ME: What do you mean we can’t see the wall? I don’t understand. I thought you said we were going to see a concrete wall?
FRESH HANDLER: Wall is very far. You can’t see it. You look at wall through hole.
ME: What do you mean we look at wall through hole?
FRESH HANDLER, giggling, covering her mouth with her hand while looking to the sky for the right word: Ahh, wall is very far away. You look through, ahh…
ME: Binoculars?
FRESH HANDLER, delighted: Yes! You look through binoculars to see wall. But can’t see wall.
Okay, got it. We look through binoculars to see a concrete wall that we can’t see. I’m so happy I understand her that I momentarily forget I don’t understand her.
ME: So we’re going to look at a concrete wall that you can only see through binoculars, but you still can’t see it?
FRESH HANDLER, motioning with her hand to indicate something close to “Yes…I told you this was a stupid idea”: Sort of.
She looked a little embarrassed.
Sensing that my current line of questioning was likely to end up with Fresh Handler in tears, I changed tack.
“Is it close to where we are now?” We were still at the DMZ.
FRESH HANDLER: Ohhh, nooo. Very far. More than one-hour drive back to Kaesong, and then one-hour drive back to wall. And road is very bumpy. Road not so good.
This was sounding fucking awesome.
“So we drive from here all the way back to Kaesong, then we drive another hour on a bad, bumpy road to a concrete wall that we can only see by looking through binoculars? But we can’t see it. So what do we see?”
FRESH HANDLER: Just wall.
She smile-giggle-shrugged.
I was in, and we were off. We left the DMZ and drove back to Kaesong.
Somewhere near the center of town, Driver pulled over in front of a small building, and an older gentleman who looked to be in his seventies (hard to tell) and was dressed in a military uniform exited the building, ambled over, and joined us in our car.
There was something about him that made him immediately endearing. Maybe it was the kind look in his eyes or the warmth he emanated. Or maybe it was because he looked so sad-cute in his two-sizes-too-big military uniform that I wanted to squeeze him. It was like he’d shrunk but was stuck wearing the same uniform.
He cordially shook my hand, introduced himself as General So-and-So, and immediately started asking me questions, but not the normal rapid-fire questions almost all North Koreans hit you with in an unfriendly interrogation style immediately upon making your acquaintance: Your first time come Korea? You been to South Korea? You speak Korean? You been to Japan? Where you from?
Instead his questions were sweet, like he really wanted to get to know me: Did I like kimchi? Did I like Korean music? Was I traveling alone? Why was I traveling alone? Did I enjoy traveling alone? Was I ever afraid? Did I read the newspaper?
His gentle line of questioning continued unabated as we serpentined slowly through the countryside toward the Concrete Wall.
What was my job? Did I like my job? Was I good at my job? How many people worked for me? What did I study in school? Where did I live? Did I like where I lived? Was it cold where I lived? What was my favorite thing to do?
In between questions he told me about his daughter and little bits of this and that. Older Handler and Fresh Handler took turns translating, with Fresh Handler filling in the blanks.
Then he started congratulating me, telling Fresh Handler to tell me, “You are very brave woman. Come very dangerous place alone.”
Older Handler rolled her eyes upon hearing of my bravery.
We carried on chatting like schoolgirls throughout the ride, with General speaking directly to me whenever Fresh Handler wasn’t keeping pace with the translating. Between his genial disposition and his comely looks, chatty General was winning me over big time.
After about an hour we turned onto an unmarked, steep, bumpy road and chugged up bends and turns until we finally reached the summit.
We climbed a flight of stairs to a small, plain building set among trees, fields, rolling hills, and random scrub. It was completely quiet except for a breeze. It was as lonely as I imagined General to be, in the fake, sad life I was inventing for him.
