Korea vs Ghana

Well, it is the end of the line for the South Korean soccer team. I will not pretend that watching the World Cup in Cheongju has opened my eyes and converted me to the thralldom of soccer but it has provided me with loads of fun.


A Korean asked me atop the roof deck of MJ’s, an expat bar located in downtown, during the Brazil vs. Portugal game why Americans were so drawn to football while the rest of the world goes glossy eyed over the checkered ball and athletes that pay as much attention to acting as they do the game.

I mustered some terribly lame and fairly pretentious answer about it being a spectacle of controlled violence with enough testosterone to keep us warm against the falling winter.

Later on, as we were leaving MJ’s a girl from Philadelphia summed it up much more accurately.

“It’s the social atmosphere.”

That is what I will miss the most with the elimination of South Korea.

Hours before the game, I met up with a handful of fellow expats at one of the hundreds of barbeque restaurants of Cheongju. If you asked me the name of the place I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It is no exaggeration to say that nearly every street in Cheongju has at least one, if not many barbeque restaurants and they look just about the same: a dozen or so tables with holes cut into the center and a few dozen plastic chairs strewn about. There are times when the Cheongju night is ripe with the smell of burning meat.

It is, thus far, my favorite food here in Korea.

Barbeque in Korea is different than barbeque in the States. For one thing I have not seen a steak since I have been here and while I have seen hamburgers (or very horrible takes on what we would call a burger “I didn‘t know hamburgers were orange?”) they do not appear at Korean barbeque. Instead you are given a plate full of chopped raw meat, a million sides and a fire in the middle of the table.

The meat that you cook (by yourself though the waiter will usually come and replace the grate after you have succeeded in charring the meat and sending up amateur plumes of white smoke) is not limited to traditional cuts that are familiar to westerners. I’ve had thick slabs of lean and fat that resemble a giant’s bacon (pretty good), volcano hot chicken (amazing if you don’t mind sweating profusely), chicken anus (not so good) and pig organs (surprisingly delicious).

On this day we had pork. It is now one of my favorites.

The day had threatened and delivered rain off and on. A couple of times during the meal workers would rush to pull a canopy over the outdoor patios, killing any sort of breeze on a humid night and bringing on the dreaded spicy-food-way-too-humid dinner sweats.

With time to kill we found our way to another common sight in Cheongju: Garten Bier. In an odd sort of way this place reminds me of home. My girlfriend, while a full blooded American, was born and partially raised in Germany before moving to California, Texas, and finally Massachusetts. She has a passion for schnitzel and sausage.

While they do serve Koreanized sausages there does not appear to be any schnitzel at Garten Bier. In any case we got neither, instead we ate the traditional Korean soccer food of fried chicken and beer. The neat thing about this place is that each place at the table has a sunken cup holder that is kept chilled so that the hookah-like shaped glasses of beer are consistently frosty.

The original plan was to watch the game at Chunbuk Stadium. The place has been ground central for Korea’s World Cup fight. Chunbuk Stadium is located a whopping 3 minutes from my apartment and is less a stadium than it is a bunch of concrete bleachers surrounding a multi purpose field, where a screen has been erected on which to watch the games.

Earlier in the day I had scoped the place out to stave off boredom. At 3pm kids were carrying banners across the field, souvenir carts were already stocked and van upon van was unloading its goods (a massive amount of booze) onto the side of the road. It was looking like a good night.

The weather conspired against us, though and we didn’t end up at the stadium. Instead we ended up again on the roof of MJ’s with the place to ourselves with the exception of a few older Koreans who sat on a sofa beneath a canopy.

By the time we sat down Ghana had already scored. Most of the predictions floating around had Ghana taking the victory and Korea being eliminated. Of course, this is what happened but the game was not without its excitement. With each attempt on either net there were screams of hope and despair with at least a few people (and all of the Koreans) jumping from their water-logged seats.

At some point Korea scored but I didn’t see it. I only heard maddened screams as I stepped into a rooftop bathroom that smelled like a port-a-potty in the hottest part of hell.

The tie didn’t last long though, and Ghana’s next goal proved to be the last of the night. While Ghana rejoiced the Koreans atop MJ’s (and likely all about the country) smashed their glasses of beer to pieces on the floor.

