
Ihave been
to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or North Korea. I am not sure
there are a lot of people who can say so and I might have pissed off a few
people just by saying this, as I am sure I will the few North Koreans with
access to Internet who probably will read this sometime. And oh, it wasn’t easy
or cheap but it was, I say with pride, worth it.
I
n Beijing, the day before departure the entire lot of tourists had read the rules and signed on the dotted lines, but as the coordinators explained the rules, some twice, following them up with examples, North Korea seemed more sinister than the media made it out to be. “These five days are going to change your lives forever”, said the tour coordinator. “Grab your last Starbucks coffee at the airport, eat your muffins and croissants, get enough money for the trip, in small change if possible, and never try to speak to the locals.”
She touched upon every possible subject connected to the trip—from flight meals to taking photographs, bowing at statues, staying “in-line”, always checking with the guide about the repercussions of folding or damaging a newspaper containing pictures of the ruler.
“If there is anything that will get you arrested or deported, it is damaging the picture of the Great Leaders,” they told us over and over again. “Always keep any piece of paper with the Great Leader intact.”
Arrest was the solution to everything in North Korea.
Much of North Korean animosity, it appeared, was directed at Americans, so there was a good half hour dedicated to American behaviour. The tour coordinators worried about the American temper upon hearing the Korean version of The War and the subsequent surrender of America and the general slandering of the rest of the world. India did not fall into this category. I happened to know India shared a good relationship with DPRK and shipped food grains to contain the famine from time to time.
As a parting shot—“Guys, please get yourself a tie or a pant if you will—and a shirt. One of our itinerary demands it…and ladies, a below-the-knee dress. And preferably no exposing the shoulders or, umm, too much of the neck.”
H
ad I been airdropped without the knowledge of where, I’d have found the scenery captivating. Endless fields of rice, peaceful rivers and green hills all the way to the horizon and if it weren’t for the mountains ruining the picture perfect scenery, I’d have given the scenery a huge thumbs up.
But I knew where I was. I did however make a brave attempt to block out that knowledge so I could enjoy what was really a magical stretch of green.
The ugly, uneaten burger sitting on my pull-out table was a reminder that I was indeed in Korean airspace so I alternated between glancing outside and peering over the shoulder of my co-passenger and trip-mate, at the Pyongyang Times he was reading.
The front page was devoted to the Beloved Leader Kim Jong-Un and his visit to the orphanage and a large picture of happy children. The inside had a few interesting bits—it was enlightening to know of the technological advancements the country had made and how they were ready to take on the world, namely America, Japan and South Korea.
I hissed into my neighbour’s ear.
“What the hell is all that?”
He had the good sense to look over his shoulders before whispering back—
“Damned if I know what to make of it.”
I was posing as a kindergarten teacher and kindergarten teachers had a certain behavioural pattern that did not include showing outright agitation.
***
O
n the fringes of the runway three old Air Koryo planes sat motionless, secured to the ground with thick ropes. Grass grew around their wheels. It was the first indication that something was not right.
Between getting off the plane and walking towards the old, functional airport, Katarzyna caught up with me. We had spoken briefly at Beijing airport and hurriedly exchanged names but I had a feeling we were going to get along very well.
“I am feeling weird, you know,” she said, “I cannot believe I am here.”
That somehow heightened the discomfort I was feeling.
“Breathe,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Breathe.”
We entered the small building. Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong-Il or simply The Kims smiled at us from across the immigration desk.
I have been through small and very small airports before. In fact, I love airports. This airport was smallish, yes, but it was also in a state of chaos.
There were no real lines, only a large number of unsure people jumping queues. We had filled out our details on two pieces of paper listing all of our personal belongings, including books, radios, mobile phones and cameras. It was funny how our baggage was scanned on the way out of the containment area.
***
F
rom here on, I will refer to our local guides with different names and offer muted opinions or omit details that might put others, particularly the locals we deal with, in any kind of risk.
Our local guides, aka, minders were waiting on the other side.
We were introduced to Miss Deer. She had flawless skin. She wore a knee length skirt. And she spoke excellent English. She was beautiful. She would have to be, I learnt later, because she lived in Pyongyang and for that one had to be beautiful. Living in Pyongyang was an honour given to the selected two million. She was beautiful and fit the bill in every way.
