August 7th, 2011. Dandong,
Liaoning Province, China
I head downstairs to the gift shop.
It’s window opens up onto the station platform which is alive with
activity. In front of the building a group of twenty-something
females, all dressed in full uniform, are demolishing a wall with
sledgehammers and pickaxes. People are scurrying around to board the
train to Pyongyang. There are some civilians, most dressed in the
same drab green or grey work clothes, but it’s those dressed in
military uniforms that dominate. A group of sailors horse around and
soldiers, wearing high peaked hats, lean out of the windows of the
train chatting to their comrades on the platform. It’s a scene that
could easily be lifted straight from a 1940’s war movie, bar the
lingering kiss goodbye.
Finally, we are told to board the
train. As we line up again, one of the Chinese tourists raises his
camera to capture the moment. A female guard moves swiftly to stop
and reprimand him. As I get on the train I am surprised to find that
we are sharing it with some of the Korean locals, they seem
indifferent to our presence as they talk and send messages on their
cell phones. After a few minutes we leave the city limits and I am
greeted by a lush sea of green. Rice paddies and fields of corn
stretch as far as the eye can see. I think of recent reports of
famine and a starving population, but the evidence points to the
contrary. I wonder if the same story can be told beyond the distant
mountains on the horizon.
Along the way we pass villages and
towns. All with similar white washed houses topped with terracotta
tiled roofs. Farmers work in their fields, kids fish in the ponds and
streams that line the route. There is obviously poverty here, but no
worse than I have seen in other countries that I’ve visited. Inside
the carriage the heat is relentless. Women fan themselves, the Korean
males strip to their undershirts, the Chinese go bare chested. I head
to the restaurant car and order a beer in order to cool down.
“Product of Argentina”, it says on the can. It seems I will have
to wait until the nations capital in order to sample the local brew.
After nearly five and a half hours and
just under two hundred kilometers, the train arrives, on time, in
Pyongyang. I am greeted by my English speaking tour guide, a Mr Kim,
not surprisingly. He ushers me onto a waiting bus which drives a
short distance before arriving at the hotel. A gleaming 47 floor
tower with a revolving restaurant atop. My room is pleasant, ,a
decent sized suite with living room and bedroom. I search for a
power outlet to charge my camera, but find there are only two, dim, lights in the room with plug connections that I have never come
across before. Eventually the shaving socket in the bathroom comes to
my rescue, but the whole fixture falls off the wall as I plug my
charger in.
The next morning I open my curtains to
get my first glimpse of Pyongyang. The Dae Dong river, lined with
bridges, snakes before me. To my left is the Juche monument and the
May Day stadium, the world’s biggest. But, it’s the magnificent
pyramid of the Ryugyong hotel that dominates the Pyongyang skyline.
As our bus leaves the hotel compound,
it's rush hour in Pyeongyang and people are making their way to work.
Most by foot or bicycle. Some take taxis, splendid looking 1970's
Volvos. The fashion is notably dated, not a pair of Nikes or Levis to
be seen. The buildings too are old. Utilitarian concrete blocks,
paint flaking, a few with polythene sheets where windows once had
been. Empty shells of unfinished building projects add to the
grimness. The few shops I see are void of window displays, the dim
interiors look sparse, the signs out front all using the same old
fashioned red font. There are no advertising hoardings, but instead
huge propaganda posters loom everywhere. It's as though someone
pressed a button circa 1972 and froze the city in time. But the
illusion is broken by the cars. Expensive, new Mercedes and Lexus
fill the roads. Occupied by military officers and the party faithful.
The priveledged few.
The bus leaves the city and hits the
highway to Kaesong, one of only 3 major highways in the North. The
entire road is almost entirely straight, but the bus weaves and
swerves to avoid potholes, people and the occasional herd of goats.
Our first port of call for the day is the DMZ, the De-milatarized
zone, the line that divides the peninsula along the 38th parallel.
Before reaching the DMZ itself, we stop at the building where the
1953 armistice was signed. The original documents still lying in
glass cases. Our military guide tells of the unprovoked attack on the
peace loving north by the imperialistic American army and their South
Korean puppets, and their subsequent crushing defeat at the hands of
the mighty North Korean and Chinese armies. Sorry, my American
friends, but you lost!
After lunch it’s back to the capital
for one of the trip’s highlights. The Pyeongyang Metro. We take
the longest escalator I have ever been on down to the world’s
deepest subway and the incredible station below. Grandiose columns
reach up to high vaulted ceilings lined with opulent chandeliers, the
walls decorated with huge propaganda murals. A train is just
arriving, it’s old, but elegant, probably harking back to when the
subway was first built in 1973. We get on the train, again there is
no attempt at segregation from the locals and an elderly Korean
gentleman ushers me to a seat next to him. One stop later it’s off
the train into an equally impressive station, up another endless
escalator to the waiting bus outside.
We drive to Mangyongdae, the alleged
birth place of Kim Il Sung. A quaint, thatched cottage located in the
heart of Pyongyang surrounded by acre upon acre of park, but not a
person is to be seen. The resident guide, dressed in full hanbok
(Korean national dress), talks in a tragic, wailing voice about the
Great Leader, and grandfather of the nation. When a Chinese tourist
steps over a barrier to take a closer look she becomes aghast with
shock and disbelief at the sacriledge that is being committed, but I
am not convinced by her display.
