by Scott Fisher
Photo courtesy Thomas St. John
At the end of the show we all got out of our seats to give the students a rousing and well-deserved standing ovation. It really was an amazing thing to see so many children working together to create such a professional performance. CDs were on sale in the lobby and they did a brisk business among the foreign visitors, some of whom, including me, later posted clips on the Internet (http://1stopkorea.com/nk-videos.htm).
This same school was visited by President Kim Dae-jung's wife, the first lady of South Korea, during the summit between the leaders of the North and South in 2000. Part of the children's performance was broadcast live on South Korean TV and was a sensational PR coup for the North. The hopeful reunification theme went over very well with the South Korean public and resulted in the students being invited for a headline-making trip and well-received performance down in Seoul. Commentators in the South even worried publicly about South Korea's own 'lazy' youth, thought to be frittering away their childhoods yapping on cell phones, surfing the Internet and playing computer games. Concern that mainly brought a collective yawn from South Korean kids.
Once our show was over, it was back to the bus for one of the final stops on the tour - a hoped-for visit to the Pyongyang subway. This part of the tour was, according to both our guides and various guidebooks on travel to North Korea, an option given only at the guides' discretion. Apparently our behavior, sliding around the Gifts to Kim Il-sung Museum and arguing at the DMZ notwithstanding, had been good enough to merit this 'special' tour.
Pyongyang Subway
The Pyongyang subway system is equal parts public transportation, art gallery and air raid shelter. The tracks are set far beneath the surface, similar to those in Moscow, to keep them safe and to provide shelter for the populace in case of an American bombing. To get down to them requires a lengthy escalator (unlike the subway escalators in America's capital, the ones in Pyongyang actually seemed to work) ride that makes one feel like you're descending into the very depths of the earth. Those with vertigo or a fear of heights need not apply.
Pyongyang Subway Map
Photo courtesy Thomas St. John
The system itself, as shown by the map above, is not very extensive. Though our guides were quite proud of the interactive map system shown here. By pressing one of the bottom buttons (which denote the various stations), lights would flash on the main board to clearly show you the stops and route between your current station and destination. All for a two-line subway!
Our guides asked if the Seoul subway system had a similar system for their passengers. They seemed pleased to find out that it was lacking such an advanced, customer-oriented system. Unfortunately, the picture above doesn't quite show one of the other unique features of the subway - the station names. In Pyongyang, rather than denoting particular places, all the stations are given names like Liberation, Unification, and Victory.
Once inside and down near the tracks, you find the walls, pillars and ceilings full of intricate design work and ornate paintings. Some of the best art in North Korea is actually located a few hundred feet below ground. In the pictures below, you can see the obvious efforts that went into making the subway a showcase for the regime. From the pillar carvings, huge painting at the end and intricate glasswork on the ceilings, everything is designed to impress. While we were visiting there was even plenty of power to light the stations. Indicating a supply of electricity that some say isn't always so generous.
View of station between arrivals
Photo courtesy Thomas St. John
Subway mural of happy industrious workers
Photo courtesy Brian Stuart
A less than generous aspect of the subway we encountered firsthand was restroom usage. A couple of people in our group needed to use one during the visit to the subway, something you'd expect to be quick and painless.
Well, here it turned into a major hassle. First, the people had to get permission from the guides to even look for a restroom. Once located, the guides had to approve its use by foreigners, which they refused to do, instead standing in front of the door, barring entry. They insisted the group of unscheduled bathroom users wait until the next stop, where they were promised nicer facilities. Despite some pretty hearty bitching, in two languages, the guides remained firm, forcing everyone to wait until after we boarded the subway and went to the next stop.
The whole incident got pretty heated and even drew some attention from passersby, until cooler heads prevailed and the naughty group was convinced to hold it a few minutes. Interesting drama to observe and indicative of how tempers were beginning to fray.
The subway cars themselves, though aged, were immaculate and, during the late afternoon, remarkably uncrowded. Our group was herded into the last car of the train, one devoid of passengers except for a single hapless young lady. She froze and stared at our group of foreigners like a deer caught in headlights. After a few seconds, and an audible gasp, she gathered her things and literally sprinted out the door. Now if that would only happen when I board the crowded Seoul subway.
As the lady ran out, the doors swished shut and we were locked inside our own private car. Of course, each car is proudly adorned with pictures of the two Kims, so we wouldn't be totally alone during your journey. Once someone noticed this, most of the group proceeded to spend the train ride rotating, one-by-one, to pose for a shot under the Kims.
As the train pulled into the next station, the shock on the face of those waiting to board was immediate and palpable. If aliens had lined up to come out of our subway car, those waiting at the platform would have been less shocked. Everyone was especially careful to hang back and make sure we were really leaving before they dared board our 'foreign' car.
I was half-tempted to hold up and jump back onto the subway, just as the doors began to shut. That would have certainly gotten everyone's heart pumping. But, deciding I wasn't in the mood to be arrested the day before I left, plus still curious as to how the whole restroom saga was going to play out, I let discretion rule the day and walked off with the others.
