Deductions From Happiness

In my previous post ‘Running Costs’, I asserted that Kris and I would not reduce our amount that we would put aside for our overall goal – a deposit on a decent house. Sadly, while doing the monthly budget yesterday, we came to a quick realization: if we didn’t reduce the amount we set aside this month, we simply would not have enough money for food. So, with a heavy heart and a more-than-slightly-childish sulky moment, we reduced our allocated amount for this month. We will have the means to make it up next month, luckily, but it was still disheartening to go against something that we had committed to doing in the second month of payment here.

Why did we have to do this? One word: deductions. While our salary may be stated at a certain amount, that is before a number of automatic deductions are performed on this amount. These include various taxes, life insurance, pension, rent, water, electricity, Internet costs, and a small number of other perfectly reasonable items to have come off of our paycheck.

What made this month particularly bad for us, however, is that the taxes that were placed on this month’s bill were not done last month. It’s almost as if the Korean banking institution does not want to start taxing you until they know that you are going to remain in the country. So, when our first paycheck arrived, we were told that there were some charges that were not applied to that paycheck, but which would be paid for in our next paycheck. We nodded, smiled, and got back to reveling in our first significant paycheck in months. A month passed, and those words came painfully true, crippling the small buffer between being able to get by on half of a salary and having to compromise one’s ideals.

It is these deductions that we did not factor into our calculations before we came to Korea. We expected to be paid a certain wage, chip in a little bit for rent and some necessities, and then have the rest to feed ourselves and shove under the metaphorical pillow for later. In essence, we thought we could get away with putting half of our gross salary aside every month in relative comfort. What we really should have considered would be what the difference between a gross and a net salary would be, and taken this into account.

However, we came with a plan, and we will still let nothing stop us from achieving our goal. It may be harder than we had previously expected, but it is far from impossible. Little changes in our lifestyle will help alleviate some financial pressure without taking too much happiness from us. Only having one snack per evening. Not going to the exorbitantly expensive movie-houses for a while. Not buying unnecessary trinkets. All of these little steps will make a big difference, and will one day help us make our first steps into our wonderful house.

The Joyous Chaos of Field Trip #2

Get on a bus. Get driven around the city. Try to keep the kids on the bus relatively well-behaved. Get driven to a slightly seedier-looking part of the city. Have the bus driver get out of the bus to attempt to find his bearings. Have him find his bearings. Get driven a short distance from the point of being lost. Arrive. Herd the children out of the bus. Take a look at the place. Wonder what could possibly be in store. These are the steps that got me to the small astroturf where the kindergarten children had their field trip today. And those were the least ridiculous steps of the coming hours.

After the children ate their regulation enormous snack provided by their parents, they were herded into two predetermined teams by the teachers. Half of the school was to be the green team, and the other half was to be the yellow team. There were equal amounts of children from each class (or as close as possible with odd-numbered classes like mine), and the teams seemed relatively evenly-matched by most metrics of assessing how children could be better than other children. Us teachers were also split between the two teams. What competition lay ahead of the yellow and green teams was, as yet, unknown. At the side of the field lay an assortment of props, seemingly suitable for a prep school dramatic production – outfits of indeterminate nature, small plastic balls (the kind you would find in a ball pit), plastic crates, a large piece of material, and three ropes with tyres in the middle. Other than the fact that we would probably engage in tug-of-war at some point, I was clueless as to the nature of the activities. I was mostly worried about what the ridiculous outfits were for.

The next few hours were spent in a haze of confusion and fun. The owners and operators of the activities spoke little to no English, so the foreign teachers that could not speak Korean (myself included) often had to frantically ask our Korean counterparts what was going on in the coming activity. Everything from the suspected tug-of-war to constructing the tallest tower from the plastic crates to blowing up balloons and stuffing them into a clown costume with a solitary victim teacher inside of it had to be gleaned from momentary explanations, or simply learned by watching the rest of the group. There was music playing, the children and/or the teachers were attempting to complete some sort of task more rapidly than the other children and/or teachers, and everyone had a smile on their soon-to-be-sunburned faces. Little else mattered when everyone was clearly enjoying themselves, having a morning outside of the classroom, bonding over simple, enjoyable games.

