Heart and Seoul in Korea

Standing in the final few yards of South Korea, looking across the divide towards North Korea, trying to spot people moving around and living their everyday lives.

Watching the Korean national soccer team play on front of 60,000 crazy fans at Seoul’s World Cup stadium.

Taking in a spectacular 360-degree view of the Seoul skyline and enjoying a spot of lunch in the revolving restaurant at the top of the Nansam Tower.

Covering myself in mud and enjoying the 30-foot-long mud slide before diving into the warm waters of the Yellow Sea at the Boryeong Mud Festival.

Sitting out in the sun with a group of Korean friends to enjoy dog, which they had freshly killed, prepared, and cooked.

Enjoying swimming, sun-bathing, and beach soccer before relaxing with a cold beer and a huge bowl of super-fresh seafood in Mallipo, a beach resort on the west coast’s Taean Peninsula.

Quick Tips:

Take deodorant with you. This may seem like a minor concern, but outside big cities and underarm protection is a scarce commodity. Combine that fact with 90-degree heat and you could find a sweaty problem.

Always ask what you are eating! Koreans have a very varied palate and have a penchant for eating almost anything that swims runs or even moves. They are obviously most famous for eating dogs, but since Korea is surrounded by sea they are also very big on fish and seafood with oysters, raw fish and octopus (often eaten live) all highly popular.

Coffee doesn’t always mean coffee. What in the West is merely a hot beverage in Korea is a far wider concept. Coffee shops do sell coffee, but just as in Amsterdam, where they often have a second product on offer, in Korea too there is often also an added element--the coffee girl. These ladies are sexily dressed, heavily made-up, and paid to serve coffee to businessmen, and sometimes do a little more.

Best Way To Get Around:

First and foremost, Seoul is a busy, busy city. During rush hour and much of the daytime, the centre of the Korean capital resembles a parking lot more than anything else. Consequently, within central parts of the city, cabs, buses, and cars become something of a drag. Instead, the best way to get around by far is by subway.

The eight lines operate throughout the city and as far afield as cities like Incheon and Cheonan. The subway is fast, wide-reaching and convenient, however if you’re a fan of personal space you could well be in for a torrid time. Even though the carriages are larger than their counterparts in London or New York at busier times passengers are packed in like sardines.

Outside the city and the easiest way to travel by far is by bus. The express bus network links almost every town and city in Korea. Buses are insanely cheap, fast and extremely regular. The greatest benefit from taking the bus is that it means you don’t have to brave actually driving yourself. The Koreans all like their big cars and like driving them very fast, so the highways can at times be treacherous places.

Even though I lived on the west coast of Korea I spent many a pleasant weekend in the nation's capital city, enjoying the sights, savoring western food, or going for a night on the town with friends. And if I am honest, I have to say that several of the best times I had in Korea came when I used Kim's for weekend base in Seoul.

Accommodation in Korea generally falls into one of two categories, either your expensive international hotel or yogwans (motels). Korean motels are usually far better equipped and decorated than their western counterparts. They regularly come with giant double beds, almost always with air-conditioning and cable TV, and are often equipped with state-of-the-art bathrooms. The problem is, they often have a far seedier side to them. Most do cater for overnight guests; however, at many establishments, there is often an hourly rate that is just as well used. This is particularly true in Itaewon, the westernised area of central Seoul close to the US army base, where I once spent a rather unpleasant evening being kept awake by the sound of a Korean "lady" entertaining an American GI. Because of their dual identity, some motels can often produce some little surprises. I once stayed in one in a small town named Seosan and found a sex-aid vending machine in the corridor. Vibrating beds and mirrored ceilings are also not uncommon sights. There is a vague rule that helps to avoid some of the seedier establishments. If they are built and decorated in the style of Disney's Magic Kingdom and the car park had barriers to obscure the license plates of cars inside, they are probably used more for the hour than the night.

The major problem with motels comes if you are not travelling as a couple. I often used to go to Seoul with a group of friends, which made motels either awkward if we shared rooms or expensive if we took one each. Kim's proved to be an ideal and cheap solution to that problem. Situated in the Hapjeong area of Seoul, in the city's northeast districts, it is convenient for the city center and has rooms for one person, two people, or even in dormitory style.

The family-run business is split between three large suburban houses, with runs of varying sizes in each. Bathrooms are shared but spotlessly clean. There are communal kitchens, free toast for breakfast, and free Internet access. It quickly became routine for my friends and I to arrive at Nambu bus terminal head to Kim's on the subway, drop our bags, freshen up, and head out for Seoul by night.

Kim's was cheap, clean, and great for a group or friends or an individual wishing not to break the bank. The only downside was the location: it is unfortunately almost a mile from the subway station and is not the easiest to find.

A mecca for Westerners in general, but perhaps in particularly of English teachers in Korea. The words "all you can drink and all you drink" surely act as some kind of beacon. The awesome value for money–plus its location make Carne Station a popular haunt.

