Perspective in Little Tibet

Christians who flock to Jerusalem or Buddhists to Varanasi or Elvis fans to his birthplace in Tupelo, Mississippi, these are people who I used to not get.

Spatial proximity to an idol or sacred location, I thought, was totally irrelevant, if it's not directly connected to some advice, instruction, or at least entertainment. It's just a little emotional lift, like eating a hot chili pepper but more expensive.

Waiting for the Dalai Lama

I suppose I've come to acknowledge some sort of strange magic in it, in proximity.

When I first saw my own idol, Slash, he played live and transformed before my eyes from a Guitar-God forged of pure Awesomeness into a talented flesh and blood human--probably somebody who spent many hours practicing alone in a room, like me.   

Likewise, a week ago, when I saw the Dalai Lama drive by in his car, escorted by police and welcomed by a crowd of deep-bowing, well-wishers and clouds of incense, he transformed from a fuzzy concept in my head into some dude in a car who attracted a lot of friggin attention.  

A pretty crappy picture of the Dalai Lama, seated on the far left.

Of course, I'd previously been aware of his being a religious celebrity but I suddenly had the burning question: Why him and not this monk to the left who stood waiting in the cold to catch a glimpse? He looks like he could use a little attention.

What makes the man in the car into THE DALAI FRIGGIN LAMA? 

Well, it's really an interesting story that stretches the boundaries of plausibility for most western minds, I think.

Here's one thread of this wooly narrative:

Once upon a time (2500 years ago) there was a warrior prince in India, a land where people were divided by caste and the prince was of the highest. He was, from birth, groomed to lead combat and live in opulence.  But, as he matured into young adulthood, he traveled his land and was devastated by the suffering of the lower castes that his palace existence had sheltered him from. 

He renounced his wealth and wandered his land trying many spiritual practices, including the most ascetic. But the suffering in his heart remained.  He finally sat himself beneath a Bodhi tree, waiting, concentrating on compassion, feeding on insects and leaves, until one day, he was Enlightened.

This man, whose name was Siddhartha, was given the title Buddha. And he gave sermons to spread his teachings. And his teachings became known as Dharma.

Included in Dharma is the doctrine of reincarnation and karma: life follows death follows life follows death, ad infinitum.  Karma, constituted by the life-time actions of a sentient being, dictates--sort of as a natural law, like gravity--what life form you will take after you die.

During one's lifetime(s), spiritual tasks, rituals, prayers and deeds might lead one eventually to Enlightenment, which frees one from karma, from desire, from suffering, and therefore from the chain of endless rebirth.

However, an Enlightened being does not selfishly rejoice; rather s/he chooses to be reborn into the material world of suffering beings after his/her death. S/he does this with the sole purpose of bringing others to Enlightenment. Such beings are called Bodhisattvas of Compassion--Enlightened beings willfully reincarnated into our world to annihilate our karma--and they live among us in this story.

About a thousand years after the Buddha achieved his Enlightenment, there was a man named Songtsen Gampo who ruled Tibet, which was a warring nation that had claimed much territory, including large areas of China (ironically), Nepal and Mongolia. In the 7th century, this Tibetan King took two wives, one from Nepal and the other from China. Both wives were Buddhist and began planting the seeds of Dharma within him, and the seeds germinated in the government, eventually taking root in the whole country. Temples were built, scholars were invited, Buddhist education was implemented, and the warring nation of Tibet put down its swords and became peaceful.

As these Buddhist schools became increasingly developed and the monks more judicious in their studies and determined in their spiritual pursuit, an epiphany occurred to them. Likely their dead ancestors--also having been highly evolved spiritual monks and scholars and certainly Bodhisattvas--must be choosing to reincarnate around them as humans, to further the teaching of Dharma.  Thus began, around the great Tibetan schools of Buddhism, the idea of a 'tulku', a Buddhist teacher (that is, a 'lama') who, after dying, reincarnates into a human form again in Tibet to Enlighten students of Dharam. Thus, when one tulku died, a search began for the reincarnation within relative close proximity (there's that magical proximity, again); the search includes oracular consultations, and identifying the tulku by careful study of the behavior of young candidates born shortly after the tulku's death. Upon identification, this child would inherit all he had accumulated in his previous life.

