Bugs

Miasma

Dr Ouch

For about two months or so, I have been going to see a massage guy who I call Dr Ouch. Like all the other Koreans I know, I don’t know his real name. All Korean names are the same and they all sound like a food, mostly something like Kim Chi or Kim Sun Chi or Kim Chi Sun. There are possibly only about six Korean names in total that everyone shares, and they just mix the order of them a little to make life seem just that little bit more interesting. Calling the roll in a classroom in Korea will just sound something like this: Kim Sun, Kim Sung, Kim Chi Sung, Kim Yung, Mi Yung, Kim Mi Yung, Yung Chi…etc. Often it is just better if I give them names of my own invention which helps me out tremendously. So, my students now answer quite happily when I call the roll with names like ‘Esmira’, named after an ex colleague, ‘Veronica’, the sexy one in the Archie comic book series that I read when I was a kid, ‘Misty’, my faithful and long-since departed pooch, ‘Lily’ (she wanted a flower name) and cinnamon. I guess the students have some inkling that Korean names mostly suck and are happy to have some exotic Western names to add to the mystique.

During the first of these, now weekly sessions of excruciating pain under the guise of ‘massage’, the only word this Korean guy knew was “ouchy”. Every time he would do something that sent the most intense pain signals straight to my brain, he would smile peacefully and ask, “Ouchy?” To which I would nod vigorously. Over the weeks and months, his vocabulary has magically improved and we now have faltering attempts at conversation. This development is just no good at all because I have to constantly try to decode what the hell he is saying through this absolute intense pain that, in the course of an hour massage, has me writhing and even screaming out for about 15 minutes of that time.  It seems that Dr Ouch and I are the same age, he is one year older in Korean age (Koreans count the time spent in the womb toward their age; I guess Koreans aren’t exactly down with the whole abortion thing then) but we were both born in 1968 which makes us both the Chinese sign of the monkey and he knows that I am the sign of Cancer the Crab. He thinks this hilarious and calls me King Crab.

I get a lot of back pain and he really is trying to help me with this. It seems that he puts it all down to air; not enough air getting in so the heart is not pumping as it should and all pain stems from this.

What follows is a fairly typical example of our conversations:

I enter the small massage room and he pokes his round smiling Korean face out from behind the screens where he is busy inflicting pain upon a fellow Korean (Dr Ouch has had some foreigner customers before but I suspect I may be the only one seeing him now, and that’s really only because I’m a complete masochist).

“An yong hasayo”, I say.

“Oh, Glenn.”

Koreans always start any interaction with a foreigner by using this mock surprise “Oh!” like the whole surprise of this foreigner standing before them is just so incredibly surprising (they even text message it, “Oh!…Professor”), even though I had an appointment at that time and it’s no surprise at all. Actually, I don’t mind this, it’s cute and they do it to be polite I guess.

I sit in the waiting area and try to not get involved in the sounds of muffled pain coming from the other side of the screens. Instead, I get involved in the television where there is a traditional Korean drama showing, set hundreds of years ago before the internet; there is a woman dressed in traditional Korean clothes chopping vegetables. Every week it is always the same show and the only action I have ever seen take place is this woman chopping vegetables. Actually, she is very skilled at it, but, it’s no wonder since she does it every week.  It’s a far cry from the Bold and the Beautiful, being as there’s a lot less focus on vegetables on that show and a lot more focus on sex. I wonder quietly to myself why they don’t make shows that mix together sex and vegetables…and, just as quickly, I remember that they do. Then, suddenly, my head is filled with this particular scene I once saw involving a woman and a zucchini. I chide myself, focus Glenn. Focus on the imminent pain. Be the warrior. Yours is the path of abstinence. But I’m really struggling with the squash fest playing in my head.

Ten minutes later, that round smiling face appears again and I am gestured toward the massage table where I lie down facing upwards and wait for the pain. We move into our conversation slowly, Dr Ouch and I, but the pain usually gets going within the first few minutes.

“Ouchy?”

“Yep, ouchy.”

He is now able to say, “Pain?” and Deep Pain?” so we can delineate between the different levels.

“Eat dinner?” he asks.

“No, no dinner.”

“Food many?” he asks patting my stomach. “Big.”

“No, not food many.”

“Eat what? Beef?”

“No. No eat beef. Eat chicken. Chicken cheap. Beef not cheap.” I say these things through the fog of pain.

