Whose generation?
Had I heard of the Korean Wave while I was in the UK I would probably have assumed it was an Asian take on a Central American football terrace tradition. The closest I ever came to being subsumed by it was when hiring a copy of Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring from a North Liverpool Blockbusters. A good film it was, but it hardly seemed at the forefront of a pop-culture tsunami hitting the shores of Asia.

When I moved to Korea my ignorance matured into scepticism. In the Land of the Morning Calm, where everything from the genes to the ginger are considered the best in the world, you learn to take things with a pinch of salt - even the MSG. Recently, however, after moving to South East Asia, my Wave-scepticism has begun to lift.



I was sitting in a Kuala Lumpur coffee shop when it first hit me; jangling away, the tune took a while to ring any bells. I turned to see a group of fashionable twenty-somethings sipping their mochas. The jingle didn’t abate and a girl reached into her handbag in a bid to silence it. It was as her triumphant phone-clasping hand emerged that it hit me – ‘Oh, oh, oh, o-ba-leul sa-rang hae. Oh, oh, oh, man-hi man-hi hae’! It made me Korea-sick in a homesick kind of way.

That was the first of many Wave moments on my journey through South East Asia. As long as the phones kept ringing, Girls Generation et al wouldn’t stop singing. K-pop-by-mobile is more unpleasant than you’d imagine.

It’s hard to describe just how popular Korean culture is in South East Asia. Go to any market from Phnom Penh to Vientiane and visit the DVD sellers - photocopied sleeves piled high, the poor quality, techni-colour screams ‘pirated in China'. It takes no small amount of courage to hunch over and penetrate these shaded grottos, shielded from the sun and prying eyes. Amongst the digital harvest there will always be at least one side dedicated to Korean films, and at least two to the music. Then there are the dramas.

Dining in a noodle bar it is not uncommon to see three generations sat round a DVD player, watching the latest dramas of the Seoul socialites. Turn on Thai TV and be hit with daily, hour-long specials on Korean music, with live rundowns from Seoul every week. Walk past comic book stores, deep with lurking Manga maniacs, and eye the racks of pop-culture magazines, sporting names such as Seoul and K-Idols, adorned with collages of The Wonder Girls and Big Bang. If this is the Wave on its retreat, its advance must have been frightening.

What explains this continuing Asian zeal for Korean pop-culture? Amongst the teeny boppers, haircuts and (pirated) DVD sales, does the Wave have a deeper significance as we begin what many commentators believe will be the ‘Asian century’?

A Chinese revolution
The Wave began in the late 90s, when a compilation CD of that name was released in China. The name was picked up by Chinese media and it stuck. It wasn’t long before Korean ‘maniac groups’ were formed to emulate their idols and Korean music was the only foreign representative in the Chinese charts. Korean actors topped popularity polls and the mania spread throughout East and South East Asia.



During industrialisation, the ‘Asian Tiger’ economies initially looked to the West and Japan for their cultural icons, but with growing confidence the cultural flow over the East Sea has arguably reverted to west-east, something the Koreans and Chinese may point out is a reversion to type.

Korea now seems to have usurped Japan as the arbiter of cool in the region and there is increasing interest in Korean food, language and culture. Korean teacher, Kim Young-Il, a one-time journalist with the Choson Ilbo and long-time South-East-Asian resident has seen the changes around him.

“As Korea developed people became more interested in our language and trade. I have seen it in Vietnam, Thailand and now Laos. More recently there has been interest in our culture, too,” he said, proudly. “Here in Laos the main cultural influences are Thailand and Korea.”

Letting the rabbit out of the hat?
As the sleeping tiger (or is it a rabbit?) has awoken, everywhere from Shanghai to Singapore has begun playing to the Korean cultural tune. Seoul, amongst the youth of South East Asia, is seen as a glamour capital, rivalling Tokyo in the fashion, movie and music stakes.

The tendency to look to the West has decreased and a modernised, self-defined Korean identity is being expressed. Korea may offer Asia something to relate to in the way the West, or even Japan – with its colonial legacy – cannot.

As a teacher in a (Korean-owned) Vientiane language school, it is hard not to notice the Big Bang pencil cases and K-pop paraphernalia that accompany students into the classroom. I asked students why there was such a strong identification with Korean pop culture.

“It just seems natural for us to listen to Korean music. I don’t know why but it seems more accessible than American pop. We like American pop, but we more follow K-pop,” one said.

Another, more mature, student, said that she has seen the change and feels the Korean stars are better role models for the younger generation than most pop stars.

