This weekend, I learned that Jeju island was to mainland Korea approximately what Australia was to the British Empire: an island far enough away that it’s probably safe to send criminals there.
In defense of our island, most of our criminals were of the ideological type, with more in common with Thoreau and his unwillingness to pay taxes than, say, Jack the Ripper. And, democracy-lovers that we have become, all those ex-criminals who protested against monarchies are now excellent heroes and role models for young’uns. So, this being Korea, it is entirely unsurprising that museums should be made in their honor, especially for the ones who spent their exile on calligraphy and painting and Confucius and whatnot. And, this being Jeju, it is only slightly surprising that the PTBs decided to attach a walking trail to the one I visited this weekend.
Of course, I had no idea about any of this when I arrived at the site with some of the teachers from my school. As far as I had
been informed, we were going for a walk. There had been no mention of exiles or museums or calligraphy. My complete ignorance was, unfortunately, no defense against journalists.
Korean journalists love interviewing foreigners. We lend an air of exoticism to the proceedings, and can always be relied upon to make an event appear to be of great international importance. Plus, we get a good laugh from the audience if we try to speak Korean and sometimes we even ask stupid questions that make all the better-informed Koreans feel excellent about themselves. Thus, I was only slightly surprised when a pair of them descended on me as soon as I arrived at the entrance tent. Before our group of teachers had even assembled, I’d been asked for two different interviews, one for TV and another for radio.
I dodged the TV offer like a champ–”Call me later! I’m too busy now!” (In the end, it reminded me of being picked up at a bar. I didn’t ever intend to answer my phone, and even considered giving a fake number, but I was nonetheless a bit put out when he
never called.)–but the radio guy reeled me in like a pro.
He asked me what I knew about Chusa. “Chusa? Is that… What? I just got here, I don’t know anything yet!” He asked me what I knew about the calligraphy. “I’m sure it’s lovely, but since I just got here…” He asked me which of the new trails I was going to take. “There’s more than one?” Finally, he asked me about the weather. “It’s a beautiful day!” Phew, at least I got one right.
As it turns out, Chusa is this particular exile’s pen name. I learned this only a few minutes too late, when I was given a commemorative dish towel and a brochure. I learned more about an hour later (we had a break for cake before we could really get started) when we finally entered the museum. The calligraphy was beautiful indeed, and the reconstructed house next door made the little historian in my heart jump up and down in glee. That was followed by a wee bit of walking, a break for Korean-style sushi, called kimbap, and another wee bit of walking.
The exercise was minimal for a reason: We had about half a dozen little ones with us, children and nieces and nephews of the assorted teachers on our hike. They certainly made the hike more picturesque, interested as they were in poking bugs, climbing statues, and getting piggy back rides. Enjoy the photos!