There is a sense of heartbreak every time your team loses. This is also true with an adoptive team in a sport you really care very little about. When the players stopped running and moped off of the field they took with them the patriotism that won’t be seen until the next time around.

I remember watching the Red Sox take on the Yankees in the post season of 2003. Framingham State College and all of New England was galvanized one moment and distraught the next as we all saw that ball sail out of the field. It was over. Now the World Cup is over and the vevuzelas are silenced in the Land of the Morning Calm.

The group broke up and I ended the night playing Jenga and eating Nachos in another expat joint called Pearl Jam. Korea might have lost to Ghana, but I owned at Jenga.



Things I ate today: Kimchi mandu (dumpling), omurice (omelette and fried rice), sundae (blood sausage) and ttekbokki (rice cakes in a spicy red sauce with fish cakes).

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Korea vs Argentina

It seems that each night I lay down to sleep and each morning I rise to the same sound: the vuvuzelas of South Africa. Invariably as I walk to the convenience store down the road for a triangle Kimbap I pass the restaurant with the TV hanging in the patio and there is somebody watching some team whose name he might not know play some other team from a country he has never heard of. On my way to the grocery store after school always there is a crowd at the bar next door and always that buzzing theme of the World Cup.


A long time ago I spent a little while in the mountains of northern Greece, a stones throw from the Albanian border. One night we sat in the reception building of our little village tired and dirty. The first part of the day, for me at least, had been spent digging holes into the heavy clay in the rain as it flirted with the idea of turning into slow. After a lunch of bean soup I had spent all afternoon with a lead pipe drawing back and thrusting it into the clay. Again and again I did this as two Greeks watched me sweat in the freezing air of the new winter. My arms jarred with each rock I hit beneath the grass and as the hours wore on my muscles burned just to carry the clay-caked thing onto the next spot. All to put in the flimsiest and worst piece of crap fence made out of sticks and thin nylon rope.

If you ever find yourself in the Forest Village of Kedros enjoy the scenery: I planted the trees and I put the holes in the ground for the fence. If the trees have washed away and the fence is no more, well, just don’t tell me.

On the night after my first tango with the lead pole I watched soccer with Greeks long after most of my fellow volunteers had left for out freezing hostel. Greeks love soccer. I no longer remember who was playing but those who lived at Kedros seemed to have something at stake. My friend Axilleas barely spoke English but he bridged the gap by buying me a beer from the bar at the far end of the room. I returned the favor and we sat on big leather chairs almost unable to move.

The fire next to the TV both lit and warmed the place into the waxing morning. I didn’t know what team was who but I watched the game until the end. Each goal bought on cheers or screams that threatened murder. Men fresh out of the military with heads still shaved and scarred at the hand of some butcher of a barber lit cigarettes straight from the tap of burning logs.

I never really knew who won that game. What I know is that I forced myself into the freezing and black night, the path barely illuminated by the moon’s light that bounced off of the wild mountains of the Tzourmeka range so that I might get a few hours of sleep before the morning came and with it brought utter agony to my body.

The next day was still a nightmare. Again I did battle with the pole and if I was miserable Axilleas looked like he might drop dead any minute. Hangovers tend to be magnified by hard labor with little food in the cold at high altitude. I remember asking him when he had finally returned to the hostel and he said it had been sometime near 4am after another game. I tried asking him why in the name of god he had stayed up so late given we were doomed to 6 more days of these 6am wake up calls.

He looked at me as though he didn’t understand the question. He did understand the question but he couldn’t fathom why I bothered to ask it in the first place.

“Thomas,” he said, “because it is football and because it is Greece.”



Jump two years or more into the future and there I sat in a taxi trying to cut through Cheongju traffic that was as thick as the haze that clung to the city. The weather had taken a turn towards oppressive- the temperature was in the 90’s and the humidity was monstrous enough to bring the haze to the ground. Indeed the air was suffocating.

Everywhere pedestrians, cars and madmen on scooters rushed to where they might watch the game. Friends of mine headed to the stadium which was jammed full enough to suspend disbelief that they were watching a broadcast and not the Korea vs. Argentina game in person. Cheongju’s streets flowed red with the homeland pride.

