Buddhist boot camp

I don't know what I was expecting, exactly. A monastery? Doors closed to the outside world, not a single modern convenience in evidence? An ethereal, transient dream-like ecstasy of mind-opening and soul-searching, courtesy of the Enlightened One and his disciples? A simple overnight stay at a Buddhist temple in Busan, South Korea? What I got wound up being something completely different. I came with a mind I'd opened myself and came away with a mind that had been opened by experience. And it may have been in the cards. Beomeosa is Korean for "the Temple of the Golden Fish." Somewhere on Geumjang Mountain, where Beomeosa was built over 1300 years ago, there allegedly lies a golden well that never dries up. Legend has it that a heavenly golden fish, straight out of Nirvana, once came to play in that well. Thus the temple that was built there was named for it. It's difficult to believe that Beomeosa is within shouting distance of Busan. Just a few kilometers up the side of the mountain, it is effectively closed off from the city, sight and sound, by forested ridges of rock and earth. The only trace of the bustling metropolis nearby is the weird green glow in the clouds at night. Touted as "Busan's best sight" in the Lonely Planet guidebook, the temple also hosts temple stays, programs wherein both foreigners and native Koreans alike, non-Buddhists all, can sign on to stay at the temple for 2-4 days ("enlist" as it were) and live the life of a humbly enlightened monk, seeing firsthand how affairs in a Buddhist enclave are conducted. Jeff and I heard about this, and had talked airily for months about trying it, but finally made the time (and the effort) to reserve two spots on the June 20-21st slot, for ₩50,000 apiece. And so the date arrived... (Heads up: out of respect for Buddhism I didn't bring my camera on this trip. So all the images you see here were borrowed from free image repositories, like Wikimedia Commons.) We met quite casually at the shady chicken place in Gohyeon at nine o'clock. After some initial difficulty getting a cab, we made it to the bus station. I say "difficulty" not because we had trouble flagging one down, but because we just had trouble, period. I slammed the taxi door on the handle of my cheap umbrella as I got in, shattering it (the handle, not the door). The driver thought I'd done his door and angrily got out to check it. Finding no damage (which I cheerily tried to point out to him) he sullenly got back in and drove us the rest of the way, examining the door again when we got out. I'll bet you he's now got a conversation starter for the rest of the weekend. After scooping the broken pieces of the handle out of the various cavities in the taxi door and into the nearest garbage can, we bought our tickets (₩13,100 for the express bus to Busan) and sat down to wait. ...and wait... ...and wait. Darn, we'd forgotten to check the times. We'd just barely missed the 9:05, and were now forced to wait for the 9:55. This put us in a serious hole, time-wise. We were slated to be at the temple no later than 1:00 p.m. for orientation and robe distribution, etc. The bus to Busan was two hours, or two and a half at worst. The 9:55 would put us there at noon, or worse, 12:30. There was no way in Hades we'd ever make it from the express bus stop in southern Busan all the way across town to Beomeosa, in the northern outskirts, by subway, cab or jet plane. Things were looking grim. To compound that little problem, we'd failed to plan for the worst: traffic. Just outside of Masan we got stuck in a hellacious traffic jam caused by bridge construction, which held us up for a slight but nonetheless damning 40 minutes. We sprinted out of the bus station in Busan to grab a cab at 1:00, only to get stuck in ANOTHER traffic jam threading our way north. To compound our frustration, the cab driver was a complete klutz and turned the heat on instead of the A/C, which on a day which was already on the hot and muggy side was absolutely insufferable. Fortunately temple stay representatives contacted us by phone (through Charles) and he contacted us, so we managed to explain where we were and why we were late. We finally rolled up to Beomeosa temple about 2:00, an hour late. Turns out we'd just missed robe distribution and a little of the opening spiel. We exchanged our clothes for somber gray linen vests and baggy pants, then sat down to learn how (and when) to bow. Turns out there's a trick to it. The regular ol' half bow is nothing, you just have to wait for the accompanying monk to hit the right cadence on his moktak (round wooden drum) before you do it. The full bow is a little different. Indicated by one slap of a bamboo stick across the palm of a monk's hand, you first kneel, putting all your weight on your feet (supported by your bent toes), then bend forward, touching your head, hands, and elbows to the floor. Try to get your