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My North Korea journey
Michael Palin ventures into the world’s most secretive country
On an early autumn morning in 2016, an unexpected email landed in my inbox from ITN Productions, headed, ‘I have an unusual one for you today.’ I’m used to the unusual but this was very unusual. It was a request for me to consider presenting a series in North Korea.
My philosophy of travel is that the more difficult somewhere is to get to, the greater the prize to be won by getting there. But when the prize was North Korea, I found that this was not a view shared by my wife, and a surprising number of my friends. To many of them, this was a step too far. The known unknowns were one thing, but the unknown unknowns were quite another.
Not that anyone could claim North Korea is a complete unknown. There have been books and accounts from defectors. Unfortunately nearly all these speak of a cruel, godless, secretive state whose people live in oppression and poverty under the yoke of a ruthless, self-perpetuating dictatorship.
At the time ITN Productions contacted me, Kim Jong-un, young and eccentrically tonsured, had been in power for five years, following the death of his father Kim Jong II who had himself, in 1994, inherited the reins of power from his father, Kim II Sung, the founder of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK).
Despite its distinctly unpromising international image, I followed a gut curiosity and replied to ITN that yes, I was interested.
After over a year of preparations, I finally made the trip in April 2018. I was warned that because North Koreans are paranoid about information entering their country, I would not be able to take maps, guidebooks or online advice, an irksome restriction. Along with a corresponding nervousness at being seen to wield a camera or a voice recorder, my options for recording this once-in-a-lifetime journey were confined to a small ring-backed blue notebook, chosen to be as inconspicuous as possible. The bulk of this account was scribbled in that notebook...
FRIDAY 27 APRIL
Most visitors fly into North Korea but we’re taking the slow road, by overnight train from Beijing to the frontier city of Dandong and then on to DPRK rails south to Pyongyang. Despite my fondness for trains I know that the journey ahead, particularly the frontier crossing, will be a test of stamina.
The crew 3 and I meet mid-morning for a briefing with an English tour operator called Nick Bonner, who has been visiting North Korea for 20-odd years and gives us a foretaste of what to expect. ‘Koreans generally dress and behave modestly’; ‘perceived insults to, or jokes about, the DPRK political system and its leadership are severely frowned upon’; and, more reassuringly, ‘Koreans eat dog meat as a delicacy, but it is not served to tourists as a rule.’ The only advice which saddens me is the one which seems to strike at the very essence of travelling. ‘Remember that you could place North Koreans and their families in a difficult situation if you attempt to initiate contact with ordinary citizens.’
Nick gives us our North Korean visas. They’re on separate folded cards. Nothing is entered in our passports, to avoid embarrassment when travelling to countries for whom the DPRK is the devil.
And our journey begins.
SATURDAY 28 APRIL
It’s coming up to 7am as we approach Dandong and climb aboard our North Korean train. It’s trim and tidy with white-and-green striped coaches, hauled by a big old Chinese locomotive. We rumble across the river, known as the Yalu to the Chinese and the Amnok to the Koreans, that marks the border.
It’s a slow crossing. Once across we are in a very different environment. Instead of cars and shops there are people and bicycles and dusty construction sites. Instead of skyscrapers there are sheds. The whole place feels sleepy.
Before we can leave for Pyongyang there will be extensive customs and immigration checks at Sinuiju [the main border city with China]. The platforms at Sinuiju station are deserted apart from soldiers standing to attention. Portraits of Kim II Sung and Kim Jong II, the Great Leaders, hang side by side. A squad of soldiers in olive-green uniforms and wide-brimmed caps come down the carriage 4 almost comically dislodging each other’s headgear as they consult closely with each other about our filming equipment. I’m asked if I have any Bibles in my bag (they’re phobic about missionaries) or any guidebooks, maps or American films. I’m learning that a sense of independence is the first thing you give up when you enter North Korea.
We are confined to ‘tourist’ coaches and kept out of contact with the locals. It is cramped, so we retreat to the restaurant car. The food is freshly cooked and served by waitresses in blue aprons with 1950s air hostesses’ hats. There’s a fixed menu: cabbage soup, spring greens and onions, chicken, prawn, beef stir-fry, hard-boiled eggs and kimchi, the Korean staple, made from fermented cabbage in a spicy sauce. I wash it all down with a cold beer. It reminds me of what dining cars used to be like in England. A feeling of great contentment comes over me as I look out at the Korean countryside.
It’s early evening by the time we reach Pyongyang. I’m a little disappointed to see a largely conventional modern city, with nothing that catches the eye apart from a futuristic glass pyramid. I later learn that this is the Ryugyong Hotel 5 , built in 1987 but still, mysteriously, unoccupied.
