Foreigner in a Foreign Land?

Foreign substance. Foreign object. Foreign affairs. Foreigner. Words like waitress, actress, Eskimo, Indian (meaning Native) and retarded have all mysteriously dissapeared from our vocabulary in a short period of time. I imagine they now find themselves lounging on an old, coggity beach with a slew of racial slurs that we have tossed from our speech in an effort to even the playing field. Many of the words seemed harmless and we scoffed when we first learned that fireman had become fire fighter. But the truth is that the meaning behind the words is what people have fought to change. Our language reflects who we are- how we view the world. As the British Empire raced to spread themselves across the globe, so has the English language. Although it's the Americans that have really stepped it up. English is an intensely complex language that has appropriated countless words from other languages. The suffix 'ess' (as in actress, waitress, stewardess) means 'less than'. So for years after the sexual revolution, we were still indicating that women were inferior by their job titles. Eskimo means eater of raw fish. As though you can sum up an entire people by their diet. Wouldn't it be horrible if Canadians were called grease eaters by the rest of the world? Most baffling to me is the use of the word Indian, meaning First Nations people. How did that word actually last so long in our vocabulary? How is it that no one pointed out that the only reason it was in use was the fact that Christopher Columbus was a very confused man? I don't know that I have ever looked at an Indian person and wondered if they were First Nations. How did he? Blinded by the skin tone, I suppose. But as the English language is exported across the world, we run into problems keeping up with the evolution. Printed in my phonics books are the words Indian and Eskimo- alongside pictures of what Koreans associate with these words. Of course because it drives me nuts, these are the words that kids pick up the fastest and repeat the most. Try as I might to change their wording, it never words. And then of course you deal with the terms left behind by teachers before you that perhaps were not as aware of the ever-changing language that we speak. Forgot to open the email maybe. Missed the billboards that were plastered about with the latest updates. I have tried - with some success, to get my children to stop calling the colour peach 'skin colour'. Of course the success depends on consistency and Korean teachers generally have little patience for our political correctness.

English is imperialist. It has seaped into homes and minds across the world like no other. It has come to be an indication of a person's education and social standing. But as much as it is finding its way into cultures across the globe, English has a polite respect and careful way that reflects the culture from which it comes. Rice is such an important part of the Korean diet that it is reflected in the language. There are numerous words for rice- although I only know one. One of their greetings literally means "Have you eaten rice today?". English has so, so many words that it is hard to pinpoint anything specific and say that we have many words for it. But what does stand out is the ever-changing correctness that, as ridiculous as it many sometimes seem, is really striving for equality. Western culture is difficult to explain to Korean people. They ask if we can tell the difference between Canadians and Americans, or the British and the French. They fear that they are offending us by even asking the question, but they really don't understand that there is no Canadian 'look'. As my kids flip through my photo album, they pause at the sight of Kenshi and Miranda. Kenshi is of Japanese heritage, but has lived most of his life as an American and the few years he's spent away have been masquerading as a Canadian. Miranda is half Vietnamese. But apart from Miranda's international trips, she has spent her entire life in Canada. The kids ask me where these people come from and look genuinely confused when I say Canada. Often times the kids insist that Kenshi is Korean- proving that sometimes even they cannot be sure of heritage. The kids don't seem to think that Fred looks any different from their vision of a Canadian- although some of my Korean friends have tentatively asked if it's okay that we're together. They see me as Canadian and him as foreign- despite the fact that Fred has spent his entire life in Canada. They are unable to wrap their minds around the idea of a culture that is not homogenous. Many are unable to fathom how we could both be so blind to the issue of race and simply don't understand that we are equally Canadian.

