I don't know whether you guys are into the Paleo diet or not, but this is something my mum ran across in one of her cookbooks and forwarded to me when I called to remind my parents what my voice sounds like on Father's Day. We're getting close to the dog days of summer over here in K-Land and the days have turned still, sultry, and moist. Now's the time to start trotting out the cold, refreshing highballs with light-colored liquors, fruity liqueurs, and citrus juices: the Moscow Mule, the Gimlet, the Bullfrog and the Cactus Bite. All are cool and delicious, but they have one major drawback—they're all sickeningly sweet. If you're like me and you're tired of swallowing eight tablespoons of sugar in your Piña Colada, your Zombie, your Tidal Wave, or your Planter's Punch, then get with the program and have a Paleo cocktail. This one.
squeeze the juice from half a lime into the bottom of a rocks glass
add 2 shots of tequila and a measure of club soda
pour the mixture into cocktail glass and sip it slowly
I'll tell you what my parents told me: do not judge this drink on the first glass. Have one on Friday night and another on Saturday night and then pass judgment. Why? Well, as you may be able to tell from the ingredients, this tipple is tart. Lip-puckeringly, tongue-stingingly, tooth-burningly, uvula-curdlingly sour. There's not an atom of sugar in it. It's kind of like the rickey cocktail, but with a higher proportion of citrus juice and less club soda. Most drinks with lime or lemon juice have some kind of sweet additive to balance the sourness out (like the Sidecar, for example). Not so with this libation. It'll make your scalp crawl. But as you nurse your second glass, sitting and sweating on your porch or veranda or balcony and watching the sinking sun and the reddening clouds while the gnats buzz about your ears and the day's oppressive heat begins to abdicate its tyrannical reign, you'll start liking this drink. It's got everything you need: the spicy heat of tequila, the pleasant fizz of club soda, and the nostril-wrinkling nip of lime. Perfect for relaxing after a long day's exertions or swapping war stories with the boys at the cabana.
I didn't know whether putting the phrase "raw horse meat" in the title of this post was a good idea or not. It might make you interested enough to read more, or it might turn you completely off and make you quit following this blog in disgust. Guess I'll take the chance.
As for your question ("Why?"), all I can say is, Because it was there.
In Kumamoto, that is. Where I was between August 6th and 8th. And you know me: if there's a weird food around, I'm going to try it. I've had pig intestines, alligator nuggets, ostrich burgers, live octopus, canned snails, squid jerky, lamb spleen, buffalo steak, beetle larvae, dried scorpion and cricket lollipops. I'm not about to quit now. When I heard that Kumamoto was famous for basashi, or horse sushi, I knew I just had to try it.
It was something of a family betrayal. My parents and (maternal) grandparents are all horse people. My grandfather, between fighting in the Korean War, raising four children and being a traveling veterinary supply salesman, had a humongous and gorgeous ranch in Grass Valley, about 30 minutes north of Sacramento in Placer County—the same county I was born in, actually. He raised Shetland ponies and later Clydesdale horses.
Please tell
me you know what a Clydesdale is. You've seen them before. They're the
Budweiser horses—and in fact, some of the ones Grandpa raised wound
up being part of that famous Budweiser hitch in years past.
Clydesdales in New Zealand. From Wikimedia Commons.
My parents raised mustangs on their two-acre property in the Mojave Desert. Mustangs, just so you know, are feral horses descended from the Iberian breeds that escaped from the Spanish explorers hundreds of years ago. There are herds of 'em roaming around the wilds of Oklahoma, Nevada and Utah, hardy and wild. My folks would adopt them from the Bureau of Land Management's facility up in Ridgecrest and then truck them back to our spread in California: breaking them, training them and riding them around the desert.
Free-roaming mustangs in Arizona. From Wikimedia Commons.
So, naturally, when I told the folks back home that I was going to eat horse meat, their reaction was mixed. Mum has generally been quite supportive of me in my adventures (half-baked or no), but I understood why this would give her pause. I felt worse about the effect this knowledge would have on Gramp 'n' Gran, but I steeled myself. I knew I wouldn't rest until I'd sampled this stuff. I wasn't going to be disinherited, for Pete's sake. And you're only young once.
So, after getting back from Kumamoto Castle, I went to a big, well-lit shōtengai (shopping arcade) just west of the Shirakawa River, south of Ginza Street. I poked around, asking locals where the nearest basashi place was. After a few minutes, I found what seemed like a likely spot. I should have taken a picture of the façade before I went in, but I didn't. Trying to get one after I left only made the lens fog up. So you'll just have to imagine a tiny storefront with a customer service window, the plate-glass in the door, the red lanterns (the standard, well, standard for an after-work hangout that serves beer and snacks, known as an izakaya) and gaudy signs with curvy Japanese letters.