When everyone said goodbye to our energetic hosts, we did so with exhaustion and a slight hint of sadness. All of the running around and general mania of the morning clearly had taken the energy from most – children walked with droopy eyes, teachers ambled lazily. But we all did so with a lightness in our hearts – the morning had been a welcome break from the classroom for all. There were certainly moments that would be happy highlights of class discussion for a long while to come. Most importantly, for one morning, the kindergarten kids got to enjoy being kids, without having to worry about learning something. Sure, they need to learn how to communicate in another language – that’s what their parents pay us for. But this cannot come at the cost of their childhood. On most days, we treat them like little adults. Today, they were little kids, and they loved every moment of it.

Running Costs

Yesterday was the day on which we received our second paycheck in Korea. While our first few weeks had been paid for by money that we brought over with us, our first paycheck was able to get us through the last month. While we were able to take one trip and enjoy good food, we had to spend our money wisely. This was a good exercise in budgeting, but I had hoped that the coming month would be a little easier to get through. Alas, this is not to be the case.

There are two main reasons for this – our saving goals and our holiday to Japan in July. Both of these have taken up significant portions of our income.

Before we came to Korea, we calculated that if we put half of our salary away each month, we will be able to afford a deposit on a decent house upon our return to South Africa. We have committed to doing this, and regardless of our other expenses, nothing will deter us. Putting down a deposit is arguably the biggest reason that we came to Korea.

Nevertheless, it does make things significantly tighter – whereas someone coming to Korea for a year away, with no goals in mind, could live a fairly lavish life on a teacher’s salary, we make sacrifices for our future. And it surprisigly makes me quite proud that we can do so.

However, this is make even harder by our decision to go to Japan for a week over our July school holiday. We have booked all of the flights and accommodation, and need to pay back the kind person that allowed us to use their account to do so. But again, it will be worth the sacrifice in the end. I’d rather have an unforgettable experience in another country than a few more boxes of snacks.

If it sounds like I am very confused about all of this, it’s because I am. I was surprised by how many deductions there were on our payslips. I am happy that we will still be to live comfortably. I am disappointed that we will not be able to afford some of the things we would like. I am impressed at how disciplined we have been.

More than anything, I am relieved that I can plan our financial comings and goings from the comfort of our bed. We are revelling in our first long weekend since we have been here – it makes such an emotional difference to not have small humans emotionally draining you for one day. We cannot wait to enjoy the rest of it!

Big Brother is Watching

When I was in school, there was little to monitor classroom behaviour (be it that of the students or of the teacher), other than oral accounts of what happened in the classroom setting. In South Korea, this is not the case. Shortly before Kris and I arrived, there was a major scandal where a teacher was caught on camera physically abusing a child. The teacher apparently gave a child a full-force punch that sent the learner flying a short distance. This naturally caused outcry throughout the country, and in a few weeks, every school in the country installed CCTV surveillance systems in all of their classrooms. Our school is no exception.

While the school claims that the CCTV system is designed to protect the children from abuses like the one that caught the imagination of the country, it has numerous other purposes. In our case, it helped to clear Kris of the allegations of child abuse that were laid against her. Kris has also used it to try and determine who has been stealing stamps out of her drawer. I will likely use it for the trivial task of assessing the true ownership of a particularly nice pencil.

However, a notable result of the installation of widespread CCTV is a very powerful panopticon effect in the hearts of the teachers. Jeremy Bentham first designed the panopticon prison structure centuries ago, with the aim of having greater psychological control over prisoners. The panopticon prison complex was built around one central guard tower, that could see into every single cell from a wide window, which the prisoners could not see into because of its height. This led to the prisoners not knowing when they were being actively watched by the guards, but always living in fear of breaking the rules, just in case the guard happened to be looking into their cell at the moment they committed the forbidden act.

The CCTV system has a similar effect on the teachers. It is very easy for someone to watch a class on the CCTV footage – all they need do is go to the CCTV room and sit down. Thus, it is possible for someone to be watching any particular class at any point throughout the school day, and the teachers know this. While I would certainly not do something as drastic as hitting a child, I am constantly thinking about what someone would do if they were watching my lessons take place. Could I be delivering this activity better? Should I have better posture? Should I try suppress my personal tics so that I do not get questioned about them later?

Even if our CCTV system was nothing more than a TV with all of the classes playing at once, it would still have a drastic effect on the teachers. The fact that it can also record data for later retrieval makes it a formidable tool for the school. For now, the system has only been used to help us. However, I am still wary of what else it could be used for in the future. I’m certainly not going to get fired for picking my nose more than the government-approved amount of times. I am constantly vigilant, constantly trying to improve myself. More importantly, I am constantly conscious of what I am doing. All because of a silly piece of plastic and glass staring out at me from the corner of the room. Staring unflinchingly.

