Category Archives: bus

The dreaded scale

bus, Travel

The bus left Somerset West at 8:10 on Friday evening. I settled into my window seat and disappeared into an mp3 playlist, dozing every now and then. All went well until, somewhere near Swellendam, sometime around midnight, the bus pulled off the road.

We had no idea what was going on. The lights were turned on, the bus stopped and we sat idling for ages. After about half an hour of waiting, the bus pulled back around and then returned to where it had originally stopped. Another delay, another trip around the circle. After a third trip around, the stewardess finally informed us that the bus was overweight. The reason for the going around and around was that they had been attempting to redistribute the luggage to balance things out – the weighbridge measures the weight on each axle – but to no avail. The only solution was for some passengers to get off the bus.

They weren’t, it turned out, planning to leave people there. Someone had called someone who knew someone who was organising a mini-bus taxi to take some people through to the next stop, where passengers would get off, so we would no longer be overloaded. ‘n Boer maak ‘n plan.

The stewardess found 13 volunteers who were loaded into the taxi when it arrived. The bus returned to the weighbridge. Still too heavy. Two more people moved to the taxi. The bus moved back to the scales. We got half way and it looked like we were going to run into problems. We couldn’t unload anyone else because the taxi could not legally carry more than 15 people. This is not normally a problem in taxis but this was at the actual traffic department stop with traffic cops running the place so they would have complained. That said, they didn’t seem to notice when the stewardess asked the passengers from the front to move to the middle and crouch down so that we could get through the weighing and get out of there.

It worked and the bus was on the road again, much to everyone’s relief. As we headed off into the night, it occurred to me that all of this had taken place in a country where most people strongly belief that traffic cops do nothing, in the middle of a Friday night and in the midst of a massive labour dispute between public service workers and government.

Slow bus to Somerset West

bus, South Africa,

I travelled to Somerset West by bus last Thursday evening. Most people hate long bus trips. The seats are small and you have to sit for hours and you’re on a bus. Sometimes I agree, when I’m stuck in a non-window seat with a large and/or baby-carrying person next to me. But most of the time I love them. My only sadness is that South African long-haul bus trips tend to be overnight so you end up sleeping half the way and missing out on all the beautiful views. This trip I managed a few hours of beauty before I fell asleep.

I get on the bus in King William’s Town. The sun is going down and it’s starting to get chilly. It isn’t cold on the bus. So many people and the aircon. It’s warm, actually. I settle into my window seat and watch the world go by. The seat is just off-centre enough that I can’t see the random movie (Grease, I think) but I have a better view. The sunset is beautiful over the Eastern Cape veld. At the edges of the world pink and purple and apricot fade to blue.

Beyond Grahamstown, the stars come out, sparkling in a velvet-blue sky. The night is clear and bright. The moon must be nearly full. They’ve turned the lights off in the bus and, looking out, I can see the dry grass and the thorn trees and the rolling hills, peaceful and magical in the green-blue light.

Somewhere around Port Elizabeth, I fall asleep. Sleeping on a bus isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. Luckily I sleep quite easily. I forgot to bring something to use as a pillow this time, so end up with a stiff neck. It doesn’t matter though. I wake up in Jeffrey’s Bay and then fall asleep again and sleep like a baby until the bus’s morning stop at 3am. I’m not sure why they stop at 3am.

On the last part of the trip, in the early hours Friday, it starts to rain a little. These are the apple-farming bits of the Western Cape. The cloud is low and misty. Small towns rise in the dawn light, church spires dark against low clouds. The road is a dark, wet ribbon through the brush. We head up the pass. As we climb further and further, the world disappeared in misty cloud. It’s eerie.

And then, suddenly, we emerge from the mist and spread before us is one of the most beautiful parts of my world – the lights of Cape Town, table mountain in the distance and Somerset West, Strand, Gordon’s Bay in the foreground, with the beautiful beach lapping at their feet. The bus is early. Even as I wait, the clouds break up and a perfect, sunny day takes hold of the beautiful Western Cape.

