A Very Korean Weekend – Plus: Fame!

The month ended like every other: a blizzard of tests to be corrected, lessons to be planned, and evaluations to be written. Except this month was different.

For starters, my ugly mug was plastered next to Devon's radiant visage on the side of our school's building and buses.

But secondly, and most importantly, we were saying goodbye to our good friends Sam and Stephanie who, having finished their contracts, are embarking on an epic, 3-month, 13-country journey through South East Asia and Europe, followed by an even more epic, lifetime, globe-spanning journey as they get married sometime next year.

As is customary when wishing former teachers off, we took them out to the local trademark-infringing watering hole with the other ECC teachers, Miller Time. When we walked into our usual backroom, we were surprised to find another group of foreigner teachers sitting in our usual spot. We were a little upset at being swooped , but there aren't that many places around that can handle a group of two dozen plus people, so we didn't say anything and sat down next to the wall.

About 10 minutes after I arrived, a foreigner woman from the other group approached our table and looked at me.

"Can I ask you kind of a weird question?" she asked.
"Uhh, sure," I replied.
"Are you that guy from that poster?"
"The one on the side of ECC?" I said, getting excited.
"Yeah!" she exclaimed.
"That's us," I said, pointing to Devon beside me.
"I knew it!" she said. "I tried telling my friends, but they didn't believe me—They told me not to ask you. I pass that every day on my way back from the gym!"
"Devon! We're famous!" 

The woman asked for our autographs, went back to her table, and bragged to her friends that she'd just met "those ECC guys."

It's impossible for Devon and I to go anywhere now without being recognized. The halls of ECC are teaming with roving bands of youths who stare at us as we pass. The streets outside ECC aren't much better, where roving bands of youths mutter "ee-shee-shee!" excitedly to their friends as they walk to their fourth academy of the day. And now even the local watering hole was contaminated!

I had to get out. It was too much. There was so much pressure to perform in front of the public. I had a reputation—ECC's reputation—to uphold, or at least to not tarnish. What I needed was some quiet solitude and relaxation.

Fortunately for me, some of my fellow co-teachers were planning on hiking up Mudeung-san, the mountain that watches over Gwangju from the east. It's the highest mountain in the area, and figures prominently in the identity of Gwangju. I've eaten dinner at Mudeung-Juk, which is down the road from Mudeung Towers. I've wandered through Mudeung Market and really want to sweat it all out at The Mudeung Sauna.

In any event, I figured that this would be a good weekend to escape the suffocating pressures of celebrity, spend some time with friends, and participate in Korea's unofficial national sport: hiking. I wasn't sure what exactly made something an "unofficial national sport," but I was determined to find out.

So I hopped in a cab with my friends, told the cabbie where to go (panicked after he asked me to confirm it and just showed him the paper we had the destination written on), and we were on our way. We began passing familiar sights: Mudeung-Juk on our left, and a Mudeung Shoes on the right. The Mudeung Travel Agency next to the Mudeung Kimchi shop. Mudeung Sauna was across the street from the Mudeung Soju-room, which was around the block from the Mudeung hiking shop. Finally, we arrived at someone else's more aptly-named Mudeung Kimchi shop, at the base of Mudeung Mountain.

We wandered around Jeungshim-sa, the ancient temple at the base of the mountain for a bit. It has been destroyed and rebuilt over the centuries – most recently during the Korean War. All of the buildings are relatively new – the oldest one survives from just after World War II (or the "Japanese Invasion" as it's known here) – but Koreans still come here to meditate, pray, and give offerings to deities in its shrines as they have for hundreds of years.

After getting our spiritual fill, we began the trek up the mountain. We quickly turned off of the main path, onto a trail that Jason said would be a little less crowded because it was technically closed. We started up the narrow, muddy trail, past a small garden plot, through a short bamboo grove, and immediately ran head first into a group of ajussis coming down the mountain. They glared at us as we walked past them. I was sweating, despite the morning chill, and I held my breath.

Nothing. I exhaled.
"That was close," I muttered to myself.
"What are you talking about?" asked Steve.
"Nothing," I quickly said. Best to keep celebrity paranoia to one's self.
"I thought you said this wouldn't be as crowded," I asked Jason, hoping to change the subject.
"Yeah, well I wanted to give Matt and Melissa a real Korean hiking experience."

After we passed the ajussis, we found ourselves the only ones hiking the trail. We made our way through a pine forest that looked suspiciously like Maine, Michigan, or Arizona, depending on your familiarity with pine trees. We slipped up the mud, tripped over exposed tree routes, and took frequent breaks.

"Keep in mind," Jason began. "This is nothing like traditional Korean hiking."
"What's that like?" Melissa, a new teacher, asked.
"Soon enough," Jason said enigmatically.

