IT'S SUMMER!

the punsters were right

...Korea's got a lot of Seoul.

Okay, that was awful. I know. I'm not the first one to make that pun, either. And that's just my point.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm living in Korea's capital city. For the previous two years I was in the hinterlands. I was way down on the islands in 2008-2009, about as far from Seoul culturally as I was geographically. And in 2012 I was in Bucheon, which, even if it is part of the greater metropolitan area (barely), hardly counts as part of the big city. It was relatively quiet, laid-back and dull compared to this hoppin' metropolis.

Seems like everywhere I go in this town, every corner I turn, every street I walk down, every new neighborhood I explore, every event I attend, a new and surprising part of the Korean way of life jumps up and punches me in the nose.

Take the Sejong University Festival, for instance.

Technically it lasted from Tuesday to Thursday, May 14-16. I didn't get much of a glimpse on Tuesday because I had class all day, and I don't have any classes on Wednesday, so I wasn't even on campus. Thursday was my last shot. So after I finished up at two o'clock, I strolled around and snapped some photos.

 

  

 

 

Not much to speak of, right? Students were setting up tents and awnings. A few enterprising souls were already peddling cocktails for four bucks a pop. Some of the English department professors were rehearsing for their big show at 4:00 p.m. Knots of students were meandering here and there. Other than that, the campus was serene.

My friend and coworker Sam and his wife JB (whom I mentioned in my last post) invited Miss H and I to come back to campus at 9:00 and view the proceedings then. I didn't figure there'd be an appreciable difference, but I agreed. My girlfriend and I duly arrived at the appointed hour—halfway through it, anyway—and took a look around.

BOY, was there an appreciable difference.

Those awnings and tents that I had seen being set up earlier were packed with people—students. Soju, beer and cocktails flowed freely. Barbecue lines were everywhere. Snacks of every description were being fried and served to groups and couples at plastic chairs and tables. A famous female K-pop group was performing at the live stage in the middle of the dirt pitch, and dance music thumped from every speaker and amp on campus. Students danced in the streets and under the incandescent lights. Shouts, screams, and roars of laughter echoed and bounded from every darkened window and building. I tried to snap a few pictures, but nothing could encompass the joyous chaos. I'll leave that to your imagination. Sam, JB, Miss H and I sat and nibbled on fries for time, shooting soju, sipping beer from Dixie cups and taking the occasional gulp of baekseju, a Korean wine somewhere between potpourri and cough syrup. Then we got up and wandered around, snacking on chicken kebabs and having conversation when the noise level abated enough for us to be audible. We didn't stay on campus long, but we stayed long enough.

I remember being struck most of all by a feeling of gratitude. After riding my students like a slave master for nearly three months solid, it was nice to see them kicking back before a long four-day weekend. (I bumped into two of them during our wanderings through campus, and they looked like they were having fun.) But most of all, I was awed by the difference in the atmosphere. By day, Sejong University was a somber, venerable educational institution. During these few nights of festival week, however, it had donned a lighthearted and jovial guise, absolutely riotous, star-spangled and comical, infectious in its enthusiasm. A question occurred to me as we weaved through the happy milling crowd.

"Sam," I said, "what exactly is the point of this festival?"

This wasn't his first rodeo.

"It's like spring break," he replied, "but they don't go anywhere."

Well, there you have it. This was the Korean equivalent of spring break. With classes still on and nowhere to go, they threw a party on their school's own grounds. No wonder they were so enraptured. The weather had just turned lovely, the leaves were green and the flowers in bloom, summer was right around the corner, midterms were over and all was right with the world. I was catching a glimpse into a rare sight: Korean students kicking back in grand fashion during a lull in the academic war they'd been waging since grade school.

I felt ever so privileged to have that glimpse.

grinding toward summer

Back in college they taught me that the best way to write hard news articles was to use the "inverted pyramid style." Put the most important information first, and then the next most important, and so on, all the way down to the piddling stuff at the end.

For the sake of your attention span and my carpal tunnel, I'll use that structure for this big-news-updatey post.

Here's the biggie: Miss H has a job. Her recruiter contacted her last Thursday, and arranged an interview last Friday. It was a whirlwind. By Monday she had the job, and her first day was yesterday. It's a kindergarten-age academy, basically glorified babysitting. The schedule is long, but the pay is incredible: 2.3 million baseline salary, plus a 400,000 housing allowance stipulated in the contract. That puts her base pay at 2.7 million. Think of the savings!

She's quite nervous, but like me, it's good for her to be free of that suffocating desert purgatory. She's glad to be out on her own, with gainful employment and an apartment that she can call home. Our days up to now have been filled with the purchasing of proper foodstuffs (apparently I was living a more bacheloresque lifestyle than I'd admitted to myself) and various furnishings and fitments for the apartment. That will change now that we're on different schedules. (She's 9-6 and I'm 2-10.) But we'll be staying close on the weekends. We've already made several exciting trips into Seoul. A while back we went to Yeongdeung-po (and the Costco located there) to bulk up on cheese, oatmeal, sour cream, tortillas, and other hard-to-find necessities. The Saturday after that we went to Yongsan and explored the electronics shopping mall, supposedly the largest in Asia. Not content with that, we went to Jamsil that Sunday (remember Jamsil?) and I returned, after an absence of three years, to the largest underground mall in Asia, COEX.

