Snippets from North Korea
Arrival
The bus drove through dark streets full of pedestrians not bumping into each other towards our hotel, which was flooded with light. We hit the bar which had a homebrew and Heineken. I sampled both. American Steve and Aussie Mark had a debate about the lack of impartiality of CNN and Fox News in the States. Steve reckoned that both of them claim to be fair and balanced but they're on opposite wings. CNN is supposed to be the liberal channel, which was (unbiased) news to me. I got polluted, but it was probably residual jetlag. Kim (a man) and Puk (a girl), our North Korean guides, were better behaved.
The next morning, we had to be up at 7. I was hungover as I mounted the steps of the bus. The telly was low-mounted and the bus driver thoughtfully put his hand up to ensure I didn't bang my head off it. The Aussie guy was less lucky. We discussed the dreams we'd had the previous night. I'd dreamt of updating my Facebook status, and American Steve admitted that he'd dreamt about driving his car. In the saddo stakes, it was a photo finish.
Most of that day we'd be down at the DMZ between South Korea and North. We got on North Korea's only motorway, built as a vanity project at some stage in the last few decades. It was supposed to be a motorway, but like none I'd ever seen before. A whole stack of money had been spent on it, with lots of tunnels and bridges. But the surface was worn away and bumpy from use, even though only the occasional car drove by. Every now and then, peasants would be digging in the soil for roots, or picking grass. At a bridge, a lady wearing rubber gloves was tenderly washing the metal fence with soap and water. There was no bus or car around. I hope they remembered to pick her up that evening.
Out in the fields, work gangs of schoolkids were weeding and digging, encouraged by a teacher. People were fishing in streams. Men would be sweeping pebbles off the empty road with big witch brooms.
At the DMZ, I nearly caused an international diplomatic incident. Coming back from the border where you could see South Korea, I popped into the jacks to attend a mild tummy upset. Since there was no running water, flushing the toilet using a saucepan and an open water tank took some time. When I finished and came back out, I surprised a soldier, who stiffened and stared at me, wide-eyed, as I passed. Taking the stairs two at a time, only my tour guide Kim was outside, which seemed odd. Breaking into a run as I reached the bus, there was a slow clap from my group. Jordan the English guy informed me that all tour groups, not just ours, have to arrive and leave at the same time due to the military escort we received. Since I'd disappeared, no one could leave until I was found. This isn't the first time my ass has gotten me into trouble.
Kim Il Sung Mausoleum
For this gig, we'd be visiting the place where Kim Il Sung's body was lying in state since his death in the 90s. I primped myself up in my best shirt and eschewed sandals in favour of socks and boots, even going as far as to partially shave. Puk had put on a pretty light blue dress, and everyone else had spruced up.
The Kim Il Sung Mausoleum had a giant car park with quite a lot of vehicles. Thousands of sombre-dressed individuals milled around in herds. We obeyed our orders to leave cameras behind as security would be tight - I would have to commit these particular sights to memory instead.
Entering, we checked bags and jackets into a cloakroom and passed a metal detector check. These guys were thorough and I think my junk may have been touched at one point. Then we got on a travelator.
Hands crossed in front, we rolled our way along in silence. The end never seemed to get any closer. Finally we stepped off and passed around a corner... onto another travelator. The process was repeated and English Jordan started going on about South East Asia or something. Me and Aussie Mark compared mausoleum stories. He'd seen Chairman Mao in Beijing, Ho Chi Minh in Vietnam, and Lenin in Russia. All simply consisted of walking into a room where there was a dead body, like it was a morgue. This place felt more like an airport.
There was another travelator, this one even longer than before. I joked to Therese that we'd reached the terminal gate eventually. Korean Kim may or may not have made a face.
After an interminable series of escalators and travelators, a lift finally whisked us down to the atrium. As soon as the doors opened, we were assaulted with bombastic martial music that seemed to echo from the roof through hidden speakers. The lights were low and red. Corridors were dark.
We were lead, by stern staff who glared at all the whiteys, quickly through the pilgrimage route. In the first room, we bowed to a statue like ancient Romans worshipping Jupiter before seeing an augur, but the second room really upped the crazy. Receiving handheld audio devices, a bloke with a pure English accent and a heightened sense of melodrama talked us through the grief and anguish that Kim Il Sung's death had evoked in the populace. Right as he started on about children and woman weeping and gnashing their teeth, my gaze fell on that very thing in a relief on the wall that looked like it was made of metal with gold leaf. In the background, the martial music soundtracked the moment.
