Category Archives: Daegu

Stopping by Hongdae

Food, travelling in Korea, ,

Korea has had both good and bad moments. I’ve travelled more than ever before and learnt to enjoy exploring by myself, among other things. The place where I spent the most time, however, was a relatively small (by Korean standards), fairly conservative and determinedly ‘normal’ city. A city unlike any other I’ve lived in or known. In order to ease the transition, and also to take in one of the major Korean tourist experiences I’d so far missed, I decided to spend a few days in Seoul on the way out. This ended up being just one day and two nights, thanks to the usual Korean complications of bureacracy and poor planning, but turned out to be a good choice.

I arrived in Seoul on Monday around 5pm. I took the KTX up from Daegu. It would probably have been simpler to take a bus, with my life-for-one-year-in-a-foreign-country-sized suitcase, but the KTX was faster and I wanted to travel on a high-speed train just once more. Once in Seoul, I hopped in a cab and headed for Hapjeong Subway, where I found myself at completely the wrong entrance for the directions I’d been given. After lugging my large case up and down various staircases, I found the right exit and set off, dragging said suitcase behind me. I was booked in a Kims’ Guest House which was perfectly nice, if rather annoyingly far from the subway when dragging 20kg of luggage.

Having settled in and dumped the bags, I headed off to explore a little and find some dinner. I vaguely thought about going to the area I’d visited with a friend not too long ago (Hongdae) but wasn’t particularly concerned, really. I was just walking. How strange to think I’ve become comfortable and confident enough in Korea to set off ‘just walking’ in a city I barely know. A year ago, I would most certainly not even have come close to considering it. As it turned out, my wandering led me, by gradual and unintended twists and turns, to something that looked familiar. Sure enough, before long, I spotted the bar I had visited with that friend.

I was pretty tired, thanks to all the suitcase-lugging and leaving-Daegu admin, combined with a late night on Sunday, so my first thought was to stop into the first place I liked the look of and get some dinner. But then I saw another place that looked interesting. And another. And another. Each with its own unique style and atmosphere. Each as interesting as the last.

As sunlight faded into romantic dusk (with candles on tables and couples sipping wine), I wandered the streets of Hongdae, almost overwhelmed by it all. French Bistros sat next to Spanish grills. Japanese Sake Bars shared pavements with galbi-on-the-street. Cafés offered coffee and wine. One place was selling pork cutlet pizza (pizza topping on a giant port cutlet). Another offered “ethnic oriental food”. And the music! Sophisticated wine bars spilled elegant jazz onto the pavements. Rasta-style taverns echoed with laid-back rhythms. Cafés moved with hip-hop. Bars pounded old-style rock. Cellphone stores and clothing shops kept the usual K-pop in the mix. Music drifted and mingled and enveloped.

In restaurants, on streets, tripping up the stairs to drink cocktails and beers, Koreans (and not a few foreigners) of all shapes and sizes, styles and fashions populated the area. There were punk rockers, emo kids (appropriately blonde in contrast to the standard black), jocks, tattooed bikers, pretty girls in summer dresses, stylish women in six-inch heels and all manner and form of doc martens. Hair ranged from black, through red and orange and purple to white-blond and yellow with a streak of pink. It’s hard to accurately express the significant difference between Daegu downtown and Hongdae but I suppose the key is contrast – Daegu’s peaceful, controlled, highly-(over)valued normality against Hongdae’s effortless, unconcerned energy and variety.

I stopped into a lovely place called Piccante and had a simple (but good) thin-base margherita pizza and a glass of wine. Wine by the glass? What a novel idea. Behind me, on the raised edge of the main restaurant level, was a row of wooden letters, table-high (and holding up a glass counter) spelling out PIZZA&PASTA. Just great.

I could have wandered Hongdae all evening but I was tired and had a (relative to what has been my usual) early morning planned, so I went back to the hostel and slept like a baby.  I went back the following evening, though, and spent a very happy few hours – my last night in Korea – with pen, paper and glass of wine, in a delightful Italian Restaurant and Bar called The Gabriel.

