Dancing to celebrate the anniversary of the end of the Korean War takes place at the foot of Juche Tower in Pyongyang
The city limits of Pyongyang are clearly defined against the surrounding countryside. For a moment, viewed as my flight from Beijing began its descent, the meticulously planned North Korean capital resembled an architect’s model: dreamed up and constructed elsewhere, and then dropped into place from on high.
With a population of just under 3m, Pyongyang is small by modern Asia’s sprawling standards; the totalitarian government has ensured that any enlargement of the city has been carried out along strictly orchestrated lines. The suburbs do not spread organically or randomly, and an abrupt grey-to-green transition marks where concrete makes way for farmland.
It was my second trip to North Korea or, as it is officially named, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. As my plane came in to land, I noticed the farmland appeared much more verdant than it did two years ago. That journey took place in April rather than July, and this sky was a vibrant blue rather than the chalky white that I remembered. Yet already something felt different about Pyongyang this time round.
Visitors from the west are only permitted to visit the country on state-sanctioned package arrangements. I travelled on both occasions with a British travel company specialising in trips to North Korea, which has operated out of Beijing since 1993. Two guides from North Korea’s de facto tourism bureau would lead us like cattle over the next five days of the tour.
Our guides greeted us at Pyongyang airport with encouraging smiles. From there we were taken to the Yanggakdo Hotel, one of just a handful of properties who accept foreign guests. The hotel sits, Alcatraz-like, on an otherwise uninhabited island in the wide Taedong River that cuts the city in two. Televisions in rooms now offer BBC News around the clock.
In 2007, my group’s guide was the friendly but stern twenty-something, Ms Kim. Her insistence was that photographs not be taken from the bus, or of soldiers, construction sites, railway stations, apartment blocks, buses and trams, people on the streets—or pretty much anywhere else. Ms Kim would brighten up our bus journeys by singing a cheery song, “Pan Gap Seumnida”— literally “Pleased to Meet You”—via an onboard karaoke system. She never missed a chance, however, to condemn the “murderous Japanese” for their rule over the Korean peninsula during the first half of the 20th century. She raged against the US for invading the north in 1950 and kicking off the Korean war (that, anyway, being the North Korean perception of events). Her voice would tremble when she recalled the 1990s, when an estimated 2m North Koreans lost their lives in a famine.
In 2009, by contrast, our guide Ms Han, who had studied in Poland several years ago, only requested that we didn’t photograph soldiers or railway stations. She also asked that cameras were not shoved in the faces of locals going about their day-to-day business, “just as you would not do that in your own countries.” Otherwise, she suggested, it was pretty much open season for photos.
Pyongyang apartment blocks, as it turns out, have become quite photogenic since 2007. Many have been painted in attractive pastel colours. The majority of their balconies have been spruced up with window-boxes as part of a politically-driven campaign to brighten the city—although Mrs Han later told us that many of the flowers are plastic.
While Ms Han took every opportunity to praise her country’s leaders, she avoided any sabre-rattling and neglected to attack her nation’s enemies, past or present. Even more surprisingly, she touted a mobile phone, a gift from her boyfriend. There are now three Chinese brand models on sale in Pyongyang shops, the cheapest priced at €140 (Euros or Chinese yuan are preferred for foreign transactions).
The city’s restaurant scene has also progressed since my first visit. Our group spent an evening at North Korea’s only Italian restaurant, which opened in December 2008 after its chefs returned from training in Italy on the dictate of the government. The eatery was virtually empty, except for an open door to a private room which revealed our only other fellow diners to be military officers. A lunchtime visit to Pyongyang’s newly opened fried-chicken restaurant, however, found it packed out, even if the locals were choosing the Korean dishes on the menu over the fried chicken.
Along with the material changes, ordinary North Koreans seemed more approachable on this visit too. One evening our group was taken to Pyongyang’s Golden Lane bowling alley, a venue buzzing with locals. Our party was ignored at first, but Alexander, a 25-year-old Australian on our tour, was approached by a small group of Korean men who wanted to practise their English. “The main guy was called Kim Jong II,” Reid told me later. “He said he was the amateur boxing champ of North Korea. He was hell keen to talk about Australia and especially if we really ate kangaroos. He was constantly reassuring me that we were now friends.”
Of course, Pyongyang is a showcase city. It is said that its entire population has been vetted for allegiance to the ruling dictatorship. Even so, my trip suggested that subtle changes might be afoot in the capital. As for the rest of the country (the vast majority of which is out of bounds to foreigners), and for the lives of the 21m North Koreans outside Pyongyang, we can only speculate and hope.
