An American's Journey into North Korea

An American’s Journey into North Korea

Kyle B. Smith

“Welcome aboard Air Koryo,” the hostess smiled from the small screens that had descended from the ceiling, “where we strive to fulfill the socialist ideals of our Dear Leader General Kim Jong Il.” My heart jumped a little as I realized that this was finally happening.  After years of planning the details, researching the important things to see and do, investigating how to actually get there, and worrying that as an American I might be getting myself in over my head, I was finally on my way to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK), or North Korea, as it is better known.  I sat in a rather new, Russian-built plane and tried making out what the Cyrillic letters said on the trays, aisles, and overhead compartments.  As Air Koryo had been banned from European Union airspace for safety reasons, North Korean pride forced the airline to update at least some of its aging Soviet fleet.  I took my camera out and started flashing some pictures. “No pictures!” I was politely, but firmly, admonished by a pretty young flight attendant.  Though still sitting on the tarmac in Beijing, I figured it would be best to follow DPRK rules since being inside the Air Koryo plane already made me feel like I was under the watchful eye of the Dear Leader.  In fact, you could tell who the North Korean citizens were.  Each of them had a pin on his or her shirt, right over the heart, featuring either the beaming smile of Kim Il Sung, the Great Leader and Eternal President of Korea, the only official head of state who is dead, or a more innocuous pin with the North Korean flag on it. 

I put my camera away and picked up a copy of the complimentary and unintentionally amusing Pyongyang Times that had been left on everyone’s seats. “Kim Jong Il Gives Field Guidance…” the front page headline proudly announced.  There was a picture of Kim Jong Il, who was still alive and leader of the country at the time of my trip, dark sunglasses in tow, with a pack of wildly-cheering supporters in the background.  The article carried some story about how the Dear Leader visited some factory and “solved many problems,” thereby carrying the DPRK to the forefront of global innovation and technology and so on.  I turned the page and read about visiting delegations of old-school Western European Communist parties who all had fantastic things to say about the Dear Leader, the electoral system of the DPRK, the international respect North Korea had, and the progress the nation claimed it had made.  Some articles made passing references to Kim Jong Un, the leader’s son who would become leader in his own right a few months later following his father’s death.  Looking around I noticed that the plane was filled with mostly Europeans, some who were tourists, others who were on business.  There were even some families with children and I wondered what on earth a family would be doing visiting North Korea.  I glanced at some of the Westerners on board the plane and I wondered what their own stories and reasons were for traveling to this isolated country.  As about only 1,500 Western tourists visit the country every year, the DPRK is hardly on many people’s must-visit list.

But it was on mine. 

The flight arrived in Pyongyang around two hours later, landing at Sunan International Airport.  As the door opened, I looked out the plane and I saw the first of many recognizable sights from my years of following all things North Korea.  I descended the stairs off the airplane onto the tarmac and saw the giant, smiling face of Kim Il Sung greeting me.  The excitement was palpable as most of the travelers snapped photographs until the airport staffed shuffled everyone into immigration and customs.  All the passengers had to turn over the multitude of forms given to us to fill out on the plane (“Are you carrying a cellular telephone with you?” If so, those need to be surrendered at the airport until you leave the country.  You could bring a computer, but there was no personal internet in the country. “Are you carrying any published material?” You cannot bring in materials about the DPRK published outside the DPRK. “Do you have a cough?” And I guess they did not want any sick people spreading germs).  The process to get the visas before the trip was rather thorough so I was surprised that we were all individually held up for what felt like a long time at passport control.  Maybe it felt like a long time to me because in the back of my mind I still was not fully convinced that they would look at my American passport and scream, “imperialist bastard!” and ship me off to some gulag in order to create an international incident, maybe one requiring another top US statesman to come over and bail me out.  At least I could get to meet Bill Clinton, I laughed to myself as I tried to remain calm.  But, after a brief time with the stern-looking official at passport control, my passport was handed back to me without much fanfare.  It appeared that my concern had been little more than paranoia.  Upon leaving the airport, I looked behind me and realized that North Korea’s main airport terminal was just one large room the size of half of a high school gymnasium.  It reminded me of how some of the earliest airports in the rest of the world must have appeared.  I liked it.

Sunan International Airport

I walked outside and the first thing I noticed was the oppressive heat.  It had not been nearly as hot in Beijing just a few hours earlier.  The second thing I noticed was two guides, one male and one female, waiting for me.  They were both young and pleasant looking.  After my brief episode of paranoia with the stone-faced airport personnel, they were a breath of fresh air in the Korean heat.  I had been warned that I would have a no-nonsense, no-humor tour guide.  These two looked, by contrast, pretty damn cool.  I noticed one was wearing a pin with the Great Leader’s face on it.  The other donned a pin with the North Korean flag.

On the ride to downtown Pyongyang, I saw people walking along the road, people in the fields, and some trucks passing by. “May I take pictures?,” I asked the female guide. “Sure,” she responded.  I was pleasantly surprised since I had heard rumors that my camera would be next to useless while in North Korea.  That had turned out to be another unfounded fear of mine.  Except for military personnel, I would be allowed to take pictures of anything and everything. 

As the tour van got closer to the city center, I began to see more signs of life.  The cars on the road were not as numerous as they are in Midtown Manhattan, but I did see decent traffic.  Judging from the looks of the vehicles, many were from fellow tour groups, though.  To visit North Korea meant that I had to book my trip through a foreign travel agency.  I had made my arrangements with Korea Konsult, one of the largest travel agencies specializing in tours to the DPRK, which is based in Stockholm, Sweden.   Korea Konsult then coordinated my tour through the Korean International Tourism Company (KITC), a governmental body that handles virtually all of the nation’s tourism.  You cannot buy a ticket to Pyongyang and just arrive at the airport and flag down a taxi.  There is no independent tourism in the nation.  The KITC will pick you up from the airport, take you to your hotel, feed you (quite well, to be honest), guide you, and drop you off at the airport or international train station for your departure.  And I liked that.  For once, it was nice to have a trip where I did not have to do any of the planning myself and I could let myself be shuttled around.  During my stay, though, there would not be any time alone outside the hotel, there would not be any opportunity to stroll the streets of Pyongyang, and there definitely would not be any chance to talk to average North Koreans.  I did not like that.  One of my favorite things to do when going to a new city is to spend hours just aimlessly wandering the streets, learning the plan of the city, and seeing how people went about their daily lives.  There would not be any of that here.  I had to take the good with the bad.

The drive to the hotel was interesting.  The propaganda was ubiquitous, and quite colorful, too.  Half of it entailed artistic visages of heroic military exploits or hard work by the people.  The other half displayed the leadership.  Of that latter group, almost all were of Kim Il Sung, the “Great Leader” who died in 1994.  Kim Jong Il, the “Dear Leader,” appeared to be a little more camera shy as he was not on display nearly as much as his father.  I was surprised to see the number of “nice” cars on the streets.  Though I had already been lectured on how the state owns “everything” in North Korea, my guides did tell me that different color license plates indicated different ownership.  My guides let on that there were in fact some privately-owned vehicles, identifiable, they said, by the color of the plates.  They were also identifiable, I thought, by the relative opulence of the car in the otherwise drab panoply of vehicles on the road.  To be honest, I was expecting there to be no cars in Pyongyang.  But there is life and movement.  Rush hour there may not resemble Beijing, Istanbul, or Los Angeles at close of business time, but there are numerous buses, trams, cars, and bicycles which ferry people around the city.

