1.

It was Sunday, my first day off at last. I glanced out the window at the lot of broken concrete, weeds and garbage. I got up, slowly, and made a fresh cup of instant coffee and sat out on the terrace. Here, on this side of the building, beyond the small peaceful temple, the morning sun rose above the green mountains and turned the sky soft red and pale orange.

As I sipped the coffee, I felt wonderful and giddy. Despite the rough week I was eager with anticipation at this first chance to explore Geoje-do. I took a relaxing shower under a trickle of luke warm water and toweled off. Eager to get going, I decided to skip breakfast and grab something on the trip. Without a clear plan I threw on shorts and a T-shirt, stuffed a towel, some suntan lotion, a book and a portable CD player in my bag and darted out the door.
I walked down the back street toward the little river and passed the old woman selling boiled silkworm. Heavy bags hung under her worn, tired eyes. It seemed she never left that spot day or night. Did she sleep sitting there? I imagined perhaps it was the same silkworm she had dug up eight years ago, that she was still patiently awaiting her first sale, a magical day when word would spread like fire and people would come from all over the island to sample her delicious snack. I also began to feel sorry for her - in her dying years - all alone at seven in the morning behind a steaming pot of silkworm without a single customer in sight, with only the sound of a rooster and occasional whimpering dog to accompany her. Then I wondered whom her family was to leave her here like this. As I passed I felt the urge to stop and apologize for all the wrongs in the world. I generously reached in my pocket and fished out a few coins. Immediately she began filling a bag with silkworm.

"No, no, no," I blurted. "No, this is a gift for you." I slapped down the coins and scuttled off. Thereafter she began to yell. Turning around I saw her completely hunched over on her cane, hobbling toward me, desperately shaking the bag of silkworm in front of her. She must have thought I had forgotten it. I imagined her falling dead from the sudden exertion -- her tragic fate had come at last, chasing down an absent-minded foreigner with a bag of boiled silkworm. Briefly I toyed with the idea of running away and forever avoiding the back street, but I couldn't do it. Reluctantly I took the bag of silkworm and pretended as if I really did forget, smacking my hand against my head, pointing to myself and swirling my finger around my ear. She laughed and then motioned for me to eat some.

"Oh! I want to, mmm, but I'm so stuffed from a big breakfast." She laughed again, not understanding a word I said. The sun reflected off her silver and gold teeth. Judging from her breath, she had recently eaten silkworm herself.
"Good-bye," I said, helped her sit back down and hurried off, carrying the foul smelling bag of steaming silkworm off to my side.
Down near the river I saw the skinny black goat still fastened to the short rope. It had been fastened to that short rope since I arrived a week ago. I splashed through the ford and climbed up the embankment. The goat watched cautiously as I emptied the silkworm out, holding my nose tightly. Once I retreated, the poor goat sniffed at the smoldering clump, made a foul sound and went back to eating the sparse yellow grass.

2.

I wandered casually to the center of Gohyun. The small city center was quiet. A group of old women were setting up for another long day of selling various kimchi, seafood, fruits and vegetables. I wanted to buy a single banana, but everything was set out in huge family sized bundles, and in the brief instant I paused seven old women crowded around me pointing to their goods. From an orange plastic bowl crawled a squid onto the cement. It squirmed desperately about six inches away before an old women swept it up and slammed it back into the bowl. It landed with a quick splash and dismal thud. Bowing my head repeatedly, I ran off toward the bus terminal.

The sun was already hot, the air thickening. Mosquitoes buzzed in thick swarms. I had had already been bitten at least 700 times this first week on the island. I sat down and scratched my ankles.

While I waited for the bus station to open, I opened my folder of information I had taken from the Internet about the "Island of Fantasy".

3.

Once the bus terminal opened I went inside to look at the schedule, but it was all in Korean. I approached the woman at the ticket counter.
"Hello. I just recently arrived and I'm hoping to see some of the attractions on the island. Could you recommend a good bus, possibly with comfortable seats and air conditioning? Sure is hot lately, don't you think?" I hadn't yet adjusted to the fact that people couldn't understand me. She stared at me blankly. Quickly I changed tactics.

"Um - sorry. Me - tourist." I put my hand to my forehead and pretended to be viewing the island. I peered around saying, "Ooh! Ahh! Geoje-do good!"
She stared back at me expressionless. An old woman bumped past me.
"Excuse me?" I said, surprised. She looked at me, shrugged and bought a ticket.

