Modernity of Acceptance Versus Adaptation

It wasn't the crowds of hawkers that followed me fifty feet down the street, the horns soaking the air with an opera of calls, the blood in the gutters or the fleshy stink of faeces that I will forever remember about Nepal. All the things I couldn't see, couldn't understand, didn't know; these were the ingots of gold appreciation in the piles of muddy confusion. They made me, for the first time, seriously consider if I could ever live in a country with such enormous cultural and religious differences. Three weeks was enough time for me to accept what I was experiencing but not enough to adapt myself. I recognise the difficulty with a word like 'accept'. It suggests that there is something negative we must become accustomed to, or else ignore in order to function. To adapt is to become one with what surrounds you, to live without second-glance or surprise. We, the foreigners with an open-mind, accept due to our limited amount of time in one place. They, the locals, are adapted from birth to the condition of their country. And so where we see, they are blind. We are visible, they and their view of the world is invisible. The face of Nepal is changeable depending on who's eyes are looking.


We arrived in Kathmandu in the darkness of a Friday night and so were eased into streets that during the day are near impassable. On our first walk we went only two blocks and were overwhelmed by our own senses. Everything smelt of incense, smoke, skin, blood, cooking food and body fluids. People were crouched on the crumbled edges of the road and cars navigated by the bouncing echoes of their horns. We got to the corner of the street and felt so vulnerable in our backpacks that we retreated like rabbits frightened by a nest of hawks. Never in my life have I felt more visible than in those ten minutes. I was illuminated as though my bones were glowing. I am Caucasian but there have always been levels to this distinction; in Spain I am pale, in Australia I have a healthy glow, in England I'm extremely tanned but in Nepal my skin was simply white. I was white and the people were not and there was a tangible hostility in the stares directed my way. Their eyes tagged me as a privileged foreigner and disallowed the other facets of what made me, me. My discomfort accelerated into a powerful feeling of threat that had no basis but my own visibility. Their attention was nothing but focus being given to a figure that stood out physically. Psychologically, I was invisible. There were hundreds of me passing every day, all white, all displaced. These Nepalese women with food loads on their backs and men on tuk-tuks whistling people out of their way had adapted to the presence of foreigners while I hadn't yet accepted my placement as one. Because of this I interpreted the atmosphere as dangerous. After three days this feeling abated. I accepted the tension of the street but had not adapted to the point of neglecting it. I still saw the starving dogs, roadside shrines, burnt-out homes and rickety bamboo scaffolding but they no longer frightened me. My skin had darkened just enough for me to hide from my own vision. I accepted what I saw but the emotions tied to these sights were still those of an outsider's.


Culture shock is a dangerous thing because of its power to change our perceptions of an entire country. Even after we accept cultural differences, we still judge them from a place of misinterpretation. Whilst discovering the religious sights of Kathmandu we visited the largest Shiva-dedicated temple on earth. As neither of us are Hindus we were only allowed to stand at the river but from our vantage point we could make out an infinite line of men and women entering through the white double doors and crowding onto the balcony overhanging the courtyard. There were exhalations of smoke and drums and so many voices humming I could feel them on the back of my neck. These were beautiful details with basic meanings at their roots to which I could connect; sweet smells, music and rejoicing. But in the river, something very different was occurring. Evenly spaced along the water's edge were pyres of grey stone and built up on one was an intricate layering of wood, straw and a body burning tall and bright. I couldn't smell anything but the fumes were so thick and black I found myself putting a hand to my nostrils. I sat for a time and watched the Nepalese people around me talk, walk, eat, and noticed the lack of attention they gave to the body. If this was the equivalent of a funeral, there were no mourners; only men keeping the flames lit. Our guide explained that bodies were cremated every week at this spot and people came here to pay respect. When I asked what they did with the ashes, he frowned as though I had asked him if it were day or night and pointed into the water. This grey river took on a horrifying aspect, made worse when we walked further along and saw a group of seven or eight boys playing ball and leaping around in the waist-high shallows. Once again I turned to our guide and he smiled at how haunted I appeared and simply said, they are local boys, they're used to it. And it was his choice of words, 'used to it', that made the most sense to me. Their particular adaptability wasn't an ongoing development, it was fixed and solid and as I sit writing this piece, I still shudder at the thought of that water and those boys' black bodies touching the last remains of men taken too early, women passed through pain and children young enough to go unmourned.