Gumboot dancing into Korean hearts

Arts, Daegu,

Drankensberg boys’ choir, Suseong Artpia, 15 May 2010

After almost a year in a foreign country, the homesickness becomes a dull background ache. You stop noticing the little gaps in your experience of the world. Other things become normal. You get on with it. And there are good times and life goes on. It takes a show like this one to remind you that your heart doesn’t beat with the regular clackity-clack of the high-speed, high-tech world of Korea – it pounds and whispers with the complex sounds of Africa.

The show started with a mini-intro performance (2 songs) by a Korean choir. Possibly the Daegu City Children’s choir but no English info. They did two songs. They were good, their conductor was enthusiastic and their pianist wore a sparkly ball-gown. They even moved a little from side-to-side and clapped their hands in the second song. A little unfortunately, their rather stilted movements provided a glaring counter-point to the natural flow and energy of the Drankensberg boys.

Once the little girls and boys in aqua-marine (with ruffles) and simply awful white double-breasted blazers had been applauded off, the main act took to the stage. The first half of their programme was a fairly traditional choir performance. They stood still (-ish) in rows (mostly) and sang like with angel-voices. It took a while for the audience to get into it. Their performance was good, but not spectacular and traditional choirs singing traditional music very accurately aren’t all that unusual here. In a country where almost all of the kids play at least one musical instrument and a large percentage (I’d say at least ¾) study singing in the same way they study maths and English, accurate,and often excellent, performances are not uncommon. Which is not to say the audience didn’t enjoy it. They did. The choir even performed Pie Jesu, which was pretty good but not perfect. It was during this performance that I glimpsed, from my seat in the second row (no, I don’t know how I swung that), a sight one doesn’t often see: a Korean nun stealing forward from her seat to get a better view from up front.

By the time the choir performed the Prayer of St Francis with hand movements to illustrate the words, everyone was starting to warm up to them. The conductor also eased their way by saying a few words in Korean. And then they performed Arirang. Arirang is a Korean folk song that seems to be considered a part of the essence of what it is to be Korean. A little like Kimchi. I’m not entirely sure they don’t think it is part of their genetic make-up. Every Korean child knows it and they have a tendency to start singing it spontaneously every time there is a discussion about Korean culture in class. I was a little nervous. I think I held my breath throughout the whole song, eyes on the audience to see how they would respond. Attempting Arirang would either be a huge hit or a disaster. I was hugely relieved when the end of the song was greeted with thunderous applause. The audience was on our side and I relaxed into enjoying the rest of the show. Yes, I know I have nothing to do with it, but when a choir from your country is performing for an audience in the country where you now live, it feels a little personal.

There was also a very good chance that some of my students would be in the audience. There were certainly plenty of teens and kiddies there, some in groups of friends, some with their families. The teenage girls only but made their presence felt a few songs later, when two young black boys led the choir in ‘A crazy little thing called love‘ and got a pop-star (which in Korea equates to superstar) response. Man in the mirror, which got the whole audience clapping, and Circle of Life, and it was time for intermission. The mood in the room was jovial and children and adults buzzed up and down the aisles chatting and laughing.

For the first half of the show, the choir had been wearing the traditional (awful) blue and white outfits of the Drankensberg Boys’ Choir. During the interval they went off to change and the stage was rearranged for a different kind of experience to come. After a slight delay post-lights-down at the end of the interval, they returned and opened with a song I am particularly fond of, and which will now be stuck in my head for the rest of the week, Kwangena Thina Bo.

The second half was completely different fare. In brightly coloured shirts, interspersed with zulu warrior costumes and gumboot dancing gear, the choir wowed the audience with a series of South African favourites, often not even leaving time for applause in between songs. After a few songs, everything went black and they performed a piece called ‘Night Sounds from the African Veld‘. Every South African knows those sounds. I found myself taking deep breathes and shedding a few tears for home.

