Passing Time with Pals in Palgongsan

I have one more day-trip in mind before heading back to Seosan and bringing my vacation week to a close. Palgongsan Provincial Park, located just 20 km north of Daegu, is on my radar. I figure I could catch the bus to the park, spend a few hours hiking around, then make it back to Daegu in time to make my connections out of town in the direction of home. It all sounds simple enough. Naturally, this final stage of my trip is the one I have put zero research into. But I figure I have all afternoon to figure out the details. It is already 10 AM and thanks to last night's imbibing, I am running late to get myself to Palgongsan.

The trip up the mountain takes a lot longer than I planned. During the couple of days that I have spent in Daegu, I seem to keep forgetting what a big city it is. And with a mediocre metrorail system at best, walking from Bron's pad to Daegu's main local bus hub takes a chunk of the morning time remaining. By the time bus #1 coasts to a stop and opens its accordion doors to the swarm of hiking-boot-clad Koreans congregated around me, I've all but given up on the possibility of getting a seat. Somehow, I get seriously lucky, as I happen to be standing just next to a seat that opens up at the next stop. I quickly climb into position, and watch as passengers pack into the bus so tightly that it would make even sardines claustrophobic. We are so full to the brim that the driver starts turning new passengers away at each stop that we roll up to, despite their pounding fists on the doors. I'm feeling pretty lucky that I'm not stuck waiting for the next bus or the next bus or the bus after that to have room enough for me.

Then we begin the long, snaking ascent up the mountain. The air is stifling in the bus, and although the scenery is quite lovely, the window panes are foggy from too many bodies and too much humidity. I keep my eyes forward, hoping to ward off any motion sickness from the winding road and changes in altitude. A half hour later, the bus stops and a horde of passengers step off, many carrying hiking equipment with them. "Palgongsan?" I ask the young guy standing next to me. He gives me a puzzled look, but then nods his head affirmatively. Not having much time to still make the stop, I bolt for the door, only to find out as soon as the bus has pulled away that I have managed to take the wrong exit.

No matter. Fresh air, a little exercise, and plenty of space to stretch out... being off the bus isn't really such a terrible thing, I quickly surmise. I hike northward, along the shoulder of the road, wondering after each S-curve exactly how long I'll be walking to reach the entrance to the park. It takes me a while, but eventually I do make it to the gates, where an old man dressed in park ranger clothing collects my W2,000 in exchange for an entrance ticket.

A few minutes later, I catch up to a group of three twenty-something gals walking up the hill together. As I make eye contact with them and exchange an "Anyeong haseyo" greeting, I think I hear a conversation in English resuming among them. I turn back around and say, "Hello, do you speak English?", to which I am met with a throng of three eager voices in a language I can actually understand. Tory, a young college graduate from California (whose short, dark hair and petite body frame initially disguised her among her Korean friends), and two twenty-something Korean gals from Daegu have come to hike around Palgongsan today. We quickly hit it off and spend the next several hours enjoy the beautiful scenery, striking temple architecture, and sweeping landscape views.

While standing outside a particularly colorful pagoda, an elderly man approaches our group and, seeing two foreigners in the mix, offers a round of explanation about the Buddhist practice of ringing bells. He explains (in Korean, which is then translated by Tory's bilingual friends) that the bell is rung only on special occasions by a monk, and that its purpose is not to tell time, nor to make music, but to remove pain and suffering from the people of the world. There are other instruments also, noticeably a large, wooden fish, mounted on the upper floor of a temple structure overlooking the grounds. This, he explains, is for removing the pain and suffering of animals.

I think the explanation is both simple and beautiful, and it leaves a peaceful image with me of a prayerful monk going about his day-to-day work of sending prayers and focused thoughts towards others whom he may have never met in this life, spending the bulk of his time and energy on bringing more peace and less pain to all that are experiencing life. It seems exactly fitting that this message is delivered by a kind-faced old man, without

We spend a little time at Donghwasa, the temple complex within Palgongsan Park with a history of over 1,500 years. A beautiful statue of Buddha, called the Tong-il Daebul, stands tall over the outer courtyard, its right palm upturned in a gesture of peace, left hand gently encircling a medicinal symbol. The white stone carvings stand out strikingly against a backdrop of lush green mountainside. We walk among the statuesque stones and then find our way to the exit, continuing a stream of easy conversation as we begin a downhill walk in search of something to appease our empty stomachs.