Among the many great schools and temples was one called the Gelug school of Buddhism, founded in the late 1300's ~ early 1400's by one of the greatest Tibetan Buddhist scholars, Je Tsongkhapa. This was the most important of all schools.The head "lama" (teacher of Buddhist doctrine) of this school was a spiritual leader for Tibet. When the head of this school, who also was a tulku, died, a search began for his reincarnation. They found him, and he became the 2nd 'head lama' of the great Gelug school.

The 3rd head lama of this school was a highly evolved monk named Sonam Gyatso among whose achievements was his teaching the Mongolian King about Buddhism, and thus converting the Mongol. Gyatso means 'ocean', which in Mongolian is 'dalai'. Hence the title "Dalai Lama", which from then on was reserved for the head of this influential Buddhist school.  The title was then applied, retrospectively, to the two former lamas.  So Sonam Gyatso was the third "Dalai Lama", a title reserved for just one being, reincarnated over and over again for the sole reason of annihilating karma.

The 5th Dalia Lama,Lopsang Gyatso, became--in addition to Tibet's spiritual leader--also the administrative ruler, and the chief political administrators of Tibet, from the 17th century onward, have been the Dalai Lama, and the commoners have happily been led him and the monks ever since.
After the death of the 13th Dalai Lama, the 14th Dalai Lama was finally located--after 4 years of searching--in the East of Tibet as a young babe living at a modest mountain farm. During the lifetime of this Dalai Lama in the mid 20th century, a neighboring country called China, quickly becoming a global superpower, producer of knick-knacks and complete worldwide asshole, claimed Tibet as one of its territories. The peace-loving Dalai Lama tried to accommodate their new master, but the brutal tyrant used torture, imprisonment, genocide and propaganda in a (failed) effort to secularize the Tibetan people into a materially productive hive of consumer/worker drones.  With lives threatened, the Dalai Lama and many others were forced to escape into India, into exile, back to the same nation where Buddhism had begun, with Siddhartha under the Bodhi tree. There, they began to re-establish their temples, schools, medical clinics and government in various areas of India, particularly in Dharamsala, mountainous as it was an thus, reminiscent of their stolen home, Tibet.  

Among the tasks of the 14th Dalai Lama is spreading not only Dharma, but also furthering the cause of freeing Tibet, now a police state with a quickly deteriorating environment, from Chinese rule. But despite his busy schedules, he regularly returns to his people and residence in Dharamsala, India, to give teachings. One spring in the early 21st century, on route to his residence in exile, this Dalai Lama was driven within a certain proximity of a person who wrote a long-winded blog about it.

In Dharamsala

I arrived at dawn and totted my backpack up narrow crumbling steps toward the Pink House, a budget hotel with all the luxuries I needed: a toilet, a bed, and hot water. The frills, free wifi, a rooftop café, and the thick blankets piled on the bed won my favor, as did the owner who seemed trustworthy and jovial. I recommend the place to travelers.

I later discovered that I wasn’t actually staying in Dharamsala proper, but rather up the road at McLeod Ganj. Most hotels are situated here, the bazaar is bigger, and there’s generally more to do.

To wander little McLeod Ganj is an exploit of the senses, though milder than larger cities of India, so I hear. In addition to the sights and sounds of Hindus, Tibetans, beggars, music, vehicles, cows, dogs and monkeys crowding the two parallel streets constituting the bazaar, strong smells of incense, marijuana, feces, garbage and cooking food lace the air.

After traveling around Northern India a bit, this area is definitely my favorite because of the sights, diversity, costs and friendliness—probably a result of the Tibetans.

The Tibetan influence is one that I wasn’t really interested in at first, and I didn’t much care that this place was often called “little Lhasa”. The village’s petite size and mountainous location were what drew me here first, as well as a perverse desire to see all the spiritual nut-jobs attracted here, and there are a few. But I’ve come to really appreciate the Tibetan influence, even if the Buddhist philosophy driving most of their society is implausible to me. Just the magnitude and perseverance of the Tibetan tradition, fueled by the philosophy and spiritual symbolism, is very awesome.

