I go Korea! - alli_ockinga
On Feb. 1, I arrive in Korea (yes, South Korea) for a year of teaching English in Incheon.
Why? How?
It started last summer, when I was sitting in the woods with my best friends, lamenting...

Week one
Inch'on, South Korea
Tonight I write from the Love Motel in Inch'on, where I've been staying since I arrived Sunday. I got off my fourth day of work about an hour ago, although I have only been teaching on my own since Wednesday. Teaching itself is going reasonably well; I have learned not to expect more than that when it comes to employment. I have 15 classes that meet twice a week, ranging from kindergarteners up through about 8th grade. The good news is, none of my classes have more than 10 students apiece. Compared to my last teaching gig in Idaho, where I had about 30 teenagers in every class, this seems tame. But as it's only week one, perhaps I should reserve judgement. Typically, we focus on the lesson for 30-35 minutes, and spend the remaining 10 minutes playing a faux-educational game to reinforce vocabulary. For a job, it's not that bad.
Getting used to urban living has been a bit of an adjustment for me. In some ways, it's like any other big city--bright lights and loud noises compete for one's attention anywhere you look, and the driving laws seem to be more ambiguous suggestions than hard and fast rules. The biggest difference is, of course, the language barrier. I can say 'hello' and 'thank you' in Korean, but after that, I break into comically primitive sign language. Interestingly, I suddenly remember every word I ever learned of high school Spanish. As I stare helplessly at the cashier in the market who's holding up four oranges without a price tag, I think, "Cuatro naranjas cuestan dos dolares y cincuenta centavos!" Unless I come across a cashier with exceptionally broad linguistic skills, this is useless here.
Still, all is not lost. Four days in, I am hailing cabs like a true city girl, and have acquired at least minimal proficiency with chopsticks, which I consider a great personal victory. Tomorrow I get to move into an actual apartment and I'm looking forward to setting up some semblance of a home here in Korea.
written by  alli_ockinga on February 5, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!

Aliens Exist!
Inch'on, South Korea
I am an Alien. I registered with immigration today, and should have my ARC by Saturday. In a way, it will be nice to have the card as justification for how I sometimes feel. Maybe during my next awkward cross-cultural situation, I can whip out my card by way of explanation for my ineptness: "It's okay! I'm an alien!" And all will be forgiven. This would have been helpful earlier this week, when a small but alarmingly animated security guard burst into my apartment at 9:30 am waving a card in my face, shouting Korean and gesturing wildly in a manner that suggested something really important had not yet happened. I would have been more than glad to comply, if only I had known what to do. (Turns out I hadn't registered to be living in my apartment, and he may have thought I was a squatter.)
It's not as if I can easily slip under the radar here, either. Even for someone who has spent the last five years in Idaho, I am surprised by the lack of diversity here. People are shamelessly curious about Westerners, and hanging out with Ellen all the time makes the staring matter worse. She and I command a lot of attention here. On some level, we always have, even back in college; that much do-what-I-want attitude gives most people pause. Toss Kim, our other best friend, into the mix and the world didn't stand a chance. But it is especially true here, where one brightly dressed white girl is cause for a semi-subtle sidelong glance on the elevator, but two--two! at once!--not only turns heads, but draws blatant finger-pointing. In Korea, we are the indisputable minority. It is an interesting experience, but not an altogether unpleasant one. I generally find it amusing. Complete strangers say "hello" at the market, giggling all the while as if they've just spoken to a lephrechaun. We had a similar experience last weekend at a coffee shop in Seoul, where a little girl actually jumped up and down in place, and then brought over her friend to look at the spectacle that was us drinking a latte.
On a posititve note, it's kind of cool to be unique here. With my normal brown hair and average looks of mixed European descent, I've never really been considered exotic. Here, I get to be. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to try the stewed insects at the street market. Too soon, Korea. Too soon.
written by  alli_ockinga on February 11, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!

Typical situation
Inch'on, South Korea
Today I had to pick up the results of my drug test/blood sample from the hospital so it can be submitted to immigration to solidify my legal alien status. Paperwork and hospitals aren't pleasant even at the best of times, so imagine my intimidation today as I tried to recall the name of the hospital and its neighborhood, as well as where I was supposed to go when/if I got there.
The adventure started, as usual, with me trying to negotiate a destination with a justifiably puzzled cab driver, to whom I am still unconsciously speaking Spanish.
Driver: "Ahn-yung ha-sey-o."*
Me: "Ahn-yung ha-sey-o. Um. Serim Hospital. Serim byung-wuhm."
Driver: "Serim okay."
Me: "Okay." (silently fist-pump in my head to congradulate self)
Driver: "[something something] Hangul?" He wants to know if I speak Korean.
Me: "Um...no. Un poco." Dammit. I hold up my thumb and index finger in the universal gesture "only a little bit" and smile apologetically.
Driver: "English teacher?"
Me: "Yes. Si. Um....ney." Third time's the charm.
Driver: (laughing) "Canada?"
Me: "No. Uh, ah-nee-yo. America."
Driver: "America where."
Me: "America...Idaho."
Driver: Blank stare. "America where."
Me: "Umm. North. Up. By Canada."
Driver: (delighted) "Ah! Canadian!"
I sigh. He is so pleased with our cross-cultural exchange that I figure, close enough. Plus, we have made it to the hospital, and a new set of challenges awaits. I walk inside. I've noticed that all hospitals and airports are essentially the same; just follow the question-mark signs and you can usually survive. This time, however, the plan backfired. I found a question mark sign, which did, of course, lead me to Information. And I'm certain there was a ton of incredibly useful info there, for those of us who speak Korean. I wandered through the halls aimlessly for about five minutes, trying to come up with a plan. The only thing I could see in English was the Ultrasound room. Thankfully, I don't need that. But what to do? The obvious answer was to call my boss, the principal of our school. I'm sure I could have put him on the phone with a nurse and hashed this whole thing out.
But I couldn't do that, because I have this thing about asking for help unnecessarily. I like to do things on my own. I like to be capable. Or, as one (ex)boyfriend put it, "You are frustratingly independent." Fair enough. I don't necessarily see this as a flaw, but I will concede that it sometimes makes things harder for me than they need to be.
So I went up to the nurse station, prepared to look like an idiot, once again. "Do you speak English?" A vain hope. No. Time to pantomime. Rather than go with my initial Mork-and-Mindy idea and hope they got "alien" out of my dance, I got out my passport, and made a motion with my thumb and left forearm that either communicated "blood test" or "mainlining heroin" to the nurse. Either way, after a ten-minute wait, I was redirected to someone important that spoke enough English to get me my required documentation. "You are very normal," she said. "You will be okay." I know she meant only that my tests came back clean, but God bless her nonetheless.
Inspired by my success, I went to the Lotte Mart (giant one-stop shopping complex a la Wal-Mart) and bought some real coffee and a French press. They generally only drink instant coffee here, which doesn't cut it, but I didn't know how to use a press. Time to learn.
Note: all my Korean dialogue is my mangled phonetic version of what I hear. It bears practically no resemblance to the actual language. I have to acknowledge this because the Hangul alphabet, to Koreans, is what the confederate flag is to Southerners. You just don't mess with it. Because God gave it to them.
written by  alli_ockinga on February 15, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!

The Secret
When I was freaking out about my upcoming student teaching last August, a teacher friend of mine told me, "The secret to teaching is acting like you've known all your life what you just learned that morning." That cute little saying turned out to be frighteningly true. I won't tell you how many five a.m. google searches I performed in my apartment as I scrambled to decode obscure parts of speech for the day's grammar lesson. (But I will tell you that there is, in fact, an answer to the direct query 'what the hell is a participle?')
Here in Korea, Lack of Planning strikes again, only this time it's not really my fault. In March, my hogwan is starting up a brand new curriculum. On one hand, this is a bummer, because having just arrived a month or so ago, I was just getting used to the now-defunct lessons. On the other, at least now we will all be confused together. So our director called me into his office this evening after my classes. I am still juvenile enough to be a little bit scared of the principal's office. And it turns out, the eight-year-old inside of me is right. Because Mr. Shin informed me that I "get" to be the native (white)teacher to present the brand new curriculum, of which I know nothing, to the Korean parents. In three days.
I was really, really hoping he was kidding, but the nervous laughter died in my throat when he handed me a yellow textbook and said, "Learn this book. You are good teacher." How he knows this is a mystery, because neither he nor anyone else has so much as set foot inside my classroom so far. But it's okay, because he said, "I have a confidence in you." In conclusion, I get to teach a curriculum I don't know to parents who may or may not speak my language on SATURDAY. Bummer.

FOOD!
At some point, my life choices led me to a place where I now attend work lunches with slick Asian businessmen who drive Mercedes' and keep .9mm's in the glove box. ASIA WHAT? So I was on the way to one such business lunch with my boss yesterday, and he asked what I would like for lunch.
"Whatever you choose will be fine," I said, stupidly trying to be agreeable.
"How about dog meat stew?"
NO. NO NONONONONONONONONO. And in case you didn't get that, no. I think his ears are still ringing from the resounding refusal. He later professed to be joking, but these people eat octopus while it is still alive, so how was I supposed to know? And incidentally, I haven't seen many four-legged friends over here.
Other than this instance, however, I have found Korean food very good. I sort of figured it would be along the lines of Chinese, but it's actually very unique. There are similar elements--lots of noodles, dumplings, vegetables--but Korea certainly has it's own distinct cuisine. The single greatest thing about Korea so far is the barbeque. Korean barbeque is delicious. Actually, the entire restaurant experience here is a beautiful thing. You usually sit on the floor, and you have to take your shoes off, so it's super comfy. When you are ready, you ring a little bell that's built into the table, and the waiter comes over to take care of you. I am still in the only-ordering-food-with-pictures phase, so I point to what I want, and then they fire up your own personal grill in the middle of the table. You get to see the food cooking in front of you, so you know it's trustworthy, and you can grill it as long or short as you want, which guarantees that it's delicious. Usually, there's some sort of dipping sauce and vegetables to go with, and then you wrap the whole thing up in a lettuce or sesame leaf and eat it like the world's healthiest taco. And tipping is nonexistant here! It is, as my uncle Chuck would say, the total package.
And the side dishes. Every meal comes with about 8 side dishes, from soups and rice to vegetables, eggs and lots of things from the ocean. I have now expanded my definition of food to include about ten kinds of seaweed. It's actually quite good. And of course, there's the kimchi. Okay. I've been here a month, and it's time to talk about kimchi. When I said I was moving to Korea, the first thing everybody said was "Stay away from the kimchi!" Those people are wrong. Kimchi is good. It comes in many forms, but usually it's pickled cabbage or radishes in some kind of red spicy sauce. And yes, it's served with every meal.
So I've been trying to remain open minded and expand my edible horizons. I think I am coming along fairly well. At bars, instead of peanuts or popcorn, they serve dried fish or squid. Squid is really chewy. I had to chew it for what felt like hours, as if it were a piece of the worst gum ever. The best thing I can say about eating squid is that it's a life experience I've now had. And at least it's better than tofu.
written by  alli_ockinga on March 4, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Students
When I defaulted to an education emphasis within my English degree in college, I had only the vaguest idea of what it really means to be a teacher. There are a lot of surprises that I am still figuring out, but the best is this: I had no idea how hilarious kids can be. I mean, I sort of did. I've worked with children in some capacity through coaching, babysitting, and for two summers, getting paid to play with them in a park. But having them in the classroom is a whole different experience. Here's a sampling:
Our students aren't supposed to speak Korean at the school, so they get to choose their own English names. Most of them are young enough that their only real exposure to English is through Hollywood, which is kind of sad, but mostly funny. I have an entire class that is Star Wars themed. It sounds like I'm disciplining on the Death Star: "Darth Vader, stop talking or you've earned a time out." Or, "Skywalker, do you have your vocabulary?" And my own personal favorite, "I'm sorry, Yoda, that's incorrect." Nobody ever got to say that in the movie.
The middle classes write diaries three times a week to work on writing. On my first day, one seven-or eight-year-old girl wrote, "Today is English school stranger change. Stranger name is Alli. She's eyeglasses and sky color t shirt. Alli teacher is so so scary. But so pretty!" That diary is currently taped to my fridge.
Another class has seven eleven-year-old boys, and one annoyed girl. Eight students is a pretty typical class size, although a few have just one student, and some as many as twelve. Yesterday I was trying to explain 'castle' so I drew a cartoon on the board. Teaching here is like getting paid to play pictionary for seven hours. ("Teacher, draw is what? Angry cat?" "Very very big mouse!" "Tiger!" It was actually a weasel.) But anyway, I draw a castle, and as one, in perfect harmony, the boys begin to sing: "Do-do-do-dodo-DO-do..." It was the Super Mario Bros. theme song. So I guess they got the point.
These guys are fun, but hands down, my favorite student is the Monster Kid. He's one of my younger students, about six, and we're making ABC books in his class. Each page has a large bubble-letter (Aa) and three words that begin with the letter of the day (alligator, apple, ax). They're supposed to color the letter, and draw pictures of the words. And every single day, this kid transforms the bubble letters into some kind of monster, or as he says it, MONsterrrrrrrrrrr. It has become the highlight of my day. "Tell me about your 'H' picture, John."
"Teacher. H is House MONsterrrrrr." Sure enough, there is a roof over the capital H, and the little h is a garage with a car inside.
"What are these?" I ask, pointing at two red and blue spikes protruding from the roof.
"POISON FIRE TEETH!"
"Wait. So, if the House Monster bites me, am I on fire or poisoned?"
"POISON FIRE! and Teacher! Teacher!"
"Yes?"
"Feet." The House Monster can walk. "And Teacher...human. Bloooooood." A stick figure covered in red scribbles lies prostrate on the ground.
"What happened to the human?"
"Feet, crush. And poison...FIRE...teeth crush! Bloooood."
If I ever have children, I hope they are exactly as creative as John, with maybe slightly fewer violent impulses.
Off to work. I can only imagine what the Ii will become today. Ice monster, perhaps?
written by  alli_ockinga on March 19, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

