Dear Family and Friends,

“A peaceful teacher such as yourself couldn’t want to drive a tank.” one my Korean teachers told me a few weeks ago.

Just before that comment, I had been sitting, steadily tapping at my desk keyboard, riveted on my own words when my British co-teacher dropped by with news: “We are going on a staff field trip...”

“Oooh goody.” I absently and rather rudely replied - still not taking my eyes away from the screen.

“…to a Korean Military Tank base.”

My head jerked up, he had my attention now. “Sorry. Did you just say that we are going to visit Korean military tanks?”

He confirmed.

“Wow!” I exclaimed – immediately picturing us in the midst of military maneuvers. “Hey, does that mean that we’ll get to drive the tanks? I wanna drive the tanks!”

My reaction hadn’t been missed by the male teachers around me and that was when it was suggested that “[a] peaceful teacher such as yourself couldn’t want to drive a tank.”

My eyebrows jumped to my hairline while another teacher genially suggested that I wasn’t qualified to drive a tank.

Hah – as if I’d let a little thing like that stop me. “Oh, yeah???” I replied. I ducked into my bag and pulled out my driver’s license and waved at it at my surrounding skeptics. “I have a driver’s license! And really how different could driving a tank be from driving my Honda Civic???”

A little translation and the teachers around me roared with laughter at that – and again when my witty co-teacher told me that if I planned to drive the tank, that he wanted to operate the gun.

Oh, boy, we’d make quite a tank-drivin' team – the brash American lady tank driver in her periwinkle Gortex and the consummate tweed-clad British gentlemen gunner. I could barely wait.

* * * *

Mid-day a week or so later, our adventure began like other past outings in that my British co-teacher and I climbed into a beautifully tended back seat for a ride. Me being me, I couldn’t resist asking the kindred driver whether he had crocheted his own doily-like seat covers and promptly discovered that I was outnumbered as none of the men in my company understood that to be a joke.

I wrinkled my nose and muttered to myself, “Uhh-oh… strike one.” Martha Stewart is not well known in Korea.

As we drove away from the school, I caught sight of most other teachers climbing into a large red motor coach with lady bugs painted on its side (lady birds according to the British gentleman). When I inquired why we were driving, I was told that there wasn’t room in the bus for all – but did I want to ride in the coach? I hastily assured my kind driver that of course I didn’t want to ride on the bus. I wasn’t about to commit strike two in that rapid of succession.

The hour or so drive to the near sea-side base took us through my discovery of the concept of private highways (speedways built, run and profited on by private companies), regular government run toll booths, a very clean rest stop, and typical, interesting yet rather unlovely countryside. We were waved through chain-clad gates by two very young, camouflaged, machine gun-toting soldiers. We wound past trucks, faux plant-covered tank shelters, and gravel crunched as we parked in a gravel field dominated by personnel filled tanks, about five minutes into a presentation to the teachers by an important-looking soldier.

It beats me what was said – although we were allowed to crane our necks through the back entrances of two tanks, were shown a table of serious guns, and while the lecturer showed the attentive audience uniform and food rations (including “Brave Man Underwear,” and star sugar candy), several male teachers behind me couldn’t resist handling the guns. Presumably the barrels were empty and the men were competent – military service is mandatory for all males in Korea - but this still made me jumpy. And I could not restrain a shiver when my attention strayed from the camouflage winter face masks and I was handed a cold, heavy handgun. I quickly handed it back. The men chuckled.

The presentation ended with a rumble that reverberated through my spine as two of the tanks were fired up. We gathered to one side as one tank positioned itself for a run – barrel steady on us (this is actually rather intimidating in real life) - and then the tank advanced towards and past us, not especially speedily, but fast enough to spit gravel and a thick cloud of dust. The giant looped around the field, did a bit of showy revolving and then parked in front of us with another smaller tank pulling behind it. A wooden ladder emerged and there was a rush to climb aboard the big tank. Don’t think I didn’t join the rush – but I didn’t make the first run. But I made the next two – clinging to the side rail of big tank and wedged, jack-in-the-box-like out of the center of the smaller one. “Ridin’ cowboy!” I found myself happily exclaiming.

I haven’t seen pictures of my tank-riding debut (sadly, I was not allowed to drive) but I am certain that my smile was huge and crinkled the rest of my face. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my Asian adventures would include tank riding. Horseback riding, could be. Elephant riding, yes. Tank riding, uh, no.

Anyway, we were next taken on a tour of the barracks – my favorite part was a badly needed test-drive of a toilet – before we trooped back to the car but were forced to pause behind the coach while everyone waited for two mischief makers who came running towards the bus clasping large black bags. Soju is a heck of a bargain on military bases.

We next drove to a tiny sea-side village. After pausing for lungfuls of sea air, we walked into a restaurant, assembled ourselves around low tables, took up metal chopsticks, and spent an excellent few hours consuming newly caught seafood: mussels in broth, oysters on half shells, steamed + pieced purple squid, kimchi (duh) and my newest favorite Korean dish: savory raw white fish, sliced, layered onto heaps of gentle shredded radish, consumed by itself (perfect) or with anything at the table including a dark red chili sauce, or sssaaam soy bean paste, sesame leaves or rich seaweed. I eagerly took up my first piece of fish, only to drop it, immediately pluck it up and then guiltily glance around to see if anyone had noticed. I got a knowing smirk from my guiding Korean teacher as I grimaced and plopped the fish into my mouth anyway. And naturally washed it down with soju, carefully poured and received with two hands.

The Korean word for delicious is “mah sheet sayeo” - a handy word, easy to recall and say because the middle is pronounced much like a certain English four letter swear word. Dinner that night was the most mahsheetsayeo of maysheetsayeo-ness. The meal finally ended with soup from the bones of the fish that we just consumed, alcohol reddened faces, coffee, and a game of impromptu kickball in the parking lot before we drove home.

On the way home, I again discovered myself outnumbered – this time as both the only female and the only political liberal – and probably committed strikes two, three, five, and twenty thousand – but that is another story for another day.

LOL - Ridin’ cowboy!!! --Laura