Recently in Asia Category

Happy Gnu Year!

It's been several weeks since I've had a chance to write. I've been offline in the South Pacific, and now in northern Japan celebrating the New Year Japanese-style. It's the big  family holiday here (rather than Christmas), with lots of amazing food and far too much to drink.

I'll write more about the foods and sites of Japan in the coming weeks, as well as the South Pacific territory of New Caledonia. I filmed a few videos for you too.

In the meantime, I want to share a short video I made for our fitness site about hangover remedies. I figured that, if you're anything like me, you might need such knowledge as the holidays draw to a close...

I hope you find it helpful. And remember, if you can't find fermented mare's milk, there's always ramen...

I wish you all the best in 2011. I hope you find happiness, prosperity, and maybe even a few adventures.

As I wrote in the prior blog, I still don't know how I found the "guesthouse" where we spent that first night in Rangoon.  At first it seemed like a great value. But in the end we got more than we bargained for...

It was a small place owned by Indian traders, on the second floor of a decrepit colonial building lost down a forgettable side street. We had to trudge up a dark stairway full of auto parts and then walk through some sort of machine shop to get to the door. I struck a deal for a tidy little room with a shower for less than ten bucks -- not bad given how overpriced rooms in Rangoon were at the time.

It was only later that night I realized what a shithole it was.

The wooden walls of the room didn't extend all the way to the top. There was a one-inch gap opening onto the hallway. Unfortunately the wall at the end of the hallway that separated these concrete cells from the lobby wasn't a proper wall either. I think it was made of plastic painted to look like fake wood. The lobby seemed to be some sort of social hub for other Indian or Pakistani traders. They sat there past midnight drinking tea and chattering like old ladies in shrill voices, and they resumed their discussions once more as dawn broke. Their conversation reverberated down the hall and funneled through that gap at the top of the wall, amplified to a volume that had been precisely calculated to shatter sleep.

I don't know if the mosquitos were pushed through by the sheer acoustic power of the gossip or if they fled to escape the noise, but as darkness fell the room was infiltrated by a plague of buzzing misery. Malaria was rampant in the region and all we had were pills purchased over the counter at Hanoi -- who knows what they contained. 

We burned mosquito coils until our eyes and lungs ached in a futile attempt to choke the bastards out, but I was tormented all night by a fresh assault each time a coil ran down. Any bit of flesh not covered by blankets was stung grievously, and by morning the bed was surrounded by the bodies of those slain in single combat.

I thought the mosquitos would be the worst of it, but that was yet to come. I had just finished writing my notes and was reaching for the light switch when I noticed something moving beneath the shower door. Now, the "shower" was just a dank concrete cube with a hole chopped in the floor for a drain, and a cold water pipe sticking out of the ceiling. It actually looked as though it had been built in the space between the walls. Anything that crawled out of the dark corners and moldy shadows of that place couldn't possibly be welcome.

As I got up to investigate, a giant cockroach crawled out through the gap in the shower room door and approached me with it's guard up. The hideous creature was nearly the size of my palm. 

I grabbed a hiking boot and wasted no time taking the fight to the enemy. I feinted with the left and dealt the beast a mighty blow with the heel of the boot, but it had absolutely no effect on the carapace of this freak of evolution. The son of a bitch came straight at me again like I'd blown it a kiss. I hit it a second and third time in rapid succession, and only then was it reeling enough for me to deliver the shell-splitting blow that finished the fight. 

I'd just scraped the thing into the trash when a second and then a third slipped out from beneath the door. I picked up the other boot and laid waste to my 6-legged foes with a matching pair. Before reinforcements could enter the field again, I yanked down the faded curtain that tastefully hid the entry to the shower, and I shoved it beneath the door, filling the space and bracing it with a stack of books.

We wouldn't be menaced by any more insects that night, but when I woke in the morning and went in there for a shower, I found that half my bar of soap was missing. The remainder was covered in tiny teethmarks. A rat had evidently eaten it in the night. 

I reached back out for my knife, whittled away the chewed sections, and finished my shower. I was perfectly content with this, but my girlfriend insisted we find new lodgings the next day. She said the place didn't meet her standards. But what did she expect for seven dollars?

Of all the places I traveled in Southeast Asia, I liked Burma the best.

It was by far the most traditional country in the region. It was free of Thailand's 7-11's, paved roads and fast food. Free of Vietnam's scams. And it lacked that uncomfortable undercurrent of violence and broken psyches that seemed to blight Cambodia. 

Burmese people were quiet and kind. Old men in the highlands lamented the fact that young people had begun wearing pants in Rangoon, but I never once saw a pair of jeans, only the traditional wraparound longyi.

Burma kept its traditions because its paranoid military dictatorship shut the world out to keep the people down. They even changed the country's name to Myanmar in an effort to hide the past and duck an accountable future. If they just pretended hard enough, would the outside world think they were someplace else?

Visiting such a country brings with it the risk that the money you spend will go towards supporting the regime. But I believe it's a risk you must take. For many Burmese, independent travelers are their only bridge to the outside world. And their stories deserve to be heard.

I spent a month in Burma back in 2002. At that time visitors were expected to change a set amount of foreign currency -- I believe it was $300 each -- into "Foreign Exchange Certificates" (FEC's) on arrival. It was illegal for Burmese to possess hard currency. And of course the FEC's sent that money directly into the rotting pockets of the military. 

The FEC policy was suspended late in 2003 and no longer exists. But at the time I went there, dodging it was a bit like stepping into a Cold War film.

The foreign exchange counter at Rangoon airport had been placed squarely in the middle of the arrivals hall, just before the customs post. It was impossible to bumble past while feigning preoccupation with your luggage. That was my first ruse and it didn't work.

The woman at the counter shouted and waved me back. "You must change $300!" she said. "Each." 

I lowered my voice, leaned on the counter and said, "But I don't want to change $300. Do you think you could help me out?"

She took a quick look over her shoulder at Immigration. "How much do you want to change?" she asked, leaning towards me with her voice pitched low.

"I was thinking.... $50" I said. That would be just enough for a pair of train tickets north, which had to be purchased from the government office anyway.

She took my money, counted out 50 FEC's, stuffed them into an envelope, sealed it, and wrote "$300" on the outside. "Show this to the customs officer," she said, licking her lips and leaving a thin coating of spittle. "And now... do you have a present for me?"

"What would you like?"

"Ten dollars!"

I burst out laughing and gave her $5. 