Since the narrator didn't have a trace of an Asian accent, I wondered what hack they'd bribed to come over from the UK and big up their dead leader. I couldn't help feeling that there were a couple of ethical issues attached.
In the final room, they cranked the creep and crazy up to 11. In a spotlit glass case, there was a pudgy old man lying in a bed. His skin had the consistency of porridge and an unhealthy gold and white colouring. I approached with a mixture of revulsion and fascination, and we all had to bow. Then we skipped around to the side and bowed again. The back was skipped, because we weren't allowed bow to the back of his head. Kim Il Sung had a large tumescent lump up there. As I passed, I snuck a glance - a wispy covering of hair and the pillow hid any deformity that may have lurked. We completed our bows, supervised closely by scowling besuited guards and the occasional solider in full uniform, and were hustled out.
Back outside, even a full minute later, my hands were still clasped in prayer, like when I would come out of Mass as a child and would be walking across the car park before I realised that I could put my hands in my pockets. Me, Tee and Mark walked in silence.
Finally I remarked, "If that had been in the richest country in the world, it would still be impressive."
"Have you ever been to the Lincoln Memorial?" asked Mark.
"No?"
"It's not a patch on that!"
It got worse when Tee told us that Kim Il Sung had requested to be cremated, not lain in state.
I wondered if the construction of this in the 90s had contributed to the famine they had back then. I'm sure rice rations had to be cut for a few years at least.
Moronbong Hill
We were told that this park was popular with local people who would hang out there and be a bit less oppressed than normal. As soon as we walked in, the vibe seemed right. Carts sold fruit and icepops, and people were sitting around in groups on the grass. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered. We pushed in, and there was a bizarrely dressed woman prancing around, looking like a cross between a clown and a traditional dancer. As Jordan took his camera out and began shooting, to our surprise the woman came up and made a funny face at the camera. I'd been sure she'd be camera shy, but it was quite the opposite. To my even greater surprise, I saw at least two North Koreans using brand new digital cameras to film the proceedings. They certainly didn't seem to be officials, more like regular guys using new toys rather than anything the government had sent along.
As we walked on, some old women in fancy dresses were dancing on the grass. When they saw us taking photos, they played up to the camera. I was really taken aback. None of these smiles seemed forced.
Coming up a path leading to the top of the hill, we were spotted by a group of what looked like college-aged guys across a stream and partially hidden by the trees. A voice shouted, "How are you!" At first I didn't even realise they were talking to us, until Puk started laughing. It was followed up by, "Where you from!" I got a great kick out of their attempts to chat us up by shouting through the branches from fifty metres away.
Another group we passed were singing. Puk told us the lyric translation was about the joy of youth, though I don't think the song was Kids by MGMT. They were dancing badly to music coming from a stereo and were a mixed group of college types. Around a corner, two schoolboys in uniforms were sitting cross-legged on the path and drawing a building. A white guy was taking close-up photos of them, but they were silent and unperturbed.
The best was yet to come. Down in a hollow, there was a band playing Asian music and a large group of people dancing joyfully. Hundreds more watched on the grassy slope. Kids milled about. Many of the people dancing were elderly. We watched a tall whitey dance badly for a while, and when he'd had enough and walked past, he turned out to be British. Shan suggested some of us dance, but secretly I'd been planning on it anyway, so me and Tee headed up to waltz - but got yoinked by Koreans immediately. I danced with a fixed grin with a woman in her 40s with a mullet - they love mullets in North Korea - and a big green woolly jumper. Therese told me later that at one point she had four Korean men jostling to dance with her. After several minutes, my fixed grin began to ache, and I finally managed to extricate myself from her exotic Asian moves and embraces and headed back to the group. As I left the dancing area, I noticed a Korean bloke videoing me. I ducked to avoid him, but he shifted the camera to compensate.
Back down some steps and into the car park, Koreans walked past with sombre expressions once again. I was amazed at the Asian ability to compartmentalise uninhibited leisure time and work time. It was like that in Japan too, where you would have office workers pulling a 14-hour day before piling out to the grass and getting drunk on sake within 15 minutes.