Another Christmas

Waking up on Christmas morning always has a thrill to it, even when you wake up alone in a small room, in a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas and in the certain knowledge that not a single gift-wrapped parcel or the smallest piece of tinsel is anywhere to be seen.

I spend a few minutes savouring the fact that I have four whole days of doing nothing then get out of bed to turn on the heating. It is cold today. Despite this, I am determined to brave the elements and try out the little yellow scooter I bought yesterday evening. It has been a while since I drove any kind of motorised vehicle and a lifetime since I rode one with two-wheels, but how hard can it be?

The sun is high in a bright blue sky by the time I pull the scooter off its stand. I feel several degrees removed from the world in the full face helmet, thick leather gloves and hiking boots; never a good place to be when you’re about to launch yourself into traffic. I lift the visor to let the cold air smack me back into reality.

The bike starts first time and I try a few tentative circles around the yard. Next I try driving up and down the quiet street nearby. I wish it had a clutch. The only thing between zero and a wheelie is the throttle on the right handlebar and the gloves feel like pillows, muffling any sensitivity in my right hand. They have to go, so I switch to my wool gloves though I know I will suffer for it.

With a deep breath I head for the main road out of town, just as I remember that I didn’t bring the map I dug out last night. It’s not a problem – this is an island with just a few intersecting roads around it – I just need to head south, towards the sea.

After ten or fifteen minutes I reach the garlic museum and pull in. It’s closed, which is fine as I didn’t plan to do the tour. I just need to stop and gather myself together. I’m stiff with tension and cold already but I force myself to go on. I can’t be defeated by weather or weakness so after a few minutes I hit the road again. Traffic sails by me giving me a wide berth which is good. It’s surprisingly bumpy; I try to avoid potholes and check my speed, though kph don’t really register with me at all. I try to do conversions in my head but all I can figure is that I’m not going as fast as I think I am. I suspect I’m likely to be overtaken by cyclists at this speed, but convince myself that I should only be going as fast as feels comfortable – I’m not in a hurry.

Ahead of me is a sign to Sangju which is where I planned to go; the famed south beach of Namhae. Instead I take a smaller road heading west. I know I’ll find the sea there too. It’s closer and I’m already chilled to the bone. I’ve proved enough to myself for one day.

The road twists and climbs until I reach a peak giving me a view of the clear blue ocean. This is what I came for. I find a place to pull in at a construction site, park the scooter and walk back towards the coastline. Down below, men busy on a building site find time to wave to me as I take photographs of the beach beyond. I stay only a few minutes, too cold to stand still for long.

The scooter doesn’t want to start again and I notice that the tank which was almost full when I set out is now past the half way mark. I take this as a sign to call it a day. The engine sparks into life just as a construction worker starts to head over to help me out. I give him the thumbs up and head back the way I came. As I hit the main road again and turn towards Namhae eup it occurs to me that here I am, on my own, riding a scooter in South Korea on Christmas Day. I laugh out loud. I feel slightly insane as the sound of my own laughter rolls around inside my helmet; it may be a short ride for mankind, but this is an epic trek for me.

My tank isn’t anywhere near empty but I pull into a garage anyway and fill it up. I do it because I’m going to have to figure it out sooner or later, and today seems like a good day to figure things out. By mid afternoon I’m back home again, warm and comfortable with dinner bubbling away on the stove.

I’ve never been very good at holidays. I’ve never really figured out what you are supposed to do with all that free time. So after three days of sleeping, wandering aimlessly around town and watching too much T.V., going to work today was a relief. Arriving fifteen minutes later than usual was clearly still too early - I’m the first in the dark, unheated staff room. It’s a pleasant day, scratching out the ideas I’ve been brewing for the various holiday classes I’m teaching. I reply to the people who responded to my requests for e-pals for my students; so far I have contacts in Israel, Italy and the U.S. Ideas are swelling up like soufflés in my head and I’m looking forward to the coming school year.

Mid afternoon my mobile rings; I only acquired it on Christmas Eve so it takes me a minute to realise it’s my phone. Unfortunately it’s all in Korean so not as useful as it could be, but I manage to answer the call. It’s a friend I made in Jinju. We agree to meet in Samchoenpo later this week, which means that my next long weekend holiday might be more sociable than the last. Perhaps I should have suggested meeting for New Year’s Eve. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I just didn’t want to sound desperate and friendless. Ah well, it’s not the real new year anyway – I’ll save the celebrating for the lunar new year in January. When in Rome…..

Show time

I was told some weeks ago that I would be observed teaching on December 5th and was given a short list of attendees; the principal of the girls’ middle school, someone from the Board of Education, a Korean English teacher from one of the other schools. A few days before I was told that it was an ‘open’ class, where the teachers at my school can come and watch if they like – there was an open maths class a few weeks after I started, though there was only me and the vice principal who took up the offer.

December 4th Sun-Mi tells me to go to the library with her to practice the lesson. “The library?” I ask. Well, there wouldn’t be enough room in the classroom for everyone. We should expect about fifteen people, including teachers from schools in the area. Twenty chairs are set out along the back of the room. The desk is to one side where Sun-Mi will operate the computer. My space, in front of the screen with the overhead projector beaming down, feels a lot like a stage. I’m nervous.

The morning arrives too quickly after a night of too little sleep. Two lessons to get through before the observation. My first class is fine, but the next is with grade one who are hard to control on a good day. Today, as the first tiny flutters of snow sail by it’s all I can do to stop them climbing out of the windows.

An hour to kill before show time, so Sun-Mi and I go to the library to have another quick run through. The I.T. people have changed the computer overnight. They did managed to copy at least some of the powerpoint file that I had put on there yesterday but not all of it and the ancient replacement computer won’t run some of the macros I’ve set up. Sun-Mi and I are still salvaging what we can of our meticulously planned lesson when the first observers start to arrive.

I’ve spoken in front of large groups of people before. I know that so long as they are all strangers and you don’t make eye contact it’s easy to forget they are there, so I’m feeling pretty okay until my neighbour, Chad, walks in. Clare and every Westerner I know in Korea, including two I haven’t met yet but have heard about, follow him in. There aren’t enough chairs for everyone; one or two are perched on the low cupboards. My knees are trembling and I’ve lost feeling in my feet and hands.

The students pile in. Their familiar faces are reassuring and I know they are a lovely class. We all wait nervously for the bell.

The class captain recognises my subtle nod and he brings the students to attention. We all bow. My first well-rehearsed words tremble out of my mouth though I think I’m the only one who notices. Five minutes into the lesson and I’ve forgotten all about the watchers as the students get involved in the class and everything moves along according to plan. We jump too early into last game, specially chosen for its impact on previous classes, and now the momentum is slowing With five minutes still to go Sun-Mi and I improvise some review activities. Finally, it’s all over and the class is dismissed. People congratulate me on a successful lesson as they drift out. I think it’s all over. I’m wrong.

