In the spirit of looking towards the future, however, I've been thinking about things I really miss about the Western world, things that I haven't allowed myself to dwell on over here since they are so unattainable. In no particular order, here are some things I reallllllly miss:

-Berry Propel
-cheese
-my hammock
-trustworthy hairdressers (google Korean haircuts)
-the other 3/4 of my wardrobe
-driving, my VW, and in general, independent transport
-Kim and Ryan
-a Certain Someone who doubtlessly prefers anyonymity, but without whom this list would be woefully incomplete
-black licorice
-my family
-the smell of pine trees
-PBR
-English

Dear Mom, if there's any chance you were planning on sending me a 24th birthday package, I'd be grateful to the point of tears for any of the above items. And speaking of being grateful, it's Cheusok (Korean Thanksgiving) tomorrow, so Happy Cheusok, and remember, it's all in the little things!

written by  alli_ockinga on October 1, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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I arrive at Golgulsa, which means Stone Buddha Temple, around four in the afternoon, after a six-hour bus ride that leaves my knees aching for some exercise, and boy, am I about to get it. We serve ourselves a simple meal of kimchi, plain rice, mushrooms, and tofu soup. Mmmm. Traditionally, I have always hated tofu, mostly because it has the same consistency of my dirty dish sponge. But to complain would be un-Buddha-like, so I swallow my objections. Even if I had given in to my initial inclination to sneer scornfully at the tofu, that wouldn’t have gotten me very far, since the temple has an extreme policy against wasting food, and if you take it, you must eat it all, down to the last grain of rice. The whole meal, I keep flashing back to being seven years old, only now my mom was wearing the loose gray monk’s robes, saying she didn’t care if that last bite of taco had accidentally been contaminated by my dad’s sour cream spoon, I was going to eat it because we were lucky to have it and there were starving people in Asia. Now I look to my right, where the men are segregated, at the meager portions of rice each monk allows himself, and I think, once again, my mom was right.

After dinner, I get settled into Ellen’s room, which is completely devoid of furnishings of any kind, save the mats we will sleep on, a thin blanket, and a small, flat pillow filled with cut straw. “Welcome to asceticism,” she says, cheerfully. “Don’t worry, you’ll be so tired at the end of the day that you won’t even notice you’re on the floor.”

My first zennish experience falls just after dinner, as we make our way to the gym for bows and chanting. One thing I appreciate about the Zen Buddhists is that they don’t view Buddhism strictly as a religion, since Buddha himself never claimed to be God, which I think is quite decent of him. Instead, they view it as a way of life, and as such, it is more than okay to be a Christian or anything else, and still practice Zen Buddhism. Therefore, we bow not as a penitent to a deity, but as a sign of honor to a teacher, which is a concept I find I can more readily get behind. I’m glad they aren’t demanding my alliance, and that I don’t have to pretend reverence.

I echo Ellen’s movement with the full-body bows, which are nothing to scoff at. You begin standing with your hands in prayer position, then sink to your knees before falling prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched in front of you as you sit back on your feet in child’s pose. You then touch your palms to your shoulders, then back down to the floor, sit back up on your knees with hands back to prayer position, and stand up again. Something about the repetition of the movement appeals to me, and I find myself sinking into a slight trance as the ritual goes on to the sharp sound of a wooden gong and the chanting of well-worn words that somehow make the monks’ young voices seem wizened. However, by bow 45 or so, I start to wonder just how long this is going to last, and my mind begins to wander. The chanting is a little reminiscent of hearing an entire congregation recite the Apostle’s Creed: equal parts inspiring and unnerving. 108 bows later, we finish, and I wince at the renewed pangs in my joints, which doesn’t escape Ellen’s notice. She nods in understanding. “Temple life is hard on the knees.”

Before bed, we go back to the gym for sunmudo training, a zen martial art that was practiced exclusively by monks until about twenty years ago. Golgulsa is the sunmudo headquarters of the world, so it’s kind of a big deal. It’s not exactly the flashy ninja business to which I’ve become accustomed, however, because it’s not intended to be martial at all, but as a way to use breathing as a bridge between your mind and your body so they are one. In other words, it’s not about fighting. It mostly seems to be a lot of breathing, and of course more meditating. “See?” Ellen says, “it’s the perfect martial art because you don’t have to hurt anybody!”

