goodbyes

So now I’m back in the United States. I’ve been here for over two weeks and soon I’m heading back to work in Seoul for another year.

Overall, it’s great to be home. It’s so easy: I speak the language and I understand the culture! I’ve cut down on the number of hours I sleep simply because I’m not as tired as I was in Korea; my brain felt constantly at work over there, but here, it takes a lot more to exhaust me. And seeing people and eating the food here has been as and often even better than I expected. Also, I’m happy to report that after a year, I can still speak in complex sentences, something I did at times wonder about.

I landed in LA and had a four-hour layover before flying into PDX and meeting my family. There are two things that struck me as I walked around the LAX terminal:

1. Our population has a lot of variety. Compared to Korea, one of the most homogenous nations in the world, America really is a rainbow. The airport had fat old white guys, tall young girls in head scarves, a flamboyantly dressed bald, tan, fit Latino talking to a skinny black woman with a corkscrew afro. Different languages, interracial couples, kids of all different skin shades running around—I know the LAX airport is a more diverse population than in many parts of the US, but even in my small 12,000 people hometown in Oregon I see significantly more variety than I did during my time in Korea .

2. We have small heads. I know this sounds odd, but bear with me—when I first got to Korea, I heard a lot of people tell me and the other non or part-Asians in the program in rather reverent voices that we had small faces. I initially felt confused and a little self-conscious, until I was told that this is a huge compliment in Korea. Everyone wants to have smaller heads, apparently, as it looks cute. I have many pictures of my students using their hands to cover parts of their face in an attempt to make them look smaller when photographed. I didn’t actually think, though, that most westerners have small heads, until I landed in LAX and most of the people around me seemed to have disproportionately small faces.

______________________

There's a lot I didn't write around the time I was leaving, but here's one story from my final night with my school:

After my last day of teaching, I went with the school staff and faculty to dinner at a popular pork restaurant. We sat on the floor at long, rectangular tables, grilled marinated meat and garlic, wrapped bits of it in lettuce and bamboo leaves, and washed it all down with beer and soju, Korea’s hard alcohol of choice. There were lots of speeches, I mangled a few sentences to my table companions in Korean, and when my principal visited my table I found a glass and, as is polite, poured him a shot of soju. Already red-faced, he leaned in and slurred something to me. One of my co-teachers translated: “you are born, and then you die.” After a few more lines of translated depressing philosophy to which I did not know how to respond, he returned to his own table and finished his dinner.

After a round of cold noodles to finish off the meal, we all stood up, stretched our legs, and went out to the parking lot. I was preparing to be taken home and work more on packing.

Suddenly the home economics teacher was in front of me.

“You will go?” she said to me and my coteacher in Korean.

I heard my coteacher explain that she would leave and take me back to my apartment.

The home economics teacher began speaking more loudly and quickly and gesturing a lot. After a few minutes and a lot of nodding, my coteacher turned to me, her face sympathetic but firm.

“I’m sorry. You cannot go home yet. Now, our school will go to noraebang."

A lump forms in my throat. Noraebang is Korean karaoke. It is a very popular pastime, and most Koreans get very excited when it’s mentioned. For me, however, hearing the word makes my heart plummet. The way others feel anxious and scared and heart race-y about planes or public speaking or spiders, I feel about having to sing in public. It’s not that I just don’t enjoy it; I fear it. With the assistance of alcohol in the company of very close friends here, I can occasionally do noraebang in Korea. But the idea of singing, on my own, sober, in front of 30 teachers, most of whom are 40 or older and with whom I only see at our bi-weekly staff meetings and occasionally talk about me in front of me in Korean I don’t understand is not how I want to spend one of my last nights in Korea.

“I think…maybe I should not go. Actually I must pack many things and…” I start.

“But this noraebang is for you because you will leave. I think you must go and sing a song. Then it is okay to leave and pack.”