The two of us are just like peas and carrots again, as the man said. The pain and torment of our long separation have melted away like sugar cubes in an old-fashioned. We've resumed our lives together with hardly a ripple. We've attended several functions and get-togethers, and it's been a sight better going as a twosome than alone. We went to see some stand-up comedy at the Park (that pub I keep mentioning, which someday I shall take some pictures of and do a proper travel article on) two weekends ago, and had some godawful tiny hamburgers which cost 8,500 won apiece. The weekend after we attended a delightful rooftop Cinco de Mayo party hosted by Smithy. I was riding quite high that night, feeling more laid-back and relaxed than I had in months. I had a tin cup that I'd bought for less than a dollar at Daiso, a small general store a block from the apartment complex. I filled it with gin and tonic and cut loose. There were lots of familiar faces—all the foreigners from two different academies, plus some newcomers and even a few of our Korean coworkers. It was marvelous. We started with homemade Mexican food in Smithy's apartment, a sumptuous feast; and then moved to the breezy rooftop where we watched the sun set over the city.

...and on Monday it was back to work for tests, comments, assessments, and a lot of end-of-semester randomness. It's run me ragged. The new semester begins next Friday and I can't friggin' wait. There'll be a lot more vacation time, and the naeshin and holding periods are coming up mighty quick.

Okay, update completed. I would like to inform you that I'm starting a new writing project (labeled Project 25 for no apparent reason). I'm not writing a new piece of work; I'm merely collating all the hundreds upon hundreds of notes, both digital and physical, that I have lying around and compiling them in a blank notebook. Hopefully that notebook will become my master blueprint to completing this here novel series, and not just an untidy jumble of scribble. Time will tell.

Postie out.

P.S. Miss H and I made nachos for dinner a few weeks ago. Don't they look scrumptious? Thank gosh for Costco!

the Postman, as seen on TV

Well, after an amazingly fast week at work, Saturday (March 30) rolled around. It was time for another balloon launch with North Korea Peace. I arose at the customary 6:45 a.m., met up with everybody at the bus station, and took a quick detour to roust Jon out of bed. Then we rode a succession of rattling buses, shaking subway trains and ludicrous taxicabs to the Hamilton Hotel in Itaewon. The whole affair went down largely as before, only with a great deal more people. Far more expatriates turned up this time than last time, which was quite gratifying to see. There were a lot of cameras around too. The Associated Press attended as usual, but this time a documentary filmmaker came along, as did a Reuters reporter and her cameraman. And guess who volunteered to get some face time?

That's right. Your humble correspondent.

Sunny asked us if anybody wanted to get in front of the camera. She was met with a dull silence. Not a single hand went up. Continuing my campaign to get myself un-shy and commence living dangerously, I raised my hand and said "Sure." I took off my sunglasses, pushed my hat off my forehead, and gave Reuters the straight dope.

Then I went back to my apartment for a quick nap before I met A. Remember A? My old buddy from Geoje Island? Did I fail to mention he's back in Korea now? Teaching in Busan? Yeah, he is. He'd come up to Seoul on the KTX the day before, and was now partying hearty in Hongdae. So I met up with him and we had a high old time. I was in such a state the next morning I couldn't even drag myself to the park for expatriate basketball.

I'm knee-deep in another workweek now (complete with level tests to grade and student evaluations to write). Plans for the ensuing weekend are still nascent, but I shall be penetrating Seoul again ("Penetrating Soul" would be a good name for a rock band) to go to Costco. Yes, they have a Costco in Korea. Several, in fact. I've heard they're excellent places to get foreign food and miscellaneous supplies. There are shadowy rumors going 'round that they have egg-crate mattress pads, and my poor back would like one of those as soon as possible.

Now, I don't know if I mentioned this earlier...

...but I have had a massive, repeat, MASSIVE epiphany about my novel. Suddenly it's all become clear to me: how to improve it, how to rewrite it, how to make it sizzle and pop. And I'm in the process of doing so right now. You thought the last overhaul was major? No way. This one's humongous. This sucker's going to be triple its former size by the time I'm through. I'm pretty much taking the plots of the four sequels I had planned and sticking them into the first book, largely intact. I'm introducing new characters (main and secondary) and a whole host of new adventures and dangers and plot developments. Thought you might like to know. I'll probably do a more detailed post about this later.

Well, I have a to-do list to get through this morning, so I'll let you go. I have to open a second bank account (at a different bank) so I can send money home on the cheap, and I've heard there's a liquor store a couple of blocks west of my apartment building. Speaking of shadowy rumors...I think I'll head over for a look and see if it's really there.

This is the (now televised!) Postman, signing off.

P.S. I'm getting the hang of cooking for myself, too. This is my typical Sunday meal. Boiled octopus and oysters. Seafood is so cheap in Korea. I made this for less than $10. This could get to be a habit...

...or maybe not

Okay, I lied.

Due to the lengthy processes involved with putting a stamp on a piece of paper (????), it seems Miss H and I will be delayed further in our venture to Korea. Our FBI background checks still haven't been returned, and further research has told us that an additional FOUR WEEKS will be required to put an Apostille on said background check. In the meantime, the Federal Bureau of Investigation must send us our background checks via snail mail, and then we must send them to the Department of State, wait the requisite month and THEN send all our prepared documents to our recruiter in K-Land. In addition, we are still waiting for our diplomas to be notarized by our respective institutions, and to have Apostilles put on THEM by the Secretaries of State of North Dakota and Illinois.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeez.

The upshot of all this is that we won't make the deadline for the marvelous job we'd been hoping to snag, the one which begins on September 12. At this rate, we won't get over to SoKo until mid-October.

Rats.

There are definite fringe benefits to staying, Miss H has pointed out. More time to go camping, enjoy Disneyland, visit San Diego, and all the other farewell things we were planning to do. We can also have a cocktail party for my birthday and (potentially) Halloween.