A 10 minute trip to Albert’s other school took over 30 minutes. We spent much of the ride in stand still traffic watching scooters and bikes risk narrow passages when they didn’t abandon the road all together and take to the sidewalks, pedestrians be damned. The cab was full. I sat in front while Han and Boram sat in the back. Albert, holding three giant boxes of fried chicken and three big bottles of Pepsi sat in the middle. He was as giddy as a very well dressed school girl.

Albert had canceled night classes. I was the last person to find out (about an hour before we left) and had insisted that everyone at his schools watch the game together.

“We are,” Albert always says, “a social family.”

As it was, the guys at the other school had apparently joined the countless red army marching to the stadium and I was the only guy there apart from my school director.

So, we sat at desks in a classroom that had been occupied an hour earlier by students anxious (or forced) to learn the English language. It now contained 5 Korean girls giggling in the back row, Albert hooking the antenna to the computer so that we could watch the game on the giant whiteboard, a clueless foreigner, and an absurd amount of fried chicken.

The moment the game began all classroom-appropriate behavior ceased to exist. Korean girls can scream very loud. Once the ball was in motion there was a constant chatter of shrieks, commentary and blood curdling cheering. Albert had dragged in a great leather armchair in which to sit right in front of the game. Whether we were there or not Albert could have cared less.

Argentina scored first to screams. Had we been quiet I am sure that all of Cheongju could be heard around us. We weren’t quiet though. Albert swore, the girls sounded like they had just been stabbed in the spine and I dropped my chicken.

Soon after the Older Receptionist and Albert’s wife showed up with a few more goodies.

Pepsi wasn’t enough to drink, I guess, because they came in with 30 beers and doled them out as the game played on.

So, there I was: watching Korea take on a powerhouse while eating fried chicken and drinking beer in school. Sometimes I have to laugh at where my life has taken me. Albert would occasionally stand up and without saying a word tap his beer can against my own in some silent toast and step over to the window and smoke a cigarette. If he were a high school kid in a bathroom he would have been suspended; but he isn’t: he is Albert. He does whatever he damn well pleases.

A short time later we watched as Korea danced around the Argentinean goal in the last seconds before the first half ended. There was a kick and-- the ball wasn’t even in the net yet when I saw Albert propel himself into the air, twist around, suck in air and let it out in an eardrum shattering scream/growl before his feet even hit the ground. While all of Korea erupted my attention had been taken from the game. I was wondering if Albert was going to eat me, or if he had chosen this moment to turn into some sort of hip Korean demon. I was wondering if maybe I had wet my pants.

The game went on and Korea lost. Later on, Albert’s wife was driving us back to our neighborhood. I sat in front as his wife laid on the horn while watching another soccer game on the navigational system / TV / really, really bad idea. Han was in back with Boram. Half sitting and half squatting was the Older Receptionist who had taken the unopened beers and was planning to drink her sorrow into a hangover. Albert sat with his face pressed against the window.

“Thomas,” said Albert, “I think that I am going to cry.”



Korea will likely not be a contender in the end, but for the time being Korea is galvanized. Each day I wake up and walk out my door to that omnipresent buzz. Koreans walk around as though they are stretched out a bit too thin, but there is a national pride involved that we in the States see only in the Olympics. In the States LA rioted because they beat the Celtics, Melissa Snelgrove was shot in the eye by a non-lethal projectile and soon died in the riots that broke out after a Red Sox victory.

But here there is nothing but unity and a bond. Amidst threats of war with the North, even my coworkers spoke with brotherly pride when North Korea denied a shut-out game to Brazil.

I don’t expect that I will ever see Axilleas again, but all of this excitement and pride has me imagining him working at whatever it is that he works at with one hell of a month-long hangover.


What I ate today: Kimchi mandu, rice, bean sprouts, plain old mandu, tortila chips, salsa (score!)

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Conversation Class

I have come to dread Thursdays recently. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Albert comes to our school and teaches grammar during several of the classes that would otherwise be taught by Han, Boram or myself. Many of these classes end up being an hour long with one teacher (as opposed to two half-hour segments with two teachers). In the past I had lucked out and had been the odd teacher out and enjoyed a couple of hour-long breaks scattered through out the day.


