After a totally bizarre few days surrounded by dead bodies in Varanasi I head off to Kathmandu. The day almost starts in disaster when the young kid who assists in the running of the guest house decides that I am not leaving until he has got some baksheesh out of me. Baksheesh for those that have never travelled in Asia or the Middle East is like an informal service charge. Whilst travelling around these regions it is not uncommon to be asked by beggars, taxi drivers, hotel porters, waiters and just about anybody actually for baksheesh. Their justification for requesting this can sometimes be a valid reason, for example they have carried your bag for 2 miles. More often than not though it is people trying it on to see how much money they can extract from the perceived rich foreigner. This particular morning I was a victim of the latter type of baksheesh extractor.
My travel partners for the trip, a couple of Kiwi's that I had recently met in Varanasi had left the guest house a couple of minutes earlier than me whilst I got my morning head together. The distance involved between Varanasi and Kathmandu was some considerable mileage, which meant that it was a 5 am departure. I am never good in the mornings and had therefore not managed to get up when I should. As per usual my inadequacy at getting out of bed on time had left me in a very stressful rush. For those that have seen me in a stressful rush, I am sure that you will agree that it is not enjoyable experience. So when the guest house assistant, a kid of around 10 years old decides that it I am easy prey for a baksheesh trick, I am like a raging bull. I am late for my bus and this kid has the audacity to hide the key for the large bolted door which stands between me and the outside world. He puts the key behind his back and is saying "baksheesh, baksheesh, baksheesh". I am literally hopping mad. I hop from foot to foot and try and grab the key from behind the kids back, but they kid keeps evading my lunges. Eventually, the stress gets too much and I shout "baksheesh, how about the back of my hand". In blind rage I knock the kid to the floor, take the key from his hands and let myself out. Please note that this is a few days after I met Mother Theresa but already my new found charitable state of mind has dissipated.
I emerge onto the street and spot the Kiwi's who are also looking stressed and wondering where I have got to. They let out exclamations of annoyance but detect from my countenance that I am in no mood for protest and soon shut up. We hail a rickshaw to the station and just about make it to the Kathmandu bus on time. The bus is however rammed to the rafters which means that there is a possibility that we will have to stand for the next 10 hours. I am offered an alternative to ride on the bus roof and seize the opportunity with both hands. The Kiwi's decide better of it, so I ascend the ladder at the back of the bus alone.
On top of the bus there are around 20 Indian guys all wearing headdresses, long flowing robes and sandals. They appear to be honoured that I have come to join them on the roof and offer me a veritable feast of chapatis, samosas and chai. The bus sets off into the sunrise and I begin to relax. Although there is a language barrier, my new friends and I are getting on famously. There's a real party atmosphere up here and I'm trying to imagine the same scenario in Manchester. I have the image of a load of stiff upper lip British gentlemen with bowler hats and umbrella's, riding to work on the top of 473 bus, whilst sharing their bacon and eggs.
We're approximately an hour into the journey when one of my new friends pulls out a chillum (smoking pipe) and they all start to pass it around. At this point in my life I have only smoked weed on a few occasions and on 2 of these times I have managed to fall head first down flights of stairs. Now given that I am on top of a bus that's hurtling towards Kathmandu, I would say that to start blasting on this chillum would be a very bad idea. However, this thought does not cross my mind at the time and eager to enhance my pleasure levels I take my hit when the chance affords itself to me. After the initial coughing and spluttering has calmed down I realise that I am well and truly blasted. In fact everybody seems to be blasted and consequently having a wail of a time. Our roof top party has just taken on a new dimension and I am loving it. We're having a right laugh on the top of the bus, although I have no idea why. My mind is caught up in the absurdity of the situation and I am laughing so much it hurts. My friends get caught up in my laughter and this intensifies until one of the Indian guys yells something that I don't understand and the whole lot of them dive to the surface of the bus roof. I am dragged down by the 2 guys next to me and just in time.
I hear a whooshing sound and feel a rush of air whistling through my hair "What the fu..." I exclaim but have no chance to finish my sentence before I am dragged down again, "whoosh" , my god this time was even closer. This time I stay down and realise that this is a wise decision as I hear whoosh after whoosh for a period of about 2 minutes.
All around me these caped crusaders are rising up and they're all hysterically laughing. What's more I appear to be the target of their laughter. One for them helps me to my knee's and points behind me. I turn around and see that the stretch of road is littered with low hanging telephone wires. Remember now, I am totally stoned off my box and in no state to be avoiding wires that would no doubt garrote me. I try to give deep contemplation to my predicament but I'm so stoned that I keep forgetting what I am worried about. There's nothing I could do anyway. I am on a bus that's going faster than an Exocet missile and taking no prisoners. Anything that gets in the buses path gets a blast of the horn, if the obstacle does not take immediate action then it gets wiped out, it's as simple as that. My only alternative is to Indiana Jones it across the top of the bus, down the ladders and into the sensible persons compartment. If I was fully compus mentus then I would give my chances of carrying out this heroic act around a 10 percent possibility. In my current state of mental aberration I would give my chances of surviving this act of stupidity around 99 percent chance of death. I weigh it up for around 2 seconds and decide against.
We travel around another 10 telephone wireless miles and I am starting to chill out. The chillum comes in my direction once more and I even contemplate having another little toot. Fortunately my stronger self gets the better of me and I wave it away. I use the term fortunately because in the distance I see the next wave of wire predators. This time I am ready to limbo and even relishing the challenge. Here it comes, here it comes, "whoosh", I'm down and we're through to the next level. Next one, bring it on, "whoosh", ok that baby almost scalped me. I am getting more and more daring with each wire and have a little game of chicken going on with the Indian guys. We are seeing who can leave it the latest. My bravery has won their respect.
It takes a while to work out what they are saying but I eventually understand that the rest of the trip to Kathmandu is going to be telephone wire free. It appears that we have just passed through telephone wire valley and I've emerged triumphant at the other side. If this were a fairground, I'd be straight over to the t-shirt stall, to buy my "I've just survived telephone wire valley" memento. On the back of the t-shirt it would say "and I was stoned off my box". I am almost disappointed and realise that I will probably never experience anything like this again in my life. Safe in the knowledge that there are no more potentially lethal obstacles on the route to Kathmandu, I have another blast on the chillum. I lie back on my rucksack and feel totally at ease with the world. The sun is belting down, I'm the hero of my new mates and I am off to another country for 2 weeks of trekking. I am thinking that I am done with adventure for today but as I am to find out there is still one amazing travel memory to be discovered.