Clare had warned me when she first arrived that the new format for observations included a debrief – a serious debrief - by the Board of Education. In anticipation I head over to the official looking man in the suit and introduce myself. He shakes my hand, asks me to sit and calls Sun-Mi over, something she clearly wasn’t expecting. He also invites others to stay and take part if they want to. Clare and her boyfriend sit at the table behind me, along with a few others I don’t know.

For twenty minutes two men grill me about the strengths and weaknesses of the lesson, of my teaching in general, of the challenges I face in Korea. Clare jumps in with some great comments and suggestions which takes the pressure off the worst moments. Sun-Mi is given a hard time as she is told emphatically that she is expected to be the lead teacher while my place is assistant. We show them what a great team we are – at least in spontaneously creating a plausible and entirely fictitious account of our collaborative planning and delivery of every lesson.

Finally we are released. Clare promises to get in touch later to let me know where everyone is meeting for dinner. I can’t wait, but first it’s time for lunch and a dissection of events with Sun-Mi.

Still the torment isn’t over. Around three I’m told to go to the Principal’s office. I enter and bow, take a seat in front of his throne like chair. He sits quietly for a minute before telling me that his English is not good but that ‘Sun-Mi teacher’ will be here soon. The seconds pass by like hours as we smile politely at each other. He tries his English again:

“Your lesson was very painful” he says with a smile.

“Painful?” I ask, not knowing how to respond to his statement without insulting his English skills. He begins leafing through a dictionary.

“Painful, hurts badly, causes pain.” he recites. “goes to great pains..”

“Ah!” I say, “goes to great pains…” as Sun-Mi comes in and saves the day, translating the Principal’s long speech in Korean to “He wants to say that your lesson was very good”. She also tells me that the man from the Board of Education was very impressed. I’m impressed by how well he hid his sentiments from me. Before we are allowed to leave, the Principal asks if I would like a red ginseng drink. Not wanting to be trapped here for a minute longer than necessary, I decline politely, only to find that there is no such thing as politely declining a drink in Korea and Sun-Mi advises me to reconsider, which I do immediately. The Principal hands us each a small bottle which I remember to accept with both hands as a sign of deference and we leave.

When the final bell goes I’m off like a whippet. At home I pour myself a beer even though it’s not even five yet. I’m stiff and aching and a hot shower only partly releases the day’s tension. Chad knocks on my door and tells me to be at Lotteria at six twenty five if I want to go for a meal with the others. I’m there by twenty past.

I eat with Clare, Mark, Bob, Rebecca, Owain, Eddie and Roch at a restaurant I’ve passed on my wanderings. We sit on floor cushions at low tables groaning with dishes of food. It’s delicious, as always. For the others this is just a Friday night get together, but I feel like a five-year-old at my first proper birthday part.

Later we go bowling, meeting up with Kenny and Chad. I’m as hopeless at this team sport as I am at any other - it’s pure luck that I knock over even one skittle - but no-one minds and I’m happy to enjoy the company. I walk the ten minutes home; Kenny and Chad are in the car and offer a lift, but despite the near freezing temperatures I want to be out for a little longer. I know that for the rest of the weekend I will to do nothing but sleep and finally unwind.

Buddhists boudoirs and bad behaviour

The morning has finally arrived when I take my two day break from this cozy little island and venture out into the big city. In-Hee meets me at the bus station at 7:45 to help me buy my ticket as we arranged. It isn’t entirely necessary – probably the woman at the desk would interpret my ‘Jinju’ correctly. She’d most likely be able to write, if not say, the number of the stop where I board the bus. Still, In-Hee is happy to help me out and I’m reassured that I won’t be left standing helpless and confused at the bus station with my hopes for the weekend dashed.

9am and I’m at Jinju intercity bus terminal. I follow some of my fellow passengers and soon hit the centre of town. Sights, sounds, and smells instantly overwhelm me. There are stalls everywhere; spilling out from shops, filling the middle of the streets, people pushing barrows of fruit and vegetables, standing behind steaming pots of snacks, sitting next to baskets of fish and sea-vegetables. Every corner reveals yet more activity, more people.

For an hour or so I wander aimlessly, drinking in the strange and wonderful world. My mission for this trip is to buy Christmas presents. Though I wish I could send any number of curious edible delights to friends and family in Europe, I resign myself to practicalities and resolve to search for less perishable goods. Still, I have the whole of today and part of tomorrow to shop, so I’m in no hurry. It’s time to orientate myself. Having twisted and turned wherever my eyes and nose led me, I now have no idea where I am in relation to anything. The notes I made on what to do and see along with a few helpful reference points are, rather unhelpfully, lying on my bed back in Namhae. I recall reading ‘it’s easy to find your way around Jinju as it is divided by a river’ and a map of the city pops into my head. I decide to find the water.

I love bridges. It’s a photo opportunity for ‘another river to cross’. From this vantage point I spot a beautiful traditional building in the distance along the river bank and remember that Jinju has a fort. I head that way. It’s still early so I decide to pay the nominal fee and take the tour. It’s amazing; not just the one building that I’d seen from the bridge, but a whole hillside of gardens and shrines and monuments, each one simple and yet beautifully ornate.

I climb up to the structure that marks the look-out post over the city. Like everything I’ve discovered in Korea I see contrasts. The Fort area is so quiet – the end of November is hardly tourist season – but the city is heaving with people and cars below. Tower blocks fill the skyline while ramshackle wooden buildings nestle in narrow alleyways. Steel and glass shares space with pagoda style roofs, neon signs are everywhere.

I’m starting to get hungry. There was no time for breakfast and it’s now after 12. I also need to pee. I hadn’t considered during my careful preparations how to deal with this inevitable eventuality. I wander on, within minutes stumbling across a signpost in English pointing to the gift shop and public toilets. The sound of wind chimes from a Buddhist temple draws me in, making me forget any physical needs for the moment. I stand in the courtyard enclosed by four beautiful wooden buildings and enjoy the calm.

The wind chime draws me closer and I peep inside one of the buildings to find a big golden Buddha staring back at me. The place is empty, though people have clearly been here recently, leaving offerings at the shrine. As I consider whether I should go inside or take photographs, an old woman approaches me. She has a serious, impatient look on her face and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. She speaks to me in Korean and takes me by the elbow. I don’t know where she’s taking me or why, but I allow myself to be led like a child anyway. We cross the courtyard and I follow her down some concrete steps into a basement. Shoes litter a doorway so I remove my boots, still unsure what I’m doing here, and enter a simple, utilitarian kitchen.

