Yet Another Trip
I try, I really try, to stay at home and do “practical” things on my days off. Pay bills (at the post office), clean the house (sans Pine Sol or any other recognizable cleaners), return emails (sorry if I owe you one). But I wake up on my days off, and I’m literally itching to go somewhere. Anywhere.
Today was no exception. Waterfalls. I want to see waterfalls. While reading through the Lonely Planet, I had seen a blurb about Juwangsan. A national park about 2 to 3 hours north of Daegu. It sounded easy enough to get there. Take the bus from Dong Daegu, ride for 2 1/2 hours, get off and hike. Look at the waterfalls. Have a picnic. Come home.
I told the taxi driver to take me to Dong Daegu, the street where all the express bus terminals are. He did, I entered the terminal. In my best Korean, I asked for one ticket to Juwangsan. “Op-say-yo.” Not here. Don’t have it. I took out my Lonely Planet. Yes, I was at the bus station it mentioned. I went to the window again. Odi-ay-yo? Where do I get such ticket then? She told me, then wrote down the instructions, in Korean, on a sheet of scrap paper for me to give the taxi driver, just in case I mixed up a suffix here or there. I thanked her profusely, then hailed a taxi.
I arrived to Dongbu station only minutes later. I went in, asked for a ticket to Juwangsan. “Oh, Korean, Korean, Korean” and a worried look. *That* didn’t sound good. An elderly man sauntered up. “Where?” he demanded. Juwangsan, jushipshee-yo. “Ohhh. Bus, 15 minutes ago. Next bus, 2 hours.” Oh. That is bad. I thought for a moment. Did I really want to see waterfalls that badly? Would I even get to see any? It was approaching noon. Defeated, I left the bus station. As I crossed the parking lot, I thought to myself, No, I will go somewhere. I remembered someone emailing me about being able to see the sea from a hike at Bulkuksa. I’ll go there.
I crossed the radiating asphalt parking lot once again. I entered the station and the old man eyed me surprisingly. He once again sauntered over. “Where?” Kyeong-gu jushipshee-yo. I gave him my 3,000 won, he gave it to the lady at the ticket counter, she gave him a ticket, he gave it to me. Nothing like full employment.
I boarded the bus, found my assigned seat, and began reading my Korean lessons. I’m currently learning how to ask “Who’s at the door?” Not that that question does me much good, because if anyone answers in Korean, I’m going to have to open the door to see who it is anyway. I won’t understand what they’re saying. Every time I speak Korean, I envision myself sounding like a patronizing Korean version of Mr. Rogers. The people on these tapes are just too *nice* sounding.
An hour later I was at the Kyeong-gu bus terminal. I went inside, went up to the ticket window, and in my best Korean, said, Good afternoon. One ticket to Bulkuksa, please. The disinterested man behind the glass plate suddenly jerked his head up, saw me, and shouted “No English!” before slamming his window shut. I stood there dumbfounded. I thought about what I said. I didn’t speak English. I was speaking Korean. I went over in my head the sounds I had uttered. An-yong ha-say-yo. Bulkuksa, hanna, jushipshee-yo. Yes, that was Korean. I turned around. There was one other ticket window. Okay, if this person slams his window, I’m out of luck. I practiced what to say, considered writing it in Korean and just sliding him a note, but decided to try the vocal route once again. It turns out I didn’t need a ticket, I just needed to go out to the street and catch bus number 10 or 11 and it would take me there. I thanked him and headed out into the heat.
I boarded the bus and we were off. I watched as we passed fields and fields of just planted rice paddies, the sleek surface a perfect mirror for the mountains and clouds surrounding the fields. 45 minutes later, I was at the parking lot at Bulkuksa temple. I hiked up the brick path, past the old women selling refried corn dogs, grilled beetle bugs, and Buddha souvenirs. They yelled to me in Korean, enticing me to buy their wares, but I only smiled and nodded “anyong” as I passed by them.
I entered the temple grounds. So different from when I was here over Lunar New Year. Then, bitterly cold, though bright. Void of people. Blue and red lanterns strung everywhere. Today, so many people. Groups of senior citizens. Tour buses carrying Koreans from near and far. Couples, walking hand in hand, gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes. And it was hot. I pulled my increasingly damp hair off my neck and twisted it into a ponytail. I continued walking. The pond, before, was a hazy chunk of almost frozen ice, no greenery or life forms to be seen. Today, gold fish as big as my forearm swam here and there, chasing each other, pursing their lips to break the calm surface of the pond. Baby turtles swam with ease through the pond, crawling up onto a rock, joining dozens others already there, basking in the warm sun. Green surrounded and enveloped the pond. Bamboo, weeds, leaves, algae.
