Mudfest

More like shitshow. When Korea’s biggest calendar event happens to coincide with your birthday and Mackenzie’s last weekend in the country there’s just no telling what’s going to happen. We expected a debauchery; that much was certain. But by the end of the day we would all have been subjected to a gay Asian’s junk in our faces, broken limbs within our ranks and the ecstatic howl of a wolf as he made sweet love in the ocean.

Boreoyoung is not a place that you would find easily on the map and even though Korea does not boast world class beaches, the barren wasteland that is its shoreline does suggest a more glamorous location could be found for an international spectacle. We've concluded that it can only be the sheer size of the sandy dump that makes it the destination for over a million people that make the pilgrimage there each July. It isn’t muddy either, as the million alongside us probably expected. They create the mud, which begs the obvious question; why not sandfest, beach fest or beerfest?

I was hoping to slip under the radar and somehow escape without too much birthday punishment. But in hindsight I should have known what awaited me, and upon our arrival at the dance area I was mercilessly abused by “friends” from every direction. From classy Jager shots to aggressive Soju chugging which was, well, less classy. The heavens opened almost immediately and the beach party transformed into a showery mess. People seem to lose all inhibition and sense of moderation when soaking wet and the scene was soon looking less like a beach and more like something you witness at Papa Gorillaz in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Speedo’s and body paint were the order of the day and it was clear that even the meek had submitted any sense of self-control. Nobody took it easy.

After a day of madness which included Scott almost getting us killed as well as the takeover of the main stage by a pack of raccoons, a power nap was desperately needed. We got back to the pension to find bodies strewn across the floor like there had been some kind of epidemic, (strangely this was not far from the truth). Mackenzie and I tried to get some privacy but the only room intact was occupied and there were disturbing grunts coming from inside. Upon closer inspection we agreed that there was no female voice involved which either meant that Dorian had taken something hostage – or that GQ & John were going at it. When they finally emerged Q ushered us in, by that stage against our will and ordered us enjoy ourselves - the way a pimp might do after renting out one of his girls. The damage had been done in that room though and the smell of primal love-making that was still in the air drove us to settle for the linen closet – by then lacking any kind of libido.

We awoke to the kind of screaming that you’d expect to hear in a Vietnamese village as it was being pillaged by rogue G.I’s. To our horror the reality was not far off. I will never forget it; the sight of Q clutching what remained of the birthday Jager and thrusting his groin at victims of the day’s events who were slumped limply against walls and powerless against such aggression. When everyone came around, horrified and appalled, it was time for a bite to eat.  Some had understandably lost their appetites, for life, but the rest of us headed to the roof. We prepared what may have been pork but could also have been rat. Either way we wolfed it down and continued with whatever brew was on hand.

When it was time to head out to town we stayed behind and one by one celebrated the good times with our closest friends over a bottle of Patron that the awesome Mackenzie had given me as a present. Each toast that was made seemed more dramatic and emotional than the last, but possible because we were inhaling Patron at a rate of knots and it was wasn’t helping the dronk vir driet. After a teary speech from Jono which was delivered before a fireworks display and left us all in pieces, we found ourselves suited up in the street and ready for to razzle. Well, most of us were suited up. Jono was still in his jocks, ready for action. We gave him a pass since his speech had been such a framer and none of us were in great shape after that damn Patron.

Being the classy individuals that we are, we decided to abandon the clubs and head straight back to the beach with a couple of beers in hand. We met up with Kelly; generally acknowledged to be the heaviest drinking girl in the world but the worst drunk. Another stroke of bad luck met us when we stumbled upon the kitchen appliance himself – who was in unusually dismal form and was creeping out every girl we passed with his Mop-the-pedophile grin. Events after that will have to be second-hand since the birthday shots finally won the battle and I was taken to bed by Mac, who must have been getting sick of her role as undertaker but gave me a break on my birthday. Apparently Dorian headed to the clubs, of course not paying but rather sneaking in on someone else’s wristband – a trick he learnt back on the streets running with the gang. Scotty was missing from early afternoon until the following morning; a blunder that was only forgiven because it occurred on a weekend of similar shortfalls all round. Fly kicks and shotguns were attempted but both probably failed miserably. The group seemed to split as each wondered in his own direction looking to follow Wolfish’s earlier feat of closing the deal with a girl in the sea. Jeff creeped out his usual quota of girls - this time coaxing victims with a well-dressed story about running a social experiment involving breasts and other such phenomenon. Nobody died but by the sound of things, it came frighteningly close.

The troops awoke on Sunday exhausted, sun burnt and a little sheepish after a weekend in which most did not perform at their best and some (Scott) never really got out of the starting blocks. Mac and I had spent another couple of hours resting in the linen closet and were relieved that we had because in the meantime a belligerent Q had snapped the door handle off of the sex room and nobody knew what had become of the occupants. We all grabbed a bite to eat before heading home but quickly regretted the decision when pitchers of beer began to take their place at the table. We split before things got too out of hand and headed to the station, where we hoped the whole ordeal would come to an end.

Once at the station it became clear that everyone had overshot the mark and grossly overestimated their drinking capabilities. We collapsed in a heap of defeat and Jager fumes outside the toilets, and I began to dread the fact that Mac and I had booked standing tickets for the 3 hour ride back to civilization.

To be honest, it could have been worse. We crashed in the food car which stocked everything from dried squid to choco pies, but in our state we could only stomach water. All the action was in the very last car though, where they had crammed all the heathens in hope of keeping us away from normal humans nearby. Apartheid all over again. The spark ignited when an idiot who had chosen to ride in our car objected to our drinking game. Now, I’ve seen our crowd getting rowdy on public transport before and have always felt a little guilty. But more often I have been approached by hammered Koreans who put us all to shame in the obnoxious category. On this occasion we were actually keeping to ourselves. We had not turned over new leaves by any means, but three days of drinking had reduced us to shells of the gung-ho individuals we had been on the way down. The fool made his stand, one against ten. He had studied his English, that was for sure, but if that kind of language was used in my classroom the soap would be out in seconds. He pulled out all the stops, the classics. “You’re in my country, you’re American, follow the rules or shut up.” It ended without bloodshed, but when Jono Styvie is in your face shaking with rage, it very rarely does.

The subway ride back home was similar to any Sunday return to the outskirts of Seoul. Me asleep, Mackenzie holding my head in one hand and all of the luggage in the other. The same things always seem to be running through heads countrywide when an event like the Mudfest comes to an end. Everyone is alive, we all survived.

It was closer for some than for others. 

