In my first few months in Yeosu, way back at the end of March 2009, I went for a hike.
I woke early in my one-room apartment and picked up my little 10,000 won (less than $10) backpack storing water and some Reeses Peanut Butter Cups I intended to share with my hiking group. I slipped a polar fleece over my thermal undershirt and torn jeans, and I headed out into the soft light of 7 a.m. I walked through the alleys lined with hole-in-the-wall bars and restaurants toward my local branch of the poorly named bakery franchise, Paris Baguette, on the rotary, the major landmark near my apartment. Young Min, the 40-ish Korean woman who looked 25-ish who had invited me to scale Muhusan with her hiking group, was waiting in her mini van with David, another English teacher slightly newer to Yeosu than myself. I clambered in and we were off into the swerving and honking of Korean traffic, even in the country town of Yeosu, even on a Sunday morning.
I was nervous about this hike. I grew up in Colorado, land of mountains and outdoorsy types, so I was well-versed in trailing, sweaty, red-faced and panting behind groups of real hikers. However, my guide book had told me that hiking was something of a national sport in Korea and I was determined to take all the opportunities and meet all the new people I could, so I decided to tag along anyway. Every day was an adventure in Korea, or at least that's what I told everyone at home. I wouldn't be able to tell the sorts of stories I'd need to tell to justify my trans-Pacific move unless I got out of my apartment and climbed some mountains.
Soon we boarded a bus packed with hikers. Each of them was decked out in hiking gear: neon North Face jackets, quick-dry, durable hiking pants, colorful, reflective hiking boots, neon visors and hats to keep off the sun, even aluminum walking sticks to help the hikers propel themselves up the mountain. I didn't know this yet, but everything in Korea must be done this way: seriously and with the proper gear. David, the other foreigner, and I were rather out of place in our torn jeans and sneakers, but the hiking group didn't care. They just cheered us on when we introduced ourselves over the bus's microphone, then went back to chatting, laughing and watching the comedy show playing on the TV at the front of the bus.
After two hours of windy mountain roads that left me green with motion sickness, we piled out of the bus, snapped some group photos and took off up the mountain. I do mean up the mountain. Unlike the trails I'd huffed and puffed up on Colorado, this one did not have switchbacks or other features to make the climb less strenuous. You just went up, as steep as the mountain wanted you to. I was trailing immediately, but David, Young Min and one of the higher ups in the hiking group kept pace with me. Whenever the group would stop, or on the rare occasion that I caught up with someone the other hikers gave me chewy candies and sips of iced green tea to keep my strength up. We passed masses of little colorful ribbons on trees, each covered with hangeul, Korean letters I couldn't yet read. Young Min told me they were left by other hiking groups. Members of our group had ribbons, too, and some of us, sometimes including me, had the group's flag sticking out of our backpacks.
Up and up and up we went in a way that seemed endless to me. I gasped for breath, took plenty of breaks and felt embarrassed, but in the end even I reached the peak. Only then did I notice that the other hikers who'd put me to shame had been carting huge Styrofoam crates. They opened them now revealing offerings for the mountain's god to pray for the group's safety in the coming hiking season. The hikers arranged dishes of fruit, vegetables and kimchi around a huge pickled pig's head, all on a tarp. Then everyone in turn lit incense, poured an offering of soju and placed minty green Korean money around the pig. I watched the hikers bow, mesmerized by the sheer difference from what I was used to seeing on a mountain top. Then Young Min reached out her hand and brought me with her to participate. Unsure what to do, I bowed before the offerings as well, following her lead as I pressed my palms against my thighs, then on the ground, then rested my forehead on the tarp.
Once everyone had made their offerings we all set about eating. The other hikers pulled out Tupperware containers from their backpacks, sharing kimbap (Korean fast food made up of rice and seaweed wrapped around meat and vegetables), fruit and a hundred other small dishes I didn't recognize. Suddenly my Powerbar seemed pretty sad, but the hiking group would never let anyone go hungry. They shared everything they'd lugged up the mountain, even though all I had to offer in return was a few peanut butter cups. We stared out from the mountain's bald top across the hazy hillsides and forests below us. Young Min told me an old king of Korea had been chased out of his capital by invaders. He had come here and felt so safe on the mountain he might have been home with his mother, so he called it Muhusan in honor of that feeling. We took photos with a plaque at the top of the mountain and began our long descent.
I was still slow on the way down, impeded by a fear of falling straight down the steep, muddy trail. The hikers were still nice. When we got back to the bus we took off to a parking lot in an unfamiliar town where the group once more pulled out Styrofoam crates. These held rice, lettuce leaves, spicy samjeong and slabs of pork for a Korean barbecue dish called samgeyopsal. On little plastic tables in the parking lot we dug into the meal, and a few bottles of beer and a Korean liquor called soju. Then we took off once more to look at yellow blossoms around a river and take pictures. The men in the group took turns calling me their girlfriend. In a perhaps twist that deserves more discussion, the standard of beauty in Korea is not so much a Korean girl as a Caucasian one.
We didn't make it back until hours after we were expected. I could barely say annyeonghaseyo (hello) in Korean and they knew very little English, but by the end of the day they'd invited David and me to join the hiking group. Though I never made it on another mountain climb with them again, I still run into those hikers occasionally in Yeosu and they always manage to call out "Hello Julie!"
No comments:
Post a Comment