At Home in Hahoe Village, Maskdance Festival 2008

What do troupes of masked performers, hoards of happy onlookers, one quaint traditional village, and a shower of shimmering fireworks have in common? If you guessed the Andong Maskdance Festival, you were right :)

This weekend marked the beginning of a ten-day celebration in Andong, Korea's south-eastern Gyeongsangbuk province -- a festival to honor the tradition of the mask and its place in cultures around the world, and in Korea's history in particular. Hahoe, home of the legendary Korean wooden masks, is steeped in the folklore surrounding their creation.

According to legend:

"A series of disasters and bad luck were happening in the peaceful and beautiful Hahoe Folk Village, and all villagers were very concerned. One day, Mr. Heo, a good person from Hahoe Folk Village, dreamed about a Folk God who told him what he must do:

'You should clean your body every day and carve a set of masks with your heart -- then all disasters will disappear. But there is one strict rule: You must finish the work within 100 days and no one is allowed to see you during the time that you are making the masks.'

"So Mr. Heo started to work on the masks. He did not tell anyone else in the village about his dream. One day, a lady who lived in the same village and who loved Mr. Heo very much, his as she waited for him. She could not bear it any more at stole a glance at him. As soon as she did this, Mr. Heo fell down and died, leaving one Mask unfinished, Imae (Foolish Servant). This is why Imae Mask does not have a chin, as it was left unfinished." [note from me: can you find it in the photo to the right?]

"Villagers of Hahoe danced with the Hahoe masks (aristocrat, scholar, young bride, meddler, Buddhist monk, butcher, old widow, young woman and foolish servant) and finally danced the village back to peace. "

Even today, Hahoe is a peaceful and beautiful folk village where life seems to carry on much the same as it did centuries ago. And despite the busloads of tourists that come from around the country (and world) to sample a taste of traditional Korean life and enjoy its peaceful ambience, it maintains some semblance of authenticity, which is part of its subtle charm.

This past weekend, I had a chance to spend a chilly night and leisurely morning soaking up the special flavor of Korean culture that Hahoe serves up on a heaping platter. I arrived by bus with a group of CouchSurfers (who converged in Andong from various points around the country) Saturday night, after poking around the festival grounds. As we stepped off the bus and into the dark night, I tugged at the cuffs of my jacket, pulling them over my hands to ward off the sting of the evening chill. We walked along a quiet dirt road which followed a riverbank until we arrived at the traditional house, Hagungje #13, which was our home for the night.

Though it was dim, as we stepped into the house, muted light emanating from an open door gave us a view of the house's unusual arrangement. It was built as a series of rooms, which comprised four outer walls, all facing an inner courtyard which was exposed to the open air. Short sets of cement steps led from the ground to any of a number of rooms, most of which served as sleeping areas. I peered inside one of the rooms and was intrigued by its small size and spartan furnishings. There was enough room for four or five bodies to lay sardine-style on a hard floor, and a "yo" (traditional Korean mattress) and stack of blankets to warm us. A window at the opposite end of the room, a simple wooden frame lined with rice paper which slid along a wooden track and latched with a fabric tie, was the only other decoration.

The kitchen, set in the back corner of the house, was bustling as the old couple living in the house began to prepare our dinner. After dropping our bags and removing our shoes, we stepped into the "dining room," a large, low-lying wooden slab near the courtyard. Although the table was quite long, our group was bursting in size, and we spilled over onto two adjacent round tables, filling up the entire area with our bodies and energetic conversation. The man of the house began what turned out to be an insanely busy job of waiting on the lot of us as we feasted on platters of steaming hot and spicy "jjim dalk," Andong's signature dish -- a mixture of chicken bits, glass noodles, leeks, and near-lethal doses of hot pepper (though somehow, I didn't think our dishes were deathly spicy).

Some of the group took off for the riverbank to watch fireworks, while others (myself included) stayed behind to finish dinner and warm up under layers of blankets. I later found out that this wasn't your typical fireworks show -- it was a special affair (...and I'm still chiding myself for missing it. I suppose there's always next year...) Seonyu Julbulnori, or traditional Korean fireworks, aren't shot from the ground, as are the festive explosions we're accustomed to. These fireworks are like gigantic sparklers strung above the ground. When they're lit, they create the ethereal feeling of falling stars or, as Roboseyo describes (and I quite like his visual), "bright flower petals floating to the ground."

[Check out this video footage from Roboseyo]

The rest of the night was a blur as round after round of soju and maggeolli found their way to our table, and the energy wound up before the evening wound down. Eventually, I retired to my shared room, tucked my too-thin blanket around my shivering body, and managed to settle into some sort of sleep (though between the winter chill and neighboring snorers, it wasn't particularly productive).