Survivor Heathensville 2011 (Part 1)

When I arrived in South Korea 10 months ago I had some aspirations. After a few meager travels I considered myself a shrewd trekker, bringing wisdom from corners of the globe to the crowds that would soon gather to hear all I had to say. I had no idea what the alien world called Korea would hold for me, but I was optimistic. The East, the future, onwards and upwards I thought.

no smiles at Heathensville '10

Two weeks in and I was dealt a blow that derailed any hopes of a rise to greatness. It was Survivor Heathensville. The first, the raw edition, the experiment. The disaster. A drinking competition designed to take the human body to the very lengths and depths it was capable of. Add to this a bunch of heathens whose touch would bring holy water to the boil, and the affair was only going one way. Down. To hell. Overnight I was swept into a world of depravity, from which there was no return. I know that I can’t blame myself, for who could have known what that day would unleash onto us all. But I still wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t taken the hand of the tanned lizard that day as I stepped off the train at Dongducheon Station. If I had just climbed back into the carriage, met some more stable colleagues and never looked back down the rabbit hole - well who knows how bright my future may have been.

The things that happened at that first gathering will never be spoken of. A deal, some sacred pact was never made between the competitors that day. It wasn’t necessary. We knew that no man or woman would tell a soul about the things that we saw, the things that we did. After all, who would believe such madness? I survived and that's all that I hold on to.

But for months after I felt a bit like I'd escaped the hands of a madman. A killer, a psycho, a bloody nightmare. Once you’re free, are you really any less of a prisoner? Can you sleep, knowing that he may be at your window each night – waiting to attack? That’s how I had felt for 9 months. They said there would be another, a Heathensville 2011. But nobody really believed it, or they didn’t want to.

2010 competitors that, thank God
didn't make it to 2011

Then out of the blue the invites went out. Four of them, to the team captains. It was here, and there was nothing to do but face it and hope that the brave souls chosen would have the stones to come out the other end alive. For me, my team selections had been made many weeks before. I was prepared. I had been watching the drinkers around me; counting, adjudicating each performance. Speed, endurance, tolerance. I had my team secured before the rosters were even called for and I was confident.

It was just a question of our competition. I knew that this was more a contest of survival than performance, but was still interested to see what we were up against. We would be facing 3 other teams. Two were formidable, and one was a complete wildcard. In fact, they were called the wildcards. Thrown together at the last minute, this bunch of misfits was a veteran team’s nightmare. There was no homework to be done, no strategy to employ against them. So there wasn’t much that we could do to combat what they threw at us. We didn’t know who they were, but that made them just as dangerous as the favorites. And as far as favorites go, there was only one squad. They were called the Dong team, and they had everything in their favor - home ground advantage, corrupt officials that were self-appointed from within their ranks and lastly, a rich wealth of experience. The bulk of their team had been present at the first SH and had lived to tell the tale, which was impressive. They had also been training with the regulation sized apparatus, talking smack and forming secret alliances with the other teams for weeks. They posed a challenge.

 The other team was heard before they were seen. The audacity to call themselves Team America placed them squarely in the cross-hairs of other groups, and they were immediately despised. Finally there was us - competing under the same banner as the year before – The Stragglers. This was done as a tribute to our fallen team mates of 2010, and also to project a weaker threat to competitors. Our team was exceptionally green. Just two of us had seen a Heathensville before. But we had heart and a spirit not easily broken. And we believed. Six guys and four girls would carry the torch; a gang whose heritage could be traced all the way from Quebec to to the sleepy hollow of Grahamstown in SA. We were ready for anything.

Anything but this. 

The Temper Trap - Love Lost

The Friday night Face-off

The workweek ended with a stand-off. I’ve had my fair share of duels since arriving on these shores, and I haven’t always come out on top.

There was the Monkey Beach incident where an humorless bouncer dislocated my finger, popped it back and sent me home with my tail between my legs. That was humbling.

Then there was the famous Soraksan Kai Bai Bo. A rock-scissors-paper contest  between 13 climbers, which I lost miserably and had to leap into the frozen lake atop the mountain. Having to be rescued by a life-ring in my underpants was again, humbling.  

And most recently the Hongdae spectacle, in which I (allegedly) pushed a local into some bushes and provoked a terrifying chase down the street which ended with a fly-kick. Who fly-kicks a guy, you might ask? Korean ninjas.

So zero for three.

On this occasion though, I was to come out on top. To be fair my adversary was a 12 year old girl. But I’m not one to discriminate. It was the last class of the weak, and of course the most harrowing. With 15 minutes left in the cage with these terrorists it’s always less about education and more about survival. They can smell freedom, and victory becomes about fending off blows from every angle. It’s hungry wolves to a deer. A tired deer. The tables begin to rock, paper airplanes emerge, and books are tossed about. And then, with my back turned, young Erin took her chance.

The eraser was what you’d expect to find in any stationary store. White, round, deadly when used as a projectile. What the little ankle-biter didn’t know was that this object strikes an uncanny resemblance to something that we saffa’s have become experts at snatching from the air. A cricket ball. With the missile locked onto its target, the back of my head, kids frozen with mouths agape, I sprung into action with ninja-like agility that I had learnt from my previous foe. Spinning around to grab the slug with a precision that Jonty would have been proud of, I shot them all my most chilling Rock eyebrow and watched the fear sink in.

This was what I had waited for. This was what the bouncer had felt as I whimpered off into the night. This was what my friends had felt as I scrambled to escape the freezing waters of a Korean winter and had to be fished out with a life buoy. This, I now knew, was what the ninja had felt as he took me down with the kick that years of practice had trained him for.

As a pack of wolves turned to into a class of shaky middle-school’ers and lumps began to form in petrified throats, I felt it too. What was it, this thing that connected me to the bouncer and even the ninja. Was it revenge? The planets aligning as the universe got its own back on the bad guy? I didn’t care. It was glorious. The 100 lines of punishment that occupied those kids’ Friday nights didn’t dampen my spirits either. It was a rare victory for the greatest underdog of them all - the English teacher. 1 from 4. 

Baseball and the return of the Tanned Lizard

I’ve had better starts to a weekend. When your boss drops on you, as you walk into your first of six back-to-back lessons on a Friday, that the teachers’ dinner has been moved forward and will be held later that evening – well the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim and you feel a bit like a death row inmate who’s final appeal has just been thrown out. The prospect of exchanging a night of reckless drinking for the sober boredom that these dinners promise is tough to grasp at any time, but the impeccable timing of the news on this occasion meant that it was my students who bore the brunt of the frustration. There were very few games and ever fewer smiles that day.

The previous dinner had been “cut-short” at 02:45am, only because I was to run for Team Dirt first thing the next morning, so I was euphoric when word was passed around that we would be released at midnight. Several of us had fabricated stories of other commitments, hoping to sway our dictator into letting us go before sunlight the following day. When he finally did relinquish his hold over us, the smug look on his face told me that he knew the subways had all just closed and that we were now isolated from any kind of entertainment. I took a cab to The Cave, cut my losses and curled up next to a familiar body.