Miss Deer was to be our guide, along with Li the driver, Li the-other-guide and Li the-minder-of-Miss Deer and Li the-other-guide. I will call Li the-other-guide Giraffe because he was too tall for a Korean.
We snapped pictures of the airport behind us and a few buildings around that were under construction. Miss Deer quickly stopped us.
“It is forbidden to take pictures of building under construction,” she said in her beautiful voice. “We Koreans see it as something unfinished, so no photos please.”
It would have been hilarious at this point, but that was also when we were asked to hand over our passports “for your own safety”—and nothing was funny any more.
In the minutes following this, everyone was quiet—perhaps all of us, the Americans, Germans, Poles (Katarzyna or Kate as I called her), a Slovenian, Dutch, Singaporean, Australian and I, the odd Indian, had the same thought. Hence, with my fear of going hungry came another fear.
What if they lost my passport and I was stuck here forever?
Soon we were joined by another, unexpected man. Let’s call him Mr Videoman, a short man with unsmiling eyes who carried a big, outdated video camera on his shoulder, like the ones you see in village weddings. We were told that he would record our trip so that in the end we could purchase a DVD from him as a present.
T
he ride to the city was smooth and from the air-conditioned tour bus Pyongyang looked like any other city. And clean—with the exception of soldiers with guns, watching over local people who attended to lawns, trimmed hedges, crawled on their knees to cut grass with small knives and swept streets. Briefly my mind went back to my home country—a sight like this would have been a welcome change. Pyongyang could be a good example of cleanliness.
In the short ride to Arch of Triumph, our first stop, we formed a fair opinion on who was going to get along with whom. Under the Arch, new friendships were formed and while the minders and guides blurred history with stories of the Great Leader and his conquests I got acquainted with Larry, the tall American and his partner Valerie Menenberg.
Larry had travelled a lot. In fact, he was on a world trip with Valerie and you could see from his manner that he had seen much. He also knew about monuments. He pointed at the one I was photographing and said, “Did you know this is the exact replica of the Arch of Triumph in Paris, this one is definitely taller, but it’s otherwise the same, only less impressive?”
While the guides continued to educate “interested” members about the importance of the Arch, Kate and I walked around the bus, trying to get away from the minders as much as possible, sneaking in pictures of the landscape and locals with lapel pins bent over the grassy sidewalk. No one looked up at us.
It was absolutely important not to irk the guides if we intended to enjoy the rest of the trip. But really we didn’t have to worry that much—Miss Deer, Giraffe and Li were really friendly and didn’t object to our unauthorised pictures at the Arch. Clearly, we were being watched.
As we drove through the city, things got easier inside the bus.
The
enormous silhouette of a pyramid-shaped hotel loomed in the background. Come to
think of it, it was visible from everywhere, an ominous ghostly presence
watching over the city. However, I’d seen pictures of it on Google when looking
up Pyongyang, like most of the others. The ghostly pyramid was the Ryugyong
Hotel, DPRK’s biggest embarrassment. Apparently, the government ran out of
money before the completion, so it continues to stand there, like a forgotten
shell of something that could have been.
***
W
e proceeded
to the Mansudae Hill to pay our respects to the Great Leader and Dear Leader.
It was hard not to be impressed by the monuments.
“You may
buy flowers if you wish,” the guide called out. “It is not compulsory, but they
will definitely appreciate it.”
Then he
proceeded to fix his tie, bought a bunch of flowers and walked stiffly uphill
to pay the mandatory respects to the Great Leader and Dear Leader.
I didn’t
buy any. Neither did Kate or Larry.
At the
monuments, crying, not laughing, was appreciated. The flower-bearing locals
politely stepped away from the camera, turned their heads and plodded up the
hill solemnly in absolute indifference to everything around. Giraffe marched us
to the statue and signalled for us to form a straight line.
“We will
now bow to the Great Leaders. This is a one-time-bow. Then we offer the
flowers. Please, no laughing or shouting here.”
