"Damn, What the Hell Is This Place That These Green Kids Keep Crawling Into..."
"Damn it, what the hell is this place where these fresh-faced kids keep crawling in and causing shit..."
A decent-sized rural village in Gyeongsangbuk-do, with its old supermarket and small market. But the adults here weren't as generous as one might hope. We'd come to the village for a specific purpose and planned to stay a few days, so we'd politely introduced ourselves and asked for their understanding. But the old man I pegged as the village head started throwing shade right off the bat.
I like people who throw shade. Precisely, I like it when my own people do it to my ideas—it means they're honest and loyal. On the flip side, when total strangers with no ties start in, it gives me a perfect excuse to fuck them up legally off the books. Manners aren't something just anyone can have, regardless of age or gender. Manners are ancient knowledge reserved for the educated, those who've learned the hard truth that skipping courtesy means a conversation with fists.
That old geezer looked at least sixty, but somehow he'd gone through all those years without picking up a shred of manners.
"We have no intention of causing any trouble or mischief, sir. If anything, we're sorry for bothering folks who've been rooted here for ages. So, as a small token of our sincerity..."
They say three forbearances could spare even Jesus the cross. I torched the first one and handed over the gift set we'd bought at the rest stop, plastering on a smile.
The deeper you go into the countryside from the provinces, the stingier the locals get—the self-appointed bosses with their sour dispositions. I'd learned how to deal with them back in my sales days. If a stranger snaps at you right away or nitpicks openly? It's one of two things. Either they've been burned by outsiders one too many times and built up prejudices, or they're itching to gouge tourists who don't know the local scams and flex their turf rights.
Most are the latter. City tourists flock to "sights," not random backwater holes no one's heard of. Back in the '80s to 2000s, folks went to friendly rural spots for clean streams and valleys to beat the heat. But now, in 2025, everything's changed. They say the landscape shifts every ten years; it's been twenty-five since those nostalgic days. A generation's turned over, and attitudes have warped with the environment.
Those young workers back then slaved in fields and with livestock year-round, no time for fun, just watching outsiders trickle in. Now they're old, playing king of the hill, finally realizing they hold some power—and they lord it over visitors.
Tourist spots butter you up for cash (scams aside), but no-account villages like this? Stingy as hell. Sounds like a generalization fallacy? Sure, but I'm saying it anyway because I feel like it.
Modern city folk who try farming? Nine out of ten fail, and even if they stick it, they get hammered by rural clannishness—meddling, blatant demands for money and labor. The more insular and community-obsessed the dead-end village, the worse it is.
Which is why my approach should work like a charm.
"Who the hell do you think you are, bringing just one of these? If you're gonna bother, you should've brought enough to go around the village elders!"
This fucking prick.
The second forbearance went up in flames inside me. Sure, it was a rest-stop gift set, but outsiders bringing this stuff are usually TV crew—rare for regular folks as a gesture. And this asshole rejects it like it's trash?
I can't stand for that. Sure enough, the ghost story club kids—short on social savvy—froze awkwardly, so I stepped up as the adult.
"We're new here and didn't know the lay of the land, sir. Please be generous and think of it as giving us some life lessons."
"You talk a big game, but why screw up on the basics? You look like college kids out for fun, but this is private property. Don't you know you need permission from locals for anything on this land? Kids these days... tsk, what kind of home training do they get?"
He grumbled but snatched the red ginseng tonic set from my hands like it was his due.
"No free crash at the village hall, so find a place to stay, sleep in your car, or fuck off elsewhere. But cause any trouble, and you're out. Cops around here are all my bros—don't get cute."
"Of course, sir. We'll keep quiet, do our thing, leave no trash behind, and go clean."
"Tsk. Now scram."
With his dismissive wave, we finally escaped the headman's place. The third forbearance blazed away. Nearly had to chop down a tree myself for a cross to nail that pig to.
As expected, back at the car, the mood was sour. We'd groveled and got abuse, plus banned from the village hall. No wonder tempers flared.
Outsiders offer gifts to use the hall for easy lodging, bathrooms, showers. Skipping a shower won't kill you, but shitting outdoors sucks for city folk. No nearby stream here—just mountains. Camping up there was risky.
October's knocking; mountain nights drop cold fast, bugs and beasts lurk, fires for cooking are a hassle. Illegal on private land without permits? You're fucked.
These camping newbies packed basics—gear, food, changes of clothes, toiletries, cameras. No blankets, sleeping bags, heat packs? Reckless kids could die or get hurt up there in late September.
So, adult me had to mediate. Part of the gig—and the pay.
"Camping high up is dangerous, so pitch at the village edge where folks won't spot us easy. Even stingy locals won't chase street campers or flex."
They could claim every inch private, and legally, yeah, unauthorized camping's a no-go. That's why village outskirts—less busybodies.
"Rural folks are so stingy. I heard country hospitality was the best..."
"Old news. Now with internet and smartphones, even gramps are plugged in, worldly—and greedier. Farmhouses build illegal sheds on 'private' land, charge 100k for chicken stew. Everywhere."
"Heard stories, but not this bad."
How do I know? Fucked around sales-hosting VIPs in these spots. They love secret hideaways, often rural dives. My job: booze them up, flatter, join pointless hikes and photo ops. Seen it all.
Fuck, explaining ate time. Am I MC-level at progressing? No thanks to 'explainer' label.
I wanted to move on—the ghost club job.
"We'll shift the car to the outskirts for camping. First, scout that abandoned hospital. Gotta see it before filming and ghost-hunting."
"Agreed. Chan-young, mind setting up recording cams on the prelim?"
"Fact: Fine."
"But it's getting late—sunset before camp setup. Split: setup team and scout team."
Choi Yeon-jun's point was solid; I nodded for them to divide.
He eagerly paired himself with Park Seol-ha for setup, assigning Lee Ji-ah and Lee Chan-young to me for scouting.
"Chan's on gear and editing—needs to handle shots. His job, right?"
"Fact: Fact."
"I've got spiritual senses, so I'll scout and assist Mr. Han."
"Haha, how'd you know? Can't leave two girls for heavy lifting, so I'll stay with Seol-ha."
Yeon-jun milked Ji-ah's line, seeking my silent nod. Fair enough. Girls alone can't haul tents, setup, food; can't spare gear guy Chan-young. Two guys scouting leaves girls hanging. So psychic Ji-ah and tech Chan-young with me. Smart split.
"Map says village edge, 20-min walk to low hill midway up. Tour inside, setup gear—round trip two hours."
Two hours gives the pair time for tents, dinner. I slipped in the timeline for pressure; Yeon-jun'd hustle.
"Let's roll!"
"Fact: Rolling."
A fierce urge hit me to jack up my daily rate.