So a shark, a wolf and a raccoon were skiing through the woods right…

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!

This was the furthest they had ever been from the forest

Every now and then however, an occasion arises which splits the sects wide open and finds everyone united in a thrash of epic proportions. Heathensville was the first of these phenomenons, Global Gathering was the second. And now we had a skiing trip. It was buckwild.

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..

Mop. A fine specimen

So the two of us set off up the slope – Mop looking to live up to the (now) Barker family name. It wasn't elegant. Pig on roller-skates, you might say. Seriously though, he was a soldier and pushed himself until those buns of steel refused to make another flying V. I know how kuk it is to learn to ski, especially in a Siberian winter, and have seen many pack it in before the brave soul that accompanied me on the slopes decided to. I think he can hold his head high. There was no joining the other fools on snowboards, destroying the snow and their egos on the bunny slope. Ludwig would not have approved of that, and I knew it. I took him to the top, and through terrified eyes I could see a determination, a commitment, a resolve that had carried Ludwig through months in that hellish camp. The old timer would be proud. I was proud.

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

Soraksan and the deathly Kai Bai Bo!

The group of Seoul'ites that has charitably taken me in is a confused melting pot of individuals. Saffas, Yanks, Koreans, gay, straight and everything in between. The one thing that we all have in common though (besides alcohol addiction) is a binding will to see places and try new things. If you're comfortable spending weekends with a good book or playing Starcraft, then you're not gonna make the cut. There isn't much room for lazy and even less room for balance and moderation. It's full tilt or nothing.

So when the idea of climbing the famed Soraksan mountain range cropped up at the bar, between tequila 6 and 7, the decision to sign up was unanimous. It would be a huge mission, getting everybody to Seoul and then bussing it to the East coast before the climb could even begin. But the members were keen, and I suspect that a few gym towels were dusted off that week as we all prepared our unsuspecting bodies for the uphill onslaught that lay ahead.

The big names all made appearances. Seoul's most notorious celeb Dorian arrived straight from the clubs, sporting a stringy moustache that belonged in a Mexican cartoon and made local hikers clutch their wallets as he passed by. The Styvie twins were also snor'ed up in honour of Movember, and the two induced an early drinking session that we would all regret later. There was a tangible sense of camaraderie as we stood together in the shadow of the great mountain. Whether it was fuelled by the Soju shooters or the challenge that lay before as all, morale was high and the mood was tense. We set off.

The first obstacle we ran into was the news from some wannabee Sherpa's that half the mountain was closed due to a fire hazard. This was a major blow and meant that we could no longer camp up the mountain, and would have to return to the bottom to find any kind of shelter for the night. There was a sigh of relief from a few of us though, the ones that had left sleeping bags at home. Any hopes I had of persuading them to let us through on the inflated story that I was a volunteer fire-fighter, were fruitless. So we pushed on to another route, a bit discouraged but turning to more Soju to lift the spirits. We were sporting matching bandana's and the sheer magnitude of the challenge ahead prompted a mob mentality. Naturally, we formed a gang. Dorian casually told us of his street days with the Coat-hanger Gang with its roots in the Cape, and suggested we start a chapter here on the mountain, but a unanimous decision was passed that it was the worst name of any gang in existence. We'd thrown a couple of dodgy ones into the suggestion box ourselves and it took a cool head to brush off proposals such as the Bandana Bananas which, aside from only working when spoken in an American accent- wouldn't instill much fear in our rivals. The Longstreet Playboys almost snuck its way through the screening process but someone suggested that it sounded more like an elite Pimping service than a gang. And they were right. Finally we settled on the Seoraksan Seven, which came with its own set of problems. Chief among these was the fact that there were thirteen of us. But we let it slide, and the SS Gang trudged on up the path.

The party reached our destination in a somewhat anti-climatic mood, since we were not allowed to reach the summit. Hopes of a celebratory Rocky scene at the top fizzled out into a couple of high-fives and a handful of Soju shots. Our turn-around point was a temple which had been built into the side of the mountain. Any excitement or reverence was quickly stunted by the scolding we got upon entering the cave. In hindsight I think those monks had a fair point prohibiting a dozen drunken fools from disgracing their holy shrine, especially when sporting moustaches and chanting gang war cries.

The hike concluded in a ceremony that has become customary to the group. Kai Bai Bo. Rock Paper Scissors. The stakes were high- the loser having to leap into the lake. There was an illusion of safety provided by the large group and the idea in all of our minds that, "surely, surely I can't lose to 12 other people." Maybe it was just in my mind. By the time we were down to 2 players the mood was tense and I felt like I was kicking for poles at Twickenham. When I lost the mood became Euphoric, and I briefly considered the option of fleeing the scene completely. But I couldn't. We were a gang, and if an SS member pulled a stunt like that he would be shunned for life. The stigma alone of being the guy that bailed was just not an option. I had to man up.
It's difficult to try and describe how cold that water was, and attempts at this have failed since the incident a few weeks ago. I still don't know how that pool was not frozen over. By the time I was in my jocks a crowd had gathered and our gang had become the Seoraksan Forty.-including the mountain police who were protesting against the rebellious act but not being taken very seriously. After putting off the act long enough to evoke jeers from friends and Ajumans alike, I had to make the leap. Those few minutes are a complete blur, a blackout. All I know for sure is that I had to be rescued by a life-ring and that I was dragged up the rocks in a haze of shame and hypothermia.
I've been un-tagging myself in pictures for weeks..

NB question – Seoulians, Seoulons?

Pics at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/SoraksanMountain#

Damo and the Introduction of Smut

Every group has one: The fire starter. Kearsney had Wayne Bear. Stellenbosch had Matt Sterne. The character that evokes delirium in some, hatred in others and legendary stories from the rest.

South Korea has Damo. 


Damo New-tooth Smith is a bit of celebrity around these parts. A notorious career of shanaginans, most of which unspeakable in pleasant company have elevated him to what is now hero status.  If you happen to be out with him it is impossible to be referred to as "that guy last night" because he will find some way to blow any competition away and claim the title. Most nights end in Damo being naked - an impressive feat as Korean winter approaches and the icy winds don't appear to be slowing his stride.

Then he organized a birthday party- one which drew numbers from around the country who sacrificed the Korean F1, bungee jumping and a world-renown fireworks festival all to be present at what would surely be a momentous occasion. I had small window of freedom between a late Friday night at the "office" and moving house on Sunday with which to throw down with the group of heathens that was to assemble at our destination, (Daejeon).His first stunt was to dress us all in shame. Masks were created with Damo's ridiculous face, which were mandatory for all attendees to wear for the duration of the joll. I can only imagine the horror of the Korean police force when their CCTV cameras picked up 30 clones of one of their most wanted fugitives running around town. Teams were split up according to awkwardness and given an absurd array of tasks to perform, ranging from Soju consumption to the lunging of natives. Families that had unwittingly strayed outdoors quickly discovered that they had picked the wrong night for a Pizza Hut excursion as a few dozen Damo's ravaged the streets of Daejeon in search of cheap liquor and unsuspecting locals to accost.

