끝. Sammi and I headed to 독립문 Station today to see the strange Zen Rocks. Running late, I caught a cab and got the added benefit of seeing Dongnimmun "Independence" Gate, ironically named, as it was built during occupation.
We began the long, hot trek up 인왕산. There was a map at the base, but we were a bit too preoccupied (searching for a washroom) to notice it. So we just continued uphill, not realizing what we were looking at until we returned and found the map.
This was by far one of the most conflicting visits I've ever been on. This whole area is rife with the conflict: modernity vs. tradition. Although it is a Buddhist area, and the rocks are 'Zen Rocks,' it's a place where shamanism is actively practiced.
Temples, while serene, have to me never conflicted with modernity. I guess because 1) in my mind, Buddhism is an enlightened religion; 2) it has survived into modernity and 3) monks with glasses, cell phones and cars aren't uncommon.
However, shamanism is different. To me, it represents the animalistic, the id, the Dark Ages. It is a pre-modernity religion that didn't survive industrialisation; it's a supernaturally-based religion that didn't survive the move towards reason; Asia's shamanism is England's paganism with one exception: paganism is essentially dead, while shamanism is dying. Granted, it is making a slight comeback, but that's due only to the swing of the pendulum, when people decide that emphasising old traditions and preserving nationalist practices are important.
Also, I remember stories from my mother's childhood about the shaman rituals. She told of one woman who, babbling continuously, danced on the edge of a sword without getting cut. She said that even as a kid, she felt like she was in the presence of something evil. Even though, in post-war Korea where she often had to skip meals, these rituals offered free food, she avoided them because they creeped her out.
So it was conflicting, leaving modern Seoul and walking up that mountain, void of the decent trails normally found in parks, listening to the gongs; seeing people traipsing around in brightly-coloured hiking garb, then a man praying in a pure-white silk robe; stumbling up the rugged, neglected paths, then turning around and seeing skyscrapers and high-rise apartments, expertly designed and built to a myriad of blueprints.
A man praying alone on a rock outcroppingI'll admit, heading up the mountain towards the shrine was a little spooky to me. I don't know if it's my mother's stories, or just the mysticism that surrounds the place. The people we came across didn't help me feel better; it was like some Twilight Zone episode, where you keep running into weird people. The man who was either sleeping, praying or drunk; the man who was shooting birds with a slingshot; the man who just stood around and stared at us (Sammi and I separately thought to ourselves that he might try to murder us). It wasn't until we were leaving the area that the creepiness left. Maybe it was the mountain releasing us; maybe it was the spirits leaving us; maybe it was all psychological and the western guys we ran into made the whole undeveloped spooky place feel a little less foreign.
Contrasting the id vs. the ego; the animalistic vs. the civilized; the supernatural vs. the enlightened; the obsolete vs. the modern -- enjoying the serenity and beauty of the natural scene, while being haunted by the ghosts of my mother's childhood -- this was my trip to 인왕산.
That said, I can't wait to visit again. Though I heard it, some strange magic intervened and I couldn't see the elusive shaman ritual in all of its mystical glory. I want to witness it.
But even better, who's up for a camping trip there and telling ghost stories?
