Hell in a Very Beautiful Place

Ever have one of those mornings when you just can’t seem to wake from dreaming? Well, this morning is one of those mornings and while my dream isn't overly pleasant or all that interesting, it still holds enough appeal to keep me watching and ignore a very loud howling sound coming somewhere from reality.

In my dream, I'm ringside at a three-way bout between “A-Train,” probably better known to non-wrestling aficionados as having the hairiest back in the world, Scott “Holler if ya hear me!” Steiner and the yogwan (motel) manager in Gochang who stole my bike.

The beating these boys are dishing out is truly horrific, and to make matters worse, Ric “Wooo!” Flair, keeps charging the ring and smashing the yogwan manager across the back with a steel chair every time he tries to get up.

Now some would say that this dream is simply my subconscious venting built up anger over the theft, but I beg to differ. I feel no malice towards the manager or citizens of Gochang, genuinely believing that my loss occurred for a reason, perhaps even saving me from serious misfortune somewhere down the track. Unbelievable? Maybe so, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it for now anyway.

Finally losing interest in this performance of ballet for the masses, I crawl out of bed and take a peek outside to try and discover the source of that howling noise. The view from my window is of a mountain, and as the trees on it are just about being uprooted, it doesn't take too much nous to realise that there is very strong wind blowing outside. But still, I must be delusional because for some inexplicable reason I think that cycling in these conditions will be utopia.

What a fool I am. After setting off at a fantastic pace courtesy of a gale force tailwind, "cycling utopia" turns into a living hell as the direction of the road swings head first into what is now a typhoon-strength gale.

After an hour or so of suffering through this misery, I look down at my cycle computer to see that I’d barely made 10km! Unwilling to accept that these hellish conditions can possibly last for very much longer, it's time to kill a little time and stop in at a roadside restaurant for a marvellous breakfast of kimchi jigaye (spicy fermented cabbage stew), rice and about a million or so side dishes.

I’ve never been big on Korean style breakfasts but when you’re burning calories courtesy of open road cycling, it always seems as if you need to eat and the bigger the meal the better.

Back in the saddle again, conditions have worsened and now it seems as if rain is threatening. Things are looking pretty grim and if it wasn’t for the stunning scenery, I probably would have found a yogwan (motel) and given up for the day. Struggling along at a top speed of 8km per hour, not much faster going downhill either, I have plenty of time to take in my surrounds and contemplate this Chinese puzzle that for me, is Korea.

It’s really quite funny, when I first arrived in Seoul, I thought that this country was dirty and uncivilised; populated with rude and very unfriendly people. But the longer I’ve stayed, the more this attitude has softened and since hitting the road, I’ve had a complete rethink and now have a new theory. These days, I believe that Korea is made up of two countries: Seoul and the rest.

While Seoulites have their faults, at least I can now understand what makes them tick and accept that some of the perception problems rest with me. But Koreans outside of the megalopolis, well, they’re a completely different kettle of fish.

On a whole, I’ve found them to be very decent people who are friendly and honest in their dealings. Always up for a chat irrespective of the language barrier, they are relaxed and seem to genuinely enjoy their lives as opposed to their city brethren.

What factors are responsible for these differences? A good question which perhaps lies in the postcard-perfect background for today’s ride.

Towering mountains covered with dark green forests, shrouded in swirling mist. Turquoise blue streams and rivers snaking their way through vibrant green rice paddies and grape orchards. Traditional Korean houses nestled between the rice paddies and the mountains, their stone walls and upwardly curving roofs with dragon head tiles mounted on the hip ends making them look as if they, along with the mountains, have always been here.

If cycling through a landscape like this in the middle of a typhoon is calming, imagine what living here would be like.

But beautiful scenery or not, outrageous winds, coupled with a failing rear derailleur (a cable problem that I cannot repair), force me to abandon plans to make Yeosu by nightfall, instead seeing me head south-west to Yulpo Beach.

The theory behind this decision is that I will pick up a tail wind and make better time, but the reality, well, that’s a different story. I'm now battling even more severe winds, being drenched by monsoonal rains and have climb my way out of an impossibly mountainous tea-growing region near Boseong.

But before the hill climb commences, lunch (the highlight of my day) calls, and today it consists of fresh water eel, killed at my table and still wriggling as it's grilled by the restaurant adjumma (older woman), a large bowl of rice and all the usual suspect side dishes. A few adjoshis (older men) dining across the room bellow that the adjumma should give me some nokcha soju (alcoholic green tea) to help with my riding. And after lunch, one of the lads offers me his umbrella to use while cycling -- I politely decline explaining that I need two hands to operate my bike.