International Pick-up Lines
Seoul, South Korea
Love is supposed to be the international language, and to some extent I guess that’s true. Kisses are kisses. But still, getting to the point where kissing is not only a likely activity, but an acceptable one, takes some work. What I’m saying is international pick-up lines are hilarious. The combination of imprecise translations and the brutal honesty used to convey a point is often no less appalling than it is entertaining.
Episode One: I hadn’t been here long, and Ellen was taking me out to experience some of the legendary Korean night life. We’d come up with some interesting outfit choices that night, which I will gracefully call ‘daring.’ We were not subtly clad. But we’re in Korea. Who’s going to know? While in the backseat of our cab, discussing various directions the night could take, our driver interrupted us. “You are Russian?” he asked. I looked at Ellen. It seemed to me quite clear that we were speaking English. Before I could ask, she told him, in no uncertain terms, that we were American. “He just asked if we were prostitutes,” she explained. “That’s what ‘Russian’ means.” Maybe I should have rethought the boots.
Episode Two: We are at another Korean watering hole called the Jail Bar. There are a few Western bars around, but I find they are usually not as funny as Korean bars. Jail Bar, as the name implies, is prison-themed. Iron bars separate smoke-filled booths, and the chairs and tables are made of unpolished steel. I’ve never found anything even remotely close to love in a bar, and here it seemed especially unlikely. Still, when a young Asian man leaned towards Ellen, reaching his hand through the bars and chains between our tables, I thought maybe she had a chance. He and his posse came over to talk to her. “Hello. Your face,” he said, gesturing at her, “beautiful.” Limited language proficiency produces an almost endearing directness. None of that Did-it-hurt-when-you-fell-from-Heaven nonsense that plagues seedy American bars. Then he motioned towards himself. “You like my face?” How do you answer that? “Yes, it’s a nice face,” she said. Two hours later, we were at a norae-bang (private karaoke room) with the young Koreans, and he confessed the words every girl wants to hear: “You make me the very happiness.” Aw.
Episode Three: This time, we were at one of the aforementioned Western bars in downtown Seoul, waiting to meet up with an acquaintance from home who’d just gotten to Korea. Another young Korean approached me, staggering. They are big drinkers here. “You are very beautiful,” he said, leaning in. He shamelessly appraised Ellen, as well. “You beautiful also. But she, more beautiful.” Ellen shrugged. You win some, you lose some. He told me I looked exactly like Sara from Prison Break. I have never seen the show, but I googled it later, and the resemblance is actually less than minimal. Still, I suppose I was flattered. Ellen saw an opportunity for entertainment in the man’s admiration. “That’s because she IS Sara from Prison Break,” she told him. “Tell him, Alli.” I looked at her. “It’s okay,” she encouraged. “You don’t have to be shy.” So I told him all about how difficult it is to be a celebrity when people are constantly recognizing you. It’s a tough life. He nodded understandingly. I sincerely hope that somewhere, he too is writing a blog about meeting an American TV star in the most unlikely of places. Finally, my friend from home called. “Your famous American boyfriend is calling,” said Cameron the Korean. Yes he is.
Instances like this abound. I’ve had a cab driver use his Korean-English dictionary (while driving) to demand that I “marriage” him, and the men are endlessly curious about our lives. “Do you have baby? Marry? Boyfriend?” Nope. Nope. Nope. “Why?” Because underneath my clothing, I am covered in scales. I would hate to tell them the truth, which is that I am extremely disinclined towards Korean men’s fashion. I can’t get behind men that carry Prada handbags which put my gypsy purse to shame, or sparkly cell phone charms bigger than the phone itself. But I’ve only been here two months, and a year is a long time. You never know how your standards will change…
written by  alli_ockinga on March 31, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

Korean Baseball
What with Opening Day this week, it’s time to say a few words about the globalization of America’s National Pastime. I’ll say this for Koreans: they love their baseball. My first week, upon learning that I was American, several of the boys I teach asked if I had ever met Chan Ho Park. Um…I stumbled over the vaguely familiar name. “Teacher, L.A. Dodgers!” Ah, right, the Korean pitcher. I didn’t want to tell them that the last time I thought about the Dodgers was when Mike Piazza caught for them. So I made an even bigger mistake. “No, I don’t know Chan Ho Park. I’m from Seattle,” I said. “We have Ichiro.”
“AHHHH!” they screamed at me, in horror. “Ichiro is Japan!” They hate Ichiro. I have actually heard one boy call another ‘Ichiro’ as an insult. After Korea lost that heartbreaker to Japan in the World Baseball Classic (for which more than forty percent of the nation tuned in), it’s all I heard about in my students’ diaries for weeks. “Korea is ranking number two at WBC. Korea, Japan. 5-3 is outcome. Korea team is lose. Japans is team win. My very sad.” They are supposed to write five lines, but some, apparently, were too heartbroken to go on. As a lifetime Mariners fan, I sympathize. (But maybe this year…and the cycle continues.)
As I lived at a lake the past few summers, I’ve missed a lot of baseball. But now that I’m in Korea, with more free time than I’ve had since I was eleven, it’s time to get back in it. But there’s a catch. There are a limited number of English channels available here, but perhaps unsurprisingly, FSN is not one of them. Instead, I spent this evening watching the Korean Baseball Organization, this country’s answer to MLB. There are eight teams in the league, which is nothing to scoff at when you consider how small this country is. It turns out my city, Incheon, has its own team.
We are the SK Wyverns. SK is a cell phone company here, a la Sprint. In an homage to Korean Consumerism, their baseball teams are all named after the companies that sponsor them. I suppose it’s no worse than Busch Stadium or Coors Field; Americans have beer, Koreans have technology. That aside, you may be asking, what on earth is a wyvern? As did I. I did some googling, and twenty minutes of fascinated clicking later, found out that wyvern is not, as I had supposed, some Asian word in need of translation. No, no. A wyvern is “a fire-breathing dragon used in medieval heraldry; [it] had the head of a dragon and the tail of a snake and a body with wings and two avian legs.” Wow. Couldn’t just be the Lions like Daegu, huh, Incheon? But don’t kid yourself. I totally want an Incheon Wyverns tee shirt.
So I’ve been watching Korean baseball. There are some minor differences that threw me at first. For instance, if the count is one ball, two strikes, we would say it’s 1-2. They switch it around so it’s strikes first, or 2-1. This was initially quite confusing for me. I thought the ump had a very creative interpretation of the strike zone for about two innings, until finally the count became 1-3, and at last, I understood. Other that that, though, it’s pretty much the same as baseball everywhere, which is one of the beauties of the game. The commentators even use a lot of English terminology, which I find comforting. Amidst the Hangul, which I still can’t make much sense of, I’ll hear a breathless “back-to-back homerun!” Out is still out, and foul is still foul. And, having grown up on baseball, both on the diamond and the radio, I have a pretty solid intuitive grasp of what the announcer is probably saying. “He’s got a rocket of an arm, that one,” I guess, as the left fielder nails someone trying to stretch out a double. Or, “Byun Hai is getting a little greedy over there on first. Might want to cut that lead a step or two.” Even the after-game interview with the losing manager is the same. His mouth is saying some variation of we-played-hard-and-I’m-sure-proud-of-the-boys-but-you-can’t-win-em-all-that’s-just-the-game; his eyes are saying ‘one more question about our on-base percentage, and I will rip that headset right off your head.’ It’s nice to know that a world away, some things stay the same.
Go Wyverns.
written by  alli_ockinga on April 7, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Black Belt Test
Ellen has convinced me to become a ninja, and so I am taking hapkido with her. Hapkido is a Korean martial art that's kind of like akido plus judo (I think. You might want to wikipedia that.) Anyway, it combines both attack and defensive techniques, utilizing hand-to-hand combat and weapons, although I haven't been allowed to touch any of them yet. It sounds kind of intimidating, but it's a lot of fun, and it's been a long time since I've been graded on my ability to do somersaults. I just traded in my rookie white belt for a yellow belt, which is the first ranked one. I like it because the color matches the writing on my ninja suit, and is thus more aesthetically pleasing.
So I'm a beginner, but some of the others in my class--Ellen, Suddar and Seamus--have been here since last summer, and are way better ninjas than me. A couple weeks ago, they took their black belt test, and I tagged along to watch. Come along with me.
Master picks us up in the bright yellow hapkido van, which is like a mini school bus covered with silhouettes of ninjas kicking and punching at around two o'clock, and we go to the hapkido room to change and pick up the other black belt hopefuls, most of whom are eleven-year-old Korean boys. I am merely here to witness and photograph the event, which leaves a bit of time for chatting with Master. He cooly assesses me in the rear view mirror. “Elly, wow! Beautifu!” he says. Most Koreans think my name is Elly. Close enough. Master pats his face, indicating that I am wearing makeup today, and as such, my appearance is vastly improved.
“Thank you, Master. When I’m not a sweaty ninja, I look better.”
“Alli has a date tonight,” Ellen says, further clarifying.
Master laughs. “Guro station?”
“Yep.” I grin. A couple weeks ago, I met this Korean guy when I was hopelessly lost at the subway station, and we're having dinner this evening. I got caught texting Subway Station Boyfriend at a hapkido party the other night, and the Koreans are all endlessly amused by it.
“Oh, are you seeing the subway fellow?” Seamus asks. I nod. “I’m a bit worried about that, to tell the truth.”
“I don’t think you need to be.”
“Where are you meeting him?”
“Seoul, somewhere.”
“Is he a decent sort?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I? It’s our first date.” [I did go on this date. It was okay. Cross-cultural dating is hard.]
“Yeah. True. I’d feel better if you were with someone. Perhaps I feel like I should fight him for your honor.” I am almost touched by his concern, but not quite.
"I’ll be fine, Seamus. Besides, you don't have your black belt just yet.”
Master is laughing in the front of the van. Today, Master is wearing a suit, which emphasizes the fact that he used to be the body guard for the president of Korea, or at least some important political figure. Really. Master can kill a person with his pinky finger. We leave the studio, now crammed into the bus with Master’s teenaged apprentices, and the seven red belts surround us, silent and afraid. We still get a little waegook fame, just by being foreigners. The smallest of them doesn't even reach Seamus’ waist.
We pile out of the van to join the throng of miniature would-be ninjas heading into the testing gym. Bemused, I observe the various levels of enthusiasm displayed by all the participants. Like any youth sporting event, there’s the he-man kids that clearly dominate; they are practicing handsprings in the corner, and doing one armed pushups as warm up. We are afraid of them. There are the average kids, who look a little scared, and mostly just don’t want to mess up in front of their Master. I can see right away that we are lucky to have such a patient and understanding Master; many of the other Masters look like Asian versions of Mr. T. Then there are the kids who don’t care now and probably never did. They are only doing this for their dad, and one of them has a comic book tucked into his red belt that he keeps peeking at during roll call. About one in five competitors are girls, and most of them are wearing sparkly barrettes and Chuck Taylors. I silently root for them to beat the boys. In the middle of it all, my friends tower above the rest. Our ragtag hapkido class could not stand out more: Suddah is of Indian descent, but with an Aussie accent; Ellen is an almost-blonde white girl, and Seamus looks like an Irish Goliath.
Finally, the test begins. I don’t understand a thing after the national anthem, and even then, I’m not sure what to do. Hand over heart seems a cheap gesture, but I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m cheating on the Stars and Stripes. Then it’s three hours of pre-teen Koreans—and my friends—kicking and throwing each other to the ground. Several small children want a picture with me ("why yes, I am friends with Brad Pitt"), so I acquiesce to pass the time. Master keeps having to grab Seamus by the shoulders and redirect him, but from where I sit on the sideline, I don't think we're embarrassing Master too much. Ellen does particularly well. I wish I could do half the things she can.
As we leave, Master stops me. “Elly,” he said, holding an imaginary knotted belt around his waist. “Ten month. You, black belt.”
I looked at him in surprise. “You think I can get a black belt?”
“Yea. Black belt, okay.”
“Okay.”
written by  alli_ockinga on April 29, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Wading through Hangul
“Adios,” I say to the traveling melon man in my parking lot. Thursday is market day, when I stock up my fridge with all sorts of freshly grown delights. “I mean, ahnyung-hee…” Curses. What is the second half? “Um…bye bye,” I finish lamely, packing my cantaloupes home in shame.
This is getting ridiculous. I need to start learning Korean.
Probably the most effective way to go about this would be to attend some real language classes, or meet up with a private tutor, but I don’t see that in the bank account. I’m still broke from surviving student teaching back in Boise, plus, my credit cards took a substantial hit from a New Years visit to the mountains which was financially ill-advised, but there are some people you just have to see before you up and move to Asia.
So I’m going to have to approach this acquisition of language from a more grassroots standpoint. For Christmas, my older brother got me a book called Say it Right In Korean. I gave it a cursory glance on the plane—there were fourteen hours to kill, after all—but I was quickly discouraged by it. Korean is easily the most foreign-sounding language with which I have ever come in contact. Not only is there an overwhelming amount of syllables in every word, none of the sounds seem to fit right together. Everything seems so choppy, as if the words themselves are being diced in the air as they leave the speaker’s mouth.
Before I can try reading it, much less attempt speaking, I need to figure out what the Hangul alphabet is all about. This is probably what I should have been doing while unemployed for the month of January. Additionally, the guy here before me left two books in the apartment: Korean through English and Romanized Korean. I am least frightened by the Say it Right book, but there’s no correlating alphabet in that one, so I pick up the Romanized one, since it’s smaller.
I quickly discern an underlying logic to the system that I can appreciate. The English language has been through many major overhauls, influenced over the centuries by a picnic spread of Western languages, suffering mass identity crises every several hundred years on the heels of this invasion or that migration. Speaking English competently is a bit like being in a codependent relationship with a schizophrenic. One moment, things are going swimmingly and everything makes a quirky kind of sense. Take gh, for example. English used to want the ghs pronounced way back in the throat (as in the ch of the Scottish loch), and so it was done. And then, for reasons too complex to understand without a PhD in Linguistics, English decides that we’re dropping that rule, it’s all just crap, and from now on we’ll be saying it just like a normal g, like ghost.
“Well…okay,” you think. “If you really think that’s best.” You’re pretty sure you love English, and besides, it’s all you know. Too late to switch to Dutch now. And just as you’re getting used to this new side of English, he rounds on you again. Now, he claims you’re supposed to say gh like it’s an f. Like in cough.
“But what about the new ‘g’ rule?”
“I never said that.”
“Yes you did!”
“Well, not at the end of a word.”
You sigh. “Okay, I guess. So what you’re saying is you want me to start saying 'through' like ‘thruff’?”
“Well, no, not this time.”
So English can be exasperating, and symbolically, it probably should just be scrapped and rebuilt according to the International Phonetic Alphabet, which equates exactly one sound to one symbol with little cheek and much refreshing honesty. Oprah would definitely tell us to end this confusing relationship with a language that doesn’t know what it wants, but deep down, I think we all know we’ll never really leave our mad, deranged language. It would take so long to rebuild. But that’s exactly what the Koreans have done, or more accurately, did—back in the fifteenth century, when the difficulty of Chinese script meant high rates of illiteracy, which in turn spurred a reinvention of the written word. I am delighted with the straightforwardness of the Hangul alphabet.
There are still a few overlapping sounds that trip me up. For instance, [g] often sounds like [k], as with [b] / [p], and [l] / [r]. But those are similar enough sounds, even in English, and I’m willing to forgive Hangul for the minor inconsistencies. It keeps our newfound relationship interesting.
So it doesn’t take all that long to figure out the phonetics of Korean. Within a week of study, I can stumble through the names of places on the subway, and even read a menu haltingly. It sounds exactly like when my kindergarteners try to read English, and I vow to remain patient with them. And it is time to stop speaking Spanish to the melon man.
written by  alli_ockinga on May 7, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Things are amiss.
Things are amiss in Korea.
I should probably be grading the stack of diaries my T6 class just handed in, but my dinner will arrive in a few minutes, so I’m taking advantage of the for-once quiet teacher’s room to sit back and think. It’s eighty five and humid as a greenhouse today, which makes the Asian answer to Gatorade—named Pocari Sweat, thanks to an overly literal translator—even less appealing than the average ion-supply drink. But the heat is the least of Korea’s crises this week.
Turmoil first beset South Korea last weekend with the suicide of their much beloved former president, Roh Moo-Hyun, following allegations of a bribery scandal. Rather than continue to take part in the federal investigation which tarnished his reputation, Roh leapt to his death from a mountain behind his house. “Too many people have suffered because of me,” he said in a note, according to CNN. He was 62. I can’t help but consider the various forms of scandal to blemish U.S. leaders from Jefferson up through the Kennedys, Watergate to Hanging Chads. I’m not saying anyone is wrong or right, but I don’t believe any of the latter were so distraught by disappointing the American people that they had to jump off a mountain. You have to admire a culture with a sense of honor. And yet, despite the allegations, Roh was an extremely popular president, and the first Korean leader to cross the demilitarized zone into North Korea to meet with Kim Jong Il.
I’m amazed at the desire South Koreans have to reunite with the north. If U.S. history had been written differently—say, if the south had won—I’d want to be as far towards the California coastline as possible, perhaps even on a houseboat. I certainly wouldn’t want to readopt them and try to meld our opposing ideologies. Admittedly, this is only one of many reasons why I would make a poor world leader. But every now and then my students will write diaries or essays about Korea, and without fail, they want to see the countries reunited.
"Korea is many war history. Fighting is very many. And north, south Koreas was one korea unity ago. But today, not. I very want unity. And dispersion --> teachar dictionary okay? --> dispersion family, together not. My sad. :( "
Which is a pretty solid political analysis for a nine-year-old in a second language.
Dinner is taking longer than usual to get here today, so I open up a diary. They’ve chosen to write about North Korea today, and it’s a timely topic. North Korea is being a decidedly poor neighbor again this week, having just launched another nuclear missile. This week, South Korea officially joined the U.S.-led effort to limit trafficking of weapons of mass destruction, which I think we can all agree is a wise effort. You don’t want to accidentally leave one of those nuclear warheads underneath the couch cushion! But naturally, North Korea—specifically Kim Jong Il, but it’s getting harder and harder to separate the man from his country—doesn’t see things that way. Instead, they’ve chosen to interpret the South’s participation in the effort as a declaration of war. To boot, they no longer plan to abide by the 1953 armistice which ended the Korean War.
Needless to say, we’re all a little sketched out by the north. Here’s another diary entry from today: "I think North Korea is very very VERY MANY BAD!! Because Kim Jong Il is bad man. And north Korea is bomb. And bomb is Boom!!! And that is scary. Because north Korea wars well. Many guns."
Which is true.
Still, the actual threat of war is questionable. North Korea needs economic and energy support from the world, and thus far, it seems all the UN has done in response to what CNN reporter Elise Labott calls North Korea’s display of pyrotechnics has been even less than a slap on the wrist. More like a long, stern look over the top of the glasses. It seems that the North is acting out like a petulant teenager, simply hoping to get attention; at least, we can hope that. I’m no political analyst, but this is what it feels like from where I’m sitting tonight, half an hour from Seoul.
Rest assured that if war does officially break out, I’m skipping town. It’s actually in my contract. My coworker said today, “Hey, at least if there really is a war, we get out of our contracts for free!” Strange that the threat of nuclear war to an entire region makes us think only of the immediate effects on our individual wallets. Then again, isn’t personal economics the driving force behind all wars?
written by  alli_ockinga on May 27, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Just like Donatello
We trained with bow staffs in hapkido today. Actually, Ellen has been training with the staff for more than a month now, and as part of the ongoing cultivation of Master’s dream to have two white girl ninjas, he’s got me following in her path once again. I am forever six months behind Ellen on our life paths.
But no matter. The staff is rad. Master has a collection of them: slim bamboo sticks of varied lengths, between five and seven feet long. It’s the same weapon that the purple [thanks Chad!] ninja turtle uses. For my first lesson, I learn how to twirl it in front of me like a propeller. I’m a little clumsy at first—can’t say I’ve ever had occasion to twirl a bow staff before this week—and I drop it on my bare toes once. Boy that smarts. I see why it’s considered a weapon. Lesson two follows shortly, when Master refuses to let me pick up the staff.
“Alli,” he says, stepping between my outstretched fingers and the bamboo, “no hand.”
“No?”
“No. You are ninja…and, foot.”
“You have to pick it up with your toes,” Ellen says, filling in the language gaps from several feet away. She has progressed to twirling one-handed on either side of her body. I am jealous.
“Show me,” I say to Master.
“Watch.” In a move reminiscent of soccer, he rolls the staff forward and over onto the top of his right foot and catches it there, forming an L with his shin and foot. Then, like lightning, he kicks and somehow, the staff is now in his hand. As far as I’m concerned, something magical just occurred.
“You try.”
"Um…”
My first attempt lacks a certain something that I’ll call grace, and the staff rolls off the top of my foot before I even think to turn my toes up to catch it. My second try, I catch it, but am stumped. How do I get it to go up?
“Now, kick!” Master encourages.
“Kick how?”
“Up.”
Right. I study the staff, and my right foot, like I’ve never seen either article before. I need to use my foot like a simple machine. There seems to be some sort of fulcrum involved. I cautiously lift my heel off the ground, and the staff catches on the floor and makes a halfhearted attempt to arch up towards me before clattering to the floor again. The upwards motion of the staff startles me so much I yelp and jump backwards as Master laughs. He rarely tries to hide his amusement during class anymore. Ninja indeed.
But I think I understand what needs to happen now. You have to catch the staff about nine inches from its edge, and then the rapid upwards movement of the kick combines with the weight of the stick pivot it upwards from the floor, like a rainbow, towards your waiting hands.
In an ideal world, that’s what would have happened on my next shot. Instead, I was so focused on making my foot do its job that when the lucky rainbow action did occur, I hit myself in the side of the face. I’m glad I wasn’t wearing my glasses, and that I’m not good enough with the weapon yet to inflict any actual damage.
When I get home, my messenger is flashing neon orange at me, and I see that I’ve missed a shout out from my buddy Curt, back home. Sorry, I was at ninja class, I type. You still there?
-I love you because that’s true, he writes. How was class?
I tell him about the staffs, and picking them up with my toes. I achieved about a seventy percent pick-up success rate by the end of class.
-Shut up, he says. -People don’t really use bow staffs.
Straight up, I DO, I say.
-What, like you kick it up to your hands and then swipe it at someone’s FACE?
Yeah. And then I yell AI! And punch them. Theoretically.
-Oh my god. You are mind-blowing.
Thanks.
-It seriously makes my day better knowing that you exist.
I appreciate his incredulity. I think it’s a pretty cool skill too, and I certainly hope that knowing my way around a bow staff translates somehow into my American future. But here I am, having landed in Asia, and I don’t know where this path is leading me, but I’m aware that the only way to find out is to keep following it. Still, there are certainly days when I wake up and think, there are people out there trying to cure cancer and bring peace to the Middle East. And what I am doing? I am getting graded on how quietly I can somersault and my ability to pick up sticks with my feet. But today, I’m thankful to Curt for reminding me that what I’m doing here, as often as it seems like I'm lost, is a really interesting life experience. I’m halfway across the world, and that’s an awesome thing—even if I don’t know why yet.
written by  alli_ockinga on June 11, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Mom practice
So far, I've spent my morning constructing a "butterfly bank" out of a recycled aloe juice bottle, some construction paper, googly eyes and pipe cleaners in order to teach my science class the value of recycling. A little background: I teach 15 classes, twice a week, with students ranging in age from first grade through eighth. I recently started teaching a science class in addition to English, which has been a learning experience for me as much as my students. (So THAT'S what makes thunder! neat!)
I think I've mentioned that teaching English as a second language involves a lot of charades. This is even more true when teaching science to eight-year-olds--challenging enough--and then adding a language barrier. We're on a pollution/recycling unit right now.
"Okay, guys. Show me your Pollution Face."
"EWWWWWWWW!!" they say, screwing up their faces and sticking their tongues out like Mr. Yuk, complete with two thumbs down.
"That's right. Why is pollution bad?"
"Earth is sick and very many sad."
"Right. Let's see your Recycling Face!"
"Hooray!" Two thumbs way way up, with deceptively angelic smiles, tossing their ribbon-and-curl hairstyles over their shoulders. Only girls in my science class.
"And why is it good to recycle?"
"Earth is happy."
We are going to be making the butterfly banks out of recycled bottles today. I will probably get in trouble by my boss for deviating from curriculum today, but I'm somewhat indispensable to him because a.) I am emceeing the school spelling bee tonight and b.) he's manipulated me into teaching his summer class schedule because I am 'senior foreign teacher' at my school, which means an extra thousand dollars in July, but no hapkido for a month. Thus are the politics of a hagwon.
Anyhow. As I'm assembling the craft materials needed for the butterflies, it strikes me that teaching kindergarden and first grade is really just Mom Practice. *On that note, I'd like to take a moment to thank my mom--all moms, really--for the countless batches of papier mache and play-doh and assorted other art projects you supported over the years. You were a really good sport.* It's not just the crafting that's led to this thought. Last week, I took the science class outside to observe and draw natural resources and taught them about how we stop, look and listen before holding hands to cross the street. Then I showed a kid how to tie his shoe, and a couple days later, splinted a boy's sprained finger with a ballpoint pen, toilet paper and scotch tape. He injured it doing Tae Kwan Do in the halls.
"Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!" Mom! Mom! Mom!
I like the little kids more than I thought I would, though. I really like how they call me Alli-sang and bow to me. Very Karate Kid. They take a lot of energy, but we devised a three-rule system (raise your hand, be quiet, sit down) that's fairly effective. If they follow the rules, they get to play a game at the end of class. If not, tough luck. They've all bought into the system enough that if I forget to write down the rules at the beginning of each class, they yell at me. Which is what I deserve for messing with my own routine, I suppose. I especially enjoy how little it takes to impress young children; the first time I shuffled a deck of cards in front of them, they asked if I knew Harry Potter. I said yes.
written by  alli_ockinga on June 25, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Owned
Essay Topic: You are shipwrecked on a deserted island, with no other people. You can take two things with you, but they cannot be electronic (no TVs, computers, cell phones...). What two things do you take, and why?
"If I am island trapped, I take two things no. One thing! I take teleporter!! Is electric not!! Is MAGIC!!!! haha Alley Teacher. I am Korea back. essay is lose. My win."
written by  alli_ockinga on July 21, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

