Trapped in Free Market Korea: A Holiday in Rason

By Nicholas Moran, NK News Contributor

Isn’t North Korea hilarious? After all, who can take those clichéd slogans seriously? And what about the uniforms? The comic, macho aggression? And how about the Kims themselves? Isn’t it all such a laugh?

Thanks to my time in Rason, I don’t find North Korea funny; I don’t think I ever will again. Every time someone links me to “Kim Jong Il looking at things”, or a particularly bombastic North Korean press release, I can barely raise a smile, let alone the gut wrenching belly laugh that’s supposed to greet any vision of his beaming, beloved face.

I just think back to my time in Rason: the paranoia, the claustrophobia and the sheer Kafkaesque sense of unease that permeated our unwillingly prolonged stay at the behest of the Rason tourist board. The cloying, claustrophobic nights where the three of us, barely out of university, barely adults, were trapped, ironically, in the home of North Korean liberalism: the ‘special economic zone’ of Rason.

Rason: Market liberalism, Korean Style

Only days earlier we’d been on the road to Hamhung, digging our tour-bus out of a sandbank with shovels scrounged from local peasants. It was this minor flash of authenticity in an otherwise staged tour that drove us to this experimental, oft-ignored, province – a desire to see more of the authentic North Korean underbelly. And so, after days spent traveling up through China, we finally convinced a Chinese tour company in the dreary border town of Yanjii to sell us a short, three day, two nights package to Rason: the DPRK’s Special Economic Zone.

Downtown

Despite its special status, arrival in Rason was fundamentally underwhelming. Although supposedly the capital of the special economic zone, Rajin has more the feeling and atmosphere of a Chinese rural town – its three thoroughfares dourly arranged around a muddy, unpaved square. Throughout the day, it’s home to livestock, vehicles, boys practicing judo, soldiers at ease, gossiping women having a rest in the sun – in short, all the various trappings of provincial village life.

Village Life

Even the monuments are halfhearted – Rajin’s Kim Il Sung monument is a mosaic, small, unobtrusive – barely bigger than a roadside propaganda poster in Pyongyang.

Kim Il Sung Monument

However, beneath the superficial banality, differences were stark. For our guide, the key source of pride was the industrial and economic prowess of the region. Initially it felt very strange to hear him say with pride, “That building is owned by a Taiwanese computer company… this restaurant is owned by Chinese businessmen… Rajin is the future of Korean industry.” Indeed, the first thing he asked us when we crammed into our tiny, four door hatchback was whether we were investors – he looked disappointed when we replied in the negative.

After the standard tour of monuments and museums, touring shoe factories and a foreign corporation’s North Korean headquarters was a radical change; when our guide proudly said that economics “was the most important skill for the future of Korea,” it felt heretical – a far cry from the principled socialism of Pyongyang’s guides.

Shoe Factory

Our visit came just days after the unveiling of Kim Jong Un at the 65^th Workers Party Conerence. Rather than the patriotic boredom that greeted mentions of his father, news of Kim Jong Un was genuinely electrifying. His name had something of the celebrity about it and Mr. Park (False Name, to protect identity), our guide, was certainly a fan.

“Do you know of Kim Jong Un,” he said, eyes bright with excitement.

“Uh, yes, he is in the news… what do you think of him?”

“He is a master of science and a master of business. I respect him very much.”

Mr. Park clearly saw Kim Jong Un as a kindred spirit, someone who might bring the reform he so craves. “The internet is the greatest invention of the 20th Century,” he professed, after we had discovered he was a former computer programmer. When we questioned him on his computer use, he admitted, with a touch of sadness, that he didn’t have one – at least at the moment. But, he suggested, there soon may be computers for all. “Kim Jong Un is a master of science,” he reminded us.

Mr. Park may seem idealistic, but Rason’s economic liberalism is a sight to behold – and one no less potent than in that capitalistic microcosm, the local market. Full to the brim with Chinese goods – medicine, games, electronics, appliances – the market’s hustle and throng felt like a wholesale import from the Beijing suburbs or a provincial city. It felt distinctly odd and somewhat exhilarating to see and hear North Koreans barter, debate and revel in the simplicity of capitalism at its most bourgeois. Whilst picking our way through the stalls, one of our party was ambushed by a Korean child armed with a Nerf gun, who whooped with delight as he hit home. As our casualty rubbed her head, I realised that little fracas was a stark reminder – that beneath all this apparent change, this still was the country of Juche, the home of Anti-Americanism, the sworn enemy of the West and Westerners alike. For despite Rason’s economic liberalism, the corruption at the heart of North Korea lies unchanged, as we soon found out for ourselves.

The Visa, The Director and The Pink Mobile Phone

Before our arrival in Rason we had been assured by the Chinese travel company that it was a visa free zone;.the fact that two of us had already used up our dual entries on our Chinese visa form was not at all problematic. However, when we arrived at the border, the Chinese guard leafed through our documents and looked puzzled. He checked again. He said something in Chinese that, naturally, wasn’t understood and with a shrug, he stamped our documents and waved us through. A problem had been encountered, considered and ignored without any input from us. From behind me a Chinese tour guide spoke up: “He says that there is no exit visa.” Panic overcame me – an ephemeral chill. How were we going to get out?

