Eight months ago, I had packed up my things into three big cardboard boxes. I had sold my car. I had stored my furniture. I had eaten my own rather considerable body weight in Spur food and boerewors. As I cheerfully, tearfully said goodbye to my People, I knew I was finally making progress in the eternal game of chicken between myself and the world. I closed my eyes and jumped. It was time to travel.
Wide eyed, hopeful, bags stuffed and cling-wrapped (you never know, those baggage handlers are all clearly petty thieves after your lady-bloomers and/or any narcotics carefully stashed in your checked luggage) , I boarded the plane 20 minutes after receiving the visa that would allow me to teach English in Korea for a year. 2 planes across 14 000km and 7 time zones later I arrived in Kimchi-land tired, sick and minus anything and anyone familiar. Except, you know, the McDonalds at the airport.
Finally arriving at the Epik teachers orientation building late that night, I looked around a pretty big and seemingly deserted University campus, forlornly wondering in which of these hundred darkened buildings I was supposed to rest my travel-weary head.
Out of nowhere, I hear a strong Bellville accent. I looked around, confused, then finally looked down to see a tiny pixie of a girl grabbing a quick smoke break outside when she happened upon a lost waegookin (foreigner in Korean) and decided to help me find my way to my dorm. I registered, put my stuff down, laid my head down and ...
Jet lag is a bitch.
Woke up the next day for breakfast, had my first taste of kimchi, threw up my first taste of kimchi, had my first taste of Korean soup, threw up my first taste of Korean soup, and stared into the dead glassy eyes of what has become my Korean nemesis: anchovies. The sneaky little bastards are everywhere.
Cut to 2 days later, and I'm shyly eyeing my new co-teacher searching for social cues and hoping against hopes that she and I can be besties. We go for lunch. There's kimchi. I look at it, chopsticks poised. She looks at it, then studies me, expectantly. I reach for the radish. She's crestfallen.
In the beginning, there was kimchi. Eight months later, I've survived the kimchi onslaught, bonded with the co-teacher and even learnt to speak a little Korean. These past eight months have sped by in a blur of belly-laughter, soju cocktails and strangely acted out Konglish, but most of all, adventure.
My Cretins And I is a blog that charges straight down the cobbled stone road of nostalgia, on a black horse, with swords and armour, passing by the stories of my Life In Korea.