Mr Videoman
had his camera in place. Moments like this were precious in DPRK. Footage of
tourists bowing at the statues makes it to prime time television to impress the
locals about the greatness of their country, the proof of which was the thousands
of tourists who arrived to pay respects to their Great Leader. It helped that
the tourists bowed at the feet of the Great Leader and smiled in awe at the
sheer size of the monuments.
As if on
cue, everyone bowed. I have seen big statues and monuments. But even to my
monument-hating mind, this was humbling. The figures were so lifelike, so
ethereal. So human. It was eerie.
Pyongyang was like a Potemkin Village built to dazzle the few tourists permitted to visit the country. It was a city that looked great in photographs. What it did not have was people. And life. And colour.
I wandered
away from the group when Giraffe launched into a passionate explanation of
Korean history. He had a tendency to start with the defeat of Americans before
going on to fictionalise and glorify the great power of the Great Leader Kim Il
Sung who single-handedly thwarted the Japanese to secure freedom for Korea. And
suddenly, as if to add to the drama, it started to rain. Just like that.
It was a
typical Bollywood setting—grey clouds, gently falling rain, smiling statues,
mountain of flowers, happy and curious visitors… and in such a Bollywood-type
setting, the thing to do is dance. Because in Bollywood, rains make an
appearance in two extreme cases—one, when you are full of joy and want to dance
and two, when you are invoking a deity and start to dance.
I was full
of joy. And I wanted to dance. Well, I really mean swirl, smile and throw my
arms about, to inject a little drama into this make-believe setting so devoid
of life and colour. I think it was when I put away my camera lenses and was
going to throw my arms about, Mr Videoman held up an umbrella and I had no
choice but follow him back to the bus in silence.
***
A
number of unfinished buildings dotted the
city, waiting for time to breathe life into it. Pyongyang was like a Potemkin
Village built to dazzle the few tourists permitted to visit the country. It was
a city that looked great in photographs. What it did not have was people. And
life. And colour. Traffic jam. Noise.
But you
have to give it to the Koreans or the Regime to be precise—they had mastered
the art of creating an entire city for impression’s sake. If you looked
carefully enough, meaning, if you had great camera lens and zoomed in close,
you could notice the absence of glass on the windows or electric bulbs or
people in those drab apartment blocks. Pyongyang was more like a city built to
be seen and toured, not lived in.
During our first meal, along with the rice cakes, duck, chicken, fish, potatoes, cold noodles, salads and soups, I made my first contact with the Kimchi. Korea’s national dish was essentially fermented cabbage and spiced up according to taste. I like cabbage, mind you. I really do, but not kimchi.
While we
dined, the guides had disappeared. When I called for Miss Deer to enquire about
buying a silver chopstick like the one I was eating with, she appeared from somewhere
else.
Kate
whispered, “I thought she was eating with us?”
Chopsticks
forgotten, the first thing I asked was, “Why aren’t you eating with us? There
is so much food here, join us?”
Miss Deer
looked embarrassed and a little sad, “No, we eat inside.”
Only later
I learnt that the guides, minders or whoever else accompanied us were bound by
rules—the tourists indulged in the best DPRK had to offer, the locals ate rice
with kimchi. It was a requirement of the regime.
I had known
this about North Korea, DPRK was in the grip of a severe famine and their diet
remained inadequate—restricted mostly to cabbage and rice provided by the
government. The only exception to this food was the occasional cold noodles,
cucumber salad or potatoes, and the yearly quota of pork, fish and butter. I
think at this point, I began to hate kimchi altogether.
O
ur first night at Changgwangsan Hotel, Kate asked me a question. I knew we would be friends for life. “Let’s check if the room is bugged.”
I loved the
girl. She had the kind of romantic spirit that makes even a bleak and bare
hotel room in DPRK seem interesting and important. It was the way she spoke
that took the edge off a reality we faced.
We were not
good at it, but we searched the room as quietly and thoroughly as possible,
including the lampshade and curtain folds and inside the kettle. Satisfied with
the results of our amateur search, she asked me another question.
“Say, you
aren’t a school teacher, are you? You don’t look it, you know.”
Thus Kate
became the first person on the trip to know the truth about me. I didn’t even
ask her what gave me away. When I told her the whole story, she was excited.
“You know,
I write also. I like to write.”
