Finally, I am putting up a blog post.
Apologies to everyone who has been waiting in vain for picture updates from the temple stay, which was now a full two weeks ago. Its been hard to find time the last couple of weeks, things such as laundry, maintenance to the apartment, paying bills, etc finally started catching up to me and I found myself without a lot of time.
And so the following will be a long blog post as I attempt to recount some of the more interesting things that have occupied my time the last few weeks, starting with a long awaited recount of the Temple Stay.
Going into the stay, I had no clue what to expect. I asked my boss what I would need and he just said to bring some extra clothes, good walking shoes, and a towel. I was a bit nervous walking to Kotra at 9AM Saturday. I had been in Korea for just over a week and hardly knew anyone. I everyone else spoke as little English as my fellow interns, it would be an interesting trip indeed.
I arrived at Kotra a little early, wearing a pair of khaki shorts, tennis shoes, and the neon pink temple stay t-shirt that had been issued to all Kotra members attending the trip. I didn’t see a single person when I first arrived, and I got a little nervous that I had somehow misheard the time and that they had left without me. However, once I walked around to the backside of the building I saw a big charter bus with “Kotra” written on its side and a crew of Koreans in neon pink t-shirts loading it with snacks for the trip.
I took a seat near the front of the bus, in front of a girl who was at the time the only other person sitting in the vehicle. She spoke a little bit more English than my teammates and soon her friend also arrived, who spoke even better English. Soon, the bus began to fill up with mostly young co-workers who all spoke decent English and seemed excited to get to know me. I was relieved; my fears of playing charades for the next two days had been dispelled.
As the bus departed from Kotra’s office building, I started a conversation with a girl who had sat next to me named Umin. When Umin began talking, I impressed, her English was fluent and she spoke as if she had been born and raised in the States. Talking to her I discovered that she had spent a good portion of her life in California, which explained her good language skills. It was the first time I had met a Korean with such good English skills, and it was a relief considering we needed to hold an hour-long bus-ride conversation.
On the way I was informed that we were not going directly to the temple, but that we would make a couple of side-trips on the way. First, we were going to visit a Mongolian village (it was news to me that there were native Mongolian camps in South Korea, it was apparently news as well to many of my fellow Korean workers). Next, we would go to a museum and historical cite of traditional Korean houses, or Hanok. When I had gotten my visa back in the states, I also received a brochure talking about the Hanok, so I was eager to get to see one in person.
Getting to the Mongolian village was a challenge for our bus driver. We went down wrong road after wrong road. At one point we hit a dead end on a road next to a riverbed. In attempt to turn the bus around, the driver nearly backed into the river. He only stopped when some of the people looking out the window started to scream at him. I looked at his face in the rear-view mirror and saw that he was wearing a crooked smile. I was beginning to raise concern over the man driving the bus.
Fortunately, we made it to the Mongolian Village in one piece arriving just in time for the Mongolian culture show. The show was a bizarre performance. At one minute there was a small group of instrumentalists playing an array of strange stringed instruments I had never before seen.
Just as I was thinking I was going to enjoy a nice string performance, a strongly dressed man walked on stage. He was a corpulent man with a broad smile. In his hand he carried a microphone. None of this was too odd until the curtains closed over the musicians and disco lights began swirling around. The man began to dance around and sing a Korean song with a deep, Oprah like voice. I struggled to keep my laughter at bay.
The performance only went downhill from there. Other performances included a trio of people who made noises with their voices varying from high pitched whistles to strange deep growls which reminded me of the movie “The Grudge.” Later, a couple of girls around the age of 9 came on to do a gymnastics performance. I quickly became nauseated watching the series of contortionist movements they performed. I thought about the disqualification of the Chinese Olympic team because of the training they put their “14” year old performers through which boarder lined on torture.
After the show, I waited to see the reactions from my co-workers following the performance. Mr. Han, my boss, walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “William” he said (this is how I am addressed by Mr. Han), “Please do not think this is Korea, this is not Korea. This is Mongorea.” I laughed. Another of my workers approached me and started talking about how sad the gymnastics performance was. I was relieved that at least my Korean friends were also somewhat shocked by the performance.
