This post consists of my scattered recollections of Busan, Seoul's dirtier, more decentralised port city cousin. While it has a few solid spots of enjoyment and while I did snag some decent photos, the sullen truth is that I was in a darkly depressed mood during the terminal leg of my South Korean holiday. A blackened, joylessness coursed through me. I was devitalised and disconcerted, in part, because I was still recuperating from a bad cold I'd picked up in Seoul. But the sickness also prised open cages around my heart. It forced me to brood on the fact things were not well at that point in my life, despite my opportunity to travel. I recall glumly strolling the Busan Christmas Tree Festival, a crowded annual winter event with vividly festive lights, live music, and street performances, feeling awkward and miserable. I was in a fugue state, casting the occasional glances at the scenery, but mostly inside myself, navel-gazing rather than sightseeing. Surrounded, yet apart. One idea that especially bothered me was how I'd arranged this trip to coincide with Christmas Day and (despite consciously, if unmindfully, committing to it) was nevertheless emotionally unprepared to be alone on the 25th. I ended up spending Christmas Day itself at Busan's famed Spa Land Centum City, an ultra-modern Korean bathhouse located within what is supposedly the largest department store in the world, Shinsegae Centum City. I appreciated the novelty. For a while. It kept my most festering feelings at bay, but there was too much heaviness in my being to completely wash the gloom away. I felt like a failure. My career, a promising position at a prestigious economics consultancy, had fallen apart. My personal life was muted and loveless. There was no passion in my flesh. I was burnt out. I was lost. Unhappy. I was on a knife's edge concerning solitude and loneliness. I craved solitude, but if the stars weren't carefully aligned in my skull, that lovely, tender solitude would skip and tumble into its evil double: a ditch of despairing loneliness, self-loathing, and misanthropy. I was not pleased to be alive and no amount of rumination could push me out of this equilibrium. Balance... where was my sacred and wretched balance? Haedong Yonggungsa Temple... Yes... The photos vaguely remind me. Either before or after Christmas (I can't recall, my memory formation wasn't great during my Busanian hours and minutes), I came to this popular seaside temple. Unfortunately, I was just going through the touristic motions. Pushing through without pause. Pushing through with pulse. So, obviously, I didn't feel impressed at the time and only these photos so many years later have faintly stirred something in me. It's a Buddhist site dating back to the Goryeo Dynasty of the 14th century, with a name that means Korean Dragon Palace Temple. According to legend, a sea god appeared in the dreams of an acclaimed religious teacher during a brutal famine and told him that if he built this temple, all their hardships would dissolve away, like salt in the ocean. It was then destroyed by a fire and cast into ruin during the Japanese invasions of Korea in the late 16th century and was finally rebuilt in the 1930s. But did I know all this from my visit? Certainly not. As I said, I was simply going through the obligatory guidebook motions. I am writing this now as an exercise in research and recollection. An exercise in picking up the pottery shards and fusing them back together into a workable, lucid thing. That's the perniciousness of depression: it destroys the autobiographical. In its dejections, it painfully accelerates the soul's entropy. The self-narrative becomes infused with a hazy wrongness. I find writing posts like these an effective approach to tidying up difficult episodes in my life. Not in a therapeutic way that wholesomely salvages them ex-post, but in a clinical, almost-archival sense. I go through these images in hopes of geolocating myself in distant, foggy moments. Back into the realm of essential human experience. Into noise and taste, scent and texture. It is probably a soft and futile hope. I look at my photos from in and around the Jagalchi fish market and can (almost) hark back my visceral disgust at seeing tanks of squirming 'penis fish', a species of marine worm consumed in some parts of East Asia. When I look at pictures of food I've ordered, I can (almost) conjure the loveliness of dwaji gukbap, a sought-after Busan specialty composed of bone broth, pork, miso, soy sauce, rice wine, and many side dishes. For as long as I could remember, I've struggled to figure out what goals and values I was supposed to cultivate... I felt like I was asleep for much of my life, and that, around the time of my Korea trip, I was slowly stirring into consciousness again and examining everything in orbit - my career, my hobbies, my personality - and reacting with a grinding despondency. But this post isn't about how I resolved this struggle. There's nearly nothing here. Just pixels and colour values. Anyway, here's a photo of Haeundae Beach on a crisp winter's day, an urban beach in Busan that's considered one of South Korea's most famous strands... Last on the list of attractions featured in this post is Busan's Gamcheon Culture Village. It presents itself as a slummy, labyrinthian Korean favela that's been squeezed through a deranged pastel children's book filter. Its origins were indeed one of hilly poverty. The village was built by the city administration during the 1920s and 30s as a way to relocate poor working families into an area secluded from the port, yet proximate enough to provide labour. What tourists see these days is the result of a 2009 effort by artists, students, and locals to regenerate the town with the power of gaudy paint cans. And that's kind of what it's all about, isn't it? Trying to cobble something together, even when its origins are suspect. Trying to dredge up something impoverished from the inner world and present it to the outer one. I will never set foot in Busan again after my psychological trials there, but these sentences you are reading right now are something I've finally made of it.
