Kyosu and Students

In anticipation of another action packed evening we enjoy a low key day. We read, write, and bump into Dr. S. at lunch. Over tofu soup and pork, we learn that his give name is Varahanambi, the same as that of the boar incarnation of Vishnu. Varahanambi was one of the forms Vishnu took to save the earth. Our Varahanambi is from the Sri Vaishnava community which dates back to the thirteenth century, and they are devout devotees of Vishnu. Since saving the world was the mission of his forbearers, it seems fitting this man has followed suit in his research area involving developing technology for artificial hearts.

At 6, we meet up with seven of Rob's eight Religions of India students. (Unfortunately, one has another commitment.) It's immediately apparent that these vibrant Korean young 'uns are about to put us through our paces. They tell us they want to show their "kyosu neem" (respected professor) some old-fashioned South Korean hospitality. They indicate this will include copious quantities of food and libations.

The first stop is the esteemed steam pork restaurant in Hu Moon. This place is clearly the favourite spot to take foreigners for a high-end meal; Rob's colleagues took him here, as Hyunjeong took me. Of course, we don't tell that to these kids who are so excited to take us to this establishment with a great backstory. We're told a tale of two brothers who sound kind of like the Cane and Abel of Korea.

In this ancient folk tale that is known to all Koreans, the brothers are Nolbu, the elder, and Heungbu. Nolbu is greedy and mean, and he marries a wife who is just like him. They have no children. Heungbu and his wife are both gentle and kind, and their home is filled with many children.

When their father dies, Nolbu quickly devises a way to kick Heungbu and his family off the estate, and as a result Heungbu's family lives in poverty. One day, Heungbu finds an injured swallow, so he fixes its leg. The next year, the bird returns with a Korean pumpkin seed. Heungbu plants it, and in the fall, cuts it open to make porridge. When he does so, gold and riches spill out.

Nolbu , hearing of his brother's good fortune, finds a swallow, breaks its leg, and then fixes it. The swallow returns with a seed, which Nolbu plants, but when he opens his pumpkin, bandits spring forth, steal Nolbu's belongings and burn his house to the ground. Nolbu seeks refuge with his brother, who gladly opens his home and his heart, despite the past abuses.

Now, here's where this story takes a very strange turn. Entrepreneurs ever since have named their businesses after Nolbu. In fact, the restaurant we're going to tonight is a very popular chain. Though he was a greedy, nasty piece of work, those who name their businesses for him are successful. Those named after Heungbu tend to go belly up. The thinking is that poverty stricken Heungbu is unlikely to have much for offer for dinner, but wealthy Nolbu can provide a feast. This makes the egalitarian in me want to find a Heungbu restaurant for dinner.

When we get to the place, we remove our shoes before stepping up to the eating area where we will sit on the floor, cross-legged. This is commonplace for flexible little Koreans, but quite a feat for stiff, portly North Americans. Once we've removed our shoes, we must take care to put them back on before heading to the washroom. Feet that that have touched the main floor must not touch the floor in the dining room.

We're served a steady stream of various kimchi dishes, creamy tofu, heaping plates of pork, and two types of spicy, hot soup. The second soup arrives unexpectedly, a gift from the owners in acknowledgement of the two dozen bottles of soju and beer that we've purchased.

The boisterous and throughly entertaining Cho is our bartender. He wows the crowd with tricks, including one in which he lines up shot glasses atop beer glasses, and slams his fist on the table, causing the shots glasses to falls into the beer glasses. Then everyone quick gulps down the concoction before the ingredients settle. It reminds me of the Asian jugglers and their antics on the Ed Sullivan show when I was a little kid.

At one point, Cho cautions that we must drink responsibily, lest we... and then he gestures flamboyantly, hand to mouth, fingers splaying out one by one, to indicate a dramatic expulsion. Though the night is young, our hosts indicate that the "traditional Korean" relay, or wave, drinking, is about to begin in earnest. And they're not kidding. We move on to an old-style Korean pub.

This place has walls covered with twine that has been shaped into images found in nature. The lattice at the door, we are told, is a traditional screen for a couple on their wedding night. It's designed for people to tease the couple by poking their fingers through the spaces and peering at them.

Thoughout the evening we are introduced to all the traditional Koreans drinks, including, beer, soju, bamboo wine, and macgulli, or, fermented rice wine. The beer is not very strong, but the soju makes up for it. We're told men drink soju to sleep soundly. It's a tonic, for the "social situation is stressful." When Rob says, "But my class is not stressful," Cho replies, "Not really. Let's drink!"