The weather in the Western Cape is usually fairly crappy in the winter – raining for weeks on end and always chilly and damp and dark. Since I arrived, the sun has been shining almost non-stop. I am certainly not complaining – this part of the world is exquisitely beautiful on still, sunshine-filled days. I keep getting excited about the prettiness. It feels almost too good to be true, as if this old home of mine, this old playground is putting on a show to woo me and welcoming me back.

Slow bus to Somerset West

I travelled to Somerset West by bus last Thursday evening. Most people hate long bus trips. The seats are small and you have to sit for hours and you’re on a bus. Sometimes I agree, when I’m stuck in a non-window seat with a large and/or baby-carrying person next to me. But most of the time I love them. My only sadness is that South African long-haul bus trips tend to be overnight so you end up sleeping half the way and missing out on all the beautiful views. This trip I managed a few hours of beauty before I fell asleep.

I get on the bus in King William’s Town. The sun is going down and it’s starting to get chilly. It isn’t cold on the bus. So many people and the aircon. It’s warm, actually. I settle into my window seat and watch the world go by. The seat is just off-centre enough that I can’t see the random movie (Grease, I think) but I have a better view. The sunset is beautiful over the Eastern Cape veld. At the edges of the world pink and purple and apricot fade to blue.

Beyond Grahamstown, the stars come out, sparkling in a velvet-blue sky. The night is clear and bright. The moon must be nearly full. They’ve turned the lights off in the bus and, looking out, I can see the dry grass and the thorn trees and the rolling hills, peaceful and magical in the green-blue light.

Somewhere around Port Elizabeth, I fall asleep. Sleeping on a bus isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. Luckily I sleep quite easily. I forgot to bring something to use as a pillow this time, so end up with a stiff neck. It doesn’t matter though. I wake up in Jeffrey’s Bay and then fall asleep again and sleep like a baby until the bus’s morning stop at 3am. I’m not sure why they stop at 3am.

On the last part of the trip, in the early hours Friday, it starts to rain a little. These are the apple-farming bits of the Western Cape. The cloud is low and misty. Small towns rise in the dawn light, church spires dark against low clouds. The road is a dark, wet ribbon through the brush. We head up the pass. As we climb further and further, the world disappeared in misty cloud. It’s eerie.

And then, suddenly, we emerge from the mist and spread before us is one of the most beautiful parts of my world – the lights of Cape Town, table mountain in the distance and Somerset West, Strand, Gordon’s Bay in the foreground, with the beautiful beach lapping at their feet. The bus is early. Even as I wait, the clouds break up and a perfect, sunny day takes hold of the beautiful Western Cape.

The weather in the Western Cape is usually fairly crappy in the winter – raining for weeks on end and always chilly and damp and dark. Since I arrived, the sun has been shining almost non-stop. I am certainly not complaining – this part of the world is exquisitely beautiful on still, sunshine-filled days. I keep getting excited about the prettiness. It feels almost too good to be true, as if this old home of mine, this old playground is putting on a show to woo me and welcoming me back.

Travelling solo

Adventures, bus, Travel, travelling in Korea, , , ,

A lot of the exploring I’ve done in Korea has been on my own. I’m a fairly flexible and accommodating travel-mate, however, so when others have expressed interest in joining me on particular adventures, I’ve generally been more than happy to let them join and, on more than one occasion, to shift the plans to accommodate their tastes and whims. That really doesn’t bother me. These various trips with different people have given me an opportunity to watch how different people travel and I think it’s taught me something about choosing travel companions. Not that I’ve gotten it right yet but I think I have a better idea of the difficulties and risks of choosing people with whom to share adventures. This is not to say that one should refuse the opportunity to travel when it presents itself. If you’re like me, and willing to be flexible and put up with things, you will probably enjoy it anyway, but it’s a really, really good idea to be fairly explicit about expectations. Or at least for someone to be explicit so that there is one solid set of expectations out there. If everyone is constantly tiptoeing around, worrying about inconveniencing the others, it may end up being a fairly miserable trip for all. And sometimes, just occasionally, it is better to travel alone.

