Monthly Archives: May 2010

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.

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.