July, pt. 1
I have been a lazy blogger this month, and I apologize. Let's do some catching up!
July has been a pleasant and eventful month, and as such, it has whizzed by. Independence Day ushered in the month with a distinctive lack of a bang: this is the first year ever that I haven't been sitting outside watching fireworks for the Fourth. Not that I expect anyone else to celebrate America's birthday, but I did feel a slight nostalgic twinge thinking of my friends back in Idaho sitting on top of their various four-wheel-drive vehicles with a PBR and the old red, white and blue raining down from the sky...however, when offered the chance to spend the day at the Army base listening to a Deana Carter concert witht the troops, I declined. I ended up spending the night at a reggae bar in Seoul, then drinking Hite, my subpar Korean beer of choice, on the playground with my Special Friend. All in all, it was a good night.
I messed up my knee again with an ill-timed backflip in hapkido. Fortunately (or maybe not?), it wasn't the knee I hurt skiiing over New Years, but the other one. In a sad twist of fate and joints, my bad knee has become my good knee, as my performance standards dropped across the board. Here's how that went down:
Master gets out the blue padded mat, runs a few steps and flips in midair, kicking his feet over his head and landing in a silent ninja roll, then looks at me, and gestures for me to try. "Alli, you," he says.
"I don't think I can do that," I say. I do not generally suffer from a lack of confidence, but this seems like a time to tell the truth.
"Alli, yes!" he says, emphatically. "You, ninja."
He's right, I think. I AM a ninja. So I run, and I jump, and I kick, and OH MY GOD THAT'S NOT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!! So I landed on my left knee and it was terrible. Because I have my own health insurance for the first time ever, I went to see the doctor, who gave me painkillers and a brace, and I lurched around class like I had, as one kid said, a "robot leg." I told them I had knee pain, and felt old. Master felt pretty bad about overestimating my ability as a ninja. "I worried," he said. "In hapkido, you are my student. Outside, you are my sister." Awww. So, I took a two-week hapkido hiatus, and it feels better now. The only time I have problems are when I'm at a restaurant, sitting cross-legged on the floor, which is essentially torture to a person with two bad knees...
The next weekend, every foreigner in Korea headed to the coastal town of Boryeong for Mudfest, which is exactly what it sounds like: mudslides, beer, mudcrafts, beer, mud wrestling, beer, mud masks, and beer. Needless to say, it was a blast. And for the record, I'd like to state that I kept it classyish and stayed away from wrestling of all sorts. I met up with my Special Friend there, who had demanded that I meet his best friend that weekend. As a woman, I'll admit that there's a slight part of me that wishes my first impression for the Bro Test hadn't been made while I was literally covered head-to-toe in mud, but...at least I didn't come off haughty.
read on for part 2...
written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