Then Albert changed things and now I have to teach. I didn’t sign up for this! Oh, wait, guess I did. I do not mind the new class that I have, I really don’t. The way it was handed to me is what I wasn’t too happy with but it seems to be a typical Korean situation.

I was sitting at my computer at 7pm doing what I always do: nothing (read: Facebook, comics, blogs, news, etc.), when Boram came in and told me that soon I would begin teaching a conversation class. I said okay and asked when we would be starting it.

“On Monday?”

“Actually,” said Boram, “it will start right now.” She then handed me a book and ushered me into a class full of some of our older middle school students.

Truth be told, even if I had some warning of just an hour or two things in that class probably wouldn’t have turned out much differently. I have never taught more than 4 kids at once and never anybody out of elementary school. While these kids were better behaved they seemed to be judging me as I walked into class with a book that I had never taught before.

I took a few minutes to glance over the book as 9 kids stared at me and said things in Korean that probably had something to do with the idiot teacher who was turning red and realizing that the book had nothing to do with conversational English whatsoever and was in fact a different edition of the beginners vocab book we use with the younger elementary students!

There was a moment of panic but then recovery. These kids weren’t going to know what the hell I was saying anyway. I opened the book to the first page and read some sentences that were completely useless unless given a freakishly specific context and involved such important vocabulary words as ice cream, ball, and pencil sharpener.

I ran out of coherent sentences in all of 5 minutes and decided that it was too much of a bother to try and walk around and show each kid the book as none of them had the stupid thing. What Albert was hoping for these kids to get out of that pathetic monstrosity of a class I don’t know. What they ended up getting out of it was a 25 minute long game of hangman.

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South Korea vs. Greece

I come from a place that, with very few exceptions, does not pay very much attention to soccer. Why is this? I don’t know. It seems that the vast majority has spent a long time playing youth soccer; I know I did. Every year my parents signed me up for soccer regardless of how much I complained. My skills never developed beyond that of kicking a ball as hard as I could. Where it went I never was in much control of. During games that seemed to take up way too many early weekend hours I would generally just wail the ball in the general direction of the other goal. I never had any hope that I would ever get a goal, I just more or less wanted to get the ball away from me. I kicked the ball so it would be somebody else’s problem.


My soccer team did pretty well one year despite the fact that I was on the team. We were in the “Shrewsbury Championship” and I single handedly lost that game. The other team had a corner kick that was headed in my general direction. For some stupid reason I felt the sudden and uncharacteristic need to be impressive and tried to hit the ball with my head. I connected and the ball took a funny hop right over our goalie and into the net. It really was a perfect shot and it was my only goal.

Another time I found myself in a one on one shuffle to get possession of the ball. I was young and scared of the ball and I just wanted it to be over. I remember twisting my body and changing the dynamics of the action so now I had more control of the ball and the other player was at my back. Why the next thing happened I don’t know. Maybe it was nerves or maybe it was excitement but the second I got control of the ball and the other player fell into my back and I let fly the loudest fart of my young life. I remember kicking the ball away and looking back at the kid hoping he didn’t notice but there he stood in hysterics. It was the best soccer play of my life.

South Korea DOES care about soccer and it is not their general practice to fart on their opponents. A few days ago South Korea took on Greece in their first matching in the World Cup.

Over the past couple of weeks, Korea has become consumed with World Cup fever. Each day leading up to that game there would be more red shirts on the street and bars seemed to fill with the red devils. When Saturday finally arrive it seemed rightfully so to be the quiet before the storm.

I watched most of the game via live stream in my apartment. The moment the teams took the field the video became completely unnecessary. When South Korea came out all of Korea rumbled. Each attempt on a goal was a crescendo of muffled screaming and pounding. When Korea scored the place simply erupted.

There was panic in the reactions to attempts made by Greece. Often there could be heard sudden shrieks and Korean obscenities coming from the apartments above my own. At one point I opened the sliding door of my terrace and you could hear the commotion on the balcony of the restaurant a block or so away.

