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.