From my perspective (not an expert), the Tibetan society has told itself a beautiful and grand story, a myth, in which the people have stepped into and now live.  It’s a good story; reincarnated Bodhisattvas, engines of karmic reward and retribution, nirvana, as well as hope and a means for those who suffer.

I wonder if the mind-boggling sums of cash Hollywood consistently grosses is an indication that modern people are searching for a same kind of myth or story—a narrative that gives their lives a sense of direction, purpose and a meaning more personal and vibrant than the ‘atoms in the void’ story that contemporary science tells. When God died, Hollywood was born. 

To live the Tibetan story requires costumes, props, symbolic places, symbolic behaviours and scripts. 

Destination Dharamsala

Getting to Dharamsala

A sturdy, filth-spewing bus departed from Delhi with only myself and two others aboard—an unexpected luxury, which was nice, I thought, since I’d be here for the next 13 hours (which turned out to be more like 17 due to a couple stops for make-shift repair work).

More driving in Delhi, more mind-blowing scenes.  The first jaw-dropping sight was a huge, ancient castle occupying several city blocks. It was redish and in total disrepair. The large peacock perched on a domed tower was a nice touch. Again, at the red lights, the beggars swarmed: this time children were dancing to a drum, doing cart-wheels and yogi contortions through the huffing traffic.  A woman came, reached her hand up and as I shook it, I realized that the hand belonged to a Hindu drag queen.

“Am I pretty?”  

“Uhhh…”

“Kiss me”. 

“No”. 

“Fuck me”. 

“Please get away from here”. 

Moving again, entire families piled on motor-cycles rode alongside while the multicolour saris of the women flapped in the windy pollution; dusty pedestrians J-walked and J-ran across the hectic highways busy with whatever chore; off the road were garbage can bonfires belching black smoke over old men with long white beards; corrugated metal hovels rusted badly and sagged, while cows, dogs, donkeys, and even camels scuttled or laboured around. Every degree of poverty on the spectrum seemed to be represented here.

And seemingly, every sort of religion. Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Tibetans, Seculars, Christians—all identified by clothing, jewellery and make-up.

Delhi lives. There are so many people.  In every gritty nook and littered hole you see somebody or more. And every inch of the place seems simultaneously under construction and yet falling apart at the seams. Delhi is intense.

Only an hour into our trip we made a stop. In piled people into every vacant seat, and their luggage was crammed everywhere else. Good-bye spacious luxury. 

Five or six hours later, thoroughly cramped and having exhausted every conceivable bodily posture in search for something approaching comfort, we stopped again and the bus emptied. Thank god, or ganesh, or whoever. There were vendors outside and I hadn’t eaten for 18 hours.  After a piss and a chocolate bar, I felt ready to take on India again.

It was mind-boggling that after 9 hours of bus travel, though the city was behind us, humanity was not. There wasn’t a break in traffic or commercial/industrial lights shinning in the night.  Not until the 10^th hour.

The flatlands—which I presumed to be India’s Northern plains—came to an end and from the further north entered the mountains, at first with gradual ups and downs but quickly into more of a hair-raising experience. The road had become narrow and snaking, leading the bus over jaw-dropping cliffs, bowel-clenching bridges and through the rain.  At some points I looked out the window to see mere inches between the wheel and a cliff’s edge. I closed my eyes to summon relaxation but no such thing appeared. I opened them again as the bus wound around the side of a sickly steep mountain slope and I saw an awe-inspiring vista of gigantic emptiness spread across a terrifying gorge that our road wrapped all the way around. After 3 hours of this sort of nerve-jangling drive, we finally reached mountainous Dharamsala. 

Morning

Late Afternoon

Night

The three above photos were taken from my hotel room. 

Delhi, India, February 12/2011

Arrival in Delhi

The plane touched down in Delhi at 9:30, local time. The smog was visible from inside the airport, a haze that drifted through the fluorescent lights, tasting faintly like burnt tires.