Then there was Soccer Ball Surprise – Bazeya, a delightful, energetic song using soccer balls to create the rhythms beneath the perfectly pitched vocal movements. And then came the gumboot dancing. It is hard to say whether the Zulu warriors or the gumboot dancing got more reaction from the audience but the cheering and teenage-girl shrieks and the thunderous applause were a significant indicator of how they felt. They were also enhanced with the two little boys in full Kaapse Klopse outfits (complete with umbrellas) who brought in Nuwe Jaar.

During a later song, four little zulu warriors in skins came out into the audience and greeted their adoring fans, ranging, I was amused to note, from toddlers and teenage girls to middle-aged mamas. They said ‘Anyeong’ to as many as they could manage before returning to the stage for the last few songs.

One of the pieces that affected me the most, although I found it interesting to see that the Koreans didn’t seem to react to it all that much, was an African drumming piece. Rhythms in Korean music tend to be, from what I have observed, fairly regular. I think the complex beats which filled my soul with ecstasy and made me feel alive were a bit too foreign for them. Actually, they missed a lot of the rhythms. The audience kept trying to clap along to everything but the clapping soon petered out as they lost track of what the drums and the shakers and the nimble hands were doing. I noticed people trying very hard to follow , though, in the same way they tried to imitate every time a ‘click’ sound showed up in a song.

Far too soon for me, and I think a lot of other people, the show was over. After two encores, the conductor resolutely shepherded his choir off the stage. They must have been exhausted from all the energetic dancing and singing. I hope everyone who was there had fun. I certainly did. And walking out of the theatre, through gaggles of girls who were clearly waiting around to try and get a chance to talk to their new heroes, I was so glad I went and so very, very proud to be South African.

One hundred stories

Daegu, Mozambique, Why, ,

It seems somehow appropriate that I should write the 100th post on this blog just as I start packing up and getting my life in order to leave the land of the morning calm vegetable sellers. Having recently said I’d be leaving in 40 days, I have now been told I will be leaving sooner than I thought. It seems my school has decided that the kids need a Korean-speaking teacher, so I finish work in two weeks (end of May).

In honour of this 100th post, I have spent the last few hours rereading my life. This blog began, in November of 2008, as a way of recording the adventure on which I was about (or thought I was about to) to embark. I was going to Russia. After a rather traumatic period of joblessness and several months of interim positions, I had taken a basic TEFL course, applied for a position and, after a phone interview and a series of emails back and forth, been offered a position to teach English to adults in Moscow. How different my life would have been, had that plan panned out. Obviously, it didn’t. At the end of 2008, the global financial crisis struck, almost collapsing the Russian economy and putting a very definite pause to their English-language-teaching industry. My dreams of Russia had to be shelved.

I was fairly shattered when I found out. It was the end of a long year. I had quit my job and put everything into this plan. Round about the same time, some friends were planning a two-week trip to the coastal paradise country of Mozambique. I had been a little jealous of their planning but had put it out of my mind because, after all, a short trip to Mozambique didn’t really compete with Russia. Now Russia was no longer and option and when one of my very supportive friends, one of those doing the Moz trip, suggested I join them, I was able to brush aside all rational ‘reasons’ why I shouldn’t and get (a little bit overwroughtly) excited.

That is how I ended up in Maputo and Inhambane and Vilankulos with a congenial, stimulating group of friends on a trip that changed my life just a little. Strangely, I didn’t ever write much about the trip, but I go back to it in my mind again and again and regularly look again at all the photos I took. I remember so many moments. There was the day we walked what felt like the whole of Maputo, in warm rain and sunshine. We saw the Iron House and the pretty cathedral. We visited a wild garden, more beautiful for the neglect and slow decay. We discovered a sausage tree outside an old fort. We failed to find a war museum which was either closed or no longer there. It was listed in Richard’s guide-book. The book that we paged through so many times that it was, by the end, almost falling apart.

