Some things truly are universal.
If there were ever to be compelling proof of a one-world shadow government, I think it’d have to be the department of motor vehicles. No matter where I’ve gone, it’s a horrendous goat-screw. I’ve dealt with civilian and military versions in the US, and now I’ve had my first encounter with the Korean version. They all suck.
Something that should be straightforward, like registering a vehicle and getting license plates, is an adventure in red tape, bureaucracy, and frustration. Doing it with a huge language barrier is even worse.
I recently picked up a second motorcycle (it was too good a deal to pass up), and it came without a plate. This situation needed to be remedied, so I asked my boss what I needed as far as paperwork and where the vehicle office was. He called around and got the info I needed – except for the location of the DMV office I needed to go to. Well, he got the address, it’s just that he had no idea where it was. I checked with my mechanic, and he and his wife (who speaks a bit of English – more than her husband and more than I can speak Korean, in any case) looked at my paperwork. She was able to point out where the office was on a map (it was about a 10-minute ride from my work) and also told me where an insurance office was.
I thought I was going into this adventure well-equipped. I had all the paperwork I needed, except for proof of insurance. I had the business hours for the insurance company and the DMV and showed up to the insurance company right when they opened. (To properly set the stage, they both open at 9AM. I’m supposed to be at work at 9:40AM, but didn’t have a class to teach until 10:50AM on the day I attempted this – Thursday, January 8th.)
The insurance went much easier than I expected. I showed them all the ownership papers for the motorcycle, my Alien Card (foreigner’s ID) and gave them my phone number. One phone call later, 10 minutes and 70,000 Won later and I was insured. The fact that that part went so smoothly should’ve been a warning of things to come – but I didn’t see it.
Papers in hand, I zip across the street to the DMV. I knew which office to go to, and once again I was first in line. Sweet deal, right? Not nearly as sweet as it should’ve been. Apparently they’re not used to foreigners registering vehicles. It took many phone calls and many looks at my ID to get the paperwork rolling. Everything seems to be going well (after they discover that, yes, foreigners can register vehicles) and it looks like we’re wrapping things up. Then the guy who’s been helping me says, “follow me.”
We go downstairs and it turns out there’s a whole other DMV down there. Again, I luck out and there’s no line. He takes me up to the counter I need to be at. (I read the sign and saw it was the specific counter for my neighborhood.) He gives the woman there my original paperwork plus the new paperwork he’s generated, which she studies for a bit, then prints out yet another piece of paper, telling me to take that piece, plus 15,000 Won over to another counter to pay my licensing fee. Next counter, pay money, get stamp. Are we there yet?
Not even close!
It’s time to go back upstairs to the original office. Joy.
Back upstairs the guy takes all my paperwork, types more stuff into the computer, makes more phone calls and gets my blood pressure bumped up a few notches. By now it’s about 10:15 and I’m thinking, “if I get out of here and in motion by 10:40 I can just barely make it in time for my first class.”
Hah!
He gets everything done that he needs to do and we head back downstairs again. Now we go to a different office, which is where I’ll get my license plate. Pay 5,000 Won for that, get my plate, handy plate guard (I don’t think that was required, but what the hell. As bad as the plate on my other bike looked, it’s probably worth the couple bucks.) and the necessary bolts to put it on the bike.
Yes! I’m almost out of here! It’s now 10:30. I can slap the plate on and make it to work just inn time.
No, as it turns out, I can’t.You see, they don’t let you put your own plate on your vehicle. They use some funky “security bolt” to prove that this specific plate is indeed supposed to be on this specific vehicle. Whatever. I look at it and figure out how to put it on in about 10 seconds. But they won’t let me. I have to let the “license plate technician” put it on. Yes, there’s a guy who hangs out in the parking lot and it’s his job to put the plates on vehicles. As Dave Barry says, “I swear I am not making this up.”
I’m close to losing it at this point. I tell my helper guy that I’ve got ten minutes to be in class or I’m in trouble. Of course, conveying this point is beyond both my Korean and his English skills. All I see is bureaucratic fucktard who can’t bend the rules and I’m sure all he sees is a crazy foreigner.
Oh, and I have further complicated things by taking the plate off my other bike and putting it on this one. (I did this in order to get the new bike home without getting pulled over for riding without a plate. I didn’t realize that it’s apparently okay to drive a new vehicle plateless until the paperwork is completed. Oops.) He wants to keep the old plate, which I won’t let him take, since I need it for the other bike. Now I have to try and explain how one person (and a foreigner, to boot) has two motorcycles, when it’s clearly impossible to ride more than one at a time. That’s a good 5 minutes of hassling there, in addition to the time we’ve wasted waiting for the plate technician to come do his thing. I think he’s halfway gotten the point and I stop caring, jamming the old plate and requisite bolts in my backpack.It’s now 10:40 and I’m starting to lose my shit. I’m ranting at this point, gesturing to my watch and pantomiming that I really must be going. I give up on the plate technician and start putting it on myself. This must be a massive procedural no-no, as it brings the plate guy scurrying over to make sure I do it right. I let him finish up and put my backpack on. I ask my helper guy, “okay? Go now?” He nods, probably frightened at this point and says, “okay.”
As I’m getting situated on the bike (helmet, gloves, etc.) the plate guy says, “have a nice day!” I manage to ride off (at 10:45) without saying “fuck you” or anything else derogatory, so I guess that’s an achievement of sorts. I make it to work about 8 minutes into my first class (a new class at that, so I’m sure I made quite the first impression), happy to find that somebody’s been covering it for me.
The end result of my morning in bureaucratic hell?