And so ten minutes later I am sitting on a velvet chair, heart pounding, slowly flipping through a sticky black binder of karaoke selections. In front of me is beer, soju, and now whiskey, along with the traditional Korean bar fare of candied peanuts and dried squid. My stomach is churning too much to touch any of it. In front of me, they have already started. The social studies teacher has rolled up his pants into his socks and is doing a jig while the gym and health teachers are belting out Korean oldies while the computer teachers slams a tambourine on her knee. The social studies teacher jigs over to me, smelling of grilled meat and alcohol, and leans over the binder. “Pop song! Pop song!” he encourages me.

I nervously smile and look up again and see that my principal, now maroon-faced, is about to sing. He chooses a rambling traditional ballad. And then he starts. And there is no way around it—he is tone-deaf. He is off-key, loud and the teachers struggle to find the beat to clap along.
Then things start to click in my brain. I consider that my principal is a very bad singer—potentially on par with me. And I consider that to the teachers here, noraebang is a very kind goodbye present to give me as in Korea everyone loves karaoke. And I consider that my arguments about really, truly fearing karaoke will not hold a lot of weight here, in a country of collectivist thinking. I also consider that a number of the teachers are drunk and will not remember this, and that the rest I probably won’t ever see again as in 72 hours I will be on a plane.

And so I stand up after the principal finishes, and a microphone is pushed into my hand, and someone pulls out my camera, and soon I’m on the karaoke stage, listening to the opening chords of “Let it Be.” The words come on the screen and I am singing. Truthfully, I can hear myself, and, as I suspected, I am also off-key. But I am singing. And then the gym teacher starts hitting the tambourine, the math and ethics teacher are suddenly flanking me and swaying and singing what they can of the English with their arms around my shoulders, and the principal comes up and holds my hand and joins in the sway session. And while this is something I did not expect, something that I’m clearly not good at, it is, once I’m doing it, sort of fun.

_____________

I don't think I’m going to keep this blog next year in Seoul, so this will probably be my last post. I really want to thank you, though, for keeping up with me, reading, and commenting and putting up with my pretty inconsistent posting. I feel really lucky to have had the last year and to have people to share it with. And if you ever have the chance at a karaoke bar, please sing a song for me.

three reasons i had a job

next year

I'm coming back to Oregon July 20th. I'll be in the United States for about a month. Around August 24th I'm headed back to South Korea.

I'll be working in Seoul for the International Debate Education Association (IDEA), a non-profit that sponsors debate-related activities around the world. I'll be organizing programs for IDEA in Asia and other parts of the world. Come late August, you can find what I'm doing here. The position is for one year.

This is a definite change from my initial plan of going straight to law school this fall, but it's a change I'm really excited about.

Please let me know when you're in the northwest this summer-- especially if you want to eat hamburgers, big salads, normal pizza, Oregon strawberries or Mexican food. If you want to eat rice or pickled vegetables, you're out of luck.

excited's mean is too small

Yunju's next letter, after my brother came to visit (a future post!) :

Dear Elizabeth,

Hello! teacher. Oh! I was so excited to get your letter! excited's mean is too small..Umm..I feel unbelievable! It's the first time get Letter from English teacher! Wow! I din't think get a handwritten letter! I practice cursive many time. (Do you understand my cursive?).

Oh! I have good news! Out family decided not move to Jeju City. Not soon! My mother said, "We don't move to Jeju City in summer vacation. But Sometime we will go to Jeju City." I'm so happy. Because I miss my friends. If I move to Jeju City. But still I'm sad think about your leaving.

Wow! Your brother! I saw him today!! Um...I don't know. When I met your brother, I was little shy. I don't know why. He was very tall!! He's taller than me. not little! I'm excited when I meet tall person. (But...Umm..Elizabeth..My brother's taller than your brother! haha. I proud of my brother's tall. I'm sorry :)).

I'm impressed, too, that you like Bible! I read little. Maybe...Genesis? Ha! ha!

Bibles have many Version. So I recommend version called "New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures!" Versions are not same. They are different. Do you believe a bible? Many people think Bible is legend or false. But I think bible is so real. Even bible have scientific. I think that's the true.

Um...Teacher. What mean stationary? I don't understand. I found the meaning (meaning is "not moving"). But I didn't understand. You said ("the stationary you used is so pretty").

