Sometimes The Journey…

Lately I’ve been feeling I’m not taking advantage of my time off. I need to go more places. See more things. I’m almost at my “half-way” point in my contract/time living here. I don’t want to look back and think “Gee, I wish I would have…”

So I got out the Lonely Planet. Where can I go that’s close enough for a one day trip? Hmmmm. Tongdosa, “the largest and most famous (temple) in Korea.” The description went on to laud the temple’s many buildings, famous tomb, new artifact museum, and beautiful surroundings. I studied the “Getting There & Away” section. “Take the Busan-Daegu inner-city (not express) bus from Busan.” I (erroneously) assumed that meant I could take the same bus from Daegu. I still haven’t figured out why that didn’t work. It just didn’t. I studied the map. I thought the entire trip would take about 6 hours. Two hours there, two hours at the temple, two hours return. It is now ten hours later. Most of that time spent on, or waiting for, a bus. But it was worth it.

I caught a taxi to the inner city bus station nearest my house. At the ticket counter I told the clerk I’d like to go to Tongdosa. “Op-sayo.” Literally, we don’t have. Hmmm. I got out my map. Where is the nearest city en route? Okay, Gyeongju. I bought a ticket for Gyeongju and waited on the platform. Within minutes, the bus arrived, I boarded, found a window seat and began studying Korean. An hour later, I was at the Gyeongju bus terminal. I headed to the ticket window. Tongdosa, ju-shipshee-yo. Hanna. (one ticket for Tongdosa, please) “Op-sayo.” What? I had a perplexed look on my face. “Op-sayo. Yang-san. Chang-gee.” Okay. Hanna, jus-shipshee-yo. Khamsa hamnidaaa. I paid my $1.50 and went to platform number 10, just like my ticket said.

The bus was waiting, I boarded, and found a seat. The ticket taker came down the aisle. I handed him my ticket. “Ani-o. fast Korean phrases” then he pointed for me to get off the bus. I did. I looked at my ticket. It *said* platform 10. There was no time on the ticket. Do I just keep getting on buses at platform 10 until no one kicks me off and hope it’s the right bus? The ticket taker came back to me. In Korean, he explained a lot. All I understood was “30.” Hmmmmm. Does that mean 1:30? Or in 30 minutes? Which would be 1:45? I’ll just stand here. I watched an elderly man sweeping trash with a straw broom. Using a bona fide straw broom, like found in the illustrations of a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. Stooped over, he made his way around the buses, up to the platform, getting nearer and nearer. He swatted my heels with the broom, I moved, he swept, then he swatted me back to my spot. He didn’t appear in a hurry. He didn’t appear to have a goal. He swept, moving down, down, down the platform, then returning, sweeping the same areas, never looking up.

At 1:35 the ticket taker pointed at me and yelled “Yang-san!” and pointed to the bus at platform number 10. I smiled and thanked him. Again, I found a window seat and settled in. I got out my map. Hmmm. By going this way, I’m going *past* Tongdosa, then will have to backtrack back up to the temple. Oh, well. Another hour later and I was in the Yang-san bus terminal. I went to the ticket booth. Okay, surely, surely there will be a bus to Tongdosa from here. I smiled. Annyong ha-say-yo. Tongdosa ju-shipshee-yo. She smiled. She handed me a ticket. I handed her my 40 cents. She pointed me to platform 7. I waited there, along with about 20 middle school girls. They all stared, pointed, whispered, and giggled. I smiled and generally tried to ignore the attention.

After only a few minutes on the bus, I realized this was a regular route. It was making stops everywhere. Oh, my. How would I know where to get off? I stared out the window. Okay. If I was a temple, where would I be? This stop. No, I don’t think so. Still too close to town. This one? No, doesn’t feel right. Eventually, I saw a brown sign. Oh, how I love the brown signs. Tongdosa, 5 km. After what I judged to be 5 km, I got off the bus. In a tiny, tiny town. There was a woman selling hot bread-like treats by the side of the road. Tongdosa? Odi-ay-yo? She talked, and talked, and pointed, and talked some more. Hmmm. That sounds like a lot of instructions. I thanked her then hailed a cab.

