The Final Blow

Friday
Gyeryong.

Another ceiling. It's amazing how comfy can Koreans make a place that was meant to be a mushroom growing tunnel.

I just don't feel as a mushroom in it.

Only a small touch would make this place perfect - some wireless. But I'll survive. Or I'll just take a walk to the Musang sa temple, I can reach it in twenty minutes on foot. I can go there every afternoon. Coincidence? Dont make me laugh.
Sunday
And I went there for the Sunday Dharma Talk in English just to have another surprise. There's no more Sunday Dharma Talk, it became the Saturday Dharma Talk. Sundays are now for Koreans - well, for those who can speak Korean, that is.

So I returned to my books. Chae Hak left some for me, so I won't be bored. One is already done, Understanding Koreans and Their Culture. It's written by Choi Joon Sik, who has a degree in Korean History and in Religious Studies so he mostly explains the Koreans and their culture through religions: Confucianism, Buddhism, Christianity and Shamanism. Nothing really new there, except the floorboards. Yes, floorboards. You must now that Koreans are really sloppy about the appereance of their homes. Mostly they look quite used and as never properly fixed. In the house of Kwan Chol I was surprised to see again floorboards that do not match and with 5 cm cracks between them. Surprised because Kwan Chol is a carpenter and he built himself his home. So why did he such a lousy job? And why doesn't he repair the floor, it would take him less than an hour. Choi explains it with Buddhist tradition: " Moreover, since Buddhism has a more flexible religious doctrine, the process of designing Buddhist architecture is open to imaginative ideas compared to Confucianism." And one of the most prominent elements is spontaneity. Seonwun sa temple is famous for not having a single straight girder in its bulidings - just naturally curved trunks. And Cheongyong sa looks like made by Dali. "The spontaneous expression of the structure has led to an attitude of indifference towards small details." I couldn't agree more.
Tuesday
It's market day today. After lunch I went to stretch my legs and take a look at it. At all the delicious food. But for what I needed I had to go to a supermarket. As always I have to cook for my hosts. And spaghetti with carrots will be. I need olive oil. I found green tea oil. Don't ask, I have no clue. I haven't bought it, never tried it. But there's a bigger mistery for me there, that's why I took a picture of it. Is there any logical way to explain me why should I buy 1 litre of it if two halves are way cheaper?

Tomorrow there will be a memorial service for Chae Hak's mother in his house. I'm invited to witness it but I feel that it could be somehow innapropriate. Of course I'm curious about it, but I believe it's way to personal to be there. I'll take my decision at the last moment, when I'll see the atmosphere in the house, mainly how his relatives will react to my presence.
You still wonder about the title of this entry? It's so... embarassing. The sort of thing that makes you want to hide on a remote island, even if you did nothing wrong. Today I was... argh, it goes out so hardly, it's harder than a confession of a commited sin... Let's try again. Today I was mistaken for a **********. Yes, a **********. A man asked me, very politely and in good English, but my consciousness just went off. I stared blanly at him and he asked me again if I was a **********? In horror I realized what is he asking me and I could just babble a denial, that n-n-n-no, I I I am n-n-not a m-m-m-missionary... and I ran away as fast as I could. To hide my misery.