hips as low as possible too, they told us. Then, flip your hands over and raise them to about ear level, then put them back down and flip them over again. Push yourself up on your hands, then raise yourself back to your feet again. While you're prone, you can take your feet out of the agonizing kneeling position and fold them over one another. For the final bow (irrespective of whether a single bow or 1,079 preceded it), the monk strikes the bamboo stick against his palm three times, indicating that an extra folding of the hands against the forehead is required when kneeling on the mat, before ascending. Sounds easy, right? Try doing it 108 times in a row, nonstop. That's what we did. But I'm getting ahead of myself. After we finished the debriefing, the opening ceremony (where one of the monks came in, chanting, and we all bowed in unison a few times), and the tour of the temple, we started in on meal training. The first thing we had to do was carry our utensils and bowls from the temple stay house down to what our guide called "the cantina." (I don't know what Western she got that out of. It was the cafeteria, basically: the grub house for the temple.) Then we had to unwrap them. Dining in a Buddhist temple is rather...intricate. First, you have the tablecloth...a piece of brown cotton cloth, just like a good napkin, though about half as large. This goes on the floor. You never put your bowls directly on the floor, so you hold them in your left hand as you spread the tablecloth out (using only your right hand). There are a couple of other cloths, which you put on your knee. First, there's the the long brown ribbon-thingy, which you'll eventually use to tie the whole bundle back up again when you're through with it. There's the drying cloth, which is just what it sounds like. Then there's the dust-cloth, which covers the whole bundle, and the soft brown bag with the chopsticks and spoon in it. There are four plastic bowls, each smaller than the other, set inside each other like those doll thingies from whatever country. You set them out, largest to smallest, counter-clockwise (biggest on the lower left side of the tablecloth, next-biggest to the right, second-to-smallest above that, and smallest to its left, above the biggest). Place the chopsticks and the spoon in the top-right bowl. Okay, now for the tricky part. First, you get some hot water. That goes into the largest bowl, which is the rice bowl. Since the meal is eaten in total silence, you signal the server (volunteers from the crowd) that you've got enough water by gently swishing the bowl in a rolling circular motion. The swishing also helps to clean out the bowl if there's any dust in it. You then transfer the water into the second-largest bowl, the soup bowl, and repeat the swishing. Then you empty that into the second-smallest bowl, the water bowl, which you'll use for washing at the end of the meal. Then the next server comes around and you take as much rice as you want, and put it in the largest, newly-rinsed bowl. Then the soup guy comes and you scoop out some cabbage soup. Then the side dish server comes and you take as many different vegetarian sides as you fancy. The tour guide, Yoon, a very nice and competent Korean woman, asked if I would mind being the side server, and I said yeah, sure. So I rolled the big tray around the floor (it was on casters, and we were sitting on cushions on the floor, as may or may not have been apparent by this time) to each and every foreign member of the tour group and they chose their own side dishes, just like it was a rolling buffet. (The Korean temple stay participants had their own volunteer servers.) You eat in silence; you hold the bowls over your mouth when you open it so nobody catches a distasteful glimpse of your open gob (standard Buddhist dining practice, I gathered). No seconds here; you take what you want the first time around. And you'd better not take too much, because you have to eat every morsel. That's right. Not even one tiny grain of pepper powder can remain in your bowl. How do you ensure that you've snarfed every last molecule of comestibles in your bowls? The answer, like the tenets of Buddhism itself, is beautifully simple. Among the side dishes served are semicircular slices of yellow radish. You take a couple, and set them aside (don't eat them). After you've finished all your food, you take some water from the aforementioned water dish and pour it into your rice bowl. Then you take that bowl, the chopsticks, and a slice of the yellow radish, and use the slice as a sponge to scrub away all the rice residue with the aid of the water. Once you've scrubbed that bowl, you pour the water into the soup bowl, and scrub that, then the side dish bowl, and scrub that. It's best not to use too much water to do this...because you drink it at the end. You can't waste any food. We're talking Buddhism here, after all. You have to