“Uh-huh,” I say, breathing deeply and thinking with longing of the swords in Master’s office. We’re woken up at four the next morning by a chanting monk hitting a gong outside our doorway. First up is more chanting, followed yet again by meditation. I am not very good at meditation, falling victim to what another writer—Steven Copeland, I think—calls “puppy mind.” I’m supposed to be emptying my mind and focusing only on the present moment, but instead my thoughts bounce about in the silence just like a young lab: so early—don’t fall asleep—wonder what Anthony’s up to these days—Ross Lake sounds awesome—I want to see a bear—when do I get my GRE scores back—I hope I get in—maybe I can live in Montana—Ellen!—God my knees hurt—what’s Matt doing today?—there are bears in Montana—I live in Korea—I’m sitting by a monk—that monk is kind of cute—close your eyes, that’s not allowed—stay awake—on and on. After half an hour, we stand up for more meditating, this time while walking up to a statue at the top of a twisted path leading up an unforgiving hillside. This exercise goes a little better for me as I get to contemplate the sunrise, because at this point, I’m honestly starting to get tired of myself and need some outside stimulation. I used to have a once-weekly sunrise policy, where on Tuesdays I’d get up early enough to catch sun-up, but somehow in Korea that habit fell into disrepair. I’m considering reinstating it, because it’s the first unfalsified calm I’ve felt all weekend.

After Buddhist breakfast and tea time, we’re allowed free time, so we hop a bus into town and catch dinner and before I know it, I’ve got to start heading back to Seoul. Saying goodbye to Ellen always sucks, but ever since my junior year of college, one of us has been driving off into our own sunsets, so we’re getting used to it. There’s a lot to reflect on during the journey home. Obviously, one does not find enlightenment over the weekend, and truthfully, I wasn’t much of a searcher. But I can’t stop thinking about the bows. I found the movement kept my mind steadier, and was far less soporific than pure meditation. I pull out the sheet of paper that details the specific meditative purpose for each one. Here are a few of the bows I found especially resonant:

I bow to wonder where I came from and where I am going.
I bow to know that unchangeable love is flowing through the universe.
I bow to call attention to the good in others, but not the bad.
I bow for the friends who have been beside me, sharing my laughter and tears.
I bow to realize that my life is the movement of my soul.
I bow to be thankful for the sight of beautiful wildflowers that are always present.
I bow to give thanks for the mountains and landscapes that speak to me through wind and snow.
I bow to hope for peace between human beings and nature.
I bow to be thankful for all the good and beautiful things in my life.

Reflecting on the bows, I realize once again that prescriptive religion doesn’t seem to be the ticket for me. I prefer the distant yips of a coyote over chanting; forget your heavily perfumed incense, and give me instead the wispy curls of wood smoke rimmed in a sunset halo. After a stay at Golgulsa, I won’t be taking off my skeptic’s cloak just yet—but, it never hurts to check.

written by  alli_ockinga on September 25, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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I started the month out with a trip north to the DMZ. It was actually quite a bit less

looking out across North Korea

tanks are scary

That same day, I got to go whitewater rafting. While rafting is always awesome, I could have used a little more excitement. It was mostly class threes, with maybe one class four rapid, and I couldn't help but miss the roaring waters of the Salmon down in Stanley. The guides have a rule there that if you dump a rider, you have to buy a case of beer for the other guides, but if you manage to flip the whole boat, everyone else has to buy you a case. That happens more often than you'd think, especially when the water's high. Still, even those guides would occasionally remark that that area of the Salmon wasn't as crazy as the Middle Fork. I guess we all have our paradise.

