At the lip of the hot
Weird phrases, odd beaches and interesting habits add up to a fun holiday for Paul Fleischack in South Korea
KOREANS love slogans. Most crockery, T-shirts and placemats all display English phrases, often with some grammatical inaccuracy. So it came as no surprise to find “Sweet tea time white bubbles skate across the smooth scalding surface” painted on one wall of our room, and “Froth clusters at the lip of the hot mug of light tea” on another.
The two bus rides to Susanmaeul on Geoje Island take us through the most amazing scenery. On the outskirts of Busan lies the mouth of the Nakdong River. As with the arable land, all available space in the estuary is used for aquaculture and nets and platforms cover huge areas of the shallows.
Soon afterwards, two huge bridges between rocky islands carry us over fleets of sea traffic far below.
At Geoje terminus, we finally find an ATM that recognises SA credit cards.
Meanwhile, a friendly local, who understands no English but makes out the name of our accommodation, uses his own phone to confirm our next bus number and exit point.
The local bus takes us on a scenic ride past rice paddies and market gardens bounded by stunning coastline before climbing up into the misty mountains in a state forest reserve. At home, mist brings the cold and we struggle to take in this new combination of mist and humid heat.
Palm Pension offers simple self-catering accommodation. There is one room with an en-suite bathroom, fridge, gas ring, rice cooker, sink and a few grocery cupboards. Basic crockery and cooking utensils are supplied and cutlery — two spoons and two pairs of steel chopsticks — is provided in a separate plastic box. The lamp shades are three quaint white teapots attached to a black hanger.
One can choose a western style room with a bed or an ondol-bang with sleeping mats like very thin duvets, which are rolled out on the floor at night.
Through the double-glazed sliding doors that make up the front wall of our room, we can see rugged cliff faces below green hills on the far side of the bay. Further off are myriad small islands, all steep terrain and dense forest.
An assortment of small fishing boats are moored in the bay and a few hundred metres from the nearest quay is a floating fish farm, tended daily by two men on a small skiff and their attendant flock of gulls. On the quay, fishermen chum the water with a mixture of tiny shrimps and green gunk before casting hooks attached to floats and baited with shrimp.
Herons roost in the trees immediately above the water and bird and insect calls emanate from the lush vegetation. The narrow road below carries an assortment of two-wheel tractors, four wheelers, the hourly bus and a few cars.
A well-maintained wooden boardwalk trail takes walkers along the spectacular edge of the forest above the ocean. The road is lined with small homes and pensions, all of different design and colour and each with its own neon sign.
The haenyeo — lady divers — with their old-fashioned round diving masks and bright orange buoys call to each other as they methodically work the waters. Descending until their yellow fins disappear, they use shorthandled hooks to prise sessile animals off rocks and to skewer writhing octopi, which are stored in nets hanging from the buoy.
We are drawn to the blackpebble beach. The pebbles range in size from large coins at the top to tennis balls at the water’s edge. Families sit on thin plastic picnic mats and very few venture into the water.
Beachgoers here do not sunbathe, preferring to remain fully clothed and protected from the sun and the few
children paddling in the shallows wear shorts and rash vests and sandals.
Campers pitch their tents on the pebbles and in true Korean style sleep on the stones. It turns out that pebbles make a remarkably comfortable surface on which to sit. While children can build no sand castles, cameras and lunch are pleasantly free of grit.
There are no waves to speak of and the clear calm water is a snorkeller’s dream. The rich marine life begins just a few metres from the beach, where seaweed and mussels seem to grow on every solid surface.
Swimmers, too, are scarce. Those who do venture into the water wear life jackets or swimming rings while the lifeguards, sitting on the roof of the police station across the road from the beach, use a public address system to call back swimmers who have ventured too far from the shore.
Either they missed me or realised that the mad weiguk would not comprehend their instructions, so my swim went undisturbed.
Back from the beach, we found the usual tiny stores and restaurants, each with tanks of live fish, sea urchins, anemones, whelks, mussels, clams and octopi waiting to be selected by patrons. Few of them have tables or chairs and customers sit on the floor and eat off low tables, on which a variety of dishes are served in bowls.
It is an odd scene. There are no frisbees, no youngsters kicking a ball — definitely no games of touch-rugby — no braais, no dogs leaping into the surf, no shouts or music, just quiet order.
Koreans, however, are accustomed to crowds so don’t be surprised when an extended family spreads their beach mats within centimetres of you.
A bit close for those of us who need our personal space, but they will be respectful and you won’t have to put up with boorish behaviour.