July, pt. 2
Let's see...I was supposed to teach the summer session, but only one kid signed up (ha!) so now I don't have to. Only kind of. Now, instead of going into work at 9 a.m. like my boss was going to make me, I don't have to come in until 12:30. It's still an hour earlier than my previous schedule, but I am not yet so spoiled by this job as to be upset by that. I mean, it's still after noon. I am going to ask Master to move the hapkido time slot to an hour earlier as well, so I can keep going for this month. I am a much better person when I have a place in which to kick out the frustrations of hagwon teaching and being a stranger in this strange land. By the way, I am a blue belt now. That means that I am middle of the pack. I am definitely okay at hapkido. Next is brown, then red, then, if all goes well, black.
*sidenote: I have one of those Before I Die lists--a bucket list, if you prefer--which I have recently been motivated to revamp, after crossing several off the list the last few months (proficiency with chopsticks, live abroad, and very soon, ride an elephant). Getting a black belt has been a dream for years, which I thought was unattainable after being denied karate lessons as a child, but Korea has given me another chance. Three belts to go!**
In popular news, the summer blockbusters have hit Korea as hard as they have, undoubtedly, the U.S. My school has been buzzing about Transformers and Harry Potter. To the chagrin of some of the Korean teachers, I let my students choose their own English names, and one class of three recently changed their names to Megatron, Optimus Prime, and Bumblebee. Which leads to me saying things like, "Megatron! Sit down and be quiet, or leave the classroom." Megatron was kind of a punk today, actually, which probably shouldn't surprise me. Also, today a child used the killing curse from Harry Potter on me. The kids swear all the time, but I generally don't do much about it. They don't know what they're saying, and I don't want to give those kinds of four-letter words power in my class. But today, my TTR class--aka the bane of my entire existence--was writing essays, and this one kid (Yoda) was being a total jerk about it. "Write your essay, Yoda," I said, as firmly as one can to a Jedi Master. "No." "Yes." "No." I sighed. "You have a choice, Yoda. You can write your essay now, or you can write it after class in A-classroom." That's our detention. He looked at me, surly, and picked up his pencil. I turned to help the other students, but stopped when I heard a muttering behind me. "Avada kedavra!" he hissed, pointing his pencil at me like a wand. What! He just used the KILLING CURSE on me! I did the only thing I could do. "Leviosa!" I said. Just as I did not die, he did not spontaneously levitate above the class and then drop harshly to the floor. Evidently, magic spells don't work in my classrooms. Lucky for us both.
That brings us up to this week. My mind is almost fully occupied with preparations for the upcoming trip to Cambodia, commencing this Sunday at dawn. I started taking my preventative malaria medicine this week, and on Sunday, I spent a pretty good chunk of my earnings on a new digital camera, since mine broke when I was hiking back in June. Or maybe it was at the beach. Regardless, I have also invested in a camera case this time. I also got a new backpack, and I am just enough of an outdoor geek to be smitten with it. For those that care (cough...that's you, Dad) it's an Osprey pack, 50 liter capacity, internal frame, with a detachable top pocket that converts into a day pack. Which essentially means I have a badass fanny pack!
Also, I found pancake syrup at my market yesterday, and will be having french toast for dinner tonight for the first time in six months. I am more than a little excited. It really is the little things that make life worth living!
written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Snorkeling Fail
Sihanokville, Cambodia
Because it was too awesome to contain in one post, this will be the first in a series of stories about my recent trip to Cambodia with Ellen. We flew into Siem Reap, spent a couple days there seeing Angkor Wat and a floating village (more on that later), and then headed south to Sihanoukville for some serious R&R on the coast. It was truly beautiful--I will probably spend the rest of my life trying to achieve the same sense of inner peace found on Bamboo Island, where coconut trees swayed in a gentle breeze against a cloudless sapphire sky and white sandy beaches sat undisturbed except for the multitude of free-range chickens scrambling on the shore. Surely, this was paradise.
At least, until everything went horribly wrong.
After two days lounging on the beaches of Sihanoukville with coctails and brand new tans, Ellen and I decided we needed an expedition of sorts to avoid feeling slothful. We decided on snorkeling, since I'd never done it, and to be honest, we weren't looking to be TOO active--it was, after all, vacation. There were several outfitters that offered snorkeling day trips for the outlandish cost of $50, which is pretty offensive when you consider that one dollar equals four thousand Cambodian riel. Minding our budget, we waited for a better deal, and sure enough, found a place offering a half-day trip for the more reasonable cost of $15. And it included lunch! What luck!
We piled into a 1973 Mercedes van with nine strangers and drove to the port side of town, where we met with the rest of our thrifty crew, comprising about twenty people in all, plus our Cambodian captain, who sported neon green floral shorts and a ball cap worn to the side in a brash manner that did not inspire much trust. We waded out to our craft, a thirty-foot dinghy painted a gaudy orange with eroded two-by-fours for seats, and not a life-jacket in sight. It called strongly to mind The Life of Pi, and I fought the urge to look for tigers in the stern. "I hope we're not going far," Ellen said. "You know how I get motion sickness."
It turns out we were going far. Very, very far, across the open South Asian seas, filled with sharks and rays and all manner of sea monsters, in an oversized outboard, whose steering mechanism was a wooden rudder linked by what appeared to be dental floss to a piece of driftwood which Captain Hooligan manned with one foot, his hands being occupied by cigarettes. Huge swells swamped our boat, making the other daring vessels around us seem to disappear as they were thrust up and dunked down by the waves. Ellen got more than a little sick, but managed to hold it together until we finally stopped at our snorkeling destination a good hour and a half later. I am lucky not to suffer from seasickness, so I was still in a chipper mood, ready to explore the coral reef beneath us. Even when our guide handed me the sort of snorkel one buys at WalMart for their six-year-old to explore the shallow end of the kiddie pool, my enthusiasm wasn't dampened. "Also," said our guide, "in the sea, do not touch the urchins. They have the black spikes, and you will hurt the self."
Donning our snorkel gear, we jumped out and began to swim inland. I looked down, and to my surprise, big black spines reached towards me from all angles. Our boat had landed us in a forest of sea urchins. They were everywhere, and there was no way to stop swimming and set your feet down without coming into contact with at least one. But we were there, and we still wanted to observe the sea life, so we took our chances, pondering all along the many implications of the vague phrase 'hurt the self.' We saw bright coral and big fish that looked like they were wearing zebra skins. There were little yellow fish and rigid tubular organisms that looked like portals to another world, and tons of spongy somethings dotting the reef and sand.
And thousands upon thousands of sea urchins. You see where this is headed. Before long, I was distracted by something colorful, and forgot the no-touching rule, got a little too close, and ZAP! the urchins got me. I would describe the immediate resultant pain as a combination of a deep scrape from a sidewalk, and a shot at the doctor's office, but with more blood. My right thumb, left ankle and right shin were now bleeding into the ocean, where the sea water continued to extract it's own revenge; I now understand the phrase 'salt in the wound' with brand new clarity.
We got back in the boat and headed to the island for lunch and some down time. Once again, Ellen almost lost it all in transit. When she felt a little more settled, we decided to take another dip in the ocean, assuming it was safe since the area was clear of the monstrous urchins.
Silly girls. The ocean is never safe. We hadn't been frolicking more than six minutes before I cried out at yet another searing, whip-like pain, this time across my shins. A second later, Ellen shouted, too, and I watched several filmy and translucent somethings cruising by. Jellyfish! Son of a...! We hurriedly swam ashore, but not before getting the business end of three or four more tendrils...each. One of them even re-stung my previous urchin sting, adding insult to injury. After that, we stayed ashore. Burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice, shame on me.
Back once more to the boat, where Ellen was dreading the two-hour trip home, and with good reason. After all her efforts, the incessant rolling of the seas got to her, and with resignation, she leaned over the side of our dinghy to lose her lunch. And breakfast. And possibly last night's dinner. As I watched from a sympathetic but cautionary distance, a sting ray with a two-foot wing span passed right beneath the surface next to our boat. I wanted to point it out, but this seemed like an inappropriate time. Additionally, I was afraid that if it knew I'd seen it, it would somehow leap into the boat to open my previously suffered wounds with a lash of it's tail, and that would be how I died, like Steve Erwin, but with less fanfare. Ellen finished puking, and sat back up, glancing back to Captain Hooligan, who seemed not only unconcerned, but delighted with her plight, laughing and pointing out the spectacle to his rag-tag first mate.
End score: Ocean 17, Alli and Ellen 0. Lesson of the story: with budget snorkeling, you get exactly what you pay for.
written by  alli_ockinga on August 11, 2009 from Sihanokville, Cambodia

On the Insistence of Time
It's 6:30 in the morning, and I am sad, sad, sad. This morning, Ellen left for a three-month stay at Golgosa Temple, a Bhuddist monastery in Gyeonggu, about five hours away by train in southeast Korea. There, she will study sun mu do martial arts and volunteer with the temple. She will wake at 4 a.m., sleep on the floor, eat an entirely vegan diet and possibly find enlightenment. She's not Bhuddist, but Ellen's always had a flare for the mystic, and the temple stay is something like rehab for the soul. Korea has a way of taking its toll on a person--it's just so much. The constant noise is suffocating, and it seems to me there's very little room for dreamers here, despite the abundance of people. I'm happy to see her moving into a phase of life more conducive to inner peace, and even through the sadness, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the time we were able to spend together here.
When I first arrived in Korea (six and a half months ago), seeing Ellen again was like walking through a rainbow. We were roommates in college, but since that time we've been everywhere, with me making tracks across the northwest, and her in any number of Asian nations. We'd seen each other for one-week snippets stolen from real life over the last few years, but it had been something like eighteen months since we'd been everyday fixtures in one another's lives. It's been so nice to have each other back for a little while. One of the downsides to moving so frequently is that you're always leaving someone behind. I'm just a little more used to being the leaver.
Master commented on the situation recently in his earnest way. He and I were in the hapkido van alone. "Alli," he said, “When Ellen—go and not come back, you will be very many sad and lonely?”
“Yes.”
“Ellen, Alli, number one friends.”
"Yes."
Nailed it. Still, as much as I'll miss her, all is not lost. The five-hour journey is daunting, but not insurmountable, and I'll be heading her way for a visit sometime in September. My dear friend Tom will be arriving in Seoul to visit me in October, and I can't wait to see him again. Tom has always had a way of seeing me as the best possible version of myself, and I think his grounding presence will be good for me. Ellen will be back in November for a week before taking off to India, at which point I'll turn 24 and be undeniably rooted in my mid-twenties. Time is relentless. And then it'll be Christmas, and then January, and I'll get to go home again. So here's to Ellen, wishing her the best on her newest journey! Can't wait to laugh with her again.
written by  alli_ockinga on August 15, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Angkor WHAT?!
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Quick, close your eyes! Empty your mind. Think: Cambodia. What do you see? Probably Angkor Wat, the world's biggest religious building. And with good reason: Angkor is to Cambodia what Lady Liberty is to NYC--only, having seen them both now, I can say with authority that Angkor is far more impressive. (No offense intended towards the tired, poor, huddled masses, etc.) It's just that you can't top this in terms of the effect it has on a person. In fact, despite its magnitude, the iconic shape of Angkor has reached far beyond its dimensions and has become the national symbol for all things Cambodian, even so far as to be featured on their flag. Again, with reason.
Although it's hard to get a bad photo of such an enigmatic subject, pictures really don't do it justice. Of course, that didn't stop us from trying. One of my favorite images of the whole trip was watching two young monks, clad in bright orange monastic robes and flip-flops, joking with one another on the ruined steps, just like Ellen and I were from the window sill on which we perched. Scenes like that have a way of making the world seem a little cozier.
Magnificent as Angkor was, we each had our own favorites of the multitude of temple sites we visited. In a smart move, we hired a tuk-tuk (like a small, roofed carriage with open sides, pulled by a motorcycle) to take us around the sites.
Bayon
Some tourists were were in cars, and the truly intrepid braved the Southeast Asian humidity on bicycles. They were in better shape than us, but we had a better time. Softer lives, softer bodies. Ellen took to Bayon temple, where an ancient king whose name presently escapes me built a temple/fortress carved with 216 identical images of HIS face. At first, I thought, vanity reached new heights with this guy. But the more I think about it, it's a pretty effective psychological strategy. Think about an enemy, or if that's too extreme, maybe just an officemate that makes you crazy. You're off to their cubicle to get back the hole-puncher they lifted from your desk--again--and you've had it this time, and you're ready to pick a fight, and ohmygod they've turned their entire cubicle into a personal shrine, from which their OWN FACE stares at you from every angle, 216 different angles, in fact. How unnerving that would be, on such a grander scale, for the ancient enemies of the Khmer (Cambodian) people.
Ta Prohm
My hands-down favorite was Ta Prohm. I am prepared to say that the closest I'll ever get to being Lara Croft was at this temple, where the millenial battle between man and nature was neatly showcased in the 1200-year struggle between the temple, defending its place on the continent, and the jungle, attempting to reclaim what's rightfully hers. Yes, I just decided they were she-trees. It was stunning. Huge roots pushed away stones and seeped through cracks in the walls, crawling under and over one another like twisting pythons. I found the entire experience humbling, and I have to admit that I couldn't help but root for the trees.
floating village
By the way, I just learned how to insert photos directly into these postings...so that's a thing you can all look forward to out there in ReaderLand. That sentence will serve as a segue to the second major sight in Siem Reap, the floating village.
It's pretty self-explanatory--a village that floats--but it was nonetheless cool. Instead of buses, the children take a canoe to school, which is no small act of dedication considering there are crocodiles in the river!
Maybe it's not so scary if that's what you know, but I'll take the lacsadaisical waters of the Columbia, thank you very much.
I am concerned about kid in a bucket with a snake over croc-infested waters
written by  alli_ockinga on August 23, 2009 from Siem Reap, Cambodia