I thoroughly enjoy the plate of Korean-style cabbage slaw, sesame-sprinkled tofu, green onion pajeon, and a cold soybean-noodle soup brought to our table in the quaint restaurant we have chosen for our afternoon meal. We are sitting under an outdoor canopy, overlooking a meandering stream, when the rain begins to pelt. The sound as it plinks on the canvas above us is relaxing, the perfect white noise to blot out any would-be distractions to our corner of tranquility. As the rain picks up speed, we do as well, making a dash for the nearest bus stop and herding on board with the dozens of other day-trippers who had the same idea.

It was a perfect day, spent with another small group of perfect-strangers-turned-friends, and the rain held off until just the perfect moment. Back in Daegu, I trudge back towards Bron's flat, preparing to say goodbye to the city and relenquish the last of my holiday memory-making.

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.

The Devil's Jaws, Part II

(continued)
. . . We neared a tree on the left shoulder of the road, and I could see a rather large dog lying near its trunk, its white fur matted down with rain and mud. It looked rather beastly, and I kept a bit of a distance as Penny approached him and held out her hand for him to sniff. He recognized her, that was certain, and slowly he proceeded to raise up on all fours and respond to her with some long, wet licks. Then Fido looked in my direction, and walked towards me. I held out my hand, slowly, wanting to give him an opportunity to familiarize himself with my smell.

I've been around dogs as much as the next person, I guess. I even owned a dog for a short time. I know animals can smell fear or nervousness. So as we approached one another, I monitored my emotional base to make sure he could sense trust from me. He sniffed at my hand, my fingertips, the cuff of my pants, my ankle. And then he reciprocated with a few slobbery but gentle licks, which seemed to say he accepted me. All seemed to be going according to plan.

But in a split second, everything changed. A deep, low, fear-invoking growl suddenly surfaced from somewhere closeby, but before either Penny or I had a chance to realize what was happening, I saw a flash of white and felt a burning sensation as something deep and sharp cut into the flesh just above my ankle. I looked down in shock to see this dog, who had just a moment ago given me a token of friendship, tear into my leg with determined aggression. I pulled back, completely stunned, my mind straining to interpret the nerve signals firing up from what had instantly become a bleeding mass. I limped further away from the dog, my only solace being the rope tethering him to the tree just beyond my reach.

I looked down to see blood gushing from a long, deep gash, and instantly the sight of it, coupled with the effect of hiking for over an hour on an empty stomach, left me feeling light-headed and weak. We were only about 3/4 mile from home, but as Penny and I attempted to continue on the road leading back to town, I realized that I was not going to be able to make it back on foot.

Within minutes, Penny had flagged down an approaching car, carring a local farming family headed out of town. Through gestures, we were able to quickly garner their help -- one look at my leg, and they herded us into the backseat of their car, minutes later dropping us off just outside my apartment door. The next few hours were more or less a nightmarish blur. I grabbed my wallet and health insurance papers from my desk, and hopped into a taxi with Penny heading towards the local hospital. Once admitted to the emergency room, I was ushered to a cot while an on-call doctor began removing my shoe and sock and inspecting the wound. His assistant approached and as soon as she took a look at my leg, began making terrible noises that, regardless of language, indicated that whatever was going on down there was NOT pretty.

Two hours later, I had been allergy tested for contraindications to some kind of medicine the nurse was planning to shoot me up with, shot in both the arse and my left forearm with menacingly large needles, and had nearly fainted and vomited from the immediate effect of these unfamiliar drugs as they started coursing through my bloodstream.