The next morning, after waking the the sounds of chirping birds outside our rice-paper window, new-found friend Adam (also an English teacher in Korea) and I did a little exploring around the village. We circled its perimeter, walking along narrow, dusty roads that tangled their way through the village, out to the edges of its rice fields and along the river, enjoying the peaceful pace of this rural respite from the busy world just outside its gates. We watched local farmers working in their fields, listened to the sound of wind blowing over vast carpets of rice crops, and even managed to find a litter of playful puppies. After putting our cameras to good use at some sort of wooden statue mini-park, we said farewell to our fair village and returned to the festival grounds to finish out the Maskdance weekend.

See more pictures of my visit to Hahoe Village here

Roaming Among Relics in Mt. Namsan

The plan was to spend the day hiking in Mt. Namsan, a virtual open-air museum of ancient relics strewn through the mountains bordering Gyeongju to the south. I'm a lover of nature and while not necessarily big on walking through carefully-displayed artifacts behind heavily protected museum walls, I was fascinated with the idea of combining a day of hiking with the discovery of some Silla period pieces of history.

As I rounded the stairwell towards the front door, Mr. Kwon caught me. "Where you going today?" he said, in his cheerful, heavy Korean accent. I shared with him my plan.
"You walk, don't take bus," he told me, more of a direct order than a helpful suggestion. "Walking, not far. I walk Namsan all the time. You take bus, two hour, maybe three hour," his hands making a snaking motion to hit the point home. He gave me some basic directions -- walk to the main traffic circle, take a right, walk straight for quite a ways. I figured that was enough to get me started. I wasn't in any hurry, I had carved out the entire day for exploring Namsan. So I set off on foot.

Half an hour later, already drenched with sweat from the burning sun, a sprightly older man, heading my direction on his bicycle, stopped to surmise where I could possibly be walking all by myself. "Namsan," I told him, which brought an immediate look of concern. He pointed at his bicycle, as if to say I was going to need one if I was planning to get myself all the way to Namsan, and then continued in a stream of Korean chatter. I hadn't realized how intent he was on helping me out until a few minutes later when, armed with a very ambiguous mental map of where it was I'd find the next bus, he walked me across the street and waved me on in a different direction.

I'd like to credit my keen sense of direction for finding the bus stop, but I think it had something more to do with good fortune that I managed to maneuver myself through a hodgepodge of mud-baked walls and a century-old Korean neighborhood before finally turning down the street that led to a bus stop. But either way, I soon found myself en route to Samneung, entrance point to Namsan's hiking trails.

As luck would have it, within an hour of setting off on the trail, I had managed to connect with Noemi, the Belgian actress I had met at the Hanjin roof party. And a short time later, the two of us crossed paths with Kevin and Katie, who had decided to spend their last day in Gyeongju hiking as well. Being that Namsan was no small walk in the park, I found it incredible that all of us would happen to meet on the trails. Is there such a thing as coincidence?

We climbed up to Sangseonam, a Buddhist hermitage, and cooled ourselves with refreshing swallows of fresh mountain water from an adjacent spigot. Colorful paper lanterns swayed ever so slightly in the subtle breeze, and the peaceful stillness of the place gave each of us a temporary respite from our hiking rigors.

At Sangseonam, Noemi and I parted ways with Kevin and Katie, who had to head back to the bus station for their onward connections. But it turned out to be the best of all possible scenarios that Noemi and I had met, as I doubt seriously that I would have managed to make the journey up and over the ridge of Namsan mountain, and down again to Yongjang village, on the other side of the mountain... at least, in one piece.

Together, we hoisted ourselves up gigantic rocks, and lowered ourselves down steep inclines with the use of thick ropes. We cut through a thick, dark bamboo forest and rested our feet in the cool water of a gurgling stream. Here and there, we came upon ancient figures carved in the rock face of the mountain, a crumbling pagoda standing erect against a backdrop of mountains, a beheaded statue commanding a reverent pause.

The entire adventure lasted about six hours before we descended into Yongjang village. From there, we managed to find a bus that brought us back to Gyeongju proper. Our bodies were tired, leg muscles exhausted, stomachs gurgling from emptiness, but the journey had been a memorable one. And having someone to share the experience with made it even more of a pleasure.

Back at the hostel, Noemi prepared for her departure to Busan, and I headed off to the showers. Before long, I had fallen asleep under the open pages of my guidebook. And aside from a middle-of-the-night awakening when Mr. Kwon opened my door to check that I was in (he locks up the hostel each night), I slept right through until the following morning, oblivious to the continuation of the backpacker party on the roof just a flight of stairs above me. Sometimes a girl just needs her rest.