In Our Heads

Last night, we had the first of (hopefully) many meetings of our pen-and-paper role-playing group. For those unfamiliar to the concept, it involves two main parties – the Game Master and the poor, unwitting peons he subjects to his game. As you can tell, I am currently the Game Master (or GM for short) for our particular campaign. The GM devises a series of challenges for the other players to face. They do so by creating characters (each with a unique style of play and ability set) of a predetermined power level. As they overcome the various encounters put before them, the characters may level up and become more powerful. For now, our party is level 1. Despite the characters’ abilities not being very flashy or powerful, a great deal of fun was had by all.

I would call myself a relatively seasoned role-player, with a number of campaigns under my belt back home. However, this is my first campaign as GM, and it is a remarkably different experience. Whilst as a player, I wondered what lay behind the next dark, shadowy corner; what horror or inconveniently-placed and more-inconveniently-undetected trap lay in wait to spell our downfall. As a GM, I spent most of the time wondering how my players could next attempt to derail my campaign, and how to make sure they stayed on the desired path, or as close to it as I could possibly get.

For example, after they win their first encounter, my party met their first significant story character: a charming, homely halfling (think hobbit) lady who runs a shop in the local village. I had expected them to engage in polite conversation about compensation for their help. Instead, they attempted to rob her. From this point on, I became aware how wide the realm of possibilities for the campaign truly was. The players might decide to go on a complete tangent to the main story, exploring a dense wood slightly to the left of the metaphorical shiny castle gleaming with “LOOT HERE” signs I would like them to enter. And I thoroughly enjoy that possibility.

The most interesting happenings occurred when players used their abilities in ways I did not predict. One of my major combat encounters was made a great deal easier when one of the enemies was charmed to simply howl at the moon for the duration of the fight, despite his best friend being given an uncomfortable amount of projectiles shot in his direction. This forced me to think on my feet a number of times, resulting in impromptu, wonderfully spontaneous story development.

I cannot wait to see how the party will deal with what I will have for them in our next sessions. The creative escape of telling a tale of another world with nothing more than a few pieces of paper, pencils, and some bizarrely-shaped dice makes for a fabulous break for the routine of the work week, and engages all of our brains in ways that trying to keep children in their seats doesn’t quite do. They will give us all something to look forward to – a brief flight of fancy at the end of a hard week, slaying magical beasts of varying danger and absurdity. A great addition to our routine, and another way to preserve healthy levels of insanity.

Frustration in the Eyes of a Crying Child

This week has been a fairly good week so far. There are a number of reasons for this: the new Avengers movie comes out tomorrow, for which I am extremely excited; we were informed that next week will be a four-day work week, as there is a public holiday next Friday; and Kris and I managed to get our lazy selves out of bed this morning to throw a disc with one of our friends. However, today I faced a nasty version of one of the most dreaded things in teaching – a crying child.

Sure, I have had crying children in my class before – teaching children as young as 5, it is inevitable that they will cry for the most meaningless things, and I generally have a good grip on such situations. The child that cried has cried many times before – she is a very sensitive young girl, and can be set off with the slightest provocation. However, she hadn’t let loose the wet, wimpering dogs of emotional distress in my class like she did today. She simply sat there, inconsolable, wailing. I tried being calm, talking soothingly to her at eye level. I tried moving on with an activity, hoping that she would forget what she was crying about and join in on the task. I tried all that I knew to do. Nothing worked. She eventually had to be removed from the class by my teaching assistant.

In the moments where I was crouched next to her desk, looking in her water-filled eyes, I saw something that I had not expected. Sure, there was emotional pain (for reasons I could not ascertain). And there were genuine tears. But there was also frustration. It felt as if she wanted to tell me what was wrong, but couldn’t. Maybe she didn’t know how to express it in English. Maybe she couldn’t muster the emotional strength. Maybe she was just being oversensitive and she knew it.

It wasn’t only her frustration I saw, it was also my own. For the first time, I was genuinely stumped by a classroom situation. I had no idea why she was crying, or how to make it stop. I didn’t want to call for my assistant to help, because that felt like waving the white flag of failure as an educator. While I felt very sorry for the poor girl, she sat like a bawling bastion to my inadequacy, and it felt awful.

