El Topo (1970)

Jodorowsky’s El Topo, 45 years after its release, still defines mainstream cinema by being far removed from it. Much has been written about the psychedelic spaghetti western that won John Lennon’s praise, its hero’s bloody pursuit of enlightenment, and the religious symbols and meanings strewn throughout it. I would like to focus on two of the film’s themes that accompany those that deal with man’s quest for meaning and man’s relationship with God – themes that center around human relationships: the first deals with the relationship between man and woman, and the second between father and son.

Both these themes – ‘man-woman’ and ‘father-son’ – make their debut in the first scene, before Jodorowsky even begins to hint of the film’s other themes. A cowboy in shiny black leather pants rides in the dessert with a naked boy sitting in front of him. The nudity and vulnerability of the boy are a sharp contradiction to the man’s protection of himself with (tight black) clothing and arms. The introduction of the ‘father-son’ theme thus opens with a criticism against the father. Soon after the man stops, dismounts his horse, and instructs the naked boy to bury his toy and his photo of his mother. As we wonder about the relationship of the armed man and the boy’s mother, and the absence of the latter, Jodorowsky introduces the ‘man-woman’ theme. Both themes accompany the film till its cataclysmic end, and are constantly intertwined throughout it.

After the man, El Topo, the mole, saves a village and its Franciscan monastery from the notorious colonel and his sodomizing gang of comical bandits (castrating the colonel for good measure), he is confronted by a woman who served as the colonel’s slave. The woman wishes El Topo to take her with him. While El Topo resists at first, he soon surrenders to the woman’s aggressive persistence, and replaces the boy with her, kicking the boy aside as he rides away with the replacement. Alongside the father’s blunt abandonment of the son, the victory of the woman’s will over the man’s, there is a subtle message about the relationship between woman and child: there is no relationship. If we entertained any thought that the woman will take the place of the missing mother that thought is quickly shot dead, as are many of the film’s characters. The woman does not even see the boy.

At the end of a short 1960s-characteristic scene of heavenly and worry-free co-existence of El Topo and the woman, of Adam and Eve, El Topo plays the role of God, transforming bitter water into sweet water, yet nevertheless names the woman ‘Mara’, after the bitterness rather than the sweetness. Indeed, Jodorowsky lets El Topo predict the future, as Mara/Eve soon proceeds to persuade El Topo/Adam to sink his teeth into the forbidden fruit, leading to his exile from heaven and his deterioration from God to man, and occasionally animal. Mara pushes El Topo to seek power and glory by embarking on a fantastical quest to kill the four masters of the dessert. Here lies Jodorowsky’s most explicit message about the ‘man-woman’ relationship: woman is depicted as greedy, pushy, and status-hungry, and man as obedient. In modern irony, while the man is El Topo – the mole, the woman is the gold-digger.

El Topo succumbs and embarks on the fantastical quest to outwit and slay the four dessert masters, each more spiritual than the previous, each more enlightened, and as El Topo plugs them with spaghetti western bullets he gradually destroys the spirit within himself. The murderous couple is accompanied by an odd new character – a ‘woman-man’: a woman who is armed and dressed much like El Topo himself and who speaks in a man’s voice. This is not a message about sexual identity confusion but rather a symbol that the ‘woman-man’ tension exists within each individual as a tension between evil and godly. Indeed, Jodorowsky’s view of woman is not quite a flattering one. Throughout the journey the woman-man tries to win Mara over from El Topo, an attempt colorfully depicted with whippings, cat-fights, and 1960s-ish lesbian scenes. When El Topo finally completes the quest, eradicating the four masters and his spirituality, he is confronted by the woman-man. Lost and empty, he refuses to fight, letting her/him shoot at him as he spreads his arms to take the bullets, bleeds, and staggers, willing to embrace a symbolic Christian death. However, the woman-man lets Mara take the final shot, and Mara does not hesitate long before plugging El Topo and riding away with the new master, while the stupefied, bleeding El Topo pleads at their feet along the horse’s side, much like his own son did when El Topo abandoned him. The two scenes of abandonment are mirror-images of each other, with El Topo once as the father and once as the son, but with Mara always as the evil force that drives the abandonment.

