Kimchi, Hot Springs and Cycle Paths
SOUTH KOREA
628 Kilometres – 13 Days
5 May – 21 May 2014
PHOTOS
Prelude
South Korea
was never part of a grand plan—mostly because I rarely had one. It appeared on
my horizon the way unexpected destinations often do: through a combination of
visa trouble, bureaucratic shrugging, and the irresistible lure of a cycle path
that promised to run the length of the country. I arrived with a round‑the‑world
bicycle, a nearly full passport, and the vague hope that things would sort
themselves out. What followed was a journey of temples tucked between
skyscrapers, steaming bowls of kimchi, river paths that felt like secret
corridors, and the occasional encounter with public nudity I was wholly
unprepared for. In short, it was exactly the kind of adventure that happens
when you don’t plan one.
Hong Kong to Seoul: The Great Escape
Hong Kong
had become my accidental long‑term residence—partly because I couldn’t renew my
Chinese visa, and partly because my South African passport was apparently so exotic
that no one knew what to do with it. After more than a month of bureaucratic
limbo, I finally escaped via taxi to the airport, clutching my worldly
possessions and bracing for the inevitable overweight baggage fee.
The fee
arrived, naturally, with all the subtlety of a slap. I paid it, because arguing
with airport staff is like arguing with gravity.
Three hours
later, the plane dropped me in Seoul, where I discovered I couldn’t draw money
but could pay by card.” Priority one: contact the bank. Priority two: hope for
a miracle.
By evening,
I was still broke but optimistic—mostly because optimism was free.
Seoul: Rip Van Winkel Visits the Future
Seoul, until
then, had been nothing more than a dot on a map—one of those far‑off places you
assume is full of neon signs and people who know how to use technology
properly.
It turned
out to be the most technologically advanced city I’d ever visited, and I’ve
been to places with automatic potato peelers. Everything beeped, blinked,
scanned, swiped, or glowed. I felt like Rip Van Winkel waking up in a world
where cash was a myth, and everyone else had already downloaded the future.
Yet, tucked
between the skyscrapers were ancient temples and palaces, as if the city had
politely agreed to keep its grandparents around. Some even came with actors
sporting fake beards—because nothing says “authentic cultural heritage” like a
moustache glued on with spirit gum.
Kimchi, Palaces & Pedestrian Mazes
The bicycle
was reassembled at a local bike shop, and with my mobile home restored, I
wandered off to explore. First stop: Bukchon Traditional Cultural Centre, where
old Korea was preserved beautifully—minus the occasional tourist wearing a hanbok
backwards.
Later, I
visited Deoksugung Palace, a lovely collection of old buildings that looked as
though they’d been dropped into the city by a time-travelling architect.
My amble
continued through Namdaemun Market, famous for its street food and its ability
to lure you into buying things you don’t need. I picked up my daily ration of
kimchi—because in Korea, kimchi isn’t a side dish; it’s a lifestyle. Fermented
vegetables appeared at every meal, sometimes even starring as the meal. I was
hooked.
If
fermentation was a religion, Korea was its Vatican.
The Accidental Discovery
I meant to
leave Seoul. Truly. But the city kept revealing more treasures, like a magician
pulling rabbits out of a hat.
While buying
camping gas, I stumbled upon a cycle path along the river—rumoured to run all
the way to Busan. I was sceptical, because rumours in the cycling world often
involve phrases like “mostly flat” and “just a small hill,” both of which are
lies. Still, the idea of cycling across the country was irresistible.
Seoul
continued to charm me with funky cafés, narrow pedestrian lanes, and
architecture that looked like it had been designed by enthusiastic origami
artists.
I wandered
along Cheonggyecheon, an 11‑kilometre stream rediscovered after someone had the
brilliant idea to demolish a highway. Now it was a peaceful oasis of greenery,
art, bridges, and waterfalls—proof that occasionally, urban planning gets it
right.
The Joy Ride to Yangpyeong (91 km)
At nine
o’clock, I pedalled out of Seoul grinning like someone who had just discovered
a secret passageway. There’s nothing quite like cycling into the unknown with
no idea where you’ll end up.
