It's alive

By sheer stubborn will, the little Canon works again. I had given up on it after more than a week with no sign of life and was just off to a place that recycles these things when I pressed the power button on impulse and saw the dimmest glimmer of life. The screen read E-something error. I took my shoes off and hit the internet.

On the advice of some website, I took out the battery and tapped the camera on my desk. White powder, mineral deposits from Cheonggye Stream, fell out like dandruff and we were back in business. If only I had stopped there, I could have saved myself another week and a half of experimental tinkering.

I wanted to make it better than new so I took it apart with a mini-screwdriver set. I was careful, just not careful enough. It all became more complicated when a tiny part below the power button, apparently an important one, tinkled out of place. A lot of trial and error to figure out where it fit and how to get it to stay put while putting everything else back, besides taking the entire apartment apart to find a tiny screw I only thought had rolled off the table, and it was fixed for the second time. If only I had stopped there.

I went to Seolbong Park early next morning for some exercise before the heat wave drove me back to the air conditioning. A lot of people had the same idea. 7 in the morning and people were already working out and descending from the trail. I brought the camera along for a shot of the compressed air hose people use to blow dust and sweat from their shoes after a hike. The laptop gets this treatment once a month and it does wonders for performance. A good blast should have taken care of any deposits the desk taps had missed. It probably did but another essential part, apparently attached by just a microscopic dab of solder, fell off. I could still focus the lens but the shutter button wouldn't move.

There was no sense in quitting now even though I had two loose parts to finesse into place and hold still while reassembling the casing. I was in over my head but there was no stopping. I sat on one of three benches under a sun shelter and got to work.

I had been experimenting for almost an hour with the new broken piece when a random scary guy came by with his wife to hassle me. He didn't speak English. I don't speak Korean. Normal people just let it go with friendly smiles and move along. This guy kept talking away in a tone I didn't like while his horrible wife threw back her head and laughed at everything he said. I was not getting a good vibe from them at all. I would have loved to just ignore them but the man had no intention of allowing that to happen.

He pulled the hair on my arms and compared it with his smooth one. Children do that at school. They find it pretty fascinating. It's not something they see too often. But this guy was at least approaching my age and it was a total violation of personal space. There was nothing lacking in his non verbal skills as he offered several times to take my camera and smash it under his foot. His loud wife found that so funny. He reached through the buttons of my shirt, pulled my chest hair, grimaced and fanned his nose in disgust. The second grab for my arm hair confirmed I might be in for serious trouble when he showed me the gang tattoos, some kind of Asian characters, on his left arm.

I've been warned that if you get in a fight in Korea, all parties are arrested, even if you only acted in self-defense and that it is unheard of for the court to decide in a foreigner's favour. If you manage to gain the upper hand, you still owe the other guy blood money. It's a lose lose situation for everyone involved and besides all of this, I'm not a fighter at all while every man in this country has at least had a few years of military training. Of course, even with all these good reasons to play nice, fights still happen. Too much rage, alcohol, stupidity or plain meanness is all it takes for reason to vanish. The best advice is to get away from the situation. Run. And that goes double if you encounter a gang member.

Outside of the gangs, no one wears real tattoos in Korea. It isn't considered cool or attractive. I would have loved to get off the bench and walk away from this guy right then or run if he started to follow me. He was menacing and there was no telling how far he might go. But my camera was in pieces. Eventually he got up and left me alone after pulling my chest hair one more time and raising his shirt to show me his belly. I got lucky. Either by design or out of boredom, the woman walked away down the hill and he decided to follow, leaving me with a hand not quite steady enough to tinker with tiny camera parts so I packed it in and left soon after, once he was well out of sight.

Days later, I finally figured out that shutter button piece. In the right place, it looks upside down so it took a while. The camera works.

Here are some of the pictures taken on that fateful day at Bukhansan and Cheonggye Stream. The Youtube video from that day stops about 15 seconds before the Canon slipped out of my pocket.

Nobody needs two cameras and I found a great home for my personally refurbished Canon. From now on, I'll be playing with the water proof Olympus. It all ends well.