With little ability to communicate with the doctor, I had to be content with the shoddy patch-up job that the doctor had done on my wound. He somehow was able to explain to me that I needed stitching, but that because the wound was from an animal bite, they have to wait a few days first. I was still bleeding through the gauze as I hobbled out of the hospital. I thought I had understood something about recieving a pain/antibiotic prescription, but there was no one there to help us find the pharmacy and, as the evening was dragging on and on, Penny and I finally decided it was time to head home.

An hour later, I was at Penny and Francois' kitchen table, my leg propped on an adjacent chair, trying with all of my energy to focus on the plate of clams and pasta and fresh parsley loving laid out before me, and not on the perilous incident that had undoubtedly changed the course of the next few weeks. Penny apologized profusely, but I wouldn't hear it. She was not to blame. No one was to blame. It was just one of those things, and it happened, and that was that. There was no undoing it and it was best that I just start focusing on my healing.

But all kinds of fears creep up under the guise of realistic concern when you're brought head to head with an unexpected crisis. What about rabies, I thought in a half-panic. With the dozen plus jabs that I received before embarking on my round-the-world travels in 2006, rabies had NOT been on the agenda. How would I know if I were at risk? And why couldn't they stitch me? What would happen when I returned to the hospital tomorrow? How was I going to get through the night with the throbbing pain from my ankle?

A few glasses of wine and an hour of candlelight later, and my mood was tranquil, my spirits calmed. I was ready for sleep and anxious to meet with Harrison, who had offered to take me back to the hospital for more treatment Sunday morning. As I laid my head back on my pillow and thought of the trauma of the past few hours, and of the past few days, I took solace in the sweet reminder that I was not alone, that I was so very fortunate to have many caring people around me, and many caring people far from me, whose thoughts and prayers would surely be reaching me over the days to come. It was almost enough to allow me to black out the angry bite that a four-legged stranger had inflicted on me just hours before. The devilish jaws of this insidious animal may have wounded my flesh, but I was determined to see that my spirits stayed high, intact, and unharmed.

The Devil's Jaws

There is a portion of the world-famous Iguassu Falls, which straddle the border of Argentina and Brazil, known as the Devil's Throat. Iguassu Falls (Foz de Iguacu in Portuguese) is one of the most impressive waterfalls I've never seen (but someday, God willing, I will).

Imagine taking the grandeur of Niagara, stretching it out to a width of 15 miles, and then splicing it up into pieces, so that instead of two of three major falls, you have literally hundreds of them (there are as many as 260 on record). It is one of the widest and tallest waterfall systems in the world.

The Devil's Throat is the oldest and largest fall in the complex, one of the most dangerous to approach, and one of the most spectacular to behold. Movie buffs familiar with the classic film "The Mission" will remember the protagonist, a peaceful humanitarian and monk intent on helping the indigenous peoples of the Guarana tribes. He climbed the falls at the Devil's Throat in order to pass into the tribal territory and make a connection with the Guarana people. Flash forward to present day, Seosan... and bear with me as I take a literary leap to connect the dots between Brazil and Korea...

This morning came and went with no change in the steady, heavy rainfall outside my window. Monsoon season had indeed descended upon Seosan, and it seemed there would be no reprieve from the precipitation that was most certainly staying put for the next several days. It was unfortunate, as I had missed quite a few of my daily walks and hike due to the drama with work and with Seosan's Most Wanted (a.k.a. Mr. Lowlife) that seemed to make a complete mockery of an otherwise peaceful entry to Korean life.

I was eager to get out and stretch my legs a bit, but with the rain coming down in heavy sheets, it was nothing doing. So, I stayed holed up in my tiny little one-room apartment, losing myself in one project after another -- a recipe hunt for a Korean-style cabbage dish, reading up on yoga poses, tweaking my Facebook page, finding good excuses to procrastinate entering report card grades for my 115 students. The day literally evaporated, which seemed quite ironic, given that just outside my window, the weather was doing anything but. Finally, about 5:30 PM, the rains died down and I seriously contemplated picking up my tennis shoes and going for a walk. After I finish this one last project, I told myself.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice. It was my friend Penny, stopping by to see if I'd like to join her on a hike. Realizing that my good intentions would all too possibly fail to materialize if left to my own timetable, I thought there seemed no better plan than to go along. A little company after a lonely Saturday sounded like the great way to round out a relaxingly quiet day, and I knew I'd enjoy Penny's company. Plus, with Penny leaving the country soon, I knew I had precious few opportunities remaining to learn from her where some of Seosan's best hiking trails were located. A few minutes later, I was sporting my workout gear and we were out the door.