eat, literally, every last crumb. After you've scrubbed and made sure that you've gotten everything (which means you should have a pool of cloudy, crumb-filled water at the bottom of your side dish bowl, together with a slice of yellow radish, by the end of the cleaning process), you drink the water and eat the radish slice. Then comes the wrap-up...literally. First, you lift the bowls up and re-fold the brown tablecloth (first in half, then in thirds, starting from the left side, and folding only with the right hand), then place the bowls on top. Put the chopsticks and spoon, re-bagged, astride the bowls, with the head of the spoon facing you. (By the way, all folded clothes must be laid on the floor with the folded edges facing outwards, because that is the good and respectful side. The seams, being the poorer side, should face toward you, respectfully.) Then, place all of that on top the outstretched ribbon thingy, then tie it into a complex ribbon on top. The exact nature of this ribbon was demonstrated personally to the author, at his request, by the monk in charge, but it's intricacies escape him. Finally, place the drying cloth on top of the ribbon, and unfold the dust-cloth and lay it over the whole affair. The whole bundle is now ready for transport and storage. All of this was a bit tricky (not to mention nerve-wracking) but we all managed to get it down. All except the ribbon-thingy, that is. The tour guide just told us to tie it any old way because the Buddhist knot was too difficult for us to learn. I wondered if it was one of the revelations the Buddha had after sitting under that tree for six years. Okay, that's enough irreverence. Actually I was being very good. This was my first hands-on, intimate exposure to Buddhism and I wanted to make absolutely sure I wasn't committing any acts of sacrilege or indecency, detectable or not. That meant not asking pointed or derogatory questions, laughing or giggling at certain practices (the way some other weguk temple stayers did)...no dirty thoughts, even. There were some fine-looking foreign girls there participating in that temple stay, and they looked all the finer in their modest acolyte garb. But I kept my mind clean. I wasn't going to trespass on the Buddha's hospitality and sanctity, be it physically, mentally or otherwise, not for kingdoms. Meals and meal training concluded, we headed to the temple proper to watch a worship service. That was really something. First, outside, a pair of younger monks took turns pounding the enormous drum sheltered in a small, raised pagoda (thereby saving the souls on Earth). Then they ran their drumsticks over a large, intricately carved wooden fish suspended from the ceiling (thereby saving all the creatures of the sea). They chimed a few notes on a cast-iron gong, saving the souls in Heaven; and they rang the resonant, ovoid bell, thereby saving the souls in Hell. Then all the monks filed silently into the temple proper, and we followed. I've been to Christian church services, and someday I'll attend mass at the Vatican, not to mention drop in on a few mosques here and there, if they don't mind. But this was the most impressive thing I'd seen (and heard) so far. We filed in slowly, one by one. It was a large building with a vast open floor space, looking out of sliding doors that had been flung wide, upon steps leading up to a smaller temple in which an image of the Buddha was ethereally lit by candles and obscured by the smoke of incense. The monks were already assembled, standing with shaven heads and somber gray-and-maroon robes. We took our places by our prayer rugs on the right side of the room and clasped our hands. After a few opening bows, the chant began. How can I describe this to you? I don't know if you're familiar with Gregorian chants...the religious hymns sung by male choirs in cathedrals halls which amplify the sound so much that it seems as if a divine army were singing and humming along with the tune. That kind of powerful baritone and bass harmony is particularly moving, and it was none the less so with this Buddhist chant sung by perhaps two dozen men in a simple hall. Imagine, if you can, that many deep voices sonorously thrumming with sound...a slow, somber, low-key chant going up and down the scale in half- and quarter-octaves, with the head monk providing a leading, supplemental harmony, the moktak signaling everyone to bow. We visitors did our level best to act in tune with the monks, except for the chanting; as it was in Korean, and the tune unfamiliar, most of us didn't even attempt an accompaniment. But we kept up with the bows pretty well. It was agonizing sitting on our toes for one or two minutes (the length of time between full bows) but I did what I could, sweat dripping down my forehead, remembering, as I attempted to all during my stay, "the tribulations of the Buddha." He went through all this and worse, I reminded