A few members overshot the mark, as expected. One of these was the same character that had passed out after 15 minutes of the Global Gathering experience just a few weeks ago. Making his own rules which now included physical abuse, it seemed that James had still not learnt to cope with the Soju revolution. One bar had to be removed from the task list as anyone bearing a Damo mask became prohibited from entering, following James' raucous behavior. The conclusion of the team missions led to Cacoon- a club that Damo had picked for its 10pm to 2am free bear, since more alcohol was just what the crowd needed after hours of enforced debauchery. The braver Koreans approached us on occasion to learn the secret of why 30 humans would masquerade as alcoholic clowns. What they got for their courage was either an aggressive groping or a drink thrown in their face. When it became clear to all involved that free beer was the last thing anyone needed, the mob moved onto a more attractive setting- probably one that drew patrons for reasons like good music and décor rather than free booze. As the party moved onwards though, I did not. I could not. I was lost. I tried one stairwell, then the next. I ended up on the roof, the women's toilet, the basement and finally the kitchen (oh god they serve food here). I could not find a way out. I got the staff to help me but could see that they had no idea where I wanted to get to because they kept directing me to the bar saying, "free beer, very good." It's a strange phenomenon that just prior to an alcohol-induced blackout you sometimes get a great sense of clarity, and mine was crystal. "Am I too old for this shit?" Stuck in a dingy goth club, desperate to escape? I never thought that I'd be 'this guy'.
I was rescued by James who was hitting his second wind and scooped me out of that place like an avenging Maverick. We moved on to a club that the 2 day-old stamp on my arm right now tells me was called Club After. Here I found Dorian; who I've decided will now be known as Urkel from "Family Matters". The three of us hit the dance floor and the 9 hours of dutch courage within me made the decision- it was time for the smut. From what I had heard and seen, the craze had never reached these shores. Were they ready? It didn't matter. I started with a couple of mamba's which got the locals interested. Who was this creature and what the hell was he doing with a peacock beak in each hand? I took it back a notch and threw the cobra at them, something which I had learnt from Sarah in the Caribbean. They didn't like this ritual and greeted it with the same contempt with which the Haka is met by the Irish- but with less respect.

An example of "the salmon"

By the time I was busting out salmon-leaps from the stage the dance floor had emptied. But I was in the zone, and an earthquake wouldn't have fazed me. In a couple of minutes, the 3 of us had chased the entire crowd of Soju-swiggling So-Ko's out of the arena. I erroneously saw this as a victory, as it would be in Terrace back home. But on this occasion we were in trouble. What we have now established is that we were being told on to the officials, who didn't take much time to act. I don't remember the incident itself, as I was overwhelmed by the emotion that only the real smut and accounting 188 can provide. All I know is that we found ourselves outside, in the cold, covered in a shame that surpassed what Damo's mask had brought us. Naturally MacDonald's was the only option and as predicted, the breakfast menu was on offer.

A demonstration of the smut http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMLCrzy9TEs
Damo in his prime http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=594307022422

  

Global gathering 2010

It was the 9^th October, a date that had become imprinted on my mind as RTD, Rocking the Daisies- South Africa's most notorious rock festival. Over the last few years most of us have had our calendars centered around that date and today the festival has become a pilgrimage taken by hippies and jocks alike. In the last year abroad though, I have missed such events regularly. The Soccer World Cup, Currie Cup final 2010 and National Braai Day have all been spent on foreign soil while sporting a Springbok jersey with a foreign lager in hand and Shosholoza on my lips. When RTD 2010 approached this year though, there was something else we were focused on. We had our own rock festival. And we had Fatboy Slim.

Global gathering is a rock festival that road-trips the globe, bouncing from country to country and boasting names like Faithless, Eric Prydz and Fatboy Slim. When word was out that the legendary caravan was coming to town, we snapped up our tickets with the kind of euphoria that usually accompanies a test-match at Kings Park. The fact that entrance to the concert would cost us more than a World Cup final ticket did not begin to dampen spirits, and in a matter of days a hefty majority of the South African ex-pat community in Seoul was on the roster. Party-liaison duties had somehow fallen to our local kiwi celeb, Damo the Dog-tooth which unnerved us slightly. He delivered more than his rugby team ever did though, and produced a batch of Tie-dye shirts that would have felt at home at Earth-dance.

We met at the subway station, a stone's-throw from the shuttle that would take us into the wicked realm that was GGK 2010. The 25-strong crew of saffa's, kiwis, yanks and one Liverpooler who had slipped into our posse beneath a cloak of excitement and disorientation, assembled at the bus stop. When we suited-up in our tree-hugging attire the line for the bus seemed to part as people realized they were heavily outgunned, and our All-black Moses led us through the sea of nervous faces aboard the vessel that would deliver us to our own promised land. We took-over the bus like Phillistines and it was only the brave and the drunk that remained among the tie-die army. Some of us were excited, some nervous, and the rest were feeling the effects of a couple hours aboard the subway drinking Soju.

I expected to be greeted by a Rocking the Daisies atmosphere when we reached the grounds- muddy, disorganized and a huge hack. But this was Seoul; Getaway Magazine's number 1 pick of developed countries to visit for a cultural experience. If there's one thing the Koreans can do other than wiring a microwave, it is organize a function. We arrived at the gates to what could easily have been a G20 summit. There were guards in suits, translators standing by and an impressive selection of officials from whom to collect your ticket. As a South African I had arrived with my confirmation number as well as email printout and a photocopy of my ID, Passport and Alien Registration. These things just do not run smoothly where we're from. Booking a ticket online is just asking for trouble in the Republik and the saffa's among us were skeptical that ours would even be here. But we would be once again surprised by the efficiency that met our nervous ticket inquiries. Not only did these officials speak better English than those in any service department back home, but they were smiling. This threw me off somewhat- I had never come out of one of these transactions unscathed, let alone feeling welcome.

After decanting a few dozen litres of Soju into plastic bottles, we entered the arena only to find that our team attire would not be turning many heads. There were people wearing everything from chicken-suits to birthday suits. We were surrounded by photographers who wanted the scoop on this army of foreigners and why they were dressed like protesters. After a couple of nervous "no-comments" we made it to our picnic site: carefully positioned between the beer tent and the stage. One trooper of ours went down like a sack of potatoes, right there before us. A heavy night followed by 3 hours of subway drinking had proved too much for him. Luckily the festival was to last 12 hours and what began as ridicule from us slowly turned to praise for a man that had clearly timed his power-nap. We were all to wilt in the coming hours, one by one, like the no-name battery bunnies in the Duracell add.