Return to Jebu-do

Back in May, I made a day trip to Jebu-do, a unique island on the east coast. The directions I had weren’t that good. I found very little information about this place on the web and none of the teachers I work with had ever been there either. I made it.

If you’re interested in an excursion, just get to the train station in Suwon. Don’t go inside. There’s a tourist bureau on the right. Unless things change, they’ll probably direct you to a big red bus, no. 1004, that parks right out in front and will take you to the nearby mainland town where another bus crosses the long causeway that disappears beneath the water at high tide. Don’t worry about finding that bus. You can’t miss it. Or hike across if you’re in the mood.


It was an agreeable way to spend a Sunday afternoon, hiking around the shoreline. I had to be back in Icheon for work the next day so I left well before the water rose. I wanted to return at least one more time when I could spend the night and watch the causeway sink and rise again.

Two weeks ago, I returned to Jebu-do with a horde of elementary school children. Our school took a big field trip to finish the year before summer vacation with a little adventure. Visiting the island on your own is so different than arriving with six big tour buses full of school children. Hiking the entire island was out of the question. Instead, we took little spades and dug in the mud of low tide for shellfish, a popular activity at Jebu-do, something I hadn’t done the first time around. We had fun. Some of us got rather wet and muddy but not a single person wiped out completely. What are the odds? And we walked all the way to the water’s edge, a considerable distance.





Kudos to whoever organized this trip. The organization was impressive. All of those children had to be fed. There was some arrangement for a tasty seafood noodle lunch right at the beach. Job well done.

The video is from the original solo journey

Two broken rules and one broken camera. Wah!

Cheonggye Stream downtown Seoul one cold December morning 2007.


Pictures probably make the difference between a rotten blog and a mediocre one.
In an attempt to make the most of my remaining time in Korea, I visited Mt. Bukhansan yesterday. I took a few pictures too but no one will be seeing them, not even me. I dropped the camera that has served me so well since April, 2006 in a stream.

I still have high hopes but low expectations that it will resurrect after a few days of drying. I read on the web that that sometimes happens. We’ll see. I have it in a container with some silicone gel bags to reduce mold. I may even take it apart today if I can find the right mini-screwdriver.


Summer in Korea is a very sweaty time and I found a nice alternative to hiking up the mountain right at the base where a cool stream rolled through big rocks. I found my spot by a small swimming hole worth about one good stroke in either direction. Daredevils slid down a steep smooth slope into the water. It looked a bit chancy to me. A bad landing could end in a serious head injury. I’ve been trying to cut down on that kind of excitement.

I had a giant high rock in the middle of the stream with a smooth depression in the center of the top the length of my body. Laying there, catching a sweet breeze after a nice dip in the cool water, I wasn’t surprised to find my book slipping out of my hands and I didn’t wake up until a park official peeked his head over the top to tell me I had to button my shirt. I had noticed that everyone else was splashing with their shirts on. They did that at Seonjong Beach in Busan too. I thought it was strange; never dreamed it was a rule. Well, rules are rules but Iwanted toknow why. He tried to explain but lacked the English words so as far as I can tell, it’s considered indecent for men to take their shirts off when swimming in streams in national parks. Maybe the same applies to public beaches.

This is not where I dropped the camera. A big storm seemed to be on the way so I drifted along back downtown to walk around in no particular direction and see things I’d missed before. When I stumbled across the Cheonggye Stream, I knew it was way past time to descend from the street and take a stroll along the banks.

Under a bridge, people sat on the bank to dangle their feet in the water and some waded out to the center. That gave me the brilliant idea to wade out to the center and walk the length in the water, snapping pictures from a different perspective. It looked easy. It’s an artificial stream, not too deep, and the bottom is made of flattish rocks. I didn’t get far, probably four stubborn steps at the most. The current was surprisingly strong and a bit of moss made those rocks nice and slippery. I was ready to give up but getting back wasn’t so easy. Realizing there was a solid chance I was going to fall and find my way back on hands and knees, I got ready to minimize the damage and toss the backpack onto the bank first. A friendly stranger gave a hand. I was ready. I lunged for a rock and my camera flew out of my shirt pocket. Dang. Lights out for the little Canon Powershot.

