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#