But it still annoys me. The only upside is that my friends from England who are going back won't be there any sooner than I will. Their governments are giving them problems as well.

"That's what governments are for, get in a man's way."
                                                                                              — Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly

dancing with the Australians

[pant, wheeze]

Welcome to the sixth consecutive day of posts regarding my recent trip to the U.K. and Ireland. For those of you who are just joining the party, here's a recap:

My Canadian friend Jeff and I, who were visiting some English friends in Newcastle, England, slid west into Dublin for a day or three. We'd survived the first night, and were now onto the second: a pub crawl chaperoned by the city tour guides. It was due to start at 7:00 at the Purty Kitchen, in Temple Bar (the touristy-party district of southern Dublin).

Jeff and I washed, waxed and dried (figuratively speaking) at the hostel, then sauntered out into the slowly darkening day. I say "slowly darkening" because, as has been mentioned previously, night comes extremely slowly to the northern regions in summer. It takes the sun about three hours to set, and even then it doesn't get completely dark. Evening goes on forever. (You can get a good idea of what I mean by watching the movie Gregory's Girl, which takes place in Scotland.) It's probably the most charming temporal thing I've ever experienced.

It also meant that Jeff and I had plenty of time (and light) to get to the Purty Kitchen. We almost ran out of the former, if not the latter. We couldn't quite remember where the danged place was. Cillian (our tour guide) had only shown it to us once, and Temple Bar, though composed of only two or three streets running east-west (south of the River Liffey), was a nightmare of byways, alleys, and cobblestone cross-streets. We didn't remember whether the Kitchen was over to the west, closer to the cathedral; or east, towards Westmoreland Street.

After a few disagreements about cardinal directions and a lot of guessing, Jeff and I managed to muster up a whole brain between us. We located the rendezvous point with minutes to spare. It was blatantly obvious. The Purty Kitchen was just on the other side of the New Theater (where U2 was first discovered, remember?). Plus there was a whole line of people outside, waiting for happy hour to hit. Most of them had been on the tour with us, including a couple of the Americans (Oklahomans, fresh out of college and having a fling before settling down).

So we queued up. When seven o'clock struck an erratic sort of relay race began. We'd snatch a ticket for a free beer (eight-ounce cups of Foster's, a severe gyp to the palate, but better than nothing). We'd dash inside, get served up, chug the brew as soon as possible, dash back outside and repeat the process. The beers were only free until eight. The chaperones doled out the beer stubs like they were candy, and the rest of us nabbed what bits of conversation we could between slugs of beer and increasingly haphazard runs for the door. Jeff surrounded himself with several Canucks of various sexes; a boy and girl from Montreal, another man from Toronto. I stood at a high table with a couple of Australians: a man from Queensland and a girl from New South Wales. (To make things even more ironic, she was from Newcastle, New South Wales.) Her name was Angela. She had been around with us on the tour. She was, if I may say (platonically), rather cute. About 5'5", petite figure, short dirty-blond hair, fair skin. Positively charming eyes, and her accent wasn't bad either. She was a student at the University of Newcastle and was taking a summer break abroad.

I was rather enthused. This was precisely what I'd been hoping for all along: to meet some young, good-looking, free-spirited foreign girl while overseas. Just to talk with her, honest. If anything else happened...well, that would be an added bonus.

Don't bother tuning up. Nothing happened. Neither of us went to each other's hostel room and engaged in a wild romantic encounter. (Good thing, too...she was staying at a rather shifty hostel. Wouldn't have wanted to leave my pants lying around there.) I'm simply mentioning Angela here, now, because she will be an important player later in the drama—when we all began to dance.

In the meantime, I was in a rather special place, chugging beer with an attractive Australian. I must admit, her male companion was rather good company as well, funny as hell and just as opinionated as me. The World Cup, my constant companion wherever I went, was on the TV. South Africa was losing tragically to Uruguay. Jeff was scintillating and chafing beautifully with his companions over at the bar. I was working up a good buzz and feeling fine.

Eight o'clock struck. Duly fraternized (and moistened), we moved en masse from the Purty Kitchen to the next venue, Peadar Kearney's. The place was claustrophobic up top and spacious down below, the bar barely having room to swing a cat in, but the downstairs (with plentiful pool tables) darkly lit and cavernous.

Angela, Jeff and I ordered up some drinks. How we managed to push and shove our way through the wall-to-wall crowd remains a mystery. Word of a beer pong tournament swept the room shortly thereafter, and Jeff and I dove down the narrow staircase and into the basement to take on the Oklahomans. We lost, miserably. Those Okies know their business. It was my first time ever playing, but still, I would have though a Canuck and a Californian would have been able to hold up their end better.

I was just about lit by this time. I wandered back upstairs to refill my glass and join the Australians in a rousing chorus of "Waltzing Matilda." The Irish guitarist on the tiny stage crammed in the corner strummed and hummed, and the rest of us filled in the words. At the bar was a blond, bearded fellow from Manchester, England. What his name was I've long since forgotten. Solid bloke, though. The two of us sat and discussed the broader issues of life and world travel until it was time to switch pubs. Like a horde of thirsty locusts, we tourists swarmed the door and hung a left up Dame Street to Sweeney's.