I have been dying for the the toilet for what seems like hours and I am in serious danger of soiling myself. So when the bus arrives in a village and people start to alight, I am eager to take my chance. I hear one of the Kiwi's shouting my name and peer over the top of the bus to see what they want. I am informed that this is the end of the line and we will have to wait for another bus here. It appears that I am not alone in my confusion, the whole bus has erupted into the type of erratic behaviour that all too frequently causes stampedes in these regions. I grab my bag and tread cautiously down the ladder. I am of course still spangled from the weed and no mood for hectic escapades. I ask the Kiwi's to guard my bag, wave goodbye to my new buddies on the roof and head for the toilet. Please note that the bus then goes hurtling off to where ever it is going and with it goes my camera, which I have mistakenly left on the roof. Nowadays losing your digital camera is a hindrance but you have usually got it stored or replicated by friends. But in those days, losing your camera was an absolute travesty, especially since this was the very roll of film which had the photo's of me with my arm around Mother Theresa. How many times I have tortured myself over this fact over the past 15 years.
We are in a village with one restaurant and more importantly one public toilet which I am informed is around the back of the restaurant and located on the edge of a precipice. I am both literally and metaphorically shitting myself as I edge towards the bamboo made structure that houses the toilet. I am walking over rough ground, wearing flip flops, stoned and in fear of falling off the end of the world. It is with great relief that I make it to the toilet without incident. Now, I am not expecting anything plush given that I am in a village in the middle of nowhere but I am also not prepared for the what I am about to receive. The toilet is a mud hole in the ground with some leaves surrounding the hole. This in itself is no surprise to me but what is a surprise is the fact that appears to be a creature down the hole awaiting it's dinner. I have assumed my position over the hole and am in mid turd before I feel this creatures snout hungrily sniffling around my ring piece. Had I noticed that there was a pig a mere few feet below me, I would have rather taken my business elsewhere but alas it was too late. I'm purging a days worth of Indian food and the pig seems to be feasting on his first food in days. Having a pig's snout circling your arse hole with intent is never great. This is made even worse by the fact that I am stoned and therefore hyper sensitive. I am not sure what is making the most noise, the Percy's squeals of delight or my squeals of anguish. Together we produce a harmonious accapella to grace any West End musical.
When I am reunited with my friends they pass comment on how pasty I am looking. They make enquiries about my well being and I'm thinking where do I begin to tell them this tale. I have battered a kid, travelled to Nepal on the roof of a bus, got totally stoned with a bunch of Indians, almost been garroted by telephone wires, lost my camera with a pictures of me and Mother Theresa in a romantic clinch, risked life and limb to take a dump and for the grand finale, I've just been rimmed by a pig.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Fat sweaty fake immigration officer
I thought I'd better write some new stuff rather than digging into my past as I have done in recent blogs. My reasoning for this is twofold. Firstly it is material that's fresh in my mind and therefore not tinged by the passing of time. Secondly, I want to prove to myself that I am able to still have great and funny experiences even though I have now entered into my fourth decade.
June 20th 2009
I am told to do my first weekend English camp and have no idea what this will entail. I am briefly informed that during the course of the afternoon I will have to play the role of a supermarket worker, waiter and immigration officer. I am also told that I will be working alongside another Western English teacher although no further information is provided.
I make my way to Yang Gok school to assist my co-teacher, Ina in getting the kids to the purpose built school somewhere in Changwon. Upon my arrival at Yang Gok school I am told that they have struggled to get the 20 required kids together and 8 of the kids have actually had to be forced into going. In South Korea kids are forced into education far too much. They go to school all day and then they are picked up at the school gates by buses supplied by private language academies, where they are deposited to endure their evening activities. The fact that these academies have such wonderful names as Toss English is a possible indicator of how below par South Korea really is in it's linguistic capabilities. In my opinion this forced education has to lot to answer for in South Korea's extremely high suicide rate. The pressure to succeed is unprecedented anywhere in the world.
I arrive at the English academy with a co teacher and 19 kids in tow. One kid has dropped out already, wasn't he the lucky one! We take off our shoes at the school entrance, as is custom in South Korea and follow 2 academy assistants to a waiting room upstairs. We are half an hour early and the other English teacher is yet to arrive. The kids sit and eat their pack lunches whilst Ina embarrassingly makes excuses for why she has not made me a packed lunch. Although the kids English language abilities are virtually non existent, they are finely tuned to the sensitivity of the situation and club together to make me a packed lunch.
I am informed by the assistant of the school that the other English teacher has arrived and is cooling down in the library. I am eager to see who he is and start walking towards the library to introduce myself. However, as I am halfway across the room, the school assistant stands in front of me and mumbles something like "let him cool down first, he's just walked here".In Summer time South Korea, I am informed is an extremely humid place. Today, it is hot and sticky but nowhere near what we are about to experience in August. Personally I feel mildly affected by the weather today and have a few beads of sweat on my head. With this in mind I return to my seat and wait for my Western co assistant to emerge.
Ten minutes later the library doors are literally flung open and an exceedingly overweight, ridiculously sweaty, old American guy launches himself into the arena of education. He proceeds to walk around the room at pace opening windows, shutting doors, turning on fans and generally preparing the room to his exact specifications. He does this in a robotic manner without looking anybody in the eye. This is his routine and it is apparent that nobody can talk to him until he is ready to talk. Maybe a little cruel to say this but if you saw this guy on a paedophile most wanted list you would not be in the least surprised. He has a mop of greasy, sweaty hair complete with centre parting, and his belly protrudes well beyond the belt of his trousers. He is wearing a pair of dirty chino trousers and a ragged old dirty shirt. He oozes sweat from his every pore and in his hand he clenches a hankie which he periodically uses to wipe his brow. This sweaty hankie ends up in his mouth on many occasions throughout the afternoon, as he delves both hands into a candy bag to throw sweets to the better achieving kids. Finally, his routine complete, he stands in front of the class and we all await his words.
