I enjoyed going to Kyongbokkung. It was one of the larger stops and had been designed to double as an art gallery. There were often interesting displays of painting, photography or sculpture gracing the walls. In the mornings, however, I had little time to linger and joined the legions of commuters shuffling down into the tunnels of the subway system. A quick three stops brought me to Ulchiro-sam-ga where I transferred to the green line. Early in the morning, even the green line was relatively uncrowded. There was often an available seat, but I rarely sat down. When I did, I quickly became uncomfortable as the car filled up and people crowded in on every side. I often ended up with two people sound asleep and slumped against my conveniently placed shoulders, and my nose planted in somebody’s bellybutton. Whenever a seat to either the right or left of me came free, there was such a rush of people to claim it that someone would be pushed onto my lap. When they saw that they were sitting on the lap of a foreigner, they were horribly embarrassed, or if they were young it would spark off a tremendous round of giggling and the entire car would discuss me for the next twenty minutes.

Standing was more tiring, but it had a couple of advantages. With my greater height, my nose was free to breathe the air up above the mass of people around me. The tops of their heads down below were pushed so closely together it resembled a large black carpet. I felt like a pilot flying up above dark clouds. It was easy to spot other foreigners even far across the car, since their heads stuck up like mine, a palm tree in a wheat field. I’d always flip them a wry smile in an attempt to share my discomfort and get some perspective.

The crowding routinely reached levels I never imagined possible. The people attempting to board literally pushed as hard as they could to get on no matter how crowded the car already was. And they pushed with a force equal to all their strength combined with the strength of the hundreds of people behind them and pushing. Those on the car would be knocked off balance and thrown against the people behind them. The force rocked through the crowd like a tidal wave through the ocean, unstoppable. The last person against the wall would be crushed hard enough that it was difficult for them to breathe. Many people passed out in the hot summer months.

I usually stood facing the people sitting down and it took all the strength in my arms to hold onto the metal bars. The shorter Koreans ended up pressing against the small of my back, and I feared I would be snapped right in half and dumped into some unsuspecting Ajimah’s lap. The press of people was so tight that those in the middle of the car needn’t hold onto anything even if they were lucky enough to be able to reach a strap or support of any kind; there wasn’t enough room to fall down. The movement of the car was reflected in a wave action through the helpless crowd, prompting scared cries and nervous laughs from the younger girls apprehensive of being squashed.

The men controlling the doors had no choice but to repeatedly hit the button sending the doors slamming into those unlucky enough to be half in or half out. Again and again the doors would slam until slowly they cut the crowd in half. I never stopped being amazed at the spectacle of people trying desperately to get on a train. They would throw a foot forward and jam the door. The conductor flipped the switch to open the door and quickly slam it shut, but they were never fast enough. The man with the foot in the door would lunge forward and get an arm, then a shoulder and finally his whole body into the car. Those inside, rather than push him away, would pull him in. Those not close enough to jam a foot would swing their purse or knapsack to block the door. Some used umbrellas. Once I saw an umbrella caught just as the train began to move, and it was wrenched out of the owner’s hand. It continued down the platform slapping people silly until it disappeared down the tunnel. I saw men come running up the stairs to catch a train before it left. Undaunted by the crowd, they jumped through the air and sailed over their heads to jam half in and half out of the door like an arrow shot into a bale of hay.

The pressure of the people inside once the doors were closed was held much like the pressure of a carbonated drink in a bottle. When the doors opened at a relatively uncrowded stop, people would be blown out like a cork out of a champagne bottle, flying as far as twenty feet in an uproar of cries and shouts and laughs.

If there was a large group waiting to get on, the result was awe inspiring. Koreans don’t stand back and make room for people at the best of times. In the crowded subway, he who made room was lost. Those wanting to get on, crowd the door before the train has even stopped moving. They can see that the train is crowded and this translates into panic as they realize there is a chance they won’t get on. Every single person has the same thought, “If there is room on that train for one more person I’m going to be that one.” Those on the train have no choice in the matter. As soon as the door opens they are shot out like rag dolls out of the barrel of a cannon. The wall pushing out hits the wall pushing in with a colossal crunch. Heaven help you if you are caught in the middle. Many times I saw a person grab hold of the door frame at the top in an effort to stay in the subway car. That was a big mistake, probably the biggest that can be made in the Seoul commuting lifestyle. The rush of people leaving lifts their feet right off the ground and they hang almost horizontal. They are left with no choice but to let go and take their chances that they won’t land on their head.

