By Rick Ruffin
Yvon Chouinard, founder and president of Patagonia Inc., a maker of high quality outdoor clothing, states: ``We're asking our customers to think twice before they buy one of our jackets: Do you really need it, or are you just bored and you want it?”
Chouinard stresses the importance of not buying stuff if it really isn’t needed. Perhaps the California-based entrepreneur would like living in South Korea (actually he did live here in the 1960s when he pioneered several rock climbing routes in Mt. Bukhan National Park), because the people here, like Mr. Chouinard, are anything but traditional businessmen.
For instance, I was at a bicycle shop the other day. I wanted to buy some bungy straps. The owner of the bicycle shop pointed to a bunch of old inner tubes heaped in a dusty pile in the corner. ``Those are free,” he said, ``and they will do the same job that a new bungy strap will.” I wasn’t able to spend any money, but I left with some old inner tubes in my hands.
Often, merchants of South Korea would rather see their customers walk out of the door with a little money still in their pockets than to make extra profit. That makes shopping in South Korea a pleasant, albeit occasionally frustrating, experience.
I say frustrating because there are times when I really do want to spend money. One time, right after I arrived here, I was sitting at a small food stand. I wanted to buy a bottle of soju to drink while enjoying my food. The vendor, a woman who I knew, refused to sell me the bottle. ``It’s cheaper down the street,” she said.
``But I don’t want to go down the street,” I replied. ``I want to drink it here.”
This banter went on back and forth. The woman was trying to save me money, but I was willing to spend an extra 1,000 won in order to drink the soju there. I wanted to avoid the inconvenience of going down the street, but she insisted on trying to save me money. My entreaties were all in vain. She never sold me the soju.
Such a conversation never would have taken place in New York City. In ``The Big Apple,” the minute you offer a merchant ― or anyone for that matter ― money, it’s gone. The proper expression is ``in a New York city second.”
In South Korea, everyone looks out for one another. The other night, when staying at the Twin Motel in Gisa-myeon, a small village near 38 Degrees North on Gangwon Province’s east coast, I went down to the restaurant on the first floor to buy a beer. The woman happily sold me a beer, but the other woman said, ``You know, if you go down the street it’s only 1,750 won,” she said.
``Hush,” said her friend.
``I don’t want to go down the street. It’s dark and I am afraid of ghosts,” I said.
The poor owners of that restaurant had to settle at making a profit.
An American I know was in a computer shop in the east coast seaport of Donghae. He was trying to buy a new computer. The salesman kept showing him last year’s model. ``This is cheaper,” said the salesman.
``But I don’t want cheaper,” pleaded the American. ``I want the best and the latest. I want this year’s model.” They bantered back and forth for half an hour, but the American never got the computer he wanted.
The American was trying to spend money. The Korean was trying to save him his money.
In many ways, Koreans simply don’t make very good capitalists. A Canadian-Korean once stated in The Korea Times that Koreans don’t love money enough. ``Koreans must learn to love money,” he wrote.
I’m not sure I agree with that. The whole world loves money, and knowing that there are a few places where people don’t worship money gives me just a little bit of hope. In parts of South Korea, that hope still remains.
The writer lives in Donghae City, Gangwon Province. He can be reached at rick_ruffin@yahoo.com.