He stands and he stares at the kids. He does not have to speak for me to realise that this guy is nasty, he's a power tripper, he enjoys putting fear into kids. He is lacking something in his life and bullying kids is compensation for that which he lacks. When he finally decides that we should be graced by his words, he bellows them at us with such velocity and volume that we all reel back in our seats in fear. His voice is loud and I'm talking Jack Black loud. I can't exactly remember his opening words but they went something like this,
"These are the rules kids, when I speak you listen, when I don't speak you listen and god forbid if you speak when I don't tell you that can speak". He then goes on to tell the kids,
"today kids we are here to have FUN, what are we here for"? This last question is hit by a wall of silence. This visibly angers him and prompts him to wipe his sweaty brow with his now sodden hankie. I am drawn towards this action with a disgusting fascination. I watch in detail as his perspiration soaked hankie squelches across his forehead, like a sponge soaking up spilt milk on a kitchen surface.
"I said T-o-d-a-y we are here to have FUN, FUN, FUN, do you kids no what FUN is hey"? Once again a wall of silence.
"Oh, so that's the game is it, you kids can't speak English can you "?
"So am I wasting my time"?
"Put up your hands up kids if you can speak English". No hands are raised. The only sounds are the sweat dripping off the guys head and hitting the floor and 21 heartbeats thumping like bass drums. When it is established that no kid is going to respond to his question, Tom (his name) picks on one kid,
"you boy, stand up". The poor kid stands up and takes a public humiliation for the whole class,
"Can you speak English boy"? Once again silence.
"I said can you speak English boy"? The poor kid is terrified and has not got a clue what the guy is saying to him.
"What's your name boy?"
"Do your have a name boy"?
The kid in question shyly mumbles his name "Lee Hoon Hyunoun".
"NO,NO NO, NO, it is not Lee Hoon Hyunoun", bellows the sweaty American. I'm thinking to myself, how in gods name does he know that this kid is not called Lee Hoon Hyunoun. My question is soon answered.
"This is not a Korean class boy, you may be Lee Hoon Hyunoun in Korea but Internationally speaking you're Hyunoun Hoon Lee -oookkkaayyyy". The way he says oookkkaaayyy really grates on my nerves, it's really creepy and it is a word that he is to use thousands of times during the course of the afternoon.
"Rule number 1 today kids, is International language, not Korea, not American, I-n-t-e-r-n-a-t-i-o-n-a-l language oookkkaayyy".
"So what's rule number 1", once again no response. He throws this question to the kids at least 10 more times throughout the afternoon and they respond in fear, like Pavlov's dogs.
I could go on for hours rattling this type of dialogue off and believe me there were some gems in there. However, I assume that you get the gist of the afternoon's conversation and general public humiliation. At one point he leaves the room and shouts to me as he is leaving the room,
"Hey Paul, entertain the kids man, yeah, keep them entertained, whilst I set up the first activity". Before I have time to protest with him that my name is Andy not Paul, he has left the room and is storming off down the corridor like Storming Norman. I turn to the kids and have no idea how to follow this act.
"Right kids, are you enjoying yourselves"? I mumble. This is met by a sea of blank faces, so I employ a new tactic.
"How do you like the fat guy"? I say whilst making a big fat belly shape with my hands. Once again there is no reaction.
"You know fat guy", I say whilst pointing down the corridor and once again making a big fat belly shape. This time I get a reaction. The kids look at me and begin to nervously smile. Great, I think, I'm in.
"Yes, he's so fat, he's eaten all the pizza's", they start to laugh and a few of them are making belly shapes with their hands. I'm on a roll now.
"He is so fat and sweaty that he stinks", I mimic him wiping the sweat from his forehead and then hold my nose to insinuate a bad smell". Brilliant, the kids are loving it, even the ones that don't understand any English have been informed of my conversation by their friends.
"He's so loud and crazy", I say raising my finger to my temple and spinning it around in circles to signify craziness. The kids are now in their element. Some of them are making big fat belly gestures, others are holding their noses and the rest are making the crazy gesture. All are laughing and letting loose after their hour of tension.
Now, those of you that know me are probably cringing already and know what is going to happen next. I have got so carried away with my actions that I have not been paying any attention to my surroundings. I feel a tap on the shoulder and turn around to be confronted by the object of my ridicule. I literally freeze, my heart almost shocked into submission.
"So Paul, you like to make fun do you boy"?, just like the kids, I have no answer to his question.
"erm no", I say with the conviction of a red handed thief.
"Well, that's not what it looks like to me ooookkkayyyy, I've just stood and watched you telling the kids that I'm a fat, smelly, crazy guy". I have no comeback, how could I, there are 19 kids stood in front of me either making big belly shapes, holding their noses or twirling their fingers around in crazy motions. At this point, Tom literally explodes.
"Ooookkkayyy, that's enough", he points at the kids and shouts "stop". This time they understand him. They all stop and look at me, as if to say -teacher Andy said it was ok.
"Oooookkkkayyy boy", he shouts at me.
" The supermarket scenario is set up, you go there and role play with the kids. I'll stay here and do the immigration role play". I try to move but am literally frozen to the spot, my knee's are knocking and my heart beat is erratic.
"I said GO, lets get this day over with boy". This time I give it legs, out of the door and assume my position behind my make shift cash desk.
Thank god that this is the last activity and I do not have to endure this for much longer. The kids walk into the pretend supermarket and buy their goods using their very limited English speaking abilities and I stumble through the charade the best I can with my mind in a totally different place. In the distance I can hear Tom's voice booming from up the corridor in his makeshift immigration office.
"No boy, your nationality is not Korean, it's ROK , Republic of Korea, ooookkkkaayyy. What is wrong with you kids"?
After this activity, we are have a group photograph and Tom appears behind me in a puppets mask, I feel his sweaty palm on the back of my neck and he whispers, "Don't ever let me hear you making fun of me again boy oookkkayyyy". I shake my head and then smile for the camera.
Upon exiting the building I feel a great sense of relief. Bidding farewell to my kids, I head for the nearest bar.
June 20th 2009
I am told to do my first weekend English camp and have no idea what this will entail. I am briefly informed that during the course of the afternoon I will have to play the role of a supermarket worker, waiter and immigration officer. I am also told that I will be working alongside another Western English teacher although no further information is provided.