myself, and strove to maintain my posture as the fully-robed and middle-aged monks across from me did, flawlessly. Then came the real test of faith: the 108 bows. That number is quite significant in Buddhist doctrine. There are six senses, and six earthly passions that plague humankind. Multiply them together and you get the 36 passions of Buddhism. Multiply that times three (for past, present and future) and you get 108. So we bowed 108 times in a row, full bows, down to the carpet, hands lifted, back up again. If I thought I'd been sweating before, I hadn't even started yet. I was leaving stains on the mat, not only from my forehead but eventually my forearms and hands as well. Everybody was soaked by the end of it...the day was still and muggy, and it was hard work, lowering oneself down to the mat, bending forward, straightening, and then pushing oneself back up again with ones' toes and thighs. Even as I write these words, I'm still so sore that I can barely bend my knees. Going down stairs is rather a trial, just as it was after we got through climbing Jirisan (see no use crying over spilled gorp). But I stuck to it. I lost count after about five bows, so intent was I on getting my form and posture correct. Remember, we had to go as low as possible, and our elbows, knees, foreheads and hands all had to touch the mat, and there was a special order to the motions. First we went down on our knees, bent forward slowly, touched our various parts to the carpet, raised our hands, then pushed ourselves slowly back up with our hands into an upright kneeling position, then stood up. It was like a somewhat slower and more dignified succession of squat-thrusts. Losing count actually helped me get my head down (literally) and get on with it. Before I knew it we were finished. Then the yogi came in. Yes, that's right. For an encore, we practiced yoga. The yogi was a different monk from the other two we'd spoken with; he was a jolly character, somewhat low-ranking, always smiling at us and ushering us through the exercises in quiet Korean, which our guide Yoon translated. He had us sit with crossed legs, close our eyes, focus on our breathing, and cool down from all the bows we'd just done. We did this for about five minutes, utter silence reigning in the large room where moments before the heavy breathing of dripping bodies and straining muscles (and before that, the solemn chanting of resonant baritones) reigned. I didn't do so well, but I think I at least managed to regulate my breathing as instructed. Then the real yoga began. The yoga masters have spent untold amounts of time perfecting the ways in which a human body may be bent into unnatural shapes. I didn't even know human beings could bend like that at all...much less that I would have at least some modest success in doing it myself. There were some positions I flat-out couldn't do: the reverse push-up thingy was hard. (You had to lay on your back and then suspend your trunk with your legs and arms, both at right angles. I didn't have sufficient upper-body strength.) It was darn hard to balance when we put our feet over our heads and supported ourselves on our shoulder blades. But apart from that, I did pretty well. The craziest position was definitely where we stuck our right legs straight out, put the left one in our lap, bent our left arms around behind our backs to grab hold of our left feet (wrapping around our waists), and then twisted our torsos to the left, with our right hands used for support. If this is hard to visualize for you, imagine what it's like to try and do it. The yogi, our two Korean guides, and (of course) all of the girls in the group, foreign and Korean alike, were putting us guys to shame. They hardly had any problems at all with flexibility, while the guys huffed and puffed and sweated and strained (and kvetched, too). Somehow we all managed to get through it, being wowed by the yogi, who was able to do the splits sitting down and then (without leaning his waist in any direction) bend down and put his shoulders, chest and head on the floor. He just chuckled good-naturedly when we oohed and aahed at him, or had difficulty copying him. We gave him a heartfelt thank-you after it was over, for though it had been hard, he'd made it quite fun and occluded any embarrassment. That was basically it for the night. We went back to the main house and washed up. We did not shower; there were no shower facilities, but there were basins and water bowls aplenty and we managed to clean up our heads and necks and hands very well. The girls were lucky; they were staying in the same building that the bedding supplies were stored in. We men had to lug our stuff a few hundred yards up stairs and over bridges to the male guesthouse, then set it up. (The management provided covers to put over the bedding so we wouldn't soil it.) After everybody's bed had been set up (some kindly Korean fellows