Seoul Coughing

A small alley off the main street of Insa-dong in Seoul. These alleys are usually the best places to find good Korean food in small, family-owned restaurants.

I live in an area chock full of art schools, universities, and did I mention art schools?

A funny thing about Korea is that they like to stick all similar businesses next to each other. Go to any area with restaurants and you will frequently see all the galbi restaurants in a row and then all the pork restaurants in a row, then all the seafood restaurants clumped together.

The same holds true for the art schools of Hongdae. There are other places suitable for art schools, I’m sure. But the majority of them are along a single road in Hongdae, home of Hongik University.

The students in the Hongdae area are similar in one way: they are all striving to be different. But they want to be different in the same way. As art students they have an idea of what they should look like and then they all go for that look. That affords them some comfort in that they ARE different from non-art school students, but they are the same as the rest of the art school students. No one will stick out like a sore thumb and will not have to suffer for being too different.

So in the art school section the way they differentiate themselves is by wearing full length aprons everywhere they go. Six days a week you can see them walking down the street in their aprons. Who knows if they even have art class that day? It doesn’t really matter.

Girls (and they are mostly girls) wearing blue aprons won’t walk down the street with the girls in the green aprons. They clump together or walk alone. But they never cross the line. Even talking to an other-apron girl is unheard of.

When I first moved here and saw this I thought it had to do with all the restaurants in the area. But I realized that there aren’t THAT many restaurants. And finally I noticed the paint splatters on some of the aprons. A lot of this paint appeared to be strategically placed on the apron in a very artistic way.

What bothered me when I realized this was a status symbol was that it seemed ridiculous to walk down the street in an apron, when you could just roll it up and put it on when you get to class. I expressed this opinion (in a very negative and accusatory way) to a friend of mine. She told me to calm down and not let this be seen as a pretentious “look at me, look at me” statement I was making it out to be.

But what else can it be? First of all, art school is usually attended by pretentious idiots anyway. And second of all, in Korea the need to conform overrides all other rational thinking.

“No,” Aly protested. “It’s just like letter jackets jocks wear in high school in the U.S.”

“No,” I argued. “Letter jackets serve a purpose. They keep the wearer warm for one thing.”

“But they are really just worn to differentiate the wearer from everyone else.”

After a while of pondering this and the fact that most of these girls are really only 18-21 years old, I began to accept the fact that it really was harmless and probably no more pretentious than a letter jacket.

Maybe my problem is that I never had a letter jacket or an art school apron. Or maybe it’s because I never gave two shits about conforming. Just like everyone else.

(From The Korea Herald, November 15, 2005)

Very few Koreans can imagine the possibility of the North attacking

The following is the second in a five-part series of articles on how Korea is perceived by foreigners and what efforts Koreans should make to enhance its images abroad. – Ed.

By Tracey Stark

It is a commonly held belief in the West that the Korean Peninsula is a powder keg waiting to be ignited by some random event, resulting in a second Korean War.

A foreigner might also believe that in Seoul – a scant 50 kilometers from the North Korean border – there is palpable fear and worry that their northern neighbor, nay, their brothers, are inclined to attack. But ask any Korean or foreign resident walking down the street and they will tell you the same thing: Anxiety over the communist state to the north is minimal and seldom a subject of everyday conversation.

“When I traveled abroad it was something people asked me about often,” said Lim Seung-eun, 27. “I was even urged not to return to Korea by my friends in Australia.”

A teacher in Gyeonggi Province from the United Kingdom, Graeme Armitage, 27, recalled before coming to Korea more than three years ago that although he and his parents didn’t have any preconceived notions about Korea, he had friends and family who continually confused North and South Korea, and thought he was going to live in the communist North.

“There was no concern from my parents that I was in any danger, but other relatives weren’t so clued up on Korea. They knew very little about the place.”

Western media may be partly to blame. News with the mention of Korea is most often sensationalized stories about the looming threat of North Korea, or a story involving large animals running wild through Seoul. (Recently a story about a woman in Seoul whose baby stroller got caught in the doors of a subway is being shown frequently on CNN.)

That is changing these days with international events being held in Korea like the World Cup, Pusan International Film Festival and the current Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit being held in Busan. While the coverage may only last a few days, and then return to the ongoing saga of the six-party talks, it is effective in separating myth from reality.

“Before I came to Korea I didn’t know what to expect. It seems like all the news you hear about the country has to do with North Korea’s aggressive stance,” said Dan Secor, a 34-year-old American, who lives in Ilsan with his Korean wife. “But you get here and see that this country has been neglected by the media.”

