Finding my Seoul

My memories of Seoul are mixed - how walkways become warpaths during rush hour, how fashionability is the only currency that is legal tender, how incessant sales promoters standing before the candycane facades try to convince you that your beauty is only as deep as your pocket, how shops never seem to close and how people never seem to sleep. But the weather was perfect in our stay there, and there was never a lack of things to do and see.

Below: The sun sets on yet another day in Seoul, but night does not seem to bring rest, and so it passes until daybreak.

We also managed to learn a few things about the city, despite this being our second trip there.

South Korea is really an island with Seoul

Language notwithstanding, Seoul and Taipei felt remarkably similar in my eyes. It could very well be the shared circumstances of the trips which Mary and I took to these places - heading there on our own and subsequently returning with her mother, all within the past four years.

The two cities also share broadly a similar historical inheritance, being outposts of Chinese culture, and today remain echoes of the Cold War. The latter manifests in the disputed names of the countries in which these thriving cities reside - the Republic of Korea, and the Republic of China. There is another Korea, another China, out of whose shadows our aforementioned countries have long moved out of. But Seoul and South Korea, like Taipei and Taiwan, remain an island. Despite being connected to the rest of Eurasia through North Korea, the Demilitarised Zone prevents any landward advance to elsewhere in that direction.

Below (top to bottom): the mountains of Bukhansan National Park, to the north of Seoul. Further north is the DMZ, which severs all the landward connection the Republic of Korea has with the rest of the world; Syngman Rhee, South Korea's staunchly anti-communist and first President, smiles from a flea market stall in Insadong.

Because of that, South Korea cast its gaze far beyond its shores, and Seoul bears witness to a creative fusion of this outlook with firmly homegrown elements - a sprawling conglomerate known for its electronics and which has become a household brand worldwide, a plethora of drama series whose every twist and turn are followed religiously by many who would otherwise flounder without subtitles, and a pop music scene whose cultural penetration in the Far Eastern region (and general incomprehensibility) rivals that of their American counterparts. We already glimpsed the extent of K-pop's popularity back in December when we heard the unlikely rhythms of Psy's Gangnam Style in the unfamiliar environs of a Guatemalan border town.

Below: one of our favourite spots in Seoul, the Cheonggyecheon stream. Once upon a time it was Seoul's Styx, a dump for the slums which lined its banks in the first half of the twentieth century and a shameful sight that was subsequently covered by concrete and a highway built over it. Refurbished, today it stands as a symbol of Seoul's reinvention as one of East Asia's leading metropolis.

Fashion Week, week in, week out.

Euny Hong's The Birth of Korean Cool (2014) charts the globalisation of Korean pop culture in recent decades, and explores the factors behind this meteoric phenomenon. Nowhere else was Korean Cool more obvious than when we emerged from the warren that was Dongdaemun Design Plaza, blinking awkwardly at the spring sunshine and the glitz all around us. At the further end of the plaza, a banner blandly announced Seoul Fashion Week.

Below: Seoul Fashion Week, the perennial state of affairs.

Above: Seoul Fashion Week, the yearly event.

We waded into a postmodern pastiche, populated by those whose creed conforms only to the unabashedly conspicuous. Their apotheoses, individual and collective, were captured by a bevy of eagle-eyed photographers - vultures hovering around their preened subjects, feasting at an unapologetic pageant of blatant voyeurism. If one had chopped up their top and bottom halves and randomly put the pieces back together, the resultant assemblage would not have looked out of place. 

Below: Our impromptu attempt to fit in with fleece and flip-flops.

I'm not sure how necessary a Fashion Week was in Seoul given that it seemed to be the unchanging daily state of affairs on its streets. An onservation which would win me a rap on my knuckles was that there were three types of Seoulites - those who manage successfully to look beautiful, those who don't bother but are nonetheless beautiful for this innocent neglect, and those who try hard but fall flat.

The Seoul Make-up

No, not the thick layer of powder one invariably finds on so many faces here, but the city's interesting social composition, visible as we walked around on our last three days there.

Attracted by the vibrant art and craft scene in the bustling district of Insadong, Mary decided that she wanted to go again long before we arrived. An area which housed the Joseon-era elite before the tumultous years of the Japanese Occupation witnessed their eviction, today the concentration of antique dealers and chic hang-out places draws visitors in untold numbers. Amongst the crowd who have come to enjoy a day out were street evangelists and Buddhist monks. Not far away from Insadong's main drag is one of Seoul's oldest churches, and I have since learnt that the monks come to pore over the rich Buddhist pickings on offer in the shopfronts and by the sidewalk.