Oh, what the hell, I thought. Keeping with the spirit of adventure I went back out and hopped on the first bus I found. The driver rattled something in Korean. Meekly, I held out a handful of change. He frowned and pointed me back to the building. Finally I had a smart idea. This time I strutted confidently back to the ticket window. As I approached, the woman frowned and shook her hand as if to say, "Oh no! Not again!" I smiled coyly and opened my tour book, found the small map of Geoje-do and pointed with conviction to one of the beaches. She waved her hand and spoke feverishly in Korean pointing outside. In return I kept pointing at the book. A man tapped me on the shoulder.

"Can I help you?" he asked.
"I hope so. I want to go here."
He looked at the map.
"Yes," he said, smiling. "No island ticket here. Here - big city bus."
"What?"
"Come."
I followed him out the back way to a different bus lot. He got on, put some change into the bin, and said something to the driver. They both laughed as he got back off.
"Go on," he said, pointing.
"Thank-you," I said. I tried to give him some change.
"No!" he said, astonished. "See you again."
I was genuinely surprised and touched and thanked him several times.

4.

As soon as I sat down, the bus roared out of the lot. A minute later I was thrown forward as the driver hit the brakes. He beat on the horn, yelled something out the window and sped off again.

The bus bumped and clanged through the city, occasionally stopping to pick up passengers. Actually the bus never really stopped. At times the driver would abruptly throw on the brakes, fling open the door, and jerk back into gear all within a few seconds. Those hurrying on, young or old were left to wobble haphazardly down the aisle to the first open seat. Added to their imbalance, the sight of me the lone foreigner to surprise them. Two old women saw me and nearly fell over.

We drove on for a long while and I began to feel disappointed. The scenery remained unchanged. Against a background of rolling green hills: a conglomeration of old houses, plain white apartment buildings, old restaurants, hand phone, clothing and stationary stores, and of course, old women selling live seafood and vegetables. I started to despair that this was all there was. Finally, to my relief, I saw the ocean. It lay calm and vast, drifting into the murky horizon.

I opened the bus window. A warm, moist breeze brushed my face and hair. A few young girls repeatedly turned around, saw me look at them, then crouched down in their seat and laughed. The bus roared around the S shaped road.

Soon I caught sight of the Daewoo Shipyard that I had read about. It certainly was massive. Like gigantic aliens, giant yellow, bulk carrying cranes loomed ominously across the shore with enormous half completed ships beneath them. Near the shore stretched a multitude of warehouses and what appeared to be dormitory buildings. Did employees live in those? I wondered.

I put on my headphones and listened to the original version of Layla, by Eric Clapton. Eventually, to my delight, the bus left behind the city and trudged into the mountainous hills. As we climbed upward, I rested my head against the seat, absorbing the warm sun and breeze, listening to the beautiful piano section of Layla. Suddenly spectacular views of the ocean and mountains broke through the trees. While the bright sun beamed through thick white clouds, thoughts of Wonderschool, Brenda and Mr. Kim, screaming kids and frantic disorganization ceased to exist.

The road was narrow and full of curves and bends. At one moment the ocean appeared to my right, the next to my left. Going downhill, everything on the bus started vibrating, shaking, rattling. Suddenly I realized we were traveling dangerously fast for such a road. I felt nauseous as I looked out to see a deep drainage gutter running along the road just inches from the bus's tires. On the other side, a frail railing was the only barrier between the road and a steep drop off. Also, the single lane was barely wide enough for the bus and I feared the oncoming traffic as we zoomed around the bends. No one else seemed concerned about it, however. Several passengers were asleep, another read a book, the two young girls glanced back at me and giggled. Despite this lack of concern, I still wondered what the hurry was about on a Sunday morning. It seemed unnatural to be rushing chaotically through such a peaceful and beautiful landscape. In the visor mirror, the driver's eyes looked ahead with what seemed to be intense determination. It was if he considered this a race. I mused that in his mind he was the greatest and fastest bus driver but hadn't the chance to prove himself in front of an international crowd. At last, on this fine Sunday morning, he would once and for all prove to Korea and the world his uncanny capability of transporting passengers in record time. Again, I closed my eyes and hoped for the best.