Recently, we discovered a climbing wall in Boramae Park, near where my friends Denise, Hannah and Michelle live in Seoul. Naturally, we all gave it a shot. By default, Michelle and I were the "experienced" climbers of the group, having done it before. However, it had been more than a year for Michelle and almost that for me, so we were a little apprehensive, especially when we saw a super-ripped Korean dude scramble up the advanced wall in about two minutes in BARE FEET. I was jealous. We got harnessed and up to the wall, and didn't even have to tie ourselves in--whether because he didn't trust us to do it ourselves or didn't want to try speaking in English, I don't know, but the Barefoot Man tied us in without a word. Korea is nothing if not a place of convenience. Despite a little trepidation, Michelle and I got right back into the groove, and all I can say is it felt amazing to get back up on some ropes again! Plus, the ever-amusing Konglish was at its peak that day. "Boryup winjeok!" Barefoot would say, coaching. That means left knee, so I'd move my leg up and then he would call, encouragingly, "Good baby." Trying not to laugh lest I lose my grip, I smiled appreciatively. "Good monkey baby!" he said again. I've learned to take compliments where and how I can get them here. I almost forgot how much I love climbing--I've yet to find another sport that offers quite the same balance of physical challenge and sense of accomplishment as climbing. No pics because I forgot my camera that day, unfortunately, but I'll definitely be back.

The next day, I went with several girls to a baseball game in Seoul, which I've been wanting to do for some time now. It was a good time, and all very Korean, of course. By that I mean there was a lot of coordinated cheers complete with mandatory dance moves

He does not even know how to handle himself

Finally, I've been keeping busy between outdoor pursuits by studying for the GRE. I have decided to try to get into grad school for *cross your fingers* creative writing, which shouldn't surprise anyone who knows me. In Asia, they administer the GRE as a split test, meaning the writing portion is done at one session, and the math/verbal portion is done at another date. So I did the writing part today, which consists of two essays. That's all I'm allowed to tell you, or else the Educational Testing Services goons will come and kill me. But I will say that it went about as well as I thought it would--the first essay went really well, and the second went reasonably okay. But since most writers are their own worst critics, I probably did fine. Now it's on to relearning algebra for Part Two in October. Wish me luck!

written by  alli_ockinga on September 15, 2009 from Seoul, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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“This looks like an interesting situation,” I comment.
“We should probably join these gentlemen in whatever they’re doing,” Ellen concurs.

On approaching the pool, we find the young men to be just as attractive up close as they seemed from a distance. Their feet are submerged in lightly gurgling water, but that’s not all. Thousands of tiny fish are in the pool also, and they seem to be sucking on the attractive toes of the aforementioned young men.

“You want a fish massage?” asks a young Cambodian woman, standing off to the side with a towel and bowl of water. “Three dollar for twenty minutes.”
“What is a fish massage?”
“Doctor fish, eat your dead feet, make them smooth and feel good.”
“How is it?” Ellen asks the men.
“Downright bonza,” he says cheerfully. Must be a Kiwi, or at least an Aussie. I’ve noticed they have a tendency to cut off words halfway through and either simply end them or throw on a Z and call them slang. Presents are prezzies, sunglasses are sunnies, and it seems that bonkers is bonza.

“Want to do it, Ellen?” Before I even finish her name, she’s sitting on the edge of the pool, removing her Chacos. I take that as a yes. The woman washes our feet, which makes me feel like Jesus.

As a species, I like fish okay. I can eat them and touch them and, if pressed, can manage to extract some fillets out of them, possibly a bit mangled, but edible. I’ve even owned a fishing license at two separate points in my life to appease the two—not one, but two—men I’ve dated who actually worked for Fish and Game. So, while I’m not an expert, I’m no stranger to fish. Still, that doesn’t prepare me for the moment I stick my feet in the warm pool and dozens of little fish swarm up to my feet and start biting them. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more ticklish than anything, and it’s weird as hell. I imagined it would feel like mischievous fairies pinching me, but it’s more like a thousand tiny Hoovers sucking away in an attempt to cleanse my summer feet.

Ellen seems to find it fascinating. “Look at their little mouths,” she says. “Are they actually eating our flesh? What do you think it tastes like? If we ate one of these fish, would that be like cannibalism?”

The other travelers are slowly scooting away from us in what they suspect is a subtle manner, but we don’t care. Someone gets out, and their fish immediately migrate to our fresh feet, and start methodically gnawing away. It reminds me of the way I eat corn on the cob. A couple daring swimmers try to get between my toes, but I’m having none of that. They can stick to the standard outside calluses, thank you very much.