I make my way to Yang Gok school to assist my co-teacher, Ina in getting the kids to the purpose built school somewhere in Changwon. Upon my arrival at Yang Gok school I am told that they have struggled to get the 20 required kids together and 8 of the kids have actually had to be forced into going. In South Korea kids are forced into education far too much. They go to school all day and then they are picked up at the school gates by buses supplied by private language academies, where they are deposited to endure their evening activities. The fact that these academies have such wonderful names as Toss English is a possible indicator of how below par South Korea really is in it's linguistic capabilities. In my opinion this forced education has to lot to answer for in South Korea's extremely high suicide rate. The pressure to succeed is unprecedented anywhere in the world.
I arrive at the English academy with a co teacher and 19 kids in tow. One kid has dropped out already, wasn't he the lucky one! We take off our shoes at the school entrance, as is custom in South Korea and follow 2 academy assistants to a waiting room upstairs. We are half an hour early and the other English teacher is yet to arrive. The kids sit and eat their pack lunches whilst Ina embarrassingly makes excuses for why she has not made me a packed lunch. Although the kids English language abilities are virtually non existent, they are finely tuned to the sensitivity of the situation and club together to make me a packed lunch.
I am informed by the assistant of the school that the other English teacher has arrived and is cooling down in the library. I am eager to see who he is and start walking towards the library to introduce myself. However, as I am halfway across the room, the school assistant stands in front of me and mumbles something like "let him cool down first, he's just walked here".In Summer time South Korea, I am informed is an extremely humid place. Today, it is hot and sticky but nowhere near what we are about to experience in August. Personally I feel mildly affected by the weather today and have a few beads of sweat on my head. With this in mind I return to my seat and wait for my Western co assistant to emerge.
Ten minutes later the library doors are literally flung open and an exceedingly overweight, ridiculously sweaty, old American guy launches himself into the arena of education. He proceeds to walk around the room at pace opening windows, shutting doors, turning on fans and generally preparing the room to his exact specifications. He does this in a robotic manner without looking anybody in the eye. This is his routine and it is apparent that nobody can talk to him until he is ready to talk. Maybe a little cruel to say this but if you saw this guy on a paedophile most wanted list you would not be in the least surprised. He has a mop of greasy, sweaty hair complete with centre parting, and his belly protrudes well beyond the belt of his trousers. He is wearing a pair of dirty chino trousers and a ragged old dirty shirt. He oozes sweat from his every pore and in his hand he clenches a hankie which he periodically uses to wipe his brow. This sweaty hankie ends up in his mouth on many occasions throughout the afternoon, as he delves both hands into a candy bag to throw sweets to the better achieving kids. Finally, his routine complete, he stands in front of the class and we all await his words.
He stands and he stares at the kids. He does not have to speak for me to realise that this guy is nasty, he's a power tripper, he enjoys putting fear into kids. He is lacking something in his life and bullying kids is compensation for that which he lacks. When he finally decides that we should be graced by his words, he bellows them at us with such velocity and volume that we all reel back in our seats in fear. His voice is loud and I'm talking Jack Black loud. I can't exactly remember his opening words but they went something like this,
"These are the rules kids, when I speak you listen, when I don't speak you listen and god forbid if you speak when I don't tell you that can speak". He then goes on to tell the kids,
"today kids we are here to have FUN, what are we here for"? This last question is hit by a wall of silence. This visibly angers him and prompts him to wipe his sweaty brow with his now sodden hankie. I am drawn towards this action with a disgusting fascination. I watch in detail as his perspiration soaked hankie squelches across his forehead, like a sponge soaking up spilt milk on a kitchen surface.
"I said T-o-d-a-y we are here to have FUN, FUN, FUN, do you kids no what FUN is hey"? Once again a wall of silence.
"Oh, so that's the game is it, you kids can't speak English can you "?
"So am I wasting my time"?
"Put up your hands up kids if you can speak English". No hands are raised. The only sounds are the sweat dripping off the guys head and hitting the floor and 21 heartbeats thumping like bass drums. When it is established that no kid is going to respond to his question, Tom (his name) picks on one kid,
"you boy, stand up". The poor kid stands up and takes a public humiliation for the whole class,
"Can you speak English boy"? Once again silence.
"I said can you speak English boy"? The poor kid is terrified and has not got a clue what the guy is saying to him.
"What's your name boy?"
"Do your have a name boy"?
The kid in question shyly mumbles his name "Lee Hoon Hyunoun".
"NO,NO NO, NO, it is not Lee Hoon Hyunoun", bellows the sweaty American. I'm thinking to myself, how in gods name does he know that this kid is not called Lee Hoon Hyunoun. My question is soon answered.
"This is not a Korean class boy, you may be Lee Hoon Hyunoun in Korea but Internationally speaking you're Hyunoun Hoon Lee -oookkkaayyyy". The way he says oookkkaaayyy really grates on my nerves, it's really creepy and it is a word that he is to use thousands of times during the course of the afternoon.
"Rule number 1 today kids, is International language, not Korea, not American, I-n-t-e-r-n-a-t-i-o-n-a-l language oookkkaayyy".
"So what's rule number 1", once again no response. He throws this question to the kids at least 10 more times throughout the afternoon and they respond in fear, like Pavlov's dogs.
I could go on for hours rattling this type of dialogue off and believe me there were some gems in there. However, I assume that you get the gist of the afternoon's conversation and general public humiliation. At one point he leaves the room and shouts to me as he is leaving the room,
"Hey Paul, entertain the kids man, yeah, keep them entertained, whilst I set up the first activity". Before I have time to protest with him that my name is Andy not Paul, he has left the room and is storming off down the corridor like Storming Norman. I turn to the kids and have no idea how to follow this act.
"Right kids, are you enjoying yourselves"? I mumble. This is met by a sea of blank faces, so I employ a new tactic.
"How do you like the fat guy"? I say whilst making a big fat belly shape with my hands. Once again there is no reaction.
"You know fat guy", I say whilst pointing down the corridor and once again making a big fat belly shape. This time I get a reaction. The kids look at me and begin to nervously smile. Great, I think, I'm in.
"Yes, he's so fat, he's eaten all the pizza's", they start to laugh and a few of them are making belly shapes with their hands. I'm on a roll now.
"He is so fat and sweaty that he stinks", I mimic him wiping the sweat from his forehead and then hold my nose to insinuate a bad smell". Brilliant, the kids are loving it, even the ones that don't understand any English have been informed of my conversation by their friends.
"He's so loud and crazy", I say raising my finger to my temple and spinning it around in circles to signify craziness. The kids are now in their element. Some of them are making big fat belly gestures, others are holding their noses and the rest are making the crazy gesture. All are laughing and letting loose after their hour of tension.