We climbed and chatted for nearly an hour, clomping our way uphill through seldom traveled mountain trails and then downhill again, ducking under spiderwebs that had become illuminated by the strings of pearly dewdrops from the afternoon rain. We turned off of the trail connecting one mountain to the next, and continued on along a rural but paved road leading straight through some of Seosan's most picturesque farmlands. The backdrop of rolling hills and late afternoon sun, coupled with the lifting clouds and deep saturated greens made for some awe-inspiring sights. About an hour into our hike, we started down a narrow one-lane country road that snaked past yet more farmland as well as some dilapidated lean-tos and shacks.
"I have a little secret," Penny began, "and now that I'm leaving, I think you're the right person to share it with." My mind quickly started turning circles, my curiosity trying to pin down what this secret might be. She hadn't hinted at anything all afternoon, yet I could tell from her tone that it was something important to her. But first, she began with a question: "How do you feel about dogs?"

Penny explained to me that she had befriended a poor dog that was chained to a tree right along the road, and that she often stopped to play with him and give him some attention. It's true that Korean dogs, in general, are treated quite miserably. They are tied to trees with short leashes, given no opportunity to run or play freely, and quite often look despondent, neglected, and downright depressed.

Being a country girl herself, Penny had a natural affinity for animals that seemed to know no bounds. Where she had gotten the idea to get chummy with a strange dog, who probably had fleas and a whole host of other maladies, not to mention a sharp set of teeth was beyond me. But her secret was this: she was worried for the dog's wellbeing and hoped that she could pass the torch on to me to befriend her "pet."

(to be continued)

The Secret to Eternal Youth

The sun popped out today from behind the seemingly impenetrable wall of milky clouds that have owned the skies now for days. On my morning hike yesterday, I felt as if I were muck around in a soup bowl -- everything seemed murky and dim, as if the low-lying cloud consuming us had somehow desaturated the colors of the usually vibrant trees surrounding me to an almost dingy sort of green. But today, heading to the hilltop from my lowly apartment, I was greeted with the greatest of surprises -- a deep blue sky peppered with billowy bubbles of cloud, and the feeling of sun, warm and delicious on my skin.
Seosan hasn't done much for my tan, unfortunately. Color doesn't come easily to this fair-skinned, freckled girl, and in all honesty, I worked quite hard for the base tan I built up before arriving here. It's funny, but just as was the case in Taiwan, women actually go to great lengths to keep any unsuspecting sunrays from bronzing their delicate skin. They carry parasols down busy city sidewalks in full sunlight, and don long cotton gloves that cover them from sleevecap to fingertip to keep their arms milky white. On the hiking trail each morning, I pass dozens and dozens of women covered literally from head to toe in long pants, long-sleeve shirts, visors, and some kind of face mask. I've seriously contemplated the reasoning behind these last two, particularly since we are, after all, on a MOUNTAIN trail, which is practically covered with a thick canopy of trees, and hence very little sunshine filters through. I still haven't come up with
a good explanation for it...
I had a discussion yesterday with one of my middle school classes about this very thing. We've been talking about vacations and summer break lately, which is coming up in a few weeks for them (one month off of school, beginning July 19th). And last night we read an article about how tempting it is to spend a day soaking up the sun on the beach, and that "healthy glow" we get when we've spent some time in the sun. Four girls looked up at me with a puzzled expression on their faces, and after a few minutes of conversation on the topic, I had at least convinced them that, to the Western mind, a tan is a beautiful thing. Still, I don't think they'll be turning in their umbrellas for sunglasses anytime soon...
So as the days go by here, I feel my hard-won suntan fading away. I suppose I could just accept the fact that, at least in this part of the world, "white is beautiful." On the bright side, I may have
stumbled upon the Korean secret to longlasting youth!