That solved the problem of keeping as much of my hard currency as possible out of the hands of the government. But I wasn't in the clear just yet.

Burma is subject to international sanctions, so credit cards and ATM's wouldn't work there. Cash is king, and I was carrying a month's worth. But I still lacked a way to turn it into the local currency, which would enable me to put money in the hands of those who needed it most. 

FEC's could only be spent in certain places -- at government approved hotels, on taxis, and on railway, bus or boat tickets. I used mine to get a taxi into town. On the way there I consulted a guidebook for a list of official "hotels." I wanted to avoid those because they'd be overpriced, and because that money would make its way to the bastards in power.

I still don't know how I found the "guesthouse" where we spent that first night. It was a small place owned by Indian traders, on the second floor of a decrepit colonial building lost down a forgettable side street. We had to trudge up a dark stairway full of auto parts and then walk through some sort of machine shop to get to the door. I bargained for a tidy little room with a shower, and told the owner I'd pay him as soon as I got my hands on some cash.

"How do I go about getting money anyway? Can you change it for me?"

"Oh no!" he said. "That's illegal." And then he leaned closer. "Just go for a walk. Someone will find you."

My girlfriend and I dumped our packs in the room and took a stroll through old Rangoon. Sure enough, we'd only made it halfway down the first block of old colonial buildings, their white facades faded to the colour of limburger cheese, when a man slid up beside me.

"Change money?" he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

I looked him over quickly. "Yeah, okay."

"How much you want to change?"

"A hundred."

"Big head or small head?"

That made no sense at all until I realized he was talking about the bills. Was it a new US hundred -- the big head president -- or an old one? They got different rates on the black market.

"Big head." 

He offered me 1150 kyat to the dollar and I accepted.  

"Good. Please follow me." I moved to walk alongside, but he held out his arm and barred my way. "Stay a bit back."

The man walked half a block ahead, taking several turns and sometimes doubling back. He never once turned around to make sure we were there. I kept him in sight but maintained that same distance. Eventually he walked into a small tea shop on a side street. I looked around and followed him in. 

"Please sit," he said, gesturing to a nearby table and ordering coffee for the three of us. "Now, show me the money you wish to change."

I slipped a hand into my pocket, palmed the hundred dollar bill and showed it to him. His eyes widened slightly, and he darted a quick look around.

"Okay, wait here."

He got up and ducked out the door. I wondered briefly if it was a trap, then went back to sipping my coffee. Either way, it'd be interesting to see how it played out.

Five minutes later he was back, followed by another man who looked colder and more businesslike. This was obviously the one who carried the cash.

We went through the routine of me showing them the hundred dollar bill in my palm again. The new man was satisfied. He reached into his shirt and took out a large roll of kyat, made a show of counting it, and then passed it to me under the table. I began counting it carefully in my lap.

"Give me your hundred," the original man said. "I can hold it for you while you count."

I shook my head and kept counting. They kept looking over their shoulders and making gestures to leave. 

As I expected, their stack was a bit short. I tossed the pile onto the table in front of the second man. "That isn't right," I said, pushing back my chair and moving to stand up.

"Okay, okay," he said, covering the cash in a panic and gesturing for me to sit down. He added several bills to the roll without looking -- he'd obviously slipped them aside intentionally -- and passed it to me under the table again.

I took my time, counting it all once more from the beginning. This time it was correct. I shoved the entire roll into the waistband of my pants and passed him my hundred under the table. Both men got immediately to their feet and rushed out the door, turning down the street in opposite directions.

"I guess that's our cue to leave," I said. We downed our coffees and struck a casual pace to a busier street, losing ourselves in the crowd.

Back in our room, I realized that the stack of kyat was so large I'd have to carry it in a plastic bag shoved into the bottom of my backpack. I don't think I'd ever held such a large pile of cash before. And so I did what any self respecting traveler would do. I spread it out on the bed and I rolled in it.

I read an excellent book about Mongolia a couple weeks ago by Jasper Becker, called "Mongolia: Travels in the Untamed Land." Becker was a Western journalist based in Beijing, and one of the first to cross the border from China when Mongolian communism fell apart in 1991. 

The book covers many aspects of Mongolia, from obscure bits of history to the observations of other earlier travelers, but for me the greatest thing was the memories it brought back. 

Becker's writing is fresh and his descriptions of landscape are vivid. It seemed like many of the places he wrote about hadn't changed at all from the time of his visit to the month I spent traveling the country in 2002. It remains one of the best places I've ever been, and I still dream of going back.

I still remember the way salty tea soaked life back into our wilted bodies after half a day's drive in the jeep. The mutton smell inside a ger [Mongolian felt tent]. The perpetual dust cough we all had from breathing in the roads and jeep tracks. And the taste of mutton, which was all we had to eat.

Back in Ulan Baator, I ate most of my meals at a guanz close to the apartment where I'd rented a room. 

The menu was all Cyrillic, but there really wasn't much to choose from. I remember the first time I went in there with my friends Therese and Katarina. We stood at the counter scratching our heads until a fat Mongolian babushka rose from a nearby table and offered to interpret.

I pointed at the first item.

"That is meat and rice," she said in a thick Russian-sounding accent.

"And this?"

"That is meat and potatoes and rice."

"And that one?"

"That is meat."

I pointed at the last item.

She shook her head, slow and sad. "You can't eat that."

We ordered.

"To drink? Mongolian tea?"

"Of course."

And then she thrust a chubby finger at each of the Swedes and shouted, "And you? And you?"

Mongolian food has the dubious reputation of being among the world's worst cuisines. Not because it tastes foul, but because most people find it incredibly bland. There just aren't a lot of choices. Milky salty tea with floating chunks of mutton fat and hair. Mutton cooked in five variations: soup, a greasy pancake, greasy dumplings, with greasy flour noodles, or with rice (also greasy). Potatoes or cabbage were the only vegetables I ever saw.

I loved it from the beginning. Where else would you find cigarettes and chewing gum on every restaurant menu? And meat salad, whatever the hell that was?

On one excursion into the countryside, Becker writes: "During the whole week of traveling, I never tired of just looking. The landscape changed with every mile, the pure bright light caught, twisted and refracted an almost theatrical display turning rocks and lakes a thousand hues."

And that was one of my favourite memories of the country. It's a place where the only possible answer to "where are you going" is "...over there."

I lost all track of time as our jeep bounced across the countryside. Mongolia unrolled outside the window. I watched it roll past. I smelled it through the triangle window. I was happy. 