Now, those of you that know me are probably cringing already and know what is going to happen next. I have got so carried away with my actions that I have not been paying any attention to my surroundings. I feel a tap on the shoulder and turn around to be confronted by the object of my ridicule. I literally freeze, my heart almost shocked into submission.
"So Paul, you like to make fun do you boy"?, just like the kids, I have no answer to his question.
"erm no", I say with the conviction of a red handed thief.
"Well, that's not what it looks like to me ooookkkayyyy, I've just stood and watched you telling the kids that I'm a fat, smelly, crazy guy". I have no comeback, how could I, there are 19 kids stood in front of me either making big belly shapes, holding their noses or twirling their fingers around in crazy motions. At this point, Tom literally explodes.
"Ooookkkayyy, that's enough", he points at the kids and shouts "stop". This time they understand him. They all stop and look at me, as if to say -teacher Andy said it was ok.
"Oooookkkkayyy boy", he shouts at me.
" The supermarket scenario is set up, you go there and role play with the kids. I'll stay here and do the immigration role play". I try to move but am literally frozen to the spot, my knee's are knocking and my heart beat is erratic.
"I said GO, lets get this day over with boy". This time I give it legs, out of the door and assume my position behind my make shift cash desk.
Thank god that this is the last activity and I do not have to endure this for much longer. The kids walk into the pretend supermarket and buy their goods using their very limited English speaking abilities and I stumble through the charade the best I can with my mind in a totally different place. In the distance I can hear Tom's voice booming from up the corridor in his makeshift immigration office.
"No boy, your nationality is not Korean, it's ROK , Republic of Korea, ooookkkkaayyy. What is wrong with you kids"?
After this activity, we are have a group photograph and Tom appears behind me in a puppets mask, I feel his sweaty palm on the back of my neck and he whispers, "Don't ever let me hear you making fun of me again boy oookkkayyyy". I shake my head and then smile for the camera.
Upon exiting the building I feel a great sense of relief. Bidding farewell to my kids, I head for the nearest bar.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Spanish balcony tale
It's July 1988 and I'm on my first holiday without my parents. I'm a 19 yr old Jack the lad, with only 2 things on my mind, girls and beer, not necessarily in that order. The destination says it all, Calella Spain, that bastion of tackiness. The place is full of English lads from Wolverhampton, Luton, Derby and other provincial English towns. At least 20 percent of them are wearing Union Jack shorts and 10 percent wear the full Union Jack regalia, including socks. The English girls bronze by day and show off their sun blessed breasts by night.
Being rather repressed in my teenage years, I am finally off the lead and my libido is running wild. Drinking commences at Manchester airport and a delayed flight and subsequent drinking session, almost sees the holiday ending at Manchester airport. I am warned three times about my raucous behaviour and told that I will not board the plane if it continues. Eventually we board the plane and my last memory is of walking down the aisle of the plane shaking every one's hand.
I wake up in my hotel bedroom with only a vague recollection of how I got there. I am on holiday with a work colleague that I hardly know. Due to a cancellation by one of his friends, I have stepped in at the 11Th hour and consequently I am now upside down in bed, steaming drunk and lucky to be in Spain at all. With intentions of lots of sexy action we have taken 2 single rooms so as not to intrude on each others nocturnal pastimes. I compose myself and go to bang on Adrian's door (the names have not been changed to protect the innocent). It turns out that I have slept for half the day after apparently making a complete fool out of myself on the guided tour from the airport to the hotel, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you care to look to to your left, you will see a semi naked, comatose teenager strewn all over the coach seats with his penis hanging out of his shorts".
We head off to a bar called the "Frog and Toad" for the usual holiday rep spiel. This is to become our very nonspiritual home for the next 2 weeks. Arriving late for our cheesy holiday rundown, I emerge into the crowd of tattooed, dart playing, Sun readers to a rather hostile reception. It is obvious that I have offended many people and it's still the first day. We are given the holiday rules and regulations with all the sterner points being cast in my direction. It would appear that I have become public enemy number one on all fronts. I don't really care because I have hit the Pernod and lemonades already (somehow my drink of choice for this holiday and something that I have never indulged in since). Within 30 minutes I am totally pissed and remain in this state for the next 2 weeks.
Adrian and I stay out all night and pull these 2 girls from the Wirral. We end up back at theirs and amazingly achieve our aims on the first night. I say amazingly because up till this point I have only ever slept with one other girl. I fall asleep in her bed and I am awoken some hours later by a drunken fracas in the street. I stagger to the window and stick my head out. What I see below can only be described as a running battle. English guys are running down the street throwing tables at the armed police who are rather vexed by their actions and proceed to beat them with big sticks. I am excited by my findings and decide to fill a condom with water and throw it at the Spanish riot squad. I am both jubilant and scared when the condom explodes on a policeman's helmet. My fear is intensified as I hear a dozen pair of jackbooted feet running down the hotel corridor. Fortunately the riot squad pinpoint the wrong room and consequently end up dragging some innocent victims from their beds, depositing them into the back of a riot van. Rather perturbed by my close shave I retire to bed.
The holiday continues in similar vein for the next 2 weeks although Adrian is sick for 12 out of the 14 days and spends the holiday in bed. The first 7 days he has the shits and when he finally emerges from his pit on day eight he ends up with severe sunburn to his feet. I spend the latter part of the holiday covering his feet in yogurt every night before I head off on my teenage endeavours.
It seems that I have befriended every single person in Callela and cannot walk down the street without being stopped a thousand times. The closest group of friends that I have met it is a trio of guys from Wolverhampton who have taken upon themselves to refer to me as Boysey, "Alreeet Boysey theer, yam doing ok"? On about day 8 of the holiday I am staggering back from a club at 5 am and chance upon one of the boysey boys. Until this point I hasten to add I have pulled every single night (no idea how, this was an unprecedented time in my life),however tonight I am returning home alone. The Boysey boy calls me over and during the conversation it transpires that one of the girls in the room underneath his, has been making enquiries about me. I need no encouragement and decide to follow Boysey boy back to his room.
