Seogwipo Scenes

We finally made it to Jeju on our second trip to the peninsula. Long popular with Korean honeymooners (though I was later told that these were increasingly flocking to another peninsula on the other end of Eurasia), the island also features heavily on the itinerary of Korean drama buffs. We were neither, of course, though for differing reasons we were keen to see what the hype was all about.

Below: Cheonjiyeon Pokpo. Here be dragons, or legend has it.

The last time round, we ruled Jeju out having been turned off by what seemed like exorbitant airfares from Seoul. It turned out I searched incorrectly for fares from Incheon International Airport, which were invariably higher than the many flights that operate from Gimpo. Checking in that Sunday afternoon at Gimpo for our Eastarjet flight a full two and a half hours before departure, we were moved to one due to take off in 25 minutes, the airport staff citing a delay in the original flight. It meant, theoretically, an earlier arrival in Seogwipo, and more time to find dinner. But after eight on a Sunday evening, most eateries were already winding down. There weren't a lot of options apart from the usual Korean fare, which the lack of both English menus and gastronomic adventurism prevented us from fully embracing.

Early spring bestowed upon us the perfect sightseeing ingredients - tolerably cool temperature and mild sunshine. Seogwipo is Jeju's second city, much smaller than the provincial capital Jeju-si, but with a very pleasant natural setting boosting a hulking (extinct) volcano on the landward horizon, dramatic basalt coastlines and two waterfalls on either end of town (you may guess why I'm here already).

Our first day's foraging led us to the Seogwipo Daily Olle Market. It could just as well have been a trip to the aquarium and open-air museum, as we sated more our curiosity (the inedible variant) than our hunger. Tanks - carpeted by flatfish, plastered with shellfish, swarming with eels, squirming and pulsing like octopus tentacles long after they have been severed - lined the crowded aisles. Their former inhabitants, gutted, scaled and decapitated, were piled in basins, baskets and pails, losers in the lottery of life played out constantly in these fateful corridors. All of this hinted at Seogwipo's humble beginnings as a fishing village, and the boatloads of fresh seafood it still receives every day.

Above (top to bottom): the Seogwipo Daily Olle Market, trolleys are obtained separately; many restaurants sold their food live in tanks outside. Hunger really is a matter of life and death.

Below: Winners (if only for a little while) and losers in the lottery of life, some in peace, some in pieces. You get to choose.

Fortunately, things were not all flesh, as the heaps of strawberries and oranges elsewhere in the market attest. Groves of Jeju's famed Hallabong mandarin oranges blanket the fertile lower slopes of Hallasan further inland. Long grown as kingly gifts for the monarchs on the mainland, cultivation expanded dramatically from the 1960s as the government sought to stimulate the local economy. The sweet seedless mandarin, named after Jeju's highest peak to which the knob (some have described this by naughtier alternatives) atop the fruit bears an uncanny resemblance, has since become a local staple. The strawberries - large and tantalizingly red - were a welcome distraction.

Below (top to bottom): It wasn't all flesh at the market. Jeju's famed seedless and succulently sweet Hallabong mandarins were named for the knob atop the fruit, and were found in heaps (literally) throughout the market; Mary's mother stepped into an open-air museum, and was fascinated by the many different stalls. Here she stands before a dazzling array of kimchi.

Once we tore ourselves from the market, we rambled on towards the harbour, and towards the waterfalls. We hadn't a map, but the harbour wasn't hard to find. In Seogwipo (and also in a Jeju-si, we later learnt), the rule of thumb was that downhill generally led to the sea, while uphill led after some determined perambulation to the top of Hallasan (at 1,950 metres above sea level).

We passed artist Lee Joong Seop's former residence, built on a very pretty spot overlooking the harbour and the three islets which guard its approaches. His life was a tidy microcosm of twentieth-century Korean history. Born in 1916 in what is today North Korean territory, Lee studied art in Japan, where he met his wife (a marriage frowned upon given the dynamics of Japanese-Korean relationship then). As the Korean War loomed large, he and his family sought refuge in Jeju. Refuge was short-lived, however. The Lees led a hard life in Seogwipo. Lee's wife returned to Japan soon after with their two sons. Like many other talented artists, Lee's fire burned twice as bright and only half as long, before being extinguished by loneliness and alcohol at the grand old age of 40.

Below: Admiring the simple tranquility of Lee Joong Seop's former residence. Yet simplicity is no substitute for comfort, as his wife left for Japan shortly after arriving here with their two sons.