Saturday arrived and we were up early, for a few reasons. Just a week before, on route the Seoul zoo we had discovered a couple of flaws in the famous Korean transport system. We found ourselves exhausting every means of travel in order to arrive at the zoo (only) 2 hours late. The bus had broken down, taxi gotten lost and the subway required 3 line changes and a lot of patience. So we were determined to cover our bases this time around.

We arrived in Itaewon and took pride from the fact that we were first on the scene, and that our troops were late. This was not Damo and Sera’s usual m.o and we had expected, at the very least to find them waiting for us at the rendezvous. A disappointing phone call to the two revealed the most obvious explanation. Heidi and Grant. Immediately Damo and Sera were excused from any retribution, for this was an excuse that many of us had found ourselves using in the last few months. A strange phenomenon had been developing in recent weeks, one which was concerning us all. Heidi and Grant: Two vivid characters, each contributing to our group in their own ‘special’ way. One straight shooter with ice running through his veins, and the other, well the other is Heidi. You love her or you hate her. She’s on our team so we love her. Also, we’re terrified of her - so it’s the kind of love that German peasants had for Hitler. 

Team Poju

But nobody anticipated what would happen when these two individuals combined forces, and it probably would have been wise to prevent them living down the road from each other. The crisis would ultimately come in a small, green bottle. They are both heavily addicted to Soju. There should be studies done on these two, perhaps on how much poison the human body can withstand. Heidi is the self-proclaimed captain of “Team Poju”, so there’s that. Grant takes a more inhibited approach to his practice. He doesn’t talk much of a big game; in fact you could be forgiven for thinking him just one of the lads. But if you watch him, closely, you will see that the little green bottle always seems to crack open in his hand and every single time it is passed around – it is finished by the same man. He takes the kind of swig that the BFG would be proud of, and I always feel dwarfed by the look he gives me when I take my normal, human-sized gulp.

More often than not these two hit their straps hours before the rest of us could ever hope to and usually crash very early on, (not a bad thing). If you find yourself having to undergo some kind of mission with these two in toe, it’s an uphill battle from start to finish. The bumbling idiots will turn everything into a task. Getting a stick of gum will mean that Grant first has to befriend the cashier, practice his Korean on the unsuspecting chap, and then explain to us all what had just happened.

In short, they are the most dysfunctional pair you will hope (not) to meet.

Beer garden. nuff said!

So despite efforts from the two children, the cabs arrived and we all settled into a few pints at the local beer garden, aptly named, “Beer Garden”. This stop had nothing to do with the day’s plans but being addicts, we were powerless against such a blatant advertisement for liquor. After a couple of beers, Mackenzie’s Bloody Mary and a game of darts that Sam (the most competitive man on Earth) forced us to partake in – it was time for a bite. We headed over to Suji’s, which had us anxiously hoping that there was some truth in their slogan: “Then next best thing to mom’s home cooking!” In the land of the red cabbage, anything resembling mom’s home cooking is a bonus.

After a few beers and a brunch that my mom would have been proud of it was time for the main event. The season’s first baseball game. The Americans within our ranks were particularly keen for the game, which is one that has confused me all my life. It’s always baffled me how the nation that created take-out dinners, instant everything and the WWE wrestling spectacle can enjoy a game that takes 4 hours to watch each team bat 9 times and miss the ball on just about every occasion. But with an open mind I looked forward to the affair. I was in high spirits but these were nothing compared to the buzz coming off of Mackenzie who was still reeling from her Bloody Mary, and Grant, who admitted that he had no intention of surviving the night.

Dressed in our newly acquired supporters gear, we found a spot standing at the very back of the stadium. Of course we had planned to arrive at the game early and steal a few good seats, but nobody really expected this to happen. We vowed to be prompt next time but again, the claim was ridiculous and will never be met. It didn’t bother us though, because we had landed squarely in the path of the beer vendor who had to pass by us each time he refilled. His eyes lit up when he saw our party, and there was a kind of primitive connection between him and us, the kind you see in Dances with Wolves when the Indians first encounter the white man. But this was far more significant than that. Beer was needed by most of us, but not by all. Mackenzie was in a confused daze about why we were supporting the Doosan Bears when none of us was from Doosan, (next to Busan, right?). When I quietly reminded her that teams were named after their Sponsor and not their town, she clicked and suggestively announced, “So is LG actually named after the Lotte Giants?"

The game itself was impressive and I quietly ate my words about the sport. Sure, there are dozens too many balls pitched and missed; too few fielders and the enormous mitts on these fellows’ hands make catching a non-event… But, the crowd was awesome, the rarity that is a homerun is met with absolute euphoria from the masses, and the fact that our team won in the final innings all made for a hugely entertaining experience. It won’t be the last.

With the game over it was time to move on. In a few hours we would be arriving at the red carpet leading us into a club that was far too classy for any of us. Jake was performing and there was a small army of us attending. A quick glance at the guest list confirmed that this group would soon be corrupting the tasteful atmosphere inside the venue. Before we could get to the place though, a stop was needed to toss our supporters kit aside and suit up. This task was predictably hand braked by Grant and Heidi and the whole ordeal took us over an hour. Grant cornered me into an extensive demonstration of his Korean language skills, free of charge, although I would happily have paid a fee to avoid it.

Finally we arrived at the venue, feeling a little sheepish and horribly underdressed in our flip flops and t-shirts. Miraculously we were allowed inside and stumbled into what looked like an Usher music video. I felt a little like I was dirtying the floors of this place but approached the bar and ordered 2 drinks. Twenty dollars later I was vowing never to go near that bar again. You can buy a few conflict diamonds for that price back home, if I remember correctly. As things were beginning to take their normal shape, (Heidi pole dancing, Grant creeping girls out) I got a call from Dorian and Jono. Dorian had just arrived in the country and the two were racing this way, hoping to make the 12am guest-list cutoff - which they were optimistic about. Unfortunately they were also lost. It had been almost 3 months since I had seen the ‘tanned-lizard’, and I needed a celebratory beer. In defiance of the scandal that was $10 drinks, I headed down to the Family Mart for a classy 'shot-gun'; something that I have learnt to respect and revere. 

A couple of minutes later I returned to the club to find that Dorian and Jono had been relegated to the back of the line - despite being on the guest list. It was 11.45pm and I knew where this was going. We arrived at the front to a joke of a bouncer who reveled in the chance to tell us that the guest list was no longer in use, we had missed it by 5 minutes. Entrance would now cost us $30. Dorian gave him the bird and we rebelliously told them we would take our business elsewhere. We rounded up most of our crew and headed to our home-turf - Hongdae!

