capital of the first unified Korea

capital of the first unified Korea

The day dawned beautifully for our one day in Taegu, but Peggy was ill. The stress from work, or travel, or just something she ate had her doubling up with cramps. We went to a doctor on a nearby U.S. Army base who advised clear liquids and rest. When we returned to the hotel, she insisted that l make die day trip to the temple myself. After some coaxing, I agreed, grabbing my camera, and walking downstairs to inquire about bus numbers.

It took some time to convince the cleric that I did not want to hire a car for the day or join a tour group. I rehearsed die man’s instructions and, backed up by a weak understanding of the language and directions written in Korean, I stepped from the hotel, flagged down a taxi, and asked to be taken to Sogwipo bus terminal. The cabby seemed to think this an odd destination for a foreigner but, upon repeating myself, he smiled, started his meter, and pulled away from the curb.

The bus terminal was quit native, from the blue tile roof to the gravel parking lot. All the bus schedules were in Hangul, the Korean alphabet, but I was comfortable with that and soon identified the bus, number 2, and the appropriate ticket window. The salesgirl looked surprised when I requested one ticket “Haeinsa-eh han chap ehushipshio.” — in my best Korean and then giggled as I tried to translate “P’al-bek, p’ al-ship won” (“880 won” — about a dollar) into the right change. A nice gentleman stepped up and escorted me to the correct platform and, in twenty minutes, I was the lone American on a full bus headed for tire mountains.

Haein Temple, or Haeinsa, houses over 80,000 wooden tablets of Buddhist scripture, the Tripitaka Korean, carved by Korean monks as an atonement during the country’s occupation by the Mongols in the 13th Century. These tablets, I soon found out, are in the main building on the large temple grounds. This main temple are a forms that focus for numerous smaller temples, heritages, and pagodas scattered about the southern end of the Mt. Gaya National Park. After seeing the scriptures — stored, quite remarkably, without climate control in a building shoe method of construction appeared older than the works it housed — I decided to wander the area to see what I could see. The fall colors were approaching their peak and the mountains were erupting with color. I was feeling invigorated by the clean air, the beauty all around me, and by my sense of adventure. I seemed to be the only westerner there that day and was quite pleased with myself for making the trip.

I stopped before one small temple, Hongje-am Hermitage according to my map, about half a mile from the main buildings, and began to photograph the pagods and stum pas or funeral urns in its yard. While 1 was framing my first shot, an old monk walked out onto the front landing. On seeing me, he stopped, staring for a moment. Fearing I had broken some protocol, 1 lowered my camera but he smiled and waved, calling out, “Annyonghashimnkka.” (“Good afternoon.”) and “Oh-so oshimnikka.” (“Please come in.”). Surprised but delighted to get a closer look, I opened the gate, stepped to the front of the building, and bowed. The monk kept to smiling and waved me up the steps. He was talking rapidly. But I could hear “Oh-so