Conditions still haven't improved and yet I elect to keep going. Even with a selection of only three gears, I manage to plug away, hoping to escape this nightmare and make Boseong before my spirit and or the bike give out. For the first time during this trip, I actually begin getting cold and start shivering.

With the situation now getting serious: Five hours of hellish riding for a return of just over 50km – my stress levels are beginning to climb and as there isn't much around in the way of civilisation, this could be a very unpleasant walk if the derailleur decides to pack it in for good.

After another two hours of hateful cycling, I finally clear the mountains, the rain abates and the road to Boseong materialises from the gloom. I’m not too far out of the tea capital of Korea but at this point, I couldn’t care less where I was, I need to get out of the rain, into a warm shower and bed.

Boseong is a small town that doesn’t look very appealing in the rain and nor does the yogwan I’ve chosen. It’s your typical faux-brick and wood monstrosity that resembles a small office block in the west -- completely out of sorts with the environment and character of the traditional style houses that still exist in surprising numbers -- made worse by the fact that it appears to be rotting both inside and out, with the "wanted" mug shots of Korean criminals taped up around reception not helping to win any awards in the ambience stakes.

The owner turns out be quite a decent chap and happily lets me take my bike into the room. Shabby, small and not all that clean, the room isn't good for the spirit but the water is piping hot and the bed reasonably comfortable.

As neither the rain or wind has stopped, I'm beginning to worry that these conditions are looking set in for the next few days. If so, there is no way that I will head out again. My bike is basically crippled and the thought of packing up the plantation and hopping on a train for Seoul is looking better by the minute. But the shame of quitting would be too much to bear ... I’ve spent so much money and suffered through too much stress to be beaten this close to my destination (Busan). Well, it’s not really that close but still 79km closer than yesterday and that makes it a delicious prospect unable to be ignored.

Dinner consists of ham and cheese sandwiches, canned peaches, sultanas (raisins for my North American readers), Belgian waffle cookies and a two-litre orange juice. Sleep can't come quickly enough.

Tomorrow: Yeosu or Bust!

On the Road Again

Woke up this morning feeling completely refreshed and rearing to go. The only problem is that Gwanmae Island's sole ferry to the mainland (Mokpo via Jindo) doesn't leave until 1.50 p.m. On the upside, this gave me some more time to explore my surrounds, but in all honesty, I was itching to get back on my bike and keep going.

That's the bizarre thing about long distance cycling: the more kilometres you get through, the more you want to rack up the next day. It's almost if you don't exceed or at least match the previous days total, the whole outing has been a failure and a complete waste of time. I wonder if this is a symptom of an addictive personality?

As I wrote yesterday, Gwanmae Island is not overly large as far as Korean islands go and can be travelled around in about 40 minutes by bike. It's relatively mountainous with about 60 per cent of the roads being sealed. Most of its attractions are off the beaten path and can only be accessed on foot through light pine forest.

Still full from last night, I slipped out of the mimbak's compund sans breakfast and headed off for Namkum (penis rock). With Mi-hyang in tow, we made good time to the beginning of the hiking track and after a brisk 15 minute ascent, reached a viewing point where "penis rock could be seen in all its glory. Namkum is situated on Panga Islet and is fabled as a place where the local women would go if they were experiencing difficulties in falling pregant. Apparently, this 10m high penis-shaped rock possesses fertility powers that are not to be taken lightly. As you probably guessed, I kept my hands of Mi-hyang and didn't hang around too long for fear that I might fall pregnant as well. Shades of Scwarzenegger's "Junior" perhaps?

A quick jog back down to the road and we were on our way towards Haneuldari (Haneul means sky), which is basically two mountains jutting out of the sea with a deep valley between them. At one point, there was a bridge between the two but it's been removed for fear that tourists staring into the depths of the abyss will lose their balance and never be seen again. Staring into the blackness, I was reminded of a line from Oliver Stone's "Wall Street" delivered by Lou Mannheim (the great Hal Holbrook) to Budd Fox (Charlie Sheen): "Man looks in the abyss, there's nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss."

By the time we hiked back down to the beach it was time for lunch and after a quick swim, I was ready for another of the adjuma's culinary delights. And as Yoda would say: "Disappointed, I was not." Lunch consisted of the usual hundred sidedishes and a steaming bowl of spicy chamshi (tuna) kimchi jigae (stew). Twenty minutes and two servings of rice later I was back in my room preparing myself and my bike for the ferry.

By now I've got the whole packing, hooking and strapping thing down to a fine art. From taking a ponderously slow 20 minutes at the start of my trip to stuff my panniers and attach them to my bike, I'm now down to under 10, which if you've ever dealt with panniers before is a defintiely something to be proud of.

