Last lap.

The last day in Beijing. Hours till our plane leaves for Inchon, and then back to LA.

Tim and I leave in the later afternoon to explore the surrounding area on foot. The area is both nice and abysmal at the same time. Near the entrance of the hotel, is all sorts of clean shops and boutiques for the tourists. Cross the freeway, behind a screen of trees to keep it from foreigner’s eyes, a vast sprawling slum. Nothing like you’d see in Slumdog Millionaire; these buildings are made of brick, but a slum none the less.

Of course, this is exactly what Tim and I are interested in, and we spend the remainder of our time wandering the back alleys of this slum, sticking out like sore thumbs. Despite that, the locals seem relatively uninterested, certainly the dogs are. In america, the dogs seem eager to greet every new person, here, the dogs seem distinctly uninterested in people. Not as if they’re afraid, but as if they’re completely bored with humanity in general.

Here again, we find little vegetable gardens in public spaces. Here is a open dumping ground, who knows how often the garbage man comes to collect. Right next door is a run down elementary school, far away from the private institutes that harbor the children of expats and diplomats. And yet, even though it’s a slum, there is a certain cleanliness and order that suggests some certain measure of civic pride. The people may not have much in this particular neighborhood, but there is no feeling of despair. What little they have, they are eager to expand upon, and certainly for now, they still see the means to get there.

No toiletpaper.

Shenyang has an imperial palace. Relevant to us because of the power it projected into Korea in the last millennia. There is a very new, modern museum here as well that traces the origins of Korea, and chinese influence and endeavors in the region. One gets by reading the information, that China is pushing a little propaganda. Certainly it feels like if North Korea were to collapse suddenly, China might be interested in pushing in and laying claim to the territory as its own, claiming an ancestral tie to the peninsula.

Certainly the North Koreans seem to be wary of this possibility, which further explains their brinkmanship and apparent craziness. North Korea isn’t friends with the US, but it recognizes that being friends with China is also a dangerous proposition, like being friends with a shark. Thus, all negotiations that North Korea engages in must better its position by promoting aggressive self defense appearances, yet at the same time, not carrying excessive favor to either the Chinese or Americans. A delicate dance, and so far, North Korea seems to be pulling it off.

The imperial palace is a touristy place, far too much so for my taste. The site proves rather a bore except for one incident. One of our party has come down with a bad case of diarrhea and disappears for the palace’s restrooms…

However, Chinese public restrooms rarely have toilet paper, and our poor comrade leaves the restroom using the last of his Chinese money as a replacement for the suddenly scarce commodity.

Lunch is at a restaurant that caters to local cuisine, which is of sweet and sour tastes. The food is actually quite excellent compared to our previous meals. The waitresses attend to every little detail, and have LED nametags that apparently advertise how wonderful the restaurant is. Later I find out why the food was so good, the name of the establishment is the “Bestaurant.” Go figure.

Back to Beijing. The hotel is close to the airport, so it even has a temperature monitor for anyone who checks in. I wonder what happens if you get quarantined here? Do they deny you service?

Time to say goodbye. Planes back to the US tomorrow.

Brinkmanship

Another day, another boat ride on the Yalu river. Apparently flirting with North Korea is a popular past time for the curious Chinese neighbors. Many boats with many tourists abound this waterway with binoculars to spy on the Hermit Kingdom.

The tour is fairly innocuous and we spy relatively little of interest. Schoolchildren going to a monument, workers drying corn on the roof, soldiers directing traffic. The waterfront bears a note from our guide however.

“Never this busy before.” He says. Old diesel (maybe even coal) dredgers and shovels gobble at the river front lazily in the morning sun.

“Never any activity before,” he repeats, as some random North Korean scow sails by our prow. Though they’re not allowed to set foot on each others soil, the river is free territory for both parties. I witness small North Korean water craft whiz by the Chinese docks, as if daring for a chase. Minutes later, Chinese patrol craft oblige by doing their own tour of the North Korean border.

Later in the day we get to bear witness to North Korean brinkmanship firsthand. I am standing on the main “Bridge to nowhere” when suddenly a North Korean tug churns directly under my feet doing about 9 knots. It is towing an empty North Korean scow, and it’s bowling directly for the concrete support of the opposite bridge some 200 ft away. At the last minute, the tug and scow avoid the concrete support by inches. For my part, I am amazed I wasn’t witness to a royal accident and sinking.

Lunch is a local Dandong restaurant. The food as usual is plentiful, often strange, and ranges the gamut in palatability. Downstairs, we can see all the live fish, giant clams, octopi, and silkworm grubs that can be prepared into our meals. Never had a clue that silkworms were so damn big. Those puppies are bound to have a flavor with that much meat on them.

We’ve barely arrived, when it’s time to make our way back to Shenyang by the same train that brought us here. The train ride is very pleasant, with bunks for us, and sharing the space with well traveled companions makes for excellent storytelling that makes the miles drift by.

Outside, cities give way to countryside, and in their turn, to mountains, often covered in agriculture themselves, crops growing precariously on steep cliff faces. If there is one thing China illustrates, it is a desperate need for food to sustain it’s incredible population. The train has one curiosity I’ve yet to encounter; pit toilets. A simple horizontal hole in the floor that you squat at, and rushing water that flows continuously to take away the waste. I give thanks once again that I’m a man, and that squatting is an option and not a requirement.

Disaster almost finds us in Shenyang. We exit the train at what we think to be our station. Porters and baggage handlers are supposed to meet us at the platform to take our luggage to the bus. However, the handlers are not there, and one of our party members motivates us to grab our luggage. Not a moment too soon, as the train rapidly leaves, and leaves us stranded at the wrong station. The problem is soon righted after a slight delay, and we find ourselves in some Swiss branded hotel.

Our tour guide knows the American Consulate General in the city, and so we have dinner with him and the section chief of politics and economics in the region. Outside of our own tour party, these will be the first americans we will have been in contact with since the trip began, and I am momentarily floored as the african american woman speaks perfect Manderin… And then follows it with authentic, perfect english. Not British english, or Aussie english, or the stuttering english of our guides and officials, but authentic, amazing, fluent American english. The native accent is like a curious rainfall through a landscape that hasn’t realized it was in drought until that instant.

The meal is again from a Korean Government establishment. Though the food is fine, the flavors are well traveled and hardly appreciated. Danielle Andrews is the consulate general I end up speaking to, and she updates me on the news and current events, as well as enough sports to drown a horse. I smile good naturedly, but have little to relate.

After dinner we return to our hotel. Some of our party elected to forego dinner to stay at the hotel bar. The establishment is a curious clash of cultures, with a bavarian construction, complete with asian servers in bavarian outfits.

The beer however, is expensive, and more importantly, authentic. Tim, my drinking and exploring buddy on this trip, has been chomping on bread, butter, and beer, and couldn’t be happier. Indeed, after 2 weeks of guzzling beer that compares to Coor’s light on the high end, the hearty amber rolls down the throat like a dream. Tim and I go exploring the city for trouble again, but succeed in only finding a night market that is closing down. The dirtiness of the market is astounding, food rubbish is strewn all over the street in such disarray that I couldn’t even imagine in Mexico. Soon, to bed, tomorrow we’re on our way back to Beijing.

Bridge to Nowhere.

The morning starts at a museum that shows us the Chinese contribution to the Korean War. The familiar statues, the memorial wall that reminds one of the Vietnam memorial, the battle maps and photos are for the most part mundane. There are a couple of displays that show American munitions with bugs in them, supposedly infected with disease to make the enemy sick.