I sat on a bench hugging my backpack. My resolve to stay there the night and avoid hotel bills lasted about an hour.  I felt small, foreign and on display there, filled as it was with all manners of the unfamiliar: countless languages, turbines, long beards, flashy saris, suits, and people who generally seemed to know where they were going.

At one of the booths I paid 200 rupees for a taxi that would drive me to an over-priced hotel at which I’d just booked a room.  “Go to the yellow and black taxis outside sir”, the man said, “and give him your receipt. He will take you to your hotel”. 

No problem, right?

My First Scam

Outside the chaos thickened. More varieties of people, more vendors, and every sort of transportation you can imagine was there except my ride, the black and yellow taxis.  A face in the crowd hollered at me: “Prepaid taxis are over there”. His finger pointed into the gloom beyond.  I walked hesitantly in that direction, memorized by all the weird little cars and the awesome diversity of people and noises. The face came at me, saying, “here, follow me”.  So he led me down a ramp into an underground passage, making small talk about where I’m from and whatnot.  I remembered that my researches of India informed me that ‘anybody who appears to be helping you is somebody who you should be very sceptical about’.  Alarm.

“Do you work for the airport?” I asked him. 

“Yes”, he said, followed by some “blah blah blah blah”. 

It was a leading question I quickly realized and I should just asked him why he was helping me, or casually asked what he did for a living.  Oh well.

Up the ramp we went, surfacing on the other side of the lanes of traffic. He called the so-called taxi driver on his cellular.  It felt sketchy.

“So, a yellow and black taxi is coming then?” I asked, trying to feel like I was on top of things.

“Oh yes of course”.

What came was a black car with yellow tape over the top and a yellow sticker on the side with something written in Hindi.  When I got in, my discomfort deepened upon seeing that there was not only a driver but also somebody in the passenger seat.  We departed.  I scanned for weapons and saw nothing.

We drove into the smoggy darkness of crumbling roads and sprawling wasteland while the two in the front talked in hushed tones.  One turned back to me, asking, “Is this your first time in India?”

“No”, I lied.  “I’ve been here a few times.  I’m meeting a friend at that hotel on the receipt. He’s expecting me”. 

“Oh. He is an Indian friend?”

“Yes” I lied again.  My mouth was dry, palms sweaty—symptoms of deep anxiety.  We were well into the slums now and I felt pretty over-whelmed and vulnerable. Out the window I saw dogs fighting, dilapidated buildings missing entire walls and the guts spilled into the littered streets where the many homeless wandered. Fires burned, shadowy figures crisscrossed, neon signs flickered and we were doing circles.

“I can’t find your hotel sir”. The two men stopped the car, claiming that they could take me to another hotel instead, or let me out there, on porch of hell.  With a strength I didn’t feel, I told them pretty sternly to take me back to the airport so I could find a competent taxi.  They said they would, on the condition that I leave the taxi receipt with them. So back we went.

The airport, which only 20 minutes ago seemed so vast and alien was such a relief to return to, chaotic, uncaring, but comparatively safe. I got out of the taxi and left.

I had to buy another prepaid taxi, and the man at the counter explained that this was a common scam.

The second attempt was a success.  I got to the hotel, searched the place for insects or other pests, found none, and slept restlessly while outside the dogs of Delhi barked.

 

Booking Transportation to Dharamsala

I stayed in Delhi for a little over 2 days, more or less against my will.

I was staying at the International Inn—a hotel which, despite the slummy neighbourhood but likely due to its proximity to the airport, exceeded the budget I’d set myself. It was 2200 rupees a night. In so far that it had a sit-down toilet, I guess it was a classy joint.

After spending a day wasting effort trying to reach my destination, the next morning, full of stoic optimism, I set out for the 3^rd time to the airport in the hopes of booking a flight into Dharamshala, home of the 14^th incarnation of the exiled Dali Lama of Tibet. I knew that Kingfisher airlines had flights from Delhi to the Gaggal airport—situated a mere 20 km from Dharamsala.

Plan: 1) go to airport, 2) buy ticket, 3) fly.

No problem, right?