A few blocks later, we were at the temple entrance. Gee. I could have walked that. If I had known which way to go. I thanked him and he pointed me in the right direction. I walked through the parking lot, past the vendors selling cheap souvenirs. I heard a squawking “Hands up! You’re under fire! Drop your guns!” coming from a model of a US military airplane. It circulated on the ground, bumping into something and changing directions, red and blue lights flashing. Why are they selling this at a temple? I wondered.

I crossed a bridge. There, before me, stood hundreds of tombstones. Huge pillars supported by granite turtles, or lions, or dragons. Lots of Chinese inscriptions. Beautiful green grass. Tall, elderly trees providing shade from the bright afternoon sun. I walked through it, then continued on the path to the temple.

Wow. The entrance to the path was flanked by an enormous gate. Each temple I visit seems to outdo the previous one in terms of attention to detail and craftsmanship. I stared at the construction, the precise meeting of joints. The application of the most vibrant blues, greens, and reds I’ve ever seen. The glittering gilt. Tiny, delicate cranes soaring on the uppermost beams. I snapped a few pictures, people around me staring quizzically. Don’t they realize how spectacular this is?

The tree-lined path followed a small stream. People sat on stones beside the stream, picnicking, talking, skipping stones across the shallow surface. Lanterns hung from the trees, in anticipation for Buddha’s birthday next weekend. I’m not sure to what to attribute my feeling of uttermost serenity as I walked along the path. The warm sun dancing through the tree branches, creating dapples of light here and there? The children chasing each other around the grounds, laughing and squealing? The beauty of *not* being in a crowded city, even though there were many people present?

I came upon a huge modern building. Ahhhh, this must be the museum. I’m a sucker for museums. Maybe it comes from my days as a public school teacher. But I love them. I paid my 2,000 won ($1.40) entrance fee, removed my shoes, and entered. The greeter said a lot to me in Korean. I smiled. She repeated it, slower. I understood, “Do you speak Korean?” I answered, a little. She said a lot more. I smiled. She ran away.

I started walking through the exhibit. Wow. Very impressive. The exhibits were laid out in an incredibly well organized manner, with thorough descriptions – in Korean, English, and Japanese. Tales of the history of the temple. Artifacts. Objects used in the various rituals and ceremonies. I left one room and started into another. I heard a shuffle of feet behind me. Quicker and quicker, coming straight towards me. I turned around. Several museum volunteers were pointing at me and saying something. Oh, my god. Have I gone somewhere I wasn’t supposed to? I stopped. They approached me, dragging a girl who appeared to be in her teens. “Hello,” she said. Hi, how are you? “Fine. Thank you. You have seen the exhibit?” Yes, it’s wonderful. “You are lucky. I only come one time a month. And today, I come, and there are English signs. You are lucky. Go upstairs. See paintings. Go upstairs again, see writings. Come downstairs, see artifacts. Enjoy.” And with that, she left me.

I continued upstairs. To the Buddhist paintings exhibit. Not just paintings that are over 1000 years old, but an explanation of the process of the paintings. The rituals the monks performed before creating the paintings. The strict discipline. The stones ground to create the paint. The incredible, incredible colors. Greys, blues, reds, ochres. All shimmering powders in small vessels. The volunteer in this section, an elderly man, followed me around (I was the only patron). “Hello.” Annyong Ha-shim-nikka. “My English, no good.” I smiled. It’s okay. Khamsa hamnidda. When we arrived at one section that wasn’t original paintings, he pointed at a sign. Ahhhh. It mentioned the upcoming World Cup games. Of course. That’s why the signs are all in Korean, English and Japanese. They’ve done an excellent job.

I continued through the other sections, then out to the path to the temple. I approached a second gate. Here was the actual entrance to the temple. From here, hundreds and hundreds of lanterns fluttered in the wind. I walked under the canopy of lanterns, feeling very regal. I ascended the steps and walked into the actual temple complex. Approximately thirteen buildings greeted me, along with a huge courtyard and beautifully landscaped mini-gardens of azaleas, hydrangeas, and other flowering trees I didn’t recognize. And the lanterns. So many lanterns. So beautiful. I wandered from hall to hall, viewing the different Buddhas, stopping to pray here, meditate there. I watched the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky, descending behind the majestic mountains surrounding the complex. For over an hour I wandered, just enjoying the afternoon.