The sweet and mild bamboo wine is reminiscient of ice wine. The macgulli is something else altogether! The rice and malt combination is cold, milky, and really potent. Students sometimes drink it in the "modern" way, mixed with Chilsing cider. Either way, the effect is powerful and immediatel I empty my first bowl, and before Cho has finished ladling me another drink, I realize the scene is starting to look like the elephant sequence in Fantasia. Cho says, "No soju for her. She's drunk!" He offers me a tin cup and says, "Drink water." I wonder if my extended health care covers detox?

I excuse myself and go the washroom to splash water on my face, and am amused to see the omnipresent Korean multi-level floor within. After a month, I'm still having trouble negotiating the three inch height differentials in any given space, but considering the clientele, in a tiny washroom on a drink filled evening, it's darned near impossible.

Back at the table, glasses are clanking and the revellers are saying, "Kambei!" The Koreans delight in our responses to the drinks. They note that when Canadians drink they smile, nod, and say, "Mmm." When Koreans drink that exhale loudly and exclaim, "Ah!" They serve us with two hands, and turn when they drink, both signs of respect for elders. We are also seated together, at the head of the table. When Rob serves them with two hands, they feel honoured and respected.

We're incredulous to see even more food arrive. While we managed to talk them our of paying for our earlier dinner, it's clear they've found an end-around. We learn that those delicious pancakes are actually Korean pizza. There's also japchae (the glass noodles), crisps, and the dreaded pupae. The latter are the favourite of Son, who sits right beside me.

Son eats two full bowls of the creepy little critters declaring them, "Delicious!" Cho says he's not a fan, but Son is because, "He's Mongolian. He's special." Son makes light of his predilection telling me the pupae are "soju's friend." When he finishes a bowl he says, "They're lonely. Leaving." and "They felt alone and left to another place." When they're placed next to the macgulli he says, "No soju. They misunderstand." And when another bowl arrives, "He's back." It takes some mental focus on my part to avoid seeing the pupae, or thinking about them. It's a real exercise in maintaining calm, but I focus on Son's gentle charm, and that helps. Son tells me he's from a family with five children, and he has hopes and dreams, but fears they may be out of reach. When I tell him the first step is believing in himself and his abilities, he clenches his fist, punches the air, laughs, and says, "Yes!"

We laugh heartily as these kids go out of their way to show us a good time. Even quiet Jung and little Na open up as the night goes on. Jung has been in university for eleven years, and ever the student, for the most part is just takes everything in. Na, who is all of 4 foot 10 and weighs as much as my left leg, calf down, spends much of the time covering her mouth and giggling.

Lim, who apologizes for not participating enough in class, tries with all his might to convey his appreciation, saying, "Thank you. Very very thank you." His girlfriend, Ma, who has the best English skills in the group, is effusive in her praise of Rob's professorial skills. She has brought a gift, a beautiful, large, hard-cover coffee table book, a compilation of photographs taken by her father. All the students sign it.

They explain that the class was very hard for them, but that they thoroughly enjoyed it. Cho explains that he normally uses his dictionary ten times per class, but with Rob, he used it 100 times per class. This, from the kid who jokes, "I didn't sleep in class. My eyes are small." Perhaps the best testament to the learning done in the class is the fact that each and every one of these students makes numerous jokes about the terminology and content. When Rob tells Kim, "You're the tour guide," Kim says, "No, I'm the guru." When I walk under the umbrella and Rob walks in the rain, they call him, "sannyasi," and say he's doing tapas, meaning, he's an ascetic, or holy man. While these jokes will not translate well to one not versed in the Religions of India, suffice to say they're fast and furious and extremely funny. We are shocked by how efficiently these students have synthesized the information gained over the last month. It's the truest marker of student learning, because, as we all know, teaching doesn't necessarily equal knowledge acquisition.

While Cho tells Rob "you look like Pinocchio's father, Geppeto," I am told repeatedly that I am beautiful, and this is the premise they use to buy us pizza and drinks. It's brilliant in its simplicity. How can Rob refuse, for if he does, he will, in essence, be disagreeing with their assertion. They tell us that they're very touched to be in the presence of such a happy, lovely couple, and they mean it.

In fact, they mean everything they say. They speak with utter conviction and aching sincerity. When it's time to leave, one by one, each student gives heartfelt thanks to their kyosu. They tear up, as do we, and they express a fervent desire to stay in touch. As we walk down the alley, they stand in a row outside the pub, calling out, "We love you!" I glance back as we round the corner, some 500 yards away, and they're still standing and waving.

The level of sincerity and appreciation is truly humbling. I doubt Rob has ever anticipated, or received, a more heartfelt affirmation of his ability to teach. I've never been happier for my dearest kyosu. My pati-dev.