I made my rounds with various relatives scattered throughout South Korea. The range of education, wealth, accent and geography amongst my close relatives was simply astounding. Though I did come to develop relationships with some of my relatives, for the most part, I was a novelty to be passed from one relative to another. They did a great job of taking me to tourist attractions and the all the best they knew. I accepted anything and everything they offered. I was also able to read quite a bit at a lazy, leisurely pace.

Half of the summer flew by, as did the faces of my relatives. I was beginning to enjoy my summer, when I was sent to the country, to my second uncles farm, where my grandmother was staying.






The bus crept along, any forms of the city long gone. Stretches of rice paddies rolled around the hills, and blended into the horizon. The bus stopped in the middle of nowhere, and the bus driver called out at me. My stop was marked by a lone tree on the side of the road. Surrounded by rice paddies. I didnt know what to do, so I did nothing as the bus rolled away. I pulled out my tattered East of Eden, and started it again. Several minutes passed before I heard the faint sputtering of a scooter. I glanced up, and saw an uninteresting lone rider in the distance. I was warming to the book when the scooter reached me, and stopped. I looked up, into a dusty, hard face that was faintly reminiscent of my fathers. Ja-gun ah-buh-ji?(small uncle/2nd uncle) I asked. He nodded, and motioned for me to get on behind him.

We rode for quite some time, but the ride was pleasant. I tried to keep my balance, without grabbing or clutching at my uncle. I wanted to show him that I trusted him, and that I was a grown man. The flat lands became soft, rolling hills, and the lazy warmth of the summer was soothing. We came to a stop, in front of a small cluster of buildings. My uncles house seemed to be a haphazard compound of buildings reflecting materials which were surplus at different years. (I later came to learn that his house was the largest for miles around, and that he was quite a large property owner. So much for my judgment of socioeconomic standing) I met my aunt: a small, quiet woman, who had little to say to me. I was led into a small room, where my grandmother was waiting.

The shock of seeing her was unbearable. My memories of my grandmother were of a fearsome woman larger than life, whom even my father feared. A woman who seemed to have impossibly large breasts, and even larger hands to smack your butt with. She put the fear of God into us, this woman. Yet my memories of her were also of sticks of gum and candy that came out of nowhere, hearty laughs that filled the house, and a sly smile that came at the most random moments. I loved her, and missed her terribly when she went back to Korea, years ago. The small form in front of me, that seemed little more than a skeleton, couldnt be her. She saw me with milky white eyes and called out, *****? (The name of my cousin) My aunt gently told her that it wasnt my cousin, but her 2nd grandchild from Korea. guhl ee ah? (my Korean name is chung gul. Guhl ee ah was a phrase that elders used for any one, or all, of my brothers and myself) I said softly, Hal muh ni. Juh yeh yeo. Sohn ja whas suh yeo. (grandmother, its me. I (your grandchild) am here.) My summer laziness and carefree manner rapidly became sorrowful. My nose crinkled in that familiar way, and as I kneeled before her and bowed formally, tears that were commanded to stay back somehow slid over the brims of my lower eyelids. My aunt and uncle went away, as I became reacquainted with my grandmother. We were both shy, and had trouble meeting the others eyes, though we had spent years together in the past. I didnt want my shock and sorrow to show in my eyes, and sheI dont know. She seemed a little ashamed of her state of existence.

As we gradually warmed up and chatted, she became much more livelier. She told me of how she read her extra large print bible daily, and sang various hymns. She told me of how no one came to talk to her anymore, because of the smell of her medicines. It was then that I first became aware of the smell that filled the small room. It was strong, true, but close enough to the smell of Ben-Gay for it to really bother me. I again felt tears coming. She was so lonely. I was getting angry at my relatives, who had passed her around and around, none willing to take responsibility for her care, and at my second uncle, who had her right under his own roof. My anger slowly dissipated as I realized that she harbored no ill will towards any of the same relatives. She did not blame them, because she knew that the smell was bad, that looking at her was depressing, and was especially grateful for my second uncle. Guilt came over me as I saw that my uncle had shown her the most love. Each time he came into grandmothers room, he nearly buckled with sorrow. He hurt more deeply than any other, and I loved this silent, morose uncle for it.

Eventually, the evening came, and like most country people, my aunt and uncle were ready to sleep. They offered my cousins room for me (he was away in the army), but my grandmother asked, and almost pleaded as a little girl might, in a soft, unsure, and hopeful manner, if I would like to sleep next to her. Mother, my exasperated uncle said, you cant ask him to sleep next to you. Both my aunt and uncle were seemingly apologetic of my grandmothers request.

Its ok, I said. Ill sleep next to her. It was no big deal for me. The smell wasnt that bad. Besides, I had come all the way from the US, and who knows when I would see her next?

