Gamcheon Culture Village

I spent a long weekend earlier this month in Busan. The city had been calling my name since I arrived in Korea nine months ago: it’s the second largest after Seoul, known for its laid-back vibes and plentiful beaches. Someone who has resided in both described it to me as “the Vancouver of Korea”, so I jumped at the opportunity to go. The trip snuck up on me and I didn’t have much planned for it, but traveling without expectations always leads to pleasant surprises. My bus rolled into town late in the day, and I decided to make Gamcheon Culture Village my first outing as dusk fell.

 

Popular sites can be a disappointment. After seeing them in photos, filtered to perfection and mysteriously void of people, our own experiences tend to ring a little hollow. This was my initial feeling about Gamcheon Culture Village. My preconceptions about the place were vague but hopeful: I’d seen a few photos, skimmed the Wikipedia page, and heard from friends that it was a cool spot. I knew I was headed to a quirky village of colourful buildings stacked up a hillside. It had roots as a refugee settlement in the Korean War and had reinvented itself more recently as an arts and culture hub. I naively imagined myself uncovering a hidden gem: following the sea breeze down twisting alleyways and stumbling upon stunning murals on crumbling walls. A killer Instagram post was already forming in my mind’s eye.

When I crested the hill and rounded the corner onto the main street of the village, I was greeted by a near opposite scenario. The colourful structures were there, and the view of them sloping down to the sea beyond was enticing, but the foreground was a barrage of people, food, and souvenirs. This was clearly a tourist hot spot, and I’d chosen to stop by on a national holiday. I wasn’t strolling solo through idyllic side streets, I was cutting wide zigzags to avoid coming between a thousand cameras and a thousand peace signs. The activity in every direction was overwhelming.

The pace of the place required an adjustment, but it wasn’t a let down. Once I relaxed into it, I realized that the tourists were an experience in themselves; people watching at its finest. Korean families and couples were out in full force to enjoy their beautiful country – and to capture it on film. When I came up on a huge, seemingly endless line of people, I figured it must be for some edible local specialty. Instead, at the front I found that it was a queue for one of the ’Photo Zones’ marked throughout the village. Over one hundred people were patiently waiting for a turn with the iconic view. I scrambled up some steps to take in the proceedings from above because I’ve never seen postcard views recreated with such orderliness or dedication. When that grew old I turned off the main road, and the art that I found was pretty cool, even if I didn’t have it to myself.

The murals of the village were modest individually, but came together into a never-ending pastel daydream. No surface or walkway was left neutral when it could be pink, or mint, or lavender. Cartoon flowers blossomed from cracks in the concrete while a sly fox chased frolicking sheep down a flight of stairs. Against these depictions I found some less intentional beauty, too. At each turn there were little reminders (mail stuffed in a door handle, clothes hung out to dry) that these houses stacked impossibly close and steep were actually homes. A placard told me that each little feat of design, like the roofs and windows staggered just so, demonstrates the importance the local people place on being kind to their neighbours and coexisting peacefully. I’d say the greatest testament to their consideration, though, is their patience with the visiting crowds. And as a tourist myself, I’m grateful to them for it.