Tag Archives: Daegu

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.

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.

Daegu City Bus Tour – Circular Course

When I first arrived in Daegu, I was keen to try a city bus tour. Various things got in the way in the first month or two and then I discovered a blog post saying that the tour was all in Korean, further decreasing my motivation to try it. One thing led to another and the city bus tour never happened. It turns out I wasn’t the only one who liked the idea but never quite got around to it. A friend contacted me on Friday evening and asked if I’d be interested in spending Saturday doing this. I immediately jumped at the idea – brushing aside all plans to spend a quiet Saturday cleaning my house. I feel like I’d been on the go non-stop for absolute ages but this would be so much more fun with friends and the chance to do it was now.

We met at 10:30 on Saturday morning outside S-Mart, a little supermarket/corner store down the road from me and central to all of our houses. There were four of us, each from different countries: Australia, Ireland, USA and South Africa. Without further ado, our little international band hopped in a cab to Dongdaegu station, where we bought our tickets (5000 won each) and got the 11:20 City Tour Bus. This route works on a hop-on, hop-off system. The tour bus stops at each stop on the route 6 times a day, at different times, so all you need to do is get off at the sight you want to see and be back at the bus-stop the hour or so later to catch the next bus to pass by. There are several other Daegu City Bus tours that work differently – we were on the Circular Course. There are 10 stops along this route: Bullo-dong Tomb Park, Bongmu Leisure & Sports Park, Guam Farm Stay, Gatbawi, Bangjja Yugi Museum, Donghwasa Temple, Donghwasa Restaurant District, Deagu Safety Theme Park (only in Korea!) and Palgong Spa Hotel. It isn’t really possible to see all of those places in one day unless you leave with the first bus and rush through each stop. Actually, it still wouldn’t be possible to time that right. We picked two. Well, three because the Donghwasa Temple and Donghwasa Restaurant District share the same bus stop. Some people wanted to try Gatbawi, but by all accounts it really is a day, or at least a half-day experience. Even the info pamphlet claims that it’s a 2-hour round-trip hike and that may be optimistic. I do still feel as though I should do Gatbawi but I think it is one of the Korea experiences that may have to be sacrificed to getting home in time for Fest.

Our first stop on Saturday was the Bullo-dong Tomb Park. I’ve been there before but the others hadn’t. The park isn’t spectacular to look at, particularly if you have already seen the huge tombs in Gyeongju, but I love it. It is peaceful and beautiful and special. This time of year, it is also green. Now that spring has arrived, the grass everywhere has turned from the dull grey of winter to bright new green. So the burial mounds were green hills. We wandered between them happily. I think one of the things I like about this tomb park and that makes me almost prefer it to the one in Gyeongju, is that this isn’t an awe-inspiring, scary place. While there is a sense of the passing of time, particularly because those buried in these mounds are so far back (5th and 6th century) that they no longer exist even in oral history, the place doesn’t feel imposing or intimidating; it just feels peaceful. A lot like some of my favourite graveyards outside old settler churches in South Africa. At some points, this peace is disturbed by the noise from a highway nearby but once you move away from the road, everything is quiet and peaceful. Trees sway in the gentle breeze. Wild flowers bloom in the well-trimmed grass of the burial mounds. Someone is growing vegetables.

After a wander around the tomb park, we headed back to the bus-stop and waited for the next bus to come along. While we waited, a Korean man came over and asked where we were from. I think he was a bit surprised to discovered that no two of us was from the same place. In fact, between us we covered four continents. I was gratified to discover that he knew something about South Africa – “Oh, World Cup!”. The joy of being flavour of the month. Back on the bus, the tour guide also seemed to figure out that I was South African. I was surprised. The only way he could have known was either from my accent (which would be a definite first) or because I was wearing a Springbok rugby top. He didn’t however, know my national anthem – this only because he not only knew but proceeded to hum the whole of the American anthem.

Our next stop was Donghwasa but before that the bus passed Gatbawi and we got into long conversations about it. Christina has done it twice. I have to be honest that it sounds like a more difficult climb than I would manage. After a while of enjoying the scenery – this area, just outside of Daegu to the North, is part of Palgong park so is mostly natural forest between mountains, except for a few farms – we arrived at Donghwasa, which includes the temple, a restaurant area and the base-station of a cable-car.