Spirit of a Shaman

Religion and spirituality -- I can't deny that one of the magnetic forces which brought me to Korea was to experience the beauty of Eastern culture as it pertains to the spirit. I have for years been drawn to the ancient elements of religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism, and to the philosophies such as Taoism that guide life for modern society in Asia in much the same way that it has for centuries and centuries.
And so, when I found myself with an opportunity to spend a Sunday morning soaking in the tranquility of ancient rituals being carried out in the foothills of Seoul, I knew the experience would be its own reward. After exiting the metro at Dongnimmun, I followed north along a nondescript alley until it became a steep road leading up into the mountainside. I felt my breath escaping forcefully as drops of sweat fell from my face -- with monsoon season in full swing, the weight of the air was nearly suffocating. Still, I kept one foot in front of the other until, rounding a hairpin turn, I began to ascend a series of shallow, jagged steps cut into the mountain stone. Here, a Buddhist temple stood proudly atop a hill, its golden-painted rooftop shining out from among the deep-green trees. And there, a middle-aged man tossed handfuls of rice to pigeons clucking in symphony near a modest shrine which had been decorated with candles and fresh flowers.
Another turn and upward climb took me to a stairway leading to the Zen rocks, two monolithic rock formations eroded by centuries of wind and rain, a sacred spot for many, as I was about to find. As I crested the steps, I paused at the entrance, suddenly very aware that I was not alone. A simple platform flanked the rocks, and upon it were several men and women, in various stages of worship, their bodies posturing in prayer poses on soft woven mats. I slipped off my sandals and settled onto a mat at the far end of the platform, listening to and watching the humble prayers of these serene strangers. A door opened next to me and a wrinkly grandmother stepped out from her hut, the strong perfume of incense wafting through the cracked door. Behind me, pigeons pecked and gaggled, and she took a broom to sweep them away. To my right, an elderly woman kneeled with a thin book in Korean script and a chain of wooden prayer beads. Her mouth moved in silence, but nothing needed to be said. The atmosphere was spiritually charged yet peaceful. Though I looked a bit out of place, I felt a part of me connected to these people and the serenity which permeated the mountain air on Inwangsha.
I stepped back into my sandals and headed back towards the main gate, then turned east onto a pathway leading along the spine of Inwangsan Mountain. As I ventured further upward, I paused at the entrance to yet another shrine. Candles flickered from inside the dim cavity of a room, and I stood quietly as another elderly woman prostrated in bows of respect before a golden statue. Only a few paces separated us, and I continued on, not wanting my presence to distract her from her worship. I continued upward, minutes later glancing back through a clearing to view a remnant of the Seoul Fortress Wall, its gray stone rising up in a curving ridge along a lush, green background of rolling hillside. I contemplated what this wall has seen and heard in its 700 years of life.
Rounding the corner along the trail, something tinny and rhythmic filtered through the dense, cloudy air. I listened with interest, hoping I was climbing closer to the source of the drum and high-timbered voice which echoed throughout this little pocket of mountain foliage. At last, I found it, at the apex of the trail, in a spot marked with a large slab of flatrock yet somehow tucked neatly out of sight. From the stone steps where I stood, I leaned my torso over the wild brush and watched, my eyes and ears finally nodding to one another in agreement -- this is where the magic was happening. I felt transported, almost, as I gazed on this middle-aged woman, dressed simply yet colorfully in vibrant blue. Here I was, on a peaceful mountaintop, soaking in the fervor of this shaman's prayer, studying the melody, the rhythm, the solemnity with which she chanted. Never once did her eyes open or her voice weaken; her prayer went on in one continuous loop, beginning again and again where I could still not perceive that it had come to an end. I tiptoed quietly back the way I had came, feeling some kind of soulful satisfaction at having stumbled upon this mountain, this woman, her song.
For a few hours of my morning, I felt another world away, swept up in the spirit of the mountains and the religious traditions that coexist here. It has been awhile since I last sat on a church pew, listening to a sermon. Yet I felt spiritually satisfied and at peace. And for me, it was simply enough.

