5 Days

Have you ever tried to type with a broken finger? No? It's ridiculously difficult. Thus, my absence is explained.

I have five days left in Korea, and every time I talk to family or friends back home it's always the same question: are you excited to come home? It really is a simple question, but the answer surely isn't. How do I say goodbye to a country that's been my home for 13 months or goodbye to friends who are the only people in the world who understand what it's like to live here. No one back home will understand the stories or the struggles of this past year like these people do. My heart is full of joy when I think of my past year here is Korea and breaks when I have to think about leaving. But then I see pictures of the nephew I haven't met yet, or friends send emails asking me to teach them Gangnam style, or requesting to make plans to eat at favorite restaurants and my heart is full of joy again. So you see, I can't answer that question. I'm leaving one life to return to an old one; one that's not really old anymore, but changed entirely.

When I was in Japan over Cheosuk, my travel buddy and dear friend Zara asked the question,"How are we ever to go back to normal lives after this?" Now, we were probably sitting beside the river in Kyoto after having seen the Imperial Palace or some beautiful thing in Japan which is totally not normal at all, but all I could think was how Frodo (enter nerd moment) said the same thing at the end of "Return of the King". How do I go back to normal? Life abroad isn't normal. At all. I can go to Japan or China for a long weekend. I can save enough money in a year to almost pay for grad school  (didn't do that this year, but it could be done). I can have friends from all over the world and be immersed in 7 different cultures at once. It certainly isn't or hasn't been easy, but I remember these moments and am reminded about how beautiful this last year has been. Which is why I want to do it again, and again, and again. Trust me, I don't want to be in Korea forever, but this year has taught me that I love being an expat. I love living in different cultures and adapting. I meet some of the most wonderful people when I live abroad, and all I can think is that there are so many more people to meet, so much food I need to try, so many languages I can dip my toe into. Think of all the roads left untaken, Robert Frost. I have to go. I have to take them.

I don't know if my life will ever be "normal", as Zara put it, again. I don't know where I'll even be in four months (plan is Korea for round 2), but I do know that I enjoy this life and the joy and experience of it all is worth the heartbreak of not being at home, missing family, and saying goodbye to beautiful people all the damn time. I cannot compare holding my newborn nephew to touring Kyoto, Japan (which is what I was doing when he was born). It will forever be a thing I missed and my heart hurts thinking about it, but my time in Japan is something that will be with me forever as well, and that experience is something I'll cherish.

I don't know how expats do this living abroad thing. I don't know how I didn't cry like an ugly Claire Danes Juliet in "Romeo and Juliet" when I missed Christmas, but I like this life, as strange as that might sound. At this point in my Korea journey I'm reminded of my goodbye times in South Africa and Ireland and having to say goodbye to my friends that I'd made there. My heart was wrenched every time. It is honestly painful to build relationships with so many people and then say goodbye, knowing you'll probably never see them again. There are a million hellos, a million goodbyes, and a million heartbreaks. Every. Damn. Time. It's something that shakes me to deep to the core. There are some relationships that will last and others, even though we say we'll stay in touch, I know from experience, we won't. Some friends will cross the world to reunite and others will fade.

I remember praying in the airport at RDU for the Lord to grow me and let me experience things that would stretch me and teach me, and that prayer has been answered. The lesson that he has brought before me most consistently is to have unfailing trust. Trust that the bus won't go off the cliff, that the doctor won't kill me during surgery, trust for my future, my job, and my finances. This has been the greatest lesson this year. I must trust and put my hope in him. I surely couldn't do it all alone.

When people ask, "why are you coming back", here's my answer:

Surgery in Korea

Momma, stop reading and get a box of tissues. I know you. Grab some tissues now.

He looked down at me, and all I could see were his eyes over the surgical mask.
"Are you nervous?"
"Yes, very."

Three hours before I had been asked to get naked. That should have been the first sign.
"Jennypah? You get naked ok?"
"Um..."
"Here. Put this on."

I sat in my oversized surgical top and too short pants and waited for three hours in an open emergency ward, where patient lie next to patient and nurses sat in chairs waiting for doctors to direct them. My contact from LG had to leave and return to work. When I asked if he would be here when I finished he said no, I would have to take the hour bus ride back to Naju, alone. It was here I became a little undone. I was going to be alone? No translator, no familiar face. Just me. I texted friends, read a book, and prayed that my anxiety would abate. Ha.