Our first stop was food. We found a lovely rustic-looking second-floor balcony to sit on and ordered bibimbap all round. In the time I’ve been in Korea, I’ve eaten many different Korean dishes but I actually haven’t had bibimbap in ages. This dish is basically rice with all sorts of different vegetables plus an egg on top. A friend of mine once pointed out that this meal seems a lot like what you’d expect to eat if you were having dinner with people whose main source of food was foraging – grains plus lots of wild-tasting vegetables. It is a very healthy meal. At least, it tastes very healthy. I imagine that it can probably be made less healthy depending on how many of the side-dishes are things like the tiny, little spring-rolls we were served. The rest of our sides were the fairly standard kimchi, spinach, glass noodles in various forms and a few other things designed to set your mouth on fire. All in all, it makes for a good, healthy, filling lunch.

Refreshed, we headed off to the temple. Temples are another thing I haven’t done all that much of since getting here, surprisingly, given that they form a major part of Korea’s standard tourist experience. Donghwasa temple is, according to the information board, “an authentic Buddhist temple situated in Mt. palgongsan in northern Daegu. It symbolises the power of Bonghwang, that is, the legendary mythological bird, the phoenix, that rises from the ashes of its long life cycle, and is reborn anew again” (complete with fascinating grammar, punctuation and tautology).

The temple complex is set in forests on the lower slopes of the mountain. To get there, we walked through the huge gate (2500 won entry fee) and along a gently sloping road lined with paper-lanterns. On our left was a large pool of perfectly still water reflecting the green of the forest. Down another path, we came out into the clearing where the temple sits. There were more paper lanterns strung in row upon row across the paved areas between the buildings, their shadows polka-dots on the paving under the many bright colours. So many paper lanterns. Not just at this temple – they’re all over Korea as the country prepares to celebrate Buddha’s birthday next week – an added reason to visit temples just now.

We meandered through the complex. There were four huge statues in one building, each holding different things – weapons, musical instruments, a small dragon. Some people were sitting at a table outside, collecting donations or selling something. Down some stone steps, we saw a waterfall. The waterfall flowed into a pool that sparkled with coins gathered on the bottom – a wishing well, perhaps. Across a stone bridge, we took another path, down the hill and along another lantern-lined way. We reached an area with a huge temple/hall and some multi-storey statues. Unfortunately we couldn’t get near to the statues as they were doing some renovations (with the most amazing timing imaginable!) but we did stop at the souvenir shop and looked around at the building and more rows of lanterns.

We stopped into the coffee shop to have something to drink. After placing our orders at the counter, we walked through the shop to the balcony area on the other side. An unusual place to sit down and have a cup of coffee (or in my case a lemonade) on a secluded balcony on the second floor of a temple-like building. Around us were huge, thick pillars. Above, we could look up into the elaborate designs and colours of a traditional roof. From the edge, we looked out at another row of lanterns on the edge of the stone walkway, and then forests and mountains stretching away into the distance. It was peaceful there. A gentle breeze stopped the heat from being oppressive. We sat and chatted for ages.

Eventually, we rose to leave. After a look around the rest of the building, we headed back up the steps and the paths to the main gate. The bus wasn’t due for a while, so we decided to try and find the cable car. We walked back down past the restaurants and followed a path that, at least according to the signs, seemed like it should take us in the right direction. After a while of walking up a fairly steep path, we asked some Korean hikers if we were on the right track. They said, or seemed to say, that we should keep following the path. We really were going to try but it kept going on and on and none of us particularly felt like a hike. Most people weren’t even dressed for it. So, we changed our minds and came back down. We were momentarily detained along the way by a family party: the grandfather of the group decided that his very shy teenage grandson should show off his English skills – clearly gained at great expense to the family – by speaking to the foreigners. The boy was too shy to say a word but the grandfather was delightful – so determined and so proud of his family.

The afternoon was wearing away so we walked up to the bus stop. We sat and chatted in the lovely sunshine until the bus arrived and took us back to Dongdaegu, from where we took the subway back to our area, stopping for a quick dinner on the way home. All in all a lovely, peaceful day out in the fresh air and the forests, with some good walking and some even better company.

Snow Day (except without the time off)

This has been a strange week, weather-wise. On Monday, when I checked the extended forecast, I was somewhat dismayed to discover that there was snow predicted for Wednesday. I have nothing against snow in theory, in fact I quite like it, but I’m trying very had to convince myself that spring is on the way, so the idea of more cold did not thrill me.