The city limits of Pyongyang are clearly defined against the surrounding countryside. For a moment, viewed as my flight from Beijing began its descent, the meticulously planned North Korean capital resembled an architect’s model: dreamed up and constructed elsewhere, and then dropped into place from on high.
With a population of just under 3m, Pyongyang is small by modern Asia’s sprawling standards; the totalitarian government has ensured that any enlargement of the city has been carried out along strictly orchestrated lines. The suburbs do not spread organically or randomly, and an abrupt grey-to-green transition marks where concrete makes way for farmland.
It was my second trip to North Korea or, as it is officially named, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. As my plane came in to land, I noticed the farmland appeared much more verdant than it did two years ago. That journey took place in April rather than July, and this sky was a vibrant blue rather than the chalky white that I remembered. Yet already something felt different about Pyongyang this time round.
Visitors from the west are only permitted to visit the country on state-sanctioned package arrangements. I travelled on both occasions with a British travel company specialising in trips to North Korea, which has operated out of Beijing since 1993. Two guides from North Korea’s de facto tourism bureau would lead us like cattle over the next five days of the tour.
Our guides greeted us at Pyongyang airport with encouraging smiles. From there we were taken to the Yanggakdo Hotel, one of just a handful of properties who accept foreign guests. The hotel sits, Alcatraz-like, on an otherwise uninhabited island in the wide Taedong River that cuts the city in two. Televisions in rooms now offer BBC News around the clock.
In 2007, my group’s guide was the friendly but stern twenty-something, Ms Kim. Her insistence was that photographs not be taken from the bus, or of soldiers, construction sites, railway stations, apartment blocks, buses and trams, people on the streets—or pretty much anywhere else. Ms Kim would brighten up our bus journeys by singing a cheery song, “Pan Gap Seumnida”— literally “Pleased to Meet You”—via an onboard karaoke system. She never missed a chance, however, to condemn the “murderous Japanese” for their rule over the Korean peninsula during the first half of the 20th century. She raged against the US for invading the north in 1950 and kicking off the Korean war (that, anyway, being the North Korean perception of events). Her voice would tremble when she recalled the 1990s, when an estimated 2m North Koreans lost their lives in a famine.
In 2009, by contrast, our guide Ms Han, who had studied in Poland several years ago, only requested that we didn’t photograph soldiers or railway stations. She also asked that cameras were not shoved in the faces of locals going about their day-to-day business, “just as you would not do that in your own countries.” Otherwise, she suggested, it was pretty much open season for photos.
Pyongyang apartment blocks, as it turns out, have become quite photogenic since 2007. Many have been painted in attractive pastel colours. The majority of their balconies have been spruced up with window-boxes as part of a politically-driven campaign to brighten the city—although Mrs Han later told us that many of the flowers are plastic.
While Ms Han took every opportunity to praise her country’s leaders, she avoided any sabre-rattling and neglected to attack her nation’s enemies, past or present. Even more surprisingly, she touted a mobile phone, a gift from her boyfriend. There are now three Chinese brand models on sale in Pyongyang shops, the cheapest priced at €140 (Euros or Chinese yuan are preferred for foreign transactions).
The city’s restaurant scene has also progressed since my first visit. Our group spent an evening at North Korea’s only Italian restaurant, which opened in December 2008 after its chefs returned from training in Italy on the dictate of the government. The eatery was virtually empty, except for an open door to a private room which revealed our only other fellow diners to be military officers. A lunchtime visit to Pyongyang’s newly opened fried-chicken restaurant, however, found it packed out, even if the locals were choosing the Korean dishes on the menu over the fried chicken.
Along with the material changes, ordinary North Koreans seemed more approachable on this visit too. One evening our group was taken to Pyongyang’s Golden Lane bowling alley, a venue buzzing with locals. Our party was ignored at first, but Alexander, a 25-year-old Australian on our tour, was approached by a small group of Korean men who wanted to practise their English. “The main guy was called Kim Jong II,” Reid told me later. “He said he was the amateur boxing champ of North Korea. He was hell keen to talk about Australia and especially if we really ate kangaroos. He was constantly reassuring me that we were now friends.”
Of course, Pyongyang is a showcase city. It is said that its entire population has been vetted for allegiance to the ruling dictatorship. Even so, my trip suggested that subtle changes might be afoot in the capital. As for the rest of the country (the vast majority of which is out of bounds to foreigners), and for the lives of the 21m North Koreans outside Pyongyang, we can only speculate and hope.