This last was just a long, low room with several levels, each decked out with tables and chairs. Tequila shots were one euro apiece. The Montrealese and the Torontan had joined us, as had Angela. We'd lost Angela at Kearney's, but I (despite weaving a good deal) ran back down the sidewalk, rounded up all the stragglers, and herded them back to Sweeney's. Thought it was a gallant sort of thing to do, go back for the damsel left behind. Jeff and I sipped beer, shot tequila and talked with the other three until...well, until none of us were in any shape to talk anymore. I remember the Montreal-man just sort of keeling over slowly, like a ship foundering, until he was prostrate on the bench. I don't remember where the Toronto fellow disappeared to. I wasn't sure what kind of shape Jeff was in. Angela was taking things quite easy; she was still in good shape. I was feeling no pain. I was about to go ask the owner if he could stop the bar and let me get off.

But we weren't quite finished yet. There was one thing we had to do before calling it a night: clubbing. As it happened, our starting point, the Purty Kitchen, was in possession of an upstairs club. So back (and up) we went.

The remainder of the night passed in a blaze of strobes, pop music, and gut-shaking rhythms. The Canadians, the Mancunian, Angela and I all formed a sort of hectic six-square on one side of the dance floor and cut loose. I haven't gone that crazy in a while. All of us were soaked through in a matter of minutes. We kept imbibing, too: Smirnoff Ices were going like hotcakes at the downstairs bar. Jeff wound up jaw-to-jaw with a pretty girl from Wisconsin as the Mancunian and I hosted a dance-off in the corner.

I'd love to be able to show you pictures of some of this, but I left my camera in my room at the hostel. I knew I'd be getting soused, and didn't trust myself to hang onto valuables. I'd like to give you a more coherent rundown of the night's events, but as has previously been mentioned, I was soused. You should see the notes I took while out on this pub crawl. My writing, as it moves down the page, gets progressively more illegible until it fades finally to gibberish. Much the same is true of my memory. Angela disappeared sometime shortly after my memory fades away. I believe she, the Mancunian and I exchanged Facebook info, but I was never able to locate them. Such is life. Ships that pass in the night. Freak-dances in Dublin. Se la vi.
I vaguely recall stumbling away from the Kitchen with Jeff in the black of night, which had finally arrived; stopping off in some convenience store for a (large) bottle of water; traipsing back into the hostel, doffing my shoes and collapsing onto the upper bunk. It was as well that our flight out of Dublin back to Newcastle left in the early afternoon; we were going to need a serious lie-in.

But that's a story for next time. Next up on the Sententious Vaunter, bog bodies: the final day in Dublin.

news from the year 2021

"EVER WONDER WHERE YOU'LL BE IN TEN YEARS?"

The last time I was asked this question was at a friend's barbecue, I think. I was half-drunk on bottled beer, stuffed to bursting with hot dogs, and feeling pretty mellow. There was a time when the question would've irritated me. I couldn't be bothered to look that far ahead. I didn't really care where I'd be, nor did I have the patience to try to plan it all out. Now I harbor more sanguine views. I spend most of my time these days idly speculating on where I'm going to be, since I'd rather be anywhere than where I am now.

And pursuant to this frame of mind, this post: it's a faux diary entry from my own personal journals, circa 2021 or so. Ten years down the line I should have made pretty concrete strides toward my goals. I'll be 33 years old, only just starting to think about settling down and getting a family started. I ought to have my commercial pilot's license by then, have five or six novels published, and maybe even begun that comic book. And, of course, I'll be a well-established journalist and travel writer. I'll have grown a beard, have a much wider selection of safari clothing than I do now, cigars and good Scotch always on hand, and a much less impatient demeanor. Premature? Maybe. Presumptious? Of course. Preposterous? Probably. But I'm going to write it like this anyway. Why not? It'd be fun. Plus it sounded like a pretty cool idea to ghost-write my own future. So here goes:

November 4, 2021 MAN, it's hot here in Botswana. Makes sense, I guess. We're within shouting distance of the Kalahari Desert. But still, it doesn't seem right. We're on the other side of the continent from the Sahara. We're about as close to Antarctica as we are to Tunisia. Seems like it ought to be cooler, even if we are on the same latitude as Rio de Janeiro and Australia's Simpson Desert.

It's eight o'clock at night and the temperature's still in the mid-80s. Not very hot to you, maybe, but I don't like it much above 70. I'm a cold freak, a cryophile. Plus it's humid out here. I'd almost rather be in the Kalahari than the Okavango Delta. The mosquitoes have been murder. Summer's just begun. The rains have been pouring down all day, and the cloud cover's been pretty thick at night. The run-off from the Angola highlands is going to cause some fine old flooding around here come July. There's a lot of standing water and swampy terrain here now, which is heaven for mosquitoes and a lot of other wildlife. I've seen giraffes, lions, rhinoceros, elephants, wildebeest and at least eight kinds of antelope since me and the crew got here last week. We had a hell of a time finding the airfield in this swamp. And that was the softest landing I've ever done—I'm not even sure we're going to be able to get the dang plane up again. Mr. Kgomotso assures me we will, and that he and his boys will dig us out and even push us off the ground if they have to.

I'm glad he's so confident. He's got to be confident, though: as the head park ranger for the Moremi Game Reserve, and he and his men fighting an all-out war with poachers (especially this this time of year), he can't afford to despair. That's why the gang and I are here. We're delivering fresh supplies of gasoline, medical supplies and ammunition from Gaborone. We just happened to be in the area on another delivery when the director of Botswana's national parks program got a hold of us and asked us to make the run. I was a bit leery; more than a few bush planes in this area have wound up with bullet holes or even spears in their wings. Those poachers don't kid around. If it was just myself I'd have leaped at the chance, but I've got a crew to look after. Martha, Jimmy and Boris were peachy-keen with the idea, though, so we borrowed one of the park department's Caravans and came down. Like I said, it was a sticky landing. The wheels just sank right into that muck. We squished to a halt in record time. It's a dang good thing I did all that extra soft field practice back in California or we might've wound up ass over teakettle in the middle of a swamp.

