The music stopped and the group broke apart into applause and we bowed, thanked our partners and darted back to the side, exhilarated. As the others joined the next dance, I wandered over to Nick, who was enthralled by the scene. Leaning in, he said: ‘Do you know, there’s nothing here – apart from violent oppression – that isn’t reminiscent of European society a hundred years ago, where everyone respected the heads of state, and for an event they would all come out onto the town square for a dance. If it’s all been propaganda, then it’s been a triumph. I’ve bought it.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Oh, absolutely. I’d recommend most people come and see it for themselves and make up their own minds. I’ve seen worse in Glasgow and the north of England than here. Even their poor neighbourhoods are clean and painted and they have very neat-looking houses. The people don’t have an obesity crisis, they look healthy, it’s not all soviet grey. There’s a lot that’s really good about it and I think that people ought to get out here and see it.’
For the first time since we had arrived, we were allowed to walk back to our hotel unchaperoned and it felt like we had just been given permission to strip naked and do somersaults. The buzz of crowds coming down from a high reminded me of walking home from Hyde Park after a summer festival and yet there were no empty cans of Strongbow in the street, no pissed-up idiots collapsed under trees, no remnants of goat curry and wooden forks in the gutter. Everyone ambled along, elderly women swept up leaves in the road by torchlight and, although it was dark, tiny children walked home alone, so safe was it for them to do so unaccompanied. There was much to Nick’s observations that appeared true.
The following morning, I was sitting on the coach and waiting for the others to emerge from the hotel. A couple of men were milling around, smoking and chatting to our driver, when a man on a bicycle sailed past them, slowing briefly to reach into his jacket and pull out a digital camera. In a flash, he passed it to one of the men, who pocketed it without saying a word and carried on smoking like nothing had happened. It all took place with such speed that I wondered if I had imagined it. Either I had just watched something underhand take place, or my paranoia had got the better of me. I resolved to bring it up with Geoff when I saw him.
As we boarded the train for the last time I was overcome with sadness that the trip was coming to an end. The journey from Wonsan to Pyongyang would take just over eight hours and we had only one more day in Pyongyang before taking the train back to Beijing. Yet I was relieved. It had been a long nine days and the strain of being polite and vigilant was taking its toll. Even Bob was subdued and had on his lap a brown envelope of family photographs to keep him going. He had spent the last couple of days trying to ring his wife, with no success. He passed the photographs to me and Jem, and pointed out his grandchildren and Brenda, a smiling lady with blonde curly hair.
‘Oh, I loves ’em,’ said Bob. ‘She’s such a good woman. It was our fifty-fifth wedding anniversary a few days ago, but we’re going to celebrate together when I’m home.’
I was touched by how much Bob yearned for his family and hoped that I would be the same in fifty-five years, struggling to be without them for ten days.
In the autumnal light, Kangwon province throbbed with life and colour. Curving through the bottom of a canyon, the train raced against a river throwing itself around the bends and banks of green. The canyon appeared aflame with maple trees, draping a shawl of gold and red over the valleys, and once again the sky burned that beautiful blue. Lee was sitting in his compartment going through notes about the next day’s activities, so I stepped in to ask what we would see at the mausoleum. In addition to the embalmed bodies of the Kims, the mausoleum housed the private train carriages in which each leader had travelled and – in the case of Kim Jong Il – died. The official story was that he had been out in the countryside inspecting a dam and had succumbed to a heart attack having worked himself to death. His body was found in his train carriage. However, the story was quickly challenged by Won Sei-hoon, the then director of the National Intelligence Service in Seoul, who declared that Kim’s train had remained stationary in Pyongyang at the time of his death and cited US satellite surveillance photos as proof. Like most stories, it was impossible to corroborate. Lee described how important the railways were to North Korean pride and identity before disappearing for another smoke. Geoff, who had been listening in the corridor, sat down with his bottle of soju, which was almost finished, and checked that everyone else was out of earshot before drawing the door closed.
