The next day, I went to Kyongju by bus. The Koreans are very proud of the ancient city of Kyongju and the past glory it represents. Kyongju, I was told by a Korean man on the bus, was home to twenty five National Treasures, thirty five Treasures, and over sixty Historical Sites and Natural Monuments. It was, he said without a trace of humour, a museum without walls – a phrase I had just read in my guidebook and was to see again and again all over Kyongju. I had the names of several luxury hotels urged on me but managed in the end to stay at the famous Han Jin Hostel run by the equally famous Mr. Kwon.

Mr. Kwon was known as a cultural tornado. He feels he owns the whole town and all its history and is more than willing to share what he knows of calligraphy, yoga, Tae Kwon Do, hiking, music, Buddhism and Korean cuisine. In the common room of the hostel over many cups of tea, he befriended me as I’m sure he befriended everyone who stayed there. When I left, he presented me with a present, a new pair of white socks.

I spent a couple of days there looking at the more accessible temples and monuments. The more difficult to reach I decided to save for a later visit and friendlier temperatures. I enjoyed most simply walking around the town itself and watching the street life.

I was fascinated by the more than 200 burial mounds in and around Kyongju. The tallest of these was 25 meters high but most ranged from around 10 to 15. At the center of each mound of dirt and rock was a small stone and timber protected tomb containing the bodies of Silla dynasty royalty and aristocracy. Only a few of them have been excavated and they revealed fabulous treasures such as gold crowns and ancient swords. It leant a powerful air of mystery to the experience of walking among them to know that in their centre lay Kings, Queens and precious artifacts. Local children were not awed as I was and continued to slide down their snow covered sides stopping only to point at the funny foreigner watching them.

I continued on to Pusan where we I took a room at the Sam Wha hotel – a huge pink affair which I saw from a distance. It cost more than I wanted to pay, but it was worth it. My ondol room with its large and clean bathroom was on the eighth floor. From the balcony the view was spectacular. Mountains rose on all sides of the busy Pusan harbour. The waterways were covered with ships and tugs churning up the water. Immense cranes moved through the sky. Directly below was Chagalch’i Shijang, the famous fish market.

The next day, while trying to buy some milk in a small shop I was approached by Mr. Chae. He was very short, looked about my age and sported a thin beard. He invited me to have a cup of coffee with him, eager to practice his English. He listened to my story, and said he would do all he could to help me find a job and a place to live. I went with him that night to meet some of his friends, who he assured me were well connected in some way with Universities and through their contacts would surely find me work very easily. He was quick to trash any other city I mentioned, especially Seoul. He became grandiose and painted a picture of my glorious future in Pusan.

It turns out Mr. Chae wasn’t being entirely truthful. His friends were actually an English study group that met one night a week. This week was Mr. Chae’s turn to present a lecture or discussion topic, and I was his presentation, a real live native English speaker.

There were eleven men and one woman in the group. They had each finished a long day at work and voluntarily remained downtown to work on their English. Most were exhausted and had headaches. Two or three of them put their heads down on the table and dozed. They perked up only when Mr. Chae called on me to demonstrate the correct pronunciation of phrases he had written on the board. These phrases were made up of idioms strung together and made no sense whatever. I tried to correct the first of these but no one really cared. I read them as they were after that.

Afterwards, we went out to a ‘man’s’ drinking place. They tried to scare me with stories of a powerful drink called makkolli – an unfiltered milky rice wine. We sat on the floor around a low table. A large clay container of makkolli stood in the centre, and we took turns drinking out of a small bowl, which passed from person to person. I was expected to drain the bowl and hand it to the next person. He held the glass politely with both hands while I filled it with a clay dipper. I was instructed to hold my left hand over my heart and bow slightly as I held the dipper and poured with my right.

