Secret journey to Daegu in 1875

The fortress at Fusan in the late 19th century Courtesy of Diane Nars Collection

By Robert Neff

Traveling alone through the Korean countryside in March 1875 was dangerous ― especially if you were a foreigner. However, one young Japanese man from Tsushima Island, likely a student interpreter at Fusan (modern Busan) and possessed by the folly of youth and the mastery of the Korean language, was determined to explore Korea beyond the small Japanese enclave at Fusan. He wrote:

"After studying Korean for several years and becoming pretty well acquainted with the language, the idea entered my mind to make a tour of observation through the interior of the country in disguise."

His destination was the great market city of Daegu ― a fairly conservative city that would later gain a seemingly well-deserved reputation as being unfriendly to foreign visitors.

In preparation for his journey, he let his hair and beard grow out so that his "general appearance, in [the] course of time, resembled that of a Korean." Following the advice of his Korean companion, he put on Korean mourning clothing ― the large mourning hat which covered his face, aided in disguising his true identity.

They departed on March 15, and after a fairly short trek made their first stop in a crude inn. The Japanese man felt quite fortunate as the inn had an empty room in which he and his Korean companion could pass the night shielded from the watchful eyes of the general population.

Torai Gate circa early 1900s Robert Neff Collection

Although he was dressed like a Korean and could speak Korean, his careful preparations were almost foiled by his finicky appetite.

"The food was rough and coarse and assailed my nose with such a stench that indicated that it was putrid. One glance at it was quite sufficient to create a bitter taste in the mouth. To give a specimen or two of the dishes ― one was herrings and shrimps pickled in salt (the latter cut in small pieces), exceedingly offensive to the smell."

He also described the doenjang stew as being thick like mud. The meal, served with side dishes and "such an immense quantity of rice that no single man could eat it all," was extremely inexpensive.

Apparently it was not to his liking but, as he later recalled, "As I might run the risk of exciting suspicion if I did not eat, I ate as best I could."

The following morning they continued their trek and stayed at an inn where the food was relatively the same as in the previous inn. This time, however, the inn had another guest who suddenly burst into their room:

"My Korean companion found great fault with this irregular entry. Henceforward we arranged that I was to pass for a sick man and that other guests were not to be allowed into our room, and to make a similar arrangement with the landlord before putting up anywhere. I felt very uneasy at the time, lest the guest should ask any questions, and guess the truth; but luckily he went away without any dispute."

This would not be his last brush with discovery.

A small restaurant circa early 1900s Robert Neff Collection

On the 17th they crossed the Nakdong River noting that narrow boats ― nearly 20 meters in length ― sailed up and down the river. It was just as they reached Miryang when they encountered a Korean official and his procession returning home from Daegu. Unsure as how to act in front of the official, he was spared from discovery when one of the Korean passersby told him to get out of sight as he was a mourner. "From this," he wrote later, "I first learned that it is the invariable custom for mourners to avoid meeting people of the higher class."

This custom may have shielded him from the upper class but not from the observant eyes of the lower class. A laborer grew suspicious and asked if he was Japanese but the "mourner's" traveling companion convinced him it was merely a case of mistaken identity as there were "a great many people in the world who resemble one another in appearance."

On March 18, he discovered that he was running out of money. He bought a large amount of rice cakes at one of the "mud-built stalls" he passed "to satisfy ― in some degree ― [his] hunger."

He was, of course, somewhat judgmental and often compared Korea unfavorably to Japan. He wrote:

"In the fields, as we went along, I saw woodmen engaged in raking pine leaves together and gathering withered branches, straw and grass, which they use in place of firewood. This would seem to show that firewood and charcoal are scarce, and also that very little attention is paid to farming."

A scene from the Korean countryside circa early 1900s Robert Neff Collection

That night, he arrived at his friend's nephew's house on the outskirts of Daegu ― the place where he would stay for a fortnight. It was a thatched house in dilapidated condition. He described it as the "exact counterpart" of the seaweed huts used by Tsushima Island peasants.