‘What Lee said isn’t untrue, but the railways are basically the product of Japanese militarism during World War II. They weren’t necessarily a communist or Stalinist creation. When Korea was a unified colony under Japanese rule, Japan built many of the current lines as part of its expansion across Asia.’
‘They loved their railways,’ I said, thinking of Sir Harold Atcherley.
‘The Japanese loved infrastructure and railways. They even had their Korean military headquarters at the same place as the main US military base in South Korea now, in large part because of the major railway nearby. They could quickly sling their soldiers across the whole of Korea – as in what is now the North and the South. Long before the Korean division, a lot of battles between Russia, China and Japan were fought over the railway arteries.’
‘I have a question: why do they not wear Kim Jong Un on their badges? And why does Miss Kim refer to Kim Il Sung in the present tense? Given that the current leader is so dictatorial I’m a bit surprised that he doesn’t enforce the wearing of his own badge.’
‘Kim Il Sung rules from the grave. North Korea is a necrocracy, if you will.’
I had never heard the word before.
‘And as for Kim Jong Un, let’s just say he hasn’t yet earned his colours.’
The more I learnt about the Kim dynasty and its relationship with the people, the more it made sense. North Koreans were sold a story from birth and grew up believing it to be true because they received little information to the contrary. It was no more ridiculous than any other world religion, in fact their belief system invited minimum mockery as they at least acknowledged the supremacy of a living, breathing human being, rather than an invisible entity. The Kims had taken pains to be viewed as an enigma by rarely speaking in public, having no known official residence and appearing around the country unannounced. Kim Jong Un first spoke in public on 15 April 2012 at his grandfather’s hundredth birthday, ending a twenty-year period of silence from the family. North Koreans hadn’t heard any leader speak since Kim Jong Il had shouted ‘Glory to the heroic Korean People’s Army’ in Kim Il Sung Square in 1992. Kim Jong Un was in his late twenties before anyone in the country had even heard of him, and it was only after the American basketball player Dennis Rodman had gone to Pyongyang to film a documentary that it was revealed to the world that the leader had a baby daughter of whom his own people were still unaware.
Things were changing, though. Defectors to South Korea had begun to describe how fewer and fewer people bought into the state media propaganda machine and North Koreans were growing more aware and more trusting of foreign media that had started to find its way into the country on USB sticks and DVDs. I realised then that I hadn’t imagined seeing a camera being passed from the cyclist to the man standing next to our bus. Memory cards and USB sticks were easy to hide in a search. Cities on the borders of China and South Korea were often able to pick up foreign radio and TV signals, allowing North Koreans to tune into a new reality. South Korean soap operas and movies showed a different world, and it gave them a taste for more. That was not to say that everyone wanted to defect across the border; they just wanted to enjoy a few luxuries and some light entertainment, and those caught indulging were now far more likely to be fined than imprisoned. The chance of an uprising was still remote, as the money and power lay with the upper echelons of society, who were quite happy to maintain the status quo so long as it worked in their favour.
Jem
had joined us by the window to fill up on the last we were going to see of the countryside, and Victor came in with a tin of pistachio nuts and sat down opposite us, staring at the hillsides and arranging the shells on his knee.
‘Do you think you’re going to come back again?’ I asked him.
‘Not for another few years, but surely. And yourselves?’
I glanced at Jem. ‘I’d love to come back in about ten years and see what the changes are, but I don’t think I’d rush back. Having said that, I’ve not been entirely appalled by what I’ve seen.’
Victor sat up and waved his palm at me.
‘This is all an illusion. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid. The most hostile classes in Chongjin will never get to leave and come to Pyongyang. The gap between them and Pyongyang is gigantic. Did you know there is a thriving black market here that enables the local people to survive?’ he said. ‘They have their state job, but almost everyone has another job or jobs on the side.’
‘I thought private trade was illegal?’