At some point later in the game I went for a walk. If the sound of satellite crowds in my apartment was impressive, the sound on the Korean streets was amazing. I walked through back streets that would have been deserted or otherwise populated by drunks; but everywhere a kid ran across the street of families hurried back to whatever TV they were watching. Bars were jammed chock full while other restaurants were dead, the only light coming from the glow of a tiny TV surrounded by waiters and cooks that didn’t mind the slow night.

In a dark side street that brings you to the main drag and then to Downtown individual apartment complexes erupted in rapid succession. Korea took the victory and the red devils poured out restaurants and bars on their way to other bars. Cars drove by wailing on their horns and every which way red light-up headbands flickered in the night.

I spoke with Sun Young on the phone. While she wanted Korea to win she admitted to hoping that Greece would continue on for another round. We spent so little time in those mountains but there will always be a connection she said.

So, I walked home with a bunch of food that I didn’t need surrounded by a sea of red. It reminded me of living in downtown Boston in October 2004.

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Indian Food and Guitars

The weeks continue to fly by here in Cheongju. Already I am approaching the two month mark and it seems as though I just touched down at Incheon the last week. This makes me happy because I came with the fear that the year would drag on in misery but it has also made me realize that 10 months from now it will have gone too fast. It seems that I have come to the age where time flies and years go on too quickly.


About a week from now, two of my best friends will arrive in the Land of the Morning Calm and begin a teaching position in the southern part of the country. They are a good three hours away but it will be a god feeling to have familiar faces in a strange place. Also it will give me an excuse to do a lot more local traveling and something to do on my birthday which is just around the corner.

Two weeks ago I was walking into my apartment building as two other non-Koreans were walking out. I must have looked like a kid who just saw a ghost. I have been in this place for over a month and I was under the impression that I was the only American here, but alas it isn’t the case.

So, I found myself sitting at a table on the patio of the restaurant down the road eating and drinking with a big group of fellow westerners that I didn’t know existed. There was Amanda from Ohio who lived in my building, a Canadian, a girl from New York, a Texan and a girl from Louisiana.

The highlight of the evening even before the Korean at the table next to us drunkenly bought us two flavors of Pringles and a giant pitcher of beer was his 8 foot tall friend in some snug shorts.

To the Canadian: Where are you from?
Canadian: I’m from Canada. Where are you from?
Korean: (pulls out imaginary machine gun from god knows where) I’M FROM NORTH KOREA!! (Shoots us all dead.)

So, while I was planning on spending the weekend writing I found myself at a birthday party at an Indian joint in Downtown.

The last time I had Indian food was at some ethnic food festival in Cambridge years back. I felt pretty tame ordering the simple chicken curry and basmati rice, but it was delicious. It was a fairly small joint so how the small staff handled a good 15 - 20 foreigners that barged in with no reservation I don’t know. I’ve worked in restaurants and anything beyond 5 people sent me into panic mode.

The night wore on and we went first to a place called Seduce which for some reason had it decided that those out drinking on a Saturday night in Korea must want to watch Ghost Whisperer starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. From here we went to a place that gave us bowls of Orville Redenbacher popcorn and shots that tasted like some sort of tamed Goldenschlager that appeared to have some sort of brain in them. They tasted fine but there is something unnerving about taking down a glass of something nobody can identify.

Here, the party began to break. I remained for a while longer only to enter the hell that is Frog Rain. The place had one thing going for in that for 10,000W ($10ish) you could have all the beer you could drink. In another place that would be a dream come true, but the place had some of the strongest strobe lights I had ever seen which totally screw up my vision. Besides, the floor was sticky enough to pull your shoe right off of your feet.

So, I left. Still, I was happy to have some social interaction that didn’t rely on the simplest English or kids who do not know what I am saying.

In other news, I now have an air-conditioner which is amazing. I also bought a pretty acoustic guitar yesterday. It needs some work as the action is pretty painful but I am happy with it. Also my heater is busted so I haven’t had anything but a freezing shower in 4 days.