Kate, it
turned out, was also a published author and lived in constant fear that her
Polish book about China might get translated into Mandarin and all hell would
break loose.
“I am a
translator, you know, Chinese translator, so I don’t want to lock horns with
China.”
The more
she told me about herself, the more I liked her. Kate had lived in Taiwan for a
year before moving to China for two years to do her PhD in Social Sciences,
spoke fluent Chinese, loved travelling and had a great sense of humour.
And humour
we definitely needed to get through our short and expensive trip to North
Korea.
We stepped
out on the unfinished, dusty balcony to face sheer darkness around broken only
by a few flickering street lights. The drab concrete structures lining the streets
were dark.
“It looks
spooky, eerie. Like a big ghost town…”
That gap,
between two worlds, one of the visitors and the other real one for the locals,
had become even more noticeable after sunset. While we sat in a well-lit
restaurant for dinner the city outside turned pitch-black.
North Korea
has acute shortage of electricity and the capital city is not an exception.
Apartment dwellers often trudged up the stairs to their homes and shivered in
the harsh winters for lack of heating. There were hardly any street lights. The
grey apartment blocks became black shapes that loomed like barren mountains in
the background. Only a few isolated pinpricks of lights—perhaps one or two
windows in a vast apartment block—gave any indication of the life within.
***
T
he route to
the demilitarised zone, the DMZ, took us through the Reunification Highway
where we had our first glimpse of the countryside. DMZ was the highlight of the
trip—naturally, we were going to visit the world’s most heavily guarded border.
When we
arrived at the entrance to the DMZ, there was a brief stop at the parking lot
where we had to get off the bus, listen to an officer who briefed us about the
layout of DMZ, then lined up, army style and watched over by tall soldiers with
automatic rifles as we marched through a gate to board the bus again.
And it was
hot. Here I might add that when we were being lined up, Miss Deer and Giraffe
constantly pleaded with us not to get out of line or take photographs.
But what
Miss Deer said after this shocked us. “Do not laugh very loudly here, okay? For
your own safety.”
“Will they
shoot us?” That was me.
“Yes.”
“Oh, I want
to laugh so hard you know,” Kate whispered. “But I will not—for my own safety.
You know, this is like some horror movie.”
I waited
till we re-boarded to offer my own opinion.
“I am sure
they must be very bored with cleaning their guns without the chance of ever
shooting anyone. I guess they want us to laugh so they could shoot us,” is what
I said.
We were led
through a building where the armistice had been signed in 1953. It was of
course historically interesting but uneventful. The real border was still some
distance away. We eventually arrived at the border.
When the Dear Leader was inspecting this site, a cloud of smoke covered the place so his enemies could not see him. But the Great Leader could easily see the other side. He inspected the site and left unharmed.
Directly
opposite the marbled, futuristic building we were standing on, was a similar
building which at the moment was empty.
“That is
South Korea,” Giraffe pointed out not too happily. “You see that line? Yes,
that separates us. But one day we hope there will be no borders.”
I asked
Giraffe an innocent question. “What if one of us ran across the line?”
“You’ll be
shot,” he said.
We entered
one of the blue huts and took seats around the tables inside. I was on the far
side, on the South Korean side as informed by the guides. In the excitement of
taking a memorable picture “between the enemy lines” I did not pay attention to
the exact number of times Americans breached the armistice. I vaguely remember
88,000 times, but I could have been mistaken.
I loved my
first time on South Korean soil. Let’s leave it at that.
Safely back
on the soil of the Fatherland Giraffe told us another story, a little more
fantastic one this time. As he rattled off a story about Kim Jong-Il’s visit to
Panmunjom, his expression changed.
Larry was
about to explode. “I don’t believe he ever actually went there. Why would he
have put himself in the enemy’s firing line?” Larry whispered.
Unmindful
of hurting the sentiments of Imperialist Bastards (aka, the Americans), Giraffe
continued to enlighten us with his tale.
“When the
Dear Leader was inspecting this site, a cloud of smoke came down and covered
the place so his enemies could not see him. But,” here he paused importantly,
“but, the Great Leader could easily see the other side. The enemy could not. He
easily inspected the site and left unharmed.”