Driving in Mongolia was an approximation. Distances were huge. The map was a work of fiction that bore little relation to reality. And the "roads" -- jeep tracks worn into the earth by the passage of previous vehicles -- were so bad it could take all day to go twenty kilometers.

Such a place was sure to infuriate "sightseers" with a list to check off, a detailed itinerary of lunch breaks and dinner breaks and knowledge of where one would sleep that night, and even an accurate knowledge of where one was most of the time. Don't go to Mongolia if you expect those things, or if you need to be entertained.

Mongolia is what you experience along the way.

In a section about the Gobi, Becker quotes American explorer Roy Chapman Andrews: "Below us lay that stupendous relief map of ravines and gorges; in front was a limitless stretch of undulating plain. I knew then that I really stood upon the edge of the greatest plateau in all the world and that it could only be Mongolia."

Andrews's quote brought back so much. I remember very clearly the moment we reached the desert.

My friend Therese and I climbed to a high point on the rocky mountainside behind our tents to watch the sunset. After two long days of driving, we were on the edge of the true Gobi. It stretched out flat to the south and west as far as I could see, and its emptiness was so vast that I couldn't believe it was not the entire world.

The great orange ball of the sunk sank into the desert and was gone. As darkness fell, the pinprick lights of the little town we had passed through came on in the distance to the north. A dozen flickering lights at the base of a low line of hills. That was the only trace of man in this landscape. 

And then the generator of the little town gave one last cough and went out, and the lights faded into silence and were gone.

This is the eighteenth and final installment in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

 

One "special request" we filed with our minders was to be permitted to walk into Pyongyang unescorted, perhaps as far as the railway station and back. Much to our surprise, they said it was possible. They had already added several of the places we asked to see--a grocery store, a shop, and the amusement park--but we weren't terribly optimistic about this one.

On our last day in North Korea our minder informed us that we would visit yet another museum, and then the bus would drop us off--with him as escort--to walk back to the hotel. Our request to walk alone had been denied, but at least we'd be on foot rather than seeing the city through the aquarium barrier of a bus window.

The "museum" visit was the same repetitive barrage of regime propaganda. By that point I no longer heard it. I loafed around outside watching a crew working on a mural high on the side of a building. They didn't have scaffolding, just a makeshift platform of the sort window washers use, only this one was lashed together from old lumber, mismatched sticks and brittle twigs. One poor bastard clung precariously to the platform while two long lines of men hauled at fraying ropes attached to pulleys. With each heave one side of the platform jolted up, then the other, and each time I saw that man's life flash before his eyes.

The use of press ganged manual labour and a total lack of safety standards is typical of North Korea. An expat aid worker who made repeat visits to Pyongyang told me that on one trip he noticed building had begun on a broad multilane highway between Pyongyang and a coastal port city. Masses of people clad in ragged clothing carried rocks in their bare hands and bags of dirt on their backs, carving out the highway entirely with hand tools. When my friend returned three months later, the road was finished.

As the builders of the pyramids would tell ya, a persuasive leader can accomplish amazing things with slave labour. But I found it strange that they could mobilize enough workers to carry out these massive public works projects, and yet they couldn't do something simple like get food to their people.

 

 

 

As promised, after the museum trudge our bus dropped us off near the railway station. Our minder immediately began walking away from the station at a rapid clip, but we asked if we could take a look inside. We were only permitted to view a waiting room; the station guards wouldn't let us enter the main area. At the time of my visit Kim Jong-Il was in Russia and would be returning by private armoured train within days. We heard rumours that the country's entire rail network had been shut down for reasons of security. Apparently this lockdown also extended to rail-related waiting rooms and lobbies.

The little square in front of the station was filled with loitering people who squinted at us with eyes of deep suspicion. They were nothing like the cheerful families that filled the park where we walked on the national holiday (those families could very well have been planted there for our benefit). These were regular working folk, whose daily life had steeped them in a deep mistrust of strangers. I had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that we were not welcome.

Our minder sensed it too. He began walking along the same dull street we had driven down every day on the bus. It was setting itself up to be another pointless excursion through the mundane already-seen, but we persuaded him to take a small detour by turning a different corner and simply marching off in that direction.

Our new route took us through a residential cluster of apartment buildings. It was like any other rundown concrete neighbourhood, except for the fact that there weren't any people. The shuffling of our feet echoed between the walls with apocalyptic gloom. And then we heard the lonely notes of a saxophone from somewhere above us. It bounced between the buildings, lonely at first and then wrung out with sorrow, fading and renewing itself over and over. I finally spotted the guy sitting high in a window, and he waved and blew another phrase.

It was the one time I felt as though I'd formed a genuine connection with someone in North Korea; that we were able to communicate without filters or minders, person to person, and I felt his frustration and his pain. I assured him of my sympathy by stopping there in the middle of the street to listen, and for a moment the barriers they'd built between us fell away.

And then control was reimposed. We returned to the sanitized main street, crossed the bridge, and trudged the length of our island prison to the hotel.

 

After a final tasteless lunch in the revolving restaurant we were driven to the airport, where-- just moments before passing through customs--we were each handed a one way ticket to Beijing and our passport. They'd held onto our documents the entire time we'd been in the country--whether to prevent us from escaping or to forge copies for their spies, I don't know. If you meet a rustic looking Korean with a Canadian passport who goes by the name Ryan Murdock, I'd appreciate it if you called his bluff.

My tourist visa had been issued on a separate blue piece of paper, rather than the usual sticker or stamp. This paper was stamped on entry into North Korea, and on exit they stamped it once more before taking it back. Earlier we had asked our minder if we could get an exit stamp in our passports. We were all dedicated travelers, and a DPRK stamp is incredibly rare. We were told it was impossible, totally illegal for foreigners. But once out of sight and through the customs gate, a handful of American cigarettes slipped through the window was enough to convince a soldier to shoot a quick glance over his shoulder and quietly stamp one in.

Our minder had also told me it was impossible for foreigners to buy the local DPRK currency, and that it was illegal to take it out of the country. I was able to get a little of this as well. It's never difficult to grease the wheels in a socialist country. Someone's always on the take.

 

Waiting in the departure lounge, we met two interesting foreigners who confirmed most of our suspicions and filled in the blanks on the rest.

The first, a businessman running a joint venture with the regime, said the North Koreans were so desperate for money that, short of raping a girl in the middle of Kim Il-Sung square, he could do whatever he wanted inside the country. His method was simply to push his way in, and when they pointed a gun at him he knew it was off limits. But even he wasn't able to get inside the black markets.