Propaganda in Pyongyang

“Look to your left and you’ll see the Ryugyong Hotel,” the tour guide excitedly announced.  I looked out the window and I saw another recognizable sight: a tall, pyramid or missile-looking hotel that was unfinished with glass and steel covering part of a concrete shell.  Its odd shape would stand out anywhere in the world, and especially did so in otherwise short and Soviet-looking Pyongyang. “It’s 105 stories and when it’s finished soon it will be one of the world’s tallest hotels.  It’s already one of the world’s tallest buildings.” Everything she said was correct, except for the “finished soon” part.  I was well aware that this hotel had been under construction since the 1980s but due to the financial collapse brought on by the fall of the Soviet Union, the building has been in a perpetual state of to be “finished soon.”

There was a quick stop at the Arch of Triumph, Pyongyang’s answer to Paris’ version.  The one in North Korea is a little bigger and definitely has more Asian architectural influences.  The dates 1925 and 1945 are prominently displayed.  The first being, according to North Korean sources, when Kim Il Sung joined the resistance against the Japanese.  The second date being, again according to North Korean sources, when the Great Leader drove them out. 

The tour van then continued on its way past some apartment buildings that dotted the city.  They were not avant-garde, but they had an undeniable charm to them.  Many could have used a touch-up, but the people had taken the plain communist-looking buildings and turned them into a rainbow of colors.  There were pastel-hued buildings all over the city, something I had not been expecting.  And I was hard-pressed to find many balconies that were not overflowing with flowers.  The streets were clean and nondescript.  There were few if any street signs, just revolutionary slogans that I could not read but nevertheless knew what they were trying to express.  I was here, in the nerve center of one of the most closed-off countries and a perpetual thorn in the side of the United States for six decades.  And I loved it.

Ryugyang Hotel in Construction

                Pyongyang buildings

Traffic officer

Wide avenue in Pyongyang

“Your hotel is up ahead,” the tour guide announced again.  I looked and saw a modern-looking and sleek tower on an island in the river, hovering over the rest of the city.  When the vehicle approached the hotel, it looked a little more faded than it did from a distance, but it was certainly not in shambles.  The main lobby was interestingly gaudy, with a sloped ceiling that was trying to dazzle with many windows and lights.  But it was bustling and lively with many tourists and with an inviting bar nearby.  The basement had a casino with dozens of Chinese visitors noisily and excitedly spending their money, a massage parlor, and other accouterments of large hotels.

“May I have your passport, please?,” my tour guide asked.  I had known they would sequester my passport upon arrival until I left.  I had researched enough to know this would happen.  I was curious, though, as to what my guide would say the reason for this was, that being part of the fun of the trip, so I asked. “It’s so you don’t lose it,” she politely responded.  I would not lose my passport so easily.  I knew that and she knew that, but I smiled at her as I handed it over, appreciating the elusive answer.  Stuff like this is what made this trip so special.

After settling in to my room, I got back on the van and the mysterious charm of the city was pulling me in further. “I love Pyongyang,” I whispered to another traveler on the van with me. “So do I,” he whispered back.  I looked out the window as we passed by vehicles and pedestrians going on with their lives.  Some were walking.  Some were crammed into city buses.  Others were working to cut down trees and clear up weeds.  What were they thinking?  Did they really like it here?  Were they happy?  Were they scared?  Frankly, I did not know and there was no way I could find out.  I had no opportunity to talk to ordinary citizens, and they would not talk to me anyway.  So I had no choice but to just not care what they were thinking, and I thus pretended that they were all happy, just as I was very happy in this unusual city.

“We’re here,” the tour guide announced.  I got off the van and I was on my first sidewalk in Pyongyang.  I stood on the sidewalk and relished the few seconds I had to be on the city streets, just like all the happy people I saw minutes earlier.  I looked up at the restaurant.  There was no flashy sign.  I looked at the windows.  There were no menus posted.  I had never seen a restaurant so nondescript. 

The Chogryu Hot Pot Restaurant served up traditional Korean hot pot food in a hot building with no working air conditioning, probably due to a power outage.  And it was very, very  hot. “I will show you how to cook the traditional Korean hot pot,” my tour guide stated.  The waitress lit the gas below the hot pot.  When I thought it could not get any hotter than it already was in there, with perspiration dripping down my forehead, it suddenly got a lot hotter with the open flame inches from my face. “First put in the something, then the something else.  Then you will add the other thing.  Finally, mix it around with the final thing.” I looked around me and saw half a dozen plates holding raw meat, assorted vegetables, spices, and chili paste.  I was sweating too much for me to carefully listen to her instructions regarding the order and timing in which I had to add each ingredient and I began to fear that my lapse of attention would cause me to ruin my dinner.  But my tour guide assured me she would guide me through the complicated process.  Kamsa hamnida, I told her.  I had learned my first Korean phrase: thank you.

The hot Pyongyang air felt arctic and chilly compared to the steaming restaurant, so I felt comfortable when I made it outside after dinner.  Back in the van, it was not long before I started hearing loud cheers and seeing lights filling up the otherwise dark city sky as the van pulled up next to the May Day Stadium.  The Arirang Mass Games were going to be performed that night.  I spent 100 euros for a second-class ticket, and I walked inside the stadium after having my ticket checked by a woman in traditional Korean garb.  The Mass Games were popular in many Communist nations during the Cold War, but North Korea has been the holdout which still has them.  They are not “games” at all, but rather an artistic, acrobatic, and dance performance designed to broadcast the success of the regime and dazzle the audience.  At least on that second account, they succeeded brilliantly.  100,000 performers take part in the show which is on almost every night from August to October.  These included hundreds of dancers who would impress Broadway audiences, tightrope walkers who effortlessly walked about the crowd and then fell in sync into a net, and, most impressively, thousands of schoolchildren who flashed colored placards all on cue creating a series of moving images for the audience to see.  If you did not know there were children controlling the moving images by rapidly switching colored placards, you could be forgiven for thinking it was the world’s largest television screen.  

I could not help but observe the moving images displayed in the Games and what they tried to convey.  I saw pictures of factories, of dams, and the great industrial achievements over the years that the country had accomplished.  These paralleled some of the articles and photographs in the Pyongyang Times of large factories spitting out huge quantities of everything from food to yarn.  It reminded me of orthodox communism’s relation to heavy industry.  The factory workers were to be the vanguard of the revolution for Marx and many 20^th-century communist societies liked to show off their enormous factories and massive output as indices of their success.  One of the many reasons that the Soviet bloc fell behind the West was that the USSR and its allies were so preoccupied with producing the biggest, and thus showiest, items to demonstrate their superiority over the West that they neglected to see that by the 1980s, the West was being revolutionized by electronics, a field where engineers worked not to produce the biggest things, but labored instead to make their products so small and even almost invisible.  The colossal fruits of labor that could be displayed and flaunted to the masses were being eschewed by the West for electronics and information technology.  The communist nations, in contrast, were stuck in an early and mid-20^th century model of industrial prowess that was quickly growing outdated.  North Korea it appeared, as I watched images of large power plants flashing along the moving displays, still valued those large, outdated displays as a measure of its success.  I thought about how their cousins in the South were showcasing their own achievements through decidedly 21^st century means: banking, high-tech innovation, and international trade.