Over the last ten months, I have used and heard the word foreigner more times than in my entire life. And I contemplate the experience that someone foreign to Canada would have were they to live there for a year. I can't imagine any greater contrast. No one is foreign in Canada. When I daydream about walking the streets of Montreal in November (in my head November is a beautiful sunny month and I don't need a jacket) it is not white faces that I see passing me by. I contemplate the word foreign. It means something that doesn't belong or is out of place. I had a foreign object in my eye- it was an object that didn't belong there. As I walked by a bar last night (on the occasion of my 26th birthday, although my Korean co-workers insist that I'm older) I laughed at a sign over the door. "Foreigners welcome," it proclaimed. You don't belong here, but you're welcome. How strange. This was, of course in sharp contrast to the signs that indicated they did not welcome US military. We sat down for dinner- my Korean friends shocked that on my birthday I wanted to eat Korean food- and they asked how we celebrate birthdays in Canada. Why is there such a perceived difference between us and them? Apart from not speaking the same language and having a little more variety in our hair and eye colour, are we not the same? Why can't some things be universal? The desire to come together in times of celebration or grief is common to every culture, as far as I know. Why does everything have to be different? The question was innocent enough, but the birthday cards were equally strange. My friend Song passed me a beautiful gift and a card that expressed how lucky she felt that we were friends and asked me to stay in touch when I go home. She is a friend. My co-worker Kristine passed me a card that expressed how happy she was to have made a foreign friend and she hoped that when I go back to Canada she will not lose her foreign friend. Following the painful convention last week-end, she told me that she was so happy to work with us (Reg, Leslie and I) because the other foreigners at the meeting were not as good looking. And they were strange- with tattoos and piercings. I wished that I had a remaining piercing to shock her with. I look forward to going home and am anxious to break back into my Canadian lifestyle with my Canadian boyfriend. I can't wait to sit at a table in a coffee shop and listen to the different languages all around me. I'm going to rebel hard against Korean culture, but no one in Canada will know it. I'm going to wear a tank top. I'm going to stop painting my nails and let them break funny. I'm going to live, unmarried and unbothered by it, with Fred. I'm coming back with a tan so we might look equally un-Canadian in the photos I send back to Korea. I'm going to work out at the gym while Fred cooks dinner at home. And I'm going to take photos of all of it. I want the friends that I leave behind to know how Canadian culture is actually different- not how they perceive it to be. More importantly, I'm going to revel in the fact that I won't hear the word foreigner in my day to day life. I might even work on getting it tossed out of the English language alongside other outdated terms. We have no use for this word in English anymore. All of the English speaking countries are such a mish-mash of cultures and colours that its use only has negative connotations. The French word, etranger (stranger), is a little more friendly and perhaps even more appropriate. It's not that you don't belong, it's just that we don't know you yet.

When Enough's Enough

I remember arguing with my dad when I was younger and I always got in trouble for the last words I would scream out before I slammed my door. I always needed to have the last word. It always made me feel like I won. Of course, often what I ended up winning was a week or two without seeing my friends. I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut and even if I can do it, there's always a breaking point. I have a great deal of patience, but when I snap, that's it. I snap.

For as far back as I can remember I've always had problems with 'authority'. Sometimes it works out for the better and sometimes it doesn't. At sixteen when I quit Red Lobster, they quickly offered me the promotion I wanted, and a raise. At IMAX, quiting got me the pay raise I was after. I walked out on my first job in Montreal to prove a point. Told off the manager and stormed out of the store. My crappy serving job at Nickel's ended when I landed work at an expensive restaurant in the Old Port. There are few things as liberating as telling your boss that you won't be in today or ever- especially when he's fired countless people days before their three month probations were up. I stormed out of Vieux Port after a particularly disgusting display of sexual harassment. I even hit the guy. I was proud of myself. My days at the call center ended with a very honest meeting where I held nothing back in explaining exactly why I was leaving.

