I just finished teaching six classes of screaming, poking, disruptive little Korean children how to speak English. I really don't have the time or energy to sit down and write a full-on entry. If I am going to get anywhere with this blog, I am going to have to write in the morning, and to do that I need my laptop. Never in my life have I missed a stupid piece of electronic gadgetry as I miss my laptop right now.

But I composed this (rough) poem about transportation in Korea. Ahem...

The bus drivers are all maniacs
the cabbies must be blind
Julie's bike keeps breaking down
in fives lanes of traffic roaring honking swerving
passing close enough to touch.
The city is a canyon and
The Koreans are the water and
The Americans are the boats.
Signs pass me by, screaming
blaring nothing in loud neon voices
drowned by the roar of Julie's bike.

OK, it's kinda free verse. Actually, it kinda needs ALOT of work. But perhaps it gives the reader a vignette of getting from point A to point B in Korea.

Busan is a HUGE city. I climbed the mountain behind my house last week and met a professor from Busan National University. He indicated with his finger the full fifty kilometers (30 miles for my fellow Americans) that Busan stretches down the coast. It is basically one gigantic international port. There are so many ships in the water that from my vantage point on the mountain top I can see the rough lanes they travel both within the harbors and out in the ocean. Dozens and dozens of high-prowed fishing vessels, huge container ships laden with goods, tankers of all sorts and tiny private yachts form lines in the ocean stretching from horizon to horizon. It being a clear day and me being more than 300 meters high, I got a special treat.

"Ilbon," said the professor, pointing to the southeast. Japan. One of the lesser islands belonging to Japan, to be more precise, but Japan none the less. The mountain peaks poked above the distant horizon. It gave me a chill. Numerous violently successful invasions of Korea have come from that direction. Korea has only been out from under Japanese rule for the last fifty years thanks to America.

The sight of that island must be a constant reminder of the deep hatred Koreans harbor for the Japanese. Currently, the two countries are hotly contesting a tiny, lifeless piece of rock off the northern coast of Korea called Dok-do. The Koreans, bolstered by their 37,000-strong American Marine force, have decided to call it their own. The Japanese, with it's slightly lesser American muscle, have done the same. As my friend Gavin likes to say, "And hilarity ensues."

Today my 5A class (fourth graders) sang me a song titled "Dok-do Neun Woori Dong," which roughly translates to "Dok-do belongs to us." The simple lines to this song go something like this, over and over again:

Dok-do is our island
Dok-do is Korean island

I recorded it with my minidisk player, so as soon as I get my #&%!!!#@* laptop I'll upload the soundbyte to the blog. American nationalism usually consists of smug bumper stickers and happy patriotic songs glorifying freedom. Korean nationalism consists of telling the Japanese where they can stick it. You gotta love such a blatant and unremorseful show of political incorrectness.

Anyway, back to transportation.

Coming down from my American addiction to the automobile has been easier than I thought. First of all, there is a first-rate bus and subway system that would shame most American cities. It is easy to use, fast, efficient, and absolutely never late. Secondly, the cabs are cheap, knowledgable and fast. Thirdly (I hate that word), my roommate has a motorbike.

That being said, using the motorbike is to stare Death in the face for twenty to forty-five minutes at a time. Oh, and I ride on the back. The 125cc Harley-knockoff (which set dear Julie back only $500) is loud, hard to steer, and as I indicated in the poem, it can putter out at any minute.

Compounding these very real issues is the skill and manners of the drivers around you. Busan is a major city with huge six to eight lane streets spanning dozens of kilometers, every inch of which is covered in a hellish mix of taxies, buses, scooters, motorcycles and automobiles. As far as I can tell, traffic laws (if not all laws in Korea, but I'll get to that later) are only a suggestion at best. People run lights all the time, depending on if someone is coming from the other direction. Koreans must consider turn-signals some kind of Western curiosity, because they never use them. I have yet to see a speed-limit sign and tailgating must be Korea's national pasttime. What few cops you see don't dare concern themselves with traffic violations, they'd drive themselves mad!

According to Julie there is only one crime henious (sp?) enough to visit a traffic stop: Being white, female and Western. One girl we know has been pulled over a record eight times. She doesn't have a licence, tag or insurance (typical, actually), but that doesn't seem to bother the cops. They chat her up a little and let her go "all smiles."

There is one caveat to driving in Korea: Don't have any, and I mean ANY alcohol on your breath. There is no BAC laws here. If the cops even catch the faintest whisp of alcohol whatsoever they will haul you in. I have heard that this is in response to the vast number of cab drivers who spend much of their workday completely trashed.

Now, I have to give the Koreans their due: I have not seen an single traffic accident since I have been here. They drive like shit, but they drive like shit together. They merge, pass and flow like water in a rocky stream. They all seem to understand each other perfectly. The only people who present problems are us: The Westerners. We don't violate the laws in the same way they do and thus we are sand in their well-oiled machine.

Anyway, tomorrow or the next day or whenever I will get to WHERE Julie's bike (and Julie) have been escorting me. I hope you enjoyed this blog, I didn't really mean to write it. I just got caught up in it, I guess. Peace.