Afterwords, we take a riverboat down the Yalu river, which separates the Chinese and North Korean borders. North Korea is a desolate if pretty looking piece of countryside, in stark comparison to the highly industrialized and built up Chinese side. How China must tantalize these North Koreans with their bright lights and plenty. There are four bridges that span this river at this point, all of them broken half way across the water. Once upon a time, they crossed over the water, but during the Korean War, the US bombed all the brides on the North Korean side, leaving the Chinese spurs intact. Thus, bridges to nowhere.

Later in the day we visit a school dedicated to Mao Se Tong’s son, who was killed in the Korean War. The school is fairly unremarkable except for a small museum dictating the history of Mao Se Tong’s son, who looked to be a quite handsome kid if he had lived.

Finally the highlight of today’s adventures. At a certain point, a tributary of the Yalu river narrows to a finger, and a crossing point to North Korea is achieved. Though well guarded, it is nicknamed “One step stream” because of its narrowness. It has evolved into something of a tourist attraction as well. Though we could easily step across this tributary, there a half dozen diesel boats with exposed motors that are there to ferry the tourists across. Though hardly necessary, I suppose they’re put here to extract some sort of tourist fee. A small stand is also nearby where you can buy sausages and cigarettes to take over and bribe the North Korean guard so he’ll let you off the boat and onto North Korean soil.

The boat ride is through water hardly 2 feet deep, the engine’s diesel is nauseating with its overpowering acrid odor, and the tension is kept up by noting foxholes and bunkers on the North Korean border, watching our approach. The boats are almost intentionally loud, as if to advertise our presence and avoid any sort of misunderstanding.

We arrive at the drop off point, where our captain halloos the North Korean border. Several minutes pass by with no result, and the captain turns us back to the Chinese border. Our american guide protests, we should try again, we haven’t come across the entire word to be turned back now. The captain disagrees, we are americans, and the South Korean and American army are conducting war games in the theater of operations, considering the journalists that were abducted relatively close by earlier in the year, our captain does not feel trying again is prudent, and will listen to no bribe to the contrary.

Dejectedly we head back to the Chinese side of the border, even as a motorcycle roars up from the North Korean side. An officer our guide informs us, he’s keeping watch, that’s why no soldiers answered our halloo to meet us at the river’s edge.

On the Chinese side, directly surrounding this “One step across” tourist attraction, is the easternmost section of the Great Wall. On our way to explore it, we walk past an old shop with an ancient man sitting in front of it, staring at us bemusedly. Several of our party wish for a photograph with the old man, who wears an old communist army uniform. At our request, our translator asks the old man our questions.

“The uniform is from the Korean War, he fought against the Americans.” We all smile good naturedly, the old man barely seems to be able to place where he is, and is reminiscent of a wise old Yoda.

Our guide smiles and points at all of us arrayed before the old man. “All of these people, Americans.”

The old man blinks and looks at us all, then responds. “I never killed any of them.” We laugh heartedly at his response and grab pictures with him. His grand daughter proves to be a good sport as well, taking pictures with us. Most interesting to me is her cell phone which is about 3 iphones thick, and 5 times as heavy. Yet arrayed into it, is a smorgasbord of technological gadgetry that could rival an iphone in most tasks.

Later is the Great Wall. Our particular section is rather short, no more then a mile in length, but has seen extensive reconstruction. This structure has been the only real excuse for exercise on this trip, and I summit the wall resolutely, huffing and puffing at the 16 inch rise in steps. Tim, our tour member that got in trouble with the North Korean Internal Security earlier on the plane, is a runner, and he eagerly bounds off to traverse the wall in its entirety.

That evening, we stop in on a park in Dandong to pick up Mao pins, if we so desire. The park is bustling with thousands of people. Hundreds of weddings are taking place. Next year is the year of the Tiger, and couples are eager to get married now so they can have a child in the year of Tiger, a year that promises great wealth to those born under its sign.

At night, we eat at a North Korean restaurant, in China. The restaurant serves typical Korean fare, though of much higher quality then we ever had in Korea. The servers wear traditional Korean dress, and sing Korean patriotic songs while we eat. Apparently everyone at the establishment comes from highly loyal and well placed social classes within North Korea. They all have rooms together in an apartment building, no fraternizing with others, and they are all interrogated separately in North Korea upon their return to make sure their stories match up.

Later, I escape with a couple of the other Americans to explore the depths of Dandong. “Get in trouble,” as they like to say. Somewhere along the line we run down a street is packed with karaoke bars. Inside are karaoke machines, and by all the girls eyeing us, it would appear other things as well. Certainly the barkers seem to imply that more goes on inside then just karaoke. An interesting offer, but karaoke in chinese is too foreign to be truly enticing. Tim and I get mildly buzzed off cheap chinese beer, and call it a night, even as a heavy rain follows our retreat towards the hotel.

Red Freedom

Today is our last day in North Korea. The North Korean government only allows Americans to stay 5 days in country, partial days including. So although we’ve been in country for only 3 full days, our incoming and outgoing days count against us. Probably a good thing, as all of us are itching furiously under the hand of Kim Jong-il.

On our way to the airport, we are able to stop at one last tourist destination, the memorial to Chinese aid in the Korean war.

Although the Chinese lost over 300,000 to helping their Korean neighbors in the struggle against the UN in the Korean war, the monument recognizing their sacrifice is decidedly small. It serves as a token reminder, more for tourists and chinese I suppose, then it does for North Koreans. To learn of the huge Chinese sacrifice in the Korean war would diminish the awesomeness of Kim il-Sung’s reputation, and bring doubts to his leadership.

The monument is insignificant compared to the other sights we saw the previous days, and makes for a short tour. Outside however, we run into a group of precocious 2 year olds, in the care of the state. Daycare is free in this country, and everyone is supposed to resume their duties shortly after childbirth. It is both a testament to the system that allows for free daycare, and a sobering realization that the indoctrination away from the parents supervision will be imprinted into these very young minds almost from birth.

The airport is relatively busy. Three flights will leave today, and three will return, as today marks the turnover of tourists to the country. The tourist itineraries are determined by North Korea, and so there are no random visits, only a precisely timed ebb and flow put in motion by the government.

We bid goodbye to our guides, and leave for our plane. Most of us are eager to leave, and done with picture taking. One of our party however, Tim, has memory to fill however, and he snaps pictures of our plane as we board.

A poor time for such an endeavor it appears. As we are seated, Tim gets brought forward for interrogation and review of his photos by some sort of internal security officer. The officer’s command of english is poor, which allows Tim to dodge many of the probing questions and feign ignorance. He manages to escape unscathed, minus some 40 odd pictures he had taken prior to departure, mostly of poor people in the countryside. The tension mounts slightly, and is hardly alleviated with the in-flight meal, a pile of grease that resembles the infamous burger in a can.

The flight is thankfully short, and we touchdown in Shenyang, China. The cabin door opens and the familiar scent of diesel and acrid pollution assaults our noses almost immediately. Tim is first out the plane, only too eager to get on the shuttle to the terminal. As I reach the tarmac, I have a sudden urge to kiss the ground which I suppress. In the shuttle, I remark to Tim, “Smell that? The acrid tang of pollution? That’s Red Freedom my friend!”