While I know that one crying kid doesn’t make you a bad teacher, in that moment, I simply wanted to pick her up and shake some sense into her. I wanted to tell her that there was no reason to be crying, that she should be stronger. But she’s just a kid. She’ll get there. So I didn’t – I let her go with my assistant, to whom she opened up and returned to the class later, more calm and ready to learn. While I may not have known what to do today, I now know that sometimes the child just needs to go out, and come back when they’re ready. Sometimes, it’s not my job to make everyone feel happy – someone else is better at it. And I must just put my pride and frustration aside and accept that.

Ultimate Frisbee: The Cult of Layouts and Discs

Today, Kris and I played our first game of Ultimate Frisbee in Korea. For those who do not know what Ultimate is, it is a unique combination of netball and American football, all played with your humble, plastic Frisbee disc. The aim of the game is to catch the disc in your opponents’ end zone to score points (as in American football), and do so more times than your opponent. The first team to a predetermined number of points wins. What makes it harder is that you cannot run with the disc, and must remain stationary after a few steps to slow down (as in netball). What results is a frenzy of running, creative throws, diving, screaming, and laughing. There is truly no game like Ultimate. And a new dimension is added when it is played in heavy rain.

When we left the train station after our hour-and-a-half-long trip to the field itself and saw the storm clouds in the air, we were a little disappointed – we had hoped for a sunny, bright day for our first experience of Ultimate in Korea. Instead, the moment we could see the field, it began to rain. Luckily, we had thought ahead and brought our rain jackets with us. We had arrived early, so we stood on the sideline, cheering on the other teams in our league, who had been scheduled with earlier games. When we arrived, there was only one person from our team already at the field, which we hoped would change, because playing with too few people is never fun. The running to having a good time ratio goes very out of whack when there aren’t enough legs on the field.

Luckily, our teammates gradually arrived. They were a cheerful, energetic mix of foreigners and Korean locals. We had just enough time to do a warm-up lap of the field before the match before ours ended, and we took to the field. What followed was about an hour of scrappy, muddy, wet Ultimate. Both teams dropped discs because it was too slippery. Both teams were wary of running out of fear of slipping on the muddy ground. Most importantly, though, both teams had a great time. By the end of the game, we were all wet to the bone with smiles on our faces.

That is what we found in Ultimate that is unlike any sport we had played before – the sense of community with every member of the league. In other sports, the teams are generally separated, not talking to each other. In Ultimate, we stand next to each other, cheering on the good plays of the game, whichever team they come from. There is always a good-spirited chat after the game. Some tournaments are even organized as thinly-veiled excuses to drink with other Ultimate players.

Ultimate is more than a sport. Some would call it a cult, and they wouldn’t be far wrong. People who play Ultimate generally do so once and then leave, or are hooked for life. They generally come to their first practice or game having been convinced/seduced/dragged by a fanatical player. When you get together with Ultimate people, a large portion of what they talk about will be which brand of disc to buy, which way to run in a given situation, or how to defend more skilfully. It is a cult. And one that I am happy to be part of, and I look forward to meeting regularly with my fellow cultists in Korea.

Waltzing Amongst Trees Chasing Children

This week has positively flown by. This could be a result of our lack of sleep over the weekend, but is more likely because we spent the week in anticipation of today. This morning was the first in the series of monthly field trips that the entire kindergarten section of our school embarks on, and it was most certainly an eye-opener.

The field trip was to the local(ish) arboretum – a collection of trees, rather similar to what would be called a botanical garden back home in South Africa. We were tasked with leading the children on a set path to a small grass field. There they would play rigorously until their lungs could only marginally function, at which point we would lead them back to the bus. It seemed like a simple task, far superior to our normal activity of standing in front of the children for three lessons attempting to control them long enough that they could learn something by accident. I was given my first hint as to the true nature of field trips when I expressed my eagerness to one of the teaching assistants and was met with a chuckle and being told that it was exhausting. This would turn out to be surprisingly true, but not for the reasons that I could predict.

I had expected to be chasing after my children, wrangling them out of trees, pulling various sharp pieces of the environment from various parts of their bodies, and constantly shouting their names in the hope that they would return. In reality, all I did was hold the hand of my most energetic student to ensure that he didn’t run (I would have had better luck with a leash) and be constantly vigilant. The children needed little more than a slightly raised voice and a threat to take away their beloved stars to return or cease whatever prohibited activity they were doing, whether it was littering or actively destroying a plant.