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Humidity

The weather in Korea is becoming exceedingly hot. It is not even mid June but already temperatures are hovering around 90 degrees. What is worse than that is that a humidity hangs about that I am not used to. Weather extremes were always a point of pride for me as a resident of New England with often brutal winters (ice storms that change the landscape for years) and summers were generally hot as hell thanks to the humidity. This humidity, though: good god.


I was told upon moving into my new apartment that I would soon be purchased an air-conditioner but to this I shrugged and told my director not to worry too much about it. I hope he knows that I was just being polite because official summer has yet to even arrive but my apartment is unbearable.

I leave my sliding door open when I am home and that seems to work well enough to steal an occasional breeze to circulate stagnant air. However, thanks to crappy wiring, the screen does not seal firm against the door so any bug clever or lucky enough can fly in unabated. To my luck, a smallish spider has set up watch at the to of the opening so that I have not seen more than one elaborately marked moth and one mosquito (who pent an entire night biting me, little bugger).

For a while, when I was at school I would close the window in an effort to keep the heat out. After today, I will not do this anymore. Frequently, these little Korean studios develop a funky smell. It doesn’t smell terrible and seems to come and go but it’s origins have to be the pipes that carry toilet and sink water to god knows where. I do not know for sure but Korean pipes don’t seem to be as efficient at carrying away waste water. In fact, most Koreans seem to employ the “wipe and toss” method when it comes to the toilette so there doesn’t seem to be the pressure for businesses to strive for nice smelling and clean bathrooms.

Anyway, I returned to my place today and opened my door to be greeted by what might have been the smell of a hundred dying zombies. I have no food to rot and I am generally good about taking out my trash so the smell is a mystery to me. In any case, a weekend ago I walked to Uptown and purchased a boatload of incense that I burn almost constantly.

They smell like grape children’s Tylenol. I hate the smell but it beats the alternative.

Each room in school has a ceiling mounted air conditioner that is made of shiny white plastic, turns on with a chirp via one of three remote controllers. Now, I won’t bore you with details about fancy air conditioners but these things are awesome. The bigger units, for example, have several flaps that are constantly opening and closing to distribute cold air evenly. They are efficient and futuristic enough for me to pretend I am on some Star Wars space ship. Thing is we barely use them.

The school is pretty well insulated and the windows aren’t usually open all the way so the temperature is generally reasonable, but it still tends to get a bit warm and stuffy. Perhaps adult Koreans have more of a heat tolerance than I do but that has yet to be picked up by the kids, particularly the Three Monsters.

Classes with them have become more and more difficult, though just as hilarious. Every class that I sit in with Han teaching involves her having to force them to do anything but lay their heads on the desk and every other word out of their mouths is “ice cream?”

For a long time they demanded that Han bring them ice cream. When that didn’t work they tried their hand at extortion.

“They told me that if I brought them ice cream that they would behave for the week,” Han told me.

So, she brought them ice cream that they devoured. They then welched on their end and went back to being little monsters.

“They tell me,” Han said, “that the ice cream was not delicious enough.”

The Three Monsters have become so desperate that they no longer ask Han to bring them ice cream, only that she end class a bit early so they might go out and buy their own ice cream.

This doesn’t usually happen as it is hard to get through any material when you have three boys screaming ice cream at you. The goofier one (the one who tied his hands together with balloon ribbon) took things into his own hands.

A week ago one of the AC remotes went missing. It wasn’t a big deal but we were left having to look for the remaining controllers whenever we wanted to turn on the air conditioners. Assumedly, the missing remote was beneath papers or books in the corner of one of the offices.

Today I was sitting in with the Three Monsters before Han came to class. It was stuffy and Han had already refused to turn on the air conditioner. I watched as the goofy one pulled the missing remote from his pocket and turned it on himself. Turns out he had been doing this for the past few days whenever he felt it was too hot to effectively give you a headache.

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Sangdang Sanseong

Incase you are wondering, Sangdang Sanseong is not the leisurely stroll it appears to be in guide books. It’s 4.8 km seem to be vertical and it should not be attempted with only a puny chicken burger from Lotteria in your belly.

The day started off pretty poorly. Larry, who I met at the Cheongju Bus Terminal, and I asked a girl at the tourist information office how we might arrive at the 400 year old fortress-on-the-mountain via city bus.

