Hush

Article

by Aletha Rolbin-Ghanie

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 how something so fantastic can come from a tiny, shriveled 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 judgment of your appearance and movements. Someone famous 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. They remain, 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 of my students actually have the time and energy to attend. My boss and I alone work in this school; we 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. Our relationship has suffered greatly due to his ‘financial difficulties,’ which have forced me, month after month, to insist rather aggressively that he pay me. Needless to say, approaching him is very difficult. I sometimes say "hello" in the mornings or "bye" as I'm leaving, 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 make any effort. I can be very non-communicative as well.

* * * *

On my first week off from work, 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 mud 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, with my sister and brother and mother on our way to Toronto for my uncle's wedding. This trip 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 she handed me the box, I was captivated with its 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). 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.
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 your ear, there's an echo-y, eerie sort of calm, that is most certainly audible, but indefinable as anything but silence.

When we returned the next day, the train had standing room only. We managed to get a drafty little area (near the air-conditioner) 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 real 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: when I read a lot, I don't tend to write; 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.

We made it to Gimpo just in time. I'm sure we were the last passengers to check our luggage. The flight was only 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 by 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. In Bucheon, 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.

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: 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 cannot recall how many times I was gawked at and complimented, but it was a lot. 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. The way Jeju is set up, everything of interest, apart from the beaches, of which there are many, seems to be located in the middle of nowhere and isolated, with nothing but temples or mountains around. Once, we tried to make a day trip, and the bus driver told us we were at our stop. Getting out and watching the bus drive away was a bit confusing, as we clearly weren't where we had meant to be. 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 mix with vegetable crops.

Rice and barley are grown wherever it's convenient. Ditches are a popular spot, most likely because they act as water reservoirs. 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 every tourist-trap 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 stores appeared exactly the same.

We spent a few hours at a beach on our second day. Looking over the precipice, 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. I'm sorry to have missed them.

* * * *

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 another 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 self-imposed oblivion, one of my greatest talents. As I went to bed that night, listening to the relentless traffic outside my window, and wishing my air-conditioner was a bit more powerful, I contemplated taking sleeping medication to hurry the anticipated sensation along.

Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, my heart-beat feels too slow—part of a neurotic fear of my physicality. 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 my usual paranoia, the sounds of the traffic and the air-conditioner and my own breathing overwhelmed me and swallowed my consciousness, leaving everything silent and black.