There was an easiness to leaving the city and disappearing into musky wet quietude of Himalayan earth. I assumed this area of Nepal would be less challenging if only for its lack of inhabitants but the natural environment more than made up for this absence. Halfway through our first day of trekking we came across an open field beside the path and growing there, in public ground overhanging the sloped walk, was a marijuana plant the size of a single garage. For long moments both East and I stared at it like we'd never seen one before and of course we hadn't ever seen one like this before. Not only in size but freedom. It belonged to no one and so owed nothing to anyone. While the plant seemed public property we asked our trekking guide if there were rules to roadside hash. He assumed a great deal of ignorance on our behalf by explaining what effects we could achieve by rolling some dried buds in paper and smoking them. Which we did, in the company of several Nepalese lodge owners who, when offered some, refused based on religious integrity. While it took me until morning to put my thoughts together I immediately realised that people in the mountains were no different to those in the city: adapted to the point of objective desensitisation. They lived surrounded by a free-growing substance that we the foreigners were accustomed to hiding and controlling in order to enjoy, yet they omitted its use due to cultural practice. While we giggled and danced like children each time we came across another plant, they had it growing next to their lettuces and peach trees with barely a look in its direction. No cultivation or care but for them it was nothing more that weeds popping up amongst their food; by the end of the trek, most of the bushes we came across had seeded and gone to flower for want of harvest – little yellow sparks that fell apart when we touched them.


So where does our ability to accept leave us? Are we, as I suspect, committing the awful crime of looking without feeling? Are we widening our world with snippets only the adapted can truly appreciate? Or, if you prefer a more promising outlook, maybe we're opening up. If acceptability is the first step towards an adapted lifestyle then every time we step outside our narrow perspective we slide inextricably closer to becoming a different person with varying degrees of cultural ambiguities. But once we have adapted we run the risk of losing the beautiful horrors that make us struggle to reach the centre of another world. And so perhaps we are creatures of singularity only able to exist on one plane as adapted or accepting. Maybe we can choose which one we will be. Maybe we risk being accepted by our world, or adapted into non-existence.

Lara has learnt many truths in this world but the most important remains just inches from her fingertips.

The Bastards Learned How to Swim – Frida Kahlo

I've been swimming since I was two and the feeling it gives me, of such wonderful lightness, is approximated by nothing else on earth. Except maybe alcohol. As adulthood came and passed me by I indulged in liquors that lifted my head two feet above my body and by waving my arms I could follow it up into the air. My drinking has always had a very narrow purpose, one that I've repeatedly given up without issue or pain; it is a bonus to rather than a facet of my days. But when I moved to Seoul I was confronted with a type of drinking attitude that insisted my commitment to alcohol be put to the test. For the first time I was taking part in a night life that had no half measures, no flip side to the coin: it's go for a drink or go to bed. And if you choose bed, you better take a drink along.


“Work is the curse of the drinking classes” - Oscar Wilde


In South Korea it is the social aspect of their drinking culture that puts the country on a whole new level of consumption. Alcohol has moved beyond an accepted overindulgence into a necessary function within Korean life. A business dinner in Seoul looks much the same as a celebratory drinking session. These men keep their shirts neatly buttoned, ties knotted tight, jackets folded in half over chairs and proceed to completely let themselves go with numerous bottles of beer and soju. On the many weeknights when I've been wandering the city until early hours, buying cheap alcopops in seven elevens, it's easy to lose count of the men, always in pairs, holding hands for balance, staggering from bar to restaurant to bar with little heed toward their working day fast approaching. They look like the walking dead and they do it over and over again. In my eyes, Seoul was populated by eighteen year olds trapped in middle aged bodies and these newly-turned adults were a decade away from learning their lessons on heavy drinking. At first I wondered how South Korea's growing economic strength could continue when these were the citizens thrusting the country forward into a successful monetary future. Then I realised, the impressive work ethic of these people isn't focused on a high standard of pride but on shameful necessity due to their night time distractions. So many men and women work until seven, eight, nine at night but these extensive work hours make sense when you remember that many of them haven't sobered up until early afternoon. I don't care how committed a worker you may be, if you spend your night sleeping off three bottles of soju on a train station bench, you're not doing anything of any worth until at least lunch time.

