Going nowhere slowly

Jeju-do 2025: minus the must-see mania

Words & images © Paul Ransom

Day 1: Intermission

Begin here. Changi Airport. Bright and glittering. People from everywhere. Going wherever. A few liminal hours. Not where I was earlier, nor where I will be later. A luxury branded nowhere.

Why am I here? Good question. So many reasons, and yet none. The complex back story dissolving in the moment. Type the next word.

Exhale.

I feel the pneumatic shoosh of weight. Not as burden or tension. Rather, as the opiate heaviness of exhaustion. My breath is slow. The cadence of sighs. Here in the transit lounge the baggage has been set down. If only for an interlude.

Yes – that’s it. A gap. A space between addresses. An island of pause in a sea of momentum.

Now that the journey has started I realise I have no set destination. Just nine weeks. The rest will look after itself.      

Day 4: Dong

Early April. Spring. The cherry blossoms are out. A garland of flowers in a neighbourhood of grimy buildings.

In the cool sunshine I dawdle. Quiet streets. Summer tourists still weeks away. I am both at home and elsewhere. A year since I was last here. Noticeable changes, familiar forms. People I know.

I am greeted with smiles, handshakes, hugs. I offer a simple story. Here to write a book. Because I love Jeju Island. Because I missed the microcosm of Samdo-i-dong. All of which is true. Meanwhile, my heart exudes gentle warmth for these people whose language I am mangling.

• Click to find out more about 2024’s Jeju Island discovery.

What I will not burden the locals with is the subtext. The anxiety of the last few months. My body aching in new and unpredictable ways. Eyesight getting worse. The gathering inevitabilities and swirling uncertainties of age. The undeniable rust spots of decay. The spectre of medicine. Blood work, Holter monitors, CT scans, stress echo tests.

Back home, the numbers read well…yet the die was cast. Confidence shaken. Complacency confronted. Mortality emphasised.

In sync, the fear centres of the brain duly sharpened my awareness, focusing the lens, not on the destination – which is both a banality and a blessing – but on the journey leading up to it.

Last week, before long haul flights and layovers, I was reminded of a lady I met here a year ago. Misun Renata Lee. Amongst other things, she told me that Jeju was her healing island. She has since returned to Seoul. Perhaps I am here today to continue her process.

Yet, what might such healing look like?      

Instinct tells me: letting go. Surrender. Go nowhere, walk no path, have no purpose. Simply be here.

Outside, the sun is shining, and the blooms are blooming. Continue.

Day 12: Meander

Balmy Wednesday. Windy and warm. Typing in a hotel room. Not being a tourist. Seeing no sights. Unanchored. Drifting between visitor and local. Having written a mere five pages of the aforementioned book and filmed four short sequences for You Tube.

Perhaps this sounds dull or negative. Worse, nihilistic. However, despite the unwelcome food poisoning drama of the last two days, it has bordered on blissful. How? Because I have allowed myself to mute the clamour of objective.

It is okay that I have barely ventured a few streets from the Jeju Stay Hotel. I am at peace with these now well-grooved laps. Content to try a couple of new eateries, and investigate this year’s 4/3* exhibitions.  

After months of rollercoaster physical symptoms, and a life-time high anxiety spike, this is the holiday. A vacation from seeking. Answers or adventure or inspiration. A break from monitoring unpredictable pains and Dr Googling. From wondering if I will have somewhere to call home when I return to Melbourne.

The Korean scene change is simply a device, a spatial manifestation of an idea; one that I am not even required to execute or embody.

If we can disrupt the everyday routines of our desiring – if only for fleeting moments – then everything will cease to matter and, in that, we may be briefly absolved. Cleansed. Liberated. Which in itself…will not matter.

Hence, no travel plans this year. That said, in the cloudy spring warmth this evening, I will likely take the short stroll to Café Songkee, where the owners, (Nani and Sungtan), will greet me warmly and serve me a delicious meal. In their presence, weightless pretension will count for nothing.

