[imText1]Come September 4, 1999, I was seated on an Air Koryo plane, having travelled from Beijing and now touching down on the landing strip of Pyongyang Airport. My initial glimpse from the air had confirmed what I’d already heard about the scarcity and poverty of North Korea. I saw a long stretch of empty motorway-one stationary car in the whole of the four lanes as far as the eye could see. On the country roads was the occasional bicycle, but by and large everyone travelled on foot. Oxen were employed to work the arable land.
In front of the airport, however- easily identifiable by the large portrait of Kim Il-Sung on top- a great scene was unfolding: several hundred people in uniform were lined up, carrying red flags and banners bearing slogans in Korean. It was a meticulously organized reception committee comprised of saluting soldiers, women in traditional dress and children with red scarves around their necks. I hoped this wasn’t for the Korea Film Show. It was a little overboard and far too much for a first-time visitor. But word had spread quickly among the UN aid workers and diplomats crowding the plane that a North Korean marathon runner, winner of a gold medal in some competition, was on board the flight. This reception was for her. While the passengers tried to snap some photos from the plane’s windows, North Korean army news men in uniform, carrying vintage 16mm cameras, ran frantically around on the tarmac. We couldn’t really see the marathon runner once she had left the plane-only the ebbing throng of cameramen and welcoming officials swarming around her.
Eventually, the crowd began to disperse and we were allowed off the plane-transported by bus the 150 meters to the airport building. Everything appeared in order with my papers. The immigration officer made no remark about the South Korean stamps in my passport-souvenirs of an earlier trip-nor my visa, which I had obtained only the day before in Beijing. I entered a hallway where passenger luggage was laid out on the concrete floor. Before I could find my bag, I was approached by a short-haired woman in her forties. “You must be Johannes Schonherr from Germany,” she said. “I’m your guide for your time in Korea. Welcome!” She must have studied my photo well-but then again, I was probably the only male in the country with long hair.
Customs procedures were surprisingly straightforward. The only thing the authorities seemed concerned about was cellular phones. This was the only reason they x-rayed the luggage. Nobody chose to look at the books in my bag.
Once through the check, my guide-Miss Choe of the Korea Film Export and Import Corporation-led me to a red bus. “Are there many people coming for the Film Show?” I inquired. “No, only one more,” she replied. “A young man from Switzerland.”
The young man from Switzerland finally arrived. His many bags had netted him a more thorough search at customs. “Hi, I’m Nicolas Righetti from Geneva,” he said as he peered in through the door of the bus. Miss Choe announced that we were in a hurry and that he should get on board quickly. Driving towards the city, I noticed that the commuters outside appeared to all be moving together as one, in one long line, like a giant millipede. I chatted with Nicolas, curious about the only other foreigner invited to attend the event to which we were headed. He had no idea what the Korea Film Show was about, but shared my belief that it must be some kind of national showcase.
The bus was stopped at a checkpoint, as was every other vehicle entering the city of Pyongyang. The driver yelled something in Korean to the guard and pointed towards us, the foreigners. The guard waved the bus through immediately.
The first concrete slab buildings of Pyongyang came into sight. Even more people lined the street, walking towards the city.
Suddenly, the tired-looking Miss Choe turned and asked me: “Mr Schoenherr, don’t you feel especially honored that this festival is taking place only for you?”
“Huh? What do you mean?” I replied, a little shocked. “You wanted the chance to see some of our movies here,” she continued. “Well, the Korea Film Show gives you this opportunity.”
“No, I know nothing about that,” I said. “I thought the Korea Film Show was some kind of festival and I’m its guest. I never knew anything about a festival staged for me…”
My head was trying to assimilate this information, what it meant, and the possible ramifications of being in a strange country that thinks my visit important enough that it has to create and organize a whole event.”
“What about Mr. Righetti?” I asked. “He was invited, too.” “I don’t know about him. He has his own guide,” said Miss Choe, in a manner that sounded more like a sigh than a statement. “You can ask Mr. Sok.”
Mr. Sok was the chain-smoking official sitting next to the driver, who wore sunglasses and carried a rather camp little leather handbag. We had met briefly at the airport, but he had otherwise remained perfectly quiet. Nicolas seemed to know him, however.