“I quite like Korean music and the groups are good role models so I let my children listen,” she said. “We can see Korean influence in many places today. Many people buy Korean make-up and get Korean hairstyles.”

K-Wave paves the way
The Wave may be defined by pop culture, that most throwaway of exports, but it isn’t stopping there. The whole of Indochina is, even in this age of austerity, feeling the finger of Korean investment.

Drive down Cambodia’s country-dissecting rural expressways, and keep your eyes peeled for Korean factories. Once you hit the suburbs you’ll see the expected Hyundai car dealerships, then once downtown the banks start popping up.

Korea set up Cambodia’s newly opened stock exchange and is currently leading the investment in its Lao equivalent. Investment by Korea in what are known as the CLMV ASEAN countries (Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar, Vietnam) has risen exponentially in the last decade.

Alongside being the number one foreign investor in Cambodia, Korea is also the biggest investor in Vietnam in recent years and is in the top five in Laos. Japan, so long the regional powerhouse, ranks below Korea on most measures of foreign investment in the region.

This regional expression of cultural and economic power is certainly intriguing to those of us who feared the hegemony of Westernisation and although it may only be a matter of years before China starts to flex its cultural muscles, the success of Korea may give hope to CLMV countries.

It is Korea’s unique path to development that can in some ways serve as a role model to neighbouring nations, prompting admiration and hope, rather than fear. A Cambodian NGO worker, Sophat agreed,

“The appeal of Korean development is that they have gone from being least developed to rivalling the top economies in the world. We can relate to them for that and we want to emulate their growth,” he said.

It was in November 2009 that Korea officially joined the OECD Development Assistance Committee (DAC) and as such became the first country ever to have graduated from a receiver of aid to an official donor within the OECD. Teacher Kim Young-Il also believes that such economic growth is inextricably linked to cultural resurgence.

“The Wave seems to be steadying now, but we can see a growth of Korean investment on its back. It is almost like one helped the other. People come to know Korea through our music and dramas, so they are more willing to do business with us. This is certainly true for teaching Korean. All of the girls in my class were inspired by Big Bang, or some other group,” Kim said.

The fact that Korea has become a leading cultural and economic light in Eastern Asia is not to be lauded for its own sake, but when an Asian identity is only going to strengthen in the coming decades why shouldn’t Korea, with its recent history of triumph against adversity, be at the forefront of what it means to be Asian in the 21st century?

Suffice to say, the next time I hear The Wondergirls plead ‘tell me, tell me, t-t-t-t-t-tell me,’ rather than mutter my dislike for bubblegum pop, I might just tell them “thank God you’re not Girls Aloud.”

Arriving into KL LCCT felt fairly familiar after the three month-old visit of January. The bus ticket sellers had the same pushy jovialness and the Air Asia horde had the same bone idleness. Even the walk out of arrivals past the coffee kiosks and taxis felt over familiar.

The flight over was typical fare for Air Asia – changes, delays and arguments at check-in. Well, to be fair, I was at fault for the low key dispute, but I will still be checking the Air Asia website for hoodwinking tactics in the pre-pay baggage section. A walked through departures $10 lighter.

Arriving in at the LCCT the first stop for the budget traveller is the Sky Bus terminal. Being an Air Asia-affiliated service it was no great surprise to endure a two hour journey, rather than the advertised one. My hotel was in the vicinity of the now-defunct bus station and I knew of a proper English curry house not too far away. I urged the bus on as the anticipation in my stomach grew.



Visiting Kuala Lumpur for the first time back in January was like a pilgrimage for me. I had never been in a place with real Indians, eating real curry. Whether an Indian in Kuala Lumpur is more real than an Indian on Turnpike Lane is open to debate, but for me the KL Indians win.

Kuala Lumpur has the smells, vibes and hustle of an Indian city. You are woken at 6am by throngs of worshippers at temples, throwing melons at deities and met with equal frequency by lunatic street dwellers and lady-dealing pimps; maybe even Mumbai wouldn’t live up to this, I thought.

All of my proposed itineraries seemed to involve curry house crawls. I imagined Mughlai dishes being assaulted by a plump, sweet, coconut-dusted Peshawari naan, washed down with a sugared lassi. With these dreams swishing around my head like a worshipper in the Ganges I hit the streets of Little India.

I quickly realised my dreams were delusions and immediately felt like a fish out of…the Ganges. I walked into curry house after curry house and stared blankly, attempting to decipher menus I could read, but not understand: Sappadu? Poli? Rasam? I soon realised the Indians of Turnpike Lane were very different from the Indians of Kuala Lumpur - a few thousand miles different.



