by Stefan Gates
Look at me! I'm drowning in moral turpitude and I haven't got out of the car yet.
Korean dog farmers are notoriously secretive, and the industry as a whole hates the Western media, which it blames for vilifying a traditional national dish, so Yoon-Jung has scored a major triumph in getting me access to Korea's biggest dog farm. But to achieve this, she's had to talk to some pretty shady people.
I meet Dr Dogmeat in a motorway lay-by. Yup, you heard right: Dr Dogmeat. He's actually Yong-Geun Ann, professor of food nutrition at Chungcheong College, but he's become known as Dr Dogmeat due to his research into the cultural, moral and nutritional significance of eating dog. He clearly likes the nickname, relishing the notoriety it gives him and using it as his byline on the myriad papers and articles he writes.
He has come up with 350 uses for dogmeat in various products, and it's fair to say that Dr Dogmeat represents the pro-dog-eating lobby (all his work is unashamedly, and occasionally hysterically, pro dogmeat). He's not particularly friendly, but he wants to show me how reasonable and decent the dog industry is, and he's taking me to Korea's biggest dog farm to prove his point. We drive in convoy, following his 4x4 into the countryside.
Rural Korea isn't particularly pretty: it's an agricultural wasteland where little love is given to outside space, which I find odd in such an overcrowded country. The countryside seems to have suffered rampant, unregulated development at the hands of economic necessity, and in the middle of rolling fields, you'll often find an incongruous tower block.
On the way, Yoon-Jung gets a call on her mobile. Apparently there will be a Korean TV news crew at the dog farm, and they want to film me as I take a look around. They are already there, so I don't have much choice in the matter.
Yoon-Jung's phone rings again. There are now two separate TV news crews at the farm, both of whom want to film me. This is getting ridiculous. Yoon-Jung thinks that Dr Dogmeat and the owner of the farm have tipped them off.
We finally arrive at the dog farm to find, in addition to the two TV crews, a delegation from the local government office and at least two photographers. It's not entirely clear what they're doing here, but they say they want to ensure fair media coverage of the farm. This is odd, because a) in Korea there are no regulations that apply to the dogmeat industry so there's nothing to be fair about; b) none of them speak English so they wouldn't know what I was saying anyway; and c) if they didn't like something I said or did, what exactly are they expecting to do? Smash our cameras?
The dog farm doesn't look anything special – much like any busy, slightly rundown working cattle farm. The only difference is the sound of a large number of dogs barking. I meet the dog farmer, Mr Yong Bok Chin. He doesn't appear to be the devil incarnate, although he does have a business card with a picture of a cute dog on one side, and a picture of a restaurant on the other. In fact, he's handsome, solid and friendly, if a little nervous of all the attention.
I'm given a bright blue disposable suit to cover my clothes, and some paper shoe covers. I look thoroughly ridiculous, and I'm feeling oddly stiff in front of all the cameras. Mr Chin leads us off to a large iron shed and my journey begins.
As Mr Chin opens the door to the shed, the dogs go crazy. I don't know if it's like this at Crufts, but the sound of 3,500 dogs barking in unison is quite painful. And immediately after the cacophony comes the smell. It's horrendous. Imagine concentrating three months' worth of excrement from 3,500 dogs in a single barn. It's hard not to gag.
So what's a dog farm like?
Extraordinary and unsettling. There are several thousand metal cages, most of them about 2×3×3 metres. Each cage houses two or three dogs with a fairly small amount of room for them to run around – they aren't free range, but neither are they battery farmed. The cages are raised off the ground so that the excrement falls through the bottom. There are no concessions to comfort, no toys, no beds and no names – they aren't treated as pets in any way, but I still feel a blind, residual affection for them: they wag their tails, try to lick me and run about, barking excitedly.
So is this really bad animal husbandry? Well, call me heartless, but I'm not so sure. It certainly isn't bucolic bliss and the smell isn't nice, but the dogs are very healthy, well fed and, if tail wagging is a good indicator, they seem happy. Many play with their cage-mates. It is a shock to see animals I view as pets being raised this dispassionately, but the psychological assumptions I'd made – that they need treats, love and human affection – are tempered by the fact that these are livestock and have been raised much as cows might be. Although they look like pets, they haven't been treated as man's best friend, haven't run for sticks or won medals for their fine bone structure or well-performed tricks.
