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#

So a shark, a wolf and a raccoon were skiing through the woods right…

It all basically happens in groups here. Call them what you will; networks, cells, comfort zones, whatever. There's the dong crew- a dirty crowd of heathens that were all presented with the misfortune of being placed in the coldest, most random suburb claiming to be in the Seoul region. There's something in the history books about adversity bringing people together. I doubt Churchill was referring to this kind of deal though. Then there are the Boryeong boys, calling themselves the "better than dong team", which does suggest a sense of threatened overcompensation for something. They live on the beach and bear their name proudly in the summer months when they have the only respectable stretch of sand in the country. Come winter though, and they're making the 3-hour trip through to Seoul every weekend and masquerading as city-slickers. Finally there is the Busan dozen. I say dozen only because I have met 12 of the chaps and have only been down that way once. It is bloody far and they pride themselves on generally staying away from Seoul – too proud to join the crowds in the concrete jungle – a bit like the Balito buggers who condemn Joburg as a lesser life. Aside from these 3 parties there are the drifters like myself, stuck in our miserable suburbs until Friday night when we emerge into the heart of the city and unleash the rage that has been built up by snotty-nosed kids all week long!

This was the furthest they had ever been from the forest

Every now and then however, an occasion arises which splits the sects wide open and finds everyone united in a thrash of epic proportions. Heathensville was the first of these phenomenons, Global Gathering was the second. And now we had a skiing trip. It was buckwild.

Of course the organizers overshot the mark with excitement and ordered the mob (23 strong) animal costumes to wear on the slopes. No concerns were raised about the fact that these were pajama costumes and that we were heading into the coldest area any of us would experience again. Who thinks of such things? Once again journeys were made from all over the country, even one or 2 coming through from the beaches down South. After trains, busses and taxis had been abused we all arrived at the resort, and were met with glances of disbelief from some and envy from others. People weren't quite sure what 23 animals were doing grazing around the trashcans of the lobby, and one Burger King employee even asked if we were making a documentary.

We checked into our motel, which was named Green & Blue but in fact was pink. It wasn't what you would typically call classy, but then, neither were we. We felt more comfortable arriving here in our costumes than we would in the 5 star resorts that were sprinkled around the slopes and would surely have thrown us out just for our appearance. My first blunder occurred before we had even entered our room. As I turned the key to the love-palace, room 203, it snapped off in my hand. Standing there in my raccoon outfit, fingers clutched around the tiny slab of steel that had survived my clumsy blunder, I did sense a threatening motion arise from the animals around me and for a second, almost expected the owl to announce that I had been banished from the jungle book. I was saved by the owner who brushed me aside and solved the problem with an efficiency that told me that room 203 had seen this kind of misfortune before. He handed over the spare key, along with a menacing display of grunts and groans which suggested that this key had probably made it through the Sino-Korean war and was not to be lost or broken like its late colleague. I refused responsibility from that point on, and can only say for sure that our door was never again locked or even closed.

We had somehow organized a deal with the (now fuming) proprietor to rent ski equipment from him at a ridiculously-low rate. When we saw the basement that was doubling as a kitchen and ski-shop, we realized why. The stuff had obviously been stored in this make-shift bunker since the Japanese occupation, and even then it was outdated. Luckily the bulk of our crew fell under the "novice" banner and did not know the difference. As we brushed the cobwebs off boots and boards alike, I broke my second piece of Green&Blue property within 5 minutes. Quickly I tossed the injured ski boot back in its pigeon hole and took another. Was it going to be one of those weekends? Despite the vintage equipment and horrid Kimchi aromas drifting through the place, spirits were running at an all time high. It was only Dorian, sporting his second hand snowboard purchased for $120, who was now seeing his error materialize as one here would cost $10 to rent. But even he was psyched.

