Memories of Andong: 1920s to the present

Andong in the early 20th century / Courtesy of Diane Nars Collection

By Robert Neff

• Published May 24, 2025 10:00 AM KST

In the mid-1920s, the ancient city of Andong, North Gyeongsang Province, was undergoing rapid change. The city walls that once guarded it were nearly impossible to find and the south and west gates were gone — casualties of progress. The quiet, twisty and narrow streets — once the domain of pedestrians, oxen, pack ponies, bicycles and the occasional cart — were being straightened and widened. According to one missionary, the streets were becoming heavy with cart traffic and every day, about a dozen public automobiles — hired cars or taxis — provided transportation to nearby cities.

The old city jail, with its thick mud walls, was replaced with a much larger modern prison. The old army barracks were converted into a school, and “as if by magic,” rice and grain cleaning establishments had sprung up.

Barber shops, the missionary noted, were suddenly very conspicuous, which, given the city’s reputation for conservatism, was somewhat surprising. Only a couple of decades earlier, everyone had long hair and cutting it would have been a shocking defiance of the social order.

Some things remained the same. The nearby Nakdong River was still an important route of transportation. Large amounts of salt were imported, while boatloads of grain and beans were sent to the southern ports. In 1925 alone, over 15,000 large logs were floated down the river as part of the timber trade.

A strange tale was also associated with the river and the locally dominant Kim clan. A missionary recorded a legend from the 10th or 11th century. The story told of a rebel leader descended from a snake or dragon who came from Chungcheong Province and terrorized the Andong countryside. Several attempts were made on his life, but each time, he managed to escape, either by burrowing into the earth or slipping into the river and swimming away. In desperation, the king called upon a trio of brothers from the Kim clan for help.

In the story, the brothers lured the serpentine rebel to a spot near the river and then tried to crush him with a massive boat, but he once again managed to burrow into the ground and escape to the river. The brothers then ordered bags of salt cast into the river, weakening him enough to pursue him by boat. The final battle took place in the middle of the river, where he was supposedly burned to death or drowned in the salt-laden water.

The king subsequently rewarded the brothers with high offices, and each was allowed to start his own clan.

According to the missionary, for whom the details seemed foggy:

“In order to keep alive the memory of the great feat, every year, they (the people of Andong) used to have a boat fight. The rafts were wedge-shaped, and the leader stood on the top of the craft while the others carried it on their shoulders or marched to the side. It was also the east side (of the village) against the west side. They tried to dismount the leaderand tear his raft to pieces. Fatalities used to be frequent, mainly owning to men getting drunk, so a stop was put to the sport.”

Presumably, like the old stone battles, the Japanese authorities were responsible for outlawing the festival. However, it is very similar to a folk tradition of battling with a leader mounted on an a-frame that continues to this day and can be seen as part of the festivities for the annual Andong Mask Dance Festival.

According to the missionary, the women of Andong had their own historical festival centered on the arrival of one of the last princesses of the 918-1392 Goryeo Dynasty. This unnamed princess is said to have fled to Andong during the political upheaval that led to the fall of Goryeo and the rise of the Joseon Dynasty in 1392.

“When she approached Andong, her loyal subjects, the women of the city, went out and prostrated themselves in the road so that she would not have to touch her feet to the ground,” he wrote.

This act of devotion was honored through the ages. On the night of the full moon of the first month of the lunar calendar, “the women and girls go out and make a bridge of their bodies while a young girl walks on their shoulders into town.”

The missionary somewhat mischievously added, “Woe betide any mere man who appears on the scene!”

Much of what the missionary wrote is filled with historical inaccuracies, perhaps because the folklore evolved with each retelling or maybe because the missionary simply mistranslated. But these personal observations are still important. Like the river battle described, a dance that is similar but not exactly as the missionary reports is still performed as part of folk traditions in the town.

I first visited Andong in the mid-1980s with a Korean friend who was a couple of years older than me. I knew very little about the culture and could speak only a couple of phrases in Korean, so I was completely dependent upon him. During the day, we did the usual sightseeing (mainly via local buses, as few people had personal cars), and at night, we went to a small cluster of pojangmacha (covered street carts) under a giant tree for some makgeolli (Korean rice wine).

I was horrified when the proprietor, an old woman, brought us a dish of small boiled frogs. They were whole — not gutted. The other patrons, all elderly men, found great entertainment in my unease and seemed to be betting among themselves on whether or not I would eat one. I did eat one and immediately regretted it when it exploded in my mouth. I only ate that one frog, but I drank a lot of makgeolli, trying to wash that foul taste away.

Whenever I tell this anecdote to my younger Korean friends, they always smile and shake their heads in disbelief. None of them have ever heard of people eating boiled frogs. Despite their skepticism, I still vividly recall my older friend smiling at me with pieces of frog skin on his lips. Just because there is only a single source doesn’t mean the anecdote is false, but I am sure as each year passes and I retell the story, it, too, will evolve.