The interior was essentially the size of a walk-in closet. It might even have been smaller (I've been in some crazy walk-in closets). There was a long wooden counter where about seven or eight customers could rest comfortably, and a line of huge sake bottles arranged along the top. A tough, lean, competent-looking fellow lurked behind them, bustling about. After a brief look at the menu, during which it became apparent that I'd be forking over 1,500 yen for this, I ordered and settled in to wait. To give me something to do while he sliced up my horse meat, the owner gave me this to munch on:
I sipped beer, nibbled on bean-pods and watched TV, trying to look and feel like a competent, street-savvy world traveler. I lamented the fact that I couldn't see what the owner was doing; my view of his hands and his work was obscured by the counter and the plenitude of signage in front of me. I'd have loved to see my basashi take shape under the knife.
After a few more minutes, this cornucopia of buttery goodness appeared before me:
C'est pas vrai! Succulent slices of horse meat (two different cuts, no less), plus various condiments! What a feast!
I could have ordered another beer, but I thought I'd keep my palate—and my head—clear. And so I dug in. It was just as I had read: horse meat, particularly raw horse meat, is a great deal sweeter than other meats. It was firm as well, easy to chew and swallow. I don't think even a single piece became lodged between my teeth. It was downright delectable when dipped in soy sauce. I must say, I could have munched on the stuff for hours.
I even took a video. All it shows is my frizzy hair, blurry shots of the meat, and the TV blaring in the background. And me eating. I think you can imagine that without outside assistance.
Though satisfied in the most epistemological sense, I was still a bit peckish. So after I paid the bill and left the basashi shop, I sought out this restaurant back in the main arcade, a few hundred feet away:
Curry is something I know the Japanese are obsessed with (as they are with other things Indian in origin, such as Buddhism), and I wanted to see how well they did it. This place had about a thousand different varieties, some uniquely Japanese in flavor. I sat down, ordered up a plate of thin-sliced beef curry, and dug in. In a word: satisfying.
Then I returned to the hotel and slept like the dead. I usually do when I'm stuffed to the gills.
Tomorrow: the last day in Kumamoto. There's only two things on my to-do list: MUSASHIZUKA PARK and REIGANDŌ. We'll talk about the park (and more about my hero, Miyamoto Musashi) then.
Once again, first let me tell you about what happened last night (after I blogged for the day).
I regrouped a little in my room, then changed out of my sweaty clothes (into less sweaty clothes; I really need to do laundry here) and walked out on the street. My quest: food. None of this buying-an-armload-of-unhealthy-junk-food-at-Family-Mart business like I'd done too many nights already. I was going to get something real, something unique to Jeju, some Korean food.
So I went to Homeplus. Hey, quit looking at me like that. Before I forayed into the unknown bowels of Seogwipo in a potentially fruitless search for sustenance, I wanted to make sure I had all my bases covered. So I went to Homeplus (which, for those of you who just came in, is rather like a Wal-Mart Supercenter...groceries and home goods and crap). I found absolutely nothing edible there, except for a bit of dry cheesecake (that tasted mostly like cheese) and a pint of milk. Okay, dessert was out of the way (burp). Now it was time to seek out the main course.
I'd spotted it on my way up the street: Cheonsu, a little tiny one-room family-run place, one of perhaps thousands like it all across Korea. Half the room was devoted to traditional Korean seating (a raised linoleum platform with low tables) and the other half to Western seating (tables and chairs of normal height, resting on the floor proper). It was a nice little place, with some excellent decor (plants, an aquarium, a beautiful hand-painted calendar depicting what looked like the peaks of Seoraksan National Park). The family unit was having a nice lazy evening. The mother was bustling about somewhere, the son had just gotten back from taekwondo and was still in his uniform, and the father and the little daughter were sitting around the main room watching this extremely odd game show (which I'll get into later). I sat down, gazed at the five-item menu, and randomly ordered up a helpin' of bomalsujebi (4,500 won). I had no idea what it was or what I'd be getting, but I was quite sanguine as I tucked into the side dishes and the beer that the proprietor brought me. And I watched the game show. It was, as I may have mentioned before, exceedingly odd. It seemed to revolve around these four guys dressed in prison garb (stripes) who were running/sneaking/driving around Seoul trying to evade the clutches of these other two well-dressed gents who seemed to be out to get them. To complicate matters, the four escaped prisoners (as I assumed them to be) were on a sort of scavenger hunt, and had to keep rendezvousing at these random locations to meet up with these fat bald guys in Hawaiian shirts and receive their next objective. There were some thrilling chase scenes, separations, rallies, reunions, and comic running-down-the-street-screaming-please-don't-leave-me-behind-stop-the-cab-and-wait action. All of this was complemented by rather goofy sound effects, and silent commentary (appearing on the screen in speech bubbles).