helped me with mine), and the lights had been turned off, and we'd all done our level best to get comfortable, we drifted off. Andrew (the elderly Scotsman with the broad brogue and blackened teeth) snored a bit, but it wasn't anything to throw a pillow at him over. I didn't sleep too well anyway: it was hot and the setting was unfamiliar, but more than that, my brain was buzzing with all I'd seen and done that day. I could only contemplate what the next day would bring, as I dozed fitfully throughout the night. The moktak gently brought me into wakefulness at 3:30 a.m. the next morning. We folded our bedrolls, turned 'em in, then trooped back through the pitch-darkness and the early morning drizzle to the temple for morning services. These were basically a repeat of the previous evening's. The monks' chant had lost none of its power and majesty. However, instead of doing 108 bows afterward, we did Zen meditation. Nobody was surprised when the yogi walked in to conduct the proceedings. Seems he was a real jack-of-all-trades, in the Buddhist sense. I hope that guy gets a reserved seat in Nirvana for donating his precious time to training us non-canon dunderheads the fine art of Zen meditation. There were two varieties, he explained: sitting and walking. Yes, that's correct: Zen meditation can be done just as effectively while in motion. I found this difficult to believe, but fortunately it was put to the test immediately. We all got up, formed a single-file line, and under the monk's instructions (translated by our dutiful Yoon), we slowly moved off through the temple, still in the predawn gloom, with the drizzle dripping serenly from leaf and cornice. It was quite tricky. Our job, according to the yogi, was to think only of ourselves. Just think about yourself, Yoon stressed. To do this, she expounded, it might be necessary to focus on your breathing. Breathe deeply, from the diaphragm, as intently as possible. "Try to feel every breath," she said. Feel every breath? Eh? This was going over my head already, but I took a shot at it as we all sat in the temple and practiced. My body was stiff from the night I'd spent on the floor, and though I wasn't as sore as I'd expected from yesterday's bowing, my thews were throbbing from that morning's services. Concentration, as well as strictly regulated breathing, proved troublesome. So you can imagine the trial I was having mustering up the necessary concentration outside on the temple premises, trying to simultaneously to control my breathing and reflect upon myself while avoiding treading on the heels of the person in front of me or stumbling over something in the dark and the wet. Remember the tribulations of the Buddha, I thought to myself for the 108th time. After threading our way through most of the temple, we reached a square courtyard with another temple building and an impressive obelisk in front of it. The courtyard, fortunately, was level and packed hard, with only the occasional rock poking up. This minimized the footing difficulties I'd been having. Now I just had to worry about the people in front of me. I was near the end of the line, and as per the monk's instructions we were going rather slowly, one foot in front of the other. That was all fine and dandy, but in practice everybody walks "slowly" at different speeds, which meant that I was often on the verge of bumping into the guy in front. This is about when the revelations started coming, around the third circuit of the obelisk or so. This would be so much easier if I was by myself, I thought. I wouldn't have to worry about smashing into anybody. It's so hard to think about oneself when you're staring at someone else's back, I thought a little later. Maybe I could close my eyes, I considered a little bit after this. Nah, I'd definitely trip then, I mused. Then... How easy it is for the blind man to see himself, I thought to myself. Hey, I thought to myself a nanosecond later. That sounded like Zen! The rest of the revelations I had, about ten revolutions later (after I'd finally managed to stop thinking so articulately and just reflect) were all pretty self-deprecating. I came away from the experience not necessarily with a greater understanding of the Buddhist intellect nor a more disciplined mind, but with a brand-new set of New Year's resolutions. Oh well, I guess I'll take what I can get. Anything that inspires me to better myself can only be good. I've resolved, actually, after having done this, to continue doing yoga (when I can) and definitely Zen meditation. I pretty much do the same thing when I'm out for a walk anyway, only I reflect on everything, not just myself; I figure I'll improve my mental discipline and also air out the ol' brain cells. I'm ever so glad I got the opportunity to try these things, both of which I'd never done before (and had wanted to). Dawn was breaking as we headed back in. We had about 30 minutes' rest