw an ill
thought out and unfair policy and did the correct thing. They
protested until the government, that they, the majority had elected,
conceded that they were wrong. It was a great moment for democracy at
it’s finest.</div>
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So, now I sit here watching yet another
‘expert’ reflect on her legacy. Did she make Britain into the
country it is today? I have to concede. Yes, she did. But, at what
cost? The gap between rich and poor is at it’s greatest since the
post war years. The amount of people claiming welfare is higher than
it ever was before she took the reigns of power. Our economy tilts on
the edge of either great economic gains or abject depression
depending on which kid decides to ‘have a gamble’ today.
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If she had never existed where would
our country be today? Probably similar to a Spain, or a Portugal or a
Greece. Then again, why are those countries in such dire straits?
Because of the federalism and mis-thought out policies of the European Union....</div>
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The irony makes me laugh!
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