A Night at the Climbing Gym

Ate dinner, rode the bike and ended up in Hyungok-dong at the climbing gym. It was a little cold out, but still enjoyable to ride the new bike anywhere. Inside, there were more people than I expected, all sitting in a group on the pads at the opposite end from the door. They were watching someone move through a new looking route marked with red tape around the holds on the moderate overhang. "Na-ee-ssuh" and similar exclamations proliferated. One man, one of the guys who gives Me the beginner (it's supposed to sound like a name such as Alexander the Great, or Catherine the Terrible--doest it?) tips on moves I obviously need help on, approaches and tells me it's bouldering game. There are teams. I can tell that from the white board and the routes, though difficult, look easier than the routes some of these climbers routinely do.

I get changed and stretch out, watching others try the route. Some fail some succeed. I find an easier route, a yellow marked one and complete, somewhat surprised me. It was short enough to exclude my weakness--no stamina: I should eat more bundaegi. Try the red route, and familiarly I'm falling off again. One move I just can't get the balance or maintain the hold to pull off. I try it and other moves a few times with the guys who I would later find out were my "younger brothers" still have similar difficulties.

And then they call my name, tell me to come sit down. Choei, the guy who told me it was a bouldering game, holds up a large bottle of Soju and nods his head enthusiastically. I tell him I'm riding my motorcycle and can't. He's says one-shot. I tell him I have to ride home. He says ok, one-shot. I say fine, just one.

On the floor, not the protect-your-fall-pads, they spread a groundpad and on it put styrofoam plates of raw fish and to-go containers of dwenjang, red pepper paste, soy sauce and wasabi and lettuce and sesame leaves. And chopsticks lots of chopsticks. From this point onwards a person would enter every so often, join in and sit down. They gave me some sort of wine from a plastic bottle, a relief. Something I could drink slow, something with little alcohol in it. I also knew what I had got myself into. In Korean society, once the drinking has started it's rude or disgraceful to just break up the group and leave alone--the oldest says when to quit or the matter is decided as a group. Here I was with raw fish and a lot of booze and some very very enthusiastic people. What I've learned about climbers in the past, especially climbers in Korea, is that they really enjoy a good binge drinking session. And not that I don't, however this was completely unexpected and I had a motorcycle to deal with. My game would be a stall and wait game.

We ate raw fish and gwamegi, a dried and seasoned fish from the east coast, and they talked about things I couldn't understand. At times I would believe I was following, but either they laughed, or someone broke in with a very fast interjection and all was lost on me.

Then the wine came. "It was the wine they used for the toast at the APEC summit" the woman sitting next to me said. She spoke the best English there and from time to time explained the gist of the conversation. Choei insisted on putting some in my still half full glass of wine. The resulting concoction tasted like cough syrup, not the intention of either distillery I'm sure.

Then came some other liquor that I successfully dodged.

I had to laugh when I heard the word poktanju. It's what they call boilermakers here, and when I looked at Choei he was uncapping a pint of Dimple Scotch Whisky and mixing it with some beer. Guess who the first one was being passed to--me the beginner. Though I'm no stranger to the binge drinking or even the boilermaker--I actually liked it, whereas the others cringed after downing the paper cup--but I've got to get home. I tell him the boilermakers and motorcyles are a dangerous combination. It doesn't matter. One-shot! was the reply I got. So I held it there, looking at it, them looking at me, and I drank it.

Then they brought out the soju and I quickly got a cup of the low octane wine to set in front of me: my shield. Some other man came down, an older guy and everybody stood up for him. He sent one of the youngens to get more raw fish, which he didn't even touch after it arrived, and more soju came out from behind people. By now the beer pitcher was depleted enough to allow Choei to pour the rest of the whisky straight into it and dish it out from one bottle.

Faces were turning red, and Choei was saying "I love you" to me and making the heart above his head with his arms. We made speeches of introduction. Mine could be pathetically translated: My name is blah blah, and my handwriting is terrible. Finished. I hate speeches, especially introductions.

In between introductions the talking grew more fragmented and frenzied. The owner told me he was going to Everest with the top climbers in Korea in March. And though I really wanted to say "can I come?" I didn't and what followed was a long uncomfortable silence amidst a din of drunken words. I think I was suppposed to say Jogetda, meaning something like wow that's cool or good for you, or the ubiquitous "I envy you" in Korean English.

More drinking. "What are you going to do when the cops breathalize you" they asked me. "They all go home at midnight" I joked, and they flipped out saying 3 3 3 3. The funny thing about it is that it seems to be true. I've never seen a road block after 12; it's like they think that because people have to work in the morning nobody drinks past twelve, so they can go home having kept the streets safe one more day.

It's about 12:15 and they're talking about round two, a singing room somewhere in the vicinity of Geumosan, or possibly coming back to my house. This is my exit. Though it was tough I managed to convince them that I had to go home. After dudes sat on my bike and cranked the throttle and told me to be safe many times--I think they assumed I was as trashed as they were; haha my plan worked--I rode home, seeing few cars, none with the flashing lights.