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#