Nobody at the airline counter seemed to know what the hell I was talking about. Was Lonely Planet and the internet lying? Had things changed?  I went to every airline booth and still, nobody knew where Dharamsala was, or the name of the airport nearby. Three hours later, my optimism frayed at the edges of frustration, I conceded failure and went back to the hotel.  A good sleep, more internet research, and I’d figure it all out.  I pushed back the urge to just get the next flight back home…not knowing where home was exactly, Korea or Canada.  With that thought, I fought back the feelings of being lost, rudderless and alone. 

At the hotel the receptionist, a friendly-seeming fellow and surprised to see me again, asked why I was back. Too tired to fake an air of competence, I threw my cards on the table, admitting that I was having difficulties getting to where I wanted to go. “So sir, please book me another room”.

He told me that he could set up the flight for me. A phone call later, he told me to give him 7000 rupees; all I had to do was show up at the airport and the ticket would be ready for me, waiting.  Not knowing if I was being paranoid or shrewd, I had no intention of giving him 7000 rupees.  “Let me sleep on it” I said. 

And I went up to my room to figure things out or at least brood.  An hour later a phone beside my table rang. On the other end, the receptionist explained that he can have me on a bus to Dharamsala by 5:30 in the afternoon.  The bus ticket would be 600 rupees.  Cheap. 

The catch: the bus station is a 40 minute drive away; his ‘friend’ would drive me there for 1000 rupees.

Do I trust this guy? I asked myself No. But I weighed my options and found few.  Shrugging, I gave him 1000 rupees, thanked him as sincerely as I could, and wished for the best.

The 40 minutes through Delhi were as mind-blowing as they were alarming, a swarming interchange of motorbikes, buses, pedestrians, bikers, cows, rickshaws, cars and the consistent disregard for any sort of traffic rule except for ‘get there first and try not to die’.  In every case that a Canadian would courteously yield, an Indian blares the horn and accelerates.  At red lights, women beggars ran into the lanes holding their feeble, dirt-covered toddlers or babies into the car windows, asking for handouts. Construction crews patching the broken roads peppered the lanes and children ran barefoot across the debris through which stray dogs zig-zagged and cattle lazed.  In the clearness of the day, the smog was even yellower and more obvious. 

I realized somewhere along this ride that my hotel hadn’t been in a slummy area; Delhi was generally just rundown and over-populated.  It was dusty and crumbling and had gathered its filth and urban decay in such a manner that it was sort of beautiful, in an ancient seeming sort of way. Maybe there was a cleaner area but I never saw it.

“You want I can drive in this car you all way at Dharamsala”, reported my driver, breaking my cycle of thoughts.   

“Ha”, I laughed. “No”.  It’s a 13 hour drive. The bus would have to be cheaper.  His comment casted a cloud of doubt over the alleged legitimacy of what was transpiring.

When we stopped, I told the driver to wait while I got my ticket inside.

The building looks as if it has tried and nearly succeeded in burning itself down. Nothing in its appearance announces bus stop or a travel agency, but things in Delhi, I’ve come to understand, rarely meet expectation. As I go to the entrance, my driver leaves. 

Well then. Shit.

As it turned out, this was a travel agency, they were reputable, and a happy ending seemed close at hand. I bought the ticket and had about 2 hours to wait until the bus arrived. Great—I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Outside I found chipmunks, monkeys (!), and a stand that sold bottled water at special prices for tourists, only a 1000% mark-up!  I had enough for a bottle of water which I nursed while I waited with the monkeys.

YakCheonSa, Jeju, Korea

The 3-meter high, central, golden Buddha housed within YakCheonSa can be seen towering serenely over my friend beneath it.

YakCheonSa (약천사): literally medicine (Yak), stream (Cheon), temple (Sa).

The name is said to come from a pond situated on the temple grounds which was thought, or possibly still is thought, to consist of medicinal waters. I've heard that some Buddhists still drink from it. 

Though I've been to this temple sitting on Jeju's southern coast near Jungmoon numerous times, my latest visit was in late January (2011). Personally, it ranks among my favorites if only due to it's grandiosity.