When I found the visionary (James) later that evening, he was in the front row of the crowd watching Fatboy Slim and looking like Fordyce on Poly Shorts. I made a mental note that the mockery accompanying an early nap has nothing on the second wind that it provides later on. He roped me into the front row and against the fence and there was a brief moment when I thought that being stampeded at a rock concert wouldn't be a bad way to go out. But again the Koreans impressed me with their control and although the hundred thousand humming glow-sticks behind us threatened a crushing march was imminent, everyone kept their cool and it was an awesome couple of hours. Fatboy slim really brought his A-game.

Midnight arrived in a cold snap that warned us all that winter was on its way. We turned to Singha's new addition to their beer line- tequila. It didn't warm us up, just made us regret the decision horribly. Those taking refuge at the picnic site were subjected to a cold, wet blanket for warmth and a barrage of stumbling idiots for company. The only ones left standing were either on a concoction of uppers or had followed James' example and were prospering from an early day's rest.

NB Tip – Take the ridicule, and have a power nap.

GGK pics at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/GlobalGathering2010#
GGK pics at http://www.0150.co.kr/main2.html?fid=344


 

Survivor Heathensville

Team "Stragglers"

The name itself would strike fear into most. Organized by a blend of individuals determined to leave their mark on history as well as seared into the memories of 50 unsuspecting competitors, the maiden voyage of Survival Heathensville was always going to be a messy affair. It was just the magnitude of it all that would shock us to our core.

The foreign contingent of teachers, soldiers and rif-raff in Korea seems to consist mainly of South Africans and Yanks. This alone is a recipe for disaster. It is the number of Rhodents though, that inflate the security threat to where it now lies- in the red zone. I was met at the Dongducheon station by a scraggly character named Clint who would look at home in the Cape flats. I could tell by his donning of a purple Rhode's overall that he was ready for a serious showdown and this made me nervous. I had also heard that this particular mob of drinking athletes were battle-hardened after many months of Soju intake. But being the only Stellies representative meant that I had to dive in head first, and hope that the boeri-gods would protect me.

Due to inclement weather the venue for the event had been moved from an elaborate looking open field/obstacle course to the moderate shelter that an overhead bridge close by provided. Seventy people were to be confined for 6 hours to a shady space that most homeless bums wouldn't settle for. There were no complaints however, as teams were too focused on the task at hand. Some had been training, some had been rehearsing, and some, like my team the Stragglers had never met before. We were faced with considerable handicaps. Four Koreans in one team, for example, was a set-back. Zero Rhodent's among us was another disadvantage. But we had heart and were convinced that this would carry us through. The line-up of events was a daunting one. 30 trials and tribulations awaited the teams. Boat races, funnels, jelly shots and numerous games that I had never heard of and didn't really want to.

Our first event was a boat race against the "better than dong team" – a group of athletes bearing moustaches and tight leather pants, as well as a war cry that shook our make-shift ensemble to the core. We were never really in the contest. I was opposite a man that looked like a Mexican Johnny Bravo and inhaled his beer before I could raise mine to my lips. Hell, I was embarrassed. Upon completion the victors commenced their war-cry which now included a startling spray of beer at the defeated opponents, (us). This was followed by a funnel test which provided a bit of comic relief in watching the Koreans attempt the challenge. I just don't think they were built for mass intake of alcohol. 

The competition took on a new vibe after the funneling and two rounds of boat races. In the same way that a test match is leveled by torrential rain, the Soju was beginning to make rankings a secondary concern and survival the main objective. At one point we had a team member that we had cleverly dubbed "tank" since his job was to drive an US Army tank- who had to rush off to the trenches for some kind of code red. We were skeptical. The US doesn't generally send their troops to Korea for active duty, and the soldiers posted here spend more time at the bar then the front-lines. So it was agreed that he couldn't handle the pace. Basic training had obviously left out a crucial element of the Korean environment: Soju.


Jelly shots, relays and hoola-hoops (which I couldn't even do at Cowies Hill Pre-primary) were all challenging enough at the best of times. But these were not those times. I can only imagine the sight that was witnessed by the by standing public. Fifty people doing sprint-relays in the rain while officers dressed in Springbok jerseys blew whistles and shouted profanities at the stragglers. Had Straeuli moved Kamp Staludraad to the other side of the world? By nightfall the Rhodes boys were taking their kit off. Strangely and disappointingly the Rhodes girls were not. Buckets of Soju were now being chugged like shooters and bodies were starting to accumulate around the premises. When we vacated the crime scene, we left some good men behind.


The next stop was the fabled Norabang. I had looked forward to this experience, as it was my first since getting to Korea. A norabang is something of a Korean legend. A furnished room with TV, playlist and wait for it, Microphone! Basically a karaoke room but dressed in a lot of tradition, and culture and cheap wallpaper. Also, they seem to stay open all night, welcome drunken foreigners and allow booze inside. So perhaps that is the attraction. Whatever went on inside that room has been sworn to secrecy. Photos were deleted, stories immediately forgotten and clothes left behind forever, (as collateral).

The next day we had brunch at a magical place that served hot wings, cheese burgers, nachos - basically an oasis in this desert of Kimchi and noodles. Stories were shared, toasts made to lost comrades and of course the Rhodes troop started ordering tequila. A couple of us looked at each other with terrible anticipation of where this was headed. With our tales between our legs we hit the road and the rail, chased down the street by cat-calls and disapproving glares. There are many jobs that can be handled on a hang-over, some even welcome it. Ski instructor, Deckhand, Tour Guide? Well have another beer. But 30 screaming kids attempting to communicate at a pitch that only dogs can hear.. I think I'll take the shame, and a water to go.

Pics of Heathensville are at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/Heathensville#

 

Ulleungdo and the Dokdo Pilgrimage

My rookie status in Korea meant that I hadn't known about, and therefore hadn't planned anything for the famed Korean Thanksgiving holiday- Chuseok. In a nation that prides itself on having fewer public holidays than just about any other in the world, sitting around scrolling through the 3 English TV channels during the longest national vacation on the calendar is simply not an option. So I began researching worthy itineraries. Japan, China, Thailand. It became evident that the 49 million native Koreans had been doing similar such research since the New Year, and the months that they had on me showed up in the prices of flights. When a 90 minute flight to Shanghai came in at $1000, I knew that the prospect of international travel was a long-shot. I lowered my gaze to Korean destinations, Jeju island perhaps? Not a single flight, ferry or fishing trawler  seemed to have an open seat. It was then that my Korean teachers came to the rescue, not for the first time nor the last. They told me about an island to the East, in the sea of Japan, (although they refuse to call it this.) I accepted the proposal on the spot, between school periods, and handed over my credit card. "Do it."


