Chapter 3: The Koreans and I – Written by Hugo J. Smal
From Rotterdam to a Goyang neighbourhood
During my explorations of the Goyang neighbourhood, I came to understand that communication in Korea involves much more than just words and sentences. The context, the speaker, and the way something is expressed are all crucial. To truly grasp the meaning, one must read between the lines. Coming from Rotterdam, where people are straightforward and open-hearted, I noticed the contrast. In the Netherlands, directness is valued, and stepping outside the lines isn’t frowned upon. In fact, it’s often seen as a sign of creativity and initiative.
Losing face isn’t much of a problem for me. In my country, people quickly forgive a mistake or a blunder. Just be honest! You don’t make a career without making mistakes. But in Korea, things are different. The deeply crying Koi breeder showed me that.
Pillars in Goyang neighbourhood
Pride also has a different connotation here. I feel proud when Feyenoord becomes champion, but a Korean feels pride when he fulfills the five Confucian relationships (Oryun). Confucius, Mencius, Yi Hwang (Toe gye), and Yi I (Yul gok) remain the pillars of Korean culture. These scholars outline the relationships between parents and children, elder and younger siblings, husband and wife, friends, and ruler and subject. In each relationship, Koreans follow a specific role pattern.
Parents owe their children education, care, and moral development. In return, children owe their parents obedience, respect, and care. They look after them when they can no longer work, and they pray and make offerings at their graves. These rules form the foundation for all other relationships and the social structure as a whole.
According to Confucian philosophy, when the Korean soccer team wins, it’s considered a victory for the entire community. The triumph of the Korean people is more significant than that of the players on the field. The collective is far more dominant than the individual who scores.
We also interpret the concept of Kibun, which encompasses feeling, mind, and mood, quite differently. We Dutchmen tend to be overly sensitive and are certainly not inclined to discuss our inner thoughts and feelings. However, in the land of the Mudang, the seunim, the Neo-Confucian scholar, and even the Christian priest, feeling, mind, and mood hold great significance. Dive into the concept of Kibun or Nunchi
But expressing individuality isn’t highly appreciated. We certainly don’t discuss it as some do in Bloodhounds by Kim Ju-wan. We also need our personal space. “Don’t stand so close to me!” I survive Korea with The Fragrance of the Mantifang by Wu Cheng’en in mind.
“Watching the chess game, I cut through the rotten,
Felling trees, ding ding,
Strolling at the edge of the cloud and the mouth of the valley.
I sell firewood to buy wine,
Cackling with laughter and perfectly happy.
I pillow myself on a pine root, looking at the moon.
When I wake up it is light.
Recognizing the old forest,
I scale cliffs and cross ridges,
Cutting down withered creepers with my axe.
When I’ve gathered a basketful,
I walk down to the market with a song,
And trade it for three pints of rice.
Nobody else competes with me,
So prices are stable.
I don’t speculate or try sharp practice,
Couldn’t care less what people think of me,
Calmly lengthening my days.
The people I meet
Are Taoists and Immortals,
Sitting quietly and expounding the Yellow Court.”
I try to act Korean. It doesn’t work. Our cultures are too different, too opposite. When I try to use Nunchi, I only make mistakes. I don’t just want to master the language. Although? Am I forced to use Nunchi because I don’t know the language? I survive by being myself. Most Koreans forgive a lot.
Contemplating Goyang Neighbourhoods
As these thoughts weigh on my mind, I climb down the embankment towards the now gently babbling Goyang Seongsaheon stream. Of course, it’s dangerous. But the Soju makes me fearless, and sometimes you just have to do things. Amidst the lush vegetation, a stone invites me to sit. I take off my shoes and let the coolness wash over me as I rest my feet in the sparkling water.
The Budeul’s (부들) tails stand still. Rubiela Lobelia Cardinalis (루비엘라) proudly displays her red flowers. The Mulchucho (물수초) is the only thing that moves with the flow of the water. I sink into deep reflection, recalling a climbing experience I wrote about in my twenties.
Larghetto in the Goyang Neighbourhoods
Why was I so drawn to that one spot on the beautiful island of Crete? How did the small white church come to dominate my entire vacation? It sat high on the mountain behind Hera Village, a villa town on the Gulf of Mirrabellou, halfway between Agios Nikolaos and Elounda.
