red dust. We passed through the first of many laborers’ camps: in one we saw nothing but Japanese faces gazing at us as we rode by; in the next, Portuguese; in the third, a mix of Chinese and Filipino; until we entered a camp that seemed to be shared by both Korean and Spanish workers. The driver reined in the horse and brought us to a stop. As in the other camps, there was one long barracks-like building as well as row upon row of small bungalows, all of which had tidy little front yards and not-so-tidy chicken coops in back. My husband helped me out of the wagon, and again I flinched as his calloused fingers clasped mine.
Mr. Ha looked up at a dun-brown bungalow with white trim and cheerfully announced, “Here we are.”
I was dismayed, but jade Moon’s expression was one of undisguised horror. “What do you mean?” she asked her husband. “Why have we come to this place?”
“Why, this is our new home,” Mr. Ha replied proudly. “You can smell the paint, it is so new! I lived in that horrible old barracks for years, but you and I have our very own house.”
Jade Moon stared at her husband in disbelief. “But you … sent me a firstclass ticket-”
“Yes, nothing but the best for my new wife! Like this house. Come, come inside.” Head held high, Mr. Ha entered the bungalow, expecting Jade Moon to follow. I alone saw the terrible disappointment and betrayal in her eyes: her “uncommon” man was, in fact, a common laborer.
Shamefaced, she followed him inside. What other choice did she have? What did I?
My husband now led me to our own house, a few hundred feet farther on. It was nearly identical to jade Moon’s, a wood frame cottage painted brown with white trim, its small front yard enclosed by a brown picket fence. It stood on a raised and slatted foundation a few feet off the ground; to enter it we had to ascend half a dozen porch steps.
In Korea, living spaces did not necessarily have inherent functions: a room became a bedroom when you unrolled a sleeping mat, and it turned into a dining room when you brought in a low floor table on which to eat. Here, I learned, things were different. Our home consisted of three small rooms: a bedroom, defined by a mattress surrounded by mosquito netting; a so-called living room furnished only by a straw mat and kerosene lamp; and a kitchen that looked out pleasantly on a leafy banana tree in the backyard. Nowhere was the difference between the two cultures more apparent than in the kitchen, in which stood a wooden table at least three feet high-more than twice the height of a Korean floor table. “Husband, what is this for?” I asked, puzzled.
“It’s a dining table. It’s where we will eat.”
“But we’re not eating now. Shall I take it away?” In Korea, dining tables were set out before meals, then taken away afterward.
“No, it is the custom here to have the table out at all times.”
“But it’s so high. What do you sit on, these things?” Tentatively I lowered myself into one of the straight-backed chairs. “Why does one need such an uncomfortable perch when there’s a perfectly good mat to sit on?”
He shrugged. “I never claimed it made sense.”
He showed me the backyard with its still-unpopulated, tin-roofed chicken coop. Between our home and our neighbors there was a communal toilet with two stalls reserved for our household by a stenciled sign reading NOH . All told, the house was barely a step above the kind of dwelling a peasant family in Korea might occupy, but with none of the warmth or charm of a typical Korean home.
Mr. Noh wasted no time in putting me to work. It was nearly midday and he had to go to work, belatedly, in the fields. He said, “Wife, pack me a bento,” then went into the bedroom to change out of his frayed business suit and into a pair of dungarees and a shirt. I stood there in a panic. What on earth was a bento? The word sounded Japanese but I had never heard it spoken by any Japanese in Korea. Since it
Mr. Ha looked up at a dun-brown bungalow with white trim and cheerfully announced, “Here we are.”
I was dismayed, but jade Moon’s expression was one of undisguised horror. “What do you mean?” she asked her husband. “Why have we come to this place?”
“Why, this is our new home,” Mr. Ha replied proudly. “You can smell the paint, it is so new! I lived in that horrible old barracks for years, but you and I have our very own house.”
Jade Moon stared at her husband in disbelief. “But you … sent me a firstclass ticket-”
“Yes, nothing but the best for my new wife! Like this house. Come, come inside.” Head held high, Mr. Ha entered the bungalow, expecting Jade Moon to follow. I alone saw the terrible disappointment and betrayal in her eyes: her “uncommon” man was, in fact, a common laborer.
Shamefaced, she followed him inside. What other choice did she have? What did I?
My husband now led me to our own house, a few hundred feet farther on. It was nearly identical to jade Moon’s, a wood frame cottage painted brown with white trim, its small front yard enclosed by a brown picket fence. It stood on a raised and slatted foundation a few feet off the ground; to enter it we had to ascend half a dozen porch steps.
In Korea, living spaces did not necessarily have inherent functions: a room became a bedroom when you unrolled a sleeping mat, and it turned into a dining room when you brought in a low floor table on which to eat. Here, I learned, things were different. Our home consisted of three small rooms: a bedroom, defined by a mattress surrounded by mosquito netting; a so-called living room furnished only by a straw mat and kerosene lamp; and a kitchen that looked out pleasantly on a leafy banana tree in the backyard. Nowhere was the difference between the two cultures more apparent than in the kitchen, in which stood a wooden table at least three feet high-more than twice the height of a Korean floor table. “Husband, what is this for?” I asked, puzzled.
“It’s a dining table. It’s where we will eat.”
“But we’re not eating now. Shall I take it away?” In Korea, dining tables were set out before meals, then taken away afterward.
“No, it is the custom here to have the table out at all times.”
“But it’s so high. What do you sit on, these things?” Tentatively I lowered myself into one of the straight-backed chairs. “Why does one need such an uncomfortable perch when there’s a perfectly good mat to sit on?”
He shrugged. “I never claimed it made sense.”
He showed me the backyard with its still-unpopulated, tin-roofed chicken coop. Between our home and our neighbors there was a communal toilet with two stalls reserved for our household by a stenciled sign reading NOH . All told, the house was barely a step above the kind of dwelling a peasant family in Korea might occupy, but with none of the warmth or charm of a typical Korean home.
Mr. Noh wasted no time in putting me to work. It was nearly midday and he had to go to work, belatedly, in the fields. He said, “Wife, pack me a bento,” then went into the bedroom to change out of his frayed business suit and into a pair of dungarees and a shirt. I stood there in a panic. What on earth was a bento? The word sounded Japanese but I had never heard it spoken by any Japanese in Korea. Since it
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