Hongdae is one of Seoul's biggest party areas. There are several streets lined with bars and clubs, which are popular with young Koreans and Westerners alike. Carne station lies just a couple of blocks from the heart of this and is seen by many as the perfect start to an evening out.

The food is nothing spectacular. There is plenty of Western fare on offer including burgers, pasta, fajitas, and salads as well as Korean barbecue-style food such as the baconesque sangyopsal and the rib based kalbi. However, no matter if things aren't the greatest you've ever tasted they are good enough to make you want to head back for more and the beauty of Carne Sation is that you can do that as many times as you so desire.

A similar situation exists with drinks. The beer may not be the best. The draughts are the perennially poor Red rock and Cass, the lesser of Korea's three major domestic beers. To compensate for this, the supply is inexhaustible - believe me I tried to drink them dry - and the glasses are iced so each beer goes down nice and cold.

The only drawback I can find for Carne Station is that it closes its doors at the frighteningly early hour of ten at night, meaning you need to get there early, and on weekends reservations may not be the worst of ideas. BUT, if you can eat and drink all the decent food and beer you want in a pleasant environment, that is not the greatest of drawbacks. There is even the school of thought that reads that by ten you should be leaving anyway and heading into the pumping nightlife of Hongdae.

Prior to my heading off to live in South Korea, one thing I was desperate to do in the Far East was to see some soccer. In 2002, Korea hosted the World Cup in conjunction with Japan, and in the process the whole nation went football crazy. I can vividly remember watching games from Seoul on TV and quickly decided that the intense atmosphere created by the Korean fans was something I wanted to experience first hand.

Even before I got anywhere near an actual game, I began to get a glimpse of what an impact the World Cup had on Korea. During the competition, Korea had surprised everyone and under the leadership of Dutch coach Gus Hiddink reached the semi-final stages. Hiddink and his players, who had earned themselves the nickname "The Red Devils" (which was despite the fact that their uniforms are actually far closer to pink than red), became national heroes. At the school where I taught English, children in almost every one of my classes wore white T-shirts with a picture Hiddink printed on the front and red ones with the slogan "Be the Reds" inscribed on them.

The first game I actually got to go see was held at the World Cup stadium in Seoul. During the World Cup, the opening ceremony and one of the semifinals were staged there. That semifinal had seen Korea eventually beaten by Germany. Unfortunately, the day friends and I passed through the turnstiles the opposition was only Kuwait, a somewhat less-enticing prospect.

Despite the lowly status of the opposition and the fact that temperatures at pitch-side were around 9 degrees below 0, the Korean supporters had turned out in force, with 55, 000 of them braving the cold weather to cheer their team on. The atmosphere they produced was indeed intense but nothing like I had ever experienced back in Europe. Whilst everyone made plenty of noise and carried massive banners and flags, there was none of the aggression and hostility you often see in English stadiums. Rather than trying to intimidate the visiting players or curse the referee, the Korean fans were content to simply sing for their team or cheer wildly whenever anyone hit a powerful shot. whether it was anywhere close to being a goal or not.

Truth be told, the actual match failed to compare to the quality of the fans watching it. Despite having several players who plied their trades in the top European leagues, Korea laboured past a very ordinary Kuwait side. Nevertheless, The Red Devils, and the friendliness and enthusiasm of their supporters, had me hooked. From then on I made every effort to watch The Red Devils whenever I could, be it at the World Cup Stadium or just on TV at my local bar.

Boryeong is a small holiday town on Korea’s west coast. For the majority of the scorching Korean summer, it is filled with Koreans playing soccer on the beach or enjoying the warm blue waters of the Yellow Sea. With its golden sands and accompanying promenade, the town is a great place to catch some sun and then grab some seriously fresh seafood. Despite the perfect seaside surroundings, though, for one week a year Boryeong goes crazy--with mud.

Up and down the neighbouring stretches of coastline are a series of mud flats, which locals insist are chock full of therapeutic minerals. Because of this, every July tons and tons of the thin almost watery mud, which is not dissimilar in both texture and appearance to chocolate syrup, are transported into the centre of Boryeong for the annual mud festival.

The actual therapeutic value of the mud remains a grey area for most festival goers; everyone there tends to see it as a rather good excuse to wallow around and enjoy a week-long party. In truth, there are some awesomely fun mud attractions on offer. These include mud statues, where actors cake themselves head to toe and pose for photographs, and the mud pit, where people go to play school yard-type games, which all invariably finish with everyone either falling down into the mud or simply hurling large handfuls at each other. The top attraction though is the mud slide, a giant inflatable mud-covered contraption, along which it is possible to slide for over 30m before skidding into a giant pool of mud.