Friday night as I left work after an excruciatingly long week, I silently fumed about the unpaid training session I was being forced to attend on the week-end. To make matters worse, the training was being held outside of Seoul and I would be stuck spending the night there. After a long week of children crawling all over me and striving to keep my patience when I'm on the verge of losing it, I dreaded the thought of this session. I knew without a doubt that this would be the biggest waste of time I had ever experienced. And it was. We met our boss at school at 10am Saturday and piled into his mini van for the two hour drive. I slept. When I woke up, I was in a large classroom with a hundred other teachers and a very angry woman from head office was listing off the rules for the conference. 1) Room keys are to be held by head office- if you need to return to your room you need to ask permission 2) Do not leave the grounds without asking permission 3) The dorms will be locked at 10pm. No one is to be out after that. I was suddenly furious. I had resolved myself to spending the week-end at this useless meeting, but I was not about to abide by a curfew. I had calmed myself all week by believing that head office would take us all out for a big dinner, surely with plenty of wine and soju. As we headed to the cafeteria and glanced at the questionable 'fusion' of Korean and Western dishes- I realized it was not about to happen. I had rice for lunch, with a glass of water. The demeaning training session involved watching two adults bouncing around the classroom for an hour pretending that they were teaching five year olds. Equally demeaning was the fact that many of the people around me were playing into it. We had two presentations from publishers about their products- which may have been helpful if I taught any of those books and my kids were old enough for any of the suggested activities. Dinner time. More rice and water. Even the kimchee looked disgusting. As I made a move for the front gate (without permission), I found a depanneur and we stocked up on soju for what would definitely be a long night. After dinner we were subject to a three and a half hour complete and utter waste of time. Each school did a role play of a fake class for the other teachers. I couldn't even begin to wrap my mind around the stupidity of the situation- a grown adult bouncing around like an idiot trying to teach phonics to seven English teachers pretending to be five year old children who are really learning the letter F for the first time. This torture, which began at noon finally ended after 10pm. We were finally released to our rooms with promises of being awoken at 7am. The teachers from my school sat and talked for a bit, drank some beer and soju and then went off to bed. The accommodations were traditional Korean style, so we slept on the floor- meaning that I didn't sleep at all. I tossed and turned until the angry woman from head office pounded on our door and ordered us to go for breakfast.

I got up, dressed and left. I couldn't take it anymore. I was supposed to head back to the conference room and be talked at for another five hours about the different Brighton schools, as though this would have a direct impact on my experience as a teacher. As though I weren't going home in two months and this training wasn't completely useless. I had hit my breaking point. After ten months of dealing with my boss's complete disregard for my contract, I just couldn't take it anymore. The health insurance guaranteed me in my contract never came through. Excuses, excuses and more excuses. The pension guaranteed me never came through. The questionable wording in the contract allowed me to believe that my vacation days were paid, but in fact they are not. My boss kept my degree from me for months, fearful that I would find another job. I finally won the argument to get it back- after three hours in his office trying to remain calm about the theft of the most expensive paper I've ever held. I should have hit my breaking point long ago, but I kept looking forward to the end and saying I could suck it up. But clearly it snapped today. I teach seven classes more a week than any other teacher. I have more baby classes to entertain than anyone else. And I've fought since I got here for one thing after another. I'm tired and ready to go home.

As I left the conference with a feeling of satisfaction, it wasn't until I got on the train to come back to Seoul that I began to wonder about the consequences of this act of defiance. In Canada I know I could talk my way out of it- I could explain myself in a way that they would understand my side. I'm good at bullshitting and usually people find it's easier to agree than to argue. Or perhaps they get confused and lost in my endless monologue. Difficult to say really. But I wonder in a culture that so values keeping up appearances and looking in control what sort of scene will result from my actions. Will there be a big blow-out with my boss tomorrow? Will he find himself thoroughly embarrassed that one of his unhappy employees jetted at the first opportunity? Will I find myself back on a plane to Canada a couple months early? I suppose these are the consequences that I perhaps should have considered before I stormed out. But really, where does it end? In spite of my job, I have had a good experience in Korea but as the end draws near I'm finding it hard to remember that. I know last week my post was also a rant about my frustrations. Don't get me wrong, I have had a really positive experience in Korea. But there are so many things that I just can't take anymore. I have never felt so trapped in my life- trapped by the prospect of being blacklisted by immigration if I bailed on my contract. Trapped by the expense of the plane ticket that would take me home. The bottom line is that a man whose business relies solely on keeping his English teachers happy should learn to do more to keep them happy. There is nothing holding me here. My family, my friends and Fred are all in Canada. I can't wait to be home and if I am fired tomorrow, perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. The ticket home might be expensive, but I'm getting to the point where the money just doesn't matter anymore. I want more than anything to sleep in my bed, in my apartment with my cats and my Fred. I want to speak to people and be understood. I want to come home from work and order a pizza. I want to go for a coffee after work. I want to be surrounded by people who know me. I want to walk down a street and feel invisible. I want to see my family. I want to lie in the middle of a big grassy field and read a book. A French book. I want to get back to my life. I have learned and grown so much this year but none of it fits yet with my life. Will I go back to school? Where will I work? What will I do with theatre? The problem with taking a year off to work abroad is that your life is at a bit of a standstill. My life in Canada is on pause, but everyone else is rushing by at normal speed. I want to be on play again.

