Redneck Fantasy Camp: A Weekend in Inje (Day 1)

Paintball, ATVs, bungee jumping, octopus stew.  One of these things would not fit with the others in the States, but in Korea they go together like ham and morbid obesity.

This past weekend I met up with fellow extreme adventurers through a group called Daegu Pockets, an organization dedicated to reversing the feelings of awkwardness experienced by white foreigners whenever K-Pop is played in a club.  (Don't you get it Korea, we can't even dance to Bieber!  And he's whiter than a Klan leader's bedsheets.)

After a very un-extreme 4-hour busride we arrived at our destination in Inje, a small town in the northeast province of Gangwon.  Gangwon, as far as I can tell, has a greater abandoned landmine population than that of people, which makes it a perfect location for extreme sporting in Korea, as well as a prosthetic limb shop.  If I were to open one up I'd call it "Limbs and Things"--our motto would be "Our prices will cost you an arm and a leg!"--but I've got a lot on my plate right now.

 That's not mist on the mountains.  It's smoke.  From the abandoned landmines.

First on the agenda was paintballing, the civilized man's version of gun violence.  If only our founding fathers had the foresight to predict the invention of a semiautomatic weapon that could hurl tiny pellets of neon pink paint at friends and strangers alike, the Second Amendment might not be such a contentious issue in modern American society.  (Come on Jefferson, you couldn't take a break from "makin' the swirl" long enough to think of that?)

 Thomas Jefferson VI was unavailable for comment.

The highlight of this extreme activity was the Rules and Precautions lecture given to us by the facility's manager, when, in the midst of an explanation emphasizing the importance of equipment safety, a Northern Irishman's gun went off, circumventing the crowd of bystanders immediately to his left and striking the sole gentleman from the Republic of Ireland in the leg.  I like to think that somewhere in the world, Seamus Heaney shed a single tear, and had no idea why.

That night we settled into our pension (which is a lot like a hostel, except the floors aren't stained with blood and you sleep on them), lit a bonfire, and got to know each other a little better over a New Zealand drinking game, which, much like their accent, is hilarious and only minimally difficult to understand.

 For kindle we used tattered pieces of discarded English flags.

Suck it you wankers!  Way to stick Hothands McPenisfingers between the posts.

(Next Up: Bungeee!!)