Following the show, we went to have lunch at a Mongolian restaurant. There was a never-ending supply of lamb, with sides of potato salad and greens. It heavily resembled a traditional Southern meal. The Koreans hated it. “Its so greasy!” they complained. “I know,” I thought to myself, “it’s wonderful.”
Less than ecstatic about both the performance and the meal, my co-workers were eager to leave “Mongoria” behind. We moved on to destination number two, the Hanok houses.
Before seeing the houses, we toured a museum which gave an interesting recollection of a famous Korean philosopher who helped begin the education of the lower class farmers. Our tour guide rattled away in Korean which far exceded the little I knew. Fortunately, my new Korean friends were kind enough to translate for me as we went through the tour.
After the museum we viewed the Hanok houses. I found them to be fairly interesting. However, architecture is not one of my primary interests, and soon I was ready to move on and finally start the temple stay.
We arrived at Myo Joke Sah (묘적사) in the early evening. As expected, it was a very simplistic place. There were buildings for eating, sleeping, praying to Buddha, and having tea with the monks. In addition, a short walk up the hill took you to another pair of buiildings where you could do more praying as well as make offerings to the gods. There was also a small pond, and a couple of ancient looking stone pillars in the middle of the courtyard. For some reason, I had been expecting a much more massive and impressive complex built from stone (like from the movie The Karate Kid). Rather, this place felt a lot more like one of the many campgrounds I had stayed at back when I was a Boy Scout.
The first thing we did was change into our temple garments, bright orange pant, vest combos. We went to our living quarters to change. The quarters consisted of a large flat wooden base, a small closet shelf to store items, and a small bathroom/shower room. The space had plenty of room for my two roommates and myself.
After changing, we headed to the dining hall to have a traditional Buddhist meal. We sat down criss-cross-apple-sauce in two parallel rows, facing one and other. At the head of the two lines we had made sat one of the temple’s monks, a young woman with a shaved head and glasses. The monk began giving directions exclusively in Korean. The only thing I comprehended were her first words, “listen carefully.” “uh oh,” I thought to myself.
I had to do a lot of monkey see monkey do as we ate. Fortunately, I had gotten quite good at the game after a week in Korea and I somehow managed to get through the meal without any major flounders (that I was aware of at least).
The meal began by everyone receiving a bundle with everything needed for the meal. Then, several giant pots were laid out in front of us. We undid our bundles and set up the four bowls inside. Each was a different size. The bowls had to be set up in a square. I looked around and judged that the largest bowl went in the “first quadrant” and the smallest in the “fourth quadrant.” With the middle two placed appropriately.
Once our bowls were set up, a couple of my co-workers were asked to get up and begin serving the meal. This was done in silence (I quickly picked up that the entire meal would be done in silence). The servers would approach you, and you would hold your bowl out to them. They would continue to ladle food into your bowl until you rotated it back in forth, indicating “enough.”
In our large bowl we received water. In our second largest, kimchi, in our third, bean sprouts, and our fourth, seaweed soup. “Good thing my favorite food is plants,” I wanted to say, but I figured that would get me into trouble. Instead, I began to indulge in my feast of vegetables and water.
No food was to go to waste, including the leftover particles. There was a specific system to accomplish this. First, you eat everything you can with your chopsticks, and drank the entirety of the seaweed soup. Second, you poured your leftover water from the big bowl into the second biggest bowl. Taking your chopsticks, you would work the sides of the bowl to loosen the food particles into the water. Then, you would repeat this with bowl three, and finally with the smallest bowl. Finally, once creating a nice little vegetable soup, you would lift the final bowl up and chug its contents. Indeed this was quite a disgusting task, but not wanting to be “that guy” I obediently chugged the concoction.
After my yummy food particle dessert, it was time to clean up. We again filled up a bowl of water and poured it into the first bowl. We then took our grubby hands and scrubbed the sides of the bowls. Just as we had done previously, we worked each bowl in turn, until the last one was filled with a nice helping of dirty dishwater. Someone then came around with a large pot and we deposited the dirty water into it.
