HAPPY LUNAR NEW YEAR!

To blog or not to blog, that is the question before me now. Nothing much has really happened here but by the same token I need the release. I am sitting here now with my arm in a sling, once more, one week and 2 days after I was liberated from the last one. Not to worry, my right collarbone is fine. It’s the left shoulder this time, again. Obviously this is due to a lack of circumspection on my part, but the less said of my own lack of common sense the better. So I have decided to dedicate this blog to the lack of sagacity of the inhabitants and participants of the culture within which I dwell.

The first of which, not actually my story but the story of my great mate Pat, is the story of him crossing cheongyecheon. Cheongyecheon is a newly reupholstered dump-cum-cesspit-cum-toxic effluent receptacle of a stream, which back in the day used to be a prominent feature and tourist attraction of Seoul. The Seoul city council has spent, literally, billions of won cleaning the water and paving the banks, floodlighting the area, and making it wend and wind at totally unnatural angles along approximately its old course. It is now finished and really is a sight to behold, so I am told. But the amount of people visiting it is absurd. Seoul has a population of 12 million, and apparently each and every one of them go down to cheongyecheon at least once per day. Furthermore there is a unidirectional two-lane-highway on each side of the recently re-beautified stream, and they have been blocked off to motorised traffic with gigantic concrete bollards to allow the sheer number of pedestrians to pass unencumbered. (please forgive me if I giggle, that sentence re-reads to me as if they are allowed to pass the bollards only under the proviso that they are not carrying any number of cucumbers. But I am on my second bottle of wine.)

Be that as it may, me old mucker Patski was crossing the afore mentioned vehicle-less highway the other day, up from cheongyecheon to an ATM and back again, as a matter of necessity rather than choice. (foreign card accepting ATM’s in Corea are a catch-what-catch-can scenario). When he got to the (vehicle-less-concrete-bollard-blocked) highway he noticed a strange phenomenon. The redundant traffic lights were still in operation. Not so surprising perhaps, given meagre the two months that the stream has been open to pedestrian traffic. More surprising maybe that the “walk” and/or “don’t walk” signals were also in operation. Most surprising of course was, on a 4 mile stream, that only 15 metres from the bollards themselves there was a mob of 30 to 40 people who were waiting at the signal for the “don’t walk” light to change to “walk”. Pat, feeling a bit strange, proceeded across the intersection only to look behind to see that nobody had yet realised that for two bloody months there had not been a single bloody car down that road and the bloody concrete bollards, only 15 metres away, were testament to the fact. They were all standing there looking expectantly at the light.

Now I’ll admit “most” does not have a greater superlative. A superlative by definition presumes the greatest amount. I will also admit, that in it’s more functional days this was a very busy road. And following that line of thought, a simple zebra crossing wouldn’t have held much currency in the grand scheme of traffic flow over such a grand thoroughfare. Hence, it would be a while between the lowly crossings of the pedestrial set, given the automotive activity of the higher tax bracket that used to zip past it in it’s days of glory. But upon returning from the ATM (around a minute, over the footpath and back) I would bet my hat, that if there were a most-er-est superlative for ‘most surprised’, that that would be the one that Pat would have used to describe how he felt to see the exact same proselytised posse of do-gooders, waiting at the exact same traffic light, on the exact same 15-metres-hence balustraded street, only to cross it again and look behind him too see their glare of “OH YOU BELLIGERENT ANTI-RULE-OF-LAW WEIGUK, YOU JUST WAIT UNTIL THIS LIGHT CHANGES! WE’LL BE OVER THERE TO GIVE YOU A PIECE OF OUR MINDS!” and they may well have acted upon their instincts had the light not remained red for a further 15-20 seconds and by the time they crossed, he had disappeared into the crowd of locals that so frequently frequent the chongyecheon.

I may have embellished here upon a point or two, but I swear the story, in essence, is true. And may I sign off with a familiar “anyone who has lived here will know what I mean”.

Part 2 will come when I am sober.

"When Are You Going To America?"

