Yesterday morning, on the way to school, my host mother admitted to me that she doesn't understand why I am so interested in going to Suncheon Bay (I've been there maybe three times already). "I just want to see the birds," I said. There is a rare breed of crane, the red hooded crane, that winters in Suncheon Bay. Then my host mother said she knew about the birds, but that most people in Suncheon weren't interested in seeing them (I guess she must have momentarily forgotten about the famous cranes the last time we went to the bay, when I told her I wanted to see the birds and her response was to point and yell, "Look, Tamara, a bird!" everytime we saw a duck or seagull).
Today I went back to the bay. Another foreigner (actually, the guy I talk about meeting in the "Moon worship" post) gave me directions on how to bicycle to the bay--apparently this was a good way to see cranes, if any were still around this late in the season. Last week a teacher at my school loaned me a bicycle for the rest of the semester, so everything was shaping up. This morning I left the house around nine. Luckily, the sun was out today as opposed to yesterday, when it was cloudy and almost rainy. The cold wind was still at it, but all in all it was fortunate weather. It took me about an hour to bike through town to the river. I stuck to the sidewalks since I didn't have a helmet and traffic in Korea still kind of scares me.
The helpful guy (who is also turns out is an English teacher at my host sisters' middle school, an interesting coincidence) told me to follow the river on the west side. There's a nice paved path on both sides of the river for walkers and bikers. He told me that the paved path would disappear, but to keep going and eventually I would hit the bay.
I soon reached the spot he told me about; the paved path ended and there was a small bridge across the water. I tried to forge ahead, but there was construction going on and the old man there told me to turn back. I decided to continue to follow the river on the east side--as long as I kept following the river south I would hit the bay eventually.
Unfortunately, the path on the east side ended soon as well, but I kept going, over bumpy dirt roads. Eventually I found myself on a rutted dirt path surrounded on both sides by high yellow reeds. I passed what looked like a sort of make-shift dirtbike course, with all these round turns carved into the dirt and little piles of tires as obstacles. It looked pretty cool. I also passed some small plots of land with cabbages growing. It seems like a lot of public land is sort of up for grabs for people who want to grow food. It didn't take long until I was completely surrounded by farm land. My path diverged from the river a bit, but I kept my eye on it as I biked along, various different crops separating us. There was no way to cross back over to the west side at this point, so I just kept going. The sun was warm and when the wind let up it was downright pleasant. I felt a little odd biking through agricultural fields, on paths both paved and unpaved that I knew had not been intended for bicyclists, but there was no one around to scold me.
I had gotten the impression from the guy, and from previous experience trying to see the cranes at the bay, that the best place to see the cranes was probably on the river near the mouth of the bay. So far I'd seen numerous ducks of different kinds, egrets and even a heron flying overhead. But no cranes. However, as I was biking along it seemed I startled some birds, who took off into the air. I saw that they were quite large, and too dark colored to be herons. I tried to bike faster to get a better look, but they were quick--and definitely shy, as I hadn't even been a stone's throw from them when they took off. I decided that they were red-hooded cranes that had been resting in one of the fields. I regretted not getting a good look at them, but I was optimistic at this point. Before embarking on the trip, I hadn't even been sure if the cranes were still around. This was going to be my last attempt to see them, whether I was successful or not.
I managed to work my way over to a path closer to the water, but soon the path faded away ahead of me. In the distance I saw a large familiar building--the bay's visitor's center. At first this excited me. I'd made it all the way to the bay in under two hours. But then I was disappointed. At the bay itself it was actually difficult if not impossible to see the cranes. You had to pay 20 bucks to ride a boat that would take you around. The fact that I had reached the end of my trip meant my chances of seeing the birds had dwindled to almost nothing. I decided to go all the way there, get something to eat at one of the restaurants at the bay, and maybe I would see if the boats were running and just do that.