Later that night we began our journey, and it required everything from us that any journey possibly could. Train, Taxi, Ferry and Bus would all come into play if we were to make it to the island. It was harrowing, draining, utterly boring. All in all it would take us 10 hours to reach the fishing isle of Ulleungdo. It had shattered all perceptions of this country being accessible and easy to navigate. I hoped for some sun, which seemed to have submitted to the forces of looming winter and had been steadily migrating south every morning. I held thumbs that the 4 vessels carrying us to our destination would all string together and actually complete the trip. And most importantly I prayed that the Japs would not be mounting their hostile take-over of Dokdo Island on this particular holiday- where would that leave an African travelling on the green mamba?



Ulleungdo is a strange place, famous for its dried-squid and pumpkin; a bizarre combination that made me suspicious of what else, if anything, the small community had in its arsenal. It's a volcanic island that boasts beautiful coastlines as well as lush rainforest, but concedes handicaps such as no fresh water and notoriously poor weather. We arrived in typical such conditions, scattered showers and dense fog that eliminated any hope of an enchanted arrival on the scene. In a flurry of Korean that my phrase-book hadn't managed to cover we were whisked off by officials onto the island, all 500 of us down the platform like a hoard of nineteenth-century Irish immigrants onto the docks of New York- and in similar shape. A handful of tour-guides arrived and as the masses descended upon them I was dragged by Judy, my travel companion/translator/work-colleague towards a weedy looking local bearing a sign with our names. Upon seeing us he turned and like a Sherpa began the ascent into the foothills of the mountain which held the town; a modest arrangement of deteriorating buildings that offered basic accommodation and a population ratio of 1 man to every 146 dried squid.

We were staying in a minbak, a set-up that I had first been exposed to at Daechon Beach in my first week. It is a room with (very)basic fascilities, and a pile of bedding folded up in one corner which you lay out on the floor when ready for a nap. I still haven't wrapped my head around where exactly in far Eastern evolution the Korean's missed out on the common bedspread- but today the minbak is as much a part of life as kimchi. For illustrative purposes, our accommodation was a typical motel room, without beds. There wasn't much time for pussy-footing around though as we had unwittingly struck the jackpot and arrived on a day that the weather had permitted a trip to the nearby Dokdo Island. This, our Sherpa told us was a rarity and not to be missed. So we once again boarded the Ocean Flower and hoisted our travel time for the day from 10 hours to 14 as we headed further East towards the mystical islet

Dokdo Island is an extremely contentious point among the Koreans. They regard is as a symbol of National independence, perhaps the only foreign territory that they can lay claim to. But the Japs are closing in. Suspicion of hidden minerals and resources has drawn in the old-enemy and they appear to have a similar attitude to Korea's claim over the land as they do towards the world when it comes to the whaling issue. "Try and stop us". Their claim to Dokdo rides on the fact that it lies in the Sea of Japan, the mere declaration of which makes the Koreans furious. They have never recognized the name, and maintain that the waters are called the East Sea. So perhaps it is a constant fear of losing the Island the way that they have lost their history, palaces and pride to the Japanese which has created a massive demand to see the place- and given it a mythical status. Think Mecca to the Muslims, and you'll get an idea of the magnitude of importance. In any case, I was assured that the gods must be shining down on me to allow this. I had several Koreans hugging me in anticipation, but certain fanatics looking cynically in my direction the way an Escort pig farmer would look at a Hilton Soutie fiddling with his braai.

As we neared the island the captain sympathetically explained over the PA that the seas were too rough and that we could pass by, but that nobody could set foot on land. This didn't go down well with mob. My translator was furiously decoding the obscenities that were being thrown at officials, some of which simply could not be translated into English. Stern requests quickly transformed into threats of a riot, some passengers promising to throw themselves from the vessel and swim to shore. I imagined that this was what Loftus Versveld must be like when Clyde Rathbone scores a try and gives the crowd the finger. In the end, the masses prevailed and the captain was forced to negotiate. Thirty minutes ashore was the compromise and when those doors opened, all hell broke loose. Toddlers were thrown across the pass rail like old apple cores as troops unloaded onto the beach like soldiers on Dunkirk- but with more of a cause.

Once on solid volcanic ground there was a lull as people took in what surrounded them- the eye of the storm. And following this was a vicious explosion of Nikon-fueled lightening, blinding to the naked eye. If you have seen Korean tourists capturing something of interest on film, then you can imagine what 500 of them would look like when presented with a national treasure. We had to duck for cover after sifting through a crowd that would surely have stampeded us were they not all Korean and therefore 4 foot tall. We too were recording this moment, but with a dash more moderation and perspective. When evaluating the beauty of this place, I was a bit disappointed. The weather had not done it justice, and perhaps in glorious sunlight it would have looked like a tropical paradise. But in truth it was grey and dreary. We could not ascend the summit which meant that the view was limited to sea level, and with such time constraints we spent our 30 minutes dashing around for snapshots like an KTV kid on Reggies' Rush. It was another one of those places that would slot into the folder named, "places to say you've been" rather than "places to see." Before very long there was a Stalin-like voice booming across the island, accompanied by a siren and I hoped that it translated to, "Comrades, ze Germans are coming!" As anticipated though, it was the captain now putting his foot down with his own threats to leave behind any stragglers as he was leaving in 5 minutes. We hustled back to the ferry, dodging Korean elders kissing the ground and paying homage to whichever animal-god had delivered this gift to them. It must have been a weasel. 


NB Fact - My Korean birth animal is the Tiger. That's right.


Pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/Ulleungdo?authkey=Gv1sRgCLSLj5CvsPbBngE#

 

SOJU – A warning

The West is in trouble. The USA owes China somewhere around 3 trillion dollars
and it's no secret that the East is rapidly sneaking up on the world as the next superpower.

But there is hope. There is something holding South Korea back from achieving greatness. It is called SOJU, and it strikes fear into the heart of every foreigner that strolls into a Seoul convenience store and sees it sitting on the shelf between the milk and the yoghurt. If the direct translation of Soju is anything other than "poison" then it has been mislabeled, for that is exactly what it is. Sold in an innocent enough little green bottle , the way the BFG used to bottle up his captured nightmares in unlabelled snozcumber jars- it is a cocktail for death.

The Koreans drink it like we'd drink an Amstel, and since it comes in a beer bottle and alcohol is allowed to be publically consumed in this land, it can be found on every street corner. Our pride and joy back home is Cane, and we smugly advertise the fact that it is outlawed in just about every country in the world. But this concoction, well it's a bit like cane, vodka and water. None of this business of masking the taste with a grape flavor- the way that SAB sells Cane posing as a spritzer and tasting like jungle-yum green juice. No no, the Koreans have always failed to understand the West's need for introductions and foreplay in life. They work longer hours than anyone else, their kids study harder, our lunch-break is ten-minutes of amateurish chopstick shoveling before resuming our classes. And if Soju is any indication of their drinking habits, then the same applies to this custom. It is revolting. Us foreigners mix it with whatever we can get our hands on- Powerade, sea-weed soup, anything to mask the before-during-and aftertaste that it presents. But whether the locals have lost all taste-sensation or genuinely have only 3 minutes to swig a brew before resuming work, they down the stuff like appletizer.