From Lee's former residence, it wasn't far to Cheonjiyeon Pokpo. Cheonjiyeon flows into a wooded gorge, where shady boulevards convey an endless stream of tourists to and from the falls. Jeongbang empties into the sea, and witnessed one of the darkest episodes in the island's history. In the strife-torn, winner-takes-all days just after the Second World War, the South Korean military brutally put down a local uprising in a series of killings known as the 4-3 Massacre. The rising's origins were many and complex - islander resentment against the collaborationist establishment under the Japanese, boiling over when it seemed their new American overseers sanctioned the partition of Korea by enforcing elections in the American-occupied areas, the involvement of Communist agitators and the subsequent American intransigence it provoked, in short a civil war which cannot be distangled from the conflagration known as the Korean War. When Kim Il-sung's forces crossed the 38th Parallel, the Seoul regime ordered the preemptive arrest and elimination of those elements in Jeju whose loyalty was questionable. At Jeongbang, these people were shot and their bodies dumped over the falls.

Above: More of Cheonjiyeon Pokpo; "Why don't you help them?" Mary said, referring to the couple in the third photograph who attempted an awkward we-fie with their baby strapped to the husband's back. I did, and realized afterwards it took some coordination to remove a baby from a carrier. The acrobatics were worth the family photograph, though.

Below: Jeongbang Pokpo falls into the sea. At one time nearly seventy years ago, other things also fell over the cliff, nor was it only the falls which thundered. The two waterfalls described here, together with Cheonjeyeon (yes, spot the difference) Pokpo in Jungmun, constituted Jeju's three famous waterfalls. But for Mary putting her foot down (feet in this case; she refused to budge), we would have visited all three. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

We were ushered out of the Jeongbang compound by the patient caretaker who locked up shortly afterwards. Contrary to popular presumptions, the personal attention was more the result of our late arrival than to any dallying indulgence on my part. Famished from an entire day's sightseeing (actually we only left the hostel at one), we settled for a typical Korean seafood hotpot dinner. My strategic decision not to join the feast paid off. Mary and her mother enjoyed their dinner tremendously, in fact so much that Mary was put off seafood for the rest of the trip.

Below: 37,000 won and a pot full of roiling seafood - what it took to get my wife off crustaceans and molluscs for a good week.

The price of this stratagem? Two cups of instant noodles afterwards.

Post-prata Peirce Paths

Not many things function over the Chinese New Year break, even though life was starting to return to the streets after the silence of the first two days. Some Chinese businesses close for up to a week and even beyond. As much as we all dreaded the end of the long weekend, there is little to do, and - for the insatiable Singaporean palate - considerably less to eat beyond whatever has been stockpiled at home.

Fortunately, a scatter of prata shops - veritable oases - along Upper Thomson Road provides merciful relief for hungry souls (soles, too) seeking to escape the tedious triumvirate of pineapple tarts, yusheng and steamboat. The maze of leafy trails in the forests nearby also offers recreation independent of festive operating hours. It was to attempt one of these that Allan, Cindy, Mary and I got together that Saturday morning. Mary alleged that I arranged this as a thinly-disguised trip to the prata house.

Below: Almost resort-like? It isn't the Perhentian Islands, but the occasionally-misspelt Upper Peirce Reservoir. Accessed via Old Upper Thomson Road, both landmarks were named after colonial administrators.

After a quick breakfast at Casuarina Curry, we started walking along Old Upper Thomson Road. Once upon a time, it was a crucial transport link between Singapore's north-central periphery and its southern, downtown core. Today it marks a civilisational frontier where homo sapiens sapiens meet their distant macaca fascicularis relatives. Wide-eyed hominid young are often driven here by their parents to observe, behind the near-impregnable safety of glazed panes, macaque politics. Others, amongst whom number both self-entertainers and pathological iconoclasts, arrive to distribute food. For those cruising cyclists and red-faced runners who were uninterested in monkey business, Old Upper Thomson Road is a highway into the heart of the Central Catchment Reserve.

Below (top to bottom): the forest around Old Upper Thomson Road are mostly secondary forest, taking over what used to be extensive gambier and pepper plantations; the road also functions as a civilisational fault line between haves and haves-not. What are we talking about? Tails.

We had intended to traverse the northern part of the Reserve on the little-known Woodcutter's Trail. After what seemed like a winding eternity, we turned left into the hilly service road towards Upper Peirce Reservoir. One could access the eastern approaches to the Woodcutter's Trail through a gate on the right of the service road. Bukit Panjang at the further extremity of the forest eaves lay only two hours' walk away.