seeing the light
Yesterday, I bought lunch from Rahim, my Pakistani kebab man. About once a week, when I’m all caught up with grading, I escape the office on my dinner hour, and usually head straight to the Kebab Palace. Rahim and I have developed a rapport of sorts, because we both get down on Korea from time to time. “All Korea is working all the days,” he’s said, more than once. “No fun time for to relax. Always the early work to late. I want go to Canada, and rest.”
“Me too, Rahim.”
“When I make rich from the kebabs, we together will off to Canada.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
This isn’t the first time a middle-aged foreigner has asked me to run away north with him. When I lived in Stanley, a little river town in the Idaho Sawtooths, a group of European men went rafting as part of their company convention based in Boise. On the trip, a certain Rudy from Norway became smitten with me, aided perhaps by the eleven B-52s he insisted on sharing with me, and asked me to join him in Montana as his “traveling partner.” While I declined, I like to think of myself as having a certain global appeal.
“So you will buy the two kebabs,” Rahim said. “To help the plan.” Or maybe not. But yesterday, Rahim inspired me to make a certain change in my life which had nothing to do with the Canucks. I’d taken off my glasses to polish them with my shirt, partly because they needed a wipe-down, and partly because it’s a habit and I do it at least fifteen times a day. If there’s ever a statue built of me, I’ll most likely be immortalized in the iconic glasses-polishing pose.
“Ah!” Rahim said, peeking out at me from behind a slab of lamb. “The no-glass face has more beauty!”
I considered myself in the reflection of his polished steel counter. “You think?”
“Yes, it is certain,” he confirmed. “I am the expert.”
It got me thinking. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my older brother and his detached retina, I’ve had what you might unscientifically call an eye thing. It’s not that I don’t like eyes. Truthfully, I think they’re one of the most compelling features in another person. But after seeing what I saw when I was nine, I’ve just never been able to consider actually touching an eyeball—mine or anyone else’s. But there are lots of things I never did before Korea that I do now. Eat mushrooms, for example, or drink before noon. (Kidding, Mom.)
Feeling brave, I go to the optometrist today, conveniently located in the basement of the Lotte Mart. Two salesmen/doctors glance up at me and back down to their paperwork, pretending I’m not there, before an intrepid young man in a skinny tie approaches. “Ahnyeung haseo,” he says, and I reply in kind.
I’m not sure how to phrase my request, because I don’t want to insult him with caveman pigeon if he speaks proper medical English, but nor do I want to resort to charades before it becomes necessary. I decide to shoot for the moon. “I’m interested in contact lenses,” I say. “Can we talk about options and expenses?” He gives me a pleasantly blank look and shakes his head. I’m not sure if he’s denying my request or just confused, so I scale it down a bit and try again. “I want contact lenses,” I say, taking off the glasses.
“Lenses,” he says, pointing at the ones in my glasses frames.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Ne. Eyeglasses, aneeyo.” I make an X with my arms to emphasize that point. “Eye lenses.” To help, I hold my thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart and point at my iris.
“Yes, eyes,” he says.
“Eye lenses.”
“Okay.”
He nods, and gestures for my glasses, then goes behind the counter and into a back room with them. I hope I get them back. Sure enough, the young man comes back with them and sticks them in a little machine, and apparently that’s all it takes to get contacts, because then he directs me to a mirror and a stool. “Down,” he says, which I choose to take as “Please have a seat, miss.” I do, and he gets out a little contact kit with two dimples for the lenses and a bigger area into which he pours what I assume is saline solution, though there’s no way to know for sure. I’ve never had contacts before, so maybe there’s a step I don’t know about.
“You hand,” he says, so I extend my digits obediently. I feel a little like a Labrador. Down! Stay! Shake! With a tweezer, he places the clear, convex disk on my index finger. “In the eye,” he says. I take a deep breath, and he watches with amusement, completely unaware that I’m confronting a deep-seated aversion right now. I get my the lens about two inches from my eye and am stumped. How does it stick? I look at him again.
“How?” I say.
“In the eye.” Helpful.
I lift my arms in that W-shape, which I’m pretty sure is the universal sign for I feel like an idiot but I really don’t know what’s up right now. He laughs at me. “Make big the eyes.” He takes off his own glasses and shows me how to open my eye super wide, and then place the lens right on top of my very much exposed eyeball. I give it another shot, make big the eyes, and oh gross I’m touching it! And I can’t finish the job. The salesman laughs at me, rinses the contact, and gives it back. “Hana, duel, set,” he says. I’m supposed to hold it on my eye for three seconds. So I try again, but this time I blink reflexively and mess it up again. He sighs, less amused now, and rinses it again. And again, and then one more time. With each attempt, he varies the instruction as much as his vocabulary allows. “Look and see,” he says. And then, “Eyes up.” “See the eyes.” On the eighth try, I get it to stick. “Asah,” he breathes. "Okay." I wonder if he gets commission. I hope so. But I’m getting better: the left one takes only six tries, and then he makes me take them out, which I manage to do without any significant optical damage.
He’s putting together a little contact accessories kick, which is pink and sparkly, because this may be a doctor’s office, but it’s still Korea. I notice he’s only giving me one. “Are these disposable?” I ask.
Again, he shakes his head blankly. I draw a cylinder shape in the air a foot over the ground, pluck something invisible from my eye, and cast it into the imaginary garbage can. “Aneeyo,” he says, firmly. “Not the away.”
After another heroic round of Optical Charades, I am able to ascertain that I can wear these for three months, and—thanks to the miracle of health insurance—it only costs me 30,000 won. On top of this, I’ve put the eye thing behind me, and I’m already looking forward to getting home and getting behind the wheel of my old Volkwagon and not having to face the choice between clarity of vision with snow blindness, or not squinting into the sun, but taking road signs on faith. There’s something to be said for facing fears.
written by  alli_ockinga on August 26, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Doctor Fish Massage
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Cambodia again. This time, we're walking down the aptly named Bar Street when we see
a shallow pool on the street filled with attractive young men with appealing foreign accents.
“This looks like an interesting situation,” I comment.
“We should probably join these gentlemen in whatever they’re doing,” Ellen concurs.
On approaching the pool, we find the young men to be just as attractive up close as they seemed from a distance. Their feet are submerged in lightly gurgling water, but that’s not all. Thousands of tiny fish are in the pool also, and they seem to be sucking on the attractive toes of the aforementioned young men.
“You want a fish massage?” asks a young Cambodian woman, standing off to the side with a towel and bowl of water. “Three dollar for twenty minutes.”
“What is a fish massage?”
“Doctor fish, eat your dead feet, make them smooth and feel good.”
“How is it?” Ellen asks the men.
“Downright bonza,” he says cheerfully. Must be a Kiwi, or at least an Aussie. I’ve noticed they have a tendency to cut off words halfway through and either simply end them or throw on a Z and call them slang. Presents are prezzies, sunglasses are sunnies, and it seems that bonkers is bonza.
“Want to do it, Ellen?” Before I even finish her name, she’s sitting on the edge of the pool, removing her Chacos. I take that as a yes. The woman washes our feet, which makes me feel like Jesus.
As a species, I like fish okay. I can eat them and touch them and, if pressed, can manage to extract some fillets out of them, possibly a bit mangled, but edible. I’ve even owned a fishing license at two separate points in my life to appease the two—not one, but two—men I’ve dated who actually worked for Fish and Game. So, while I’m not an expert, I’m no stranger to fish. Still, that doesn’t prepare me for the moment I stick my feet in the warm pool and dozens of little fish swarm up to my feet and start biting them. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more ticklish than anything, and it’s weird as hell. I imagined it would feel like mischievous fairies pinching me, but it’s more like a thousand tiny Hoovers sucking away in an attempt to cleanse my summer feet.
I remember to breathe after about fifteen seconds, which is better than I can say for the girl across from me in the pool. At the first bite, she leapt from the pool, shrieking, and was now doing what appeared to be the Dirty Bird dance to rid herself of the feeling.
Ellen seems to find it fascinating. “Look at their little mouths,” she says. “Are they actually eating our flesh? What do you think it tastes like? If we ate one of these fish, would that be like cannibalism?”
The other travelers are slowly scooting away from us in what they suspect is a subtle manner, but we don’t care. Someone gets out, and their fish immediately migrate to our fresh feet, and start methodically gnawing away. It reminds me of the way I eat corn on the cob. A couple daring swimmers try to get between my toes, but I’m having none of that. They can stick to the standard outside calluses, thank you very much.
After twenty minutes, our time is up, and once again the woman washes our feet, now pink and slightly shriveled from dinner. I touch my toes, and I think they feel a little smoother, but it’s possible that’s just my optimism showing through. Either way, we pay our three dollars cheerfully, feeling like we’ve done a good deed by feeding the animals, and march merrily on our way down Bar Street. I've just had my toes nibbled under water, and it's definitely time for a beer.
written by  alli_ockinga on September 1, 2009 from Siem Reap, Cambodia

ROK, rivers, baseball, GRE, oh my!
Seoul, South Korea
Here we are in September, my uncontested favorite time of the year, and Indian Summer is in full swing here. The weather has been nothing short of delightful, so my friends and I have been making the most of it. Here are some September highlights:
I started the month out with a trip north to the DMZ. It was actually quite a bit less
looking out across North Korea
spectacular than I had imagined, but still I think it's important to visit in order to understand Korea (or at least make the attempt to). I do remember being struck by the clear division of countries. In the picture, you can see where the trees stop--that's where N. Korea begins. While mismanagement of natural resources isn't their biggest issue, it did make for a striking contrast.
tanks are scary
That same day, I got to go whitewater rafting. While rafting is always awesome, I could have used a little more excitement. It was mostly class threes, with maybe one class four rapid, and I couldn't help but miss the roaring waters of the Salmon down in Stanley. The guides have a rule there that if you dump a rider, you have to buy a case of beer for the other guides, but if you manage to flip the whole boat, everyone else has to buy you a case. That happens more often than you'd think, especially when the water's high. Still, even those guides would occasionally remark that that area of the Salmon wasn't as crazy as the Middle Fork. I guess we all have our paradise.
Recently, we discovered a climbing wall in Boramae Park, near where my friends Denise, Hannah and Michelle live in Seoul. Naturally, we all gave it a shot. By default, Michelle and I were the "experienced" climbers of the group, having done it before. However, it had been more than a year for Michelle and almost that for me, so we were a little apprehensive, especially when we saw a super-ripped Korean dude scramble up the advanced wall in about two minutes in BARE FEET. I was jealous. We got harnessed and up to the wall, and didn't even have to tie ourselves in--whether because he didn't trust us to do it ourselves or didn't want to try speaking in English, I don't know, but the Barefoot Man tied us in without a word. Korea is nothing if not a place of convenience. Despite a little trepidation, Michelle and I got right back into the groove, and all I can say is it felt amazing to get back up on some ropes again! Plus, the ever-amusing Konglish was at its peak that day. "Boryup winjeok!" Barefoot would say, coaching. That means left knee, so I'd move my leg up and then he would call, encouragingly, "Good baby." Trying not to laugh lest I lose my grip, I smiled appreciatively. "Good monkey baby!" he said again. I've learned to take compliments where and how I can get them here. I almost forgot how much I love climbing--I've yet to find another sport that offers quite the same balance of physical challenge and sense of accomplishment as climbing. No pics because I forgot my camera that day, unfortunately, but I'll definitely be back.
The next day, I went with several girls to a baseball game in Seoul, which I've been wanting to do for some time now. It was a good time, and all very Korean, of course. By that I mean there was a lot of coordinated cheers complete with mandatory dance moves
He does not even know how to handle himself
and enthusiastic use of thundersticks. It was Bears vs. Tigers; just before the game, I had chosen to be a Tiger fan because I like tigers more than bears, but this turned out to be folly, as "my" team lost 8-1, I believe. Still, as I wasn't too emotionally invested, I can't complain about a nice day at the ballpark. Also, we met one of the Tigers afterwards. I think he was afraid of us. And it turns out we were on TV! My students told me that they saw me on TV during one of the pitching changes. I've always wanted to appear on TV without having to do anything spectacular, so...check that one off the list.
Finally, I've been keeping busy between outdoor pursuits by studying for the GRE. I have decided to try to get into grad school for *cross your fingers* creative writing, which shouldn't surprise anyone who knows me. In Asia, they administer the GRE as a split test, meaning the writing portion is done at one session, and the math/verbal portion is done at another date. So I did the writing part today, which consists of two essays. That's all I'm allowed to tell you, or else the Educational Testing Services goons will come and kill me. But I will say that it went about as well as I thought it would--the first essay went really well, and the second went reasonably okay. But since most writers are their own worst critics, I probably did fine. Now it's on to relearning algebra for Part Two in October. Wish me luck!
written by  alli_ockinga on September 15, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