The Han
River cycle path was wide, smooth, and filled with cyclists dressed as though
they were competing in the Tour de France—on a public holiday. Twice I fell
into conversation with fellow riders, who generously shared tips and
information.
The route
followed an old rail line, meaning it was blissfully flat and any hills were
replaced by tunnels. I felt like I’d won the cycling lottery.
A wave of
joy washed over me. This—this feeling of freedom—was exactly why I travelled.
Yangpyeong to Chungju: The Silkworm Incident (100 km)
It took all
day to pedal the 100 kilometres to Chungju, but the path made it delightful.
Along the way, I met a young cyclist heading to Busan with nothing but a tiny
backpack and the stamina of a mountain goat. His English name was Ben, and he
kindly waited for me on the hills, translating information boards that were
otherwise decorative Korean wallpaper.
At one stop,
I tried beondegi—steamed silkworm pupae. Koreans eat them as a snack. I
ate one. Just one. It tasted like something that had died twice.
In Chungju,
Ben continued onward while I found a room. I wished him well and hoped his
backpack contained something more appetising than silkworms.
Suanbo Hot Springs: The Naked Truth (25 km)
Leaving
Chungju, I met another cyclist who insisted on giving me energy bars—Korean
generosity was unstoppable.
Soon I
reached Suanbo, a small mountain town famous for its hot springs. While
searching for accommodation, I heard someone call my name. It was Ben! Koreans
may be efficient, but apparently, they’re also excellent at reappearing
unexpectedly.
We had breakfast
together, sitting on cushions at low tables, shoes off, knees politely folded.
Ben paid (again) and escorted me to a Jjimjilbang, my first Korean sauna
experience.
Inside, one
must strip, shower, scrub, and then enter the pools—no bathing suits allowed.
Public nudity is not my natural habitat, and I’m fairly sure the local ladies
had never seen a foreign woman naked before. Their eyes followed me like I was
a rare zoo exhibit.
I submerged
myself immediately and stayed underwater until I felt brave enough to dash back
to my clothes.
The sauna
also offered napping rooms—simple mats on the floor and wooden pillows, which
are exactly as comfortable as they sound. Cycle tourers often slept there for
free. I wasn’t convinced I’d ever get used to a wooden pillow, but free is
free.
Gumi Weir: The Round Bed & Rural Charm (103 km)
Rain
hammered down all night, but by morning the sky had decided to behave. I
pedalled off through tiny mountain hamlets where villagers were winnowing rice
outside their homes—an activity that looks wonderfully poetic until you realise
it involves throwing grains into the air and hoping they land somewhere useful.
Accommodation
that night was one of my usual “rooms rented by the hour.” These establishments
specialise in beds shaped like geometric experiments and lighting that suggests
the previous occupant was a disco ball. My bed was round—because apparently
squares are too mainstream—and came with a generous selection of personal care
items, most of which I didn’t dare inspect too closely.
Dalseogyo Bridge: Freedom & The Goldfish Bowl
(108 km)
Freedom
means different things to different people. For some, it’s financial
independence. For others, it’s the ability to eat ice cream for breakfast. For
me, it’s pedalling off with no idea where I’ll sleep that night.
The road
hugged the river, winding past rural communities, old temples, and farmland so
green it looked Photoshopped. It was one of those days where everything felt
right—until I pitched my tent on what I thought was a quiet grassy patch.
It turned
out to be Millennium Plaza, which at night lit up like a Christmas tree on
steroids. I spent the evening glowing under floodlights, feeling very much like
a goldfish in a bowl—minus the castle and the tiny plastic diver.
Namji: Miss Smarty Pants & The Hills (90 km)
Camping in a
public square means no sleeping in. By sunrise, I was boiling water for coffee
and loading up. Feeling adventurous, I attempted an alternative route—Miss
Smarty Pants’ brilliant idea.
Miss Smarty
Pants was wrong. She had to backtrack.