Secor added that on a trip home to Massachusetts when he told people he was in Korea the second most frequent question – after the North Korean issue – was “Did you see the elephants run rampant through Seoul?” referring to an isolated event in a very small part of a very large town.

A group of dedicated Koreans have taken up the task of spreading the truth about South Korea. The Voluntary Agency Network of Korea began in 1999 and now has 15,000 members and set its task as the disseminating of the truth about Korea.

“All VANK’s members are guiding overseas Koreans and foreigners so that they can better understand Korean culture, language, or situation, etc. through e-mail or postal-mail and at the same time we are building friendships, bridging cultures and changing the image of Korea as cyber diplomats,” VANK’s website, www.prkorea.com, says.

But the question must be posed: Why would people worry?

For starters, in the event of a war, the initial bombardment on Seoul would be in the neighborhood of 500,000 rounds per hour landing on Seoul, according to the U.S. military. This bombardment wouldn’t be contained for several days. The outcome would be disastrous.

Secondly, North Korea dropped out of the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty and then subsequently bragged about possessing nuclear fissile material – enough for several warheads. They have also advanced in short- and long-range missile technology.

With the breaching of multiple international agreements on the part of North Korea, it is accepted by many in the South that the North’s government can’t be trusted. But with recent progress in the six-party talks and the nuclear threat diminished, the world may be breathing a collective sigh of relief.

Very few ordinary Koreans can conceive the possibility of the North attacking them.

“They look like us and we speak the same language. The only way they would attack is if they were attacked first,” said student Cho Hyun-i. She added that it was unlikely that South Korea would make such a move and pointed to the United States as the most likely catalyst of a war ever starting on the peninsula.

With a population of 48 million in an area about the same size as the U.S. state of Virginia (population 7.4 million), crime can be another worry.

The numbers show this to be false as well, as 2002 crime rates for Korea were significantly lower than those of neighboring Japan, in most areas, and the United States, United Kingdom and Germany in all categories.

The overall crime rate was 1,674 incidents per 100,000 people in Korea, while those numbers were more than one third higher in Japan at 2,240 per 100,000. The United States and the United Kingdom followed with 4,119 and 11,240 per 100,000 people respectively. Murder rates in 2002 for Korea, the United States and United Kingdom per 100,000 were 2.1, 5.6 and 3.5 respectively. Rape and sexual assault in those same three nations were 19.8, 33 and 86.6 per 100,000 respectively.

“I feel safer walking down the street late at night in Seoul than I did in Boston,” said Secor. He added that the drug culture of the big cities of America were what led to higher crime rates. “Korea seems pretty drug-free.”

An outsider may be surprised to see many busloads of Korean police around the city, but this in no way reflects a high crime rate. They are most often used as crowd control around important buildings or to prevent the frequent protests from getting out of hand around the capital.

“It’s a reflection of our growth as a democracy to see so many protests. Under President Park (Chung-hee) these things would not have been permitted,” said university student Cho.

Although it may not be an urban utopia, Seoul has lifted its status in the world from the center of government of a less-developed, semi-democratic nation, to a rapidly growing, culturally diverse, center for international business and travel. Infrastructure improvements and an economy that made a quick recovery from the 1997-98 Asian financial crisis has proven to the international business community that Korea is no longer a poor Hermit Kingdom.

“Life is too short to worry about such things. We have learned a lot from our mistakes of the past. We will someday be united and that will make everyone in the world safer,” Lim said.

(traceystark@heraldm.com)

(From The Korea Herald, October 2005) 

by　Tracey　Stark

Brandi Vallodolid and Christina Cho stayed in a cage for more than an hour on Monday, October 24, 2005 to protest the inhumane treatment of chickens used by KFC in Seoul.

Two　bikini-clad　protesters　squatted　in　a　small　cage　for　more　than　an　hour　yesterday　in　front　of　a　KFC　in　Seoul　to　protest　the　inhumane　treatment　of　chickens　supplied　to　the　fast　food　chain.

As　the　regular　lunch　hour　was　beginning　in　Seoul,　two　women　in　yellow　bikinis　and　silver　high　heels　walked　down　the　street　carrying　a　small　wire　cage　and　signs　that　read,　”KFC　Tortures　Chicks,”　in　both　English　and　Korean,　stopped　in　front　of　the　fast　food　restaurant,　squatted　on　the　ground　and　placed　the　cage　over　their　heads.

They　were　in　Seoul　as　part　of　People　for　the　Ethical　Treatment　of　Animals’　ongoing　protest　–　called　”Kentucky　Fried　Cruelty”　–　against　what　they　say　is　the　fast　food　chains’　suppliers’　continual　inhumane　treatment　of　chickens.

