海角大神

Ox-drawn carts squeak by towering marble monuments 鈥� with slogans like 鈥淟ive forever our father鈥� [Kim Il Sung]. Remnants of four-lane highways snake parallel to a single train track that handles all traffic through the northwestern corridor. Schoolchildren in tattered shorts play near stiff-faced sentries (the kids wield sticks; the soldiers, automatic rifles).

Such dichotomies reflect the perplexing and almost unimaginable world that is the Democratic People鈥檚 Republic of Korea, a hermit kingdom that may harbor a half-dozen nuclear weapons or more while simultaneously being on the brink of a famine that could doom most of its peasant population.

Now, with outside reports that North Korea strongman Kim Jong Il is seriously ill, international attention is focusing once again on this troublesome nation. The world鈥檚 leaders remain, however, much as everybody else, befogged about the road ahead for North Korea. The reason for this is simple: practically nothing 鈥� news, Western luxuries, even people 鈥� is allowed in, or out.

But here I am, riding a German-imported train with 30 other Chinese tourists and plenty of North Korean guards patrolling the cabins, on our way to Pyongyang. I鈥檝e come to see what life here is like for the Koreans, fully expecting the absurd.

What I didn鈥檛 expect was a history lesson on my own cultural heritage (I moved from China to the US when I was 6), for I had inadvertently stepped through a time portal into 1970s Red China, right down to the Orwellian surveillance and forced confessions.

鈥⑩赌⑩赌�

My holiday began in Dandong, a wood-print of any other Chinese boomtown, its streets spilling over with traffic, gaudy billboards, and all sorts of touts living out the capitalist dream. One morning late last month, the once-daily train eased across the yawning Yalu River into North Korea.

While there was the expected indignation from the Chinese tourists 鈥� 鈥淟ook at how many people they鈥檝e shoved onto that train,鈥� one woman exclaimed 鈥� most passengers were understanding. 鈥淭hey live better than the farmers in Shaanxi and Gansu,鈥� said the man next to me, as he looked out at endless green fields of rice and corn and government-built apartments.

Our traveling entourage included a diverse array of characters: an older woman who would find her brother-in-law鈥檚 name at a Pyongyang monument to the Chinese comrades who died during the Korean War; a young serial traveler who was already planning her next trip, a ride on the Tran-Siberian railway to Moscow; a stout ethnic Korean who lived in China and took this journey simply as a weekend diversion.

Even though it has a burgeoning middle class that can now afford to vacation in Thailand or Hawaii, China still has many people who journey to North Korea each year 鈥� hundreds per day in August and September during the Arirang mass games, a staged gymnastics spectacle. It could be the red-carpet treatment they receive (five-star hotels, buffet feasts, VIP tickets), but I sense that for my fellow travelers, most in their 50s, this trip was a chance to revisit their still painful adolescence in China, and to say, 鈥淟ook how far I鈥檝e come.鈥�

The head guide, Ju Rol, a newly married North Korean, greeted us at Pyongyang鈥檚 Soviet-era train station. He didn鈥檛 wear the ill-fitted suits popular with most North Koreans, but Western-style collared shirts, and along with his near-perfect Chinese accent, he promptly endeared himself to the group 鈥� or at least the women, who laughed at his jokes.

He herded us onto a sleek tour bus, which became our classroom for the next three days. The first day鈥檚 lesson, as we rode from the captured USS Pueblo to the Pyongyang Metro, covered the 鈥渢hree beauties鈥� of North Korea: the greenery, the air, and the women. As if on cue, one of his new female admirers declared, 鈥淵ou鈥檒l never see blue skies like this in Beijing.鈥�

On Day 2, he focused on the 鈥渢hree frees鈥� of Korean society: education, healthcare, and housing. Because we had a two-hour bus ride to Mt. Myohyang, home to a 400-room fortress where gifts to the DPRK are proudly displayed, he invited questions. 鈥淗ow much grain is allotted to each worker a month?鈥� asked Wang Zhelu, a teacher from Dalian.

鈥淭wenty-seven kilograms,鈥� Mr. Ju replied, which led to murmurs of approval from a group that had grown up with ration coupons (according to the UN鈥檚 World Food Program, the actual figure is closer to five kilograms, with meat available only on national holidays).

鈥淲hat about the apartments 鈥� how big are they?鈥� asked Zhao Heping, a retired fighter-jet engineer from Beijing.

鈥淓ight hundred to 1,500 square feet.鈥� This caused more grumbling, as one Beijing resident said that would be bigger than his place.

鈥淲here do we apply to live here?鈥� somebody else quipped, half-jokingly.
As the laughter died down, Liu Yi, a human rights activist from Hong Kong, queried, 鈥淐an you buy a car?鈥�

This didn鈥檛 seem to be in Ju鈥檚 script. After a long silence, he countered, 鈥淵es, if you鈥檙e a movie star.鈥� And then he told us to get some rest.
Later that day, at a six-course lunch, the mood was almost wistful. 鈥淟ife is so carefree here,鈥� said one of the real-estate agents. 鈥淚n China, from the first day of preschool, you have worries.鈥�

Still, to some of the travelers, it was becoming apparent that one of the North Koreans鈥� main objectives with the tour was not to make money ($350 for an all-inclusive four days), but to convince the Chinese that a country of 30 million peasants has somehow achieved the ultimate worker鈥檚 paradise.

By the end of Day 3, many of the Chinese, however pampered by the food and concerts, were getting restless. The stream of rules governing what they could photograph and where they could go was something they had not experienced since the Cultural Revolution 30 years ago. And they missed their cellphones (kept by North Korean custom agents at the border, along with our passports).

鈥⑩赌⑩赌�

My foray 鈥� unsupervised for once 鈥� into downtown Pyongyang one afternoon brought its own adventures. At 6 feet, 4 inches and sporting a 鈥淚 heart Brasil鈥� T-shirt, I was not inconspicuous, and the North Koreans I passed, worried about being linked to a foreigner, avoided all eye contact.

For an hour, I caught a rare glimpse of everyday life in North Korea. To my surprise, it wasn鈥檛 much different from your generic third-world city. Conditions were stark, yes, but not as outlandish as many in the West might imagine. There were sidewalk vendors, electric trollies, bicycles, and neighborhood shops.

There was also one notable difference: the unparalleled sense of paranoia and Stalinish control. Take my six-hour ordeal with the Public Security Bureau. I became caught in their net when I snapped some fidgety shots of a vibrant indoor bazaar, a rare free market at work. Stocky women in pink dresses suddenly appeared.

They turned me over to the feared police, who only let me go after securing a self-criticism that would have made Mao proud. But this was not to be my last brush with the authorities. The night before our train ride back to China, the ever-friendly Ju, our guide, refused to leave my hotel room until he could search for the 鈥渕issing鈥� memory card from my camera.

Fortunately, my roommate chose this moment to dash out of the shower. Ju apparently decided this was too much for him and scampered off into the night.

The next day, on the trip back, our train car went quiet at the North Korean border town of Sinuiju. A cadre of North Koreans, decked out in military fatigues, ordered everyone to empty their bags, checking for ill-gotten photos.

Finally, with a loud cheer from our group, the train lurched from the station, toward the bright lights, the Kentucky Fried Chickens, and the honks of impatient taxi drivers awaiting us across the river in China.