Feb 27, 2006
Perhaps I had it luckier than most. Koreans offer a lot to the aged, and since I was already sixty when I first went there and my face was already thoroughly lined they could easily see that the whiteness of my hair was not a result of sudden fright. Pretty girls would stand up and offer me their seats on the bus. Of course they assume that for your part you will behave with dignity and restraint, at least until they find out that you are just an ordinary slob. I imagine that the bulk of their contact with white men has been with the American military who are, as you know, frequently a curious mixture of naivety and assertiveness. It should not be difficult to do better than that.
Before I was sent there, I had no desire to go to Korea, or anywhere else in the Far East for that matter. They were simply not on my list. I would have put even Latin America ahead of them as places I would choose to visit. But the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and it happened that when a telex arrived from the Food and Agricultural Organisation in Rome, asking if I would be interested in participating in a plant quarantine project in Korea, for four months spread over three years, I felt this was a call of destiny, and I should not disregard it. Les Matthews, who I already knew when he worked at Ruakura, and who now worked for FAO, had told me that entomologists were two a penny in today’s world, so I knew that if I turned this offer down I was unlikely to be asked again. Besides, I had just been reading a little book called “Markings” by the late first Director-General of United Nations Dag Hammerskjold whom I admire, and he had offered the advice that one should “Say ‘yes!’ to life; to it’s challenges and ordeals as well as to its rewards and pleasures”. Well, I thought, he should know.
The interpreter they assigned to me, a Mr Kim, was one of the kindest and most helpful and forgiving persons I have met in any society. He had been sent him to Holland at some stage, on a training course where he had spent some months fending for himself without anyone else who could speak Korean, and few who could easily speak English. He saw me as a victim of similar circumstances, and went to great trouble to ensure that I did not feel excluded.
But then all the Koreans I met on my three trips there were unfailing polite and kind, at least within the limits of our ability to communicate. My knowledge of Korean was zero when I went there, and only at a poor phrase-book level when I left. I don’t recall encountering a single cantankerous Korean at any time except for one senior police officer who reminded me of a Japanese in a war film and who I watched bawling out a young fellow for moving some chairs so he could get his truck past. They are almost invariably tidy, clean and gracious. Whatever their underlying philosophy is, it would be worth studying.
On the other hand, Mr Kim took me down town one evening and I was surprised to find the place was dark and pretty well deserted. If you looked carefully though, you could see many soldiers crouched on the footpath in the shadow of the buildings, and the air had an acrid smell which made your eyes water. Kim said it was tear gas that had been used that afternoon to quell an incipient workers’ demonstration. It seemed to suggest that the authorities had pretty effective ways of discouraging you if you stepped out of line. But it didn’t show in everyday life.
The job was to start in about a month or so, and it occurred to me that perhaps someone had at first accepted the job and then stood them up. Perhaps they were in need of a replacement at short notice if their budget was not to be thrown into turmoil. I had only a passing knowledge of plant quarantine, but I had sometimes been involved in training courses for Pacific Island quarantine officers. Perhaps that was how they had heard of me or perhaps Les had put in a good word for me. Anyway, on the basis of Dag’s advice, I accepted the job.
At Kimp’o airport, I was met by the aforementioned Mr Kim, and a Mr Park, also from the plant quarantine service, and who could also speak some English. (They are rather short of surnames in Korea, and in fact they have a saying that if you throw a stone in Korea it will hit a Mr Kim, or a Mr Park or a Mr Lee, and I have no reason to doubt it.) Kim and Park took me to the quarantine supervisor at the airport. He greeted me graciously and we had a formal cup of tea. Then they took me to Anyang, the suburb of Seoul where the Plant Quarantine Headquarters is, and installed me in the New Korean Hotel. It’s a large, rather luxurious hotel, but I don’t recall much about it except that the guest lounge contained an enormous aquarium with many large goldfish, which may or may not have been candidates for the dinner menu. It is not only in Singapore that you may choose your luncheon fish in the live state.
Next morning Kim collected me and took me into Seoul to the office of the United Nations development Programme, where I was handed a cheque for 3,700,000 Won, for my “daily subsistence”. I was impressed, never having seen a cheque for a million anything before, but it turned out that there were about 600 Won to a $NZ, so I was getting about $6000 for a month’s stay. Even so, I felt I could subsist on fairly well on that, especially if I moved out of the New Korean Hotel. In fact Kim found me a clean and tidy little hotel handy to the plant quarantine office, for less than half what the New Korean wanted, and I moved in there, banked 3 million at 1% and kept the 700 000 for incidentals. It was a good quiet little hotel, apart from a certain amount of recreational hanky panky in nearby rooms on Saturday nights, and I stayed there whenever I was in Korea.