Awaiting us on the platform are my two guides and, hovering discreetly in the background, a small gaggle of officials who represent the Korea International Travel Company and National Tourism Administration. In their identical dark suits and ties, they
I’m asked if I have any Bibles, guidebooks, maps or American films in my bag
bear a forbidding resemblance to the cast of
Reservoir Dogs. Normally these are the sort of people we’d avoid. There are things they want you to see, which are not what you want to see. But there is no such thing as unrestricted access here. And anyway, we’ve arrived, and that in itself is an achievement.
SUNDAY 29 APRIL
At 7.45am, I’m dressed and ready for work. Our hotel, the Koryo, comprises two 40storey towers, bridged halfway up. The design is bland and modern. But then pretty much all of Pyongyang is modern. It was bombed flat by the Americans in the 1950s. Of the old city, I’m told, only one house remains.
The journey to breakfast is longish, and involves riding up to the fourth floor of an adjacent tower. The dining room is surreal: an enormous white chamber of banqueting proportions. Size does not necessarily mean abundance. The buffet is thin (omelette, sliced apple and white toast), we’re limited to one cup of coffee each, and there are only two other guests.
At one end of the room is a large painted panel of a lake and a mountain view. 9 I shall see this again, many times. It is Mount Paektu, Korea’s tallest and most sacred mountain. One of the only images to be allowed to share wall space with the Great Leaders.
When we assemble for filming, there is a small problem. The director Neil wants to film me coming out of the hotel and walking to a nearby metro station. There is much discussion among the tourism team and some troubled glances. After negotiations, it is decided that part of the street is out of bounds. I later learn that a department store is being rebuilt and they were unhappy that the mess of the construction site would reflect badly on the city. An early intimation of just how important appearances are to our hosts.
Our first stop is Grand Monument on Mansu Hill 1 , dominated by two 72ft bronze statues of Kim Il Sung and General Kim Jong II 2 , known as the Dear Leader, wearing an unzipped parka. (This was recently re-sculpted to replace a rather more suave three-quarter-length coat. More man of the people?)
I learn a number of lessons. One is that the Great Leaders must only be photographed in their entirety. It is forbidden to show them in part. It’s also essential to maintain respectful behaviour in their presence. When I sat on one of the steps I was told to get up again. And after my first piece to camera, there was much head-shaking among the minders and I was asked to do it again. Not for any political reasons, but because I had a hand in my pocket.
It’s in this far-from-relaxed atmosphere that I embark on my first interview with So Hyang, one of my guides 7 She is trying to be obliging, but from the start she is defensive. Not surprisingly, as our five minders are watching every move. I begin by asking about the badges that carry the likeness of the two Great Leaders, worn by everybody on their left-hand side, over the heart. (One of my guides wears two badges, one on his jacket and one on his shirt in case he has to take his jacket off.) Are they compulsory? So Hyang shakes her head, dismissing my question. Why should they be? Any of the masses would want to wear the badges because the Great Leaders are always alive in their hearts.
As I press her to enlarge on her feelings towards the Leaders, I sense increasing discomfort. The Great Leaders are the heads of the family, she explains. All the love of the people and the love of the country are embodied in them.
I suggest that even the best families have their disagreements. Might there not be things which the leaders do which other members of the family disagree with? I realise almost immediately that I have gone too far. Quite a long way too far.
The interview is terminated. There is no direct confrontation over my impertinent question. No one must lose face. So Hyang looks apologetic and I’m apologetic too. I didn’t expect the curtain to come down so definitively and so early in the process.
MONDAY 30 APRIL
6am. A low vibrating hum seeps into my subconscious. I walk to the window, and still can’t pin down what the sound is. Later, our director Nick tells me it is a patriotic anthem called Where Are You, Dear General? which is broadcast from speakers across the city each morning to motivate the masses.
After breakfast we climb aboard our bus accompanied by our two guides. Old age is revered here. With retirement age at 60 for men and 55 for women, anyone still alive in their mid-70s is treated with respect bordering on the devotional. So Hyang takes my arm and helps me into the bus. ‘Are you tired?’ she asks, with concern. As it’s only 9.15am, my response is a little brusque. She nods sympathetically, ‘I will be like your daughter.’
After a short journey our convoy pulls into the forecourt of a large school. Above the door is another of the framed twin portraits of the Great Leaders.
The pupils I’m here to meet are in their mid-teens, all in Persil-clean white shirts and bearing the red badges of the Children’s Union. They greet me in English, which I learn to my surprise is a compulsory subject.
I ask what they want to be when they leave school. They opt for mostly safe choices – engineers, scientists, soldiers, teachers – but one girl declares that she wants to be ‘a famous writer’. I ask what she’s written and she recites a poem. I can’t understand but the passion and intensity of her delivery are very powerful and there are tears in her eyes and mine as she finishes.
I’m a touch disappointed to be told later the poem was a paean to the founder of the republic, Kim Il Sung.
Is this a show school? Undoubtedly. But I don’t feel that once we’ve gone the tables will be taken away and the all-weather sports pitch will become a police car park. Even if just one school in Pyongyang is equipped like this, it’s impressive.