Heads were cooled in seconds by the time we got to the slopes. It was god damn freezing. I've been lucky enough to ski most of the regions in the world, and nothing came close to this. As for my raccoon suit offering protection from the wind, well it was like shit through a goose. Obviously this kind of discomfort could only be cured by one thing- the thing that had helped Koreans through winters like these for decades. Soju. Some would regret the decision later.

The crowd of ours was dominated by snowboarders, or G.O.T's, there was no doubt about it. Within the handful of enlightened individuals who had chosen to ski, we had Mop. His name is mop. It's difficult to describe the man, so instead I'll leave you with a picture of the human and remind you again that his name is Mop. Mop had a bit of an alternative reason for choosing to ski. Most do it because they have water-skied before or simply have noticed how absurd a snowboarder looks coming down the slope, and have seen the light. Mop had an historic tale behind his decision. His great-grandfather, Ludwig van Barkenswag was a bit of a legend in Belgium skiing circles. He escaped from a German concentration camp in 1944 and instead of returning home to his mourning wife – decided rather to spend a year in Belgium skiing and harassing local females with antics that have clearly re-emerged in young Mop, 66 years on. It was said by some, that Ludwig went on to become an Olympic medalist – but I have skied with Mop and those genes just don't scream Gold..

Mop. A fine specimen

So the two of us set off up the slope – Mop looking to live up to the (now) Barker family name. It wasn't elegant. Pig on roller-skates, you might say. Seriously though, he was a soldier and pushed himself until those buns of steel refused to make another flying V. I know how kuk it is to learn to ski, especially in a Siberian winter, and have seen many pack it in before the brave soul that accompanied me on the slopes decided to. I think he can hold his head high. There was no joining the other fools on snowboards, destroying the snow and their egos on the bunny slope. Ludwig would not have approved of that, and I knew it. I took him to the top, and through terrified eyes I could see a determination, a commitment, a resolve that had carried Ludwig through months in that hellish camp. The old timer would be proud. I was proud.

Those of us who had never skied before fell first, both on and off the slopes. There's nothing that quite destroys you like a day skiing, especially learning the trade. By evening most of the big names were out for the count, and the owner of our hostel only had to deal with a handful of reckless animals. The kangaroos were hopped-out, the turtle was in hibernation and the dragon had been in his cave for hours when we started drinking. It was only a heroic few that remained by that bonfire into the night. Of course the raccoon was there. They've been called the most persistent of all foragers. A cheetah had made it through the chaos, hardly at the front of the pack though… An alligator, duck, and a handful of other forest creatures were there too. And finally there was Mop – bruised, battered, but well-trained and now battle-hardened. We raised a glass to Ludwig, toasted to his tenacity and charm and I knew, deep down in my little raccoon bones, his legend would live on.

RIP Ludwig van Barkenswag

G.O.T – gay on tray

Soraksan and the deathly Kai Bai Bo!

The group of Seoul'ites that has charitably taken me in is a confused melting pot of individuals. Saffas, Yanks, Koreans, gay, straight and everything in between. The one thing that we all have in common though (besides alcohol addiction) is a binding will to see places and try new things. If you're comfortable spending weekends with a good book or playing Starcraft, then you're not gonna make the cut. There isn't much room for lazy and even less room for balance and moderation. It's full tilt or nothing.

So when the idea of climbing the famed Soraksan mountain range cropped up at the bar, between tequila 6 and 7, the decision to sign up was unanimous. It would be a huge mission, getting everybody to Seoul and then bussing it to the East coast before the climb could even begin. But the members were keen, and I suspect that a few gym towels were dusted off that week as we all prepared our unsuspecting bodies for the uphill onslaught that lay ahead.

The big names all made appearances. Seoul's most notorious celeb Dorian arrived straight from the clubs, sporting a stringy moustache that belonged in a Mexican cartoon and made local hikers clutch their wallets as he passed by. The Styvie twins were also snor'ed up in honour of Movember, and the two induced an early drinking session that we would all regret later. There was a tangible sense of camaraderie as we stood together in the shadow of the great mountain. Whether it was fuelled by the Soju shooters or the challenge that lay before as all, morale was high and the mood was tense. We set off.