He directed us into a room on the left. We took our seats and watched as he starred in a high-school performance of The Concrete Wall. His showmanship was outstanding. He tapped and pointed and gesticulated until he could gesticulate no more as he solemnly explained (in the male version of the urgent, hushed-whisper voice that all local guides employ) everything about said Wall:
In the late 1970s, at the behest of the American Imperialists (he looked at me apologetically while uttering this phrase), the South Koreans built a concrete wall along the entire length of the DMZ. The wall is sixteen-and-a-half to twenty-six feet tall at various points, as thick as sixty-two feet at the bottom, and as wide as twenty-three feet at the top, or the other way around—it wasn’t completely clear since Fresh Handler was translating. And for some reason the Wall is invisible from South Korea. This part wasn’t completely clear either, but not because of Fresh Handler’s translation skills. Rather because the explanation didn’t make any sense.
At the top of Act Two, it occurred to me how strange it is that I’ve never heard about this Wall before. I mean, I’d heard more about the Wall on Game of Thrones, and I’ve missed half the episodes. Wouldn’t the Korean Wall have come up at some point in history—say when the Berlin Wall was coming down?
But since General was now my boyfriend, I felt like I had to support him, even if he was asserting that the Wall was an “American Imperialist belt (again, he apologized with his eyes) cinched around Korea’s waist” (or something like that—Fresh Handler again translating) or that it was a symbol that the American Imperialists (sorry eyes again) “don’t want the reunification of our country.” And he looked so lonely in his big-people clothes. So I zipped it and carried on watching the show.
When he was done we stepped outside onto the patio (a.k.a., the very serious viewing deck), along the perimeter of which were four or five binoculars attached to poles. The binoculars had to be 700 years old. And they were all scratched up. One pair was worse than the next.
General spent a few minutes concentrating, staring intently through a pair, adjusting, and adjusting a bit more until he aimed the binoculars just so. Then he called me over to look through. He pointed in the direction of the binoculars, toward the horizon, and said, in English, “Wall.”
I stared, and I stared, and then I stared some more. Fresh Handler was right. I was looking through a hole, at a wall I couldn’t see.
I didn’t want to hurt General’s feelings, so I blamed myself. “My eyes are really bad,” I said apologetically. Or, I thought to myself, maybe you could spring for some better binoculars so there’s a fighting chance we can see the thing. But I was still giving General the benefit of the doubt then.
He moved on to the next pair of binoculars and labored over setting that pair up, too. I stared again and thought I saw something that could have been a wall (wishful seeing?), but it was too far away and so incredibly small; there was just no way to tell.
When I looked through the third pair of binoculars he’d carefully pointed south, I was taken aback when I looked through the hole and saw a large South Korean military post filled with soldiers staring back at me.
I was riveted. Holy cow! I could literally see the soldiers, down to what they were wearing and doing. Of course this meant they could see me. Only they could actually see me, because I’m guessing they had way better binoculars on the South side.
Could they tell I was American? Did they know I was the same traitor from back at the DMZ? Should I wave? Hold up a sign that says, “Hey, down there, in case you’re wondering…it sucks up here”?
For every one aged general we had on our side, they had…umm…at least forty-five soldiers, with guns, doing soldier stuff, in
a modern, glass, X-shape building that looked white on the outside and blue on the inside (probably just the binoculars breaking light), with all kinds of towers and things poking out of it, and computer screens, and chairs. And they had a highway on their side, with cars!
As if we’d grown so close he could read my mind, Boyfriend General said to Fresh Handler, who said to me, “He praises you for your courage and said he will shield you from any stray bullets from the South.”
With that, Older Handler turned heel and walked back into the building, while I died of laughter on the inside.
“Thank you. Please tell him thank you. I feel much safer now. That’s very nice.” (Does he know there’s no wall? Wait, there is no wall, right? What if there is no wall, and he knows there is no wall—can I still love him? What if he thinks there’s a wall, and there is no wall? Then there’s something wrong with him. Then I’ll feel so sad for him, I’ll do anything to help. But maybe that’s why he’s so endearing in the first place—he must ingratiate himself with tourists. How the fuck else is he going to sell us this wall?)
Luckily he broke into song, cutting short my petitio principii.
