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.