On Tuesday night when I went to close the windows before going to bed, I looked out at a world sprinkled with pure white snow. I say close the windows here to mean the same as closing the curtains would at home. Houses in Korea, or at least the ones I have lived in, don’t have curtains. There are no curtain rails and no pretty coloured fabric framing the windows. Instead, there are sort of double-windows, the outside layer being proper windows and the inside layer being opaque panes, providing the privacy normally provided by curtains. Oh, and the outside-outside layer being mosquito netting which somewhat annoyingly obscures the view but is essential when Daegu’s super-sized mozzies descend on the city.

As I looked out at the snowy world, I was excited. I didn’t want the snow to come because of the cold, but a wintery world in the dark of the night is really quite pretty. I assumed the snow would melt fairly quickly, as it has the last few times there have been a few stray flakes floating down, which, each time, melted as they hit the ground. This time, however, it was different. I woke up to a world positively blanketed in white.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a great excuse to stay in bed and savour the warm but I was feeling adventurous so, after wrapping up in layer upon layer of warm winter clothes, I headed out to see what Daegu snow looked like. I took my camera, of course, and was taking pictures before I even reached the street.

In spite of my aversion to cold, there is something enchanting about a fresh fall of snow. As I turned up my street, towards the main road, I looked up at the wooded area across the main road. Each tree and fence-post had a layer of snow turning it from ordinary into fairy-tale. I walked along the road towards the lake, enjoying the novelty of the unexpected layer of white.

The lake lay grey and cold as it reflected the heavy clouds, but no rain or snow was falling as I walked towards it. All around me, tree trunk stood out black against the fallen snow. I felt like I’d walked into the stories and poems I’ve read for so many years. The day was warming up a little and water was starting to drip from tree branches and flow in tiny rivulets towards the lake. As I stopped to take a closer look, I saw water flowing in twisted paths between layers of ice. I walked on.

At one point, I found myself confronted with a path dotted with pools of melt-water and piles of snow. On the edge of the path, sitting on a bench, was a little 30cm snowman someone had build. I took a quick picture before picking my way between the puddles and moving on. At the edge of the lake are two trees, naked of leaves at this season and always making a dramatic picture against the sky and the water. This time, the drama was enhanced by a layer of white snow against the trunk and the branches and a dark and foreboding sky for a backdrop.

At the duckboat rental places, the cheerful little duckboats bobbed and splashed in the water, looking chilly and abandoned under a layer of fresh snow. My camera batteries died at this point. I kept walking and drinking in the prettiness. As the path wound on to the pavement, around the waterfront restaurant, the snow was yellow-brown with the mud below it.

I popped into the Family Mart next to the amusement park and bought some more batteries for the camera. I stopped to take some pictures of the amusement park, dark and silent under the steel-grey cloud, the rides silent as the melting snow lay in piles and water dripped and ran in rivulets.

As I walked back along the shore of the lake, I got some stunning pictures of the tree-covered mountains covered in snow. It struck me as I was walking along, that these images, so novel, so enchanting for me, must be ordinary for so many people. Growing up amidst the wide-open grasslands and rolling hills of Africa, it’s so easy to take for granted how beautiful it all is, a fact I’m reminded of whenever I watch the reaction of people who are seeing it for first time. I suppose this is the reverse of that. I’m glad I have an opportunity to enjoy it.

After the invigorating walk, I returned home and took full advantage of the joy of underfloor heating. The rest of the day was warmer and by the time I came home from work, most of the snow had started to disappear, trees were once again bare and grey-brown and pavements were wet but no longer white with snow. Sadly, we didn’t get the day off work. I’m fairly sure that this amount of snow in SA would have resulted in a complete shut-down of productive activities but I suppose the novelty wears off when it happens every year.

By the next day, the field of white in the vacant lot next to the bus stop had shrunk to a thin line of snow against a fence, where small boys threw watery snowballs at each other in the sunshine. The wind was still chilly but the weather had warmed up otherwise and the beauty of sunlight on snow was almost overwhelmingly amazing. I do hope that this is the last snowfall of the season, because I’m holding thumbs that winter will end soon, but I’m glad I got the chance to see it in all its winter-wonderland, enchanting beauty.