Paying homage to the alliance with the People’s Republic of China

Globe highlighting a unified Korea.  You can also see the heads of the children in the background who are holding the colored placards which create the moving imagery that accompanies the performance.

The Grand Finale

The Pyongyang air had cooled down from what was a hot day and I was headed back to the hotel.  When all the visitors got there, we received an order.  Several tourists in our group needed to give the guides another passport.  Some people traveling to the DPRK had second passports with their Chinese visas in them (proof of their being able to leave North Korea), and the guides wanted to hold on to them along with their first passports.  Why they did not ask for this before was beyond me, but what could be done?  Those affected by the directive offered up some futile resistance, but they eventually returned to their rooms to fetch the documentation.  Well, all but one of them had.  It appeared we now had a missing tourist on our hands.

“Where is he?,” the guides asked.  We shrugged our shoulders.  We tried calling his room, but there was no answer.  We looked at the bar, but nothing.  Our guides began to look worried, and then they started to look panicked.  If anything goes “wrong” in the DPRK, the guides are the ones who get the blame.  I did not know what exactly what would happen to them, but by the look on their increasingly reddening and sweating faces, I did not want them to find out.  I also did not want to risk the rest of us getting in trouble.  I looked around everywhere I could for the missing tourist.  I passed the hotel bookstore.  I had heard somewhere that North Korean bookshops only carried titles by Kim Il Sung and Kim Jung Il.  I did not have time to verify this but I did see some framed quotes by the nation’s leaders. “The book is a silent teacher and a companion in life – Kim Il Sung.” “Books are treasure-houses of knowledge and the textbooks for a person’s life – Kim Jong Il.”

I could not find him and I let the guides know when I got back to the lobby. “Please, can you check the basement?,” the guide pleaded.  I expressed a bit of surprise because I figured the guide would have already gone down there himself to look. “We are not allowed in the basement,” he responded.  Very odd, I thought.  Another tourist went down to look, and our missing travel companion was in fact enjoying the entertainment venues in the basement.  We snapped him up and trying not to rip his head off for possibly getting everyone into trouble, we got his second passport from him and turned it over to the guides.

The color returned to their faces immediately and they slowly breathed a sigh of relief. “I am so very sorry about this,” I offered to the guides, hoping to show them that I understood the gravity of the situation. “Please speak with him so this doesn’t happen again.” “I will,” I assured them.  I needed a drink.  Not only because of that stressful situation but also because hundreds of Chinese tourists were waiting for the elevators and their numbers did not appear to be waning.  So my travel companions and I went to the bar.  We ordered beers for each of us.  They were big, cheap, and quite good.  I was pleasantly surprised.

The following morning, I got a wake-up from the front desk.  They were obviously having the front desk staff call each room personally, rather than relying on an automated calling system like most large hotels use.  Today was going to be a big day for various reasons.  The first of which was that I would be visiting the Kumsusan Mausoleum.  Formal attire was required, so I got in the shower and prepared to put on the dress shirt and tie I had brought with me.  As I was getting out of the shower, I grabbed one of the small towels to dry myself, and then suddenly it was dark.  We had had a power outage. “Are you OK in there?,” my hotel roommate inquired.  North Korea is famous for its power outages, even in the capital city.  As the country sometimes had difficulty meeting its energy needs, power outages were something I was expecting.  Just not at the awkward moment of getting out of the shower and finding myself sans clothes in a pitch black bathroom. “Um…I think so,” I responded, treading carefully to avoid slipping.  I blindly dried myself and reached around, pressing my palm against the door in various places until I came across the door knob.  I opened it and found natural light in the room.  The power came back on a few minutes thereafter.

After a delicious breakfast, the tour buses were loaded up and all the visitors headed to Kumsusan.  En route, somebody inquired about North Korea’s oft-reported problem of food shortages.  My ears perked up, because I was wondering how it would be addressed. “Well, in the early 1990s, after the collapse of the international market, and along with some natural disasters, there were some issues of shortages of food.  Also, the DPRK is very mountainous, so food cultivation can be especially difficult here.” Well, they did not flat out deny it, I thought. “For one month in the spring, the able-bodied citizens of Pyongyang go to the countryside to help in the farming.” My eyes grew big. “Again in the autumn, we return to the countryside to harvest.” “Both of you?,” I asked. “Yes,” the two guides responded.  I was astonished.  To live in Pyongyang is a privilege reserved for only the few.  If you are allowed to live in the capital, you are already elite in some respects.  Furthermore, to interact with foreigners is another privilege given to only some.  My guides, by virtue of living in Pyongyang and having constant contact with outsiders, in many ways enjoyed certain opportunities not available to most others.  And yet they, part of the upper echelon of North Korean society, had to spend two months of the year doing farm work.  I could not imagine myself being shipped from New York for two months a year to do manual farm labor in the Mid-West.  At all.

The tour bus arrived at the mausoleum and I saw many groups from all over the world assembled. “Our Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, lived and worked here until his death.  Now, the eternal president lies in state there, and it serves as a mausoleum for people from all over the country and the world to come by and pay their respects,” one tour guide said. “The president lived and worked there, and now he’s lying in state,” a tourist chimed in. “So you can say he’s still at work then?” My heart sank.  I know North Koreans take their leader very seriously, and jokes about him are not only taboo, but illegal.  Not that this was a joke about the leader, per se, but I was not sure how the tour guide would take it.  Tourists have gotten into hot water by “disrespecting” the Eternal Leader, even in ways they might not have known were disrespectful.  A camera crew years ago was threatened with expulsion when they leaned on the ground to fit an enormous statue of Kim Il Sung into the frame for a photograph.  The guide looked confused by this tourist’s comment, though.  I was eternally grateful for that. 

While waiting for the mausoleum to open, I sifted through some copies of local magazines sitting on a table.  Like the Pyongyang Times, these magazines spoke about the heroic victories of the nation and were filled with pictures from European communist and far-left parties who had come to view one of the last second-world holdouts and to praise the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea without reserve.  However, these magazines were bigger than the other publications I had seen, and they had lots of color pictures, too.  One article caught my eye.  It was the story of a North Korean woman who turned 100 years old and who received a fancy wood table personally sent to her by Kim Jong Il. “When the table arrived,” read the article, “the woman, who had been blinded for 20 years from cataracts, could magically see again.”

