I had contacted KiTae via email after reading of an American woman's recent visit to MunMak Center. Her account had been posted to a listserv dedicated to foreigners living in Korea (send an email to kexpat@uriel.net for info on the listserv). She'd written of the center's location in idyllic terms and of GiCheon as a difficult yet rewarding martial art which was uniquely Korean and little-known. I was especially intrigued by her brief descriptions of movements and poses which involved severe twisting and flexing of the joints. I'm double-jointed in several places, and though more inclined to meditation than sparring, I thought a martial art involving hyperextension might have some things to teach me about my bendy body.

It was night as the van climbed through MunMak's gate. That's something of a redundancy, "MunMak's gate," because Mun means gate. Mak signifies a sort of guard house. The center takes its name from the nearest sizeable town. There are two schools of thought (at least) about how the town got its name. It is situated in the mountains near the intersection of three provinces, so the name may refer to the guarding of this strategic position. Also, the name is likely to be an evolution of the phrase 'Mul ma Geun,' meaning roughly, 'the water is clear and clean.'

I had a quick tour of the compound: the large GiCheon studio near the gate, the midpoint of a path leading in one direction to a kitchen and dining hall, and, in the other direction, to a short row of bungalows. I would be staying in the bungalow farthest from the studio. I was charmed straightaway by the coziness of its low-ceilinged, octagonal design, and surprised by its little luxuries: lots of windows, a gas stove, and electric lights powered, I discovered, by a gasoline-fueled generator tucked away in a nearby ravine.

After I dropped off my pack at the bungalow, Kitae took me to the creek, where I splashed away the dust of two days' travel (from Ulsan on the southeast coast). He encouraged me to drink, and I did -- warily at first, then deeply. It was a sweet relief to partake directly of crisp, unmistakeably wholesome water, after months of city life -- drinking from bottles and boiling the tapwater.

The conversation we had then was the first of several there at the creek by the studio. These talks run together in my mind; he spoke of a large stone on the mountaintop above, where the creek's first rivulets of water conjoin, a sculpture of the future buddha, of the politics of ancient Korea and how men of power had used the messianic lore of the future buddha to rally and sway the people. He pointed out the feminine aspect of the mountains rising on either side of the creek and the uterine topography of the ravine. In a tone both serious and playful, he discussed the fertility of the valley in which we stood, and told me that the first village downstream was named after the rhythmic grain-threshing windmill, a metaphor for lovemaking.

These early observations regarding the topography of the creek and mountains led to later discussions of GiCheon and the body. The Gi in GiCheon refers to the living energy more commonly known by the Chinese word Chi. In the world of GiCheon, the free and full flow of Gi is essential to physical and mental health and spiritual progress. In explaining the flow of Gi to me, KiTae called my attention again to the creek and ravine. When the ravine has steep slopes, the water flows swiftly and rarely dries up. He then showed me his lower back, where the practice of GiCheon has shaped his lumbar region into just such a ravine, his spine a straight seam deep within a cleft of muscle. The aging process, he went on to explain, flattens the muscles, levelling the 'creekbed' between, causing the Gi to flow sluggishly and stagnate until eventually the precious energy flow dries up completely, causing death.

The action of GiCheon on the shape of the body is fascinating. I have never seen an adult physiognomy like KiTae's. His limbs are fully rounded, with muscle equally developed on all sides of the bone and curving sharply inward to meet his joints. Even at rest, these foothills of muscle work against the ridgeline of his shoulders, giving his spine the recurve of an unstrung bow. His knees, elbows, ankles and wrists seem likewise supported at all times in an effortless flex. While it is true that I have not seen the like of KiTae's musculature, the overall set of the body is familiar: squint your eyes and you might mistake him for an oversized toddler, shoulders backflung and limbs akimbo in a concerted effort to reach the cookie jar. A clear glance, however, readily dispells this Pooh-bear illusion. KiTae's limbs are rounded not by baby fat, but by supple muscle. This conditioning is brought about by the most fundamental and critical principle of GiCheon: YeokGeun.

YeokGeun requires the practicioner of GiCheon to maintain the joints in full flex for extended periods of time. Here is a simple exercise to assist in understanding what is meant by full flex: hold one palm flat against a surface; now curve the fingertips back and away from the surface. A phrase which comes to mind is 'locking' the joints into place. A way of expressing YeokGeun which is perhaps more appropriate than 'locking,' however, is 'opening.' KiTae has encouraged me to visualize opening a door so fully that the hinges will bend no further.

With the joints 'opened,' Gi may circulate freely throughout the body. Unconditioned joints are thought to slow and even block completely this vital energy flow. According to GiCheon philosophy, the free flow of Gi is essential not only to the health of the individual, but on a grander scale as well, to the harmonious balance of the Earth, humanity, and the universe. The cycling of Gi through this trinity of planes is reflected in many GiCheon poses and movements, the practitioner's body describing triangular and circular shapes.

When I asked KiTae to explain to me the meaning of 'Cheon' in GiCheon, he was clearly somewhat exasperated by the obstacle of translation. The term Cheon is laden with meaning to Koreans. "It is... all of everything in the cosmos," KiTae told me, going on to explain that Koreans address Cheon in prayer during times of drought. Yet it was obvious that the language barrier would allow him to convey only a glimpse of the word's meaning. When confronted by such semantic resistance, KiTae often laughs a certain sighing laugh. His voice has a leonine quality, not unlike that of James Earl Jones. At moments such as these, which might engender frustration, even anger, he seems amused in an almost melancholy way. I cannot imagine this man succumbing to stress or self-pity.

I am a slow learner; during my stay at MunMak, I learned one static YeokGeun pose and one brief sequence of movements. In the pose, called NaeGaShinJang, I have the look of a man on horseback warding off a descending blow. The movement, DanBaeGong, is a counterbalanced stretch to the sides, front, back, up onto the toetips and down into a kneeling bow. After practicing these first steps for a couple of months, I plan to seek out KiTae again for more GiCheon philosophy and physical instruction. He is currently in the process of opening a new center in Ilsan city, Kyonggido, north of Seoul city, and can be contacted at the following email address: gicheonmaster@yahoo.com

[D. Julian, August 2001]