I arrange to meet my tour guide that
evening in one of the many hotel bars for a few drinks. I order two
bottles of Dae Dong Gang beer, named after Pyongyang’s central
river. It’s a pleasant full bodied lager, which doesn’t
surprise me since the brewery was bought lock stock and barrel in
2002 from the U.K. But, it’s the soju I want to try, Korea’s most
famous drink. I choose a bottle of Dotori (acorn) soju and am
surprised not only by it’s strength, but also it’s taste. Unlike
the soju in the South, which has a taste somewhere in-between paint
stripper and battery acid, it’s smooth and very palatable. The
drinking culture is also very different. There is no ‘one shot’,
there is no touching your hand to the wrist to refill your friend’s
empty glass. Instead you pour your own drink and sip it warm from a
tall glass, not too disimilar to an aperetif. When it comes to paying
the bill, I thank the waitress using the polite, but informal 고마워요
(Go Ma Weo Yo) for thank you. My tour guide turns to me and
says angrily, “Do not use the South Korean way here! In North Korea
we are always polite. We do not lower our language! You have to say
고맙습니다 (Go Map Seum Ni Da,
polite formal)”. A little taken aback I correct myself and
apologise to the waitress, who appears a little bit embarrassed about
the exchange.
The next day we head to Mount Myohang
and the Kim Il Sung, International Friendship Hall. It is a large,
lavish building, topped with a Korean traditional style roof. Inside
it houses all the gifts that have been given to Kim Il Sung and Kim
Jong Il from other nations. Our guide boasts proudly that if you were
to spend one minute viewing every gift it would take you two months.
I peer into the glass cabinets and note that the majority seem to be
from China or the world’s crackpot nations and despots. There is
also a surprising number from big, famous multi-nationals. Obviously
political ideology takes a back seat when it comes to money. Amongst
all the exquisite pottery, ornate wood carvings and elegant paintings
one gift sticks out like a sore thumb, a large 1983 Chinese made
ghetto blaster. An image pops into my head of a younger Kim Jong Il,
boom box on his shoulder, body popping and getting jiggy with it. I
laugh out loud. Bewildered heads turn to look at me.
From here it’s back to Pyongyang and
to the governmental and administrative center of the city. Kim Il
Sung Square is flanked by large communist style buildings. Nearby
lies the Children’s Palace where we will go to see a performance.
The students that I meet there are so incredibly talented, that they would put to shame any kid who was the star of his or her yearbook. We get to see
fine arts, incredible musicianship and outstanding performances that
would make most South Korean parents green with envy.
I come across an art class and see this
one girl painting the most exquisite flower painting. I forget myself
for a minute and remark to her ‘예쁘다’
(it’s so pretty). I see a brief moment of alarm in her eyes,
and she does her best to ignore me and carry on with her appointed
task. I too, realise my mistake and step away quickly. I pass the
same classroom again some forty minutes later. She is still there,
painting the same beautiful flowers. I hope she is OK...
And then it comes to the highlight of
the trip. Not just for us the curious onlookers, but for the North
Koreans too. The Mass Games. It’s their showpiece, to show to the
world their brilliance. And, I have to admit, I was totally blown
away by what I saw.
Walking into the stadium felt a bit
like going to see a baseball game in the South. Excitement is high.
Soldiers, party workers, school children buzz around us. They are the
chosen ones for this evening. And then...semi disappointment. I
emerge into the word’s biggest stadium to be greeted by half
emptiness. In my section are about 50 foreigners. To my left are
about a thousand soldiers, all chanting some patriotic slogan. To my
right are several hundred middle school kids, acting like kids
should.
Then, in front of me I see the most
magnificent site. Twelve-thousand high school kids. The chosen ones.
Those that provide the backgrounds for the mass games are being
whipped into a fury by some unseen conductor.
Suddenly! A shout goes up and what were
those high school kids is turned into a solid wall of their high school's colours. The kids are chanting, the pictures turn
effortlessly from one picture to the next. There’s a ‘battle’
going on here. They are trying to out do each other. I sit
breathless watching it. And this is just the warm up.
And then...the performance starts. We
see the history of the Korean people, the deification of Kim Il sung.
Kim Jong Il’s beautiful birth on top of that mountain top,complete with rainbows and angelic voices. A rather
interesting homage to China and North Korea’s splendid victory in
the war. Fuck You! America. They had me convinced.
And then it was back to my hotel. The most bizarre trip of my life was done.
The next day beckoned. I looked out across the Dae Dong Gang river for one last time before boarding my train. Again we trundled slowly through the lush paddy fields. And finally I got to know some of the Chinese tourists who had seemed oblivious to me until this point, but now they wanted to be my friend. They told me that their best player had taken 5000 dollars in the casino in our Pyongyang hotel. I took him for 50 bucks. Small victories...
The next day beckoned. I looked out across the Dae Dong Gang river for one last time before boarding my train. Again we trundled slowly through the lush paddy fields. And finally I got to know some of the Chinese tourists who had seemed oblivious to me until this point, but now they wanted to be my friend. They told me that their best player had taken 5000 dollars in the casino in our Pyongyang hotel. I took him for 50 bucks. Small victories...