In North
Korea, you had to believe a story like that.
We broke
for lunch in Kaesong, the city closest to DMZ and home to a big industrial park
where South Korean companies have been allowed to set up cross-border
factories, which sadly was not on our itinerary. We were not done. There was
more evidence of North Korean greatness to be seen and understood and the
Revolutionary Martyr’s Cemetery was one such place. Under skies steadily turning
dangerous grey, we trudged up the hill and continued past a sea of lifelike
busts of brave people who lost their lives securing freedom for their country.
I was more
interested in the far-off view of the Pyongyang cityscape, with its enormous
pyramid hotel. That strange black pyramid—that heartless shell—would begin to
show up in more and more of my photographs. It mesmerised me. It was slowly
becoming an obsession.
At the top
of the hill was a surprise—the grave of Kim Jong-Il’s mother, who, according to
the recent version of history was also a revolutionary hero. Locals had lined
up to pay their respects, some wept real tears. And while we lined up to
perform the mandatory “one-time-bow”—just one of the prices we paid for being
here—it started to rain.
I succumbed
to the moment. I whooped in joy. Spreading out my arms, I swirled before
realising that I had become the focus of scorn and hate. If anything was likely
to get me arrested, it was this—but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less.
It was
improper to dance at a cemetery, of course, but it was also blissful. It was
worth being arrested for, if I might add. Kate, bless her, somehow managed to
snap me doing just that. So I have a picture to prove my claim.
That night
we stayed at Yanggakdo, DPRK’s four-star hotel. But it didn’t happen just like
that. Like everything else, there was a lot of drama about a simple act of
moving into a new hotel. We were returning from the various monument-visits
when suddenly Miss Deer picked up the mike and announced.
“Today we
will stay at the best hotel in Korea. Yes, today we will stay at Yanggakdo
Hotel. We have been upgraded.”
We cheered.
No one however explained how the upgrade came about or why.
***
H
otel
Yanggakdo was impressive. And secluded. It stood all by itself on an island in
the Taedong river which divides the city. Perfect place to keep the foreign
tourists, away from trouble they were likely to cause if allowed to come in
contact with the locals. There was a lone turtle in the hotel and a small store,
besides the mandatory giant pictures of the Kims. It was self-contained if you
wanted to include the casino and the golf course.
Hotel
Yanggakdo was special in many ways. If you didn’t mind someone listening in to
your phone conversation that cost you six dollars a minute, then you were
welcome to use the facility. It was the only place in the whole of Pyongyang
where you could do that.
Kate, who
had been hovering about the telephone booth, looked excited.
‘There is a
casino somewhere, let’s go check it out.’
We set out.
Here, I beg
to digress. I am a big fan of Casablanca. I am equally or more fond of
the song of the same name. I dream of visiting Rick’s in Morocco one day soon.
But somehow, here in Yanggakdo, looking at the hotel lobby, I felt as though I
was living the Casablanca dream. The lobby was sort of a meeting point
for people—tourists, diplomats, aid workers, businessmen, mainly Chinese. Here
for a moment you could forget that you were being watched, at least briefly,
and let your hair down at the bar. Here, the guides also became human. Over
beers, they happily chatted about their families and education and tried to
understand lives outside Korea.
We were on
the thirty-second floor but it was possible to fully open the windows, just in
case you wanted to jump out and escape that way. And there was a TV. And BBC.
Kate and I went down to the casino, only to notice that the lifts did not stop
on the fifth floor. We didn’t make too much of it, until someone else brought
it up with Giraffe over dinner.
It was like
walking back in time. Not a James Bond-style casino this, it was more like the
Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon-style, from ancient China, and while I am not an
authority on casinos, the absence of life and pulse bothered me somehow. It was
also musty and like everything else, old and spooky. We retired for dinner.
Over dinner
when the question of the fifth floor came up, Giraffe’s transformation from a
happy-go-lucky guide to a stern-faced patriot was swift. He at once became curt
and businesslike and muttered under his breath, trying to slip away without
offering an explanation.