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A day in Jeonju (전주시) — Korea’s culinary heartIn late December 2017, I backpacked around South Korea in the freezing dead of winter. The trip started off with four days in Seoul, where I had an amazing time. But due to a combination of endless soju shots, greasy Korean barbecue dishes, and (most regrettably) prolonged exposure to the snowy weather, I caught a nasty cold by the end of my stay in the capital. Sneezing, coughing, shivering... I had it all. I was not even halfway into my Korea trip and already as sick as a dog. This made Jeonju, my next destination, a tricky one to tackle. Jeonju is famous for its culinary arts! It’s a foodie pilgrimage site! Hell, UNESCO named it a “City of Gastronomy” for its high-quality traditional dishes. As a Korean food lover, it was a must visit. But alas, without functioning taste buds from my cold, I was going to have trouble making the most of my visit. I arrived in Jeonju at night, after a three-hour bus ride from Seoul. As with much of South Korea, Jeonju is connected by an affordable and efficient nation-wide bus network. It was certainly a relief to leave the snows of Seoul for a city further south with crisp and clear (albeit still chilly) weather. Jeonju (which means, aspirationally enough, “Perfect Region” in Korean) is a small city in the southeast of South Korea and is the provincial capital of the North Jeolla Province with a population of over 650,000 people. The region is known for its fertile agricultural lands, which is partly the reason why Jeonju has prided itself as having such a rich food culture. After checking into my hostel, my next mission was simple: eat something. The most obvious dish was, of course, the bibimbap, a famous Korean rice dish consisting of an assortment of meats and vegetables. Jeonju is well-known for its local bibimbap variant, with its rice cooked in beef broth and local bean sprouts as a key ingredient. Jeonju goes as far as to claim that it’s the very birthplace of bibimbap itself (a historically dubious claim) and holds an annual Bibimbap Festival every October. Anyway, I found a well-reviewed local restaurant and ordered my bibimbap. And. It. Was. Amazing. Just look at that wholesome bibimbap topped with a raw egg! And it comes with a beautiful spread of small side dishes (or “banchan”), including kimchi — everyone’s favourite spicy fermented vegetable dish. Now, I’m certainly no sociologist, but I thought I’d share a cultural tidbit: due to the country’s collectivist culture, dining alone is seen as a bit of a taboo. Well, “taboo” is probably not the right way to put it. To the best of my outsider’s understanding, eating is a deeply social activity in Korea and would-be solo diners are often afraid of being seen by themselves in public as loners and outcasts. Many restaurants, or so I’ve been told, do not even cater to lone patrons. This feeling helps explain a quirky Korean internet phenomenon known as “mukbang” where people live-stream themselves “performance eating” often very large and elaborate meals to thousands of viewers. In return for being watched, these webcam food performers receive messages and, most importantly, monetary tips from their viewers. At least part of the appeal of mukbang is that it supposedly taps into that ingrained cultural desire for eating to be a social occasion. The next day, I explored the main tourist area of Jeonju, which starts from Pungnam Gate and spreads east towards the Jeonju Hanok Village, a very touristy cultural village known for its traditional Korean houses. One landmark near Pungnam Gate is the Jeondong Catholic Cathedral. While it’s not aesthetically exceptional, Jeondong Cathedral is significant for historical and religious reasons. It’s built on the site of where many Korean Christians were executed at the turn of the 19th century for being seen as a threat to the state by the Confucian Joseon Dynasty. These days, South Korea has no dominant religion, with Catholics, Buddhists, and Protestants making up only a minority of the population. The majority either have no religious affiliation or follow Korean shamanism, a polytheistic and