The National Plant Quarantine Office in Anyang had a staff of thirty or forty, working shifts so there was someone on duty at all hours. Of course there were other offices at the ports and airports so perhaps there were eighty or more of them altogether. They found me an office off the library, and even provided me with a vintage typewriter. I spent a few days going through their legislation and regulations, and all in all they seemed pretty good. They also had quite a good library, designed I suppose by a previous consultant who had been there in 1971, but they lacked experts who could identify the pests and diseases they came across on imported produce, and although they had a massive accumulation of records of everything they had intercepted on the imports, they had no system of analysing them in a way that would enable them to concentrate their efforts where they would have the best effect. So part of my job was to organise training for various specialists to be sent to USA or Australia or Japan or New Zealand where they could learn the techniques for identifying insects, mites, fungi, bacteria and viruses, and so that they could comprehend the significance of what they found. There were a number of bright young university biology graduates on the staff, but they needed specialised training.
In between times, with a lot of help from Kim, I got some appreciation of Korean life and culture. He took me to the market, the botanical gardens, the museum, the gallery of modern art, and to a magnificent concert of Korean dance. They are a wonderful people. They seem to do everything with such precision. In their dress, their speech, their manners, their meals and their relations one with another there is such an emphasis on perfection - even among the ladies selling dried shrimps in the street market. They may be poor, but they are never slovenly. Yet Koreans know how to enjoy themselves. Partying is among my most vivid memories of Korea.
I had only been there a week or so when Kim told me the Director-General, Dr Suh, had invited me to join the staff on a picnic. At first I declined, thinking they had already organised their day out without me, and might have to rearrange things, but Kim said the D-G thought I should go, and since that was not to be ignored, I agreed. I’m glad I didn’t miss it. We went fishing on a great misty lake near Suwon, which turned out to be a reservoir. On it there were a number of rafts made of planks lashed to oil drums, and some of them even had a little hut on them in which I suppose you could shelter from the rain, - certainly the sun struggling through the mst would not have required a shelter. We were delivered to these platforms in fours and fives from a large flat-bottomed dinghy with an outboard. I ended up on Dr Suh’s platform, and was issued with a line and hooks. The fish we caught were some sort of goldfish, most of them only 4 or 5 inches long, but when I threw the first one back, I was told that that was not permissible as we were in competition with the other rafts for the day’s best catch. There was also refreshment. Fortunately I had brought a bottle on whisky at Kim’s suggestion, which was much appreciated as our raft had somehow missed out on the general ration.
After about four hours of this we were ferried back to the shore for the counting and measuring of the catches on the various rafts. We didn’t win any prizes. Mr Hahn on one of the other rafts won first prize with a fish nearly a foot long. I forget what his prize was. Perhaps he was allowed to propose the first toast. We were set around a long table under an awning, and finger food, - not fish – was brought in. There was also a copious supply of rice wine, called soju, which is drunk neat from a small glass with a good deal of ceremony. You must never pour your own glass, but when you fill someone else’s you must hold your wrist as if preventing your kimono from dragging in the drink. The other person then fills your glass, and you both say “Kom Be” and bottoms up. Those who are familiar with the process have some barbarous technique for ensuring that the uninitiated accumulate a row of glasses which they must empty before they are allowed to fill anyone else’s. The senior quarantine officer from the port at Inch’on, appropriately named Mr Jin, who had trained in Australia, dispensed with the “Kom Be” and substituted “Up the Queen”, perhaps out of deference to me as one of her subjects. One way and another I was glad that someone else was driving me home. Dear old Kim even brought me a pick-me-up when he dropped me off. He could see I needed it.
I was fairly fragile when I got to work next morning, but was glad to notice that several of the staff arrived late, and the D-G took the day off.
Another party which also involved Mr Jin, occurred when a Mr Lee from head office took me with him when he went on some sort of official visit to Inch’on. I recall that we also met a large Buddha-shaped fellow who was the owner of some of the big grain silos which dominate the port. He must have been extremely wealthy. When he offered me a cup of tea, I made the mistake of declining, having just had one with mr Jion. But Mr Lee shook his head, indicating that that was not the right thing to do, so I accepted. Mr Buddha smiled at my error, and got talking about New Zealand. He understood that there were many sheep there. I agreed. He said he understood that the foetuses of sheep had powerful aphrodisiac properties. Could he import some. When I had taught at Massey we had collected unborn lambs from the freezing works at Longburn for the students at Massey to dissect instead of rabbits which were hard to come by. We arrange with the chief Vet. who supervised the slaughter chain to have them put aside for us when the ewes were being gutted. I suppose we gave him a bottle of whiskey for his trouble. So I knew there were plenty of foetuses to be had, and said I would look into the matter when I got home. (I did, but no one took it up).