We had the usual blinder that typically goes down in Hongdae on a Saturday night. In the absence of Dorian, Jono and Q it had been suggested that Seoul had lost its sting in recent months. But with 2 of the 3 back in action, we were firing on all cylinders. We started at Club FF which is rapidly becoming home turf to us, and a very dangerous turf at that. We then moved on to a place by the name of Naked which, let’s be honest is asking for trouble just calling itself by that name. Details from the early hours of Sunday morning are foggy at best, and the final few memories seem pretty concerning. The post-club routine of searching for a kebab was, of course the highlight of the night. Those damn Iranians. . . they may be a threat to world peace, but they roast a mean Shwarma!

St Paddy's Day

It had been months since the whole gang had been together. Sure, we had ripped the lid off of a couple of events and barely lived to tell the tale. But the public schoolers among us had been globetrotting since before the New Year and there were a handful of key members whose presence had been sorely missed. Mop Barker was one of these. The 7 weeks without him had forced us to acknowledge the fact that in those brief windows between his first beer and turning into a slug, he really is a bit of a laugh. Or at the very least, something to laugh at..

The Boryeong crowd, or B-Team, had been scarce in the last few weeks – which wasn’t all together a bad thing. Our last gathering in Daejeon had ended in violent debauchery and I think everyone was a little weary of another meeting. St Paddy’s day called for such a reunion and as usual, Damo had taken the lead as party liaison. This brought a trade-off that was all-too-familiar to us. The event would run smoothly enough, but we would be dressed as absolute assholes. Nobody seemed to protest, out of fear I presume, and the motion was passed. As the only authentic Irishmen, Joe was also talking a big game. Threats were made at anyone considering backing out of the costume agreement, and severe scolding was promised to anyone arriving late. This was a case of National pride.

Saturday morning, and it was only a solid few of us that made it to the rendezvous on time.  This had become a trend and I’m not sure why it surprises anyone these days. The B-Team was late. Of course they were late. They had missed both their buses and were hoping to catch the third in order to arrive only 3 hours behind schedule. There were a couple of reasons for this. Predictably they had drunk themselves into comas the night before, and hadn’t risen until their bus was already halfway to Seoul. They also had a few handbrakes within their troops. Mop is an incredibly slow moving creature, very similar to a sloth. James on the other hand is just a hazard, with a history of logistical disasters. The last time the B-Team had come through to Seoul princess was seen chasing the bus down the road on his bicycle – to no avail. The final hurdle in the success of the stragglers was the absence of their leader Damo. He was in Seoul making event and costume preparations that seemed, at the time, more important than babysitting the village-idiots down South. We all regretted his decision.

As morning turned to noon, and noon to early afternoon, spirits were dwindling among the responsible few that had turned out on time. All dressed-up and nowhere to go. The debate was raised on whether we should have left without them, and the decision to wait was motivated less out of comradeship and more for the fact that they made up the majority of our crowd. We decided to sell them the “leave no soldier behind”, line when they finally showed up.

The guilty party arrived looking a little sheepish and very hung over. They filed into the hallway like nervous schoolboys awaiting punishment. But there was something awry in the picture, something none of us could put our finger on. It was Damo that uncovered the shameful truth that these men concealed. Joe was missing. On St Patrick’s day. Joe was missing. They told us of how he had been drinking bullishly just a few hours before, vowing to make the bus on grounds that the Irish would never let you down.

Some costumes were more Irish than others..

So we were forced to leave without Joe. Our uniforms were the most ridiculous yet. Evidently the bar keeps getting raised and I can only imagine what we will be wearing in July, (if anything). We arrived at the market which, on this occasion was doubling as an Irish beer garden. We were stopped after a few minutes by a nervous Korean who bravely approached us and asked for a picture. As we assembled in our most Irish-looking pose, the rest of South Korea joined in and we were swarmed with giggling teens and Ajumas alike, snapping away at the phenomenon. A respectable-looking elderly man inquired about the significance of Saint Patrick. Gareth, in his infinite wisdom stepped up and began the tale of how snake-wrangler Paddy was honored to this day for his defense of the Irish people over invading serpents.

So after bullshitting our way through inquisitive locals we finally found the beer garden. Or more accurately; the garden. The Irish association had put together rock bands and prizes, but had neglected to think about alcohol. It was a (literally) sobering notion. So we set off to clean out the 7-11, trying unsuccessfully to navigate through now-obsessed Koreans who all wanted their 15 minutes with this foreign spectacle. On our way back through hell we came across a street car selling a national delicacy – fried bugs. Every now and then I find myself trying to put my finger on just what Korea is trying to be in this world. The next super power nation, or an ancient cultural gem? I’m all for clutching onto one’s heritage and traditions, but I see absolutely no value in holding onto this one. The smell alone is enough to make one gag, and with Soju in one hand and Makeolli in the other I did well to hold down my Big Mac. In the crowded market we found ourselves in the only vacant space for miles, with veterans and tourists alike steering well clear of the vile smell that these wicked insects were producing as they popped and sizzled in a rusty pan of 3 day-old oil. Kevin and Mel (who in a few months will become the coolest married couple on Earth) encouraged me to risk certain death by trying out a couple of the creatures. They taunted me with cunning suggestions that I was not the sort of guy to back down from a challenge like this. 

It was the worst thing I have ever put into my mouth.

don't get bugged

Walking back to the festival with a cup of steaming bugs and a nervous belly there weren’t many takers when I offered up the treat to friends. Kevin tossed one down his throat like it was a Wimpy chip and I decided that if Mel could kiss him after this, then their marriage would have seen off its toughest challenge before it had even started. By the time were back in the garden and surrounded by heathens funneling soju and beer, I had only convinced 3 regretful souls to try out my offering. In a fit of rage I targeted Chrissy who was smugly enjoying my predicament - and poured a couple of bugs down her top. With a shrill cry that made the U2 cover band miss a chord she vowed revenge and it wasn’t long before she had taken it. When she emptied the entire cup down my shirt I knew that my bug tasting earlier would immediately fall into second place on the rankings of most uncomfortable Korean moments. Beside the blisters which were welting up within seconds beneath my top, besides the prickly bugs finding their way into my underpants, and besides the steaming oil dripping from each of my limbs, was that damn smell. I felt like a grubby hobbit upon entering the heavenly land of the elves, although none of those delicious angels seemed to mind the fact that Sam-wise had not taken a shower in months – whereas I was being ridiculed by my closest friends. I stood defeated while cameras snapped away capturing what has become humbling evidence on Facebook. I also noticed that everyone around had taken a few (dozen) steps backwards, and immediately I knew why. I found myself in the same circle of shameful stench that the streetcar vender had been operating within earlier that day, and I felt for him.

Fortunately it was time to move on to the next venue and for the first time I hoped that it would be smoky, sweaty and dark enough for me to hide in. We walked back through the crowd a third time but were pleasantly surprised to be left alone this time, and noted that my new scent and the Diarrhea design down my shirt was parting the way for us to make a safe exit.