In the second part of the film El Topo gets a second chance to seek redemption. Initially depicted as both a god and a fool, he quickly says “I am not a god. I am just a man”, in stark contrast to his statement “I am God” in the first part of the film. Jodorowsky continues to develop the ‘father-son’ and ‘woman-man’ themes. Or rather, he develops further the ‘father-son’ theme while merely re-stating his assertion of the deadly role that woman plays in the ‘man-woman’ relationship theme. El Topo now assumes responsibility of a group of deformed exiles that didn’t make it into Browning’s “Freaks.” He seeks redemption by assuming the role he previously abandoned – the role of the father, with the deformed as his sons and congregation, and with the mission of freeing the exiles from the cave in which they are imprisoned so they could return to their town.

That town, in turn, is used by Jodorowsky to drive home his ‘man-woman’ theme. The town is governed by a group of fat, upper-class, middle-aged women who entertain themselves with gladiatorial contests, male servants, and the executions of the latter. The town as a whole is a depiction of the city of Sodom, where debauchery and murder are routine, and whose inhabitants, at the end of the film and much like those of the original Sodom, are slaughtered by El Topo as he once again assumes the role of God. The town’s priest leads a false religion where Sunday mass is a game of Russian roulette, but he is quickly replaced by a Franciscan monk who seemingly attempts to restore Christianity. When El Topo wishes to marry one of the exiled women in what is a glimpse of hope of redemption for the ‘woman-man’ theme he discovers the monk, and thereby his son. Now father and son switch roles: the son sheds his Franciscan garments and appears armed and tightly tucked in black leather pants, much like his father before him. The son wishes to avenge his abandonment and kill his father, but agrees to let El Topo complete his mission to save the deformed exiles. Thus, El Topo is granted a chance to redeem himself as a father by his own son. Yet, Jodorowsky remains consistent to the undercurrent that drives the film to its terminal end, and redemption is not part of the plan. El Topo frees the exiles, who stampede (as best as they can) back to the town only to be butchered by its fashionable women governors. Jodorowsky now makes woman the murderer of the father’s sons. El Topo, in his godly wrath, slays the women and most of the inhabitants of Sodom before martyrly setting himself on fire.

In El Topo, the human relationships – between father and son and between man and woman – are the forces that drive the hero’s actions, that propel him in his religious pursuit to attain redemption, and that bring about his downfall. Fringe and avant-garde, sickening and mesmerizing, El Topo’s imagery is a reflection Jodorowsky’s view of the most fundamental human relationships.

Pascal gets an ear massage before a rainy blind-date with God in the Demilitarized Zone

The world is my candy shop. And I am a child eager to taste all the flavors and colors. My hands feel and grab as if of their own free will. I stand on my toes and stretch my body to reach the higher shelves. How much more time do I have left? No time to think. I must be quick. How many more sweets will I be allowed to experience? The rows of jars seem endless. What is the price which I will pay?





In his Pensees, Blaise Pascal notes that man is on a constant quest for distraction from himself.

"143. Diversion. -- Men are entrusted from infancy with the care of their honour, their property, their friends, and even with the property and the honour of their friends. They are overwhelmed with business, with the study of languages, and with physical exercise; and they are made to understand that they cannot be happy unless their health, their honour, their fortune and that of their friends be in good condition, and that a single thing wanting will make them unhappy. Thus they are given cares and business which make them bustle about from break of day. It is, you will exclaim, a strange way to make them happy! What more could be done to make them miserable?- Indeed! what could be done? We should only have to relieve them from all these cares; for then they would see themselves: they would reflect on what they are, whence they came, whither they go, and thus we cannot employ and divert them too much. And this is why, after having given them so much business, we advise them, if they have some time for relaxation, to employ it in amusement, in play, and to be always fully occupied.
How hollow and full of ribaldry is the heart of man!"

