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| © Ross Brown |
Thursday, July 16, 1998
The heat and humidity of the summer morning was already making my shirt stick to my moist skin, and the breeze that was created by my scooter, racing along the narrow, two-lane road that took me from Jeonju University campus to Hyoja-Dong, crossing through wet rice fields, did nothing to cool me. The hot blast of air was like a furnace inside a volcano.
The only thing I could do to feel fresh, for a short while, anyway, was to return to my apartment and shower during breaks. A fresh change into dry clothes was a must in this weather.
The university dictated that male teachers wear a suit, but my three suits—one, that I brought with me, from Canada; the other two were purchased in Pyeongtaek, last autumn, with Brad—were made of a wool that didn’t breathe, and I would not be able to survive, outdoors, in them. On the days that I wore them, I would have to go straight from my apartment to an air-conditioned taxi, and straight indoors at the university, where fans and concrete only barely kept us cool enough to not overheat. Mercifully, an air-conditioning unit had been installed in the teachers’ office, and my colleagues and I spent as much time at our desks as time would allow. But by mid-morning, my undershirt and dress shirt would be soaked in sweat and I would need to change them, at the very least.
Summers in South Korea were not made for business attire.
When the warmer weather first appeared, I noticed that Choi Chul-won wore a lighter material for his traditional hanbok, and was allowed to teach while wearing his outfits, rather than a traditional Western suit.
“Mr. Choi, where do you get your hanbok?” I asked on a day where the heat was especially bad. “Would a Korean be offended if a waegook was dressed in hanbok?”
Chul-won smiled. “You would want to wear hanbok to teach?”
“Why not? It looks good on you. It certainly looks cooler.” Indeed, the baggy trousers and loose-fitting coat seemed to keep further away from skin than a dress shirt and trousers, and Chul-won wore a simple white t-shirt under the coat. On his feet, he wore breathable sandals and no socks. He never seemed to break a sweat.
“Mmm, I don’t think anyone would be offended to see you in hanbok. Maybe they would feel honoured that you would want to be like a Korean.”
“Would you be willing to accompany me to your tailor and help me select an appropriate outfit?”
“Yes,” said Chul-won. “You would need someone to translate. We could go this afternoon, if you like.”
I had purchased two outfits: one, a light-beige weave for the pants and a silky, dusty-rose coat; the other, a matching, smokey-grey with orange piping around the collar and trim. Chul-won showed me the proper way to wrap the oversized trousers around my waist and how to tie them securely. The same with the bottoms of the legs, which went just above my ankles. The sandals that I brought from Canada were a mix of brown leather and a black polypropylene-spandex fabric, and according to Chul-won were suitable with both hanbok outfits. I purchased a light-grey t-shirt to wear under the darker suit.
My other colleagues marvelled at my new wardrobe. With my Korean haircut and the tan that I had developed over the past few months, Cathy said that I could almost pass for a Korean, myself. On my scooter, with the face shield on my helmet pulled down, anybody who saw me would think I was a Korean, and that suited me fine. Hidden, in plain sight.
And so I made my way, between classes, back to my apartment for a cool shower and fresh undergarments. I might even go around the corner, to the video-rental shop, and pick something to watch, passing the time with a fan and cold Pocari Sweat, which I kept stocked in my refrigerator, to keep me cool.
One of the green city buses was also making its way toward Hyoja-Dong, ahead of me. I slowed as it pulled away from one of its stops, and I could smell the exhaust and feel its heat wash over me, adding to the already unbearable air. I gave it some distance so that the fumes that it emitted wouldn’t choke me.
I was looking forward to the weekend. It had been nearly a month since I was last in Seoul to see my friend, Naomi. We were going to visit Namsan Park and go up the landmark tower, something that she and I had promised to do last fall, but didn’t. My relationship with Tanya meant that the two of us would spend most weekends exploring the countryside, away from Seoul. On the weekends that we did visit my friend, we were content to stay in her large, luxurious home, and view Namsan Tower from her U.N. Village balcony.
The bus made another stop where the road to Hyoja-Dong bent slightly to the right. Again, I slowed to keep my distance. But no sooner had it started rolling again that it quickly pulled back onto the shoulder. No longer wanting to be behind it, I twisted hard on the throttle to get around the massive vehicle.
She came without a warning. The driver of the bus must have opened the front door before coming to a full stop and the passenger must have jumped off and run around the front as soon as she could. She ran into my path just as I reached the driver’s side window. There was nothing I could do to stop in time.
I swerved as I clipped the woman who ran out from the front of the bus, knocking her to the pavement. The front wheel of my scooter objected to my sudden turn, at speed, and flipped me off the seat and over the handlebars. I placed one hand out to stop my head from slamming into the roadway but it gave out under the weight of the rest of me, and I went face-first onto the ground.