The　cage　was　less　than　one　meter　wide,　and　three-quarters　of　a　meter　deep　and　tall.　But　the　women　were　not　complaining　about　the　cramped　space.

“It’s　not　as　uncomfortable　as　having　a　beak　cut　off　and　being　trampled　in　a　cage　my　entire　life,”　said　Brandi　Vallodolid,　who　works　at　PETA’s　main　U.S.　office　in　Norfolk,　Virginia.　

“We　have　way　more　space　than　the　chickens　do.　Their　personal　living　space　is　smaller　than　a　standard　sheet　of　paper,”　Christina　Cho,　a　classical　pianist　and　part-time　activist　added.

According　to　PETA’s　website　and　a　documentary　narrated　by　actress　Pamela　Anderson,　the　chickens　supplied　to　KFC　live　in　over-crowded　conditions,　develop　diseases　from　high　ammonia　levels,　become　lame　and　crippled　from　drugs　that　speed　up　growth　and　accidents　related　to　being　top　heavy,　and　when　they　are　caught　for　slaughter　they　are　often　thrown　violently　into　small　containers,　resulting　in　broken　legs　and　wings.　The　video　also　showed　the　operation　of　a　beak-trimming　machine　used　on　young　chicks.

The　slaughtering　process,　PETA　claims,　is　even　worse.　First,　the　chickens　are　hung　upside　down,　then　run　through　a　stun　bath,　with　voltages　so　low　the　chickens　are　often　completely　conscious.　The　chickens’　throats　are　then　slit　and　they　are　next　dipped　into　scalding　hot　water　for　feather　removal.　Again,　PETA　says,　the　chickens　are　still　often　conscious.

“The　beak-trimming　machine　shown　in　the　PETA　video　…　is　no　longer　in　common　use　in　our　industry,”　said　Richard　Lobb,　a　spokesperson　for　the　National　Chicken　Council.

PETA　spokesperson　Bruce　Friedrich　insisted　that　all　the　video　was　shot　within　the　last　year　and　a　half　of　its　release.

KFC　could　not　be　reached　for　comment,　but　animal　welfare　guidelines　and　press　releases　at　http://www.kfc.com/　refute　every　accusation　that　PETA　has　made.

“As　a　major　purchaser　of　food　products,　we　have　the　opportunity,　and　responsibility,　to　influence　the　way　animals　supplied　to　us　are　treated.　We　take　that　responsibility　very　seriously,　and　we　are　monitoring　our　suppliers　on　an　ongoing　basis　…　As　a　consequence,　it　is　our　goal　to　only　deal　with　suppliers　who　promise　to　maintain　our　high　standards　and　share　our　commitment　to　animal　welfare.

They　also　show　their　animal　welfare　and　poultry　guidelines,　covering　comfort　and　shelter,　catching,　transport,　holding,　stunning,　and　humane　slaughter.　”If　an　audit　reveals　dirty　or　sick　birds,　corrective　action　at　the　grow-out　house　must　be　taken　by　the　supplier,”　KFC’s　website　said.

The　website　also　lists　an　animal　welfare　council　consisting　of　animal　welfare　experts.　”In　consultation　with　our　Council,　Yum!　Brands　(the　parent　company　of　KFC)　has　developed　guidelines　and　audit　programs　for　our　suppliers　in　the　broiler　industry,”　the　website　said.

Broilers　are　chickens　used　for　their　meat.

Several　of　the　people　still　listed　on　the　website　have　recently　resigned　their　posts　over　a　proposed　confidentiality　agreement:　Dr.　Temple　Grandin,　Colorado　State　University　and　Dr.　Ian　Duncan,　Department　of　Animal　&　Poultry　Science,　University　of　Guelph,　Ontario.　The　agreement　would　prevent　them　from　speaking　to　the　press　about　any　of　their　findings　or　conclusions　related　to　KFC　suppliers.　

In　a　Chicago　Tribune　article　former　advisor　Adele　Douglass　said　that　KFC　”never　had　any　meetings.　They　never　asked　for　any　advice,　and　then　they　touted　to　the　press　that　they　had　this　animal-welfare　committee.　I　felt　like　I　was　being　used.”

Although　PETA　had　no　concrete　information　about　suppliers　of　Korea’s　KFC　restaurants　they　say　it　is　the　same　everywhere.

“We’ve　never　done　an　investigation　anywhere　where　there　weren’t　egregious　violations.　It’s　the　nature　of　mass　production,　but　they　have　to　find　a　way　to　do　it　humanely,”　Vallodolid　said.