Three or four women are busy preparing food at the back; three women and a man are sitting on the floor around a small round table in the narrow space in front of the cooking area. I hesitate, not a little confused, but the old woman manoeuvres me towards the table, moving the other diners to make room for me. I sit. She brings me rice and a bowl of soup, chopsticks and a spoon, motions to me to eat and then she leaves. There is nothing for me to do but share the communal dishes on the table with the strangers, none of whom speaks any English. The food is simple and vegetarian; beansprouts, kimchi, vegetables. The other diners smile pleasantly, the cooks occasionally check that I am content and I eat. By the time I’ve finished there is only the man left at the table with me and two or three women washing dishes. I don’t know quite what is expected of me next, so I stand up and say thank you, bow in my awkward Western way and leave. Though I’m no stranger to bizarre experiences, this ranks up there in the top 10.

Around the next corner I find the gift shop and the toilets. After visiting both I stand awhile in this quiet corner and organise both my possessions and my mind. Things are feeling a little surreal.

If I’m going to stay for the weekend I need a place to sleep. My neighbour, Chad, told me about the motels here; much cheaper than hotels and, he said, quite acceptable. They are easy enough to spot.

Motels in Korea are commonly known as ‘love motels’ though the external appearance of most of them is more ‘Carry On’ than Karma Sutra. Their main purpose is to provide a refuge for couples who want to avoid relatives or scandal or both. I mime my way through booking a room for one. Being a foreigner has its advantages sometimes; I can overlook the amusement on the face of the man at reception.

The room is surprisingly nice. It’s clean, comfortable though not just a little bit tacky. Even if the mirrors which surround the double bed didn’t give away the intent of the place, the condom machine and videos in the hallway would. I dump as many of my belongings as is practical on the bed and set off to shop in earnest.

Now that I’ve got my bearings - the motel is next to the bus station and the river, the city centre only a five minute walk away – I’m more confident about exploring. Mine is the only non-Korean face in a sea of faces, so when someone stops in front of me and says ‘hello’ I’m a bit surprised. It’s the office assistant from school. She waves happily at me, then continues on her way. I buy bits and pieces; after years without any cash to spend it is hard to get into the swing of shopping for anything that isn’t essential.

A couchsurfer told me about a bar where a lot of foreigners hang out and I remember the directions he gave me. I find it easily, memorise a few landmarks and, pretty certain that I can find it back again, head back to my love motel picking up some kimbap and a few beers on the way. Plenty of time for a shower, a snack and a drink before I get ready for my first night out in months.

Zio Riccos is an Italian restaurant and bar. When I arrive just after 8 it’s pretty quiet. “A table for… how many?” the waiter asks. “Just me” I tell him. He shows me to a table, gives me a menu and a glass of warm, watery tea then leaves. I realise I could be in for a very dull evening. I need to be more assertive. I catch a waiter’s eye and ask if there is a band playing tonight. “Ah – you’re here for the entertainment, it’s upstairs, should I book you a seat?” Of course he should. I have a beer while I wait. Lots of westerners are eating in a small room off the main bar and I’m amused to see so many non-Koreans together – it’s been a while.

Before my beer is finished I’m led upstairs to a lively bar with a stage set up in the corner. I’m given a table which is a good vantage point for people-watching. Within minutes two men on the next table ask me if I want to join them. One is an American, the other a Canadian and both are over 40, a bonus in this world of 20-somethings. We fall into pleasant conversation, and I am happy to discover that the Canadian smokes. The American isn’t, and leaves. We have enough in common to relax and chat loudly over a great English live band playing 70’s covers. I’m introduced to another American man about my age and we all swap email addresses.

It’s around midnight, I’m a bit drunk and very happy as I walk back to my motel through the neon lit streets. Fortunately I don’t bump into any of the other guests when I arrive – feigning ignorance as a foreigner would not lessen the indignity of returning alone to my little boudoir.

Sunday, and I have plenty of time to do more shopping. There are buses back to Namhae every hour, the last one leaving at 7:20 and I plan to be home long before then. I decide to visit E-Mart to see if the reputed selection of western goods is enough to tempt me to spend. The only western goods I find are tins of baked beans, which I can live without, though the big department store offers many browsing opportunities.

I’m checking out the aisles of chocolate for potential Christmas gifts when an Indian man stops me and says hello. I’m used to complete strangers talking to me here; Koreans who want to practice English, or English speakers who are glad to speak their native language for a few minutes. We exchange small talk and he leaves, only to return soon after with a tub of ice-cream for me. It seems rude to refuse it, though it tastes disgusting, and he babbles on in broken English. He asks me if I want to go to the cinema. I make excuses but he isn’t to be deterred. I agree to go for a coffee after I’ve finished shopping, which appeases him, as his friends are shopping too and will be done in about an hour. Plenty of time, I think, to dip through the crowds and lose him.

I underestimate his persistence. Despite leaving the store at a different entrance to where I came in, he’s waiting there for me. His friends have gone for lunch and now we can go for coffee. ‘What the hell’ I think ‘I have the rest of the afternoon and no plans’. I leave my bag in a locker at the store and we get a taxi back into town – only a 10 minute walk so quite unnecessary. I feel a little uncomfortable but we are in the middle of a busy city, walking now, so I feel safe enough. I ask where we are heading but the language barrier doesn’t help in getting answers.

Since arriving in Korea, being led by strangers has become the norm. I rarely know where I’m going, what to expect, or what is expected of me. So far, playing it by ear, going with the flow, suspending any reservations, has led me to only interesting and enjoyable experiences. Not today. My friendship with this man ends abruptly and acrimoniously. There is shouting and hostility – on my part I’m happy to say.

Despite being rattled for a moment there, I’m happy and pleased with myself. Walking by the river in the warm afternoon sun I chuckle to myself at the absurdity of the events of the last hour or so. I may be relatively helpless in this strange environment I’ve brought myself to, but not so helpless that I can’t reassert my independence and take back control when I choose to. I pick up my bags at E-Mart, re-visit the silk shop – one of the things Jinju is famous for – and pop into the tourist information by the fort.

Back at the bus station I see ‘Namhae’ written in hangul and buy myself a ticket. Heading home I browse the maps I picked up at tourist information.

I feel ready to venture a little further afield now; ready, wiser and more confident.

I am very Chinese noodle

“I am very Chinese noodle.” It’s statements like these that make my job seem both totally futile and a complete joy. This comes from one of my advanced students as we sit in the ICT room, along with the rest of the budding actors and linguists who have come together on a Saturday afternoon to rehearse our adaptation of The Three Little Pigs. Sun-Mi asked me to be here for twelve though, typically, I’ve just had a message from her to say she won’t be here till two. Meanwhile I try to organise the Chinese noodle and his classmates into some semblance of order. It’s like herding cats. The line between not being able to understand me and ignoring my requests is a fine one that the students straddle to perfection.