Post - Vacation Depression

It had to happen. I knew it was coming, but that doesn't make it any easier. After a week of trekking across Taiwan, I return to Seoul and find myself wishing I were elsewhere. I remember suddenly what life is like outside this culture that in so many ways, is still so strange to me. I had come to accept many aspects of my frustrations as part of the Asian experience- being stared at obnoxiously in the streets, being bowled over by people in a hurry. But after a week in Taiwan, it became clear that this behaviour was not nearly as prevalent elsewhere.

Koreans have a clear-cut, love-hate relationship with Western culture. English dominates store signs and advertising (albeit bad English), Koreans sport shirts with American, Italian and Canadian flags. They hate the American presence, but choose not to acknowledge that it was largely the US that rescued them from the Korean economic crisis of 1997. They fail to see the importance that the US plays in their defence in the event that their good friend Mr Kim Jong Il takes action. They are quick to exclude and separate foreigners from Koreans, and they hate that we have something they need. They need protection from the US, despite the fact that every Korean man is required to do two years in the military, they are largely young and unskilled. They need English if they want to compete on the world stage, and there are still not enough Koreans who speak it well enough to teach it to the next generation. The issue of respect has been a big one for me this week. I was raised that respect is vital, and that if you want to get respect, you have to give it. Koreans don't see it the same way. They respect only the people that they are required to within the Korean hierarchy. Respect is for those older than yourself. Men are more deserving of respect than women. And foreigners, because they don't fit into the 'Korean family' are not necessarily guaranteed respect just by showing up. Teachers are highly respected in Korean culture. There is even a holiday to show thanks to teachers, education being vital in this culture. But truth be told, Korean teachers get respect while foreign teachers are expected to be fun and entertaining. This wouldn't be a problem if there wasn't such a clear-cut distinction between the two. Korean teachers are not to be fun and foreign teachers are not to be respected, it seems. Or at least not in the same way. A five year old girl in my kindergarten class called me fat earlier this week. An eleven year old girl did the same a few days later. I have come to deal with the fact that Koreans consider me, weighing in around 108 lbs at 5'2", fat. I hate it- not in a self-conscious way, but more in a disgusted cultural way. What sort of messages are embedded into the minds of these young girls that look at me, and see me as fat- at the age of five? Beyond that, when did looking healthy and athletic (which I strive for and I believe have achieved) become fat? I walked into this same class the other day, and the same eleven year old snot and two of her friends burst out laughing, pointing at me. I kicked them out of class and left them in the hallway for twenty-five minutes, while the usually unruly boys tentatively joked with me and tried to stop my head from exploding. I finally went and got a Korean teacher, as the girls' English is not strong enough for us to communicate. The Korean teacher relayed that the girls thought that my skirt was funny because it was denim, and ended above my knees - very strange for girls that are used to see everyone around them dress as though they're attending church. The Korean teacher seemed to think that this excused their behaviour. She said I needed to understand it as a cultural difference. It baffled me. I needed to understand? I needed to understand that I was invited here to teach English- and in turn should expect to be laughed at? To be called fat by my students? Students who are raised that respect is paramount in dealing with their elders? I hardly think so. I told her that she needed to understand that in MY culture, laughing and pointing at someone is completely unacceptable and likely to result in bruising and broken bones. I'm not sure I understand how a culture that so badly wants to be Americanized can pick and choose what elements it will take. It seems to me that they have only picked up on the negatives of Western culture. They have picked up materialism, obsession with weight (diet ads here would be banned in North America for promoting an unhealthy lifestyle, not to mention the affects on self-esteem) and commercialism. Thus far, Koreans have failed to allow respect and understanding of other cultures, other ways of life, to permeate their views. Being white, I have experienced only the tip of the iceberg. Koreans see a definite cultural hierarchy, with them at the top and all other cultures below. The men have failed to pick up on a respect for women, and the women have failed to pick up on a respect for themselves.