at the temple stay house before breakfast, which was spent in quiet reflection as we watched the gray skies lighten up and fill the valley with beguiling mist and muted bird song. Breakfast was the same ritual as the dinner before it, only at the end we tied up our bowls more securely as we would be transporting them back to the temple stay house. After finishing breakfast, we went on a brief hike up Geumjang Mountain. About half a kilometer up the side, through the dripping, verdant, silent forest, a gate suddenly loomed out of the cloying mist. A small temple came into view, as well as a statue of the Enlightened One (with a donation box in front of it). We all got some pictures (and Yoon took some group photos) as we stretched, digested breakfast, and looked off the balcony at what surely must've been a stunning view, even without the mist. It was a nice time to reflect, discuss interesting events with friends, and have a little time to oneself. This done, we reconvened back at the temple stay house for the grand finale: the stringing of yeomju. I believe I may have explained elsewhere what yeomju are, but they need to be redefined before I go on. They are strings of round, wooden beads, some with intricate Chinese characters carved upon them, some of longer length than others, some with bigger or smaller beads. Yoon called them "thinking beads." You carry them strung around your wrist. You can stroke them when you're contemplating or making a wish, and the revelation or desire you seek (as long as it's well-meaning and doesn't harm others) will come to you. They also grant limited protection; in Korea, you most often see the larger yeomju wrapped around the gearshifts in cars to guard against accidents. The principle and idea (not to mention the article itself) are fascinating to me, and I was eager to make my own. ...even after I found out we'd be bowing 108 times again as we made them. Yep. We were making yeomju with 108 beads, and to commemorate them and imbue them with power, it was necessary to do a full bow with every bead strung. We spread out our prayer rugs in a semicircle around Ms. Moon (the middle-aged Korean guide who spoke no English, but was the resident yeomju expert), received a small plastic bag with 108 small unadorned wooden beads and two lengths of string, made a knot in one end of the longest string, then went to work. Ms. Moon would keep time by slapping the bamboo stick against her hand, signaling us to bow, string a bead, then get up again and stand at attention in the Buddhist fashion, hands folded in front. We had the technique down already; but on the floor it was a desperate race to string our beads. This was awkward, given the fact that we were on our knees with our chins practically on the floor and our backsides in the air, and our hands were increasingly sweaty and the end of the string increasingly frayed. None of us wanted to be the last person on the floor, holding everybody up. Some people's strings frayed so badly that Yoon or Ms. Moon had to go around the floor with a lighter and torch those frayed ends back into submission. Except for those slight holdups, we kept a good rhythm going, and almost before we knew it (we kept count by keeping an eye on how many beads we had left to string) we were finished. The bows and stringing turned out to be the easy part. Then it was a matter of actually tying off the string ends and finalizing the yeomju, as it were. We undid the knot we'd tied at the end of the long string (to keep the beads we were stringing from falling off the other side), then secured both ends of the long string together by means of a "tri-way" bead and a smaller "keeper" bead. Then we took the second loose string, thicker and shorter than the other, and tied it to the top of the "keeper." Then we laid the whole affair on the floor, such that the four string ends were pointing in four opposite directions (radially symmetrical, or whatever; that had no religious significance, it just made the tying part easier). Then we threaded String End 1 (hereafter referred to as SE1 for simplicity's sake) over String End 2 (hereafter referred to as...well, you can guess), SE2 over SE3, and SE3 over SE4. After some initial difficulty in understanding what came next, we threaded SE4 through the loop in SE1, made by looping SE1 over SE2. (Don't feel bad if you're confused; I was standing right there watching the woman demonstrate this and I was still confounded for a bit.) Pulling all four string ends tight simultaneously yielded a knot on top that resembled, in Yoon's words, "four little squares." We were instructed to keep doing that knot until the resultant pile of knots was about the length of the nail on our index finger. After that, Ms. Moon came by, cut off the excess string, threaded a hard plastic band over the ends to keep them from unraveling, and cauterized the whole affair into invulnerable wholeness