One　such　supplier　was　Pilgrim’s　Pride,　in　West　Virginia.　Hidden　video　cameras　caught　workers　stomping　on　the　chickens,　drop-kicking　them　like　footballs　and　throwing　them　violently　against　a　wall.　And　it　appeared　that　the　workers　were　doing　it　for　fun.

The　footage　was　shot　by　a　PETA　investigator　who　worked　from　October　2003　to　May　2004　at　the　Pilgrim’s　Pride　plant　in　Moorefield,　which　won　KFC’s　”Supplier　of　the　Year”　award　in　1997.

KFC’s　president　Gregg　Dedrick　said　in　a　press　conference　after　the　release　of　the　video　in　July　2004,　”As　a　responsible　corporate　citizen,　we　require　all　our　suppliers　to　treat　animals　humanely.　This　behavior　by　Pilgrim’s　Pride　employees　is　not　only　appalling,　it　violates　the　standards　we　have　in　place　for　all　our　suppliers.”

“We　think　it’s　outrageous　that　PETA　is　unfairly　singling　out　KFC.　They’ve　done　this　because　we’re　the　most　recognized　brand　selling　chicken　today,　and　our　name,　Kentucky　Fried　Chicken,　is　synonymous　with　chicken.　So　we　have　become　their　target.　The　truth　is,　we　sell　about　5　percent　of　all　the　chicken　in　America　today　–　that’s　less　than　the　leading　burger　chain.”

Dedrick　added,　”PETA’s　campaign　distorts　the　truth　and　we　would　ask　the　media　to　report　the　true　facts　of　the　situation.”　

Cho　was　arrested　in　Korea　in　January　this　year　for　a　similar　protest　in　Myeong-dong,　Seoul.　The　difference　then　was　that　she　and　a　cohort　were　topless.　She　was　charged　with　indecent　exposure　and　blocking　traffic.　

She　added　that　the　policeman　who　arrested　her　told　her　that　he　didn’t　want　to,　but　had　to　do　his　job.　”He　said　he　hoped　his　daughters　would　be　like　me　and　stand　up　for　what　they　believe　in.”

As　for　protesting　in　bikinis　and　even　topless,　they　say　it　is　the　best　way　to　attract　the　most　attention.

“It’s　the　MTV　generation.　We　have　to　do　something　flashy　or　we　just　won’t　get　people’s　attention,”　said　Jason　Baker　of　PETA　Asia-Pacific,　and　one　of　the　organizers　of　this　protest.　”If　you　just　hold　up　a　sign　people　just　don’t　care.”　

He　said　that　he　has　been　in　the　cage　before　on　demonstrations　and　attracted　a　lot　of　media　attention.　”But　nothing　like　this,”　he　said,　pointing　at　the　swarm　of　camera　men　and　women.

“We’re　not　here　to　make　a　problem.　We’re　here　to　bring　awareness　to　people　everywhere,”　Cho　said　from　inside　the　cage.

Vallodolid　added,　”This　leads　to　more　hits　on　the　website　–　http://www.peta.org/　–　and　that　leads　to　change.”

The　protest　ended　after　about　an　hour　without　incident.(traceystark@heraldm.com)

(From The Korea Herald, Oct. 12, 2005)

By　Tracey　Stark　
and　Kwon　Ji-young

A man protesting against low funding for education for the disabled is chained with a chair to the main gate of the Seoul government complex in Gwanghwamun.

Activists　demanding　proper　education　for　the　disabled　chained　themselves　to　the　gate　of　the　Seoul　government　complex　and　painted　slogans　on　the　sidewalk　yesterday　in　a　protest　that　resulted　in　police　detaining　43　people.

The　demonstration　began　at　11　a.m.　when　about　six　people　in　wheelchairs,　out　of　a　group　of　50　protesters,　were　chained　to　the　front　gate　of　the　Gwanghwamun　complex　by　able-bodied　compatriots　to　protest　low　government　funding　for　disabled　education.

“We　decided　to　stage　a　surprise　protest　which　went　to　extremes　because　we　didn’t　receive　any　response　from　the　government　during　a　long　protest　in　front　of　the　Blue　House,”　said　Kim　Ki-ryong,　representative　of　the　coalition　for　the　educational　rights　of　disabled　people.

A　sign　complaining　about　a　lack　of　funding　was　spread　across　the　ground　in　front　of　the　protesters　while　four　members　of　the　group　spray-painted　slogans　in　red　and　black　on　the　sidewalk.　The　main　English-language　sign　next　to　the　gate　was　also　defaced　with　red　paint　to　resemble　dripping　blood.

In　the　early　minutes　of　the　protest,　several　officers　attempted　to　stop　the　spray　painters　but　were　met　with　shoves　and　shouts.　The　outnumbered　police　and　complex　security　guards　backed　off　and　waited　for　more　police　to　arrive.

