Article 6

I had only been in Korea about a month when I took my first trip to the traditional market. There are all kinds of markets in Korea where you can buy about anything you want: electronics, food, clothes, you name it. But the traditional market is different. It’s stranger, dirtier, and somehow more mysterious.

Right inside the gates are knock off purses; you can get a nice one for about five dollars. And just beside those are buckets of live eels (for eating). If you walk up a bit, you’ll find dozens of places to buy traditional Korean clothes (mostly just worn for weddings and holidays these days) and maybe some cheap DVDs.

On my first trip, I was just looking for some fruit, but I also wanted to do a little exploring. Right behind a row of fruit shops, I saw a dark alley with all kinds of other foods. I strolled in confidently, hoping for something to write home about.

I almost turned around when I saw the pig heads. There were about six lined up nicely inside a glass butcher’s case sitting on the street. They looked like they were made of wax: almost too real to be real. They had oddly peaceful expressions on their faces, like maybe they were sleeping.

Not far from the heads were the other parts of the pig, the usual cuts, but also the something more. Steaming in a big vat (and being eaten from small wooden bowls by a well dressed group of Korean men) were pig intestines. The sight wasn’t bad, really (it just looked like they were eating noodles). No, what got me was the smell. It smelled like someone had taken a butcher shop, mixed in a little seldom-cleaned barn, and then steamed the whole thing. I only wish that that had been enough for me.

After I ducked past the gut-eaters, I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a quartered chicken hanging from an awning ahead. From where I was, it looked like the thigh with a foot still attached. But as I got closer, I realized that the foot wasn’t a chicken foot at all but a paw. It was a dog.

The animal was pretty small as far as dogs go. The light brown fur was still on, as well as the feet. Only the head and the insides had been removed, and then it had been cut into four sections—all of which were hanging from the awning. I shouldn’t have been surprised that it smelled like a wet dog.

Not many people in Korea eat dogs: it’s a traditional delicacy, not something most people just munch on. And it’s expensive. The dogs they eat aren’t just any old dog. They breed them and raise them like cattle. They have pet dogs here—many pet dogs that they treat very, very well (creepily well, actually. I’ve seem more doggie sweaters here than I ever saw in the US), but that one breed, that one small light brown canine does get made into soup.

The first time seeing dog all cut up and ready for sale was a little shocking, but after some time, it didn’t seem any more strange than beef or pork. I tried not to think about it when my students joked with me about eating dog, or told me that their family was going out for dog soup that night (dog is used mostly for soup—not for steaks or anything like that). I played along, but I wasn’t about to go out and get myself a bowl.

I wasn’t really struck by the dog eating again until some time later when I was walking home late one night. I was only about a block away from my house when I heard whimpering—lots of whimpering. I stood on the corner and tried to find the source of the sound when I realized it was coming from inside the truck that I was standing beside. I looked into the back and saw about a dozen dogs staring back at me. They were soup dogs: small, light brown, and much more alive than the other soup dogs I had seen—alive enough to make a lick for my hands on the back of the truck.

I took my hand off of the truck, stared for a minute, and wondered what to do. They all stared back and waited for me to do something—but I couldn’t. All I could do was head home and try to get some rest.

And try to be more careful where I turn next time I go to the traditional market.