And so it is. Chinese socialism is in the details, the broad brushstrokes of society have been painted in vibrant capitalism, and compared to the last three days, China feels welcomingly like home.

We take a bus from the airport to the train station, our eventual destination is Dandong, a town on the Yalu river, which separates China from North Korea. Shenyang is a city that nobody in the US has heard of, and yet, here it is, a vibrant sprawling metropolis of some 7 million people. The pollution is horrible, yet notably better then Beijing, allowing us to appreciate the size and scope of the urban infrastructure that defines the city. On our way to the train station, we stop off at a statue of Mao, one of two that exist in the country after the majority were torn down for one reason or another. Though impressive, the statue is dwarf by North Korean standards. It is also in the middle of downtown, and all around it, huge neon signs, giant hotels, and towering office complexes give silent testament to what ideology eventually won this society.

We’re given an hour to ourselves, and I set out to explore the downtown area and rustle up food. KFC is abundant here, and elsewhere throughout the country. They have achieved unrivaled success in this country, not only because of the food, but because the Colonel that brands the company reminds chinese people of an old confucian gentleman. I pass, looking for something as least vaguely more local. I wander by many restaurants, suddenly intimidated by my complete inability to say even one word in mandarin. FInally I spot a California Noodle King, a fast food joint that serves ramen of the chinese sort. I roll my eyes, as I’ve never once seen a California Noodle King in California, but pop inside and hope for the best.

The place is staffed out by highschool aged kids who hand me an hand written english menu. Their english is limited, but they eagerly watch me, and laugh amongst themselves. “Foreigner,” I hear them murmur to each other.

I place an order for beef ramen, and the girl punches in the order on a little cell phone device. After three days eating mediocre bulgogi, bipbimbap, and the like, the ramen tastes delicious, and I wolf it down voraciously.

The train station is large, crowded, and stinky. The restrooms are dark affairs with walls lined with black tarps. You pee towards the walls, and it all miraculously somehow goes where it needs to, though the stench of ammonia is constantly on the verge of overpowering us entirely.

Despite having just eaten, I’m still starving. In the US, grilled corn with paprika, butter and salt might be a common treat, in China, the corn is boiled in crock pots at every corner, and I am strangely enticed. I duck into a convenience store, grab a water and a corn, and head to the cashier.

She babbles something to me, and I can only shake my head in confusion, in response, I simply hand over to her the smallest bill I have, a 100 yuan note. She babbles at me again, I can only stand stupidly, having not even a rudimentary grasp of the language. In exasperation, she reaches into the drawer, and drops 4 coins in my hand and motions me out of the shop.

My ears burn as I have a sudden feeling I’ve been had. But with no way to communicate to her or to others the injustice at hand, and not sure of the value of the coins I hold, I skulk away with my corn and water. Later, on the train, my compatriots would confirm the fact, I had just spent $15 for a bottle of water and a corn, and got 90 cents back. My lessons in mandarin are rapidly becoming quite expensive.

The train is a pleasant 4 hour journey allowing us to see the countryside of northern China roll by. Again, here as elsewhere, construction is rampant, agriculture grows right up to the windows of many a rural home. By the tracks I view streams of sewage, and food crops growing on their edge. Many houses are dotted with solar hot water heaters as well. Sophisticated looking devices that allow them modern conveniences despite having no connection to the grid. Melons sprout on the same roofs, gathering precious rays of sun and shading the house beneath.

By evening, we’re in Dandong and taken to our hotel. The Crowne Palace here is barely a year old, and our rooms are stupendous expressions of modernity with commanding views of the Yalu river. Apparently after our days in Korea, we are going to be doing this leg in style. One of my fellow tourists, Robert, indicates he’s interesting in exploring the city, and I jump at the opportunity to accompany him.

We watch dancers at the town square, wander dirty promenades, and watch people send paper lanterns into the night sky. Fishers comb the river for fish with nets, a first for my western eyes. Tiny fingerlings, things that would never be toyed with the the states, are caught here. Watching the fishermen, I can’t decide if they’re subsistence or sport fishermen. None of them seem terribly serious about the endeavor, and yet, I fail to see the sport in catching anchovies with a net.

We run into a lady hawking Kim-il sung pins. Here in China, they’re a couple of dollars, in North Korea, they are simply unobtainable. Robert has been around the world half a dozen times, he counts visits to the north pole and south pole amongst his itinerary, so despite knowing no mandarin, he bargains with the saleslady with an easy going attitude that gives me much delight to watch. Bargaining usually makes me uncomfortable, but here, in a society that expects it, and having been conned time and time again, I revel in the hard bargains Robert strikes.

Finally, we head back to our palace of a hotel. Tomorrow we will attempt the unthinkable. We shall attempt a crossing into North Korea from the Chinese border.

A bad photoshop job.

Today we journey to Mt. Myohyang, scene of beautiful mountain scenery. More importantly though our guides inform us, we will be visiting The International Friendship Exhibition. An Opulent palace built into the side of the mountain that houses all of the gifts of state that were sent to Kim Sung-il.

The morning is bright and sharp, and the drive is pleasant indeed, quickly moving into hills and then green covered mountains. As we arrive, we are astounded at hundreds of tour busses parked around the palace. Thousands and thousands of North Koreans are here to visit the exhibit. It’s in an idyllic mountain setting as well, with crisp mountain air, and the Koreans are obviously eager of their surroundings, International Friendship Exhibit or no.

As are we. Pyongyang has to be one of the least polluted cities in the world, still, the grey soviet era concrete has proved wearisome, and we’re as skittish as children in the greenery of the mountains.

Once again our foreign status allows us to bypass the lines and lines of locals, and we find our way into the international friendship exhibit. It proves to be a rather drab experience overall. Hall after hall after hall of gifts of state that the various countries around the world have sent Kim Sung-il. Possibly the most interesting are the Soviet gifts, the Soviet Art Deco aesthetic being a particular favorite of mine. Armored cars, amored trains, swords, guns, the Friendship Exhibit has it all in spades. A rather bizarre gift of a stuffed alligator carrying cups of wine is a momentary eye opener amongst the boredom. Gifts from the US are notably few, with a couple simple metal seals from CNN as the only evidence of “friendship” from our nation.

We are led past a long hall of pictures of animals. These, our guide informs us, are pictures of animals that were sent to Kim Sung-il, as gifts of state from other nations. Though animals from all parts of the world are in evidence, I give an involuntary bark of laughter within seconds of viewing the photos, the other tourists start in surprise.

“They’re photoshopped! They’re all bad photoshop jobs!” And they are, mismatched shadows, mismatched lighting, lousy masks, missing shadows. It’s not even hard to tell, all of the photos stand out like a sore thumb. Yet these photos have fooled the rest of my media centric party, they certainly will fool the intended audience, North Koreans, most who have never even heard of photoshop. I can only facepalm myself in disbelief at the blatant charade.

We leave the International Friendship Exhibit, and are given a rare choice on this trip. Would we like to see the International Friendship Exhibit for Kim Jong-il, or see some historic palace complex. Having completely exhausted our piety to the leaders, we opt for the historical palace. It is interesting to note at how much less reverence Kim Jong-il gets. Whereas Kim Song-il’s praises are sung high and low, Kim Jong-il is barely in the spotlight by comparison. Kim Song-il is the “Great Leader”, Kim Jong-il is the “Dear Leader” supposedly, the next in succession will be titled the “Brilliant Comrade.” We joke amongst ourselves that after the “Brilliant Comrade,” the next in the line of succession will be titled, “Some Dude.”