We spent New Year’s in Tofo, which was perhaps not our most inspired decision. The subsequent stint in Inhambane, however, was incredibly special. On New Year’s night, we found ourselves sitting on the low wall between the street in front of our backpackers and the water of the bay, as a street party happened around us. Just near where we were sitting, an entire Indian family, parents and children, grandparents and teenagers, was gathered in beautiful colourful clothes. A DJ played and people danced in the streets. Women in little more than bikinis lounged on the top of vehicles. Richard entranced the local children with his fiery poi. It was warm and festive, yet somehow peaceful – with no-one making demands on us and no need to rush. Everyone was having a good time and we were welcome to sit and sip our beers and simply watch.

A few days later, post 5-hour drive in an overcrowded taxi with water leaking through the back door, we spend some of the happiest days I have known in beautiful Vilankulos. The sea was perfect blue, the sun shared the skies with dramatic clouds and put on spectacular sunsets, there were palm trees everywhere and islands danced across the water. We walked for ages, along dusty streets, along the shore, between rustic palm-leaf homes, past half-finished island resorts. We sipped ice-cold soft-drinks in the only place with internet – a run-down coastal hotel on the other end of town. We stopped at a bakery and managed in our limited lingo, to buy some rolls. We bought squid from a man on the side of the road, who sold it to us in a plastic bag, and took it back to our backpackers, where we put the slightly dodgy kitchen to good use (or at least those of us who are good in a kitchen did) and produced a memorable lulas pasta. We made pina coladas from the basic fresh ingredients. We adopted a dog, or rather, a dog adopted Richard and followed us home.

And all the while, rambling, open-ended conversations drifted back and forth. Conversations about life and choices and travel. Perhaps the most important moment of that trip for me was rather innocuous. One of the nights in Tofo, we found ourselves on the beach below the backpackers, long after dark. We weren’t doing anything in particular, just chatting and relaxing and playing with the poi-thingy. There was a conversation. I don’t remember talking much about my situation (i.e. Russia falling through) but I’m sure I must have – it was definitely uppermost in my mind. On this occasion, I was chatting with one of my fellow travellers who had had his own experience of teaching overseas. I was sad that I couldn’t go to the unusual and dream-fulfilling destination I’d picked. He said I should just take the chance to go where I could go – just get on with it.

A few months later, after a few more months of limbo and the torture of waiting for bureaucracy, I was getting ready to go to Asia. It wasn’t all plain sailing this time either. The evening before I headed up to Joburg, where I’d be for a week to sort out the final visa details before taking off for Korea, I was informed by my recruiter that the school had changed their minds and no longer wanted to hire me. I suppose I should by this stage have been getting used to disappointments but it takes a lot to psych myself up for major life changes and I still don’t react well to them falling through at the last minute. To say I was bitter would be an understatement, but is probably the best way to sum it up. I still went up to Joburg – a good friend was leaving on her own adventure so I needed to see her – before returning home one last time. Luckily Daegu had a second chance and by the end of June I was getting on a plane – tense with anxiety and anticipation – and flying off to Asia.

Daegu has been good to me in many ways. I’ve had a chance to regain a my confidence, to spend time with myself, to make new friends and to experience so many new things. I have visited centuries old palaces in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the world. I’ve seen a giant fish market and walked along a foreign beach. I have visited parks and mountains and walked for hours, with others and alone. I have spent an awesome day riding bikes through a beautiful autumn with a delightful group of friends. I’ve been run off a mountain and soared through the air (paragliding). I have visited ancient tomb parks and wonderful museums. I have fallen in love with Gyeongju and it’s legacy of 1000 years of Shilla rule. I have drunk cocktails from plastic bags and tried dongdongju and soju. I have been to three operas and a ballet. I have spent a weekend in a beautiful hotel and taken a ferry trip on a lake. I’ve experienced a far-away Christmas and visited temples and monuments to a history so different from my own. I have learned about a culture from teenagers and children. I’ve tried beondaegi and bossam and learned to like kimchi. I’ve tried skiing and snowboarding and seen real snow. I have written so many stories.