An Unfamiliar Ceiling

I'm no otaku. Just a hardcore fan of Neon Genesis Evangelion. Sometimes too hardcore, since I tend to draw parallels of my life with EVA. It happens that I'm really afraid that I'm just like Ikari Gendo or, at least, that my son feels like Shinji. His battle nickname years ago.
Today I recalled the title of the second episode - An Unfamiliar ceiling. I woke up in the morning and it was the third ceiling this week. Tomorrow I will see the fourth and the day after the fifth. Nothing wrong with that. There's only one ceiling that I really miss - it's the one sprinkled with millions of stars. And is blue grayish when you wake up, with all your stuff wet with dew, you swear because is cold and you have to wake up and go on, sometimes you even have no food for breakfast, but you put your backpack on and go on. Mad at yourself, why do I have to endure all this, but soon you see your only friend, the sun, you find a nice spot and let him warm you up. And you can just smile. Yes, that is so cool. Hopefully you find something to eat for lunch.
There's a small village in southern Istria called Brtonigla. It's a cursed village, cursed by me. I woke one morning, it was like the above mentioned, but I was not walking, I was horse riding. You wake up like crap after riding all the day, many days in row, believe me. But it all turns to something magic after few hours. And the magic is gone, if you're riding in summer through a country with no rivers. And I came to Brtonigla and asked for some water. Not for me, I can have a beer, for the horse. No. Nowhere. I will pay for it. No. No. No. I left the village and cursed it.
Yesterday I found Brtonigla in Korea. Is way way bigger, but gave me the same feeling. I was in no such urge like finding water for my horse, but the feelings are same. I'm used to nice Korean people. Yes, you find morons everywhere, I met many of them here, but they were scattered, not just put together like in Daejon. I may have bad luck, but it can't be that I met twenty cretins in a row. I'm used to Koreans who just shake their head in apology because they don't speak English. Why should they? It's fine with me, I thank them anyway. But I'm not used to be ignored when I ask a question. Neither I'm used to be shouted at just for asking for directions. When the final slap came, I wanted to kill somebody. I never tought, and I mean NEVER, that in Korea I will have a Japanese experience. When in Nagasaki I was forbidden to enter a bar because I'm a gaijin, I didn't really care much. I knew it's part of Japan, so why bother. But in Korea? Thank you, Daejon.

I put a curse on you, may your doors be closed for ever.
In the morning sun the bad mood was almost gone. I also had a heart warming destination, the place where it all begun two years ago. It's all so fresh in my memory like it was last week. Finding the way was so easy and even when the clouds covered the sky it still seemed a perfect day to me. I recognized every step of the path I was walking. I clearly remember this tombs when they were covered with snow...

They seemed like this.

And I remembered the rain that was pouring on me on that day, I rememberd it so much that I almost felt it again... no, it was not just a feeling. Fuck, it's started to rain! And wet like two years ago I came back to the temple Musang sa.

In a way I wanted to meet some of the monks, in other not. It came out the last. Everybody was busy with something in the buildings, so I was alone to go to the Buddha Hall . When I entered it was such a familiar feeling... almost like coming home. The delicate fragrance of the incense, not the heavy smell of the Indian or Tibetan ones, that are commonly used in the west. In Japan and Korea we use way more refined ones. The warmness of the place, the memories. I took a praying mat and strated to prostrate. It didn't matter that I walked many kilometers and my legs were aching. I just did it. And I left, with no hellos and no goodbyes. Empty as i wasn't for a long time. And on my way back to Gyeryong it started snowing. Like two years ago, when I was leaving the temple.

Some more food

Last week Kwan Chul wanted to give me a Korean name. I politely refused, sying that I already have a Korean name - 닥. 닥 is actually my real name, written in hangul, but pronounced slightly differently, it sounds like Tak.And it also has a meaning, I dont even have to know how to write it in hanja, the Chinese characters. It means hen. And that's fine with me. It was also fine for Hae In, when we first met, she found me funny immediatly. I love being a funny uncle.
And that is also how I became the main course of a dinner.
The great thing about hanging out with locals in some small and forgotten places - not only forgotten by God, but sometimes also forgotten by the people that just live there - is that in this way you can find many hidden things, small jewels of nature, simple temples and... restaurants. The last one we've been can't be found by chance. You can't just pass by and say "Hey, looks like a nice place to stop, let's eat something". Also the local ajuma had troubles to remember exactly where it is. We did some driving in the hills and at last found it. It was worth. For the banchans. Sixteen (16, yes!) of them. Everything. Kimchi, obviously. Chestnuts. Pineapple. Cabbage root. Raddish. Oak jelly. Hot tofu. Some stuff I have no idea what it was - top right corner, green cubes. And if you look closely you can see some weird cutlery in the bottom right corner.

Yep, it finally happend to me, too. When the waitress spotted a round-eyed foreigner she hurried and brought me a fork. I was offended. Doesn't she know about my chopsticks skills? Of course she doesn't, you arrogant prick! And I just smiled and said komapsumnida!
And then the ajuma and Kwan Chul tried to explain to the poor waitres that they want me for the main dish. She didn't get it even after they explained her several times that I'm 닥 - the hen, you remember? So they gave up and just oredered a 닥 and everything was fine. And we got this huge hen, stuffed with medicinal herbs.