Above: Insadong wears many hats, and attracts a diverse following to its many antique and art and craft stores.

Below: a nun steps out of a hair salon. This wasn't actually taken in Insadong, but captures the sometimes stark contradiction of life in modern Seoul.

The presence of both groups revealed the external influences which Korea has historically been subjected to. While doubtless Christianity is perceived to be more foreign than Buddhism, the latter was also brought into the country from far abroad, once upon a time. East and West lose their well-defined duality in this case when we behold, and ponder, the curiosity of Buddhism being a western religion in Korea while Christianity and its heavily American imprint came mainly from the east.

Below: Enjoying balmy spring weather on the grounds of Ewha Womans University. Started by the American Methodist University Mary Scranton in 1886, today it is one of the world's foremost women-only education institution. Before, I thought Ewha stood for something. Afterwards, I learnt it meant "Pear Blossom", named ostensibly after the trees which grew near its founder's home.

One cannot leave out Islam too, which we had brief glances of amidst the halal establishments in Itaewon the following evening. It wasn't apparent at first, and the only question on our minds were why there were so many kebab joints. The discernible Turkish presence in Seoul today could primarily be attributed to the exploits of the Turkish Brigade on the side of South Korean forces in the Korean War nearly 65 years ago. Much was made of the Turkish contribution beyond arms and fighting men, as they started schools and orphanages for those affected by the fighting. However, unbeknownst to many, Islam in Korea has had a far longer history beyond the Korean War and even beyond its Turkish minority, and Korean Muslims are known by the creative abbreviation of Koslims.

Below: Kebabs in Itaewon.

With the financial needs of our new house at the back of our minds, Mary showed remarkable restraint in her shopping. We had set aside three full days for this, but half-way through the last day, she felt she had walked into enough shops. What time we had left did not suffice to do anything else, but we left without regret. There was none of that shopper's revanchism plaguing our last visit. Should we have bought that? We should have changed more money. Let's go back.

On the whole, we enjoyed our time in South Korea. I'm still not sure I've found my Seoul, though

Pedestrian in Jeju

So where do you want to go now? I asked Mary, when bus 780 returned me back to Seogwipo.

Where's good? She sounded bored, almost exasperated. As I had alluded in my previous post on Hallasan, I had reckoned on being back in Seogwipo by 2pm. Hallasan reckoned otherwise. I was back at 4.30pm, long after Seogwipo had exhausted all of Mary's interest. Long after I left with Mary an annotated city map which had exhausted its validity. According to Mary, I had marked wrongly the landmarks that I supposed to be on it. Seogwipo beyond the market aisles where Mary and her mother wandered, re-wandered and wondered receded into oblivion.

Below: Mary always knew where to go, never needed maps, and so didn't know what to do with this one.

I bit my tongue. How about Jungmun? There's the Teddy Bear Museum.

An hour later we found ourselves standing outside the said museum in Jungmun, after missing our bus stop on bus 120 and retracing our steps in a taxi. Until 1978, Jungmun was a village some 14 kilometres east of Seogwipo. Then the world and big money tourism arrived with its conformity customarily camouflaged as cosmopolitanism - giant chain hotels named after London neighbourhoods and medieval Korean kingdoms but offering the same enfeebling opulence, museums dedicated to frivolity and the familiar chapels to consumerism where happiness is bartered in multiple currencies (in one shop you won't even have to pay tax).

Below: Believe it or not, standing up to kitsch in Jungmun, in front of possibly the most colourful building in the world with a Starbucks outlet.

Admission to the Teddy Bear Museum costs 8,000 won. That's a S$30 entry fee to a taxidermist's fancy dress party. We contented ourselves with photographs, in various poses, of a giant bear near the entrance. Ignorance and the failing light precluded a trip to Jungmun's famed beaches and other Korean drama filming locations. We skipped Cheonjeyeon, just minutes away, for Mary's aversion to Jeju waterfalls should be rather well-documented by now. Raids on the Lotte Duty Free Shop, 7-Eleven's and Popeye's provided the only other significant diversions, and it was back to our Seogwipo hostel for a dinner of fried chicken and cup noodles.

Below: The Lotte Hotel in Jungmun, where men pay to enter Babylonian Captivity.

We had our only day of rain on Wednesday, our last on the island. That, and the huge incentive it gave to lying in, prevented us from making the trip to Seongsan Ilchulbong, one of Jeju's 360 parasitic volcanoes which proffers beautiful coastal views from its 182-metre high basalt battlements. Instead we settled for a day trip to the provincial capital Jeju-si.