You may think to have ended up in such a situation may seem stupid – and it was, I won’t deny. However, the Chinese tour guide reassured us that getting a new visa from the Chinese embassy in Korea was possible, easy – perhaps even commonplace. All we had to do was contact our guide as soon as we came across the border.

Bridge over the Tumen River

So, the moment we were across the dusty bridge over the Tumen, the river that separates China and Korea, we confronted Mr. Park with our problem. This was, of course, the first time we had met Mr. Park. He was a tall, lanky man; well over six foot (a giant in North Korean terms), with a permanent, harried expression. With his stooped shoulders and slightly bandying gait, there was always a sense that he’d either forgotten or lost a key piece of information; an unknown, creeping stress that he knew or suspected would soon overtake him. As soon as we saw him, however, we became this stress – a burden upon this poor, kindly man. We unloaded onto him all our problems in one go – standing in the grim, concrete shell at the border crossing, whilst chirpy North Korean guards searched our bags.

He looked justifiably confused. We tried to explain again; he didn’t entirely grasp it. Of course, passports weren’t his forte – could they be the forte of any North Korean? As we stumbled out into the mid-afternoon sunlight and made the way up the dirt track towards our car, assailed by hoverflies, we tried to convince him of the sincerity of our plight – again, it failed to sink in: “It is fine,” he said, uncertainly. “It is not a problem.” But we knew otherwise – I, for one, didn’t want to be stuck in North Korea, especially in Rason; at least Pyongyang has a bowling alley.

On our way from the border to Rason, traveling on the winding hill paths, we tried to make him understand. However, just when it seemed like we’d made headway, we arrived at our first stop, a children’s show. For those of you that know the drill from Korea main, you will know the hideousness of these events, where young girls and boys of astonishing virtuosic ability perform like trained animals for a whooping, sycophantic audience.

Children's Show

However, in Rason, it was much worse. At the end of the show, the kids stand in a line, their smiles worn out by the exhaustive theatrics. Then the watching Chinese tourists rush upon the children and pick them up, as if they were prize dolls, posing for picture after picture with their favourite specimens. At their feet they lay pencils, pens, sweets; offerings for the sequined gods-enfants. This chilling ritual is performed every week.

Post Show

Children being picked up for photos

Despite early panic of the day, the rest of the evening was oceanically calm. Since Mr. Park had failed, as of yet, to grasp our particular diplomatic difficulty, we were taken to visit a fisherman’s house – one that had, at one point in its history, been blessed by a Kim Il Sung visit.

Fisherman's House

However, what was of more aesthetic note was the wreck littered shoreline, in particular the most beautiful shipwreck I have ever seen. It was a rusting hulk of a fishing vessel that lay, beached on the shore; against it, the sun at their backs, Korean women chatted, washing their clothes in the stream that trickled into the ocean. It was a tableau unlike any other I have witnessed. If only I had managed to get a proper picture – Mr. Park was very stringent about photography; however its corroded beauty is etched upon my memory.

The Shoreline

This calm evening proved to be the last moment of relaxation on our tour. It would be clichéd to use the phrase ‘calm before the storm,’ but North Korea is a country that by its very nature begets cliché. And so it was that the next morning, at last, our visa situation was understood.

Our tour was immediately suspended. We had barely finished our breakfast when we were whisked to the Director of Tourism’s office, situated on the top floor of an unimposing grey building whose best asset was the world’s most depressing gift shop: a dusty mausoleum to North Korean tourist tat.

The office itself was obviously designed to be impressive. A large, wooden table dominated the room, at one end of which was the Director’s desk. At the other end, bizarrely, was a large Kim Il Sung poster, in which he was dressed in a long flowing tunic with black, shiny boots, looking like he was off on a mountain holiday. The window was open, and the sound of propaganda music filtered through, gently, unobtrusively. It was a very beautiful day, tinged with the perpetual etherealness of the DPRK. The atmosphere was tense, school-mastery even. With the sun sifting through the window and the sounds of activity from the square, I was distinctly reminded of when I had been sent to the headmaster during playtime at the greying prep school I had attended in the Manchester suburbs; we had been yanked away from the cheery playground, like errant children, to be reprimanded for our misdemeanor.

The Director himself had the stature and mannerisms of a small screen villain. He was extremely short, immaculately dressed and had a musk of self-importance. On his desk were trinkets from China – obviously the spoils of his travels and his position.

We were sat down at the table, us at one side, Mr. Park at the other. For ten minutes we were comprehensively ignored, whilst the Director busied himself at activities considerably more important than us – reading papers, re-arranging things on his desk, staring into the distance: he made a concerted effort to appear concerned, worried, thoughtful – running through the rigmarole of statesman-like responses to our plight before he deigned to begin our conversation. When he began, with a sudden start, through Mr. Park (as interpreter), we were comprehensively lectured. It was a very Korean affair – circular, blame-obsessed and tedious:

“Who was to blame for this fault?”

“Well, it’s of course our fault but the tour company – “

“So are you to blame or the tour company?”