He also confirmed how Kim Il-Sung actually came to power. At one point in his story he said, "Like any good communist he killed all his comrades." A North Korean looked up sharply, obviously having understood. But the foreigner returned his glare with a steady, unflustered gaze. "That's right. I said Kim Il-Sung murdered all his friends." The North Korean looked away.

The other person we met was a prominent European aid worker, and he helped us complete the story.

Several times during our stay we tried to get one of the pins with the picture of the Leader that every North Korean must wear. We didn't have any luck, and our new friend wasn't surprised. He said it was impossible for foreigners to get one inside North Korea, it's one of the two taboos which cannot be breached. Citizens are given a certain number of pins, and they're strictly accounted for. If you want one of these your best bet is China, along the North Korean border. Starving Koreans who manage to escape the country on foot often try to sell their pins for food. Apparently the going rate is $25 US. Apart from the pins, the other unbreakable taboo is sexual relations between a North Korean woman and foreign man. The foreign man is deported immediately and the Korean woman is shot.

The European also told us that, though the people close to the top know the Juche philosophy and the propaganda is total bullshit, no one ever shows it in public. At most they might confide in a husband or wife, but publicly everyone pretends to believe. Insiders fall out of favour very easily and are often shot. Unlike the former USSR and other communist countries, there were no dissident groups in North Korea, no opposition groups of any kind. Control is absolute. Transgressors are dealt with swiftly and harshly.

About the Korean nuclear program, he said it was generally agreed Kim Jong-Il probably had a couple nuclear bombs, but they were more of a danger to him than anyone else. Their technology is believed to be so primitive that the North Koreans could just as easily destroy themselves attempting to use it. They do, however, possess massive quantities of conventional, chemical, and biological weapons, capable of inflicting heavy damage on Seoul and other parts of the South before US forces wiped them off the map. Our European friend felt that American use of North Korea as a threat to justify George Bush's missile defence program was completely groundless.

Finally, the he told us that the regime continues to survive despite widespread starvation because the rest of the world wants it to remain just above water. South Korea doesn't want the North to collapse because it would be flooded with refugees which would destroy its growing economy. The US wants to uphold the status quo to ensure stability on the Korean peninsula, and (at the time of my visit--a month before 9/11) to help justify massive military spending.

I was surprised to learn that the biggest donor of food aid to North Korea is the United States, though the regime doesn't acknowledge this. North Korea explains away container loads of US-stamped rice as guilt payment for damage caused during the Korean War.

For further info, and to complete the pieces of your own DPRK puzzle, check out North Korea Through the Looking Glass by Kongdan Oh. It's still one of the best sources out there and comes highly recommended.

 

So that was it.

I flew out of North Korea on Northern China airlines, on a plane filled with rich members of the DPRK elite going shopping in Beijing. Finally free to say and do whatever I liked, I sat beside the guy from Norway, and we made loud jokes about the Leader while the North Koreans shot us murderous looks. As we got closer to landing, they slipped into the lavatory at the back of the plane one by one to change their clothes and remove their Kim Jong-Il pins.

Back in Beijing I took the guys to a little restaurant I'd eaten at the week before our trip. When the food arrived we shoved our faces into it, grunting and slurping like swine, and no one uttered a word until it was finished. After a week of starvation in the DPRK it was a Bacchanalian feast.

Later that evening, we walked down Sanlitun and ate dessert in a sidewalk café. I can't describe to you how wonderful it felt to be there. The warm summer night hummed with activity. I felt such a sense of freedom simply from walking down the street. People were laughing, music boomed from nearby bars, pretty girls wore short skirts and smiled. Never in my life did I expect China to feel like the land of freedom. I wanted to sit there all night just to soak it all in.

I didn't realize until then how dull and grey and constrained North Korea had been, how utterly lifeless. Everything was held subdued and in a state of constant tension. On the streets nobody smiled, and there were no pretty girls. Compared to Pyongyang, Beijing was pulsing with life energy, and it almost felt like the West.

Looking back, it's amazing to me now that China felt so free. I didn't know it at the time, but I would go back to that same street 11 months later. For two months I would travel the length and breadth of the country, from its loftiest Tibetan heights to the depths of its western desert frontiers. And the conclusions I'd come to would be something else entirely.

But that's a different story for another time...

 

This is the seventeenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

  

We said goodbye to our brave military escort at the DMZ, thankful that they'd protected us from the imminent danger of American attack.

We made one last stop on our way back to the capital, just outside Kaesong city. It was reputedly the tomb of an early Korean king and his Mongolian wife, but as with everything else in the DPRK, nothing could be taken at face value. North Korea has been known to fake archaeological findings to support whatever version of history is the current party line.

Even if the physical site was authentic (and I believe it was), who knows how much of the interpretation was propaganda? The history of the Koryo Dysnasty--one of the founding kingdoms of Korea--is politically charged. The North believes that if they can claim control of that history, they can claim the right to lead a reunified Korean peninsula. 

To the best of my knowledge, this burial mound was the only ancient tomb known to have survived the bombings of the Korean War. But despite my normal interest in history, I didn't want to be there.

The sun beat down on the site like a hammer, without even the mitigating hope of a breeze. I followed along at the tail end of our group, dragging my heels alongside an equally deflated Norwegian. I'd become sick to the gills of monuments, propaganda and especially stories about the Leader, and Jon felt the same. 

As we plodded along in our sweat soaked misery, Jon whispered all the idiotic comments he wanted to ask our guide. He looked so sincere, and his Norwegian accent pushed it over the edge.

"Why is it that we never see the Leader? Is it because he's so fat and ugly?"

And, "I have a question. Last night I had this dream that I was having sex with the Leader. Is this normal?"

I could picture so clearly Jon asking these questions in sincere tones, and the look of absolute horror that would freeze on the face of our guide.

We were cracking up like school kids, trying desperately to keep a straight face while stifling snorts of laughter. Contagious hysteria wasn't far off.

I said, "You know that blister on my foot? Last night the skin peeled off and... it was... it was in the shape of the Leader!"

I didn't realize until we got back to Beijing the constant pressure we'd been under. Always having to be careful of what we said, the awareness that we were permanently under surveillance, every conversation listened to, and the seriousness of the North Korean guides with their relentless badgering propaganda. It was finally beginning to pile up.

One of the other guys drifted to the back and warned us to keep it down. If the North Koreans heard any of our jokes about the Leader, the least they would do was deport us immediately.