I am glad that I experienced Korean culture. My eyes have been opened to so many issues and I realize how much a culture shapes its people. Like many Canadians, I have struggled with the question of Canadian culture. Many of my friends come from families with strong cultural values that have shaped their world views. But the Bogue/Kerr family is so Canadian that a quick look at our family trees makes it seem ridiculous even to say that we have Scottish/Irish/English/French ancestry. We've been Canadian for generations and generations. The values on which I was raised cannot be traced to any particular country or culture, but were perhaps shaped by fundamentally Catholic beliefs, which I have strived to distance from their roots. I am a disgruntled Catholic and in fact, I cringe when I say that, so maybe I'm just disgruntled. I love that saying you're Quebecois is sufficient, but wonder why the same does not carry out to the rest of Canada. Why does a Calgarian say they're Scottish when asked about their nationality? Why not Canadian? Or Albertan? But I digress. I have come to realize this year how much of my culture I had taken for granted. Our freedom. A year spent living in a culture where the wearing of a tank top is all it takes to be considered a prostitute and tattoos are only for criminals. A year immersed in an environment where I see beautiful, talented, intelligent and strong women fighting to be themselves in a culture that values beauty and silence in its women. I realize how lucky I am to have been born in a country where my options are endless and I have never been told I couldn't be a doctor because that's a man's job. That I can laugh when Koreans look on me with pity because I'm unmarried and that I can proudly say it's a choice, leaving them thoroughly confused. That when I talk with my Korean friends about my personal goals and paths of education that I am considering, I am revealing to them what it is like to be Canadian. I told Song that I had at one point considered going to law school, but found a different path when I fell into my love of drama. And besides, I wasn't sure that I could commit myself to work as hard as I would need to in law school. Song looked shocked and upset, and said that that statement alone showed such a distinctive difference between Canadian and Korean culture. Her Korean girlfriends would never consider the idea of going to law school, but would strive to marry lawyers. I can't imagine having grown up in such an environment. Beyond that, I can't imagine growing up here, and travelling to other countries and trying to readjust. I've had trouble after only a week in Taiwan. My friend Min spent four years in Australia, being stuffed full of food by those around her because they thought she was too skinny. A short flight back to Korea, and suddenly she was fat again. I wonder how these women can readjust to Korean culture when they have lived elsewhere. Korean women are fiercely strong, but unfortunately stoic. In the coming years, things are going to change drastically in this country. Western men are incredibly sought after in Korea and mixed race marriages are becoming more and more common. Korean men will have to wake up or risk losing all their intelligent and strong women to Westerners that allow them more freedom. Koreans are going to have to learn to allow foreigners into their hierarchy of respect, or these mixed families will leave and the country will become increasingly divided on the issue of who to let in and who to isolate.

Yesterday I made the long and painful trek to Seoul Tower. Actually getting there was the easy part. The long and painful part was waiting an hour in line for the cable car to the tower, followed by the forty-five minute wait for the elevator to the observation deck, followed by the half hour ride for the elevator down (they wouldn't let us take the stairs). In the lobby in front of the elevator was an ice cream stand and a blond, blue-eyed foreigner was working the stand- speaking perfect Korean. A crowd of Koreans surrounded the stand, laughing and taking pictures of him. I admired the man for his patience and bravery, because I surely would have started screaming about the sheer disrespect that they were showing him. Can you imagine if such a situation were to happen in Canada? If a crowd of white people gathered around an ice cream stand manned by a Korean employee and laughed and pointed because he spoke English? I have been mistaken for Russian a good many times here- an infuriating insult in Korea, as Russian is synonymous with prostitute to Korean men. A Korean man walking behind me in the streets the other day, drunkenly shouted out RUSSIAN!! RUSSIAN!! repeatedly as I marched up the hill, backpack on my shoulders, complete with Canadian flag. Can you imagine such an incident in Canada? I am growing tired of the constant attention. Of the blatantly rude and obnoxious pointing. Of the gawking and assumptions that I am either American or Russian- as though these are the only countries that produce blond hair and blue eyes. And in all honesty, I have yet to meet a blond Russian.