I was awakened the next morning by a loud, resounding boom! that shook the house. Whats going on? I asked. Thoughts of earthquakes, war, and Armageddon went through my mind. My aunt was unfazed. Its the army. She took me outside and pointed at a mountainside in the distance. The tanks are shooting in the mountain. Target-practice. My nerves were still firing. It took a while to calm down, and accept that North Koreans werent invading right now (my uncles farm was close on the northern part of Korea).

I spent the next two days talking with my grandmother. She hardly left her room, which was no more than an early grave. She took her meals in the doorway of her room and the living room, as if reluctant to leave the refuge where she was not shunned. She left only to go to the bathroom or to wash, and groaned and creaked all the way out and back in. It was painful to watch her movements. I couldnt get over at how small her frame was, how thin her behind was. When in her room, she slowly rotated positions, because it hurt to stay in any one position. It hurt her to move, also, but the former pain was apparently greater.

She told the same stories countless times, sometimes telling the same story consecutively. She called me by my older brothers name, by my younger brothers name. Sometimes, she called me by my own, and I was able to feel a small glimpse of hope that maybe she wasnt doing that bad, that maybe she knew exactly who I was. That hope was always dashed five or ten minutes later. She sang her hymns, all with the same monotone melody, with a quavering voice full of sorrow and hope. She talked about the cycle of life, citing the monster horse flies that occasionally flew in as examples. Over and over again, she said and did the same things.

My grandmother really did read the Bible faithfully, much more faithfully than I read the Word of God. She truly believed, for which I was extremely thankful for, and spoke of dying in a happy voice, eager to go to heaven. I was humbled by her faith and her assurance in heaven and God. I spend the entire time with her, hanging on a fine balance, struggling to keep my eyes as wide as possible to keep the tears back (not easy when you have small eyes like me), and just flat-out crying. We were both ashamed when I failed, and we cried together several times. I let the gates open when she took naps. I patiently listened to the same stories she told over and over again, told stories of America, read from my books, and occasionally sketched pictures of her.

Surprisingly, the woman who seemed somewhat apathetic towards her last days on earth was extremely critical of my sketches. I was a bit defensive and even argumentative, and firmly told her that she really DID look like that. I had often heard compliments for my sketches, and so criticism, even from my dying grandmother, did not jive with me (such is my proud heart. I blush to remember).

There was one thing I had not accounted for when I agreed to visit my grandmother. Someone had failed to let me know about the outhouse. Somehow, though we lived in the 20th Century, people still had outhouses. My uncle happened to be one of them. All the horrible stories I had heard about outhouses were not true. Outhouses were a lot worse. When I opened the door, I was hit by an intense odor that simply cannot be described accurately. I did not get a good look inside the first time, because it was simply too much. As the need became greater and greater, I resolved to grow some nuts and do what I had to do. I tried a second time, and this time was able to stay long enough for my pupils to dilate and allow me to orient myself. There was a square plywood board with a round hole in the middle of the shack. I took one step forward, still several feet away from the hole, and ripped down my zipper, pulled my underwear down, and let a violent stream go. It was blissful. I still remember the exact feeling I had. It was good. During those long minutes, I did not take a single breath. It was longer than any breath I had held while swimming. I was quite proud. With a broad smile, and feeling bold and adventurous, I returned to the house.

Sometime during the night, a bigger problem reared its ugly head. A large mass in my bowels was demanding release. I remembered the difficult experience earlier in the day, and my cowardliness came back, triumphantly reconquering lost ground. I resolved to hold it for the two days I needed to stay at my uncles place. Two days? I have done that before, and for the nice, modern throne that awaited me after two days, I could wait.

I enjoyed my time with my grandmother. It was sorrowful, but I was glad I had visited. But after two days, I was ready to go. My grandmother, it turned out, was not.

Just stay a little longer, my aunt said. She really enjoys your company, and she has been more active and lively spending time with you than she has in months. There was no way I could say no to that. How could I refuse? And so I stayed.

How much was a little longer? I had no idea, but clung to that promise, just a little longer. As each day passed, I grew more and more worried. As I said, I was determined to wait until I was back in a city before taking a dump. I slowly began to lose my appetite, eating less and less each day. By the end of the 6th day, I could not and did not eat any more. My entire abdomen felt full, and something would push into my esophagus when I made a sharp movement. I constantly passed gas, to my great relief, because it relieved the tremendous pressure in my abdomen. During the fifth and sixth days, I became quite the expert at relaxation and meditation to take my mind off defecation.

At the end of the seventh day, I could take no more. Dull vision and ploddy, drunken-like steps somehow took me to the outhouse. I smelled the stench even from the outside, but I didnt care anymore. I pulled my pants down, squatted over the hole, and let go.

