나오미 in korea

I was standing at the pedestrian crossing, wondering idly why in Korea the little red man is not little at all but instead strangely squat and muscular, a sturdy weightlifter with a few extra pixels to his biceps. When I’m here, he says, the road is mine and you’re not going anywhere, buddy. Stand down. Then the little green man takes over. He’s a lithe and active fellow striding out confidently as though he’s not about to get run over by a fried chicken boy on a clapped-out scooter, who gets paid by the delivery and doesn’t give a toss about whose toes he slices off as he swings around corners, one knee scraping the ground, his delicate hands warm and snug inside giant mitts. The red man is menacing, the green man friendly. That’s the way it is with traffic lights.

I was standing at the pedestrian crossing pondering this when a green and yellow school minivan (GnB English Academy, 766 0682) pulled up at the red light and some kid sitting in the back seat, the den of troublemakers the world over, yelled at me out the window. Nothing new. Foreigners get yelled at oh, maybe twelve times a day. Usually it’s a gasping “What’syournamenicetomeetyou!” from schoolgirls who then fall over laughing. You come to expect it as part and parcel of being a tiny minority in a country where the entire population of 40 million is descended from Dan-gun, venerable half-man/half-bear ancestor. Indeed, earlier in the week, “You panty yellow!” had come from the same van and the same corner, which I had to grudgingly admit was a little funny. But quite wrong since, coming from New Zealand, I don’t wear panty; I wear knickers.

“Waegookin!” the kid yelled, and like a fool, I looked. A tiny fist was thrusting out the window.

“Waegookin! Fuck you!” I squinted. I was being flipped off by an eight-year-old.

The van swung around the corner and peeled off as the kids inside erupted in jeers and laughter, half their bodies hanging out the windows. Even the driver was chuckling. There’s not much more disconcerting than being laughed at by a group of kids, and kids with wheels at that.

I stood fuming on the sidewalk. The light changed and the green man flashed, playfully beckoning me to join him. Fried chicken boys swooped past me, their helmetless heads bent low over their handlebars. I imagined kicking their bikes so they tipped out from underneath them and sent bodies sprawling into traffic, and felt much better.