My first exposure, nay, encounter with the toxin was during my weekend in Daechon beach with a crowd of Saffa's that had heard of my desperate quest to meet another white face and had sympathetically invited me to join them. I was a bit weary of the mob since it was clear that they had stumbled once or twice in their screening process of acquiring mates, and had subsequently allowed a Kiwi named Damo dogtooth Smith into their tribe. More distressing though was how a Yank called Sam (think Dave from Flight of the concords), had become a pivotal cog in the team and even a Canadian called himself part of the troop. It was clear that they were charitable.

Upon meeting them, I picked up a distinct reverence for Soju almost immediately. I was warned to start on beer, which was sold in 1.6l plastic bottles at every convenience store and called Cass Light. The American's had certainly left their mark. After a Boeri that was heavenly despite being braai'd by a UCT/Rhodes team, the drinking games led to a couple bottles of Soju. The stuff is also deceptive in the way it only reveals its effects after a fair number of bottles have been devoured, proof that it must contain cane. I felt strong on the way out to town, but also sensed the familiar old feeling of anticipating the fall- and knowing that the damage is done. All there is to do now is wait….

When motor functions began to fail I knew that the Soju was to blame. And when the torrential downfall began to feel like fairy dust, I knew that there was something sinister about that little green bottle. Fortunately I was rescued once again from being "that guy", because Sam-the-yank had been driven by the potion to leap down 2 flights of stairs. We found him out cold, blood pouring from a head-wound that Brad Thorne would have been proud of. It was tough and also frustrating not to be able to sober up in a typical sober-up-moment. I was shouting out orders like, "bring a goddam gurny", that probably sounded more like, "god damn you gerti!". The Koreans were confused. Luckily we had a couple of " we drink so much" Rhodents who actually did seem to have a disturbing tolerance of the Soju potion and acted fast to get Sam to the hospital. I honestly thought he was dead. Dronk vir driet was another spinoff that the Soju offered.

When we reached the hospital the Koreans showed their skills and rushed Sam into the OR with impressive speed and skill. They had obviously been training for this and I knew that when the Olympic committee finally buckled and allowed stretcher racing into the Games- it would be a one-horse race. Tears and prayers gradually turned to a photo shoot when the message was relayed that he would be fine, and that 22 staples would sort him out. A strange kind of celebratory beer pong game broke out in the car park, and it was becoming blatant to all by my dismal hand-eye coordination that I was a first-timer with SOJU. I suspect teams were 5's alive'ing it to not have me on their team- but I felt like a rock star and I guess that's what counts.



NB tip – Check out what Soju does to Koreans at www.blackoutkorea.com

A tale of 2 weeks

The first 2 nights I spent in South Korea were amoung the loneliest and most miserable that I have ever subjected myself to. The bold statements that I had made over the last few months in defense of my move into the land of the Pan, now seemed a bit short-sighted and I truly began to wonder whether this was all a massive mistake. There is something cold-blooded about being surrounded by 49 million people who cannot utter a word of English to you- even if they wanted to.

The cocktail of exhaustion, jet-lag and complete isolation that I was experiencing is one that I wouldn't wish upon any man and I suddenly felt a connection to Guantanamo Bay prisoners, although I was also deeply troubled by the thought that I had chosen this fate- I had plunged myself into this environment under the cloaked perception that this was my vibe- the lone wolf, the one man wolf pack. In reality I was beginning to realize that there was no such thing, and I'd either have to meet some people asap or begin hiding my razor blades.

Being really really ridiculously good-looking has its perks, and it wasn't long before I had made some mates. Closest to my heart was the local corner store owner, who couldn't speak a word of English but via primitive hand signals and a constant flow of Korean Won from my wallet into his cash register we had become friends of some sort. I would call him, "bows with a fist." The Korean teachers at my school were also incredibly warm and I slowly began to feel like I was part of some estranged family. The friendship of my students came at a cost though, and I was required to perform periodic show-and-tell displays of my hairy arms- which evoked disbelief in some and euphoria in others. My green eyes were also something of a phenomenon to the kids. I may as well have been a Cyclops.

Two of the teachers took me out into Seoul after my first week, which felt like some warped kind of a reward for surviving 30 hours in a classroom with ADD whipper-snappers. Our first stop was Itaewon, the Westerner's Mecca of South Korea. I was soon to discover however that this slogan had been earned by the 35000 US army troops that are currently posted in Seoul, and use their weekends to run riot in a part of town that is now only frequented by themselves and the hookers, transvestites and DJ's that can appease their testosterone. Needless to say I was slightly disappointed, and we headed to a small varsity town that didn't let me down in any regard. Coming from Stellenbosch- the best town on Earth- my expectations were high. But this little area felt more like an English pub village than anything else, as long as you kept you gaze low enough to avoid blinding neon signs that boasted names like TinPan and Double D's. We ran into a couple dozen poms, a few scotts and several hundred Americans who had overnight transformed in my mind from unbearable foes to my only allies. Expectations of a classy first world Korean night-life were shattered and I soon lost count of the Korean kids falling by the wayside like first-year Rhodents. It was true; Koreans could not handle their liquor. Sure they had heaps of style, I had never seen such classy attire, but any kind of finesse is lost when heaped over a toilet. I wouldn't say I was in top form myself, but it's certainly difficult to be "that guy" when there are weedy Korean kids at your feet.

The night was a success. The first train out of Seoul only left at 6am, and by that stage the three of us were conversing in a mish-mash of clicks and low grunts. When I finally got home, all that awaited me was a cold shower and a change of clothes. The next stop was Daechon beach, to finally meet some saffas and feel slightly at home with an imported Boeri and a make-shift braai. They had me at Boeri.

By the start of my second week at school I was a different man. Physically weaker yes, my raccoon eyes attested to a weekend that hadn't boasted anything in the way of moderation. But I had survived. I rolled into class tossing around Korean slang the way Toks van der Linda tosses a chippalata around a Weber, (at altitude). I knew shortcuts through town and if I had a bell on my crusty mountain bike it would have been ringing proud, announcing my arrival on the scene and letting the locals know that I was here to stay. I had been warned of the first 48 in Korea, and such warnings held some serious merit. But following the nightmarish first two nights I had discovered the secret to survival on the other side of the world. People. The lone ranger is hardcore, but miserable.

24 hour spa's, ancient castles or names of alcohol that I hadn't even heard of, each new weekend was now an opportunity to rip the lid off of it. I couldn't wait.



NB question - Is Korea ready for the smut?

