He greeted us with a few stock phrases in the Chejudo dialect (which is significantly different from what mainland Korean) and walked us around the different orange trees, pointing out the different varieties and explaining the merits of each type of orange. I admittedly wasn't paying very much attention to the tour, being too tired to care about the slight differences between two types of oranges that to me, looked identical, but I did find it strange when we were ushered into a room and the guide suddenly began talking about silkworms. Silkworms? I assumed that the orange grove also raised silkworms as a side business and that we were about to begin the second part of the tour now. But instead, we were treated to what turned out to be a blatant sales pitch for silkworm powder.
Not cocaine
"Look at these jars!" our guide said, dramatically gesturing towards a neatly arranged pyramid of plastic jars off to the side of the room. They were filled with what looked to be shiny stalks of yellow grass. He passed one jar around the room and announced that inside were silkworms busily working away. I'm not sure as to the biological logistics of how the powder was produced (my Korean isn't that great), but for a bargain price, we could purchase silkworm powder from the orange grove workers in lovely prepackaged boxes and jars. Drinking tea brewed from this powder would then not only relieve all aches and pains, but also provide the added benefits of better circulation, improved digestion, and a more positive outlook on life. "Drink two cups of silkworm powder tea everyday," the guide told us seriously, "and I can guarantee you that you will never experience sickness or fatigue for the rest of your life."
I didn't know whether to laugh or... what. I looked around the room, scanning the faces of the other tourists to see if any of them were as shocked by this as I was. The bait-and-switch method our guide had used on us was so obvious I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hidden camera show. A guided tour on oranges to - silkworm powder? I felt amused, insulted, and disturbed. Sure, we were tourists, practically walking cash cows for all the locals of Chejudo (tourism happens to be one of the main industries of Chejudo), but never had I been subjected to such a transparent attempt at selling a product in real life.
I walk by giant billboards and posters and ads all the time, and of course I watch TV and go shopping in malls and go on the Internet, but I’ve learned to tune out most of the appeals made by the media on my wallet and my time. If anything, I pay attention to ads that I think are funny or clever or interesting, but that doesn’t mean it’ll make me want to buy the product more if I’ve already decided against it. I’m kind of stingy with my shopping habits, and I consider spending upwards of $30 on myself to be verging on the extravagant. Which isn’t too surprising I guess, since I’m not really a breadwinner yet and received money from my parents all throughout high school whenever I needed it. I’m always reminded that the spending money I have isn’t “really” my own in the sense that I’ve earned it through a job, and I guess that stops me from spending as much as some of my friends. I enjoy shopping when I have a specific goal in mind, like a new pair of jeans or a present for a friend, but I hate malls and try to spend as little time in them as possible. I find online shopping convenient but nerve-wracking, and I’m always convinced, even when punching in my security code to buy a 99-cent song on iTunes, that one day my identity will be stolen by some faceless, devious Internet villain.
While our tour guide continued to extol the virtues of the silkworm powder, I whispered to my mom, “I can’t believe this.”
“Shh. This is interesting.”
“Mom! I can’t believe you’re falling for this. This is such a blatant sales pitch; we were supposed to take a full tour of the orange groves, not be brainwashed into buying silkworm powder.”
She turned to my father: “Do you think your sister would like some? We could get a jar for ourselves and some for her.”
I became indignant. “But that’s exactly what they want you to do! Don’t you see it’s a trap?!”
“You’re being overdramatic. They’re just trying to make some extra money. And who can blame them? The least we can do is buy some of their wares. And silkworm powder tea is very good for you, last I heard.”
“MOM.”
My parents ended up buying one economy-sized jar for our family and about four more smaller jars for friends and relatives. My dad was especially excited about the product, and claimed that the sample tea we received from the tour guide was wonderful and that he could already feel the difference in his stomach and through his veins. I remained skeptical and disapproving, and was chided by my parents for being a wet blanket.
Parents: “Try some of this tea; you said you were tired before, this will energize you!”
Me: “I don’t feel any different. I don’t think we should get it; it’s probably just a scam.”
Mom: “You’re being cynical. A scam, pshaw! They’re just trying to make some money on the side.”
Dad: “Mm, this tea is wonderful! I feel more energized already!”
It’s now been two months since we came back from our trip, and although the smaller jars have since been given as gifts to our family friends and relatives, the economy-sized jar of silkworm powder is still sitting around somewhere, untouched and unopened. In truth, I’d forgotten all about it until taking this class.
