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