Some of them are complaining of being hungry and I have no idea what I’m meant to do about that. Eventually I persuade enough of them to begin a performance and the other join in, so when Sun-Mi arrives I appear to be in charge of things. We sit around for a while longer and I’m really wondering why I’ve been asked to volunteer a good portion of my weekend for such an aimless activity. Sun-Mi’s responses to my questions about plans and intentions are vague, as are most of the conversations I have here. Around two-thirty at least some of the mysteries are solved in the form of a delivery of noodles from the local Chinese take-away. We eat (which it is now clear was part of a plan that everyone knew about, except me) and then begin making props for our play.

Sun-Mi has bought, begged and borrowed a variety of craft materials but after a brief discussion it’s agreed that we need to go to scavenge a few more things; large cardboard boxes from the local electrical goods store, sticks, bricks and straw. We split into two groups and I can tell without understanding the conversation that In-Hee is insisting that he is in my group. I go along with the decisions, whatever they might be, and follow everyone outside.

It’s a beautiful, bright winter day. My jumper, short wool skirt and thick tights are enough to deal with the chill that is starting to grip Namhae, though I may have decided against three inch heels with ankle straps if I had known I was going to spend the afternoon climbing through hedges and trailing through country lanes with half a dozen fourteen year old boys. The school backs onto a field, as do most buildings in the town, and a small delegation from our party approaches the crouched figures busy at work planting garlic. A few minutes later we are the proud owners of a bundle of rice straw which the boys carefully stash by the roadside.

We stroll along chatting about nothing in very broken English and I stop fretting about working the weekend and relax into the slow pace of life in the country. I ask my students questions that had often occurred to me as I walked around the town – what is this building? why is that there? – and though the answers are hardly clear and concise, I feel as though I’m a bit more part of the community than I was before.

I ask about the very modern and quite beautiful round building that we are approaching as we pass the bus terminal. In-Hee tells me that the fourth floor is a church and the fifth floor is his home. It’s then that I realise with some trepidation that this is where we are heading.

Six of us squeeze into the lift to the top floor and arrive at a front door. In-Hee lifts a lid on a key pad cover and taps in a code; the door unlocks and we enter a small shoe-filled hallway. I curse my shoes once again, their fiddly little buckles mean I am still struggling half crouched as In-Hee’s mother arrives to welcome me inside. The rest of the boys have already dived in and dispersed. I am left with a woman I’ve never met before who is clearly flustered at having not only an unexpected visitor, but one who doesn’t speak Korean.

They have a dog, a Yorkshire Terrier, which seems to have recently returned from a jog as it is dressed in dog-sized sports wear. It is manic and demands my attention which is good as I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself. In-Hee has disappeared into the kitchen to find items to support his role as the Good Wolf (it is a very loose adaptation) and I am left to converse with his mother. She’s an English teacher at the local academy so we do manage a few exchanges as she peels and slices enough fruit to feed a troupe of monkeys. She tells me that she’s really happy that her son has finally taken an interest in learning English and it’s because of me. I’m flattered and saved from my embarrassment by the boys’ return to the living room. We all sit on the wooden floor around a low table and eat the Korean pears, satsumas and persimmons with little forks.

The flat is crowded with toys and other family possessions. Many things would not be out of place in any home in Europe, though the ornate screens over the windows fill the room with a hazy Eastern light. I want to go and explore this, my first glimpse of a real Korean home, but In-Hee’s mum has already mentioned being caught out in an untidied house thanks to her son’s surprise visit, so I try not to look like I’m inspecting the place.

Though it is a pleasant visit I’m relieved when we finally leave and wish I was more adept in social situations. We meander slowly back to school, stopping to collect our straw which has been purloined by some other passer-by and the boys have to beg another bundle. An old man who happened to be passing harangues the boys. He is convinced they plan to use the straw to commit some sort of rural vandalism. Once they’ve escaped from his rantings they tell me that they understand that his anger is not about them but is part of the anger many farmers feel because of the current low price of rice and the high price of oil, making it tough for all these land-dependent people. I feel helpless as the responsible adult, unable to stand in the boys’ defence.

Sun-Mi’s group return ten minutes after us, with yet more straw, a few bricks and twigs and three enormous cardboard boxes. We spend a few more hours making quite passable pig’s houses, and yet another half hour rehearsing with the new props.

It’s dark when Sun-Mi drops me off at my flat, leaving me with a carrier bag full of sweet potatoes – half of the gift she was given by the parents of one of her students. I check my emails and find that I’ve been invited to go out for dinner tonight with my fellow ex-pats; they met ten minutes ago and I’ve missed my chance to contact them and find out where. I’m too exhausted anyway. It’s not the effort of teaching or working at the weekend or even of building houses for little pigs. I’m exhausted from living in a state of constant spontaneity; when communication is so poor that I’m never sure what’s going on and what’s going to happen next. At 9pm I’m in bed, feeling very Chinese noodle.

Another working week

I wonder sometimes how I fill my days and evenings, yet I never seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do and it goes so quickly. It’s exactly a month since I arrived in Namhae, yet I feel (as always happens) like I’ve lived here forever. Walking to work in the morning through the quiet, narrow backstreets, I fall into a semi-trance as I think about the day ahead and am surprised that my feet have instinctively brought me to the college where I can cut through the car park to my school. I barely notice the tiny bent-over old ladies pulling carts of pumpkins or the gaggles of short-skirted schoolgirls who look like they have just stepped out of a manga. It’s all just another day.

Having almost completed the Herculean task of administering a speaking test to each of my 400 boys, I have now begun teaching in earnest. Lesson number one is disastrous of course. Fortunately I’ve been teaching long enough to accept this as inevitable and quickly revise the lesson plan for a better afternoon delivery. I find it hard to get to grips with teaching very elementary English to such young students, but I take Lisa’s advice even before she gives it – choose three points and drill them continuously for 45 minutes. Serendipity turns up the ‘Real-English’ video clip website which reduces the number of times I have to repeat ‘I am Korean, I am from Korea’ to only 87 times a day. I also discover the Zamzar website where I can download Youtube clips and save them to my USB drive and then insert them into my powerpoint presentation, making me look like I’m really on top of the game. The students respond well. I even manage to slow down my speech and simplify my vocabulary enough for the Year 7 teacher to understand, which is a challenge.

The highlights of my working week are the pre- and after-school lessons where I teach small groups of students, many of whom are far more advanced in the language than their classmates. Having time to get to know them in a less formal setting, playing games and making jokes is what I really love about the job. Despite the fact that they have already destroyed two of my three school-issue white board markers in their competitive enthusiasm to write answers on the board and stolen the padlock to the ICT room, they are very friendly and eager to learn. The younger ones are almost primary school affectionate. In Korea, secondary school is very hard, starting early, finishing late (as late as eleven pm when they take additional classes at ‘academies’ for English and other subjects) and of course they attend school every other Saturday morning. A good education is of the utmost importance. As a result, Koreans tend to over indulge pre-secondary school children and they are loved and cosseted by everyone. Physical affection – pats on the heads, arms around shoulders – don’t ring the bells of social services like they do in Western Europe. So I have one or two tiny younger boys who, during our pre-school lesson, will pull up their chairs as close as possible to mine and lean on me as I speak to the class. It’s quite sweet really.

