After three and a half hours, and with darkness upon us, I finally scribbled the last inscription into my notebook. I couldn’t feel the fingers of my right hand; they were cramped from writing and the cold.
Cemeteries to me represent the end of lives. They weren’t fun places for me.
* * *
After three weeks touring historic places in Seoul, Heju and I were itching to get out on the road and motor through the country. I had recently bought a used and inexpensive red 1994 Hyundai Scoupe. The car’s most salient features were its bucket seats and ample leg room, the latter in short supply in most Korean compact cars. Granted, the car’s shock absorbers were kaput, and if I drove up a mildly challenging hill, the engine would inevitably overheat and the temperature gauge would shoot up to “extremely dangerous” territory. But the Scoupe cost just 1.5 million won (US$1,250), and I only needed it for a few months anyway.
I didn’t even want a car. There are already about twenty million vehicles on South Korea’s roads. Comparatively, Ireland has just 1.5 million. Canada — one hundred times larger in area than South Korea — has just 13 million. Seven million vehicles are registered in Seoul alone. But if we wanted to travel to all the destinations we had planned to, trains and buses were not the way to go, particularly for those places located off the beaten path.
The month before we started out, I had to sit three separate tests to earn my Korean driver’s licence. The first was a written one, followed by driving on a controlled course, and finally on the road. The second was conducted on a long, narrow swath of pavement next to a creek that fed the south shore of the Han River. The circuit had an S-curve, a stop sign, a traffic light, a crosswalk, and a parallel parking area. I was hustled into a little compact car at the start line. On the dashboard was a small electronic screen showing the number 100 in red. Suddenly, the car started blurting loud nonsensical Korean phrases at me.
I cursed. I had paid 60,000 won (US$50) to take the test, and I had the sinking feeling that I was already behind the eight ball. I craned my neck back and forth trying in vain to find the source of “The Voice.”
Beep, I heard, as the number on the screen dropped to 95. I hadn’t even stepped on the gas pedal yet. Then there was another voice coming from a loudspeaker outside the car; I guessed it was my cue to begin the test. I worked the clutch and slowly proceeded forward. Beep, the number fell to 90 at the S-turn. Beep again at the traffic light: 85. Another beep as I went through the lights. Now 80. Then I was suddenly accosted by a startlingly loud whining blast from a siren inside the car. I almost had a heart attack. I stopped the car.
I swore again, furious that my test was now doomed for sure. “What’s going on?”
Beep. The red number changed to 75 and a young man suddenly ran across the track toward the car like a storm trooper. He flung open my door and told me to get out.
I was fuming. “I’m not going anywhere!”I retorted, refusing to budge, but the fellow practically pulled me out, then got behind the wheel and drove the car off the track.
I made a beeline to the track-side office, where I informed an official, in both Korean and English, that this was the most moronic test in the annals of world driving history! I looked out over to the track and noted a young Korean woman driver being unceremoniously pulled out of her car, too.
Not ironically, sometime after this, I came across a weekly Korea Times column entitled, “Seoul Help Center for Foreigners,” and in it a Canadian complained about taking the same test on the same track. “I had a very bad experience today going for my driving test,” he wrote. “I was thrown into the car with everyone knowing that I don’t speak Korean, but during the test, the car spoke Korean to me. The examiner did not provide guidance, and no one told me I would have to wait for a Korean voice to go ahead. I have ten years of driving experience in Canada, and I know that I drive better than a lot of Koreans. I really hope something can be done about this terrible situation.”
The Seoul Help Center had printed the reason why the Canadian had failed: he didn’t use a turn signal, failed to fully stop at an intersection, didn’t check the white line while parallel parking, and did not stop within two seconds when the emergency siren rang. Everyone is required to score over 80 to pass. “Please study Korean driving rules and try again.” The article failed to address the fact that they fail to warn you that the test will be conducted in Korean.
A week later, I paid another 60,000 won to take the test again. This time I brought along my pal Moon (“Moonie”) Seok-mo as a translator, and I passed. You’d think Koreans would be safe and circumspect drivers after all this rigorous testing. Yet, the moment they get onto the road, it seems many drivers, men in particular, miraculously transform into Formula One champion wannabes.
Heju and I loaded up the Scoupe’s trunk and back seat with cardboard boxes containing hundreds of clipped newspaper articles, travel brochures, maps, newspapers, and books related to Korea. Into our bags we stuffed sundries and clothes (Heju’s also seemed to contain a high percentage of skin creams, ointments, lotions, and potions, I noticed). I had with me my “Bible” — the trip’s engine, the Holy Grail, which contained a summarized chronological list of hundreds of places we would stop at along the way. It had taken me two years to populate and organize “The Bible,” and it was essential. Bryson may have driven more than nine hundred unfettered kilometres in a single day, from Daly Waters to Alice Springs in Australia’s Northern Territory. That is equivalent to driving the length of South Korea, twice. If we attempted a similar marathon drive, not only would we complete the entire trip in two days, but we’d bypass everything worth seeing.
I would motor (Heju did not drive) slowly, purposefully, and assiduously as if I were a retired gentleman navigating a Winnebago across North America. This was not only for safety reasons, but because we didn’t want to miss out on the local scenery and points of interest.
The plan was to first head northwest from Seoul, then move counterclockwise: south down the western flank of the peninsula, east along the south coast, north up the eastern shore, and finally west along the border back to Seoul. The country is not wide, so we figured we could sneak inland to visit places of interest without too much difficulty.
We had neatly packed the car to capacity. But for reasons I can’t fully explain, when it came time to depart Seoul, stuff was lying unpacked around the seats and at Heju’s ankles. We seemed to be travelling in a veritable market on wheels.
“We’re finally ready to go!” I announced triumphantly.
Heju glanced at the overstuffed Scoupe and replied cynically, “It looks like we’re homeless and living out of the car.”
Her pessimism sometimes aggravated me. We were finally ready to rock ’n’ roll though.
Chapter 3
It was April tenth. The morning was nippy, overcast and grey. Heju and I got in the Scoupe to begin the drive to our first destination, Ganghwado (do means “island”), located about seventy-five kilometres northwest of our current location, Myeongil-dong in east Seoul. Off we headed northwest along Expressway 88 — named for the year Seoul hosted the Summer Olympics. The road hugged the south shore of the Han River and traced the great span of Seoul from east to west, a drive of more than an hour, in which time we passed more than twenty bridges that cross over the river to the north shore. Then, as the infrastructure and apartment buildings began petering out in the far western reaches of Seoul, we switched onto Road 48, which took us northwest across the wide expanse of the Gimpo Plain toward the coast.
I found the drive along the No. 48 a bit disappointing. Covering the plain was a combination of flat agricultural land and pockets of low hills, and along the weaving road was a haphazard assortment of spartan dwellings and light industry. We arrived at the coast by Ganghwa Bridge at the base of a thickly wooded mountain slope. Across the kilometre-wide Yeomha Channel we could see the northeast shore of Ganghwa Island. Along the mainland and Ganghwa shorelines we could see nothing but muddy