Whilst much of the festival could well be considered pretty infantile, I have to confess that I found it great fun covering myself in mud, and then taking a dip in the sea was a wonderful feeling. The only drawback was a not uncommon one in Korea. The festival draws people from all over Korea, which can make getting a bus or a hotel room a less than simple process. This year the problem was so big that for a few hours on the Sunday afternoon, the festival even managed to run clean out of mud.

Perhaps a little unfairly, Korea is defined by the divide that traverses the country along the line of the 38th parallel and keeps the north and south as two separate identities. As tragic a state of events as the division of Korea is, the demilitarized zone that enforces it is such a unique sight that no trip to the Far East would be complete without a visit.

Despite the fact that the DMZ slices the nation half, the Koreans have realized the potential it boasts as a tourist attraction. As a result, tour buses head out from all the major hotels in Seoul. However, it is just as easy and far cheaper to make your own way there. A regular commuter train leaves Seoul Station at around 10 minutes before the hour, every hour. It costs W2, 000 (just under $2) and takes around 2.5 hours.

The train runs from Seoul to the town of Imjingang, barely a mile from the thick barbed wire fence. From Imjingang the only option is to climb aboard a state-sanctioned tour bus to take a standard DMZ tour, which costs W 8, 000 (just under $4). The bus passes through several road blocks and checkpoints before winding up a small hill to the Dora Observatory.

Dora is the perfect place to stare into the introverted and controversial half of Korea. If you were standing on the main viewing platform and looking to your right, you would see two pieces of giant propaganda in the shape of two dramatically oversized flagpoles. The one in the south is tall and would ordinarily make a dramatic statement if it weren’t for the giant steel construction a few miles to the north, where the North Korean flag flies from a pole so large it almost convinces people to defect toward Kin Jong Il.

Looking straight allows you to peer towards Caeson, one of the biggest cities in North Korea. On a misty day, the factories and apartment blocks can be picked out through the clouds. On a clear day, though, it is possible to stand and watch people going about their daily business. With all the furore about the North, its nuclear potential and its reclusive leader being able to see kids in their playground provides a slightly different angle from which to view world events.

As well as Dora, the tour offers the chance to walk beneath the DMZ in a tunnel originally built by the North Koreans to infiltrate the South. Obviously they were caught before it was finished, but it nevertheless it is an interesting little trip. Be wary, though, the average North Korean tunnel digger must have been far shorter than your average Western visitor, as the roof is barely 4 feet high--I took several bangs to the top of my head along the way.

What are the best adjectives to use in description of Seoul's streets? Busy is the most obvious, but you could also easily go for frenzied, hectic, or even claustrophobic. In short, the Korean capital is a crowded place full of fast-moving traffic and Koreans.

Areas like Dongdaemun, Gangnam, and Sinchon often leave you with little space to even breathe, and that is why I always appreciate a trip into the serenity offered at the top of the Nansam Tower. We sat on the top of a major hill and wooded park in the Yongsan-Gu area of the city, as the tower offers a superb panoramic view of the city that can be appreciated without the hustle and bustle of fighting your way through the packed streets.

The structure of the tower in itself is nothing to write home about. Much of its height comes from the mountain upon which it sits, making it far less impressive than competitors, such as Toronto's CN Tower or Shanghai's Oriental Pearl, both of which are considerably taller and considerably closer to sea level. In terms of towers, it also quite antiquated, dating all the way back to the 1960s.

The beauty of Nansam is almost completely monopolised by the view it provides. Seoul sprawls around it like a giant lake of buildings, through which the occasional mountain or hill sticks its green-topped head. I have found few more relaxing afternoons than those I have spent sat in the rotating restaurant at the top enjoying a (to be fair, rather expensive) bottle of beer and quite literally watching the world go by.

The only drawback I ever found at Nansam was the combination of haze and smog that sits over Seoul, which on particularly bad days could obscure almost half the city.

Before going to Lotte World you need to ask yourself which you enjoy more, high-octane roller-coaster rides or standing in interminably long and immensely dull lines for hours on end. If it is the former, be prepared for a frustrating day, if it is the latter well you are in for a treat.Built at the heart of one of the world's biggest and most crowded cities, it is perhaps no surprise that it is rare to stroll around Lotte World in comfort. I went twice and despite offering a thumbs up to almost every ride I tried, both visits were ultimately frustrating experiences.My first trip was in the fall when it was still warm enough to make queueing outside a boring, but tolerable experience. Consequently after nearly 4 hours of waiting I took a spin and fall on the Giro-Drop and a whizz on a couple of the outdoor roller-coasters. I then moved inside to enjoy the French Revolution. The beauty of that ride is that it is supremely fast. Not only does that make it thrilling, but it also means the queue moves a lot faster and waiting times are reduced to just under an hour.My second visit, unfortunately, was an almost complete failure. I did manage a go on the Revolution, but as it was six or seven degrees below zero, there was no way any of my friends or I were waiting outside for 2 hours. This left us inside for much of the day taking some of the lesser rides, and playing video games for much of the day.