Once off the subway, Mr. Baek and Mr. Huk were finally able to locate suitable restroom facilities. Of course, once they found the proper place, they then had to run off and track down the key. By this point, the sheer ordeal of finding a john that would accept foreign tour groups had turned the restroom into a mini-tourist attraction all its own. Practically the whole tour group proceeded to file in and have a look.
After the impromptu potty tour, we were quickly rounded up and marched out to the waiting bus. Something that must have seemed especially strange to our bus driver - take the foreigners to one subway stop, let them off, then drive to the next stop to pick them up. I can't imagine myself doing that in too many other countries, though seeing such a beautiful, relatively empty subway system was well worth the side trip. My only regret from the subway experience mirrors my main regret from the whole trip - the lack of an opportunity to interact with people other than our guides.
Once back on the bus, we headed off to the last stop on our tour - a visit to a well-known (according to the guides) restaurant for one of North Korea's most famous foods.
Pyongyang Naeng-myon
No visit to Pyongyang would possibly be complete without trying the city's signature dish - naeng-myon. Basically, it's a bowl of cold vermicelli noodles with an egg, a couple of hunks of meat, and some hot sauce thrown in for spiciness. The cold noodles ('naeng' means 'cold' or 'chilled' in Korean) are supposed to be the perfect meal for cooling down on a hot summer day.
I've tried naeng-myon a few times at restaurants in the South (where the best stuff is always referred to as Pyongyang naeng-myon) and normally can't stand it. But here, for whatever reason, it actually tasted pretty good. Perhaps I was finally coming under the spell of Mr. Baek's, "when in Rome" mantra.
For those who found the idea of cold noodles unappealing (see picture above), the restaurant served up a large variety of other foods, for what turned out to
be the best meal of the whole trip. Those with foreign currency to spend, and those who live off of them, are certainly not among the North's starving masses.
As this was the last stop on our tour and we no longer had to worry about 'The Schedule', it turned out to be a leisurely meal, with time to do more than just wolf down your food and run back to the bus. We finally got a chance to enjoy a couple of beers and even blow off some steam with the guy on the tour who was most obviously the Worker's Party hack, easily identified by his Kim Jong-il style bouffant hairdo and habit of wearing one-piece jumpsuits.
He'd taken a liking to a couple of us and after dinner proceeded to regale our group of Korean speakers with a flurry of off-color jokes and comments. It was hard to believe, but the staid Party guy was actually pretty funny. We traded back his jokes with a few we'd learned in the South, which got him laughing pretty hard too - once he figured out our thick accents. He seemed especially fascinated by the fact that several of us taught at Korea's most famous women's school. Something he'd obviously been curious about the whole time and finally got around to asking and joking about that last evening.
An interesting side benefit of this conversation turned out to be the reaction of the other guides. They had always given this guy plenty of deference and this time was no different. Laughing and talking with him eliminated any possibility of being rushed along on our last night. I only regretted it had taken us so long to figure that out.
Eventually though, the schedule and bored stares of the non-Korean speakers prevailed, and it was time to board the bus for one last trip to the hotel. Night had fallen and it was time to head home and pack for tomorrow's departure.
Departing Kimland
One last day of waking up at 6am on 'vacation'. Only a few more chances to be harried into hurrying by Mr. Baek and Mr. Huk. Only a few more hours until being able to get a real newspaper and watch some CNN.
That's what ran through my mind as I hung from the wake-up call and rested my head back on the lumpy pillow. Only a few more hours and I'd be out of this place. I couldn't imagine the isolation people on extended assignments in Kimland must feel. It had only been four days and to a man we were all dying to get out. I can't remember the last place I wanted to leave as much as North Korea.
We had our last meal down in Dining Room #2 and boarded the bus for the quick ride to the airport. For a change, everyone actually arrived downstairs on time and ready to go. Apparently the Americans weren't the only ones looking forward to getting out.
The 30-minute ride out to the airport was for the most part quiet and uneventful. We talked with the guides about how unusually busy they were with all of the tourists in town for Arirang. One of the guys on the trip attempted to surreptitiously snap some last-chance pictures (see the bottom of this page) of people walking along the, apparently unused, train tracks. Mr. Baek caught on though and suggested, loudly, that it would be nice if everyone just put their cameras away until they got home.
Once at the airport, Mr. Baek and Mr. Huk helped us get our boarding passes, check-in our bags and, most importantly, finally give us back our passports. In the waiting area, just before heading to immigration, we pooled some money together to tip the two guides, mainly out of curiosity with whether or not they'd accept.
Mr. Baek, the experienced hand, knew what was coming, thanked us and that was it. Young Mr. Huk though, was all sorts of confused. Tipping was definitely outside his party-approved frame of reference and he struggled to make a decision. Which, after days stuck listening to his rote parroting of the party line, amused the hell out of us.
