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If, last Wednesday, you found yourself in the cavernous lobby of the Yanggakdo Hotel in Pyongyang, you may have witnessed the next exchange, between a North Korean man and an American team at the Air exasperated.
"You must be tired," says Kim. "You will want to rest at the hotel this morning."
No, we are good. I am ready as soon as you are there.
"Well, I'm tired."
Mr. Kim is the guide that has been assigned to us by the North Korean Foreign Ministry. We are charged $ 75 per day for its services, and they are not optional. (I use his last name here only, because he did not want to be quoted in an official capacity or seemed to be speaking on behalf of the North Korean government.) He was stuck to my side as soon as we authorized the control of the passports in Pyongyang. the airport six days earlier, serving as an interpreter, fixer, bridge between our worlds – and a highly effective news prevention service.
Mr. Kim stays at our hotel, to better follow us, and we agreed to meet next to the elevators at 9 o'clock. It is the last day of NPR in North Korea; Our team leaves this afternoon and we asked to see a market, to go up on the subway, to go wherever we want, to catch a glimpse of everyday life in the most isolated country in the world.
"It's too late for a last minute request."
"It's not the last minute, I ask since -"
"It's impossible." He smiles and shrugs: what can you do?
I sigh. "Do you like it?"
The NPR goes to North Korea on government terms. We have been invited, with news agencies around the world, to cover the festivities marking the 70th anniversary of the founding of the country. All the media circus was reserved for the Yanggakdo ($ 112 / night for a spartan, but perfectly clean, double). The hotel has a revolving restaurant on the 47th floor, a cafe offering a decent cappuccino and a bowling alley in the basement. Above the reception, a video of the North Korean television on the soldiers who go around the chicken loop on a giant screen.
Before booking airline tickets, I had written to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs a list of interview requests from North Korean leader Kim Jong Un to the school officers. You will see the anniversary festivities, came the firm answer. And so, concerts at the parade of torches in the moonlight, through a military parade in Kim Il Sung Square.
It is difficult in North Korea – a country that is not renowned for its human rights record or for celebrating a free press – to know how difficult it is to pressurize . But push is the job.
All this to say that Mr. Kim has no obligation to take us anywhere. His government kept the end of the market. And it is difficult in North Korea – a country that is not renowned for its record of human rights or for celebrating a free press – to know how difficult it is to do pressure. But push is the work, and we push him, and remind him that we have traveled thousands of kilometers and crossed 13 time zones to see his country, talk with people, then tell an American audience what we see.
When Mr. Kim finally gives in and announces that we can leave the hotel after all, there is a trap. He looked at my right arm on which I was wearing an armband identifying myself as a journalist. The armbands are royal blue and itchy, and we were forced to pay $ 40 to rent them. It was a relief to hand over mine on our last night in the country, in preparation for our departure. It was also, apparently, a mistake.
"You are no longer accredited as a journalist," he informs us. "You can not interview anyone, you can not talk to anyone, you are tourists."
Appropriately, we take the taxis in a tourist trap: a souvenir shop in the shadow of the triumphal arch of Pyongyang (inspired by the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, but more than 30 feet high) . We browse the posters and magnets of the refrigerator and the local mushroom liquor. Aside from the sellers, there is no North Korea in sight, no chance to start a conversation or interview anyone. And now we have been joined by a second government guide, Mr. Ri.
I find myself for a last momentum. All week, we asked to visit the subway to attend the daily commute of the city. There is a train station on the other side of the street.
"Can we go see the subway?"
"There is not enough time."
I check my watch. "There is time."
"I do not have the time," Kim says.
"Ten minutes, just to see in. We do not even need to ride it."
He closes his eyes. When he opens them: "The subway is closed today."
I waver between the explosion of frustration or laughter. Neither one nor the other seems wise. I'm trying to appeal to the second guide. Just a little walk on the train platform?
"You could get lost," said Mr. Ri solemnly. "It's for your own safety."
I have never seen the Pyongyang subway. I have never had a clear answer to why the request was so problematic. Other journalists who arrived earlier than us for the 70th anniversary events were taken there, allowed to ride and interview people.
I suspect that the truth is both complicated and banal. Restricting journalists' movements is hardly a new development for North Korea; It has been said that the experience of NPR is quite typical. Think about it: what is the benefit to the regime of reporters asking curious questions? US journalists must be particularly problematic, from the point of view of North Korean guards, in the light of decades of mutual suspicion and suspicion since the Korean War and in light of recent developments – the ban on traveling and the sanctions against North Korea tense diplomacy current.
Meanwhile, in practical terms, Mr. Kim did not seem to have much more control over what we were going than we did. These orders came from above. I imagine that our approved program really asked us to relax at the hotel all morning, and he had to pull strings to bring us to this gift shop.
I might have had more sympathy for her situation if we had not struggled to access our site throughout our visit. We visited a teacher training institute but we were not allowed to speak with the students. ("They are in class".) After the military parade on Kim Il Sung Square, we walked along the crowded streets of ordinary North Koreans, their faces flushed with pride. We were not allowed to speak with them. ("We have to go back to the bus"). One day, we drove 70 miles north of Pyongyang, up to Mount Myohyang and into a beautiful park where we were told that North Korean families enjoyed picnicking. At lunchtime, NPR and other US news agencies were escorted to a pavilion in the forest for a Korean barbecue. It was delicious, a good meal – and not a North Korean family.
It is hard to imagine two jobs with more diametrically opposed goals than a North Korean government official and an American journalist determined to ask ordinary North Koreans what they think of their country and their lives. The irony is that the North Korean to whom I could ask these questions over and over again was Mr. Kim. You have plenty of time to talk when someone is stuck by your side for six days. Mr. Kim wanted to know what teacher colleges in America looked like. He wanted to know what brand of lipstick I was wearing, and he asked me to write it – Estee Lauder – so that he would get the correct spelling. He told me how he had met his wife. I showed him my Facebook feed, brimming with back-to-school pictures and colleagues sharing news on the job. (Most North Koreans do not have internet access.) He taught me to drink cold Pyongyang noodle soup. I taught him to play rock, paper, scissors. He wanted to know what I thought about the upcoming mid-term US elections. I wanted to know what it's like to live in a country where you do not have the right to vote. (His answer, in a nutshell: Why should I vote?) The Supreme Leader respected Comrade Kim Jong Un who runs the country and he is always right.)
One day, after visiting a silk factory, we had a look in a dormitory where some workers live. Facilities included a swimming pool and game room, filled with six ping-pong tables.
"Want to play?" I asked.
He looked surprised and a smile appeared on his face. "Are you good?"
"I'm terrible, my son should be here, he's beautiful."
"Which?" asked Mr. Kim, now familiar with my family dynamics.
"Both, my 12 year old son is better."
I like to think that I was able to score a point or two more, but we could not find paddles, and the bus was waiting, and he said we had to go back to the hotel.
Next visit, Mr. Kim. I will practice. I will bring the paddles; you can go to the subway fare to get there.