The palace is pretty enough, but it’s the ability to wander amongst trees that has most of us enthralled. After four days of constant minding, each of us are desperate to run off into the forest. Suddenly the woman who ran from her tour last year and got shot to death as a consequence doesn’t seem so crazy. Being told what to do, being watched constantly, like some school child has rubbed our nerves raw. Tempers lash out suddenly and die out just as quickly.

We drive back to Pyongyang where one last treat awaits us. The Pyongyang circus. It will be interesting to see how they compare to what we have stateside, but for the most part, the enthusiasm amongst our tour is extremely lacking.

On the way out of the mountains, I see individuals hunched over the river. Slurry pits abound, and even a lone bulldozer plying the water. Our literature tells us that gold extraction is illegal on the river, as Kim il-Sung wished to preserve beauty of the river for all to enjoy. Yet, here we see illegal activity as random small scale gold panning operations dot the river in open defiance.

Later we come across a diesel truck which has a pipe coming out of the hood. The pipe leads back to the pickup bed in the rear and into a wood burning brazier which peasants are stuffing twigs and wood into. We had heard the rumors before, wood burning diesel trucks were heard to roam North Korea, running despite a lack of fuel. The tour bus scrambled to take pictures of this oddity, but even as we do, our tour guide tells us with unexpected ferocity to delete all the photos we had just taken. Apparently, the wood burning truck is a bit of an embarrassment.

The circus is impressive at times, most impressive is a clown act where a korean plays with a child like doll that falls and droops most convincingly as if made of wood. It is only in the end, after the doll has been twisted and abused in a dozen positions that it stands up and reveals itself to be a young girl!

A quick stop at the #1 International Department store is wholly impressive. The only things that make it notable are its relative lack of products, incredibly high prices, and again, no pictures. Perhaps they’re worried that we’ll show the outside world what is slipping by the embargo.

Our last supper follows at a Korean barbecue restaurant that pretends to offer a menu and choices, but instead serves only what they wish. Though not amazing, it it the best meal we’ve had throughout the tour. It is accompanied by singing and instrument playing, which though amusing here, will prove to become quite old in the days ahead.

English 101

Dawn arrives with more fog and a hazy sun. Again the deathly quiet; the only structure distinguishable in the fog is the Juche tower down river.

Today is an important day, for today is the day we go see Kim Sung-il’s body in state.

Kim Sung-il is all important here because he is credited with freeing Korea from the imperialists, first the Japanese, and then the Americans in the Korean War. More credit goes to the Russians and the Chinese for these events, but Kim Sung-il was at the right place and the right time, and made himself into a legendary figure by spreading a coupla fish stories.

In any case, Kim Sung-il is nothing less then a god on earth. Though officially, socialism is an atheistic social order, and Korea as well, the truth is that the country follows the cult of Kim Sung-il, with all the trappings of any religion. Today is the day we visit the body of the Great Leader.

The building that his body is housed in is an old palace/administrative building Kim-Sung-il administered the country from. This concrete, granite, and marble structure has since been refurbished into a grand mausoleum where his preserved body lies in state. It is here that we witness the height of North Korean absurdity.

Security is of paramount importance, all of our belongings, including our cameras are taken from us. All of us are donning ties and our travel best to pay our respects (non negotiable.) The Koreans are in full 3 piece suits, the women decked out in their brightest and finest dresses.

Though visiting the Great Leader is a momentous occasion for any North Korean, probably even a mandatory occasion, once again, well heeled foreign devils get precedence. On many occasions we cut in front of long lines of thousands and thousands of North Korean peasants and elite. They must think we are only too eager to see this leader and pay our respects to continuously be shunted to the front of every line in the building.

The building itself is a mindfuck of gargantuan proportions. A temple built from granite, and marble, it hosts the longest walkway in the world, which I estimate at about a quarter mile in length. The entire building plays out like some bizarre game level in a first person shooter. Down escalators, up elevators, past random halls, down long arcades, until the visitor is completely lost and disoriented. Past huge statues, past memorial inscriptions, past thousands and thousands and thousands of North Koreans all in line to see the Great Leader.

Finally the inner mausoleum. We walk through a short corridor equipped with a moving walkway that brushes our feet, as well as giant fans that blow the remaining dust off of our bodies. Ceremonial honor guards, their shiny AKs glistening, their boots sparkling as they goose step down granite floors. A final set of solid brass doors which must weigh some ten tons apiece and then we’re inside.

The interior is a dark gloom, entirely made from black marble. The room is devoid of light except for a bank of lights that illuminate a raised dais, and the body of Kim Sung-il in state inside his glass coffin. Kim Sung-il died in 94, and all things considered, his body looks fairly decent for having been lying their for fifteen years. Gravity has taken its toll however, and his facial features creep downward, the skin pulling tight across his nose and forehead, giving him a slight Michael Jackson look.

Protocol, and the soldiers that surround the room, require us to bow at his feet, his left side, and his right side before we exit the room. The incident passes unremarkably except for a teenage Chinese sports team that are in line behind us to pay their respects. It is obvious that such things are completely foreign to their experience. Their eyes are wide in disbelief in some, and barely contained fear by others. They bow quickly, eager to get out of the sight of the fierce guards watching them, or the dead body on a dias.

A quick tour of the awards room, reveals all of the medals, awards, and commendations that Kim Sung-il ever collected. There is little from the US, though a honorary degree from some never before head of college in Glendale does bear noting.

And then we take leave of the bizarre experience, which now that it’s behind us, feels like some twisted amusement park. “Kim Sung-il, the Ride!” they would call it.

Our next stop is the Grand People’s Study House, which is like a great library and university rolled into one. Here, under the supervision of officials, people can check out books, study Juche (roughly translates into self-reliance) learn english, surf the internet, watch selected western programming, and listen to western music, of which Madonna and Billy Rae Sirus are both readily available. Here also is where the great study desk that Kim Sung-il invented is displayed, its merits being that it can be raised and lowered.

Possibly the most interesting part of this place was when we visited the english classes. The english students stared at us with rapt curiosity, and somewhere along the way, my roommate James was talked into providing a quick lesson, which I’m sorry I largely missed hanging out in the adjoining english class next door. By the time I arrived however, James was running out of content, and with little recollection how it happened, I found myself in front of the class teaching a class in something decidedly local, english slang and ebonics.

The students paid rapt attention, repeating precisely what I was saying; though only two months in, their command of english was quite impressive. I’m not sure if they totally understood what I taught them, but somewhere out there, there are North Koreans intensely greeting each other with “Sup dawg!” My work here is complete. Running out of content, and having no lesson plan to back me up, I turn the room the questions, expecting queries about Los Angeles, the United States… Instead I get more queries into my age and marital status to much amusement by all involved.

The rest of the day are landmarks within the area. The Juche Tower, a giant paintbrush/flame that expresses the Juche ideal; the dedication of self-reliance, which North Korea has had to painfully realize after losing its two sponsors and aid donors in the socialist world, China, and the Soviet Union. The tower is barely open, only one of the elevators works, the restrooms do not, and the staff are almost non-existent. It does provide a nice view for photographing the city, and I make good of the opportunity.