On the one hand, taking money for a tip would certainly be a bourgeois capitalist no-no. On the other hand, he'd been taught to try and please his guests by adjusting, to some extent, to their ways and customs. We tried, "just donate the money to the poor if it makes you feel uncomfortable," but that just drew the stern admonishment that North Korea had no poor people. Finally, we convinced him that it would be a cultural affront and our feelings would be hurt if he didn't take it. With a sigh, "Well, if that's your culture, I guess I should accept it," he finally took the tip.
I wonder how long he felt guilty about it. From what I got to know of him during our short but intense time together, my guess is this moral dilemma probably bothered him for quite some time. Just the same, I'd also be willing to bet that a return trip would find him far more open to the practice.
As we talked with Mr. Huk, just before stepping into the immigration departure line, we asked him what he thought of his first time being a guide and dealing with foreigners. With a truly puzzled look on his face he uttered what was probably the most honest thing he said the whole trip, "I don't understand many of your ways." After witnessing the huge emphasis the regime placed on getting dollars, it's my cynical guess that tipping would be one of the first of "our ways" he would come to understand.
Everyone checking to see if there is any sign remaining in their passport of the trip to North Korea - something that could have gotten us into trouble upon re-entering the South. Fortunately, all evidence had been removed by North Korean immigration.
Photo courtesy Brian Stuart
Finally, the line at departure had worn down and it was our turn for immigration. We started working our way through the process, with Mr. Baek and Mr. Huk watching over us to make sure everything went smoothly.
It didn't.
One of the people in our group had a discrepancy with his passport number. A bored clerk somewhere along the line in the visa process had accidentally transposed a couple of numbers from his passport when making out our official visa. A typo tha,t unfortunately, no one had noticed until now. Apparently in North Korea, your papers are checked more thoroughly on the way out than on the way in!
While he was held up, the rest of us, whose numbers hadn't gotten screwed up, were cleared to pass. While Tommy stood forlornly staring at us, we gathered 10 meters (30 feet) away, on the other side of immigration, and offered whatever help ("Don't worry, I'm sure they'll find you a great job in the salt mines!") we thought he needed.
At first.
After 10 minutes or so, with departure time bearing down and everyone else from the group already onboard the plane, we all started to get nervous. The last thing anyone wanted to do was abandon someone in North Korea. Plus, later that day (and light years away) in Seoul, no one wanted to call Tommy's wife and explain how a typo had left him stuck in Pyongyang. We watched as the immigration officials really grilled him and our two guides. His look of irritation gradually turned to concern and outright panic. He was going to get left behind in North Korea while his friends took off, and all because some bureaucrat had flipped a couple of numbers!
Finally, with the sound of the plane's engines warming outside, our two guides convinced the customs officials to let him pass. Apparently, the matching pictures on the two documents convinced them that it really was, in fact, just an innocent mistake.
Once he finally got clearance to proceed, Tommy practically time-traveled across the line and into the departure area. With one last wave to the guides, we ran out the doors and to the bus for the 10-second ride across the tarmac to our waiting plane.
It was finally time to begin putting North Korea behind us.
Photo courtesy Brian Stuart
Iraq - A Base Life in Baghdad
Entry
It's called a ‘tactical landing’. Wary of missiles or other ground fire, planes ferrying troops and cargo into Baghdad International Airport (BIAP) start taking evasive action a few miles from the runway – one minute you’re flying along strapped onto your bench in the packed cargo hold, the next minute you suddenly feel flung off a cliff. Your stomach lurches up as you wonder if you’re going to fly out of your seat, when the plane banks sharply and you try not to knock over the soldier sitting to your side. Next you’re slammed into the bottom of the seat as the pilot jerks the plane higher. All this played out for miles in a windowless, fetid hold stinking of fuel and sweat. Nau
sea and vomiting are common, with the first chunks summoning others as the smell wafts its way through the plane …
Once on the ground the big plane jerks violently to a stop. The back hatch comes down to a blast of heat, adding to the medley of pleasures inside our teeming hold. Clearing the pallets blocking our exit takes forever. Sweating in my seat, I wonder when I’ll next be irritated by how long it takes to deplane a flight back home. Finally, the way is clear, everyone heaves themselves to their feet and walks down the back ramp into Iraq.
After the dark, cramped hold, the bright, open runway leaves everyone feeling exposed and vulnerable. People quickly shuffle over to the gear pallets, grab their bags, and head to the break in the fence that marks the arrival area.
Coming into Baghdad on a military hop one doesn’t hassle with customs and immigration. Instead you just walk across the dusty runway like everyone else until you come to the open-air arrivals area. Military personnel traveling with their units are formed up along the runway. VIPs and their entourages are greeted by fellow VIPs and entourages. Those being met by friends and co-workers scan the crowd looking for same. And everywhere; weapons. Officers and government civilians with sidearms, enlisted with rifles, and plenty of people carrying both. Off to the side stand bearded, Western-looking men speaking with American accents but clad in local clothes – offering a quick glimpse into the covert ops underworld. Security elements in full ‘battle-rattle’ (body armor, helmets, and weapons) talk into headphones while scanning the crowd – think sharks swimming through fish.