The first obstacle we ran into was the news from some wannabee Sherpa's that half the mountain was closed due to a fire hazard. This was a major blow and meant that we could no longer camp up the mountain, and would have to return to the bottom to find any kind of shelter for the night. There was a sigh of relief from a few of us though, the ones that had left sleeping bags at home. Any hopes I had of persuading them to let us through on the inflated story that I was a volunteer fire-fighter, were fruitless. So we pushed on to another route, a bit discouraged but turning to more Soju to lift the spirits. We were sporting matching bandana's and the sheer magnitude of the challenge ahead prompted a mob mentality. Naturally, we formed a gang. Dorian casually told us of his street days with the Coat-hanger Gang with its roots in the Cape, and suggested we start a chapter here on the mountain, but a unanimous decision was passed that it was the worst name of any gang in existence. We'd thrown a couple of dodgy ones into the suggestion box ourselves and it took a cool head to brush off proposals such as the Bandana Bananas which, aside from only working when spoken in an American accent- wouldn't instill much fear in our rivals. The Longstreet Playboys almost snuck its way through the screening process but someone suggested that it sounded more like an elite Pimping service than a gang. And they were right. Finally we settled on the Seoraksan Seven, which came with its own set of problems. Chief among these was the fact that there were thirteen of us. But we let it slide, and the SS Gang trudged on up the path.

The party reached our destination in a somewhat anti-climatic mood, since we were not allowed to reach the summit. Hopes of a celebratory Rocky scene at the top fizzled out into a couple of high-fives and a handful of Soju shots. Our turn-around point was a temple which had been built into the side of the mountain. Any excitement or reverence was quickly stunted by the scolding we got upon entering the cave. In hindsight I think those monks had a fair point prohibiting a dozen drunken fools from disgracing their holy shrine, especially when sporting moustaches and chanting gang war cries.

The hike concluded in a ceremony that has become customary to the group. Kai Bai Bo. Rock Paper Scissors. The stakes were high- the loser having to leap into the lake. There was an illusion of safety provided by the large group and the idea in all of our minds that, "surely, surely I can't lose to 12 other people." Maybe it was just in my mind. By the time we were down to 2 players the mood was tense and I felt like I was kicking for poles at Twickenham. When I lost the mood became Euphoric, and I briefly considered the option of fleeing the scene completely. But I couldn't. We were a gang, and if an SS member pulled a stunt like that he would be shunned for life. The stigma alone of being the guy that bailed was just not an option. I had to man up.
It's difficult to try and describe how cold that water was, and attempts at this have failed since the incident a few weeks ago. I still don't know how that pool was not frozen over. By the time I was in my jocks a crowd had gathered and our gang had become the Seoraksan Forty.-including the mountain police who were protesting against the rebellious act but not being taken very seriously. After putting off the act long enough to evoke jeers from friends and Ajumans alike, I had to make the leap. Those few minutes are a complete blur, a blackout. All I know for sure is that I had to be rescued by a life-ring and that I was dragged up the rocks in a haze of shame and hypothermia.
I've been un-tagging myself in pictures for weeks..

NB question – Seoulians, Seoulons?

Pics at http://picasaweb.google.com/aidan.johnson2/SoraksanMountain#

Damo and the Introduction of Smut

Every group has one: The fire starter. Kearsney had Wayne Bear. Stellenbosch had Matt Sterne. The character that evokes delirium in some, hatred in others and legendary stories from the rest.

South Korea has Damo. 


Damo New-tooth Smith is a bit of celebrity around these parts. A notorious career of shanaginans, most of which unspeakable in pleasant company have elevated him to what is now hero status.  If you happen to be out with him it is impossible to be referred to as "that guy last night" because he will find some way to blow any competition away and claim the title. Most nights end in Damo being naked - an impressive feat as Korean winter approaches and the icy winds don't appear to be slowing his stride.