“Handsome face.”

It will always be only about five minutes into the session when he will look down at me smiling and say, gushingly, “Handsome face”. He will say this maybe a couple more times before we are finished. I did wonder if he was gay being how he spends so much time inflicting pain around my groin area (he assures me that this area is connected with the pain in my back) and saying ‘handsome face’, but he’s shown me a photo of his wife and kids so he’s probably not gay.

“Not handsome. Old face.” I say. He laughs. I always say this and he always laughs. It’s like that poor woman, forever chopping the same vegetables in some Kim Chi infested Groundhog Day.

“Turn side”

I turn.

“Chicken good. No rice. Beef little.”

“Waist soft”, he says.

“Waist soft, good or bad?” I ask.

“Good, not strong. You know octpu?”

“Octopus? I should eat more octopus?”

“No, waist soft like octopus.”

“And waist soft like octopus is good?”

“Good”, he says, not strong.”

He starts massaging my arm. “Big arm, not strong”. I can bench press 80kgs so I’m not entirely in agreement with this but I let it go.

“Yeah, big.”

“King Crab!” he says, as he raises my arm to his mouth, pretending to bite into it. He laughs heartily at this. I laugh but I’m much more comfortable with a woman and her zucchini than all this. Then again, maybe I’m just being narrow-minded.

I wonder if this is money well spent but that’s the thing about Korea, there really is nothing to do here. Why not spend $30 a week on excruciating pain whilst giving free English lessons?

During these sessions, Dr Ouch concentrates on pretty much all the areas of my body except my lower back which is where so much of the pain is, but, at the end of the session, it really does help.

Dr Ouch works six days a week and is booked up all of that time. I’m not sure that I would like to continue these weekly sessions forever but, for now, it’s all part of the bizarreness of the Korean experience.

A Vinegar Vignette

Darling, please pass the vinegar.

Of course dear.

Too kind.

Nothing at all.

It’s not nothing, my dear.

Well then, even nothing can be something.

Ha ha. Too true.

Touché.

Day 12

DAY 12

Last night I accidentally brushed my teeth with Tiger Balm. The tube is almost exactly the same size as my tube of toothpaste and it was lying face down (thereby hiding the Tiger Balm logo) on the bathroom ledge, exactly where one would expect a tube of toothpaste to be sitting. I knew something was wrong the moment I started brushing, but kept brushing. After all, what could be wrong? I thought perhaps the maid had left a complementary toothpaste, something altogether fruitier and mintier…spicier. It was then I spied my own tube of toothpaste in my bathroom kit bag and knew something was afoot…or, at least amouth. After much more than the prerequisite of brushing and spitting, I went to bed worried that I had poisoned myself and that my mouth muscles would be so relaxed that I wouldn’t be able to cry for help.

All night I heard the mosquitos flying against the mosquito netting over the bed…pthhh…pthhh…pthhh…and a strange howling sound outside in the dark small backstreets, doglike, like that of a dog. Must be more careful.

Ladybug

Ladybug, a photo by Glennn Pics on Flickr.

Bug

Bug copy, a photo by Glennn Pics on Flickr.

Kite

Kite, a photo by Glennn Pics on Flickr.

Latest Drawing

Totem

Totem, a photo by Glennn Pics on Flickr.

Latest drawing

Who I Want in Charge of the World

Yesterday at the gym, I met a fellow Western expatriate of Daegu. I have seen him there before sometimes, but I thought he looked a bit geeky so I was never really enthused enough to go out of my way to say hello (we are the only non-Koreans ever in the gym). But, as fate or probability would have it, we were suddenly inches from each other in the change rooms and I decided to take the plunge and say hello. He is an American, teaching English at an elementary school. He is from Detroit, Michigan. People from the States always name the place they are from with the city followed by the state like they are giving a geography lesson. Which I always find bizarre. I asked about 40 students from the US one time where they came from and every single one of them did this. I usually just say that I am from Adelaide and let the blank look on their face just hang there; they are mostly too embarrassed to admit that they’ve never heard of it.

Anyways, Mr. Detroit, Michigan and I do idle chit chat (about gyms, of all things) for a few minutes. I asked him how long he has been in Daegu and how he likes it. He has been here for almost four months – the same time as me – and likes it enough already to be thinking to renew his contract for a further year…or two. I have only chatted with a few foreigners since being here as I feel almost no inclination to go out and meet them. The ones I have met are almost always the same as him: kind of geeky Americans who don’t realise just how bland Daegu is because they are incredibly bland themselves and come from somewhere incredibly bland in the US.

