It's time to run on over to SoKoNotes for more stories from The Sketchnian Riviera!



It must be tough to be God. Hell, it's frustrating simply playing the part of The Almighty in a second-grade level theatrical production of the Christian creation myth. I can't imagine being the real thing. What with a perfectionistic hagwon director trying to outshine the competition, most of players barely able to speak the language, and a costume that makes God look like someone's grandmother, it'll take a miracle from above simply for this play to look anything other than completely ridiculous. On the other hand, it's really gratifying to say "Let There Be Light!!!" over and over again in a big, booming voice.

The Korean students, normally soft-spoken, reserved and humble, find it difficult to express their lines in the highly-engaged, animated style key to good acting. Strange, they have no such problems being complete clowns in class...Hmmmmm...

Well, before I go any further, please open a new tap in your internet browser and go check out Gavin's blog, "Mula," at the following address:

http://web.mac.com/gavinaverill1/iWeb/MULA/MULA-HOME/MULA-HOME.html

Actually, my own personal name for Gavin's Website is, "The Things Stephen Doesn't See." He has a fresh perspective on Korea both photographically and literally. Furthermore, Gavin recently got the truly powerful new iLife software from Apple, including iWeb, a program that makes it incredibly easy to publish a good-looking webpage. His blog is very pleasing to the eye, and easy to navigate, too. Not only is there a new section completely devoted to Konglish, but you can even subscribe to video and photo podcasts of "Mula" and have those wacky Konglish phrases ready to spice up any conversation via an iPod.

Speaking of linguistic mischief, stand back...It's The Korean Files!

"Angle for YOU!" (Me? An angle? Oh, you shouldn't have! Notebook)

"Aroma: Use it to take all kinds of notes." (If only I could show you what SoKoNotes smells like. Notebook)

"I have a soft spot in my heart for Mong." (Me too, she's so cute. Pencilcase)

Hmmmmm....LET...THERE....BE....PHOTOGRAPHS!!!


Here's a rare treat: Pictures of Notes teaching class at ESS. The poor lot seated in front of me are third year middle-school students, the oldest bunch of kids I teach.



A sharp observer will notcie how cowed and seeminly bored the students appear. This was not due to the lesson Mr. Jones was teaching, which was fun and exciting. No, the reason the students have their heads down and appear to be meditating is because Mr. Kim is in the room. In fact, he got up and taught for a few minutes while I took photos.



Why was the director of my school in my classroom teaching my students? Because we're putting out an ESS newsletter and Mr. Kim wanted photos of the staff and himself teaching. These photos are by no means to be considered a document of fact, however. Almost my entire class period was eaten up by the photoshoot. In this next photo we have the recently married Su-jin, teaching algebra (I think).



Ms. Kang, Hye-ran got up for the photo op, too, and I dutifully took a few photos of her 'teaching' my class. Actually, it's her class too, and she is much loved by the students.



Other than that, I didn't take many photos this week. Here's a snapshot I took of a motorcycle deliveryman taking a smoke break on his bike. I've decided that the motorcycle is the pick-up truck of the Far East. In some cases, that is a literal observation. The entire back end of a motorcycle might actually have a flatbed and two wheels, all of it welded on by some creative mechanic. Very cool. Motorcycles carry everything from fruit and glass to dangerous goods like gasoline and giant pressurized canisters of some sort of flamable gas such as butane.



I also spent some time working with Gavin on another segment in our slowly-evolving video of Busan, and I'll link you to that video just as soon as Gavin gets it cut.

* * *

I was walking to the teacher's office when I came across a boy from TA named Sang-hyeon standing patiently by the door to the computer room as if waiting for someone. I beckoned him over and tried to make a little conversation with him, part of my New Year's resolution to help the children actually use English to communicate.

'Hello Sang-hyeon, how are you?' I asked.

More often than not, this 'walk-by quiz' strategy catches most students off-guard. Either they are truly unaccustomed to utilizing the English taught to them or they are conditioned to believe that speaking English is an exercise confined to the classroom in the same way lifting weights is confined to a gym.

Sang-hyeon is one of the smarter children in the school. He is a quiet, thoughtful boy with thick, black-rimmed glasses that give his face a severe, over-serious look all the more accentuated by his aforementioned self-possessed disposition. When the rest of his classmates are shouting, out of their seats and being disrespectful, Sang-hyeon alone sits calmly at his desk, eyes fixed on the teacher, an island of tranquility in a sea of chaos. He is taller than all but the girls in his sixth-grade class, and the other children tease him for being so tall and so cool. They’ve labeled him 'The Monk.'

'Excuse me teacher,' said The Monk as he slowly reached around to his backpack and produced a small notepad. As he began thumbing through it I leaned over to take a look at what he had written. To my great astonishment, every line on both the front and back of every single page was covered in English phrases mated to their corresponding Korean translation in Sang-hyeon's perfect handwriting.

I watched as Sang-hyeon's patient finger traced over the Korean, searching for a more creative answer to my inquiry than 'fine, thank you.' Many of the phrases were absolutely ridiculous statements confined to the most specific of conversations, such as 'It's cod' and 'My body is clean.' I noticed the thickness of the notepad and the determined, methodical nature of Sang-hyeon's search and I realized that I didn't have the time to engage The Monk in the complex dialogue he was searching for. I had to be in my next class in five minutes.