* This refers to the infamous and defining April 3rd Massacre, (called Jeju Sasam at the above art events). It was perpetrated against the island’s population in the late 1940s and is commemorated here annually. The ‘incident’ continues to underscore a palpable sense of native Jeju identity; as distinct from broader notions of Korean-ness.

Day 18: Seek, and ye shall find    

I confess. A few days ago I was tempted. A trip somewhere. Get out of Jeju-si. Countryside. Coastline. Something different to photograph. Cool locations for You Tube videos. The typical tourist twitch, feet itching. Surely there’s more.

Brochures and websites. The Visit Jeju live chat service. Numbers to call, links to click.

A couple of determined hours, a few dead ends, then…forget it. Too hard, too many hurdles for a myopic foreigner to navigate alone.  

Cured, I tumbled downstairs into yet another soft spring evening and, as though by way of both reminder and reward, the granular immediacy of Gu-Jeju. The old city. With its textured intimacy. Every corner, every side street. Always a surprise. A delight. So much detail. So many doors.

Turns out the exclusive small group taxi tour with the English-proficient guide and its ‘guarantee’ of enriching travel experiences was surplus to requirements. But I knew that already. Perhaps I simply wanted confirmation.

Now that I have it, the whole world is within easy reach. It spins around the star of my attention. 

Since then, a beautiful immersion. Floating up stairwells to ferret out moreish, iced Dangyuja (pomelo) cha. Stumbling upon informal, courtyard markets. Realising that the foot of the nearby oreum (extinct volcanic cone) is a mere twenty minute walk away.     

None of this was on a bucket list. None an explicit intention. All arrived, as I now have, at a point of meeting. It has simply been my good fortune to notice.

Day 25: Oasis

Here. Now. 8137km from my hometown. In a village. On an island. Wandering in the aquatint brilliance along a snaking backroad, where the land is still being tilled, and the tourist shine has not yet been fully applied.

In a sunlit corner, a garden. I am anticipating the standard tokenism of visitor economies. But I am here at the gate, paying the 7000KRW entrance fee, so I suspend my judgement and…

It does not take long. Bukchon Dolharbang Park quickly reveals itself to be a work of love. The ‘stone grandfathers’ – the beloved guardian spirits of Jeju-do who populate street corners, café counters and sundry nooks – are basking in the dappled light.

I ask the young man in the ticket office who made this. “My father,” he says. Between his smattering of Yongeo (English) and my few words of Hangukmal (Korean), I manage to give thanks; hoping he understands when I say that I can feel “abeoji’s love” in this beautiful work of art he has wrought from rocks and trees and light. From history and imagination.

In the cosy courtyard, drinking coffee and listening to piped pop music with the silent hareubang, I am overwhelmed. By what strange path have I ventured to land here? How, in a global desert of mean transaction and Insta vulgarity, have I chanced upon this minute oasis of love?

The answer is not relevant. The beauty is everything.

A man I will likely never meet is carving his monument in my heart. Not to ego, nor to the catechisms of quotidian identity, but to the sublime annihilation of here and now.

Walk no path. Have no intention. Sit in a pool of shade in a hidden garden and feel the cool sea breeze dance across your skin. And be moved to stillness.

Day 36: Meeting place

In the previous post on this site I made mention of the beauty and warmth that can be found in connecting without the usual tools of language. It was evident here on the island in April 2024, and also during my years working with a Chinese-Australian TV production team. This last fortnight in Bukchon-ri has only served to enhance the magic.

When I first booked this current Jeju jaunt, I knew nothing about Bukchon. The same was true when I rolled up here thirteen days ago. I thought I was going to spend much of my time next door in the busier environs of Hamdeok Beach. But no. Serendipity intervened – and I fell in love with this intimate seaside hamlet.

Again…have no pre-set purpose…do not even cast it as a journey, assuming it will end up somewhere…just walk. And, along the way, find.

Thus, through its winding, narrow roads I fumbled my shortsighted pedestrian way. Tripping over things. Bumping my head on ledges I didn’t see. Failing to find the apparently adjacent CU convenience outlet. Yet, somehow, meeting the right people. Walking through doors that looked open.

