My Holiday in North Korea (18 page)

ME,
fake smile, imploring eyes
: Oh, me too. Great! I’m learning so much. Aren’t you?

THEM,
subtle sarcasm evident to us five only, we hope
: Oh yes! So much.

ME,
also employing nuanced sarcasm
: Ten days was really the perfect amount of time to really get to see the country.

THEM: Wow! Ten whole days…you don’t say. That is a fine amount of time.

ME: Indeed.

Help me.

And…scene.

Even though my handlers monitored every movement I made and conversation I had, I guess I never seriously considered that my hotel rooms might be bugged. I mean I did, but because I was alone in my room and therefore not speaking out loud, and because I couldn’t make any outside calls, and there’s no internet, and they knew what was on TV, and they’d searched me for any electronics at the airport when I’d landed and knew I had no computer or other communication devices, I’d more or less dismissed the thought. Why would they bother?

I was barely in my room anyway, and when I was I did little more than sleep or read or get dressed or undressed, or if in Room 2-10-28 at the Hotel Koryo, watch the BBC.

Except for that one afternoon.

After I refused to visit the Sinchon Museum of American War Atrocities, we’d arrived back in Pyongyang earlier than expected. Older Handler did her best to reconfigure our itinerary, but our next activity—“Enjoy draft beer at Paradise Bar”—was less fun than expected. We were the only patrons in the dark, freezing establishment, and my crew was riveted to the tiny television hung high above and behind me that was showing a Chinese drama with Korean subtitles that apparently they all loved. When their show concluded, I asked if we could go back to the hotel. “More people at night,” Older Handler assured me.
Whatever
, I didn’t say, and we rolled.

Ensconced back in my by-now-it’s-so-familiar-it-almost-feels-like-home-except-I’d-kill-myself-if-it-was room at the Koryo, I’m lying on my bed, slightly buzzed, with an unexpected and glorious hour
all to myself, during the daytime
, to kill. I don’t feel like watching the BBC, or reading, or learning more vocabulary words, so I take a seat in my room’s “lounge” to stare outside. I’m putting my earphones in to listen to music on my iPhone when it strikes me for the first time since arriving in NoKo that if I take my earphones off, I can play music
aloud.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of this sooner!

And even better…I’ll do yoga! I haven’t exercised since arriving. No wonder I’m so sad. And yoga will be good for me. My mind could use a break.

I didn’t bring workout clothes with me, so I strip down to my bra and underpants. I select the yoga mix I’ve created, prop my iPhone up against the wall, hit Play (careful it’s not too loud), and start Downward Dogging my way to bliss. But I’m not even halfway through my first Sun Salutation when the door to my room bangs open, and someone—perhaps a maid—bursts in.

Huh…maybe my room
is
bugged?

Or…? Who fucking knows?

I jump up, staring at her with my mouth agape. Momentarily befuddled, I have no idea what to say. “I’m exercising,” I somehow manage. “Is the music too loud?” But I know full well I’m the only one on my floor to hear it.

She’d walked in on me while I was more or less naked, folded over in a V. So unless she’s familiar with yoga, or was, in the moments leading up to this intrusion,
SPYING
, she must be as flummoxed as I. She says something I don’t quite catch and leaves my room, closing the door behind her. I’m left wondering—among other things, of course—how she even got my door open so quickly, when I can barely open it half the time using my key.

I’m tempted to keep practicing yoga, if for no other reason than to see what “they’ll” do, but I’m tired—nay, exhausted—from all my double thinking. Inner peace in the presence of the omnipresent Dear Great dead Leaders, it seems, is simply not possible…for me at least.

Nevertheless I allow myself one millisecond to think that indeed, if I’m not being paranoid, then “they” have just let it be known: As a guest in their country, yoga’s just one more thing I’m not allowed to do. And with that, I turn off the music, put my clothes back on, and resume staring outside.

Maybe it’s always pepper that makes people hot-tempered, she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, and vinegar that makes them sour—and camomile that makes them bitter.
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

CHAPTER 17

THE OLDER ONE

M
y scheduled activity for the hour was “Moranbong Park to mingle with local people/take photos.” My itinerary literally said “mingle with local people,” meaning any people whose job was not directly or indirectly related to my tour.

That’s how rare it is for visitors to NoKo to speak with local people—and how much they know you want to: they put it on your itinerary as an
actual activity
. The thing is, that, too, is a farce. There’s no mingling with local people, at least not in the way you or I mingle. When you see local people, you mainly just get to acknowledge one another, like you do with animals in a zoo. It was disappointing and frustrating.