I was just about to make my escape when he decided it was time to exchange names. I never ask people what their names are when I first meet them, mainly because I don’t care about names, I will probably never see them again and will no doubt forget them the moment they are uttered. I mean, there is just so much information trying to batter itself into my brain, do I really need to remember everyone’s names as well? The exception being if it is a hot girl that I might just have the opportunity to sleep with (Charlene….her names Charlene, Charlene rhymes with what?…Marlene, but her name’s not Marlene…).

But then he did something a little strange: he held out his hand to shake, said his name – Brian – and looked me intently in the eye for about three seconds, frozen, not letting go of my hand. I am guessing, maybe, that either people never remember his name  and he, long ago, learnt this strategy of holding people fixed to the spot while they process and remember his name, or he has developed it since being here because the Koreans can never remember his name (Koreans don’t remember a foreigner’s name because foreigners simply don’t count). Either way…weird. Still, it worked, the name Brian is burnt forever into my brain.

Anyway, this habit of Americans introducing their place of origin with the city followed  by the state got me thinking (once again) of the generalizations you can make about cultures. Like the way every single Korean you meet will comment on how well you use chopsticks or the fact that you can eat Kimchi even though it is so spicy (no Korean food, including Kimchi is very spicy and, yes, foreigners can eat spicy food). In my three or so months here, I have come to the conclusion that Koreans think foreigners are completely talent-less and incredibly inferior to them and are genuinely surprised if you can actually do ANYTHING. (A Korean colleague of mine who lives in the same apartment building was amazed when I remembered the number pass code and let us both into our building some weeks after I had moved in. I mean, did he think I was breaking into my apartment every time?)

Which then got me to thinking, of all the cultures that I have had experience working with and living amongst, who would I want to be the next superpower, in charge of the world, the dominant hegemony of cultural exports?

Once upon a time, I would have said Australians, but not so now. Things have changed in Australian culture. If Australia was the dominant culture in the world, they would almost definitely accuse the rest of the world of being ‘un-Australian’ and put pressure on rectifying this. Australians can be way too paranoid and ignorant of other cultures (and yes, I know they eat takeaway Thai food, but this isn’t the greatest demonstration of a successful and inclusive multicultural environment).

Would I want to live under the Moroccans? Not from my experience when living there, where lying and corruption is just so endemic.

You probably know this is coming but, if there is one culture I would really not like to be the world’s dominant culture, it is the Koreans. I suspect, with their arrogance, vanity, adeptness at politicizing everything and their systematic, regimented, cold-hearted, almost robot-like way of going about things, I think they would just be too good at it and I, for one, would hate to live under that kind of regime.

The Italians? Maybe. If the world was to be flooded with good coffee and fine food. Just maybe, for once, we could shift our global agendas to more important things like sleeping with beautiful large-breasted women.

The Vietnamese? The Vietnamese can be simply awful to each other. Their value of human life and the life of animals is maybe not the most caring. But – and here is something maybe not everyone knows about the Vietnamese – when you have one as a friend, they are your friend for life and they can be very kind-hearted to people they like and know. Loyalty with the Vietnamese is hard-won but lasting. And Vietnamese (the women, at least) work really hard. The world might prosper but it would be a chaotic mess and whilst the Vietnamese would have all the money, everyone else would be poor.

The Singaporeans? Singaporeans are peace-loving and generally kind-hearted. It’s just that their cultural exports would be a little weird like Singapore itself: shopping malls and blandness, and because of the way modern Singapore was founded, the Singaporeans are really more followers than leaders.

Which leaves the Thais. Of all the cultures I have lived in, the Thais are, generally speaking, the most kind-hearted, easy-going and fun-loving. Sure, nothing would get done, but really, what’s all the hurry about? At least, under the Thais, we would have a global culture where happiness is valued. Though Thais can fight when they have to (look at their national sport), and this “Land of Smiles” thing is just one giant scam, they are, in the main, peace-loving pacifists, often looking to smooth over turbulent waters with a little sex, some massage or a nice green curry chicken. For global hegemony dominance then, my vote goes to the Thais.