I lived in a constant state of terror that I would find myself in one of those crowded subway cars. Even boarding an empty train was no guarantee that it would stay empty. At the very next stop there could easily be thousands of people waiting. The Koreans were very aware of this and constantly jockeyed for position. They knew that to be close to the door meant risking a real bruising, but to be far from the door when a crowd pushed on meant you had little chance of ever getting off. Once they’d secured that ultimate prize, a seat, they still didn’t relax but kept constantly alert for the appearance of a better seat closer to the exit. If one suddenly appeared they’d leap to their feet and run for it. If someone beat them to it, they’d turn and make a desperate dive for the seat they’d vacated. Any amount of force was acceptable in this game. But when a victor emerged, the loser never retreated in bad grace. The two or three or four competitors would laugh and joke as they moved away, when, a moment before, they had been throwing full body tackles a linebacker would envy.

Families commuting together instinctively organized themselves along military lines. Young children would be sent ahead as scouts the instant the subway doors opened. With their size advantage, they’d scurry through the crowd like mice through a maze. If they found an empty seat, they’d jump on it attempting to repel any invaders and send up signal cries to their mothers or to their grandmothers, the dreaded Ajimah. The Ajimah was the armoured division and upon hearing a cry of victory from her scout would smash through the opposing lines and assume the seat. Other members of the family would stand around her in a protective perimeter always keeping an eye open for any new territory that looked ripe for acquisition. They’d send the scouts out in roving patterns and listen for any further reports. In this war, however, there was little loyalty. If five Ajimahs travelling together saw an empty seat, their friendship was out the window and all five would shriek and rush across the subway car elbowing and shoving each other out of the way to get it. Scouts were often too small to be noticed and were sacrificed in these brutal skirmishes if they were unlucky enough to claim a seat just before the five Ajimahs landed on it.

On top of the inconceivable crowding and the turmoil, commuters in the subway system had to deal with the newspaper sellers. These were young men working on a commission basis selling papers from car to car. They loaded up on a hundred papers of different kinds (usually sports) and with this battering ram under the arm sprinted from end to end shouting in ear splitting volume. Back and forth, back and forth in endless cycling they’d slam their way through the crowds. They never gave up, no matter how solidly packed the car, driving their shoulders into people and knocking them flying.

I found it very difficult to keep my temper under the stressful conditions on the subway, especially after a long day of teaching. More often than I care to admit, I ended up shouting at perfect strangers. Two or three times, I even climbed on a soapbox and delivered a frantic lecture at the top of my lungs to entire uncomprehending subway cars, “Why? Why do you do this to yourselves and to me? This isn’t the behavior of sane humans! You’re acting like animals! Animals! Can’t you see what you’ve done? Ten thousand people can’t fit on one subway car! They can’t! Trust me! Why don’t you wait for the next one? CHAAAAAAAANGE!!!!! Please CHAAAAAANGE!!!!!”

I also developed a subtle and not so subtle range of tactics of revenge. If someone came up from behind me in their rush to catch the train and slammed into me, I’d quickly reach out with my foot and lightly tap their heel over as they passed so they stumbled over their own feet. I did this regardless of their age or size – grandmothers, ten-year-old children, 200 pound wrestlers, anybody. When they turned, glaring, I’d whistle and innocently stare at the ceiling. I’d also use my knapsack as a weapon. As a teacher, I carried a good many books and I always made sure the heaviest book with the sharpest corners sat in the outside of my knapsack. That way anyone roughly slamming my bag out of the way would catch a nasty jab to the rib cage. The newspaper sellers were a favourite target. I’d wait for their passage and just as they straight-armed me, I’d make myself rigid and push back slightly but firmly. Encountering this unexpected resistance, they’d bounce off unbalanced and their annoying cry would cease at least for a merciful couple of seconds.

The many transfer points between subway lines were particularly dangerous. A full subway train would arrive at an empty platform and facing a set of wide stairs leading down to the other line. The instant the doors opened, hundreds would break into a sprint to beat the rush to the stairs. They’d hurl themselves down the stairs in wild abandon. Many times, I would be caught halfway up the stairs. I’d hear the train arriving above me and quicken my pace to try and get out of the way. If I was too late, I’d literally be bowled over by the stampede and sent tumbling down. Eventually, I lost all sense of self-consciousness and played the clown to make my point and let off steam. When I realized I wouldn’t make it and the thundering herd was going to overtake me, I’d turn and waving my arms over my head, and, shouting for help, run back down the steps.