It was time to enter the mausoleum.  I emptied my pockets of everything except my wallet (“no cameras!”) and left my belongings with an attendant.  Everyone had to pass a metal detector staffed by uniformed personnel.  A tour guide asked if I was offended by having to go through a metal detector.  I was surprised by his query considering that metal detectors are now so ubiquitous as to be almost unremarkable in much of the world.  The tour guide told me that some tourists get very offended at having to pass through them and loudly protest.  This was one of the last places in the world, I thought, where I would want to make a fuss. 

I was one of many tourists visiting, but I saw scores of North Koreans visiting as well.  The men were mostly solders in their uniforms while the woman all wore traditional Korean clothing.  I stood on a conveyor belt as it took me down the halls.  The North Koreans were all looking at me.  There are not many Western tourists, so I imagine I was somewhat of a novelty for them.  The looks on their faces did not betray their thoughts.  Were they curious about me?  Were they angry at me?  Would they have liked to talk?  Or were they content with looking and no more?  I could not be sure.  For my part, all I could tell was that they looked tired.  The conveyor belt continued on for what felt like an interminably long time. “How long does this go?,” I finally asked a tour guide. “For one kilometer.” Geez. “Does Kim Jong Il live here today?” “No,” he responded. “Where does he live, then?,” I asked.  The tour guide’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.  He said to me alone, “we are not sure.”

I finally arrived at the main body of the building. “When we get inside,” a tour guide began, “file in a row of four.  You will see a statue of the president.  Walk up to the statue, and lift your head up and look up at him.  Do not bow.” I arrived in the hall she mentioned.  There was a giant white statue of Kim Il Sung ahead surrounded by neon lights.  Dramatic, militaristic music was playing.  I walked slowly up to the statue, lifted my chin to look at the leader, and I must say, it worked.  With the music blaring in the somber hallway and with the giant statue like a god, I did feel a sense of awe.  Next, I arrived in a room and was given an ear piece with a recording on it.  A man with a vague British accent read the news of the fateful day of Kim Il Sung’s death. “July 8, 1994 was a dark day for the Korean people,” the man began. “It was a day when the Korean people lost their sun.  Millions around the world,” he superlatively continued “mourned the passing of the greatest man history had ever known.” My tour guide nodded to me and said, “next, you will be seeing the body of the Great Leader lying in state.  When you approach him, do so in a line. Bow in front of his feet, then walk to the left.  Bow again.  Now walk behind his head, but do not bow behind his head because that would be disrespectful.  When you arrive at the other side of his body, bow again.  Then you may exit the room.” I was hoping I would remember all of this lest I cause a scene.  I entered the cool and heavily-guarded room where the eternal president lay in state.  I successfully performed all of my bows according to protocol and filed out of the room when finished. 

Upon exiting, there was one final room to see.  It was filled with honors from abroad, photographs with international leaders, and honorary degrees from universities all over the world.  Most of the honors were from nations now defunct: the People's Republic of Poland, the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, the People's Republic of Bulgaria, the German Democratic Republic, etc.  Other countries still around, such as the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, had given Kim Il Sung honors, as well.  I looked up to see old photographs high on the walls of Kim Il Sung meeting with foreign leaders.  I saw him shaking hands with Fidel Castro, Yasser Arafat, Moammar Qaddafi, and Hosni Mubarak.  Universities from all over the world had bestowed honors on Kim Il Sung, even one American school.  Kensington University in California had given the Great Leader an honorary degree.  Upon my return home to the United States, I discovered that this for-profit school had been shut down by state regulators under accusations of being a diploma mill.  Later in the mausoleum, I saw the Mercedes Benz that the Great Leader used as well as the luxury train he traveled in for some of his international journeys.  I was surprised at the honesty of the place and had expected to North Koreans to tone down some of the ostentatiousness of the site.  After the spectacle, I was able to retrieve my camera and other belongings and I went to take pictures in front of the mausoleum. 

I had one more stop that morning before returning to the hotel.  During the Cold War as relations between the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China deteriorated, North Korea found itself in a peculiar situation.  The Soviet Union had eschewed the excesses of Stalinism by the mid-1950s while China continued to consider Stalin to be a great leader and even proclaimed Maoism to be a natural evolution of Stalinism.  This ideological split divided the communist world into two camps, each bitterly opposed to the other until the thaw in relations under glasnost in the 1980s.  North Korea bordered the two nations and depended on both of them for political, economic, and military support.  So as not to have to choose sides, Kim Il Sung developed his own interpretation of Marxism-Leninism, denoting it “Juche,” or self-sufficiency.  Developing his own take on socialism allowed Kim Il Sung to not only avoid having to choose between his allies during the Sino-Soviet split, but it also put him in the same league as communist greats such as Lenin, Stalin, and Mao, who had all fashioned their own philosophical tweaks of pure, orthodox Marxism.

As the van drove, the guide began to explain the Juche idea, the guiding political philosophy of North Korea. “It is a man-centric political belief system.  We believe that man is the center of the world.  Any problem can be solved through the intellect and action of the human.  There is not a political or natural problem that can thwart the progress of man.” All very well, I thought.  However, I did not hear about some aspects of Juche that I otherwise knew from my previous studies of the nation.  For one, Juche adds a touch of nationalism, extolling the Korean people and claiming they have a unique role in history.  Secondly, it states that the military, and not the working class, would be the vanguard of revolution.  This nationalism and militarism would likely make Karl Marx turn over in his grave, but North Korea may not even be technically communist anymore.  Kim Jong Il “clarified” the Juche thought in one of his writings, stating that it was a brand new political philosophy with nothing to do with Marxism.  This was a departure from earlier explanations of Juche being just another form of communism.  Reports say that all references to Marxism-Leninism and Communism have been removed from the North Korean constitution.  Juche is now the sole ideology of North Korea.  Even the calendar has been renumbered to fit the state political thought, with the year of the Great Leader’s birth being year 1 in the Juche calendar.  2011 was year 100 in the North Korean calendar and preparations were underway for the centenary of the Great Leader’s birth in 2012.  In a short while, I arrived at the Juche Tower, a seventy-story structure off the Taedong River.  The Juche Tower was constructed for the seventieth birthday of the Great Leader, with one floor for each year of his life at the time.  At the foot of it were dozens of stone tiles from Juche study groups all over the world, including several in the West.

Juche Tower

Statue featuring the symbol of the Korean Workers’ Party – hammer for the workers, sickle for the farmers, and a brush for the intellectuals

Placards of international study groups of Kimilsungism (Juche)

The views of the city from the top of the tower were spectacular.  I looked over the entirety of the capital.  Pyongyang wasn’t a bad looking city.  Before going to North Korea, most people thought I was crazy for wanting to go there. “Aren’t you afraid of getting kidnapped?” Well, not really. “But they’ve been kidnapping Americans a lot recently.” Well, most of them had clearly entered the nation illegally across the Chinese border.  Arriving in the airport with a valid visa would likely not provide a pretext for detaining me. “I think you’re crazy to go to North Korea,” some said.  It made me wonder what had happened to the pioneer spirit that the United States was founded upon.  Two centuries ago, society encouraged people to seek out new and possibly dangerous frontiers.  Why are you so soft, I wanted to respond?  Some people were hostile. “By going there, you’re giving money to support the government.” Well, the US government frequently gives financial and humanitarian aid to countries like North Korea.  If my tax dollars are going to be used to benefit North Korea, I might as well get a visit out of it. 