“People got attached” - Charles Bukowski


I've been to dinner many times with my co-workers and one in particular, a Korean reporter known to me under her Japanese name of Harue, has a peculiar habit when we drink soju. Not only must our glasses always be full but each time we drink, she insists that we toast and when we clink she says 'I like you'. Originally I thought she was tailor making a toast just for me, to bring us close and cement our friendship. Each time was ritualistic; she spoke in the same pitch, with the same intonation and the same nod of her shiny-haired head. Late one night over beef tendon kebabs I asked her what it meant and she said it was her habit every time she drank with others. So it wasn't a performance for my benefit but it was an integral part of our drinking. During these moments, Harue finds it appropriate to express her affection toward me; the walls between us as women hailing from different countries are knocked down and drowned in 20% alcohol. When she pours my soju she holds one hand to her chest, a gesture meaning 'you are in my heart'; while ordering a new bottle she puts an arm around me and calls me Iseul, my Korean name. I am constantly touched by these overtures but part of me wishes that drinking could be removed from how we connect to one another. If I told her I loved a film that she also adored and she embraced me in excitement, I think I would take more from the moment. But its important to remember that the society I am now playing within doesn't work like that and it would be insulting for me to look for affection in ways I personally find meaningful when they are already offering me their love and acceptance. At our first dinner I drank my entire shot in one mouthful and each one of my co-workers' reactions were of such wonder that I realised this was the way to a Korean's heart: one hell of a strong stomach. Sipping or tasting a drink is an entirely satisfactory method of partaking in the festivities but downing with one swallow shows you are there with them, ready for the night and, most importantly, their friend.

“First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you” - F. Scott Fitzgerald


Most of all it's the novelty and availability of alcohol that I appreciate. Methods and places of drinking have become as important as what's in the glass or, as you can see above, the IV. The extent of packaging and beautifying alcohol have been realised in South Korea mainly due to the looseness of social drinking practices. At a popular bar in Seoul, known as Vinyl, drinks are mixed and served in an IV bag which you can enjoy whilst relaxing inside or take with you through the streets. A mere two blocks away is a permanent street vendor who sells very cheap cocktails in plastic cups and, as there is no seating area, the customer is forced to consume on their feet. Coming from a heavy drinking culture, I am accustomed to the violence and destruction that walks hand in hand with such easy overconsumption but here, in a world where public drinking is offered and encouraged, there are little to no problems of this nature. These people can hold their alcohol and if it does get the better of them, they go to sleep where they stand. Considering the lack of alcohol control, this is extremely impressive self control, especially when you consider how easy it is to drink. The following list is an example of locations that supply alcohol to anyone, with no proof of age, who walks in:

newsagents;
train station convenience stores;
unlicensed coffee shops;
bakeries;
stationary outlets;
gift shops in hospitals.

This freedom has allowed anyone to drink any amount of anything they want at any time of day. And if this isn't enough incentive for extensive drinking, alcohol is offered in a shocking variety of sizes and forms. Soju is a basic staple in Korean diets and the regularity of which it is consumed is reflected in the many ways it can be bought (for identifying purposes I will be using the Jinro brand as an example). 360ml bottles are the favourite size for restaurants and they feel misleadingly like coke bottles. Needless to say, one is never enough. For a large family, or very thirsty couple, soju comes in two litre plastic bottles for a mere four dollars. When I saw it on the supermarket shelf I thought it was soft drink; when I showed it to my parents on Skype they thought it was mineral water. Its tricky appearance makes the massive amount of alcohol it holds relatively harmless when the power of human denial is properly utilised. Furthermore, the bottle is just big enough to feel bottomless; after all, we're only pouring single shots. And finally, soju can be bought in the smallest amount possible, that of a popper or children's juice box. This is marketed toward the Korean on the go, hard working, busy and looking for a quick fix. The packaging suggests a different story. Now I'm not saying that Korean parents give their children soju poppers. But am I saying they don't?

“Alcoholism isn't a spectator sport” - Joyce Rebeta-Burditt

South Korea is the first place I've ever visited where peer pressure is absent and general expectation so obvious. Perhaps it's the general pleasure of drinking in large groups, without the thunder of threat overhead, that draws me into late night sessions but I'm not entirely sure the reason doesn't lie in my own psyche. Where alcohol was once a release of my inhibitions it has now become a gateway into foreign affections. These people are hard as nails, quick to touch and often so drunk they can't stand after midnight. But damn can the bastards swim.

Lara may be a boozer but she's also a bruiser, a cruiser and a fan of Schmooz-a-Palooza.