Down near the water we abruptly stopped. The driver turned around and motioned me off. Quickly I jumped up and bowed several times saying thank you. Everyone looked at me expressionless. Once I got off, the two girls looked out the window. "Good-bye!" they yelled, and burst into laughter. I waved as the bus roared away around the bend.

5.

I saw a beach, or at least I thought it was a beach. There was a long curved stretch of stones etched against the sea and a throng of tents. I had never seen tents on a beach before. For a moment I thought I had found some mysterious and unique campground. I looked up. A sign read Hakdong Beach. I rechecked my information.

I chuckled. What is neuralgia? I wondered. Better yet, what the hell are fairy pitta birds? Curious, I set off down the beach. The "smooth round pebbles" were more like coarse jagged rocks grating beneath my feet. In the distance, thick white clouds drifted across the green wooded peak of Mt. Noja.
As I walked I noticed people asleep in their tents, others squinting groggily as they emerged into the bright morning sun. It seemed amazing to me that they had camped here all night. It also seemed a good idea and I wondered I had never seen tents on beaches in America. I assumed there must have been a regulation against it. In America there was always a regulation, especially at a beach. Then I realized had this been a beach in America, there would undoubtedly have been a multitude of franchise motels, fast food restaurants, and convenience stores lined up and down the beach, or it would be a regulated state owned park which closes at dark. Here all I could see were a few small motels across the road, several sea food restaurants, some stationary and hand-phone stores, and a lot of old women selling vegetables and seafood.

I found the public bathroom. It was full of dirty urinals and squat toilets. I went into a stall and tried to change into my swimming trunks, but the floor was soiled and the smell was awful. Several people came and left. When the bathroom was empty I undressed. As I was trying to put on my swimming trunks, two young boys ran in. They stopped and pointed at me as if I was a criminal.

"Wae guk saram! Wae guk saram!" they screamed.
I was naked and trying desperately to get my swimming trunks on. I got one leg in, but it was the wrong leg hole.
"How are you?" yelled one, still pointing.
"Not good," I said stumbling.
"Eh?"
"Not good, I told you."
"Eh?"
"I'm fine, thank you and you?" I yelled.
"Oh! I'm fine, thank you," said one.
"What time is it?" said the other.
"I don't know," I said while nearly tripping. The netting inside the trunks had gotten tangled.
"Where are you from?"
"Oh for chrissakes, I'm trying to get dressed. Can you ask me these questions later? Better yet, could you run away and never come back?"

Their mouths dropped open, they looked at each other, they scratched their heads, they shrugged. "Do you like pizza?"
Finally I got the swimming trunks on. The kids were still watching and asking ridiculous questions. I tried my best to ignore them, putting my headphones on and turning up the volume. One approached me and began to rub my arm. The other followed suit and rubbed my leg. As with the students at my school, they were amazed by the hair on my body.

"Ruff ruff," I barked, stuck my tongue out and panted. I hoped they would think I was crazy and run away. I hopped about barking.
"Game! Game!" screamed one.
"I know! I know! It's a dog," screamed one.
"Oh, no - no game!" I cried. At last I stuffed my clothes in my bag and rushed out. To my anguish, they both followed, lingering behind and shouting: "Nice to meet you! Hello! What time is it? Good afternoon, Sir! Do you like kimchi? What's your name? Hello? HELLO!"
Eventually, to my relief, they got bored and ran into the water. I found an empty spot and set my bag down.

Already the sun was roasting. While rubbing on sun tan lotion, I noticed the people next to me eating kimchi and some of that kimbab stuff I had seen at school. I was always surprised to see people eating kimchi, rice, and seaweed, especially at 10:00 in the morning on a beach.

A warm breeze came up and brushed my face. The water splashed the shore. As soon as I was hot enough, I took off my sandals and walked carefully over the "smooth round pebbles" down into the pleasantly cool and salty water. It was the first time I had been in an ocean since I was little. While the water felt refreshing, the coarse jagged stones hurt my feet. I swam out a ways and did the back-float and looked back at the beach, the green hills and Mt. Noja, haven of the ferry pitta bird. It really was nice and pleasant. The warm sun beat down on my chest. I stayed out for some time feeling at ease and peaceful, oblivious.