Some guy in a uniform came down to chase the waders back to the bank. Wading isn’t allowed there and it shouldn’t be. I think that’s the main job for this man and a few others I saw. Sitting on the bank with feet in the water is cool but the minute someone stands up in the water, these guys are there to tell them to sit back down again. Tempting as it is, that stream is rather hazardous. Lots of potential for head and spinal injuries. I was already on the bank by the time he arrived to chase the others but I suspect he made a special trip for me when someone reported on a walkie talkie that a stupid tourist thought he could wade the whole stream. I don’t know that for sure but he openly glared at me until I left the scene of the crime and his fixed hostile stare.

Sniff. Maybe the Canon is only in a coma. For now, it’s in intensive care, waiting for a sign of life before pulling the final plug. If the rain stops today, I’ll try drying it with that foot cleaner/ air compressor at Seolbong Park I use to blow the dust out of the laptop once a month.

Bus to Busan: Part 1: Hooker Hill

I have never successfully stood on a surf board and I still haven't after the adventure weekend to Seonjong Beach in Busan but I gave it my best.

Another teacher planned and paid for this trip for a couple of friends when one of them bailed, leaving an opening for me. Surfing? Of course I wanted to go. It involved a few sights of the area as well and two nights unfabulous accomodation.

Our preparation plans kept changing until we realized the only possible way was to spend the night in Itaewon, possibly my least favorite part of Seoul, where the Adventure Korea tour bus left at 6 AM.

Edgar had a twist of genius the night before. Why get a hotel when we could stay awake all night at the clubs and bars? Uh-uh. I wanted to surf and I was going to have whatever sleep I could manage.

It was 9 when I made it to Itaewon. The Lonely Planet Guide to Seoul recommended the Hilltop Hotel. I followed the crap map to a street by the quaint name of Hooker Hill but I wasn't too sure I had the right place. It was a hill. But was it Hooker Hill? Oh yes. Prostitutes started jumping out of doors in bras and panties saying "Yes. Come inside." This was the place. It was like a gauntlet. Some of them were pretty. I suspect they were window dressing and clients had to pick from plainer women inside while the sirens kept station at the door. I'll never know. I kept trudging up that hill, feeling a bit creeped out and smiling politely.

"No thank you."

"No thank you. Yes, you're pretty."

"No thanks. Just sleep. Good night."

They kept coming. All those eyes must have been watching from dark windows the entire trip. Every door sprang open just as I reached it.

The last one was the most aggressive, a dolled up transvestite with a sad attempt at a feminine voice who took me by the shoulder and tried to drag me (guilty pun) through the door. "It's okay. One minute. Special massage. Just one minute."

Well, my left shoulder was still aching after the bicycle accident but she wasn't a masseuse. And she had a penis! I think the assumption was that, since I'd passed up all the warm offers of real women en route, s/he must be what I was looking for. Sometimes good manners won't work, not with the persistent and desparate and business must have been slow that night. I pushed away with a much firmer "No thank you." than I'd given the others.

I stopped under the outdoor yellow light of a tavern to check the guide again. Some young soldiers hanging outside asked me what I was looking for and pointed me to the Hilltop Hotel, right at the hilltop. Only regulars could have known that. I couldn't see the sign on that dark street until I'd walked right up to it. Closed. I can't imagine business being poor for a hotel near all those clubs and bars. Probably health violations. Thank you so much, Lonely Planet Guide. An older haggard prostitute had been eavesdropping and stepped up to point me to another hotel down an alley with a single yellow bulb. It looked exactly the sort of dead end place an old crone with a million sad stories might endorse. I figured I'd lose something or catch something there so I said "No thank you. Good night." and faced the gauntlet on my way back. They wouldn't give up.