‘Of course it is. On the surface.’ Victor glanced up at the heater in the wall that often carried sound from the guides’ compartment and vice versa, then leant forward. ‘But after the famine, people realised they really had to look after themselves because the state wouldn’t. And couldn’t. Not quite the juche that Kim Il Sung had imposed, but a real self-reliance. All those cigarettes and beauty products we bring as gifts for the guides? And the tips in euros? They can sell all of that and live wonderfully for a couple of months.’ He pointed a pistachio at me. ‘Don’t be naive. Everyone is involved, from the top to the bottom. Like you and me, people just want to live well. Most of them know now that South Korea is not the impoverished state that they’ve been led to believe – although that was once true in the sixties – and they want a piece of the pie. You know that right now the official exchange rate is around 130 won to the US dollar, but on the black market it’s around 8,200 won.’
That evening, as we drew into Pyongyang, I cupped my hands to the window, unable to discern anything through the glass. Switching off the light in the compartment, I peered into the blackness, where there was little more than a spattering of light on the ground floors of the odd building. Contrary to the Western ideal of penthouses being the preserve of the wealthy, the elite lived on the ground floor in North Korea. With electricity being in short supply, having no lift to reach the top floor soon became a problem. In the absence of car headlights, streetlights and advertising hoardings, the city was all but invisible. The glare that usually heralded the arrival into a major hub was nowhere to be found. But as we gathered our things and disembarked, I sensed that the station was heaving with bodies. Two other trains had arrived and people were pouring out of the carriages, which were dimly lit and poorly maintained. In the dark, I was just able to make out their loads of cardboard boxes, paper bags, and children tied to their backs, as the guides steered us through the crowds thronging towards the exit. Grappling for Jem’s hand, I felt my way out and we were soon on the coach back to the loving arms of the Yanggakdo.
‘Men, please all wear your ties and make sure that your shirts are tucked in,’ said Lee, who was wearing a smart black suit and polished shoes. We were on the way to the mausoleum, and having forgotten to bring a tie, Jem was examining the spares that Victor had thoughtfully brought with him. Anna was wearing a prim dress and heels, but, refusing to pack either into my Osprey backpack, I had zipped up my fleece and tied my laces into a pair of fetching bows, which was as far as I was willing to go for the Kims.
It was as though everyone had gathered in their Sunday best at the mausoleum, smoothing down skirts and checking side partings. Lined up in rows of four, we were instructed not to talk and to bow at the feet of each leader before walking to the left and bowing again and then bowing at the opposite side before leaving the room. Bowing at the head was forbidden. After what felt like miles of moving walkways, gold hallways and trophy rooms, we passed through a tunnel that blasted air onto us, apparently to banish dirt from our clothes before we entered the first hall. Lit by a blood-red glow and hung with velvet drapes, the windowless ballroom looked like the set of a Kubrick film. And there, spotlit in the centre, was a glass case containing the Great Leader. Roped off on all sides and watched by armed guards wearing white gloves, lay the body of Kim Il Sung dressed in a black suit and tucked in under a red blanket. He looked like a waxwork. A number of North Korean visitors were crying in the row behind us and I couldn’t work out whether it was genuine or for show. Bowing at the feet made my stomach turn and I noticed Bob barely nodding. On the way out he was shaking his head and mumbling.
‘It’s all about them, it’s not about the people. I’m a guest in this country, but I don’t kowtow. It’s way over the top and ostentatious.’
Kim Jong Il was lying on a different floor – which gave me an awful sense of déjà vu as it was designed to mirror the first room – yet the figure in the middle was dressed in his signature khaki outfit and looked puffy and grey, a far cry from the familiar images of the robust man with the shock of black hair. Next door housed Kim Jong Il’s private train carriage, which comprised an office suite with two cream leather sofas, next to which sat a pair of his little black shoes with heels, like Cuban dance shoes. On his desk was an open, very American, MacBook, and beneath his desk was a foot massager. I was soon stopped by a guard and made to unfold my arms and put them by my sides, at which point I decided I had had enough and made for the exit.