“Over　300　police　came　and　dragged　43　of　us　to　10　different　police　stations.　There　was　a　struggle　between　the　police　and　protesters　as　they　were　forcibly　dragged　away,”　said　Kim.　As　of　press　time　the　detainees　remained　in　police　custody.

Of　the　protesters,　10　were　disabled　students,　15　were　their　parents,　and　25　were　university　students　of　special　education.　

The　group　wants　an　increased　budget　for　disabled　education,　more　special　education　teachers　and　education　laws　for　disabled　students.　

“This　year,　the　government　cut　back　the　budget　for　special　education　by　8　billion　won,　and　reduced　the　number　of　teachers　from　444　to　36,　and　the　number　of　assistants　from　3,000　to　2,500,”　said　Do　Gyeong-man,　executive　director　of　the　coalition　for　disabled　education　rights.　

Yesterday’s　protest　follows　a　two-week　demonstration　Sept.　22-Oct.　5　in　front　of　the　Blue　House　during　which　the　group　asked　to　meet　President　Roh　Moo-hyun.　”The　government　did　not　respond　at　all　to　our　requests,”　said　Kim.　Receiving　no　response　from　the　government,　the　group　decided　on　more　desperate　measures　to　draw　attention　to　their　case.

Within　15　minutes　of　the　start　of　the　Gwanghwamun　protest,　two　busloads　of　police　officers　arrived　and　parked　in　front　of　the　protesters,　effectively　blocking　the　view　of　passing　motorists.　Several　other　police　units　arrived　from　around　the　corner,　making　a　total　of　more　than　100.　The　helmeted　police,　many　armed　with　shields　and　meter-long　batons,　surrounded　the　disabled　protesters　and　began　pulling　them　from　the　gate.　Several　other　officers　with　bolt　cutters　were　sent　inside　the　complex　to　cut　the　chains　in　order　to　remove　the　wheelchairs.

One　severely　disabled　protester,　once　unchained,　accelerated　his　electric-powered　chair,　pulling　along　four　policemen　and　knocking　a　police　photographer　off　a　ladder.　When　he　was　subdued,　the　protester　was　removed　from　his　chair　and　ended　up　writhing　on　the　ground.　

Another　protester　escaped　the　confines　of　his　wheelchair　and　crawled　under　a　police　bus　while　a　man　with　a　loudspeaker　voiced　the　group’s　complaints　to　a　growing　crowd　of　onlookers.

After　a　little　more　than　an　hour　most　of　the　protesters　were　removed,　although　the　spray-painted　slogans　were　still　visible.　There　was　no　immediate　word　from　the　government　about　the　budget　for　the　education　of　the　disabled. (traceystark@heraldm.com)　(jkwon@heraldm.com)

By Tracey Stark

They said he wouldn’t go far, but he had proven them all wrong. There he sat in that office with his name on the door, four floors above the manicured courtyard and opposite the stacks, marveling at his reflection in the smoke-stained window.
“I have arrived,” he said, then grinned broadly to his window-self, his bleached-white teeth glowing and fighting for prominence behind sagging rubbery lips. He repeated this every morning since his promotion to Assistant Director of Accounting, Payroll and Pension Department of the Allegheny Electric Co-op.
BUZZZ
“Ms. Lintel, come in here please.”
“Yes, Mr. Bottoms,” a tinny voice replied through the antiquated call box.
 

The door opened and a dour woman of about 50 walked in, ruler straight in posture, gray in demeanor. A smile would surely crack the thin coating of skin covering her angular face. (In certain light, towards the end of a winter’s day, she appeared translucent, Mr. Bottoms had noted.)
 

“I need more, um… notepads and paperclips,” he said, then turned back to the window and resumed smiling at his reflection.
 

Ms. Lintel looked at the stack of notepads on the spare chair and the boxes of paperclips scattered about the otherwise-empty bookshelf, shook her head, and left. She would fill the order by lunch and remain idle until 5 p.m. Then at 5 she would rise to leave for the day and receive one more buzz from Mr. Bottoms. When she went into his office he would invariably say to her, “Good job today, Ms. Lintel. See you bright and early tomorrow, I’m sure.” She would thank him tersely, make an abrupt about-face, and march from the office straight to her car at the far end of the lot.
 

This had been going on for the two months since his move from personnel to accounting, a move precipitated by an accident. Not an accident of paperwork, but an accident involving a filing cabinet and a portion of rotten flooring. (It could be argued that paperwork was involved, as the filing cabinet was full when it fell through the ceiling and crushed his right leg.)
 