So far things have been pretty peaceful, except for two nights ago. The ranger squad mounted a night raid on a poacher camp about ten miles west. Seeing as I flew in the supplies that made the raid possible, Kgomotso offered us the chance to go along. Martha and Boris took a rain check (not surprising, Boris saw enough of war in Chechnya with the 3rd Vympel unit of Spetsnaz). Jimmy and I decided to go along, though. We'd asked the director of the parks program for some "special permissions" as a condition for delivering the supplies to the rangers, and the guy was so desperate to get that stuff out here that he said yes. So Jimmy had his 1873 Winchester rifle and I, of course, my trusty Beretta Centurion. Just for backup I took my Bowie knife, too. You can't be too sure. I didn't think I'd need it but I grabbed it just in case. Turned out to be a good thing.

It was a pretty textbook sting, up until the end. The rangers sneaked up on the poacher camp and hailed the poachers, telling them they were under arrest and whatnot. The poachers never said anything, they just opened up. Fortunately the rangers were used to these tactics by now, and were already behind cover. There were five poachers; four of 'em didn't even make it 30 yards. Jimmy got one of them. It was a hell of a shot, especially in the dark and with iron sights, but Jimmy's been popping squirrels and raccoons since he was a kid in Tennessee. The guy was dead before he hit the ground. The fifth poacher hopped in the Jeep and took off. He wasn't running on adrenaline; instead of heading in the other direction he whirled the Jeep around and headed right for us. He was trying to run us down. Kgomotso had warned us about this guy. Nobody knew his real name. The rangers just called him Mamba, after the black mamba, the most venemous snake in Botswana. Just like his namesake, Mamba would always turn and bite rather than run away. So even through a hail of bullets he turned that Jeep around and came at us. Two of the rangers just barely broke cover and got out of the way before he came crashing through the bushes. Then he was right in front of me. I was running on adrenaline at that point. Plus I was kind of pissed off. All I'd done so far is stand there and watch. And this Mamba bastard was getting under my skin. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? He was a lousy poacher, that's all. Must've thought he was the effing king of the world or something. What kind of arrogant sumbitch tries to kill a park ranger when he gets caught poaching? When he's the one in the wrong? So I said "screw it." As the Jeep tore by, kicking up gouts of grass and mud, I dodged aside and then lurched back and grabbed hold. I pulled myself on board (I don't know how, it was pitch black and Mamba didn't have his headlights on and the Jeep was swerving like crazy through the mud holes) and leaped at Mamba from behind. He heard me coming. I managed to lock an elbow around his neck, but he took his right hand off the gearshift and got me a good one right on the temple. I saw stars, but I didn't let go. I groped blindly with my right arm and managed to get a hold of his right wrist. He took his left hand off the wheel and started throwing punches over his right shoulder at my face. I managed to get my head behind his head and shield myself that way. His foot was still on the gas. It's a wonder the Jeep didn't hit a tree and explode. Mamba must've known where he was going. Every so often his left hand would shoot out, grab the wheel, make a correction and then come back and start trying to pry me loose again. I don't know what I was trying to do: wrench him out of the driver's seat or strangle him or what. I just wasn't going to let him have everything his way. Things went on like this for another minute, a minute that seemed like all the world's history bound up together. Sweat poured off us. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto him with sweat sliming up my arms, hands, and elbow; but fortunately the sweat on his hands made it hard for him to get a grip on me. We grunted and growled like animals. I couldn't get any purchase; I was sprawled awkwardly in the backseat and my muddy boots kept slipping whenever I tried to raise up. Finally Mamba got sick of me. With his right hand he reached over to the floor of the passenger side and I heard a metallic shink! I sensed more than saw the machete in his hand and without even thinking, without even trying to grab for his wrist again, I reached down to my belt and grabbed my knife and jammed it right into the side of his neck. It was a good thing I was behind him and his angle was bad or I might not be here writing about it. He gasped, and I felt something warm drench my left arm, still wrapped around Mamba's neck. He made a horrible rasping sound, like a mouse being stepped on, and went limp. Then the Jeep was slowing down. It wound down to a crawl, then stopped completely.

It wasn't hard for Kgomotso, Jimmy and the rangers to find me. They just followed the gashes and scars torn in the muddy earth by the Jeep's tires. I was still clutching Mamba. I'd kept tight hold of him until help arrived; I wasn't about to take any chances, not in the damn dark. He might've been "playing possum" as Jimmy would've said. But as soon as the ranger squad showed up with their halogen flashlights, the matter was settled. Mamba was dead as a doornail. My knife had completely severed his windpipe. His blood was all over me, all over my arm and down my torso, and all over the seat and floor of the Jeep. The rangers sort of stood back a little as I let go of Mamba's carcass and jumped down. Jimmy slung his rifle over his shoulder, gave me one of his big ol' Southern grins, and said "Doncha ever get tired o' pullin' crazy shit on me, boss?"
Kgomotso just shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "You are quite brave, my friend," he said. "Now I know why Director Anaya sent you. No other man would have the courage to jump on a moving Jeep and engage Mamba hand-to-hand, not knowing how good he is."
"What's that?" I asked. I was a little weak in the knees. The battle-fire was wearing off, and so was the shock. My whole body was vibrating, shivering. I felt jumpy, nervous, fragile, like I'd collapse into a million pieces if somebody clapped me on the shoulder.
"Why, Mamba was the most feared machete fighter in Southern Africa," Kgomotso said, looking surprised that I didn't know. "He liked to chop his enemies up into little pieces and feed them to the hyenas."
"Is that so?" I asked. The bottom had dropped out of my stomach. I felt like I was about to faint. I suddenly realized what a monumentally stupid thing I'd just done. Now I had yet another entry for my list of things never to tell Mom.