Then he organized a birthday party- one which drew numbers from around the country who sacrificed the Korean F1, bungee jumping and a world-renown fireworks festival all to be present at what would surely be a momentous occasion. I had small window of freedom between a late Friday night at the "office" and moving house on Sunday with which to throw down with the group of heathens that was to assemble at our destination, (Daejeon).His first stunt was to dress us all in shame. Masks were created with Damo's ridiculous face, which were mandatory for all attendees to wear for the duration of the joll. I can only imagine the horror of the Korean police force when their CCTV cameras picked up 30 clones of one of their most wanted fugitives running around town. Teams were split up according to awkwardness and given an absurd array of tasks to perform, ranging from Soju consumption to the lunging of natives. Families that had unwittingly strayed outdoors quickly discovered that they had picked the wrong night for a Pizza Hut excursion as a few dozen Damo's ravaged the streets of Daejeon in search of cheap liquor and unsuspecting locals to accost.

A few members overshot the mark, as expected. One of these was the same character that had passed out after 15 minutes of the Global Gathering experience just a few weeks ago. Making his own rules which now included physical abuse, it seemed that James had still not learnt to cope with the Soju revolution. One bar had to be removed from the task list as anyone bearing a Damo mask became prohibited from entering, following James' raucous behavior. The conclusion of the team missions led to Cacoon- a club that Damo had picked for its 10pm to 2am free bear, since more alcohol was just what the crowd needed after hours of enforced debauchery. The braver Koreans approached us on occasion to learn the secret of why 30 humans would masquerade as alcoholic clowns. What they got for their courage was either an aggressive groping or a drink thrown in their face. When it became clear to all involved that free beer was the last thing anyone needed, the mob moved onto a more attractive setting- probably one that drew patrons for reasons like good music and décor rather than free booze. As the party moved onwards though, I did not. I could not. I was lost. I tried one stairwell, then the next. I ended up on the roof, the women's toilet, the basement and finally the kitchen (oh god they serve food here). I could not find a way out. I got the staff to help me but could see that they had no idea where I wanted to get to because they kept directing me to the bar saying, "free beer, very good." It's a strange phenomenon that just prior to an alcohol-induced blackout you sometimes get a great sense of clarity, and mine was crystal. "Am I too old for this shit?" Stuck in a dingy goth club, desperate to escape? I never thought that I'd be 'this guy'.
I was rescued by James who was hitting his second wind and scooped me out of that place like an avenging Maverick. We moved on to a club that the 2 day-old stamp on my arm right now tells me was called Club After. Here I found Dorian; who I've decided will now be known as Urkel from "Family Matters". The three of us hit the dance floor and the 9 hours of dutch courage within me made the decision- it was time for the smut. From what I had heard and seen, the craze had never reached these shores. Were they ready? It didn't matter. I started with a couple of mamba's which got the locals interested. Who was this creature and what the hell was he doing with a peacock beak in each hand? I took it back a notch and threw the cobra at them, something which I had learnt from Sarah in the Caribbean. They didn't like this ritual and greeted it with the same contempt with which the Haka is met by the Irish- but with less respect.

An example of "the salmon"

By the time I was busting out salmon-leaps from the stage the dance floor had emptied. But I was in the zone, and an earthquake wouldn't have fazed me. In a couple of minutes, the 3 of us had chased the entire crowd of Soju-swiggling So-Ko's out of the arena. I erroneously saw this as a victory, as it would be in Terrace back home. But on this occasion we were in trouble. What we have now established is that we were being told on to the officials, who didn't take much time to act. I don't remember the incident itself, as I was overwhelmed by the emotion that only the real smut and accounting 188 can provide. All I know is that we found ourselves outside, in the cold, covered in a shame that surpassed what Damo's mask had brought us. Naturally MacDonald's was the only option and as predicted, the breakfast menu was on offer.

A demonstration of the smut http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMLCrzy9TEs
Damo in his prime http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=594307022422