I was at the top of the Juche Tower overlooking the city while the cool breeze made me want to spend an entire afternoon up there just watching life happen below.  There were other tourists there on the observation deck. “What brought you to North Korea?,” I heard asked to some British tourists. They looked at each other and one answered, “because this country exists.  It’s so mysterious and fascinating that we just had to see it for ourselves.” I smiled at his answer.  It was nice to encounter the other rare Westerners who were also fascinated by North Korea enough to want to travel there, even if I had to go to Pyongyang to find them.

Kim Il Sung Square from the Juche Tower

Pyongyang from above

I arrived back in the hotel for a quick lunch and a rest.  Another exciting thing was happening today: I would be among the first Westerners ever allowed to ride a bicycle inside the DPRK.  I got back to the hotel, and all the lights in the lobby had been shut off.  I guessed they were trying to save electricity.  My guide led me to the restaurant for lunch. “After lunch, you may rest up and meet back in the lobby with your bicycle.” I had purchased an inexpensive bike in China since none was available for foreigners in North Korea. “Before we are ready, may I walk outside the hotel?” Again, like with the passports, I knew what the answer would be, but I was curious to hear the response anyway. “Well, you may walk just outside the hotel, but not too far.  If you do, I’m afraid you’ll get lost.” I smiled and had my lunch.

Hours later, I, along with other travelers, was dropped off outside Pyongyang on the highway leading to the western port city of Nampho.  We were the first tourists to ever ride bikes in the country, and we were accompanied by more staff than usual.  As the DPRK has been trying to increase tourism numbers, the KITC tour agency allowed bike tours for the first time that year.  Like everything else, though, this was to be monitored.  We had our usual guides trailing us while we had other personnel in another van in front of us.  We all got on our bikes and were off.  We stuck to the sidewalk at first, but seeing as there was virtually no one on the highway, we all decided to move to the smoother highway after a few minutes.  Although I had been in the DPRK a short time, I had already felt how stifling it could be to have omnipresent guides.  A tourist generally does not have a minute alone in the country or any time without being chaperoned outside the hotel.  Yet as the tour guides were in vans a distance both in front of and behind us, I felt an unusual sensation: I felt free.  The two hours on the highway, except for stopping for the random photograph, were to be essentially the only time in the DPRK where I was without a guide immediately to my side.  And it felt incredibly liberating to feel, even if it were only an illusion, that I was free to move about as I wished in this country and say what I wanted to say without fearing it would offend someone.  I looked around at the scenery and realized this country was much more beautiful than I had anticipated.  I had heard stories about how the North Korean landscape had been stripped bare years earlier for food or fuel.  Maybe it was true in the past, or maybe it was true in another part of the country.  But it certainly was not true here.  The countryside was incredibly green, soft-looking, and peacefully calming. 

To be able to live in Pyongyang is a privilege reserved for the elite of the nation.  This is apparent when you enter the city from the surrounding countryside and the soldiers at a checkpoint verify the paperwork of those wishing to enter.  As I rode on my bicycle outside the city, though, I saw regular people walking in nearby villages and next to the highway.  Since they may never have even been to Pyongyang, I imagined that the only contact they would ever have had with foreigners would be those zooming by on a tour bus along the highway en route to the nearby city of Nampho.  Now I was riding my bike at 10 miles per hour and people came out to gawk.  The curious reaction of Pyongyang residents to tourists is notable enough.  For these country dwellers, though, I imagine Westerners passing by must have been an incredible sight on par with seeing Martians arriving on Planet Earth.  Some looked at us cautiously, others waved enthusiastically.  Even the soldiers who were posted every few kilometers looked intrigued at seeing us.  Many of them offered us a smile and a polite wave of the hand.  And many looked genuinely happy to have experienced even this most quick interaction.  I know I had.  During the two-hour bicycle ride, I could count the number of cars passing by probably on one had.  One of the benefits, I supposed, of having a nation still lagging in development was the preservation of its raw beauty.  There was even a noticeable lack of any garbage lining the highway.  The absence of many commercial goods meant that the highway was immaculate.  There was no trash that was tossed from any passing car.  And the air was refreshingly clean, something that is becoming increasingly hard to find in many corners of the world.

Upon arriving in Nampho, my second city in North Korea, I saw more street scenes and more human movement, mostly on foot.  There was a quick stop at the West Sea Barrage, a massive series of dams at the end of the Taedong River.  I saw a short informational video on the construction of the dam in the 1980s with much help and input from Kim Jong Il.  I even saw a photograph of Jimmy Carter at the dam during a visit in 1994 when he came to North Korea for negotiations on the country’s nuclear program with Kim Il Sung before his death.  This dam was clearly a proud achievement of the nation, but I thought again to how North Korea often pointed to massive public works and large industries as evidence of its success rather than other nations today that like to show off their skyscrapers and high-tech sectors.

Kim Jong Il is credited with having helped build the West Sea Barrage

West Sea Barrage

I returned to Pyongyang that evening and arrived at a restaurant for dinner.  I saw many of the same tourists I had seen at other sites, other restaurants, and in the hotel.  All the tour groups often have the same exact itinerary, and I was put in the same foreigners-only room in the restaurant.  Unlike other restaurants I had been to in North Korea, my tour guides could not sit with me here.  One guest whispered that this was because ordinary citizens used this restaurant, too, but I was not sure.  All I know is that I entered the foreigners’ room secluded behind a doorway. 

But as always, the food was incredible.  And it was plentiful, too.  I had known that tourists were given a lot of food, and I assumed this was because the country was sensitive about the issue, but I had not anticipated on it being so tasty.  One tourist at my table mentioned that he was an experienced chef.  He claimed the North Korean chili to be the best he had tasted. “Dry, yet sweet,” he proclaimed. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said to the waitress. “What type of chili is this?  It tastes delicious.” The waitress looked nervous and turned red.  She shook her hands; she obviously did not know a word of English. “No matter,” the tourist replied.  No more than two minutes later, a tour guide came rushing into our room. “Is something wrong?,” she asked, looking somewhat worried. “The waitress said you needed something.” “I was just wondering what kind of chili powder is used here.  This food is exquisite.” “Ah,” the tour guide responded, laughing and looking calmer and explaining it to the waitress, who bashfully smiled.  The waitress ran off while the tour guide said she was asking the chef.  A minute later, she reappeared with a small plastic bag filled with the chili powder. “A gift from our kitchen,” the tour guide explained.  I was surprised and impressed at the generosity. 