The path
soon turned hilly, the kind of hilly that requires pushing the bike while
muttering motivational speeches under your breath. Breakfast had been
forgotten, and my energy levels plummeted until a 7‑Eleven appeared like a
fluorescent oasis. After inhaling lunch, I tackled the remaining hills with
renewed enthusiasm.
Namji
offered a room—perfect for charging my ever‑multiplying gadgets. I swear they
breed in my panniers.
Namji → Busan:
Flowers, Hills & Urban Chaos (111 km)
My final day
to Busan was beautiful but not without a few “character‑building” hills. The
route wound through rural villages and over mountains, with spring flowers
blooming everywhere, as if nature had gone slightly overboard.
By late
afternoon, the peaceful cycle path spat me out into Busan’s evening traffic—a
shock to the system after days of tranquillity. I braved the chaos in search of
budget accommodation, feeling half triumphant and half melancholic. Reaching a
destination always does that: joy mixed with the faint sadness of an ending.
A tourist
information office saved the day, pointing me toward a cheap motel hidden in a
narrow lane that transformed at night into a bustling food market. I checked
in, dodged a few sizzling pans, and collapsed.
The Visa Plot Twist
Busan had a
ferry to Japan, so I marched off to the Japanese Consulate, only to discover
they didn’t issue visas to foreigners. One must apply in one’s home country or
have permanent residency—neither of which I possessed.
Changing
plans isn't my favourite pastime, especially when bureaucracy forces it. I
considered flying elsewhere, but packing the bike is a hassle, and airports are
where joy goes to die.
My passport
was nearly full, limiting my options to countries that didn’t require visas and
allowed long stretches of cycling. The Americas made the most sense—I already
had a U.S. visa and unfinished business there. Logically, I should return to
San Francisco and pedal north.
But logic
and I have a complicated relationship.
Temples, Decisions & The Big Box
I moved to
Blue Backpackers, which had more facilities and, conveniently, a nearby bike
shop. The plan was to get a box for the bicycle and decide my next destination
at the last possible moment—my preferred method of planning.
By morning, I
handed the bike in to be boxed. Several things needed repair, but I ignored
them, figuring it was better to fix everything in whichever country I eventually
landed in.
Busan’s
metro system was extensive, so I ventured underground to visit Buddhist temples
on the outskirts. They were serene, green‑toned (unlike China’s red temples),
and guarded by the four Heavenly Kings—each responsible for a direction of the
world and apparently very busy.
A friendly
tour group gave me a lift back to the metro, and in the city centre, rows of
food stalls appeared like magic. I ate my fill, returned to the hostel, and packed
for the long flight to Seattle via Beijing. From Seattle, I planned to pedal
south to San Francisco (where I left off a year earlier). Hopefully aided by
prevailing winds.
Busan to Seattle:
The Case of the Missing Backpack
We landed in
Seattle in the early hours, and the city looked delightful—fresh, crisp, and
full of promise. The amusing part was arriving in Seattle before leaving
Beijing, thanks to time zones doing their usual tricks.
Leaving
South Korea felt a bit like closing a book mid‑chapter—one moment I was cycling
along rivers and sleeping under neon floodlights, and the next I was hurtling
across the Pacific toward a city I’d technically arrived in before leaving
Beijing. Seattle greeted me with crisp air, a missing backpack, and the
familiar chaos of reassembling my life around a boxed bicycle. It wasn’t the
destination I’d planned—mostly because I hadn’t planned one—but it was where
the road was waiting. And as always, once the bike was freed from its cardboard
coffin, the only sensible thing to do was point it in a direction and start
pedalling again.
Epilogue
By the time
I left Busan, my bicycle was boxed, my plans were still undecided. South Korea
had given me round beds, hot springs, luminous plazas, and cycle paths that
stitched the country together like a gentle thread. It had also reminded
me—quite firmly—that travel is less about knowing where you’re going and more
about being willing to go there anyway. As my plane lifted toward Seattle, I
felt that familiar mix of sadness and anticipation. One chapter had closed,
another was already unfolding, and the road—whichever continent it happened to
be on—was waiting.