animistic folk religion. Directly across the road from the cathedral is the Gyeonggijeon Shrine, a well-known historical site originally built in 1410. The shrine holds the portrait of King Taejo, the founder and first ruler of the Joseon Dynasty, as well as the mortuary tablets of him and his wife. While he didn’t reign for long (only six years), he kicked off a dynastic kingdom that lasted approximately five centuries, from 1392 till 1897. Not a bad run, I reckon. Overall, I found the shrine to be a flat, prosaic place, especially in the middle of winter with the bare trees and the bleak grounds. On the plus side, the shrine seemed to be visited entirely by domestic Korean tourists, which made for a nice change from the more globally popular sites in Seoul. Afterwards, I made my way to the Jeonju Hanok Village, which has over 800 traditional Korean houses. I’m quite a fan of hanoks — I find them elegant and understated, with their low-lying profile and curving tiles roofs. While I think I preferred the Bukchon Hanok Village in Seoul (it was a graceful contrast from the frenetic, cosmopolitan pace of the rest of the city), the one in Jeonju makes for a pleasant visit. There are a large number of restaurants, guesthouses, workshops, gift shops, and teahouses to explore in this village. On a hill overlooking the hanoks is an even quirkier place — the Jeonju Jaman Village. Once a poor hillside shantytown, it has since become the canvas of local artists who have filled it with colourful, eccentric, child-like street murals. It’s bright, wacky, and completely apart from the traditional, old- world aesthetics that Jeonju is more famous for. But sadly, my health wasn’t up for anymore exploring. I retreated back to my hostel for the rest of the day and sat in my dorm room tucked in a blanket and enjoying the heated floors. Yes, that’s right — Korea has an ingenious underfloor heating system known as “Ondol” that is ubiquitous across the country. Traditionally, wood smoke was used to heat up stones underneath wooden floorboards, while these days hot water pipes are used to keep houses nice and toasty. To make things (slightly) better, I had bought a box of choco-pies on the way back. While they were originally an American invention, they are very popular across East Asia and Jeonju is known for its handmade choco-pies. As it turns out, when you’re disgustingly sick, there’s nothing better than scarfing down these sickly snack cakes in your hostel. The following day (after a long, sniffly sleep-in), I sought out another Jeonju specialty: Kongnamul Gukbap, a soybean sprout soup with rice that is used as a traditional Korean breakfast hangover remedy. And while I definitely did not have a hangover, my thinking was that it would hopefully help with my similar unpleasant ailments. While I can’t attest to its medicinal properties, it was a wonderfully hot and hearty breakfast to have on a cold morning. I’d also like to make a shoutout to another Korean product that helped me with my illness recovery called Pan Cold A. It is a fairly cheap, over-the-counter medicine that consists of three little bottles of mysterious (non-English labelled) liquids per box and seems to be available in most 24-hour convenience stores in the country. A quick Google revealed that Pan Cold A is made from a kitchen sink of ingredients, including a painkiller, a nasal decongestant, caffeine, an expectorant, and a cough suppressant. South Korea, like many East Asian countries, has a notorious workaholic culture where workers feel discouraged from taking sick leave. Hence, the market has stepped in and produced cheap, quick-fire medical elixirs like Pan Cold A in every corner store. That’s my theory, at least. Point is, after downing a whole pack of Pan Cold A each day for three days straight, I was definitely feeling like I was on the mend. It’s frustrating to be sick while on your travels. Believe me, it’s happened to me many times. And while I don’t have much in the way of good general advice, I can certainly say that what I did in Jeonju didn’t hurt. You simply have to keep your chin up, take it slow, eat very well, and drink untranslated Korean medicines.