Both Everland and Lotte World in Seoul, are quality theme parks with plenty of top-notch attractions. However, given the choice I would pick Everland everyday of the week, and twice on Sundays. The main reason for this being, not the rides, but the levels of queueing. At Lotte World hours of my life drifted away as I stood in long winding, monotonous lines of dark-haired people as I waited to board a ride. At Everland things were far better, with waiting times for several rides being as low as just 30 minutes.

Perhaps my favorite photograph in the entire world is taken at Everland. A photo was snapped of me, together with three friends, whilst on the park's best ride, the Double Rock Spin. The attraction is one long carriage that is lifted by two giant poles and is spun and flung around in the air. The picture, taken by my friend Alana, captures us just as we are being flipped upside down. In the carriage we are shown with and around 30 Koreans. My friends all have dark hair and I unfortunately have none. Therefore the picture shows 40 bodies topped with dark heads hanging upside down with one solitary dot, slap bam in the middle. I vividly recall getting off the Rock Spin with my legs shaking a little and laughing out load as I saw the snap.

Aside from highlighting my follicle deficiencies, Everland does have plenty more to offer: The Log Flume is small and does not offer all that much danger of getting wet, however the Amazon Adventure rapids ride sends plenty of water everywhere and is great value for laughing for those unfortunate enough to get drenched. Along with these, the Eagle Fortress may not flip upside down or loop the loop, but it goes as fast as your average Korean driver and is a genuine bolt to the senses. The Rolling X Train does flip and at great speed too, alas it is relatively small and all too brief.

I would genuinely recommend Everland. The only drawback is getting there. Whilst it is far easier to get on the rides than at Lotte World, getting there is far more difficult. Lotte World is accessible from the subway, where Everland needs a bus out into Gyeonggi province. I think it is worth it though.

My first taste of football (soccer if you absolutely must) Korean style name watching the national team play a World Cup Qualifying game against Kuwait at Seoul's aptly named World Cup Stadium. The quality of the game was, if I am brutally honest, terrible. However, there had been something of a carnival atmosphere about the place. As a consequence I think I managed to enjoy the match as a colorful evening out as much as anything else.

Fast forward a few weeks and my buddy Ossie and I are at a loose end. It's a little too early in the year for a barbecue or the beach, and another night's drinking out in Seoul is sounding a little stale. So, we decide to go for a Saturday afternoon at the footy. Since the national team was not playing, we decided to head for a Korean K-League game, the most convenient being SK Bucheon against Incheon United.

Back in England I am used to large stadiums, big vocal crowds and intense atmospheres. My experience with the national team, where over 50,00 people were willing them on, had me hoping for something similar. Alas, I was to be bitterly disappointed.

We arrived in Bucheon in the rain. It was 2 miles to the stadium, but quite traumatically we were unable to get a cab to take us there. Because of this we walked and arrived both wet and weary. Unfortunately, our first glimpse of the stadium did not serve to brighten the outlook. It looked as though it would hold in excess of 20,000 people, but as we purchased out tickets I could see only three other spectators.

Thankfully admission was ridiculously cheap. Ordinary tickets cost just around 4,000 Won whilst VIP passes were only 8,000. So with our VIP tickets in hand, we headed in to catch the game. It appeared though, that we were the only ones. We took our seats in a nearly deserted stadium. The crowd number considerable less than 1,000 people. There were a cluster of Bucheon fans at one end and a slightly smaller group of Incheon supporters at the other. In the centre were the two of us and a handful of other 'VIPs'. Chief amongst those was Jo Bonfrere, then coach of the national team (he was sacked a few months later after a poor showing in a competition against local rivals China, Japan, and North Korea). I have to say that paying just a few bucks and then being seated about ten feet from the national coach was quite impressive.

Whilst the seating arrangements were of a high standard, the football was not. Mr. Bonfrere would have been unlikely to select any of the players for the next national game. Bucheon managed to win a dour game 1-0, but at no point did the football get remotely close to lifting the gloom.

I was standing in the doorway of one of the classrooms in the school at which I made a living teaching English to Korean children. Through it I could see a female colleague of mine sat at her desk, powdering her nose and checking her eyeliner. A young Korean lady touching up her make-up is not a particularly unusual sight, it has to be said; it seems few of them would ever dare to venture beyond the doorway of their homes without their faces caked in 'beauty' products. However, in this case I was a little confused. M-Ran, my work-mate, was about to teach a class of poorly behaved kindergarten kids, before moving onto her timetable of equally misbehaved elementary schoolers. I wondered just who she was aiming to impress with her pristine appearance. So, I asked if she thought her pupils would be impressed by her impeccable foundation.