The Dubliner. $50 for all you can eat, drink and tolerate of Irish music. It was perfect. We took over a table upstairs and in seconds were diving into plates of ribs, sushi and Oreo’s for some reason. To our left was a beer tap and to our right, a Guiness keg. Surely St Paddy himself must be at a place like this up there in the heavens. If there was any more reason to celebrate other than the prospect of free booze and food, Joe had finally arrived! Without time to pick up his costume he had resorted to his backup attire which was probably more authentically Irish than anything we were donning. An assortment of native trinkets hung from each extremity and he looked a bit like an Irish Viking in battle uniform. It didn’t take him long to fulfill such characteristics and the more enlightened among us knew that his late arrival was more of a blessing than anything else, because he really was on a mission to turn heads and break records.

For reasons unknown to us even now, the call was made to move on to the next venue. I’m not sure any reasons were given to motivate such an ignorant decision, since surely there is no better setting for St Paddy’s day than a bar called the Dubliner offering free booze and food. As ludicrous as the prospect of leaving Irish heaven was, I offered up my rubber arm and jumped in a cab with the rest of the fools who had deemed a dingy dance floor the more attractive idea.

We arrived at FF’s, dingiest of all dance floors to a scene that no longer shocked any of us. Princess was out of control. Our hearts sank as we saw that he still wielded a giant green fist which he was testing out on everyone within reach. There wasn’t much discrimination when it came to his victims. He seemed to be targeting good looking girls initially, but enjoyed punching their boyfriends when they came along to inquire about their girlfriends’ black eyes. By the time we got there the only thing that surprised us was how he had not been kicked out, knocked out or himself blacked out. All three options seemed like just and worthy ends to his tomfoolery. I was immediately approached by concerned onlookers and ordered to look after my friend. I tried to deny even knowing him, but was angrily informed that I was wearing the identical outfit. I did what any good friend would resort to, and fled the scene. I headed for the stairs, knowing that there was no way James could climb them in his current state. Once safely out of the danger zone I was joined by the rest of our troop, one by one, looking victorious as they reached the top floor the way that hikers must feel when they summit Everest. We toasted a few tequilas to St Paddy and his snake-wrangling escapades and hit the dance floor.  As my comrades sought out drunken females to accost I headed for the strippers’ pole and worked on my moves. What I originally mistook for a circle of supporters making way for my inspired cobra-dance was in fact disgusted victims fleeing from my scent and general appearance, which now included Guiness-stains, tequila breath and a choking atmosphere of menthol cigarette smoke. And those damn bugs. I was approached by one intrepid (drunk) Korean las who propositioned me aggressively with a line that would entice most in my situation. “you want to make sex with me?”. The hours of smelly demoralization that I had endured all day long alerted me to the fact that something was not kosher about this scene. I knew that in my current sate I was not exactly a prize catch and anyone misguided enough to even approach me was either on something or had something. I sent her on her way with a stern but polite “bitch you must be on crack to even speak to me, get lost”, to which she enthusiastically delivered her offer to the next male she could find. He dropped his beer and the two of them headed for the door.

As things were becoming understandably hazy and we were all in danger of entering the ‘James-zone’ I was rescued by Mackenzie. She took one look at the depraved scene and laid down the law. With a disapproving look that I will one day use on my son if he ever cheats on his finals, she nodded to the exit and we were off. I attempted a few weak protests about making my own decisions but at that stage, she didn’t even need to convince me of how feeble they were.

YouTube - Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros - Home (JVTP)

YouTube - Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros - Home (JVTP)

Six Days Seven Seouls

Vacation had finally arrived and euphoria was rife among Chingus all over the R.O.K. Six days of freedom before us and we had chosen to spend it skiing and causing general mayhem in yet another ski resort . Previous ski excursions seemed a bit like a warm-up when compared to what lay in store for us at the esteemed Phoenix Ski Park just a few hours away. As has become custom with these things, everyone completely overshot the mark the night before and thus started the binge that will be remembered bitterly by anyone who crossed our path and ended up hating the lot of us.

Here lie the events that have undoubtedly soured relations between Korea and the West forever.

Characters: 

Gareth - the Gorilla

Heidi - the Ladybug

James – the Bumblebee

Jilly – the Frog

Sarah – the Turtle

Christa – the Penguin

Aidan – the Racoon

Tuesday 1st Feb

10pm

Decided that a mature approach to the week ahead would include a few bottles of wine at The Cave. Discovered that my tolerance for wine has been reduced to high school standards and ended up blatantly drunk. Also discovered that Korea is now producing Rieslings and that, like everything else, they are doing it as well as anyone else and at half the price. If not for the handbrake that Soju applies to this country’s progress they would surely be running the world by now.

Things get out of hand and one finds herself in hospital the following morning.

Wednesday 2nd Feb

Crack of Dawn

By some miracle all team members make it to the bus. Princess is moaning about a hangover and nobody is looking their best. He unleashes his playlist on the bus and after 6 minutes with our tour-party, we have been identified as the obnoxious alcoholics.

Noon

Standing on the slopes with yet another herd of animals. This is becoming a habit. This group includes a gorilla with heart-shaped rump and a bumblebee that is now hated by Phoenix-park ski-patrol. Despite princess’s whining about a headache and a general lack of strength and will, beers are being consumed at an alarming rate.

First run of the vacation and I spot the Bumblebee being escorted down the slope by stern looking officials. He has collided with an Ajuman who is now threatening to charge medical expenses and a law-suit. Our protests of innocence are not being taken seriously as we reek of liquor and James has beers poking out from beneath his wings. The old bat demands contact details so we give her Dorian’s number and tell her that James’ name is Doreen.

Evening 

After night-skiing with the bumble-bee who refuses to change his outfit even though he is on the brink of being banned from the resort, we return to our room, (from this point known as 403 – the pit of sin). Gareth and the girls are already well on their way and we join in a game called “phase” which seems to have no rules other than everyone having to drink. Without warning we are invaded by a barrage of drunken fools from the tour bus. Heidi (team leader) decrees that entry will require each individual to come up with a sexual position. An animated-looking Irishman named Thirsty (tirsty) educates us on the Rusty Trombone and instantly becomes a celebrity. An impressive game of “hands in the middle” ensues and everyone gets messy.

Thursday 3rd Feb

Morning

We are joined by our comrades from Seoul who are staying in our hotel. They see the disaster that is our room and clear out before they are asked to help repair the damage. We hit the slopes once again, weaker than yesterday and now with some fresh faces to spur us on. The frog that inadvertently caused my epic bail in Bears Town is with us and taking down challengers faster than he can shotgun a beer (3 seconds).  Mob mentality, fueled by soju and beer leads us into a series of racing and jumping competitions – all of which the frog wins without breaking a sweat. Is he human beneath that suit? I see my ass for the second time of the season – this time trying to outdo the frog on a giant rolling jump – and failing catastrophically. Of course it is being video recorded.