Coldplay. I more like "Jonas Brothers" but when I feel blue or rain, I like it very much. I searched for "Amsterdam" on the internet. But, nothing. Would you please send email (mp3 file, my computer don't speak)? If you are busy, don't send.

I searched "Coldplay," I read this: Punk Rock. "Coldplay" what kind of music? Please tell me about Rock...

Well, I will miss you very very much!! too...You are my favorite teacher. Thank you for read this long letter. I am happy we are friends, too...I was so impressed for you letter! I don't forget the letter.

Have a good weekend, teacher!

-Noh Yunju

ps-- Your good words made me happy. So I want my letter, too. Good morning teacher~

say hello to your eyes

Today I got a letter from one of my very favorite students. This girl is great-- she doesn't hold back at all. Last week I gave her some chamomile tea I had from America, and she declared, laughing, that it looked and smelled like pee. But then she drank it and told me it was delicious. We talk a lot about books and Korean and American singers and I think she wants to be a writer. I told her I wanted to be a lawyer and she was very impressed.

It's difficult to get a real sense of it typed, as half of the fun of this letter was the special faces and drawings she sprinkled throughout it. But I still think it's worth sharing. I will miss my students more than anything else in Korea.

To. Ms. Elizabeth
Hello? I’m Yunju. Teacher I’m so sad. I have two reason.

Reason 1 (Beat Please—like dugududgoodoo)
You will go to the America soon. You are so good teacher. You listen our voice and give new lesson. I was really happy when we talked each other. Because I like English. I like new. I like America. And I like you. So I REALLY sad.

Reason 2 (Beat again)
I will go to the Jeju City (House-moving. I will move to Jeju City maybe (70%?). I was so disappointed. Maybe summer vacation. I think. AAA (Anyway And After All—it’s the first) we’re parted. What should I do? I’m not want to house-moving. I lie in Seogwipo during 6 years (Wow! Very long time).

By the way. Oh! I heard news! Will your brother come to Korea? Wow I really want to see your brother. He is a writer, isn’t he? I feel dizzy. I have an amnesia maybe. Haha.

Writing books is brilliant and wonderful. These days I’m reading a Bible (“Bible is a international best-seller”) Bible said, “A word spoken the right time for it” in book part is really helpful other people. So I think writer is brilliant. And I believe you must the THE LAWYER.

Do you know why I write letters? (not email). I like letters. Writing Letters with hand and pencil is so classical and interesting (specially English Letter) to me. I’m like this letter paper.

I think COLDPLAY is so good. “The Scientist” more listen. I like this song. So, introduce song about Coldplay please.

Um…Thank you read this letter. I plan write more letters to you. I am looking forward to reading from you. But not Answer I’m ok. I understand. Just say just Email Just short letters. I’m okay, really. Please, I don’t want to you have loads.
With love,

Yunju Noh

ps: Say hello to your eyes.

much better than may day

May was chock-full of holidays, both national days and special days for my school. Some of my favorites:

Sports Day (school-specific)

Classes are canceled and students spend the day competing in sports. I probably would have dreaded this day when I was in middle school, but as a teacher it was awesome. I watched my students do relay races, play soccer, limbo, and compete in a number of “sports” I had never seen—including one where two people stand in the middle of tires tied to the opposite ends of a rope and try to pop a balloon with a rubber hammer, and another that involved mass amounts of girls sticking their heads under each other’s legs. Students were really surprised that we don't have this day in America-- it's an annual event for each elementary, middle, and high school in Korea and is used by other groups as well. I've been to "Sports Day" for my host family's church and another one for my host mom's high school reunion.

English Festival (school-specific)

Students perform English skits and pop songs for their peers. Most of the skits were shortened versions of fairy tales or Disney classics, but one of the more ambitious groups did one involving Korean Power Rangers, and another did a modern Korean twist on Romeo and Juliet where the couple meet in a PC Bang and die after bowing many times in a Buddhist temple. The older students at my school performed choreographed dances in matching variations on the school uniform while singing English pop songs. At the end, they announced prizes for the best skits and songs, which resulted in a lot of tears from really excited and really disappointed students.