But I no longer cared what happened to the trip. I'd seen the DMZ and I was leaving the next day. Deportation would simply mean a couple less Communist monuments to suffer through.

 

The holes in the cracks of the regime continued to reveal themselves. On the drive back to Pyongyang, we stopped at a rest area that had been built to straddle the empty highway. There were of course no customers, only a few bored workers sulking in dark corners of empty rooms. 

I happened to look into the kitchen on my way to the washroom, where I saw three workers filling plastic water bottles from a tap and re-sealing the tops with a paper clip and a lighter. They looked guilty when I caught their eye, but that didn't stop them from trying to sell us those same bottles a few minutes later.

 

Back in the city, we were forced to make an unplanned detour because several main roads had been closed for the national holiday. We passed through semi-rural sections on the outskirts of Pyongyang, where the buckled tarmac was like one prolonged act of god. We didn't see any other vehicles, only people walking down the nightdark centre of the road.

The housing areas of the outskirts were the diametrical opposite of the marbled grandeur we'd been shown in the city. Crumbling cement dwellings clustered around shared courtyards. Many of the houses were completely overgrown with plants and vines, as people tried to supplement their meager diet by turning their roofs into makeshift gardens. Behind one house, in a little yard surrounded by ruined walls, I saw a woman and child squatting beside a pile of coal, breaking lumps off with a hammer.

Soon after that, we passed what must have been a black market. Our minders jumped up and ordered us to put away our cameras, and they refused to answer questions. The quick glimpse we caught revealed a government soldier with a rifle standing guard in front of a little walled courtyard. Inside, people looked to be buying and selling with paper money.

I found out afterwards that the government turns a blind eye to these unofficial markets because they're just about the only thing staving off more widespread starvation. Not everyone has access to them, however, and only dollars are accepted.

 

That night, back on our floor of the deserted hotel, we lined up shoulder to shoulder in front of the elevators and demonstrated our best North Korean goose step march while one of the guys took a photo. The shutter clicked, we burst into laughter, and the elevator doors slid open to reveal the head of the DPRK government tourist service.  A couple seconds earlier and he would have walked straight into our goose-stepping line.

He was friendly enough to talk to, but there was something strange about his eyes. A barely submerged cruelty, perhaps. I got the feeling that he would have shipped us off to a concentration camp without the slightest hesitation.

This latest close call finally convinced us that we were losing all sense of caution. It was definitely time to leave.

 

 

This is the sixteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

 

 

Our presence on the wrong side of the frontier caused a mild scramble among the South Korean forces.

Frantic radio messages were dispatched. Binoculars were trained on us. Reinforcements jogged over to take up positions half-concealed by the corners of buildings, where they conducted a whispered conference and pointed accusing fingers of guilt. They clearly considered us traitors to humanity.

A group of North Korean soldiers-- the promised "escort for our protection"--was posted at attention along the edge of the line, and a pair flanked the freshly painted blue door of the truce building.

Our escort whisked us directly inside, where a table had been divided precisely down the middle by the 38th parallel. Having experienced the North Korean sense of one-upmanship, I could just imagine the petty squabbling which must take place there, each side attempting to grab just a little more territory by pulling the table towards them when they thought no one was looking.

Like their North Korean counterparts, the US military also conducts tours on the South Korean side of the DMZ, and a strict agreement is in place to prevent brawls inside the negotiating room--when one side enters, those from the opposing side are not allowed to go in.

For guests of the US Forces, walking to the opposite side of that room--and technically crossing the line--is as close as most people will ever come to entering the world's most reclusive country. I guess it was fitting that, on a trip where everything felt like a strangely reversed mirror image of reality, I had the opposite experience--it's the only time I've ever stepped over the border to enter the geographic territory of South Korea.

I've spoken to friends who participated in those US military tours, and I'm told it's a serious, strictly supervised affair overburdened with a list of strange rules: dress codes are enforced, with collared shirts, no jeans, no open-toed shoes, and no clothing featuring English lettering. It's also absolutely forbidden to gesture towards, point at, or otherwise attempt to communicate with the North Korean forces on the opposite side.

The North Korean tour was nothing like that. Instead of acting tense, the soldiers inside the truce building went out of their way to seem laid back and sociable. They laughed loudly at our jokes, answered all our questions, and smiled as much as possible. They even encouraged me to lean back comfortably in my chair and put my feet up on the conference table. They really went that extra mile to present the impression that we were all one big happy Juche-believing family.

Even as we sat there laughing it up, the South Korean military was busy adding to our dossier. South Korean soldiers stuck their faces right up against the window glass, staring at us intently while speaking into portable radios. They peered at us through binoculars to see us better from 5 feet away, and one arrived with a camera and attempted to capture a clear photo of each of our faces.

Unlike the US military tour guides, the North Koreans didn't discourage us from making attempts to communicate. They pointed at the enemy soldiers and laughed as though to say, "See what we're up against?" When I finally had enough of all the picture taking, I pulled out my camera to take photos of them taking photos of us. The North Koreans just laughed and encouraged me.

Back outside, the air was thick with heightened tension. South Korean soldiers had taken up positions that mirrored those of our escort, standing eye to eye across that thin concrete line, glaring into each others faces only centimeters apart. I was reminded of the fact that, despite all the rules, gunfights sometimes broke out here.

I still couldn't believe the world's most heavily defended border was nothing more than a strip of concrete one foot wide and a couple inches high, with only self-discipline separating hate from fanatical hate.

I turned to our escort. "What would happen if one of us tried to run across the line?"

"You'll be shot," he said.

That was ambiguous.

"Who'll shoot us?" I asked. "You guys or them?"

"You'll be shot," he repeated, looking me steadily in the eye. It was pretty clear which side he was referring to.

By then an American soldier had joined the South Korean deployment. He lingered in the background, watching us from around the corner of a building while the South Koreans continued to photograph us, one man using binoculars to spot and direct the man with the camera.

I turned my back and put my head down anytime I saw that camera being raised, but in the end it wouldn't have made much difference. The video cameras that peppered the wall of the building opposite us were busy recording everything.

I resented that a little. I realize they need to watch the DMZ carefully, and that they would naturally be suspicious of someone who gained access to the other side. But the thought that some government bureau-rat might one day hold this trip against me--or even worse, attempt to label me as a sympathizer--really pissed me off. I'll travel wherever and whenever I like. I'll see things for myself and form my own opinion as to the conditions and rightness or wrongness of a place. I don't need a nation or a government to tell me how or what to think.