But wait... it's not just herbs... looks like... yes, looks like we're carpenters so they stuffed it also with some wood!

And later a night drive to Soho, searching for a good coffee bar and a good one we found! Good for the coffee, I mean, I really wasn't drooling because of the cute waitress! And the view was also nice.

The work for the ajuma will soon be finished.

How to get wasted with makkoli

I'll try blogging in English, like my dear Japanese friend from Tokunoshima. For a while, at least
For those who don't know what makkoli is: fermented rice drink, some call it rice wine but it's actually more a beer since it has from 3 to 5% of alcohol, mostly on the less than more. Its refreshing and is used to be drunk during working breaks since is so mildly alcoholic that there is no fear for workers to get drunk. So, how the hell could I manage to get wasted on it? The answer is very very simple. Just take a look at this picture:

Yes, you guessed, it's full of makkoli.
But let's start from the beginning. It was a misty Sunday morning over the bamboo forest somwhere in South Korea. Actually it was in Sunjidong-gil, but you just have no clue where that is.

After the usual morning schnaps before breakfast I went with Mr. Kim to the suburbs of Gwangju where some friends of his rented a piece of land and in their free time they dedicate themselves to organic farming. We were there for our carpenters' skills, but I also helped with fire - we had to boil water and grease in the new pots before they will be used for the first time.

We started drinking makkoli way before lunch.

After lunch we basically didn't stop drinking it. Well, I surely didn't and same goes for my drinking buddy. He can't speak a word in English and my Korean is still awful, but we had great time and communication was perfectly fluent. Fluent as makkoli.

Dude, we drunk it all! No use holding it in your lap!

Well, there was also a pretty lady, maybe I should come here more often.

She was drying raddish leaves, not that I knew it but she asked me if I know what is that. When she told me what it is I took a closer look and almost had a blast. The rope to hang the leaves is a UTP Cat 5 cable in perfect condition! Must be way cheaper here than in EU.

During dinner I was already quite drunk, I wasn't that pissed like I look.

When we got back home I had a few more beers and the next morning was pretty much disastrous. Woke up at 7 with a hangover and than a two hours ride to the working place. Luckily another misty morning, so no freaking sun in the eyes. We stopped for a short break on the sea shore. Yes. the sea is somwhere there, far away...