“Well… it is difficult…”

“You will need new documents.”

“We are very sorry…”

“Are you to blame for not having the right documents…?”

Eventually, after a good hour of repetitive recrimination, by the end of which I had almost memorised Kim Il Sung’s flowing, Korean-of-Arabia outfit, we were let go – we had achieved nothing – they didn’t seem to understand the problems with our documents, how to solve them or how to proceed. All that had been attempted was a portioning of blame. There was no sense of urgency, despite the fact that we were effectively stuck until a visa was obtained on our behalf. Languorously, the Director spoke: they would try and sort something out. As we left, he moved the phone cable from his fax machine to his phone and excitedly picked the phone up.

We were rushed back to our hotel. This initially was surprising. What for, we thought? However, it was the beginning of our many periods of lock-down, or, as Mr. Park called it ‘rest.’

Watching the world go by

It may seem extreme to call it lock-down, but that’s essentially what it was. Long, dreary periods in our hotel, whilst we waited on decisions from the tourist agency. During these hour-long periods the furthest we could move was the steps of our hotel, the Namsan, which overlooked the square, where all we could see was an endless, mundane montage of Korean life, hour in, hour out. .The three of us sat, dozing in the sun, bored and immobile, whilst Mr. Park waited in reception hoping for a phone-call from the Agency. I took the opportunity to explore the hotel, which was musty, dank and rotting like all North Korean hotels I had thus experienced – so much for the future of Korea.

After lunch the Rason Tourist Agency finally called: we could continue our tour. Our driver, a beaming, silent, gold-toothed man and his rather effeminate, pinkish mobile phone had become the Agency’s point of contact. I began to feel that he was watching us -a paranoia no doubt party due to the claustrophobia of our cramped, tiny Hyundai. As we squeezed into the car to travel across town to the fish market, I noticed the little phone hooked up via a charger cable to the car lighter socket. This perpetually charging, pink appendage was our link to the Rason tourist company; our link to the outside world.

At the fish market

We had only just arrived at the fish market when the agency called. I barely had the chance to snap a few pictures of some trussed-up crabs before we were trundled back into the car to go back to the Agency.We arrived minutes later; Mr. Park was starting to look increasingly agitated, his floppy black fringe scarcely hiding the ripples and sweat on his forehead.

When we arrived, the true nature of our predicament had hit the tour director. “You must get a visa,” Mr. Park translated. Finally, it was understood. There was a sense of relief amongst the three of us.

“The Visa Charge is 80 dollars, plus 20 dollars…”

“But that is the only charge, yes?”

“The addition charge is 20 dollars…”

“And we will be able to get out in time…?”

“It will be done tonight.”

It seemed reasonable – a little extra to grease the cogs of the North Korean regime. In the gathering dusk, we were rushed across Rajin to the only photocopier in the city, for whose unreadable output I was forced to pay an extortionate amount of money. After we obtained the forms we were then taken to a North Korean photo agency, a sort of North Korean Kodak Shop, probably the most modern looking place I have seen in the entire state. I noticed one technician running a very modern version of Photoshop and another cursing a crashing Windows Vista, an action I found strangely sentimental.

As we were placed against a white screen and our pictures were taken, I noticed the sample pictures on display behind the counter – smiling Korean families superimposed against pre-rendered backdrops of waterfalls, rainbows and Mt. Paektu. Although we were there simply to get passport photos, I was still disappointed that we hadn’t been given the option of perhaps a sunny beach, a reunification rainbow or maybe the Juche tower in the mist. Next time, perhaps.

Photos obtained, we sprinted around the corner to the Agency. The door was secured by an ominous looking padlock – after all, by now it was nearly dark. After a few minutes of banging on the door, an elderly guard shuffled forward and granted us entry. As we clambered up the unlit stairwell, he slowly replaced the lock, imprisoning us inside the building.

We settled down to the long task of filling out the Visa forms, which, thanks to the North Korean photocopier, were entirely indecipherable. When, they were completed, the Director, silent until then, sighed and loosened his shirt. There was a flash of gold from the chain around his neck. Across his face there appeared a look of consternation, as he spoke to Mr. Park.

“There is another charge”.

“Another charge?”

“The Chinese embassy is in Chongjin”

“Chongjin – you mean in – “

“In another region, yes. A taxi will have to go. It will cost a lot of money.”

We didn’t have a lot of money.

“How much money?”

The two consulted. Mr. Park looked guilty, the Director aggressively reasonable.

“170 dollars.”

“170 dollars?”

“Each.”

This was about the amount of money we had left. In one go, this golden taxi ride would rob us of an astonishing amount of money – pretty much all we had. After a grumbled deliberation between the three of us, we saw we had no other option. We paid up – what choice did we have?

“It is for eating and sleeping… and… other things,” Mr. Park translated, shiftily. “The taxi driver will have to stay overnight.”

We gave the director the last of our money. On the short ride back to the Namsan we questioned Mr. Park, asking him whether we would get out by the right time. He couldn’t give us a straight answer. “It is a very difficult problem,” he said. “You must leave by the right time.” Would we?