This Blog Won't Be Cheap

In England my trips to the mechanics generally go as follows:

“You see the problem is your carburettor is disconnected from your left oesophagus.”
“Sounds like a medical problem.”
“And if you want it fixing you’re going to have to get a new grease alligator to fix onto to your manhole kahuna.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I can do it, but you’ll have to come back last Tuesday.”
“I want to leave here.”
“You see the problem with these things is that koala ectoplasm isn’t what it used to be. I’m going to have to charge you for the manhours, and with the Phillipino Peso at such a low rate well... it’ll be costly.”

And so it continues until my eyes glaze over and I offer my bank card in meek surrender, knowing that I won’t be able to afford food for another three weeks.

In Korea that hasn’t been a problem. I don’t have a car, and I have no plans to get one. Mainly because I won’t be here long enough, but also because driving seems to be acceptable as part of multi tasking. Drivers switch between lanes at will, generally whilst they concentrate on talking on the phone, watching their in car TV, checking their shoes for dirt marks, generally anything as long as it takes their minds off the distraction of the other half tonne chunks of metal driving at 50 next to them.

The low point for me was when a taxi driver fell asleep when heading towards a parked up truck. I woke him with a vigorous shake, pointed at the truck and sat back shaking my head in anger. He simply shrugged and looked rather miffed that I’d interrupted his power nap.

Still, that is a small price to pay for not having to visit the dreaded mechanics. I have, however, come into possession of a scooter. I’m looking after it for a friend of mine whilst he takes some time to see his family in the States. It helps me get around, usually whilst swerving from oncoming cars, but still I’ve managed to stay alive thus far. Although at times I have felt like I’m in a real life version of the frogger computer game.

Now, whilst my knowledge of car engineering is admittedly poor it’s not my worst quiz topic. I’m far more ignorant about the inner workings of women, Indo-Polynesian tribal languages, and scooters. So there was great panic when my scooter stopped working. This meant only one thing; a trip to the mechanics.

I arrived at Win Bike earlier today, and whilst there was no opportunity to enter any competitions, there was the familiar sight of a man in oiled overalls. Generally this is followed by a look of disdain, but this man smiled, wandered over and pulled my scooter into his shop.

I followed him experiencing the age old waves of nausea. Expect this time I couldn’t communicate anything. I was truly at his mercy. No longer could I mutter ‘£37,845 seems a bit steep’ before being shot back into place. It might not do anything, but at least I can feel I’ve put up a fight.

He opened the bike up and pulled out numerous parts, of which I have no idea of the names. One of them looked like a belt. He flexed this until it broke, before showing it to me and saying ‘broken.’ The walls started to close in again. I knew this feeling and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He had me at ‘mmmmm, broken.’ I was his toy now, to play with and toss away at will, with a monstrous invoice following soon after.

He started to replace the old parts with slightly shinier versions. He took a nut wobbled it about in front of me. When he replaced it with a new nut, his left hand held it firm so when he tried to wobble it again, it wouldn’t. This was going to cost me. I was going to cry; I could feel the tear ducts welling up.

So, when the whole ordeal was over, 20 minutes later, I was amazed. 45,000won, £25 in real money. £25 for new parts and labour. That would buy me a crushing handshake and a ‘this car needs scrapping’ in England. I couldn’t believe it, and so I scootered home just as fast as my polished up moped allowed, before he realised it was a horrible mistake and he needed to come after me for the remaining 90%.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a knock at the door.