Ten minutes later and much to the alarm of the Boysey, I am hanging over the balcony of his room and trying to drop into the girls room below. He is sober enough to know that this is a really bad idea and urges me not to do it. In retrospect I should have listened to him, although I would not be writing this tale now if I had. As it turns out I am lucky to be recounting this story at all. I am a man possessed, I've had a taste of the female form and I am addicted. Boysey's words fall on deaf ears and before you know it I have scaled the balcony fence and am descending faster than Linford Christie towards the Spanish street below. I forgot to point out that this is all happening on a 10 Th floor room which is approximately 100 ft in the air. If I was a cat, what happened next would have used up 8 of my 9 lives.
The balconies of this hotel are not cantilevered, there is nothing to catch my fall at all. I am heading towards the ground at rapid rate of knots and from a bystanders point of view I am going home in a body bag. Fortunately, I am so drunk that I am oblivious to my possible fatal ending and quite enjoying the feeling of the wind rushing through my hair. My feet actually hit the intended target of the girls balcony, but they hit the balustrade with such force that I am sent reeling backwards. It is only when I am flailing at a 45 degree angle that I sort of realise that this was not in the script. If I didn't believe in destiny before this night I soon changed my mind afterwards. In some bizarre act of divine intervention, my flailing out stretched hand manages to latch on to a cluster of telephone wires and my descent is arrested in a very abrupt manner.
It's around 5.30 in the morning, the sun is rising on another beautiful Costa Dorado morning and I'm hanging by one hand from a telephone wire, completely drunk out of my mind. I am in blissful ignorance of the situation and have a big grin upon my countenance, as I happily swing around in an Orangutan type fashion. In the corner of my eye I spot boysey who appears to have turned green. I shout "boysey" , but he is in too much shock to return my conversation. He eventually regains his composure and says "I can't believe you just did that Boyse". At least I think that's what he said because his voice is shaking like a shitting dog. Although he in shock his next question raises some alarm bells; "what the fook you going to do now boysey?".
My next feat of superhuman endurance would not have been possible without veins full of alcohol. I tell Boysey to brace himself and begin to swing on the telephone wire. Soon I have enough momentum and let loose of my life line. I fly through the air with the greatest of ease and my feet crash through the shutter blinds of my intended targets room. I land half in, half out of the girls bedroom. In hindsight I really wish I had made the effort to buy some Milk Tray to finish this act off in style.
There are 3 beds in the room occupied by 3 girls. Upon hearing their shutter blinds forcibly opened, they virtually leap from their beds to be confronted by yours truly, with grin still firmly etched upon countenance. I bid them good morning and introduce myself as room service. I let myself out and after letting boysey know that all is good I retire to my pit. I become known as superman for the rest of the holiday.
The shock of what occurred that night in Callela only hit me 6 months later and has cost me several sleepless nights since, as I have flashbacks to what could have been.
Being rather repressed in my teenage years, I am finally off the lead and my libido is running wild. Drinking commences at Manchester airport and a delayed flight and subsequent drinking session, almost sees the holiday ending at Manchester airport. I am warned three times about my raucous behaviour and told that I will not board the plane if it continues. Eventually we board the plane and my last memory is of walking down the aisle of the plane shaking every one's hand.
I wake up in my hotel bedroom with only a vague recollection of how I got there. I am on holiday with a work colleague that I hardly know. Due to a cancellation by one of his friends, I have stepped in at the 11Th hour and consequently I am now upside down in bed, steaming drunk and lucky to be in Spain at all. With intentions of lots of sexy action we have taken 2 single rooms so as not to intrude on each others nocturnal pastimes. I compose myself and go to bang on Adrian's door (the names have not been changed to protect the innocent). It turns out that I have slept for half the day after apparently making a complete fool out of myself on the guided tour from the airport to the hotel, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you care to look to to your left, you will see a semi naked, comatose teenager strewn all over the coach seats with his penis hanging out of his shorts".
We head off to a bar called the "Frog and Toad" for the usual holiday rep spiel. This is to become our very nonspiritual home for the next 2 weeks. Arriving late for our cheesy holiday rundown, I emerge into the crowd of tattooed, dart playing, Sun readers to a rather hostile reception. It is obvious that I have offended many people and it's still the first day. We are given the holiday rules and regulations with all the sterner points being cast in my direction. It would appear that I have become public enemy number one on all fronts. I don't really care because I have hit the Pernod and lemonades already (somehow my drink of choice for this holiday and something that I have never indulged in since). Within 30 minutes I am totally pissed and remain in this state for the next 2 weeks.
Adrian and I stay out all night and pull these 2 girls from the Wirral. We end up back at theirs and amazingly achieve our aims on the first night. I say amazingly because up till this point I have only ever slept with one other girl. I fall asleep in her bed and I am awoken some hours later by a drunken fracas in the street. I stagger to the window and stick my head out. What I see below can only be described as a running battle. English guys are running down the street throwing tables at the armed police who are rather vexed by their actions and proceed to beat them with big sticks. I am excited by my findings and decide to fill a condom with water and throw it at the Spanish riot squad. I am both jubilant and scared when the condom explodes on a policeman's helmet. My fear is intensified as I hear a dozen pair of jackbooted feet running down the hotel corridor. Fortunately the riot squad pinpoint the wrong room and consequently end up dragging some innocent victims from their beds, depositing them into the back of a riot van. Rather perturbed by my close shave I retire to bed.
The holiday continues in similar vein for the next 2 weeks although Adrian is sick for 12 out of the 14 days and spends the holiday in bed. The first 7 days he has the shits and when he finally emerges from his pit on day eight he ends up with severe sunburn to his feet. I spend the latter part of the holiday covering his feet in yogurt every night before I head off on my teenage endeavours.
It seems that I have befriended every single person in Callela and cannot walk down the street without being stopped a thousand times. The closest group of friends that I have met it is a trio of guys from Wolverhampton who have taken upon themselves to refer to me as Boysey, "Alreeet Boysey theer, yam doing ok"? On about day 8 of the holiday I am staggering back from a club at 5 am and chance upon one of the boysey boys. Until this point I hasten to add I have pulled every single night (no idea how, this was an unprecedented time in my life),however tonight I am returning home alone. The Boysey boy calls me over and during the conversation it transpires that one of the girls in the room underneath his, has been making enquiries about me. I need no encouragement and decide to follow Boysey boy back to his room.