Except nothing came out. I executed the Valsalva maneuver with as much force as I could muster. Slowly, a huge monster of a log crept out at a crippled ants pace. My anus was stretched to its limits. I ran out of force, with only two inches of the log out. I had pushed the air out of my lungs to generate force, and I was desperately in need of air. I could not resist any longer, and took a deep breath. I nearly fainted from the fumes. Strangely, the odor of my own excrement was like a reassuring barrier and refuge against the strange, concentrated, and rotten smell of the outhouse. With that, I resumed my efforts. Somehow, with several long pushes, the log finally came through, and landed with a loud plop onto the murky depths below. I am ready to claim with honest and firm belief that the log was surely 1 foot long, and perhaps four inches in diameter. The weight of the log was such that it pulled the last of itself out of me, without any Valsalva assistance. It left a strange empty feeling in me. I was sweating with the effort, and lifted a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I was still alive after the ordeal. There were moments during the battle when even that did not seem a sure thing. I wiped my anus which had surely been through the most trying time of its career, and rose to get up. Little did I know.

As I stood up, there was a strange movement from within. Surely not? My brain could not process what my bowels were telling me. My bowels were ready to roll again, while my brain said that there could not possibly be any more. My bowels won, and I squatted again.

Feces of a much more familiar consistency followed the path of its very unrighteous brother. It was of normal color, normal consistency, and of normal diameter. My sphincter appreciated that quite a bit. Two logs of appreciable length. I proceeded to wipe.

Midway through my second wipe, a loud growl emerged the depths of my abdomen, and a sudden urge overcame me. The urge quickly became pain, and I squatted yet once again. A hot, acidic diarrhea propelled out of my bowels. The acid felt as though it were burning through the delicate mucous membranes, and scalding my perianal area. I cried out to my dear God, because it was a pain like no other. I asked Him to take it away, to stop the pain. I squealed inside as pigs do when they are branded with a hot iron. Close to a liter of diarrhea had burned its way out. Below, I could see the violence splattered over the white of the toilet paper I had used. But before I could even think about the funky pattern below, a different wave of muscle contraction seized me. I was too exhausted to resist the convulsive contractions within and without. My muscles ejected squirt after squirt of a clear substance, similar to a mix between mucus and water. I was so tired, I just let my body do what it had to do. At this point, I was ready to just lie down there.

I rested in the ah juh shi squat (old Korean man style). I dont know how long. Time held no meaning for such an experience.

I was eventually able to lift my head. My eyes could not focus; with blurred vision I grabbed the toilet paper. I wiped. Apparently, enough time had passed that there was no moisture left around my anus; it was completely dry. I knocked what was there off.

Somehow, I managed to stand up. The shack spun, due to the orthostatic drop in my blood pressure. I knew enough to step forward, regardless of what the shack was doing. There would only be trouble if I stepped back behind me.

I opened the door, and stepped outside. It had become dark. I felt 50 lbs lighter. Actually, I felt as though someone had carved a huge canal within me, and took all my insides out. It was a huge hollow within. I smiled. I was alive. I felt good. I didnt know I had a headache before, but I realized that I did have one before, and no longer had one then.

As I stepped back into the house, the aroma of daeng jang jji ggae wafted through. A funny, unfamiliar feeling surprised me. I laughed. It was hunger.

The next day, my aunt told me that I was to go back to Seoul, to my aunt (2nd eldest on my dad's side) and uncle, who was a pastor at a big church in Korea. A brief flash of anger came and went as I thought back to the experience I had the day before. If only I had waited one more day, I could have gone in a modern toilet and avoided the outhouse. Reason soon knocked that silly thought out of my head. There was no way I could have waited one more day.

I said my good-byes. I truly regretted leaving. Though my 2nd uncle and aunt were the quietest relatives I had ever visited, they were very good to me. I would miss my uncle in particular, though I could count all the words he said to me on my two hands. He took me sightseeing several times, which Ill never forget.

On several occasions, (I don't know how they were chosen, because all the days were exactly the same at the farm) my uncle would rouse me from my sleep. No words were offered; we just packed, and rode the scooter into the mountains. We stopped in front of elegant, breathtaking waterfalls, which made the Niagara Falls seem brutish, and beautiful, mossy mountains, skirted by light, lacy clouds. We gazed and gazed. Sometimes observing the beauty before us, sometimes focusing on something else within. Those were hours passed between a man and a boy, quality time of just intense reflection. I had never had such times before, nor will I likely have them again.

I didnt want to leave my grandmother, because she really did look like she was going to miss me. I really had not done much of anything for her, other than keeping her company. I had given her an ear, argued with her, slept in her room, and read while she was sleeping for a week. I left her a couple of the sketches that she didnt think were any good. She cried a bit, and II guess I did too. (Im turning out to be quite unstable emotionally, no? It is the Korean side of the Korean-American in me)

I finally gave my aunt a hug, and climbed behind my uncle on the little red scooter.

The rice paddies flew by in what seemed like seconds, and we came to a cluster of small buildings. The local store and various other small businesses were situated here. I bowed good-bye to my uncle, at which he nodded. He then shook my hand, and swung his leg over the scooter. He left as he came, put-put-putting, a lone figure on a little scooter, disappearing into the distance.