I loved it.
So then my bomalsujebi came, and it proved to be a brothy seaweed soup with lumps of some unidentifiable gray substance in it. I tried to ask what they were (in Korean) but obviously since I lack vocabulary I didn't understand the answer. I have been unable to find any reference to this dish on the web, so I'm afraid I have no credible answer for you as to the nature of this gray matter. It was tasty, though. I ate this soup (and it was a whopping great bowl of it), nibbled my banchan, and giggled along with the little girl at the antics of those escaped prisoners. Then I paid up and went home, mission accomplished. I wish that little family well, whatever happens in the future.
I was planning on calling it a night, but in the Hiking Inn's computer room I ran into a Tibetan-American fellow (whose name I can't pronounce, let alone spell) from New York, who was vacationing here as part of an Asian travel package. We wound up going out drinking together. We had some beer and some delicious chicken snacks at Milano, a tiny and shabby yet tasteful little bar overlooking Seogwipo Harbor. There's red upholstery and pretty barren whitewashed walls, but outside there's a little porch with some lights and computer speakers lashed to tree trunks, with golden oldies and Motown pouring out of them nonstop. It's a marvelous little place for a beer or three and an intimate chat. (Incidentally, the beers were four grand apiece, and the smoked chicken pieces were 15,000.) We talked of this and that; we found out we like all the same bands, so there was at least some common ground between us...
Alrightie, now on to July 3, 2009. I woke up in the morning (early) with every intention of going to climb Hallsan. Admittedly I was going to do the short trail (to Witseoreum, a crater near the summit), but still, I needed to get on the ball early. I had a rather roundabout route ahead of me even before I got to the trailhead. First, I had to go to Jungmun (the resort town about twenty-five minutes west of Seogwipo, where all the snazzy hotels are). According to my guide book, that's where I'd catch the bus to the head of the Eorimok Trail, northwest of the mountain, about a four-and-a-half hour leg (the way down was one-and-a-half hours, so we're talking six hours at the very least; another reason to get on the ball early). I was worried about finding the bus in Jungmun, though. I'd been through there several times and never once approached anything even remotely resembling a bus stop labeled "Eorimok, Hallasan."
I was out on the streets by nine. I caught the bus to Jungmun, got off at the Suites Hotel, and asked a nearby cab driver where the bus to Hallasan was.
"Seogwipo," he said.
A little part of me died inside.
I'd just come from there, dang it. My guide book says the bus starts out in Jungmun, dang it. Don't tell me I got out of bed this early and came all this way here when in reality the bus I needed was right in my backyard in Seogwipo, dang it!
I went into the Suites to get a second opinion. The young lady at the tourist information booth spoke no English, so I didn't understand a word of what she said or gestured to on the map of Jeju in front of her. I caught the word "taxi" several times, though. Discouraging sign.
With a heavy heart I caught the city bus back to New Seogwipo and, after inquiring halfheartedly about bus tickets to Hallasan at the counter (to which I received the answer I expected: no), I bought a ticket on the express to Jeju City for three grand. The ride was short and sweet. I was sprinting in to the Jeju City terminal before noon. (I was sprinting because I had to go really bad; I'd consumed two breakfast rolls, some meat-on-a-stick, a banana, three cookies, a pint of milk, and a little bottle of orange juice while waiting for my bus at the New Seogwipo station.) Despite the alacrity of the intercity bus, I took a look at my watch and the schedule board and then deep-sixed Hallasan for the day. There simply wasn't time; even if the bus to Eorimok flew like the wind I'd still be pushing sunset by the time I made it down, and that's if I hurried. I didn't want a repeat of the Jirisan debacle, where we were stumbling down in the twilight and just barely made it off the trail before dark.
But, hope springs eternal. Seeing as how I was already in Jeju City, I moved Manjanggul up the queue a bit.