Two encounters there subsequently succeeded in making Seogwipo look like a relative backwater - Daiso (yes, but after conversion, things cost about S$2.50) and the heavily trafficked attraction of Yongduam Rock.

Below: On the streets of Jeju-si, with the steeples of the Catholic Joon Gang Cathedral in the background. Only the Hangul reveals we were in Korea.

Legends abound as to the birth of the formation, said to resemble a dragon's head. Most of these legends centred on the vicissitudinous exploits of a sea-dwelling dragon. While most ended in the dragon's petrification, some claim it was the result of an ill-fated attempt to escape to the heavens, others that it was a heist on Hallasan gone wrong. In its unmoving embalmment, the dragon ironically attained the immortality which eluded its grasp in life. Set starkly against the evening glow, free rein is given to one's imagination. But on the crowded viewing platforms, there was little room for these to wander.

Top and middle: Rain turns the Yongduam gorge into a giant gutter, the discharge of which stains the sea visibly for a good distance; bottom: finding a pocket of space on a crowded platform along a crowded coast, at a spot where wave, wind and rain have given birth to the stuff of legend.

So where do you want to go now? I asked Mary again, as day ebbed from a darkening sky. It was half past seven in the evening.

Mary yawned. Where's good?

I knew then that her mind had already departed from Jeju.

Hallasan - Navel of Jeju

Jeju offered the chance to bag Hallasan, at 1,950 metres above sea level the highest peak in South Korea. This was going to be a solo mission, and to minimise Mary and her mother having to wait too long, I planned on taking the first bus from Seogwipo to the Seongpanak trailhead. The night before Mary asked if I was going to be fine.

Don't worry, I've done this many times before, I assured her.

Still... Mary wasn't convinced.

Well, what has changed?

You? That was more an incredulous statement than a question. And then she threw me a disapproving long look from head to toe. So much for a vote of confidence.

Below: standing on the lip of the crater atop Hallasan. What has changed indeed. A lot, as I learn and relearn to pain and woe each time I walk up a mountain.

Kenny from Slowciti Hostel in Seogwipo was a mine of information. A keen hiker himself, he had gone up and down Hallasan nigh on 200 times. He directed me to the bus stop, told me to be there by 6.15 for the first bus, recommended hiking routes and the available transport options and wrote these down in Korean in case I needed further assistance on the ground. You'll also need this, he whispered, almost conspiratorially, and brandished a box full of crampons.

Bus 780 from Seogwipo took 30 minutes to get to the Seongpanak trailhead, the only trail to the summit reachable by public transport. For the first two hours, the trail was a deceptively straightforward traipse on a clear, manageably inclined path. As the path climbed to ice, snow and winter's last stronghold, I put on Kenny's crampons. It made me feel invincible (partly because I've never previously used them before), and I pulled ahead of the madding crowd - solo adventurers, couples, whole troupes comprising chest-thumping young men and sprightly silver-haired walkers with a spring in their step. It was like stepping into a modern-day Korean Canterbury Tales.

Below (top to bottom): crows were a constant companion, and, like people you know who talk too much and too loudly, one hears them far before they come into sight; The Seongpanak trail experience was like reading the modern Korean version of Canterbury Tales. There, one meets Koreans from all walks of life. Granddad (see description of episode further below) is second from last.

One could carry on to the summit only if one arrived at the Jindallae shelter on the Seongpanak trail (after 7.3 kilometres) by 12.30pm. I got there at 9, rested a while and chewed on Jagabee as my fellow hikers streamed in. All came prepared - fruits, packet tidbits, local snacks wrapped in cloth like medieval way bread and even cup noodles with an attendant flask of hot water. It was acutely uphill from Jindallae, but it was precisely when things started to go downhill.

The rest of the 2.3-kilometre ascent I remember as an excruciating slog amidst piercing cramp and sore quadriceps. At one point, I stopped and collapse on the snow, both legs extended fully and quivering with fatigue. The karmic cycle was completed when everybody I overtook earlier plodded past me. A member of Granddad's Army who I passed earlier saw me nearly supine. He placed his hand on my shoulder and started on an incomprehensible rant. Summarised, it must have gone something like, should have paced yourself, young man. His companion graciously passed me two relief patches, and the whole bunch disappeared ahead. Later at the summit I saw Granddad leaning against a wooden parapet. He saw me too, pretended to act his age as he was getting up, flailed his arms, winced and pulled at my arm. Cheekiness transcends seniority.

Below (top to bottom): How to hide your exhaustion, in a non-horizontal position - take your time, take photographs of yourself and take in lots of deep breath; the final assault on winter's last stronghold on Hallasan's eastern slope.