Teacher’s Day (national)

Students (or, more generally, the Parent-Teacher Association) give small presents to teachers. At my school this meant we each got a corsage, a small yellow melon, two hallabongs (a citrus fruit native to Jeju), designer socks, and a piece of cake in a fancy Peter Rabbit-decorated box. And half of the day off! America need to adopt this holiday. Here are some of my favorite girls. The two in the middle delivered cake and flowers:

Buddha’s Birthday (national)

A day of no school and free lunch at Buddhist temples. I went to Jeju’s most famous temple with my host parents, an experience that did not resemble my prior very quiet, centered-feeling visits to other temples in the least. Here, Buddha’s birthday was definitely a holiday. Street vendors sold double-fried corndogs, cotton candy, dried cuttlefish, and red-bean filled pastries; peppy Buddhist rock music played over loudspeakers; in the main hall of the temple uncomfortable looking children performed a sort of pageant for a talkative audience of proud parents and video camera-toting monks. In the basement of the temple, a long line stretched out the door for people waiting for the free lunch of rice mixed with vegetables and red pepper paste.

and now they're letting them

Fulbright is reinstating the grants to Palestinians in Gaza! Click here.

this program only works if you let people leave

In a move that I would say is antithetical to the goals behind the organization, Fulbright is withdrawing their grants to Palestinians in Gaza. Click here.

i'm trying; please stop staring

I’m reading in a coffee shop next to two high school boys. The taller one leans over and says in English, “Can my friend take a picture with you?” “Um, sure,” I say, and his friend, giggling, scoots over while his friend uses his cell phone to snap a picture.

A few minutes later I’m outside waiting for the bus. An old woman, perched with knees splayed on the bench, turns and stares at me. A middle-aged woman walks by, sees me, and pauses. She starts walking again, but then abruptly switches directions. She does this again and I realize she is pacing in front of me and staring. I look up from my book and half-smile, hoping she will see I notice and leave. Instead, she leans in close to me.”DO YOU SPEAK KOREAN?” she says loudly in Korean. “Um, no, not really,” I say in Korean. A string of fast and loud Korean of which I understand about three words follows.

Later, I step onto the bus. “Jungang Rotary?” I ask the driver, hoping he’ll take me to the stop closest to my apartment. He nods and I open my wallet for the fare. I look up and three old woman sitting near the front stare blankly at me. They have gone silent. I feel their eyes on me and sit down quickly on the closest seat, near the front. They start talking again. “Jungang Rotary? She’s going to Jungang Rotary?” I hear them in Korean repeating what and how I said it. I put my wallet in my bag and when I look up I see the old woman in the seat in front of me has poked her permed head around the seat barrier and is three inches from me, gawking. She turns back around when I look up and I stare out the window.

Suddenly I feel a sharp slap on my forearm. I jump and there is the permed head again, speaking loudly in Korean. “DO YOU SPEAK KOREAN?” I shake my head and rub the arm she just hit. “YOU DON’T KNOW KOREAN? KOREAN, YOU DON’T KNOW IT?” “No, I don’t speak Korean,” I say in Korean. “YOU DON’T SPEAK KOREAN?” “No, but I wish I did so I could tell you to turn around,” I say quietly in my head. “She’s from America. She doesn’t speak Korean.” The woman has finally turned around and is now discussing me at a lower but still audible volume with her friends.

A few hours later I walk into the Center for Adult Education, where I have been taking a Korean class. In the foyer there is a group of five women. They get quieter and their heads turn, following my movement, as I walk towards the water fountain. I take a paper cup and one woman says "pretty" to me, first in English and then in Korean. “Oh, thanks” I say in Korean and accidentally overfill my paper cup, splashing water on my jeans and the floor. “Oh, you speak Korean!” she says in Korean. “No, I...I don’t speak Korean” I say in Korean, wiping my hands on my jeans and head into class.

scenes from biking

Some friends and I biked around Jeju Island a few weekends ago.

things i miss and things i will miss

western life:

Cereal with lowfat milk, the newspaper spread out on the kitchen table, quilts, the piano in our basement, my brothers and parents, pasta with cream sauce. The water pressure from the shower. Large bath towels. Toilets that flush paper. Pedestrians having the right-of-way. Jeans that fit my American-sized butt. Blending in. Concerts.

