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| The quiet beginnings of my journey in Kathmandu. |
Nobody knew how lost I felt inside. On the outside, I tried to smile and tell stories about Singapore, but inside? I was questioning everything. Had I failed? Was I not cut out for this whole "going abroad" thing that seemed to work for everyone else? The pressure from family was still there, unspoken but suffocating. They never said anything, but I could see it in their eyes – that quiet hope that maybe their son would figure it out eventually.
When Life Throws You a Korean Curveball
That's when my friend threw me a lifeline I never saw coming. He ran a small language institute near New Bus Park in Kathmandu, and Korean language classes were becoming the latest trend. "Come join my Korean class," he said casually one afternoon. "You don't need to pay anything." At that point, with my confidence at rock bottom and my wallet equally empty, free lessons in a completely foreign language seemed like the universe's weird way of telling me to try something different.
Korean language? Are you kidding me? When I first walked into that classroom and saw those symbols that looked nothing like Nepali or English, I almost walked right back out. The alphabet alone was like trying to decode ancient hieroglyphs. But something inside me – maybe it was desperation, maybe it was stubbornness – made me stay.
Learning Korean became my full-time obsession. Every morning, I'd wake up and stare at those strange characters until my eyes burned. The grammar was backwards, the pronunciation felt impossible, and don't even get me started on the honorific systems. But you know what? For the first time since Singapore, I had something to focus on other than my failure.
The Miracle (And Terror) of Passing
Somehow – and I still think luck played a massive part – I passed the EPS-TOPIK (Korean language test). When my name appeared on the EPS (Employment Permit System) list, I couldn't believe it. Me? The guy who'd just bombed his Singapore adventure? I was selected for the second group to South Korea.
The pre-departure training in Bhaisepati was like a reality check wrapped in government bureaucracy. They taught us about health, security, and rules, but nothing could have prepared me mentally for what was coming. Sitting in those training sessions with 33 other Nepali guys, all of us nervous and excited, I kept thinking: "Please don't let this be another Singapore."
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| The day I officially became part of the Employment Permit System (EPS) for South Korea. |
The Journey That Changed Everything
The flight from Kathmandu to Bangkok on Nepal Airlines, then onwards to Incheon on Korean Air – that journey felt like traveling to a different planet. Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok during our transit was mind-blowing. The sheer size, the cleanliness, and the efficiency – I'd never seen anything like it.
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| The grand sculpture at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok |
Landing in Incheon was surreal. Korean officials received us like we were some kind of official delegation, but I felt like a village boy who'd accidentally wandered into a movie set. They took us to a training center outside Seoul, where we joined workers from Thailand, Vietnam, and Sri Lanka. For three days, we learned about working rules, safety, and healthcare. It all seemed very organized and professional – so different from my chaotic Singapore experience.
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| Leaving everything familiar behind on the flight to Incheon. |
Welcome to Korean Work Ethic (Prepare to Be Humbled)
Then reality hit. Four of us were assigned to the same company in Busan, later moving to Gimhae. Nothing – and I mean nothing – could have prepared me for Korean working culture. These people didn't just work hard; they worked with a level of dedication and discipline that made my village farming look like a hobby.
Our plastic materials factory produced all kinds of plastic items, especially baskets. The work schedule was brutal: 6 AM to 6 PM, with alternating weekly shifts between day and night. When I worked nights (6 PM to 6 AM), I'd lie in my dormitory bed during the day, listening to other workers sleeping around me, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into.
But here's the thing – they paid well, and they paid fairly. Every rule and every regulation was followed to the letter. The Koreans weren't trying to cheat us; they just expected us to match their intensity. And that intensity? It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
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| The tireless energy of Korea’s industrial heart in Busan. |
The Language Barrier That Nearly Broke Me
Everything – every instruction, every warning sign, and every safety protocol – was written in Korean. Despite my basic language training, reading technical instructions while operating machinery felt like trying to perform surgery with my eyes closed. I'd stare at those Korean characters on safety warnings, desperately trying to remember what they meant while plastic molding machines hummed around me.
The Korean workers were incredibly kind and patient, teaching me the same thing multiple times without ever showing frustration. But the fear was constant. Every day, I'd see these massive machines and think, "What if I mess up? What if I can't understand something important?"
The Accident That Haunts Me Still
My fear wasn't unfounded. Two weeks after we arrived, a friend working at a nearby company lost his right hand in a machine accident. Two weeks. The same friend who'd sat next to me on the flight from Kathmandu, who'd shared his snacks and nervous laughter – suddenly, his life was completely changed.
He was frustrated and broken, but he did not return to Nepal. Instead, with the help of an organization that supported him, he stayed in Korea to start his studies. It was a painful way to transition from the factory floor to the classroom, but it showed me that even in the darkest moments, there is a way to move forward.
Language barrier. Insufficient training. The desperate need to work because we'd come so far and invested so much. All of us knew we weren't fully prepared, but what choice did we have? We were there to earn money, and earning money meant working with machines we barely understood in a language we could barely speak.
That accident changed something in me. Every day after that, I was hyper-aware of every sound and every movement around those machines. The local language isn't just important when you're abroad – it can be the difference between going home with savings or going home with scars.