It was sunny at the peak as it had been all morning going up. The crater there represented the apogee of Hallasan's and Jeju's genesis. The island-volcano was created through eruptions over several stages, starting from between 1 and 2 million years ago to as recently as 25,000 years ago. More recent findings indicate that volcanic activity on Hallasan could be dated to as late as 5,000 years ago, overturning previous classification of the volcano as extinct.

Below: All you need are crampons. Period.

Kenny suggested descending by the Gwaneumsa trail on Hallasan's northern slope, which afforded better views than its "boring" Seongpanak counterpart. Once again, I thought going down would be less troublesome, and I would finish the 8.7-kilometre-long course long before the advertised 4 hours. The initial descent, heavily stacked in snow, was both steep and slippery. A couple of misplaced steps eased the going somewhat as I slid down a helpful handful of metres. But progress remained painfully (in the physical sense too) slow. A column of climbing military servicemen made me very glad that I wasn't going their way, though many of them looked fairly comfortable with their fancy shades and music.

Above: an incomplete picture of the gradient hikers on the Gwaneumsa trail have to negotiate. The bottom-most picture was where I slipped, slid and saved myself above ten metres' descent.

Below: the superior visual offerings of the Gwaneumsa trail. From the upper reaches of the Seongpanak trail, one can better appreciate how Hallasan fits the profile of a shield volcano. The Gwaneumsa trail leads one to close-ups of all the other-worldly views typically associated with volcanic landscapes.

Shortly after I left the snow behind, further down on the Gwaneumsa trail, I caught up with a certain Mr Park and his wife. We struck up a conversation, and walked the rest of the 2 odd kilometres to the trailhead together. He asked how old I thought he would be. My guess of 55 drew chuckles from both him and his wife. He was actually 67, and kept a steady pace which my legs were screaming to match. Originally from the mainland, Mr Park's full-time job at the moment is to take care of his grandchildren. Twice a month, he and his wife walk up and down Hallasan as if it was nothing more than a grassy knoll in his backyard. They also kindly gave me a lift to the bus stop from the Gwaneumsa trailhead (only taxis there).

Below: My benefactors towards the end of the day. A kind heart is a young heart.

For me, this journey ticked off two out of three of South Korea's highest peaks (I bagged Daecheongbong, third highest south of the DMZ, in June 2012). On this latest hike, I've never felt happier to reach the finish point. I've never felt my legs so much, too.

Seogwipo Scenes

We finally made it to Jeju on our second trip to the peninsula. Long popular with Korean honeymooners (though I was later told that these were increasingly flocking to another peninsula on the other end of Eurasia), the island also features heavily on the itinerary of Korean drama buffs. We were neither, of course, though for differing reasons we were keen to see what the hype was all about.

Below: Cheonjiyeon Pokpo. Here be dragons, or legend has it.

The last time round, we ruled Jeju out having been turned off by what seemed like exorbitant airfares from Seoul. It turned out I searched incorrectly for fares from Incheon International Airport, which were invariably higher than the many flights that operate from Gimpo. Checking in that Sunday afternoon at Gimpo for our Eastarjet flight a full two and a half hours before departure, we were moved to one due to take off in 25 minutes, the airport staff citing a delay in the original flight. It meant, theoretically, an earlier arrival in Seogwipo, and more time to find dinner. But after eight on a Sunday evening, most eateries were already winding down. There weren't a lot of options apart from the usual Korean fare, which the lack of both English menus and gastronomic adventurism prevented us from fully embracing.

Early spring bestowed upon us the perfect sightseeing ingredients - tolerably cool temperature and mild sunshine. Seogwipo is Jeju's second city, much smaller than the provincial capital Jeju-si, but with a very pleasant natural setting boosting a hulking (extinct) volcano on the landward horizon, dramatic basalt coastlines and two waterfalls on either end of town (you may guess why I'm here already).

Our first day's foraging led us to the Seogwipo Daily Olle Market. It could just as well have been a trip to the aquarium and open-air museum, as we sated more our curiosity (the inedible variant) than our hunger. Tanks - carpeted by flatfish, plastered with shellfish, swarming with eels, squirming and pulsing like octopus tentacles long after they have been severed - lined the crowded aisles. Their former inhabitants, gutted, scaled and decapitated, were piled in basins, baskets and pails, losers in the lottery of life played out constantly in these fateful corridors. All of this hinted at Seogwipo's humble beginnings as a fishing village, and the boatloads of fresh seafood it still receives every day.

Above (top to bottom): the Seogwipo Daily Olle Market, trolleys are obtained separately; many restaurants sold their food live in tanks outside. Hunger really is a matter of life and death.

