Misadventures on the train

Boarding the train at Chemulpo (modern Incheon) in the early 1900s / Robert Neff Collection

Some of my fondest memories of Korea occurred on trains.

Many years ago, Korea had several classes of trains. The bidulgi (pigeon) class was the slowest and least comfortable of the trains and stopped at every small station, while the Saemaul (New Village) class was the fastest and most expensive. Whenever my Korean friends and I spontaneously traveled by train, we had to stand in long lines in hopes of purchasing tickets with guaranteed seats — we were rarely successful and had to settle for standing-only tickets.

Packed together like sardines with the other unfortunate standing passengers, we pounced like tigers upon any seat that was left vacant by a disembarking passenger. Usually, our respite was short-lived before some newly boarding passenger would claim their seat.

Often we went to the first-class car and sat in one of the many vacant seats. We were not alone. Elderly women with large bundles and loud gruff middle-aged men — all without tickets — all claimed empty seats and tried to avoid the gaze of the conductor as he walked down the aisle to examine tickets. No one escaped and we were all forced unceremoniously out of the car.

We were far luckier than passengers of the past.

Korean passengers aboard the Seoul-Chemulpo Railroad in the early 1900s / Robert Neff Collection

In the 1930s, John Patric, a young American tourist, had a rather interesting experience with tickets while traveling from Fusan (modern Busan) to Seoul aboard an express train. According to Patric, he preferred to ride on the slow local trains, not only because they were cheaper but also because they provided him with more personal and realistic views of the country.

“Local trains are patronized by local people — by farmers, teachers, peddlers, little Government agents — folks who were always getting on and off with bundles and boxes and brief cases and [cloth-wrapped goods], and who made the trip more interesting by making me feel closer to the country through which we were passing. Other things being equal, the slower the journey the more the traveler sees.”

He especially liked the long halts at stations in country districts where people brought things to see, and something was always happening — with plenty of time to see it.”

While this may have been true, I am sure the difference in the ticket prices also contributed to Patric’s preference as he was traveling on a less-than-shoestring budget and simply having a roof over his head for the night was considered a luxury.

At Busan, he intended on boarding a local train but inadvertently got on an express train — a mistake he was made aware of by an irate conductor. Patric insisted that it was not his mistake but the mistake of the Government Railway Office that had sold him a ticket (for local trains) that had indirectly indicated (through a railroad schedule) he was to board this train.

A Korean passenger train in June 1952 / Robert Neff Collection

After a rather heated argument, the conductor stomped away leaving Patric to wonder what would happen to him for politely refusing to buy the express ticket upgrade. “Would he be tossed off the train in some little village, perhaps stranded there?”

Despite feeling morally and technically correct, Patric was convinced that he would eventually be forced to buy the ticket, a relatively insignificant amount of money — “75 sen, only 21 cents, only the price of 15 public baths or 75 Golden Bat cigarettes.” The only solace amused him as “an anarchist” to display “an uncooperative attitude” to the Japanese government.

Patric wasn’t the only one who ran afoul of the conductor and the railroad authorities. While the train was stopped at a small depot — taking on water and fuel — the Japanese railroad police began inspecting the train for safety issues and also to discourage stowaways, which was a fairly frequent occurrence.

The policemen quickly discovered a small 11-year-old boy beneath one of the coaches, clinging to the undercarriage by his fingers and toes. He was promptly hauled out from beneath the coach and the policemen began to beat him. Patric, whose youth was spent as a hobo (he hopped trains to travel about the United States and Mexico), felt an affinity for the young boy and intervened. He snatched the boy from the policemen and set him free.

“On nimble bare feet, before the bewildered guards — who never had that happen to them before — could stop him, the boy” ran into the nearby scrub woods that lined the railroad tracks and disappeared.

The policemen could do nothing and resumed their investigation. But the tale did not end there. Once all the passengers were aboard, the train pulled out of the station and began to gain speed. Much to his horror, Patric spied the young boy dart from the trees and dive beneath the train.

“At the next station I got off again,” wrote Patric. “With an air of carelessness I bent down beside the railway coach to tie a shoelace I had deliberately untied beforehand, and stole a surreptitious glance toward one of the heavy, multi-wheeled trucks upon which rested the rear end of the car. There, on top of it, was the boy again, crouched catlike, clinging with fingers and toes. I hoped the guards had not seen him attempt to resume the journey that seemed important to him.”

A crowded Korean train in June 1952 / Robert Neff Collection

Unfortunately, they had. Four guards, two armed with revolvers and the other two with long heavy sticks — “about six feet long, maybe an inch and a half in diameter, and one end of them had been whittled, like pencils, to sharp points” — immediately set upon the boy. They poked him “savagely and roughly” with the sticks — drawing blood from several spots on his body but “he was a brave lad, and stubborn” and managed to resist for “a surprisingly long time.” Eventually he fell from his perch and was led away — his hands and feet badly injured — while the guards continued to beat him. What became of his fate is unknown.

As for Patric, he refused to pay the difference between his local ticket’s fare and the express train’s fare — even when the Japanese stationmaster threatened to jail him. Patric was unyielding and insisted the mistake was on the part of the Japanese railroad authorities. Frustrated by the American’s obstinacy, the stationmaster capitulated and agreed Patric did not have to pay the difference. His frustration was replaced with surprise when Patric promptly paid the difference declaring it was his way of avenging the brutality the railroad police had rained upon the hapless Korean boy-hobo.

Errors regarding Korean travelers were not confined to the peninsula. One night, in early 1888, members of the Korean Embassy to the United States traveled from Washington, D.C., to New York on a sleeper train.

The Korean diplomats were unable to speak English (it is unclear where their interpreters were) and relatively unfamiliar with the American railroad procedures, so it is not surprising there were problems. According to one newspaper:

“When they passed through the gate the gateman punched the tickets, and the valet escorted them to their section of the sleeping coach, arranged all their luggage and then left them. He handed over the tickets for the sleeper, but forgot all about the passenger tickets. The Coreans, believing everything was right, prepared for bed.”

Unfortunately for them, not everything was right. Before the train departed, the conductor made his normal rounds and asked the Koreans for their tickets. The diplomats, who had removed their outer clothing, presented their sleeper coach tickets “in a sort of confidential way” but were surprised to learn that they also needed passenger tickets.

A Tower of Babel sort of pandemonium ensued as the Koreans, convinced the conductor was trying to cheat them, yelled at him in Korean and he, in turn, yelled at them in English, convinced they were trying to skip out on paying full fare. The inability to communicate with words almost devolved into a physical conflict. Frustrated almost to the point of no return, the conductor, “in a pantomimic exhibition,” made it clear he would toss them off the train.

The newspaper account claimed that “two of [the Korean diplomats], almost nude ran out on the platform, but the laughter of the crowd present sent them back hurriedly.”

Fortunately, a police officer managed to find the forgetful railroad valet and the passenger tickets were retrieved. The train soon started on its journey — presumably with no other incidents. The Washington newspaper concluded that “it was a ludicrous sight, and the Coreans and their ‘robes de chambre’ will not be forgotten for a long time by those who saw them.”

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.