with her lighter. And there we had it, yeomju manufactured by the work of our hands and the sweat of our brows. Jeff and I reveled in our achievements briefly as Ms. Moon finished torching every last apprentice's string ends, and then we all changed back into our street clothes. As we lounged on the floor, waiting for the closing ceremony to begin, grateful for the opportunity to rest our aching muscles, we compared war wounds. Mark, the burly, stubble-headed Canadian in front of me, was busy showing his buddy Craig the rug burns on his knees, acquired from the 216 nonconsecutive bows we'd performed. "You got nothin'," I said. "Check this action out." I pointed to my own knees, where amorphous red blotches marked my own struggle against the prayer rug. "War wounds," I bragged. "Buddhist boot camp." Indeed, it had seemed that the temple stay closely resembled a crash-course in Buddhism. "Boot camp" seemed an appropriate term. We were getting re-taught how to live according to the rigid rules of an elite society; the parallels between a Buddhist monastery and a military base were undeniable. Both required uniforms, codes of conduct, stringent observance of protocol in dining, sleeping and behavior, as well as punctuality and a somewhat masochistic sleep schedule. In the presence of elder monks, junior order members stood fast, clasped their hands and bowed in salute. For morning prayers we stood at attention with our hands clasped in front, at attention you might say. We were awoken ridiculously early in the morning for services, or drills if you like. We went on hikes, were taught the ironclad rules of dining, made up our own beds, even cleaned up after ourselves when our visit was done (vacuuming the floor of the temple stay house and taking out the trash). That's roughly analogous to boot camp. All that's missing are the weapons and the loud voices. All of the monks were extremely soft-spoken, as a matter of fact. Presently, the same familiar monk who'd done the opening ceremony, led us up Geumjang Mountain and taught us how to eat properly strode solemnly in. The chant and the moktak started up again, this time in farewell. There was a surprisingly moving speech by Yoon, about how she hoped that our minds had been opened even just for a little bit, and that she hoped we wouldn't forget Beomeosa; then one last group photo op. We then hit the road. Jeff and I caught a cab from the temple to the subway station, rode the subway to Jagalchi and the fish market, and caught some McDonald's, just to get back in the game. We got a Shanghai Burger for Elaine, and Jeff picked up a Mr. Wow for Adam. Then we headed back to Okpo on the New Arcadia, a somewhat larger ferry than we were used to (and nicer, with a snack bar and two TV sets). We got a cheap cab from Okpo to Gohyeon and that was the end of it. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Mr. Wow is this totally amazing street vendor selling what appear to be large spicy bratwursts grilled over a gas flame. We first encountered them as we wandered drunkenly through the back alleys of Sinchon, Seoul, during Seolnar (Korean New Year). They're served on a bun with ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, and/or some form of cabbage. Jeff somehow found out that there was a scion of Mr. Wow in Busan, but all the previous times we'd ventured into Nampodong to find him, he'd been closed. This time we got lucky and managed to procure one of these massive spicy bratwursts to slake Adam's craving for sausage. Zowie. That weekend wound up being quite a bit more intense than I ever could have suspected, and I knew in advance that we'd be doing 108 bows (I just didn't realize how exerting they truly were). I did and saw more that weekend than I've ever done on any weekend trip I've made in the States. That even gave the three days we spent in Seoul during New Year's a run for their money. I truly feel enlightened. I now know just what those stout-hearted and persevering Buddhist monks willingly put themselves through on a daily basis: getting up at three, stretching themselves silly, memorizing chants, and eating vegetarian meals in complete silence. I understand the technique of Zen meditation a little better now, and also some of the more basic tenets of Buddhism. But more than that, I did indeed catch a glimpse of myself during that sojourn in a Buddhist enclave: Andrew Post, the wanderer, the explorer, the seeker of knowledge, he who lazily seeks to improve himself, dissolute but trying to do better. I scratched the surface of my inner self, and whetted my thirst for a deeper search, as well as commenced to satisfy my hunger to know myself better. I captured some form of my being in my mind, my past and my future, as well as my present, fair and foul. And that was the point, wasn't it? To open my mind? I thought I was supposed to open it to the world. In reality I opened it to myself.