Dryers. Television, independent movies, popcorn, crisp apples with peels, banana bread, broccoli with lemon and butter and salt, newsmagazines, bookstores, personal space, warm lemon bars, picking raspberries, our front porch, wearing flip flops. College friends. Not having my weight/hair/skirt color/skin condition discussed in front of me.

Books. Photo albums. Sheet music and pianos. Big couches in coffee shops. Pine trees and wide green fields and the gray pretty cold of the Oregon coast. My super-big extended family. Too-big hooded sweatshirts. Microwaves. Ovens that work. Cookies with vanilla and oatmeal and generous quantities of chocolate chips. Neighbors I know. Cold corona with lime. Lawns. French fries.

eastern life:

Kimchi jiiggae, Korean bathhouses, funny English signs, the “Hi Liiiiz” my host-sisters say each morning, seeing the ocean outside the car window when we’re driving through town, the spring canola and cherry blossoms. Getting free things for looking foreign. Cheap batting cages. The English teachers at my school.

Juicy and plentiful Korean tangerines and oranges and hallabong, my host dad’s laugh, the little boy in my apartment building who gives me hugs, the super peppy “Hello! Hello Teacher!” from my students. Melon-flavored ice cream bars, pomegranate-flavored candy, mangosteen-flavored gum. Fancy cellphones. Cheap taxis.

Full-fat yogurt, the staff at my gym, free samples at bakeries, Korean fried chicken and beer, seeing my Korean slowly, slowly occasionally improve. Cheap hotels with heated floors, taking windy 5.16 bus to Jeju City, rice with vegetables and oysters and thin crisp bits of seaweed, handmade noodles with crab and shrimp and shellfish, crunchy squid as a snack. Good friends from my program to vent to/ share lesson plans with/ proofread applications/ help translate/ travel and bike and share the year with.

LAAAYMOAN

My office is on the second floor of our school, nestled between two first-grade classrooms and a full floor above the teacher's lounge and principals office. This means that generally students are the only visitors, giggly high voices and black bobs and hair bows who flip through magazines and ask me for candy.

In my second week of teaching, though, my work was interrupted by the sound of a flung-open door hitting the wall and the appearance of a stocky, tan, wrinkly-faced man in a worn polo shirt and black gold jacket in the doorway. I actually jumped, surprised to see anyone other than my students, and then corrected myself and managed a mangled hello and head-bob bow from my chair. He took little notice of me and stormed over to the sink at the back of my office. He looked down at the tea and powered drink packets sitting on the table, took one packet, and looked my way.

"LAAAYMOAN" he declared loudly.

And then he was gone, taking big steps and slamming the door behind him.

I sat there for a moment and replayed what had just happened. What had he said? Laaaymoan. Laaaymoan. It didn't sound Korean and he said it really loudly like I should understand it. It must be......English! Laaaymon. Leeeemon. Lemon. Lemon, as in Lemonade. As in, the Crystal Light To-Go Pink Lemonade packets the former teacher left next to the sink.

I soon learned that the wrinkly man was actually our school's janitor and copy-machine operator. Language barriers mean that I know little about him, other than that at one school dinner I was at he drank a lot of soju and started doing pull-ups on the rafters of the rather nice chicken restaurant, and that he really loves Crystal Light Pink Lemonade, which you cannot buy in Korea.

He came in several times after that, until one day he held up an empty cardboard box and I was forced to admit that yes, "laaaymoan oppseyo." He looked distressed and then smiled with an idea. "OHMA OHMA" he said loudly, pretending that his hand was a phone and leaning towards me for emphasis. "LAAAAYMOAN CHUSEYO."