Eventually, Pascal found the answer in God. Is God the ultimate distraction? Well, obviously Pascal has never been to Seoul...





Until the Monsoon showers of humid July pour down, light drizzles dot the spring days. No matter how light the drizzles be, the Seoulites obsessively shelter themselves with umbrellas. At first I found this peculiar - what's wrong with an ever-so-light sprinkle of rain-water? No sooner than the thought had formed and the rain lightly caressed my skin, had I realized the logic of the obsession of avoiding the rain. As the rain drops follow the course set to them by gravity, lured by mother earth to their inevitable crash, they pass through the thick blankets of pollution, hovering like vultures awaiting the final breath of a dying animal. Collecting samples of the poisons man scatters, they bring it back down, on the streets of Seoul and its inhabitants. Acid rain pours on the city. God's fire of heaven pours down on Sodom and Gomorrah.





Speaking of fire, let me turn to the once hot border for a taste of North-Korea. One fine Saturday morning, at 0700 sharp, I arrived at one of the many US bases in Seoul, to join a guided tour to the DMZ, the Demilitarized Zone forming the border between the North and South Koreas. The DMZ itself is about 4 km wide, a strip of land strewn with irrigated fields and mine fields, which is actually inhabited by a single South Korean village, the inhabitants of which have a curfew every day at midnight. The view of the North Korean side reveals nothing unique, except for a nearby village nicknamed "Propaganda village" by the US GIs due to the enormous flag, too heavy to flap most of the time, exhibited high above it, and the high buildings which have no floors or ceilings to separate its stories, the sole purpose of which (again, all according to the US) is to exhibit presence. Only one spot allows contact between the two sides - the Joint Security Area (JSA).





The JSA is the meeting point for high officials and army generals. However, the place has a rather absurd, if not surreal, feel to it. As the tour group arrived, South Korean soldiers spread throughout the area, supposedly for our own protection. They are all taller than the average Korean, and are all taekwondo experts. With their spotless uniform, shiny helmets and dark sunglasses, they all stand in a rather ridiculous taekwondo position, their looks meant to portray strength and aggressiveness to their Northern counterparts. I wonder how much of is it actually security related, and how much is a show put on for our touristic experience. The Northerners quickly arrived for a curious inspection. They apathetically strolled on their side of the land, occasionally examining us with heavy-looking binoculars. The cement line a few inches high marking the border, the grave, solemn appearance of the South Korea elite soldiers on one side, and the indifference and curiosity on the behalf of the North Koreans on the other side, all contributed to the creation of a preposterous scene.





But while the situation at the border remained cool, the days got warmer and my hair thicker. The day of the haircut loomed in the near future. A fear consolidated that I would be forced to walk the streets with the standard, all-prevalent Korean haircut. If there is one fear greater than the fear common to all men of the hair-stylist's chair (since barbers are an endangered species if not an extinct race) it is the fear of the hair-stylist's chair in a foreign country. However, one fine day I bravely took my seat. I had to conquer my horror and firmly clench the seat arms as I realized how little English the hair-stylist spoke. With the last, trembling words of "short, here" I surrendered completely to the scissors. It wasn't long before the hair-stylist stopped. With the help of an interpreter she said that she cannot cut any more. The reason? This is the place for a slight detour to describe the outline of the Korean head. It starts very wide at the bottom, the jaw, and gradually gets wider as you move higher. Back to the hair-stylist, who claimed that due to the irregular shape of my head, the odd way in which my head suddenly dips in at the temples, any further cutting will be hazardous to my appearance. A minute later I managed to shut my gaping jaw and signal her to cut, cut away. It turned out okay, actually. Really. During the ensuing washing of my hair I even got an ear massage.