O hrani in prehranjevanju

Ko sem drugič jedel mongge (in to v istem tednu), so mi bili še manj všeč. Sklepam, da zato, ker sem jih prvič polagal v ustno votlino, obloženo s šestdeset procentnim šnopcem, drugič pa z bore dvajset procentnim. Kar precejšnja razlika. Sicer pa sem se na to spomnil, ker smo ta drugi mongge zaužili v restavraciji, ke je po mojem okusu. Ne ravno zaradi hrane, ampak zardi izbire. Je ni. Vem, sliši se absurdno, ampak ne vem, kako bi se bolje izrazil. Zato gremo po vrsti, kronološko. V Koreji so restavracije - večinoma - zelo ozko specializirane. Nudijo nekaj inačic iste vrste hrane in tu se konča. Hočeš čačangmjon? Greš v restavracijo, kjer ga delajo. Ssamgjopsal? Greš nekam drugam. In tako dalje. Tudi za nepismene tujce so pripravne, saj so skoraj vse okrašene s fotografijami hrane, ki jo nudijo. Ko sem v Slobeniji omenil, kako je to v redu, so me zatrli z argumentom svobodne izbire. Kakšne svobodne izbire, lepo prosim? Da greš v restavracijo in se ti ne sanja kaj nudijo, da ne veš kaj bi hotel jest in po možnosti vprašaš, kaj imajo danes dobrega. Neumno vprašanje, danes je vedno dobro tisto, česar včeraj niso prodali (ne da je v Koreji kaj drugače, da se razumemo, le da se to tukaj ve, uveljavljeni princip refill = reuse*). Kakorkoli, sedeš za mizo, počakaš, da ti blagovolijo prinest jedilni list, ki ga nato bereš pol ure, ko pride natakar ga seveda vprašaš, če imajo nekaj, česar sploh nisi videl na jedilnem listu in tako dalje. V redu, imaš svobodno izbiro se neumno obnašat, tudi to najbrž nekaj velja, vsakemu svoje. Meni restavracijo, kot tista pred 4 dnevi (mogoče že 6 dnevi, ker pišem v soboto zvečer, ne vem pa, kdaj bom objavil), kjer smo komaj našli prostor za tri in sem bil že zaskrbljen, koliko ur bomo čakali na večerjo. Spet lažem. Ker te misli nisem uspel dokončat, ko smo že bili postreženi. Popolnoma. Od obvezne vode in mokrih brisačk pa do riža, štirih vrst rakov, rakove juhe, kimčija, redkvinega kimčija, mongge in še vsaj pet prilog, ki jim ne vem imena. In to je edina hrana, ki jo v tej restavraciji strežejo. Sploh ne vprašajo, kaj bi želeli in mi nismo vprašali, kaj imajo danes dobrega. No, kasneje smo res kričali (saj ne da bi bili pjani, kje pa, le ostale goste smo morali preglasit), naj nam prinese še kako flašo sojuja pa še kimčija pa še riža pa sojuja in še malo sojuja... Res bi bil bolj vesel kakšne druge hrane, ampak nisem sem prišel, da bi Eskime učil led delat. In soju pomaga. In k dobri volji pripomore, da nismo bili v kaki priljubljeni turistični destinaciji. Kajti, ko sem se najbolj veselo basal z ogromni zeljnimi listi iz kimčija, v eni roki držal kozarček in z drugo lovil rakovico (ne, nimam še treh rok, zelje sem si zabasal v usta in s palčkami hitel po oklepu), me je Kwan Chol sunil pod rebra, da sem skoraj popljuval celo mizo z zeljem. Takoj sem pomislil, da je temu povod moj barbarski način hranjenja, ampak hudirja, saj samo oponašam okolico, prav v ničemer se ne razlikujem od ostalih gostov! No, tudi tu malce pretiravam, saj se dobro zavedam, da če me nekdo res dobro in natančno pogleda, potem vidi, da nisem domačin. Doma sem iz druge province. Na srečo me ni dregnil, ker sem oponašal ostale, ampak da mi pokaže kuharice. Kakšne kuharice? Tu, skoraj tik nad tabo (sedeli smo na tleh, jasno), poglej kako bulijo vate in se hihitajo! Sliko že imate: v levi kozarček sojuja, usta polna kimčija, da mi ličnice plapolajo kot Louisu Armstrongu na koncertu in med palčkami cel oklep rakovice. Dvignem pogled in vidim štiri narežane face na kuhinjskem oknu, res bulijo vame. Mogoče še nikoli niso videle tujca. Sploh pa ne takega, ki bi se obnašal kot Korejec.
Ja, ampak počutim se kot kreten. Pa kaj, res je, uživam v pijači in jedači. In se še jaz, s polnimi usti, zarežim nazaj in izdavim "Mašissojo!" (Odlično!) in nekaj zelja mi konča v bradi, nekaj na mizi, nekaj ga uspem požret. Kuharice postanejo evforične. Kwan Chol razloži, da so zdaj vse zaljubljene vame.

* Za tiste, ki ne poznajo principa refill/reuse: v Koreji so banchan, priloge, vedno zastonj. Tudi če ti petkrat dodajo kimči, še vedno plačaš samo glavno jed, ki si jo naročil (riž se tudi doplača). Trik je v temu, da gredo vsi ostanki banchanov z miz nazaj v lonec in ponovno uporabo. In, lepo vas prosim, ne se zmrdovat. Tu smo v Koreji, kjer hrano spoštujemo in cenimo, samo zahodnjaškim barbarom bi padlo na pamet pljunit v bančan ali ga kako drugače onečedit.