I reached the main halls of the temples. A children’s art exhibit adorned the walls. Chalk impressions of their interpretations of Bulkuksa. These were as beautiful as the buildings themselves. Violent greens, pinks, blues, not a white speck to be seen anywhere on the paper. Buddhas, not sitting serenely, but smiling huge grins, their eyes upside down u’s. I examined them all, laughing out loud at some of the renditions. I walked up the steep stairs to the various halls, content to observe Buddha from afar due to the hordes of people inside.
I found the path to Sokkoram Grotto and began walking up it. Lonely Planet had said there was a shuttle bus to take you to the Grotto, and if you had time, it recommended walking down the 3.5 km wooded path back to the temple. Well, if it recommended walking down it, surely I could walk up it as well, right? I soon found out why it didn’t recommend walking up it. Up is the operative word in that sentence. It wasn’t the most difficult, or the steepest, trail I’ve ever climbed. But it was steady. Steadily up. Some stairs, some steep inclines. It felt good, though, to be outside, breathing in the fresh air, and breathing it in solo. I was alone on the path. I listened to the birds, watched the sun flicker through the heavy canopy of leaves. An hour later, I reached the top.
I paid another admission fee, then continued down a well-traveled path to Sokkoram. I followed the tour bus passengers into the small shelter perched in the side of the mountain. There, a large, smooth, sandy colored Buddha sat watching those who passed by. A monk was saying prayers, beating a drum rhythmically, chanting, up, down, up, down. There were many signs, in all languages, asking visitors not to take pictures. I watched the monk, listened for several moments, then exited. I stood on the edge of the mountain, gazing out. The day was too hazy to see the sea, but I could see nearby mountains, trees, farms. A beautiful countryside. I carefully avoided being in the background of other’s pictures, then returned to the path I had just ascended, looking forward to a carefree descent.
As I walked down, a movement to the right of me caught my eye. I stood perfectly still and shifted my eyes. A tiny chipmunk sat, eating. I watched it for several moments, then it scampered off. I turned my gaze straight ahead to begin walking again. There, only inches in front of my eyes, dangled a spider. I slowly took a step back to avoid its sticky web. I watched it spin, dangle, spin some more, then stepped to the right and continued walking. I noticed a fork in the path. Hmmmm. I had not seen that earlier. I read the sign post. Straight ahead would take me back to Bulkuksa. To the left would take me to yyaaak- sooooo- do? toe? da? Hm. I know yak means medicine. The signpost indicated it was only .1 km away, so I decided to check it out.
As I wound my way along the narrow path, I heard water. Then, it appeared. Granite dragons, spitting water from their mouths. Several plastic ladles hung beside the dragons, aqua, navy, red. It looked so refreshing. And sounded so peaceful. I made my way to the water, selected an aqua ladle, and filled it at the dragon’s gushing mouth. I poured it into my mouth, creating my own waterfall, dribbling down my chin, my chest, onto my tummy. The mineral water tasted tinny, yet refreshing, on my dry tongue. After several scoops, I sat and rested. Just listened to the sounds. Looked at… nothing. Just looked.
Back down at the temple I made my way to the bus stop. I sat and waited. The bus came, I boarded. I noticed we passed the Folk Arts Village Chanta and I had visited over Lunar New Year. The day we visited, many of the artist’s workshops were closed. I rang the bell on the bus and hopped off. Maybe more would be open today. I started walking up the cobblestone path, rounded a corner, and oh, my god. Literally 800 middle school students, grouped in classes of 50, were coming towards me. They spotted me right away. “Hello! American! Miguk! How are youuuuu? Hel-loooo!” echoed all at once. I tried to smile, I tried to answer each greeting. I then tried to escape. They were everywhere. This must have been the official field trip day for all of the schools in the area. They were in the restrooms. In the workshops. On the paths. I made my way back to the bus stop quickly. I don’t do well in crowds. Especially when I’m the odd man out, so to speak.
The trip home was uneventful. Bus to bus terminal. Bus terminal to bus terminal. Bus terminal to taxi stand. Taxi to home. The bills are still there. The floor still needs to be cleaned. The emails still need to be written. But my itching has abated, at least for today.
LoriLoo 