Friday:Wake up at 7:30a.m. Curse myself for staying up till 3a.m. watching Das Boot. Go back to sleep until 7:50a.m. Grab my loaded backpack and walk to bus stop. Catch the #13 bus to Chilbo Middle School. Yawn and stumble to my classroom while giving lethargic high-fives to 14-year-old boys who have too much energy. Unlock classroom door but leave the lights off and collapse in my chair. Eat five small plums and drink a can of coffee while waiting for laptop to boot up. Check e-mail. Check Facebook. Read newspaper. Fall asleep. Get waken by Ms. Huh who informs me that it is time to board the bus. I stretch and yawn as I make my way out of the classroom, locking it and proceed to a large red coach bus parked out front. It is a modern, sleek, road behemoth and has all the bells and whistles. There are comfortable seats for forty at the front and a circular area around a table for another 15 in the back. As the bus departs there is squawking and chatter I don't understand but it is jovial and full of excitement. The bus isn't on the road for ten minutes before the Vice-Principle starts handing out beers and pouring shots of a strange purple alcohol. I take a beer, thank him, and make note of the time while cracking open the cold can: it is 10:20 a.m. I stand and make my way to the back of the bus where some of the faculty are gambling around the large wooden table. The game makes use of a small deck of cards with unfamiliar pictures of flowers and animals. I spend some time observing and realize that the game is similar to poker. The cards resemble months of the year, and are thus assigned a coinciding point value from 1-12. I feel confident that I can play this game but as I am freeing my wallet from my shorts an amplified voice pulls everyones attention to the front of the bus. It is the Vice-Principle. He is pushing buttons on a strange machine in an overhead storage bin while a large flat-screen television lowers from the ceiling behind him. Moments later loud music begins to play and multi-colored lights replicate a club-like atmosphere. As the vice-principle begins to sing and dance I realize that the bus is a Norebang (Kareoke) on wheels. After the second performance the crowd demands new talent and I am quickly volunteered. I never decline a chance to embarrass myself by singing bad songs but it is barely 11a.m. and this is not an ordinary audience. I quickly down my beer, detect subtle nervous shaking and grab another. My co-workers glare at me like hungry animals and I pound the second beer, crushing the can only measures before belting the best rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody in my entire life. It was probably the air guitar more than my ability to carry a tune, but the song concludes with thunderous applause and I'm confident that I have satisfied their desire to haze the new guy...for now.
I awake from a two hour nap as the bus comes to a stop and Ms. Huh informs me that I missed some beautiful mountain scenery but I am confident that it will still be there on the way back. We use the restroom before boarding a smaller shuttle bus that will carry us up a mountain to a Buddhist monastery. The road up the mountain is curvy, steep and treacherous, barley wider than the shuttle at points and without guard rails. Still, the bus driver has the confident demeanor of a man who has driven this road hundreds of times and he hurtles around the curves in fourth gear. Many of my co-workers scream or joke that the ride is like a roller coaster. I silently imagine a ten ton bus tumbling 1000 meters down a rocky cliff side in gruesome detail but conclude that there are probably more terrible ways to die. Upon arriving at the monastery we cross a river via a gorgeous stone bridge and I take an opportunity to get a picture with Mrs. Reem, the Principle.
The temple grounds are beautiful, meticulously cared for, and I take many pictures. In the 1980's there was a massacre in Gwangu and Ms. Huh informs me that following the aftermath of the incident the politician responsible for the heinous crimes sought asylum here for several years. While exploring the creek I introduce myself to a co-worker I was previously unacquainted with, Mr. Jung, and discover that he likes bands like Iron Maiden and Megadeth. We become instant friends, skipping stones, arms around each other, reminiscing of past victories and sharing dreams of the future.
We are back on the coach bus, heading towards the motel. The mountains, cliffs, and waterfalls we pass are magnificent and humbling. Towering rock wall monoliths support evergreens from any possible crevasse no matter the weird altitude or nearly verticle ascent. Pictures can not capture the grandeur. Words can not possibly describe the omnipotence. The scenery is some of the most profound works my eyes have been blessed enough to take in and no matter how I try to describe it you will never be able to fully appreciate the mastery unless you stand there for yourself.
We drop off our bags at the motel. It is...minimal.
We shower and change for dinner. I attempt to relate to my male roomates by asking them who they think the hottest female teacher is. After explaining the term "hottest" I receive the last answer I would have expected and wonder whether or not they understood my question in the first place. The bus drives us another twenty minutes into town for sushi. Like many seafood restaurants in Korea this establishment features large tanks of water outside housing numerous aquatic creatures; squid, flounder, sea urchins, several large types of fish I don't know the names of. We sit and eat. I eat live snails. I eat little live worms the color of blood. I eat the insides of a still moving sea-urchin. I eat the cold flesh of large fish with still moving gills. (Do you remember the little boy that wouldn't order anything but hamburgers at restaurants Mom and Dad?)