When we finally had enough of being stared at, suspected and photographed, our military escort led us inside the large glass-fronted building, to a second storey balcony overlooking the line. By the time we got there the South Korean solders on the other side had disappeared, but I'm sure they were watching us from the other large building that mirrored our own.

I was posing for pictures when one of the North Korean soldiers approached and began to interrogate me.

"What do people in your country think of North Korea?" he asked. From the sneer on his face, I knew he was itching for an argument.

"We don't get a lot of news from Asia," I said, groping for a diplomatic exit. "People in Canada really don't know very much about Korea."

A little more honesty would have been satisfying, but total honesty would probably have gotten me shot ("Actually, the rest of the world thinks North Korea is a seething mass of brainwashed lunatics ticking slowly toward a catastrophic implosion.")

He then said, rather forcefully, "Did you see the flag of your country on the other side?" 

He was referring to a plaque on the south wall of the truce building which showed the United Nations flag, and below it the flags of each country that had fought on the UN side in the Korean War.

I admitted that I had.

"What did you think about this?"

"I was a little surprised." It was only a partial lie. I was surprised to see a Canadian flag decorating the room, but of course I knew we'd fought against them.

"What do people in your country think about the Korean War?"

 "We don't learn much about it," I replied. "It's not studied much in our history classes."

He seemed satisfied with that answer, but I knew that we each drew different meanings from my statement. He believed Canadians don't study the Korean War because we're filled with shame and remorse. The truth is we don't study it because, despite the incredible sacrifices made by those involved, in the larger picture of world history it was an isolated 3 year war that happened over 50 years ago. At most it would occupy a page in a high school history textbook.

You must realize by now that the North Koreans don't see it this way.

For the DPRK, the Korean War and the earlier Japanese occupation of 1925-1945 are very much current events. They're the constant topic of films and books, newspaper stories and propaganda. They talk about it so much it feels like it happened yesterday. This obsessive resentment is deliberately kept at a slow boil by the regime. When a people are held in constant fear of the enemies surrounding them, they're less likely to realize that the very regime which claims to be protecting them is the worst enemy of all.

While we were standing on the balcony, another soldier came over to tell us about Kim Jong-IL's visit to Panmunjom. For the record, I don't believe in a million years that he ever actually went there. He would never be reckless enough to place himself within an easy sniper's shot of the Americans.

But this solider was convinced.

"When the Dear Leader was inspecting this site, a cloud of smoke came down to blanket the area. The Leader could see the DMZ, but his enemies couldn't see him. When he left the area, the fog mysteriously lifted."

For a moment we were knocked speechless--not by this miracle, but by the fact that the solider absolutely believed it. He, on the other hand, clearly interpreted our speechlessness as awe.

One of our guys finally managed to sputter, "Do you mean to say that the Dear Leader generates his own fog?"

The soldier simply said "Yes."

He wasn't smiling.

 

 

 

This is the fifteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

 

The highlight of my time in North Korea--the moment that made all the badgering and propaganda worthwhile--was our visit to the Demilitarized Zone and the truce village of Panmunjom. This thin line bisecting two worldviews is the last Cold War frontier, and the world's most heavily defended border.

The uneventful drive from Pyongyang featured the same broad tourist highway we'd seen on the drive north to Mt Myohyang, with the same manufactured greenery on both sides. There were more roadblocks and checkpoints as we neared the border, but this was the only indication of the massive concentration of conventional, chemical and biological weapons stockpiled in the surrounding hills.

One of the guys in my group was carrying a Beatles tape he'd picked up in Beijing, and much to our surprise our minders let him put it on. At times like that the world seems to waver and reality looses its grip. We were rolling down a highway in the most oppressive totalitarian country in the world, listening to songs of love and freedom. It felt like that music insulated us and protected us from the horrors outside.

Between songs, our minder explained Kim Il-Sung's brilliant idea for reunification of the two Koreas.

"The Great Leader saw one country, two systems, and two governments. In this way the Fatherland can be reunited."

"But isn't that two countries?" I asked.

He just repeated the formula.

At the end of the road we pulled up in front of a small building. We were told to wait there, and that several soldiers would accompany us around the Zone "for our protection."

We met a strange Australian 'tourist' inside. He was sitting in the corner with his two minders, dressed entirely in military fatigues, right down to the polished black boots. When we questioned him he insisted he was just a civilian on vacation, and that he dressed this way because it was "more comfortable." He became another subject for our daily speculations. You don't come to the world's most heavily defended border dressed like a combatant if you're a tourist.

The military guide arrived and took us to another room, where he explained the features of the DMZ using a large scale model and wall map.

"Here we can see firsthand the suffering and anguish of the Korean people over their divided Fatherland," he said, peering at us with beady eyes, as though we were personally responsible.

One of our guys pointed to the map, at some islands which appeared to be very close to the border. One was clearly to the north of 38 degrees. But the red line didn't extend that far.

"Which country do those islands belong to?" he asked.

The soldier answered a totally different question three times in a row, repeating by rote the same general information from his speech about where the border runs.

Peter finally gave up and let it pass. Even the Lonely Planet guidebook is clear that the islands belong to the South. The North Koreans didn't want to admit this, for some reason unknown to us.

We reboarded the bus accompanied by our military escort, and passed through triple rows of electric fence.

"You are now inside the truce village of Panmunjom," our minder said. "It is called the "peace village" because no weapons are permitted here."

I pointed out the window at a soldier walking past.

"How come he has a rifle?"

Our minder glanced quickly at the AK-47 slung over his shoulder. "It's not loaded."

"There's a clip in it," I said.

"No bullets."

Clearly the subject was closed.

We were taken to the building where the Korean War armistice was signed. I could sense the North Koreans rolling up their metaphorical sleeves for a serious bludgeoning of propaganda.

"The US came here hiding behind the flag of the United Nations, with their South Korean puppet stooges and their 15 satellite countries," they said.

"Notice that the UN flag is all faded and yellow, but the DPRK flag is still as bright and fresh as the day the truce was signed. It points to the fact that the intentions of the United States and the United Nations were rotten to the core, while those of the DPRK were pure."

That was a bit of a cheap shot. No doubt they've replaced their own flag several times since 1953.

Few people realize that a full peace treaty was never signed--only a cease fire--and so a state of war still exists between North and South Korea, and by extension the 15 countries of the UN mandate. The North Korean opinion of that cease far was made very clear to us.