After twenty minutes, our time is up, and once again the woman washes our feet, now pink and slightly shriveled from dinner. I touch my toes, and I think they feel a little smoother, but it’s possible that’s just my optimism showing through. Either way, we pay our three dollars cheerfully, feeling like we’ve done a good deed by feeding the animals, and march merrily on our way down Bar Street. I've just had my toes nibbled under water, and it's definitely time for a beer.

written by  alli_ockinga on September 1, 2009 from Siem Reap, Cambodia
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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This isn’t the first time a middle-aged foreigner has asked me to run away north with him. When I lived in Stanley, a little river town in the Idaho Sawtooths, a group of European men went rafting as part of their company convention based in Boise. On the trip, a certain Rudy from Norway became smitten with me, aided perhaps by the eleven B-52s he insisted on sharing with me, and asked me to join him in Montana as his “traveling partner.” While I declined, I like to think of myself as having a certain global appeal.

“So you will buy the two kebabs,” Rahim said. “To help the plan.” Or maybe not. But yesterday, Rahim inspired me to make a certain change in my life which had nothing to do with the Canucks. I’d taken off my glasses to polish them with my shirt, partly because they needed a wipe-down, and partly because it’s a habit and I do it at least fifteen times a day. If there’s ever a statue built of me, I’ll most likely be immortalized in the iconic glasses-polishing pose.

“Ah!” Rahim said, peeking out at me from behind a slab of lamb. “The no-glass face has more beauty!”
I considered myself in the reflection of his polished steel counter. “You think?”
“Yes, it is certain,” he confirmed. “I am the expert.”

It got me thinking. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving my older brother and his detached retina, I’ve had what you might unscientifically call an eye thing. It’s not that I don’t like eyes. Truthfully, I think they’re one of the most compelling features in another person. But after seeing what I saw when I was nine, I’ve just never been able to consider actually touching an eyeball—mine or anyone else’s. But there are lots of things I never did before Korea that I do now. Eat mushrooms, for example, or drink before noon. (Kidding, Mom.)

Feeling brave, I go to the optometrist today, conveniently located in the basement of the Lotte Mart. Two salesmen/doctors glance up at me and back down to their paperwork, pretending I’m not there, before an intrepid young man in a skinny tie approaches. “Ahnyeung haseo,” he says, and I reply in kind.

I’m not sure how to phrase my request, because I don’t want to insult him with caveman pigeon if he speaks proper medical English, but nor do I want to resort to charades before it becomes necessary. I decide to shoot for the moon. “I’m interested in contact lenses,” I say. “Can we talk about options and expenses?” He gives me a pleasantly blank look and shakes his head. I’m not sure if he’s denying my request or just confused, so I scale it down a bit and try again. “I want contact lenses,” I say, taking off the glasses.

“Lenses,” he says, pointing at the ones in my glasses frames.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Ne. Eyeglasses, aneeyo.” I make an X with my arms to emphasize that point. “Eye lenses.” To help, I hold my thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart and point at my iris.
“Yes, eyes,” he says.
“Eye lenses.”
“Okay.”

He nods, and gestures for my glasses, then goes behind the counter and into a back room with them. I hope I get them back. Sure enough, the young man comes back with them and sticks them in a little machine, and apparently that’s all it takes to get contacts, because then he directs me to a mirror and a stool. “Down,” he says, which I choose to take as “Please have a seat, miss.” I do, and he gets out a little contact kit with two dimples for the lenses and a bigger area into which he pours what I assume is saline solution, though there’s no way to know for sure. I’ve never had contacts before, so maybe there’s a step I don’t know about.

“You hand,” he says, so I extend my digits obediently. I feel a little like a Labrador. Down! Stay! Shake! With a tweezer, he places the clear, convex disk on my index finger. “In the eye,” he says. I take a deep breath, and he watches with amusement, completely unaware that I’m confronting a deep-seated aversion right now. I get my the lens about two inches from my eye and am stumped. How does it stick? I look at him again.
“How?” I say.
“In the eye.” Helpful.