In Korean hospitals, it is the families' job to provide emotional care to a patient. Unlike America where I can rely on nurses to make sure I'm holding up ok, ask if I need anything, reassure me and talk to me, these Korean nurses stayed on the opposite side of the room and administered shots (four that day) and told me to get naked. It isn't because of a language barrier. It's just how things work. Hospital beds are accompanied with a small cot for the family member to sleep on. And so there I was, alone, looking at the nurses, trying to get a reassuring smile out of one of them. I needed them to know I was scared and needed a friendly gesture. Nothing.

Then two intern nurses told me (hand gestures) that it was time and to follow them. I wheeled my IV stand using my good hand, and tried to get around everything without jostling the IV in one arm, the open needle cone thingy on the other, and not use my broken finger. As I entered the elevator, the stand got stuck and I looked to the TWO nurses to help. Nope. They watched as I had to maneuver the stand out of a hole and pick it up with hands covered in splints and wires. Nice-uh. Turns out we had gone the wrong way, had to go through the elevator fiasco again without help, and we went back to my bed, where I was wheeled out by an orderly.

He left me in a hallway outside of a room where they were performing a surgery, and the nerves took hold. A friend I met when I first arrived had surgery to remove a cyst before I came to Korea, and he recounted his tale about how his local anesthesia wore off quickly and the doctor told him to endure. It was all I could think about as I waited in that hallway. They were only going to numb my arm, and I was terrified that I would be able to feel as they drilled two pins in my bone. Surgery was going to last an hour, and I would just lie there listening as they slowly made me into a robot.

After the doctor heard that I was nervous, he simply smiled and wheeled me into surgery. They put straps across my legs and waist, and then strapped both arms down crucifix style. I was going no where. They strung a sheet between my arm and my face, and turned my head so that I was looking directly at the anesthesiologist.
"If you feel pain, you tell me."
"Absolutely yes."

My upper arm started to tingle as they began to numb me, but I could still feel my hand, and that, my friends, is when shit got real.  They picked up my hand and squeezed my fingers together to shove on a compression sleeve. I felt the pain of my broken bone being squished by this doctor's hand and gasped. The doctor looked at me with wide eyes, and as a few tears of fear ran sideways, I whispered,

아파요. It hurts.

He shouted at the other doctors and the last thing I saw was that blissful, beautiful needle full of the good stuff. I woke up two hours later groggy and disappointed at myself. I was wheeled back to where I started and asked to change into a much smaller Korean sized shirt. The nurses turned their backs and walked away as I struggled to change shirts with an IV, a heavily bandaged finger with blood still splattered on my hand, and still groggy from meds. I was disappointed that I had cried in front of the doctors, that I hadn't been able to endure the pain, and so in need of a hug that I started to sob a bit. An ahjumma visiting a relative in the bed next to me looked over and made a beeline for me. She took the sheet I was trying to wrap around me to hide what the too small shirt could not, draped it over my shoulders, talked to me gently, and then hugged me. I said a small prayer thanking God for that small gesture that was such an extreme blessing to me.

God taught me a few things through this. 1. Be grateful and thank your nurses back home. 2. Have someone go with you to a hospital. Always. 3. That my independence can be my downfall. I am so proud to be independent, and happy that I am, but there are times when you just have to have help. As much as I would like to say I'm tough and strong, can endure much, at the end of the day, I still need a hug.

Korean medicine is great. I don't live in a third world country. My finger is healing beautifully and my medicine is wonderful. The whole procedure cost about $150, and I don't regret having the surgery (even though it was necessary anyway), but it would be nice if the nurses and staff acted like they cared, especially to a foreign white girl who's having trouble putting on clothes.

Injured and the Hospital

An innocent game of volleyball turned into tragedy this past weekend. Yes, I've broken my first bone. I've knocked a piece of my bone clean off from it's family, and it's just floating around, inside my finger. Oh come on, the fingers are mighty important. 