The face shield on my helmet saved me from serious damage. My wrist was throbbing as I rolled onto my back and managed to sit up. I could barely see through the scrapes across the face shield but a quick assessment showed that beyond a scuffed hanbok and a bloody lower palm, there was nothing broken. On my scooter, one side-view mirror was shattered and I imagined that the side that was now on the pavement was scraped, but that was it.
I looked over to the woman that I had hit, and she was sitting on the road, obviously shaken. I could see that her left ankle was bleeding but she was paying no attention to it. The driver of the bus had stepped out of his vehicle and was taking in the situation.
I pulled myself onto my feet and could feel my legs shaking. I walked over to the woman, who couldn’t see my face because of my helmet and now opaque face shield. “Mian habnida,” I said, “gwaenchan-eyo?” I’m sorry, are you okay?
Her voice came in a cry and she spoke too quickly for me to understand anything. She was middle-aged, in her late forties to early fifties, and had the weathered complexion of someone who had spent a lot of time outdoors. Her shoulder-length hair was curled, much like so many ajummas—ladies of her generation—were wearing. Her light, floral-patterned dress was now soiled from the dried dirt that had blown from the farm fields and onto the road.
I removed the knapsack that was strapped onto my back and rummaged through a small pouch to retrieve the only thing I had that could help, a packet that contained a wet nap that I had from the many I had collected from restaurants over the months. I tore it open and cleaned her wound. The nick was small but deep, and would require a couple of stitches. The bus driver, with a small first aid kit, was able to supply a bandage to cover the cut.
Both were speaking to me in rapid Hangul, and when I lifted my visor to better see them, they both let out a gasp as they realized that they weren’t dealing with a fellow Korean. “Mian heyo,” I said, “Hangul-mal chokum heyo.” Sorry, I only speak a little Korean.
The driver and I helped to lift the woman onto her feet, and she was able to put some weight on her injured leg, but the pain on her face was clear. The driver spoke to her and I recognized the word for hospital, byeong-won, and surmised that he was either telling her that she needed to go to the hospital or that he would take her to one, or both. I knew that there were several health clinics in Hyoja-Dong that could treat her wound, and that one of the Chŏnju Hospital was not very far away, along his route, though it would take longer to reach with the bus meandering various streets along the way. We led the woman back onto the bus and placed her in a seat close to the driver. Reaching into my knapsack again, I produced a pen and a business card for Jeonju University’s English Language Department. I circled a number that rang on Chul-won’s desk and wrote my name on the back of the card.
“Nae samushil,” I said. My office. I made a hand gesture to represent holding a phone handset to my head and the woman nodded. She understood to call me. I pointed to the card again, and to myself. “Sam shee.” For emphasis, I held up three fingers to indicate three o’clock.
Out the front windscreen of the bus, I could see a driver in the oncoming lane who had stopped his car and was moving my scooter to the side of the road so that he could get past. The bus driver looked at his watch and indicated that he also needed to get going. I apologized to the woman again, pointed to the card that she was holding, and said again the time in which she should call me.
Back on my scooter, with the bus pulled out ahead of me, I was tempted to follow them to see where the driver was taking the woman. But my lack of adequate Hangul meant that I wasn’t going to be able to provide any more help. Best that the woman get the care she needed, without me slowing her down, and let her contact Chul-won, when I was back in the office, and he could translate for me. Though I hadn’t planned on returning to the university until just before my four-o’clock lesson, I figured that I would arrive before three, when I could explain to Chul-won what had happened and leave enough time to sort out whatever call we received.
I looked at my clothes and saw that they’d have to be washed. My wrist, which was sore and had some pebbles embedded under the skin, was the only real damage to me. My visor had saved my face from a worse fate than a laceration to an ankle. And my scooter needed a new mirror and would have scars on the finish for the rest of its life. And though it was she who had run out into traffic, I felt somewhat responsible for the incident. I had gunned ahead to pass the bus, not being careful about what or who could dart out from the front of it. Still feeling shaken from the incident, I climbed back onto my vehicle, started it up, and carefully merged back onto the road.
I pulled into a scooter repair shop that wasn’t far from my apartment and a mechanic was able to quickly replace the mirror and check the scooter for any serious damage, though none was found. Though my visor took the brunt of the impact with the ground, I bought a new helmet, just to be on the safe side.
Back at the apartment, I showered, cleaned up my wrist, and changed into my second hanbok outfit. I steamed a half-dozen or so chicken and vegetable wontons, and tried to calm myself down from the ordeal. I was too distracted to want to go to the video shop and doubted that I’d be able to concentrate on a movie, anyway. Now that the initial reaction to the accident was behind me, my nerves were more on edge. It surprised me at how fast everything had happened and I couldn't help think about Dad, behind the wheel of his Land Rover, with Kristen in the passenger seat, next to him, and Laura Elizabeth, secured to her car seat, in the back.
At least, in my case, everyone involved was able to walk away, even if one person was limping.
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