In which our heroine goes wild... sort of...

With our schedule tight for the rest of my stay and no more koalas in plain sight, Lisa and I decided to head to Australia Zoo down near Maroochydore on Tuesday. We caught the free shuttle bus from a park just across the river from Lisa's house and immediately regretted our eco-friendly decision not to take the car. This about turn was brought on by the tiny feet jammed into the back of my seat, the owner of which was meanwhile competing with her sister to see who could cry for mummy loudest. They were joined by several more en-route. Oh what fun we all had! Luckily the hour-long journey passed quickly, as it tends to do when you're having a good time, and we were soon turning onto Steve Irwin Way. I'm sure most will remember the grief following his death in 2006; the hero-worship continues today in Australia. Steve Irwin Way begins at a monument showing Steve wrestling a crocodile; the monument's obscured slightly by a digger waiting to start work on widening the 2-lane highway to accommodate all the cars and tour buses.

The zoo is absolutely enormous - 70 acres in total. It's only the third I've been to in my life - the vaguely distressing Joburg Zoo in my preteens, and London Zoo on a blue-skied summer's day, my first in London, being the other two.

Pictures of the Irwins are everywhere. Statues abound. Even the mannequins in the designer clothing store are modelled on the kids, Bindi and Robert. Enormous billboards announce Bindi's summer concerts and her cutesy, heart-embellished signature adorns everything from pillars to pony rides. No wonder she's such a confident young girl, this kid is a walking brandname. Occasionally it feels like the whole Zoo is just there to promote her.

Now, we all know that Australians are... well, they're a bit different. They talk funny for a start. And the whole sports thing, the way their teams lazily win every game they try their hand at, even if it's not normally played in Aus. They're always 5 shades darker than us because they spend all their time on perfect sandy beaches under perfect blue skies. They're a bit smug, really. And did I mention they talk funny? Anyway. Aussies are different. And Nature didn't stop there, with the humans. No, she did it to the animals too. Australia, even Noosa, with its lovely, neat streets and expensive yachts, has a bit of a prehistoric vibe going on. Everything's bigger here, a bit more primal. The light is brighter, the sounds are more raucous. It doesn't even follow the rules the rest of us stick to - here, mammals can lay eggs. Some nurture foetuses outside the body. And come on, seriously - the echidna? Who thought that one up? Sometimes I feel like all the Australians are snickering at us behind their hands. Some of these animals can't possibly be more than a prank. Take dingos for instance. Really, they're just yellow dogs from the shelter they stick in an enclosure then spread malicious baby-stealing rumours about so we'll come spend our $55 to see them!

My favourite place was the kangaroo enclosure where red and grey kangaroos and little wallabies roam about among the trees and green lawns. We bought "roo food" from a vending machine, and had whiskery noses snuffling at our palms in no time at all.


















It was very chilled, sitting amongst the munching animals under the gumtrees! We even saw a few joeys in pouches. In fact it seemed to be baby season - several koalas were also cuddling sweet mini-koalas.


The cassowary was also amazing - its feathers are long and soft, and the bony protruding headpiece makes it look, well... prehistoric...


I'm not sure how, but Lisa and I completely forgot to check our schedules and therefore missed Bindi and her Big Summer Tour in the Crocoseum! Ahem... But missing Bindi's perfectly choreographed display had its upside: Lisa and I were able to wander through the kangaroo enclosures in almost total isolation while everyone else clapped and cheered in the auditorium. It was great. I couldn't resist conforming to one Great Australian Cliche though. Lisa and I queued up for ages with all the other tourists to hold a sleepy-eyed koala. He was very cute! When I finally took my place in front of the potted palm, the keeper showed me how to cup my hands at my waist, then she deposited this adorable, cuddly marsupial in them, at which point he hooked his long claws over my shoulder and into the bare skin. Luckily the keeper interpreted my grimace fairly quickly and rearranged him into a position to suit us both. He was very sleepy, laying his head on my arm and sinking his bulk onto my body like a supportive branch. So sweet!