Afterwards Mr Jin arranged a “happy hour” for us, and we got going on the “up the queen” routine in fine style. By then I had learnt to work the system rather better, but Mr Lee apparently had not. He was soon pretty much out of control, and when I protested to Mr Jin, he said that these head office fellows needed a bit of a shake up now and then. He said Mr Lee’s trouble was that his LD50 was too low. This is a technical term referring to the amount of a toxic substance that can be tolerated by a test animal of a particular body weight. It is normally used to refer to the amount of an insecticide or suchlike that will kill 50% of test animals, rats or guineapigs or the like, and is used as a measure of the danger faced by humans applying the substance, or eating the sprayed material. It was true Mr Lee’s body weight could scarcely have exceed 50 kgs, so his capacity to absorb alcohol was not high. When I complained that I nevertheless had to get him home, Mr Jin said not to worry, he would lend me a car and a driver. So the party went on, with Mr Lee well past caring how much they poured into him.
The driver did indeed take us back to headquarters, but I think he was less than happy to have been given the job, and dropped us off at the gate, which left me with about 100 metres to walk while supporting Mr Lee. The night shift were playing cards of some sort, and evinced no interest in Mr Lee or in his condition, so after a few futile attempts to get them to do something for him, I took him back to the gate and hailed a passing taxi. He tried to insist that I share the taxi with him, but I’d had enough of him for one day, so sent the taxi off and walked home to my digs. I guess he was conscious enough to tell the driver where to unload him.
Another party with a difference happened when we visited Pusan. The Plant Quarantine chief there asked if I would like to see a floor show in the evening. I said I’d just as soon go to bed, but Mr Kim said “I think you should accept.” So I did. It was some sort of night club with groups of well dressed men and ladies seated around tables of eight or ten, facing a stage on which the performance took place. As we had no ladies in our party the management seemed to have supplied a couple of nubile young things to laugh at our jokes and pour our drinks, and even help drink them. They were under the discreet supervision of a big guy who looked like a sumo wrestler, but he kept well away most of the time.
The floor show consisted of three or four beautifully costumed lady dancers and a small orchestra. The ladies danced with grace and precision, but gradually began to discard their clothing, always in complete harmony, until there were only two ladies left and they were completely naked. Still the dance continued with the execution of various graceful contortions, culminating with the ladies upside down on their shoulders with their legs in the air doing various bicycling movements and splits, and leaving nothing at all to the imagination. Of course we applauded vigorously, and the ladies got up and put on their kimonos and took a bow. One of them even came over to our table and poured herself a beer from our bottle, and smilingly toasted me, as an obvious foreigner and a guest.
At the end of the evening I asked Kim whether we were expected to take the “hostess” ladies home with us. He said it was a matter of choice. I thought however that since they had spent their whole evening with us, we owed them something. Perhaps the sumo wrestler in the background helped convince me too. So I gave one of them a note worth about ten dollars, at which she bowed and said most effusively, “Oh! Sankyou very much!” at which her companion, who was facing away at the time, spun round as if she had had a string wound round her, so I was obliged to give her a tip too. All in all it was a good evening out though, and I’m glad Mr Kim didn’t let me turn it down.
Karaoke was another thing they introduced me to. I don’t think it was known in New Zealand at that time, thoug it is common enough now. One I remember was in an upstairs bar, quite small, where about ten of us sat around a horseshoe shaped bar where the barmaid had control of a set of tapes of mostly American popular songs, and handed round sort of hymn books with the words in them. Sometimes we sang in unison, and at other times she would pass the microphone to one or other of us to do a solo. It was all done in a n atmosphere of friendly cheerfulness, as if we had known each other for years. Of course there was also a “hostess” or two who sidled up onto one or other of the bar stools and helped with the singing, and needed a tip if she was not to accompany us home. No wonder the Koreans find New Zealand so dull and clumsy. At the dinner table in Rome I once met an English lad called Silverside who had just returned from Korea or Japan, and who held the attention of his fellow diners of various nationalities with enthusiastic praise of his karaoke experience, so perhaps we are not alone in our western sullenness.
Then of course there was dancing, or what passed for dancing. Mr Shim, the deputy director, got the impression that we FAO folk were missing out on the night life of the town, and so detailed a group of quarantine staff to give Dr Risvi and me a night out. Poor Risvi was a devout muslim and approached the task, alcohol was bound to be served, with some trepidation, but since he and I had already dined together and been through the rigmarole of getting the waiter to not put a bacon sauce over Risvi’s dinner, I think he felt that I would protect him from the eternal damnation which would otherwise surely follow.