His hosts were farmers who supplemented their income by selling pots and pans. They lived rather frugally but they were exceedingly kind to their guests and shared all they could. Their food was simple ― rice and wheat mixed, served with wild vegetables. During his entire stay, he never saw them eat meat and claimed even Koreans in the middle and higher classes found it difficult to obtain it ― usually resorting to salted fish. "The articles of food are for the most part rancid in smell."

It wasn't only the food he criticized.

"[The Koreans] make no particular change in their garments for inside and outside wear. Their bodies and limbs are impregnated with filth; their clothing is a nest of vermin. As they usually lie down and get up without washing their feet, their houses are in complete litter, the stench of which offends the nose in a well-nigh unendurable manner."

Even Korean alcohol was not exempt from the scorn of his pen. He denounced "makgeolli" as "thick [and] muddy … so sour and acrid in taste that one can hardly drink it." And yet, one snowy night, he and his friend drank enough of it while gossiping that he became intoxicated enough to compel his unwilling friend to take him to the walled city ― his target destination.

"But to my great vexation," he complained, "owing to the darkness of the evening, I was unable to see anything clearly."

Sharing a meal circa early 1900s Robert Neff Collection

On March 31, his friend slept in the same room with him ― this seems to have provided him with some degree of comfort but it was short-lived.

"In the middle of the night the dogs suddenly began to bark and a noise was heard of people calling out 'Thieves!' 'Thieves!' Soon afterward a woman came to the door outside, asking where the thieves were, and after her four or five men came and said that the robbers are concealed in this house and manifested great suspicion. They were then about to make a search, but at this stage, my friend got very angry and shouted out asking them what they meant by treating him as a thief, and how they would explain their conduct if they searched another person's house and did not find any thieves there. They went away without a word."

The Japanese man was terrified, and gathered his things together in case they should come back and he would have to flee into the night. Sleep came very uneasily.

In the morning, he moved to another friend's house. This friend took him to view the interior of the walled city which somewhat impressed him.

The prosperous city of 3,700 houses was surrounded by a wall five meters tall and five kilometers in circumference. There were four gates and each guarded by soldiers. Near the northern gate was a building used by the governor of Daegu to pay homage to the capital by making "profound bows in the direction of the capital." This he did twice a month ― on the first and 15th day. Near the western gate, he was surprised to see "that half the interior was crowded with convicts. The area around the eastern gate was "bustling and crowded; the shops [were] as close together as fishes' scales" and displayed their wares ― foreign cotton goods and domestic products ― on small mats. The governor's residence was located near the southern gate and there was a large sign posted warning mounted officials to dismount as a sign of respect for the governor.

Yeongnamnu at Miryang circa early 1900s Robert Neff Collection

On April 4, the young Japanese man began his return journey to Fusan. Accompanied by two Koreans, they left in the rain ― the rain would be their constant companion. Throughout that day and the next, they trudged through the mud. Our traveler complained bitterly that he was "greatly fatigued and tired out" so when he arrived at a small town he identified as "Myangsan," he made arrangements to stay in a small house. One can imagine he anticipated good food and a comfortable night ― but he was wrong.

"[The] interior of this house smelt very badly. On one side I saw some dried beef, and on asking about it was told that it was the carcass of a diseased cow. I discovered that the dried meat which Koreans ordinarily carry about for sale is not to be eaten incautiously."

They left early the next morning ― of course, in the rain ― and struggled for the next couple of days. Our Japanese narrator's pen was, for the most part, unused except to describe an encounter with three singing girls riding in palanquins who were followed by a Korean official traveling in his palanquin and attended by 20 followers ― they were all on their way to a temple for some "amusement."

At around midnight on April 7/8, our young Japanese adventurer arrived at the Japanese settlement in Fusan. His journey had cost him most of his money, a great deal of discomfort and apprehension but it allowed him to leave behind a legacy ― unfortunately, a nameless legacy, as W.J. Kenny, who wrote down the account in 1883, failed to include his name.

My appreciation to Diane Nars for allowing me to use an image from her collection.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including Letters from Joseon, Korea Through Western Eyes and Brief Encounters.