When I felt hungry, I swam ashore and walked across the street. I stopped cautiously at one of the many restaurants.
"Ajuma," I said. "Menu?"

She led me outside and pointed to the fish tank. I put my face to the glass. A swimming mass of eel stared back at me hopelessly. I frowned. The ajuma stood waiting, anxiously tapping the glass and speaking in Korean as if to say, "What is wrong with you? These are the most delicious eel in Hakdong. Come in and sit down and get ready for your delicious breakfast. You won't be disappointed."

"Um," I interrupted. "Do you happen to have any bacon and eggs by any chance? You know what? I'll even settle for a piece of dry toast at this point."
For a brief moment she stared at me expressionless. The sun beat hard on my brow. Again, she started tapping the glass and speaking in Korean, this time in a feverish tone. I shrugged hopelessly and walked off.

Up ahead I noticed an American style restaurant. What luck, I thought. As I entered I could still hear the ajuma from down the road yelling to me about her delicious eel.

I sat down and looked at the menu. There was no American breakfast, but they had a selection of pricey steak dinners. What the hell, I thought. I hadn't had a good meal since I left home so I decided to get the steak and shrimp dinner with soup and a salad. While I waited I looked out the window at the ocean, eagerly anticipating my delicious meal.

First came the soup: a small bowl with a thin layer of plain cream soup sprinkled with pepper. While it tasted good, I finished it in about 6 spoonfuls. Next, an equally unrewarding salad, mostly lettuce and one measly cherry tomato. Well, I figured the main dish should make up for it. When it came, I wanted to cry. I expected a big juicy "American" steak. Instead, I pained to see a small circular piece of dry meat about the diameter of a cup. Beside it, 2 large shrimp served with shells and eyes intact. I cut the steak into 6 pieces and did the best I could with the shrimp, digging out the meat as their beady eyes stared back at me. While in theory the meal was American in style, in reality it was far from American food. Had I ordered this meal back home, the soup would have filled a gigantic bowl, the salad would have overflowed with vegetables, the steak would have been enormously plump and juicy, and the shrimp would have been plentiful, peeled and cleaned. I finished the meal, sighed, stood up and sighed then paid the tab while deeply sighing.
I walked back up the road, sighing. The ajuma at the eel restaurant tapped on the fish tank and gave me a look as if to say, "I told you so, but no hard feelings. If you're not full yet, come on in and have a delicious eel or two for desert."

I walked down the pebble beach to the base of Mt. Noja. As I started upward, attempting to spot a fairy pitta bird, an old Korean man caught sight of me.
"Are you American?" he asked.
"Why yes, I am."

He looked at me long and hard. I shrugged, trying to walk by. "It was - The Korean War," he finally said slowly and with surprising conviction. He took hold of my arm and looked deep into my eyes. His gray head trembled. "They were hard - terrible times. We fought long and we fought hard. We fought together for freedom. And here -" He coughed and cleared his throat. He waved his hand down the beach - where the people were strolling leisurely about in the late morning sun - and then out to sea where the children were splashing playfully in the water. "And here is freedom."

"Yes, sir," I said, suddenly trembling and thinking of what I had learned about North Korea.
He gripped my arm tightly. "Welcome to South Korea," he said, smiling. He let go and hobbled away down the beach.
"Thank you," I called out. He didn't look back. I took several deep breaths and after watching him disappear down the beach walked humbly up a trail of the mountain.

Nearby, to my surprise, an old woman was selling boiled silk worm. I tried to ask her if she was related to the old woman in Gohyun but to no avail. She started filling up a bag. I rushed off.

Within ten minutes of walking up the trail, I was saturated in sweat. I stopped and peered around into the trees. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. I expected to see some kind of magical crane or extraordinary goose, but all I saw were a few small birds with blue feathers. Dejected and hot, I retreated back down to the beach. There I had another swim before leaving. The water was pleasantly cool and salty and washed away the sweat.

When I grew bored, I dressed again and went up to the bus stop. As I waited, I put on my headphones and listened to the piano section of Layla again, looked around and thought about the contrast of ugliness and beauty, complication and simplicity, peacefulness and hurry, the old man and the mystery of the ferry pita bird.

I was interrupted as the bus squealed to a "stop". I jumped on quickly, stumbling down the aisle as we roared away into the beautiful hills.

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