Golgulsa Temple Stay
It’s been quite some time since I’ve had any certainty in life about the existence of anything beyond the corporeal. Despite growing up with the Church, I still remember being in first communion prep classes thinking, if this wine really turns to blood, then I am out. And I was eight. So I’ve always had a bit of a wandering spirit, which keeps itself warm with a light cloak of skepticism, and I’m comfortable with that. But then, Ellen has always been one to force me out of my comfort zone—for which I usually end up thanking her—so, I’ve agreed to spend this weekend at the Zen Buddhist temple in Gyeongju, where she is about a third of the way through her three-month stay. Besides, I really miss her.
I arrive at Golgulsa, which means Stone Buddha Temple, around four in the afternoon, after a six-hour bus ride that leaves my knees aching for some exercise, and boy, am I about to get it. We serve ourselves a simple meal of kimchi, plain rice, mushrooms, and tofu soup. Mmmm. Traditionally, I have always hated tofu, mostly because it has the same consistency of my dirty dish sponge. But to complain would be un-Buddha-like, so I swallow my objections. Even if I had given in to my initial inclination to sneer scornfully at the tofu, that wouldn’t have gotten me very far, since the temple has an extreme policy against wasting food, and if you take it, you must eat it all, down to the last grain of rice. The whole meal, I keep flashing back to being seven years old, only now my mom was wearing the loose gray monk’s robes, saying she didn’t care if that last bite of taco had accidentally been contaminated by my dad’s sour cream spoon, I was going to eat it because we were lucky to have it and there were starving people in Asia. Now I look to my right, where the men are segregated, at the meager portions of rice each monk allows himself, and I think, once again, my mom was right.
After dinner, I get settled into Ellen’s room, which is completely devoid of furnishings of any kind, save the mats we will sleep on, a thin blanket, and a small, flat pillow filled with cut straw. “Welcome to asceticism,” she says, cheerfully. “Don’t worry, you’ll be so tired at the end of the day that you won’t even notice you’re on the floor.”
My first zennish experience falls just after dinner, as we make our way to the gym for bows and chanting. One thing I appreciate about the Zen Buddhists is that they don’t view Buddhism strictly as a religion, since Buddha himself never claimed to be God, which I think is quite decent of him. Instead, they view it as a way of life, and as such, it is more than okay to be a Christian or anything else, and still practice Zen Buddhism. Therefore, we bow not as a penitent to a deity, but as a sign of honor to a teacher, which is a concept I find I can more readily get behind. I’m glad they aren’t demanding my alliance, and that I don’t have to pretend reverence.
I echo Ellen’s movement with the full-body bows, which are nothing to scoff at. You begin standing with your hands in prayer position, then sink to your knees before falling prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched in front of you as you sit back on your feet in child’s pose. You then touch your palms to your shoulders, then back down to the floor, sit back up on your knees with hands back to prayer position, and stand up again. Something about the repetition of the movement appeals to me, and I find myself sinking into a slight trance as the ritual goes on to the sharp sound of a wooden gong and the chanting of well-worn words that somehow make the monks’ young voices seem wizened. However, by bow 45 or so, I start to wonder just how long this is going to last, and my mind begins to wander. The chanting is a little reminiscent of hearing an entire congregation recite the Apostle’s Creed: equal parts inspiring and unnerving. 108 bows later, we finish, and I wince at the renewed pangs in my joints, which doesn’t escape Ellen’s notice. She nods in understanding. “Temple life is hard on the knees.”
Before bed, we go back to the gym for sunmudo training, a zen martial art that was practiced exclusively by monks until about twenty years ago. Golgulsa is the sunmudo headquarters of the world, so it’s kind of a big deal. It’s not exactly the flashy ninja business to which I’ve become accustomed, however, because it’s not intended to be martial at all, but as a way to use breathing as a bridge between your mind and your body so they are one. In other words, it’s not about fighting. It mostly seems to be a lot of breathing, and of course more meditating. “See?” Ellen says, “it’s the perfect martial art because you don’t have to hurt anybody!”
“Uh-huh,” I say, breathing deeply and thinking with longing of the swords in Master’s office. We’re woken up at four the next morning by a chanting monk hitting a gong outside our doorway. First up is more chanting, followed yet again by meditation. I am not very good at meditation, falling victim to what another writer—Steven Copeland, I think—calls “puppy mind.” I’m supposed to be emptying my mind and focusing only on the present moment, but instead my thoughts bounce about in the silence just like a young lab: so early—don’t fall asleep—wonder what Anthony’s up to these days—Ross Lake sounds awesome—I want to see a bear—when do I get my GRE scores back—I hope I get in—maybe I can live in Montana—Ellen!—God my knees hurt—what’s Matt doing today?—there are bears in Montana—I live in Korea—I’m sitting by a monk—that monk is kind of cute—close your eyes, that’s not allowed—stay awake—on and on. After half an hour, we stand up for more meditating, this time while walking up to a statue at the top of a twisted path leading up an unforgiving hillside. This exercise goes a little better for me as I get to contemplate the sunrise, because at this point, I’m honestly starting to get tired of myself and need some outside stimulation. I used to have a once-weekly sunrise policy, where on Tuesdays I’d get up early enough to catch sun-up, but somehow in Korea that habit fell into disrepair. I’m considering reinstating it, because it’s the first unfalsified calm I’ve felt all weekend.
After Buddhist breakfast and tea time, we’re allowed free time, so we hop a bus into town and catch dinner and before I know it, I’ve got to start heading back to Seoul. Saying goodbye to Ellen always sucks, but ever since my junior year of college, one of us has been driving off into our own sunsets, so we’re getting used to it. There’s a lot to reflect on during the journey home. Obviously, one does not find enlightenment over the weekend, and truthfully, I wasn’t much of a searcher. But I can’t stop thinking about the bows. I found the movement kept my mind steadier, and was far less soporific than pure meditation. I pull out the sheet of paper that details the specific meditative purpose for each one. Here are a few of the bows I found especially resonant:
I bow to wonder where I came from and where I am going.
I bow to know that unchangeable love is flowing through the universe.
I bow to call attention to the good in others, but not the bad.
I bow for the friends who have been beside me, sharing my laughter and tears.
I bow to realize that my life is the movement of my soul.
I bow to be thankful for the sight of beautiful wildflowers that are always present.
I bow to give thanks for the mountains and landscapes that speak to me through wind and snow.
I bow to hope for peace between human beings and nature.
I bow to be thankful for all the good and beautiful things in my life.
Reflecting on the bows, I realize once again that prescriptive religion doesn’t seem to be the ticket for me. I prefer the distant yips of a coyote over chanting; forget your heavily perfumed incense, and give me instead the wispy curls of wood smoke rimmed in a sunset halo. After a stay at Golgulsa, I won’t be taking off my skeptic’s cloak just yet—but, it never hurts to check.
written by  alli_ockinga on September 25, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad
It's October 1st, and I am officially 2/3 finished with Korea! (self high-five) So, naturally, it's time to start thinking about the next move. It would be a shame to be on this side of the world and not do a little extra traveling, and something is pulling me Down Under. I've been pricing out tickets, looking at options, and I'm thinking I may be kiwi-bound come February, for a couple months. You're only young once...but as it's still four months out, it's too soon to be marking X's on calendars just yet.
In the spirit of looking towards the future, however, I've been thinking about things I really miss about the Western world, things that I haven't allowed myself to dwell on over here since they are so unattainable. In no particular order, here are some things I reallllllly miss:
-Berry Propel
-cheese
-my hammock
-trustworthy hairdressers (google Korean haircuts)
-the other 3/4 of my wardrobe
-driving, my VW, and in general, independent transport
-Kim and Ryan
-a Certain Someone who doubtlessly prefers anyonymity, but without whom this list would be woefully incomplete
-black licorice
-my family
-the smell of pine trees
-PBR
-English
Dear Mom, if there's any chance you were planning on sending me a 24th birthday package, I'd be grateful to the point of tears for any of the above items. And speaking of being grateful, it's Cheusok (Korean Thanksgiving) tomorrow, so Happy Cheusok, and remember, it's all in the little things!
written by  alli_ockinga on October 1, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Okeydokey!
"When you're finished," I was instructing my class of fourth-graders as they scribbled semi-coherent lines into their diaries, "bring your diary up front to me. " To illustrate the point, I mimicked shutting a spiral notebook and setting it down on the table that serves as my desk near the white board, patting the fictitious diary twice on its nonexistent cover for emphasis. As I've said, I am now a Black Belt in charades. Then I did the customary check for understanding that follows my every statement. "Got it?"
Tommy--one of my favorite students, whose name has morphed from Unicorn to Mike Wyzowski to finally his current, more tame monicker--looked up from his desk and grinned. "Okeydokey," he said, turning back to his work.
It was the greatest thing that happened to me all day. A little background: in my line of work, I can't exactly speak around my charges as I do my friends. Especially for an English teacher, diction becomes a responsibility, and God knows, if you accidentally screw up you'll hear about it for days, even weeks. (This was proven to me when the guidance counselor at my former school accidentally referred to the 12-year-old boy we were discussing as a "douchebag" in said child's presence. In such instances, the validity of the term is disregarded, and we both noticed a special note about language and professionalism at the next staff meeting.)
As such, I've developed a special Teacher Lexicon of approved phrases. After the Douchebag Incident, I was reminded to err on the side of caution, which I think overall is for the best, especially for a student teacher, for whom the entire process is essentially a painfully drawn-out semester-long interview. It wouldn't do for me to reprimand a whining student with "Listen, Karl, it's time for you to stop being a [insert 4-5 letter word of your choice] and get to work on that expository essay." No, no. Instead, I decided to bring back some old classics, words and phrases that are disappearing in America, that fulfill my purpose nicely. Example: "Enough of this namby-pamby nonsense, Karl." Now Karl's face twists, because he's trying to both look sullen and not laugh at the same time. He grumbles that I sound like his grandma, but picks up his pencil again. Victory.
Another favorite: "Miss OOOOOOOOO," the girls would wail when I informed them that yet another word was being added to the Graveyard--they would no longer be allowed use of 'awesome' in essays--"that's so MEAN, and it's like totally unFAIR! What are we going to say when something is really really really AWEsome?!" I pointed to the thesauri shelf. "UGH! There are no words! You're killing them ALL!"
"Oh, hush," I would say. "Quit being such a Negative Nancy."
"Oh my God, Miss O, that's so totally lame."
"So are the Jonas Brothers."
"Oh my God no they're not. They're awes--I mean, they're...stupendous."
Etc. Other stand-bys in the Teacher Lexicon include Holy Moley, Jeez Louise, Holy Smokes, That's Balogna, Whippersnappers, and Chilluns. I'm working on integrating Land Sakes!, but I can't quite do it without laughing yet. And of course, Okeydokey. I say that so much that I don't even know it's campy anymore. Anyway, the Korea kicker is this: these kids don't know how uncool my teacher speak is. Some of them don't even know how to write their name yet, and I am literally the only foreigner they know. Most of them are still at the blessed age where they don't question their teachers, and consequently, I am raising a small cluster of Korean children to speak like characters from an Archie comic strip. I am secretly hoping that they will spread these phrases among their friends and repopularize them, so that when this Asia trend inevitably spreads to America, old people words will be cool again. Tommy and his Okeydokey is evidence that my influence is spreading. Which is why tomorrow I'll be introducing, "Dadgummet!"
Such are the things that amuse me these days as I try and avoid the slump of oncoming winter. The two weeks til Tom comes can't fly fast enough...except he comes the same day as I take the GRE, so maybe time should actually slow itself down. Hmm. Thus is the time paradox of Korea. I want it to be done, but then I have to do something else...Gee Willikers, there just ain't no satisfying me.
written by  alli_ockinga on October 11, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Good Week for Home
Seoul, South Korea
I had to go into Seoul this morning to pick up the results of a TB scan that I had to complete before getting a New Zealand visa. Apparently Korea is considered a "non-low risk country" for tuberculosis, so last week I had to go to a Kiwi-approved hospital and get x-rayed, and this week I picked up the results. All clear. Next week, I'll bring that to the embassy, but I have to wait until Thursdays for erranding due to my schedule. On the subway, I failed to notice a woman trying to catch my eye for awhile, involved as I was groovin' to some new tunes I recently acquired. (Jeremy Fisher. I like to listen to twang and harmonica while riding the metro--it makes me feel like I'm hoodwinking the city somehow, balancing out the concrete with steel guitars.) When finally I noticed the woman, I realized it was actually a pair of them, both sporting black nametags pronouncing them Sister Toronto and Sister Park. Usually when I encounter missionaries of any sort here, I sort of awkwardly make the sign of the cross to indicate that I've already heard the story. However, one of my friends back home recently left for the Netherlands on a mission, so I'm inordinately well-disposed towards missionaries at the moment. I pulled my earphones out and we began chatting, and it turns out that both women hailed from (unsurprisingly) Idaho and Utah. One of them even had spent some time in Stanley. We only had about three stops worth of time to chat, but it's always comforting to meet someone that knows the same places you know.
This happened to me last Thursday at the hospital itself, also. Severance Hospital is a gigantic building, the population of which exceeds that of many entire towns I've called home. Therefore, they assigned me a volunteer to chauffeur me around to the correct department. She was a young Korean-American woman studying abroad here, missing home and her boyfriend and Dr. Pepper something fierce. Turns out she's from California. I've found that the further I get from my stomping grounds, the wider the territory I'm willing to claim as "home" gets. In the scheme of the entire world, California seems downright neighborly. Anyway, the lonesome boyfriend goes to seminary school in Mill Creek, so we got to talking Washington, and she asked if I knew Sequim, and she even pronounced it right. I could have hugged her. Moments like that make me realize the world really isn't that big. It's a nice thought.
Other good things to happen this week: I got a package from my mom containing three bags of licorice-thankyouthankyouthankyou!--and started off the week with a buoying call back home to a dear, dear friend of mine. Although he was actually the last person I talked to before leaving the country last January--literally, the flight attendent made me hang up the phone with him so we could take off--it's the first time we've talked since April. He tends to disappear for months at a time into the wilderness on various expeditions--like, come January, he will be a "hutmeister" in charge of trekking into the Sawtooth Mountains to deliver supplies to several backcountry yurts--but has recently come back to civilization, so we got to have a really nice chat. Quite simply, he delights me, and he has always been good at reminding me how great life has the potential to be.
Also...NINE DAYS TIL TOM GETS HERE! Have I mentioned I'm excited about this?
Alas, it hasn't all been sunshine and roses. My worst decision of the week transpired last Saturday, after a very satisfying climb and bouldering session with my friends Michelle and Hannah. Hannah was lamenting the lack of true Korean experiences lately, as we've all sort of settled into a comfortable zone here that doesn't involve going out on too many limbs. So we decided to shake things up with a bit of heretofore untried street food. Hannah had heard things about this Korean sausage called soondae. It's kind of grayish and enclosed in a sketchy green-tinted sleeve, so it kind of looks like a dying snake. As my family can tell you, I am opposed to sausage on multiple levels, but I didn't want to look like a sissy so I screwed up my courage and ate a bite. It took all I had in me to force it down, chewy as it was, and although it was quite a foreign taste, there was something distantly familiar about it...
...the next day Hannah showed me a link. "Soondae," it said, "a kind of traditional Korean sausage, is not for everyone. It is made with clear noodles and pepper and cow's blood. For added "flavor," it is served with big chunks of pungent steamed liver." Ah, yes. Blood. That's the taste I remember. I really haven't the heart or stomach to write more about soondae, but if you're curious, the article goes on here.
That's it for now. Nothing earth-shattering to report, but it's been a good week for home. Eleven classes left til the weekend!
written by  alli_ockinga on October 14, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