It wasn’t until Sunday that there was finally an opportunity to do some Island-hopping. As a result of bus-related delays and a taxi not able to take us to a ferry in Jindo, we had moved on to Wando for the night (Wando is highly recommended, btw). It was a wild, wet, windy night. I love nights like that. I got soaked, but it was beautiful and coastal. It felt like the sea. In the morning, it was still wet, but seemed – to me at least – less bitter. They said at the ferry terminal that there was a slight chance the ferry wouldn’t be able to come back immediately, but there were many ferries running during the day (every hour) to and from this particular island. My travel companion chose not to take the chance. I don’t know that she really enjoyed the weekend. I know I spent more time worrying about how she was enjoying it than I wanted to. Especially because this was always meant to be a solo expedition for me – a chance to travel and be in motion and experience things more roughly and with more difficulties than usual. I think perhaps I should have trusted my instincts on this one and insisted on doing it alone. Either way, by the time I got on the ferry at 8am on Sunday morning, I was on my own.

It felt so free, standing on that ferry. I love boats. There is a mystery and a wonder about sailing across open ocean or, as in this case, between distant islands. It is particularly free and wonder-filled when the clouds are lying low across the see and rain is falling on your face as you stand at the railing and look out at the blue-grey-green water. Perhaps it is my British heritage and in my veins flows the blood of centuries of sea-faring explorers (by which I mean generically as someone with an historical link to the UK – I have no idea, really). I felt the powerful pull of going, of the freedom of the sea. I was the only foreigner on the ferry and I think the Koreans thought I was a little odd, standing there in my jacket, in the wind and flurrying drizzle, looking out as we passed by islands and ships in the distance.

Once on the island, Cheongsando, I stood for a while and watched the tour-buses drive off the ferry. A lot of the people there were obviously on package tours. I drifted past them, walking past rows of cars, along the little harbour looking around at the little town. Not far along the road, I saw a sign for a beach. I didn’t know where it was or how far away it would be but I decided to take the chance. I walked past an old, falling-down house, windows empty, paint peeling, grey in the grey morning. I passed a school, the sandy playground lying muddy and empty on that Sunday. After a while, I left the buildings behind me and was walking between watery, green rice paddies, terraced up the hills. The road rose up towards forested hills. I passed a man and a woman with a little tractor, working their lands. The sound of a tractor engine broke the silence. The sound was familiar in the foreign fields.

Over the hill, the road dropped down again. I turned off towards the little beach. There was an information board saying that this was the most popular beach on the island. I stood and looked out across the curve of the beach to the buildings on the other side of the green-grey water. The small waves broke on the sand. Another foreigner passed by, covered up in a bright orange raincoat. We didn’t interact at all. It seemed inappropriate to make any sort of contact on this deserted beach in the rain. Beyond the surf were rows of what looked like some sort of fish or seafood-farming activities. A man in a little blue Korean truck drove along the pier and clamoured aboard one of the small boats moored there. In the distance, the orange raincoat took a path up a hill into the forests. I headed in the same direction, not following, just coincidentally taking the same route.

The paved path rose up between the trees. On my right, I could see the sea, stretching out to islands and horizons, through the tree-trunks. It was peaceful. I could hear birds singing.

At the top of the hill I rounded a bend and looked down on a little pebble-beach. Brush and trees stretched down the hill towards it. Around a corner, the forests opened out into ploughed fields. The pebble beach bay was still below me. A brown cow stood under a tree, tethered to a post. It’s huge brown eyes watched me as I followed the path towards it, past it, onwards, always onwards. Around another corner, I came to a freshly ploughed field on my right, all sandy except for the two grassy mounds in the middle of it. Grassy mounds, in this country, are graves. They sat in the middle of a field where the farmer had lovingly ploughed, ever so carefully, around the final resting place of his ancestors. Two black goats chomped on grass in the fenced-off field beyond. I stopped to look down again at the pebble beach. The water was dark blue and crystal clear. A tiny islet rose just beyond the little bay, between the big island I was on and another just a little way across the sea, creating a silhouette line of rocks-in-water.