Our special day was far from over. Today was the seventieth anniversary of the Workers’ Party and a good number of the world’s press had descended on the Yanggakdo to cover the celebrations, which were taking place in the stadium in the city centre. Foreigners were not allowed anywhere that Kim Jong Un might be present, so a large portion of the afternoon was spent wandering through the crowds, watching jets and bombers scream across the skies to the stadium. The equivalent of the Red Arrows, they left trails of blue and red in their wake, the number ‘70’ written in the sky in clouds of smoke. The Youth League were dressed in white shirts with red baseball caps, and were carrying pairs of what looked like drumsticks for the ceremony. Women wearing chima jogori carried cheerleading pom-poms like giant balls of candyfloss and gathered on the pavements, waiting for the parade to leave the stadium. Huddled together to fight off the winds, we waited until dusk when the first growl of tanks appeared on the horizon. With soldiers perched on top, they rumbled past, headlights blazing, lighting the crowds who cheered at the roadside. Red flags waved from the sides and the flame of the Juche Tower glowed over the scene. As night drew in, the clouds darkened to purplish bruises that striped the skies, creating a setting fit for Apocalypse Now.
Next, jeeps packed with soldiers waving and cheering bounced past followed by trucks carrying missiles and rockets the size of houses. When it came to artillery, the North Koreans didn’t fool around. A rocket rolled past on the back of a juggernaut, and Jem and I looked at each other in disbelief. There was nothing comparable. We knew that history was unfolding around us, and that one day we would tell our grandchildren how it felt to stand at the edge of a North Korean military parade. As the smoke began to build, and the rain pelted down, my socks became soaked through and I lost all feeling in my hands and feet. Winding through the crowds, we sought out the coach, passing hundreds of children crouched in the middle of the road waiting to join the parade. Their white shirts were now stuck to their bodies and rain ran off their hair, rolling in lines down their faces. Shivering, they stayed in perfect formation. Horrified by what the children were being forced to endure, I looked away. They had been in the streets for more than ten hours and who knew how much longer they were going to have to stay there. It was a relief to know that we would soon be back at the Yanggakdo for a hot dinner, shower and bed.
At around two o’clock in the morning Jem and I were asleep when the building was rocked by an explosion that shook us both awake. Over the previous few days, rumours had been fl
ying around that Kim Jong Un was planning to test a ballistic missile on the night of the celebrations, while the world was watching, and we were convinced it had happened. Leaping to the window we pulled back the curtains and found smoke drifting above the river and the sky emblazoned with fireworks. Fountains of red, green and gold burst over the city, then scattered like showers of electric rain.
9
Night Train to Beijing
Through no fault of our own, we had entered North Korea without return visas to China – the only two in the group to do so. Having used our single-entry visas to come into China from Mongolia in July, we’d used a transit visa to fly back in from Vancouver, and had had no other option but to apply for a re-entry visa from Pyongyang the day we arrived, and hope that it was granted by the time we took the train back to Beijing. Now, as we stood on the platform watching the others board the train, the extent of our recklessness sank in. On Lee’s advice, we had filled in the forms with terrible handwriting so the officials would tire of deciphering our scrawls and wave through the applications. It had seemed cunning at the time, but now I worried it might have had the opposite effect. Surely the North Koreans wouldn’t want us hanging around in their country and would be keen to boot us back over the border, but it was up to the Chinese embassy to grant the visas and I hoped the numerous stamps in our passports wouldn’t raise suspicion. Everyone had had to surrender their passports for the ten days, which hadn’t bothered me, considering the furthest we could reach without a chaperone was the Yanggakdo’s car park, but now I was nervous that we would be left to mooch around for a few more days, and I was more than ready to leave the DPRK.
Around the World in 80 Trains Page 22