She was not amused at my little enquiry, and mumbled something in a mixture of English and Korean, which sort of sounded like she was saying something along the lines of wanting to look nice regardless of where she was, or who she was with. I wandered away chuckling, but soon began musing on how much time Korean women devoted to their appearance, or dare I say it her vanity, was almost a microcosm of the country itself.

In the 21st century, Korea is in many areas heavily developed and looks impressively modern. Seoul is the classic example of this: bright and new, almost in both appearance and outlook. However once away from the capital and the other major cities, things change. While even in small towns and villages there are still plenty of big, slinky new cars and enough neon to drown out half of Nevada, the covering is not as thick and the country's blemishes and imperfections are plain to see.

My adopted hometown of Taean was little more than a fishing and farming village in the country's northwest. Despite being out on the coast, nearly 2 hours from any city, there were plenty of signs from modern Korea: my office was air-conditioned, there were several western-styled bars, and the facilities in my school were exponentially better than at the school I had attended back in England some 10 years earlier. However, as comfortable as the modernity made my life, it was what poked up from beneath the painted visage of the community that fascinated me.

The side of Taean that gripped me was neither sanitised nor developed, rather it was the side where I could walk through the market and find fish being sold from a bucket in the gutter and pigs heads from plates on the floor. It was the side where just a mile from town I could find old women hunched over, tending to their rice fields, just as they had done for generations. It never failed to coax a smile across face when a brand new SUV skipped around an antiquated, three-wheeled tractor carrying a bundle of cabbages driven by an old man with a face so wrinkled his features would disappear into the creases of skin.

The way I saw it, it is as always the blemishes, the realities of a place that make it interesting. In Korea I found them particularly interesting when they were in such obvious contrast with the new coverings that are being created.

For the record when I eventually saw Mi-Ran without make-up in something of her natural state, I was shocked how pretty she was. I don't know if there is a metaphor there, maybe she stands as a symbol of Korea's deeper beauty, or maybe she is just an example of the modernity being a mask that covers a truer reality, make of it, and of Korea, what you will.

I arrived in Korea on a hazy and balmy afternoon in late summer. I was met at the airport by the agent who had recruited me to teach English. The school I was set to work at was about two hours south of Incheon airport, along almost 250 miles of highway. After changing some money and grabbing a quick drink, we headed out of the airport into the chokingly warm heat towards the car.A six-lane road lead south from the airport winding through lush green hills, that in the muggy atmosphere almost seemed to be emanating moisture into the already sticky air. The air-conditioner was on full blast for almost the first hour of the trip as I finally began to stop sweating.It was only my pituitary glands resumed somewhat normal service that I started to seriously notice what was happening on the carriageway in front of me. I had noted that John (my agent) was hurtling along at well over 100 miles per hour, and was happily talking on his cellphone and simultaneously steering, changing CDs and gestivculating to me as he did so. However, he seemed relatively in control of what he was doing, so I paid it little heed. It was only when I saw a bus fizz past us and cut in just a few inches in front of me that I started to grow the slightest bit perturbed. All the way towards Chungcheognam-in the west of the country, where my school was situated I sat with my eyes hidden behind my eyes whilst John weaved between lanes with a worrying nonchalance.Arriving at my school allowed me to finally relax and open my eyelids fully. However, I soon learned that cheating death on Korean roads would become an almost daily occurrence for me. Since the town of Taean, where I worked, is on the west coast it was over an hour away from the nearest train station, which meant if I wanted to head anywhere I had to take the bus. This was a major plus in one sense as the bus network in Korea is astoundingly fast, efficient, clean, and regular. However, I soon learned that the downside was that Korean drivers seem to lack road sense, peripheral vision, and quite often brakes.On my first trip to Seoul I learned a lesson that served me well for my year in the 'land of the morning calm'. On the way up I was sat near the rear of the bus and aside for the occasional screech of brakes, or lurch across three lanes, I was blissfully unaware of how close the driver was coming to killing me and everyone on the bus. Consequently I arrived in Seoul a couple of hours later ready for action.My problems came on the return leg that evening, when I was seated at the very front of the bus and had a perfect view of the road ahead. I dosed pleasantly for the first 40 minutes or so of the journey until something woke up with a jolt. It was only as my eyes began to regain focus after my nap that I saw the back of a truck at which we were careening at pace. I winced and looked away expecting the worst, only for the driver to cut onto the hard shoulder at the last moment and sail on without batting an eyelid. From that day on I always sat at the back, and thanked heavens for the impaired view it provided. Valuable for anyone wishing to navigate their way around South Korea.