I nodded and told him I understood, that I would call my mother in America and ask her to bring more Crystal Light Pink Lemonade packets. To remind me, every time I need to make copies or I ran into him in the hall, he said "LAAAYMOAN," sometimes several times in a row and never quietly. This lasted for six months, until my mom visited last week and gave me the packets I had asked her to bring. In one of my proudest moments, I entered the copy room last week, presented him with the box, and stated two full sentences in Korean:

"OHMA CHONGWHA HASSOYO. SEOGWIPO AY WASSOYO." ("I telephoned my American mother. She came to Seogwipo")

delegates from the u.s.

My mom and aunt visited Jeju last week for 5 days. In addition to lugging two containers of Cheetos, a board game, trashy magazines, and baked goods to bring to me, they also deserve kudos for being so open while in Korea. They forgave me for my poor navigation skills and let me feed them everything from duck to blood sausage to eel to Korea's favorite dessert-- ice flakes, ice cream, fruit, syrup, and generous quantities of red beans. They visited my school, drank tea with my principal, managed to swallow my school's spicy soup and make their way through its fried fish with metal chopsticks. They watched me teach a lesson on greetings and put up with my sometimes too energetic students students running up to them and declaring, "Who are you?" "AHH SMALL FACE" (a big compliment in Korea) and "Why your little brother no here?" They were up for a trip to Korea's bare-all bathhouses and later a special dinner with my principal, vice-principal, my school's administrative staff, the English teachers, and my host mom, which was mainly in Korean and in classic fashion involved a lot of kneeling on the floor, being told to eat a lot, and trying to politely turn down too much alcohol.

It was nice to have a little empathy for the things that are hard for me here-- kneeling for long meals, getting cash in a country whose highest denomination is about $10, pedestrians never having the right-of-way, the lack of street maps, and the general struggles that come with never entirely being sure what people are saying. And it was great to show off what I love about living where I do-- my 630 students in matching uniforms and bolo ties, my friends in Seogwipo, the best favorite bakery and coffee shop and kalbi restaurant, the nearby waterfalls, the variety and affordability of citrus fruits, the heaps of amazing and different food, and the warmth and generosity of the people here.

we make it work

Awhile back I made cookies in my apartment. This was a little difficult as Korea isn’t big on baking. I did find mini chocolate chips in the grocery store, but I didn’t locate vanilla extract or oatmeal. Instead of egg beaters, I mixed the batter with a whisk and a rice paddle. I was the first person to use the oven in our apartment, ever. It is a gas oven and has three black, completely unmarked knobs on the left-hand side. I turned on the gas and through process of elimination (one turned on a light, one made a clicking noise—maybe a timer?) figured out which one was the temperature. I turned the dial half-way, crossed my fingers it was indeed a temperature dial, and on baking sheets built for a small convention oven I scooped out the dough and baked four cookies at a time. I cooled them on a rack we usually use for barbecuing prawns and squid.

In the same “make-do” manner, we held an Easter party at a church last weekend. No white eggs in Korea? No dye? No problem—markers on brown eggs make kids just as happy.

On St. Patrick's Day, I asked my host sister Kumju if she knew that today was a holiday. "Yes!" she said excitedly. "Today Jesus died on the cross."

At least she got the month right.

one hour in a korean shopping mall

stories from the jungle, part three

A florescent light flickers on. I climb off of the top bunk and slip on thick socks and black-turned-brown shoes, stick contacts into eyes and walk downstairs for coffee, fried noodles, and head lamp adjustments. It’s 2 AM and we’re about to start the last part of Mt Kinabalu.

Outside of our lodge it is pitch-black and, for the first time since I’ve been in Malaysia, neither muggy nor warm. I have two pairs of pants and a too-big pair of gloves on, but it’s still cold. I’m ready to get moving and soon we are, in a single-file line up wooden steps and then on a nicely-cut trail that alternates between packed dirt and tree roots and solid rock. About an hour in the path changes to rock exclusively. Here, thick white rope marks the best places to walk and gives us something to hang on in the sections where the incline is steep.