Onwards and upwards we continued. We came to a rock slide next to the trail, and scampered out onto the boulders. As we gazed out on the early-morning haze that blanketed Gwangju in the distance, Matt, the other new teacher asked, "Is this real Korean hiking?"
"Not yet," answered Jay. "Do you see any Koreans out here?"

We looked around. The mountainside was covered with giant boulders. The occasional tree sprouted from between the gaps, and someone had spray-painted something on a boulder to our left. Ahead of us, behind the mountain the sky was bluish-white, and the sun poked feebly through the haze. The five of us were the only people around for what felt like miles. Solitude.

We scampered up the rocks like goats: jumping and climbing, pausing and gazing, nibbling at the tin cans we found between the rocks. At the top of the rock slide, we drank cool mountain water from a bubbling spring and rejoined the trail.

We reached the top of the ridge, a hard-packed dirt path through grassy scrub, and joined a steady stream of people making their way to the summit. Past a cell phone tower, past a relay station, and past some of the rock structures that make Mudeung-san famous: large, 8-sided "crystals" of rock that formed millions of years ago when lava pushed through the crust and cooled quickly.

"Is this traditional Korean hiking?" Matt asked, eyeing the Koreans streaming around us. I hid my face, hoping that nobody would recognize me way up here.

"This is closer," Jason answered. "There's enough people, but the trail still isn't quite right."

Young children tottered by on unsteady legs, supported by their parents. Teenagers hurried by in designer clothes and UGG boots, texting furiously on their cell phones. Middle-aged couples strolled past, decked out in the latest performance hiking pants, boots, and jacket. Ajummas and ajussis scuttled by in the same performance gear, looking like giant spindly spiders with the carbon-fiber hiking poles they used to support themselves.

We reached the trail to Seosok-de, the rock pillars that represented the highest point one could climb to without breaching the military base at the summit. A small crowd of hikers had paused here, taking a break before the final ascent. We caught our breath with them, and when they started up the trail, dutifully followed.

The trail entered a wooded area and narrowed. The recent snows had almost completely melted – except on the trail where it had packed into a slick icy mat. Soon the trail was barely big enough for the dual lanes of hikers passing – ours going up the mountain, the other coming down – and where there was extra room, somebody had sprawled out on the ice.

"Hey Matt," Jason called.
"Yeah," Matt replied.
"You see these stairs? The line of people in front and behind us?"
"Yeah," Matt said.
"This is Korean hiking."

We passed the rock towers and continued up a set of stairs: stone slabs placed into the mountainside on the trail. We followed the line of hikers until we emerged from the woods and into the sunlight. In a large field on the top of the mountain, dozens of families had spread out picnic blankets and were eating hot ramen noodles for lunch. Ajussis poured alcoholic soju into tiny paper cups to celebrate the ascent and ease the pain of the descent. Kids ran around, oblivious to the fact that they had just climbed the tallest mountain around Gwanjgu.

We followed the main trail's rock-stairs back down to the base of the mountain. When we arrived back at Jeungshim-sa, I rememberd that I had climbed a mountain with very little to eat.

"You guys hungry?"
We passed a tin house with a couple of tables inside, and a barrel full of beer outside.
"Yeah, I guess so," my friends replied. "What are they serving?"
"Not a clue," I replied. "Probably something good – this place is packed."

Sure enough we walked in and found ourselves squished at a table in the corner. We ordered a round of victory beers, and the ajumma working the place asked us if we wanted what the family next to us was eating. After the initial "huh?" that follows any question posed to us in Korean, she immediately said something along the lines of "OK, you don't want that."

"No, no, it's ok," we said. "Please give us some," without looking too closely at what that "some" was. The ajumma went away and five minutes later she brought back a plate of food. We examined it closely.

"Are those claws?"
"Why are they scaly?"
"There's no way I'm eating that.  Sorry guys."
"They look like peace signs!"

We looked around the crowded room. Everyone else was devouring a plate of what we quickly realized were barbecued chicken feet. Our ajumma, ever wary of the foreigner's palate, had replaced half the plate with what looked like long strips of chicken skin.

The feet were thick and chewy, with bits of what felt like cartilage in the toes. They didn't taste too bad – like the end of BBQ drumsticks, the part with the cartilage– and there was a fiery red sauce for dipping. The strips of skin tasted the same, only fattier. It wasn't the kind of thing I'd go out of my way to order – but I was glad I'd eaten it, and I'd probably eat them again if you put them in front of me.

"Look around," I said. "Everyone here is eating chicken feet."
"Must be the traditional Korean post-hike snack," Matt said.
"You have learned quick, young grasshopper" Jason replied, with a laugh.