I had visited Knossos, where the discovery of a five-thousand-year-old civilization—one that would eventually culminate in the Greeks—was overshadowed by the crowds of noisy tourists. Even though prayers were no longer said in the temple, it still felt like sacrilege.
In this way, my vacation was largely a failure. I hadn’t found what I was looking for, though I didn’t even know what I was seeking. Some primordial feeling? The relationship between body and clay that had inspired Van Gogh to paint and Beethoven to compose? It was all approached the wrong way. Excursions don’t lead to the discovery of feelings.
Two days before the return trip, I decided to climb up. There was no path leading to that church. Well, I would just see how it went. My way started straight up, through bushes full of sharp thorns. The result: bloody scratches on my legs. But the only thing that mattered was the goal.
After half an hour, I found a barely passable path that led me to an olive grove. Now, only the blazing sun and the stone walls remained to be overcome. Anyway, after two and a half hours, I made it to the top.
The church was disappointing, but what I saw beyond it exceeded all expectations. On the other side of the mountain was a vast valley, covered with bushes that stood apart in a strange, almost deliberate manner. Ruins, low, sunken houses, lay scattered on the slope opposite me. I could no longer stand; my legs gave way under the purity of this place. My breath caught, sweat ran down my back. The violin concerto swelled in my head. It felt as though the valley was flooded with these gentle sounds. Or was it the other way around? Was my head filled with the composition of this valley? Unconsciously, I folded my hands and whispered:
“You who are, help me.
For my ignorance is too great, my feelings too overwhelming, to comprehend you.
You who are, help me.”Tears streamed down my face. To die here with this feeling, so powerful and all-encompassing. This valley is sacred. My thoughts drifted back to the distant and cold Netherlands. Did I really have to go back there? That place could never touch me again, not after this revelation.
Completely dazed, I began the descent, quickly losing my way. After hours of stumbling, climbing back up, sometimes teetering on the edge of death, I found myself miles away, down towards Elounda.
What did it matter? I had become millions richer. That little church had saved my vacation. It had used its pull to teach me a firework of emotions. Since then, Larghetto and Rondo Allegro have remained my most beloved pieces of music. But it’s still a struggle.
Back to the River
“You who are, help me.” This theme would continue to dominate my life. The earth has always appeared to me as a planet in need of help. Too much dull, exhausting misery, both large and small. Here, on this stone by the babbling water, it feels right, but I know that the world around me keeps turning. I sink further into an even deeper reflection—or should I call it meditation?
“You who are, help me.” This theme would continue to dominate my life. The Earth has always seemed to me like a planet in need of help. Too much dull, exhausting misery, both great and small. Here, on this stone by the babbling water, it feels right, but I know that the world around me keeps turning. I sink further into an even deeper reflection—or should I call it meditation?
The stars of the Big Dipper began to dance. Each star, a king, sung about in the Muga as guardians of the cosmic order. Suddenly, an extra star appeared, brighter than the rest, joining the constellation as the “King of Kings”—Jijang’s’s fractal, a manifestation of ultimate wisdom and power, surpassing the seven kings. This new star seemed to become the center of the constellation, a divine presence guiding the Buddhas and preserving the harmony of the universe. Read about the Muga
Pulsating before my eyes, it formed the King of Kings within the constellation. This almighty light suddenly transformed into
The, to me, unreadable formulas continued to rotate before my mind’s eye, occasionally interspersed with the beautiful image of a white Lotus. Softly, the almighty Om Mani Padme Hum flowed with the babbling river. Amazed, I crossed my legs and surrendered.
The stone beneath me turned icy cold. The plants became still, and the stream resumed its gentle flow. It flowed towards the Han River, past Ganghwa-do, into a world that continued to turn on its own. I wasn’t afraid, only slightly unsettled. Was it the Soju, or perhaps that violent email? Somehow, the mathematical formulas gave me enough strength to climb back up the embankment. I must interpret them, but because they filled me with compassion, I collectively named them Jisang’s Fractal.
