The search at customs for mobile phones was more intensive this year. With that out of the way, the whole group of international festival guests- totaling around forty, along with their guides- boarded two buses. The largest group from Europe was represented by the Germans. There were two guys from Finland, only here because they had acted upon Mr. Paek’s fax number I had given to them at the Pusan Film Festival in South Korea (“You are to blame for us being here,” the Finns now accused me jokingly). Nicolas was back, the one-person delegation from Switzerland. There was a group of Russians, although two of the Russian delegates turned out to be Germans who ran the Moscow studio for Germany’s ZDF TV- they wanted to use the occasion to get some TV material on North Korea. There were also small delegations from Iran, Vietnam, Japan, China, Cambodia and Malaysia.
A lot of expected delegations never arrived. “Where is Nigeria? Where is Algeria? Where is Senegal? Where is Poland?” queried the guides over and over again.
Nicolas told me that there had been a lot more guests at the last festival, no less than a hundred in fact.
This time we were staying at the twin-tower Koryo Hotel, the most international if not best hotel in Pyongyang. On the thirtieth floor, I had a great view of the city, my window opening directly onto the pyramid ruin that was the Ryongyong Hotel. The first day was free for the guests. We could do whatever we wanted – except leave the hotel, that is. The German and Finnish delegations however, headed out together a little after 10pm in search of a bar- maybe the barbecue joint on Kim Il Sung Square? Nicolas was having problems with his guide and couldn’t join us.
We walked through the dark streets. Nothing appeared to be open. We eventually found the restaurant, but that too was closed. Even the Juche tower got switched off at 10pm. But there was a crowd of several thousand school children hanging around Kim Il Sung Square. Having nothing better to do we decided to stick around and see what was going on. Fired into animation by a loud distorted voice ringing through a speaker system, the children suddenly all got up and raced into position for a mass gymnastics display. Thousands of children running this way and that, with us in the middle- we made a quick break for the stone stands. From this vantage point we were close to the woman barking orders and directing the games.
At least 10,000 kids were going through hard training in the middle of the night, brandishing short metal sticks in the shape of the calligraphy brush that was the party symbol for the arts. They repeated the same moves over and over, under scrutiny and command of the female chieftain. We eventually got bored, went back to the hotel and sat in its revolving bar which overlooked the entire city. The only place still illuminated below us was Kim Il Sung Square, the kids continuing with their rehearsals way beyond the bar’s closing time. As we discovered the next day, they kept at it until 3 am, having to be back at school the following morning. It turned out they were preparing for the fifty-fifth anniversary celebrations of the Workers’ Party- the Communist party of North Korea- which were being held on October 10. Their nocturnal rehearsals had been taking place since November of the previous year.
Our morning was spent visiting the giant Kim Il-sung statue. It was a considerably larger even this time with the North Korea delegates carrying a banner that read: “Comrade Kim Il-sung is always alive in the hearts of humanity!” As the head of the German delegation, I had the honour of placing the flowers down myself. After that, we were taken to the birthplace of Kim Il-sung – a couple of little huts functioning as another holy place. A group of heavily tattooed Australian teenagers in Heavy Metal T-shirts were there, possibly on some kind of shock trip to scare juvenile delinquents away from further crime.
Lunch break at the hotel. Nicolas was fighting with his guide again, so the Germans and Finns went out without him to the department store on the corner – which was empty but for the sales ladies. A few items were on display, but all of it arranged in such a fashion that made it impossible to take one item out without bringing the whole lot crashing down. I wanted to buy a bottle of fruit juice but was pointed in the direction of the hotel by the sales assistants – we would be served there.
Apparently, it was just another exhibition of goods not for sale.
We got thrown out of the train station, then took some photos of commuters in the little park nearby, awaiting trains to take them to their homes in the countryside. Really poor people it seemed, much worse off than those living in Pyongyang itself, and noticeably malnourished. In 1999, I hadn’t seen anyone who looked malnourished; now I did. There were a few little street stalls selling food. Lots of food – kimbap (Korean sushi) and all kinds of baked goods. But with prices from five won upward, nobody was buying. If Miss Choe made 200 won a month, as she once told me, and she was certainly in a lot better a position financially than these folks, how could anybody afford to pay such prices? I tried to buy some pastries but the stall holders wouldn’t sell me any – I had foreign blue won and they accepted only regular people’s brown won.
Unlike the department stores, at least they had something to sell.
A lot of children ran away when they saw Christian’s camera, although the older folks didn’t seem to care. Some guards got angry, however, and chased him off when he tried to photograph a fire burning rubbish in a school yard.
Although we had seen people on every public square all over town rehearsing mass gymnastic displays, it wasn’t the case in this particular vicinity, where the people were apparently too low class to participate.
We were on our way back to the hotel when we ran into a breathless and somewhat exasperated Miss Pak. “I’m so happy to find you!” she coughed. “The celebrations are earlier than expected – we have to get to the bus right now. Where have you been?”
[imText1]The bus took us to the huge Pyongyang International Cinema Hall on Yanggak Islet on the Taedong River. We were dropped off quite far from the entrance, and greeted by the female brass band of the Korean People’s Army. They led the way to the cinema complex as we marched behind them, soon flanked on both sides by thousands of girls in traditional costume. Most danced with colorful fans, while others danced with large sheets of bright cloth or drummed on old-style changgos. Another cutely dressed female unit played Western-style drums. All this for us, a few foreigners!
And yet there were no members of the public watching the event – just a small army of North Korean newsmen.
Arriving finally at the steps leading up to the entrance, we were greeted by ‘young pioneers’ in uniform. They greeted us with well-rehearsed speeches in Korean and English, then rushed towards us and presented us with flowers. We entered the building.
Much of the audience was already there, virtually filling the 2000 seat cinema. The show started promptly. Accompanied by a live classical orchestra, the first film was an ostentatious effort hailing the success of previous festivals, narrated in that North Korean female voice that’s so weirdly distinctive. A strange sing-song, it falls somewhere between a sport commentary and a chanting priest. They praise all “achievements” in North Korean documentaries with this kind of a voice, and the guides at places like the Kim Il-sung mausoleum invariably adopt the same manner of speaking as well.
I spotted Nicolas up on the screen, running around as usual with his camera.
Speeches followed and the guests of honour were called to the stage, amongst them the Egyptian Vice Minister of Culture. What the hell we he doing here? Nowhere to be seen however was the great movie lover and film producer himself, Kim Jong-il- he doesn’t even attend his own film festival!
An Iranian film director gave the final speech, commemorating the international cinema community and the foreign film workers who comprised tonight’s guests. He seemed uncomfortable and nervous. Both his hands gripped the text of his speech, and shook as he read. He told me later that he hadn’t actually written a single word of the speech, but had been given it by the North Koreans who insisted that he read it.
We filed out of the ceremony, got onto our buses and were taken immediately to the next official function – at the fabled Ongyru Restaurant, hailed as the “best restaurant of North Korea” and legendary home of Pyongyang cold noodles. I was thrilled, expecting the best cold noodles of my life.