It hurt to do it, but I had to disengage from the conversation I had started with Sang-hyeon. The boy looked more confused than anything else as I apologized, grabbed my books and hurried down the stairs. As I walked to class, I prayed he didn't take my sudden loss of interest the wrong way. For a child teased for his seriousness and attention to detail, such behavior from a teacher could only give courage to any creeping sense of self-doubt brought on by the jeers of his simple-minded classmates.


* * *

I met In-hye for our weekly Korean lesson on Sunday morning. The previous weekend one or both of us got our times mixed up and we ended up leapfrogging one another at the rendezvous point just outside of the gate of Goshin University. In-hye arrived at 10AM, waited for twenty-five minutes, and then left when I didn’t show. Five minutes later I arrived and sat around for a half-hour waiting for In-hye.

The lesson went well enough. We both broke out our respective laptops and traded notes on Korean and English. In-hye, who can converse in her second language, discussed the latest disaster to strike South Asia - the mudslides in the Philippines. She was amazed by the outrageous number of dead and asked me if I knew what caused mudslides. I pulled out my notepad and pen and illustrated how the dirt on a mountain, if deprived of the plants and trees that hold it in place, can become bloated with rainwater and slide off of the bedrock. In-hye picked up all sorts of new, handy vocabulary such as ‘coefficient of friction,’ ‘supersaturate’ and ‘denuded.’

In-hye taught me how to ask for, tell and mark time in Korean. This is very useful to me. Time plays such a big role in my life that I am sure I will easily remember and begin utilizing what I learned. A language is hard to learn unless you use it, and believe it or not, there is little opportunity to use Korean in Korea. Most of the Koreans that I regularly interact with speak English, and many of the shopkeepers, salespeople, taxi-drivers and other incidental players in my life don't have the time or patience to try and hash out the vaguely-Hangul sounding dribble spilling from my big English lips.

Every now and then a stranger will take the time and listen as I try a new phrase or attempt to conjugate a verb. After a few garbled repetitions, most people laugh good-naturedly and wave their hand at me. "Mula," they say and smile. Sometimes I get lucky and the person will understand what I am trying to say and then help me to say it correctly. This is a rare gift, and I usually hang on to the new phrase or knowledge imparted to me by these goodhearted native (Korean) speakers to use in my daily life.

Gavin remarked earlier this week that I appear to have a very big vocabulary. I thanked him, but countered that my vocabulary is limited to dining and teaching. I can order, describe and comment on food with ease; and I can now direct my class to be quiet, pay attention and form a complete sentence - all in Korean. But outside of that and asking if I can take someone's picture, the Korean language is still a vast, colorful sea upon which I float with a pair of fins, a snorkel set and In-hye.

* * *

I got sick again. God knows how. Gavin lectures me on snacking on the dokpokki and pajun, hinting that the "communal feeding troughs" run by the friendly old ajummas in the busy alley behind ESS are like mini pathogen swap-meets. There are five or six stands roughly equivalent to hotdog stands back in the States, and they serve a limited variety of greasy, spicy snacks from the griddle or from steam-heated cauldrons to customers huddled around the stand with chopsticks in their gloved-hands.

He might have a point, I thought as a virus ravaged my body for most of the week. My skin grew pale, my upper-respiratory tract clogged up and at night I would wake up with chills and a terrible fever. Thursday night in particular was extraordinarily horrible. I woke up with a fever so severe that no matter how much I bundled up I couldn't get warm and my body shook and trembled so violently that in the morning my legs and back felt sore like I had run a ten-kilometer race. Throughout the night I tried to stay good-humored about the ordeal, in part because deep-down I believe that if I can have a sense of humor about something, it probably isn't all that serious.

"Man the lines, men! We can't afford to let one of those bastards in here!" I said, trying to bolster morale among an immune system not used to the constant warfare of the last five months living and teaching abroad. I thought of Gandalf in the third Lord of The Rings installment. "You are white-blood cells of Stephen Jones. No matter what comes through that sinus cavity, you WILL STAND YOUR GROUND!"

Another bout of uncontrollable shivering rocked my body, and I curled into a ball and whimpered, imagining the shaking to be from the army of ugly, malignant pathogens charging headlong into the silver spears and flashing steel swords of my valiant one-celled army.

"Send these foul beasts back into the ABYSS!"

During my darkest hours, when all hope seemed lost, I considered rousing Gavin and calling an ambulance. However, central command always vetoed this 'nuclear option,' opting instead to rely on my youth and health to pull me through the night, to fight to the last antibody. Too expensive, I thought, as Korean healthcare only covers half of the bill. Too risky, I figured, what with the language barrier and all, I could arrive with the flu and leave without my spleen. To much trouble, I reasoned, thinking about Gavin sleeping peacefully in the room next to mine. Oh, and I never bothered to learn the Korean equivalent to 911. Quite simply, I CAN'T call an ambulance!

With the help of tylenol, I lived to see morning. By Saturday the virus had been beaten back into the fiery pit of dokpokki from whence it came. I sadly had to add the food served at the stands to the growing list of things not to take into my body, right up there with soju and the parasite-bearing flatfish Dennis warned me about on my fourth night in Korea.