Evening

The prospect of another session of night skiing has me wondering how much longer I can operate with my feet strapped into these 1973 storm-trooper boots. This is what snared animals must go through, although at least they have death to end it all for them whereas I have an evening of smut dancing awaiting me and my swollen stumps. I take the easy way out and join the crowd going to the water park. Once here I decide that this was the best decision of the year for me, as beers flow and hot spa’s melt away any concerns about my mangled legs.

taking over the ski store

In the park we are approached by two drunk Koreans who must have spotted Scott shot-gunning a beer and were hoping for an autograph. We are instantly mates and they invite us to their ski-shop for a party. We hop in their van since nobody is too thrilled about the idea of racing over in a BMW driven by fired up drunkards.  We arrive at the shop as benches and skis are being shuffled out of the way to create a dance floor. One family of locals is trying on ski-boots and looks horrified as the smut begins and the crow, cobra and a few hand-grenades are unleashed inside the store. They run for cover carrying children whose eyes have been covered to protect them from the sight of a dozen filthy waygooks break-dancing between equipment.

The owner, Justin beckons me to take a ride with him into town to pick up some pizza’s. The idea sounds harmless enough until I spot the bat-mobile aka Mercedes SL500 parked outside the shop. I nervously climb in as he fires up the jet-pack beneath the hood and turns on the LCD screen on the dash to reveal the playlist for the journey: 8 songs, all remixes of Barbara Streisand! Immediately I am taken back to the last time I heard this tune, in Bears Town chasing the frog down the mountain. I recall the indestructible wave that swept over me when that beat kicked in and finally, to my horror, remember the way that episode ended – screaming slalom-style into the woods in terror.

This did not look promising.

As expected the intoxicating beat seems to have the same effect on Justin as it did on me a few weeks ago. As we weave between buses and trees he is telling me about how people in this town see him coming and move off the road, so it doesn’t really matter which side of it we choose to race down. He is also trying to explain to me how he has been practicing his power-slides on the ice, which gets me looking frantically for airbags and wrapping the seatbelt around my torso a second time. Miraculously we make it back to the rental shop with pizzas in hand and limbs intact. The gorilla immediately takes the pizzas off our hands and this is the last I ever see of them. I’m just happy to be alive. We make a quick stop next door at Family Mart where another Soul comrade, Kelly challenges the cashier to a game of Kai Bai Bo and wins consistently before commanding him to down the whisky she has just purchased.  His protests only enrage her and he submits reluctantly. As the party is winding down our hosts take us back to our hostel in the van, which Justin has obviously mistaken for the Mercedes because he is dicing cars left and right as we speed perilously towards the resort. We survive his second leg of Monte Carlo and news the next morning is that he crashed on the return trip. Someone up there is really looking after us.

When we hobble into room 403 the crowd from last night seems to have taken over and are not only operating the tunes but are now lounging on our beds – leaving us to stand for another couple of hours on our gimpy limbs. By the time the frog and his crew arrive nobody is able to offer much of a welcome and communication has been reduced to clicks and low grunts. Thirsty is telling jokes and basically running the show at this stage.

Friday 4th Feb

Morning

A day off the slopes spent at the local ice festival has me thanking the lord again, and the notorious 403 crew boarding the bus and heading to the back row to direct proceedings. James’ speaker is produced once again and a mischievous grin appears on his face as he booms out Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby.” Unfortunately the tour party is in such bad shape after last night that the handful that catch the joke do not offer much in the way of support and there is even more foul language thrown at James than he is normally used to.

The main attraction of the ice festival is a giant frozen lake that serves as the battle-ground for the fishing compo. It is far from what I had imagined. My years spent pursuing illusive trout on fly in the Drakensberg have bred a great respect for this prize catch, but any reverence for the great adversary evaporate as I grab a steel pick-axe and begin digging myself the gateway through which I imagine my trophy rainbow emerging in the next few minutes. An optimistic few moments turn into a torturous hour though, as Heidi and I realize this ice-picking business is no joke. A solid foot down and I have stripped down to my t-shirt and am sweating like a Chilean mine worker. All that is keeping me going is the sight of countless old-timers who have successfully dug their holes around us. It’s absurd to me as to how ‘father time’ hunched over his hole a few yards away could even lift the steel pole that I now plunge into our unyielding crater. Euphoria erupts as we finally break through the ice and are met by the sight of gushing water. This is what 19^th century oil miners must have gone through when they struck black gold. We send up a victorious cheer which has locals thinking we have pulled up a record fish.

James on the other hand has seen what the task has done to us physically and doesn’t look too keen to get underway on his own. A dispute breaks out as he tries to negotiate dropping his line down our hole, but the debate is drowned out by the sound of a sinister-looking contraption hurtling towards us with water shooting up all around its tank-like wheels. As James’ eyes light up and I miserably drop my tool to the ground it all becomes obvious. This is how it’s done. The steel monster is burrowing through the ice at an alarming rate. James summons it over and begins cackling as the drill makes short work of digging him a perfect hole. Heidi and I console each other with optimistic arguments like the fact that we dug our own hole; this is how they’ve been doing it for centuries; or that man will not yield to machine. But in truth, we had been well-beaten.

"our" trout

The playing-field is leveled once our lines were in the water though – mainly because neither of our two holes is producing anything other than frustration. I suggest that the tunes blaring out from James’ Ipod may be jeopardizing our chances, but it’s agreed that the vibe is more important than anything else and we continue with Mo-Town cheering us on. After an hour or so the demand for beer simply overtakes the quest for a fish and we decide to hunt for something a bit more tangible. As Gareth and I stroll through the park carrying Mokeli, beer and Soju a few minutes later we strike gold. We are approached excitedly by an ancient-looking fisherman who has obviously seen our priorities shift out there on the ice and feels he should take pity on us. He ushers us over to where he has clearly been camped out for days and brings out a fantastic-looking rainbow trout. We inquire about paying him but he refuses and sends us on our way with a toothless grin. I think about whether I would so willingly give up a well-earned trout in the Drakensberg mountains if two alcoholic Koreans strolled by with a case of beer. The idea is ridiculous. But this is Korea. It is ridiculous.

Naturally we fabricate a story of how we caught the fish ourselves and 15 minutes later we are taking apart our steaming trout with chopsticks at a local restaurant and retelling the epic tale of how we had triumphed over the mighty Korean Rainbow!