"Here you see a copy of the armistice agreement. We regard it as nothing more than a worthless piece of paper."

Suitably chastised, we were loaded into the bus once more and driven a short distance to a small parking area. I happened to look to the left as we pulled in, and saw a group of soldiers hiding in the bushes. As our bus rolled to a halt the officer nudged the lead man. They marched out of the shrubbery and passed the bus in a crisp column, hurrying along as if on some important business. No one else in the group had seen them waiting there; they were all looking to the right where the border would be.

When we were finally permitted to disembark our military escort ordered us to pair up and form two columns. We were expected to march in an organized fashion to reflect dignity and respect of this important place.

After the barrage of propaganda we'd just put up with, not to mention the insults to our countries and our countrymen, this was too much. As we marched across the parking lot in the hot sun, one of the Brits began whistling the song from Bridge on the River Kwai. It immediately spread through our ranks until we were all whistling loudly in protest.

The Korean soldiers just looked at us with puzzled expressions. They either didn't get it, or they thought it was a traditional marching song. Lucky for us they hadn't seen the movie.

I thought the tortures of Tantalus were finally over and that they'd let us see the line, but I was wrong. They halted our column beside a large marble monument which depicted a replica of the final scrawled signature of the Great Leader. According to the official story, Kim Il-Sung died of a heart attack at his desk, where they found his still fresh signature on a document urging the reunification of the two Koreas. That's how deeply he cared about reuniting his heartbroken Korean people. How poignant. How moving. The soldier blathered on and on about the signature as we stood there sweating in the blazing sun, and it was all I could do not to shout "Shut up! No one gives a shit! Just show us the goddamned border!"

He finally ran out of patriotic things to say, and we were allowed to march over the hill two-by-two.

Two large three-storey buildings faced off across the no man's land of the border, covered in tinted glass and bristling with an array of video cameras and microphones. The line itself--over which so much blood has been shed--was nothing more than a strip of concrete about a foot wide and two inches high.

Five rectangular blue buildings, divided precisely in half by the 38th parallel, straddled the line. The center building was the famous 'truce building', where meetings are occasionally held between the two Koreas and through which all messages pass between North and South.

North Korean soldiers had been deployed around the truce building, standing almost nose to nose with an equal deployment of South Korean troops on the other side of that one foot line.

The soldiers on the south side didn't look very happy to see us. In fact, the first glimpse of white faces on the wrong side of the line prompted a small scramble of troops. US military advisers came running from the three-storey building to peek around corners with binoculars and cameras as we were marched over to the truce building's blue door.

 

 

This is the fourteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

 

The Arch of Triumph commemorates North Korea's liberation from the Japanese occupation at the end of World War Two. It looks an awful lot like the Arch in Paris, but of course Pyongyang's Arch was deliberately built to be 3 meters taller...

 

North Korea doesn't acknowledge the Pacific War (WWII) and the role it played in the liberation of the country, which made this a natural topic to bring up with our minders. It's good to test the waters every now and then, to remind each other we both know where the line's been drawn in the bullshit.

"When was Korea liberated from Japan?" I asked, shading my eyes and squinting up at the flat grey stones of this rather uninspiring monument.

"In 1945, after the Japanese surrender," he said.

"After Japan surrendered to America in the Pacific War?" I asked, in my most conversational tone.

"After the surrender," he repeated, with a little more emphasis on the neutrality of the last two words.

He didn't want to say who Japan surrendered to. It was of course America, but the official party line is that Japan surrendered to the unorganized and scattered Korean resistance groups, one small faction of which was led by Kim Il-Sung.

In the highly creative North Korean version of history, Kim Il-Sung led a vast army of all the united resistance forces, crushing the Japanese occupation single-handedly. Both our minder and I knew this wasn't true--he had lived abroad while working at an embassy posting, and so he had a little more awareness of the outside world than the average isolated North Korean.

We exchanged a glance, one of those "you know and I know, so don't push this any farther" sort of looks. I was satisfied and didn't press the issue. It was exactly the type of answer I'd expected.

 

After plodding around the hot grey pavement of the Arch of Triumph in the sun, we were taken to a hill on the outskirts of Pyongyang to trudge around the Revolutionary Martyr's Cemetery. This is the burial place of military heroes from the liberation war against Japan. Each gravestone is crowned by a lifelike bust of the person buried beneath it.

A site guide led us to the graves of important people such as the Great Leader's brother, and others whose stories of sacrifice and heroism on behalf of the Fatherland were considered particularly moving. At the top of the hill, the focal point of the cemetery, was the grave of Kim Jong-IL's mother, also a revolutionary hero (at least according to the current version of history), and the occasional third in the North Korean Holy Trinity. The base of her monument was strewn with flowers, evidence of the many North Koreans who came each day to pay their respects. We were once more obliged to line up and perform the "one-time bow" in homage to the founders of this cruel regime. It was just one of the prices we paid for admission.

Moping around communist monuments in the sun was finally beginning to wear me down. I was growing tired of listening to the ceaseless stream of nonsense about the Leader and seeing all those god-awful militant revolutionary monuments, and so I finally began to tune it all out.

Besides, I was more interested in the far-off view of the Pyongyang cityscape, with its enormous pyramid hotel that towered over everything. That strange black pyramid--that heartless shell--would begin to show up in more and more of my photographs. It mesmerized me. It lured me in. It was slowly becoming an obsession.

On the way back from the hills we drove past the former Presidential Palace of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung. According to an Australian businessman who joined our group from time to time and who does business with the regime, it was just one of several residences maintained by the Great Leader. Today it's a mausoleum where, thanks to the same Russian technology that brought us the eternal remains of Lenin and Chairman Mao, Kim Il-Sung's embalmed corpse is on permanent display.

Masses of local people were lined up in the entrance courtyard to file past the Great Leader and give the respectful "one-time bow", but unfortunately this wasn't on our itinerary. Apparently foreigners can be admitted, but it's difficult and must be arranged far in advance.

 

The Australian businessman also told me that no one knows where the current leader Kim Jong-Il lives. He's believed to move around between several residences for fear of assassination, and to have many mistresses.

I decided to test this notion with our minders later that day.

"Where does the Dear Leader live?" I asked, my voice tinged with the appropriate tones of respect. "And does he have a family?"

Both times the answer was a brisk "I don't know."

They either really didn't know--which I suspect is the case--or they weren't permitted to discuss it with us.