All eight of the men who had brought me to this place competed for the right to pour makkolli for me. Despite the low 8% alcohol content I quickly began to feel the effects. There was only one bowl, giving me no choice but to immediately drain its contents and pass it on whenever it was given to me. It was a small thing, but they were overjoyed that I enjoyed the flavour and rushed to order many “traditional Korean” dishes for me to sample.

Fresh squid in a hot chili sauce was the most challenging of these. The squid had only recently been killed and the many severed limbs on the plate squirmed and thrashed. I picked one up with my chopsticks. It whipped around the chopstick and held on as if clinging to a last few seconds of life. I brought it to my mouth, resisting the impulse to close my eyes. I got the main part into my mouth, but the long end came free and slapped onto my cheek. As I pulled it free I could feel the little suckers letting go one by one. It was tough chewing but very tasty.

Many of the other dishes, though savory, contained parts of animals I’d never associated with eating, and I soon stopped asking for detailed descriptions. They were easier to eat in ignorance.

The next morning, I descended into Chagalch’i Shijang. Hard to take it in. All of life strewn around and flopping. A platter of 13 pig heads grinned at me. A 3 foot eel escaped out of a tub and slithered through my feet. Entire families sat around open cookers, chop sticks flashing in and around 20 varied dishes, an ancient woman under ten layers of clothing stoking the fire and serving. Sharks and squid by the hundreds: dried, fresh, flattened, round, dismembered, dead and alive. Scooters carrying hundreds of pounds crashed through the crowds. There was food of uncountable varieties. Horses’ legs rested against a shack like so many tiny trees for sale. A woman proudly displayed a dead rat the size of a small dog.

I continued walking down to the docks. In trying to get close to some interesting ships, I inadvertently walked through customs and immigration and found myself mixed up with a crew of disembarking Russian sailors. I tried to simply leave, but immigration officials waved me back into line. I tried desperately to explain that I was a dumb tourist who happened to wander onto the docks, but the rulebound officials would have none of it. I saw my future swinging between the two extremes of a Korean prison or the hold of a Russian freighter until a higher official finally had the sense to realize how unlikely it was for a Canadian to stowaway on a Russian boat, especially a Canadian clutching a camera and a guidebook to Korea.

I ran into my Russians again that night on Texas Street. We didn’t have a common language except for that of a cold drink and a good laugh, and they spoke it well. A giant with a thick black beard was an expert mimic and had the others roaring with laughter with his portrayal of the stiff Korean officials peering back and forth between my passport and my face.

Both in Taegu and in Pusan, I looked at several language schools and spoke to their directors. Work at any number of them was possible, but being small schools and smaller towns they could only hire me if I agreed to a one or two year contract and that would take a couple of months to set up. I felt it was best to go back to the more free-wheeling environment of Seoul and take my chances on finding work quicker.

The only train I could take was late in the day, and I had a couple of hours to kill. I went back into Texas Street to look for a quiet spot to sit. I found an empty restaurant and looked forward to an hour of solitude in which to sit and write in my journal. But I had no sooner sat down and gotten my book and pen out when an old man all in white appeared in the seat next to mine. He was very thin with unkempt hair and a long white beard. He had the air of a small boy doing something wrong. He looked slyly to the left and right then crossed himself and gave me a thumbs up sign. I think from my books and pensive air he took me for a missionary.

Before he or I could speak, the Ajimah burst into the room and with a horrible screeching speech chased the old man out of the chair and back into the kitchen area. A few minutes later he poked his head around the doorway and grinned at me and gave me another thumbs-up sign. I returned it, and he ran across the room and jumped back into the chair. He picked up all the things I had on the table, my guide book, my pen, notebook, and camera turned them around and put them back. He pointed at each of them and then pointed at me and smiled. The Ajimah came back with the food I’d ordered and saw us smiling at each other. She shooed him out of the room again but a bit more gently this time. He didn’t come back again, but from time to time I turned to find him at the doorway nodding and smiling at me.

 

 

 

Tags: Han Jin Hostel, Korea - First Days Teaching English, National Treasures, Sam Wha, Texas Street