When he finished singing (just a few bars, but you could definitely tell why he’d won the lead role in this one-man play), Fresh Handler told me I could take photos with him on the grass, so I did. I was thinking how ironic it was that one of the friendliest people I’d met during my trip was a general.
We drove back to Kaesong in the same configuration, and General resumed his questioning from before. How many countries had I been to? Which ones were my favorites? Which ones did I want to go back to? Would I come back to visit Korea some time?
When we returned to the spot where we had met General earlier, Driver pulled the car over for him to get out. But this time all five of us got out of the car.
I attach to people quickly, but compartmentally and situationally. It’s a little hard to explain, but it’s why I can be standing in front of General and in the moment be profoundly sad (like in tears) saying good-bye, while at the exact same time not give a shit if I ever see him again.
So I stood in front of him, and we shook hands, and I told him how glad I was to have met him. I wanted so badly to exchange names and email addresses, the way I’ve done hundreds of times, with hundreds of people, in tons of countries.
But this was North Korea.
He told Fresh Handler to tell me I was a brave woman one last time, then gave me a big grin good-bye.
The remaining cast members and I got back into the car and headed toward Pyongyang. As one does, after a lovely day, I remembered aloud some of the finer points of my afternoon and mentioned General’s serenade as a top one.
Older Handler threw her fingers back dismissively while making a pish sound. Then, her face as expressionless as a cat’s, she said, “Oh, he sings to all the girls. They call him Karaoke General.”
I don’t know if she was being spiteful for all of our normal girlfriend drama, or because she’d sensed I liked General more than her, but I wasn’t going to let her see me bothered by this.
“Hmm,” I grin-grunted in silent acknowledgment. “That’s so nice of him.”
I was dying inside again—but this time from sadness. My worst fears had been confirmed: even cute, disheveled, affable, sweet Boyfriend General is not to be trusted. He sings for all the girls.
I may or may not have visited a wall that may or may not exist. Fresh Handler may or may not have known it exists, and may or may not have been trying to let me know this. General may be senile, or may be sly as a fox, or may be under the threat of death if he doesn’t meet some arbitrary quota of “I Saw the Wall” team converts. Had he been genuinely nice, or was he just vying for my vote?
I’d hit the wall…again.
Despite my best efforts to hide my dismay, Older Handler must have noticed my consternation, because she looked at me and said, “You’re not tired are you? We go to Funfair next!”
I’ve a right to think, said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried.
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Chapter 16
My Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Waste
Figuring out whether intelligence tradecraft was being employed against tourists like me or not—and if so, to what extent—was like most everything else in NoKo: endless fodder for mental masturbation.
You are warned unequivocally not to bring anything into North Korea that can be misconstrued as anti-NoKo or anti-Great Leader. But beyond the obvious (e.g., a book about why North Korea sucks), discerning what constitutes anti is not easy. In the wake of American (Imperialist) tourist Jeffrey Fowle being arrested and detained (and thankfully since released) for having left a Bible in a “nightclub” bathroom only two months before my arrival, I tended to err on the side of caution, as clearly leave-behinds can be misconstrued.
Thus, for example, when I grew tired of carrying around a slim Korean phrase book, I thought twice about throwing it in a trash bin, lest a maid find it and turn it over to the real or imagined tourist Gestapo, and next thing you know I’m waiting for Bill Clinton to negotiate my release. So instead I ripped the book into a million pieces (thankfully, it was a soft cover) and flushed it down the toilet in the bathroom in my hotel room.
I’m satisfied with a job well done. I also feel like a complete jackass for being so paranoid.
I’m highly mindful and operate in a constant state of heightened awareness. I naturally pay close attention to everything going on around me and am overly sensitive to others’ emotional states and nonverbal clues. I know where my thoughts and emotions are taking me, and if I need to or want to, how to consciously adjust my behavior, personality, speech—really anything or everything, as a result. So, while not ideal, being watched wasn’t entirely upsetting to me. But my unrelenting dissatisfaction over never knowing what was really going on was.