Below (top to bottom): our undulating progress along the service road to Upper Peirce; Allan points out his actual disposition; a fast-flowing channel, haunt of kingfishers and anglers (one of whom was encamped, concealed comfortably, under the service road as it crossed the channel).

But we found the gate locked. We knew the tract of forest within had long been a training area restricted for the army. We didn't know they actually placed a padlock on the gate. My heart sank - Allan's car was five boring kilometres behind at the Lower Peirce carpark. Mary's and Cindy's spirits soared - the men could get the car whilst they wait. Allan, too, preferred the shorter walk back. There being no clear trail linking Upper and Lower Peirce Reservoirs, we stopped at the further end of the embankment separating the two reservoirs.

Above (top to bottom): Allan Ben takes a bough, while other visitors to the reservoir park take a nap in the shade.

Below: Upper and Lower Peirce Reservoirs (bottom-most), from the embankment. Both were created by damming the Kallang River, Singapore's longest river, in 1910 and 1975 respectively.

The rest of the afternoon passed predictably. Allan and I left Cindy and Mary at a lakeside picnic to get his car, retracing our steps on foot along what used to be a rough and tumble racing track. The speed demons, legal and illegal, have long taken off into the night and into different sections of the newspaper. When we all gotten into the car, we followed the road north to our new place, and to a late lunch nearby.

I reckon it won't be our last time in the area.

Rest by the Rhine

When we arrived at Logan for our flight home, we were asked if we wanted to take the following day's flight, for US$800's compensation. Work due the day after my return meant we declined, of course - not my first work-related adjustment, and not my last I suspect. Mary, never one for long rides in enclosed spaces, dreaded the 36-hour journey home. This mercifully included a 17-hour layover at Frankfurt-Hahn, where we got out to the city of Mainz by the Rhine River.

Below: Simply having a wonderful Christmas time, at the Mainz Christmas market.

Overcoming jet-lag flying halfway around the way from the west was always going to be a struggle. We hardly slept on the Boston leg, and barely completed the marathon between our gate and the airport exit at Frankfurt-Hahn with leaden eyelids. A wrong train in the right direction landed us briefly at a dark suburban station where a hooded figure, reeking of weed, stared menacingly at us. 

Mainz had always been a hub. The Romans enforced their watch on the Rhine from here. St Boniface, patron saint of Germany to whose tireless efforts the subsequent conversion of many German tribes can be attributed, was once bishop of Mainz. As the diocese grew, the Archbishop of Mainz eventually became from medieval times a key elector with a say in the nomination of the Holy Roman Emperor. From Mainz, Johannes Gutenberg helped usher modernity into Europe by inventing mechanical movable-type printing. Today the city remains an important port between Central Europe and the North Sea.

Below: St Boniface looks benevolently over the market square. His martyrdom is alluded to in the sword-pierced Bible which he holds. Attacked by the pagan Frisians on his final mission to what is today the Dutch coast, he strode forth with a Bible to meet his assailants and was promptly struck down.

Our start to the day was as uninspiring as the city's history was the polar opposite. An icy drizzle and empty streets in that lacklustre limbo between dark and day lent to the city a post-apocalyptic calm. As the city warmed up to what at first looked very much like a stillborn Saturday, we ducked into the MacDonald's right next to the city square for breakfast. We were easily the youngest patrons in a geriatric crowd of silver crowns. Breakfast exacerbated our drowsiness, however, and we dozed there unabashedly for a bit, cradling our heads uncomfortably in our own arms.

Below: Mainz wakes up to the weekend; the bottom-most picture shows the Proviant-Magazin, a military storehouse for the troops garrisoned in the city.

At ten, the vanguard of the weekend crowd started streaming into the square. We wearily shook off what sleep remained and followed the gathering throng to an adjacent Christmas market. There, amidst the clinking of beer mugs and aroma of burnt sausages (it was ten in the morning), Mary was revitalized. At least, until exhaustion overtook excitement as morning waned.

Below: Photo opportunities at the Christmas market before we were crowded out.

In between currywurst, mulled wine and handicraft stalls we found time to explore the city centre. This was dominated by the distinct sandstone spires of St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German monarchs were once crowned by the Archbishop of Mainz. The easy accessibility of Mainz meant photographers seemed to outnumber penitents in its cathedral, unlike many others we visited earlier in the trip.

Above: St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German kings were once crowned.

Below: St Quintin's Church, site of Mainz's oldest documented parish.

As noon came and went, going nearly twenty-four hours without sleep took its toll. Settling on the pews of a Carmelite church on the northern edge of the city centre, we clasped our hands and dipped our heads together, falling serenely into prayer as deep as the slumber which succeeded it. It was a true Carmelite sanctuary, for nothing until our own subsequent embarrassment disturbed our contemplation.