This wasn't to be however. The path I'd been following dead-ended into dense reeds. I saw a promising looking paved path that seemed to cross over to the other side of the river. When I followed it all I found was a boat crossing. A thick rope entered the water here, apparently attached to a boat that was drifting somewhere in the center of this small branch of the river. There was no way to get across. I understood why my friend had told me to follow the path on the west side of the river. That's where the buildings stood, and that was obviously the easiest way to reach the bay itself. After considering my situation for a few moments, I admitted that there was no way to get to the bay now. It would make more sense to just go home, since there was nowhere to cross for miles, and even if I decided to go back and cross, there was the construction that would still be in my way.
I turned around and pushed my bike back over the path. I faced a high ridge of mountains in the distance. The water on either side of the path--a land-bridge, really--sparkled in the sunlight. There was trash scattered at the water's edge. The tide had sculpted a bit of shoreline, dark black mud, into a tiny mountain of soft curves, like something from a potter's wheel. I pushed my bike up over a hillock and turned left to get back on my path.
Then I glanced to the right and saw them. I gasped. I think I even said "Oh." There were a great distance off, but still unmistakable. They rested in the field, so numerous, like a distant gray and black forest. I could see their dark bodies and curved gray necks. They seemed turned towards me, as if watching. I pushed my bike down the slope towards the field. A straight path, parallel with an irrigation ditch, would take me towards them. I decided to leave my bike behind. I knew they were flighty. Undoubtedly they'd seen me before I'd even seen them. I wanted to appear as small and unthreatening as possible. There must have been at least thirty of them. I laid my bike down in the gravel and began slowly approaching. In Kyoto I'd bought a disposable camera when I realized my own was beyond hope. Now I had this camera in my hand, ready. I knew there was very little chance I would get close enough to get a good picture, but I didn't care. At this point I felt like I wanted proof that I had seen them, that was all.
The birds seemed unsettled immediately after I started walking towards them. As I neared, about one third of the birds took to the air, while the rest remained motionless on the ground. The first group circled slowly, crying softly, throaty. I kept going forward, willing the rest to stay put, but also taking a few pictures though I knew I'd need a magnifying glass to look at them later. After a similar interval of time, the second group took off and imitated the first, circling, crying, but not leaving the area, just circling, their dark bodies juxtaposed against the mountains, and then the blue sky, and then the mountains again. I was still not close enough to see more than their dark plumage and approximate shapes. Finally, when I maybe a little less than a city block's distance away, the last group lifted into the air. But first, as if jumping the gun, only one slightly lighter in color flew up. Then, a handful of steps later, the rest joined him. They flew towards me but not quite over me, circled, and then the whole flock flew off towards the bay.
My last night in Tokyo, we all went to a big onsen (a hot spring---pretty similar to the bathhouses here in Korea). It was a fun place, luxurious. Elliot's brother David had aptly described it as the Disneyland of onsens. After the locker-rooms, but before you entered the actual baths, there was an area where the genders could meet up in their robes, eat food, relax, and play games. The place was fashioned to look like a traditional Japanese village; huts and artificial cherry blossoms. After paying your entrance fee (cheap, considering what it was) you got to pick a yakata from about twenty different designs. I chose a robe with cranes on the back, cranes that were black and white with red on their heads. The three of us girls stopped in the bathroom before we headed out to the hot tubs themselves, and Naoko, Elliot's recent sister-in-law, told me I looked good in the yakata (I'd been wearing winter clothes including a big coat during the rest of the time in Tokyo, so it was probably bit of a contrast to see me wearing just one, steamlined layer of clothing as opposed to my usual five warm layers). Looking down at the pattern on my robe, I told her about the cranes in Suncheon Bay. She told me that in Japan, the crane is believed to live for one hundred years, thus the crane is a symbol of immortality.
I wanted to see the cranes in Suncheon because, though they return there year after year, I doubt I'll ever come back here (or if I do, I certainly won't come in winter). On the bike ride home, the wind was in my face instead of at my back. I was cold, and pedaling was harder. My hands on the handlebars had turned red and dry-looking. But I was smiling. I sang to myself as I pedaled along, pulling over to let huge trucks bearing construction materials pass. I had never gotten a close look at the birds, but I was satisfied.
