Mountain Monk

Bukhansan National Park rises to the north of Seoul. Framing the city, the view is like a classic oriental painting; sparse pine and acacia trees cling to smooth granite slabs which rise above the clouds. In contrast, the view of Seoul from Bukhansan is like a George Orwell depiction; a technologically advanced human fueled distopia.

When the city gets too hot we head into the Park to relax in the mountain’s cool streams. When autumn arrives, the granite becomes colder and dries out. Leaves turned to red and gold and the view through the canopy becomes clearer. Then it is winter.

Hopping from boulder to boulder, converse sneakers landing on rough textured rock, so sticky you could walk up a 60 degree incline, I look like spider man from a distance. Following the valley to the left, the stream flow becomes more gentle. Water cascades over boulders into pools. After a half hour climb through leafy woodland I reach a nondescript temple.

Perched on the side of the valley below the highest peak, the temple is a true hermitage, the kind only found in Korea. Buddhism went underground and into the mountains during the Confucian revolution of thought, and remains a secondary spiritual influence in the wake of massive Christian belief systems which now dominate Korean society.

I pay my respects to the buddha and a gong sounds. It is lunchtime. The temple caretaker invites me inside to eat a basic fare of rice and kimchii. It is simple food and free of charge.

After lunch, a man ushers me into the head monk’s quarters for tea. The head monk, though fifty years old, looks younger than me. He is less than five feet high and looks uncannily like a small chuckling child. A character I have often seen depicted in small statues of Buddha.

Pouring ginseng tea, the monk engages me in spritely conversation. He had seen me on a TV show. I guess it was a psychology show about eastern and western thought, in which i had to unravel a puzzle with a girl from Finland.

The small fellow stands up and reaches a large framed calligraph from the wall. He offers it to me as a present. I am touched, but decline as it would be tricky to carry back down the mountain. Instead he gives me a bag of ginseng picked nearby.

After tea, I am elated and run down the boulders, through the trees and out to the bus routes. In the subway, under the steel and concrete and the marching leagues of shined shoes and suits, my spirit is alive. The grinding machinery of consumption produces little in comparison to the oriental painting that is Bukhansan