Discovering Gyeongju

(continued from previous post)

And so it was that I discovered Gyeongju...

... discovered the camel-like humps in Tumuli Park that served as ancient burial tombs.


... discovered fields of orange-gold wildflowers stretching out towards the mountains.


... discovered Gyerim Forest, shaded and shadowed with towering trees arching against the sun.


... discovered side streets and back roads, ancient pagodas and modern playing fields flecked with uniformed youngsters running after soccer balls.

I wandered through Wolseong Park, where families and cuddly couples rode along the flat, paved road in foot-powered buggy cars, listening to the cicadas pulsing their song through the heavy August air. And I meandered through the lily gardens near Anapji Pond, taking in the delicious smell of freshly blooming flowers against of backdrop of verdant green.

And after all of this, plus a bike ride taking me several miles out of town to Bomun Lake, my back tire gave out, slowly leaking out air until it was dead flat. Miles from the bike shop, I tried riding my way back towards town, but the going was tough, and very inefficient. Eventually, I
hopped off the bike and began my long walk back.

I was perhaps within a mile of the shop when an old, half-hunched little ajumma, stopped at a red light with me, noticed my flat tire and my predicament. She gestured and pointed and rattled on for the entire 3-minute wait to cross the road. The old woman kept pointing at my tire
and pointing down a street in quite the opposite direction I was intending to walk. I assumed she wanted to show me to a shop where I could fix my tire. But that wasn't my plan -- I'd just walk the bike back to the shop, I figured, and do my own gesturing and pointing to let them know the tire had gone flat. It was only a rental, after all, and I was sure that they were used to the occasional flat tire brought in with a returning customer.

But the ajumma wouldn't have any of it. She flagged down a young girl walking towards us to help her relay her important message, and finally, not knowing how else to communicate that her help was appreciated but not needed, I gave in and followed her down the road. We walked and walked and walked, probably close to a kilometer, before stopping outside a shop spilling over with bicycles. The ajumma exchanged a few words with the shop owner, pointed at me, then waved goodbye and scurried on further down the sidewalk.

I had no intention of paying for a new tire or even a repair, and wasn't quite sure how to get out of the obligation of either. So I was greatly relieved to find that the man could speak a little English, enough at least that he could understand I had rented the bicycle. When I pointed out the shop's phone number stickered on the bicycle, he grabbed his cell phone and called the rental shop for me. And then he motioned me to a chair where, he explained, I could wait until the rental shop came with a van to pick up me and the bike.

An hour and a half later, I was back at the hostel. The wait had been long and tedious, but I had managed to stick it out. Tired, sticky with sweat, and hungry, I managed to cook up a plate of vegetables and settle into a cushioned chair on the hostel's rooftop, where a small party of backpackers was forming.

The rest of the night was spent in good company -- Desmond and Patrick, two solo travelers making large circuits through Asia, and who happened to both be from Ireland; Jean Luc, a middle-aged man from France, whose wife and young son were sleeping just downstairs; Katie and Kevin, two college friends from California backpacking around Japan and Korea before continuing on to Beijing to watch a friend of theirs compete on the U.S. water polo team. There were others, as well -- Noemi, an actress from Belgium, traveling solo in Korea and Japan; and a twenty-something French guy (whose name I could never pronounce), with beautiful features and an even more beautiful accent.

By 1:00 AM, the impromptu party had begun to disband. I shuffled back down to my "closet" and quickly resigned myself to a night of sweltering sleep. But what could I complain about? I had seen an eclectic mix of Gyeongju -- ancient relics, urban sprawl, helpful old ladies, and even the inside of a couple of bicycle shops. Gyeongju was quickly making its way up the "My Favorite Places in Korea" list.