With trout in belly and sly grins on our faces we head over to the main event of the day which, even after a couple of beers sounds ominous. Two dozen foreigners are to willingly plunge into an icy pool and hunt a school of trout with our bear hands. As we assemble around the pool it is clear that the word has got out - as a stampede of locals race towards us bearing video cameras and excited anticipation. Again I think about the concept of 25 Koreans doing this kind of thing on Durban beachfront before a crowd of local surfers, and how ludicrous that idea is. When the whistle blows and we leap into the pool there is chaos. No game plan, no strategy, no technique, no fish. As toes numb and spirits begin to wilt, a few Africans come up with the idea of trapping these poor fish against the rocks and this tactic is immediately adopted by the lot of us. Before long there are scattered cheers arising from spectators as we start to turn the tables on these fish and become real hunters. James and I agree to take a bite out of the first trout each of us produce from the pool – but being James he decides to take a chunk out of its belly, spewing blood and insides all over the place. Nobody in the tour party is particularly surprised…

Evening

Nobody is prepared for will transpire tonight. I had hopes of some drinking games and maybe a reasonably-early night before a big day’s skiing tomorrow. But of course Heidi has other ideas. She announces that tonight is for the 403 crew only and coldly denies anyone entry into the pit of sin. A tasteful game of Kings get completely out of hand when the god-card is created and of course, Heidi gets it twice in a row. Immediately she begins demanding outrageous acts from the rest of animals. Clothes are removed, drinks forced down unwilling throats and the dance-floor is re-opened as we are all commanded to perform unsavory acts. Sexual maneuvers that none of us have heard of are being called for by god (satan) and in between such debauchery she is shouting “nuclear war” to which we all have to run for cover.  The cobra gets aggressive and I find myself bleeding from a neck-wound. An unhappy neighbor comes in to request we keep the volume down and finds himself violently crowed out of the room and down the passage. There are no further requests from any neighbors.

3am

the crow

James is donning his bumble-bee suit which is distressing for anyone in the room. Although hand-signals have taken over from any conversation and nobody is really capable of standing, he decides to head up the slopes for a ski. To his surprise nobody is too keen to join in. The floor is now littered with bottles and Pringles and I remember that the last time I saw this kind of bomb-site was at Heathensville. The Canadians in our team are getting defensive over their national sport and somehow an impressive round of passage-curling forms outside with my bag as the “rock”. We find the shunned outsiders in the hall-ways who have tried valiantly to start their own party but have failed miserably and now stand expectantly waiting for an invite into 403. I honestly can’t say whether they were ever granted entry because a complete black-out hit most of us when the curling-match ended due to exhaustion.

Saturday 5th Feb

Morning

Two of us rise on Saturday for the morning ski which, after the dogshow last night is quite a respectable turnout. I’ve swopped my storm-trooper boots for a post WWII model which is fortunate because I am shivering in a cold-turkey sweat at the top of the slope and need all the help I can get. After a couple of near-death runs lacking any kind of control whatsoever, we call it a day and head back. We find the room looking worse than the night before, and the occupants clinging desperately to life. Heidi has lost her voice completely and nobody is missing it.

Evening

The Daegu contingent of 403 head back to the sticks and Heidi launches into a farewell party. Gareth, James and I arrive in Seoul feeling rougher than a goat’s knee but intent on ending the week with a bang. I gather the Cave-dwellers plus one Arizonian who has been in the country a single week – all of whom are looking fresher and considerably more attractive than me. We head to Vera, obviously. Tequilas are going down with hooks on them and for the first time I find myself sympathizing with the trout. We are taking shots of Soju which we’ve smuggled into the club when some kind of official casually confiscates the contraband from our table. Like scolded school-kids we look for an exit but not before making a few illegal memories in the VIP section. We end up in Club FF where we find James on stage, for a change, and Gareth in even worse shape than the night before. (It’s now his birthday, rather him than me). The newbie that has just arrived in town looks horrified as he is attacked by a volley of crows and cobra’s from various angles. As things are once again getting out of hand Mackenzie steps in with a cool head and takes us home. In brief spells of conscious thought spent in the cab ride home I feel like I have been rescued from the claws of death.

Sunday 6th Feb

Morning

Mackenzie rocks me out of bed like a dying horse. We are headed to a restaurant to introduce the rookie (Jeff) to Korean food, which doesn’t sound like a bad idea compared to what I have been subjected to in the last week. Afer a few Soju shots we are all feeling a lot better and decide to keep things going. I must still be hammered to go along with such a scheme. One bottle follows the next until we move on for fear of being asked to leave by the owners. We’re now firing on all cylinders and Jeff is talking a huge game about his drinking capabilities. On the way home we stop at a Family Mart for supplies (booze). Somehow the unanimous decision is passed to buy more Soju. Two liters more. To wash this down we settle on one Powerade and a pocket-sized orange juice that wouldn’t sustain half a dozen ants for the afternoon. This leads to an evening of drinking 3 parts Soju to every 1 part of whatever we can find. After a while it becomes 3 parts Sojo to another part Soju. By some miraculous feat we make steady headway into the bottle and before midnight we are throwing insults at the empty plastic enemy before us. Victory dances are out of the question since standing up poses enough of a challenge. A hazy memory tells me that Mackenzie called a time-out once again and sent us to bed. What would we do without her.

Monday 7^th Feb

Morning

After 6 days of madness, with little sleep and even less restraint I am facing a harsh reality – school. The prospect of screaming kids right now shocks me to my core and I am anxiously looking for a way out. I wonder if the other 403 heathens - or anyone else on Earth - could possibly be feeling this rickety right now. I find myself standing before the first class of what feels like the rest of my life. They gaze up expectantly, looking for a wealth of knowledge that I just don’t possess today. I open my mouth to speak but all that I can produce is a vile concoction of Soju/beer/tequila breath and I quickly close it for their sake. I reach for a marker but the claw that has been wrapped around a bottle for a week now refuses to open and I shove the wicked-looking thing into my pocket. I am shaking uncontrollably. I sit down, defeated, and motion weakly to the class to pack away their books. “Game day kids, do whatever you want.”

Video of Friday night at http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1853971590525

Bears Town and other tails from the forest.

This animal thing is becoming a cult, there is no stopping it. When Grant Wilkes donned the flying fox suit on the 21^st January 2010 there was a silence that comes before any great storm, and when he spread his glorious wings the ground shook across Asia with what could only have been mistaken for a third terrible bomb- this time dropped on the sleepy town of Janghyun, South Korea.

The second ski weekend was upon us and waygooks across the country had abandoned their focus in the classroom in the week leading up to the event, as excitement mounted and last minute orders of ladybug, cow and squirrel suits were anxiously placed. There was skepticism from some about whether the affair could match the sheer epicness that accompanied the Yeongpyeon experience. Those skeptics were wrong. I was wrong.

Team headquarters had been assigned to a digs 10 minutes outside the resort where two foolish girls, Mackenzie and Kara fell into the trap of allowing the bunch of heathens into their home. There was concern on the faces of most locals when we arrived in a town that hadn’t seen this kind of occupation since the Japs were last running the show. If only they knew that this time around there were even less regard given to their culture or heritage.