Again we gathered round the bar, but Risvi was relieved when I got the girl to serve him a sasparilla while the rest of us got on with our beer. The dancing was a peculiar performance. There were hardly any women present, apart from the barmaids, most of the customers being soldiers in uniform, who were having a night’s leave from their National Service. The dancing, when the orchestra struck up, consisted of everyone standing in a great circle, swaying and clapping in time to the music, and pushing one of their number into the centre, where he executed his favorite steps until someone else was pushed in to take his place. Risvi joined in with the best of them. I don’t think he had had such a night in his life before, and all without compromising his hereafter. Once, when we were looking at potato viruses over at Sorok San, (Risvi was a plant virologist), I said to him at lunch with the research staff that his religion was depriving him of the best things in life, with its prohibition on bacon and beer, and that he would really have to give it up. The Koreans were somewhat shocked but Risvi just said, “I think it is too late now.”
There was karaoke at the dance too, and Mr Kim felt that as the only pakeha present, I should do a number. I protested that the orchestra would not know any of the songs that I knew, but he insisted that I must know “You are my sunshine”, - all westerners are supposed to know “You are my sunshine”, - so I agreed. When the band leader found that I could actually keep time with the music, dance time really, he was so pleased he insisted on a second verse and a third and a fourth. And at the end of the evening I was voted the best performer of the show! They are such kind people.
Food in Korea is another of its attractions. Little banquets are put on with very little justification. I recall one with Frank Strong and the senior Agriculture Department staff, with about a dozen or twenty little dishes of various delicacies on the table with a waitress to renew them as soon as they got emptied, and to serve us soju to go with them. Frank demonstrated his skill with chopsticks by picking up two peas simultaneously and challenging the director general to do the same. He did. So then Frank managed three peas. Again the D/G managed to match him, but before Frank could try four, one of the other agriculture staff whispered to him not to try four, because the D/G couldn’t do four and it would cause embarrassment. I had noticed the same etiquette when I played table tennis against the D/G. It was ok to win an occasional shot, and the onlookers cheered when I did, but it was important not to win the game. This was easy for me, as I’m not much good at table tennis.
There were ordinary meals too, with just two or three of us in a small restaurant. Around a table with a dish like “samketang”, a fantastic dish of steamed chicken stuffed with rice and ginseng. The chickens are very small, so you get one each. Samketang was my favourite, but bulgogi, thinly sliced beef, marinated in garlic, sesame oil and soy sauce, and grilled. Yum! Kalbi spare ribs, grilled over a charcoal fire in a pit in the middle of the table was also a treat. Always with noodles of course.
They took me to a historic village at Chungju, where the little houses are made of rice straw with a straw thatch. They are built on a platform of mud bricks with a flue underneath so they have sub floor heating fired by a little rice straw fire. The flue also extends along under the platform on which they sleep - all very modern and sustainable, and well worthwhile in the cold Korean winter. Today’s country houses mostly have tiled roofs in bright peacock colours, encouraged, I am told, by the government. Theyu certainly brighten the countryside, and no doubt reduce the fire hazard.
There was also an exhibition of the traditional farmers’ dance, in which the dancers in gaily coloured costumes swirl long streamers of cloth attached to their hats and form clever patterns with them in time to the music. And there were rope walkers, likewise in elaborate robes, who clowned on a slack rope about twenty feet above the ground to the joy and applause of the crowd.
Agriculture gets some government encouragement too, and most farmers seem to have modern rotary hoes to work the land, but they also attach them to trailers and use them to transport their produce or anything else, their families for example, to town or to market. They are not very fast on the open road, but it beats walking. I’ve also seen one with a tray attachment full of rice seedlings, and a rake arrangement that scraped off and planted rows of plants across the width of the machine as it drove along. About eight or ten times as fast as hand planting, I would say, and with much less labour. On the other hand it is not unusual to see an old farmer with a single bullock pulling a wooden plough through a soggy field, presumably preparing it for rice planting by his family. We are not all up with the play.
Chejudo is a subtropical island off the south coast of Korea, and it is an intriguing mixture of ancient and modern. It is of volcanic origin, and like Auckland’s Cornwall Park, the land has been cleared of boulders which have then been built into walls. They have a saying, “No gates, no locks, no thieves”, to which they might add no fences. Gates would be difficult to swing from a rock wall, so slip rails are used to contain livestock. Apparently the state of the rails indicates the proximity of the owner. If all three are in place he has gone to town; if one is down he is somewhere around; and if two or three are down, he is at home. It’s as well there are no thieves.
In spite of such quaint traditions, modern agriculture seems to flourish too, and there are quite large fields given over to growing rape seed for oil production. When the crop is in flower it is a brilliant spread of buttercup yellow, and as Chejudo is a favourite resort for honeymoon couples it is common to see groups of them in their peacock coloured traditional gowns and hats, posing for their photos among the yellow flowers. Pam referred to it as the “mass rape scene”.
Chejudo also sports an enormous and architecturally beautiful glasshouse which the director was kind enough to show us around. It contains an impressive variety of local and exotic plants set out in ecological regions such as desert, tropical rainforest, wetland etc. The director was clearly very proud of it, and why shouldn’t he be? The Koreans always seem to do things so well. They just can’t seem to help it.