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.