Until 2017, I kept travel logs of my trips. Occasionally, I plan to pull from those for my blog posts. This one is from a trip to Busan, South Korea, I took in 2014 to visit a friend of mine (who I am renaming for privacy).
July 10, 2014
This day, a Thursday, I was set to check out of the hotel and move to Anne’s apartment, where I would spend the next four days. I woke up early again, this time to watch the Netherlands and Argentina play their semifinal match. It wasn’t very exciting, and I was very sleepy. But I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I started packing my things.
My day began with more adventure. First, I was carrying a suitcase and backpack through the subway, and I got stuck at the first gate. I had an ahjumma (an old Korean lady) standing behind me hitting me in the ass trying to push me through. In the end, I had to back up and use the handicap gate to get through, and I turned to catch her smirking at me. I just smiled back and went on my way.
Upon exiting the subway at Jangsan—using exit 5, per Anne’s instructions—I found myself confused. Her directions did not align with anything I was seeing. Apparently sick, drunk people are not to be trusted. I wandered around for a solid 20 minutes before finally figuring out that she had meant to tell me exit 11. After a bit more journeying, I entered her apartment and found it to be a fairly cozy flat.
That afternoon, after getting settled and rehydrated from the previous night’s drunkenness, I decided to take a walk to Jangsan Park, which is about two miles up the road from Anne’s apartment. My legs were tired, so I had decided not to summit Mt. Jangsan, which is a nice hike of about four miles. Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from “seeing just a little more of the trail,” and within two hours found myself at a fork in the road branching off to the peak. It was a sunny, hot day, and I was drenched with sweat by the time I reached this point. I had long ago consumed my last bit of water, but I decided to press on anyway. This would be, I knew, my one chance to see the top.
Onwards and upwards! Maybe 300 meters in, the path forked again, with no indication of which path was the correct one. I stayed on what looked like the more traveled path and kept going. A little further on, the path forked again, with one branch staying on a straighter, more level plane, and the other leading off to the right along a small ridge that looked like it went more directly to the summit. Being tired, I decided to try the latter.
After proceeding about 100 meters, I began to see strange signs and concertina wire. I kept walking. Another 100 meters on, I saw on my right-hand side a sign that looked like an infantryman’s boot stepping on an exploding landmine. Disconcerting. But the path looked well-trodden, so I continued. Perhaps 50 meters further, I began to see landmine warning signs on my left-hand side as well, and voices emanated from the trees. This was spooky, so I stood still and tried to listen to what they were saying.
I couldn’t hear it. I remained planted, and a few seconds later, the sound of chirping birds and running water burst out—loud and unnaturally close to my position. Then, a recording of a woman’s voice began to play, and I was then truly worried. It said, “You are not allowed in this area. Please turn back now. Although the area has been cleared of landmines, it is possible that some remain.”
That was the only warning I needed. I left that path quickly and on shaky legs. When I reached the fork in the road where I had taken this branch, I just stood and breathed for a second.
The rest of the hike was uneventful. Light rain began to fall as I reached the top, and I scanned the city below and quickly descended the mountain. Once again, I saw concertina wire and landmine signs on the way back, but I saw no other path this time and continued on. The signs soon disappeared, and I met two old men hiking up the path I was now descending.
By the time I had made it back to Anne’s apartment, my shirt and shorts were completely soaked, so I tossed them in the washer and ran a load of laundry. I showered, dressed, and headed downstairs to the convenience mart for water and beer. My jittery nerves and aching legs made the beer taste heaven-sent.
That evening, I had a Korean staple food: kimbap. Kimbap is a rice roll wrapped in seaweed, with meat and vegetables on the inside. It’s very tasty and simple, kind of like a Korean sandwich. The rest of the evening, Anne and I sat and drank, talked (read: argued, most likely about tattoos or some other stupid thing), and listened to music.