Below: Winners (if only for a little while) and losers in the lottery of life, some in peace, some in pieces. You get to choose.

Fortunately, things were not all flesh, as the heaps of strawberries and oranges elsewhere in the market attest. Groves of Jeju's famed Hallabong mandarin oranges blanket the fertile lower slopes of Hallasan further inland. Long grown as kingly gifts for the monarchs on the mainland, cultivation expanded dramatically from the 1960s as the government sought to stimulate the local economy. The sweet seedless mandarin, named after Jeju's highest peak to which the knob (some have described this by naughtier alternatives) atop the fruit bears an uncanny resemblance, has since become a local staple. The strawberries - large and tantalizingly red - were a welcome distraction.

Below (top to bottom): It wasn't all flesh at the market. Jeju's famed seedless and succulently sweet Hallabong mandarins were named for the knob atop the fruit, and were found in heaps (literally) throughout the market; Mary's mother stepped into an open-air museum, and was fascinated by the many different stalls. Here she stands before a dazzling array of kimchi.

Once we tore ourselves from the market, we rambled on towards the harbour, and towards the waterfalls. We hadn't a map, but the harbour wasn't hard to find. In Seogwipo (and also in a Jeju-si, we later learnt), the rule of thumb was that downhill generally led to the sea, while uphill led after some determined perambulation to the top of Hallasan (at 1,950 metres above sea level).

We passed artist Lee Joong Seop's former residence, built on a very pretty spot overlooking the harbour and the three islets which guard its approaches. His life was a tidy microcosm of twentieth-century Korean history. Born in 1916 in what is today North Korean territory, Lee studied art in Japan, where he met his wife (a marriage frowned upon given the dynamics of Japanese-Korean relationship then). As the Korean War loomed large, he and his family sought refuge in Jeju. Refuge was short-lived, however. The Lees led a hard life in Seogwipo. Lee's wife returned to Japan soon after with their two sons. Like many other talented artists, Lee's fire burned twice as bright and only half as long, before being extinguished by loneliness and alcohol at the grand old age of 40.

Below: Admiring the simple tranquility of Lee Joong Seop's former residence. Yet simplicity is no substitute for comfort, as his wife left for Japan shortly after arriving here with their two sons.

From Lee's former residence, it wasn't far to Cheonjiyeon Pokpo. Cheonjiyeon flows into a wooded gorge, where shady boulevards convey an endless stream of tourists to and from the falls. Jeongbang empties into the sea, and witnessed one of the darkest episodes in the island's history. In the strife-torn, winner-takes-all days just after the Second World War, the South Korean military brutally put down a local uprising in a series of killings known as the 4-3 Massacre. The rising's origins were many and complex - islander resentment against the collaborationist establishment under the Japanese, boiling over when it seemed their new American overseers sanctioned the partition of Korea by enforcing elections in the American-occupied areas, the involvement of Communist agitators and the subsequent American intransigence it provoked, in short a civil war which cannot be distangled from the conflagration known as the Korean War. When Kim Il-sung's forces crossed the 38th Parallel, the Seoul regime ordered the preemptive arrest and elimination of those elements in Jeju whose loyalty was questionable. At Jeongbang, these people were shot and their bodies dumped over the falls.

Above: More of Cheonjiyeon Pokpo; "Why don't you help them?" Mary said, referring to the couple in the third photograph who attempted an awkward we-fie with their baby strapped to the husband's back. I did, and realized afterwards it took some coordination to remove a baby from a carrier. The acrobatics were worth the family photograph, though.

Below: Jeongbang Pokpo falls into the sea. At one time nearly seventy years ago, other things also fell over the cliff, nor was it only the falls which thundered. The two waterfalls described here, together with Cheonjeyeon (yes, spot the difference) Pokpo in Jungmun, constituted Jeju's three famous waterfalls. But for Mary putting her foot down (feet in this case; she refused to budge), we would have visited all three. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

We were ushered out of the Jeongbang compound by the patient caretaker who locked up shortly afterwards. Contrary to popular presumptions, the personal attention was more the result of our late arrival than to any dallying indulgence on my part. Famished from an entire day's sightseeing (actually we only left the hostel at one), we settled for a typical Korean seafood hotpot dinner. My strategic decision not to join the feast paid off. Mary and her mother enjoyed their dinner tremendously, in fact so much that Mary was put off seafood for the rest of the trip.

Below: 37,000 won and a pot full of roiling seafood - what it took to get my wife off crustaceans and molluscs for a good week.

The price of this stratagem? Two cups of instant noodles afterwards.