A pleasant side-effect to the field trip was that I was able to spend some time with my teaching assistant, who is also my supervisor. We conversed briefly about South Africa and the weather in the moments when the children were too stimulated by the environment around them to behave badly. While it wasn’t actually a deep, long, or serious conversation, it was nice to get to know the person who takes care of the little bundles of energy when I retreat to the teacher’s lounge during break times. I hope such opportunities arise again.

All in all, the field trip was exhausting and unexpectedly fun. It made a nice change to the routine of teaching, enjoyed thoroughly by both the students and us teachers. I wouldn’t want a field trip every day, but once a month it is nice to get out of the small school building and spend some time somewhere different. You never know what you can learn about the people you spend most of your week with when you put them in a different context. It’s refreshing, and something I shall look forward to for the future.

Beauty in Impermenance

After far too many hours on a bus, Kris and I returned safely from our trip to Gyeongju for their cherry blossom festival. Apart from over 13 or so hours on the bus throughout the weekend, we managed to: hike up the local mountain, Mount Namsan; visit the Bulguksa and Seokguram temples; see more cherry blossoms than we could fathom; eat our first corn dog; visit the local museum; watch the sun rise on the beach next to an underwater tomb; and sleep on floors of varying comfort. We both enjoyed the trip immensely – we learned a great deal about Korean culture, saw many beautiful sights, and met some wonderful new people, who will hopefully serve to get us to leave our house more often.

Thinking back about the trip, what I enjoyed most were those things that cannot be captured on camera, either because the moments are fleeting or because such recording is prohibited.

The moments that were too difficult and fleeting to capture were those times where I found the cherry blossom trees to be at their most mesmerizing and beautiful. While simply looking at them standing still is remarkable, everything changes when the wind blows through the leaves of a cherry blossom tree. The tree changes, coming to life like a beautiful girl standing awkwardly backstage in a pretty dress comes to life when she takes to the lighted stage to flow in graceful dance. The petals drift slowly earthward from their heavenly perch, taking just enough time for you to be entranced by their falling, but not enough time for you to whip out your smartphone and flash garish light at the moment in an attempt to press its beauty onto a digital canvas. Few things in life have taken my breath away, and cherry blossoms in the wind is most certainly one of them.

The other moments that truly made me feel something were those spent inside of sacred Buddhist spaces. In the temples, photography is not allowed. This adds to the importance of living in the moment at that point in time, because you can’t simply take a photo and look at it later – you have to concentrate on the here and now, taking in every small detail that you can before moving on. Once you look away, all you have is your memory – no digital crutch to lean your recollection on when you tell the tale later. This feeling of immediate reverence was most profound at Seokguram grotto. This temple on a mountainside is home to one of the most perfect depictions of Buddha in Asia, a title rightfully earned by the imposing white marble statue. While statues from history are being defiled and torn down in my home country, this timeless piece of Buddhist art stares out at the world in all of the majesty that was painstakingly carved into it over a thousand years ago. And all you have to take it in is a few moments before you must move on, allowing the next visitor to have their experience of it.

These are the moments that will truly stick with me, gracefully painted onto my memory. These days, far too much is made of recording for later, with people obsessed with taking selfies with selfie sticks. By all means, take photographs – having digital copies will help jog your memory later in life. But don’t forget to make memories while you’re filling up your memory card.

Impending Cherry Blossoms

After a week that went by far too slowly, Kris and I are on a bus, on our way to Gyeongju, a small region in the southern part of South Korea. We are travelling to witness the cherry blossom festival for which the region is well-known. We have seen a few cherry blossoms around Dongtan – the odd tree blooming in a square here, a row of impossibly puffy trees lining the road there. What we are on our way to see is, apparently, on a totally different level, and we are immensely excited to finally be exploring the country after a few weeks of getting acquainted with the country.

What lies between us and apparently an immense amount of cherry blossoms is about 3 more hours on a bus filled with people from all over the world – Portugal, Estonia, America, and of course the token Canadians. The first person I talked to from the tour? South African. We talked briefly about Korea in general, South African quirks, and rusks while waiting for the tour bus to arrive.

So now, here we sit, the road gently rolling underneath us, listening to some classic rock, growing a weird combination of tired from our draining days, excited for the prospects ahead, and genuinely afraid that the blossoms may already have fallen from the trees down south. Above all of this, we are happy to be somewhere other than a small classroom, and eager to get to our destination and the magical experiences therein!