I feel energized, primitive, and satisfied. I come to the realization that what passes for sushi in the United States is really nothing more than over-priced, glorified Kimbab...more seaweed and rice than raw fish. I realize that sushi is about tasting the life of the animal, tearing into it's succulent flesh while it slowly dies on the table in front of you between side dishes of Kimchi and broccoli, while its brethren look on from mere feet away in cold, flowing tanks of water. While I am discovering my animal instincts the Soju is being passed around. The male teachers doubt my ability to drink like native Koreans. The history teacher brags that he is a professional alcoholic. "Nonsense," I tell him, "alcoholics go to meetings." They don't get the joke but we laugh anyway. I keep up with them at their game and in time I drop a shot of Soju into half a glass of Cass beer, not unlike an Irish Carbomb, before downing the cocktail in two quick gulps. They cheer and applaud. Knowing that I have re-established myself as one of the pack it occurs to me that I need not be a good teacher, speak Korean, or know anything about their culture in order to fit in, so long as I can keep drinking Soju as well as they can.
We are a screaming mob tearing through the street. At 24-years-old I am the youngest by at least six years but find myself amazed at how faculty members who are 60-years-old or more let themselves go when it comes to a night out with the crew. We make our way to a large Norebang. I sing a terrible rendition of Beat It. I want to focus on my performance but there are drunken Koreans grabbing my shoulders, shaking tamborines in my face, caring less for my awesome moves than making sure I have plenty of Cass. It is because of these subtle differences in operation that I still claim to like Kareoke more than Norebang. For a while I dance with them but soon find thier taste in music to be terribly boring. Aside from the language it sounds like something that would be played at an old Italian wedding. Towards the end of our session I manage to sneak in an awesome performance of Personal Jesus but I don't think they enjoy it as much as I do. We hazily leave the Norebang and make our way out to a pier on the beach. I move away from the crowd and holding onto a handrail watch rough waves break on the rocks below. I realize that it is the first time I have seen the Pacific Ocean.
Saturday:
I wake to a screaming voice I don't understand but the tone suggests impatience. I follow my roomates to breakfast. Bulgolgi is being served. It is one of my favorite meals but not something I ever considered eating at eight in the morning. I can't bring myself to eat onions, kimchi, and beef this early so I eat a few spoonfuls of rice. I think I offend some teachers by not eating but they'll get over it. We are back on the bus and heading to the beach for an early morning stroll. It is cold and deserted but I have never swam in the Pacific before so I tear off my shirt and run screaming into the ocean while my co-workers stare in amazement. The water is freezing and the beach drops off steeply. I am quickly over my head, breaths coming in short shocked gasps. I swim out ten yards, twenty, still the water is like ice and the current is strong so I head in. My teachers are cheering and taking pictures.
It is another two hours on the bus. We arrive at what looks like a small resort at the base of a mountain. There is a tram car carrying passangers up the small cliff side but we are a large group and opt to take the walking trail. We climb 500 metres and stand in front of a wooden entry way, cold air issuing from the dark recess therein. It is an old gold mine from the time when the Japanese occupied the penninsula but now it's tunnels and caverns have been converted for tourism. We proceed into the dark. The path is level and every few paces we pass animatronic miners ceaselessly digging for fake gold.
For a while there is very little that is worth mentioning but we eventually come upon a steel staircase that leads us away from the concrete-reinforced tunnel and into dark, natural rock formations. The stone ceilings are high and impressive while endless chasams drop away below our feet. I realize that this is the first time I've been in a cave. I take what pictures I can but the lighting is terrible and my flash only makes it worse. 
A cartoonish mouth marks the entryway to an adjacent tunnel and things begin to get trippy. There are black lights installed in this portion of the cave and miniture gremlins or dogs or something acting out strange fantasy land...stuff...I don't know, just look at the pictures. 
So after Fantasy Land or whatever the tunnel opens into a huge natural cavern. It's one of the most impressive places I've ever been. It has to be eight stories tall and several football fields long. An oil tanker would fit in this cave with ease and have room to spare. It takes over half an hour to walk around the perimeter of the cavern. All I can think about is how cool it would be to get a thousand people, a line up of awesome DJ's, a dumptruck full of glowsticks, and have the coolest underground rave ever. I exit the caves with my teachers. The air outside feels warm and humid by comparrison and people wearing glasses instantly notice condensation. I head bck to the bus which will take me home and decide that I'm going to do tonights blog as a present tense stream of consciousness.Cool Thing About Korea #18: The people I live and work with day to day.
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