The path wound back down between the rice paddies. The farmer I had seen earlier was struggling with his little tractor in the mud. Another farmer stopped to help him, leaving his own tractor standing on the path, idling. I edged past and suddenly caught the familiar scent of diesel engine. Strange that island hopping would have lead me to, for the first and only time, a place where I could catch a glimpse of rural Korea; just a glimpse, a last goodbye from Korea.

Back in the little town, I walked past a fish restaurant than smelt fantastic. I thought about stopping for some food but there was no-one around. The door stood open, but no-one was there. I moved on. I passed a modern and very clearly ‘designed’ coast-guard building. Just beyond it, a metre from the edge of the land, was a basketball hoop standing forlornly in the rain. I could picture the island boys playing here, experts at shooting without falling backwards into the sea.

I stopped for coffee at a little shop – that said ‘coffee’. There were people here. A family. They looked bemused when I came in but showed me to a seat, clearly wondering how we would communicate. I asked for coffee. They relaxed a little until they realised they’d have to ask if I wanted cream (milk). They looked relieved when I said no. The coffee was gloriously warm and sweet. I stared through the doorway at the falling rain and surreptitiously watched the family. A mother sat with her baby and chatted to a friend. A little girl walked around with her toddler brother, making sure he didn’t wander out into the rain. The father sat with a friend in front of the TV, clearly engaged in serious conversations (possibly about the Korean game show on the television). I finished my coffee and paid, grateful that I know enough Korean to recognise money numbers. As I left, the little boy, the toddler, came to the door and insisted on showing me, before I could go, a dog’s footprints in the cement outside the door. With no words, he earnestly shared his secret, his serious little eyes demanding that I pay attention.

I thought I should wander back to the ferry dock and find out what time the next ferry left. I had 50 minutes left, so I bought a ticket and took another walk, past houses and rice-paddies next to the water in another direction. I walked along a road between two hills. Next to the road were two more grassy mounds. Next to one was a bunch of flowers.

Below some rocky cliffs, was a manufacturing area of some sort. A boatyard? I stopped and looked for a while but my ferry had arrived and I knew it was time to head back, so I walked back around the little bay. At the ferry, I handed my ticket to an island police-man and then ducked between cars and buses boarding the ferry, and up the stairs. As we left the island, I stood on the top deck of the ferry, looking out at the island and the sea.

There were more people on the ferry this time, so the upper deck was a little crowded. After a while, I went back down to the area below and found a familiar spot along the railing. Fragments of songs drifted through my mind. The smell of the sea mingled with the Korean-food smells from the little restaurant/food (ramen) shop behind me. I was alone with my thoughts and the sea.

Coming back into Wando, we had perfect views of the huge, forested rock in the harbour and the bridge connecting this island to the next one. Bridges and rivers and mountains and sea. My Korea.

I was sad to leave the island and the ferry but the time had come to start the journey home. There were no cabs outside the ferry terminal, so I started walking in the direction of the bus station. The rain was getting heavier. I was very thankful for the built-in-rain-cover on my backpack. After a few long blocks, a taxi picked me up and dropped me off at the bus terminal. I picked up a ticket to Suncheon and grabbed some kimbap for lunch while I waited. Kimbap is rice (bap) rolled around egg, ham, kimchi, radish and whatever else you have lying around, with a layer of seaweed (kim) around the outside. This cylindrical roll is then drizzled with sesame oil and sliced up and eaten with chopsticks. It’s not particularly tasty, but it is conveniently quick, cheap and ubiquitous. I ate it on the bus, watching the world pass by. We drove through rice paddies, barley fields and forested hills. I let my mind wander and watched the scenery, the words of Simon and Garfunkel’s America singing softly in my mind.