Below: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, Jesus said, and I will give you rest. We obeyed, and slept prayerfully on the pews in this peaceful Carmelite church for an hour.

When we waded back into the weekend which was gathering pace outside our cloistered cerebration, we found the crowd augmented by football fans. Decked in the rival red and white of both 1. FSV Mainz 05 and VfB Stuttgart, both sets of fans exchanged tribal anthems in between liberal swills of beer. One Mainz fan, when we asked what his prediction for the match outcome, replied without a second thought, I'll be drunk by half-time. Seems nobody keeps score here.

Above: our clairvoyant Mainz supporter before the game began, who was very happy to talk to us, and as a result had to be dragged away by his friends to the stadium.

Below: the tedium of a gloomy winter's day replaced by evening's bonhomie.

Our Carmelite interlude only lasted us until dusk, which came early amidst the winter chill. Our flight to Singapore was scheduled for ten, but at ten minutes past six we could not wait to jump on the train for the half-hour nap it offered until we arrived at the airport. We withdrew €80 at the airport before we left in the morning. By the grace of God it was just enough. Every last cent was spent - the left luggage, our train tickets, MacDonald's, currywurst, an acrylic Christmas tree and polar bear, a handful of pretty plates which caught Mary's fancy and three visits to the toilet.

I went twice.

Massachusetts Avenue

Our journey back to Boston was memorably torturous. Mary was gripped by both vomiting and a stomach upset as we transited in Atlanta. Suddenly, the three hours between flights seemed too short as we staggered feebly from one checkpoint to another. Our experience on the connecting flight tore to shreds Delta's confident assertion in its pre-flight video that they are the best in what they do. We were bounced brusquely from Delta's general enquiries desk when we requested for our seats to be closer to the bathrooms. The officer on duty was plainly more interested in her phone. On the Atlanta-Boston leg, however, we were fortunate to meet an attentive stewardess who assisted patiently with our every need. All we remembered of her older colleague next to her was her unprofessional remonstrations when we asked to dispose of our sick bag.

Below: Posing reflectively before the Civil War monument in Cambridge Common.

At the reception desk of Buckminster, I finally returned the bathtub plug which I had carried through half of Central America. I had mistaken it for yet another inconsequential domestic contraption from Daiso, brandishing it triumphantly in El Salvador when Mary asked for a S-hook. No epiphany could have been shinier than when Mary blandly asked how is that an S-hook?

Having finally checked into our room at close to 2 am, we stayed in it until a creeping hunger compelled us to forage outside well after sunset sixteen hours later. It left us with only the next day for sightseeing before we headed home. We were more interested in shopping though. secondhand books in my case and craft materials for Mary's. Google led us north of the Charles River. Both the bookstores and craft shops we wanted to visit were situated along that stretch of road between Porter and Harvard Squares known as Massachusetts Avenue, also where we conveniently did all our sightseeing.

Below: The Manichean duality of steely, snow-laden skies - slate to gaud and God.

A sprinkling of snow added a touch of magic to another gray winter's day when we arrived at Porter Square. There was little to see until we approached Harvard Square, save the brightly painted timber houses on many of the smaller lanes nearby. We took our only steps on the much-vaunted Freedom Trail near Cambridge Common where a certain General Washington took command of the American militia in 1775.

Below: Redcoat responses to Freedom Trail monuments.

And who could omit the agglomeration of almost artificially brilliant intelligence in the vicinity? As an undergraduate, I often found while walking between lessons whole parades of tourists in various statuesque poses. Five years on, camera and shopping in tow, amidst Harvard's domes and spires and scurrying students who paid little heed to us, I crossed a decisive divide. If the campuses were temples of learning, the bookshops scattered around Harvard Square were shrines of popular devotion - nowhere else could I have obtained Fernand Braudel's The Mediterranean World at US$15. My bibliophilic rampage subsequently left us having to balance the books on our return flight, especially with Lufthansa stringently policing their 23 kg per piece of check-in.

Above (top to bottom): A memorial persists in winter; Nerds should pause before heeding the siren's call of Harvard Book Store. Check your wallet, then your luggage allowance.

Below (top to bottom): Celebrating Christmas early with our adopted family; our only views of the Boston skyline were from the airport, on the first and the last days of our trip.

That last evening, we had dinner with Samuel in his room to avoid a repeat embarassment of us being mistaken for his parents. We only wished he was younger. At least I knew I wasn't getting any when I collapsed in a heap on the bed upon returning to Buckminster.

Packing had to wait.