Most foreigners in Korea experienced the same uneasy transformation. From calm, easygoing types who had never hurt a fly and who abhorred making scenes in public, they turned into raging irrational madmen. One friend of mine, Paul, tried to rip the door off of a taxi cab in his anger. Teachers were continually bursting in on the Directors of schools and pounding on desks in last-ditch attempts to get their pay. A British friend of mine was once faced with a hogwan that refused to pay him. He burst in and shouted among other things, “This is rubbish. Absolute rubbish.” The Korean director understood “radish” and wondered for several days why that strange foreigner had been calling him a vegetable. An Australian named James, who was probably the calmest and most reasonable person I’ve ever met, suddenly jumped out of his car in the middle of a busy Seoul intersection and before he even knew that he was going to do it started shouting and yelling at all the Korean drivers whose selfish and crazy driving habits created tie up after tie up. When he told me the story, he had a puzzled look on his face that clearly said he didn’t think of himself as the type of person who did things like that. Another foreigner wrote up his experience in the pages of the Resident Alien Liberation Front (or R.A.L.F.) newsletter. He went to the airport to meet his sister, who had flown in from the States. The two of them got in a taxi and soon the brother was involved in a screaming confrontation with the taxi driver over the fare. It ended with the taxi pulling to the side of the highway and the two of them piling out with all her luggage. The sister was aghast, never in her life having seen her brother act so strangely. The point of the humorous account came when the brother reflected on how much Korea had indeed changed him and not necessarily for the better.

Women had a particularly rough time. A few rooms down from me in the Inn Sung Do lived a tall striking woman from the U.S. named Lynda. She was one of the first people I met at the yogwan, and I came to know her as a wonderfully kindhearted person. She had originally come to Korea as a Mormon missionary and worked with deaf mutes. Unfortunately, her height, long dark hair and exotic foreign features proved irresistible for Korean men on the subway and roving hands in the impersonal crowd became a real problem. I knocked on her door late one night to find her more agitated than usual. She had had, she said, an experience on the subway. The roving hands had roved a bit more than normal, and she had finally turned on a man who must have been half her size and decked him. I slept better that night than I had for weeks and went through the next day with a silly grin on my face as I pictured Lynda hauling back and flooring some idiot on the subway.

My classes at the Munwha were at least early enough that I normally missed the real rush hour on the green line. I strap hung for fourteen stops, hanging on with one hand and holding the novel of the day with the other. For the most part, the Korean passengers fell asleep instantly on the subway. Being strangers was no barrier to slumping comfortably against the nearest shoulder. The subway jumped aboveground just before rocketing across the Han River on the kilometer-long Chamshil Bridge.

Every morning was a repeat of the chaos of my first day. The Enforcer would be there in the lobby cigarette in hand. I’d get my coffee and wait for Mark to arrive with his daughter over his shoulder. He’d tell me another story about his wife’s family before going to face the classes. I figured out how to work the gas heaters, but they were never very functional. There were two in each room, and my students would huddle in tight groups directly beneath them. I found out that they did have textbooks and expected to use them, but it was hopeless. The lessons were a complete jumble. They had each been badly photocopied from some other book, and, taken out of context, they made no sense at all. They often demanded skills that hadn’t been covered earlier if in fact the words were legible at all.

After my classes, I’d spend the day futilely looking for other work. It was like trying to capture smoke between my fingers. The schools played Let’s Make a Deal with my life – always enticing me with Door #3 which turned out to be empty. I called school after school which advertised in the newspapers and others from a list I picked up at the British Council. I talked to people who spoke good English and called themselves President or Director. I set up interview times, and when I arrived, they’d be gone for lunch or gone home. I played telephone tag for days and days and walked miles in fruitless attempts at getting interviews. Schools lied, procrastinated, led me on, broke verbal agreements and generally displayed an uncaring and baffling incompetence. On the phone and at the few interviews I got I was promised the sun and the moon and the stars but nothing ever materialized. They had no problem booking my time and getting all kinds of commitments from me and then blithely blowing me off at a later time. Perhaps the lowest point in this period was the short episode involving the Weasel.

 

 

 

Tags: Han River, Korea, Korea - First Days Teaching English, mine, train