Ten minutes later and much to the alarm of the Boysey, I am hanging over the balcony of his room and trying to drop into the girls room below. He is sober enough to know that this is a really bad idea and urges me not to do it. In retrospect I should have listened to him, although I would not be writing this tale now if I had. As it turns out I am lucky to be recounting this story at all. I am a man possessed, I've had a taste of the female form and I am addicted. Boysey's words fall on deaf ears and before you know it I have scaled the balcony fence and am descending faster than Linford Christie towards the Spanish street below. I forgot to point out that this is all happening on a 10 Th floor room which is approximately 100 ft in the air. If I was a cat, what happened next would have used up 8 of my 9 lives.
The balconies of this hotel are not cantilevered, there is nothing to catch my fall at all. I am heading towards the ground at rapid rate of knots and from a bystanders point of view I am going home in a body bag. Fortunately, I am so drunk that I am oblivious to my possible fatal ending and quite enjoying the feeling of the wind rushing through my hair. My feet actually hit the intended target of the girls balcony, but they hit the balustrade with such force that I am sent reeling backwards. It is only when I am flailing at a 45 degree angle that I sort of realise that this was not in the script. If I didn't believe in destiny before this night I soon changed my mind afterwards. In some bizarre act of divine intervention, my flailing out stretched hand manages to latch on to a cluster of telephone wires and my descent is arrested in a very abrupt manner.
It's around 5.30 in the morning, the sun is rising on another beautiful Costa Dorado morning and I'm hanging by one hand from a telephone wire, completely drunk out of my mind. I am in blissful ignorance of the situation and have a big grin upon my countenance, as I happily swing around in an Orangutan type fashion. In the corner of my eye I spot boysey who appears to have turned green. I shout "boysey" , but he is in too much shock to return my conversation. He eventually regains his composure and says "I can't believe you just did that Boyse". At least I think that's what he said because his voice is shaking like a shitting dog. Although he in shock his next question raises some alarm bells; "what the fook you going to do now boysey?".
My next feat of superhuman endurance would not have been possible without veins full of alcohol. I tell Boysey to brace himself and begin to swing on the telephone wire. Soon I have enough momentum and let loose of my life line. I fly through the air with the greatest of ease and my feet crash through the shutter blinds of my intended targets room. I land half in, half out of the girls bedroom. In hindsight I really wish I had made the effort to buy some Milk Tray to finish this act off in style.
There are 3 beds in the room occupied by 3 girls. Upon hearing their shutter blinds forcibly opened, they virtually leap from their beds to be confronted by yours truly, with grin still firmly etched upon countenance. I bid them good morning and introduce myself as room service. I let myself out and after letting boysey know that all is good I retire to my pit. I become known as superman for the rest of the holiday.
The shock of what occurred that night in Callela only hit me 6 months later and has cost me several sleepless nights since, as I have flashbacks to what could have been.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
The ex president, Jehovah's witnesses, Kim Jong Il and swine flu
After a relatively quiet period, three items dominate Korean news all at once. The Korean people's reaction to these items can can be seen as a reflection of the Korean mentality in general.
I am sat at home on a Saturday afternoon writing up my memoirs, when I decide to flick onto the BBC website to see what is going on in the world. Surprisingly the main headline is from South Korea where the ex president is reported to have fallen off a mountain. The fact that this has occurred just over the mountain from where I sit writing, adds an eery edge to the afternoon. Within the short BBC article there is a brief mention of the presidents fraudulent past and a suspicion of suicide. Oh no, I think sarcastically, foul play in South Korea - how can that be?
As I am reading the article there is a knock on the door. I answer and am confronted by two Jehovah's witnesses. Before I have chance to politely decline their conversation, one of them has put his foot in the door. He smiles and invites himself in. Within seconds, I am sat on the settee talking about the book of Revelations to the pair of them. They pick up on my every word and throw biblical references at me to fit all strands of conversation, no matter how hard I try to divert it away from the bible. I tell them that I am a Buddhist in an attempt to throw them off the scent. They then question me on Buddhism and obviously they know more than me on the subject. I decide to play them at their own game and not for the first time in my life I become the interrogator. I've got them on the back foot now, I can smell fear in the air. Ha ha they want to leave I can feel it. They're not leaving now I'm having fun. I question them about their faith and how long they have been followers. As I thought, they have been followers since birth. I insinuate the possibility that they may have been brainwashed. They laugh and look at me with piteous eyes. It's that glare. You know, the one of a religious person who walks around with a permanent smile on his face because he has a secret and you're not in on it. It's that look, the "oh god bless you child" look. I inform them that their ex president has died. They do not seem too interested. These are sales people, no different from a double glazing salesman. They have a product and they will do their up most to sell it to you. Double glazing salesmen fix a gap in your windows, the Jehovah's Witnesses are trying to fix a gap in your life. I bore of the conversation and tell them that I have to rush off to see Terminator 4. As they are leaving the chief protagonist turns around and in a gloriously amusing Korean/Austrian accent says "I'll be back". I don't doubt it for a minute.
During the weekend I check the news and see that Kim Jong Il has been up to his tricks again. This time he has broken all his sanctions and carried out an underground nuclear test which is more powerful than the first H bomb on Hiroshima. The world is in uproar. The super powers are discussing how they will react to this latest act of defiance. Kim Jong Il loves to cause a rumpus. He's knocking on now and suffering from ill health. There is a big question mark over whether or not he will bow out in style i.e. taking half the world with him.
I go in to school on Monday, half expecting the conversation to be about Kim Jong Il, but as always the Southern half of the country fail to recognise him. It is very hard to get a conversation out of the South Koreans about Kim Jong. They are tired of his childish antics and do not believe for one minute that he will carry out his threats. They recognise, either rightly or wrongly, that he is playing with the Americans and it is my observation that some Koreans even admire him for this.
There is a definite gloom in the air and I am unsure what the source is. A few hours into the morning I ask Haemin (co teacher) if she had a nice weekend. Her response is a negative one, which prompts me to delve deeper. It turns out that she, like the rest of the population of South Korea have had an awful weekend because of the Ex President's suicide. I can only liken the feeling which surrounds the place to that which the UK experienced in 1997 when Diana left this mortal coil. This glum atmosphere continues throughout the week. In Changwon, as I imagine they have done in many other cities around South Korea, they have set up shrines. People queue up outside large tents to come and pay their last respects. They leave bouquets of flowers outside and then depart with their heads hung low.