Manjanggul is the longest lava tube on the island of Jeju, and (if I remember correctly) the entire world. It's over seven kilometers, gigantic, bored through the rock millennia ago by jets of high-velocity magma. Realizing that it had been more than 15 years since I was last in a cave, and recognizing my chance to see one of Jeju's most impressive and famous sights, I caught the next bus for Seongsan. A cab rolled up right as I got off at the Manjanggul stop an hour or so later, and before you knew it I was at the entrance. Even the admission was free, thanks to it being the anniversary of UNESCO adding Manjanggul to their World Heritage List Thingy or something.
I knew I was in for an interesting time as soon as I reached the top of the staircase.
It descended quite steeply down into a black chasm, ringed by sun-dappled trees and bushes, real jungle stuff.
About five steps down the air became noticeably cooler, and by the time I'd reached the bottom the temperature must've been lowered by about 30 degrees. (According to my Lonely Planet Guide, the temperature inside the lava tube stays a consistent 10 degrees Celsius; and it was nearly 80 degrees outside on Jeju that day according to MSN, so a 30-degree temperature discrepancy isn't out of the ballpark.) It...was...marvelous in there. It was cool, it was dark, it was wet, and it was big.
There were only a few fluorescent lights; the place was kept mostly dark to protect the native species, like cave spiders (I didn't see any of those, unfortunately). The ceiling dripped constantly; there were puddles everywhere on the rocky, ridged floor (itself the surface of a long-dried lava flow), and the echoes of drops falling into puddles and landing on rocks sounded softly and peacefully throughout my sojourn in the tube. And it was big.
Nothing compared to Mammoth Cave, mind you, but like I said, it's been awhile since I was in a cave, and any ceiling higher than 10 feet was impressive in that chilled, dank vault. It was marvelous. I trudged the kilometer to the lava pillar in a sort of somber glee (if there is such a thing). I was grinning inside, but outside I was rather down. For the millionth time I wished I wasn't by myself. Traveling alone has its benefits but experiences are ninety billion percent better when they're shared, in my opinion.
The lava pillar (a type of lava tube formation that occurs when part of the ceiling caves in and magma pours into the tube from above, then hardens, forming a gigantic stalactite of sorts), at seven meters, is the largest in the world. In the religious twilight of that subterranean gallery, it was a majestic and awe-inspiring sight. I won't soon forget the hike I took in that place, icy droplets whacking the brim of my hat (or better yet, skidding down my back), jumping over puddles and sliding from rock to rock, my eyes turned upward to admire the dimly lit ceiling or eldritch piles of rock and lava rafts.
It was the highlight of my trip to Jeju so far, and that's saying something.
The way out seemed too short. It was certainly less blurry, as I'd learned to prop my camera on a rock when snapping photos to avoid low-light, long-shutter, wobble-induced smudges.
And so, finally, I reached the cyclopean, jungle-clad opening of the well once more.
Well, I wasn't quite sure what to do after I got out of Manjanggul. I had a quick look around the expansive souvenir shop, but the proprietress was distastefully pushy. I wanted to see Seong-eup Folk Village (consisting of mud huts with thatched roofs such as have been used on Jeju for time immemorial), but that was a ways off and there were no direct bus routes that I knew of. So I thought I'd walk a ways down the road and ask Mr. Dunstin, the expat who runs the Gimnyeong Hedge Maze.
(My guide book states that he's "always up for a good yarn.")
Unfortunately, he wasn't in. There were only Korean employees bustling about the souvenir shop. That was all well and good, for here I was finally able to make my move. I pounced on a set of galot, the traditional clothing of Jeju farmers, very light and breathable and dyed to a burnt orange with persimmons. It was 65,000 won, which may have been a bit steep by Korean standards but I consider to be a steal. Now I've got my very own set of light clothes, similar to the baggy linens that apprentice Buddhist monks wear, which should keep me cool on a few hot days in my future. Take that, Travelsmith.
Well, I figured my best chance at the folk village was to head south to Pyoseon (140 degrees around the coast from Manjanggul, on the southeast side of the island, and directly connected to Seong-eup by road) and catch a bus inland from there. So I did. I got off in Pyoseon and lo and behold! I saw a sign that said Jeju Folk Village Museum, 500 meters! By hecky thump, that'll do. It was right there, in Pyoseon, within easy reach of an intercity bus stop. Furthermore, it was a museum, not just a collection of restored buildings. I figured I'd lighted well. This would be more worthwhile than trying to seek out a folk village without the benefit of plaques, markers, exhibits, explanations, notes, or information, particularly given that it was now 3:30 in the afternoon. So I went in, paying the six-grand admission fee.