There are days when I hardly notice the stares and days when I notice and don't mind. But the bottom line is that it shows a certain disrespect that parents fail to explain to their children that pointing is rude. I reprimanded a twelve year old girl in the elevator a couple weeks ago who was yelling "Oma, Oma- Migguk saram!!" (Mother, Mother, blond American) and who's finger was an inch from my face, as though the elevator were full of blonds and she needed to clarify who she was talking about. Curious looks don't bother me, even staring I can excuse, but being treated like an animal is another story. I would have hoped that the mother would have been embarrassed by my retort, but instead the elevator erupted in laughter. And I would hope that in Mok-Dong, one of Seoul's wealthiest areas, children would be worldly and educated enough to know better. Even with 40,000 English teachers in Seoul, plus the military presence, foreign faces shouldn't be news anymore. But the extreme xenophobia of Korea is a story told round the world and a reputation that they should be fighting to change, not propagate. I have had so many good and pleasant experiences meeting Korean people, and it's really unfortunate that these bad experiences are really starting to grate on me. But that's the reality. It's been ten months, and I'm tired of being a clown in class and on display in public. There is such a distinction between 'us' and 'them' that with the current value system, Koreans cannot simply live side by side with foreigners and see them as people. Even the Korean teachers at work often exclaim in surprise, "Oh, you can eat kimchee?", as though they were not aware that foreigners were physically capable of bringing the chopsticks to their lips. Ironically, the place where I would think that I would be stared at the most- at the saunas- I usually notice only a quick surprised glance. A comforting change, particularly given the vulnerable circumstances. But when I enter the saunas, I can't help but feel as though there is a sort of respect and understanding amongst the women. Perhaps I'm being included in this respect by the sheer bravery of entering into the saunas, which are rarely frequented by foreigners. Here's hoping that this frustration passes and that I can enjoy my last few months in Korea in relative peace. After all, are we not pretty much all the same anyway?

Adventures in Taiwan

The plane landed and I walked across the tarmac into the airport. I awkwardly pass

ed a slip of paper to the cab driver with the address of George's cafe. I quickly realized how comfortable I had become with my Korean, as I grew quickly frustrated in trying to explain to my driver the address where George worked and lived. In my head it seemed that he should understand my broken Korean, but of course, he looked even more confused than when I spoke in English.

Kending National Park (SW Taiwan)

My hope was that Mandorin had sufficiently impacted the Korean language that we would be able to understand each other, as I can understand a little Spanish because of my French. Not so, unfortunately. Two cab rides and a panicked phone call to George's business partner and I finally found myself at Goya, his cafe. I looked around me and determined that I suddenly felt as though I were experiencing Asia for the first time. The streets were packed with scooters and Chinese characters dominated store windows and signs. I was struck by the number of foreign cars. Koreans have fallen so far into the image game that they have tossed out their scooter culture in favour of cars, despite the fact that they prove highly impractical in such a small, car-crazy country. Space is such an issue in Seoul that drivers leave their cell phone numbers in the window of their cars, so that if it needs to be moved they can be reached quickly. Other drivers prefer to leave their car in neutral so it can be easily pushed out of the way. Nearly all the cars that drive through the streets of Seoul are Kia, Hyundai or Samsung. Occasionally you'll see the odd Mercedes or BMW, but never, ever will you see a Japanese car in Korea. In fact, up until September 2005 there was a ban on Japanese imports of any kind- making my purchases of a Nikon digital camera and a Fujitsu laptop highly controversial among my Korean co-workers.

As I stepped into Goya, George quickly proved himself to be Montrealais at heart. The long, narrow cafe was painted bright red, the walls dotted with black and white photographs. A fish tank sat at the back of the cafe, filled with tropical fish. It felt like a cafe on St Denis. I sat and talked with Wayne, George's business partner until finally George strutted into the cafe after a long day of work. We downed a couple bottles of wine and several bottles of beer, catching up on a year apart. We awoke almost early on Sunday, and he sent me off with his friend Cassandra to see Kaohsiung (pronounced Gaow-chung). There wasn't much to see. The city, located in South Ouest Taiwan, is the second largest in the country, home to about one and a half million people and Taiwan's largest port. It's an industrial city, and not particularly pretty. I clutched onto Cassandra as the scooter wove its way through traffic, narrowly avoiding a few accidents in the space of a few minutes. I fell into a daydream about the comfort and safety of Seoul's subway. We whipped through the city and up to Monkey Mountain for tea. A cute tea shop sat amongst the vines and trees overlooking the ocean. It was gorgeous and true to its name, the mountain failed to disapoint- I saw my first wild monkey up close. I have to admit that I was a little upset that I didn't have to chase him down to retrieve a stolen bag or purse... it would've made for a good story.