Breakfast at Misato's

V eni epizodi Evangeliona se je Shinji pritoževal, ker je Misato vsak zajtrk začela s pločevinko piva, nakar ga je poučila, da se pravi tradicionalni japonski zajtrk začne s sakejem. Shinji je v odgovor zamomljal, da je to bržkone tradicionalni zajtrk izključno pri njej.
V petek sva s Kwan Cholom zapustila najino gradbišče in se odpeljala k njemu domov, nekam v vukojebino, le kam pa drugam.

In sem spoznal še njegovo ženo in mlajšega sina. Med kuhanjem večerje - nič kaj nenavadnega, da so to bili spet špageti s korenčkom - mi je Kwan Chol asistiral in cel večer smo preživeli ob poslušanju klasične glasbe in pitju sladkih likerjev. Spanec me je premagal prvega in glasba me je zazibala v sen, prebudili pa so me prvi sončni žarki. Čeprav so vsi še spali, nisem hotel zamuditi trenutkov sončnega vzhoda, pohitel sem ven in butasto zrl v temačno obzorje. Sonce je bilo že visoko in je ravno pokukalo skozi luknjo v oblakih. Toliko o mojem ranem vstajanju. Že nekaj časa se kar ne morem naspat, najbrž poskušam nadoknadit zadnjih par let. Zadnji teden sem brez težav spal po deset ur vsako noč. In bi več, če me ne bi zbujali zjutraj.





Vseeno sem se sprehodil po okolici, po povratku pa se je iz hiše že slišalo nek sinfonični koncert in družina je veselo pripravljala zajtrk. Po vljudnih priklonih je Kim porinil proti meni kozarček in ga napolnil s sosedovim zvarkom, ki mu tu naivno rečejo vino. In "wine" tudi piše na steklenici, a kaj ko se v njej skriva čisto ta prava žganjica, ki v istrskih logih sliši na ime grappa in tukajšnja se ponaša s poštenimi dvainšestdesetimi procenti. Po jutru se dan pozna, a ne hvali dneva pred večerom. Kdo ve, kaj vse me še čaka!
Po zajtrku - ki ni bil sestavlje izključno iz grape, je bilo tudi kimčija in še marsičesa - dolg sprehod med riževimi polji in veliko volje za nič delat. Še skok v trgovino po olivno olje, uspem kupit baterije za fotoaparat in dobim sladoled. Za kosilo roštiljada in že med pripravljanjem roštilja se steklenice piv čudežno praznijo. Oblaki so se razkadili, kosilo na osončeni terasi je res prijetno. Kljub temu pa sonce ni dovolj močno, da bi segrelo pivo, kar je zelo v redu saj nam kar tekne.

Zdaj sem že malo zaskrbljen, kaj bo zvečer.
Pa da ne pozabim, saj najbrž sem edini, ki na veliko preklinja IBUS in si srčno želi nazaj SCIM, saj mi Linux preprosto ne dovoli več pisat v hangulu. In mi je dokaj sramotno vsakič ponovno zaganjat prenosnik v Windowse, kjer vse (ja, vse!) brezhibno deluje, tja od brežičnih omrežij pa do IME za korejščino. Po pretežno živčnem in besnem poskušanju, da bi usposobil hangul tipkovnico v Linuxu (ni šlo ne s podkupovanjem ne z grožnjami), sem po naključju naletel na priročno spletno mini aplikacijo, ki si jo imetnik Google računa doda v svoj domači www.google.com/ig - Korean Input Method. Kar je, kot pri vseh spletnih pripomočkih, najboljše, je dostop s kateregakoli računalnika. Poskusil sem najt kaj podobnega za moja niponofilska prijateljstva, a jih moram žal razočarat. Korejci smo spet en korak pred vami.
Nadaljujem dan kasneje, brez sumnikov. Vecerja ni bila nic grozovitnega, pravzaprav dolgocasna glede na pricakovanja ;-) Razumljivo, zjutraj sva ze dokaj zgodaj krenila na delovisce in uspesno dokoncala streho.



Za likof nama je ajuma pripravila poslastico...

Temu se tukaj rece 멍개. Ja, kar glej v kroznik, tam so tvoji bratje in sestre, ki jih bomo snedli.