It took several hours to reach Suncheon, where I would change buses. The afternoon stayed mostly grey but occasionally we would pass through an area where the clouds were thinner or there were holes in the overcast sky and sunshine drenched small towns and forested hills in summer light. It was beautiful.

Suncheon was small and damp but seemed pleasant enough. A multi-story motel proudly sported the name ‘BMW motel‘, complete with BMW emblem. I wondered what international copyright laws would have to say about that. It doesn’t seem to matter here, as long as the brand is not Korean. I had a few hours to wait before the express bus. I could have taken a slower bus but it would have arrived at a terminal I don’t know, so I opted to wait. In the meantime, I explored the area around the bus terminal. A lot of people feel that a city is just a city. I disagree. I think each place has a sense of place, an identity that is unique. I relish the chance, even for a few hours, to wander around and guess at what that might be. I stopped into Lee’s Sandwich and Coffee for a cappuccino before returning to the bus station and finding a quiet corner to settle down with Douglas Adams.

And then I was back on the bus, travelling through the rapidly descending evening to reach Daegu at around 10pm. As I sat in the cab on the way home, I still felt the lingering sense of freedom and movement. I hadn’t originally intended this trip to be my last real adventure in Korea, but it has turned out that way. In just a few days, I will board a plane and travel home. I’m glad I had the chance, the moment of solitary freedom to glimpse a different side of Korea – a rural, island world, small cities and towns, buses full of people, rivers and bridges and mountains and sea and movement. This is the Korea I carry with me as I prepare to depart for good.

Travelling solo

A lot of the exploring I’ve done in Korea has been on my own. I’m a fairly flexible and accommodating travel-mate, however, so when others have expressed interest in joining me on particular adventures, I’ve generally been more than happy to let them join and, on more than one occasion, to shift the plans to accommodate their tastes and whims. That really doesn’t bother me. These various trips with different people have given me an opportunity to watch how different people travel and I think it’s taught me something about choosing travel companions. Not that I’ve gotten it right yet but I think I have a better idea of the difficulties and risks of choosing people with whom to share adventures. This is not to say that one should refuse the opportunity to travel when it presents itself. If you’re like me, and willing to be flexible and put up with things, you will probably enjoy it anyway, but it’s a really, really good idea to be fairly explicit about expectations. Or at least for someone to be explicit so that there is one solid set of expectations out there. If everyone is constantly tiptoeing around, worrying about inconveniencing the others, it may end up being a fairly miserable trip for all. And sometimes, just occasionally, it is better to travel alone.

It wasn’t until Sunday that there was finally an opportunity to do some Island-hopping. As a result of bus-related delays and a taxi not able to take us to a ferry in Jindo, we had moved on to Wando for the night. It was a wild, wet, windy night. I love nights like that. I got soaked, but it was beautiful and coastal. It felt like the sea. In the morning, it was still wet, but seemed – to me at least – less bitter. They said at the ferry terminal that there was a slight chance the ferry wouldn’t be able to come back immediately, but there were many ferries running during the day (every hour) to and from this particular island. My travel companion chose not to take the chance. I don’t know that she really enjoyed the weekend. I know I spent more time worrying about how she was enjoying it than I wanted to. Especially because this was always meant to be a solo expedition for me – a chance to travel and be in motion and experience things more roughly and with more difficulties than usual. I think perhaps I should have trusted my instincts on this one and insisted on doing it alone. Either way, by the time I got on the ferry at 8am on Sunday morning, I was on my own.

It felt so free, standing on that ferry. I love boats. There is a mystery and a wonder about sailing across open ocean or, as in this case, between distant islands. It is particularly free and wonder-filled when the clouds are lying low across the see and rain is falling on your face as you stand at the railing and look out at the blue-grey-green water. Perhaps it is my British heritage and in my veins flows the blood of centuries of sea-faring explorers (by which I mean generically as someone with an historical link to the UK – I have no idea, really). I felt the powerful pull of going, of the freedom of the sea. I was the only foreigner on the ferry and I think the Koreans thought I was a little odd, standing there in my jacket, in the wind and flurrying drizzle, looking out as we passed by islands and ships in the distance.