I was accosted at 7:40am this very day, downstairs in our local basement supermarket. The 50ish year old man serving me was leaning over the counter, he had hold of my right arm, just yesterday released from it’s sling, tugging on my elbow, and for some obscure reason asking “When? When?”
“when?when?” He is getting more anxious by the moment. I can see his level of excitement rise as his face becomes more and more red. I feel that I should respond before his head explodes or even worse he starts drooling and spitting, as old men can do when they are talking to a captive audience on a subject about which they feel passionate. “when, what?” I ask him politely, sensing I don’t want to be part of this conversation already. “When are you going to America?”
I always get nervous when Coreans start a conversation obviously believing that because I am not Corean, I must be American. It tells you a lot about both them and where the conversation is heading. It tells you that they are not particularly bright for a start. It tells you that even though they may be aware of the existence of other countries they haven’t got around to exploring the possibility that people might live in them. It tells you that regardless of what you say they are going to continue believing that you are American for the duration of the conversation anyway, and that the conversation is going to be long, dull and mono-directional.
“Excuse me?” I respond, immediately regretting that I had said anything at all. This conversation is happening in Corean and my experience tells me that the only way out of this jam is to pretend you don’t understand. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes the accoster starts up in English. That can be worse, but it’s usually worth a try. You may think that the accostee pretending to be German or French or Moroccan might be a devious tactic to employ at this juncture, but that means you have forgotten that this man has already convinced himself you are American and nothing you can do will change his mind. But I had slipped and the cat was out of the bag. You could try howling at the moon at this stage and the accoster would still think you were trying to communicate with him.
“When are you going to America?” “I’m Australian” “But when are you going to America?” “But I come from Australia” I insisted underneath the dull repetition of his question. I realised I had to employ another tactic otherwise this man was going to pull my arm out of it’s socket. “aahhh, I don’t know when I will go to America”. It worked. He let go of my arm, laughed a little and exclaimed “Ah, you’re Australian!” I used this opportunity to pick up my groceries and attempt to exit the store but quick as a flash he has hold of my arm again and announces “My younger brother lives in America!”
I was, I think quite understandably, lost for a response to this. But I think he mistook my look of bewilderment for one of awe, for he kept on becoming more and more excited by the second “Yes, he’s a TALENT you know?” employing the English word ‘talent’. (note he doesn’t necessarily have talent, apparently he is one.) I left him thinking that I was also in awe of this with my best ‘I wish I knew how to stop you from talking at me’ look. He’s on a roll now, he’s really excited and I just know any second now he’s going to start spitting “Yes, he’s a talent. And he lives in America, you know?” he let go of my arm to do an imaginary drum roll with his index fingers, building up to the grand finale “Hamburgers, you know? Yes, Hamburgers! He’s a talent”.
By the size of the drum roll, I thought he was going to be a drumming talent, but without bothering to ponder this any longer I seized the moment and picked up my bags and left the store. As I am walking up the stairs I can hear him calling to me, in these exact words, “He moved to America to become a talent”.
That left me thinking, that must be what Corean parents say to their children when their pets die. Maybe there aren’t enough farms here for our old lie to work on the kiddies, or maybe going to a farm to live out your remaining years isn’t exciting enough for the new generation. Or, I’m only guessing but I think I might be close here, that that level of logic just isn’t required in a country where you are trained from day dot to accept everything you are told by old people at face value.
“I know Fido was old dear, but he moved to America to become a talent. That’s what’s best for old dogs”. Anyone who has lived here will know what I mean.

pictoral representation of my grocery store conversation

This is my conversation with the grocery store guy, in visual format.
And for no reason at all
this is my mate Dave's ear.

My really real birthday (I)