Ampak presenecenjem ni in ni konca. Dobimo juhico, iz katere me pogleda nekaj... nekaj... nekaj takega:

In jaz naivno vprasam, kaj za ena morska bestija je to. Ajuma v smeh, pa ravno ti si dobil zelodec morske krastace... Dober tek!
Ampak brez prevajalnika bi se naprej zivel v nevednosti, kaj sem sploh jedel!

Yeosu

Seoul sem zapustil že pred par dnevi. Malo bežim pred snegom, malo iščem priložnosti, predvsem spoznavam ljudi.
V ponedeljek popoldan sem po spletu pregledal vozne rede korejskih železnic in v torek zjutraj me je na Seoul Station deklica na okencu debelo geldala, zakaj tam kupujem vozovnico za vlak za Yeosu. Ker ne, od tu pa vlak za Yeosu sploh ne vozi, moram na Yoksam Station. Hm, kaj pa če jaz v Cheonanu presedam, kaj potem? A lahko kupim le vozovnico za direktni vlak? Ne, moje neznanje korejščine je še vedno preborno, da bi se z njo to pogovarjal, ampak če bi imel voljo štirih presedanj na podzemni, bi že bil na Yoksam Station, ne tukaj. V redu punca, imaš prav, daj mi torej vozovnico za Cheonan. Ne ne, od tukaj ne vozi vlak za Yeosu. Razumem, jaz bi šel samo v Cheonan, če mi blagovoliš storiti to uslugo. Ne ne, od tu ne vozi vlak za Yeosu.
Prav mi bodi, kaj pa sem tako zabit, da se še vedno nisem naučil dovolj jezika. zapustim vrsto, se postavim pred drugo okence in kupim vozovnico za Cheonan. Prišedši tja brez težav dobim vozovnico za Yeosu, ampak z opozorilom, da v Seongdaejonu presedam. Hm, mar nisem pred eno uro nekaj slišal kot da ne poznajo presedanj? Mogoče jih res ne. Pride vlak, direkt za Yeosu. Čemu naj bi torej presedal? Do Songdaejona preučujem svojo vozovnico, nakar se mi le posveti, da moram tam presedat na drug sedež, na srečo v istem vagonu.
Yeosu. O tem mestu sem že pisal pred dvemi leti. Tu me je burja tako prepihala, da le kaj. In ne vem zakaj sem bil presenečen, ko sem izstopil v vetrovni večer in veter ni pojenjal še do danes. Včasih piha z vzhoda, včasih z zahoda, ampak tu, ker so na koncu polotoka, vsakič začudeno rečejo: O, je začelo pihat z morja. Dobro jutro.
Pred leti sem za Yeosu zapisal, da je prežet z vonjem po ribah. A lahko uganete, kakšna je hrana? Ribe za zajtrk, za kosilo in za večerjo. In alge. Še kimči daja po morju oziroma po morskih sadežih. Ampak teta pri kateri živimo, res dobro kuha. Hranimo se kot pujsi, pa ne pri koritu niti ne s pomijami, ampak količinsko. Teta je.. kako bi se to reklo.. gostiteljica mojega gostitelja. Wwoofam pri enemu tesarju, ki je dograjuje hišo in v tem času živi pri njej. Jaz tudi. In čeprav že dva dni delam s cirkularko, lahko še vedno pokažem vseh pet prstov. Na vsaki roki.
Seveda so tukaj tudi tesarji čudaki. Mi je včeraj rekel, naj mu prinesem štiri plohe dva za šest. Ah, to so neki korejski plohi, mi bi temu rekli deskice, najdem štiri podobne in mu jih prinesem, pa ni bil nič kaj zadovoljen. Odnesem nazaj na kup, vzaemem meter in merim in merim, dva za šest ne najdem, pa če se na glavo postavim. Pa me on na glavo postavi, pozabi na metrični sistem, tu imamo colarce. In zdaj je redno na spisku, ob vsakem merjenju, preverjanje o enotah, ki naj bi veljale za ta dan.






Danes sva bila spet pridna in se nam popoldan ni dalo kaj preveč delat. Nič zato, ni nam bilo dolgčas, saj naju je teta povabila na izlet z ostrigami. Upam, da bo delo tu trajalo še dolgo.