The dogs look happy enough, although what I can't see is their behaviour over a long period: perhaps they are frustrated at being locked up, and perhaps they fight each other when humans aren't looking. I realize that, like any livestock, it wouldn't benefit their farmer if they were unhappy or ill, simply because they'd fetch a lower market price.
But the idea of a dog farm is still strange to me, and I start to feel a little sick. We wander up and down the rows of cages, and I try to disguise my shock. Eventually I leave and sit outside to take stock of things.
I talk to Yong Bok Chin and try to understand why he farms dogs, and how he feels about it. He says that farming is as difficult here as anywhere.
'I wasn't making money from traditional farming, so I started rearing dogs for market, and now I make a decent living.'
The government hasn't tried to stop him and he feels happy that his animals are well cared for. We talk about the whole concept of pet ownership, and he claims that people in the West put too much store on pet dogs because the family unit has begun to break down, whereas Koreans have much stronger family ties.
I ask him if he has a pet dog, and he surprises me by saying that he does. I ask him if he'll eat his pet when it dies, and he nearly falls off his chair with laughter.
'Of course not – no – if he dies I'll bury him.'
I suggest that this is odd, considering his profession.
'These dogs are farmed dogs, livestock for meat, and he's not. So he wouldn't be very tasty. The taste is different. I wouldn't eat him,' he explains.
The Korean TV crews keep bugging me for an interview, and I finally give in.
'Why have you come here?' they ask.
'To try to understand the dogmeat industry,' I say.
They become aggressive, accusing me of bias – they've seen another BBC news report, and it was very one-sided and xenophobic – why would I be different?
I'm shocked at the ferocity of their attack – they have no grounds for claiming I'm biased – I've barely said anything yet. I tell them that I'm here to try to understand Korea, and that I will happily eat dog if I think it's a decent industry.
Well, is it?'
'Give me a chance! I've only been here for half a day – why don't you ask me that again when I've been here for two weeks?'
They take this as an invitation and say that they'll definitely interview me the day before I leave. Damn – I wasn't expecting that.
Dr Dogmeat's Bosintang
I head off for a restaurant that, coincidentally, is owned by Chin, and I get my first glimpse of dog as meat. Chin brings some cuts of dog into the kitchen: an entire hindquarter including a tail, a back and rack of ribs, some intestines and strips of fat. It all looks identifiably canine as he drops it into a vast pressure-cooker full of water. Again, it's disconcerting to see but I'm surprised that I don't feel more of a sense of shock, although it's probably because the fur has been burnt off and the carcass cleaned, so the result looks very much like any meat prepared for eating. Chin puts the pot on to boil, and beckons me into the dining area. Apparently Dr Dogmeat wants me to see something.
He shows me some enormous posters he's had made up to advertise 350 innovative uses of dog he's come up with. Dog oil face cream – I kid you not (helps prev
ent freckles and pimples, apparently), dog oil hand cream, dried grated dog (for seasoning), and sliced dog penis snacks. In fact, there's a whole poster dedicated to the joys of dog penis – Chinese dishes of prettily fanned penises, and every possible cooking method from pickling, jerking, sautéing, braising, air-drying and grating. It's a veritable orgy of dog chopper. I have to admit that I'm slightly baffled at the evangelical fervour of Dr Dogmeat, and I ask him 'Why the obsession with penises?'
He says, 'Only those who've tried it can tell you what the effect is.'
Which makes it a small and elusive study group, I'd guess. But I'm certainly not going to criticize someone for eating one hunk of protein over another so I stumble, shell-shocked, back to the kitchen.
Dogmeat is very tough and has to be boiled in unseasoned water for a couple of hours before use. I ask Chin if he remembers the actual dog we're cooking, but he says that there are far too many for him to have any personal connections.