Gyeongju (경주) — the ancient capitalNear the end of 2017, I visited the South Korean coastal city of Gyeongju for two days, following an itinerary guide for the country I found on the Internet. Beyond knowing a few cursory details about the place (I knew it had some ruins from an ancient kingdom), I’m not really sure why I ultimately decided to visit Gyeongju and see its attractions. I don’t think I was able to appreciate the city during my stay and I’m even willing to admit that, at the time, I felt like the visit was a “boring waste of time”. Reflecting back on my experiences, I’m bothered by this attitude I held. Deep down, I know that an inner value can be gleaned from almost any place you visit. It all depends on your perceptiveness and willingness to learn. So here I am, going back to my old photographs, looking up history articles, and retracing my steps in an attempt to appreciate Gyeongju all over again. Call this a travelogue- cum-personal research project if you will. I’m rewiring my old travel memories here. Silla: An introduction Gyeongju is a relatively small city (pop: ~264,000) less than an hour’s bus ride from the bustling port city of Busan and it is a place steeped in deep, rich history. It was once the capital of Silla, an ancient and prosperous kingdom that began over two millennia ago (57 BC) and lasted for an extraordinarily long time — nearly 1,000 years (till 935 AD). Certainly longer than many empires and dynasties throughout human history. In the beginning, Silla was the smallest and weakest of three states vying for control over the Korean Peninsula, but through cunning diplomacy and a close relationship with the powerful Tang Dynasty of China, it was able to crush its rivals and effectively dominate the peninsula. Over the centuries, Silla grew in wealth and power and developed a reputation for being a country of gold and silver. These days, many of the major Silla related attractions can be found in the Gyeongju Historic Areas, designated by UNESCO as World Heritage Sites. Dubbed a “the museum without walls”, it remains a place that few international tourists visit. The Royal Tumuli It didn’t take long on my first day of exploration to stumble across the ancient burial mounds of Silla. They seemed to be almost everywhere — big, eerie, grassy mounds that contain the tombs of Silla royalty. A cluster of them can be found Tumuli Park in the centre of the old capital, only a short walk from the main train station. And it would make sense that there would be quite a few mounds around the place: over its long life, the kingdom saw a total of 56 monarchs, 3 of whom were queens — a rarity for ancient Asian kingdoms. One of the most interesting tombs in the park (something I didn’t realise at the time when I photographed it) is the Tomb of King Michu, aka the “Tomb of the Bamboo Chief”. According to legend, King Michu was able to send a ghost army from beyond the grave to save Silla when external forces threatened it. After the ghosts killed the kingdom’s enemies, they disappeared, leaving behind only the bamboo leaves that had infested the enemy corpses. A rather macabre, botanical calling card. Cheomseongdae Another site I didn’t fully understand at the time was Cheomseongdae Observatory, a 7th-century observatory tower. Located a short distance southeast from Tumuli Park, it is the oldest surviving astronomical observatory in East Asia and quite possibly in the whole world. During peacetime, once all of Silla’s rivals on the peninsula were crushed, science and culture were able to flourish in the kingdom. It is believed that the tower served as the centrepiece for an entire scientific district in the city. The tower had both scientific astronomical purposes and more mystical astrological ones. Like many parts of the ancient world, the movement of the stars was used to guide all facets of life, from when to plant and harvest crops, to when to wage war and make alliances. But like the rest of the ancient world, it was hardly a place of scientific reason as we would recognise today. Silla operated under a strict social hierarchy, a fantastical caste system known as the “Bone Rank System”. A person’s “bone rank” in Silla was determined by their hereditary bloodline, and this rank dictated everything in their lives: from how many servants they could have, what kind of saddle they could sit on, and even what types of utensil they could eat with. For instance, only women of the highest caste (the “sacred bone rank”) were permitted to wear hairpins enchased with gemstones or jade. Some scholars even believe that this stagnant, inefficient caste structure helped with Silla’s decline, despite the kingdom’s wealth and sophistication. Museum relics A little further southwest from here is the Gyeongju National Museum which holds many of the Silla relics uncovered from the old capital. One prime example sits right in the main courtyard of the museum: the Divine Bell of King Seongdeok, a