The landscape resembles a bright green tortoise shell, crisscrossed with darker green lines following the changing contours of the land. I buy the tourist booklet sold by the airline. On the map of the capital I look for the village of Wonju, but there is nothing by that name. As we descend, clouds filter the rays of the sun. As the rear exit opens, a wave of humidity hits us.
Soldiers line the tarmac leading to the terminal.
Porters and taxi drivers pull at my bags and scream at me. I feel like a rabbit with falcons ripping it limb from limb. I say I want to take a bus to the central market and then go to Wonju. From what I can make out, there is no Wonju, there are no buses to downtown, and the market is closed by now. A kind of unreality sets in.