Once the meat is boiled, inexplicably, Dr Dogmeat takes over from the women in the kitchen and shows me how to make dogmeat stew. He slices a variety of oriental greens, spring onions, cabbage, leeks and taro and lays these in a wide, flat pan. He takes the belly cut of the dog and pulls the ribs out, and then cuts the remaining meat and fat into long slices. The meat is laid on the vegetables, and red chilli pepper sauce is spread over the top. Over this is poured a litre or so of fatty stock, and the whole lot is placed on a portable gas burner on the table for guests to mix in extra condiments.
So this is bosintang, the infamous Korean dogmeat stew that has caused outrage across the Western world, nearly lost Seoul the Olympics and the football World Cup, and provides something like 60 million meals across Korea every year. It smells good, like a rich pork stew, and I sit cross-legged next to Chin and Dr Dogmeat looking at it in silence whilst three different TV crews film my reactions. I feel quite defensive, and I don't want to give away any emotions. I start having second thoughts about coming here at all – what good can possibly come of this? If I eat the dog, I will upset most people I know, but if I don't eat it I'll be a hypocrite, throwing away all my long-gestated carnivorous principles.
You could cut the atmosphere with the Sword of Damocles that I can just make out hanging from the rafters.
To dissolve a bit of the tension, I ask Dr Dogmeat why he thinks Westerners care so much about the eating of dog.
He responds with a startling viciousness: 'It doesn't matter what you think about it. Just leave us alone. The problem starts when you tell us to change our ways to match yours.'
I'm taken aback because I've been careful not to express any opinions yet – I'm here as a journalist, so all I've done is ask questions. My dislike for Dr Dogmeat deepens instantly, and I now realize that there's only one course of action open to me: I need to wait. I can't make a decision this big on my first day in Korea.
I announce (a little too grandly) that although I think that Chin's animals have been decently raised, when you've got the world's TV cameras pointing at you, the issue of eating dog is about more than just this one meal. 'I can't make my decision until I've found out more, and in fact I won't make my final decision until our last day in Korea, but you're all welcome back to film it.'
There's a sigh of disappointment in the restaurant, disturbed only by Dr Dogmeat, who takes my comments as a signal for him to throw himself with gay abandon on the bosintang, and he proceeds to slurp it down noisily, presumably trying to annoy me.
Noryangjin Fish Market
We visit the vast Noryangjin fish market in central Seoul. I find fish markets mesmerizing, and what's unique about Noryangjin is the mezzanine level of restaurants above the market where they will cook fish that you've bought downstairs, and serve you rice, beer and kimchi (that stinky fermented cabbage) to go with it.
This would be great, except for the fact that here in Korea they have a fishy speciality all of their own, and it's one that gives me the willies. Sea slug. It's the single most revolting thing I can think of eating, and I've always worried about the day that someone puts one in front of me. Well, wouldn't you know it: today's the day.
I don't chase extreme foods on purpose, but I do like food to be an adventure. I believe that in a world that's having tremendous difficulty feeding its population, we can't turn down any foodstuff – who knows what could turn out to be the new potato, the new rice, corn or wheat (this is also one of the many reasons why I think it ought to be OK to cat dog). So I've eaten civet cat in Burma, Yak's knob in China, ant larvae in Mexico and rat in India. But for some reason, sea slug has always been my culinary nemesis.
With a feeling of dread, I choose a plump-looking sea slug from a nice old lady in the fish market. It wriggles around as I hold it, and it's knobbly and slimy and gruesome and yuck and I can't believe this is edible and I gag involuntarily. I hand over some money and take the slug, along with a vicious but tasty-looking king crab as a side order, upstairs to the restaurants.
I hand over my booty and watch the preparation: apparently it's always eaten raw. Well that's just great. But it gets worse: the lady takes my sea slug out of the bag and chops the end off (I don't know if it's the head or the tail, or indeed whether or not a sea slug possesses either), causing it to wriggle frantically. Then she does something grotesque: she squeezes it to push out the intestinal tract, then hands them to me, saying, 'This is the best bit.'
Oh. My. God.