Koalas held: 1
Prehistoric birds: 5
Monuments to the Irwin family: 18

In which our heroine goes shopping

On Saturday, with Lisa back at work, I spent the whole day lounging on the verandah in my pyjamas with several cups of tea, watching the visitors to the bird bath. There were a lot of them I couldn't identify. Some I could guess, like a shy dove, although he differed from African doves with his black mohawk and speckled shoulders. Wader-like loners popped in, princesses on their long limbs, taking flight at the least provocation, unlike the others, to whom I might as well have been a statue for all the attention they gave me.

The most regular were completely unrecognisable to my untrained eye; wearing way too much blue eyeshadow, the honeyeaters arrived in small flocks, trilling to each other as they played in the water.


Other unfamiliar birds were easier to name: bright white cockatoos with a spray of yellow feathers on their heads, hanging upside down from palm fronds, screeching merrily at each other and me. Another parrot - the Rainbow Lorikeet - also made frequent, gaudy appearances - green, yellow, red - as though they were pictures in a very neat child's paint-by-numbers book. They always rocked up in pairs, the better to enforce their clear status as the undisputed mafia thugs of the birdbath, viciously attacking meeker supplicants with maximum noise and a great deal of wing action.

At dusk the songs of all the birds, thugs and princesses alike, combined in the park before Lisa's verandah to make a sweet bedtime lullaby, flocks whirling overhead until they'd found a suitable site for the night. It was a very peaceful end to the day.

On the Sunday we drove to a mall to do some clothes shopping. Every single pair of jeans I own has recently sprouted unsightly tears and holes and I needed some replacements. It was a bit of a surreal experience really. Just imagine: nobody stared. Nobody shouted "Big size here!" at me. I didn't get ushered out a single shop by an anorexic salesgirl, anxious that I shouldn't sully her store's good name. And oh! Oh! The pleasure in being allowed, nay, invited to try things on before purchasing... I left with my ego intact and my wallet light!

Plus, on the way back, Lisa stopped alongside a golf course, and I got to see my first kangaroos, lazily lolling on the grass as golfers whacked balls over their heads...

That evening I cooked a roast chicken. What pleasure to be able to eat free range again, and to know that the veggies came from down the road instead of across the seas. We ate outside on the verandah by candlelight, birds cooing in the trees, mozzies gnawing on our toes... heaven...
















Koalas: 0
Kangaroos: 6
Lifers: 10. 11. No, wait... 12...

In which our heroine finds a Koala...

Who knew? Aussies really do say "g'day mate" and "no worries!" in real life! It took me 18 hours to get from English Village to Brisbane International Airport, via a garlic-flavoured taxi (and when I say garlic-flavoured, I mean I may actually have been put off the stuff for life...), a luxurious bus to the airport and a cramped night on a Korean Air flight - the first long-haul plane I've been on in at least 5 years that doesn't have individual TV screens. With a one-hour delay in Seoul, I'd already missed the airport shuttle in Brisbane, and it didn't get any better when I saw the queue for customs, which doubled back on itself four times before even reaching the official zigzag queue area. Every single person had their luggage opened and checked, and sniffed by a sniffer dog... An hour and a half after landing I finally got out into the tiny Arrivals hall. Another hour and a half later the shuttle driver arrived - the coastal highway had been blocked into Brisbane by a major accident. I shared the minibus up north with a family of four, the son an obnoxious 10-year-old with a mouth dirtier than mine, who started asking "How much further Dad?" as we left the airport gate.

But when the driver pointed out Lisa's house and I saw my sister jumping and waving in a frenzy... well, the journey here wasn't so bad!

Lisa had to go back to work for the afternoon but when she got home at 5, we went out to do some shopping. We took the scenic route around town with Lisa pointing out all the lovely things that surround her new home. Noosa's really pretty with an estuary breaking up the town into a collection of suburban islands.


We drove into the national park's carpark to make a U-turn, but when we saw a car leaving, Lisa got so excited about a space being available we just had to stop and take a walk.