***
T
he morning
was grey, a grand setting for the sombre event we were about to embark upon—a
visit to the Mausoleum, Kumsusan Palace of the Sun. In North Korea, it was a
big deal. The tour coordinators had stressed the need to wear pants, shirts and
tie during the briefing in Beijing and again at dinner. I suppose, if you were
going to a mausoleum to see bodies of two of the greatest men that walked the earth,
it was absolutely necessary to wear a tie and a shirt.
There was
much joy despite the solemnity of the upcoming visit, but we were a happy bunch
like that. Miss Deer, Giraffe, Li-the-minder and Mr Videoman were unsmiling and
businesslike as though leading us to our execution but not quite sure how to
tell us about it.
The
mausoleum of Kim Il-Sung, DPRK’s founder and his son Kim Jong-Il, is the most
sacred spot in all of DPRK. Given its divine status, it was necessary to
observe proper courtesies. Nothing could go wrong here. The slightest lapse
could lead to grave consequences. Arrest and deportation, but you know that
about DPRK already.
In those painfully long minutes, you see the make-believe world of peace and contentment in North Korea in the thousands of photographs adorning the walls. Every face in those pictures is happy.
Koreans in
general undertake this pilgrimage at least twice a year as part of the required
duty of their work unit. To see the Great Leader, a virtual god among men, the
epitome of human perfection in all respects defines their afterlife. The
occasion was of National Importance and it was the birthright of every Korean
to be allowed to visit the tomb, although they had to get the permission of
their work units first.
We arrived
at the grand monument. Miss Deer picked up the mike.
“This is
the largest and the grandest mausoleum ever built for a Communist Leader. This
was once upon a time Kim Il-Sung’s official residence.” We entered the hallowed
hallway.
“At the
time this fantastic mausoleum was being rebuilt, thousands were starving to
death here,” Larry explained to us.
Through the
marbled corridors we marched steadily and grimly, as the occasion demanded.
Outside the rains had filled up the moats surrounding Kumsusan. It was a little
spooky all right, but it could have been just the weather. Then the security
checks began.
The cameras
went first, followed by the wallets and just about everything else in our
pockets. Nothing could be taken into the sacred interiors. Once past the
security gate, observe complete silence. Keep pace with the guides, show proper
respect towards the thousands of pictures hanging on the walls as you walk
through ridiculously long hallways to descend into the bowels of the earth.
Once you
have reached deep inside the marbled earth, step on to a series of moving
walkways that would put Dubai International Airport to shame. The length of the
walkway is several kilometres and you must not walk on them. You are required
to stand and let yourself be carried along. But in those painfully long
minutes, you see the make-believe world of peace and contentment in North Korea
in the thousands of framed photographs adorning the walls, each picture outdoing
the other in terms of greatness. Every face in those pictures is happy, every
frame itself reflecting deemed prosperity—not for a moment can you allow
yourself to think that DPRK is one of the poorest countries in the world.
At the end
of this long journey is a marble foyer. Here you line up and march forward,
army-style, with hands on your side, into another hall where a pure white
marble statue of Kim Il-Sung towers over you. It is hard not to get carried
away by the grandeur. I mean, yes, I have seen Taj Mahal, but this was
something else. It reduces you to tears. On a screen behind the great marble
statue is a warm pink glow of sunrise below a clear blue sky. The guide will
tell you that in Korea, the sun always rose with the Kims. It was beautiful, yes,
but it was also eerie.
After this
visual overkill, you march down a hall through a narrow doorway that blows air
at passersby. This is meant to remove every speck of dust and dirt from your
mortal bodies. Only when you have passed this cleaning ritual, can you enter
the next hall.
***
I
n a vast, glowing red chamber, Kim Il-Sung lay peacefully asleep inside a glass sarcophagus. The Red Chamber buzzes with energy that is as emotional as it is real—easily the first real thing you will see in DPRK. Groups of local women in hanbok, the traditional Korean dress worn by women, silently shed tears. Men try hard not to, while soldiers on their mandatory visit know exactly when to bow, where to look and how to behave.
We formed
three rows. At a slight nod, we walked respectfully ahead, with hands at our
sides, one step at a time towards the open casket, lined up again and waited
for the signal to bow. Here it is mandatory to bow thrice and as soon as you are
done, you are required to leave the hall. If you are a quick observer, you’d
notice armed guards strategically installed behind pillars watching your moves.