It’s just rock now, no trees or brush. Further in front of me, outside of the three or so yards my headlamp lights up, stretches an ink-dark canvass splattered with yellow lights. Some of the bright spots are stars, others are the headlamps and flashlights of more ambitious hikers closer to the top. It’s impossible to tell the difference between the lights and the stars when it’s this dark and we’re this high. Sleep-deprived, sweating, and with no idea where the mountain ends and the sky begins, I feel a little like I’m walking through space, or at least in a poorly-lit dream.

Later the solid sheet of rock we’d been walking on changes to big boulders. Carefully-placed steps and jumps across and up the rocks, and finally my headlamp just shows the sky. We’ve reached the peak, a small space, soon crowded with our tired and heavy-breathing group and other groups close by. There are fifteen minutes before the sun is expected to rise

I can’t see much as it’s still dark, but I know we’re high—the battered sign close by says 4,095 meters, I hear. This will likely be the most impressive sunrise I’ll ever see. It will definitely be the only one I plan on waking up this early for. I pull out my camera and wait.

Fifteen minutes of not moving, though, and I’m nodding off. I know this will be on the coolest things, ever, but my body is giving out on me. I turn to my more awake brother.

“Aaron, can you wake me up when the sun comes?” I slouch down on a rock with my head between my legs and close my eyes.

Soon it’s coming up, though, and I lift my head.

In the beginning it’s slow and tentative, first the dark changing to periwinkle blue and then real light, far away, white-peach colored lines poking gradually up between dark soft-edged clouds. As the white gets higher, the color turns electric, bright blood orange, and spreads across the sky. We’re high enough that full-formed clouds are below us, a thick and round and billowing bottom frame to the now quickly-changing picture.

ps-- my brother is a real writer! For more on Borneo and our trip, check out his stories.

stories from the jungle, part two

Over the course of our trip we spend about three days sleeping in the jungle and five days hiking in the middle of it. This is the exact amount of time for me to decide that it is a great place to experience but not to live in. It is extreme and loud and mysterious and all-together out of a dream. Giant ferns, massive leaves, big twisting roots, vines shooting up and around tree trunks, winding streams of reddish-brown water. Loud and mixed noises—hisses and croaks and ca-ca-cas and the sucking-squishing of rubber shoes in too many inches of mud. Wet heat and steam and a smell which in intensity and odor matches, in my opinion, a poorly-cared for pit toilet. Shiny and bright bugs, geckos, tiny twisted snakes on leaves.

And things that look like slugs that suck your blood.

I find my first, firmly planted on my collarbone, our first night in the jungle. I go to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and my hand brushes against something raised and wet. The rational part of me—the part that was listening when I was told that they are normal, harmless, and don’t cause any pain—quickly dissolves. There is a leech on my neck. A large one, actually, getting larger off of my blood.

“Aaron.” I find my brother quickly. “Aaron, get this off of me. It needs to come off now. ”

Ever a good brother, Aaron does not ask why I don’t pull it off myself. He just remarks at its size and does his best to detach it. Its grip is strong, though, and it’s not coming off.

Our guide is close by. My voice is clipped and strained. “Ihavealeechcouldyoupleasegetitoffme.”

He pulls out a pocketknife and some salve, and soon the leech is gone.

It leaves a small red bite. It bleeds a little, swells, and over the course of a week fades to a tiny pale pinprick. You can’t see it. It doesn't hurt. It didn't pass on a disease. Getting one leech, though, has made me paranoid that there are others. Suddenly I’m convinced they are on my neck, climbing up my legs, in the toe of my boots, under my shirt. They are there when I sleep. They are there when I’m talking with other people on our tour and they are there when I am watching monkeys and macaus. Throughout our trip I’m constantly smearing on mosquito repellant, which supposedly deters leeches as well, and manically running my hands over my skin. I did not realize I could be this vigilant.

stories from the jungle, part one

It’s the morning of our third day and last day at the longhouse, and I’m packing my backpack to leave when Richard, our British tour guide, comes up to me.

“Liz, do you have a second? We need to cleanse Chris.”