What I discovered was not only a village of artisan coffee lovers in cafes full of books, but an unexpected welcome. People prepared to reach across the aisle.

Okay, our interactions were brief. Non-committal. We were, all of us, a kind of curio to the other. A spring breeze. A flutter of leaves.

And this is why I am now both surprised and somewhat moved. Earlier – on my final Bukchon circuit before returning to the relative bustle of Samdo-i-dong – I was presented with gifts. Not once, but twice. Little things, yes…but as tokens much bigger. For they were acts of recognition, done with palpable kindness. With something more than rote or performance.  

In a Korean/English mash-up I managed to say to the baristas in a café beside the main marina that I have felt especially embraced on Jeju-do; and perhaps even more so in Bukchon-ri. Their body language told me they understood.

We all bowed a little deeper as we parted ways.   

Day 45: Sensory

Having booked a two month stay on the island, I lack the usual tourist urgency. Coupled with a familiarity accrued from a four week stay last year, the upshot is a reduced novelty kick.

However, rather than boredom or contempt what has emerged is a deeper sensing. A slow release.

Now, six weeks in, I feel it whenever I leave the hotel. Here – upstairs, typing – I could be anywhere. Beside the bay in Melbourne. At a house sitting gig. Same playlist, same internet. But walk out onto Mugeungseong 7-gil and, bang…wow, that’s right…Hanguk. Korea. Not a destination. Nor an ethno-political confection. And so much more than a holiday.

Alive. A world of voices and sundry sounds. Of scents and textures. Shopfronts and signage. People buzzing. Lingering.

Like this morning, traversing the criss-cross aisles of the Dongmun Market. Oranges and tangerines. Fresh fish and roasted coffee beans. Sellers – mostly female – calling out. A high pitched hubbub. Offering samples. Stopping. Smiling. Eyes briefly meeting. Buying bananas from a diminutive halmeoni on the footpath, her few goods displayed on a cheap trestle. The soft rumple of cash. Change emerging, warm from pockets.

Tangible. Touch. The sublime mundane. Yet here, in language, abstracted. Reported. Reduced.

Save. Exit. Go back outside.    

Day 55: Tea, coffee & the beauty of books   

Aside from drifting aimlessly, and relishing the serendipity of such, I have maintained focus enough to chisel away at the aforementioned book project. Although said book is not about, nor specifically inspired by Jeju or Korea, being here has been inspiring.

Why? Well, partly because this place is plentifully supplied with cafes and tea houses that double as book sanctuaries. Moreover, it is apparent that this country loves books – as physical objects, as artefacts of beauty – in a manner not so obvious in my home country.

From the paper stock to the way the text is spaced on the page, to the use of negative space, and the employment of gatefolds and obi (sashes) in the design and presentation, many of the books I have encountered here have been a delight to behold. To weigh in the hand. Feel. Smell. It is as though there is a shelf of reverence reserved in Korean culture for the art of bookmaking.

Whenever I mention this – albeit in my fumbling Korean/English concoction – the locals tend to agree. (Or so I believe.) Despite its renowned digital modernity, South Korea still appears to cherish the analogue physicality of the book.

As a writer, and a former editor and collector of magazines still besotted with the wonders of graphic design, it has been my great pleasure to linger in various cafes drinking iced Americanos and tangerine teas while taking in the tactile and visual pleasures of books I cannot read, but which I can hold and love as things of craft and care and sheer loveliness.

It brings me back to my art. My practise. So often it seems removed. Action in abstract. Keystrokes on a laptop. Text in a nowhere space. Click. Gone. Consigned by algorithmic deities and general disinterest – if not a singular lack of talent – to a state of utter inconsequence.

Few will read this post, none will rest it in their palms.

However, this is not cause for sadness or self-pity, nor for a theatrical rage against machines. It is instead, like the cosy and welcoming nooks I have been burrowing into here on Jeju-do, an invitation to move further, deeper into the specific and nigh ceremonial practises and disciplines of writing.