Once on the island, Cheongsando, I stood for a while and watched the tour-buses drive off the ferry. A lot of the people there were obviously on package tours. I drifted past them, walking past rows of cars, along the little harbour looking around at the little town. Not far along the road, I saw a sign for a beach. I didn’t know where it was or how far away it would be but I decided to take the chance. I walked past an old, falling-down house, windows empty, paint peeling, grey in the grey morning. I passed a school, the sandy playground lying muddy and empty on that Sunday. After a while, I left the buildings behind me and was walking between watery, green rice paddies, terraced up the hills. The road rose up towards forested hills. I passed a man and a woman with a little tractor, working their lands. The sound of a tractor engine broke the silence. The sound was familiar in the foreign fields.

Over the hill, the road dropped down again. I turned off towards the little beach. There was an information board saying that this was the most popular beach on the island. I stood and looked out across the curve of the beach to the buildings on the other side of the green-grey water. The small waves broke on the sand. Another foreigner passed by, covered up in a bright orange raincoat. We didn’t interact at all. It seemed inappropriate to make any sort of contact on this deserted beach in the rain. Beyond the surf were rows of what looked like some sort of fish or seafood-farming activities. A man in a little blue Korean truck drove along the pier and clamoured aboard one of the small boats moored there. In the distance, the orange raincoat took a path up a hill into the forests. I headed in the same direction, not following, just coincidentally taking the same route.

The paved path rose up between the trees. On my right, I could see the sea, stretching out to islands and horizons, through the tree-trunks. It was peaceful. I could hear birds singing.

At the top of the hill I rounded a bend and looked down on a little pebble-beach. Brush and trees stretched down the hill towards it. Around a corner, the forests opened out into ploughed fields. The pebble beach bay was still below me. A brown cow stood under a tree, tethered to a post. It’s huge brown eyes watched me as I followed the path towards it, past it, onwards, always onwards. Around another corner, I came to a freshly ploughed field on my right, all sandy except for the two grassy mounds in the middle of it. Grassy mounds, in this country, are graves. They sat in the middle of a field where the farmer had lovingly ploughed, ever so carefully, around the final resting place of his ancestors. Two black goats chomped on grass in the fenced-off field beyond. I stopped to look down again at the pebble beach. The water was dark blue and crystal clear. A tiny islet rose just beyond the little bay, between the big island I was on and another just a little way across the sea, creating a silhouette line of rocks-in-water.

The path wound back down between the rice paddies. The farmer I had seen earlier was struggling with his little tractor in the mud. Another farmer stopped to help him, leaving his own tractor standing on the path, idling. I edged past and suddenly caught the familiar scent of diesel engine. Strange that island hopping would have lead me to, for the first and only time, a place where I could catch a glimpse of rural Korea; just a glimpse, a last goodbye from Korea.

Back in the little town, I walked past a fish restaurant than smelt fantastic. I thought about stopping for some food but there was no-one around. The door stood open, but no-one was there. I moved on. I passed a modern and very clearly ‘designed’ coast-guard building. Just beyond it, a metre from the edge of the land, was a basketball hoop standing forlornly in the rain. I could picture the island boys playing here, experts at shooting without falling backwards into the sea.

I stopped for coffee at a little shop – that said ‘coffee’. There were people here. A family. They looked bemused when I came in but showed me to a seat, clearly wondering how we would communicate. I asked for coffee. They relaxed a little until they realised they’d have to ask if I wanted cream (milk). They looked relieved when I said no. The coffee was gloriously warm and sweet. I stared through the doorway at the falling rain and surreptitiously watched the family. A mother sat with her baby and chatted to a friend. A little girl walked around with her toddler brother, making sure he didn’t wander out into the rain. The father sat with a friend in front of the TV, clearly engaged in serious conversations (possibly about the Korean game show on the television). I finished my coffee and paid, grateful that I know enough Korean to recognise money numbers. As I left, the little boy, the toddler, came to the door and insisted on showing me, before I could go, a dog’s footprints in the cement outside the door. With no words, he earnestly shared his secret, his serious little eyes demanding that I pay attention.