In the distance the Ryugyong Hotel glowers. Under construction since 1987, the 105 story hotel would be the tallest in the world, if it was ever completed. An embarrassment to a nation that usually gets construction projects done in less then a year. Apparently the hotel was funded by French foreign investment, and when North Korea defaulted on its loans, construction on the tower simply halted. Twenty-two years later however, the tower is once again under construction, it’s facade almost entirely covered in glass, a very recent development.

We take a brief tour through Pyongyang’s subway, again host to another superlative. The stations are some 300 meters underground, and are some of the deepest in the world, their depth allowing them to double as bomb shelters in a pinch should the Americans come again. Below, the subway boasts classic Soviet architecture, grandiose chandeliers and patriotic mosaics. We take a brief ride on the subway, under the watchful portraits of Kim Sung-il and Kim Jong-il. There are many rumors that the subway is only the two stops we visited, and that actors fill the stations to give the impression of a full railway. I find the rumors unfounded however, the familiar smell of humanity, sweat, and urine are prevalent even here, a testament to a well used public transportation system.

The war museum is next. Here the Koreans trumpet their triumphs over the Americans, proudly displaying captured and destroyed american military hardware from the Korean war. Kindergarten students are also on tour here, learning of triumph of Kim-il Sung against the evil Americans from the very beginning.

The propaganda overload is starting to wear thin on our party, and grumbling starts permeating the ranks, thankfully, our next stop is the children’s palace. The Children’s Palace is essentially a cross between an academy dedicated to the performing arts, and a giant YMCA.

Our tour guide through this part of the trip is a young girl, probably about 12, who would be adorable except for a shrill voice and a memorized script that dares not deviate. I have a terrible urge to open up her skull and see if she’s really human, or if the Koreans simply have pushed past us in robotic technology while we were pre-occupied with their nuclear program. Otherwise the kids are adorable and talented throughout. While South Korean children have to compete with each other, Japan, and eventually, Americans to stand out academically, North Korean children are given relatively generous time to pursue extracurricular activities. The finale is a children’s performance of acrobatics, song and dance which is supposed to enthrall, but serves rather to further disgruntle our tour group. Children bopping around on the stage has little appeal for our weary group that has spent all day immersed in anti-american propaganda. Snide comments come out, and you can sense our group ready for beer and alone time.

One more stop however, the birthplace of Kim Sung-il, or his parents. Officially, Kim Sung-il’s birthplace may have been moved to Mount Paektu to further elevate his status as a god amongst men. In any case, this attraction is thankfully outdoors in a somewhat forested area, and I’m pleased to be amongst greenery.

The sacred well of Kim Sung-il is located here. Our guides inform us that if we fail to drink, we shall regret it our entire lives. The rest of the party declines. Haphazardly I pull up a bucket and drink a cup. A wise man once said that we only regret things we didn’t do, never what we did, but I suspect he was talking about women. The water is cool and refreshing, and though I drink deep, I am mindful of the thousands of chinese and koreans that drank from the same cup, many of them wearing flu masks. “So much for regrets,” I mumble, half expecting my insides to turn to jelly at any moment.

The Great Divide

Dawn breaks, cool and quiet. A thick fog has rolled in, and hides the city in secrecy.

Though we’re in a city of 2 million people, it is deathly quiet outside. You can hear lone voices talking in hushed tones outside the kitchen 27 floors below. The river is still, devoid of traffic, as it will remain for the rest of the day.

Breakfast is a smorgasbord of western and korean entrees. The food is plentiful, but the quality is lacking. White bread without crusts, eggs with more oil then substance, cabbage stir fry without flavor. The yogurt is in a fridge, fresh made, and very sour, like the type my mother made when I was a child. Though palatable, you can tell the yogurt was made from low fat milk, and it does nothing to help this homemade endeavor.

Water is available, but orange juice, or anything else you’d imagine for breakfast does not exist. Hot coffee and tea, but this morning the servers are running slow, and I never see my tea. Instead there is a plastic container with a clear green fluid labeled “Green Drink” available for consumption. Dubiously, I grab a tiny glass that could be completely covered by my fist and pour myself a glass.

It resembles sprite, and apple puckers without any carbonation. Bubbles is about the only thing that makes soda mildly tolerable, and this concoction is an unwelcome addition to breakfast.

And then we’re off to the DMZ. Though the trip is some 70 miles, this trip will take us three and a half hours. Apparently some of the bridges on the highway are “under repair” and so we must take large detours.

In the morning fog, the country seems surrounded in solitude. Traffic guards wave us out of the city, rare cars pass us with much honking. Indeed, this appears to be the primary way of passing. All vehicles seem to occupy both lanes until someone comes from behind, then the passing vehicle honks obnoxiously until the slower vehicle moves over into the right lane.

This morning however, little passes us, except for other tour busses. For the most part, we do the passing, ox carts, pedestrians, random diesel trucks, local busses, rusted out and filled with North Koreans. Ah socialism, they may get all of life necessities for free, but it shows. The foreign devils payed a pretty penny for their electricity, their hot water, their fast busses, so they get the best of everything. In the back of my mind I wonder how they justify carting around imperialist americans like kings to their own impoverished people.

An empty 4 lane highway becomes a two lane highway, and then makes a detour, down dirt roads to another highway, an impatient official stuck behind us in the dust. By the side of the road, a stream that has rock piled up to pool the water. I ask the guide the reason for this, but he can give no answer, either not knowing, or not wanting to tell. My best guess is artificially created pools to wash laundry in.

The black sedan with the official finally passes us, his red Korean flags fluttering from the prow, and once again we’re left to ourselves in this alien landscape.

A rest stop looms out of the fog halfway through our journey. Here there is a a small market of snacks and souvenirs for tourists. Inside the huge two story concrete building is an empty game hall with a billiards table and attendants. A large poster proclaims the wonderful curative powers of Korean tea. The restrooms are rank with the smell of ammonia, paper, whether beside the toilet of the sink, has become a distant memory. Indeed, running water is also of the past; by the sink is a large plastic tub with a pot to scoop water out of and put into the sink.

Outside at the market, I buy two asian pears. Though highly lauded by the saleslady, and members of our tour group, I find one of them mealy, and the other merely passable. Our tour materials strongly suggest peeling any fruit we eat in country, but the thought of fruit without peels is far more distasteful then whatever horrifying possibility might exist.

The fog slowly lifts, even as our own road climbs higher into the mountains towards Kaesong, the North Korean city that sits next to the DMZ. As we get closer, we see huge concrete pillars by the side of the road with patriotic slogans on them.

Tank traps our guide informs us as we pass them. Upon invasion by the South Koreans/US, the concrete pillars are demoed and they fall to block the road slowing the enemies’ advance.

The sun is high in the sky, and the morning gloom has given away to humid heat when we finally arrive at the DMZ. Here a half dozen tour busses loiter with europeans and chinese tourists. The DMZ is another mile away, but we must wait here at the staging point for a military escort/tour guide.

It is here I become most bored and first seek to push my limits by taking pictures of the soldiers, a big no no. Though the other tourists lack my SLR lens setup, they make up for it with covert point and shoot cameras that often can capture the taboo better then I can. My giant SLR makes me stick out like a sore thumb, and makes taking pictures of the forbidden that much harder.

My first attempt to shoot an unauthorized soldier is of mixed success. The soldier sees me taking his picture, and blares at me with his whistle, but he’s powerless to stop me as he’s guarding the DMZ, and is not authorized to leave his post for a stupid foreigner!I move along quickly, eager not to incur our guide’s interest.