Jimmy told Martha and Boris the whole story when we got back to camp. They reacted pretty much like I figured they would. Martha rolled her eyes and said "Oh, brother." Boris threw back his bald head and laughed and laughed. I didn't care. I was tired and sore all of a sudden and just wanted to sleep. We got about five hours of rest before morning, when we had to dig the plane out of the mud and make another run to the capital for more supplies. Typical night in the Botswana bush, I guess. We should have things wrapped up here in another day or two, which is good, because Kgomotso says that Mamba had a lot of friends and that I should be prepared for reprisals. Not that I care (bring 'em on, I say) but there are other reasons why we ought to be going. Ethel sent me a text message last night. Another commission came in. Some Japanese businessman (Kenji's former employer, I guess) wants fifty cases of Glenfiddich delivered to his penthouse by Saturday night. We can just make it if we leave Friday. Might as well just go straight to Scotland, buy the booze there and fly it out to Japan. It'd save us some gas, as long as it's not bootlegging. I also got a text from Aaron. He said he just sold the rights to my sixth novel to Knopf-Doubleday. Guess how much it went for? Give up? A cool five million. That's more than any book I've ever written (so far). I guess this series is turning out to be as popular as I hoped! I don't really care about the money, I guess. I'm doing okay with the airline. It's the fans. I remember two years ago when I went to the midnight premiere for my fifth book. The line was around the block. Everybody from high school kids to little old ladies, all of 'em with shining faces and eager expressions. You could just see the joy in their eyes. Their minds were getting set to digest another round of howling adventures. Man, that was rewarding to see. Reminds me of me, waiting impatiently for the next Harry Potter book all those years ago.

Well, Boris just started singing "Slavsya, Rossiya!" and it sounds like Martha and Kgomotso are trying to sing along, so I'd better get out there before I miss the party. I brought some cigars and Scotch along; that ought to shore up Boris's vodka selection quite nicely. Maybe when we get back to the States I'll sit down and pen a little article about me and my friend Mamba. I wonder if Travel & Leisure would buy it? Nah, probably not.

