There are times when you love meeting people of your own breed and background in far-off, strange places. I found this true of my fellow teachers, a solid group of loyal and honest people. Then there are the times when you could not hate your countrymen more. This weekend was one of the latter.
Saturday afternoon, we hopped on the train and made a pleasant trek down to the west coast for the Boryeong Mud Festival, which is a strange event. The local government, wishing to raise tourist revenues, trucks in local mud to the beach and lots of people come to douse themselves in mud and let it seep into every possible orifice. Supposedly it’s good for your skin, but the huge vats of mud seemed more like a good chance for a hepatitis B outbreak than anything. There was lots of street food, swimming in the ocean, and even a Korean pop concert. I was introduced to the magic of Girls Generation, bubblegum pop which died a welcome death ten years ago in America, but sounds oh-so-delightful when you’re dancing in the pouring rain on a beach. But more than anything else at Boryeong, were a lot of foreigners.
The Koreans there seemed to take a strange interest in watching the waeguken (my poor Anglicization of Korean for “foreigners”), who walked around half-naked, covered in rain or mud, openly swilling bottles of beer and soju, shouting at each other, taking obnoxious photos. Many Koreans had their DSLR cameras out, asking mud-drenched waeguken to pose for pictures. With a beard, I got an unbelievable number of requests for not only pictures of me and my dirt-encrusted facial hair but also people posing with me. No one else in our group got requests like that. Beards hold a peculiar fascination with Koreans. They simultaneously hate them (perhaps since no one can grow one and no one tries) and also observe and enjoy them intensely (perhaps for the same reasons). At any rate, I felt a little like a walking freakshow for the locals but I figured that was the least I could do to pay them back for our boisterous behavior.
Boisterous, indeed. Koreans certainly are no strangers to events involving loud music, lots of friends, and alcohol. But the sheer antics which foreigners, and particularly the Anglo-Americans, unleash in such situations is so unbelieveably baffling that they almost don’t know how to respond. Most of the Americans this past weekend were loud and brash, something which most Koreans in Seoul are used to seeing from GIs. But the Australians simply wreaked havoc. I stood in a convenience store Saturday night, buying a beer and taking refuge from the pouring rain amongst the aisles of beach towels and ramen packages. Through the crowded store comes a group of Aussies, whirling in like a hurricane. Shirtless, tattooed, drenched with rain, one paused his cacophanous conversation long enough to shout to his pal through crooked teeth, “Oi! Mate! Get me a fookin’ beer!” The Koreans behind the counter and mopping in the aisles visibly tensed whenever Aussies entered the store. The fellows from Oz were dynamos of rowdy energy.
The restraint of the Koreans in dealing with all of the foreigners was incomprehensible. Waeguken were throwing beer bottles, shooting fireworks from the middle of the crowd toward the concert stage, across which one waeguken even streaked. In the U.S., security would have beaten you to a pulp and then turned you over to the cops for a citation or arrest. Not here: the police calmly stood by and passively and gently attempted to corral the whiteys run amok. I didn’t see the cops handcuff a single person.
Yet I did not like these foreigners. A big reason is something which I experienced after only about a week or so here. I would pass a random white person on the street and feel an instant revulsion. Ugh, one of those foreigners. It’s probably a desire to experience Korea and not life with other Westerners, which I can do back home. But what actually angered me this weekend was the total disregard by most of the waeguken for their behavior. Certainly this event was intended to be a good time for all. But that does not mean you get to act like you’re tailgating at a Sammy Hagar concert. Shouting, screaming, getting in fights, breaking things, barging into shops and knocking stuff over, vomiting booze in the gutter. I felt ashamed, for I knew that for most of these Koreans, this was their only view into what foreigners are like.
Where did my friends and I stand in this miasma of human excess and waste? We certainly were boisterous: it’s a good way to describe most of our times out. Good-natured fun, as only Americans can have it. We come in large groups, laugh and talk on public transportation (a big no-no for Koreans), keep the bar open until 4:00 am. Part of me feels a little bit bad for how we can barge around and invade whatever eating or drinking establishment we choose and let out natural social energy dominate. Yet this weekend I recognized that there is a line between us and the rest of the waeguken.
Everywhere I saw these people, who make my revile-ometer start climbing. The guys wear cargo shorts and ball caps, maybe with an Oakland A’s or Olde English Malt Liquor emblem; girls dress in short shorts and sandals, and squeeze their bodies misshapen with Western fat into equally shapeless tube tops. The guys talk a voice that is completely hollow, devoid worthwhile thought, full of selfish accusations and unnecessary and uncreative profanity. The girl with him bats her eyes in between puffs of her cigarette, never flinching when her boyfriend drops another uncaring and ignorant statement. When she runs out of thing to complain about, her eye wanders about, as though trying to find some other trivial matter or object to find fault in. The night before, they were yelling and shouting along with their friends, acting like fools. They cared not a whit for where they were or whatever significance it might have to them or others, being nothing but total slaves to the alcohol in their veins and their vacuous concept of life. They were the Ugly Americans at their worst.
I ran into these types on the train. When we were boarding, I moved quickly past them, right up to the door. One guy dropped a comment about how people needed to wait in line. I almost turned to him and said, “Hey man, you’re in Korea. You fight to stay in line here. Otherwise, don’t bother.” But that wouldn’t have registered with him. That’s not the way we do it in America! For him, Korea was just a place, another day at the beach, another night at the club. He had no idea of people and place, something which certainly makes him as lost at home as he is here. He violates my First Law of Living: Don’t Be An Asshole.
If Korea has taught me anything in the mere three weeks I’ve been here, it is respect. I have learned to pour drinks for others with my right hand, touching my elbow with my left. I have learned to offer money and other things with both hands and the instinctive bow to anyone and everyone you meet has ingrained itself into my subconscious. Some would find such obligatory acts unnecessary, for we would place no value in them, finding them tiny formalities to be discarded like everything else of worth in America. Yet I find it refreshing and incredibly admirable. To know that wherever you go, whoever you meet, you both will be civil and respectful towards each other is an incredible gift. It transcends language, culture, and race. I have realized that respect is a fundamental cornerstone of human life.
The waeguken at Boryeong and on the train have no concept of respect. They never will. That is what separates my group of fellow teachers from that sorry bunch. We know that we are guests here and, even as we enjoy our lives to the fullest, we wish to show our respect for this land and its people. I know that our few attempts to speak Korean and adapt to customs can do little against the actions of many of my insensitive and ignorant countrymen. Yet even if my actions are the exception rather than the rule, I hope that my lone voice is strong enough to speak for whatever good still resides back at home in the U.S.A., hidden to them but known to me. We are all cultural ambassadors. Some just don’t realize it.
2 Comments
July 14, 2009 at 3:33 am
Interesting…very interesting. I owe you a proper email.
July 20, 2009 at 12:40 pm
I found this incredibly interesting. Especially mirrored with my own experiences in Europe this summer. Waeguken seem to really be any person who ignores a countries customs.
I almost wish it was mandatory for tourists to pick up a phrase book and attempt to converse in the native language while in a foreign country, if only as a sign of respect.
In France especially, I found some of the most helpful people ever IF I spoke French to them first. I think they took it as a sign of respect by me and they would quickly switch to English and tell me whatever I needed to know. Most people have a negative experience with French people because they shout questions in English at them and then expect them to treat them like honored guests.