The Republik: A miscalculation

After 2 months of torment in the desert, arriving in a Durban winter was a wet dream come true. As I strolled past Jacob Zuma’s grinning bald head plastered along the arrivals terminal wall, an overwhelming mishmash of gees and nostalgia welled up inside me and I was dangerously close to booming out the last 2 verses of our beloved Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica. The first two would have been a huge call.

Several SA government departments stood between me and the next step, and I braced myself for a few run-ins on the way to attaining my Korean visa. On this occasion however even I was impressed by their incompetence. In the end it would take almost 2 months of drifting between Durbs and glorious Pretoria to collect a handful of documents. Striking nurses were making more progress than I was. It gave me some time to see a few old sea dogs and for the first time see my second niece. The first one had taught me a lot in her single year on Earth and I now knew that being vomited on was more of compliment than anything else, and often received a round of applause from by standing relatives. My city had transformed somewhat though, now boating a moderate landmark in the form of the Moses Mabhida Stadium which I guessed could probably be seen from Mars. More notably, more beautiful and more worthy of praise was something an establishment that stood a stone’s throw from my house.Welcome to Hooters. A family restaurant where belting waitresses sat on your lap to take orders of BBQ wings and Castle draught. How they got that passed with the city council is something that I will drink to. Durban still retained its same vibe though. The sardines had arrived and the estimated 1 million Indians that resided 10 minutes from our sanctuary, Mt Edgecome (aka Bangbrook Lane), were in full force on the beaches. My brother, fresh off the JHB boat, demanded that we get involved in everything that KZN had to offer- including the sards. Cufflinks and all, shoulder to shoulder with Man United football shirts and heaving on those nets as though our next bunny depended on it. “Puuuul it, toe it!”

The Durban July was a shocker. I’d like to take a mulligan. Over-excitement and early drinking resulted in a predictable outcome. Let’s just say I overshot it, and leave it at that. Of course there were others, the regulars; Boog Davies and co. But eye-brows were no longer raised at his antics, not since his bed-wetting days in Stellenbosch. These days there was only disappointment if he didn’t perform. The next weekend brought Boog’s housewarming, where folks came from as far as Joburg to catch a glimpse of the creature on his home turf. Fortunately I was still wearing a hangover from the weekend before, but when the rest of the mob stormed into Notti’s pub it was clear that the evening was only going to end with someone getting tazed- which happened more than once.

From there it was time for JHB. The final hurdle en route to Pacific Asia came in the form of the visa process in Pretoria. It’s like having Accounts as your last exam of the year and I dreaded it about as much. Another hurdle was surviving Pinkie Fest- JHB’s attempt at ox-braai. My expectations of juiced-up Saints old-boys and Paris Hilton BFF’s were significantly rocked when we arrived on the scene to be greeted by a couple hundred hookers, clowns and pink dildos. I headed to the bar with my JHB roomie Mish and we enquired about the alcohol situation. “Free, all day with the entrance fee”, we were told. There must be a catch- it’s JHB, nothing is free. As my Brutal Slushi went down like a home-sick mole I pondered the consequences of such a scenario. Could Joburg handle it? An hour later I had the answer. They had either been slipping crystal meth into the drinks, or the phenomenon that was free alcohol had taken its toll in a sinister way. My roomie was incoherent, riots were breaking out around the bars and Shaun Shields was on stage with aKing trying to steal the mic. From there the masses descended upon town where I was only allowed in the club on condition that I wore Mish’s mom’s pink Roxette Jacket, since a wife-beater on its own was apparently too casual. I think it was the shoulder pads that confused them. The highlight of the evening undoubtedly came in the form of an Andicco's pizza. It comes in at a close second to the Gott’s burger.

With Seoul now in the headlights there was a brief moment for reflection and preparation. The last few days in the RSA were spent on the couch learning essential Korean phrases like, “Make my day!” and “She told me she was 18.” I also exposed myself to a few episodes of Banged up Abroad to put things in perspective and educate myself on whom not to trust when smuggling gold out of Burma. With that behind me, seventeen hours of flight lay ahead with a stop-over in Doha; it seemed I couldn’t escape the sand dunes. Still slightly doubtful about whether I would actually make it out of this country I tossed a bottle of Bovril into my bag and boarded the Gautrain, (would it be here when I returned?)

NB Tip – Go to Pinkie Fest. www.pinkiefest.co.za

NB Tip- If you find yourself in Notti’s pub, don’t mention the fact that you know Boog. This applies in most other places too.

Teaching Terrorists

The Blue Moon trip came to an end for me in San Diego, where one final bender resulted in my walking back from town to the marina along the highway at 3am (flight out at 5). I wasn’t in the state of mind to measure anything, but by my hazy calculations the trek was about as far as walking from Balito to Salt Rock along the beach. The walk didn’t hold the same perks as the Balito hike once did though, in which I was aided by samoosa-wielding fisherman and on more than one occasion was welcomed into the group to throw a sparkplug or two in for some shad. The Old Brown Sherry also warmed my spirits and carried me through. Walking the San Diego highway was slightly distressing, and was it not for my comatose state I probably would have feared for my life. Too many movies about truckers and hitch-hikers..

So with the epic adventure aboard M/Y Blue Moon concluded, I switched vessel to flight EK 761 en route to Dubai. My cabin on the yacht began to feel like a bit of a luxury once I was seated on the plane between two ninja’s heading for Saudi Arabia. There wasn’t much conversation.

With my folks living in Dubai I was keen to settle down with a cold beer and return to a normal pace. The Republik of South Africa was out, since the world cup was about to start and flights back home would cost you the deed to your house- and I had little more to my name than the clothes on my back. When I got to Dubai though it was clear that I had miscalculated somewhat, as I stepped out onto the tarmac at 5am to be greeted by a steemy 32 degrees. Dubai summer is not for ants. I was now seeing the pattern between flights entering vs flights exiting the emirates, and understood why I could quite easily find a flight into Dubai. Humans were fleeing!

Once settled in the desert it was time to do some work. I had decided to teach English in the Far East in the coming months, and got offered a job in the meantime at a local language school teaching private lessons to 3 kids. It sounded very chilled and I was keen to get some experience as well as some cash. In hindsight the years that those kids stole off my life didn’t quite balance with the joys of imparting wisdom. I soon discovered that my 3 students were Afgans whose family had fled the capital due to your everyday problems such as rising petrol prices and US air strikes. In their case the grass probably was greener on the other side..