my dears, for what a week it has been. The very next day after my last blog my wife was acting very queer indeed. It was my birthday of course, and although she had never done anything like it before I had begun to suspect that she might be organizing a surprise party. The upshot of it all was that by the time work had finished on the Wednesday I was certain that there was a surprise party and I was going to it now, and lordy had all of this figuring-out, guessing-about and assuming-the-best given me a thirst. What a difference fifteen minutes makes. By five past 8 I was walking home from work with a mate of mine and slowly coming to the realization that it wasn’t to be. By ten past 8 I was telling him, in elaborate detail, about how I had been expecting a surprise party and had built myself up so much that I was now rather disappointed, the suggestion came about that we should have a birthday beer then anyways, and by 8:15 we had walked in on the surprise party that I had convinced myself wasn’t going to happen. I had run the full gamut of beer-centric, beer-loving emotions, from the loftiest brewed-malt-beverage anticipation to the usually-much-much-much-later-in-the-evening ‘trying to make oneself understood’ explanation of ‘what I really meant’, back up to the upswept, unalloyed hedonism that only free flowing frosty-draught-beverage, a table of fruit platters, cheese, crackers, olives, prawns, crab, calamari, cuttlefish (no, that’s not a type-o), pizza, chicken and all of your best mates, and all on somebody else’s bill, can bring about. even if your wife is the person picking up the bill (or so I thought at the time).As it turned out, it was the best night out for a seriously long time. Friends, food and drink in abundance, followed by singing room and soju. And upon checking the digital camera the following early afternoon, when I awoke in seven distinctly different shades of hungover (oh! Blessed mercy, sacred and wonderful 2pm starts), I discovered that we had also been to a ‘soju and fishbread’ tent and it had snowed for the first time since last march. I left the house at about half past midday and went to a public bathhouse on the way discovering that it had in fact snowed last night just as the photos of me and a few mates being snowed on had suggested.

My really real birthday (II)

I realized on Saturday, that it was in fact me who had paid for the party, in a round about way. We were on the way to a city called yang yang by bus, as I cannot ride the bike now. My wife had lured me there under false pretences, of which I had no idea at all. Underway she told me that my real birthday present (as I had received from her on my birthday only 1 party and otherwise only 2 pairs of socks) was a joy flight over the seorak mountain range. One of the very few things that my wife doesn’t know about me is my second great fear in life. The first is chickens. she knows that, she would never have given me a chicken for my birthday for the way I just hate and fear their beady little chicken eyes and beaky little beaks, their whole chickeny little heads, barely disguising their malevolent ideals. Nasty, vicious little creatures bent on chickening me to death. You can just feel it from them. Eagh! God I hate chickens and always have. The only other things on this earth that truly frighten me are light aircraft. If it was a chicken I would have cried and admitted defeat right then and there, but as she had put so much effort into organizing it and keeping it from me for it to be a surprise, and she was sooooooooooo keen and had no idea of my fear of light aircraft, I chose to say nothing apart from ‘bubba, I love you and thank you’. I would come to regret that.The whole journey to yang yang she was happy and gay, but just as we arrived she asked of me “what’s wrong?” I told her that I had been in light aircraft but twice before and both of those experiences had impressed upon me a perfectly rational fear of flying. I don’t suffer from it in the bigger aircraft, or at least the large amount of room to move and the cuties serving free gin and tonic, and the gin and tonics themselves go a ways to assuaging that perfectly rational fear. this fear is not like (don’t make me say it again) chickens. Fear of chickens is irrational, fear of flying is not. I know this.

My really real birthday (III)

Long and the short of it is that I agreed to go up in the plane (4 seater Cessna). There we were, me and parky and the pilot, and this other dude in his early thirties. This dude had a leather flying jacket, flying glasses and all the other things you would expect someone to have if they believed themselves to be a pilot but really were still in the wishing stage. After one and a half hours wait, we were to go. But so was the strange ‘biggles’ looking dude. Unbeknownst to us at that moment (although we very quickly figured it out), at the same time as we were to be having a joy flight, he was to be having just another lesson on the way to gaining his pilots license (which, by the way, I hope he never gets).

My really real birthday (IV)

I don’t want to go too far into detail because without having been there it would be as boring as bat shit. suffice it to say that novice boy took off, banked right, flew five minutes, banked right again, landed, took of again, banked right, flew five minutes again, landed again, took off again, banked right again and flew another couple of minutes…….we were just doing circles with noddy and big ears at the wheel. We were jumping up and down, to-ing and fro-ing, being blasted by the wind. It’s already as boring as bat shit to tell, but believe you me this was no normal flight. After the third take off, I could hear over the headphones “take it to 3000,,,,,,,,,,,,,now to 4000,,,,,,,now bank……..” it was at this point I started telling parky that “ I want them to land this fucking plane right now, and if we go round in one more fucking circle I’m not sure what I will do”. She conveyed my message to the captain who immediately took the wheel and banked about and later landed the plane. Mind you, the whole time that he was flying the ride was smother, the aircraft was stable and we had both regained our composure. By the time we realized this change in flying conditions though, we were so happy to be on the ground that the idea of saying “you take us for our flight” never occurred to us. Be very bloody sure it never occurred to me.I know this sounds like a chicken shit story, but it was really bumpy. I mean really bumpy. Not like “a blast of wind blowing at your car as you drive over a bridge” bumpy, more like “when you land, your wife informs the captain that he is the lowest form of fuckwit, and he offers you a full refund” bumpy, That kind of bumpy. Oh, yes sireeee Bob! That kinda bumpy.