Goyang Neighbourhood dinner
A few years ago, it was hard to find a European breakfast. I prefer to start my day with some bread, cheese, and peanut butter—just simple, hearty food that fills the stomach. The locals, on the other hand, eat the food prepared the night before. The dishes are delicious, but the spices are too strong for me in the morning. So, bread it must be—no Kimchi for me at breakfast.
One day, after shopping at the Lotte supermarket, I went to a Pojangmacha on Chungjang-ro for some beer and chicken. The National Korean soccer team was playing on the widescreen television. A group of Korean gentlemen was talking and cheering loudly. They were watching the game and enjoying Chimac—chicken and maekjju. I love that word. Just hearing it gives beer a flavor. The more you drink, the better it sounds.
I ordered my dinner and noticed the men watching me. It’s always awkward eating alone, especially in Korea. The youngest one at their table walked over to me with a bottle of soju and some glasses. He poured me a glass, which I drank, then returned the favor.
“Americano?” he asked. “No, no, from the Netherlands,” I replied. Judging by his expression, he didn’t quite understand. But when I said “Hidonggu,” he got it. His friends cheered and chanted the name of the most popular coach. Only the oldest man at the table didn’t join in.
I returned to my spicy and very tasty chicken. The group grew louder and louder, with the old man commanding the most attention. I don’t think he was older than me—just the top dog barking. He was the boss, though I doubt he was top-rank. That’s why I called him Cha-jang.
You might wonder how many men would choose to watch a soccer game with their family or friends instead of doing unpaid overtime. But not Cha-jang. He was wasted, drunk as a skunk.
Bae Jong-Ok wrote:
“I went from hand to hand until I eventually didn’t come back, not to the people, nor myself. What happened while I was gone? They didn’t tell me either. The fools, the idiots, the beasts were too busy shaming me. The shame became so great that my body rebelled.
I could hardly eat; there wasn’t much either. Some bowls of rice. On the days when I had enough energy to go outside, I picked Nokdu. It’s edible when cooked. The soybeans were for you. There wasn’t much meat in Amsil. There was more fish, but that was for Kim’s Yang Bang. You ate that with your friends, the party spies, and made fun of me when I looked too hungry.
In the corner of the room, I heard you all bragging and babbling. And you, Mom, had the loudest mouth, screaming above everybody. You were so happy that Dad had found eternal work in camp 15, Yodok in South Hamgyong, about halfway towards the heavenly lake on Baekdu San. ‘Too far to walk for him and me,’ was pretty much your motto, and your buddies shouted it loudly with you.
One evening, the conversations were more poisoned vomit than drunken wisdom. We heard the neighbor at the front door. Obu, the fisherman, asked for forgiveness for the late disturbance. Rubbing his hands and bowing, he told us that the wind, the dirty east wind, had prevented the boat from arriving on time. Your screaming, your friends laughing, and Obu’s humiliation went through marrow and bone. Obu was used to it.
Exhausted, I watched as you took over the fish and showed it to your friends. Brazenly, you held a wriggling one in front of Obu’s mouth. ‘Bite, bastard, bite,’ you screamed. ‘I don’t want to take everything from you. But that idiot over there,’ you said, pointing at me, ‘isn’t going to cook one for you.’ He had no choice but to place his teeth on the scales and tear off a large piece of flesh. Your entourage laughed, clapped, and bowed several times.
I understand why you have so much power. Dad regularly went deep into the mountains. He brewed Soju, which he sold to your friends. Of course, he kept enough behind to get drunk every night. One of your friends disagreed and drunkenly betrayed the lucrative mountain brewery to the ministry. He was arrested and disappeared to number 15.
You and your friends missed the alcohol and blamed the traitor. He disappeared during a hiking tour. ‘He went that way,’ you said, looking innocent to the guide. Your friends found a new bush distillery. You enjoyed the drink because the traitor was never found again.
Obu had mackerel with him for the barbecue and sogarli for the maeuntang. He bowed constantly, asked for forgiveness again, and held out his hand for his money. ‘No,’ you slurred. ‘You get nothing! The fish aren’t cleaned, so this bitch has to do it. I’m so hungry that I can’t defecate, and your dawdling has only made it worse. Get lost, bastard!’
