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.

Daegu City Bus Tour – Circular Course

Adventures, Daegu,

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.

3:52 am, Seoul Station

Adventures, Seoul, trains and train stations, Travel,

Not too long ago, I took a day-trip up to Seoul. Seoul is nearly 300km from Daegu, so it’s a fairly long way to go just for the day. In Korea, in fact, it’s almost clear across the country. It was worth it to see a old friend I haven’t seen for ages and who was in the country for just a few days from Japan.

I took the bus up (3 and a half hours), managed to find my way through the rat-maze-chaos of Seoul Express Bus Terminal and navigated the Seoul subway system (which is huge and confusing) to reach Itaewon perfectly on time (amazingly). In order to manage it, I’d woken up at 7am, which will become important later in the story.

I had a great time with my friend. It is so nice to see someone with whom you have common history, to just talk and talk for hours and explore a new place together. It was particularly nice to be able to talk about where we are now and compare experiences. I read something recently (and cannot remember where I read it unfortunately) about how meeting up with old friends sometimes turns into a largely uninteresting litany of ‘remember when’ stories. This wasn’t that. We share a lot of common history but most of the afternoon was new memories and new experiences. It was lovely.

After dinner with two of his colleagues from Japan, I said my goodbyes and headed off to catch a late subway to Seoul station and take a train home. I had settled on taking the train back to Daegu because I wasn’t sure of the bus schedules and the train system is the mode of Korean transport with which I am most familiar and most comfortable. I managed the subway just fine and found my way to Seoul Station.

The first inkling that I may have miscalculated was when I walked into the airport-hanger-style station building and saw a departures board that seemed to indicate that the next train to Daegu wasn’t until 5:30am. I got a bit of a fright but was sure this must be a mistake. I had checked the schedule a few days earlier and was certain there were several late trains. The automated ticketing machine unhelpfully said there were no tickets, so I went to the counter and asked the rather harassed-looking ticket salesperson. He confirmed that the last train to Daegu had left 10 minutes earlier. Perhaps I looked at the train schedule for Daegu to Seoul, not Seoul to Daegu. Either way, I was clearly wrong.

I turned away from the ticket-counter and looked across the room. I will admit to a moment of panic before my new-found sense of adventure and humour in the face of crisis kicked in. I laughed it off: I’d simply wait for the next morning. It would be a little bit of an adventure. Plus, I had a brand new book to start reading and a pen and paper – more than enough to keep me busy for a few hours.

The thing they don’t tell you, and which I imagine very few people ever have occasion to learn, is that Seoul’s extremely busy train station does not, in fact, stay open all night. This was a surprise. The train station really is a major transport hub and I think it just didn’t occur to me that it would close. Also, they have a 24-hour McDonalds and a 24-hour Lotteria.

At around 12:45, the police and station security began rousing and clearing out the homeless people sleeping on the station floor. I frantically did mental calculations to try and figure out a way to afford a taxi and somewhere to stay and still get home. It was after midnight, so my bank card was of no help. There was no way I was going to be able to do it. Just then a kindly security guard came over and confirmed that they were indeed closing and throwing everyone out, but, perhaps taking pity on the bewildered foreigner, said earnestly that they’d be opening again at 2am.

Relieved that I’d only be stranded for an hour, I swung my pack onto my back and headed out into the night. Outside, it was dark and raining. Distinctly thankful for my less-than-trusting relationship with Korean weather, I pulled out my never-leave-home-without-it umbrella and pulled the built-in rain cover over my backpack. As the last people straggled out of the building, I watched the lights of Seoul Station go down.

The slightly less damp areas around the building had been firmly claimed by groups of homeless with cardboard for beds and their belongings firmly tucked up as pillows beneath their heads. I looked around. I’m a South African. Every muscle in my body was coiled in tense anticipation. I was alone on a dark, damp night on the side of the road in a city of 20 million people.

I saw a restaurant but I didn’t want to have to spend money on food I didn’t want. And anyway, it looked rather dodgy and like it might close any minute. The area in front of the station wasn’t pitch dark, thanks to streetlights and neon signs and a row of taxis waiting, forlornly, for passengers to appear out of the night. I spent some time idly trying to decipher the bus route information board. A Korean guy, sitting at the bus stop playing on his i-phone, asked in perfect English if I needed help. We chatted briefly before I moved on. I contemplated taking a walk but the streets seemed to disappear into darkness and all the assurances of low crime rates in Korea couldn’t persuade me that moving away from the lights was a good idea. I walked back and forth, back and forth in front of the station. I stood around. I watched the rain. I watched the night-people. I waited. Waiting, watching, staying near to the pleasant-enough taxi-drivers who tried, repeatedly, to convince me to take a taxi back to Daegu (at 5 times the price of a train and for which I most certainly didn’t have the money right then).

At 2am, as promised, the lights of the station came back on and the homeless station-sleepers and I, the one lone, lost foreigner, trickled back into the building. I found a bench free of people trying to sleep and returned to my book, willing the hours to pass quickly now.

At around 2:30 in the morning, the exhaustion was starting to kick in. I decided it was time for coffee. Because I didn’t have much money on me and I was now in the kind of head-space where I wouldn’t take any chances, I didn’t want to spend too much, but strong black coffee sounded heavenly, especially after an hour of walking in the rain. Plus, of course, I’d been awake since 7am. I went into the “24-hour” Lotteria (ha!), which had finally reopened.

The waiter disappeared as soon as he had served me. I sat down at a table with my coffee, glad to be comfortably sitting in a restaurant, away from the fights for bench-space and disputes with station security. I was a little chilly, so I got out my  jacket. The only other customer stared at me, open mouthed. “Is that a springbok jacket?” he asked. Of all the Lotterias in all the Train Stations in all the cities in all the world, what were the chances that the only other person in this one, at 2:30 in the morning, would be a Capetonian named Derek? We had the kind of conversation that happens when you randomly meet another South African in a strange country in the early hours of the morning: where in SA are you from? Where did you study? Do you know so-and-so? He went off, chuckling at the randomness. I think I might have believed I’d hallucinated it had I not caught a glimpse of him getting off the same train as me as we arrived back in Daegu. The last remnants of weirdness about spending the night at Seoul Station trickled away as I relaxed into the inexplicableness of life. If Derek ever reads this, he should he did a great job of brightening my morning.

I bought my ticket home, now that the machines were working again, and whiled away the next few hours reading and writing and occassionally wandering. At about 4:30am, the station began to fill up and slowly returned to its usual, busy, bustling self. At 5, I had another coffee to tide me over until departure time. I managed a couple of hours of broken sleep as the train swept across Korea before finally heading home.

I am absolutely no worse for the experience. It was totally worth it to see an old friend. I even relish a little being able to add to my repertoire of stories ‘The time I spent the night at Seoul Station’. I feel a little bad that I was unable to let my friend know I was okay – my cellphone couldn’t get internet and his wasn’t working in Korea, but other than that, no harm done. It was a little bit of an adventure: a day trip that ended with me sitting on a bench in Seoul Station, writing, at 3:52 in the morning.