It’s our fault, again


Everywhere you go in the old British Empire you meet with Indians; Africa, Asia, the Caribbean and South America have all been settled by enterprising souls from the Subcontinent. Over the course of the Empire, Indians ventured everywhere around the globe that was Empire Red. From South Africa to Guyana and Fiji, enterprising market traders often speak with Indian accents.

All this is largely because, having laudably abolished the slave trade, the British establishment were left with a dilemma – how to make people do stuff for free? They came up with the brilliant ruse of signed-for slavery, or indentured labour. Indians were soon doing capitalism’s bidding on shores as distant as Spanish Town and Mauritius. Up to a million and a half Indians were scattered across the globe before the practice was outlawed in the late-nineteenth century.

What does this have to do with the price of Darjeeling in Uttar Pradesh, I sense you mutter. Well, the Indians in the UK mostly arrived over the years from the Punjab and Bengal, either directly, or via East Africa, where they were originally indentured, whereas the Indians of Kuala Lumpur have a long history of migration from Tamil Nadu, as indentured or free labour. I was in a city awash with Tamil curry, but where a good chicken Karahi wasn’t available for love, nor money. The British obsession with treating the world like a game of Risk had led to forlorn 4-day rummage through the backstreets of Masjid Jamek for a non-existent culinary holy grail.



It was on my final night of that first trip that fate dealt me the hand I had been seeking. As I wandered the streets for my last meal I took a double take as a fleeting menu seemed to offer up a daal. In I trudged, sunburnt, sleep-deprived and more than a little peckish.

Bingo! I walked up to the self-service counter and was met by names as familiar as fish and chips – rogan josh, saag gosht, biryiani! I filled the plate with all and sat down to contemplate my harvest. I then ate what was the greatest plate of curry mankind has ever produced. I went back for more in the morning.

On leaving that night I burdened the proprietor with the tribulations I had encountered in finding real English curry. He seemed genuinely pleased that I disliked Tamils as much as he did. When I stressed it was the food, not the people, I had a distaste for, he remained upbeat. I vowed to return. This was back in January and with this all in mind I disembarked from the bus at Pudu Raya and marched back towards Times Square to drop my bags off and indulge myself.

Many types of indulgence were on offer, including cheap girls and expensive alcohol, but I plumped for poppadom and mango chutney. On leaving the restaurant for the third time I finally noticed its name – UK Asia. A lump grew in my throat as I contemplated that the greatest achievement of 400 years of empire was the dissemination of turmeric and cumin.

Things didn’t end up too well at the NGO. Many of my fears were realised early on and I decided to seek pastures greener. NGOs are fairly thin on the ground in this Communist state, but that doesn’t mean opportunities are.

I rattled off emails to as many organisations as I could find and despite the scarcity I did receive some fairly interesting offers. One very tempting one was to live up in the hills in the far north of the country writing an old hippy’s biography. It sounded like it would make a good chapter for my own yet-to-be-published equivalent, but nevertheless I held out.

The hesitance soon paid off, as none other than the UN came knocking and a meeting was hastily arranged. I didn’t exactly look the part, rolling up on my Chinese bicycle in sweat-soaked shorts, a 10 year-old Next shirt and a pair of £5 Sports Direct slip-ons. I made a mental note to start dressing in the way expected of a modern-day imperialist; or aid worker, as we are otherwise known.

The meetings at UN House turned out to be a ruse, as the position for which I was wanted was actually a marital favour. The next day I received a phone call which began, “Darren, we need to meet.” By morning I was joined for tea by an Englishman with an accent of deepest Henley-on-Thames.

I finally stopped Mr Home Counties mid-flow, which is a bit like trying to cross the North Circular on foot – every attempt inevitably recoils back to safety as a renewed tsunami of verbiage rushes by.

“What exactly is my role in all this?” I asked.

“I’ll get to that…” Mr Home Counties clipped.

Cue tsunami. I ducked below the proverbial parapet and sat it out. Then there were signs of retreat.

“In November major Heads of State from around the world will be coming to Vientiane to attend the States Parties to the Convention on Cluster Munitions. For this we need to produce strategy documents on the level of service provision across the country for victims of UXO. You will be researching this service provision,” Mr Home Counties summed up.

And thus began my 6 months working for the Communists.

When leaving London I saw an advert which claimed the city never slept . While it is true of the addicts and thieves, it is less true for the services and infrastructure. Ideas of open and close and start and finish are much more transient in other countries, particularly in Asia.