The funeral takes place on Friday and is televised live. The people of Korea are glued to their screens and many hang flags out of their windows. A few weeks later and many of the flags are still hanging out of apartment windows. Given the Korean work ethic I am assuming this is out of respect and not laziness.
The final piece of news to hit the headlines in Korea and send shock waves through the land is that swine flu has eventually made it here. I have heard so many times over the past month that swine flu will not come to Korea. It appears that they are in denial of any of societies ills. Homosexuality is something that only happens in other countries, as is aids and drug abuse. Bad things seemingly do not happen in Korea and if they do they are because of the foreigners here.
I am first made aware that swine flu has hit Korea when my co teacher approaches me in a rather coy manner and hands me a letter. I take the letter from it's envelope and read it, as my co teacher rather tentatively looks on. The letter it turns out is a government health warning which all public schools have been instructed to pass on to their foreign teachers. I finish reading it and my co teacher politely asks me if I can stay from my friends this weekend. I can't believe it, they're all shitting bricks because they think that us "foreigners" are going to give them lurgee. I later find out that this same message has been given out to all the foreigners in public schools. There is also a story about an English teacher that has swine flu and has been locked in solitary confinement in his room in Gimhae. Apparently his girl friend is allowed to bring him food a few times a day.
There is a threat of all out nuclear warfare on their door step. The world is in major talks to see how to deal with the problem child of North Korea and all the while the Koreans are busy mourning their Ex President and trying to avoid the foreigner in case they get swine flu. The only people not trying to avoid us are the Jehovah's Witnesses.
I am sat at home on a Saturday afternoon writing up my memoirs, when I decide to flick onto the BBC website to see what is going on in the world. Surprisingly the main headline is from South Korea where the ex president is reported to have fallen off a mountain. The fact that this has occurred just over the mountain from where I sit writing, adds an eery edge to the afternoon. Within the short BBC article there is a brief mention of the presidents fraudulent past and a suspicion of suicide. Oh no, I think sarcastically, foul play in South Korea - how can that be?
As I am reading the article there is a knock on the door. I answer and am confronted by two Jehovah's witnesses. Before I have chance to politely decline their conversation, one of them has put his foot in the door. He smiles and invites himself in. Within seconds, I am sat on the settee talking about the book of Revelations to the pair of them. They pick up on my every word and throw biblical references at me to fit all strands of conversation, no matter how hard I try to divert it away from the bible. I tell them that I am a Buddhist in an attempt to throw them off the scent. They then question me on Buddhism and obviously they know more than me on the subject. I decide to play them at their own game and not for the first time in my life I become the interrogator. I've got them on the back foot now, I can smell fear in the air. Ha ha they want to leave I can feel it. They're not leaving now I'm having fun. I question them about their faith and how long they have been followers. As I thought, they have been followers since birth. I insinuate the possibility that they may have been brainwashed. They laugh and look at me with piteous eyes. It's that glare. You know, the one of a religious person who walks around with a permanent smile on his face because he has a secret and you're not in on it. It's that look, the "oh god bless you child" look. I inform them that their ex president has died. They do not seem too interested. These are sales people, no different from a double glazing salesman. They have a product and they will do their up most to sell it to you. Double glazing salesmen fix a gap in your windows, the Jehovah's Witnesses are trying to fix a gap in your life. I bore of the conversation and tell them that I have to rush off to see Terminator 4. As they are leaving the chief protagonist turns around and in a gloriously amusing Korean/Austrian accent says "I'll be back". I don't doubt it for a minute.
During the weekend I check the news and see that Kim Jong Il has been up to his tricks again. This time he has broken all his sanctions and carried out an underground nuclear test which is more powerful than the first H bomb on Hiroshima. The world is in uproar. The super powers are discussing how they will react to this latest act of defiance. Kim Jong Il loves to cause a rumpus. He's knocking on now and suffering from ill health. There is a big question mark over whether or not he will bow out in style i.e. taking half the world with him.
I go in to school on Monday, half expecting the conversation to be about Kim Jong Il, but as always the Southern half of the country fail to recognise him. It is very hard to get a conversation out of the South Koreans about Kim Jong. They are tired of his childish antics and do not believe for one minute that he will carry out his threats. They recognise, either rightly or wrongly, that he is playing with the Americans and it is my observation that some Koreans even admire him for this.
There is a definite gloom in the air and I am unsure what the source is. A few hours into the morning I ask Haemin (co teacher) if she had a nice weekend. Her response is a negative one, which prompts me to delve deeper. It turns out that she, like the rest of the population of South Korea have had an awful weekend because of the Ex President's suicide. I can only liken the feeling which surrounds the place to that which the UK experienced in 1997 when Diana left this mortal coil. This glum atmosphere continues throughout the week. In Changwon, as I imagine they have done in many other cities around South Korea, they have set up shrines. People queue up outside large tents to come and pay their last respects. They leave bouquets of flowers outside and then depart with their heads hung low.
The funeral takes place on Friday and is televised live. The people of Korea are glued to their screens and many hang flags out of their windows. A few weeks later and many of the flags are still hanging out of apartment windows. Given the Korean work ethic I am assuming this is out of respect and not laziness.
The final piece of news to hit the headlines in Korea and send shock waves through the land is that swine flu has eventually made it here. I have heard so many times over the past month that swine flu will not come to Korea. It appears that they are in denial of any of societies ills. Homosexuality is something that only happens in other countries, as is aids and drug abuse. Bad things seemingly do not happen in Korea and if they do they are because of the foreigners here.
I am first made aware that swine flu has hit Korea when my co teacher approaches me in a rather coy manner and hands me a letter. I take the letter from it's envelope and read it, as my co teacher rather tentatively looks on. The letter it turns out is a government health warning which all public schools have been instructed to pass on to their foreign teachers. I finish reading it and my co teacher politely asks me if I can stay from my friends this weekend. I can't believe it, they're all shitting bricks because they think that us "foreigners" are going to give them lurgee. I later find out that this same message has been given out to all the foreigners in public schools. There is also a story about an English teacher that has swine flu and has been locked in solitary confinement in his room in Gimhae. Apparently his girl friend is allowed to bring him food a few times a day.
There is a threat of all out nuclear warfare on their door step. The world is in major talks to see how to deal with the problem child of North Korea and all the while the Koreans are busy mourning their Ex President and trying to avoid the foreigner in case they get swine flu. The only people not trying to avoid us are the Jehovah's Witnesses.
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