With my “students” sitting before me I began to anticipate a few problems. Aged 8, 10 and 12 - One ADD, one autistic and one painfully bored - I was no match for this trio. The fact that lessons were 3 hours each and bathroom-breaks were frowned upon made me more nervous. What had I walked into? I dived in head first, employing every tack and bit of wit that I possessed to keep these animals under control. Before each lesson I would have to carry out a recci to search for anything they could break or use to inflict pain. Sugar had to be hidden, doors fortified and the public warned. Their arrival on the premises was heard, not seen. Keep in mind that 3 hours learning a second language is a prospect that would strike fear into most- but these terrors were not ‘most’. I learnt that it was their school holidays and they had been pawned off by disinterested parents into summer-camps, swimming lessons and the low point of their day: English. They had also been spoilt to death and had no grasp of what an authority figure was. Basically it was a catastrophe. Think matric finals with no breaks and gremlins stapling your tie to your shirt throughout. There were times that people walked past and it must have looked like I was teaching hand-to-hand combat. At the end of one torture session and old Israeli sailor came up and hugged me. He said, “They are evil”. It was for all purposes, a nightmare. I had such respect for our teachers at school. Why would they put themselves through this? I felt like calling up Mr. Amos and apologizing for making his life hell. Was I being punished and if so, when would it end?

At the glorious end of my contract I sat down and thought about what I had subjected myself to, and contemplated whether I wanted to spend the next few months doing the same. The purist teacher argument of “the privilege of teaching another soul” was, by this stage a joke to me. The question was; could I physically survive? After much deliberation and advice from mates teaching abroad I decided to push on, under the influence of a promise that these kids were the worst that I would ever encounter. With teaching experience now under my belt I was in demand and could choose where I wanted to go. Thailand, Japan, Vietnam? The list was as endless as it was glamorous. Do not ask me why I chose Korea. It’s going to take me a while to answer that myself.


NB Tip- Be nicer to your teachers. It will come back and bite you in the ass.


NB Fact – Ninja’s, aka Muslim women wearing full burkha’s has now been banned in France for security reasons. Trust the frogs.

Un tequila por favor

We were now heading up the West Coast with Cabo San Lucas in the cross-hairs. To be fair it isn't really Mexico, more like Little America – a tourism Mecca to the yanks who flock here for Spring Break, honeymoons and sport fishing. It's found on the Baha Finger, which sounded more like a WWE move than a stretch of land. Its the Penninsula that stretches down from California into the Pacific and creates the gulf of Mexico. After a couple of days at sea spent refining our Spanish and cultivating a few stringy moustaches we arrived in the Cabo San Lucas Marina which was a shocking experience in itself. The Yanks were everywhere. We arrived to the drone of jet-ski's and parasail-boats, had to dodge our way between cruise ships and finally docked along-side a couple hundred fishing boats. It was chaos and by the time we were tied up to the dock everyone was a bit nervous to step off into this pit of sin.

The vibe in Cabo is all geared towards giving the common American an experience of what he thinks Authentic Mexico is. Everywhere you go you swaggering yanks can be heard shouting “American Dollar”, and the locals’ eyes will light up as they reel in another victim who ends up walking away saying to his wife “but where else would I get a Mexican hunting bracelet, like the one the red Indians used to wear!” The first  thing we saw when getting off the boat was a Hooters. The second thing we saw was a Harley Davidson store. It really was every American’s little slice of Mozambique, equipped with just enough of America to make things comfortable. Looking past the stars and stripes on every second wife-beater that passed us did revealed a town with a lot of potential. Epic restaurants, nightclubs and beaches (if you can find a spot), made it an obvious hit with escapees of the USA who could now have a Pina Colada in one hand, a big-mac in the other and afford both.

After a meal with the crew of the only other yacht in town – arranged by our 2nd mate who seemed to know every human in the industry – we had a couple of tequilas. We had prepared ourselves for a barrage of alcohol in Mexico. Especially tequila. Between Calicoes, Tiger-Tiger and the infamous Terrace I had consumed my fair share of the stuff and considered myself a bit of a Maneer, (those blue ones at terrace were shockers though). I had seen Tequila with a worm at the bottom of the bottle and was expecting similar such obscenities in the land of the cactus, but we weren’t prepared for what we got in that first bar. The significance of a fucking rattlesnake inside the bottle was never fully explained to us but I’ll just say that it was an eye-opener. Is it necessary to put a snake in your bottle of tequila? From there we staggered out into the streets which now looked understandably hazy. We found ourselves in some kind of club and felt like rock stars amoung the sea of delicious Latino’s giving us far more attention than we were accustomed to. I must have been looking fantastic. It was either that or my patented “mamba dance” that was becoming a global cult (not really), that were drawing them in. I wondered whether it was the fact that I was now in a coutry where moustaches were cool and these lasses thought my snor was helping to throw out a Pablo Escabar vibe rather than the pornstar that it turns me into back home.  The music video was short lived though, and a gloating Hans pulled me aside to tell me that these chicks were all escorts. Columbian hookers. A quick back-hand across the cheek was called-for to wipe the ridiculous grin off my face and bring me back to Earth, and Hans obliged. My South American wingman tried to reason with me that these women were no good, no good at all. In English that 28 Tequilas and a Peruivan mother-tongue was making hard to decipher, he reminded me that I was above this and that I would never think about such things in South Africa. “Same Same as back home”, he said. “But different”. Alas he was right and I spent the night brushing off liberally-dressed beauties that would otherwise have never given me a second glance.

We had a couple of days to kill, thanks to a very chilled captain and itinerary. We rented a few cars and headed off into the real Mexico- we had had enough of the Yanks and wanted to see some countryside. It wasn’t long though before we were being labeled Gringo’s and could be spotted snapping up ponchos, local brews and anything else claiming to be authentic. The group was a salesman’s dream and we must have spiked foreign investment in the region in a matter of hours. Our destination was a little town called San Jose where it was rumoured that the original Hotel California still stood- the one that the Eagles made famous. Yes we were becoming US patriots by the day. The trip also served as a training ground for the crew’s recent photography infatuation which was becoming a pandemic and meant that anything that moved seemed to be showered in light and left dazed and confused in our dust. The town was the kind of place in which you’d expect Antonio Banderas to bust out of a saloon at any moment to engage in a gunfight with 14 bandits while playing a guitar solo behind his back. He’s not unlike me in many ways- mainly the manner in which we both take charge and feel responsible for defending the weak. I’ve also got that husky thing going on.

The sight of Hotel California instilled in us hopes of finding a real landmark, something to make up the substance of stories back home and keep poorly-written blogs afloat. Stuck away in a dark corner of the one-horse town, beneath a dingy set of apartments and across the street from the tobacco store was the sacrilegious-looking establishment. The weeping brass letters across the top did seem to suggest a place of legend or myth, with enough imagination and tequila, and it held an uneasy sense of beckoning to go inside. Excitedly we approached the counter to find out more.

“Ola. Is this the real Hotel California?”

“Sorry sinjor, I don’t understand.”

“Um, well you probably get this a lot. Can we check in any time we like, but never leave?”

“No sinjor. You can leave whenever you want, there are exits located at the front and back of the building”

Worried and a little panicked we turned to the barman and asked him to play something by the Eagles.

“Eagles sir? I have no eagles here.”