My really real birthday (V)

As it happened he had offered me a full refund, without me, at the time, or him ever knowing it. For the final act of birthday surprise was that my wife has been squirreling away 20 or 30 bucks a week since we came here last February, and that has now amounted to about $1000 Australian. That was my final birthday present, but the cost of the party and the flight were deducted from it. As were my birthday dinner on saturday, some clothes for parky that I (unbeknownst to me) had bought along with some make-up, the return bus tickets for two to yangyang and sending quite a few winter clothes to the dry cleaners. Also we had a couple of bills that needed to be paid. Then there were the 2 years of films that we never got round to developing (before we went digital) that cost $130 along with a few physiotherapy appointments for my collarbone. Actually when I get the AUD$170 refund from the flight, this coming Monday, I will be a full AUD$220 in front on the deal.

(Parky, if you are reading this, know that I love you, and know that now you have given me a joy flight (with the exception of presenting me with a fully grown chicken) that is the first, last and only time you will ever see me behaving like a BIG GIRLS BLOUSE! I promise.)

Our Christmas (almost)

Now that i come to think about it. this wasn't Christmas when we were sitting down in our jammies and toasting Christmas after having exchanged gifts and had christmas breaky, it was actually the morning of the 24th. this was because the next day we were going to spend 7 hours or more driving to Tongers. We were celebrating a day early, a story that is becoming all too familiar........... 

My Birthday (almost)

it is 11:20, third of january 2006, by central daylight savings time it is my birthday. 12:50am on the fourth in Adelaide. It is for many reasons also my birthday here.

The first reason is that all of parky’s family have rung me today to wish me a happy birthday. I figured that parky had told them the wrong day and therefore they all got it wrong together.

Then my mum gives me a ring, with my father and elder brother in tow, and wishes me a happy birthday.

They say that if everyone tells you exactly the same thing, regardless of how sure you are about it (even your own bloody birthday for example) you start to doubt yourself. And proof of the validity of that claim is that parky and I went out for a combined birthday dinner thinking “why the hell not?” After 5 phone calls and two text messages congratulating me on my birthday and about an hour at the pub discussing how weird it is and following birthday related topics, it just begun to feel like my birthday. We figured that it isn’t going to get more birthdayish that this, and nobody is going to ring me tomorrow as they’ve all done it today, so bugger it, let’s go crazy and have a birthday bash tonight. And we did.

We have a combined birthday because we chose to celebrate our birthdays on the same day every year. This is because her birthday changes every year with the Buddhist calendar, but for the year that we were married, the 4th of January (by the Christian calendar) and the 13th of December (by the Buddhist calendar) both fell on the 4th of January. This year, for the uninitiated, 13th of December by the buddhist calendar falls on the 12th of January by ours. That gives you a few days to get an international dialing card and give parky a quick ring for her birthday.

As it turned out mum and dad had rung during class and we spoke for less than a minute but during the course of the next phone call an hour and a half later i explained to mum and dad that I really had always though that my birthday was that 4th of jan. My mum says “really, isn’t it your birthday?” I said “no, I don’t think so”. This was followed by my dad and brother (from either of whom I haven’t received a solo birthday card or call since my teens) giving her a two minute “Oh Yeah That’s What We Said”. Full of “I knew it wasn’t today” or “I knew all along”. What I didn’t hear however was “I knew it was tomorrow”, or “it’s the 4th, you dolt”. No such thing, no putting oneself out on a limb. No siree bob. So minus a couple of hundred for bravery and memory for you boys anyway.

All in all it was a pretty weird birthday and the weirdest of it all is that it isn’t.
Caio
benjamin