Solo in Seoul

One of the ten largest cities in the world? ... Intimidating.
A metro system with arms like tentacles reaching across landspace housing millions of inhabitants? ... Overwhelming.
A lack of language skills or even a phrasebook to afford me a shot at the most basic of communication? ... Stressful.
But impossible? Absolutely not. I've dealt with worse.
I simply couldn't let another weekend pass by without taking the plunge and attempting to day-trip to Seoul. It didn't have to be anything large-scale... it's been a while, after all, since I've flexed the ol' backpacker biceps. Just to spend a full day walking around the city, see what I see, and hopefully meet up with an old friend in Seoul, that was my plan. I had my chance to explore Seoul just this past Sunday, despite ugly weather forecasts and foreboding skies. Granted, I almost got stranded at the bus terminal... but that's another story.
I biked to the bus station in a gray drizzle, and managed (with the help of an absolute stranger) to buy a ticket and find myself on the road northward, aboard a comfy if tattered bus. I had intended to sleep on the trip, but excitement for the day's adventure kept my mind spinning as I leafed through one page after another of my "Lonely Planet Korea" book. By the time I arrived in Seoul, a mere 1h33 had elapsed. It pays to take an early morning bus... little or no traffic to contend with. I spent the next hour hopping along Seoul's many metro lines and walking in circles through busy city streets, trying to get my bearings. (It really sucks not having my trusty sidekick compass...) But finally, it all started to click and before long I was standing outside the entrance gate to one of Korea's ancient palace complexes, Changyeonggung. The air was buzzing as young women, dressed in vibrant blue dresses, scampered across the stone bridge leading to another palace hall. As I poked my head inside, I was delighted to find billowing bundles of flags, dragon-bedecked drums, and carefully arranged plates laden with colorful fruits and other offerings. I spent the next three hours meandering along shady, forested trails, admiring the gracefully sloping rooftops of one palace structure after another, marvelling at the beautiful wood craftsmanship and balance of nature and structure that the Koreans seem to have perfected.
As the afternoon wore on, I took a walk along the pedestrian-only thoroughfare known to tourists throughout Seoul as souvenir headquarters, Insadong. Shopfronts, food stalls, and kitsch-covered carts beckoned to the thousands parading along this busy merchant quarter. I eyed a set of traditional-looking clay bowls and plates with longing, before my attention was caught by yet another, then another enticing display. Certainly this was no place to hurry through -- the din of voices in myriad languages, the abundance of solid bargains, and the joyful exuberance of shoppers anxious to take back with them a little piece of Korea all melded into an atmosphere that almost insisted you linger. Only, I couldn't. I had a timed-entry ticket to another of Korea's old-world gems, the UNESCO palace known as Changdoekbang.
By this point, my feet were growing tired. But I felt another wave of energy overtake me as I entered the palace grounds and walked again among centuries-old wooden masterpieces. Something about Asian design, its simplicity and gracefulness, resonates with me. I couldn't seem to get my fix of the contoured rooftops and the harmony of all elements, both natural and manmade. The highlight was a walk through a secluded area known as the "Secret Garden," complete with a lily-pad topped pool and octagonal pavilion. The earthy green of abundant foliage bled across the scene, and the serenity I felt was inescapable.
Afterwards, I followed one street after another past a huge English bookstore (I'll definitely have to make a return visit there!!), and into a very artsy section of town. A right turn across from Changbukgong (yes, another palace!) landed me smack dab in the middle of... Greenwich Village? Some little European plaza? Where was I?? This place reeked of class, with boutique after cafe after cutesy coffehouse spilling one after another in succession down an ambling sidestreet. Old-world buildings butted up against others boasting a modern design, and vines and flowerboxes peppered the walkways and window sills. This was definitely a happening area, and I was already planning my return visit to Samcheongdong.
Before evening came, I made connections with a friend from the U.S. that I haven't seen in years, another brave soul who decided to break from the norm and come to Korea in search of teaching work. After two years teaching in Busan (Seoul's little sister on the southeast shore), she decided to make her stay here a bit more permanent when she accepted the marriage proposal of her soon-to-be husband Sung Jin. We met at the Daeheung metro station and walked to their flat, a cozy little space on the 8th floor of their high-rise, overlooking a beautiful section of the city. Over rice, quail eggs, and some yummy vegetable banchan, I got to know her husband and hear a bit about their lives over the intervening years.
And before I knew it, time had run away. Literally. So I found myself running to the metro in hopes that I could make my 18 metro stops and line transfer to the Nambu Bus Station in time to catch my bus to Seosan. For the next 40 minutes, I eyed my watch impatiently, counting the seconds between stops as though life depended on it. I had seriously underestimated the time involved to traverse Seoul's metro system, and that lesson hit home with a decided bang as my clock chimed 8:00 PM. I was still 3 stops away. At this very moment, my bus -- the last bus of the night -- was pulling out of the station. I knew I could ride the metro back to Dionne's place, wake up early, catch a morning bus back to Seosan and make it in time for my noon staff meeting. But I was tired, grungy beyond reason, and wanted a warm shower and a good night's sleep in my own bed.
And then, the silver lining shone through. I remember Terry, my boss's wife, telling me that there were two bus stations in Seoul. Maybe, I told myself, I still have a shot of getting on a bus from the other terminal. A mere 40 minutes later, I was cruising out of town on yet another cross-country bus. I had to eat that ticket leaving from Nambu, of course. But at W6,800 (approx US$7), it fortunately didn't set me back too much. By 11 PM Sunday night I was back home again, reliving the highlights of a spectacular Sunday in Seoul. I have a feeling it won't be long before I find myself kicking around the big city again...