how I became a football nut

How is it possible that the world throws an amazing party every four years and I, so far, have been missing out?
And not just a party, either. It's a sports party. A soccer party. (Okay, fine, I'll even be multicultural and call it "football" if you want.)
It's the World Cup!
Football's my game. I played soccer for five years before high school, and was a referee two more years after that. (Which means that, yes, at one point in my life, I understood the offside rule. Bow in the presence of greatness, peasant.)
But I never dug watching it so much as playing it. Playing it was a blast, once I got myself into shape. I even scored a goal once. I was playing right forward on a glorious California afternoon, charging down the field, defenders left in the dust, goalie looking pale and scared and totally not up to our level of awesomeness—and the center passed, and BAM, I booted it right in. I reacted modestly, as I recall; now I'd like to erect a temple to myself.
Football was hard work, to be sure. Playing in Tennessee was humid, and often rainy. Playing in the desert was hot and dry. I worked with some prima donnas that would've put Beckham to shame, both coaches and players. And thanks to the precise orientation of some of the blood vessels in my right nostril, I got nosebleeds all the freakin' time. Every game I played, somebody would give that ball a kick three feet in front of me and it'd come soaring up in slow motion and conk me right on the snout, followed by a copious flood of vermillion.
Watching football was just...bleh. A bunch of tiny little men running around a big green field with white stripes, booting a ball back and forth. Whoop-de-doo.
Then I went to England. I was already aware that the World Cup was up and going. Heck, that was my purported reason for going to England in the first place, to watch the World Cup in the pub with my English friends. That was how I pitched it to my editor, anyway. I said, "Hey, I'm going to be rambling around Scotland, Ireland and northern England for two weeks in June, watching the World Cup in the pubs surrounded by a pack of ravening England fans [or, in Ireland's case, a pack of ravening Brazil supporters]. I'll be your war correspondent behind enemy lines, sir. I shall infiltrate the enemy's ranks and observe their football-related operations in intimate detail, if you please. How'd you like some dispatches from the front?"
At the time, I was speaking facetiously. Little did I realize how prophetic my levity would prove to be.
I rode the bus with Andrea up to Stansted Airport. It was a beautiful ride through picturesque English countryside, all fields, hedgerows, and woods that Robin Hood wouldn't have felt like a complete idiot hiding out in. Andrea, who (bless her heart) had treated me to a beer before we got on, got all caught with me during the ride, and I her. She'd been teaching university students in West London, but it was driving her mad: Western children aren't quite as industrious as our old Korean gang had been. I advised her to get out of the teaching business and go live by the seaside somewhere and write, all the while grinning inside. Somehow I always thought English kids were too smart to ask their professors to bump grades...
We made Stansted, checked in, and went through security. That was the only place where I was searched: dinky little Stansted Airport, about to board a domestic flight to Newcastle. I'd traveled thousands of miles over oceans and mountains and foreign lands, through international airports like McCarran and George W. Bush and Heathrow, and Stansted is where the curly-haired safety official pulled my bag off the scanner and rifled through it, chatting at me all the while with her nigh-incoherent English accent. Weird.
Anyway, we had a lovely 45-minute flight to Newcastle. I say "lovely," not because the flight itself was lovely, but because the views were lovely. I was sitting next to a lovely, slim, doe-eyed brunette, for one thing. Her name was Nicola and she was coming up from London to visit her Geordie boyfriend in Newcastle. So of course I said "Hey, Nicola baby, why settle for that bucolic bumpkin? Tag along with me and I'll show you what an old-fashioned home-grown grade-A American man is. I'll pierce the secret depths of your sorceress soul with my Longbow of Love, darling angel-pie."
Well, I didn't say that, exactly, but some version of it was running through my head as I chatted her up. She was quite friendly and open, and pointed out some of the sights as we came down for a landing—making a dramatic sweep out over the North Sea and then lancing back over the jagged coast. The orange sun was just kissing the horizon, lighting the rolling green lands beneath with a slanting, golden divinity. The waves crashed against the sands and rocks as we thundered over.
It was an auspicious start. This was "the Toon," and man, it looked beautiful. Andrea and I disembarked and met Adam and Elaine, our friends and local guides, in the terminal. We stepped out into the still-setting sun (I was about to learn how long-lasting and late the sunsets are in Newcastle in summer) and hailed a taxi. It was sure something seeing A & E again. It had been almost exactly a year since we parted in South Korea. Being near them, hearing that lovable Geordie accent tumbling around in my ears, observing the two of them again in their natural environment...it was almost unreal. I was overjoyed to be reunited with them and thrilled that I'd now get to play around on their home turf. Within the span of two minutes it was just like old times: we were laughing, talking, joking, jibing, doing all the myriad things we used to do together on those narrow streets and tiny restaurants in K-Land.
But this wasn't K-Land. I could tell that immediately. England flags were everywhere. St. George's Cross flew proudly from every upper-story window, every shopfront, even from the antennas of cars. This was football territory, and it was World Cup time. It came home to me then. I would be spending the next two weeks in a land utterly obsessed with football, during the most well-known international football competition in the world, in which both my country and England were competing. And, abruptly, I was transformed.
Think of the most fanatical, die-hard, sycophantic sports fan you know. He doesn't necessarily have to slather himself in his team's colors and leap up and down in the stands like a trained ape; he may not even own any memorabilia. But his soul, his essence, his life-force seems inextricably linked to the performance of his team. He'll scream and yell and holler when points are scored; rant and roar when an unfair call is (rightfully or wrongfully) perceived; become insufferably exuberant for hours after winning a game (or days, in the case of playoffs or championships); and likewise sulk for a full-length mourning period on the heels of a loss. Take that man, soak him in three pints of beer and dust him with a packet of pork rinds, and you have an English football fan. These guys are nucking futs. I was infected with this excitement, this ardor, this enthusiasm, this pandemic zeal within minutes of getting off the airplane in Newcastle. Suddenly I was pumped. I was raring to go. I was ready for some football. I wanted my team to win, more desperately than I wanted my own seaplane or a bootlegged copy of The Star Wars Holiday Special. Some hitherto inactive and unsuspected gland had been activated, galvanized by the competitive pheromones in the English air, and was feverishly flooding my body with footballmoxytocin and ballsinourcortisol, twenty-four years' worth of backlogged fan-pheromones. The chrysalis of apathy had come off, as had the gloves. I had been transfigured from a lackadaisical observer to a dyed-in-the-wool football nut in less time than it took László Kiss to score a hat-trick against El Salvador in 1982.
This was going to be sweet.
The first night was thankfully uneventful. I was exhausted by my travels, and by my long night of debauchery in Las Vegas some twenty-four hours before. Except for a few cat-naps here and there, I'd been awake for close to forty-eight hours. I was ferried to Adam's mum's house in a taxi, where I was fed, watered, and cleansed. Elaine's friend M came over and the four of us stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, sitting in Adam's mum's tiny conservatory, listening to AC/DC and Curtis Mayfield and just getting caught up.
I was floored. I was in England. I was sitting in the conservatory of an English house, looking out on the prim and proper English garden, surrounded by an English red-brick neighborhood, under a sky that refused to go completely dark in these northern latitudes. My soul boiled with excitement. My head swam with anticipation, happiness, and travel-induced delirium. I was out on the road again, back amongst friends, in for a hell of a time, and loving every second of it.
We'd originally resolved to stay up all night waiting for Jeff, but we figured since we'd be shouting and screaming and hollering and jumping up and down and drinking copious amounts of beer and watching the World Cup match the next day, we should probably get some rest. I was put to bed on a marvelously soft queen-size in an upstairs room. The view from the window looked like this (in the morning):

Adam warned me that I would likely be awakened in the middle of the night by Jeff, our Canadian friend, who was was also coming to the Korean reunion (from Korea, actually) and who was taking the night bus up from London. He and I would be splitting a bunk. If he did wake me up, I don't remember it. I was out like a light.
Well enough for me that I got my rest, for the next day was a momentous one: England's first game of the World Cup...versus none other than the USA. Time to explore the Toon first. We commenced with the Quayside, where the bridges which Newcastle is famous for spanned the mighty River Tyne.

We took a nice little stroll down by the waterfront, crossing the Millennium Bridge over to Gateshead, taking the elevator up and admiring the view.

We also stopped in at Greggs for a snack. Greggs is something like the Geordie McDonald's: only instead of burgers and stuff, it's pasties and pies. The steak bake was delicious. Check this mother out:

Then we stopped in at our first pub (yippee!). Bob Trollops, just off the Quay.