That part of the park ran alongside the coast with a wooden deck path curving through the teatrees. We left the path once to clamber down the rocks to a curve of white sand, the grains so fine they squeaked underfoot. Just then Lisa spotted some people further down the path pointing up into the trees. I laughed, remembering my statement earlier that day that I expected koalas, kangaroos and wallabies in abundance, please, if she would be so kind. When we reached the group and looked up into the trees, I couldn't hide my surprise at my unusual luck. This is someone who spent 3 days in a tiger sanctuary in India without spotting a single stripy cat. And now there, far above me, nibbling on eucalyptus leaves, was not just a koala, but a mummy koala, with a baby clinging to her furry front. As she cautiously stepped along the branch, clutching twigs and stuffing her mouth with leaves, we could see the little round ears and flat nose of the baby as he, three paws firmly buried in his mum's fur, reached out for the leaves she pulled closer to him. It was so sweet to watch!






















A fellow spectator told us there was another one a few trees away so we went to look, but he was less interesting, being fast asleep and wedged into the crook of a tree, and we quickly returned to ooh and aah at the mother and baby.

Shopping that evening was a joy everyone should experience at least once in their lives. Litchies! Smoked salmon! And who knew how exciting Cheerios could be! Korean supermarkets are fine, but a tingle went down my spine at the cereals aisle...

Koalas: 3
Kangaroos: 0
Highways named "Bruce": 1

Seoul Therapy

Seoul is a fascinating city. Each part, each suburb, is devoted to a particular need. Myeongdong has designer clothes, Chungmuro is the place for analogue cameras, Itaewon is the centre for foreigners where you can find Western groceries and the Hard Rock Cafe. Each place has its own flavour, unique in the Seoul sprawl. There are few chain stores - Starbucks and the local Kimbap Heaven make appearances in most suburbs, but mostly it is as far from the dull English high street as you can get. I'd never realised how bland British towns have become until I saw Seoul.

At first it takes some getting used to. It's impossible to go to a mall and pick up everything you need from camera film to clothes to sewing needles. Your day must be carefully planned with a comprehensive shopping list and a subway map to hand. However it's started to become second nature for me - I know where I can find everything, and in each place there's an unimaginable range of whatever it is you desire - if one shop asks too high a price, you turn around and there's another for you to try.

On Saturday, I needed wool. Yes, I have indeed started to knit! My room is filled with half-finished hats and scarves and notes for future patterns to try out. Unfortunately, the huge shopping area close to Paju doesn't contain a single haberdashery or fabric store, so when I run out of wool, it means a day in Seoul. Wool is sold in the Dongdaemun area, in a squat grey building devoted to all things crafty.


The entrance area is filled with tailors' shops, the shiny grey suit material adored by Korean businessmen filling shelves from floor to ceiling. Keep going and you come to the buttons and lace. I've been here once before with a friend, but it's impossible to really know this place, and even though the last time I memorised the route to the wool section, I still inexplicably find myself suddenly staring down corridors of fur and rabbit tails. Turning a corner only takes me to the sewing section where men hunch over sewing machines in their tiny stalls, the walls made of threads and fabric. The clack clack of the machines follows me as I search for some stairs - the only thing I'm sure of is that the yarn section is in the basement, so I need to go down. I finally find some, but they lead me not to the piles of wool I'm hoping for, but some kind of upholstery section. I keep thinking I'm getting close, seeing wool down at the end of the tunnel, but it turns out to be threads or crochet supplies, and I can't find the familiar stalls I shopped at last time. Suddenly, I turn around, and there it is: the stall that sells expensive but irresistable yarns, handmade in Southern Asia. My mind mentally rearranges itself and I understand exactly where I am. Shopping can commence.

It's quite difficult to shop because, despite being fairly first-world-ish in general, Koreans like to haggle. I struggle to haggle. So shopkeepers either love me for accepting the first offer, or hate me for just walking off without even asking for a discount. At least I now know the numbers so I can ask "Olmayo?" ("how much?") and understand the response. And occasionally I drum up the courage to complain in a whiney voice "Bisayo!" - it's too much! Usually the shopkeepers are so amused at my Korean that they drop the price by a couple of thousand Won, which makes me ever so proud. Sometimes they call to their friends busily knitting in the back, presumably saying "Will you listen to this rich foreigner, thinks she can haggle! With me! The cheek!", after which they turn to me, and laugh until I apologise and skulk off down the narrow alley...