Any sign of trouble, namely the slightest change of expression from anguish to
joy or relief is quickly noticed. And perhaps punished. The same procedure is
repeated for Kim Jong-Il in another chamber.
We returned
the way we’d come; only this time, no one had anything to say, not even Larry
or Kate. Each of us was lost somewhere—inside the Red Chamber perhaps, because
only the absurdity of the Red Chamber could shock us into silence.
Outside,
the locals returning from their visit to the tombs were laughing and waving,
like holiday-makers out in their Sunday best. No longer in the immediate
presence of the Great Leader, the tension had dissipated for them as well, and
they had resumed their role as regular human beings.
Pyongsung, DPRK’s University City came as a relief, a welcome escape from the fake glamour and the monuments of Pyongyang. We went to a school. It is universally known that The Kims love children. No one explained this obsession with happy children, but children, it appeared, were clearly much loved.
It was a
very quiet and well-behaved school—no running feet, no girls whispering in
corners, no boys sliding down railings. If we hadn’t been talking to each other
or breathing, perhaps we could hear pins drop.
But it was
a school all right, with real children in uniforms and teachers with the proper
“teacher-face”. The classrooms were real too with prim and proper unsmiling
students facing stern-faced teachers, dwarfed by the mandatory picture of the
Kims.
We broke
into the class for a “pre-arranged” lecture by the tourists; students shifted
their expressions to resemble a smile and teachers respectfully stood aside to
let the foreign tourists help the beloved students brush up their
English-speaking skills.
Giraffe
sidled up to me. “Your turn next. You are a teacher. I am sure you will enjoy
this very much. Our children are very bright. First time they will learn from
an Indian teacher. Come on, next. Please.”
That shook
me up. I’d never taught a class and it didn’t help that the children looked
scary in their stiff uniforms. I thought quickly.
“Oh no…I
have had enough of kids to be honest, and, phew, I am glad to be on a break and
not have to teach them. So, no, I will pass. Thanks for the offer though.”
Giraffe
didn’t understand. He persisted. “Really, you must. First time our children
have an Indian teacher. Please.” And before Giraffe could say something, I
slipped out of the room and into the bathroom.
Giraffe may
have begun to suspect something then, but I had left the scene and hence
missed, as Kate told me later, a tour of the children’s playroom that consisted
entirely of stuffed animals and paintings by the children depicting gruesome
deaths of American soldiers at the hands of Korean loyalists.
“You should
have spoken to the kids, you know,” she winked. “I am sure you would be good at
it, you know. Tell them about your travels.” I shuddered.
Back on the
bus heading to a clothing factory, my tour coordinator whispered hushed
warnings in my ear asking me to watch out for Li-the-minder who was good at
sniffing out a rat anywhere.
We became
the first ever tourist group to visit the Pyongsong Taedonggang Clothing
Factory. The factory has been in operation since 1961 when it used to
manufacture work clothes for export to Russia and later to Vietnam, then baby
clothes to Japan and currently, ski-wear for the popular brand Ripcurl. This
was what real people did. These workers who created things with their own hands
were real.
There was a
strange realism about the factory women in their multicoloured uniforms, bent
over aging machines under slow-moving fans, stitching materials for a brand
which would eventually carry a “Made in China” label and be sold at an
exorbitant price in a shopping mall somewhere. But here there was no extolling
the greatness of Korea. These women formed an important part of the working
society that kept the economic mills running, yet to see them like that was
painful. They were so unquestioning, toiling hard—only to receive food coupons
or a very meagre salary at the end of a long hard month of labour.
I asked
Giraffe what the women received in return. “Free food, free house, free
medicine and free education. Here in Korea, everything is free. The Great
Leader provides everything.”
***
P
yongyang’s
underground metro is an interesting piece of art. I recorded the slow descent
into the earth’s core—two minutes and 22 seconds. I felt we were being taken
into some secret underground bomb shelter. But when we finally stepped on to
the marble platform and were greeted by the smiling Kims under the sheer
brilliance of the giant chandeliers, all doubts about North Koreans
disappeared. Miss Deer and Giraffe looked particularly proud. The subway system
is fantastic. It is about 45 years old and impressive as a replica of a Russian
subway that sometimes looks like a miniature cathedral.
