Breaking the ice in North Korea
KUMGANG MOUNTAIN, North Korea – While the two Koreas may be talking to each other at an unprecedented level since the war ended half a century ago, the thaw in the tense relationship hasn't generated warmer feelings among North Koreans toward the West.
North Korean workers at this mountain resort were reluctant to engage in conversation with American journalists during a 24-hour visit, although we made many overtures. After all, better relations have to start somewhere. With a recent summit yielding some tangible progress between North and South Korea and with the six-party talks producing hope regarding the North's nuclear program, what better time to see a changed attitude on the part of the average North Korean?
This, of course, is an impossible thing to measure, given that North Koreans live in a society bombarded with vile anti-American propaganda and are reticent to talk to the rare foreigner they encounter. Further inspiring such reluctance is the knowledge that everyone is being watched, and contact with foreigners is seriously frowned upon. Mere criticism of the government can earn the perpetrator the loss of a job or, in severe cases, a years-long stint in prison. To talk to journalists raises the stakes, as the words may be widely disseminated. The safe thing to do is say nothing.
Despite this fear and animosity, our group tried and may have made the tiniest of inroads. We were in the Koreas this month on a fact-finding mission through a fellowship from the International Reporting Project at Johns Hopkins University in Washington, D.C. We met with government officials, business leaders, university students, people in the media and the arts, and defectors in Seoul who had escaped from North Korea.
Tucked into a southeastern corner of North Korea, Kumgang Mountain resort lies a few miles from the border, just beyond the DMZ (demilitarized zone). Its Orwellian atmosphere is worthy of the "village" in the 1960s British TV classic "The Prisoner."
This is not a recommended travel destination, despite its undeniable beauty. To hike in the spectacular, jagged mountains or to visit the region's lakes and waterfalls, you have to take a prearranged tour bus at a prearranged time set by the sole tour operator, Hyundai Asan, a division of the Hyundai Group automaker, which built and runs the resort.
The hiking areas are reserved only for tour groups at pre-set times. The result is two dozen tour buses disgorging hundreds and hundreds of tourists all at once to hike up and down the narrow mountain trails. You feel like stampeding sheep turned loose in a nature theme park – hardly conducive to an enjoyable wilderness experience. The rest of the time, the trails are empty.
Reaching the resort involves a three-step process. The first stop is the Hwajinpo rest stop, a Hyundai Asan facility near the DMZ, where you leave your capitalist belongings behind: no cell phones allowed into North Korea, no newspapers or magazines not printed in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, the North's official name. And heaven forbid, no laptops or other recording devices, although small digital cameras are OK, surprisingly.
After going through the South Korean Customs Immigration Quarantine departure process, we proceeded to the North Korean customs and immigration checkpoint a few miles away. After about two hours, we were on our way, but not before I set off the metal detector and was stared down and electronically wanded by a most unfriendly North Korean military guard.
Led by a North Korean military vehicle through the DMZ, a convoy of tour buses emerged at the resort village, and that's when I began to feel like Patrick McGoohan in "The Prisoner." We had to stay within the confines of a green fence; the other side constitutes hostile North Korean territory. Military sentries stand guard menacingly along portions of the fence and man checkpoints on all the roads. Our movements were restricted to the main village with two hotels, stores, cafes and a theater, all within about 2 square miles. We were told to carry our passports and North Korean entry papers around our necks at all times.
Across the fence from this impeccable resort sits the small town of On Jung Li, with low-slung, dreary concrete buildings. You could see the North Korean populace, about 200 yards away, tending the fields and riding bicycles. They were tantalizingly close yet a world away and impossible to talk to.
I nearly walked into On Jung Li by accident but was stopped by a military guard, who repeatedly blew his whistle and angrily waved a red flag. I asked him if it was OK to go into the town, but he answered with more angry flag-waving and directed me back to the resort.
The fascination of our visit to Kumgang Mountain lies in the chance to talk to ordinary North Koreans, the ones who work in the shops, the restaurants, the hotels, the bars. Most are attractive young women, no doubt selected for their appearance and because of family connections. Most seem to come from the capital city of Pyongyang, nearly 200 miles away, not from cities and towns near to Kumgang Mountain.
We learn this in the slight progress we made in engaging them in conversation. For a couple of us, our opportunity came as the manager of a small bar and café and two young waitresses were barbecuing outside late at night. We approached and asked about the food they were cooking – shish kebab that included complete, little bite-sized sparrows. We asked the waitresses where they were from, how long they've worked at the resort. Chanmo Ahn, our South Korean tour guide/interpreter/fixer, translated for us. We kept to small talk and the Northerners let down their guard a little bit. They seemed as intrigued by us as we were by them.
We were the ones asking the questions, but they at least were willing to talk. One woman could tell that I was cold, shivering in the dark, and waved me over to stand close to the hot coals – finally, a clear gesture of friendliness from North Korea.
We had been told not to talk to the workers, not to take their picture, not to rock the boat in any way ... we were being watched at all times. But after a few drinks late into the evening, the rules seemed to melt away – not that we'd been dutifully following them, anyway.
For others in our group, communication came in the form of a karaoke session in a lounge on the top floor of our hotel. One of the waitresses was persuaded to sing, and what came out were a pair of North Korean nationalistic anthems – beautifully sung – about the late Great Leader Kim Il-sung and an anti-American song about "standing up against the peaks" and defeating "the imperialist enemy."
Only an hour earlier, a waitress in the restaurant viewed our family photos and volunteered that she had a child herself. But, as was often the case, a boss decided there was work to do, and she was whisked away before much small talk could take place.
At the end of our barbecue diplomacy, my colleague Rob Davila offered a T-shirt from the Seattle Times, where he is the world news editor, to the North Korean café manager. It was quickly refused. We realized the manager would have to explain how he came upon a T-shirt from an American newspaper and how that would reveal that he had talked to an American journalist. He could not risk it. But he seemed to appreciate the gesture.
The next morning, I was stunned by what appeared to be a grand opportunity for more conversation, but this ultimately ended up an exercise in frustration. A young lady in a beautiful national costume, who worked in the restaurant where I was alone eating breakfast, suddenly emerged to ask where I was from. I couldn't believe it. All the previous day I had tried to find North Korean workers who would talk, and now one was actually approaching me! It was an enchanting moment.
I answered, "California," to which she replied with a blank stare. I said, "The United States, America." Finally, she understood.
Even though she said, "I speak English," we struggled to communicate for a couple of minutes. Then, she held out her hand for me to shake, and she held on, persisting in her obvious desire to chat. She asked if I had a reservation, which I took to mean for lunch. I said no. "Come to lunch," she said. I tried to explain we were leaving, but she did not understand.
As journalists, we felt it was our job to seize the opportunity to talk to North Koreans. Perhaps these workers will go home and tell others that the Americans weren't so awful, after all.
So in the end, our engagement with some North Koreans didn't seem to amount to a lot. But perhaps our effort ignited a few small sparks.