It was unbelievable how quickly the drunken fossils chased after Obu. But they came back again. Suddenly there were side dishes, spices, and all that other stuff needed for a festive feast. Party members can get it with some effort. But fish? A bacchanal of Godeungu-gui and sogarli? I don’t know, Mother, what you had to do for all that.
Of course, the ships are checked upon arrival. Obu counted because many already tried to swim across the Hankang to Paju. The fish are also taken off the boat by party officials. Hence, you don’t just get fish on your table easily, being a single woman with a man in prison. But your body wasn’t holy when Dad was still at home either. Not that he had much trouble with that. As long as there was Soju.
I was still the only one able to cut the fish. Exhausted, I put the barbecue in front of the open window. Mother liked it when the neighbors could enjoy it too. I cut open the mackerel and pressed the tasty flesh onto the grill. Fifteen minutes, and the pigs could go to the trough. The maeuntang would take much longer. I saw those drunken heads, and I was sure; they wouldn’t enjoy it tonight.
You tried to rush me along. First, you cursed! I was no longer impressed by that. The emptiness had taken possession of me. My mind was like trampled water lily ground. The stench of loneliness not only filled my nose. My heart also felt like an abandoned fish factory. The hope of even a bite now seemed like a tucked-away treasure. You and your guests enjoyed it well enough. That others—Obu, neighbors who would certainly smell the fish, and I—didn’t taste it made the meal tastier for you.
A squid crawled between the dying fish. You grabbed the beast and stretched it out. You twisted it tightly around your roughly carved chopsticks. Your most prominent guest, the mayor, watched intently. I crawled back into the corner of the room. You licked at the moving flesh and babbled unintelligible words. He and the other men became horny—hot in a drunken, nowhere-leading way.
You pulled me up and put me in the middle of the room. You, Mother, forced me to sing a Mudang song. I felt empty, exhausted, and at the mercy of beasts that would tear me apart.
“Here ye, here ye, one and all! The Ritual of Princess A-Wang and Yõ-Yõng is about to be held.” I shuddered. “Today, at this time, I begin this song: No mean song this.” I replaced the drums and flute with my hands clapping. “’Tis the song of Sakayamuni’s blessing, and the God Chesok.”
That was the last you heard from me. When I regained consciousness, I saw you in a pool of blood in my corner of the room. Your drunken friends were still drinking. They babbled and sang around the barbecue and enjoyed the mackerel. They had long since forgotten what had happened. I fled outside.
Yes, I went from hand to hand until I eventually didn’t come back. Not to those beasts and not to myself. I don’t know what happened while I was gone. They didn’t tell me either. The fools, the idiots, the beasts were too busy shaming me. The shame became so great that my body rebelled. I got lost in myself.
But I remembered the dream and that his thousand-times-thousand-year reign had begun. He knew that henceforth, goodness would be repaid with evil. That his anger would not be matched. He was the devil and sought silence. The goodness had to be silenced forever, the stinking lie exposed.”
Reflecting Goyang Neighbourhoods
I didn’t enjoy my meal anymore. Why am I getting these emails? Is it a joke? Or is someone just making up a story? They should send it to a publisher instead. The words left me feeling sad.
I paid for my food and bowed to the office men. Cha-jang still looked angry. When I went outside, I saw a woman who was about to enter. So I opened the door and let her pass. She looked a bit haughty. Then it struck me—most Korean men aren’t that polite to women. Lancelot is not in the Korean mindset.
The words from Bae Jong-Ok lingered in my mind, echoing in the hollow spaces left by years of isolation. Could it be that the darkness she described was not so different from my own? As I stepped outside, the cool night air hit me, and I felt a strange sense of detachment, as though the world around me was losing its form, dissolving into the fractals of my thoughts.
I did not invent Jisang’s fractal; it was given to me. I simply stumbled upon it. Naturally, I hope it will fulfill its purpose. If you have any additional thoughts, insights, or explanations, feel free to share them here or join the discussion on our Facebook page, Jijang’s Fractal.
Temporary pause on koi exports — healing park in development
International koi exports are currently on hold. Meanwhile, we are laying the foundations for a nature-driven healing park in Goyang that blends koi culture, art, and quiet craftsmanship. For updates or collaboration, feel free to get in touch.
Contact Kim Young Soo