That was a good museum.
The day was clear, the breeze was cool, the sun was shining, and I wandered through thsi quiet little place, peering reverently into the beautifully restored huts with thatched straw roofs, getting a much better idea of how life used to be conducted on this island.
The huts were arranged in groups; first there were the basic one-family compounds, then two-family, rich-family, fisherman's villages, the head family's house (with four buildings instead of the usual three; one was a meeting room)...and there were also craftsmens' huts.
The Jeju Koreans were master craftsmen: woodcarving, wood-etching, horsehair work (for hats), bamboo...it was amazing. No two huts or workshops were exactly alike, and the interiors had been rendered as closely as possible to their true counterparts elsewhere on the island. The furniture was arranged as though the family had just stepped out (perhaps leaving one or two gateposts up). There were even real cows and Jeju's trademark black pigs in the barns and sties.
It was about as true-to-life as you could want, and very immersive viewing.
There were also flower gardens...
...a hill of pampas grass...
...exhibition halls...
...an aviary with native Jeju birds (golden pheasants and mandarin ducks)...
...and even (this was a bit random) an ostrich farm.
I pissed off the alpha male something fierce. He must've taken an intense disliking to me on sight because as soon as I hove around the corner to come see him he strode right up to the fence, prancing about and eyeing me belligerently. I took the hint and buggered off.
I will also say, as my last word on the subject, that the crafts in that museum were done by true masters. There was a man in every single one of the workshops, practicing his trade. In the wood-carver's, there were dozens upon dozens of little figurines, fierce-looking protection-givers (like fanged moais), grinning Buddhas, stately ducks and horses...in the wood-etcher's, there were all manner of placards and signboards all intricately cut with inscriptions and characters (some saying things like "If you have a dream, you will achieve your goal" and "Clouds need wind to move; life needs love to live"). I highly recommend it.
On the way out I stopped at the souvenir shop. It was big, and I reasoned that I could delay no longer: I had to buy Adam and Elaine's gift. I won't say what it was (in case they're reading this) but they'll love it, for sure. The two proprietors (an elderly woman and a more energetic younger one in galot with short hair) were quite friendly, and chatted to me amiably in Korean as I stumbled to follow them. They even gave me a free cup of delicious, ice-cold fruit tea as thanks for my purchase.
I also decided I couldn't wait any longer to go to the beach, so I walked a few hundred yards east after exiting the museum to Pyoseon Beach.
This beach would be perfect for people learning to swim or anybody who just wants to lay back in the water and relax completely. It's as calm as a millpond. It's in a shallow bay, protected from pounding surf by a breakwater and the natural arms of the land. It's so shallow, in fact, that you can wade a hundred yards out and still only be barely waist-deep.
I thought the sand at Jungmun was velvety; this defined velvet. It was finer than the dunes at Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley. It was deliciously warm and crystal-clear. I waded and splodged for a time, then said the hell with it, doffed my shirt, tied my shorts in place with my bandanna (so I wouldn't get my leather belt wet) and then collapsed into the water. It was so shallow that I couldn't do anything but the deadman's float, but what the heck, it was water and it was a gorgeous afternoon. I had a nice little dip, then packed up and caught the bus back to Seogwipo. Pyoseon Beach is wide, shallow, warm, clean and beautiful. It's not as energetic or lively as Jungmun, but that's a good thing, in my opinion.
I showered upon my return to Seogwipo, then boldly stroke to the nearest pork house to sample some of Jeju's famous black pig meat for myself. Heukdwaeji, it's called. Dwaeji is Korean for "pig," and I imagine that heuk must mean "black." I had the heukdwaeji bulgogi at this little restaurant on the main drag (the Jungangro) called Aldeuleu. I believe that's what it was called, anyway. The font was a little difficult, like Korean cursive or something. Anyway, it was absolutely marvelous. I really needed some meat, and this stuff was tender and flavorful. I couldn't tell the difference between it and regular ol' run-of-the-mill pink pig, but hey, I'm sure Koreans can. I dipped the tender, grilled chunks of pork in ssamjang, put them on a leaf of lettuce with fried kimchi and garlic and some onions marinated in soy sauce, and bolted the lot. Absolutely fabulous, just the perfect end to a long day of walking around.
Tomorrow (July 4th) I'm planning on doing Hallasan for sure. After that I'll come back, shower, then hit the bars and see what kind of nightlife Seogwipo has to offer. Then Sunday we'll see about souvenir shopping and submarine rides. And at some point I must do laundry...