Typical meal for tourists in the DPRK

The next morning I was back in the KITC van for a several-hour long trip to the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ).  I was very excited about this.  I knew that the tour groups get to go right up to the line dividing North Korea from South Korea in what is the most tense and most heavily armed border in the world.  The day was not as beautiful, though, as the previous ones had been.  A typhoon was passing through the Korean peninsula and the skies grew darker as we approached what was still technically a war zone.  After the Korean War, neither side signed a peace treaty, so the DMZ is considered a temporary border and the two states are still officially at war.  A few miles from the DMZ, the tour van passed through the city of Kaesong, which was an old capital of Korea centuries ago during the royal period.  After World War II, the Allies set the border exactly at the 38^th parallel, and Kaesong found itself in South Korea.  A few years of horrifically bloody fighting left both North and South Korea with roughly the same amount of territory they had before, but with the border no longer directly following the 38^th parallel.  At the western end of the peninsula, the North Koreans had seized extra territory south of the parallel and at the eastern end of the peninsula, the South Koreans had seized extra territory north of the parallel.  Kaesong, being close to the 38^th parallel and on the western side of the peninsula, found itself in the unique position of being in South Korea before the Korean War and in North Korea after the war.  As I drove through, I wondered what the city would have been like had it stayed in the South.  The streets looked more desolate than I imagine they would be.  But after all, a typhoon had hit the city. 

I do not speak Korean, but I could roughly make out what the road signs said.  I saw the decreasing number of kilometers as the van approached the DMZ.  As the numbers denoting kilometers reached single digits, I realized that I was very close to the border.  But then another sign popped up saying something was “70 kilometers” away. “That’s the sign to Seoul.” And in South Korea there are train platforms that symbolically say, “To Pyongyang.” Both Koreas at least officially seem to be eager for eventual reunification.

I arrived at the edge of the DMZ, and after waiting for the throngs of Chinese tourists to pass through, many of us Western tourists stood together.  Most of us needed to purchase umbrellas at a souvenir shop just outside the DMZ due to the torrential rainfall.  I scanned the options and picked up a Chinese umbrella with ghastly flowers covering it.  I opened it for protection and returned to the group awaiting entry when I heard a tour guide ask if any of us had been to the South.  A few responded in the affirmative. “What was Seoul like?,” one guide asked. “Very busy!,” one tourist chuckled.  Pyongyang, though certainly not without its own charm, was certainly not busy. “Did you have guides?,” another tour guide inquired. “Or could you walk around on your own?” The tourist answered, “no, you don’t need a tour guide.  You can go around on your own.” The tour guide cocked his eyebrow and responded, “ah, so you were free.”  We were ready to head into the DMZ itself and I got back in the van and found there were two heavily armed soldiers aboard as escorts to the actual border.  One of the soldiers reviewed everyone’s paperwork.  Maybe it was the fact that a machine gun-wielding soldier was sitting next to me in the van now, but I started to feel a lump in my throat again for being an American.  The van pulled out and started driving into the DMZ and I saw massive concrete blocks teetering over the side of the narrow roadway.  Those were put there in case of an invasion from the South.  They could be easily collapsed onto the road, stymieing any advancement of enemy troops.  The van took us to a building where tourists could see the exact table where the armistice was signed as well as a copy of the original agreement.  The van drove a little further into the DMZ then.  The DMZ, I was told, was a four-kilometer stretch, with both nations agreeing to keep out heavy military materiel in the last two kilometers of their territory.

The van let everyone off and my heart jumped a bit in the way it does when I have seen something in countless photographs and news reports but am finally physically in front of it, like what many people feel when finally seeing the Pyramids or the Coliseum.  I was at Panmunjom, the famous border between the two countries, also known as the “Truce Village.” Specifically, I was at the Joint Security Area, where there were seven small, blue sheds that straddled the border, and where meetings between officials from the North and South can take place.  Beyond those was a large, modern-looking building, the Freedom House pagoda, which was entirely in South Korea.  I could have thrown a baseball and it would have hit the building.  It was an extremely odd sensation to know that I was in one of the most difficult to enter and politically-isolated countries on earth, feeling like I was a million miles away from everything, and yet the building I was looking at was filled with American soldiers.

Before me were three North Korean soldiers at the border, the Military Demarcation Line, which was a clearly visibly raised concrete ledge.  Two stood immediately next to the border facing each other while a third soldier stood facing us a few meters away with his back towards the border.  Rumor has it that the two soldiers face each other to prevent the other from defecting and jumping to the South and the third stands with his back to South Korea in case anyone tries to escape.  I am honestly not sure, but I find the explanation a bit fantastical.  If anyone is going to escape from the North to the South, he will not do it here, where at best he would risk getting himself shot, and at worst he would spark a war.  Not a single South Korean or American solider was in sight, but they were there.  I was informed that when tour groups from the North come, the South Koreans and Americans retreat into the Freedom House.  I entered one of the seven sheds that straddle the border, where half the room inside is in North Korea and other half is in South Korea.  A North Korean guard walked to the other side of the room, technically in South Korea, towards a locked door.  I imagine that the South Korean guards do the same at the other end of the room when they give their tours.  What was cool about this was that while the door was locked, I was free to walk to the other end of the room.  Here I was now, in South Korea!  I looked out the window and saw the three North Korean soldiers guarding the border, yet I was looking at them from behind the border in the South.  The normal rules regarding taking photographs of soldiers did not apply here.  I was told that I was free to take pictures of anything and everything.  It felt strange acting so touristy at this sensitive spot.  Another visitor pointed to someone in my group and announced, “that must be the bravest man in the world, walking along the world’s most tense and heavily fortified border with a giant teddy bear umbrella.” Apparently, I had not picked up the worst umbrella at the souvenir shop.  I had my picture snapped with a North Korean solider and returned to my tour van. 

Copy of the Armistice Agreement signed after the Korean War

In the foreground are three out of the seven blue sheds straddling the North Korean-South Korean border, which is marked by the raised concrete line that runs through them. Soldiers stand guard mere centimeters from the border.  In the background, the tall structure is the Freedom House pagoda, which is in South Korea.

This picture was taken inside one of the blue sheds straddling the border.  It was taken on the South Korean side.  Note the South Korean, American, and UN flags

The same guards accompanying me to the border were in the van for the return trip back.  We arrived back at the entrance of the DMZ a few minutes later.  I reached my hand out to one of the heavily-armed soldiers.  He looked at my hand and then my face.  He gave me a huge smile on his face right before he extended his hand back to me.  We exchanged a firm handshake as we smiled at each other.  I was not sure if he knew I was American.  He had seen the paperwork of all the tourists on board, but I did not know if he realized I was the one American on board.  After spending time at the world’s most dangerous border, where American soldiers have faced off North Korean soldiers for decades, I wanted to do something to express some sort of friendship.  He finally let go of my hand and smiled at me again as he got off the bus.  I hoped he did know I was the American. 