“That’s a bit unsanitary,” I thought to myself. I hoped that the person who had eaten before me had had clean hands. I sighed and decided there was nothing that could be done since I had already eaten the food.
As nasty as the thought was, it was nothing compared to the mistake Wookjin (one of my two roommates) made. Wookjin cleaned out his bowls with his grimy fingers, but before the large disposal pot came around, Wookjin panicked and thought that he couldn’t waste the wash water either. And so in a rash decision, Wookjin lifted the bowl to his lips and drained the dirty water. When the girl came around to Wookjin with the disposal pot he gave her an awkward and embarrassed expression.
Having cleaned the bowls, and (especially for Wookjin) wasted nothing, we stacked them back up and wrapped them, creating a package identical to the one we had received. I had survived my traditional Buddhist meal.
After dinner, it was time to go pray for Buddha. We went to the prayer room, which was a large room with several mats set up facing a giant statue of Buddha. A prayer consisted of standing up, then getting on your knees, then stretching your hands out in front of you and putting your head between your legs, and finally standing back up. I always thought that if you wanted to worship and get a workout you should go to Mass. However, I quickly learned that Catholicism has nothing on Buddhism when it comes to getting a workout.
After several prayers I was tired of standing up and bowing down. More so, I had no idea what I was praying for. The Monk was chanting the meaning behind each prayer as we moved up and down, but (as with everything else) t was in Korean so I had no idea what was going on. Unable to hear what I was praying to Buddha for, I decided to pray for my friend Wookjin, that he wouldn’t get dysentery from drinking his wash water.
After prayer we headed to the tea room to have tea with another monk. This monk was an elderly man with a kind smile dressed in traditional garb. Sitting behind his wooden table, he truly looked like something out of a movie. Tea would have been great, but again the language barrier reared its ugly head. I sat in silent confusion for an hour as the monk lectured in Korean.
At some point during tea, I apparently dosed off for a minute. To reprimand me for my behavior, I was brought before the old monk and instructed to sit down with my back to him. “uh oh” I thought to myself. As I sat wondering what was going to happen, I noticed the end of the monks walking stick lightly tapping me on the shoulder. Then, the walking stick was brought high in the air and came striking down on my right trap. Wack Wack Wack. The stick was light and their wasn’t much force behind it, to be honest the whole thing didn’t hurt a bit. Rather, it was simply a bizarre scenario to find myself- I was in South Korea, at a Buddhist temple, sitting with my back to a monk who was wacking me with his walking stick, all around me were Korean people whom I had only met that day, laughing whole heartedly at my misfortune. I began to laugh as well, I only wish I had though to ask for a video of my “punishment.”
Following my beating we headed back to the dinning hall to do a couple of crafts. For the first, we were given a sheet of paper. On this paper we wrote down our fears and ambitions. For our second craft, we were given small wax candles, dixie cups, paper feathers, and glue. We crafted a lamp which, once complete, resembled a blooming flower.
Once done with the crafts, we gathered them and walked outside. We lined up in single file and began circling the large stone column in the courtyard. After a few rounds, we walked towards the pond. Here, we lit our lamps and were to push them out into the water. I assumed that the longer your lamp burned, the better your karma.
If my assumption was correct, then I apparently have terrible karma. I lit my lamp and bent down to caste it into the water. However, as soon as my lamp touched the water, a toad hopped out of nowhere and landed on my candle, effectively distinguishing the flame. “Great,” I thought to myself, “my only instructions were ‘don’t let your light go out,’ and I failed.”
I wasn’t the only unlucky soul however; some of the other lamps almost immediately began to tip over. As this happened the dixie cup and paper feathers would catch fire, creating a small ball of flames.
After the lamp ceremony, we walked to a bonfire. Here, we took out our papers with our problems, dreams, and ambitions, and caste them into the fire.
Having completed the two ceremonies, we were done with day one, everyone headed back to the sleeping quarters to get what little sleep we could before the next day, which was to start in silence- at 3:30AM.
I was the first of my roommates to awake. I awoke to the sounds of a steady beat and a chanting voice. I checked my phone, and it read 3:32AM. I roused my other two roommates and headed outside to check things out.