Armed with a haircut and massaged ears, I am ready to give a detailed account of my brief research of the South Korean dating scene. As with everything else in this world, the methods for guys and girls to meet are three. The first is called "hunTing", with a ridiculously exaggerated emphasis on the "T". It is equivalent to the western term of "pick-up", and pertains to an approach initiated by one sex towards the other, whatever the context may be. In Korea, however, this is a no-no. The Korean girls require a verification of the guy's good background and trustworthiness before engaging in the game. Hence, the second method - "sugeTing" (pronounced "soo-ge-Ting", and do not forget to hurt your tongue when pronouncing the "T", otherwise you will not be understood). SugeTing is a blind-date, and is the prevalent method of meeting in South-Korea. The third and last method is "meeTing", and is actually a multiple-participant blind-date - a group of guys and girls go out, and, hopefully, some will be coupled by the end of the night.





Since "hunTing" is widely considered as improper, subways, buses and even bars, swarming as they may be with the millions of the young of Seoul, are unfortunately of not much help to the Korean single men. They are completely dependent on the mercy of their close social circle. Thus, the match-making industry seems to be alive and kicking. However, some of its methods of work seem quite peculiar. For example, opposite my university campus there is an all-women university named Edwa University. The match-makers get hold of the graduation photos, pick the most beautiful girls, and contact them with suggestions of match-making. The Edwa girls, knowing that, take great care to prepare for their graduation photos... Who knows which doctor destiny holds in store for them?...





Beauty is important everywhere, but it seems as if in Korea it is given significantly more weight. According to the CEO of a major French cosmetics company, the South Korean women use more cosmetics products than any other nation on earth. Actually, they have a centuries-old tradition of skin-care. The rituals of saunas are imprinted in their genes and the scraping-off of dead skin is practically a national sport. No wonder that their skin is a source of envy for westerners. But as the oriental skin is admired by the western world, it seems that western face is equally looked up to by the Koreans. Since plastic surgery has not failed to gain hold on this ground, apart from the now-standard breast implant surgeries, Korean women also have their eye-lids fixed to have a western appearance and the ridge of their nose accentuated. And in this grueling, bloody battle which women fight for their beauty and over men's money, and which men fight for their money and over women's beauty, not much time or energy is left for much else.


Tidbits:

• I was fortunate enough to witness the historical visit of Mao Zedong's great grandson in Seoul. I was even more fortunate to have my photo taken with him.
  
  
  



• When my brother visited me he noticed something that I somehow let slip: Too many people were wearing glasses. And these aren't the regular, light glasses you're used to. These are heavy-duty, thick, black-rimmed glasses, somewhat reminiscent of the 60's, worn by men and women alike. A short inquiry led to the following finding: Many of these glasses are not optical at all, and have no effect on eye-sight. Women wear them to hide their eyes and faces when they have no makeup on. Men wear them as a trend - they believe they look better with them on, a view supported by the opposite sex. At first it seemed exotically odd to me, until I realized that it is not much different from the predominant sunglasses trend back home. See photo above.



• My breakfast normally consists of sticky-rice with tuna and Tabasco sauce. My flatmate complains that my diet is worse than inmates', but I fail to see what is wrong with a little backpacker asceticism.

Cold war space-monkeys create logical vortices in the public sauna

One of my fellow exchange students is East-German. I should say "German", you say? Well, I would have, if he hadn't emphasized the point himself, and if it wasn't for the following story. Apparently, his father was a bio-engineering researcher during the days of the cold-war. He took part in a space-defence-project, the goal of which was to send out to space satellites which would shoot down missiles aimed at the Soviet Union and its allies. These satellites would be manned by monkeys, who would press a button launching the anti-missile missiles. My friend's father's part of the project was to program these monkeys to press the firing button. Program? Yes, program... I guess hooking up monkeys' brains to electrodes isn't such a new practice of science as I thought... Just how crazy is this world anyway?