We returned to Goya and George and I quickly packed our bags and headed for the bus station. The two hour trek to Kending National Park was well worth it, although I wouldn't find that out until the next morning. We picked up some street meat and headed back to the 'love motel' (tacky, cheap hotel) for some bad TV. Not my favourite passtime while on vacation, but by the time we got to Kending it was too late to do anything but drink... and we had done that the night before. We awoke insanely early the next morning (somewhere around 10am, I believe) and made our way to the beach.

'Mini gorge' in Hualien (NE Taiwan)

Snorkels in hand, we dove in. As my mouth filled with salty water, I realized I had never swam in the ocean before. I'd seen it, of course, but had never swam in it. And then I realized that in fact I hadn't been swimming in some twelve years. There was a moment of panic as I looked out towards the horizon and realized the sheer power of the water that surrounded me. Then I remembered that I had taken ten years of swimming lessons, so I could relax a little. Feeling comfortable breathing through a tube took considerably longer than feeling comfortable swimming again. The water was warm, clear and blue- absolutely beautiful. Beneath the surface, coral played home to thousands of varieties of fish, of all colours and sizes. I relaxed and let myself float. Seemingly I let myself float a bit too far out, as the waves took hold for a moment and sent me flying into the coral. We packed up and went for lunch, George forcing me to break my promise that I would never again eat fast food, as he put it “in the interest of time.” We rented a scooter and flew around town searching for a beach that wasn't next to a nuclear power plant, or overcrowded with fully dressed Taiwanese women striving to enjoy the beach and avoid a tan all at once. I spent the rest of the day laying on the beach, smothered in enough sunscreen to drown a small army. I soon discovered that being the 'white-out' variety of white, I should have smothered myself in enough sunscreen to drown a large army. Not to say the burn is particularly bad... mostly just particularly blotchy as I cheated sometimes in the reapplication steps. The important thing is I got some colour... whatever colour that may be. As the sun went down, we packed up and headed back to Kaohsiung.

Day three I headed for the airport and boarded a plane to Hualien, a small city on the East coast of Taiwan. I was glad to see that travelling had not changed Mike, as he arrived late to meet me at the airport. I stepped outside and was met by the overwhelming sight of the mountains, thick with trees and vines and fading into the clouds at the top. Mike had promised that Hualien was the most beautiful city in Taiwan, and one of the best-kept secrets of Asia. I'd have to agree. Over the next three days, I was continually overwhelmed by the beauty of the area, and frustrated that so much of it could not be captured on film. I was most taken with the tiny temples and alters that are prominent in the area. For better or for worse, however, the Buddhists have not taken tips from Catholicism and converted their prayer spaces to tourist attractions. As it is disrespectful to take pictures, I have only the images in my mind to carry with me. Mike and I headed to the 'mini gorge' just outside of the city and prepared ourselves for the half hour walk upstream. Mike promised a stunning swimming hole at the end of our hike, but unfortunately the rain started just as we began to walk. The water can rise so quickly that we may have found ourselves stranded, or simply injured from slipping on the rocks that were protecting us from the current. We decided to abandon our hike and settle for the swimming hole directly in front of us. We returned to Hualien, rolled a joint, and I happily contemplated the differences between Korean and Taiwanese culture- not the least of which is the very fact that I was able to enjoy my first joint since leaving Canada. The next day, we set out for Taroka National Park with a couple of Mike's friends- Layton and Nissha. Forced to leave my camera behind, we began the long walk to their secret swimming hole- ignoring the signs that indicated specifically that the river was not meant for swimming. It couldn't be helped- the icy blue water was demanding attention. The water was high and we found a spot where the current was weak and we could relax. The mountains towered above us on all sides, thick with trees and vines. As far as the eye could see, there were rocks and icy blue water. Layton immediately lost his keys for his scooter. We began the long journey back to the scooters, hoping that the keys would miraculously recovered. At first we swam downstream, but at points the current was too strong. I struggled to pull myself onto the rocks after experiencing a frightening loss of control. I lost a shoe and scraped up my knees a little more, now proving to be a theme on this trip as they bled considerably after my run-in with the coral reef in Kending. Layton and I opted for the rocks- monkey that I am, I've always been more comfortable with heights and climbing than I am with water and slamming into rocks. Mike and Nissha braved the river. Parts of our climb led us into the jungle, hoping to discover an easy way to climb back down towards the river bank. With one foot exposed to the elements, I considered the fact that in the jungles of Taiwan are found the world's second most poisonous snakes. I put it out of my head and decided to jump into the river at the first sign of a deceptively small green snake. Finally we found our way back to the river and I stood on an enormous rock, fifteen feet high. The drop over the water fall ahead looked suspiciously dangerous, which was quickly confirmed by Mike's insistence that I walk ten minutes upstream to cross the river, thereby avoiding the drop. For some reason, Layton jumped into the pool where the current would surely have pulled him over the fall had Mike not caught him first. We successfully passed the final obstacle and found ourselves safely back at the scooters. We hadn't found Layton's keys, but Mike had recovered my shoe- ironically moments after saving Layton from going over the waterfall. We returned home to soothe our aching bodies before heading out to a tiny Woodstocks/Cock n Bull/Night Gallery type bar, where Mike's band would take to the stage. It seems they've become something of celebrities in Hualien, with the small foreigner community starving for English music. The crowd was small, apparently many holding back so they could take them in the following night. The Taiwanese patrons showed their support by joining in with tamborines.