The typhoon passing through Korea was strong and there were some small landslides as well as overturned trees along the highway back to Pyongyang.  Once in a while, a villager would appear along the highway and flag us down, hoping in vain for a ride in the torrential storm.  Those in the van passed the time by telling the Korean tour guides dirty Western jokes at which they bashfully laughed.  As the van arrived at the city limits, though, the weather appeared to have calmed down.  After a few hours in the countryside, I was again among the hustle and bustle (or what passes for that) in the capital.  The tour van stopped at the Korean War Museum.  A stately-looking building, I was greeted by a giant mural depicting Kim Il Sung leading his people.  I was brought inside to a room with various artifacts from the war along with an “informational” video.  I “learned” from the video that the US was experiencing a massive economic depression after World War II (that was news to me) and plotted to attack the DPRK because it had a glut of weapons that it did not know what to do with.  I saw a black-and-white video of children having a picnic while the narrator stated, “the citizens of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea were enjoying a peaceful day when the United States started their act of aggression by crossing the 38^th parallel and invading the nation.” Interesting, I thought.  Also interesting was that I did not see any mention whatsoever of the Chinese’s role during the War in the Museum.  For the North Koreans, the victory over the Americans was total and complete.  And it was theirs alone.

I was brought to a giant, circular, revolving room with a mural covering the entire round wall.  The painting dramatically depicted a fierce battle between American and North Korean troops.  One of the museum curators discussed in great detail the happenings of the battle in which the North Koreans dealt a deathly blow to the American invaders, pushing them back and liberating the city. “I’m sorry, where did you say this town was that is depicted in this painting?,” I asked. “Today it is in the South,” she responded. “Oh,” I muttered.  In the basement, I saw seized American weapons, downed American planes, and captured American flags and letters.  My heart felt panged.  To be honest, up until the museum, I had seen and heard very little of the “evil Americans.” Maybe because they blamed the Japanese imperialists more for their problems.  Or maybe because I was there and my guides did not want to make me feel uncomfortable.  Maybe because they have moved beyond their distrust of the US, even if only a little.  I was not sure, but America-bashing was conspicuously absent during my trip there.  However, when I saw the American machinery, flags, and letters on display in a basement in Pyongyang, I could not help but be overcome with a certain sadness.  Regardless of one’s opinion on the War, these objects had all been in American hands.  Had I lived half a century earlier, these could be my neighbors’, my friends’, or my family’s personal items now on display.  And I could feel the fear they must have felt, and the loss their loved ones must have endured. 

Entrance to the Korean War Museum

Captured American affects

Afterwards, there was a stop at the USS Pueblo.  In 1968, the North Koreans captured an American intelligence ship that the US claimed was in international waters and the North Koreans insisted was in their territorial waters.  It was one of the most daring acts of the Cold War and certainly had the potential to heat it into an active war.  It was also another opportunity for the Great Leader to show the world, and especially the Soviets and the Chinese, who were apparently furious at the act, that he was in charge and he was not anyone’s client.  Regardless if the Americans’ or North Koreans’ version of events were correct, the ship still sits in the Taedong River in Pyongyang and is a tourist attraction today.  I toured the whole ship, seeing the bunks, the dining hall, and finally the bullet holes from the battle between the two parties, and again felt similar pangs of discomfort when thinking about what the Americans on board must have experienced. 

USS Pueblo

I walked back to the tour van and looked at all the locals walking the sidewalk before I boarded again. “Would it be all right if we took a ten-minute walk or so around the city?,” I asked my tour guide.  It was again one of those questions to which I already knew the answer. “Well, why do you want to do that?” She looked surprised I had asked. “Just to get a sense of what it’s like to walk around this city.” “Well,” she started.  I was looking forward to hearing what the answer might be. “Unfortunately we don’t have any time for that.” I smiled and nodded my head. “I understand.”

The final day in North Korea ended with a high note and in a very low place. “Now we will go to the Pyongyang Metro, the world’s deepest.” I was very excited about this.  I have always been a mass transportation aficionado and the idea of seeing and even riding the Pyongyang subway put me in a cheerful mood.  It was rush hour in Pyongyang, so even if the streets were not packed, there were still other vehicles jockeying for road space along with us. “Do you like the Sound of Music?,” my tour guide asked me. “Excuse me?,” I responded, expecting that to be the last question I would hear in North Korea. “It’s one of my favorite movies,” she replied to me.  I must admit that I had assumed that the DPRK had no access whatsoever to Western media or culture.  I was wrong about that. “Doe, a deer.  A female deer.” Our tour guide, who had previously sung Korean folk music from time to time as an accompaniment to our long drives, began singing a more universally known song. “Ray, a drop of golden sun.” The van pulled up to the metro station which was rather busy looking. “Me, a name I call myself.  Far, a long, long way to run.” The van was emptied and I ran into the subway station.  I quickly took out my camera and began snapping pictures of anything and everything.  I took pictures of the token booth, the lobby, the turnstiles.  The locals looked somewhat perplexed by my frantic picture taking and they were right to look at me as if I were crazy.  As I have always been fascinated by mass transit, seeing this for me was the equivalent of seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris for most other tourists.  People lined up to buy tokens which cost only five North Korean won, about three U.S. cents.  I did not need a token, though.  My tour guide caught up with me and invited me to pass the turnstile. 

I was in.

Entrance to the Pyongyang Metro

I stepped on the escalator and looked at the North Koreans ascending on the other side.  Most gave me that by-now familiar look, an almost bewilderment at seeing Western tourists.  I am not sure if Pyongyang’s metro is the world’s deepest (I have heard many cities try to lay claim to that honor), but I can say that it certainly was very deep.  I got to the bottom after a very long escalator ride and surprisingly found a woman selling official pamphlets of the Pyongyang Metro.  I purchased one and quickly leafed through the pages telling the story of the construction of the subway system.  At the rope-cutting ceremony, it read, Kim Il Sung exclaimed, “I think it is difficult to build the metro, but not to cut the tape.” The pamphlet said that the Great Leader’s humility brought a lump to the throat of everyone hearing him on that day.

I walked into the main hall of the subway.  It was magnificent.  It looked grand and like a palace.  There were chandeliers of colored glass shaped like grapes.  Mosaics and murals covered the walls.  Wide marble columns held up the ceiling.  It was dazzling. “The North Koreans did well here,” I said to myself.  Again, I was furiously snapping pictures.  I saw that the station had a woman in a white uniform waving a signal for the trains.  How quaint, I thought.  A subway car pulled into the station.  I could not tell but I had previously read that the subway cars were East German.  They ran well.  Inside, I took a seat with my tour guides. “May I walk across the train taking pictures?” Sure, they responded.  I walked to the end of the car and took a picture of the portrait of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jung Il that hung over this, and every, subway car.  The amount I walked back and forth appeared to elicit the same reaction among the Pyongyang citizens that New Yorkers have when crazy people enter the subway: they ignored me.  I walked back and forth, taking as many pictures as I could, knowing that I would have to get off at the next stop.  Tourists are usually only brought between the Yonggwang (“Glory”) and Puhung (“Revitalization”) stations.  Rumor has it that only these two stations are grand, while the rest are shabby and kept away from outsiders’ eyes.  Yet pictures taken from the rare foreigners who have seen the other stations appear to show that at least some of the other stations are quite fancy, as well.