Though I’m supposed to ‘co-teach’ each lesson, Sun-Mi has recognised that I am a competent teacher and occasionally leaves me to it while taking the opportunity to get on with her many other pressing tasks. Moon-Seong joins in with my lessons, translating where necessary, laying a firm and threatening hand on any boy who chatters or dozes. The Year 7 teacher, whose name continues to elude me, seems incapable of managing his classes. After one or two impossibly distracted lessons I take control and instil a bit of discipline into the class, even having a word with the class captain to remind him of his duty to bring the class to order at the beginning and end of each lesson. The teacher seems pretty oblivious to any of this, so I become oblivious to him in return.

Showing a bit of competence has its down-sides. While being mired in test-marking and transferring results to the county education board website, developing a framework of competences and course outlines to go with them, teaching about twenty lessons a week and still getting to grips with the school layout and the remaining domestic issues, Sun-Mi tells me that I also need to develop and direct a short play, to be performed by the students, in English, at the school ‘expo’. On the 20th November. Shortly after that, the provincial Board of Education will come to observe Sun-Mi and myself co-teaching and a lesson plan must be submitted by 1st December. It’s just as well it’s almost winter and I have nothing better to do with my time.

Wednesday, and I arrive early for my pre-school lesson. The day seems harder than the others as I teach every other lesson on the timetable, leaving me an hour at a time to fill between classes. Three-thirty, with lessons over, I round up the stragglers who have avoided speaking tests and repeat the nonsensical questions another fifteen times. Four-thirty and I really want to go home, but as I have one final search for the padlock for the ICT room, Sun-Mi finds me. She’s on her way to watch the teachers’ volley ball game. I mildly protest, mitigating my anti-socialness with the promise that I have indeed brought my new (as yet unused) sports gear but I had to do the last tests so thought I’d missed it. “Lets go and watch anyway” she says, ignoring my rehearsed look of exhaustion.

In the sports hall the game is in full swing. Sun-Mi takes a look at my shoes and says “oh well, you just cheer us on” and joins her team. She hands me her watch for safe keeping, as good as shackles bolting me to the floor. I put down my jacket and bag, resigned to staying for at least another hour. It’s past four-thirty – my working day is officially over.

A woman enters the hall with a large polystyrene box and I’m familiar enough now with the sight to know it’s raw fish. She places it next to the beer and mandarin juice and fruit on the table. They are here for the long haul. I rest my head on my arm, my arm on the table, feeling utter despair. I know it’s only a matter of time before that ball comes hurtling towards me and smacks me in the face. Balls always do. I realise how much I really, really hate team sports, especially those involving balls.

It’s half time and they are changing sides. I look at the clock for the thirtieth time in thirty minutes; five past five. I’m horrified by the knowledge that I’m about to cry. Sun-Mi comes over to me as the players move to different ends of the court. “You look really tired” she says, “you don’t have to stay, but there’s raw fish…”. I begin to answer but I’m scared my voice will crack. I manage “I will go home if it’s OK, I am really tired…” and I slope out.

On my way home I feel really angry and upset. Even before I’m out of the school grounds I pull out my hair clip and I feel like I’m 6 again, fighting Mrs Lyons as she forcibly ties up my hair with a piece of string.

“I’ve warned you Daryl Morgan, if you come to school with your hair all over the place, I’LL tie it up for you”.

I hate Miss Badley and her stupid hockey lessons too. I hate being made to be part of a team, I hate being made to do things I don’t want to. I’m glad I have cigarettes at home so I can go straight there, through the college.

Once home I throw off my clothes, get into my pyjamas and light a cigarette. I sleep for an hour, and wake up feeling better. Sitting on my own in the peaceful oasis of my little room, I come to realise that I can live with the isolation, the constant barrage of a foreign language, the lack of meaningful conversation, the sense of being an outsider, so long as I get adequate amounts of time on my own. I remember a conversation with Sara P a year or two ago, when we discussed feeling exactly the same wherever we are, even in our home towns. Being on the outside of everything is an internal thing for me; it’s a perverse pleasure. Just don’t force me to join in. I let off steam to Sara H on MSN and she asks me if I’m lonely, and I can state categorically that I’m not. It’s not the aloneness that gets to me; it’s the lack of it. I fear that my lesson for this year is learning to be part of a group, joining in with the Korean colleague bonding culture – a scary prospect.

Thursday and I’m looking forward to school. I don’t teach until 11 so I arrive ‘just in time’ at 8.30am. Sun-Mi has finally phoned the bank for me and she needs my details, but I’ve left them at home. “We’ll do it first thing tomorrow” she says; she knows I need to send money to Sara before the weekend. My lessons are now well rehearsed and go smoothly. My colleagues are all friendly and one are two are getting a little more adventurous in trying their English. The students are spectacularly sweet today; In-hee finally solves the mystery of why I can’t find the recycling bags I’ve read are compulsory to use in Korea – Namhae doesn’t have a recycling system. The other students are overly-impressed that I can now read the Hangeul names ‘Kim’ and ‘Lee’ in the register. Four-thirty and I’m free to go home and sit on my own. Bliss.

The contents of my food cupboard

Shopping is interesting. Half the time I don't know what it is until I get home, the other half I buy things that I ate at school and loved and don't know how to cook. Thank god for Maangchi at http://www.maangchi.com/recipes/jjajangmyun.

From top left: crab sticks, aloe vera juice drink, noodles, soft tofu, seaweed, soy milk with green tea, ginger tea

Second row; Korean chilli paste (soy bean paste underneath) curry paste, dried shrimp, packet soups, fernbrake

Third row; lotus roots, chilli flakes, sesame seeds, dried shitake mushrooms, ordinary mushrooms

At the front; ginger, apricot juice sachet, small sweet potatoes, instant noodles.

And of course my fridge is full of garlic and onions and I have sesame oil and soy sauce for cooking.

I still haven't figured out which of the packets of little silver fishes are dried anchovies, and I need a rice cooker as I just can't get the hang of cooking rice Korean style.

It's a good diet, great tasting food and easy enough to make. If you don't go for the buying a whole fresh squid that is.

Pay Day

October 25th

First: I finally got the internet and posted all my back-dated blogs – all except the one from my birthday which I accidentally left in the ‘draft’ pile and which I’ve now posted. It makes sense of some of the subsequent ones so it may be worth going back to. And so on with the story.

It’s Saturday morning and after finally figuring out internet banking for my new NongHyup bank account, I check my balance and find over two million won in there. It was pay day yesterday – very prompt payment. Time to go shopping. I have a list and I’ve checked out what’s what in the town, so with shiny new cash card and a translation of ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ in my purse, I set out to spend.