My second-favourite stall is owned by a gentleman who is eating his lunch when I arrive. He jumps up to help me match a piece of wool from an unfinished project. The last time I was here with Andrea, we were trying to use Korean numbers, but he, being Korean and therefore naturally over-helpful, decided to use Western numbers. Unfortunately, his mind was ahead of him and he started spouting Spanish at us... Interesting to meet someone here who's learned Spanish - high school language classes usually consist of English, Japanese and Chinese. This time he smiles at me and goes straight into English.


Cheerfully laden with shopping bags, I leave the building, stopping at my favourite fruit stall in the whole of Korea, where you pick your bowl of naartjies and interrupt the seller, who's always playing a checkers-like game with a friend round the side. Judging by the exhortations not to push and to "line nicely", it's also pretty popular with everybody else who passes by.


Meanwhile, Korea has been getting pretty damn cold lately, and nowhere more so than little old Paju, lying in the middle of a wind channel that apparently directs Siberian winds south. The ponds are iced over and it snows every few days, although nothing's settling yet. Unfortunately, English Village is designed for maximum discomfort, so all those drainage-free areas that in summer became dams to be crossed only in wellies, are now scary ice patches in winter. We wake up most mornings to thick fog.


















Yes, that is the sun in the photo on the right... Apparently this is still the run-up to Real Winter - I'm grateful for my Australian Christmas, but dreading, absolutely dreading, coming back to bone-chilling weather...

Winter Wonderland

Movie stars, cute kids and a tonne of polystyrene. It's Christmas in the English Village...

A week ago, the Villagers awoke to the sounds of yet another film crew creating a set. It took all day, but by evening, Main Street had been transformed. Our tram had been pulled out on its tracks - and by pulled out, I mean it was hooked up to a car and towed on wheels. This is because it was built without brakes. Or, according to another rumour, Korean engineers built the tracks, and foreign engineers built the tram, and neither side told the other side what specifications to build to, so they don't fit together. Either way, our tram does not work. But it certainly looked awfully pretty sitting there in front of the pub, atop a beautifully white road - courtesy not of the November weather, but some cleverly placed white sheets and a dusting of polystyrene snow, artistically blown about by a clever man with a blower thing.

Lights had been draped over all the store fronts and the tram decked with holly and red ribbons and other Decemberish adornments. I had to leave to teach my evening military lesson, so I ducked down the back route, now blocked by an enormous van serving kimchi and coffee to the starved and frozen crew.

When I returned at 9pm, a crowd of teachers and students from our adult programs had taken up position behind a gauntlet of luminous lights, enormous cameras and a sound machine set to repeat, playing the Xmas jingle of a major electronics megastore. The stars of the Korean hit movie Kwasok Scandle (or Speed Scandal) were obliging the director with 5 seconds of dance, again, and again, and again... The youngest cast member - only about 5 years old, extremely cute under a mop of curly hair, and currently to be seen on every single talk show, game show and advert on TV - swung his legs from his perch on the tram, while the main star smiled delightfully at every request to start from the top.

Meanwhile, from my own perch on some side steps, I could see and talk to the extras - three little families, strong father, mother in miniskirt, perfect child in designer clothes - whose job it was to walk back and forth across the road and be shouted at by a guy in a beret with a megaphone.

As for me, I got bored after half an hour and went home to bed. The lights and music continued until 4am. Mmm, this showbiz thing - it's not for everyone you know...

When Relationships Go Bad

In Korea, the done thing when dating is to publicly announce your love for each other not with rings or hand-holding or sonnets in restaurants, but by wearing the same clothes.

No, not them! Did I say similar? I said the same.

Like this:

Yes, that's right, lads - Korean women dress their men. Not so attractive now, eh?





















The alltime rock n' roll favourite at English Village was a new family - mum dad and baby - all kitted out in white from head to toe. The baby even had a cap to match the parents', although his had to be tied to his chin with a ribbon!

I was recently confirmed in my growing suspicions by Cait's discovery of, yes, a Couples Store in Seoul, where everything comes in both women's and men's sizes, and often toddler size too... My day was just made so much better...