I will begin this piece by stating that in Korean the word Dong means one's posterior. For the duration of my time teaching in Korea it always perturbed me that mine was a subject of such fascination for many of the younger children that I taught.The Dong Chip is a bizarre habit that Korean kids have, which if I am completely honest, I never understood. The basic jist of it is that they try and sneak up behind you with their index fingers outstretched together as though they were pretending to be shooting a gun. Only instead of doing some make-believe gun-slinging with their friends, they attempted to force the two digits in between my buttock cheeks.It is safe to say that words cannot accurately describe the shock and discomfort I experienced when, on just my third day in Korea, I was subjected to my first Dong Chip. I was standing in the corridor after completing my first kindergarten class of the morning, when I felt an intense pain in a distinctly private area. I turned around to see a little girl of no more than 5 years of age stood there with her fingers outstretched and a look of mischievous contentment written across her young face. I was ready to yell at her and drag her to the headmaster when I noticed that all the Korean teachers were in hysterics. I was still struggling to see the humour in anal violation, so I stared at them and asked what was so funny?Apparently, the Dong Chip is seen as something of a sign of affection. As a result, the Koreans were happy that the children were already happy to use it and saw my pain as a good sign, that I was settling in well with the kids. I was less enthused about it, but decided to take it as possibly the most bizarre compliment I had ever been given.After it had happened a few times I quickly began to develop an astute defense mechanism. In truth, the only real defense would have been eyes in the back of my head and steel plated underwear, but I rapidly learned to listen for quiet footsteps or sly giggles behind me and during kindergarten classes I taught with my eyes half on my lesson and half glancing over my shoulder.Despite my eternal vigilance there were some breaches in my defense over the course of the year. The most consistent culprit was a kindergarten student by the name of Kim Sang-Min, who was the stealthiest little Korean I ever met. Now Sang-Min was not academically blessed; his English was poor and many of my colleagues described him as 'slow' on several occasions. He was, though, a lovely little boy, polite, quiet, and almost unfathomably sweet. However, his pleasant nature was his secret weapon. He was so quiet and unassuming that he rarely attracted too much attention. Coupled with this he was also very slight in build and could glide across the floor of the school almost unheard. Sang-Min was so quiet that there was more than one occasion when I thought I was alone in my classroom, only to be shocked by a jab to the rear.My battles with Sang-Min and his friends to keep my bottom intact were not my favorite moment in Korea, but I look back on them and chuckle. Possibly the image of Korea that stays with me with most clarity is the grin Sang-Min would wear across his face when he surprised me, it was as though I had unwittingly made his day. I suppose teachers can recall children in all sorts of ways.

Throughout the year I spent living in the southern half of the Korean Peninsula there was a massive contrast which I noticed in the local community that completely fascinated me. It was namely the division between young and old, modern and antiquated. The disparity between the technologically advanced present and the rural under-developed past, which can be seen over the shoulder of every computer-game obsessed teenager, was curiously hypnotic to me.In Seoul or Busan, Daejon, Suwon, and the like, the generation gap is somewhat blurred and does not appear to be anything like the giant crevasse that it is in the countryside. Out in the wilds of Chungcheognam-Do (province in the northwest) there was a line as clear and as imposing as the DMZ between young people and their older relations. The kids I taught were in the main bedecked in modern brand-named clothing, and were always to be seen with cellphones, MP3s, or computer dictionaries. Whenever I asked them what they had been doing on the weekend or the previous evening, I would get the standard response of watching either a DVD or playing internet games—the most popular titles being StarCraft and Maple Story, whatever the hell they were. They did, though, have a refreshing attitude to the foreigner in their midst. The majority of them were keen to learn and almost all of them wanted to play or chat.The difference between the kids with whom I spent most of my afternoons, and the older generation within Taean where I lived, was shockingly stark. I am aware that age brings many differences in personality and outlook. My own grandfather and I, who are separated by nearly 60 years are not always on the same page it has to be said. However, in Korea the difference is particularly marked. I always wondered as to why it was so and perhaps the best explanation is the stratification of society along age lines and the deference with anyone blessed with, shall we say experience, is treated.Once Koreans marry, begin to have children, and lose the first flushes of youth, they become known as ajima and ajoshi. The men, or the ajoshi, tend to carry on their lives as before, drinking copious amounts of soju—traditional rice based spirit—and spitting on the floor. For the women though, the change is far greater. After maybe their second child they chop their hair short and begin to wear hideous, dated clothing that previously they would not have been seen dead in. It is as though any youthful glamour is sucked right out of them. Once a woman reaches ajimahood she loses much of her vitality and independence and it becomes a slow decline towards becoming a grandmother or almoni.In Taean, the ajima and almoni represented everything that has changed in Korea over the past 50 years. Since the end of the Korean War, and the division of the peninsula, the South have come from being a ravaged one-time colony of Japan into one of Asia's most developed and technological astute nations. The young people represent the latter identity, whilst anyone beyond 45 is perhaps still anchored in the former and has been overtaken by the rapid progress.I remember my first glimpse quite vividly. It was September—my first week in Taean—and viciously humid. To combat the heat and my growing thirst I stepped outside for an ice-cream and Gatorade. At the entrance to my school were a huddle of middle-aged ladies. They were all dressed in the type of clothing that is synonymous with their status; it was polyester, ill-fitting and was decorated in hideous, garish patterns. They all also had short-hair that looked as though it had had one too many goes under the blow-dryer and too many set of bad highlights. Almost as one they turned towards me and stared indignantly. I was genuinely taken aback. Up until that point I had been greeted with nothing but enthusiasm. I was soon to learn, though, that despite being heavily respected by younger people, many older Koreans were just downright rude. I had countless encounters with ajimas where I found doors close in my face or walking sticks placed forcibly on my toes. It was particularly bad when trying to catch a bus as invariably I would always be forced out of the way, and see a flurry of heads covered in short frizzled hair surge in front of me.I have to admit that even as I left Korea I could not really understand how the country had come so far in so little time, to go from the ajima to the kids I taught, in just 50 years. For my entire year, every time I was bundled out of the way by some badly dressed ageing peasant woman, I consoled myself with the fact that I was heading to my air-conditioned classroom to teach kids with a bright future.

