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:
http://askakorean.blogspot.com/2010/01/ask-korean-news-north-korean-jokes.html

Peace!

]]> Mon, 25 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=107378 0 37.5663889 126.9997222 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.
]]> Sat, 23 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=107247 0 37.5663889 126.9997222 1. We ate blowfish!

I ate this!

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

3. Continual absorption of culture

King Sejong at Ghwangwamun Square

4.And, it's been snowing here, to the delight of pretty much everyone.

HOW CUTE IS THIS?!

I suppose that's enough for now. Hope everyone had a happy, fun and safe New Years. See you in three months!]]> Sat, 02 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=103786 0 37.5663889 126.9997222
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

The North Tower at the top of Namsan Mountain

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!]]> Sat, 26 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=102843 0 37.5663889 126.9997222
Merry Christmas!]]> Thu, 24 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=102399 0 37.4536111 126.7316667
“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.
]]> Sat, 12 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=100672 0 37.5663889 126.9997222
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

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

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.

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.]]> Wed, 11 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=95827 0 37.4536111 126.7316667

These are two of my favorite little cretins, above.
We also did face painting. I'm pretty proud of my work on Undertaker:

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. ]]> Tue, 03 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=94960 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 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. ]]> Sun, 01 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=94551 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 "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! ]]> Tue, 27 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=93943 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 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. http://www.insam.com/_eng/news/newsitem2.asp?id=4&news_id=202&max_id=203

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!]]> Wed, 14 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=92370 0 37.5663889 126.9997222 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.]]> Sun, 11 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=92006 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 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!]]> Thu, 01 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=90496 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 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.]]> Fri, 25 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=89412 0 37.4536111 126.7316667 I started the month out with a trip north to the DMZ. It was actually quite a bit less

looking out across North Korea

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

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!

]]> Tue, 15 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=87928 0 37.5663889 126.9997222 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.

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.
]]> Tue, 01 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=85834 0 13.3949633804641 103.875732421875 “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.
]]> Wed, 26 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5260 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=84480 0 37.4536111 126.7316667

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.

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

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

I am concerned about kid in a bucket with a snake over croc-infested waters