I found that rather strange. As recently as a month before my visit, the Asian edition of Time magazine published an old family photo of Kim Jong-Il with his wife and kids. His eldest son had been picked up at Tokyo's Narita airport while trying to sneak into Japan on a false passport in order to visit Tokyo Disneyland. The existence of his family was common knowledge in the outside world, but it was apparently a state secret within the country. I got the impression that to even speculate about it was forbidden.

I was bursting to tell our minders all about the Tokyo Disney bust, but slighting the Leader even innocuously was the one thing which would have gotten us in serious trouble in North Korea, and that was certain to place our lives at risk.

 

[Those interested in reading more will be fascinated by this link to a high level North Korean defector's report of Kim Jong-Il's residences and living conditions]

 

This is the thirteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

 

Every first world metropolis needs a subway, and the Great Leader's urban paradise is no different. But as with everything else, the North Koreans went a little overboard. Other world cities pride themselves on having functional transportation systems. Pyongyang's exists as yet another monument to the glorification of the Fatherland.

Each subway station in Pyongyang is slightly different, with a different décor and name derived from its revolutionary theme, which bears absolutely no relation to the station's geographical location.

The stations I visited were deep underground, far deeper than necessary judging by the flat topography of the city and the lack of competing lines. The escalator felt like it was descending to the Earth's core, or perhaps to the depths of hell. My ears popped more than once on the way down. I assumed the stations were to be used as bomb shelters in the event of war, or that they had some other nefarious purpose.

I've largely confined these travelers' tales to what I saw and heard at the time, rather than bring in what I learned after I got out. But I'll make an exception here. I later learned that our suspicions were likely quite accurate. This quote from a very cool website on the Pyongyang metro: "Documents passed to Changchun Car Company, which built the original subway cars, indicate that Pyongyang has a substantial secret metro system for government use", and "Apart from the secret lines, the Pyongyang Metro was designed as part of a broader military system of tunnels and underground installations. The stations are very deep underground and are fitted with multiple (usually triple) heavy blast doors, indirect linking tunnels, and other features that imply military purposes or service as emergency shelters."  I've provided the link at the bottom of this blog for anyone interested in reading more.

The platform of Puhung (Rehabilitation) station was built of marble, polished to a high sheen to better reflect the glow of the enormous chandeliers which lit the station. Its walls were adorned with broad ceramic tile mosaics, the largest of which graced the entryway above the stairs: "The Great Leader Comrade Kim Il Sung among Workers" (15.8 x 9.25 m). According to the official English-language brochure The Pyongyang Metro: "In the underground station is the mosaic mural "The Great Leader Kim Il Sung among Workers" which depicts the great leader who, regarding "The people are my God" as his motto, devoted his whole life to the people, sharing life and death, sweets and bitters with them."

Here's another dose, if you simply can't get enough of that wonderful propaganda: "The works of art at Puhung Station represent the appearance of the country which is prospering day by day and the happiness of the working people who enjoy the equitable and worthwhile creative life to their hearts' content thanks to the popular policy of the Workers' Party of Korea and the Government of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea."

Despite the questionable choice of subject matter, the North Koreans really do excel at this type of art. Their craftsmanship is impeccable. By contrast, the subway cars themselves were a little down at heels. The doors didn't even open automatically--we had to open them manually, and turn to slide them shut again. Inside each car the two regulation framed portraits of the Leaders hung at one end, in case we needed another reminder of who's in charge, or who we have to thank for all this.

Our car was nearly empty, perhaps because they'd chosen the national holiday to take us for our token ride, or perhaps, as I suspected, because the system rarely ran, given the power cuts and blackouts which have become a daily constant in the country. Quoting again from the Pyongyang Metro website: "Indeed, whether the Metro is in regular service at all is not entirely certain. Practically the only non-North Korean eyewitnesses to Metro use are the visitors given the showcase ride on the system."

It seems that the other passengers in our car may have planted there for our benefit, though they did do a very good job of seeming to be surprised by the presence of foreigners: "Inevitably, they are taken for a one-station ride, between Puhung and Yonggwang stations, accompanied by their North Korean guides. A handful of well-dressed Korean passengers also board the train."

Our driver was already waiting for us when we arrived at the next stop: Yonggwang (Glory).

 

After touring the subway station, we were whisked off to an amusement park. This wasn't part of the official agenda; it was actually a request. It all came about as we drove past the park on our bus a couple days earlier. One of the guys in our group saw the park, leaped to the window, and in a thick Norwegian accent cried with great sincerity, "Oh a roller coaster! Why are we just going past?" Being rather compassionate individuals and quick to extend the hand of hospitality, our minders sought permission to take us to this gem of the People's Paradise.

At first glance, the Mangyongdae Fun Fair didn't look like very much fun. It was shabby and down at heels, a far cry from Disneyland or even Canada's Wonderland. Glum soldiers with Kalashnikovs guarded the entrance--perhaps to ensure patrons really did have a good time. Many of the "rides" seemed like the rusted remnants of an inner city children's park.

The only notable attraction was the roller coaster we had spotted from the road, but even it looked exhausted. Ground down by privation and years of hardship, it seemed barely able to summon the inertia to make it around its two loops. Every time I watched it go up, I was sure it would creep to the top, lose speed, and simply fall off.

A few of us agreed to ride it with Jon, despite the fact that we had to pay $4 each. A long line of Koreans snaked around the platform's base; they'd probably been waiting for two hours or more in the stifling summer heat. One of our minders simply pushed through to the bottom of the stairs, barked a command, and everyone immediately cowered aside to let us pass. I didn't see a singe person grumble at the unfairness of our VIP treatment.

Now I have to tell you that I've jumped out of airplanes, climbed mountains and met grizzly bears in the wild face to face. I'm not the least bit nervous about roller coasters because they're designed to be safe--but this one looked like an elaborately devised random execution machine, something straight out of Kafka. It was with considerable hesitation that I allowed them to strap me in.

The cars creaked and groaned as they slammed around the track, metal screeching against metal in a triumph of communist engineering. When we reached the top of the loops, I did feel that moment of indeterminate hesitation I saw from below, but after only the briefest of shudders we continued down the other side, shaken and thankful to escape with our lives. The entire ride--one circuit of the tiny track--lasted less than a minute. Not really worth the wait for all those Korean people, but I guess it was worth $4 to us because it was so odd.

 

Those interested in reading more about the Pyongyang Metro are urged to check out this excellent site, complete with maps, photos, and all the speculation any North Korea watcher could ever desire: www.pyongyangmetro.com