Another tour group has arrived, mostly with British and Australians; one of their member has caused quite a hubbub. A young british kid, in full north Korean regalia he purchased in China, is quite enraptured with the attention he’s receiving. The Chinese tourists find him an endless source of amusement and insist on pictures with the closet North Korean fan. The Americans quietly simmer in disgust, the North Koreans for their part, are completely non plussed by the whole affair.

An eternity passes as we watch this kid wallow in his attention. Finally at long last, the guides signal that our military escort is ready for us, and we head to our bus without regrets. Inside the bus a surprise awaits us. A dark haired fellow around my age of European decent sits near the front of our bus, trying to look vaguely unassuming. I sit in the seat behind him and blow his intentions royally.

“A new one eh? Where you from? How’d you get on this bus?”

“I uh… Australia,” he says with that down under twang. “My tour group left without me, so I’m hoping I can sneak into the DMZ with you guys.”

“Oh really? Sure, why not,” I reply, “might make the trip more interesting.”

The guides when they see him however, are wide eyed and incredulous. “What are you doing here!?” They ask in astonishment. “No, no, you cannot be on this bus!” On cue, a quartet of soldiers enters on our bus, and motion the Australian off, he grimaces and I shrug apologetically.

We watch the soldiers lead the Australian behind the bus, everyone vaguely wonders as his future, and the balls he had for trying to come aboard our bus.

The bus rattles along a short two lane road. We see a potemkin village underneath a huge tower with the North Korean flag, all whitewashed with blue trim and empty like a tomb. Further afield, on a similar tower, a South Korean flag waves defiantly.

We arrive at the DMZ in short order, and a North Korean Colonel is assigned to us to explain the site to us. Two giant buildings, the North Korean in concrete, the South Korean in concrete and glass, stare at each other across the DMZ. Three blue buildings, erected by the UN for border communications and negotiations straddle the DMZ. Concrete borders mark the exact border, two North Korean guards face each other, guarding from those who might flee, a third guard stands with his back to the border, showing permanent disrespect for his southern brethren. The South Koreans are absent though. Once upon a time, they put their largest and most intimidating soldiers here to compete face to face, but either to ease tensions, or merely to show greater disrespect, only cameras watch this border from the South Korean side. Though the northern side is awash in tourists and soldiers, the southern side is ominously silent.

We go inside the UN buildings, the infamous blue room. Here the guards lock the door to the south when we go in and guard the exit. Southern guards will do the same when they lead their own respective tours through the building. It is here we are joined by the Australian from before.

“Made it!” I greet him cheerily.

“Yeah, they got me a private jeep so I could see the rest of the tour.”

“Tour of one!” I reply smartly. A pained smile is his only response. I chuckle appreciatively. Outside, a South Korean patrol is finally making their presence known. 4 soldiers march in syncopation, a relaxed, easy stride, but with enough cadence to mark the patrol as ceremonial in nature. They idly check us out as they march by, letting us know that more then cameras guard the southern border.

Finally we are led away to the armistice building. A special building that was constructed by the north for the signing of the armistice signifying the cessation of hostilities between the UN and North Korea. The “victory” building as the North Koreans prefer to call it, and why not; with Chinese aid, they fought the largest, undefeated superpower to a standstill long before Vietnam would ever occupy our collective imaginations. A victory it may not be, but holding the Americans at bay is hardly small potatoes for this small backwater nation. It seems petulant to begrudge them their embellishment of the facts.

Inside the colonel informs us that American aggression shall be fought to a standstill, “that bullets will be answered with bullets, missiles with missiles, and nukes with nukes.” James pointedly remarks that currently, the good colonel is being assaulted by American tourists rather then American aggression and perhaps the good colonel would like to answer that by visiting the US?

The colonel makes some nondescript remarks about how that would be a nice idea once the war is ended, and the Korea’s reunified. Here I try to press the issue.

“Please ask him, if the war was over today, and peace were to return between our nations, is their any other career or past time he would like to pursue besides that of a soldier?” I tell the interpreter.

“He says, peace? After reunification? I have been a soldier my entire life, since I was the youngest boy, my only dream in life has been to be a soldier and fight for the reunification of our country. When that is achieved, then we will see.”

I shake my head sadly at the man’s lack of imagination and move along to take pictures of dragon fruit. This apparently attracts the attention of one of the other North Korean guides, a pretty young woman in white and blue.

“Excuse me? What are you taking picture of?”

I gesture towards the dragon fruit. “Strange fruit I reply, maybe it’ll give me an interesting picture.” She nods vaguely, either that didn’t translate well, or it doesn’t make any sense to her. She tries another tack.

I think we’re the same age?” she asks hesitantly. I draw back in mock disbelief.

“Really? How old are you?” I ask.

“23,” she responds. I grin broadly. “27″ I reply, and move on to take more pictures.

Leslie, a member of our party, steps into my side as I take another picture. “The girl was hitting on you, get over there and I’ll take your picture with her.” (I want those pics Les!) Bemusedly I follow the guide and ask for a picture with her, which she blushingly grants. We go our separate ways and leave the DMZ for lunch.

Lunch is in a hundred brass dishes, neither amazing or horrible. Another member of our party, Tim, has established himself as quite a thirsty drinker, and ensures we all have plenty of beer on hand. Though the best stuff barely ranks with Coors, it definitely helps the rather redundant menus we’ve encountered. I take an early liking to the fellow who endeavors to keep us well supplied in suds.

A few nearby sights, and then it’s back to Pyongyang, by the time we’re back, it’s late in the evening, with only time to visit the USS Pueblo, a US spy ship captured in the 60s by the North Koreans. Next to the ship is a wicked looking spy torpedo of US origin as well. The guide lectures us in how the evil americans were foiled in their dastardly plot to spy on the North Koreans. Though I take the entire tour with a large grain of salt, the encoder/decoder machines that say “TOP SECRET” are rather damming. Still with this ship being captured in the 60s, I can only wonder why we weren’t doing our recon from the air in U-2s. Certainly I wonder what in the world off North Korea’s coast was so interesting that we’d put spy ships and bizarre spy torpedos to use.

More absurd however, are two cannons from the General Sherman that are on display. The General Sherman, a merchant schooner went to open Korea up to trade in 1866 by a British company, ran afoul of trouble, either of it’s own instigation or otherwise. In any case, many Koreans died, the entire crew were hacked to death, and the General Sherman burned. What’s ludicris however, is that North Koreans will insist that the General Sherman was attacked and destroyed deliberately by Kim il-Sung’s grandfather, further elevating the patriotic blood that flows through such a sacred bloodline.

Red Carpet

Our first encounters with the soldiers is at the airport.

As we check in our bags, a North Korean Colonel is checking in his as well. We stare in blatant curiosity, examining him like some kind of bug on a plate.

Past immigration, we wait for our flight, which is sitting at the gate. An old 70s era Soviet jet that has a back landing gear sticking out its rear, like some kind of cane.

Little by little North Koreans fill the waiting area. Spotting a North Korean is really easy, as they are all required to wear the red pin of Kim il-Song above their hearts. More soldiers arrive, tan, healthy, good looking soldiers. Only the very best to represent them abroad. Later we find out that they are actually North Korean’s Pentathlon team returning home from a match in Germany. Our American guide, Walter, engages them in conversation to learn limited details.

As I’m watching these soldiers in wide eyed spectacle, one comes over to eye me discreetly. I’m wearing an Adidas cap, and it has 3 chevrons on it. After a few minutes of inspection, he determines that I’m not military, and his interest moves elsewhere.