Because of this a pre-break of dawn stroll through a closed-up street market doesn’t make one feel nearly as vulnerable as it should. Within each little crevice and behind each market stall there is bound to be a makeshift kitchen serving up bargains to late-goers and early-comers alike.

Soft greys and blues drape the city at dawn, revealing a deeper side to its character unperceivable in the force of the midday sun. The colonial buildings almost begin to complement the huge sky rises all around them.

At dawn our senses are more open to the smells around us. The markets of Little India and China Town abound with oils and spices from the night before, while the early diners add to the broth for the day ahead.

It was in such a scene that I caught my early morning bus to Melaka, an old colonial town on the south-western coast of the Malay Peninsula. I managed to limit myself to a couple of rotis for breakfast, reasoning breakfast would be cheaper in Melaka, and I set on my way.

The bus was very reasonable – around £2.50 each way – and far more comfortable than your average National Express. It sped through suburb after suburb, traditional Malay and high-rise. I was impressed with the sight of Malay development, at least from the roadside.

I had not yet seen any of the poverty expected of South East Asia, and I wondered if Malaysia would soon be joining the elite club of developed nations. A couple of days later I was to learn what these suburbs looked like close up, with the makeshift shacks shattering any lingering delusions of prosperity. It seems the Government does its best to hide the poverty from the roadside.

I arrived into the charming harbour town of Melaka to be met with the huge Tescos that greets all arrivals at the not-so-central Melaka Sentral Bus Station. Maybe it was wishful thinking on the planner's part, but whoever named the interstate bus terminal failed to take into account it was a 45 minute bus ride outside of town. Anyway, find the right bus I did thanks to a friendly Thai couple and we were on our way.

Some more quaint Malay suburbs, interspersed with Japanese super malls later, we found ourselves dumped by the dual carriageway, tourist map in hand. Luckily we could orientate ourselves via the truly second-rate London Eye, known as the Eye of Malaysia. More planner optimism as it stood barely 100 ft tall. We deduced a stroll off to the left would send us towards the historic town centre.

I bid the Thais goodbye and went on my way, although I was to continuously bump into them throughout the day. I was searching out a wi-fi signal so I could look at a town map online and found myself a place in a shopping mall coffee shop.

It was at this point that a rather over-friendly German came over to question me about my netbook. I gave him the rundown on the Asus EeePC and then asked how I could best access the historic town centre. He seemed to know the way and offered to guide me, but due to my unfinished coffee I declined and thanked him anyway.

I stayed for 5 minutes, found my bearings on an internet map and got up to leave, only to find the German stood right in front of me. Slightly shocked, I asked if he was still heading in that direction, to which he said he was and off we went.

The man seemed to be on holiday, perhaps a yearly trip out to Asia that he treated himself too. At first he seemed to warm to the Asian culture, saying that he initially enjoyed the smiles and laughter of Asians, particularly compared to rather stern Northern Europeans. I agreed and laughed, but wondered what was coming next.

"I used to like all that, when I first came, but now I've realised why it is, it annoys me. Basically they are still children, even the 40 year old men are mentally children. That's why they laugh so much."

I was taken aback. He seemed so mild and even charming, but he seemed to hate Asian people.

"They only see me as money. I'm just dollars to them. They always ask for more, and when they get it they spend it on rubbish!"

I stopped replying at this point, looking for an opportunity to part ways. The conversation had moved onto how Asians couldn't look after their cultural heritage when a group of Malaysian students interrupted us.

They were four girls, all from the Muslim University. They introduced themselves and said they were doing a task and had to teach some Malay to foreigners. At this point the German retorted:

"That's it in Asia, it's just me, me, me."

The girls were shocked and embarrassed. I apologised and insisted there was no problem. The German goose-stepped off into the distance, never to be seen again. I spent the next 10 minutes learning a Malay phrase which goes 'Keralan Musul Bian Babisan.' It means:

‘What you say destroys your soul.’

It was a pity the German didn’t stick around to learn the lesson, although I doubt he would have heeded it.

I spent the day wandering around the town in the heat of the midday sun, joined by mad dogs. The colonial architecture was very quaint and starkly different from the architecture of Kuala Lumpur.

The city reminded me of Valletta in Malta, as it was a series of maze-like streets with chocolate-box shops and fairy tale scenery. Influence has been retained from Portuguese, Dutch and British periods of dominion. No matter what you think of Colonialism, it was definitely a boon for global architectural heritage.

After a long afternoon of sightseeing I caught the bus back to the big city and settled down to sleep. Still without a full night’s sleep since arriving, I was hoping the tiredness and a head full of Melaka memories would ensure an end to that.