Ashes in the Air

We got to the Tano festival after breakfast, and it was in full swing. Korean tourists and school groups arrived by the busload. Old folks strolled by, dressed in traditional summer linen, and lines of children holding hands wove through the crowds. Morley and I were the only foreigners in sight. 

We bought a basket of bundoogie, or silkworm pupae, roasted and salted. My friend Mr. Yoon and I dug into them, and Morley had her first reluctant taste of this old-time Korean favorite. They’re rich and tasty, and are supposed to be full of protein and good for you. But when we got about halfway through them even Mr. Yoon agreed they were awfully oily and sort of mealy, so we threw them away and got a sack of roasted chestnuts instead. 

We followed the sound of big gongs and a woman’s voice singing in the old style, and found the big white tent where the shamans are doing their kut, or rituals — all day, every day, for the duration of the festival. Relieved that our search for shamans in Korea wasn’t in vain, I squeezed in among the mostly old women who were listening so intently. A chubby young drummer led the musicians, engaging in repartee with the shaman and punctuating her words with shouts of encouragement. Seated at the drum, rhythm seemed to flow from him like electricity.

I was surprised that the shaman just stood there at the microphone, singing and waving a fan. I’m used to seeing a lot of motion as shamans dance before the altar, wander through the audience, and leap in the air when spirits come to possess them. But still, it was great to hear her singing in the old “pansori” style, interspersed with spoken narrative and joshing with the drummer. I love pansori when it’s belted out by a strong woman singer.

While the shaman sang, her assistant sat cross-legged on the floor behind her with two candles burning on a small table. People came up one by one to set money on the altar and make three big bows. To make a big bow you press your hands together (like a Buddhist greeting), lower yourself to your knees, press your elbows and forehead to the floor, and then turn your palms up as if catching raindrops. The assistant shaman would then light sheets of paper at a candle. Their ashes floated up into the air and carried the worshiper’s wishes and concerns to the spirits.  

Morley and I couldn’t help giggling as two workers zipped around with vacuum cleaners, sucking up the ashes as they fell on the stage and altar. It felt good to laugh. I had made my own list of difficulties to burn, and was feeling reluctant to take my turn because I’m so obviously a foreigner. But I gathered my courage and stepped up onto the stage to make my three big bows. The shaman did release my wishes to the spirits, but they didn’t travel far. The wind had died down by then, so they got sucked up quickly by the vacuum guys…

Mr. Yoon commented later that he was disappointed that the shamans’ performances were not like a real kut. There was no spirit possession and no dealing with difficulties, private or communal, except for the burning papers. It was kut “lite,” lacking the intensity of the private kuts I’ve seen. This is what happens all over the world with the rise of shaman tourism. I expect we may find this true in Mongolia, too.