Fresh Handler had gone to find a bathroom, so I was alone with Older Handler for the first time since arriving—even though it was my second-to-last day there. It was hot as we trudged up the long hill to reach the park entrance, and I could see that she was dragging behind me, struggling to keep up. I knew that if I got too far ahead of her, there in the middle of Pyongyang where others could bear witness, it would reflect poorly on her, so I slowed my pace. I didn’t want her to get in trouble. We’d been together forever by then, and because I was leaving so soon, I was feeling a strange mix of wistfulness, frustration and empathy.

When we reached the top of the first hill, we climbed a set of stairs, then turned to the right to climb another set of stairs to reach the main viewing pavilion at the top. There was a group of art students casually sitting on and around the stairs, painting, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a bunch of North Koreans to just be hanging around doing art on a Wednesday morning. And maybe it was; I didn’t know anymore, and I didn’t bother asking, since I’d decided by then that Older Handler was incapable of telling the truth.

Older Handler was actually younger than me, but her demeanor and disposition told a different story. She was pushy, and strict about rules, and her beatific smile and overbearing solicitousness did little to conceal her special kind of crazy. When she wasn’t literally poking me, she was asking me how much I liked Korea, to which I’d answer (more often as the week wore on), “about as much as I did the last time you asked me.” We had a vexed relationship, to say the least.

We continued along to the viewing pavilion, and after taking in the view of Pyongyang below, I asked if we could just sit. She was perplexed, “Sit?” I clarified, “I’d like to just sit outside and enjoy being outdoors without actually having to do anything. You know,
relax
. Can’t we just sit here for a few minutes and enjoy the sun, and each other’s company?”

After all, we’d been dragging around nonstop from early in the morning until after dinner, usually visiting eight to ten places a day, for what felt like, by then, my entire adult life.

Maybe she was tired of all the dragging around, too, because she agreed—and so we sat. There weren’t any benches to sit on, since I guess no one just sits around relaxing in the park, except for old people, who weren’t so much relaxing as they were waiting to die (so Older Handler intimated). So we sat on the ground next to each other and “relaxed.”

As we relaxed, I asked Older Handler if I could take photos of the old people we’d seen in the park, taking in the sun (while waiting to die).

OLDER HANDLER: No.

I asked Older Handler why not.

OLDER HANDLER: To be honest, the old people. They old-thinking. They don’t like Americans.

ME: Okay then. I am American.

Next hundreds of Young Pioneers on a field trip swarmed around us. You see huge groups of children everywhere you go in NoKo; my handlers told me they constitute thirty percent of the population. In most cases all but the bravest ignore you. Like everyone else in NoKo, they’re scared to talk to you for fear of being killed, or at the very least getting in trouble. And/or they hate you because they’ve been taught since birth to believe that you, a foreigner—worse, an American Imperialist—are at the root of all evil in their country. I always felt proud of the children who stopped to stare at me—the brave ones, whose innate curiosity or skepticism trumped their fear. Stopping to stare, and in some cases say hello, may sound trivial, but in NoKo, it made them game changers.

Our unscheduled stop was threatening to throw us off our omnipresent and unforgiving schedule, and I could see Older Handler getting nervous about this. I appreciated her having stopped for my benefit, and I felt like we were finally starting to bond a little where we hadn’t before, so I asked if she was ready to keep walking.

As we walked through the park, we passed a group of local people playing some kind of game. I asked if I could take a photograph. She hastily replied no.

We carried on walking. A few minutes later she stopped, touched my arm, and began explaining how she used to be a “businesswoman” before becoming a tour guide and that she longed to be one again. She then told me she wanted to open a coffee shop and asked if I would be her business partner.

In addition to being just plain shocked, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less. I hated North Korea, couldn’t wait to leave, didn’t particularly like her, and I was pretty sure some tour guide couldn’t just up and decide to switch jobs one day to open a coffee shop with the help of an American Imperialist. Besides, what would be the point? From what I’d seen, it certainly didn’t appear as if anyone had any extra money, or free time, or drank coffee, with the possible exception of the art kids hanging out on the stairs.

“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great. I’d be happy to help you.” And in the strangest way, I wish I could have.

Her phone rang. It was Fresh Handler, whom I’d briefly forgotten about. She was lost somewhere in the park. She’d been wandering around trying to find the pavilion the entire time we’d been there and had finally given up and was calling for help. I guess the only “local” people familiar with the park were old people, Young Pioneers, art students, and handlers who weren’t fresh. Or maybe she just had a terrible sense of direction.

Older Handler gave Fresh Handler directions to reach the landmark Moranbong Theater at the edge of the park, as we changed course to go meet her.