The ferry to Jindo is larger than the one I came over on, capable of carrying at least 10 cars and umpteen passengers and their luggage. Buddha must have been smiling as the sun was out, the sea was calm and all was good in the world -- managing to sneak an hour long nap on top of several sacks of rice which had been piled up near the front drop-ramp was also an unexpected bonus.

Interestingly enough, a lot of people during this ferry ride were outwardly inquisitive about my bike, panniers and travels. Although they spoke no English, I could understand a few word of Korean here and there and had a fairly good idea as to what was going down. Basically, they were amazed that I had cycled to this part of Korea for a visit and were even more surprisd to learn of where I was heading.

The ferry touched land at Baengmok on Jindo Island's southern shores after 3 hours. After disembarking, Isaddled up and hit the road. It was nearly 5.00 p.m. by the time I got going, and at this point, I was still entertaining delusional ideas of clocking up 120km before nightfall. After about 50km of fairly hilly riding with a mild headwind, I realised that I'd be lucky to make even 100km. In the end, I settled for a swift 79km.

Cycling through Jindo is a wonderful experience. The countryside sparkles like an emerald as the area has received quite a lot of rain in recent months. I couldn't get over how green the land was, set off in a marked contrast by the bluish lustre of the mountains. After several hours, Jindo's twin bridges loomed on the horizon -- the manmade landmark feature of this region and its official symbol.

Resmebling McDonald's infamous golden arches, the bridges are an imposing sight and are quite the architectural accomplishment. Crossing by bike reminded me of peddling over Vancouver's Lions Gate Bridge but without its dizzying height and unsettling habit of swaying in high winds. Guarded at one end by an army checkpoint and flanked at both ends by statues of white Jindo dogs, the whole scene is oddly reminiscent of Farncis Ford Coppola's "Apocalypse Now" during the Do Lung Bridge scene; except it's daytime, I wasn't drunk, the locals weren't wasted on psychedelic drugs no one was shooting at me.

After crossing the bridge, I buckled down and decided to head for Haenam. With the light rapidly failing and I was getting worried that I'd find myself cycling through the Korean countryside in compete darkness as I had no idea how far away the next town with a yogwan was.

Not surprisingly, the last hour of my journey was in total darkness, in the Korean countryside, on a major road which the only trucks and cars driving on it felt necessary to use as a F-1 race track. With my arse killing me as a result of my saddle being incorrectly set (the front was slightly elevated), the last 20km was murderous and the bright lights of Haenam could not come fast enough.

When the exit for Haenam finally did appear, I stopped at the first yogwan I saw, asked the owner -- a genuinely kind old gentleman -- to order me the largest pizza possible and retired to the comfort of my room and a warm bath for the evening. Sleep and melted cheese was all that mattered.

Tomorrow: Hell in a Very Beautiful Place.

One Night in Gwanmae

Started out for for Gwanmae Island, a tiny archipelago situated about 6 hours by ferry south east of Mokpo, at 8.30 a.m. on one of the smallest ferries I've ever had the pleasure of boarding; ocean going that is. The ship was more of a pumped up tug boat than a ferry and boasted no seats, just a polished wooden floor below deck for sleeping.

My companions on this 17,000 won journey (advertised at 23,000 won but I received a "discount") was the crusty looking crew and a yellow Jindo pup imprisoned in a peach box with its head sticking out the corner. Jindo dogs are fine looking animals, fabled in Korean folk lore as extremely intelligent and loyal. If you're thinking about buying a new dog and fancy something a little different, then go the Jindo.

The weather was overcast with a slight breeze but nothing to unpleasant. Being the fearless travelling man that I am, I assumed prime position -- sans sunscreen -- on the bow in front of the forecabin and stretched out, ready to enjoy the unfolding island scenery of Korea's great south-west.

And I was not disappointed. We passed mountainous island after island, some vegetated with pine forests, others with what appeared to be jungles and some with just light scrub. This region is an undiscovered gem and is definitely worth a visit if you're in the area. The best way would be to buy or rent a boat and slowly make your own way around. The ocean seems to be quite deep, is fairly calm and relatively easy to navigate. A Maersk container ship (couldn't make out its name) was anchored near one of the islands awaiting its run into Busan. I suspect it must have been empty as she was riding extremely high (Dan Gooch would have been in heaven at this sighting).

By the time we began our approach to Gwanmae Island, I was itching to get back on land. Six hours under a cloudy sky had resulted in my transformation from Johnny Tan Man into Johnny Beet Face. I needed a shower, or at the very least, a swim. Actually, just getting under cover would suffice. Upon making land, I dragged my bike and packs along a narrow gangplank before setting cycle for the tiny hamlet of Gwanmae.