A Foreign Affair

I had to give myself a little talking-to the other night. I have been here in Korea for over two weeks now, and I've barely explored beyond my own little quiet corner of Seosan. Oh yes, I've hiked on the nearby, forested trails into the hills of Seosan (thanks to Terry for showing me where to catch the trail). And I've driven around town a few times with Harrison and Terry -- for groceries, bedding, even my beautiful peace lily, which I adore (again, thank you Harrison and Terry!). But as for solo exploration... I've been severely lacking in this department, and I'm ashamed of myself... where is the nomadic explorer within me whose heart beats for the adventure of discovering the unknown? It's been a while, I guess, since I had to deal face-to-face with the intimidation of a complete language barrier. Beyond "annyeong haseyo" (hello), I'm at a loss.
Fortunately, I've managed to meet a few more foreigners here in my town -- one through Maggie (the teacher I replaced), and another quite by accident on the trails just the other day. Dave, it turns out, is from Missouri (my old stomping grounds!) and a friendly guy. I met him at Maggie's farewell party, along with a handful of other foreigners. He's the only one who I've managed to meet up with again. He lives just down the hill and kindly called the other evening to see if I'd be up for a night walk around town. It was a perfect idea -- the temperature was cool, the air not too heavy, and the outskirts of Seosan are lined with astroturf trails, for the hundreds of locals who round out their evenings with a stretch of the legs as well.
Chett (or Chetty, as he likes to be called) is a South African native, teaching in a public school in town. He's been here for only a few short weeks longer than me. We were a few meters apart on the trail last Wednesday evening when a flash of recognition hit us both... recognition not of a familiar face, but of our "foreigner" status. Yes, this was the bond. We chatted for a minute, swapped email addresses, and both headed back out on the trail in opposite directions. It was a well-timed affair, and panned out well -- I had a chance to meet up with Chett and a lovely couple on Friday night while we bonded further over pizza at a cushy little joint near the movie theater.
I have to back up a bit, because this story has a bit of a funny beginning. I was on my way home from work Tuesday night when I turned the corner to hear some casual conversation floating out through an open window on the ground floor. At first, it didn't strike me as anything. I heard the clatter of dishes and thought, oh, a nice dinner conversation. And then it dawned on me that the conversation was not some caucophony of foreign sounds, but down-home English. I half considered rapping on the window and saying hello, but thought that might come off a bit too random. So I sauntered down the sidewalk and smiled at the thought that there were yet a few more friends yet to meet.
Friday night at the pizza joint I met up with Chett, and was introduced to Penny and Francis, a very chill and pleasant couple who had somehow managed to survive living on separate continents (Penny is from Australia, and Francis from South Africa) to teach in yet a third. I could tell right away I was in for a good evening. I hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when Penny said to me, "Hey, I know you! Your face is on a huge banner just around the corner from our apartment." And it was only then that I put it together -- they were the couple I had heard through the screen a few nights ago.
Over a large pan of pizza and a few pitchers to wash it down, we chatted together about everything from inequalities for women in Korean society, to teaching rambunctious kids (while at the same time pitying them for working longer days than most adults back home). And their adventures! The more I listened to my new friends' travels, the more I started to feel my own been-there-done-that list blend into the wallpaper... Chett had recently finished a two-month cycling trip through southern India, in which he had gone completely off the beaten track and managed to bunk down with locals along the way. Penny and Francis had just last year backpacked through Vietnam, Thailand, and Laos, and were in the final stages of planning their round-the-world trip to commence next month when they leave Korea. Still, I was happily in my element among these free spirits who, like me, have some inexplicable inner pull to cross oceans and traverse great expanses of land with little aside from the barest of essentials and a very open mind. It's this sameness that has brought us here to Seosan, I want to believe -- much moreso than the glimmering promise of cash to stash away. And it's somehow comforting that here, even in the counter-culture nomadic lifestyle I have chosen for myself, I am yet in the company of others whose passions are close to my heart.