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.