Back in Kaohsiung for a day before flying back to Seoul, I took in as much of the city as I could. The social conventions that I have become so accustomed to in Korea are absent here. There are no rules about how to give and receive, no bowing, no drinking rules. Taiwan is laid back.

Me in Kending - the Southern most point of Taiwan

While the go-go-go so characteristic in big city driving still exists, I spent a week without being bowled over in the streets. Though there are fewer foreigners here, I also felt less watched. I saw women dressed as they should be in forty degree heat- in tank tops. I saw bikinis on the beach. I saw tattoos. All of these completely taboo in Korean culture. I contemplated how different my experience overseas would have been if I'd chosen Taiwan over Korea. I'm glad that I experienced the Korean culture. Glad that I lived for a time in an environment with such distinctive gender roles. Happy to have been immersed in such a rich and dynamic culture. Having said that, should I find myself back in Asia in years to come, Korea will have to compete pretty hard with Taiwan for my attention. I wouldn't hesitate to throw myself in for a year of crazy scooter riding, week-ends on the beach and hiking in the stunning mountains that cover most of the country.

Like most actors, I've come to realize that paired with my love and passion for the arts, my curiosity and hunger for learning, I also have a completely illogical side. Actors are ridiculously superstitious. Hundreds of theatre superstitions toss themselves around in the minds of actors and somehow we pick and choose which we give weight to. Bibles, children, animals, flowers, green costumes and whistling on stage are likely to anger those around you. Of course, the mention of the Scottish Play in the rehearsal space and uttering "Good luck," are the best known theatre superstitions. That having been said, actors have nothing on the Taiwanese. August is Ghost Month in Taiwan. It is believed that the gates to the underworld open and spirits cross into the living world. Great feasts are held for the spirits- tables laid out in the streets piled high with food and drink. Lanterns hang above the tables to guide the ghosts to their tables. Fake money is burnt to offer to the spirits (apparently even after we die we strive for nice cars). Even today, the Taiwanese seem fearful to throw aside these practices, "just in case". Because of the presence of ghosts in the living world, August is considered a bad time to engage in any risky behaviour. Swimming, flying, business deals, marriage and burying the dead are best left to the 30th, when the gates to the underworld close. When I arrived in Hualien, Mike quickly informed me that his Taiwanese friend was insisting on taking me for a pig leg dinner, which is supposed to bring good luck. We never made it out for pig leg, so I flew back to Seoul hoping that the ghosts would forgive my week of risky behaviour. So far, so good- although I'm sure there's no expiry date on bad luck. Maybe I've just confused the ghosts for a time- which will hopefully last until I get up the courage to sit down and eat a good luck pig leg.

Taroko National Park