I lift my arms in that W-shape, which I’m pretty sure is the universal sign for I feel like an idiot but I really don’t know what’s up right now. He laughs at me. “Make big the eyes.” He takes off his own glasses and shows me how to open my eye super wide, and then place the lens right on top of my very much exposed eyeball. I give it another shot, make big the eyes, and oh gross I’m touching it! And I can’t finish the job. The salesman laughs at me, rinses the contact, and gives it back. “Hana, duel, set,” he says. I’m supposed to hold it on my eye for three seconds. So I try again, but this time I blink reflexively and mess it up again. He sighs, less amused now, and rinses it again. And again, and then one more time. With each attempt, he varies the instruction as much as his vocabulary allows. “Look and see,” he says. And then, “Eyes up.” “See the eyes.” On the eighth try, I get it to stick. “Asah,” he breathes. "Okay." I wonder if he gets commission. I hope so. But I’m getting better: the left one takes only six tries, and then he makes me take them out, which I manage to do without any significant optical damage.

He’s putting together a little contact accessories kick, which is pink and sparkly, because this may be a doctor’s office, but it’s still Korea. I notice he’s only giving me one. “Are these disposable?” I ask.

Again, he shakes his head blankly. I draw a cylinder shape in the air a foot over the ground, pluck something invisible from my eye, and cast it into the imaginary garbage can. “Aneeyo,” he says, firmly. “Not the away.”

After another heroic round of Optical Charades, I am able to ascertain that I can wear these for three months, and—thanks to the miracle of health insurance—it only costs me 30,000 won. On top of this, I’ve put the eye thing behind me, and I’m already looking forward to getting home and getting behind the wheel of my old Volkwagon and not having to face the choice between clarity of vision with snow blindness, or not squinting into the sun, but taking road signs on faith. There’s something to be said for facing fears.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 26, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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Quick, close your eyes! Empty your mind. Think: Cambodia. What do you see? Probably Angkor Wat, the world's biggest religious building. And with good reason: Angkor is to Cambodia what Lady Liberty is to NYC--only, having seen them both now, I can say with authority that Angkor is far more impressive. (No offense intended towards the tired, poor, huddled masses, etc.) It's just that you can't top this in terms of the effect it has on a person. In fact, despite its magnitude, the iconic shape of Angkor has reached far beyond its dimensions and has become the national symbol for all things Cambodian, even so far as to be featured on their flag. Again, with reason.

Magnificent as Angkor was, we each had our own favorites of the multitude of temple sites we visited. In a smart move, we hired a tuk-tuk (like a small, roofed carriage with open sides, pulled by a motorcycle) to take us around the sites.

Bayon

Ta Prohm

My hands-down favorite was Ta Prohm. I am prepared to say that the closest I'll ever get to being Lara Croft was at this temple, where the millenial battle between man and nature was neatly showcased in the 1200-year struggle between the temple, defending its place on the continent, and the jungle, attempting to reclaim what's rightfully hers. Yes, I just decided they were she-trees. It was stunning. Huge roots pushed away stones and seeped through cracks in the walls, crawling under and over one another like twisting pythons. I found the entire experience humbling, and I have to admit that I couldn't help but root for the trees.

floating village

I am concerned about kid in a bucket with a snake over croc-infested waters

When I first arrived in Korea (six and a half months ago), seeing Ellen again was like walking through a rainbow. We were roommates in college, but since that time we've been everywhere, with me making tracks across the northwest, and her in any number of Asian nations. We'd seen each other for one-week snippets stolen from real life over the last few years, but it had been something like eighteen months since we'd been everyday fixtures in one another's lives. It's been so nice to have each other back for a little while. One of the downsides to moving so frequently is that you're always leaving someone behind. I'm just a little more used to being the leaver.

Master commented on the situation recently in his earnest way. He and I were in the hapkido van alone. "Alli," he said, “When Ellen—go and not come back, you will be very many sad and lonely?”
“Yes.”
“Ellen, Alli, number one friends.”
"Yes."

Nailed it. Still, as much as I'll miss her, all is not lost. The five-hour journey is daunting, but not insurmountable, and I'll be heading her way for a visit sometime in September. My dear friend Tom will be arriving in Seoul to visit me in October, and I can't wait to see him again. Tom has always had a way of seeing me as the best possible version of myself, and I think his grounding presence will be good for me. Ellen will be back in November for a week before taking off to India, at which point I'll turn 24 and be undeniably rooted in my mid-twenties. Time is relentless. And then it'll be Christmas, and then January, and I'll get to go home again. So here's to Ellen, wishing her the best on her newest journey! Can't wait to laugh with her again.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 15, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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At least, until everything went horribly wrong.