The guide book listed another place right above McDonald's at the far end of the Main Street. It was quieter down there, away from the bars. The hotel was there and open for business. I found the entrance at the back of a driveway, an isolated stairwell with no security cameras, leading to the desk on the third floor. Nobody to be seen. My "Anasayo" was answered by strained grunting noises behind a curtain like someone having a very difficult dump. Not wanting to intrude on such an important personal moment, I waited before making anymore noise. Eventually an exhausted man dragged himself out to give me a room key before collapsing on his cot again. No security cameras, dark halls and a night clerk in a coma. I suppose the arrangement was designed so guests wouldn't feel self-conscious about bringing home friends or stabbing someone in the hall but at least the clerk could hear you if you screamed loud enough.

That taken care of, time for a late dinner. Edgar and I were supposed to meet for dinner. I marched back to the subway station, past a huge and ugly bag lady who offered a special massage. Edgar kept calling to say he was almost there. Half an hour stretched to an hour. I gave up on him after he said he just got off at the Itaewon station, five minutes from the street. Never mind that those stairs take two minutes, he still hadn't emerged after 12. I timed him. The offer was still open from the bag lady.

I forgot my alarm clock. Luckily for me, Edgar was sticking to his all-night party animal plan and promised me a wake-up call. He had to be a better bet than the night clerk but he ended up ringing me at 5:45 instead of 5:00 and he was just about insensible.

"Edward! Meet me in front of the Hamilton Hotel. We'll go to McDonald's for breakfast."

"Edgar, I'm already at McDonald's."

"You're at McDonald's?"

"Yes, my hotel is right above McDonald's.

"Oh. OK. So meet me in front of the Hamilton and we'll walk down to McDonald's and have some breakfast."

Not a word I said was getting through. This went back and forth. He pretended to understand before telling me to meet him in front of the Hamilton. I had had some sleep but not quite enough and I lost patience.

"Edgar. I--am--at---McDonald's." A slow angry voice seemed to do the trick but I wasn't convinced until I saw him swaggering down the street.

The place was jammed with all night party people, mostly athletic looking army guys. I smelled potential trouble when Edgar started bragging about the fight he'd almost been in and doing sloppy make believe kung fu moves. Edgar is soft and overweight, a big fan of escalators. Definitely not a fighter. Anyone in the room could easily have hurt him. All the big guys just shrugged and rolled their eyes. But a short guy who I pegged as strong, fast and mean had this grin and gleam in his eye that I didn't like. "I'd love to see this guy get in a fight." It's wise to be wary of men who might have something to prove, especially at McDonald's first thing in the morning when women have given them the cold shoulder all night long and they're still stuck with just their buddies. This guy was strong but came up a little short of my shoulder and seemed ready to make a point about how tough short guys can be at a moment's notice.
I distracted Edgar immediately. "Get in line, man. Are you hungry?" That did the trick.
Edgar helped me order and I somehow ended up with two of everything. A pile of trays and garbage kept a prime sidewalk table available. Since no one else wanted to sit there, I set my bag on a chair and cleaned up the mess.
"No man, that's their job. Get them to clean it up."
There were easily twenty customers at that counter; not all of them were nice. We were running late. I had more greasy food than I wanted. Thirty seconds cut everybody concerned some slack.
Ariel, our third person, showed up. He'd been awake all night too but he was amiable and perfectly coherent. Never met him before. I liked him instantly. Yay. I had an ally to hustle Edgar along.


The bus was still there, full of very tired looking people.
I wasn't the crankiest person on board. That's always nice.

It works!

Wowee. I have a blog and nothing to say right now. This blog is to cut some slack for all the friends and acquaintances who made it on to my bulkmail list whether they wanted or not, some of whom will never visit here. Visits may be scarce. This isn't a fancy pop culture blog with tunes and videos; just another of those self-centered personal journals about the things I do and see.

Whether or not anyone comes here, this is open to the public so I'll have to watch my spelling and refrain from venting rage when the mood hits. This blog may even make me a better person. Does this mean I can never indulge in a long rant again?
Bookmark this if you like. It's bound to get better.

BTW Are Blogger's automated math skills worse than mine? I typed in my honest birth date and year and now my profile says I'm 46. Gosh, I feel younger. Let's see. Born in '61. It's 2008. I must be 47. That's what I've been telling everyone.