WEDNESDAY 2 MAY
Today we’re taking the Reunification
Highway south to Kaesong, the oldest and least damaged city in Korea. The bestpreserved buildings are part of what used to be the Songgyunwan Academy where Korean aristocrats once came to be educated. It is a popular draw for tourists who want to see what the old Korea looked like and outside is a shop and post office selling spoons and chopsticks, and postcards reproducing classic propaganda posters, many of which depict the wrath that would be wreaked upon the Americans by the North Korean forces should they step out of line: rockets smashing into the Capitol Building, the Statue of Liberty being dismembered.
Once the camera is running, I approach the postcard carousel, only to find that the card I was going to pick out is no longer there. In fact I can’t find any of the postcards. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the nattily suited manager swiftly removing them and handing them to a lady who secretes them under the counter. The Basil Fawlty-ish blatancy leaves me speechless. Neil approaches our minders.
The upshot is that in view of President Trump’s acceptance of the Supreme Leader’s invitation to meet for talks, it has been decided that selling postcards of the White House smashed to pieces is no longer in the national interest. They suggest I send my friend some other memory of the DPRK, like a nice view of Mount Paektu?
THURSDAY 3 MAY
We spend the night at the Kaesong Folk Hotel. Peeping through the side of my bamboo blind I see that the weather is promising for today’s journey to the North Korean side of the Demilitarized Zone 10 .
I’m told the man that I shall be speaking to – a North Korean military officer – will answer questions about anything. This could be a rare chance to talk politics.
Lieutenant Colonel Kim 6 exudes a quiet, confident authority, smiling occasionally, but with the mouth, rather than the eyes. I learn that what we call the Korean War is known here as the Victorious Fatherland Liberation War. We understand it as beginning in June 1950 when 75,000 soldiers from the North Korean People’s Army crossed the 38th Parallel into South Korea. The North Koreans see it as beginning a month later when American troops invaded the North. He doesn’t mention that it was a UN force. America is seen as the big enemy.
He is absolutely adamant in his view of history. Sitting at the table on which the armistice was signed, he tells me the armistice was a triumph for Supreme Commander Kim Il Sung; the ‘little rabbit’ had fought off ‘the wolf ’. When I try to suggest that the little rabbit had some much bigger rabbits helping him, like China and Russia, he fixes me with a piercing stare. ‘The US Army had an atomic bomb at the time. Our side only had rifles.’ 8
The Americans, Lieutenant Colonel Kim assures me, were hell-bent on trying to demolish the armistice machinery. ‘There were 815,000 violations of the ceasefire from the American side until late January 1991,’ he details briskly. ‘Because the US has been threatening us with nuclear weapons, we thought we were in danger of a nuclear war.’
I feel emboldened to suggest that the military standoff has cost his country dear. Surprisingly he doesn’t bite my head off. ‘Yes, in some ways in the past,’ he admits, ‘but now our Supreme Leader has introduced a policy to improve the economy and improve the standard of living. I believe our lifestyle will be more richer in the future.’ And the rockets and nuclear weapons? ‘It was always our policy to denuclearise the Korean peninsula, and the whole world.’
We complete our carefully choreographed progress towards the concrete and glass building which overlooks the line of demarcation, over which the leaders of the two Koreas shook hands for the first time ever. I think he’s impressed when I tell him that I was here 22 years ago, on the other side, being given the American view of North Korea, which I remember as much more bellicose. I tell him that I fervently hope if I were to come back in another 22 years, this same ground would be genuinely demilitarised. A park maybe, a place where children from both sides play. ‘I hope so too,’ he replies, and breaks into a rare smile. Maybe it’s because he knows I’d be 96 by then. Whatever the reason, his response sounds genuine and gives me hope.
THURSDAY 10 MAY
A week later, I’m back in the capital looking out for the last time at the grey unpainted tower blocks. The strains of Where Are You, Dear
General? resonate from their hidden speakers, once so disturbing, now irritatingly familiar.
I’ve appreciated the neatness, tidiness and politeness. I’ve relished the lack of pollution and not for one moment missed the internet, the smartphone or continuously in-your-face advertising of the West.
So why should I feel something’s missing? I think it’s because I sense that, for all the access, they’ve been playing a game with us. We have been indulged, but never fully informed. It’s obvious that the regime needs to make friends, if only to save their tottering economy. The conundrum for the leaders is how to welcome foreigners economically while slamming the door politically. We take freedom of expression to be one of our most basic democratic rights. Here it is
•As one of their greatest fears.
11 we settle into our seats in an Air Koryo Tupolev jet, the screens above our heads flash on, filled with all-singing, alldancing ladies. They seem to have no trouble expressing emotion. It pours out of them. The sheer joy of being born a part of the DPRK.
We roll down the runway, lift into the skies and soon Pyongyang is disappearing below. We exchange smiles. Of relief, but also of regret. One thing we all agree on is that none of us would mind coming back.