I thought I should wander back to the ferry dock and find out what time the next ferry left. I had 50 minutes left, so I bought a ticket and took another walk, past houses and rice-paddies next to the water in another direction. I walked along a road between two hills. Next to the road were two more grassy mounds. Next to one was a bunch of flowers.

Below some rocky cliffs, was a manufacturing area of some sort. A boatyard? I stopped and looked for a while but my ferry had arrived and I knew it was time to head back, so I walked back around the little bay. At the ferry, I handed my ticket to an island police-man and then ducked between cars and buses boarding the ferry, and up the stairs. As we left the island, I stood on the top deck of the ferry, looking out at the island and the sea.

There were more people on the ferry this time, so the upper deck was a little crowded. After a while, I went back down to the area below and found a familiar spot along the railing. Fragments of songs drifted through my mind. The smell of the sea mingled with the Korean-food smells from the little restaurant/food (ramen) shop behind me. I was alone with my thoughts and the sea.

Coming back into Wando, we had perfect views of the huge, forested rock in the harbour and the bridge connecting this island to the next one. Bridges and rivers and mountains and sea. My Korea.

I was sad to leave the island and the ferry but the time had come to start the journey home. There were no cabs outside the ferry terminal, so I started walking in the direction of the bus station. The rain was getting heavier. I was very thankful for the built-in-rain-cover on my backpack. After a few long blocks, a taxi picked me up and dropped me off at the bus terminal. I picked up a ticket to Suncheon and grabbed some kimbap for lunch while I waited. Kimbap is rice (bap) rolled around egg, ham, kimchi, radish and whatever else you have lying around, with a layer of seaweed (kim) around the outside. This cylindrical roll is then drizzled with sesame oil and sliced up and eaten with chopsticks. It’s not particularly tasty, but it is conveniently quick, cheap and ubiquitous. I ate it on the bus, watching the world pass by. We drove through rice paddies, barley fields and forested hills. I let my mind wander and watched the scenery, the words of Simon and Garfunkel’s America singing softly in my mind.

It took several hours to reach Suncheon, where I would change buses. The afternoon stayed mostly grey but occasionally we would pass through an area where the clouds were thinner or there were holes in the overcast sky and sunshine drenched small towns and forested hills in summer light. It was beautiful.

Suncheon was small and damp but seemed pleasant enough. A multi-story motel proudly sported the name ‘BMW motel’, complete with BMW emblem. I wondered what international copyright laws would have to say about that. It doesn’t seem to matter here, as long as the brand is not Korean. I had a few hours to wait before the express bus. I could have taken a slower bus but it would have arrived at a terminal I don’t know, so I opted to wait. In the meantime, I explored the area around the bus terminal. A lot of people feel that a city is just a city. I disagree. I think each place has a sense of place, an identity that is unique. I relish the chance, even for a few hours, to wander around and guess at what that might be. I stopped into Lee’s Sandwich and Coffee for a cappuccino before returning to the bus station and finding a quiet corner to settle down with Douglas Adams.

And then I was back on the bus, travelling through the rapidly descending evening to reach Daegu at around 10pm. As I sat in the cab on the way home, I still felt the lingering sense of freedom and movement. I hadn’t originally intended this trip to be my last real adventure in Korea, but it has turned out that way. In just a few days, I will board a plane and travel home. I’m glad I had the chance, the moment of solitary freedom to glimpse a different side of Korea – a rural, island world, small cities and towns, buses full of people, rivers and bridges and mountains and sea and movement. This is the Korea I carry with me as I prepare to depart for good.