Deflated and disappointed we slowly came to the conclusion that this was not the fabled spot. Was there even a Hotel California at all? Over a flat bear claiming to be brewed down the road we decided that this misunderstanding had been the work of a wicked opportunist who had spun the story to attract rookies like ourselves into the desert to fall prey to his bar. Wicked –and wise. On the way out our fears were confirmed when we stumbled into the Hotel California souvenir shop- selling everything from shirts to ancient telephones. The Eagles would have been gutted. We left the bar defeated, all with the same line running through our heads : We could indeed check in any time we wanted, but it was time to leave.

After a quick photo-op at the public telephone to prove to my sister that I had attempted to call for her birthday (unsuccessful), it was time to shoot off. Our route took us up the coast and back into little-America. It was this stretch of country that would become my favorite part of Mexico and the country that I thought we had come to see. Stretches of white beaches that rivaled anything we had seen in the Caribbean, with painfully perfect waves since we had no skills or surfboards. We stopped in at a few of these where even jelly-fish couldn’t break our spirits. Racing through the desert was a bit like driving through the Karoo but with less sheep and more bullet-riddled cars. Debates flared up about the Giant Cacti around us, which we finally agreed fell under the collective noun of “a prickle of cacti”, and similarly decided that they were the most ridiculous things we had ever seen. Seeing a real road-runner also presented a crushing of childhood dreams. The truth is that they are embarrassingly slow and stupid and we almost hit a couple. How that coyote failed to catch it, while wearing rocket-propelled roller skates is just unreasonable. I think I had my doubts from a very young age.

We knew we were getting close to Cabo when the whistles and Kanye West dance-remixes in the distance began to overpower the radio inside our car. Another cruise ship had arrived bringing promises of bad jokes and worse dance-moves. But we had now seen the Mexico that we wanted to experience- where a man’s status was determined by the splendor of his moustache and not by his wallet. We had eaten from rural street cars, although the evidence of such things had seemed to leave us very rapidly. Tequila-distilled rattle- snakes and men with real names like Juan, Jesus and Hose were what we had come to see and we now called them our Hombre’s. We turned our attention to the cruise ships and reluctantly accepted our heading- North, America, to the Whale’s Vagina.

NB Fact - The word "gringo" does not come from 1800's wartime in Mexico when defeated US army troops wearing green jackets were told "Green Go!" Wikipedia got that from a Blue Moon post. And it's a lie.

News - 2010 World Cup: Yes, South Africa can

News - 2010 World Cup: Yes, South Africa can

Panama

According to Time magazine the fattest people in the world come from Western Samoa, closely followed by the Panamanians. Don't believe it. When we pulled into Panama City the sun wasn't out, it wasn't midday, and we weren't experiencing a heat wave. But I was hotter then than I am now, in the middle of Dubai summer. By the time we left the following afternoon the crew had lost enough weight to drop the boat into a separate class. There is just no way that you can keep the pounds on in that kind of hellish heat. The task at hand was to wash the boat before lunch, after which we could do whatever we wanted to. We were pumped up and with All-Stars treffers booming out from every deck we made quick work of that boat, but by the time we were finished we looked like we had been scrumming down against the Bulls (at Loftus). I think it's the hottest I have ever been, and I have been in the Erica fashion show so I know some heat when I see it.

We had come through the Panama canal the night before; an eye-opener that was also very very chilled. By law you have to take local crew onto your vessel when going through the canal, who effectively did our job handling the lines. It was a bit of a treat. All we did was hand out cokes, pose for  a few hundred pictures and try to pretend we weren't interested in what the locals were selling, (educational video's). The Panama canal is broken up into a series of locks; effectively chambers which are filled and emtied using gravity and which rise the water level from each coast - West and East - to that of the massive lake in the middle- thus allowing vessels to cross. Each chamber can fit a couple of boats inside while the water is drained or filled up, depending on whether you are entering the canal or exiting it. By boats I don't mean luxury mega-yachts like ourselves. I mean the mankiest buckets of rust claiming to be sea-worthy. Needless to say we attracted quite a lot of attention going through. Think driving through northern Mozambique in a Rolls. Once out of the ancient locks (100 yrs old) and onto the lake, things became far more picturesque and out came the Blue Moon paparazzi- trigger happy as ever. Navigation through the lake is done with the assistance of a local guide who knows the area and is considered a pro. He's called a pilot and is at the top of the maritime food-chain. I'd love to tell you why he is called a pilot and not a guide, navigator or regional expert, but I had learned that there are some things you just don't ask in the yachting industry. You just accept how ridiculous they are. But somehow I don't think the US naval aviators flying F-22 Hornets in desert storm would approve of sharing their title with the salty Panamanian lounging in our bridge. 

Once the canal was defeated,the boat was (reasonably) clean and we were fighting off exhaustion with Red Bull shots it was time to check out Panama City. A confused place grappling with its past while hungrily-embracing a high-rise future, the city is broken into pockets representing every colonial occupation in its history. It also has massive development, a bit like Dubai in  the 90's, (look where that ended up). According to our taxi driver who himself looked like he could fit in on Banged Up Aboad, the huge influx of investment was coming from wealthy Venezualens fleeing their president Chavez.
South America: charming. 

We ate in an ancient little square feeling more like Telaviv than Panama while being seranaded by a Spanish mariachi who saw us as the jackpot. The crew was really getting into the vibe, one of whom was sporting a ridiculous Panama hat accompanied by a cheap stogi. His attempts at pulling of the Columbian drug lord thing had only succeeded in creating some kind of Spanish Genie. I was embarrassed for him.  Hans on the other hand, our (affirmative action?) Peruvian crew member and my roommtate was in his prime, rattling off the local lingo like a Spanish Bond, James Bondero. If he had been busting out the hat I would have been nervous. The bit of showmanship that he was proudly displaying would ultimately be his downfall as the crew was taking notes and making plans to abuse such tools in Mexico. In the end he became our translator/negotiator/mascot and was unwillingly strung behind our touring party on more than one occasion. 

The day ended with a couple of drinks at the local pub. We arrived to the all-to-familiar scene of our engineers in full stride. They had skipped the city tour in search of cheap liquor and unsuspecting women/prey- both of which they had found in dangerous quantities. Engineers are bizarre creatures. One of ours was nicknamed 'Caveman' due to his primitive behavior after a couple (dozen) drinks, which led to his being wrestled away from the bar on occasions when negotiation failed. Think Bakkies Botha in an All-Black test. When we arrived they were communicating in grunts and clicks (stage 4) and had to be talked back to the boat using threats. For the rest of us drinks were on the captain (mistake), who ordered us concoctions that looked poisonous to the naked eye and tasted worse. What can you do, refuse the superior officer? We were a little tender the next day and mishaps were largely forgiven- by the skipper. Mexico was calling and things were just getting warmed up. 

NB Tip- Do what an engineer says. 

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• Things to Do in Panama (panama-travel.suite101.com)