Boarding the plane is a blast to the past. The stewardesses are in bright crimson, the first class cabin has a table, and tablecloth for every two seats. The seats are old and thin, foam from another era. As we settle into our seats, the stewardesses hand us newspapers for the Pyongyang times. North Korean patriotic opera wafts over us; for the rest of our trip through North Korea, this will remain the only music we hear.

The flight is rather unremarkable, as is the food. Not horrifying, but nothing to get excited about either. At an extremely high altitude, I see the flaps engage. Then disengage, minutes later, they engage again. I suspect the pilot is actively using them throughout his flight as opposed to simply using them for final approach as most pilots do; perhaps the old Soviet bird requires a different sort of touch.

We touch down smoothly. Outside is miles and miles of farmland, and an odd peasant tending to his crops. The plane taxis to the terminal, and unbelievable distance away. Apparently, the airport was expanded years back, the runways were all built, but with insufficient funds to build a new terminal, the aircraft now have to taxi a couple of miles to the terminal.

We disembark to a classic landscape, there from all the pictures of the media, is the airport terminal with Kim il-Song’s smiling face beaming from above it. Though the distance to the terminal is hardly unwalkable, busses arrive to shuttle us the short distance.

The quarantine checkpoint here is a joke, the inspector takes our declaration, hardly looking at it, as if quarantine was simply something they picked up from the Chinese without fully understanding or caring why they did it. Visitor processing is an arduously slow process, the inefficiencies of the socialist model are starting to show even this early into our tour.

Finally, after what seems like an age, we arrive at baggage claim, only to wait another age for the packages from the single plane to arrive at the only conveyor at the airport.

And finally we’re on our bus, and off on our tour of North Korea. Peasants dot the fields and farms. They walk in the evening sun to and fro on the highway. Here and there are a few bicycles, a broken down soviet era truck, the mechanic underneath it, fixing it by the side of the road, very few vehicles besides our own bus are seen.

The trees and fields suddenly leap into tall and taller soviet era concrete apartment blocks, with crops growing right up to the sides of the building. Pyongyang unfolds from the hills around us, and immediately the presence of Kim il-Song is made apparent. Monuments, pictures and memorials litter the landscape, and ever present reminder of the benevolent gaze of the Great Leader.

A quick stop at the Arch of Triumph (larger then the one in France) and then we arrive to the statue of Kim il-Song to pay homage. We buy flowers, then are instructed in proper protocol. We must present the flowers, walk back a respectable distance, bow, and observe a moment of silence. At no time should our backs be to the statue, nor should we ever crop the picture of the Great Leader, he must be presented in full in all of our pictures. I disobey both rules, but the photos come out no better for my disobeying.

And then dinner. The bus stops at a random street in what appears to be a residential neighborhood. A restaurant greets us however, and we follow our guides inside.

The food is Korean hot pot. A fondue pot with broth awaits us, and a plate of raw mushrooms, vegetables and meats await us to simmer in the broth. Though not of first class quality, the food is quite palatable, and I am sad to rush the meal, as we are running late to see the Arirang Festival. Barely five minutes into the meal however, the power goes out, along with the air conditioners. We eat in the dusk light from our windows, sweating in the stifling heat.

Arirang roughly translates into something like “forbidden love”, or “the love of two individuals who have been apart a long time”, or “the love of two people unable to be together.” Think of the leads in the movie “The Notebook.” In North Korea’s case, it is a story that describes the separation of the two Korea’s from each other. Their unrequited desire to be reunited as one nation.

So the Arirang Festival is a monumental live performance by some (50,000?) performers. It is a one of kind spectacle on the planet, and highlight of any tour to North Korea. On the one hand it is spectacle of gymnastics, dance and martial arts, on the other hand it is an ultimate tool of indoctrination, drilling the overriding concern of reunification into the populace. The extensive planning, choreographing, and discipline required to pull this off immerse the population thoroughly in the socialist ideal, where the individual sacrifices all for the good of the whole.

The spectacle is nothing short of jaw dropping. As thousands perform choreographed routines, as high wire performances happen high above the crowd, as arial artists are catapulted into the sky, the entire performance is backdropped by a huge screen, that is compromised not by lasers, or lights, or pixels, but by thousands and thousands of children, drilled to perfection.

When the show ends, we are ushered out, where I encounter the first souvenir stalls of North Korea. They are all staffed by pretty North Korean women in their finest traditional dress, which remind me of Peeps candy. They are quite persuasive in selling me a couple pieces of art, despite their limited grasp of english. The Arirang promotional posters I buy are notable because though they are mass produced, they are not printed or silk screened, but rather hand painted!

Outside, thousands of performers and viewers are leaving the stadium. We run into a group of young girls from the performance, who stare laugh and giggle at us, even as we do the same to them. I goof around with them, drawing excited laughter from the girls, and bemused smiles from their minders.

A group of young soldiers, in their mid teens watch us board our bus in rapt curiosity, beaming bright smiles and waving excitedly as we wave back. I can only wonder if they know we are Americans, or if they really care.

The streets are dark on our ride towards the International hotel, located on an island in the middle of the river that runs through the heart of the city. A nice easy place to keep the tourists and residents entirely separate from each other. Outside the bus windows, in the dark, I can make out darker shadows as foot traffic continues in the city under the starlight.

Our hotel checkin requires our passports, which will be held for the duration of our stay. James and I go up to our room, on the 27th floor (rumored to be one of three floors in the entire hotel to actually have hot water). Inside, the room is clean if spartan, resembling a motel 6 more then anything else. The windows open straight up to the outside, with no wire screen separating us at all.

Downstairs is a bar, with alcoves that allow for almost complete privacy. We order draft beer, but it is of lousy quality, resembling brown water more then anything else. One is all we can take of this junk, and we retire to our rooms, mindful of a full day ahead of us on the morrow.

Little Shop of Horrors

A fitful night of sleeping, 16 hours from home, I finally understand what jet lag is.

James and I awake early, having both decided that the other is only pretending to be asleep. Downstairs, the breakfast buffet is served.

The hotel is large enough to provide both chinese and english breakfast options. On the chinese side, that means such delights as congee (a rice gruel) pork dumplings, fried rice, egg noodles, etc.; honestly, I can’t tell the difference between a chinese breakfast and dinner.

Melons are in abundant quantity, though the faint taste of sewage permeates their flesh. Not bad enough to make them unpalatable, or make you stop eating, but the taste is unmistakably there lingering in the background. My first time eating dragon fruit, gray chunks of melonish looking fruit with black seeds, is a bland experience best expressed with a shrug of the shoulders (later, in the states, I would encounter dragonfruit with bright bright magenta flesh and a more pleasing flavor).

Orange juice, grapefruit juice, is a nauseating blend of water and the required fruit syrup, poorly stirred. I sample a little of everything, but am mostly unimpressed. A banana I assume to be safe tastes vaguely like diesel fumes. China, has a pollution problem, through and through.

After breakfast is our briefing, basically a vocal runthrough of our reading materials. Don’t take pictures of soldiers, listen to the guides, never disrespect the leaders, Kim Sung-il, or Kim Jong-il in any shape or form, wear a tie when visiting Kim il-Sung’s body in state. Shit, that was one thing I forgot, I’ll have to acquire one before we leave for North Korea tomorrow.