It's that time again...
Report card time, that is. We issue report cards every two months here. I used to really detest them, but I've pared the whole thing down to a science so that it's now a fairly efficient, if still onerous, task. In the public school system back home, there's an option on progress reports to add a comment, and you can simply select "It is a pleasure to have your child in class" or "Your child frequently interrupts during instruction" and the like. It sounds a little unfeeling, but when a teacher has 160 students, it's a justifiable shortcut. While I have to actually handwrite my report cards, I have taken the same approach with these, and generally follow this template:
"XXXXXXX has a positive/negative attitude and participates willingly/infrequently in class. I'd like to see him/her practice reading/handwriting/vocabulary and try not to rely on the dictionary/be so talkative/throw so many spitballs in the future."
Copy, paste. Mentally, at least. As it is, I have about 85 to do all together. I'm a lot better at it now then when I started four terms ago, mostly because I've released the idea that what I write matters, because at a hagwon, it really doesn't. One of the more spirit-killing things about this job is that here, it's all about the Benjamins (or the mahn wons), with education a distant secondary concern. Additionally, that famous Asian indirectness comes into play when dealing with parents. You just can't tell too much truth. For instance, there's this one kid who has been plaguing my classroom for the last nine months ceaselessly. He clearly should have been kicked out of the academy long ago because the child makes it impossible for any sort of knowledge transaction to take place. But there's no discipline program at my school (!) and because his parents are rich, the kid is allowed run of the place, even though he is only 12. What to write on his report card?
"Your child is the bane of my existence. His behavior is so atrocious that I honestly have no idea as to the level of his English skills, because I've never had the opportunity to accurately assess them. He should stop kicking other students in class, I'd like to see him stop greeting all his classmates with "F*** you" each day. Additionally, he hasn't turned in any homework since April."
Alas, that won't do. The edited, Director-approved version turned out like so:
"Yun is an energetic boy, but he could channel it in a more positive way. He should practice reading every day to keep up with the class, and remember to keep his hands to himself."
So that's a battle. I do try and celebrate successes ("James has finally stopped shoving teacher's marker down his pants!") and to be fair, 85 per cent of the children aren't monsters, and most are even likable. Regardless, the whole process is undermined in the fact that three-quarters of the parents don't speak any English, so I could be writing in Spanish, or even teaching it in my classrooms, and no one would be much the wiser. It's not a complaint against them, just another indication that the system here is flawed. However, I take great joy in the knowledge that I only have one more set of report cards to do until I'm finished here, and I try and take this exercise as a reminder to never, ever give out pointless assignments.
Not related, the KIA Tigers just won the Korea Series with a walk-off homerun in Game Seven, and Tom is exceptionally pleased to see that we get the World Series on cable here. Go Phillies!
written by  alli_ockinga on October 27, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

booooooo swine flu
Well, it got me. Swine flu, H1N1, or whatever we're officially calling it these days. Let me tell you how not excited I am about this. Not that I'm looking for sympathy--the whole world has it, and besides, I absolutely refuse to die from Swine flu--but it's not awesome, that's for sure.
I just got back from a round of high-stakes Pharmaceutical Charades; high-stakes because if I communicate well enough, I get medicine, and if I do a superb job, it will be the right kind of medicine. Not that I'd know, because it's all in Korean...but I think it went okay. I walked in and tried to say hello to the kindly pharmacist. 'Ahnyung-haseo' is what I was going for, but it came out some toad-like alien tongue unfamiliar to us both. Enter the charades. I mimicked speaking with my hand, like it was a puppet, then pointed to my throat, and crossed my arms in an X, thus cementing the notion that I have been stuck dumb. For fever, we compromised on "head fire." I'll spare the successive grisly details, but eventually I was handed two packages of pills, so we'll see what happens there. 'Kansahamnida,' I tried to say. Thank you. I got as far as "Kaaa" before failing again.
After the pharmacy, I went to meet Master to tell him that I wouldn't make hapkido today. After initially mocking my frailty, he looked closer and announced that we were going to the hospital. We picked up his six-year-old son, who was also sick, on the way, and Master translated for me once there--Karmic payback for all those English lessons I've taught him, I suppose. I'm lucky to have him watching out for me here.
So, in the end, I'm another confirmed case. I have to miss a week of work, which is particularly vexing because I was supposed to start five new classes this week, and now I'm not going to be able to train them properly. I also haven't yet determined if I get sick leave for this, or if I just lost a week's pay. Let's hope the former, because I just bought my New Zealand plane ticket, and it's not going to pay for itself. On the plus side, the medicine only cost me about eleven dollars, because in an interesting twist, health insurance is awesome. I also get to wear one of those surgical face masks that they like to wear over here when they're sick, so at least there's a silver lining.
written by  alli_ockinga on November 1, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Happy halloween!
Happy Halloween! A couple days late, I know. Last Friday, my hagwon held a party to introduce the kids to that sweetest of Western customs, Halloween. Thanks, Mexico! They were pretty thrilled with the concept, naturally. ("Alli Teacher...Halloween is...superhero pants and 'give me the candy?' "Yes." 'Really?') We played zombie tag and mira (mummy) games, and about half the kids dressed up. Sometimes my job is unbelievably cute.
These are two of my favorite little cretins, above.
We also did face painting. I'm pretty proud of my work on Undertaker:
And, being the good sport I am, I let one of my six-year-olds turn me into Alli-Cat-Teacher.
It was a fairly hectic day, as you can imagine, but the kids had a good time. Throughout it all, my boss kept running around the school in his shiny suit wearing a flu mask with two holes punched in it over his eyes, yelling at the top of his lungs, "I AM ANGRY MAN!" I fear he may have missed the point of Halloween just a little. We also had a little hiccup when one of the littlest boys, who is only four, didn't get the memo that masks aren't real. When one of the teachers entered our room wearing a Frankenstein mask, he was so scared that he promptly attached himself to my left leg and wouldn't be parted with it for anything in the world until I got us some jack-o-lantern coloring sheets and showed him that he wouldn't be able to color unless his hands were free. Also, I made it clear that there was a lollipop in it for him if I could see a smile (with teeth). He then produced several rainbow pumpkins and was able to go back to the party, plastic scythe clutched defensively in front of us both.
Tom has been enjoying his time here for the most part, although this quarantine of mine has put a little damper on our adventures. I know it's not my fault, but I still feel kind of bad. Thanks for flying all the way around the world...but I'm going to go throw up now. Anyway, he's off wandering the neighborhood right now. Having him around has been a little surreal since I'm so used to just being in my own head after all this time alone with no one understanding me. He's still pretty overwhelmed by all the colors and lights and constant K-pop flowing from unseen speakers. Korea is definitely a sensorial experience, but I suppose I've gotten used to it after--wait for it--NINE months here. That's right, I'm 3/4 finished now; I can see the light, and it's called New Zealand! I got my visa straightened out, bought my plane tickets this week, and on Feb. 1, I'll be kiwi-bound! Can't wait to get moving again.
written by  alli_ockinga on November 3, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Pepero Day!
I've eaten some shady stuff here in Korea--silkworm larvae soup and chicken feet spring immediately to mind, followed closely by squid jerky and rice juice--but on at least one occasion, the Koreans really got it right. I speak of Pepero, my favorite indulgence here. It's a long, slim biscuit, covered in a thin layer of chocolate along the lines of biscotti, available at any convenience store, 12 sticks for thousand won. (Today, that's 83 cents.) Pepero is delicious; in fact, for my first six weeks, it was my favorite thing about Korea. I have since developed other interests, but I was thrilled to get to school today and learn that it is officially Pepero Day.
In the words of Lisa, a fifth-grader, "Pepero day is love to person people snack give. I give the 15...this pepero is delicious. I like Pepero. All people is love the Pepero. Pepero is the happy Korea snake."
Change that last snake to snack, and we're golden. They were surprised to learn that we don't have Pepero Day in the states, and I had their sympathy for all of five seconds before one of them pointed out, "But teacher...you have the Halloween Day." Right. So all the kids give Pepero to the people they love today. I was pleased to be showered in chocolate biscuits with packaging that states in swirly romantic script, "Happy Pepero Day. I'll be loving you forever deep inside my heart." Why November 11? In an admirable marketing ploy, the folks at Pepero convinced that nation that a Pepero stick looks like the number one. So what are four Pepero sticks lined up? 1111, of course...11/11. The kids were absolutely wired today. I can't even conceive the Pepero pandemonium which will undoubtedly ensue two years from now on 11/11/11.
Another good thing to happen today was me getting to take over a class from Harry. Harry is my favorite co-teacher, a fancy little Korean man who carries a far nicer purse than me, but is kind to me in spite of that. My schedule of classes was rearranged THREE times this week, but I ended up with tt5A, which is the highest class we offer at my school. It's just one boy, Min, age 14, and he speaks excellent English. Far better than my director, unquestionably. In our book, we were discussing the word obsessed--a risky proposition with a 14-year-old, but we managed to steer clear of discomfort when he used the example, "I am obsessed with sports. Like baseball and football."
"Oh yeah? You mean soccer, or real football?"
"Real football, like American football."
"Yeah? Who's your team?"
"Seahawks."
Three seconds of silence, then I asked "...Really?"
Yes. Turns out he spent a year in Tacoma when he was 10, and he can't wait to finish school and move back to Seattle. Ha...me too, kid. Really though, it was a treat to be able to speak in exact language today, without approximating. I forgot how much easier it is to teach when I don't have to mime everything. It definitely made me excited to get back to those smart-mouth American teenagers that I love.
Finally, I'm pleased to announce that in my continual progression towards assimilation, I now know enough Korean to read the graffiti on the bathroom stall at my school. It's a little unseemly for this outlet, but let's just say that some sentiments are universal. Huh.
written by  alli_ockinga on November 11, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Timewarp!
It started out innocently enough. Master and I were driving home from hapkido when he remarked that he was hungry, because he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Idly, I asked why. “My wife,” he said, “sleeping.” I looked at him expectantly. He hadn’t answered my question. “Sleep,” he said, “so, not food making.”
“Well, why didn’t you make breakfast?”
He looked at me like I’d suggested he check out the latest career opportunities with Mary Kay. “No!” he cried, horrified. “Woman is food making!”
“Or, you could do it yourself.”
“I work.”
I looked sideways at him in his ninja suit. The man wears pajamas all day long, and we’ve just spent an hour practicing somersaults and handsprings. “It’s not that hard to fry an egg,” I said. “You can do both.”
“Not Korea man job,” he insisted. “I have wife.” He was about to say more, but he was at least wise enough to sense a tirade coming, so instead he said, “Pass.” That’s our conversational safe word for when cultural differences threaten needless arguments. With one last withering glance meant to transcend language barriers, I reminded myself that it isn’t my job to come over here and impose my own value system on others. Still, it niggles. This isn’t the only instance of sexism here in Korea. In general, I look past it, because I know that I can do anything I want, and usually that’s enough for me. But it’s fairly pervasive in this overwhelmingly patriarchal society. It often feels like women are just about 15 per cent less of a person here. For just a moment there in the van, I forgot what decade I had wandered into.
Actually, that’s been a pretty common theme here. Fads come in and out like the weather, and I can never tell if Korean culture is so trendy that these dated fads are coming back, or are just now getting here. Example: when I first arrived, Korea was going through a serious New Kids on the Block phase. I emphasize serious here, because it’s not like they were enjoying it in a cutesy reminiscent sense, the way I like, say, Guns’n’Roses. No no. Grown men sported NKOTB tee shirts, and the radio stations played New Kids mash-ups. Really. I missed the American NKOTB phase by a couple years, but that still puts Korea about twenty years behind.
2PM
Naturally, it follows that there are dozens of boy bands, and some girl bands too, dominating the pop scene. At first, I failed to find the joy in what are essentially the Korean versions of the Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls (remember 1998?). But, one of the dubious benefits of teaching is always being clued in to pop culture via the students. After a couple months, I realized I couldn’t fight the K-pop wave, and it was better to just embrace it. As such, I’d like to share this link to a video of my favorite K-pop boy band, 2PM. (Album title: The Hottest Time of the Day.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUgReo37ECw
Please go watch this. It will bring you immeasurably closer to my experience here.
G-Dragon.
And man, those boys can dance! One way in which I feel Korean boy bands are superior to the ones we knew is the mandatory rap section in the middle of each song. I find that I’m less offended by Korean hip hop, due to my rudimentary grasp of the lyrics. I’ve even started to understand a little of the magic of Korea’s biggest sex symbol, G-Dragon (really!), which probably means it’s about time to move. If you've got a little time to get lost on youtube, check out Big Bang (G-Dragon’s group), Epik High, and the Wondergirls for starters. I also recommend MC Sniper if you’re feeling a little edgier. Other things just now appearing in Korea: snap bracelets, the Power Rangers, and acid washed jeans. I’m pretty sure I saw pogs the other day, too. I kind of wish I could be here for when they rediscover N’Sync. They’re going to be HUGE! ... Again.

Monster Chicken Day, and more
Japanese maple trees on my street
I was teaching my little ones about American Thanksgiving and all that goes with it. "And we eat mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie, and turkey..." My mouth began to water, despite their confused looks. ("Teacher...math potato?") They demanded to know what a turkey is, so I drew one on the board. It was met with silence for about five seconds, until a brave one in the back clarified. "Alli-sam...turkey is...monster chicken?" Yes. Yes it is. It's been a month for celebrating. Today, we had our best interpretation of Thanksgiving dinner at Hannah and Michelle's apartment. It consisted of fresh apple pie, homemade jalepeno poppers, and math potatoes with gravy, creatively rendered from ox tail drippings. "After all, what's Thanksgiving without a little traditional ox tail?" Hannah commented. Indeed. It went down well enough though with several glasses of red wine.
Ellen's last day in Korea
I also turned 24 last week. A big thank you to all those who sent me cards and best wishes across the world! I really appreciate it. The Thanksgiving Crew and I went out to celebrate in Seoul, and ended up playing street carnival games and riding a virtual reality magic carpet ride, complete with 3D goggles. We also found what may have been the last and only two cans of Dr. Pepper in Korea at this hole-in-the-wall market. They were completely flat, all the carbonation having departed long ago, and the can was still the old solid maroon color, not the swanky new two-toned one. We couldn't figure out exactly what was wrong until I spotted the copyright date on the can: 1998. I suppose it would be safer to stick to the local soda option, Milkis. As you may have discerned, that is milk soda. It's better than it sounds.
Just before my birthday, I sent Ellen off to India for Yoga school. We had a really nice last day in Seoul, taking care of our Christmas shopping at the market and eating samgyetang, which is a chicken and ginseng soup with supposed healing properties. It's no Campbells chicken soup, either. There's a WHOLE chicken in each bowl! Ellen made a friend. And, while on the topic of food, I got to help the women in my hapkido class make kimchi recently.
kimchi making
hot peppers ready for kimchi
Have we talked about kimchi? Kimchi is the traditional food of Korea. It's pickled cabbage (sometimes radishes) mixed with hot peppers. This, too, is better than it sounds. Now, at least. When I first got here I was fairly offended by it, but then this weird thing happens like four months in and you start to just crave it. Then you start to be able to judge its quality, and you can be properly offended if you go to a restaurant and they serve you the crappy kimchi because they figure you're a foreigner and won't notice. That's when you know you're going to make it here. Anyway, I was mostly a mule on kimchi day, hauling 500 pounds of wet cabbage up several flights of stairs to the kimchi room. It was right after class, so I was dressed in my hapkido suit. I have never felt so Korean!
earning my red belt
And finally, I'm pleased to announce that I got my red belt last week. It's so pretty! Almost a pity that I'll only get to wear it for three weeks because I'm taking my BLACK BELT test in December! So I've been training pretty hard these last few weeks in preparation for that. Cross your fingers for me. See you in December!
written by  alli_ockinga on November 28, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