After two days lounging on the beaches of Sihanoukville with coctails and brand new tans, Ellen and I decided we needed an expedition of sorts to avoid feeling slothful. We decided on snorkeling, since I'd never done it, and to be honest, we weren't looking to be TOO active--it was, after all, vacation. There were several outfitters that offered snorkeling day trips for the outlandish cost of $50, which is pretty offensive when you consider that one dollar equals four thousand Cambodian riel. Minding our budget, we waited for a better deal, and sure enough, found a place offering a half-day trip for the more reasonable cost of $15. And it included lunch! What luck!

We piled into a 1973 Mercedes van with nine strangers and drove to the port side of town, where we met with the rest of our thrifty crew, comprising about twenty people in all, plus our Cambodian captain, who sported neon green floral shorts and a ball cap worn to the side in a brash manner that did not inspire much trust. We waded out to our craft, a thirty-foot dinghy painted a gaudy orange with eroded two-by-fours for seats, and not a life-jacket in sight. It called strongly to mind The Life of Pi, and I fought the urge to look for tigers in the stern. "I hope we're not going far," Ellen said. "You know how I get motion sickness."

It turns out we were going far. Very, very far, across the open South Asian seas, filled with sharks and rays and all manner of sea monsters, in an oversized outboard, whose steering mechanism was a wooden rudder linked by what appeared to be dental floss to a piece of driftwood which Captain Hooligan manned with one foot, his hands being occupied by cigarettes. Huge swells swamped our boat, making the other daring vessels around us seem to disappear as they were thrust up and dunked down by the waves. Ellen got more than a little sick, but managed to hold it together until we finally stopped at our snorkeling destination a good hour and a half later. I am lucky not to suffer from seasickness, so I was still in a chipper mood, ready to explore the coral reef beneath us. Even when our guide handed me the sort of snorkel one buys at WalMart for their six-year-old to explore the shallow end of the kiddie pool, my enthusiasm wasn't dampened. "Also," said our guide, "in the sea, do not touch the urchins. They have the black spikes, and you will hurt the self."

Donning our snorkel gear, we jumped out and began to swim inland. I looked down, and to my surprise, big black spines reached towards me from all angles. Our boat had landed us in a forest of sea urchins. They were everywhere, and there was no way to stop swimming and set your feet down without coming into contact with at least one. But we were there, and we still wanted to observe the sea life, so we took our chances, pondering all along the many implications of the vague phrase 'hurt the self.' We saw bright coral and big fish that looked like they were wearing zebra skins. There were little yellow fish and rigid tubular organisms that looked like portals to another world, and tons of spongy somethings dotting the reef and sand.

And thousands upon thousands of sea urchins. You see where this is headed. Before long, I was distracted by something colorful, and forgot the no-touching rule, got a little too close, and ZAP! the urchins got me. I would describe the immediate resultant pain as a combination of a deep scrape from a sidewalk, and a shot at the doctor's office, but with more blood. My right thumb, left ankle and right shin were now bleeding into the ocean, where the sea water continued to extract it's own revenge; I now understand the phrase 'salt in the wound' with brand new clarity.

We got back in the boat and headed to the island for lunch and some down time. Once again, Ellen almost lost it all in transit. When she felt a little more settled, we decided to take another dip in the ocean, assuming it was safe since the area was clear of the monstrous urchins.

Silly girls. The ocean is never safe. We hadn't been frolicking more than six minutes before I cried out at yet another searing, whip-like pain, this time across my shins. A second later, Ellen shouted, too, and I watched several filmy and translucent somethings cruising by. Jellyfish! Son of a...! We hurriedly swam ashore, but not before getting the business end of three or four more tendrils...each. One of them even re-stung my previous urchin sting, adding insult to injury. After that, we stayed ashore. Burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice, shame on me.