And after that, the day is ours to explore. James and I hail a cab to take a look at the Bird’s Nest Stadium that played host to the Olympics. Our cabbie was by turns the most jovial man I’ve ever run into, or he liked making fun of Americans, or he was drunk. In any case, him and James engaged in basic conversation that for the most part sounded like genuine mirth, but it was so over the top that I often wondered.

Through the window, Beijing passes by, a violent collaboration of humanity, the first and third worlds thrown together with no respect for each other’s personal space. Lexus’s dodge bicycles, scooters (every single damn one of them electric! )dodging busses that were built yesterday, others built before Mao Zedong died. New and old, all co-exist here. If there is any analogy I could create for Beijing, it would be this: imagine you took the US, and merged it with Mexico, then you gave the entire country a strong dose of crack, and boom, you have China.

We arrive at the Bird’s Nest in typical Beijing weather, polluted. A wall of gray surrounds us, preventing visibility beyond a half mile. Above us, a vicious yellow sun stabs the grey, heating everything up, but never punching through in such a way that you can actually see it. In the US, it is relatively easy to dismiss global warming, but here, in Beijing, with a greenhouse effect going rampant in your immediate vicinity, you begin to wonder if maybe global warming is possible, certainly while you’re in Beijing, it feels possible.

The Bird’s Nest is a curious stadium, a jumble of pillars that appear to be steel, but examined up close is simply concrete with a silver paint. Clever. I never understand the economics behind the Olympics. Here we stand on the grounds of a massive stadium, flanked by massive plazas, surrounded by huge sports complexes, all which must have been constructed under enormous expense. It is hard for me to imagine that the tourism and tickets sold at the Olympics actually recompenses the expenses. Perhaps I’m wrong, certainly here in Beijing, we can see efforts to repurpose the stadium for the 60th anniversary of the People’s Republic of China which is actually going on today, Oct. 1st as I submit this journal entry.

Within the Bird’s Nest, groundskeepers are mowing the grass and setting up a stage, 4 poor guards stand at rigid attention under umbrellas, guarding each corner from people who wish to run onto the field.

It’s here, as I witness the construction, the warped guardrails, the massive tons of concrete, the thousands of cheap seats in the stadium, that I ponder a thought experiment. What if, instead of buying cheap chinese junk, you built an entire country on it? There the answer is, spread in front of me for my consideration.

We take the subway back to downtown. It is a surprisingly clean, painless experience. The ticket machines are in english, the announcer speaks english, the trains have helpful dynamic maps that show which stop the train is currently at. Though crowded, the crowds are orderly and patient, certainly no pushing and stomping like you heard from the news only a few years ago. China is civilizing, sometimes in fits and starts, and sometimes with strange clashes with its past, but it’s often easier to compare where the US and China are similar then where they are different.

We arrive near the south east corner of Tieneman Square, I’ve requested this excursion because I’ve heard there’s a urban planning museum in the area, which titillates my Sim City geek to no end. Upon emerging from the subway however, we found ourselves very lost, and in a neighborhood that was a little off the beaten path. After turning around and around with a map, we surmised we needed directions and entered a mid class hotel, hoping for an english speaker to aid us.

No dice, but the receptionist really does want to help us, so she flips her computer over to us and types some characters. She hits a button, and boom! The keyboard flips to roman characters, and lo and behold, we’re staring at Google Translate. Amazing how technology has surmounted the impossible.

We type our query back, and she translates it back to Mandarin. A few minutes later, much to her amusement, she understands what we’re looking for, but so sorry, she does not know where it is. We leave, none the wiser, especially in retrospect when we could have used Google Maps to help us out at her terminal, but… *shrug*

So we make our way back to Tieneman Square (or where we hope it is) and nearly walk past the Beijing Urban Planning Museum! Which is sadly, closed for the day.

Lunch is sushi in an old establishment that James is familiar with when he used to work in Beijing. The place is empty, and features a carousal that brings the items around the dining area, round and round. The fish is slightly warm, and of mediocre quality, and I worry that China will test my stomach sooner rather then later. Afterwords we walk around the International Friendship Market which is a huge department store much like a Macy’s in New York. Perhaps it’s cause it’s a weekday, but the place is impressively empty, with clerks watching us disinterestedly as we walk past quarries of jade ornaments.

We leave to head back towards the hotel, when we run into the embassy area, which hosts a decidedly westernized commercial district, filled with mercedes and BMWs, as well as the largest Hagen Daz I’ve ever seen in my life. At 3 stories high, it dwarfs the surrounding establishments, and the combined heat and novelty, forces my hand, I’ve got to get something from this mega Daz.

The interior is decidedly smaller then the exterior, typical of China, an amazing face, and somewhat lacking behind. The menu is quite extravagant, with all sorts of gourmet-ish delights that I’ve never seen in the states. I however, simply go for a simple green tea milkshake.

As I sip my milkshake, I marvel at a Chinese couple in their 40s or 50s, quite rotund, ordering one of everything on the menu, I am even more surprised when they finish everything. *sigh* Whatever American’s do, the Chinese are determined to show us up.

We pick up a tie from some french sounding department store in a tourist mall, as we’re leaving, I hear in the background, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you know English?”

James turns to confront a girl we’ve never seen before; without missing a beat, “Nope, no English here!” The girl sighs in exasperation, and I cackle in glee, somewhat relieved that the scam was real and universal. Somehow the knowledge that I got had by a popular and universal scam instead of something specifically honed into my naivete makes it easier to bear.

We meet with the rest of our tour group that evening briefly. The idea is to find dinner together, but we quickly split off into subgroups to explore the city with newfound friends.

I tag after James, Cecilia, and Karl. Karl is a mirthful, retired lawyer from Deleware, and Cecilia is a bubbly divorce lawyer from the Carolinas, or Kentucky… Somewhere in that part of the world. In any case, their interest is the same as mine, Beijing’s infamous night market. This street is packed with vendors hawking the most incredibly disgusting things to tourists. Slugs, silkworms, dog, chicken stomach, cuttlefish, squid, crayfish, chicken fetuses, penises, testicles, if it moved once upon a time, the most disgusting part of it is here for you to consume.

I have fond memories of Tijuana, especially the street vendors, the smell of grilled onions and meat in open stall vendors makes my mouth water just from the memory. There is no correlation here at the Night Market. Almost universally, everything here is fried, seasoned with salt and spices, and the smells make me gag every few feet.

Do you remember how when you were in highschool, you were the best artist, mathematician, athlete, what have you? Then you went to college, and suddenly you were in an institution where every single one of your peers were the best of their own high school. That’s kind of what this night felt like. All my life I’d been the most adventurous eater, spicy, disgusting, whatever, bring it on. But here, on this trip with well traveled individuals, I was amongst the best the US could field in adventurous eaters. Sticks of bees (blah), cuttle fish (blah), bowls of dog (not bad actually), centipedes (blah), sheep liver (meh), sheep penis (yuck), chicken stomach (most foul, gagged on just the smell.) pass round and round, the vendors eagerly watching us down the disgusting smorgasbord. For once, I wish I was vegetarian, if simply to have the excuse to beg off this dizzying array of nasty.

An old stooped woman passes by, hawking beers in a canvas bag. I pass her up, not enthused to get ripped off again, after a moment’s consideration, and another gag worthy assaulting smell, I reconsider. Her prices are very reasonable, and I spend 50 cents on two cans of beer that taste like Coor’s Light. The best damn Coor’s Light I’ve ever had in my life.