As I understand it, Yakcheonsa is Jeju's largest temple; the languid slope of the roof reaches 28 meters in height, while the surrounding grounds occupy roughly 122,000 square meters--the second largest area in Jeju after Gwaneumsa, a temple which covers even more.

According to 'Discovering Korea', it was built sometime in the 1990's and styled after architecture common to Korea's Joseon dynasty. 

The temple's entrance, seen from inside

The two nuns at the entrance were welcoming and did not object to my friend and I photographing the place.
In the picture above, you can see the entrance, the 2nd floor, which has a prayer room adorned with pink lanterns hanging from the ceiling and mats laid on the ground, and the 3rd floor, where thousands of little Buddha figures can be seen meditating behind glass.

There is a fourth floor as well, but it is not accessible to the public.

Doing a 180 degree turn from the entrance, you can see the main alter, photographed on the right.

And turning 90 degrees to either side, there are dragons wrapped around pillars that extend all the way to the dark ceiling, four stories above.









On both the 2nd and 3rd floors, balconies overhang, offering a nice view of the main alter.

A pavilion outside, housing a large drum.

From outside you can see the Yellow Sea and two large pavilions, one of which houses a large drum and the other a bell of bronze.  Around the premises are several citrus and palm trees; around back is  a small shrine tucked inside an artificial cave named Gulbupdang (굴법당), used by local Shamans. In Jeju, shamanism and Buddhism have co-existed and co-influenced each other over time. 

The monks of YakCheonSa are styled in the Jogye order of Buddhism, a type specific to Korea and thought to be over 1000 years old. You can hear them chanting in their grey robes during the evening, around 6 or 7 pm.

Temple Stays:


Temple stays are offered every first and third weekend; a longer three-day traditional culture program is offered every forth Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The temple also offers a Temple Life program, which takes place over two hours and is great for those with busier schedules.
Yakcheonsa has someone who can communicate in English. Temple stays typically cost around 50,000 won. If you are interested in temple stay in Jeju, send e-mail to Yakchunsa. yakchunsa@hanmail.net

Getting There:
Taking the famous Olle trails as a landmark, the temple is seated at the starting point of Olle 7 and the end point of Olle 8. By car,vtaking road 1139 to Seogwipo, then left on 1132 will get you there. I also year that bus #600 from the main terminal of the airport goes to the temple.

It is open 24 hours and entrance is free.

Chilmoridang Yeongdeung gut

With Jeju claiming to have 500 temples and 500 shrines and literally hundreds of annual religious rites conducted by local shamans, to wonder why the Chilmoridang Yeongdeung ceremony draws so much attention is a natural curiosity. Why makes this one more special than the others?

The Korean national government decreed the ritual 'National Cultural Asset no.71', back in 1980, and more recently, in September of 2009, UNESCO accepted the ritual on its list of Intangible Cultural Heritages of Humanity - an acknowledgment that can garner international attention.

Chilmoridang Yeongdeung gut

Gut (굿):  This word is pronounced 'goot' and, in Korean, refers to a shamanistic festival or ritual.

Yeongdeung: this is a god/dess whose gender is fixed in neither the literature nor in Jeju folklore. These days, according to 'Island of the Gods - Jeju Myths and Legends', the goddess is known as Yeongdeung Harmang - literally, 'Yeongdeung grandmother'. The same book says s/he was originally a male god, as you can tell from the following Jeju myth (paraphrased by me) which the Yeongdeung ceremony addresses in performance:  

Long ago, fishermen of Hallim's Hansuri village were shipwrecked by a terrible storm in an unknown land of giant monsters of the genus cyclops; they were huge, human-eating beasts. Fortunately, Yeongdeung was there too and, being both a giant like the cyclopes, and "virtuous" unlike the cyclopes, he hid the fishermen from the monsters. When finally the seas found calm again, he told them to recite the words, "kanam bosal, kanam bosal' continuously until they reached home in their ship. And so with this instruction, he set them afloat, homeward bound.