massive bronze bell dating back to the 8th century. It has a grisly, if fanciful, origin story — supposedly the original versions of the giant bell refused to make a sound despite being remade over and over again. Eventually, a live baby was thrown into the molten bronze of the furnace in order to cast a bell that made the ‘perfect sound’. The museum itself is filled with a range of fascinating artefacts. By tapping into the riches of the Silk Road, Silla was able to transform itself and become fabulously rich. Precious gold, silver and glassware from as far away as Persia has been found in Gyeongju and wealthy aristocrats were said to have owned thousands of slaves. Muhammed al-Idrisi, an Arab medieval geographer and travel writer from Sicily, provides the very earliest known account of Korea to westerners. Writing in the 12th century, he stated that “travelers who visit Silla do not think of returning home. Gold is too common. Even the dog’s leash and the monkey’s collar are made of gold.” It was as though Korea was seen at the time as a mythical El Dorado of the East. Dongung Palace and Wolji Pond The ancient capital also once had numerous luxurious palace sites. Donggung Palace and Wolji Pond, an artificial pond on the palace grounds, represents one such place. Close to the Gyeongju National Museum and beautifully lit up at night, it was originally a secondary palace site used by Crown Prince and was also a banquet site for important national event and esteemed visitors. After the fall of Silla, the site was abandoned and largely forgotten. It was finally restored to an inkling of its former glory in the 1970s under the Korean dictator President Park Chung-hee (many people forget that South Korea was not a continuous democracy until the 1980s). There was a political agenda behind it, obviously — President Park was keen on restoring and promoting historical sites, such as those in Gyeongju, as a means of inspiring cultural unity in the consciousness of the people. Bulguksa The following day I took a bus out of the city centre and up the slopes of nearby Mount Toham to visit Bulguksa Temple, one of the largest Buddhist temples in South Korea. Built in the early 500s, it represents the flourishing and installation of Buddhism as the Silla state religion. As with many exotic goods that found their way into the ancient capital, Buddhism was brought to Gyeongju from Central Asia via the Silk Road. Bulguksa is one of the head temples the Jogye Order of traditional Korean Buddhism and has had a rough history. It was almost destroyed by the Japanese invasions in the late 1500s and lay largely in ruins for centuries after. Like with Dongung Palace and Wolji Pond, it was only properly restored in the 1970s under President Park Chung-hee. Within the temple complex are two well-known stone pagodas: the Dabotap Pagoda and Seokgatap Pagoda, which stand opposite each other. Dagotap is meant to be feminine, dark, cold, and representative of the messy complexity of the physical world. In contrast, Seokgatap is intended to be masculine, bright, hot, and simplistic, symbolising the elegance of spiritual ascent. On the temple site, there is also a lucky golden pig that you are supposed to touch it for good luck. And in one part of Bulguksa, there is a courtyard full of stacked stones. The explanation goes that visitors can make (very Instagrammable) wishes by placing stones on the top of each other. If your stack doesn’t tumble down, then your wish will come true. So don’t go around knocking these over, unless you want to ruin everyone’s hopes and dreams... Seokguram Hovering above Bulguksa on a mountain ridge is Seokguram, a secluded grotto that is known for its well crafted Buddhist sculptures. Trudging up there almost felt like a pilgrimage along a cold mountain track — and indeed, the journey up to the grotto from the foot of Mount Toham is supposed to symbolise the spiritual journey of Buddhists to Nirvana. The highlight of the grotto is a Buddhist cave temple that was constructed in the 8th century. A large, elegant statue of the Buddha seated within a circular chamber beneath a stone dome (photography was discouraged). The statue faces east towards the coast in order to offer protection against seaborne invaders, especially from Japanese pirates that used to prowl the waters. And this concludes my brief trip to Gyeongju: the venerable heart of an obscure and bygone kingdom in one small part of Asia. While I might not have been able to fully admire these sites at the time, I believe that this small writing and research exercise has helped me to relive, to recollect, and rethink my visit.
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AuthorMing is an economist, traveller, and creative writer from Melbourne, Australia. He’s a nebulous collection of particles on the lookout for a good corner to sit with a book and a cup of coffee. Archives
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