Was I wrong to have felt so cheated and used when the tour guide began his sales pitch? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so critical of his motives (after all, tourist season doesn’t last forever, even on Chejudo), but thinking about it now in relation to the more American marketing techniques of “buzzing” and word-of-mouth discussed in the New York Times Magazine article, I still think my reaction was a valid one.
What disturbed me most about this incident was not my reaction to it, but the reasons for my reaction. Was I upset because our tour had been cut off with a sales pitch? Or was it that I had felt insulted by the obviousness of the sales pitch? Maybe I’ve just become accustomed to the subtleties of most advertising nowadays, media-saturated sponge that I am. In that case, all of my assumed moral superiority about malls and online shopping comes down to nothing: I’m just as susceptible to commercial calls as everyone else in that I expect to see them in a sales context and feel their lack when I don’t.
I didn't know whether to laugh or... what. I looked around the room, scanning the faces of the other tourists to see if any of them were as shocked by this as I was. The bait-and-switch method our guide had used on us was so obvious I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hidden camera show. A guided tour on oranges to - silkworm powder? I felt amused, insulted, and disturbed. Sure, we were tourists, practically walking cash cows for all the locals of Chejudo (tourism happens to be one of the main industries of Chejudo), but never had I been subjected to such a transparent attempt at selling a product in real life.
I walk by giant billboards and posters and ads all the time, and of course I watch TV and go shopping in malls and go on the Internet, but I’ve learned to tune out most of the appeals made by the media on my wallet and my time. If anything, I pay attention to ads that I think are funny or clever or interesting, but that doesn’t mean it’ll make me want to buy the product more if I’ve already decided against it. I’m kind of stingy with my shopping habits, and I consider spending upwards of $30 on myself to be verging on the extravagant. Which isn’t too surprising I guess, since I’m not really a breadwinner yet and received money from my parents all throughout high school whenever I needed it. I’m always reminded that the spending money I have isn’t “really” my own in the sense that I’ve earned it through a job, and I guess that stops me from spending as much as some of my friends. I enjoy shopping when I have a specific goal in mind, like a new pair of jeans or a present for a friend, but I hate malls and try to spend as little time in them as possible. I find online shopping convenient but nerve-wracking, and I’m always convinced, even when punching in my security code to buy a 99-cent song on iTunes, that one day my identity will be stolen by some faceless, devious Internet villain.
While our tour guide continued to extol the virtues of the silkworm powder, I whispered to my mom, “I can’t believe this.”
“Shh. This is interesting.”
“Mom! I can’t believe you’re falling for this. This is such a blatant sales pitch; we were supposed to take a full tour of the orange groves, not be brainwashed into buying silkworm powder.”
She turned to my father: “Do you think your sister would like some? We could get a jar for ourselves and some for her.”
I became indignant. “But that’s exactly what they want you to do! Don’t you see it’s a trap?!”
“You’re being overdramatic. They’re just trying to make some extra money. And who can blame them? The least we can do is buy some of their wares. And silkworm powder tea is very good for you, last I heard.”
“MOM.”
My parents ended up buying one economy-sized jar for our family and about four more smaller jars for friends and relatives. My dad was especially excited about the product, and claimed that the sample tea we received from the tour guide was wonderful and that he could already feel the difference in his stomach and through his veins. I remained skeptical and disapproving, and was chided by my parents for being a wet blanket.
Parents: “Try some of this tea; you said you were tired before, this will energize you!”
Me: “I don’t feel any different. I don’t think we should get it; it’s probably just a scam.”
Mom: “You’re being cynical. A scam, pshaw! They’re just trying to make some money on the side.”
Dad: “Mm, this tea is wonderful! I feel more energized already!”
It’s now been two months since we came back from our trip, and although the smaller jars have since been given as gifts to our family friends and relatives, the economy-sized jar of silkworm powder is still sitting around somewhere, untouched and unopened. In truth, I’d forgotten all about it until taking this class.
Was I wrong to have felt so cheated and used when the tour guide began his sales pitch? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so critical of his motives (after all, tourist season doesn’t last forever, even on Chejudo), but thinking about it now in relation to the more American marketing techniques of “buzzing” and word-of-mouth discussed in the New York Times Magazine article, I still think my reaction was a valid one.
What disturbed me most about this incident was not my reaction to it, but the reasons for my reaction. Was I upset because our tour had been cut off with a sales pitch? Or was it that I had felt insulted by the obviousness of the sales pitch? Maybe I’ve just become accustomed to the subtleties of most advertising nowadays, media-saturated sponge that I am. In that case, all of my assumed moral superiority about malls and online shopping comes down to nothing: I’m just as susceptible to commercial calls as everyone else in that I expect to see them in a sales context and feel their lack when I don’t.
**MAGIC**
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