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#