I am not a writer. I am someone who does writing. With my body. My time. And this is why I will venture out shortly to sit in a corner of a café called Muhwagwahan-ib and drink iced tea and rest awhile in the company of beautiful books.

PS: It is difficult to imagine a ‘must see’ travel itinerary that could hope to deliver such an exquisite destination.

Day 61: Hareubang

The morning after the South Korean presidential election. A sticky, sub-tropical day on the island. The warmest of my stay. I sit here, fingers poised, waiting for the next word.

Becalmed.

It is nearly over. This part anyway. The rest – call it reality – awaits. Two days from now I will be in the air, and the lovely aimless drift of Jeju-do 2025 will be behind me. Someone else will be temporarily resident in this room.

But now, having typed that, the gentle ache. Without specifically intending it, I have nudged my way into the furrows, into the unadvertised rhythms of the volcano. Australia, where the rest of my life is, will feel for a while like a dislocation. Like a foreign land.

Although it is cliché to suggest that when we do not seek we may be more open to finding, this has truly been my experience. I knew I would eat great food, have chance encounters, be surprised by this and that – all the usual colour and memory-making of travel – but I did not anticipate the subtler uncoverings. Especially those that emerged in the guise of things already known.  

No, I have not been uniquely uplifted or fundamentally altered. Revelation is rarely spectacular. It occurs, rather like the seasons, in gradual increments.

Apologies, dear reader, if I have no gleaming pearl of wisdom for you, no stunning denouement to conclude this ramble. But, as my two month sojourn nears its end, all I know is that I feel better in June than I did in April.

Maybe my friend Misun would call it healing. Another soul soothed by the spirit of the island, under the quiet and benevolent gaze of the mountain – Halla – and in the stoic presence of the stone grandfathers. The hareubang.  

All of whom will remain after I am gone. Oblivious to my passing. Then, in time, they too will be eroded. And everything will have been for nothing. I simply cannot imagine anything more awesome or sublime, nor shatteringly beautiful.

In the end, we are all still. The grace of this is amazing.

Here, on an island of stone, I have proceeded without great purpose to stumble once again – literally and figuratively – upon an emancipation as complete as the sea.  

Now that’s what I call a destination.

Day 64: Resumption

The fracturing effect of air travel is evident this afternoon; having woken from a short snooze twenty minutes ago, still cloudy, and quite disoriented. The last bed I slept in is a hemisphere away. At the beginning of summer. This room resides at the onset of winter.

Here…back in Australia, though not at home. Rather, in central Brisbane, a gleaming city I have never been to. Typing in another hotel. Life still in a bag. English everywhere. No hint of Korean.

Thus, the journey continues. Six more weeks at least until I am able to move into the apartment earmarked as my next rental.

If Misun were around she would perhaps ask if I felt healed – although she would guess that the only answer I could honestly provide her would be interim at best. However, exhausted from another marathon of sitting on planes and lingering at airports, I can say unequivocally that I am pleasantly quieted. As though on another island. This one hazy, and not searchable online.     

Yet tomorrow – better rested – when the slam of a new destination greets my reawakened, travelling senses, and the usual round of catch-up calls commences…resume. Keep walking. Knowing only the ultimate destination, but not so much about the journey.

Of course – assuming there are any readers left at this point – you may wonder whether I will revisit the island. As I write, my intention is not to. This is not because I have grown tired of it, nor that Jeju has lost its lustre; rather that I am more deeply in love with it now than I was nine weeks ago. And I want it to stay that way, not become habitual, an easy assumption or dutiful presence. I would prefer it remain like those girls I once loved, the ones I was too afraid to ask, and who subsequently have not faded in my affection. The ones who still glow like love’s promise, and have not been dulled by its less attractive realities.  

For someone approaching sixty and long past the embrace of romance, Jeju-do is like the mythical girlfriend. The one you can just love. Boundlessly. We may perhaps interpret this as a form of healing.   

제주도, 고맙고. 사랑해요.

PS: About that You Tube video I referred to…here it is. Think of it as a filmic companion to this piece, for although it doesn’t go nowhere, it does proceed slowly.