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Nestled in the heart of Jeollanam-do, Naju (罗州市) is a city where time seems to flow differently. While Seoul and Busan grab international headlines, Naju quietly preserves Korea’s agrarian soul while grappling with 21st-century dilemmas—climate change, rural depopulation, and cultural preservation in a globalized world. This isn’t just a travel guide; it’s a deep dive into how one Korean city negotiates its past and future.
For centuries, Naju’s identity has been intertwined with agriculture, particularly its famed Naju Bae (pears). These succulent fruits aren’t just local produce—they’re cultural artifacts. Farmers still use traditional hanji (paper) wrapping techniques to protect each pear, a practice dating back to the Joseon Dynasty.
But climate change is rewriting this story. Unpredictable typhoons and shifting harvest seasons threaten these orchards. In response, Naju’s farmers are blending old and new: solar-powered greenhouses now stand beside ancestral pear trees, and AI-driven irrigation systems monitor soil moisture while elders recite planting proverbs.
Amid global concerns about industrial agriculture, Naju has become an unlikely hub for Korea’s Slow Food movement. The city’s Gwangju-Naju Slow Food Convivium organizes festivals where Michelin-starred chefs cook with local ttangkong (peanuts) and heukimjajuk (black sesame porridge). This isn’t just culinary tourism—it’s a quiet rebellion against fast-food globalization.
The thunderous beats of Naju’s nongak (farmers’ music) troupe once coordinated communal farming. Today, these same rhythms feature in BTS producer Pdogg’s samples, creating a bizarre cultural feedback loop. Naju’s Cultural Heritage Administration now runs "Nongak 2.0" workshops, teaching teens to remix traditional janggu drum patterns into EDM tracks.
Walking through Naju’s Hanok Village, you’ll spot 400-year-old wooden houses with unexpected additions—solar panels disguised as clay tiles, VR installations where yangban (aristocrats) once meditated. The city’s "Living Heritage" program subsidizes young families to inhabit these structures, provided they document their daily lives on social media. Traditionalists grumble about influencers posing in hanbok (traditional clothing), but the mayor argues: "Better hashtags than demolition."
With Korea’s rural youth exodus, Naju has lost 12% of its population since 2000. But this birthed an unexpected cultural export—the "Naju Network." In cities from Atlanta to Auckland, expats host Naju Nights featuring sanseo (mountain herb) cocktails and screenings of classic Naju-shot films like The Age of Shadows. The municipal government even created a "Virtual Naju" metaverse space where diaspora can "attend" the annual Yudeung (Lantern) Festival.
The pandemic triggered a reverse migration. Urbanites fleeing cramped apartments rediscovered Naju’s ssal (rice) terraces. Among them was tech entrepreneur Kim Ji-hoon, who converted his grandfather’s gopchang (intestine) restaurant into a co-working space with 5G-enabled rice paddies. "In Seoul, I coded for algorithms," he says. "Here, I code with the seasons."
Naju’s sprawling bamboo forest isn’t just a tourist attraction—it’s become ground zero for sustainable packaging experiments. Local artisans now craft bamboo-based alternatives to single-use plastics, from sot (spoon) sets to coffee cup sleeves. When Starbucks Korea launched its bamboo lid trial, the raw material came from Naju’s eco-cooperative.
The city’s traditional hanji paper mills, once near extinction, now produce biodegradable phone cases and air filters. At the Naju Hanji Innovation Lab, you’ll find 80-year-old masters collaborating with material scientists on graphene-infused paper batteries. It’s a peculiar sight—a jangseung (totem pole) standing guard over 3D paper printers.
Every evening at Naju’s Gaeul (Autumn) Theater, something extraordinary happens. Using an AI trained on 10,000 local folktales, a holographic halmeoni (grandmother) narrates customized stories incorporating listeners’ facial expressions. Some call it gimmicky; others see Korea’s oldest oral tradition evolving in real-time.
Meanwhile, in the shadow of the restored Naju Fortress walls, augmented reality apps overlay scenes from the 1894 Donghak Peasant Revolution onto modern protest rallies about farmland rights. The past isn’t just remembered here—it’s in constant conversation with the present.
As you leave Naju, perhaps with a bottle of omija (five-flavor berry) syrup in your bag, you realize this isn’t a city frozen in tradition. It’s a living laboratory where every rice stalk, drumbeat, and startup idea is part of a larger question: How does local culture not just survive but shape our global future? The answers might just be growing in those pear orchards.