Friday night began for most in my dorpie which, for the first time in 5 months was the closest subway stop/bar/respectable town to our destination. After a couple of pitchers, a stop-off at Family Mart to clean out the alcohol inventory and 2 confusing taxi rides, we arrived at the house- belligerent and to be quite honest, drunk. The 6 bottles of Makoli that we had assumed would take us through the night was a drastic underestimate of needs, especially since the Sea-Saw had joined our ranks a few weeks earlier. Protests from some about the need to be fresh for the next morning were met by disdain and blatant disregard, and such pragmatists were immediately subjected to a Makoli see-saw.

The gang arose sluggishly on Saturday morning, weaker than expected and with demands of food and liquids on their minds. Evidently the collective priority had shifted somewhat. After dragging what seemed like a field trip of whining school-children around town we finally arrived at the slopes- some in taxi’s and the bitter remainder on a bus. Once assembled on the snow we felt a bit like the smelly kid in class - ostracized by some and politely ignored by the rest. Dorian and I had been through this before and knew that it was reverence, not contempt that these locals felt for us. That’s what we told ourselves anyway.

The sight of a dozen forest creatures hurtling down a hill while Koreans scramble to the trees for safety is a beautiful thing. Dorian and I had seen it once before, and we took a moment at the top of the slope to behold the spectacle. It was suggested at one stage that the animal worn by each individual was supposed to reflect that person’s characteristics, but upon careful investigation it was agreed that this was nothing more than Soju-speculation. Dorian, for example sporting a flashy Cheetah suit but seeming to come in at the back of the pack more often than not. Heidi dressed as a graceful ladybug but proving to us that she was the furthest thing from it when she stampeded onto the make-shift dance-floor outside the rental store, slipped and had the biggest wipe out of the weekend. It was just me who remained faithful to my alter-ego; the raccoon. A loving, cuddly, perhaps misunderstood creature loved by rodents and felines alike.

On occasions like this there are always going to be incidents that end up defining the experience. I was responsible for the first epic fail of the day, when I broke a ski off at mach 3 speeds while optimistically chasing the Frog down the hill. A season on the slopes of Austria had not prepared me for what to expect when hurtling down the run on a single blade. Split-second decisions have never been my forte and in hindsight, the choice to continue down the slope slalom style was not my proudest moment. I instantly transformed into a snowballing rat, tumbling down the mountain to cheers from the locals looking on who had been hoping for some kind of spectacle from the animals.

The walk of shame back up the hill to retrieve 1.5 skis and most of my gear was a low point, but I was rescued from infamy by another animal who was in even more trouble a couple meters away. It seemed that the turtle had forgotten her “slow and steady wins the race” doctrine and instead chosen to chase the flying fox down the steepest run in the valley. She now sat hunched over her snowboard in the blind panic that we all know too well from our early days in the trade. Walking down was not going to work, as she discovered when she tried to stand and failed. Sliding down on her shell was an option that I was very keen to witness. Finally a frustrated ski-patroller demanded to carry the amphibian down on his back- the most shameful ordeal to possibly go through, (apparently). So my near-death wipe out was erased from memory forever by the sight of the hapless turtle being carried to safety like a wounded soldier from the trenches.

When weak limbs and wilting spirits drove us all from the slopes back onto the bus and to the relative safety of “the cave”, it was once again time to start drinking. The see-saw bowl was rinsed out and it was clear that things were going to get buckwild once more. A few characters fell victim to fatigue, one being Handsome Grant(link) who went down like a sack of potatoes and only re-emerged 16 hours later. Princess Knox took on a couple of upside-down shooters, told everyone about it, and then retired to his corner for another famous power-nap. The rest of us took on timeless classics like flip-cup, and lost badly.

By the time we rose the next morning, there were only a select few who could muster up the courage and physical strength to attack the slopes again. Grant was feeling rested after sleeping for the better part of a day, as was James who was looking pampered and really had no excuse. Five of us headed back out to the battlefields, now dressed in new costumes. I was sporting the now-notorious turtle suit, hoping to restore some pride to the owner who was understandably a little sheepish about the whole ordeal. This time around we had really shed the fat from the bone, with the riff-raff among us admitting defeat and heading home with their tales between their legs.

Twenty four beers later and we were back on the snow. Conditions had turned against us and the weather was now dismal. Spirits had been rekindled though by the only girl remaining in our ranks, who had taken a massive bail before even getting her snowboard strapped on. We’d been smutting haphazardly outside the rental shop when the ladybug came charging aggressively through, presumably to bust out one of her Arizonian booty-shakes (disturbing), but slipped on some ice and found herself upside down with the rest of the creatures pointing and laughing in hysterics. Oh, and being shat on by the shop owner for breaking his door on her way down.

complete cultural disregard

Things were getting out of hand by midday when a cow, turtle, black cat, flying fox and wounded ladybug were spotted throwing beer cans from the chair lift at skiers passing below. It was then that we were forbidden to drink on the way up by concerned officials who probably wished that they had seen the last of us the day before. To add insult to the ladybug’s injury, we also had our beer stash stolen from Grant’s secret spot. I am a bit suspicious of this tale though and personally believe that our resident alcoholic either forgot where the spot was or, (more likely) drank the goods himself. Never trust a flying fox.

Soon enough, disaster struck. We lost the fox. The last words we heard were, “right is right!” as he inevitably turned left and mashed his way down into the woods. It was the last we saw of him. Hours later there was growing concern for our comrade. We had searched high and low, chatted to locals and even inquired about whether a fox had been admitted to the clinic following a near-death accident and/or Soju overdose. After exhausting every possible scenario we headed down to the rental shop with desperate hopes that he had taken refuge there for some reason. As we approached what had become “home” we spotted it. The fox-suit. Hanging in the window like a trophy or some kind of tribal proclaimation. We rushed in to find that he had taken over the place, giving out coffee to customers and sharing stories with employees that could not understand a single word- but were still lapping it up like disciples to the most handsome damn Jesus you ever saw. He told us through teary eyes that he had found himself horribly drunk and unable to get down the slope. Once at the bottom he retired himself and conceded defeat to the Soju gods. Relief turned to euphoria and Dorian led us onto the modest dance floor which was essentially the changing room, where a break-dance competition broke out and our two new friends – self-labeled David Beckham and Wesley Snipes – showed us a thing or two about the Korean Smut culture.

Monday morning was spent by most of us in a daze of what exactly had transpired in the 48 hours before. I was sobered by the comforting realization that nobody had died, and a little disappointed by the fact that no arrests had been made. There certainly wasn’t much wisdom imparted by teachers across the country in the week that followed that debauchery as we were all hung-over for days and wondering how we were still (barely) alive. I was uncertain about when, if ever that crowd of heathens would re-assemble for another assault on the slopes. Perhaps we should quit while we’re ahead.

Pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/BearTown#