I’d purchased a tote bag in the “gift shop” at the Grand People’s Study House on a lark. It was the same nylon-blend material and sky-blue color as those original Pan Am cabin bags the Jet Set carried on board in the 1960s, only this one said, “See you back in Pyongyang.” It struck me as funny at the time I bought it, and I imagined myself chuckling when using it after returning home. But days later, while sitting in my hotel room near Mount Myohyang during another particularly trying “I can’t stand NoKo” kind of day, the thought of having to cart around the now offensive memento one minute longer (let alone schlepp it back and use it in New York City) had become mighty hard to stomach.
I knew I was being irrational, so I tried reasoning with myself: “While I highly doubt there’s any law or case to be made against you for leaving a newly purchased pro-Pyongyang carryon bag behind—in fact, they may even appreciate it—why take chances? You are leaving NoKo in two-and-a-half days (!!!), and it’s not like you haven’t been carrying the stupid bag around for the past few days, anyway. The tote bag weighs nothing, and you don’t even notice it in the outside pocket of your suitcase. So just be smart, and suck it up, and put the tote bag back in your suitcase. You can throw the thing away as soon as you land in Beijing. Ça va?”
Non. Instead, I “hid” the bag in plain sight on the far side of the unused twin bed in my room. I reasoned that by putting it there, no one would see it if they quickly eyeballed the room after I’d vacated, but when found, it would look like it had accidentally fallen on the floor when I was reorganizing my suitcase or something, versus my shoving it under the bed or someplace similar where it would look like I’d been trying to purposely hide it.
I don’t know if my small act of rebellion against my inner voice of reason was a triumph over paranoia run amok, or proof that being self aware does not always mean you choose to forgo kowtowing to exceedingly illogical thoughts or emotions (like not being able to stand the sight of something one second longer, even when you know you won’t be able to even see the dumb thing once it’s packed in your suitcase, but you�
�ll still know it’s there…). It was probably a little of both. But there was no way “See you back in Pyongyang” was leaving Mount Myohyang.
The next morning in the parking lot, Driver, Fresh Handler, and I loaded up our car to leave, but Older Handler was nowhere to be seen. When she finally emerged from the hotel, she made a beeline for me, “Do you have everything?” A normal question, sure, but one she’d never asked me before.
“Yup. Sure do,” I answered confidently, having nearly convinced myself it was the truth.
She me pushed again, “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” I was steadfast. I would not be brought down by a Pan Am knockoff.
“You looked everywhere? Nothing in room?” She entreated (I hoped) one last time.
I was more resolute now than ever. I had a story to stick to. “Yes, I am sure I have everything.” My fate was now sealed, although in which direction, I was not sure.
As we stood staring at each other for a beat, a woman who worked at the hotel came running outside, calling loudly for Older Handler, who turned and walked back to where the employee was standing. DISCUSSIONS ensued.
Shit, I thought to myself. This probably isn’t good.
At that moment, the same part of my brain that thought it was a good idea to spend fifteen minutes tearing a phrase book to shreds before flushing it down a toilet was wondering why it hadn’t thought to do the same with the fucking tote bag. Please, I thought to myself, let’s all just get in the car and go.
I smile at Fresh Handler and make the universal “what the what” face, while asking her out loud what’s going on. Because we’ve become pals by now (at least when Older Handler isn’t paying attention) and she’s feeling invested in my well-being (as I am in hers), she’s also become my de facto bellwether of sorts, her facial expressions and reactions letting me know what’s to come. But her double shoulder shrug says simply, “I don’t know,” so we join Driver in the car and wait.
Whether leaving my Pyongyang-purchased bag behind was a no-no or not, I’ll never know. Once DISCUSSIONS were concluded, Older Handler returned to the car, taking her seat next to me. Handing me two U.S. one-dollar bills, she says merely, “Your change.” Seems there was a miscalculation over the number of water bottles I’d purchased the night before, and the hotel’s restaurant staff had charged me more than the amount that was due—or something like that.
My Holiday in North Korea Page 9