I finally decided it was time to figure out how to get home. Surely there was a bus back to Gyeong-gu without backtracking back to Yang-san. I was over halfway to Gyeong-gu, it just made sense. I walked along the stream, watching the families enjoying the afternoon. I reached the entrance to the temple and found my way back through town to the “bus stop.” There was a small booth there. I asked the ticket clerk for a ticket to Gyeong-gu. He shook his head and pointed to the side of the road. There? I asked. Yes. So, I waited by the side of the road. And a bus did come and stop. I got on and asked the driver if he went to Gyeong-gu. “Ani-o.” So I got off. Maybe the next bus. I waited. And waited. No buses were coming. I turned to the lady selling the bread-like treats. Gyeong-gu? Yogi-ga? And with that, she just started talking. Explaining this. Explaining that. And acting as if I knew what she was saying. I stared, wide eyed, trying to catch *any* word. Any syllable that I recognized. Finally. “Inter-change-gee.” Hm. Highway? Interchange? So I asked, Chick-chin? (straight ahead) And with that she pointed, waved, explained. Okay, khamsa hamniddaaaa. And off I went. Thinking to myself. Where am I going? I walked along a small road until I came to a fork. Right? Left? I looked both ways. Neither seemed to promise a highway. An elderly, stooped lady with her shower basket approached me. She, too, began talking. I smiled. She grabbed my hand. Okay, I better at least let her know where I’m trying to get to. Daegu ju-ship-shee-yo. She smiled and kept walking. I followed her. Not sure why I followed her, but I did. We came to the highway. She led me across it, then pointed me down a small, winding road. Okay, calling it a road is using the term in a very liberal sense.

When I came to the open field, I thought I surely took a wrong turn somewhere. Except that I hadn’t made any turns. I looked around. And around. There was a highway in the distance. And sort of a path to the highway. Sort of. I turned around and made my way back how I came. There was a small house, maybe it was a store, with woman sitting inside. I knocked on the window. She smiled and opened the sliding glass door. Daegu ju-ship-shee-yo? “Yaayyyyyyy.” And she pointed straight ahead. Through the field. Okay. Khamsaa hamniddaaaaa. Maybe I am going the right direction. I can’t imagine this is the way to a bus stop, but…

I trekked through the overgrown grass until I reached the highway. There, to my right, was a large toll entrance. Is this what she meant by interchange? I walked along beside the speeding cars. I reached the toll booth. There was an office to one side. I entered. It appeared empty. I wandered down a hallway, wondering how this happens to me. Where am I? How am I going to get back home? I entered an official looking office. A woman sat behind a desk. I smiled. Annyong ha-say-yo. She returned the greeting. I asked for a ticket to Daegu. She asked if I spoke Korean. Only a little, I’m sorry, I apologized. She motioned for me to follow her. Oh, my god. I am in the right place. I can’t believe it.

We went outside and she ran across several lanes of traffic. I just stared. Should I follow her? I looked both ways, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to dart. I heard her yell at me to stay put. Oh, okay. She talked to one of the toll booth operators, then darted back across the lanes of traffic to where I stood. Once again, she motioned for me to follow her. We walked. And walked. And walked. Then ran across 6 lanes of traffic. To a tree. Where, amazingly enough, there was a small shack that sold bus tickets. I bought one ticket for Daegu, thinking my journey was almost done. But, no. She motioned for me to follow her again. Back across lanes of traffic. Up a ramp. Through a hedge. Yes, a hedge. Across another road. All I could think of was, God bless this woman. Oh, mighty power, bless Korea. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She smiled and pointed to a bus shelter. Taeden heee khamsa hamnidaaaa. (thank you so very much) She smiled, then returned the way we had just come. I sat down at the bus shelter, watching the sun set across the highway. I pulled out my book and started reading. A pickup truck stopped. Two elderly, toothless women got out. They sat down to the right of me. I continued to read until one of them literally put her face into my book so that I was staring down at her. I looked up, then over. They were both staring intently. I smiled. They began talking quickly. I guess I should be flattered that so many people think I can understand Korean, that I just don’t talk much. I’ve never been perceived as the quiet type before. It’s an interesting feeling.

They continued to talk to me, I continued to smile. About 40 minutes later, the bus arrived. I found a seat near the back and put on my walkman to listen to various Korean dialogues. I think I dozed off to “How much is this newspaper….” I awoke an hour and a half later, in the pitch dark in Daegu. At the Express Bus Terminal. The one Lonely Planet said not to go to. Life is funny sometimes.