The first shop I come across is ‘Beautiplex’ and I need mascara and lipstick. Like all the shops in Namhae, it’s small and for a shopaphobic like me, intimidating. Shop assistants don’t just hover; personal space is much smaller in Korea and combined with a deeply service oriented culture, they practically hang on to your arm while you browse. I feel committed to buying something. Helpfully, the Korean word for mascara is ‘mascara’ so the first item is easily selected. With the assistance of the all-too-willing assistant I choose what I think is a lip stain and matching gloss. At the till I interrupt a conversation between another assistant and an old lady who is sitting on a stool in front of the counter. They end their chat and the little old lady, who barely reaches my chest, gets up to leave, looking up at me with a warm smile.

The woman at the counter helpfully taps out the amount due on a calculator when I say that I can’t understand Korea and continues to explain in great detail, in Korean, the directions for using the several freebies she’s dropping into a bag.. The bag is nearly full. I offer profuse thanks and leave.

Next stop is the Adidas shop. I’ve owned possibly two pairs of trainers in my whole life, not having found the need for anything remotely resembling sportswear since being banned from P.E. by Miss Badley back in 1976, but all that is about to change. Along with being pretty and demure, it is a requirement of Korean culture to socialise with ones colleagues. My colleagues play volleyball every Wednesday. Though I seriously doubt I’ll achieve ‘pretty and demure’ while tramping around a volley ball court like a big galoot, at least I’ll be dressed appropriately. The shop assistants throw in a free pair of socks which marginally offsets the shocking price of trainers and track pants.

I wander to the outskirts of town to the big Samsung shop. It’s big for Namhae, but the display of cameras amounts to eight. I bought my last camera about 4 or 5 years ago and I’m well impressed by the developments since then. The young girl who serves me shows me the pros and cons of each one, or tries to. With my usual impatient shopping style, I settle on the pink one after about two minutes. It looks nice and is the mid priced one – what more do I need?

What I desperately need are work shirts, but the clothes shops are either cheap and nasty or prim and expensive. I go for cheap and nasty first. I find a nice top that will do for work and look through the t-shirts which I still need to complete my volleyball ensemble. The male shop assistant tears himself away from the conversation with his colleague and pulls out a few t-shirts for my inspection. I choose the two with the least glitter and fewest grammatical errors; it being compulsory here to have random English words and sentences plastered across any item of casual clothing. I recalled the hoodie one of my students wore on the school trip with the words to Madonna’s ‘Jump’ on the back – if only I could find that one. Instead I buy one covered in what seems to be the text of a computer manual and another with Rock! emblazoned across the chest.

I try a shop that looks like it may have some good clothes, but nothing would fit me unless I lose 20 kilos and have my bones removed. The three female shop assistants are sitting around a small table drinking tea and invite me to join them despite the fact that they speak no English. I pass up the offer and move on as I’m now hitting my shopping interest threshold, having been out now for almost an hour. One last shop on my way home – it looks a bit old-ladyish but I try anyway.

Scanning the rails I know that I don’t want to be paying these prices for what looks to me like mother of the bride blouses, but the three assistants are closing in on me and once again I feel committed. I spot some decent looking jeans – of course they have the obligatory sparkly bits and they aren’t cheap – but I need new jeans. They also look like they might fit me which is a bonus here. I indicate to the assistant that I don’t know what size I am; she eyes me up and down and offers me some to try. They are huge. I try to explain that they are too big and she hunts out the back, returning with an even bigger pair. After much gesticulating and frowning, the penny drops and she finds a smaller pair. I take them, along with a shirt that caught my eye, to the changing room – actually a two-foot square space between the shop and the store room. The jeans fit with room to spare but it’s too much hassle to risk trying for smaller.

I come out of the changing rooms to a semi-circle of shop assistants eager to serve. ‘These’ I say, pointing to the jeans ‘yeh’ (which conveniently is ‘yes’ in Korean) ‘this’ I say, pointing to the shirt ‘anio’. This little bit of Korean gets a rapturous reception - I am rewarded with another free pair of socks, a further 5% discount on top of the 30% already advertised on the window and the impression that I’ve just made the day of three very happy shop assistants.

It’s time to go home so I stop off at a supermarket to buy a bottle of beer and some cigarettes. In an attempt to feign respectability, I’ve tried to spread my booze and fags purchases amongst the various stores around town, yet despite this the girl at the counter reaches behind her for 20 Raison menthol before I even ask.

At home I retrieve my laundry from the rooftop washing machine and unpack my goods, trying on everything as I do. I’m particularly pleased with the top I bought for work and now that I know what size fits I may go back and get another in a different colour. The lip gloss and stain turn out to be two identical lip glosses, but I got three lots of moisturiser, two bars of soap and two sachets each of shampoo and conditioner for free, so I’m not complaining.

Tomorrow I want to go out a play with my new camera, but I also have a stack of students’ tests to mark, lessons to plan and other things I want to do, including learning Hangeul - Korean writing, which, it seems, is very simple and can be learned in a weekend. It’s just as well I have no social life, I wouldn’t have time for one if I did have any friends.

The School Trip

Friday October 17th is the school trip. I have to be there at 7:20am for the three hour coach trip to Daegu. I arrive in plenty of time and hang around for another hour while the school organises itself to board the nine coaches that are lined up on the playing field.

The Vice Principal corners me. A tiny, slim and very friendly woman, she talks to me at every opportunity. She’s probably a little older than me – she’s told me her son is 28 and her daughter is an optician – and she loves to practice her English that she learns every Tuesday evening with Owen at the college. After several attempts, I understand about half of what she says. She’s in full hiking gear and I wish I had my walking boots with me. Faced with the prospect of ‘dressing comfortably’ while still under the restriction of ‘modest’, the best I could do is a long skirt, shirt and my red shoes. She tells me that the parents have prepared a picnic of raw fish for us – something I’ve already told her is one of my favourite dishes.

We hang around some more. I look at the lines of students and am happy that I remember some faces already, if not names. There’s a tiny disabled boy whose English is pretty good; another boy who chats to me at every opportunity and translates for friends and teachers; another who insisted that I remember him during our first class – in his ‘three things about me’ he said he would be a famous boat designer - and I do already remember his face. The rest are all clearly individual – unlike the Korean myth that everyone is both thin and beautiful, there is the standard smattering of overweight, spotty teenagers, those who are too tall, too small, too thin, geeky or dozy or otherwise distinctive.

The Vice Principal approaches me again. She was standing on the top of the steps as I wait at the bottom, gazing out over the crowd.

“Oh Daryl – your hair!” she comments as she flicks through my grey roots. “Me too! Dye hair. Oh dear. Hair. “ she repeats, tugging at her own black mop “Me too”. I make a mental note to hunt down a hair dye first thing tomorrow morning before I commit further crimes against prettiness.