Our
unscheduled stop at one of the local breweries pretty much signalled the end of
our tour. This was time to bond—and over Beers No. 3, 4 and 5 everyone had
become friends. Some, including me and Kate, said how we would miss DPRK but I
am not sure we convinced anyone, least of all Li-the-minder who had stuck to my
side ever since we left the metro.
It was
during this beer-drinking binge, when Li-the-minder had one too many, that I
got my first chance to walk around a little. Kate stayed back to catch up with
the rest of the tour members. No one came after me. I stood by the road and
watched people getting in and out of the beer parlour, into their homes, on the
trams passing by.
In that
hour I saw real people. I wondered if they would ever be able to cope with the
outside world, if they would ever know the Internet or BBC or CNN, iPhones or
tablets, Adidas, Nike or even KFC, Starbucks or pizza.
If you took
a random moment and framed it, life here would seem like that in any other
country—people walking back home, people riding trams, buildings, trees,
roads—but life in North Korea did not exist in picture frames. The reality was
different. Each of these people lived in constant fear. Saying a wrong word,
failure to wear the lapel pin, a spying neighbour, speaking or making eye contact
with a foreign tourist, everything was a threat. The more you know about North
Korea, the less it makes sense.
That night, which was also our last, after an excellent barbeque dinner, we gathered around a TV screen to watch the handiwork of Mr Videoman. There was, however, one condition to this.
“You buy a
copy if you like the video,” Giraffe told us good naturedly. “You take back the
wonderful memories of this great country.”
The DVD was
worth its weight in gold. Or diamond, whichever way you wanted to look at it.
No one backed out of the deal. The video was hilarious and amateurish and we
were laughing so hard that we forgot we had very little time left in the
country. Mr Videoman had made us all look like we loved being here, he showed
us on our best behaviour, solemn where we needed to be and happy where the
occasion demanded. It was a good round-up of the trip to DPRK.
I
was looking forward to the train ride. I love
trains and 23 hours on a slow train between Pyongyang and Beijing was just the
thing that made travel so fascinating. The countryside would be real. I was
looking forward to those slices of reality.
The station
was not quite busy, with only one platform from which trains to four different
places left at different intervals. Kate and I were on different coaches—she
was getting off at Sinuiju and I was going to Beijing and onwards to Mongolia.
I bid her goodbye sometime before she got off at her destination at about 3:30
pm.
I knew
someday I would see her again.
The Customs
ritual at Sinuiju was something. It took us over two hours. We were not allowed
to leave our cabin and officers took away our passports for scrutiny while a
few others went through our luggage thoroughly. Also, they went through
pictures in your cameras, deleting what they thought was “anti-Korean” pictures
of soldiers, people cleaning streets or cutting grass, school-going children,
buildings under construction, any shanty or slum you may have secretly
photographed.
Finally, we
crossed the Yalu into Dandong, China. The clearance at the Chinese customs was
easily done.
I didn’t
realise until I got back to Beijing the constant pressure we’d been under.
Always having to be careful about what we said, the awareness that we were
permanently under surveillance, every conversation listened in to, and the
seriousness of the North Korean guides with their relentless badgering
propaganda.
As I left
the station in Beijing, the tour coordinator singled me out: “We cannot stop
you from writing anything or publishing any photos you may have taken. We would
of course ask you not to without our permission. But every time you have the
urge to do something that would put us under the scanner remember Miss Deer’s
face.”
I remember
Miss Deer’s face all the time. I remember her voice, her smile, her laughter. I
remember the look in her eyes and the hope that sprang in it. Yet, I do not
know what to wish for her.
For the
world, North Korea is as elusive as Narnia or Atlantis and you really cannot
blame them because of its fictionalised history, but from what I have seen or
heard DPRK is definitely not a great place to live in. My lasting memory about
Pyongyang, though, is the total darkness that descends at night. When you look
down from the revolving restaurant on the 47th floor of Hotel Yanggakdo—there
is nothing. The entire city is swallowed up by darkness. Only the morning sun
brings it to life.