In just a few weeks, I will leave Korea, get on a plane and fly home. In that time, there will be a few more experiences but most of my Korean narratives are done. That is a strange sensation. I’m thrilled to be returning to the land of cheese and lamb and people who sing and, most of all, those I love and miss dearly. But it’s strange to think that the Korean stories are almost done.

I’ve  not been entirely sure what will happen to this blog, but reading through again today has reminded me that it isn’t just a ‘Claire-in-Korea’ tale. There are stories here of other places and other things. So perhaps I will simply take it with me, change the name and keep writing. I have no doubt my life will continue to be filled with exploration and experiences. I look forward to writing them here or elsewhere: more disjointed highlights and piece-meal narratives of what I can only hope will be a more-than-ordinary life. A toast to 100 posts and 100 more stories to tell.

One hundred stories

It seems somehow appropriate that I should write the 100th post on this blog just as I start packing up and getting my life in order to leave the land of the morning calm vegetable sellers. Having recently said I’d be leaving in 40 days, I have now been told I will be leaving sooner than I thought. It seems my school has decided that the kids need a Korean-speaking teacher, so I finish work in two weeks (end of May).

In honour of this 100th post, I have spent the last few hours rereading my life. This blog began, in November of 2008, as a way of recording the adventure on which I was about (or thought I was about to) to embark. I was going to Russia. After a rather traumatic period of joblessness and several months of interim positions, I had taken a basic TEFL course, applied for a position and, after a phone interview and a series of emails back and forth, been offered a position to teach English to adults in Moscow. How different my life would have been, had that plan panned out. Obviously, it didn’t. At the end of 2008, the global financial crisis struck, almost collapsing the Russian economy and putting a very definite pause to their English-language-teaching industry. My dreams of Russia had to be shelved.

I was fairly shattered when I found out. It was the end of a long year. I had quit my job and put everything into this plan. Round about the same time, some friends were planning a two-week trip to the coastal paradise country of Mozambique. I had been a little jealous of their planning but had put it out of my mind because, after all, a short trip to Mozambique didn’t really compete with Russia. Now Russia was no longer and option and when one of my very supportive friends, one of those doing the Moz trip, suggested I join them, I was able to brush aside all rational ‘reasons’ why I shouldn’t and get (a little bit overwroughtly) excited.

That is how I ended up in Maputo and Inhambane and Vilankulos with a congenial, stimulating group of friends on a trip that changed my life just a little. Strangely, I didn’t ever write much about the trip, but I go back to it in my mind again and again and regularly look again at all the photos I took. I remember so many moments. There was the day we walked what felt like the whole of Maputo, in warm rain and sunshine. We saw the Iron House and the pretty cathedral. We visited a wild garden, more beautiful for the neglect and slow decay. We discovered a sausage tree outside an old fort. We failed to find a war museum which was either closed or no longer there. It was listed in Richard’s guide-book. The book that we paged through so many times that it was, by the end, almost falling apart.

We spent New Year’s in Tofo, which was perhaps not our most inspired decision. The subsequent stint in Inhambane, however, was incredibly special. On New Year’s night, we found ourselves sitting on the low wall between the street in front of our backpackers and the water of the bay, as a street party happened around us. Just near where we were sitting, an entire Indian family, parents and children, grandparents and teenagers, was gathered in beautiful colourful clothes. A DJ played and people danced in the streets. Women in little more than bikinis lounged on the top of vehicles. Richard entranced the local children with his fiery poi. It was warm and festive, yet somehow peaceful – with no-one making demands on us and no need to rush. Everyone was having a good time and we were welcome to sit and sip our beers and simply watch.