The out-of-court settlement was favorable for all involved. Mr. Bottoms was not a greedy man and his request for a promotion to the fourth floor, a small raise, and a parking space among the executives (as well as medical costs, of course) was accepted with a smile and a handshake and delivered before the steel rods were removed from his fractured bones.
 

Through the thin walls Ms. Lintel could hear queer mutterings in different voices. She didn’t ask, but suspected the accident had left him a bit shell-shocked.
 

Back in his office, Mr. Bottoms continued to stare out the window thinking about what it had taken to get here. He worked his way up from the ground floor. Five years in the mail room, and then the little incident with the sorting machine and his pinky finger. Cost him the last digit, but earned him a job in customer service on the second floor. Seven years on and then there was the electrical fire that left him with third degree burns on his left arm. Skin grafts and a promotion to personnel (third floor), followed by his longest stint: 13 years. Lucky 13, he thought. The sagging ceiling should have been a dead giveaway, but everyone seemed to regard it as normal. So he didn’t ask any questions and sat at his desk, two inches closer to the ceiling than everyone else, until the distance closed to zero in a matter of seconds on that fateful Tuesday in October.
 

And now he was in an office devoid of computers, sagging ceilings, windows that opened, and furniture that could fall on him. (The bookshelf was bolted to the wall and his chair had no wheels.)
 

Pondering this he realized it was time for him to knuckle down and get to work. But his responsibilities were vague at best. They told him, “We will utilize your expertise in certain areas of accounting from time to time.” But he had no expertise in any areas of accounting, he thought.
 

He also knew there was little he could do about it this day, so he resumed his self-congratulation and continued to stare out the window.
 

At five he buzzed Ms. Lintel once more into his office.
 

“Good job today, Ms. Lintel. See you bright and early tomorrow, I’m sure,” he said and smiled his oversized mouth at her, and gave her a waving salute with his 4 2/3-fingered right hand.
 

Moments later, when he was sure she was halfway down to the lobby, Mr. Bottoms picked up his briefcase (empty but for half of a sandwich and a few notebooks), and walked to the elevator.
 

To his surprise, Ms. Lintel was still waiting for the elevator car to come pick her up. It was a strange sensation, for both of them, be assured, to stand side by side in silence at the end of a day during which they had spent the better part of eight hours one on each side of the wall, like a confessioner and priest.
 

It was Ms. Lintel who spoke first.
 

“I don’t suppose taking the stairs would be good for your leg, would it?” she asked.
 

Mr. Bottoms was pleased by her sudden interest in him.
 

“Well, I guess I won’t know if I don’t try,” he replied and swagger-limped to the fire stairs door. She hesitantly followed and for a moment looked as if she might smile. (She didn’t.)
 

Upon opening the door he was greeted by crumbling and missing stairs, the stench of mildew and a complete lack of lighting. His first step would have been his last had Ms. Lintel not reached out a boney hand and pulled him back with surprising force.
 

“Oh my,” he said grasping his tie and loosening it an inch. “That would have been a doozy of a fall.”
 

“Yes, and you might have made vice president had you survived it,” she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
 

But Mr. Bottoms only heard the words “vice president” and lost himself in a reverie about a bigger office on a higher floor.
 

“Vice president?’ he asked the air around him.
 

Ms. Lintel followed his gaze and saw that it ended in thin air only a foot or two in front of his face.
 

“I was only being facetious, sir,” she said.
 

“Vice president,” he repeated.
 

Ms. Lintel stepped away from him and toward the elevator. He turned and followed, still lost in those two magical words.
 

“And you would have been the vice president’s executive secretary,” he said to her, his mouth stretched into a frog-like grin.
 

“Indeed,” she said, pondering the implications, and looked toward their small office suite. She noticed the room was still aglow and she shook her head at Mr. Bottom’s absentmindedness. She was taught not to waste electricity, even if you did work at the power company. “Let me just go turn off the lights. I’ll be right back, in case the elevator gets here.”
 

“Of course,” he said and watched her walk through the tall wooden door.
 

A moment later the elevator chimed and the doors opened.
 

“The elevator’s here, Ms. Lintel. I’ll hold it for you,” he shouted, and stepped backward into a starless void.
 

As he plummeted the five floors to the basement, only one thought went through his mind: “Vice president.”

My Friend the Witch Doctor
by Tracey Stark

(published on www.bootsnall.com and www.glimpse.com in January and February 2005)

I was very sick, coughing like a dog with an old squirrel caught in its throat and sweating even though I was cold. And the worst part is that I was in Korea. Normally I would go to the store, buy some alcohol-laced cough syrup, down three shots, and in the morning I would awake hungover, but coughing less. Sadly, there were no alcohol-laced cough syrups in Korea.