Gwanmae is is a smallish island as far as Korean islands go and is clean and relatively undeveloped. There are two hamlets with about 20 residents in each and a rural community located in a lush green valley on the seaward side. Interestingly enough, the pebble beach on that side of the island has been turned into a toxic waste dump, --well maybe not toxic but it was pretty damn disgusting -- by the local farmers despite the fact that the island is part of a Korean National Park.

The water is clear, with the sand an amazing silver colour. The beach is long and wide, overlooked by mountains and with pine trees growing at its edges. For those of you fortunate enough to have visited Vancouver Island, Canada, the beach on Gwanmae Island is very similar to Long Beach but without the density of its forest.

The island is looked after by one Korean National Park Ranger, Park Mi-hyang, a 29-year-old free spirit who was amazed that I had journeyed as far I as I had to see "her island." She proved to be an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide, despite not speaking much English and took great delight in showing me a 900-year-old tree, which the locals still worship to this day (no churches on this island, everyone's a Shamanist or Buddhist), and Namkum (penis rock) -- a rocky outcrop that resembles a circumcised penis.

Accommodation on Gwanmae Island comes in the form of a mimbak (room with shared facilities), or beach front camping. There are two mimbak's on the island and at first, both owners turned me away because they didn't want foreigners on the premises. Turned out that about a year-and-a-half ago, an American couple visited the island and spent their entire stay complaining about the food and absence of any fast food outlets. Not surprisingly, the owners blew up and vowed never to let foreigners lodge again.

To brutally honest, I have no idea what those Americans were thinking. Most Westerners that you meet in this part of the world are absolutely braindead and couldn't survive if they had to walk 20km to the nearest town --they give the rest of us bad names and make life extremely difficult.

Actually, one of my most trying experiences involving Westerners took place in 2002 when two American lasses visiting Korea tried to recreate a U.S. style coffee shop breakfast experience near a fish market in Busan. My companion at the time, Andrew Wiseman (also an American but a good 'un), and I, kept sneaking outside to feast at the roadside toasted sandwich vendor who was serving up these awesome creations of ham, egg and melted cheese for 1,000 won. We left the girls inside nibbling on bagels (5,000 won a pop), washed down with lousy coffee (2,500 won), pleading that we were too sick from the night before to eat. The moral of the story is when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Eat at the roadside vendors and always eat what's lumped on your plate, irrespective of how unappetising it may seem.

Back to Gwanmae Island.

Koreans are fiercely proud of their cuisine and to turn your nose up and whatever is served is a surefire recipe for disaster. Fortunately, the adjuma (older woman) who ran one of the mimbaks took pity on me after watching my efforts to open a can of tuna with a rock, allowing me to stay but not without an earful of curses.

She reluctantly showed me to a Spartan room with the basic floor bedding. At that point, all I cared about was a cold shower and a functional fan: What more could you ask for?

Later that afternoon, the adjuma barged into my room and told me in her gruffest voice that dinner was to be served in an hour and would consist of "a bowl of rice and nothing more." Feeling ever so welcome, I headed down the beach for a quick swim with zero expectations of the evening's fare. While swimming, this crazy island lad sporting the latest flesh coloured Speedos from 1972 hiked up around his chest paddled up and started trying to splash me. As the water was freezing and I hadn't got under yet, it took all my powers to resist murdering him on the spot, but as we were the only souls on the beach braving the surprisingly chilly waters, I forgave this atrocious behaviour and simply dived under and swam away. Upon resurfacing, I saw that he'd lost interest and was off chasing a crab or some other poor unfortunate marine creature -- half its luck.

I returned to the dining hall clutching a can of tuna to mix with my rice and was absolutely floored to find a massive spread consisting of a spicy fish and tofu soup (pronounced "dobu" in Korean), about a hundred side dishes and bowl of rice awaiting. I have never seen food that looked so good in all my time in Korea. The adjuma was watching my face like a hawk for the slightest sign of displeasure and did an admirable job of nearly concealing her surprise as I sat down and attacked the feast with gusto. Several times during the meal I caught her stealing a peek or three to make sure that my pleasure was genuine.

After thanking my now thawed out host for dinner, I retired to "Mr. Ham's Shower Club" on the beachfront -- a shower block with a stereo, fridge and a few tables and chairs out the front -- for a few beers (Hite) with my host Mr. Ham (a retired Korean Navy Seal) and the locals (crazy fishermen).

Now, I'm no fan of the amber ale but when in Rome, well ... you know the rest. After two beers, a couple of plates of dried squid and fish and an interesting conversation in Korean / English / body language on the merits of Guus Hiddink, Korea's former soccer coach and now Australia's, it was time for bed.

Tomorrow: On the Road Again.