I have just discovered something worse than eating sea slug: eating raw sea slug intestines whilst the eviscerated sea slug looks on. I am surely going to hell.
I put the stringy intestine in my mouth and chew. Every atom in my body is willing me to vomit, but somehow I manage to persevere and eat the thing. It tastes slightly sweet, but the main sensation is the sliminess and stringiness of the texture. It's almost impossible to bite because it slips around your teeth too much. Urgh. Finally, with a few slurps, it's gone. I'm not proud – in fact I'm a little disgusted with myself – but then a sense of victory sweeps over me and I realize I've conquered my culinary demons. After this, what food is there to be afraid of?
My chef chops the still-wriggling slug into slices that look spookily like deep-fried onion rings. They still twitch and glisten whilst as I sit down crossed-legged to eat them. After the intestines, I feel a cloud has parted, and I can eat the slug itself with gay abandon. The slices taste like raw squid – ever so slightly fishy, but clean and fresh. It's all about texture here: they are tremendously tough, a cross between cartilage and car tyre, and when you finally manage to get your teeth into them, they crunch. I get the sense that NASA could develop a new generation of Kevlar from these fellas. By now, though, I'm blooded, and I wolf them down as fast as anyone can wolf down car tyre.
Later, we drive to the town of Taejun to visit Dr Lee, a renowned expert in herbal medicine, who gives me acupuncture and tells me a load of hokum about which herbs and vegetables are good for a set of imaginary ailments that she dreams up for me. She tells me that seaweed cleans the blood, mushrooms are aphrodisiacs and all sorts of other snake-oil nonsense, then announces that I am a cold person, and I need to eat dogmeat to heat me up. I'm probably cold because I'm trying to restrain my deep loathing of complementary medicine and herbal fruit-cakery, but I stay polite to her throughout.
KAPS
I am still on the hunt for dog-eating opinions in Korea so I drop in on the Korean Animal Protection Society (KAPS). If anyone should be against dog-eating, it's these people. And the founder, Soo, wastes no time in introducing me to the exuberantly friendly dogs she's rescued from dealers and showing me photos of abuse. The photos are truly-gruesome – dogs that have clearly been beaten and then hanged, dogs being abused and cruelly transported. But the odd thing is that most of these photos look very old. In fact, they look as though they were shot in the 1960s. I've only got hairstyles and clothes to go on (and admittedly this is Korea we're talking about here), but it looks very much as though the worst abuse happened a lon
g time ago.
Then, when I say that I'm trying to work out if it's OK to eat dog, I get a surprise. Instead of an outraged condemnation of the very idea, Soo says, 'It's a personal decision – I can't tell you what to do. However, your behaviour could influence the behaviour of others in a good or bad way. Because it could have a bad influence, I would prefer it if you didn't eat it.'
Soo has stopped a long way short of saying 'no', which is a very Korean thing: much as they hate being embarrassed, they hate embarrassing other people too. Blimey, how do decisions get made around here?
The Dark Side of the Dogmeat Industry
Dr Dogmeat contacts me again (which surprises me after his outburst last time), and offers to take me to another dog farm that functions as an auction house, farm and slaughterhouse. I eagerly agree and meet him at another secret location. Again, I'm told not to reveal the name of the place.
I arrive at a farm that's very different from Yong Bok Chin's operation. It's scrappy, filthy, chaotic and crumbling. A small auction is in progress when I arrive, and several cages lie around crammed with dogs. Some of the cages aren't big enough for the dogs to sit in, let alone stand up in, so they lie there looking terrified. Much as Chin's dogs expressed joy by wagging tails, jumping and barking, these express fear by curling tails under themselves, trembling and whimpering. Occasionally they snap at each other and fight for space inside the cages.
The buyers walk on and around the cages, squeezing flesh through the wire to check the quality of the meat. The dogs go for around $250 each. When the animals are bought, they are dragged out of the cages and thrown in the back of another cage on a truck. One Alsatian is so terrified at its treatment that it soils itself as it's being shoved upside down into a cage. I tell the owner that it's a cruel way to treat an animal but he says, 'We have no choice – if they're not treated like that, people will get bitten.'