I tried self-medicating with rum and an over-the-counter sleep aid. That knocked me out and gave me interesting dreams, but it left me still coughing in the morning.

Then a friend told me about a man who could cure me. He asked me if I had any experience with Oriental medicine and I told him about dum (really) therapy. This is where a nurse or “pyrotechnician” places burning bits of incense (or perhaps jet fuel) on several dozen points of your body leaving you with a cross-shaped connect-the-dots burn on your back and chest. As soon as one spot goes out, another fires up on cue. This is repeated 36 times. Getting a tattoo hurts less.

They wanted me to come back for four dum treatments, so I agreed, said, “See you tomorrow” with a smile and ran from the building.

Now I was considering going back to one of these practitioners, this time an herbalist. I promised myself, though, not to be dum this time. My friend explained how he’d suffered from diarrhea so severe he had slept with a towel on his bed, fearing an unfortunate nocturnal accident that would destroy his sheets. He told me several other things I wish he hadn’t, but most importantly told me that the herbs worked.

“And since it’s herbs he can do this without any government regulation.” This was very reassuring.

He dropped me off at the shop and left me. It looked like a typical pharmacy anywhere, offering assorted goods for health and well-being: toothbrushes, bandages, aspirin, crutches, breast pumps, and, of course, roach spray.

Everyone stared at me silently until the herbalist stepped from the back room and asked in English what was wrong. I described my symptoms and brought up a few coughs for him. He winced at the sound and told me to come back in an hour.

“I must check condition of your blood.”

I had nowhere to go and no desire to risk the deadly motorcycle-laden sidewalks of South Korea so I sat and coughed patiently in his lobby. A little girl of about two walked over and opened her mouth revealing a hard candy. I showed her my butterscotch. She handed me her wrapper and silently walked away. An elderly woman with permed, crimson hair in a checkered jacket and flowered pants stared at me unblinkingly for about 10 minutes.

Children walking past the shop stopped at the door and yelled “hello” to me then covered their mouths and giggled. This is the only time Koreans cover their mouths. Coughing and sneezing are done with great force and pride, yet strangely there were no reported cases of SARS there. Koreans claim it’s the kimchi and garlic in their diet that prevented it. It definitely wasn’t the good manners.

Mr. Park, the herbalist, was a young 70. When he stepped up to the counter and called me to the back his eyes had a youthful eagerness that suggested he was ready to try a new remedy on a customer unlikely to sue him. He smiled, exposing tiny teeth, white and perfect.

He slid a book in front of me and had me write down my personal information. After staring at it for a minute he mispronounced my name.

“Please, take off your watch and remove all metal objects from your person and put on lab coat.”
I did so and stood at attention in front of him. He buttoned up the jacket and connected a strap tightly around my neck. He then held my hands for a moment and rubbed his fingers on my palms with his eyes closed. I half expected he would begin speaking in tongues or channeling a lost loved one. Instead he dropped my right hand and looked triumphantly at my left. (I’m left handed.)

The examination had begun.

Mr. Park pulled out a small plastic box of glass vials with screw-top lids variously containing wood shavings, seeds, what looked like rabbit pellets, and a liquid resembling urine in two others. There were also two metal tubes: one gold in color, the other silver.

“Please hold this silver tube in your hand.” He placed the tube in my left hand.
“Make a ring with these two fingers,” he said, indicating my right thumb and forefinger. OK. “Now look at the silver colored object and resist me when I pull your fingers apart.”

I resisted, but he was able to separate my thumb and forefinger with ease. He repeated this with the same result. Next he placed the gold tube in my hand and repeated the process. This time he had more trouble pulling my fingers apart. I felt strong. He rechecked with both batons and the results were the same.

I held a vial of what looked like twigs. The twigs didn’t make me stronger. The vial of possibly rabbit droppings made me stronger. As for the vials of the urine-like liquid, only one made me stronger. I wondered how a vial of urine could make me stronger and decided it might be best to not think about it too much.

When I told him my blood type was “O-positive” he smiled like a kid who had just solved a very difficult riddle. (In Korea everyone knows their blood type and it’s often a topic of long conversations.) Mr. Park muttered to himself and wandered about his bottles of powders and pills. Finally, he placed a wax paper envelope over the end of a tray with six separate sections and pulled a bottle down, almost randomly, off a shelf near the ceiling. Only Chinese writing was visible on the lid. He scooped a healthy spoonful of powder into a sectioned envelope, sealed it, and shoved it into my hands.

“Take this with hot water two hours after meal, three times each day.”

“What is it?”

“It is herbal medicine,” he replied.