The Golden Pavilion.
Cheongju

“No direct route,” she said. She then said something neither of us caught and wrote down two bus numbers, a greater than symbol and an “X”. It looked like a math equation. Either way the general idea was that Bus A would take us to Cheongju Stadium in Uptown, Bus B would take us to the fortress on the mountain: Sangdang Sanseong.

Bus A took us nowhere near Cheongju Stadium. Larry and I realized we were in trouble when we found ourselves alone and pulling into a bus station. We quickly worked out that the tourist rep had said that was caught by neither of us. The two busses were the only busses out of god knows how many that did not go to the Stadium.

So, feeling like complete and utter morons we cabbed it to the stadium and there waited for the bus that would be arriving in an hour, give or take.

The thing that is so amazing about being in a new place is that everything seems so exotic. A five minute walk took us the Golden Pavillion. Erected sometime in the 1800’s this place is something for Western eyes to behold. The entrance is guarded by fierce, fanged totem poles. Inside is a golden pagoda that stands five stories tall. What was more surprising is that the place was completely deserted save for a few dogs chained to trees whose job it seems is to scare the crap out of anyone foolish enough to pose in front of a great big bell.

Finally, we caught a break and found ourselves on a bus heading straight up a mountain. I have been on some unnerving bus rides on bigger mountains in my life, but this one was up there. The road was not built for busses, that is for sure. Whether or not the road was even built for a standard car is open for argument but regardless the way was more akin to an amusement ride than a 1000W ($1.00) city bur ride.

The Mountain Fortress.
Cheongju

The main issue is that the road follows the most direct route to the top of the mountain. Rarely is one able to sit comfortably in their seat as most often they are being flung to either side of the bus as the vehicle negotiates hairpin turns without more than a foot of breathing room. To look out any window is to see the trees coming at you only to be replaced by open air. To look out the front of the bus is just plain unsettling as it looks as though the bus is simply spinning in circles. For ten minutes we carried on like this and Larry, nudged and firm against the window, laughed as I bounced around all the while trying not to look outside. You begin to understand that maybe it wasn’t such a good time to ride on the Magic School Bus.

The bus finally pulled down a long narrow road, somehow managed a 3 point turn and let us off amidst a folk village on one side and a pond on the other. We walked until we found a small trail around the pond and decided that was as good of a place as any to begin our walk.

The beginning of the trek around the fortress is deceptive. We passed people sitting by the pond and families walking this way and that. The trail curves at the far end of the pond and doubles back and then takes you up a small incline. This was the end of the “leisurely” stroll that I was expecting.

The trail then turns and races up a very long and very steep hill. It is a courtesy that there are beams of wood laid into the earth so as to form steps but they do not help very much. We passed an elderly woman who was having a hard time of it and was trying to pull herself up the handrail.

I can only imagine Autumn.
Cheongju

At the top of the hill is the first of many views that made the sweat and blisters worth it. The valleys and hills that surround the fortress had become visible already and in the distance urban Cheongju was beginning to become visible.

Sangdang Sanseong is a fortress whose walls reach around the top of a mountain. It was built in the late 1500s and the structures themselves are incredible in that they are relics of a time that seems ancient to somebody from the States.

The way didn’t get any easier. The Lonely Planet guide book fails to mention several things. For example, nowhere do they mention turning a corner hoping to find level ground only to be faced with a fixed ropes course over a bunch of rocks at a fairly steep incline. True, the ropes weren’t really necessary as ice would not be forming at 85 degrees but neither of us were planning to take on the Hillary Step. The book doesn’t say anything about what it is like to sweat and walk up a hill that never seems to end in hiking shoes and then be passed by some jerk slacks and dress shoes.

The valleys of Cheongju.
Cheongju

Still, sweat dries and you are left cool and relieved. We sat for a long time on a couple of rocks that lay more or less at the highest point before the trail continues on back to the pond. We watched as couples, families and children ran by. The views into the valleys were simply amazing. Beyond the fortress walls were the hills, many of which were now well below us, and the smoggy city line of Cheongju and beyond.

“I’ve gotta say,” said Larry, “I didn’t expect this to be so gorgeous.”

Point for Cheongju.

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