COME AGAIN?

Come again

-Come again?

Yes, come again

-You what?

I said come again

-Eh?

You heard, come again

-Pardon?

That’s right, come again,

it’s back, your cancer

-Shit

Shanghai, oh Shanghai

Shanghai’s Temple of Luxury, the Plaza 66 mall, where new standards of miserable service are set daily.  Shop assistants’ faces are fixed in expressions of empty, arrogant misery, varying in shade from mere disdain for most visitors, especially non-buyers, to fawning and obviously faux delight in the rare event of a purchase.  The general impression is of a large, mostly empty cathedral in which worshippers wander slowly through in awe at the branded marvels on offer, under the watchful eyes of sullen vergers.

Amongst the crowd of dawdling eye-shoppers, devotees move with the speed of purpose, adorned either with the products, usually a bag, belt, shoes, t-shirt, and for men a hat, or if neophytes with the large and visible carrier bags denoting their recent purchase of membership of this elite congregation.

Often older men stroll by with startlingly young, thin ladies on their arm, kitted out in very tight trousers or impossibly short skirts, totteringly high heels and smiles of acquisitory joy.  The man, usually stout, with dyed hair, trails an air of smug satisfaction at his wealth and prowess while satisfying her craving for expensive brands.

Most of the stores are empty for much of the day, save for their grim guardians, the exceptions being Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel & Hermes, where occasionally entry needs to be controlled to prevent the crowds from enlivening the prevailing misery too much.

Like the expensive fashion they house, each store has to be expensively and regularly renewed.  These are after all the flagship stores, the opulent chapels of their sainted brand and their magic and power must be constantly enhanced to feed the devotees’ faith in their ability to transform and enrich their lives.

BLOOD

Blood

vitally viscous

coursing crimson 

through the miraculous labyrinth 

of my body

Surging, 

racing, 

pumping, 

eddying, 

oozing through every artery, vein and vessel

Carrying oxygen, life, DNA, family, 

nourishment, energy, warmth, healing, 

and identity to every cell

Giving form to my soul

spark to my neurons

flight to my thoughts

Blood lines

blood ties

blood brothers

blood thicker than water

blood and guts 

blood of Christ

blood that sustains us from one cell to a billion

Carrying disease and poison, 

bacterial and viral invaders

smoothly and quietly

to ambush life’s processes

at any and every stage

Serving two masters,

knowing and unknowing,

willing and unwilling,

helping to kill me 

as it surges to keep me alive

Blood and anti-blood

Back in Busan

Traffic crawls through the sprawling concrete, dragging us towards our hotel.  Busan looks better by night, in a veil of multi-coloured lights thrown across its hills and valleys, giving little clue to the urban mess beneath.

A new morning brings bright blue skies again and the sea sparkling like a jewelled blanket.  We head to Jagalchi Fish Market to wander through an astonishing selection of fish that has Sooka gasping with delight and hunger.  Everything is carefully and prettily laid out to attract buyers.  Long silver belt fish dazzle in rows in the sunlight; dried skate, emptied and skewered open like kites;  squid and octopus of every size, tentacles hanging down like bizarre wigs, some still alive in basins of water, squid aiming darts of water at the curious who get too close.  All as fresh as can be, clean smelling and surrounded by countless stalls ready to cook up your purchases in an instant.

The stall holders are all women, middle-aged or older, with the typical bonnet of tight curls denoting ‘ajumadom’ and tanned faces with ruddy cheeks that tell of a tough outdoor life.  They’re mostly cheerful, tolerating gawping unproductive tourists and clearly take pride in presenting their catch as neatly as they can.  Now and then an argument erupts as a grouchy grandma takes offence at an unheard slight and spits insults and imprecations at the offender in a voice sure to fright the days’ catch back to life.

20 Years

Two decades, 1040 weeks, 7300 days is a long time and yet...  Just over 12 months ago I thought I might not make it.  But here I am, thank God.  So we fulfilled our promise to take the pictures in Korean traditional dress that we didn’t when we married.  The wedding house, echoingly empty in midweek rest, is a little nonplussed at our unexpected request but recovers quickly and the photographer is summoned.  Make up complete, colourful costumes chosen, donned and adjusted, we take our places behind a low table laden with plastic offerings of chestnuts, pine nuts, tetchu and a serious looking chicken.  My knees object but must do as they’re told, we strike the requisite poses, and raise empty cups to toast each other.  The photos are taken so quickly that I have barely caught breath and my mouth is frozen in a half smile.  

20 years captured in short 3 flashes - it was so good to be there.

Jirisan - Jiri Mountain

We reach the pass, park and set off for Goribong Peak, which we can see rising above us, swathed in thick green, with three rocky outcrops jutting out in relief.  A gentle walk, mostly under cover through a green tunnel of Korean pines, magnolias, oaks and short bamboo, with unseen birds singing us along.  Every now and then, small piles of stones tell of previous walkers and we make our own on a boulder facing Jirisan to hold our wishes.

This is bear country but we clearly aren’t worth a look and the biggest threat we face is a very busy striped squirrel searching for pine nuts and totori (acorns).

We emerge on top of Goribong in the warm autumn sun to glorious views of the valley down to Namwon on one side and to the brother peaks of Jirisan on the other.  Under a glowing blue sky, the silence and  fresh air are exhilarating and we have it all to ourselves and a wheeling hawk.  It doesn’t get much better - what an antidote to Shanghai.

That evening we have delightful vegetarian food, a create-your-own bibimpap with an endless combination of local plants, crowned with the seductive taste of sesame oil.  The restaurant is a traditional one storey house, with wooden pillars and roof beams, whitewashed walls and paper doors.  Owned by an ancient, friendly halmoni, we are served by a young Filipina, a rare foreigner this deep in the country, whose sister teaches English in the town.  You leave your shoes outside, and sit on the heated floor at low tables. I shift and squirm to find an elusive comfortable position, jealous of the local people's cross-legged poise.

The rice comes cooking in a stone pot so hot the bottom layer is roasted literally to a crisp and tastes deliciously crunchy and nutty.  This is all washed down with a tasty, home made, slightly fizzy rice wine called tongdongju.  One of the best meals in a very long time, we head to our room satisfied with a magnificent day.