Once on the bus, I settle into the front seat and drift into the passing scenery. Sun-mi is on the seat behind and another teacher across from me. We have the space to snooze and daydream. Food is passed around, as it often is. At school, at least once a day, some little gift is distributed; pieces of fruit, small bottles of ginseng drink, the Korean version of Yakult, biscuits, cake, kimbap. Yesterday it was tubes of toothpaste. Strange.

Today we are given two little packages wrapped in cling-film. I bite into it; it’s obviously made of some kind of rice flour, mixed with water and boiled to give it a texture similar to what you might expect boiled rice flour and water to feel like. It’s filled with red beans and nuts – after a few bites I recognise the taste – chestnuts. It’s not altogether unpleasant and undoubtedly healthy.

We cross Namhae bridge and I watch the countryside drift by. I’d be slightly more relaxed if the driver didn’t have half an eye on the film he’d put onto the screen for the students. We pass through some small cities and I wish I had a map so I had an idea where exactly Daegu is located. I doze, gaze and before I know it, we arrive.

More confusion and delays as passes are handed out. We are at an amusement park and the plan is for us each to go off in random groups to have fun. Whoopee. Funfair rides. I hated them even as a child. First, it is agreed, the teachers will have lunch using our free lunch tickets at the restaurant. More organising and confusion. Sun-mi and I lose the group as she comes with me to the toilets. I’ve avoided them so far, but today my only option is the little floor mounted urinals. It’s not so bad – a bit like camping.

The group are already at the restaurant and we join them there. The raw fish with its accompanying bean paste, chilli sauce and slices of raw garlic are passed around the tables. Someone is tasked to put in the food order and I ask Sun-mi choose for me. I get bibimbap – a dish of rice and mixed vegetables, but I wish I’d been more assertive and asked for the udon noodles and kimbap she has.

Lunch is over and Sun-mi and I wander off to have fun. I try to explain that I’ve been a coward since birth and hate any ride that is fast, spins or appears even slightly dangerous. She tells me that we are going to wait in the queue for the roller coaster. We are joined by a handful of students, including the boy who insists I remember him, who has a fantastic camera and takes photographs. I pull out my cheap mini-camera and take a few fuzzy shots. We chat for a while, but naturally the conversation reverts to Korean and I stand bored waiting for the endless queue to dwindle.

Two tedious hours and two and half terrifying minutes later, I stagger off the roller coaster swearing that I will never, ever climb aboard another one as long as I live. After climbing the first slope, I squeeze my eyes shut, put my head down and hold my breath until I am certain we have come to a final halt at the exit. I lose my ride pass too. Conveniently.

But I’m not going to be let off the hook so lightly. With only an hour to go before we have to head back for the bus, the boy who wants to be remembered drags me into the ghost house with Sun-mi’s ticket. She is terrified of the dark, she tells me, so she won’t go in there. I sense a kind of injustice. Still, the ghost house is nothing more than a walk in the dark and it’s quite funny, occasionally jumping and shrieking as kids hide behind corners to scare us as we pass through.

Time for one more ride and the boy who wants to be remembered insists I go to the place with wet glass. Walking across a dirt forecourt, we pick up what looks like plastic dustbin lids with string handles. As we approach, I realise I am about to slide down a steep hill of grass with water jets spraying from either side. The boy and I take our places in the queue and I give Sun-mi a look which I hope suitably portrays my desperation and unwillingness. She returns a look of encouragement. This is my duty, along with looking pretty and demure, but I’m wearing a skirt and I have the co-ordination of an epileptic frog.


It’s our turn, and there is no going back. I take the cross-legged seated position on my dustbin lid without further instruction, much to the joy of the boy who wants to be remembered. “Go!” he shouts, translating the Korean instructions called over a speaker. I’m sliding and for a few minutes it’s actually quite fun. Somehow the boy who wants to be remembered is in front of me. “Get out of my way!” I shout, hoping that his English is as good as his steering, but it’s too late. I crash into him, spinning as I do. I’m not sure what happens to him, as I’m no longer leaning backwards as I face downhill but leaning backwards as I face uphill – the corresponding difference in angle and momentum giving me just seconds before I simultaneously grab my skirt which is flying up over my knees, hit my head on the grass and slip off my dustbin lid. I slide, laughing uncontrollably, for a few more seconds before coming to a halt in the wet, wet grass.

I stand up, my skirt and jacket dripping, and stagger out to Sun-mi who is unsure whether to laugh or apologise. The boy who wants to be remembered joins us, excitedly analysing my manoeuvres. Sun-mi takes me back to the toilets where I stand with my back to the hand drier trying to regain some dignity. A little girl stops and stares. Her first experience of a Western woman – drying her backside with a hand drier - will forever be ingrained on her memory.


The bus ride home is less uncomfortable than I expect. The still balmy weather has my clothes almost dry before we arrive at Namhae just after sunset. With hindsight it was a fun day, but I don’t want to do it again.

Exploring futher

My second Saturday in Namhae I spend lesson planning, washing, cleaning and shopping. I’ve tried many of the shops now, and everyone is helpful and friendly. The girls in the bakery love to shout “See ya, have a nice day” as I’m leaving, though they wait till I’m almost out of the door before they dare. I greet everyone with ‘annyong haseyo’ whenever I can, though most people want to practice their ‘hello’, nudging each other and whispering it under their breath before one individual is forced to say it out loud. When I respond with ‘hello’ I get fits of giggles and a chorus of ‘hello’s from the rest of the group.

Toddlers in supermarkets are my favourite source of amusement. As they race around the aisles they stumble across me and stop dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed and motionless until a parent drags them away. Old people also stop and stare, but always in a kind and curious way. The town is small enough to bump into my students. They are still unsure if I’m ‘Morgan’ or ‘Daryl’ as Koreans put their family name first followed by their two syllable hyphenated personal name, so I’m often greeted with a loud ‘hello Morgan’ as one of my students joins me in the supermarket queue, casting a proud glance to the cashier to be sure they’ve noticed he knows this foreigner by name. It’s like being a minor celebrity, with all its advantages and disadvantages. The last time I was greeted like this by a student I was hurriedly stuffing beer and fags into my carrier bag.

Sunday, and with all my jobs out of the way, I set off with the tourist map and go to find the sea. I should have set off earlier, but by the time I get my act together it’s about noon and the sun is high in the sky. I wish I’d bought one of those wide-brimmed sun-peaks that many of the women wear. Like the better-off in 17th and 18th century Britain, tanned skin is avoided as a sign of peasantry working the fields; pale as possible is the desired skin tone. Sun-burnt red has, as far as I’m aware, never been attractive in any century or culture.

I buy batteries for my camera. As soon as I get paid I’ll buy a new one, but it’s an opportunity too good to miss to try a few shots with the simple one I have. I set off to the far end of town – it takes me about fifteen minutes to reach the main road that marks the town boundary. I look back and orientate myself with the two landmarks I know – my school, easily identifiable with its pink and green colour scheme and the college behind it. I live behind the college.