On Monday I talked with my assistant and he took me to the hospital, and God bless Korean hospitals. Back home, with a broken finger you're looking at a 6 hour wait at least, but here I was in and out in an hour with x-rays and everything. I thought for sure that I would be splinted and taped and sent on my way. No. Of course not. Nothing is ever that simple. That wee little piece of bone has to pinned back into place. Surgery. In Korea. 

So goes my life. More details after the whole ordeal is over on Friday. 

Until then...

I just want to understand.

The best advice I could give anyone who moves to a foreign country with a new language that you should probably learn that language. I have learned enough Korean to hold a small conversation, and I understand much more Korean than I can speak, but sadly, it's no where near enough to help me in some situations. Situations like going to the bank to wire money to a bank in Malaysia for your upcoming holiday. For your entertainment and my humility, I present to you said situation at the bank.

Me:안녕하세요
Bank Manager (had a guy at LG call ahead and I got to deal with the manager):안녕하세요
Me: um,와이어 돈?
Manager: ah 내.어디에?
Me:말레이시아
Manager: Bank book?
Me: 내
(The following is not real Korean, so don't bother typing it into google translate.)
Manager: 비니ㄴㅎ꺁.퍄?
Me: ...
Manager:니ㅏㅇ럼브쟈비모노주?
Me: ...
Manager: account number in Malaysia?
Me: OH! Yes, I have it.
Manager: 퍄미렄틏ㅍ?
Me: I...uh...um...sorry.
Manager: 프캬미ㅑㅈㅜㄴㅃ?...(sigh) uh...wait a moment
Me: ok (ohgodohgodohgod what did he say?)
Manager hands me a phone. "Here"
Me: Hello?
Stranger: He say that you have to have address of bank in Malaysia. You don't have address then it will be difficult.
Me: (It isn't already!?) oh ok thank you.
Manager: Understand, yes?
Me: 내,감사합니다. 죄송합니다.
Manager: 내, 내.

And that people, is everyday life.

Things I Learned on Vacation

Malaysia was...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamazing. Period. Done. No questions asked. I visited this little hidden away gem of a tropical country for ten days during the month of Ramadan, which made it even more interesting and adventerous for me as I haven't experienced Islamic culture enough.

Throughout those ten days, I learned quite a bit. Allow me to indulge your starved brains. I mean, it has been quite a while since CAC has had some new material.

1. Bravery has nothing to do with a picture posted on facebook.

As you can see, I was certainly "very brave" when I held this boa constrictor. Even more so when his wee little head started moving upwards towards my own. That sick little forked tongue slithering in and out, tasting my shirt. I held it together people. But the picture you don't see is at night when bats, of all sizes, would come out, darting in and out of sight, screeching with their little high pitched squeals. No wait. That squeal was my own. I would run from cabin to resturant and back waving my arms wildly and squealing because surely, that scares the bats away and protects me from any fluttering winged creature.


2. I have stopped asking, "What's in this?" or "What is this?" I just eat.
What part of the chicken is this? Is this chicken? Is it even a bird? Nope, just give it a sniff, a little lick, and pop it in. Questions and doutbts are for the weak.
Although, I'm still not sure what that piece of meat is on the right.

*By the way, food in Malaysia is scrumptious. Fruits spilling off trays, fresh squeezed juice by the litre, mango vegetable curry that will make you call out for your momma, and all of it Ramadan friendly.

3. I am SO SO happy I know how to use one of these. You have certainly passed into another level of "well seasoned traveler" when you see one of these and assume the position without grimacing. Happy squatting.

4. Rudeness is something that evokes a pleathora of emotions. On initial encounter, I'm disgusted. When it continues for twenty minutes, I'm amazed. When it's over, I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt and tears are streaming down my eyes.
On a forty minute taxi drive from the airport to the jetty, our taxi drive started burping ten minutes into the journey. I was sitting up front (of course) and hid my distaste as best as possible. My friends in the back got quiet and listened. We waited for it to abate. No. It didn't. For thirty minutes, this taxi driver would burp then breathe then burp then breathe. When the taxi stopped and we got out, we screamed with laughter. As he drove away we all wondered how that is even possible, and how can one person have that much gas in them.


5. A shanty restaurant on the side of the road probably has the best food. Forgo the fancy table clothes and trade it for the side of the road place that only has two options.