“I’m the Chief of Operations in Western Europe for Korea Film Export and Import Corporations,” Mr. Sok introduced himself. “But despite being in this position and going to Paris a few times,” he continued with a hint of resignation, “it was Mr. Paek who discovered you. He is the bigger official and has much bigger eyes than I do.”
“But you invited Mr. Righetti?” I asked, not so much a question as it was an attempt to lift Mr. Sok’s spirit.
“Yes,” Mr. Sok announced with pride, smiling broadly. “He is a good friend of ours. He is now here on his third visit.”
We stuck to side streets than ran parallel with the main street through the city. At every junction I could see the reason for our detour: masses of people were lined up along the main thoroughfare. “What’s happening?” I asked.
“Our heroine Jong Song-ok was awarded the gold medal for her victory in the world marathon competition in Seville, Spain,” replied Miss Choe. “Now people are welcoming her.”
“I was in the plane with her,” stated Nicolas. “From Stuttgart to Beijing she was sitting only a few seats away, and she seemed so tired.”
This close encounter with the national heroine didn’t raise any eyebrows on the bus.
[imText2]“We arrive soon,” Miss Choe advised. “Please stay in your hotel rooms. We will have a meeting soon.”
The bus turned into the parking lot of the Pyongyang Hotel. “Sorry, we cannot accommodate you better this time,” apologised Miss Choe.
“Mr. Nicolas, on your other visits you have stayed in some of the better hotels we have here. But this time, we don’t have that much of a budget.”
The hotel rooms were fine with me. Much better than the cheap and battered hotel I had stayed at during my few nights in Beijing. I turned on the TV: pictures of Pyongyang streets lined with thousands of people awaiting the marathon girl. Looking out of my window, I could see that her route took her right by the hotel. Should I stay inside and watch her home-coming reception on TV as I had been told? Or…?
I had read that in North Korea visitors are not expected to walk the streets alone-only with the accompaniment of a guide. The decision was made for me when I ran into Nicolas on the stairway.
“You wanna come with me?” he grinned. “It’s no problem. We just go out. I’ve done it many times before. But be quiet.”
We headed out, along the street on which the many thousands were lined. With Nicolas carrying a big video camera on his shoulder, we must have looked like a Western TV crew. Children waved their little red flags at us, laughed and seemed to be having a good time. But whenever the children got too excited about our foreign faces, a teacher would always put them back in their place. It wasn’t long before we caught the attention of North Korean camera crews, who decided to follow our every move, no doubt under the assumption that we were an important Western TV team covering their country’s great victory.
“Isn’t it crazy? I love this place!” Nicolas kept shouting. “There’s no place on the fucking planet like it!”
The marathon girl came down the street, standing upright in a speeding Mercedes cabriolet. I got just a brief glimpse of her. She seemed worn out and stood in the car like a statue, clutching lots of flowers. Everyone cheered.
A minute later the event was over. People began to disperse, as policewomen blew their whistles like crazy at anyone who attempted to cross the street short of using the designated underpasses at the intersections.
Suddenly we were approached by Mr. Kim-the same Mr. Kim who I’d met in Berlin, and who was now Nicolas’ guide.
“Where have you been?” he asked. “You know we have a meeting now. I have been searching for you.” “Uh, we were just looking at your people celebrating,” Nicolas responded, which seemed to be excuse enough for the time being. We hurried back to the hotel, sticking to the crowded, dimly lit underpasses at each crossroads-as necessitated by North Korean traffic law.
At the hotel we met Mr. Paek, Mr. Sok and Miss Choe, who were seated in one of the corners of the hallway. Mr. Paek was as stiff and as solemn as he was at the Berlin meeting. He handed each of us a typewritten itinerary of the days to come. Lots of visits to monuments and lots of films to see. We seemed to have no time of our own. Okay, we came here to see films but…? “It’s a free country, do what you please in your free time,” Mr. Paek said, making no remark about our having just disappeared from our supposedly ever watchful guides…”Now, please, have a rest in your rooms,” Mr. Paek concluded. “We will meet in the morning.”
We agreed to everything he said, but our actual plans were different. We wanted to head out again-alone. It was almost evening now; a shower, some hotel food and we would be gone.
Except it didn’t work out that way.