During my time in Korea I lived on the fourth floor, or at least kind of. In actuality my home was a metallic pre-fabricated structure built on the concrete roof of a three storey building. In truth this was a bizarre place to live. When I first arrived I was petrified of being struck by lightning as I slept, watched TV, or even sat on the can. However, after watching several lightning bolts fall through the autumn, all of which missed me easily, I began to feel safe and settled in to life on the roof.It was late summer when I arrived in Korea and temperatures were soaring. The roof proved to be the perfect place to sit and soak up rays from the scorching Asian sun. In the winter though, life grew hard. The metal walls of my home rattled in the wind and proved to be bone-chillingly drafty; my heating was on constantly just to keep me at all warm. Things got so bad in late January that my water supply actually froze solid in the pipes and I was left without any means to wash for a distinctly malodorous week.Thankfully as a wickedly brisk March faded out, and a tepid April gave way to May, my roof-top sun-trap was restored. The summer quickly grew into a scorching series of barbecues and nights spent drinking with friends and staring at the stars.However, as much as I loved flipping burgers, and sinking chilled Korean beer, It was the time I spent alone on the roof that offered me most contentment. My elevated positioning gave me a somewhat unique view of the small coastal town of Taean in which I lived. If I looked north I could see across the rooftops of houses, shops, and small apartment blocks to the series of small mountains that ringed the town. In winter they were grey, bare, and skeletal, but in summer they were a thick, lush green, and gave off a deep humid hue. I can still vividly remember standing out in the middle of a massive electrical storm with the hood of my raincoat pulled firmly up, staring across the town as the jagged shards of lightning bounced from hilltop to hilltop. It was the kind of moment when once I had relinquished my fear of being struck, I could stand and enjoy with my mouth wide-open at such a spectacular sight.To the southeast and west I could look across the center of the small town and see the local market bustling with old ladies selling vegetables and fish, or the back-street restaurants where a whole street of eateries shared one tap, washing their hands and cleaning their food all in the same little kitchen.Probably my favorite view, though, was straight down. Since I lived in the center of town I could look over the edge of the roof and watch life glide by on the town's main street.In the winter it was a major hobby of mine to finish teaching my English classes in the school I worked at, which was located two floors below me, and then quickly head up to the roof. From there I would drop snowballs on my unknowing students who were leaving through the school's front door below. It was a cruel trick, but infinitely fun. I also enjoyed just watching the traffic. Quite often it was just regular cars and buses, but every now and again I would be able to pick out a local farmer in an ancient pick-up truck selling fruit from the back of it. He would be driving down the street with a loudspeaker, blaring out his prices, whilst his wife sat on the back and served anyone who flagged them down.Possibly the most fun though, was watching the old people walk by. Many older Koreans, thanks to a life of crouching in rice fields have a pronounced stoop. With some in their 70s and 80s it is so bad that they walk at almost a right angle. I used to chuckle each time I would see one waddle by with their bottom pointing out, and the majority of their back visible from above. It was the ultimate temptation to try and land a snowball from above, but somehow I never quite had the heart.