6. An elephant is not a comfortable mode of transportation. The hair is coarse and their ears sting your legs when they slap you.

7. Try everything. Even if you don't really want to. You'll regret it if you don't. Hold the snake, jump in with the sharks, visit that part of town or that island, and walk away from your trip thinking only about how fantastic everything was. And maybe perhaps that you should have taken more photos.

s

I need a vacation

America is a very dangerous country.

How could he buy many guns?

How did he buy bombs?

Everyone has guns in America.

I heard on news, 30 people die a day in America from guns.

That was my Monday morning class. My response was to snap at my loveliest of students and say that I don't know, people are crazy, no I don't own a gun, dear God let's just talk about something else like prepositions of time.

Then my air con stopped working in the classroom and the eight men in the class are all trying to figure out what's wrong, pressing buttons, standing in front of the thing waving their arms (because that helps), and when I finally asked, after being ignored for ten minutes, "Is it out of coolant?" Ahhhh, yes. You are genius Jennifer.

My air con in my apartment isn't working so I'm surviving the 98-100 degree weather with two fans. Now, my internet in the apartment doesn't work either. 

I need a vacation. And I'm going on one. In two days. So bring it on Korea. Bring on your heat, your faulty electronics, and your men who can't fix nothing (I just need air con!) because in two days, I'll be on a beach in Malaysia. I'll be swinging in a hammock strung up between two palm trees, drinking from a coconut, phone turned off, with no sounds but the waves and tropical birds. I'll have good friends beside, and we'll be lazy from the heat, and drunk off the jungle breeze. My biggest worry will be if I should go snorkeling or kayaking in the afternoon. 

Reality, thou art an evil shrew, and I bid you adieu. 

Cruel, Cruel Summer

I fumble for my keys, sweat rolls into my eyes, coating my contacts and blinding me with a burning, flashing pain. I stumble into the apartment, drop every bag and kick off every shoe, run to the bathroom in a clumsy race against the sweat that is most likely destroying my retinas, and dip my head under a rush of blissfully glacial water. Then I drip to the bed where I collapse and pray that the two fans posted at my bed will lower my body temperature.

It's summer. It's hot, and I'm from the south. I'm used to hot and humidity. A humidity so disgustingly thick you can see the haze of the sauna like moisture hanging in the air. A humidity you know will curl your always straight hair and fill your lungs like a dehumidifier. I played volleyball in an un-airconditioned gym in high school, and grew up mowing a two acre yard in the middle of July, where I dodged bugs the size of my head and air so thick I didn't want to breathe. So, needless to say I fare better than some here. Those poor poor souls who wail and beat their chests crying to the sky, complaining to the heavens and asking why hell has come to earth.

I can take the heat, but my body shows that I'm disgusted with the heat. My hair poofs up into a wee little fro, curls that didn't exist in winter, spring up like unsightly weeds around my head. I sweat and try to wear clothes that can camouflage the appearance of such an offensive bodily function (i.e. dark clothes). It seems to be a waste though. I'm nothing compared to the natives. They are an unmovable force, a rock that the sun beats against and cannot wear down. Women wear their thick, long hair down, and there is no frizz or unwanted curl. They simply glow, not even glisten as us southern women supposedly do in our southern summers that come from Satan himself. Men wear jeans and there are no pit stains or sweat dripping around their brow or down their faces to betray how hot it really is. They buy cheap plastic hand held fans and stir the thick air around them, faining to be disturbed by the heat, while the poor foreigner on the bus collapses into a seat and hurriedly adjust the air con vents above them, swearing that they're not going to make it. They will, perhaps, die on the bus, and people will believe them to be asleep, but all the while their corpse just rots in the heat. We stare at these Korean beauties and wonder how they can maintain such looks, such un-waverable control of themselves.

It's a cruel summer, but what is crueler are the Koreans that seem to make a mockery of our misery, what with their cool looks of a dry forehead and silky maintained hair. They wave their little fans, while the rest of us flock to Baskin Robbins for that ice cream that promises to cool us off, a coffee shop for something, anything, iced. We shuffle around town zombie like, seeking some sweet oasis from the anguish of the stifling atmosphere that promises to suffocate us all. So cruel this summer land that offers a slow death. So cruel, this land of sweat.