I took a Sunday ride on my scooter, anxious for some mild adventure, reminiscent of the times I struck out on unknown back roads when I lived in
Gapyeong. A road out of town turned into a highway, uncrowded this weekend before
Chuseok. The signs told me I was headed to Cheonan, but since I wasn't so adventurous to drive the 32 kilometers to get there, after a while, I sought an exit or turn-around to go home. Upon finding one, I thought instead to take the village road before me and explore some more. After all, the great adventures come when you alter or scrap your original plans, right?
Small houses and schools and shops lined the narrow road that wound through this rural place. I could spot no signs identifying where I was as I drove at a leisurely pace, still encountering little traffic and few people. I felt no danger, but as so often happens in this country, I felt like I was intruding or venturing into a forbidden place. What Koreans I did encounter stared, of course, but only out of harmless curiosity. Often I thought to turn back, but I couldn't answer the "Why?" that came into my head next, so I kept driving.
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| Almost time to harvest |
Rice fields appeared and buildings became fewer and fewer as the road further narrowed and followed a small river. I drove up as the river ran down, and I noticed the grains on the rice stalks turning from green to yellow and growing heavy. In some place, random swaths of stalks had fallen, indicating it must be close to harvesting time. The fallen stalks used to appear man-caused to my inexperienced eye, but it's so haphazard and common, I guess it must be natural.
As the road switched back and forth over the river on narrow, precarious bridges with mere three inch barriers on the sides, I wondered if I'd be able to find my way out of this Greek maze. Too bad I forgot my yarn. Parts of me hoped I'd get lost or that my scooter would break down and that I'd be forced to stumble through my broken Korean and ask for some help. Better than changing your plans, the
real great adventures come when your plans fail and you get in trouble, I say. As long as you come out alive and with your important body parts intact, you get to tell the best stories later.
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| A place to stop and write |
Still driving up and wondering if I'd ever reach a dead end, the river returned to a stream returned to a brook, but the road continued, and so did I. Since the weather was so pleasant, and I'd brought my writing book, I thought about stopping to write at one of the elevated communal platforms I passed that are common in the country. They provide shade and a common gathering place on hot summer evenings for adults to talk and gossip. I worried though that would constitute trespassing, so it wasn't until I spied a granite picnic table beneath a tree that I finally stopped to write.
A dozen Koreans have walked or driven by in the last half hour. As often as white foreigners like me stand out and draw attention here, they're also ignored. I am completely convinced after spending several years in this country, that I have the power of invisibility at certain times, but I am not unique. There is something in the Korean culture that can make Koreans blind to people and things that are different. Whether it's because they're uncomfortable or just unaware, there are times you can float through this place unseen. It's a wild thing to experience.
If I get lost going home, I hope they see me.
After arriving safely home
Right before I got back on the highway, I was still burning to know where I was. I passed a gang of six elderly Koreans chatting with one another on a raised communal platform, like the one in the picture. I screwed up my courage and turned around to ask them the name of the village. Whereas you can usually count on Koreans my age and younger to know a little English, these seniors likely wouldn't have known enough to help me if I couldn't piece together the right words. I pulled up, they all stared, and I said, after greeting them, "Yeogi irrum mweoyayyo?" which was the best way I could think to ask, "Here name what is?" "Boran," one man freely offered (think "bow-rahn"). At last!
He and the others threw a lot of Korean at me I didn't know, but I was able to understand enough to answer where I lived, where I'm from, what I do, and where I work. We shared a lot of smiles, I wished them a happy Chuseok, and I drove away laughing hysterically (once I was out of sight) at the thrill of communicating (communicating!) with some locals.
And because the Koreans in Boran saw me.
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