Back once more to the boat, where Ellen was dreading the two-hour trip home, and with good reason. After all her efforts, the incessant rolling of the seas got to her, and with resignation, she leaned over the side of our dinghy to lose her lunch. And breakfast. And possibly last night's dinner. As I watched from a sympathetic but cautionary distance, a sting ray with a two-foot wing span passed right beneath the surface next to our boat. I wanted to point it out, but this seemed like an inappropriate time. Additionally, I was afraid that if it knew I'd seen it, it would somehow leap into the boat to open my previously suffered wounds with a lash of it's tail, and that would be how I died, like Steve Erwin, but with less fanfare. Ellen finished puking, and sat back up, glancing back to Captain Hooligan, who seemed not only unconcerned, but delighted with her plight, laughing and pointing out the spectacle to his rag-tag first mate.

End score: Ocean 17, Alli and Ellen 0. Lesson of the story: with budget snorkeling, you get exactly what you pay for.

written by  alli_ockinga on August 11, 2009 from Sihanokville, Cambodia
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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July has been a pleasant and eventful month, and as such, it has whizzed by. Independence Day ushered in the month with a distinctive lack of a bang: this is the first year ever that I haven't been sitting outside watching fireworks for the Fourth. Not that I expect anyone else to celebrate America's birthday, but I did feel a slight nostalgic twinge thinking of my friends back in Idaho sitting on top of their various four-wheel-drive vehicles with a PBR and the old red, white and blue raining down from the sky...however, when offered the chance to spend the day at the Army base listening to a Deana Carter concert witht the troops, I declined. I ended up spending the night at a reggae bar in Seoul, then drinking Hite, my subpar Korean beer of choice, on the playground with my Special Friend. All in all, it was a good night.

I messed up my knee again with an ill-timed backflip in hapkido. Fortunately (or maybe not?), it wasn't the knee I hurt skiiing over New Years, but the other one. In a sad twist of fate and joints, my bad knee has become my good knee, as my performance standards dropped across the board. Here's how that went down:

Master gets out the blue padded mat, runs a few steps and flips in midair, kicking his feet over his head and landing in a silent ninja roll, then looks at me, and gestures for me to try. "Alli, you," he says.
"I don't think I can do that," I say. I do not generally suffer from a lack of confidence, but this seems like a time to tell the truth.
"Alli, yes!" he says, emphatically. "You, ninja."
He's right, I think. I AM a ninja. So I run, and I jump, and I kick, and OH MY GOD THAT'S NOT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!! So I landed on my left knee and it was terrible. Because I have my own health insurance for the first time ever, I went to see the doctor, who gave me painkillers and a brace, and I lurched around class like I had, as one kid said, a "robot leg." I told them I had knee pain, and felt old. Master felt pretty bad about overestimating my ability as a ninja. "I worried," he said. "In hapkido, you are my student. Outside, you are my sister." Awww. So, I took a two-week hapkido hiatus, and it feels better now. The only time I have problems are when I'm at a restaurant, sitting cross-legged on the floor, which is essentially torture to a person with two bad knees...

The next weekend, every foreigner in Korea headed to the coastal town of Boryeong for Mudfest, which is exactly what it sounds like: mudslides, beer, mudcrafts, beer, mud wrestling, beer, mud masks, and beer. Needless to say, it was a blast. And for the record, I'd like to state that I kept it classyish and stayed away from wrestling of all sorts. I met up with my Special Friend there, who had demanded that I meet his best friend that weekend. As a woman, I'll admit that there's a slight part of me that wishes my first impression for the Bro Test hadn't been made while I was literally covered head-to-toe in mud, but...at least I didn't come off haughty.

read on for part 2...

written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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That brings us up to this week. My mind is almost fully occupied with preparations for the upcoming trip to Cambodia, commencing this Sunday at dawn. I started taking my preventative malaria medicine this week, and on Sunday, I spent a pretty good chunk of my earnings on a new digital camera, since mine broke when I was hiking back in June. Or maybe it was at the beach. Regardless, I have also invested in a camera case this time. I also got a new backpack, and I am just enough of an outdoor geek to be smitten with it. For those that care (cough...that's you, Dad) it's an Osprey pack, 50 liter capacity, internal frame, with a detachable top pocket that converts into a day pack. Which essentially means I have a badass fanny pack!

Also, I found pancake syrup at my market yesterday, and will be having french toast for dinner tonight for the first time in six months. I am more than a little excited. It really is the little things that make life worth living!

written by  alli_ockinga on July 28, 2009 from Inch'on, South Korea
from the travel blog: I go Korea!
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