The fishermen recited the charm...up to a point. After much time had come and gone, they could finally see their hometown and relaxed unduly, hence bringing them to forget their mantra. Immediately thereupon, a storm violently erupted and brought them back to the land of cyclopes. Yeongdeung was still there, luckily for them. The god saved their lives again, but on this occasion, the cyclopes knew of Yeongdeung's charitable work. In a fury, they cut the god into 3 chunks and threw him out to the sea piece by piece. Yeongdeung's head became Udo; the body became Sunrise Peak, and the feet landed at Hansuri, near the hometown of the fishermen. But despite this unhappiness, the fishermen were able to return home safely.

Many of Jeju's people believe, or used to believe, that Yeongdeung still visits their island yearly, arriving on the 1st day of the 2nd month (of the lunar calendar) and leaving on the 15th day of the same month. Hence, the 'gut', or shamanistic ritual, of which Yeongdeung is a center-piece.

Chilmoridang: the last syllable of this word, 'dang', means 'shrine'.  The chilmoridang is the name of a shrine that was once in Geo-nip village, on the slopes of Sarabong (the name of one of Jeju's many small volcanic hills). Though Yeongdeung rituals have been and are still held in various of the small island's villages, at this place it was most elaborately performed, owing to the amount of fishing and number of haenyeo (Jeju woman divers who hand-gather various seafood) who rely on the ocean for harvest.

Traditionally, the ritual's purpose has been to welcome and then bid farewell to Yeongdeung and pray also for safety in the ocean, as well as abundant harvests.

With the historical reliance on the sea for food, the significance of this ritual to the people can be readily appreciated; and it's for this reason mainly that the ritual has been added to UNESCO's list.

It is, however, slightly boring when compared with other shamanistic ceremonies on the island.  Mostly, it is prayer and costume sort of show.

 Kim Yoon Su, the male shaman in the pictures, spends much of the ritual reciting prayers while occasionally twirling slowly, or performing other rituals involving food preparation, presumably as an offering to Yeongdeung. *Yawn*

The atmosphere has a certain sacred oriental feeling, which is pleasant and often intensified by the drums and chanting, which rise and recede but then rise again to an emotional-charged pitch. 







Here are some photos of Kim Yoon Su dancing in costume to drums and chanting, for Yeongdeung.

 

(Left) A woman chanting in a hanbok (traditional Korean attire) and absolving bad luck ritualistically, with what I surmise are sacred pompoms.

(Right): A performance by a couple of women who I think are haenyeo or at least the representation thereof. The performance was semi-comedic. 

As the performance resolves, there appear 5 or 6 costumed folks representing Yeongdeung (below), and there is dancing and members of the audience are invited to the stage to dance in a circle. The audience is aged, though clearly the ritual summons a spirit of youthful in them, even if it fails to summon Yeongdeung himself.
 

UNESCO:

Kim Yoon-su, speaking on the ceremony's acknowledgment by UNESCO, says to Arirang, "I'm very happy to hear the news and I feel a greater sense of responsibility to work harder to preserve and develop the shaman rite since it's now a world cultural heritage."
A key benefit to UNESCO's tip of the hat, according to Korea's media, Arirang, is that "the value of the island's brand has increased. If the Yeongdeung Gut is developed for tourism purposes, it will contribute to the growth of the local economy".

As such, the likelihood is that the local government will provide funds to preserve the rite. Already the results can be seen. The performance photographed above was actually just that: a performance rather than a rite in the strict sense of the word. It was held 4 months off the traditional date, no doubt in an effort to gain attention rather than the religious/cultural impetus of yesteryear. 

What to make of this? Is it sacrilege to do Yeongdeung's song and dance for profit? 

I once heard the opinion of one of Jeju's locals whose name I can't recall, what she thought about the current state of shamanism, namely, that of it becoming a crowd-pleaser and a wallet fattener. Her response surprised me, and I'll try to paraphrase it as best I can: 'Better that it exists as a performance than to have it fade away entirely'. 

And fade away it would, and still might.  The audience that these kind of rites summon is an aging one, and the Jeju people of the younger generation (meaning aged 40 and under), if aware of these things at all, generally find shamans and these rituals sort of weird and tediously superstitious, but mostly irrelevant.