To ease my mind, which was deeply disturbed by the thought that somewhere far above my head cruise some forgotten, senile, Parkinson's-stricken monkeys in tattered satellites, feverishly scanning the horizon for that speeding opportunity upon which they will be able to fulfill their lifelong training and press that big, round, red button and launch their purpose of life towards that gigantic blue ball floating below them, following which everything would probably reach its end in a matter of seconds - to ease my mind of this hallucination I went to the public sauna, or, in Korean - the Jim-Jil-Pang. Upon entering I received a correction-facility-like orange clothing and a locker key for my daypack. The public sauna is divided to three main parts: The first is coed (serving both sexes) and is a large, low-ceiling hall of a comfortable temperature, with small rooms branching off it, each of a different extreme temperature, either hot or cold. In the hall and in each room are strewn people on mattresses, sleeping, half-dozing, or simply engaged in a low-tone conversation. The second part is the baths and is not coed, of course... Losing the orange uniform, the naked bodies can choose between several hot or cold pools to bath in, before taking a refreshing shower. Those who are really in here for a treat can get a scraping massage, which will remove more dead-skin than they ever thought possible. The third and last part of the public sauna is the sleeping quarter. Yes, after several hours of melting, freezing, washing and scraping your skin, you can bunk-in for a night's sleep, haunted by vaporous dreams...




Having survived the cold-war and the Jim-Jil-Bang, you are now ready to confront the Korean way of thinking. If you plan on engaging in a profound debate on western and eastern philosophy and tradition, let me disillusion you. Even before you start your engines your mind will be boggled by the Korean logic of the negative-positive reply. Please, bear with me. Suppose, for the sake of illustration, that you ask a question by way of negation, such as "You don't like having a naked man scrape the dead skin off of you in the Jim-Jil-Pang, do you?", and the person in front of you indeed does not like it. A western person would say "No", meaning "No, I do not like it". However, a Korean would reply with a "Yes", implying "Yes, I agree with what you've said, I do not like it". Believe me, it took me quite a few conversations to grasp that small yet incredibly significant twist of logic. But even now that I have, I am still surprised to occasionally find myself trapped in a logical vortice:

- "You don't like ending a night without drinking less than 3 bottles of rice-liquor, do you?"
- "Yes."
- "You do?"
- "No."
- "You don't, then?"
- "Yes."
- "-- You're not making fun of me, are you?"
- "Yes."
- "You are?!?"
- "No."
- "What the --"




More tidbits:

• The are only three major Korean food groups: rice, liquor and rice-liquor.



• Even if you open a new store selling the most top-notch technology products, you might still want to bow to a pig's head to appease the gods.
  
  
  



• If you see a suspicious looking chap, please use the emergency Report-A-Spy number and call 113. Considerable rewards await you.




• Ever wondered who's in charge of keeping your mind clean? No? Then they're probably doing a good job...
  
  
  

Extroverted living

I have been stuck by the realization that my life here, in Seoul, as it has been in my backpacking trips, is nearly completely extroverted. Whereas back home I tend to spend a considerable amount of time introspecting, contemplating for hours the passing hours, here, except for my sporadic writing spasms at which I turn my attention inwards again, all my concern and interest is directed outwards of myself, to the new social and cultural environment. It is a different way of life, a kind of lower consciousness, an animal-like instinctive behavior, controlled by social reflexes. A kind of ignorance. And, after all, isn't ignorance bliss?





I have let for rent my western appearance for a documentary shooting of EBS, an educational broadcasting network in Korea. The documentary compares differences between Asians and westerners. However, from the little I could understand of the recruiter's broken English, the scene for which the shooting was held is supposed to demonstrate Asian superiority of visual comprehension of images. I guess that only on April, when the program will be aired, I will see if I am fortunate enough to appear on Asian propaganda... But then again, since I don't watch TV, perhaps I'll never know...








Everyone wants to be a movie star, right? Maybe. But in South-Korea, everyone wants to be a singer, and they don't just say it - they do something about it. The word "karaoke" is rarely used, but "singing rooms" can be found on every street corner. For an hour you will get a soundproof room with 2 or 3 flat TV screens and a karaoke machine, bright lights and colorful lasers, and the classic English pops songs and latest Korean ones. Although only your chosen friends will hear you torturing the microphone, some singing rooms have glass walls, so that you can fool yourself that innocent passersby on the street actually think you're doing a good job...