I cross under the main road via the subway and follow a long country lane that I hope leads towards the sea. On either side of me are mainly rice fields. Every inch of land, even small patches of what might otherwise be waste land is filled with produce of some kind. Where the rice has been harvested, garlic has been planted. Where it’s too small for rice, chillies or cabbages or pumpkins are growing.


I carry on walking. On this side of town people are even more inclined to stare. Scooters slow down to take a better look at me. An old man on a tractor almost mows me down as he swoops in too get a closer look. Passing through a village, a group of older women sitting out in a garden call out ‘annyeong haseyo’ and when I call back they answer ‘hello’ and giggle.

Nearly an hour and a half later, after seeing the sea in the distance, I finally turn a corner to be greeted by a small harbour. Two men are sitting, smoking, on benches under a tree. More men are doing things in boats on the water. It’s almost silent and very beautiful.


I walk a little further and find a place to sit on the sea wall, trying to make out the northern tip of Namhae and the northern tip of Changseon but the mountains blend into one another on the horizon.

Further down the road I see two men picnicking under a tree, disability scooters parked on the side of the road. I greet them with ‘annyeong haseyo’ and they call back inviting me to sit with them. I decline as politely as I can and keep walking. I have no idea how far back it is to Namhae on this road, but I’m feeling good and the scenery is amazing. I look back inland and can see the town in the distance. Between me and home looks like partially reclaimed land – an inland salt-water lake and some swampy ground at best – the only way back is to follow the road ahead.
Finally the road begins to curve inland again and I can see that I’m heading back towards the main road. By now it’s very hot and the flying insects are buzzing about in gangs. Like all the insects here, they seem oversized. Huge spiders hang in webs in trees; these little beasties look like miniature red helicopters.


On the way back to the main road I pass more fields of chillies close enough and ripe enough to pick.




Finally, after about two and a half hours of walking, I hit the main road that runs past town.



It’s Sunday, but the garlic still needs to be planted.


I’m almost home. Even from this approach, I’m familiar enough with the town now to recognise that I live just to the right of here.


And I finally discover the distances on the island, or at least some of them. I’ll come back another day to take a better photograph of this sign. It’s some of the most useful and detailed information I’ve had so far.



The Sangju Silver Sand beach is the most southerly tip of the island and I live about in the middle so I estimate the island is a little less than 40k long and not quite as wide. The whole population is 52,000. About the size of the Furness Peninsula with a population smaller than Barrow? I’ve never been good at estimating distance, but that seems about right. It’s certainly Hicksville here, but a beautiful and unusual one. With the small town scrutiny being magnified a thousand fold by virtue of the fact that I’m an obvious foreigner, it will be interesting to see how well I survive under the microscope here. With a year contract and a lucrative salary, it seems I have little choice.

My Fellow Expatriates

Sun-mi and the caretaker told me on the first day that my next-door neighbour is a fellow Westerner and another lives on the floor above. On Tuesday morning I leave a note on the door next to mine saying ‘Hi, I’m your neighbour, give me a knock if you feel like it.” Wednesday evening there is a knock on my door.

“Hi, I’m Chad”.

I invite him in, but living in a single room with nothing much more than a bed, it’s an awkward situation. We stand in the doorway and exchange information briefly. He’s American, starting his second year teaching elementary school in Namhae, but he’s been in Korea for four years. He’s 35. He rightly guessed that I’m British (the spelling of ‘neighbour’ was a clue) and had discussed with Kenny, his friend from upstairs, that Daryl can also be a girls name and the handwriting was definitely female. On cue, Kenny appears. He’s 45 and also American. I babble rapidly; it’s been nearly a week since I had a conversation at a normal pace and elevated my vocabulary above elementary English. Chad tells me there are 6 or 7 other Westerners living in Namhae and they meet fairly regularly on Fridays to go for a drink or something. I ask him to let me know when and where. He says he will.

Thursday evening and Chad calls. Would I like to go for a walk around the town and maybe get a beer. Of course I would. We wander round the streets, lit with a hundred neon signs but very little street lighting. He shows me the best supermarkets, his favourite bar, the market. Though he doesn’t drink much (and, he tells me, Kenny doesn’t drink at all) we go to a bar. It’s above a shop as so many things seem to be here. Each building is multi-purpose and houses a host of activities. The bar is lovely, though almost empty We get a booth seat and Chad calls the waiter over and orders a bottle of beer each. A few hours later Chad is still sipping his first beer and I’m sitting behind several empty bottles and a full ashtray, wishing I was here with either one of my Saras, or Arrian, or Celia. Condensed life stories and teaching tales are swapped and I’m slightly better informed about what to expect of the coming year and pretty certain that, though he’s a good, kind person, Chad and I don’t have an awful lot in common.

Friday afternoon coming home from school, Kenny shouts to me from the roof - he’s doing laundry. Tonight the ‘group’ are going bowling, do I want to come? Of course I do. Chad knocks on my door an hour later and I surprise him by asking him if he’s coming bowling. Hey, it’s a small town.

They call for me at 6.30 and we walk towards the bus station to one of the many high rise buildings. Up the lift to the third floor, we find the bowling alley. So far only one lane is taken and it’s obvious it’s ‘the group’. I see they are unpacking beer from carrier bags and I’m directed down to the first floor shop where I can buy some; Chad and Kenny never thought to inform me of that detail. It may be a fun evening after all.

I’m introduced, but names are quickly forgotten. There are two couples, one American and one South African. The South African woman has a weekend visitor, an old friend from school who is living in Seoul. There’s ‘smoking Eddie’, another American who I talk to most by virtue of the fact that we nip out to the hallway regularly to have a cig. It’s a habit I want to break, but it’s a friend-maker. There’s also a Korean-born American and, like most of the group, is in his late twenties or early thirties. The fact that I am the only single female westerner to live on the island for a long time is humorously noted and I suspect that I’m something of a disappointment – at least insofar as I am older than most of the group by quite a way. The absence of Owen is also noted – the Australian college teacher that the Vice Principal of my school has talked about. Apparently he’s a fitness fanatic and another non-drinker who spends most of his time running or cycling around the island.

So we have a pleasant evening bowling. The South African visitor and I only play one game as we are both hopeless and less than enthusiastic. I try my first soju, which may also be my last. It tastes like a cross between gin and retsina and not likely to be my drink of choice. Korean beer is fine. It’s not Gambrinus, but it’s good.

By eleven the bowling alley is getting ready to close. We were the first in, the last out and the only people drinking. Apparently Koreans take their hobbies seriously – bowling is bowling and drinking is drinking. The girls of the group have promised to contact me via Chad when they are doing something again. Some of the boys are itching to go on somewhere else but I’m ready to go home. I walk back with Chad - Kenny is on his newly acquired scooter- and I flop into bed feeling a little less alone in this odd little town.