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Nestled in the heart of Gangwon-do, Pyeongchang is more than just a winter sports paradise. Beyond the adrenaline-pumping slopes and Olympic legacies, this mountainous region is a living canvas of Korean traditions, ecological mindfulness, and a fascinating interplay between local identity and global trends. Let’s dive into the cultural soul of Pyeongchang, where every season tells a story.
Pyeongchang’s cultural DNA is deeply tied to agriculture. The region’s nongak—a vibrant percussion-heavy performance—was historically played to boost morale during farming seasons. Today, it’s a UNESCO-listed intangible heritage, often showcased at festivals like the Pyeongchang Nongak Festival. The energetic beats of janggu (hourglass drums) and kkwaenggwari (small gongs) aren’t just entertainment; they’re a protest against the erosion of rural traditions in a digitized world.
The global push for sustainability finds an unlikely ally in Pyeongchang’s ssanji (mountain herbs) farming. Elderly locals still practice deulbeol (slash-and-burn agriculture), a method now studied for its low-carbon footprint. With climate change threatening crop yields, Pyeongchang’s indigenous knowledge is gaining attention from agro-ecologists worldwide.
While the 2018 Olympics put Pyeongchang on the map, the Hwangmaesan Snow Festival predates it by decades. Locals sculpt ttokkung (ice caves) and race sotdae (traditional sleds), blending playfulness with reverence for winter’s harsh beauty. In an era of commercialized ski resorts, this festival remains defiantly community-driven.
Pyeongchang’s winters birthed a unique art form: hanji (mulberry paper) crafting. Workshops in Jinbu-myeon teach visitors to fold hanji into lanterns or jumeoni (luck pouches). As fast fashion dominates, these tactile workshops offer a meditative counterpoint—a quiet rebellion against disposability.
Pyeongchang’s rugged terrain has long been a sanctuary for mudang (shamans). At Odaesan National Park, rituals like gut—a ceremony to appease spirits—are still performed. Ironically, as K-pop globalizes Korean culture, young urbanites flock here seeking "healing" from burnout, turning shamanism into an unlikely wellness trend.
After BTS’s Winter Package photoshoot in Pyeongchang, fans transformed obscure spots like Alpensia Resort into pilgrimage sites. Locals now offer BTS-themed kimchi-making classes—a quirky fusion of old and new. The question lingers: Is this cultural exchange or commodification?
The village of Chodang guards its sundubu (soft tofu) recipe like a state secret. Made with mountain spring water and no preservatives, it’s a slap to industrialized food. As veganism sweeps the globe, this humble dish—once a peasant staple—is now a flexitarian’s obsession.
Pyeongchang’s makgeolli (rice wine) breweries are staging a comeback. Young entrepreneurs infuse traditional nuruk (fermentation starter) with flavors like omija (schisandra), targeting hipsters in Seoul. It’s a microcosm of Korea’s struggle to modernize without erasing its past.
Warmer winters are disrupting the growth of gondre, a key ingredient in namul (wild greens). Foraged for centuries, its decline mirrors global biodiversity loss. NGOs now partner with farmers to cultivate it artificially—a bittersweet adaptation.
Post-Olympics, Pyeongchang rebranded as an "eco-destination." Yet sprawling resorts like Yongpyong strain water resources. Activists push for jeongja (traditional pavilion)-style lodges over concrete hotels, testing the limits of "sustainable" tourism.
Pyeongchang’s culture isn’t frozen in time—it’s a dialogue. Between drumbeats and Spotify playlists, between ttokkung and Olympic bobsleds, this highland county negotiates its place in a world hurtling toward an uncertain future. One thing’s clear: to understand Korea’s soul, you must listen to Pyeongchang’s mountains. They’re whispering secrets—and warnings.