I was apparently the first of my group to make it outside. I walked over to the courtyard where the bald female monk stood, steadily beating a wooden instrument and chanting in Korean. It was an eerie moment, standing alone in the fog with this monk, who didn’t seem to take notice to my presence.
Soon, the others joined me outside. Then, together we headed to the prayer room to complete our “108” prayers to Buddha. Inside, we were each given a dixie cup filled with beads and a string. The female monk headed inside and we began our prayers. With each prayer, you would finish by adding one bead to the string. In Buddhism, there are 108 problems a man has in his life, and so lies the significance of the number of prayers.
It was quite a bit of work, making the necklace. I am not sure exactly how long it took, but I would estimate perhaps two hours. As we labored, the sun rose behind us, making for a pretty neat experience.
After completing our prayers, we went and ate some more plants for breakfast. Then, we followed the older monk whom we had drank tea with for a climb up the mountain. I was hoping to catch a great view at the top, but we didn’t make it that high. Instead, the monk stopped us in the woods close to the top and instructed us to sit down. The next hour and a half was spent with another lecture, again in Korean. I focused my energies on not falling asleep.
After the lecture, we walked back down the mountain. “What do we do next,” I asked one of my new friends, “tea with the monk again,” he replied. I groaned to myself, I was growing tired of sitting on the ground listening to a language I still didn’t really understand. “More motivation to learn the language,” was the only constructive thought I could muster.
After tea with the monk I was truly ready to get back. I had enjoyed the stay, but I was pretty tired, and the assault of cultural immersion had taken its toll on my psyche. The good news was that it was time to go. The bad news was that the same bus driver who had almost killed everyone the day before had made another blunder by locking the keys in the bus.
We all sat around the dinning hall building, ready to go, but with no way to do so. Then one of the older ladies said something in Korean. Everyone started getting excited and walked down the hill. “What on earth is going on,” I thought. We got to the bus and one of the bigger guys bent over next to one of its windows. The woman then climbed on his back and impressively worked her way into the bus’s window. Once inside successfully opened the bus’s door. Everyone cheered, and soon starting chanting her name. It was the second event from the weekend I regret having not captured with my camera.
Heading back from the temple, I was truly exhausted. I have found that the way I deal with culture shock is not by getting frustrated or depressed, but by getting very tired. Spending a weekend with my Korean co-workers, eating plants, and listening to hour-long lectures in a language I didn’t understand had effectively exhausted me.
Once back I was determined not to ruin my sleep cycle and go to bed, plus I was starving for some real food. So I began to wander around my neighborhood for some good greasy food. I found a restaurant with a Korean name I don’t remember, but a tag line that caught my eye, “fried chicken and beer.” “Perfect” I though as I headed inside.
I ordered the meal in Korean and was asked by the waiter, ”two beers,” “no just one” I replied thinking he had simply misheard me. Then I realized why he thought I wanted two, the restaurant was on of Korea’s many, “couples restaurants,” where all of the meals are for two people to share. Soon a massive platter of 30 full sized chicken strips and potato chips was brought in front of me.
Looking around, the platter was more than even most of the couples could handle. The two guys sitting next to me only ate about half of their chicken and appeared to be content. But in the aftermath of a temporary diet of bean sprouts, kimchi, and seaweed, I ate the entirety of the portion on my own. I finished the meal, having successfully cured my culture shock, fed my angry stomach, and reinforced American stereotypes all in one sitting. I then returned to my apartment and crashed for a good night’s rest
Despite the culture shock, my temple experience was one I would recommend to anyone. Even more important than the experience was finally getting to meet more of the other interns from Kotra. It was a good way to spend the weekend.
A lot of other things have happened since the temple stay. Most notably, there’s another American intern working on my team now, a High School Korean American named Albert. Unfortunately, writing about the temple stay has worn me out, and I don’t think I will elaborate on the past couple of weeks. I do promise to be better about the blog from now on though, I will try and update at least a few times a week so that I don’t get overwhelmed by how much I need to recount like I did this time. Thanks to anyone who read the entirety of this monster of an entry, I hope you enjoyed it.