US military presence in Seoul is conspicuous. Even though GIs (US soldiers) have a curfew, their presence is still evident at night in the clubs and bars known to accommodate the western population of the city. Crew-cut and beefy, they cannot be missed. Misbehavior has led many places to put up signs denying entrance to the infamous GIs, whose behavior pretty much shames the US. I doubt that the US forces here are truly unable to maintain discipline and restrain their men, and, hence, I am led to the conclusion that South-Korea is considered by the US army a recreation resort for its troops.





And, finally, some tidbits which remind me that not long ago I have left home to travel to the opposite side of the globe:

• Have you ever noticed the phenomena that, when walking on the street and a person is coming directly ahead from the opposite direction, 9 out of 10 times each one will deviate from his course to the right? I always presumed that the reason was the way we drive - since we always (well, usually...) abide by the driving laws by driving on the right-hand side, we unconsciously implement these laws as pedestrians and swerve to the right to avoid head-on collision with an approaching pedestrian. Well, South-Korea has invalidated my theory. Even though Koreans drive on the right-hand side, as pedestrians they insist on swerving to the left. I have come to learn this the hard way...



• In western culture, in the rare occasions on which we count using our fingers, we do so by extending fingers from a clenched fist. Koreans, however, start with extended fingers, and fold each finger in turn, the forefinger first, and the thumb last, indicating five.



• Starcraft is so big here, that there is actually a TV channel broadcasting a Starcraft web game, 24 hours, 7 days a week.



• Washing the dishes is not enough. They must afterwards be sterilized in an UV machine.



• They drink sweat...?
  
  
  

J-walking and sarcasm

Seoul has everything. Or so it seemed at first. However, with time (though not too much of it has passed) I have noticed the unfortunate shortage of two commodities, namely J-walking and sarcasm. As always, let me first address the latter. Actually, there is not much to address, since it is both non-existent, and since there is absolutely nothing I can do about it having no ability to communicate in Korean (then how have I noticed this flaw?...). The first, however, is highly conspicuous. Witnessing herds of Koreans gather patiently on the sidewalks even though no automated vehicle can be spotted on the horizon is a rather troubling sight. Nonetheless, this minor fault can be readily fixed. Although, at first, detaching from the gravity of the crowd was not as easy as one might initially have thought, the task is feasible. I now proudly J-walk through the streets of Seoul. Perhaps my single, humble contribution to the Korean nation, the single trace I shall leave behind me, would be the practice of J-walking. After all, they are fast learners.


Another aspect of my grasp of reality which was brutally shattered is the concept of age. Age - it seems such a trivial concept. And yet, it appears that the way the western world measures one's progress towards death is rather arbitrary. For the Koreans use an entirely different system. The newborn is immediately granted a year of age. Gratis, no catch involved. At the next new year, the child is announced to be two years old. And another year is added with each new year. Hence, the moment I set foot on Korean concrete, I became two years older. New wrinkles appeared at the sides of my eyes, and several hairs turned white. I may have gained an extra pound, but, unfortunately, it seems I have not gained wisdom. I thought we were supposed to exchange youth for wisdom, but I guess I was ripped off.


Besides counting their age differently, Koreans also seem to handle alcohol differently. It is a known fact that Asians have trouble coping with alcohol, yet this does not seem to bother them a bit. That is how I have come to behold the phenomenon referred to as "Asian glow". The Asian reaction to alcohol is most commonly a reddening of the face, or, more imaginatively put, "glowing", but can also be a skin-rash, an overpowering itch, or a majestic singing talent.





While the inhabitants of Seoul glow with reddish delight to their hearts content, a yellow threat looms at the north. T'is the yellow dust, blowing from the north of China, sweeping and accumulating the Chinese pollutants, carrying them across the Yellow Sea and the red North Korea to the lungs of the South Koreans. Such a mixture of red and yellow cannot possibly be anything less than a health hazard, and already airway masks are making their premier appearance. I suspect more and more of these masks shall be seen, until the yellow dust shall envelope us all in its midst, and masks nor men shall be seen again.