Chris is member of our tour group, an outspoken electrician from Australia. I woke up a few hours ago to hear him recounting a strange dream he had during the night—he swears he saw spirits at the longhouse, three women, reaching for him. The first response from most of us is, “what’s the name of your malaria drug?” as one of the side affects of the different kinds of pills we’ve been told to take while in Borneo is trippy dreams; I had a very profound one of my own about an egg yolk and an ocean a few nights ago. But Chris is one of the few who is not on any malaria medication, and he is a little shaken.

So at 8:15 in the morning I pad barefoot over to the circle our group and several Iban villagers from the longhouse have formed on the rickety wooden floor. I sit down and listen as Unsa, the longhouse headman, asks Chris about the details of his dream. Unsa, perched on his haunches and dressed in red sport shorts and a clean but well-worn t-shirt, then pours some rice wine from an old Tsingtao bottle into a plastic blue cup, quietly murmurs in Iban, and slowly pours the contents of the plastic blue cup down on the floorboards of the longhouse. He repeats this, another longhouse man says something else in Iban, and then the cup is filled to half-full and handed to Chris. Unsa gestures to Chris that he should drink and he does. The spirits have had their drink; now it is our turn. More rice wine is poured and the same cup is now offered to me.

I have had a lot of, is this really my life? moments and this is certainly one of them, but I don't have much time for self-reflection. I take the cup and drink. More is poured for the person next to me. At first I think this is ceremonial—we will all have one drink—but once the rice wine has made its way around the circle another bottle is brought out and another cup is pushed into my hands. I drink, but look to Richard for some guidance.

“They just want to make sure the spirits know they’re welcome and feel comfortable here,” he says.

“So it’s sort of like…an after-party?” I ask.

Unsa hears me, and nods and laughs a little.

Another cup is handed to me, and I take my third—and thankfully final—drink of the morning.

And that completes my first early morning séance and after-party in a Malaysian longhouse.

More stories to come soon.

winter vacation whoo!

Writing from the town of Miri, the state or Sarawak, the island of Borneo, in the country of Malaysia. Tracing my path the past 12 days would make for a messy map; Jeju to Seoul to Hong Kong to Kota Kinabalu and other places in Borneo I can't remember.

I have really limited internet access here, but for a brief update check out my brother's blog. We're hanging out in Borneo until February 17th. I start teaching normal classes in the beginning of March and I promise I'll write more from my own perspective about the jungle, beaches, fried noodles, leaches, longhouses and treating sunburns before then.

way-guk imnida

I have been in Korea for a little over 6 months now. I have finally figured out the bus schedule. I can mangle basic conversations with taxi drivers. I have developed a taste for kimchi, and yesterday I actually finished all of my rice at dinner. I have also figured out how very deeply not-Korean I really am.

In some ways, I would really like to blend in. People really stare here. I cannot go anywhere without kids pointing and saying “Mom, a foreigner! Mom, looooook!” or middle-school boys going “Hello! Hello! I love you!” or and this gets sort of annoying when you just want to buy a toothbrush or mail a postcard or be invisible. And sometimes I don’t like that what I do is a reflection on the country I am from, especially when I am having a bad day.

But in some ways, it’s awesome. I stopped by a bakery on the way home from the gym last week. I had just showered, my hair was wet, I had no makeup, and my clothes didn’t match. But I walk in, and a woman buying bread turns to me and solemnly says, “You. Verrrrrrrry beautiful,” and I am thinking, of any time that I might look okay, it is definitely not now. But thank you. It’s nice to be called pretty.

And living in a town where there aren’t a lot of foreigners means that I get to introduce a lot of stuff for the first time. On the last day of English Camp, 20 teenagers made Kraft macaroni and cheese for the first time. I taught my host sister how to play “Heart and Soul” on the piano and she loved it. Teaching about Halloween was some of the most fun I’ve had, and telling a group of girl in my office that you don’t put deodorant on your face, as they had thought when I first showed it to them, but rather under your arms was sort of priceless.

ps-- IDEA employee and former Willamette debater/English teacher in Korea, Alex, held a debate workshop at my school last weekend. Read about it here.