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 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.
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