On a lighter note, I have finally managed to choose my courses for the semester. They shall consist of the following: For the mind - a Korean language course, 5 days a week; For the soul - an Asian cinema course; And for the troubled psych - a management course from the MBA program. Since I have, as of yet, not reconciled with Time, and do still object to the notion of the past being unchangeable, I would like to have a glimpse of the roads not taken. Other than that, yesterday I took a salsa class. I believe that more than I enjoyed the class itself, I took pleasure in the fantastically bizarre scene of an Israeli learning salsa in Korean...

Ancient Korean peasant proverb: "I have nothing but my testicles"

I've given this quite a careful consideration. On the one hand, I like to keep a private journal, a hand-written one, into which I spill all my thoughts, deep and intimate as may be. Writing can occupy me for hours on end, but does not leave me room to keep in touch with those whom I wish to keep in touch with. On the other hand, writing a blog is an easy way to publish my experiences to my small audience. However, it has quite severe drawbacks. First, it would take up my precious hand-written journal time. Second, it is yet another submission to popular trends. And third, and probably most important of all, heavy censorship would have to be used. Being of critical nature, I find perverted pleasure in pouring out all the nasty stuff about those whom I encounter, in addition to the good and charitable. However, due to the public nature of this blog, and to the fact that I cherish my physical intactness, I would reluctantly take care to censor and eliminate my criticism. My hand-written journal, if and when it will be reborn again, will gladly swallow it all, and beg for more. If you get the impression that I am surrounded by angelic entities, bear in mind that your are looking through pink spectacles.


The following post will be lengthy, but, as those who know me would predict, the future posts are threatened by a similar fate. This time, however, I have an excuse, petty as it may be: It has been 7 days that I have been in Seoul, and I carry quite a load of experiences to disburden.


Packing and leaving Israel was hasty. I did not have much time to research my destination, as I am accustomed to, however, I expected to compensate for it with backpacking experience. Or perhaps I've changed. At the airport of Istanbul I met my first companion, out of about 300, to the student exchange program at Yonsei University in Seoul. Emma, Finnish, yet claims to be Swedish, a business undergraduate student. We were nearly the only two western people in the waiting hall, amongst a Korean crowd, and sparkling a conversation was not a difficult task. Boarding the plane, I was seated, by request, at the emergency exit, next to (rather unsurprisingly) a westerner: Raoodik (sounds like Radik), a 23-year-old Ukrainian on his way to Japan. Raoodik is a navigation 3rd-officer on Japanese container ships. That was when I finally understood that I have stepped out of my bubble.





Landing in Seoul, Emma and I, having made reservations to the same hostel, reached it by the kind help of a Korean, who emphasized that he is a dentist. I found the hostel to be very warm and hospitable, rather backpackerish. I met another Israeli there, Shachar, here as an exchange student in a different university than mine, majoring in graphic design. Studies in Bezalel, though live in Tel-Aviv, and exhibiting the standard Tel-Avivian traits. One remarkable thing which I have noticed in the hostel, is the rather bizarre fact that nearly all tenants carry a laptop. Actually, I regret not capturing the scene with a camera - the living room occupied with young travelers, each staring zombiely into his own laptop, mostly a MacBook. A sad spectacle.


One interesting character which I have met at the hostel and who is worth mentioning is Jean-Jacque, a 40-year-old French bicycle-seller. He uses his laptop to trade stocks and earn money while traveling, yet he seemed to be on a rather tight budget. By far the most friendly person in the hostel.


The next day I have begun my agonizing quest for an apartment. Not signing up for an dormitory space proved to be a mistake, although construction work taking place by the dormitory may have driven me outside anyway. I joined a tour organized by the dormitory office to look for apartments for those who either did not sign up to the dormitory or did and wanted out. The tour proved useless, as the apartments were ridiculously expensive. The renting system in South-Korea requires a deposit to be made to the landlord, to be returned at the end of the rental. The deposit amount begins at 5000$. Lovely. I did enjoy the chance to meet some of the other exchange students - French, Norwegian, and a noteworthy German, Leo. A young business or international relations student (I forget, but they all have the same narrow range of majors anyhow: business, economics, or international relations; however, there is one philosophy student. He has a story of his own, which I will get to later), friendly, talkative, somewhat womanizing chap. At first, probably before he grew accustomed to speaking English all the time, he would speak to me in German. Rather amusing.