Lovely little place. I'd been dying to try some English cider. I'd had some Old Rosie at Adam's the night before, and liked it a lot. Had something of a sulfuric overtone to it, but was very equable otherwise. I saw no reason to quit there, however, so I procured some Strongbow. Named after the Norman who made the first official British expedition to Ireland back in medieval times, Strongbow is your basic English cider: apple-tasting, fizzy, and roughly as alcoholic as beer. It makes a nice change from beer, though, and gets the same job done.
And there I was, sitting in a tiny, dark, woody, brass-laden English pub with a couple of mates and some cider.
You know that feeling you get when you realize one of your lifelong dreams? Yeah, I was getting that feeling about then.
We exited Trollops and headed up the rather steep Dean Street....


...which became Grey Street, if I remember correctly...

...which led us to Grey's Monument, smack dab in the middle of the Newcastle-upon-Tyne city center. It was built to honor Charles Grey, one of the architects who designed most of modern Newcastle.

That's Charles, Earl Grey to you. Yes, the guy the tea is named after. Cool, huh? You didn't think Newcastle was all meat pies and bridges and Brian Johnson, did you?

The place was hopping at mid-Saturday. There are about three different shopping centers clustered around Monument Square; Newcastle University ain't far away, either, and there are enough pizza joints, pubs, and book stores to choke a horse.

We wandered up Northumberland Street, checking out Fenwick's Food Halls. They sell boatloads of candy, booze and deli-style pies, pasties, sandwiches, and Indian food. I was full up on Greggs and drooling anyway. Angelic Elaine let me try some of her chicken tikka masala sandwich.

We kept on, and hung a right at St. Mary's Place (at Newcastle University, where Princess Eugenie Victoria Helena Mountbatten-Windsor of York—insert loving sigh here—is doing the equivalent of her master's degree).

A few hundred yards brought us to Luckies Corner Bar. Like every other pub I was to visit in the U.K. and Ireland, they had a big projector set up inside, already spreading some World Cup pregame love over the spacious interior.

We met up with some more of A & E's friends at Luckies: Nathan, Aaron, and Michael, all solid lads. Bets were going around, being hotly debated and finally placed with the aid of Michael's iPhone. I hadn't realized what a roaring betting culture England has going, especially where football matches are concerned. There were betting houses on every street corner. The Brits'll put 50 pence down on anything: who'll win, how much they'll win by, the final score, the fastest goal, the highest-scoring player...even how many corner kicks there'll be.

Me being the only Yank surrounded by a cadre of English people, the badinage began to fly. They were "taking the piss" out of me, as they say up there. Several rather disparaging remarks were made about the United States' chances against England, which got my red-blooded American dander up. So I hauled out a "chunk" (one British pound coin; thick little buggers, they are) and put it down on the US to beat England 2-1.

There remained but to sit, drink, and wait.
The game came on. The action began. I sat there, watching my friends both old and new unanimously yell at the projector screen, feeling a curious sort of nervousness. It wasn't concern for my chunk, oh no. It was the football-mania again. I folded my arms so no one would see my hands shaking. I kept up a bold front, giving as much lip as I got. Inside, I was pulled tighter than a guitar string. My homeland's manly pride—not to mention $1.40—was on the line.
England scored in three minutes. My forehead hit the table as the pub erupted. A cacophony of hoarse screams and yells resounded through the enclosed space, bedlam on the ears, needles in the pincushion of prestige. Suddenly all the world was gray and lightless, void of cheer, or even the promise of it. This, I thought, was what it must be like to be a football fan.
I recovered with difficulty. I sat up, withstood the laughing jibes of my so-called friends, took a commiserating sip of beer, and took my life in my hands by chalking the English goal up to luck. The next thirty-six minutes inched by, spurred on by my gritted teeth and clenched fists. My eyes were locked onto the projector screen in a death-grip. I didn't even know that my eyes could grip anything before then. If an earthquake had struck the pub at that moment, the projector screen would've held rock steady, so intently were my eyeballs gripping it. The fingers of my very soul were crossed.
And it happened. Just as I was up at the bar ordering another pitcher of Fosters, the ball slid between Robert Green's fingers and rolled into the net.



My brain immediately clamped down on the rest of my body to prevent it from leaping into the air. My eyebrows seesawed. My arms jumped and wavered about, threatening to shoot skyward, like rockets on tethers. Half-strangled cheers and yells of approbation clawed their way up my neck and died, suffocating behind mumbling lips. I settled for giving the barman a friendly wink as I handed him £7.50.
We'd equalized. The US was tied, 1-1. My prediction might still come true. We might win.
The rest of the game was no less tense. All of us leaned forward in our chairs (or back, depending on which way we were sitting). Hearts pounded. Eyes dared to blink. Tongues danced over dry lips. Fingers drummed on tables and knees. Disgusted shouts rang out now and then. The noise in the pub fell to a whisper, rising to crescendo when England got a run on the American goal. But no further goals were scored. And suddenly it was over. A 1-1 draw. My pound was lost, but my national dignity and my life were intact. We celebrated that night with beer, dancing, and a trip to the Pink Triangle, the gay area of Newcastle, whence the gay bars and Goths traditionally were located. Adam danced with an enormous, smiling fat guy as we all got drunk and laughed. We went out for Greek food after and ate in the shadow of the solemn stone keep wall that surrounded the city in medieval times. We somehow made our way back home in the wee hours of the morning, beer-soaked, exhausted, sweaty, stuffed to the gills, and happy as we'd been in a long, long time.

And that was just the first day.