If Only In My Dreams...
It’s less than two weeks until Christmas, as my students remind me every half an hour.
“Alli-sam! Alli-sam! Alli-sam!”
“Yes, yes, yes?”
“This month Christmas!” They are like puppies.
“Yeah it is!” I say, excitedly, every time. I won’t be the one to take the magic of the season away from them. “How many days?”
“Twelventy!”
“Almost,” I correct, because I am, after all, their teacher. “You mean twelve.”
“Twelb! Twelb days Christmas!”
Close enough. ‘Tis the season.
If the hourly reminders weren’t enough, I’m assaulted by Christmas cheer so bold and bright it’s nearly offensive each time I walk into the Lotte Mart. There are artificial trees of every shape and size in a flashing display of gold and silver, draped in violently pink tinsel and blue lights. I don’t quite remember Christmas being so neon at home, but I’m sure it isn’t so different than the Wal-Mart displays.
this little kid was adorable
so many people at the snowboarding deal!
No matter. It’s bound to be a nontraditional Christmas for me, which ever way you look at it. It’s my first one away from home and nothing feels quite right. I’ve managed to block my location on the internet so as to get Pandora playing holiday music, and although I sent out Christmas cards and gifts for the family home last month, I still can’t quite sense Christmas in the air just yet. That's not to say there aren't wintry events. Yesterday, I went to a pre-Olympic qualifying snowboarding event in Seoul with Hannah, Michelle and our Korean friend, Ben. This is the first time the event has been held in a city center, so it was super packed, and it was a very cool deal. Still, Christmas is a time to give in and think about home, so here goes.
There’s no snow here, for one thing. I know it happens, because there was snow on the ground last February when I first arrived. We’ve had a couple dustings. But it’s nothing like the thigh-deep mess I’m used to. For once, I wouldn’t even mind that, because I don’t have to drive myself anywhere here. It’s all different. Consider: I haven’t made the standard harrowing journey home from Idaho, a normally four-hour trip turned into six by torturous back roads, painted slick with black sheets of ice by the Grinch himself. I haven’t faced Mom’s reproving looks at my disproportionate ratio of rum to hot butter mix, nor suffered through thirteen consecutive screenings of Ralphie showing how the piggies eat. There won’t be any strange but welcome run-ins with old high school friends doing last minute shopping runs. The priest at St. Joe’s, who always managed to make even Christmas a heavy-hearted affair, refusing proper decorations until the Eve, won’t be insisting we forsake thoughts of shiny papered packages beneath our trees. As to that, I didn’t get to see Dad struggle to put up the tree this year, muttering decidedly unChristmasy words beneath his breath. I have opted to go with the significantly less sentimental Christmas Bamboo Stand this year, as I’m morally opposed to fake Christmas trees, and a solid Douglas Fir is hard to come by here.
And it definitely isn’t Christmas without incessantly arguing with my three siblings over—well, anything. Music selection. Board games. Ornament placement; that’s always been a big issue of contention. Andrew lacks the spatial awareness to place the heavier ones near the trunk, on the inner boughs, and Matthew refuses to throw away the homemade ornaments from our Catholic school youth, although Mom has secretly been tossing about six or seven a year in her quest for “just once, a really nice Christmas tree.” She thinks we don’t know. And they all think I’m too bossy. I probably am. “Little Miss Perfect,” Julie should be sneering, right about now. “Who never does any tiny little thing wrong, ever.”
I remember when I was in high school, trying to escape Family Decorating Night. I wanted to run off with my best friends, or go to a party where someone’s parents had left Schnapps, or later, to indulge in mistletoe-inspired mischief with my boyfriend. There was always somewhere else to be. All that family togetherness was so embarrassing. Who were we, the Waltons?
I miss it now.
Don’t misunderstand me: I’m aware that my situation is not particularly unique. There are millions of displaced people all around the world now, many of them, also, quietly humming Bing Crosby tunes to themselves. I won’t be alone, but will be spending the holiday with the aformentioned Michelle and Hannah. Although I’m far away, my interim country is not war-torn, and I won’t be dodging bombs or taking guard duty. I have many wonderful experiences across more oceans to which I’m looking forward, and these dreams justify the distance. I know that occasional homesickness is what a traveler trades for adventure, and after all, it’s only fair. I’m lucky to have a reason to long for the faces and hearts of home. All in all, there is much to be thankful for. And That’s what it’s all about, right? Wishing you a happy new year, and a Seoulful Christmas. Ha! Sorry, couldn’t resist.
written by  alli_ockinga on December 12, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

Have yourself a blingin' Christmas!
Merry Christmas!
written by  alli_ockinga on December 24, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea

Holidays with the Surrogate Fam
Michelle, Ben and me at the Snow Jam
As you may have guessed, in a land with a significant Buddhist overtone, Christmas isn't as big of a cultural deal here. There are a few department stores echoing the American bombardment of holiday cheer, but overall, it's a much more low-key affair. So the holiday was celebrated a bit differently this year. I had a four-day weekend, almost all of which was spent with my surrogate family at Hannah and Michelle's apartment. We spent the Eve watching Christmasy movies and drinking our homemade eggnog and mulled wine, then went our separate ways for Christmas morning to call our real families. We got a skiff of snow on Christmas day, which made us all happy.
Rock Tigers!
Christmas night, we met back up in Seoul for the Rock Tigers. These guys are awesome. They're a Korean rockabilly band, and they always put on an amazing show. Also, it seems
to be my lot in life to fall for completely unattainable Korean rock stars, so that happened, again, this time with the stand-up bass player. [A cautionary note for my more PC readers: extreme honesty ahead!] Still with me? Okay, so when I first got here, I was not psyched about the dating pool, because at first glance, all the men appeared to be gay.
The Rock Tiger that stole my heart
They all carried gorgeous handbags and wore skinny jeans with superstyled hair, and often, topped off the look with eyeliner. Understand, I am all about being who you are and all that good stuff--but I was going to be here for a YEAR. Prospects were limited. And then, a couple months in, I realized the inherent logical fallacy: there are 23 million people in this country. Clearly, the whole nation was not, in fact, gay. I'd become more acculturated, and I'd see a fabulous young man dressed to the nines in runway fashion and just think, "Wow, I really love his purse." And then, a funny thing started to happen about three months ago: I kind of started to like it. These Korean guys got flavor. And now, I've come full circle, and I'm in love every ten minutes on the subway. Life is so much more interesting, and I am so much more distracted now. Evidently, I've been hit by what the coarser expats among us refer to as Yellow Fever. Inappropriate terminology, yes. But not without accuracy.
The North Tower at the top of Namsan Mountain
Hannah's younger brother arrived to visit over his winter break from college, and that's given us an excuse to do lots of touristy things that we just haven't gotten around to yet. First, we toured an old palace, which would have been a more enjoyable experience if it hadn't been 13 degrees out. Still, the bits of snow left on the tiled roofs lent a charming feel to the atmosphere and helped mitigate the pain of the encroaching frostbite a little bit. Next, we headed up to North Tower on Namsan Mountain. The North Tower is Seoul's answer to the Space Needle: a really tall structure with a disk-shaped observatory at the top. We took a cable car up to the top around dusk, which afforded us some epic views of the whole of Seoul spread out around us. SEOUL IS HUGE. The photos I've uploaded here do not in any way do justice to the magic of the sight: it was like being on an island, in the middle of a flat lake, at midnight, where each light was a reflection of the millions of stars overhead.
Seoul from the North Tower
And that wasn't even the coolest part. At the bottom of the Tower is the Lock Wall: a long chain-link fence enclosing the grounded observation deck, that people have turned into a monument to love. Koreans really love love, as you can see here. The tradition is to bring a padlock, and decorate it however you wish. Some got really elaborate, with etched pictures of couples and families, while others were just two names and a date. When you've inscribed your message on the padlock, you lock it to this fence, and pass the key on to someone else--children, best friends, your other half--and they return to the tower and look for your lock. It's a very beautiful, simple tradition. So, I locked my lock, and now I know that there will always be a little part of me still in Seoul, after I leave and live the rest of my life--because my Key People won't get them until I come home.
lock wall
Which, by the way, is five weeks plus two NZ months from now. WOW. By the way, I tested for and received my BLACK BELT last week, so look for that post soon. Hope everyone is enjoying the holidays!
written by  alli_ockinga on December 26, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea

Blowfish and black belts and bear hats, oh my!
Happy 2010! It's going to be a good year--I can feel it in the air. I'm now officially down to my last month in Korea, which makes me sad. But tonight is not the night for sap and sentiment. Here are some awesome things to happen lately:
1. We ate blowfish!
I ate this!
In case you don't know, this little guy to the right (photo credit to wikipedia) is a blowfish, also sometimes called a puffer fish. Do not be fooled by how adorable he appears. He is a ruthless killer. Here's a taste of what wikipedia says on the subject: "Puffer fish are the second most poisonous vertebrate in the world, the first being a Golden Poison Frog. The skin and certain internal organs are highly toxic to humans, but nevertheless the meat of some species is considered a delicacy in both Japan (as fugu) and Korea (as bok). . . Puffer's poisoning, usually as a result of incorrectly prepared flesh, will cause deadening of the tongue and lips, dizziness, and vomiting. These are followed by numbness and prickling over the body, rapid heart rate, decreased blood pressure, and muscle paralysis. Death results from suffocation as diaphragm muscles are paralyzed. Patients who live longer than 24 hours are expected to survive. . . In Voodoo, puffer's poison must be ingested by the victim for the black magic of creating "zombies."
Well. What's life without a little adventure. For a being with the alleged ability to create zombies, it was actually quite tasty. We ate it raw, as sushimi, and cooked over noodles and veggies, as bok. It's similar in taste and appearance to halibut. Evidently, our chef prepared the meal correctly, because we're all still here.
2. I GOT MY BLACK BELT!!
kids and me at the black belt test
I know! Right!?! This actually happened about two weeks ago. The test was big, scary, and all in Korean. But the Grand Master, who is about 72 and looks exactly like a grand master should, said I did very well. I am a ninja! And I have to say, I feel like a rock star tying on the new belt each day. Hapkido has really played a huge role in my year, as it's allowed me to access at least a bit of Korean culture through an easily digestible medium. Also, it's just cool.
3. Continual absorption of culture
King Sejong at Ghwangwamun Square
The golden statue is of King Sejong, who created the modern Hangul alphabet. Before that, they used Chinese, and that was terrible because Chinese is ridiculously difficult, so only the very elite could read and write. Now they use a logical phonetic alphabet that was easy enough to learn after a couple weeks here.
4.And, it's been snowing here, to the delight of pretty much everyone.
HOW CUTE IS THIS?!
Winter in Korea is sort of terrible, because we get those bitter tundra winds sweeping down from Russia. But it's also sort of awesome, because all the little kids wear these adorable animal hats. I've seen polar bears, wolves, white tigers, pandas, and even a rogue koala once. Sometimes, the hanging-down bits are connected to fleece-lined paws, which act as mittens. Soooo cute.
I suppose that's enough for now. Hope everyone had a happy, fun and safe New Years. See you in three months!
written by  alli_ockinga on January 2, 2010 from Seoul, South Korea

Packing up, moving out
I got a letter from the Korean government the other day informing me that my permitted period of stay is expiring, and I need to make alternate living arrangements. This wasn’t the first sign that the clock’s running out on this grand Asian adventure; last week, I had my last hapkido class, and it’s getting to the point where I know that every time I leave somewhere, it’s the last time I’ll be there. Thus, each day is filled with a dozen tiny moments of unexpected sentiment.
There’s so much that I’m going to miss here, and so much that I’m looking forward to when I get home. It seems like everything is double-edged, here. Like, I know I’ll long for the accessibility of Seoul’s public transportation, but I am thrilled to know I’ll never have to listen to another subway salesmen hawking pipe cleaners or spandex sleeves on the train. I can’t wait to go shopping and buy the pair of jeans I like the most, as opposed to the ones that offend me least; on the other hand, I love how people express themselves here by wearing whatever the hell they want and if you don’t like it then forget you. I like that there’s always someone in a weirder outfit than me here. This has not always been the case in my life.
I won’t miss how I attract attention to myself merely by existing. I’ll bid a cheerful farewell to my loyal companion Racial Discrimination, and his friend Blatant Sexism. I never did get used to the culture of indirectness, and I really, really really won’t miss the Korean woman whine. But oh, how I will miss not paying rent, ninja gymnastics, delicious street food for a dollar, and of course, my students and friends. I think I’ll probably see many of my teacher friends again. After all, it may be a big world, but it’s full of small circles. Then again, maybe I just don’t like saying goodbyes. My Korean friends are another matter. The Japanese word for goodbye—sayonara—literally means, “if this is how it must be.” I guess that’s how I feel about it. There are great people everywhere on earth, if you seek them out, and it’s a shame I can’t just pick my one hundred favorites and form a little haven full of them.
As for my students, some of them know I’m leaving, and some don’t yet. Of the ones that do, some are more tore up about it than others, as expected. They know that foreign teachers are a rotational bunch, and so the older ones are used to teacher changes. But my younger ones don’t understand why I’m going. It’s always hard to explain to people why you have to go away, and doubly so when those people are seven. There’s a handful of them that I’m always going to wonder about. Did Tae Sun ever become a robot scientist like she wanted? Did Kyu Hyuk ever learn to tie his shoes? Fingers crossed for that kid. Hopefully they’ve been able to learn a little from me this year, if not about grammar, then at least that foreigners are people too.
I know I have been changed by Korea, but it’s hard to say just how right now. I think that I’m a little less a citizen of a nation and a little more a resident of the world. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people are essentially the same all over the world, albeit with different packaging. The society is different, and so are the words we use to talk about it, but we’re all singing the same songs.
And so, I take off in a week. Not just me; most of my friends’ contracts end in the next month or so, as well. Additionally, Hannah’s teenaged brother, Jonny, has been here the past month, visiting on his semester break from college. Last night, we took him out to a noraebang. Literally, a noraebang is a small “singing room,” just like your own private karaoke place, only big enough for about six people. (I’m happy to report that Koreans have lived up to the stereotype of Asians loving karaoke.) Amidst the musical chaos and flashing lights, we asked him what he’ll be telling his college friends about Korea.
“Lots and lots of people,” he said. Right.
And about English teachers living in Korea?
“Lots and lots of beer.” Right…so, we didn’t manage to subvert that particular stereotype. Well. One thing at a time.
written by  alli_ockinga on January 23, 2010 from Seoul, South Korea

A nod to some fellow bloggers
These are links to my two favorite blogs about living in Korea. Shame on me for not giving them props far earlier.
This one might only make sense to people that have actually lived and tried, valiantly, to understand this country:
http://dokdoisours.blogspot.com/
I don't know. I'm currently having a hard time remembering who I was before here.
And this is probably one of the greatest things to hit the internet, ever. Period. Go to Ask A Korean. For starters, check out the translated North Korea jokes:
Peace!
written by  alli_ockinga on January 25, 2010 from Seoul, South Korea

Aquarium antics

blissfully asian!

hiking above Seoul

lanterns at Chinatown

lanterns and trees

Buddha through the trees