A few days later, post 5-hour drive in an overcrowded taxi with water leaking through the back door, we spend some of the happiest days I have known in beautiful Vilankulos. The sea was perfect blue, the sun shared the skies with dramatic clouds and put on spectacular sunsets, there were palm trees everywhere and islands danced across the water. We walked for ages, along dusty streets, along the shore, between rustic palm-leaf homes, past half-finished island resorts. We sipped ice-cold soft-drinks in the only place with internet – a run-down coastal hotel on the other end of town. We stopped at a bakery and managed in our limited lingo, to buy some rolls. We bought squid from a man on the side of the road, who sold it to us in a plastic bag, and took it back to our backpackers, where we put the slightly dodgy kitchen to good use (or at least those of us who are good in a kitchen did) and produced a memorable lulas pasta. We made pina coladas from the basic fresh ingredients. We adopted a dog. Or rather, a dog adopted Richard and followed us home.

And all the while, rambling, open-ended conversations drifted back and forth. Conversations about life and choices and travel. Perhaps the most important moment of that trip for me was rather innocuous. One of the nights in Tofo, we found ourselves on the beach below the backpackers, long after dark. We weren’t doing anything in particular, just chatting and relaxing and playing with the poi-thingy. There was a conversation. I don’t remember talking much about my situation (i.e. Russia falling through) but I’m sure I must have – it was definitely uppermost in my mind. On this occasion, I was chatting with one of my fellow travellers who had had his own experience of teaching overseas. I was sad that I couldn’t go to the unusual and dream-fulfilling destination I’d picked. He said I should just take the chance to go where I could go – just get on with it.

And that is how, after a few more months of limbo and the torture of waiting for bureaucracy, I found myself getting ready to go to Asia. It wasn’t all plain sailing this time either. The evening before I headed up to Joburg, where I’d be for a week to sort out the final visa details before taking off for Korea, I was informed by my recruiter that the school had changed their minds and no longer wanted to hire me. I suppose I should by this stage have been getting used to disappointments but it takes a lot to psych myself up for major life changes and I still don’t react well to them falling through at the last minute. To say I was bitter would be an understatement, but is probably the best way to sum it up. I still went up to Joburg – a good friend was leaving on her own adventure so I needed to see her – before returning home one last time. Luckily Daegu had a second chance and by the end of June I was getting on a plane – tense with anxiety and anticipation – and flying off to Asia.

Daegu has been good to me in many ways. I’ve had a chance to regain a my confidence, to spend time with myself, to make new friends and to experience so many new things. I have visited centuries old palaces in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the world. I’ve seen a giant fish market and walked along a foreign beach. I have visited parks and mountains and walked for hours, with others and alone. I have spent an awesome day riding bikes through a beautiful autumn with a delightful group of friends. I’ve been run off a mountain and soared through the air, paragliding. I have visited ancient tomb parks and wonderful museums. I have fallen in love with Gyeongju and it’s legacy of a thousand years of Shilla rule. I’ve drunk cocktails from plastic bags and tried dongdongju and soju. I have been to three operas and a ballet. I have spent a weekend in a beautiful hotel and taken a ferry trip on a lake. I’ve experienced a far-away Christmas and visited temples and monuments to a history so different from my own. I’ve learned about a culture from the mouths of children and teenagers. I’ve tried beondaegi and bossam and learned to like kimchi. I’ve tried skiing and snowboarding and seen real snow. I have written so many stories.

In just a few weeks, I will leave Korea, get on a plane and fly home. In that time, there will be a few more experiences but most of my Korean narratives are done. That is a strange sensation. I’m thrilled to be returning to the land of cheese and lamb and people who sing and, most of all, those I love and miss dearly. But it’s strange to think that the Korean stories are almost done. A few more adventures to write up and then I will be gone.

I’ve not been entirely sure what will happen to this blog, but reading through everything today has reminded me that it isn’t just a ‘Claire-in-Korea’ tale. There are stories here of other places and other things. So perhaps I will simply take it with me. Change the name and keep writing. I have no doubt my life will continue to be filled with exploration and experiences. I look forward to writing them here or elsewhere: more disjointed highlights and narratives of what I can only hope will be a more-than-ordinary life. So, a toast to 100 posts and 100 more stories to tell.