In the following days I have been desperately searching for an apartment, mainly on the internet. Walking around the nearby neighborhood, asking a freshly-learned sentence in Korean "is there a room", and not being able to understand the answer in case it was not accompanied by a head-shake, proved, surprisingly, to be fruitless. I would have gladly taken a bed in a shared room at the dormitory, had there been space. I was fortunate to find a Hebrew speaking Korean - working for the dormitory office, Ewan is a Korean who spent 10 years in Israel with his family, in Jerusalem, and speaks perfect Hebrew. I am grateful for his assistance, even though it bore no fruit. He walked with me through the streets of Sinchon, the part of the city where the university is located, looking for available rooms. The options were all horrible (I do admit being somewhat spoiled here, but I have grown to understand that moderate spoiling is legitimate...). The most horrible option of all was a goshiwon, which is a place with many rooms and shared baths and toilets. The size of the room is about 2x1.5 meters, including a bed, which by lying in left no room for my head-hair to grow, a chair, a desk, and a TV. No windows included. Living in there seems like a sure step toward a salvation in the form of wrist-cutting.




During the days I searched for an apartment, and during the nights I joined the other exchange students in their unrestrained drinking crusades through the bar-packed streets of Sinchon. I should have packed an extra liver with me. Many drink 'till they dumb and numb, which, in some cases, is not a dramatic change. I have been introduced to a hard-core drinking culture, the kind involving chugging (American slang for emptying a glass of beer), drinking games, and chugging. I have also learned to toast in uncountable languages.






Finally, I have come across a place to stay: an American-Korean renting a 2-room apartment within a 5-minute walk from the university was looking for a flatmate, and I grabbed the opportunity. He arrived in Korea 6 months ago, and is here to stay, as he says. He's fresh out of high school, friendly and talkative, and his place is a mess. I hope we'll get along.





What about the Korean experience, you ask? Well, since I am knee-deep in the international program mud, my contact with Koreans has been rather limited so far. Hopefully, I will change that soon. However, I can make some initial and careful observations. They all dress smart. Maybe it's a symptom of the metropolis of Seoul, but everyone dresses up. I feel rather sloppy with my backpacking boots and pants and my fleece jacket. I guess I'm not quite a backpacker now, so maybe I should behave as a Roman. That means going shopping.


Everything seems to be very efficient and the people are very obedient. They stand at red lights on crosswalks even when there are no cars in sight, or a traffic jam prevents any car from moving. Subways are incredibly clean, and the Koreans ride them silently, poker-faced. On the street everyone's in a hurry. True, true, it's freezing outside, but I have the premonition that this is a weather-independant characteristic of Koreans. Speaking of weather, it's freezing. It was around -2 Celsius when I landed last week. I walked around wearing a thermic shirt, a cotton shirt, a fleece sweatshirt, and a fleece jacket. The Korean girls, however, insisted on skirts. Fine with me.


Speaking of girls, the food is a delight. Except for the minor obstacle of many dishes being absurdly and eye-poppingly spicy, and the fact that it is impossible to avoid pork here, I enjoy the meals immensely. The Korean meal usually involves several large main dishes and many small side-dishes, from which all diners eat. This sharing tradition stands in sharp contrast to the western style individual dishes. The food itself consists nearly exclusively of rice, meat and vegetables, but, curiously, the possible combinations seem infinite.


Well, I think this will do for now. Prohibiting myself to reveal the true faces of all the characters in the current chapter of my life's ongoing novel is a major handicap. Maybe I should leave the digital world and go back to my analog journal, and just drop you a post once in a (long) while. Hmmm.