The title of this piece may sound like something far more familiar to scenes from Vietnam war movies, but anyone who has spent time in Asia away from the centers of big cities will be aware of just how once a western face hones into view it can be the focus of some of the most rigid and unflinching stares known to man. This was particularly true during my year-long stay in Korea. To qualify this I have to say that I speak more about when I ventured into the rural areas of the country rather than when I was in big places like Seoul, Busan, or Daejon.For much of my time on the Korean peninsula my home was a small town on the west coast in the largely rural extremities of Chungcheognam-Do province. The population was barely 20,000, many of which were spread around small fishing inlets or farming villages close by. The only westerners in town were employed teaching English in private schools. Since there were only four of us, it was perhaps not unexpected that we did attract a bit of attention. What perplexed me though, was the level we experienced and the regularity with which it occurred.When I first arrived, I was well prepared to be on the end of a fair amount of gawking. I was not built to blend in Asia, so when I wandered into town standing at over six feet with a shaved head, plenty of heads turned and fixed upon me. For the first few weeks cars would stop in the street so their drivers could get a firm glimpse of me, buses would glide past with every single passenger looking out of the window at me, and hordes of school children would follow me down the street daring each other to say hello.Things did change as people in town got used to me and I began to interact with the community. I started to play pool and football with local guys, who would drive by and honk their horns if they saw me in the street. My buddy Oz and I also became regular fixtures in several of the local bars, adding to our notoriety. However, despite the familiarity we were striving to create in the community, we were still often subjects of the stare. The older people were often the most culpable for this. I often used to buy ice-cream for the kids I taught at the local shack that posed as a shop. As I left I would wave goodbye to the middle-aged lady who served me almost every single day, she would reciprocate, but as I wandered away down the street I would be conscious of her eyes fixed on the back of my head until I passed out of view. Similarly as I approached my local fast food restaurant I would amble towards the front door, but for a distance before i arrived I knew I was being watched intently by almost the entire staff.It mystified me. I was at a loss as to what I needed to do, to move from being something extraordinary to something merely routine. I lived within the community for a year and in many ways integrated to a remarkable extent; I taught at a local school, I played soccer with a team of guys who spoke virtually no English, but with whom I succeeded in becoming one of the boys, I also ate at local restaurants and shopped at local shops. Yet my appearance never failed to attract stares, I still wonder what everyone was thinking as they fixed their eyes firmly on me.

When you do something often enough, I suppose it is natural that after a while it can grow to become routine or even mundane. In Korea I grew to discover that this goes for some things I never thought I would have taken with such nonchalance. So it goes, there are only so many times that you can eat dog before chowing down on man's best friend becomes nothing out of the ordinary. As true as that is, I will never forget my first taste of Korea's most unique culinary treat.

It was a baking hot Sunday afternoon. I had just finished playing soccer with my local team. To everyone's disappointment we had lost the game on a penalty shoot-out and were at a loose end for the rest of the afternoon. I was packing up my kit and making plans for a few hours leisurely sunbathing on my balcony when one of my teammates motioned for me to go over and talk with him. I say 'talk', but that wouldn't be an accurate description. None of the team spoke much English and my Korean was fragmented at best, so communication was generally minimal and disjointed.

This time though, we seemed to manage pretty well. All he said was 'eat', and then gestured for me to get into his car. Since I had no pressing engagements on my schedule I agreed with most of the team following us as we drove off. As we sped off at breakneck speed he began making barking noises. At first I was worried he had gone a touch crazy from the heat, until it slowly dawned on me that dog was on the menu. He then moved onto making banging noises. Now, that had me perplexed; it was only when he took his hands off the wheel and used them to mime shooting a gun that I fully understood what he was trying to say.

At first I was a little wary about eating something that in my own country would be considered a pet. On the other hand though, if someone shoots something especially for you, it would be rude to refuse. While my mind was still chewing it over we drew up at a hut by the side of the road.

A bunch of mats were placed in a circle on the ground. We all sat around drinking beer and waiting for Mr. Cho to bring the hound. When he rolled up around 20 minutes later the other guys set about filling a rusty looking oil drum with water and then starting a fire beneath it. Mr. Cho then delved into the boot of his car and pulled out the hacked up carcass of what was once quite a large dog. He then simply dumped it into the bubbling water.

After I had drained my third beer I went over to see how it was cooking. It was not an entirely pretty sight. The large chunks of meat were floating in the greasy looking water. I managed to pick out the hind legs and the rib cage, which still had the animal's nipples on the skin. I have to say I was not feeling 100% hungry as Mr. Cho pulled it out ready to serve.

Actually, eating the dog turned out to be a strange experience. We began by eating the ribs, which were hideous. All Mr. Cho did was dump the rib cage onto the mat in front of us. We then pulled a rib of each, held the bone and tore away at the meat as though eating something like a chicken leg or a corn-dog. What meat there was proved to be awfully stringy, but was overshadowed by large chunks of fat. As I sat trying to pick strands of the meat from between my teeth I was definitely not enjoying my canine meal.

Things then began to take a strange twist. Once Mr. Cho decided the rest of the animal was cooked he pulled out the animal's rump, which proved to be quite good, almost delicious in fact. By that point I had enjoyed a few beers, so I was tucking in with glee. I have to confess I even went back for seconds.

As it had been the first time I ate dog I was a touch shell-shocked, not because my teammates had prepared for the game by going out and blasting the animal into the next world. However, aside from the ribs I have to say the dog was good and I enjoyed several more meals of that kind with teammates.