“Can you write the name down?”

“It has no name. You cannot buy it anywhere.”

His smile was fading. He seemed a bit irritated and was not about to give up his secrets. I just wanted to have it written down somewhere so the cause of my death would be easier to figure out.

“Give me 6,000 Won and call me if anything happen.”

Perhaps I would morph into an elderly Korean woman with clashing clothes? It sounded very Kafkaesque.Whatever the outcome, there are an estimated 6,000 different herbs in Oriental medicine, in use for thousands of years, so I wasn’t worried.

I took the powder home and mixed it with hot water after dinner that night. It was delicious! Just kidding. It tasted like all of the contents of a barn had been dried, mixed, and crushed into a powder.

By the time I went to sleep its effects had worn off and I was coughing even worse now. In the morning I repeated the process, but now my cough was moist, like a dog choking on something dead fished from a sewer. That’s an improvement, I thought. The mixture had a tendency to clump up and leave a pile on the bottom and in my haste to finish it, I usually ended up with a pile of this gunk on my tongue. But I swallowed it all and smiled at my girlfriend with bits of green and brown mud in my teeth.

The two days passed and no improvement was evident. So it was time to go back to Mr. Park’s World of Herbs and Pesticides.

He was surprised when I told him it didn’t work, but took it in stride and had me don the lab coat and stare at metal batons while he pulled my fingers.

This time, though, I had just walked three miles (briskly, I might add) to his shop, and my hands were swollen. He realized that it would be tougher to make a diagnosis today with my fingers so easily pried apart, so he called over one of his assistants in the pink uniform. He placed her next to me and had us hold hands. Then he placed the various objects in my hands and tried to pry her fingers apart. She was my conduit. This time it was silver that I responded to and not gold. Very strange. We tried all of the different objects with different results from the previous visit. He said I was getting sicker.

Mr. Park seemed vexed. He mixed a new concoction and gave me three packets. I asked him how much and he smiled and said, “Free. You are my new experiment.”

I was to take one immediately, one before bed, and one if I woke up coughing. I was pleased to find that this powder dissolved completely in water and tasted like green tea. I was displeased, however, to wake up coughing so violently I thought I was going to give myself an aneurism.
When I returned the following day I told him what had happened. He was again surprised and called me into the back. My girlfriend was interested in seeing the examinations I had described, so she came with me. I handed her my watch, mobile phone, and loose change and donned the lab coat.

Instead of pulling out the regular basket of vials, Mr. Park opened a large briefcase on his desk. Inside were more than 100 vials in their own pockets, each with a corresponding Chinese description on the inner lid of the briefcase. It was a sort of Oriental Whitman’s Sampler. He pulled out three and had me hold them and resist his pull on my fingers. The yellow powder allowed him to open my fingers with ease. A darker powder gave him more trouble. And the third, a grayish-brown powder, gave him the most trouble. He tried the first again and saw that he could still separate my fingers, and wasn’t just tired. Finally, he had me hold both of the vials that had given me strength.

He couldn’t open my fingers at all when I held both vials and I had to laugh out loud at this. My girlfriend was smiling at me the whole time, a bit skeptical, but when she saw me relaxing and this old man trying to pull my fingers apart with all of his strength and failing, her smile turned to surprise. I could feel his strength as before and heard him gasp once, and try again.

Again he flashed his white Chiclets at me and looked confident that he knew the answer. He set me up with six packets of several powders mixed together and asked for me to return on Monday. Again, it was free.

“You are difficult experiment,” Mr. Park said.

“Like a lab rat that already has cancer, huh?” I joked. Of course, I was the only one who found it funny, but he smiled his mischievous smile anyway.

This third medicine began to work immediately. I didn’t wake up holding onto the bed for fear of coughing myself out of it, and I didn’t spray phlegm all over my hands in mid-sentence. Mr. Park had found the magic bullet.

This powder, when mixed with a gallon of hot water, still didn’t dissolve. I assumed that since he didn’t really measure how much he put in each dose, it was o.k. to pour some down the drain.
I returned the next day and told him it was working. “I even coughed up some yellow stuff this morning,” I said as proudly as a toddler who had taken his first unsupervised dump.

He smiled, made a note in his book, and went away for a few minutes. When he came back he handed me two more days’ worth of the same mixture and asked me for money.

That was it? I was hurt. He didn’t want me to wear the lab coat and stare at magic bottles while he pulled my fingers? He didn’t want to ignore my jokes and evade my questions? I liked the process more than I liked the cure. It was fascinating and mystical. It worked. I liked and respected Mr. Park. He was the oldest sort of medicine man. And, most importantly, I didn’t feel dum when he sent me away