Finding Beauty in the Struggle
But it wasn't all fear and factory floors. South Korea gave me things I never expected. My first time seeing snow – real, thick, beautiful snow that covered everything like a white blanket. I'd stand outside during breaks, watching snowflakes fall on my work gloves, thinking about my village where the biggest weather event was monsoon rain.
Korean food became my lifeline. Kimchi, those incredible noodles, and the warmth of shared meals with other foreign workers – food became our common language when Korean words failed us. Every Saturday and Sunday, we'd venture into Busan city, one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, buying groceries and experiencing life beyond the factory walls.
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| Taking a rare moment of reflection amidst the busy Korean cityscape. |
The Homesickness That Nearly Won
Many of my fellow workers were college students from Nepal who'd never worked manual jobs and never lived away from family. The homesickness hit some of them like a physical illness. I'd see grown men crying in their dormitory beds, missing their mothers' dal-bhat and wondering if the money was worth the emotional cost.
I understood that feeling completely. There were nights when I'd lie awake, calculating how much money I'd saved versus how much longer I could endure the isolation. Korea wasn't just testing my physical endurance; it was testing every assumption I had about my own strength.
The Decision That Changed My Trajectory
After one year, I faced a crossroads that would define my next decade. Option one: Stay in Korea for the guaranteed five-year visa, earn good money, and probably set myself up financially for life. Option two: Return to Nepal and somehow restart the education journey that had been derailed.
I chose option two. To this day, I'm not sure if it was the right decision, but it felt right in my gut. I'd learned something invaluable in Korea – not just about discipline and hard work, but about my own capacity for survival. I'd gone from a village with no electricity, no mobile phones, and no internet, to working in one of the world's most technologically advanced countries.
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| Discovering the beauty of Gimhae/Busan - a city that taught me as much as the factory did. |
Life Lessons That No Classroom Could Teach
Korea taught me things no textbook ever could. Real discipline isn't about following rules; it's about maintaining standards when nobody's watching. Dedication isn't about working long hours; it's about bringing your full attention to whatever you're doing, even if it's molding plastic baskets for twelve hours straight.
I learned about patience – not the kind where you wait for good things to happen, but the kind where you accept that growth is slow and often painful. I learned about focus, about never giving up even when your hands are numb from cold and your back aches from repetitive work.
Most importantly, I learned that being far from home doesn't just test your professional skills; it tests your emotional resilience in ways you never imagined possible.
The Silent Return and New Beginnings
I returned to Kathmandu quietly, without fanfare. No grand announcements, no celebration – just a young man with Korean work experience and a head full of memories boarding a plane back to square one. But this time, square one felt different. I wasn't the same disappointed guy who'd returned from Singapore. I was someone who'd survived Korean work culture, who'd sent money home, and who'd proved to himself that adaptation was possible.
Continuing college after Korea felt strange. Sitting in classrooms discussing theoretical concepts when I'd spent a year learning practical survival seemed surreal. But I knew this was just another chapter, not the final destination.
From Village to Bruges: The Journey Continues
Now, as I write this from Bruges – one of the world's most peaceful and beautiful heritage cities – I think about that journey from a village with no electricity to a medieval European city. From Singapore's disappointment to Korea's hard lessons to London's academic challenges, and finally to Belgium's quiet beauty.
Life really has been the greatest teacher. Not in theory, but in practice. Every scar, every success, and every moment of doubt and breakthrough has shaped the person writing these words today.
Korea gave me more than money or work experience. It gave me proof that I could survive anything, adapt to anything, and find meaning in the most unexpected places. And sometimes, that's the most valuable education you can get – the kind that comes from simply refusing to give up, one plastic basket at a time.
💡 Learnify Logic: Lessons from the Factory Floor
• Skill vs. Survival: In Singapore, I had the "skill" (Tourism), but in Korea, I learned "survival" (Discipline). Don't look down on manual work; it builds a mental toughness that no classroom can provide.
• The Language Safety Net: If you are going abroad, "basic" language isn't enough. Learn the technical terms for your specific job. It’s not just about communication; as I learned from my friend's accident, it's about safety.
• The ROI of Failure: My Singapore "failure" was the only reason I was humble enough to take a free Korean class. Sometimes, your biggest disappointment is just a setup for your next big move.
💬 A Personal Note to My Readers
Writing this chapter wasn't easy. It brought back the smell of the factory machines, the cold of the Korean winter, and that heavy feeling of being far from home. But I share this because I know I am not the only one who has felt lost in a foreign land.
Now, I want to hear from you. Your stories are the heartbeat of Learnify Vibes.
• Have you ever faced a "Reality Check"? Maybe it wasn't a factory in Korea, but a new job or a difficult school year. How did you find the strength to keep going?
• What is your "Kerosene Lamp"? What is that one simple memory from your past that keeps you humble today?
• Are you planning to go abroad? If you have questions about the mental or physical challenges of working in a new country, ask them below.
Please share your feelings, your struggles, or even just a "Hello" in the comments section. I read every single comment myself, and I promise to reply to each one of you. Let’s build a community where we learn from our journeys together.
This is part of an ongoing series about my journey from a Nepali village to European cities. Life continues to teach, and I continue to learn. What challenges have shaped your resilience? I'd love to hear your stories.
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