It all basically happens in groups here. Call them what you will; networks, cells, comfort zones, whatever. There's the dong crew- a dirty crowd of heathens that were all presented with the misfortune of being placed in the coldest, most random suburb claiming to be in the Seoul region. There's something in the history books about adversity bringing people together. I doubt Churchill was referring to this kind of deal though. Then there are the Boryeong boys, calling themselves the "better than dong team", which does suggest a sense of threatened overcompensation for something. They live on the beach and bear their name proudly in the summer months when they have the only respectable stretch of sand in the country. Come winter though, and they're making the 3-hour trip through to Seoul every weekend and masquerading as city-slickers. Finally there is the Busan dozen. I say dozen only because I have met 12 of the chaps and have only been down that way once. It is bloody far and they pride themselves on generally staying away from Seoul – too proud to join the crowds in the concrete jungle – a bit like the Balito buggers who condemn Joburg as a lesser life. Aside from these 3 parties there are the drifters like myself, stuck in our miserable suburbs until Friday night when we emerge into the heart of the city and unleash the rage that has been built up by snotty-nosed kids all week long!
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| This was the furthest they had ever been from the forest |
Of course the organizers overshot the mark with excitement and ordered the mob (23 strong) animal costumes to wear on the slopes. No concerns were raised about the fact that these were pajama costumes and that we were heading into the coldest area any of us would experience again. Who thinks of such things? Once again journeys were made from all over the country, even one or 2 coming through from the beaches down South. After trains, busses and taxis had been abused we all arrived at the resort, and were met with glances of disbelief from some and envy from others. People weren't quite sure what 23 animals were doing grazing around the trashcans of the lobby, and one Burger King employee even asked if we were making a documentary.
We checked into our motel, which was named Green & Blue but in fact was pink. It wasn't what you would typically call classy, but then, neither were we. We felt more comfortable arriving here in our costumes than we would in the 5 star resorts that were sprinkled around the slopes and would surely have thrown us out just for our appearance. My first blunder occurred before we had even entered our room. As I turned the key to the love-palace, room 203, it snapped off in my hand. Standing there in my raccoon outfit, fingers clutched around the tiny slab of steel that had survived my clumsy blunder, I did sense a threatening motion arise from the animals around me and for a second, almost expected the owl to announce that I had been banished from the jungle book. I was saved by the owner who brushed me aside and solved the problem with an efficiency that told me that room 203 had seen this kind of misfortune before. He handed over the spare key, along with a menacing display of grunts and groans which suggested that this key had probably made it through the Sino-Korean war and was not to be lost or broken like its late colleague. I refused responsibility from that point on, and can only say for sure that our door was never again locked or even closed.
We had somehow organized a deal with the (now fuming) proprietor to rent ski equipment from him at a ridiculously-low rate. When we saw the basement that was doubling as a kitchen and ski-shop, we realized why. The stuff had obviously been stored in this make-shift bunker since the Japanese occupation, and even then it was outdated. Luckily the bulk of our crew fell under the "novice" banner and did not know the difference. As we brushed the cobwebs off boots and boards alike, I broke my second piece of Green&Blue property within 5 minutes. Quickly I tossed the injured ski boot back in its pigeon hole and took another. Was it going to be one of those weekends? Despite the vintage equipment and horrid Kimchi aromas drifting through the place, spirits were running at an all time high. It was only Dorian, sporting his second hand snowboard purchased for $120, who was now seeing his error materialize as one here would cost $10 to rent. But even he was psyched. Heads were cooled in seconds by the time we got to the slopes. It was god damn freezing. I've been lucky enough to ski most of the regions in the world, and nothing came close to this. As for my raccoon suit offering protection from the wind, well it was like shit through a goose. Obviously this kind of discomfort could only be cured by one thing- the thing that had helped Koreans through winters like these for decades. Soju. Some would regret the decision later.
The crowd of ours was dominated by snowboarders, or G.O.T's, there was no doubt about it. Within the handful of enlightened individuals who had chosen to ski, we had Mop. His name is mop. It's difficult to describe the man, so instead I'll leave you with a picture of the human and remind you again that his name is Mop. Mop had a bit of an alternative reason for choosing to ski. Most do it because they have water-skied before or simply have noticed how absurd a snowboarder looks coming down the slope, and have seen the light. Mop had an historic tale behind his decision. His great-grandfather, Ludwig van Barkenswag was a bit of a legend in Belgium skiing circles. He escaped from a German concentration camp in 1944 and instead of returning home to his mourning wife – decided rather to spend a year in Belgium skiing and harassing local females with antics that have clearly re-emerged in young Mop, 66 years on. It was said by some, that Ludwig went on to become an Olympic medalist – but I have skied with Mop and those genes just don't scream Gold..
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| Mop. A fine specimen |
Those of us who had never skied before fell first, both on and off the slopes. There's nothing that quite destroys you like a day skiing, especially learning the trade. By evening most of the big names were out for the count, and the owner of our hostel only had to deal with a handful of reckless animals. The kangaroos were hopped-out, the turtle was in hibernation and the dragon had been in his cave for hours when we started drinking. It was only a heroic few that remained by that bonfire into the night. Of course the raccoon was there. They've been called the most persistent of all foragers. A cheetah had made it through the chaos, hardly at the front of the pack though… An alligator, duck, and a handful of other forest creatures were there too. And finally there was Mop – bruised, battered, but well-trained and now battle-hardened. We raised a glass to Ludwig, toasted to his tenacity and charm and I knew, deep down in my little raccoon bones, his legend would live on.
RIP Ludwig van Barkenswag
G.O.T – gay on tray
