Something Yellow This Way Comes

For weeks, my Korean friends had been warning me about yellow dust season. 

"Do you have a face mask?" they ask, wielding their own surgeon's masks in Hello Kitty and Louis Vuitton prints. "Do you have a jacket to wear? And glasses?" They cringe as they speak. "The dust is soooo bad! For the skin and eyes and lungs. You must NOT go outside!"

Despite the drama of their warnings, yellow dust is hardly alarming for Koreans. Every spring, wind currents travel east across the Gobi desert, carrying sand and picking up dirt and pollutants from factory emissions in northern China. The result is a cloud of greyish yellow dust, settling thickly over Korea or a couple of months each year. At this time, the sky turns yellow, and a thin coating of dust covers treetops and parked cars. Also, as my friends dotingly warn me, the dust wreaks havoc on unsuspecting lungs and throats.

Unfortunately, in my current residence in Daegu, South Korea, the dust came just as the cold winter gave way to spring. As spring gave way to early summer humidity, the dust clung to the city. Though the heat turned up, skin-conscious Korean women sheathed themselves like beekeepers, covered head to toe. My foreign friends and I, thrilled to linger outside in the warm weather, shedding our layers of winter clothes. We hung out in t-shirts, giggling at the poised Korean women who chatted through gaudy Spongebob face masks. "It can't be that bad," we'd say. "It's no different from smog," we'd say.

Of course, it wasn't long before our throats were dry and swollen from the dust. Our nostrils were irritated from breathing the stuff. Our eyes would sting after long gusts of wind. When it rained, a sickly yellow film would marble the puddles on the street. Hours after opening the windows of our tiny apartments, our desks and beds and clothes would be coated in yellow. It wasn't a plain sandy yellow either. Rather, it was a dull, phlegm-coloured yellow. Each day, we moaned to one another. Meanwhile, our beekeeper-suited Korean cohorts laughed and drank through the dusty season in perfect health. 

And so, for myself and the countless western expats teaching in Korea, another lesson is learned the hard way. Some local practices can appear strange or eccentric when seen from outsiders' eyes. But at the end of the day, it's up to that outsider to follow suit or take their chances with a, "foreigners can't be effected the same way" mentality. As my friends and I learned, a western immune system isn't inconquerable, and our friends' warnings aren't always the stuff of old wives' health cures. Tough as it may be to accept, sometimes other people know what's best.

One month later, the dust is still heavy in the air. Now, when I walk to work or go to the market, I'll pass the odd western face in the Korean crowd, half-covered under a facemask. Apparently, we're all learning the merits of having faith in local lore.