It was definitely rush hour as the subway was pretty crowded.  I exited the train and made my way up another very long escalator.  I was lagging behind the others as I kept taking pictures in my last few minutes in the metro station.  As I got outside, I took a few photos of the entrance sign and figured I should make my way to the tour van.  But I did not see it.  Nor did I see my guides.  My eyes grew big and my heart began to race.  I was alone in a crowd of dozens of North Koreans all looking at me with that same indiscernible look I felt that everyone in this country had when staring at me, a look that made me wonder if they were fascinated by me, envied me, or despised me.  They briskly passed by carrying on their daily errands as I pondered what to do.  But I was finally alone in North Korea.  I was finally alone on the Pyongyang streets.  I could fulfill my dream of taking a walk unhindered along the capital’s wide boulevards.  I was free. “Over here!” My tour guide was flagging me down a short distance away.  The tour van was waiting for me, but it was hard to see behind the throngs of people passing by. “Oh, well,” I thought to myself, as my scheme faded.  I would not have actually gone on a walk around the city by myself like that.  My tour guides would have gotten into serious trouble and they were too nice for me to let that happen to them.  But the dream was nice regardless. 

Inside a station in the Pyongyang metro

Socialist mosaic

Watching over the subway train car

Locals riding the metro

In case you get lost…

The last dinner in North Korea was at the Duck Barbecue Restaurant.  As amazing as all the sights had been in the DPRK, the food was something I began to look forward to the most, and something I knew I would miss.  Dinner featured barbecued duck, appropriately so given the name of the eatery, along with delicious spices, Korean tapas, and beer.  I took a picture of the hostess in her traditional Korean dress, and then I was off back to the hotel for my last night in the country.

The tour van had a lively conversation about North Korean family life en route back to the hotel.  Several tourists in my group were living in China and noted that in China it is still fairly common for parents to arrange marriages. “Not so here,” one of the guides replied. “In the past, yes.  But today it’s more and more common for people to marry whomever they want.” Very nice, I thought. “You live with your family in Korea, and when it’s time to get married, you let the authorities know and they provide you with a new home.  When you are ready to have kids, you get an even bigger home.” A lot of moving around, I thought. “Is divorce prevalent here?,” I asked. “Not too much.  It’s still a pretty rare phenomenon, though it does happen once in a while.  If you get divorced, you have to surrender your apartment and move back with your family.” “So if you’re 45 and you get divorced, you have to move back in with your mom and dad?,” I asked amusingly. “Yes.” No wonder no one gets divorced here, I chuckled to myself. “But the state is generous with benefits.  Mothers get time off to take care of their children.  And if you have twins, even more so!  But if you have triplets, the government takes them from you and puts them in a state orphanage.” “What?!” I was not quite sure I had heard that correctly, but since everyone in the van had the same reaction, I figured my hearing likely had not been off. “Well, taking care of three children at once is a big burden, so the state assumes the responsibility.” Jaws were on the floor. “Do they take just one kid?  Or two?,” I asked. “Nope, they take all three,” was the response. “Oh,” I responded. “But you can visit them in the state care facility as much as you’d like,” the tour guide continued, vainly attempting to mitigate the shock of this information by demonstrating the state’s generosity in providing unfettered visitation rights for the seized triplets. “Oh,” I answered, now even more purposefully nonchalant.  It was probably best, I figured, not to inquire further.  The van had arrived back at the hotel now.  After a beer at the hotel bar, it was time to settle in for the night after a very busy day.

“Are you coming down?,” my tour guide asked me on the telephone with a sense of worry in her voice.  The sun was peeking through the curtains as I rubbed my tired eyes, half asleep lying in bed. “It’s 7:25.” I jumped out of the bed like a cannon. “What?  How?” I was almost stuttering.  I was supposed to have received a wake-up call at 6:30 A.M. from the front desk.  My flight back to Beijing was at 9:00 A.M.  As the hotel was not using an automated wake-up call system, someone at the front desk must have forgotten to call.  I threw my things together at an uncomfortably fast speed.  I got to the lobby and met the tour guides. “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t get a wake-up call this morning.” I was apologetic and worried I would never make the plane.  The tour guide got me a to-go breakfast as I ate on the road.  My last few moments in Pyongyang were spent with me trying to lower my blood pressure after the stressful morning, but I tried to remain calm as I looked at the last of the city streets.

I arrived at the airport 45 minutes before the flight was scheduled to leave.  In most of the world’s international airports, this is a fatal sin that will likely result in the passenger not flying, but at Sunan International Airport in Pyongyang, it was no problem.  I grabbed my bags from the van and watched as a luxury car with a Russian flag flying on its fender stopped short of hitting another tourist at the entrance to the airport.  I gave a firm handshake and a warm hug to my male and female guides, respectively.  I only knew them for a short time, but I would miss them.

I made my way through passport control and in contrast to the stone-faced woman who checked me in, the agent now looked very friendly, made small talk, and asked me if I would return. “Absolutely, I love the DPRK,” I chimed back.  He gave me a big smile. “Enjoy your flight,” he said. “Kamsa Hamnida,” I responded.  Thank you.

I was back at Pyongyang airport’s famous tarmac, with the giant, welcoming picture of Kim Il Sung.  The plane I was about to board was a lot older than the one I had arrived on.  Most tourists leave by train, yet unfortunately Americans cannot leave by train and we must leave by plane, at least for now.  The airplane I got on was an old Soviet-built vessel.  I sat in the vintage seats, looked at the overhead compartments that did not close, and marveled that I could find myself in a plane so, well, kitschy.  I took my camera out and began taking photos. “No pictures!,” I immediately heard.  It was the same pretty young flight attendant who had chided me for taking photographs on my inbound flight.  I smiled politely at her and put my camera away.

As I sat on the plane as it took off and left the ground, I reflected on my trip to North Korea.  I had fulfilled a dream of mine to see firsthand one of the world’s most unknown and least accessible countries.  My trip was only superficial and I cannot pretend to have in depth knowledge of the nation beyond what I saw and what I could easily deduce.  I saw what my guides wanted me to see and no more.  The only way you can get a deeper look into the country is if the authorities trust you, which can take several return trips to achieve.  From what I saw, Pyongyang was not the underdeveloped backwater I was expecting.  Sure, it does not look like Shanghai by any stretch of the imagination, but I have certainly visited more rundown places in the world. 

The few people who visit and report on what they saw sometimes push what I find to be an inaccurate view of the country.  Some may either repeat a falsehood such as saying the DPRK does not admit tourists or say it is extremely difficult to get in.  For the average tourist, the process to get a visa is not all that difficult.  Or others may paint a bleak picture of a country that I will not say does not exist, but I doubt many of them actually saw.  The trip is tightly controlled and honestly, a chaperoned tourist or journalist is unlikely to be shown anything that will portray the country in too negative a light that they could later report.  But being shown or told something while you know there is an alternate reality behind it is part of the fun.  There will still many oddities and unusual sights that make North Korea truly an eye-opening place unlike any other.

Many things surprised me, but one did especially.  I knew I would love my time in the DPRK because I had always wanted an inside look into the country.  As many people had told me, my desire to see the nation made me quite a rare breed amongst travelers.  But after leaving, I realized that in fact any traveler with a modicum of adventure would find a visit there just as fascinating and rewarding, too.